Robert Rankin - The Brightonomicon

I looked up at the tallster and I was most impressed. And then I said something I should not have said, because I was still upset. 'You nearly shot my bl**dy head off, Rasputin!' I declared. 'Bl**dy?' said Mr Hugo Rune. 'Rasputin?' said the tallster.

'Yes,' said I. 'You look like Rasputin, with that gaunt face and big black beard and long black cloak and everything. And you shot me. I demand that you pay for a new headkerchief

The blackly bearded tallster blinked at me with his deeply set cadaverous eyes, opened his mouth to expose twin rows of pointy teeth, then closed it again with an audible snap. A rooftop pigeon took flight and a dog howled in the distance. And then many more howled close at hand.

'My apologies once more,' said the tall, gaunt fellow. 'It was an accident, I assure you. I was cleaning my fowling piece by the window when a spaniel nudged my elbow.'

I glanced towards Mr Rune, who grinned at me and winked.

'Mister Neville Orion?' he then said, putting forward his hand above the hedge for a shake. 'My name is Hugo Rune. I received your letter this morning.' 'My letter?' said Mr Orion, ignoring the proffered hand.

'Indubitably.' Mr Rune withdrew his unshaken hand. 'I suggest that you do not take up forgery as a second occupation. The signature of your wife was most unconvincing.'

I viewed the face of the long, thin fellow. Deep in the shadows of their sockets, his eyes were veritably twinkling.

'Excellent,' said he. 'Pray, come inside.' And he indicated the front-garden gate.

The howling of the close-at-hand hounds had not yet abated and I made a doubtful face. 'They are caged,' said Mr Orion. 'Follow me.'

I followed Mr Rune, who followed Mr Orion. Mr Orion followed the garden path and this led us all to the house. The hallway led to a front sitting room and soon we were sitting within it.

It was your typical suburban front sitting room, with a typical settee and matching armchairs. There was a typical standard lamp, a typical plant in a typical pot, a carpet that was absolutely typical and a tank containing typical fish. 'Actually, they are tropical fish,' said Mr Orion. 'They appear to be dead,' I said.

'Typical,' said Mr Orion. 'I expect the wife forgot to feed them. Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea, or would you prefer something stronger?'

'Something stronger will be fine,' said Mr Rime, idly drumming his fingers upon the typically embroidered arm-socks of his chair.

Mr Orion called out at the top of his voice, 'Bring rope, woman,' he called. 'And don't try fobbing our guests off with string.'

Presently, a most glamorous woman appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray that was anything but typical, it being a tray that had no bottom and such slender sides as to be almost no sides at all. There was plenty of top to this tray, however, and upon this rested three lengths of rope. The woman presented the tray and its cargo to Mr Hugo Rune. 'There, sir,' she said.

Mr Rune nodded thoughtfully but made no motion towards accepting the tray. His eyes were upon the woman – indeed, upon her breasts.

Now, these were, for all this world and whatever lies beyond it, a most remarkable pair of breasts. Clearly of an independent nature, they sought escape from the constraints of both bra and blouse and appeared to be upon the point of gaining freedom.

Mr Orion made impatient toe-tappings. 'I suggest we get down to business,' he said.

'And clearly a most remarkable business it is, too,' said Mr Rune, finally accepting the tray and hauling his eyes from the breasts of Mrs Orion. 'These ropes, although clearly strong, appear to have been ripped apart.' 'Precisely,' said Mr Orion. 'Not bitten through,' said Mr Rune. 'This was my conclusion.'

I gave my chin a bit of a scratch – it needed a shave, which I found encouraging as I was hoping to grow a fashionable goatee as soon as I was able. This talk of rope, however, perplexed me. 'I am perplexed,' I said. 'Silence, Rizla,' said Mr Rune. 'This is no time for idle chitchat. Watch, listen and, hopefully, learn.' 'I would not mind a cup of tea,' I said. 'Janet,' said Mr Orion to his wife, 'take young Rizla here to the kitchenette and give him tea.' I glanced towards Mr Rune. 'Go,' said he.

I followed Mrs Orion to the kitchenette. She was wearing a very short skirt, that woman was, stretched over a lovely bottom. Her legs were rather lovely too, and I decided that I must habitually harbour a fancy for women who wore stiletto heels, because I certainly harboured one now.

I did not take much to the kitchenette. There were no units, nor labour-saving devices, nor even a cheese press, a butter churn, a yoghurt stretcher or a cream fondler, nor indeed any other artefact requisite to the refinement or processing of dairy products. I considered the mincer to be of an inferior design, one which in itself would have saved no labour whatsoever, and the rubber tea towel holder beside the sink was sorely perished and in need of replacement.

But these things were neither here, nor there, nor any place other to me.

'You'll have to mime the drinking of the tea,' said the lovely Mrs Orion. 'The kettle's on the blink and the milkman hasn't delivered today. The world is coming to an end and there's a fact for you to be going on with.' 'I do not think it is quite that bad,' I said. 'The optimism of youth,' said Mrs Orion.

'I have half a bottle of champagne in my hamper here,' I said, indicating the Fortnum's hamper, which could so easily have vanished from my possession due to poor continuity, but had not. 'If you have two glasses, we might finish it off.'

'You are a little ray of sunshine.' Mrs Orion reached up to a high shelf in search of glasses, then, finding none, bent over to seek at floor level. I looked on approvingly.

'He hides them,' said Mrs Orion. 'He doesn't trust glasses. Never trust anything that you can see right through, he says. Hates air with a vigour – he wouldn't breathe at all if he didn't have to.'

'Perhaps they are on that very high shelf,' I suggested. 'You could climb up on that kitchen stool and look.'

They were not on the very high shelf. But to be absolutely certain, I persuaded Mrs Orion to take a second look. And I looked on approvingly.

'We'll have to use tea cups,' said Mrs Orion. 'There are some dried-on tea leaves in the bottoms, but from what I know of Tetleymancy*, they foretell moderate good fortune for at least one of us.'

I opened up the hamper, took out the champagne, uncorked the bottle and decanted some of it. 'What is all this business with the rope?' I asked the lady of the house.

'A horrible to-do,' she said. 'The police are baffled, which is why I had my husband write to Mister Rune. If anyone can sort this out, it's him.' 'Is Mister Rune famous, then?' I asked.

Mrs Orion shrugged. 'I've never heard of him,' she said. 'Inspector Hector gave me his name.' 'Inspector Hector?' I said.

'Of the Brighton constabulary.' Mrs Orion sipped at her champagne. 'He said that Mister Rune left a pile of flyers on the front desk of the police station, advertising his services as a metaphorical detective.'

'Metaphysical detective,' I said. 'And this Inspector Hector personally recommended Mister Rune?'

'Well, not as such. He did say that-the case was right up Mister Rune's street. And he said that he'd carelessly thrown away all the flyers, but Mister Rune's advert was sure to be in the local paper amongst all the others for "personal services". And he said something else.' 'Go on,' I said.

'He said that if I met up with Mister Rune, I was to mention the matter of the twenty guineas he had borrowed from Inspector Hector and has yet to pay back.' * Divination by tealeaves, as if you didn't already know. 'Right,' I said. 'More champagne?' 'Well, it does go straight to my head.'