The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

  ‘One more number.’ Jonny Hooker shook his head. ‘Two hours of playing? I thought O’Fagin wanted us off in an hour.’

  ‘Leave this to me,’ said Paul, and he stepped up to the mic. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I guess I know that you’ve all enjoyed yourselves, which is why we did the six encores. But this does have to be our last. Ghandi’s Hairdryer want to come on. It’s well past time and the bar has to close. So, to finish, we are going to do one of our own compositions. Well, I say one of our own, but we’ve never actually played it before.’

  ‘Eh?’ went Jonny.

  ‘Eh?’ went Gazz.

  ‘I’ve been told by the management, in the form of Mister O’Fagin, to dedicate it to him. Seeing as he says he wrote it. And as I’ve read the lyrics and checked out the chords, I do have to tell you that I think it’s a blinder. It’s a twelve-bar-blues. I hope you like it.’

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ Gazz asked Paul.

  ‘Trust me,’ said Paul. ‘And just follow Jonny when he plays.’

  ‘You can’t just throw us to the lions by bunging us the music for a number we’ve never played.’

  ‘You reckon not? It’s what we’ve been doing all evening, isn’t it? Drum along,’ he told Tom the drummer. ‘It’s in A.’

  ‘A,’ said Jonny, shaking his head in doubt.

  Paul returned to the mic. ‘So,’ said he, ‘bear with us, please, and we will give you something you’ve never heard before, something even more special than everything you’ve heard so far: a number penned by our own Mister O’Fagin.’

  ‘O’Fagin bowed behind the bar.

  The crowd looked rather doubtful.

  ‘But,’ continued Paul, ‘according to the song sheet the number was in fact written by someone called “R. Johnson”.’

  Jonny did a double-take as he looked at his score.

  ‘It’s called “Apocalypse Blues”,’ said Gazz.

  37

  A convoy took to rumbling through the night-time streets of London. It rumbled up from an underground car park somewhere slightly to the north of Mornington Crescent Underground Station and it took to its rumbling with vigour.

  In the lead vehicle sat Constable Cartwright, next to the driver, Constable Rogers. Constable Rogers had volunteered for the driving job and as he was the only one in the truck who had a full driving licence, the job was his.

  Constable Cartwright keyed ‘Gunnersbury Park’ into the SatNav. ‘Head that way,’ he told Rogers.

  Constable Rogers came and went. Came and went went he.

  ‘Oh my God,’ went Constable Cartwright. ‘Would you look at yourself.’

  Constable Rogers glanced down at his hands and saw a hands-free steering wheel.

  ‘Eeeek!’ he went. ‘I thought I was driving. Where have my hands gone? Where has all of me gone? Oh, I’m back now. No, I’m not.’

  ‘It’s the invisibility suit,’ said the suddenly enlightened Constable Cartwright. ‘Every time we go over a bump, it switches on and you vanish. It’s really rather good.’

  ‘I don’t want to end up like Deputy Dawg. Do you think it’s safe?’

  Constable Cartwright made so-so gestures with the fingers of his right hand, but as the truck went over another bump, his fingers vanished as well.

  Fingers, fingers, fingers.

  Fingers of Jonny’s left hand upon the neck of the wondrous guitar.

  Fingers of Andi Evans upon the big buttons of the big recording desk equipment.

  Fingers of Tom gripping his drumsticks.

  Fingers of Gazz on the mic.

  A finger on the trigger. Two fingers of red-eye from the optic. A finger of fudge is just enough.

  What?

  There was a bit of hush from the crowd as Jonny fingered the guitar.

  History has it that Robert Johnson recorded twenty-nine different compositions. There are forty-two separate recordings of these twenty-nine.

  It might surprise many to know that the lyrics to ‘Apocalypse Blues’, penned in Johnson’s own hand, actually exist. They are stored amongst a few of his other personal effects in one of the storerooms beneath the Big House at Gunnersbury Park. In a shoebox, on a shelf next to the Protein Man’s printing machine.

  These lyrics have never before been published and sadly they cannot be published now. Due to copyright reasons.*

  Jonny prepared to play guitar and Gazz prepared to sing.

