Raiders of the Lost Car Park (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Of course I am. I always am. You will meet me this afternoon. Three of the post meridian clock. At The Wife’s Legs Café, Brentford. There we shall discuss matters and you will stand me a buttered muffin and a pot of Lapsang. Come alone and unarmed. Your knighthood depends on it.’ And then the phone went dead.

  Hovis thrashed shreddings from his chair and flopped into it. This was a turn up for the book and no mistake. Rune calling him. This put the cat amongst the pigeons and the nog amongst the noggins. It was a fine kettle of fish.

  Hovis took out a small greasy clay pipe, filled it with a mix of opium and rolled plug tobacco and lit it with a lucifer. This was a regular three-pipe problem and no mistake.

  He tossed the match carelessly aside and it fell into a waste-paper basket. Here, in the final moments of its short, yet brilliant career, that match passed on that thing which Prometheus stole from Olympus, to a screwed up Kleenex tissue.

  This tissue would smoulder gently away for quite some time. And it would be several hours before the fire began in earnest (not to be confused with the other Ernest). But when this fire did get started, it would rip through the Portakabin, reducing it to blackened ruination, in less than ten minutes.

  Sadly, Inspectre Hovis would not be around to enjoy the conflagration. He would be in Brentford. In The Wife’s Legs Café, drinking Château La Swasantnerf and listening to the words of Hugo Rune.

  Mad and mysterious be the ways of fate that shape our ends. Yet the veil that covers the future’s face may well be woven by the hand of mercy.

  Some say.

  ‘…and the minister denied that recent allegations of sexual misconduct, illegal appropriation of Government funds and direct involvement in the sale of nuclear weapons to a Third-World power, had anything to do with his resignation. He merely wished to spend more time with his wife and children. Dreaming about trains.

  ‘Upwards of twenty-three thousand travellers are expected to attend the summer solstice festival in Gunnersbury Park on the border of Brentford tomorrow, where world-famous rock band Gandhi’s Hairdryer will be performing. Lord Crawford, whose family have owned historic Gunnersbury House and its landscaped grounds for the last two hundred and thirty years, said that he hoped everyone would have a jolly good time and that if anyone got caught short, it was OK for them to use his toilet.’

  Bollocks switched off the radio set. ‘There you go,’ he said.

  Tuppe bounced up and down. ‘I’m trying to follow this. The festival is not really going to be in Gunnersbury Park.’

  ‘No. That’s to fool the police. The festival is on Star Hill. We know this because Bone is a friend of the Gandhi’s drummer and he heard about it months ago.’

  ‘Whacky stuff,’ said Tuppe. ‘I love it.’

  Cornelius came bumbling down the bus. ‘Watcha,’ said the small fellow. ‘Finally broken surface?’

  ‘Yes thanks. Did I just hear that the gig’s been moved to Gunnersbury Park?’

  Tuppe tapped his nose. ‘It’s all a secret. I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘Good shag?’ Bollocks asked.

  ‘Very nice thank you.’

  ‘Hope you wore a condom. We’re all rotten with the clap.’

  ‘Of course.’ Cornelius grinned. ‘It pays to play safe.’

  ‘But I thought you were supposed to be fathering children,’ said Tuppe.

  Cornelius did not reply to this. But he spied Bone at the wheel and realized for the first time that the happy bus was moving once more. ‘Where are we now?’ he asked.

  ‘Heading for Brentford.’ Bollocks skinned up a joint. ‘Tell me, Cornelius, who are you really?’

  ‘Really? What does that mean?’

  Bollocks smiled. ‘Well, you’re somebody, aren’t you? We could all suss that when we picked you up. Then the business with the farmers. And now your big hair. Famous people always have big hair. There’s no point in denying that.’

  ‘He’s the Stuff of Epics,’ said Tuppe. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Is this an epic we’re in now, then? I mean, because we picked you up and you helped us out. Does this mean we’re in the epic with you?’

  Cornelius rammed large quantities of big hair down the back of his shirt. It appeared to have grown considerably during the short period that his head had been bandaged. ‘I suppose it would mean you were in it too,’ he said, ‘if I was still in it myself. But I’m not.’

  ‘He quit,’ Tuppe explained.

