The Information Junkie Page 8

  'Isn't he delicious?' [My italics.] 'Charlie, isn't Daddy delicious?'

  All I'm trying to do, babes, is tell a story. But I find from time to time that I get confused. I wanted to tell the tale as straightforward narrative but keep getting sidetracked. Okay, so let me try once more to set out how it is:

  My name's Charlie and I'm married to Belinda. I write software for a living, she used to be a P.A. There's also another Charlie who is a character in Cybernurse which may or may not turn out, one day, to be a computer game. There's Ffion who's a sort of middle-aged fantasy and Cybernurse who's an adolescent fantasy. Martin exists as a colleague although I got a bit confused about him at one point. So, there we have it...Ffion doesn't exist, Martin does although there was also a fictional Martin who jumped out of a car whilst... But you can't DO that, can you...? That's not REAL.

  So, does that help you?

  But let me tell you: sometimes I get confused because I feel when I (that is me—the proper Charlie, the real Charlie, the right Charlie) am telling you the story, the fictive Charlie takes over. So, we BOTH seem to be telling you the story. Now, that's odd isn't it??? Confusing too. Then there's a further confusion because I think there's a third—someone other: a narrator who is distinctly neither of the Charlies. Now the fictive Charlie calls himself I, the real Charlie—viz. me—calls himself I, the narrator calls himself I. So, there are three I's.

  Aye! aye!! AYE!!!

  No wonder we're all confused. And I, that is the real Charlie, keep trying to bring all these loose strands together to achieve a conclusion but they, that is the fictitious people, keep thinking otherwise. Now, you would have thought that I would have had control over it all, wouldn't you? Then there's the other guy, the narrator, he can't seem to control it either. Or is he a she...? What's happening here? So, the fictitious Charlie's giving you one strand, the real Charlie's giving you another, the narrator's trying to do something else (quite what, I don't know). This cannot make sense, can it?

  13

  14A

  Hello, everybody. Charlie's not well. The doctor's put him to bed with an injection—I always thought that was just a cinematic cliché —and written a prescription for some tablets. I went to check on him ten minutes later and he'd dissolved into a babylike sleep. I adored him and kissed his head. So, I'm trying to type quietly. Says that Charlie's been overdoing it, should take a long break. I've tried to persuade him to retire—we could certainly afford it, but I think his job represents masculinity. I'll see what I can do. Doctor's also signed him off work for four weeks.

  When he came back from Romney Marsh he looked very confused, uncertain...and didn't want to talk about it. I'll draw it out of him: doctor says I should encourage him to talk, but he seems to have lost his sense of humour. He's even off his wordplay:

  I love wordplay, foreplay, afterplay. I adore the Christmas play.

  Don't you love him...?

  He, and Martin, always participate in the Christmas play at the Mad Hatter's Theatre Group. I must persuade Charlie to sever ties with Martin. He's become so vulgar.

  Anyway, I just wanted to bring you up to date on what's been happening. 'Bye for now.

  *

  Charlie's still rather withdrawn but he's now handed in his notice; I had the delight of typing that up. So, he's officially retired and I'm trying to arrange to have his pensions paid. Paperwork...!

  A strange thing happened, though: he used to be so eager to get to the mail first thing in the morning but now he isn't bothered:

  'Oh, you open it.'

  There's been nothing special.

  Doctor says the withdrawal is all part of it and I should encourage him to talk.

  * * *

  Charlie's feeling a lot better, now off the medication. We've been for a Mediterranean cruise, visited the Grand Canyon and holidayed in Portugal: all in six months!!!

  He's his old self again, says he should have given up work ages ago, didn't realise what a diminishing effect it was having on him. He's also dumped Martin and says he'll never write software again.

  He's now painting—oils and watercolours—and is totally absorbed. Loves doing autumnal scenes and finding all the shades of yellow, brown, red...

  *

  He's still not bothered about the post. The urgency has gone. I don't mind dealing with it.

  *

  Now it all makes sense. Now I'm beginning to understand. He's in the shower at the moment and I've just opened a letter addressed to him. Looks like handmade paper and written in what Daddy would call a cultured hand.

