Necrophenia (14 page)

And how unfair was that?

And how angry was I? And how determined to get our booty back? Very. Very. And very. Are the answers to those.

But I did have Andy. And Andy did have remarkable skills as a tracker-sniffer dog. And though he didn’t bother to don the suit, he took off like a greyhound.

And he sniffed his way to next door. Where we discovered Captain Blood’s shed broken into and his wheelbarrow gone. And then he sniffed from there to South Ealing Underground Station.

We made enquiries at the ticket booth and were told that yes, two huge women with a wheelbarrow bearing an enigmatic eiderdown-smothered load had passed through the barrier earlier. Their destination? This was unclear. They had purchased Red Rovers, the one-day travel passes of the day, which allowed folk to travel anywhere on the Underground.

‘We’re stuffed,’ said Andy.

‘But they will go to Hatton Garden, surely?’

‘Please don’t call me Shirley.’
[14]

‘But Hatton Garden -’

‘No,’ said Andy. ‘They won’t go there – it’s too obvious. They’ve beaten us this time. We’ve lost this round.’

‘But it can’t be, it just cannot be!’ And I took to storming around the station concourse, screaming and stomping my feet.

‘Has he escaped from somewhere?’ the ticket man asked my brother. ‘Should he be out in his pyjamas, and everything?’

‘He’s in my care,’ said Andy. ‘He’s really quite harmless. I’ll take him home now.’

And Andy took me home.

And I was quite disconsolate.

Andy tried rubbing a bit of Vicks on my chest and dabbing rose water onto my wrists, but it just didn’t help.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Andy.

And there was not.

I felt all bitter and twisted. But there was nothing I could do about it. The frustration of that was killing, but there was nothing I could do about that, either, which made it even more frustrating, and so on and so forth and suchlike. But there was nothing that we could do, so that was that was that.

And winter turned to spring and spring in its fashion turned to summer. And Lazlo Woodbine Investigations prospered. We took on cases and for the most part we solved them.

They weren’t always the sort of cases I would have hoped for. They didn’t involve much in the way of adventure, or excitement, although some that Andy took on in his sniffer-dog persona did involve him rescuing children from wells. But it wasn’t what I’d been hoping for. And what about my career as a rock ’n’ roll star? What of The Sumerian Kynges?

The Rolling Stones had won a contract with Decca and were recording top-ten hits. My father, who was still working as their roadie, tried to placate me with Rolling Stones tour T-shirts, but I found these strangely lacking as a pick-me-up.

In March, Andy and I had some degree of satisfaction. We attended a trial at the Old Bailey. And even though we did not volunteer information and were not called to give evidence, we were involved in it. It was the trial of two Jehovah’s Wet-Nurses, the very ones who had come a-calling at our front door.

Apparently they had been caught in possession of a great deal of unlicensed gold. Unlicensed? I hadn’t known that gold needed to be licensed. But they had a lot of it. Sufficient, it appeared, to cast an entire human figure. Say, the size of Pongo Perbright.

They protested in high, shrill voices that they had no case to answer. But they were both sent down for five years apiece.

‘There’d be a moral in there, somewhere,’ said Andy to me as we walked from the Bailey. ‘Think on these things and ponder.’

‘I hope they have a really rough time in Strangeways,’ I said. ‘I hope they have to be bitches of some big fat drug lord.’

‘Mercy me,’ said Andy. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you.’

And so time passed. Ticked and tocked away.

And months passed, and years did, too. And suddenly it was nineteen sixty-seven.

Andy and I were still running the detective agency. And we had a secretary now and her name was Lola. And yes, it was the same Lola – she had wandered back into our lives, the family house all gone and the family inheritance, mysterious as it might have been, proving to have no monetary value, and so she needed a job. And she discovered a rather old and faded and doggy-eared postcard in the corner of the newsagent’s window and she applied for the job.

So we gave it to her.

And as I still didn’t have a girlfriend, I was rather happy to see Lola again and decided that it had to be fate and we probably would be settling down and having children.

But it was nineteen sixty-seven, and so marriage wasn’t something that anyone spoke about much. Because it was now the Summer of Love and free love was the order of the day.

And I was hoping very much to get some of that free love, because I hadn’t had any of it at all, thus far.

And as Lola returned to my life someone else did also, and this someone arrived with an invitation to partake in as much free love as I fancied.

And this someone was Mr Ishmael.

I didn’t recognise him at first. He wore a kaftan and had grown his hair long. And he now favoured a beard. Not everyone could carry that off convincingly, but Mr Ishmael did. No matter what he wore, he looked perfect in it. He had style, Mr Ishmael, plenty of it.

