The Fandom of the Operator Read online

  ‘I’ll switch it off’ I said. ‘You’re useless at it. I’m going to see if there are drugs I can take that will allow me to stay awake twenty-four hours a day so I can do your shift too.’

  ‘What drug did Lazlo Woodbine take in Waiting for Godalming that allowed him to stay awake for twenty-four hours a day for a whole week?’

  ‘Trick question,’ I said. ‘No drug at all: he did it by willpower. He had to stay awake because if he fell asleep the Holy Guardian Sprout inside his head would have read his mind and given away the trick ending of the book to the readers. Waiting for Godalming was a Post-Modernist Lazlo Woodbine thriller, one of the weakest in my opinion.’

  ‘Good answer,’ said Barry. ‘But it might have been a lucky one. All right, I’ll ask you another. In Death Carries a Pink Umbrella—’

  ‘Set in Berlin,’ I said.

  ‘East or West?’

  ‘Both,’ I said. ‘And also Antwerp, where Laz identifies Molly Behemoth by her “distinctive birthmark and Egyptian walk”––’

  ‘Yes, okay. But who “ate his way to freedom” and never used the word “condom” when “Frenchman” would do?’

  ‘Callbeck the miner’s son, who sold his soul to Harrods in a bet with a Rasputin Impersonator who turned out to be one of the Beverley Sisters.’

  ‘Burger me backwards over my aunty’s handbag,’ said Barry. ‘You sure know your Lazlo Woodbine thrillers.’

  ‘Buddy,’ I said, ‘in my business, knowing your Lazlo Woodbine thrillers can mean the difference between painting the town red and wearing a pair of red pants, if you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.’

  ‘I know where you’re coming from,’ said Barry. ‘Although that was a pretty poor imitation.’

  ‘No one can do it like Penrose could,’ I said.

  ‘Too true, brother,’ said Barry. ‘Although I never had time for his Adam Earth science-fiction books. They were rubbish, in my opinion.’

  ‘True,’ I said. And I sighed. ‘Listen,’ I said, continuing. ‘It’s really wonderful to meet another fan of the great man but you really are useless at this job. Perhaps you should just quit and let a more committed individual take over.’

  ‘There’s no quitting, is there?’ said Barry. ‘It’s off to prison for the quitter. I foolishly signed the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘I signed that too.’

  ‘Which is why you’re such a twonk, I suppose. You gave up, sold out and gave in.’

  I didn’t like to talk about this stuff It was personal. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I thought about rebelling. I really did. I came here on my second day with every intention of smashing the bulb or pulling it out and sitting here with my arms folded to see what would happen.’

  ‘And so why didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I was going to do it. I got drunk the night before and determined utterly that I’d do it. Then I got up all hung-overed and came in here and sat down in that chair. Which now has my special sprung cushion on it, you’ll notice, and I was going to rebel. But I had such a hangover and I thought I’d rebel later and the light flashed and I switched it off. And I thought, “Stuff it. I’ll just not switch it off next time.” But then it flashed on again and I was all on my own and I thought, “Okay, I’ll just switch it off the one time more. But this will be the last time.”

  ‘And then I thought about my wife Sandra and how she was really ticked off about how I was always out of work. And Harry, her brother, who said about saving up for a motorbike so you could be first at interviews for really good jobs, and I thought, “Okay, I’ll just stick it out for a week. Or maybe two. Then find some way of getting out.” But then it sort of grew on me and I started taking pride in my job. Because I was in it and Mr Holland kept impressing upon me how important it was. Although I’ve never been able to find out why. But he said it was. And, okay, there was the threat, that was always there in the back of my mind, foul up and you’re off to prison.

  ‘But somehow it was more than that, so I kept doing it and now, okay, it’s me. It’s what I am; it’s all I’ve got. There’s some bloke sexing my wife. This is all I’ve got.’

  Barry looked up at me. ‘I’m sorry, man,’ he said. ‘You’re okay. You know that. You’re okay.’

