The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

by Robert Rankin

  ‘You have restless legs,’ said Joan, ‘which must make you posh, I suppose.’

  ‘Must it?’ the inspector enquired.

  ‘Your other chap had restless legs and he’s posh.’

  ‘My other chap?’ Inspector Westlake made a baffled face.

  ‘Police security chap. Very well dressed, black suit, white shirt, really expensive sunspecs.’

  ‘Police security chap? What are you talking about, madam?’

  ‘He’s just popped down the corridor to the toilet.’

  ‘Just popped? Who is this fellow? Did he identify himself to you?’

  ‘He said I was to call him Joshua. He left his warrant card with me, said I wasn’t to look at it because it was top secret.’

  ‘Kindly show me this card.’

  ‘But it’s top secret.’

  ‘Madam, I am an officer of the law. Kindly show me this card or I will have no option other than to have you shot.’

  Joan fished the card from her cleavage. She handed it to the inspector.

  Inspector Westlake drew out a pistol.

  ‘A gun!’ shrieked Joan. ‘No, please—’

  ‘A gun indeed,’ said Constable Justice. ‘An all-chrome Desert Eagle, forty-four long-slide semi-automatic with double-lever action.’

  ‘You certainly know your handguns, Constable,’ said Inspector Westlake. And he drew out another such weapon and flung it to his fellow officer.

  ‘Sir?’ said that fellow.

  ‘Terrorist threat,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Get on the blower to the station, Constable – we have a situation here.’

  Joan began to flap her pretty hands about.

  ‘No cause for alarm, madam,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘We are professionals. We are trained to deal with this kind of situation.’

  ‘But he’s not a terrorist. He has a posh voice. And terrorists are common folk, foreign, swarthy, with beards. Everyone knows that.’

  Inspector Westlake proffered the card. ‘This is my warrant card,’ he said. ‘Or rather a copy of my warrant card. Down that corridor there, you say he went?’

  Joan pointed, and then she ducked.

  As did Inspector Westlake.

  But he not only ducked.

  He returned fire also.

  26

  Constable Justice assumed the position. Which is not to say that of the captured villain. This was the down-on-one-knee-with-the-gun-at-arm’s-length-held-tightly-between-two-hands position. Constable Justice had assumed this particular position many times in the past, but always in the comfort and privacy of his cosy bedroom. He had not been allowed on the shooting range. He had not been issued with one of the If-he’s-looks-a-bit-foreign-looking-and-suspicious-and-likely-to-be-tooled-up-shoot-to-kill licences, which all armed British policemen carry in the interests of national security, but pretend that they don’t.

  Regarding the matter of being allowed on the shooting range: he had signed on for the firearms course and he had been accepted. But there had been a bit of bother when he’d been handed the gun. There had been a bit of, perhaps, light-headedness on his part. The excitement of holding a real firearm, had, perhaps, got the better of him. There had been gunshots. There had been minor injuries. Happily there had been no loss of life.

  ‘Die, motherf**ker!’ shouted Constable Justice, and he let off with the full clip.

  The chap in the dark suit did a sort of judo roll from one side of the corridor to the other. The corridor was flanked by a row of marble columns. Fluted, they were, with marble bases, and richly ornamented in their upper regions. They had been designed by Inigo Jones for the occasion of Sir Henry Crawford’s wedding. The bullets from Constable Justice’s pistol strafed across these columns. Carrara marble flew in blurry chips. Stucco cascaded down.

  The chap in the black suit came up firing. Souvenir Taj Mahals decorated with dinosaur motifs exploded and went to ruin.

  Inspector Westlake shouted, ‘Raise your hands and drop your weapon.’ Then took to ducking once more. Bullets ricocheted and priceless artworks took the onslaught. Down behind the reception desk, Inspector Westlake radioed for back-up.

  ‘Terrorist attack, the Big House, Gunnersbury Park.’

  It was a simple message, a mere seven words. It got the job done back at the local constabulary.

  ‘Oh oh oh!’ went Constable Mulberry Grape, a young and eager fellow who had a shared love for water sports and Westlife. He pressed the blood-red alarm button and ordered the breaking out of the high-velocity broad-area-havoc-wreaking terror weapons.

