The Brightonomicon

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Hold there, me hearties,’ said Mr Rune. ‘There’ll be rich pickings in this for all of you.’

  The pirates made surly sounds and did some flintlock rattling.

  ‘Trust to what he says,’ said Captain Bart. ‘If Admiral Rune says there’ll be rich pickings, then rich them pickings will be.’

  ‘Admiral Rune?’ I rolled my eyes.

  ‘So, young Rizla,’ said Admiral Rune, ‘would you care to tell us of your plan?’

  ‘My plan?’ I said.

  ‘For how we shall best the transgressor.’

  ‘Storm him,’ I said, ‘with cutlasses and flintlocks and possibly whatnots as well.’

  ‘They are manufactured locally,’ said Fangio, ‘for the Ministry of Furniture.’

  ‘Storm him?’ said Mr Rune thoughtfully. ‘You believe this to be a wise course of action, considering the fate of the exploding seaman?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘there are bound to be casualties. Probably even fatalities. But that cannot be helped.’

  My words were not, perhaps, as well chosen as they might have been. Cutlasses were drawn once more and some young pirate with cowboy leanings suggested throwing a hangman’s rope over a high pub beam.

  ‘Drinks all round. On me,’ cried Mr Rune. ‘And a word in your ear, in private.’ And he took hold of my ear and dragged me from the bar.

  And out into the ice-bound street beyond.

  ‘Do you have a death wish?’ he enquired.

  ‘Definitely not,’ I said. ‘Which is why I will be keeping a safe distance when we send the pirates storming in.’

  Mr Rune raised his stout stick and I flinched.

  ‘It is cold out here,’ I said. ‘Can we go back inside?’

  ‘Would you care,’ asked Mr Rune, ‘for me to direct operations from now on?’

  ‘Well …’ I said.

  He mimed the throwing of a rope over a beam, accompanied by a series of pelvic thrusts suggestive of …

  ‘I will leave it to you,’ I said, ‘although I do want to take some credit, because I did figure it out on my own.’

  ‘I’ll pay your dry-cleaning bill,’ said Mr Rune.

  And we returned to the bar.

  The pirates were now looking more than just surly. Positively mutinous, they looked.

  ‘I am taking charge of the situation,’ announced Mr Rune. ‘I will be personally directing operations. There will be no loss of life. And you will all prosper greatly, I promise you.’

  The pirates grunted and grumbled.

  One said, ‘We’ll throw in our hands with you, Admiral Rune, but only if we know the score.’

  ‘Explain to them, Rizla,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘We’ll hear it from you,’ said the pirate to Mr Rune.

  Hugo Rune smiled and nodded. ‘It’s simplicity itself,’ he said. ‘My companion and I were called to this area to investigate the disappearance of a great number of domestic animals. Many, if not all, other animals local to the district have similarly disappeared. Why should this be? you might well ask yourselves. Well, my companion offered you most of the clues: ominous signs and portents in the heavens; prophecies that the world is about to end, and of course the mutant doves. Considering also the nature of the light industries on the trading estate and that the regular screaming of animals is only to be heard here, the solution is obvious.’

  Heads shook. Fangio shrugged.

  ‘Ark,’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘Ark at what?’ asked Captain Bart.

  Ark of Noah!’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘Where?’ went the captain.

  ‘Right here,’ said the All-Knowing One. ‘You are standing in the wheelhouse.’

  ‘Oh,’ went the pirates. And, ‘Coo.’ And, ‘Fancy that.’

  ‘The regular screamings?’ asked Fangio.

  ‘Feeding time,’ said Mr Rune, ‘for the animals. The animals below, behind those hundreds of doors.’

  ‘It all makes perfect sense when it’s explained,’ said Fange.

  ‘It does,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Except for the mutant doves and the exploding seaman.’

  ‘Nuclear power,’ said Mr Rune. ‘The Ark is powered by a nuclear reactor. Noah had doves on board, if you recall. So did our transgressor. The doves were located somewhat too close to the nuclear pile before they escaped.’

  ‘And the seaman?’

