Read Online The Fandom of the Operator by Robert Rankin - Free Book Online Page A

try to mingle amongst the drunken men – bide our time, as they say, await the moment.”
    “Well put,” said I. “You go first, then.”
    “Not me,” said Dave. “This is
your
big idea.”
    “No, it’s not. My big idea was to dig him up later.”
    “All right,” said Dave, pushing open the door. “Let’s risk it. Let’s mingle.” And he strode right into the withdrawing room.
    I followed cautiously, trying to avoid the eyes of my father. They were rather red-rimmed and starey eyes, but they
were
his none the less. I could see my Uncle Jonny sitting over by one of the windows and I didn’t want to look at his horrible eyes.
    “’Afternoon,” said Dave, to no one in particular. “Hello there, hi.”
    We made our way across the richly carpeted floor towards the coffin. It’s funny how certain things stick in your mind and even now, all these many years later, I can remember that moment so very, very clearly. What happened next. And what was said. And what it meant.
    I can recall the way my feet felt, inside my shoes, as they trod over the thick pile of that carpet. And the smell of the cigarette smoke and the way it coloured the light that fell in long shafts through the tall Georgian casement windows. And the dreamlike quality of it all. We weren’t supposed to be in this room, Dave and I: it was wrong, all wrong. But we
were
there. And it
was
real.
    “Stop,” said a voice and a big hand fell on my shoulder. I turned my head round and up and found myself staring into the long, thin face of Caradoc Timms, Brentford’s leading funeral director.
    Caradoc Timms leaned low his long, thin face and gave me a penetrating stare with his dark and hooded eyes. “You, boy,” he said in a nasal tone. “Can’t stay away from the dead, can you?”
    I made sickly laughing sounds of the nervous variety. “I’ve just come to pay my respects,” I said. “Mr Penrose is my favourite author.”
    Mr Timms shook his head. “And all those times you’ve come round to my funeral parlour, asking to be taken on as an apprentice?”
    “I just wanted an after-school job, to earn money for sweeties,” I whispered.
    “And all the funerals you follow, when you duck down behind the tombstones and watch?”
    “Research?” I suggested. “I’d still like a job, if you have one going.”
    “Unhealthy boy,” said Mr Timms. “Unspeakable boy.”
    “Is that
my
boy?” I heard the Daddy’s voice. “Is that my Gary you have there?”
    “Dave,” I said. “Let’s run.”
    But Dave was suddenly nowhere to be seen.
    “Gary?” My father rose unsteadily from his seat upon an overstuffed sofa. “It
is
my Gary. Smite him for me, Timms.” And my daddy sat down again, rather heavily, and took out his pipe.
    “Shall I smite you?” Mr Timms asked.
    “I’d rather you didn’t.” I prepared myself to run.
    “So what should I do, then? Throw you out on your ear?”
    “I’d rather you just let me stay, sir. I won’t be any trouble to anyone. I’ll just sit quietly in a corner.”
    Mr Timms nodded his long, thin head. “I hope I live long enough to see it,” he said.
    “What, me sitting quietly? I’m sure you will.”
    “Not that,” said Mr Timms. “But you at the end of a hangman’s rope.”
    “
What
?” said I, rather startled by this statement.
    “You’re a bad’n,” said Mr Timms. “A bad’n from birth. I see’m come and I see’m go. The good’ns and the bad. I’ll tuck you into your coffin when your time comes, you see if I don’t.”
    “I’ve done nothing wrong,” I said, in the voice of one who felt he truly hadn’t.
    “If you haven’t yet, then you will.” Mr Timms stared deeper still into my eyes. Right through my eyes, it seemed, and into my very brain.
    I got the uncanny feeling that this man could somehow, not read, but
see
my thoughts. And not just my thoughts at this moment, but the thoughts that I would have at some time in the future. See things that I would do in the future. But