The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

  Her Madge sat at the table’s head, which was to the north.

  To her left, on the eastern side of the table, Elvis, then Bob.

  To her right, on the western side of the table, Ahab, then Mr Bagshaw.

  At the southern end of the table, to read the minutes, take dictation, pop out for coffee, sweets, dog biscuits, etc., Countess Vanda.

  When the Parliament of Five were seated, Countess Vanda closed and locked the door and took her place at table.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she said.

  Her Majesty nodded and smiled that smile of hers. The one she had been taught to smile by her mum. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said and plucked from her cardigan sleeve a slip of paper. And then, she cleared her throat and read from it.

  It was not the speech that she had been rehearsing earlier. This was a later, honed-down version, passed to her as she left the palace.

  Why? Who can say?

  Parliament of Five, (she read) we are gathered

  here today upon matters of the gravest

  import. Our intervention in world

  matters we keep to the necessary

  minimum. We steer the course of

  nations by means of the influence we

  can exert over those of high office

  who we have placed there to act

  in our interests. Which are to

  say, the interests of all.

  ‘Here, here,’ went Mr Bagshaw.

  ‘Where?’ went Bob the Comical Pup.

  ‘At present, (Her Madge continued) there exists in the

  Middle East a state of tension.

  There is fear and there is menace.

  There is the ever-present danger of

  escalation. That the spark might

  ignite the powder keg and bring

  about global confrontation. Indeed,

  the possibility of global

  extinction. The destruction of

  the human race. We, the

  Parliament of Five, must settle

  this situation once and for all.

  ‘Are we agreed upon this?’ she concluded

  ‘On that we are no doubt all in agreement,’ said Ahab the A-rab. ‘It is the manner in which this situation is to be settled that might be a cause for disagreement.’

  Mr Bagshaw went, ‘Ahem.’

  Her Madge said, ‘Mister Bagshaw? Take the floor as you will, so to speak.’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Mr Bagshaw cleared his throat. ‘Brother Ahab, I believe, has some fears that we might consider a radical solution a tenable option.’

  ‘A radical solution?’ queried Her Madge.

  ‘A nuclear solution,’ said Mr Bagshaw.

  ‘Damn and tootin’ right,’ said Ahab. ‘And naturally as a humble tent-dweller with little or no education, ill-versed in the ways of Western sophistication and force-fed a diet of vegetarian McDonald’s and kipper fillets, I concur that on the face of it, it is probably the best thing to do.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Bagshaw. ‘You do?’

  ‘I have my mobile with me,’ said Ahab. ‘It’s a Tesco mobile, and as a valued customer I have a free voicemail facility for three months. I can phone the Nuclear Command Centre in Baghdad and have a nuke shot over to wipe out Israel in less than half an hour.’

  ‘Nuclear Command Centre in Baghdad?’ said Bob the Comical Pup.

  ‘It’s a US thing,’ said Elvis, and he curled his lip in a manner that Her Madge found most appealing.

  ‘A US thing?’ said Bob. ‘You mean the Americans have placed nuclear missiles in Baghdad that are aimed at Israel?’

  ‘Tut tut, Bob,’ said Her Madge. ‘Could you think of a better place to put them? No blame could possibly attach to the West if they are ever fired.’

  ‘Might I just raise my hand here?’ said Mr Bagshaw.

  ‘Need the bog?’ said Bob, a pup to whom the appellation ‘comical’ seemed more in the realm of irony.

  ‘Are we sanctioning the nuclear destruction of Israel?’ Mr Bagshaw enquired. ‘I’m not objecting, you understand, I’m only asking.’

  ‘It’s an option,’ said Her Madge. ‘One amongst many that we can discuss.’

  ‘Not too many, I hope,’ said Ahab. ‘I’ve brought my satellite TV – Father Ted is on at three.’

  ‘Then we’ll try to get done by two.’ Her Majesty brought out her knitting from somewhere and click-click-clicked with the needles.

  ‘My guys,’ said Elvis. ‘Which is to say, my army. Which is to say the American Army, are keen to be home by Thanksgiving. I could have them pulled out in a couple of weeks. Then Israel could be nuked, and in the forthcoming nuclear retaliation, none of my guys would get hurt.’

