The Brightonomicon

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Animals,’ said Fangio. ‘Animals and birds, and reptiles, too, I don’t doubt, all calling and mewing and howling and snorting and suchlike.’

  ‘I did not hear anything,’ I said.

  ‘No, well, you wouldn’t have – it stopped about an hour ago.’

  ‘Suggestive,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be,’ said Fange. ‘And I’m dreading it, I can tell you.’

  ‘Dreading what?’ I asked, though I knew that I would regret it.

  ‘I’m only up here,’ said Fange, ‘because the brewery sent me for the day. This pub’s last day, as it happens – they’re closing it down. But the brewery is doing up my pub while I’m here. They’re giving it a makeover. It’s going to be called The Carry On Inn tomorrow, and I will have to talk like Kenneth Williams and only in innuendo. They’ve given me a phrasebook and everything. It makes even the simplest remark sound overtly suggestive. I’m dreading it, I can tell you.’

  ‘Difficult times for you,’ I said, as I sipped at my Old Sump Lube. ‘Would you care to have a crack at it now?’ I asked. ‘Get stuck in for a bit of practice?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Fangio. ‘It’s too big to even think about.’

  ‘Tell me about the rabbits,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘The rabbits?’ said Fange. ‘Is that some socially transmitted disease? I’ll have to look it up in the phrasebook.’

  ‘Did you hear any rabbits amongst the animal din?’ Mr Rune asked. ‘The hills about here are usually aloud with the sound of rabbits generally, or Arctic hares, at least.’

  ‘I might have heard rabbits,’ said Fange, ‘but it was hard to tell – they were drowned out by the cries of the penguins.’

  ‘Is that the right continent?’ I asked.

  ‘As in Atlantis?’ Mr Rune asked.

  ‘Or Arsenal,’ said Fange. ‘I just had a wounded cabbie in here who supports Arsenal. He said I was to watch out for cinema popcorn, that it contained active ingredients that made it addictive, so that every time you went back to the cinema, you found yourself ordering a bigger tub.’

  I glanced over at Mr Rune, who shrugged. ‘No rabbits, then?’ said he.

  And Fangio shrugged. And I shrugged, too. I did not want to be left out of the shrugging.

  ‘Highly suggestive,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I have already formed certain theories regarding this most anomalous case.’

  ‘Case?’ said Fangio. ‘Are you here on a case?’

  ‘Not much of one,’ I said. ‘A bunch of missing cats.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s correct to refer to them as a bunch of cats,’ said the leather-aproned barkeep. ‘That’s not the collective noun. I think you’ll find that it’s a cabal of cats.’

  ‘You mean like a dirtiness of dogs?’

  ‘Not altogether like. More like a peregrination of pencils, or a hovering of Hoovers.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well, you are into household appliances and appurtenances there, like a torturing of toasters. Although most folk only own the one. Or a philandering of forks—’

  ‘Or indeed a spontaneity of spoons,’ said Fange.

  ‘Yes, but that has more to do with the essential nature of spoons.’

  ‘It’s a philosophical concept,’ said Fange, ‘like a dialectical materialisation of Doctor Martens, or a Freudian slip of slippers.’

  ‘And now you have moved on to the metaphysical realms of footwear,’ I said, ‘which takes us seamlessly to a Lutheran dogma of loafers and a papal nuncio of plimsolls. Or, and I am sure you will know this one, a scandal of sandals, which is from “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Bob Dylan.’

  ‘Don’t get me going on that,’ said Fange.

  So I did not.

  Instead, I took sup upon my ale. ‘A good bit of toot we talked there,’ I said.

  ‘Always a pleasure,’ said Fangio, ‘but never a—’

  ‘Have you finished now?’ asked Mr Rune.

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘The secret really is knowing when to stop.’

  ‘Or a …’ said Fange. But he did not finish, for at that moment something untoward occurred in the bar. Untoward indeed it was, and very loud also.

  It was as if all the zoos of the world had been gathered together at this one spot and every animal in them urged to give vent to the loudest of cries they could muster. The sound was appalling. Deafening. Mr Rune and me and Fangio clapped our hands to our ears and pressed them as hard as we could. The awful row went on and on.

