Necrophenia (30 page)

And then, oh how we laughed.

Because, can you believe this, he was winding me up, that priest. Having a laugh. And he clapped his hands together and told me that it was a beautiful song, so beautiful, in fact, that the George himself might have written it. And he commented upon the quality of the lyrics and enquired what the phrase golden showers meant.

And I told him.

And he nodded and said that he was rather keen on that kind of thing himself. But then as everything was golden hereabouts, what was I to expect? And then he begged me to play some more. And so I did.

I did straight, classic George this time. ‘Leaning on a Lamp Post’, ‘Grandad’s Flannelette Nightshirt’, ‘Riding in the T. T. Races’, and of course ‘Little Stick of Blackpool Rock’. To which the priest waved one of my sticks of dynamite about and I had to stop playing and ask him to put it down.

But my performance drew much applause, especially from the golden girlies, who were still kneeling down all around me. And I figured that I was definitely going to get some hot group-groupie action later on.

Or as soon as possible, if the chance arose.

And the priest wanted more, but I told him that enough was enough for now and that I was actually a bit hungry, because it had been a trying day and I wouldn’t say no to a good sit down and some tucker. And the priest said that yes, there should be a celebrational banquet to greet the arrival of the Special One, and he clapped his hands together and got some of his underlings straight onto the job.

And I gazed upon these golden people and considered that perhaps now my luck was in and that if things worked out, they could very well soon be my golden people.

And I recalled, well enough, that the name George Formby became, by anagram, Orgy of Begrem, so things were looking up. And they might work out.

But what, I did have to ask myself, was all this Formby nonsense all about? They literally seemed to worship the Duke of the Uke.

And then thoughts came to me of a conversation I had engaged in as a child with Captain Lynch. Who it seemed had taught me oh so much. It had been about the Melanesian cargo cult of Jon Frum. During the Second World War, the Americans set up an airstrip at Tanna, an island in Vanuatu, Melanesia. Planes flew in delivering all manner of cargo and the natives, who had never seen anything like this before, sat down and gave the matter a jolly good thinking about. And then drew some logical conclusions.

It was clear to them that these Americans were in touch with Flying Gods who brought them cargo, and that they had built the airstrip to lure down the aeroplanes of the Gods.

And so the natives built their own airstrip next door to the real one. And they dressed up in pretend American uniforms and imitated all the things the Americans did. And waited for their planes with their cargo to land. And they got it into their heads that the pilot, the Godly sky pilot who brought the cargo, was called Jon Frum. And they set up shrines to him and lit candles.

Of course, no aeroplane ever did land on their pretend airship and after the war the Americans went home and no more planes at all landed. But the natives never gave up hope. They maintained their airstrip and went through the magical motions.

I recall seeing a TV documentary about Tanna and the Jon Frum cargo cult, and this smart-arsed Christian reporter was interviewing an old cargo-cult priest. And he said to this priest-

‘How long have you been waiting for Jon Frum’s return?’

And the priest said, ‘Twenty years now.’

And the Christian reporter said, ‘Then don’t you think that perhaps you should give up? Because he’s clearly not coming back.’

And the old priest said, ‘But you have been awaiting the return of your Jon Frum for nearly two thousand years.’

And the interview went no further.

And I remember that it really tickled me at the time.

And so I assumed that this George Formby business must be something like that. But exactly how had it come to pass?

Now that was a question.

And it was one that I put to the priest – the high priest, he was – over dinner.

And dinner was served in the big royal dining room, on the big royal dining table, from all the very best royal plates. The gold ones. And there were thirty or so of Begrem’s top bods seated about that table and I was issued with three scantily-clad golden girlies to attend to my every need. But, not wishing to take any risks regarding protocol, I didn’t get any of them to administer to certain manly needs in an oral fashion from underneath the table.

The food was, happily, not of gold. It wasn’t too heavy on meat, but it was pretty big on mushrooms. And there were things in bowls that looked startlingly like cockroaches with their legs pulled off, which failed to tickle my taste buds. The wine was good, though, as was the bread. And there’s always bread, isn’t there? No matter where you go in the world, there’s always bread in one form or another.

