The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Bum-bandit?’ said Jonny. ‘How dare you.’

  ‘I dare,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I use the word “n****r”. Trust me, I dare.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Jonny, hastily relocking the hut door and returning the key to its flowerpot bower. ‘I hear approaching footsteps.’

  And so Jonny did. The approaching footsteps of Messrs Kenneth Connor and Charles Hawtrey. Charles was whistling ‘Birdhouse In Your Soul’ (the They Might Be Giants classic). Kenneth was accompanying the whistle by laying down a percussive track involving a rolled-up newspaper and his right trouser leg.

  And then.

  ‘Well, hello,’ said Kenneth Connor. ‘Who is this?’

  Jonny Hooker stood to attention. ‘David Chicoteen, sir,’ said he. And he offered a salute.

  ‘At ease, Mister Chiocteen,’ said Kenneth Connor, but he couldn’t help but return the salute.

  ‘David Chicoteen?’* said Mr Giggles. ‘Who he?’

  ‘Student,’ said Jonny to Ranger Connor. ‘Studying for a degree in—’ He paused. ‘Park rangering,’ he ventured. ‘Sent here for work experience, told to report to you directly. To take my orders directly from you and you alone.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Ranger Connor. ‘Me, personally?

  ‘The senior ranger,’ said Jonny, choosing his words with care. ‘You carry yourself with authority. I am certain that I have the right man.’

  Ranger Hawtrey made a face. Ranger Connor did some puffing up.

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘you do indeed have the right man. Splendid. I have asked them at the Big House again and again for another man. But what do I get? Cutbacks here, cutbacks there. You are a veritable blessing, young Chicoteen.’

  ‘Chicoteen?’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘What kind of name is that?’

  ‘A rubbish one,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘Dutch, I think,’ said Jonny, for who has it in for the Dutch?

  ‘I went to Holland once,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘They have a museum there, dedicated to poo.’*

  ‘Did he just say what I think he just said?’ said Mr Giggles.

  Ranger Connor had unpotted the key. He opened the hut door and ushered Jonny inside. ‘Our little cottage in the woods,’ he said.

  It was elegantly furnished, Jonny noted, now that he had time for more than a quick look around. There was a very nice George III mahogany sofa-table, with rounded twin-flap top and ribbed trestle supports. A delicious William IV walnut footstool with scrolling legs and brocade-padded seat. A magnificent Empire rosewood cabinet with foliate marquetry veneers. Several exquisite Queen Anne dining chairs, on shell-carved cabriole legs, and a host of other antique bits and bobbery, which lent the hut’s interior the look of Lovejoy’s lock-up.

  Jonny viewed all this as one who had not viewed it before. ‘Very nice indeed,’ he said.

  ‘Commandeered,’ explained Ranger Connor, ‘from the museum basement. No point leaving it all to rot down there when it can be put to good purpose here.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Jonny.

  Ranger Hawtrey switched on a small television that stood upon a Swedish ormolu-mounted kingswood, walnut and parquetry bombe commode, with a saleroom value of six to eight thousand pounds.

  Ranger Connor said, ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘Odd?’ said Jonny.

  ‘The armoire door is open.’

  ‘Armoire?’

  ‘Clothes cupboard, if you like. The French provincial-style one over there, with the cross-banded top and the boxwood stringing. We keep the spare uniforms inside it. The door’s open. Odd.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Ranger Hawtrey,’ settling himself down upon one of the Queen Anne chairs. ‘If you think that’s odd, check this out.’

  He pointed to the television screen. It was one of those first-thing-in-the-morning news shows. The ones hosted by uncomfortable-looking male presenters whose suits are a little too tight, and very attractive female presenters with heaving bosoms and sexy spectacles.

  ‘Odd?’ said Ranger Connor. ‘What very sexy spectacles that woman’s wearing,’ he continued.

