The Information Junkie

by Roderick Leyland

  Desperate now to find hope, I thought of Peter O'Toole surviving life in the desert when he played that other adventurer, Lawrence of Arabia. On a long difficult crossing of the desert, he went back to search for a missing man. He found the man and returned to the caravan triumphant. Celluloid courage? No: the man's name was Gasim and Lawrence's account in Seven Pillars is detailed. At any rate, if O'Toole could do it, so could I. I'd have to crawl out of the desert for help.

  Inch by slow inch I started, knowing I'd probably not make it: the odds were against me. I looked behind—the bottom halves of my legs were still joined somehow to the rest of me. As I moved so did they.

  Death I had not imagined like this. I had visualised a clean bullet to the head, a surgical one to the heart; a quick last look around, then glorious oblivion in the midst of battle. Reality was quite different. If I now prayed hard enough—no, that was nonsense. Glory in death? No: death was as everyday as voiding the bowels. Life, once precious, could slip away of its own accord, like a crazed clock winding down. Death, far from being extraordinary, was the ultimate commonplace—the comic link between all living things.

  What, then, was God? Just an idea in people's minds or Graham Greene's 'mysterious force'? A force which worked through everything, living and mineral, even the bad? No: there was nothing there. Death was final. Religion was the drug of the desperate, but a chemical not now strong enough to buoy me up.

  Why had Nmbmba only knee-capped me?

  *

  'Why are you wasting time?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'You're continuing that facile piece about Mitch Maverick when you should be getting back to Belinda and Charlie. You mustn't neglect your gentles: remember you're writing for their pleasure.'

  'My point, Anthony. The gentles require a resolution for the story about Mitch.'

  'But he's only a character. As thin as lavatory paper. Charlie and Belinda are real.'

  'No, Anthony. They, like you, are characters. It's a game of let's pretend.'

  'No,' he insisted. 'Charlie and Belinda are still on their lounge carpet in Wimbledon waiting for you. Ignore them at your peril.'

  'Okay, I'll get back to them. But I must offer the gentles the next instalment of V. Woolf and Berkeley Square.'

  'You're hopelessly out of control.'

  'No, I'm holding my own. I also need to give the next instalment of the Misfits. But don't worry. What seem like disparate strands will coalesce. Trust me.'

  'You're pig-headed,' said Anthony and stormed off.

  *

  I am sorry about all these stray stories, viz. Mitch Maverick, the Misfits and V. Woolf in Berkeley Square. I told you before I didn't know where they were coming from. It's just a temporary leakage, I think. Literary osmosis. I promise you I will resolve these three strays AND I will get back to B & C in Wimbledon. I know they're there.

  Trust me: it will all work out in the end. So, back to the chap (and let's see if we can't find a name for him) who was speaking to Virginia before time began. Remember she foretold his recovering from a large dose of the unrequiteds. We pick him up on a day in May:

  No sign of her yet.

  There were eight exits from Berkeley Square and at all points of the compass. Too much choice. Life had once been simpler. (Before Isabelle.) When, for example (long before Isabelle) he'd played hunt the treasure in the garden next door and had found the package under the rose bush. But he'd brushed against a nettle. 'Squeeze it hard,' someone had said. And he'd learnt a paradox: when something frightens you, grip it hard. But now, as he stood in the middle of the square, shielded by trees and aware of the traffic—motor and pedestrian—he knew he had to make a move, and in a particular direction.

  In the garden, hunting for the treasure—it had been home-made fudge—there had been no choice, no moral dilemmas, just fun. Only now, in the square, with taxis honking and men with maps on mopeds training to be taxi drivers, he had no sense of fun. Indeed, the necessity to make any decision seemed too serious. Taxis, delivery trucks, a florist's van; a group of Japanese, two policemen with rolled-up shirt sleeves, a man balancing three boxes in his arms; jets overhead, a police helicopter, an airship advertising a soap. All these sensations now crowded his mind as past and present played with each other; as the bush under which he had found the treasure became the shrub today in the square under which a sandwich wrapper had blown.

