The Information Junkie (14 page)

How?

'Think of us, that is the three of us, as Siamese triplets. Or Siamese twins still connected to mummy. We're all in this together.'

Do you think
they'll
buy that?

'Well, if they've already bought the book they won't have any choice. Fingers crossed that they don't flick to this page in the bookshop and suss you. We'll also have to appeal to their vanity and intelligence.'

How?

'Make them believe it was their idea.'

I sighed.

Originally, Charlie, I thought that you'd be good for only two thousand words. I had you down as a ten-sheeter, but you and Belinda have pushed it beyond that. We're now at the thirty-thousand word mark and I don't think I could stretch you to seventy-five. What do you say we call it a day and I leave you blissfully happy on the lounge carpet, contemplating your future?

They were silent.

Look: let's call this more an exercise in my development than a fully mature manuscript. I'll stop writing now, plonk this in a drawer and leave fiction writing to those who can.

There came an unfamiliar voice from behind me:

'Stop!'

I turned.

'You can't get away with that.
I
won't let you.'

Sarah...?! How did you know where to find me?

'You wanted an agent—here I am.' She held a manila folder. 'I'm excited by your work and should like to see more. But remember, I exist only to sell saleable material.'

But I want to write
literary
stuff.

'They all say that—until I flash a few dollar signs in front of them. Everyone has their price, Rod. Even you.'

I'm a bit embarrassed about that literary party I put you through. Did I go too far?

'Not far enough, although it's libellous and amateurish in places. But we can rewrite and pull it together.'

Rewrite...?
We...?

'Oh, yes. You think that all you have to do is sit at your PC and type the first thing that comes into your head, season it with a few established names, and hope an editor will then shape it into a publishable script for you. Good writing is difficult, Rod, needs working at...' she paused...'and what you lack in talent must be made up for in hard work, smart work.'

There was no mistaking her
tone.
This was less a case of:
Wow, this guy's brilliant! Let's sign him up straightaway
. More:
We've seen a spark of promise, but you haven't ignited us yet
. She watched for my reaction, let the words sink, before:

'There's a lot of work ahead. Are you up for it? Can you dare to succeed?'

Only budgies suck seed.

'I'm sorry...?'

Just wordplay, Sarah.

'Careful, Rod. Wordplay alone doth not a novel make.'

(Then) I don't know if this is what I want. It's been fun writing this, and having a few pieces published in the small press, but I don't know if I have the balls for the marketplace.

'You'll be fine, Rod, I'll guide you. It'll be a partnership. But I'll need saleable words from you. Every last one.'

(I nearly said:
Every
? There can be only
one
last one. But I resisted the temptation. Odd slip, though, for someone in her line of work,
n'est-ce pas?
But: you should never upset someone who holds a key. So, instead, I said:)

Do you treat Jeremy like this?

'I chivvy all my authors. But the usual difficulty, Rod, is too many words not too few.'

My problem, Sarah, has always been one of length.

Charlie chortled.

Oh, Charlie, can't you stop sniggering for a moment? I'm having a vital conversation here.

Charlie looked hurt; I regretted my brusqueness.

Belinda said, 'There, you've brought Sarah to life. Why can't you carry on with us?'

I'm green, a novice, an aspirant.

I paused to sigh.

Come on, fellas, give me a break.

What choice was there? I had Charlie and Belinda in front of me, and Sarah behind me, crying for action. And, if I'm truthful, I was crying for it too. It's a bit like that moment of risk when you take your first parachute jump. Oh well, here goes...if the 'chute doesn't open, I die. And if I die, then I die.

*

I've slept on it: there
is
a choice. We can carry on with real reality or we can slip back into fictive reality in which I play all the parts, including the rôle of narrator. How many personas can inhabit one person? Or, how many parts can one actor simultaneously play? Graham Greene tells us in
Ways of Escape
that when he came to revise his novels, often after years of work, he found that he was a different person at the end of the book than he was at the beginning. A writer's characters develop; so does he, and:
there is something in his character of the actor...who has lived far too many parts during far too many long runs.

