The Fandom of the Operator (10 page)

I was rudely awakened at six of the morning clock. It was the following Monday and my awakening, though rude, was pleasurable.

“I love the way you always wake me up like that,” I said to Sandra.

“As a wife, my duties lie in pleasuring my husband,” replied my loving spouse. “Such is the way with us women, we are never happier than when we are serving our masters.”

The alarm clock jingle-jangled and I was rudely and
really
awakened.

“Sandra! Make my breakfast!” I said, in my sternest tone.

“Make it yourself,” said Sandra. “And when you’re doing so, make some for me.”

“Let’s do some sexing first, then.”

“In your dreams,” said my loveless spouse, and I went off downstairs.

Then, recalling that we lived in a ground-floor flat, I came up from the cellar and dragged my feet into the kitchen. It was still rather dark, but looking on the bright side it would soon be Saturday.

“I wasn’t born for the grind of nine to five,” I told the cat. “I’m not like the rest of these walking dead. I’m made of more superior stuff. I deserve better. I do. I really do.”

The cat yawned then rubbed itself against my legs like a silken pervert.

“You want food, don’t you?” I asked it. “Well, you can damn well wait for it. I’m a working man and I don’t have time to pamper pussies.”

I brewed coffee, munched upon cornflakes and prepared myself for the day ahead. “Now then, what will I need to take with me?” I asked myself. For the cat had left the kitchen in a huff (which was the height of feline fashion at the time).

I wandered into the sitting room and ran my finger all along a bookshelf. “Let’s see.
Death Wears a Hoodless Cagoule
?
[11]
Babe in a Body Bag
?
[12]
Bleed on Me Gently
?
[13]
Werewolf in Manhattan
?”
[14]
So many to choose from. Tricky decision.

Well, I mean, what do you want from me? I was supposed to spend my days sitting in a dire little windowless cell, waiting for a light bulb to flash on, so I could switch it off again. I was going to need something to pass the time, wasn’t I? And what better than the entire genre detective works of P.P. Penrose? Eighty-five Lazlo Woodbine thrillers?

Yes, well, OK, I know. I’d read them all before. Read each of them many times before. But I loved these books and the more you read and reread them, the more you seemed to learn about them. You noticed all these little details, these cross-correspondences, references to other novels, recurring characters, running gags. Not to mention all the trenchcoat humour and the toot that Laz talked in bars with Fangio the fat boy.

“I’ll dip for it,” I said. “Ip, dip, sky blue, who’s it? Not you.” And all along the shelf I went, until I was down to one. One book a day would be sufficient. And I could do what I always did when I read one: imagine myself as a Hollywood director making the film version. Cast with stars of my own choosing, even adding a few scenes of my own, which would involve famous Hollywood actresses getting their kit off in the cause of high art.

I had dipped up
The Toytown Murders
, which was handy as it was one of my favourites. It’s a bit of a weird one,
The Toytown Murders
. The entire book is a dream that Laz has while he’s lying in a coma, having been shot in the back by a murderous dame. In the dream Laz is a teddy bear – Eddie Bear, private eye – and he’s called in to solve a series of murders in Toytown, where nursery-rhyme characters, all rich and famous from the royalties on their nursery rhymes, are being bumped off one after another. In case you haven’t read it, I won’t give away the ingenious trick ending. But it’s truly a blinder.

I dressed up for the coming day, being careful to tuck my Fair Isle slipover into my trousers, so I could hide the book in it. Just in case I was body-searched by Harry.

At six forty-five the front-door bell rang and I went off to meet my fate.

“You aren’t going to be difficult about this, are you?” Harry asked, as he drove me through the all but empty streets of Brentford. “I mean, it will save us both an unnecessary amount of fuss and bother and blows to your skull, if you just keep this job for a couple of months.”

“A couple of months!” I shook my head.

“It’s eight weeks,” said Harry. “Long enough for you to read all your stupid Lilo Windborne novels.”

“The name’s Woodbine,” I said. “Lazlo Woodbine. Some call him Laz. And how did you know I was planning to do that anyway?”

