The Information Junkie Read online

  The Information Junkie

  a novel

  by Roderick Leyland

  First published 2012

  Published by Roderick Leyland

  copyright © Roderick Leyland

  PART ONE

  Confessions of a Crimson Fish

  Laughter, while it lasts, slackens and unbraces the mind, weakens the faculties and causes a kind of remissness and dissolution in all the powers of the soul; and thus it may be looked on as weakness in the composition of human nature. But if we consider the frequent relieves we receive from it and how often it breaks the gloom, which is apt to depress the mind and damp our spirits, with transient unexpected gleams of joy, one would take care not to grow too wise for so great a pleasure in life.

  ―Malcolm de Chazal, (1902–1981), Mauritian writer and painter

  1

  She gave me a local before inserting the needle of the drip. Dark hair, proud breasts, slim legs, pert bum.

  'Anything else, Mr Smith?'

  There was but I shook my head.

  'I'll bill you,' she said, and left.

  I sniffed the air as she passed: talc, deodorant, musky scent.

  I was reading the latest Martin Amis on disc so was able to turn the page by clicking my mouse. Martin soon had me laughing so I had to be careful not to dislodge my tubes.

  They'd skilfully combined the solids and liquids conduits and because each was fitted with a non-return valve I could do one or the other, or both simultaneously, and at any time, without a worry. Long gone were the days when I'd had to ring for a bedpan or reach underneath for the bottle. I was now hardwired to all mains services.

  The mobile nurse who'd given me the jab was becoming a regular. I'd thought about her a lot; she'd featured in my fantasies:

  'Anything else, today, Mr Jones?'

  'Yes, darling. Rip off your clothes, undress me and let's make this bed sing!!'

  'Nothing at all I can do for you, then?' She left a silence. 'Sure?' She waited. 'Okay. I'll bill you.'

  I tried to return to Martin's fiction but the thought of food pulled me back. I shunted Amis into the sidings with one click and brought up today's menus with another. They'd arranged my screen, keyboard and mouse so that all movement was minimised: no RSI here!!! Oh, no. You could read War and Peace in one sitting in my bed without getting neck, eye or wrist strain.

  The menu today was almost limitlessly varied. I'd scrolled five pages before I got bored so clicked to return to the pre-sets then entered the subroutine for Specialities of the Subcontinent.

  It didn't seem that long since we'd been out as a crowd to get lagered-up then top the evening off with an Indian! At least one of us used to chuck it up again outside: the curry, the poppadoms, the lager; the beer, the crisps, the cider.

  'Wouldn't it be easier,' suggested someone, 'to get pissed by proxy? Have someone else eat your curry, throw it up then file you a detailed report. You could stay at home with a video, a beer and a microwaved curry.'

  We all laughed before somebody else spattered the pavement and pebbledashed a shop window.

  My screen flickered for a moment: a voltage spike: they still hadn't smoothed the mains current, but the page quickly reconstructed itself.

  What did I fancy today? Did I want a starter or would I go straight for the curry? Did I really want to punish myself, stuff myself stupid, or would I take it easy and think of my stomach? I was getting older, I was getting wiser, and I was beginning to learn from my mistakes. So, today, I'd soft pedal. Thus: no starter, then certainly a curry—chicken for preference—with probably pilau rice, but certainly two poppadoms.

  'Would you like a beer, Mr Brown?'

  'Chill me a bottle of Elephant's Tusk.'

  And for afters? What had happened to those delightful desserts you once got covered with silver leaf and beaten gold? Used to enjoy those. Must memo Joginder on that one. So, possibly no pud tonight. Just a coffee: to aid digestion!

  But I realised I wasn't sufficiently hungry yet so postponed the decision. I clicked out of dinner but, before returning to Amis, decided to grab the news so shot up to the Linotype icon. Just the usual political, economic and homicidal dross so off I clicked and back on to Martin.

  Wow, can that boy write!

  Now listen: I read for an hour, ordered my meal as I told you and thought about my Cyberchick, the mobile nurse.

