Raiders of the Lost Carpark

  ‘I do,’ said the prince. ‘I mean, one does. Oh yes.’

  Polly smiled some more.

  Prince Charles took out his fountain pen. ‘One must take up references,’ he said in a manner which he hoped would imply an interest in such things. ‘Who have you been with?’

  ‘Been with?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Worked for,’ said the prince.

  ‘The police force. I was made redundant.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the prince. ‘Have they closed down the police force?’

  ‘Just my bit of it. If you want to take up a reference, you must speak to Inspectre Hovis, at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Sherringford Hovis?’ Prince Charles put his fountain pen back in his pocket.

  ‘Do you know him, then?’

  ‘One should say so. He sorted out a spot of bother concerning one of the brothers, a homoeopathist named Chunky and a Dormobile named Desire. Sound chap.’

  ‘He’s been made redundant also.’

  ‘That’s a pity. He was up for a knighthood. Have to cancel that if he’s been given the old heave-ho.’

  Serves the nasty bastard right, thought Polly. ‘That’s a shame,’ she said. ‘He was a fine policeman.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the prince. ‘He was. Can you start at once?’

  ‘You haven’t told me what you want me to do yet.’

  Prince Charles considered the beauty sitting before him. I want you to bear my children and share my throne, he thought. ‘I want you to be my personal assistant,’ he said.

  ‘And would this involve tea making?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Then I would be pleased to accept, sir.’

  Back on the magic bus, and some little while earlier, Cornelius groaned dismally.

  ‘Why are you heading for Brentford?’ Tuppe asked Bollocks.

  ‘We’re going to the festival.’

  Tuppe scratched his head. ‘There isn’t any festival in Brentford. There was a bit of a do the night before last. We were there.’

  ‘Good was it?’

  ‘Not good. That’s where Cornelius got his hair... you know.’

  ‘This is a rock music festival.’ Bollocks mimed a heavy guitar. ‘Starts on Friday night. There’s this big hill. You must know it.’

  ‘Star Hill.’ Cornelius groaned anew.

  ‘It’s a sacred site, but not one the cops know about. Gandhi’s Hairdryer are going to play there. A freebie for the travellers.’

  ‘A freebie for the travellers?’ Tuppe whistled. Having grown up amongst fairground folk and lived his short life in a caravan, which, since his daddy’s retirement, was hauled from the common land at the foot of Star Hill at least once a month at the behest of the Star Hill Preservation Society, a group of well-to-do worthies whose properties backed on to the golf course, the small fellow felt a certain warm glow inside at the prospect of a wagon train of travellers turning up on their doorsteps for a rock festival. That would go down a real treat.

  ‘How many of you blokes will be going to this gig, then?’ he asked.

  ‘All, I think,’ said Bollocks.

  Tuppe rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘Should be a gig to remember,’ said he.

  Anna Gotting was playing guitar at Minn’s Music Mine. Mickey was on the telephone talking excitedly. The matter of Anna leaving the shop unattended the previous afternoon had, by mutual consent, been forgotten. Although Anna could hardly forget Cornelius Murphy and all that she had been through with him. But she intended to try.

  Mickey put down the phone. ‘That was Cardinal Cox,’ he said brightly.

  ‘Of Sonic Energy Authority? They’re really good.’

  ‘That’s him. The Authority are playing support to Gandhi’s Hairdryer, on the UK leg of their world tour.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘And then some. The Authority’s bus just blew up on the M25. The Cardinal wants to hire all my old WEM Vendettas and amps for the gig on Friday.’

  ‘Best get cash upfront, then. You know what they’re like.’

  I am a professional,’ said Mickey Minns, hoisting up his jeans and tucking in his stomach. ‘How would you like to be a roadie at the gig?’

  ‘What, with The Hairdryer? Not half. When is it? Where?’

  ‘They’re playing a freebie on Star Hill. Friday night. Should be a gig to remember.’

  And Mickey was certainly right about that too

  It would be a gig that everyone would long remember.

  And then some.

