The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (23 page)

That Elvis was alive and well and looking good surprised them not.

But then, come on now, none of us
really
believes that he’s dead. Do we?

Mr Good had never believed it. He knew that something fishy had gone on that day, in that bathroom, at Graceland.

Rumours abounded and no more so than within the hire-car profession, where chauffeurs are apt to ‘accidentally overhear’ all manner of sensitive information and a certain underground grapevine spreads this info up and down the land. The word was out that Elvis’ death had been faked because the King of rock ’n’ roll was engaged in work of national importance and that the President himself had sanctioned the deception.

The word was out on the underground grapevine that Elvis was capable of travelling through time, aided by an alien vegetable that had taken up residence in the back of his head. Barry the Time Sprout, this vegetable was called.

And who would be inclined to doubt this?

Elvis descended from the plane, pressed palms with assembled personages and was led to the limo.

‘Good day, sir,’ said Elvis to Mr Good.

‘Good day, Mr—’ and he almost said it.

Elvis Presley entered the limo and was driven away.

Driven.

As in a driven soul.

When, in the early eighteen hundreds, John Haslam, the doctor in overall control of St Mary of Bethlehem Asylum, interviewed the inmate James Tilly Matthews regarding his extraordinary claims that his mind was under almost constant assault by magnetic emanations delivered to him via the medium of an Air Loom, Mr Matthews was able to supply Mr Haslam with a wealth of specific information.

He explained to Haslam that ‘the apparatus, called by the assassins that manipulate it an Air Loom machine or pneumatic machine, might be said, in part, to resemble a kneehole or partners’ desk, although magnified in size. In bigness it would appear some nine feet in length, six in height and another seven in depth. Large drawers to either side of it and between something like piano-forte keys, which open tube valves within the Air Loom to spread or feed the warp of magnetic fluid. To either side of these keys, levers by which the assailed is wrenched, stagnated, and the sudden-death efforts made upon him.

‘Above, are a cluster of upright open glass tubes, which the assassins term their
musical glasses
. These are of extreme importance, for within these the magnetic fluxes condense and are dispelled. I am given to understand that these glasses are of a fragility and a volatility wherein explosive forces are pent. I could never ascertain what the bulky upper parts were, although I discerned paddle – or windmill-like attachments, but the barrels I saw distinctly, witnessing the famous gooseneck retorts, which supply the Air Loom with the distilled gasses, as well as the poisoned magnetics.

‘The preparations within these barrels are of the most dreadful
content. Sexual fluid, both male and female, effluvia of copper, ditto of sulphur, vapours of vitriol and aqua fortis, belladonna and hellebore, effluvia of dogs, stinking human breath, putrid effluvia of mortification and the plague, stench of the cesspool, gaz from the anus of a horse, human gaz, gaz from a horse’s greasy heels, Egyptian snuff (this is a dusty vapour, extremely nauseous), poison of toad, otto of roses.’

He also furnished Haslam with a catalogue of terrible torments that the manipulators of this hellish contrivance were able to visit upon their sorry and magnetized victims, via the medium of a flux projected through the ether from machine to unfortunate target.

Space forbids the inclusion of all, but a sample should be sufficient to convince the reader of the horrors involved.

Fluid-Locking
: A locking or constriction of the fibres of the root of the tongue, whereby the readiness of speech is impeded.

Stone-Making
: The sensation that a precipitation exists within the bladder, as it were a stone or obstruction.

Kiteing
: This is a very singular and distressing mode of assailment, much practised by the Gang, in which ideas that are alien to the victim are kited, or floated, into his head by means of the magnetic impregnations. The idea that is kited keeps waving in his mind and he becomes incapable of concentrating upon any other.

Lobster-Cracking
: The external pressure of the magnetic atmosphere surrounding the victim is increased in order to stagnate his circulation, impede the vital motions and produce instant death.

Other equally terrifying torments include:
Stomach-Skinning
,
Lengthening the Brain
,
Thought-Making
,
Bladder-Filling
,
Gaz-Plucking
,
Bomb-Bursting
,
Apoplexy-Working
,
Thigh-Talking
and
Cutting Soul from Sense
.

It has been argued with vigour, by those who value the currency of present-day psychiatry above that of intuition, that Matthews was a paranoid schizophrenic who had created a delusional architecture of considerable detail, sufficient indeed to convince anyone other than the doctors who attended him, but was nonetheless, to these doctors, a stone bonker when it came right down to it.

Hence Mr Matthews’s twelve-year incarceration in Bedlam,
regarding which it was fairly stated that, ‘If you’re not mad when they commit you, you soon will be.’

So, some things never change.

Logic informed the keepers of Bedlam that a device such as the Air Loom could not possibly exist. And the reason that such a device could
not
exist was because a device such as an Air Loom could not possibly exist.