  And he was torn. Torn between his desire to stay in the square and move on; between his wish to propel himself into the future and bury himself in—escape to—the past. Because the past offered the best refuge of all. For as a youngster you lacked consciousness of self so...but, but this was getting too introspective. Come on, now, Edward. Pull yourself together and make a decision.

  There had been a time when decisions were a joy, when having a choice had been a pleasure; long before he'd been to the training sessions and been told: There is no such thing as a problem, only challenges. He saw himself writing it, saw the blue-black ink flow from his fountain pen, and caught himself smiling at the memory. And that memory had led—who knows how?—to another: his filling out a form in the General Post Office as a youngster, using pen and ink supplied; a scratchy clerk's pen with a removable nib, the ink smelling like red wine. And there he'd been, filling in the—what was it, application form? telegram?—for he'd written a few of those before they'd been discontinued—form, let's say I was filling in a form, he thought. A cacophony of motor car horns made him turn. To the west side of the square two large vans were locked in a nasty snarl. Taxis and limousines honked. Soon the shirt-sleeved bobbies were back negotiating a solution.

  Mayfair, they called this area—London's West One district. An area of shops and embassies; of houses and flats; of thoroughfares and squares; of gardens and parks; of...

  Then there was Isabelle. Oh, she caught your eye very early on and smiled in that knowing way. 'Are you going to stand here all night?' she'd said. 'Or do you dance as well as eat and drink?' Was that her opening line? And that dance with Isabelle had propelled you—like a bullet train—from solitary bedsitter to luxury apartment.

  Or watching the automatic barriers drop at the railway crossing: 'Life is risk,' said Isabelle. Was that it? Or 'Life is a risk'; or 'Life is all risk.' She said, 'Life is a risk,' as if saying, I prefer cod to haddock, or dark chocolate to milk. Life is a risk—could that be it? As one might say, I prefer pasta to potatoes; or, I much prefer rice. And risk she had embraced, risk she had taken to her as if it had been a designer brand of chocolate. Or it might have been: Life is all risk, or Risk is a part of life; but Life is risk was the phrase he remembered. But, he said, you could walk out and get run down by a bus. Or, she said, you could have better luck. Life was all chance.

  Now, however, he stood in the centre of the square with traffic circling him, looking for the answer. An answer. Any answer. And finally: 'You're so weak,' she had said. 'However did I find you attractive?' That had hurt...

  Or was it, Life's a struggle? Yes. Life's a struggle, she had said. But a struggle you never won. There were oases but you were still trapped in this fix. Best to make the most of it, then. 'There's more to it than that,' she said. 'You don't just tolerate it. You need to capitalise.'

  Opportunistic from the start, probably from birth; as soon as she emerged from the womb she was weighing up the possibilities. How can I get the most? How can I get more than my share? How can I assert myself over others? For here was the clue: it wasn't enough to succeed, he'd learned; you had to do so at the expense of others. Yes, she'd taught him jungle law.

  So, here he stood in the middle—the dead middle—of the square. 'We must meet, Edward, in five years, in Berkeley Square,' she had said; and here he was, recalling their conversations. 'You're not strong enough for me,' she had said. 'I need someone who can challenge, stimulate, frighten me. I thought you were that person. I was mistaken.'

  But love had brought them together. So, what was happening here—if love had united t
hem, why wasn't nature better structured so that ideal mates remained with each other? It made you doubt Darwin's assertions. Nature had demanded the mixing of genes; after that they had split. Perhaps nature's imperative was fertilisation; but bonding for life was a human construct. Was it all a game?

  He'd cried, felt the anguish; then he'd just wanted to get on with his life, to feel normal. She'd even challenged him on that. 'Normal?' she said. 'You'll never be that.' 'No,' he said. 'My normal.' And she'd laughed with that challenging toss of the head she had, and a flick of the hair behind her ear. But he knew, here now, as he stood in Berkeley Square that a new norm was required, that he'd have to learn to live all over again and he sensed that was going to be painful. 'Go find yourself another lover,' she had said. Stupidly—yes, stupidly—he'd said, 'Do you have to be so hurtful?' She'd looked at him straight. 'Yes.'

