The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

by Robert Rankin

  ‘There isn’t?’ said Inspector Westlake.

  Joan arose from behind the desk, came around to where Inspector Westlake was standing and took him by the hand. She smiled up into his eyes and gave his hand a firm gripping.

  And then she did the same to Constables Justice and Paul respectively.

  ‘Madam,’ said Inspector Westlake, ‘whatever are you doing?’

  ‘Just giving you all a little handshake,’ said Joan. ‘A little touch of something special, as it were. Although you have already had a little touch of it back at your lodgings. A little touch of something special.’

  ‘Something special?’

  ‘Very,’ said Joan, all a-smile. ‘A bit of, how shall I put this? Animal magnetism.’

  ‘Magnetism?’ Inspector Westlake stared at his hand.

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing to be seen,’ said Joan. ‘It has to be passed on through a handshake. As it has been for centuries. As it is passed from one generation to the next by those who are members of the special brotherhood.’

  Inspector Westlake said, ‘What?’

  But already he was somehow becoming unclear about exactly why he was standing here in this entrance hall talking to this woman.

  A little voice inside his head seemed to be saying, ‘There’s nothing for you here. Take your constables down to the pub for a drink.’

  ‘Well,’ said Inspector Westlake, ‘I don’t think there’s anything for me here. Shall we adjourn to the pub, Constables?’

  Constable Paul looked at Constable Justice.

  And Constable Justice looked at Constable Paul.

  And both seemed to come to a simultaneous conclusion that indeed there was nothing for any of them here and yes, indeed, it would be a really good idea to simply go down to the pub.

  ‘Would it be all right if I joined you?’ asked Joan.

  And three heads nodded.

  So she did.

  50

  And then there was only Jonny.

  Which seemed rather a shame.

  Rather an anticlimax, somehow. What with the comic possibilities of all those ludicrously armed Special Opperations personnel and the landmines on the pitch-and-putt, and the chauffeurs with the humorously named limo-hire companies, and Elvis and Bob the not so Comical Pup and Ahab the A-rab and Her Madge and Inspector Westlake and two invisible constables, and the lovely Joan, all vanished away.

  As it were.

  Leaving just Jonny Hooker.

  Shame.

  Not that Jonny would have seen it that way, of course. Although he probably would have appreciated some sort of armed back-up, to guarantee some big-gun action, if required, even if it did mean lots of Gunnersbury Park Museum getting blown to boogeration in the process.

  But it was not to be. There was only Jonny and Jonny marched on along a secret passage, pushed upon a secret panel and entered an underground storeroom.

  To be greeted by someone within.

  ‘Count Otto Black, I presume,’ said Jonny. ‘Deathless supervillain and Master of the Air Loom gang?’

  ‘Welcome, Jonny Hooker,’ said the count.

  51

  Dust and musky odours. Antique leather, fabric, burnished brass and lacquered wood, a candelabrum, and there in uncertain light, the gang of villains, large as life and not too easy on the eye. And, as it were, a dreamscape, shifting shadows, shining bulky, the terrible Air Loom, as it were some mighty cabinet. Its board with keys of ebony and ivory. Its barrels with their polished nozzles and their gleaming turncocks. And its great glass conducting tubes, huge and glowing from within, where plasma vortexes of magnetic flux swirl sinuously, energised, sensitised, awaiting the touch upon the keyboard, the notes, the chords to send their forces forth, like wicked messengers. Swirl and flow, flickering candle flame, curious faces, ancient powdered wigs, queer frocked coats with quilted sleeves. Outré. Strange. Unreal.

  Jonny Hooker gave a little bow, as somehow this seemed appropriate. ‘And so you know my name,’ said he. ‘Although I must confess that I am not surprised.’

  ‘Your name,’ said Count Otto, and he fished from his cloth-of-gold embroidered waistcoat an antiquated timepiece and held its face towards a candle’s flame. ‘And you are on time. To the minute, to the second, probably. As expected.’

  ‘Well, that is a happy happenstance.’

  And Count Otto Black now bowed. ‘And all respect to a worthy opponent. You played your half of the game with vigour and with dedication. And you know my name. I am impressed.’