  ‘Listen and look,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘Again, this breaking news,’ said an uncomfortable-looking male presenter whose suit was a little bit too tight. ‘Doctor Roland Archy, head of the psychiatric unit at Brentford Cottage Hospital, was viciously murdered last night. Police are seeking escaped psychopath Jonathan Hooker, aged twenty-seven. The public are warned that this man is armed and dangerous. Do not under any circumstances approach this man.’ And up flashed Jonny’s photo on the screen. A nice, crisp, detailed photograph that Jonny did not recall having taken. ‘If you see this man, report his whereabouts immediately to the police.’

  ‘Ugly-looking customer,’ said Ranger Kenneth Connor.

  ‘Viciously murdered?’ whispered Jonny Hooker.

  ‘Psychopath,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You’re in trouble now.’

  9

  Ranger Hawtrey brewed a morning cuppa.

  ‘Ranger Chicoteen’ held his cup between trembling hands and supped and supped at its contents. His stomach grumbled loudly for the lack of a filling and illicited some sympathy from Ranger Hawtrey, who offered the stomach’s owner half of a fresh bacon sarnie.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jonny, chewing at the sandwich but finding the swallowing hard.

  ‘South America would be your man,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘That’s where all those Nazi war criminals retired to. Perhaps you could make a few subtle alterations to the uniform, pretend you’re a merchant seaman and sign on with a cruise liner, or something. Then, when you get there, a few more subtle alterations and lo, you’ll pass for a young Martin Bormann.’

  Jonny Hooker said nothing to Mr Giggles. But Jonny’s brain was buzzing like a beehive.

  Viciously murdered? Jonny thought. I only gave him a bit of a smack. This is all some terrible mistake. It’s all been a terrible mistake. All of it. Everything from the arrival of that letter. Ever since I determined to crack that Da-da-de-da-da code, my whole world has turned to dirt.

  ‘It was dirt anyway,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘but it’s quite exciting dirt now. I wonder what is going to happen next.’

  ‘Switch off that television,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘If we see that lunatic in this park, I’ll give him the hiding of his life.’

  ‘It’s him!’ cried Ranger Hawtrey.

  And Jonny’s blood froze.

  ‘It’s who?’ asked Ranger Connor.

  ‘That loon,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘The one who was in the pond the day before yesterday. The one you did the Electric Dragon move on.’

  Jonny Hooker slowly crossed his legs.

  ‘Damn me, you’re right,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Of course, they carted him off to the Cottage Hospital. If I’d known he was a serial killer, I’d have given him the Dimac Death-Touch.’*

  ‘It didn’t say on the news that he is a serial killer,’ said Jonny, keeping his cap on and his head down.

  ‘He probably will be by the end of the day,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘He’ll probably go on what the Yanks refer to as a Goddamn killing spree.’

  Ranger Hawtrey nodded enthusiastically ‘A nun-raping, child-slaying, cocaine-fuelled, coprophiliac—’

  ‘Eh?’ said Jonny.

  ‘Baby-strangling—’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Puppy-buggering—’

  ‘Now stop it,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘You’ll get yourself feeling all unnecessary and I’ll have to throw a bucket of water over you.’

  ‘Hanging is too good for those types,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘Did they bring back hanging?’ Jonny asked

  ‘I wrote to the Prime Minister, suggesting it,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘I’m seeing a rather unexpected side to you here,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Off with that television and let us get down to the job in hand today.’

  Ranger Hawtrey switched off the television.

  ‘Obviously we must be particularly vigilant today
and on the lookout for this maniac. We will keep in constant radio contact with our walkie-talkies. And travel in pairs.’

  ‘But there’s only three of us,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘Improvise, boy,’ said Ranger Connor.

  ‘I’m loving this,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘And these lads think that you’re a loon.’

  ‘We’d best tool up,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘Electric truncheons are what we’ll need.’

  ‘And you know where we can acquire electric truncheons?’ asked Ranger Connor.

  ‘Actually, yes. I’ll make a call on my mobile.’

  ‘No, you will not.’ Ranger Connor waggled his teacup at the younger ranger. ‘I do not need tooling up because I am skilled in Dimac. You cannot legally carry a weapon. Although—’

  ‘Although?’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘It is something of a grey area, because we are on private property. You could actually carry a sword, if you wish, but not if you conceal it. Funny old thing, the law. Do you have any martial arts training, young Chicoteen?’

