Retromancer

  ‘You do that very thing,’ said the wife. And fairy-tinklings followed.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘I am planning to pursue certain career opportunities today and will therefore require suitable sustenance of the breakfast persuasion. All found, fried, with double bangers and toast.’

  ‘Bratwurst?’ said the wife.

  ‘Not even close.’ And I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Then—’ And then she spoke, naming other victuals.

  Victuals of a Germanic nature, whose names, I supposed, should they be printed, would be also in that distinctive Gothic font.

  ‘I will have to stop you there,’ I told her. ‘I want the full English.’

  And would not you know it, or would not you not, at the exact moment that I voiced the word English, all conversation momentarily ceased within the Wife’s Legs Café, which made the word sound terribly loud within so very much silence.

  And heads turned towards me and people took to staring.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘What? I want a full English. Where is the problem with this?’ And I stared from face to face of them and they stared back at me.

  In the corner by the door sat octogenarian Old Pete, with his half-spaniel Chips. And Old Pete crossed at himself and I swear that his dog did likewise.

  ‘English,’ I reiterated. ‘The Full English Breakfast. I want one and I want it now.’

  And, ‘Out of my cafe!’ bawled the wife. ‘We’ll have no such sedition here. Go back to Russia, you communist swine.’

  ‘To Russia?’ I said. ‘For an English?’

  But now the wife raised her stirring spoon and menaced me with it. And I heard someone say, as in a stage whisper, ‘Here’s one to be informed upon, there’s bound to be a good bounty.’

  And then I saw the morose-looking fellows in the black uniforms rising from their seats and reaching towards gun-holsters on their hips.

  And I knew then it was time to leave.

  Indeed, and time to run also.

  And run I did, at speed. And any traces of former breeziness and jollity were no longer to be discerned in the style of my urgent perambulation. Out of the door ran I and right off down the street.

  And behind me I heard shoutings. And these in the German tongue. Schnell! Schnell! And Handy-Hok, or so it seemed to me. And these foreign shoutings were not music to my ears and I ran on and on.

  I evaded my pursuers somewhere down near the Memorial Park and settled myself into a hideaway in the midst of a large clump of bushes. This had in childhood days gone by been a camp for John and myself. And I now gnawed at my knuckles and did rockings to and fro. Everything was wrong wrong wrong. All about me it was wrong, yet I seemed the only one to be aware of it.

  I tried to calm down and take stock. It had all begun with Lad Nicholson’s achtungings. And my Aunt Edna offering me Bratwurst and speaking of the Hall of Labour and informing. And then there had been the bilingual street signs and the German sweeties at Old Mr Hartnel’s. And more talk of informing from Norman and then all that at the Wife’s Legs Café.

  What did it all mean?

  And then I had a revelation. As one does. Sometimes.

  German. German. German. And those men in the black uniforms. They were Gestapo. Something terrible had happened. Overnight. Brentford had been invaded. By latter-day Nazis. And not only invaded. The people of Brentford had been brainwashed, perhaps with some top-secret mind-altering drug - brainwashed into believing that everything was all right. As it should be. As it always had been.

  And I was the only one who knew otherwise. Knew the truth - because . . .

  Well, why?

  Because of some special mutant gene in my DNA that made me immune to the mind-altering drugs, perhaps—

  Or more likely—

  Yes, more likely it was because I had been away for a year - a year that Mr Rune had turned into a day. And all of this had gone on while I was away.

  That had to be it. That all made sense.

  ‘Well,’ I whispered to myself, ‘that has to be it. It all falls into place. And—’ and I brightened somewhat at this ‘—I will tell you what it also means.’ And I took out one of my Wild Woodbines. ‘It means that whatever I do today, it will not be seeking employment!’

  4

  And so I smoked my first Wild Woodbine.

  It drew not the admiring glances of my fellows, nor caused the ladies’ hearts to flutter. It made me gag and cough and croak, but such is the way with the smoking.

  I did fannings at the air. I had no wish to be discovered by raising any smoke signals. Nor did I wish for some Nazi officer with a thing about Moses taking an interest in what might appear to be a burning bush.