And I’ve always wondered about this. How did Man discover how to make bread, eh? It’s quite a complicated process and you could never just stumble upon it by accident. But every culture appears to have invented bread. It’s one of life’s mysteries.

‘What do you think of the bread?’ asked the high priest, who sat on my right hand (well, not actually on my hand), for I had the big best seat in the house, right at the top of the table. On a big throne chair.

‘It’s splendid bread,’ I told him. And I told him also how I’d always wondered about how Man came to invent bread. And he told me that in his opinion there was very little mystery.

‘Just grind up your cockroach legs, mix with water and bake,’ he said. And I moved on to the soup.

But I did broach the subject of George Formby. In as subtle a manner as I could. Because he was under the impression that I was a follower of the cult, a missionary or something, I supposed. So I had to tread with care.

‘Speak to me of the George,’ said I, ‘and of how the word of the George came unto your kingdom. Ee-oop, Mother.’ And I did a Formby giggle.

‘Ah,’ said the high priest, speaking with his mouth half-filled with bread, which frankly I could have done without. ‘In ancient of times, there was a former priest of Begrem, one who held to the old wicked ways of necromancy and the breeding of the Homunculus. He claimed that he had received a divine revelation that there was a world above this one. That we inhabit an underworld, this dull, monochrome, worthless world, but high above there is a beautiful world where there are more colours. And you are here, from this world, which proves it. Although we did get it wrong initially when we thought that you were an evil demon sent down to destroy us all. But I have apologised for that.’

And I nodded and I smiled and said, ‘Go on.’

‘The priest had a mighty tower constructed that reached up to the rocky sky. And he set his underlings to cut into the rocky sky and tunnel upwards. And this they did for a considerable length of time, but as we have no concept of night and day, it is difficult to say quite how long.’

And I made a certain face to this, but bid him continue anyway.

‘They tunnelled up and finally broke through into a tiled tunnel above. And it was not all mono-coloured. It was of many colours. And then they saw the folk above, gathered in congregation before the George.’

And I did noddings of the head to this, recalling the George Formby movie posters I’d seen in the station above. The tunnellers had clearly broken through during one of the nightly showings.

‘And the priest passed down word of what he had seen, many words, the holy hymns – “The Lancashire Torreador”, “Limehouse Laundry Blues” and all the rest. Because he saw the George as a great vision upon the wall, far bigger than any man.’

The movies for sure, I thought.

‘And he passed on all of these wonders to our people, who turned then from their old evil ways to embrace the hymns and sayings of the George, that all might be happy and go to the foot of their stairs in a state of grace and abiding joy.’

‘That’s a lovely story,’ I said.

‘Story?’ said the high priest.

‘Well, I know it’s all true, obviously.’

‘And so our people prepared to go above, to join the worshippers in the Tunnel of the George. But as the priest climbed up there, the terrible Wheelie Monster mashed him all to pieces.’

‘He was run over by a train,’ I said, with some degree of sadness. And some degree of a smirk, which I hid. But I could see the funny side.

‘A train?’

‘It’s a Wheelie Monster, like you said.’

‘And so we knew that we were not yet worthy, that we had not yet earned the right to go above. And so the tunnel was filled in and the great tower demolished. But our prophets claimed that some time in the future, someone would descend to deliver us from this terrible place and take us above into the Tunnel of the George.’

‘Yep,’ I said, raising my glass. ‘That’s me. But why did you think I was some horrid monster and want to stab me up with your big knife?’

‘It would appear that an underling turned over two pages at once of The Great Book of All Knowledge (and Selected Lyrics). For it is written that two shall come down from above, The first being the Deliverer, the second being the pinky-pink monster that must be all cut to pieces at the hurry-up.’

‘Well, that explains everything,’ I said. And I smiled. ‘Things are always so simple once they’re explained, aren’t they?’ And then I whispered an enquiry as to whether I could do anything I wanted to do with the golden girlies.

And the High Priest said that yes, I could, but not at the dining table as it would upset his mum, who was sitting down at the end. And I waved to his mum, a lady in a golden straw hat, and she waved back to me.

