Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘Whoosh?’ I said.

‘Whoosh,’ said the vision. ‘The iron ore had become perfect gold. The thing that was base, almost without value, crude, reached perfection. Whoosh.’

‘Whoosh,’ I said. ‘And is that the end of the story?’

‘Well, it is in a manner of speaking.’

‘And so where is Pongo Perbright now? Did the Devil take him?’

‘No,’ said the vision. ‘The Devil didn’t take him.’

‘So he bested the Devil,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t happen very often.’

The vision made a doubtful face and shook her head slowly and sadly.

‘So what did happen?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ said the vision, ‘he’s right here. Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ And she wafted aside with a dramatic flourish to reveal, behind her, the figure of a man who had, for all I knew, been standing there unnoticed all along. And this figure of a man was Pongo Perbright. Or so I assumed it to be.

But Pongo Perbright was not going to answer any of my questions.

He just stood there with a stupefied look of surprise upon his face, saying nothing and moving not at all.

‘The base transformed into perfection,’ said the vision, ‘at the touch of the magical dust from the philosopher’s stone. He touched the gold he had created and-’

‘He turned into gold,’ I said. For there indeed was Pongo Perbright. And he was a statue made of gold.

‘Whoa,’ I said. And, ‘Mercy me.’ But it was true as true.

And I approached the golden Pongo on what I must confess were rather wobbly legs. And I did not touch Pongo, oh no, because for all I knew that might have turned me into a golden statue. ‘Whoa,’ I said once more and slowly. ‘That is mighty weird.’

‘Mighty weird?’ said the vision, hovering close. ‘I tell you a story like that and show you a man who has turned into solid gold and the best you can manage is “mighty weird”.’

‘Mighty weird is a lot,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen many things in my life that I would describe as mighty weird. Well, I hadn’t until recently, anyway. But it is mighty weird. It really is.’

‘Would you like those to be recorded as your final words, then?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I would not. You’re not really going to kill me, are you?’

‘I have no choice. You have entered the sacred space. You have encountered me in my true form. You must die. There is no other option.’

‘There must be another option,’ I said. ‘Think hard – I bet you could come up with one.’

‘Knees up, Mother Brown,’ said the vision.

‘And I don’t think you’re a very convincing cockney,’ I said. ‘You said “knees up, Mother Brown” before.’

‘I can say it as often as I like. So, explosion was it, if I recall?’

‘No, no, no,’ I said. ‘No, please. You have told me the tale of Pongo Perbright – and I admit that it is beyond mighty weird – but you haven’t told me about yourself. Who are you? If you’re not the Virgin Mary, then who?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ said the vision.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘what harm can it do? You’re clearly a very magical being possessed of wonderful mystical powers. I’ll just bet you have lived a fascinating life. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to share a little of it with me?’

‘Well,’ said the vision, ‘perhaps not. Perhaps just a little.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I’ll tell my tale my way,’ said the vision, ‘if you don’t mind.’ And she stamped her foot. Although it didn’t reach the floor.

‘Then please do,’ I said. ‘I am so eager to hear it.’

‘It is this-aways,’ spake the vision. ‘I arrived too late to save Pongo Perbright. I was alerted to the deal he had made and I rushed as fast as I could to aid him, but I was too late. And so I impersonated him, for the sake of his sister, but she was not convinced by my impersonation and she called you in. And of course you had never met Pongo Perbright before, so you didn’t know what he looked like. So I gave you an impression of what you thought he must look like and I did the same for your brother here.’ And she gestured with her thumb over her shoulder, to where my brother still sat upon the bed.

‘I thought you would go away and not return. I have set up my headquarters here, you see. I work at night. I am changing things bit by bit: this house, a piece at a time, and then the whole world.’

‘Changing it?’ I said. ‘How and why? Who are you?’

‘I am the Zeitgeist,’ said the Zeitgeist. ‘I am the Spirit of the Age. I am the Spirit of the Nineteen-Sixties.’

‘Whoa,’ I said once more, and in some surprise. ‘So there really is a Spirit of the Age. It is an actual physical thing.’

‘One is born in every decade. Each decade is different from the last, you notice. No two are ever the same.’

‘But surely it is down to Man to determine how a decade works out. You’re not telling me that Mankind is just a bunch of puppets with beings like you pulling the strings?’

‘There are many answers to many questions,’ replied the Zeitgeist, ‘and no two are the same. If Mankind was allowed full rein over a decade, there is no telling what kind of mess it would get itself into.’

‘So you are perfecting this decade the way you feel it should be perfected.’

‘Absolutely,’ said the Zeitgeist. ‘The Nineteen-fifties were a terrible mess: all that powdered egg and Jimmy Handley on the wireless set. And rock ’n’ roll – the Devil’s music. I’ll put a stop to all that, I can tell you.’

‘Put a stop to rock ’n’ roll?’

‘There’s no telling how it might develop. No, I am going to calm things down considerably. I am going to re-establish the work ethic, hence the cockney persona. Cockneys are hard workers, with hearts of gold and love for their old mothers, everyone knows that. So that is what the sixties will be remembered for. Coming generations will read of the sixties as a sober decade when everyone knuckled down and worked very hard, eschewing loud music, strong ales and strange drugs.’

‘Right,’ I said, slowly. And I didn’t feel wrong about saying it.

‘And now you know everything. And so you must die.’

‘Not everything, surely,’ I said.

‘How did you know my name is Shirley?’ And then the Zeitgeist fell upon me. And there was a really blinding light.

A terrible, terrible, terrible light, it was.

Really terrible.

And what a bright light it was.

And the bright light grew brighter still.

Then suddenly it died away.

And I looked up, expecting to see the heavily bearded face of my creator, but to my surprise and considerable relief saw instead the face of my brother, grinning down at me.

‘I’m not dead,’ I observed. ‘Unless you’re dead, too.’

‘I’m not dead,’ said Andy, ‘and neither are you.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘I clocked her,’ said Andy. ‘Right on the head, as hard as I could.’

‘You clocked the Zeitgeist? With what?’

‘With this clock,’ said Andy, displaying same, ‘from the bedside table. As hard as I could, wallop.’ And he mimed a mighty swinging and clocking with the clock.

‘Is she dead?’

‘I certainly hope so.’

Andy looked down and I looked down and there lay the Zeitgeist, all prone on the floor.

‘You killed her,’ I said, in scarce but a whisper. ‘You killed the Spirit of the Age. The Spirit of the Sixties.’

‘Well, she was going to kill you, And I couldn’t have that.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, thanks,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much for saving my life.’ And I climbed to my feet and did dustings down and gazed at the fallen Zeitgeist.