Retromancer

  SIGNS AND PORTENTS IN THE HEAVENS

  A BRENTFORD shopkeeper, Mr Norman Hartnel, telephoned our offices to report an extraordinary phenomenon in the sky above the borough last night. Mr Hartnel (27) said that he had witnessed a huge wheeled craft apparently pulled by flying horses. Mr Hartnel is teetotal. Did other readers witness this?

  ‘Norman Hartnel,’ I said. ‘The father of one of my bestest friends. But wheeled craft, pulled by flying horses, what of this?’

  ‘What of this indeed, young Rizla. Have you the tarot cards about you?’

  ‘Yes, as ever,’ I said. And I patted my pocket.

  ‘Then dip your hand in and pull out a single one.’

  I dipped my hand in and did as I was bid.

  Examined the card and said, ‘It is called THE CHARIOT.’

  ‘With winged horses and all?’ asked the Magus.

  ‘With winged horses and all,’ I said. But there were no winged horses.

  ‘Then that would seem about right. Drink up, Rizla, and then we’ll take luncheon and then we’ll see what we’ll see.’

  25

  I was really rather looking forward to meeting up again with Old Mr Hartnel. Or Young Mr Hartnel, as he was now.

  Mr Rune still maintained his vigilance when it came to me wandering alone upon the streets of Brentford. He hinted that dire consequences could result. And these hints included the hint that I might somehow create a quantum paradox which would bring about the destruction of the universe by triggering a transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. Although personally I felt that he was over-buttering the curate’s egg.

  But wander I did not. And my only strollings through Brentford were done in the company of Hugo Artemis Solon Saturnicus Reginald Arthur Rune.

  And, after considerable lunchings and liberal quaffings of guest ales with names such as Caslon Old Face and Baskerville Bold, we said our farewells to those at The Purple Princess and took ourselves down the road a piece to Norman Hartnel’s corner shop.

  Oh yes indeed, and I gazed in through the windows, which then were most clean and most polished. Oh yes, there the Wild Woodbine flowered upon colourful show cards and stand-up displays. And there too were many other products of the tobacconist’s and confectioner’s persuasion. Products that I had no knowledge of. Which had clearly never made it through to the nineteen fifties and sixties.

  I spied Atomic Tipped, ‘a brand-new concept in smoking pleasure, containing 15% strontium 90’. Also lead-flavoured crisps. Tiger-eye toffees (containing real toffee). And X-Ray Gums, each gum ‘bathed in the health-giving rays of the X’.

  And I felt somewhat cheated. We never got to taste such goodies in the austere fifties. These people of the nineteen forties never knew quite how lucky they were.

  A doodlebug whistled overhead.

  And I choked on my thoughts.

  ‘Right, now,’ said Hugo Rune, bringing my progress towards the shop door of Mr Hartnel to a halt with his brand-new smart stout stick. ‘Just a minor matter or two before we proceed. You have previously entered this establishment, have you not?’

  I nodded that I had. Previously, in the future.

  ‘And so you have met Mr Hartnel?’

  I nodded that this was the case.

  ‘Then I want none of it,’ Hugo Rune said.

  ‘None of what?’ I asked, most baffled.

  ‘None of your jiggery-pokery, my fine fellow. It might just cross your mind, in the spirit of mischievousness, to impart something to Mr Hartnel in the hope that he might act upon it. So that, when we return to the future, you can check whether he did and if he has, then do some more of that foolish nail-buffing buffoonery that you have become so fond of.’

  ‘Such a thing has never crossed my mind,’ I said, although I suppose my thoughts had indeed been moving in this, or a somewhat similar, direction. I had been thinking that I could perhaps make some prediction that Mr Hartnel would pass on to his son. One that I could then take the credit for. Because, and I did know this well enough, no one was ever going to believe that I had travelled into the past with Hugo Rune. So - perhaps—

  ‘No!’ said Hugo Rune. ‘It is one of the reasons that I keep you from wandering the streets alone. It can do great harm. Swear to me that you will do no such thing, nor any other such thing. Now swear.’

