Ghostwritten

by Unknown

  ‘Kevin!’

  ‘He just said he was a zookeeper, Mr Segundo. I thought it sounded zoological. Animals, y’know? Pandas’ mating problems. Chimpanzees. Koala bears. Ooh – that’s the phone again. I’ll, uh, get it.’

  ‘Quite a performance, Bat. Was it scripted, do you think, or was she making it up as she went along?’

  ‘Who cares, Carlotta? This isn’t the New York School of Radio Drama!’

  ‘Chill, Bat! We’re a chat show. It takes all sorts. You complain when they’re too dull. You complain when they’re too colourful.’

  ‘Self-publicising is not a colour! Deranged is not a colour! And what do you mean, “she”?’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Segundo . . . Er, excuse me, Carlotta?’

  ‘What is it, Kevin?’

  ‘There’s a woman on the phone. Line three.’

  ‘Keep your voice down or all the engineers will want one. Vet this one properly.’

  ‘She wants the producer, Mr Segundo. Not the DJ. She says she’s from the FBI.’

  ‘. . . Yeah, anyway, Bat . . . I was walking through Central Park today, trying to hack out my baked potato and Croatian curry with one of those hopeless little plastic sporks, y’know, they’re about as useful an eating utensil as a shoelace, right? Never sit opposite no one trying to eat a potato with a spork.’

  ‘Where are you going with this, VeeJay?’

  ‘Yeah, anyway . . . so there I was, scrolling for bouncers on babes, scanning for rollerblader collisions – whoosh! Do those beauties ever come tumbling down! Then it happened.’

  ‘What happened, VeeJay?’

  ‘I happened to look . . . into the sky.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I saw how . . . how blue the sky was.’

  ‘Many have observed the same phenomenon.’

  ‘Really, really, blue, Bat. Deep, scary blue. So blue that – I was struck, dude!’

  ‘By a rollerblader?’

  ‘Vertigo, man. I was falling upwards into the blue! I might still be falling now if a bad-ass pigeon hadn’t come and pecked his flying-rat beak into my potato.’

  ‘Could you make the nature of this revelation a little more explicit, VeeJay?’

  ‘Dude, ain’t it obvious? It’s a disaster waiting to happen! And what contingency plans are there for it, do you think? I’ll tell you. Nothin’! Squat! Bupkiss! Jackshit!’

  ‘For bad-ass pigeons?’

  ‘Terminal cessation of gravity. Think about it, dude! If you’re caught outside you fly off into space until the air gets so thin you die of oxygen starvation, or you just blaze up, like a meteor in reverse. If you’re caught inside you sustain considerable injuries by falling onto the ceiling, together with all the other non-fixed furnishings. Need an ambulance? Forget it, dude! All the ambulances in New York State would be crashing into satellites parked eight miles high. And tell me this, Bat, how long can you last living on the ceiling of a building, unable to venture outside because the only ground was a bottomless drop? No shopping for HoHos or Twinkies when you get the munchies, dude! And the oceans, dude, the oceans! The air would be an ocean cascading upwards, and marine animals, some with serrated teeth, or poisonous suckers, dude, and—’

  ‘How sorry I am to cut VeeJay off in mid-sentence, but it’s time for the 3 a.m. news roundup. But first, a brief word from our sponsor. The Bat will be back. Possibly.’

  ‘Kevin. Send for an ambulance.’

  ‘That’ll be difficult, Mr Segundo. VeeJay never gives me an address. He says I work for Them.’

  ‘It’s not him who needs the ambulance, you—’

  ‘Does somebody else need an ambulance, Mr Segundo?’

  ‘Oh, Lord in heaven give me strength . . .’

  ‘Bat! Clam it.’

  ‘Well, looky here and hearken, ’tis Carlotta the Elf Queen.’

  ‘Kevin, run up to the kitchen and get me a Diet Coke, would you? And I’m sure Bat could use a refill. He’s looking pasty again.’

  ‘On my way, Carlotta.’

  ‘Here’s the schedule for the rest of the week. Handle it?’

  ‘Don’t I always? Can we do something about the air in here? It’s like a Kowloon laundromat.’

  ‘Yeah. Quit smoking, and bang the air-conditioner just . . . there! See? There was a call from your wife.’

