The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (22 page)

‘Golly gosh,’ said the coal-black chap

Who drove the limousine.

‘A fine to-do. An odd one-two,

As strange as I have seen.’

‘Now
that
,’ said the voice on the other end of the telephone line, ‘is something you should have done sooner.’

‘Excuse me?’ said the chauffeur.

‘I
am
talking to Black Betty Bam-a-Lam, am I not?’

‘You certainly are,’ said the Black Betty in question. ‘Note if you will the triple-barrelled surname. One of the Sussex Bam-a-Lams, I’ll have you know.’

‘Excellent,’ said the voice. ‘Then I have the right Black Betty Bam-a-Lam. What I meant when I said that
that
was something you should have done sooner was the speaking in rhyme. You might have established an interesting part for yourself. A black male chauffeur with a girl’s Christian name, a triple-barrelled surname and a penchant for verse-improv. Given how dull some of these blighters are, you could have got yourself star billing.’

‘Who
is
this?’ asked Black Betty.

‘I told you, I am the chief exec. of a top London theatrical agency and I’d like to hire your services for today to chauffeur that fine character actor John Hurt to a private film festival in Penge.’

‘Penge?’ said Black Betty. ‘I’ve heard that it’s a really nice place, although I’ve never actually been there.’

‘A veritable Eden,’ said the voice on the end of the line.

Although it wasn’t really ‘a line’, because Black Betty was speaking into the handset of his car phone as he drove his black stretched limo along.

‘Well, hum and hah and fiddle-de-de,’ said Black Betty.

‘Excuse
me
?’ said the voice.

‘Merely voicing my versatility. Did you say John Hurt?’

‘I certainly did, star of both
The Naked Civil Servant
and
The Elephant Man
.’

‘Not to mention
Hellboy
.’

‘
Hellboy
?’

‘I told you not to mention that!’
^*

‘Most amusing,’ said the voice.

‘I thought so. But no, I regret that much as I would adore to be privileged to drive, as I believe it is now,
Sir
John Hurt—’

‘If it isn’t, it should be.’

‘But anyway, I cannot. And the reason that I responded to your question in rhyme is this: as the chauffeur, and indeed owner, of this here black limousine, it is sad to report that for the most part nowadays I have to hire myself out, nay,
prostitute
myself, by taking hirings from ghastly chav girls for hen nights. Yet, yet, and here I feel that there
is
a God, and a God who sometimes smiles upon black chauffeurs with girly Christian names and unlikely triple-barrelled surnames. This very week, which is to say on Friday, and today, which is Sunday, I have been employed by some decent clientele. To whit, on Friday I conveyed a certain Andi Evans, heavy metal music entrepreneur, to a pub called The Middle Man in Ealing, where he made a recording. And from there, in the company of a can of audio tape, to London Airport, where, to quote Mister Evans he intended to “make away with the prize of a lifetime, because
I
deserve it”. He boarded a plane for Los Angeles, I believe. And today—’

A yawn came from the other end of the phone ‘line’.

‘And today,’ continued Black Betty Bam-a-Lam, ‘today I am driving, at this very moment, to Buckingham Palace to pick up none other than Her Majesty the Queen, to take her to a secret location, which naturally I will not divulge.’

‘Naturally,’ said the voice. ‘Then perhaps, if you are so engaged, you could give me the name of another limo-hire company whose credentials you could vouch for?’

‘Would that I could,’ said Black Betty, ‘but I regret to say that I cannot. I think you will find that all the top-notch limo-hire companies are busy today.’

‘Doing
what
?’ asked the voice.

‘Chauffeuring dignitaries,’ said Black Betty. ‘Mister Mull, of Kintyre Cars, is at London City Airport picking up Ahab the A-rab.’

‘The sheik of the desert sands?’ sang the voice.

‘The same. And Mister Jones, of We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside Motors is in Neasden, picking up a Mister Bagshaw.’

‘Bagshaw, Bagshaw, stick it up your jumper?’ sang the voice.

