The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

  ‘And now, so I heard on the wireless set this afternoon, Jonny Hooker’s dead,’ O’Fagin continued some more, ‘so his mum will have to pay off the huge bar tab he ran up here.’

  Jonny Hooker’s teeth now ground together.

  ‘What a life, eh?’ said O’Fagin. ‘So how has your day been, Ranger Hawtrey? And who is this with you and has he cut himself shaving?’

  ‘Allergy,’ said Charlie. ‘Although surely now—’

  ‘Still an allergy,’ said Jonny.

  ‘He’s my brother,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Really?’ said O’Fagin, ‘now as the loony one is banged up, this must be the castrato.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said Jonny in a very high voice, which almost set him to giggling.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to meet a castrato,’ said O’Fagin. ‘There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask.’

  ‘The answer is “deep in the heart of Texas”,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Really?’ said O’Fagin. ‘I thought it was “somewhere over the rainbow”.’*

  ‘Easy mistake,’ said Jonny.

  Charlie whispered at Jonny’s ear. ‘Those ten minutes you told the constable who is guarding my brother’s cell about are now up,’ he whispered, checking his wristwatch. ‘What is going to happen now?’

  Jonny put his hand to his ear. ‘Hearken unto,’ he said. And in the not altogether too far distance, the alarm bell of the Cottage Hospital began to ring.

  ‘Now there’s a sound you don’t hear every day,’ said O’Fagin. ‘The escaped loony alarm. Although, come to think of it, it seems to have been going off with painful regularity recently.’

  ‘One more pint of King Billy, please,’ said Jonny to O’Fagin.

  ‘But you haven’t finished that one yet.’

  ‘It’s not for me.’

  O’Fagin diddled his fingers on the bar counter, as he had never really been one for shrugging. ‘As you please,’ said he, and he did the business.

  Jonny paid up and he and Charlie took themselves off to a darkened corner. The darkened corner. That notorious darkened corner.

  And presently a policeman entered the bar, made his way to the table of Charlie and Jonny, sat down at it, took up the spare pint and drained it to its very dregs.

  ‘Very impressive,’ said Charlie.

  ‘The simplest ones are always the best,’ said the policeman. In the voice of Charlie’s brother. Because it was Charlie’s brother. The loony one, not the castrato.

  ‘Cheers, Jonny,’ said Hari.

  ‘Cheers to you,’ Jonny replied.

  ‘Okay,’ said Charlie, ‘would you please just run this by me one more time. I’m not quite sure what just happened.’

  ‘Oldest trick in the book,’ said Hari. ‘The old switcheroo. Or was it? You were there, in the cell – you saw it all.’

  ‘I looked away,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Ah, so you did. Well, what happened was that Jonny bound me hand and foot with shirts and socks and suchlike and gagged me, too. Then he left with you, telling the constable to wake me from my meditation in ten minutes. The constable entered the cell ten minutes after you’d gone, found me struggling in my bondage, pulled the gag from my mouth and heard me then shout, “Stop him, stop him – it’s my loony brother who left the cell. I’m Charlie Hawtrey.” Oldest trick in the book.’

  ‘But a classic,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Absolute classic,’ said Hari. ‘And to add weight, I made a real fuss, shouted about my brother stealing my uniform and how my uniform meant everything to me. I put on such a good show that the sergeant in charge, who was chatting up that Joan—’

  ‘She fancies me,’ said Charlie.

  ‘And me also,’ said Hari. ‘That sergeant ordered the martial artist constable to strip to his undies and give me his uniform.’

  ‘Nice touch,’ said Jonny.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Charlie. ‘After all, that constable did make Hari very happy by selling him that Jedi Mind Control stuff, and I am so happy that he’s happy.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Hari.

  ‘What did I just say?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Jonny. ‘Continue, Hari.’

  ‘Well, that’s about it,’ said Hari. ‘Oh, I did get the sergeant to make the constable in the underwear drive me here to the pub. The least he could do, considering, don’t you think?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ said Jonny, and he drained his pint to dregs which were like unto the dregs of the glass that had been drained by Hari. So to speak.

