The Digested Twenty-first Century

by John Crace

  ‘You’re right. I bet it was Danny. He was about the same age as Robin.’

  ‘There’s a cage of poisonous snakes at Eugene Ratcliff’s. Let’s steal a cobra.’

  Harriett and Hely stood on the bridge. As Danny’s car passed beneath, they tipped the cobra over the parapet.

  ‘We almost killed Danny’s granny,’ cried Harriett.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Hely. ‘We didn’t know she was driving the car.’

  ‘I shure doan trust those kids,’ yelled Farish Ratcliff, ‘an I shure doan trust you. Show me you’ve still got the drugs, or I’ll kill you.’

  ‘The drugs have turned him crazy,’ thought Danny, as he shot Farish in the head. Danny drove out to the water tower. ‘Just get them drugs and get away,’ he told himself. ‘Gosh, I miss Robin. I sure do wonder who killed him.’

  Harriett pulled open some of the packages. She didn’t know what was in them but she knew Danny wouldn’t like it.

  ‘You brat, I’m going to kill you,’ Danny shouted, moments before he drowned.

  ‘Get rid of all the evidence,’ Harriet begged Hely from her hospital bed.

  ‘Poor old Harriett. Fancy having epilepsy,’ murmured her mother.

  ‘You know Harriett had Farish shot and drowned Danny for killing Robin,’ Hely told his brother.

  ‘You’ve been drinking too much coke.’

  Digested read, digested: Small girl with big ambitions gets hopelessly confused in a laboured adventure. Still, she was well paid.

  Cosmopolis by Don DeLillo (2003)

  He paced through his 48-room apartment, past the Borzoi cage, past the shark tank. The yen had risen overnight. Eric Packer didn’t know what he wanted. Then he knew. He wanted a haircut.

  ‘There’s gridlock because the president’s in town,’ said Torval, as the stretch limo pulled into the traffic. ‘You’d be better off not using the car.’

  ‘How do you know we’re in the car and not in the office?’ Eric snarled, staring at his bank of screens.

  He glanced out the window. Was that his wife, Elise, the heiress? ‘I didn’t know you had blue eyes,’ she said.

  ‘When are we going to make love?’ he replied.

  Michael Chin got in the car. ‘I know where there’s a Rothko for sale.’

  ‘I’ll buy the whole gallery.’

  The car stopped to pick up his finance director, Jane Melman. ‘Your position on the yen is critical,’ she said.

  ‘It can’t go any higher,’ he answered, passing her a bottle to masturbate herself.

  They stopped by Dr Ingram’s surgery for his daily check-up. ‘Your prostate is asymmetrical.’

  Back en route, they passed a bookstore. Eric spied his wife again. ‘You smell of sex,’ she whispered.

  ‘Have lunch with me.’

  ‘Is this what I wanted,’ she said, looking at her plate.

  ‘I need a haircut.’

  Eric got back in the limo. The yen had to chart. He was the most powerful man in New York. He made the markets. He was like the famous novelist who could write utter crap and know that neither his editor nor the critics would notice – or dare say a word against him.

  They stopped by the apartment of Kendra Hays, his bodyguard. She kept on her Zyloflex body armour while they had sex. ‘Shoot me with your stun gun,’ he said. ‘I want to know how it feels.’

  He showed no curiosity when he bumped into Elise again. ‘My portfolio is valueless and someone is mounting a credible threat on my life.’

  ‘You still smell of sex.’

  He hacked into her account and stole $735m. Losing it was the best way of resisting it.’ Why am I not interested in he who wants to kill me?’

  ‘Because no one else is,’ yawned Torval.

  Anti-globalisation protesters sprayed paint on the car and a man set himself on fire.

  ‘That’s just not original,’ Eric said, while urinating.

  The barbershop was closed, but Anthony came to him.

  ‘Your hair is ratty.’

  ‘I knew it was time.’

  Elise walked through the door. ‘I’ve lost all your money,’ he said, as he straddled her.

  ‘What do poets know of money? Our marriage is over.’

  Eric heard gunshots. He fired back.

