The Information Junkie (18 page)

—Go on...

'The bum's rush is not diarrhoea, nor is it the sudden and abrupt discharge of solid faeces following a violent call to void the bowels.'

—Oh...?

'It's North American slang: to eject a person by force or to dismiss summarily from employment.'

—So, if you were mistakenly ejected you'd be on a bum rap especially if your employer had been fed a bum steer...?

'Yes, but you'd have to take the rap unless the truth were established. Then you'd beat the rap.'

—I don't want to get back into wordplay. Sarah told me:
Wordplay alone doth not a novel make
.

'Just the sort of thing an agent would say. What would have happened if someone had said that to Jimmy Joyce...or Billy the Shake?'

—Then literature would have been the poorer. I doubt, however, that either would have listened.

'My point entirely.'

(I wanted, the reality behind mere words, to reveal. But wasn't sure about my next question.) Almost before I could take breath, though, I found myself saying:

—I may be pushing my luck here, but have you—you know—met up with MM, JFK, Elvis...?

'You
are
pushing your luck.'

—...Princess Di, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, Jimmy Dean, Judy Garland, John Kennedy Toole, T. E. Lawrence...?

'Rod, pull yourself together! People have
paid
to read this and you have a duty to provide value for money. Time to get back to Belinda and Charlie on the carpet.'

—But I don't know what happens next.

'A bit like life, then.'

—Mm... Just before I get back to B and C I've one more question.

'Shoot!'

—In this, your second eternity of idleness, how do you occupy your time?

'Cheeky little whippersnapper! You wouldn't know what to do with a primate's arsehole. NOW GET BACK TO BLOODY WORK!'

Seeing the hurt on my face, he became more conciliatory: 'Come on, now, Sir Roderick—push that load up the slope. Oh,
Roderick
, by the by, is from the German
Rhoderick
—great ruler.' He paused like a Victorian actor. 'Time, then,' he continued, 'to live up to your name.'

I decided to play for time:

—How about my surname?

'
Leyland
...? We might be tempted to say
ley
is a variant of
lay
but, in this particular case, of course, we'd be wrong.
Ley
is a variant of
lea
—open country, meadow, pasture or arable, and certainly nothing to do with the verbs to lie or to lay. So, ley lines connect significant features on prehistoric landscapes. Ultimately from the German.
Land
speaks for itself, also from Old English via Germanic. So, you're potentially a great ruler of the lines which connect points of importance on ancient sites—or a wizard.'

(Further procrastination was possible by my now appearing to chew over Anthony's remarks but I knew I couldn't delay much more my return to the salt mines. No: that's mixing metaphors. [
What is a meta for? Do you know? If so, please advise
.]) I had to get back to Mount Peculiar to confront that load...

'So, Sir Roderick, it's time to return to your own lines, engage your burden and manhandle it from the plateau to the mountain top.' He gave an Olivier pause, winked and said: 'I'll see you there. But since my pins are older than yours I'm taking the funicular railway.' He left a silence which I nearly broke by asking for the etymology of
funicular
but before I had the chance he went on: 'Sir Roderick—sounds like one of the characters in a play by Will the Shaved Spear. Hie thee hence, Sir Roderick, to yonder castle gates, and once inside (set/let down) take up thy burden sore, so that de dum de dum de dum de dum the storm abates and thy fair head should dum and fret no more.'

—Back to the Olivetti, my Lord Anthony.

But he'd already gone. I could delay no further. Anyway, so there they still were—B & R (oops! I mean B & C) sitting on the carpet.

—You both look tired and hungry. Haven't you eaten yet?

'We've been waiting for you,' said Belinda.

—But it's been
days
...this is beginning to take on an ugly tone.

They smiled.

—This is emotional blackmail.

They nodded.

—More life, then, eh?'

They nodded.

[
This is beginning to look Pinteresque
.]

—Okay, you're both in costume and still on set so—

Charlie said to Belinda, 'But I feel an answer lies on Romney Marsh.'

Belinda took his—
OH, THE HELL WITH IT
—she took
my
face in her hands:

'Darling, there is no answer because there is no Ffion. You made her up. The answer is as illusory as her.'