  We are clear, here, aren't we about who's doing the eating? I mean you don't think they send round a greasy bag on the back seat of a Ford Cortina. Do you? I mean you do understand, don't you, that I no longer eat…? That is, I ordered my meal from the States: Prox-E-Dyne Food Corp., USA., Inc. "We Cook...They Eat...You Enjoy."

  I understood they'd subcontracted the reporting to freelancers in Bombay—it's all done overnight so I had to order Tuesday to get a report back Wednesday.

  Before I had gone fully out-of-body to eat I had tried the pre-digested stuff via my drip. My Cyberbabe hooked me up but it gave me wind: both ends. My tubes vibrated all night. Thank goodness for non-return valves.

  I was a bit depressed after my current meal so decided to call up Cyberdoll feigning pain near one of my drip needles. But you couldn't put one over on her:

  'It must be in your imagination,' she said tolerantly. 'Now, what can I really do for you?'

  'Strip off, now,' I said. 'Slide in beside me and let's have a real experience.'

  When her white starched uniform hit the floor I saw the black hairs sprouting from her pants. And when she dropped her nix—wow! Blackbeard the Pirate! She unhooked her bra, letting the air to her jugs, and said,

  'I'm going to give you such a sorting.'

  I said, 'Can you really make the bed sing?'

  'Pin back your ears, lover.'

  So Cybergirl and I got it on. She had a tattoo; I had a tattoo: she showed me hers, I showed her mine; then we danced for a while. She shook, rattled and rolled; I rolled, rattled and shook. She gave me the Kawasaki, no kick-start required—know what I mean, lads?; then showed me a few tricks from the medical textbook, finally pulling a couple of stunts not in any book.

  She wriggled and giggled; I tickled and wiggled until we were both fizzling and sizzling, and joy wiped us off the face of the earth. Then we hiked it and biked it—discovered we liked it; we tricked and we treated, stood up then were seated till we peaked then we troughed. Took a break for coffee and a piece of cake, and scrambled back with renewed resolve until an innocent bystander would have thought we were locked like dogs.

  So we thrashed and mashed until we finally meshed—who needs a manual?—and all my tubes shot out with joy, and we soared above the bed in pleasure.

  I was still panting but she'd already showered and was redressing:

  'Will there be anything else today, Mr Smith?'

  'No,' I whispered, barely able to speak.

  'Okay,' she said. 'I'll bill you.'

  Phew!

  Stick with me, now; follow me closely: I decided to eat out that night, thought French would be appropriate. Started with Pâté de Campagne, then a Salad Niçoise, followed by Filets de Rouget Poêlés au Tian D'Aubergines et de Courgettes, Coulis de Tomates. Finished off with Pruneaux au Vin Rouge and Fromage Frais. You have to give notice so they can cool the wine properly:

  'And to drink, Mr Jones?'

  'Oh, chill me something young, French and impudent.'

  You get your reports more promptly with EuroScran—"You Scan It...We Scran It."—because of the small time difference.

  The wine was a dog. The report said you could have used it to disinfect your feet: guaranteed to shift all chiropodic yeasts, fungi, cultures and subcultures.

  French wine? No thanks, mate: just chill me a Monkey's Bum. You
've heard the jingle, haven't you?

  Have fun...have fun...

  Have fun with a Monkey's Bum.

  Take time...take time...

  Take time for a Monkey's Bum.

  Go mad...go mad...

  Go mad for a Monkey's Bum

  Make mine...make mine...

  Oh, make mine a Monkey's Bum.

  Or:

  Would you like a drink...? I'd love a Monkey's Bum.

  Or:

  Entertaining...? Go on: Give them a Monkey's Bum.

  Or:

  Tired...? Sink a Monkey's Bum.

  Or:

  When the chips are down...It must be a Monkey's Bum.

  Or:

  All alone...? Chill out with a Monkey's Bum.

  Or:

  Unlucky in love...? Kiss a Monkey's Bum.

  Or:

  Think you can handle a Monkey's Bum?

  Or:

  Are you man enough for a Monkey's Bum?

  Or:

  Honey...I shrunk the Monkey's Bum.

  No: I made that last one up.

