The Fandom of the Operator (15 page)

It was engaged! Can you believe that?

Engaged?

I slammed down the phone and I fumed not a little.

Stupid, I said to myself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I’ve been had. They think I’m a new bob. They’re winding me up. They’ll be out there laughing. I peered out through the glass windows of the phone box.

But no one was out there laughing.

No one.

They were all out there going about their business, carrying bulbs or clipboards, moving up and down stairways and along gantries. They weren’t looking in my direction.

I took the telephone handset and I dialled again. And this time a distant bell began to ring.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Like old-fashioned phones used to do.

And then there was a click and a voice said, “Hello. Who’s that?”

And it was the voice of my daddy.

My dead daddy.

It was really his voice.

My throat was suddenly very dry indeed and my heart began to pound like crazy in my chest.

“Hello,” said my daddy’s voice again. “Who’s there? Is there anybody there?”

I gagged and swallowed and I said, “Daddy, is that you?”

“Who’s that?” said the voice of my father. “Gary, is that you?”

“It’s me,” I said. “Is that really you?”

“Of course it’s me. Who did you think it was?”

“But you’re, well … you’re …”

“I’m
dead
,” said my father. “We do use the ‘D’ word here. What are you doing up at this time of night? You should have been in bed by eight.”

“I’m all grown up,” I said. “I’m not a little boy any more.”

“Yes, well, I knew that. I’m not stupid. How old are you now? thirteen, fourteen?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“As old as that. Time’s different here. Because there isn’t any, I suppose.”

“Is that really, really you?”

“Have you been drinking?” asked my daddy.

“No,” I said. “No. But I can’t believe that I’m really talking to you. You being, you know,
dead
and everything.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’re thrilled. So what do you want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“So why are you bloody bothering me? Can’t you let me rest in peace?”

“I’m speaking to you,” I said. “I’m alive and you’re dead and I’m actually speaking to you.”

“Well, that’s no big deal. Spiritualists do it all the time. Although mostly we just ignore them. Lot of fat ugly women or nancy-boy men, most of them. Who’d want to speak to that bunch of losers, eh?”

“Quite so,” I said. “But, Daddy, this really is you and I’m speaking to you. This is incredible. Incredible. This is wonderful. This is amazing.”

“I’m not impressed,” said my daddy.

“I am,” I said.

“Then you’re easily impressed, son. But I’ll tell you something. If you want to be
really
impressed, I know something absolutely fantastic. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, I would,” I said. “I would.”

“All right,” said the Daddy. “Then listen up good, because—”

Then he got cut off.

And then the line went dead.

“
You bollard!” I shouted. “You gimping no-nads!”

But I wasn’t shouting at my daddy. I was shouting at Barry.

I was back in the bulb booth now and I was shouting at Barry.

Loudly.

And I was waving my arms about and making fists with my fingers.

Violently.

“You switched me off! You fugging switched me off!”

I shouted loudly as I waved my arms and made my fists. “You brusting swabster!”

“I’ve never heard such language,” said Barry, “and I did nothing of the kind. What are you talking about?”

“The bulb flashed on and you switched it off.”

“And
you’re
complaining about
that
?”

“Of course I’m complaining. You stupid bulb-monkey. You switched me off.”

“I do wish you’d calm down, man,” said Barry. “All this shouting is giving me a headache.”

I took Barry by the throat and shook him all about.

“Gggmmmuurgh …” went Barry, eyes popping out and face turning red.

“Upstairs,” I shouted. “Upstairs on the seventeenth floor. There’s this huge computer room thing and it’s all to do with frequencies and stuff. And there’s a telephone box and …”

“Mmphgrmm …” went Barry, face rather purple now.

“And you can dial up the dead. That’s what FLATLINE is. A hot line to the dead. And I was talking to my daddy and you switched off the bulb, you stupid … Barry, are you listening to me?”

But Barry’s face had gone rather blue.

I let him sink to the floor and I nudged him a bit in the ribs with the toe of my boot.

Barry took to coughing and gagging and curling into the foetal position.

“Are you listening to me?” I asked him once again.

“Yes, yes.” And Barry waved a limp-looking hand. “Don’t kick me any more.”

“I wasn’t kicking, I was nudging.”

“Then don’t nudge, please.” And Barry was sick on the floor.

Of
my
bulb booth.

My … I prepared to put the boot in some more, but halted my boot in mid swing.
My
bulb booth. Where the
bulb-monkey
sat. Of course it wasn’t Barry’s fault. What did he and I know? We knew nothing. We just switched the bulb off. But at least I now knew why.

“I’m sorry,” I said and I dragged Barry up and deposited him in the chair. “I’m sorry. I got a bit stressed there. Are you OK?”

“No,” spluttered Barry, feeling at his crumpled windpipe.

“Well, I’m sorry. But how would you feel? Talking to your dead father on the phone and someone cuts you off.”

“And I did
that
?” Barry looked up at me with eyes all red and tearful.

