The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (44 page)

‘Extraordinary,’ I said. ‘And have you ever tried to speak to him?’

‘Why young brave with squaw-cut ask all questions?’ asked the chief. ‘Great White Brother should ask questions. Organ-grinder speak, not monkey.’

‘Steady on,’ I said.

‘There, him speak again. Silence loquaciousness with tomahawk if say more.’

‘But …’ But I said no more.

‘It’s an interesting conundrum,’ said Mr Rune, ‘When he does the cooking, does he still wear his decorated parka?’

‘No, him take off parka. And bird’s head. Put on chef outfit. Oh, and him swear a lot. Swear all time, in fact. Many bad words which Chief no like.’

‘This is bonkers,’ I almost said. But I did not.

‘One question,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Is he always alone?’

‘Ah,’ said the chief. ‘Forget to mention: him never alone. Have kitchen staff with him. He swear at them. And diners, too. All this—’ the chief made expansive gesturings ‘—all this change, become like restaurant. Many tables and chairs. Nice white tablecloths on tables. Irish linen. Only come from Harrods, such tablecloths. And diners
dine and Chief stride amongst them, striking at them. But they not see or hear Chief, nor feel Chief’s blows. As if Chief not exist. Most exasperating.’

‘How have I never seen this?’ asked Mr Rune.

‘Great White Brother always turn in early after mighty feastings. That reason him no see. But Chief cheesed off with it now.’

‘And well might you be, Chief. Now, Rizla,’ Mr Rune said to me, ‘your observations on this.’

‘You will not let him hit me with his tomahawk?’

Mr Rune rolled his eyes. ‘Your observations,’ he said.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘if the Chief can see these people, but he cannot touch them, they must be ghosts, surely. Was this tepee built upon an ancient restaurant mound or something?’

‘Very good, Rizla, but about as far off the mark as it is possible to be.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘You have drawn some conclusion of your own, then?’

‘Only the most very obvious. We shall sit up tonight and view this phenomenon for ourselves.’

‘I think I am up for that,’ I said. ‘It might be weeks before I need another sleep.’

At seven of the evening clock, Mr Rune sent the chief and his braves off to the pub and he and I settled down to wait.

‘You would not care to give me a clue, would you?’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘Or is it something that I should have read in
The Book of Ultimate Truths,
so you are not going to tell me out of spite?’

‘Hugo Rune is never spiteful,’ said he. ‘Hugo Rune is a gentleman. And a gentleman puts kindness above all else.’

‘So will you give me a clue?’

‘No,’ said Mr Rune, but kindly. ‘Fear not. Observe and then present me with your own conclusions.’

I shrugged and we waited and presently we heard the approaching engine noises of a Vespa motor scooter, which rather put the wind up me. And then its rider entered the tepee without first opening the flap. Which put the wind up me somewhat further. He took off his helmet and parka and entered the kitchen area. And others followed
him and began worrying at saucepans and gratin dishes and labour-saving devices. And then the diners appeared and suddenly there were tables and chairs for them to sit at and on. And I viewed this and shivered a little and shook my head a lot. And feared that if this was indeed a ghost’s restaurant, then there was always the chance that Norris Styver might have escaped from Lewes and might just turn up here in search of a snack.

Seemingly oblivious to all fear, Mr Rune played ‘Eat Your Greens Up, Sonny Boy’
^*
upon his reinvented ocarina.

When the ghostly diners were all seated, a ghostly waiter moved amongst them taking orders and conveying them to the kitchen area where the Vesperado chef shouted swearing words at his kitchen staff and the cooking began.

And the dishes that the staff prepared were wonderful. But the chef took exception to each and every one of them. He bawled abuse and stamped his feet and carried on in a most ungentlemanly manner.

If I had been working for him, I would have punched him. In fact, so disgusted was I by his behaviour that I got up from where I was sitting and took a swing at him on behalf of his staff. But my fist sailed through him as if he was not there. And he went on shouting and swearing, oblivious.

And the diners seemed little better than the chef. When their marvellous food was served up before them, they sniffed at it and pecked at it and raised their noses haughtily. A right snotty bunch were they.

‘What a crowd of ingrates,’ I said to Mr Rune.

‘Do you recognise any of them?’ he asked.

I gave them a good looking-over. ‘I do,’ I said. ‘Surely that is that chap off
Blue Peter,
the one who was sacked because of the cocaine-fuelled lady-sheep incident. And that is the sports-commentator fellow who recently lost his job over a cocaine-fuelled lady-boy incident. And that is—’

‘You
do
know these people?’ said Mr Rune.

