The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

by Robert Rankin

  Devils, or angels? Ghosts or divers booger men? Jonny wasn’t certain. But he was a-feared.

  The monster without the legs, who just sort of floated about, appeared to be the leader. The headless horror was pretty scary, too. Scarier, really, because he didn’t have a head.

  ‘Cough up, you Islamic rotter!’ demanded the headless one. Somehow. ‘Where have you hidden the explosives?’

  ‘Explosives?’ asked Jonny. ‘Islamic?’ asked Jonny. ‘Are you the living dead?’ he also asked.

  The creature without the legs smiled at Jonny.

  ‘Special Ops,’ he said. ‘Hence the state-of-the-art camouflage.’ He pointed to the visible part of himself. He had lots of little solar-panel jobbies all over this. ‘And you’ll never get your fundamentalist fingers on any of it.’

  Jonny Hooker didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Have you swallowed them?’ asked the legless being.

  Jonny Hooker still didn’t know what to say.

  ‘The explosives! Are you a walking bomb?’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ said the headless entity. ‘Cut him open and check out his guts.’

  Jonny Hooker now knew what to say. ‘No,’ he said. Indeed, he wailed this word. ‘I’m not a terrorist, if that’s what you think I am. I’m a park ranger. I work here.’

  ‘A likely tale,’ said he without a bonce. ‘We copped you on our special state-of-the-art SatNav, sneaking into the rear of the rear limo. You’re dealing with the A-Team here – nothing slips by us.’

  ‘Are you alive?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘Of course we’re bloody alive. What is the matter with you?’

  ‘Probably drugged up,’ said another fellow, this one also in black and with the little solar-cell jobbies all over his person. ‘They snort Es and rub crack into their genitals to give them courage. There’s a website about it.’

  There was another of those silences.

  ‘I found it by accident,’ said Constable Cassidy, for it was he. ‘I was looking for porn. Honest.’

  ‘You’re policemen,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Of course we’re policemen,’ said Constable Cartwright. And, ‘Ouch,’ he continued, as he bumped his invisible knee into a visible table. ‘I keep doing that.’

  Constable Rogers tittered. ‘The question that troubles me,’ he said, ‘is whether I have my helmet on, or off.’

  ‘I thought you wore a cap,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘I know I do. Although I’m no longer certain what colour my socks are.’

  ‘You’re definitely policemen,’ said Jonny.

  ‘We are Special Operations policemen,’ said Constable Cassidy, ‘and we’ll get the truth from you if we have to torture you to death first.’

  ‘Definitely policemen,’ said Jonny, with some relief.

  ‘So,’ said Constable Rogers, ‘do you want to tell us where the explosives are hidden, or should I apply my cigarette lighter to your private parts?’

  Inspector Westlake was in parts private. He was inside the Big House, which was something. And he had met Elvis, which was really something. But he did have a job of work to do and as yet he was still getting no cooperation.

  ‘You know I’m in charge, don’t you?’ he asked Joan.

  Joan was on the reception desk in the entrance hall, which looked all spick and span again, because the late Henry Hunter’s assistant had worked really hard on it.

  ‘I normally don’t work Sundays,’ said Joan, and she yawned, ‘because if I’ve struck lucky during Saturday night’s clubbing, I usually spend Sunday morning banging away like there’s no tomorrow.’

  Inspector Westlake raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And don’t come all that with me,’ said Joan. ‘Mrs Hayward is a good friend of mine, and she phoned me earlier to tell me what you and her had been up to this morning. Which is a Sunday, please note.’

  Inspector Westlake groaned.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Joan. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve brought my flask.’

  ‘No tea.’ Inspector Westlake made fists. ‘I’m supposed to be in charge of this secret operation.’

  ‘Did you see that funny little pup that came in here?’ Joan asked. ‘Dogs aren’t normally allowed, you know.’

  ‘I saw the dog,’ said the inspector, ‘and I saw the Queen. I was commissioned to take on this responsibility by the Queen.’

  ‘And isn’t Elvis looking well?’

  ‘Oh, so that’s who he was,’ said Constable Paul. ‘I thought it was Gary Glitter.’

