The Fandom of the Operator by Robert Rankin

Street.”
    “Do you
actually
know what a homo is?” Dave asked, although his eyes never left the washing white wash.
    “Of course,” I said, though I didn’t. “But you’re mad, Dave. A washing machine in your house. Where would you put it?”
    “I’d put mine in my bedroom,” said Dave. “And I’d have it on while I was having it off with Betty Page.”
    I stared hard at the washing machine. I could see the white wash going on behind the glass door panel. It reminded me a bit of the octopus in the movie
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
, being viewed through a porthole in Captain Nemo’s
Nautilus
. But without the tentacles or the suckers. Or even the octopus. Or even, now I come to think of it, the movie, for that was made several years later. But pleasure, eh? It’s a funny old game.
    “Mad,” I said. “Quite mad.”
    “Hold on,” said Dave. “Don’t speak. There’s a good bit coming up.”
    I held my counsel and also held my breath.
    “Wow,” went Dave once again. “Brilliant.”
    “It’s completely lost on me.”
    “Speak English,” said Dave.
    “I don’t understand it. But, listen, you know I told you that I had a big idea?”
    Dave nodded, but he wasn’t really listening.
    “I went down to the library,” I continued, speaking clearly and loudly, in the hope that some of it might get through. “I went to the library and while I was there I heard two men talking about something really strange. But I’ll tell you about that later. I got the book I needed and I also got some other stuff I needed, which I’ve hidden away in a secret place. You’re going to love this.”
    “I
am
loving this.” Dave was all misty-eyed.
    “I’ve got a big idea,” I told Dave.
    “I’ve got a big bulge in my trousers.”
    “
What
?”
    “What?” said Dave. “What are you talking about? Can’t this wait till later?”
    “All right,” I said. “I’ll be having a fag. Come and talk to me when you’re finished.”
    “I can’t finish properly. I haven’t reached puberty yet.”
    “Completely lost on me.”
    I went outside and had a fag.
    Naturally I smoked Woodbine. Well, I would, wouldn’t I? I mean, Lazlo
Woodbine
? What else was I likely to smoke? All children smoked in those days. But then in those days cigarettes were good for you. Like nuclear radiation and lead soldiers. In fact, almost everything was good for you in those days: a good smacked-bottom; a good dose of castor oil; a good helping of National Service; a good stretch behind bars. They were good times all round, really.
    I was finishing off my fag when Dave came out of the launderette. “Give us a puff,” said Dave.
    And I gave Dave a puff.
    “My big idea,” I said to Dave. “It’s about P.P. Penrose.”
    “Go on, then,” said Dave, taking another puff at my fag.
    “You know what you said about taking relics? I think we can go one better than that. Take his whole body and bring him back to life.”
    Dave took a final puff from my fag and stamped the tiny butt end out upon the pavement. “You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?” he said.
    “No. I’m serious. I’ve got this book about how to make zombies. And it needs special herbs and I’ve got the herbs and everything. Including a human skull to mix them up in. I can do all that part in my sleeping cupboard.”
    “Cool,” said Dave. “Will it really work, do you think?”
    “If it’s done properly, I think it will.”
    “And do you know how to do it properly?”
    “I think so. It’s all in my book. You do a ritual with the herbs, then you feed the herbs to the dead corpse and it comes back to life.”
    “It’s got to be a load of twonk, hasn’t it?” said Dave, which surprised me somewhat. “I mean, well, if it did work, then everyone would be doing it and people wouldn’t die any more.”
    Dave had a good point there.
    “You have a good point there,” I said to Dave. “But the reason everyone doesn’t do it is because it’s a secret. This book