by Grant Naylor
PENGUIN BOOKS
BETTER THAN LIFE
Grant Naylor is a gestalt entity occupying two bodies, one of which lives in north London, the other in south London. The product of a horribly botched genetic-engineering experiment, which took place in Manchester in the late fifties, they try to eke out two existences with only one mind. They attended the same school and the same university, but, for tax reasons, have completely different wives.
The first body is called Rob Grant, the second Doug Naylor. Among other things, they spent three years in the mid-eighties as head writers of Spitting Image; wrote Radio 4's award-winning series Son of Cliche, penned the lyrics to a number one single; and created and wrote Red Dwarf for BBC Television.
They have made a living variously by being ice-cream salesmen, shoe-shop assistants and by attempting to sell dodgy life-assurance policies to close friends. They also spent almost two years on the night shift loading paper into computer printers at a mail-order factory in Ardwick. They can still taste the cheese 'n' onion toasties.
Their favourite colour is orange. Red Dwarf was an enormous bestseller when published as a Penguin paperback in 1989. Better Than Life was the not-very-long-awaited sequel. Both are published by Penguin in one volume entitled Red Dwarf Omnibus.
Penguin also publish Primordial Soup: Red Dwarf Scripts, and Son of Soup: A Second Serving of the Least Worst Scripts is forthcoming. Last Human, a third Red Dwarf novel by Doug Naylor, is also available in Penguin.
Special Thanks to:
MikeTZ who (I think?) scanned, OCR’d and proofed a mobi version for books2bytes which I found on Demonoid..
tardismatrix of Demonoid who created a PDF that helped in editting and proofing this epub.
GRANT NAYLOR
BETTER THAN LIFE
PENGUIN BOOKS
Special thanks to Ed Bye for being unnecessarily tall and wonderful, to Paul Jackson for being not so tall, but equally wonderful, and to Chris Barrie, Craig Charles, Danny John-Jules, Hattie Hayridge, Robert Llewelyn and Peter Wragg. Thanks also to BBC Northwest and all the Red Dwarf backstage crew.
CONTENTS
Part One
Game over · 1
Part Two
She rides · 83
Part Three
Garbage world - 125
Part Four
The end, and after - 215
PROLOGUE
Time is a character in this novel.
It does strange things: moves in strange directions, and at strange speeds.
Don't trust Time.
Time will always get you in the end.
Grant Naylor (Alexandria, 25 BC)
Part One
Game Over
ONE
Rimmer sat on the open terrace, in his half-devastated dinner suit of the night before, and gazed down at the metallic blue time machine, drunkenly parked skew-whiff in the ornamental gardens of the Palace of Versailles. Breakfasting with him were five of his stag-night companions: John F. Kennedy, Vincent Van Gogh, Albert Einstein, Louis XVI and Elvis Presley.
'That was a heck of a night,' Kennedy sparkled. 'One heck of a night.' Einstein snorted in agreement, and continued absently buttering the underside of his tie.
Julius Caesar stumbled through the french windows out on to the terrace with an ice-pack perched on his head. 'Can anyone tell me,' he asked in faltering English, 'where in Jupiter's name we got this?' He held aloft a large orange-and-white-striped traffic cone. 'I woke up in bed with it this morning.'
Van Gogh cracked an egg into his tomato juice, and downed it with a shudder. 'It's not a good night,' he grinned, 'if you don't get a traffic cone.'
'You want that?' Elvis Presley nodded at Rimmer's devilled kidneys, and without waiting for a reply scraped them on to his already full plate.
A colourless smile trickled across Rimmer's upper lip. 'Avez-vous some, uh, Alka-Seltzer?'.
'One heck of a night,' Kennedy repeated.
And he was right: as bachelor-night parties went, it had been a bit of a cracker.
A flash-frame slammed into Rimmer's brain - a scene from the night before ...
***
He was standing on a table in a 1922 Chicago speakeasy, dancing the Black Bottom with Frank 'the Enforcer' Nitty's girlfriend, and complaining for the umpteenth time that his mineral water tasted as if someone had poured three double vodkas into it.
