The Brightonomicon

by Robert Rankin

  ‘So that is true?’ I said. ‘What I heard Doctor Proctor say in the hospital when I was in my coma?’

  ‘All true,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Holes in the fabric of time.’

  ‘And the weeping statue?’

  ‘That statue was originally exhibited at the Great Exhibition. It says so on the plinth – if you’d troubled to look, you would have seen it. It was one of a pair, both of which were exhibited. You will not find them in any existing copy of the Exhibition catalogue, however, but at the time of their exhibition they were billed as “The Remarkable Sympathetic Statues”. Although twenty yards apart, it was demonstrated that if you whispered into the ear of one statue, the words you whispered could be heard issuing through the mouth of the other. It was quite a parlour trick. Queen Victoria was amused.’

  ‘How did it work?’ I asked.

  ‘Victorian supertechnology. Not the work of Babbage or Tesla, but of another.’

  ‘This would not be Count Otto Black.’

  ‘It would be his great-great-great-grandfather. Hugo Rune nodded. And the statues were not a parlour trick. They were a technological marvel. A marvel of technology and magic, since alchemy is chemistry and magic. It was a cabal of witches that destroyed all memory and all existence of the Victorian supertechnology. Those twin statues were, if you like, portals – magic portals. One of them now stands in Lansdowne Gardens. Where do you suppose the other one stands?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘Perhaps the other one does not stand anywhere. Perhaps it was destroyed in the war, or something.’

  ‘No.’ Mr Rune shook his head. ‘The other one still stands, parted from its sister, which was moved here to Brighton on the second day of the Great Exhibition to its present location. The other statue is not in the present. It is still in the past in eighteen fifty-one, at the Great Exhibition.’

  ‘That does not make any sense,’ I said. ‘You cannot have two things existing at the same time and then more than a century apart.’

  ‘Take my watch,’ said Mr Rune, and he drew it from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it to me. ‘This watch was constructed in eighteen fifty-one. It existed then, and it exists now. It is the same watch.’

  ‘I really do not understand this,’ I said.

  ‘It is difficult,’ said Mr Rune, ‘I agree. Time is a difficult concept. But the past, the present and the future all exist, all at the same time. I can tell you what is going to happen. Something is going to be dispatched. It will be, or in fact has been, dispatched into the statue in eighteen fifty-one and it will emerge through the statue in Lansdowne Gardens in our day and age. It is already on its way.’

  ‘I am still baffled,’ I said. ‘What about the Earl Grey?’

  ‘I have been waiting for the Earl Grey,’ said Mr Rune. ‘You see, I am responsible for its appearance.’

  ‘Go on then.’ I sighed. ‘Impress me.’

  ‘I attended that first day of the Great Exhibition, in the company of Her Majesty the Queen, Gawd bless Her, and my dear friend Lord Jeffrey Primark. And I observed the demonstration of “The Remarkable Sympathetic Statues”. And I observed that their demonstrator was Count Otto Black. And I suspected that he was up to No Good, but I confess that I did not know at that time exactly what variety of No Good he was up to. And so, when the exhibition halls closed upon that night, I did a little experiment of my own. I emptied an urn of Earl Grey over one of the statues. No Earl Grey poured from the other statue. I waited, but none did. I therefore assumed that eventually it would, when it was in fact programmed for it to do so. But that would not be in the present of eighteen fifty-one. Rather, it would be at some time in the future.’

  ‘That is an impossible assumption to make,’ I said. ‘You could never have deduced something like that.’

  Mr Rune sighed. ‘You are dealing with Rune,’ said he. ‘You are not dealing with you.’

  ‘And so when you read that tea was issuing from this statue, you knew that it was the tea that you had poured on to the other statue in eighteen fifty-one.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Mr Rune. ‘And when my tea appeared, I knew that something else would not be far behind.’

  ‘Incredible,’ I said. ‘Nothing less than incredible.’

  ‘Everything is centred upon this area.’ Mr Rune had finished his beer and was opening another can. ‘The Brighton Zodiac – the Brightonomicon from which all this derives. This is a window area, an epicentre of psychic phenomena. It is where the holes in time open, where those who wander into fairy mounds are spewed out. It is where that which comes from the past will issue into the present.’

