Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘I wonder if they have a phone?’ I wondered to myself. ‘Then I could phone someone for advice.’

Right.

It was a wonderful shop. Never in my life have I seen a more comprehensive selection of subterranean expedition outfittings. I was particularly impressed by the chrome carabiners, the belay devices, the braided cords, cap lamps, caving helmets, chest harnesses, dry sacs, elbow-patches, dynamic ropes, Maillon Rapide screw links and polyester webbing.

Not to mention the shock-absorbing lanyards and the semi-static ropes and the micro-slim emergency cord.

Which on this occasion I did, because I wanted to buy all of it.

I pointed to this and that and indeed the other and told the proprietor, Mr Ashbury Molesworth, that I would have them. And I purchased a really over-the-top-of-the-range sleeping bag, and some special chocolate that gives you energy. And I also purchased some other stuff!

‘Are you going in deep?’ he asked. In a suitably dark voice.

‘Very possibly so,’ I said. ‘Could you recommend a decent torch?’

And he did. The Astra Multi-Beam one-million-candlepower mega-torch. And also an ACME Ever-Lite Varie-Flame cigarette lighter, to light candles once the battery of the Astra Multi-Beam had given up the ghost.

And I took everything he recommended, including a ukulele, which he said was good for relieving boredom when trapped several hundred feet below the surface of the Earth, with little or no hope of rescue. And Mr Molesworth encouraged me to take a telescope and a 26.5 mm Very flare pistol with a telescopic sight. And although I said that I really couldn’t see the point of taking them on a subterranean journey, he assured me that they might prove to be invaluable. So I took them.

‘I’ll take a spare set of strings for the ukulele, too,’ I said, ‘in case once I’ve fired my flares it takes a really long time for me to starve to death.’

‘Well prepared is best prepared,’ said he. ‘Why, I’m really getting quite excited myself.’

‘Why?’ I asked him. Because I wanted to know.

‘Because,’ he said, ‘you’re English, aren’t you? I can tell by your voice.’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘And that makes you excited?’

‘Not as such. It’s just that you Brits never get the hang of American dollars, so you won’t notice just how much I grossly overcharge you for all this specialist equipment.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well, you have probably made a fundamental error there, because I have no intention of paying for any of these items. I have a gun in my pocket and shortly will be pointing it at you.’

And oh how we laughed.

Until I produced the gun.

But eventually we came to an arrangement, which involved him selling me the items I required for a fair price, in exchange for me not holding him up at gunpoint and taking everything for nothing.

I remain to this day uncertain as to which of us came out best upon the deal.

But finally I was all togged-up. And all paid-up. And as night was falling, the proprietor all closed-up. And I found myself back in the street.

Although this time perfectly attired and equipped for the task that lay ahead.

To enter Mornington Crescent East (discontinued usage).

Descend from it to the entrance of the lost city beneath.

Enter the lost city and avail myself of whatever there was to avail myself of.

Return to the surface, bearing same.

Defeat and destroy the Homunculus.

Beer at Fangio’s.

Bed.

Done and dusted.

Piece of cake.

And all that kind of caper.

Orpheus descended into the Underworld. He went there to rescue Eurydice, I think, although I never paid as much attention to that particular Greek myth. I liked Odysseus shooting that big arrow into the eye of Polyphemus the Cyclops. And the Gorgon, with all those snakes on her head. And Hercules mucking out the stables. Anything, really, that involved Ray Harryhausen doing the animation. And I wondered, to myself, privately, as I prised open an entry into that long-deserted station, whether, just perhaps, if everything did go well and I did win and everything, I might attain the status of mythic hero and Ray Harryhausen might do the animation for any of the monsters I might encounter. When they made the movie.

Monsters? Now why had I thought that word? I squeezed between boards that I had parted and found myself within. Little light was there to greet me and so I switched on the brand new Astra Multi-Beam and revelled in its million candlepower.

There is something rather special about old deserted stations. Well, old deserted anythings, really. They are redolent with all kinds of things. They are the stuff of memory. There are faded posters and ephemera and ceased-to-be cigarette packets. And the dust has that certain smell and things have made nests. And what once was commonplace is now mysterious and intriguing.

I viewed a crumbling poster that advertised a wartime ersatz cheese, that was manufactured from hand-laundered pine cones. And the word ‘cheese’ made me nostalgic. I thought of Rob and those early days with The Sumerian Kynges. He’d always had this thing about cheese. And I wondered what had happened to him and whether he was even still alive. And I thought of Neil and of Toby and of Andy. And what they would think if they knew that I was here, right now, doing this.

And I shrugged off the sadness that had suddenly descended upon me and shone my torch about a bit more. I was in the concourse of what must once have been quite a substantial station, with marble flooring and etched-glassed ticket booths. And stairs leading down. And I took them.

The torchlight tunnelled ahead of me as I descended those stairs. And my footfalls echoed and I felt very alone. Perhaps, I thought, I should establish a base camp here, get a fire going and bed down for the night. I was very much looking forward to getting into my over-the-top-of-the-range sleeping bag. And that special chocolate that gave you energy sounded particularly tempting.

‘Perhaps a bit further down,’ I told myself. ‘At least as far as the platform. ’

And I continued down and down with the light going on before me.

And it didn’t smell so bad down here. Not nearly as bad as it smelled topside. But then there were no people down here.

No people!

That was it, wasn’t it? That smell. That rancid smell that cloaked New York above. It was the smell of death.

The smell of the dead. The walking dead. How horrid. And the living must have let it creep up on them, more so and more so, without even noticing it.

Very horrid.

The platform formed an elegant arc, tiled in glazed terracotta. There were lamps in the Tiffany style, hanging at intervals. There were more wartime posters, this time for violet wands, which had evidently been in great demand, along with electric enemas and patented pneumatic trusses. Thinking about it, there appeared to have been a very great deal of illness back in the war days, all of which required specific patented equipment of the electrical persuasion to effect all-but-miraculous cures. Most of which plugged in and vibrated. So no change there, then. Boom-boom.

And the sun may well have gone behind a cloud somewhere and a dog may well have howled somewhere else, in the distance, but I was deep down down below, so I was unaware. I also spied upon the wall something that I might not have expected to have seen. To whit, a number of posters advertising the movies of George Formby. It appeared that there had been showings of his movies right here on the platform during the war years. Perhaps to engender some kind of Blitz spirit amongst New Yorkers. To prepare them in case they got theirs, as it were. Which they didn’t, of course, but they might have.