The Information Junkie (26 page)

So, was
I
looking for someone, or something? Was it E? Were we still married or had we divorced? Was that why I was near Reno? My rational mind, even in my wildest times—and I could catalogue a career of those—and my most melancholic moments, had never failed to ground me. Now I was truly lost and the heat was a bitch. 'Elizabeth!' I cried. 'Elizabeth!'

My voice was swallowed by the sandy scrub. There had been a whole film crew here not one half-hour ago. A director, continuity girl, sound men, make up, so on, so forth. Had I fallen asleep and...no, that didn't make sense. Was I now asleep or in some borderland betwixt sleeping and waking from which no traveller returns? Was I being drawn inexorably into a black hole? Was this Hell...or Limbo?
I have come to the borders of sleep...Here love ends, Despair, ambition ends...There is not any book...I may lose my way And myself.

*

'I did as you advised,' said Rich to me. 'I wrote the first thing that came to mind, allowed the thing to write itself.' He waited, smiled a thin smile. I noticed he had aged since we last spoke. He had less hair and what was left, was white. And I could sense, beneath his skin, the skull. I suspected he could too. He betrayed a vulnerability when, handing me a sheaf of papers, he said, 'Will this do?'

I skimmed through it. 'No, Rich.' My directness surprised me—and him. 'I need something more. Your desert scene is derivative—of mine.'

'Well,' he smiled. 'It has the virtue of consistency.'

'It's copying another's idea. I'd rather see the unpalatable truth. And I also know you're holding something from me: a unique experience which you want to communicate but are afraid to.'

'So,' he smiled, 'back to the—not drawing board but typewriter.'

I left him.

*

It happened one day when E wasn't there. She was either out shopping, in hospital or filming. I had managed to live drink-free for
three months
. (Yes: that deserves italics.) My melancholy had descended and I couldn't shift it. Fighting, I knew, was pointless. And I started to be tempted to give in—not to give up, but to surrender myself to it and so never let my fear of it frighten me again.

Alcohol had in the past been a way of dealing with death. As a youngster, death had been a classical or Shakespearean concept and I adored performing anything exploring the theme of death. This seemed at cross-purposes with another feeling, that of the world being such a beautiful place—it was almost too much to bear. The beauty was exquisite torture and so great it was overwhelming.

After such an experience only one can match it: death. Now, I knew I had no control over it, although in my quieter moments I suspected I was, as a result of my wicked ways, bringing it ever closer. Possibly courting, challenging it.

But to the other experience. As I say, I was alone in the house, E was away and I had what I suppose you'd call an out-of-body experience. I was standing in the centre, the dead middle of a whirlwind and for the first (perhaps second) time in my life I felt perfect peace. Then I stepped outside and was looking down on myself inside the whirlwind. The circle of wind had now changed into a black iron cage and when I looked inside I saw a young Richard Jenkins, asleep in the foetal crouch. On the outside I was now Richard Burton but totally without a body or any earthly sensations. I felt that I was cradling Jenkins—I had the mental image of cupped hands—but when I wondered who I was, I realised that I was a channel or conduit through which the power—an eternal cradling power—was flowing. Almost as if a voice were saying, 'Don't worry, I will save you.'

Now, I'm a rational man with a superior brain and education and a cynical turn of mind, and am sceptical of religious, even secular, conversions, but as I had not been drinking or taking any chemicals I knew that what I had witnessed, or been through, was profound. I had connected for a short while with an exhilarating cosmic power.

I've never told anyone this but often in my darker moments think of it. That's not the end: perhaps death, rather than the object of fear, could be an experience: one could almost swoon into it—an exquisite pleasure. But—and here's the rub—the timing and nature were not of my choosing. I had to continue to face the risks of life until—well, until God, or the Devil (for he may turn out to be just as palpable as his opposite) called for me.

The power that had rushed—no, not rushed: it flowed—through me was greater than me and all I could do was hope that when the moment came it would be divine and not diabolical.

*

Because Rich had been quiet for some time, I returned. He smiled but it was the smile of a much older man and the face spoke of a trawl through heaven, then hell, and here he was offering me—
me
—his piece of work.