  ‘That’s a bit of a cop-out.’ Bollocks rolled a roach. ‘Why did you quit?’

  ‘His bottle went,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘It did not. I became, er, disillusioned.’

  ‘Bottle job.’ Tuppe made obscene little pinchings with his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Bollocks slipped in the roach. ‘Your epic, what went wrong, why you became disillusioned. Perhaps the bus and us could help.’

  ‘I don’t think you could.’

  ‘Well, tell me anyway.’

  Cornelius shrugged. ‘All right, I’ll tell you the lot. I doubt if you’ll believe me. You’ll probably think it’s all bollocks.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Bollocks, twisting the joint’s tip and preparing to light up. ‘Everything else in this world is.’

  The Wife’s Legs always hummed in the warm weather. Midsummer and the Vent Axia on the blink again. Fag smoke fugged the air, chip fat ran down the windows, but the tea was spot on, and the fried slices.

  Inspectre Hovis entered to no applause. He fanned before his face. The fug stuck. And he in his last suit. It would never do.

  Big men filled the chairs. They enjoyed cigarettes and gave not a hoot for government health warnings. Several rose from their seats upon sighting the Inspectre and made off with talk of pressing business elsewhere.

  Hovis waved them fond farewells. And sought Rune.

  The mage sat in the corner. In the shadows. Enigmatic. Outré. Spacious. Before him on the table, an ashbowl contained the butts of three South American cigars. A bottle of Château La Swasantnerf lacked its label and a third of its contents. Two large hands, their fingers sheathed with exotic rings, toyed with an empty wineglass. Rune’s head was lost in darkness.

  ‘Come,’ called the voice of Rune.

  Hovis came. He pulled up a chair and settled down at Rune’s table.

  ‘Drink?’ The mage poured wine and pushed the glass towards Hovis. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  The Inspectre raised the glass to his nose, turned it, took a sniff, held the glass to the light, put it to his lips, took a sip, then gargled. ‘A fine nose,’ said he. ‘Good firm body. Milk white thighs.’

  ‘Milk white thighs?’ Rune asked.

  ‘Château La Swasantnerf,’ said Hovis. ‘ ‘69, of course. West end of the vineyard and the grapes trodden by the owner’s niece. Milk white thighs.’

  ‘Correct. Sherringford, why did you become a policeman?’

  ‘Why did you become a wanted criminal?’

  ‘No criminal I,’ said Rune. ‘Common laws are for common people.’

  Hovis sipped from his glass. ‘Why have you invited me here?’

  ‘We share a common, and here I use the word advisedly, a common craving. Recognition for our genius. You for yours and me for mine. You are the best The Yard has to offer. I am the greatest that mankind has ever seen. Together we might achieve a certain celebrity.’

  ‘Would you care to elucidate?’

  ‘The Crime of the Century,’ said Rune. ‘What else?’

  ‘Hugo Rune, I am arresting you on suspicion. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’

  ‘You silly arse,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘You’ll empty the entire café. Be still now and listen. I have much to say to you. And by much, I mean a great deal.’

  ‘You knocked me into the Thames,’ the Inspectre complained.

  ‘I did it to save your life. You will be for ever in my debt. But now
sit comfortably and know a joy that sadly I can never know.’

  ‘What joy is that?’

  ‘The joy of listening whilst I talk.’

  ‘... of listening whilst I talk.’ Rune’s words went down on tape. And his actions were observed, through the telephoto lens of Chief Inspector Lytton’s regulation police-issue surveillance camera.

  Because, of course, the Portakabin telephone had been bugged. Rune’s call to Hovis had been recorded and during the time between the phone call and the meeting, The Wife’s Legs had also been bugged.

  Chief Inspector Lytton put aside his camera. He stood upon the flat roof of a building opposite the café. He was a very furious chief inspector. A chief inspector who, not one hour before, had received a telephone call from Prince Charles himself, requesting the reinstatement of Inspectre Hovis and that Lytton pass on the good news of his forthcoming knight-hood.

  Chief Inspector Lytton glanced down at the junior officer who knelt beside him. This officer had his finger poised above the firing button of an anything-but-regulation police-issue 7.62 mm M134 General Electric Minigun.

  ‘Fire as soon as I give the order,’ said Chief Inspector Lytton.

