‘Who married and had a single son and so on and so forth to the present day.’
‘And you seek this present-day descendant? This last in the line of Christ?’
‘I do,’ said Mr Rune.
‘And why?’
‘Because I cannot defeat Count Otto Black alone.’
‘You have me,’ I said.
‘Dear boy.’ And Hugo Rune smiled upon me. ‘You remain faithful and for that I am grateful. But Black is allied to a powerful force – that God which exists between the seconds. I alone, or even with your inestimable assistance, would be insufficient to deal with this opponent.’
‘And this chap, this last descendant of Christ’s bloodline, does he know who he is? What he is?’
‘No,’ said Mr Rune, ‘he does not, which is why we will have to convince him. Show him. And we will need to do this through the agency of the Chronovision. Which is why I cannot as yet destroy it.’
‘It will be a bit of a shock for him when you tell him,’ I said.
‘No doubt, but that is what I must do.’ Mr Rune’s second breakfast arrived and he tucked into it.
‘Woulda da loverly lady care for another da-bigga-da-sausage?’ said Mario to me.
‘The biggaist-bigga-da-sausage you have, big boy,’ I replied and did a bit more fluttering. Mario returned to the kitchen, limping curiously.
‘What if he will not play?’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘Have you thought about that? What if he does not want to be what he is? And hang about here, if he is a heavy-metal fan, maybe he has already gone over to the dark side. I am sure I read that this heavy-metal lot eat their own young and sacrifice spaniels to Satan.’
‘That’s a popular myth put about by Christian Fundamentalists,’ said Mr Rune, ‘who are in fact in league with the Dark One themselves. Heavy metal is a force for good.’
I shrugged and snaffled away some bacon from Mr Rune’s plate. ‘Heavy metal is too loud for me,’ I said. ‘I prefer soul. Are you sure you have got this right? Would Christ’s descendant not prefer soul music also? It is soul, after all, is it not?’
‘No,’ said Mr Rune. ‘It is metal. I am Hugo Rune. I think, therefore I’m right.’
‘And you know the identity of this chap? You can pick him out of a crowd? I think you will find that they all look the same. Long hair and black T-shirts. The girls look rather special, though. I’ve seen them.’
‘I do not know his identity,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I have no way of gaining it from the Chronovision.’
‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘Being out together at the same time is not a good idea. One of us should always be at the flat, guarding the Chronovision, prepared to smash it to pieces should Count Otto appear through the floorboards in his bathyscaphe.’
‘Which is why I never leave you alone there,’ said Mr Rune, who, having finished his second breakfast, was now rising from his chair, ‘in case a rat runs beneath the floorboards and you locate a hammer.’
‘But he will find us eventually. I bet he has spies everywhere.’
‘Have no doubt of that. But for now, follow me – we’re going shopping.’
‘For a new suit?’ I said, as we left Georgio’s Bistro once more without paying the bill. ‘I do miss my tweeds. Do you know a good tailor around here?’
‘Our finances do not run to a tailor,’ said Mr Rune, making good progress up George Street.
‘But you never pay,’ I said, mincing after him.
‘We will find you something in one of these charity shops. Something short and in leather. We can’t have you looking out of place at Rock Night.’
Now, I do have to say, I looked pretty damn good, and that I am saying myself. Mr Rune found me a remarkable ensemble, not leather but black PVC, bra, mini-skirt and matching stiletto thigh-high boots. And all for a fiver at the Sussex Beacon, a George Street charity shop. I wondered about those boots, though, very big for a girl. But Mr Rune actually paid for the outfit. Which somehow made it rather more special.
I posed in front of the crazed bathroom mirror, the only mirror in the flat. God, if I had not known that was me, I would have fancied me myself. Mr Rune had had me dye my hair black and whiten up my face somewhat and put on lots of eye make-up and lots and lots of lipstick. And we had stuffed the bra with scrunched-up Leader and I tottered up and down, getting the hang of my heels.
Now, do not get me wrong here, in case you were thinking that I was enjoying this, being tarted-up like a lady of the night. I was not getting some kind of vicarious thrill from this. I was being a professional. I was helping Mr Rune. And I was protecting myself from recognition.
But I did look hot.
‘I reckon I will pull tonight,’ I said. And then I rethought what I had said and did not say anything else for a while. But I continued to practise upon my heels.
And then I went to wait in the front room, because Mr Rune wanted to use the bathroom.