  The sun went behind Heartbreak Hotel and a hound dog howled in the distance.

  But it wasn’t Bob the Comical Pup. He was having a nap.

  The Queen had Bob asleep on her knee. The Queen and the other members of the Parliament of Five were in the antechamber next door to Princess Amelia’s sitting room, where the secret talks were soon to be held. It was where VIPs drank cuppas before big talks got going. The Queen was having a cuppa. Mr Bagshaw was having a cuppa. Ahab the A-rab was having a cuppa. Elvis Presley was having a cuppa, and he had no sugar in his.

  ‘I have to be careful of sugar,’ he told Mr Bagshaw. ‘And fatty acids, of course. And anything that isn’t high in polyunsaturates. And I always use that L’Oréal on my hair, because I’m worth it.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Mr Bagshaw.

  ‘Your hair looks very clean, sir’ said Elvis.

  ‘Head and Shoulders,’ said Mr Bagshaw. ‘“Frequent use” – it contains its own conditioner. So I can just wash and go, as it were. It’s ideal for a playboy about town such as myself.’

  ‘I see,’ said Elvis. ‘But I suppose it must take quite a long time for you to wash your hair, what with you having such a huge head and everything. No offence meant, of course, sir.’

  ‘None taken, I assure you.’

  ‘We have Our own special shampoo,’ said Her Majesty, tickling the sleeping Bob’s earhole, ‘made for We by a little man in Piccadilly. It’s very exclusive, contains virgins’ milk, and the poo from a wooden horse, and hens’ teeth and all that kind of business. And of course We don’t have to pay for it, because We never carry money.’

  Elvis made with the nodding head.

  Mr Bagshaw, too.

  ‘I never use a shampoo,’ said Ahab the A-rab. ‘We dodgy, swarthy Middle Eastern types have little truck with hygiene, as you better-educated Western folk must all know. When we’re not out buggering the Bedouin, we’re to be found at home in our tents hating Americans and watching reruns of Father Ted.’

  Elvis Presley nodded again. ‘Do they dub Father Ted?’ he asked, ‘or do you have subtitles?’

  ‘Dubbed,’ said Ahab, ‘by the Islamic TV service. Some of the jokes about George Bush are a bit near the mark, but the overall message that there is no God but Allah never fails to hit the spot.’

  ‘I once met the lady who plays Mrs Doyle,’ said Her Majesty the Queen. ‘She’s much younger in real life and she doesn’t have those moles on her face.’

  ‘The moles aren’t real?’ said Ahab.

  ‘Stuck on,’ said Her Madge. ‘Made of Maltesers, or something.’

  Ahab the A-rab stroked at his beard. ‘You have sorely disillusioned me,’ he said, sadly and sorely, in a disillusioned tone. ‘The moles are my favourite bit, after the sayings of Muhammad, peace be unto His name.’

  ‘More tea?’ asked Countess Vanda, moving amongst them with the teapot.

  Those who wanted more signalled in the affirmative.

  Those who didn’t did not.

  ‘Any more of those custard creams?’ asked Mr Bagshaw.

  *

  ‘Any more of those custard creams.’ Count Otto Black mimicked the words of Mr Bagshaw. Count Otto Black and his Air Loom Gang saw all. Saw all and heard all and soon would control all. ‘Magnetized as ripe as ninepence,’ said the count, pulling out an organ-stop jobbie or two, twiddling a dial, adjusting a stopcock on a barrel and giving a slender glass conducting tube a gentle rap with his knuckle. ‘Soon the
y will move to the conference room and we will adjust their thoughts to our choosing.’

  His evil cohorts clapped their hands.

  ‘I never got my crisps,’ said Jack.

  ‘I never have been, am not now and never will be a terrorist,’ said Jonny Hooker. ‘Please don’t toast my nuts. I’ll tell you anything you want to hear. Anything. And if I don’t know an answer I’ll make one up.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work,’ said Constable Cartwright.

  ‘I think it’s pretty much how it always works with torture,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘Your torture victim is usually in such great pain and under such mental duress that they’ll say anything to stop the agony.’

