Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘Tyler,’ I told him, and he nodded.

‘Tyler, yes, it is you. He said that one day you would return here and that you would probably be rather confused. And that I was to give you this.’ And he withdrew from an inner jacket pocket a very dog-eared envelope. ‘I’ve carried it with me since nineteen sixty-nine. He said you’d come back sooner or later and now you have.’

‘Who said I’d come back?’ I asked.

‘Mr Ishmael,’ said the fellow. ‘Oh, and he said that the future of humanity rested upon you receiving this letter. And that I wasn’t ever to open it, just wait until you turned up and give it to you.’

I looked this fellow up and down. ‘And he told you that, and you have had the letter in your possession for all these years and never opened it to see what was inside?’

The fellow nodded. ‘That is so.’

‘And you really never opened it?’

‘No,’ said the fellow. ‘Never, ever, I swear.’

‘But why?’

The fellow made the face of fear. ‘Have you ever met Mr Ishmael?’ he asked.

I took the envelope from him and he sighed. Deeply. Very deeply, he sighed. And then he made a joyful face and shouted, ‘I am free! I am free!’ And he ran from the hotel bar. Somewhat madly.

Leaving his drink. To which I helped myself.

‘I shouldn’t let you steal his drink,’ said the barman, ‘but I will turn a blind eye to it if you let me see the contents of that letter. That doorman has sat on that letter for so long, like a lady hawk on a nest. It’s nearly driven him insane. But he wouldn’t open it. He’d been told not to and he did what he was told. Have you ever met this Mr Ishmael character?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have.’

‘So open up the letter, let’s have a look.’

I glanced up at the barman. ‘If you will stand me drinks in this bar until I want no more, I will.’

‘It’s a done deal.’ The barman stuck out his hand for a shake and I shook it.

‘Then let’s have a look inside,’ I said. And I opened the envelope. There was a sheet of paper inside, good quality vellum. And a message, handwritten, upon it.

Dear Tyler (it read)

If you are reading this, then it means that you survived your encounter with Papa Crossbar. And if this is the case, then it means that I chose wisely when I chose you. I have orchestrated your life since you were a child, and for one purpose only: that together we may thwart the plans of the Evil One. You and I, together. Do not return to England. Feel free to call your family and tell them that you are alive, but do not return to England. Your future lies here. There is much that I will explain to you, but not yet. You will not know at this moment what you should do next. So have a drink and give it a moment and it will come to you. As if delivered. As if it was meant to be. I enclose a one-hundred-dollar bill. Use it unwisely.

Yours sincerely

Mr Ishmael

And there was a one-hundred-dollar bill enclosed in the envelope.

The barman examined it. ‘It’s real,’ he said. ‘Real as real.’

‘And why wouldn’t it be?’ I asked him.

‘Well.’ The barman took up the letter again. Because he had been reading it with me. ‘This is pretty far-out stuff. You coming in here, thinking it’s nineteen sixty-nine. And this letter. I mean, “thwart the plans of the Evil One”. That’s not the kind of line you hear every day. Except, perhaps, down on East 2001 Street, the Science Fiction Quarter.’

‘There isn’t really a Science Fiction Quarter in New York, is there?’ I asked the barman.

‘No, not really,’ he said.

‘I thought not.’

‘It’s in San Francisco.’

‘And that’s not true either, is it?’

The barman shook his head. ‘Give me a break,’ he said. ‘I was just trying to big-up my part a bit. If you are some kind of Saviour of All Mankind, then just being in the same room as you and talking to you is probably going to be one of the most significant things in my life.’

‘You think?’

‘Of course. So when I get to tell my grandchildren that I met you and they say, “So what did you talk about, Grandpop?” I don’t want to have to reply, “Nothing. I just poured him drinks.” ’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But as I, although I might at times have a high opinion of myself, do not believe that I will be a Saviour of All Mankind, I doubt very much whether it matters what you tell your grandchildren.’

‘Well, thank the Lord for that!’ said the barman.

‘What? ’

‘Well, I’m gay, aren’t I? And the thought that I was going to have to go straight and get married and have children, so that they could have children, so I could tell them that I met you, frankly had little appeal.’

‘So it’s all worked out okay for you,’ I said. ‘Would you care for a drink?’

‘I would.’

‘Then help yourself to the optics as all barmen do.’ [22]

The barman went off in a bit of a huff and I gulped on with my drinking. And I reread the letter and I did a lot of deep, deep thinking.

I really didn’t like that bit in the letter about Mr Ishmael having orchestrated my life since I was a child. But the more I thought about it, the clearer it became that he had been orchestrating my life from the moment I met him at the Southcross Road School dance, and from then until now. Which I didn’t like one bit.

I drank my drinks, ordered more and paid with the hundred-dollar bill. And I counted my change when I recovered it, because I wasn’t that drunk yet. Although I was obviously sufficiently drunk as to have forgotten that the barman was supposed to be paying for all my drinks that evening, because I’d showed him the letter. And then I had a bit of an idea. I would phone home. Speak to my mum and dad and to Andy.

That was a good idea.

That was not a good idea.

I phoned and I did get through. And I spoke to my mum, who was up even though it was three a.m. English time, hoovering the carpets. But with the Hoover turned off, so as not to wake my daddy, who was no longer working as a roadie for The Stones but now as a roadie for T. Rex.

My mum got all tearful when she heard my voice. And then she told me that I was a very bad boy for not calling for so long and how had it been in prison?

‘Prison?’ I asked her.

‘Your brother Andy said that you had been taken off to prison for being naughty with children.’

‘What?’ I said. Considerably appalled.

‘Well, I was so worried that you were dead or something. And I kept on and on at Andy to find out the truth. And finally he said that you were okay, in perfect health and being well looked after in the psychiatric ward of Sing Sing.’

‘Oh splendid,’ I said. ‘Good old Andy.’

‘But I don’t see much of him now,’ said my mum. ‘He mostly lives on his island.’

‘His island?’

‘In the Caribbean. Near Haiti. Andy Isle it’s called, I think. He flies there on his private jet.’

And I groaned very loudly.

‘You should have stayed in the band,’ said my mum, ‘rather than getting yourself involved in illegal playground activities.’

‘Thank you, Mother,’ I said to her. ‘And goodbye.’ And I replaced the receiver and never spoke to my mother ever again.

And I returned to the bar.

‘Are you going to buy me a drink now?’ asked the barman.

‘Yes,’ I said and I sighed when I said it. ‘Why not? Go on. What will you have?’

The barman helped himself to the drink of his choice, took my money, cashed it up in the register and obligingly short-changed me.

I just sort of smiled at this and said, ‘Life.’

‘It’s a funny old world, ain’t it?’ said the barman.