  Then suddenly it stopped.

  Fangio’s hands moved away from his ears. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.

  ‘The rabbits didn’t make much of a showing,’ said Mr Rune. ‘They were somewhat drowned out by the spaniels.’

  ‘That was Hell,’ I said. ‘The sound of Hell. The cries of the damned calling up from the Bottomless Pit.’

  ‘That’s one explanation,’ said Mr Rune, ‘although whether rabbits go to Hell or not, I’m not entirely sure.’

  ‘Bad rabbits would,’ said Fangio. ‘And most dogs, in my opinion. And definitely rats and pigeons, too.’

  ‘And snakes,’ I said. ‘And spiders.’

  ‘And earwigs, also,’ said Fangio. ‘They’re always up to no good, crawling into your ears while you sleep on the lawn and laying their horrid eggs.’

  ‘An evilness of earwigs,’ said I. ‘That is what it says in the Bible. Somewhere, if you are prepared to have a good look.’

  ‘Don’t get me started on the Bible,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ I said, ‘we can get a good half-hour of toot out of that.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Mr Rune, and he held up his hand.

  ‘Not that noise again?’ said Fange, and he covered his ears once more.

  ‘A man,’ said Mr Rune, ‘with only one leg and in a state of distress.’

  ‘Did he say, “in a state of undress” ?’ asked Fangio, uncovering one of his ears. The left one.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Stand back.’

  ‘But we are sitting,’ I said. And we were, upon barstools.

  ‘Then avert your gaze.’

  Which I did not. Although I really should have.

  The door of The Really Small Atlantean flew open. And in through the opening flew a man. And for a man with only one leg to fly upon, he fairly flew.

  He flew and he rushed and he screamed as he did so.

  Then he fell.

  And he exploded.

  PART II

  ‘I do so hate it when that happens,’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘Aagh!’ I went. And, ‘Wah!’ and, ‘I have got one-legged man all over my nice new coat.’

  ‘Spontaneous human combustion,’ said Mr Rune, viewing the epicentre of the explosion and the large scorch mark it had made on the carpet.

  ‘The brewery won’t like this,’ said Fange. ‘But then the pub is closing down today.’

  ‘Uniped,’ I said. ‘Charred bits of uniped all over my coat.’

  ‘White wine will take that out,’ said Fange, ‘or salt, although I wouldn’t advise molasses.’

  ‘Suggestive,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Fangio.

  ‘I am definitely going back to our rooms,’ I said, ‘and this coat is going straight to the dry cleaners.’

  Mr Rune was up on his feet now, examining the carpet. ‘His timber limb survived with only minor charring,’ said he, ‘which is also suggestive.’

  ‘I do not like it here,’ I said, ‘what with the cries of the damned and the exploding unipeds. This is not a nice neighbourhood.’

  ‘You’ve never been to Whitehawk, then,’ said Fangio. ‘But who’s going to clear up this mess?’

  ‘I have formed my conclusions,’ said Mr Rune. ‘The case is solved.’

  ‘Well, phone for Inspector Hector and he can arrest the transgressor,’ said I.

  ‘Good word, that,’ said Fange. ‘I’ve a radio with those in it. Made valves completely obsolete, which is a shame because I’
ve been hoarding thousands in case there was ever a world shortage.’

  ‘The transgressor,’ said Mr Rune, ‘is not one who can be arrested, not by any normal law-enforcement agency, anyway. Come on, Rizla, all the clues are here. It’s glaringly obvious what’s going on.’

  I sighed deeply. ‘All the clues?’ I said.

  ‘All the clues,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘And the solution does not involve some piece of esoteric knowledge known only to yourself?’

  ‘Not on this occasion, no. Perhaps a tiny bit, but this should not stand in your way. Think about what you have seen here, what you have experienced, what you have heard and not heard. Does not an explanation spring immediately to your mind?’

  Now, I thought hard about this. I finished my beer and when I had done so I ordered another of same. ‘All the clues are here?’ I said. ‘All of them?’

  ‘All around you,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘And I really should be able to reason it all out?’

  ‘If you are half the fellow that I believe you to be.’

  ‘Can I have a go at this?’ asked Fange.

