The Brightonomicon

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Not as yet. There is much that I must learn from that remarkable device before it is destroyed for ever.’

  ‘Hm,’ I went. And then, ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I recall you telling me that the Chronovision can be tuned to any living individual and replay moments in their past.’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Then I want you to tune it in to me. My work here is done. I want to know who I am.’

  Mr Rune shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ said he. ‘And your work here is not yet done – there are two more cases, two more figures in the Brightonomicon: the Coldean Cat and the Wiseman of Withdean.’

  ‘Forget them,’ I said. ‘We have the Chronovision – that was the object of the exercise. I will miss all this mad stuff, I know, and I have really enjoyed myself with you, although it has nearly been the death of me on numerous occasions. But I think it is time that I found out who I really am.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Rune. ‘In a word, no. Everything must be brought to completion. The balance of equipoise must be maintained. You’ll be on your way as your true self in a couple of months.’

  ‘A couple of months?’ And I made what must have been a very grumpy face. ‘Perhaps I will just clear off on my own, then,’ I said. ‘My memory will eventually return. Probably.’

  ‘Take your chances on your own, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Mr Rune pulled a copy of the Leader from somewhere and tossed it across the table at me. I almost caught it, but it went in my plover’s egg. I plucked it up and cast an eye across the banner headline:

  THREE DEAD IN LEWES ROAD-RAGE SLAUGHTER

  The text beneath told a tale of terror, of how a young man driving a stolen Morris Minor had mowed down three innocent ladies of the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild. There was even a police Identikit picture of the ‘teenage psycho killer’.

  ‘Oh, by Crimbo!’ I went, and I cast the newssheet aside. ‘It is me. I am a wanted killer. I am leaving a trail of corpses, as if I am Lazlo Woodbine.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Rizla,’ said Mr Rune, applying himself to the last of the locust lasagne. ‘I’m sure I can square things with Inspector Hector, get you off the hook, as it were.’

  ‘Yes, you must,’ I said. ‘You tell him. Explain that I only mowed those women down because they had killed you.’

  ‘I might put it somewhat differently.’

  ‘Well, whatever. Phone him now. There will be a phone somewhere. Oh yes – there is a row of phone boxes over there by the disco dance floor.’

  ‘All in good time,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘What?’

  And then a distant tepee flap flew open and a group of what can only be described as Red Indians, in fringed-buckskin get-up and full war paint, came bustling in. The biggest of the bunch wore a magnificent war bonnet of eagle feathers, with decoratively beaded earflaps and matching tow bar. He flung down his bow and his quiver of arrows and, grinning, advanced upon Mr Hugo Rune.

  ‘Greetings, He-That-Clouteth-Cabbies,’ grinned this noble savage.

  ‘Greetings, Chief.’ And Mr Rune rose from his seat, tossed away his napkin and greeted the chief with a handshake that was not Masonic, but might have passed for one any day of the week, excluding Tuesday.

  ‘What news?’ asked Mr Rune.

  ‘Much news,’ said the chief, and he sat himself down in Mr Rune’s chair. ‘Many signs and portents in the Heavens. Omens of the coming of Ragnarök. In Rottingdean, woman give birth to child in shape of hairdryer. And in Hove, masked walker arrested by police for illegal pamphleting. Him taken to cells at Sussex Nick, asked to take off scarf around face. Him refuse and officers take off scarf and anorak and trousers, too. And find no man inside. Only clothes.’

  ‘Suggestive,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Police say it happen all time,’ the chief continued. ‘Say scientists know of it for years. New evolutionary leap forward, clothes becoming sentient. Explain all those single shoes you see on motorways, trying to meet up with other clothes, form manlike shapes. Have hands, see, gloves, opposable thumbs. And not just clothes. Fruit and veg and minerals, too. Many famous celebrities not men at all, say scientists, many just piles of fruit and veg and minerals, too.’

  ‘Like “rock” musicians,’ I suggested. ‘The Strawberry Alarm Clock, or The Rolling Stones.’

  The chief nodded approvingly. ‘Have liking for young squaw here,’ he said. ‘Know how to talk the toot.’

  ‘I have been practising,’ I said. ‘Hey, what do you mean, “squaw”?’

  ‘What news of Count Otto Black?’ asked Mr Rune.