  ‘Me?’ Jonny, head-down, shook his head. ‘But if there is any trouble, I do know how to run.’

  ‘Hm,’ went Ranger Connor. ‘So, we travel in pairs, except for myself. You can carry a cudgel, Ranger Hawtrey.’

  ‘There are some very tasty swords in the museum,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘I could commandeer one of those.’

  ‘A stick,’ said Ranger Connor.

  ‘A stick?’

  ‘A stout stick. But enough chitchat. It is time to get off on the morning round. Master Chicoteen, you will accompany Ranger Hawtrey – he’ll show you the drill today. Tomorrow I will find specific tasks to set you.’

  Jonny Hooker nodded ’neath his cap.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Up and at it, lads. Up and at it.’

  Down shone the sun and it was a beautiful day.

  Jonny had never been in the park so early, and the trees and grass all dew-hung and glistening really rather moved him. When you are very ill, or very harassed, or both, you can truly see beauty in simple things. It’s something to do with their purity.

  Jonny Hooker sniffed at the air. ‘What a wonderful smell,’ said he.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘It is good, isn’t it? There’s something really special about walking around the park first thing, before it’s opened to the public. It’s, well, it’s untainted, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do,’ said Jonny. ‘Have you worked here long?’

  ‘Five years,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘I left school and applied to the police, but I failed the entrance exam. Have you ever wondered why people become traffic wardens?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ said Jonny. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do a job that consists of little other than making people miserable.’

  ‘They’re folk who’ve failed the police entrance exam. The examiners know that they are not bright enough to be policemen, but they do so want a job that involves wearing a uniform and bullying the public, so—’

  ‘So how come you didn’t become a traffic warden?’

  ‘I failed that exam as well.’

  ‘They have an exam for that?’

  ‘I didn’t try very hard. Next down the line is park keeper, or park ranger as we are now rather romantically called. And I love it. Ken is a bit of a nutter, but he’s got a good heart. And where else are you going to get all this?’ And Ranger Hawtrey gestured all around and about.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ said Jonny. ‘You think you’d have a go at this psycho, then? If you came face to face with him again?’

  ‘Not without a very big sword. I’d run like a girlie.’

  Jonny chuckled. And then Jonny paused. He’d just had a little chuckle there. A moment of lightness, considering the direness of his situation.

  But then, perhaps that’s what it was. In this beautiful park, in the earliness of the morning. Just for one moment.

  ‘Surely you’re a bit old to be a student,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  And the moment was gone.

  ‘Failed the police exam,’ said Jonny.

  ‘No way!’

  ‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t seem to be in control.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘You sound like my mad brother.’

  ‘Your mad brother?’

  ‘Everyone seems to have a mad brother, don’t they? I think it’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.’

  Jonny Hooker nodded.

  ‘My brother has this thing about machines. All kinds of machines, or appliances, really. Anything that plugs into the electric and does something. Radio, TV, iron, hair-straighteners. He gets the messages.’

  ‘The messages?’ said Jonny. Slowly.

  ‘He says that messages are being beamed into his head through the electrical appliances. They’ve got his frequency.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The controllers. The ones who control the folk who control us. My brother says that he’s onto them, so they torment him day and night, beam these voices and images into this head.’

  ‘He’s a paranoid schizophrenic,’ said Jonny.

  ‘That’s what the doctors say, yes.’

  ‘But you don’t agree?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s stuff he says that makes a lot of sense. Stuff he knows.’

  ‘Is he your older brother?’ Jonny asked.

  Ranger Hawtrey nodded. And spied a stick on a grassy knoll and picked it up and waved it.

  ‘What kind of stuff does he know?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘Mad stuff,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘But it does make some kind of sense. He reckons it’s all to do with holes. He reckons that there’s another world, one that for the most part we can’t see or hear. But the folk of that world can see and hear us and they love to torment us. But mostly they can’t because human beings are born with these inbuilt mental screens to keep them out. It’s an evolutionary thing. But some people, so-called paranoid schizophrenics, they have little holes in their mental shields and so these beasties, or demons, or whatever they are, are able to squeeze through and torment them. Drive them to do mad things. That’s his theory, anyway.’

