The Brightonomicon

  And let us not forget the Chevalier Effect. It all makes perfect sense really.

  The DJ’s name was Tim McGregor, an ample Scotsman, large of beard and hair. And as chance, coincidence or bloodlines would have it, Tim was a direct descendant of Rob Roy McGregor, the man who invented croquet. Small world, eh?

  Tim cried words into his microphone and down upon the dance floor beneath the stage and his decks, headbanging was all the rage and there was certainly good rockin’ that night.

  ‘It’s hard to believe that Lemmy once played with Hawkwind,’ said Mr Rune to me. ‘And with Sam Gopal – he was lead singer on ‘Escalator’, which was something of a garage-psych classic.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘Have a word with yourself, please.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Mr Rune to me, as I handed him his pint of Old Back-Masker, which I hadn’t had to pay for, as the barman fancied me. ‘Although this may be God’s own music, we are here upon God’s own mission, and we must find His son’s last descendant amongst this swarthy crew.’

  ‘Perhaps if you shouted out that you were really hungry, he might turn up with a bottomless packet of crisps?’

  ‘I do believe that you still harbour one or two doubts.’

  ‘Only trying to defend my sanity. I know I will lose in the end.’

  ‘That large Sapphist with the moustache over there has taken quite a shine to you.’

  ‘Stop it!’ I said. ‘I am your bitch, do you not remember?’

  And Mr Rune laughed, and I laughed, so something must have been funny somewhere.

  ‘I will miss you,’ said Mr Rune, ‘when all this is over.’ And he patted me upon the shoulder.

  ‘You have very cold hands,’ I said. ‘I wish I had kept my coat on.’

  ‘You look adorable,’ said Mr Rune. ‘But he is here somewhere, and we must find him.’

  ‘They all look the same to me,’ I said. ‘How will we know which one is him?’

  ‘We will know,’ said Mr Rune. ‘We will know.’

  Tim McGregor put on ‘Killers’ by Iron Maiden.

  ‘That wouldn’t have been my second record,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I would have probably gone for “Mouth For War” by Pantera or “Heart of Darkness” by Arch Enemy.’

  ‘Or you might have chosen Slayer’s “Raining Blood”. It is a classic. Or possibly even Widowmaker’s “Eat Everybody”,’ I said, as if I knew what I was talking about. Which I did not.

  ‘And if Fangio were here, you might well have got nearly two pages out of such a conversation. However.’ And Mr Rune went off to the gents.

  I stood at the bar and leaned upon it, too, and sipped at my pint of Old Back-Masker.

  A fellow with a somewhat lived-in face sidled up to me. He had long black hair and a bit of a beard and a black and tatty T-shirt, too, so he fitted in quite well with the rest of the throng. There was a certain twang of the brewer’s craft surrounding him and it was clear to me that here was a chap who was not unacquainted with the pleasures of the pot room. He introduced himself to me as being Tobes de Valois.

  And this he did between great belchings and hiccups.

  ‘Are you here on your own?’ asked Tobes as he swayed about before me.

  ‘I am looking for someone,’ I said, ‘but you it is not.’

  ‘It might be,’ said Tobes. And he tried hard to focus his eyes in my general direction.

  ‘I am informed that I will know who it is when I see them,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll bet that makes sense,’ said Tobes, ‘but not to me.’

  ‘Please go away now,’ I said. Politely.

  ‘If you fancy a bunk-up, I’m sure I could almost manage it. And if I can’t, well, look on the bright side – I won’t even remember it in the morning.’

  It must be so much fun being a woman, I told myself.

  ‘Are those your own titties?’ asked Tobes. ‘Only they don’t look too convincing.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing wrong with transvestism,’ said Tobes, ‘as long as you keep your dignity.’ And then he fell down and I stepped over him. And Mr Rune returned from the gents’.

  ‘You’ll never guess who I just met in there,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Captain Bartholomew Moulsecoomb – he’s guest bog troll for the night. Something of a cult hero amongst the heavy-metal crowd.’

  ‘I thought pirates were more a New Romantic thing,’* I said.

  ‘He quit the employ of Count Otto Black. Said he got fed up with having to feed all those animals. Especially the spaniels. The rest of his mutinous crew stayed on, though.’