‘I have read about them,’ I said, ‘in the society pages of the
Argus.
That’s Brighton’s mayor, Terry Garoghan. And that fellow there. And that woman with the preposterous breasts. They all live here in Brighton. They are all past-their-sell-by-date B-list celebrities. Except for Terry, he’s okay. There is something about them that is not quite right, but they cannot be ghosts, because they are not dead.’

‘And if not ghosts, then what?’

‘You know, do you not?’ I said.

‘I fear that I do,’ said Mr Rune, ‘and I fear for what will shortly occur.’

‘Is something going to happen? Should we run away?’ My hands began to flap. And I tried very hard to control them.

‘Remain calm,’ said Mr Rune. And I tried very hard to do so.

A portly fellow now entered the ethereal restaurant. He was big and he was broad, with a most commanding presence. He apologised to the waiter for his late arrival, claiming that he had encountered transportation difficulties, and was escorted at once to his table. The best in the restaurant.

I looked on and my jaw hung slack.

I looked up at Mr Rune and his did, also.

‘Mister Rune,’ I said to him, when I could find my voice, ‘do you see what I think I see? Do you see who has just entered this ghostly restaurant?’

Mr Hugo Rune nodded slowly. ‘It is me,’ he said.

PART III

The ghostly Mr Rune sat himself down and ordered a bottle of bubbly. His instructions were brief but explicit: ‘The best you have,’ said he.

I looked on and the real Mr Rune looked on also.

‘It
is
you,’ I said. ‘Nice suit. Unusual style, though.’

‘Cease, please, Rizla,’ said Mr Rune.

The ghostly Mr Rune perused the menu. In the kitchen, the ghostly chef shouted at his staff.

‘Let us take ourselves over,’ said Mr Rune to me, ‘to where
I
apparently am sitting. Let us overhear what there is to be overheard.’

The ghostly Mr Rune did further perusals of his ghostly menu. The waiter returned to him in the company of the champagne, which he uncorked and poured. The ghostly Mr Rune did tasting and said, ‘It will have to do,’ and then ordered everything upon the menu.

‘What odds he finds a rat-bone in his dessert?’ I asked the Mr Rune with whom I was standing.

This Mr Rune hushed me into silence and viewed his ghostly doppelgänger.

A curious buzzing came from this fellow and he reached into an inside pocket and drew out a small plastic something with buttons upon it, pressed one of these then pressed the plastic something to his ear. ‘Rune,’ said he.

‘It is a phone,’ I said. ‘A tiny little phone without wires.’

‘A
mobile
phone,’ said the real Mr Rune.

‘But they have not been invented yet.’

Mr Rune looked at me.

And I looked at Mr Rune.

‘The future,’ I said.

‘Exactly. These apparitions are not ghosts from the past. We are witnessing a future event.’

‘But how?’ I asked, thoroughly puzzled.

Mr Rune raised his hand and we listened as the future Mr Rune spoke into his mobile phone. ‘Count Otto,’ said he. ‘What news? Yes, I see, our contacts in Hollywood have taken up the film rights. That’s splendid news. They don’t like the name, though. Don’t want to call it
The Brightonomicon.
Sorry, you’re breaking up there. No, yes, I heard you. Call it what? Well, that’s a very foolish name, but I suppose these fellows know their own business best. Although I do recall an evening I spent with Alfred Hitchcock. He was discussing this movie he had in mind, wanted to call it
The Cross-Dressing Mother-Loving Motel-Shower-Slasher.
I suggested something simpler.

‘But,
what?
A twelve-movie deal based on the cases, with Elijah Wood playing Rizla and Ian McKellen playing me? And who will be playing you? Gary Oldman. Good choice. Well, go ahead and clinch the deal. I’ll see you back here in a week. Call me, we’ll do lunch at Groucho’s.’

I looked at the real Mr Rune.

And he once more looked at me.

‘One of the things I have liked about all this stuff,’ I said, ‘is that I have never been able to figure out what will happen next. And then when it does happen, it is never less than interesting.’

‘This must not come to pass,’ said Mr Rune. ‘This must not be allowed to come to pass.’

‘What year is it?’ I asked. ‘Who is the president?’

‘Rizla, I will strike you with my stick.’

I became somewhat emboldened, although I know not why. ‘If this
is
the future,’ I said, ‘then it is all your fault. I remember well enough that business at Eat Your Food Nude, all those rock stars who have to die aged twenty-seven. You showed me a glimpse of what would happen if they do not die at the appointed time. And now you are being shown a glimpse of your future. I will bet it is because you have not destroyed the Chronovision. This is what is going to happen because of that. You are going to end up as the partner of Count Otto Black.’

‘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.