The Information Junkie (7 page)

A woman came up and kissed Jeremy on the forehead. He blushed. Noticing this and in order to disembarrass him she held her hand out to me and said, 'Hi, I'm Sarah. How are you?'

'I'm fine, thanks.' We paused before I said, 'Melvyn's very clever at organising, but this is
my
place.'

'Oh, we know,' she said. 'We wanted to give you a good homecoming.'

'Yes, but how does Ffion fit into it all?'

I turned; Ffion had fled.

'Who?' said Sarah; Jeremy looked relieved to have passed the social responsibility to her.

'The red-haired girl.'

She said, 'Do you mean Edna?'

'No,' I laughed. 'Not Edna.'

She was practised at putting people at their ease. She said, 'Have you eaten yet, Charlie?'

'No. I can't wait. I've got to get in there before Norman takes it all.'

She said, 'Isn't he a pig?'

'Saul Bellow has more manners.'

'So, Charlie,' said Sarah. 'What do you
do?
'

'I write software.'

'What sort?'

'For financial services—keep the wheels of commerce moving. I work for the Aristocard Credit Card Company.'

'Those jokers!' she said. 'They wouldn't give me a card.' She paused. 'Are they British?'

'No. It's an oriental outfit.'

Jeremy looked up and said, 'Run by a bunch of slit-eyed, yellow-heads!'

Which I thought rather funny, so smiled; but he blushed then I blushed. Sarah promptly said,

'Quite a spread Melvyn's laid on.'

I said, 'Who did the catering?'

'Oh, it was Jane.' I furrowed my brow. 'Jane Asher, of course.' I watched Sarah's mind jump to a conclusion: 'When you said red hair you didn't mean...?'

'No. Ffion is totally separate. I think she was born in Wales but doesn't have a Welsh accent. She has one of those
neutral
intonations—a sort of general purpose, undergraduate accident—I mean, accent.'

Jeremy sucked through his teeth and raised an eyebrow: 'Interesting slip, Charlie.'

Now, Martin was in deep discussion with Saul and I overheard:

'...but we leave a shadow...'

Suddenly above all the babble came:

'Does anyone want this last chicken leg?'

'I tell you what, Norman,' said the man who'd tried to sell me drugs, 'why don't you have it.'

Saul whispered something to Martin that I couldn't hear; somebody else shouted:

'Why don't you wash it down with a flagon of liquor.'

We all turned to see a tall white-haired, white-bearded man with a fishing rod in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Norman Mailer looked across:

'Ernest!'

Ernest said, 'Et tu Brute?' And they laughed at some long-standing joke.

Melvyn reappeared and said,

'Charlie, you like wordplay. Here's someone you should meet. Tom, this is Charlie.'

Now I was becoming confused: was it Tom Stoppard, Tom Eliot or Tom Wolfe? (Tom Cruise...? Tom, Tom the piper's son?) Melvyn had crammed
everyone
into my flat; I turned to Melvyn and said, 'Aren't
you
the facilitator?'

Tom said, 'Try saying that after ten straight whiskies.'

I said, 'I'm sorry, I'm getting very confused,' and the room began to turn as my head started to swim. Everybody began circling, all conversation became louder and louder:

'Stop!
Stop!!
STOP!!!' I shouted.

I closed my eyes to try to recover my senses.

I thought my eyes had been closed for minutes but I'd only blinked and in that
augenblick
I had experienced an eternity. When I opened them I was
still outside the flat
: the literary party had taken place only in my mind. Ffion was motioning me in:

'Go on, then,' she said.

 I turned round to say thankyou but she'd gone. And, of course, you've guessed it, buddies, haven't you? Yes, they were all there:

There was Martin Amis, George Orwell, Thomas Hardy; Christopher Priest, Charles Dickens, Laurence Sterne; V. Woolf, L. Woolf, but no sign this time of the Big Bad Wolf. Yeah, they were there colouring the walls and stacked on the carpet. Hardback and softback; stiffback and paperback; stickleback and minnow; cloth and limp. Right back to the authors of Beowulf and Norse legend.

