Somewhere East of Life. Brian Aldiss

face.

      ‘Oh, Roy, dear old feller – how glad I am you’re here. Thanks so much.’ The tram sliced by within a few inches of them. He fell into Burnell’s arms. The latter fended him off but, before he could speak, Monty was babbling on, eyebrows shooting up and down.

      ‘Roy, I have such trouble. As I left that rotten drinking establishment, the ghost of Charles de Gaulle was waiting outside for me. You know, the French chappie with the big conk who made it to President? Charles de Gaulle – an airport named after him outside Paris. There he was again! Right in the street, in broad daylight. Did you see him? I ran like billy-oh. Thank God you saved me! Sometimes he follows me into the old W. Never knew a case like it.’

      Burnell hailed a cab and bundled Monty in.

      At the Gellert, Burnell paid off the cab and heaved Monty, now in a collapsible state, into the ornate foyer.

      ‘All right, Broadwell-Smith, now let’s have the truth. No bloody ghost stories. I have every reason to beat you up, so vex me no further. How do I get my memory back? How do you get it back for me?’

      Pulling himself upright and tugging his little beard, Monty said, ‘Please don’t threaten me in a place I’m well respected. Besides, I’m feeling unwell after all the exertion. Let me be honest with you, Roy, your last ten years were crap. Full of crap … There, I don’t want to be too hard on you. Everyone’s last ten years were probably full of crap. I ought to know – I’ve edited enough of Antonescu’s silly symphonies in the last few weeks. What utter shits men are … Now I think of it, I feel sorry for you.’

      Burnell stuck his knuckles between the other’s thin ribs.

      ‘Stop bullshitting me, you little cheat. You robbed me. You buggered up my life and then had me dumped on Salisbury Plain.’

      Shaking his head, Monty looked out miserably across the Danube to Pest with its dense Magyar thoroughfares where fat profiteers of many nations were sweating over their calculators. ‘You were lucky. Believe me. As a compatriot, as an old friend far from home, I interceded for you. Generally our victims – well, patients, let’s say – get dumped outside the city, still drugged, on a refuse-tip twenty kilometres away from here. And what happens to them then? Peasants rob ’em or kill ’em.

      ‘You’ve had an easy time of it. You should be grateful. Your pater was always well heeled, not to mention being a bit of a crook, eh?

      ‘In your case – Roy, old chap, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It puts my very life in hazard. In your case, I interceded. “Cedo, cedere, cessi, cessum”, to beg or something. A flight was being planned to deliver arms to the UK, to the BRI. British Revolutionary Islam, savvy? Totally secret of course. A secret arms drop on Salisbury Plain, paid for by Muslims over here. I pulled a few strings and got you flown over too. Drugged. You were dropped along with the weaponry. Better than the refuse-tip, admit it. You owe me a big favour.’

      ‘I owe you nothing. You’re going to give me back those memory bullets right now.’ Knuckle in deeper. A passing sheikh, wafting perfume, looked surprised, but not extremely surprised.

      ‘You’re hurting me, Roy. I don’t feel well. The drink in that place was poisoned. I need to go to the Gents. I am about to be sick.’ He writhed realistically, and made appropriate noises in his throat.

      Burnell got him up to his room. He bound Monty’s hands behind his back with a tie.

      ‘This talk about a master-bullet in Antonescu’s clinic. Are you lying? You’d better tell me, Broadwell-Smith, or I’ll lock you in the wardrobe and leave you there to die.’

      By this time, Monty was the same shade of trampled grey as the carpet. ‘Really, old boy, you can work that one out for yourself. Antonescu runs an illegal operation. Is he going to leave evidence lying about? He might be raided any day – not by the police, of course, but by a rival gang. From the master-bullets we make about five hundred copies. Not much profit in it, really. As soon as these are sold to a dealer, they’re off our hands and the masters are destroyed.’

      ‘Five hundred copies? You made five hundred copies of my precious memories?’ He was almost bereft of speech. While he knew nothing of his recent past, the whole world could be laughing over it.

      ‘You weren’t exactly in the Casanova league, old chum, let’s face it. We had a Pole in the clinic a couple of months ago … He was in the two-thousand-copy bracket, because—’

      ‘Never mind the Poles. You said you made two bullets. Was that also a lie?’

      Presenting an expression of blameless honesty, Monty explained that Mircea Antonescu dealt in more than one market. He extracted all Burnell’s professional knowledge, editing it from the ten-year period. That knowledge was reproduced in an edition of maybe a hundred copies. A limited scholarly audience existed for such things, and paid well. Lazy students of architecture, teachers needing a short cut – such people formed a ready market. Pausing to gather courage, Monty added that Burnell’s store of learning made up one bullet; his love life made up the other. All skilfully edited, of course – by himself.

      ‘Oh God!’ Burnell sat down and hid his face in his hands. ‘You swear this is truth, you little chiseller?’

      ‘Would I lie? Read my lips.’ He started to go into details of what he referred to as ‘the choice bits’, but Burnell interrupted him.

      ‘So where have all these copies of my memory – my life – gone?’

      Monty declared that that was up to the dealer to whom Antonescu sold. Antonescu was naturally secretive about such matters, but he had heard that the dealer traded the bullets on promptly to Eastern Europe and beyond, where they could not be traced. ‘Buchuresti is one market. Bootleg EMVs move from there further East. All the old nations and raggle-taggle once coerced into the Soviet Union are avid to feed on porn.’

      ‘Porn! You call my sacred memories porn, you little skunk?’

      ‘It’s a matter of terminology, Roy, old boy. They want to know how the West performs in bed. Insatiable. Untie me, please. A drink wouldn’t come amiss after all the excitement.’

      Privately, Burnell agreed. He untied Monty and took some slap, inhaling the designer drug through a short plastic tube. Monty helped himself to a generous neat gin from the mini-bar.

      ‘So where is this dealer?’

      ‘Ahh … I’ve always liked gin. Reminds me of my childhood. I’d end up on the aforesaid rubbish-tip if I gave away his whereabouts. Honour among thieves, old pal. Generally enforced at gun-point. Besides, he’ll have shifted all the copies by now. Incidentally – this’ll amuse you – I heard over the grapevine that President Diyanizov has a fabulous collection of Western EMV “love” bullets. He may be plugging in to you this very moment.’

      Monty’s laughter involved coughing circumspectly. Seeing Burnell’s expression, he added, ‘Diyanizov. The current boss of Turkmenistan. Far enough from here.’

      ‘Never heard of him. I suppose he’s a ghost, like Charles de Gaulle!’

      Monty looked pained. ‘That was just a joke, dear boy. Tell you what I’ll do. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll contact this dealer and see if he’s kept a couple of your bullets for himself. Stephanie’s a pretty sight in the altogether when she’s worked up … He might have hung on to them for his own entertainment.’

      ‘Phone him from here.’

      Another idea occurred to Monty. Antonescu had just put together an anthology bullet he called ‘European Peasants’. Monty knew from what he had seen that Burnell was a sport. He could have a copy for a thousand. It featured country men and women who had done disgusting acts with every animal on the farm.

      ‘Phone,’ ordered Burnell, pointing to the instrument.

      Burnell stood listening as Monty dialled and made an oblique and muttered call. He replaced the receiver and smiled. Burnell was in luck. The dealer had the spare bullets,