  18

  The day moved on from afternoon to evening, touched midnight and vanished, never to return. The happy bus was parked in the middle of a crop circle, in the middle of a cornfield, in the middle of nowhere. The children were all asleep. The adults were all over the place. Bone had wandered off, in search of something or other. Louise danced all alone, to a music that only she heard. And Bollocks made love to Candy in a field near by.

  Tuppe lay on his back in the corn circle and gazed up at the stars. ‘It’s good here, isn’t it?’ he sighed.

  ‘Splendid.’ Cornelius lay beside him, chewing on a corn stalk. ‘I could really get into this kind of life.’

  ‘Oh could you?’ Tuppe made a doubtful face. ‘Really?’

  ‘I could. Life on the road, you know, like Jack Kerouac. The sun never going down on you in the same place twice. The road beneath. The sky above.’

  ‘Away with the raggle-taggle gypsies-oh.’

  ‘That kind of thing, yes.’

  ‘A life of romance. And rheumatism. You’d hate it.’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘I did. Listen, Cornelius, I spent my childhood on the road. If you’ve never done it, it seems like a good idea. If you have, it ain’t. To quote your lost love, it sucks.’

  ‘You were just little then,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘I’m still little,’ said Tuppe. ‘And it still sucks.’

  ‘You’re not little.’ Cornelius touched his heart. ‘Not in here you’re not.’

  ‘Oh please.’ Tuppe mimed two fingers down the throat. ‘You would hate a life on the road. Believe me. You would.’

  ‘I know. But it’s good for now.’

  ‘It’s good for now, yes.’

  ‘They’re good people.’

  ‘They’re great people.’

  ‘Great people.’

  ‘So what are we great people going to do?’

  ‘We’re off to see The Hairdryer’

  ‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’

  ‘I know it.’ Cornelius raised himself on his elbows. ‘Is this a real corn circle, do you think?’

  ‘As opposed to what?’

  ‘An unreal one, I suppose.’

  ‘And what exactly would be the difference?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘This one’s a Thoroughgood,’ said Tuppe knowledgeably.

  ‘A Thoroughgood? What’s that?’

  ‘Tubby Thoroughgood. He’s a wee man, like myself. One of the Thoroughgood clan. They do most of the circles round here.’

  ‘They what?’

  ‘The Thoroughgoods do up here. The Rimmers do Wiltshire. The Dovestons do Wales. I forget who does Sussex. The McCartneys I think.’

  ‘What? You mean they’re all fake?’

  ‘Of course they’re not fake. It’s all real corn.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Tuppe. ‘They are circles in cornfields. They’re art. They mystify. They intrigue. They excite controversy and debate. They entertain. And above all, they are beautiful to behold.’

  ‘But some people think—’

  ‘Some people think that hedgehogs fall out of the sky. Your dad for one. Whatever some people think, is up to them. As long as they pay the one-pound admission fee, that’s all right with the farmer. He respects the artist’s right to remain anonymous, and gives him ten per cent of the take. You can make more money exhibiting corn ci
rcles nowadays than harvesting the crop.’

  ‘That’s outrageous,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘I know. In my opinion the artist should get fifty per cent of the take.’

  ‘And that’s not what I meant either.’

  Big Bone appeared on the scene with two flagons of cider. ‘I’ve got some scrumpy,’ he said. ‘Where’s Bollocks?’

  ‘He’s in the next field, shagging your wife,’ said Tuppe helpfully.

  ‘We’ll save him some for later then,’ said Bone. ‘He’ll need it.’

  ‘Outrageous,’ said Cornelius once more.

  ‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ said Bone.

  ‘That’s not what I... Oh, forget it.’ Cornelius grinned. ‘It’s good here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Splendid.’ Bone passed the cider flagon round.

  ‘Pity Rosie’s not here.’ Tuppe took a big sip and passed it on to the tall boy.

  ‘Tell me, Bone,’ said Cornelius, ‘what do you think about corn circles?’

  ‘I love ‘em. This one’s a Thoroughgood, isn’t it? Big centre, plenty of room for the art lovers to mill about. But I reckon it’s a right stitch-up, the artists only getting ten per cent of the take. Don’t you?’

