The Information Junkie

by Roderick Leyland

  'Roddy, you'll never know what it's like to be a star, what it is to be adored by millions—the world. You're a ten-cent scribbler. You couldn't write a note for the garbage man.'

  I couldn't help smiling at that.

  She removed a shoe and threw it at me. I ducked. 'I left him with you, a young man. He returns white with age. What have you done?'

  'I gave him a sheet of paper.'

  'Don't take me for a sucker!'

  'He asked for one and I gave it to him,' I said, wilfully innocent.

  'Why does he keep muttering about the desert?'

  'That's what he wrote about.'

  She advanced, hand outstretched. 'Let me see!'

  Her perfume was strong and her aura had the power of a whirlwind. She read, took in. Gave me a defiant look, ripped the paper into pieces and let them theatrically fall. Then, after replacing her shoe, turned and walked off. Her performance had been thrilling, her eyes her best feature.

  I'd already transferred Richard's piece to the IBM so the torn pages didn't matter.

  Much later, Richard returned, minus E. He apologised.

  'Her bark is as bad as her bite,' he said, showing me the marks.

  'How is she now?'

  He smiled softly. 'We've made it up.' He paused. 'Shall we continue...?'

  I nodded.

  'Okay, the plot. As I recall, Rod, we left Charlie worried that Belinda might have had an affair with Martin Amis, Anthony Burgess or both...?'

  'That's correct.'

  He smiled. 'Would you like me to have a word with Belinda? It might come better from a stranger, as 'twere.'

  Richard, love,' I said, draping an arm around his shoulder. 'Can we just stop for a moment and analyse the situation?'

  He looked a little hurt. I removed my arm. 'Listen,' I said, 'you're a dead actor and I am imagining you. Just as I am imagining Charlie and Belinda. I am also imagining myself, or am being imagined. This is all being written by whoever it is who's impersonating me. He's imagining all this.'

  Rich said, 'I'm not quite sure who me is in your penultimate sentence. Unless, of course, you mean the other, the unnamed narrator. Also your use of the word impersonating in the same sentence seems unnecessarily provocative, even perverse. Apart from that, I'm with you so far.

  'You may be, but what about the gentles?'

  'Gentles...?'

  'The customers, the audience, the readers.'

  'I'll tell you something,' he said, fixing my eyes with an exhilarating stare: 'I loathed the audience.'

  'Loathed...?'

  He nodded. 'Whenever I was on stage I sneered, took every opportunity to revile them.'

  'Revile...?'

  'Yes: but they didn't realise it was in my voice.'

  'Derision...?'

  'Of course: the audience is so bloody vulgar—out for their thrills. So, what did that make me? A bloody thrill-machine. I detested acting, especially in the theatre. Loathed it. I escaped to film where I was one stage—forgive the pun—removed from them. So your giving me the chance to speak with other characters—dead or alive, real or imaginary—doesn't matter. It's a second chance to engage directly with people rather than thrill them remotely with my voice and conspicuous lifestyle.'

  'You've convinced me,' I said.

  'Thank you,' he said, 'for the opportunity,' and left.

  *

  I have a difficulty, buddies. How could I make a scene between Belinda and Richard convincing? Hell, let's jump.

  *

  'I'm not real,' said Belinda. 'Just a convenient character.'

  'I'm not real, either,' said Richard. 'But since we've been thrown together we may as well have a chat.' He waited. 'You, know,' he said, 'you really are extraordinarily beautiful.'

  'Your reputation precedes you. What's Rod sent you here for?'

  'Not Rod—Charlie. Charlie is concerned about something.'

  'Which means that Rod's stuck and we've now got to create plot for him.'

  Richard laughed. 'It's all rather existential. Here we are, two adults alone in the universe, independent of God or any belief system. Free to behave as we will. Don't you find that delicious?'

  'No,' said Belinda. 'Dreadful. Terrifying.'

  'Necessary fear,' he said.

  'This is introducing a totally new theme. Isn't it a bit late for that—some twenty-five thousand words from the end?'

  'No,' said Richard. 'The whole piece has been working up to it.'

  'But I feel just like Rod's mouthpiece.'

