The Brightonomicon

by Robert Rankin

  ‘You cad!’ I said.

  ‘I admit it,’ said Mr Rune. ‘But you did solve the case of the Woodingdean Chameleon, as I knew you would.’

  ‘But how,’ I asked, ‘if I got it all wrong?’

  ‘Because the chameleon was you,’ said Mr Rune. ‘The chameleon, that creature which disguises itself, that creature was you – Mister Lazlo Woodingdean.’

  And I was most impressed by this.

  ‘Now give me back that telescope you nicked,’ said Hugo Rune.

  6

  The Scintillating Story of the Sackville Scavenger

  The Sackville Scavenger

  PART I

  ‘And what would you take this to be?’ asked Hugo Rune, upon a bright and breezy August morning.

  We were sitting taking breakfast, in our rooms at forty-nine Grand Parade, Brighton, and I looked up from the breakfast I was taking and cast an eye towards the Hokus Bloke.

  He held upon the tines of his fork the blackened something that was causing his puzzlement.

  I viewed it with suspicion. ‘It might once have been a sausage,’ I ventured. ‘Or possibly a member of the mushroom family that has undergone a violent immolation.’

  Mr Rune nodded thoughtfully and sniffed at the thing with disgust. ‘It has much the look,’ said he, ‘of the mummified prepuce of Saint Michael, which is venerated in the church at Penge that bears his name. Which leaves me wondering what it might be doing upon my breakfasting plate.’

  ‘I do not think it was doing anything much at all,’ I said. ‘Just lying there hoping to go unmolested would be my guess.’

  ‘It just won’t do,’ said Hugo Rune.

  And I agreed it would not. ‘I think we will have to sack that Jeff the chef,’ I said.

  And Mr Rune agreed that we would.

  I had never taken much to Jeff the chef. Mr Rune had found him wandering the streets of Brighton one night in a pitiable condition. He was evidently homeless and kept asking which year this was and whether Cromwell still ruled England. I did not like the smell of him one bit.

  Mind you, Mr Rune would never have had to employ the services of Jeff the chef had Jade the maid not left us. She had vanished away a week before, leaving a letter, penned in Taiwanese, which according to Mr Rune’s interpretation cited ‘drunkenness and cruelty’ amongst her grievances and cause for departure. She had absconded with Mr Rune’s ivory chess set – a gift, he informed me, from Shah Jahan for assisting him with the design of the Taj Mahal.

  And so we lately suffered at the hands of Jeff the chef.

  ‘Perhaps if you were actually to pay for a cook,’ I said, but did not trouble to follow that line of conversation further.

  ‘The most important meal of the day, breakfast,’ said Mr Rune, pushing his plate aside and rattling the coffee pot that Jeff had neglected to refill. ‘No matter in which far-flung reach of civilisation I have cast my noble shadow, I have never failed to begin the day without a decent breakfast lodged beneath my belt. What chef skills do you possess, young Rizla?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I am your amanuensis, your acolyte, if you will, your partner in the fight against crime and the forces of evil. I am not a cook.’

  ‘Hm,’ went Rune, and I heard his stomach growling.

  ‘Oh, and another thing,’ I said, ‘I chanced to open the latest letter that arrived from Mister Hansord the landlord. He says that you have until Tuesday to cough up the last six months of back rent, or the bailiffs will be coming in.’

  A growl now issued from the mouth of Hugo Rune.

  ‘I read in the Leader,’* I said, ‘that the pirates of The Saucy Spaniel recently plundered a B&Q in Shoreham. As owner of the galleon, you will no doubt be receiving your share of the booty.’

  ‘I would hate to part with it to a landlord,’ said Mr Rune and he made a very grim face indeed.

  ‘I would hate to be ejected from these rooms,’ I said. ‘No doubt matters will resolve themselves.’

  ‘Where is that copy of the Leader?’ Mr Rune asked.

  ‘The cat has made a nest of it.’

  ‘And since when have we possessed a cat?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You are right – I have the Leader here.’

  Mr Rune took it away to his favourite chair and sat with it, huffing and puffing.

