The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (7 page)

‘This is the last you will see of me,’ I concluded, as I left the premises.

‘Oh, and thank you once again for saving my life,’ I added, popping back briefly, as it would have been most churlish not to do so.

‘In precisely three hours,’ said Mr Rune. But I did not hear him say it. And then he located an unopened bottle of twelve-year-old single malt, but I did not see him do that, either.

I shouldered my pillowcase and pondered my options. I could head straight to the police station and do what I should have done three weeks before – report that I had lost my memory and find out if anyone had reported me missing.

Or I could have a beer or two in the alehouse next door to forty-nine Grand Parade, where I knew that Mr Rune still maintained an active open account with Fangio the barlord. Something to do with Freemasonry, I was given to understand.

‘Beer first,’ said I. ‘And then the police station.’

The alehouse was named The Rack and Pinion. It was an automotive theme bar most pleasantly furnished with bench seats from Ford Zodiacs, which in itself had a certain charm, considering the conversation that I had just had with Mr Rune.

Within, Fangio the barlord, clad in his distinctive mechanic’s overalls, always offered a cheery welcome, good beer at a fair price and was ever prepared to talk some toot and make free with the complimentary peanuts.

I pushed open the door of The Rack and Pinion and entered the bar. Then I retraced my steps and looked up once more at the sign. The Rack and Pinion, it read. And then The Bucket of Bacon. I blinked, scratched at my head and re-entered the bar.

Fangio stood behind the jump, but at my approach he offered no cheery welcome.

‘Good afternoon, Fange,’ I said to him. ‘No cheery welcome today?’

‘Look at me,’ said the barlord. ‘Tell me what you see.’

‘You have dyed your eyelashes,’ I said. ‘Very fetching.’

‘Not that,’ said Fangio. ‘That is another matter altogether. I woke up this morning to discover that I have become a gay icon.’

‘What is a gay acorn?’ I asked.

‘Icon,’
said Fangio. ‘And that’s another thing – these new false teeth are playing havoc with my diction.’ He opened wide his mouth and I stared into it.

‘I think you were supposed to take your old set out before you put your new set in,’ I remarked.

‘Ah,’ said Fangio, pulling his new set from his mouth and hurling them the length of the bar. ‘That’s better,’ he decided.

‘So,’ I said. ‘Gay icon, is it?’

‘Yes,’ said Fangio, ‘but that’s not so bad. Now I can play my Judy Garland records really loud and if anyone complains I can accuse them of sexual discrimination.’

‘Sounds like a dream come true,’ I said.

‘It is,’ said Fangio. ‘And some of my new-found friends and I are going down to the prom tonight, “straight-bashing”.’

‘The nineteen sixties are a great time to be alive,’ I said. ‘So why no cheery welcome?’

‘I trust you saw the pub sign. I noticed you doing the old double-take.’

‘The pub sign keeps changing,’ I said.

‘It’s digital,’ Fangio explained.

‘Then all becomes clear. A pint of Old Brake Fluid, please.’

‘We don’t serve Old Brake Fluid any more.’

‘I am appalled to hear it. A pint of Castrol GTX, then.’

‘Nor that.’

‘All right, I’ll take a pint of Benzole Super.’

‘Oh no you won’t.’

‘But then, you never did serve Benzole Super.’

‘It was worth a try, though. Do you want to keep going or would
you prefer to give up now and simply ask me what beers I presently have on tap?’

‘That seems somewhat premature. I am certain that I could come up with some more really imaginative names for imaginary beers.’

‘Not on the evidence so far.’

‘So what beers are you presently serving?’

‘We don’t serve beer,’ said Fangio. ‘This is a wine bar.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Since when?’

‘Since—’ Fangio raised his wristwatch to his blue-fringed eyes. ‘—Ah,’ he said, ‘half-past, we’re now a pub again. Care for a beer?’

‘I do not think I quite understand,’ I said.

