The Fandom of the Operator by Robert Rankin
Two men followed after Sandra and Dave. Big men, both, and carrying guns.
‘Surprise,’ said Mr Boothy.
27
‘Well, well, well,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘If it isn’t the woman who ran me over last week.’
‘Gary shoot Mr Boothy,’ said Sandra.
‘Been there, done that,’ said I. ‘The gun’s empty.’
‘And who’s this bruised fellow?’ Mr Boothy asked.
‘That’s Dave,’ said I. ‘Hi, Dave.’
‘Hi,’ said Dave, looking dismal.
‘And you were going to blow up this entire complex?’
Dave shook his head. ‘Not me,’ he said.
‘Really?’ said Mr Boothy. ‘Yet I’m sure it was you I saw on the closed circuit television, driving the van into the secret tunnel. The same van that ran over me.’
Dave shook his head and said, ‘No, it wasn’t me.’
‘I once thought of joining the police force,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘But a chum of mine said, no, don’t do it, it’s such a disappointment. Because criminals never own up, like they do in the movies. They never come clean, even when caught red-handed. They say, “It wasn’t me,” and “I didn’t do it,” and “I was two places other at the time.” So I didn’t join the force. I joined the Ministry of Serendipity instead. And the irony of ironies is I’ve spent the last thirty years denying everything I’ve done to anyone who’s accused me of doing it.’
‘How very interesting,’ I said. ‘But I have to go now.’
‘Why?’ asked Mr Boothy.
‘Because I don’t want to stay.’
‘But I can make you stay.’
‘I think not,’ I said. ‘You can shoot me to pieces, if you want. And I’ll thank you for it. But other than that, what? I’m dead, so what can you do to me?’
‘Good point,’ said Mr Boothy.
‘Sandra go too,’ said Sandra. ‘Sandra dead, Sandra go.’
‘Why does she talk like that?’ asked Mr Boothy. ‘All monosyllabic?’
‘Because she’s been undead for too long,’ I said. ‘Her brain is mush. You’ll be like it soon and so will I.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘The thinking processes remain unaffected.’
‘Ssssh,’ I said and I shushed him with my hands.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘You...er...’
‘You...er...what?’ asked Dave, staring me pointy daggers.
‘I just quietened her down a bit,’ I said. ‘She was somewhat over-feisty when alive.’
‘Gary atone for sins big time when Sandra get Gary home,’ said Sandra, which was rather too long a sentence for my liking.
Mr Boothy sighed. ‘So what should I do with you?’ he asked.
‘You should shoot Dave,’ I suggested.
‘What?’ said Dave. ‘I’m your bestest friend.’
‘You’ve been sexing my wife.’
‘She’s not your wife any more. You’re dead.’
‘That’s a technicality.’
‘It’s a fact!’
‘But she’s dead too!’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’ Mr Boothy held up calming hands. ‘This isn’t helping matters.’
‘Stuff you,’ I said. ‘Keep out of it.’
‘I think I have a solution to this that will satisfy all parties,’ said Mr Boothy.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Shoot Dave.’
‘No, it’s not that. You see, we at the Ministry would really like to clear up all this P. P. Penrose business.’
‘What business is that?’ asked Dave. ‘And please don’t shoot me.’
‘I won’t shoot you,’ said Mr Boothy.
‘Fine,’ said Dave. ‘Then I’m off. Goodbye.’
‘I’ll have you shot if you try to leave.’
‘Fine,’ said Dave. ‘So what is this P. P. Penrose business?’
‘All the dead aliens,’ I said to Dave: ‘they’re not real. They’re all the invention of P. P. Penrose. They exist in his dead imagination. They have a reality there and they’re the ones who control the living.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Dave. ‘I know all about that.’
‘You do?’
‘Certainly. I overheard Mr Boothy telling you all about that when he captured you.’
‘But you never told me.’
‘That’s because I don’t believe it. It is rather far-fetched.’
I sighed. Deeply.
‘May I continue?’ asked Mr Boothy.
I shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’
‘Thank you. The problem of the late Mr Penrose really does need a final solution. I would never have known the truth about it if it hadn’t been for Sandra here, running me over and killing me. I can’t mention my knowledge to any live members of the Ministry, they’re all under Mr Penrose’s control. This is something I must sort out for myself I feel that the best way to sort it out is to have a volunteer sort it out for me. Deal with the man, one on one, if you know what I mean.’
‘I don’t,’ said I.
‘Someone has to stop it,’ said Mr Boothy. Someone has to assassinate Mr Penrose.’
‘Assassinate him? Why don’t you just shut down the FLATLINE connection? Shut off the power; put the phone down for good. What could he do? He’d be finished. It would be all over. No need for me to do any more bad stuff.’
‘We can’t afford to do that. Our link with the dead is far too valuable. We need the information the dead supply us with to keep us one step ahead of the rest. The British Empire needs it. Our government would be flailing about in the dark if we couldn’t supply it with the dead’s secrets. It’s not the FLATLINE that’s the problem, it’s just that meddling Penrose. He has control of too many people and we just can’t have him messing around with them and causing havoc any more. If he is eradicated, we will be back on track. He needs to be killed. We need him dead.’
‘But he’s already dead,’ I said.
‘I mentioned to you earlier that there’s dead and there’s dead and there’s really dead.’
‘You mentioned it,’ I said. ‘But as it didn’t make too much sense, I ignored it.’
‘He’s out there,’ said Mr Boothy, ‘in the realm beyond death, constructing plotlines, inventing fanciful characters, playing his sporting games, projecting them into the brains of the living. This is not a good thing. This must be stopped. And the only way it can be stopped is by someone dead seeking him out and putting paid to him once and for all.’
‘But you can’t kill a dead man.’
‘You can,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘You can with magic. Magic knows no bounds. If magic can restore the dead to life, then magic can also kill the dead. So, as I say, the Ministry has been looking for a volunteer. Someone brave who would take on the task.’
‘And no takers, I suppose?’ said Dave.
‘Not so far,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘You see, glorious as being dead is, those we have re-animated are still keen to stay undead. I think it must be the good wages the Ministry pays and all the fringe benefits. Once people live again they are eager to keep on living.’
‘I’m not,’ I said.
And Mr Boothy grinned. A real big toothy grin, although he did have a couple of teeth missing and his tongue was somewhat furry.
‘I rather thought not,’ said he. ‘In fact, I was absolutely sure of it when I watched you on the CCTV, strolling down the staircase, as if you wanted to get caught and killed again.’
Sandra glared at me. But then she hadn’t stopped glaring since she’d learned about her ‘dumbing down’.
‘And I’m sure I’d be right in thinking,’ said Mr Boothy, ‘that you are a natural magician. And as it’s all your fault anyway, I think you should sort it out.’
‘All my fault?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Gary, this is the Ministry of Serendipity. It’s a secret ministry, and secret ministries thrive on information, you know, like the CIA. Information is power. We have files on everyone. When you were brought to
‘It wasn’t justice,’ I said. ‘That trial was a travesty of justice.’
‘All right, then. When you were brought to travesty of justice, we looked into your file. And we found all kinds of interesting things: old surveillance footage from the restricted section of Brentford library; surveillance footage from the home of P. P. Penrose; during his wake. It’s all on film, what you did.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘You have me on film? Outrageous! What an invasion of privacy.’
‘Everyone is under surveillance,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘Everyone. Especially the rich and famous like Mr Penrose. You re-animated him in his grave. All this is your fault. It is extremely fortuitous that you should have turned up here today. You could call it fate. You are the volunteer that we have been looking for. Who else could it be but you?’
‘I’m not an assassin,’ I said.
‘Gary,’ said Mr Boothy, ‘like it or like it not, you are a psychopath. With or without Mr Penrose’s Valdec Firesword, Archduke of Alpha Centuri, in your head, you have always been a psychopath. It’s not your fault, it’s probably your father’s fault.’
‘It’s definitely his fault,’ I said.
‘Which is probably why you did for him.’
‘Let’s not get into that,’ I said.
