Mr Rune strode along Church Road, swinging his stout stick before him, and I took joy in this, although I am not certain why. He brought down a cleric who was riding past on his bike and I took some joy in this also. But Rock Night was not due to start until ten and it was only eight of the evening clock.
'We will stop in here to partake of alcoholic beverages,' said Mr Rune, pointing with his stick towards an alehouse we were approaching.
The alehouse was The Albion, and it was as rough as they come.
'In you go, bitch,' said Mr Rune. 'The first round is on you.'
'Stop calling me that,' I said as I pressed open the saloon-bar door of The Albion. 'It is not big and nor is it clever.'
There was a pre-Rock Night crowd taking ale in The Albion – a whole lot of men in black (who had nothing to do with aliens or the CIA) and a whole lot of girlies looking gorgeous. It was a fair old pre-Rock Night crowd, but I did not have to elbow my way to the counter. The crowd sort of parted before me.
Behind the counter stood a fellow clad head to toe in leather. He was all chains and straps and belts with one of those gimp headpieces with the zip-up eyeholes and the zip-up mouth hole, too. 'Gmmph mmph mmph,' he said to us.
'Perhaps you should unzip your mouth hole,' I suggested to him. 'Mmph?' said the gimpish barkeep. 'And your ear holes also.'
Zips were unzipped. 'Can I help you, sir and madam?' he said. 'I know that voice,' I said. And I did. 'Fangio, is it you? Fangio removed his gimp headpiece. 'I'm sweating like a Blue Peter presenter in this,' he said. 'And helloooo to you.' 'It is me, Fange,' I said.
'I don't think we've been introduced,' said Fangio. 'My name is Malcolm. Might I call you bitch?' 'No, you might not,' I said. 'Malcolm?' I said.
'It's a suave name, Malcolm,' said Fange. And he looked at me closely. 'Not that close,' I said, backing away. 'Are they your own bosoms?' said Fangio. 'No, I am wearing them in for a friend.' 'Rizla, is that you? 'It is ' I said. 'I am in disguise.'
'I didn't notice,' said Fange. 'What are you supposed to be? Let me guess. A fireman, is it? Or a Presbyterian?'
'Two pints of your finest ale,' said I. 'And it is very good to see you again.'
'Two pints of Old Daughter-Slaughter coming up,' said Fangio. 'Is that your own navel, by the way?' 'Just pull the pints.'
'Great coat, Mister Rune,' said Fangio as he presented our pints to us. 'And it's very good to see you again. I no longer have my bar at Grand Parade – it burned down when the fire spread from your rooms – but happily I was able to save the accounts book. Would you care to settle up what you owe me? I think I might take an early retirement.'
Mr Rune sipped at his pint. 'Put this upon my new account,' said he, 'as this will now be my new local.'
Fangio made groaning sounds. 'Are those your real legs?' he asked me.
'I am in disguise, I told you. We are here on what must be our all-but-final case or conundrum. I am undercover, like Lazlo Woodbine.'
'He was in here earlier,' said Fangio, 'wearing a tweed jacket and a trilby hat. I didn't recognise him at first. Thought he was a newspaper reporter.'
'No,' I said, 'he was not in here earlier. Lazlo Woodbine does not exist – he is a fictional character.'
'He said that people are always saying that about him. He left me his business card.' 'Show it to me,' I said.
'I mislaid it,' said Fangio. 'But he was in. Said he was on a case, the biggest of his life.'
'Stuff and nonsense,' I said. 'Do you have any complimentary peanuts or chewing fat?' 'Only loaves and fishes,' said Fangio. 'Loaves and fishes?' I said. 'As in-'
Mr Rune shushed me to silence. 'Why only loaves and fishes?' he asked the leather-bound barkeep.
'Funny thing,' said Fangio. 'This fellow was in here earlier – heavy-metal fan, long hair, beard, black T-shirt -and he asked for something to eat. But the van didn't turn up today and the freezer and the fryer are empty. And there were all these other punters in here too and they all wanted something to eat. And they ate all my crisps and were still hungry. And then this other fellow came in, who was wearing a tweed jacket and a trilby hat and I thought he must be a newspaper reporter, but he wasn't, he was-' 'About the loaves and fishes,' I said.
'I'm coming to that. The fellow in the tweed jacket ordered a bottle of Bud and put down his bag of sandwiches on the bar – sardine sandwiches, they were. Then he went out to the toilet. And while he was out there, the other fellow, the one with the long hair, and the beard, and the black T-shirt, he took this bag of sandwiches and offered it around the bar, to everyone who was hungry. And they all took a sandwich. All of them. And that's dozens of sandwiches, right? But after that, the fellow with the long hair, and the beard, and the black 'I-shirt put the sandwich bag back on the bar. And damn me if the sardine sandwiches weren't still in it. And then he left the bar. How did he do that, eh?' 'Perhaps he just walked out of the door,' I said.