  ‘Your round, Hari,’ said Jonny.

  ‘This is nonsense,’ said Charlie. ‘No one could ever really get away with all that. It’s ludicrous.’

  ‘I thought you were enjoying it,’ said Jonny. ‘I thought you said that it was all very exciting and you were loving every minute of it.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Charlie, ‘I did. So I should just ignore the fact that it’s ludicrous, do you think?’

  Jonny nodded.

  And Hari nodded. And, ‘Ah,’ said Hari, patting at his constable’s uniform. ‘The constable’s wallet is still in his pocket. Drinks on me, I think.’

  ‘I’ll get them in,’ said Jonny and he took the wallet. ‘If you go up to the bar and O’Fagin recognises you, things could get a bit complicated.’

  ‘He’ll never recognise me,’ said Hari. ‘I’m wearing a police uniform. People never recognise even close friends when they’re dressed up in a uniform.’

  Jonny made a ‘so-so’ face.

  ‘Oh, stuff it,’ said Charlie. ‘Let Hari go. What could possibly happen?’

  20

  Hari returned from the bar in the blissful company of beers. ‘I just love that O’Fagin,’ he said. ‘Although not in a physical sense, for that would be abhorrent. But for one, such as myself, who is a student of human nature, I have to say that a more singularly unspeakably dishonest individual never drew breath to my knowledge. If one discounts all the well-known criminals, of course.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Jonny, taking up the new beer he had been issued with and going ‘cheers’ with it. ‘What is he up to now?’

  ‘Selling his life story to the Sunday tabloids, apparently. He is of the conviction that this very pub is an epicentre for paranormal phenomena.’

  ‘Upon what grounds does he base this particular conviction?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘None whatsoever, I should imagine. The man is a scoundrel.’

  ‘And it takes one to know one, nah-nah-ne-nah-nah,’ went Mr Giggles, closely, it seemed, at Jonny’s right ear.

  Jonny ignored the troublesome Monkey Boy whilst wondering whether or not Mr Giggles fell into the category of psychic phenomena. All too well, he supposed.

  ‘So,’ said Hari, ‘many thanks once again to you, Jonny, for arranging my escape. I’m wondering whether we might continue to do favours for one another upon a mutually beneficial basis.’

  Jonny Hooker smiled through his Elastoplasts.

  ‘So,’ said Hari, once more, ‘do you have any clear idea about exactly what this quest you seem to be on might be?’

  Jonny Hooker scratched his head. ‘Not as such,’ said he. ‘I know that it is something to do with a letter I received, telling me that I was a competition winner. It would appear that in order to claim my prize, I must solve something that I have whimsically named the Da-da-de-da-da Code. Although the man who printed the competition letters is now dead, which, although it might have put the kibosh somewhat on winning the prize, does appear to have elevated the competition to a higher level. There is a secret, and some person, or persons, are prepared to murder in order to keep this secret.’

  ‘Is this “da-da-de-da-da” as in music?’ Hari asked.

  ‘I am assuming so. As fate takes me from one place to another, I find myself meeting people who tell me tales – of Robert Johnson, of Moreschi the castrato, of an Air Loom that weaves music into words. It all seems to be musically related. But as to where it’s all leading? That’s anyone’
s guess.’

  ‘Air Loom?’ said Hari. ‘Who spoke to you of the Air Loom?’

  Charlie made the face of shame.

  ‘It’s a good story,’ said Jonny. ‘I think it has more than a ring of truth to it, being set, as it was, years before such technology could possibly exist. I’m wondering whether this James Tilly Matthews character actually did see some kind of machine. It’s possible. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter.’

  Hari took to the sipping of ale.

  ‘Did you by any chance ever meet a Mister James Crawford?’ Jonny asked.

  Hari ceased supping. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because there is an empty record sleeve on the shelves of his collection marked “Apocalypse Blues” by Robert Johnson.’

  ‘James Crawford allowed you access to his collection?’

