Robert Rankin - The Brightonomicon

And so I walked the streets of Hove in high heels and a mini-skirt – which is nippy in December, I can tell you, receiving many a curious glance and many a curious offer too from strange old men in raincoats who took me for a Bangkok lady-boy.

But, fair play to Mr Rune, the beat bobbies of Brighton nick did not recognise me, even when we passed them closely by. The 'first constable', whom we had encountered before the tea-weeping statue of Queen Victoria during the case of the Lansdowne Lioness, even chatted me up and offered to show me his truncheon.

'Oooh, Matron,' said a passing lady in a straw hat, whom I took for a moment to be a dragged-up Fangio. But sadly, was not. 'Two Big Boy's Breakfasts,' said Mr Rune to Mario. 'No, make that three, if you would be so kind. I have a hunger on me this morning that can only be quenched by a full English.'

Mario did not say, 'Oooh Matron,' but Mario rarely said anything. When he did say anything, it was to me and he whispered in words of Italian.

'We might be forced to take breakfast elsewhere quite soon,' said Mr Rune to me when Mario had departed, singing a song about Formica. 'I don't know how much longer I can put off the engagement.' 'Engagement?' I asked. 'What engagement?'

'Yours to Mario,' said Mr Rune. 'He asked me for your hand in marriage the first time we came here. Naturally I agreed, in return for free breakfasts.'

'You granted him my hand in marriage?' I said. 'I am appalled.' Hugo Rune shrugged.

'I do not want to marry a waiter,' I said. 'I want to marry a doctor, or a solicitor, or an architect.'

'Most amusing,' said Mr Rune. 'Have you seen this?' And he cast me the morning edition of the Leader.

ran the banner headline. And beneath this much purple prose regarding rumblings beneath the streets and nouses tumbling down.

'Count Otto Black,' said I, 'and his nuclear-powered subterranean Ark.' 'Correct,' said Mr Rune, 'but I meant the article beneath it.' So I read the article beneath it.

BRIGHTON ROCK At Hove Town Hall If heavy makes you happy, then Hove Town Hall is the new rock venue to be at. Tonight 10 p.m. – 2 a.m. Have hair? Be there. Rock on.

'Heavy?' I said to Mr Rune. 'What is this heavy that makes you happy?'

'Heavy metal-' said Hugo Rune, 'it's in its infancy. But when the bass line blasts from the Marshall stack and turns your guts to jelly, you just have to up and bang your head.' 'Bang your head?'

'It's a dance.' And Mr Rune demonstrated this dance, which appeared to consist of rhythmic duckings of the head accompanied by the playing of an imaginary guitar.

'Ah, yes,' I said. 'I recall now that I have read all about heavy metal in the Leader. Are you telling me that you actually like heavy metal?' 'Dear boy,' said Mr Rune, 'I invented heavy metal.'

I shook my head, but as breakfast arrived I smiled at Mario and fluttered my false eyelashes. Just for the Hell of it.

'I cooka yours justa da way you lika it,' said Mario, which is how Italians speak. 'I give you da-bigga-da-sausage. I give you da-bigga-da-sausage any a tima you please.'

I fluttered my lashes and rolled my eyes and Mario departed.

'You invented heavy metal?' I said once more to Mr Rune.

'Where do you really think that Robert Johnson got his chord sequences from? He didn't sell his soul to Satan, I told you that already.' 'You taught Robert Johnson how to play?' 'Forward planning,' said Mr Rune. 'For this evening.'

'I do not understand,' said I, tucking into the biggest sausage I had ever seen, 'but I do have to insist that you explain to me now and not later. It is always such a cop-out when you explain later.'

'We are nearly at the end of our quest,' said Mr Rune. 'Oh, look.' And he pointed beyond my shoulder with his fork. 'Zulus, thousands of them.' I turned not my head, nor even batted an eyelash.

'This is my da-bigga-da-sausage,' I said, 'and J am going to eat it.'

Mr Rune's hovering fork returned to his own breakfasting plate. 'Forward planning,' he said once more. 'Forward planning will always hold the advantage over a hastily conceived stratagem. Allow me to offer you an example of this.' And Mr Rune leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. I leaned back in mine and did likewise.

And the leg of my chair buckled and I fell heavily to the floor. And would you not know it, by the time I had managed to scramble up and find myself another chair, Mr Rune had eaten my da-bigga-da-sausage.

'Forward planning, you see,' said Mr Rune. 'I knew that chair had a dodgy leg, which is why I sat you there.'

'You thorough-going swine,' I said, but I did have to smile when I said it. 'So, all right, you won da-bigga-da-sausage, but please explain about this forward planning when it comes to the field of heavy metal.'

'I gave Robert Johnson the formula,' said Mr Rune, 'the chord sequences that later musicians would recognise to be the chord sequences. All rock music is based upon those chord sequences. This event-' And Mr Rune pointed to the Rock Night advert in the Leader '-could not have occurred had heavy-metal music not come to pass. It also required the invention of the Stratocaster and the Marshall stack. Naturally I had a hand in these also.' 'Naturally,' I said, shovelling egg down my throat.

'So that this event would come to pass, here in Hove tonight.' 'Why?' I asked. Which was a reasonable question.

'Because I have to meet and speak with Him. And He will be present at the event.' 'Why will this He be there?' I asked. 'Because He is a heavy-metal fan.' 'Oh, I see,* I said. 'But who is He?'

Mr Rune mopped up the grease from his plate with his toast and then downed the toast. 'He,' said Mr Rune, 'is the Wiseman of Withdean. The last in His line. He is a direct descendant – the last direct descendant – of the man you saw upon the Chronovision.' 'Little Tich?' I said. 'I did like his Big-Boot Dance.'

'Not Little Tich,' said Mr Rune, and his non-food-stuffing hand moved to the stout stick that lay across his lap. 'Only joking,' I said. 'Then whom?' 'He is the last direct descendant of Jesus Christ.'

I was very glad that I did not have da-bigga-da-sausage in my mouth at that moment, for surely I would have coughed it all over Hugo Rune.

'The last direct descendant of Jesus Christ?' I managed to say.

'Christ did not die upon the cross,' said Hugo Rune. 'Me and the other disciples could not bear for that to happen. Matthew bribed Pilate to have Christ taken down before he died, although he feigned death and word was put about that he was dead. He was tended to and returned to health and smuggled out of the Holy Lands by Joseph of Aromatherapy. He was brought to England, to Brighton, in fact, and from thence to a London borough known as Brentford.' 'Brentford?' I said. 'That rings a bell somewhere.'

'Brentford is the site where the biblical Garden of Eden was located.' 'That I do not believe,' was my reply to that.

'Flutter your eyelids some more,' said Mr Rune, 'and enquire of Mario regarding that third breakfast.'

I did as I was bid and then returned to our conversation. 'The Garden of Eden was in England?' I said.

'Many believe that all biblical events occurred in England,' said Mr Rune, 'but they didn't, only those of the Old Testament. Christ married a Brentford lass. He eventually died and was buried there in the borough. I own a house on The Butts Estate in Brentford. The body of Christ lies in a catacomb beneath it, uncorrupted by the ages.' 'And Christ fathered children?' I said. 'Only one,' said Mr Rune. 'A boy. Colin.'

'Colin?' And I took the opportunity to roll my eyes once again.

'Who married and had a single son and so on and so forth to the present day.'

'And you seek this present-day descendant? This last in the line of Christ?' 'I do,' said Mr Rune. 'And why?' 'Because I cannot defeat Count Otto Black alone.' 'You have me,' I said.