  I coughed some more, but quietly. Smoking was good for the nerves, I had heard. Far better indeed than the cup of tea that my Aunt Edna considered a universal panacea. But my nerves, alas, were all a-jangle and the Wild Woodbine searing my throat and convulsing my lungs did not seem to be helping much at all. Perhaps I was smoking it wrong.

  I took tiny little sippings of smoke and settled back against a bush trunk that had my own initials carved upon it. This indeed was a fine kettle of fish and things had come to a pretty pass and I was deep in doggy-do which was no fun at all.

  Because, hide as I might now, I would sooner or later have to go home. And it was anybody’s guess, although a reasonably sound one, as to what would be awaiting me there.

  Germans in black uniforms!

  Because this was Brentford and almost everyone knew where I lived. And there were apparently big rewards for informers.

  I took to flapping my hands just a little. Flapping my hands quite a lot and turning around in small circles has always been a habit of mine when I find myself in severe peril. It helps me to concentrate. To focus. And should in no way be confused with a display of terror and blind panic. Certainly not.

  I took deep breaths. I needed a plan.

  And then I thought of Mr Rune.

  What would Hugo do?

  He would bluff and bluster it out, I supposed, then triumph and end the day with a slap-up meal at the Gestapo’s expense. But Mr Rune was not here and so I was going to have to deal with this all on my ownsome. The prospect held no charm.

  I could, of course, make a run for it. Have it away on my toes to parts distant. That would indeed be a plan. Supposing, of course, that this Nazi mind-control-invasion business was a localised affair. Which surely it had to be. The entire country could not be infected by this madness, surely. Across the river to Kew, that would be the best bet, regroup, as it were, and then return. With what? With a liberating army of manly hard-nosed Woodbine-smoking warriors. That would be what’s what.

  ‘Kew it is, then,’ I whispered to myself. And would not you know it, or would not you not, my voice, it seemed, had dropped by an octave. And I had only been smoking for two minutes. Result!

  ‘Kew it is, then,’ I said once more in a gruff voice and manly fashion. And climbing to my feet, I straightened up my shoulders and thrust out my chest. I was on a noble mission here and I was up to the challenge. I slotted the ciggie into the corner of my mouth and stepped from the cover of the bushes.

  And then I skulked away towards the High Street.

  The High Street had undergone sufficient subtle changes for all trace of subtlety to be thoroughly erased.

  Bunting hung across the street. Red bunting with white circular centrepieces on which were displayed the dreaded swastika. And I could hear the distinctive sounds of brass-band music issuing from this open shop doorway and that one too. And there was much in the way of German-manufactured odds and soddery to be seen in each shop window and a selection of German sausages in the butcher’s that was nothing less than a cliché.

  ‘This will not be going on in Kew,’ I whispered hoarsely to myself.

  ‘The posh folk of Kew will be unaffected by this Aryan taint. All will be well in Kew.’

  I turned up the collar of my jacket, despite the clemency of the weather, hu
nched my shoulders and hurried up my steppings.

  ‘Jim,’ I heard a voice call out. And then I took to running.

  ‘Jim - stop, you buffoon. Hold on there, Jim.’

  And I knew that voice, so I stopped and I turned. And there was John Omally. My good friend John. My bestest friend. A friend in need, indeed.

  ‘John,’ I said. And I took a deep breath.

  ‘You have a fag,’ said John Omally. ‘Give us a puff of that fag.’

  ‘Have it, my friend,’ I said. And I would have plucked it from my mouth’s corner, where it was firmly lodged, despite all run and talk, had Omally not beaten me to it.

  ‘A Wild Woodbine,’ he declared. And he took a great toke upon it. And then he took to violent coughing, which cheered me not a little.

  ‘Why were you running away?’ he asked, once he had been able to draw a decent breath and wipe the tears from his eyes.

  ‘The Gestapo are after me,’ I told him.

  ‘Your Aunt Edna has at last informed upon you?’

  I looked hard at Omally. ‘You too,’ I said, in scarce but a whisper. ‘Me too what?’ himself replied.

