Robert Rankin - Retromancer

CURIOUS EVENT IN TUNGUSKA

Reports from our Russian correspondent state that at around 7.14 a.m. on the morning of 30 June 1908, a dreadful explosion occurred near Podkamennaya upon the Tunguska River. It is estimated that some eighty million trees have been knocked over and that an area of eight hundred square miles is affected.

The cause of this explosion is unknown, but many radical theories are being postulated. One report tells of a great shining craft seen in the morning sky moments prior to the explosion. We await further reports.

‘The Tunguska Event,’ I said. ‘I have read of it and you-’

‘With the aid of the field generator. I recalibrated it to transport the falling bomb to a time and a place where, even though it would explode, it would be so far out of the way as to cause little concern or danger to life and limb.’

‘Incredible,’ I said. ‘Simply incredible.’

‘Thank you, Rizla,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I do my best to impress.’

‘And that you certainly do.’

A faraway look appeared in the eyes of Hugo Rune. ‘It isn’t easy being a Perfect Master,’ he said.

And I nodded thoughtfully.

‘I only make it look easy,’ he continued.

And I grinned somewhat at this. ‘So what happened to Count Otto and to Wotan?’ I asked.

‘A shining craft seen in the morning sky? Caught too in the beam of the field generator. Gone, but not forgotten.’

‘Incredible,’ I said once more. ‘I do not know what else to say.’

And so I did not really say very much more about anything. And Mr Rune and Fangio and I drank nameless cocktails until it was chucking-out time.

‘I am going up to my room now,’ I told Hugo Rune. ‘I will see you in the morning.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Or perhaps not. But whatever the case, let me thank you, Rizla. Once more, together we have triumphed. It has been a good adventure and no more noble or worthy companion could I have had than yourself. Thank you, Rizla, thank you.’

And Hugo Rune gave me a manly hug.

And I gave him a hug too.

And then we shook hands and parted company and I took myself away to find my cosy bed.

DEATH

I awoke to find myself once more in my cosy bed. The sun peeped in at my window and it was another day. And I yawned and stretched and then I became fully aware of my surroundings.

‘Oh my,’ I went. And, ‘What?’ I went. And things of that nature, confusedly. And I leaped from my bed and rushed to my window and flung the curtains wide.

Before me lay the town of Brentford, beautiful as ever.

But-

I turned back to my bed and turned on the wireless set.

‘And hello all,’ came the unsober tones of the Voice of Free Radio Brentford. ‘Another day to say, “Stick it to the Man, I’m pulling a sickie,” ’ and Lad Nicholson could be heard taking a noisy toke of something illegal.

‘So far, so very good,’ I said.

But-

I hastily dressed and ran down to breakfast.

‘Something special for you today, my hen,’ said my Aunt Edna, smiling as she said it.

I made a face of suspicion and asked, ‘Not Bratwurst?’

‘Heavens no, who would eat such foreign muck? This is a double full English.’ And my aunt placed before me the breakfast of the Gods and I fell to it with knife and fork and washed it down with tea.

‘This is wonderful,’ I told my aunt, even though it is rude to speak with your mouth full. ‘Probably the bestest breakfast I have ever tasted. But can I ask you two questions – and please do not think that I am a mentalist regarding the first of these.’

My Aunty Edna worried at a sprout with a Woolworth’s patent sprout worrier. ‘Go on then, ask,’ she said. ‘You teenagers will be the death of me every which way as it is.’

‘The first question,’ I said, ‘and please do not laugh – but who won the Second World War?’

My aunt did not laugh.

But-

She paused.

‘Now that,’ she finally said, ‘depends on what you mean by “won”.’

‘Did we win?’ I said. ‘Did the Allies win?’

‘You could say that, I think, yes.’

And I went, ‘Phew,’ as one might do, and forked down further breakfast.

‘You said you had two questions,’ said my aunt. ‘What is the second?’

I dabbed at my mouth with an oversized red gingham serviette. ‘I was just wondering,’ I said, ‘as to why I have been given this treat of the double English breakfast?’

My aunt did smilings upon me. ‘I think you know why,’ she said. I shook my head and said I did not.

‘Such a modest boy,’ said my aunt.

I stared at this lady and wondered. Did she know? Was she somehow aware of what had happened? That what had been had ceased to be? Or had never been?

But I did not want to think too much about that and though I would remember for ever my adventures with Mr Rune – who I was already missing quite badly – thinking too hard about what exactly they all meant and how they all worked was likely to bring on a collapse of the brain box. And I did not wish to live out the rest of my days as a hopeless loony.

‘I do not know quite what to say,’ I said to my aunt.

‘Then say nothing. Just make me proud.’

‘Just make you proud? All right.’

‘Get that big breakfast inside you and make me proud, all right?’

‘Absolutely all right,’ I said. ‘Everything is absolutely all right.’

‘Well, it will be,’ said my aunt, ‘when you come back later from your visit to the labour exchange… WITH A JOB.’

But-

But there were no buts to be butted. And so I finished my breakfast, washed and brushed up and was ushered through the front door of our home at the end of my Aunt Edna’s broom.

Work!

Well, it was going to have to come to that eventually and I knew it well enough. It was clear that Mr Rune had returned me to my own time on the exact same day as I had left it. Which once more made telling the tale of my adventures with him sound like the tallest of all tall tales or a work of Far-Fetched Fiction.

But-

And I looked all around and about me. The street signs were only in English. No brass band music issued from open windows and no swastika bunting sullied the skyline. All was as it should be and I was happy for that.

And it was that Monday morning again. But a good and free one this time. Although there was still that matter of finding a job, and that, it seemed, had to be faced.

But-

Perhaps, I thought to myself, now would be the time to get into the smoking of the Wild Woodbine, which so far I had failed to get to grips with. Having that ciggie protruding from my face would add that extra bit of professionalism. And if a job I had to find, then I would do so in the company of Wild Woodbine.

And it was Monday morning, so Norman Hartnel’s dad (the fellow I had met during my wartime adventure who was so keen to mete out corporal punishment upon me) would be away, and his son, my friend, behind the counter to sell me these very Wild Woodbines.

So all would be well and a happy ever after.

I reached Norman ’s shop and I peeped in through the window. I looked at the names of the products. Not a German sweetie was there to be seen, but many an ad for Wild Woodbine.

I pushed on the door and the shop bell rang and I took a wander inside.

Norman was numbering papers. The paperboy had not turned in for work this morning, preferring to take the advice of Lad Nicholson, stick it to the Man and pull a sickie.

Norman looked up from his numberings and viewed me with evident distaste. ‘I shouldn’t really be talking to you,’ he said. ‘Getting us thrown out of the pub last night. You are a menace you are.’