Free The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) by Robert Rankin Page B

half.
    ‘The lecture is merely the tip of the iceberg. Before this night is through, you will have stared death in the face, and spat into its cavernous eyeholes as well.’
    ‘I do not like the sound of that.’
    ‘It’s much of a muchness,’ Mr Rune said. ‘I’ve done it on many occasions. I remember once in the nineteen thirties when I went down to the crossroads at midnight with the blues musician Robert Johnson—’
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you please take your seats upstairs for the lecture. It begins in five minutes,’ called a personable young woman with a nimbus of orange hair and a dress that barely covered her costs.
    ‘Best get a couple more beers in, then,’ said Mr Rune. ‘And trust not the ways of women, “For they are like unto a fire that quencheth not even though constantly watered.” The Gospel of Rune 3: 16.’
    ‘Two pints of Esso then, please, Fange.’
    And Fangio once more did the business.
    And ‘Oh,’ said Mr Rune, ‘you’ll want to wear this.’
    ‘What is it?’ I asked as I took the item from him.
    A badge,’ said he. And it was – a badge with a centaur upon it. ‘Pin it next to that spaniel one,’ he said.
    And I did.
    The upstairs room of The Rampant Squire was furnished with rows of folding chairs. A makeshift stage had been constructed from beer crates and upon this stood a blackboard resting on a precarious stand and a three-legged table called Peter. Upon this table there lay something that looked very much to be Aladdin’s lamp.
    We had gained our entrance to this dismal room with little difficulty, Mr Rune flashing his library ticket and announcing us to be ‘senior members of the Society of Psychical Research, here to observe the proceedings in the interests of health and safety’.
    Mr Rune then cleared three seats for us in the front row through the employment of his stout stick – one for me and two for himself.
    When all that were coming in
were
in and the door was closed upon the lot of us, Danbury Collins took to the makeshift stage, introduced himself and launched uncertainly into his talk.
    Now, I did not take much to Danbury Collins. He was a callow youth with sunken eyes, an acned complexion and hairs upon the palm of the hand that was not in his trouser pocket.
    ‘Do wotcha like is the whole of the law,’ quoth Danbury.
    ‘Good grief,’ muttered Mr Rune.
    ‘I’m glad to see such a big turnout tonight,’ continued the psychic youth.
    I glanced about: there were twelve of us, all told, in the audience. Which, with Danbury on the makeshift stage, at least made up the requisite number to get a Last Supper started.
    ‘So,’ said Danbury Collins, ‘my topic tonight is the Centaur of the Universe – how everything began, how it works, what it means and what our part in it is.’
    ‘This should be enlightening.’ Mr Rune yawned loudly.
    ‘Give him a chance,’ I whispered.
    ‘I am,’ the Hokus Bloke replied. ‘You will note that I haven’t as yet struck him.’
    ‘The universe,’ said Danbury, and he gestured towards his blackboard, ‘endless, black, and going on for ever and ever and ever—’
    Rune opened his mouth, then closed it again.
    ‘Endless,’ said Danbury. ‘Endless space and endless time. But
not –
and I must emphasise this –
not
endlessly filled with matter. We are lately informed that the universe began with a Big Bang, that before this momentous moment there was no time and then suddenly the universe exploded into being. There are, I understand, equations that prove the proposition that everything began with a Big Bang. But I say rubbish to this, I say stuff and nonsense.’
    ‘Well done, you,’ said Mr Rune, applauding.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Danbury. ‘And good evening to you, Mister Rune.’
    Mr Rune gave Danbury a knowing wink. ‘Pray continue,’ said he, ‘with your most fascinating monologue.’
    ‘Well, firstly,’ continued Danbury, ‘as I’ve said, the universe is endless space, it goes on