I Hate Martin Amis et al. Read online

  I HATE MARTIN AMIS ET AL.

  PETER BARRY

  First Published 2011

  Transit Lounge Publishing

  95 Stephen Street

  Yarraville, Australia 3013

  www.transitlounge.com.au

  [email protected]

  Copyright ©Peter Barry 2011

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Every effort has been made to obtain permission for excerpts reproduced in this publication. In cases where these efforts were unsuccessful, the copyright holders are asked to contact the publisher directly.

  Design by Peter Lo

  Author photo: Susan Gordon-Brown

  Transit Lounge is a proud member of the A.P.A.(Australian Publishers’ Association) and S.P.U.N.C. (Small Press Underground Networking Community)

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Barry, Peter.

  I hate Martin Amis et al. / Peter Barry.

  1st ed.

  9781921924057 (e-book)

  A823.4

  To Paul, Charlotte and Richard

  ‘I am envy.

  I cannot read, and therefore wish all books burned.’

  The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, Christopher Marlowe.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgements

  Back to Contents

  In the beginning was the Word.

  Remember that. The word, a word, which word? It does not matter, it was a word. It was not a painting, nor was it a musical note, it was a word. And that is good enough for me.

  Back to Contents

  I shall start by writing about my first victim. To start with the first, and not necessarily at the beginning, seems appropriate. The others round the campfire the other night were saying you never forget your first one, that he will always have a place in your heart – even though he has your bullet in his. (They didn’t say that last bit, I just thought that up.) I suspect they’re not the kind of men who willingly give way to feelings of sentimentality, yet Santo, who every time I see him asks if I’ve shot anyone, speaks to me as if he’s concerned about my ability to cope with the situation – claiming a first victim, that is. It must be because I’m a foreigner that he worries I won’t have what it takes, won’t have the backbone. The rest of them, the majority, however, just treat me with suspicion, even contempt, regarding me through clouds of cigarette smoke as if I’m some phantasmagoric impostor. Why so? Surely I’m no different from the volunteers who come here from their nine-to-five jobs in other parts of the country, those who come here for fun, as if for a bit of game shooting?

  And this is a game, isn’t it? For me, certainly it is.

  I thought they were being ironic comparing my first victim to my first lover, saying you never forget them, that they’re special. They weren’t being ironic, however, and although I cannot see this myself – my first victim finding a place in my heart – who am I to argue with them? They’re not the kind of people you disagree with. They have what I can only describe as dead peasant stares and lugubrious eyes, and if they claim to know what they’re talking about, then I shall go along with it.

  He, my first one, walked into my life out of the blue, out of the silvery mist, the watery sunshine of winter, along the far bank of the River Miljacka. Even from where I was lying I could see his breath puffing in the cold morning air. He could have been smoking, but he wasn’t. He was walking along Snipers’ Alley, which runs east–west through the city. Those who live in the apartments along this road, facing the river and exposed to the hills, have long since moved out of their front rooms and retreated to the backs of their homes.

  He was wearing a corduroy jacket with leather patches at the elbows. I was surprised he wasn’t wearing an overcoat – it was cold enough for one – although he did have a dark-blue beret on his head. Perhaps he didn’t have far to go. He could have been heading towards the university, about a mile to the west of where he was walking, but I couldn’t be sure of that.

  What stands out most clearly in my memory was the large pile of books he was carrying, perhaps eight or ten of them. They were cradled by his left arm, the volumes held together by a leather strap. Sometimes he’d move his right arm across to provide additional support for them, as if his left arm was becoming tired.

  Now this is the interesting bit: he looked like he could be a publisher’s reader, one of them. Or that is what I told myself. He had that air about him, of complacency and self-satisfaction, of smug superiority. That got to me. It was as if he was living on the rarefied heights of Mount Parnassus and was weary, even bored, of watching lesser mortals attempt to toil up the slopes towards him. As if he considered he had nothing left to learn in life because he already knew it all. His attitude would definitely make my task easier.

  He was only four hundred yards away and there were no obstructions to speak of, just a few abandoned cars and, about halfway along the street, a burnt-out tram. My reader (note the possessive pronoun: already I have appropriated him for myself) was walking towards me from the direction of the Latin Bridge. He had, I thought, although I couldn’t be certain at this distance, a faint smile on his face, glancing to left and right as if searching for someone – but of course there was no one – on whom he could bestow a little goodwill, some munificence, his chest puffed out, looking very pleased with himself. There was a vaguely studious air about him, an air of self-absorbed dishevelment, as if he might be musing on the meaning of Life. There was a bookish stoop to his shoulders, and I imagined ink stains on his fingers. This look was accentuated by a clever goatee beard and wise, owl-like glasses, the kind John Lennon used to wear. He must have been in his early fifties.

