Necrophenia

  ‘You think?’ And the black lady diddled with some futuristic-looking contrivance that was strapped about her wrist. And the wafer-thin (mint-coloured) plasma TV lit up like the Fourth of July. Or the fifth of November, back home.

  ‘I am standing here, outside the gates of Graceland,’ said a TV news reporter. And there he was, doing that very thing. ‘Where myself and news teams from all around the world and thousands of followers of Elvis are gathered.’ And the TV camera panned around and there were indeed thousands gathered around Graceland. And there were news crews and police cars and ambulances, too. ‘For this momentous day,’ the TV news reporter went on. ‘Within Graceland, his Holy Fatherness Pope Keith the First is at this very moment issuing the private blessing and sorting out all the complicated paperwork that will confirm Elvis as the Second Come. And usher in the End Times. For which all we Christian folk rejoice. Praise Jesus, praise Elvis. Amen. Lordy Lordy.’

  And I looked at the black lady.

  And the black lady looked at me.

  And I said, ‘No, this isn’t right.’

  And then she hit me with the frying pan.

  And I found myself falling down and down into the whirling black pit of oblivion that nineteen-fifties American genre detectives always fall into at this time.

  Which was definitely not supposed to happen.

  50

  And then I awoke to find Elvis looking down at me.

  And he was dabbing at my brow and singing.

  And he was singing ‘The Smell in the Gents”. And I wrote that. But he sang it very nicely. And Elvis smiled and said, ‘Are you all right, buddy? You took a bit of a tumble.’

  And I lifted up my head a tad and felt the lump on the back of it. ‘Your cook welted me with a frying pan,’ I said. ‘And although that looks very funny on TV, it doesn’t half hurt in real life.’

  And Elvis said, ‘Lo, you are healed.’

  And I said, ‘What?’

  And the Pope who was standing nearby said, ‘It is a miracle.’ And added, ‘Lordy Lordy.’

  ‘It is a what?’ I said. ‘No, it’s not!’

  ‘Elvis has raised him from the dead,’ said the Pope, ‘as he formerly did Lazarus.’

  ‘He never did,’ I protested. ‘I was just unconscious.’

  ‘You were dead,’ said the Pope. ‘I saw you at it. You weren’t breathing.’

  ‘I was too breathing. I was.’

  ‘Delirious and no surprise,’ said the Pope. ‘This is the final proof I needed to confirm your divinity, O Holy One.’ And he fell to one knee and touched the hem of Elvis’s jumpsuit bell-bottom garment ending.

  ‘Hold on there,’ I complained. ‘This is all some mistake. All of it. And a very big mistake, too.’

  ‘How did you get here, sir?’ asked Elvis.

  ‘I teleported,’ I said, ‘from the same booth-thingie that you did. From the corner near Fangio’s Bar.’

  ‘Never heard of such a place,’ said Elvis. ‘It sounds like some den of vice, where shameless women and wanton men meet to engage in acts of filthy congregation.’

  ‘It’s not quite as much fun as that,’ I said. ‘But it’s my bar now, so I might think about giving that a go.’

  ‘Antichrist,’ cried the Pope, and he whipped out a cross from his papal robes and waggled it at me with menace. And I stared into the face of that Pope and then I saw who he was.

  For it was indeed Keith, though Pope Keith he called himself.

  Keith, the brother of Elvis.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I shouted at Elvis. ‘It’s him!’

  ‘The Pope,’ said Elvis. ‘Show some respect, sir, please.’

  ‘It’s him,’ I said. ‘And I’m me. Elvis, don’t you know me?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve made acquaintance, sir. My name is Elvis Presley and—’

  ‘It’s me, Elvis - Lazlo Woodbine.’

  ‘Lazlo Wormwood more like,’ said the Pope. ‘The Evil One himself. ’

  ‘I’m not the Evil One,’ I shouted, rising as I did so to shake a fist or two. ‘You are the Evil One. The Homunculus. The Evil Twin of Elvis.’

  ‘Twin?’ said the Pope.

  ‘Well, brother then. I know who you are.’

  ‘An auto-da-fé,’ said the Pope. ‘The public burning of a heretic. That would begin your Earthly reign with a big media event, O Holy One.’