  ‘He reached critical mass,’ Mr Rune explained. ‘Over-exposure to the nuclear pile combined with subzero temperatures outside caused a metabolic sub-shift due to the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said a pirate called Phil. ‘Happened to a mate of mine.’

  ‘And there you have it,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Right,’ said Captain Bart. ‘There we have it, do we? Some nutter thinking that the world is coming to an end has built a subterranean ark, of which this is the wheelhouse, and stocked it up with all the local animals.’

  ‘And considerable booty, which is yours for the taking,’ said Mr Rune.

  Which caused the pirates to cheer.

  ‘No,’ said Captain Bart. ‘Don’t cheer. This ark is buried in the ground beneath us. How is it going to float away should the flood waters rise, which frankly they are unlikely so to do?’

  ‘It isn’t going to float,’ said Mr Rune. ‘It’s going to tunnel down, to escape not the rising waters but rather the supposedly falling comet.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the captain. ‘Whatever the case, it’s damnably stupid. Lead us to this nutter, Admiral Rune, and we’ll slit his throat and share the booty round.’

  ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

  Now Mr Rune never uttered these words. And nor, in fact, did I. But I recognised the voice and turned, as others did, to view the figure standing in the doorway.

  He was a considerable figure, tall and gaunt and all in black. Black leather hat, black leather coat, black leather boots, black leather gloves as well. He wore a long black beard that was not of leather and stared at us with jet-black eyes that glittered in cavernous sockets.

  ‘We meet again, Mister Rune,’ said he, stepping forward, a black gun in his hand.

  ‘We do indeed,’ said Hugo Rune. And he even bowed slightly as he said it. ‘Captain Bartholomew, allow me to introduce to you Count Otto Black, captain of the nuclear-powered subterranean ark The Really Small Atlantean.’

  PART III

  ‘Your servant, sir,’ said Count Otto Black, and he tipped his black hat to the captain.

  Mr Rune took a single step forward. Count Otto pointed his pistol. ‘Easy, Mister Rune,’ said he.

  I noticed that Mr Rune had a very firm hold upon his stout stick and I wondered where I should hide.

  ‘You must have fallen upon very hard times, Mister Rune,’ said Count Otto in a mocking tone, ‘if you are reduced to hunting for lost dogs and lost pussycats.’ And he laughed that mad laugh that mad-laughers always laugh.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I discerned your unwashed hand in this from the very outset.’

  ‘Bluff and bluster,’ said Black. ‘It’s always the same with you.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Rune. ‘The difference between you and me is twofold. Firstly I am good and you are evil.’

  ‘And secondly?’ asked the Count.

  ‘I know how your mind works.’

  ‘Then pray enlighten me. And do make it interesting, or I will be forced to shoot you dead out of boredom alone.’

  ‘This craft,’ said Mr Rune, ‘was not built by a present-day Noah to escape a biblical catastrophe, aka, the fall to Earth of a comet. Rather, it was built as an escape craft. And one, I have no doubt, that you have been working on for years.’

  ‘Only months,’ said the Count. ‘I work very hard, unlike yourself.’

  ‘Quite so. But it is an escape craft nonetheless, to enable you to escape from the mayhem you intend to cause once you have availed yourself of the Chronovision. Which you will neve
r do as long as I have breath in my body.’

  The evil Count Otto clapped his hands, but did not lower his pistol. ‘You are indeed correct,’ said he, ‘although don’t go wasting your time attempting to pat yourself on the back. Not that you could, you great fat oaf.’

  I flinched somewhat at that remark. And Mr Rune did hairless bristlings.

  ‘Just one thing,’ said the All-Knowing One. ‘The name of this craft – The Really Small Atlantean – that’s a rather foolish name for an ark.’

  ‘I had no wish to give myself away,’ said the Count. ‘Naturally I have another name for it.’

  ‘I know that you do,’ said Mr Rune. ‘In fact, I know what it is.’

  ‘Absurd,’ said Black. ‘Of course you do not.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Rune once again. ‘Your name for it is The Bevendean Bat.’

  ‘What?’ went Count Otto. ‘What?’

  And, ‘What? went I also.

