The Brightonomicon

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Then they will be wrong,’ said I, ‘because we are standing before just such an establishment even as we speak.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Such contradictions are due to the Chevalier Effect.’

  ‘Is it like the Greenhouse Effect?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Rune. ‘It is not. But the same reader will also observe that the term “Greenhouse Effect” was not coined until later in the twentieth century either.’

  ‘I hate to contradict this historically inclined future reader,’ I said, ‘but I think you will find that I have just mentioned the Greenhouse Effect.’

  Mr Rune nodded sagely. ‘I agree completely, young Rizla,’ he said. ‘So kindly open your ears and mind to what I have to tell you.’

  I did my best to do these things, and partially achieved them.

  ‘The Chevalier Effect is named after the popular entertainer Maurice Chevalier, and the famous song that he sang.’

  ‘“Thank Heavens For Little Girls”?’ I enquired. ‘I believe it has always been my opinion that there is something not altogether wholesome about the French.’

  ‘I share this opinion,’ said Mr Rune. ‘But the song I am referring to is “I Remember It Well” from the motion picture Gigi, sung by Maurice Chevalier and Hermione Gingold.’

  ‘I know the song,’ I said. ‘It is about two people recalling the night they first met, but they cannot agree on the details and contradict each other throughout. To somewhat mild comic effect, I have to say. I consider Bernard Cribbins’s “Hole In the Ground” far funnier.’

  ‘I share this opinion also,’ said Mr Rune. ‘The Chevalier Effect is to do with the decay of time. Once an event has occurred and becomes memory, decay sets in and things run together. Folk recall the event differently: some see it this way, some that way.’

  ‘That is because some of them are right and some of them are wrong in their recollections,’ I assured the Perfect Master.

  ‘Incorrect,’ he replied. ‘They are all right. It is the decay of time that is to blame, not their faltering memories.’

  ‘They cannot all be right,’ I protested. ‘An event can only occur one way. We are either standing outside an establishment called Dogs R Us, or we are not. Which is it?’

  Mr Rune gave his nose a significant tap. ‘When you write your memoirs of our time together, there will be many such anomalies. You will be certain that, for example, a certain song existed at the time, or a certain newspaper, or a certain television personality. Or indeed, that a certain establishment was called Dogs R Us.’

  ‘Which it is,’ I said.

  ‘Which it is,’ Mr Rune agreed. ‘But when you hand your manuscript to a publishing editor, that esteemed personage will take issue with the accuracy of your revelations. They will say that such and such a person did not do such and such a thing in the nineteen sixties. They will doubt the authenticity of your account of events, based upon these anachronisms.’

  ‘Then I will leave them out,’ I said, ‘or let the publishing editor change them.’

  ‘You will not!’ cried Mr Rune, and he drew himself up to his full and improbable height. ‘You will insist that they remain and you will explain about the Chevalier Effect.’

  ‘That sign definitely does say Dogs R Us,’ I said.

  ‘Then you will stick to your guns, young Rizla. I have faith in you.’ Mr Rune plucked leaves from the hedge and let them fall to the pavement. ‘And now I will explain to you exactly how the Chevalier Effect works, so that you may set it down in your chronicles to explain all the seeming anomalies and anachronisms.’

  And so Mr Rune did. He spoke with erudition, using terms easily understandable by the layman. And I do have to say that when he had reached his conclusion, I, for one, was truly convinced and would number myself amongst the converted. Because, after all, I was there and that sign really did say Dogs R Us!

  I would set down here all that he told me, but to do so would be to waste precious time. However, the reader may rest assured that everything chronicled within the pages of this international bestseller did indeed occur as written. And that all the seeming anomalies – indeed, anachronisms even – that appear such as in later chapters with the mention of alcopops, gay icons and certain dead rock stars, are not there due to poor editing; rather, they are there because they were there at the time. Due to the Chevalier Effect.

  Which explains everything.

  Obviously.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Rune, ‘now that we have cleared that up, there is one further thing I must warn you about. In this case, as in others, there is bound to be a spaniel involved.’

  ‘I have no fear of spaniels,’ I said, and I crossed my heart as I said so, to add weight to my words. ‘Spaniels hold no dread for me. Big soppy things, they all are.’

