The Information Junkie (11 page)

'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 the 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:

You asked me for a story; I've given it to you. Now, you're going to want the whole thing wrapped up. So, you're going to want a rapid wrap up. Aren't you? Sudden death... Here goes:

Looking back I can see three personae: the Charlie who wrote software; Charlie the character in
Cybernurse
; then there was another. Who was that other?

Anyway, here I now lie full of tubes; I've got my screen, keyboard and mouse in front of me: all my inputs and outputs taken care of. No, there's no Cybernurse, Cyberdoc or CyberMed; there's no salvation through Cyberdoll, Ffion or Belinda. Guess it's down to me, then. Figure one day I'll find the courage to remove all these tubes, all these inputs and outputs. What'll happen to the screen, then? Will it fill with zigzags or go blank? But I have this idea: that once all the tubes are out, and the PC goes dead, I'll still be alive...or life will begin, or start to begin. Real life.

Wow, buddies!
Real
life... Now, I wonder what
that's
like?

16

He stood at the doorway in his mack, like a short Graham Greene; behind him Ffion, the gangster's moll.

Hi, Charlie.'

It was Boxing Day and everyone had gone for a walk after lunch—roast pork, potatoes, medley of vegetables—and there he was as large as life, and as small as reality, in his waterproof—his dinky little coat.

Ffion remained silent.

I said, 'That's a nasty gash on your face.'

'The M25 is unforgiving,' he said, unmoved.

It was Martin, the chameleon, whom I knew of old: this guy could change his identity—his heft, thrust and twang; and adopt several aliases within the same paragraph. For a moment I recalled a short story (written in the first person and present tense) in which a man is executed by a firing squad.
Present
tense?
First
person? Begs the question, eh? But there stood little Martin—Little Martin—in his mack, like a character from Greeneland. Would he pull a revolver, insert a bullet, spin the chamber and give me first go? No. Instead, he said,

'Time for a chat, Charlie?'

I invited him in, offered them both a seat but they chose to stand. He said:

'Charlie, did you know you carried the look of a loser?'

'So, you're a winner—are you—and the one behind this all along?'

He nodded tiredly. It was beginning to make sense. I said, 'Yeah, I'd often felt the push of an arm on mine...a light touch.'

'Trying to guide you, Charlie.'

'But I crapped it?'

He didn't even bother to nod. Ffion said:

'You've been reading too many books, Charlie.'

From his pocket he produced the gun:

'It's curtains for you, Charlie.'

'Bit of a cliché—?'

'—Crematorium curtains.'

I thought he was joking, that this was part of the scheme. Ffion stood by impassively. Bringing the gun close to my face, so that the barrel was out of focus, he said,

'How's that feel, Charlie?'

'I don't like it.'

'You're not meant to,' he said. 'When I pull this, that's it—drapes for Charlie.'

'But not of the proscenium arch, rather of bodies
flambés
...?'

I heard the bang, closed my eyes. I was still standing, hadn't fallen. My fingertips tingled but I was sure I hadn't been shot.