The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Really?’ said Paul, and he shook his head.

  ‘You’re shaking your head,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘I am thinking that the fact that I told you I was the bass guitarist in Dry Rot should have tipped you off.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Ah indeed,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Seeing as how you are the lead guitarist in that very band.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Jonny. ‘But I didn’t want to give myself away. Not in front of Westlake. I did give a sort of secretive smile though. You might have pick up on that. Small world, eh?’

  ‘Small world?’ said Constable Paul. ‘Small world?’

  ‘Well, it is a coincidence. I didn’t even know you were a policeman. I recall you telling me that you were something big in rock ’n’ roll in the city.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Oh, and this is for you.’ And without any warning. Because that is the way you must always do it if you wish to do it successfully. He swung a fist at Jonny and caught him right on the chin.

  Jonny fell back, arms all flailing, mouth all going ‘Owch’ and ‘Oooh’.

  ‘You twat,’ cried Constable Paul. ‘Getting yourself wanted by the bloody police when we’re playing a gig on Friday at The Middle Man and O’Fagin was going to pay us and everything.’

  ‘You hit me!’ Jonny lay amongst tissues and mags.*

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ said Constable Paul, and he looked to be squaring up to administer further hittings should Jonny choose to regain his feet. ‘Park keeper’s uniform—’

  ‘Park ranger,’ said Jonny.

  ‘And bloody wanted man! And you turn up here. Murderers always return to the scene of the crime, is that it?’

  ‘That isn’t it. Of course that isn’t it. I didn’t murder anyone.’

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘I have to find out.’ Jonny didn’t try to rise, just sat there looking glum. ‘I have to find out,’ he said once more, ‘what is really going on. And something is going on, something big. I know it. I just know it.’

  ‘And you’re going to solve this … whatever it is, this something big?’

  ‘I’m part of it and it’s part of me. I can’t explain, but I know that whatever it is, it’s making me alive – do you know what I mean?’

  Constable Paul shook his head. ‘You can get up now,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t hit you again.’ And he helped Jonny back to his feet. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

  ‘Several things,’ said Jonny. ‘Three things, in fact. First thing – could you photograph all these walls and the ceiling and what you can of the floor for me?’

  ‘No sweat,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Can do that on my mobile phone.’

  ‘Second thing – I have to make a swift getaway,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Out the way you came and away in the police car you nicked.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll call you and we’ll meet up later, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Constable Paul. ‘And the third thing?’

  Jonny kneed Constable Paul in those oh-so-tender regions.

  ‘Speak to you later,’ he said.

  15

  ‘Violence!’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You administered violence.’

  ‘He hit me first,’ said Jonny. ‘I was simply balancing things.’

  ‘Balancing things? You’re growing out of control. Punching that Doctor Archy was bad enough. But as for kneeing Paul in the nuts—’

  ‘He hit me first.’

  ‘All wrong, all wrong. He could have turned you in, but he didn’t.’

  ‘What are you getting so upset about?’

  ‘I abhor violence,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘How strange,’ said Jonny, ‘as you’ve put me in positions so many times in the past that have caused folk to mete out violence to me.’

  ‘I never have!’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘Oh really?’ said Jonny. ‘And yet I recall so vividly the time you persuaded me to play “Point out the Porker” in KFC and that very large woman beating the bedoodads out of me.’

  ‘How was I to know that she knew Dimac?’

  ‘How indeed?’ Jonny had ditched the police car. He hadn’t wanted to, because it was a comfortable ride and it did appear to command a certain degree of respect from fellow motorists, But he had been forced to as he’d heard the ‘all-points-bulletin’ being put out over the dashboard radio regarding the fact that the car had been TWOCed* and that officers were being encouraged to shoot upon sight the potential terrorist who had done the TWOCing thereof. Or the said TWOCing. Or whatever.

  Jonny now rode in a black Chrysler Cruiser.

