The Information Junkie (12 page)

'Open your eyes, Charlie.'

I did. He withdrew the gun and, indicating the end of the barrel, revealed the projecting tip of a biro. Using the gun-pen he wrote on a pad of paper, produced from his other pocket, and held it before me.
The biro is mightier than the gun
.

I laughed: 'Surely
you
can do better than that.' Embarrassed, I discovered that I was wet; both front and back. I said: 'This isn't funny, Martin.'

'It isn't meant to be.' He smiled. 'The purpose is to reveal your deficiencies—you're trite, predictable and weak.' I said:

'Oh, yeah. I know all about you:
Pete Posh, perched over the pouch of the urinal, a Greaseburger in one hand, a Posafone in the other, thought, How can I shake the drops off my prong and spark a lungscorcher—with both hands full—? Then anthrax came to mind: Debbie Anthrax. Pete was excited!
Armpit-burningly electrified!!
'

'Only one of us can do that, mate. 'He left a silence. 'Charlie, the ability to write is a gift; to write well a privilege.'

Suddenly scared, I tried to laugh: 'Ha! No argument.'

'Who do you think you are?' He paused. 'Your talent—for what it's worth—is a small one.'

'Oh, yeah, and you're my nemesis...?'

Ffion continued to observe without passion. My underpants were soaking. I was beginning to get scared. I said,

'You're
the other
, aren't you?' He barely nodded; I took that as a yes. Of course,
of course
. Ffion continued to watch. I said to Martin, 'You're the one who's been influencing me all the time, aren't you? Pointing me here, nudging me there.' I considered for a moment. 'Why did you jump out of the car?'

'Thought it'd help you, Charlie. Cut the ties.'

'So, I wasn't controlling
you
. You were controlling
me
from the start.'

He blinked assent, then sniffed: 'Phew! You're not too delicate with your dooh-doohs, are you?'

Ffion looked at me. 'Filled your pants, Charlie? Wet your knickers?'

I didn't like the way this was turning out. Martin said,

'You've tons of enthusiasm, but you lack the ice.'

'Ice...?'

'Yeah. That splinter in the heart.'

'Splinter...?'

He nodded: 'The killer instinct.'

'But I'm not a boxer.'

Although the toy gun was lying on the table, I felt there was a weapon at my temple. Desperately, I said:

'You're taller than I remember. In fact every time I see you, you're one inch higher.'

'Nonsense.' He said: 'Charlie, you have the pallor of bellybutton fluff. Deeply tragic. No, there's a change in your aspect—you have the complexion of a mortuary technician, the hue of a corpse.'

'Aw, but Martin, think of the way we used to laugh when we went out drinking and chucked up our curries.'

I was hoping that Belinda and her parents would be back soon, to break up this showdown and put Martin where he belonged—in that place which some people call home. I looked at my watch; noticing this, Ffion said,

'No. They won't be back.'

That schemer had
really
poisoned her mind!

'So,' I said, 'here I stand, accused of unoriginality.'

'You've been deluded for too long, Charlie.'

I kept thinking of that story of the man being shot. I'd already humiliated myself by releasing bodily fluids. Did Martin have a real gun? Would it come from an inside pocket? Or would he go back to his car for a heavy tool? Worse: would Ffion inject me? I tried again to make him laugh:

'Hey, Martin, remember when you posed topless for
Good Guy
, bottomless for
Bad Guy
and full-frontal for
Chunk
? When you wrote articles for
Spiv
, drew pictures for
Ersatz
...?'

I felt ashamed as well as frightened. Was this all I was going to leave behind—a dead body and soiled underwear?

When he produced the real gun there was no surprise. I smelt gun oil and felt its slabbiness in his hand. Something almost imperceptible passed across his eyes. The barrel pointed downwards. Was he going to direct it at me, himself or Ffion?

'Charlie, you always knew the ending would be difficult.'

I fought hard to choke a childlike voice but it couldn't be suppressed: 'Please, don't. I'll never do it again—honest,' and for a moment I was a young boy; but I knew there was no way out.

'I told you, Charlie, it would all become clear in the end...
at
the end.'

'I never expected this.'

