The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

Jonny didn’t know what this meant. That Mr Giggles’ voice had been smothered by a layer of tinfoil? Or that Mr Giggles was simply away for a while? Or lying low, or playing a prank?

  And magnetised?

  For Jonny was magnetised – he had discovered that he could lift pins from a table top without touching them. Which was surely proof, wasn’t it?

  Proof of the Air Loom’s existence.

  Jonny knew it was nothing of the kind.

  There might be myriad explanations. And if it were proof, then whom could he trust to confide this truth in? He could hardly turn up at a police station and declare himself alive and magnetised. He would once more be the wanted man. The escaped lunatic. The murder suspect. And who would believe him anyway? He had no real proof. He wasn’t even certain that he believed in the Air Loom himself.

  He would just have to wait. Wait until Mr Giggles raised his hairy head again. Wait until he had some hard evidence. Wait until he could prove his innocence.

  But then waiting, as such, was out of the question. He had to act. And act now (well, perhaps not right now, but certainly first thing in the morning). Act before the forces of law caught up with him. Or even the Air Loom Gang. If the tinfoil cut off their mental probings they would surely know, wouldn’t they? And if they suspected that he was onto them, they would kill him.

  Or would they? They hadn’t killed him so far and he seemed to have found out a lot. But then perhaps they hadn’t killed him because they wanted him to take the rap for their murderings. That was more than possible.

  In fact, that made a great deal of sense.

  And so Jonny tossed and turned on the chaise, ever careful not to dislodge his cap.

  A victim of his own thoughts.

  Here indeed lay madness.

  The dawn chorus wakened Jonny, which at least meant that he had managed to snatch a little sleep. It woke him to a view of a clear blue sky, through a window that was somewhat steamed up by the condensed breaths of three sleepers. But the other makeshift bunks were now empty; the brothers Hawtrey had departed. They had, however, left fifty quid on the table for Jonny, which was kind, at least.

  ‘So,’ said Jonny, trousering the money, ‘that’s it. All on my own.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said the voice of Mr Giggles.

  Jonny clutched at his foil-lined cap. It was still firmly stuck to his head.

  ‘You didn’t believe any of that guff, did you?’ Mr Giggles giggled. ‘That Hari is dafter than a bucket of blowfish. All he wanted was for you to set him free. And now you can have that on your conscience, too.’

  ‘How so?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘You can be so dim,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Those two were in it all together – surely you reasoned that out.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘That Hari is a paranoid schizophrenic.’

  ‘Just like me, then?’

  ‘A lot worse than you. I’ll bet it was him who did for Doctor Archy. Or his brother in some previous and foiled attempt to release Hari.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘They used you, Jonny.’

  ‘Then why tell me all that stuff?’

  ‘To reinforce your own beliefs. Tinfoil in your cap? Did you really believe that I was being beamed into your bonce by a gang with a magical machine?’

  ‘Hm,’ went Jonny.

  ‘I know what “Hm” means.’

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ said Jonny. ‘And I do not believe anything that you tell me.’

  ‘And yet I’m certain it was me who got you started on this quest of yours in the first place. Because it did seem like a bit of a laugh. At the time.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Jonny. ‘But the things you told me tie up with the things they told me.’

  ‘Toot,’ said Mr Giggles.

  Jonny raised himself from the chaise, stretched his limbs, sought the frying pan. Prepared breakfast.

  ‘I love the smell of hash browns in the morning,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘But I’m not cooking hash browns.’

  ‘No, you’re charcoaling sausages. You really should take much more care of your diet.’

  ‘And why should I do that?’

  ‘Because you must look after yourself.’

  ‘And why?’

  ‘To stay healthy. I care about you, Jonny.’

  ‘As if you do.’

  ‘I do, really. You mean everything to me.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Oh, you do, Jonny, which is why you must trust me. I have your interests at heart. I want what’s best for you, because what is best for you is best for me.’