‘It’s a kind of alcoholic drink,’ said Fangio. ‘Brewed from hops.’

‘I understand beer,’ I said and I leaned my elbows upon the bar counter. ‘What I do not understand is—’

‘Off the bar, please, sir, health-and-safety regulations.’

‘Are you feeling yourself, Fange?’

‘How dare you! Are you having a go at me because I’m a gay icon?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I am not.’

‘And are you gay?’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Then you’ll have to leave the bar in half an hour. I’d get a beer in now, while you can, if I were you.’

‘If you were me,’ I said, ‘you would punch you right in the face.’

‘Look,’ said Fangio, ‘allow me to explain. You saw the pub sign, didn’t you?’

‘I did,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s broken.’

‘I assumed that.’

‘It’s not working properly and it’s changing every half-hour. It’s only supposed to change once a day.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘The brewery’s idea. It has long been a tradition in Brighton that if there’s a really nice pub, where people feel comfortable, and the beer is good, and the management personable and friendly, and it’s making a profit and everything, that the brewery will close it down, sack the management, rip out the fixtures and fittings and dump the good beer in favour of something called “Alcopop”. Then they
refurbish the place in “Brighton chic”, which is basically aluminium with really uncomfortable high stools, put some Australian women behind the bar, employ the services of a teenage DJ to play really dreadful music at an intolerable volume, change the name to confuse cab drivers and—’

‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘Please stop!’

‘Exactly,’ said Fange. ‘Dreadful, isn’t it?’

‘Dreadful?’ I said. ‘I am a teenager, Fange – it sounds great to me.’

Fangio fluttered his eyelashes.

‘If that is meant to look fierce,’ I said, ‘it is not working.’

‘Yes, well.’ Fangio stamped his feet.

‘Are you wearing high heels?’ I asked, and I leaned forward over the bar counter.

‘The brewery,’ said Fange.

‘About that beer,’ I said. ‘A pint of Esso Extra, please,’

‘Coming right up, sir.’ Fangio did the business.

‘And put it on Mister Rune’s account.’

‘In your dreams, you hetro-fascist!’

‘What did you call me?’

‘Nothing, sir. I regret, however, that Mister Rune left explicit instructions. He said that he expected that you would come in here this afternoon, most probably carrying a stuffed pillowcase, hoping to gain free drinks on his account. He said that I was to politely refuse you. Then on second thoughts he said that I was free to insult you as much as I liked.’

‘Very fair of him,’ I said. ‘Very democratic.’

‘That’s what we fought the war for,’ said Fangio. ‘That and the silk stockings, of course. Not to mention the powdered egg.’

‘The powdered egg?’ I queried.

‘I told you not to mention that. Kindly get out of my bar.’

I fished what little money I had from my pocket and placed it upon the counter. ‘Just give me the beer,’ I said, and Fangio did so.

‘So,’ he said, ‘before I was so rudely interrupted, I was telling you about the brewery and how they like to desecrate decent alehouses. Well, generally their new-style bars last about six months, then go bust. The brewery then refurbishes them again in their original style,
they turn a profit again, so the brewery refurbishes them new-style again and—’

‘I am beginning to see a pattern emerging,’ I said.

‘It happens about once every six months on average in Brighton. So this brewery, the one that owns this pub—’ Fangio looked once more at his wristwatch ‘—The Muff-Diver’s Helmet, has decided that it would be more profitable all the way round simply to change the name of the pub and the theme on a daily basis. Get the best of both worlds and all those in between.’

‘Things are always so simple once they are explained,’ I said. ‘What exactly are you doing?’

‘Getting into my muff-diver’s helmet.’

‘Very nice, too. I like the way the flaps come down over your ears.’

‘If you want another pint of Esso, order it now,’ said Fange. ‘I’ll waive the rules on this occasion. Normally you’d only be allowed to drink cocktails during this half-hour. They all have very suggestive names, full of sexual innuendo. I believe they paid Frankie Howerd a king’s ransom to come up with them.’