'You once told me, Charlie, you felt like an actor condemned to play a character from an early Martin Amis novel. Well, this is the final page.'

The gun begins to rise, I close my eyes, expecting the worst. I hear a bang. Ripples, flares of heat; tingling round my mouth. I know this is the big one. Small waves of heat; a fringe of ice at my lips and an odd excitement near my heart. I can't control a twitching in my... As my knees crumple, Martin whispers,

'By the way, Charlie—' a smile twists his mouth—'Ffion's real.'

We're linked: killer and victim, murderer and...

All dark now. But I'm still aware. Finally, the voice:

'You always knew.'

Black.

CROSSWORD SOLUTION

(see chapter 12)

In
and
off? Strange...Welsh girl wasn't vague! (FFION)

Fool with affection around start of game. That's poisonous (FOXGLOVE)

Confuse two singles with unmarried man. Put a lid on it and shake the medicine (DIGITALIS)

Enter temperance group with trembling hand. It's the information (DATA)

Part of cat flat on mat. That's odd but is it fiction? (FACT)

Make unusual coin fit slot machine for novel (FICTION)

Cup of Darjeeling? Not the truth: I felt a right one but am still someone's darling (CHARLIE)

And bile, oddly enough, gives blonde beauty (BELINDA)

Rome, New York has Mr Strange in a spin but he won't get bogged down here! (ROMNEY MARSH)

Odd home, say, for RNR man? Possibly not: this is flat land (ROMNEY MARSH)

Take off a sword, means strange behaviour. Less singular makes this sound charming, but it's lethal! (MEADOW SAFFRON)

Food fear was NM, oddly, not GM: an unmodified pasture plant that delivers poison (MEADOW SAFFRON)

Us, Vita—scorch us! Drop the initial heat then cultivate to give food colour and flavour (CROCUS SATIVUS)

Yellow alkaloid, red dye or red herring? Remove initial atropine from red colorant, add a toxic twist to give meadow killer's essence (COLCHICINE)

PART FOUR

Collusions of a Crimson Fish

We are all in flight from the real reality.

—John Fowles
,

'The French Lieutenant's Woman'

*

He who laughs last didn't get the joke.

—Popular saying

17

Hi, buddies—I'm back! You didn't really think that MA (and 'Black') could stop me, did you? Metaphors, chummies, metaphors. (And, after all, what's a meta for? To put you off the scent, of course. Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a metafiction? No—Browning didn't say that, did he? Okay, try this: Ah, but a novel's reach should exceed its grasp, or what's a metaphor?) Hang on, me hearties (oh, yes—it's an ocean we're riding...), loosen your clothing, sit well back in your seat, for safety and comfort, 'cos we're going for a RIDE.

We (that is, you—the gently amused—and me or I [take your pick—I always get confused between me, myself and I, and any other selves which happen to be hanging about at the time. Don't you? Let me know. So, we:]) left each other at my gaff with Little Martin pulling a gun on me. Good job it wasn't a car tool otherwise I'd be badly discomposed.
De
composed...? Yeah, decomposed probably is the nearer because that last scene with quick-on-the-draw Martin Six-Pack was a gift. (All I had to do was hold an HB above a pad of A4 and it wrote itself—is that a definition of
talent
...?) It came to me in
Squire's
award-winning fish & chop (oops! I mean
chip
) restaurant in Churston Ferrers, near Paignton in Devon. Yes, that was late March 2000, and the sun had already set. It's now May (just) 2001 and Charlie says he wants another ride. You too? Fabuloso!

Now, I thought it pretty mean of Ffion to side with Martin to try to kill me. Still, begs a few questions, doesn't it? Videlicet, since I invented them surely I have control? Scrub it, forget what you thought, banish all your preconceived notions, gentles: anything could happen. They're autonomous. And what a pair they make. (No, no. They don't
make
pairs; they
are
a pair. [They
is
a pair...? A pair is they...? A pair they are...? Yes: a pair they are—a right pair.])