My heart sank. I was expecting this. She went on:

'And there is not one, overall, single answer. Life's more complicated. Some questions may yield a partial answer but that's all.'

I pulled a big sigh. She continued:

'So, come on. Let's get the washing-up done then we can—'

There was a knock at the door, which was odd because I knew the bell was in working order. When I undid the latch, there he stood, his whole impossible self, hair awry, wearing a crumpled coat.

'Anthony Burgess!' I stumbled. 'How can I help you?'

'I was motoring this way and came over faint. I wonder, could you oblige an old man with a cup of water?'

I invited him in and sat him down. While Belinda fetched the drink I asked,

'What are you doing in Wimbledon? Don't you live in Monaco?'

When Bee reappeared he half-stood in gentlemanly deference; she smiled and waved him back down.

'Bless you, my dear,' he said, taking his first sip.

I noticed she liked the compliment. The water helped the great man to compose himself. 'I'm on an urgent mission,' he announced. 'I'm here to save you both.'

B and I exchanged glances. 'Save?

Save!' we said simultaneously.

'I don't wish to sound melodramatic,' he went on, 'but I believe—nay, know—that you two are in the gravest of danger.'

'Danger?' I asked. 'From what?'

'Inexperience.' He left a silence. 'You could be harmed by a novice and end up in Limbo. I've learnt a lot since I laid down my sword-pen and want to give you the benefit.' Seeing that he had our attention, he continued: 'Young Roderick doesn't know what to do with you; in his present mental state he couldn't distinguish between a
Homo
's aris and a primate's arsehole. And if you spend any more time on this lounge carpet—by the by, what colour is it? I'm daltonian —'

'Red,' I said.

'— yes, if you spend much more time on this carpet you'll be locked in an eternity of idleness.'

Belinda said, 'Surely Rod will pull himself together and finally push the burden up Mount Peculiar...?'

'Don't bank on it. I think you need me.'

'So,' I said, 'you propose taking over our lives?'

'Yes, but not in the way you think.'

'But you can't know what Rod wants, and wouldn't there be a break in continuity, a difference in style?'

'Taking the last part first: no. Taking the first part last: I do

know. I've sussed him. We've spoken on several occasions and he's asked my advice.'

Belinda said, 'But the novel's a mess. No one's going to publish this self-indulgent drivel. Even if you did bring it to a professional conclusion, we still wouldn't be read—and thus brought to life—by anyone.'

'Belinda, my dear character, fictive life is continuous. It doesn't end when someone closes the book. Your life persists even if Sir Roderick dries up. Trust me, you are very much alive.'

B and I looked at each other, touched each other before gingerly feeling Anthony, in the same way that the apes cautiously explore the monolith in
2001: A Space Odyssey
. We certainly felt alive; so did Burgess. He said:

'
Sentio, ergo sum
. I feel, therefore I am.'

'But,' said B, 'suppose Rod is listening to this?'

'Trust me,' said Burgess. 'He slumps in front of the IBM every afternoon. Pretends to be working. When he wakes up he'll find he's written more than he thought.'

'But,' I protested, 'logic demands that he'll see through our scheme.'

'Take the word of an old man. Rod's stuck, blocked at the moment, and would resort to anything to stimulate the wordflow. I think I can truthfully say that I know him as least as well as I know myself. He'll hit the word-count button, see his total's crept up and allow the three of us autonomy. No questions asked.' Burgess paused, unsure whether to commit his next thought to words. He did: 'You know, he's a bit of a whore.'

I didn't understand his last assertion but, noting our looks of concern, he continued:

'I'm sorry to be the one to disabuse you, but writers don't write, authors don't authorise.' He stood for emphasis. 'Perhaps the most we can say is that scribblers (do) scribble.' His faintness had disappeared; he was now animated. 'Books may be written, but novels,' he aphorised—repeating the word in affirmation—'
novels
write themselves.'

He spotted a scrap of paper on the table. 'Who wrote this—
The biro is mightier than the gun
—?'

'That was Martin.'