‘Not as such,’ said Betty the Black. ‘Then there’s Mogador Firesword, of Dragonslayer Car Hire, who is frankly often rather difficult to get on the phone. He, I know, is doing a pick-up from Battersea Dogs’ Home – a chap known as Bob the Comical Pup.’

‘How much is that doggy in the window?’ sang the voice.

‘You’re not far short of the mark there. And the remaining top-ofthe-line-stretch-limo-hire-out-jobbie-person would be Mister Esau Good, of Smack My Bitch Up Motors. And he’s at Brize Norton Airport picking up Elvis Presley.’

There was a bit of a silence then.

‘“Heartbreak Hotel?” said Betty. “Jailhouse Rock”?’

‘But Elvis is dead, surely?’

‘If you say so. Don’t ask me, I’m only a black chauffeur.’

‘And are all these, what shall we call them,
celebrities
, bound for the same place? Her Majesty the Queen, Mister Bagshaw, Ahab the A-rab, Bob the Comical Pup and Elvis Presley, the King of rock ’n’ roll?’

‘Such I believe to be the case,’ said Betty.

‘But you can’t tell me where that is?’

‘More than my job’s worth. I’m sorry.’

‘Are they dropping off,
waiting
, then picking up? Or are they dropping off, returning to base in case of a job in between, then returning to pick up?’

‘The latter, I believe.’

‘So where would they be waiting, were they intending to wait, which clearly they are not?’

‘Gunnersbury Park,’ said Betty. ‘the Big House, Gunnersbury Park.’

‘Thank you,’ said the voice. ‘And I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’

‘No problem.’

Black Betty replaced the receiver of his car phone.

The owner of the voice switched off his mobile phone and tucked it away into the breast pocket of his jacket.

A jacket that was not without interest.

Although to whom must remain uncertain.

‘Exactly what I wanted to know,’ he said.

And having said this, he turned away, took himself over to a small wall mirror and grinned into it. The small wall mirror was barely to be seen amidst the stacks of army field rations that were piled up against the walls of what appeared to be a rather untidy bedroom.

The door of this bedroom now opened and a woman of middling years adorned with a quilted nylon pink gingham housecoat and matching slipperettes entered the bedroom.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she said, grinning inanely. ‘I had to get Jonny’s breakfast. And pretend, like you told me, that I didn’t know anything about what has been going on for the past few days.’

‘You did very well, my dear,’ said the owner of the voice. ‘You deserve some kind of reward, I believe.’

‘Well,’ said Jonny’s mum, for who else could it be but she? ‘It
is
Sunday, so we might engage in something sexually adventurous.’

‘Indeed we might. Shall we “Take Tea with the Parson”?’

Jonny’s mum did some of that roadkill grinning. ‘That would be lovely, Mister O’Fagin,’ she said.

‘Wake up, O’Fagin,’ called Paul, and he did some thump-thump-thumping upon what was left of The Middle Man’s saloon bar door.

‘This place is in almost complete ruination,’ observed Constable Justice. ‘Did someone take it out with a heat-seeker?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Things got rather cold. We played a gig here on Friday night and my mate Jonny played Robert Johnson’s guitar. Most of the audience got sucked into a parallel continuum – there was some kind of transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter or something.’

‘Sorry I missed it,’ said Constable Justice. ‘So, good gig, then?’

‘Better than usual. Mostly the audience just chuck stuff. Friday night, both Jonny and me got blow jobs.’

‘You blew each other?’

‘From
girls
,’ said Paul, and he banged some more on the door. ‘And we got a record contract. Although we haven’t actually got it as such, but it’s in the bag, as it were.’ Constable Paul banged even more.

‘It’s only nine o’clock,’ said Constable Justice.

Constable Paul gave him the Old-Fashioned Look.

‘Oh yes,’ said Constable Justice. ‘We’re policemen. There are no such things as licensing hours when you are a policeman and you fancy a drink. How did I forget
that
?’

‘Because you’re always thinking about shooting people.’

‘Like you’re
not
!’