Then ... Then ... He couldn't remember the order, but they had definitely dropped in on one of Caligula's orgies. Rimmer must have been fairly drunk by then, because he remembered spending at least twenty minutes trying to chat up a horse.
At some point they'd been in Ancient Egypt, and Rimmer had lost a tooth trying to give the Sphinx a giant love-bite ... then someone - Rimmer thought it was Elvis - had suggested a curry. And Rimmer, who hated curries, had been dragged, complaining, through Time back to India in the days of the Raj, where everyone had ordered a mutton vindaloo, except for Rimmer who had a cheese omelette served with ludicrously thick chips.
The cry had gone up for more liquor, and Rimmer suggested ... What did he suggest? There was a block, so it must have been something fairly bad. Some kind of restaurant. They'd crashed a private party, and all the people there seemed fairly put out when Rimmer and his cronies showed up dancing and singing. There were a dozen or so diners, all men, all bearded. Rimmer closed his eyes and groaned.
They'd gatecrashed the Last Supper.
What had he done? What had he said? He'd been shouting drunk. 'Private bloody party! Our money's as good as anyone's!'
Twelve of them had stood up and threatened to punch Rimmer out, but the one who'd remained seated had told the others to sit down again.
'Do one of your tricks,' Rimmer had insisted. 'Come on, I'm getting married tomorrow. That one with the fish - it's brilliant.'
***
A heck of a night.
Rimmer looked at his real-time watch. 'Well, Louis, me old buckeroo,' he said to the king of France, 'we'd better be making tracks. Big kissy-kissy to Marie and the dauphin. Thanks for the servant girls. See you at the wedding.'
Louis XVI thanked Rimmer for the Ray-Ban sunglasses and the Sony Walkman and bade him farewell.
Rimmer gingerly made his way across the lawns towards the Time copter, followed by Kennedy, Van Gogh, Einstein and Caesar. Elvis crammed a steak in his mouth, stuffed a second in his pocket, grabbed four bread rolls and followed them.
***
The man in the air traffic control tower radioed clearance to materialize, and the Time copter bloomed into existence, and chuddered to rest on the tarmacadamed runway.
The disembarkation door hinged to the ground, and the world's richest man clicked down the steps towards the waiting limo.
Two steps down, the screaming started. Hordes of teenage girls standing on the observation balcony swept forward in tides of pubescent adoration.
'Arniiiiiiiiieeee!' they roared. 'We love yooouuuuuu!'
Rimmer waved half-heartedly and shot them the thinnest of his thin smiles, before he was surrounded by a phalanx of sober-suited security guards who ushered him to the leather comfort of the limo's interior.
The eight motorcyclists twisted their throttle grips, and led the cavalcade forward, as it swished imperiously past Passport Control and the Customs building, and headed towards the exit.
Rimmer flicked idly through the stack of magazines on the limo's mahogany table: Time, Life and Newsweek. He noted with only mild interest that his portrait graced the cover of all three. According to Life, he'd just been voted 'World's sexiest man', 'World's best-dressed man' and 'Pipe-smoker of the year'. Rimmer smiled. He didn't even own a pipe, much less smoke one. Success breeds success, he thought.
The cavalcade fought its way through the screaming fans milling around the airport exit.
'Arniiiiiiiiiiiieeeeee! Don't marry her!'
Flattened adoring faces squashed up against the grey smoked glass, all of them dizzy with desire for Arnold J. Rimmer.
Rimmer was perfectly well aware that he was in the wrong plane of the wrong dimension of reality and, quite honestly, he didn't give two hoots.
The limousine gently disentangled itself from the sobbing frenzy of teenage girls and silently accelerated down the freeway, followed by a shower of moist, female underwear.
TWO
Three million years out in Deep Space, a dilapidated mining ship drifts pointlessly round in a huge, aimless circle.
On board, its four crew members sit in a horseshoe, trapped in the ultimate computer game: a game that plugs directly into the brain, and enables them to experience a world created by their own fantasies.
