This Other Eden

by Ben Elton

  BEN ELTON

  This Other Eden

  For Sophie

  Chapter One

  In which a much-loved man

  pursues the elusive green light

  A rat’s tale.

  A rat feeds greedily on rotten meat.

  A rat feeds greedily on rotten human meat. A rotting, human limb, attached to a living body.

  The desperate man knows it will be easier to detach the limb from the body than the rat from the limb. The diner is stronger than the dinner, for the diner has no drug to numb its pain. The rat’s head is buried deep in the silver green flesh, its claws hidden beneath the blackened skin. Only its plump body and twitching rump can be seen as it pushes deeper and deeper into the decaying muscle. The desperate man knows that the hungry rat will never let go. Yet if it remains, how long before it or its friends and relations discover the living meat beyond the putrid thigh? Not very long, surely, and even a rat must prefer fresh meat to foul.

  If one is to die, then there are better ways than being eaten alive by enormous flea-ridden rats; even in his weary, drifting state, the man can see that. Swallowing two sparkling capsules, the only bright thing in his dull world, the man waits for the drugs to rush his brain and then takes up his big knife. The knife is blunt, but the flesh is rotten and falls apart before the blade, as if it has been braised. In a moment, man and leg are parted. His mind on other things, he pulls himself away, leaving the rat to its refreshment.

  This is how it will be in the century to come. No savage biker tribes, no lone still-human heroes, no Mad Max millennium, only ill, old people and large hungry rats eating them.

  Those who love you hurt you most.

  Nathan knew it was good; it was the best work he’d ever done. That was why he so desperately wanted the job. This was more than just a bit of seriously good copy. This was prophecy, this was the truth.

  But telling the truth is never easy. Nathan was drained. The night Los Angeles re-ignited, as it did at regular intervals these days, he had been a prisoner in his hotel room for a week. Held captive not by a gunman or a sex criminal or even the fantastical illusion that the room service he had ordered in a previous life might one day arrive, but by a great and terrible desire to please.

  There were people in that town who loved Nathan and he had to justify that love. He knew they loved him, for they had told him so many times, and they had also sent a limousine to collect him at the airport, when they might easily have suggested that he take a cab and keep the receipt. For a man used, as Nathan was, to the finances of British radio this was big love indeed.

  Sometimes though, mere love is not enough. In Hollywood one can be embraced and rejected with equal fervour and integrity by the same people and at the same time. This, over the years, had led to movie people getting something of a reputation for craven hypocrisy. But there is nothing disingenuous about combining love with rejection. It is quite possible, and indeed reasonable, to like and admire, yes, even love somebody without wishing to commit hundreds of millions of dollars on the strength of their script.

  Every day, all over town, writers faced producers, producers faced bigger producers, bigger producers faced studio heads and the same tortured mantra was heard: ‘You are a great artist and we all love you. Speaking personally, yours is the kind of talent that was the reason I came into this business in the first place. Will we be picking up your project? No, I don’t think so, but that’s about us, it isn’t about you.’

  Nathan understood his position. They loved him, but he frustrated them for, try as he might, Nathan had so far been unable to produce a scenario in which the plot curved sufficiently or in which the characters possessed heart, moral worth and, above all, warmth.

  ‘It’s no good this guy dying, one-legged in a polluted world,’ the men who loved Nathan would tell him, ‘if we don’t care that he dies.’

  Nathan understood what was required of him. He returned to his room and tried to make the people who loved him care; for if they cared, then so would Mr and Ms America, and if Mr and Ms America cared then it was a reasonable presumption that the whole world would care. That was Nathan’s brief, to make the whole world care. If he could achieve that then he would truly have justified the faith which Plastic Tolstoy had placed in him. With this thought Nathan turned wearily back to his computer. For when Plastic Tolstoy placed faith in you, it was wise to justify that faith. For Plastic Tolstoy was the most important man in the whole communications industry. It was his job to market the end of the world.

  Everything is fascinating when you should be working.

  All week Nathan had moped from his bed to his desk to his bathroom and back to his bed. Trying to think of ways to make those who loved him, Mr and Ms America, the world in general and above all, Plastic Tolstoy, care. But everything is fascinating when you should be working, and Nathan had also spent his week fighting the desire to stare out of the window, leafing through magazines and flicking through the endless permutations available on the in-room entertainment system.

  The Hitler trial was reaching its climax. That sad, grey monster stood before the cameras every day, his shocked and baffled face devoid of any real understanding of the crimes they told him he had committed. Under normal circumstances DNA cloning was banned; the world was overcrowded enough without people re-growing the dead. However, when a lock of Hitler’s hair had been unearthed, the World Court ruled that an exception might be made, the general feeling being that Hitler was one villain for whom being dead should not prevent justice being done. Besides, the UN was as always hugely in debt and the TV rights to the trial were worth a fortune.