  ‘I’m not okay,’ I said. ‘I’m all messed up. Once upon a time I was okay. I knew who I was. But I don’t know any more. I’m an adult. Adults don’t know who they really are. Only children know who they really are. And nobody listens to children.’

  ‘You’re so right,’ said Barry, ‘you’re so right.’

  Then the bulb flashed on and, without even thinking, I switched it off again.

  ‘I hate this,’ said Barry. ‘I want to be a musician, like Jeff Beck. But I’m stuck here and I’m really screwed up by it.’

  ‘I’d be prepared to put in a couple of extra hours if it would help you out,’ I said. ‘I could work up to eight or eight-thirty.’

  ‘Thanks, man,’ said Barry. ‘But it really isn’t the point, is it? This isn’t right, is it? We’re stuck in something we don’t understand. I mean, why does the fugging bulb flash on in the first place?’

  I laughed.

  ‘You’re laughing,’ said Barry. ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because it’s a joke. You’re asking me why the bulb flashes on. Do I look like a technical engineer?’

  ‘And that’s funny, is it?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I suppose it isn’t.’

  ‘So why does the bulb flash on?’

  I shrugged. ‘Because it can, I suppose.’

  ‘And why must we switch it off when it does?’

  ‘Because it’s what we do, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s a sad indictment on society, man.’

  I nodded thoughtfully. ‘A bloke from Transylvania is sexing my wife.’

  ‘Count Otto Black,’ said Barry.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Well, he’s the only bloke from Transylvania who lives around here.’

  ‘I’m going to kill him,’ I said. ‘That’s off the record, by the way. Just between the two of us.’

  ‘Big kudos to you, then.’

  ‘Thanks. I also have to find out about FLATLINE. Ever heard of that?’

  ‘Bits and pieces,’ said Barry. ‘Blokes from Developmental Services come off shift at eleven. They often hang about outside the booth, having a fag. I hear them talking.’

  ‘And what do you hear them talking about?’

  ‘Usual stuff: football, women, cars.’

  ‘FLATLINE?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, they talk about it, but it all sounds like a load of old bollards to me.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Tell me what they say.’

  Barry eyed me queerly. But as I was mostly straight nowadays and didn’t fancy him anyway, I said, ‘I think they’re up to something dodgy up there on the seventeenth floor.’

  ‘Something stone bonkers,’ said Barry. ‘I mean, communicating with beings from outer space. What’s that all about, eh?’

  ‘Eh?’ I said in an ‘eh’ that was louder than his.

  ‘Something to do with us not doing the thinking with our brains, but our brains being receivers and transmitters. Or some such rubbish. They’ve supposedly got some kind of direct communications computer, or something, up there that lets them talk to aliens.’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ I said, and a distant bell began to ring in my head. Something from long, long ago. And then I remembered: that afternoon in the restricted section of the Memorial Library, the conversation between the two men from the Ministry that had no name, or, rather, did have but it was a secret.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Barry. ‘You look as if a distant bell is ringing in your head.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘But you are sure about this?’

  ‘My ear goes right against the door when they’re out there,’ said Barry. ‘It passes a bit of time and I’m nothing if no
t nosy. But none of them seem to agree about what’s really going on up there and why it is.’

  ‘I wonder,’ I said and I glanced towards the ceiling.

  ‘What do you wonder?’ Barry asked. ‘Do you wonder whether the ceiling could do with a lick of paint? Well, it could, and I might even do it myself.’

  ‘Don’t you even think about it. What if the bulb was to flash?’

  ‘It wouldn’t,’ said Barry.

  ‘It might. You don’t know.’

  ‘I do know. It wouldn’t.’

  ‘And how could you know?’

  ‘Because I’d take it out,’ said Barry. ‘Like I do when I slip off to the toilet.’

  I clutched at my heart. Well, you would! I would. And I did.