  ‘Please don’t sing,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘I’m trying to jig about with the SatNav, but the handbook is very complicated and I’m finding it difficult to concentrate.’

  ‘I’m not singing,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘The music is coming out of the radio.’

  Constable Cartwright jigged with the radio. ‘But the radio isn’t switched on,’ he said

  ‘But that’s where it’s coming from – listen.’

  Constable Cartwright put his ear to the dashboard radio and listened. ‘It is,’ he said.

  ‘It’s blues,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘I like a bit of blues, me. Mind you, I like a song about a four-legged friend even more.’

  ‘I like anything that goes “Da-da-de-da-da-de-da-da-de-da, Bonanza”,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘But how can that radio be playing when it’s not switched on? And what is that blues song all about?’ He listened some more. ‘Sounds a bit biblical,’ he said.

  Constable Rogers came and went.

  Constable Cartwright did likewise.

  ‘Ah,’ said Constable Cartwright, at length. ‘This is an extremely smart piece of SatNav. See what it does here?’

  Constable Rogers took a look.

  And it only takes a moment, doesn’t it?

  That lack of concentration, when behind the wheel.

  The truck went over a big, big bump and all of its occupants vanished.

  ‘What was that?’ Constable Cartwright glanced into the wing mirror. ‘I think we just ran over a vicar on a bike.’

  ‘Well, you were talking about the Bible.’

  ‘Well, keep your eyes on the road. What I was going to say was that this SatNav must be brand-new military hardware. It’s not a computerised representation of the streets. It’s actual real-life footage, shot from a spy satellite. Look carefully – you can see us going along the road. Clever, eh?’

  ‘Very,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘Why are we that funny colour?’

  ‘It’s night-time. Night-vision camera on the spy satellite, I suppose. It’s infrared. That’s our heat signature.’

  ‘And those?’ Constable Rogers did hasty pointings.

  ‘People,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘And a dog, look. And you can even see the people in their houses. Here, I think there’s a couple having a shag in that house.’

  Constable Rogers nearly had the truck off the road.

  ‘Please look where you’re driving, Constable. I’m going to do a little fast-forward on the SatNav. Have a look at our objective, Gunnersbury Park. Do you realise that with this we can actually see if anyone is skulking about in the park at night. It will make our job pretty easy, eh?’

  Constable Rogers nodded. But as he had momentarily vanished from sight, this nodding went unseen by Constable Cartwright.

  *

  Unseen by the crowd at The Middle Man, Jonny Hooker’s face was not a thing of beauty. It was turned away from the audience. Jonny was speaking urgently.

  To Paul.

  ‘We can’t play this number,’ said Jonny. ‘We just can’t do it.’

  ‘Of course we can,’ said Paul. ‘It looks simple enough, the chords anyway. Your standard twelve-bar blues.’

  ‘It’s a lot more than that.’ Jonny could read music well enough and even the first glance had told him that this was no standard twelve-bar blues.

  ‘This is Robert Johnson’s last number,’ said Jonny to Paul. ‘His thirtieth composition, the one he never intended to play because he knew that once he’d played it, the Devil would come and claim his soul.’

  ‘And he played it h
ere and the Devil did,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve heard that tale. Everyone’s heard that tale.’

  ‘They have?’ said Jonny.

  ‘They have,’ said Paul ‘But do I believe it? No, I don’t. Do I believe that this is really Johnson’s last composition? No, I don’t. Do I believe that you are holding Robert Johnson’s guitar?’

  ‘No, you don’t?’ suggested Jonny.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Paul, ‘but something special is going on, isn’t it, Jonny? Something special is going on with you. With your life. Things are beginning to mean something for you. You told me earlier that you’ve never felt so alive in all your life.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Then play the damn song, Jonny. Play like you’ve never played. Let Andi Evans get it all on tape. Let’s do something with our lives, eh, Jonny? Grasp the nettle, go the whole hog, all that kind of business.’

  Jonny Hooker thought about this.

  The crowd began to boo.

  ‘Are we going to play this number, or what?’ asked Gazz. ‘The mob is growing surly.’

  Jonny looked down at the wondrous guitar.

