Necrophenia by Robert Rankin

the table, down the greenly carpeted hall and to the front doorway, where stood the postman.
    ‘You have a package,’ I told him. ‘For me.’
    ‘Do indeed, squire,’ said the postman. ‘Sign here, if you please.’
    And he proffered a paper upon a clipboard and I put his pen to this paper.
    ‘So where do you want it?’ the postman asked.
    ‘In my hand,’ I said in reply.
    ‘In his hand. He’s a caution, isn’t he, missus?’ These words were addressed to my mother, who was peering over my shoulder.
    And not to my brother, who was peering between my legs and growling.
    ‘I don’t think I can fit it all in your hand,’ said the postman. And now he read from the paper on his clipboard.
    ‘Two Fender Stratocasters, in flight cases.
    ‘One Gibson EB-Three bass in flight case.
    ‘One set of Premier drums, consisting of twenty-inch bass drum, three graduated toms, snare, hi-hat cymbal, a sixteen-inch crash and a twenty-inch ride.
    ‘In flight cases.
    ‘Three Marshall two-hundred-and-fifty-watt amps.
    ‘Twelve Marshall AUT150HX speakers.
    ‘Five Marshall AUT160HX mega speakers…’
    And the list went on.
    And on and on.
    And on and on some more.
    And I came to the conclusion what a very good thing it was that myself and my fellow members of The Sumerian Kynges had done when we signed that contract.
    In blood.
    Down at the Southcross Roads School.
    At midnight.

10
    Prior to the perfection of the Tyler Technique, I made all kinds of silly mistakes. They were good-hearted mistakes, of course, made in service of the common good, not for self-gain or aggrandisement, oh no. But silly mistakes they were, nonetheless, and I suffered for them each and every time.
    I just shouldn’t have signed the postman’s form. It was one of those COD kind of jobbies that you just don’t see any more, which went the way of powdered beer and returnable toilet rolls. One of those sixties things.
    ‘I’ll take cash,’ said the postman, ‘as I suppose you do not have recourse to a major credit card?’
    ‘A what?’ I said, all wide-eyed and growing legless.
    ‘Nothing to worry yourself about,’ said my mother. ‘Another of my visions of times-future-to-be. I mentioned it to the postman the other day, when he popped in to offer me consolation.’
    ‘Right,’ I said, which was fair enough.
    ‘I see,’ I said, but I didn’t.
    ‘So I suppose it will have to be cash, then,’ the postman said. ‘It’s a very large amount of cash, so I hope you don’t have it all in copper pennies.’
    And then he laughed as if he had said something very funny, which in my opinion he had not.
    ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked him when he had ceased with his laughter.
    ‘The money,’ he said. ‘The filthy lucre, the readies.’ And he rubbed the forefinger and thumb of his right hand together in a manner that I found faintly suggestive.
    Although of what, I was not altogether sure.
    ‘Cough up,’ said the postman. ‘It’s-’
    And it is my considered opinion that he was about to name a not inconsiderable sum of money. But he did not. Instead he screamed. And then he fought somewhat. And then he flung down his postbag and clipboard and took to his heels at the hurry-up.
    And his postbag toppled over and a light breeze sprinkled its contents all along our street.
    And I turned and looked at my mother.
    And she just smiled at me.
    But it was one of those sickly smiles that people sometimes do. One of those embarrassed smiles. And the reason for this was my brother.
    Who had sprung from between my legs in full tiger persona and affixed his teeth about the ankle of the postman. The postman had managed to shake him of, but not before he had drawn some blood, which now lightly freckled the pavement. Mum and I watched postie’s departure.
    And so too did my brother.
    ‘Splendid and well done to you,’ I said.
    But Andy bared his fangs.
    So my mother and I retreated inside and slammed the door upon him.
    ‘Whatever are we going