  ‘This Nazi thing,’ I said. ‘The Nazis, here in Brentford.’

  ‘What about them?’ Omally asked.

  ‘Well, they should not be here, should they?’

  ‘Well, of course they shouldn’t. Which is why you and me will be joining the Resistance. As soon as we’re old enough.’

  ‘The Resistance?’ I said. ‘Oh yes,’ I also said.

  ‘They have to be beaten,’ said Omally. ‘Otherwise you and I are going to have to take to the Work. And I for one of us am not keen at all on that scenario.’

  ‘No,’ said I. ‘Nor me. But I must speak to you of these things and I am all confused. Let us go somewhere and talk.’

  ‘The Wife’s Legs Café?’

  ‘Not there.’

  ‘Then down to Cider Island.’

  Cider Island is a tiny parcel of land that lies for the most part hidden behind tall walls of corrugated iron, down beside the weir. Which is down beside the Thames, which is down at the bottom of Horseferry Lane.

  Where the bushes in the Memorial Park had been our ‘camp’ when we were young, Cider Island had been our ‘hideout’.

  It had not been called Cider Island then, but only later when the local homeless drunkards, having been ejected from their former location, Sherry Plateau, moved in.

  Cider Island slept in the sunlight, as might a fat tomcat in a window box, or a well-loved wife on a Saturday morn. Comfortably. Cosily. Contentedly too. As well they all might.

  John swung aside the sheet of corrugated iron that masked the secret entrance and we two slipped onto Cider Island.

  The drunkards there all snoozed as they might and I followed John down to a ruined barge that lay half-in and half-out of the ancient dock. We boarded this and slipped inside and settled down in the gloom.

  This crumbling hulk did not smell too much of nostalgia, more of dog droppings and drunken man’s wee-wee. It was not an agreeable or healthsome combination, but I was in no mood to be picky.

  ‘I just do not understand it,’ I told John. ‘How it happened. How no one but me seems to know that it is all wrong.’

  ‘We all know it’s wrong,’ said John. ‘All Brentonians. All right-thinking Britishers. As to how it happened, well, that’s just history, isn’t it? We did that at school.’

  ‘We certainly did not,’ I said.

  ‘I do believe that you are drunk,’ said John. ‘Do you have a small bottle about yourself that you are keeping from me?’

  ‘I have no bottle, John. Nor do I have a recollection of any history at school that involved the Germans invading England.’ And then I sighed. Deeply. ‘So Kew is German-occupied too?’ I said.

  ‘All these sceptred isles, except for Scotland. They fought off the Romans and the Germans too. Bravo those kilted lads, say I.’

  ‘And me also. But tell me how it happened, John. Tell me what you say we were taught at school. I cannot remember any of it. I am beginning to think that there might be something wrong with my brain box.’

  ‘More so than usual, eh?’ Omally chuckled. ‘Give us another fag.’

  And I had one too. And we sat and we drew upon them and we coughed in unison and Omally spoke to me.

  ‘Just in case you have only temporarily lost all your ball bearings, I’ll give you a quick rundown. If your memory suddenly returns then tell me and we’ll talk about something else.’

  ‘Go ahead then,’ I said. And Omally did so.

  ‘As far as I remember this,’ he said, ‘and frankly I never did pay too much attention to it at school, because it was history. And who’s interested in history? As far as I remember it, it was getting to the end of the Second World War. And there’d been the D-Day Landings and the British and American troops were pushing across Europe towards Berlin, when everything went arse-up’ards, as it were. Mr Hitler unleashed the ultimate terror weapon and that was that!’

  And he took another toke upon his cigarette and took once more to coughing.

  ‘That, I regret, is insufficient information,’ I sufficiently informed him.

  ‘The bomb,’ said Omally.

  ‘As in atomic bomb?’ I said.

  ‘That would be the lad, yes.’

  ‘The Americans dropped two,’ I said. ‘One on Hiroshima, one on Nagasaki. The bombs were called “Little Boy” and “Fat Man”, the aeroplane that dropped “Little Boy” was called the Enola Gay.’