And in truth I had almost forgotten about him and about The Sumerian Kynges. I felt that I had grown up and put behind me childish things. So Mr Ishmael’s return did come as something of a surprise.

And once I recognised him, I said things such as, ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Not to me,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘How is business?’

‘Booming,’ I said. ‘Andy has even now been called away to rescue a child from a well.’

‘Nice work if you can get it,’ said Mr Ishmael.

‘And what of you?’ I asked.

‘I continue with my quest. My life is ever fraught with danger.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘don’t get me wrong, but mine rarely is nowadays and I’d like to keep it that way. This is nineteen sixty-seven, the Summer of Love – sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Ishmael, ‘and that does come as something of a surprise to me. I had expected the sixties to be more sober, with people eschewing loud music, strong ales and strange drugs. And adopting the cockney work ethic.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Well, there’s just no telling.’ I said. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘The time has come,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘Indeed, the time is now.’

‘Very interesting,’ I said. ‘But what do you mean by this?’

‘Your time,’ said himself. ‘Yours and The Sumerian Kynges’.’

‘There are no Sumerian Kynges,’ I told Mr Ishmael. ‘Toby works in an estate agents’ now. Rob, who you sacked, is an advertising copywriter, Neil is something or other in radio and I am a full-time private detective.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Mr Ishmael, and he nodded. ‘But the time has come and indeed the time is now. And I must fulfil my promise to you all – to whit, fame and fortune. It is time for The Sumerian Kynges to once more take to the stage.’

‘But what is the point?’ I asked Mr Ishmael. ‘You are in some kind of battle with the forces of evil. But what does this have to do with rock ’n’ roll? I never understood why zombies stole our equipment, nor all that other equipment also. What did they want with it? What was the point? And what is the point of you trying to put the band back together? What is in it for you?’

‘So many questions,’ said Mr Ishmael.

‘I have had plenty of time to compose them.’

‘And I will answer them all in time.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ I said, ‘but not to me. Because in all truth, I have no further interest in any of it. I don’t want to be in The Sumerian Kynges again. We were rubbish anyway.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Mr Ishmael.

‘No problem, don’t worry.’

‘No,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I am so sorry that I apparently made it sound like a request. The Sumerian Kynges will reform. They will reform because I say they will reform. You signed the contract, in your blood.’

‘I really don’t give a monkey’s about that,’ I said. ‘Sue me for breach of contract if you wish.’

‘There will be fame and fortune in it for you, as I promised.’

‘I’m really not interested. I have a good job here. It started out rather weird, but it’s all quite normal now and that’s the way I like it. If I throw my lot in with you again there’s no telling where it might lead. But I’ll just bet that it will lead me into weirdness and trouble. And I don’t want any. So, thank you, no.’

‘No?’ And Mr Ishmael fairly bristled. I never saw him bristle often – it took an extreme situation for him to exhibit even mild bristling, but he fairly bristled right at this moment. Fairly bristled did he.

‘I am not impressed by such bristling,’ I told him. Although secretly I was most impressed.

‘You will telephone your ex-band members and arrange a meeting,’ Mr Ishmael told me.

I shook my head. ‘I won’t.’

‘You will and you will do it now.’

‘Or what?’

And thinking back I really wish I hadn’t said that. Because in a flash, Mr Ishmael showed me what. And it involved a flash. A flash of very bright light. Again.

And what happened within the glare of this very bright light I have no wish to go into here. Nor anywhere.

But suffice it to say, I made that telephone call.

And I arranged a meeting of the former members of The Sumerian Kynges. And there must have been something about the degree of urgency and desperation in my voice that made those former members agree to attend that meeting.

And that meeting truly sealed our fates.

And changed our lives for ever.

Nothing is ever straightforward.

And even the simplest things have a habit of becoming complicated.

For instance, I thought at the time, when I was running the private detective agency with my brother, that I was, at least, master of my own destiny. That I was making my own rules and living by them. And then Mr Ishmael returned to my life, bringing complications to my simplicity. It was only later that I came to realise that the period of my life spent working with Andy was nothing more than a rehearsal. A honing of techniques. That Mr Ishmael had been watching me all along, monitoring my progress until he felt I was ready to serve him once again. To aid him in his Quest.

So I had not been master of my own destiny at all, rather a pawn in a game I did not understand. And I have to tell you that Mr Ishmael had frightened me badly and could no longer be seen as a benevolent figure. He was a tyrant and he was someone to be feared.