Constable Paul knocked even some more. ‘He’s not here,’ he said. ‘Or he’s asleep.’

‘Or “Taking Tea with the Parson” with someone’s mum.’

‘Why would he be doing
that
?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Constable Justice. ‘He did it with
my
mum. Shit! He might be doing it with my mum right now!’

It is very unlikely that the Queen Mum ever ‘Took Tea with the Parson’. She was far too sweet and cuddly and everything. And she was always Britain’s favourite granny and everything. Mind you, Queen Victoria used to take a lot of ‘tea’ with that Scotsman.

But
not
the Queen Mum.

Although there’s really no telling just what she
might
have got up to. According to the Illuminated One, David Icke, Her Madge, the Queen Mum and most of the royals generally are in fact reptilian shape-shifters who regularly engage in human sacrifice and the consumption of infants.

But probably
not
‘Taking Tea with the Parson’.

And of course the Queen Mum
is
dead now
^*
and it isn’t right to speak ill of the dead.

*

‘One is dead chuffed,’ said Her Majesty the Queen, speaking to her regal reflection, cast back at her from an IKEA wall mirror in her private billiards room. Where the Royal We keeps her extensive collection of Space Invaders machines, handbags and the mummified prepuce of Christ (which was a present from the Pope).

‘One is dead chuffed,’ the monarch said once more, reading from the card, which was printed with BIG LETTERS so she didn’t need to wear her glasses. Because, let’s face it, they
do
make her look old. ‘Dead chuffed to attend this secret conclave, as chairperson and casting vote and—’

And a knock came at her chamber door

‘Who troubles one?’ she enquired. (Real class!)

‘The car’s here, Ma’am,’ a menial (or lackey, or cat’s-paw) replied.

‘Is that Betty driving?’ asked the sovereign.

‘As ever,’ the other replied.

‘Bitchin’,’ said Her Majesty. ‘Just love that bad-ass, Betty.’

It was clear to those in the know, though those in the know numbered two, that a degree of easy intimacy existed between a certain Black Betty who drove a black limo and a certain Royal Betty, who ruled the British Isles.

That the monarch, gliding down the front steps from Buck House with a sprightliness surprising for one of her advanced years, customarily greeted the chauffeur with much use of the ‘N’ word, which had long worn out its welcome for either shock value or a cheap laugh; whilst he, patting the regal butt as it entered his auto, responded with such words as, ‘Yo, my sweet pussy,’ and, ‘You can kiss my OBE anytime.’

But as there were no witnesses to this, no definite proof can be found that it actually happened. And well it might be that this unlikely exchange was nothing more than wishful thinking. Although whether upon the part of Black Betty, Royal Betty or some third party, it is fruitless to speculate.
^*

The long, black limo slid away over the gravel and out through the main gates of Buck House, scattering Japanese tourists before it, much to the mirth of the monarch who made soul-fists with her waving hand.

Perhaps.

Mr Mull, of Kintyre Cars, was not one given to familiarity with his clients. The conveyance of the public was in his blood: five generations of Mulls had plied their trade in the great metropolis before him, His great-great-grandfather driving one of the original hansom
cabs. His name was Morris Mull and he was the first cabby to coin the phrase, ‘I had that [fill in as applicable] in the back of my cab the other day’. But this only to a fellow cabbie and never to a client.
He
was a professional, and such was his great-great-grandson.

And so when Mr Mull, of Kintyre Cars, reached the secret rendezvous point where he was to make contact with and pick up a certain Ahab the A-rab (the sheik of the desert sands), he arrived early and waited patiently, reading a Sunday paper whose headline spoke fearfully of escalating trouble in the Middle East and the strong probability of an ensuing nuclear holocaust. And, whilst doing this, he chewed on a Google’s gob gum (of a type one rarely sees nowadays) and gently tapped a highly polished boot heel in the dust.

The dust was that of the dockland persuasion, of that area of London dockland that is always threatened with redevelopment but somehow always manages to remain undeveloped. And disgusting, and desolate, and depressing. And other things that begin with the letter ‘D’.

