Necrophenia (5 page)

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 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 does.’

‘Then we’ll store it in there.’

‘We certainly won’t.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said to Toby. ‘I know that your daddy does not have a car.’

‘No one ever keeps a car in a lock-up garage,’ said Toby, and he rolled his eyes. ‘You say the silliest things sometimes.’

‘And I do them, too,’ I said. ‘But it’s part of my charm, don’t you think?’

But Toby shook his head, which led me to believe that he wasn’t always as wise as he thought himself to be.

‘I’m wiser than you,’ Toby said. Thoughtfully.

‘Well, if there’s no car in the garage, why can’t we store all his equipment in there?’

And Toby rolled his eyes again. ‘Because,’ he explained, ‘no one keeps a car in a lock-up garage – a lock-up garage is only used for storing stolen goods.’

Mr Ishmael nodded. ‘It’s true,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.’

I had a think about this. And I was inclined to think that this equipment probably now constituted stolen goods. And it would be a good idea to get it both out of the coming rain and out of the way of the postman, who must surely return quite soon with a posse of armed policemen and a lion-tamer.

‘My dad’s lock-up,’ said Toby, ‘is packed to the rafters with the lost treasure of the Incas. My dad’s minding it for the Pope.’

‘So we can’t use your dad’s lock up?’ I said.

And Toby shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘And that’s that.’

‘Then it will have to be my dad’s allotment shed. We can’t bring it all into my house. My mum would go spare.’

And so it all went down to my daddy’s allotment shed, a bit at a time, in Mr Ishmael’s limo. With one of us standing guard over the pile while the other unloaded at the other end. I, I recall, did all the unloading. But it proved to be a good idea, as it happened, the right place for it. My daddy rarely visited that shed, which was in fact three sheds knocked together. My father had had the work done because he intended to set up these three sheds as a West London venue. Once the damp had been taken care of, and a green baize carpet laid, my father had opened this venue – The Divine Trinity, as he rather grandly named it – and awaited the arrival of posh people who wanted to hire it out. It never proved particularly popular, though he hosted a couple of World Line Dance Championships there and a Congress of Wandering Bishops, but that was about it.

My father, being at times philosophical, put this down to competition. Competition that came in the form of The Magnificent Four, a venue also on the allotment constructed of four sheds knocked together and owned by a young gentleman named Doveston, who later bought out all the other allotment holders and turned the allotments into a tobacco plantation. He also put on a rock festival there in nineteen sixty-seven. Brentstock, it was called, and we almost played at that.

So, The Divine Trinity was currently vacant but for one or two folk singers who were living rough there. Toby and I ousted these and moved in the equipment.

And it did prove to be a good idea. Once all was inside there was just enough room for The Sumerian Kynges to squeeze in also. And so we could use the place as a rehearsal room.

Thinking back, as I must do if I am to set the record straight about all that went before and then came to pass, which would lead in turn to what was to come and how things would ultimately turn out, I can say, with hand on heart and one foot in the wardrobe, that I had some of the happiest times of my life rehearsing in The Divine Trinity. I pretty much took up residence at The Divine Trinity.

We were just starting out then. Young and eager and carefree. Life was ours for the taking.

And that tick-tock-ticking of history’s clock could not be heard for our laughter.

Oh yes, we were happy then. Though not so happy after we had played our first gig.

Let me tell you all about that.

Because it was quite an experience.

It was nearing Christmas, in the year of sixty-three.

The nights had all drawn in and it was chilly.

The snow lay deep and all around,

And tramping o’er the frozen ground

There came a postman by the name of Billy.

I liked Billy the postman. He was a great improvement on the previous postman, who had yet to recuperate from the dose of rabies from which he was suffering.

There had been some unpleasantness. My brother had been arrested and questions had been asked regarding the whereabouts of several thousands of pounds’ worth of brand-new musical equipment. These questions had not been satisfactorily answered, and when the finger of accusation came to point with an unrelenting pointyness towards my brother, who was presently receiving medication, board and lodging at St Bernard’s Lunatic Asylum, I felt that I did not want to confuse things by owning up myself. And my brother was himself beyond caring at this time, for he growled at me through the bars of the special padded room where he spent much of his time, ‘I’m a tiger – what would I want with a Marshall stack? Tell them, Tyler, I beg you.’

