The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (41 page)

‘Will that work?’

‘Trust me—’ said Hugo Rune.

‘I know,’ I said, sighing. ‘You
are
a magician.’

If everything in life were as simple as that, there would be no trouble in this world. Certainly I bumped into a few lampposts, which I felt certain that Mr Rune could have steered me around. And although
each time he was apologetic, I swear I heard titterings. But at length, and at not very much of one, we had arrived at the station.

And from there, upon a westbound train, we returned at further length to Brighton.

We did not, however, return to our rooms at forty-nine Grand Parade. In fact, we never returned to them again, which was rather sad, really, because I had certainly enjoyed our times together there, all the breakfasting and conversations and whatnots. Not to mention all that damn fine toot I had talked with Fangio in his bar next door. I wondered whether I would ever see Fangio again. It was always possible, I supposed.

There was some unpleasantness at Brighton Station regarding the matter of train tickets. Mr Rune was forced to employ his stout stick and we left the concourse with haste.

Mr Rune surveyed the line of waiting cabs.

‘Splendid,’ said he, blowing breath at the knob of his stout stick and buffing it on his sleeve.

‘Now just hold on,’ I said, ‘are you thinking that we should go at once and attempt to acquire the Chronovision?’

‘There is no time to be lost.’

‘Things are not quite as simple as you might suppose.’

‘We have the map. We have the location. What could be simpler?’

‘Well, firstly,’ I said, ‘and all importantly, it is to do with the matter of the location. The Chronovision is hidden in Whitehawk.’

‘So?’ said Mr Rune.

‘Whitehawk,’ I said. ‘Whitehawk.’

‘Tell me about it in the cab,’ said Mr Rune.

‘Taxis will not drive into Whitehawk.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Rune. ‘The area has something of a reputation, does it?’

‘And
you
call yourself the All-Knowing One?’

‘Tell me about it in the cab.’ And with no further words, he hustled me into the first cab in the rank.

‘Whitehawk, please,’ said Mr Rune.

‘Get out of my cab,’ said the cabbie.

Hugo Rune made impatient sighings. ‘As near to Whitehawk as you dare, then.’

‘Kemptown,’ said the cabbie. ‘Soon have you there.’

Then he did as all Brighton cabbies do, and drove ‘the pretty way’.

And while he drove this pretty way, which included areas of Hove and Hangleton, I put Mr Rune in the picture regarding the matter of Whitehawk.

It is a fact well known to those who know it well, that if anything –
anything
– gets nicked in Brighton, then no matter what that thing may be, it will end up in Whitehawk.

The plain folk of Brighton consider Whitehawk to be a vast Fagin’s kitchen, peopled by old rogues who send out young fellow-me-lads who all look curiously alike, all being small, tattooed and bony-faced and given to the sporting of sportswear and either the ‘hoodie’ – a kind of hooded sweatshirt that protects the wearer’s facial features from CCTV cameras – or the ever-popular mock-Burberry baseball cap.

Now, I do not know what it is about baseball caps. Perhaps it is their tightness, but it always appears to me that simply putting on such a cap seems to reduce the wearer’s IQ to single figures.

However, regarding Whitehawk.

Whitehawk has an evil reputation.

History records that the original settlers were Amerindians, or ‘Redskins’ as they were popularly known before the days of political correctness. These Redskins had set out from their native shores to discover China, but their canoes were sucked into the Gulf Stream and then blown along the English Channel. Chief Whitehawk, the leader of the expedition, purchased a parcel of land from the Prince Regent in exchange for a couple of squaws and a tomahawk called The Widow-Maker
^*
to which Prinny had taken a fancy.

And Chief Whitehawk had been blessed with the gift of prophecy and so knew what awaited his descendants on the American continent (which was probably why he had set out for China in the first place). So he was wise enough not to trust the words of the White Devil of the British Isles and insisted upon written deeds of
ownership for the parcel of land he had been given and first dibs on the profits should a marina ever be built nearby. And then he applied for a council grant and oversaw the building of a housing estate upon the land that was now his.