  Elvis nodded. ‘It would,’ he agreed.

  And as he nodded I smelled him.

  I didn’t mean to smell him. I wasn’t doing furtive sniffings, not like I had done earlier that morning. I just sort of smelled him because his smell came wafting all over me. It positively engulfed and took to drowning me. And Elvis no longer smelled of all those nice things.

  Elvis smelled of sulphur.

  Elvis smelled of brimstone.

  ‘It’s you,’ I said. ‘You lied to me. You tricked me somehow, I don’t know how. But it’s you. You are the Homunculus.’

  ‘I think you’ve been drinking, fella,’ said Elvis, and he took me by the trench-coat lapels. And I tried to struggle, as well I might, but Elvis did know karate and he flung me rather hard, right across the room, and I bounced off a rather hard wall at the end.

  ‘Handcuff him,’ I heard Elvis say to someone, ‘and we’ll get him ready for that burning automobile thing.’

  ‘Auto-da-fé,’ said Pope Keith.

  ‘That,’ said Elvis. ‘Yeah.’

  And big hands were laid upon me fiercely. And someone else welted me hard.

  And I awoke once more from that whirling black pit of oblivion.

  To find to my surprise and, I cannot emphasise this enough, my absolute horror, that I was now in the garden of Graceland. Lashed to a post and surrounded by sundry combustibles. And cameras were trained upon me. And Pope Keith was intoning something in Latin and waving a burning torch (of the kind so beloved of villagers when they storm the castle of Frankenstein). And I was very upset by this turn of events and took to voicing my protests.

  And Pope Keith ceased his intonations and called for someone to tape up my mouth. And this that someone did.

  Which considerably increased my panic and caused me to come near to all but peeing myself. Which I might well have done had not a sudden and quite ludicrous thought entered my head: that I should save my pee until the Pope lit the combustibles, in the hope that I could pee out the flames. It’s funny what you think in times of crisis, isn’t it? Although I didn’t think it funny at the time.

  ‘The dawn of a New Age,’ I could hear the TV news reporter saying, over the Pope’s resumed Latin stuff. ‘The Final Age. The Glorious End Times. When the Second Come will defeat the powers of Evil and lead us all - well, we Christians at least - to Paradise.’

  ‘Mmph mm mmm,’ I went. Which meant something along the lines that a big mistake was being made here. And please would someone kindly untie me as I dearly needed the toilet.

  And then Pope Keith chimed in with, ‘Burn the heretic. Burn the Antichrist.’ And wouldn’t you just know it, this cry was taken up by the assembled multitude and chanted again and again and again.

  Which rather drowned out my mumbling of, ‘Mmph mm mmm.’

  And the chanting sort of turned down a bit in volume, as it might do in a movie when someone has something to say over it, and I heard the TV news reporter say, ‘And the winner of our Light Up the Antichrist for the Lord competition is - oh and this is something of a surprise - the actual brother of the heretic-Antichrist himself. And he’s here with us right now - let us give a big Second Come Graceland welcome to Andy.’

  And the chanting ceased and cheering began.

  And I looked on at Andy.

  Well, sort of down at Andy. Because I was atop a goodly heap of combustibles. And Andy appeared, making his way through the cheering crowd. And he looked pretty good, did Andy, older now, of course, but still slim and with all of his hair. And very fashionably dressed in the chicest of silver jumpsuits, all sequinned, and just like the look that we had in
those early days of The Sumerian Kynges. My brother! And I breathed a sigh of relief. Through my nose. He had come here to save me. Good old Andy. And I copped Andy a wink. And Andy winked at me.

  ‘Andy,’ said the TV news reporter, shaking Andy by the hand, ‘and tell us all the truth now. This is not a happy coincidence, is it?’

  ‘Well, no, Keith,’ said Andy. Another Keith! ‘Actually, I did not win the competition. I bought the competition. I have put twenty million dollars into the Elvis Messiah Fund to promote the Second Come. Indeed, finance His own situation comedy show on TV.’

  And the crowd took once more to cheering. And I looked on all forlorn.

  ‘Let’s hear it even more for Andy,’ crowed the TV news reporter. ‘A true American hero.’