The limo was parked on a dock that was to be found upon a bit of bay. And it would have been of interest to fans of soul music to note that this was
the
very dock of the bay that Otis Redding had sat upon nearly five decades before.

And watched the ships coming in.

And the ships going out.

And things of a maritime nature generally.

The sound of a bosun’s whistle alerted Mr Mull, who folded away his newspaper, spat out his gob gum, buffed his toecaps on the rear of opposing trouser legs, straightened his cap and saluted as a Thames lighter, piloted by a Thames lighterman, drew up alongside Otis’s sitting area, and a bosun, all spiffed up in formal but outmoded livery, piped ashore a swarthy gentleman in the full Arabic attire: flowing robes, dishcloth hat and fan-belt wraparound.

Ahab the A-rab drew London breath up his nostrils and spoke with timbre through his beard. ‘You are Mister Mall?’ he enquired.

‘
Mull
,’ said Mr Mull. ‘Mister
Mull
.’

‘Mull,’ said Ahab the A-rab. ‘That is satisfactory. I was unreliably informed that I was to be collected and driven by a Jedi.’

‘I
am
a Jedi,’ said Mr Mull. ‘At the last national census, it was discovered that more than twenty per cent of the nation listed their
religion as Jedi.’

‘The English,’ went the A-rab, and he laughed. ‘No wonder you never win the cricket.’

Mr Mull smiled professionally and nodded politely. Had such a remark been made to him in a pub, however, by some bloody camel-jockey that he wasn’t being employed to drive, Mr Mull would have employed his Dimac and struck the blighter mighty blows to the skull.

As naturally one would.

But, smiling and nodding, he now swung open the rear door of the limo and did a little bowing of the head also as he aided his client into the car.

A similar, in fact all but identical limo, stood double-parked in Neasden, in a tiny cul-de-sac that it was going to be difficult to reverse out of. This limo was surrounded by small boys with sticky, inquisitive fingers and orange-juice mouth-masks (whatever they might be).

The driver of this car, a Mr Jones, of We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside Motors’ was no lover of small boys. Of small girls, yes, and of sheep, of course, for he was Welsh.
^*
Mr Jones owned a stick for such occasions as this (and a tube of lubricant for other situations).

In the manner, indeed, of a Jedi (for curiously enough this
was
the faith of Mr Jones) he flourished this stick Jedi-fashion, swirling it in great Lightsabre arcs to a lack of alarm and distress of the sticky-fingered lads.

Whilst he awaited his client.

His client, Mr Bagshaw, was saying goodbye to his mum. Although aged thirty-seven and with good prospects in the field of accountancy, Mr Bagshaw (Billy, it would have been to his mates, but mates Mr Bagshaw had none) still occupied the bedroom that had been forever his, in the family house that he had grown up in. As well as having no friends, Billy, as he would have been called if he had, had also never owned to a girlfriend. Had never kissed a woman.

This might have been due in part to the slightly odd looks of Mr
Bagshaw. There was something about his head. The size of it. The dimensions. That head was much too big. It was a bit of a Gerry Anderson head. It made Mr Bagshaw look very much like Brains from
Thunderbirds
.

Not that all women are necessarily put off by a huge head.

Many women have no objection to any part of a man’s body being huge. As long as it’s clean.

And Mr Bagshaw
was
very clean. His mum had scrubbed his neck that very morning. And behind his ears. And made him clean his teeth
twice
, as he’d missed some hard-to-reach plaque the first time, which his mum had espied with the aid of a dentist’s mirror that she’d won at a WI whist drive in Crawley.

Mr Bagshaw’s clothes were clean. His tweed going-out jacket, with the leather patches on the elbows, was
very
clean. As was his checked shirt and knitted tie. And his light-brown corduroy trousers and his polished Oxford brogues.

Mr Bagshaw’s mother did unnecessary straightenings of her son’s tie, then licked a corner of her gingham housecoat and worried at his chin with it. Then lightly kissed him on the cheek, warned him against associating with liquor and loose women (as so many mums will do, because they care) and sent him on his way.

