It was somewhat later that we fell into dispute.

I never argued with Hugo Rune, because on those rare occasions when the mighty force of his intellect did not flatten all opposition, the similarly mighty force of this stout stick would find itself brought into play.

But I really did think that I had a point this time and I was prepared to argue about it.

‘I do not care what you say,’ I said. ‘I think I should have one and that is all there is to it.’

‘And I think that you shouldn’t!’ roared Himself, and his deep voice boomed all around and about the high-domed roof.

‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘It is only fair. If I am going to behave like a superhero then I should be dressed like a superhero.’

‘You should be incognito. Unrecognisable. In high camouflage.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But that is the point. Most superheroes wear their costumes as a disguise, so that the rest of the world does not know who they are. I could wear these for a start.’ And I took up a pair of goggles.

‘No, don’t look through those,’ cried Mr Rune.

But I had and I went, ‘Wow!’

Followed by, ‘X-Ray Specs!’ and, ‘I can see right through your clothes!’

And then, ‘Oh my goodness me,’ and I removed the X-Ray Specs and returned them to Mr Rune.

But I still thought that I should have a superhero costume and so finally we reached a sort of a compromise.

I was given another pair of goggles, a bright red fez, a polished breastplate from one of the many suits of armour that stood all around and about and a Sam Browne belt with several pouches attached to it, which I felt had a certain caped-crusader quality.

‘And I need a cloak,’ I said.

‘I am beginning to think that Mr Hartnel’s methods of child training hold to a certain merit,’ said the guru’s guru. But he took himself off to a distant cupboard, returning soon with a fine long black velvet cloak. And with that he also gave me a certain something that he assured me in whispered words would be essential to the success of my mission.

I togged up in all and said, ‘What do you think of me?’

And Hugo Rune stifled jocularity. ‘To paraphrase someone or other,’ he said, ‘if you scare the enemy as much as you scare me, then we’ll all be home in time for Jackanory.’

The lift went up and we went with it. Me in my superhero outfit, seated on the floating disc of metal. Mr Rune tapping his stout stick on the floor and checking his pocket watch.

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I do not have a name. I cannot be a superhero if I do not have a name.’

‘How about Puppy Boy?’ asked Hugo Rune.

‘Certainly not!’ I said.

‘Badly Dressed Boy? The Flying ****Wit? The Masked Buffoon? The-’

‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘Do not be so unkind. You are the all-knowing one. You should know a good name to call me.’

There was a moment of silence then. Followed by Hugo Rune saying, ‘Well, Rizla, the wingéd chariot concept, being put about by the reporter of the local rag, was clearly designed to inspire. So why not something appropriately inspirational? I hereby name you Captain England.’

‘There is Captain America,’ I said.

‘All too generalised,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Let’s call you Captain Brentford.’

‘There is still Captain America,’ I said.

‘Then let us outrank him. How about Wing Commander Brentford? ’

‘That does not sound much like a superhero.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘We seem to have reached ground level. You’ll just have to be known as the Superhero Who Dare Not Speak His Name.’

‘Captain Brentford it is, then,’ I said. And I saluted.

‘Captain Brentford it is, then. Good boy, Rizla.’

It was now the evening and all around was dark. Very dark, as everywhere was blackout. The moon was scarcely a crescent, but the stars were shining down. I shivered and I raised my tweedy collar.

‘I think perhaps now,’ I said, ‘would be the time for you to outline your plan. I know it involves me flying up into the sky and engaging Count Otto Black in some kind of aerial combat, but so far I find myself short of a battle plan. This is not going to be a kamikaze mission, is it?’

‘I have assured you otherwise.’

‘You did hint at hospitalisation.’

‘Oh come come, Rizla.’ And Hugo Rune plucked a cigar from his case and inserted it into his mouth. ‘Don’t go getting all timid again. You have the certain something that I gave to you earlier?’

There had been a degree of secrecy regarding this certain something. A certain furtiveness had been involved in Mr Rune passing it to me and whispering into my ear.

‘I have it,’ I said. ‘Under my cloak.’

‘Then do with it as you should, when the moment presents itself.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘that is all well and good, but I do not see how-’

But Mr Rune did sssshings with his finger pressed to his lips and then this finger pointed to the sky. And I screwed up my eyes and did some peerings and also screwed my ears up and heard some sounds.

Sounds were these as of an aged motorbike. The coughing and spluttering of a four-stroke engine. And these sounds came not from a nearby road. These sounds issued from above.

‘It is him,’ I whispered. ‘He has returned.’

‘Prepare yourself, then, Captain Brentford.’

The stuttering, coughing motorbike sounds drew nearer and nearer and then we espied in the heavens a single headlight cleaving the darkness before it. And less than one hundred feet above we could make out the shape of a long gaunt figure astride an ancient motorbike, which was attached to a similarly antiquated sidecar. And even though this figure was shrouded in darkness, there was absolutely no doubt in either Hugo Rune’s mind or my own that this was none other than the arch-enemy of my noble friend.

The evil Count Otto, it was he.

Hugo Rune lit his cigar and drew upon it deeply.

And then a voice called down from on high that fair put the wind up me.

‘Rune,’ called this unholy voice, for such a voice it was. ‘Rune, you plump scoundrel. Surely that is yourself I see there, lurking. Sucking on some cheap cigar that you conned from the local wide boy.’

Hugo Rune did wavings unto me and I understood the meanings of these wavings and converted these meanings into motions.

‘Black,’ called back the Magus. ‘What is that dilapidated contraption that you perch upon? You look like an organ-grinder’s monkey.’

‘State of the present art, my fat friend. And it has a trick or two up its technological sleeve. Here, have a taste of this.’

And Count Otto Black delved into his sidecar and then many small queer things rained down.

And great were the explosions all around and about the allotment. Old Pete’s shed took fire and many a sprout bed went to wrack and ruin. The laughter of Count Otto Black poured forth from up above. And I feared greatly for Himself.

‘You’ll have to do better than that, you pungent turd,’ called the voice of Hugo Rune. From somewhere now in hiding, but large and loud as life.

‘Just a tiny taste of what is to come, you porkie pie. The Reich’s terror weapon programme expands daily. Great are the advances made. Soon the whole world will cower before the power of the Führer.’

‘What is it with madmen and facial hair?’ called Hugo Rune in return. ‘That Nazi oaf with his bog-brush moustache and you with your verminous facial furnishings. Should I introduce you both to my barber? A wash and brush-up would certainly do the pair of you no harm.’

And down poured further ordnance and damned were many crops.

And Count Otto Black made free with that manic laughing that is always so popular with the supervillain.

And it crossed my mind that in order to beat a supervillain, the most suitable person to employ for the job would be a superhero. And so, as the count now delved into his sidecar once more and sought to drag out a particularly large killer-bomb-type arrangement, I did a kind of ‘ahem’ which focused his attention.