These doubters of the Air Loom’s reality based their doubts upon a number of premises. The technology to create an Air Loom did not exist. The madness of Matthews was, however, a symptom of an age of wonders, an age of scientific breakthroughs, of new and awesome machines. Of the animal magnetism of Mesmer. Of electrical experimentation. Of a general paranoia sweeping the nation, its flames stoked by the French Revolution. A fear of spies. The ‘Reds Under the Beds’ of the day. The fear of the new.

Everywhere were quack doctors and crazy scientists. Experimentation – magical, magnetical, metaphysical.

Why, it was enough to drive the sanest fellow mad.

There was just too much of it about.

And so Matthews, a somewhat excitable fellow by nature, had got an electrical, magnetical, pneumatic bee in his bonnet. He had gone off the rails.

He was, indeed, a stone bonker.

And what made James Tilly Matthews memorable was that he was the first recorded mental patient who claimed that voices were being put into his head through the medium of an Influencing Machine.

When it comes to paranoid-schizophrenic conspiracy-nuts, James Tilly Matthews was Patient Zero.

So that explains that, really.

In a nutcase, as it were.

‘As it were.’ Count Otto Black pulled out one of the organ-stop jobbies atop the piano forte keyboard of the Air Loom, adjusted something that might very well have been a flux capacitor and trotted out a well-loved chestnut kind of jobbie: ‘The greatest trick the Devil ever played,’ said the count, with a suitable cackle, ‘was to
convince Mankind that he doesn’t exist.’

His partners-in-crime nodded grimly. Jack the Schoolmaster muttered obscenities and the Glove Woman placed a sheet of what might have been music on a stand above the organ stops and fluttered her gloved fingers over the Air Loom keyboard.

‘We have the music, we have,’ she said. ‘And we will play, so we will.’

‘And triumph,’ said the count. ‘As I may have mentioned.’

A knock came at the storeroom door and this knock went unanswered. A knock came again, a coded knock. A dwarf in a feathered bonnet answered this.

‘I crave entrance,’ came a female’s voice.

‘Under whose star?’ came the reply from the count.

‘Under the Master’s star, which is Sirius in the ascendant.’

‘Enter, Sister, and be recognised to all.’

The female entered the underground chamber. A somewhat crowded chamber, this. ‘You have all that you require?’ she enquired of the count.

‘We could do with some beer,’ said Jack the Schoolmaster.

‘And crisps,’ said the Glove Woman.

‘I’ll send out for both and more.’ The female smiled upon the assembled company. The female had a certain air about her. As of authority. And she was a good-looker, too, what with the very nice breasts, the gorgeous green eyes and the really sweet nose.

‘The barrels, I see, have arrived,’ said Countess Vanda. And she wafted over to Count Otto and kissed him tenderly.

‘Indeed, my countess,’ said that man. ‘Filled to the specification of formula, as I requested, I trust.’

‘Indeed, yes. Heavy on the gaz from a horse’s anus. Not to mention the toe jam.’

There was a pregnant pause, there was, but no one mentioned the toe jam.

‘Lovely,’ said the count, and he took Countess Vanda in his arms and kissed her passionately.

‘I’d like a little of
that
.’ Jack the schoolmaster smirked.

A dwarf tittered into his hand.

Count Otto Black turned upon Jack, whose face took fear in the candlelight.

‘We will be done here this day,’ said he. ‘And when we’re done we’ll stay done for another century if need be, till we’re called on again once more to do our duty. Oh, but tonight we shall dance and make merry and drink and imbibe strange drugs and lie together in filthy congregation.’

‘I shall not nay-say to that,’ said Jack.

‘But for now know your manners, my lad.’

‘I will, sir, my lord, sir, I will.’

‘Just so.’

Countess Vanda smiled up at Count Otto Black. ‘The Parliament of Five are on their way here,’ she said. ‘They should arrive within the hour. The talks are scheduled to begin at twelve. The Loom will be in full operating order by that hour, I assume.’

‘How could it be otherwise, my love?’

‘Nicely, nicely,’ said the countess. ‘This must all be done to a nicety. And none must know of our doing.’

‘None
ever
know,’ said Count Otto. ‘And those who do are declared mad and committed to the madhouse. Such as it ever was, for some things never change.’

‘Nicely, nicely,’ said the countess once more.

‘For how could it be otherwise?’ said Count Otto Black. ‘We control those who control the controllers. Bliss that is and the way it should be. And who—’

And he raised his voice and did laughings.

‘Who might there be who can stop us?’

Jonny Hooker made some shapes and one heroic pose.

‘And what, pray tell me, is
that
supposed to be?’

Jonny Hooker ignored Mr Giggles and flexed a muscle or two.