  ‘My name is Richard Sheets,’ said his assailant. ‘I hate you because you made me hate the baht.’

  Eric shot himself in the hand. ‘I’ve got an asymmetric prostate.’

  ‘So have I. But I’ve still got to shoot you.’

  Digested read, digested: A Manhattan journey that is as deadly for us as it is for Eric.

  Notes on a Scandal

  by Zoë Heller (2003)

  This is not a story about me. But since the task of telling it has fallen to me, it is right I should tell you a bit about myself. My name is Barbara Covett. It won’t mean much to you, I’m sure, but you’ll soon recognise my type. I am the unreliable narrator, the first resort for any hack who wants to be taken seriously as a novelist.

  Sheba is upstairs sleeping, so now is a good time to continue. She doesn’t know I am writing an account of last summer’s events. But I think it will be valuable to document the hysterical prurience her actions unleashed.

  I first met Sheba when she came to teach pottery at St George’s. I recognised immediately that she was different to the rest of us – posher, more confident. I kept myself to myself at first. I’d taught at the school for umpteen years and seen many teachers come and go, and I must confess I had my doubts about her.

  She later told me of her first meeting with the Year 11 boy, Connolly. ‘He tried to kiss me,’ she said. ‘You must tell the head,’ I cautioned. ‘Oh, no. It was just an innocent advance. It’s over.’

  This turned out to be far from the truth, but it was not until some months later that Sheba confided in me that she and Connolly were having an affair. ‘It’s so exciting,’ she said, ‘We’re in love.’

  It struck me at the time that it was almost unbelievable for a 40-year-old woman to be so head-over-heels in love with a 15-year-old boy. But then it also struck me as unbelievable that she would have become such good friends with me, a dowdy working-class spinster. Still, it’s only fiction after all.

  ‘You must stop the affair,’ I urged. ‘You’ll damage your family and your career. Think of your poor son with Down’s syndrome whose purpose in life is to create moral dilemmas and engage the reader’s sympathy.’

  Sheba promised she would end it, but her repeated absences suggested otherwise. I must own up here to some envy that she made so little time available for me, and when Brian Bangs, the staff-room Lothario, told me he had a crush on her, I couldn’t resist intimating my knowledge of the affair.

  ‘I think Bangs knows,’ I later warned her, but by then events were out of control. Connolly, I gather, had tired of the affair, but his withdrawal only spurred Sheba to greater follies. She began taking risks and before long Connolly’s mother found out and accused her of sexually abusing her child.

  Sheba had to leave the school, of course, as did I. Her marriage ended and we now share a house. She is coming downstairs.

  ‘I’ve found your notes,’ she yells. ‘It didn’t happen like that at all. I’m leaving.’

  But she can’t. There’s no place else for her to go.

  Digested read, digested: Unbelievable love triangle between the posh, the old and the spotty.

  Crossing the Lines

  by Melvyn Bragg (2003)

  The tinker drove his horse and cart through the streets of Wigton as cars hummed past. He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m just a cliché to illustrate how the Cumbria of the mid-50s had one foot in the past and one in the future,’ he thought to himself.

  Sam and Ellen dwelt on the portentousness of the novel in which they were appearing. Ellen’s mind turned to Mr Hawesley – she could never call him William. She knew he was attracted to her, but she could never leave Sam. These were deep, northern thoughts – the kind that wer
e best left unarticulated.

  ‘Our Joe’s a good kid,’ Sam said eventually.

  ‘Aye,’ Ellen replied.

  Joe felt himself to be on the cusp of adulthood. He felt a longing to remain part of Wigton, yet at the same time he yearned to break free of its parochial boundaries. He sensed he had a greatness – a knighthood even – within him, but somehow it still felt an inch or two out of reach.

  He stroked his thick, luxuriant hair, his enduring symbol of potency. He watched Richard swagger around the school, and felt a twinge of adolescent insecurity. Would Rachel fall for Richard’s athletic charm or would his hair win the day?

  ‘Would you like to see On the Waterfront?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Rachel answered.

  ‘We could go dancing afterwards.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So we’re going out together, then?’

  ‘Aye.’