  ‘That’s fair,’ said Ahab. ‘My family, of course, would all die.’

  ‘You can’t make a peanut and banana flapjack without breaking eggs,’ said Elvis. ‘Is it time for lunch yet?’

  ‘I’m peckish,’ said Her Madge. ‘Lunch might be nice.’

  ‘Might I read through the notes so far?’ asked Countess Vanda.

  ‘You do that, dear,’ said Her Madge.

  ‘Full-scale American troop withdrawal from Iraq, followed by nuclear assault on Israel launched from Baghdad, followed by nuclear retaliation from Israel resulting in the destruction of Iraq—’

  ‘And Iran,’ said Elvis. ‘To be on the safe side.’

  ‘And Lebanon,’ said Mr Bagshaw. ‘And Libya. Take out the entire Arab world as a whole, mess cleared, job done—’

  ‘And time for lunch,’ said Her Majesty the Queen.

  The Parliament of Five now left the secret meeting room. A pair of eyes that watched them leave went blink-blink-blink behind them.

  This pair of eyes had peered through the eyeholes in the portrait of Sir Henry Crawford. The pair of eyes belonged, of course, to Jonny Hooker. The pair of ears, one to either side of this head, did also.

  Jonny Hooker replaced Sir Henry’s canvas eyes and stood in the darkness.

  ‘You heard all that, too, didn’t you?’ he said.

  And there was silence.

  Then the words, ‘You mean me?’

  ‘I mean you, Mister Giggles,’ said Jonny, ‘You heard all that in there, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I believe I did.’

  ‘They’re going to nuke the Middle East.’

  ‘Seems so, yes.’

  ‘The Queen,’ said Jonny, ‘Elvis Presley and a talking dog.’

  ‘Don’t forget the camel-jockey and the bloke out of Thunderbirds.’

  ‘They’re insane,’ said Jonny. ‘They’ll destroy us all.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s method in their madness.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sure they know what they’re doing.’

  ‘I’m sure that they don’t.’

  ‘So what do you propose to do about it?’

  ‘I’ll expose them,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll expose them to the world.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You’ll tell the world that Her Majesty the Queen, Elvis Presley – the dead King of rock ’n’ roll, and a talking pup named Bob are plotting to instigate a nuclear war.’

  ‘Hm,’ went Jonny Hooker.

  ‘Hm indeed,’ went Mr Giggles. ‘Don’t you see, Jonny? Don’t you understand how this works?’

  Jonny Hooker shook his head in the darkness.

  ‘I’ll assume that was a shake,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘It works in this fashion. Each and every one of us has a little bit of the conspiracy theorist in us. Even if it’s only a tiny bit. At one time or another we’ve each felt that we’re not being told all of the truth. Even on a minor level, by our doctor, or our accountant, or our lover—’

  ‘Because we’re not,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Quite so. But usually it’s trivial, just the usual lies that folk tell each other. And we all do it. But when you are in charge of a nation, a continent, the lies can get quite big. Big and important. And the theory that there is something else going on behind th
e scenes, that there is some big secret that we’re not being told because it is a big secret, which is why we’re never going to be told it – well, now you know it’s true. But now you also know, you can do absolutely nothing about it, because no one will believe you. Because the truth is so ludicrous, so fanciful, so outré, so whacked-out, that no one will ever believe it. Which is why it is true. Which is why it works.’

  ‘But we can’t let these loonys kill millions of innocent people.’

  ‘Who is innocent?’ asked Mr Giggles.

  ‘Don’t give me that.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Let’s away, then. We’ll leave the park, then you can phone up the Sunday Sport and tell them everything you know.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Top man,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘But I can do better than that,’ said Jonny. ‘I can broadcast my story.’

  ‘Not quite following you there,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘No,’ said Jonny, ‘but I have a plan. And with my plan, if all works out, I’m going to save Mankind.’

  47

  Inspector Westlake had a plan.

  And this he now explained.

