Necrophenia

‘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.’

  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.

  64

  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.” ’

  ‘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.