The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

by Robert Rankin

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Jonny. ‘But they’d probably make me more miserable than I already am. I thought things were going to perk up when I heard that I’d got a letter. I got almost excited—’

  ‘Me, too,’ said O’Fagin. ‘But that was a long time ago. On my wedding night.’

  ‘Then things went altogether quiet and I didn’t like that at all.’

  ‘Exactly the same as my wedding night.’

  ‘Dry-roasted nuts will be fine,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘We don’t have any dry-roasted nuts,’ said O’Fagin.

  ‘Eh?’ went Jonny.

  ‘Sorry,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Only thinking aloud. Tell you what, I have to serve that strange-looking fellow over there who’s been bobbing up and down for the last five minutes. This is the letter, have a look.’

  And with that said he thrust the letter at Jonny and went off to serve the bobber.

  ‘Are you a homosexual?’ Jonny heard him ask.

  ‘Same letter?’ asked Mr Giggles.

  Jonny examined the publican’s letter. ‘Same letter,’ he said. “Present yourself to da-da-de-da-da.” Just the same as mine.’

  ‘We’d better get a head start on him, then,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘We don’t want to be last in the line when there’s prizes to be had. If you’ve had this letter and he’s had this letter, then probably damn near everyone else in the borough has had the same letter, too. You’d better get a move on if you want to be a winner.’

  ‘So what is this “da-da-de-da-da”, then?’

  Mr Giggles sighed. ‘I would have thought it was pretty obvious,’ he said. ‘In order to win the prize, all you have to do is work that out.’

  ‘So the letter is itself the competition?’

  ‘Precisely. And all you have to do is work out the answer – crack the code, as it were.’

  ‘Crack the Da-da-de-da-da Code?’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes.’

  Jonny Hooker mulled over the concept. It was possible that every household in the borough had received such a letter. It was possible that someone in every household would attempt to crack the code and win whatever prize there was to be won.

  And so what might possibly make him, Jonathan Hooker, twenty-seven years of age and, as his mother reliably informed the vicar each week after the Sunday service, ‘more stone-bonkered than a handbag full of owls’, think that he would have the remotest hope of winning whatever there was to possibly be won?

  Absolutely no chance whatever, was the obvious conclusion.

  Jonny Hooker mulled it over and, having done so, arrived at a decision that would inevitably prove fatal.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Jonathan Hooker. ‘I’ll crack the Da-da-de-da-da Code.’

  4

  ‘So how do we go about cracking this code?’ asked Jonny, a few minutes later. In the company of his non-corporeal companion, Mr Giggles the Monkey Boy, three-quarters of a pint of King Billy and a packet of fancy nuts, which O’Fagin had discovered hanging upon a card that he never knew he had (so to speak). Jonny had repaired to a dark and mysterious corner of The Middle Man’s saloon bar.

  ‘It’s rather dark and mysterious in this particular corner,’ observed Mr Giggles, settling his hairy self upon a barstool. ‘There are many legends attached to this public house, and this particular dark and mysterious corner in particular, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Jonny. ‘In fact, I’m not interested at all.’

  ‘It is a fact well known to those who know it well,’ continued Mr Giggles, ‘that it was in this very dark and mysterious corner that the legendary blues singer Robert Johnson recorded his thirtieth composition.’

  Jonny Hooker supped at his beer. ‘Robert Johnson, the King of the Delta Blues, never came to England and he never recorded a thirtieth composition. He recorded twenty-nine compositions and that is a fact well known to those who know it well. And I am one of those who do.’

  ‘’Twere it only so,’ said Mr Giggles, helping himself to nuts.

  ‘’Tis so,’ said Jonny. ‘Now give me some of those nuts.’

  Mr Giggles passed them over. Or appeared to. Or didn’t at all, because he didn’t exist. Or whatever.

  ‘They’re a tad too fancy for my taste, anyway,’ he said. ‘But this is definitely where Johnson made his final recording. You can still see his initials faintly visible, carved there in the table top. Beside the burn marks.’ And Mr Giggles crossed himself and kissed an invisible rosary.

