The Information Junkie Read online

  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.

  As a result it is a particularly fertile region, ideal for grazing. William Cobbett notes in 'Rural Rides' that the Romney Marsh sheep are "Very pretty and large. The faces of the sheep are white; and, indeed, the whole sheep is as white as a piece of writing paper". It is also a habitat for wild flowers: Marsh Mallow, Phragmites, Sea Kale, Viper's Bugloss and Foxglove, a few of the many species. The rootstock of the Marsh Mallow (Althaea officinalis) is used to make marshmallows.

  Several small towns and villages break up the vast, flat area, their very names—including a pair of ancient manors and two lost villages—spelling out Romney Marsh's chief characteristic:

  Dymchurch, Eastbridge, Snargate, Old Romney, Lydd, Aldington, Tinton, Ivychurch, Orgarswick, New Romney.

  If a person wanted to be alone in England it is difficult to imagine a better place; in some spots the only company is flora. Pink and White Valerian, Wild Mignonette, Bird's-Foot Trefoil; Yellow Horned Poppy, Marram-grass, Great Reedmace.

  Early records tell of pastures of buttercups, and fields of hemp dotted with meadow saffron. The flowers of the meadow saffron (Colchicum autumnale) resemble a crocus but instead of three stamens have six. The plant yields the poisonous drug colchicine—a yellow alkaloid—which is used to treat gout. Colchicum is named after Kolchis in Asia Minor, famous in Greek mythology for drugs and sorcery. The king's daughter, Medea, helps Jason obtain the golden fleece then flees with him. Later Medea kills her two children by Jason, and his new bride, Creusa, with the gift of a poisoned garment which burns her to death.

  Culinary saffron is not produced from the meadow saffron but from Crocus sativus.

  An atomic power station dominates the shoreline at Dungeness and rows of pylons are visible for miles around. Dungeness also has two lighthouses: one in use, the other no longer used, but open to visitors. Each year as fresh shingle is deposited the sea recedes about seven feet, so over time replacement lighthouses have had to be built closer to the water's new edge.

  Romance surrounds the history of smuggling in Romney Marsh, which benefits from shallow beaches and a closeness to France. The many large churches were used for storage. (William Cobbett notes that some village churches are far too large for their small populations.)

  In 1927 the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Light Railway, with a gauge of 18 inches, was opened. It still operates today.

  The region is well documented by writers who have lived on, or been inspired by, it. From the Rev Richard Harris Barham in 'The Ingoldsby Legends', through H. G. Wells ('The War in the Air'), the poetry of Ford Madox Ford, E. Nesbit (who spent holidays here and is buried at St Mary-in-the-Marsh), to Russell Thorndike and his Dr Syn novels, and to Rudyard Kipling.

  Once you set foot in the area you notice a transformation in the environment and in yourself. You feel as if you have stepped into a kingdom where time has moved more slowly than elsewhere. And the sense of solitude is remarkable; which possibly explains its power to attract and inspire writers and artists. But at one time people avoided Romney Marsh believing it to be an unhealthfull place occupied by witches.

  "Beware if you stray on to Rumn-ea Marshe for fear of divers witches..." warns Yelired in the Saxon Rockland Chronicle.

  Iklyd the corn-dealer in Norse legend also counsels against entering the region which is "full of noxious evils" and where teams of horsemen have been sucked under its waters.

  10

  'Doc, I'm in love.'

  He gave me one of his oblique looks. 'How's Belinda?'

  'She's fine,' I said, 'but it's not her.'

  'Who's it this time, Charlie?'

  'It's the Fierychick, doc: she's poisoned me. Ffion's passed me a posy of poison, dealt me a dose of digitalis, teased me with tincture of toxin and made my heart race. She's slipped some venom under my skin and I can't forget her. What can I do?'

  'I think it's about time you saw another specialist,' he said.

  'Doc, she's cast a spell on me.'

  'These are fantasies, Charlie. You're losing touch with reality, again. I know just the guy you should see.'

  'He won't give me tests, will he, doc? None of those silly word associations. "What's the first thing that comes into your mind, Mr Smith?" I don't want to speak to any specialists. I want to speak to you. I trust you, doc. Anyway, I'm worried.'

  'Why?'

  'I went looking for her.'

  'Who?'

  'Ffion'

  'Looking for her...?'

  'Went to Romney Marsh.'

  'Is that where she lives?'

  'No. She lives here, in town. But after our second meeting, when she said she had to chill out, to Romney Marsh she went.

