Now this was the first I had heard of Mr Rune possessing a workshop. The concept of such a thing seemed to me absurd. The term ‘Hugo Rune’s workshop’, an oxymoron. Here was a man who ordered the best and expected to have the best delivered to his door. And would possibly one day pay for this best, but probably not in this lifetime. But own a workshop? People did work in a workshop! Hugo Rune?
‘Stop it, Rizla!’ cried Hugo Rune, raising a fist to his temple. ‘I can tell what you are thinking. I said that I owned a workshop. I did not say that I ever did work in my workshop.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It would certainly have played havoc with your image, as far as I am concerned,’ I said.
‘Just follow me,’ said Hugo Rune.
And follow him I did.
He led me to the St Mary’s allotments, where Brentford’s horticulturalists worked their special magic. It was not somewhere that I regularly visited, although as a child I had caused my fair share of havoc amongst beanpoles and water butts. And yes, it looked just the same.
With just one notable difference.
There was a great big hut in the centre of the allotments, a very well-constructed, indeed formidable-looking hut. All corrugated iron and steely rivets.
Hugo Rune was once more at his watch chain, where he selected yet another key and unlocked a mighty padlock. And then he turned to me and said—
‘Rizla, I know that I can trust you and so I do not need to impress upon you that you must never speak of what you are about to see. It is my secret. And it will be your secret also. Do you understand this?’
‘I do,’ I said and I nodded my head.
‘And do you swear never to divulge what you see?’
‘Not even in the pages of a book that I might pen sometime in the far future?’ I asked.
‘Other than for those.’
‘I swear,’ I said. And I saw it wet and I saw it dry once more.
‘Then follow me once more.’
Hugo Rune swung open the door and led me into darkness. He shut and bolted this door behind us, bringing on greater black. Then I heard the clicking of a switch, light welled and I became aware that we were travelling downwards. As in a lift descending into the very bowels of the Earth. And I do not make this statement lightly, because we were travelling down and down and down.
My ears began to pop and Hugo Rune offered me a boiled sweet to suck, which certainly took the edge off.
And down and down we went and down and down some more.
‘It is very very deep down, your workshop,’ I said.
But Hugo Rune said nothing.
Presently the lift halted and we had reached our destination. There was a door before us and the Magus slid this open.
I stared into what lay beyond.
And then I all but fainted.
27
I stood as if within a vast cathedral. A climbing triumph of High Gothic. The columns contained cloisonné coffering in the champlevé style. Sheltered cameo-crusted capitals supported a calotte which rivalled that of the basilica of João de Castilho. But for the subtle differences of the Diocletian diaper work. And the bas-reliefs of booger men and banjos.
‘What is this place?’ I managed, in a strangled kind of voice.
‘Come, Rizla,’ Mr Rune said, kindly. ‘Surely you recall this style of architecture. We are in one of the Forbidden Zones5, those hidden areas that are not to be found upon any map, where all that is “lost” or “missing” is ultimately to be found. You see, it all began when—’
‘Yes,’ I said and I nodded as I said it. ‘I do remember. We discovered the Chronovision within such a cavern as this, beneath the streets of Brighton.’
‘And I have appropriated this one for myself,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Requisitioned it, as it were, for our old friend the War Effort.’
I gazed all around and about, my jaw hanging slack in awe. There were many tables, or workbenches, dwindling into the distance, and upon these rested many outré items.
Complicated contrivances, wrought from burnished brass, heavy on the cogwheels and ball-governors. Constructions resembling the interiors of mighty clocks, clicking and clacking as wheels slowly turned and curious business was done.
‘What are all these mind-boggling things?’ I asked of Hugo Rune.
The Magus, stepping to a bench, toyed with an intricate engine. ‘Many are inexplicable conundra,’ he said, ‘built from plans discovered in the lost notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci. Others once belonged to Cagliostro and the Count of St Germain, who designed them for the improvement of diamonds. Over there, the wheel of Orffyeus, a perpetual motion device that has been turning at precisely twenty-three revolutions per minute for more than three hundred years.’
I shook my head at the wonder of it all. ‘And all these marvels belong to you?’ I said.
And Hugo Rune did noddings of the head.
‘Then why not give them to the world? Or sell them, if you prefer. An ever-spinning wheel could replace the internal-combustion engine. Such miracles as these could change the world.’
But now the sage did shakings of the head. And sad they were, the shakings that he did.
‘Alas no,’ said he. ‘Such wonders as these must never find their way to the world above. As with the Chronovision, only evil would come of it.’
‘That cannot be true,’ I said. ‘You are just being selfish.’ And even as I spoke those words, I wished I had not done so.
‘No, Rizla, no,’ cried Hugo Rune. ‘You fail to understand. These machines confound all scientific principles. Here, see this, for this is what we’ve come for.’ And he drew my attention to a disc of dull metal about the size of a manhole cover that lay on a nearby table and upon which there rested several house bricks.
‘A pile of bricks, on a metal disc,’ I remarked. ‘Perhaps one of the less-impressive items to be found in this hall of dreams.’