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You TWOCing this car. How did you know that the keys from the police car would work in this car?’

  ‘Everyone knows that,’ said Jonny. ‘Police car keys are special keys that can work any vehicle.’

  ‘Are you sure that everyone knows that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Jonny. ‘The same as everyone knows that if you leave your hall light on at night when you go out, burglars will think you’re in and not attempt to break in and rob you.’

  ‘And everyone knows that?’

  ‘Everyone except for burglars,’ said Jonny. ‘The world is a wonderful place, is it not?’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Mr Giggles.

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘I heard it, but I don’t believe that I heard it.’

  ‘I have no comment to make on that,’ said Jonny, and he took a corner at speed and had a passing cleric off his bicycle.*

  ‘You’re enjoying yourself,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘I am,’ said Jonny.

  ‘That’s not right,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘You don’t want me to enjoy myself? I thought that you dedicated yourself to helping me enjoy myself. Encouraging me to enjoy myself. Doing everything within your power to ensure that I enjoy myself.’

  Mr Giggles went, ‘Hm,’ in a ‘certain’ manner.

  ‘So you must be so happy for me,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I am, I really am. So where are we going now?’

  ‘Back to the park,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Back to the park?’

  ‘It’s lunchtime.’

  And, of course, it was. Because time does pass quickly when you’re enjoying yourself and Jonny Hooker really was enjoying himself. And he’d had a busy morning and it was a little after one of the afternoon clock and so he returned to Gunnersbury Park.

  And parked the stolen Chrysler in amongst some bushes behind the public car park and ambled off to the park rangers’ hut.

  Ranger Hawtrey was very pleased to see him.

  Ranger Connor not so much.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked Jonny.

  ‘Litter patrol,’ said Jonny. ‘Caught some school truants having a cigarette, formed them into a litter patrol – I hope you approve.’

  ‘I do,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Well done, that man.’

  Ranger Hawtrey smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s French omelettes today,’ he said, ‘seasoned with cinnamon, garlic, galingale and nutmeg, with a salad on the side and crispy fries.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Jonny. ‘A gourmet repast.’

  ‘My hobby,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘That and learning to play the classical violin. But that’s a bit tricky because I’m left-handed.’

  ‘Why so tricky?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘There’s no such thing as a left-handed concert violinist,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘You can’t have one in an orchestra because their bowing arm would bump into the other violinists.’

  ‘Well, I never knew that,’ said Jonny.

  Ranger Hawtrey served Jonny up with lunch. As he passed him a Queen’s pattern knife and fork, he whispered, ‘How is it going?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Jonny. ‘Could you pass the tomato sauce?’ />
  Ranger Connor had finished his lunch and settled down in one of the Queen Anne chairs, put his feet up on a Persian pouffe and got stuck in for a bit of a nap.

  Ranger Hawtrey pulled a copy of Southpaw Violinist from one of his loaded pockets and, despite his eagerness to know what Jonny had been up to, took to the reading of it.

  Jonny ate and appreciated his lunch, took the bloodstained book from his pocket and gave it a bit of perusal.

  It was a leather-bound notebook kind of jobbie of the variety that friends of authors buy for authors as Christmas and birthday presents because ‘it’s a really nice thing and you can make notes for your next novel in it’. And which authors always put to one side and mean to use and then lose. Although they really are nice things. And the gifts of them are really appreciated.

  On the flyleaf was written, in a shaky hand:

  THIS BOOK BELONGS TO JAMES CRAWFORD

  And beneath this, James Crawford’s address.

  And beneath this, what appeared to be the title of the book. And this title was:

  ANSWERS?

  ‘Answers?’ thought Jonny. ‘Answers to what?’

  ‘To the meaning of life, maychance,’ said Mr Giggles.

  But Jonny ignored him.

  Jonny turned the page and read the words:

  IF YOU ARE READING THIS BOOK

  THEN IT MEANS THAT I AM DEAD.