It is said that those whom the nearby pirates of Moulsecoomb considered criminals amongst their own kind were exiled to Whitehawk, where they became slaves to the Redskins.

Whatever happened to the original Redskins history does not record, but many believe that they were eaten.

It remains a fact to this day that even Belfast’s now-legendary ‘Men of Violence’ or the terrorist baddies of Al-Qaeda would think twice about taking a stroll through Whitehawk on a Saturday night.

And it is said that the infamous Kray twins, who grew up there, left in their early teens because they found the place too rough.

Whether Whitehawk
really
deserves its evil reputation, I could not say. For in all truth, as I sat in the cab, explaining all this to Mr Rune, it seemed to me that there were certain things that just did not tie up, one of these being the sheer scale of the stolen-goods situation in Brighton. If only
half
the cars, household items and general all around everythings that were stolen in and around Brighton ended up in Whitehawk, there would surely be so much swag that it would form a pile exceeding in height that of the Great Pyramid of Giza.

And—

But my words upon Whitehawk were constantly being interrupted by the cabbie. His name, it appeared, was Andy and he supported a football team called Brentford United. Whom, he assured us, would not only one day win the FA Cup, but also eventually the World Cup, as Brentford was in reality an independent principality founded by Indian settlers. And then he went on to explain how wheels could not possibly work.

‘Nothing can go in two directions at the same time, can it?’ said Andy.

‘A rubber band can,’ I said. ‘And back again, too.’

‘That’s not what I mean. A wheel can’t go forwards and backwards at the same time, can it?’

‘I would not think so,’ I said.

‘But they do. Here, let me explain. You know what a bicycle is,
don’t you? Yes, of course you do. Well, take a bicycle and turn it upside down, rest it on its saddle and its handlebars. Are you following me? Yes, of course you are. Then with your finger spin the front wheel clockwise as hard as you can. Right?’

‘Right,’ I said and I shrugged.

‘So it’s going around clockwise, right? Now walk around to the other side of the bicycle and watch that wheel spinning around and what do you see?’

I shrugged once more.

‘It’s going anticlockwise. It is, it really is.
^*
But it can’t go in two directions at the same time, can it? But it does. The world has all gone mad nowadays. It’s those signs and portents in the Heavens.’

Andy the cabbie halted his cab in Kemptown.

Mr Rune and I climbed from the cab.

‘That will be fifty-nine pounds, seventeen and six,’ said the cabbie. ‘Let’s call it sixty guineas for cash.’

I looked at Mr Rune.

And Mr Rune looked at me.

‘Can I borrow your stout stick?’ I asked.
^†

After I had dealt with the matter of the fare, Mr Rune and I stood in Portland Road in Kemptown and took stock of our surroundings. Very nice area. Georgian houses, many with balconies, fine sea view, posh people.

‘I assume it is a goodly walk to Whitehawk?’ said Mr Rune.

‘Quite goodly,’ I said, ‘and I am
very
tired.’

And Mr Rune looked at me.

And I looked at Mr Rune.

‘We will take Andy’s cab, then,’ I said.

We put Andy in the boot, where he could come to no harm, and I drove on towards Whitehawk. But I was not keen.

‘This is
not
a good idea,’ I said. ‘I would prefer not to drive into Whitehawk in anything less than a Sherman tank.’

But nevertheless, we left what is known as civilisation behind and
wove our way into the wastelands of Whitehawk. The burned-out cars and rubble on the roads did not inspire confidence.

‘Can you drive any faster?’ asked Mr Rune from the rear seats.

‘I am pretty nifty at driving now,’ I told him, ‘but I would not care to chance my arm at anything too swift hereabouts, what with all these potholes in the road. And there are stingers out, too,’ and I swerved around one.