'I don't know what you think of this,' he said. 'But it does have the virtue of originality. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to lie down.' He turned after a few steps: I thought he looked vulnerable, mortal. I could picture his body, arms crossed, at rest in a coffin. 'I expect you'll think it's just the ramblings of a drunken Celt from the valleys, or a chemically-enhanced star. Either way, it's the truth.' He gave me a final gentle smile before walking off.

34

'That makes me so
angry
,' she said. 'I knew Richard shouldn't have gotten involved with this project.' She waited, passion rising. 'Well, Roderick—or whatever it is you call yourself—what have you to say?'

'What,' I asked, 'is the problem?'

'Why, can't you see—? It's aged him.'

'Too much booze,' I said. 'Too many cigarettes. He's burned his candle at both ends—with your help and connivance—and is paying the price. All I did was give him a sheet of paper: A4.'

The passion in her eyes—more than mortal love—was thrilling.

She produced tears in both eyes, and they were convincing. Neither anger nor passion had weakened me; she now tried humiliation.

'Roddy, you'll never know what it's like to be a star, what it is to be adored by millions—the world. You're a ten-cent scribbler. You couldn't write a note for the garbage man.'

I couldn't help smiling at that.

She removed a shoe and threw it at me. I ducked. 'I left him with you, a young man. He returns white with age. What
have
you done?'

'I gave him a sheet of paper.'

'Don't take me for a sucker!'

'He asked for one and I gave it to him,' I said, wilfully innocent.

'Why does he keep muttering about the desert?'

'That's what he wrote about.'

She advanced, hand outstretched. 'Let me see!'

Her perfume was strong and her aura had the power of a whirlwind. She read, took in. Gave me a defiant look, ripped the paper into pieces and let them theatrically fall. Then, after replacing her shoe, turned and walked off. Her performance had been thrilling, her eyes her best feature.

I'd already transferred Richard's piece to the IBM so the torn pages didn't matter.

Much later, Richard returned, minus E. He apologised.

'Her bark is as bad as her bite,' he said, showing me the marks.

'How is she now?'

He smiled softly. 'We've made it up.' He paused. 'Shall we continue...?'

I nodded.

'Okay, the plot. As I recall, Rod, we left Charlie worried that Belinda might have had an affair with Martin Amis, Anthony Burgess or both...?'

'That's correct.'

He smiled. 'Would you like me to have a word with Belinda? It might come better from a stranger, as 'twere.'

Richard, love,' I said, draping an arm around his shoulder. 'Can we just stop for a moment and analyse the situation?'

He looked a little hurt. I removed my arm. 'Listen,' I said, 'you're a dead actor and I am imagining you. Just as I am imagining Charlie and Belinda. I am also imagining myself, or am being imagined. This is all being written by whoever it is who's impersonating me. He's imagining all this.'

Rich said, 'I'm not quite sure who
me
is in your penultimate sentence. Unless, of course, you mean
the other
, the unnamed narrator. Also your use of the word
impersonating
in the same sentence seems unnecessarily provocative, even perverse. Apart from that, I'm with you so far.

'You may be, but what about the gentles?'

'
Gentles...?
'

'The customers, the audience, the readers.'

'I'll tell you something,' he said, fixing my eyes with an exhilarating stare: 'I loathed the audience.'

'Loathed...?'

He nodded. 'Whenever I was on stage I sneered, took every opportunity to revile them.'

'Revile...?'

'Yes: but they didn't realise it was in my voice.'

'Derision...?'

'Of course: the audience is so bloody vulgar—out for their thrills. So, what did that make me? A bloody thrill-machine. I detested acting, especially in the theatre. Loathed it. I escaped to film where I was one stage—forgive the pun—removed from them. So your giving me the chance to speak with other characters—dead or alive, real or imaginary—doesn't matter. It's a second chance to engage directly with people rather than thrill them remotely with my voice and conspicuous lifestyle.'

'You've convinced me,' I said.

'Thank you,' he said, 'for the opportunity,' and left.