  I was certain he was a reader: he looked like a bookworm. He had the walk, too; the kind of walk that says, I’m better than you, step aside, remove yourself from my path, I am on my way to pass judgement on some lesser mortal’s literary efforts. I could spot it even from four hundred yards away. It was a busy walk, a busy reader’s walk, almost gay, his steps being small and quick. I could imagine his heels going tap tap, tap tap on the pavement, as if he were important, tap tap, tap tap, impatient to get to wherever he was going. But then he wasn’t going anywhere – not that he knew that yet.

  I persuaded myself of all this quite quickly, in those few seconds I was watchin
g him walk by the river, opposite my position, almost at right angles to me. He was the ideal target, made to measure, just for me: a reader, I’m sure of it. He was the kind of man who’d dismiss a manuscript with, ‘I feel I’ve read this before.’ He was perfect.

  When I write that he was only four hundred yards away – the length of around four football pitches – it’s to emphasise that he was an easy target. I could almost have shot him with my eyes closed. Although he was not that distant, he existed in a different world. He was on the inside, I was on the outside. We could have been in a theatre: I was high up in the gods, in a Grbavica apartment, almost completely removed from where he was, down below in the city, on centre stage. Despite that, as in any well-designed theatre, we were intimately connected.

  Through the telescopic sights, my reader appeared so close that I felt I could reach out and touch him. But when I lifted my head an inch, I lost him. I thought, where is he, where has he gone? And then I would spot him – but only because I knew the area in which to look. To the naked eye, he had shrunk. In the split second it had taken me to raise my eye from the sights, he had shrunk back into the anonymity of the surrounding streets and almost disappeared.

  I had him in my sights again. I was in a beautiful position, propped up comfortably, the Steyr SSG steady as a rock. I tracked him along the embankment, keeping his head in the cross-hair. It was so close, like a watermelon sitting on a fence at the end of a garden, it could almost have been sitting on the muzzle of the rifle. This was good, because I knew from training that the brain cavity is only six inches wide and four inches high. I imagined my shot entering his skull between the parietal and frontal bones, possibly even exiting between the parietal and occipital bones. Wouldn’t it be a great shot, and a beautiful sight, if one bullet could separate the parietal, frontal and occipital bones, so that they sprang away from the stem of the brain, leaving it exposed like the stamen of a flower? Yes, of course, it would be a physiological impossibility as well as a shooting impossibility, but hey, it was fun to imagine! I’d also welcome the opportunity to see if a reader’s brain was any different from that of a normal person. It could be full of words, dust, or cobwebbed ideas. Possibly small, mean and nasty, even vindictive. Or maybe polished and cold, like the inside of a computer: efficient, calculating, everything clicking and whirring away with frightening precision.

  I could almost see the expression on his face, although, at that distance, it was beginning to blur. But he did look smug, I was sure of that. And I felt I could speak to him without even raising my voice. For a moment, I think I may have done. ‘I’m going to put a bullet in the middle of that head of yours, just above the ear, so that it goes straight through your pathetic brain and splashes those little grey cells all over the pavement. That’s it, Mr Publisher’s Reader, let’s have a look inside your head. Let’s see how much is there.’ That’s the kind of thing I might have been saying, probably trying to stop myself from freaking out, from losing my nerve.

  Click, click, click. I adjusted for elevation and distance. If he was four hundred yards away and walking at, say, three miles an hour, then I had to aim a little over two body thicknesses in front of him – about thirty inches.

  There were no obstructions to speak of. The once famous poplars along the river bank had long since been felled for firewood, cut down at ground level so that now all you could see were stumps. If they had not been in such an exposed position I think the locals who are desperate for firewood would have come along and dug them up too. Hang on a minute, I thought, let’s have some fun with the old fool. Let’s not finish this business off too fast; he’s a reader after all. We don’t want it to be over before it’s even started. There may not be anyone else for me to shoot at for hours.

  I lowered the rifle a fraction. Through the sights, I could see the armful of books. They were bobbing about, forwards and backwards, upwards and downwards in the cross-hairs. It would be a tricky shot, aiming ahead of the target, trying to time the arrival of the bullet at a certain spot with the arrival of the books. The meeting of lead with paper. I took two deep breaths. I held my breath at the end of the second exhale, just before the next inhale, squeezing the trigger, feeling the solid kick of the rifle against my shoulder. I heard the faint crack as the bullet left the barrel. A second later I inhaled.

