The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (33 page)

‘The Bevendean microclimate,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Whilst Hove enjoys a semi-tropical climate all the year round
^*
, this area up here is prone to hurricanes and tornadoes and is continually sheathed by a layer of permafrost.’

I nearly slipped and fell upon my bottom. ‘I wish I had worn two pairs of socks,’ I said.

‘You should learn to think ahead,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I’m wearing three.’

I dragged my stovepipe hat down over my ears and pulled up my Astrakhan collar. ‘How much more brisk striding do you think will be necessary?’ I asked.

‘It’s a curious place, to be sure,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Note the sweeping curves of the roads, which form the distinctive shape of the great Bat – the work of the legendary Edwardian architect and engineer Isambard Kingdom-Come.’

‘Not very funny,’ I said.

‘I agree. The man lacked somewhat for a sense of humour. He is not, of course, to be confused with Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This is Kingdom-Come I speak of – have you ever heard of him?’

‘Did he play with Isaac Asimov’s Starship Jazz Quintet in the nineteen forties?’

‘No,’ said Mr Rune, ‘but that’s an easy mistake to make. This Mister Kingdom-Come was a visionary. He believed that all biblical events had actually occurred within the British Isles, but that “scholars” had transferred their locations to a more southerly area.’

‘So he was a nutcase?’ I said.

‘Not to put a finer word on it, yes. But he somehow got it into his head that Brighton was the site of the Lost Continent of Atlantis.’

‘That would be a bit of a squeeze,’ I said, giving my icy nose a rub. ‘An entire continent compressed into the size of a town?’

‘It was his belief that the Atlanteans were somewhat smaller than we are.’ Mr Rune made a teeny-weeny dimensional demonstration with his right thumb and forefinger.

‘You are wearing
two
pairs of gloves,’ I said. ‘Lend a pair to me.’

‘No,’ said Mr Rune. ‘But to continue, these sweeping roads were the product of his archaeological excavations in his quest to uncover the ruins of Atlantis.’

‘I cannot be having with archaeological excavations, myself,’ I said. ‘The fellows who dig them only ever find tiny walls and a few bits of broken pottery, and then they get all excited and swear that they have just made the most important discovery of the century, the ruins of a mile-high gold-covered temple to Frogmore the God of Bike-Saddle Fixtures or some such.’

‘I think you will find,’ said Mr Rune, ‘that they do this in order to secure further government funding for their diggings and so remain in employment.’

‘That is a rather cynical view,’ I said.

‘Some of my best friends are archaeologists,’ said Mr Rune.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, this is all very interesting,’ which in truth it was
not,
‘but what has it to do with lost cats?’

‘No knowledge is ever wasted,’ said Mr Rune, taking out his hip flask and tasting something to keep out the cold.

‘Give me a swig,’ I said. But Mr Rune would not.

‘You can be a terrible rotter sometimes,’ I said. Bitterly.

And Mr Rune relented this time and offered me a swig.

‘The hip flask is empty,’ I said.

‘It’s all right, I have another.’

‘Then … Oh, forget it.’

‘Consider it forgotten.’

‘I am freezing here,’ I said, my teeth all a-chatter. ‘Can we return to our rooms? I noticed another pile of local telephone directories on the step when we went out. We will get a decent blaze going with them.’

Mr Rune sniffed the air and said, ‘Shush.’

I shrugged and shushed. And I listened.

‘Nothing,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Do you hear that – nothing?’

I listened some more, and that is what I heard: absolutely nothing.

‘No birdsong,’ said Mr Rune. ‘No dog that howls in the distance.’

‘All gone south for the winter,’ I suggested.

‘Not the wolves,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Nor even the bears, or snow tigers.’

‘Wolves?’
I said.
‘Bears, snow tigers?’

‘Most suggestive.’

‘I am off,’ I said. ‘I think I will jog to stave off frostbite to my toes.’

‘You would not prefer to visit
there?’
And Mr Rune pointed to the
there
in question. And that
there
was a single alehouse.

Not that they generally come in pairs.

