funny thing happened: the whole episode had calmed Alan down. He didn't need to go back outside for a cigarette or escape to my loo to calm himself down.
We had a FABULOUS meal that Christmas. (No, it wasn't out of a fable: it was spectacular.) And after Christmas Day lunch when we'd washed up and tidied, stretched our legs and watched a bit of TV and snoozed, and while Yeliena and Alan were asleep Belinda again motioned upstairs with her eyes. I feigned puzzlement. She mouthed, Unfinished business. So, up we went. I'm so glad I met Belinda. And yet if I hadn't gone to the doctor on that particular day and if I hadn't chosen that specific chemist to dispense my prescription I'd never have met her; and she's infinitely more desirable than Cybernurse or Ffion.
So, I just lie here full of tubes, in this place which some of us call home, and tinkle the ivories—or clatter the plastics.
They keep encouraging me to write things down, so that's what I'm doing. Most concerned for my well-being. They ask me questions: how do I feel? Do I feel any better since I came here? Do I like the food...? What do I think of...?
But we're not going to let the facts get in the way of reality. Are we? Not let the truth obscure the story. Right: so, listen:
You asked me for a story; I've given it to you. Now, you're going to want the whole thing wrapped up. So, you're going to want a rapid wrap up. Aren't you? Sudden death... Here goes:
Looking back I can see three personae: the Charlie who wrote software; Charlie the character in Cybernurse ; then there was another. Who was that other?
Anyway, here I now lie full of tubes; I've got my screen, keyboard and mouse in front of me: all my inputs and outputs taken care of. No, there's no Cybernurse, Cyberdoc or CyberMed; there's no salvation through Cyberdoll, Ffion or Belinda. Guess it's down to me, then. Figure one day I'll find the courage to remove all these tubes, all these inputs and outputs. What'll happen to the screen, then? Will it fill with zigzags or go blank? But I have this idea: that once all the tubes are out, and the PC goes dead, I'll still be alive...or life will begin, or start to begin. Real life.
Wow, buddies! Real life... Now, I wonder what that's like?
16
He stood at the doorway in his mack, like a short Graham Greene; behind him Ffion, the gangster's moll.
Hi, Charlie.'
It was Boxing Day and everyone had gone for a walk after lunch—roast pork, potatoes, medley of vegetables—and there he was as large as life, and as small as reality, in his waterproof—his dinky little coat.
Ffion remained silent.
I said, 'That's a nasty gash on your face.'
'The M25 is unforgiving,' he said, unmoved.
It was Martin, the chameleon, whom I knew of old: this guy could change his identity—his heft, thrust and twang; and adopt several aliases within the same paragraph. For a moment I recalled a short story (written in the first person and present tense) in which a man is executed by a firing squad. Present tense? First person? Begs the question, eh? But there stood little Martin—Little Martin—in his mack, like a character from Greeneland. Would he pull a revolver, insert a bullet, spin the chamber and give me first go? No. Instead, he said,
'Time for a chat, Charlie?'
I invited him in, offered them both a seat but they chose to stand. He said:
'Charlie, did you know you carried the look of a loser?'
'So, you're a winner—are you—and the one behind this all along?'
He nodded tiredly. It was beginning to make sense. I said, 'Yeah, I'd often felt the push of an arm on mine...a light touch.'
'Trying to guide you, Charlie.'
'But I crapped it?'
He didn't even bother to nod. Ffion said:
'You've been reading too many books, Charlie.'
From his pocket he produced the gun:
'It's curtains for you, Charlie.'
'Bit of a cliché—?'
'—Crematorium curtains.'
I thought he was joking, that this was part of the scheme. Ffion stood by impassively. Bringing the gun
We had a FABULOUS meal that Christmas. (No, it wasn't out of a fable: it was spectacular.) And after Christmas Day lunch when we'd washed up and tidied, stretched our legs and watched a bit of TV and snoozed, and while Yeliena and Alan were asleep Belinda again motioned upstairs with her eyes. I feigned puzzlement. She mouthed, Unfinished business. So, up we went. I'm so glad I met Belinda. And yet if I hadn't gone to the doctor on that particular day and if I hadn't chosen that specific chemist to dispense my prescription I'd never have met her; and she's infinitely more desirable than Cybernurse or Ffion.
So, I just lie here full of tubes, in this place which some of us call home, and tinkle the ivories—or clatter the plastics.
They keep encouraging me to write things down, so that's what I'm doing. Most concerned for my well-being. They ask me questions: how do I feel? Do I feel any better since I came here? Do I like the food...? What do I think of...?
But we're not going to let the facts get in the way of reality. Are we? Not let the truth obscure the story. Right: so, listen:
You asked me for a story; I've given it to you. Now, you're going to want the whole thing wrapped up. So, you're going to want a rapid wrap up. Aren't you? Sudden death... Here goes:
Looking back I can see three personae: the Charlie who wrote software; Charlie the character in Cybernurse ; then there was another. Who was that other?
Anyway, here I now lie full of tubes; I've got my screen, keyboard and mouse in front of me: all my inputs and outputs taken care of. No, there's no Cybernurse, Cyberdoc or CyberMed; there's no salvation through Cyberdoll, Ffion or Belinda. Guess it's down to me, then. Figure one day I'll find the courage to remove all these tubes, all these inputs and outputs. What'll happen to the screen, then? Will it fill with zigzags or go blank? But I have this idea: that once all the tubes are out, and the PC goes dead, I'll still be alive...or life will begin, or start to begin. Real life.
Wow, buddies! Real life... Now, I wonder what that's like?
16
He stood at the doorway in his mack, like a short Graham Greene; behind him Ffion, the gangster's moll.
Hi, Charlie.'
It was Boxing Day and everyone had gone for a walk after lunch—roast pork, potatoes, medley of vegetables—and there he was as large as life, and as small as reality, in his waterproof—his dinky little coat.
Ffion remained silent.
I said, 'That's a nasty gash on your face.'
'The M25 is unforgiving,' he said, unmoved.
It was Martin, the chameleon, whom I knew of old: this guy could change his identity—his heft, thrust and twang; and adopt several aliases within the same paragraph. For a moment I recalled a short story (written in the first person and present tense) in which a man is executed by a firing squad. Present tense? First person? Begs the question, eh? But there stood little Martin—Little Martin—in his mack, like a character from Greeneland. Would he pull a revolver, insert a bullet, spin the chamber and give me first go? No. Instead, he said,
'Time for a chat, Charlie?'
I invited him in, offered them both a seat but they chose to stand. He said:
'Charlie, did you know you carried the look of a loser?'
'So, you're a winner—are you—and the one behind this all along?'
He nodded tiredly. It was beginning to make sense. I said, 'Yeah, I'd often felt the push of an arm on mine...a light touch.'
'Trying to guide you, Charlie.'
'But I crapped it?'
He didn't even bother to nod. Ffion said:
'You've been reading too many books, Charlie.'
From his pocket he produced the gun:
'It's curtains for you, Charlie.'
'Bit of a cliché—?'
'—Crematorium curtains.'
I thought he was joking, that this was part of the scheme. Ffion stood by impassively. Bringing the gun
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