  I dabbed at my lips with an oversized green gingham napkin, pulled out reading matter of my own – The Corpse Wore Maltese Falsies (A Lazlo Woodbine Thriller) – and proceeded with the matter of reading it. And I had just got to a really exciting part involving Laz getting into a sticky situation in an alleyway with a dwarf who was taller than he looked when Mr Rune went ‘Plah!’ and flung the morning’s Leader in my direction.

  ‘Just read that!’ he shouted.

  I plucked the Leader up from the floor, uncreased it over my lap and read:

  LIFE FOR ELIXIR MAN

  James Fennimore Bacon, of no fixed address, today received a life sentence for selling his patented Elixir of Life pills in defiance of code laid down in the Witchcraft and Fraudulent Mediums Act. He had previous convictions for selling his ‘tablets of immortality’ in 1959, 1943, 1920, 1857, 1703 and 1628.

  ‘Seems a bit harsh,’ I said.

  ‘He’ll breeze through it,’ said Mr Rune. ‘He always does. But it wasn’t that article which caused me to “Plah!” Read what is below it.’

  I read.

  ‘Out loud,’ said Mr Rune.

  I read it out loud. ‘“EAT YOUR FOOD NUDE”,’ I read. ‘“The new naturist restaurant is opening tonight in George Street, Hove. The Sussex constabulary are cordoning off the area in expectation of the crowds of protesters.” ’ I looked up at Mr Rune. ‘What will they be protesting about?’ I asked. ‘They have yet to taste the food.’

  ‘Perhaps the nudity.’

  ‘Ludicrous,’ I said. ‘These are the nineteen sixties – you cannot protest about nudity.’

  Mr Rune shook his great bald head. ‘Rizla,’ said he, ‘these are indeed the nineteen sixties – people are protesting about everything. Hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘I have noticed that our landlord protests about you not paying him the rent.’

  ‘Please do not broach that subject again.’

  ‘So what does this restaurant opening have to do with us?’ The question was scarcely out of my mouth when I realised that I knew the answer. Mr Rune’s rat-bone protestations had him barred from every eating-house in Brighton. The opening of a new restaurant was bound to interest him.

  ‘I do not know whether I fancy eating my food in the nude,’ I said.

  ‘You can always place a napkin in your lap if you fear the spilling of hot soup on to your ’nads.’

  ‘I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of the diners. Few folk look appealing in their bare scuddies. Of course, if all the other diners were “Page-Three” girls, that would be an altogether different affair.’

  ‘We’ll take on the case,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘What case?’

  Hugo Rune rose ponderously from his favourite chair and took himself over to the big wall-mounted street map of Brighton, the one on which the enigmatic figures of the Brighton Zodiac had been coloured on to the streets and roads and culs-de-sac and whatnots. The figures of the Brightonomicon.

  ‘See there,’ said Mr Rune, and he took up his stout stick and pointed with it. ‘The Sackville Scavenger. It lies across Hove with its mouth wide open. And there, you see, at the line of his belly – George Street.’

  I looked and I saw. ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘But the case?’

  ‘The case will present itself, Rizla. Have a little faith.’

  ‘I have plenty of faith,’ I said.

  ‘And I also,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And if faith were bread, my belly would be full. But it is not and neither is my belly.’ And he yawned and drew out his pocket watch and viewed its elegant face. ‘The sun is over the yardarm,’ he said. ‘I suggest that we repair to Fangio’s bar and there avail ourselves of his com
plimentary peanuts and the chewing fat that he currently has on offer.’

  And so we did.

  I looked up at today’s pub sign. ‘“The Merry Terrorist”,’ I read.

  Within The Merry Terrorist, the furnishings were as ever they had been: the hubcap ashtrays, the Ford Fiesta wheel-arch loungers, the car-bumper footrests before the bar counter, the Vauxhall Velux headlamps on their chromium wall sconces. Mr Rune and I approached the bar and there we encountered the barman.

  ‘Morning, comrades,’ said Fangio, raising a blackly gloved fist. ‘Great day for the overthrow of the capitalist system.’

  I looked Fangio up and down, then up and down once more. The barlord had a somewhat military look on this occasion. His portly form had been ladled into figure-hugging camouflage fatigues, and upon his head he wore a beret. A beard had been sketched on to his chin with the aid of a felt-tipped pen.

