The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (18 page)

O’Fagin did weeping and wailing. And also gnashing of teeth. Which did have a suitably apocalyptic quality about it. ‘Woe unto the House of O’Fagin,’ cried O’Fagin, rending his garments also, ‘for it is undone. What have I done, oh Lord of the old button hole?’

‘Lord of the old button hole?’ said Jonny, who had lately returned from the gents.

Or, more accurately the hastily ordered Portaloo that had been deposited at the rear of the pub to temporarily replace the gents that had been destroyed by the Paddy Wagon.’
^*

‘It’s a publican thing,’ O’Fagin explained. ‘But what of my glasses? Oh no!’

‘Juggernaut,’ said Paul. ‘Rattled the glasses off the shelves.’

‘
Juggernaut?
’ O’Fagin made fists of his fingers and threatened the sky with them. ‘Not bloody juggernauts. This was a sign, a sign from the heavens.’

Paul looked at Jonny.

Jonny just shrugged.

‘What is it, Lord?’ O’Fagin asked, his fists now praying palms. ‘What has your humble servant done to displease you? What? What?’ O’Fagin did cockings of the ears.

‘Is he getting an answer?’ Jonny asked.

‘I think he is,’ said Paul.

‘I wonder—’ said Jonny.

‘Oh yes, Lord, yes,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Raise the entry charge and put up the price of the pints, I understand.’

‘Precisely what I was wondering,’ said Jonny.

‘While I’m on the hotline to God,’ said O’Fagin to Jonny, ‘do
you want me to ask him to clear up your skin condition, so you can take off all those Elastoplasts?’

‘No thanks,’ said Jonny. ‘I can manage.’

‘You might have a word with your God about getting him a girlfriend,’ said Paul. ‘Does your God arrange things like that?’

‘I could ask,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Let’s use this ashtray as an offering plate – bung in a fiver and I’ll phrase a request.’

Paul did not oblige and O’Fagin took himself off in search of the broom.

‘You did that,’ said Paul.

‘I never did,’ said Jonny.

‘You did
too
with that brass whistle.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Jonny.

‘I’m not,’ said Paul. ‘I already had a little blow of it in the squad car driving over here. It blew out the windscreen.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘What, and miss all this?’

Jonny Hooker checked his pint. It appeared to be free of glass chippings.
^*

‘What are we going to do?’ he asked Paul. ‘I assume that we
are
playing here tonight.’

‘Damn right,’ said Paul. ‘We’re getting paid fifty quid for it.’

‘Ah,’ said Jonny.

‘Ah?’ said Paul.

‘Never mind,’ said Jonny. ‘So we
are
playing. Are we meeting the rest of the lads here, or what?’

‘Here,’ said Paul. ‘They’ll be here in an hour.’

‘And in rock ’n’ roll time?’

‘Two hours,’ said Paul.

‘Six hours,’ said Thompson of ESOU. ‘Six hours from now. Which will be?’

‘Midnight, sir?’ said a young and eager constable. He was,
however
, a Special Operations constable and so he wore a black uniform.

‘Correct, Constable. And what is your name?’

‘Constable Cartwright, sir.’ The constable saluted.

‘Cartwright, eh? As in
Bonanza
? “Da-da-de-da-da-de-da-da-deda”
Bonanza
?’ Thompson da-da-de-da-da’d that legendary theme.

His team da’d on with him.

‘No,
sir
,’ said Constable Cartwright.

‘Shame,’ said Thompson. ‘I was always a fan of Hoss, myself. Big old gentle giant of a man, played, if I recall, and I do, by Dan Blocker. A fine character-actor. Looked a bit like Tor Johnson. But then so many of them did.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘Sir,’ said Constable Cartwright, breaking it.

‘Yes, Constable?’ said Thompson.

‘Why
exactly
is this taskforce being put into operation?’

‘Good question,’ said Thompson. And he did a bit of strutting. He strutted on a tiny stage before an easel affair, which had a cloth-shrouded board upon it. And he did his strutting before an assembled company of Special Operations bobbies, all black-clad and useful-looking. And all in a kind of bunker briefing room deep beneath Mornington Crescent Underground Station.

The assembled company numbered near to one hundred, so it was a fair-sized bunker briefing room. It had a coffee machine at the rear end, next to the door. Beside the fire extinguishers.

‘Jolly good question, Constable,’ said Thompson. And he did the flourishing whipping-away-of-the-cloth routine. And his whipping-away exposed a map.

