The Fandom of the Operator (13 page)

“Really?” I said. “I didn’t know that. Perhaps he told Sandra, but she didn’t mention it. He got his motorbike and he got the job. Incredible.”

“He had to lie about his name, though.”

“Why?”

“They only wanted applicants called Peter. So he said his name was Peter. So he got the job and now he runs the world-famous night club.”

“What’s it called?” I asked.

“————”
[16]
said the landlord.

“Never heard of it,” I said. “But listen, don’t turn me in. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“Fine,” said the landlord. “So, Developmental Services, what do they do?”

“They develop services,” I said.

“I’m reaching for the phone,” said the landlord.

“No, that’s what they do. They work on new projects to improve facilities.”

“So what are they working on now? What is this Neil Collins, who has no True Name, working on?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know for sure,” I said. “It’s something called FLATLINE.”

“In capital letters,” said the landlord. “It must be something important, then.”

“I don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s something pretty big.”

“So how much do you know about it?”

I scratched at
my
head, which, like the landlord’s, was also hatless. I’ve never taken to a hat myself- you get hat-hair, which is frankly embarrassing. Hats are for fogeys, in my opinion. Most of the patrons of the Golden Dawn were hat-wearers. You only really wear a hat if you’re a fogey. Or, of course, if you have a problem about your baldness. Of course Lazlo Woodbine wasn’t bald, and he never had hat-hair. He wore a fedora, probably with a raised crown, although that was never mentioned in any of the novels. So, where was I?

“It’s something pretty big,” I said once more, to get my bearings.

“So how much do you know about it?”

I shook my hatless head. “I know it’s called FLATLINE,” I said.

“Twonk!” said the landlord. “But I’ll say this to you. I’m suspicious, me, and when things don’t smell right I don’t like the smell of them. You find out about this FLATLINE and you tell me about it, or I
will
grass you up, understand?”

I nodded now with my hatless head. “I understand,” I said.

“Right,” said the landlord. “Now take your drinks and go back to your woman. You’re supposed to be celebrating your wedding anniversary.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “
That’s
what I came out with Sandra for.”

I took the drinks back to the table.

“Didn’t you get one for Otto?” asked Sandra.

“No. Stuff him,” I said.

“Strong words,” said Sandra, laughing.

“Shut up,” I told her, “and drink your cocktail.”

Sandra took a sip. “What is this one called?” she asked.

“It’s Ruby Tuesday.”

“Very nice too. Very fruity.”

I sighed and rolled my own eyes a bit. “I get tired,” I said. “You know that? I get tired.”

“It’s all that finger-work.” Sandra mimed switch-flicking. And mimed it very badly too. There’s an art to switch-flicking: you don’t just flick a switch and you certainly don’t do it the way Sandra did it, with thumb and forefinger making an O and the hand going up and down in a sort of stabbing motion. “You’ve got Repetitive Strain Injury!” And she laughed again. “An injury that if caused in the workplace, can enable you to sue the company and get lots of money.”

“Ridiculous,” I said. “Industrial injuries go with the job. If you can’t stand the heat don’t go so near the hairdryer.”

“You can sneer,” said Sandra, “but in
my
new job—”

“New job?” I said. “
New job
? What new job?”

“
My
new job. Count Otto got it for me. He’s a solicitor now. And I’m a barrister.”

“I never knew that. You never told me.”

“We don’t talk any more,” said Sandra.

“We do. We talk all the time.”

“No,” said Sandra. “
You
talk. I am expected to listen.”

“That’s how heterosexual relationships work,” I explained. “Men talk, women listen. When it’s the other way round it ends in divorce.”

“And that’s your take on marriage, is it?”

I shrugged. “Our marriage doesn’t work very well, does it?” I said.

“No,” said Sandra. “It doesn’t.”

“And that’s because you don’t listen when I talk. You should try harder. It would work far better then.”

“I’m going on holiday with Otto next week,” said Sandra.

“What?” I said. “
What
?”

“To Camber Sands. We’ve booked a caravan.”

“But that’s outrageous. You can’t do
that
!”

“And why not?”