  From some witch—I mean bitch—called Ffion. Absurd bloody name!!!

  Probably some bony little tart with big tits and flexible legs!!!

  Charlie—! Charlie—!! CHARLIE—!!!

  14B

  So, the first thing he says is—

  'Can we sort out your name?'

  —because he's looking down at the lead page inside a manila folder.

  'My name?'

  'Yes...your surname.'

  'That's easy: my father's family name was Smith, my mother's maiden name was Jones and when they married they hyphenated their names. My wife's single name was Brown so when we got married we hyphenated our names as well. So, I'm Charlie Smith-Jones-Brown.'

  He gave me such a dour look and then flicked through the pages of the file in a perfunctory manner, did one of those professional stops about page seven: looked up at me then looked down again —you know the type—let the pages fall back, sat back in his chair, gave me the full open-body posture and said:

  'So, Mr Smith-Jones-Brown, what do you make of all this?'

  (Bastard!)

  'My wife thinks I've been overdoing things a bit so my doctor suggested I come to see you to try to sort things out.'

  He didn't respond, just carried on listening, you know. Eventually he had to say:

  'Do you think you've been overdoing it?'

  'Yes: I'm sure I've been thinking too much.'

  'And what have you been thinking about?'

  I said: 'I got a bit confused. I wrote an outline for a video game in which the main character is also called Charlie but it's quite clear to me that that was a fantasy. However, when I created the second character—a redhead—she became real. And one of my friends—ex-friend, actually—suggested that this is typical mid-life crisis behaviour: you find yourself attracted to a younger girl and can't get her out of your mind.'

  Bastard still said nothing, but eventually:

  'So, how do things stand now?'

  'Well, I'm sitting here in this National Heath Service room on a hard chair speaking with you. I'm Charlie Smith-Jones-Brown, and I'm real; my wife Belinda is real, and I made up some characters for a computer game, just a few ideas I put together—one of them was called Cybernurse, the other Ffion.'

  There followed another of his horrible pauses: I didn't know what else to say. He flicked through the pages again as if trying to find a particular paragraph:

  'Ah, yes,' he said, 'you went to Romney Marsh.'

  'Yeah...'

  'Why?'

  'To find Ffion.'

  'Yet you've told me she was a fantasy.'

  'I was confused, I just had to get away.'

  'So,' he said, 'we've got this one Charlie who doesn't exist, the Cybernurse who doesn't exist, Ffion who doesn't exist...and didn't you also have difficulty in a relationship with somebody called Martin...?'

  'Is that in there too?'

  'Oh, yes,' he said triumphantly. 'It's all in here.'

  He was the guardian of information; it made him powerful: he rippled through the pages—Oh, yes: it's all in here—as if ten sheets of A4 held a clue to, or the secret of, my personality. Perhaps it did...

  'If I can just tell you, doctor: my own doc once told me: "Charlie, you've got a complex personality."'

  'We'll come to that in a moment,' he said. 'Tell me about Martin.'

  'He was one of my university chums, we used to go for pub-crawls followed
by an Indian meal. It was part of the deal to throw it all up and feel bad the next day. I just got to thinking after a while, surely there's a better way of life than this, and couldn't you get somebody else to do it for you? And it wasn't until computers became so commonplace that I was able to suggest, only as a half-joke, that somebody could go out for you, eat the curry, throw it up and report back to you. All you'd have to do is lie in bed all day tickling the ivories—or playing the plastics—and Robert's avuncular.'

  He gave me another of his dour looks before flicking through the file:

  'I don't recall any Robert...'

  I laughed; he didn't.

  'No, doc...' and I explained.

  He gave me a look of incomprehension, which surprised me, given his line of work.

  There was a hint of embarrassment before he said: 'Go on,' without the trace of a sense of humour.

  'I'm summarising the comic proposition of the video game.'

  Still no flicker, then:

  'Tell me more about Martin.'