'I mean,' said Fangio, 'how did everyone eat sandwiches, but the sandwiches were still in the bag? Is it voodoo, do you think? Or was he Paul Daniels?'
'And then did this "Lazlo Woodbine" eat the sardine sandwiches?'
'Don't talk silly,' said Fangio. 'Lazlo Woodbine doesn't eat sardine sandwiches. He only eats hot pastrami on rye.' 'There is a degree of truth to this tale,' I said.
'I have the sardine sandwiches here in the bag to prove it,' said Fangio.
'I'd like to take a look at those sandwiches,' said Mr Rune.
And whilst Mr Rune dined upon sardines on bread, I gazed about the bar. Now, just how possible was this? I wondered. That not only the last man in the bloodline of Jesus Christ, but also Lazlo Woodbine had both been in this bar today? I have to confess that it did not seem all that likely. Well, at least not the Woodbine bit. 'Ah,' said Fangio. 'Here's his card. I knew I had it somewhere. It was in my codpiece all the time.' 'Just hold it up for me,' I said, 'and let me read it.' Lazlo Woodbine Private Eye Well, you could not argue with that! Presently we had done with our pints, so Mr Rune ordered more. And soon we were done with those, too.
'We are nearing the end of our quest,' said Mr Rune to me. 'Soon, I feel certain, all will be resolved. This Lazlo Woodbine development is interesting, however.'
'Fangio is pulling our legs,' said I. 'Lazlo Woodbine does not exist. He is only a fictional character.' 'Just someone you read about in books,' said Mr Rune. 'Exactly.' 'A little like Jesus, then?' 'Nothing like Jesus at all,' said I. 'But Lazlo Woodbine is real to you.' 'He is real inside the books, but not outside them.'
'And who is to say, then, who is real?' said Mr Rune. 'You and I might just be characters in a book.'
'That is absurd,' I said. 'And if it were true, who is reading about us now?'
'Perhaps a character in someone else's book. Who is in turn just a character in someone else's book. And so on, ad infinitum.' 'Stop,' I said. 'You are scaring me.'
'It was only a thought,' said Mr Rune. 'Such thoughts occasionally cross my mind.' 'What time is it?' I asked.
Mr Rune perused his wristlet watch. A Cartier, I felt certain, and one I had not seen before.
'It is ten,' said Hugo Rune. 'We must be away to the ball.' And he whispered words into Fangio's ear and we went off to the ball. I really liked the inside of Hove Town Hall. It was architecture in the public-utility style. It was unpretentious. It did not make any bones. It said, 'I am a modern town-hall interior, love me, or love me not.'
Well, I did not hue it, but I liked it, with its horrible carpets, the dreadful paintwork, the appalling lighting. The upstairs bar was amazing, though – there were twelve bar staff behind the jump, which made me think of the twelve-bar blues and also of Robert Johnson.
The Rock-Night crowd was a-swelling and a-swelling, but we had no problem getting served.
And there was something else that I think I should mention in passing. And this was the Rock-Night crowd's attitude to Mr Rune. When we entered the town hall we had to pay, although we got a laminated 'club card'. But it was there at the door that the whispering began. I heard the door supervisors whisper to the fellows on the desk. They whispered, 'It is him,' when we walked up the stairs and into the upstairs bar.
'What is all this whispering?' I said to Mr Rune. 'What is all this "It is him" stuff as you walk by?'
'I am revered,' said Mr Rune, modestly, 'These are my people.' ' Your people? How?' "The Book of Ultimate Truths,' said Mr Rune, 'has thus far only achieved what you might describe as "cult status". Naturally it will go on in the future to become much more than that. But here, Rizla, you are amongst my readers.' 'You mean we're characters in what they read?'
'That is not what I mean.' Mr Rune inclined his great head towards what I can only describe as an absolute babe, who approached him with a beer mat and a Biro. 'Might I have your autograph, Master?' she asked. And Mr Rune obliged. 'Absurd,' I said. 'This is all absurd. And I say so.'
'You could always bathe in my reflected glory,' said Mr Rune. 'As my acolyte, there'd be sex in it for you. That young chap looks interested.' 'I do not want to have sex with chaps!' I declared. 'That young lesbian-' 'Now there is a thought,' I said.
But it was not really, truly a thought, for I have never been a lady's man. I am a sensitive fellow, me. I want a relationship. I know that sounds a bit wimpy, but that is the way I am. I do not do casual sex. I do not think I could do casual sex. Although. 'Are you sure she is a lessa?' I asked Mr Rune. 'Trust me,' said Mr Rune. 'I'm-' 'I am going to the bar.' I got served at once. Six young barmen were keen to oblige. 'Two pints of whatever you have that is best,' I said.
