The Birdman of Whitehawk The Whitehawk Birdman
With the aid of Fangio, Mr Rune and I left the Hotel California by the rear fire exit, our beds still made, our bill, unpaid.
Leaving Lewes itself, however, proved to be somewhat more complicated. The walk from the station to the hotel that we had made the previous day had not been a long walk. It had been a walk-in-the-park kind of walk, although there was no park. But the walk back…
'Check the map once more, Rizla,' cried Mr Rune, when after very much walking we found ourselves at the hotel's rear exit once again. 'This is thoroughly absurd.'
'It is the curse,' I told him. And I yawned as I told him, for I was very tired, having not slept all night, and having watched my bestest friend die and then having been chased by witches; having made my escape in Norris Styver's Morris Minor, which included running over several of the witches (which in the cold light of day seemed a somewhat terrible thing to have done, no matter how extenuating the circumstances); then discovering that Norris was a dead corpse-thing; and finally escaping from him, but at the expense of being cursed never to leave the town of Lewes. It had been a hard night and I was all in.
'We will never get out alive,' I further told Mr Rune. 'You had best leave me here to wander these streets for ever and ever.' 'Or we might just hail a cab.'
'They do not have cabs in Lewes, although I did hear a tale of a Brighton cabbie who drove a fare here once and is still trying to find his way out of the one-way system. And anyways, calling a cab would do no good. The roads are all snarled up with traffic – first-time visitors to the fireworks last night trying in vain to get home. Go, save yourself. Leave me here to die.'
Mr Rune raised his stout stick. Then he lowered it again. 'It has been a difficult night for you, young Rizla,' he said, 'and you acquitted yourself bravely and loyally. If it is merely a matter of me voiding the curse of Norris Styver, then so be it. About turn.' 'It is a waste of time,' I said.
'About turn,' said Mr Rune, 'about turn, walk backwards, close your eyes and lead us back to the station from memory.' 'Will that work?' 'Trust me-' said Hugo Rune. 'I know,' I said, sighing. 'You are a magician.' ? If everything in life were as simple as that, there would be no trouble in this world. Certainly I bumped into a few lampposts, which I felt certain that Mr Rune could have steered me around. And although each time he was apologetic, I swear I heard titterings. But at length, and at not very much of one, we had arrived at the station.
And from there, upon a westbound train, we returned at further length to Brighton.
We did not, however, return to our rooms at forty-nine Grand Parade. In fact, we never returned to them again, which was rather sad, really, because I had certainly enjoyed our times together there, all the breakfasting and conversations and whatnots. Not to mention all that damn fine toot I had talked with Fangio in his bar next door. I wondered whether I would ever see Fangio again. It was always possible, I supposed.
There was some unpleasantness at Brighton Station regarding the matter of train tickets. Mr Rune was forced to employ his stout stick and we left the concourse with haste. Mr Rune surveyed the line of waiting cabs.
'Splendid,' said he, blowing breath at the knob of his stout stick and buffing it on his sleeve.
'Now just hold on,' I said, 'are you thinking that we should go at once and attempt to acquire the Chronovision?' 'There is no time to be lost' 'Things are not quite as simple as you might suppose.' 'We have the map. We have the location. What could be simpler?'
'Well, firstly,' I said, 'and all importantly, it is to do with the matter of the location. The Chronovision is hidden in Whitehawk.' 'So?' said Mr Rune. 'Whitehawk,' I said. 'Whitehawk.' 'Tell me about it in the cab,' said Mr Rune. 'Taxis will not drive into Whitehawk.'
'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?'
'That is very tasteless,' I said. And I let the evil black car catch up, and then I accelerated, signalled left and took a sharp right turn.
'Lost them,' said Mr Rune. 'For a moment at least. Left again and then first right. You're doing very well.' 'I am falling asleep at the wheel,' I said. 'We'll soon be there.' And very soon we were.
In a horrible houseless cul-de-sac, with high brick walls to either side of us and another one ahead.
'We have come the wrong way,' I said, with some degree of panic, 'and we are boxed in. There is no way out. This is not good. This is definitely not good.'
'Take deep breaths and steady yourself. It is just as I expected.' 'There is nothing here. Just walls.' * It looked just like that one in the movie The Car. And isn't that a great movie? 'We are where we should be.' 'This cannot be right.'
Mr Rune passed the map to me and said, 'Study the map, young Rizla.'
