Robert Rankin - Retromancer

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.’

Now this was the first I had heard of Mr Rune possessing a workshop. The concept of such a thing seemed to me absurd. The term ‘Hugo Rune’s workshop’, an oxymoron. Here was a man who ordered the best and expected to have the best delivered to his door. And would possibly one day pay for this best, but probably not in this lifetime. But own a workshop? People did work in a workshop! Hugo Rune?

‘Stop it, Rizla!’ cried Hugo Rune, raising a fist to his temple. ‘I can tell what you are thinking. I said that I owned a workshop. I did not say that I ever did work in my workshop.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It would certainly have played havoc with your image, as far as I am concerned,’ I said.

‘Just follow me,’ said Hugo Rune.

And follow him I did.

He led me to the St Mary’s allotments, where Brentford’s horticulturalists worked their special magic. It was not somewhere that I regularly visited, although as a child I had caused my fair share of havoc amongst beanpoles and water butts. And yes, it looked just the same.

With just one notable difference.

There was a great big hut in the centre of the allotments, a very well-constructed, indeed formidable-looking hut. All corrugated iron and steely rivets.

Hugo Rune was once more at his watch chain, where he selected yet another key and unlocked a mighty padlock. And then he turned to me and said-

‘Rizla, I know that I can trust you and so I do not need to impress upon you that you must never speak of what you are about to see. It is my secret. And it will be your secret also. Do you understand this?’