Retromancer
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Also by Robert Rankin:
The Brentford Trilogy:
The Antipope
The Brentford Triangle
East of Ealing
The Sprouts of Wrath
The Brentford Chainstore Massacre
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls
Knees Up Mother Earth
The Armageddon Trilogy:
Armageddon: The Musical
They Came and Ate Us
The Suburban Book of the Day
Cornelius Murphy Trilogy:
The Book of Ultimate Truths
Raiders of the Lost Car Park
The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived
There is a secret trilogy in the middle there, comprised of: The Trilogy That Dare Not Speak Its Name Trilogy:
Sprout Mask Replica
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag
Waiting for Godalming
Plus some fabulous other books, including: The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
And its sequel:
The Toyminator
And then:
The Witches of Chiswick
The Brightonomicon
The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code
Necrophenia
Retromancer
ROBERT RANKIN
Orion
www.orionbooks.co.uk
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © Robert Rankin 2009
All rights reserved.
The right of Robert Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martinís Lane London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
This eBook first published in 2009 by Gollancz.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 0 5750 8679 1
This eBook produced by Jouve, France
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.orionbooks.co.uk
FOR MY GOOD FRIEND
NEIL GARDNER
WITH MANY MANY
MANY THANKS
He named me Rizla, and for one extraordinary year I was his acolyte, his assistant and his amanuensis.
And also too, I would like to think, his friend.
His name was Hugo Artemis Solon Saturnicus Reginald Arthur Rune and I have no qualms in stating that he was without a doubt the most remarkable personage I have ever encountered.
An adventurer and world traveller - ‘of this and many others’, he assured me. One-time circus strongman, prizefighter, expert swords-man and Master of Dimac. Gourmet, connoisseur of fine wines and finer women, mystic, guru to gurus, reinventor of the ocarina, private detective and Best-Dressed Man of Nineteen Thirty-Three. Mr Rune had been there, done that and invented the T-shirt.
Many and marvellous were the claims of this singular individual. That he had once jogged alone to the South Pole, clad in naught but his brogues and shooting-tweeds and sporting upon his head a copy of The Times newspaper that he had fashioned into a hat. This perilous journey he had undertaken to ‘tickle the fancy of a most bewitching lady’ - Scott of the Antarctic’s less famous sister, Dot.1
Everest too - ‘a walk in the park’ - he had conquered, again in his tweeds, although this time with the encumbrance of George Bernard Shaw, to whom he gave a piggyback.
‘I asked Shaw whether he might care to come along for the ride as it were and the buffoon literally took me at my word.’
I confess that it felt natural to me to doubt such extravagant and outlandish claims. But each time I did, some independent piece of corroborative evidence would appear to confer legitimacy upon all that Mr Rune averred.
His was the extravagant shadow, cast in the fashionable places of his day. He was the Man of the Moment, prepared to give his all in the Fight for Right. And his knack for always being in the right place at the right time when history was being made was nothing less than uncanny.
But as is often the case with those whose lives transcend the everyday, Mr Rune was not without his foibles and eccentricities. An inveterate diner-out at swank eateries, he harboured an all but pathological aversion to actually paying for the inordinate quantities of gourmet food and vintage wine that he consumed.
‘I offer the world my genius,’ he often said. ‘All I ask in return is that the world cover my expenses.’
And the brutality he meted out to cabbies, who he would smite with his stout stick upon the flimsiest of pretexts and with next to no provocation, is well recorded.
‘I have no comment to make at this time, your honour.’
Such matters as these might well be viewed as smudges upon his otherwise besmirchless record of public service, but considering the scale of his achievements, they should best be forgiven and forgotten.
During the twelve months that I spent in his exalted company, I aided him in the solution of twelve Cosmic Conundra. The very fabric of human existence hung upon the success of our adventures together and Mr Rune being Mr Rune came through and saved the day.
I chronicled these adventures in a book entitled The Brightonomicon, which later became an award-winning radio series starring that distinguished Shakespearian actor David Warner in the part of Mr Rune.
The Brightonomicon, or Brighton Zodiac as it was also called, consisted of twelve new zodiac signs discovered by Mr Rune. Carriageway constellations, formed from the layout of roads and streets in Brighton.