  ‘Him plenty mad. Scout report see him drive round and round Whitehawk each day ’til evil black car run out of petrol. Then rant and rave. Then storm off towards Kemptown. Scouts follow but then lose him each time. He enter timber house, then timber house sink into ground and he gone.’

  ‘The Bevendean Bathyscaphe,’ I said.

  ‘Damn tootin’,’ said the chief. ‘And now,’ and he grinned up at Mr Rune, ‘need help from Great White Brother, in exchange for satisfying Great White Brother’s voracious appetite for almost a month now.’

  ‘Almost a month?’ I said.

  ‘You did have a very long sleep,’ said Mr Rune. ‘You needed to get your energy back. It would have been a shame to wake you.’

  ‘Ludicrous!’ I said. ‘And what of the headline in this morning’s Leader?’

  ‘All right,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I did it for the sake of continuity. We deal with one case a month. We had to get rid of the rest of November. And anyway, if you had bothered to look properly, you would have observed that that newspaper is almost a month old.

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

  ‘Young squaw been overdoing firewater?’ asked the chief.

  ‘I am still half-gone from the peyote flakes,’ I said. ‘I have to concentrate really hard to stop you changing into a spaniel. And stop calling me a squaw – I am a brave.’

  ‘Enough toot for now,’ said the chief. And to Mr Rune, ‘Big mystery baffle chief and braves, even medicine man not know what to do. I call in on him where he work in pharmacy in Boots and he say him only able to prescribe aspirin. Aspirin not much help to battle demon.’

  ‘Demon?’ said Mr Rune. ‘What of this?’

  ‘Demon plague tepee of Chief,’ said the chief. ‘Not mention it to Great White Brother before because embarrassing, but as Great White Brother stuff face endlessly with Chief’s grub, and always boast know every damn thing, Chief now request that Great White Brother put money where mouth is and trounce demon.’

  ‘As indeed I will,’ said Mr Rune. ‘What is the nature of this demonic manifestation?’

  ‘Man with head of bird.’ The chief did beakish mimings. ‘Big beak hooter and smell like buffalo’s backside. Him ride upon motor scooter, wear parka with fun-fur trim on hood and word “VESPERADO” in studs on back. Many lights on front of scooter, many mirrors, too.’

  ‘That is no demon,’ I said. ‘That is a Mod.’

  ‘Young brave with girlie hair know this “Mod”?’ asked the chief.

  ‘I have not got girlie hair,’ I said. Although I had slept for a month and my hair was getting pretty good at the back now. ‘But I do not understand – why does a Mod on a scooter bother you so much? You could always just shoot his tyres with an arrow, or something.’

  ‘You not understand,’ said Chief Whitehawk. ‘Arrows pass through demon and scooter, as if him moving interdimensionally, possibly employing some technology creating time/space interface, most likely through transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter. Although that only supposition as Chief don’t know jack about science.’

  ‘Clearly not,’ said I. ‘So what does he get up to, then, this demonic Mod on his transperambulating Vespa?’

  ‘Him come into tepee. Use Chief’s kitchen. Use labour-saving devices and contents of Chief’s Frigidaire 2000 Series fridge-freezer with built-in ice-cube dispenser. Also Chief’s spice wheel, use up all fe
nugreek last week, preparing ragout of spaniel with Hollandaise sauce, a dish Chief never seen before. Chief take note and write down recipe. But that not the point.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ I said. ‘And have you ever tried to speak to him?’

  ‘Why young brave with squaw-cut ask all questions?’ asked the chief. ‘Great White Brother should ask questions. Organ-grinder speak, not monkey.’

  ‘Steady on,’ I said.

  ‘There, him speak again. Silence loquaciousness with tomahawk if say more.’

  ‘But …’ But I said no more.

  ‘It’s an interesting conundrum,’ said Mr Rune, ‘When he does the cooking, does he still wear his decorated parka?’

  ‘No, him take off parka. And bird’s head. Put on chef outfit. Oh, and him swear a lot. Swear all time, in fact. Many bad words which Chief no like.’

  ‘This is bonkers,’ I almost said. But I did not.