  ‘We play,’ said Jonny Hooker.

  *

  ‘It’s a bit like playing a really advanced computer game,’ said Constable Cartwright, jigging about with the SatNav. ‘Ah yes, see here. No, don’t see here, I’ll tell you about it. I’ve got Gunnersbury Park up on the screen now and, yep, looks clear of people, just some little heat signatures. Here, ah, yes, I can zoom in. Squirrels. Squirrels in the trees. How cool is this?’

  Constable Rogers agreed that it was cool.

  After all, squirrels are cool.

  Everyone knows that.

  They’re not just rats with good PR.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Really cool. I’m panning back a bit here. Oh, look at th—, No don’t look, just listen – there’s a lot of activity here. A gathering of people, looks like in a single-storey dwelling. No, not dwelling, pub. It’s a pub full of people near the park. A band’s playing, too. This is really brilliant.’

  ‘That music is playing again through the turned-off radio,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘It’s louder now and it sounds like a full band rather than just a single singer.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘It does. How odd. But hold on, this is odd, too.’ He jigged and he tweaked at the SatNav. ‘It’s gone on the blink. No it hasn’t. It’s working okay. But the pub. Damn me, look at that. The temperature is dropping in the pub, dropping right down to zero, it looks like.’

  And yes, it was true. Within The Middle Man music lovers were beginning to pat at themselves, hug at their arms and marvel at their breath as it steamed from their mouths.

  Andi Evans ‘hh’d’ upon his fingers. ‘Someone leave the fridge door open?’ he asked of no one in particular. ‘Cold is the new cool, I’ll have to remember that. I have to get this recorded. I’ve never heard anything quite like this before.’

  ‘Now that is weird,’ went Constable Cartwright. ‘It seems as if the entire pub has gone sub-zero. All except for the band. And the band—’

  And the band.

  In a blur. As if accelerated. Many times any normal speed. Above and beyond. Impossible. Jonny Hooker’s fingers flew across the fingerboard. Tom’s fingers a blur, drumsticks moving too fast to be seen. The bass notes of Paul, a high-pitched whine. And heat. And superheat. And rush of fire and shriek and a terrible rush of power and from afar and growing louder and louder, the sounds of what might that be?

  Laughter?

  Terrible laughter?

  And fingers fingers fingers.

  And small hairy fingers, tearing the plugs that powered the amps from the wall sockets.

  And implode.

  38

  Jonny Hooker awoke to the sound of Bow Bells.

  These were not, however, those very Bow Bells that the cockneys rejoice in the hearing thereof. Rather, these Bow Bells were an approximation, an impersonation, an imitation, a vocalised rendition that issued from the black pursed lips of Mr Giggles.

  And to this Jonny Hooker awoke.

  In his cosy bed, in his cosy room, in his house, which although not altogether cosy, boasted at least an inside toilet and a view, on a clear day, from the rear, clean over the graveyard to the M4 flyover beyond.

  Jonny Hooker awoke.

  He yawned and made tut-tuttings with his mouth and shushed at Mr Giggles. He snuggled down and pulled his cosy blanket, or ‘blanky’ as he had called it when a child, close up about himself, to enjoy that final bit of snuggling down that precedes the getting up.

  ‘Rise and shine, thou sleepy head,’ cooed Mr Giggles.

  ‘Shut up and leave me alone,’ said Jonny, reply ever ready.

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ said the Monkey Boy, and, doffing his fez, he did a small gig and called, ‘Sleep on, sweet prince,’ from the foot of the bed.

  Jonny Hooker made a rumbling-bottom sound.

  Which is permissible, when you’re in your own bed.

  Sunlight flowed in upon Jonny, between curtains that should have been closed. Jonny nestled lower, pulling blanky over his head.

  And then Jonny Hooker flung back the covers and jerked to a sit in his bed.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Sleeping?’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘But here?’

  ‘I fail to understand the question. Oh, what a beautiful day.’

  ‘Yes, it is a beautiful day.’ And Jonny Hooker squinted. Rubbed his eyes and squinted once again. ‘I’m home in my bed,’ said Jonny. ‘Home in my bed, right here.’