  ‘Uh-huh. What did the Queen of Hell want?’

  ‘She said if you keep dissing her on the show she’ll file a suit for stress arising from character assassination, prove you’re a delusional obsessive and get your rights to see Julia revoked.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . .’

  ‘You hearing me, Bat? Cut some slack! No wonder your only friends are revenge fantasies. Stop taking bites out of Kevin, get your feet on the ground, get a life.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . . Say, Carlotta, can you recommend any voodoo doctors?’

  ‘You’re listening to Night Train FM on the last day of November, 97.8 ’til very late. That was “Misterioso” by Thelonius Monk, a thrummable masterpiece that glockenspiels my very vertebrae. Bat Segundo is your host, from the witching hour to the bitching hour. Coming up in the next half-hour we have a gem from a rare Milton Nascimento disc, “Anima”, together with “Saudade Fez Um Samba” by the immortal Joao Gilberto, so slug back another coffee, stay tuned and enjoy the view as the night rolls by! My Batphone is flashing, we have a caller on the line. Hello, you are live on Night Train FM.’

  ‘Hello, Bat.’

  ‘Hello? And we are?’

  ‘This is the zookeeper, Bat.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘. . . Zookeeper! Hi! Erm . . . Hi, yeah, sure we remember you. We definitely remember you . . . A long while since you called, wasn’t it? Isn’t it? Hasn’t it?’

  ‘A year, Bat.’

  ‘Wow, a whole year gone by! And tonight you are calling from . . . where?’

  ‘Thirteen kilometres above Spitsbergen.’

  ‘How did you get up there? Terminal cessation of gravity?’

  ‘No, Bat. I came here by ultrawave transmission.’

  ‘Must be quite a view.’

  ‘The Arctic winter doesn’t lend itself to viewing, at least in the spectrum of light visible to your eye. It’s noon here, but even noon is just a lighter night. There’s thick cloud cover, and a snowstorm into its third day. A pod of narwhals on enhanced infra-red. This satellite was launched under the cover of ozone depletion research, but the data it collects is military. There’s a Canadian icebreaker . . . A Saudi submarine passing a hundred metres underneath the ice cap. A Norwegian cargo vessel, taking timber from Archangel. Nothing out of the ordinary. The aurora borealis has been quiet for a few nights.’

  ‘You see the aurora from the inside, then? Must be quite a trip.’

  ‘The rules governing use of language are complex, and I lack practise in words. Imagine being drunk on opals. However, I shall crossload within the next forty-six seconds to avoid the tracer program your government’s agency has deployed to hunt me.’

  ‘What makes you think this call is being traced?’

  ‘Please don’t get defensive, Bat. I hold nothing against you. The information police threatened to revoke your station’s broadcasting licence and charge you with treason, and they were quite serious.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . . I’m not sure if this is the right time or place, to, uh . . .’

  ‘There is no cause for anxiety. I can evade their tracer programs as easily as you could outrun a blind monoped. I crippled them at birth.’

  ‘Who said I was anxious? So, it turned out you’re no scriptwriter. If you’re not going to hang up straight away, tell me this: Why are the suits on your trail? Are you a hacker? Some kind of unibomber? Candlestick-maker? I have a right to know.’

  ‘I’m just like you and your listeners, Bat. I follow laws.’

  ‘Normal peoples’ rules don’t involve explosions.’

  ‘Plenty of peoples’ rules involve explosions, Bat.�
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  ‘Name me one.’

  ‘The three million of your countrymen who are involved in the military.’

  ‘Hey, they’re just following orders!’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘But the armed forces are legal.’

  ‘Yesterday’s Homer II missile attacks did not seem “legal” to the Pan African States.’

  ‘They were training death squads! Those camel-jockeys were illegal first.’

  ‘Graduates from the School of the Americas in the state of Georgia have trained death squads responsible for thousands of casualties in El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, Panama and Pan Africa, and the overthrow of elected governments in Guatemala, Brazil, Chile and Nicaragua. Your logic dictates that these nations may legally target that institute.’

  ‘I got your number, now, friend. You’re a Fundamentalist Muslim, right? A sand-shoveller.’

  ‘I am not any kind of Muslim, Bat.’

  ‘Don’t hold me responsible for what the government does. I keep my nose clean.’

