Snuff Fiction by Robert Rankin

affair, with an outdoor privy and six feet of yard. It was six doors down from my own, on the sunny side of the street.
    Still, I was confident that he knew what he was doing. And, of course, he did.
     
    Looking back now, across the wide expanse of years, it seems incredible to me that I did not see what was coming. All the clues were there. The unexpected envelope, delivered to my parents, containing two free tickets for the
Black and White Minstrel Show
on Friday mght, along with vouchers for a steak dinner at a Piccadilly restaurant. The fact that the Doveston had borrowed the keys to our shed, to ‘store a few crates of beer’. The ‘printer’s error’ on the invitations he was giving out, which had the number of
my
house down as where the party was to be held.
    These were all significant clues, but they somehow slipped by me. At six o’clock on the Friday night my parents went off to the show. They told me not to wait up for them, as they wouldn’t be home before midnight. We bade our farewells and I went up to my room to proceed with getting ready. Five minutes later the front-door bell rang.
    I shuffled downstairs to see who was there. It was the Doveston.
    He looked pretty dapper. His hair was combed and parted down the middle and he wore a clean Ben Sherman shirt with a button-down collar and slim leather tie. His suit was of the Tonic persuasion, narrow at the shoulders and high at the lapels. His boots were fine substantial things and polished on the toe-caps.
    I smiled him hello and he offered me in return a look of unutterable woe.
    ‘Whatever is the matter?’ I asked.
    ‘Something terrible has happened. May I come inside?’
    ‘Please do.’
    I led him into our front sitting room and he flung himself down on our ragged settee. ‘It’s awful,’ he said, burying his face in his hands.
    ‘What is?’
    ‘My mum and dad. The doctor’s just been round. They’ve come down with Lugwiler’s Itch.’
    ‘My God!’ I said, for what I believe was the first time that day. ‘Not Lugwiler’s Itch.’
    ‘Lugwiler’s Itch,’ said the Doveston.
    I made the face that says ‘hang about here’. ‘But surely,’ said my mouth, ‘Lugwiler’s Itch is a fictitious affliction out of a Jack Vance book.’
    ‘Precisely,’ said the Doveston.
    ‘Oh,’ said I.
    ‘So the party’s off.’
    ‘Off? The party can’t be off. I’ve been working on my costume. It’s really trendy and everything.’
    ‘I was going to dress up as Parnell. But it’s all off now, there’s nothing I can do about it.’
    ‘What a bummer,’ I said. ‘What a bummer.’
    The Doveston nodded sadly. ‘It’s the loss of face that hurts me most. I mean, having a party really
gains you a reputation.
If you know what I mean.
    ‘I do,’ I said. ‘Gaining a reputation is everything.’
    ‘Well, I’ve blown it now. I shall become the butt of bitter jokes. All that kudos that could have been mine is gone for ever. I wish the ground would just open and swallow me up.
    ‘Surely there must be some way round it,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you hold the party somewhere else?’
    ‘If only.’ The Doveston dabbed at his nose. ‘If only I had some trusted friend whose house was available for the evening. I wouldn’t mind that he earned all the kudos and gained the reputation. At least I wouldn’t have let everybody down. Let all those beautiful girls down. The ones who would be putty in the hands of the party-giver.
    There followed what is called a pregnant pause.

8
    Cigareets and wuskey and wild wild women.
    They’ll drive you crazy. They’ll drive you insane.
    Trad.
    Yes, all right, I know it
now.
    But what else could I say? It just seemed the perfect solution. Well, it
was
the perfect solution.
    ‘The church hall,’ I said to the Doveston. ‘You could hire the church hall.’
     
    If only I
had
said that. But I didn’t.
    ‘Hold the party
here?’
said the Doveston. ‘In
your
house?’
    ‘The perfect solution,’ I