  ‘Outrageous.’ Cornelius took a great big swig of cider. ‘Outrageous.’

  Inspectre Hovis sat alone in his garret. He was reading a copy of The Book of Ultimate Truths and he was making copious notes. Again and again he referred to the big fat file on Hugo Rune. And again and again he made notes. Occasionally he delved into certain books of occult lore, which had been in his family for twenty-three generations. And then he made more notes.

  Once in a while he drank from a Thermos flask containing iced ether, and having so done he uttered things such as ‘I feel that I am nearing a solution’ or ‘The Crime of the Century right in the bag’ and sometimes ‘I am a little grey Bakelite tram and my name is Barnacle Bill’.

  And every so often he fell from his chair and struck the floor with a bang. And when he did this, the lady who lived downstairs whacked her ceiling with a broom handle and threatened to call the police.

  * * *

  ‘Enjoying the cake?’ asked the king.

  Arthur Kobold was up to his elbows in it. ‘Very much,’ he said with his mouth full.

  They were seated in great big ornate chairs at the great big banquet table in the king’s great big hall. The king was drunk.

  ‘We don’t get out as much as we used to,’ he said.

  ‘Not as much?’ Arthur wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘Not at all, in fact.’ The king poured something potent into Arthur’s glass. ‘And we don’t laugh any more. Know what I mean?’

  Arthur pushed more cake into his mouth. ‘You’re drunk,’ said he.

  The king looked crookedly at the generous array of unbunged barrels. ‘I hardly touch the stuff. You’re the one who’s drunk, Arthur.’

  ‘I have every excuse to be drunk. Pressures of work. You only work once a year, or, you’re supposed to. You don’t even do that any more.’

  ‘Would you want to work on your birthday?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if I had the rest of the year off, like you do.’

  ‘Kings are not supposed to work. Especially on their birthdays. Kings delegate, that’s what kings do.’

  ‘If you let me delegate a bit, we could get out once in a while.’

  ‘Where’s my friend Hugo?’ asked the king.

  ‘Gone,’ said Arthur. ‘We went through all that last night. Remember all the fuss about...’ Arthur paused and studied the king’s blank expression. He didn’t remember. About his favourite car getting stolen and Rune escaping and the other cars getting blown up and the special birthday spell getting broken.

  ‘Well?’ said the king.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Hugo and I used to go out together and have big laughs.’

  ‘That was nearly twenty years ago, before you and he fell out.’

  ‘Did we fall out, Arthur? Did we?’

  ‘You did. A little matter of him getting your daughter pregnant, in the hope that you’d make him marry her and he could then become Prince Hugo the First of Fairyland.’

  ‘Cad!’ said the king. ‘And did he marry her?’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘Your daughter refused. But she had the child. The weird one. The deviant. Called himself the Campbell and ran away to become a Scotsman. Then tried to get back here and assassinate you.’

  ‘Cad! Whatever happened to him, do you think?’

  ‘We blew him up. With The Train of Trismegistus.’

  ‘My poor dear grandchild.’ The king put his face in his hands and wept tears of ale.

  ‘You told me to do it. You called it being “firm but fair”. You hated him.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You did too.’

  ‘Well, he was half human, and the only thing I hate more than a half-human is a whole human. Have some more cake, Arthur, do.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Arthur Kobold carved himself another slice.

  ‘So,’ said the king. ‘At least you’re here. I can rely on you.’

  ‘You can rely on me,’ said Arthur cakely.

  ‘That’s good,’ said the king. ‘That’s very good.’

  ‘Good cake.’

  ‘Good cake and good company and I can rely on my good friend Arthur.’

  ‘You certainly can.’

  ‘I can rely on him to get back my favourite car, make good all the damage done to the other four, fix my special birthday spell that he broke and bring in Hugo Rune before he wreaks chaos on the lot of us. More cake?’

  Arthur was choking on the piece he already had. ‘Not for me,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Not for me, what?’

