The Brightonomicon

by Robert Rankin

  ‘This can never be allowed to happen,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Well, in my humble opinion, there is one way to stop it: smash up the Chronovision and all this will vanish away. Chief Whitehawk will be impressed. He will probably lay on a big belly-buster for tomorrow’s breakfast. Although whether it will be on the scale of that, I could not say.’

  And I pointed towards the starter courses that the future Mr Rune was being served. There were many of them and they were big with it.

  ‘I cannot destroy the Chronovision yet,’ said the Mr Rune who was with me in the present. ‘I wish that I could, but I cannot.’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘somehow, someone or something has afforded us this glimpse of the future. It is not some accident that it should happen here and now. It is to show you what is going to happen if you do not take the appropriate steps to stop it happening. Best heed it,’ I said. ‘Smash up the Chronovision.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Mr Rune once again, ‘not until all the cases have been solved. Two remain on the zodiac – the Wiseman of Withdean and the Coldean Cat.’

  ‘That is ridiculous,’ I said.

  And the future Mr Rune got stuck into his starters.

  ‘As Count Otto Black works on behalf of a God who moves between the seconds of time, so do I work on behalf of another. I cannot destroy the Chronovision until I have encountered the Earthly manifestation of my God. I must meet the Wiseman of Withdean, Rizla.’

  ‘Which is why our quest is not yet at an end?’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Well, I wish you would not keep springing stuff upon me. Oh, look, your future self is already finishing that bottle of champagne.’

  Mr Rune glanced at the label on the bottle. ‘I really do let my standards slip,’ said he. ‘The present myself would never drink that.’

  ‘So, having seen this future self of yours, what do you intend to do now?’

  ‘Leave,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Leave at once.’

  And that is what we did.

  11

  The Wiseman of Withdean

  The Wiseman of Withdean

  PART I

  It was January and it was cold and it was not fun any more.

  Mr Rune had acquired rooms for us in a street in Hove called St Aubyns. The rooms were those of a basement flat. An unfurnished basement flat. Exactly how Mr Rune acquired these rooms I am not certain. He had me take down the ‘To Let’ sign outside and ‘dispose of it discreetly’. He also had me gain entry by means of a crowbar through the kitchen window at the rear, there being some talk of ‘keys being lost’ and ‘locks that would have to be changed’.

  I really hated those rooms in Hove. They were dark, dire and dank, and I tell you they stank, and the central heating was broken. I was all for us taking our chances back at forty-nine Grand Parade, but Mr Rune would have none of that. And one night, as by the light of a stuttering candle I stuffed crushed newspapers up my trousers for insulation, I chanced to discover the reason why: forty-nine Grand Parade had been burned to the ground.

  It was arson, the police claimed, probably an attempt at insurance fraud. And there was an Identikit picture of the likely suspect. And the likely suspect was me.

  I curled up in that position favoured by the soon-to-be-born, stuck my thumb into my mouth and fretted.

  I was a wanted man. And I was hiding out in this ghastly basement. My spiffing coat with the Astrakhan collar was severely scuffed from all the sleeping on the floor and I was very hungry indeed. I began to wonder whether things might be better for me if I simply walked into Brighton nick and handed myself over to Inspector Hector.

  ‘Don’t even think about such an option,’ came the voice of Mr Rune from the darkened corner nearest to the door. ‘We must face such vicissitudes with stoicism. Matters will shortly adjust themselves.’

  ‘To our favour?’ I asked. ‘For they surely cannot get any worse.’

  ‘And it’s rude to talk with your thumb in your mouth.’

  I huddled down and made bitter grumblings.

  Moonlight shone in through the uncurtained windows and lit upon the Chronovision standing by the fireplace, propped up on a beer crate and plugged into the wall.

  I so dearly wanted to smash that thing to pieces. But of course, before I did so, tune it to myself. I had asked Mr Rune again and again concerning this, but his refusals had been absolute. He had, however, allowed me to view certain images on the screen.