  Richard chuckled. 'But of course you are.'

  'Then surely that negates the concept of me as a free agent in a godless universe?'

  'Ah, I was just trying to seduce you with words. Don't blush: you're beautiful. But, to take up your point, perhaps Rod's playing at being God.'

  'Or the devil,' said Belinda.

  'Oh, bugger all this,' he cried. 'Let's forget philosophies, metaphysics and semantics. I must get to the point: Charlie needs, possibly wants, to know whether you had a liaison with Martin or Anthony.'

  She smiled. 'Charlie or Rod: which?'

  'I think they're closely related. Sometimes one and the same.'

  'But Rod's the author; Charlie is my darling.'

  'Bloody hell!' he cried. 'It's a house of cards. Could tumble at any moment.' He waited. 'I must go back to Rod with an answer. Just for the purposes of this novel could you tell me—or make something up?'

  'I'll give you a reply,' she said. 'Afterwards.'

  'Afterwards...?' Richard smiled, anticipative.

  Belinda's eyes shot upwards. 'I've always fancied you rotten,' she said. 'Most people thrilled to your voice but I get a charge from your craggy looks.' She edged nearer. 'Oh, make love to me, Richard. And to hell with the plot.'

  When Richard kissed her tenderly she responded, before both surrendered to the sweet passion of fulfilment.

  *

  Author's Apology

  Hi, folks. Little old me. Time for the big rationalisation. This is the unadorned Rod speaking. No, I'm not pretending to be Charlie or anyone else. Just me.

  My aim was to produce a story within a story. I wanted one to bleed into the other and vice versa. And I wanted real people to bleed into both stories and I suppose the characters bled into my reality: I kept them with me all the time. But now I've come down to earth and can't anymore play that rather dangerous game: it's no wonder Christopher Priest couldn't write for some time after The Affirmation. Perhaps he drove himself bonkers. Well, buddies, this is as far as I can take the fiction outside the paper fiction. But you deserve a resolution of all the themes within the fiction.

  Ultimately my subjects were mid-life upheaval and death. One subject, if I'm honest. But death's been done to death, hasn't it? Oh—my other subject was, I suppose, risk and the relationship of the writer with his work. But you'd already worked that out, hadn't you?

  So, why are you still reading? Mm? Do you think I have a unique insight into the ultimate concern? No, of course I don't. I was just entertaining you—and myself. Fiddling while Rome burned. Well, as long as it's fine music, why worry? It's not that we want truth; we want certainty. And our search for that is the impulse for our flight from reality. But we always come back down to earth. With disappointment.

  Now, to be consistent, I should really end here: death is final.

  I've loved communicating with you, loved our conversations although some were a bit one-sided. And I've done my best to love you. Yes, you. I open my heart and surrender to you.

  35

  'I have something to say,' he said.

  'So do I.' She waited. 'You first.'

  'No—you.'

  'I've been unfaithful to you,' Belinda cried. Charlie held her.

  'Who with?'

  'Richard Burton.'

  'But he's dead. You must have been dreaming.'

  Belinda stopped crying. 'That brought me down to earth with a bump.'

  'Here's something else,' said Charlie. 'I'm just as
unreal as Richard Burton. I am a fantasy. I'm the fantasy projection of Rod's mind because he reached fifty and found none of his dreams fulfilled. Disappointment. And when the dreams of a middle-aged man are not fulfilled he desperate. Fantasy is the only way out.'

  'So,' she said, wiping her eyes, 'I'm a fantasy too?'

  'Charlie smiled. We all are!'

  'But that makes nonsense of life, even fictive life. Who can we complain to?'

  'Nobody,' said Charlie. 'Except God—if he exists.'

  'So, what's the purpose of fiction?'

  'It's pointless. Unless you've seen that life is pointless. In which case fiction is a distraction from reality, a means of escape. Or, if the work has sufficient merit, it may have moments of illumination when we think we perceive a fraction of the infinite. But it's all an illusion.'

  'So,' she said, 'did Rod indicate how he's going to end this piece?'

  Charlie smiled: 'Yes. But it's a secret.'

