Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘Nasty,’ I said. ‘Although I do see a bit of a flaw in this law, walking-dead-wise. ’

‘Immediate execution by complete incineration,’ said the fellow. ‘They don’t come wandering back after that like they used to after they had been secretly interrogated, saying that they’d changed their minds and it was all a mistake.’

‘You mean after they had been secretly killed in custody? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘That is what I’m saying. So now everyone lives in a state of total fear, afraid to voice concerns to their closest friend in case that friend might be either dead, or an informer.’

‘Surely you’re taking a chance speaking to me of these matters,’ I said. ‘I might be dead, or an informer.’

‘Fella,’ said my driver, ‘I think you’re safe enough. Even the dead don’t smell as bad as you. And informers always wear suits.’

‘Yes they do, don’t they,’ I said. ‘I wonder why that is?’

‘I think they just like the suits. But then again, who doesn’t?’

‘You’re wearing a suit,’ I observed. ‘And a black one – are you Jewish?’

‘No,’ said the fellow. ‘A tree fell on me.’

And oh how we laughed.

Together.

‘Are we nearly there yet?’ I asked.

And we laughed again.

Such jollity.

For no good reason whatsoever.

But perhaps to lighten the tension.

And tension there certainly was. And when we reached Mornington Crescent East (discontinued usage), I sat in the car for a bit longer, chatting with the fellow, with all the windows open. And I let the fellow choose one of the pizzas and we shared it.

‘I hate all this stuff,’ said the fellow.

‘I think it tastes rather interesting,’ I said. ‘Cheese and chocolate and chitlings and chips, an alliterative combination.’

‘I didn’t mean the pizza,’ said the fellow. ‘I too am enjoying the pizza. I mean this stuff. I mean, I suppose, life. I never expected that the whole world would fall all to pieces like this. Nuclear war, perhaps. I imagined that when I was young. And later there was AIDS, and everyone thought we’d all die of that. Then it went all ecological and we were all going to die because of global warming and climate change. But this stuff, this undead stuff – I wasn’t expecting this. No one was expecting this.’

‘Some were,’ I said. ‘Some were planning it. One at least.’

‘Ah,’ said the fellow. ‘I’ve heard that theory, too – that this is all the work of a single criminal mastermind, an insane evil fiend of the Moriarty or Count Otto Black persuasion.’

‘I think he tops both of those,’ I said.

‘But surely Count Otto Black was the most evil man who ever lived?’

‘This fellow’s worse,’ I said. ‘Far worse. And that theory is true. The fellow exists – I have met him.’

My driver stuffed further pizza into his mouth. ‘If you really know who he is,’ he said, between munchings, ‘then you should kill him. You know that? You should, you really should.’

‘And I will,’ I said. ‘It is my reason for being alive. He and another man have blighted my existence. I will have my revenge upon at least one of them.’

‘You’re surely not thinking to go at it alone?’

‘I have, shall we say, a taskforce. Hence the pizzas. And as I have already mentioned to them that an army marches on its stomach, I must deliver my pizzas to them before they all grow cold.’

‘Is this your home?’ asked the fellow, gazing about.

‘We are camped out in the Subway station.’ And with this I thanked my driver and climbed from his car, taking my pizzas and drinks and garlic breads. ‘Thanks for the ride,’ I said. ‘And if everything works out, I’m sure you’ll learn about it from an uncensored media broadcast.’

‘Good luck then,’ said the fellow and he drove off.

And I entered Mornington Crescent East (discontinued usage), whistling. And I entered, I noticed, by a rather larger opening than the one I had left by. And as I screwed up my eyes and wandered across the station concourse, I noticed that it was now a somewhat lighted concourse. There were flares all around and about, spitting sparks, dying.

‘Oh no!’ I cried, and I dropped my pizzas and drinks and garlic breads and took off down the stairway at the hurry-up.

And when I reached the platform I came upon a scene of doom and desolation. Torches still burned and the remnants of flares did also. And there was a bad smell in the air now, a bitter, acrid smell, and it was the smell of CS gas. And there on the platform lay bodies. Two bodies. One of them was a golden girlie. The other was the high priest. And he groaned in a fatally wounded kind of fashion.

And I approached his golden body and I gazed down upon it and all I could think to say was, ‘I am so sorry.’

And I kneeled low to catch a word. And touch the dying brow.

‘Men came,’ the high priest whispered. ‘Men from above. With magical weapons. We fought bravely, but they overwhelmed us. We failed you, sire, forgive us.’

‘I am so so sorry,’ I said. ‘And you didn’t fail me. You did your best. I am sorry that I brought you here to this evil place. Can you forgive me?’

The high priest reached out a bloodstained hand to me. It was clear that there was something important that he needed to say.

‘The P… The P…’

‘The “P”?’ I said. ‘The prophecy, do you mean?’

‘The p… The p… The pizza. What flavour did you get?’

And then he died.

I had moved to a point beyond anger.

Beyond rage and fury. Beyond all human feeling.

I raised my head upon that platform, threw it back and howled. An atavistic howl, it was. A fearsome howl, a midnight window-rattler. And I am sure that my eyes blazed fire and that I was an ugly sight to behold. But I was done now with everything but revenge. The red mist had descended. All that remained to be done now was for me to enter the high tower above, seek out Mr Papa Keith Crossbar and rend him limb from limb. The rending would be both slow and laboured, one little piece at a time.

And I arose and stood above the body of the high Priest, the golden being whose death was surely my fault. And I swore upon his corpse that I would finish the job I had started and that he would not have died in vain upon this dismal platform.

And then I strode from that dismal platform and up the stairway and across the concourse and out into that rancid New York night.

And suddenly bright lights shone upon me. And I heard a voice I recognised, it being that of the Jewish-looking fella with whom I had so recently shared a pizza. And this fella shouted, ‘That’s him, officers – the assassin who would threaten the life of our dear leader.’ Adding, ‘Can I have my reward in cash, please?’

And horrible hands were laid upon me. And I was brutally smitten down by truncheons of the electric persuasion. And I descended, once more, into that whirling black pit of oblivion.

Most angrily.

And I awoke from that whirling pit equally angry.

Or possibly just a bit more. Although I must admit that in my opinion I had plateaued, regarding the anger. I just couldn’t get any more riled up. It simply couldn’t be done.

And I was floating. Floating.

And not on some adrenalin high. But simply floating. Face up in something rather odd. Or was I face down? Or was my face anywhere? I couldn’t see, for it was black and I couldn’t smell or touch anything.

I did blinkings of the eyes and yes, my eyes were open. But I was in absolute blackness. Had I been blinded? And I opened my mouth to cry out, but no sound came from it. And it was as if all my senses had been shut down and that was a terrible feeling.