The Information Junkie

by Roderick Leyland

—Anthony, can I ask you a question?

  'Go ahead.'

  —What's heaven like?

  'The question is presumptuous and makes several metaphysical assumptions.' He stopped to corral his thoughts. 'It's more than you expect—and less than I feared. Almost too true to be fiction and too good not to be.' He winked and tipped his hat with the empty hand. 'Must dash. I'm making lasagne.' As he turned he whipped the bottle in front of him.

  Finally, I called:

  —What shall I do about Charlie and Belinda...?

  But he'd gone. Perhaps I should take his advice and allow my subconscious to weave them back in when appropriate. And bugger the critics.

  *

  'Oy! Oy! We're still here.'

  —I know.

  'Keeping us in solitary—or dualitary—confinement is a punishment. Come on, Rod, we want to live!'

  —Dualitary—I don't recognise that word.

  'We want more life!'

  —I am aware of the difficulty I've placed you in but you are, after all—and after all—just ciphers, projections of my personality. You're not even three-dimensional.'

  Belinda said, 'That hurts. Even those born with imperfectly-formed brains are entitled to love.'

  'Why this gloom?' asked Charlie.

  —Middle sections often take a dive. I acknowledge that you think (or do I mean believe?) you are real and so entitled to exercise free will. So, why don't you?

  'We,' said B (who was emerging as the spokesperson), 'need you to write us, for us to continue.'

  —But surely I've taken you both as far as I can. I gave you a start now you must seize control and determine your own lives.'

  'Come off it,' she said. 'You know that the resolution of our conflict mirrors that of yours. That's the way you've written it. You can't leave us sitting on this carpet for much longer. Your continual starting of new sections with the phrase So, there I was only delays the inevitable. You're like a third-rate comedian with limited patter.'

  —You make me sound like a tyrant—a fascist, almost.

  'Please,' said Charlie, 'energise me again. What's happened to my oomph?'

  —I lost my oomph when you lost yours. A bit like Enderby. Burgess was suffering from acute indigestion when he wrote Enderby. As the father, so the son. I'm lost, so are you.

  'But,' said B, 'you can do other things: eat, drink, sleep. You're condemning us to null.'

  —Your complaint makes me feel responsible, guilty. This is worse than talking to myself.

  They both smirked, having forced this confession from me. Perhaps we've stimulated him enough, they seemed to be saying.

  — I'm finding this middle section terribly difficult. It's as if all the drive has gone and I'm just marking time. Length, as I said to Sarah several thousand words ago, has always bedevilled me. (I think that's one of Graham Greene's sayings.) Short pieces are so much easier—in that respect. I find grabbing and maintaining interest in a piece of say, two-and-a-half-thousand words, simpler.

  'Well, you must come to terms with it and resolve this problem convincingly,' said B. 'We're getting bored.' She left a silence. 'So are they.'

  —I don't think they're bored. They—like me—want to know how it all works out. In other words, they've had an introduction, now they want to see a development which must be succeeded by a conclusion. I always thought that this would be a ten-sheeter. Instead I find that I'm barely one-third into the middle section. Could this turn out to be a five-hundred sheeter?

  'So,' said C, 'you've reached a kind of plateau. Now you must push the load up the mountain slope. Mount Peculiar, wasn't it?'

  'We could all push together,' said B.

  —I think we already are.

  *

  So, it looked as if John Burgess Wilson was to be my new other, rather than Amis the Younger. (Young Pretender...?) Both mavericks, both subversive—with their fiction, at any rate. Both holding up to the literary establishment two metaphorical, if ink-stained, digits. Martin said that the biro was mightier than the gun. Nevertheless he did try to kill me—fantastically—with his gun-pen.

  But John I'd have to call Tony. Correction, Anthony. The one other advantage that Little Martin had over Big Tone (sh...don't tell him)—and we must never underestimate an advantage in these difficult times—was that he lived. Was alive, is living. So, more accessible, you might think. Mm. Anthony, in heaven (what a waste of all that lapsed-Catholic guilt), had the greater experience and I'd never have to make an appointment to see him. Dear X, I know your time's precious. That's why I want some. But AB was now in his second eternity of idleness.