'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.'
Tm sure you can do a lot of other things. Are you with the lady-boys of Bangkok?'
'Actually, I am in disguise,' I said, as I sipped at the new free pint that had been given to me. 'And yes, I am a chap, although so far you are the only person who has discovered this. And you did it while you were drunk. What gave me away? Is it the bosoms?'
'Nah,' and Tobes shook his head. His hair looked somewhat nitty. 'I just have a knack for that sort of thing. I can tell if people are telling the truth or not, and whether they are good or bad. I get feelings, you know what I mean?' 'Not really,' I said. 'Am I good or bad, by the way.'
Tobes stared me up and down once more. Mostly up, this time.
'Good,' said Tobes. 'But there's something odd, as if you don't know who you really are, or something.' And he applied himself to his pint.
'Remarkable,' I said. 'You should go on the stage, or something.' Tobes shrugged and raised his glass once more.
And as he did so, the shadow of his arm passed across a girl with long dark hair and long white legs, who leaned upon the bar, sipping a mineral water. Which she suddenly spat on the floor. 'Ow did that 'appen?' she went, and started to cough.
I patted her gently on the back – which you can do to a strange girl if you are a girl yourself. 'Are you ill?' I asked. 'Can I help?' 'I'm fine,' said the girl. 'It's just me water. It was water, then suddenly it wasn't. It tastes like wine now.' I took the glass from her hand and sniffed at it. And it certainly smelled like wine.
It smelled like that really expensive vintage Mulholland Chardonnay that Mr Rune had once ordered for us in a restaurant that we never went to again. I looked at the glass. And then I looked at Tobes.
'Oh my god!' I went. 'I mean, oh my God, sir. It is you, it is you.'
'It's me,' said Tobes and he raised his glass, but finding it empty, ordered another beer.
'I mean that it is you.' And I got a real shake on. 'Water into wine. Knowing good people from bad. Becoming sober in five minutes flat. You are The One – the One that Mister Rune seeks.' 'Rune?' said Tobes. 'Hugo Rune? I've read his book.'
'He was just here,' I said. And I really was a-tremble. 'But he left with… Oh no!'
'Do you mean Yoko Ono – John Lennon's bird?' asked Tobes.
'No,' I cried. 'It is that "oh no!" feeling you just had, that felt like someone walking over your grave. Mister Rune is in danger. Come with me, quickly.'
'I'll just finish this new beer,' said Tobes. 'Ah, that's better. So where do you want me to go?' 'To the fire exit,' I shouted. 'How exciting.' And Tobes stumbled after me.
'You are drunk again,' I said as I dragged him through the crowd.
'It's this Old Back-Masker,' slurred Tobes. 'I'm fine with wine. I can drink bottles and bottles. Must be something in the blood.'
We reached the fire exit and I pushed open the door. Beyond it was an iron staircase leading down to an alley.
'Mister Rune!' I shouted. 'Mister Rune, where are you?'
And then I heard it. A terrible sound. The terrible sound of a gunshot. I raced down the stairs with Tobes a-bumb-ling after me. And there ahead I saw him, sprawled in the dirt. And I saw the other man, too – the tall imposing figure, lounging on the bonnet of an evil-looking black car and smiling down at the body of Mr Rune, a smoking pistol in his hand. And then he reached to his head and drew off a full-face mask and threw it aside. And it was him, of that there was no doubt at all. The evil Count Otto Black.
'Go back inside, young woman,' he shouted. 'There's nothing for you to see here. Just disposing of some rubbish.' And he turned away and got into the car, which tore off at great speed.
'Oh no!' I cried. 'Oh no no no.' And I rushed to the body of Mr Hugo Rune, which was not easy in heels.
He lay flat upon his back, his stout stick at his side. I put my ear to that big chest of his, but Hugo Rune breathed not.
'Come on,' I said. 'Do not do this to me again.' And I shook at his leather lapels. 'I know you are faking it. Wake up now, this is not funny.'
Tobes peered over my shoulder and pointed with a grubby mitt. 'I think he's dead,' said Tobes to me. 'I really think he's dead.' 'He cannot be,' and I shook once more at the lapels. 'He can,' said Tobes. 'And he is.'
I looked up at Tobes and made a bitter face. 'How can you be sure?' I asked.
'Because I know these things,' said Tobes, sadly, 'just as I know good people from bad. But even if I didn't have a natural intuition for such things, I can't help feeling that the big gunshot hole in Mister Rune's forehead might just give it away. God, I'm pissed.'
And Tobes passed out and fell in a heap by the corpse of Hugo Rune.