Raiders of the Lost Carpark

  ‘Should I go up and have a word with everybody?’ the prince asked.

  ‘The Queen’s special unofficial people’s birthday speech,’ boomed the voice of the big-wig.

  ‘Bollocks!’ cried Bollocks and pretty much everybody else.

  ‘Best do it now then,’ said Vain. ‘Before they storm the stage.’

  ‘I’ll have a go.’ Prince Charles smiled at Polly. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Polly kissed him on the cheek.

  Now, the prince had made many speeches before in his life. But never to a mob like this. They saw him stroll onto the stage, with his hands behind his back. And they knew he wasn’t Jeff Beck. ‘BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! ! !!!’ they went.

  ‘Applause please,’ said the voice of the bigwig. ‘Or I regret I shall be forced to pull the plug on this gig.’

  ‘Now, where is that voice coming from?’ Arthur asked himself.

  Pull the plug? The travellers became silent. But this was not a peaceful silence. This was a silence which carried about itself such an air of menace, that you could almost have cut this silence into strips with a knife and used it to frighten Pit Bull Terriers with.

  The bigwig in the control box felt it. He saw his whole life passing right before his eyes.

  Prince Charles waved and said hello. But the centre-stage microphone was still switched off. The crowd prepared itself mentally for the storming of the stage.

  ‘Applause please,’ cried the bigwig. They were the best famous last words he could think of. And suddenly the crowd welled into applause.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the prince. But it wasn’t for him. Vain Glory had appeared once more on the stage. The bigwig in the control box hastily switched the centre-stage microphone back on.

  Vain came up behind the prince and put his arm around his shoulder. He tapped the microphone. ‘Listen up,’ he said.

  ‘Cheeeeeer!’ went the crowd.

  ‘Listen up. This guy is a buddy of mine. And his mum’s gonna say a few words. It’s sound, OK? Then the Gandhis are gonna rock ‘til dawn. What d’you say?’

  ‘We say yeah,’ said the crowd.

  ‘Er, let me hear you say yeah,’ said the prince.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the crowd.

  ‘Yeah?’ said the prince.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the crowd.

  Vain Glory whispered at the prince’s ear, ‘Best not milk it. The secret is in knowing when to stop. Introduce your mum, then leg it.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ said the prince, ‘Her Majesty the Queen.’

  There was silence.

  Vain Glory put his hand to his ear. ‘Did we hear you say yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ went the crowd. And three people clapped. And the big screen behind the stage lit up to display a picture of the prince’s mummy, on the balcony at Buckingham Palace.

  Cornelius ceased his fruitless search for Tuppe and sat down to watch. The Queen put on her spectacles and read from a prepared speech.

  ‘Peoples of the world,’ she read, ‘it affords us much pleasure to speak to you all on the evening of our special birthday. These are difficult days for us all.’

  For some more than others, thought the crowd, to a man (or a woman, or a child, or a small dog on a piece of string).

  ‘Caring look,’ read the Queen. ‘Oh, I see, that’s a stage direction. Can we go for another take?’

  ‘She’s losing it,’ whispered Charles to Polly. ‘Should have abdicated years ago. The Queen Mother won’t let her. Says she doesn’t want to be referred to as the Queen Grandmother.’

  The Queen received words of advice through an earphone. She made a caring face. ‘And in these difficult, and troubled times, we all must—’

  But that was all she said. Because one minute she was there, making her speech. And the next minute she wasn’t.

  A rumble went through the watching crowd on Star Hill. It was a ‘What’s going on here?’ kind of a rumble.

  ‘You don’t suppose she’s been shot?’ Prince Charles tried very hard to keep that note of glee out of his voice.

  ‘No look.’ Polly pointed up at the image on the screen. Palace security men were now all over the balcony. They were pointing their guns in all directions and shouting things like, ‘Where the bleep did she go?’

  And then another voice rose above theirs. It was a deep and sonorous voice and it said, ‘Attention, peoples of the world. Her Majesty the Queen has just been kidnapped.’

  And then the screen went blank.

  And then the travellers really cheered.