  ‘What is coming?’ I asked. ‘What is going to follow your tea?’

  ‘Evil,’ said Mr Hugo Rune. ‘Pure evil, and it’s coming tonight.’

  PART II

  I had read somewhere that Queen Victoria had not been too keen on Brighton. She had considered it somewhat tawdry and was all for pulling down the Royal Pavilion. Happily, she was persuaded instead to sell it to the local council.

  It is to be noted that the few statues of the great lady that are to be found in the Brighton area all face out to sea. This, it is said, was done at her request, that she should not have to look at the place even in effigy.

  I think Queen Victoria was being rather hard on Brighton, particularly as I have also read that she was not averse to doing a bit of opium, and, although making male homosexuality an offence punishable by incarceration with hard labour, she passed no such laws whatever regarding lesbianism because she was of the Sapphic persuasion herself. So I should have thought that Brighton would have suited her most royally.

  But there you go.

  It was a glorious June night in Brighton, balmy and breezy and beautiful. Mr Rune and I strolled along the prom, although he did most of the strolling. I was engaged in the heavy pushing myself – the heavy pushing of the perambulator that I had acquired, which had been standing, unoccupied, outside a local créche and was now top-heavy with various accoutrements that I had also acquired at Mr Rune’s request.

  ‘Pacey-pacey, Rizla,’ said he. ‘It takes more than a blue tit’s tinkle to fill a parrot’s bath.’

  Which I could not find reason to doubt.

  ‘You might do some pushing yourself, for a change,’ I suggested.

  ‘I might,’ said the All-knowing One, ‘but it is to be doubted that I will.’

  It was eleven of the evening clock and there were still many folk strolling on the prom: Brighton beauties with beehive hair, miniskirts and kinky boots; a number of ‘moderns’, whose presence put a faint chill into me, although I knew not why; old ladies in bath chairs and gents in straw boaters. And a tiny spaniel or two.

  ‘A poor night for it,’ said Mr Rune, making a very grumpy face towards the cloudless sky.

  ‘It is a beautiful night,’ I said.

  ‘I was hoping for rain.’

  I shrugged as I pushed, and did some panting, too.

  ‘Aha!’ cried Mr Rune as we approached the gardens wherein stood the statue of the tea-weeping monarch. ‘Cast your eyes across the road there, Rizla – the boys in blue have cordoned off the entire area.’

  ‘They have been a bit heavy handed,’ I said. ‘They have erected a high steel security fence with great “DANGER: KEEP OUT” signs all about the perimeter of the entire gardens, by the look of it.’

  ‘It’s keeping the crowds at bay.’ Hugo Rune grinned at this. ‘And look – they’ve covered the statue with a tarpaulin.’

  ‘I really cannot see why they have made such a big fuss.’ I leaned, puffing, upon the pram.

  ‘Unless they know something.’ Hugo Rune did tappings at his nose with the finger adorned by his Ring of Power. ‘Perhaps they received a telephone call early this morning from an eminent government scientist informing them that the statue’s tears were in fact fermenting effluvia, bubbling up from a plague pit that lies beneath the gardens, and that for the sake of public safety they should cordon off the area.’

  �
��That is somewhat unlikely,’ I said, for such was my opinion.

  ‘Nevertheless, it is the case. I made the call myself, shortly before you awoke from your slumbers.’

  ‘But …’ I went. ‘All that trouble …’ I went.

  ‘I confess,’ said Mr Rune, ‘that I did not expect the police to act quite as promptly as they did. I had hoped to acquire my sample before they came blundering on to the scene. Still, the fracas was fun and I enjoyed striking down that woman in the straw hat.’

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ said Mr Rune. ‘It makes you look like a dullard.’

  We comfied ourselves upon one of the elegant Victorian benches that favour the prom. I drummed my fingers, trilled a bit, and twiddled my thumbs. Mr Rune, for his part, whistled a ditty on his reinvented ocarina, then clasped his hands across his belly and fell instantly asleep.

