The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

  ‘Because,’ said Jonny. ‘I appear to be naked.’

  ‘Well observed,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Put on your dressing gown, why don’t you.’

  Jonny Hooker glanced all around and about. ‘And where are my clothes?’ he now asked.

  ‘Will you stop with the questions, already?’ Mr Giggles turned up his pinky palms. ‘Have some breakfast. Have a cup of tea. Lighten up.’

  ‘I’m perplexed.’ And Jonny shook his head.

  Mr Giggles made further Bow Bell sounds, interspersed with Big Ben chimes and small change being rattled in the pocket of a Protestant.

  Jonny shook his head more at these untoward noises.

  But he did put on his dressing gown.

  And he did go down to breakfast.

  Jonny’s mother was bothering eggs with a chamois on a stick. ‘Good morning, Jonathan, my son,’ said she, raising her head from the bothering-bucket and clicking a further good morning in Morse with her dentures.

  Jonny Hooker sat himself down in his own special chair by the stove. A knife and fork and spoon were laid out before him on the table. On top of a pink gingham tablecloth. And there was a glass of orange juice and an empty cup that surely awaited coffee. Jonny Hooker viewed this spectacle.

  ‘What is this shit?’ he whispered, slowly and under his breath.

  ‘How would you like your eggs?’ asked his mum. And then she giggled. ‘The vicar once asked me that when he was chatting me up. And do you know what I told him?’

  ‘You told him that you’d like your eggs unfertilised,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Uncanny,’ said Jonny’s mum. ‘It’s almost as if you were there yourself. Which you were, if truth be told, but half of you was still inside the vicar.’

  ‘Stop now, please, Mum,’ said Jonny.

  ‘So, boiled or fried? I can recommend these boiled ones – I almost have them defragged with this chamois.’

  ‘Fried, thank you, Mum.’

  And Jonny Hooker’s mum took to fussing at the stove. ‘You can read the paper if you want,’ she told Jonny.

  Jonny gave his head a shake. ‘Paper?’ he whispered. ‘This is getting weirder by the moment.’

  But the newspaper was there, folded upon the tablecloth. So Jonny Hooker unfolded it and gave the front page a good looking over.

  The paper was Brentford’s Sunday Mercury. The headline shouted

  CRISIS IN MIDDLE EAST

  WORLD STANDS TREMBLING UPON

  THE BRINK OF WW III

  CAN TOP-SECRET TALKS SAVE PLANET FROM

  THREAT OF TOTAL ANNIHILATION?

  Jonny Hooker viewed this paper. ‘This is Sunday’s paper,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said his mother, turning partially from the stove. A kind of half-hip swivel, with ankle-turn accompaniment.

  ‘That would be,’ said she, ‘because today is Sunday.’

  ‘Sunday?’ Jonny Hooker mulled this concept over. ‘Today is Sunday,’ said he. ‘Sunday?’ he queried. ‘Sunday?’ he questioned. ‘SUNDAY?’

  ‘The sabbath,’ said his mother, who was considering the taking up of a religion to augment her already chosen hobbies of crown-green bowls, knitting and mayhem. ‘The day of the Lord. The seventh day, upon which God rested.’

  ‘Sunday?’ said Jonny. ‘Sunday, hang on.

  Mr Giggles said nothing.

  ‘How can it be Sunday?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘It’s a weekly thing,’ his mother explained. ‘I love it when you ask me questions that I can actually answer.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonny. ‘But it can’t be Sunday. It must be—’

  And then he had a bit of a think. And something seemed to be missing. ‘It must be … Hold on.’ He scratched once more at his head.

  ‘What have you done to your hair?’ asked his mother.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Well, that’s just careless. You should always put haircare at the very forefront of your thoughts. People see your hair coming before they see you. Well, they do if you’re walking backwards, anyway. Which way up is an egg?’ she continued, holding one before her.

  ‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘I don’t remember about days. My last recollection is of last Monday, I think. I had that farmer’s-market-in-the-loft thing again. But it passed and I’m better now. But that’s the last memory I have. And now it’s Sunday. That can’t be right.’