  ‘Any sign of God’s great-great-great-great-grandson?’

  ‘None,’ said Mr Rune. ‘What of you?’

  ‘Well, I have just had a very interesting conversation with a chap called Tobes, but other than that, nothing.’

  ‘He will be here,’ said Mr Rune. ‘He is here, somewhere.’

  ‘Then I hope we find him soon. This music is giving me a headache. What is the DJ playing now?’

  ‘Carcass,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Track three from their Reek of Putrification album.’

  ‘Let us go home,’ I said to Mr Rune.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Mr Rune, and he waggled a porky digit at me.

  ‘We should have asked Fangio for a more precise description,’ I said. ‘Distinguishing marks and scars, tattoos and whatnots. A proper detective would have done that.’

  ‘Are you implying that I am an improper detective?’ Mr Rune raised that hairless eyebrow which I had come to know so well.

  ‘It could be anyone here,’ I said. ‘It could even be him.’ And I pointed down at the prone form of Tobes de Valois.

  Tobes de Valois belched in his slumbers.

  ‘Or him,’ and I pointed towards a tall, imposing fellow who was striding our way. He was dressed all in black, with long black hair and one of those natty goatee beards that I had so far failed to grow to any convincing degree – although it had been getting pretty good before Mr Rune made me shave it off to disguise myself as a girlie.

  The crowd seemed to part before the onward stride of the tall, imposing figure. He raised his hand as if in benediction and smiled benignly, too.

  ‘I bet that’s him,’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘Should I complain of a bunion and see if he offers to heal me?’

  ‘Most amusing.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘It is probably nerves. I really need the toilet now and I am not too certain about whether I should go to the gents’ or the ladies’.’

  ‘Stay here,’ said Mr Rune. And he stepped forward to bid a hello to the tall, imposing figure and engage him in conversation.

  And I heard the imposing figure say, ‘They call me the Wiseman of Withdean.’

  I crossed my shapely legs and perused the bottom of my empty glass.

  ‘Another of the same, gorgeous?’ asked the nearest barman.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said and I ran my tongue around my lips in a manner that I had once seen Marilyn Monroe do in a movie on TV. I was about to ask Mr Rune whether he would care for another beer, but I saw him being steered away through the crowd by the tall, imposing figure, stepping over Tobes as they went on their way. They were making, it seemed, towards the fire exit.

  ‘And I do not get an invite,’ I said. ‘Typical.’

  And then Tobes de Valois lurched to his feet. ‘Whoa,’ he went. ‘That was horrible. Felt as if someone just walked over my grave.’ And he dusted himself down and ordered a pint from the bar.

  ‘I think you have had enough,’ I said to him.

  Tobes glanced me up and down, mostly down, and winked lewdly. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘I can drink until I pass right out, then sleep for less than five minutes and I’m stone-cold sober again.’

  ‘This is quite a talent,’ I said ‘I wish I could do that.’

  ‘I’m sure you can do a lot of other things. Are you with the lady-boys of Bangkok?’

  ‘Actually, I am in disguise,’ I said, as I sipped at the new fre
e pint that had been given to me. ‘And yes, I am a chap, although so far you are the only person who has discovered this. And you did it while you were drunk. What gave me away? Is it the bosoms?’

  ‘Nah,’ and Tobes shook his head. His hair looked somewhat nitty. ‘I just have a knack for that sort of thing. I can tell if people are telling the truth or not, and whether they are good or bad. I get feelings, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Am I good or bad, by the way.’

  Tobes stared me up and down once more. Mostly up, this time.

  ‘Good,’ said Tobes. ‘But there’s something odd, as if you don’t know who you really are, or something.’ And he applied himself to his pint.

  ‘Remarkable,’ I said. ‘You should go on the stage, or something.’

  Tobes shrugged and raised his glass once more.

  And as he did so, the shadow of his arm passed across a girl with long dark hair and long white legs, who leaned upon the bar, sipping a mineral water.

  Which she suddenly spat on the floor.

  ‘Ow did that’ appen?’ she went, and started to cough.