  ‘You have a vivid imagination, I’ll say that for you,’ said Omally.

  ‘But no, that didn’t happen. The Germans invented the atom bomb first. Wotan invented it for them. And they bombed America with it. Wiped out America. A nuclear desert, it is.’

  ‘A what?’ I went. And I coughed a-plenty. ‘It is a what, did you say?’

  ‘America?’ said John. ‘Destroyed,’ he continued. ‘All gone. And with it the war. We put our hands up. Gave in. The war was lost. England was invaded and a German Government installed. And we grew up under this Government, you and me. Don’t you remember anything, Jim? We played at war in this very barge. This was our HQ hideout. Our bunker. In our war against the Russians.’

  ‘We are at war with the Russians?’ My head was now spinning. This was all too much.

  ‘No, we’re not at war with them. But they are the enemy. Commies are the enemy. We were certainly taught that at school. Every damn day, if I recall correctly. And I do. Very much so.’

  ‘America destroyed,’ I said. ‘I cannot believe it. It is too awful.’

  ‘Could have been worse,’ said John.

  ‘Could have been worse?’ I said.

  ‘Could have been us,’ said John. ‘They could have nuked England as an encore, or instead.’

  And I shook my head. ‘And I do not remember any of this, not one jot.’

  Omally shook his head a bit also. ‘Well, Jim,’ he said, and he said it slowly, ‘you’re not exactly yourself, are you? You went down to Brighton for a St Valentine’s weekend, got thrown into the sea and ambulanced back the next day. And what did you tell me? That you had spent an entire year away, saving the world in the company of a Mr Hugo Ruin.’

  ‘Rune,’ I said. ‘Hugo Rune. The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived.’

  ‘But you were only gone for a single day. I can attest to this. And Norman. And your Aunt Edna. The odds are somewhat stacked against you, Jim. You would appear to be a group of one.’

  ‘Do you think I have gone mad, John?’

  ‘You were in the Special Ward of the Cottage Hospital, Jim. That is where they put the, er, troubled people.’

  ‘I am not mad, John. I have never felt less mad. Never more scared. But never less mad.’

  ‘Whatever you say, my friend. You are my friend, after all, and I’ll stick by you come what may. But you are wrong on this one, you really are. So let’s both hope you get better.’

  And I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Get better?’ I said. ‘Yes, I suppose “get better” will do. I cannot see how things can get any worse.’

  And would not you know it?

  Or would not you not—

  ‘Achtung! Achtung! Come out with your hands held high,’ came an amplified bullhorn sort of a voice. ‘Come out at once, or we’ll send in the hounds.’

  5

  ‘As your memory appears to be somewhat sounder than my own,’ I said to Omally, ‘can you recall whether we had a secret escape route from this childhood hideout of ours?’

  ‘Not as I recall,’ said himself.

  ‘Unfortunate,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps, though, all is not lost.’

  ‘Then speak words of comfort and solicitation to me, sweet friend,’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ said John, ‘just because all is lost for you, that does not mean all is lost for us. So to speak. How would it be if, as you clearly have no way of escaping from this, how shall I put it, death trap - what if I was to play the part of citizen’s arrestor, bop you on the head and then turn you over to the powers that be?’

  ‘And how would this benefit me?’ I asked.

  ‘It would mean that you’d be carried away unconscious, rather than shot upon some flimsy pretext, as often happens.’

  ‘It does?’ I said. ‘Does it?’

  ‘Frequently. Although not to the same person, of course. One man, one bullet, as it were.’

  I made groaning sounds—

  ‘That kind of thing, yes,’ said Omally. ‘So if you were unconscious, or even feigning unconsciousness, it would be well for you.’

  ‘It would?’

  ‘And myself also because I could claim the reward which must surely be currently on your head. You being a commie sympathiser and everything.’

  ‘What?’

  And Omally took a swing at my head.

  But I dodged it nimbly. Or at least as nimbly as I could, considering the confined surroundings. And I did snatch up a length of useful-looking timber from amongst the unspeakable litter that lay all around and about us. And with this timber I did administer a mighty blow to the topknot of my bestest friend.