  He awoke upon the stroke of twelve, which chimed from his pocket watch.

  ‘Up and at it, Rizla!’ he cried. ‘A walk around the gardens is the order of the day. I trust that you have arranged matters within the perambulator in the manner in which I instructed you.’

  ‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘I am an amanuensis.’

  Mr Rune now rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘Then let’s go walkie round the gardens.’

  ‘Like a teddy bear?’

  ‘Just walk.’

  I walked and he walked, but once more I pushed the pram. And as I did so, I did furtive things. Things as instructed by Mr Rune. Things that at least lightened my load. At length, we returned to the point from which we had begun, this being the seafront area before the shrouded statue.

  ‘Leave this area untainted,’ said Mr Rune. ‘It will then appear as an obvious exit. Here we will lie in wait. You have the matches?’

  ‘Five boxes, as you instructed.’

  Rune nodded his Panama hatted head, then drew from an inner pocket a brass telescope and gazed out to sea.

  ‘I hate to do what I have to do,’ he said with a sigh, ‘but it is for the greater good. And yes, all appears to be in order, seawards.’

  I looked up at Hugo Rune. ‘What is going to happen?’ I asked.

  ‘Something will come and we will defeat it.’

  ‘As simple as that?’

  But Mr Rune did not reply.

  We settled ourselves down to wait, although I still had no idea what we were waiting for. It had long gone midnight now and folk were few on the streets. There were no policemen on guard or patrol and only the occasional stumbling drunk or passing taxicab.

  ‘You should have brought a coat,’ said Mr Rune. ‘You look chilly.’

  ‘Actually, I am freezing now,’ I said, as I hugged at myself.

  ‘Yes.’ Hugo Rune nodded and drew a thermometer from his breast pocket. ‘Two degrees below freezing, as it happens.’

  ‘At this time of year?’

  ‘The evil will shortly be upon us.’

  My teeth were chattering and my knees started to knock.

  ‘Prepare yourself, Rizla,’ whispered Mr Rune. ‘It comes.’

  And I do have to say that it came with a fair degree of style.

  There was a great gust of icy wind that tore at the statue’s tarpaulin and hurled it high into the air, shredding it to ribbons.

  I peeped through the mesh of the steel security fence towards the statue and saw to my amazement that it was beginning to shake. And sounds came from its vicinity, curious metallic sounds as of heavy industry, faint at first, then rising to a terrible volume.

  I clapped my hands across my ears. An arctic wind was blowing now and tears were swept from my eyes. The statue shook and then began to split. Dazzling light blazed from the fractures, beamed as searchlights from the eyes, sparkled like jewels in the crown.

  And then the statue exploded into shrapnel. Mr Rune and I took to ducking as shards of flaming bronze passed over our heads like tracer bullets, spiralling into the night sky as lethal starburst fireworks. And then something truly awesome swam into view. It literally materialised, this truly awesome something. It squatted on the statue’s plinth and then rose to its terrible height.

  At first I thought it to be some monstrous manlike creature, the very spawn of the Bottomless Pit, for it was all over black and fearsome and roared with the fires of Hell. But then through my trembling fingers I saw that this was no beast at all. Rather it was a robotic machine, some twenty feet in height, forged from steel and covered with hundreds of riveted scales. It was a work of hideous genius, all pistons and pinwheels. Twin chimneys rose from its armoured shoulders and from these belched the smoke and flames. Within the chest of it was a kind of armoured cockpit and within this sat a fellow working controls. He pulled at levers and turned at stopcocks and he grinned most evilly as he did these things.

  And I knew the face of the man who worked those levers and turned those stopcocks. It was the face of the man who had called himself Orion. The face of the man who was Count Otto Black.

  The Victorian robot, for such indeed it was, flexed its steely fingers and turned its head from side to side. The head wore a great brass devilish face and this gazed down upon us. The eyes were lenses set in silver mounts, which revolved and focused, and then the robot spoke.

  ‘Hugo Rune,’ came an amplified voice. ‘My nemesis of old.’

