Necrophenia (10 page)

It’s funny how things turn out, isn’t it? How things progress, gain momentum, spiral out of control and things of that nature, generally.

I mean, one minute I was strumming happily on a ukulele. Admittedly to an empty school hall. And then, the next minute, suddenly everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.

There was a day missing out of my life, a day during which, it appeared, I had been put through some kind of mind-control programming that had the potential to turn me into a robotised assassin at the push of a pre-programmed button. A killer zombie, perhaps, but alive.

And zombies. The reoccupied. Could any of that actually be true? I don’t know whether I would have believed it if it had just been down to my brother’s half-mad ramblings. But Mr Ishmael appeared to confirm it. And whatever Mr Ishmael was, he was clearly something. Somebody. He spoke with authority.

And so I considered doing a runner.

I weighed up the pros and cons. Hanging around here meant considerable danger, but would that danger diminish if I fled elsewhere? If this danger was a sort of Universal Danger, then ultimately there would be nowhere to run. But then if I did run and did hide very well, I might just be able to avoid the Universal Danger. If I hid very very well.

It was a tricky one.

Of course, if I stayed, I could go on being a private eye. And it was quite clear from the success that I had enjoyed thus far that I was really born to this particular profession. And there was the matter of being in The Sumerian Kynges. Because Mr Ishmael had our equipment and he had promised to make us successful.

It was every boy’s dream, wasn’t it? To be a private eye and a rock ’n’ roll star. All bases covered. How cool would that be? And I hadn’t forgotten about being cool. And just how important that was.

‘Speak to me,’ said Mr Ishmael, for I was still in the back of his limo, and although I couldn’t see him now as the vehicle was completely fogged up with cigar smoke, he could clearly see me. Because he then said, ‘You have a very silly look upon your face.’

‘I am cogitating,’ I told him. ‘Weighing up the pros and cons. Trying to make a considered judgement.’

‘Unnecessary,’ said the enigmatic Mr I. ‘I will make the big decisions for you, thereby saving you the mental energy. The added benefit being that I will arrive at the correct decisions.’

I shook my head and made a wary face. ‘I can’t make any sense out of any of this,’ I said. ‘It’s all too much for my brainbox.’

‘Then leave it to me, young man. More scotch?’

‘Yes, please.’ And more scotch was poured into my glass.

And then Mr Ishmael touched his glass to mine and said ‘cheers’. And we drank.

‘It is all very complicated,’ said Mr Ishmael, ‘and it may take years to unravel. All the loose ends must be carefully tied together. If we are to succeed, we must tread a careful path et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Et cetera?’ I queried.

‘You know the form,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘It would go on in that vein. But you probably don’t want to hear any more clichés.’

‘I’d appreciate some comforting ones,’ I replied, ‘such as “it will all come out in the wash” and “all will be well that ends well”.’

‘It will all come out in the wash,’ said Mr Ishmael.

‘That’s comforting indeed,’ said I.

‘But I will have to drop you off here. I have a luncheon engagement at the Wimpy Bar. Important American contact, I want to make an impression. You know how it is.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘A Double-Decker followed by a Multiple Pile-Up.’

‘I don’t think I’ve tried that one, but-’

‘And two Coca-Colas with ice and straws.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘So, keep in touch.’ And with that I was ushered from the limo.

As in, the door on my side was opened and I was ejected at speed. It was done with skill, however, as my glass and my cigar were snatched from my hands as I was flung from the car and into the street.

I rolled to an uncomfortable standstill in a gutter.

I rose unsteadily to my feet and dusted myself down. Where was I? I looked to the left and the right. I was outside my house, which was something at least. I sighed, brushed further snow from my person and trudged, fairly trudged, up my short garden path.

I rang the doorbell and my mother answered this ringing.

My brother was just finishing my lunch. ‘It was a shame to let it go to waste,’ said he. ‘Christmas pudding, mince pies and gay cream.’

‘Gay cream?’ I queried.

‘Why did you run away from those Jehovah’s Bed-Wetters?’

‘Jehovah’s Wet-Nurses,’ I corrected my brother.

‘So, why did you run?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said. ‘It was all a misunderstanding. And why are you looking so happy? Aside from the fact that you’ve managed to eat my lunch as well as your own?’ For my brother was grinning fit to burst.