I studied the map and looked back at him. 'We must have come the wrong way,' I said. 'This cul-de-sac is not on the map, as far as I can see. We came up this road,' and I pointed, 'along here, then turned right here, then left again, then first right. But first right is not on the map. We are lost.' 'We are exactly where we should be. This cul-de-sac is not on the map.' 'Why not?'
Mr Rune grinned at me. 'Because this cul-de-sac is within one of the Forbidden Zones,' said he. 'Surely you read of them in my masterwork The Book of Ultimate Truths. I clearly recall giving the tome to you to read and memorise. I impressed upon you the importance of what was written therein. Don't tell me that you never read it.'
'I did flick through it,' I said, 'but the newsagent's down the road from our rooms had all these Lazlo Woodbine thrillers that I had never read and-'
'Ah,' said Mr Rune. 'Well, this explains much, such as when on our previous cases you said that you couldn't have solved them because you lacked for my prior knowledge. I thought that you were simply being modest, or perhaps amusing, as the necessary details are all to be found within The Book of Ultimate Truths.'
'Yes, well perhaps I will read it later. For now I think I had better back us out of this death trap before the black car boxes us in.'
No, no, no,' and Hugo Rune shook his head. 'As you have never read my book,' he said, 'have you ever wondered why I have such a down upon cabbies?'
'It has crossed my mind,' I said. 'I just put it down to your dislike of paying for anything.'
'No, my dear boy. It is much more than that. It has to do with the London A to Z, a map book that purports to display to its buyer all the streets of London. In fact, it does anything but. "A to Z" stands for "Allocated Zones", those zones in which ordinary mortals are allowed to travel. But there are other zones in London hidden from the general public. London is far bigger than it appears to be on any map. In fact, the world is far larger than it appears to be on any map, which can be easily demonstrated if you have a rectangular map of the world and attempt to fold it around a sphere of a similar scale. You will find a lot of leftover map. The Forbidden Zones. London cabbies – in fact, all cabbies – know of these zones because they are members of a secret organisation known as BOLLOCK.' 'Bollock?' I said.
'Meaning the Black Order – London's Legion of Cab Knights. Taxi drivers learn "the Knowledge", but what they really learn is "the Secret Knowledge", handed on from generation to generation. Knowledge of the location of the Forbidden Zones.' 'But what is in these Forbidden Zones?' I asked.
'All that is missing. All that is lost. The ballpoint pens, the yellow-handled screwdrivers, that pair of glasses or whatever it was that you put down for a moment and can never find again. Although this can also have something to do with congregational instinct amongst inanimate objects, which explains why buses always come along three at a time. Or small-screw phenomena, which explains why there are always two small screws left over when you reassemble that broken toaster, which now appears to be mended. But we cannot go into those matters here. They are explained at length in The Book of Ultimate Truths. So, let me continue about all those things that unaccountably go missing. That postal order that should have arrived for your birthday. That job application that you sent off. Put this on a worldwide scale. What about the things that go missing from the corridors of power in Westminster? All these things go into the Forbidden Zones. Which is why, of course, I reinvented the ocarina.' 'What?' I said.
'My ocarina,' said Mr Rune, taking it from his pocket and tootling out a little trill.
'Your ocarina has something to do with the Forbidden Zones?'
'It is our means of entry to the secret labyrinth that lies within them. I have travelled into those regions before. In fact, I was trapped within them for a goodly spell before being released by a chap named Cornelius Murphy. But that is another story.'*
'And this is a cop-out,' I said. 'You cannot just spring all this on me out of the blue at the last minute to explain things. That is not the way it works.'
'Rizla,' said Mr Rune, 'every case that we have been involved in during the course of the last year has led towards this moment. Put them all together in your mind. See the connections. I confess that I did not know that the Chronovision was hidden in one of the Forbidden Zones. Did not know, in fact, until we drove into this cul-de-sac that was not on the map, guided here by the hole burned into the map.' 'So what has your ocarina to do with it?'
'My reinvented ocarina. The notes between notes, Rizla, the cracks between the piano keys, a series of notes that cannot be played upon any normal instrument open the portals into the inner labyrinths of the Forbidden Zones. We are here. The ocarina is here. I will play and you will drive.' 'Absurd,' said I.
'Everything is absurd, Rizla. Everything. Life is absurd; love is absurd; death, too, utterly absurd. Which is why we try not to think about the absurdity of everything. In feet, we don't really think very much about anything. We just go on doing what we're doing. And all things considered, and I have considered them all, it is probably better that way.'
