The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

  ‘Do you?’ Paul asked.

  O’Fagin did some more grinning.

  ‘That’s not really working for me,’ said Paul.

  ‘Sorry,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I’m just practising. We have a group called Dry Rot playing later – they’re a mime act.’

  Paul ignored O’Fagin, but rephrased his question. ‘Do you still have that old guitar in the case in the beer cellar?’ he asked.

  ‘I do,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Chap left without it, never came back.’

  ‘Can I borrow it?’ Paul asked.

  ‘For the benefit gig?’ O’Fagin asked.

  ‘Say yes,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Yes,’ said Paul.

  ‘Then of course you can.’ O’Fagin left the bar, went down into the cellar and returned in the company of an ancient plywood guitar case.

  ‘I don’t like the look of that,’ said Jonny.

  O’Fagin placed the guitar case on the bar counter. Paul flipped the catches and opened the case.

  A beautiful instrument was brought to light.

  ‘It’s a Gibson L-1, an acoustic model made in Nashville somewhere between nineteen twenty-six and nineteen thirty,’ said Paul. ‘Note the hand-made pick-up and the tortoiseshell “dot” markers on the third, fifth, seventh, ninth, twelfth and fifteenth frets. Note the wear on the fingerboard. Gently stroke the veneer.’

  Jonny did so, gently.

  ‘What do you think?’ Paul asked of Jonny.

  Jonny lifted the guitar from the case. Reverently. With care.

  Jonny held the Gibson to his ear and gently fingered the strings. ‘It’s in tune,’ he said. ‘What a beautiful tone.’

  ‘Good enough for you?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Jonny stroked the neck of the guitar. It was a thing of striking beauty. Elegant. Precise.

  ‘I can’t believe someone would forget an instrument like this,’ he said, ‘Just leave it in a bar.’

  ‘He didn’t exactly forget it,’ said O’Fagin. ‘He sort of couldn’t come back for it.’

  ‘Do you know whose guitar this was?’ Jonny asked.

  O’Fagin looked at Paul.

  And Paul looked at O’Fagin.

  ‘It belonged to a blues singer,’ said O’Fagin. ‘His name was Robert Johnson.’

  34

  ‘You are so, so not going to play that guitar!’

  The voice of Mr Giggles came close at Jonny’s ear, his breath hot on neck, his hairy hands a-quiver.

  Jonny did as Jonny did: ignored the Monkey Boy.

  ‘Oh no, I’m serious this time. Deadleeeeeeee.’

  Jonny shook away his imaginary friend and addressed his attention once more to the Gibson.

  The guitar that had once belonged to Robert Johnson?

  The guitar that the Devil had tuned, down at the crossroads oh so long ago?

  Jonny’s hands gave a little quiver, too.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Do you really think it’s real?’

  ‘Really Robert Johnson’s, do you mean?’

  Jonny mouthed the words, ‘I do.’

  Paul just gave a shrug.

  ‘There’s a picture of the man up here on the wall, playing it,’ said O’Fagin. ‘There with my daddy and some big buck-toothed black chap I never knew the name of.’

  ‘Come on, buddy boy,’ crooned Mr Giggles. ‘You’ve had enough excitement now, let’s have it away on your toes.’

  ‘Robert Johnson’s guitar.’ Jonny’s voice was filled with awe.

  Just as it should have been, really. Because if this was Robert Johnson’s guitar. And if Robert Johnson did go down to the crossroads at midnight so many years ago. And if he did sell his soul to the Devil. And if the Devil did tune Robert Johnson’s guitar. And if this was that very guitar.

  Then.

  Well!

  Jonny took the guitar and assumed the position. As in lead-guitar player. It is not necessary to go into all those subtle nuances that distinguish the lead guitarist position from that assumed by the bass guitarist. Deep down in our rock ’n’ roll hearts, we all know them.

  Jonny found a chord and he strummed it. A simple A-seventh chord. The one Robert Johnson is holding in the famous studio portrait. Holding on the Gibson L-1. And as that sound rose from that guitar, a certain electricity, a certain vibrancy seemed to breathe through the air of The Middle Man. And a shaft of light, angling down through a hole in the roof, caught Jonny to perfection.