  ‘Not as such,’ said Jonny, and he pulled the small leather-bound notebook from his pocket. The one with the bloodstains on it.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Hari, leaning back on his bar stool. ‘If you have his notebook then—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jonny. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Oh dear, poor James. I assume it was not a natural death.’

  ‘Someone cut off his head,’ said Jonny. ‘Probably the same someone who cut off the head of Doctor Archy and whoever was in the hospital today wearing my clothes and carrying my wallet.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Hari. ‘Things are far worse than I thought. Although I’m glad about Doctor Archy. He was a stinker, him.’

  ‘James Crawford printed the letter that I received,’ said Jonny, ‘on the Protein Man’s printing press beneath Gunnersbury Park Museum.’

  ‘We went there through a secret passage,’ said Charlie. ‘It was very exciting. I recognised the typeface on the letter – I have to take the credit for that.’

  ‘The credit.’ Hari smiled, and it was a smile that lacked somewhat for humour. ‘Your discovery and your disclosure of it to Jonny here no doubt precipitated James Crawford’s death.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t think that can be the case.’

  ‘Have you read the contents of this book?’ Jonny asked Hari.

  ‘Naturally. James and I spoke a great deal about the subject of the Influencing Machine. He had become convinced that he had been magnetised and that a nearby machine was being tuned to his vibratory signature.’

  ‘And do you believe this?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Hari. ‘But remember, I have been certified insane.’

  ‘Myself also,’ said Jonny. ‘Several times, the latest being the day before yesterday.’

  ‘I suspect that you are quite as sane as me,’ said Hari.

  ‘Right,’ said Jonny. ‘So let us say, for argument’s sake, that some modern equivalent of Tilly’s Air Loom were to exist. And James Crawford had been targeted by the operators. And he sought help by printing the competition letters, hoping that they might mean something to someone, someone who would help him. Then it seems logical that it would be a member of a present-day Air Loom Gang who murdered him. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘It does to me,’ said Hari. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t describe myself as warming to the idea, but there is a certain cold-blooded logic to this, assuming that such a machine were actually to exist.’

  ‘You’ve read all the contents of the notebook?’ asked Hari.

  ‘I have,’ said Jonny. ‘He speaks of control: that the Gang seek to control all. And somehow it’s done through music, music that is played on the keyboard of the machine and which somehow translates itself into aural messages beamed into the brain of the unlucky targetee.’

  ‘In as much of a nutshell as one requires to house a nut, yes.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘Know what?’ Hari asked.

  ‘Know if you had been targeted, if you had been magnetised?’

  ‘There lies the problem,’ said Hari. ‘James Tilly Matthews gave exceedingly complex descriptions of the Loom and the Gang employed in its operation. It’s all most detailed. But he couldn’t prove any of it. He couldn’t prove that he had been magnetised, or that Members of Parliament were being targeted, although that was what he believed. He couldn’t prove it, but he made a real nuisance of himself to the high muck-a-mucks of his day about it and so he was declared mad and spent twelve years in Bedlam. Talk of disembodied voices tends to lead the talker directly to the madhouse.’

  ‘Some things never change,’ said Jonny. ‘But could there really be a present-day Air Loom?’ And, for that matter, could it be under the control of the deathless supervillain, Count Otto Black? What do you think?

  ‘Do you have a computer?’ Hari asked. ‘Check the web, check the conspiracy-theory sites. If the technology didn’t exist in Matthews’ time, it’s odds-on favourite that it does now. And if it exists, you can bet your bottom dollar that someone will be using it.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘You know to what end – control.’

  ‘So we’re talking about the CIA, or some undercover covert government operation? Beaming voices into people’s heads?’

  ‘I did have the constable who dropped me off here take me first to a nearby corner shop.’ Hari lifted his police cap. It was lined with tinfoil.

  ‘But I thought you said that you had been given the gift for hearing voices through hearing the recording of the angel singing.’

  ‘There are voices and there are voices,’ said Hari. ‘Nothing is simple, nothing straightforward. One could easily go mad thinking about this stuff.’

