The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (47 page)

‘I am in disguise, I told you. We are here on what must be our all-but-final case or conundrum. I am undercover, like Lazlo Woodbine.’

‘He was in here earlier,’ said Fangio, ‘wearing a tweed jacket and a trilby hat. I didn’t recognise him at first. Thought he was a newspaper reporter.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘he was
not
in here earlier. Lazlo Woodbine does not exist – he is a fictional character.’

‘He said that people are always saying that about him. He left me his business card.’

‘Show it to me,’ I said.

‘I mislaid it,’ said Fangio. ‘But he
was
in. Said he was on a case, the biggest of his life.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ I said. ‘Do you have any complimentary peanuts or chewing fat?’

‘Only loaves and fishes,’ said Fangio.

‘Loaves and fishes?’ I said. ‘As in—’

Mr Rune shushed me to silence. ‘Why only loaves and fishes?’ he asked the leather-bound barkeep.

‘Funny thing,’ said Fangio. ‘This fellow was in here earlier – heavy-metal fan, long hair, beard, black T-shirt – and he asked for
something to eat. But the van didn’t turn up today and the freezer and the fryer are empty. And there were all these other punters in here too and they all wanted something to eat. And they ate all my crisps and were still hungry. And then this other fellow came in, who was wearing a tweed jacket and a trilby hat and I thought he must be a newspaper reporter, but he wasn’t, he was—’

‘About the loaves and fishes,’ I said.

‘I’m coming to that. The fellow in the tweed jacket ordered a bottle of Bud and put down his bag of sandwiches on the bar – sardine sandwiches, they were. Then he went out to the toilet. And while he was out there, the other fellow, the one with the long hair, and the beard, and the black T-shirt, he took this bag of sandwiches and offered it around the bar, to everyone who was hungry. And they all took a sandwich. All of them. And that’s dozens of sandwiches, right? But after that, the fellow with the long hair, and the beard, and the black T-shirt put the sandwich bag back on the bar. And damn me if the sardine sandwiches weren’t still in it. And then he left the bar. How did he do that, eh?’

‘Perhaps he just walked out of the door,’ I said.

‘I
mean,’
said Fangio, ‘how did everyone eat sandwiches, but the sandwiches were still in the bag? Is it voodoo, do you think? Or was he Paul Daniels?’

‘And then did this “Lazlo Woodbine” eat the sardine sandwiches?’

‘Don’t talk silly,’ said Fangio. ‘Lazlo Woodbine doesn’t eat sardine sandwiches. He only eats hot pastrami on rye.’

‘There is a degree of truth to this tale,’ I said.

‘I have the sardine sandwiches here in the bag to prove it,’ said Fangio.

‘I’d like to take a look at those sandwiches,’ said Mr Rune.

And whilst Mr Rune dined upon sardines on bread, I gazed about the bar. Now, just how possible was
this?
I wondered. That not only the last man in the bloodline of Jesus Christ,
but also
Lazlo Woodbine had both been in this bar today?

I have to confess that it did not seem all
that
likely.

Well, at least not the Woodbine bit.

‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘Here’s his card. I knew I had it somewhere. It was in my codpiece all the time.’

‘Just hold it up for me,’ I said, ‘and let me read it.’

Well, you could not argue with
that!

Presently we had done with our pints, so Mr Rune ordered more. And soon we were done with those, too.

‘We are nearing the end of our quest,’ said Mr Rune to me. ‘Soon, I feel certain, all will be resolved. This Lazlo Woodbine development is interesting, however.’

‘Fangio is pulling our legs,’ said I. ‘Lazlo Woodbine does not exist. He is only a fictional character.’

‘Just someone you read about in books,’ said Mr Rune.

‘Exactly.’

‘A little like Jesus, then?’

‘Nothing like Jesus at all,’ said I.

‘But Lazlo Woodbine is real to you.’

‘He is real inside the books, but not outside them.’

‘And who is to say, then, who is real?’ said Mr Rune. ‘You and I might just be characters in a book.’

‘That is absurd,’ I said. ‘And if it were true, who is reading about us now?’

‘Perhaps a character in someone else’s book. Who is in turn just a character in someone else’s book. And so on, ad infinitum.’

‘Stop,’ I said. ‘You are scaring me.’

‘It was only a thought,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Such thoughts occasionally cross my mind.’

‘What time is it?’ I asked.

Mr Rune perused his wristlet watch. A Cartier, I felt certain, and one I had not seen before.

‘It is ten,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘We must be away to the ball.’ And he whispered words into Fangio’s ear and we went off to the ball.

*

I really liked the inside of Hove Town Hall. It was architecture in the public-utility style. It was unpretentious. It did not make any bones. It said, ‘I am a modern town-hall interior, love me, or love me not.’

Well, I did not
love
it, but I
liked
it, with its horrible carpets, the dreadful paintwork, the appalling lighting. The upstairs bar was amazing, though – there were twelve bar staff behind the jump, which made me think of the twelve-bar blues and also of Robert Johnson.

The Rock-Night crowd was a-swelling and a-swelling, but we had no problem getting served.

And there was something else that I think I should mention in passing. And this was the Rock-Night crowd’s attitude to Mr Rune. When we entered the town hall we had to pay, although we got a laminated ‘club card’. But it was there at the door that the whispering began. I heard the door supervisors whisper to the fellows on the desk. They whispered, ‘It
is
him,’ when we walked up the stairs and into the upstairs bar.

‘What is all this whispering?’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘What is all this “It
is
him” stuff as you walk by?’

‘I am revered,’ said Mr Rune, modestly, ‘These are
my
people.’

‘Your
people? How?’

‘The Book of Ultimate Truths,’
said Mr Rune, ‘has thus far only achieved what you might describe as “cult status”. Naturally it will go on in the future to become much more than that. But here, Rizla, you are amongst my readers.’