  The junior officer, whose name was Constable Ken Loathsome, did a big thumbs up. ‘Who eats the lead, Chief?’ he asked.

  ‘Two men,’ said Brian Lytton. ‘A large bald one and a not quite so large gangly one. The large bald one is a serial killer. Twenty-three children. Pulled their still-beating hearts out with his bare hands. And ate ‘em.’

  ‘Urgh!’ went Ken.

  ‘The not so large, gangly one. He’s a much nastier piece of work.’

  ‘Gee whiz,’ said Ken.

  ‘So just make sure you don’t miss. Do the job right and you might well find there’s a promotion in it for you.’

  ‘Right on,’ said Constable Ken.

  Police Constable Kenneth Loathsome wasn’t much of a shot. But then, he wasn’t much of an anything really. Distinguished only by a crummy mock-American accent and the desire to shoot people, Chief Inspector Lytton couldn’t really have chosen a better man for the job.

  It was a little after five of the late-afternoon clock, when two figures, one large and bald and one not quite as large, but gangly, stepped out from The Wife’s Legs Café and stood upon the pavement. They were shaking hands at the moment Chief Inspector Lytton gave Constable Ken the order to fire.

  Ken flipped up the safety cover and rammed his thumb hard down on the firing button. The 7.62 mm M134 General Electric Minigun did what it did best.

  Dispensed 7.62 mm x 51 shells at the rate of six thousand a minute.

  Rapid fire! The constable was hard put to keep the killing end of the mighty weapon trained on anything even vaguely resembling the targets. But at that range, and with such an awesome piece of hardware, you really can’t miss.

  21

  Hugo Rune took a dozen rounds to the head. The force lifted him from his feet and drove him back through the window of The Wife’s Leg’s Café. Hovis turned in horror, tried to run. Bullets raked across his chest. Riddled him from head to foot.

  Somehow Rune was rising. He came forward, his great arms outspread. But bullets rained into him, and he fell across the now lifeless body of Inspectre Hovis. Late of Scotland Yard.

  When Constable Ken finally released his trigger finger, twenty-three seconds had passed. Two thousand three hundred rounds had left the minigun. The police had run up a bill for twenty-three thousand pounds in damage claims. And two men lay dead on the pavement.

  ‘So long, suckers,’ said Ken briefly. And then he was somwhat sick. ‘Oh my God,’ he wept, ‘what have I done?’

  ‘You’ve done a man’s job, sir.’ Brian Lytton looked upon all that he had made, and found it pleasing.

  ‘Bleeuugh!’ went Ken, on to the chief inspector’s trousers.

  A crowd had already begun to form around the two dead men. Appearing, as if from nowhere. Those who have read The Book of Ultimate Truths will recognize this as Spontaneously Generated Crowd Phenomenon. Those who have not, will not.

  The big men, who had taken cover when the killing started, were now climbing to their feet, dusting themselves down and squaring their shoulders in rugged manly ways.

  The wife was already receiving far more comfort than she actually needed.

  Chief Inspector Brian ‘Bulwer’ Lytton smiled an evil smile and led the blubbering constable away down the fire escape.

  ‘You chuck up in the car and you’re for it,’ said he. ‘And you can foot the bill to have my trousers dry-cleaned.’

  Prince Charles was taking tea. But not with ‘the parson’ this time. With Polly and her mum. In their kitchen. He hadn’t mentioned to Polly yet about making the phone call to have Hovis reinstated, he thought he’d save that for later. It would be a nice surprise for her.

  Polly put the kettle on. She never minded doing it at home. Her mum whispered away at her from behind a tea cosy imaginatively fashioned to resemble the head of John the Baptist.

  ‘You know who he looks like?’ she asked Polly.

  ‘No,’ said Polly.

  ‘Jeff Beck,’ said her mum.

  ‘He does not.’

  ‘He does too. My friend Mrs Murphy played bass for Jeff on “Hi Ho Silver Lining”. She showed me this picture. Jeff had more hair then. But the ears are the same.’

  ‘Don’t you have a meeting of the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild to go to?’

  Prince Charles made that curious jaw movement that he does when he’s feeling lost. ‘This is a charming kitchen,’ he said. ‘Are these Hygena units?’