“Because who’s going to make my sandwiches?”

“I’ll leave you a week’s supply in the freezer.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. Will you send me a postcard?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Sandra.

“Thank God for that,” I said.

“What?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have time to read it. This is my golden opportunity to put in some overtime. I’m certain that Barry who does the seven p.m. to seven a.m. shift isn’t as quick on the switch as he might be. I can sit with him and give him some pointers.”

“Yes,” said Sandra. “Why don’t you do that?”

“I will,” I said, “I will.”

Count Otto returned from the toilet.

“Finished counting?” I asked. “How many were there this time?”

“Same as last time,” said Otto. “Which is comforting, when you think about it.”

“That is
so
true,” I said. “So very, very true.”

Otto took up what was left of his pint and supped upon it.

“I was just telling Gary that you and I are going off on holiday next week,” said Sandra.

Otto choked upon his pint.

“Easy,” I said, patting him on the back. “Are you all right? Did it go down the wrong way?”

“Just a bit,” said the count.

“I was saying to Sandra,” said I, “not to send me a postcard. I wouldn’t have time to read it.”

“Oh,” said Count Otto, glancing over at Sandra, who seemed, if I wasn’t mistaken, to be winking in his direction. “Well, OK, then. I’ll keep her entertained. Try and find her something to fill the moments when she would otherwise have been writing you postcards.” And the count squeezed at his groin region.

“Thanks a lot,” I said to the count. “Would you care for another pint? Seeing as how you’re being so kind as to take Sandra on holiday while I’ll be busy at work.”

“Yes, please,” said Count Otto. “A whisky chaser would be nice too.”

“Done,” said I. “No problem.”

I returned to the bar. “Same again,” said I. “Although different for Sandra and one for the count.”

“Phew,” said the landlord. “You do have money to splash about. I’ve got fillings from the drip trays here that will pass for a Tequila Sunrise and set you back nearly three quid.”

“In for a penny,” said I.

“Quite so,” said the landlord, emptying the drip tray into a used glass. “Oh and, Gary …”

“Yes,” I said.

“I need to know. It matters to me.”

“Need to know what?” I asked. For I didn’t know what he wanted to know.

“About FLATLINE in the capital letters. I need to know what it’s all about.”

“Well,” I said, as I accepted the drinks I was given and paid the price that I had to pay for them, “I’ll do what I can. But I do have a lot on my mind at present. I’m going to be doing some overtime. I’ll be busy.”

“I need to know,” said the landlord. “I’m not wrong about the True Names. Even though I thought I was wrong, that travelling man proved to me that I wasn’t. This is important, if only to me. Whatever you find out will be between the two of us. You know the old saying, ‘you scratch my back, I don’t stab yours’. OK?” And the landlord made a very vicious face.

“OK,” I said. “It’s a done deal. I’ll find out, I promise. But I
do
have a lot on my mind.”

I did.

And as I took the drinks back to the table I did a lot of thinking. And I do mean
a lot
. I thought about myself. And what I’d become. And who was the
real
me who was me now. And I thought about Barry who did the night shift and whether I should make him a pair of elbow trolleys.

And I thought about the landlord and his True Names and how he couldn’t divine the True Name of Neil Collins and I thought about FLATLINE and whatever FLATLINE might actually be, it being in capital letters and everything.

And I thought about the landlord grassing me up and me being dragged away to prison.

And I thought about Sandra and regretted that
I
hadn’t been able to take her on holiday because holidays weren’t written into the Official Secrets Act.

And I thought about Count Otto. And what a good friend to Sandra and me he had been for years.

And I thought about what a shame it was that I would be forced to swoop upon him one night as he lay asleep in his bed. Bind him, gag him and slowly torture him to death.

Because, after all, he was sexing my wife!

And company man and sell-out boy and wimp and twonk that Sandra might have thought I was.

I certainly wasn’t having
that
!

It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?

If Sandra hadn’t gone off on that caravan holiday with Count Otto Black, I would never have put in that bit of overtime and found out just how useless Barry was at the bulb.

It was honestly as if he didn’t care.

Can you believe
that
?