  ‘On that we are both agreed. But I promise you that there will be spaniel involvement, so remain vigilant and always upon your guard.’

  ‘You are surely joking?’

  ‘I never joke,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I jibe, I mock, I ridicule, but I do these things only to be cruel to be kind. You have a big spot on the back of your neck, by the way. Here, take this and pin it to your shirtfront.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘A badge,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘It has the head of a spaniel upon it,’ I observed.

  Mr Rune gave his great nose a significant tapping. ‘A word to the wise,’ said he. ‘Wear the badge with pride. And keep both your ears and your eyes wide open.’

  I pinned the badge to my shirtfront, avoiding, by sheer luck alone, severe nipple puncturation. ‘Shall we go and knock on the door?’ I asked.

  ‘To what end, exactly?’

  ‘To summon the woman, or man, who wrote to you.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Of course, you do not – as yet – know my methods. We will not knock on the door. We will wait for our client to come to us.’

  ‘I am confused,’ I said. ‘And I feel a bit of a ninny wearing this badge. What are those garden gnomes doing, by the way?’ And I pointed to the pair of gnomes that had caught my attention.

  ‘Copulating,’ said Mr Hugo Rune. ‘Now duck your head.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just duck it.’

  I ducked as requested, registered a loud report and felt a searing of my sun-blocking headwear.

  ‘Ouch,’ was what I had to say.

  ‘Keep your head down,’ said Mr Rune. ‘We are being fired upon.’

  I crouched in the shelter of a clipped box hedge. I tore my hankie from my head and examined it. To my horror, it had been scorched along its length by the passage of a bullet.

  ‘By Crimbo,’ I exclaimed. ‘I have been shot.’

  ‘You are unharmed.’

  ‘Shot!’ There was horror in my voice. ‘You promised me excitement, but not an untimely death. Are such unwarranted attacks a day-to-day occurrence with you?’

  ‘Plah!’ said Mr Hugo Rune. ‘I trust that you are not going to panic.’

  ‘On the contrary. I only seek to retreat to a safe distance. Possibly London. Farewell.’

  ‘Timid,’ said Mr Rune. ‘As I feared.’

  ‘Gunman,’ said I. ‘Have fear of him.’

  ‘He wasn’t firing at us.’

  ‘No? At whom, then? And look at the state of my hankie – it is ruined.’

  ‘Wave it above your head.’

  ‘And that will help, will it?’

  ‘Just wave the hankie – higher now, that’s right.’

  ‘I am so sorry, I truly am.’

  ‘I did not say that,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t think that you did,’ said Mr Rune, and he rose once more to his considerable height.

  ‘I truly am so sorry.’

  I rose to what height I myself possessed and gazed towards the apologist, who stood on the other side of the clipped box hedge.

  Now, as I have said, Mr Rune was tall, tall was Mr Rune, and big around with it, but the fellow beyond th
e hedge was taller still. Tall was he, and all over gaunt.

  I looked up at the tallster and I was most impressed. And then I said something I should not have said, because I was still upset. ‘You nearly shot my bl**dy head off, Rasputin!’ I declared.

  ‘Bl**dy?’ said Mr Hugo Rune.

  ‘Rasputin?’ said the tallster.

  ‘Yes,’ said I. ‘You look like Rasputin, with that gaunt face and big black beard and long black cloak and everything. And you shot me. I demand that you pay for a new headkerchief.’

  The blackly bearded tallster blinked at me with his deeply set cadaverous eyes, opened his mouth to expose twin rows of pointy teeth, then closed it again with an audible snap. A rooftop pigeon took flight and a dog howled in the distance.

  And then many more howled close at hand.

  ‘My apologies once more,’ said the tall, gaunt fellow. ‘It was an accident, I assure you. I was cleaning my fowling piece by the window when a spaniel nudged my elbow.’

  I glanced towards Mr Rune, who grinned at me and winked.

  ‘Mister Neville Orion?’ he then said, putting forward his hand above the hedge for a shake. ‘My name is Hugo Rune. I received your letter this morning.’

  ‘My letter?’ said Mr Orion, ignoring the proffered hand.

