As I had finished the biscuit of my choice, I helped myself to another one.

‘He besought the Kynge to create a Homunculus,’ said Captain Lynch. And I had no choice but to ask what one of those was. And I did spit some crumbs onto the captain as I asked.

The captain dusted these lightly from his sleeve. ‘The Devil’s children, born of Man. ’

‘Conceived by witches?’ I said, quite glad to be back on a subject I really liked. Although still eager for more talk of explorers.

‘Allow me to explain,’ said Captain Lynch. ‘The Devil can tempt. The Devil can lie and cheat. But the Devil cannot have congress with a woman, be she witch or otherwise, that will lead to the birth of the Devil’s child. This cannot be done. God decreed that this shall not be done and cannot be done. And it cannot.’

‘Hence the Homunculus?’ said I.

‘Precisely,’ said the captain.

And I felt quite pleased with myself.

‘It is now understood by clerics and physicians alike,’ the captain continued, ‘that the soul of a new human being does not enter the body of the foetus until the third month of gestation. Before that, the unborn baby is by all accounts soulless. This is the real reason why it is acceptable to abort a child during this period. The child has no soul.’

I said nothing in response to this remark. Although it made me feel somewhat uncomfortable.

‘And it is during this period that the unborn child is in the greatest danger.’

‘From abortionists?’ I asked.

‘From alchemists,’ said Captain Lynch. ‘From the Devil’s alchemists. At the behest of their master they attempt to inflict upon the unborn child an alternative soul, to invest it with a soul of an ungodly alchemist’s creation. One that he has conjured with the Devil’s magic.’

‘To what purpose?’ I enquired.

‘To be a vessel of Satan. To be as near to the Devil’s child as the Devil can make him (or her) without transgressing God’s law concerning that kind of behaviour. It is a great feat of magic to perform this operation. One of the greatest, in fact. So great, indeed, that it can only be performed once every hundred years.’

I just nodded to all of this. I felt that we had lost the plot somewhere along the line. Because the plot had originally been to do with the Sumerian Kynges, riches and explorers. I wasn’t altogether certain where all this talk of Homunculi was leading. (You will note that I used the plural correctly. This would be because I had encountered the word a week earlier in a copy of Alchemist Today, at the dentist’s.)

‘About the Sumerian Kynges and the riches and the exploring-’ I said.

‘The Sumerian Kynge Georgius, Kynge of Begrem, performed the conjuration and the Homunculus was created. And God was very angry as to this, as He was in those early days. He was roused to anger sometimes even through the slightest things back then. But the creation of the Homunculus really got His holy dander up.’

Captain Lynch made a facial expression that I knew not the meaning of.

‘And so,’ said he, ‘there was mighty trouble. The Devil was delighted by the evil progeny that was created. And upon this one occasion – the first, and the last – he honoured his side of the bargain and rewarded Georgius with massive wealth. Tons of gold and jewels and precious stones. A Kynge’s ransom, if you will.’

‘And all this wealth appeared in Begrem?’ I asked.

‘All. In fact, the Devil turned the entire city into gold.’

‘The Golden City of Begrem,’ I said. With wonder in my voice.

‘Only for a moment. And then God’s wrath fell upon it. And it was swallowed into the sand.’

I paused here. Just for a moment. Because I had one of those feelings that you sometimes have. One of those feelings that something is coming. Something pertinent. Something important.

‘You wouldn’t…’ I said. Hesitatingly. ‘Have a map of where Begrem once was. I suppose.’

And Captain Lynch nodded.

‘I would,’ said he. ‘I would.’

Captain Lynch didn’t show me his map. But I have no doubt whatsoever that he did possess it. In fact, I know absolutely that he did. Because, as it is now in my possession, I can speak of this particular matter with some degree of authority.

Upon that particular day, our conversation continued just a little longer. The captain had a few final remarks to make upon the subject of the Homunculus.

‘Since the creation of the first, each century a powerful magician, aided in his dark magic by the Evil One himself, attempts the conjuration. And throughout history, one has been born each century, the product of pure, unadulterated Evil.’

And he continued. And he finished with, ‘The Victorian era bore one who came of age in the twentieth century – Adolf Hitler was his name. And the twentieth century has yielded up his successor.’

‘And his name?’ I asked.

‘Elvis Presley,’ said the captain.

I recall that, at the time, I found the captain’s remark rather unimaginative. He could have said anyone. He could have said George Formby. But he didn’t. He said Elvis Presley.

And I also recall that, at the time, I wasn’t convinced.

But I did like the idea of a city of gold, buried probably in a desert somewhere, Sumeria, most likely. And the exploring, and the digging up of the city, and the availing oneself of all the wealth.

None of which, if I am altogether honest – and I might as well be, as this, I suppose, is ultimately my story – none of which wealth would I be handing over to the poor.

‘Let them steal their own treasure maps,’ was my comment on the matter.

But I did like the story and I did like the sound of the Sumerian Kynges. I thought it sounded like a jolly meaningful name for a rock band. Although rock hadn’t really been invented then, so I suppose I meant a pop band.

And the other guys who comprised the embryonic entity that was The Sumerian Kynges Phase 1 liked the sound of it, too.

There were two other members back then that I haven’t mentioned – Michael and Keithy. They were Sumerian Kynges too at the time. But only for about five minutes. Because they had their own ideas of a name for the band. And when the rest of us didn’t agree with their suggestion, they got all huffy and left. I understand that they did get their own band together and give it the name they wanted. But whatever happened to the foolishly named ‘Rolling Stones’, I have no idea. [5]

Which brings me to the night of the school dance.

And the launch of The Sumerian Kynges.

We had been doing a lot of practice. And I do mean a lot. Well, you could, you see, in those days. It must have been something to do with it being the nineteen-sixties. If you took up a musical instrument at school, you could take time off regular lessons to have tuition. And that, as I soon discovered, meant time off all lessons. I agree now that perhaps I cannot string words together as well as others of my age and literary persuasion, the Johnny Quinns and Mavis Cheeses who win all the book prizes and inspire the young. But, man, can I play the ukulele!

We’d start our musical tuition at nine-thirty on Monday morning after assembly and prayers and conclude it at three p.m. on Friday. With breaks for lunch, and going home at tea time, of course.

My fingers got a bit sore, I can tell you.

But it got the job jobbed and by the time the school dance came around, we were masters of the finger-pick, the cross-strum and the scale-run. Not to mention the chromatic.

Which I never did. Because I did not believe it to be necessary.

Now, there is a lot to performance. A good performance, that is.

A lot!

‘A great performance is better than life itself,’ Iggy Pop once said. But that was many years later. But it is not just down to playing well. You have to emote and you have to look good.