‘You think so?’ And Hugo Rune flung aside bricks and hoiked up the disc of dull metal.
It was a half-decent hoik and what followed it had my heart rate increasing and my throat turning dry.
He literally balanced that disc of dull metal upon a single finger and then released it into the air.
But it did not fall; it yet remained there, all still and a-hover, defying the law of gravity.
‘Wow,’ I said, when I could say it. ‘What in the Underworld is that?’
‘That is Gravitite, young Rizla, created by a certain Professor Kaleton. It does not wholly defy the law of gravity. It is actually falling, but only by an inch or two a year.’
‘Now that would certainly help the War Effort,’ I said. ‘And do not go telling me at all that it would not.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘In fact, it will be helping the War Effort this very night. It with the help of you.’
And there was something in the way that he said that which I found unappealing, and when he explained to me exactly what he expected me to do, I—
‘No!’ I said. ‘I could never to that.’
‘But with training, young Rizla, right here, under my supervision, there is no telling what you might be capable of.’
‘But I might die.’
‘This is a possibility. But if I were a betting man I would say that it was a long shot. At most you might expect some injuries and a degree of hospitalisation.’
‘Then no once more,’ I said. ‘I will not do it.’
‘Why not give it a little go now? You never know, you might like it.’
I shook my head. And then I ceased with this shaking. Because, after all, what was being offered to me was every schoolboy’s dream. Well, every schoolboy’s dream after the one about being able to turn invisible at will and sneak into ladies’ bedrooms.
This dream was the other dream. The one about being able to fly. ‘You are saying to me,’ I said to Hugo Rune, ‘that the disc of dull metal floating there can support my weight and that on it I would be able to fly through the sky?’
‘The Silver SurferTM,’ I said, and I did that whistling thing that I did in moments such as these.
‘You would surf through the clouds, Rizla. Imagine that.’
And I could imagine that. Because I had certainly dreamed about that.
‘How do you work it?’ I enquired, in a sheepish fashion.
‘It is simplicity itself,’ the Magus explained. ‘Here, let me demonstrate. ’ And he shinnied up onto the table and climbed aboard the disc. And it simply hovered there, bearing his weight and defying more laws of gravity and suchlike than I dared think about.
‘Angle it up at the front and it will rise, down and it will lower, same to swing right or left, a little pressure here, a little pressure there. Lean forwards to make it move forwards, back to make it move back.’
And then he took it up for a spin. Up into the very cathedral-like dome of this subterranean phantasmagoria. And there he performed loop-the-loops and victory rolls and emergency stops and roller-coaster mimickings.
And to say that I was impressed would be—
‘Let me have a go!’ I shouted. ‘Let me have a go!’
And yes, all right, there were moments when I surely might have died. And I came near to many a tumble and many a horrid crash. But during the next couple of hours I steered that magical disc through the air of that underground fastness. And really became most adept.
Hugo Rune made free with mighty clappings and seemed to be in the very best of spirits. ‘Bravo, Rizla,’ he called to me. Again and again and again.
I do have to say that it took considerable persistence on his part to lure me down to the flagstones. I think I must have become convinced that the sky was really my natural habitat. I was enjoying myself so much.
‘So now what say you?’ asked Hugo Rune. ‘Do you think you are up to the challenge?’
‘I certainly am,’ I said. And I am sorry, but I did that nail-buffing thing.
‘Then we must make our plans. I want no harm to come to you and there are certainly dangers ahead. I will explain all and you will listen. What say you to this?’
Well, I did not really say anything much.
I just nodded my head.
28
It was somewhat later that we fell into dispute.
I never argued with Hugo Rune, because on those rare occasions when the mighty force of his intellect did not flatten all opposition, the similarly mighty force of this stout stick would find itself brought into play.
But I really did think that I had a point this time and I was prepared to argue about it.
‘I do not care what you say,’ I said. ‘I think I should have one and that is all there is to it.’
‘And I think that you shouldn’t!’ roared Himself, and his deep voice boomed all around and about the high-domed roof.
‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘It is only fair. If I am going to behave like a superhero then I should be dressed like a superhero.’
‘You should be incognito. Unrecognisable. In high camouflage.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But that is the point. Most superheroes wear their costumes as a disguise, so that the rest of the world does not know who they are. I could wear these for a start.’ And I took up a pair of goggles.
‘No, don’t look through those,’ cried Mr Rune.
But I had and I went, ‘Wow!’
Followed by, ‘X-Ray Specs!’ and, ‘I can see right through your clothes!’
And then, ‘Oh my goodness me,’ and I removed the X-Ray Specs and returned them to Mr Rune.
But I still thought that I should have a superhero costume and so finally we reached a sort of a compromise.
I was given another pair of goggles, a bright red fez, a polished breastplate from one of the many suits of armour that stood all around and about and a Sam Browne belt with several pouches attached to it, which I felt had a certain caped-crusader quality.
‘And I need a cloak,’ I said.
