The Information Junkie (27 page)

'Here's something else,' said Charlie. 'I'm just as unreal as Richard Burton. I am a fantasy. I'm the fantasy projection of Rod's mind because he reached fifty and found none of his dreams fulfilled. Disappointment. And when the dreams of a middle-aged man are not fulfilled he desperate. Fantasy is the only way out.'

'So,' she said, wiping her eyes, 'I'm a fantasy too?'

'Charlie smiled. We all are!'

'But that makes nonsense of life, even fictive life. Who can we complain to?'

'Nobody,' said Charlie. 'Except God—if he exists.'

'So, what's the purpose of fiction?'

'It's pointless. Unless you've seen that life is pointless. In which case fiction is a distraction from reality, a means of escape. Or, if the work has sufficient merit, it may have moments of illumination when we think we perceive a fraction of the infinite. But it's all an illusion.'

'So,' she said, 'did Rod indicate how he's going to end this piece?'

Charlie smiled: 'Yes. But it's a secret.'

PART EIGHT

Consolations of a Crimson Fish

Cheating death is as easy as cheating birth
.

—Charlie Smith-Jones-Brown,

fictional character

36A

A desert is an area which receives less than 250mm (10in) of rain per year. Aridity, not heat, is the common characteristic along with low humidity and a high evaporation rate.

And there are different types of desert: rocky, stony, sandy—even deserts of ice in the polar regions.

Despite their apparent inhospitality deserts do support wild plants, animals, humans. Most plants either store water for long periods—cacti and other succulents—or lie dormant till the rains come. As well as camels, foxes and snakes, the desert also supports small mammals—gerbils, lizards, rats. Man, the desert dweller, is a nomad; but nomadism is disappearing as a way of life; and most human desert dwellers live at the edge of the desert.

Cacti can withstand air temperatures of 50°C (120°F) and soil temperatures as high as 60°C (140°F). They cannot grow in pure sand but need the soil in areas of semi-desert.

Many deserts were once grassland or forest and man risks creating more with his policy of overgrazing and deforestation.

36B

She watched as the stranger—he looked like a cowboy—came towards her. Accustomed to the heat, she carried a goatskin. The man looked as though he'd need it.

'Princess!' he cried in recognition. 'Where in hell have you been?' He rushed to hold her.

'Why daddy,' she said, kissing him uncontrollably, 'I've been waiting so long,' and handed him the water. He drank long and deep.

'Princess, I was afraid you were lost.'

'Daddy,' she breathed, 'I'll never let you go again.'

37

This script was typed on a
Brother
LW–840
ic
word processor. The WP sits on a self-assembly desk facing a typist's chair.

On the left-hand corner of the desk are several dictionaries and
The Oxford Companion of Quotations
,
The Oxford Companion to English Literature
,
The King's English
and so on. To the right are two boxes of floppy discs and several folders containing the printed pages of this work.

Straight ahead is a window which looks out over the estate and viewers are particularly asked to note the sea peeps—it's the English Channel—gained from this particular vantage point.

To the right of the desk is a tumble drier—this is an upstairs room—because there's no room in the kitchen and there is no utility area.

Everyone has been (most still are) in this room: from Amis to Woolf via Burgess, Drabble, Greene; and Atwood to Waugh via Miller, Orwell and Vidal.

Further this way is a mobile, self-assembly three-drawer chest containing stationery and accessories. No, Gillian, don't open the drawers, you never know what you might find there. And, David, no—you can't take that from the waste-paper basket as a souvenir. Please note, children, the sense of order in the room, belying the plaque's claim that genius worked here.

Please contemplate for a moment the ordinariness of your surroundings: this could be any bedroom in any three-bedroom detached house on a newish estate. Note again the view: similar houses built from similar bricks, a road tarmacked to council specification, that sense of newness and lack of originality that you get on an estate.

