Robert Rankin - The Brightonomicon

'I told Mister Rune that I'd lost it. But I was only trying to cover my expenses. We may both be Freemasons, but that man is drinking my pub dry, and all on his "account".' I laughed at this and shook my head.

'Clever, that,' said Fangio, 'laughing and shaking your head at the same time. I can't do that. But I can do this' Fangio did this.

I stared in horror. 'Please do not ever do this again in my presence,' I said, taking out my bullet-scorched hankie and mopping my brow with it. 'What, this!' said Fangio. 'No, not that. This.'

'Sorry,' said Fangio. 'It's the way these flaps come down over my ears.'

A customer called out for service and Fangio tottered along the bar to serve him (or her – I could not be altogether certain which). 'Excuse me, mister.'

I turned at this to observe an unsavoury-looking character looking up at me and tugging in an urgent way upon my trouser leg. 'Please do not do that,' I told him.

'But mister,' said this ill-clad ne'er-do-well, a roguish tramp by the look of him, and one in sore need of a laundering at that, 'I heard the name of Hugo Rune being mentioned – do I take it that you are his associate?' 'Ex-associate,' I said. 'Please leave my trouser leg alone.'

'Oh, it's your trouser leg, is it? I had a pair of trousers just like those once – I thought for a minute they were mine.' 'Kindly go about your business,' I said. 'But about Mister Rune,' the wretch persisted. 'I no longer work for Mister Rune. Not that I ever did, really.'

'I've got the dog,' said the shabby, down-at-heel, veritable scumbag of an individual. 'And just because I've fallen upon hard times, there's no reason for you to have a go at me.' 'I was not,' I said.

'No, but you were thinking it,' said the low-life, no-mark, dirt-poor-excuse-for-a-human-being. 'There – you're doing it again.' 'I was not.'

'You were.' The filthy degenerate shook an ill-washed fist. 'All right, I was. Now, please go away. No, hold on a moment, what dog do you have?' 'The dog,' said the- The fellow paused. And I paused also.

'Thank you,' he said. 'The dog. The one that Mister Rune had me pinch from that house in Hangleton, which I was to deliver to him at his rooms this afternoon to impress some fellow called Rizla. Are you associated with this Rizla, by any chance?'

I all but fell off my bar-side stool. It was only through the exercise of supreme self-control – and having no wish to end up lying flat on my back – that prevented me from doing so.

'Are you telling me,' I said, 'that Mister Rune paid you to steal a dog from a house in Hangleton?'

'Well, he hasn't paid me yet. I came here because I forgot what number he lives at. What number is it, then, do you know?'

If I could have seen my own face at that moment, I feel certain that it must have been wearing a very broad smile indeed.

'What are you frowning at, mister?' asked the… erm… fellow. 'I am grinning,' I said, 'broadly.'

'Well, that's young folk for you. I can't tell the boys from the girls nowadays.'

'You really should try,' I suggested, 'or you might get yourself into all kinds of trouble.'

'More drinks, ladies?' asked Fangio, tottering back in our direction.

'Same again for me, and whatever my new-found friend here is having.'

'I'll have a pint of Diesel, please,' said my new-found friend. 'My name's Hubert, by the way.' 'Is that hyphenated?' Fangio asked.

'No, it's Welsh. It means "he who walks quietly to the cowshed and knows where the shears are kept".' 'Cow-shears?' I asked.

'It's one of the reasons why I left Wales,' Hubert explained.

'Put these drinks on Mister Rune's account,' I told Fangio. The barlord shook his helmeted head. 'Or I will pass on to Mister Rune that matter of the first edition that was recently sold at Christie's.' 'Coming right up, then,' said Fangio. 'And have one yourself.'

'That's most generous, sir. I'll just have a glass of the vintage champagne that Mister Rune suggested I order in, in case of a special occasion.' 'Knock yourself out,' I said. 'Is that compulsory?' 'No, it is just a turn of phrase.'

Fangio served up our drinks and repaired to the wine cellar, smiling as he went. 'What was he frowning about?' asked Hubert.

'Never mind,' I told him. 'Drink up and enjoy the moment.' The moment passed. And so did further moments.

These further moments passed to the accompaniment of drinking.

These moments became minutes and these, in turn, became hours.

'I'm really rather drunk now,' said Hubert. 'How about you?' 'I am very drunk,' I said. 'But happy.'

'That's often the way with drinking.' Hubert slid his beer glass up and down the counter, thereby bringing grief to Fangio who was a barlord who liked his counter clean. For health-and-safety reasons, obviously. 'If I tell you a secret,' said Hubert, 'will you promise to keep it a secret?' 'Will it still be a secret if you tell it to me?' I asked.

Hubert scratched at his head, raising small clouds of purple dust. 'Don't confuse him,' said Fangio. 'I like secrets.'

'This is a really scary one,' said Hubert, 'and all the more so because it is true.'

'Go on, then,' I said. 'I promise that whatever you tell me, I will not confide the details to another soul.'

'Nor me,' said Fangio. 'Unless the mood takes me, of course.'

'Right, then,' said Hubert. And he drew us closer to him. 'It's about rock stars and why they always die aged twenty-seven.' 'Do they?' asked Fangio.

'They do,' said Hubert. 'Johnny Kidd, out of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, died aged twenty-seven. Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Gram Parsons from the Byrds, Pigpen out of the Grateful Dead. And Kurt Cobain, who hasn't been born yet, so we'll leave him out.'

'Hold on,' I said. 'Jones and Jimi, Janis and Jim, and Johnny, of course – they all died at twenty-seven?* Is this true?'

Fangio was counting on his ringers. 'It is,' he said. 'How odd.' 'Not odd,' said Hubert. 'Just the work of the Devil.'

'That's a bit strong,' said Fangio. 'I know that they call rock 'n' roll the Devil's music, but-'

'Listen,' said Hubert, 'I checked it out. I wanted to see where it all began, where it could be traced back to. And I have-' 'Go on,' said Fangio. 'Let me say something,' I said. 'Go on,' said Fangio. 'Go on,' I said. 'Eh?' said Fangio. * And it all is – you can check it out for yourself. * They really did. 'That is all I wanted to say.'

'Robert Johnson,' said Hubert, 'blues musician – ever heard of him?'

'Actually, I have,' I said. 'He wrote "Cross Road Blues" and "Me and the Devil Blues" and "Hell Hound On My Trail" and "Love In Vain" – the Rolling Stones recorded that one. Just about every rock musician today pays homage to Robert Johnson. They say that he started the whole thing, put it all together – the notes, the chord progressions, the lot.'

Hubert nodded. 'You're absolutely right. So let me tell you this. The story goes that Robert Johnson wasn't much of a guitarist, but he wanted to be the best, to be remembered. So he went down to the crossroads at midnight with a black-cat bone and sold his soul to the Devil. The Devil tuned Robert Johnson's guitar-'

'I remember reading this somewhere,' I said. 'From then on he always played with his back to the audience. Folk who looked at him from the stage side of the curtain swear that he had six fingers on his left hand.'

Hubert nodded. 'When Keith Richards first heard Robert Johnson's recordings – and he only recorded twenty-nine songs, all in a hotel room, with his back to the recorder – Keith Richards said, "Who's the other guitarist playing with Johnson?" because one man alone simply couldn't play all those notes at the same time.' 'Spooky stuff,' said Fangio. 'There's more,' said Hubert. 'Go on,' said Fangio. 'I was going to say that,' I said.