  Hugo Rune made groaning sounds.

  But I was caused to smile.

  ‘Let me guess,’ I said to Fange. ‘Che Guevara, is it not?’

  ‘You have it in one,’ said Fangio, which I have to say rather surprised me.

  ‘Of course, Che was not really a terrorist,’ I said. ‘He was a revolutionary.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fangio. ‘I thought he was a fashionable boutique in Kensington High Street. I paid a packet for this fab gear. It goes down very well with the ladies, so I’m told.’

  Mr Rune was tucking into the complimentary peanuts. I ordered two pints of Texaco Unleaded and Redex chasers.

  The dedicated follower of fashion did the business. And being the professional he was, chalked up the cost to Mr Rune’s account.

  ‘This peanut bowl is empty,’ remarked the Lad Himself.

  I tucked into the chewing fat while Fange refilled the peanut bowl.

  ‘So you are up for the overthrow of the capitalist system, are you?’ I asked Fange, by way of making idle conversation.

  ‘I’m up for anything, me,’ said the camouflaged barman. ‘You name a cause that’s worth protesting about and I’m up for it.’

  ‘Blood sports,’ I said.

  ‘Pro or anti?’

  ‘Anti,’ I said.

  ‘Up for it,’ said Fangio.

  ‘And what if I had said “pro”?’

  ‘Then I’d have said “up for it”. I’m all for democracy. Although I support the Communist Party, of course.’

  ‘You are only dressed up like that and talking like that because the brewery has inveigled you into it.’

  ‘And because of the bird-pulling potential of the attire.’

  ‘You hypocrite,’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Fangio, ‘but I take exception to that. In fact, I protest! I am dressed like this to keep the job I enjoy and to have sex with women. Where is the hypocrisy in that?’

  I scratched at my head. He had me there.

  ‘You need a haircut,’ said Fangio.

  ‘I protest about that!’

  ‘Top man. I’ll join you on the march.’

  ‘So will you be protesting tonight?’ Mr Rune asked Fangio.

  Fangio took out his diary and leafed through it. ‘I get off at six,’ he said, ‘and I will be joining the Angry Lesbians of Kemp Town in their sit-down protest at the swimming baths, over the mixed-ninepennies. That should be a noisy one. Then at six-thirty I’ll be with the Miffed Mimes of Moulsecoomb – we’ll be trying to escape from an imaginary phone box, so that should be a quiet one. Then at seven I’m going to be part of a human chain across the car park at Tesco. That’s an animal rights thing – I’ve been issued with a whistle for that one.’

  ‘Will you not be joining the protesters who are seeking to stop the opening of the Eat Your Food Nude restaurant in George Street?’ I asked.

  ‘Heavens, no,’ said Fange. ‘I’ll be dining there myself – the brewery has sent me two free tickets. It’s one of their new theme venues.’

  I looked at Mr Rune.

  And Mr Rune looked at me.

  ‘I think I will go to the toilet now,’ I said.

  Some hours later, I asked Mr Rune, ‘Why are we dressing up?’

  ‘We’ll want to look our best for the occasion.’ Hugo Rune had on his best tuxedo, with the lacy shirt and velvet dicky bow.

  ‘But it is a naturist restaurant. We will have to take our clothes off!’

  Mr Rune let free a mocking laugh. ‘Rizla,’ said he, ‘Hugo Rune does not disrobe in public.’

  ‘Shy, eh?’ I said.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘but should I expose what lies presently dormant beneath my kecks in a public eatery, the inevitable attention of the womenfolk present and the inadequacy felt by their male companions might well erupt into jealous rage, which would interfere with my digestion.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘So can I keep my clothes on, too?’

  ‘We will represent ourselves as high muck-a-mucks of the brewery, come to observe the proceedings.’

  ‘Well, you have acquired the brewery’s tickets.’

  ‘Quite so. Now let us hasten to the street where you can hail us a cab.’

  The driver of the taxicab was a fellow who called himself Darren. Darren was a supporter of a football club named Hull, to which even ‘torture to the third degree as administered by cardinals of the Inquisition could not procure disloyalty’. Darren expounded his theories regarding why Marmite went white when you repeatedly patted it with your finger. And how there was really no such thing as chicken.