  Jonny’s thumb stroked over the strings and Paul looked on and O’Fagin looked on and the gentleman with the aristocratic bearing, who wore the long, black beard looked on, and the red-headed woman in the long rubber gloves looked on as well.

  As well as a bloke from Porlock.

  And as all of them looked on, Jonny looked on, too. He looked on at the fingers of his left hand as they ran up and down the finger-board, now figuring this chord and now forming that.

  For it was to Jonny as if that’s what he was doing.

  Merely watching.

  As if the fingers dancing up and down the guitar’s neck were not the fingers of his own hand. Rather they were those of a maestro, some master guitarist. Jonny was just a spectator.

  Jonny Hooker closed his eyes and played.

  ‘Enough!’ Paul’s hand fell across the strings of the guitar. ‘Enough.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ went Jonny. ‘What?’

  ‘Stop playing now, that’s enough.’

  ‘I was just having a little strum – what’s the matter with you?’

  ‘The matter with me? What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Me?’ Jonny glanced all around and about. There were a lot of folk now in the bar. A lot, and they were all clapping.

  ‘What?’ went Jonny. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve been playing for an hour and a half,’ said Paul. ‘And God alone knows what. Stuff I’ve never heard before.’

  ‘Oi,’ shouted a roughneck, all spruced up in an England footballer’s style vesty number, his muscular arms sporting many patriotic tattoos. ‘Watcha stop the music for? Let him play.’

  ‘He’ll play again soon,’ said Paul. ‘As soon as the rest of the band get here.’

  ‘Soon’s not good enough. We want more now.’ The crowd took to grumbling in surly agreement.

  ‘An hour and a half?’ went Jonny, glancing down at his fingers. The tips of those on his left hand were white, while those on his right hand were bloody. ‘An hour and a half.’

  ‘Let the park keeper play,’ said a lady in a straw hat. ‘I haven’t heard music like that since my castrato nephew joined the Vatican choir.’

  ‘An hour and a half?’ Jonny held the guitar away from himself. Returned it with haste to its case.

  ‘Enough for now, mate,’ he called out to the England supporter. ‘Have to take a little break, okay?’

  There were grumblings and mumblings and Jonny closed the case.

  ‘Get me beer,’ he said to Paul. ‘Get me beer and now.’

  Paul ordered beer from O’Fagin. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked Jonny. ‘Where did you learn all that stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I did. Was it good, what I did?’

  ‘Good? It was unbelievable. Although a bit creepy at times, somewhat heavy on the Devil’s Intervals.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jonny.

  ‘We’ve got to keep that stuff in,’ said Paul, ‘work it into the playlist tonight. No, stuff the playlist, we’ll just follow you.’

  Jonny Hooker clicked his neck. He was aching from head to foot. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘There’s something not at all right about that guitar.’

  ‘I’m going to make some calls,’ said Paul. ‘We need a mixing desk and something to record with. Get it onto a laptop. This is big, Jonny. Really big.’

  And Paul took out his mobile phone and took himself off outside. And a young woman of outstanding characteristics made her presence felt in Jonny’s
vicinity.

  ‘Could I have your autograph?’ she asked.

  Autograph? Jonny’s mind went boggle boggle boggle. A young woman of such outstanding characteristics asking him for an autograph. Which meant—

  Which meant.

  Which meant what it means in the rock ’n’ roll parlance.

  Jonny Hooker was led out back to receive a boggling blow-job.

  Ten minutes later he returned to the bar. He had that look upon his face. That look that can mean nothing other than what it means. So to speak.

  And Paul had returned to the bar before him.

  And Paul beheld Jonny.

  And Paul beheld that look.

  And Paul said unto Jonny, ‘No. You didn’t? You?’ For Paul had also beheld the young woman with the outstanding characteristics who had accompanied Jonny on his return to the bar. ‘No,’ said Paul. ‘Say she didn’t … No.’

  ‘You still haven’t brought me that beer,’ said Jonny.

  ‘No.’ Paul pointed to the woman and back to Jonny.

  ‘What?’ said Jonny. ‘What?’

  ‘You know bloody well what. I was lining her up for later.’

  ‘I’ve finished with her,’ said Jonny. ‘For now.’

