The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (25 page)

‘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 the 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.’

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.’

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?’

‘That’s something,’ said Inspector Westlake in the constable-crowded vehicle. ‘What
is
that something?’

‘That something,’ said Constable Cartwright, ‘is Joan on the reception desk. She’s a bit of all right, that Joan, isn’t she?’

Inspector Westlake cuffed the constable lightly on the ear. ‘We are supposed to be discovering the location of the serial killer,’ he said. ‘Impress me, if you will.’

‘Will do, sir,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Now here–’ and he did pressings of buttons ‘–Is an architectural schematic of the Big House that I downloaded from the central database. The only people inside the Big House should be the six atendees of the secret meeting—’

‘Secret meeting?’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘What secret meeting is this?’

‘You mean you don’t know about the secret meeting?’ asked Constable Rogers. ‘What do you think we’re all doing here anyway?’

‘That’s what I kept asking,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Again and again I asked.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘And you never did get an answer, did you?’

‘No, I bloody didn’t.’

‘Language,’ said Inspector Westlake.

‘Well, sir, it’s not fair.’

‘So what
is
the secret meeting for?’ asked Constable Paul. ‘No one’s told us either. Is it to organise a come-back concert for Elvis?’

‘Elvis?’ said Constable Cartwright.

‘We came in with him in that limo,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Nice chap. I don’t believe he really has Barry the Time Sprout in his head.’

‘
Barry the Time Sprout?
’

‘Enough.’ Inspector Westlake raised a fist and, the constables cringed at its raising. ‘For your information and your information alone, or at least for those of you who don’t already know, a secret meeting is being held in Princess Amelia’s sitting room – a secret meeting of heads of state to sort out the troubles in the Middle East.’

‘And Elvis Presley is a head of state?’ asked Constable Justice, for he hadn’t said anything for a while.

‘Slightly puzzled about that myself,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘I saw Her Majesty, a shifty-looking Arab, a bloke who looked like Brains out of
Thunderbirds
and a dog.’

‘A dog?’ said Constable Paul.

‘There is a dog,’ said Constable Cartwright, pointing to the screen of the advanced SatNav. ‘It’s sitting at the table in Princess Amelia’s sitter. Six around the table. Including a dog.’

‘That would be the secret meeting,’ said the inspector. ‘Now scan about a bit and let’s see if we can zero in on our serial killer.’

Constable Paul chewed on his lip, but kept his thoughts to himself.

‘Ah,’ said Constable Cartwright, ‘here’s something.’

Inspector Westlake looked on.

‘More people,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘In fact, another five. But they’re not our men because there are none of our men left in the Big House.’

‘
None
of your men?’ said Inspector Westlake.

‘You arrested us,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘We were the Big House secret security team.’

‘Just the three of you?’

‘There were more.’ Constable Rogers crossed himself. ‘But the invisibility suits, they sort of—’

‘Sort of
what
?’ went Constable Paul.

As did Constable Justice.

‘Sort of blew up one after another. It’s all been a bit stressful really,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Which is why we didn’t really mind handing our suits over to you blokes.’

Constable Paul was now struggling to remove himself from his suit.

‘Keep it
on
!’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘We may have need of it.’

‘But, sir—’

‘Keep it on. And pay attention. If there are no security forces in the Big House, who are the other people registering on the SatNav?’

Constable Cartwright twiddled further knobs. ‘I’m getting a big reading here. Five people,’ said he, ‘in the basement,’ said he, ‘in one of the storage rooms,’ said he also. ‘And—’ And he paused.

‘And?’ said Inspector Westlake.

‘There’s something more, sir. There’s something down there with them and it’s chucking out a lot of radiation.’

‘As in heat?’

‘As in magnetic, sir.’

‘Magnetic?’ Inspector Westlake tried to give his head a scratch, but it
was
very crowded, so he only succeeded in scratching Constable Justice’s.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Constable Justice. ‘But are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘Probably not,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘But pray do tell what you’re thinking.’