“That’s what the bulb does. Operatives up there are given three minutes to speak to a dead person of their choice. Then the bulb flashes here and we switch them off.”

“Why?” Barry managed to say.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I actually talked to my dead father.”

“Why?” went Barry once more.

“I just said that I don’t know.”

Barry coughed a bit more and wiped away some flecks of vomit from his mouth. “The second why meant: why did you talk to your father?”

“That’s a pretty stupid question, isn’t it?”

“Are you kidding?” said Barry, which had me rather confused.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“What I’m talking about” – Barry coughed a bit more – “what I’m talking about is: you had the chance to speak to the dead person of your choice and you chose to speak to your father. Why?”

“Eh?” I said.

“I mean, it didn’t cross your mind to speak to someone really special instead, such as …”

“Aaaagh!” I went, clapping my hands to my face.

“Such as P.P. Penrose,” said Barry. “That’s who I would have spoken to.”

“Aaaagh!” I went once more and I punched myself right in the face.

“Now
that
must have really hurt,” said Barry, as I struggled to pick myself up from the floor.

“You fell down in the vomit,” Barry continued and he laughed. Or tried to. Then he vomited some more.

“My God,” I said. I was up on my knees and rocking somewhat on them. “I could have spoken to Mr Penrose, but I chose to speak to my wretched father. What was I thinking of?”

“Perhaps you miss your dad,” was Barry’s suggestion.

“No, I fugging don’t.”

Barry shook his head painfully. “But this is
really
true?” he said. “That’s what they’re doing up there? Talking to the dead? I thought it was something to do with extraterrestrial life or some such toot. But it’s really the dead? This is incredible. This is unlike anything. This is really truly far-out, man. I mean, the dead. At the end of a phone line, the dead.”

“It’s the dead,” I said. “It’s really the dead.”

“Then I want a go. Lend me your white coat and your light bulb.”

“Stuff that,” I said. “You’re on duty. You do it in your own time.”

“What? And have
you
switch
me
off?”

I looked at the bulb and Barry looked at the bulb and then on some metaphysical level certain thoughts were exchanged.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Barry.

“If it’s what I’m thinking, then yes,” I said.

“I’m thinking chats with the dead,” said Barry. “Lots of chats with the dead and all a lot longer than three measly minutes.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding my head. “I’m up for that. But how and when?”

“Both easy,” said Barry. “After eleven, when they all go home.”

“Hold on,” I said. “They
all
go home after eleven? Does that mean that the bulb never flashes after eleven?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Barry. “I usually get my head down for some sleep after eleven. I have to be up bright and early in the morning. I have another job as a milkman. I’m saving up to be a millionaire.”

I made a fist, but I didn’t use it. “So Developmental Services closes at eleven?”

“It has as long as I’ve been working here. The bulb never flashes after eleven. In fact, there’s hardly anyone left in the building. That’s how I traced where the wire went. There’s only the night watchman and he just sits at the front desk reading nudie books.”

“All right,” I said. “After eleven it is.”

And so we waited until after eleven. We listened at the bulb-booth door as the technicians chatted and smoked before clocking off for the night. And then when all was still and quiet we left the bulb booth and took the lift to the seventeenth floor.

“It will all be locked up, won’t it?” I asked as we sidled up the corridor towards room 23.

Barry shrugged as he sidled. “Dunno,” he said. “I traced the wire up to this floor, but I never tried any of the doors. I was going to, but then” – he shrugged again – “I couldn’t be arsed. I was just so sure that it would be a terrible disappointment, so I didn’t bother.”

“Fair enough,” I said, although I wasn’t altogether convinced. We had reached the door to room 23, so I put my ear against it.

“Hear anything?” Barry asked.

I withdrew my ear and shook my head. And then I tried the handle. And the door was locked.

“Let’s kick it open,” said Barry. “Stuff it, who cares?”

“I do,” I said. “If we can get away with this without anyone knowing, we can do it every night.”

“Good point. Which leaves us stuffed. Unless you happen to know how to pick locks.”

I grinned at Barry. “Of course I do,” I said. “My friend Dave, who is a criminal by profession, taught me. All I need is a couple of paperclips.”

“No problem,” said Barry, producing them out of thin air.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“My friend the Great Gandini taught me. He’s a magician by profession. Used to do an act in Count Otto’s dad’s circus.”

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“Well, it’s as believable as your mate Dave teaching you how to pick locks.”

I took the paperclips and picked the lock.

“Coincidence is a wonderful thing,” said Barry. “Let’s go and talk to the dead.”

The lights were still on in room 23. All the lights. All the bulbs, flashing and flickering, going on and off.

“It’s a Mother Board,” said Barry, staring up in awe.

“What is a Mother Board?” I asked him.

“It’s the central framework of a computer.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that would explain it. It’s a
very
big computer. Come on, I’ll take you to the phone box.”

And I took Barry to the phone box.

“Right,” said Barry, rubbing his hands together. “So what do I have to dial?”