  ‘No. No. No.’

  But it was yes. And Paul brought Jonny a pint of King Billy and Jonny tucked into this pint.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that,’ said Paul. ‘That she did that. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Just stop now,’ said Jonny. ‘I am having trouble believing it also, but I’m pretty damn sure it did happen. So—’

  ‘So?’ said Paul.

  ‘So perhaps I will give that guitar another little go later.’

  ‘Right,’ said Paul. ‘Right. Well, you do that. And stuff it – if you manage to get yourself laid, then good luck to you.’

  ‘How very kind,’ said Jonny.

  ‘If you can play again how you just played, then you’ll deserve anything you get.’

  Jonny Hooker regarded his wounded digits. And he was still aching in all sorts of places. Although one place felt rather nice. ‘It’s possessed,’ he whispered to Paul.

  ‘Your plonker?’

  ‘The guitar, you buffoon. I didn’t play any of whatever I played. I don’t even know what I played. I didn’t play the guitar. The guitar played me.’

  ‘I think it best if you just keep that to yourself,’ Paul counselled. ‘Don’t mention it to the record producer or anything.’

  Jonny Hooker finished his pint. ‘And what record producer might this be?’ he rightly enquired.

  ‘I don’t know what it is with me,’ said Paul, ‘but all of my life so far I’ve never done anything for anyone that has resulted in them owing me a favour. Except for once. I was walking along very late on Christmas Eve a couple of years back and I heard this voice calling for help. It turned out to be this bloke who’d fallen, somewhat drunk, into this hole that the gas men had dug in the road. I helped him out and he said that one day he’d repay me. I still have his business card.’ Paul flourished same and Jonny read from it.

  ANDI EVANS

  Soliloquy Records

  ‘Andi Evans?’ said Jonny. ‘You pulled Andi Evans of the legendary metal label Soliloquy Records out of a hole in the road?’

  ‘I did,’ said Paul. ‘And I have hung on for two years, waiting for the moment. The moment when I would call in my favour, when it would be worth calling it in. Tonight is that night, Jonny. You will play. Andi Evans is bringing down a mobile mini-recording studio jobbie. You will play, he will record. We will get a record contract and you’ll get blow-jobs seven nights a week. Am I a good friend to you, or what?’

  Jonny Hooker raised his glass. ‘I’d toast to this mighty plan,’ said he, ‘but my glass appears to be empty.’

  At the rock ’n’ roll time expected, or at least within a couple of hours of it, the two remaining members of Dry Rot appeared at The Middle Man. These were hairy fellows whose attire bespoke of those to whom black would always be this year’s black.

  Desmond was the drummer, and also had a barrow in the marketplace. And Molly was the singer with the band.

  Molly had a small goatee. Which was not a qualification for her to join a travelling circus. It was simply that he favoured a small goatee. Molly’s dad, Mary, had chosen the name for Molly when Molly had been born. It was something to do with Mary growing up in the nineteen sixties. But just what, no one knew for certain.

  And Mary was not available for comment.

  For he was on death row in San Quentin, having tracked down and slaughtered his father, Mavis.

  Which was sort of rock ’n’ roll.

  Desmond’s stage name was Tom.

  And Molly’s was Gazz.

  Why try to improve upon perfection? Who knows?

  ‘You gonna give us a hand to unload the gear?’ Molly asked Paul.

  ‘I’m sure Jonny would love to help,’ said Paul.

  ‘Jonny?’ said Molly. ‘Why is your face covered with sticking plaster? And why are you dressed as a parkie?’

  ‘Do you ever read a newspaper or watch television, Molly?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘Never,’ said Molly. ‘Watched Top of the Pops once, but didn’t like it. Do read the NME, of course, the Andi Evans metal column.’

  ‘Then have you got a big treat coming tonight.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope so,’ said Molly. ‘because I could do with cheering up. You know my mum reads the Kleenex?’

  ‘Reads the Kleenex?’ Jonny did not know of such a thing.

  ‘It’s a divination type jobbie. Like reading the tarot or the tea leaves. You blow your nose on a Kleenex and my mum can tell your future by the crumples. And the colour of the snot, I suppose.’