  Looking ahead. At the end of Part Three, Martin had me cornered in the house on Boxing Day. He shot me twice: the first time was kidology, the second was for real. What sort of showdown can I expect from Burgess at the end of Part Six? Did he ever obtain that sword-stick he spoke of to Amis the Elder(berry), viz. a weapon to threaten thugs with? I hope he's not going to pull that on me:

  'Rod, you're abusing my hospitality. If I were alive I'd have you dealt with.'

  (A link with the Mob?)

  'But since I'm dead I must adopt other means.'

  He draws sword, places tip underneath my chin, says:

  'I nearly had cancer—for a year.'

  He withdraws the sword and holds it across his body, flat side facing me and about twenty inches from my face. That's approximately half a metre, if you must—and I must, in order not to fall foul of the Metrication Units (Literary & Miscellaneous Uses) Directive 1979, as amended.

  Will he say:

  'This is an up-stick, hand over your holdalls.'? Or:

  'This is a tree stump, hand in your overalls.'? Or:

  'This is a wrap up, hand over your nightstick.'? Or:

  'This is a tip off, hand in your night-soil.'? Or:

  'This is a pogo stick, get off your leg stumps.'? Or:

  'Rod,' he'll say, 'can you read the legend?' At this point the sword will flash in the light and I won't know whether I'm in a Hardy novel or...anyway we'll come to that at the end of Part Six.

  I'd have to be sure to lay in several crates of Monkey's Bum. Anthony's capacity was legendary and Parts Five and Six looked like a long haul. I foresaw deep and wide talks with AB—well into the night and early morning. And I knew I'd have to work on my stamina. Here was a man who would make no concessions for my lack of experience. He wouldn't drop to my level but would treat me as an equal, and perhaps my best plan was to treat him similarly. There was no doubt he could raise my game. But could I teach him anything? As Nietzsche said in Also Sprach Zarathustra: a pupil repays a teacher badly by remaining only a pupil. The nutty Kraut also said: Become yourself. But I was up against a scholar and pedagogue of colossal erudition. Graham Greene isn't the only one compelled, after an encounter with AB, to consult a dictionary. [When he was commissioned by the Observer to interview Graham Greene, Burgess did not use a tape recorder so sent Greene a typescript of the interview to check for accuracy. Greene passed it. But after the piece appeared in the paper Greene was quoted as saying: 'Burgess put words in my mouth which I had to look up in the dictionary'.]

  *

  Need another rationalisation? Me too. Okay: I am Roderick Leyland writing this book. At the beginning I pretended to be Charlie in some sort of hospital, and spoke in a manic way. I couldn't sustain the mania so pretended to come clean, viz. I was Charlie, a writer of software, and the manic Charlie was one of my creations for some electronic game. But the two Charlies became intertwined so you—the gentles—and X, the narrator, got confused. That narrator, however, was not me, not Roderick, despite his use of the pronoun 'I'.

  To try to resolve the issue I (Roderick—the man named on the cover of this work) introduced myself as a character, and whenever I spoke to any character I prefaced my remarks with this sign:—. So far, so good? Good.

  But—and here's the difficulty—there is another. This other interposes between what I, Roderick, want to say and what any character ac
ting as narrator wants to say. So: we have two fictional Charlies, an unnamed narrator (X) who succeeded them, me (Rod) and the other.

  Who is that other?

  The rest of the book must be taken up with a search for the answer. But the problem is that I destroyed the illusion. Realising that, I attempted to bring the piece to a conclusion but, every time I tried, Charlie and Belinda demanded more life. Ah, you say, I'm just trying to bulk out a short book. Or, it's part of the plot to have the characters interact with the author. No. Believe me when I say that to abandon them now would feel like murder. No—it's not too strong a word. They are dependent on me, they know (they know—I didn't plant the thought) that they want, are entitled to, more life.

  Ah, ha! you say, I the writer put those thoughts into their minds. No. They told me. I wish I knew some experienced writer I could discuss this with. Little Martin can't help (I'd look a right prat if I contacted the real Martin Amis for help [he must get enough cranky post as it is]—but I suppose I could always contact the fictive MA); and Anthony Burgess can't assist because he's constructing neologisms in the great word factory up there. He might even be drafting Heavenly Powers. So, after coming clean, after destroying the illusion, something remains. And it is that something which interests me. Because it is beyond my will. That something has an independent existence and can only be contacted, accessed, via my—well, my otherconscious.