“I watched you through your sitting-room window wandering about in your Y-fronts and dipping for a book to read today. And it’s all you ever do when you’re supposed to be working. How many times have you been sacked for doing it?”

“I’ve lost count,” I said. “Who cares?”

“I don’t,” said Harry. “The council employ me to see that you stay employed. If you didn’t keep fouling up, I’d be out of a job. And I can’t have that. I’m saving up for a motorbike.”

“What do you want a motorbike for?” I asked. “You’ve got a car.”

“I want to run the most famous night club in the world,” said Harry, swerving to run over a ginger torn.

“And you need a motorbike for that?”

Harry sighed. “You’re not too bright, are you?” he said. “If a job comes up to run the most famous night club in the world, it will go to the first applicant for the job, won’t it?”

I nodded.

“So the first applicant will be the man who gets to the interview first – which is to say, faster than anyone else – won’t it?”

I nodded again.

“You don’t even have a pushbike, do you?” Harry asked.

I shook my head.

“Which is why you will be switching a light bulb off all day.”

I mulled over this. And I cast a sidelong glance at Harry. “It really is as simple as
that
, isn’t it?” I said.

“I’d save up for a motorbike too, if I were you,” said Harry. “But don’t even think about racing me to the night-club job. I’ll run you off the road.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. “But I am impressed. Trouble is, I’m in a bit of a Catch 22 situation. I can’t be bothered to stay in the duff jobs long enough to earn sufficient money to buy the motorbike so I can be first at the interview for the good jobs.”

“You could just top yourself,” said Harry, helpfully. “But not before I’ve bought my motorbike. Or I’ll beat the poo-poo out of you.”

“That’s more like it,” I said. “You had me going there for a while. I really
did
think that you were intelligent.”

“April fool,” said Harry.

“It’s not April,” I said.

“Had you again,” said Harry. “Could you just open the door on your side?”

“Why?”

“Just open it, please.”

I opened it and Harry pushed me out. “See you tomorrow,” he called, as he sped away.

I picked myself up from the road and dusted down my Fair Isle, then I plodded, as the doomed must plod, across the car park and into the telephone exchange.

A receptionist sat at a desk in the reception area. Her desk had a little sign with the word RECEPTION printed on it. The sign matched the badge that she wore upon her breast. And also the one that she wore upon her jaunty-looking cap.

“Are you the receptionist?” I enquired, putting on the face known as brave and smiling out of it bravely.

The receptionist viewed me down the length of her nose. “Are you the new bulb boy?” she asked, in the tone known as contemptuous.

“Telecommunications engineer,” I corrected her.

The receptionist, visibly unimpressed, leaned forward and produced from beneath her desk a light bulb.

“And what will I need that for?” I asked.

“In case your present light bulb burns out. It’s your initial replacement. All subsequent replacement bulbs must be ordered by you with a green requisition docket. I am not authorized to issue you with a green docket. You must request that from Stores Requisition Documentation on the fourth floor.”

I took the bulb from her hand and examined it with more care than it truly deserved. “Is my present bulb likely to burn out?” I enquired.

The receptionist laughed. Loudly and longly.

“Why are you laughing?” I asked. “And why so loud and long?”

“Because you are so thick,” she replied.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“What does this badge say?” asked the receptionist, pointing to her breast badge. “Does it say ‘electrical supervisor’? Well, does it?”

“No,” I said. “It says ‘receptionist’. Which must be an anagram for stupid tart.”

The receptionist stared me pointy daggers. “It says ‘receptionist’. Which means that I deal with matters appertaining to reception. If you wish to know the likelihood of your bulb burning out, you must address your enquiry to an electrical supervisor.”

“I see,” I said. “And where might I find him? Up on the fourth floor?”

“Fourth floor?” The receptionist laughed again. “You really are thick, aren’t you? Fourth floor is Stores Requisition Documentation, Stationery Outgoing and Sales Division. You’ll want first floor annexe, Electrical Supervisor Services.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I think I’ll just mooch up there now, then,” I said. “Get a crate of bulbs in, in case I have a really high burn-out day.”

“Bulbs have to be requisitioned singly.” The receptionist rolled her eyes heavenward. “God, you are
so
thick.”

“Then why are you calling me God?”