I was standing there, talking to him about switch technique and what I called “alert-finger” and the bulb flashed. And Barry just reached out across the table, slow as you please, as if he was answering a telephone, and flapped his hand down on the switch.

I was flabbergasted.

I was stunned.

Stunned, appalled,
and
flabbergasted.

All at once.

“That is
so
bad,” I said to Barry. “That is
so
bad. I can’t believe how so, so, so, so, so, so bad that is.”

“It’s just a bulb,” said Barry. “Just a fugging bulb.”

“Curb that language in this booth,” I said to Barry. “This is not
just a bulb
.”

“So, what is it, then,
a way of life
?”

“It’s a job for life. And I’ve worked at it for five long years of mine. And it’s a responsibility. A
big
responsibility. It’s
your
responsibility when you’re on your shift.”

“Get a life,” said Barry. “Get real.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” I said. “I spy anarchism here. I spy subversion. I smell recidivism.”

“You smell wee-wee,” said Barry. “And it’s yours.”

“No wee-wee on me,” I said. “Sniff my groin if you have any doubts.”

“Smells of teen spirit,” said Barry. Whatever
that
meant.

“You’ll have to apply yourself more to the job,” I told him.

“Barking,” said Barry. “Barking mad.”

“I’ve never been to Barking,” I told him. “I can get mad about Penge, perhaps. But never Barking.”

“Fugg off home,” said Barry. “I want to read my book.”

“You can’t read a book here. You have to be ever alert.”

“I have to switch a stupid bulb off when it comes on. I’ll read my book until it does.”

I opened my mouth very wide but no words at all came out of it.

“I’m reading
Passport to Peril
,” said Barry. “It’s a Lazlo Woodbine thriller. Not that you’d know about
that
, I’m sure.”

“On the contrary, young man,” I said. “I’ve read every Lazlo Woodbine thriller at least a dozen times. I know the lot. By heart, most, if not all, of them.”

“Yeah, right,” said Barry.

“Yeah, right indeed.”

“Oh, so if I was to ask you a question about Lazlo Woodbine, you’d know the answer, would you?”

“I applied to go on
Mastermind
answering questions on the detective novels of P.P. Penrose as my specialist subject. I didn’t get picked, though.”

“All right, I’ll ask you questions.”

“Not here,” I said. “The bulb might flash.”

“Fugg the bulb,” said Barry. “If it flashes, I’ll switch it off.”

“
I’ll
switch it off,” I said. “You’re useless at it. I’m going to see if there are drugs I can take that will allow me to stay awake twenty-four hours a day so I can do your shift too.”

“What drug did Lazlo Woodbine take in
Waiting for Godalming
that allowed him to stay awake for twenty-four hours a day for a whole week?”

“Trick question,” I said. “No drug at all: he did it by willpower. He had to stay awake because if he fell asleep the Holy Guardian Sprout inside his head would have read his mind and given away the trick ending of the book to the readers.
Waiting for Godalming
was a Post-Modernist Lazlo Woodbine thriller – one of the weakest in my opinion.”

“Good answer,” said Barry. “But it might have been a lucky one. All right, I’ll ask you another. In
Death Carries a Pink Umbrella
—”

“Set in Berlin,” I said.

“East or West?”

“Both,” I said. “And also Antwerp, where Laz identifies Molly Behemoth by her ‘distinctive birthmark and Egyptian walk’ …”

“Yes, OK. But who ‘ate his way to freedom’ and never used the word ‘nigger’ when ‘Frenchman’ would do?”

“Callbeck the miner’s son, who sold his soul to Harrods in a bet with a Rasputin Impersonator who turned out to be one of the Beverley Sisters.”

“Burger me backwards over my aunty’s handbag,” said Barry. “You sure know your Lazlo Woodbine thrillers.”

“Buddy,” I said, “in my business, knowing your Lazlo Woodbine thrillers can mean the difference between painting the town red and wearing a pair of red pants, if you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.”
[17]

“I know where you’re coming from,” said Barry. “Although that was a pretty poor imitation.”

“No one can do it like Penrose could,” I said.