  In Pat Barker's Regeneration one character says—and here I paraphrase from memory: If you want to get at the truth don't see a psychologist, consult a novelist. So, my buddies, let's press on and see where up we end. I honestly want to know.

  But I must tell you, folks, that this writing game is taking its toll. Frying my brain. If I'd known it was this dificulkt, I mean diffycult—no: diffykult; no: difty cult; no: dreary cult; no: dreamy clot; no: Deirdre Clump; no: drippy slot; no: drinky clot; no: clotted cream; no: twist and shout; no: let it all hang out; no: putting it all about; no: shake it all about; no: bridge over troubled water; no: bridge over the troubled Taffy; no: bridge over the River Tiffy; no: bridge over the River Liffy; no: bridge over the River Diffy; no: bridge over the diffy cult; no: diffy over the bridge cult; no: the Romans were throwing timber bridges across the Thames two thousand years ago but modern architects, designers and builders can't, despite two millennia of experience and all modern technology, throw a steel one across without it wobbling. Where's the difficulty?

  Q: Why does it wobble?

  A: Because people are walking on it.

  Q: For whom was it designed?

  A: Pedestrians.

  Q: So, a design fault?

  A: No, a design fact.

  Come back, Hadrian, all is forgiven. We don't care what you've done. We'll always love you.

  If I'd known this writing lark was so difficult I'd never have started. Honest. And that's the truth. But we're here, so let's press on. First, though, since I've hurt so many brain cells, I'm gonna chill me up a long slow icy cooling quenching filling relaxing enervating motivating energising revitalising reinvigorating anthropomorphising floccinaucinihilipilificating Monkey's Bum.

  *

  Time for a Tiger? No—Make Mine a Monkey's Bum.

  22

  Got the bum's rush...? Drink a Monkey's Bum.

  'No, no,' said Burgess. 'You misunderstand.'

  —Go on...

  'The bum's rush is not diarrhoea, nor is it the sudden and abrupt discharge of solid faeces following a violent call to void the bowels.'

  —Oh...?

  'It's North American slang: to eject a person by force or to dismiss summarily from employment.'

  —So, if you were mistakenly ejected you'd be on a bum rap especially if your employer had been fed a bum steer...?

  'Yes, but you'd have to take the rap unless the truth were established. Then you'd beat the rap.'

  —I don't want to get back into wordplay. Sarah told me: Wordplay alone doth not a novel make.

  'Just the sort of thing an agent would say. What would have happened if someone had said that to Jimmy Joyce...or Billy the Shake?'

  —Then literature would have been the poorer. I doubt, however, that either would have listened.

  'My point entirely.'

  (I wanted, the reality behind mere words, to reveal. But wasn't sure about my next question.) Almost before I could take breath, though, I found myself saying:

  —I may be pushing my luck here, but have you—you know—met up with MM, JFK, Elvis...?

  'You are pushing your luck.'

  —...Princess Di, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, Jimmy Dean, Judy Garland, John Kennedy Toole, T. E. Lawrence...?

  'Rod, pull yourself together! People have paid to read this and you have a duty to provide value for money. Time to get back to Belinda and Charlie on the carpet.'

  —But I don't know what happens next.

  'A bit like life, then.'

  —Mm... Just before I get back to B and C I've one more question.

  'Shoot!'

  —In this, your second eternity of idleness, how do you occupy your time?

  'Cheeky little whippersnapper! You wouldn't know what to do with a primate's arsehole. NOW GET BACK TO BLOODY WORK!'

  Seeing the hurt on my face, he became more conciliatory: 'Come on, now, Sir Roderick—push that load up the slope. Oh, Roderick, by the by, is from the German Rhoderick—great ruler.' He paused like a Victorian actor. 'Time, then,' he continued, 'to live up to your name.'

  I decided to play for time:

  —How about my surname?