‘Well,’ said Mr Rune. ‘If you cannot. It’s only that we
have
been followed ever since we left the station.’

I glanced into the rear-view mirror. Behind us travelled an evil-looking car, all black including the windows, but with a lot of chrome upon its bumper parts.
^*

‘Count Otto Black?’ I said. And I shuddered when I said it.

‘Or at least his minions. It would not have taken the brain of that overrated oaf Einstein to have drawn the obvious conclusion that we would return to Brighton by train. They were waiting for us at the station.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

Mr Rune spread the map upon his great big knees. ‘According to this, we are not far distant from our destination. Let them catch up a bit, then accelerate, signal left and take the first turning right.’

‘As if
that
is going to work.’

Mr Rune made sighing sounds. ‘I recall,’ said he, ‘chatting with JFK shortly before he was driven along Dealey Plaza. “It looks like rain,” I said. “Best have the driver put the roof up on your convertible. You wouldn’t want your wife to get her dress wet.” But did he listen?’

‘That is very tasteless,’ I said. And I let the evil black car catch up, and then I accelerated, signalled left and took a sharp right turn.

‘Lost them,’ said Mr Rune. ‘For a moment at least. Left again and then first right. You’re doing very well.’

‘I am falling asleep at the wheel,’ I said.

‘We’ll soon be there.’

And very soon we were.

In a horrible houseless cul-de-sac, with high brick walls to either side of us and another one ahead.

‘We have come the wrong way,’ I said, with some degree of panic, ‘and we are boxed in. There is no way out. This is not good. This is definitely not good.’

‘Take deep breaths and steady yourself. It is just as I expected.’

‘There is nothing here. Just walls.’

‘We are where we should be.’

‘This cannot be right.’

Mr Rune passed the map to me and said, ‘Study the map, young Rizla.’

I studied the map and looked back at him. ‘We must have come the wrong way,’ I said. ‘This cul-de-sac is not on the map, as far as I can see. We came up this road,’ and I pointed, ‘along here, then turned right here, then left again, then first right. But first right is not on the map. We are lost.’

‘We are
exactly
where we should be. This cul-de-sac is
not
on the map.’

‘Why not?’

Mr Rune grinned at me. ‘Because this cul-de-sac is within one of the Forbidden Zones,’ said he. ‘Surely you read of them in my masterwork
The Book of Ultimate Truths.
I clearly recall giving the tome to you to read and memorise. I impressed upon you the importance of what was written therein. Don’t tell me that you never read it.’

‘I did flick through it,’ I said, ‘but the newsagent’s down the road from our rooms had all these Lazlo Woodbine thrillers that I had never read and—’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Well, this explains much, such as when on our previous cases you said that you couldn’t have solved them because you lacked for my prior knowledge. I thought that you were simply being modest, or perhaps amusing, as the necessary details are all to be found within
The Book of Ultimate Truths.’

‘Yes, well perhaps I will read it later. For now I think I had better back us out of this death trap before the black car boxes us in.’

No, no, no,’ and Hugo Rune shook his head. ‘As you have never
read my book,’ he said, ‘have you ever wondered why I have such a down upon cabbies?’

‘It has crossed my mind,’ I said. ‘I just put it down to your dislike of paying for anything.’

‘No, my dear boy. It is much more than that. It has to do with the
London A to Z, a
map book that purports to display to its buyer all the streets of London. In fact, it does anything but. “A to Z” stands for “Allocated Zones”, those zones in which ordinary mortals are allowed to travel. But there are other zones in London hidden from the general public. London is far bigger than it appears to be on any map. In fact, the world is far larger than it appears to be on any map, which can be easily demonstrated if you have a rectangular map of the world and attempt to fold it around a sphere of a similar scale. You will find a lot of leftover map. The Forbidden Zones. London cabbies – in fact,
all
cabbies – know of these zones because they are members of a secret organisation known as BOLLOCK.’