‘Nuke,’ said Constable Justice.

‘No,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘You are not going to nuke anyone. I know how much you love your weapons, but—’

‘No, sir, not
me
nuke, sir. In the basement. Something big, giving off magnetic radiation. I remember reading in
Jane’s Megaweapon Catalogue
that the new Apocalypse Three Thousand (Gamma Knubnub Kill-the-lot-and-let-God-sort-’em-out, one-size-slays-all) bomb, the one that can fit into a suitcase, gives off magnetic radiation when it’s about to … ’ Constable Justice’s words trailed off.

‘Explode?’ asked Constable Paul.

*

‘Boom!’ went Elvis. ‘Then boom, boom – how many booms did you say there’d be, Mister Ahab the A-rab, sir?’

‘Six should be enough.’

Mr Bagshaw nodded his great big head. ‘We will lose all of the Middle Eastern oilfields,’ he said as he nodded, ‘but this will not present any difficulties as the Russian ones we are presently opening up can more than cover the shortfall. Or if not, we can always resort to the MacGregor-Mathers Water Car.’

‘What in the name of glory is that, sir?’ Elvis asked.

‘It’s a car that runs on water, rather than, as you colonials put it, gasoline.’

‘I want me one of them,’ said Elvis.

‘And you might well get one. We’ve been holding back the patent for decades. At a pinch we could put them into production.’

‘One with fins,’ said Elvis. ‘And weather-eye air conditioning.’

‘And a litter tray,’ said Bob. ‘Although that’s really a pussy thing, but I do get caught short sometimes.’

‘So, are we all agreed?’ asked Her Madge, clicking away with her needles. ‘Boom boom boom and all that kind of caper?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Mr Bagshaw. ‘Positively inspired, in my opinion.’

‘Oh, how splendid,’ said Her Madge. ‘We can all be home in time for tea. Well, at least I can, because I only live up the road.’

‘I love it when a plan comes together,’ said Ahab the A-rab. ‘That’s off
The A
-
Team
, by the way. We get that, too, dubbed as well. That Mister T is a bit of a character, isn’t he? I love the way he endorses Islamic Jihad every week.’

‘Well,’ said the Queen, ‘then I don’t think we need to spend any more time on this matter. The solution is indeed inspired. In fact, I have to say that I personally do not feel that I can take credit personally, personally, as it were.’

‘How so, your loveliness?’ asked Bob.

‘Well, dear,’ said Her Madge, ‘as you know We
are
English, and We
are
the Queen, so naturally enough We
are
greatly loved by God. But We have to confess that He rarely, if ever, speaks to We personally. So when, during the course of this meeting, He has been singing away in We’s head telling We what to say, then that is what We mean by inspired. Divinely inspired.’

‘You’ve been hearing the voice of Allah?’ asked Ahab the A-rab.

‘Well—’ said Her Madge.

‘Because so have I. Although at first I thought it was Father Ted.’

‘I thought it was Colonel Tom,’ said Elvis.

‘I thought it was my mum,’ said Mr Bagshaw.

‘I thought it was your mum, too,’ said Bob. ‘But if it was God, well, so much the better for it, I say.’

‘The
voice
of God?’ Jonny Hooker gazed at the screen of the laptop. ‘
The voice of God?
’

‘Just like Joan of Arc,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘Not like that at all. Don’t you get it? They haven’t been making those terrible decisions. It’s not them.’

‘It looks very much like them,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘It’s
not
them,’ said Jonny, ‘making the decisions. It’s the Air Loom Gang. The Parliament of Five have been magnetised. They think they are being inspired by God, but it’s not God, it’s the Air Loom beaming words into their heads. How could I have been so stupid as not to realise what was really going on?’

Mr Giggles didn’t answer.

Mr Giggles was silent.

And sometimes silence can say so much.

And this was one of those times.