Each zodiac sign represented one of the Cosmic Conundra that we had to solve in order that the fabric of human existence should remain unfrayed. And each in turn led us closer to our ultimate Mankind-saving goal of acquiring the Chronovision.
The Chronovision was a ‘window upon time’, a fantastic device created by a Benedictine monk named Father Ernetti. It resembled a nineteen-fifties-style Bakelite television set, but there all connection with normalcy ended. Because upon its screen could be viewed events that had occurred in the past. Events that had taken place long before the invention of television.
I myself can vouch for its authenticity because I had the chilling experience of watching the actual crucifixion of Christ on the Chronovision. Something that moved me beyond words and which I will never forget.
Twelve Cosmic Conundra, each a case to be solved, we solved together, and at last secured the Chronovision.
At times I felt that the route we took was somewhat circuitous and availed Mr Rune of my opinions regarding this. But he always put me straight upon the matter.
‘There are always twelve cases,’ he told me, ‘and all are always to do with time. It is what I do and what I am. This is how it has always been and how it must always be. Twelve Cosmic Conundra, twelve cases to be solved, all leading as one to a final solution.’
And who was I to doubt him? Because in the end we succeeded and I felt that I played my part. And what times we had. Fraught with peril and danger, but filled with excitement. What thrills.
The cases were outré and their outcome unpredictable (although Mr Rune would perhaps argue otherwise regarding the unpredictability). Peopled with extraordinary personalities. Bartholomew the Bog Troll Buccaneer, Chief Whitehawk, Fangio the ever-present barlord. Not to mention Norris Styver, the demonic driver of a phantom Morris Minor that circumnavigates the one-way system of Lewes for ever and ever. And indeed Mr Rune’s arch-enemy, the Moriarty to his Holmes. The most evil man who ever lived, Count Otto Black.
How vividly I recall these cases, involving as they did an atomic-powered subterranean ark, space crabs from another galaxy, a statue of Queen Victoria that wept tears of Earl Grey, a killer robot from the past, numerous pirates, sundry supernatural entities, witches, weirdos and countless tiny spaniels. And, I must add, it was with considerable awe that I came to meet Lord Tobes, the many-times great-grandson of Jesus Christ.
It was indeed a very big adventure.
And when it was all over, I returned to the world of the everyday. Conveyed back into it by Mr Rune in such a fashion that although a year had passed for me, but a single day had passed for those in that everyday world.
And I returned to my life, my everyday life, as an unemployed teenager in a West London suburb called Brentford. And I must confess that in doing so I came to feel a certain lack. For after the wonders I had seen and the dangers and thrills I had encountered, this everyday world now held little charm for me. And I wondered whether I would ever see Mr Hugo Rune again. And indeed whether Mr Hugo Rune had actually existed, and whether my adventures in the company of that astonishing individual were nothing more than Far-Fetched Fiction. And had it not been for certain tangible items that remained in my possession to assure me of the reality of my adventures, these conclusions may well have been drawn by me, as they were by others to whom I revealed them.
Ah, yes, for a single year I had inhabited a world of wonder. But I now knew that it was over and so I must apply myself to that terrible something which inspires horror and disgust within the minds of all right-thinking teenagers.
That the awful blight that must inevitably fall upon them must also fall upon me.
That I must embrace and engage with the real and the everyday and take on the . . . Regular Employment.
1
But before that, let me record but briefly. Regarding myself, my name is James Arbuthnot Pooley and I was born, educated and live in Brentford, which is acknowledged by many to be London’s most beautiful borough. It lies to the west of the capital, lovingly cradled in an aqueous elbow of old Mother Thames. It is home.
For the most part Brentford has escaped the monstrous excesses and wanton vandalism of the town planning department, retaining its period charm, with notable historic vistas that bring joy to all who behold them. Blessed indeed are the fine folk of Brentford and proud am I to be one of them.
My parents I do not remember. The precise circumstances of their demise have never been made known to me. An accident, I have been given to understand. A family tragedy. And although I have asked many times I have as yet to receive a satisfactory reply.
Both mother and father to me has been my Aunt Edna. A cheery soul, who bustles about in an abundance of gingham, doing all that she can to school me in the ways of the world and teach me ‘values’. Noble values these - friendship, chivalry, trustworthiness, compassion and the rest. To be virtuous, to be decent, and I do try to be good.