  ‘One question,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Is he always alone?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the chief. ‘Forget to mention: him never alone. Have kitchen staff with him. He swear at them. And diners, too. All this—’ the chief made expansive gesturings ‘—all this change, become like restaurant. Many tables and chairs. Nice white tablecloths on tables. Irish linen. Only come from Harrods, such tablecloths. And diners dine and Chief stride amongst them, striking at them. But they not see or hear Chief, nor feel Chief’s blows. As if Chief not exist. Most exasperating.’

  ‘How have I never seen this?’ asked Mr Rune.

  ‘Great White Brother always turn in early after mighty feastings. That reason him no see. But Chief cheesed off with it now.’

  ‘And well might you be, Chief. Now, Rizla,’ Mr Rune said to me, ‘your observations on this.’

  ‘You will not let him hit me with his tomahawk?’

  Mr Rune rolled his eyes. ‘Your observations,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if the Chief can see these people, but he cannot touch them, they must be ghosts, surely. Was this tepee built upon an ancient restaurant mound or something?’

  ‘Very good, Rizla, but about as far off the mark as it is possible to be.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘You have drawn some conclusion of your own, then?’

  ‘Only the most very obvious. We shall sit up tonight and view this phenomenon for ourselves.’

  ‘I think I am up for that,’ I said. ‘It might be weeks before I need another sleep.’

  At seven of the evening clock, Mr Rune sent the chief and his braves off to the pub and he and I settled down to wait.

  ‘You would not care to give me a clue, would you?’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘Or is it something that I should have read in The Book of Ultimate Truths, so you are not going to tell me out of spite?’

  ‘Hugo Rune is never spiteful,’ said he. ‘Hugo Rune is a gentleman. And a gentleman puts kindness above all else.’

  ‘So will you give me a clue?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Rune, but kindly. ‘Fear not. Observe and then present me with your own conclusions.’

  I shrugged and we waited and presently we heard the approaching engine noises of a Vespa motor scooter, which rather put the wind up me. And then its rider entered the tepee without first opening the flap. Which put the wind up me somewhat further. He took off his helmet and parka and entered the kitchen area. And others followed him and began worrying at saucepans and gratin dishes and labour-saving devices. And then the diners appeared and suddenly there were tables and chairs for them to sit at and on. And I viewed this and shivered a little and shook my head a lot. And feared that if this was indeed a ghost’s restaurant, then there was always the chance that Norris Styver might have escaped from Lewes and might just turn up here in search of a snack.

  Seemingly oblivious to all fear, Mr Rune played ‘Eat Your Greens Up, Sonny Boy’* upon his reinvented ocarina.

  When the ghostly diners were all seated, a ghostly waiter moved amongst them taking orders and conveying them to the kitchen area where the Vesperado chef shouted swearing words at his kitchen staff and the cooking began.

  And the dishes that the staff prepared were wonderful. But the chef took exception to each and every one of them. He bawled abuse and stamped his feet and carried on in a most ungentlemanly manner.

  If I had been working for him, I would have punched him. In fact, so disgusted was I by his behaviour that I got up from where I was sitting and took a swing at him on behalf of his staff. But my fist sailed through him as if he was not there. And he went on shouting and swearing, oblivious.

  And the diners seemed little better than the chef. When their marvellous food was served up before them, they sniffed at it and pecked at it and raised their noses haughtily. A right snotty bunch were they.

  ‘What a crowd of ingrates,’ I said to Mr Rune.

  ‘Do you recognise any of them?’ he asked.

  I gave them a good looking-over. ‘I do,’ I said. ‘Surely that is that chap off Blue Peter, the one who was sacked because of the cocaine-fuelled lady-sheep incident. And that is the sports-commentator fellow who recently lost his job over a cocaine-fuelled lady-boy incident. And that is—’

  ‘You do know these people?’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘I have read about them,’ I said, ‘in the society pages of the Argus. That’s Brighton’s mayor, Terry Garoghan. And that fellow there. And that woman with the preposterous breasts. They all live here in Brighton. They are all past-their-sell-by-date B-list celebrities. Except for Terry, he’s okay. There is something about them that is not quite right, but they cannot be ghosts, because they are not dead.’

  ‘And if not ghosts, then what?’

  ‘You know, do you not?’ I said.

  ‘I fear that I do,’ said Mr Rune, ‘and I fear for what will shortly occur.’