  Jonny Hooker glanced at the table; there were many scratchings to be seen upon its sullied surface. A couple of them did look a bit like an ‘R’ and a ‘J’.

  ‘He never came to England,’ said Jonny.

  ‘He did too,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I knew him well.’

  ‘I thought you were my imaginary friend,’ Jonny said. ‘I thought I thought you up.’

  ‘You thought me back,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I’ve been around on and off for many a year.’

  ‘Madness never dates, eh?’ Jonny downed the last of his beer.

  ‘I go where I’m needed,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘And I haven’t always looked like this. When I knew Johnson, I was a great big buck-toothed n****r.’*

  ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to say “that” word anymore,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Oh, pardon me, do. But n****r I was, and my dental work was a veritable disgrace.’

  ‘Is this really leading anywhere?’ Jonny asked. ‘Because I thought we were setting to to crack the Da-da-de-da-da Code, so that I might avail myself of whatever wealth there is for the taking.’

  ‘Money can’t buy you happiness,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘That is a supposition I would like to test through experience,’ said Jonny. ‘And seeing as I am really miserable now, I do not believe that a great deal of money could possibly make things worse rather than better.’

  ‘So,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘about Robert Johnson.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear about Robert Johnson. Robert Johnson cannot possibly have anything to do with me cracking the Da-dade-da-da Code.’

  ‘I would hardly have brought him up if he wasn’t relevant.’

  Jonny Hooker tapped his empty glass upon the table. ‘You are a liar,’ he declared. ‘All you ever do is distract and confuse me. I try to think straight, to get my life on track, to be like other people—’

  Mr Giggles giggled.

  ‘And you interrupt me!’ Jonny glared. ‘Like that! You’re in my head, talking your toot, keeping me out of kilter.’

  ‘I’m like the brother you never had.’

  ‘But I do have a brother. Only he won’t speak to me because I’m a nutter who’s always talking to himself.’

  ‘I’m like a different brother that you never had. A far nicer one, with a smiley face.’ Mr Giggles smiled at Jonny, his pointy teeth a-twinkle in the gloom. ‘So do you want to hear the legend, or not?’

  ‘And it’s relevant, is it?’

  ‘Bound to be,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Bound to be.’

  Jonny Hooker returned to the bar, where he purchased a further pint of King Billy, then he returned to the dark and mysterious corner.

  ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ asked Mr Giggles.

  Jonny Hooker sat down and nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll begin.’

  And with that he did.

  ‘As you must know,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘the legend of Robert Johnson runs to this. He was a not particularly good blues singer and guitarist way down in the Delta in the US of A, way back in the nineteen thirties. And, as legend has it, he went down to the crossroads at midnight with a black cat’s bone in his hand and sold his soul to the Devil. The Devil appeared, in the shape of a big, well-dressed black man, and he retuned Robert Johnson’s guitar. And after that Robert Johnson became the greatest blues guitarist of them all. When Keith Richards first heard recordings of Johnson, he asked who the other fellow was who was playing guitar accompaniment. But Johnson did the whole lot on his
own, in one take with no overdubs, which Richards considered impossible because you can’t finger all those notes that he did at the same time. But then, you see, after Johnson had sold his soul to the Devil, he always played with his back to the audience. And folk who were backstage and took a little peep swore that he now had six fingers on his left hand.’

  ‘But he never came to England,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Did too,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Please listen, if you will. The accepted story is that Robert Johnson recorded just twenty-nine songs during his lifetime, before dying mysteriously at the age of twenty-seven. But this is not so. Robert Johnson recorded thirty songs. He was contracted to do so by the Devil. Like Judas’s thirty pieces of silver, so Johnson had his thirty pieces of shellac.’

  ‘So whatever happened to the thirtieth recording?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘Aha,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Listen and you’ll learn. After Johnson had recorded twenty-nine songs, he knew he had just one more to do and then the Devil would come for his soul. So he did a runner – he fled from America and came here to England. He stayed upstairs at this very pub.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Jonny. ‘He didn’t, did he?’