'Well,' I said, 'I am really sorry that I did not do more than flick through your book. Although I do remember * And a good 'n. reading about how hedgehogs inhabit the Aquasphere, where rain comes from, where they float about, held aloft by the natural helium inside them, but sometimes get punctured during over-exuberant rutting and plunge to Earth. Which is why you see them splatted on to country roads.' And then I yawned and fell asleep. 'Wake up!' cried Mr Rune. 'What?' I went. 'What?' 'Rear-view mirror.'
I blinked up at the rear-view mirror. It seemed mostly filled by a black and evil-looking car.
'Wah!' I went. 'Wah!' And had I had sufficient space I would have flapped my hands and taken to the turning in small circles. Well, at least I had room to flap my hands.
'Stop doing that,' ordered Mr Rune. 'Put your foot down hard and drive.' 'But we will crash into the wall ahead.' 'No, we will not. Trust me And I trusted Mr Rune.
I put the cab in gear and put my foot down hard and drove.
And Mr Rune wound down his window, stuck his big head out and played his ocarina. And the evil-looking black car roared after us. And the wall ahead grew nearer and nearer. And suddenly it filled all of the world. And there was a terrible… Nothing. No sound apart from a kind of gulp. As in swallowing. As if we were being swallowed into blackness. And then into light. And I slammed on the brakes and the cab skidded around and we came to rest amongst more than a million ballpoint pens. Which is where I might reasonably have ended this chapter. But as you see, I did not. ? 'Where are we?' I asked. 'What is this place?' And I peered all around and about in a skulking and fearful fashion, for it seemed that we were in some vast chamber, walled with brick, with countless pillars and columns. And there was a roof some great distance above, but it was lost in shadows as there was really not much light.
'Magnificent,' said Mr Rune, gazing through his open window. 'This architecture predates all of the great cathedrals. It is the work of a hand older than Man's.' 'I do not find that encouraging,' I said.
'Well, you can always look on the bright side – our pursuers no longer pursue.' 'And do you know where we are?' 'Within the labyrinth.' 'And the Chronovision is here? Somewhere?'
'Undoubtedly. I kick myself for not having reasoned this out earlier. If it were hidden within the realm of Man, I would surely have found it already. It is all so obvious now.'
'Hm,' I said. 'I think you will find that you are all alone in that opinion. Are we safe here, by the way?' 'For now,' said Mr Rune.
'Then do you mind if I get my head down for,, a few hours? Eight will do, then I will be all perky again.' 'No time for sleep,' said Mr Rune. 'Drive on.'
'We are three-feet deep in Biros here. I do not think the cab will move.' 'Then we'll have to walk. Bring the torch.' 'What torch?' "The one that cabbies always keep beneath the dashboard. Beside their pistols. Bring the pistol also.' 'Pistol?' 'Bring the pistol.'
It was a rather odd pistol of a design that I had never seen before. But as all this was so unlikely anyway, I did not care. I just brought the pistol, and felt more comforted bringing it.
Mr Rune and I struggled to open the cab doors, then we waded through Biros. We waded through Biros, and yellow-handled screwdrivers, and house keys and car keys and penknives and spanners and tickets. Tickets! There were thousands of tickets. Tens of thousands of tickets. Millions and billions and trillions of tickets. Cloakroom tickets, bus tickets, train tickets, concert tickets. 'Now you know where they all go to,' said Mr Rune. 'Yes,' I said. 'But why?
'Control,' said Mr Rune. 'It is as simple as that. Or as complicated. A man's life appears to travel in a straight line from birth to death. He does this and that along the way, of his own free will, he thinks. But in truth, he is constantly thwarted, constantly made to do that which he does not wish to do, guided – pushed, more like – into other things. Free will? Plah!' went Hugo Rune. 'You will find that what a man does is not a product of his own free will. It is the product of what he loses*
Mr Rune plucked up a single ticket from the countless numbers that lay in great swathes about us. 'What do we have here? Ah, a ticket to see The Who, a popular rhythm combo, at the Hanwell Community Centre, last February. Let us suppose this. The buyer of this ticket was really looking forward to the concert. He queued up, but when his time to enter came, he could not find his ticket and so was sent upon his way. Miffed and angry, he wandered into the nearest alehouse and there, as seeming chance would have it, he met the woman who would later become his wife. And bear him a child who would later invent a space-drive system based upon the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. None of this would have occurred had his ticket to see The Who not gone unaccountably missing.'
