The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (20 page)

‘That is somewhat unlikely,’ I said, for such was my opinion.

‘Nevertheless, it is the case. I made the call myself, shortly before you awoke from your slumbers.’

‘But …’ I went. ‘All that trouble …’ I went.

‘I confess,’ said Mr Rune, ‘that I did not expect the police to act quite as promptly as they did. I had hoped to acquire my sample before they came blundering on to the scene. Still, the fracas was fun and I enjoyed striking down that woman in the straw hat.’

I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

‘Please don’t do that,’ said Mr Rune. ‘It makes you look like a dullard.’

We comfied ourselves upon one of the elegant Victorian benches that favour the prom. I drummed my fingers, trilled a bit, and twiddled my thumbs. Mr Rune, for his part, whistled a ditty on his reinvented ocarina, then clasped his hands across his belly and fell instantly asleep.

He awoke upon the stroke of twelve, which chimed from his pocket watch.

‘Up and at it, Rizla!’ he cried. ‘A walk around the gardens is the order of the day. I trust that you have arranged matters within the perambulator in the manner in which I instructed you.’

‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘I am an amanuensis.’

Mr Rune now rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘Then let’s go walkie round the gardens.’

‘Like a teddy bear?’

‘Just walk.’

I walked and he walked, but once more I pushed the pram. And as I did so, I did furtive things. Things as instructed by Mr Rune. Things that at least lightened my load. At length, we returned to the point from which we had begun, this being the seafront area before the shrouded statue.

‘Leave this area untainted,’ said Mr Rune. ‘It will then appear as an obvious exit. Here we will lie in wait. You have the matches?’

‘Five boxes, as you instructed.’

Rune nodded his Panama hatted head, then drew from an inner pocket a brass telescope and gazed out to sea.

‘I hate to do what I have to do,’ he said with a sigh, ‘but it is for the greater good. And yes, all appears to be in order, seawards.’

I looked up at Hugo Rune. ‘What
is
going to happen?’ I asked.

‘Something will come and we will defeat it.’

‘As simple as that?’

But Mr Rune did not reply.

We settled ourselves down to wait, although I still had no idea what we were waiting for. It had long gone midnight now and folk were few on the streets. There were no policemen on guard or patrol and only the occasional stumbling drunk or passing taxicab.

‘You should have brought a coat,’ said Mr Rune. ‘You look chilly.’

‘Actually, I am freezing now,’ I said, as I hugged at myself.

‘Yes.’ Hugo Rune nodded and drew a thermometer from his breast pocket. ‘Two degrees below freezing, as it happens.’

‘At
this
time of year?’

‘The evil will shortly be upon us.’

My teeth were chattering and my knees started to knock.

‘Prepare yourself, Rizla,’ whispered Mr Rune. ‘It comes.’

And I do have to say that it came with a fair degree of style.

There was a great gust of icy wind that tore at the statue’s tarpaulin and hurled it high into the air, shredding it to ribbons.

I peeped through the mesh of the steel security fence towards the statue and saw to my amazement that it was beginning to shake. And sounds came from its vicinity, curious metallic sounds as of heavy industry, faint at first, then rising to a terrible volume.

I clapped my hands across my ears. An arctic wind was blowing now and tears were swept from my eyes. The statue shook and then began to split. Dazzling light blazed from the fractures, beamed as searchlights from the eyes, sparkled like jewels in the crown.

And then the statue exploded into shrapnel. Mr Rune and I took to ducking as shards of flaming bronze passed over our heads like tracer bullets, spiralling into the night sky as lethal starburst fireworks. And then something truly awesome swam into view. It literally materialised, this truly awesome something. It squatted on the statue’s plinth and then rose to its terrible height.