  ‘He did,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘He convinced himself that he had outsmarted the Devil. Had outrun him. That the Devil would never find him here in England. But he did have his weaknesses. You see, he liked to drink and he liked the ladies. And one night, in nineteen thirty-eight, he was sitting here half-gone with the drink, carving his initials on a table, when a beautiful young woman walked in. She was a wonderful creature and Johnson was entranced. He wanted her and he engaged her in conversation. To cut a long story short, she agreed to have sex with him on condition that he sang her a song that she didn’t know. So he took up his guitar and sang one of his songs. But she sang along with it – she knew it. So he tried another and she knew that, too. He ran right through all of his twenty-nine songs. She knew them all. And she got up to leave. But he couldn’t let her, there was something about her that fascinated him too much. So he said, “I’ll sing you a song that you don’t know. You can’t know it, because I’ve never sung it before.” And he sang his thirtieth song.’

  ‘And when he’d finished she turned into the Devil and whisked him off to Hell,’ said Jonny Hooker. ‘Even I could see that one coming.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Was it that obvious?’

  Jonny Hooker nodded. ‘It’s still a good story, though,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not the end of it,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You see, I was here on that terrible night – I was Johnson’s non-corporeal companion. And when he sang the thirtieth song, I recorded it.’

  ‘You recorded it?’ Jonny did blinkings at Mr Giggles. ‘You mean that you actually have Robert Johnson’s thirtieth recording? It must be worth millions of pounds. Where is it?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I don’t have it any more. And I’m glad that I don’t, I can tell you. You see, there’s something on that recording that shouldn’t be on any recording. Terrible thing, so it is.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, as you figured out, the beautiful young woman was really the Devil in disguise and when Johnson finished his song, the Devil claimed him. And as he claimed him, the Devil laughed. A hideous, inhuman, ghastly, godless laugh. And it got recorded on the record.’

  ‘The Devil’s laughter?’ Jonny shivered.

  Mr Giggles nodded hairily. ‘Now,’ said he ‘as you are probably aware, it is the habit of legendary musicians to die at the age of twenty-seven. Johnson died at twenty-seven. And after him we have Johnny Kidd, out of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, Pig Pen out of the Grateful Dead. Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain – the list goes on. They all died aged twenty-seven. It is not a coincidence. You see, they all had one thing in common: they were all Robert Johnson fans. And each of them, in their twenty-seventh year, got to hear something that they shouldn’t have heard. They got to listen to Robert Johnson’s thirtieth record. And they heard the Devil’s laughter. And if you hear the Devil’s laughter—’

  ‘You die,’ said Jonny Hooker. ‘You die.’

  ‘That’s what you do,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Horrible business, eh?’

  ‘Horrible,’ said Jonny. ‘But wait,’ said Jonny. ‘What about the recording?’ said Jonny. ‘Where is it now?’ said Jonny, also.

  ‘Where indeed? It wasn’t to be found amongst the personal effects of the late Mister Cobain, or so I am informed. I am also informed that a certain secret government agency set out to find it. This certain agency has apparently been searching for it for years.’

  Jonny Hooker shook his head. ‘I will just bet,’ he said, ‘that there is not a single word of truth to any of that. I really, truly hate you, so I do.’

  ‘No you don’t, you love me, really.’

  Jonny Hooker shook his head again and found that his glass was empty once more. Although unaccountably so, as he did not recall emptying it. Grumbling grimly, he returned once more to the bar counter.

  O’Fagin was affixing up a poster to the wall.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Jonny, feigning interest.

  ‘Blues Night on Tuesday,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Local bands. You should come along – you play guitar, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ said Jonny. ‘Regularly, in here, on Heavy Metal Nights. But I don’t know of any decent blues bands round here.’

  ‘I never said they were decent,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I only said they were local.’

  ‘I never even knew you had Blues Nights here,’ said Jonny, offering his glass for a refill.

