The Information Junkie (21 page)

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 the 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.

*

Belinda answered the door when the bell rang.

'Martin!?' I heard.

I went to the door. Belinda ran upstairs, whispering, 'No, no.'

He'd changed since the time he'd shot me; he looked different: less cocky, more damaged, costive. Time had worn badly against him.

'What's the matter, Charlie? You have the pallor of a ghost. Have you seen a corpse? No: I mean the pallor of corpse as if you'd seen a ghost.'

'Come on, in.'

I noticed he was carrying a couple of bottles of
Monkey's Bum
. We sat. Belinda remained upstairs.

'Long time, Charlie. I hear you've retired.'

'Yeah. Are you and Ffion still an item?'

Our conversation was polite, the interchange stilted.

'She's run off with the meter reader,' he said.

'Gas or electricity?'

'Water.'

'Oh,' I said. 'You've now got a water meter?'

'Yeah.'

'Any tips on reducing the bill?'

'Don't flush after a pee only after your big jobs. Buy bags of ready-washed salad from the supermarket. Wash your hair in the bath. Try to crap at a friend's house. Which reminds me—may I?'

'You know where they are.'

'Can I use yours—the outside one?'

'Sure.'

I half expected him to extend an index finger and invite me to pull it. But he didn't. So, Martin wasn't as great as JFK or AB—couldn't fart and talk at the same time.

While he was outside, Belinda came halfway down the stairs and stage-whispered:

'Get rid of him. Fast!'

Why?
I mouthed. I don't know why I only mouthed it because Martin couldn't have heard. Like one of those conversations when you and your partner are too far away to speak to each other. So you exaggerate your lip movements and, with over-emphatic enunciation, whisper:
Do–you–want–fish–and–chips–or–sausage–and–chips? Fish–and–chips. Fish? Yeah. Okay.
All whispered, as if you could project a whisper. Yet communication takes place.

With fresh urgency Bee asked me to chuck him out.

'Why?' I asked again.

'Do it.
Please
.'

(Why so emphatic?)

Martin bounced back in, shaken but purged. 'Relief!' he cried. 'Phew! That
was
a thorough evacuation.' His face, indeed his whole body, spoke of a phenomenally successful voiding. But here was a man chronically out of tune with his viscera. He waited until he'd sat down again. 'So, mate, laryngitis...? Lost your voice?'

'Mm...?' (What could he mean?)

'You've not been returning my calls. Don't the old times mean anything any more?'

'I've grown out of boozing, bingeing and chundering; passed through my mid-life crisis and been washed up calm onto another beach.'

'Shall we have another go at writing fantasy games?'

'No. I've had enough of fantasy. I'm strictly a reality man, now.'

He narrowed his eyes. 'What is it mate? We used to have such great times.' He paused, middle-age posing as adolescent. 'Is it the good lady?' He waited for an answer and flicked his eyes upwards. (How could he know she was there?) I studied his shiny head. Time. 'Or have you been having some of your funny turns again? Eh?'

'No, Martin, I've got the fantasies firmly under control.'

He sighed. 'We've grown apart, mate, and you've grown up. I feel sorry for you. Honest, Charlie. You'll end up at Bournemouth with a knotted hanky on your head, having occasional polite sex and with bugger all between your ears.'

(That's better than bugger all between your legs, I thought, but said:) 'Our fun is over, Martin. I'm too old now to take the risks—'

'—Just when you should be taking them.' He left a silence. 'Where
is
Belinda?'

(None of your business.)

'Martin, we no longer have anything in common. Look at you: over fifty and still no long-term partner. See your fingers—orange with nicotine. And what's your alcohol intake, eh? I've left it all behind. Just how many girls have you been through since I bumped into Bee at Boots?'

He stood, not offended, but pained that I no longer wanted to play. 'Give her my love,' he said walking to the door. 'And I'll be in touch once you've pulled yourself together.' When I let him out he didn't look back and I noticed he took the bottles with him. I wasn't in the mood for a
Monkey's Bum
, anyway; more a
Karibbean Krush
. But they're more difficult to source. You've heard the jungle (oops! I mean
jingle
), haven't you?
I'd love a Krush in the bush. I've got a Krush on you. I don't want mush—just give me a Krush. Forget the mush—give me a Krush. I love it when my boyfriend gives me a Krush. A Krush in the bush beats a smack in the mush. Krush me now. Krash, Krosh, Krush: banish that Thirst. A Krush in the hand beats a Krush in the Bush. A Krush in the hand is better than two in the bush. When you're bushwhacked, crack open a Krush. Bushwhacked? No worries: crack a Krush.

'Bee!' I shouted. 'The coast's clear.'

As she came down I had a thought: while I was away playing Rod, the author, rather than Charlie, had she and Martin hit the sack? Oh, no: what an awful thing to suspect your wife of. Jesus: she didn't have a ding-dong with Burgess as well, did she? I know he's got an eye for a pretty leg. And two beautiful legs Bee certainly has.

'Sorry, darling,' she said. 'He gives me the creeps. Undresses me with his voice on the phone and his eyes in person.'

(Eyes only?)

'He's gone,' I said. 'And I don't think he'll be back. He's prat—I mean part—of the past. And the past is dead.'

She kissed my brow.

