Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘Oi, boy,’ called Mick Jagger. And I suddenly became aware that he was addressing me. ‘Boy, bring on the butterflies when Charlie gives you the nod.’

And Charlie Watts, who was passing by, mimed this nod to me. The miming of the nod and the nod itself were indeed very similar. In fact it would have been, and indeed was, impossible to tell one from the other. Except for the fact that the miming of the nod occurred earlier.

I glared somewhat at Charlie. But I did not project. Because, in all truth, I had become something of a fan of The Stones, and of Charlie in particular. And was hoping to get his autograph later.

Charlie scuttled up the steps. And I bethought me of those other steps, the ones that led up to the school stage (from the left-hand side of the stage when viewed by the audience) on that night that seemed now so long ago.

‘And don’t muff it up,’ said Mick.

And to some extent the rest is history. The Stones went on stage, Mick read a bit of poetry ‘for Brian’ – Shelley, I think it was, or perhaps Byron, or perhaps the Great McGonagall – and then Charlie gave me the nod and I lugged the boxes of butterflies onto the stage. Although hardly lugged, as they didn’t weigh very much. And then Mick opened the boxes and shook out the butterflies, many of which were dead, as you’re not really supposed to box up butterflies. And I looked up into the wonderful skies, and saw the wonderful butterflies and I knew, just knew. I just knew.

What?

Well, that would be hard to explain.

And then I looked out at the audience, the two hundred and fifty thousand beautiful people. And my, they were beautiful, in their beautiful clothes, with their beautiful hair and their beautiful beads and bells. Just beautiful.

But then I saw it.

It, as in something I hadn’t expected to see. Could never have expected to see. And certainly wasn’t supposed to see.

I saw them.

In my heightened condition I saw them. Was enabled to see them. Saw those who were real and those who were not. Saw indeed the living and the dead and could discern the difference between the one and the other.

Because out there, in that crowd, all that were out there were not living. They were there, too. And there were hundreds of them. The animated dead that I had encountered before (although even now, as it were, I do not have complete recollection). But the dead that Mr Ishmael had spoken of – and I knew that I remembered that, indeed now it seemed that I could remember everything – they were out there in the crowd.

And they were in their hundreds.

And they were dead.

And I could see them clearly.

And I got rather upset. Because there and then I had a revelation, within my soul-space, and I remembered everything. All the missing bits of what had happened in that cemetery in Hanwell. With our stolen equipment and the mausoleum of Count Otto Black. And the zombies rising in the glowing mist. And the helicopters and gunfire. And the Ministry of Serendipity beneath Mornington Crescent Underground Station. And Darren McMahon the mysterious doctor and Elvis lookalike. And all that was said and all that was done to me and how I suddenly woke up once more back at my luncheon table.

All as if it had happened only yesterday. And all in perfect clarity.

And I looked out across that vista in the park, at all those beautiful people. And I could see the others, lurking amongst them, looking on the outside to be as them, but on the inside, where I could see, not as the living. These were indeed the dead.

And I think, in all of my upsetness, that I must have projected once more, because suddenly now The Rolling Stones were finishing their set, to great applause, from both the living and the dead. And after their encores they were making their way off the stage. And the mighty crowd was stirring, making as to leave, for the show was all over.

But I projected.

And we, The Sumerian Kynges, came on stage.

They looked a bit rattled, the others. They were clearly stoned and Toby was still pulling up his trousers. And Andy was now wearing one of Mick Jagger’s spare stage costumes, which he had apparently availed himself of from the boot of The Stones’ limo. And he looked rather well in it, too, I thought.

And The Stones’ instruments were still on stage. And we took them up. And we played. How we played.

You will note, with grateful thanks I am sure, how I have been sharing with you the original lyrics of The Sumerian Kynges’ songs.

And so now I give you one more. The song that closed our performance at The Stones in the Park gig. When we topped the bill. Although no one remembers it now.

The name of the composition is-

THE BLACK PROJECTIONS

And allow me to say once more that they really and truly do not write songs like that any more.

A standing ovation, I kid you not, from a quarter of a million beautiful people.

And then I felt suddenly exhausted. And I could project no longer. And I sank into a kind of sleep and that was that for me.

I awoke upon the road to Liverpool. Then slept, then awoke once more, on the dock.

‘Where am I?’ I asked. And Andy answered.

‘Liverpool,’ said he.

‘Are we playing Liverpool?’ I asked of Andy.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not.’

‘Then why?’ But Andy shushed me.

And I awoke once more to find-

America.

America!

Blimey. Our ship had docked in New York. I had slept for more than a week. Which had caused Andy some concern. But clearly not too much, because he had, apparently, had an extremely good time on the voyage over. As had the other members of the band.

When I awoke I was anxious to talk about the Hyde Park gig and how we had shamed The Stones with our musical genius.

But none of the other guys wanted to talk about it at all.

In fact they made it quite clear that they had nothing at all to say on the matter. And suggested that I ‘shut the f**k up about that’. And so I said no more. And the subject of what happened that day was never brought up again.

I don’t really understand why they didn’t want to talk about it. Modesty, perhaps.

But I wasn’t going to argue with them. I had had a very special experience. A life-changing experience. And if there was one thing that I particularly wanted to do, then that one thing was to talk to Mr Ishmael about all that I had remembered.

And all that I had seen in Hyde Park.

The dead people, and everything.

But, I was told, Mr Ishmael was not with us on the ship. He might or might not be coming over to America to join us on our tour.

Mr Ishmael was rather busy at the moment.

So I held my tongue and beheld New York. And I really took to the place.

New York was seedy in a manner of exceeding seediness. London could be seedy, as could any other city in England, but never on the scale of New York. New York had really worked hard on perfecting its seediness and no other city could touch it.