  To the south, after a walk past the building that used to house the Ministry of Information, lay Green Park tube station—was that the way?

  So, life was risk.

  Or north to Oxford Street and Bond Street tube—was that it?

  Life was struggle.

  He could walk west to Hyde Park and the tube at Marble Arch; or east to Soho and catch the underground at Piccadilly Circus. He was going to travel but didn't yet know where.

  Life was a fix.

  Perhaps the direction didn't matter provided that you moved. Inertia was the killer. Today was the fifth anniversary of her promise. 'Are you joking?' 'No,' she'd said. 'I'll meet you at twelve noon in Berkeley Square.' It was now one-thirty. He'd been a fool to come. For five years he'd dreamt of reconciliation but that was a fantasy. She'd probably now be presenting some show on Hungarian television—or, worse, American—and would have forgotten all about this rendezvous. Would he give her another half an hour? Had she been only teasing him? Was she, even now, observing him from one of the windows that overlooked the square?

  You've got to fight for what you believe in, she had said. Kick others where it hurts. But he was no kicker. No, in Darwin's jungle he scored low. Indeed, over the past few years he'd tried to factor all risk out of his life.

  Edward checked his watch for the last time then headed south. When he entered the tube station he thanked goodness he led a simple life. His step quickened and he felt a surge of joy when he pictured his wife waiting for him at home. As he walked down the steps into the underground station, he felt relieved Isabelle hadn't kept her promise; it would have made life complicated. She was now a part of the past. And, anyway, everything he could reasonably want was at home.

  *

  Right, that's that dealt with. But Berkeley Square does reappear at the end of Part Six. (When AB disappears.) It's planned, folks. It's all set up, buddies. Right, so that just leaves the Misfits for the time being. We last saw Clark walking off into the desert to search for his daughter.

  *

  Was this a mirage? He knew not to trust his eyes in the wastes around Reno. Broken images shimmered and splintered into layers. What in hell was that—some kind of snake? No: too big for a snake and not moving like one. More like an animal in pain, one near death. Perhaps all it could do was find shelter from the heat, lick its wounds and die. He felt for a gun that wasn't there; but, unprotected, he approached the thing.

  Now, close enough, he saw the torn face, the bloody legs and both knees shot to hell. Another stray. What in the name of God had happened to this one?

  Clark had no water, no way of summoning help, no means of saving this man. He bent down real slow, tipped his hat backwards. There was a foul smell and clusters of flies were excavating the wounds.

  'Hi, partner. Where you from?'

  The man on the ground wondered: Is this a mirage? He tried to speak but couldn't: he knew he was dying.

  Clark bent and lifted the man's head. The man thought he saw Clark Gable; though the actor, he knew, had been dead for decades. Gable spoke:

  'Why, you're the second mustang I've seen in two days. Where in hell have you come from? You're not dressed for a Western, that's for sure.'

  The man tried to speak but his tongue, grossly swollen, was now a useless tool. Yet this was the film star: the smile, the teeth, the thin moustache. Am I hallucinating? The star spoke again:

  'Which lot have you strayed from, cowboy? Or, should I say, soldier? Perhaps you're part of that other outfit—the one with the English guy?'

  Gable noticed the man couldn't close his festering eyes: they had been burned permanently open.

  The man heard a rattling sound. A snake? No: closer: it was coming from his own throat: this was the sound of dying.

  Clark wasn't sure what to do. When a script called for him to comfort a dying man he knew how to play it. But this was unscripted, had not appeared in the story's first draft. And he sure as hell wasn't going to improvise: that was for students at the Actors Studio not for the greatest Hollywood star. Yet instinct took over:

  'I've never been one much for the Good Book, and I've never been one much for speeches. So, help me God.' Gable looked around—the desert, silent, offered no solution—then back down at the man: he was still alive: further words were required. Could he now recall a fragment, dredge up part of a script—any script—to help console this man? And even if he could, would it make any difference?