  I might have managed, ‘A what?’ had I been able to speak. But as I could not, I fought even harder to free myself and made a mental note that if by some miracle (and that was what I was going to need) I did get out of this mess, then I was going to beat seven bells of Bejabbers out of Andy at the very first opportunity.

  ‘Let’s hand over that flaming torch to Andy,’ said the TV news reporter man. And Pope Keith did the jolly handing over.

  And Andy took that flaming torch and raised it high above his head and cried, ‘For Elvis,’ and then plunged it down into the combustibles that were all piled up most high about my feet.

  And the combustibles did what was natural to them. And smoke and flames rose up all around me. And if I’d ever had any doubts about commending my soul to the Lord, I lost all of those doubts right then and I prayed for forgiveness to the real Lord Jesus. And put in just a little word with God that if He would like to break His rule of non-involvement in human affairs just this once, then I for one would not hold it against Him. Perhaps, I suggested, a mighty thunderstorm to staunch the flames. That was in His remit, thunderstorms. I’d be fine with a thunderstorm about now. And then the flames reached my feet and ankles and I couldn’t think any more.

  All I could do was scream.

  And I could do that. Because the excruciating pain brought sufficient power to my jaws to burst the tape that bound my mouth. And I screamed most loudly.

  And I glimpsed the TV news reporter through the smoke and flames, beckoning to someone to tape me up again. Because my screaming was drowning out his commentary.

  And suddenly amongst the smoke and flame and agony that was my existence came fellows clawing their way towards me, trying to fan the flames away from themselves and stuff things into my mouth. And I wasn’t having that. And I wrenched my head from side to side and tried to avoid them. And the flames were rising higher. And I was suddenly aware that one of these fellows was now well ablaze too and he sort of flung himself towards me in a rather futile bid for escape. And the bottom of the pole I was lashed to was burning away. And he fell against me and I reared backwards and the pole snapped and we both toppled back and down and out of the roaring flames.

  And I suppose it must have looked to those who viewed the conflagration from the front as if we had simply vanished into the flames. Which must have been why no one came rushing round to roll me back into the fire.

  And I was fast, believe you me. I rolled over and over and I managed to free myself from the pole and get my hands under my feet and use my teeth to gnaw away the knots. And all that kind of stuff. And the guy who had tried to stuff things into my mouth was howling on the ground, somewhat on fire. And I went over to him and didn’t half put the boot in!

  And then I kicked off my boots, because they were still on fire. And then I looked all around and about. And having assured myself that I was unobserved, I took to my blistering heels and I fled.

  I knew that I couldn’t escape from Graceland. Yet. There were too many people. I would have to wait until the crowds had melted away. As crowds will do, when all the excitement is over. And so I crept back into Graceland mansion, snuck upstairs and hid myself in the bathroom. There was a TV in there, too, of course, so I switched that on, with the sound turned ever so low.

  And I watched that terrible bonfire. And my own brother dancing around in front of it. And Elvis and the Pope having a knees-up, too. And the crowd all cheering. It was all most unpleasant, I can tell you, and it upset me no end.

  And I lowered the lid on the toilet and sat down upon it, broken-hearted. What had happened today? I asked myself. This was all insane. And Elvis was the Antichrist, for surely that was what he was. Was I hallucinating? Was this all some awful drunken dream, brought on by too many of Fangio’s nautical cocktails? That was a possibility. But it was all too real. Too detailed. And I couldn’t wake up. Nor could I do any of those impossible things that you can do in dreams. Especially in those rare dreams when you know you’re dreaming. Those lucid dreams.

  So, not a hallucination.

  And not a dream.

  Then what?

  I didn’t know. But I knew that I was angry. And I knew that I was sore. Very sore. My feet were badly blistered and my wrists were red raw. This was real enough. But how could it be? I just had no idea.

  And then I heard voices. So I switched off the TV and hid myself behind the shower curtain in the bath. And I saw the bathroom door open, and Elvis come in. And shut the door behind him, lock it and drop his trousers, for he now wore a T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. And he raised the toilet lid and settled himself down upon the toilet.

  And I drew from my inner trench-coat pocket the trusty Smith & Wesson and I emerged from hiding.