‘I have decided to eschew the speedboat and the sports car and invest my money in opening a private detective agency.’

‘Oh,’ I said. And, ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Would you care to go into partnership with me? We could cover each other’s backs, as our colonial cousins will have it.’

‘You and me in our own private detective agency?’

‘We’d need to take on a young woman, as secretary and receptionist. She’d need to be blonde with very big bosoms.’

‘Why?’ I asked, and my brother stared at me.

‘Right,’ I said once more. ‘Enough said.’

‘So if you want the job, it’s yours.’

‘It’s tempting,’ I said, ‘but I have only one question. And it is an important question.’

‘Ask away, my brother.’

‘Which one of us will wear the trench coat?’ I asked.

And so it came to be. My brother rented the rooms above Uncle Ted the greengrocer’s. These rooms had been empty for a very long time, due, we were told by Uncle Ted, to their evil reputation. They were cursed, some said, and haunted by a headless Druid policeman.

But Uncle Ted held to his own opinions. ‘So,’ said he, ‘a few folk have gone mad in these rooms. There has been a suicide or two. Murders have been committed and folk have gone missing. But what do you expect for three pounds a week and a share in the electricity bill with downstairs?’

‘We’ll take it,’ said my brother.

And Uncle Ted crossed himself.

We didn’t have much in the way of furniture. There was a desk included (‘It carries with it a terrible reputation,’ Uncle Ted told us) and a chair. One chair that it was rumoured had once belonged to Satan. But we were going to need a filing cabinet and a water cooler and another desk and another chair for the big-breasted blonde to sit at and on. And Andy was going to need a chair to sit in, because I intended to have the one that was there. For it swivelled. And how cool is a swivel chair?

And we were going to need a calendar. And a telephone and a business diary and have something etched on the glass of the door, if this was going to be a real private eye’s office. Something like-

PRIVATYLER

I suggested.

ANDY INVESTIGATIONS

Suggested my brother.

And so we reached a compromise:

LAZLO WOODBINE PRIVATE EYE

It was a blinding compromise.

‘We will do it by turns,’ I explained to my brother, for I, as I’ve said, was a natural at this. ‘One week you can play the part of Laz and wear the trench coat and the fedora. And the next week it will be my turn.’

‘And what if a case takes more than a week to solve?’ asked Andy.

And I raised my eyebrows at this. ‘Don’t you ever watch TV?’ I asked him. ‘TV cop shows? They always solve the case in a single episode. And that’s only an hour. No case could possibly take more than a week to solve.’

‘I like the cut of your jib,’ said my brother. ‘But I am now beginning to wonder whether putting the name of a fictional private eye upon the door might put off potential punters?’

‘No no no,’ I said. And I raised my ear-brows. ‘People still write to Sherlock Holmes, asking him to solve their cases.’

‘That is absurd,’ said my brother. ‘They don’t, do they?’

‘They do,’ I said.
[12]

‘Then they must be mad,’ my brother said.

‘Misled, I think,’ said I.

‘Misled indeed, writing to Sherlock Holmes to ask him to solve cases.’ And my brother laughed. ‘When everybody knows that he retired to the Sussex Downs to keep bees.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘The Sussex Downs and bees.’

And so that is how we set up. I hadn’t heard from either Toby or Neil for a while and we had not been doing any further rehearsing. Mr Ishmael hadn’t contacted me about anything either. So, until something did happen on the music front, there would be no harm in pursuing a career in private-eyeing. Everything was working out perfectly.

So I pushed away all those horrible thoughts about zombies and the Necrosphere and all the rest of it and concentrated on the job in hand.

And we got the door glass etched and everything:

LAZLO WOODBINE PRIVATE EYE

And we sat, me on the chair and my brother on the floor.

Because a toss of the coin had decided that I would be Laz for the first week, and we awaited the arrival of our first client. And also the arrival of the blonde lady with the big bosoms who would hopefully be answering the ad upon a postcard in the newsagent’s window.

And, in that bizarre and unexplained way that buses never arrive separately but always two or three at a time, it turned out that our first client and our secretary arrived at precisely the same time. And in the person of the same person. So to speak.

