Necrophenia

  ‘No, sir, he didn’t.’

  ‘He’s too expensive. We need his room. We are going to extend the children’s ward. Children’s wards get funding. Vegetables taking up valuable bed space do not.’

  ‘I can’t just pull the plug on him, sir. That would be unethical.’

  ‘There will be a power cut at three p.m. Essential maintenance work outside. All staff have been notified of this, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir, because the equipment that maintains the life-functions of patients such as this must be reset immediately after the power cut or they will not restart.’

  ‘And you are responsible for restarting this patient’s equipment?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I am ordering you to take the afternoon off. Go home, watch the Lakers game on TV. Here, take these.’

  ‘And these are, sir?’

  ‘Tickets to Carnegie Hall. The Fortieth Anniversary tour of The Sumerian Royalty. Have a good time. Take your wife.’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir. But the patient—’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry yourself over this patient. I will take responsibility for him.’

  And the fellow who said this smiled a cruel smile and drew a finger across his throat. And then the two of them left my room.

  Giving me plenty more things to ponder upon.

  54

  Tick tock tick tock, time all passing by.

  And me on my bed, all alone in my room, with plenty of things to ponder. And a certain rage growing within me that it would be very hard to describe to anyone who has never been in a similar situation.

  They call it an impotent rage. And there is no rage worse than that.

  And this rage roared through my body, boiling and foaming.

  And the time on the clock ticked by.

  So this was to be it, was it, then? Had some mighty cosmic force that wasn’t God (because God didn’t intervene) finally decided that enough was enough? That I had suffered enough? That now would be the time to put me out of my misery? That now I was just a waste of space?

  I wasn’t having that.

  I was not going to be switched off. Have my plug pulled good and proper. Be dispatched upon my way. No. And so I raged and boiled and foamed. And then I felt it twitch. It was a finger. The little finger on my left hand twitched and I could feel it doing so. And then I got the thumb going and another finger. And then I could feel my wrist. And my toes tingled and my nose ran. And I rose up from my bed.

  Rose, as a titan from the depths.

  As one born again. Although not that one, obviously.

  Rose and tore out the tubes and the wires and set my feet on the floor.

  And collapsed in a most untidy heap. A groaning, moaning heap.

  Because feeling had now returned to my body and I hurt everywhere. My eyeballs hurt, and how can your eyeballs hurt? Even my hair hurt. And my toenails. But I climbed up to my feet, swayed gently, clutched the bed for support. And I savoured that pain, every red-hot-firey needle of it. Because I could feel again and even pain felt good. And I breathed great drafts of air unaided and I opened my eyes and I stared at the world. And the world didn’t look too good.

  My room was shabby. In fact it was more than just shabby, it was filthy. It hadn’t looked like that through my astral eyes. It had just looked like a room. But with my normal eyesight, shabby grim. And with my nasal passages working once more, it smelled dreadful. As if some blighter had pooed in the corner and no one had cleared it up.

  I steadied myself against the bed, sat myself down on it and pulled out the last of the bits and bobs that connected me to this and that.

  ‘Well, you can have your room back,’ I said. ‘I hope the dear children like the smell.’

  My clothes hung in a cupboard in the corner of the room. I patted at the trench coat. They had taken my trusty Smith & Wesson, but the rest of my stuff was there, though smelly. All musty and fusty and greatly in need of dry-cleaning.

  I tore off the horrid surgical gown that unflatteringly adorned me and it came away in pieces, it was so rotten. ‘No expense spent,’ I concluded as I togged up in my Lazlo Woodbine gear. And I took up that map that the major had left and stuffed it into a pocket.

  The Woodbine gear didn’t fit me too well. It was, I confess, a bit big. I had clearly lost weight. The belt did up by another three holes. I was virtually skeletal.

  There was a mirror over the sink by the window and I limped over to it and peered therein. And I didn’t like what I saw.

  I looked awful. Sunken, drawn, my skin like yellow parchment, stretched across my cheekbones. Killer cheekbones, though. Like Elvis used to have, when he was young and really the king of rock ’n’ roll.