*

Just had a thought, buddies. By the way, it's me: Rod. Fresh out of my Charlie persona. No: an arresting thought. Who's it gonna be in Parts Seven through Nine? Do you know? Can you guess? My guide, I mean. Martin Amis—or one of his personae, at any rate—ghost-wrote Parts One to Three. Anthony Burgess—or his spirit (oh, yes: even a lapsed Catholic has an eternal spirit; and it's more than a shadow)—is guiding me through Parts Four to Six. So,

So, who will hold my hand for the final third? Mm? Virginia Stephen and the Pack of Woolves? Oh, she'd see through me straight away. If she can dismiss Hardy—yes, the Wessex lad himself—as a genius with no talent, what chance do I stand? Could be fun, though, to have her leaning over my shoulder, for the final three miles. But,

But, does it have to be a writer? Why not a character...? Charlie Citrine,
zum Beispiel
? A whole universe of possibilities. Because Chuck is a writer too. No, I think if Charlie started to help me then Bigs Bellow might want a word in my ear. And Saul hails out of Chicago, Illinois, home of the Mob, racketeering and God knows what else. Saul might get one of his gangster—oops, sorry: I didn't mean Saul has criminal connections, I did of course mean Charlie. Phew! That could have been libellous. So:
Charlie
might get one of his criminal friends (and that could be any crook, attorney, congressman, judge, what have you) to trash my Mercedes. (It's a Ford, actually.) No, let's leave both Messrs Citrine and Bellow where they are: safely in the pages of a book.

Perhaps my guide will be an actor. No: bad idea. Of course, I could break the spell and guide myself.
Nein
: that would spoil the series:
One-Two-Three
. I'm speaking straight off the top of my head, now, but how about someone from the Misfits section? Perhaps Gable could dog me, shadow me.
'What in hell is this book all about? Where in tarnation did you stray from?'
Or MM. No: there's enough neurosis around as it is.

By the by, that reminds me. You know that line,
They shall not grow old...
It's no good, buddies, I'll have to check the source. Can you spare a mo? .............................................................…………..

……………………………………………………………………..

Ah, yes, here it is:

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.

From the poem 'For the Fallen' (1914) by Laurence Binyon (1869–1943).

Communication. Underneath words. Silent. A chord of music, liquid, loves you. Individual I words heard listened to hadn't. Point. I didn't grasp—because sesnes eht llud séhcilc—the practical truth of that first line until 1992. On the thirtieth anniversary of MM's death I tried to imagine what she could have looked like at the age of sixty-six. Or worse. So, by dying too soon, she gained perpetual youth. That's a high price.

Well, looks like we're both going to have to wait until Part Seven to find out who my (our) guide will be. I can't wait.

See ya!

Oh, final thought: Charlie said in Parts One to Three that he felt like an actor condemned to play a character in an early Martian—oops!
Martin
—Amis novel. Looking over that previous scene I'd say he'd now jettisoned that persona, tossed that burden. Wouldn't you? Is that what the academics mean when they talk about
development
and
revelation of character
? You think so...? Wow! I'm writing for real!!

Luv ya!!!

P.S. Do you notice an energy returning? You did!? Jwanna know why? Because I've passed the mid-point, that dangerous flat spot where all must lose their way. (Oops! Little bit of Edward Thomas there.) [A word on 'Lights Out' by Thomas. As well as the literal sense his poem may be about the depression which he suffered from. That could explain the lines:

Here love ends,

Despair, ambition ends;

Because love, despair and ambition don't end in sleep; but they could end (or become suspended) during a black mood. However, we then have the difficulty of reconciling that with these thoughts:

All pleasure and all trouble

...Here ends in sleep that is sweeter

Than tasks most noble.

Surely, a low mood cannot be sweeter than pleasure? Yet, perhaps it can because he tells us that,

...To go into the unknown

I must enter, and leave alone,

I know not how.

His (anybody's) depression is unique and impenetrable to others. And to submit to it may be a seductive pleasure. Also Thomas has no choice:

...I hear and obey

That I may lose my way

And myself.

When the dark mood descends it overwhelms all other feelings and he has no choice but to give in to it. Perhaps the mood is a kind of sleep: his normal self is suspended; and perhaps his depression offers him an escape—'sleep that is sweeter'—from himself.

Just a thought, buddies.]

In other words I've managed to push the burden across the most difficult part of Mount Peculiar and can now see the way ahead. Up. Let's have a drink to celebrate. What would you like? No: what would
you
like...? You would? Fabulous! Let's join each other in a
Monkey's Bum
.

Final thought: it's a good job I did get back to B & C because if I'd left them for much longer they could have died through lack of care and I could have been had up for literary homicide or manslaughter. Mans laughter. Man's laughter.

In France it's illegal to be overdrawn; in Germany it's illegal to deny the Holocaust; in Iceland it's illegal for an author to neglect or kill his characters. Dates from the days of Norse legend. Good job I don't live in Reykjavik, n'est-ce pas?

26

The taste of furnace heat and a black flame. Compressed by layers of shimmering air, the flame splintered and lengthened. As it burned it separated into sections which waved and swayed deliciously. Now the flame became a bubble, bouncing and heaving.

Few men, even the strongest of nomads, could survive more than two summer days without water or shelter from the heat. Then terror would possess the brain and death would be swift.