  25

  ‘Well,’ said Prince Charles to Vain Glory, ‘on with the show then, Colin. Would you like me to introduce your first number?’

  ‘What?’ said Polly.

  ‘Go for it,’ said Colin.

  ‘Rune.’ Cornelius Murphy was elbowing his way back to the happy bus and an appointment with Bone’s ocarina. With Rune alive, the metaphorical goalposts had been moved once more. The peace convoy, which had been translated in his mind into a marauding army, had now become a peace convoy once more. But one which had now better move very fast indeed, if it was to do anything before Rune put the rest of his diabolical scheme into action, came forward as the Queen’s saviour and led the forces of law and order and retribution, along with all the world’s media, to the portals of the Forbidden Zones.

  When Cornelius did reach the bus, he found Bollocks at the door waiting for him.

  ‘Your old man just kidnapped the Queen,’ said Bollocks. ‘Just like you told us he would.’

  ‘Is Tuppe with you?’

  ‘He’s in the back. He and Bone got duffed up by a hired heavy.’

  ‘What?’ Cornelius made his way to the little man with the big lip. ‘Tell me who did this and he will die,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

  ‘Bone did it,’ Tuppe replied. ‘I was running away. The heavy hit Bone and Bone fell on top of me.’

  ‘The heavy wanted me to commit an unnatural act with him,’ Bone explained. ‘So I gave him head butts.’

  ‘Did you see the broadcast?’ Tuppe asked Cornelius. ‘Your old man just kidnapped the Queen. I’ll bet you’re pleased to know he’s not dead.’

  ‘I’m ecstatic. Although I would have much preferred a simple postcard. Where’s the ocarina?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Ah?’ said Cornelius. ‘Ah, again? As in, Ah, I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I was keeping the ocarina safe. But when Bone fell on me it got broke.’

  ‘Oh perfect.’ Cornelius threw his hands up into his hair. ‘This is just perfect. What are we going to do now?’

  ‘Er, excuse me.’ Bollocks fluttered his fingers. ‘But you know you said that if you were having an epic, then I could be in it.’

  ‘We were and you were,’ said Cornelius. ‘But now it looks as if we’re not again. I don’t know exactly where this leaves you.’

  ‘I’d rather like to build up my part a bit, as it happens. Because I have the solution to your problem.’

  ‘You do?’ said Cornelius.

  ‘I do,’ said Bollocks.

  ‘Go for it,’ said Tuppe.

  Something, well it was two somethings really, moved invisibly through the corridors of Buckingham Palace. There was a large something, and a not-so-large something. The large something carried the not-so-large something, which was struggling, but unable to cry out, due to the Elastoplast dressing stuck over its mouth.

  The large something was, of course, Hugo Rune. And the smaller struggling something, a somebody. The somebody. Her Majesty the Queen.

  Rune’s patent mantle of invisibility covered the two of them and hung down to the royal Axminster. Nobody saw a thing as Rune slipped from the palace with his regal prize and crossed the car park bound for his silvery automobile.

  Inspectre Hovis switched off his television set. As was the case with Hugo Rune, the great detective was anything but dead. How so?

  How so indeed?

  ‘T
he Crime of the Century,’ said Inspectre Hovis. ‘My hand-tailored hat is off to you, Rune. Had you not spied out the glint from the barrel of the 7.62 mm M134 General Electric Minigun on that rooftop opposite The Wife’s Legs Café, and then chosen to demonstrate the extent of your mystical powers by mentally projecting images of ourselves leaving the front door of the premises, whilst we, in fact, slipped out through the back, then our lives would surely have been lost.’

  Oh that’s how he did it!

  Inspectre Hovis dusted down the creases in his immaculate tweed trousers and picked up his heavy pigskin valise. He had work of national importance to do. And now.

  His conversation with Rune had stretched long hours into the night. Not that it could really be called a conversation. Rune had talked and Hovis had listened. And Rune had eaten. And Rune had drunk. And when Rune had consumed all the food and drink the Inspectre possessed, he had sent Hovis out to buy more. And when he had finally done with the talking and eating and drinking, he had taken himself off to bed. To Hovis’s bed. And Hovis had been forced to sleep on the floor.