  PART EIGHT

  Consolations of a Crimson Fish

  Cheating death is as easy as cheating birth.

  —Charlie Smith-Jones-Brown,

  fictional character

  36A

  A desert is an area which receives less than 250mm (10in) of rain per year. Aridity, not heat, is the common characteristic along with low humidity and a high evaporation rate.

  And there are different types of desert: rocky, stony, sandy—even deserts of ice in the polar regions.

  Despite their apparent inhospitality deserts do support wild plants, animals, humans. Most plants either store water for long periods—cacti and other succulents—or lie dormant till the rains come. As well as camels, foxes and snakes, the desert also supports small mammals—gerbils, lizards, rats. Man, the desert dweller, is a nomad; but nomadism is disappearing as a way of life; and most human desert dwellers live at the edge of the desert.

  Cacti can withstand air temperatures of 50°C (120°F) and soil temperatures as high as 60°C (140°F). They cannot grow in pure sand but need the soil in areas of semi-desert.

  Many deserts were once grassland or forest and man risks creating more with his policy of overgrazing and deforestation.

  36B

  She watched as the stranger—he looked like a cowboy—came towards her. Accustomed to the heat, she carried a goatskin. The man looked as though he'd need it.

  'Princess!' he cried in recognition. 'Where in hell have you been?' He rushed to hold her.

  'Why daddy,' she said, kissing him uncontrollably, 'I've been waiting so long,' and handed him the water. He drank long and deep.

  'Princess, I was afraid you were lost.'

  'Daddy,' she breathed, 'I'll never let you go again.'

  37

  This script was typed on a Brother LW–840ic word processor. The WP sits on a self-assembly desk facing a typist's chair.

  On the left-hand corner of the desk are several dictionaries and The Oxford Companion of Quotations, The Oxford Companion to English Literature, The King's English and so on. To the right are two boxes of floppy discs and several folders containing the printed pages of this work.

  Straight ahead is a window which looks out over the estate and viewers are particularly asked to note the sea peeps—it's the English Channel—gained from this particular vantage point.

  To the right of the desk is a tumble drier—this is an upstairs room—because there's no room in the kitchen and there is no utility area.

  Everyone has been (most still are) in this room: from Amis to Woolf via Burgess, Drabble, Greene; and Atwood to Waugh via Miller, Orwell and Vidal.

  Further this way is a mobile, self-assembly three-drawer chest containing stationery and accessories. No, Gillian, don't open the drawers, you never know what you might find there. And, David, no—you can't take that from the waste-paper basket as a souvenir. Please note, children, the sense of order in the room, belying the plaque's claim that genius worked here.

  Please contemplate for a moment the ordinariness of your surroundings: this could be any bedroom in any three-bedroom detached house on a newish estate. Note again the view: similar houses built from similar bricks, a road tarmacked to council specification, that sense of newness and lack of originality that you get on an estate.

  38

  You always suspected that Part Eight would be short, didn't you? Didn't you? Then welcome to the shock of death, welcome to disillusionment. The first half of life is longer than the second. I hope you're not too disappointed. You are? Well, you can always start again—go back to the beginning (the clues are there). Start again? No: that's a fantasy too. Luv ya! I do love you.

  So, that leaves only love; which is not a fantasy. Perhaps a dream. But one we can fulfil. Oh, dear—a corny ending. Okay—try this:

  So, there I was, lying in bed waiting for my evening meal: tepid fish cakes, grey mashed potato, processed peas. Dessert was half a tinned pear with evaporated milk. All served by a disgruntled man who talked to himself rather than the patients. He also dispensed from his urn cups of metallic tea. Buddies, I felt doubleplusungood.

  I was under the knife next day: my hemmies had boiled over. Mm? Pain...? You don't know the half of it. And how do you tell people what you're in for, eh?

  I'd already met the nurse who was to give me my pre-med and she was no Cybernurse. She was a dog. No, no: I don't mean she barked, I mean—oh, forget it. As I ate my meal I fantasised to take the edge off my fear. Because I didn't want to pooh my pants, did I? I also knew tomorrow was enema day. Real life's a bit different from the ideal, n'est-ce pa?