‘And
that
? What was
that
? What are
those
supposed to be?’

‘Those are muscles,’ said Jonny, giving his arm a bit of a squeeze and only flinching a little. ‘And I am throwing, as it were, a heroic pose.’

‘Right,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘And for why?’

‘You know for why – because I am going into battle against the forces of evil. A lone warrior. Heroic, and alone.’

Mr Giggles wrinkled his nose. ‘And more than just a bit niffy,’ he observed.

Jonny Hooker did armpit sniffing. ‘It didn’t help, you having me put this uniform in the dustbin,’ said he.

‘It’s not a good look,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘And the sticking plaster all over your face. And that cap doesn’t suit you at all. At least take off the cap.’

And Jonny Hooker made the face that says, ‘Yeah right.’ And continued to make it as he marched out of the alleyway, down his garden path and out of his front garden.

‘You won’t get in,’ said Mr Giggles, diddling about with his fez and padding along beside Jonny. ‘Into the park. You won’t get in. There’s far too much security. Blokes in black uniforms, guard posts, uniforms, gun nests. Let’s go down to the pub.’

‘The pub won’t be open,’ said Jonny.

‘And how could you know that?’

‘I know
that
,’ said Jonny, ‘because, even as we speak, O’Fagin the landlord is upstairs in my house, knobbing my mum.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Mr Giggles, hiding his face with his fez. ‘Not
an image I want imprinted upon my soul. But you can’t know
that
, surely.’

‘I saw him sneaking in,’ said Jonny. ‘I think he and my mum have been doing the nasty for quite some time. I’m sorry that I didn’t really get to shag his wife.’

‘Why don’t we go back and listen at the bedroom door?’ asked Mr Giggles. ‘Perhaps I was a little hasty. It might be fun.’

‘I think I’ll just get on with the fighting the forces of evil,’ said Jonny. ‘If it’s all right with you.’

‘It’s
not
all right with me. You know it’s not all right with me.’

‘You go and listen at the door, then. I’m off to Gunnersbury Park.’

‘But,’ went Mr Giggles. ‘But-but-but—’

‘But me no buts,’ said Constable Justice.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Why did you think that I would?’

‘I thought you might have some objection to me breaking down the door to the saloon bar and us helping ourselves to O’Fagin’s beer.’

Constable Paul did shruggings. ‘You won’t find me complaining about
that
,’ said he. ‘I’ll have my usual, a Guinness without the head.’

‘You’ll do no such bloody thing.’ A hand fell upon the shoulder of Paul. Another on that of Constable Justice. The left shoulder, it was. The hands adjoined arms (separate arms). These arms terminated at shoulders. These shoulders belonged, as did all the other bodily bits and bobs (one bob in particular was now a trifle sore as it had recently been engaged in the sexual pursuit known as ‘Taking Tea with the Parson’) belonged to a certain Inspector Westlake.

The
Inspector Westlake, in fact.

In case there was any confusion.

‘Any confusion?’ asked Inspector Westlake.

‘None whatever, sir,’ said Constable Justice.

Constable Paul just nodded.

‘Good,’ said the inspector, ‘because there will be no on-duty drinkies this morning. We are on duty, for Queen and country. We have business that awaits us in Gunnersbury Park.’

‘But we just came from there, sir,’ said Constable Justice, edging himself away from the inspector’s hand. ‘Those bastards from Special Ops won’t let us into the park.’

Inspector Westlake made a face that was both grim and determined. A forceful combination. ‘As long as I have breath in my body,’ he declared, and he placed a hand upon his heart, ‘I shall defend this green and sceptical island of ours. We
shall
enter that park. We
shall
do our duty.’

‘And I shall do mine,’ whispered Jonny, who lay in hiding near at hand and had overheard the conversation.

‘And you think that if you follow these nitwits, you might be able to sneak into the park?’ Mr Giggles didn’t whisper. He shouted very, very loudly.

‘Will you shut up!’ Jonny shushed him into silence. ‘They might not be able to get in, but they might create a diversion sufficient for me to slip by.’

‘It will all end in tears.’ And Mr Giggles mimed weepings. ‘Let’s just head for the hills.’

‘The hills are alive with the sound of music,’ sang Mogador Firesword who, when not either driving the limo or fantasy gaming, numbered amateur theatricals and light opera
and
the history of musical cinema amongst his interests. The latter being the subject he hoped to specialise in if he ever got the opportunity to appear on
Mastermind
.

‘Put a sock in it,’ called Bob the Comical Pup.

Mogador Firesword put in the sock. And a chill ran down his spine. That dog really
did
speak. It wasn’t some ventriloquist’s dummy, or remotely controlled toy, as he had supposed when finally, his many forms filled in and signed, he’d been allowed to receive Bob into his company and accept that the Comical Pup was now under his personal protection. And should anything happen to the pooch – the beautiful young woman behind the reception desk had drawn her finger across her throat and mimed death. And she did it with a great deal more conviction and skill than Mr Giggles mimed weepings.