  ‘Eggs, right,’ said Darren, as he drove along Western Road en route to Hove. ‘Every day there are millions and millions of eggs. You can buy them everywhere, right?’

  I nodded in agreement.

  ‘But also everywhere, there are millions and millions of chickens for sale in supermarkets, and sandwich shops, and restaurants, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘So where do they all come from?’

  ‘They come out of eggs,’ I said.

  ‘But the eggs are all for sale.’

  ‘Well, obviously not all of them,’ I said. ‘A very great many must hatch into chickens. A very great many.’

  ‘Which would require a very great many cockerels to inseminate all these chickens that lay fertilised eggs that turn into more chickens.’

  ‘I would assume so,’ I said.

  ‘So where are all these stud farms full of randy roosters?’ asked Darren. ‘You have all these battery-chicken farms where chickens lay eggs. But you’d need millions and millions of randy roosters. It’s all a conspiracy. Eggs come off assembly lines, and so do chickens. They’re artificial. And we should be told. I’m going to start a protest.’

  I scratched at my head.

  ‘You need a haircut,’ said Mr Rune.

  *

  When we arrived at the police cordon that blocked off Church Road some one hundred yards before George Street, I left the cab with haste, leaving Mr Rune to deal with the matter of the fare.

  And I recognised two of the policemen in the cordon – the same two who had ordered Mr Rune and me to move back behind the line before the Earl-Grey-weeping statue of the late Queen Victoria.

  ‘Good evening, Officer,’ I said to the first policeman. ‘Nice night for a protest, eh?’

  ‘Perfect night, sir. Move back behind the line, if you will.’

  ‘I have tickets to the restaurant opening,’ I said, and I flourished same.

  ‘You lucky bugger,’ said the first constable. ‘All those “Page-Three” girls with their kit off, and me and my compatriots here with nothing to enliven our evening other than the thought of the inevitable truncheoning-down of protesters that lies ahead.’

  ‘And the stun-gunning,’ said the second constable. ‘And the tear-gassing, of course, not to mention the employment of the bowel-loosening infrasound canons that have been supplied to us for testing by the Ministry of Serendipity.’

  I felt it prudent not to mention those bowel-loosening infrasound canons.


  ‘Very wise of you,’ said the first constable.

  And suddenly Mr Rune joined me.

  ‘Oh,’ said the second constable, sighting Mr Rune. ‘It’s you, is it? Are we supposed to tip our helmets or something, you being a Thirty-Fourth-Degree Mason or whatever?’

  ‘A simple curtsey will suffice,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Now please clear a path for us between the protesters.’

  ‘There are no protesters,’ I said, for my powers of observation were keen.

  ‘No,’ said constable number one. ‘I’ve just heard word on my special police walkie-talkie that they are presently trapped inside an imaginary telephone box on the Level. Imaginary firemen are cutting them out.’

  ‘I just love the nineteen sixties,’ I said.

  ‘Me, too, sir,’ said the second policeman. ‘Especially the drugs.’

  *

  I don’t know whether we were the first to arrive at Eat Your Food Nude, but I knew that we were not the last. There is a balance to these things and a strict pecking order, celebritywise. But I will not go into any of that here, because frankly I did not care – I was just hungry. There were a lot of paparazzi present and these individuals aimed their cameras at us.

  But to Mr Rune’s appalled disgust, they did not take any pictures. ‘They do not know who you are,’ I said, as we strolled up George Street, past the charity shops. ‘They are only here to photograph the famous.’

  ‘Rizla,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘how would you like to appear upon the front page of the Leader tomorrow?’

  ‘That very much depends,’ said I. ‘If it is alongside the headline “DO YOU KNOW THE IDENTITY OF THIS MURDERED MAN?”, then I am not altogether keen.’

  Mr Rune smiled that certain smile of his, the one that I might not have mentioned before, and we strolled on towards dinner at Eat Your Food Nude.

  We were greeted at the door by two muscular types wearing nothing more than fig leaves.

  ‘Invitation,’ said one of these, fingering the fig leaf that he wore upon his head. And I made free with our tickets.

  ‘Go through, please,’ said the other. And we did so.