Of Gunnersbury Park.

‘Ooooh,’ went Constable Cartwright.

And ‘Oooooeeee,’ went all the other constables present.
Special constables
. For they just loved a map.

‘Perimeter,’ said Thompson, producing a little stick from somewhere and tracking the perimeter with it. ‘Fifty men, one-hundred-yard intervals. General Electric mini-guns. Night sights. You will
all
wear night-vision spectacles. Ornamental pond.’ He gave the location a tap. ‘Three frogmen, two down, one up. Surface-to-air shoulder-mounted missiles. Doric temple, three men, machine-gun nest. Japanese garden, dig in a network of slit trenches here. The pitch-and-putt, I want that sown with landmines. We’ll give the Hun a run for his money, eh?’

‘The Hun?’ asked Constable Cartwright.

‘Are you acting as spokesman for the assembled company?’ Thompson asked.

‘Not as such, sir. It’s just that I’m the only constable who has so far been identified by name.’

‘And a damn fine name, too. Who’s that chap next to you?’

‘Me?’ asked Constable Cassidy.

‘No, other chap?’

‘Me?’ asked Constable Rogers.

‘Next to you.’

‘Me?’ asked Constable Deputy Dawg.

‘Yes, you. Didn’t I go to Cambridge with your father?’

‘No, that was
my
father,’ said Constable Milky Bar Kid.
^*

‘Thought so. So, any questions?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘
Why
is this taskforce being put into operation?’

‘Glad you asked that, Constable,’ said Thompson. ‘Here we have a building known as the Big House. It is also known as Gunnersbury Park Museum and has a really nice lady called Joan working on reception. But you will not go bothering Joan.
I
will liaise with Joan directly, myself. Do I make myself understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said one and all. Saluting.

‘Regarding security of the Big House: you will disregard anything that might have been relayed to you, via rumour or jungle drums as it were, that Inspector Westlake, on secondment from the Bramfield Constabulary, will be in charge of this operation. You will answer to
me
. Take all your orders from me. Do I make myself clear? Any questions?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Why is this taskforce being put into operation?’

‘Good question, Constable. Now, I want a fifty-man squad inside the Big House. You will be the lucky lads testing the new electronic camouflage suits. Our back-room boffins have ironed out most of the glitches and these suits will cloak you in a mantel of invisibility.’

‘Ooooooh,’ chorused the constables. Who may indeed have been
lovers of a map, but who were brought almost to the point of orgasm at the prospect of invisibility.

‘Sir?’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Can I be put on duty in the Big House?’

‘Good question, Constable. Yes, you can. And take those other aforementioned constables with you. We only have five invisibility suits. I lied about there being fifty, sorry, so the Big House team will be just you five.’

‘Aaaw,’ went disappointed constables.

‘Fab, gear and groovy,’ went Constables Cartwright, Cassidy, Rogers, Deputy Dawg and Milky Bar Kid.

‘Every constable will be issued with a helmet-mounted night-vision camera so that I can monitor all movements from the control room here, from where I will direct operations. Any questions?’

‘Yes, sir. Why is this task—’ began Constable Cartwright.

‘Yes,
sir
,’ said O’Fagin, saluting and marching up and down behind the bar counter.

‘Why is he doing
that
?’ Paul asked.

Jonny shook his head. ‘Let us pray that we never find out,’ he said. ‘What time is it now?’

‘Getting on for eight o’clock. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having sex with two Thai girls who think you’re the greatest bass player since Herbie Flowers?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Jonny.

‘Oh dear?’ asked Paul.

‘My guitar,’ said Jonny. ‘It’s at my house. How am I going to play?’

‘Paul made grinnings at Jonny. ‘I’m one step ahead of you there – just check this out.’ And he hailed O’Fagin.

‘Yes,
sir
?’ said O’Fagin, marching up and saluting.

‘Why are you doing that?’ Paul asked.

O’Fagin whispered in Paul’s ear.

‘That is
so
brilliant,’ said Paul.

‘What?’ went Jonny.

O’Fagin grinned.

‘Do you still have that guitar?’ Paul asked.

O’Fagin grinned some more.

‘Do you?’ Paul asked.

O’Fagin did some more grinning.

‘That’s not really working for me,’ said Paul.

‘Sorry,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I’m just practising. We have a group called Dry Rot playing later – they’re a mime act.’

Paul ignored O’Fagin, but rephrased his question. ‘Do you still have that old guitar in the case in the beer cellar?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Chap left without it, never came back.’

