Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

And just as I had come to the conclusion that it was probably something absolutely wonderful and that I was going to be exalted amongst men for involving myself in it-

The clock stopped.

Dead.

You surely must know of Hugo Rune, and of his acolyte, Rizla.

Rune was a mystic and master of the arts magical who engaged, in the early nineteen-sixties, in an adventure involving twelve ‘carriage-way constellations’, zodiac figures formed from the layouts of streets in Brighton. These exploits were recorded in a number-one world bestseller, The Brightonomicon, which was translated into twenty-seven languages, became an iconic radio series and then a Hollywood movie, notable for the plethora of Academy Awards that were heaped upon the director and cast.

Well, I suppose that I must have thought, when Mr Ishmael spoke of revealing certain mighty secrets to me, that I might be entering into a kind of partnership with him that would resemble the one that Rizla had entered into with Rune.

But no.

Things couldn’t possibly have been more different. The more I think about it, the fewer the parallels become. In fact they are less than few, being less than one, which is none.

So to speak.

And, for a start off, I was going to be on my own for my first case. No gurus’ guru to inspire me. This was going to be my gig. And I felt slightly worried as to this.

I loved the idea of being a private investigator, of course. It was such a glamorous profession. One would be forever rubbing shoulders with supermodels and movie stars and members of the aristocracy.

And then there were the outfits. The snap-brimmed fedora, and the trench coat with the belt that you tied, and never buckled. For to buckle that belt would be uncool. And then there was the tweed suit. All professional private eyes owned a tweed suit. Private eyes donned the tweed suit when they wanted to disguise themselves. As newspaper reporters. It was an infallible disguise, and one that the world’s greatest fictional nineteen-fifties genre detective, Lazlo Woodbine, had used to great effect upon many notable occasions.

Whilst solving cases that involved rubbing shoulders with supermodels and movie stars and members of the aristocracy.

I couldn’t wait to get at it. I was inspired.

But I would need a trench coat. And a fedora.

And a gun.

Private eyes always carried a gun: the trusty Smith & Wesson. I would certainly need one of those. For the final rooftop confrontation with the villain that always ended with shots ringing out and him taking the big fall to oblivion.

I just couldn’t wait!

‘Mum,’ I said to my mum at lunchtime that self-same day and over lunch, ‘you have a trench coat, don’t you?’

My mother balanced a parsnip delicately upon her fork. ‘I did,’ she said, ‘but I don’t have one now.’

‘You haven’t given it to Captain Lynch, have you?’ I asked, as recently I had noted that the contents of my wardrobe appeared to be lessening. And on quizzing my mother regarding this curious circumstance was rewarded with tales of naked savages of the Orinoco Basin who were greatly in need of my clothes.

‘I have not given it to Captain Lynch,’ said my mother. ‘I have given it to your brother, Andy.’

‘My brother, Andy? But I thought he was banged-up in the loony bin.’

‘We do not use the expression “banged-up”,’ my mother informed me. ‘We say “locked away” in the loony bin.’

‘But he’s out?’

‘Discharged yesterday. He was hoping to make it along to see your performance at The Green Carnation. How did that go, by the way? You came home ever so late. I think your father might want to have a word with you regarding that lateness.’

‘No, please stop,’ I told my mother. ‘My brother is out of the loony bin and you have given him your trench coat – why is this?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said my mother. ‘Why would anyone want a trench coat?’

‘To be-’ I said. And then I paused. She was asking, it appeared, a rhetorical question. ‘Why would they?’ I asked in return.

‘Because they intended to become a private eye, of course.’

‘And my brother Andy intends-’

‘To become a private eye. Yes, well, he has become one. Already. Actually.’

‘But he’s just come out of the loony bin-’

‘And he needed a job. They offered him a counselling job at the loony bin – they always offer that to cured loonies – but he wasn’t keen. He said that he’d been reading a lot of Lazlo Woodbine novels while he was in there and fancied trying his hand at being a private eye.’

And I groaned at this. And combined this groan with a plaintive sigh, as had Mr Ishmael. For it was I who had given Andy these books, trying to make peace, as it were. Because for some reason or other, beyond my understanding, he had got it into his mad head that it was somehow my fault that he’d been locked-up in that loony bin.

‘Oh,’ I said to my mother. ‘So where is he now?’

‘He’s off on his first case,’ said my mother. ‘Apparently some local pop group had all their instruments and equipment stolen last night, and Andy has vowed to find it. And before the day is over. He sounded very confident.’

‘No,’ I said to my mother. Then, ‘No!’ and then, ‘NO!’

‘Not so loud, dear,’ said my mum, ‘you’ll have your parsnips going on the turn.’

‘Where is Andy now?’ I asked, suddenly having no care for parsnips.

‘He’s gone to the crime scene, of course. On the allotments, apparently. He said that any private eye worthy of the name would always check the crime scene first. Criminals always leave clues, no matter how small. They just do.’ And then my mother got that vacant look on her face that she always did when she was having one of her prophetic visions.

And I pushed my lunch plate aside and departed.

Hearing only the words ‘CSI Miami’ issuing from my mother’s lips. And the name ‘Horatio Caine’.

With no trench coat or fedora I was hardly going to look the part on my first day on the job. I did have my duffle coat, and as it was still snowing out, I donned this, did up the toggles and raised the special hood.

Which made me look like a British seaman serving on a wartime submarine. Which was not the look I was hoping for at all.

And as it was very nippy, I wore my mittens, too – the Fair Isle ones that my mother had knitted. And even though I was now totally impervious to the cold in my upper-body regions, this did nothing at all to raise my spirits as I trudged my way to the allotments.

And by the time I reached them, there was a definite blizzard going and I was forced to squint through this and tread very warily, too. And when I reached the doorway of The Divine Trinity I suddenly found myself face to face with my brother.

‘Andy,’ I said.

And, ‘Kenneth More,’ he said to me.

‘I’m not Kenneth More,’ I said. ‘I’m your brother, Tyler.’

‘So,’ said my brother, ‘I suspected something of the kind.’

He looked rather well, did my brother. Very fit. In looks he looked much like myself, although I was a tiny bit taller. He had the better physique, though, always did have. Lithe, it was, lean, pared down. And he kept himself fit. Did aerobics, even before they’d been invented. And he was a vegetarian. When he wasn’t being a carnivorous animal. And he always looked good in whatever he wore. He looked just great in that trench coat.

‘I like the hat,’ I said to him. ‘That is a snap-brimmed fedora.’

‘It was Dad’s, apparently.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘So how are you doing? Mum said you were up to some private-eyeing. How’s it going – have you had any luck with anything?’