The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

by Robert Rankin

  ‘I don’t think the Devil exists.’

  ‘Tricky one, that,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You know what they say: that the greatest trick the Devil ever played was to convince people of his nonexistence. That and to get Boy George to the top of the charts, of course.’

  ‘So is the story true, or is it not?’

  ‘It depends what you mean by “true”.’

  ‘Does it? Well, let us accept that what I mean by the word “true” is “what actually happened”.’

  ‘Sounds a bit ambiguous,’ said Mr Giggles, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.

  ‘It is not ambiguous,’ said Jonny. ‘Something either happened, or it didn’t.’

  ‘If only it were as simple as that.’

  ‘It is,’ said Jonny. ‘And by your prevarication, I think it safe to assume that it was not a true story.’

  ‘Well, you’d know,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘because if I don’t exist, it means that you made up the story. So is it true, or not?’

  Jonny Hooker ground his teeth.

  ‘We should go back to the pub,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You could get very drunk and we could have a really good metaphysical discussion. Talk some really splendid toot. And you could tell me how I’m your bestest friend, again.’

  Jonny fished a scrunched-up piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I am going to apply myself to this,’ he said. ‘The curious silence that both myself and O’Fagin experienced. The pregnant pause. It must mean something. I have nothing else to do with my life, so I will apply myself to this.’

  ‘Bravely said.’

  ‘And since you will not leave me alone, you can help me.’

  ‘I already did. I identified “da-da-de-da-da” as music and I told you a pertinent story about Robert Johnson.’

  Jonny Hooker rumpled his brow and puffed on his cigarette. ‘Blues music is particularly da-da-de-da-da-de-da-da-de-da-da-deda-da-da-da-da.’

  ‘Then you’re definitely on the right track. You’ll probably have it sorted by teatime.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh look,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘there appears to be a small child there, drowning in the pond. He must have fallen out of a paddle boat.’

  ‘Why would you want to distract me?’ asked Jonny. ‘I thought you were really trying to help.’

  ‘There really is a small child drowning,’ said Mr Giggles. And he pointed.

  Jonny followed the direction of the hairy pointer. Somewhere near the middle of the pond and quite out of reach of the nearest paddle boat, someone small was splashing frantically.

  ‘It is a child,’ cried Jonny. ‘Someone’s drowning there,’ he shouted. ‘Man overboard,’ he bawled at the top of his voice. ‘Someone do something.’

  But nobody did. The paddlers kept on paddling and the strollers-past strolled on.

  ‘A child’s drowning!’ shouted Jonny. ‘You in the boat, there – behind you.’

  ‘You’d best dive in,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘swim out there, save that child.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘No, I don’t. You’re a rubbish swimmer, you’d probably drown.’

  ‘But someone has to do something.’ Jonny Hooker was kicking off his shoes.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Don’t be silly now, Jonny.’

  ‘You drew my attention to it.’

  ‘I thought it would cheer you up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Schadenfreude. It’s always cheering when someone’s in a worse state than you are. No, hold on.’

  But Jonny was now in the pond. He was wading and shouting, stumbling and falling.

  Rising and stumbling on.

  It wasn’t deep, the ornamental pond. It only went down about three feet, even in the middle where the struggling child was. But a man can drown in two inches of water, or so we are told. And a swan’s wing can break a grown man’s arm and the Great Wall of China can be seen from outer space.

  The boaters were now taking notice of Jonny. They were clapping their hands and laughing. None of them appeared to be noticing the drowning child at all, though.

  Jonny struggled onwards, stumbling, falling, rising, pointing. Shouting, ‘Drowning child!’

  At last he reached the middle of the pond.

  The drowning child was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Oh my God,’ cried Jonny. ‘The child’s gone under. The child’s gone under.’

  And Jonny dived. And dived and dived again.

  Ranger Connor was quite apoplectic. It didn’t take much to get him going nowadays. His temper wasn’t what it had been. He always seemed to be on the edge.

  And now he’d got himself all wet.

  And so had Ranger Hawtrey.