‘Can I borrow it?’ Paul asked.

‘For the benefit gig?’ O’Fagin asked.

‘Say yes,’ said Jonny.

‘Yes,’ said Paul.

‘Then of course you can.’ O’Fagin left the bar, went down into the cellar and returned in the company of an ancient plywood guitar case.

‘I don’t like the look of
that
,’ said Jonny.

O’Fagin placed the guitar case on the bar counter. Paul flipped the catches and opened the case.

A beautiful instrument was brought to light.

‘It’s a Gibson L-1, an acoustic model made in Nashville somewhere between nineteen twenty-six and nineteen thirty,’ said Paul. ‘Note the hand-made pick-up and the tortoiseshell “dot” markers on the third, fifth, seventh, ninth, twelfth and fifteenth frets. Note the wear on the fingerboard. Gently stroke the veneer.’

Jonny did so, gently.

‘What do you think?’ Paul asked of Jonny.

Jonny lifted the guitar from the case. Reverently. With care.

Jonny held the Gibson to his ear and gently fingered the strings. ‘It’s in tune,’ he said. ‘What a beautiful tone.’

‘Good enough for you?’ Paul asked.

‘Oh yes.’

Jonny stroked the neck of the guitar. It was a thing of striking beauty. Elegant. Precise.

‘I can’t believe someone would forget an instrument like this,’ he said, ‘Just leave it in a bar.’

‘He didn’t exactly forget it,’ said O’Fagin. ‘He sort of couldn’t come back for it.’

‘Do you know whose guitar this was?’ Jonny asked.

O’Fagin looked at Paul.

And Paul looked at O’Fagin.

‘It belonged to a blues singer,’ said O’Fagin. ‘His name was Robert Johnson.’

‘You are so, so
not
going to play that guitar!’

The voice of Mr Giggles came close at Jonny’s ear, his breath hot on neck, his hairy hands a-quiver.

Jonny did as Jonny did: ignored the Monkey Boy.

‘Oh no, I’m serious this time. Deadleeeeeeee.’

Jonny shook away his imaginary friend and addressed his attention once more to the Gibson.

The guitar that had once belonged to Robert Johnson?

The guitar that the Devil had tuned, down at the crossroads oh so long ago?

Jonny’s hands gave a little quiver, too.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Paul.

‘Do you really think it’s real?’

‘Really Robert Johnson’s, do you mean?’

Jonny mouthed the words, ‘I do.’

Paul just gave a shrug.

‘There’s a picture of the man up here on the wall, playing it,’ said O’Fagin. ‘There with my daddy and some big buck-toothed black chap I never knew the name of.’

‘Come on, buddy boy,’ crooned Mr Giggles. ‘You’ve had enough excitement now, let’s have it away on your toes.’

‘Robert Johnson’s guitar.’ Jonny’s voice was filled with awe.

Just as it should have been, really. Because if this
was
Robert Johnson’s guitar. And if Robert Johnson
did
go down to the crossroads at midnight so many years ago. And if he
did
sell his soul to the Devil. And if the Devil
did
tune Robert Johnson’s guitar. And if this
was
that very guitar.

Then.

Well!

Jonny took the guitar and assumed the position. As in lead-guitar player. It is not necessary to go into all those subtle nuances that distinguish the lead guitarist position from that assumed by the bass guitarist. Deep down in our rock ’n’ roll hearts, we all know them.

Jonny found a chord and he strummed it. A simple A-seventh chord. The one Robert Johnson is holding in the famous studio portrait. Holding on the Gibson L-1. And as that sound rose from that guitar, a certain electricity, a certain vibrancy seemed to breathe through the air of The Middle Man. And a shaft of light, angling down through a hole in the roof, caught Jonny to perfection.

Jonny’s thumb stroked over the strings and Paul looked on and O’Fagin looked on and the gentleman with the aristocratic bearing, who wore the long, black beard looked on, and the red-headed woman in the long rubber gloves looked on as well.

As well as a bloke from Porlock.

And as all of them looked on, Jonny looked on, too. He looked on at the fingers of his left hand as they ran up and down the finger-board, now figuring this chord and now forming that.

For it was to Jonny as if that’s what he was doing.

Merely watching.

As if the fingers dancing up and down the guitar’s neck were not the fingers of his own hand. Rather they were those of a maestro, some master guitarist. Jonny was just a spectator.