  I DO NOT CLAIM TO HAVE ALL OF

  THE ANSWERS. THE ONE WHO COMES

  AFTER ME WILL FIND OUT ALL OF

  THE ANSWERS. I ONLY HOPE THAT

  THIS BOOK WILL PROVIDE

  HIM OR HER WITH SOMETHING

  TO WORK ON.

  ‘Hm,’ went Jonny, and he read on. The writing was all in capital letters and all in violet ink. Neither boded particularly well, but Jonny persevered. After all, if he was looking for a clue, then this was definitely it.

  ‘“They are amongst us”,’ he read. ‘“There is no telling how many of them there are; one can only guess. What is known from recorded history is that they form themselves into tight covens or gangs. That they hide themselves in secret places. That they construct their machines in secret places and that they man their machines in these secret places. These machines, these Looms that weave the air, the sounds, the music, are used to effect control. The subject chosen for control is magnetised; this can be done at any time. The Magnetiser may disguise himself in a hundred different ways, perhaps as a postman or a house-painter, a dog-walker or a simple passer-by. But however he is disguised, he administers the magnetisation, which is done through electrical contamination. Once the subject is magnetically marked, then the Loom can be tuned to his frequency. An individual Loom’s range is not unlimited, but as Looms exist dotted throughout the kingdom, the subject will rarely be out of range of one of them. Once the Loom is attuned to the unique magnetic vibration of the chosen subject, then the keyboard will be manipulated and the notes dispatched as a magnetic flux, or vibrating wave, or carrier signal. This music, which is played upon the keyboard by the member of the gang who is known only as the Glove Woman, passes its rhythms to the subject not as the notes, which they are, but as the words that are in accordance and sympathy with these notes. Which is to say that the scale is also an alphabet of sound. The notes become words when absorbed into the subject’s head. The subject hears these words, coming apparently from without. They will be interpreted according to the subject’s belief system. The voice of God? The voice of the Devil? The voice of inspiration? An alien life form? An imaginary friend—”’

  Jonny paused at this, munched upon a crispy fry and took a sip of tea. And then he read more.

  ‘“Why do these gangs target a particular subject? The reasons are many and various, but all to one end: control. Ultimate Control. To control individuals with a view to controlling all. There is no escape for the subject once marked by the Magnetiser. For not only does the Loom weave its music, but other music all about will conspire with it. The subject cannot escape from the music of others, in the supermarket, in a café, or restaurant, or public house, issuing from the headphones of fellow travellers, or passers-by or from windows, or indeed from their own record or CD collections. Or from the radio, or television, or indeed any electrical apparatus capable of issuing a pulse that might be a regular beat. All this music, indeed all music, contains the hidden formula. The hidden code. And all can be activated by those gangs who work the Looms. Such it has been for centuries. And such it will continue to be unless—”’

  Jonny Hooker turned the page.

  ‘Unless what?’

  There was no more text. Jonny flicked this way and that, but that was it. Jonny Hooker closed the book and returned it to his pocket.

  Ranger Hawtrey laughed out loud and pointed to a page of his magazine. ‘Southpaw fiddle humour,’ he explained. ‘Don’t mind me.’

  ‘Ranger Hawtrey,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Call me Charlie,’ said Charlie. ‘I know I should have said to call me Charlie earlier, of course, but I’m a bit shy.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jonny. ‘Well, Charlie, remember how you were telling me about your brother? The one you gave the iPod to?’

  ‘I do recall,’ said Charlie.

  ‘And he’s banged up in the Special Wing at Brentford Cottage Hospital.’

  ‘I prefer to use the expression “receiving treatment”, but in truth it amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jonny, ‘I was just thinking – it’s a very nice day and everything. What say we pop to the hospital after work and pay your brother a visit?’