  But I was a mess. My eyes were bloodshot and sunk deep in dark sockets. I opened my mouth. Had nobody cleaned my teeth? They were as yellow as my skin, with nasty black lines between.

  ‘Look at me,’ I howled. And I did. ‘I’m a wreck. I look like a plague victim. How did they let me get in this condition?’

  And I felt that rage all boiling once again.

  And very energising that rage was. And I splashed some water on my face, used my finger as a toothbrush, was disgusted by the blackness of my tongue. Pulled my fedora way down low and stormed from my hospital room.

  And nobody stopped me. Nobody spoke to me. Nobody even seemed to notice me. The medics just went about their business. Gurneys were pushed, some folk shouted, other folk wept. Nurses came and went.

  And presently I was outside in the street.

  And I took great breaths of New York air and those great breaths were not rewarding or beneficial to the good health of my person. New York stank. It reeked. It was horrible.

  It was a nice day, though. Bright sunlight.

  Although—

  There was bright sunlight, but there was a certain dark quality to this bright sunlight. It was difficult to quantify, really, but things weren’t right. Things were, shall we say, out of kilter.

  Somehow.

  And then I saw the policeman. He was just a policeman. He stood on the corner, twirling his nightstick as old-fashioned policemen used to do. And the sun, the dark sun, shone down upon this policeman and cast his shadows before him.

  And yes, I did say shadows. He cast two shadows, that New York cop. And I could see them clearly.

  Two shadows! And I thought about that woman in Croydon who had had the crash on the roundabout and woken up in the Ministry of Serendipity. She’d seen the double shadows. And was it her who had ran me down and died in the crash?

  Probably yes, I supposed.

  And I glanced here and I glanced there. And saw them here and there. Them. The dead, the animated dead. The ones that cast two shadows.

  ‘And I can see the shadows now,’ I said, in a whispery kind of a voice, ‘because I have been in a coma for so long and developed these weird abilities.’

  ‘What a wreck!’ A woman walked by me. A good-looking woman. She’d said that I was a wreck. I opened my mouth to answer her back. But then I realised that she hadn’t said it. She’d only thought it. And I had heard her thoughts. I watched her as she walked away. The woman had only one shadow.

  I shrank back against a wall and tried to look inconspicuous. It’s a detective thing. And I viewed the people of New York. And I counted them as I viewed them. And wouldn’t you know it, one in three was casting a pair of shadows.

  One in three? Did this mean that one in three New Yorkers was dead? The conclusion had to be yes.

  I turned up the collar of my trench coat. The dark sun seemed to cast no heat and I felt chilly withal. He was winning. The Homunculus. One in three. All over the world? The army of the dead growing in numbers, awaiting the moment to arise against the living.

  I felt chilled to the bone.

  And I was starting to shake.

  Going into shock? I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t end up back in the hospital again. What I needed now was a big fat drink.

  A
big fat drink in Fangio’s Bar.

  I had no money for cabs, so I walked. And as I walked, I fretted. He was going to win, that Homunculus horror, and I was powerless to stop him. What could I do, a single living man against an army of the dead? And how had all these people come to die anyhow? I didn’t believe that they had died, been buried, then risen from their graves and gone home to their friends and family, saying that it had all been a big mistake and that they were all fit and well again. That didn’t make any sense. They must have been murdered secretly and then zombified, as the voodoo priests did to their victims in Haiti.

  So what did that mean? That there were zombie hit-squads roaming around at night, picking folk off at the order of their evil master, the Homunculus?

  That, in all its horror, seemed most probable.

  I trudged on, in an ill-smelling trench coat and a right old fug.

  And Fangio’s Bar hadn’t changed. But had Fangio? The not-so-fat-boy barman hadn’t attended my bedside in a while. Had he succumbed? Did he now cast double shadows and call the Homunculus ‘sir’?

  It was with some foreboding, and no small degree of thirst, that I pushed open the now-legendary shatter-glass door and once more entered the bar.

  And there was the now elegantly wasted boy behind the bar counter and he looked up from a magazine and copped a glance at me.