At first I thought it to be some monstrous manlike creature, the very spawn of the Bottomless Pit, for it was all over black and fearsome and roared with the fires of Hell. But then through my trembling fingers I saw that this was no beast at all. Rather it was a robotic machine, some twenty feet in height, forged from steel and covered with hundreds of riveted scales. It was a work of hideous genius, all pistons and pinwheels. Twin chimneys rose from its armoured shoulders and from these belched the smoke and flames. Within the chest of it was a kind of armoured cockpit and within this sat a fellow working controls. He pulled at levers and turned at stopcocks and he grinned most evilly as he did these things.

And I knew the face of the man who worked those levers and turned those stopcocks. It was the face of the man who had called himself Orion. The face of the man who was Count Otto Black.

The Victorian robot, for such indeed it was, flexed its steely fingers and turned its head from side to side. The head wore a great brass devilish face and this gazed down upon us. The eyes were lenses set in silver mounts, which revolved and focused, and then the robot spoke.

‘Hugo Rune,’ came an amplified voice. ‘My nemesis of old.’

I was for running but my legs could scarcely carry my weight. I felt Mr Rune’s hand upon my shoulder and he cried, ‘Now employ your matches!’ into my ear.

My fingers fumbled. Found one of the matchboxes in my pocket. Drew it out and dropped it.

‘Fortitude, Rizla,’ commanded Mr Rune. ‘Hand me the matches, please.’

I did my bestest to oblige.

The robot, rather than seeking to destroy us, was turning away instead.

‘Hurry now,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I don’t want him escaping to some prearranged bolthole.’

I was all confusion, but I managed to thrust a box of matches into the hands of Mr Rune, who took a match from the box, struck it, plunged it back into the box and threw the box down on to the pavement.

On to the line of ‘taint’ that I had previously laid.

The taint in question had come from the drum of highly volatile industrial cleaning solution that Mr Rune had bid me acquire and had later laced with various other combustible materials and mixed into a deadly cocktail. This had been leaked in a line girdling the gardens through a hole I had drilled in the bottom of the pram, all but for the area where he and I stood with Mr Rune. But these are mere details.

The flaming box struck the pavement, igniting the trail of flammable solution. Fire rose and streaked. It was a most spectacular effect.

Why indeed a wall of flame should have troubled a fellow in an armoured steel robot, I know not. But looking back on the incident now, I do not think it was intended to do anything other than distract him. And possibly annoy.

Yes, I think ‘annoy’ would be the word. For the robot swung back and the Count’s face in the cockpit on its chest looked very annoyed indeed.

‘Better you die now than later,’ came the amplified voice. ‘It will spare me the trouble in the future.’

‘Rizla,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Do you know how to run?’

‘I feel that I am up to it now,’ I said.

‘Then run to the West Pier, as fast as you can. I will accompany you.’

*

Now, I always really liked the West Pier. It was a sort of poorer sister of the Palace Pier, shorter and with fewer pretty fiddly bits, but it did have a ballroom with Lloyd Loom furniture and potted palms, where Friday-afternoon tea dances occurred. Leading to this was a penny arcade wherein stood many old-fashioned gambling machines, which Mr Rune had taught me to win on using nought but the aid of wisdom and a magnet. And there were still some freak shows at the end of West Pier in those days: the Headless Lady, the Legless Yorkshireman, the Smallest Spaniel on Earth, the Talking Sprout and the Peanut that Surpasses All Understanding.

And the West Pier was only a short jog from Lansdowne Gardens.

‘Although I rarely perambulate at a pace that is greater than sedate, as befits a man of my dignity,’ said Mr Rune, who now jogged easily at my side, ‘I am capable of prodigious speed when the need arises. I am skilled in the art of
lung-gom
running, which I learned from the Dalai Lama in Tibet. So I’ll see you on the pier. Pacey-pacey, Rizla.’

And then he was gone. In a blur. In a flash. Just gone.

Which impressed me greatly, I have to say.

But did not do much for my safety.

And there now came great crashing and mangling sounds as the Victorian robot smashed through the flame-free area of the steel security fence and burst on to the street behind me.

