The Information Junkie (28 page)

By the way, Burton was chagrined at not having the full three sections; he lambasted me:

'That's the most vulgar piece of thrill-worship I've seen,' he said.

'Oh, come on, Rich, for vulgarity—in both passion and consumption—you and ET take the biscuit.'

'You mean banquet!' He laughed and lit a cigarette.

I went on: 'You said you'd like to clast a few icons. What icon is larger than death?' I left a silence. 'And death—taboo, or not—is my subject. In fact, I may make a beast of myself and do it to death.'

He laughed again. 'But I have one advantage over you—' he paused—'I'm dead.'

It was my turn to laugh. 'Well, then—we'd make a good team.'

'So, we're back on stream to complete this novel and give it the dénouement it deserves.' He clapped his hands. 'Right, Sir Roderick, a crate of your
Monkey's Bum
and let's finish the job.'

It was painful to disabuse him: 'Rich, love, the old novel is finished.' He looked hurt. 'That was
The Information Junkie.
This is the sequel:
The Sensation Junkie.
' I waited. 'I'm looking for a new guide.'

'
New?
But I'm contracted to write at least thirty-thousand words. We've scarcely done ten.' He paused, looked concerned when I showed no fear. 'The penalties for not completing are severe. Is your pocket deep enough?'

I smiled. 'Rich, baby, what court will take the word of a dead actor? That contract's worth less than the paper it's not printed on. Believe me, Rich, you're for the chop.'

His lips parted in a winning smile. 'I have a secret weapon—ET.' He waited. 'If you won't play ball, she'll kick
your
balls. And, don't forget: Elizabeth's still alive.'

'You're not able to communicate with her, are you?' He smiled, took a languorous draught from his cigarette. Esoteric information for the very few. 'How...?'

He let the smoke discharge luxuriously through his nostrils. Softly, 'There are more things in heaven and earth, young Rod, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,' he said. 'By the by, what
is
your philosophy?'

He'd unsettled me. I stammered: 'The individual is a bag of minerals staring into a godless void. I accept responsibility for the hand of cards dealt me, and for my thoughts and actions. That's my starting point. Any meaning in the universe is whatever I choose to impose onto that empty space.'

'Schoolboy games,' he asserted. 'You wouldn't know a void if it squeezed your testicles in a vice. But I—' and here he pointed thrillingly to himself, before emphatically repeating the pronoun—'
I
know the void.'

'You're still finished,' I said. 'I need another guide.'

'Elizabeth!
Elizabeth!!
ELIZABETH!!!'

'Keep it down, Rich—you'll wake the dead. And if Burgess gets a whiff he'll be back sniffing around, looking for a drink, a smoke or a piece of the action.'

'I'll brook no rivals,' warned Burton.

'He's got a head start. His
oeuvre
is motley—words and music. An eccentric, gifted man.'

'Yes, but can he exhilarate the mob with his voice?'

'Mob...? He aims higher than the proles,' I said. 'Nor does he go for the vulgar thrill.'

'And who else is dead?'

'Oh, I can't remember, Rich.'

'I can deal with Burgess,' he asserted.

At this point Elizabeth, having forced herself into a pair of jeans, appeared. Her face, a mockery of its unlifted self, held the echo of its youthful bloom, but the mouth remained promisingly luscious and her eyes still commanded authority. Time had worn against her; you saw the splints and scaffolding. Yet Richard held her as tenderly as if she were in her prime: a spectre embracing a fantasy.

'Rich...?' she said.

He turned on me. 'This upstart refuses to honour our contract. I bid for thirty-thousand words but he'll only let me have ten.'

She exploded. 'I told you not to get involved! This man isn't worth it. The whole project, Richard, is beneath you. Now, for God's sake, cut your losses. Leave him: he'll never get anyone of your calibre—dead or alive—to help him.'

Turning those eyes on me: 'Roderick, your work stinks. I wouldn't use a page of it to light a cigarette or wipe my ass. Now pay Richard his money.'

'Miss Taylor,' I began, 'Elizabeth—' I dared—'the contract isn't real. Richard and I are phantoms—you too are a ghost. None of this—'I opened my arms—'is real.'

Her mouth twisted into a rictus:' You wouldn't know real if it grabbed you by the balls and squeezed the life out of them. You're such a bloody innocent. Look at you—a short-arsed, blond-haired, pathetic wannabe. You're not fit to breathe the same air as immortals.'