  ‘Sir,’ said Constable Justice, crawling over to Inspector Westlake, ‘I think we have the b*stard pinned down. Do you want me to creep around to the rear of the Big House, smash my way in through a window, creep up behind the b*gger and shoot him in the *rse?’

  ‘Don’t think I quite understand you there, Constable,’ said the inspector, further ducking as Gunnersbury Park souvenir mugs shaped like Stegosauruses popped and burst above his head and rattled all about. ‘Esperanto, is it?’

  ‘I creep round to the rear of the house, sir, and—’

  ‘No, Constable, the words with the “*s” in them.’

  ‘Censored swear words, sir. Police constables are forbidden to swear.’

  ‘And who forbade you to swear, Constable?’

  ‘The Chief of all policemen, sir, in a memo. Sir Robert Newman.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘That c*nt.’

  ‘Oh look, sir,’ said Constable Justice, plucking something up from the chaos. ‘A souvenir dinosaur in the shape of a dinosaur.’

  ‘Dinosaurs ruled the Earth for ages and ages,’ said O’Fagin the landlord to Jonny the customer.* ‘They’d be ruling the world today if it wasn’t for the fact that they all died out.’

  ‘A pint of King Billy, please,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Cut yourself shaving?’ asked O’Fagin.

  ‘The old ones are always the best,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Hence my talk of dinosaurs.’

  Jonny watched O’Fagin pull the pint. O’Fagin was wearing a lot of gold jewellery. Several sovereign rings adorned his horny hands. Many chains of gold hung round his ragged neck. A golden earring pierced each ear. An ampallang of gold worried his willy. Although Jonny couldn’t see the ampallang. Happily.

  ‘So,’ said Jonny, ‘dinosaurs today, is it? And I thought that perhaps you would be asking me whether I loved it when a plan came together.’

  ‘Why would that be?’ asked O’Fagin, proffering the pint.

  ‘Because you are clearly sporting all this bling as a tribute to Mister T out of the A-Team.’

  ‘I prefer the word “homage”,’ said O’Fagin. ‘But then I’ve always been a lover of cheese.’

  Jonny paid him for his pint with the fifty pound note.

  O’Fagin held it up towards a shaft of sunlight. ‘So you sold your story to the Sunday tabloids, too,’ he said.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Jonny. ‘But when everything’s done and dusted I certainly hope to.’

  ‘Hope springs eternal,’ said O’Fagin, ringing up ‘no sale’ on the cash register, fishing out many pound coins and shrapnel and dutifully short-changing his customer. ‘Sadly, however, the dinosaurs did not possess the gift of eternal life.’

  ‘Well done you,’ said Jonny. ‘Nicely done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I do pride myself that once I get some good toot going, I’m a hard man to shift from the subject.’

  ‘So,’ said Jonny, ‘I see by that poster that you have a band playing here this evening – Dry Rot. Are they any good?’

  ‘They’re rubbish,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I’d far rather have Dinosaur Jnr.’

  ‘Or even a T. Rex tribute band?’

  ‘Not forgetting Terry Dactyl and the Dinosaurs,’ said O’Fagin.

  ‘Who could?’ said Jonny.

  ‘Or even Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band.’

  ‘Don’t quite see the dinosaur connection there,’ said Jonny.
>
  ‘On the legendary album Lick My Decals Off, Baby there’s a track called “Smithsonian Institute Blues” – it’s about dinosaurs.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Jonny.

  ‘And that song contains almost as many Devil’s Intervals as “Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy”.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful world that we live in,’ said Jonny.

  ‘And a better one without dinosaurs,’ said O’Fagin. ‘We can all thank our lucky stars that they were too big for Noah to get them on his Ark and so all drowned in the Great Flood.’ And he went off to serve a ringmaster and a couple of dwarves who had recently entered the bar.

  ‘Brontosaurus?’ Jonny heard him say. ‘Don’t get me started on that.’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘that perhaps we’d better have another look at that laptop.’

  Jonny ignored Mr Giggles.

  ‘Well, think about it, Magnet Boy – your new super-magnetic powers might well be scrambling the laptop’s innards.’

