The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (46 page)

‘I gave Robert Johnson the formula,’ said Mr Rune, ‘the chord sequences that later musicians would recognise to be
the
chord sequences. All rock music is based upon those chord sequences. This event—’ And Mr Rune pointed to the Rock Night advert in the
Leader
‘—could not have occurred had heavy-metal music not come to pass. It also required the invention of the Stratocaster and the Marshall stack. Naturally I had a hand in these also.’

‘Naturally,’ I said, shovelling egg down my throat.

‘So that this event would come to pass, here in Hove tonight.’

‘Why?’ I asked. Which
was
a reasonable question.

‘Because I have to meet and speak with Him. And He will be present at the event.’

‘Why will this
He
be there?’ I asked.

‘Because
He
is a heavy-metal fan.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘But who
is
He?’

Mr Rune mopped up the grease from his plate with his toast and then downed the toast. ‘He,’ said Mr Rune, ‘is the Wiseman of Withdean. The last in His line.
He
is a direct descendant – the last direct descendant – of the man you saw upon the Chronovision.’

‘Little Tich?’ I said. ‘I did like his Big-Boot Dance.’

‘Not
Little Tich,’ said Mr Rune, and his non-food-stuffing hand moved to the stout stick that lay across his lap.

‘Only joking,’ I said. ‘Then whom?’

‘He is the last direct descendant of Jesus Christ.’

I was very glad that I did
not
have da-bigga-da-sausage in my mouth at that moment, for surely I would have coughed it all over Hugo Rune.

‘The last direct descendant of Jesus Christ?’ I managed to say.

‘Christ did
not
die upon the cross,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Me and the other disciples could not bear for that to happen. Matthew bribed Pilate to have Christ taken down before he died, although he feigned
death and word was put about that he was dead. He was tended to and returned to health and smuggled out of the Holy Lands by Joseph of Aromatherapy. He was brought to England, to Brighton, in fact, and from thence to a London borough known as Brentford.’

‘Brentford?’ I said. ‘That rings a bell somewhere.’

‘Brentford is the site where the biblical Garden of Eden was located.’

‘That I do
not
believe,’ was my reply to
that.

‘Flutter your eyelids some more,’ said Mr Rune, ‘and enquire of Mario regarding that third breakfast.’

I did as I was bid and then returned to our conversation. ‘The Garden of Eden was in England?’ I said.

‘Many believe that
all
biblical events occurred in England,’ said Mr Rune, ‘but they didn’t, only those of the Old Testament. Christ married a Brentford lass. He eventually died and was buried there in the borough. I own a house on The Butts Estate in Brentford. The body of Christ lies in a catacomb beneath it, uncorrupted by the ages.’

‘And Christ fathered children?’ I said.

‘Only one,’ said Mr Rune. ‘A boy. Colin.’

‘Colin?’ And I took the opportunity to roll my eyes once again.

‘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
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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 holes 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.