  I patted her gently on the back – which you can do to a strange girl if you are a girl yourself. ‘Are you ill?’ I asked. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said the girl. ‘It’s just me water. It was water, then suddenly it wasn’t. It tastes like wine now.’

  I took the glass from her hand and sniffed at it.

  And it certainly smelled like wine.

  It smelled like that really expensive vintage Mulholland Chardonnay that Mr Rune had once ordered for us in a restaurant that we never went to again.

  I looked at the glass. And then I looked at Tobes.

  ‘Oh my god!’ I went. ‘I mean, oh my God, sir. It is you, it is you.’

  ‘It’s me,’ said Tobes and he raised his glass, but finding it empty, ordered another beer.

  ‘I mean that it is you.’ And I got a real shake on. ‘Water into wine. Knowing good people from bad. Becoming sober in five minutes flat. You are The One – the One that Mister Rune seeks.’

  ‘Rune?’ said Tobes. ‘Hugo Rune? I’ve read his book.’

  ‘He was just here,’ I said. And I really was a-tremble. ‘But he left with … Oh no!’

  ‘Do you mean Yoko Ono – John Lennon’s bird?’ asked Tobes.

  ‘No,’ I cried. ‘It is that “oh no!” feeling you just had, that felt like someone walking over your grave. Mister Rune is in danger. Come with me, quickly.’

  ‘I’ll just finish this new beer,’ said Tobes. ‘Ah, that’s better. So where do you want me to go?’

  ‘To the fire exit,’ I shouted.

  ‘How exciting.’ And Tobes stumbled after me.

  ‘You are drunk again,’ I said as I dragged him through the crowd.

  ‘It’s this Old Back-Masker,’ slurred Tobes. ‘I’m fine with wine. I can drink bottles and bottles. Must be something in the blood.’

  We reached the fire exit and I pushed open the door. Beyond it was an iron staircase leading down to an alley.

  ‘Mister Rune!’ I shouted. ‘Mister Rune, where are you?’

  And then I heard it. A terrible sound. The terrible sound of a gunshot. I raced down the stairs with Tobes a-bumbling after me. And there ahead I saw him, sprawled in the dirt. And I saw the other man, too – the tall imposing figure, lounging on the bonnet of an evil-looking black car and smiling down at the body of Mr Rune, a smoking pistol in his hand. And then he reached to his head and drew off a full-face mask and threw it aside. And it was him, of that there was no doubt at all. The evil Count Otto Black.

  ‘Go back inside, young woman,’ he shouted. ‘There’s nothing for you to see here. Just disposing of some rubbish.’ And he turned away and got into the car, which tore off at great speed.

  ‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘Oh no no no.’ And I rushed to the body of Mr Hugo Rune, which was not easy in heels.

  He lay flat upon his back, his stout stick at his side. I put my ear to that big chest of his, but Hugo Rune breathed not.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Do not do this to me again.’ And I shook at his leather lapels. ‘I know you are faking it. Wake up now, this is not funny.’

  Tobes peered over my shoulder and pointed with a grubby mitt. ‘I think he’s dead,’ said Tobes to me. ‘I really think he’s dead.’

  ‘He cannot be,’ and I shook once more at the lapels.

  ‘He can,’ said Tobes. ‘And he is.’

  I looked up at Tobes and made a bitter face. ‘How can you be sure?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I know these things,’ said Tobes, sadly, ‘just as I know good people from bad. But even if I didn’t have a natural intuition for such things, I can’t help feeling that the big gunshot hole in Mister Rune’s forehead might just give it away. God, I’m pissed.’

  And Tobes passed out and fell in a heap by the corpse of Hugo Rune.

  PART III

  I stared at the corpse of Hugo Rune, and the big bullet hole in his forehead. And I went, ‘Wah!’ and my hands flapped, and I span around in small circles.

  It was over. It was all over. He really was dead this time.

  ‘Do something! Do something!’ I stopped flapping and spinning. ‘What can I do? What can I do?’ I flapped some more and span some more. Then caught my head on something or other and fell on top of Tobes.

  And, ‘You!’ I shouted. And struck at him. ‘You do something! You can do something!’

  ‘Oh!’ went Tobes, returning to consciousness. ‘Not here, love, let’s go back to my place. Oh, it’s you – get off me please.’