  ‘Or to give it its full title, The Bevendean Bathyscaphe, the suburban submersible.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Black. ‘But no matter.’ And he stalked across to the bar, elbowing pirates to the right and left of him, lifted the counter flap, ejected Fangio and installed himself behind the bar proper.

  ‘The drinks are on you?’ asked Hugo Rune. ‘Did I win the champagne?’

  ‘No,’ said Black. ‘The show is over.’ And he reached beneath the counter and drew up a small microphone. ‘Mister Mate,’ he shouted into it. ‘Take us below.’

  ‘Below?’ said Mr Rune and he laughed. ‘You surely do not believe that this ludicrous contraption is actually going to work?’

  ‘Oh, it will work,’ crowed Black, ‘and you will die, and I’ll feed your flesh to the pussycats. Villains always have pussycats. They do like a pussy to stroke.’

  ‘Do not say it,’ I warned Fangio.

  ‘You are somewhat outnumbered,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I’m not exactly certain how this particular fact has escaped your notice.’

  ‘Outnumbered?’ said Black, and he laughed once more in that manner that mad-laughers laugh. ‘By these pirates here?’

  The pirates growled and rattled their weaponry.

  ‘Who will be the first, then?’ asked Count Otto. ‘The first to attack me and be shot dead? Any takers?’

  None were immediately forthcoming.

  ‘Or perhaps you would care to throw in your lot with me, sign on for a share of riches beyond your wildest dreams. Any takers for that?’

  ‘Well …’ went certain pirates. Most of them, in fact.

  ‘Notoriously mutinous,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Pirates do have a habit of switching their allegiance at the offer of pecuniary advancement,’ said Count Otto Black. ‘I’ll pay one thousand pounds cash to any man who will join me.’

  There suddenly came a rumbling, as of mighty engines beneath.

  ‘Hurry now,’ said Count Otto Black. ‘We are going below. Who will take the Count’s shilling, as it were?’

  ‘I’ll sail with you, mister,’ said the pirate called David who had once been a pop star, but later had fallen upon hard times and now ran a hot-dog stall.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Phil, whose mate had once reached critical mass.

  And so said this fellow, and so said that fellow, and suddenly all were cheering.

  ‘What a bunch of traitors,’ I whispered to myself. ‘I am definitely going for the cinema-proprietor option. Should I come out of this alive.’

  And then I felt that sinking feeling. As one does as one starts to sink.

  ‘Going down!’ cried Count Otto Black. ‘Basement sale. Guru meat on special offer.’ And he pointed his gun at Mr Rune and squeezed upon the trigger.

  But he never got to fire that gun, although he really wanted to. Because, and I am very proud of this, I did not let him do it.

  I was still clutching the wooden leg of the exploded seaman. And this I swung, as hard as I could, at the head of Count Otto Black. And it caught that blighter a thunderous blow and knocked him from his feet.

  ‘Out!’ cried Mr Rune. ‘All out.’

  And we ran from that sinking ship. We ran for the door. Oh, how we ran indeed.

  And we threw ourselves through the door and out into the icy cold as The Really Small Atlantean – or The Bevendean Bathyscaphe – sank its way down into the ground, leaving only a gaping hole to signify its passage.

  ‘Bravo, my friend, said Mr Rune, a-patting me on the back. ‘You did splendidly. I’ll even pay for the dry cleaning of your topper.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fange. ‘You done good, kid.’

  I looked at Fange. I looked at Mr Rune. ‘The pirates stayed with him,’ I said.

  ‘Notoriously mutinous,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘And he got away. He got away and he took our pirates with him.’

  ‘Things might have gone better,’ admitted Mr Rune, ‘but let us not be discouraged.’

  ‘I’m discouraged,’ said Fangio. ‘My coat was in there. I’m freezing out here.’

  ‘I am discouraged, too,’ I said. ‘That is a formidable craft that the Count now has at his disposal.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Rune. ‘But if the exploding uniped was anything to go by, I personally would not wish to spend too much time beneath ground level aboard it.’

  I shrugged and sighed. ‘It is going to be a long and cold walk home,’ I said.

