The Fandom of the Operator (26 page)

“But reanimation, for those killed in the course of their duties, was written into the standard work contract for the Ministry of Serendipity. My secretary reanimated me only hours after I’d been run down. And quite right too, because I’m important. But of course everyone involved had loved ones, and when one of them died they wanted them brought back to life. It all grew and it got out of control. Did you know that there are towns in this country where the dead outnumber the living?”

I shook my head.

“Ever heard of Hove?” asked Mr Boothy.

I shook my head again.

“Well, believe me, it’s a real problem. And I’m here heading up this Ministry. And now
I’m
dead.”

“You’re lying,” I said. “You gave evidence at my trial. You’re being controlled by an alien.”

“You’re so right,” said Mr Boothy. “I
was
being controlled then. But I was
alive
then. I’m not now. You see, a knackered transit van ran over me outside the prison last week. It was making a speedy getaway. I understand that the woman who was driving the van had stolen your body from the prison graveyard.”

“Tough luck,” I said, though I couldn’t disguise a smile. “But about the dead aliens—”

“Listen to me, Gary,” said Mr Boothy. “Forget about those dead aliens. Dismiss those dead aliens from your mind. They’re not what you think.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Dead aliens is what this is all about.”

“P.P. Penrose is what this is all about,” said Mr Boothy.

I scratched at my head. And bits of my head fell off.

“Careful on my carpet,” said Mr Boothy. “I’ve just had it cleaned.”

“I’m going to shoot you again,” I said. “Try to die this time, will you?”

“You’ve heard of P.P. Penrose, haven’t you?” said Mr Boothy.

“My favourite author,” I said. “I’m his biggest fan.”

“And you like all those Lazlo Woodbine thrillers?”

“Brilliant. I love them.”

“And what about the Adam Earth series?”

“His science-fiction books? They’re rubbish. Everyone agrees on that.”

“Pity,” said Mr Boothy. “Because you’ve been drawn into them. You’re part of them. You and most of mankind.”

“Rubbish,” I said. “Do you mind if I shoot you again? I feel compelled.”

“Help yourself. But mind the face. Don’t touch the face.”

I emptied the gun into Mr Boothy’s chest.

“Feel better?” he said. “Did it help?”

“Not much, apparently.”

“Then let me continue. Mr Penrose died in nineteen fifty-nine, in a bizarre vacuum-cleaning incident.”

“I know,” I said. “I went to his funeral.”

“I know you did,” said Mr Boothy, nodding his head and patting his dog. “And did you read his biography that was published this year – P.P. Penrose:
The Man Who Was Lazlo Woodbine
, by Macgillicudy Val Der Mar?”

“Er, no,” I said. “Although I did attend the launch party.”

“Yes, I know that too,” said Mr Boothy. “You do turn up in the darnedest places. Well, had you read his biography you would have learned that Mr Penrose got really fed up with writing Lazlo Woodbine thrillers. He even tried to kill Laz off at one point.”

“In
The Final Solution
,” I said. “He had Laz plunge to his death over the Reichenbach Falls with his archenemy Montmorency.”

“That’s right. But the public wouldn’t have it. The public demanded
more
Woodbine. So he wrote the ‘Return’ series.”

“It wasn’t as good,” I said. “But it was still brilliant. And certainly better than that Adam Earth rubbish.”

“Well, had you read the biography, you’d have learned that P.P. Penrose did not want to be remembered for the Lazlo Woodbine books. He really wanted to be remembered for the Adam Earth series, his science-fiction books.”

“But they were rubbish,” I said. “The characters had all these stupid names like Zador Startrouser of the quilted codpiece, or whatever.”

“Yes, didn’t they,” said Mr Boothy, with a grin. “In fact, you’ll find many of the so-called True Names – the names of the dead aliens who control humans – in those books. That’s where the names come from.”

“You’re telling me that real aliens adopted fictitious names?”

“No, that’s not what I’m telling you at all. Something happened to P.P. Penrose, happened to him after he died. It turned him from being a sporting man and a good-natured novelist, who was merely a bit miffed that his science-fiction books weren’t recognized as his greatest works, into a deeply embittered dead man. A dead man, it seems, who violently hates the living.”

“I wonder what might have done that to him,” I said.

“Probably being awakened in his grave,” said Mr Boothy.

“Oh,” I said.

“Yes, oh. He thought it all up, all of it. Invented the dead aliens who control the living. Gave them life from beyond the grave. He’s responsible for it all. One man, but many now he’s dead. He’s all of those dead aliens, such as Valdec Firesword, Archduke of Alpha Centuri, that’s you, and Lady Fairflower of the Rainbow Mountains, your wife Sandra: all thought up by P.P. Penrose. All characters from his books. That dead man has a remarkable imagination. And it’s even bigger now, beyond the grave.”

“And you’re telling me that all of this is down to him? The alien that possessed me and made me kill people, he invented this alien?”

“That’s what novelists do: invent characters. Operation Orpheus gave a gifted novelist the opportunity to make his imaginary characters real. To let a dead man control live people. Let him project his characters into the brains of the living. It was an accident waiting to happen. We just didn’t know it at the time.”

“So he did it to
me
,” I said.

“You were a fan,” said Mr Boothy. “His greatest fan, you said. You were therefore susceptible to his ideas. Don’t forget the word fan is short for
fanatic
. You’ve spent most of your life being a character in one of Mr Penrose’s post-life novels.”

“I’m speechless,” I said.

And I was.

And I was made all the more speechless because I realized that it was all my fault. If I hadn’t reanimated him in his coffin, he might never have done any of this. He was getting his own back on the living because of what one of the living had done to him after he died. It was all
my
fault.

I felt sick inside, I can tell you. I felt wretched. I wanted to blurt it all out to Mr Boothy; own up to what I’d done. But I didn’t. Because you don’t, do you? When things are all your fault you never own up. You deny. And if you can’t deny, you make excuses. Or you simply refuse to believe it.

“I simply refuse to believe this,” I said. “There are too many loose ends. Like, for instance, how come you know this. When did you find it out?”

“I found it out when I died. When the dead alien creation no longer controlled me. You must have experienced the same thing when you died. I have contacted experts in the field of this kind of thing. Reanimated experts, of course. We’ve pooled our knowledge. There’s no mistake about it. Mr Penrose is behind all this. He’s playing games with humanity. Role-playing games, based on the plots of his science-fiction books.”

I looked once more at my watch. “Not for much longer,” I said. “I have to go.”

“Oh, don’t leave just yet.” Mr Boothy gave his dog some more patting. “You’ll miss the best bit.”

“Sadly so,” I said. “I would have loved to stay and be part of it.”

“The big explosion, do you mean?”

“Well, actually, yes.”

Mr Boothy shook his head.

A knock came at his office door.

“Enter,” called Mr Boothy.

The door swung open and in walked Dave. And in walked Sandra. Dave looked somewhat the worse for wear. He sported a big black eye. Sandra looked well though. Well, as well as she could.

Two men followed after Sandra and Dave. Big men, both, and carrying guns.

“Surprise,” said Mr Boothy.

“
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 reanimated 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 justice—”

“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 reanimated 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 would have 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
.