'Amis...?' said Burgess.

'Yes. He tried to kill me with a gun-pen.'

B turned on me. 'You lied!' I didn't like her new expression. 'Martin here?
When
?'

(Why so emphatic?) 'Honestly, B, he was here—on Boxing Day—dressed in a French Resistance style coat, not unlike Anthony's.'

'A brilliant boy,' said Burgess.

'No longer a boy,' I said. 'Now very much the man. Amis the Younger has transformed into Amis the Elder.'

B said, 'That's as may be.'

I said: 'That's as is.'

23

Barked your shin, my liege...? Carouse with a Monkey's Bum.

'Sir Roderick!'

'Ah, my Lord Burgess of Moss Side. How goes the world, sir, now?'

'Why, see you not?'

Burgess swings his arm around indicating characters on the battlefield, some dead, others with varying degrees of injury.

'What news, pray?'

Lord Burgess jumps down from his horse pulling, from beneath his breastplate, a typescript. He holds it high. 'Know you this?'

I blush. You always recognise your own work.

'The King bade me hither this sorry sight to see.'

'A foolish thought to say a sorry sight.'

Burgess again swings his arm around surveying the mess on the battlefield.

'And what is the King's command?'

'His Majesty finds your script wanting. He commands me ask why Sir Roderick dispenses with the reader.'

'How means His Majesty?'

'His Highness concludes that this work neither for man nor beast is writ.'

'Nay, not so swift, my Lord. Thy word order approaches that of the barbarous Hun. Pray, tell me plain, what doth the King say?'

'Oh I have passed a miserable night, so full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, that, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night though 'twere to buy a world of happy days—!'

'What means my lord?'

'I began to read when candles were lit and could not leave off till dawn's first chink across the battlements came.'

'And your conclusions?'

'This script is at once its own sequel and prequel.'

'How prequel, my lord?'

'Nay, first think upon this. Not only its own sequel and prequel but its own critical response too. The King begs me discover, does Sir Roderick thus make a case for his independence?'

'I do not understand this word
prequel
. It sounds like a French ladies' word of jest—mere mouth odour, or, worse, the nether breath of drunken fools who fain have filled their bellies with rhubarb, senna or purgative drug. Prequel...? A fie upon this word! I spit upon your prequel!'

'Sir Roderick, it is not well that you and I should meet upon such terms as now we meet.'

'Not well? Not good? I have no argument with the King but serve him sure and true. It is Lord Anthony that false report doth bring. Hie thee hence, thou lily-livered fool; hie thee hence, false thane. Hie thee thither, cream-faced loon—darken not my door again!'

'But what of the reader? Consider the gentles. Words alone do not a novel make.'

'Aphorisms, brave Burgess? Thou wouldst with words dally and dabble? I must check thy entry with Margaret Drabble.'

'Dabble with Drabble, fair knight...? Speak plain.'

'I will pay a cleric to check thine entry in the Collected Folios.'

'Folios?'

'Aye.
The Oxonia Companion to Albion's Literature.'

'Oxenford?
Surely the fine lady from Cantabrigiensis came?'

'Indeed the good Lady Margaret at Cantab hath studied but moved her allegiance this great work to produce.'

'I know the work: 'tis fine, and a mighty.' Burgess paused; was he playing for time? 'Know you,' he went on, stepping closer, 'whether she had benefit of the Infernal Machine?'

'Infernal...?'

'Aye: Caxton's contraption.'

'Indeed, but it could not cope withal. Therefore she had to press teams of clerics and scribes.'

'A brave lady and a great.' There was another question on his lips but he'd procrastinated enough. I said:

'To the matter:
my
clerics will check
your
entry in Lady Drabble's work and thus the truth discover. I sense thou trickest me. Sir Roderick is your plaything.'

Burgess laughs—almost as massively as Sir John Falstaff: 'Oh, come, come, old man.'

'Where's your Elizabethan language now?'

'Only trying to make a point, Roddy. Shall we continue in Anglo-Saxon?' I nodded; he started: '
When that Aprill with his shoures soote...
'

'...was made glorious summer by this sun of Yorke.'