  I was for running but my legs could scarcely carry my weight. I felt Mr Rune’s hand upon my shoulder and he cried, ‘Now employ your matches!’ into my ear.

  My fingers fumbled. Found one of the matchboxes in my pocket. Drew it out and dropped it.

  ‘Fortitude, Rizla,’ commanded Mr Rune. ‘Hand me the matches, please.’

  I did my bestest to oblige.

  The robot, rather than seeking to destroy us, was turning away instead.

  ‘Hurry now,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I don’t want him escaping to some prearranged bolthole.’

  I was all confusion, but I managed to thrust a box of matches into the hands of Mr Rune, who took a match from the box, struck it, plunged it back into the box and threw the box down on to the pavement.

  On to the line of ‘taint’ that I had previously laid.

  The taint in question had come from the drum of highly volatile industrial cleaning solution that Mr Rune had bid me acquire and had later laced with various other combustible materials and mixed into a deadly cocktail. This had been leaked in a line girdling the gardens through a hole I had drilled in the bottom of the pram, all but for the area where he and I stood with Mr Rune. But these are mere details.

  The flaming box struck the pavement, igniting the trail of flammable solution. Fire rose and streaked. It was a most spectacular effect.

  Why indeed a wall of flame should have troubled a fellow in an armoured steel robot, I know not. But looking back on the incident now, I do not think it was intended to do anything other than distract him. And possibly annoy.

  Yes, I think ‘annoy’ would be the word. For the robot swung back and the Count’s face in the cockpit on its chest looked very annoyed indeed.

  ‘Better you die now than later,’ came the amplified voice. ‘It will spare me the trouble in the future.’

  ‘Rizla,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Do you know how to run?’

  ‘I feel that I am up to it now,’ I said.

  ‘Then run to the West Pier, as fast as you can. I will accompany you.’

  *

  Now, I always really liked the West Pier. It was a sort of poorer sister of the Palace Pier, shorter and with fewer pretty fiddly bits, but it did have a ballroom with Lloyd Loom furniture and potted palms, where Friday-afternoon tea dances occurred. Leading to this was a penny arcade wherein stood many old-fashioned gambling machines, which Mr Rune had taught me to win on using nought but the aid of wisdom and a magnet. And there were still some freak shows at the end of West Pier in those days: the Headless Lady, the Legless Yorkshireman, the Smallest Spaniel on Earth, the Talking Sprout and the Peanut that Surpasses All Unders
tanding.

  And the West Pier was only a short jog from Lansdowne Gardens.

  ‘Although I rarely perambulate at a pace that is greater than sedate, as befits a man of my dignity,’ said Mr Rune, who now jogged easily at my side, ‘I am capable of prodigious speed when the need arises. I am skilled in the art of lung-gom running, which I learned from the Dalai Lama in Tibet. So I’ll see you on the pier. Pacey-pacey, Rizla.’

  And then he was gone. In a blur. In a flash. Just gone.

  Which impressed me greatly, I have to say.

  But did not do much for my safety.

  And there now came great crashing and mangling sounds as the Victorian robot smashed through the flame-free area of the steel security fence and burst on to the street behind me.

  Amidst the cacophony of driving pistons, churning flywheels, meshing cogs and great steel feet raising sparks upon the pavement, the monstrous construction lurched forwards, a single stride being ten of mine.

  Then came flame and smoke and the rattle of machine-gun fire.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  Gun ports had opened in the belly of the beast and rotating barrels spat flames. And bullets.

  I added ducking, skipping and dodging to the now-increased pace of my fearful fleeing. Ahead was the West Pier and I was soon upon its boards.

  And as I raced along them, with the steely monster drawing closer every moment, a thought occurred to me that caused me grief. It caused my spirits, already low, to sink to a level beneath my feet and plunge into the sea.

  Piers, by their very nature, project from land to the ocean.

  A man, pursued along such a pier, will shortly find that he has nowhere further to run.

  Such a thought must also have crossed the twisted mind of the evil Count Otto Black, but whereas this thought had caused great grief to come unto me, Count Otto found favour with it. Amplified laughter rang in my ears.