Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

And the golden warriors looked at one another and then they looked at me. And then one of them whispered some words into the ear of the high priest.

And the high priest said to me, ‘He wants to know what an omelette is.’

‘Right,’ I said. And rightly so.

And then I had an idea.

‘Anyone hungry?’ I asked. And all of them nodded.

‘Would you like to try a little top-side tucker?’ And all of them looked rather blank.

‘Food,’ I said. ‘Good food. No cockroaches. Well, possibly some, but they’re not supposed to be included in the dishes. I’ll treat us all to dinner – I’ve still got loads of money.’ And I dug into my trouser pockets and I did still have loads of money.

‘You lot stay here,’ I said, ‘in the Tunnel of the George, because he might appear at any moment to greet you.’

‘You think so, sire?’ said the high priest.

‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. But I will go upstairs, and I’ll bring us back food. Pizzas and Coca-Colas. I’ll get lots. An army marches on its stomach, doncha know?’

And they all looked blank again.

‘Just stay here,’ I said, ‘and I’ll get food.’

‘Do you wish to take a couple of underlings to fetch and carry for you, sire?’

‘No,’ I told the high priest. ‘I’ll be fine. Now, I’m going to leave you in charge down here.’

‘I’m always in charge,’ said the high priest. And he folded his arms rather huffily.

‘Well, of course you are. So exert your authority and make sure that everybody stays put and no one goes upstairs.’

‘Why?’ asked the high priest.

‘Because I say so?’ I ventured.

‘That’s good enough for me,’ said the high priest. And he saluted.

So I saluted back and took myself off and away from the platform at the hurry-up. And up the stairway. But as I didn’t have my big torch, it was rather dark on the stairway and I tripped over a few times and got myself in a right old strop.

But eventually I made it to the concourse and from there to the outside world. Which wasn’t too easy, as someone had nailed back the timber I had prised away to gain entrance.

But I did some petulant kickings and eventually I was out. And I sniffed once more at the New York air. And the New York air smelled rank. And I glanced up at that great building soaring high above, and I knew that he was in that building. The Homunculus, I could feel him. And a hunter’s moon swam in the heavens above that building.

And it was night-time in smelly New York. But I didn’t have a watch, so I didn’t know what time of night-time it was. But it didn’t really matter, because in New York, as in all civilized cities, you can always buy a pizza at any time of the day or night.

I glanced across the street to the parade of shops where I’d purchased all my sub-ground paraphernalia. I figured that if Mr Molesworth was still behind his counter, I’d pop in and sing the praises of his torch and braided cord. Not to mention the dynamite.

Which I thought that I probably wouldn’t.

But all the shops were boarded up. And the boarding all covered in posters.

‘That was a bit quick,’ I said to myself. ‘I was only in that shop yesterday and now it’s closed down, been boarded over and smothered about with posters. They don’t waste any time in New York, do they?’ And assuring myself that clearly they did not, I went off in search of a pizza takeaway. Breathing through my mouth as I did, because New York really ponged.

And I hadn’t got too far before I became a bit confused. Surely I was travelling back towards Times Square, back the way I had come yesterday. But all looked somehow different.

More modern, somehow, more futuristic.

More futuristic? I did groanings. I had done futuristic before. Back in nineteen seventy-seven. On that terrible day when I had entered the parallel world of the alternative reality and been (partially) responsible for the death of Elvis Presley. I couldn’t be having with futuristic. Futuristic was trouble.

And if I was in some alternate reality again, it would be the work of the Homunculus. And it would mean that he knew where I’d been, and had been preparing this to greet me on my re-emergence from the Underworld.

You see, we detectives reason this kind of stuff out. It’s what keeps us a cut above the plain and everyday folk.

So I worried about futuristic.

And I kept a wary eye out for airships that were powered by the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. And blokes whizzing by on jet-packs.

And I went trudging onward.

And presently I saw neon lights and a great big sign reading ‘PIZZA’.

And I said, ‘Praise the Lord,’ to this and made my way inside. And it did look rather futuristic. But in a downbeat sort of a way. All mod cons, but all mod cons well knackered. There was plenty of neon and plenty of chrome, and we all know deep down in our Fritz Lang’s Metropolis hearts that the future will mostly be Art Deco-looking and composed of neon and chrome. And there was a feisty-looking New York girlie behind the counter. But it was a bit difficult to see too much of her because she stood behind a Plexiglas security screen. And it was somewhat grubby and stuck all over with stickers.

I spied out customers awaiting the arrival of their orders, and these numbered two: a tall Jewish-looking man in black, whose looks made me wonder whether Jewish had come back into fashion – retro-Jewish, a very good look, I thought – and a chap who had all the makings of a professional wino. Much like the bum I had encountered the day before, who had been thrown from his office by the Homunculus. But with slightly less hair and rather more smell. And two fine shadows he cast.

So I gave this fellow a bit of a miss, smiled politely at the Jewish-looking one and approached the counter. To have my way barred by the Plexiglas screen.

‘Hey,’ said the feisty New Yorker. Which I understood to mean, ‘Hello’.

‘Hey yourself,’ I said.

‘Hit the road, ya bum,’ she said. And she smiled at me when she said it.

‘I’d like some pizzas, please,’ I said. ‘Sufficient for thirty people. And I have the money in cash.’

‘Out, ya bum,’ she said. And she pointed to the door.

‘I’m not a bum,’ I said. ‘I’m a detective.’

‘Ya look like a bum to me.’

‘That’s not very kind,’ I said. And then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the Plexiglas. And I leaned forward to examine this reflection. And I was horrified by what I saw of this reflection. And I felt at my face. And it was most heavily bearded. With horrible heavy grey beard.

‘What is this?’ I cried, falling back somewhat and feeling at myself. And I pulled out beard, for much more was tucked all down inside my shirt. And it was a full grey beard I had and a long, full, grey one to boot.

And the feisty woman cried, ‘Out!’ once again. And then I saw the TV. And there was a rock band playing. And damn me if it wasn’t The Sumerian Royalty. And there was my brother, looking well, but rather grey, all bawling into the mic.

‘I know that band,’ I said to the feisty lady. ‘I was in that band many years ago.’

‘We’ve all had a try at that, buddy,’ said the wino. ‘ “Been in a band like that”.’ And he laughed.

And my knees were going wobbly.

‘What’s going on here?’ I asked. ‘Is this some alternative reality where I’m Father Christmas or something?’

And the wino laughed once more. ‘Nope, buddy,’ he slurred. ‘No such luck. Just another day in New York City. Another day in two thousand and seven-’

‘Not just any old day,’ said the Jewish-looking fellow. ‘It is, after all, a special day. The fiftieth anniversary tour of The Sumerian Kynges, original line-up. And it’s on in an hour and I have front-row tickets.’