Retromancer by Robert Rankin Page A

time, and upon this occasion my timing was poor. I swung open the door as Lord Jason groped towards our knocker. The young aristocrat was clearly distracted, for he took hold of my nose and attempted to knock with it.
    Which greatly amused a lady in a straw hat who was passing by at the time, but failed to bring joy unto me.
    ‘Dashed sorry, old bogie,’ said his Lordship, releasing his grip and examining his fingers with distaste. ‘Wish to see Rune, go fish him out for me, do.’
    I eyed up this fellow and I did this with similar distaste. I had seen him around and about in the borough, whilst I was strolling in the company of Mr Rune, who still would not let me go out on my own. And the Perfect Master had pointed him out and told me all about him.
    He was born to heroic stock; the bloodline of the Lark-Risings could be traced back to the time of Richard the Lionheart, when one of Lord Jason’s ancestors had saved that monarch’s life by decapitating a Mussulman who was taking a swing at him with a great big pointy sword. And so it had gone on since then, with the Lark-Risings performing noble deeds for King and country down through the ages and right up to the present day.
    And in this present day that I now inhabited, there were still many members of the aristocracy to be found living upon Brentford’s historic Butts Estate. It was later, during the October mini-uprising of nineteen fifty-one that those who did not flee found themselves up against the wall. Brentford’s brief revolution and instigation as an independent communist republic had not proved popular with the locals, who soon ousted the ruling junta.
    These in turn fled, including, my Aunt Edna told me, a certain local baker who had risen to prominence in the mini-revolution and who had it away upon his heels to Cuba. I think my Aunt Edna had quite a ‘thing’ for that baker Mr Castro.
    But that was for the future and this was for the now. Before me, on Mr Rune’s doorstep, stood this young aristocrat. Surely hardly older than myself, but with that confident bearing and authoritative manner that marked him out from a common-as-mucker such as myself. Naturally I was jealous – well, of course I was. He was very good-looking and very well dressed and he came from a very good family.
    ‘Mr Rune is away on important business,’ I said, closing the door upon Lord Jason Lark-Rising.
    ‘Oh no I’m not, young Rizla,’ boomed a voice from within. ‘Allow His Lordship entry at the hurry-up.’
    ‘Apparently he just returned,’ I said and allowed his Lordship entry.
    There was something very vibrant about this young man. He veritably bounced past me into the hall and pranced into Mr Rune’s study.
    I followed him in and a certain joy was brought to me as I noticed the immediate change in his demeanour when he found himself in the presence of Hugo Rune.
    A certain humility manifested itself.
    ‘Good day, sir,’ said Lord Jason. Sir! I liked that. ‘So sorry to trouble you, but something has come to my notice that I felt I must bring to yours. So to speak, suchlike and so on.’
    ‘Please seat yourself,’ said Hugo Rune. And directed Lord Jason to my chair. ‘Rizla, fetch coffee, if you will.’
    ‘And if I will not?’ I asked, huffily.
    ‘You will, Rizla, you will.’
    And so I did. And I returned with it, in the bestest pot, with the bestest cups and saucers on the very bestest tray. And I did so in time to hear Mr Rune cry, ‘Now here’s a thing and no mistake. The sheer unbridled gall.’
    So I set down the coffee tray upon an occasional table which no doubt had been yearning for an occasion such as this to arrive and I asked Mr Rune what the trouble might be.
    ‘This letter,’ said Himself. ‘Delivered anonymously to the house of Lord Jason. Here, read it aloud, if you will.’
    ‘Oh I say,’ His Lordship protested. ‘It’s not for common folk like him.’
    But Hugo Rune stilled this protest with a gesture. ‘My amanuensis Rizla