Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘And I can see the shadows now,’ I said, in a whispery kind of a voice, ‘because I have been in a coma for so long and developed these weird abilities.’

‘What a wreck!’ A woman walked by me. A good-looking woman. She’d said that I was a wreck. I opened my mouth to answer her back. But then I realised that she hadn’t said it. She’d only thought it. And I had heard her thoughts. I watched her as she walked away. The woman had only one shadow.

I shrank back against a wall and tried to look inconspicuous. It’s a detective thing. And I viewed the people of New York. And I counted them as I viewed them. And wouldn’t you know it, one in three was casting a pair of shadows.

One in three? Did this mean that one in three New Yorkers was dead? The conclusion had to be yes.

I turned up the collar of my trench coat. The dark sun seemed to cast no heat and I felt chilly withal. He was winning. The Homunculus. One in three. All over the world? The army of the dead growing in numbers, awaiting the moment to arise against the living.

I felt chilled to the bone.

And I was starting to shake.

Going into shock? I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t end up back in the hospital again. What I needed now was a big fat drink.

A big fat drink in Fangio’s Bar.

I had no money for cabs, so I walked. And as I walked, I fretted. He was going to win, that Homunculus horror, and I was powerless to stop him. What could I do, a single living man against an army of the dead? And how had all these people come to die anyhow? I didn’t believe that they had died, been buried, then risen from their graves and gone home to their friends and family, saying that it had all been a big mistake and that they were all fit and well again. That didn’t make any sense. They must have been murdered secretly and then zombified, as the voodoo priests did to their victims in Haiti.

So what did that mean? That there were zombie hit-squads roaming around at night, picking folk off at the order of their evil master, the Homunculus?

That, in all its horror, seemed most probable.

I trudged on, in an ill-smelling trench coat and a right old fug.

And Fangio’s Bar hadn’t changed. But had Fangio? The not-so-fat-boy barman hadn’t attended my bedside in a while. Had he succumbed? Did he now cast double shadows and call the Homunculus ‘sir’?

It was with some foreboding, and no small degree of thirst, that I pushed open the now-legendary shatter-glass door and once more entered the bar.

And there was the now elegantly wasted boy behind the bar counter and he looked up from a magazine and copped a glance at me.

‘A bottle of Bud, please, Fange,’ I said. ‘And a hot pastrami on rye.’

And he fainted. Dead away.

And I roused him with the contents of the ice bucket. And he rued the day that he had not worn a wetsuit to work (this day) and arose all dripping to his feet.

‘It is you,’ he said. ‘And you are awake and here.’

‘And looking like dog poo,’ I said. ‘How come nobody gave my teeth a wash?’ And I displayed my teeth to Fangio. Who fell back before the onrushing of my severe halitosis.

‘You’re going to need some alcohol to mask that breath of yours,’ said the barlord. ‘And then we are going to have to talk some very intense toot. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.’

And he popped the top from a bottle of Bud and served up a pastrami on rye.

And I tucked in to all that he served and did so gratefully.

‘I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to see you up and about,’ said Fangio. ‘Even if you do look somewhat dog-pooish. So do you wish to pay in cash, or should I start a tab for you?’

‘I’ll have these on the house,’ I said. ‘As this is my bar.’

‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘Was your bar. The court order came through just last week. When you were declared officially braindead.’

‘Which quite clearly I am not!’ I said. In the voice of outrage.

‘Opinions vary,’ said Fangio. ‘You’re entitled to your own, of course. Personally I incline towards the opinion of the magistrate who signed the court order. But that’s me all over, isn’t it? Upholder of the law and friend to one and all.’

And I did grindings of the teeth. And bits of teeth fell off.

‘I need a wash,’ I said to Fangio. ‘I stink and everything I’m wearing stinks and I need to clean my teeth. A lot.’

And Fangio let me use his bathroom. And he said that he would not charge me for the towels. On this occasion. The man was clearly a saint in the making. And, as he cast but a single shadow, still in the land of the living.

I returned to the bar smelling as sweetly as Elvis once had and reasonably shining-white in the railing regions. And I smiled my almost pearly-whites at Fangio and this time he did not fall back clutching at his nose.

‘It really is good to have you back,’ he said. ‘What are your present opinions regarding the undead? Believer, or non-believer?’

‘Believer,’ I said. ‘Firm and fervent believer. And instrument of vengeance upon the Homunculus. If I get half a chance.’

‘Top man,’ said Fangio. ‘Bonnie Tyler was in here the other day and she was holding out for a hero. I don’t suppose you’re related?’

‘I didn’t know that you knew my real name,’ I said.

‘It was on your hospital records. Which came from extensive CIA files on you. Apparently.’

‘So I heard. Perhaps I should go and speak to the CIA, tell them everything I know. And I know a lot.’

‘Best not,’ said Fangio.

‘You think?’

‘I know. Best not.’ And Fangio pushed the magazine he had been reading when I entered across the bar counter to me.

It was a copy of American Alpha Males Today magazine, which incorporated American Jocks Today magazine. And American Teenage Dirtbags Today magazine. And Hard-Core She-Males Monthly, but this last was in very small lettering.

And there he was on the cover.

In big glossy all full colour.

Keith Presley, brother of Elvis.

Otherwise known as Papa Keith Crossbar.

The Homunculus.

And there was a big blurb on that cover. And that blurb said-

LOOK OUT VILLAINS BEWARE AND TERRORISTS FLEE Keith Crossbar Crowned New Head of the CIA

‘Head of the CIA?’ I said. ‘That’s him, you know. That’s the Homunculus.’

‘Of course I know,’ said Fangio. ‘All of us in the Underground know now. But what can we do? Assassinate him?’

I glugged down another bottle of Bud.

And Fangio served me up another. ‘I’ll put it on your tab,’ he said.

‘Head of the CIA,’ I said. ‘How did that happen?’

‘Folk died,’ said Fangio. ‘Anyone who stood in his career path met with an unfortunate accident. Not always fatal, though, because when they had “recuperated”, they no longer stood in his way – they endorsed his rise to power.’

‘And I bet they all cast two shadows?’ I said.

‘I’ve heard that story, too,’ said Fangio. ‘And I’ll just bet that they do.’

‘How much would you be prepared to bet?’ I asked on the off-chance.

Fangio scratched at what he had left of hairs on his head.

‘Surely I would win that bet,’ he said.

‘You might,’ I replied.

‘I think I’ll pass anyway.’

I raised my bottle of Bud to Fange. ‘It is very good to be sitting here in this bar talking to you,’ I said. ‘Even if we are not talking the toot. It’s good. Cheers to you, my friend.’

‘And cheers to you, too,’ said Fangio.

And we shared a moment. A special moment.

And then the shatter-glass door opened and a newsboy entered and hurled the evening paper onto the bar.

Fangio almost caught it, but didn’t. And the newsboy departed, chuckling.