  And I spat onto my finger and said, ‘See this wet, see this dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie.’ Though frankly it pained me to do it.

  ‘Good enough,’ said Hugo Rune and led the way inside.

  And it smelled the same! It actually did. Although the last time I had smelled it, it bore the taint of the Bottomless Pit that Norman junior had uncovered in the kitchenette. But now the shop smelled as it should and looked as it should. And it looked and it smelled wonderfully.

  Newer, but basically the same.

  But for the boxes, of course. And there were many of these, stacked upon floor and countertop. Cardboard boxes they were, bearing numbers and symbols suggestive of a military origin.

  I looked at Mr Rune.

  He looked at me.

  And both of us spoke the name, ‘Fangio.’

  And up from behind the counter bobbed the head of Mr Hartnel. And that head gave me something of a start, so closely did it resemble the looks of my Norman.

  Like father like son indeed. But somewhat spooky when seen in this order.

  ‘How might I help you, gentlemen?’ And Mr Hartnel took from the top pocket of his brown shopkeeper’s coat a pair of pince-nez and slotted them onto his nose. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mr Rune. And who is this young schoolboy with you? A regular scallywag, he appears to be. Would you care for a toffee, young fellow?’ And he dug into an open toffee jar upon the counter and proffered a toffee to me.

  ‘No thank you,’ I said, taking half a step back. ‘And I will have you know that I am not a schoolboy. And also that offering sweeties to children is not considered politically correct.’

  And Hugo Rune smote me with his stick.

  And, ‘Ouch!’ I cried, with very good reason.

  ‘Not off to a good start,’ the Magus whispered gruffly into my ear. ‘Keep silent and keep your wits about you.’

  And I rubbed my ear, where the smiting had smitten, and nodded my head that I would.

  ‘He can be a naughty boy,’ said Hugo Rune to Mr Hartnel, ‘but he generally responds to a good smacking.’

  ‘Would you care for me to lay into him?’ Mr Hartnel asked. ‘I’ve been practising my smacking lately and also my jumping-out. Please observe.’ And he ducked down beneath the counter level then suddenly jumped out further along, to most alarming effect.

  I fell further back in shock.

  And Mr Rune said it was ‘nice jumping-out’.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘So would you care for me to take a swing or two at him for good measure?’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind, should the need arise,’ said Himself. ‘But for now I am here upon more pressing business.’

  ‘The cigars that you ordered, of course. Although, and it pains me greatly to mention this matter. A matter regarding your account. It was agreed that it would be paid six-monthly. And now six years have passed.’

  ‘Good God, man!’ cried Hugo Rune, throwing up his stick-bearing hand. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

  ‘Well, of course, yes. I’m so sorry to bring the matter up.’

  ‘Then just don’t do it again. I am here upon far weightier affairs than a few pounds’ worth of cigars!’

  ‘A few hundred pounds’ worth,’ said Mr Hartnel, in the tone that is known as ‘hopeless’ and the manner known as ‘doomed’.

  ‘Details, details. I am here at the behest of the Ministry of Serendipity. ’ And I raised my eyebrows to this. For I knew we were not. ‘Are you aware of this august body?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘They are a secret organisation that represents the real power behind throne and Government.’

  I raised my eyebrows
also to this. The Ministry of Serendipity was both of these things. But it was also Top Secret.

  Mr Rune and Mr Hartnel joined hands in a certain fashion. And I noticed for the first time that Mr Hartnel wore a Masonic ring upon his left-hand pinkie finger.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And I am here regarding your vision.’

  ‘The chariot drawn by the winged horses, as the local rag reported it? How might this be of interest to the Ministry?’

  ‘The Ministry takes an interest in all things.’ Hugo Rune put great emphasis on the final two words of this statement. ‘These boxes here, for instance.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Hartnel, his face taking on a haunted expression. ‘I’m disposing of them. They’re gremlins. The very scourge of the War Effort. As a member of the Home Guard I have taken on the responsibility for disposing of them. They’re not too easy to get rid of, you see, but I’m doing my best. Fangio at The Purple Princess kindly took a load off my hands.’

