The Fandom of the Operator

13

It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?

If Sandra hadn’t gone off on that caravan holiday with Count Otto Black, I would never have put in that bit of overtime and found out just how useless Barry was at the bulb.

It was honestly as if he didn’t care.

Can you believe that?

I was standing there, talking to him about switch technique and what I called “alert-finger” and the bulb flashed. And Barry just reached out across the table, slow as you please, as if he was answering a telephone, and flapped his hand down on the switch.

I was flabbergasted.

I was stunned.

Stunned, appalled, and flabbergasted.

All at once.

“That is so bad,” I said to Barry. “That is so bad. I can’t believe how so, so, so, so, so, so bad that is.”

“It’s just a bulb,” said Barry. “Just a fugging bulb.”

“Curb that language in this booth,” I said to Barry. “This is not just a bulb.”

“So, what is it, then, a way of life?”

“It’s a job for life. And I’ve worked at it for five long years of mine. And it’s a responsibility. A big responsibility. It’s your responsibility when you’re on your shift.”

“Get a life,” said Barry. “Get real.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” I said. “I spy anarchism here. I spy subversion. I smell recidivism.”

“You smell wee-wee,” said Barry. “And it’s yours.”

“No wee-wee on me,” I said. “Sniff my groin if you have any doubts.”

“Smells of teen spirit,” said Barry. Whatever that meant.

“You’ll have to apply yourself more to the job,” I told him.

“Barking,” said Barry. “Barking mad.”

“I’ve never been to Barking,” I told him. “I can get mad about Penge, perhaps. But never Barking.”

“Fugg off home,” said Barry. “I want to read my book.”

“You can’t read a book here. You have to be ever alert.”

“I have to switch a stupid bulb off when it comes on. I’ll read my book until it does.”

I opened my mouth very wide but no words at all came out of it.

“I’m reading Passport to Peril,” said Barry. “It’s a Lazlo Woodbine thriller. Not that you’d know about that, I’m sure.”

“On the contrary, young man,” I said. “I’ve read every Lazlo Woodbine thriller at least a dozen times. I know the lot. By heart, most, if not all, of them.”

“Yeah, right,” said Barry.

“Yeah, right indeed.”

“Oh, so if I was to ask you a question about Lazlo Woodbine, you’d know the answer, would you?”

“I applied to go on Mastermind answering questions on the detective novels of P.P. Penrose as my specialist subject. I didn’t get picked, though.”

“All right, I’ll ask you questions.”

“Not here,” I said. “The bulb might flash.”

“Fugg the bulb,” said Barry. “If it flashes, I’ll switch it off.”

“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, OK. But who ‘ate his way to freedom’ and never used the word ‘nigger’ 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.”[17]

“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 hungovered 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, ‘OK, 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, ‘OK, 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, OK, 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, OK, 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 OK. You know that. You’re OK.”

“I’m not OK,” I said. “I’m all messed up. Once upon a time I was OK. 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 OK?” asked Barry. “You look as if a distant bell is ringing in your head.”

“I’m OK,” 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 not 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.”

“OK,” 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.”