“Too true, brother,” said Barry. “Although I never had time for his Adam Earth science-fiction books. They were rubbish, in my opinion.”

“True,” I said. And I sighed. “Listen,” I said, continuing. “It’s really wonderful to meet another fan of the great man, but you really are useless at this job. Perhaps you should just quit and let a more committed individual take over.”

“There’s no quitting, is there?” said Barry. “It’s off to prison for the quitter. I foolishly signed the Official Secrets Act.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “I signed that too.”

“Which is why you’re such a twonk, I suppose. You gave up, sold out and gave in.”

I didn’t like to talk about this stuff. It was personal. “All right,” I said. “I thought about rebelling. I really did. I came here on my second day with every intention of smashing the bulb or pulling it out and sitting here with my arms folded to see what would happen.”

“And so why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I was going to do it. I got drunk the night before and determined utterly that I’d do it. Then I got up all hungovered and came in here and sat down in that chair. Which now has my special sprung cushion on it, you’ll notice, and I
was
going to rebel. But I had such a hangover and I thought I’d rebel later and the light flashed and I switched it off. And I thought, ‘Stuff it. I’ll just not switch it off next time.’ But then it flashed on again and I was all on my own and I thought, ‘OK, I’ll just switch it off the one time more. But this will be the last time.’

“And then I thought about my wife Sandra and how she was really ticked off about how I was always out of work. And Harry, her brother, who said about saving up for a motorbike so you could be first at interviews for really good jobs, and I thought, ‘OK, I’ll just stick it out for a week. Or maybe two. Then find some way of getting out.’ But then it sort of grew on me and I started taking pride in my job. Because I was in it and Mr Holland kept impressing upon me how important it was. Although I’ve never been able to find out why. But he said it was. And, OK, there was the threat – that was always there in the back of my mind – foul up and you’re off to prison.

“But somehow it was more than that, so I kept doing it and now, OK, it’s
me
. It’s what I am; it’s all I’ve got. There’s some bloke sexing my wife. This is all I’ve got.”

Barry looked up at me. “I’m sorry, man,” he said. “You’re OK. You know that. You’re OK.”

“I’m not OK,” I said. “I’m all messed up. Once upon a time I was OK. I knew who I was. But I don’t know any more. I’m an adult. Adults don’t know who they really are. Only children know who they really are. And nobody listens to children.”

“You’re so right,” said Barry, “you’re so right.”

Then the bulb flashed on and, without even thinking, I switched it off again.

“I hate this,” said Barry. “I want to be a musician, like Jeff Beck. But I’m stuck here and I’m really screwed up by it.”

“I’d be prepared to put in a couple of extra hours if it would help you out,” I said. “I could work up to eight or eight-thirty.”

“Thanks, man,” said Barry. “But it really isn’t the point, is it? This isn’t right, is it? We’re stuck in something we don’t understand. I mean, why does the fugging bulb flash on in the first place?”

I laughed.

“You’re laughing,” said Barry. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because it’s a joke. You’re asking
me
why the bulb flashes on. Do I look like a technical engineer?”

“And that’s funny, is it?”

“No,” I said. “I suppose it isn’t.”

“So why
does
the bulb flash on?”

I shrugged. “Because it
can
, I suppose.”

“And why must we switch it off when it does?”

“Because it’s what we do, I suppose.”

“It’s a sad indictment on society, man.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “A bloke from Transylvania is sexing my wife.”

“Count Otto Black,” said Barry.

“You know him?”

“Well, he’s the only bloke from Transylvania who lives around here.”

“I’m going to kill him,” I said. “That’s off the record, by the way. Just between the two of us.”

“Big kudos to you, then.”

“Thanks. I also have to find out about FLATLINE. Ever heard of that?”

“Bits and pieces,” said Barry. “Blokes from Developmental Services come off shift at eleven. They often hang about outside the booth, having a fag. I hear them talking.”

“And what do you hear them talking about?”

“Usual stuff: football, women, cars.”

“FLATLINE?” I said.

“Yeah, they talk about it, but it all sounds like a load of old bollards to me.”

“Go on,” I said. “Tell me what they say.”