I tottered about in the front room, where the Chronovision stood on its crate in the corner. I really, truly wondered how it worked. It did not have an aerial, for one thing, and it looked just like a down-to-earth 1950s Bakelite television set.
Television sets have always puzzled me. Well, at least the invention of them has. According to history, a Scotsman named John Yogi Bear invented the television set. All on his own. He pieced it together and plugged it in and turned it on. But think about this: there was nothing for him to watch on it, was there? He had invented the first television set but there were no television stations broadcasting programmes. So how did he know that it worked? And even if he did know, somehow, what was the point of it when there were no programmes?
It must have been like inventing the first telephone and then discovering that there was no one you could call up on the phone to boast about it to.
It made no sense to me. And in all the truth that there is, it still makes no sense!
At length, Mr Rune appeared in the front room.
‘Where did you get all that?’ I asked, for he looked simply splendid.
He sported a broad-shouldered long black leather coat that reached almost to the ground, leather biker boots, leather trousers, a leather waistcoat and a leather hat.
‘You do not need to know how I acquired these items,’ said he. ‘Just trust me: in the future, all heroes will dress like this.’
‘I want to dress like that too,’ I said. ‘It looks, well, it looks … cool.’
‘You look “cool” in your own special way,’ said Mr Rune to me. ‘Now let us away to Rock Night,’ and he added, ‘Bitch.’
PART II
Mr Rune strode along Church Road, swinging his stout stick before him, and I took joy in this, although I am not certain why. He brought down a cleric who was riding past on his bike and I took some joy in this also. But Rock Night was not due to start until ten and it was only eight of the evening clock.
‘We will stop in here to partake of alcoholic beverages,’ said Mr Rune, pointing with his stick towards an alehouse we were approaching.
The alehouse was The Albion, and it was as rough as they come.
‘In you go, bitch,’ said Mr Rune. ‘The first round is on you.’
‘Stop calling me that,’ I said as I pressed open the saloon-bar door of The Albion. ‘It is not big and nor is it clever.’
There was a pre-Rock Night crowd taking ale in The Albion – a whole lot of men in black (who had nothing to do with aliens or the CIA) and a whole lot of girlies looking gorgeous. It was a fair old pre-Rock Night crowd, but I did not have to elbow my way to the counter. The crowd sort of parted before me.
Behind the counter stood a fellow clad head to toe in leather. He was all chains and straps and belts with one of those gimp headpieces with the zip-up eyeholes and the zip-up mouth hole, too.
‘Gmmph mmph mmph,’ he said to us.
‘Perhaps you should unzip your mouth hole,’ I suggested to him.
‘Mmph?’ said the gimpish barkeep.
‘And your ear hole
s also.’
Zips were unzipped. ‘Can I help you, sir and madam?’ he said.
‘I know that voice,’ I said. And I did. ‘Fangio, is it you?’
Fangio removed his gimp headpiece. ‘I’m sweating like a Blue Peter presenter in this,’ he said. ‘And helloooo to you.’
‘It is me, Fange,’ I said.
‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced,’ said Fangio. ‘My name is Malcolm. Might I call you bitch?’
‘No, you might not,’ I said. ‘Malcolm?’ I said.
‘It’s a suave name, Malcolm,’ said Fange. And he looked at me closely.
‘Not that close,’ I said, backing away.
‘Are they your own bosoms?’ said Fangio.
‘No, I am wearing them in for a friend.’
‘Rizla, is that you?’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘I am in disguise.’
‘I didn’t notice,’ said Fange. ‘What are you supposed to be? Let me guess. A fireman, is it? Or a Presbyterian?’
‘Two pints of your finest ale,’ said I. ‘And it is very good to see you again.’
‘Two pints of Old Daughter-Slaughter coming up,’ said Fangio. ‘Is that your own navel, by the way?’
‘Just pull the pints.’
‘Great coat, Mister Rune,’ said Fangio as he presented our pints to us. ‘And it’s very good to see you again. I no longer have my bar at Grand Parade – it burned down when the fire spread from your rooms – but happily I was able to save the accounts book. Would you care to settle up what you owe me? I think I might take an early retirement.’
Mr Rune sipped at his pint. ‘Put this upon my new account,’ said he, ‘as this will now be my new local.’
Fangio made groaning sounds. ‘Are those your real legs?’ he asked me.
‘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.’
Lazlo Woodbine
Private Eye
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!
The Brightonomicon Page 33