‘Well, isn’t this all very nice,’ I said to the high priest. ‘But I seem to be all filled up now, so I think that perhaps I will skip pudding and take myself off to my sleeping accommodation with a couple of golden girlies.’

But the high priest said that although he was happy enough with that, his mum, who was now very old, and who had always been a devoted follower of the George and had only clung on to life this far in the hope that she would live to see the Deliverer, would be sorely miserable if she was not able to bathe in my glorious presence for just a bit longer.

So I said, ‘Okay, just a bit.’ And the high priest offered me more wine, and I most gratefully drank it.

And although there were one or two things right in the forefront of my mind, these being scantily clad and golden, other thoughts came crowding in upon me. And these thoughts were all concerned with the Homunculus.

And I did think a great deal about the nature of coincidence. Because there seemed to be a lot of it about. Because if these people hadn’t converted to Formbyanity, they would still be evil Homunculus fans, and I would surely have been sacrificed simply for the fun of it. But they were now goodies, all told, and they were anxious that the Deliverer deliver them from this place and lead them above.

Although I did wonder whether they were going to be very disappointed when they finally arrived topside. They’d probably be impressed with the sky and the sun and the moon and all that kind of cosmic caper, but all the walking dead and the horrible pongs? They probably were not going to be altogether taken with that.

But we’d just have to see.

And then a thought struck me. And it was a wondrous thought. I had come here hoping for gold, and I had found plenty of that. I had also come here in the hope that there would be something that could aid me in destroying the Homunculus. And I had found that also.

Because it wasn’t a something that I needed.

And here, I suppose, I had a bit of a revelation.

It was a somebody. And not just one somebody. I needed a lot of somebodys. An army of somebodys, to be precise.

Because if I was to go against an Army of the Dead, then I would need an army of my own. And what better army to take on an Army of the Dead than an Army of the Underworld?

And, satisfied that this was the solution, the answer to all my problems, I had another glass of wine.

And then another.

And then another one, too.

And then I awoke.

Of a sudden, and quite painfully and not upon a golden bed, flanked by golden girlies. But still in my seat at the banqueting table, face down in a bowl of cockroach.

And I went, ‘Whoa!’ And then I went, ‘Sorry, all, too much wine there, must have dozed off for a moment.’

But I found, to my surprise, that I was addressing these words to no one in particular. In fact to no one at all. For all around me were empty chairs and dirty pudding dishes.

‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘They’ve all gone off to bed without me. What a bummer. I wonder where the golden girlies went?’

‘Up the cord,’ I heard someone think. And then I heard them say it. And it was the high priest’s mum, the lady in the golden straw hat. And she sat where she had been sitting, spooning spoons of pudding into her gob.

‘Up the cord?’ I asked her. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Up your cord, to the Tunnel of the George, as it is foretold in The Great Book of All Knowledge (and Selected Lyrics).’

‘What?’ I shouted. Loudly.

‘There’s no need to shout,’ said the lady. ‘Although it says that you do, in the Book. When you have awoken after drinking the wine with the sleeping draft in it.’

‘What?’ I went, even louder.

‘You have to hand it to those ancients, don’t you?’ said the lady. ‘When it comes to prophecy they were pretty hot stuff. You wouldn’t get that kind of accuracy nowadays. If we had days to nowa, as it were. But as we don’t understand the concept, we don’t, so to speak.’

‘They’ve gone up the cord?’ And I rose from the table. And staggered a bit and my head really hurt. ‘I was drugged and the whole population of Begrem has absconded up my braided cord?’

‘That sounds mildly obscene,’ said the lady, ‘but in essence you are correct. Only I remain behind, to attend to your every desire for ever and ever. Well, at least for as long as I last, which won’t be too long with my health, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘I appreciate the sentiment,’ I said. Because politeness never costs. ‘But I will have to pass on your kind offer. I have to get up the cord myself. It’s not safe for them to go wandering around up there, all by themselves. And drugged wine! I’ll have stern words to say about that!’

‘Oh no you won’t,’ said the lady.

‘Oh yes I will.’

‘Oh no you won’t.’

‘And why will I not?’

‘Because they pulled the cord up after them. Would you care for a bit of hanky-panky to take your mind off things?’