I stood before the mirror above the fireplace, afraid I'd see the back of my head. I didn't. I saw myself straight on. Buddies, I looked in the mirror and I saw myself. And there was no express train ripping through the fireplace beneath, no bowler-hatted men dripping from the sky behind me, no molten clocks on the mantelpiece. I checked the mirror again and it was yours truly.

So, this wasn't too unexpected. I tried to recap: the Cybernurse, Ffion and Martin were all figments, therefore I wouldn't expect them to be here. I couldn't, for the moment, explain how I'd got hold of Martin's Oldsmobile, nor how I'd got into my flat. But here I was certainly. Ah, things were looking up. That just left Belinda.

I searched the wardrobes and chests of drawers but couldn't find any ladies' clothes. I went to the bathroom cabinet: there was no evidence of femalehood. There were no panty liners, there was no make-up, there were no unguents, there were no cottonbuds, none of those little things which said a woman had ever lived here.

I stood at the entrance to my study. The PC was all set up. I went inside. Was that spare mouse mat still there? Were there sticky rings where Belinda had laid cups of coffee? I found it: if the mat had ever held cups it now showed no signs. So, how about the notes with the Xs and the Os? Could I find any of those? I searched, buddies, but you know the answer, don't you? I drew a big zero. No, no—I don't mean I
drew
it. I mean, there was nothing, I couldn't find anything. In short: I could find no evidence of the existence of Belinda.

I tried to recap again to get it straight in my mind: Cybernurse was an obvious construct, a vulgar figment, a fantasy. Ffion was a fantasy too. Martin didn't exist; I think his car had existed, though I was becoming less certain. What did that leave? That left Belinda. And then it started.

I began to feel cold. I started to shiver in that way you do on a hot day when you're very afraid; and my stomach was vibrating and churning over. I looked around at the walls which were painted a pale cream and they started to grow paler. I looked at my bookcases, looked at the carpets and everything started to become lighter—it was like a photograph
un
developing. The colours were paling and everything was turning white.

Buddies: I was afraid. I had to sit down and let it happen. Eventually everything had gone back to white. And another odd thing happened. I was then on the ceiling of my flat looking down on myself, but the person I was looking down on wasn't me. There was no connection between the person looking down and the person sitting in the chair. I had become total objectivity. The person in the chair started to get thinner and thinner and older and older until all the flesh had wrinkled and maggots crawled through the eyes.

Gradually all the flesh was stripped and there was just a skeleton held together by cartilage until that, too, gave way. I was now looking at a heap of bones until they, too, disintegrated and became a pile of white dust. At the end I was looking down on a mound of white powder in a bleached room.

Now, buddies, this is not the story you anticipated. This is not the ending you were expecting. But what other ending could there be, but the truth...? Cybernurse was an obvious middle-age fantasy but Ffion I adored. I couldn't get Ffion out of my mind or out of my body. She was there at my flat door with torrents of red hair, waving me in. She was almost saying,
Welcome home, Charlie. Everything's going to be all right.
But as soon as she'd greeted me, I turned and she'd gone.

I couldn't see into the car park to check if Martin's car was still there. Somehow I had got home and had driven myself part of the way. So, I thought back to Ffion: Welsh, rose-red, the colour of foxgloves. And from foxgloves derives digitalis: a stimulant of the heart. Poison. A very toxic drug.

In the distance, very faintly, I sensed someone coming up to me—or him, or it—sitting in a chair, and laying down a cup of coffee. It probably went on to the mouse mat but I'm not sure. There was no X&O note. I'm not even sure that the person sitting was me. I don't know who laid down the coffee, but whoever it was broke a rule. I know it was a woman because I could smell her, and she broke the rule by speaking. She put two hands on my/his/its shoulder, brought her mouth close to his/its left ear and said,

'Careful. Don't overdo it.'

In section one Charlie said he was getting older, said he was getting wiser. As an assurance of that a machine is switched off, something powers down without the data having been saved. And whoever it was that was told not to overdo it has taken notice of the advice. He has powered down, he has switched off. The person, whoever he is, picks up the coffee, walks downstairs and outside where he sees green grass. He looks up to see blue sky and clouds. High up a jet leaves a vapour trail. Beyond that the vast blueness of the sky; beyond that an even vaster unknown; behind which an infinite vastness.

