Robert Rankin - The Brightonomicon

'That would be Old Back-Masker,' said the most eager barman, but I did not hear him properly because beyond the bar in the town hall's ballroom proper, the DJ who was hosting the night put on the evening's first music.

It was what I now know to be the greatest rock record ever made. Motorhead's 'The Ace of Spades'.

Now, I know what you are thinking: you are thinking that if this really was the 1960s, then there is no way we could have heard 'The Ace of Spades' being played at a disco. That is what you are thinking, right? Well, wrong to you, because I did hear it. J was there. And to be fair, I had already met Robert Johnson. And he died in 1938. So there!

And let us not forget the Chevalier Effect. It all makes perfect sense really. The DJ's name was Tim McGregor, an ample Scotsman, large of beard and hair. And as chance, coincidence or bloodlines would have it, Tim was a direct descendant of Rob Roy McGregor, the man who invented croquet. Small world, eh?

Tim cried words into his microphone and down upon the dance floor beneath the stage and his decks, head-banging was all the rage and there was certainly good rockin' that night.

'It's hard to believe that Lemmy once played with Hawk-wind,' said Mr Rune to me. 'And with Sam Gopal – he was lead singer on 'Escalator', which was something of a garage-psych classic' 'Stop it,' I said. 'Have a word with yourself, please.'

'Quite so,' said Mr Rune to me, as I handed him his pint of Old Back-Masker, which I hadn't had to pay for, as the barman fancied me. 'Although this may be God's own music, we are here upon God's own mission, and we must find His son's last descendant amongst this swarthy crew.'

'Perhaps if you shouted out that you were really hungry, he might turn up with a bottomless packet of crisps?' 'I do believe that you still harbour one or two doubts.'

'Only trying to defend my sanity. I know I will lose in the end.'

'That large Sapphist with the moustache over there has taken quite a shine to you.' 'Stop it!' I said. 'I am your bitch, do you not remember?'

And Mr Rune laughed, and I laughed, so something must have been funny somewhere.

'I will miss you,' said Mr Rune, 'when all this is over.' And he patted me upon the shoulder.

'You have very cold hands,' I said. 'I wish I had kept my coat on.'

'You look adorable,' said Mr Rune. 'But he is here somewhere, and we must find him.'

'They all look the same to me,' I said. 'How will we know which one is hint?' 'We will know,' said Mr Rune. 'We will know.' Tim McGregor put on 'Killers' by Iron Maiden.

'That wouldn't have been my second record,' said Mr Rune. 'I would have probably gone for "Mouth For War" by Pantera or "Heart of Darkness" by Arch Enemy.'

'Or you might have chosen Slayer's "Raining Blood". It is a classic. Or possibly even Widowmaker's "Eat Everybody",' I said, as if I knew what I was talking about. Which I did not.

'And if Fangio were here, you might well have got nearly two pages out of such a conversation. However.' And Mr Rune went off"to the gents.

I stood at the bar and leaned upon it, too, and sipped at my pint of Old Back-Masker.

A fellow with a somewhat lived-in face sidled up to me. He had long black hair and a bit of a beard and a black and tatty 'I-shirt, too, so he fitted in quite well with the rest of the throng. There was a certain twang of the brewer's craft surrounding him and it was clear to me that here was a chap who was not unacquainted with the pleasures of the pot room. He introduced himself to me as being Tobes de Valois. And this he did between great belchings and hiccups.

'Are you here on your own?' asked Tobes as he swayed about before me. 'I am looking for someone,' I said, 'but you it is not.'

'It might be,' said Tobes. And he tried hard to focus his eyes in my general direction.

'I am informed that I will know who it is when I see them,' I said. 'I'll bet that makes sense,' said Tobes, 'but not to me.' 'Please go away now,' I said. Politely.

'If you fancy a bunk-up, I'm sure I could almost manage it. And if I can't, well, look on the bright side – I won't even remember it in the morning.' It must be so much fun being a woman, I told myself.

'Are those your own titties?' asked Tobes. 'Only they don't look too convincing.' 'What?' I said.

'Nothing wrong with transvestism,' said Tobes, 'as long as you keep your dignity.' And then he fell down and I stepped over him. And Mr Rune returned from the gents'.

'You'll never guess who I just met in there,' said Mr Rune. 'Captain Bartholomew Moulsecoomb – he's guest bog troll for the night. Something of a cult hero amongst the heavy-metal crowd.'

'I thought pirates were more a New Romantic thing,'* I said.

'He quit the employ of Count Otto Black. Said he got fed up with having to feed all those animals. Especially the spaniels. The rest of his mutinous crew stayed on, though.' 'Any sign of God's great-great-great-great-grandson?' 'None,' said Mr Rune. 'What of you?'

'Well, I have just had a very interesting conversation with a chap called Tobes, but other than that, nothing.'

'He will be here,' said Mr Rune. 'He is here, somewhere.'

'Then I hope we find him soon. This music is giving me a headache. What is the DJ playing now?'

'Carcass,' said Mr Rune. 'Track three from their Reek of Purification album.' 'Let us go home,' I said to Mr Rune.

'No, no, no,' said Mr Rune, and he waggled a porky digit at me.

'We should have asked Fangio for a more precise description,' I said. 'Distinguishing marks and scars, tattoos and whatnots. A proper detective would have done that' 'Are you implying that I am an improper detective?' Mr * Don't even think about saying it! Rune raised that hairless eyebrow which I had come to know so well.

'It could be anyone here,' I said. 'It could even be him.' And I pointed down at the prone form of Tobes de Valois. Tobes de Valois belched in his slumbers.

'Or him,' and I pointed towards a tall, imposing fellow who was striding our way. He was dressed all in black, with long black hair and one of those natty goatee beards that I had so far failed to grow to any convincing degree – although it had been getting pretty good before Mr Rune made me shave it off to disguise myself as a girlie.

The crowd seemed to part before the onward stride of the tall, imposing figure. He raised his hand as if in benediction and smiled benignly, too.

'I bet that's him,' I said to Mr Rune. 'Should I complain of a bunion and see if he offers to heal me?' 'Most amusing.'

'I am sorry,' I said. 'It is probably nerves. I really need the toilet now and I am not too certain about whether I should go to the gents' or the ladies'.'

'Stay here,' said Mr Rune. And he stepped forward to bid a hello to the tall, imposing figure and engage him in conversation.

And I heard the imposing figure say, 'They call me the Wiseman of Withdean.'

I crossed my shapely legs and perused the bottom of my empty glass.

'Another of the same, gorgeous?' asked the nearest barman.

'Yes, indeed,' I said and I ran my tongue around my lips in a manner that I had once seen Marilyn Monroe do in a movie on TV. I was about to ask Mr Rune whether he would care for another beer, but I saw him being steered away through the crowd by the tall, imposing figure, stepping over Tobes as they went on their way. They were making, it seemed, towards the fire exit. 'And I do not get an invite,' I said. 'Typical.'

And then Tobes de Valois lurched to his feet. 'Whoa/ he went. 'That was horrible. Felt as if someone just walked over my grave.' And he dusted himself down and ordered a pint from the bar. 'I think you have had enough,' I said to him.

Tobes glanced me up and down, mostly down, and winked lewdly. Til be fine,' he said. 'I can drink until I pass right out, then sleep for less than five minutes and I'm stone-cold sober again.' 'This is quite a talent,' I said 'I wish I could do that.'