He was clearly beyond my help.

And I had rehearsing to do.

I had not been invited to reattend school classes after the summer holidays. I had apparently outstayed my welcome at Southcross Road Secondary School. The headmaster had invited me into his office on the first day of the new term to put his and the school’s position to me in a manner that I could understand.

‘ Taylor,’ he said to me as he ushered me into the visitors’ chair, which stood, with three inches cut from its legs, before his desk.

‘ Tyler,’ I corrected him.

‘ Tyler,’ said the headmaster. ‘Yes, that’s as good an occupation as any for a lad such as yourself.’

‘My name is Tyler, sir,’ said I.

‘Then how apt,’ said he. ‘And good luck with it, too.’

And then he asked me to sign a special form. Which was for my own good and merely a formality. ‘Just a sort of release form,’ he said, ‘to release you from the shackles of education and let you loose on the world, as it were. And how is your brother getting along?’

‘They had to give him some sleeping tablets,’ I said, ‘because he woke up again.’

‘The world we live in today,’ said the headmaster. And he passed me his pen. ‘Just sign it at the bottom there,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to read it. You can read, I suppose? We did manage to instil that into you, I hope.’

I nodded and that pen hovered.

‘Sign it, boy,’ the head now shouted, ‘or I’ll give you six of the best.’

And so I signed his form and was discharged instantly from school. And I had to hand him my satchel and my cap. Even though they were mine and my mother had paid for them herself. And then I was escorted to the school gate and sent away with a flea in my ear.

And the school nurse put that flea there.

And I never did know why she did. Nor did I ever know why I’d been expelled from school. And probably I will never know.

Nor probably ever care.

And I did walk free from that school upon that day, I can tell you that. It was always a strange feeling to walk the streets during term time – if, say, you had to go to the dentist, or help your mum shopping, or some other important reason that stopped you going into school. But to walk out of the school and know that you were never going back, that was really odd.

And as for that flea-

Well, I shook it out before it could lay any eggs and I stamped it into the pavement. And I walked tall, because I was no longer a schoolboy.

I was a man.

And so I went down to the local public house for a beer.

But the landlord threw me straight out again because I was underage. So I went down to Cider Island, that little area beside the weir where all the winos spent their days, and I shared cider with them until I was dizzy and sick.

And then I stumbled home, to receive a really epic hammering from my father.

Those were the days, eh?

But now it was nearly Christmas. The snow lay on the ground deep and crisp and even and The Sumerian Kynges had their first professional gig. Professional in that our audience would be paying to get in to see us, even if we weren’t actually to be paid for performing. And as the representative from the new nightclub that was employing us told us, we were ‘showcasing’ ourselves. Great things were expected. And so we were all young and eager and carefree.

And life was ours for the taking.

Our first gig was to be played at the opening of a nightclub in Ealing Broadway, just down the alleyway steps opposite the Underground Station. It was called The Green Carnation Club and we were top of the bill.

I still have one of the posters. Somewhat crumbling about the edges now, but still bright with pre-psychedelic mimeograph red, upon a background of brown.

Below us, second from top of the bill, was Venus Envy.

A male pre-op-transexual band. Who were already pretty famous. I had read all about them in a copy of Teenage She-Male Today magazine that had been popped through our letter box by Billy the postman, who had a sense of fun that I never fully understood.

Venus Envy featured ‘Jimbos’, which were, apparently, the male equivalent of Bimbos. I learned a lot from that magazine and it was a real pleasure to boast about what I knew to the other guys in the band.

Especially Neil, who always seemed to know so much about everything. He confessed, in fact he fairly gushed, that he knew absolutely nothing about Jimbos, and eyed me rather strangely.