  Jonny smiled and said nothing at all.

  ‘This isn’t a bl**dy dry-cleaning service!’ Jonny heard O’Fagin shout at the ringmaster. ‘Out of this pub this instant and take your two strange children with you.’

  The ringmaster left the pub in a sulk. And a top hat and red ringmaster’s coat.

  ‘Bl**dy d*mn ch**k!’ said O’Fagin.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Jonny.

  ‘Sorry,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I do have a tendency to lapse into Esperanto when someone gets my goat.’

  ‘I didn’t know you owned a goat.’

  ‘Nor did I.’

  ‘What did he say to you?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘The goat?’ asked O’Fagin. ‘A talking goat? Where? Where?’

  ‘The ringmaster,’ said Jonny. ‘Chap in the top hat and red ring-master’s coat.’

  ‘Oh,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Ringmaster, was he?, I thought he was a Royal Welsh Fusilier. He wanted directions to Gunnersbury Park. This is a pub, I told him, not a bl**dy dried-Kleenex server, whatever that is.’

  ‘Slightly puzzled by that one,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Gimme a break,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I can’t pronounce “cartographer”.’

  ‘Why did he want to go to Gunnersbury Park?’

  ‘Probably to play on the pitch-and-putt like everyone else.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Jonny.

  ‘You think that’s odd?’ said O’Fagin. ‘Then take a look at this.’

  But Jonny had left the bar counter. He’d made it over to the front windows, lifted a corner of the nylon net curtain* and was peering out through an unwashed pane.

  The ringmaster and the two dwarves were in the car park, beside a white transit van. It did not have a ‘circus’ look to it and there was no sign of any other performers, nor their distinctive wagons, nor the fairground paraphernalia and freak-show booths that make a good circus a great one. And so on and so forth and suchlike.

  The ringmaster was being offered directions by a police constable. Jonny looked on as the police constable, obviously in response to a call on his police radio, spoke into it, listened and then began to jump up and down. And then hustled the ringmaster and the dwarves into the transit van, which then left the car park at speed.

  ‘Double odd,’ said Jonny.

  ‘If you think that’s double odd,’ said O’Fagin, ‘then check this out – if I press it here it goes—’

  And he passed out.

  And Jonny left the bar.

  ‘Got them on the blower, sir,’ said Constable Justice. ‘They’ve left the station, proper mob-handed. They’ll be here as soon as can be.’

  ‘I thought you were creeping around to the back of the building in what might be mistaken for Esperanto,’ said Inspector Westlake.

  ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time, sir,’ said the constable, ducking further as further gunshots caused him further to duck, ‘but then I considered that I’m not wearing that Teflon body armour that the Special Ops chaps wear and so I might take a round to the chest. And frankly, sir, much as I love the job, I don’t love it that much.’

  ‘I suppose that’s fair enough,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘But tell me, Constable, what exactly is that that you’ve further ducked yourself into?’

  ‘Only me,’ said Joan.

  And down Pope’s Lane they came in force, those officers of the law. Jonny, who had stepped from the bar to watch the departure of the white transit van, stepped back swiftly into the bar as the police cars all swept by.

  ‘Do-da-do-da-do-da,’ went the police car sirens.

  ‘Da-da-de-da-da,’ went Jonny.

  O’Fagin raised his head from behind the bar counter. ‘I’m not doing that again,’ he said. ‘I know that every boy should have a hobby, but you have to draw the line somewhere.’

  Things went suddenly silent in the entrance hall of the Big House. But for a gentle sighing that came from Joan, all was peace and quiet.

  ‘Do you think he’s run out of ammo, sir?’ whispered Constable Justice.

  ‘Why don’t you stick your head up above the reception desk and check?’

  ‘Not keen, sir. I could hold a gun to this lady’s head and tell the terrorist that if he doesn’t give himself up, I’ll shoot her.’

  ‘What?’ said Inspector Westlake.

  ‘If you think it might work,’ said Joan.

  ‘Just stay down,’ whispered the inspector, and, doing the ‘keep-down’ gesture, he climbed slowly to his feet. ‘Last chance,’ he called. ‘Throw down your weapon and come out with your hands held high.’

