‘Dead people,’ I said. And I had a vague recollection of a coloured mist and of rotten corpses.

‘But no zombies,’ said Andy, ‘just all this gear. Tons of the stuff. Not just the gear you had stolen from you – tons of other stuff. Mr Ishmael looked very pleased and ordered it all into the furniture van at the hurry-up. Then he noticed me sneaking a look in and he told me that I would be amply rewarded but that I really must go now because they had to get all this done quickly before the light went.’

‘The light,’ I said.

‘But he said that I would be amply rewarded. And I trusted him. So I just pushed off home. I did wonder what had happened to you, though, but it was cold and growing dark, so I caught a bus and that was that. And this arrived today.’ And Andy now waved something at me. And this something was a cheque.

‘A cheque,’ I said. ‘How much?’

‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Andy. ‘And it’s made out to me.’

‘Five hundred pounds.’ I sat back in my chair and let my spoon go slack. And, as I must have been ladling parsnip with it, I ended up with no little parsnip all down my front.

‘I think I might buy a speedboat and a sports car,’ said Andy. ‘And if I have any money left over, I’ll show it to you. Oh, and see what’s written on the back.’ And Andy handed me the cheque and I read what was written on the back: ‘If you ever want to be in a band, don’t hesitate to ask me,’ and it was signed ‘Mr Ishmael’.

And I groaned softly and did shakings of my head. This was all so wrong. All of it, the timings of things, the way Mr Ishmael knew who my brother was.

There was something missing here. Something big. An entire day of my life, for one thing, it appeared. Where had I been? What had happened to me? How had I got home? How had I just ‘come to’ at the luncheon table? And what was this all about?

I recalled my brother’s talk of zombies.

And the mausoleum that had been packed with other gear. Stolen from other bands? I was going to have a lot of questions to put to Mr Ishmael the next time I saw him.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said to Andy, and I handed him back the cheque. ‘I am in a state of considerable confusion.’

‘So where did you go and what did you get up to yesterday?’

I just shrugged and shook my head.

And Andy shook his, too. ‘Memory lapses,’ said he, and he tut-tut-tutted. ‘First sign of going stone-bonkers. And trust me, I know these things. Perhaps you should check yourself into Saint Bernard’s for a couple of weeks.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not mad. But something happened to me.’

‘I lost my memory once,’ said my mother. ‘Or at least I think I did – I can’t remember.’

I opened my mouth to say something, although now I can’t remember what. But I didn’t get to say it because there was a sudden urgent knocking at our front door and my mother went off to answer it.

And when she returned, she said, ‘Tyler, it’s for you.’

And when I asked her who it was, she replied that it was, ‘Two enormous women who look like Les Dawson will in a few years time.’

And I weighed up the pros and cons and left the house by a window.

Sometimes you have to wait a really really long time for an explanation for something that is confusing you. Something that you don’t understand. Like the Big Question, I suppose. You know the one – it goes, ‘What is it all about?’ And you have to wait a really really long time to get that one answered. In fact, you have to wait until all of your life is finished and you are dead to get that explanation. Obviously the fact that you are now reading this book means that you personally are not going to have to wait that long in order to get an answer to that particular question. Because I personally know the answer. And I will be divulging it to you when the time is right.

Which will be a bit later in the narrative. But I will let you know. And it is worth waiting for.

Regarding the questions that were troubling me as I sat at the lunching table listening to my brother, I worried that it might be a really really long time before these questions were answered. But, in fact, it wasn’t.

They got answered very soon.

Which was most convenient.

I ran, you see, upped the sash window and leaped into the garden. It was the back garden. And its normal back-garden dullness was presently enlivened by the addition of a snowman of prodigious proportions, which, I reasoned, was probably the work of my brother.

It was a snowman that resembled a zombie playing a guitar. And that is not a thing that is as easy as it might seem to fashion.

I passed the snowman by at the move-along.

I cleared the garden fence and headed off down the alley.

The alley debouched (a good word, that) into Rose Gardens. Which weren’t really gardens, and didn’t have any roses. It was the road that ran at right angles to the one I lived in. The name of which I withhold for obvious reasons.

And I would have run right across the road and down the alleyway opposite had I not run straight into the side of a long black limousine that was pulling to a halt in Rose Gardens.

And as I fell back, rubbing at my bruised upper parts, which had taken most of the impact, a rear door opened and Mr Ishmael bade me enter in.

‘There’s trannies after me,’ I explained as I clambered inside. ‘And I have every reason to believe that they are of the undead brotherhood.’

Mr Ishmael waved at his chauffeur and off we went in the limo.

Mr Ishmael offered me the comfort of a scotch on the rocks. And I took consolation in this comfort.

‘Are you feeling yourself?’ asked Mr Ishmael.

And although I confess that I was, and still am, a great fan of a Carry On movie, I answered Mr Ishmael that although sound in mind and limb, I was somewhat troubled of spirit and had many questions I thought he might care to answer.

Mr Ishmael nodded and raised a glass of his own.

‘To the success of your mission. Your first case,’ he said, and he toasted me.

I sampled further scotch and found some joy in this sampling.

‘You did very well,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘Employing the curious talents of your brother was an inspired idea.’

And I nodded. In agreement. That it would have been if I had indeed thought of it. But I was prepared to take the credit, if it was being offered.

‘Inspired,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I knew I wasn’t wrong about you. And I will be faithful to my promise. You recovered the stolen goods and I will now share with you the Big Secret.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And I hope that details of the Big Secret will include exactly what happened to me yesterday, because I appear to have at least twenty-four hours missing out of my life.’

Mr Ishmael nodded. ‘Would you care for a cigar?’ he asked.

And I said, ‘A cigar?’

‘To puff upon. You might need it, to stiffen your nerves. Folk generally have a cup of strong sweet tea to administer at moments like this, but I do not. But I do have cigars. You can take one, or leave it, as you please.’

‘I’ll take one,’ I said, for I had never before smoked a cigar. And what better place to begin the smoking of one than the inside of a stretch limousine?

Mr Ishmael went through all the preparations then stuck the cigar into my mouth, asked me to suck hard and administered the flame of a match to it.

And I didn’t cough. I puffed.

‘Nice,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘And now to business that I regret is far from nice. But where to start? Where indeed to start?’

‘At the beginning?’ I suggested, still not coughing at all.

‘No,’ said Mr Ishmael, going through further preparatory operations prior to lighting a cigar of his own. ‘This story is best told and explained beginning with the end. What would you say that the very end of everything would be, young Tyler?’