  'Martin and I stayed in touch but I found over the years he didn't want to grow up, that he wanted to play the perpetual adolescent whereas I wanted to get on with my life. But we did set up in business together.'

  He fiddled through the pages, found the piece he was looking for and said:

  'What's this about you pushing him out of a car...?'

  'No, no, no—' I said. 'That's a misunderstanding. I'll explain: the last time I felt unwell I told the doctor I had an imaginary drive with someone who wasn't Martin, my friend, but a different Martin —an actor. But, in the end, he jumped out of the car himself.'

  'Was he hurt?'

  'No, only grazed. Thanks for asking. I appreciate, now, that it was only a fantasy, just an idea—but at the time it appeared real.'

  Then the specialist did something: he closed the manila folder. He looked at me and said:

  'Are you having difficulty separating fact from fantasy?'

  'No, I feel fine, doc. I feel first-class, first-rate. At one time it just got too much for me: when I got back from Romney Marsh Belinda persuaded me to see the doc who persuaded me to see you. My wife also suggested I give up work which I have done. And I'm feeling better for it.'

  'So, are you still writing software for games?'

  'No. Martin—that is, the real Martin, not the fictitious one—held a fifty-one per cent stake in the software companies so when I felt a bit flaky he bought me out. I used to write software for a living but not now. I don't even LIKE this modern technology, I just was compelled to use PCs.'

  'They're here to stay, Mr Smith-Jones-Brown,' he sighed.

  'I know.'

  'How are things now between you and Martin?'

  'I've got rid of him. He was being vulgar, and rude to Belinda, it was time to make a break so I made it. He threw a tantrum but that's his problem.'

  'And how are things between you and Belinda?'

  'Fine but when I returned from Romney Marsh I was concerned that she'd find out I'd been seeing Ffion. Okay, I know she's not real but that's the way my mind was working. I was also worried that if Ffion wrote, Belinda would see the letter.'

  'So,' he said, 'how do you see the way forward?'

  'Belinda wants us to do some travelling, and I want to get off these tablets. And I'm not touching software ever again. I think I might get into painting, or something like that.'

  'And you've given up work?'

  'Yes, I've taken early retirement.'

  'How do you find the tablets?'

  'I'd like to get off them.'

  'Okay, I'll be writing to your doctor to suggest we cut the dose and taper you off these. Make an appointment to see him in about a week's time—and let's leave it at that for the time being.'

  'Is that it, doc?'

  'Yes,' and he tossed my file into his out tray.

  I said, 'I'm feeling better already. Things are clearer in my mind.'

  And then he smiled and, for the first time since I'd been in there, that green National Health Service cubicle shone. I offered him my hand which he firmly shook; I noticed he had hairy fingers, and I walked out eager for a fresh adventure.

  15

  Alan's up first and it's fresh turkey stuffed with his own mushroom, herb and breadcrumb mixture. Half-past four he's out of the cot! Cooks only once or twice a year but Christmas Day is his baby. So, when the rest of us rise the bird's already in the oven, and he's high, just a bit too high: you can see it in his eyes, and there's a flush on his cheeks.

  'I'm all right this year,' he says. 'Everything's going to be first-class.'

  We all laugh.

  'No...really,' he says, and he's already produced a thin film of sweat.

  We can tell things are spiky when his wife, Yeliena—Belinda's mum—goes to kiss him and you see him flinch. Yeliena plans, and Belinda types, his timetable—prints it out beautifully, even builds in thinking and resting times so he shouldn't have to escape to the loo.

  When we come down the breakfast is already set, the coffee's percolating. How did a guy like that ever control aeroplanes, military ones at that? Yeliena adores him. Once Alan has sat us all down to breakfast he disappears into the garden for a smoke. That, too, is in the schedule. If only he'd trust it all to happen, if only he'd just let it occur.

  Yeliena is Russian, by the way. No, don't ask... The mind struggles: he was in charge of military aircraft and she's Russian. How can this be? Is he a spy? Is she a spy? Are they old spies or contemporary spies? Do they belong to this new breed—rather, are they this new brand of spy—which is not prosecuted? Will they be whisked off to TV-Land? I WAS A TEENAGE SPY BUT I'M FAR RIGHT NOW.