  'Leyland...? We might be tempted to say ley is a variant of lay but, in this particular case, of course, we'd be wrong. Ley is a variant of lea—open country, meadow, pasture or arable, and certainly nothing to do with the verbs to lie or to lay. So, ley lines connect significant features on prehistoric landscapes. Ultimately from the German. Land speaks for itself, also from Old English via Germanic. So, you're potentially a great ruler of the lines which connect points of importance on ancient sites—or a wizard.'

  (Further procrastination was possible by my now appearing to chew over Anthony's remarks but I knew I couldn't delay much more my return to the salt mines. No: that's mixing metaphors. [What is a meta for? Do you know? If so, please advise.]) I had to get back to Mount Peculiar to confront that load...

  'So, Sir Roderick, it's time to return to your own lines, engage your burden and manhandle it from the plateau to the mountain top.' He gave an Olivier pause, winked and said: 'I'll see you there. But since my pins are older than yours I'm taking the funicular railway.' He left a silence which I nearly broke by asking for the etymology of funicular but before I had the chance he went on: 'Sir Roderick—sounds like one of the characters in a play by Will the Shaved Spear. Hie thee hence, Sir Roderick, to yonder castle gates, and once inside (set/let down) take up thy burden sore, so that de dum de dum de dum de dum the storm abates and thy fair head should dum and fret no more.'

  —Back to the Olivetti, my Lord Anthony.

  But he'd already gone. I could delay no further. Anyway, so there they still were—B & R (oops! I mean B & C) sitting on the carpet.

  —You both look tired and hungry. Haven't you eaten yet?

  'We've been waiting for you,' said Belinda.

  —But it's been days...this is beginning to take on an ugly tone.

  They smiled.

  —This is emotional blackmail.

  They nodded.

  —More life, then, eh?'

  They nodded.

  [This is beginning to look Pinteresque.]

  —Okay, you're both in costume and still on set so—

  Charlie said to Belinda, 'But I feel an answer lies on Romney Marsh.'

  Belinda took his—OH, THE HELL WITH IT—she took my face in her hands:

  'Darling, there is no answer because there is no Ffion. You made her up. The answer is as illusory as her.'

  My heart sank. I was expecting this. She went on:

  'And there is not o
ne, overall, single answer. Life's more complicated. Some questions may yield a partial answer but that's all.'

  I pulled a big sigh. She continued:

  'So, come on. Let's get the washing-up done then we can—'

  There was a knock at the door, which was odd because I knew the bell was in working order. When I undid the latch, there he stood, his whole impossible self, hair awry, wearing a crumpled coat.

  'Anthony Burgess!' I stumbled. 'How can I help you?'

  'I was motoring this way and came over faint. I wonder, could you oblige an old man with a cup of water?'

  I invited him in and sat him down. While Belinda fetched the drink I asked,

  'What are you doing in Wimbledon? Don't you live in Monaco?'

  When Bee reappeared he half-stood in gentlemanly deference; she smiled and waved him back down.

  'Bless you, my dear,' he said, taking his first sip.

  I noticed she liked the compliment. The water helped the great man to compose himself. 'I'm on an urgent mission,' he announced. 'I'm here to save you both.'

  B and I exchanged glances. 'Save?

  Save!' we said simultaneously.

  'I don't wish to sound melodramatic,' he went on, 'but I believe—nay, know—that you two are in the gravest of danger.'

  'Danger?' I asked. 'From what?'

  'Inexperience.' He left a silence. 'You could be harmed by a novice and end up in Limbo. I've learnt a lot since I laid down my sword-pen and want to give you the benefit.' Seeing that he had our attention, he continued: 'Young Roderick doesn't know what to do with you; in his present mental state he couldn't distinguish between a Homo's aris and a primate's arsehole. And if you spend any more time on this lounge carpet—by the by, what colour is it? I'm daltonian —'

  'Red,' I said.

  '— yes, if you spend much more time on this carpet you'll be locked in an eternity of idleness.'

  Belinda said, 'Surely Rod will pull himself together and finally push the burden up Mount Peculiar...?'

  'Don't bank on it. I think you need me.'

  'So,' I said, 'you propose taking over our lives?'

  'Yes, but not in the way you think.'

  'But you can't know what Rod wants, and wouldn't there be a break in continuity, a difference in style?'