  ‘So what is the point of torture?’ asked Constable Cartwright.

  He didn’t see Constable Rogers smile. ‘The fun of it,’ he heard him say.

  ‘Listen,’ said Jonny, ‘I’ll own up. I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Don’t be too hasty,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘You wouldn’t want to give up without a bit of a fight, surely.’

  ‘I would,’ said Jonny. ‘I know when I’m licked.’

  There was another moment of silence.

  But it soon passed.

  ‘Tell us everything,’ said Constable Cartwright.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jonny. ‘But could I have my uniform back first?’

  ‘When you’ve told us everything.’

  ‘All right.’ And so Jonny began. And Jonny told the constables everything. Every single thing. Right from the very beginning. About the Da-da-de-da-da Code that he thought he could crack. How it had left a trail of headless corpses behind, and how he had learned that the Air Loom (which he had to explain about in considerable detail because none of the constables had ever heard of such a thing) was going to be put into operation, to influence the dignitaries taking part in the secret talks. And every single other thing that Jonny could possibly think of that might have any relevance at all. Including how he had got to play Robert Johnson’s guitar.

  And when he was done with all this, there was another silence. And quite an intense silence it was.

  And when that silence was finally broken, it was broken by the sound of policemen’s boots upon a cobbled coal-cellar floor. Leaving at speed. Leaving Jonny all alone.

  ‘I don’t really think they believed a word of what you told them,’ said Mr Giggles to Jonny.

  ‘Apart from the last bit,’ Jonny said.

  ‘Oh yes, they went for the last bit. About how you were an undercover Special Operations policeman disguised as a park ranger, who had followed Inspector Westlake, who is really none other than Osama bin Laden with his beard shaved off, to this very park, this very morning.’

  ‘Well, it was a bit remiss of them not to notice on their SatNav two constables and an inspector appear inside that other limo.’

  ‘And Inspector Westlake is a bit of a twat.’

  ‘That too. So do your stuff.’

  ‘My stuff?’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘Your metaphysical stuff,’ said Jonny. ‘Untie my hands so I can make my escape.’

  ‘I can’t do untyings,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I’m a non-corporeal companion.’

  ‘Yet you pulled the plug from the amps on Friday night, to spare myself and the band from being sucked into – where? Hell? For playing Robert Johnson’s final song.’

  ‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘Oh yes you did,’ said Jonny. ‘Now untie my hands and I promise I’ll leave the park at once and never return.’

  ‘You promise?’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Scouts’ honour? On your mother’s life and may your nads be nailed to a butcher’s block if you’re telling a porkie pie?’

  ‘Would I lie to you?’

  46

  There was some unpleasantness, but then there always is. An unpleasantness born of misunderstanding, or more often misinformation.

  The constables from Special Ops had clearly been misinformed. They had been misled, set on a wrong’n, led up the garden path, smoked like a kipper and told a porkie pie.

  And when they set out to apprehend the debearded Osama, they went in a gung-ho fashion. And when they encountered the world’s-most-wanted himself, chatting away at the reception desk, it seemed odds-on that a capture/detain/torture-to-extract-information/shoot-whilst-trying-to-escape scenario was well on the cards, as it were.

  But this was not to be the case.

  There was indeed some unpleasantness. Born indeed of misunderstanding. And also misidentification.

  Constables Paul and Justice were more than just taken aback by the fellows in black who stormed out upon them. Fiends from the bottomless pit, as loosely predicted through the accurate reading of Kleenex tissues, Constable Paul supposed. What with the missing bodily bits and everything.

  And there had been something of a firefight.

  And it had come as something of a surprise to Constable Paul in particular just how powerful a bit of fire power was in the possession of Constable Justice.

  It came as an even greater surprise to Constables Cartwright, Cassidy and Rogers, who took to an almost simultaneous surrender.

  There was even more unpleasantness when Inspector Westlake ordered the blackly clad constables to divest themselves of their invisibility suits and pass them to his constables.

  And it was with some degree of glee that Constables Paul and Justice put them on.

