Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘Their Satanic Majesties,’ Toby suggested.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Rob.

And then suddenly The Rolling Stones had finished. We didn’t clap them, of course. How uncool would that have been? Neither did we cheer. Not that we could have cheered had we wanted to.

You see, we’d had to talk quite loudly while The Rolling Stones had been playing. Shout, really, in order to make ourselves heard. So we had rather sore throats. Which would not help my performance.

The Rolling Stones came off stage to considerable applause, and we Sumerian Kynges suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a bit of a crush. Most of the teenage schoolgirls of Southcross Road School ’s fourth and fifth years seemed rather anxious to make the personal acquaintance of Michael and his band. We found ourselves getting all pushed about. But we did get our ukes thrust back into our hands, so we elbowed our way onstage.

And Mr Jenner wasn’t there. He’d gone. Left the stage by some other steps. Steps we knew not of. And that was the last time I saw Mr Jenner. He vanished mysteriously quite soon after that.

I always wondered what became of him. Nothing good, I hope. Some years after that, when The Rolling Stones became famous (and yes, of course I know what happened to them), I saw a photo of them standing with their manager Andrew Oldham. And I recall thinking that if Andrew took off the sunglasses that he always wore, he’d look the dead spit of Mr Jenner.

Whatever. Because we were now on the stage.

And I ‘one-twoed’ with vigour into that mic.

And I introduced the band as the Rock Gods that we were. Or soon would be. And I counted in our first number. And we played. How we played.

And I’ll bet, just bet, that if there had been anyone left in the school hall, anyone who had not followed The Rolling Stones out into the playground, where they were apparently signing autographs and deciding which fourth- and fifth-year girls they would be taking on elsewhere, then I bet, just bet, that had there been anyone remaining to watch us play, then that someone would have been really impressed by our musicianship and stagecraft. Even though my vocal renditions were a tad countertenor-ish.

But there wasn’t and we played to an empty hall.

And when we were done, Toby reiterated his intention to kill one of The Rolling Stones. ‘Drown his head in a bucket’ being the expression that he used.

‘I’m thinking,’ said Rob as he retuned his ukulele, for he had done some fearsome finger-work, ‘I’m thinking that perhaps I am not cut out for the crazy world of rock ’n’ roll. I am thinking that I might just go into advertising and become a copywriter.’

‘Not quite so fast,’ said Toby. ‘Playing to an empty hall is part of paying our dues. It will not happen again, you have my promise on this. And let’s look on the bright side – the fact that the hall was empty means that no one will ever know how truly rubbish we were.’

I looked at Neil and Neil looked at me and Neil looked at Rob and et cetera and et cetera.

‘We were pretty rubbish, weren’t we?’ said Rob.

‘We were excruciating,’ said Neil.

‘I was good,’ said I.

‘You were the most rubbish of all,’ the blighters said. In unison.

‘Perhaps I could go into copywriting also,’ I said.

‘You’d be rubbish at that, too,’ said Rob.

‘So where does this leave us?’ I asked.

‘It leaves you, gentlemen, with a most exciting option.’

Now, I never said that, and nor did Neil and nor did Rob and nor did Toby. And nor did Mr Jenner, nor any of The Rolling Stones, nor any of the fourth- or fifth-year girls of Southcross Road. Nor even Mrs Simian the school cook, nor her weird sisters of the kitchen cauldrons.

‘Who said that?’ asked Rob. ‘Or Who’s Next, as I might put it, if it were an album, or something.’

‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ said a gentleman. For surely indeed this was a gentleman. He stepped from the shadows at the rear of the brightly lit hall. The left-hand side, when looking, as we were, from the stage.

‘Looks like a man of wealth and taste,’ Rob whispered to me, as I was standing closest to him.

‘Who are you, sir?’ I asked.

‘Call me Ishmael,’ said Ishmael. ‘Mr Ishmael,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I liked your performance.’

‘You did?’ I was puzzled by this. To say the very least.

‘Perhaps he’s a homo,’ whispered Rob. ‘They’ll say anything in order to get a bit of youthful bottom.’

And then Rob said no more. He sort of clutched at his throat and sort of fainted dead away. And all we Sumerian Kynges hastened to ignore Rob’s plight and see what Mr Ishmael’s ‘most exciting option’ might be.

‘You are not, by any chance, the owner of a vast cheese empire?’ Neil asked Mr Ishmael.

‘Why do you ask me that?’ the other replied.

‘Because Rob has fainted. I’m asking on his behalf.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I see.’

‘Glad that someone does,’ said I.

‘The Sumerian Kynges,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I like the name. It is very – how shall I put this? – meaningful.’

Our young heads went nod-nod-nod. Here, it was clear, was an adult who was on our wavelength.

He had now stepped fully from the shadows, and we were able to have a really good look at Mr Ishmael. The hall being so brightly lit, and everything.

He was very, very smart, was Mr Ishmael.

He was tall. In a way that transcends the way that the famous are tall. Because the famous are, in truth, rarely if ever tall. The famous are mostly short, but look tall because they are famous. And one naturally feels that famous folk must somehow be tall, and so we invest them with a quality of tallness, which mostly belies their shorthood.

Such is ever the way.

But Mr Ishmael was naturally tall. He topped the magic six-foot mark with ease. And he had the big barrel chest of an all-in wrestler. And the barrel chest and the rest of his parts were encased (with the obvious exception of head, neck, hands and feet) within a sumptuously expensive blue velvet suit. His hair was black and all slicked back.

His complexion tanned, his cheekbones high, there was an oriental cast to his features, but it was impossible to put a place to the look. He leaned upon a black Malacca cane that had as its head a silver penis and a pair of balls.

It was a notable cane.

‘I do not like your music,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘And believe you me, the ukulele has seen out its days. But I discern potential and I would be prepared to finance you, to the tune of appropriate instrumentation. ’

‘And new stage clothes?’ asked Neil. ‘I’m not too sure about these sequins.’

‘The sequins stay,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I just adore the sequins.’

And he twirled his cane and tapped it thricely on the floor.

‘Instrumentation?’ said Toby.

‘Electric guitars. Amplifiers. A PA. A stack system.’

‘A what?’

‘All in good time. I think – in fact, I know – that you have the seeds of greatness. Sown, as it were, and yet to be reaped. A field of gold, as it were, also.’

The us upon stage that were conscious did further lookings at each other.

‘Serious?’ said Neil.

‘Serious,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I will manage you. Promote you. I will make your names household words.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Neil (whose surname was Dishwasher).

‘What is your surname?’ Mr Ishmael asked of Neil.

‘Garden-Partee,’ said Neil. (Whose surname was not really Dishwasher.) ‘It’s hyphenated. We’re a hyphenation, but we have no money to go with it.’

‘But you will. You will.’ And Mr Ishmael approached the stage. And as he did so, a certain coldness approached with him. A certain chill in the air.