  ‘A bottle of Bud, please, Fange,’ I said. ‘And a hot pastrami on rye.’

  And he fainted. Dead away.

  And I roused him with the contents of the ice bucket. And he rued the day that he had not worn a wetsuit to work (this day) and arose all dripping to his feet.

  ‘It is you,’ he said. ‘And you are awake and here.’

  ‘And looking like dog poo,’ I said. ‘How come nobody gave my teeth a wash?’ And I displayed my teeth to Fangio. Who fell back before the onrushing of my severe halitosis.

  ‘You’re going to need some alcohol to mask that breath of yours,’ said the barlord. ‘And then we are going to have to talk some very intense toot. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.’

  And he popped the top from a bottle of Bud and served up a pastrami on rye.

  And I tucked in to all that he served and did so gratefully.

  ‘I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to see you up and about,’ said Fangio. ‘Even if you do look somewhat dog-pooish. So do you wish to pay in cash, or should I start a tab for you?’

  ‘I’ll have these on the house,’ I said. ‘As this is my bar.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘Was your bar. The court order came through just last week. When you were declared officially braindead.’

  ‘Which quite clearly I am not!’ I said. In the voice of outrage.

  ‘Opinions vary,’ said Fangio. ‘You’re entitled to your own, of course. Personally I incline towards the opinion of the magistrate who signed the court order. But that’s me all over, isn’t it? Upholder of the law and friend to one and all.’

  And I did grindings of the teeth. And bits of teeth fell off.

  ‘I need a wash,’ I said to Fangio. ‘I stink and everything I’m wearing stinks and I need to clean my teeth. A lot.’

  And Fangio let me use his bathroom. And he said that he would not charge me for the towels. On this occasion. The man was clearly a saint in the making. And, as he cast but a single shadow, still in the land of the living.

  I returned to the bar smelling as sweetly as Elvis once had and reasonably shining-white in the railing regions. And I smiled my almost pearly-whites at Fangio and this time he did not fall back clutching at his nose.

  ‘It really is good to have you back,’ he said. ‘What are your present opinions regarding the undead? Believer, or non-believer?’

  ‘Believer,’ I said. ‘Firm and fervent believer. And instrument of vengeance upon the Homunculus. If I get half a chance.’

  ‘Top man,’ said Fangio. ‘Bonnie Tyler was in here the other day and she was holding out for a hero. I don’t suppose you’re related?’

  ‘I didn’t know that you knew my real name,’ I said.

  ‘It was on your hospital records. Which came from extensive CIA files on you. Apparently.’

  ‘So I heard. Perhaps I should go and speak to the CIA, tell them everything I know. And I know a lot.’

  ‘Best not,’ said Fangio.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I know. Best not.’ And Fangio pushed the magazine he had been reading when I entered across the bar counter to me.

  It was a copy of American Alpha Males Today magazine, which incorporated American Jocks Today magazine. And American Teenage Dirtbags Today magazine. And Hard-Core She-Males Monthly, but this last was in very small lettering.

  And there he was on the cover.

  In big glossy all full colour.

  Keith Presley, brother of Elvis.

  Otherwise known as Papa Keith Crossbar.

  The Homunculus.

  And there was a big blurb on that cover. And that blurb said—

  LOOK OUT VILLAINS BEWARE AND TERRORISTS FLEE Keith Crossbar Crowned New Head of the CIA

  ‘Head of the CIA?’ I said. ‘That’s him, you know. That’s the Homunculus.’

  ‘Of course I know,’ said Fangio. ‘All of us in the Underground know now. But what can we do? Assassinate him?’

  I glugged down another bottle of Bud.

  And Fangio served me up another. ‘I’ll put it on your tab,’ he said.

  ‘Head of the CIA,’ I said. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘Folk died,’ said Fangio. ‘Anyone who stood in his career path met with an unfortunate accident. Not always fatal, though, because when they had “recuperated”, they no longer stood in his way - they endorsed his rise to power.’

  ‘And I bet they all cast two shadows?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve heard that story, too,’ said Fangio. ‘And I’ll just bet that they do.’

  ‘How much would you be prepared to bet?’ I asked on the off-chance.