  I looked up at Hugo Rune.

  And he looked down at me.

  ‘You are disposing of them?’ said the mage.

  ‘Oh yes, they’re terribly dangerous. They can break anything. Between you and me, and I say this to you as you are of the Brotherhood and my walls have no ears at all. These gremlins were developed by the Ministry of Serendipity. They were to be dropped by parachute onto German armament factories to disrupt production. The Nazi War Machine is gremlin-free, you see. But the gremlins multiplied and now they must be disposed of.’

  ‘Then why not simply drop them on Germany?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s speaking out of turn again,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘Should I take off my shoe and belabour him with it?’

  ‘It’s tempting,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But no. However, his point is well made. Why did the RAF not drop the gremlins on Germany?’

  ‘They tried, but the gremlins got free in the aircraft, ruined the control systems, brought down an entire squadron. That newly knighted Squadron Leader Lancaster parachuted into the English Channel. It was three days before he was washed up at Dover and then he got arrested and interrogated - they thought he was a German spy.’

  Both Hugo Rune and I grinned somewhat at this, which perhaps was not altogether nice of us.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mr Hartnel, ‘I am now in charge of the disposal of these gremlins, before they can do any more damage.’

  Hugo Rune nodded thoughtfully. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Hartnel, ‘between you and me, I thought I’d just dig a hole under the kitchenette and bung them all into it.’

  ‘No!’ I screamed. ‘You must not do that !’

  And Mr Hartnel hit me with his shoe.

  26

  The shoe-hitting scarcely quietened me down and I made loud my protestations that Mr Hartnel should not engage in any excavation work within his kitchenette.

  Hugo Rune hauled me from the premises and demanded an explanation. And when I gave it to him, he stroked at his chin and nodded his head and said the words, ‘Well done, Rizla.’

  ‘I did the right thing by speaking out?’ I asked.

  ‘You did. Now say no more and leave all further speaking to me.’

  And we returned inside.

  Mr Hartnel was nowhere to be seen. But I suspected that I knew what was coming and so did not fall back in alarm a second time when he jumped out on us.

  ‘Bravo,’ said Hugo Rune, miming the clapping of hands. ‘Now, as time and the tide wait not even for Norman, I suggest that we get down to business. Tell me everything you can remember about this vision of yours and in return I will take personal responsibility for the disposal of the gremlins, to save you soiling your sensitive hands with the digging.’

  ‘Sensitive hands?’ said Norman Hartnel. ‘Well, my mother did say that with hands like mine I should be a pianist. But then she came to a sad end when she was attacked by a piano.’

  I mouthed, ‘What?’ but did not say it aloud.

  ‘The vision,’ said Hugo Rune.

  And Mr Hartnel told us what he knew.

  ‘It came about this way,’ he told us. ‘I am a member of the Church of Banjoleleology. I know the local paper has damned it as an End Times Cult and scorns and condemns our credos, but we are good people, Mr Rune, who mean no harm to others. All we ask for is the freedom to worship in the church of our choice. And the council agreed that as long as we eschew the practices of human sacrifice and drinking the blood of children, then we should be left to our own devices and desires.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Do you dance around in your bare scuddies at all?’

  ‘Most of the time,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘Particularly on Thursday nights at nine at the Good Shepherd Hall in South Ealing Road.’

  ‘Many lady members?’ Hugo Rune enquired.

  ‘They outnumber gentlemen two to one.’

  ‘I might swing by next Thursday,’ said the Perfect Master. ‘Now pray continue with your most interesting narrative.’

  And Mr Hartnel continued.

  ‘The Church of Banjoleleology holds to the belief,’ he continued, ‘that George Formby is an Ascended Master and that the lyrics and chord-sequences of his songs contain occult wisdom that might be garnered through the practice of strict ritual—’

  Hugo Rune nodded.

  ‘And the imbibing of strong hallucinogenics.’

  ‘I’ll tag Thursday night in my diary, then.’