38

You always suspected that Part Eight would be short, didn't you?
Didn't
you? Then welcome to the shock of death, welcome to disillusionment. The first half of life is longer than the second. I hope you're not too disappointed. You are? Well, you can always start again—go back to the beginning (the clues are there). Start again? No: that's a fantasy too. Luv ya! I
do
love you.

So, that leaves only love; which is not a fantasy. Perhaps a dream. But one we can fulfil. Oh, dear—a corny ending. Okay—try this:

So, there I was, lying in bed waiting for my evening meal: tepid fish cakes, grey mashed potato, processed peas. Dessert was half a tinned pear with evaporated milk. All served by a disgruntled man who talked to himself rather than the patients. He also dispensed from his urn cups of metallic tea. Buddies, I felt doubleplusungood.

I was under the knife next day: my hemmies had boiled over. Mm? Pain...? You don't know the half of it. And how do you tell people what you're in for, eh?

I'd already met the nurse who was to give me my pre-med and she was no Cybernurse. She was a dog. No, no: I don't mean she barked, I mean—oh, forget it. As I ate my meal I fantasised to take the edge off my fear. Because I didn't want to pooh my pants, did I? I also knew tomorrow was enema day. Real life's a bit different from the ideal,
n'est-ce pa
?

Anyway, the op was a success though I was a bit tender for a few days. But now I can eat a curry, sink a
Monkey's Bum
and break wind lavishly—without fear or pain. So, you'll be wanting a climax, now, won't you? Okay, try this:

You're going about your business, not bothering anyone, when up pops the eternal footman. He approaches, dressed all in black—no trendy irony here; pulls a card from a pack, hands it to me.

'That's yours, Mr Smith.'

'Hang on,' I say, 'there must be a mistake. I'm too young to face this conveyor belt. Anyway, my name is triple-barrelled.'

'Read the card, sir.' Flat, monotone.

I read it: CHARLES SMITH-JONES-BROWN. It
was
for me.

'Okay, is there any place I can get a meal or drink while I'm waiting?'

'Waiting...?' he asks.

'Yes, I'm not ready to step onto that belt.'

'Not ready, sir?' Black, unctuous, wilfully misapprehensive.

'Yes—not prepared to face death yet. I'll move onto this belt at the last moment but I'm not finished with life yet.'

He affects a small, professional frown. 'Life's finished with you.'

'Finished? You must be joking. I've barely started: far too many dreams to fulfil.'

He nods towards the belt: it's been there all along. My place was allotted when my first cell divided in my mother's womb. Unique? No: I'm predictably common.

'It's death's turn for you, now, sir.'

'Is that all I get?'

A weary nod.

'This isn't me. If this is the pinnacle of my achievements then life's a terrible disappointment.' He ignores me. 'A profound disillusionment.'

'Someone promise you more?' he asks automatically, barely suppressing a yawn.

I cannot answer. Who
had
promised me more? So, like a beast in an abattoir, I take my place, step onto the belt. Mm? What colour is the belt? Red and black and aluminium. You don't get much space
and
you have to stand. And it only goes one way. Oh, and there's no one to appeal to. You just stand in your allotted space and wait, travelling forward imperceptibly.

'Mr Smith-Jones-Brown!' calls the footman.

'Sir...?'

'Who are you speaking to?'

'Just mumbling.'

'Well, cut it—see?'

*

Then came death—thrills and spills on the darker side. Exhilarating adventure, the ultimate experience.

'Where shall I start, sir?'

(Loved the
sir
.) Here he was—the devil with a chainsaw.

'Just here, friend,' I said, pointing to the base of my breastbone. 'But don't go too fast. I haven't made up my mind how far to go with you.'

'There
is
only me, sir,' said the devil.

'Yes,' I said, 'but you're promoting the diabolical.' I waited; he was impassive. 'The other side may have something quite different on offer.'