‘You mean
we’re
characters in what
they
read?’

‘That is
not
what I mean.’ Mr Rune inclined his great head towards what I can only describe as an absolute babe, who approached him with a beer mat and a Biro.

‘Might I have your autograph, Master?’ she asked.

And Mr Rune obliged.

‘Absurd,’ I said. ‘This is all absurd. And
I
say so.’

‘You could always bathe in my reflected glory,’ said Mr Rune. ‘As my acolyte, there’d be sex in it for you. That young chap looks interested.’

‘I do not want to have sex with chaps!’ I declared.

‘That young lesbian—’

‘Now
there
is a thought,’ I said.

But it was not really, truly a thought, for I have never been a lady’s man. I am a sensitive fellow, me. I want a relationship. I know that sounds a bit wimpy, but that is the way I am. I do
not
do casual sex. I do not think I
could
do casual sex.

Although.

‘Are you sure she is a lessa?’ I asked Mr Rune.

‘Trust me,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I’m—’

‘I am going to the bar.’

I got served at once. Six young barmen were keen to oblige.

‘Two pints of whatever you have that is best,’ I said.

‘That would be Old Back-Masker,’ said the most eager barman, but I did not hear him properly because beyond the bar in the town hall’s ballroom proper, the DJ who was hosting the night put on the evening’s first music.

It was what I now know to be the greatest rock record ever made.

Motorhead’s ‘The Ace of Spades’.

Now, I know what you are thinking: you are thinking that if this really was the 1960s, then there is no way we could have heard ‘The Ace of Spades’ being played at a disco. That is what you are thinking, right? Well, wrong to you, because I
did
hear it.
I
was there. And to be fair, I had already met Robert Johnson. And
he
died in 1938.

So there!

And let us not forget the Chevalier Effect. It all makes perfect sense really.

The DJ’s name was Tim McGregor, an ample Scotsman, large of beard and hair. And as chance, coincidence or bloodlines would have it, Tim was a direct descendant of Rob Roy McGregor, the man who invented croquet. Small world, eh?

Tim cried words into his microphone and down upon the dance floor beneath the stage and his decks, headbanging was all the rage and there was certainly good rockin’ that night.

‘It’s hard to believe that Lemmy once played with Hawkwind,’ said Mr Rune to me. ‘And with Sam Gopal – he was lead singer on
‘Escalator’,
which was something of a garage-psych classic.’

‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘Have a word with yourself, please.’

‘Quite so,’ said Mr Rune to me, as I handed him his pint of Old Back-Masker, which I hadn’t had to pay for, as the barman fancied me. ‘Although this may be God’s own music, we are here upon God’s own mission, and we must find His son’s last descendant amongst this swarthy crew.’

‘Perhaps if you shouted out that you were
really
hungry, he might turn up with a bottomless packet of crisps?’

‘I do believe that you still harbour one or two doubts.’

‘Only trying to defend my sanity. I know I will lose in the end.’

‘That large Sapphist with the moustache over there has taken quite a shine to you.’

‘Stop it!’ I said. ‘I am
your
bitch, do you not remember?’

And Mr Rune laughed, and I laughed, so something must have been funny somewhere.

‘I will miss you,’ said Mr Rune, ‘when all this is over.’ And he patted me upon the shoulder.

‘You have very cold hands,’ I said. ‘I wish I had kept my coat on.’

‘You look adorable,’ said Mr Rune. ‘But he is here somewhere, and we must find him.’

‘They all look the same to me,’ I said. ‘How will we know which one is
him?’

‘We will know,’ said Mr Rune. ‘We will know.’

Tim McGregor put on ‘Killers’ by Iron Maiden.

‘That wouldn’t have been my second record,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I would have probably gone for “Mouth For War” by Pantera or “Heart of Darkness” by Arch Enemy.’

‘Or you might have chosen Slayer’s “Raining Blood”. It is a classic. Or possibly even Widowmaker’s “Eat Everybody”,’ I said, as if I knew what I was talking about. Which I did not.

‘And if Fangio were here, you might well have got nearly two pages out of such a conversation. However.’ And Mr Rune went off to the gents.

I stood at the bar and leaned upon it, too, and sipped at my pint of Old Back-Masker.

A fellow with a somewhat lived-in face sidled up to me. He had long black hair and a bit of a beard and a black and tatty T-shirt, too,
so he fitted in quite well with the rest of the throng. There was a certain twang of the brewer’s craft surrounding him and it was clear to me that here was a chap who was not unacquainted with the pleasures of the pot room. He introduced himself to me as being Tobes de Valois.

And this he did between great belchings and hiccups.

‘Are you here on your own?’ asked Tobes as he swayed about before me.

‘I am looking for someone,’ I said, ‘but
you
it is not.’

‘It might be,’ said Tobes. And he tried hard to focus his eyes in my general direction.

‘I am informed that I will know who it is when I see them,’ I said.

‘I’ll bet that makes sense,’ said Tobes, ‘but not to me.’

‘Please go away
now,’
I said. Politely.

‘If you fancy a bunk-up, I’m sure I could almost manage it. And if I can’t, well, look on the bright side – I won’t even remember it in the morning.’

It must be
so
much fun being a woman, I told myself.

‘Are those your own titties?’ asked Tobes. ‘Only they don’t look too convincing.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Nothing wrong with transvestism,’ said Tobes, ‘as long as you keep your dignity.’ And then he fell down and I stepped over him. And Mr Rune returned from the gents’.

‘You’ll never guess who I just met in there,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Captain Bartholomew Moulsecoomb – he’s guest bog troll for the night. Something of a cult hero amongst the heavy-metal crowd.’

‘I thought pirates were more a New Romantic thing,’
^*
I said.