8

Darling, you've asked me to collate your notes while you're away. Thank you for trusting me. Sweetheart, of course I understand why you went. I was surprised, though, when you said Romney Marsh—sounds damp. Desolate. And that power station—promise me you won't go too close.

So, you thought it might be fun if I did your acknowledgements. Wouldn't it be better to weave them into the text? Only you can make that decision. I've found all your bits and pieces and loved the paper-chase—it was fun searching for them. I think I've got them all: some on paper, several on floppy disc, others on hard disc, even found that one in the answering machine on the
other
side of the tape. Who's a clever boy? I'll rearrange
your
particles when you come home.

I do love you, Charlie. Don't always understand you but do adore you. Sweetheart, I'll always be here.

Difficult for me to find the right tone for this; reminds me of when I was working for Allied Chemcorp Inc., writing somebody else's words. Anyway, here goes:

You say you were influenced by Christopher Priest's
The Affirmation
and two of B. S. Johnson's works: his novel
Christy Malry's Own Double Entry
, his short piece
Everyone Knows Somebody
Who's Dead
. You also want to touch your cap to Anthony Burgess for his narrative style in
A Clockwork Orange
and for two scenes in particular from
Tremor of Intent
. So that leaves Martin Amis; you've also listed: James Joyce, V. Woolf and the Big Bad Wolf! Darling, you
can't
credit the Big Bad Wolf!!!

I really don't know how to bring this all together, baby, but I'll try. I'll do a few different versions and then just leave them on a floppy for you. See what you think when you get back. Hope you're okay. Is there any
real
marsh there? Sounds cold: Frontiersville.

I'm still trying, sweetheart, to work out what the whole thing means. I can see the satire on IT, the comedy about the way an author interacts with his characters, something, too, about the
pains
of authorship. There are also questions about the nature of identity, a look at the relationship between appearance and reality and a wry glance at middle age versus youth. Your conclusion—if you have finished—seems to be that life's an impenetrable mystery which defies analysis; nevertheless we should enjoy the mystery. That's an awful lot for one story, isn't it...?

I notice you left without any notebooks this time or your dictation machine. Perhaps you needed a break from those too. You said you felt you were searching for something. Be careful, darling.

Looking forward to the big family get-together at Christmas. Daddy gets in such a lather over the turkey, doesn't he? But he always calms down by locking himself in the outside lavatory for half an hour. Then once he reappears and Mother has kissed him a few times we end up with a perfectly-cooked, glorious feast. Don't you love him buckets?

House is quiet without you. Take your point about electronic machines. Was looking in your study and they did look plastic and temporary set against your old Imperial on the floor which seemed so...permanent. I could hardly shift it when I was hoovering. Built to last but difficult to move! I know you're more introspective than I am but when I was lifting it and looking at its glass sides I thought how well it had been constructed. Built for ever, you said. And Darwin sprang to mind: adaptability of the species and so on. What is it you don't like about the new technology...?

You went without your mobile phone, too.

Romney Marsh: is that reclaimed land?

By the way, Martin left a note on the answering machine asking you to call. Something to do with a piece called
Cybernurse
. Also reminded you about lager and curry again. Blew me a kiss. I won't call him back because he's become so vulgar. Always seems so busy, never happy. Doesn't hang on to girlfriends for long, does he?

***

(Later)

Sweetheart, I've just found another note! In
your
lavatory. How did I miss that clue?

Must tell B to mention the two Ronnies.

No surnames, darling...

Biggs and Kray?

Barker and Corbett?

They don't seem to fit in anywhere, sweetheart. What did you mean by that? I'll just file it for the time being.

Why did you want us to have an outside loo? You only use it in the Summer, though I know Daddy likes to sit out there for his Christmas tizz.

See you soon, sweetheart.

9

Romney Marsh is a tract of land of approximately two hundred and fifty square miles, in the south-western extreme of Kent which borders Sussex on the west, and the English Channel to the south. At one time the whole area lay under water but gradually over centuries, as clay was washed down from the Weald and shingle redistributed itself, the sea receded.