  Anyway, the op was a success though I was a bit tender for a few days. But now I can eat a curry, sink a Monkey's Bum and break wind lavishly—without fear or pain. So, you'll be wanting a climax, now, won't you? Okay, try this:

  You're going about your business, not bothering anyone, when up pops the eternal footman. He approaches, dressed all in black—no trendy irony here; pulls a card from a pack, hands it to me.

  'That's yours, Mr Smith.'

  'Hang on,' I say, 'there must be a mistake. I'm too young to face this conveyor belt. Anyway, my name is triple-barrelled.'

  'Read the card, sir.' Flat, monotone.

  I read it: CHARLES SMITH-JONES-BROWN. It was for me.

  'Okay, is there any place I can get a meal or drink while I'm waiting?'

  'Waiting...?' he asks.

  'Yes, I'm not ready to step onto that belt.'

  'Not ready, sir?' Black, unctuous, wilfully misapprehensive.

  'Yes—not prepared to face death yet. I'll move onto this belt at the last moment but I'm not finished with life yet.'

  He affects a small, professional frown. 'Life's finished with you.'

  'Finished? You must be joking. I've barely started: far too many dreams to fulfil.'

  He nods towards the belt: it's been there all along. My place was allotted when my first cell divided in my mother's womb. Unique? No: I'm predictably common.

  'It's death's turn for you, now, sir.'

  'Is that all I get?'

  A weary nod.

  'This isn't me. If this is the pinnacle of my achievements then life's a terrible disappointment.' He ignores me. 'A profound disillusionment.'

  'Someone promise you more?' he asks automatically, barely suppressing a yawn.

  I cannot answer. Who had promised me more? So, like a beast in an abattoir, I take my place, step onto the belt. Mm? What colour is the belt? Red and black and aluminium. You don't get much space and you have to stand. And it only goes one way. Oh, and there's no one to appeal to. You just stand in your allotted space and wait, travelling forward imperceptibly.

  'Mr Smith-Jones-Brown!' calls the footman.

  'Sir...?'

  'Who are you speaking to?'

  'Just mumbling.'

  'Well, cut it—see?'

  *

  Then came death—thrills and spills on the darker side. Exhilarating adventure, the ultimate experience.

  'Where shall I start, sir?'
/>
  (Loved the sir.) Here he was—the devil with a chainsaw.

  'Just here, friend,' I said, pointing to the base of my breastbone. 'But don't go too fast. I haven't made up my mind how far to go with you.'

  'There is only me, sir,' said the devil.

  'Yes,' I said, 'but you're promoting the diabolical.' I waited; he was impassive. 'The other side may have something quite different on offer.'

  He smiled, a born salesman. 'Nobody, but nobody, does the darker thrill better than myself,' he asserted. 'You want exhilaration, then I'm your man.' He left a silence. 'I've had them all, sir. Youngsters, oldsters, aristocrats; aldermen, washerwomen, royalty; the disappointed, the disgruntled and the downright disaffected.' He gave me a straight look and for moments the dynamic passed between us, before:

  'Just here,' I said, pointing to my chest.

  He revved the chainsaw. The first incision was deliciously decisive. I let him use up a quarter of my dying heart. Dying is a misnomer because I felt terrifically alive.

  'Stop!' I cried. 'You're killing me.' He cut the motor with professional reluctance, withdrew the saw.

  Then I metaphorically opened up the remainder of my heart to everything else that death had to offer. Whose death was it, anyway? I was determined to play it my way. The thrills turned sweeter and sweeter until my heart was filling with universal love. What a wasteful life I'd led. If I'd known death could be this good I should have led a worse life.

  The devil interrupted my reverie: 'Time marches on, sir. Tempus fugit and all that. Forgive the vulgarity, squire, and I hate to rush you, but I've lots to do. You're blocking the queue and winter Sunday evenings are a bitch.' He toyed with the saw's safety catch. 'Shall we finish the job? I'll give you a nice swift death. Unless, of course, you'd prefer the scalpel. Quick and clean, sir. You'd hardly know where I'd been once they'd stitched you up. And, anyway, where you're going, it's hardly going to matter, is it?'