'You're immortal? Perhaps your youthful celluloid image. And Richard? Yes, his voice may be immortal: it does have a life beyond the fictive. Now, kindly leave my novel.

'There was a time you wouldn't have dared say that.'

'You're all washed up, Liz. Your one true lover's dead and I'm a phantom. Where does that leave you?'

She turned after giving me a final thrilling stare.

I called after her: 'You have misunderstood. Almost certainly you have misconstrued the situation. I'm not even certain that you're the real Liz Taylor. No: you're a phantom, too. A desperate fantasist come to play with all the others. THE DESPERADOES, starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Screenplay by Anthony Burgess, Martin Amis and Richard Burton from an original idea by Roderick Leyland. Produced by Dino de Laurentias. Directed by RHUBARB and CUSTARD.'

'STOP!!!'

Liz and I turned.

'This whole thing's a bloody wreck. A walking cliché.'

It was Martin Amis.

'Who asked you?' I said.

'Rod, you've taken my name in vain long enough. Now it's time to get real.' He turned to ET. 'And you can hop it.'

'Why, you short-arsed little runt!'

'Tautology. Beat it, babe. Rod and I have something serious to discuss.'

'And what about me, Martin?' said Richard.

'You're a big voice,' he said. 'But too good for a piece like this. Now clear off back to heaven—or hell, or wherever it was you came from.'

Burton laughed diabolically, linked arms with Elizabeth and left the page.

Amis said: 'Rod, my appearances in those first three parts are poorly written. You've imagined me badly. I'm always willing to make guest appearances in a tyro's work. God knows this business is tough enough.'

I was amazed. 'Thanks!'

'Let's leave those first three parts for the time being.'

'What about the Burgess sections?'

'Leave those, too.'

'Ditto Burton?'

'Ditto Burton,' he agreed, then waited. 'We need to lead to a proper climax. Once you have that then you can go back to rewrite. But you can't write the beginning until you know the end.'

'But, Martin,' I said, 'how much...?'

'Trust me for the moment.' He left a silence. 'Wouldn't you rather have the real me than some phantom?'

I heaved a sigh: there were certainly too many phantoms in this piece already. 'Yes. It's reassuring to have reality in place of fantasy. So, where do we begin?'

'What we need to develop,' he said, 'is some depth. The whole work is superficial, sometimes pretentious and often confusing. More like an exercise in your development than a fully mature manuscript.'

'Careful,' I said. 'Remember you're a guest.'

'A paying guest...'

'Paying...?'

'The real Martin,' he winked, 'is infinitely preferable to the imaginary. Now, I need a large stack of A4—get me a fresh ream.'

A voice from off the page: 'Room for a small one?'

In strode Anthony Burgess.

'Come on, Rod,' he said, 'you know it's me you really want.'

'Almost,' I admitted, 'against my will.'

I turned to Amis. 'I am sorry.'

There was a silence as the dynamic hovered between us. I was surprised that Amis was the first to capitulate.

'It's a pity,' he said, 'we could really have brought this alive.'

He rolled and lit a cigarette, offering his pouch to Burgess and to me. We declined. He took a long, deep drag, blew out the smoke in rings.

'Bugger!' he cried, checking his watch. 'I'm late for my squash. See ya!' And off he ran—quite nimbly, I thought, for a man of his age.

Burgess looked at me, allowing the silence to grow between us.

'You know,' he said with professional confidence, 'how the next section begins.'

41

Anyway, so there I was, buddies, outside the twelve pearly gates, St Peter before me, arms outstretched in welcome. We shook; his grip was firm but warm. I let my hand drop, waiting for the questionnaire; he, keeping his hand up, curled three fingers inwards, leaving the index finger pointing at me.

'Pull that!' he said.

'Is this part of the test...?'

'Pull it—quick!'

'I enjoy irreverence like the next man,' I said, 'but surely—'

'
Pull now!
' he commanded.

I did. His knuckle cracked and he released wind of celestial provenance.

Proudly he smiled. 'Again!'

I did and he voided gas long, lavishly and exhaustively.

'To business, St P?'

'As a probationer,' he said, 'I'm placing you with a trustie.'

'What about the questions—you know, the test?'