Amidst the cacophony of driving pistons, churning flywheels, meshing cogs and great steel feet raising sparks upon the pavement, the monstrous construction lurched forwards, a single stride being ten of mine.

Then came flame and smoke and the rattle of machine-gun fire.

I glanced over my shoulder.

Gun ports had opened in the belly of the beast and rotating barrels spat flames. And bullets.

I added ducking, skipping and dodging to the now-increased pace of my fearful fleeing. Ahead was the West Pier and I was soon upon its boards.

And as I raced along them, with the steely monster drawing closer every moment, a thought occurred to me that caused me grief. It
caused my spirits, already low, to sink to a level beneath my feet and plunge into the sea.

Piers, by their very nature, project from land to the ocean.

A man, pursued along such a pier, will shortly find that he has nowhere further to run.

Such a thought must also have crossed the twisted mind of the evil Count Otto Black, but whereas this thought had caused great grief to come unto me, Count Otto found favour with it. Amplified laughter rang in my ears.

I entered the penny arcade at a speed that surprised even myself. The robot followed hard upon my fleeing heels, overturning the gambling machines that spilled out pennies, which I was presently disinclined to gather.

I hastened into the ballroom, with its Lloyd Loom and its potted palms, marvelling that its doors were open at this time of night. And that its lights were still on.

And up ahead I spied out Mr Hugo Rune.

‘Pacey-pacey, Rizla,’ he called. ‘You won’t win a maiden’s heart of oak by getting wood in her window box.’

But I was in no mood to deal with that.

I was young and I was fit, but I was now all in. Sweat ran freely down my face and my feet felt as if they were dragging bags of sand.

Behind me came the monster of metal, chugging, clanking and emitting amplified laughter and another burst of gunfire.

‘This way,’ cried Mr Rune. ‘Please get a move on, do.’

And so I ran, through the ballroom and out on to the sundeck, moonlit now, and onward and onward.

Until.

I reached the railing. Where stood Mr Rune. With nowhere left to run.

‘Over the rail,’ cried Mr Rune, ‘and jump.’

‘Jump?’ My eyes gaped down towards the sea, all black and cold and merciless. ‘Jump?’ I wailed. ‘I cannot jump. I cannot swim.’

‘Have no fear,’ said Mr Rune.

And then it was upon us. It tore through the rear of the ballroom, splitting the wooden panels and destroying a stained-glass window
that was the work of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. It drew itself up to its terrible height and swiped aside a potted palm. And the sound of that horrible laughter came to my ears once more.

‘Backed yourself into a corner, Mister Rune,’ came words amongst the laughter, as weaponry angled down upon us. ‘Should I shoot you, or stamp you to the oblivion you so rightly deserve?’

‘Surrender,’ said Mr Rune, braving it up with considerable aplomb. ‘Surrender and I will spare your life.’ And Hugo Rune took from his pocket an oversized green gingham handkerchief and held it aloft.

‘It’s a
white
flag for surrender, you oaf,’ called the voice of Count Otto Black.

‘It’s a green flag for “go”,’ replied Mr Rune. ‘Climb down from your cockpit, or I will drop the flag.’

‘Insane.’ Count Otto did some more laughing.

‘I will count to three,’ said Mr Rune.

‘You’ll be dead before you’re able.’

And then the steely monster came at us.

And Mr Hugo Rune let his ‘flag’ drop with a flourish.

And it is funny what you remember and what you do not.

I do remember Mr Rune grabbing me by the collar and hauling me over the rail. And I remember the terrible fall and the overwhelming fear of hitting the water.

But I do not actually remember hitting the water.

But then, perhaps I never actually hit it.

Because I was not wet afterwards.

Although I was a bit confused.

I think Mr Rune hit the water, because moments later I saw him very soaked and most upset.

But I certainly remember the galleon. It was
The Saucy Spaniel,
and it had been lying at anchor off the pier’s end, awaiting the green-flag signal of Hugo Rune.