  Well, I went too, but nobody had heard of her. And I gave them a really good description: five-eight, five-ten, long ginger hair, the colour of saffron. Sometim
es wears it up, sometimes down. Freckly complexion. Wears a lot of purple and violet.'

  'So, what did you do there, Charlie?'

  'Looked around: studied the pylons coming out of the power station. Thought about the meaning of life. All that sort of stuff.'

  'Charlie, I'm too busy working to worry about the meaning of life.'

  'Touché.' Pause. 'So, what's the score, doc?'

  'Nil-one to you so far.'

  'She consumes me, doc. First thing on my mind in the morning, last thing on my mind at night.'

  'And Belinda...?'

  'Oh, she copes, doc. Got her friends, close to her parents. Always seems to be doing something.'

  'I still think you should see the specialist.'

  'But, doc, you and I have such a good relationship. We go back so far.'

  'Charlie...I think they've seen through me.'

  'You mean, as they did through Martin?'

  'Precisely.'

  'So, time for you to go?'

  ''Fraid so.'

  'No speeding car, for you, doc.'

  'No...'

  'Would you like to choose your exit?'

  He raised an eyebrow.

  'Tell you what, doc. Why don't we leave things open? I'll just walk out of your surgery.'

  He nodded agreement, tipped me that sage look again.

  'Oh, and, doc...how much do I owe you?'

  'I'll send you my final bill.'

  So, I'd lost two sources of support: Martin and the doc. And Ffion didn't exist except in my mind. But you've worked out something else, haven't you? I mean: I'm not real either, am I?

  So, you want me to go now? Aw, and we'd enjoyed such a good relationship. Buddies! What are you doing to me? Come on, you can't do this. What's that? You've had enough and you want a resolution? Oh, come on. So much more to tell you, especially about Ffion. But I understand that you were becoming confused.

  So, now I've got to make my exit. That's not so easy. Martin chose his own, I made it easy for the doc, all of the others were fantasies. Which just leaves Charlie.

  But, of course, as you know, there's another behind all this. And he's a bit of a Charlie, too. So, there are bits of Charlie in him and parts of him in Charlie. But if you get rid of me, like this, how's it all going to end? Because nobody will accept a story without a conclusion: all the loose ends must be tied up. Oh, you can do that yourself...? Ah, very clever. What are you going to do: fax me, bounce it off a satellite, E-mail me? It's okay, I accept what you say. May I choose my own exit...?

  Thank you very much.

  Okay. Here goes:

  When I got back from Romney Marsh Belinda wasn't in but I read her note which ended:

  Darling, I've been thinking. I haven't needed to work since we married. We've got plenty of money, nice house, nice cars. I know you don't like facts and figures, sweetheart, but I've been doing a few sums. You actually don't need to work any more. You could draw your company pensions straightaway and the state one in fifteen years.

  I thought you'd been looking a bit strained lately. Perhaps too much on your mind. Give up work, Charlie, and let's start living!

  See you when I see you.

  B.

  X...O

  Well, she'd made me an offer and given me an exit of sorts. I'd be a fool not to take it, wouldn't I? Then, of course, I still had to get in touch with Martin who wanted to talk about Cybernurse. Apparently he only grazed himself jumping from the car. I thought carefully and decided that as soon as I'd retired I'd change to a hobby very different from my work. And Martin had been getting too familiar with Belinda. So, I'd ease him out of my life. And Ffion? She's still there.

  If you're a lad she's waiting for you at the end of the corridor: it's your flat, the door's open and she's gesturing you in with that freckly arm: 'Come on, Charlie. I'll make you feel good. I'll sort it all out for you. I've opened the door. Come on in.'

  So, who does that now leave? Just Belinda: she seems to have taken her own exit, doesn't she? But, of course, you know who Belinda is. If you're a lass, she's the person who loves your chap; if you're a lad, you know what it's like to be loved by Belinda. And if you're a chap or a chapess without a partner at the moment I hope you find your Belinda or Charlie soon. Of course, you may be a Charlie who prefers Charlies or a Belinda who prefers Belindas. Cool by me! But don't spend too much time with Ffion (or Fergus): she (he) is just a stage through which to pass.

  How are we doing so far, buddies? Sort of drawing it together, aren't we?