  It had taken the two of them to drag Jonny Hooker from the pond. And Jonny had put up quite a struggle. He’d punched Ranger Connor right on the nose. Ranger Connor had retaliated with a move that Count Danté (the world’s deadliest man) called the Strike of the Electric Dragon (which was named after the lightning on Venus, apparently).

  Jonny Hooker was hauled ashore unconscious.

  And Jonny Hooker awoke in hospital.

  It was Brentford Cottage Hospital that Jonny Hooker awoke in. It’s mostly for private patients now. Special patients, really.

  Jonny Hooker awoke to find himself struggling. Memories returned to him. The child in the ornamental pond. A park ranger with an attitude. A vicious blow to Jonny’s groin, one sufficient to put him beyond consciousness.

  ‘Ow,’ wailed Jonny. And then, ‘help!’

  Because he could not move. He had been secured to the bed. He was indeed held within a straitjacket.

  ‘Help!’ shouted Jonny. ‘Somebody help me, please.’

  A door that was closed then opened. A doctor appeared with a chart. This doctor approached Jonny’s bed and viewed Jonny doubtfully.

  Doubtfully?

  Jonny viewed the doctor. ‘Help me, please,’ he said.

  ‘We’re doing everything that we can to help you,’ said the doctor. And he tapped at his chart in a professional manner. ‘Everything that we can.’

  ‘I’m all tied up here,’ said Jonny. ‘Could you release me, please?’

  ‘There will be time enough for that later, I’m sure.’

  ‘The time is now,’ said Jonny.

  ‘No,’ said the doctor, ‘regrettably not.’

  ‘Not?’ asked Jonny. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Attempted suicide,’ said the doctor. ‘Throwing yourself in the ornamental pond like that and assaulting the park rangers who tried to rescue you.’

  ‘I did no such thing. There was a child drowning.’

  ‘There was no child. There was no one but you in the pond.’

  ‘There was a child.’

  ‘No child.’

  ‘Let me free,’ said Jonny. ‘Please let me free.’

  ‘You do have a bit of a history of this sort of thing, don’t you?’ said the doctor. ‘I haven’t brought your notes – there are so many of them. Phew, really heavy.’ And the doctor mimed carrying some really heavy notes. ‘We did call your mother, though. Apparently the police had to break into your house. You’d left her upturned on the bathroom floor. But she isn’t pressing charges.’

  ‘Charges?’ Jonny said.

  And there was fear in his voice.

  ‘No charges,’ said the doctor. ‘But she did agree that you have become a danger to yourself, and to others. And so she has had you sectioned.’

  ‘Sectioned?’ Jonny Hooker said.

  ‘Sectioned,’ said the doctor.

  6

  Jonny awoke the following day to find that things were quiet in his head.

  Very quiet indeed.

  Jonny lay, without restraints, upon a nice, neat hospital bed. It was in the ‘Special Wing’ of Brentford Cottage Hospital. The wing that housed the ‘special cases’. Jonny had been in such wings before. He had been in this wing before.

  Jonny rolled over and blinked towards the window. Sun
light peeped in through it. There were no bars at the window.

  ‘Up and away, then,’ said Jonny, rising from the bed and making for the window.

  ‘Or perhaps I’ll stay,’ he continued, as he viewed the steely fixings and the ‘High Security’ etchings on the glass. The plaster around this secure window looked quite fresh and new. It had recently needed replacing when a patient, a large Red Indian, had thrown the water cooler out through the previous window.

  But that was another story.

  Jonny tried the door and found it locked. He returned to the bed and sat down upon it.

  And then he became fully aware of just how very quiet things were inside his head.

  ‘Mister Giggles,’ said Jonny, ‘are you there?’

  But answer came there none.

  ‘Mister Giggles?’

  Silence. In his head. Light traffic sounds from without the window. Within the room and within his head, silence.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jonny. And then he said, ‘Damn!’

  ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ went Jonny. ‘Damn.’

  He’d been drugged. Done up once more with the old anti-psychotics.

  Jonny glanced all down at himself. Now fully fully aware, he was fully aware of his attire. The foolish do-up-the-back hospital smock. The identity wristlet. The – Jonny checked his left arm – the Elastoplast, beneath which he would find the puncture marks.