Barry eyed me queerly. But as I was mostly straight nowadays and didn’t fancy him anyway, I said, “I think they’re up to something dodgy up there on the seventeenth floor.”

“Something stone bonkers,” said Barry. “I mean, communicating with beings from outer space. What’s that all about, eh?”

“Eh?” I said in an “eh” that was louder than his.

“Something to do with us not doing the thinking with our brains, but our brains being receivers and transmitters. Or some such rubbish. They’ve supposedly got some kind of direct communications computer, or something, up there that lets them talk to aliens.”

“That’s incredible,” I said, and a distant bell began to ring in my head. Something from long, long ago. And then I remembered: that afternoon in the restricted section of the Memorial Library, the conversation between the two men from the Ministry that had no name, or, rather, did have but it was a secret.

“Are you OK?” asked Barry. “You look as if a distant bell is ringing in your head.”

“I’m OK,” I said. “But you
are
sure about this?”

“My ear goes right against the door when they’re out there,” said Barry. “It passes a bit of time and I’m nothing if not nosy. But none of them seem to agree about what’s really going on up there and why it is.”

“I wonder,” I said and I glanced towards the ceiling.

“What do you wonder?” Barry asked. “Do you wonder whether the ceiling could do with a lick of paint? Well, it could, and I might even do it myself.”

“Don’t you even think about it. What if the bulb was to flash?”

“It wouldn’t,” said Barry.

“It might. You don’t know.”

“I do know. It wouldn’t.”

“And how could you know?”

“Because I’d take it out,” said Barry. “Like I do when I slip off to the toilet.”

I clutched at my heart. Well, you would!
I
would. And I did.

“You take the bulb
out
?” My voice was a choking whisper.

“Sometimes,” said Barry. “I leave it out if I’m having a bit of a kip, or something.”

“You … you …” My voice kind of trailed off.

“Nothing ever happens,” said Barry. “No alarms ever go off. There aren’t any explosions. No men in riot gear rush in. Here, I’ll show you, I’ll take it out now. I was going to take it out anyway, so I could pop upstairs to the refectory and phone my girlfriend.”

I began to sway back and forwards and the world began to go dark at the edges.

“Easy,” said Barry. “Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?”

“Yes, please.” And he guided me onto the chair.

“Do you want a glass of water? I can get you one from the refectory.”

“No!” I said. “No. You can’t leave the booth.”

“I’ll take the bulb – no problem.”

“Oh my God!” And I buried my head in my hands.

“You’ve got it bad, man,” said Barry, patting my shoulder to comfort me. “You’ve let the bustards grind you down. I signed the Official Secrets Act, so the bustards have me by the bollards too. But just because they have my bollards, it doesn’t mean that I have to let them squeeze them. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

“You take the bulb out.” I whispered the words. “You actually take the bulb out.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never done it?”

“Never,” I said, frantically shaking my head.

“Well, you should. It gives you a sense of power. Try it now. Go on, take it out. See what it feels like.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head even more frantically. “I’d never do such a dreadful thing.”

I looked up at Barry and he grinned down at me. His hand reached out towards the bulb.

“Don’t,” I told him. “Don’t.”

“OK,” said Barry. “I won’t if it upsets you so much and clearly it does. But I’ll tell you something about this bulb that I’ll bet you don’t know.”

“That shouldn’t be hard,” I said. “As I don’t know anything at all about it, except that it has to be switched off.”

“And you’ve sat in this booth for five years and you’ve never wondered?”

“Of course I’ve wondered. And I’ve asked, but no one will tell me.”

“And you’ve never thought of finding out for yourself?”

I sighed. “Of course I have. But how could I?”

“You could follow the wire and see where it goes.”

“Don’t be funny,” I said. “It goes down into the floor. It could go anywhere from there.”

“Oh, it does,” said Barry. “And yes, I understand, really, I suppose: you do the day shift, so you couldn’t up the floorboards and take a look, then trace the wire up the corridor and into the lift shaft and—”

“What?” I said. “What?”

“It’s taken me months,” said Barry. “But
I’ve
traced it, a yard at a time. I know where the wire goes.”