The Fandom of the Operator

26

OK. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that this is all really far-fetched. You’re probably thinking that it’s ludicrous and foolish and that I’m just making it up as I go along. Well, frankly, I don’t blame you. If anyone had ever told me a tale like this, I wouldn’t have believed them. I would probably have punched them.

In fact, I might well have killed them.

But that was then, whenever then was, and this was now. And in this now, here was I, victim of cosmic circumstance, dragged back from an eternity of bliss and rattling along in the back of a knackered transit van in the company of a very great deal of explosive.

It was quite clear to me that a considerable degree of forward planning had gone into this operation. A lot of work had been done on the part of Dave and Sandra, before they brought me back from the dead.

I confess that I was slightly baffled. I’d never had Dave down as anything but dodgy. The thought of him caring a jam tiddly about mankind and wanting to play a part in “saving the world” didn’t seem to fit.

But then, love can do strange things to a man. And it seemed obvious to me that Dave was in love with my Sandra. I don’t know what it was about that woman that men found so attractive. Well, actually, I do because I had fallen under her spell. She was a very pretty girl, or had been while alive. And when it came to impersonating ponies, she was definitely in a class of her own. And I think that, even given everything – her infidelities with Count Otto and probably others – she was a good person.

But, like I say, here I was, rattling along in the back of another stolen van, en route for Mornington Crescent, thinking to myself that I’d rather be anywhere else but here. In fact, everywhere else but here.

At which point the extremely obvious hit me right in the face. And a plan of my own entered my poor dead head.

And, as it was an absolute blinder of a plan, it made me smile very much and feel rather happy inside.

A kind of blissful glow.

Which, of course, due to the nature of things, could not be allowed to continue for long.

“Stop van, Dave,” said Sandra. “She do.”

“She?” said Dave, stopping the van.

“Sandra want body,” said Sandra. “That body.” And she pointed out of the window. “She do for body.”

“Oh no, please,” I said, cowering down in the back of the van. “Please don’t make me. Please.”

“Gary, fetch body now,” said Sandra. “Now!”

I will spare you the details and the horror. And as the horror is always in the details, these two are one and the same.

“Happy now?” I said, ten minutes later, as I wiped the blood from my hands.

Dave drove on and he cast an approving eye over the latest Sandra. “It’s a very nice body,” he said. “It really suits you, Sandra.”

“Sandra know what Dave like,” said Sandra.

I sat and stewed in the back. My wife and my bestest friend. I now really hated both of them.

“You OK in the back there, Gary?” called Dave.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Never better.”

“Good lad.”

“You’ll get yours,” I whispered. And I meant it.

When we finally reached Mornington Crescent it was around midnight. The good old witching hour. I sat in the back of that van, picking loose bits from my fingers and thinking that my life would have been oh so different if I’d been born someone else entirely. Someone destined to be rich and famous, perhaps. Rather than poor and notorious. But Casey Rahserah, or whoever it is, whatever will be will probably be.

“We’re going down the secret tunnel,” said Dave.

“Oh, good-oh,” said I.

And down the secret tunnel we went.

After a prolonged period of secret-tunnel travelling, Dave brought the transit to a halt, got out, came around and opened up the rear doors.

“We’re here,” he said. “Time for you to do your stuff.”

“And my stuff would be what, exactly?” I climbed out of the van.

“Special mission,” said Dave. “Sandra will tell you all about it.”

Sandra danced into view. She looked exceedingly sprightly with her nice fresh body. “Gary take this,” she said.

“And what is this?” I saw what this was. “No,” I said. “I don’t want to take that.”

“Take gun,” said Sandra, because this (and that) was what this (and that) was (or were).

I took the gun from Sandra.

“Gary go shoot Mr Boothy,” said Sandra. “Shoot all intraterrestrials too. Gary do this.”

“I don’t want to do this,” I told Sandra. “I was a serial killer when I was alive. Now you’re asking me to be one after I’m dead.”

“Not asking,” said Sandra. “Commanding. Gary do what Gary commanded.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll do what I’m commanded.”