  He sat in the cab of the big Special Ops lead truck, in the crowded company of Constables Paul, Justice, Cartwright, Cassidy and Rogers. ‘Play it back again,’ he told Constable Cartwright.

  Constable Cartwright tinkered with the super SatNav.

  ‘There,’ he said, and he pointed. ‘You see how he slipped into the boot of the last limo. That didn’t slip by me – we arrested him as soon as he stepped from the boot.’

  ‘And those–’ Inspector Westlake pointed to the glowing shapes of three other men. ‘–Those would be myself and my two constables, entering another of the limos. But you failed to notice that at the time.’

  Constable Cartwright grunted in the affirmative.

  ‘Can you bring it up?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Not quite following you there, sir,’ said Constable Cartwright.

  ‘The image of the terrorist in the boot. Can you expand the image?’

  ‘I think I can do better than that,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘I’ve been having a little tinker with this jobbie whenever I’ve had a free moment, and it can do all kinds of party tricks. You’re hoping to identify the terrorist, I suppose.’

  Inspector Westlake nodded.

  ‘Then just watch this and prepare to be impressed.’ And Constable Rogers took to tinkering. The SatNav image of the body in the boot zoomed in and a fuzzy image of a man’s face filled the screen. Then a grid formed about it, twisted at ninety degrees and a three-dimensional model appeared. Then the screen split, with the facial image to the left and a blur of faces to the right as the computer skipped through the central database in search of a match.

  Constable Paul watched it searching. He knew that sooner or later, and probably sooner rather than later, it would find its match. Amongst the inmate files of the Special Wing of Brentford Cottage Hospital.

  ‘Oh dear me, Jonny,’ whispered Constable Paul beneath his breath. ‘You are in so much trouble.’

  ‘Bingo,’ went Constable Rogers. ‘Jonathan Hooker. Local boy. Escaped mental patient.’

  ‘Escaped mental patient and serial killer,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘And I thought he was dead.’ And he tapped his finger against the SatNav screen. ‘I’ll have you, my lad. I will.’

  ‘You mentioned something about a plan, I believe, sir,’ said Constable Justice.

  ‘Whoa!’ went Constable Paul. ‘His head’s all vanished away again.’

  ‘Keep the suits switched off !’ said the inspector. ‘I did say something about a plan, yes, and I am going to outline this plan to you right here and now, so there can be no confusion when we put this plan into operation. Do I make myself understood?’

  ‘So far,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘You’re not going to have us prosecuted for shooting at you and trying to arrest you and all those other little mistakes? Sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Not as you’ve been trying so hard to impress me by being so helpful. Not if you can help me to pull off my plan. Firstly, I want you to go and collect every earphone and mic from every Special Ops operative in the park. I am in charge of this operation, not Thompson.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Constable Cassidy. ‘I like a nice walk in the park.’

  ‘Jog,’ said the inspector. ‘Throw all the earphones and mics into the pond and then return to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Constable Cassidy, and he squeezed his way from the cab.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ asked Constable Cartwright.

  ‘I want you to impress me some more with this SatNav gizmo. I want you to use it to locate the whereabouts of Mister Jonathan Hooker, serial killer and would-be assassin. Train the SatNav on the Big House and let’s flush the blighter out.’

  ‘That’s very clever,’ said Constable Cartwright.

  ‘Very clever, what?’

  ‘Very clever, sir,’ said Constable Cartwright.

  ‘That does sound like a rather clever plan,’ said Mr Giggles the Monkey Boy. ‘Would you care to run it by me just one more time, in case I missed anything?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Oh yes you would, you really would.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jonny. ‘It’s very simple. I am going to use James Crawford’s laptop, which I have here in the poacher’s pocket of this ill-smelling jacket, to record the rest of this afternoon’s meeting. It has a webcam jobbie on it and a mic for sound. I’ll put it up to the eyeholes of the portrait and record the proceedings. Then I’ll e-mail it to every news agency in the world.’

  ‘And you can really do that? With that little laptop computer?’

  ‘That and a whole lot more. It’s a pretty smart plan, is it not?’