  And Elvis looked up from his ablutions. And the startled look on his big fat face was almost comical. Almost.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ I said to Elvis. ‘Matters adjust themselves. To my advantage this time.’

  And Elvis now had a look of horror on. And he blubbered, ‘How?’ And he blubbered, ‘Please don’t shoot me.’

  And then what with the sound and the accompanying pong, it was clear that he had pooed himself.

  And I relate that here because I was really really angry.

  ‘Second Come?’ I said. ‘The Messiah?’ I said.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ said Elvis.

  ‘Not what I think? You claim to be Jesus. You had me burned at the stake.’

  ‘But you live. Is this not a miracle? Bow down now and give thanks and I will say no more about it.’

  ‘What?’ And I waggled my pistol at Elvis.

  ‘Please don’t shoot.’ And he waggled his hands and he pooed a whole lot more.

  And I fanned at my hooter and said, ‘You thoroughgoing rotter. I should shoot you dead right here and now.’

  And Elvis grinned a sly little grin. ‘But you cannot, can you?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I can,’ I said. ‘And I should.’

  ‘I don’t think you can.’ And Elvis was now arising to his feet. Which exposed certain parts of himself that I really had no wish at all to see. Although, if I had been gay . . .

  ‘Sit back down,’ I told him. ‘Sit back down and shut your mouth.’ And I cocked the trusty Smith & Wesson and pressed it to his forehead. Just to show him that I meant business. And that I might well shoot him if I had a mind to.

  Well, I might.

  And I would have been justified in doing so.

  Because he really did have it coming.

  And I hesitated for just a moment and considered that yes, perhaps in this world now turned all upside down, I had a duty to shoot him. For the good of all Mankind.

  And Elvis looked up at me. Directly into my eyes.

  And then a dire look flashed over his face. And he clutched at his heart. And he groaned. And he floundered. And he fell.

  Before me, right on the mat.

  Stone dead.

  51

  ‘Well, pardon me for saying so,’ said Fangio, ‘but you have only yourself to blame. Women and cheese don’t mix. They are an unhealthy combination.’

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked him. Coming to, as it were, in Fangio’s Bar.

  ‘Your wife,??
? said the barlord. ‘That’s what.’

  ‘My wife?’ And I did many double takes. I felt as if I had awoken suddenly from a dream. Or been brought to the surface of some murky-watered lake with a great big rush and a good gulp of air. And I said, ‘What is this?’

  ‘What is what?’ asked Fangio. ‘There’s a whole lot of whating going on.’

  ‘This,’ I said. And I pointed to the back of my left hand. ‘I’ve got a tattoo. When did I get a tattoo?’

  ‘Oh, you’re not going to start all that again, are you?’ said Fangio. ‘Because you’ll only go getting yourself banged up in the booby hatch again. And although I know that “being in therapy” is oh-so-very-nineties, it does keep you away from this bar. And I do remain quietly confident that one day I will win it back from you.’

  ‘Slow down. Slow down. Slow down,’ I said. ‘I am in some confusion here. But not mad, understand me? I haven’t gone mad. Say it, if you please.’

  ‘You haven’t gone mad,’ said Fangio. And I’m sure he tried to put some conviction into his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I’m having a bit of a moment here. I’m a little confused. And you did say wife to me a moment ago, didn’t you?’

  ‘Hatchet-faced harridan,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Heaven-faced honey-bunch?’ Fangio suggested. And then he looked me squarely in the eyes. And I could see that he’d aged. He’d aged again. By at least another ten years. Perhaps nearer twenty.

  And I said, ‘Oh no, not again.’

  ‘You’ve lost your memory again, haven’t you?’ asked Fangio. ‘I bet you don’t even know what day of the week it is, do you?’

  And I shook my head, rather sadly.

  ‘Or what year?’ asked the barlord.

  And I shook my head once more.

  And Fangio now shook his head. ‘So go on,’ he said, ‘what is your last memory? What is the last date you remember?’

  I must have got a fearful look on then, because Fangio told me not to worry and that he wouldn’t turn me in to the men in white coats again. And I told him that the last date I could remember was 16th August 1977.