  ‘You take the bulb out?’ My voice was a choking whisper.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Barry. ‘I leave it out if I’m having a bit of a kip, or something.’

  ‘You...you...’ My voice kind of trailed off

  ‘Nothing ever happens,’ said Barry. ‘No alarms ever go off. There aren’t any explosions. No men in riot gear rush in. Here, I’ll show you, I’ll take it out now. I was going to take it out anyway, so I could pop upstairs to the refectory and phone my girlfriend.’

  I began to sway back and forwards and the world began to go dark at the edges.

  ‘Easy,’ said Barry. ‘Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ And he guided me onto the chair.

  ‘Do you want a glass of water? I can get you one from the refectory.’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘No. You can’t leave the booth.’

  ‘I’ll take the bulb, no problem.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ And I buried my head in my hands.

  ‘You’ve got it bad, man,’ said Barry, patting my shoulder to comfort me. ‘You’ve let the bustards grind you down. I signed the Official Secrets Act, so the bustards have me by the bollards too. But just because they have my bollards, it doesn’t mean that I have to let them squeeze them. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.’

  ‘You take the bulb out.’ I whispered the words. ‘You actually take the bulb out.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never done it?’

  ‘Never,’ I said, frantically shaking my head.

  ‘Well, you should. It gives you a sense of power. Try it now. Go on, take it out. See what it feels like.’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head even more frantically. ‘I’d never do such a dreadful thing.’

  I looked up at Barry and he grinned down at me. His hand reached out towards the bulb.

  ‘Don’t,’ I told him. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Barry. ‘I won’t if it upsets you so much and clearly it does. But I’ll tell you something about this bulb that I’ll bet you don’t know.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be hard,’ I said. ‘As I don’t know anything at all about it, except that it has to be switched off.’

  ‘And you’ve sat in this booth for five years and you’ve never wondered?’

  ‘Of course I’ve wondered. And I’ve asked, but no one will tell me.’

  ‘And you’ve never thought of finding out for yourself?’

  I sighed. ‘Of course I have. But how could I?’

  ‘You could follow the wire and see where it goes.’

  ‘Don’t be funny,’ I said. ‘It goes down into the floor. It could go anywhere from there.’

  ‘Oh, it does,’ said Barry. ‘And yes, I understand, really, I suppose: you do the day shift, so you couldn’t up the floorboards and take a look, then trace the wire up the corridor and into the lift shaft and…’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s taken me months,’ said Barry. ‘But I’ve traced it, a yard at a time. I know where the wire goes.’

  Now I have to confess that I was shaking all over by now, not just my head. I really was. Whether it was anticipation, I don’t know. Perhaps it was something more than that. Remember I mentioned in a previous chapter what it might be like for a believer in Christianity if he or she was offered absolute proof that there was no afterlife? Well, it was something like that. I did want to know where the wire went, but also I didn’t! Life can be such a complicated business at times. Can’t it?

  ‘It goes up––’

  ‘No!’ I said to Barry. ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘You do, you know, although you don’t know it yet.’

  ‘I don’t think that makes sense, but I really don’t want to know.’

  ‘Well,’ said Barry, ‘I can understand that too. If the bulb was simply connected to some random number indicator computer thing and the whole job really is a complete waste of time simply to keep employment figures stable, you’ve wasted five years of your life. Haven’t you?’

  I didn’t want to nod, so I didn’t.

  ‘Well, it isn’t that,’ said Barry. ‘The wire goes to a definite place.’

  I wiped my hands across my brow, which had a fine sweat on. And slowly, very slowly, I said, ‘All right, then, where does it go?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ said Barry. ‘It goes upstairs. Upstairs to the seventeenth floor.’

  ‘The seventeenth floor?’ I said that slowly too.

  ‘The seventeenth floor,’ said Barry. ‘To Developmental Services.’

  14

  The evening after I’d had that conversation with Barry, I was wide awake and ready for action. And I was wearing a pretty nifty disguise.

