Robert Rankin - Retromancer

‘Behold the poster,’ I said and I pointed to this poster.

This poster read:

BRENTFORD INTER-PUB

JUMPING-OUT

COMPETITION

Prizes Prizes Prizes

And the date below this was tomorrow’s date.

‘All becomes clear,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Two pints of your latest guest ale, Bell Centennial, please.’

‘Good choice,’ said Fange and went about his business. ‘And so, Mr Rune, will you be entering the competition this year?’

‘You have previously entered a jumping-out competition?’ I asked the Perfect Master.

‘Oh no,’ said Fangio. ‘It’s a different sort of competition every year. Last year it was a “Distaining the Vulgar Classes” competition. Mr Rune won. He was most impressive. No one else came near.’

‘I will leave it this year to those who have been in training!’ said Hugo Rune and took to the tasting of the ale. ‘With Norman on your team you will probably succeed.’

‘I’m not too sure,’ said Fangio, drawing himself a double Scotch. ‘They have a new guv’nor at The Four Horsemen, and they say he’s a regular jack-in-the-box of a chap. He can appear as if from nowhere. Some say he’s an ex-stage magician. But I prefer to believe that he is in league with the Devil.’

‘It is not unheard of amongst the licensed profession,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Rizla and I will attend the competition to see that there is no jiggery-pokery, as it were.’

‘Most kind. Consider those beers on the house.’

I rolled my eyes and we left the bar counter and took to our favourite seats.

‘So,’ I said to Hugo Rune, ‘the Philadelphia Experiment. Have you had any more thoughts on the subject?’

‘If my other self sent those papers to me, he must have done so for a purpose.’

‘Perhaps you are supposed to hand them over to the Ministry of Serendipity. I wonder how Mr McMurdo is getting on.’

‘He is no longer two-dimensional,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I prepared a potion for him. To fill him out, as it were.’

‘So he is back to normal?’ I said.

Hugo Rune made a so-so gesture and sipped once more at his ale.

‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you have done to him this time.’

‘It was his own fault,’ said Himself. ‘I told him, only a drop or two, but he gulped down the bottle. And now he weighs in at fifty-one stone and has to be moved about by forklift truck.’

I tried very hard not to laugh, but I did not succeed in the attempt.

‘But tell me this,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘How did they make an American warship invisible?’

‘With the aid of two field generators mounted on the decks of two separate ships projecting a stream of ionized protons, which cause a cross-polarisation of beta particles, resulting in the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter and invisibility.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That lad again. But surely I see a flaw here. The two ships doing the projecting would be clearly visible, would they not? It would only be the ship between that turned invisible. So what would actually be the point?’

‘I suspect the idea was to project the proton streams across a considerable distance. A distance of many miles, perhaps.’

‘Ye Gods!’ I said, for a bit of a change. ‘Then if the Germans got hold of the data, they might be able to invisibilise an invading army and send it across the Channel on invisible boats. To land. Invisibly.’

‘The prospect holds little charm,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But, and I hate to admit this, I am at a loss to know what to do. Or what I am supposed to do. About what.’

‘We could have lunch,’ I suggested. ‘It is more than an hour since we had breakfast.’

‘No wonder my belly is starting to grumble. How can I cut through Gordian knots and unravel inextricable conundra upon an empty stomach?’

‘Dish of the day?’ I asked.

‘With a double helping of pudding.’

Old Pete had now entered the saloon bar, and also Norman from the corner shop. But happily he was sitting still and not doing jumping-out. The two sat side by side upon stools at the bar counter and Norman was complaining, bitterly.

‘It’s just not fair,’ he complained. ‘A man tries to make a living, yet there is always some blighter prepared to skim off the cream which is my bread and butter.’

Old Pete mumbled in assent. ‘And he’s flogging rhubarb,’ he added. ‘And that’s out of season.’

Fangio took my order for two dishes of the day and then put in his three-pennyworth. ‘And have you seen the beers he has on draught?’ he said. ‘Haettenschweiler and Trebuchet and Akzidenz Grotesk.’

‘Foreign muck.’ And Old Pete spat. And pinged a nearby spittoon.

‘He’s a penny a pint cheaper than me,’ said Fangio.

‘Really?’ said Old Pete, finishing his beer and making to make good his leave.

‘Don’t you even think about it,’ said Fangio. ‘But I say it’s a diabolical liberty and something should be done about it.’

‘I agree,’ I said to Fange. ‘I think it is a dirty rotten swizz. But tell me, what are you talking about?’

‘The new guv’nor at The Four Horsemen.’

‘The one that is good at jumping-out?’

‘What?’ went Norman. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘He’s apparently rather good,’ said Fangio. ‘A rumour going around is that he was trained by a Zen master in Tibet.’

‘Apart from his skills at jumping-out,’ I said, ‘just what else has he done?’

‘He’s selling stuff,’ said Fangio. ‘Black-marketeering. Outrageous!’

‘Something about a pot calling a kettle black?’ I suggested.

‘But at least I’m honest about what I do. Everything that I sell fell off the back of something. Or perhaps was pushed off, or quietly unloaded. But, after all, there is a war on.’ And Fangio made a surly face.

‘And so this new guv’nor is not playing by the unwritten rules?’ I said.

‘He’s selling fresh produce,’ said Old Pete. ‘But out-of-season stuff and stuff that I’ve never even heard of. What in the name of Demeter, Goddess of allotmenteers, is a Sierra Leone bologi?’

I shrugged and Norman shrugged and Fangio shrugged too.

‘And he’s selling stuff that even I can’t get hold of,’ said Fangio. ‘Television sets and transistor radios and something called a Game Boy TM.’

‘Well, that cannot be right,’ I said.

‘And imported cask beer!’ Fangio fumed. ‘How can anyone get hold of that?’

‘Perhaps he really is in league with the Devil.’ And I did crossings of myself and so did Norman, Fangio and Old Pete too.

And I returned to my table.

The dish of the day was baby clams in a young parsnip jelly. Spring chicken, with a touch of the tar-brush. Boyish aubergines served in a youthful Spam-jam ragout. And spotted dick for pudding.

It took bravery and determination in equal parts to pack it under our belts. Mr Rune dabbed at his chin with an oversized red gingham napkin and remarked that it was ‘adequate’.

As I wore no waistcoat to slacken, I undid two lower shirt buttons and loosened the strap on my gas-mask case. Hugo Rune now yawned somewhat loudly and settled down for a nap.

‘Oh, come on,’ I said to him. ‘There is something urgent that needs doing. And just because you do not know what it is, that does not mean you should just settle down for a nap.’

‘How beautifully put, young Rizla. But I’ll tell you what. You have ached so long to take a little wander about the borough, haven’t you?’

‘I have,’ I said. ‘And I have been a good boy and not slipped off for a wander when you were not looking.’

‘This of course I know. So why not now go take a little wander? You never know what might occur.’