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘You cannot.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Fange, somewhat huffily, I thought.

  I did further rackings of the brain. ‘All right,’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘Missing cats, missing indigenous wildlife, in fact. All gone. Then those terrible sounds that we heard. Then a one-legged man rushing into the bar and exploding. And all these things are connected?’

  ‘All connected,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘All part of the big equation.’

  ‘And the transgressor is not one that can be brought to book by members of the Sussex constabulary?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Hugo Rune and he shook his big bald head.

  ‘One thing,’ I said. ‘If I can come up with the answer, will you pay for my dry-cleaning?’

  ‘Gladly,’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘Damn,’ I said. ‘Then it really must be a poser.’

  ‘I have to hand it to you blokes,’ said Fangio. ‘A one-legged fellow explodes all over us and you take it as cool as can be.’

  ‘I am upset,’ I said. ‘Look at my coat.’

  ‘I think I may have had an accident,’ said Fangio. ‘I’m going to the bog.’

  And off he went. And upon his departure, Mr Rune stepped around to the back of the bar and helped himself to a bottle of Scotch. ‘It will aid your cogitation,’ he explained.

  ‘I am cogitating as hard as I can,’ I said, ‘but pour a measure into my pint – I am sure it will help me a bit.’

  And he did and I drank and I did cogitations. ‘All right, I am baffled,’ I said.

  ‘The single leg is significant,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Don’t give up just yet.’

  I thought and thought and thought some more. And then I said, ‘I have it.’

  ‘You do?’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘I do,’ said I. ‘And we are going to require some assistance.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Who do you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest that we call upon the services of Captain Bartholomew Moulsecoomb, the Bog Troll Buccaneer.’

  ‘Not to mention his scurvy crew of pirates,’ said Mr Rune.

  But I mentioned them anyway. ‘What do you think?’ I said.

  ‘We’ll see where it leads,’ said Mr Rune. ‘So far you’ve earned a cleaned sleeve.’

  We sat and we drank and presently Fangio returned from his excursion, complaining that he had taken so long because he could not find the bog, there being so many hundreds of different doors downstairs. Mr Rune asked if he might use the telephone and Fangio said that he might. As no complimentary chewing fat or peanuts were available, I ate low-fat crisps and the antipasto (whatever that was) and I carried on with my cogitations, because they were far from complete. But I mentioned in passing to Fange that I had solved the case.

  And at a little after three of the afternoon clock the bar door burst open once again, this time to admit the blustering passage of the swarthy Captain Bartholomew Moulsecoomb, not to mention his scurvy crew of pirates.

  ‘What-ho, me hearties,’ cried Mr Rune, in the vernacular.

  ‘We had to hire a minibus to get up here,’ said the Bog Troll Buccaneer, ‘so we’ll be wanting plenty of bounty. Where be the gold doubloons?’

  Mr Rune glanced over in my direction. ‘Would you care to tell him?’ he enquired.

  ‘The hoards of Atlantis?’ I suggested.

  ‘Good answer,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Will it be rum all round, lads?’ asked Fangio, yo-ho-hoing as he did so.

  ‘It will,’ said the captain. ‘It will.’

  ‘And shall I put it on Mister Rune’s tab?’

  ‘Or I’ll slit your gullet from ear to ear,’ said the captain, heartily.

  ‘I still quite fancy taking to a life of piracy,’ I said to Fange, ‘although I am presently torn between that and becoming a cinema proprietor.’

  Fangio drew me to him in the manner known as conspiratorial. ‘How do you think it will go for you,’ he asked, ‘when Mister Rune and all the now-assembled pirates discover that you really don’t have the foggiest idea as to what is going on hereabouts?’

  ‘Not altogether well,’ I replied, ‘but having recently solved, all on my own, the most complex case of the Woodingdean Chameleon, this will be a veritable walk in Preston Park, as it were.’

  Fangio made sniggering sounds, which I felt to be inappropriate. ‘Pirates have a habit of turning ugly,’ he said. ‘Well, uglier. They’ll probably eat you. Having jolly rogered you first, of course.’

  ‘I feel the solution coming on,’ I said.