The game is called Better Than Life, and very few ever escape its thrall: very few can give up their own, personally sculpted paradise.
THREE
Sparkling lights looped from tree to tree along the main street, above an assortment of parked cars hummocked in white. A small brass band umpahed discordant but cheery carols in the town square, as last-minute shoppers slushed through the snow, exchanging seasonal greetings and stopping occasionally to join in a favourite carol.
In the fictional town of Bedford Falls, it was Christmas Eve. But then again, in the fictional town of Bedford Falls, it was always Christmas Eve.
Lister crossed the main street, his two sons perched on either shoulder, and headed for the toy shop.
As they passed the jailhouse, Bert the cop was removing a wanted poster from the front window.
The poster was yellow and gnarled, and offered a five-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of Jesse James and his gang. 'About time I took this thing down,' Bert said sheepishly. There hadn't been a single crime in Bedford Falls for over thirty years; not since that hot summer day when Mrs Hubble was arrested for taking a three-cent trolley ride, having paid only a two-cent fare.
Lister slid the twins from his shoulders and grasped their tiny hands, as the two four-year-olds gazed, mouths ajar, at the large blue sailing boat on sale for two dollars and twenty-five cents in the toy-shop window.
Suddenly the door jangled open and old Mr Mulligan appeared in the doorway, straightening out the yacht's sails. 'Now then, me lads,' he brogued. 'Would I be correct in thinking you'll be after doing business with me in respect of a certain sailing vessel? Only, you've been standing out there with your faces pressed up against me window so often these past few months, you're beginning to wear away the pavement outside me shop.'
'Yes, sir, we are, sir,' said Bexley. 'We've been saving up all year. Show him the money, Jim.'
Jim took out his spider box, and carefully unwrapped the two wrinkled dollar bills and poured out the mound of coppers.
'Here it is, sir. Two dollars and twenty-five cents.'
As old Mr Mulligan held out the boat, Henry, the town down-and-out, shuffled sadly by, his flimsy coat tugged tight around his frail shoulders. He took a futile swig from a bottle concealed in a brown paper bag and threw it in a wastebin.
'Merry Christmas, ge'l'men,' he slurred.
Jim gazed up at his stubble-swathed face. 'Where are you spending Christmas, Mr Henry?'
'Well, that's a very good question.' Henry dragged a tattered sleeve across his nose. 'Being as how the jailhouse is closed for the yuletide period, and the Bel Air Hotel presidential suite is fully booked, it looks like the Park Bench Hilton for old Henry.'
'What are you going to eat?' asked Bexley.
'Don't worry about me, boy. I always share a fine Christmas dinner with the ducks up on Potter's pond.'
The twins turned and faced each other. Finally, they both nodded, and Bexley turned back to Henry, and held out his hand. 'Me and Jim would like you to have this, Mr Henry. Merry Christmas.'
'What's this?' Henry tried to focus on the money in his hand.
'You can get a room at Old Ma Bailey's boarding-house,' said Jim, 'and have a proper Christmas, like the rest of us.'
Henry's blood-shot eyes filled with tears, and his voice cracked. 'Well now,' he barely whispered. 'You'd be giving me your Christmas money.'
Lister looked down at his feet.
'Deep down, you're a really good person,' said Jim. 'You just got sad when old Mrs Henry went to heaven.'
Lister sucked in his cheeks, and old Mr Mulligan took out a large handkerchief and noisily blew his nose.
'Look at me - I've gone to pieces,' Henry blubbed. 'What would my Mary say if she could see me now? She'd give me such a talking-to, my ears'd be ringing for a week.'
'No she wouldn't, Mr Henry.' Bexley shook his head. 'She'd say you brought up two fine children single-handed, and sent them both to college. You only took to the bottle when the angels had to take them away, too.'
Lister snuffled, and whimpered, and accepted Mulligan's handkerchief.
Henry bent down and pressed the money back into Jim's hand. 'I can't take this from you, boys, but if I could just borrow a dollar, to get myself a haircut and a shave. There's a sweeping job going down at the drugstore. I'll pay you back ten times over.'