  ‘Boogermancy,’ said Mr Giggles. Who hadn’t spoken for a while.

  ‘Where is this leading?’ Jonny asked Molly.

  ‘Actually,’ said Molly, ‘I think it’s a bit of a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Not quite following you,’ said Jonny.

  ‘You see,’ said Molly, ‘she freaks me out with her weird gypsy stuff, so I never let her do any readings on me. Trouble was, I had a day off work today because I’d bought some bootleg porn DVDs – Nunsploitation movies, every one a classic. And you know how it is when your mum’s out and—’

  ‘This is going to involve another use for Kleenex, isn’t it?’ Jonny said.

  ‘I should have flushed them.’

  ‘Them?’

  I left them under my pillow. She made up my bed and she read my Kleenex.’

  ‘Nasty,’ said Paul.

  ‘Did you read them, too?’ asked Molly.

  ‘No, I mean, well—’

  ‘Well, nasty it is. According to my mum, something really awful is going to happen. She said that when she saw the stains on the Kleenexes, they spelled out the words “EVE OF THE APOCALYPSE”.’

  ‘That’s a lot of letters,’ said Paul.

  ‘They’re very inspiring DVDs,’ said Molly.

  35

  A limo pulled up outside The Middle Man. It was a stretch limo. It was a black stretch limo.

  So everyone who was inside The Middle Man pushed their way through the plastic sheeting and went outside The Middle Man to see who would be getting out of the black stretch limo.

  And can’t that be a disappointment!

  There once were days when only the truly rich and famous were driven about in black stretch limos. Or the black stretch limo. For back in the nineteen sixties, there was only one in the country. And if you saw it pull up somewhere, you knew, just knew, that someone rich and famous was going to get out of it, helped by the chauffeur, of course, and made a right fuss over.

  But then those were the good old days. When we had values. When dogshit came in white as well as brown, and cigarettes came in hundreds of colours and hues, and all of them were good for you. And only sportsmen wore sportswear.

  But now?

  Now if a stretch limo pulls up, then like as not it
will turn out to be full to the gunwales with a posse of Essex girls in micro-skirts, wearing flashing Devil horns on their heads, all out on a hen night.

  And looking for love.

  Or if not love then—

  Which was probably why all the folk who were inside The Middle Man, went outside The Middle Man at the arrival of the black stretch limo. Well, the blokes all did, anyway.

  The chauffeur, a very large black chap with a shaven head beneath his cap, left the cab and opened a rear door. Andi Evans issued from the limo, doing the Devil-horn fingers.

  The ‘no crumpet’ alert sounded and the blokes returned to The Middle Man.

  ‘Plebs,’ sneered Andi. Which was, in essence, correct. ‘Stay with the limo,’ he told Betty,* the shaven-headed chauffeur. ‘I don’t like the look of this neighbourhood. Leave the limo for five minutes and we’ll come back to find it up on bricks, without an engine. Or, worse than that, full of Essex girls.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Betty.

  ‘I’ll send someone out to bring in the gear. Would you like a drink, or something?’

  ‘Just a ginger beer and an arrowroot biscuit, thank you.’

  Andi Evans entered The Middle Man.

  And received a cool hello from the members of Dry Rot.

  Because you do have to be cool. You have to. You can’t just go rushing up, going, ‘Ooh Mister Evans, how incredible to meet you, I’ve bought every album on your label and I’m your greatest fan.’

  It’s just not cool.

  So the members of Dry Rot leaned against the bar counter making cool-sounding grunts and doing that odd punching of fist against fist that is some kind of black ghetto thing. And black ghetto things do have a reputation for being cool.

  Jonny Hooker returned from the Portaloo. He had been there alone. He returned alone. Paul introduced him to Andi.

  ‘Ooh, Mister Evans,’ said Jonny. ‘How incredible to meet you. I’ve bought every album on your label and I’m your greatest fan.’

  Dry Rot members looked on, aghast.

  Andi shook Jonny warmly by the hand.

  ‘What a joy,’ he said. ‘I’ve been hoping for years that someone would say that to me. One has doubts, you see, regarding one’s talent. Has one one’s finger upon the pulse, as it were? Is one hip to the scene? Is one the new one, if you know what I mean.’