  ‘Now that you mention it,’ said Jonny’s mum, half turning once more, although this time employing a double-knee manoeuvre, ‘my memory seems to be somewhat on the blink also. How did you manage to grow that magnificent beard overnight, by the way?’

  Jonny Hooker stroked at his chin. ‘Something is not right here.’

  ‘Well, if it’s not right here,’ said his mum, ‘then it must be somewhere else.’

  Jonny Hooker looked bewildered. Jonny Hooker was bewildered. ‘I have hat-hair,’ he said, ‘and a five-day growth of beard, and about five days missing out of my life.’

  ‘I have a pair of surgical stockings,’ said Jonny’s mum, ‘a dropped womb and a Dutch cap that I haven’t used in a decade. And you think you have problems.’

  Jonny Hooker rose from the breakfasting table. ‘Something is wrong,’ he declared. ‘Something is very wrong.’

  Mr Giggles’ voice spoke at his ear. ‘Everything is A-OK,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You’re just having an episode. Say nothing more to your mother. You wouldn’t want her to have you banged up in the loony bin again, would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Wouldn’t what?’ asked Jonny’s mum, who was now fully turned and contorted into such a curious leg-linkage affair that it looked possible that she might remain in this fashion for evermore.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Jonny, making as to leave.

  And then somehow tangling parts of his lower self amongst the tablecloth, with the result that it was torn from the table, tumbling cutlery and crockery and orange juice in a glass, the Sunday paper and the cornflakes packet also. Although the cornflakes packet had not previously been mentioned, and the maker’s name was misspelt.

  The previously unmentioned cornflakes packet struck the linoleum floor. Which prompted a remark from Jonny’s mother that men were a bit like linoleum, in that, ‘If you lay them right the first time, you can walk all over them for the next ten years.’ Nice.

  ‘And I’ll thank you to clean that up,’ she continued.

  ‘Sorry. All right,’ said Jonny.

  ‘No, sod her, don’t,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘I made the mess, I’ll clean it up,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Precisely,’ said his mum.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Jonny.

  ‘What?’ said his mum.

  Jonny found the dustpan and brush and took to dustpan and brushing. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Stick it in the pedal bin,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘The pedal bin is always full,’ said Jonny. ‘Pedal bins are always full. The only time they’re empty is when you buy them.’

  ‘Why are you saying this?’ asked Jonny’s mum, trying in vain to untangle her legs.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll put all these swept-up cornflakes in the dustbin.’

  ‘Don’t you do it,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Stick up for yourself, you little wus.’

  ‘Little wus?’

  ‘Who are you calling a marsupial?’ asked Jonny’s mum.

  ‘No one, not me,’ said Jonny, and he vacated the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ said Mr Giggles.

  Jonny was in the alleyway now, the one that ran down the side of the house. The one with the dustbin in it.

  ‘Toss it to the four winds,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Let the squirrels eat it.’

  ‘I am reliably informed,’ said Jonny, ‘that squirrels are just rats with good PR’

  ‘You’ll probably get sued for that,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Let’s go to the mall and play “Poo, You’re a Smel
ly One” with the old folk.’

  ‘Oh, behave yourself.’

  And Jonny lifted the dustbin lid.

  And Jonny beheld.

  And Jonny fell back.

  And Jonny cried, ‘Aaaaaaagh!’

  And Jonny nearly fainted.

  39

  And what was the cause of this how-do-you-do?

  This all-falling-back and near-fainting?

  Why, ’twas the sight of what lay within

  The bin, and it weren’t no oil painting.

  What?

  Jonny Hooker peered into the dustbin’s innards, cast aside the lid and delved in. There was a park ranger’s uniform, complete with a cap lined with tinfoil. There was a laptop, a slim metal cylinder that appeared to be a whistle of some kind and a lot of what looked to be used Elastoplast dressings.

  ‘Plague, plague!’ cried Mr Giggles. Loudly and somehow into both of Jonny’s ears at the same time. ‘Don’t touch those dirty things – you’ll get polluted. You’ll get the lurgy.’

  ‘I think not.’ And Jonny Hooker snatched up the cap and rammed it onto his head.