  Jonny tipped the charcoaled sausages, along with a lot of grease, onto a famille rose dining plate, painted with red and gilt at the centre, beneath a coat of arms surmounted with the Crawford family ducal crest (saleroom value four to six hundred pounds). ‘Lovely grub,’ said he.

  ‘I have to look after you,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘If not because I care, then because I have to.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’ Jonny spoke through blackened teeth. ‘Perhaps these sausages are a tad overdone.’

  ‘You’re my last,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘When your time is done, then my time is done.’

  ‘Just what are you saying?’ Jonny now picked charcoal pickings from his teeth.

  ‘When you die, I die,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I’ll never be an imaginary friend to any other after you. I’ll just vanish away.’

  ‘You’ll die, like me?’

  ‘That’s about the shape of it. Which is why it is in my interests to keep you fit and well and alive for as long as possible.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jonny, slowly. ‘I see.’

  ‘I doubt if you do, but it’s true anyway.’

  ‘And so I’m sure you’re going to tell me to abandon my quest and head off to Tierra del Fuego after the Hawtrey brothers.’

  ‘Something of the sort, yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m not doing it. I do not intend to spend the rest of my life as either a fugitive or a prisoner. I intend to clear my name, and if there is some sinister underground organisation beaming stuff into people’s heads, I’ll track them down and expose them.’

  ‘You’ll get yourself killed. It’s such a bad idea.’

  ‘Well, it’s what I’m going to do. So you can either help me out or go on ahead to Tierra del Fuego and wait there in case I change my mind and decide to join you. I would favour you taking the latter option. What say you?’

  ‘I think I’ll just tag along for now.’

  ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘I’m thinking of you, I really am.’

  ‘Then,’ said Jonny, ‘I suggest you maintain a thoughtful silence until you have something really useful to say. Then I will be able to concentrate fully on the job in hand and avoid making some foolish mistake, which might well result in me taking a zapping from the business end of some constable’s mega-weapon. What say you to this?’

  Mr Giggles offered up a somewhat grudging agreement. ‘So what do you intend to do next?’ he asked.

  ‘Have a poo,’ said Jonny.

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘A wipe?’

  ‘All is lost,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘We have descended to toilet humour. All is surely lost.’

  Jonny Hooker didn’t do the washing up. He did have a poo and he did wipe afterwards. He did not remove the Elastoplasts from his face and, having no alternative clothes available, he remained in his borrowed park ranger uniform. Which was growing a tad whiffy. As was Jonny, as neither had been laundered for a while.

  Jonny left the hut before the arrival of Park Ranger Connor. He exited the park as he had entered it.

  Furtively.

  It was a beautiful morning. Those birdies chitchatted, the air smelled of flowers, a milk float rattled on by.

  Normality was there to be found, all around and about.

  Jonny wondered whether, just perhaps, he should go and speak to his mum. He conclu
ded that no, he should not.

  I will return to her in triumph, he told himself. In triumph, or not at all.

  Jonny passed The Middle Man. It occurred to him that he was supposed to be playing there this very evening, with his band Dry Rot. But then Paul, the bass guitarist, must think that he was now dead. So he probably wouldn’t be playing there, although he could of course phone Paul, or call round to his house and tell him the joyous news. Things did seem to be getting very complicated. Enough, in fact, as has been said to drive a fellow mad.

  Jonny resolved that he would call Paul, so he popped into the nearest phone box to do so. Jonny remembered now that he had no small change for the phone.

  So he would call in on Paul instead.

  Jonny remembered now that Paul favoured a really large fry-up to begin his day.

  Jonny concluded that he would definitely call in on Paul. At once.

  And with this conclusion firmly under his cap, so to speak, Jonny set off for Paul’s house.

  When Paul wasn’t being a police constable, Paul was being a musician. A rock musician of the metal persuasion. And one dressed in the manner of the Goth. At Jonny’s knock upon his blackly painted front door, Paul opened up said door, all bleary eyed, and blinked about at Jonny.

  And Jonny did espy the nightwear of Paul, and it was of the manner of the Goth. The manner of the Goth, those black pyjamas.