  ‘You have to do something.’ I scrambled up and gave Tobes a kick. ‘You have to bring him back to life.’

  ‘Do what? And stop kicking me.’

  ‘Bring Mr Rune back from the dead.’ I dragged Tobes to his feet. ‘Go on, do it.’

  ‘Have you gone completely insane?’

  ‘No. You can do it. You can. You are Him, the One that Mister Rune sought, the last of your line. You have the powers.’

  ‘Get off me,’ said Tobes and he pushed me away. ‘I’m really sorry about Mister Rune. I wanted to meet him – there are some things in his book that don’t make a lot of sense to me – but I can’t bring him back to life. Who do you think I am?’

  ‘The last living descendant of Jesus Christ.’

  Tobes looked at me.

  And I looked at Tobes.

  ‘Piss off!’ said Tobes, which was not very Christ-like.

  ‘You are,’ I said. ‘You turned that girlie’s water into wine. You can do it. You must do it.’

  ‘I can’t and I won’t. I have to return to the bar now – I have a real thirst on me.’

  ‘Do it!’ I said. ‘Or I swear that you will never leave this alleyway alive.’

  Now, looking back, that probably was not the best thing to say to the last man in the bloodline of Jesus.

  ‘I know Dimac,’ said Tobes, and he raised one of his hands and made foolish gestures.

  ‘I know it, too,’ I said. ‘Mister Rune taught it to me.* Take one step towards the staircase and I will break your right hand off and ram it up your bum.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just talk about this?’ said Tobes. ‘Back at the bar?’

  ‘Mister Rune is lying dead,’ I said, ‘and he will catch his death of cold if he lies there much longer. Bring him back to life and do it now.’

  ‘I can’t,’ wailed Tobes and he wrung his hands.

  ‘Then from this day forth the world will know you as “stumpy”.’

  And I reached forward.

  And Tobes shrieked, ‘No, all right. I’ll try.’

  I stood there. In that alleyway. In the bitter cold. I hugged at my naked arms and my thigh-high-booted knees knocked together.

  Tobes knelt over the body of Mr Rune.

  ‘Abracadabra,’ he went. ‘Come back to life. Shazam.’

  ‘Do it properly.’

  Tobes looked up at me with bitterness
. ‘And how is it done, properly?’

  ‘Lay your hands on him. Pray or something.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Do it!’ I made knuckle-clicking sounds. Which hurt my knuckles somewhat. Tobes laid his hands on the body of Mr Rune and prayed.

  ‘Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep,’ prayed Tobes.

  I looked over his shoulder. But Mr Rune was still as dead as he could be.

  ‘It doesn’t work,’ said Tobes. ‘I’m not who you think I am. I’m just a bloke. I can’t work miracles.’

  I leaned down and whispered words into the ear of Tobes. These words described to Tobes in graphic detail exactly what I would do to him should he fail in his allotted task. So horrendous were these threatened tortures that crucifixion would have been little more than a Sunday-School picnic in comparison.

  ‘Awake from the dead!’ cried Tobes. ‘Return to life.’

  And there came a drumming-humming sound that caused my ears to pop. And then a light so pure and white that I had to shield my eyes.

  And when the noise had died away and the brightness was all gone, I opened my eyes, and I looked down, and Tobes was there, but Hugo Rune had vanished.

  ‘He has gone.’ I pointed. ‘What happened? Where has he gone?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Tobes. ‘Did you see a real bright light?’

  ‘You did it wrong.’ I kicked at Tobes. ‘You sent him off to Heaven or something. You are in trouble now.’

  And I prepared to beat the Holy bejaysus out of the great and many, many times great-great-grandson of God.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said a voice that I knew. The voice of Mr Hugo Rune. And I turned and there he was, big and bald and breathing and hole-less in the forehead.

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ I cried. ‘Oh, by Crimbo, praise the Lord.’

  ‘I feel that we should both do that.’ And Mr Rune sank to his knees.

  12

  The Concluding Chaotic Conundrum Of The Coldean Cat

  The Coldean Cat

  PART I

  We knelt in the icy alleyway and bowed our heads before Tobes, the man who had brought Mr Rune back from the dead. The last of the bloodline of Christ.