  At first, when I saw the crackling black and white pictures, I felt certain that he had tuned to some television station that I had never heard of, which showed old newsreel footage all day, perhaps being beamed to us from the future, where there might be all manner of TV channels like that. In fact, there might even be channels that showed nudie films and Japanese game shows where contestants were tortured in the name of entertainment. Although such things as those were probably too much to hope for. But, I felt certain, I was not really viewing the past.

  I watched footage of Hitler making speeches at Nuremberg, and I swear that as the camera panned across his cronies in the background, I spied Mr Rune chatting up Goebbels’s wife.

  And I watched the coronation of Edward VII in 1901. And there was Mr Rune also, in a front seat in Westminster Abbey, accompanying the organ on his reinvented ocarina.

  But then, as the images became more distant in time, I knew that this Chronovision was the real McCoy.

  And when I watched the opening of the Great Exhibition of 1851 with Mr Rune leading her Majesty Queen Victoria (Gawd bless Her) through the exhibits and introducing her to Charles Babbage, ‘the Father of Computers’, I was amazed beyond all reasonable amazement.

  Mr Rune fiddled with the dials and I viewed Victorian London. And it was not how we were told it was in the history books. There was technology then that we do not possess now. Slim metal towers topped by spheres of steel rose to all points of the great metropolis, transmitting electricity upon radio waves. Electricity without wires. And there were flying hansom cabs and gentlemen’s landaus. And great turbine-driven airships that carried thousands of British troops. And the British Empire ruled almost all of the world.

  We watched the abortive launch of the 1891 Moonship, sabotaged, said Mr Rune, by Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man, who was really a human/alien hybrid, the alien part being Martian.

  I have to say that when I watched it all, I said to Mr Rune that if someone put it all together, they would have the makings of a half-decent novel, possibly in a genre called ‘far-fetched fiction’. Mr Rune replied that such a book would one day be written, but that I would not be its author.

  And backwards through time Mr Rune tuned that Chronovision, that window on past events. And I watched Victorian music-hall performances, battles and coronations, the Great Fire of London, Shakespeare directing his plays, with a little help from Mr Rune. Columbus setting sail.

  And upon the first Sunday in December, Mr Rune allowed me to watch the crucifixion of Christ.

  I have never in my life seen anything so brutal. It made me weep to watch it, I can tell you, and the nobility of the man being tortured to death on that cross will stay in my mind for ever. Whether he was really the Son of God, I could not have said then. I had never given religion too much thought, apart from the Eastern Schools, that is, because I had always fancied becoming a lama and doing all that magical stuff – levitation and leaving your body and seeing folks’ auras and suchlike.

  I read a lot of Doctor Strange comics back in those days. When I was not reading Lazlo Woodbine.

  I do not want to dwell much on the Crucifixion. It makes the hairs stand up on my arms just to think about it. And it makes my arms start to flap somewhat, too. Which is a habit I have long been trying to curtail.

  And so I lay there in the light of the moon and the stuttering candle and hated and feared and was in awe of that Chronovision. And curled up in my soiled coat, my trousers stuffed with newssheets, I spent another uncomfortable night on the floor in
our rooms in Hove.

  And when daytime appeared, offering us sunlight but naught in the way of warmth, Mr Rune stretched and rose and straightened his cravat and said, ‘Let us go and take breakfast.’

  We took our breakfast, as ever we did of late, in Georgio’s Bistro in George Street. It was an ex-Wimpy bar, now in private hands, run by a family of Italians who were straight from Central Casting.

  There was Mama and Papa and Mario and Luigi. And they all worked together in their Hellish kitchen, but unlike chefs of a future time they did not swear at all. They sang. Songs about pasta and Peroni beer, Ferraris and football, lino and loft insulation.

  Now, it has to be said that I did not care at all for going out for breakfast. Do not get me wrong here – Georgio’s put on a decent spread at a price that was fair and bunged in an extra cuppa for free. The reason I did not like going there was the reason I did not like going anywhere. And that reason, I regret to say, was because of my disguise.

  Well, I could not just walk abroad upon the streets of Brighton, could I? There were ‘wanted’ posters up everywhere and my face was upon them. I had suggested to Mr Rune that I don a tweed jacket and a trilby hat, as Laz had done when he sought to disguise himself. With the trilby and tweeds, he always managed to pass for a newspaper reporter. In Headless Dames Don’t Give Any (A Lazlo Woodbine Thriller), even his own mother failed to recognise him.