  ‘Not for me, sire.’

  ‘Not for me, thank you.’ Polly put her hand over her wineglass. She was dining with Prince Charles at a most exclusive restaurant. ‘It’s getting very late.’

  ‘I do so appreciate you coming out to dinner with me,’ said the prince, dropping the royal ‘one’. ‘It’s been really interesting talking to you about trains and everything.’

  ‘It was kind of you to ask me. You’re a really nice man.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The prince did that nice smile he does. ‘I’m not very good at this kind of thing, but, would you care to come back to my place and see my priceless collection of LWR sleeper-ties?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Polly. ‘But if you want to come back to my place and have a shag, I’m up for it.’

  ‘Hey, Bollocks.’ Cornelius raised his head from the cider flagon. ‘Come over here.’

  ‘What am I missing?’ Bollocks stumbled into the corn circle, zipping himself into respectability. ‘What’s happening?’

  Cornelius handed him the flagon. ‘We were just discussing the corn-circle phenomenon.’

  Bollocks gulped cider. ‘Pretty weird stuff,’ said he, wiping his chin.

  ‘So you don’t know how they’re done?’ Cornelius made a hopeful face.

  ‘Mystery to me,’ Bollocks took further sips.

  ‘A mystery?’ Cornelius grinned.

  ‘Complete mystery.’ Bollocks finished the cider. ‘How do the Thoroughgoods get them so perfectly round?’

  ‘Good night,’ said Cornelius Murphy lapsing from consciousness. ‘And God bless you, Tubby Thoroughgood.’

  19

  Tuppe was up with the larks. And the dogs. The dogs were doing a lot of barking and the farmers who owned these dogs were adding to the canine cacophony with loud barks of their own. And they weren’t smiling.

  Cornelius, upon whom Tuppe had curled himself up for the night, awoke in some confusion. He went immediately for the tried-and-tested ‘Where am I? What’s going on?’ routine, with the addition of ‘Get off me, Tuppe, and shut those dogs up.’

  ‘What is happening?’ he continued, when his senses had got themselves all back together.

  ‘Dogs are barking,’ said Tuppe info
rmatively.

  ‘But why are they barking?’

  ‘You have me on that, I’m afraid. I can tell you why pigs grunt. But I doubt if that would be helpful right now.’

  Cornelius crawled over to the open door of the happy bus and gazed out. The sun was shining bravely, but it shone down upon a scene which was sadly lacking in the rural-bliss department.

  Three fierce-looking red-faced men, in tweedy caps, waxed jackets, hardy trews and Wellington boots, were remonstrating with Bone and Bollocks. Louise and Candy stood with their backs to the bus.

  The children clung to them fearfully. There were dogs all around. Big dogs and close.

  ‘What’s happening?’ called Cornelius.

  ‘Bugger off, boy,’ a tweed-capper called back.

  ‘Ah,’ said Cornelius. ‘I think I get the picture.’

  ‘Stay inside,’ called Bollocks. ‘You’re not involved in this.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ Cornelius climbed to his feet and climbed down from the bus. ‘You stay here,’ he told Tuppe. ‘Those are very big dogs.’

  ‘You have my moral support,’ called Tuppe. ‘Use it as you think fit.’

  ‘Now,’ said Cornelius smiling all around.

  A big fat tweed-capper nudged a similarly proportioned compatriot in the padded-rib area. ‘That the new scarecrow you ordered for your top field, Harry?’

  ‘I see.’ Cornelius continued to smile. ‘Is there some problem here?’

  ‘Not for us, boy, but plenty for you if you don’t get your shit heap and your scabby mates off my land.’

  ‘Shit heap and scabby mates?’ Cornelius raised an eyebrow. Two large black dogs began to sniff around his slender ankles.

  ‘Ain’t much on the bone for you, fellas,’ the farmer told them.

  ‘Go back in the bus,’ said Bollocks.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Cornelius raised a calming hand. ‘Would you kindly call your dogs to heel?’ he asked the farmer. ‘They’re frightening women and children. That isn’t right.’