  But the fruits of all this talking and eating and drinking now lent their weight to the pigskin valise. There was a map of London, on which all the entrances to the Forbidden Zones were clearly marked, a number of ocarinas of the reinvented persuasion, complete with instructions for their correct use, a great dossier, compiled by Rune, of the crimes wrought against mankind by the denizens of the Forbidden Zones, a free pardon for Rune, regarding all his past misdemeanours (to be signed by Her Majesty at the time of her release) along with a long list of hereditary titles and privileges Rune claimed to be his, through virtue of certain traditions, old charters (yes, indeed, “charters” this time), and somethings. And so much more.

  A solemn pact had been drawn up between the policeman and the mystic, to the effect that each would protect the interests of the other. Rune, the mystic, would kidnap the Queen, in such a manner that his identity remained unknown, and keep her in a place of safety. Hovis, the policeman, would lead in the police and the Army and whoever else he could muster up, acting upon information received from Hugo Rune.

  Each would live long and prosper.

  Of course, there did remain the matter of whether Hugo Rune could actually be trusted. Inspectre Hovis did not think for one tiny moment that he could be. But he chose not to dwell upon Rune’s possible treacheries. For now, as Holmes would have put it, the game was afoot. Hovis had to make his way directly to Scotland Yard, arouse the most powerful of the powers-that-be, yet-are-not-in-the-pay-of-the-blighters-in-the-Forbidden-Zones, and begin the assault. He and Rune had synchronized watches. It had been agreed Hovis should lead in the troops at the stroke of midnight.

  ‘And so,’ said the great detective, checking his immaculateness in the cracked old bedroom mirror, ‘Scotland Yard at the double, and the Crime of the Century right in the bag.’

  ‘It’s an interesting plan,’ said Cornelius to Bollocks.

  ‘A veritable blinder of a plan,’ agreed Tuppe.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Bollocks to the both of them. ‘Shall we go out there and give the thing a try?’

  And as neither of them had done it for a while, Cornelius looked at Tuppe

  And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

  ‘Let’s do,’ they said.

  ‘I want this thing handled delicately,’ said Chief Inspector Lytton at the bottom of the hill, near to the place where the buses turn around. ‘I want a volunteer to go up there and switch off the sound system.’

  The policemen surrounding him turned their faces away and mumbled into their boots. They’d quite enjoyed the violent skirmishes of the previous day, because they did outnumber those travellers (the ones in the pay of the BBC) by about thirty to one. But this looked like a kamikaze mission. They weren’t keen.

  Mumble mumble mumble, went the officers of the law.

  ‘Come on now,’ said Lytton. ‘Who’s going to make me proud?’

  Mumble mumble.

  ‘Come on now...’

  ‘Sir.’ Sergeant Sturdy took a step forward and gave a smart salute.

  ‘Good man, Sturdy,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Not me, sir.’ Sergeant Ron pointed over his shoulder towards Constable Ken, who was picking his nose and examining the yield in a wing mirror. ‘Him, sir.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Chief Inspector Lytton. ‘The very man for the job.’

  ‘Do you really think you can do this?’ Cornelius shouted to Bollocks, as they made their way through the crowd. The crowd that was really rocking to the Gandhis.

  ‘Computers,’ Bollocks shouted back. ‘I did computer studies at Essex University. Got my Master’s degree there. They’ll have all the state-of-the-art stuff up there in the control box. I probably even designed some of it. All you have to do is use the little mouse and draw your ocarina with its extra holes. I can then get the computer to translate your drawing into a 3D image and analyse it. The computer will then be able to play the new notes. From the control box we can pump them straight through the speaker system.

  Naturally Cornelius didn’t hear much of this. Not with all the good rocking and everything. But he saw Bollocks put his thumb up, which seemed like a good sign.

  ‘Of course we do have to get into the control box first,’ said Bollocks, but Cornelius didn’t hear that either.

  The bigwig in the control box was in something of a lather. He was on the telephone.