  And then the inspector went, ‘Waaaah!’

  As he fell back onto Constable Justice, Constable Justice saw why. The figure in black reared over them. He was up on the reception desk and then – and here the ‘Waaaah!’ became involved – he was up above them. He was across the ceiling, scuttling like a great black spider.

  And then he was down and out of the door.

  And things went quiet again.

  27

  Constable Paul assumed the position. It was a different position from that previously assumed by Constable Justice. The position assumed by Constable Paul was the Bass Position.

  The Bass Position being that assumed by the bass player in a rock band. There are many similarities to the Lead Position, this being the position generally assumed by the lead guitarist, of course. Many similarities, but a few subtle nuances.

  Paul was demonstrating these subtle nuances to the constables who sat to either side of him in the back of the Paddy Wagon.*

  ‘This position really dates back to the bass player in Status Quo. He allegedly originally adopted it due to bum burns caused by a dodgy vindaloo.’

  ‘But surely that’s a Rock Myth,’ said Constable Brian Lurex (who had changed his name by deed poll. From Barry). Like the one that Ozzy is the father of Britney Spears.’

  ‘Or the one that the Rolling Stones eat their own young,’ added Constable Durex, who had reason enough to change his name, but hadn’t. ‘Or that the Post Office Tower was modelled on a plaster cast of Jimi Hendrix’s knob.’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Constable Rigor-Mortice (of the Sussex Rigor-Mortices). ‘And how come you’re referred to as Constable Paul, while we’re referred to by our surnames?’

  ‘Because I play the bass. Now, as I was saying—’

  The Paddy Wagon bumped through the car park of The Middle Man. Jonny was back at the bar and so missed that.

  ‘Sorry,’ Constable Handbag, the driver, called back over his shoulder through the little hatch-hole jobbie. ‘I just wanted to see if this Wagon could survive unexpected contact with a being from another world.’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ Constable Durex waved a finger at Constable Paul. ‘Sometimes it’s better not to know.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’d like to know,’ said Constable Paul, un-assuming the position and picking up something large, black and lethal-looking from the floor of the Paddy Wagon. And cradling it as one would cradle a bass guita
r. ‘What I’d like to know is whether I’m really going to get a chance to use this baby. It’s a positronic ionisation rifle, powered by the transperambulation of pseudocosmic anti-matter. I’m expecting great things of it. Well, great things of a destructive nature.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ said Constable Lurex, ‘how swiftly things can get out of hand. Without a guiding hand. Without a degree of conscious control. How swiftly everything can fall to pieces.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Constable Paul.

  ‘Klingons on the starboard bow,’ sang Constable Handbag.

  ‘It says in the manual here,’ said Constable Wingnut, ‘that the positronic ionisation rifle can dispense a charge of energy equal in heat to five times that of the sun on a very sunny day. And how, when using it on Gypsies or anyone from the North wearing clogs, the operator is advised to wear special mirror-lensed spectacles.’ He took up the special mirror-lensed spectacles and slotted them onto his head.

  ‘Cool,’ said Constable Paul. ‘I didn’t get a pair of those.’

  Bump and bump went the Paddy Wagon.

  ‘Almost there,’ Constable Handbag called back. ‘Just had a bit of a Gerry Anderson moment there. I think the string working my right hand has come loose.’

  Constable Durex waved the ‘don’t ask’ finger once more at Constable Paul.

  ‘But—’ went Constable Paul.

  ‘He’ll be all right when his medication kicks in. Just don’t let him near any of the weapons.’

  ‘Whoa!’ went Constable Handbag, and he slammed on the brakes. Constable Paul and all other constables in the back moved forward at speed and reassembled untidily in a big heap at the front.

  ‘Look at that. Look at that!’ cried Constable Handbag. ‘It’s Ziggy Stardust, or one of the Spiders from Mars.’

  Constable Paul had quite a good view: his head was now stuck right through the little hatch in the partition that divided the cab from the rear of the wagon. It was quite difficult to breath though, what with all those other constables all piled up around and about and above and below him. But he had quite a good view.

  Constable Handbag and Constable Paul viewed the scene before them. It was a scene that was not devoid of interest.