  You must have guessed by now. You've guessed it, really, haven't you? No, go on, you have. Yeah, I was receiving treatment. Only they didn't call it treatment, they called it servicing. Huh? No, they looked after me very well, very concerned for my welfare. Nice people asking me lots of questions. Sensitive, you know? I wasn't producing enough serotonin, or something. Too much (oops! too many) data; too little detail. I think that's what the printout said. Because all input and output is monitored. Down to the colour and consistency of your faecal crop.

  Too much E-mail; not enough Female?

  I read the report which said they were now trickling Prozac and Viagra into me. The Cyberdoc also recommended I modify my reading matter, go without Martin for a while: had I considered the complete datacleanse?

  'Try something lighter, Mr Brown,' he said. 'I prescribe Wodehouse,' and he downloaded a sample chapter. Free of charge!!!

  Well, I tried it but soon missed the energy. Know what I mean? Thought I'd cheer myself up by proposing to Cybernurse but never pressed SEND. Probably just as well because she was already married—big cluster on her left hand—and, anyway, I needed to keep my fantasies alive. She fed them.

  Now then, you're going to want a resolution, aren't you? Exposition...development...dénouement. Okay. Try this:

  All my lager mates paid me a visit one day. Said they'd missed me and could I please pull myself together, forget all this nonsense and get into some serious training for bevvying and vindalooing.

  I was getting bored anyway so dialled up Cyberchick who unhooked me and configured a program which got me back into shape. Three months later I could sink a lager and discharge a madras like a good 'un. Oh, yes, and I finished the Martin Amis—this time by interacting with the hard copy. But the best news of all is that the nurse from CyberMed had professional never married. The rings were a feint.

  Mm? Yeah, you've guessed it: I'm wearing a ring now. I drink less, I eat fewer curries, because I've now got a real, living doll.

  Is there a moral here? Probably. Anyhow, fellow E-mailers, always remember: all things in moderation. Especially moderation.

  Love ya. See you around. Drop by for a lager or Josh whenever you like. Got to go now: time for my massage! Ciao.

  P.S. Does anyone think I should copy this to Martin Amis? Is he on the Web?

  P.P.S. Got to dash—I can smell the oils.

  P.P.P.S. She can cook, too!!!

  2

  Hi, electrobuddies, how's your hardware?

  She left me...

  But...I got another chick and she's fiery!

  Cybernurse did, however, leave me an E-note:

  Luv ya hon, but its the gas. Wow, babe—? Good job we dont smoke. If youd struck a match we would have explowed it. Quess Im kindah tired too of SKID ROW. HOW DO YOU CANCEL CAPS LOCK on this thing!? Craaaazy about you hun but cant take the pace. Gotta luv ya to leave ya.

  Be happy and remember...: social intercourse is just as important as the sexual variaty, varriaty (?), variatty (?). I thought you said these things corectexd as you went along?

  Call me in six months babe and lets do a RHUBARB.

  DEbbie XXXXX Just kist you in a nice spot.

  Now: all my mates had chicks so thought I'd better surf for a new one. Gosh, what a load of SICKOS! If I'd done half the things that some of them had suggested I'd need advanced physiotherapy.

  It was FIERY took my fancy. That was her cybermoniker. Just call me Fiery, she whispered.

  She'd eed me:

  Hey, like the sound of your brain. Want to linkup? Clean your contacts, Charlie: let's meet for a burn.

  It was a lean burn. Take my meaning?

  I keyed: How will I know you?

  She keyed: I'll be reading Proust.

  Wow! The only thing he ever did for me was support a broken bed.

  Hey, folks, and when I did meet her, guess what? Go on... Yeah, you're right: she was reading Marcel in Portuguese!!!

  We'd arranged the eyeball at a pub near Piccadilly Circus and when I spotted her she was drinking a palish liquid.

  'Hi,' I said. 'What's in the glass?'

  'Designer water with a twist of raspberry.'

  Loved that twist. I told you this girl was fiery—now, stick with me:

  'Do you want a drink?' she said.

  I felt a bit out of my depth and didn't want to appear silly by ordering a lager so asked for the same as her. Phew! I've tasted stronger tap tears, know what I mean? I watched her watching me drink it and she knew I knew it was a dog. She said I looked like a lager lad, why didn't I come off my pedestal and be real, be myself?

  Transparent, or what?