  And by the twinkle of the candle’s flame, the Air Loom Gang applauded Jonny. And Jack the Schoolmaster said, ‘Well done, that man.’

  Jonny Hooker bobbed his head to this applause. ‘Please save your handclappings,’ he said. ‘The final act has yet to be played out.’

  Count Otto Black cocked his head on one side and ran a knuckle slowly over his forehead. ‘You do appear to be somewhat unaware of your dire predicament,’ he said. ‘You do know that I now must kill you?’

  ‘You’re certainly welcome to try,’ said Jonny. ‘We’ll see how things work out.’

  ‘Such bravado. Such braggadocio. But Jonny, see, you are alone. All alone. The soldier boys have gone away. Everyone has gone away, as we arranged it. As we played it.’ And he mimed a little keyboard trill. And very well he mimed it. ‘There is only you left, my dear boy. Only you, to do what? To save Mankind, just you?’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ Jonny said. And he put his hands in his trouser pockets and did a little boot-heel-scuffing on the dusty floor.

  ‘My dear, dear boy,’ said the count. ‘All alone like a poor orphan lad. You are here and we are here. But still you do not see it, do you? Why you are here? Why you, out of the thousands of millions alive on this planet? Why you?’

  ‘Don’t know. Don’t care,’ said Jonny, tracing his initials in the dust.

  ‘So you don’t think it, how shall I put this, odd?’

  ‘Odd?’ And Jonny Hooker laughed. ‘Odd? I should say it’s odd. But I’ve been coming to terms with odd. Odd and me have few secrets any more.’

  ‘We enjoyed you,’ said the count. ‘You did everything that we’d hoped you’d do. You didn’t let us down. You didn’t disappoint us.’

  Jonny Hooker stood his ground.

  ‘You see, you were chosen,’ said the count. ‘Or rather, you chose yourself.’

  ‘The Da-da-de-da-da Code,’ said Jonny.

  ‘How charmingly put. But of course. We needed someone in order that we might test our defences. We never leave anything to chance. No cost is too great in the cause.’

  ‘No cost,’ said Jonny. ‘No lengths you will not go to. Which include murdering your own in order to cover your tracks.’

  ‘Not all of our own.’ The count ran his slender fingers gently up and down one of the tall glass conducting tubes. Little crack-lets of magnetic energy sparked between the glass and his fingers. ‘Everything had to keep pace, to be achieved in the right order. Our interventions in the ways of Mankind are infrequent. When we do intervene, we leave no loose ends, no evidence of our comings and goings. If it is necessary to sacrifice some of our own to the greater good, then so be it. No nobler fate could there be. James Crawford was not one of ours and he needed to be silenced. He knew far too much and was a man who might have been believed. And he was immune to the powers of the Air Loom, as was his ancestor Sir Henry before him. They could not be controlled and so—’ And Count Otto drew a finger accross his throat.

  ‘You mad, murdering bastards,’ said Jonny.

  ‘What must be, must be. Your little imaginary friend explained so much to you, regarding how conspiracy theorists are always thwarted. Because those in ultimate control are so ludicrous, impossible and unlikely that no one in their “right mind”–’ and Count Otto did that finger thing to mime inverted commas ‘–No one in their “right mind” would ever believe such nonsense. It would take someone like you, who has never really been in your right mind, to believe in the Parliament o
f Five, or the Air Loom Gang.’

  ‘I have seen both with my own eyes,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Yet no one would ever believe you. Because you are a certified stone bonker.’

  ‘So you’ll be letting me go, then.’

  ‘No, we’ll be killing you. I thought I had made that clear.’

  ‘I hope I made it clear that you can try. But tell me this,’ said Jonny. ‘You always win? You never ever lose, is that right?’

  ‘This is what wins.’ Count Otto Black ran a loving finger over the Air Loom. ‘This impossible piece of technology. This fantasy. This stuff of dreams. This paranoid, schizophrenic, delusional architecture, or whatever the fashionable phrase of the day is coined to describe it. The impossible Air Loom. This is the truth. This, reality. What the world believes unreal, is real. And probably the other way about. As for myself and my companions here – what are we? Who are we? Shades, ciphers? Can you pin us down? Do we have real origins, birth certificates? No, we are the stuff of rumour and myth. The Air Loom is the reality. Its music orchestrates history. Its music is the background music to life itself. And much more than that. Me, my Gang – we are nothing. We fade to grey, become as crumbling mummies. In an instant we are here and then in another we are gone, to be replaced by others. The final chords have been played and now the curtain falls upon Mankind.’