  And back in a great tsunami wave thoughts came crashing back, breaking over damns and breakwaters, sea defences and sandbags. The memories of the days gone before. Of all that had gone before and all that had happened to Jonny.

  And, ‘Ow!’ cried Jonny, clutching at this cap.

  ‘You silly boy,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘Silly boy?’

  ‘I did it for you. To save you. To spare you.’

  ‘You tricked me.’ Jonny was pulling out the park ranger’s uniform. He had torn off his dressing gown and was now standing all nude in the alleyway. ‘Somehow you got me to take off this cap with the tinfoil lining. And then what? How was it done? The Air Loom Gang beaming messages into my unprotected head? Wiping my memory? That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

  ‘I did it for you.’

  ‘I hate you,’ said Jonny. ‘I really hate you.’

  ‘I did it for you. To keep you out of danger.’

  Jonny’s head was all banging about.

  He scrambled his way into the trousers, put two legs down the same leg hole and fell all down on his sorry naked arse.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Mr Giggles jigged about on his furry feet. ‘You fall over and hurt yourself. You’re better off with me looking after you. Caring for you. Seeing that you come to no harm.’

  ‘See this hat?’ said Jonny, floundering about yet pointing to his cap with unerring accuracy. ‘This is going to stay upon my head, come what may, for as long as it takes.’

  ‘As long as it takes to do what?’

  ‘The talks!’ cried Jonny, making it to his knees and doing up his uniform trousers. ‘The secret talks in the Big House at Gunnersbury Park. The secret talks that could determine whether the world lives or dies.’

  ‘Oh, those,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘Yes, those,’ said Jonny, and he fished the park ranger’s jacket from the dustbin.

  ‘Keep out of that, that’s my advice.’

  Jonny glared daggers at Mr Giggles. ‘I don’t care about your advice,’ he told the jigging Monkey Boy. ‘I know enough now to know what must be done. Those secret talks, amongst the controllers, the secret council that really controls the world – I know that there are others who would control them: the Air Loom Gang.’

  ‘Huh,’ went Mr Giggles.

  ‘Not “huh”, no!’ Jonny fished into the jacket pocket and drew out the brass key. The brass key with the date of 1790 upon it and the words ACME AIR LOOM COMPANY also.

  ‘Real,’ said Jonny. ‘All real. Not some figment of my imagination.’

  ‘Like me?’ said Mr G.

  ‘I don’t know what you are.’ Jonny Hooker was now fully uniformed. ‘I don’t know what you are and I do not care. I do now know what my purpose in life is: it is for me to ensure that the secret talks go ahead unmolested.’

  ‘They might well still lead to us all getting blown up.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Jonny, taking up the laptop and examining it. ‘James Crawford’s laptop, with the recording of Robert Johnson’s thirtieth composition upon it. When you had me bunging all this in the dustbin – and how did you do that, by the way? While I was drunk, I suppose, easy meat then, eh? “Take off your cap and sling it away, Jonny boy, it’s ruining your hair.” I can just imagine. Anyway, when you made me bung all this in the dustbin, you should have had me smash up this laptop. Very careless of you, there.’

  ‘Hm,’ went Mr Giggles. ‘You could have had your breakfast without spilling the cornflakes. Then all would have been well.’

  ‘All will be well,’ said Jonny, tucking the laptop into the poacher’s pocket of the park ranger’s jacket, ‘when I have dealt with everything.’

  ‘You?’ went Mr Giggles. ‘You? You’re Jonny Hooker, no-mark loser. Who do you think you are? Jonny Hooker, saviour of Mankind? You’re not, you’re no one – stay out of it, it has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jonny. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘It just slipped out, sorry.’

  ‘You meant it.’ Jonny was now sticking the used Elastoplasts back onto his face.

  ‘No, please don’t do that. That’s disgusting. That looks really naff.’

  ‘I don’t want to be recognised. I’m working undercover – Jonny Hooker, secret agent.’

  Mr Giggles groaned.

  ‘And I’m not talking to you.’

  ‘I only did it to protect you. I don’t want any harm to come to you. It’s all got too dangerous. Too many people have died.’

  ‘Well, I am involved. And I’m staying involved.’