  Jonny nodded. ‘One certainly could.’

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Charlie, ‘whether, Jonny, you might put us up for the night at your house? I don’t think it would be safe for us to go to ours – it’s the first place the police will stake out in search of Hari.’

  ‘Oh my sweet Lord,’ said Jonny, spluttering somewhat into his beer. ‘My place. My mum. She must think that I’m dead, that I was murdered.’

  ‘Then won’t she be pleased when she learns that you’re not?’

  Jonny Hooker shook his head. ‘I somehow doubt that,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that she’s heard all the news and I’m sure she’s made up her mind that I’m a homicidal maniac. And when it turns out that I’m still alive, I will still be the number-one suspect for the murders, including the one of my bogus self. Which the police will probably reason that I did in order to fake my own death.’

  ‘Difficult times for you,’ said Charlie. ‘So it’s not back to your place, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘But you do intend to continue with this quest of yours?’ said Hari. ‘It does appear to be coalescing into a quest to seek the murderer and clear your own name. And to uncover the existence of the Air Loom Gang.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonny. ‘It rather does look like that, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So where are we staying tonight?’ Charlie asked. ‘Because I must get a good night’s sleep or I will be all grumpy in the morning.’

  Jonny did raisings of his eyebrows.

  Hari just shook his head.

  ‘We could sneak into Gunnersbury Park,’ was Jonny’s suggestion, ‘hole up in the rangers’ hut for the night.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Charlie. ‘Are you up for that, Hari?’

  Hari nodded. ‘And first thing in the morning I’m on my way.’

  ‘To where?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘To anywhere,’ said Hari. ‘I’m an escaped lunatic, and in the current climate I’ll probably find myself being shot on sight by some constable with a photon-torpedo launcher, or something.’

  ‘I was hoping you might help me,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Given your record so far, how long do you think my head would remain upon my shoulders?’

  ‘Perhaps I should come with you, Hari,’ said Charlie, ‘keep you company. Where do you think, Tierra del Feugo?’

&nbsp
; ‘So I have to do this on my own?’ Jonny took sup from his pint.

  ‘Think of yourself as the hero,’ said Hari. ‘A loner, an outcast, but a seeker after truth who will ultimately succeed and make good.’

  ‘And is that how you see me?’

  ‘I was suggesting that it was how you should see yourself.’

  Jonny Hooker shrugged and nodded a not-too-winning combination.

  ‘All right,’ said he. ‘I’ll go it alone.’

  ‘You’re brave,’ said Hari. ‘I’m sure you’ll succeed.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep asking me these leading questions.’ Hari fished into the upper-right breast pocket of the uniform that he wore. ‘I wonder if they still carry the regulation— Ah, yes, they do.’ And he pulled out a small pocket compass. ‘This might be of some use to you,’ he said, and he handed it to Jonny.

  Jonny took the Metropolitan Police-issue compass. ‘In case I get lost?’ he said.

  ‘No, in case you get—’ Hari paused. ‘Shall we say that it would probably have helped James Tilly Matthews if he’d thought to carry one.’

  Jonny placed the compass gently onto the table before him. He peered down at the glass. The needle was pointing firmly. It was pointing towards Jonny.

  But Jonny did not lie (or indeed sit) to the magnetic north of the compass. Quite to the contrary, in fact.

  Jonny’s jaw went just a little slack. ‘Does this mean—’ he began.

  ‘It means,’ said Hari, ‘that you’ll probably be wanting to wear some tinfoil under your cap.’

  21

  Jonny Hooker spent a most uncomfortable night in the hut. It wasn’t a physical discomfort, for he slept upon a rather comfortable Regency-style chaise longue, with cabriole legs and a gilded muff trumble. It was a serious mental discomfort. And Jonny was no stranger to this. All his life he had been haunted. Haunted and driven. Haunted and driven by Mr Giggles. Imaginary friend? Audio/visual hallucination pumped into his head from an Air Loom? What?

  Jonny now had tinfoil lining his cap.

  And Mr Giggles was silent.

  Which meant … ?