  ‘So that,’ said Jonny, and he pointed to the Air Loom, ‘that is the truth?’

  Count Otto Black smiled and nodded. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said, stroking up and down a tall glass cylinder. ‘Exquisite. The perfect work of genius. An instrument capable of influencing people’s minds, controlling these minds, putting thoughts into these minds that are so compelling that they must be translated into actions. And this instrument, this controller of controllers – what powers it, do you think?’

  The count now pointed to the great polished oaken barrels. Brazen tubes rose from the centres of their sealed tops and penetrated the Air Loom’s side. ‘Powered by what?’ cried the count, with some degree of animation. ‘Powered by shit! Bullshit. Cow shit, horse shit, human shit. Shit! Isn’t that a treat? Isn’t that the ultimate irony? The ultimate cosmic joke? Bullshit baffles brains – that’s a present-day saying, isn’t it, Jonny? And how true that is. It is all shit, Jonny. All of it. Everything run by, powered by shit. And somehow, in your heart of hearts, you just knew that, didn’t you?’

  ‘You’re shit,’ said Jonny. ‘Everything about you is shit. The way you treat people. The way you have treated me.’

  ‘Cruel,’ said the count, ‘but it is what we do. There always has to be a Jonny Hooker in the equation. It’s part of the game. The Count of Saint Germain, Handel, Moreschi the castrato and Robert Johnson. And yourself. And in common, what? Always a musician – that is the common bond.’

  ‘Tell me about the music,’ said Jonny. ‘Please.’

  ‘It is always the music and always the musicians. It is all around you, Jonny. It always has been, but never so much as now. You cannot escape from music. It plays in your lifts and your supermarkets, your shops and malls and pubs and clubs. It is everywhere. And behind it, unseen, the Air Loom. The Glove Woman tickles the ivories and the music plays. The messages are sent. We’re here, we’re there, we’re everywhere. But when? Where? Who knows? What messages are being sent? Vote for this man. Do this, do that.’

  ‘And it always goes “da-da-de-da-da”,’ said Jonny.

  ‘And you cannot escape from it. This here and now. Today. This is a very special occasion, beyond the everyday. Today is history in the making. Today is the beginning of the end. For ever.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jonny. ‘Well, I see some, if not all. In truth the big question might be, why do you do it? If it is only the Air Loom that has true reality, as it were, what is the point? Do you obey a machine? Does the Air Loom have some kind of sentience? Does it command you?’

  ‘Oh no no no.’ Count Otto shook his beard. ‘We take our orders directly from our Master.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jonny. ‘Your Master. And I really don’t need to ask who your master is, do I? The God of this world? The Orchestrator? The One who wants this world destroyed, returned to chaos.’

  ‘You are thinking, perhaps, Satan?’ said Count Otto Black.

  ‘I am,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Then alas, you are incorrect. There is no Satan, never was and never will be. There is another, a lover of, how shall I put this, pandemonium? Music, Jonny, it’s all to do with the music. The solution to the code that goes “Da-da-de-da-da”. Three notes, Jonny, as in the three-chord trick, as in the three letters that spell out the name of our god. PAN, Jonny – our god is the god of music, the god of pandemonium. Our god is Pan.’

  ‘Pan,’ said Jonny, slowly. And suddenly it all made sense.

  Well, at least to Jonny it did!

  ‘And there you have it,’ said the count. ‘But we have spoken enough. The final overture must now be played. The concert will soon be done. The world will shortly return to chaos, destruction and chaos, the way it was when my Master ruled it. Before another brought order out of chaos.’

  ‘God,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Well, obviously God. But we have talked enough. The Glove Woman must now play out the final chords. The Parliament of Five have signed their orders. And now they must die.’

  ‘Die?’ said Jonny. ‘You’re going to kill the Queen, and Elvis, and that dog?’