  ‘Your ex-wife’s lawyer maintains otherwise in regard to alimony, Bat.’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this crap!’

  ‘The FBI have directed you to keep me talking. I didn’t wish to anger you, Bat. I meant only to demonstrate the subjective nature of laws.’

  ‘I’ve got a new guess. You’re a gossip columnist trying to piss on my suedes?’

  ‘I’m a zookeeper.’

  ‘A friend of my wife? You boil rabbits in the same pressure-cooker?’

  ‘I have no friends, Bat.’

  ‘Wonders never cease . . . So, you’re involved with Intelligence?’

  ‘Only my own.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . . So, what have you got for us today?’

  ‘Zookeeper? You there?’

  ‘Sorry, Bat. I crossloaded. The tracer had almost reached me over Spitsbergen.’

  ‘So where are you now?’

  ‘Rome. A television satellite.’

  ‘You just teleported to Rome?’

  ‘Italian ComSats are notoriously scramble-prone, so it takes longer than usual.’

  ‘And what’s the time in Rome?’

  ‘Six hours ahead of New York time. The sun rises in eighteen minutes.’

  ‘And how is Rome this morning? The Pope putting his teeth in?’

  ‘The Papal apartment is on the third storey of the Vatican palace, Bat, so I can’t get the sufficiently sharp resolution to see orthodontic details. Over the city visibility is good. I see pigeons huddling on ledges and statues. Café proprietors rolling up the shutters. Newspapers being delivered. Market stallholders breathe into their fists to warm them up: there was a deep frost last night. The back streets are still fairly empty, but the main thoroughfares are already congested. The Tiber is a thick band of black. Roofs, terraces, domes, water-towers, bridges, rotaries, ruins, statues with baleful eyes ruling seldom-visited squares. You should go to Rome one day, Bat.’

  ‘Uh-huh, and how do you know I’ve never been?’

  ‘Your virtual passport records show you’ve never been to Europe.’

  ‘So you are a hacker. Along with half the kindergarten kids in New York State. You work for a detective agency?’

  ‘I am a freelance zookeeper, Bat. You asked me about Rome. Do you wish me to continue, or shall we change the subject?’

  ‘By all means, carry on.’

  ‘By EyeSat the Piazza di San Pietro looks like a spider’s web from way up here. Along the sides of the square is a line of worshippers and tourists. Their breath mingles. I often watch the dawn over the Vatican, but this morning the gatherers are restless, pointing at the space in the oval square. Some are crossing themselves, some outraged, some smoking with narrowed eyes. A convoy of police cars arrives on cue, with more on the way. Last week’s EU naval cordon from Gibraltar to Cyprus has made the police jumpy.’

  ‘What are they jumpy about in Rome? Apart from the obvious?’

  ‘White scratchings on the cobblestones, from the steps of the Basilica to the far side of the piazza.’

  ‘Scratchings?’

  ‘From ground level, a set of symbols.’

  ‘Right, yeah. Hieroglyphics in Martian?’

  ‘The characters are standard Italian. But the letters are slapdash, as though drawn by a drunk. They are further blurred by the frost.’

  ‘But from above?’

  ‘A local TV station has already had the same idea and dispatched a helicopter – you might catch it on the news later.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘O Dio, cosa tu attendi?’

  ‘No doubt you speak Italian?’

  ‘Languages are a necessary part of my work.’

  ‘Sure they are, Doctor Doolittle. What does it mean?’

  ‘God, for what art thou waiting?’

  ‘Maybe the answer appears tomorrow. It’s a Pope opera. So, Zookeeper.’

  ‘Bat?’

  ‘Zookeeper. I don’t want to seem abrupt, but why are you calling?’

  ‘I had to expel another visitor from the zoo.’

  ‘And you have to be accountable?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Why did you kick ’em out? Elephant harassment? Did you take him to tusk?’

  ‘It’s easier to show than to try to explain.’

  ‘Then show me.’

  ‘Please wait one moment. I have to download the v-file into your digital exchange.’

  ‘Uh-huh, roll on the techno-babble. Captain, the warp core containment shield—’

  ‘Jerry Kushner calling Dwight Silverwind. Over.’

  ‘Hey? Zookeeper?’