“Cool,” said Dave. “And while you’re at it, Sandra and I will set all this explosive down here. It will put paid to the entire complex. We’ll have to synchronize watches.”

“I don’t have a watch,” I said. “I think it probably got melted when they fried me in the electric chair.”

“The prison guard nicked it,” said Dave. “But I nicked it back off him.” And Dave gave me my wristwatch. Which was nice, but it didn’t make me hate him any the less.

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

“No problem,” said Dave. “I have five past midnight. What do you have?”

“The same,” I said.

“Well, I’ll give you until half-past. Do your stuff, then find your way to the tube station entrance. We’ll pick you up there. I’ll set the timer on the bomb for 12.31. OK?”

“Fine,” I said. “No problems at all.”

“There is a problem,” said Sandra.

“Oh yes?” I said.

Sandra smiled. “Sandra know what Gary plan,” she said.

“Plan?” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do know,” said Sandra. “Gary plan to let himself get all blown up by explosion. That what Gary plan. Be dead again. That what Gary plan.”

“I was planning no such thing,” I said.

But as you no doubt guessed, I was.

“Gary not do this,” said Sandra. “Sandra command Gary not do this. Gary escape before explosion. Gary understand?”

I nodded my head. Dismally. Very dismally.

“I understand,” I said. “I will do as you command.”

“Good,” said Sandra. “Gary have much atoning for sins to do for Sandra.”

I ground my teeth. One of them fell out.

“Then, we’re all set,” said Dave. “Off you go, then, Gary.”

“I order zombie,” said Sandra.

“Sorry, Sandra,” said Dave.

“Off go then, Gary,” said Sandra. “Follow Sandra commands.”

I nodded one more dismal time and set off on my way.

“Not that way,” called Dave. “That way.”

And I set off that way.

That way led me back to the gantry and all the steps down into the vast hangar where all the ranks of flying saucers were parked. If Sandra had been really smart, she would have ordered me to be really careful, to use the utmost stealth, and go undetected. But she wasn’t really smart, so I just strolled down the stairs and whistled loudly as I strolled.

You’d have thought I was just asking to get caught and executed again. And you would have been right.

At the bottom of the staircase I encountered my first intraterrestrial, a small unassuming kind of fellow. He stared at me with his great black liquid eyes and I just knew that he’d raise the alarm and guards would appear from somewhere and capture me.

So I smiled at him.

And then I shot him dead.

“Damn!” I said, staring at my hand and the pistol. “I really didn’t want to do that.” And, believe me, I didn’t. I’ll throw the gun away, I thought. But I couldn’t. I was compelled. I had been commanded. I was helpless to resist.

It felt really horrible, I can tell you. It’s impossible to explain. I suppose its nearest equivalent would be hypnosis. And in a way that’s sort of what magic is, an altered state. It’s not a higher state; it’s just a different state. But when in that state, everything is different.

And I suppose, as I strolled across the big hangar, potting off intraterrestrials and not cursing myself for doing it because I knew they needed potting off, but cursing myself for doing it because I had no free will in the matter, I realized for the first time in (and after) my life that I was a natural magician.

I had, after all, practised magic successfully. Not just by bringing Mr Penrose and Sandra back from the dead, but in other ways also. There was the matter of my father and of Count Otto – the matter of what happened to them before they died. The sniffing of swatches of tweed in the gents’ outfitters. The outbursts of uncontrollable laughter. The Zulu king stuff and the dressing in robes befitting. And their obsession with the idea that an invisible Chinaman called Frank was driving them to distraction.

That was magic, you see. Very basic stuff, as it happens – sympathetic magic, voodoo magic, if you like. Creating an obsession in an individual. I was very good at it. I could tell you exactly how I made it happen. But I won’t, because it’s a secret.

“Stop,” said someone. “Stop now.”

My gun was up and ready. But I stopped.

“Stop!” said Mr Boothy, for it was he. “No more shooting. No more killing.”

I aimed my gun straight at his head. “Sorry,” I said.

“Wait.” Mr Boothy raised his hands. “Please wait.”