Jonny Hooker closed his eyes and played.

‘Enough!’ Paul’s hand fell across the strings of the guitar. ‘Enough.’

‘What are you doing?’ went Jonny. ‘What?’

‘Stop playing now, that’s enough.’

‘I was just having a little strum – what’s the matter with you?’

‘The matter with
me
? What’s the matter with
you
?’

‘Me?’ Jonny glanced all around and about. There were a lot of folk now in the bar. A lot, and they were all clapping.

‘What?’ went Jonny. ‘What?’

‘You’ve been playing for an hour and a half,’ said Paul. ‘And God alone knows what. Stuff I’ve never heard before.’

‘Oi,’ shouted a roughneck, all spruced up in an England footballer’s style vesty number, his muscular arms sporting many patriotic tattoos. ‘Watcha stop the music for? Let him play.’

‘He’ll play again soon,’ said Paul. ‘As soon as the rest of the band get here.’

‘Soon’s not good enough. We want more now.’ The crowd took to grumbling in surly agreement.

‘An hour and a half?’ went Jonny, glancing down at his fingers. The tips of those on his left hand were white, while those on his right hand were bloody. ‘An hour and a half.’

‘Let the park keeper play,’ said a lady in a straw hat. ‘I haven’t heard music like that since my castrato nephew joined the Vatican choir.’

‘An hour and a half?’ Jonny held the guitar away from himself. Returned it with haste to its case.

‘Enough for now, mate,’ he called out to the England supporter. ‘Have to take a little break, okay?’

There were grumblings and mumblings and Jonny closed the case.

‘Get me beer,’ he said to Paul. ‘Get me beer and now.’

Paul ordered beer from O’Fagin. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked Jonny. ‘Where did you learn all that stuff?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I did. Was it good, what I did?’

‘Good? It was unbelievable. Although a bit creepy at times, somewhat heavy on the Devil’s Intervals.’

‘Ah,’ said Jonny.

‘We’ve got to keep that stuff in,’ said Paul, ‘work it into the playlist tonight. No, stuff the playlist, we’ll just follow you.’

Jonny Hooker clicked his neck. He was aching from head to foot. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘There’s something not at all right about that guitar.’

‘I’m going to make some calls,’ said Paul. ‘We need a mixing desk and something to record with. Get it onto a laptop. This is
big
, Jonny. Really big.’

And Paul took out his mobile phone and took himself off outside. And a young woman of outstanding characteristics made her presence felt in Jonny’s vicinity.

‘Could I have your autograph?’ she asked.

Autograph? Jonny’s mind went boggle boggle boggle. A young woman of
such
outstanding characteristics asking
him
for an autograph. Which meant—

Which meant.

Which meant what it means in the rock ’n’ roll parlance.

Jonny Hooker was led out back to receive a boggling blow-job.

Ten minutes later he returned to the bar. He had
that
look upon his face.
That look
that can mean nothing other than what it means. So to speak.

And Paul had returned to the bar before him.

And Paul beheld Jonny.

And Paul beheld
that look
.

And Paul said unto Jonny, ‘No. You didn’t? You?’ For Paul had also beheld the young woman with the outstanding characteristics who had accompanied Jonny on his return to the bar. ‘No,’ said Paul. ‘Say she didn’t … No.’

‘You still haven’t brought me that beer,’ said Jonny.

‘No.’ Paul pointed to the woman and back to Jonny.

‘What?’ said Jonny. ‘What?’

‘You know bloody well what. I was lining her up for later.’

‘I’ve finished with her,’ said Jonny. ‘For now.’

‘No. No. No.’

But it was yes. And Paul brought Jonny a pint of King Billy and Jonny tucked into this pint.

‘I can’t believe you did that,’ said Paul. ‘That
she
did that. I can’t believe it.’

‘Just stop now,’ said Jonny. ‘I am having trouble believing it also, but I’m pretty damn sure it did happen. So—’

‘So?’ said Paul.

‘So perhaps I
will
give that guitar another little go later.’

‘Right,’ said Paul. ‘Right. Well, you do that. And stuff it – if you manage to get yourself laid, then good luck to you.’

‘How very kind,’ said Jonny.

‘If you can play again how you just played, then you’ll deserve anything you get.’

Jonny Hooker regarded his wounded digits. And he was still aching in all sorts of places. Although one place felt rather nice. ‘It’s possessed,’ he whispered to Paul.

‘Your plonker?’