  Mr Rune, however, pooh-poohed my suggestion. He had a better idea. And so I was dragged-up. And by this, I do not mean that I had a bad childhood. Make-up was applied to my face and, what with my ‘girlie hair’, Mr Rune felt convinced that I could pass for his daughter any day of the week. With the possible exception of Tuesday, of course.

  And so I walked the streets of Hove in high heels and a mini-skirt – which is nippy in the winter, I can tell you, receiving many a curious glance and many a curious offer too from strange old men in raincoats who took me for a Bangkok lady-boy.

  But, fair play to Mr Rune, the beat bobbies of Brighton nick did not recognise me, even when we passed them closely by. The ‘first constable’, whom we had encountered before the tea-weeping statue of Queen Victoria during the case of the Lansdowne Lioness, even chatted me up and offered to show me his truncheon.

  ‘Oooh, Matron,’ said a passing lady in a straw hat, whom I took for a moment to be a dragged-up Fangio. But sadly, was not.

  ‘Two Big Boy’s Breakfasts,’ said Mr Rune to Mario. ‘No, make that three, if you would be so kind. I have a hunger on me this morning that can only be quenched by a full English.’

  Mario did not say, ‘Oooh Matron,’ but Mario rarely said anything. When he did say anything, it was to me and he whispered in words of Italian.

  ‘We might be forced to take breakfast elsewhere quite soon,’ said Mr Rune to me when Mario had departed, singing a song about Formica. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can put off the engagement.’

  ‘Engagement?’ I asked. ‘What engagement?’

  ‘Yours to Mario,’ said Mr Rune. ‘He asked me for your hand in marriage the first time we came here. Naturally I agreed, in return for free breakfasts.’

  ‘You granted him my hand in marriage?’ I said. ‘I am appalled.’

  Hugo Rune shrugged.

  ‘I do not want to marry a waiter,’ I said. ‘I want to marry a doctor, or a solicitor, or an architect.’

  ‘Most amusing,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Have you seen this?’ And he cast me the morning edition of the Leader.

  EARTHQUAKES IN BRIGHTON

  ran the banner headline. And beneath this much purple prose regarding rumblings beneath the streets and houses tumbling down.

  ‘Count Otto Black,’ said I, ‘and his nuclear-powered subterranean Ark.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Mr Rune, ‘but I meant the article beneath it.’

  So I read the article beneath it.

  ROCK NIGHT

  BRIGHTON ROCK

  At Hove Town Hall

  If heavy makes you happy, then

  Hove Town Hall is the new rock

  venue to be at.

  Tonight 10 p.m. – 2 a.m.

  Have hair? Be there. Rock on.

  ‘Heavy?’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘What is this heavy that makes you happy?’

  ‘Heavy metal—’ said Hugo Rune, ‘it’s in its infancy. But when the bass line blasts from the Marshall stack and turns your guts to jelly, you just have to up and bang your head.’

  ‘Bang your head?’

  ‘It’s a dance.’ And Mr Rune demonstrated this dance, which appeared to consist of rhythmic duckings of the head accompanied by the playing of an imaginary guitar.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘I recall now that I have read all about heavy metal in the Leader. Are you telling me that you actually like heavy metal?’

  ‘Dear boy,’ said Mr Rune, ‘I invented heavy metal.’

  I shook my head, but as breakfast arrived I smiled at Mario and fluttered my false eyelashes. Just for the Hell of it.

  ‘I cooka yours justa da way you lika it,’ said Mario, which is how Italians speak. ‘I give you da-bigga-da-sausage. I give you da-bigga-da-sausage anya tima you please.’

  I fluttered my lashes and rolled my eyes and Mario departed.

  ‘You invented heavy metal?’ I said once more to Mr Rune.

  ‘Where do you really think that Robert Johnson got his chord sequences from? He didn’t sell his soul to Satan, I told you that already.’

  ‘You taught Robert Johnson how to play?’