‘What I would not give to be rich and famous,’ I said, sipping at my Esso when it came and taking joy in the sipping thereof.

‘But I thought that was why you’d joined up with Mister Rune.’

‘Excuse me?’ I said.

‘Why, what have you done?’

‘I mean, what do you mean by that remark?’

‘Well, according to Mister Rune, you are his amanuensis, his Boswell, you are writing up his exploits into what will become an international bestseller.’

‘He told you that, did he?’

‘He did. And that you’d put me into your book.’

‘That I cannot see happening,’ I said.

‘Well, that’s what he said. I make my first appearance on page forty, and I do something really helpful in Chapter Nine, apparently.’

I shrugged and settled myself on to a bar-side stool. ‘That was a decent bit of toot we just talked there,’ I said.

‘Always a pleasure,’ said Fangio. ‘So you’re taking your leave of Mister Rune, then, are you?’

‘The man is mad,’ I said. ‘You would not believe all the things he has told me. Ludicrous stuff. And the people he says he has met. The Pope. Oscar Wilde. H. G. Wells.’

‘He once lent me a copy of
The Time Machine,
a first edition with a handwritten dedication in the flyleaf: “To Hugo for his inspiration”, signed “Herbert”!’

‘A forgery,’ I said.

‘That’s not what the expert at Christie’s said when I put it up for auction in their rare-books sale.’

‘You did
what?’

‘I told Mister Rune that I’d lost it. But I was only trying to cover my expenses. We may both be Freemasons, but that man is drinking my pub dry, and all on his “account”.’

I laughed at this and shook my head.

‘Clever, that,’ said Fangio, ‘laughing and shaking your head at the same time. I can’t do that. But I
can
do
this.’

Fangio did
this.

I stared in horror. ‘Please do not ever do
this
again in my presence,’ I said, taking out my bullet-scorched hankie and mopping my brow with it.

‘What,
this?’
said Fangio.

‘No, not that.
This.’

‘Sorry,’ said Fangio. ‘It’s the way these flaps come down over my ears.’

A customer called out for service and Fangio tottered along the bar to serve him (or her – I could not be altogether certain which).

‘Excuse me, mister.’

I turned at this to observe an unsavoury-looking character looking up at me and tugging in an urgent way upon my trouser leg.

‘Please do not do that,’ I told him.

‘But mister,’ said this ill-clad ne’er-do-well, a roguish tramp by the look of him, and one in sore need of a laundering at that, ‘I heard the name of Hugo Rune being mentioned – do I take it that you are his associate?’

‘Ex-associate,’ I said. ‘Please leave my trouser leg alone.’

‘Oh, it’s your trouser leg, is it? I had a pair of trousers just like those once – I thought for a minute they were mine.’

‘Kindly go about your business,’ I said.

‘But about Mister Rune,’ the wretch persisted.

‘I no longer work for Mister Rune. Not that I ever did, really.’

‘I’ve got the dog,’ said the shabby, down-at-heel, veritable scumbag of an individual. ‘And just because I’ve fallen upon hard times, there’s no reason for you to have a go at me.’

‘I was not,’ I said.

‘No, but you were thinking it,’ said the low-life, no-mark, dirt-poor-excuse-for-a-human-being. ‘There – you’re doing it again.’

‘I was not.’

‘You were.’ The filthy degenerate shook an ill-washed fist.

‘All right, I was. Now, please go away. No, hold on a moment, what dog do you have?’

‘
The
dog,’ said the—

The fellow paused.

And I paused also.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘
The
dog. The one that Mister Rune had me pinch from that house in Hangleton, which I was to deliver to him at his rooms this afternoon to impress some fellow called Rizla. Are you associated with this Rizla, by any chance?’

I all but fell off my bar-side stool. It was only through the exercise of supreme self-control – and having no wish to end up lying flat on my back – that prevented me from doing so.