  As the music changed from the foxtrot to skiffle, Joe reflected on how Wigton had one foot in the past and the other in the future.

  ‘I’m worried about Suez,’ he said, a year later.

  ‘Why are we talking about this?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘To show that this book isn’t just a saga, but an important literary event that refracts global events through the prism of small-town northern life.’

  ‘I’ve won a scholarship to Oxford,’ smiled Joe. ‘But first I must go to Paris to be intellectual. And to show the French my hair.’

  Rachel lowered her eyes. She knew she was just an ordinary northern girl, and that she was losing Joe.

  ‘Dear Joe, It’s over. I’ve met a man called Garry,’ she wrote. Joe had never known such pain. ‘I love you,’ he cried. ‘Say we’ll never be apart again.’

  ‘We’ll be together for ever.’

  Joe tugged on his pipe and discussed Beckett with James and his fellow undergraduates. How they admired his intellect and hair. How he admired their class. He hoped Rachel would like them.

  ‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘I can hold you back no longer. Go, conquer the wider world of media and academe.’

  Joe knew she was right. He was too good for her. It was time to move on. But when would fame be his?

  ‘All in good time,’ James muttered.

  ‘In our time,’ replied Joe.

  Digested read, digested: The secret diary of Melvyn Bragg, aged 16 3/4.

  Never Let Me Go

  by Kazuo Ishiguro (2005)

  My name is Kathy H. I am a carer. As I drive around the country looking after my donors, I like to reflect, in my elegant and refined way, on my childhood at Hailsham.

  I realise now how lucky Tommy, Ruth and I were to be brought up in such surroundings. We even had a sports pavilion where we would go to chatter amongst ourselves. You may wonder why I mention these details, but such empty observations are the hallmark of the consummate prose stylist.

  From time to time, we would talk about donations and the world outside, and then we would shrink back into our sheltered lives. It may strike you that I like to hint at truths. This is because I fear you might stop reading were you to guess that the story really was as predictable as it first seemed.

  Our guardians, particularly Miss Emily, took good care of us. Most of us, apart from poor Tommy, became competent artists and we were, in our way, quite happy, though a sense of dread would run through the school when Madame came by to take the pick of our artwork.

  We had very few personal possessions but that never bothered us. My treasured item was a Julie Bridgewater tape. How I loved to dance to it! Sadly, it got lost one day.

  I can see you are becoming deeply affected by the poignancy of our situation. I should have loved to have told you at this point of how we felt about having no parents, of how we tried to escape into the outside world. But I can’t. Emotion and interest have no part in this story.

  As we grew older we started to have sex with one another, though the enjoyment was tempered by the fact that none of us could have children. Tommy and Ruth even became a couple when the three of us left Hailsham and went to live at The Cottages.

  Improbable as it may seem, I used to enjoy looking at porn mags, though this was partly because I hoped to spot my possible. We were all obsessed with meeting our possible – our real-world entitie – and Ruth once thought she had seen hers in Norwich. But it turned out to look nothing like her, which left her depressed for days. I suspect you’re beginning to know how she felt.

  Ruth and Tommy split up before Ruth made her first donation and she completed while making her second. I became Tommy’s carer and we started to have sex after his third donation. We hoped to defer his fourth donation for a few years, but a chance meeting with Madame and Miss Emily stopped that.

  ‘Deferrals are not possible,’ Miss Emily said. ‘You are mere clones – organ donors – and we’ve tried to make you as happy as possible.’

  This came as quite a shock, though I dare say not to you. Tommy completed during his fourth donation so I’m left alone, to drone on.

  Digested read, digested: The triumph of style over substance.

  Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

  by Jonathan Safran Foer (2005)

  What about a teakettle? What about little microphones? What about writing the same book again and seeing if anyone notices?

  I’m nine years old and I’m an inventor, computer consultant, astronomer, historian, lepidopterist, and I write to Stephen Hawking. I’m no ordinary boy, but the creation of a writer who’s trying too hard. That’s why you’ll find doodles, photographs, pages with just a few words on them, blank pages and very small print littered throughout the text.