  Nathan carried on through the news channels. They were all pretty similar which, considering they were all owned by the same company (Plastic Tolstoy Communications System), was hardly surprising. The daughter of the British king had been videoed turning tricks in Piccadilly, although a lot of people said it was just a clever hologram. Jurgen Thor was to address the European parliament yet again, on the subject of banning or at least massively taxing Claustrospheres. A new fish had been developed that was capable of surviving in the dead waters of the Atlantic; a fish which had the added advantage of being so radioactive it could cook itself while the busy house-spouse prepared a salad.

  Under normal circumstances Nathan would not have dreamt of watching a news item about marine research. Nor would he have allowed himself to get sucked into a public forum-style chat-show, where victims of pedestrian-dog faeces encounter were brought together with dog-owners, in order to come to terms with their anger. But everything is fascinating when you should be working.

  Making them care.

  Nathan snapped the TV off, as he had done a hundred times that week. He dragged his hand angrily from deep within the great plastic sack of Bacon Cheezos on his lap. He resisted the colossal temptation to spend twenty minutes staring at the wall and scratching his balls. He avoided the Virtual

  Reality helmet beckoning him from the coffee table. He must concentrate, he must focus. He had to make those who loved him care.

  ‘What I need,’ Nathan mused to himself, ‘is a kid… a cute kid who is in some way relying on the dying man who chops off his leg . .

  Nathan grabbed his Voice to Screen DictaType Transmitter. Suddenly, after all the waiting and prevaricating, inspiration struck. The words tumbled out.

  ‘All right, so the man has a child … a tiny little girl who peeks out from her hiding place amidst the mountain of rotten garbage … rotten stinking putrid garbage … Uhm … she’s dirty and thin… but cute, very cute… the dying world has yet to dull her bonny beauty … nice sentence, good sentence

  OK, so somehow we know that the half-dead man with the big knife is the little girl’s father.., a signet ring? M
aybe the same haircut?… Or else we see her mouth the word “Daddy”

  …yes, that’s it, she mouths the word “Daddy” so we know he is her father, her last chance, her only protector. Then we see him drug himself into oblivion and cut off his own leg.

  …beautiful, that is great.. . So the gorgeous little girl knows that she is now in deep doo doo… Uhm… her sparkling eyes fade to dull despair as her dad… no, as her last best hope drags himself away to die … Then what happens? What’s the punch?’ … Nathan paused for a moment, willing his little flight of fancy to see him through to some stunning conclusion. Yes! He had it. Breathlessly he spoke again into the DictaType micro p hone: ‘The little girl retreats back into the rotting garbage which provides the only warmth available to her now… and the rat is left on its own, eating her Dad’s leg… great image, hold on that a moment… Then the rat’s head emerges from the severed leg … its snout all twitching and gruesome . . uhm… The white fangs show amid the soft maggoty meat bulging in its mouth… good sentence, good sentence, keep that … So why has the rat stopped eating? Because it’s heard something, that’s why!.. . Something tempting.., something exciting. The evil rat turns and stares towards the place in the garbage where the tiny child is hiding. Freezeframe … Cue Voiceover… Doesn’t your child deserve a better tomorrow? Invest in Claustrosphere today.’

  Nathan turned off his DictaType machine.

  ‘It’s good,’ he told himself. ‘They’ve got to pick it up.’

  And as the flames which a few hours earlier had burnt only in the hearts of an angry people began yet again to engulf large sections of one of the world’s premier cities, Nathan sat, hand clamped unconsciously on his crotch, hoping that those who loved him, who had failed to care about a dying man, might now care about a threatened little girl. Hoping that his assuredly fine treatment for a Claustrosphere commercial, his unquestionably brilliant vision, would also now have that all-important factor, ‘warmth’. That those who loved him might love him all the more, love him, perhaps, even enough to suggest to Plastic Tolstoy that his project be green-lighted.

  Nathan did not resent the compliant, entirely reactive nature of his creative endeavours. That was the town, he thought, and, indeed, as the flames danced outside his window, he was right.

  If I should get lost in development, think only this of me. That there is some corner of the US entertainment industry that is for ever England.

  Nathan was British, but despite this, he did not suffer from that terrible anger that many Brit artists who visit Hollywood feel. That private shame that comes from the knowledge that you have come to them. That, for all your babble about seeking a more vibrant culture, about fleeing the anally-retentive, small-minded snobberies one encounters at home, they know and you know that the only reason you have come is because they have more money. Much, much more money.

  Brits in Hollywood divide largely into two categories: the ones who are living there and the ones who would like to live there. The ones who are living there tend to be aggressively Yankophile, partly taking on the characteristics and language of the town. When they say things like ‘if we pass, it’s my arse’, ‘pass’ still rhymes with ‘farce’, as it used to in Kensington and Soho, but ‘arse’ now rhymes with ‘mass’. They will say, ‘If we parce, it’s my ass’. They wear loafers, or smart deck, shoes, sometimes without socks, and drink Lite beer and dry martinis, ordering them by brand name. ‘Get me a Beefeater martini and a twist please.’