  ‘All those in the car,’ said the count, ‘including Countess Vanda. Whom, you might be either pleased or not so pleased to know was, as you might put it, is one of the good guys, influenced by the Air Loom. All of them must die. It will be a terrible motor car accident. The chauffeur will drive them off a flyover. Foreign chauffeur? Suicide chauffeur? Outrage! War! Nuke those foreign bastards! But of course not, that’s not the British way. Troops out of Iraq. Then that unexpected nuke. All preordained. Pre-planned. Pre-programmed, by us. And boom!’ And Count Otto mimed this boom.

  ‘Boom,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Boom,’ said the count.

  ‘No,’ said Jonny.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ And Jonny shook his head. ‘I’ll have to stop you there,’ he said. ‘I can’t have you assassinating the Queen.’

  ‘It has to be,’ said Count Otto. ‘Soon she and those in the car will be beyond the Air Loom’s range. They will awaken from their trances, as it were. We can’t have that, now, can we? All would have been wasted.’

  ‘All is wasted,’ said Jonny. ‘You and your miserable crew and that unspeakable bit of apparatus are finished. You are not going to assassinate the Queen, nor draw the whole wide world into a nuclear war. I will not permit it.’

  ‘You will not permit it?’ Count Otto Black gave a villainous laugh, pulled a flintlock pistol from his pocket and pointed it at Jonny. ‘The show’s not over till the gloved lady plays,’ said Count Otto. ‘Madam, play that long loony note and let it float.’

  And the Glove Woman’s hands hovered over the keyboard.

  And Count Otto Black’s thumb cocked the hammer of the flintlock.

  And it looked as if that was that.

  ‘No,’ cried Jonny, ‘please.’

  ‘No time,’ said the count. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘No, please, please, please. At least a last request.’

  ‘It will have to be a quick one.’

  ‘Really, really, quick I promise. This is all about music, yes? Then please let me end it with music of my own. Just a little, please.’

  ‘A little music?’ And Count Otto Black looked baffled.

  ‘A tiny little hymn to Pan. It’s all I ask, it won’t take a moment.’

  ‘A tiny hymn to Pan? Then so you may.’

  *

  And Jonny Hooker took from his pocket a certain something. A certain something that had come from the pocket of a mummy. A certain something that Jonny had blown in the saloon bar of The Middle Man.

  With devastating consequences.

  And Jonny Hooker h
astily put this slim, brass, cylindrical certain something to his lips.

  And blew it as hard as he could.

  52

  And then there was an explosion.

  Which was something.

  This explosion was really something.

  It was a kind of simultaneous explosion as the tall glass conducting tubes atop the Air Loom erupted into fragmented chaos and the twisting, swirling plasma vortexes tore out into the underground storeroom with crackling tongues of energy. Like the electrical outpourings of Frankenstein’s laboratory, they arced from the Air Loom, striking the Glove Woman and the count and Jack and the others of the Gang.

  But not Jonny, though, for he had ducked away.

  And there came the most horrible sounds, discordant sounds, abominable sounds, born of no human throat and which had never been played by Man. And Jonny crouched, cross-eyed, his hands pressed over his ears, as mighty forces tore all about in the storeroom. And with a sound that for all the world seemed to be that of Niagara Falls disappearing down a bathtub plughole, Count Otto and the Glove Woman, Jack and the others were sucked away into the Air Loom, which then sucked away itself.

  With a bang.

  Not a whimper.

  Right down the Pan.

  As it were.

  53

  Jonny awoke in darkness.

  Utter darkness, as of the grave.

  He floundered about somewhat, felt his way here and there, eventually located a light switch and gave that light switch a tweak.

  A neon tube guttered and stuttered into life. Illuminating a storeroom that had been stripped of stores, and contained nothing else.

  The storeroom was empty, but for Jonny.

  ‘Hm,’ went Jonny. ‘A job well jobbed, as it were.’

  The sun was rising over the park as Jonny emerged from the Big House. He had the whole park to himself, it seemed. A bit like a childhood fantasy, that. The playground all to yourself. The ornamental pond, with its paddle boats, and you the only paddler and no one to call, ‘Come in, number twenty-seven, your time is up.’