  ‘I have to get out of here,’ said Jonny. Taking very deep breaths. ‘I’m still up for winning that prize, me,’ he continued, rather startling himself as he did so, for having a sense of purpose in his life was something new to him. ‘Yes, I do want to win that prize,’ he furtherly continued. ‘In fact, I am determined to do so. And in order to do so, I must certainly get out of here.’

  There was a kind of simultaneous knocking, unlocking and opening of the door and a face peeped in and a voice said, ‘Were you talking to somebody in here?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jonny. ‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘Not me, never at all.’

  The face entered Jonny’s room. It entered upon a head, which was secured at the neck to a body, to which in turn two pairs of standard appendages were attached. The entire ensemble was of the female persuasion. The young and sightly female persuasion.

  Jonny looked up from his bed as the figure entered his room. It was a sightly figure and no mistake about it. Short black hair and bright-green eyes and the sweetest nose imaginable, the—

  ‘Have to stop you there,’ said the nurse, for such was she.

  ‘Stop me where?’ asked Jonny.

  ‘You were looking at my nose and you were smiling foolishly.’

  ‘It’s a very sw—’

  ‘Please don’t say it.’

  ‘Sweet?’

  ‘You said it,’ said the nurse. ‘The bane of my life, this nose. You can’t imagine what trouble it gets me into.’

  ‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘What about my mouth?’ asked the nurse.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Jonny. ‘Very silent-film star, that mouth, rather Theda Bara, in fact.’

  ‘And my tits?’ The nurse drew back her shoulders and thrust her breasts forward.

  ‘Very nice, too,’ said Jonny. ‘Very pert.’

  ‘I’ve nice legs as well and a nice bum. And I have a tattoo on my bum.’

  ‘This is all very good to hear,’ said Jonny, who now was most perplexed. ‘You are actually a nurse here, I suppose, not a patient.’

  ‘You naughty boy. I am Nurse Hollywood. I was a patient, but that was years ago. I am now a fully qualified nurse, and I can assure you that there is a great deal more to me than a sweet nose.’

  ‘I’m sure there is,’ said Jonny. ‘We’ve already touched upon the tits and the bum.’

  ‘We’ll take this no further,’ said Nurse Hollywood. ‘I am more than just a sweet nose and that is that.’

  Jonny felt that this was probably very much the case, as women who boast of having tattooed bums the first time you meet them are probably, as they say, ‘up for it’.

  ‘Oh,’ said Nurse Hollywood, ‘and don’t you go getting any ideas about me being up for it just because I mentioned that I have a tattoo on my bum.’

  ‘As if I would,’ said Jonny. ‘Could you tell me where my clothes are, please?’

  ‘I could,’ said the nurse, ‘but I won’t. There’d be no point as you will not be allowed to wear them for a while. You’re having tests this morning.’

  ‘Are you here to test me?’

  ‘No,’ said the nurse, ‘I’m here simply to introduce myself, as I will be your personal carer during your stay here. And to ask you what you’d like for breakfast.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jonny. ‘I’d like the full English if that is on the go. Two sausages, two bacon, two eggs, two toast, black pudding, beans and a fried slice.’

  Nurse Hollywood clutched one of those hospital clipboards to her pert bosoms. She took up the pen that was attached to it by a string and made certain notes.

  ‘Am I getting the full English?’ Jonny asked. ‘Or did I just fail one of the tests?’

  ‘We don’t like to use the “F” word here,’ said Nurse Hollywood. ‘Nobody fails. It’s just that some take longer to succeed than others.’

  ‘I am a very fast learner,’ said Jonny. ‘You’d be surprised at all the things I’ve learned so far. For instance, I’ve learned that life isn’t fair, that I am a have-not and that I have absolutely no skills at all when it comes to predicting the future. However, I do remain cautiously optimistic.’

  Nurse Hollywod made further notes. Something told Jonny that he was not making a particularly good first impression and that the chances of seeing that bum tattoo were getting smaller by the minute.