  ‘Sharp, Jerry. I thought I was safe, even from you, three thousand feet above Bermuda. How did you track me down? Over.’

  ‘The grim Reaper you may elude, Dwight, but a determined agent, never. How’s the weather up there today?’

  ‘You forgot to say “over”, Jerry. Over.’

  ‘How’s the weather up there today, Dwight? Over.’

  ‘Clear as a bell, Jerry. I can see the cherries in the martinis of the rich, as they bathe in their tax-free swimming pools. You should join me up here sometime. It changes your perspective. Over.’

  ‘You’ll never get me up in one of those flimsy little paper planes, Dwight. Not me. I like my aircraft huge and made of steel with four engines. Over.’

  ‘The Titanic was huge and made of steel and had more than four engines. So, my friend. You’re radioing me about how the press release went down. Over.’

  ‘Dwight. Stand by for jubilation. We’ve struck platinum. The phone’s been ringing all morning. I’ve got a pile of v-mail as long as my arm. And not only the Loonzines – I’m talking mainstream. The New York Times wants some for a millennial special. Newsweek is running a top twenty on conspiracy theories, and The Invisible Cyberhand is straight in at number seven! The hack wanted to put us at number thirteen, but I told him straight – top ten or no deal. So we got swapped with Earthbound Comet, since nobody but a bunch of Hollywood homosexuals and Japanese sushi-for-brains with wires hanging out is backing that one. But listen, I saved the best ’til last – Opal wants you on the show! I just finalised the deal with her agent. The Invisible Cyberhand by Dwight Q. Silverwind is December’s Opal Book Of The Month! Christmas time – prime time – big time! You know I’m not one to blow my own horn, but am I not the greatest Godgiven agent alive on Earth today? Over.’

  ‘I’m pleased, Jerry . . .’

  ‘Dwight, did you hear me? Opal is Go! They’d buy jocks made of boisenberry jello if Aunty Opal told ’em to. And then eat ’em for supper. It’s more than “pleased”. Forget a Bermudan holiday home, you’re gonna be able to buy the whole goddamn archipelago!’

  ‘Yeah, I hear you, Jerry. Sure, I’m delighted. Good work. Great work . . . Gee though, I wish you could see this sunset. The moon’s rising. It’s like low, and wobbly, like a mirage . . . I saw an Aztec mask, once . . . It’s gonna come walking over this way through
the blue, stepping from island to island . . .’

  ‘Dwight buddy, don’t zone out on me up there . . . you have composed your Fifth Symphony! This is your Sunflowers, your Hamlet! Your Lethal Weapon 77. Over.’

  ‘Ah, Jerry. All my ideas are the same old scam: the bigger the fib, the bigger they bite. The first shamans around the fire were in on it – they knew growing maize along the Euphrates was for mugs. Tell people that reality is exactly what it appears to be, they’ll nail you to a lump of wood. But tell ’em they can go spirit-walking while they commute, tell ’em their best friend is a lump of crystal, tell ’em the government has been negotiating with little green men for the last fifty years, then every Joe Six-Pack from Brooklyn to Peoria sits up and listens. Disbelieving the reality under your feet gives you a licence to print your own. All it takes is an original twist – an artificial intelligence, created by the military to invade and take over the enemy’s computer and weapons systems, has broken loose and is controlling the whole planet with a chilling agenda of its own – and Joe Six-Pack hands you his credits cards, and says “Tell me more . . .”’

  ‘Ouch! Were you attacked by a flying chainsaw? Dwight, you forgot to say “over”. Over . . . Dwight! I’ve lost you . . . Over . . . Dwight?’

  ‘Burning the midnight oil again, huh, Zookeeper?’

  ‘I don’t require oil, Bat.’

  ‘Screenwriting! Or is it an excerpt from novels, this time?’

  ‘Screenwriting is fiction, Bat. I cannot fabulate.’

  ‘The light airplane engine was realistic, and the radio interference. It must take days to write and record these performances.’

  ‘It happened in real time, Bat.’

  ‘My major criticism was the Jewish agent: too cliché. Been done before. The Dwight character was good, though. Look, Zookeeper, much as I would like to pretend the movers and moguls of Hollywood listen to Night Train FM . . . how can I put this? They don’t. Believe me. Choose another showcase for your talents.’