  ‘Is something going to happen? Should we run away?’ My hands began to flap. And I tried very hard to control them.

  ‘Remain calm,’ said Mr Rune. And I tried very hard to do so.

  A portly fellow now entered the ethereal restaurant. He was big and he was broad, with a most commanding presence. He apologised to the waiter for his late arrival, claiming that he had encountered transportation difficulties, and was escorted at once to his table. The best in the restaurant.

  I looked on and my jaw hung slack.

  I looked up at Mr Rune and his did, also.

  ‘Mister Rune,’ I said to him, when I could find my voice, ‘do you see what I think I see? Do you see who has just entered this ghostly restaurant?’

  Mr Hugo Rune nodded slowly. ‘It is me,’ he said.

  PART III

  The ghostly Mr Rune sat himself down and ordered a bottle of bubbly. His instructions were brief but explicit: ‘The best you have,’ said he.

  I looked on and the real Mr Rune looked on also.

  ‘It is you,’ I said. ‘Nice suit. Unusual style, though.’

  ‘Cease, please, Rizla,’ said Mr Rune.

  The ghostly Mr Rune perused the menu. In the kitchen, the ghostly chef shouted at his staff.

  ‘Let us take ourselves over,’ said Mr Rune to me, ‘to where I apparently am sitting. Let us overhear what there is to be overheard.’

  The ghostly Mr Rune did further perusals of his ghostly menu. The waiter returned to him in the company of the champagne, which he uncorked and poured. The ghostly Mr Rune did tasting and said, ‘It will have to do,’ and then ordered everything upon the menu.

  ‘What odds he finds a rat-bone in his dessert?’ I asked the Mr Rune with whom I was standing.

  This Mr Rune hushed me into silence and viewed his ghostly doppelgänger.

  A curious buzzing came from this fellow and he reached into an inside pocket and drew out a small plastic something with buttons upon it, pressed one of these then pressed the plastic something to his ear. ‘Rune,’ said he.

  ‘It is a phone,’ I said. ‘A tiny little phone without wires.’

  ‘A mobile phone,’ said the real Mr Rune.

&
nbsp; ‘But they have not been invented yet.’

  Mr Rune looked at me.

  And I looked at Mr Rune.

  ‘The future,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly. These apparitions are not ghosts from the past. We are witnessing a future event.’

  ‘But how?’ I asked, thoroughly puzzled.

  Mr Rune raised his hand and we listened as the future Mr Rune spoke into his mobile phone. ‘Count Otto,’ said he. ‘What news? Yes, I see, our contacts in Hollywood have taken up the film rights. That’s splendid news. They don’t like the name, though. Don’t want to call it The Brightonomicon. Sorry, you’re breaking up there. No, yes, I heard you. Call it what? Well, that’s a very foolish name, but I suppose these fellows know their own business best. Although I do recall an evening I spent with Alfred Hitchcock. He was discussing this movie he had in mind, wanted to call it The Cross-Dressing Mother-Loving Motel-Shower-Slasher. I suggested something simpler.

  ‘But, what? A twelve-movie deal based on the cases, with Elijah Wood playing Rizla and Ian McKellen playing me? And who will be playing you? Gary Oldman. Good choice. Well, go ahead and clinch the deal. I’ll see you back here in a week. Call me, we’ll do lunch at Groucho’s.’

  I looked at the real Mr Rune.

  And he once more looked at me.

  ‘One of the things I have liked about all this stuff,’ I said, ‘is that I have never been able to figure out what will happen next. And then when it does happen, it is never less than interesting.’

  ‘This must not come to pass,’ said Mr Rune. ‘This must not be allowed to come to pass.’

  ‘What year is it?’ I asked. ‘Who is the president?’

  ‘Rizla, I will strike you with my stick.’

  I became somewhat emboldened, although I know not why. ‘If this is the future,’ I said, ‘then it is all your fault. I remember well enough that business at Eat Your Food Nude, all those rock stars who have to die aged twenty-seven. You showed me a glimpse of what would happen if they do not die at the appointed time. And now you are being shown a glimpse of your future. I will bet it is because you have not destroyed the Chronovision. This is what is going to happen because of that. You are going to end up as the partner of Count Otto Black.’