  ‘Indubitably.’ Mr Rune withdrew his unshaken hand. ‘I suggest that you do not take up forgery as a second occupation. The signature of your wife was most unconvincing.’

  I viewed the face of the long, thin fellow. Deep in the shadows of their sockets, his eyes were veritably twinkling.

  ‘Excellent,’ said he. ‘Pray, come inside.’ And he indicated the front-garden gate.

  The howling of the close-at-hand hounds had not yet abated and I made a doubtful face.

  ‘They are caged,’ said Mr Orion. ‘Follow me.’

  I followed Mr Rune, who followed Mr Orion. Mr Orion followed the garden path and this led us all to the house. The hallway led to a front sitting room and soon we were sitting within it.

  It was your typical suburban front sitting room, with a typical settee and matching armchairs. There was a typical standard lamp, a typical plant in a typical pot, a carpet that was absolutely typical and a tank containing typical fish.

  ‘Actually, they are tropical fish,’ said Mr Orion.

  ‘They appear to be dead,’ I said.

  ‘Typical,’ said Mr Orion. ‘I expect the wife forgot to feed them. Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea, or would you prefer something stronger?’

  ‘Something stronger will be fine,’ said Mr Rune, idly drumming his fingers upon the typically embroidered arm-socks of his chair.

  Mr Orion called out at the top of his voice, ‘Bring rope, woman,’ he called. ‘And don’t try fobbing our guests off with string.’

  Presently, a most glamorous woman appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray that was anything but typical, it being a tray that had no bottom and such slender sides as to be almost no sides at all. There was plenty of top to this tray, however, and upon this rested three lengths of rope. The woman presented the tray and its cargo to Mr Hugo Rune.

  ‘There, sir,’ she said.

  Mr Rune nodded thoughtfully but made no motion towards accepting the tray. His eyes were upon the woman – indeed, upon her breasts.

  Now, these were, for all this world and whatever lies beyond it, a most remarkable pair of breasts. Clearly of an independent nature, they sought escape from the constraints of both bra and blouse and appeared to be upon the point of gaining freedom.

  Mr Orion made impatient toe-tappings. ‘I suggest we get down to business,’ he said.

  ‘And clearly a most remarkable business it is, too,’ said Mr Rune, finally accepting the tray and hauling his eyes from the breasts of Mrs Orion. ‘These ropes, although clearly strong, appear to have been ripped apart.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Mr Orion.

  ‘Not bitten through,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘This was my conclusion.’

  I gave my chin a bit of a scratch – it needed a shave, which I found encouraging as I was hoping to grow a fashionable goatee as soon as I was able. This talk of rope, however, perplexed me.

  ‘I am perplexed,’ I said.

  ‘Silence, Rizla,’ said Mr Rune. ‘This is no time for idle chitchat. Watch, listen and, hopefully, learn.’

  ‘I would not mind a cup of tea,’ I said.

  ‘Janet,’ said Mr Orion to his wife, ‘take young Rizla here to the kitchenette and give him tea.’

  I glanced towards Mr Rune.

  ‘Go,’ said he.

  I followed Mrs Orion to the kitchenette. She was wearing a very short skirt, that woman was, stretched over a lovely bottom. Her legs were rather lovely too, and I decided that I must habitually harbour a fancy for women who wore stiletto heels, because I certainly harboured one now.

  I did not take much to the kitchenette. There were no units, nor labour-saving devices, nor even a cheese press, a butter churn, a yoghurt stretcher or a cream fondler, nor indeed any other artefact requisite to the refinement or processing of dairy products. I considered the mincer to be of an inferior design, one which in itself would have saved no labour whatsoever, and the rubber tea towel holder beside the sink was sorely perished and in need of replacement.

  But these things were neither here, nor there, nor any place other to me.

  ‘You’ll have to mime the drinking of the tea,’ said the lovely Mrs Orion. ‘The kettle’s on the blink and the milkman hasn’t delivered today. The world is coming to an end and there’s a fact for you to be going on with.’

  ‘I do not think it is quite that bad,’ I said.

  ‘The optimism of youth,’ said Mrs Orion.

  ‘I have half a bottle of champagne in my hamper here,’ I said, indicating the Fortnum’s hamper, which could so easily have vanished from my possession due to poor continuity, but had not. ‘If you have two glasses, we might finish it off.’