‘The guitar, you buffoon. I didn’t play any of whatever I played. I
don’t even know what I played. I didn’t play the guitar. The guitar played me.’

‘I think it best if you just keep that to yourself,’ Paul counselled. ‘Don’t mention it to the record producer or anything.’

Jonny Hooker finished his pint. ‘And what record producer might this be?’ he rightly enquired.

‘I don’t know what it is with me,’ said Paul, ‘but all of my life so far I’ve never done anything for anyone that has resulted in them owing me a favour. Except for once. I was walking along very late on Christmas Eve a couple of years back and I heard this voice calling for help. It turned out to be this bloke who’d fallen, somewhat drunk, into this hole that the gas men had dug in the road. I helped him out and he said that one day he’d repay me. I still have his business card.’ Paul flourished same and Jonny read from it.

ANDI EVANS

Soliloquy Records

‘Andi Evans?’ said Jonny. ‘You pulled Andi Evans of the legendary metal label Soliloquy Records out of a hole in the road?’

‘I did,’ said Paul. ‘And I have hung on for two years, waiting for
the
moment. The moment when I would call in my favour, when it would be worth calling it in. Tonight is that night, Jonny. You will play. Andi Evans is bringing down a mobile mini-recording studio jobbie. You will play, he will record. We will get a record contract and you’ll get blow-jobs seven nights a week. Am I a good friend to you, or what?’

Jonny Hooker raised his glass. ‘I’d toast to this mighty plan,’ said he, ‘but my glass appears to be empty.’

At the rock ’n’ roll time expected, or at least within a couple of hours of it, the two remaining members of Dry Rot appeared at The Middle Man. These were hairy fellows whose attire bespoke of those to whom black would always be this year’s black.

Desmond was the drummer, and also had a barrow in the marketplace. And Molly was the singer with the band.

Molly had a small goatee. Which was not a qualification for
her
to join a travelling circus. It was simply that
he
favoured a small goatee.
Molly’s dad, Mary, had chosen the name for Molly when Molly had been born. It was something to do with Mary growing up in the nineteen sixties. But just what, no one knew for certain.

And Mary was not available for comment.

For he was on death row in San Quentin, having tracked down and slaughtered his father, Mavis.

Which was sort of rock ’n’ roll.

Desmond’s stage name was Tom.

And Molly’s was Gazz.

Why try to improve upon perfection? Who knows?

‘You gonna give us a hand to unload the gear?’ Molly asked Paul.

‘I’m sure Jonny would love to help,’ said Paul.

‘Jonny?’ said Molly. ‘Why is your face covered with sticking plaster? And why are you dressed as a parkie?’

‘Do you ever read a newspaper or watch television, Molly?’ Jonny asked.

‘Never,’ said Molly. ‘Watched
Top of the Pops
once, but didn’t like it. Do read the
NME
, of course, the Andi Evans metal column.’

‘Then have you got a big treat coming tonight.’

‘Oh, I do hope so,’ said Molly. ‘because I could do with cheering up. You know my mum reads the Kleenex?’

‘Reads the Kleenex?’ Jonny did not know of such a thing.

‘It’s a divination type jobbie. Like reading the tarot or the tea leaves. You blow your nose on a Kleenex and my mum can tell your future by the crumples. And the colour of the snot, I suppose.’

‘Boogermancy,’ said Mr Giggles. Who hadn’t spoken for a while.

‘Where is this leading?’ Jonny asked Molly.

‘Actually,’ said Molly, ‘I think it’s a bit of a misunderstanding.’

‘Not quite following you,’ said Jonny.

‘You see,’ said Molly, ‘she freaks me out with her weird gypsy stuff, so I never let her do any readings on me. Trouble was, I had a day off work today because I’d bought some bootleg porn DVDs – Nunsploitation movies, every one a classic. And you know how it is when your mum’s out and—’

‘This is going to involve another use for Kleenex, isn’t it?’ Jonny said.

‘I should have flushed them.’

‘
Them?
’

I left them under my pillow. She made up my bed and she read my Kleenex.’

‘Nasty,’ said Paul.

‘Did
you
read them, too?’ asked Molly.

‘No, I mean, well—’

‘Well, nasty it is. According to my mum, something really awful is going to happen. She said that when she saw the stains on the Kleenexes, they spelled out the words “EVE OF THE APOCALYPSE”.’

‘That’s a lot of letters,’ said Paul.

‘They’re very inspiring DVDs,’ said Molly.