  Lazlo Woodbine was a master of disguise. He possessed, amongst other things, a tweed jacket, which when worn without his trademark fedora and trenchcoat literally transformed him into the very personification of a newspaper reporter. I did not think that particular disguise would be suitable for what I had to do, which was to infiltrate Developmental Services, so I chose another, which was.

  I wore a white coat.

  I confess that the white coat idea wasn’t mine. The idea came originally from a friend whom I’d known in my teenage years. A chap called Mick Strange. Mick came up with this brilliant scam for getting into anywhere. By getting in, I mean getting into events, or into virtually anywhere that you would otherwise have to queue up and pay to get into.

  The scam was simplicity itself and although nowadays it is attempted (with minimal results) by many, he thought of it first. In order to get in, to virtually anywhere and everything, all you had to do was put on a white coat and carry a large light bulb.

  I saw him do it at Battersea funfair and also at Olympia when Pink Floyd played there. He simply walked in, wearing his white coat and carrying his big light bulb. He looked official. He looked like an electrician. He got in. QED. End of story.

  I arrived back at the telephone exchange at nine of that evening and clocked on for my over-time. I went into the bulb booth, woke up Barry, who was already having a kip, told him to remain alert, changed into my white coat, which I had brought in stuffed down my trouser leg, and took up my light bulb, which I had secreted in my underpants, and which had got me several admiring glances from young women on the bus. Barry didn’t ask me what I was doing. Barry didn’t care. I asked him to wish me luck, though, and, very kindly, he did.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Barry.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Very kind.’

  And then I went off down the corridor and got into the lift.

  Now, okay, I confess, I had a sweat on. I had to keep wiping my forehead. And I was upset by this. As a child I had been brave. A very brave boy indeed. But it seemed that over the years, as Sandra had said, I’d lost it. Lost myself. But I was now determined to get myself back. And definitely do it this time. Not like when I’d made that drunken promise to change the world and liberate the slaves of the system.

  And I’ll tell you this, when that little bell rang and the light flashed in the number 17 button and the lift doors opened, I was almost brave again. Almost.

  Nearly almost.

  I straightened the lapels on my white coat and I held
my light bulb high and I marched along the corridor, noting that this was a somewhat swisher and better-appointed corridor than the one seventeen floors beneath that led to my bulb booth. But I walked tall and true and I marched, I fairly marched, towards room 23.

  And when I got to it, I didn’t knock. I opened the door and I walked right in. And I didn’t half get a surprise.

  Room 23 was a very big room. And when I say big I mean big. It wasn’t so much a room as an entire operations centre. It was vast. And it was high, too. I figured that they must have knocked out the ceilings and floors of the eighteenth and nineteenth floors too to accommodate all this equipment and all these walkways and gantries and stairways that all these men in white coats who were carrying light bulbs were walking along and up and down and all around and about.

  I fairly smiled.

  And then I joined them.

  And then a man with a white coat who didn’t carry a light bulb but instead carried a clipboard (which singled him out as a ‘technician’) stopped me.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ I said.

  ‘I thought so,’ said the technician. ‘Let’s have a look at that bulb.’

  I held up my bulb for his inspection.

  ‘That’s an XP1O3,’ he said. ‘North end of the Mother Board, gantry five, level four, row ten.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘Hurry, then,’ he said. ‘A missing bulb is an accident waiting to happen.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘North end, you said.’

  ‘Gantry five, level four, row ten. Hurry along.’

  So I hurried along. And it did have to be said that when it came to bulbs, the lads in Developmental Services had the market cornered. I had never seen so many bulbs all in one place at one time ever before in my life. One entire wall of this vast department was all bulbs, so it seemed. Thousands and thousands of them, all flashing on and off and some just flickering in between.

  I felt almost sick at the sight of them. Having had only the one to deal with myself this was all very much too much. A bulbsman’s nightmare. I’d had dreams like this myself

  ‘Hurry,’ said the technician once more, for I had paused in my hurrying.