Robert Rankin - The Brightonomicon

'Ah,' said Mr Rune. The area has something of a reputation, does it?' 'And you call yourself the All-Knowing One?'

'Tell me about it in the cab.' And with no further words, he hustlyd me into the first cab in the rank. 'Whitehawk, please,' said Mr Rune. 'Get out of my cab,' said the cabbie.

Hugo Rune made impatient sighings. 'As near to White-hawk as you dare, then.' 'Kemptown,' said the cabbie. 'Soon have you there.'

Then he did as all Brighton cabbies do, and drove 'the pretty way'.

And while he drove this pretty way, which included areas of Hove and Hangleton, I put Mr Rune in the picture regarding the matter of Whitehawk.

It is a fact well known to those who know it well, that if anything – anything – gets nicked in Brighton, then no matter what that thing may be, it will end up in Whitehawk.

The plain folk of Brighton consider Whitehawk to be a vast Fagin's kitchen, peopled by old rogues who send out young fellow-me-lads who all look curiously alike, all being small, tattooed and bony-faced and given to the sporting of sportswear and either the 'hoodie' – a kind of hooded sweatshirt that protects the wearer's facial features from CCTV cameras – or the ever-popular mock-Burberry baseball cap.

Now, I do not know what it is about baseball caps. Perhaps it is their tightness, but it always appears to me that simply putting on such a cap seems to reduce the wearer's IQ to single figures. However, regarding Whitehawk. Whitehawk has an evil reputation.

History records that the original settlers were Amerindians, or 'Redskins' as they were popularly known before the days of political correctness. These Redskins had set out from their native shores to discover China, but their canoes were sucked into the Gulf Stream and then blown along the English Channel. Chief Whitehawk, the leader of the expedition, purchased a parcel of land from the Prince Regent in exchange for a couple of squaws and a tomahawk called The Widow-Maker* to which Prinny had taken a fancy.

And Chief Whitehawk had been blessed with the gift of prophecy and so knew what awaited his descendants on the American continent (which was probably why he had set out for China in the first place). So he was wise enough not to trust the words of the White Devil of the British Isles and insisted upon written deeds of ownership for the parcel of land he had been given and first dibs on the profits should a marina ever be built nearby. And then he applied for a council grant and oversaw the building of a housing estate upon the land that was now his.

It is said that those whom the nearby pirates of Moulse-coomb considered criminals amongst their own kind were exiled to Whitehawk, where they became slaves to the Redskins.

Whatever happened to the original Redskins history does not record, but many believe that they were eaten.

It remains a fact to this day that even Belfast's now-legendary 'Men of Violence' or the terrorist baddies of Al Qaeda would think twice about taking a stroll through Whitehawk on a Saturday night.

And it is said that the infamous Kray twins, who grew up there, left in their early teens because they found the place too rough.

Whether Whitehawk really deserves its evil reputation, I could not say. For in all truth, as I sat in the cab, explaining all this to Mr Rune, it seemed to me that there were certain things that just did not tie up, one of these being the sheer scale of the stolen-goods situation in Brighton. If only half the cars, household items and general all around everythings * This being the original Widow-Maker and not to be confused with the 1960s proto-metal ensemble fronted by Cardinal Cox, whose only single 'Eat Everybody* still ranks as a classic. that were stolen in and around Brighton ended up in Whitehawk, there would surely be so much swag that it would form a pile exceeding in height that of the Great Pyramid of Giza. And But my words upon Whitehawk were constantly being interrupted by the cabbie. His name, it appeared, was Andy and he supported a football team called Brentford United. Whom, he assured us, would not only one day win the FA Cup, but also eventually the World Cup, as Brentford was in reality an independent principality founded by Indian setders. And then he went on to explain how wheels could not possibly work.

'Nothing can go in two directions at the same time, can it?' said Andy. 'A rubber band can,' I said. 'And back again, too.'

'That's not what I mean. A wheel can't go forwards and backwards at the same time, can it?' 'I would not think so,' I said.

'But they do. Here, let me explain. You know what a bicycle is, don't you? Yes, of course you do. Well, take a bicycle and turn it upside down, rest it on its saddle and its handlebars. Are you following me? Yes, of course you are. Then with your finger spin the front wheel clockwise as hard as you can. Right?' 'Right,' I said and I shrugged.

'So it's going around clockwise, right? Now walk around to the other side of the bicycle and watch that wheel spinning around and what do you see?' I shrugged once more.

'It's going anticlockwise. It is, it really is*. But it can't go in two directions at the same time, can it? But it does. The world has all gone mad nowadays. It's those signs and portents in the Heavens.' Andy the cabbie halted his cab in Kemptown. Mr Rune and I climbed from the cab. * And it is. Check it out yourself

'That will be fifty-nine pounds, seventeen and six,' said the cabbie. 'Let's call it sixty guineas for cash.' I looked at Mr Rune. And Mr Rune looked at me. 'Can I borrow your stout stick?' I asked.*

After I had dealt with the matter of the fare, Mr Rune and I stood in Portland Road in Kemptown and took stock of our surroundings. Very nice area. Georgian houses, many with balconies, fine sea view, posh people.

'I assume it is a goodly walk to Whitehawk?' said Mr Rune. 'Quite goodly,' I said, 'and I am very tired.' And Mr Rune looked at me. And I looked at Mr Rune. 'We will take Andy's cab, then,' I said.

We put Andy in the boot, where he could come to no harm, and I drove on towards Whitehawk. But I was not keen.

'This is not a good idea,' I said. 'I would prefer not to drive into Whitehawk in anything less than a Sherman tank.'

But nevertheless, we left what is known as civilisation behind and wove our way into the wastelands of Whitehawk. The burned-out cars and rubble on the roads did not inspire confidence.

'Can you drive any faster?' asked Mr Rune from the rear seats.

'I am pretty nifty at driving now,' I told him, 'but I would not care to chance my arm at anything too swift hereabouts, what with all these potholes in the road. And there are stingers out, too,' and I swerved around one.

'Well,' said Mr Rune. 'If you cannot. It's only that we have been followed ever since we left the station.' I glanced into the rear-view mirror. Behind us travelled * Well, I had had a very rough night with no sleep. And sixty guineas! He was asking for it. an evil-looking car, all black including the windows, but with a lot of chrome upon its bumper parts.* 'Count Otto Black?' I said. And I shuddered when I said it.

'Or at least his minions. It would not have taken the brain of that overrated oaf Einstein to have drawn the obvious conclusion that we would return to Brighton by train. They were waiting for us at the station.' 'So what are we going to do?'

Mr Rune spread the map upon his great big knees. 'According to this, we are not far distant from our destination. Let them catch up a bit, then accelerate, signal left and take the first turning right.' 'As if that is going to work.'

Mr Rune made sighing sounds. 'I recall,' said he, 'chatting with JFK shortly before he was driven along Dealey Plaza. "It looks like rain," I said. "Best have the driver put the roof up on your convertible. You wouldn't want your wife to get her dress wet." But did he listen?'