The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (43 page)

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Do not tell me this. You mean to keep the Chronovision for yourself. After all we have been through. You have tricked me throughout – you had no intention of destroying the thing. You just wanted to get your own hands upon it.’

Mr Rune put down the Chronovision and it floated there upon that sea of tickets. ‘Do you trust me, Rizla?’ he asked.

‘I did,’ I said. ‘Absolutely. But now I am having my doubts.’

‘Such a pity.’

And Mr Rune swung his stout stick.

And struck me down with it.

PART II

‘Ow!’ I went, when I regained consciousness. ‘That hurt!’

‘And it was meant to.’ Mr Rune glared almost-daggers at me. ‘Have a word with yourself, if you will. I am Hugo Artemis Solon Saturnicus Reginald Arthur Rune, the physical embodiment of the universal consciousness. I am
not
some self-seeking blackguard yearning for ultimate power.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘but you did not need to bop me on the head.’

‘You had a nice sleep though, didn’t you?’

‘Very
nice, actually,’ I said, rubbing at the bruise on my head. ‘Where are we now? Is it safe?’

‘Still in Whitehawk, in the domicile of an old friend of mine.’

‘You have a friend in Whitehawk?’

‘I have friends everywhere.’

I took in my surroundings. They were
not
altogether insalubrious. ‘This does not look too rough,’ I said. ‘Where are we? Exactly?’

‘Inside a tepee.’

‘What?’

‘The tepee of Chief Whitehawk.’

‘Chief Whitehawk,’ I said. ‘Well, I will probably wake up in a minute.’

‘You are not dreaming, Rizla. Now rouse yourself, breakfast awaits.’

And indeed breakfast awaited.

And it was the breakfast of the Gods.

I had never seen anything like it and I had dined upon some pretty nifty cuisine during my time with Hugo Rune.

I took it all in, in breaths and in gasps.

‘I have died and gone to Heaven,’ I said. ‘You hit me too hard with your stick.’

‘The chief always puts on a decent spread,’ said Mr Rune, seating himself in an ornate chair and tucking a napkin into the collar of his shirt. ‘But then there is a branch of Lidl on the border of Whitehawk.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That explains everything. You never get better value for money than at Lidl.’

‘Quite so,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Tuck in.’

I seated myself in a similar chair.

There were two at the table and both rather nice.

And I dined upon viands and wondrous fare.

With wines that were mulled with a cinnamon spice.

And I nibbled at nubbins of newt in the raw

And fresh peccary that was done in a roast.

And caviar cheese that you sucked through a straw.

And something like butter to spread on your toast.

Which was not actually butter but a vegetable-oil derivative, which although low in soluble jobbies was high in polyunsaturates. Which was just the way I liked it.

I was ravenously hungry, ridiculously hungry. I felt as if I had not eaten for a month. I got stuck in and I munched on and glanced around the tepee. It was a considerable tepee, with a central dining area, an open-plan kitchen with a peninsular unit and an eye-level hob. The worktops in this kitchen were of grey slate and the doors of bird’s eye maple. And there were many labour-saving devices of the kind that no doubt saved considerable labour on the part of those who knew what they were for.

There was also a sports and gymnasium area, with dartboard, billiard table and one of those machines where you run along on top of a conveyor belt, for reasons that must make some sense to those who have the wish to use such things. I was also impressed by the indoor garage facility and the chief’s collection of automobiles. I spied an Aston Martin DB7, a Ferrari and the new R-Type Jaguar. Which led me to believe that not everything that got nicked in
Brighton and entered Whitehawk ended up in the Forbidden Zone. Then there was the pool, the solarium, the sauna, the five-screen cinema complex and the private bar.

Then there was the shopping mall, the airport and …

‘I think I have concussion,’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘I am sure I am hallucinating.’

‘That would be the peyote flakes you sprinkled on your Rice Krispies.’

‘That would be it, then. Where is Chief Whitehawk, by the way? I would like to thank him for breakfast.’

‘He’s out leading a hunting party of braves. The great herds of Sussex buffalo migrate towards Roedean at this time of year. They’ll take a few head on the golf course, I shouldn’t wonder, then be back later for the feastings and celebrations.’

‘Are we safe here?’ I asked. ‘From Count Otto and his minions, I mean.’ And I wolfed down another helping of wolf.

‘Safe enough.’

‘And the Chronovision?’ I swallowed another portion of swallow.

‘That is safe, too.’

‘Then you have
not
broken it up.’

‘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 fenugreek 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.’