  ‘You are a little ray of sunshine.’ Mrs Orion reached up to a high shelf in search of glasses, then, finding none, bent over to seek at floor level.

  I looked on approvingly.

  ‘He hides them,’ said Mrs Orion. ‘He doesn’t trust glasses. Never trust anything that you can see right through, he says. Hates air with a vigour – he wouldn’t breathe at all if he didn’t have to.’

  ‘Perhaps they are on that very high shelf,’ I suggested. ‘You could climb up on that kitchen stool and look.’

  They were not on the very high shelf. But to be absolutely certain, I persuaded Mrs Orion to take a second look. And I looked on approvingly.

  ‘We’ll have to use tea cups,’ said Mrs Orion. ‘There are some dried-on tea leaves in the bottoms, but from what I know of Tetleymancy *, they foretell moderate good fortune for at least one of us.’

  I opened up the hamper, took out the champagne, uncorked the bottle and decanted some of it. ‘What is all this business with the rope?’ I asked the lady of the house.

  ‘A horrible to-do,’ she said. ‘The police are baffled, which is why I had my husband write to Mister Rune. If anyone can sort this out, it’s him.’

  ‘Is Mister Rune famous, then?’ I asked.

  Mrs Orion shrugged. ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ she said. ‘Inspector Hector gave me his name.’

  ‘Inspector Hector?’ I said.

  ‘Of the Brighton constabulary.’ Mrs Orion sipped at her champagne. ‘He said that Mister Rune left a pile of flyers on the front desk of the police station, advertising his services as a metaphorical detective.’

  ‘Metaphysical detective,’ I said. ‘And this Inspector Hector personally recommended Mister Rune?’

  ‘Well, not as such. He did say that the case was right up Mister Rune’s street. And he said that he’d carelessly thrown away all the flyers, but Mister Rune’s advert was sure to be in the local paper amongst all the others for “personal services”. And he said something else.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

&
nbsp; ‘He said that if I met up with Mister Rune, I was to mention the matter of the twenty guineas he had borrowed from Inspector Hector and has yet to pay back.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘More champagne?’

  ‘Well, it does go straight to my head.’

  ‘I will refill your cup, then.’ And I did so. ‘Am I to understand,’ I asked, ‘that you have lost a dog? Is that what this case is all about? The one that has the police baffled and Inspector Hector recommending the services of Mister Hugo Rune?’

  ‘Not lost,’ said Mrs Orion, supping further champagne and hiccoughing prettily, ‘but stolen. Our prize-winning Spanikov.’

  ‘Spanikov?’ I said, feigning the pouring of champagne into my own cup and giving Mrs Orion’s a further topping-up.

  ‘It’s a rare Russian breed of spaniel, probably the only one of its kind in the country – maybe even in the world.’

  ‘Very valuable, then?’ I brought out the jar of pickled quails’ eggs and unscrewed its lid.

  ‘Those are funny-looking onions,’ said Mrs Orion.

  ‘The dog,’ said I, ‘this Spanikov – is it a very valuable dog?’

  ‘Very valuable and very big, too.’ Mrs Orion dug her fingers into the jar and speared a quail’s egg with her lengthy thumbnail. ‘Almost the size of a horse.’

  ‘A horse?’ I said. ‘A spaniel the size of a horse?’

  ‘Well, a Shetland pony, perhaps, but there’s no telling, is there? It’s like a pig.’

  ‘It looks like a pig?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean. I mean there’s no telling how big a pig can grow. They’re always slaughtered when they reach a certain age, so there’s no telling how big a pig might grow if it escaped into the wild and lived out its natural lifespan. Which might be anything up to three hundred years, like a tortoise.’

  ‘A tortoise?’ I said.

  ‘I heard,’ said Mrs Orion, drawing me closer to her and whispering in a conspiratorial tone, ‘of a pigman who lived in Henfield, just north of Brighton, back in the Victorian days. He kept a pig in his barn, didn’t kill it. When he died, his son took on the responsibility – it was in the old man’s will, you see. And then the son of the pigman’s son took it on, and so on. They say that the pig still lives, and that it is the size of an elephant now.’