‘Well, be it here, or be it there’ Mr Boothy smiled and patted his dog some more, ‘you are the ideal man for the job.’
‘And when, I mean, if I do this job, then I’m free? I can be dead and fly off around the universe for ever? I’m out of all this? I’m free?’
‘Free as a bird,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘You’ll have atoned for all your sins. Eternity will be yours to do with as you please.’
‘Then I volunteer,’ I said. ‘I’m your man.’
‘Gary not your man,’ said Sandra. ‘Gary Sandra’s man. Gary stay here, serve Sandra. That what Gary do.’
I looked at Mr Boothy.
And Mr Boothy looked at me.
‘Security guard,’ said Mr Boothy, to one of the security guards. ‘Kindly take Mr Cheese’s wife down to the boiler room and toss her into the furnace.’
‘No!’ Dave shouted, and raised his fists. ‘Hold on. Don’t do that.’
Mr Boothy looked at me once more. ‘Do you want me to have the security guard toss your friend Dave into the furnace too?’ he asked.
I looked at Dave.
And Dave looked at me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not really. Dave is my bestest friend, even though he’s been – you know – with my wife. Don’t bung either of them into the furnace. Let them go.’
‘Nice one,’ said Dave.
‘Gary––’ said Sandra.
‘And in return, let me go,’ I said to Sandra. ‘Let me do this. Dave will look after you. Dave cares about you. I was never much of a husband, although I did love you. But I treated you badly and I should atone for what I’ve done. For all the bad things I’ve done. Maybe by doing this it will go some way towards making things right.’
Sandra just stared at me and I couldn’t read her expression at all.
Dave said, ‘Good luck, mate,’ and put out his hand for a shake.
I shook Dave warmly by the hand. ‘You are my bestest friend,’ I said. ‘You’re an utter no-mark, thoroughly dishonest and untrustworthy, but I am proud to call you my bestest friend.’
‘And you are a conscienceless serial killer,’ said Dave. ‘But you’re my bestest friend too.’
And so we shook hands and got a bit dewy-eyed and trembly-lipped and patted each other on the shoulder and finally said our farewells. I reached out to give Sandra a kiss and a cuddle, but she just drew back, folded her arms and stamped whoever’s feet she had upon the carpet. I think that, deep down, she still loved me. But women are funny creatures and don’t always show their real emotions.
‘Bye, then, Sandra,’ I said. ‘I hope you’ll be happy with Dave.’
Dave and Sandra departed the office of Mr Boothy, leaving me behind. Sandra, however, didn’t leave without a struggle, and one of the security men had to hold her mouth shut to stop her commanding me to do something unspeakable to Mr Boothy.
‘That was rather touching about you and Dave,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘I’ve never really had a bestest friend. My dogs are my best friends. But it’s not quite the same.’
‘So,’ I said. ‘I suppose we should press on.’ I handed Mr Boothy my gun. ‘You’d best shoot me in the head. That should get the job done.’
Mr Boothy weighed the gun in his hands. ‘I don’t think this would work,’ he said. ‘Your body must be utterly destroyed. I think it would be best if you were tossed into the furnace.’
‘Eh?’ I said. ‘No. That would really hurt. That’s not a good idea. That’s a really bad idea. I don’t like that at all. The gun is the thing. One quick shot between the eyes. One––’
‘The gun is empty,’ said Mr Boothy. ‘And we are in a hurry. Security guards!’
‘No!’ I shouted. ‘No. Stop. Hold on.’
‘Escort Mr Cheese to the furnace and––’
‘No!’
‘Bung him in.’
‘NO!’
But damn me if it wasn’t yes.
28
Can you believe that?
I mean, can you?
He had me thrown into the furnace.
If frying in the electric chair had been bad, it was a doddle compared with that.
That really hurt.
But it did get the job done and, there was no doubt about it, I was definitely dead again. And for good and all this time, with no Earthly hope for resurrection. Gone, reduced to ashes. No more Gary Charlton Cheese in the flesh. Only in the spirit. I didn’t find myself back at Mr Doveston’s tomb this time: I found myself nowhere in particular. A bit lost, as it happens. Just sort of drifting.