  Ranger Charlie made a thoughtful face. ‘But,’ and he whispered to Jonny, ‘and no offence to you, believe me, but do you not feel that as a wanted suspect in the murder of Doctor Archy at Brentford Cottage Hospital, you turning up there this afternoon might just be asking for trouble? I mean, a bit like going to the zoo and sticking your head in the tiger’s mouth?’

  Jonny Hooker nodded, and he grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said to Ranger Charlie. ‘Just like that.’

  16

  ‘And you really believe that this is going to work.’ Mr Giggles’ voice had a certain heightened quality to it. And for those dubiously gifted with the ability to see Mr Giggles, it was to be observed that there was also a certain agitation and indeed animation going on with him.

  ‘It is a work of genius, if I do say so myself.’ Jonny Hooker spoke from the corner of his mouth. In a whispered manner, spoke he.

  Because Jonny was back in the park rangers’ hut. It was clocking-off time now, five-thirty of the afternoon clock, and those who had the appropriate cards to clock off with (Jonny’s, apparently – well, according to Jonny – must have been held up in the post somewhere) were doing the said clocking-off.

  And Jonny was viewing his face in a Regency wall mirror, with bevelled plate and gradrooned frame, which had previously escaped mention.

  ‘A work of genius,’ he said once more as he cocked his head from side to side and viewed. What was to be seen of his face wasn’t much and the much there was of it was not of sufficient muchness as to illicit recognition, even, it must be said, by the mother who bore him and who had loved him for much of the subsequent time.

  Jonny’s face was a cockeyed quilt of Elastoplast dressings.

  ‘What, exactly, did you say happened to you?’ asked Ranger Connor.

  ‘Allergy,’ said Jonny, turning to smile with the visible bit of his mouth. ‘Allergy to grass. It will calm down in a week or so.’

  ‘Allergy?’ Ranger Connor said this in a sniffy kind of tone. ‘I frankly despair for your generation. In my day no one ever had allergies. Polio, we had, and diphtheria, and we were grateful for it. But all this namby-pambying about these days, lactose intolerant? Anorexic? Obsessive-compulsive? And what’s that one where the school kids go bouncing off the walls and have to be subdued with Ritalin?’

  ‘Attention-Deficit Disorder,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘Stuff and bally nonsense,’ said Ranger C
onnor. ‘A good clip around the ear with the business end of a seven-league boot is what they need.’

  ‘Seven-league boot?’ said Jonny. And Ranger Hawtrey shrugged.

  ‘The way I see it,’ said Ranger Connor, ‘indeed, the way it seems to me, is this. Drug companies employ special “experts” whose role is to “discover” all these new syndromes and give them catchy titles, so that the drug companies can cure them with expensive drugs that they just happen to have prepared in advance and are ready for marketing.’

  ‘Actually, I quite like that,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘As a conspiracy theory, that satisfies on so many different levels.’

  ‘It’s the truth, I’m telling you,’ said Ranger Connor.

  ‘I thought you said it was the way it seemed to you,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘Same thing – it’s just in the way you say it.’

  ‘I’m still a bit confused about the seven-league boots,’ said Jonny. ‘But an explanation can wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Not coming down to The Middle Man for a pint, then?’ said Ranger Connor. ‘To celebrate your first day on the job.’

  Jonny pointed to his face.

  ‘Maybe next week, then. You, Ranger Hawtrey?’

  ‘Sadly no,’ said that ranger. ‘I’m off to see my brother.’

  ‘The loony or the castrato?

  ‘Castrato?’ said Jonny.

  ‘Ah,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘I neglected to mention my other brother.’

  ‘Castrato?’

  ‘I’d really rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Jonny. ‘So, shall we depart? I’ll walk along with you on your way to the hospital.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.

  ‘I’ll go down to the pub on my own, then,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘It’s Quiz Night tonight and I am feeling quietly confident that I will win.’

  ‘How so?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘Because I intend to cheat. But only in the spirit of healthy competition, I hope you understand that.’

  ‘Seven-league boots,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Exactly.’