“You dial in the full name of the deceased person and the date of their death. Then multiply the figure that comes up on the screen by the age of the person when they died and take away the year they were born in and, wallah, you have your dialling code.”

“And it’s as simple as
that
?”

“I suppose the big computer does all the calculations and works out the frequencies and stuff.”

“Fair enough.” Barry opened the phone-box door. “Let’s go and speak to Mr Penrose.”

“Now, hold on,” I said. “If anyone’s going to speak to him, I think that someone should be me.”

“Why?” Barry asked. “It was my idea. You wanted to speak to your dad. I suggested Mr Penrose.”

“It should be me,” I said.

“No, it shouldn’t,” said Barry.

“Should,” I said.

“Shouldn’t.”

And so I hit Barry right in the face.

“That is so unfair,” said Barry, dabbing at his bloody nostrils. “You wouldn’t be up here if it wasn’t for me.”

“That is so a lie,” I told him. “But stuff it, I don’t care, you go first, if you want.”

“Thanks,” said Barry and he went into the phone box, took up the receiver and dialled the name and the numbers. Then he waited for a bit and then he slammed down the receiver and came out and scowled at me.

“It didn’t work,” he said. “It did nothing. This is all a wind-up, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” I said. “I spoke to my dead dad.”

“Are you sure they weren’t just pulling some trick on you up here?”

“No, I thought of that. It worked. It was real.”

“Well, it doesn’t work. I dialled him up. It didn’t work.”

“It must work. What did you dial?”

“I dialled up P.P. Penrose and the date he died and all that other stuff.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because you’re a twonk. His real name wasn’t P.P. Penrose. It was
Charles
Penrose. My daddy knew him. I was at his wake, you know.”

“You never were?”

“I was, and at his funeral.”

“And were you at the exhumation, when they found him all mashed up in the coffin because he’d been buried alive?”

A terrible shiver went down my spine. “No,” I said. “I wasn’t at that. Terrible, that was. Horrible.”

“Yeah,” said Barry. “So go on, then, if his name was Charles. Dial him up.”

My hand was on the door, but suddenly I felt rather sick. I was the one who’d done that to Mr Penrose. Brought him back to life in his coffin with voodoo. Put him through hideous torment until death had taken him again. I wasn’t so sure that I really wanted to speak to him. What if he knew it was me? There was no telling what the dead might know about the living. What they could see. Where, exactly, they
were
. He
might
know I’d done it. He wouldn’t be too pleased to speak to me.

“You do it,” I said. “You dial him up again.”

“Why not you?”

“Do you want to speak to him or
not
?”

“I do,” said Barry and he waited outside, while I did the dialling this time. And it took me a couple of goes to get it right. Because the real date of Mr Penrose’s real departure was the day that he died, for the second time, in his coffin.

At the other end of the line a distant bell began to ring. I opened the door, handed the phone to Barry, went outside and listened.

“Hello,” I heard Barry say. “Hello. Mr Penrose, is that you?”

And something must have been said in reply, because Barry turned to me and gave a thumbs-up. I gave a thumbs-up back to him and he turned away once more and went on speaking.

And speaking.

And listening.

And speaking some more …

And some more …

I looked at my wristwatch. It was now twelve-thirty. I bashed my fist on the glass of the door. Barry turned and made sssh-ing noises.

I dragged open the door.

Barry put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Go away,” he said. “I’m talking to Mr Penrose.”

“Well, I want a go.”

“Do you want to speak to him?”

“Er, no,” I said. “Not at this moment.”

“Then, go away. Come back in half an hour.”

“No,” I said. “I won’t.”

“Well, who do
you
want to speak to, then?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Then, go away and think of someone.”

I let the telephone-box door swing shut. I so, so, so wanted to talk to Mr Penrose. Tell him I was sorry. Ask him to forgive me. Just to talk to him. But I confess I was scared. I know I should have been scared anyway. After all, he
was
dead. This was a pretty big number. But it was more than the business of awakening his corpse in his coffin. It was the matter of speaking to
him
. To P.P. Penrose, the greatest writer of the twentieth century. The creator of Lazlo Woodbine. Penrose was my hero. I was a fan.

I was totally stuffed.

And so I just stood there, outside the phone box, while Barry rabbited on and on, then listened, then rabbited on some more.

And then, at four-fifteen in the morning, Barry came out of the phone box.

“Finished, have you?” I asked in a tone that was far from friendly.

“I have to go,” said Barry. “To the toilet. I’m bursting for a piss.”

I glanced towards the phone. The receiver was down. “He’s gone, then, has he?”

“Yeah, he had to go for his lunch. Time is different there. Everything is different there. Well, not everything. Actually, it’s mostly— No, listen, I really do have to go to the toilet. Use the phone now. Call someone.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You’re acting really weird,” said Barry. “Go on, call someone. It’s no problem – they’re really anxious to say hello. They’re dying to talk. Hey, that’s a good’n, isn’t it,
dying
to talk.”