Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

This friend, who was neither psychotic nor a fan of being afraid, left the TA as quickly as he was able and took work with the council in Cardiff. And I was caused to think of him when I took the dive for cover because I didn’t really want to shoot a policeman, but neither did I want to have one shoot me.

‘There is a back door,’ shouted Fangio, close by my ear. ‘Perhaps if you left by it, those cops might stop shooting my bar to pieces.’

And further shots crackled overhead. And bottles of Bud now went to ruination. ‘Please take all the money with you,’ said Fangio.

‘I was intending to, yes.’

‘Oh good. Because then I can claim it back from my robbery-cover insurance.’

‘Financially speaking, you have acquired certain wisdom over the years,’ I told him as I crawled in the direction of the cash register.

The clientele had taken to fleeing and above and between the bursts of gunfire I could hear one of the cops calling for backup. The words ‘bring everything you have’ stick in my memory. And also ‘the SWAT Team psychos’.

I made a leap for the cash register and I brought it down to the floor and I emptied it. And I filled my pockets with these emptyings. Especially the inside pockets of my trench coat, as they were big ‘poacher’s pockets’ with plenty of room for loot. Not that this was loot. It wasn’t. It was my money, for God’s sake!

And I was not leaving this bar without my money.

‘How would you feel about me using you as a human shield while I back out of the rear door?’ I asked Fangio.

And there was a moment of silence. And the dark sun went once more behind a cloud. And another dog howled in the distance.

‘I’m glad those howling dogs never come any closer,’ shouted Fangio to me as the police gunfire resumed, ‘because I’m sure they must be very big and fierce. But in answer to your question, I’m not particularly keen.’

‘I could force you,’ I shouted into his earhole. ‘I do have a gun.’ And I flourished this at Fange.

‘It doesn’t have any bullets in it, though.’

‘What?’

‘I forgot to put them in.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘But if I hold it to your head, how are you going to know that?’

‘Good point.’

But I decided against it. I didn’t want Fangio to get hurt. When it came right down to it, he was probably the only friend I had, and I didn’t want to be responsible for something horrible happening to him.

Because, let’s face it, there was a rare, outside chance that I might best the Homunculus and return one day to this bar to claim my share of all the money Fangio had managed to snaffle away.

All right, it was a rare and outside chance, but I had to stay positive. Even if, as now, I was being shot at.

‘Farewell, Fangio,’ I said. ‘I hope we will meet again in more favourable circumstances. You have been a good friend to me. Give us a shake of the hand.’

Fangio stuck out his hand for a shake. ‘I’m just thinking,’ said he, ‘that if I were to disarm you and make a citizen’s arrest, I would be considered a bit of a hero. And I’d get the reward. I don’t suppose you’d let me bop you on the head?’

‘Goodbye, Fangio,’ I said to him.

‘Goodbye, Laz,’ said Fange.

I think the police backup must have arrived because there was suddenly a whole lot more gunfire and from lots of different directions. And I make no bones about it, it frightened six bells of Shadoogie out of me. I was really scared. And I crawled along behind the bar counter and edged through the rear door, passed into the unspeakable kitchen, of which there has been no former description and of which there will be none now, and slipped out of the rear doorway and into the alleyway beyond.

The alleyway where Lazlo Woodbine used to get into sticky situations.

That alleyway made me feel almost nostalgic. Almost. I crept along that alleyway, moving from the cover of one trashcan to another, and mostly beneath those cast-iron fire escapes with the retractable bottom sections. I paused, briefly, to check whether I was being followed. And savoured the atmospheric ambient sounds of a solitary saxophone.

And then, when I was almost at the end of the alleyway, a police car swerved to a halt right before me and cops piled out, all carrying guns, and I was forced to run.

And my, can’t you run fast when cops are shooting at you!

And me, not being particularly physically fit and, in truth, a wee bit tiddly from the bottles of Bud – although this was all rather sobering – even so, I did run fast, I can tell you. And I did dodgings, too. And police bullets ricocheted off trashcans and cast-iron fire escapes. And a bum who camped in that alleyway, and whom fate had not perhaps treated as fairly as it might, copped a round or two to the head, which was tough, but such is life.

And I ran. Right down that alleyway and out of the other end. And yes, there were more police cars. And I really had to get a burst of extra speed on to try to lose myself amidst the New York traffic and all the comings and goings.

And presently I found myself in Times Square, breathing very heavily, but at least breathing. And I took deep breaths to steady myself and steadied myself. And then I looked up at that big television jobbie that Times Square is so famous for. As opposed to the Pepsi Cola sign that Piccadilly Circus is so famous for.

And yes. Wouldn’t you just know it-

There was my face right up there on that screen.

Interspersed with shots of Fangio’s Bar.

And I sighed. Once more, I confess it. And I turned up the collar of my trench coat and pulled down the brim of my snap-brimmed fedora, which all but fell off because it was so mouldy. And I trudged along amidst the crowd, keeping my head hung low and feeling not altogether the jolliest fellow around.

And I found a Donut Diner and I slipped into it. And with my head bowed, I ordered a donut and coffee. And after some considerable time negotiating exactly which type of donut, and which variety of coffee would ‘truly fit my personality’, which caused me to wish that there were bullets inside my gun, I paid an outrageous sum for something-or-other to eat and something-or-other to drink and retired with these to a quiet corner table.

And of course there was a television set in that Donut Diner.

And yes, of course it was tuned to a news station that was broadcasting pictures of my face. But I kept my head down and feigned interest in my donut and coffee. Whilst trying to formulate a plan.

I would have to get out of New York as quickly as possible. This was a given. And seek Begrem? Yes, I had the financial means and the aching need. But not the knowledge of where to seek it. Sumeria would probably be a good starting point. But I did not have a passport. And even if I’d had a passport, it was odds-on that this passport would lead to my arrest at the airport. Difficult times.

And I sat with my head way down low and glowered at my donut.

I was all messed up here, I knew it, the whole thing was hopeless, I was done for. I had no intention of giving myself up, so all I could do was run. Far away from here. Get to Begrem. How? All I could do for now was try to escape to somewhere safe. But where? And how? I knew not.

And sighing and glowering, I diddled with my donut.

‘Difficult times for you, Tyler.’

‘Difficult times indeed,’ I agreed.

‘Difficult, difficult times.’

‘Yes, I know they’re difficult.’ And then I looked up. Because I wasn’t having this conversation with myself. Someone else was speaking to me. Although not speaking. I could hear them thinking.

‘That will prove a most valuable asset.’

And I looked all round and about.

And there he was, sitting beside the counter, eating some kind of something that was probably a donut. And he was grinning at me. And I rose to greet him, but he beckoned me to stay. And so I sat still and he joined me at my table.