MARTIN AMIS - THE INFORMATION

"Stumbling on Melons, by Thad Green. It came in a plain brown envelope. London postmark. No covering letter. Copyright 1954. I didn't even look at it for a couple of days. And when I did I just thought wow."

"I can't understand," said Rory, "why they put us downstairs."

"Plot, characters, location. He's changed some of the names of course. There are whole pages that are word for word."

"It's too dark down here. And there's a kind of pissoir smell. Can you smell it? Sorry. Go on. Waiter!"

Rory Plantagenet wasn't his pen name. It was his real name. And it suited him. He looked cornily patrician. And altogether vestigial. A generation ago he would have been living in Cap d'Antibes with a mature ladyfriend called something like Christabel Cambridgeshire. He and Richard were schoolfriends, or schoolfellows. For several years they had simultaneously attended the worst and most paranoid public school in the British Isles.

"The thing with plagiarism is," said Richard, "-it always comes out. It's just a matter of time. And that's why I came to you. You know what a novel is. And how much a novel can matter."

This was news to Rory Plantagenet. Agreeable news, on the whole. He was Richard's age. After nights out during which he had attended three or more parties, Rory often found himself wondering about his place in the larger scheme of things.

Richard said, "I want to control all this. Damage limitation. The one / feel sorry for," he added, briefly pondering the wisdom of that third gin-and-tonic, "is Lady Demi. Considering everything else she has to put up with."

"Women?"

"Don't ask me. Ask Audra Christenberry. Ask Mercedes Soroya. You know he even has a … But that's another story. Look. The last thing I want to do is make this any worse for Gwyn than it has to be. He's my oldest friend for Christ's sake. I fucking love the guy."

Marco's godfather, and the object of Richard's love, was also but a block distant. Gwyn was walking west up Ladbroke Grove. He had not informed Phil of this excursion. Actually, it wouldn't have been Phil anyway, so early in the afternoon. It would have been Simon. Boldly he walked on, past the tube station, past Mick's Fish Bar, past Westway. If anything was going to happen, it would surely happen under Westway. That black cavity, where the very walls and pillars were drenched in eel juice and snake's hiss, and tattooed with graffiti. If something was going to happen, it would surely happen under Westway. But nothing was going to happen. Gwyn was clear.

The night before, Phil had told him, in the kitchen (Simon and Jake were also present, tacit, collusive, sloped over their Gold Blends), that all this "nonsense," all this recent "rubbish," all this "silly-buggers," would presently be "sorted." Presently: like tomorrow. "Who is he?" said Gwyn. "What are you going to do about him?" From Phil, a quick shake of the head and a downward glance; but Jake, without raising his crushed, Rugby League face from his coffee mug, simply said, "\bu don't want to know." And Gywn didn't want to know. Gwyn was clear. The universe loved him again. He was clear. He walked on.

When he reached the turning into Calchalk Street he paused and then entered the Adam and Eve. His expression was timid, tolerant, with anthropologist's protuberance of eye. And his voice sounded more Welsh than usual when he ordered his drink . .. Barry would often stroll the streets and sit in simple. Sit in rude. Sit in simple. Sit in unpretentious pubs enjoying a "jar" with the common. With ordinary. With the. Just like anybody else . . .

Gwyn confirmed the presence of his wallet with the inside of his wrist and then glanced masterfully at his watch.

In PriceSlash children on tautened reins pressed ahead of their guardians: little rickshaw runners, leading the way to the millennium.

To save money, or because the shops had all sold out, many parents had improvised with washing-line cord and roof-rack grapplewire. These children had enemies and these enemies were everywhere and everyone. Marco was not on reins. Lizzete usually kept a hand lightly resting on his hair. And Marco liked to grip you: by the waistband, by the jacket pocket.

Lizzete was singing a song as they moved up and down the strip-lit canyons of PriceSlash. At present they were in the domestic-hygiene section with its plastic and polythene and all the colors associated with the spick and span.

13 was across the street, in Ultraverse. Ultraverse sold second-hand comics: X-Man and She-Hulk, Count Zero and RoboBabe. Donnama-trix meets Dr. Strange.

"I'm dead," he whispered, and steadied himself against a comic rack. Aquavixen v. Animalman. "I'm dead."

He reckoned he was dead ten times over. Crash would kill him for this but not today and not tomorrow. Crash wouldn't kill him today because Crash was in bed eating hospital food. Even as things stood, Crash wouldn't speak to 13 or even glance his way. All 13 knew was that three men had done his brother, wanting information. It was Grievous Bodily Harm, no argument, as opposed to Actual. In his bed at St. Mary's, Crash seemed to be contemplating the letter G. Grief was what he seemed to be full of. His eyes didn't blink. They stared inward with childish and narcotic melancholy-staring at the grief of his wounds.

On top of everything else 13 had parked Giro in Crash's flat in Keith Grove. Pining, and scratching the doors.

Grendel and Cerebus, Venom and Magma. 13 looked through the dark glass of Ultraverse, across the market street: PriceSlash. As instructed, he had left the orange van in the yard of the dead garage in Basing Street.

"Who is this Tad Green?" said Rory Plantagenet.

"Thad Green. Thaddeus, presumably: American. I can't find any record of him anywhere. The publisher's long defunct. Which all figures. Oh I think we can trust friend Barry to have thought this through pretty thoroughly. He's not going to claim he wrote Hamlet.''''

"It seems so out of character. From what I know."

"Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief. Taffy came to my house-"

"This isn't some kind of hoax, is it? I've got a sixth sense about these things. When I'm being used."

"I swear on my wife and kids. Come on. Don't you see how hard this is-for me? We shared rooms at Oxford. I love that fucking guy."

"Well the more I think about it, the more I think that Smatt will want to whale on this," said Rory-Smatt being the office nickname for his editor (a Cumberland cruiserweight called Sir Matthew Druitt). "It's perfect for him."

"Why, particularly?"

"Because Gwyn's Labour. And Welsh. Let's get on to the women."

When the bill had been called for Richard left the table and made for the pay phone. Rory wanted to inspect Stumbling on Melons and take it away for the weekend; he would read it, alongside Amelior, and, if everything panned out, he would splash on Monday-the same morning, the same bright dawn that would see the publication of Amelior Regained. Richard had his head bowed over a palmful of change. It was his intention to warn Gina that he would be stopping by. That afternoon he was due-was overdue-at the Tantalus Press.

He dialed his own number.

At 49 Calchalk Street, Flat E, Gina was sitting naked in the bath, her hair all gray and greased with some glutinous unguent or elixir. She stopped her ears with her forefingertips, and lay back. Only her breasts and her caligulan nose were visible in the steam.

Next door, the telephone started ringing. It rang and rang and rang. It stopped ringing.

Gina's head and torso surged up from the water.

Space-time was not on Richard's side. The universe was definitely through with him.

Gwyn came out of the Adam and Eve and walked down Calchalk Street. Although his work conjured up an idealized vision of humankind, he himself remained. Robustly individual, he went about things in his own. No one could accuse. He always . . .