Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

And I took in the date.

Two thousand and seventeen.

And I fell down in a faint.

Which is very much like falling down into a whirling black pit of oblivion.

If not slightly worse.

And I awoke in the gutter with my pockets inside out.

And bitterly bewailed my lot and got in a very bad grump.

Two thousand and seventeen! Another ten years of my life had ticked and tocked away without me even being aware of it! I had a great big beard. And when I looked down at my hands, lit by stuttering street lamps, I saw that I had liver spots on the backs of them. Sergeant Bilko looked like a plague victim.

‘I’m old,’ I said. ‘I’m an old man. How could this have happened? Think! Think! Think!’

And I thought. And do you know what? The answer came to me almost at once. It was not a pleasing answer, but it was a logical answer. And once more I had Captain Lynch to thank for supplying it. I recalled a conversation oh so long ago, in our sitting room, with me sitting on the Persian pouffe and Captain Lynch sipping tea in the visitors’ chair.

‘Do you believe in fairies, Captain?’ I had asked him.

‘Yes I do,’ he said, ‘because I have seen them with my own eyes. They dance at night in Gunnersbury Park – the very last of their kind in this country, I believe.’

‘So what are fairies?’ I asked.

‘They are of an order halfway between Man and the angels. They existed in great numbers in ancient of days, but as Mankind became the prominent race, they took themselves away to the wild lands, never to return. And Mankind spread throughout the world, encroaching upon these lands, and then they took themselves underground, down to the caves where Mankind had lived when the race of Man was young. And there they remain to this day, growing ever few in number. And soon there will be no more of them. It is sad in a way but life is cruel and only the strongest survive.’

‘But fairies have magic, don’t they?’ I asked.

‘Ancient magic, but it’s no match for Man’s technology. It is subtle magic. But you must beware of fairies, and should you meet with them you must not trust them. You must not enter one of their fairy mounds, no matter what they say to you. And if you are foolish enough to enter, never ever eat their food, or you may never return to this world.’

‘Golly!’ I said.

‘Where?’ said Captain Lynch.

‘Why must you never enter their fairy mounds and eat their food?’ I asked.

‘Because fairy time is different from our time,’ said Captain Lynch. ‘And though you may think that you have only been inside the fairy mound for a few hours, when you return to this world, if you return, you will find that years have passed you by.’

And I said, ‘Golly,’ once more to this.

And Captain Lynch asked, ‘Where?’

And once more employing the detective’s logic that I most recently alluded to, I concluded that this is what must have happened. The high priest of Begrem and his mum had both made mention of them having no concept of time. It had to be ‘fairy’ time down there in Begrem, and what had appeared to me to be but a day had in fact been ten years of my own time up here. Which accounted for the beard.

I sniffed at my armpits.

And the really terrible pong.

And I did sorrowful groanings at this, for this was so unfair.

Another ten years of my life all ticked and locked away. Ten years. Bad for me! Very bad for me!

But what of this world? Was everyone now just walking dead? Had the Homunculus raised his status to World Leader?

Was the Homunculus the Antichrist?

I did shudderings now.

And anger rose in me once more. And once more this anger was directed towards Mr Ishmael. He had told me that Begrem lay beneath New York. It was his fault that ten years were missing from my life and I looked like Father Christmas and smelled like the milkman’s horse.

And I began to sob.

Well, I’d had enough, hadn’t I? I really truly had. There was me getting all enthusiastic about my Army of the Underworld. And I was still quite enthusiastic about that, even though there were so few of them. It was still some sort of army. But this! Now this! It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t fair. Was there no justice in this world?

Was this world just a dirty, stinking, unfair toilet of a place?

‘Why, I’ll-’ And I really was angry now. ‘I’ll join the baddies,’ I cried. ‘I will sell out to the Dark Side of the Force. I will, I really will.’

And I just thought that I would. Well, damn it, I had had enough.

‘Will you be wanting your pizzas, then?’ asked a feisty voice.

And I looked up to see the pizza lady.

‘What?’ I asked her. ‘Sorry?’ I said.

‘We put you out here to give you some fresh air while I made your pizzas. I’ve done you a selection, enough for thirty people. And thrown in drinks and garlic bread for free. Oh, and here’s your change. I took the money from your pocket while you had your little sleep.’

‘Can you manage all the pizzas yourself,’ asked the wino, ‘or would you like me to help carry them for you?’

‘Or I could give you a lift in my car,’ said the Jewish-looking fellow.

And I just burst into tears. And the feisty lady comforted me, but from a distance, because I did smell awful. And I was pathetically grateful and did not go over to the Dark Side of the Force. So that was a bit of a happy-ever-after, in a small way, really.

And I accepted the Jewish-looking fellow’s offer of a lift. And he gave me one, although he did insist that we drove with all the windows open.

‘Having a party, are you?’ he asked as we drove along.

‘Not as such,’ I told him. ‘It’s more a sort of council of war kind of thing. But I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.’

‘No worries there,’ said the fellow. ‘We live ones have to look after each other as best we can. I’m sure you agree.’

‘I don’t know exactly what you mean,’ I said.

‘Ah,’ said the fellow. ‘Perhaps I have spoken out of turn. Perhaps you accept the official explanation.’

‘I never accept those,’ I said, ‘as a matter of principle.’

‘Splendid. It’s a ludicrous explanation anyway.’

‘Please tell me all about it,’ I said. ‘I have been out of circulation for a while and I’m not exactly in tune with what is going on at the present time.’

‘But you know about the undead?’

‘I know all about them, yes. But does everyone else know?’

‘Not the kind of secret you can keep for ever. A man dies in a car accident. The coroner’s report says that he’s been dead for five years. A murderer is executed. He gets up out of the electric chair and walks away. It’s funny how much of it came to light because of crime. A wife murders her husband in the night, but he’s down for breakfast the next day. Because he was actually dead for years before. People are alive. Then people are dead. But they’re still alive, although clinically they are dead. A great mystery, eh? The greatest mystery, you would think. And the greatest threat to the future of Mankind. So what is the official explanation?’

‘Enlighten me,’ I said.

‘Mass hysteria,’ said the fellow, ‘symptomatic of the increasingly stressful times that we live in. Word on the street, as it were, is that the CIA controls all the media now and composes all the news items. And it was the CIA that passed the Panic Law.’

‘Tell me about the Panic Law,’ I said.

‘It is a brand-new law designed to “enforce common sense and right thinking and stop the spread of panic, dead”. To whit, and I also quote, “Anyone propagating the myth of the walking dead in any manner, way, shape or form will be subject to arrest without trial and immediate execution.” ’