  And Mr Hartnel continued.

  ‘To be entirely honest with you, as you are a Brother Under the Arch, we have not as yet garnered any specific knowledge. But we work hard at it, with the drugs and the frenzied dancing to his records.’

  ‘Most worthy,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But am I to understand that the vision of the flying chariot occurred when you were under the influence of strange drugs?’

  ‘Oh no, certainly not. I was on my way to the service when I was granted the vision. I told the congregation and all agreed that I had been greatly blessed. There was much bare-scuddy dancing right up close that night, I can tell you.’

  ‘A flying chariot?’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘It was nothing of the sort,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘That is the way the local rag reported it, but that is not the way it was. I did not see a flying chariot. What I saw was George, astride a motorcycle combination, and he was riding in the TT Races.’

  Mr Rune looked momentarily baffled.

  Happily the moment soon passed and he was once more himself.

  ‘A motorcycle combination?’ he said. ‘With George at the throttle, as it were?’

  Mr Hartnel made a ‘so-so’ face. ‘I admit that I told the congregation that it looked like George. But to be totally honest, it did not look too much like George. The fellow who drove the motorbike was long and gaunt and heavily bearded and he wore a long black leather coat, the tails of which trailed out behind him as he flew along.’

  Hugo Rune nodded. Thoughtfully.

  ‘And one more thing,’ said Mr Hartnel. ‘It wasn’t a vision. It was the real thing. I heard the stuttering of the engine and what I saw was solid as solid could be. It flew over Brentford and vanished into the clouds in the direction of Isleworth.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘My colleague here will return later in the day to collect the boxed gremlins. The information you have supplied will be of considerable interest to the Ministry. Farewell, Brother.’

  And Hugo Rune gave a curious salute and he and I departed.

  ‘And what do you make of all that?’ I asked when we were once more a-strolling.

  ‘Much,’ said the Magus. ‘Much indeed. And all of it alarming.’

  ‘It seems the day to be alarmed,’ I said. ‘That Mr Hartnel had me greatly so with his jumping-out. What do you make of it all? Is he simply a stone-bonker?’

  ‘A stone-bonker, Rizla? Certainly not. Think about what he said. The motorcyclist in the sky. Long and gaunt and heavily bearded, wearing a flowing leather coat. Ring
any funeral bells, young Rizla?’

  ‘Count Otto Black,’ I said.

  ‘The count if ever it was him. Have you come to any conclusions yourself, regarding this?’

  ‘Only that it is best not to draw any conclusions until you are in command of all the information.’ And I came so near to doing that annoying nail-buffing thing once more. But happily resisted the temptation.

  ‘How about hazarding a guess, then?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘If it is a guess you are wanting, then how about this one? Count Otto Black has made contact with space aliens and they have furnished him with advanced technology. He was testing out some kind of new-fangled flying craft, possibly powered by the ever-popular, yet enigmatic, transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter, when Mr Hartnel saw him.’

  And I ducked the coming blow.

  But the coming blow never came.

  ‘You might well have something there,’ said Himself. ‘We will play this one close to our chests.’

  ‘How so?’ I so enquired. ‘The count has flown away. This happened the night before last - he will be long gone by now.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘As I told you, our names are forever linked. And even though he is evil and in the pay of the Führer, he is never far away from me.’

  I nodded my head at this intelligence. ‘I suppose the Nazi fashions would suit him,’ I said. ‘All that SS-black-and-leather look. Right up his street, really.’

  Hugo Rune did chucklings. And I was glad for them.

  ‘One thing that always puzzled me about the SS,’ I said, ‘was that they had skulls on their caps. Did they never look in the mirror and say, “Hang about, we have the skulls on our caps. Surely that makes us the baddies?” ’

  And Hugo Rune did further chucklings.

  Causing more gladness from me.

  ‘So what are your plans?’ I asked, when we had strolled some more. And not in the direction of The Purple Princess, which would have been my first port of call.

  ‘We are going to my workshop,’ said the Magus. ‘Well prepared is best prepared and things of that nature generally.’