  ‘Pyjamas,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Black pyjamas,’ said Paul. ‘I dyed them myself. Which isn’t gay, I hesitate to add. I was augmenting these otherwise undistinguished pyjamas by staining them the hue which is forever night. Now bugger off, you sticking-plaster-faced parkie nutter.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Bugger off,’ said Paul. ‘No, hang about,’ said Paul. ‘No, hold on there,’ said Paul. ‘It’s you, Jonny,’ said Paul. ‘You’re supposed to be dead!’ said Paul.

  Black indeed as the yawning grave itself, the long, dark night of the soul and the bum of the sweeper who chimneys doth sweep was the interior of Paul’s abode. If it stood still and could be painted black, then Paul had painted it so. With two coats.

  ‘How do you get your black so black?’ asked Jonny.

  ‘I put it on hard,’ explained Paul. ‘In the case of this sitting room, I simply exploded a ten-gallon can of Dulux ever-black emulsion with a couple of pounds of Semtex that I found in the evidence locker at the police station.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Jonny. ‘Very cheerful.’

  Over a fry-up that would have seen Al Jolson proud, Jonny explained the situation. In fact he told Paul everything. The lot. And he showed him James Crawford’s book and advanced his theories, such as they were, regarding the possible existence of the Air Loom Gang. And everything. Really. The lot. He even showed Paul the business with the pocket compass.

  And when he was done, Paul threw back his long, black hair and peered at Jonny over a forkload of long, black pudding. ‘And you really believe all this?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m beginning to,’ said Jonny, marvelling at the blackness of the pudding. ‘And I intend to find out the truth—’

  ‘And clear your name and make your mum proud, so you said.’

  ‘So, will you help me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Paul. ‘Whatever made you think I would?’

  Jonny Hooker shrugged. ‘Did you photograph the music that was scrawled all over James Crawford’s bedroom, like I asked you?’

  Paul shook his darkened head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Jonny.

  ‘But you will be playing with the band tonight?’

  ‘If I’m still alive I’d love to,’ said Jonny.

  ‘I’ll inform the rest of the lads.’

  ‘Do you think they can be trusted?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. What are you going to do now?’

  Jonny Hooker gave his nose a tap. ‘Play it by ear,’ he suggested.

  ‘Well, do try not to get in any trouble.’

  Jonny Hooker said he’d try. And indeed he would.

  But unknown to him, as indeed it was unknown to almost anyone other than those directly concerned, great events were unfolding, great events in which Jonny Hooker would become involved.

  Great events and terrible, these events.

  Terrible indeed.

  22

  Inspector Westlake was enjoying his breakfast. He was billeted in a cosy guest house in Abaddon Street, Brentford. The French Quarter, where the wine flowed like water and the trees were gay with the letters of France and full of Parisian promise.

  Inspector Westlake was living high-off-la-hog and in-la-fast-lane. Mrs Corbett, who ran the guest house, had this thing about gentlemen in uniforms. It was a big thing, because she was a big woman. Inspector Westlake had this thing about big women. The only crimes that were going to be involved here were victimless crimes.

  ‘More wine?’ asked Mrs Corbett, leaning her prodigious bosoms over the inspector’s left shoulder, wine bottle in one hand and tray of Dordogne Delight in the other.

  ‘Not for me, fair lady.’ The inspector dabbed at his mouth with an oversized red gingham napkin. ‘Too early in the day and me in my uniform.’

  Mrs Corbett purred above him. She loomed large and smelled of Eau de Chateau. ‘Do take some coffee, then. It’s all brewed up in a proper copper coffee pot. And it’s French.’

  ‘Just a soupçon, then.’

  There came a ringing at the doorbell and Mrs Corbett excused herself from the inspector’s presence.

