‘Absolutely all right,’ I said. ‘Everything is absolutely all right.’
‘Well, it will be,’ said my aunt, ‘when you come back later from your visit to the labour exchange . . . WITH A JOB.’
But—
But there were no buts to be butted. And so I finished my breakfast, washed and brushed up and was ushered through the front door of our home at the end of my Aunt Edna’s broom.
Work!
Well, it was going to have to come to that eventually and I knew it well enough. It was clear that Mr Rune had returned me to my own time on the exact same day as I had left it. Which once more made telling the tale of my adventures with him sound like the tallest of all tall tales or a work of Far-Fetched Fiction.
But—
And I looked all around and about me. The street signs were only in English. No brass band music issued from open windows and no swastika bunting sullied the skyline. All was as it should be and I was happy for that.
And it was that Monday morning again. But a good and free one this time. Although there was still that matter of finding a job, and that, it seemed, had to be faced.
But—
Perhaps, I thought to myself, now would be the time to get into the smoking of the Wild Woodbine, which so far I had failed to get to grips with. Having that ciggie protruding from my face would add that extra bit of professionalism. And if a job I had to find, then I would do so in the company of Wild Woodbine.
And it was Monday morning, so Norman Hartnel’s dad (the fellow I had met during my wartime adventure who was so keen to mete out corporal punishment upon me) would be away, and his son, my friend, behind the counter to sell me these very Wild Woodbines.
So all would be well and a happy ever after.
I reached Norman’s shop and I peeped in through the window. I looked at the names of the products. Not a German sweetie was there to be seen, but many an ad for Wild Woodbine.
I pushed on the door and the shop bell rang and I took a wander inside.
Norman was numbering papers. The paperboy had not turned in for work this morning, preferring to take the advice of Lad Nicholson, stick it to the Man and pull a sickie.
Norman looked up from his numberings and viewed me with evident distaste. ‘I shouldn’t really be talking to you,’ he said. ‘Getting us thrown out of the pub last night. You are a menace you are.’
‘I apologise for all that,’ I said. For all that now seemed oh so long ago. ‘I know I behaved badly. Something to do with only being served German lager, was it not?’
‘It was no such thing,’ said Norman. ‘Although . . .’ And he made a curious face. ‘When I come to think about it, I can’t actually remember what it was about. But whatever it was, I do know that it was all your fault.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘A packet of Wild Woodbine, please.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Norman. ‘You are underage.’
‘I have to get a job today,’ I said, ‘and—’
But—
Norman now fell into laughter.
‘Get a job?’ he went, between mirthful outbursts. ‘You get a job? You lazy, shiftless—’ And he ha-ha-hah’d.
‘It is not funny,’ I said. ‘Well, I suppose it is quite funny—’
But—
The shop doorbell went ping at the entry of a customer.
‘Come back later,’ said Norman to me. ‘I’m busy.’ And he dabbed at his eyes with an undersized plain brown hankie that matched his shopkeeper’s coat. ‘And I have proper customers to serve. Oh dear!’
And I saw Norman’s face literally cloud over and his mouth fall open and his eyes go all a-goggle in his head.
‘What is the matter with you?’ I asked. But he was staring past me. I turned to see what he was staring at.
And there stood Count Otto Black.
65
The count wore his spiked Prussian helmet, plumed leather greatcoat and fine riding boots. His beard looked all-over bristly and his eyes seemed lit from within.
In his hand he held a Luger pistol and this he pointed at me.
‘Oh,’ I said. And then, ‘Oh dear. I really thought you were dead.’
‘In Tunguska? With Wotan? With the dreams of a mighty tomorrow?’
‘That tomorrow should never be. That tomorrow was wrong.’
‘Is that him?’ Norman’s mouth was moving now. ‘Is that the man you were talking about last night? Is that—’
‘Shut up!’ said Count Otto Black.
‘Is it Hugo Rune?’ asked Norman.
‘Hugo Rune?’ Count Otto aimed his Luger at the loquacious young shopkeeper. ‘I will do for that bloated popinjay! But first I will do for you.’ And the Luger swung once more in my direction. ‘You helped to ruin the plans that would have changed the world. You destroyed my future and now I end yours.’
But—
The shop doorbell went ping once more and another person entered.
‘Through to the back,’ hissed Count Otto Black, ‘or I will shoot everyone here.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Please do not go shooting any innocent people, I am going, I am going.’
Norman lifted the counter flap and Count Otto Black urged me forwards.
I entered the grim and ill-lit kitchenette, with the count’s Luger pressing most hard at the nape of my neck. The count closed the door behind us and we stood there in the all but darkness. And I could feel my heart beating loudly and horrid blood all pumping in my ears.
‘You have no idea what you have done,’ intoned the count. ‘No idea how large the chaos you have wrought upon this world.’ And he pushed me hard with his pistol.
I took a sort of leap in the dark. And turned to view through the gloom the horrid face of the man who would murder me. ‘I did what was right and Mr Rune did what was right. That future was never meant to be. That future was evil, as you are evil.’
‘Oh what a brave, outspoken boy.’ And the count did evil harrharrings. ‘You understand nothing. Rune and I are linked together, our names on either side of the page slip cut from the book of Life and Death. He cannot kill me and I cannot kill him. But should one cease to be in this world, then so shall the other. And so he and I dance on through history. And he has his foolish acolyte boys such as you who do his bidding, but understand not the balance that exists between he and I. I have put paid to other Rizlas before you. And now I put paid to you.’
‘You will have to speak up a bit,’ I said. ‘I cannot hear you properly.’
‘What?’ cried the count. ‘Are you mad? I tell you that you are going to die and you ask me to speak up a bit?’
‘Well, come forwards a bit, then,’ I said. ‘You might miss if you try to shoot me from there. It is so dark in here.’
‘Insane. You are quite insane.’ And Count Otto Black took a single step forwards—
But—
He did not take a second one.
I heard a kind of horrified gasp. And then I heard nothing more.
I stepped very carefully and switched on the light to the kitchenette. A fly-specked bulb illuminated boxes, bits and bobs and bobbins—
And the Bottomless Pit.
It yawned there where Norman had uncovered it, and I well remembered our former conversation regarding said uncovering. Dark and foreboding it was and endlessly down it went. And I leaned fearfully over its brink and peered into its endless depths.
‘Count Otto,’ I called. ‘Can you hear me?’
But—
Answer came there none. Only the rank smell of brimstone, which I had, of course, noticed when I entered the shop. But had not bothered to comment upon, because, after all, I did know where it came from.
‘Oh yes,’ I said. And I made a fist with my right hand and punched at the air with it. ‘You are gone. Down into the pit. Goodbye to you, oh yes!’
The kitchenette door opened and Norman’s face peeped in.
‘Oh thank goodness for that,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d both fall
en in. It’s the Bottomless Pit, you know, out of the Book of Revelation. I have got great plans for it. Plans that could change the world. Bring about a utopian future—’
But—
I edged my way around the pit and patted Norman’s shoulder. ‘I have to go and find a job now,’ I said. ‘See you later in The Purple Princess for a beer?’
‘Lunchtime,’ said Norman. ‘The new barman turns a blind eye to underage drinking.’
‘Goodbye, Norman,’ I said to Norman.
‘Goodbye,’ he said to me.
66
I helped myself to Wild Woodbines and took my leave of the shop. Then I took myself to the Memorial Park and sat down on a bench. I would look for work, I really would, but perhaps this was not the day.
‘I got him,’ I said to myself. As I placed a Wild Woodbine into my mouth and lit up. ‘I got him good, I did.’
And I heard the sound of cackling laughter, which nearly had me wetting myself.
‘You did get him good,’ said an ancient. Who somehow now sat at the far end of the bench. Though I had not seen him arrive.
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘You startled me.’ And then I looked hard at this ancient. He was an aged ancient ancient, but with a kindly face.
‘You,’ I said. ‘It is you from the future. The future Hugo Rune.’
‘It is now the Hugo Rune of the now,’ said Hugo Rune of the now.
‘But,’ I said. ‘My Mr Rune. I do not understand. You are so old and—’
‘Done?’
‘Distinguished, I might have said.’
‘But I am done,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And I am happy for it. My time is past now, Rizla. And you have freed me from a future I had no care for. I am a magician. I have no time for a future which lacks for magic. It is your world now, Rizla. Make of it what you will.’
‘Why are you suddenly old?’ I asked.
‘Because you have freed me from this world. You have destroyed Count Otto Black. He can never return from where you dispatched him to. He is gone for ever. And as my life is linked to his, when he is gone then so am I.’
‘Oh no!’ I cried and tears sprang to my eyes. ‘Then I have killed you. I would have anything other than that. You have been to me the father I never had. I cannot have killed you. Please say that it is not so.’
‘I thank you for it, Rizla. I am free now. Write of our adventures. Tell the world of Hugo Rune. Feel free to exaggerate. But write me as a kindly man. And if they ever dramatise your book, I would like David Warner to play my part.’
And before my eyes the Magus was fading.
‘Goodbye, Rizla,’ he said.
But I cried, ‘No, please, please do not go.’
But—
And his hand touched mine for a moment.
And Hugo Rune was gone.
And I sat there on that bench and I had a good old cry. That wonderful figure was no more and I would never ever see him again. I felt guilty, I felt sad, but I knew that he was happy.
He had done what he had set out to do and I had helped him do it. All was as it should be now, but I felt a terrible loss. I wiped away a tear and sighed and sucked upon my Woodbine.
‘And would you just be sitting there moping your life away and not sharing your fags?’ asked a voice that I knew rather well.
I looked up into the smiling face of one John Vincent Omally.
‘Would you look at yourself, Jim,’ said he. ‘My bestest friend draped over a park bench like a wino. What is that all about? I am asking myself.’
‘I have had a bit of an emotional time, as it happens, John,’ I said. And I offered my cigarette.
My bestest friend took it and sucked upon same. ‘I was just in Norman’s,’ he said. ‘The lad tells me that you are thinking to take to The Work.’
‘Such is expected of me,’ I said, taking back my cigarette and giving it a puff. ‘Although I do have to confess that I am not altogether keen.’
Omally seated himself beside me and stared off into the distance. ‘I am sure great days lie ahead for the both of us,’ he said. ‘Although I do not believe that these days will involve us getting too deeply involved in The Work.’
‘You really think so?’ I asked my bestest friend.
‘Would I lie to you?’ said John Omally.
‘No, I do not think that you would.’
And we sat there together and shared another cigarette.
And we talked of this thing, that thing and the other. And if this had been a movie, rather than real life, the camera would have slowly pulled out from the two of us sitting there, moved back and upwards taking in the Memorial Park, the rows of Victorian terraced houses, the pubs and the shops and the flat blocks and all that is Brentford. And then, perhaps, by some FX cleverness pulled out further, from Brentford to all of London, to all of England and then to all of the world.
And then perhaps off into the darkness of space.
Then fade to the words
THE END.
1
Dot of the Antarctic was the founder of TSFTFSOTF, the unpronounceable and instantly forgettable acronym of The Society for the Forgotten Sisters of the Famous. In its heyday TSFTFSOTF numbered amongst its members not only Florence of Arabia, Fay Guevara and Sharon Munchausen, but also Jordon of Khartoum and Julia Caesar. Today the society is, alas, all but forgotten.
2
And a good one, too: Knees Up Mother Earth.
3
Before some astute reader takes me to task regarding the year that the first broadcast of The World At War took place (1973), let me clarify that this is not a mistake on my part; it is caused by the Chevalier Effect (see The Brightonomicon for details of this phenomenon).
4
Hugo Rune’s favourite cocktail, comprising: 1 part absinthe, 1 part liquid ether, 2 parts laudanum and a glacé cherry. Neither shaken nor stirred, but drunk with extreme caution.
5
For a full explanation see The Brightonomicon. But a brief explanation follows here.
6
‘Uncle Ted’ was not my Uncle Ted. Uncle Ted’s Greengrocer’s Shop was simply the name of the shop. Although it was run by a man named Ted, who was possibly someone’s uncle.
7
Although I could not recall exactly when he did. But I assume that he must have done as it is the title of the book.
8
See The Brightonomicon, if for some inexplicable reason you have not yet purchased a copy.
9
A track from the Before and After Science album, 1977. One of his best, according to popular opinion.
10
Cabbies still carry this today. It is a tradition, or an old charter, or something.
11
These classic lines of movie dialogue have been included to add that little bit of extra class to an otherwise pretty classy scene.
12
Although it might well be argued that it was still July, it was not, as it was September. It is unlikely that poor continuity plays a part in this, more likely that it is a product of the Chevalier Effect.
13
Although technically these would be peahen eggs.
14
For further details check your now-treasured copy of The Brightonomicon.
Robert Rankin, Retromancer
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