  ‘Forward planning,’ said Mr Rune. ‘For this evening.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said I, tucking into the biggest sausage I had ever seen, ‘but I do have to insist that you explain to me now and not later. It is always such a cop-out when you explain later.’

  ‘We are nearly at the end of our quest,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Oh, look.’ And he pointed beyond my shoulder with his fork. ‘Zulus, thousands of them.’

  I turned not my head, nor even batted an eyelash.

  ‘This is my da-bigga-da-sausage,’ I said, ‘and I am going to eat it.’

  Mr Rune’s hovering fork returned to his own breakfasting plate. ‘Forward planning,’ he said once more. ‘Forward planning will always hold the advantage over a hastily conceived stratagem. Allow me to offer you an example of this.’ And Mr Rune leaned back in his chair and grinned at me.

  I leaned back in mine and did likewise.

  And the leg of my chair buckled and I fell heavily to the floor. And would you not know it, by the time I had managed to scramble up and find myself another chair, Mr Rune had eaten my da-bigga-da-sausage.

  ‘Forward planning, you see,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I knew that chair had a dodgy leg, which is why I sat you there.’

  ‘You thorough-going swine,’ I said, but I did have to smile when I said it. ‘So, all right, you won da-bigga-da-sausage, but please explain about this forward planning when it comes to the field of heavy metal.’

  ‘I gave Robert Johnson the formula,’ said Mr Rune, ‘the chord sequences that later musicians would recognise to be the chord sequences. All rock music is based upon those chord sequences. This event—’ And Mr Rune pointed to the Rock Night advert in the Leader ‘—could not have occurred had heavy-metal music not come to pass. It also required the invention of the Stratocaster and the Marshall stack. Naturally I had a hand in these also.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I said, shovelling egg down my throat.

  ‘So that this event would come to pass, here in Hove tonight.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. Which was a reasonable question.

  ‘Because I have to meet and speak with Him. And He will be present at the event.’

  ‘Why will this He be there?’ I asked.

  ‘Because He is a heavy-metal fan.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘But who is He?’

  Mr Rune mopped up the grease from his plate with his toast and then downed the toast. ‘He,’ said Mr Rune, ‘is the Wiseman of Withdean. The last in His line. He is a dir
ect descendant – the last direct descendant – of the man you saw upon the Chronovision.’

  ‘Little Tich?’ I said. ‘I did like his Big-Boot Dance.’

  ‘Not Little Tich,’ said Mr Rune, and his non-food-stuffing hand moved to the stout stick that lay across his lap.

  ‘Only joking,’ I said. ‘Then whom?’

  ‘He is the last direct descendant of Jesus Christ.’

  I was very glad that I did not have da-bigga-da-sausage in my mouth at that moment, for surely I would have coughed it all over Hugo Rune.

  ‘The last direct descendant of Jesus Christ?’ I managed to say.

  ‘Christ did not die upon the cross,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Me and the other disciples could not bear for that to happen. Matthew bribed Pilate to have Christ taken down before he died, although he feigned death and word was put about that he was dead. He was tended to and returned to health and smuggled out of the Holy Lands by Joseph of Aromatherapy. He was brought to England, to Brighton, in fact, and from thence to a London borough known as Brentford.’

  ‘Brentford?’ I said. ‘That rings a bell somewhere.’

  ‘Brentford is the site where the biblical Garden of Eden was located.’

  ‘That I do not believe,’ was my reply to that.

  ‘Flutter your eyelids some more,’ said Mr Rune, ‘and enquire of Mario regarding that third breakfast.’

  I did as I was bid and then returned to our conversation. ‘The Garden of Eden was in England?’ I said.

  ‘Many believe that all biblical events occurred in England,’ said Mr Rune, ‘but they didn’t, only those of the Old Testament. Christ married a Brentford lass. He eventually died and was buried there in the borough. I own a house on The Butts Estate in Brentford. The body of Christ lies in a catacomb beneath it, uncorrupted by the ages.’

  ‘And Christ fathered children?’ I said.

  ‘Only one,’ said Mr Rune. ‘A boy. Colin.’

  ‘Colin?’ And I took the opportunity to roll my eyes once again.