Yeah, I've been speaking quite a lot with Charlie lately. He's got a stack of adventures to impart, a pile of life to lay on you, a heap of stuff to tell.
Dead
...who, Charlie? No, mates,
dead
doesn't come into it;
dead
comes nowhere near. The clue was in the text. I kept mentioning that short story written in the first person, and the present tense, about a man shot to death by a firing squad. Told you it begged a few questions. Right, so can you accept that the story (i.e.
my
story,
this
story,
our
story—for you
are
implicated) is continuous, without offending any susceptibilities or scruples you may have about traditional storytelling? You can? You're smarter than you look. Walk this way:

So, when I pick myself up off the floor, I am confused. I must have blacked out. Thus: I had a white-out on Christmas Day and a blackout on Boxing Day. (Must pop along to the doc, again. Hope it's not diabetes. Can't be having that can we?) I stand up and look around. There's no sign of Martin or Ffion. I examine my body: no holes, no wounds, no blood, but...oh, buddies, it shames me to tell you: I'd disgraced myself. Yep, front and rear: soaked and filled my pants. (Lot of good that tub of anti-skid coating did,
nicht wahr?
) What illness can it be that makes you foul yourself then pass out? Not winning the lottery? Coming home to find yourself burgled? Ad hoc panic? Tsetse fever? Existential dread...?
What
causes it? Drop me a line if you know. Do
you
know? Do you
know
?
Do
you know?

I remind myself that Belinda, Alan and Yeliena are out for their walk. So I strip off, drop my undies into a John Lewis plastic carrier bag and pop them into the trash can. (
Trash
can
says so much more than
dustbin
, don't you think? [But there's dust to come. Trust me, I know these things. There's an ending, too. But you'd guessed that—it's part of the deal]). Then I shower. I've got quite a lot to tell the doc, haven't I? What—you thought the doc had written himself out? Don't believe it: the NHS rewards poorly—he needs the extra cash for appearing in this. Don't be so literalistic, or so credulous. (What's that—? Mm? How credulous do I
want
you to be? At least fifty per cent less, chummies—and don't be too smart.) I can almost see (the) doc groaning when I enter his consulting room. (Oh,
you
again.) I wonder if my computer file is annotated: HUMOUR THIS ONE, PAIN IN THE ARSE or THIS ONE'S INCURABLY BONKERS...? (Why not '
un
curably' because we do have 'uncured'?) [I've just checked it, buddies.
COD
gives INCURABLE, INCURABLY and UNCURED;
Chambers
gives those three
plus
UNCURABLE (Shakesp). So, partners, what's good enough for Willy (the Bard), is good enough for me. (A random thought: Is good enough
really
good enough?)]

However, back to Boxing Day. When everyone returns from the walk they look around. As Alan and Yeliena busy themselves with the television set, Belinda says:

'What's that smell, Charlie?'

I give an exaggerated sniff. 'I can't smell a thing.'

She gives me a look which says,
Dropped your guts
?

Smiling, I adore her.

'You are,' she says, 'like a character in a Graham Greene

novel.'

'Me...? Who?'

'Monsieur Fowlair.'

'Eh?'

'Monsieur F-O-U-L-A-I-R.'

I shoot her a quizzical one.

'
The Quiet American
—remember?'

(Ah, so Belinda's into wordplay, too. Brill! 'Cos it's only one stage from wordplay to foreplay. Wow, buddies! Knew I was in for a treat—where my main Christmas present was coming from.)            Anyway, once coats are off and the two oldsters have settled down to snooze in front of the box, Belinda holds a piece of paper in front of me.

'What's this...?'

The biro is mightier than the gun.

I shrug.

'Looks like something written with your left hand.'

'Drunken thought?' I say dismissively.

'And no X or O?' Her eyes flick upwards then back down to me. She mouths,
I'll deal with you upstairs
. So, since her parents are snoozing, up the stairs we pop...Christmas to celebrate; but, as we climb the stairs, but...but...but...but...

                                                           ...but, buddies, I've been away a long time. Well over a year. (Can't stand the phrase
in excess of
, can you?) Thought I'd never get back to you, but here I am as large as life and as small as reality: my full five foot [should it be
feet...?
I was at school with a lad whose surname was Foots. His nickname...? Yeah:
Feet!
] five—and a half.