  Dad got killed on 9/11. We used to look for mistakes in the New York Times together. I picked up the messages he sent from the World Trade Center before he died, but I never told Mum. She spends most of her time with Ron.

  Why I’m not where you are – 5/21/63. I’ve lost the power of speech, I can only communicate in writing. Then you came along, you whose eyesight was failing and asked me to marry you.

  I can feel my prose dazzling from within. I find a key on the bottom of my dad’s vase. This is the key to his life. I see the word ‘black’ printed beside it and decide to visit every person called Black in the telephone directory. I will travel the five boroughs on foot and find the entrance to the mystical sixth.

  My feelings – Dear Oskar, This is hard to write. Your grandfather could not speak and I could barely see, but we joined our lives in a place of Nothing and Something. He left when I was pregnant with your father. Love, Grandma.

  In the evenings, I’ve been playing Yorick in Hamlet, but Mum only came once because she was out with Ron. In the day I’ve been walking the streets with a 103-year-old man.

  Why I’m not where you are – I lost my love and punctuation in the firestorm of Dresden your grandma was her sister when she got pregnant I had to leave rather than love I wrote to my son everyday but never sent the letters I came back! to New York when I discovered he had died and went to live with your grandma again but you only know me as the Renter what is the sum of my life 466389028364859690707 464532537

  The key belongs to someone else. It has no catharsis; in its place there is only sentimentality. My mum loves me after all. My grandpa and I dig up my dad’s empty coffin and we place his letters inside. I rewind the pictures of 9/11 and my dad returns to me.

  Digested read, digested: Extremely annoying and incredibly pretentious.

  Memories of My Melancholy Whores

  by Gabriel García Márquez (2005)

  The year I turned 90, I wanted to give myself the gift of wild love with an adolescent virgin. I thought of Rosa Cabarcas, the brothel owner.

  ‘You ask the impossible, my mad scholar,’ she said. But I implored her and she promised to ring back within the hour.

  I’m ugly, shy and anachronistic, and I live alone in the house where my parents lived, scraping by on a meagre pension from my mediocre career as a journalist. And I have ne
ver been to bed with a woman without paying. In short, I am without merit or brilliance.

  On the morning of my 90th birthday, I awoke, as always, at five in the morning. My only obligation was to write my signed column for Sunday’s paper, for which, as usual, I would not be paid. I had my usual aches and pains – my asshole burned – but my heart lifted when Rosa rang to say I was in luck.

  I gazed at the phosphorescent sweat on the naked body of the 14-year-old virgin asleep on the bed, and admired the brilliance of my language. ‘She was nervous,’ Rosa informed me, ‘so I gave her some Valerian.’

  She did not stir. ‘Let me call you Delgadina,’ I whispered, for like most solipsists I preferred to invent my own names. I may have slept myself and a tiger may have written on the bathroom mirror – we magical realists can never be too sure of anything – and when I left her snoring in the morning she was still as pure as the night before.

  ‘You fool,’ spat Rosa. ‘She will be insulted you did not care enough about her to abuse her.’ But I did not care: I had detected the fragrance of Delgadina’s soul and had realised that sex was the consolation we receive for the absence of love.

  I had planned to tender my resignation at the paper, but I was so moved at being given a voucher to adopt a stray cat that shat and pissed at will, that I resolved to continue.

  And my fame grew. Every evening I would go to Rosa’s house and spend the night admiring the sleeping Delgadina – whose body was filling out agreeably – while reading out loud the great works of literature; and by day people would read out loud the tacky sentimentality of my columns.

  Late into the year, Rosa interrupted my reveries. ‘A client has been murdered,’ she shouted. ‘Help me move him.’

  I returned night after night, but Rosa’s house was locked up. I pined for Delgadina. I sensed my cat might lead me to her, but like my own writing, he led me up a cul-de-sac.

  At last, Rosa returned. ‘Whore,’ I said. ‘You have sold Delgadina to secure your freedom.’

  ‘How wrong you are,’ she cried. ‘Others may consider you a sordid, delusional old man, but Delgadina loves you. She kept her distance because she wanted to save herself for you.’