  ‘I’d like you to have this,’ said Nurse Hollywood, peeling an underpage from her clipboard and presenting it to Jonny.

  ‘Your phone number?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘A questionnaire of sorts. While I fetch your breakfast, I’d like you to fill it in. Do you think you could do that for me?’

  ‘Not without a pen,’ said Jonny.

  Nurse Hollywood presented Jonny with a crayon.

  ‘No pointy objects,’ said Jonny, pointedly. ‘I know the drill.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the nurse, ‘you do have something of a history, don’t you? But things have changed quite a lot since the last time you were admitted. I think you will find that the new techniques and treatments will have a positive effect.’

  Jonny said nothing, but nodded as if he agreed.

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Do what you can with the questionnaire and I’ll be back with your breakfast.’

  And with that she left, sweet nose, green eyes and tattooed bum to boot. As it were.

  Jonny rose quietly and listened at the door. Assured that she had gone, he tried the handle. Well, there was always an outside chance that she might have forgotten to lock it.

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ came the voice of Nurse Hollywood. Jonny returned to the bed.

  Sighing and cursing by turn, he viewed the questionnaire. Of course, if Mr Giggles had been there he would have been a great help. Mr Giggles just loved such questionnaires. He was capable of coming up with some most inspired answers.

  Although.

  Jonny recalled the last time he’d been sectioned – five years before, and also because of his mum. He’d been given a form to fill out then and he’d taken Mr Giggles’ advice. Things hadn’t gone too well for Jonny after that.

  But then, for now, there was no Mr Giggles. Mr Giggles’ chatter had been suppressed by the drugs that now saturated Jonny’s thinking parts. That chemically altered his perception. It was a very difficult business for Jonny, this, because although he did hate Mr Giggles (well, some of the time (well, most of the time)), he really hated being drugged up against his will. Because he knew, just knew, that with the drugs inside him, although he felt certain that he was thinking straight, he was not.

  The drugs don’t work, they make
things worse.

  Jonny sang this softly.

  At length and at not too long a one at that, Jonny perused the questionnaire. He knew better than to ignore it, or screw it up, or eat it. Compliance was the name of the game. As it so often is, when one is all locked up.

  ‘“List five things that you like about yourself”?’ Jonny read. To himself. Not aloud.

  Jonny could not think of one. So Jonny tried to think of someone that he liked, so he could list five things that he liked about them.

  ‘This questionnaire is really beginning to depress me,’ said Jonny to himself. And he thought once more of Mr Giggles. And he shrugged and made notes upon the questionnaire.

  And at a length that was neither too long nor too short, but somewhere comfortably in between, there was another simultaneous knocking, unlocking and opening of the door.

  And a face peeped in, and then all the rest made an entrance.

  Jonny smiled up, then stopped smiling. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Nurse Cecil,’ said Nurse Cecil. Nurse Cecil was a very large nurse, of the male persuasion. He had that broken-nosed ‘useful’ look about him that bouncers (or door-supervisors, as they prefer to be known) have about them. He carried a tray. It did not look like a breakfast tray, as there was no breakfast upon it. Just a sort of a napkin that bulged slightly in the middle.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jonny. ‘I was expecting Nurse Hollywood.’

  ‘Nurse who?’ said Nurse Cecil.

  ‘Nurse Hollywood – black hair, green eyes, sweet nose. You must know the nose.’

  ‘Know the nose,’ said Nurse Cecil. Thoughtfully.

  ‘She’s getting me the full English breakfast,’ said Jonny.

  ‘I’ll just bet she is,’ said Nurse Cecil. ‘And she’ll probably want to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” while she feeds it to you. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jonny.

  ‘No,’ said Nurse Cecil. ‘And nor do I. Because we do not have a Nurse Hollywood. We have no female nurses here.’

  ‘But she gave me this questionnaire.’

  And Jonny reached for the questionnaire. Which was there on the bed.

  But which wasn’t.

  ‘I think we’re going to have to up your medication,’ said Nurse Cecil. And he removed the napkin from his tray to reveal a large and lethal-looking hypodermic.