  ‘Haven’t for years,’ said O’Fagin, receiving Jonny’s glass. ‘My daddy started them back in the nineteen thirties, but there was a bit of bother, so he stopped them.’

  ‘Bit of bother?’ said Jonny. ‘Fights in the bar and suchlike?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said O’Fagin, crossing himself and drawing Jonny’s pint. Which was no mean feat, as he did both with a single hand. ‘But all the greats played The Middle Man. See that faded photo up there?’ And he did head-gesturings. ‘That’s my daddy here in the bar. And Robert Johnson with him.’

  5

  ‘You left that beer undrunk,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Right there on the bar counter, you left it.’

  ‘I paid for it,’ said Jonny, and he strode on up the road.

  ‘But why did you leave it? Why did you leave it?’ Mr Giggles danced at Jonny’s side.

  The sun shone down and birdies gossiped in the treetops. A lady in a straw hat, waiting at the bus stop, watched the young man striding by and talking to himself.

  ‘Sad,’ said she, to herself.

  ‘Just leave it, Mister Giggles,’ said Jonny. ‘Just leave it.’

  ‘But why did you leave your pint?’

  Jonny ceased his striding and glared at Mr Giggles. ‘You did it,’ he said. ‘I know you did it.’

  ‘Did what? What?’

  ‘Blues Night at The Middle Man! That photo behind the bar! I’ve drunk in that pub for years and I’ve never seen that photo before.’

  ‘So you’re implying that I somehow brought it into being?’

  ‘It’s what you do to mess me up. Why won’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘Because you need me, Jonny, that’s why. You need me, Jonny, you do.’

  ‘I don’t need you. I don’t want you. I just want my own mind. I want to think my own thoughts, make my own choices.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to manage on your own.’

  ‘Other people do!’

  ‘Other people are not like you. Let’s go back to the pub.’

  ‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘I’m going to the park.’

  ‘I don’t like the park,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘The grass smells bad because the dogs all wee on it.’

  ‘Then I will go on my own. Please let me go on my own.’

  ‘You might get lost or something. I’d best come along.’

  ‘One day,’ said Jonny, �
��one day I will drive you out of my head.’

  ‘I really hope for your sake that you don’t.’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘that I am the lesser of a great many evils. If you were to drive me out, there’s just no telling who or what might take up occupation in my absence.’

  Jonny felt a nasty shiver creeping up his spine.

  ‘I’m going to the park,’ he said.

  Gunnersbury Park is a beautiful park. Just off the Chiswick round-about, if you’re coming up the A4, it boasts many facilities: two miniature nine-hole golf courses (pitch-and-putt), two bowling greens, five cricket pitches, one hockey pitch, thirty-six football pitches, six netball pitches, three rugby pitches, one lacrosse pitch, two putting greens, fifteen hard tennis courts, a two-and-a-half-acre fishing pond, an ornamental boating pond, a riding school, dressing rooms and refreshment pavilions.

  Add to this the ‘Big House’, a museum packed with many wonders, a Japanese garden, a Doric temple, an orangery and several Gothic follies.

  And it’s open every day of the year except Christmas Day, and you can even get married in the grounds. And visit Princess Amelia’s Bath House. But more about her later.

  So it’s well worth a visit.

  Jonny sat by the ornamental boating pond smoking a hand-rolled ciggy and wearing the Trinidad and Tobago World Cup football shirt he had purchased from a charity shop, but which, along with any description of himself, had escaped previous mention. Across from him, on the west shore, a park ranger named Kenneth Connor (who was not under any circumstances to be confused with the other Kenneth Connor) dragged a shopping trolley up from the water’s edge and muttered swear words underneath his breath.

  ‘All that Robert Johnson stuff,’ said Jonny, ‘all that was just a story, wasn’t it? There isn’t really a thirtieth record with the Devil’s laughter on it, is there?’

  ‘Don’t you believe in the Devil?’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘Now who’s the liar? You think about things like God and the Devil all the time.’