Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘No?’ And Mr Ishmael fairly bristled. I never saw him bristle often – it took an extreme situation for him to exhibit even mild bristling, but he fairly bristled right at this moment. Fairly bristled did he.

‘I am not impressed by such bristling,’ I told him. Although secretly I was most impressed.

‘You will telephone your ex-band members and arrange a meeting,’ Mr Ishmael told me.

I shook my head. ‘I won’t.’

‘You will and you will do it now.’

‘Or what?’

And thinking back I really wish I hadn’t said that. Because in a flash, Mr Ishmael showed me what. And it involved a flash. A flash of very bright light. Again.

And what happened within the glare of this very bright light I have no wish to go into here. Nor anywhere.

But suffice it to say, I made that telephone call.

And I arranged a meeting of the former members of The Sumerian Kynges. And there must have been something about the degree of urgency and desperation in my voice that made those former members agree to attend that meeting.

And that meeting truly sealed our fates.

And changed our lives for ever.

Nothing is ever straightforward.

And even the simplest things have a habit of becoming complicated.

For instance, I thought at the time, when I was running the private detective agency with my brother, that I was, at least, master of my own destiny. That I was making my own rules and living by them. And then Mr Ishmael returned to my life, bringing complications to my simplicity. It was only later that I came to realise that the period of my life spent working with Andy was nothing more than a rehearsal. A honing of techniques. That Mr Ishmael had been watching me all along, monitoring my progress until he felt I was ready to serve him once again. To aid him in his Quest.

So I had not been master of my own destiny at all, rather a pawn in a game I did not understand. And I have to tell you that Mr Ishmael had frightened me badly and could no longer be seen as a benevolent figure. He was a tyrant and he was someone to be feared.

But what he had in store for The Sumerian Kynges I could only guess. And when I met up with the former members and thanked them for responding to my telephone calls, they informed me that Mr Ishmael had already contacted them and made it brutally clear that they had no choice in the matter either. So they were expecting my call. Or perhaps a better word was, dreading.

We met up in the Wimpy Bar. Which made it quite like the good old days.

‘It’s quite like the good old days!’ I said to Neil and Rob and Toby, too, and I smiled them some encouragement.

‘It is not like the good old days,’ said Neil. ‘In fact I am not altogether sure that there ever were any good old days.’ Neil hadn’t changed much. He still had the goatee, but he no longer wore a school uniform, preferring instead a rather smart and modish suit.

‘I think we should just run,’ said Toby. Who wore a suit of equal modishness.

‘What?’ I asked of him.

‘Have it away on our toes and put as much distance between ourselves and Mr Ishmael as possible.’

‘I agree with that,’ said Rob. Who had grown his hair a bit longer, but also favoured a suit. ‘And he sacked me, anyway. I don’t know what I’m doing here.’

‘He told me he wants to put the band back together as a five-piece,’ said Neil. ‘And he wants me to take charge of the recording sessions, because that is something that I now know all about.’

‘And me to handle the promotional side,’ added Rob. ‘He did mention that to me, now I’ve been in advertising for three years.’

‘And he wants me to find him a new house, one with a recording studio attached,’ said Toby.

And it was at that moment that I realised Mr Ishmael had been watching all of us. And perhaps guiding our separate movements? Our separate careers? For his own ends?

It seemed entirely probable.

‘Hold on a minute,’ Rob said. ‘What do you mean, Neil, about him wanting a five-piece band? Who is the fifth member? Not Mr Ishmael himself, I hope.’

‘Ah,’ said I. And this ‘Ah’ drew their attention.

‘You know, don’t you, Tyler?’ said Neil.

‘I like your suit,’ I said to Neil. ‘Did you get it from Carnaby Street?’

‘Who is the fifth member?’ Neil asked. ‘And do not try to change the subject.’

‘It’s him,’ I said, and I pointed.

‘This big cocker spaniel?’ said Neil.

‘Cocker spaniel indeed!’ said the great big bloodhound.

And Neil and Toby and Rob fell back in their seats.

But I didn’t and I just said, ‘Lads, allow me to introduce you to my brother, Andy. He is our new lead singer.’

‘A man dressed up as a dog,’ said Rob. And he nodded thoughtfully.

‘Are you nodding thoughtfully?’ Neil asked him.

‘Well, I can appreciate the novelty value. I’ve been working on a concept of an extended family of furry animals who live on a common and pick up litter. Children will love them, and parents will love them loving them because they will instil decent habits into the children: abstemiousness and the cockney work ethic. I’m thinking of naming them after the common.’

‘The Ealings?’ said Neil.

But Rob shook his head. ‘The Wandles of Wandsworth Common. Catchy, eh?’

I looked at those I could look at. And those I could look at looked back at me. And as one we shook our heads. Rather sadly.

‘Well, I’m working on it,’ said Rob. ‘I’ll pull it together. But there is potential for a singer dressed as a dog. Think of Howling Wolf.’

‘Did he dress as a wolf?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Rob. ‘I just said to think of him. Maybe we could do some Howling Wolf numbers.’

‘We’re not going to do any George Formby numbers, I’m telling you that,’ said Rob. ‘I have a few catchy ones of my own that I’ve recently penned about cheese.’

‘We’ll do exclusively all our own material,’ said Andy, divesting himself of his dog’s head. ‘Mr Ishmael has commissioned me to write all the new material.’

‘This is the first I’ve heard of this,’ I said.

Andy just shrugged. ‘If you have any problems with it, then I suggest you take them up with Mr Ishmael.’

That was a phrase that would come to be used quite a lot in the near future. And it never lost any of its power.

‘I’m fine with it,’ said Neil. And his teeth made the ‘grindings of discontent’.

‘And I suppose running is out of the question,’ said Toby. ‘So I suppose we’d better buckle down and do some rehearsing.’

‘Where?’ I enquired.

‘At my rehearsal studio,’ said Toby. ‘I acquired it quite cheaply during a big property deal I was doing. I can’t quite remember why I decided to buy it now. But it’s handy I did, isn’t it?’

And we all agreed.

It was very handy.

It was not a jolly reunion lunch. In fact, it set a precedent for all reunion get-togethers to come. They would, from now on, always be grim affairs. But at that first lunch, certain lines were drawn. And we knew where we stood. We agreed that we now feared and hated Mr Ishmael. But we also agreed that if we were going to be forced into putting The Sumerian Kynges on the road, then we would become a force to be reckoned with. We would do everything in our power to become the very future and spirit of rock ’n’ roll. A Supergroup.

And that when this came about, as we now determined it would, we would then enjoy the company of as many young women as our celebrity entitled us to.

So that was rock ’n’ roll and sex taken care of. Which only left the drugs. And there were a lot of those about in nineteen sixty-seven, I can tell you.