  ‘What do you mean, vanished?’ he was asking. ‘How can the Queen of England just vanish? What about that voice saying she’s been kidnapped? Who was that? How was it done?’

  The bigwig on the other end of the line (he had been the second bigwig at the meeting of bigwigs) did not know the answers to any of these questions. He did not know how the Queen could simply vanish from the balcony of Buckingham Palace with the whole world looking on. But he did not seem altogether concerned about the whos, hows and whys. He seemed far more concerned about certain enormous sources of potential revenue. Product managers, who handled the accounts of companies who sold goods By Royal Appointment, were already flooding his switchboard with calls regarding the booking of prime TV slots during coverage of the situation to come.

  ‘I’ll get the contracts boys straight on to it,’ said the bigwig in the control box, replacing the receiver and rubbing his hands together.

  Bollocks, Cornelius and Tuppe crept in the direction of the control box. There were a lot of hired heavies about now.

  ‘You don’t happen to see the one that hit Bone, by any chance?’ Cornelius shouted into Tuppe’s ear.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Well, I just thought it might be fitting if he was the one we had to clout to get into the control box.’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Tuppe, pointing to the one that just happened to be guarding the control box

  Coincidence?

  Synchronicity?

  The ten-thousand-decibel hairdryer of destiny?

  Call it whatever you will.

  But call it something, because there’s a good deal more of it yet to come.

  Like this next bit, for instance.

  Inspectre Hovis hailed a black cab. ‘Take me to Scotland Yard,’ said he. ‘At the double.’

  ‘Right you are, guvnor,’ replied Terence Arthur Mulligan.

  Cornelius sauntered up to the fellow in the official Gandhi’s Hairdryer World Tour T-shirt, who was guarding the control box.

  ‘Back,’ said this fellow, registering the tall boy’s approach.

  ‘I understand you recently smote a chum of mine,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Smote?’ The fellow lowered a beetling brow. ‘What is smote?’

  ‘Smote, as in smite,’ said Cornelius. ‘As in, to smite, to have smitten, and, to have been smitten.’

  ‘As in smitten with love?’ asked the heavy, eyeing Cornelius up and down and nodding with approval.

  ‘No. As in, smitten with the fist.’ And verily did Corneli
us smite he that had smitten Bone and caused him to fall upon Tuppe and fatten his lip and break the reinvented ocarina, withal.

  And verily the smiter of Bone did fall unto the earth.

  ‘Nice smiting,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Let’s get inside,’ said Cornelius.

  The bigwig in the control box had the phone back at his ear. He was shouting into it about residuals and product placements and stuff like that. He didn’t even look up as Bollocks, Cornelius and Tuppe walked in.

  The sound engineer, who was supposed to be in charge of things, did though. ‘Are you guys with the band?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right.’ Cornelius offered a smile. ‘I’m...’

  ‘The Hairdryer’s hairdresser,’ said Tuppe. ‘And this,’ he waved up at Bollocks, ‘is their new technical advisor, he’s come to check out all the equipment.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘I write the songs that make the whole world sing,’ said Tuppe. ‘And I procure young women and send out for steak sandwiches.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it.’

  ‘You can get it if you try,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Get out at once, before I call for the hired heavies,’ said the sound engineer.

  ‘I think we’re rumbled,’ said Tuppe. ‘Methinks ‘twer’ best this fellow be now smitten.’

  ‘Smitten?’ said the sound engineer. ‘As in, smitten with the clap?’

  ‘Close,’ said Cornelius, smiting the sound engineer.

  ‘Hold on there.’ The bigwig watched as the sound engineer struck the floor. He didn’t make any attempt to help him though. He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, ‘Keep the noise down, I’m in negotiation here.’

  And thus it was that Cornelius did smite the bigwig also.

  ‘Come on over baby, there’s a whole lotta smiting going on,’ sang Tuppe.

  ‘Let’s have a look at this computer system,’ said Bollocks.

  Constable Ken Loathsome plodded up Star Hill. He was taking the roundabout route. The route which did not have him finding his way into a traveller’s cooking pot. Cannibals to a man Jack of them, those travellers, everybody knew that.