“You’ll have to sign this,” said the receptionist, producing a clipboard with a bright white document clipped to it. And a wee biro dangling down on a string.

“And what is this?” I asked.

“The Official Secrets Act.”

“Whoa!” I said. “I’ve never seen one of those before. Let’s have a look at it.”

“You can’t look at it,” said the receptionist. “You just have to sign it. At the bottom, where it says ‘signature’.”

“I think I’d like to read it first.”

“Are you an anarchist?” asked the receptionist.

“Why? Is there a job going in the Anarchy department?”

“Just sign the form,” said the receptionist.

“And what will happen if I don’t?”

The receptionist laughed once more.

“No, don’t tell me,” I said. “You can’t answer that question. If I want an answer to that question, I’ll have put it in writing, possibly on a pink docket, to your legal division on Floor 32.”

“Correct,” said the receptionist. “So please sign the form.”

I really should have read that form. I should have, I really should have. Because in a future that was not too far distant, only a few short hours distant, in fact, the fact that I
had
signed the Official Secrets Act was going to cost me very dearly indeed. But you know what it’s like. When a form is put in front of you, especially one with lots of small print, you just can’t resist signing it, can you? It’s a forbidden-fruit kind of thing, isn’t it? The temptation to get yourself into all sorts of really big trouble just by flourishing a single signature. I didn’t really want to read it anyway. It looked very boring. Although it would have wasted a bit of time, which wouldn’t have been all that bad. But I
did
have a bulb to switch off. Especially if I was going to earn enough money to save some up and buy a motorbike. Which I had now definitely decided to do.

“There you go,” I said, signing the document with the wee biro on the string and handing the clipboard back. “In for a penny, eh?”

The receptionist peered at my signature. “Cheese,” she said. “Gary Cheese. That’s a pretty stupid name, isn’t it?”

“You’ve really blown any chance you had of having sex with me,” I told her.

Mr Holland came out of his office to welcome me. He escorted me to my little booth the next door along, reacquainted me with my duties, in case I had forgotten some of them, patted me upon my shoulder as I sat down upon my chair, wished me well and departed, shutting the door behind him.

I looked at my wristwatch. It was now seven-thirty of the early-day clock. I really should have been home in my cosy bed. But here I was. Here in this – I sniffed –
smelly
little room. It smelled of wee-wee, not ozone. Waiting for a light bulb to go on. Oh well, it was a living.

I leaned back, put my feet up on the table, took out my book and settled down to chapter one.

At eight forty-five my light bulb went on. So I switched it off again.

It came on once more at eleven-fifteen. Again at twelve-twenty, and at one o’clock I went for lunch.

At one-o-five I was back at my table.

“Have you gone insane?” cried Mr Holland, who had collared me in the corridor. “Leaving the bulb booth unattended!” Veins stood out on his neck. His face had an unhealthy glow.

“I was going off for my lunch,” I told him. “One o’clock is lunchtime. Everyone knows that.”

“You brought sandwiches, surely?”

“Do you mean to say that I don’t get a proper lunch hour?”

“Aaagh!” went Mr Holland. “The bulb’s gone on. Switch it off! Switch it off!”

I reached out a languid hand and slowly switched it off.

“Phew,” said Mr Holland. “That was a close thing. Now, do
not
leave this booth again until it’s time for you to clock off.”

“I never clocked on,” I said. “No one told me about clocking on.”

Mr Holland shook his head sadly. “Then, that’s cost you half a day’s pay, hasn’t it? As this is your first day, I will break protocol and clock you on now myself. Although it’s more than my job’s worth to do it.”

“I’ll be for ever in your debt,” I said bitterly. “But actually I need the toilet, so I’ll have to pop out anyway.”

“Didn’t you bring a bag?” asked Mr Holland.

“A bag? What are you talking about?”

“Your predecessor, Mr Hurst, was so dedicated to his profession that he had a colostomy bag fitted. Paid for the operation out of his own money. Or
her
money at the end. It was confusing. But you should think about doing the same. It can be agony holding it in until home time.”

“I have no intention of ‘holding it in’ until home time,” I said. “I need a pee and I need it now.”