  I could have hit the strap holding the books straight on, as intended, but it was possible I’d simply knocked them out of his hands. Whichever it was, it was a good shot. His books lay around on the pavement in disarray, some shut, some open, their pages waving in the breeze, some with their spines pointing upwards to the sky like miniature tents. The astonishing sight, however, was the reader on his hands and knees trying to gather up all the books I’d shot out of his arms. I could scarcely believe my eyes. There he was, inches away from being another sniper’s victim, out in the open, totally exposed, and he was on all fours trying to pick up the books he’d dropped. It was so unexpected, I almost laughed. I’d taken it for granted that he’d run for cover and, in readiness for such an eventuality, had immediately ejected the spent cartridge and chambered another. I needn’t have rushed. My reader, my bookish friend, was sweeping up his volumes and piling them one on top of the other with earnest enthusiasm, totally absorbed in his task, as if his very life depended on it. The man was crazy, why didn’t he run for cover? I was put out. I was annoyed: did he want me to kill him? It was as if he was embarrassed to be put in such a predicament, Mr Perfect being made to look a fool. I could see an old woman who must have come out of one of the apartments standing nearby, watching the reader scrabble around, like a croupier gathering and stacking chips on the roulette table. Like me, she was obviously captivated by this sight.

  I bided my time, I was enjoying the show. Why wasn’t he trying to hide, why didn’t he take shelter? For a reader he didn’t seem too clever. Could I have been mistaken about his profession? But no, on second thoughts, I was sure this is how a reader would behave in a crisis – like an imbecile. I’d envisaged firing my second shot as he ran along the pavement, bent almost double, trying to reach the safety of an apartment building. That would have made it easier. Instead, here he was, staying put, out in the open, presenting himself as a stationary target. That wasn’t much fun for me. It made it more difficult. I told myself it must be panic, he must be crapping himself. I remember reading once that a person will do anything to avoid ridicule, preferring to die rather than be shown up in front of his fellows. If it means he can prevent being made to look foolish, then he’ll happily lay down his life. I’ve never truly believed this until that moment, but looking at the man grovelling around on the pavement gathering up his books instead of running for cover, it did look a distinct possibility.

  Then the woman also got down on her hands and knees to help him pick up his books. She probably thought she was so old it didn’t matter if she was shot. And to be honest I couldn’t be bothered to pick her up in my scope. I was too interested in my reader. Just for a moment, however, I did wonder if she could be my long-lost grandmother – she was about the right age. I recalled my father’s request: ‘Shoot your grandmother for me if you see her.’ But this was scarcely the time to settle family squabbles.

  Suddenly, as if it had all become too much for him, the reader stood up, somewhat shakily, took off his John Lennon spectacles and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Was he crying? Could the guardian of public taste have been reduced to tears? It appeared so. ‘Go on, Mr Reader,’ I said out loud, ‘have a cry. It won’t do you any good, though.’

  I should finish him off: he was too pathetic. He was dusting himself down in between wiping away his tears. But he still had that look about him – smugness, it was definitely smugness, as if he were saying to me, ‘There, you have inconvenienced me a little, you have had a little sport at my expense, but I am not fazed, I’m not going to let it get me down, I shall pick up my books and continue on my way. Please stand aside, I have important things to do.’ He put his spe
ctacles back on.

  I steadied the rifle. My finger, curled around the trigger, tightened imperceptibly. At that moment a young man approached the professor and started pulling at his jacket, pointing up to the hills in my direction and speaking with great urgency. He was half bent over and he looked scared. I imagined he was trying to persuade the old buffoon to run for cover. I could almost hear what he was saying: ‘For heaven’s sake, friend, leave your books and take shelter. Hurry! You’ll get shot out here. Don’t worry about your books, you can collect them later. They’re only books. Your life is more valuable. Run, friend, run!’

  Don’t waste your breath, I muttered to myself. As my reader started to follow the young man down the street, I tracked him with the rifle. And yes, I can’t explain it, but suddenly I wanted them to hurry, I wanted them out of my sight.

  They’d left the old woman to pick up the books. This struck me as very ungentlemanly, although she didn’t seem too unhappy or concerned by the arrangement, and continued to place one book carefully on top of another, like a librarian at the end of a hard day. She was certainly of the opinion that no one would be interested in shooting her. She was a wise old bird, certainly wiser than the reader, so I left her alone.

  I left the other two alone, too. I couldn’t do it. I don’t know what happened, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. It was harder to do than I thought. Even though I suspected one of them was a reader, I couldn’t pull the trigger.

  Back to Contents

  Having nothing better to do, I visited my parents. It was over Christmas and the New Year, and it was the last time I saw them before leaving England. The occasion was more memorable for John Osborne dying on Christmas Eve. He probably wasn’t angry dying then, and more than happy to miss all that holiday nonsense. For the first time in his life, on his deathbed, the Angry Young Man wouldn’t have been angry at all. I liked that. It was poetic. I’m certain he’d have appreciated it too.