  ‘As ever the master of deduction,’ said Mr Giggles, replacing his fez and adjusting his colourful waistcoat. ‘Did I ever tell you where I acquired this waistcoat?’ he asked. ‘It’s a fascinating tale and one, should you ever wish to pen your autobiography as a cautionary tale of misspent youth, that you might wish to include, to enliven almost any chapter.’

  ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘The eternal question. The question that elevates Man above the animals. But why are you asking it now?’

  Jonny Hooker scratched at his head. ‘And what has happened to my hair?’ He arose and did stumblings to the dressing table. He had never wanted it in his room in the first place – it was far too girlie – but his mother had insisted that there was no place else to put it, her bedroom being packed to the gunwales with war-surplus field rations that she was hoarding as a hedge against a forthcoming Apocalypse.*

  Jonny stumbled to his dressing table and viewed his image in the bevelled mirror that surmounted its rear. ‘What has happened to my hair?’ he asked once again, although with a greater emphasis upon the word ‘has’ this time.

  ‘Is it thinning?’ Mr Giggles asked. ‘For if it is, be grateful. Girls really do go for men with thinning hair. It makes them feel superior, you see. They just hate men with big hair, especially men who are prettier than they are.’

  ‘Will you please shut up!’

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk about your hair?’

  ‘I do – what’s happened to it?’

  ‘I give up,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘What has?’

  ‘Well, it’s all gone flat on the top, as if I’ve been wearing a cap. And I never wear a cap. And blimey, what’s happened to my face?’

  ‘I give up,’ said Mr Giggles once more.

  ‘It’s got at least about a five-day growth of whiskers.’

  Mr Giggles did exaggerated startlings and equally exaggerated starings. He cocked his head upon one side and cupped his hirsute chin in one hand. ‘You have at least five hairs on your chin,’ he observed. ‘If that is what you mean.’

  ‘It is,’ said Jonny. And he examined this sparseness of beard. ‘Do you think I’ve got a bit of a goatee going on here?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I don’t. You might want to put some cream on that and have a tomcat lick it off. As we used to say in the navy, when I was fly
ing bombers with Monty at the Somme.’

  ‘Hm,’ went Jonny and scratched once more at his head. ‘I do feel rather odd.’

  ‘Hangover,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘What a night you had last night, eh?’

  Jonny Hooker peered at his own reflection. It had a distant quality to it. A certain vagueness. A certain lack of clarity. ‘Last night,’ he whispered.

  ‘Pardon me, speak up,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘Last night,’ said Jonny. ‘I can’t remember anything about last night.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ Mr Giggles bobbed about, sparring with the air. ‘All that drink and bad behaviour. You’re barred from The Middle Man by the way, for a week. O’Fagin said that he will shoot you dead if you show your face before a week is up.’

  ‘Barred for a week?’ said Jonny. ‘Tell me, what did I do?’ said Jonny. ‘What on earth could I have done to get barred for a week?’ asked Jonny, too.

  ‘He caught you making the beast with two backs with his missis.’

  ‘He never did!’ Jonny Hooker did gawpings at his reflection. ‘I had it off with O’Fagin’s wife?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I didn’t look.’

  ‘Golly,’ said Jonny, giving his reflected self an admiring grin. ‘She’s a damn fine-looking woman, Mrs O. It’s a pity I can’t remember it.’

  ‘It sort of balances it out, that, doesn’t it?’ said Mr Giggles. ‘The times you might get lucky while drunk and actually have sex with a good-looking woman and then not be able to recall it in the morning. As against the times when you’ll be drunk and have sex with a really ugly woman, and remember that all too well in the morning. Once you sober up.’

  ‘And that’s another odd thing,’ said Jonny. ‘If I got that drunk last night, then how come I don’t have a hangover this morning?’

  ‘You’re complaining about that?’

  ‘I’m not complaining. I’m just puzzled. I always get a ripping hangover when I’ve been out on the lash.’

  ‘Well, let’s just hope it will kick in later, if that will cheer you up.’

  ‘And I should be hungry.’ Jonny Hooker felt at his belly. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I am hungry.’

  ‘Then why don’t we just go down and have breakfast?’