  Then there was the matter of interrogation. Inspector Westlake demanded to be told exactly why he was being faced with a capture/detain/torture-to-extract-information/shoot-whilst-trying-to-escape scenario, when Constables Cartwright, Cassidy and Rogers had been introduced to him the previous day and each and every one had found each and every other’s credentials to be of the A-OK persuasion.

  The trail led back to Jonny Hooker.

  And then there was even more unpleasantness when the constables in black led the other constables, who now came and went in their commandeered invisibility suits, along with Inspector Westlake, to the coal-cellar interrogation cell.

  And when this cellar door, a substantial steely affair, was unlocked, it revealed nothing more nor less than an empty chamber.

  Voices were raised again and smiles were not to be seen.

  Jonny Hooker was smiling. But then Jonny Hooker had made good his escape. And he had done so, as might well have been expected – at least to those who had been following Jonny’s adventures – via the medium of another secret passage.

  ‘Free at last. Free at last. Sweet Tesco we are free at last,’ sang Mr Giggles, somewhat enigmatically.

  ‘Free for now,’ said Jonny, ‘but caution must be our watchword from now on.’

  ‘Have to correct you there,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Escape must be our watchword. Indeed our only word. Until we utter later words of the “that was a successful escape” variety.’

  ‘Possibly so, when the time comes,’ said Jonny Hooker. And he edged along another secret passage.

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘It’s up and away, my darling fellow. Like unto how you promised.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Jonny and edged along further.

  ‘Yes, that,’ protested Mr Giggles. ‘That. You swore. You promised—’

  ‘I lied,’ said Jonny. ‘Get over it and move on.’

  ‘I … I … I—’ went Mr Giggles.

  ‘You’ve lied to me often enough. I am merely returning the favour, as it were.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense, but no, you can’t lie to me. That’s not the way our relationship functions.’

  ‘Our relationship does not function,’ Jonny whispered. ‘You manipulate me without shame or conscience. Now you have performed a service for me. We are even.’

  ‘That is nonsense. That doesn’t compute.’

  ‘You can stick around and bother me, or you can leave me alone,’ said Jonny. ‘I no longer wish to communicate with you on any level. If you have my best interests at
heart, which is to say your best interests, I would suggest that you depart at once. Your verbal meanderings may well distract me when I need my concentration to be at its most acute. This could easily result in my death at the finger of some trigger-happy constable. What think you of this?’

  Mr Giggles made grumpy noises.

  ‘I will not be distracted, or dissuaded,’ said Jonny.

  ‘But—’ went Mr Giggles.

  ‘I’m not listening.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Are you going, or what?’

  ‘I think I’ll just stick around a tad longer,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘As you please.’

  ‘So what are you going to do next?’

  But Jonny didn’t answer.

  ‘Let Us answer the Call,’ said Her Majesty the Queen, finishing her cuppa, dusting bickie crumbs from her chin and gently awakening Bob.

  The Comical Pup did comical yawnings, dear little fellow that he was.

  ‘Might I lead the way?’ asked Countess Vanda.

  ‘You do that, dear,’ said Her Madge. ‘It’s all but twelve o’clock.’

  The ormolu mantel clock chimed on the ormolu mantel. It had been a present to Sir Henry Crawford from Napoleon Bonaparte. It still kept perfect time.

  The clock and the mantel were now to be seen as the lights had gone up in Princess Amelia’s sitting room. Countess Vanda’s desk and accoutrements had been removed to make way for a mighty conference table.

  Surrounding this were five chairs. At the head of the table, Her Madge for the use of, a gorgeous gilded throne-type jobbie, which had been known to bums of royalty for more than two hundred years.

  The Parliament of Five entered the room. Elvis cast longing eyes towards Her Madge’s throne. For, after all, he was the King. Ahab the A-rab was rather taken with Sir Henry’s mantel clock because, as he might have put it, ‘We are simple desert people and such marvels of the West fill us with wonder.’

  Bob the Comical Pup noted all the wastepaper baskets, reasoning that if he was caught short, at least he wouldn’t be forced to piss on the carpet.

  There were named place-setting cards upon the great table so that there would be no confusion, nor scrambling for particular seats.