Or indeed in sets of up to a dozen in a single building, as would the cinemas of the future. Which makes you think, does it not? How many times
might
you have seen the same fillum?

I viewed the single alehouse. It stood there all alone in Norwich Drive, in the belly of the Bevendean Bat.

‘The Really Small Atlantean,’ I read, peering at the sign.

‘Race you,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Last to the counter buys the drinks.’

And I was the last to the counter.

I really liked The Really Small Atlantean. It was a really small pub, really dinky, really cosy, a single-storeyed bungalow of a pub. From the outside it looked a bit like a child’s drawing of a house – pitched roof, front door in the middle, windows to either side, even a chimney with curly smoke coming out. Inside it had the look of a coaching inn, with beams and daub and wattle and a big log fire in
the inglenook. The walls were a-glitter with burnished horse brasses, the furniture was rustic, the lighting ambient.

Behind the bar, a barman, all bucolic, stood with leather apron and an old brown dog.
^*
And as I puffed to his counter, at which Mr Rune now comfortably sat, this barman bade me welcome in the manner known as
‘loud’.

‘What will it be, sir?’
he shouted.
‘Something to keep out the cold?’

‘Yes,’ I said. And, ‘Not so loud.’ And then, ‘Hey, Fange, it is you.’

‘
Yes, sir!’
shouted Fangio.
‘It is me. Two pints of Old Sump Lube, would it be?’

‘That is fine,’ I said.
‘Stop shouting.’

‘Please don’t shout at me to stop shouting, sir,’
shouted Fangio.
‘It only makes me shout all the louder.’

‘Why?’
I shouted, louder still.

‘To make myself heard over this din.’

‘What din?’
I bellowed.

Fangio put one finger to his lips and another to his ear hole. The fingers were on separate hands, for otherwise it would have been quite a nifty trick. Although not
that
nifty – you can do it with one hand fairly easily, but it makes you look a bit foolish.

‘Oh,’
shouted Fangio. ‘It’s stopped.’

I glanced all about the bar, but except for Fange and me and Mr Rune, it was quite deserted.

‘It
has
stopped,’ said Fangio, wiping his brow. ‘Thank God for that.’ And he pulled us our pints.

I paid for same (and grudgingly) and then asked once again, ‘What din?’

‘Animals,’ said Fangio. ‘Animals and birds, and reptiles, too, I don’t doubt, all calling and mewing and howling and snorting and suchlike.’

‘I did not hear anything,’ I said.

‘No, well, you wouldn’t have – it stopped about an hour ago.’

‘Suggestive,’ said Mr Rune.

‘I didn’t mean to be,’ said Fange. ‘And I’m dreading it, I can tell you.’

‘Dreading
what?’
I asked, though I knew that I would regret it.

‘I’m only up here,’ said Fange, ‘because the brewery sent me for the day. This pub’s last day, as it happens – they’re closing it down. But the brewery is doing up my pub while I’m here. They’re giving it a makeover. It’s going to be called The Carry On Inn tomorrow, and I will have to talk like Kenneth Williams and only in innuendo. They’ve given me a phrasebook and everything. It makes even the simplest remark sound overtly suggestive. I’m dreading it, I can tell you.’

‘Difficult times for you,’ I said, as I sipped at my Old Sump Lube. ‘Would you care to have a
crack
at it now?’ I asked. ‘Get
stuck in
for a bit of practice?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Fangio. ‘It’s
too big
to even think about.’

‘Tell me about the rabbits,’ said Mr Rune.

‘The rabbits?’ said Fange. ‘Is that some socially transmitted disease? I’ll have to look it up in the phrasebook.’

‘Did you hear any rabbits amongst the animal din?’ Mr Rune asked. ‘The hills about here are usually aloud with the sound of rabbits generally, or Arctic hares, at least.’

‘I might have heard rabbits,’ said Fange, ‘but it was hard to tell – they were drowned out by the cries of the penguins.’

‘Is that the right continent?’ I asked.

‘As in Atlantis?’ Mr Rune asked.