  ‘It’s a popular theory,’ said Jonny.

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Amongst a certain fraction of society.’

  ‘It’s feasible,’ said Ranger Hawtrey, ‘if you are prepared to adopt a medieval overview of life – that the insane are indeed Devil-possessed. The thing is that that theory works just as well as any theory of mental imbalance.’

  ‘So you believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe. But I don’t think I really believe that messages are being beamed into his head via the pop-up toaster.’

  They ceased their perambulations and sat down upon a bench.

  Ranger Hawtrey took out a small, white contrivance from his pocket. ‘New iPod,’ he said. ‘You can store two thousand tracks on this. Do you like They Might Be Giants?’

  Jonny Hooker shrugged. ‘I’m a big fan of The Lost T-shirts of Atlantis,’ he said.

  ‘Check this out.’ Ranger Hawtrey stuck the tiny earbuds into his earholes, tinkered with his iPod, pulled the ear-bead jobbies from his earholes, passed the whole caboodle to Jonny and said, ‘Check this out,’ again.

  Jonny slotted the ear-bead jobbies into the ears that were his and then pressed the appropriate button.

  There was a moment of silence. In stereo. And then a voice said, ‘We know where you are, Jonny. You can’t hide from us.’

  It was a dark and horrible voice.

  It wasn’t Mr Giggles.

  10

  Jonny Hooker tore the tiny earphones from his head. He handed back the iPod to the ranger.

  ‘That was a bit quick,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘You’ll want to listen longer than that before you make up your mind.’

  ‘Make up my mind.’ Jonny Hooker said these words slowly. If
he could make up his own mind, he would make it up out of concrete and surround the thing with steel.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Ranger Hawtrey. ‘You seem to have gone somewhat pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Jonny, who was anything but. ‘That iPod is yours, is it?’

  ‘My brother’s, actually. I gave it to him as a birthday present, but he heard the voices speaking to him from it at once. So he gave it straight back to me.’

  Jonny Hooker gave Ranger Hawtrey what is known as ‘the Old-Fashioned Look’.

  ‘What?’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘Well, all right, yeah,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘I’d always wanted an iPod.’

  Ranger Hawtrey now took off his cap. He mopped at his brow with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. The cap lay in his lap with its insides upwards, as it were. And Jonny spied these upward innards.

  ‘Tinfoil,’ said Jonny Hooker. ‘Your cap is lined with tinfoil.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. Hastily replacing the cap upon his head.

  ‘It is,’ said Jonny. ‘And you know it is and you know I know that it is.’

  ‘Look,’ said Ranger Hawtrey, ‘like I say, I don’t know whether my brother is mad, or whether he really is persecuted by hidden enemies. And if he is being persecuted by hidden enemies, whether these enemies are ghosts, or devils, or transdimensional space beings, or the bloody Air Loom Gang itself—’

  ‘The what?’ said Jonny.

  ‘The Air Loom Gang. Surely you’ve heard of the Air Loom Gang.’

  ‘Curiously, no.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. I only came across them by chance when I was trawling the Internet for information about my brother’s supposed medical condition. And it did all happen a very long time ago, In the seventeen nineties, as it happens, but it’s interesting stuff and it made me think.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Jonny.

  ‘There was this mental patient,’ said Ranger Hawtrey, settling himself back on the bench and tucking away his oversized red gingham handkerchief. ‘His name was James Tilly Matthews and he had been an English secret agent. A kind of James Bond of his day. Well, somehow or other, and I’m not entirely sure of all the details,* he got it into his head that a certain gang had managed to actually get inside his head using a piece of equipment called the Air Loom. This contraption was an amazing bit of kit, designed and built by someone named Count Otto Black and operated by someone known as the Glove Woman. It was fuelled by all manner of noxious fumes and gases, and by the careful manipulation of its keyboard, a kind of magnetic flux or ray could be projected through solid objects like walls and suchlike into the head of their intended victim. And then his thoughts could be manipulated.’