But it felt really nice. I didn’t feel empty at all this time. There was a great deal of darkness around and about, but a light or two in the distance. I moved towards those lights.
As I moved on, the lights moved nearer. Big lights, two lights.
A car ran me over.
I picked myself up and dusted myself down and chewed upon my lip as I surveyed the tyre marks over my chest. ‘Not a great start,’ said I.
But where was I?
It looked a bit like New York, but as I’d never been to New York I couldn’t be sure. However, as I’d seen New York on TV and in movies, I could be sure. It was New York. But why New York?
I shambled along in a bumbling kind of fashion, like you do when you’re lost, or drunk, or both. I didn’t recognize any New York landmarks.
But then suddenly I did.
There was a bar up ahead. A New York bar, a Manhattan bar. A neon light flashed above it, spelling out letters that made up the name: FANGIO’S.
Fangio’s bar, favourite hangout of Lazlo Woodbine. I bumbled towards Fangio’s bar. Of course I recognized the cracked glass door. It was exactly as I’d imagined it, exactly as it had been in the books. And inside, the bar was all there, all exactly right. A man stood behind the bar counter, and he was a big man, a big fat man. This was Fangio, the fat boy barman. And seated upon the customer side of the counter, upon a chromium bar stool, sat the other man. He wore a trenchcoat and a fedora. He sipped on a bottle of Bud and munched upon a hot pastrami on rye.
The other man was none other than Lazlo Woodbine.
Fangio looked over at me as I swung in the door.
‘Lordy, lordy,’ said he. ‘It’s the elephant man.’ I chewed upon my bottom lip and realized that it was a quite substantial bottom lip. And I remembered my encounter with the late Mother Demdike and how she’d said that, when we died, we each got the form that was really us. ‘Ah, no offence meant, fella,’ said Fangio. ‘Looks ain’t everything. Did the circus leave town without you? Why not have a drink? What’ll it be?’
‘Anything at all,’ I said. ‘Anything at all.’
‘That’s a bit vague,’ said Fangio. ‘We
‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘Give me a beer. Give me a Bud.’
The guy in the trenchcoat (you note that I say ‘guy’ here, rather than ‘man’) turned to me. ‘Sit yourself down,’ he said. ‘There’s no appearance-code here. We’re always grateful when someone breezes in to chew the fat. What’s your name, buddy?’
‘It’s Cheese,’ I said. ‘Gary Charlton Cheese. And you are––’ I couldn’t get the words out.
‘The name’s Woodbine,’ said Woodbine. ‘Lazlo Woodbine, private eye.’ And he added, ‘Some call me Laz.’
‘I would be proud to call you Laz,’ said I. ‘I’m your greatest fan. Well, the fan of your author. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.’
‘Don’t use my catch phrases,’ said Mr Woodbine. ‘And don’t mention him. He and I do not see eye to eye any more.’
‘I’m perplexed,’ I said, as Fangio handed me my bottle of Bud. ‘I mean, you’re real. You’re here. I thought—’
‘That I was a fictitious character?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘That’s because I was written up as a fictitious character. But I was once alive, like you were. So what are you doing in this neck of the Manhattan woods?’
‘It’s a bit embarrassing for me to have to tell you,’ I said, ‘but I’ve come to kill P. P. Penrose. That dead man is wreaking havoc on Earth.’
‘It’s fine with me,’ said Laz, for I could call him that. ‘I hate the guy. He wrote up my cases then claimed all the glory for himself. Like I say, I was never a fictitious character. I was a real detective. He just changed my name.’
‘Outrageous!’ I said.
‘And he had me killed.’
‘What!’ I said.
‘I was going to expose him. He had me killed. Weirdest thing. Never saw it coming and me being Woodbine, well, Passing Cloud, actually; I’m half Cherokee from my father’s side. This blind guy killed me. Blind guy from the circus. Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique.’
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘My Uncle Jonny.’
‘Small world, isn’t it?’ said Mr Woodbine. ‘Everything fits together, eventually, doesn’t it?’