Necrophenia by Robert Rankin Page A

to do?’ my mother asked of me. ‘Your father is out, your brother’s gone mad, the postman’s all bloodied and we have sufficient musical accoutrements stacked upon the pavement there for the London Philharmonic to perform an impromptu jam session. Something by Haydn would be nice, or Stockhausen at a push.’
    I shushed my mother into silence. For after all, my father was out, so I was the man of the house.
    ‘Don’t shush me,’ said my mother.
    So I gave her a shove and she tripped, banging her head on the mantelpiece and lapsing into unconsciousness.
    I felt rather bad about things then, with her lying prone on the green baize carpet of the living room. So I comfied her head by slipping the Persian pouffe under it and straightened her frock to make her look respectable.
    ‘What have I done?’ I wailed, to no one but myself. ‘Signed away my birthright. Signed away this house. Signed away everything one way or another.’
    And then I made myself a cup of tea and having drunk it felt a lot better about things generally. And so, having peeped out through the letter box to assure myself that my brother was not presently prowling about, I hastened outside to unpack one of the Fender Stratocasters.
    I mean-
    Well-
    A Strat!
    There was just a little bit of trouble. Several pirate chums of Captain Blood had ventured out of his house to help themselves to the musical paraphernalia, on the grounds that as it was unattended, it must therefore be considered salvage and fair game.
    I wasn’t having any of their old nonsense, though, and I sent them packing in no uncertain terms. The one called Ezekiel gestured at me with his hook and made motions with his single hand towards his cutlass. But I said, ‘I’ll set my brother on you,’ and he soon scuttled off.
    ‘Damn pirates,’ I said. ‘I do not have the gift of visions and prophecy that has been granted to my sleeping mother, but I foresee a day, not too far distant, when there will be no more pirates in this part of town.’
    And although that sounded absurd at the time, what with the new blocks of flats having just been erected and filled, literally to the gunwales, with pirates, nevertheless, it is now the case.
    I wonder where they all went.
    I flipped open one of the packing cases marked ‘STRATO-CASTER’ and viewed its contents. A real Strat. I took it out and held it close to my face. You could almost taste the sustain.
    ‘Oooh,’ went I. And, ‘Mmmm,’ also. And I stroked the Strat as one might stroke, say, a fresh kitten, or the neck of a much-loved wife, or something made of solid gold that you stood a fair chance of running off with unseen.
    Not that I’d ever do such a thing, you understand.
    But I stroked that Strat and it was a magical feeling.
    ‘You like that,’ said someone and I almost messed in my trousers.
    I went, ‘Who?’ and, ‘What?’ and also, ‘How?’ But there stood Mr Ishmael, smiling sweetly.
    ‘Oh,’ I now went, and, ‘Sorry, you crept up on me. You gave me a shock.’
    ‘I am light on my feet,’ said the man in posh velvet, today’s colour being maroon. ‘And my limo runs on a special preparation of my own devising that makes the engine all but silent.’
    ‘Hello there,’ said Toby, as he was now here. And he was smiling also. And then Toby looked up at the mighty stacks of equipment and he whistled, loudly.
    ‘You had no trouble paying the postman, then,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I will reimburse you in time, naturally.’
    ‘Naturally,’ I said, and I took to whistling, too.
    ‘Then all is as it should be. Where do you intend to store this equipment? You’ll want to get it inside quite quickly, I would have thought – it looks a bit like rain.’
    And as he said this, the sky clouded over and thunder took to rumbling.
    ‘Quite quickly,’ Mr Ishmael said once more. ‘As quickly as you can.’
    ‘Your dad has a lock-up garage, doesn’t he?’ I asked Toby.
    And Toby nodded. ‘He certainly