Robert Rankin - Retromancer

‘We have six more cases,’ I corrected him.

‘Six more cases,’ said Mr Rune, ‘but only two more of them here. After they are dealt with, Rizla, we will be leaving this country.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And where will we be going?’

‘To America,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Aboard a great big liner.’

‘Really?’ I said. For this seemed most exciting.

Hugo Rune counted on his fingers.

‘Why are you doing that?’ I asked.

‘I’d like to know how many seconds.’

‘How many seconds until…? No, hold on, America?’

‘Sixteen seconds,’ said Himself.

‘ America?’ I said once more. ‘We cannot go there, Mr Rune. America is going to get blown up by an atomic bomb.’

‘It is our job to see that it doesn’t.’

‘Yes, I know, but what-’

‘What if we do not? Then that will be the end for us.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I said. And my hands began to flap and I began to turn around and around in small circles.

‘And stop that foolish behaviour. The bomb will not fall upon New York for months yet. We have plenty of time. And think of that nice ocean voyage.’

‘I can think of the enemy submarines,’ I said. ‘We will not be travelling on the Lusitania, will we? I am not a very strong swimmer.’

‘Wrong war, Rizla.’ Hugo Rune shook his head and picked up the daily paper. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘Now here’s a thing.’

‘An inevitable thing?’ I asked.

What drew the eye of Hugo Rune now drew mine as well.

‘Should I read aloud?’ I asked.

The Magus nodded. ‘Go on.’

HIGH SPIRITS – BARMAN CALLS TIME ON PRANK-PLAYING POLT

The landlord of The Purple Princess, Brentford, has engaged the services of an exorcist to free him from the torments of a ghost known locally as Gusset-

I ceased my reading at this point. ‘What is this old toot?’ I asked. ‘There is no haunting at The Purple Princess. Fangio is surely up to something.’

Hugo Rune did thoughtful noddings. ‘The rest of the article does seem to consist of praise for his beer and high recommendations of his bar food and flavoured crisps.’

‘Well, this is not a case, then,’ I said. ‘There is nothing to investigate.’

‘Possibly so,’ agreed Mr Rune. ‘But as it is myself whom Fangio has engaged as exorcist, I do not think we should let that stand in the way of a free lunch.’

‘I was once informed that there is no such thing as a free lunch,’ I said, in a wistful manner.

‘Then you were misinformed,’ said Mr Hugo Rune. ‘And now I must request that you produce a tarot card from what remains of the pack.’

I dug into my jacket pocket and removed a single card. ‘THE FOOL,’ I said. And Hugo Rune nodded and then began to pack.

I watched Mr Rune as he packed numerous items into a heavy pigskin valise.

‘These would be instruments of exorcism, I suppose?’ I said, as I did this watching.

‘The full dog and pony show, Rizla. It is always best to go at such a venture with all of the trappings. It lends a professional look. Sets the tone. Creates a certain atmosphere and things of that nature, generally.’

‘Shameful,’ I said. ‘And what is that for? I just saw you pop a toy ray gun into that valise.’

‘The Zo Zo gun,’ said Hugo Rune, drawing same from the pigskin valise and twirling it on his finger. ‘Ideal for focusing a blast of psychic energy against a wayward creature of the dark side.’

‘Are you being paid for performing this exorcism?’ I enquired.

‘The satisfaction of a job well done can be its own reward,’ said the Magus. And without laughing. I was impressed.

‘I am not impressed,’ I said to him. ‘I am getting the distinct feeling that you and Fangio are in this together. You are both up to something.’

Hugo Rune slipped a ball of string, a bicycle pump, a copy of Old Moore ’s Almanac and a pair of gardening gloves into the pigskin valise. ‘So you will have no wish to accompany me and act as my assistant,’ he said.

‘Now I never said that,’ I said.

‘Then fetch me a small watering can from the garage.’

‘We have a garage?’ I said.

‘And my robes, Rizla. From the wardrobe in my bedroom. The red papal number, I think. With the matching mitre.’

It was quite a struggle that day to get to Fangio’s.

For while Hugo Rune made great strides ahead, swinging his stout stick and whistling, I laboured under the weight of a pigskin valise and it was quite a struggle.

The bar was crowded when we arrived and there was a certain carnival atmosphere. Garlic bunches were draped all around and about and Union Jack bunting adorned the bar counter. The air was a healthy blue with the smoke of Wild Woodbine. And the distinctive, if historically incorrect, tones of a steel pan flowed from a far corner, where a lady in a straw hat, from an as yet unbuilt town called Milton Keynes, played The Rolling Stones’ ‘Paint It Black’. I decided to turn a blind eye to that lot, simply drink beer and join in what fun there was to be had. I started first with the beer.

Amongst today’s guest ales I found Saucy McFoodlefist. Which Old Pete informed me was also the name of a wraith that drifted at midnight across the allotments, wringing its transparent hands and calling out for sprouts.

I raised my eyebrows and shook my head and wondered where all this was leading.

‘Ah, Mr Rune,’ cried Fangio, sighting Himself towering amongst the revellers. ‘Thank Saint Amand you’re here. Would you care for a pint of something? Before you free this establishment from the curse that has befallen it and dispatch the unclean denizens of the world beyond to where they should rightfully be.’

Hugo Rune ordered a pint of Franklin Gothic for himself and a McFoodlefist shandy for me.

‘You will want to keep a clear head for the exorcism,’ he told me.

I ground my teeth, accepted my shandy and followed Hugo Rune.

‘And bring the valise,’ he said.

So I returned to the bar counter and, grumbling in a manner that was perhaps unprofessional for an exorcist’s assistant, dragged the heavy bag of nonsense across the bar room floor.

We settled into our specially reserved chairs at our specially reserved table.

‘There is not really a ghost here, is there?’ I asked, as I supped my shandy and hated it.

‘Did you know that the dead outnumber the living by eighteen to one?’ asked Hugo Rune.

‘No,’ I said. ‘But then I do not particularly care.’

‘I feel a presence,’ said the Magus and fluttered his fingers about.

‘Perhaps it is the shade of P. T. Barnum,’ I suggested. ‘The King of Humbugs drawn to a kindred spirit, as it were.’

‘Rizla,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘do try to get into the spirit of the thing. As it were. If you are not prepared mentally you will find that when a manifestation occurs, you will have egg on your face.’

‘But not my egg,’ I said. ‘You stole my egg at breakfast.’

‘Drink your shandy and say some prayers, or sing a hymn, or something.’

‘Oh come on,’ I said. ‘This is absurd. You cannot expect me to take it seriously. It is all nonsense. And I will tell you why it is all nonsense, if you would care to listen.’

‘I am all ears,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Pray do enlighten me.’

‘This is an alehouse,’ I said. ‘And also it is an inn, correct?’

‘Fangio takes in the occasional traveller,’ Hugo Rune agreed.

‘Poor choice of phrase, but probably apt. So what I am saying is this. A haunted inn is a tourist attraction. People will come and stay at a haunted inn, in the hope of having a supernatural experience. I hate to use the expression “bite the hand that feeds you” – well, actually I do not, as it is wholly appropriate – but no barlord of a haunted inn would ever bite the hand that fed him by having his haunted inn exorcised.’