The Information Junkie Page 5

  There was a familiar smell in my flat; I noted both George and Martin smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Were they sharing the same tobacco? Had Martin offered George his pouch, or vice versa?

  In another corner I saw a tall man in a black suit behaving furtively. He approached me:

  'Charles, how do you see the relationship between junk and creative activity?'

  Both Tom and George swung round. I held up the hand of peace to my interlocutor, turned to George and Tom and said,

  'Don't worry...'

  They then both looked at the tall half-bald man on his way back to the corner before returning to their conversation. Meanwhile Martin and Chris were talking very animatedly. Martin was saying:

  '...but don't you think you're asking for it...?'

  Chris just smiled.

  Over in another corner, another huddle. A smallish lady came up to me:

  'Hello, I'm Barbara. Are you any good at sorting type?'

  'I've done a little but most of us use PCs now. All major printers work from electronic files.'

  Barbara cocked her head: 'P's and C's...? Don't you mean P's and Q's?'

  'No—personal computers. What I type is what appears on the page.'

  She searched my eyes and for a moment there was a glimpse of understanding, almost as if she could see into the future, but she quickly dismissed the thought by saying, 'Leonard needs a hand.' Her attempt to introduce me to him failed because he, poised over some papers, didn't want to be disturbed. Barbara directed me to boxes of type over which stooped a tall too-thin lady who turned round. Both Barbara and she had ink on their fingers. I wanted to say, Virginia, do you realise what you've started? I wanted to say, Long after you'd walked into the Ouse, long after the twentieth century was closed, you're still there, still being read. I also wanted to mention the modish arguments pro and contra Bloomsbury, I wanted to tell her about the snobbery and elitism on both sides. But I couldn't. I did none of these things because somehow she was living in her own time. Instead I said,

  'I'll come back to help you later.'

  'Come on, Barbara Chickabiddyensis,' said Virginia.

  I returned to the centre of the room and looked around at all the groups talking to each other: George had slipped off to the side, smoking a cigarette on his own. Martin, looking very very serious was now speaking with Saul Bellow. Norman Mailer was sitting down by the window typing. In another corner—how many corners did this room have?—Dickens was making notes. Then a well-spoken, well-dressed man, with a full head of dark hair—despite his age—took his place in the centre of the floor, clapped his hands and said rather adenoidally:

  'May I have your attention for a moment, please...?' It was Melvyn. All conversation stopped. 'Ladies and gentlemen—the buffet is served.'

  Norman Mailer, still typing with one hand, turned round looking for the food, shouting:

  'Save me some of those egg dumplings.'

  Virginia said, 'Oh, I don't think I could eat anything.'

  Leonard sighed.

  Barbara said, 'Shall I get you something, dear?'

  Virginia put a finger to her lips and directed her eyes at Leonard's back.

  George Orwell said: 'I'm bloody famished.'

  Thomas Hardy said, 'I hope there's something decent to drink.'

  The tall man who'd offered me drugs said, 'Hey, what do you think they've put in the cake?' and giggled like a schoolboy. I turned my back on him.

  Martin was talking again to Christopher Priest saying,

  'Yeah, since they fixed me up in the States I can eat properly.' He smiled and lit up the dark corner for a moment, and as his lips parted he disclosed a set of perfect teeth. I didn't have time to count whether he had twenty-eight or the full thirty-two.

  Christopher said, 'How much did they cost you?'

  'Twenty-K.'

  'Sterling...?'

  'Dollars.'

  At the mention of this George spun round and mouthed, How much?

  Martin called across: 'George, your namesake in Coming up for Air is stimulated into action by the thought of his new false teeth, and he only—what was it, fifty?—'

  'Forty-five—'

  '—and he a mere forty-five. He needn't have bothered. He should have flown to the States and had the originals capped, had bridgework, implants...'

  George turned to me and said,

  'What does that chap do?'

  Norman Mailer had now left the typewriter and was in the kitchen piling high his paper plate and saying to himself: 'Da-da, da-da, da-da; da-da, da-da, da-da; got to remember, got to remember...'

  I rather timorously approached Martin and Chris:

  'Excuse me, I'm Charlie.'

  'Martin Amis,' said Martin, not proffering his hand.

  I said, 'Someone's been using your name.'

  He said, 'I know these impostors. They think all they have to do is drop the name of an established person to give their work an importance or a respectability.'

  'No,' I said. 'He drove me home.' Martin gave me the look of someone who didn't suffer wise men gladly. 'It was an American car,' I persisted, 'with a left-hand drive. But in the end he had to leave—he just jumped out while we were moving...'

  '...whilst...'

  'Oh, of course.'

  'Will you excuse me?' he said rather tiredly, turning his back on me to continue his conversation with Christopher Priest. Chris mouthed, I'll catch you later.

  Orwell had a very healthy appetite and he and Thomas were still conversing. Hardy was saying:

  'But why did you want to pretend?'

  'I returned from Burma with a sense of guilt about my mistreatment of the natives. Instead of being an oppressor I wanted to get down amongst the oppressed. Expiation, I suppose.'

  'Did it work?'

  'Partly.'

  'But,' said Thomas, 'you'd done some amateur tramping. Hadn't you?'

  George, who had turned a little pale as he stood over the kitchen table, called over:

  'Eileen!'

  Eileen was talking to another woman:

  'Excuse me a moment, Sonia.'

  Eileen came over. 'What is it, Eric?'

  He said, 'I don't feel well again.'

  'Do you want to sit down?'

  Saul Bellow was picking at a few small pieces of food.

  'Saul,' said Gore Vidal. 'Is any of this kosher?'

  Bellow shrugged. 'I don't know. But in the absence of pretzel sticks...'

  Gore's eyes twinkled as he gave a magisterial smile.

  Norman Mailer had already finished his plate and was starting another. So I went up to the MC and said,

  'Hi, Melvyn.'

  'Hello, Charlie.'

  'Quite some party you've organised.'

  He said, 'I'm having difficulty with your surname.'

  'Most people do. It's Smith hyphen Jones hyphen Brown.'

  'So, what do people call you?'

  'Charlie—!'

  We laughed.

  'But,' I said, 'how did you manage to get all these people together?'

  Then Barbara Bagenal said, 'Don't worry, dear,' to Virginia. 'I'll sort out the fonts. Why don't you lie down?'

  Melvyn said, 'Charlie, there's someone I'd like you to meet,' and took me over to yet another corner to a man who looked shy and awkward. 'Charlie, this is Jeremy. Jeremy, Charlie.'

  We shook hands. Melvyn said, 'Jeremy, Charlie's just had an interesting experience,' then slipped into the background.

  I said, 'Oh, I've just come from that place which some people call home...'

  Jeremy tilted his head in an erudite way and gave a polite, inquiring smile.

  '...and this guy called Martin drove me home but jumped out of the car while—no, whilst—we were moving. It was an American car.'

  'Charlie, what is it you do?'

  'I live here—this is my gaff—but I've got to be honest with you, Jeremy, I hate socialising. I feel awkward.'

  'Me too, but there is a minimum you must do. On the other
hand, William won't do any. That's one of the privileges of success—you don't have to.'

  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 undeveloping. 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!!!