'But surely that is a good thing. I thought the Forbidden Zones were run by baddies. Who is in charge of the Forbidden Zones, by the way? Or is anyone – or anything – actually in charge? Or does this stuff just happen?'
Mr Rune ignored my questions. 'Shortly,' he said, 'when all this is at an end, you will recover your memory and know once more who you really are. And when you do, you will recall that the only reason that you came to Brighton was because something unaccountably went missing. This seemingly trivial event changed the course of your life.' 'I doubt that very much,' I said. But I was wrong to doubt. And I began to yawn once more, for I was really all in.
'Pacey-pacey, Rizla,' said Mr Rune. 'The man of destiny knows better than to linger long beneath the lifted leg of serendipity's spaniel.' And of course I would not have argued with that! And so we pressed on for a goodly way and then we came to the tellies. I shone my torch up at them and its light did not reach very much of the way up the pile. And my, oh my, oh my. They were the Great Pyramid of Televisions. There were so many of them, I did not dare to consider their number.
'You do not lose TVs,' I said. 'Not like Biros or car keys.'
'Or dry cleaning?' said Mr Rune. 'Or suitcases on air flights?' Or aeroplanes themselves – do you recall Amy Johnson? Or ships? Have you ever heard of the Bermuda Triangle? What now of Whitehawk's evil reputation? This is where all the "stolen" items really go.' 'I am scared now,' I said. 'And I want to go.'
'And we will, when we have acquired that which we have come here to find.' 'What does it look like?' I asked.
Mr Rune gazed up at the countless TVs. 'Like one of those,' he said.
We shared a special moment. And also the contents of Mr Rune's hip flask, for which I was grateful.
'You must scale the peak,' said Mr Rune, 'and find the Chronovision.'
'I must? But how will I know it, when I find it? So to speak.'
'Hm,' said Hugo Rune. 'Well, let us put ourselves in Father Ernetti's place. He is a Benedictine monk and he constructs a television set, which is a window into past events. What would it look like?'
'A bit gothic,' I said. 'About twenty feet high, all covered with carved cherubs and such like, with lots of gilded bits and bobs and a big crucifix on the top.'
'Perhaps you'd better wait here while I search,' said Mr Rune. 'Good idea,' I agreed. 'Then I could have a little sleep.' 'Setde yourself down, then, Rizla. I will search alone.'
'Oh no,' I said. 'That is not fair. We have come this far together. Let us both search.'
'You will know it, if you find it,' said Mr Rune. And he and I began our search. Now I could, of course, drag this out for a bit, and possibly make it exciting. But there would not be much point, and it was not exciting.
Mr Rune had not climbed more than two levels up the pyramid of TVs before he cried, 'Eureka!' 'You have found it?' I said. 'I have,' said he. 'Pray give me a hand to get it down.' I did as I was bid and we struggled it down together. And when we had done so, I gazed upon it. 'And that is it?' I said. 'It is,' said Hugo Rune. 'Father Ernetti's Chronovision.' 'But it looks just like a nineteen-fifties Bakelite TV. 'There are subtle differences.'
'Well, they are lost upon me. But bravo to you, Mister Rune. Our search is over. Now let us smash it to bits.'
'Excuse me?' said Mr Rune and he raised one of those hairless eyebrows of his.
'Well, that is what we came here to do. That is what our quest has all been about – seek and destroy. Well, we did the seeking, now we have found it, so let us get on with the destroying.'
Mr Rune held the Chronovision in his great hands and clasped it to his great chest. 'Not as yet,' said he. 'Not as yet?' I said to him. 'But you told me that this is the most dangerous device on all of God's Earth. That the man who has it within his control can view all of the past -the past of any living man. That the secrets of any living man can be shown upon the screen. And so the man who owns the Chronovision can become the most powerful man on Earth, because no man can have secrets, no matter how dark, from him. Am I correct?'
'You are,' said Mr Rune, 'which is why Count Otto seeks it.'
'And why it must be destroyed. Put it down and I will stamp upon it.' 'No,' said Mr Rune. 'This cannot be.'
'Oh no,' I said. 'Do not tell me this. You mean to keep the Chronovision for yourself. After all we have been through. You have tricked me throughout – you had no intention of destroying the thing. You just wanted to get your own hands upon it.'
Mr Rune put down the Chronovision and it floated there upon that sea of tickets. 'Do you trust me, Rizla?' he asked.
'I did,' I said. 'Absolutely. But now I am having my doubts.' 'Such a pity.' And Mr Rune swung his stout stick. And struck me down with it.