  Anyway, so: Alan's on the lawn, with a cigarette, smoking and talking to himself. He's pacing the garden. There's something deeply displaced in the core of that man. And, as I'm thinking, up he looks and catches my eye. We stare for a moment, dance for a while—takes one to know one...?—before Yeliena goes:

  'Vill you adore that man?' And Belinda goes:

  'Isn't he delicious? Couldn't you wrap him in filo pastry, smother him with custard and eat him?'

  Then Alan becomes self-conscious, plunges his cigarette into a flower border, comes back in and double-checks his timetable. I mean, deep in the core of that man is INFORMATION. But interpretation would require a specialist.

  Okay, friends, all he's got to do from now on is delegate: we can all muck in with the preparation of vegetables; but he's driven to do it all himself. That's his problem: do you think he misses his job? He can't always have been so flaky, can he? And, because he doesn't share out the work, he escapes as usual to the outside loo; disappears with a strained smile and sits out there for half an hour; you can see cigarette smoke escaping from the door. Why does he do it? I suppose it's the only sure way he can be alone.

  Okay, so he puts himself on the back burner for thirty minutes. Yeliena doesn't get ruffled, just lets him get on with it. Anyway, once he's back inside, Belinda turns to me, smiles and mouths, I Love You, before motioning upstairs with her eyes. I, also smiling, shake my head indicating her mother who is pottering and her father who is hovering; her next expression says, So what...?

  Then Alan turns to me:

  'Charlie, fancy a walk round the garden?'

  So out we go. Belinda leaves me with a look which says, I'll get you later. So, Alan and I are walking round the garden which is covered with snow—a rare white Christmas—and he says:

  'Charlie, I just can't get it together.'

  I ask him how he coped as an air traffic controller.

  He never had any problem. It wasn't till he gave up work that he developed this condition. Still, he asks, how am talking, talking in my ear. And I feel my whole personality being suppressed and oppressed, as if I've been controlled by someone else all along... All the colour's draining from me and everything about I coping without work? I've never felt better. And so we walk, walk round the garden; when we lift our feet traces of green show through t
he snow. It's not too cold. And the conversation turns into a monologue. And all Alan is doing is talking, me is becoming as white as the snow, or as Romney Marsh sheep which, as Cobbett said, were "as white as a piece of writing-paper". Gradually I'm being sucked down: sucked, sucked, sucked. I begin to feel I'm not there at all and I'm fading, fading into the white...

  The next thing I knew, buddies, on that particular Christmas Day was lying on the couch in the front room, hearing voices:

  'I think he's coming round now.'

  And...it appeared I'd fainted outside in the snow. I'd love to tell you that Alan bored me into unconsciousness. But he didn't; he's such a love. Belinda's eye makeup was smudged: she thought I was seriously unwell. I don't know...perhaps it was the cold.

  A funny thing happened: the whole episode had calmed Alan down. He didn't need to go back outside for a cigarette or escape to my loo to calm himself down.

  We had a FABULOUS meal that Christmas. (No, it wasn't out of a fable: it was spectacular.) And after Christmas Day lunch when we'd washed up and tidied, stretched our legs and watched a bit of TV and snoozed, and while Yeliena and Alan were asleep Belinda again motioned upstairs with her eyes. I feigned puzzlement. She mouthed, Unfinished business. So, up we went. I'm so glad I met Belinda. And yet if I hadn't gone to the doctor on that particular day and if I hadn't chosen that specific chemist to dispense my prescription I'd never have met her; and she's infinitely more desirable than Cybernurse or Ffion.

  So, I just lie here full of tubes, in this place which some of us call home, and tinkle the ivories—or clatter the plastics.

  They keep encouraging me to write things down, so that's what I'm doing. Most concerned for my well-being. They ask me questions: how do I feel? Do I feel any better since I came here? Do I like the food...? What do I think of...?

  But we're not going to let the facts get in the way of reality. Are we? Not let the truth obscure the story. Right: so, listen: