Retromancer (5 page)

I did not faint this time. I felt that it would have been such a cliché to do so, and so I did not. I just stared at Mr Rune and asked, ‘How?’

‘The “how” need not concern you, Rizla. Only know that I brought these circumstances about. A great wrong has been done and we are the ones who must right this wrong. The Nazis must not win the Second World War. America must not be destroyed by an atomic holocaust. England must not be invaded. Are you with me on this?’

‘I am,’ I said. And I was. ‘But please tell me how you transported us through time. Do you have a time machine, or a police telephone box, or something?’

Hugo Rune did enigmatic tappings of the nose. ‘The magician never divulges how his magic is accomplished,’ said he. ‘But know that you and I are now in nineteen forty-four. This house, my manse, is a safe haven – we inhabited it in nineteen sixty-seven, therefore it does not get bombed in the time we now inhabit. But out there-’ and Mr Rune waved his hands towards the world beyond his home ‘-there is great danger, Rizla. A war wages. We must be ever upon our guard.’

‘One question,’ I said. ‘Although countless spring readily to mind. One question, please. This is your house and has been for many years, am I correct?’ And Mr Rune nodded. ‘So you owned this house during the Second World War?’ He nodded again. ‘And did you live in it then?’

‘Aha,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘You are thinking to yourself, where is the Hugo Rune of nineteen forty-four? Will I bump into my former self and cause some cosmic paradox to occur that might rend the fabric of time and bring about the destruction of the universe. Yes?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I just did not fancy the prospect of having two of you nicking my breakfast.’

Oh how we laughed.

Then we stopped.

‘Twelve Cosmic Conundra,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Twelve cases that we must solve in order to defeat the Nazi peril, save America, save Mankind, secure a future for England that is free and liberated.’

‘I am for all of that,’ I said and I raised an imaginary glass.

‘And so it falls to you, Rizla. Through your choice, or at least through you, shall the cases be chosen.’

‘How?’ I asked. And not without reason, I think.

‘Through these.’ And Mr Rune produced from his pocket a small leather box.

‘A cigarette case,’ I said, ‘containing Wild Woodbines, I hope.’

‘A card case,’ said Mr Rune, ‘containing a set of tarot cards, designed by myself and illustrated by a delightful creature by the name of Lady Frieda Harris. Tarot cards, young Rizla. Tarot cards.’

‘Then you intend to read my fortune?’

‘No!’ Hugo Rune did once more the stamping of his foot. And once more everything jumped.

‘I wish you would not do that,’ I told him. ‘It fair puts the wind up me.’

‘Then pay attention. This is my personal tarot deck. Each card is symbolic. Heavily symbolic. Each represents a potential Cosmic Conundrum. You will shuffle the pack and you will deal out twelve cards. The future of Mankind depends upon this.’

‘Oh my,’ I said. And, ‘Oh dear. I do believe that this would be a responsibility well beyond myself. Please do the shuffling and dealing out, Mr Rune. You know so much and I know nothing. It would be better if you did the dealing out. Yes?’

‘No!’ And there almost came another stamp. But not quite. Mr Rune’s foot hovered airwards and I took the card case from his hands.

‘Now take yourself over to the breakfasting table, which you will notice has been cleared of its breakfasting paraphernalia by an agency of my commission-’

‘A demon?’ I said. ‘A calling?’

‘My butler, Gammon.’

‘Ah.’

‘Deal twelve cards. Go on, now.’

And so it came to pass. I took the card case and returned to the breakfasting table. I took the cards from the case and slowly, but thoroughly, shuffled them. They were beautiful cards, each unique, gorgeously wrought, magical and mystical, and I was quite entranced.

‘Shuffle them up and then deal out twelve.’

And so that came to pass.

I shuffled the beautiful cards and then I dealt twelve. Onto the linen tablecloth, twelve cards, in a circle, as if they were the numbers on a clock face.

And I stared down upon the cards that I had dealt.

And Mr Rune came forwards and peered over my shoulder. And then he called out the numbers and the names that were written upon those twelve cards.

0 THE FOOL

1 THE MAGICIAN

2 THE HIGH PRIESTESS

7 THE CHARIOT

9 THE HERMIT

10 THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

11 JUSTICE

12 THE HANGÈD MAN

13 DEATH

16 THE TOWER

18 THE MOON

19 THE SUN

And then Mr Rune said, ‘Well done, Rizla. Now choose one, from anywhere, choose one.’

I pointed and I said, ‘THE HERMIT.’

And Mr Rune said, ‘What an excellent choice. That will be our first case.’

THE HERMIT

So there I was in nineteen forty-four.

I was eager to get out and about. I was also filled with questions. How had Mr Rune conveyed us through time? How had history changed so drastically as to require this miraculous conveyancing? But more than anything, I did want to get out and about. Have a shufti, as it were, see what lay beyond the walls of Mr Rune’s marvellous manse. See what the Brentford of nineteen forty-four looked like. A little perambulation about the borough could surely do no harm at all.

But Mr Rune said no.

He seemed genuinely concerned for my safety and impressed upon me again that dire consequences might well come to pass from my wanderings.

‘You must understand, Rizla,’ said he to me. Over breakfast it was, I recall. ‘We are strangers in this particular portion of time. We should not really be here. A wrong move on our part could easily result in some future calamity. We are here in the past to alter the future, after all. But to alter it correctly, as it were. We tread a fine line; care must be our watchword.’

‘I will not break anything,’ I said. ‘I just want to have a look around Brentford. You can understand this, surely.’

‘I understand all,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Trust me, I am an avatar.’

‘Then you must know that I will not cause any harm.’

And perhaps he did, or knew to the contrary, but he forbade me to leave the house, so I just sat and sulked.

‘You’ll turn the powdered milk sour,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Perk up and read from the paper. You are au fait with my method of doing things. Seek us out a case.’

The daily paper in question was the borough’s organ, the Brentford Mercury. This venerable news-sheet, founded by the legendary Victorian newspaper magnate Sir Cecil Doveston in eighteen seventy-five, had hardly changed its basic format since that time. Indeed, but for the date, and the general contents, the copy I held in my hand seemed all but identical to any one that I might have held, or did hold, or would hold, in nineteen sixty-seven. Some things were just built to last and a classic never dates.

I read aloud the banner headline.

BRENTFORD ALLOTMENTEERS DIG FOR VICTORY

The Brentford Mercury always led with local news, no matter the nature or importance of ongoing world events. I recall that on the day after Kennedy’s assassination it ran a front-page article about the local electrical shop stocking a new make of battery.

‘Thrilling stuff,’ I said, and I made a certain face.

‘It’s an improvement on the sulky one,’ said the breakfasting avatar, ‘but not much. Dig into the inside pages, worm us out a little nugget on which to hang our first case. Let us do some digging for victory.’

I shrugged and said, ‘I will never understand the logic in your method of doing things.’

‘And I trust that you never will. Now dig.’

And so I turned pages and dug.

‘A woman in Chiswick has given birth to a child the shape of a vacuum cleaner,’ I said.

‘Dig further.’

‘Brentford Football Club have beaten Manchester United four-nil,’ I said. And I whistled as I said it, and after I had said it too.

‘And that is something they will do again. But a long way into the future and in quite another story altogether.’
[2]

‘Aha,’ I said. ‘Perhaps this is it. “SCIENTIST VANISHES”. Is that the kind of thing you are looking for?’

‘What do you think?’ Mr Rune asked, as his hand snaked out towards my bacon.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think that it is. I recall that the first Brightonomicon case we took on involved a lost dog. I think the case of a missing scientist might be a suitable one with which to begin our new quest. Would you care for me to go and take a stroll around the borough and see if I can find him by myself?’

Mr Rune did shakings of his head and swallowings too of my bacon. ‘From where did this scientist go missing?’ he enquired, once he had swallowed.

I skimmed through the article and read aloud from it.

Professor James Stigmata Campbell, a particle physicist working for the Ministry of Home Affairs, vanished from his laboratory in mysterious circumstances. His cellar laboratory was locked from the inside and his clothes were found strewn upon the floor. Professor Campbell had most recently announced a significant breakthrough in his field of endeavour, which he had been expected to deliver in a paper to a meeting of the Fellows of the Royal Society tonight. Police are baffled.

‘Perfect,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And now go and answer the telephone. ’

‘But the telephone is not ringing.’

Mr Rune cupped a hand to his ear, counted three and the telephone rang.

I rose, a-shaking of my head, put down the newspaper and went off to answer the phone.

A fussy-voiced fellow in a state of considerable agitation demanded to speak to ‘that scoundrel Rune’. I asked him his name and he said it was Mr McMurdo. I placed my hand over the receiver and conveyed this intelligence to Mr Rune.

He mouthed the word ‘perfect’ once again. Said, ‘Tell him I will be right with him,’ then settled down for a nap.

I did as Mr Rune had told me, then put down the receiver and returned to my newspaper.

Some time later Hugo Rune rose and took up the phone.

Words were exchanged and then Mr Rune said, ‘You may consider the case of your missing scientist Professor Campbell as good as solved.’

He then replaced the telephone receiver, announced that now all was as it should be and counselled me to put on my socks and brogues as we were going out. And then he gave me a little box affair on a strap and told me that I must wear it over my shoulder at all times. I asked exactly what it might be and Mr Rune said that it was a gas mask.

‘But the Germans never used gas in the Second World War,’ I said. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘And they never used the atom bomb either. According to what everyone thought they knew.’

‘Good point,’ I said. ‘Whatever it means.’ And I accepted my gas mask. ‘Will you be wanting me to hail a taxi?’ I asked, with justifiable trepidation, recalling as I did Mr Rune’s brutality towards cab drivers.

‘I think not, Rizla,’ said the guru’s guru, shrugging on a magnificent ulster coat. ‘Have you ever travelled on a tram?’

And I had not. As a child I had travelled on trolley buses and I remembered those well. But trams I had only seen in the Transport Museum, and the prospect of travelling upon one held considerable charm.

‘Top deck,’ said Mr Hugo Rune. ‘Then you will see wartime London.’

And so we travelled by tram. They ran the length of Brentford High Street – for in these times you could travel from Hounslow to the City of London by tram. And oh what a noise they made. And what a smell too. That electrical ozone smell that you generally associate only with bumper cars. And oh what sights I saw from the top deck of that tram. And oh how they saddened me greatly.

London was in ruins. I had never imagined the scale of the damage. Yes, I had seen The World at War
[3]
on television and I knew about the Blitz. But it seemed that hardly a house or a shop or a church or a public building had escaped some kind of damage. The destruction was heartbreaking; civilisation was literally being torn to pieces.

I must have made a very glum face at this, and I know that a tear or two took shape in my eyes. Mr Rune could see my distress and he told me to brighten up and offered me a fag.

‘A Capstan Full Strength,’ said he. ‘If you are intending to smoke, then do it as you would do any other thing – by fearlessly jumping in at the deep end. The poodle of perspicacity must bow its furry knee before the spaniel of spontaneity.’

And who was I to doubt him?

I had noticed, due to the fug and general stench, that the upper deck of the tram was the haunt of smokers and so I accepted Mr Rune’s offer and took to the ruining of my health as I viewed more ruination.

And sick at heart I felt as we travelled on that tram. I watched the gallant lads of the Auxiliary Fire Service dousing smouldering remains and members of the Ambulance Corps loading shrouded bodies into their canvas-cloaked lorries. I also saw members of the Home Guard coming and going and it looked for all the world to me as if it was some great film set for a wartime movie.

But I knew that it was none of this. It was real. The destruction and death. The sorrow and desperation. And I realised that I was now part of it. That Mr Rune and I were on a quest upon the outcome of which clung the lives of millions. This was no laughing matter.

Not that I felt like laughing. My unfailing cheerfulness had now failed me. I could not imagine that I would ever be happy again. That anyone who had experienced any of this could ever be happy again.

Although.

Well, my Aunt Edna had been through the Blitz. She had served in the Fire Brigade. And throughout my childhood, she had always been cheery enough. She had got over the horror. And so it seemed had most people of that generation. They had struggled through. And if they had survived intact they had been grateful for it and struggled on.

And I had heard about the Blitz Spirit.

Although I could not really see any evidence of that right here and now.

‘Perhaps we should have taken the Underground,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘This must be difficult for you.’

‘I will survive,’ I said. ‘But it is terrible. Awful. I had no idea that it would be as dreadful as this.’

‘And it could get so very much worse. Which is why we are here to put things aright. Are you enjoying that Capstan?’

I put on what I considered to be a brave face. Although, I feared, one tinged with grey. I was now having considerable trouble keeping my breakfast down.

My brave face was spied out by a rather shabby-looking individual sporting the traditional cloth cap that marked him out as one of the working class of this particular period, poor but honest and given to a cockney singalong at the drop of his, or anyone else’s, hat.

‘Gawd smother my loins in liniment,’ said he, ‘but that’s a brave face you’re putting on there, guv’nor. And you a toff by the look of your right-royal raiments.’

I glanced at Mr Rune, wondering whether this fellow’s banter might cause the Perfect Master to bring his stout stick into play. But Mr Rune now appeared to be snoozing, so I just smiled at the fellow.

‘You couldn’t see your way clear to sparing us three ’a’pence for a pint of porter, could you, your Lordship? I’ve been bombed out of me ’ouse and ’ome an’ ’ave naught but the rags I stand up in.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘but I am a bit like Twiggy at present – flat busted.’ And then I realised that I had made a joke, if naught but a feeble one. And certainly a feeble one that would have meant absolutely nothing to a fellow in nineteen forty-four. ‘I have no cash,’ I explained. In order to put the matter clearly.

‘A puff on your posh cigarette, then?’

‘Gladly so.’ And I parted with my Capstan.

The fellow snatched it to his mouth and took great drags upon it.

‘So you were bombed out,’ I said to him. ‘Where are you living now?’

‘Right ’ere,’ he said in return. ‘Right ’ere on the top of this ’ere tram.’

‘And the tram company allows this?’

‘I won’t tell ’em if you don’t.’ And he winked a bleary eye at me.

‘Right.’ I watched him as he smoked my cigarette. And I wondered who he was. And, oddly, when he would die. He looked rather old and ill, which probably meant that he would not last until nineteen sixty-seven. So I would not be able to go and look him up, should I be lucky enough to return intact to that time. So in a way it was as if his days were numbered. And I somehow was doing the numbering.

‘That’s a queer thing you’re musing upon, guv’nor,’ said he, between great breathings-in of my Capstan Full Strength. ‘When or when not a man’s time it is to die is between that man and the God what made ’im, so it is.’

‘Oh,’ I said. And I was shocked by this. ‘Did you just read my thoughts? I do not understand.’

The fellow tapped at his shabby nose with an even shabbier finger. And then he beckoned me with it and I leaned over the belly of Mr Rune to hear what this wretch had to say.

‘Step very carefully, young Rizla,’ he whispered into my ear. And I felt his warm breath on me and smelled that breath as well. ‘Much depends upon you. And there are those who will seek to destroy you. You must take care, young Rizla, you really must. And when you see that number twenty-seven, don’t think, just run.’

‘But how?’ I said in much wonder and confusion. ‘And what do you mean? And who are you?’

‘You may know me as Diogenes. Now take care.’

And he handed me back what remained of my cigarette and he tipped his cap to me. And I straightened up in my seat and then I went suddenly, ‘Wahh!’

And I jumped considerably and Hugo Rune laughed.

‘What?’ I went. And, ‘Where?’ And, ‘Ow!’ And I looked down at the fingers of my right hand, which hurt. Considerably.

‘You nodded off,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘with a lit cigarette between your fingers. You must take care, young Rizla. You really must.’

I opened my mouth, but had nothing to say.

And so I closed it again.