The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (20 page)

‘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.

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 here 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.

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 flying 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?’

‘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.