  Earlier on, when I asked how old you had to be to get wise, I said I'd tell you. Well, I'm telling you now. I wish I had half the wisdom I sense in you and if I had one quarter the wisdom of all the writers whom Charlie acknowledges I'd be a wise man. In order to know how old you have to be to get wise, you first of all have to be wise. Now, that's a bit of a catch, isn't it? Sounds like the fruitful basis for a novel...

  Martin said he was an actor. He was. Charlie's a bit of an actor too. But I'm the real actor because I've been performing all the parts—even women. When the curtain's down and I've removed my costume and make-up I'll come to mingle with you in the bar. But you won't recognise me because my face is forgettable. I blend too well. The only way you're going to see my face is by doing what Charlie did when he returned from that place which some people call home. When Ffion showed him into the flat he greeted the books then looked in the mirror. And if you look into the mirror you will not be in some Magritte nightmare with a train steaming out of the fireplace.

  I've just about used up my time. Haven't I?

  A thought on mirrors: why was the Lady of Shallot only half sick of shadows?

  Keep your powder dry, keep your floppies away from strong magnets, always SAVE, SAVE, SAVE. Don't try to cram too much on one disc and don't surf at the expense of proper human relationships. These toys are means to an end, not ends per se. Now it really is coming to the end of the performance and I'm sweating underneath my costumes and make-up. All I want now is the curtain to drop so I can get to the pub.

  We'll go as a group, most of us anyway, and after the drink we'll stuff ourselves silly at the Star of India before at least one of us throws it all up again outside. Martin might even be in the group. He, or someone else, will suggest: This is rather silly, isn't it? Couldn't we just order it electronically, let someone else eat it and sick it up?

  Does Sainsbury's offer that service, yet?

  How old do you have to be to get wise, buddies? How old?

  And if you drink and eat too much you might well end up in hospital where you'll be attended by the Cybernurse who, if you ask, will give you a local before inserting the needle of the drip.

  But isn't this where you and I came in?

  11

  Help!

  I'm locked inside this place. Full of tubes to keep me alive—or do they guy me down? There is no escape. I know that. This is it. You finally reach a point from which you cannot fly. Butch it out with me: we're going to make it. You can trust me, knowing me a little; I trust you, not knowing you yet.

  You said you wanted a story. Snap! Do you know my problem—? I'm locked inside literature.

  PART THREE

  Conclusions of a Crimson Fish

  There are two things which I am confident I can do very well: one is an introduction to any literary work, stating what it is to contain, and how it should be executed in the most perfect manner; the other is a conclusion, shewing from various causes why the execution has not been equal to what the author promised to himself and to the public.

  —James Boswell, 'The Life of Samuel Johnson'

  *

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

  12

  Hi, buddies. How's your belly where the pig bit you?

  I'm back!

  Phew! Wow!! Feel as if I've been away for ages. Anyway, great to speak with you again. How's it been hanging while I've been
away? All right? Good...great. Now listen: gonna continue with my story. Because that's what you like. Isn't it? Me too. Moi aussi. Ich auch. Anch'io. Fabuloso!

  Oh, by the way, Romney Marsh was a dog, but I'll tell you about that later. First of all I must tell you about Ffion, because she's an amber drug (with an auburn rug). Oh, yes, buddies. Wow! What a rush that girl gives you. Now, listen to me: I'm telling you. Didn't tell the doc because thought he wouldn't believe me. But I found her. Oh, yes: she was there: discovered her in a kind of wooden house. Bleak house. Belinda was right when she suggested Frontiersville: as if you're on the edge of the world.

  She was expecting me. Oh...she knew! She knew!! She KNEW!!! There was no doorbell because there's no electricity in the house; no batteries, either, just bottled gas and candles. Now listen: I'm gonna tell you how it is, gonna tell you how it was, gonna tell you how it's gonna be. You know where I've been; you know where I am; and you know where I'm going. A bit like life, isn't it? Know where you've come from, know where you are, know where you're going. Whence, where, whither??? Quo vadis, and all that.

  Now listen: I've tramped Romney Marsh for days. Okay? I'm tired, I'm hungry, I've got blisters on my feet. I'm holing up at this small guest house in Camber Sands. And I've borrowed a bike. Oh, yes, hired a set of wheels and I'm riding round Romney Marsh saying, 'Excuse me, do you know...?'

  Well, how do you think I feel? I'm gonna tell you. I'm telling you now. I'm telling you. You get some very strange looks.

  'What's her name?' said one.

  And do you know—?—I didn't know her second name. And some of them just looked at me and walked away.

  'Why do you want to find her?' said someone else.