'Bit of a terrestrial myth that one.' He winked and left a silence. 'I think you know John, don't you?'

Yes, buddies, you've guessed it: in strode John Burgess Wilson—the incomparable Lord Burgess of Moss Side.

Burgess raised a finger to his nose as if to say, We'll talk once St P has left.

'Good luck,' said the saint and was gone.

'Did you manage the cheroots...?' said Anthony.

I shook my head.

'...the crate of
Monkey's Bum
...?'

'No.' I searched his eyes. 'I didn't know you were allowed to bring...?'

'No matter, old boy. We may be able to arrange it through an intermediary.'

'Intermediary...?'

He waved my question aside. 'Now, didn't I tell you I could pull a string or two?'

'You mean you engineered my death?'

'Only indirectly, me young scribbler.'

I paused. 'Hang on, my Lord Anthony. You're trying to regain the locus of control. This is
my
novel and I want a different guide in heaven. You're the man with earthly powers. Up here I require someone more familiar with the divine.'

'Well,' he said, 'I am a lapsed Catholic.'

'The darker side of God?' He nodded; I pondered before going on: 'The gentles require variety. You've had your say; so has Amis the Younger and Burton the Voice.'

'Who did you have in mind?'

I paused, stumped by his question. Who was acquainted with the divine, which ex-Earth person got close—at least to the divine within himself...? I smiled when I had the answer. Burgess cocked his head.

'Jung,' I said.

Anthony's face screwed up. 'Young...?'

'
Nein, Freund
. Jung: as in Carl Gustav.' I left a silence. '
He
thought of himself as a splinter of the infinite deity.'

'He's very particular whom he speaks to. He won't dumb down for you.'

'Now, now.'

'And I don't think he'd be as trustworthy a guide as you might imagine. If you want certainty consult a scientist; if you want the truth read fiction.' He let that sink in before: 'Come, Sir Rod, I'll introduce you to a few people.'

I could see where this was heading, buddies. Can you? Yep: they'd all be there: Hardy, Orwell, Hemingway; V. Woolf, L. Woolf, the Big Bad Wolf; both Lawrences, three Waughs, four Weddings and a Funeral; MM, JFK, Clark Gable; Jimmy Joyce, Dickens, Amis the Elderberry; Freud, Adler, Jung; Greene, Blue, Indigo; RHUBARB, RHUBARB, RHUBARB; the other Hardy: (Vice-Admiral Sir) Thomas (Masterman) Hardy, Flag-Captain of HMS
Victory
at the Battle of Trafalgar. I could ask him:
Did Nelson ask you for a kiss...?

And then there was...oh, what's 'is name—you know, did a very good line in short fiction. Oh, his name's on the tip of my tongue...

Was it Bernard? No. Brian? No. Don't worry, I'll get there in the end...

42

Hi, it's Rod. So, now we've said goodbye to Charlie you're going to want a conclusion, aren't you? (Me, too.)

Where to start? The idea was to have a novel within a novel. I wanted each to bleed into the other as a reflection of the relationship between fantasy and reality. Then it got out of control.

Time. It's time to release them all. I did enjoy my guides: Martin, Anthony and Richard. Anthony was by far the funniest, the most jovial. As for Belinda and Charlie? Oh, let's release them into the atmosphere to fulfil their destinies, for they do have a life of their own.

I have my life, too. I need—desperately need—to be free of this terrible burden. This bloody work's mentally crippled me. Time to set myself free.

Now then: conclusions. I suppose the main difficulty was in accommodating the changes of middle age. What can I tell you? You've just got to feel the pain. Letting death in is the most difficult but, once inside, every day gets easier. But dying is no mean feat: you've got to be alive to do it.

Death, however, isn't yet. Which leaves life. (Ah...) I've released Charlie and Belinda: let them do their worst. I've also released,
inter alia
, Lord Burgess: I have a feeling he'll continue to stir things up in heaven. Which leaves just me and you. But I'm a bit of a fiction too; you're the real one.

Thanks for taking the journey with me: your companionship has helped. I'm now ready to surrender myself to the universe, and to release you. You've done your bit. Bon voyage, and I hope your
vita
remains
dolce
.

Select Bibliography

AMIS, K:
Weeds: Who Cares—?
London, Hutchinson & Co., 1978.

AMIS, M:
Weeds: The Information.
London, Jonathan Cape, 1994.