Robert Rankin - The Brightonomicon

'For the time being?' I did further dustings down. And I was still rather wobbly on my pins.

'Consider it to be a game of chess,' said Mr Rune. Who did not seem at all besmirched, or even wobbly now, and was clearly in the very best of spirits. 'Checkmate and the game is over. But the players remain and so do the pieces, to be replaced upon the board for future games.' 'And that is how it is for you and Count Otto?'

'In a manner of speaking, yes. The Chronovision is destroyed. This game is over. But there will be other games in other times.' 'And will I play in these games?'

'No, young Rizla.' And Hugo Rune patted my shoulder. 'You have played your part, and loyally, too. But now you must return to your own life. You will have adventures of your own to engage in. Great adventures, be assured of that.'

'But I still do not know who I am. And if truth be told, I think I would rather just stay here with you.'

'That cannot be,' and Mr Rune shook his great bald head. 'Tonight you return to your own life. Oh, and in some far and distant future time, when the time is right and you take up your pen and record your adventures with me, do make sure that you spell my name correctly.' 'Yes,' I said. 'But no, I do not want to go.' 'But nevertheless you must.' 'And so must I,' said Lord Tobes, 'to that pub over there. Will either of you join me for a pint?' 'I will,' said Mr Rune, 'but later.' 'I will now,' said I.

'No.' Mr Rune held up his hand. The one with the stout stick in it. 'You have done enough. It is time to say farewell.'

'Well, if that's how it is,' said Tobes, 'I suppose it's farewell.' And he put out his hand to me and I shook it. 'And you certainly do have some adventures coming up,' he continued. 'I was just having a bit of a standing nap there, and you'll never believe what happens to you. You see, there's you and this Irish bloke and you walk into a pub and-'

'No,' said Mr Rune, and he waggled his stick at Lord Tobes.

'Then ta ta for now, then,' said Tobes. 'And I'll see you in the pub Mister Rune. If I'm sleeping, give me a wake up.' And with that, Tobes departed into the Brighton night. 'Do I really have to go?' I whinged at Mr Rune.

'You do, my boy, you do. And see, here we are at the East Street cab rank. We will take a taxi to your point of departure.' 'I think I would rather walk,' I said. 'Not a bit of it.'

There was no queue for the cabs and ten stood all in a row awaiting fares. The cabbies leaned upon the foremost vehicle, smoking cigarettes and talking about football.

Mr Rune rapped his stout stick on the bonnet of this foremost cab. 'Shop!' cried he. 'Important persons requiring transportation.' The cabbies looked up from their discussion, took in Mr Rune and me and then looked back towards one another.

And then, 'It's 'im,' said a cabbie called Jonie, who favoured a team called Newcastly United. 'That's the blighter what struck me unconscious in Hangleton and nicked my cab.'

'Damn right!' said a cabbie that I recognised to be Dave, who was the Brighton Seagulls supporter whom Mr Rune had clubbed down during the Curious Case of the Centenary Centaur. 'I recognise that nutter and his stout stick.'

'And he done me and nicked my cab in Woodingdean,' said a cabbie called Colin, who was known for his love of West Bromwich Albion.

And I also noticed Darren, whom Mr Rune and I had encountered during the Sensational Affair of the Sackville Scavenger. He supported Hull, I recalled. And also Ralph, the Chelsea FC supporter.

'I think perhaps we should walk,' I said to Mr Rune. 'Or perhaps run, which might be quicker.'

'He didn't hit me,' said a cabbie called Salvador de Allende Fernandes Mal de Mer, an ardent supporter of the Benedictine Bears, if my memory served me well. 'But as I, like you, my brothers, am a member of BOLLOCK, the secret cabal of cabbies, I will join you in thrashing these scoundrels.' Mr Rune sighed deeply. 'It pains me to say it,' he said, 'but running would perhaps be the best option.' And off he went at the hurry-up. And off went I in pursuit.

And after us came the cabbies, in the manner of a lynch mob of old. All they lacked for were burning torches.

Mr Rune's lunggom leaping carried him at considerable speed along the length of East Street, across Grand Junction Road and on to the promenade. I rushed after him as best I could. The cabbies followed with vigour and in swelling numbers, too, it seemed, as I glanced over my shoulder.

I thought I saw Sean O'Reilly, the Arsenal supporter who had been struck down during the Baffling Business of the Bevendean Bat. And also Andy, who favoured Brentford United, who had 'got his', as it were, whilst Mr Rune and I were applying ourselves to the case of the Birdman of Whitehawk.

Mr Rune had by now reached the Palace Pier and was leaping his way along it. And I ran too with a spring in my step, as cabs on Grand Junction Road swerved to a halt and other cabbies sprang from them. On to the pier and along it I ran. And that thought came to me once again. Piers only go from the land to the sea. There is no escape to be had at the end of them.

Although in truth, there had been the last time, with The Saucy Spaniel and Captain Bartholomew Moulsecoomb. But this time? Well, it did not seem too likely.

I ran through the penny arcade and past the gypsy caravan, where a tarot reader named Freda turned cards on a gate-legged table. And on and on and panting now, and after Hugo Rune. Until finally… I was at the very end of the pier. And there stood Hugo Rune.

I puffed and panted and gagged and gasped. 'We are trapped,' I managed to say. 'We're here,' said Mr Rune, without so much as a puff. 'I know,' I said. 'Now what are we going to do?'

I heard the cries of approaching cabbies. They had ceased to run, because they must have realised that we were trapped.

I glanced back and beheld them: a truly menacing crowd advancing at a slow and even pace.

'I said,' said Mr Rune, 'that we are here. At our destination. Your point of departure. And the exercise did us good and sobered us up and we saved ourselves the cost of a cab. In a manner of speaking.' 'We… are… trapped!' I cried between puffings.

'Never say die,' said Mr Rune. 'But now, I regret that we must say farewell.' 'What?' I went. 'What?'

'Farewell,' said Mr Rune, and he shook me by the hand. 'And thank you, Rizla, for everything.'

And with that said, and no more, he lifted me bodily with a single hand, swung me out over the railings and dropped me into the sea. 'No!' I went. 'Oooooooooh noooooooo!' And then I hit the water. That cold, cold water.

And the last thing that I saw was Mr Rune saluting my departure and then setting about the cabbies with his stout stick. And then the cold waters closed above my head. And that was that for me.

And then I awoke with a cough and a croak in a rather cosy bed.

I did blinkings and gaspings and gaggjngs and chokings, and then I did lookings around. 'Where am I?' I asked. 'And how did I get here?'

A smiling face smiled down upon me. It was a smiling face I knew. 'You are in Brentford Cottage Hospital,' it said.

'Omally,' I said to this smiling face, this bright and smiling teenaged face. 'John Omally, it is you.' 'And it's yourself, too, Jim Pooley, you silly bugger.'

'Yes,' I said. And I drew in breath. 'Jim Pooley, that is me. I am Jim.'

'You're Jim, all right,' said John and he patted me upon the shoulder. 'And I can't take my eyes off you for an evening, can I?'

'Can you not?' I asked. 'Can I have a glass of water?' I continued. 'I'd have thought you'd had enough of water.' John decanted a glass from the jug upon the bedside table, helped me into a seated position, which involved some plumpings-up of pillows, and handed me the glass. 'If I hadn't misplaced those tickets to see The Who,' said John to me, 'that Enid Earles would never have gone down to Brighton with you.' 'Enid Earles,' I said. 'Yes, I remember.' 'And what happened to her?'