  We talked for nearly an hour before she said:

  'Let me chill for a few days.'

  We swapped telephone numbers. She said;

  'One of us will give the other an Alex. Okay?'

  So, she was driving right from the start. But that was cool. I liked assertive chicks.

  Now then, lads, the fantasy comes true. Oh yes. She gives me the Alex. I decide to play it ultracool, having been dumped by the Electrobabe, so for several days after the meet I just tinker with my keyboard, clean my screen with anti-static and shuffle my mouse mats. I'm out when she calls but she leaves her imprint on the iron oxide:

  Charlie, it's Fiery. Have you passed out? Are you dead? If you're still interested give me a Graham.

  Now, I'm not very good at hiding my feelings and tried to wait at least an hour before calling back but couldn't. Kept seeing her orangey-red hair, her steel-rimmed specs and her delightful, medium-sized breasts. She said she'd like to cook for me. She mentioned a day; I said okay. How about eight? My favourite number.

  Now, then, cyberdoodlers, I flossed and swilled, showered and shaved, shampooed and (was) set.

  When she answered the door she looked at me as if I were a stranger and she had a thin memory. As if she'd been given a small electric shock and needed a few moments to come to. However she recovered quickly and swept an arm inwards. Pale nails, freckly arms, fine reddish down. This chick was a woman, know what I mean?

  'Hope you like garlic,' she said.

  'I can't get enough,' I lied.

  She took my jacket and with her other arm—also freckled with fine reddish down and, on her hand, pale, pale, nails—she indicated the violet sofa. Violet? Violet?? VIOLET???

  She had all the windows open so the city sounds and air could percolate. We talked for a while about the drought, and Proust and alcohol. She said:

  'There are a few bottles in the fridge. Why don't you pour us one?'

  Electrodiddlers! There were twelve—I counted them—different types of lager, not just from Europe but all major continents, and a few minor ones. Did you know that there was a Falkland Islands Prize Lager? Yeah: South Atlantic Drift, they call it. Well, she'd gone for the most abstruse selection. She must have heard me thinking because she glides into the kitchen and says:
<
br />   'My brother's in the business.' She leaves a silence then says, 'See anything you fancy?' and stands very close. There's the hum of the fridge, the delicate smell of talc and the more vigorous antiperspirant. I can see, because she wears a sleeveless top, the film of the deodorant around her armpits. We stand for a moment just...well, just smelling each other. And above her lip a whisper of moisture.

  Anyway, I chose a Canadian and she had the Japanese. I poured them skilfully—sparkling heads—and we talked some more.

  Then for some reason I began to think about how Cyberbabe had come to leave me. If Fierychick was interested, and could apparently see right through me, surely I couldn't be that bad? Could I? But she'd gone, hence me here.

  Fieryface sipped her beer slowly. She had her hair down this evening: it was naturally wavy and cascaded beyond the shoulder. There were all shades of red, orange, even yellow mixed in; there was the occasional darker cluster as in a pinch of saffron and when she drank she penetrated me with her blue (yes, cerulean) eyes.

  Her eyelashes and eyebrows were very faint, like a watercolour wash.

  'Hungry, Charlie?' she said looking at her watch, and her tone promised something ineffable.

  I nodded: 'Always ready to eat.'

  'Always?'

  We started with steamed asparagus; there was just a hint of lemon juice, and an oil I couldn't place. The juices ran down our chins.

  This was followed by a teeny salad of mixed leaves of differing colours, miniature tomatoes, sliced small gherkins, baby beetroots and toasted pine kernels, all drizzled with a very expensive olive oil. (Perhaps she had another brother—in the oil business.) As I ate she watched me as if the foods contained embedded codes which once eaten would reveal themselves, or me...

  The third course consisted of medallions of pork braised in a garlicky sauce in which tomatoes, mushrooms, and herbs commingled. French? Italian? Iberian? That was served with crusty bread and Normandy butter.

  She slipped in another salad here. None of your lettuce, cucumber and tomato; no, this was all chilled parcooked vegetables. The dessert was Mille Feuilles. As well as the lagers which I had poured we drank two bottles of Muscadet which she opened. After coffee, marshmallows and mints we staggered from the table.