But what he had in store for The Sumerian Kynges I could only guess. And when I met up with the former members and thanked them for responding to my telephone calls, they informed me that Mr Ishmael had already contacted them and made it brutally clear that they had no choice in the matter either. So they were expecting my call. Or perhaps a better word was, dreading.

We met up in the Wimpy Bar. Which made it quite like the good old days.

‘It’s quite like the good old days!’ I said to Neil and Rob and Toby, too, and I smiled them some encouragement.

‘It is not like the good old days,’ said Neil. ‘In fact I am not altogether sure that there ever were any good old days.’ Neil hadn’t changed much. He still had the goatee, but he no longer wore a school uniform, preferring instead a rather smart and modish suit.

‘I think we should just run,’ said Toby. Who wore a suit of equal modishness.

‘What?’ I asked of him.

‘Have it away on our toes and put as much distance between ourselves and Mr Ishmael as possible.’

‘I agree with that,’ said Rob. Who had grown his hair a bit longer, but also favoured a suit. ‘And he sacked me, anyway. I don’t know what I’m doing here.’

‘He told me he wants to put the band back together as a five-piece,’ said Neil. ‘And he wants me to take charge of the recording sessions, because that is something that I now know all about.’

‘And me to handle the promotional side,’ added Rob. ‘He did mention that to me, now I’ve been in advertising for three years.’

‘And he wants me to find him a new house, one with a recording studio attached,’ said Toby.

And it was at that moment that I realised Mr Ishmael had been watching all of us. And perhaps guiding our separate movements? Our separate careers? For his own ends?

It seemed entirely probable.

‘Hold on a minute,’ Rob said. ‘What do you mean, Neil, about him wanting a five-piece band? Who is the fifth member? Not Mr Ishmael himself, I hope.’

‘Ah,’ said I. And this ‘Ah’ drew their attention.

‘You know, don’t you, Tyler?’ said Neil.

‘I like your suit,’ I said to Neil. ‘Did you get it from Carnaby Street?’

‘Who is the fifth member?’ Neil asked. ‘And do not try to change the subject.’

‘It’s him,’ I said, and I pointed.

‘This big cocker spaniel?’ said Neil.

‘Cocker spaniel indeed!’ said the great big bloodhound.

And Neil and Toby and Rob fell back in their seats.

But I didn’t and I just said, ‘Lads, allow me to introduce you to my brother, Andy. He is our new lead singer.’

‘A man dressed up as a dog,’ said Rob. And he nodded thoughtfully.

‘Are you nodding thoughtfully?’ Neil asked him.

‘Well, I can appreciate the novelty value. I’ve been working on a concept of an extended family of furry animals who live on a common and pick up litter. Children will love them, and parents will love them loving them because they will instil decent habits into the children: abstemiousness and the cockney work ethic. I’m thinking of naming them after the common.’

‘The Ealings?’ said Neil.

But Rob shook his head. ‘The Wandles of Wandsworth Common. Catchy, eh?’

I looked at those I could look at. And those I could look at looked back at me. And as one we shook our heads. Rather sadly.

‘Well, I’m working on it,’ said Rob. ‘I’ll pull it together. But there is potential for a singer dressed as a dog. Think of Howling Wolf.’

‘Did he dress as a wolf?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Rob. ‘I just said to think of him. Maybe we could do some Howling Wolf numbers.’

‘We’re not going to do any George Formby numbers, I’m telling you that,’ said Rob. ‘I have a few catchy ones of my own that I’ve recently penned about cheese.’

‘We’ll do exclusively all our own material,’ said Andy, divesting himself of his dog’s head. ‘Mr Ishmael has commissioned me to write all the new material.’

‘This is the first I’ve heard of this,’ I said.

Andy just shrugged. ‘If you have any problems with it, then I suggest you take them up with Mr Ishmael.’

That was a phrase that would come to be used quite a lot in the near future. And it never lost any of its power.

‘I’m fine with it,’ said Neil. And his teeth made the ‘grindings of discontent’.

‘And I suppose running is out of the question,’ said Toby. ‘So I suppose we’d better buckle down and do some rehearsing.’

‘Where?’ I enquired.

‘At my rehearsal studio,’ said Toby. ‘I acquired it quite cheaply during a big property deal I was doing. I can’t quite remember why I decided to buy it now. But it’s handy I did, isn’t it?’

And we all agreed.

It was very handy.

It was not a jolly reunion lunch. In fact, it set a precedent for all reunion get-togethers to come. They would, from now on, always be grim affairs. But at that first lunch, certain lines were drawn. And we knew where we stood. We agreed that we now feared and hated Mr Ishmael. But we also agreed that if we were going to be forced into putting The Sumerian Kynges on the road, then we would become a force to be reckoned with. We would do everything in our power to become the very future and spirit of rock ’n’ roll. A Supergroup.