And so it is with some regret that I must begin this tale in a more fragile state than would normally be my wont. For I confess that the previous night I had engaged most liberally in the pleasures of the pump room.
I had downed much beer, in celebration of my return from my year-long adventure, and I had done this in the company of my bestest friend, John Vincent Omally.
John is Irish born and Brentford bred. A lad of my own age, if perhaps lacking for my natural sophistication. A rough diamond, but a mucker, a mate, my chum.
We had drunk and we had ambled home, the borough bathed by moonlight of the fullest. Such beauty as to make a fellow sigh.
But now to awake in suddenness.
And shock. Upon this February morning.
The sunlight pierced the gap between my curtains, striped the laundered linen of my pillow, worried at my eyelids, warmed upon my chin. And I did yawnings of the mouth and awoke as the world went wild.
‘Achtung! Achtung! And a guten Morgen.’ Or so it sounded to me. And it came loudly to my ears and I liked not its sounding.
This din came from the electric alarm clock wireless set, which had been a present to me from my Aunt Edna. That its rantings should encourage me from bed each morning and urge me off on my way to work.
Work being something that my aunt spoke seriously and often about to me. For she was keen that I get to it.
For myself, well—
‘Achtung! Achtung!’ went that voice once more. And I knew well that voice. It was the voice of Mickey Nicholson, or Lad Nicholson as he preferred to be called. Or the Voice of Free Radio Brentford, as he was widely known in the borough.
Free Radio Brentford was our local pirate station. It operated from the interior of a commandeered Post Office van, which the Lad kept on the move to avoid detection by the authorities.
Its transmitter had been cobbled together from an extraordinary collection of bits and bobs and a great deal of Meccano by Norman Hartnel (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel). Norman was a good friend of mine, whose daddy owned the corner shop on the Ealing Road.
‘Achtung! Achtung! Achtung!’
‘What is all this achtunging?’ I dragged myself from the desecrated comfort of my cosy bed and sought to tear the wireless set’s plug from the socket. A task I did of a morning. If I had neglected to do it of a night before. And here I encountered an anomaly. Today there was no plug to be found; the cable simply vanished into the wall.
‘Most unsporting, Aunt Edna,’ I said. And I shook the alarm clock wireless set affair about. There did not appear to be an on/off switch on it either.
Lad Nicholson was now prattling on about what a great day today was for the workers and how if we all just pulled together that little bit harder, then an assured future of peace and prosperity awaited us.
This I found somewhat odd. This was hardly his usual style. The Lad’s usual style was somewhat more laid-back, prettily coloured by the heroic quantities of recreational drugs he was known to consume. This being the swinging sixties and everything. So what all this a
chtunging was about was anyone’s guess, but not mine, I concluded.
I smothered the alarm clock wireless set jobbie beneath my pillow, dragging my sheet and blanket over it too to staunch the sonic assault on my person.
And then I sat down on the lot of it.
‘Acthung!’ I said. ‘What next?’
My Aunt Edna was of that order of sensible beings who understand the value of a hearty breakfast. That it is the most important meal of the day. The very foundation upon which all that lies ahead might be built. Oh yes.
And I was determined that I would tackle same, whilst giving thoughtful contemplation to the matter of regular employment, and so I dressed, vacated my bedroom and took myself down to the kitchen.
To confront another anomaly.
‘What is this?’ I so enquired, as I viewed the plate before me. The gas-ring goddess smiled down at my person between her bounteous bosoms.
And said the word, ‘Bratwurst.’
‘Bratwurst?’ I queried.
‘Bratwurst,’ she confirmed. ‘The very Führer of the sausage world. Pork and veal, with salt and pepper, nutmeg, parsley, marjoram, celery seed and ginger.’
‘That sounds appalling,’ was my opinion. ‘Whatever happened to the usual bacon and eggs? And English sausages? And black pudding? And the fried slice? And—’
Aunt Edna took to laughing to the busting of her bust. She placed her hands upon her hips, rocked to and fro and scuffed her blakeys on the tiled floor. Which caused static electricity to crackle between the knees of her surgical stockings.
‘You’ll be the death of me,’ she managed, breathlessly, between great gustos of hilarity. ‘Whatever next, as I live and breathe, oh mercy, mercy me.’
And then, still chuckling and sparking about the knee regions, she took herself off to the Krupps to brew coffee.