But I had heard that Venus Envy were pretty good, and they were especially interesting to me because of the Aleister Crowley connection. I had read much about Aleister Crowley, England ’s last great magician. The self-styled Beast of the Apocalypse, whose number is 666, Crowley probably wrote more on the subject of occult magic than any other person. Oh, and my dad met him once. Honest.

But I digress. Apparently Venus Envy’s lead singer, Vain Glory, was a member of the Ordo Templi Orientii and all the band’s song titles had been derived from the titles Crowley had given the various murals he painted on the interior walls of his Abbey of Thelema in Cefalu, Sicily. I treasure the memory of those names:

Egyptian Aztecs Arriving from Norway

The Long-Legged Lesbians

Morbid Hermaphrodite from Basutoland

Japanese Devil-Boy Insulting Visitors

Pregnant Swiss Artists Holding Crocodile

They were really meaningful titles for songs and there would have been no point in writing such songs unless those songs had meaningful lyrics to go with their meaningful titles.

Ours were really really meaningful. And I will give you a sample, shortly.

So, on this crisp December night, with the snow laying all around and about and little flakes of it drifting down towards the allotments, which looked particularly beautiful in what moonlight there was to be had, I stood in the doorway of The Divine Trinity, a hand-rolled cigarette travelling up to my mouth and then down again, and watched the arrival of Toby in our van.

Yes, that’s just what I said. A van! Toby had got us a van. And although strictly he wasn’t old enough to be driving it, he explained to anyone who demanded explanation that he was driving through necessity rather than choice and so they should leave it at that.

He had acquired the van from Leo Felix, the local used-car salesman (who, even then, referred to his cars as ‘previously-owned vehicles’) with a sum of money composed of our shared savings.

It was an old-time Bedford van with sliding doors, so you could ride along with the doors open and your leg hanging out, looking cool. And but for the fact that it drank petrol and oil in equal quantities due to some essential piece of engine being unincluded in the price, and the fact that the exhaust pipe was somewhat peppered with holes and dispensed a thick, black, foggy sort of a smoke cloud into the rear of the van to the great distress of anyone unlucky enough to be sitting therein, it was a cracking van!

The suspension was a little ‘stiff’ and the tyres, which lacked for any discernible tread, also lacked for inner tubes and had been filled with sand by Leo, who assured Toby that all tyres would be similarly filled in the years to come as pneumatic tyres were nothing but a passing fad.

So, it made for an interesting ride.

We didn’t have to load up the full monty of equipment. We couldn’t have anyway – it would not all have fitted into the Bedford. The Green Carnation owned to a house PA and Venus Envy were prepared to let us use their amps and speakers, which was jolly decent of them. They even sent one of their roadies to help us load up at the allotment. Jolly decent, I thought.

And they had let us be top of the bill, even though they were already quite famous. More than just jolly decent, I decided. Really, really decent pre-op trannies.

I was so looking forward to the gig.

I was nervous, of course, with the old butterflies in the stomach. But I wasn’t going to let on to the other guys. I would put a brave face on it and set an example. After all, I was the lead singer.

The snow was falling most heavily by the time we had loaded up. And frankly I wasn’t that impressed by Venus Envy’s roadie, who spent most of his time attending to his nails and brushing away imaginary smuts from his white satin trousers. He was very flattering about our stage clothes, though, so I suppose I shouldn’t be too harsh on him.

But, as I say, the snow was falling heavily and the moon was gone, so it was damnedly cold when we set out for that gig. But we were young, and eager and carefree and life was ours for the taking. So the fact that we had to push the van to get it started and Neil fell down and took the left knee out of his jumpsuit and Toby laughed at this and Neil hit him and there was some talk about abandoning the gig and indeed music as a career choice before we had even left the allotments did not bode particularly well for the coming gig.

But that was nothing, and I repeat nothing, in comparison to what was yet to come.

I am not going to waste the reader’s time, or patience, with any more of that ‘if I’d known then what I know now’ kind of toot – you’ve had quite enough of such stuff.

But if I had known, then I would at least have known who to kill and why.

But let me waste no more words at all here.

This is how it happened.