And that when this came about, as we now determined it would, we would then enjoy the company of as many young women as our celebrity entitled us to.

So that was rock ’n’ roll and sex taken care of. Which only left the drugs. And there were a lot of those about in nineteen sixty-seven, I can tell you.

But not, perhaps, at this moment.

Because at this moment, and for quite a few moments to come, we were rather busy with rehearsals. Andy and I wondered whether we should employ a couple of private eyes to fill in for us whilst we rehearsed, because we wanted to keep the agency open.

And we were just on the point of hiring two when the Cease and Desist Order arrived from Brentford County Court.

It transpired that P. P. Penrose, the author of the Lazlo Woodbine novels, had finally caught word, as it were, that his fictional hero had opened a detective agency within a mile of that eminent author’s house. We were served with an order to Cease and Desist using the licensed name of Woodbine. Licences again!

And so we closed the agency and we had to let Lola go.

Which was a shame, because I had grown very fond of her and was on the point of asking her to marry me.

But this was nineteen sixty-seven. And if I was going to be in a Supergroup, I would, of course, have my pick of Supergroupies. So it was probably for the best that I simply forgot about Lola.

Which would, on the face of it, appear to be very simple and uncomplicated. But which was, in fact, anything but.

Toby’s rehearsal studio turned out to be a very large industrial complex on Old Brentford Docks. At one time, big business had flourished here, but by the sixties it was a wasteland.

By the eighties it became a very expensive estate of executive homes. And Toby made quite a killing selling up. But that, too, is for the future.

But for the present, which was our present then, there it was: a great big isolated building. Which did, at least, boast to significant security. Which was certainly needed, as it happens, because when the equipment arrived, it turned out that there was a great deal of it – all that other equipment that wasn’t ours, but had been hidden away in Count Otto Black’s mausoleum. And what a lot there was. Sufficient indeed to amplify any band that wanted to play a huge stadium, or a vast festival gig, or whatever.

Gigs of a nature that had not existed in the time when the gear was originally stolen. But now? When such gigs were all the rage?

Well, how handy was that, eh? It was almost as if it had somehow been planned. That this equipment had been stored away just waiting for its moment to come.

And its moment had come.

And its moment was now.

And so we began our rehearsals. Rehearsing what? Rehearsing Andy’s songs, of course. There were a dozen of them. Sufficient for a gig. Sufficient for an album. And although I, as were the other Sumerian Kynges, was prepared to hate Andy’s songs, it turned out that they really weren’t bad at all. You will, of course, know them all by now, most probably by heart, because each has become a Rock Anthem, covered by many bands, sung at many a karaoke night, considered modern classics.

I think my favourite (and probably yours also) would have to be ‘The Land of the Western God’.

And so I print the lyrics below, so that you can enjoy them once more.

The king sends me his linen to wash.

Whatever is right, is right whatever.

Life on life downstricken goes

To the Land of the Western God.

A wolf in his belly and a fire in the hearth,

Attacking the windmills as we go,

A word to the wise should be sufficient

In the Land of the Western God.

You never must shout till you’re out of the woods

For the lion doesn’t roar until he’s eaten

A brain of feathers and a heart of gold

In the Land of the Western God.

His face is his fortune, that’s understood,

Two faces hidden beneath one hood

As good as gold and as golden as good

In the Land of the Western God.

All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye -

They’d skin a flea for his hide and tallow.

An ounce of discretion’s worth a pound of wit

In the Land of the Western God.

There’s the Devil to pay,

Every dog has his day

And an old dog learns no tricks, they say.

And the dead men tell their tales today

In the Land of the Western God.

Here’s an eye for the past and one for the present.

The future is dark as a new-dug grave.

Will our children sing any songs tomorrow

In praise of the Western God?

So uplifting! Pure joy!

You don’t get quality lyrics like that any more. And the new Sumerian Kynges are, in my opinion, little more than a pale shadow of their original counterparts. But still right there at the top of the pops, you notice. So some of our class rubbed off on them, and class, as we know, never dates.

And so, without any further words needed, let us get it on, as they say. And for the first time ever, as no biographies of the band have ever been published (for I now knew how to employ a Cease and Desist Order), let me take you on a cosmic journey into the world of the twentieth century’s ultimate band. The raunchy rock ’n’ roll World that was The Sumerian Kynges.

Let’s Rock.