Jim and Bexley smiled. 'Merry Christmas, Henry.'
Jim folded the single dollar bill around the twenty-five cents, and placed it carefully back into his spider box. 'Come on, Dad,' he said quietly. 'Let's go back home.'
'Wait!' called Mulligan. 'Have I told you about the winter sale, just this minute started? Lots of bargains! Take, for instance, this fine blue boat, formerly two dollars, twenty-five cents, now reduced to one dollar, twenty-five cents.'
He handed the boat to the boys.
Lister started sobbing unashamedly, which set Henry off. The two men embraced one another, and were soon joined by old Mr Mulligan, and Bert the cop. They stood there in a four-way hug, bawling hysterically.
'That's so beautiful,' Lister was trying to say between whimpering convulsions.
'You've got two fine boys there. You should ...' But Henry couldn't finish. He buried his head in Lister's shoulder, and was off again.
'They were prepared to give up the boat to help out Henry,' Mulligan blubbered. 'That's the real spirit of Christmas.'
'Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah,' said Bert, and they all dissolved in a fresh paroxysm of wailing.
This was the kind of thing that happened all the time in the fictional town of Bedford Falls.
It was that kind of place.
***
The twelve-wheeled juggernaut hammered down the narrow country lane decapitating hedgerows and smashing through branches as it lurched on and off the road. Its huge wide wheels carved deep ugly ruts in the fresh-laid snow.
Its air-horn sounded as it dragged round a tight bend, and straightened out too soon, ripping through a picket fence and flattening a metal road sign.
The sign clattered across the road and toppled into a ditch as the juggernaut thundered out of control, down towards the twinkling lights of the town below.
Smashed, and scarred by tyre tracks, the road sign lay on its back in the ditch. 'Welcome to Bedford Falls', it said. 'Population 3,241'.
Very soon, the information on the sign would be hopelessly, hopelessly inaccurate.
***
The five-piece brass band staggered its way through 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' - all, that is, except for old Billy Bailey, the tuba player, who was still staggering through 'Hark, The Herald Angels Sing' from three carols earlier.
Almost the entire population of Bedford Falls stood around the giant Christmas tree in the town square, their sweet, discordant voices drifting up into the evening sky.
Lister, with Bexley and Jim on his shoulders again, was sandwiched between Mr Mulligan and Henry. Henry, with his freshly shaven face and his bristling new haircut, sang louder than anyone. The carol finished, and everyone app
lauded. Minutes later the tuba finished too, and everyone applauded once more. The five-piece band struck up again. Four of them started 'Silent Night', and, after a gulp from his hip flask, Billy Bailey tore into 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'. He was definitely catching up.
Across the street, the door of 220 Sycamore opened, and Kristine Kochanski ran over to join them, clutching a bag of hot roasted chestnuts. She linked her arm in Lister's and planted a warm kiss on his chilled cheek.
'Hey, listen,' Lister smiled. 'Old Henry's got nowhere to stay ...' He didn't even need to finish the sentence.
'I've already made up the spare bed. He can stay with us for as long as he likes.' She flashed her famous smile - the smile that made her face light up like a pinball machine awarding a bonus game. The smile Lister had fallen in love with. She hugged him tighter, and they shared the carol sheet.
Suddenly, Lister was aware of loud blaring drone cutting through the carol. He looked around. The dull monotone sounded again, now even louder, now even closer.
Lister turned. Over the crest of the hill that led down to the main street, the sudden dazzle of eight huge headlights glared down towards them.
The hooter sounded again.
Lister squinted against the glare, and made out the shape of the rogue juggernaut.
It was out of control, and heading straight for the carol-singing crowd in the town square.
FOUR
Rimmer gazed down from the balcony windows of his colonial mansion at the blur of black-suited waiters who dashed frantically about with increasingly elaborate flower arrangements. Cranes hung marinated giraffe carcasses over the clay-pit fires, while an army of pastry chefs put the finishing touches to the wedding cake, which featured as its centrepiece an Olympic-sized swimming pool full of vintage champagne.