  Inspector Westlake perused his surroundings. They were heavy on the chintz, the lace doilies and the antimacassars. And the strings of garlic. Up on the mantel shelf, the inevitable Spanish straw pony, wearing a beret. Above this beast, a framed print of a crying child, with a pencilled-on French moustache. Five different choices of jam upon the clothed table, as many of marmalade, including quince. And more croissants than you could bung down your trousers on a midsummer’s morn. He had fallen on his feet and no doubt about it. Called up from Sussex to deal with something of a sensitive nature that required his certain touch, but about which he had so far heard nothing. The week had been a worrying one, what with these beheadings. But at least he was away from his wife, a small and mouse-like being, whom he had married by accident during an acid trip back in the nineteen sixties, in circumstances that were far too complicated to go into now in any detail. Although he was looking forward to dealing with the something of a sensitive nature, whatever it should turn out to be, he could, in truth, have done without the beheadings. For without the beheadings, he would have had little to do and could have spent more time here in his billet.

  Mrs Corbett returned in the company of a young constable. The young constable’s name was Constable Justice and to the disappointment of some, but the relief of others, he was presently unarmed.

  Mrs Corbett slotted herself into the doorway and the young constable found himself having to squeeze past. To the delight of just the one of them, and this one not the constable.

  ‘Good morning sir,’ said this young, bright bobby, saluting as he did so.

  ‘Good morning to you and at ease.’ Inspector Westlake injected a toothsome viand into his gob and munched upon it. ‘Mmmth dmmph mm mmt?’ he asked.

  ‘What do I want?’ asked the constable, who prided himself in his knowledge of Esperanto. ‘I have been dispatched post-haste from HQ to pick you up in the car, sir. Having first delivered this to you.’

  ‘And what is this?’

  ‘An official letter, sir. Government-sealed, for your eyes only.’

  ‘Gmmph mmph,’ said the inspector, his gob refilled and his interest tweaked.

  The constable handed over the official letter and saluted once more. ‘Do you want me to wait in the car, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no, no, sit down, Constable, have a cup of tea.’

  The constable’s eyes turned towards the obstruction in the doorway. A certain look of
fear came into those eyes. A bead of perspiration appeared on the forehead, slightly south of the helmet.

  ‘I’ll wait in the car, sir, if you don’t mind. And sir?’ The constable leaned low and whispered, ‘Could you please ask that woman to move out of the doorway – she pinched my bum when I came in.’

  Inspector Westlake shook his head sadly. ‘Might I have some more toast, do you think?’ he enquired of Mrs Hayward. The lady of the house smiled broadly, did a little curtsy and vanished away to the kitchen.

  Constable Justice shivered. Right down his spine that shiver went. ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ he said and again took to his heels.

  Inspector Westlake held the envelope up to the light. Watermarked paper, official Government seal. Two seals, in fact, the second being that of the House of Windsor.

  This would be his notification of the sensitive something to which he must add his certain touch.

  With no greater ado than was required, Inspector Westlake took up an ivory-handled escargot knife, its blade engraved in the manner of Louis XVI, and cut through the envelope’s seals.

  He opened the envelope, drew out the letter, unfolded it and read it aloud. Softly.

  For the attention of Inspector Westlake

  For your eyes only

  Dear Inspector Westlake

  As you must know, affairs in the Middle East have reached a crisis point. Our advisors advise Us that what they refer to as an Apocalypse or Armageddon Scenario is unfolding before Our very eyes and if steps are not taken at the earliest opportunity to remedy this situation, then the Empire, nay, indeed the whole wide world, will be in peril.

  Inspector Westlake paused for a moment at this point. ‘This letter,’ he said, softly and to himself alone, ‘is from—’ and he turned over the letter and marvelled at – the sovereign’s signature.

  ‘Her Majesty, God bless her,’ said the inspector, and he felt a shiver run up his back. She was a damn fine woman, Her Madge. A damn fine big woman, what with her royal patronage of Ginsters pies and everything. And she was doing what? Asking him to sort out the crisis in the Middle East? Surely not, because, after all, and let’s face it here – at the end of the day and all that kind of thing, there is always a crisis going on in the Middle East. Always has been, always will be. Such is the way of the Middle East: it’s hot and dry and made of concrete and everyone hates everyone and fights them as and when.