And we had the first of our Big Adventures.

And one Big Adventure it was.

Her name was Lola.

And she was a showgirl, she assured us. Although not until later.

Andy was the first to see her coming. A single iron staircase led up to our offices from beside Uncle Ted’s greengrocery, and light reflected from that staircase and onto the glass panel of our door. And Andy and I were playing hide and seek for want of something better to do, and I was hiding under the desk, which was the only place to hide in the room and made the game rather pointless in my opinion, so Andy, who was counting, saw her first.

Which showed, in my opinion, that he must have been cheating, because you are supposed to cover your eyes when you count.

‘A client,’ cried Andy.

‘We’re playing hide and seek,’ I told him, ‘not I-spy-with-my-little-eye. ’ And then I explained that you have to spy something that you can actually see with your little eye.

‘Someone’s coming up the steps,’ said Andy. ‘It must be a client.’

‘It might be a potential big-breasted secretary.’

‘I haven’t put the card in the newsagent’s window yet.’

‘A client!’ I rose from beneath the desk.

‘So that was where you were hiding,’ said Andy. ‘Very clever.’

I didn’t say ‘right’. I had been trying really really hard not to say ‘right’ unless it was absolutely necessary.

A knock came at our office door and we both beheld the silhouette of the knocker. It was curvaceous. It was an hourglass figure.

‘It’s crumpet,’ said Andy. ‘Now be on your best behaviour.’

‘Me?’ I said.

‘Well, don’t go all silly. You know how you are with girls.’

‘I’m suave with girls, me,’ I said. ‘I’m suave and debonair.’

‘You’re rubbish and silly with girls,’ said Andy. ‘I’d best do all the talking.’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ And I snatched up the fedora from where it lay on the desk and slotted it onto my head at that angle known and loved as rakish. ‘I am Laz this week. You, if I recall, are Andy the Wonder Dog.’

‘I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about that,’ said Andy. ‘I don’t want to-’

But there were further knockings. And I called, ‘Please come in.’

And in walked Lola.

And it was love at first sight.

She was beautiful, was Lola. A vision. An angel in human form. She didn’t have blonde hair and big bosoms though. She had short dark hair and quite small bosoms, but she did have the most stunning green eyes and one of the sweetest noses imaginable. So, no huge bosoms, but curvaceous indeed, with an hourglass figure. She wore a tight white sweater, a tight white miniskirt and tight white kinky boots.

You can ignore Andy’s foolish remarks about my way with the ladies. I was a veritable Love God back in those days and very little has changed.

Lola entered and I said, ‘Hellllooooo,’ in my finest Leslie Phillips.

‘Mr Woodbine?’ asked Lola.

‘That’s me,’ I said.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Lola. ‘You’re a child. Where is Mr Woodbine? Is he your father?’

‘I am Lazlo Woodbine,’ I protested. ‘Behold the trench coat, behold the fedora.’

‘I am not altogether convinced,’ said this goddess, ‘but we will see where it leads. My name is Lola Perbright,’ and she smiled me a mouth-load of snow-white gnashers.

‘What a beautiful name,’ I said to Lola. ‘Will you marry me?’

My brother winced, but Lola smiled some more. And she was smiling at me!

‘I need your help, Mr Woodbine,’ she said. And then she eyed my brother with suspicion.

‘You can say anything in front of my apprentice,’ I told her. ‘He is deaf, dumb and blind and only understands Esperanto. And this only when performed in mime.’

‘Right,’ said Lola.

‘And he thinks he’s a dog. Please take a seat,’ I told Lola.

‘Where?’

I made a mental note:… and a visitors’ chair.

‘Take my chair,’ I said. ‘I can stand. And walk. And run also. And I was very good at the high jump at school. Did you ever do the high jump? The scissors? You can get very high with the scissors.’

I saw Andy rolling his eyes.

‘Please sit down,’ I said to Lola, and she tottered around the desk, because she was wearing very high heels, and sat herself down on my seat.

And crossed her legs, very slowly.

‘I’ll never wash that seat again,’ I told her.

And she said, ‘What?’ in response.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘It is a delicate matter, Mr Woodbine,’ said Lola, ‘and must be handled with utmost discretion.’

