Robert Rankin: Retromancer

‘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.’

‘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.

Who sank in a heap to said litter.

Which, I considered, was jolly decent of me, as now the chances of him being caught in some kind of crossfire when I ‘resisted arrest’ were considerably lessened.

‘He will thank me for that later,’ I told myself, as John was now in no fit state to hear it. ‘And so on my toes and away.’

And I prepared to take flight.

Dive off the water side of the barge and swim to Kew.

It seemed like a likely solution.

And although I had never actually learned how to swim, I felt that there could not be much to it once you got yourself started.

I peeped out of a porthole. There were at least half a dozen fellows in black uniforms out there. And they all carried guns. And two of them not only carried guns, but also strained against the leashes of some rather fierce-looking dogs. It did not look at all to be a hopeful situation. In fact it looked to be a terrible situation and, struck dumb with terror, I sank down to my knees and chewed upon my knuckles.

More stern words were flung in my direction through the electric megaphone jobbie, ordering me to exit the barge immediately with my hands in the upwards position. Compliance with these instructions was not optional, I was given to understand.

I took deep breaths, struggled to my feet and took myself over to the water side of the barge. The porthole there hung open; it would take but a minute or two to squirm through, drop into the water and swim to freedom. Compliance to this ideal, I considered, was not optional.

Although.

And I dithered.

And then they turned the dogs loose.

And then I awoke.

Yes, awoke, that is what happened next. Exactly what happened before this was unknown to me. One minute there were dogs barking loudly. Then nothing-

And then I awoke.

To find-

That I was not in Kew.

Although it might have been Kew. But then it might have been anywhere. They are all very much the same, or so I have since been told. No matter what city, or town, or part of the world. All very much the same. They look very much the same and they smell very much the same-

Torture chambers.

And even though I had never been in one before in my life, I recognised this one to be what it was, almost on the instant.

As I awoke. Naked. Strapped into the iron chair and surrounded on all visible sides by instruments of torment.

A very bright light shone down upon me and a very bad smell engulfed me. And I could not move my hands to my nose and I became very afeared.

And-

Slap!

Someone caught me a massive wallop across my mouthparts that shook my brains and loosened my teeth. And slap! it went once again.

‘Ooh!’ I cried, ‘stop hitting me. Mercy. Please stop.’

And a fellow appeared in my line of vision and grinned into my face.

‘So,’ he said. And it sounded like Zo. ‘Zo, our little communist awakes. Did you sleep well after your swim?’

‘My swim?’ I said. And I shivered as I said it.

‘Ill-advised to leap into rivers when you cannot swim. If we hadn’t pulled you out, you might well have come to harm.’

‘Well, thank you very much,’ I said. ‘Very kind of you. Sorry to have taken up your valuable time. If you would just give me my clothes, I will be off about my business.’

‘Business. Yes.’ And this fellow grinned some more. Although rather too close for my liking and in a manner that I felt lacked for a certain warmth. ‘You have work, yes?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘And I will be late back from my lunch.’

‘Right.’ And now the fellow’s head bobbed from side to side and he straightened up and away from me. I got a better look at him then, although I did not exactly take to what I saw.

He was small and somewhat slender, with shaven head, broken nose, monocle and duelling scar. His all-black uniform looked very expensive and made to measure. And was ornamented here and there by silver fixtures and fittings beset with eagle and death’s-head motifs. This I assumed to be a high-ranking fellow. And one with whom playing ‘silly buggers’ would not be best advised.

Not that I was in any mood to play ‘silly buggers’. I was so scared that I almost-

‘I need the toilet,’ I said. ‘Sorry, sir, but I do.’

‘Time enough,’ said he, ‘when you have answered all of my questions.’

‘Anything, sir,’ I said. ‘You ask, I answer. Anything at all.’

‘Is good,’ he said. And now he drew a chair into my line of vision. A rather comfy-looking chair, with a nice cushion on it and everything. And he dropped into this chair, carefully pulling up the knees of his trousers and straightening the creases.

‘Very nice riding boots,’ I observed. As I tried, without success, to cross my legs. ‘I really do need the toilet. Oh dear.’

From an upper pocket the fellow took a notebook and silver pen. It was a biro, and he clicked it with his thumb.