‘I am beginning to think that Mr Hartnel’s methods of child training hold to a certain merit,’ said the guru’s guru. But he took himself off to a distant cupboard, returning soon with a fine long black velvet cloak. And with that he also gave me a certain something that he assured me in whispered words would be essential to the success of my mission.
I togged up in all and said, ‘What do you think of me?’
And Hugo Rune stifled jocularity. ‘To paraphrase someone or other,’ he said, ‘if you scare the enemy as much as you scare me, then we’ll all be home in time for Jackanory.’
The lift went up and we went with it. Me in my superhero outfit, seated on the floating disc of metal. Mr Rune tapping his stout stick on the floor and checking his pocket watch.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I do not have a name. I cannot be a superhero if I do not have a name.’
‘How about Puppy Boy?’ asked Hugo Rune.
‘Certainly not!’ I said.
‘Badly Dressed Boy? The Flying ****Wit? The Masked Buffoon? The—’
‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘Do not be so unkind. You are the all-knowing one. You should know a good name to call me.’
There was a moment of silence then. Followed by Hugo Rune saying, ‘Well, Rizla, the wingéd chariot concept, being put about by the reporter of the local rag, was clearly designed to inspire. So why not something appropriately inspirational? I hereby name you Captain England.’
‘There is Captain America,’ I said.
‘All too generalised,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Let’s call you Captain Brentford.’
‘There is still Captain America,’ I said.
‘Then let us outrank him. How about Wing Commander Brentford? ’
‘That does not sound much like a superhero.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘We seem to have reached ground level. You’ll just have to be known as the Superhero Who Dare Not Speak His Name.’
‘Captain Brentford it is, then,’ I said. And I saluted.
‘Captain Brentford it is, then. Good boy, Rizla.’
It was now the evening and all around was dark. Very dark, as everywhere was blackout. The moon was scarcely a crescent, but the stars were shining down. I shivered and I raised my tweedy collar.
‘I think perhaps now,’ I said, ‘would be the time for you to outline your plan. I know it involves me flying up into the sky and engaging Count Otto Black in some kind of aerial combat, but so far I find myself short of a battle plan. This is not going to be a kamikaze mission, is it?’
‘I have assured you otherwise.’
‘You did hint at hospitalisation.’
‘Oh come come, Rizla.’ And Hugo Rune plucked a cigar from his case and inserted it into his mouth. ‘Don’t go getting all timid again. You have the certain something that I gave to you earlier?’
There had been a degree of secrecy regarding this certain something. A certain furtiveness had been involved in Mr Rune passing it to me and whispering into my ear.
‘I have it,’ I said. ‘Under my cloak.’
‘Then do with it as you should, when the moment presents itself.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘that is all well and good, but I do not see how—’
But Mr Rune did sssshings with his finger pressed to his lips and then this finger pointed to the sky. And I screwed up my eyes and did some peerings and also screwed my ears up and heard some sounds.
Sounds were these as of an aged motorbike. The coughing and spluttering of a four-stroke engine. And these sounds came not from a nearby road. These sounds issued from above.
‘It is him,’ I whispered. ‘He has returned.’
‘Prepare yourself, then, Captain Brentford.’
The stuttering, coughing motorbike sounds drew nearer and nearer and then we espied in the heavens a single headlight cleaving the darkness before it. And less than one hundred feet above we could make out the shape of a long gaunt figure astride an an
cient motorbike, which was attached to a similarly antiquated sidecar. And even though this figure was shrouded in darkness, there was absolutely no doubt in either Hugo Rune’s mind or my own that this was none other than the arch-enemy of my noble friend.
The evil Count Otto, it was he.
Hugo Rune lit his cigar and drew upon it deeply.
And then a voice called down from on high that fair put the wind up me.
‘Rune,’ called this unholy voice, for such a voice it was. ‘Rune, you plump scoundrel. Surely that is yourself I see there, lurking. Sucking on some cheap cigar that you conned from the local wide boy.’
Hugo Rune did wavings unto me and I understood the meanings of these wavings and converted these meanings into motions.
‘Black,’ called back the Magus. ‘What is that dilapidated contraption that you perch upon? You look like an organ-grinder’s monkey.’
‘State of the present art, my fat friend. And it has a trick or two up its technological sleeve. Here, have a taste of this.’
And Count Otto Black delved into his sidecar and then many small queer things rained down.
And great were the explosions all around and about the allotment. Old Pete’s shed took fire and many a sprout bed went to wrack and ruin. The laughter of Count Otto Black poured forth from up above. And I feared greatly for Himself.
‘You’ll have to do better than that, you pungent turd,’ called the voice of Hugo Rune. From somewhere now in hiding, but large and loud as life.
‘Just a tiny taste of what is to come, you porkie pie. The Reich’s terror weapon programme expands daily. Great are the advances made. Soon the whole world will cower before the power of the Führer.’
‘What is it with madmen and facial hair?’ called Hugo Rune in return. ‘That Nazi oaf with his bog-brush moustache and you with your verminous facial furnishings. Should I introduce you both to my barber? A wash and brush-up would certainly do the pair of you no harm.’
And down poured further ordnance and damned were many crops.
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