Now I, too, am beginning to sense a change, a development, almost an alteration. I've already made my choice but I'll give you till the end of this chapter to make yours. You may prefer, like me, to sleep on it, or take a break. Cup of tea or coffee, slug of liquor, an infusion of peppermint tea, a glass of designer water with a twist of raspberry—that was Ffion's favourite, remember? She's probably now sipping coffee made from dandelions hand-picked from Dungeness shingle. I must look her up some time. Anyway, whatever you decide—see you in 19!

19

Wise choice.

20A

So, there I was, deep in the middle of the Kalahari desert with a Kalashnikov pointing at my head, thinking,
How the hell did I end up here?

My battledress was soaked—I could almost taste the salt in my sweat. Blood—also warm and saline—was leaking from a welt on my head which the leader of the rebels had given me earlier. I hadn't drunk for two hours and the sun was crucifying me.

Three questions fought for supremacy: How much longer did I have? How the hell had I got here? Was it madness to dream of escape?

The bodies of my compatriots lay around and the words of the rebel leader rang in my head:

'We will execute one of you every hour until you tell us where the munitions dump is.'

Mike, the last of my mates had been shot, I calculated, about two hours ago. His body, frozen in an unnatural pose like someone surprised in furtive prayer, lay at my feet. Why were they not carrying out their threat to finish me? Or were their plans for me more exotic?

I had whispered my goodbyes to Mary and the lads, certain I'd not see them again. Mary knew the score, had begged me to forego this one last tour. Christopher and Timothy didn't know the truth: bless them. How could they—only four and six—understand the passions and drives of the grown-up world?

'You will tell,' said Nmbmba, the leader, in educated English. 'Before the sun sets, trust me, you will tell.'

I was determined not to spill the beans, but death now seemed a quick escape, almost a welcome release. I'd made my will years ago—Mary knew where I kept my important papers. She'd find the letter, too.

'So, Mitch, your time is close.' His breath was foul with garlic and neglected teeth.

He let a few rounds rip, pressing the gun's barrel close to my skin. I could almost taste the gun oil—it was clear he maintained the piece with love. The stench of singed hair and scorched flesh stung my nostrils and cordite hung in the air.

Soon I'd have to make my peace with God. Now, He and I had never had a great deal in common and any communication had been limited to
the God bless Mummy, God bless Daddy
variety. But that was lost in childhood. No, I'd never had much time for Him. But since it looked as though I might shortly be on my way to meet Him, I tried to focus my thoughts and recall the proper form of words.

I flung my mind back twenty years to my school days. What was it...? Oh, yes:
Love your enemy, do good to those that hate you.
I was now in an ideal position to start practising.

But
how
, in the name of God, had I got myself into this pickle? And why, in the name of all that's holy, had I taken this last foolish risk?

The advertisement in
The Times
had seemed harmless, but hooked me:

HUNGRY FOR ADVENTURE?

BORED WITH THE NANNY STATE?

CAN YOU HANDLE RISK?

So, I'd called the telephone number—

—STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP!

Oops! Sorry, folks, wrong story. How the hell did that leak into this? Some sort of literary osmosis, I suppose. Phew! Let's get back on track:

 So, there I was (and I'm Charlie, remember, not Mitch Maverick, the militant mercenary, chucked out of the SAS for rough behaviour), lying on the carpet with Belinda at my side, shortly after Christmas.

'I just need a few days away, sweetheart,' I said.

'Alone...?' There was hurt in her voice. She cupped my face in her hands. 'No, no, Charlie, not again. You'll just brood or—worse—wander Romney Marsh, trying to find that ginger-haired phantom. It's crunch time, buddy.'

I smiled at the idiom. 'Crunch time...?'

'Time to face yourself, to face reality.'

(Panic time, gentles.) 'You mean that I'm not a teenager any more? That I can't live a life of fantasy as if I were a character in a novel? And that—like a flower—I, too, must pass?'

'You clever psychic,' she said and kissed me. 'How did you know what I was thinking?' She kissed me again. ' You
clever
sidekick.'