  ‘It is,’ said Mr Giggles, with a somewhat thoughtful tone in his voice.

  ‘I’ll have them,’ said Jonny. ‘Ludicrous and impossible as though they may be, I’ll expose them to the entire world. When people see them with their own eyes and hear them with their own ears and watch the situation in the Middle East coming apart exactly as the Parliament of Five have orchestrated it, they’ll believe me then.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I do believe they might.’

  ‘I’ve got them,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll bring them to justice. They’ll pay for their crimes against Mankind.’

  And Jonny Hooker rubbed his hands together. ‘They are in so much trouble,’ he said. ‘Just wait ’till they get back from lunch.’

  Count Otto Black was having his lunch. He’d had to send out a dwarf to pilfer Special Operations field rations, but he was enjoying this lunch all the same.

  The Glove Woman sat at the keyboard of the Air Loom, flexed her fingers and clicked her long neck from side to side. ‘Phase one is a success,’ said she.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Count Otto. ‘Phase one. Our magnetised Parliament of Five dance to the tune of the Air Loom. As puppets do they dance, bereft of their own wills, made slaves to the magnetic flux beamed upon them. And how humorously so. The opening theme you played so well upon the keyboard – I so enjoyed the Arab, such false modesty, such subtle innuendo.’

  ‘I am honoured that you appreciate my technique,’ said the Glove Woman. ‘A little trill of my own, here and there, to take the edge off the brutality of the message. To inject a little humour, a little joviality.’

  ‘Oh sweet, sweet,’ crooned the count. ‘They are our puppets, they dance to our tune.’ He approached the infernal machine and ran a long and slender hand up and down one of the tall glass tubes. Dangerous energy swirled within; magnetic fluxes fluxed. ‘Oh yes,’ the count continued. ‘Oh sweet, sweet, sweet. We shall indeed prevail.’

  48

  At somewhat after two of the afternoon clock, the Parliament of Five returned to Princess Amelia’s sitting room. They could have returned there sharp upon
two, as folk will do after having their lunch hours, but this was the Parliament of Five, for dearness’ sake, the secret rulers of the world. The controllers who control the controllers. If they chose to be late back from lunch, who was going to tell them off?

  Jonny watched them through the eyeholes of Sir Henry Crawford’s portrait. ‘Swine,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Filling their evil guts and I’m starving.’

  ‘You should have brought a packed lunch,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Forward planning is everything. You’ll pass out from the hunger if you’re not careful. Let’s go down to the pub.’

  Jonny did not dignify this with an answer.

  Her Madge settled herself back into her gilt and throne-like at the head of the table and bade the others take their seats. But all had done so already.

  ‘Round two,’ said Her Madge. ‘Ding ding, seconds out and all that kind of caper.’

  ‘“Kind of caper”?’ said Bob. ‘Does the Queen say things like “kind of caper”?’

  ‘It’s what being Queen is all about,’ said the Queen. ‘We would not say “kind of caper” in front of the plebs, of course. We just waves We’s hand and smiles We’s special smile.’

  And she smiled her special smile in demonstration.

  And all agreed that it was a special smile.

  ‘Where were we up to?’ asked Her Majesty the Queen of Countess Vanda at the table’s end.

  Countess Vanda ran through the notes and while she did so Jonny diddled about with the late James Crawford’s laptop. The mic and the webcam jobbies were on extendible wires and Jonny extended these. He poked the mic through one eyehole of the portrait and the webcam through the other. Then he wiggled them about until perfect sound and vision were to be heard and seen in the laptop screen department. ‘Damning evidence take one,’ he said as he fingered keyboard keys and got the whole thing up and running.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said to Mr Giggles. ‘Lovely image on the screen, eh? And perfect sound quality. The ultimate reality show. What would you call it? I’m a Celebrity and I Secretly Rule the World, So Don’t Get Me Out of Here?’ What do you think?’

  ‘On past experience,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘I think it will all end in tears. But let’s look on the bright side – you’re all hidden away in a secret passage where you can’t really get yourself into any trouble for the moment and no one is likely to find you, so that’s something, isn’t it?’