  ‘They’re Pogue and Poll,’ replied Polly’s mum, drying her hands on a dishcloth printed with the image from the Turin Shroud. ‘My husband Colin fitted them. They came in a flat pack.’

  ‘Were they difficult to erect?’

  ‘Yes quite. The instructions were in Danish. Happily my husband is cunnilingual.’

  ‘The worktops look very easy to wipe down,’ said the heir to the throne. ‘Is that a faux-marble finish?’

  ‘No, it’s Formica.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said the prince. ‘And do you have any labour-saving devices?’

  ‘Yes, we have a microwave oven.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Prince Charles scratched his ear. ‘My friend Mark Knopfler used to sing a song about those. Although I forget how it went.’

  ‘There you are,’ whispered Polly’s mum behind the Baptist’s head. ‘I know a balding middle-aged ex-muso when I see one.’ She took herself over to the table and sat down next to the prince. ‘Are you in the music business yourself, Mr...’

  ‘Windsor,’ said himself.

  ‘Windsor? You’re not related to Barbara Windsor, by any chance?’

  ‘Barbara?’ The prince adjusted his double-breaster.

  ‘Busty Babs, the loveable cockney sparrow. Star of countless Carry On films.’

  Charles looked bewildered. He was bewildered.

  ‘Would you care for a slice of Black Forest Gâteau, Mr Windsor?’ Polly’s mum passed the plate.

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Mr Windsor is my new employer,’ said Polly, bringing over the kettle and warming the pot.

  ‘How nice. And did you say you were in the music industry, Mr Windsor?’

  ‘Not really.’ Prince Charles suddenly seemed to have cake all over himself.

  ‘But you do know Mark Knopfler. Do you know anyone else? In “the biz”, as it were?’

  ‘Phil Collins,’ the prince ventured.

  ‘Not fanciable Phil, loveable cockney sparrow and star of countless Phil Collins films?’

  ‘And Bob Geldof. I met him once.’

  Polly’s mum smiled at the prince. ‘Excuse me a mo’,’ she said.

  Rising from the table, she took Polly by the arm and guided her back to the cooker. ‘He’s a real no-mark, this bloke,’ she whispered. ‘A right name-dropper.’

  ‘Oh, and I know the lead singer of Gandhi’s Hairdryer.�
�

  ‘What?’ Polly’s mum returned to the table. ‘You know Vain Glory?’

  ‘Oh yes indeed. We’re very good chums. We share a common interest in steam trains.’

  ‘Get away,’ said Polly’s mum.

  ‘Truly,’ said the prince.

  ‘Vain Glory,’ sighed Polly’s mum.

  ‘Would you like to meet him?’ asked the prince. ‘Only he sent me some stage passes for his concert tomorrow night. Perhaps you’d like to have them.’ He patted at his pockets in search of them, but he only did it for effect, because, as those in the know, know, the royals do not have real pockets, because they never have to carry anything around with them. ‘They’re outside in the Aston Martin,’ said Prince Charles. ‘I’ll go and get them.’ And so saying, that’s just what he did.

  Polly’s mum winked at her daughter. ‘Aston Martin and he knows Vain Glory. You’ve fallen on your feet this time, my girl. This bloke’s a God-damn prince.’

  Cornelius had finally done with the telling of his epic tale. He didn’t think he’d left anything out. He’d told of his search for the missing chapters from The Book of Ultimate Truths and how Arthur Kobold had conned them from him; of his discovery that Hugo Rune was his real father and that mankind was secretly controlled by a race of non-humans inhabiting the Forbidden Zones.

  Of what happened when he and Tuppe entered one of the zones. Of the MacGregor Mathers and of the time spell and of Hugo Rune. And of Hugo Rune’s diabolical stratagems.

  He concluded his soliloquy with words to the effect that, bad as the beings in the zones might be, far worse were the consequences of their sudden exposure to an unsuspecting world. To whit, the complete and utter collapse of civilization as any of them knew it.

  Something that he personally, did not want on his conscience.

  Bollocks just sat there, the joint still there between his fingers. He hadn’t even lit it. His mouth hung wide and his face lacked for an expression.

  ‘Is he still breathing?’ Tuppe asked.

  ‘Only just.’ Bollocks let out a long low whistle. ‘And you two really went through all of that?’