'It's in my jeans [oops!—my
genes
], doll,' I replied.

(
Doll...?
Where did
that
come from?)

As I laughed she hit me playfully, thereby proving the adage:

Always hit a cheerful psychic. Always compromise. (Strike a happy medium.) Now, that's a sign of wisdom, isn't it? I asked you—centuries ago it now seems—
How old do you have to be to get wise?
Oh, yes, now we're really beginning to pull all the strands together.
How old?

I keep thinking of meditation which is,
inter alia
, a surrendering to that which is. And, since I am fifty-two, perhaps we're beginning to get an answer to my question.
Nicht wahr?

Yeliena's black (trust, me buddies, they were
black
) mince pies kept repeating on me or, rather, I kept remembering them. Lithuanian pastry—bad news, folks. (
Black
. Was it made from putrid potato?) B and I rarely eat at her folks' house because of Yeliena's cooking. That's (probably) why Alan insists on doing the Christmas lunch. Don't get me wrong—he adores his wife, loves her to bits, but he needs one day a year of
real
food. They come to us more often than we go to Barnes. Mm? Where's
here?
Didn't I tell you? Wimbledon, gentles. Right at the bottom of the green line on the tube map. I knew a girl once—a stunner, thanks to the scalpel. Yeah, lineless face but the back of her neck looked like a frenzied map of the Underground.

B's a beaut in the kitchen. Gordon Blue? Forget your Gordons, mate—B's a chick who can seduce you with a wooden spoon at a hundred culinary paces. Trust me, buddies, I know.
Why?
Because I eat the stuff. Lucky me.

So, there I was, on the steps of the British Museum, when I heard an old man call:

'Are your een bigger than your pokey?'

I turned. It was Anthony Burgess.

—Pardon...?

'You're a Scot, aren't you?'

—Sort of—

He repeated the question pointing first to his eyes, then to his stomach. I screwed up my face, inviting an explanation. 'Damn youth,' he muttered. 'Are your EYES bigger than your TUMMY?'

—What do you mean?

He muttered something I couldn't catch, then shouted, with over-emphatic enunciation:

            'Have–you–bitten–off–more–than–you–can–chew?'

I thought for a moment.

—Probably.

He came across to me. 'There's more to subversion than breaking the rules, you know.'

—Really...?

'Oh, and you've broken way too many. There must always be a clear line throughout a narrative otherwise people cannot follow. You're writing for your reader, you know, not your pleasure. You may wish to be provocative but you can be provocative and still observe the disciplines of storytelling. If you want to muddy the distinction between narrator and writer there are more subtle ways.'

—Viz...?

'Take
Clockwork Orange
. I have my narrator speak to an author who is writing a book called A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, and my narrator reads out a gloss. D'you see?'

—So, what's my best bet now?

'I know you won't do it but I suggest a rewrite, adopting a simpler style.'

—You mean I'm buggered?

'Up the creek without a bird in the bush.' He paused. 'But you may not think me the ideal guide.' He lifted his hat. 'I'll bid you good day.' He stopped, turned: 'Oh—good luck,' and walked off towards Bloomsbury Street.

So, there I was, on the veranda of a ranch house just outside Reno, Nevada.

'Roddy,' said Marilyn, 'do you follow a regular method or do you—' here she sucked in air, trying to find the word; and, having found it—'extemporise,' she smiled with relief.

'Yes—I make it up as I go along.'

'Roddy, don't you think it's wonderful to be creative?'

'Sometimes, Miss Monroe.'

'Won't you call me Marilyn?'

'Okay, Marilyn.'

'Poor Roddy, you're all red,' and she flung her arms around me, kissing my cheek. 'Oh, Roderick...' Her passion was bottomless.

The screen door swung open. Elvis lounged in the frame:

'Grub's up,' he mumbled.

'Oh, Roddy, don't you just adore eating?'

Inside, JFK was already eating the food which Elvis had prepared—hamburgers in toasted buns. He could scarcely cram it quickly enough into his mouth. As we sat Elvis said,