‘Or Arsenal,’ said Fange. ‘I just had a wounded cabbie in here who supports Arsenal. He said I was to watch out for cinema popcorn, that it contained active ingredients that made it addictive, so that every time you went back to the cinema, you found yourself ordering a bigger tub.’

I glanced over at Mr Rune, who shrugged. ‘No rabbits, then?’ said he.

And Fangio shrugged. And I shrugged, too. I did not want to be left out of the shrugging.

‘Highly suggestive,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I have already formed certain theories regarding this most anomalous case.’

‘Case?’ said Fangio. ‘Are you here on a case?’

‘Not much of one,’ I said. ‘A bunch of missing cats.’

‘I don’t think it’s correct to refer to them as a
bunch
of cats,’ said
the leather-aproned barkeep. ‘That’s not the collective noun. I think you’ll find that it’s a cabal of cats.’

‘You mean like a dirtiness of dogs?’

‘Not altogether like. More like a peregrination of pencils, or a hovering of Hoovers.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well, you are into household appliances and appurtenances there, like a torturing of toasters. Although most folk only own the one. Or a philandering of forks—’

‘Or indeed a spontaneity of spoons,’ said Fange.

‘Yes, but that has more to do with the essential nature of spoons.’

‘It’s a philosophical concept,’ said Fange, ‘like a dialectical materialisation of Doctor Martens, or a Freudian slip of slippers.’

‘And now you have moved on to the metaphysical realms of footwear,’ I said, ‘which takes us seamlessly to a Lutheran dogma of loafers and a papal nuncio of plimsolls. Or, and I am sure you will know this one, a scandal of sandals, which is from “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Bob Dylan.’

‘Don’t get me going on that,’ said Fange.

So I did not.

Instead, I took sup upon my ale. ‘A good bit of toot we talked there,’ I said.

‘Always a pleasure,’ said Fangio, ‘but never a—’

‘Have you finished now?’ asked Mr Rune.

‘I think so,’ I said. ‘The secret really
is
knowing when to stop.’

‘Or a …’ said Fange. But he did not finish, for at that moment something untoward occurred in the bar. Untoward indeed it was, and very loud also.

It was as if all the zoos of the world had been gathered together at this one spot and every animal in them urged to give vent to the loudest of cries they could muster. The sound was appalling. Deafening. Mr Rune and me and Fangio clapped our hands to our ears and pressed them as hard as we could. The awful row went on and on.

Then suddenly it stopped.

Fangio’s hands moved away from his ears. ‘Did you hear
that?’
he asked.

‘The rabbits didn’t make much of a showing,’ said Mr Rune. ‘They were somewhat drowned out by the spaniels.’

‘That was Hell,’ I said. ‘The sound of Hell. The cries of the damned calling up from the Bottomless Pit.’

‘That’s one explanation,’ said Mr Rune, ‘although whether rabbits go to Hell or not, I’m not entirely sure.’

‘Bad rabbits would,’ said Fangio. ‘And most dogs, in my opinion. And definitely rats and pigeons, too.’

‘And snakes,’ I said. ‘And spiders.’

‘And earwigs, also,’ said Fangio. ‘They’re always up to no good, crawling into your ears while you sleep on the lawn and laying their horrid eggs.’

‘An evilness of earwigs,’ said I. ‘That is what it says in the Bible. Somewhere, if you are prepared to have a good look.’

‘Don’t get me started on the Bible,’ said Fangio.

‘Oh, go on,’ I said, ‘we can get a good half-hour of toot out of that.’

‘Listen,’ said Mr Rune, and he held up his hand.

‘Not that noise again?’ said Fange, and he covered his ears once more.

‘A man,’ said Mr Rune, ‘with only one leg and in a state of distress.’

‘Did he say, “in a state of undress” ?’ asked Fangio, uncovering one of his ears. The left one.

‘No,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Stand back.’

‘But we are sitting,’ I said. And we were, upon barstools.

‘Then avert your gaze.’

Which I did not. Although I really should have.