‘What? ’

And she told me what she had in mind.

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Not that. I have to get out of here. Is there another way out?’

And that was a very silly question, wasn’t it? Because of course there was not another way out. And so I sat in my big throne chair and had a good sulk and almost drank some more wine by mistake. And I glowered occasionally at the lady in the golden straw hat and knotted my fists and was grumpy. And the lady fluttered her eyelashes and carried on with her pudding.

‘I’m trapped,’ I said. And I threw up my hands. ‘I could end up spending the rest of my life down here.’

‘So you’d better get that hanky-panky while you can.’

‘I have to escape. My whole life, so it seems, has been moving – or has been moved for me – towards a single goal. I have a purpose. I cannot deny my purpose. I have to escape.’

‘Amazing accuracy,’ thought the lady.

‘What did you say?’ I asked her.

‘I didn’t say anything, dear.’

‘But you thought it.’

Can he be reading my thoughts?

‘Yes, I can,’ I told her. ‘And you thought “amazing accuracy”. And I know why you thought it.’

The Book. He’ll want to see the Book.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I do. I want to take a look at this book of prophecy.’

It’s hidden under your chair. ‘My son took it with him,’ said the lady.

But I delved under my chair. ‘Aha,’ I said. ‘What is this?’

But the lady just spooned up pudding.

And I swept bowls and plates and drugged wine from the table and laid out the book (a golden book) before me. And leafed it open.

And there were illustrations and everything. And the illustrations of the Deliverer looked just like me.

‘Uncanny,’ I said and did some further leafing. And then I went, ‘Well,’ because I had come across an interesting page. I read from this, aloud.

‘ “And so did the Deliverer rail against his forced confinement and seek a way of escape. And it came to him, as if by the influence of the George Himself, that there was a simple solution that-” ’ And I gazed across at the other page.

‘ “Knew he had been thwarted,” ’ I read. ‘What?’ And then I examined the Book with care. ‘Someone has torn out the page,’ I observed with bitterness in my voice.

‘My son,’ said the lady, looking up from her pudding bowl. ‘For such was it written in the Book that he would.’

I made growling sounds, above and below my breath. ‘And did it say also that the Deliverer would be prepared to torture the necessary information out of the high priest’s mother, should she fail to divulge it willingly?’

‘I believe it must have,’ said the high priest’s mum. ‘Which is why I was never allowed to read the page in question.’

I slammed shut the Book. ‘All very clever,’ I said. ‘But I will succeed. The question is, just how.’ And I asked the lady whether she would be kind enough to direct me to an undrugged golden carafe of wine and she kindly did so. And I let her try some first, just to make sure.

And I drank wine and had a good think. And I do have to say that my thinking was very focused thinking. I feel that my situation and future prospects down there truly focused my thinking. Which was all geared towards the matter of escape.

And presently, and although I didn’t see it myself, a certain look appeared upon my face. And it was the look of one beatified, enlightened. And I said, ‘Eureka,’ and brought my right fist down into the palm of my left hand. Which sadly had a cake in it. But I had had my Eureka moment.

‘Where is my sacred pouch?’ I asked the lady.

Under my chair. ‘My son took it with him,’ she said.

And I fetched my rucksack from under her chair.

And I sorted through its contents until I found those two things I really couldn’t see the point of when I purchased all the other stuff: the telescope and the 26.5 mm Very flare pistol with the telescopic sight. ‘Yes!’ I went. And I punched the air. As one will do, when enlightened.

And I said my farewells to the lady in the golden straw hat. And she said that she was sad to see me go, but had rather been expecting it. And that I was to give her love to her son when I saw him and say that the pudding was nice.

And I returned to the central plaza, the Hindoo Howdoo Hoodoo Yoodoo Man Plaza, and I squinted up towards the hole I had blown oh so far up above. And it was a goodly hopeless distance above. But I did not despair. I took up my telescope and I focused upon the hole. It was still a hole. They hadn’t blocked it up, by the look of it. So it was possible that-

And I took up the 26.5 mm Very flare pistol with the telescopic sight and I peered through the telescopic sight and did focusings with that also. And I went, ‘Hmm. This might just work. Well, it had better.’ And I took from my rucksack my coil of micro-slim emergency cord and also one of the three flares I had.