*

I have a difficulty, buddies. How could I make a scene between Belinda and Richard convincing? Hell, let's jump.

*

'I'm not real,' said Belinda. 'Just a convenient character.'

'I'm not real, either,' said Richard. 'But since we've been thrown together we may as well have a chat.' He waited. 'You, know,' he said, 'you really are extraordinarily beautiful.'

'Your reputation precedes you. What's Rod sent you here for?'

'Not Rod—Charlie. Charlie is concerned about something.'

'Which means that Rod's stuck and we've now got to create plot for him.'

Richard laughed. 'It's all rather existential. Here we are, two adults alone in the universe, independent of God or any belief system. Free to behave as we will. Don't you find that delicious?'

'No,' said Belinda. 'Dreadful. Terrifying.'

'Necessary fear,' he said.

'This is introducing a totally new theme. Isn't it a bit late for that—some twenty-five thousand words from the end?'

'No,' said Richard. 'The whole piece has been working up to it.'

'But I feel just like Rod's mouthpiece.'

Richard chuckled. 'But of course you are.'

'Then surely that negates the concept of me as a free agent in a godless universe?'

'Ah, I was just trying to seduce you with words. Don't blush: you're beautiful. But, to take up your point, perhaps Rod's playing at being God.'

'Or the devil,' said Belinda.

'Oh, bugger all this,' he cried. 'Let's forget philosophies, metaphysics and semantics. I must get to the point: Charlie needs, possibly wants, to know whether you had a liaison with Martin or Anthony.'

She smiled. 'Charlie
or
Rod: which?'

'I think they're closely related. Sometimes one and the same.'

'But Rod's the author; Charlie is my darling.'

'Bloody hell!' he cried. 'It's a house of cards. Could tumble at any moment.' He waited. 'I must go back to Rod with an answer. Just for the purposes of this novel could you tell me—or make something up?'

'I'll give you a reply,' she said. 'Afterwards.'

'Afterwards...?' Richard smiled, anticipative.

Belinda's eyes shot upwards. 'I've always fancied you rotten,' she said. 'Most people thrilled to your voice but I get a charge from your craggy looks.' She edged nearer. 'Oh, make love to me, Richard. And to hell with the plot.'

When Richard kissed her tenderly she responded, before both surrendered to the sweet passion of fulfilment.

*

Author's Apology

Hi, folks. Little old me. Time for the big rationalisation. This is the unadorned Rod speaking. No, I'm not pretending to be Charlie or anyone else. Just me.

My aim was to produce a story within a story. I wanted one to bleed into the other and vice versa. And I wanted real people to bleed into both stories and I suppose the characters bled into my reality: I kept them with me all the time. But now I've come down to earth and can't anymore play that rather dangerous game: it's no wonder Christopher Priest couldn't write for some time after
The Affirmation
. Perhaps he drove himself bonkers. Well, buddies, this is as far as I can take the fiction outside the paper fiction. But you deserve a resolution of all the themes within the fiction.

Ultimately my subjects were mid-life upheaval and death. One subject, if I'm honest. But death's been done to death, hasn't it? Oh—my other subject was, I suppose, risk and the relationship of the writer with his work. But you'd already worked that out, hadn't you?

So, why are you still reading? Mm? Do you think I have a unique insight into the ultimate concern? No, of course I don't. I was just entertaining you—and myself. Fiddling while Rome burned. Well, as long as it's fine music, why worry? It's not that we want truth; we want certainty. And our search for that is the impulse for our flight from reality. But we always come back down to earth. With disappointment.

Now, to be consistent, I should really end here: death is final
.

I've loved communicating with you, loved our conversations although some were a bit one-sided. And I've done my best to love you. Yes,
you.
I open my heart and surrender to you.

35

'I have something to say,' he said.

'So do I.' She waited. 'You first.'

'No—you.'

'I've been unfaithful to you,' Belinda cried. Charlie held her.

'Who with?'

'Richard Burton.'

'But he's dead. You must have been dreaming.'

Belinda stopped crying. 'That brought me down to earth with a bump.'