“For what?” I asked. “There’s no waiting left.”

“We should talk. You and me. Before you do this.”

I looked very hard at Mr Boothy. He stood before me, all slim and designer-stubbled, with his two dogs Wibble and Trolley Bus.

“You should at least look surprised to see me,” I said. “I am, after all, dead.”

“I can see that,” said Mr Boothy. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But you might at least look surprised.”

“Nothing surprises me,” said Mr Boothy. “Surprises are for morons. Those in the know just know.”

I cocked my pistol. “I have to shoot you dead,” I told him. “I have no choice in the matter. I have been commanded to do so. But you do have it coming. You and your stupid boffins have been responsible for ruining my life. And not just mine. You really belong dead.”

“We should talk.” Mr Boothy smiled. And I’ll swear that his dogs smiled too.

“No,” I said. “It’s time for you to die. But don’t worry about it. Being dead is great. You’ll love it. Just don’t get in a big state when you’re dead. Go with the flow. Let yourself drift. You can fly all around the universe for ever. That’s the point of death, you see.”

“And you’re telling me that. As if I don’t know.”

“Uh?” I said. “You do know?”

“Of course I know. Here.” Mr Boothy pointed to his chest. “Put a couple of bullets here and then we’ll talk.”

“Do what?” said I.

“Shoot me. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, it is, but—”

“Don’t but me any buts, boy. Shoot me. Go on, do it. Get it out of the way.”

“All right,” I said. And I shot him. Twice. Right in the chest.

Mr Boothy just stood there. He put his fingers into the holes and then he licked those fingers.

“There,” he said. “Now you’ve done your duty. You’ve followed your commands and got it out of the way. Shall we talk now?”

“I am perplexed,” I said.

“I’m dead,” said Mr Boothy. “Like you.”

“I’m really perplexed,” I said.

“It’s no big deal.” Mr Boothy shrugged. “Or, rather, I suppose it is. You see, there’s dead and there’s dead and there’s really dead. Would you like to come to my office and I’ll tell you all about it?”

I looked at my watch. It was twelve-fifteen.

“OK,” I said and I followed him.

An intraterrestrial or two appeared before me on the way and I shot them when I saw them.

“Must you do that?” asked Mr Boothy.

“Sorry,” I said, “but I must.”

“Never mind. Come on, then.”

He led me to his office. It wasn’t much of an office. Nothing fancy. Just basic. A hat stand and a filing cabinet, a water cooler and a desk and a couple of chairs. It put me in mind of Lazlo Woodbine’s office. But this didn’t cheer me very much.

“Sit there,” said Mr Boothy.

I sat where he told me to.

“Drink?” he asked.

“I can’t taste anything,” I said. “But something strong would be nice.”

Mr Boothy poured me something strong. I think it was petrol.

“Bottoms up,” he said. And I drank what he had given me and he drank what he’d poured for himself. Then he sat himself down in the chair behind the desk, which wasn’t much to speak of, so I shall not speak of it here.

“You’re perplexed,” said Mr Boothy, patting a dog which had climbed up onto his knee.

“I am,” I said, patting his other dog, which was humping my leg.

“It’s all been a terrible bols-up,” said Mr Boothy. “Operation Orpheus. Everything really went wrong right from the start. We did get the information we needed that helped us to win the war. But then later, in nineteen fifty-nine, all this alien business kicked in and we didn’t understand what we were dealing with or what was happening to us. By the time we did realize, it was all but too late. We did what we could, we tried to make reparations, but things got out of hand.”

“I am still perplexed,” I said. “What do you mean by reparations?”

“Restoring people to life,” said Mr Boothy. “Those who the aliens had killed in their games. Back in the nineteen fifties, the department, the Ministry of Serendipity, we investigated the possibilities of restoring the dead to life. Books existed, you see, in the restricted sections of the libraries. But I assume you know all about that, or you wouldn’t be here now. You see, whenever someone important to us – a government official, or someone big in office – was killed, we used magic to restore them to life. But you know how chaotic that becomes. They fall to pieces. It’s a real mess.

“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.