  ‘Ooh, Matron,’ said Fange. ‘Oh, excuse me, that’s tomorrow. Now, if you want my opinion in this case—’

  ‘I do not,’ I told him, as he took to passing out measures of rum. ‘I can do this all on my own, with no help from anyone.’

  ‘Have a word with yourself,’ said Fangio. ‘I’d try and leg it if I were you.’

  And then I had an idea.

  I called out to Mr Rune, who stood chatting with a pirate called David who had once been in a pop band, but later, having fallen upon hard times, had been reduced to running a hot-dog van on the seafront. They were discussing the relative merits of being keel-hauled and being flogged around the fleet.

  ‘Mister Rune,’ I called, ‘might I have a look at that wooden leg?’

  ‘Captain Bartholomew is wearing it.’

  ‘But he has two good legs of his own.’

  ‘He’s wearing it on his head.’

  ‘It’s a pirate thing,’ said Captain Bart, handing the timber limb to me.

  ‘Just one question,’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘Would I be correct in assuming that if I were to run a Geiger counter over this wooden leg, it would buzz away like an angry bluebottle?’

  Mr Rune placed a large hand upon my shoulder. ‘Young Rizla,’ said he, ‘you have excelled yourself. Would you care to explain how you came by this reasoning?’

  ‘I would,’ I said. And then I looked at my wristwatch. ‘But if I am correct, then my explanation will have to wait because—’

  And it came again, that terrible cacophony – the barking and growling and screeching and, in the case of the rabbits, a sort of snuffling sound.

  Hands rose up to ears all around. One-handed Harry the bosun’s mate nearly had his eye out with his hook.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the dreadful din all dimmed away and quietness descended.

  ‘What in the name of plunder was that?’ asked Captain Bart. ‘Last time I heard a row like that was when we laid waste to a pet shop in Pevensey Bay.’

  ‘Would you care to explain, young Rizla? Take us through it a step at a time.’ Mr Rune smiled upon me and I smiled back upon him.

  ‘Right,’ I said, and I preened at my Astrakhan collar. Which was sadly still rather sticky. ‘I saw what you saw, yes? And heard what you heard. We walked around the area and I recall those light in
dustries upon the trading estate – carpenters’ shops, shipwrights, refiners of animal feeds and earth-moving-equipment manufacturers, not to mention the nuclear processing plant.’

  ‘The—’ said Captain Bart.

  ‘Best not to,’ said Fangio.

  ‘All those,’ I said to Mr Rune, ‘suggestive in themselves. Then all the local pets and wildlife gone. Then this pub and the shape of this pub, like a child’s drawing of a house. And the fact that it is closing today. Then the noises of the animals, at regular intervals – four-hour intervals, I believe. And of course, the exploding seaman.’

  ‘Ooh, Matron,’ said Fange. ‘No, excuse me. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘And Fangio said that he had trouble finding the toilet because there are hundreds of doors downstairs.’

  ‘I did say that,’ said Fangio, ‘so I must take my share of the credit for solving this case.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I told him. ‘And,’ I continued, ‘and the other stuff before we even left our rooms this morning: the signs and portents in the heavens, prophecies that the world is about to end, and mutant doves.’

  ‘All becomes clear,’ said Fangio.

  ‘You are kidding me, right?’ I said.

  ‘I am,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Well, it all seems obvious to me,’ I said. ‘I can think of only one logical explanation.’

  Mr Rune held his breath and I saw him cross his fingers.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ I asked.

  ‘Because,’ said he, ‘either you have arrived at the obvious explanation or you are about to say something really, really stupid.’

  I beckoned Mr Rune and he inclined his big bald head towards me.

  I whispered one word into his ear.

  And Mr Rune said, ‘Splendid.’

  ‘Am I right?’ I said to him.

  ‘You are,’ he said. ‘You are. Although I have just one question for you now.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘I feel absolutely convinced that you have only just arrived at your conclusion, so why did you have me call up Captain Bartholomew several hours ago?’

  I shrugged. Guiltily. ‘I just like being around pirates,’ I said.

  Cutlasses were drawn at this, and words were voiced that I should be made to walk the plank. Having been jolly rogered most thoroughly first.