  Fangio scratched at what he had left of hairs on his head.

  ‘Surely I would win that bet,’ he said.

  ‘You might,’ I replied.

  ‘I think I’ll pass anyway.’

  I raised my bottle of Bud to Fange. ‘It is very good to be sitting here in this bar talking to you,’ I said. ‘Even if we are not talking the toot. It’s good. Cheers to you, my friend.’

  ‘And cheers to you, too,’ said Fangio.

  And we shared a moment. A special moment.

  And then the shatter-glass door opened and a newsboy entered and hurled the evening paper onto the bar.

  Fangio almost caught it, but didn’t. And the newsboy departed, chuckling.

  ‘The news,’ I said to Fangio. ‘Now, I have not exactly been too privy to the news lately. Let’s have a look at what’s going on in the world.’ And Fangio smiled and pushed the evening paper across the counter top to me.

  And I perused the front page.

  And guess what. And wouldn’t you just know it.

  There was a great big photograph of me on the front page. And below this were printed the words—

  PSYCHOTIC TERRORIST SERIAL-KILLER ESCAPES FROM STATE MENTAL INSTITUTION CIA Head Orders Cops to Shoot on Sight

  ‘Oh sweet,’ I said. ‘Just perfect.’

  55

  So I was Public Enemy Number One.

  Which rather spoiled my afternoon.

  Not that I’d been having the best afternoon of my life, you understand, what with discovering that one in every three New Yorkers was a walking corpse. But, looking on the bright side, I was up out of my hospital bed and I was in a bar, having the first beers I’d had in ten years.

  And my those beers tasted good.

  But Public Enemy Number One? On the front page of the newspaper? That wasn’t funny. That wasn’t fair. That was downright spiteful.

  Fangio cast eyes across the newspaper and whistled the whistle of surprise. ‘Psycho-terrorist?’ said he. ‘I wonder if there’s a rew
ard.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I told him. ‘And bring me another beer.’

  ‘You won’t go blowing the place up when my back is turned?’

  I gave Fange that certain look and he fetched further beer.

  ‘This is a fine kettle of fish,’ I said, upon his return. ‘A right how-do-you-do and a rare turn-up-for-the-book.’

  ‘Are we talking the toot now?’ asked Fangio. ‘Because you are getting me confused.’

  ‘I’m upset,’ I said. ‘And I’m angry. A wanted man? That is going to make things rather difficult for me, isn’t it?’

  ‘These things happen,’ said the barlord. ‘The secret is not to let them get you down. I’ve recently joined a travel club. That takes my mind off my problems.’

  ‘A travel club. But you never travel anywhere, except to the toilet.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘But that is one of the beauties of the present age. I don’t have to travel. I can employ other people to do it for me.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense at all,’ I told him, in no uncertain tones.

  ‘Ah, but it does.’ And Fangio rested his elegantly wasted elbows upon the bar counter. ‘I pay for someone to travel to exotic lands and in return they send me postcards telling me all about it and thanking me for being so wonderful as to finance their journeys for them. So it satisfies on so many levels, really.’

  ‘It’s nonsense,’ I said. ‘And anyway, where would you get the money to finance them from?’

  ‘Out of your insurance pay-off . . .’ said Fangio. And then his voice trailed off.

  ‘My what?’ I said.

  ‘Curious thing,’ said Fange. ‘And I would have told you about it. I just forgot, with all the excitement of you being up and about and everything.’

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Well, there’s a chance that I might have mentioned it,’ said Fange. ‘There’s always a chance.’

  ‘I’ll just bet there is. But not now. Tell me all about this insurance pay-off.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fange, and he did that grin that roadkill does to perfection. The rictus grin, it is called. ‘Well, when you were struck down by that car. Curious thing. A fellow standing in the doorway of this bar, beside me - because I followed you out, you see, when you went a bit weird and just walked out - this fellow saw the crash and said, “What a coincidence, I happen to represent the insurance company that covers that old woman in the Ford Sierra. And we’re having a special offer this week and there’s a half a million pay-out to whoever she runs down.” ’