  The visitors, on the other hand, affect an exaggerated Britishness as a defence against the obvious fact that they are on the make. They ask for tea and are gently amused when it arrives with the tea-bag still in the cup. They order obscure malt whiskies, secretly hoping that the bar won’t stock them. They tell their hosts that the thing they like most about LA is the paper toilet-seat covers. When they get home to Britain they speak wittily of toothy but empty smiles and glib, automised admonishments to ‘enjoy’. They claim firmly that it is a fine place to visit but they could never live there, which translates, of course, as nobody has asked them to.

  Nathan made no such pretence at indulgent distaste. He thought California was lovely. He enjoyed the toothy smiles. He thought it was nice to be greeted cheerfully.

  ‘But for God’s sake, they don’t mean it,’ a disaffected independent producer from Fulham had said over an Isle of Locharno McClaymore the Bonny single malt in the hotel bar. ‘They don’t care if you live or die.’

  ‘Since when have good manners been a matter of sincerity?’ Nathan replied. ‘You wish me “all the best” every time I see you, but you wouldn’t lift a finger to make it happen.’

  ‘Look, I was taught good manners, not vacuous hypocrisy,’ snapped the producer, who had that day failed even to be loved very much, let alone green-lighted.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Nathan. ‘You were taught to say please and thank you, not because anyone wished to indoctrinate you with a false sense of goodwill, but simply because it is important to show consideration. Is the Californian “have a nice day, enjoy your life, die happy and come back as something wonderful” any different?’

  The producer from Fulham moodily ordered another drink. He thought that Nathan would sing a different tune when Plastic Tolstoy’s people knocked back his Claustrosphere ad and put him straight on a sub-orbital back to dirty old England. Then he’d be badmouthing the Yanks along with all the other unloved Brits.

  But Nathan had no intention of getting knocked back; he was going to be green-lighted. Because he was prepared to bet that, with the addition of the scared little girl, his scenario about the end of the world would be the warmest scenario about the end of the world that Plastic Tolstoy’s people would have seen all week.

  An idea that’s time has come.

  Everybody was talking about the end of the world these days. It was a very big subject, not perhaps quite as big as sport, or the love-lives of the British royal family, but none the less very big. Some people, like Plastic Tolstoy, were trying to market it. Others, like Jurgen Thor, the Great Green Warrior, were trying to prevent it. Some people were, of course, causing it. Whether by accident or design, every day countless incidents, both large and small, were hastening the Earth’s untimely demise. One such event, a rather large one as it happened, was shortly to occur off the coast of Alaska. There, whilst Nathan awaited the studio’s reaction to his heart-warming vision of catastrophe, would be found images of Earth death every bit as chilling as those he had invented. Not quite as chilling, perhaps, for in real life the plot rarely curves and people are often less inclined to care.

  Chapter Two

  A loose-fitting coffin

  in a watery grave

  A view from a cliff.

  The mess was indescribable. Yet it would have to be described, as always, described in yet another of the pointless reports that had to be written. No report could ever adequately convey what a mess it really was, though. As Judy, the investigating officer on the scene, often said, you had to be there.

  ‘You know how with babies,’ Judy would say, ‘you can never quite believe what a state they can get things into, until you find out for yourself? Well, it’s the same with supertankers.’

  Everything was as it always was on these occasions. Judy sometimes wondered why anybody bothered turning up at all. As far as the eye could see, the boiling ocean was black. The cliffs and rocks were black. The dead creatures were black. The emergency operations personnel were black from head to foot, as they got their emergency operation underway in the usual totally inadequate manner.

  ‘Tanker disasters are like the first snows of winter,’ Judy would explain to friends. ‘You remember how we used to have snow? Well, year in, year out the stuff would fall, and every time it was like the first time, it was like nobody had ever had to deal with snow before. The roads would get clogged up, the trains would stop, the pipes would burst. Nothing was ever ready. Well, it’s the same when a billion litres of crude hits a coastline. People think t
he authorities know what to do. They don’t. We all just shrug our shoulders and get down there with a spade and a bucket like we always do.’

  Judy was standing on the highest cliff overlooking the disaster with the coastguard people and a couple of local cops.

  ‘Well, guess we’d better go get the captain. I hear he’s drunk,’ said the chief coastguard with the weary sigh of a man who had left a good dinner to come and bear witness to an event which would follow its tragic course, whether he was there to watch it or not.

  ‘Are you going down on to the bridge?’ Judy inquired.

  The coastguard turned disdainfully to look at Judy.

  ‘I don’t see any reason to discuss my plans with you, nerd,’ he said.

  A boy named Judy.

  Judy was a man even though he had a woman’s name. He was called Judy because he had been unfortunate enough to be born during the time of the great gender realignment. A period when it was a commonly held belief in the university common-rooms of the world that all single-sex imagery was oppressive. This was a time when men were strongly encouraged not to grow beards, which were seen as visual assertions of gender, whereas it became fashionable for women to be as hairy as possible, in order to blur the margins. The idea was that if everyone could pretend to be exactly the same then no one could be held back by being different and hence, it was argued, the individual would be in a position to prosper.

  That was how Judy came to be called Judy. One morning before he was born, as his father waxed his face and his mother applied mascara to her legs and upper lip, it was decided.