And I secured the cord to the end of the flare and I aimed at the hole through the telescopic sight and I fired.

And the flare shot up towards the hole, bringing a most wonderful illumination to the golden city. But fell short by several yards and nearly hit me on the head when it came down.

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘A higher elevation would be favourite.’

And I entered the nearest tall building and went right up to its roof. Which made a great deal more sense.

And then I took another shot at the hole.

And I missed again. And the flare set fire to my cord and tore all away from it.

At which point some seeds of desperation began to take root in my mind. I only had one more go at this.

I damped down the end of the micro-slim emergency cord with a great deal of spit. Tied it to the remaining flare. Slotted the flare into the pistol. Took very very careful aim and fired-

And the flare shot up into the air, glorifying the city with its light, and passed into the hole and upwards. And I watched the light above in that hole, that flare lying somewhere in the Subway station above now. And I watched the light dim away and die. And then I gave a little tug upon the rope. Because this was going to be tricky. And also it was going to be extremely dangerous and potentially life-threatening. Because it was only going to be luck if that flare caught on something up there that could support my weight as I climbed that goodly way aloft, upon that very slim line, which was going to be pretty tricky in itself. Really.

And I sighed and I took a deep breath. And I considered having another little pray to God. But I decided that I had surely worn out my requests of the Creator. One more would, perhaps, be looked upon unfavourably. So I did testings of the line. And it did feel sound and I considered how best to lighten myself.

Take everything off? Climb naked? Perhaps not. But take off the heavy stuff and don’t bring the rucksack. Although perhaps do bring-

I tucked the item I had decided to bring into a trouser pocket. Tested the line once more, let it bear my weight, then took to climbing. And I do have to tell you, it was no easy matter. But I kept at it. Tenaciously. With dedication. With resolution. And steadfastness. And more dedication. And things of that nature.

Specifically.

And there I was, this tiny figure dangling above this sunken city of gold. A rather strange and anomalous sight, I supposed, to anyone who might have been looking. And, peering down, I noticed that the lady in the golden straw hat was looking.

And waving.

But I really couldn’t wave back. But I smiled.

And I inched upwards, the slim cord cutting into my fingers and me growing all hot and bothered and very short of breath. But I pressed on. Onwards and upwards. And after what felt like a very long time indeed, but probably didn’t seem like anything much at all to the lady in the golden straw hat, who had no concept of time, I was inside the rocky ceiling above the Golden City of Begrem. And here I was able to get a purchase with my feet upon rocks and this made the going easier. Although it did involve some rocks getting kicked away and hurtling below.

And I did register a distant scream, followed almost immediately by a sickening thud. But I did not give that too much thought, as I had other things on my mind. The lady had probably been able to dodge the falling rock in time.

And I climbed onward and upward.

And eventually emerged into Mornington Crescent East (discontinued usage) Subway Station.

And I had a really good puff and a really good cough and I rolled over and lay there, between the ruination of the tracks, and I breathed a great big sigh of relief.

And then I all but pooed myself.

Because someone cried, ‘It is he. The prophecy is fulfilled.’ And I looked up, blinking and cowering, to find the high priest looking down upon me, and others of Begrem, and they were all holding burning torches to light up the platform, and cheering.

And the high priest had my flare in his hands and had evidently been holding it steady while I climbed.

‘You,’ I said. ‘You held the rope for me.’

‘I caught the flamy thing,’ said the High Priest. ‘It was very hot. It burned my hands.’

‘You waited for me? You helped me? Why?’

And he flourished the page that had been torn from the Book. ‘Because that is what it said I would do.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, splendid.’

‘And we are all here, awaiting your orders. As we awaited your ascent of the cord.’

‘Awaiting my orders?’ I said.

‘To engage in battle against the Evil One,’ said the high priest, ‘As is written. We all have our weapons and we await your orders.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘Your Army of the Underworld, to defeat the Army of the Dead.’

‘Yes,’ I said, with a great big grin. ‘And how cool is that!’