  ‘So what do you think you can do?’

  ‘Thwart the plans of the Air Loom Gang.’

  ‘There is no Air Loom Gang. Get real, Jonny, please.’

  ‘I have the key.’ Jonny flourished it. ‘And the whistle.’ Jonny flourished this also. ‘Although I don’t as yet know the significance of the whistle. But these items are all the proof I need. The Gang exists and they will try to influence the speakers at the secret talks. And I will thwart their evil schemes. This is my purpose. This I now know is what my life is for. The reason for my being, my existence. I will wage war upon the forces of evil that seek to control, indeed possibly even to annihilate, Mankind. War, I say, and I alone will wage it.’

  ‘Get a grip, buddy boy.’

  ‘And don’t you “Buddy Boy” me!’

  ‘Well, will you listen to yourself. You’re not James Bond, you’re Jonny Hooker, nice chap really, but a little misguided. Go back inside, have breakfast, read the Sunday papers, go down to the pub and have a pint at lunchtime and—’

  ‘Pint?’ said Jonny. ‘At the Middle Man?’ said Jonny.

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  ‘Because I understood from you that I was barred from there for knobbing O’Fagin’s wife.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Well—’

  ‘And I now recall that she ran off with a traveller in tobaccos,’ said Jonny. ‘You wanted to keep me away from there because you knew that O’Fagin would say stuff to me that might make me remember what had happened over the last few days.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Mr Giggles. Crossing his heart and hoping not to die.

  ‘And this cap—’ Jonny pointed to the item in question. ‘—This cap and its foil lining are all the proof that I need. With it on, I remember everything.’

  ‘And with it off?’ Mr Giggles mimed the removal of Jonny’s unfetching headwear.

  ‘No way,’ said Jonny. ‘It’s staying on. It blocks out the Air Loom broadcasts that are directed at my head. I know that and you know that.’

  ‘I know no such thing.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you any more,’ said Jonny. ‘I am going to get this job jobbed all by myself.’

  ‘Paul might like to help,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘if you’re adamant.’

  ‘I’ll do it on my own.
I will endanger no one else’s life.’

  ‘You’ll never get back in the park, Jonny boy. It’s ringed around by policemen with big weapons. They’ve dug landmines into the pitch-and-putt and everything.’

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  ‘I might be guessing,’ Mr Giggles suggested.

  ‘Yes, you might.’ Once assured that there was nothing else pertinent lurking around in the dustbin, Jonny replaced its lid.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Breakfast, the papers, then a pint.’

  ‘No,’ said Jonny Hooker, girding his loins as had the biblical heroes of old. ‘It’s war, this is, and war it be, and I am the chosen warrior.’

  Mr Giggles gave another groan.

  ‘War!’ cried Jonny Hooker.

  40

  Inspector Westlake awoke from a curious dream.

  It was a musical dream. Which was to say that there was some music involved. Within this dream, the inspector found himself to be no longer an inspector. Rather he was an itinerant musician who travelled from town to town, playing in pubs and town squares. A kind of wandering troubadour, with his little banjolele and a penchant for singing the blues.

  And in this dream he had set up his amp and his speaker in The Middle Man’s saloon bar, upon the small stage where bands were wont to play. And having done the setting up thereof, he had made away to the gents, caught short, as it were, to take a leak before he began his performance.

  And if indeed it was not odd that he dreamed himself a musician, for in truth he had always harboured a desire to sing the blues, it was odd indeed, when his peeing was done and he took himself over to the washbasin to rinse his hands and beheld his reflection in the mirror above it.

  For the reflection of a young black man gazed thoughtfully back at him. And the inspector, staring thoughtfully himself, and apparently without surprise, recognised at once that this young man was the blues legend known as Robert Johnson.

  And then he found that someone was tinkering with his trousers and suddenly awoke to behold the face of Mrs Corbett smiling from the pillow next to his. With her fingers going fiddle-fiddle-fiddle.

  ‘Well, da-da-de-da-da,’ said the inspector, ‘and pardon me, please, madam. It would appear that I have walked in my sleep and settled myself down in the wrong bed upon my return.’