He smiled, a born salesman. 'Nobody, but nobody, does the darker thrill better than myself,' he asserted. 'You want exhilaration, then I'm your man.' He left a silence. 'I've had them all, sir. Youngsters, oldsters, aristocrats; aldermen, washerwomen, royalty; the disappointed, the disgruntled and the downright disaffected.' He gave me a straight look and for moments the dynamic passed between us, before:

'Just here,' I said, pointing to my chest.

He revved the chainsaw. The first incision was deliciously decisive. I let him use up a quarter of my dying heart.
Dying
is a misnomer because I felt terrifically alive.

'Stop!' I cried. 'You're killing me.' He cut the motor with professional reluctance, withdrew the saw.

Then I metaphorically opened up the remainder of my heart to everything else that death had to offer. Whose death was it, anyway? I was determined to play it my way. The thrills turned sweeter and sweeter until my heart was filling with universal love. What a wasteful life I'd led. If I'd known death could be this good I should have led a worse life.

The devil interrupted my reverie: 'Time marches on, sir. Tempus fugit and all that. Forgive the vulgarity, squire, and I hate to rush you, but I've lots to do. You're blocking the queue and winter Sunday evenings are a bitch.' He toyed with the saw's safety catch. 'Shall we finish the job? I'll give you a nice swift death. Unless, of course, you'd prefer the scalpel. Quick and clean, sir. You'd hardly know where I'd been once they'd stitched you up. And, anyway, where you're going, it's hardly going to matter, is it?'

He waited for a reaction which I didn't give. 'You are
down
for the furnace, aren't you?' he said, licking a finger to check his paperwork.

No,' I said. 'I don't want you, or your saw, or your scalpel. I'm going to take a chance on the opposition.'

'All right, squire. Move over and make way.' I did. 'Next!' he shouted, starting up the saw again.

I walked—actually
walked
is a misnomer: I glided over to the other side. But there was nobody there. Oh, I thought, I just want to open up my heart to whatever is on offer. A strong bitter-sweet feeling began to pour into my heart and as it did so I became stronger and stronger. If this carries on, I thought; if I allow this to fill my heart completely; if I let this delicious warmth take me over, then I shall cease to be and my ego will disintegrate into the larger whole.

What's filling me? What—or who—is the larger whole? Oh, my God, this is too massive to comprehend. But fill me up.

Is this death? I'd always suspected that death would be a bore: like dozing off. Yet this was the opposite: more like life. I had assumed—if I'd thought of it at all—that death was passive. Wrong: it's active. And now my regret is my inability to go back to reassure everyone, but this was a one-way journey.

PART NINE

Calmness of a Crimson Fish

As Calm as a Monkey' s Bum

—Advertising slogan

*

The author assures the reader that each page in Part Nine is correctly transcribed. There are no omissions or pagination errors.

39A

39B

I had thought of leaving Part Nine blank. But that's a bit too obvious—you might have felt short-changed; and you have demanded (and deserve—for we live in real time) value for money. Death is a shock, the end, and nothing follows. Or does it? I sense I'll have to be careful here.

Now, then: Charlie and Belinda sussed that they're fictive; Burgess and Burton are dead; all the other characters (real or imaginary) are fictions. So, that just leaves me (Rod) and one other. I understand Rod but
who
is that other?

The other is close to I, or
I
: that which can be only objective. No, the other is the imaginary narrator in my head—another fantasy. Which just leaves me. But you didn't ask for autobiography, you demanded fiction, which I've given you. So I'm left with the problem of conclusion. Is the action of a novel—or a film—continuous? When the writer, or director, writes The End does the life of the work halt? I hope that Charlie, Belinda, Burgess, Burton
et al
continue with their off-stage lives. What do you think?

PART TEN

Consummations of a Crimson Fish

Every parting gives a foretaste of death;

every coming together again a foretaste of the resurrection.

—Arthur Schopenhauer, 1788–1860

40

Hi, folks! I'm back. You didn't think that death could stop me, did you? You
did
—? Then, here's the moral: never let death spoil a story.