Although Mogador wasn’t to know
that
.

So Mogador Firesword put in the sock and got a bit of a sweat on.

‘Are we nearly there yet?’ asked Bob, bobbing up and down on a rear seat. ‘Only I really need to lift my leg and it would be a shame to taint your upholstery.’

‘Not far now,’ said Mogador Firesword. ‘Less than half a mile. It’s just past that wrecked pub on the right.’

‘About half a mile and closing.’ The voice of Thompson was in the ear-bead jobbie of Constable Cartwright. Constable Cartwright and Constable Rogers now sat in the big truck that had conveyed them from Mornington Crescent. The truck with the very special SatNav.

‘I see them,’ said Constable Cartwright, tinkering with this very special SatNav. ‘Five limos approaching along Pope’s Lane. And yes, I can see the heat signatures of the occupants. Who’s in the first one, though? A driver and what? A tiny person in the back?’

‘It’s a dog,’ said Thompson.

‘Perhaps it’s Bullet,’ said Constable Rogers.

‘Bullet?’ said Constable Cartwright.

‘Roy Rogers’ dog. He had a horse called Trigger and a dog called Bullet.’

‘He never did. I thought Rin Tin Tin was his dog.’

‘Not a bit of it – Rin Tin Tin was very much his own dog. A bit like the Littlest Hobo. Same make of dog, the ever-popular Alsatian, or German shepherd as it’s now known. Now that it’s not so ever-popular. Although I don’t think the one in the back of the limo looks anything like a German shepherd. Don’t they wear leather shorts with bells on?’

There as a moment of silence.

Eventually this moment passed.

‘Constable Rogers,’ came the voice of Thompson into the ear of Rogers.

‘Yes, sir?’ said that constable.

‘Never mind,’ said Thompson. ‘How are the invisibility suits, by the way? Everything hunky-dory?’

The headless Constable Rogers regarded his legless colleague. ‘Working a treat, sir,’ was all he had to say.

*

Jonny Hooker said nothing. He had watched the five limousines pass The Middle Man. He felt it reasonable to assume that they were heading for Gunnersbury Park.

Jonny now watched as the traffic lights at the crossing ahead turned red and a lady in a straw hat, dragging a packing case behind her, took to crossing the road. And then Jonny ducked down as Constable Paul, Constable Justice and Inspector Westlake took off towards the rear limousine at the hurry-up.

‘And hurry up, do,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘
I
am in charge of security.
Me
. I.’ And he urged the constables forward. Across the pavement, into the road.

And he tore open the passenger door of the nearest limo.

‘Westlake!’ he shouted at the passenger within. ‘Head of Security. These are my constables. Get in, lads.’

And with that he was in.

Just like that.

Much to the great surprise of Elvis.

The lady in the straw hat really was having a great deal of trouble with that heavy packing case. And when the lights turned green, the drivers of the limos took to hooting their horns. And then a couple of them got out and gave her a hand.

The lady thanked them very much and bade them the best for the day.

‘What was all
that
about?’ asked Mr Giggles the Monkey Boy.

‘That was what is called a fortuitous circumstance,’ said Jonny Hooker. ‘Fortuitous circumstances do sometimes occur when good people require them to.’

‘They are a stranger to me,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘And formerly to me,’ said Jonny, ‘but as you can see, or in fact
cannot
see, on this occasion the fortuitous circumstance has served me well.’

‘Indeed I
cannot
see,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘what with it being so dark in here and everything. Inside the boot of the very last limo in the line, which you slipped into whilst the fortuitous circumstance on the crossing was diverting attention, as it were.’

And Jonny Hooker smiled.

To himself. And in darkness.

And the limos rolled on. And turned into Gunnersbury Park. Passed through the security at the North Gate and rolled forward to stop in a nice neat line outside the Big House.

And Countess Vanda stepped out from the Big House to welcome the Parliament of Five. The Secret Government of the world.

And she solemnly greeted and solemnly shook the hand of each in turn. Or the paw, in the case of Bob the Comical Pup.

And when the greeting and the hand/paw shakings were done, the Parliament of Five entered the Big House for their secret meeting. In the company of Constable Paul, Constable Justice and Inspector Westlake. Whose hands had also been shaken by the countess.

And each of them who entered the Big House now had a hand (or a paw) that was thoroughly magnetized.

And Jonny Hooker bided his time and kept a cool head on his shoulders. And when he felt that sufficient time had elapsed for it to be safe to do so, he flipped up the boot lid and stepped from the limo.

To be met by an array of fearsome guns.

All of which were aimed at his head.