‘I am discretion personified, dear lady.’

‘Right.’

‘Is it an affair of the heart?’ I asked. ‘Your boyfriend, or your husband?’

‘I have no boyfriend and I am not married.’

‘Splendid.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Please continue.’

‘Are you aware of the Perbright name, Mr Woodbine?’

I smiled and nodded thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘My family is noted for its heroes. There are certain surnames that you will always find upon war memorials, and certain ones that you will not.’

I nodded at this. Mine was a will-not, I thought.

‘The Perbrights have been renowned throughout the history of the realm for their bravery. Name a battle or a military campaign and there will have been a Perbright in the thick of it, dying for King and country. There are many medals in the family collection. Many posthumous VCs.’

I nodded at this. Professionally. ‘Where is this leading?’ I asked.

‘To my brother,’ said Lola. ‘The very last in the male line of the Perbrights.’

‘Well, I suppose that they were going to get a bit thin on the ground,’ I said.

Lola eyed me curiously. ‘You are a real detective, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘As opposed to what?’ I replied. ‘One made out of chocolate?’

‘I think perhaps I have come to the wrong place.’

‘Oh no you haven’t,’ I said. ‘This is definitely my office. Please continue – I feel certain that you can consider the case, whatever it might be, all but solved if I am permitted to take it on.’

‘Right,’ she said once more. And I came to understand just how annoying that word can be when you are on the receiving end of it.

‘It is this way, Mr Woodbine. My family was once very wealthy. Many a grateful monarch rewarded the endeavors of their most noble knight. Posthumously, of course. But over the years the family fortune has been slipping away. And now it is all but gone. And so my brother turned to alchemy.’

‘Alchemy?’ I said, for I was not expecting that.

‘The transformation of base metal into gold. The creation of the philosophers’ stone, the lapis philosophorum. My brother said that it was the only way he could possibly restore the family fortune. You see, there are no real wars at the moment, so dying for King and country and being financially compensated by a grateful monarch are presently out of the question. So my brother sent off to America.’

‘He was sent off to America?’

‘No, he sent off a coupon, cut from a Marvel comic: Transform base metal into gold for fun and profit. Five dollars. It arrived by return of post.’

‘One question,’ I asked of Lola. ‘Do you have a zip code?’

‘Of course we do. We’re posh.’

Curse these working-class roots, I thought. ‘I thought as much,’ I said. ‘Do you think that is significant?’ asked Lola.

‘Everything is significant when you are a private eye,’ I told her. And my brother once more rolled his eyes. Which were not private ones, as it was not his week.

‘All right,’ I said to Lola. ‘Let me summarise. Your family is no longer as wealthy as it once was and so your brother sent off to America for a course in alchemy. Am I so far correct?’

‘You are,’ said Lola.

‘So what exactly is the problem?’

‘It’s the dog. It howls and howls in the night.’

‘Your dog, or your brother’s?’

‘My brother’s dog. It knows, you see – dogs know, don’t they? Dogs can see and sense things that people can’t. My brother’s dog senses that Pongo is not my brother.’

‘Pongo?’ I said. ‘Now please just run this past me once again, slowly.’

‘The dog knows,’ said Lola, ‘and I know now, too. I’m sure that my brother is not my brother. The person who appears to be my brother is a fake, a mockery, a travesty.’ And her voice rose somewhat, which I found strangely exciting. ‘My brother has been replaced by some doppelgänger. I want you to find out what this monster has done with my real brother.’

‘Monster, you say,’ said I. ‘You are absolutely sure about this? I mean, there can be no mistake? This person who appears to be your brother is definitely not your brother?’

‘Mr Woodbine,’ said Lola, ‘I know my own brother. If you had a brother, would you not know him? Do you have a brother, by the way?’

‘I am an only child,’ I said. And Andy ground his teeth.

‘So, will you take the case? Will you discover what has become of my real brother?’

‘Madam,’ said I, ‘I will. I will be honoured to take on a case for such a notable family as the Perbrights. I will need details, many details. Perhaps we might continue this conversation over dinner tonight.’

‘If you think it would help,’ said Lola.

‘Madam, it is essential. I need as much information as I can get. Tell me, have you ever eaten in a Wimpy Bar?’