  'Don't worry,' he went on. 'I'll stay with you.'

  But Clark was concerned: if any more strays appeared they'd fall further behind schedule and, God knows, this had been a tough enough—perhaps the toughest—movie he'd ever made. Any more strain, on top of the heat and lost working days, and he'd be driven to a heart attack.

  Gable removed his hat despite the sun and wafted it over the remains of the stranger's face. He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, lit one and placed it in the stranger's mouth. But the man couldn't grip it. Clark crushed the remains against a stone.

  The star looked up at the sun, now at its highest point and realised he'd soon have to make a decision. He was out, unprotected, in the desert; so was this man. He'd gone looking for his daughter but had found this wreck. How much longer would he take to die? Perhaps too long; and Clark didn't want to die himself in the process. It was a problem for which his experience left him ill-prepared. The mustang was going to die anyway; Clark was not. How do you say goodbye to a not-quite-dead man? If he stayed would he also perish in the desert of the newly-dead, the wastes of the too-soon dead?

  No: there were too many movies to make; too many stunts unrisked; too many challenges unfaced. I have no choice but to leave him.

  'So long, partner. I came looking for my girl but found you. My heart's lost and I must find her: she's my blood. Is there anything I can leave you?'

  In pain, the man shook his head.

  'May the Lord bless you,' said Clark who stood and started to walk away. Now, in which direction could she be?

  *

  Let's leave him there for the time being. That's all you need to remember. Love, as usual. See you in Part Six!

  PART SIX

  Complications of a Crimson Fish

  Ytivitisnes nedaed séhcilC

  ―Author's thought

  *

  gnidaer llud ekam séhcilC

  —Author's thought

  25

  But one thing worried me: if I (Roderick) called on Charlie and Belinda in Wimbledon I couldn't play the part of both myself and Charlie. It would be like meeting a twin you didn't know you had. They'd accepted Lord Burgess of Moss Side. They'd accepted me verbally. Should I send someone in my place? B & C don't know what I look like so I could send anyone, and that person could impersonate me.

  Or I could send Martin. He's been a bit quiet since he shot Charlie. Or since Charlie thought Martin tried to shoot him. But we don't let the facts get in the way of a good story, do we? Or: we don't let real reality (that stuff we're all in flight from—J. Fowles, remember...?) get in the way of fictive reality. (Confused? Oh, you're not? My, you are making progress. The first time's th
e most difficult. But after that you make a regular promise: one more fictive fix. Just one more, God, then I'll give up. Honest. And I'll believe in you, too.) Okay, let's see if we can resurrect Martin.

  For the next scene, by the way, I play Charlie. Can you suspend your disbelief? Oh dear: there's always one. Okay, sir. Yes, you sir, at the back. In the frilly shirt. What? You want a refund—the full purchase price of the book...? Pardon...? Including VAT? There is no tax on books. (Ignoramus.) A word, sir, about the transaction. You've misunderstood. The deal is: you purchase on trust. It's a bargain of risk. You read the blurb on the back, you look at the first page. If that doesn't grab you, you flick through until you're grabbed. Pardon..? Oh, it was a gift. Oh, well, sir, you know what they say...? There's no time like the gift.

  You're spoiling it for everyone else, sir. Well, if you insist on mutilating it down the spine, I can't stop you. That's right: separate the signatures. Yeah, how often these days do you find stitched pages. What are you doing with that cigarette lighter? Who taught you human sensitivity and social conscience, eh? Adolf Hitler, Attila the Hun...? And the same to you sir.

  Oops! Sorry about the digression, folks, and thanks for staying with me. Probably a critic. A degree in English but can barely string six words together coherently. Probably wanted me killed off halfway through Part Five. Is he a failed writer? Papers his study with rejection letters. I wonder what his last book was...? Forgive me, this is too easy. Ah, yes:

  The First Thousand Letters of Rejection, a Selection

  Or:

  This is the Work of Genious [sic] You've Been Waiting For

  Has he gone? Good. Right: Come out Martin, wherever you are.