  ‘Walk?’ said Mr Rune. ‘I think not. See there – surely that is the minibus that the pirates hired to convey them here. It will take but a moment for you to hotwire that vehicle.’

  ‘Hotwire?’ I said. ‘I do not know how to hotwire a van.’

  Mr Rune tapped at his nose. ‘Then I will instruct you,’ he said. ‘You will need something metallic to place across the terminals. This will do, I think.’ And Mr Rune handed a badge to me. ‘I had intended to give it you before we set out,’ he said, ‘but I thought it might influence your reasoning.’

  I looked at the badge, and printed upon it was …

  ‘Noah’s Ark,’ I said.

  9

  The Sensational Saga Of The Saltdean Stallion

  The Saltdean Stallion

  PART I

  It was November and it was cold, but my coat was back from the cleaners. True to his word, Mr Rune had paid for the dry cleaning and done so without any fuss. And as it was November the fifth, he and I were in Lewes.

  Lewes is a pretty town, built upon a pretty hill, with the ruins of a pretty castle high up on its peak. It lies about ten miles east of Brighton, and another ten or so up from the coastline. If it has any faults at all, these faults are to be found in its dreaded one-way system. On paper it all looks so simple, but try to drive your car through Lewes from one side to the other and you will know the dread yourself. Around and around the town you will go, as if trapped within a Möbius strip, losing all sense of direction, your temper and your sanity. Even the locals, who claim to know the area like the backs of their burly Sussex fists, never leave home in their cars without at least three days’ emergency provisions and several extra cans of petrol in their boots.

  And there is even an urban myth to the effect that a chap called Norris Styver has been driving around Lewes’s one-way system in his Morris Minor for over a decade trying to get out of the town. But there seem to be certain reasons, mostly involving logic and common sense, to place some doubt upon the likelihood of there being any truth to this particular urban myth. Which was probably why it was an urban myth.

  Those who incline towards mystical explanations claim that the roads of the town were cursed in the Middle Ages by the sinister warlock Eliphas Porlock, who met his end in a freak stake/flames incident in the town square.

  However, those who prefer the commonplace put it all down to the work of Mad Mickey Wright, who designed Brighton’s one-way system, which every summer funnels many thousands of motoring would-be holiday-makers from the A23 through a maze of some of Brighton’s narrowest streets, lured ever onwards by signs
that promise great parking areas, but somehow always fail to deliver.

  To those who know a little more than most, and Mr Hugo Rune would number himself amongst this exalted few, it is an open secret that Mad Mickey Wright was a descendant of Eliphas Porlock and something of a black magician himself.

  But Lewes is a pretty town and if there is one thing that Lewes is more famous for than anything else, it is its bonfire-night celebrations. Folk come from all over the country to enjoy them, some remaining in Lewes for over a week afterwards as a result of being unable to drive out of it. But folk do come, in their thousands, and those who come regularly do so by train.

  Hugo Rune and I had come by train and I had located our accommodation through very careful study of a map.

  Now, it does have to be said that the good folk of Lewes really do know how to get a fire started. And not just the one. They have dozens. It’s that small-boy thing about lighting fires and the big bags of fallen leaves that keep those home fires burning. And there are torchlight parades through the town, with real flaming torches. And there are bonfire societies with exotic and evocative names, such as the Jenga Khan Society, the Lords of Ludo Society, the Barons of the Boggle Society and the Cluedo Klux Klan Society. And something that these societies really like doing, which probably dates back to Mr Porlock, is to burn people in effigy: politicians, celebrities, sports personalities, members of Brighton’s road-route planning committee – anyone who has in some way incurred their displeasure during the previous twelve months. It makes for a most entertaining evening.

  Rooms in the town’s hotels that overlook the paradings, which can go on for many hours as the parades go round and round the oneway system seeking the locations of the bonfires that they are marching towards, have to be booked several years ahead and command appropriately exorbitant prices.

  Mr Rune had booked us into one of the best of them – the Hotel California, which overlooked the High Street. How he had done this I have no idea, but a clue might be found in the fact that on arrival he sported papal robes and the desk clerk referred to him as ‘your holiness’ and knelt and kissed his ring.