Mr Bagshaw stepped lightly down the garden path, for his mother had cautioned him many times against dragging his feet – ‘It looks slovenly and it plays havoc with your Stick-a-Soles’. He swung open the nineteen-thirties sun-ray-style gate and made his way towards the waiting limo.

Mr Jones waved frantically with his stick.

Mrs Bagshaw closed the front door without slamming it.

Mr Bagshaw gazed at the sticky lads.

The sticky lads caught Mr Bagshaw’s gaze.

Some of these lads immediately pissed their pants.

Others, with stronger constitutions, did not.

But
all
before the gaze of Mr Bagshaw fled immediately and as fast as they could.

‘Shall we away?’ asked Mr Bagshaw of Mr Jones.

And Mr Jones, holding on to himself, nodded and said, ‘Yes,
sir
.’

Mogador Firesword, of Dragonslayer Car Hire (he had recently
changed the name to avoid confusion with the breakfast cereal), never called any man ‘sir’, but for Lord Gort Phnargos of the Bloody Axe, who slew Rimor Gartharion on the Plain of the Guckmo Plit, neath the Mountains of Mahagadoom, where might be found, but never entered, the Cave of the Hideous Cagoules.

And so on and so forth and suchlike.

He called no man ‘
sir
’.

And he wore chain mail beneath his chauffeur’s uniform.

And now he was
here
! On a
Sunday morning
!

Come to pick up—

A
dog
!

‘A dog?’ said Mogador Firesword to the very pleasant-looking lady who womanned the reception desk at Battersea Dogs’ Home. ‘I am apparently here to pick up a dog.’

‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ said the not-altogether-ungorgeous young woman. ‘For this is a dogs’ home.’

‘I understand
that
,’ said Mogador Firesword. ‘I’ll bet you have hundreds of dogs here, don’t you?’

‘Hundreds,’ said the beautiful lady. ‘Sometimes thousands.’

‘And I’ll bet you don’t find homes for all of them.’

‘Sadly not.’

‘So you have to snuff them out, I suppose.’

‘We
put them to sleep
. That is the term we prefer.’

‘But it amounts to the same thing.’

The stunning creature nodded.

‘Do you chop their heads off?’ asked Mogador Firesword.

‘No, we certainly do
not
.’

‘Would you like me to do it for you, then? I do have my own sword. I call it Soul Freer the Second’

‘Soul Freer the Second?’

‘Soul Freer the First got nicked at a gamers con in Hinkley.’

‘Would you please leave the premises before I am forced to call the police?’ asked the veritable goddess of a bird.

‘I have a chitty,’ said Mogador, flourishing same, ‘for the dog. And you’ll have to fill in another chitty, taking responsibility and to cover any cleaning bills if it craps in my limo.’

The Battersea Venus examined the chitty. ‘Ah,’ she said knowingly. ‘You want Bob. I understand.’

‘More than I do, my pretty,’ said Mogador, leaning over the desk a little to cop a glimpse of cleavage.

‘Bob,’ said the wondrous one. ‘Bob the Comical Pup.’

‘That’s what it says on the chitty.’

The breasts before him withdrew. ‘Wait here and I will fetch him for you. But before I do, you have to fill in one of
our
chitties.’

‘Why?’ asked Mogador Firesword.

‘Because Bob the Comical Pup is not just any young comical pup. He is a pup of outré abilities.’

‘Outré, what?’

A chitty on a clipboard was thrust before him and Mogador Firesword gave it a cursory once-over.

‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘Promise Three:
I vow that I will take to my grave any confidences confided in me by Bob the Comical Pup
? And I have to sign the Official Secrets Act?’

‘I told you he’s not just any young comical pup.’

Mr Esau Good of Smack My Bitch Up Motors was not at Brize Norton Airport to pick up just any old King of rock ’n’ roll.

He was there, in the company of many, many official chitties, and high-security passes, and special military intervention, to pick up
the
King of rock ’n’ roll.

Being flown in on a chartered Hercules via a complex route that evaded the defensive radar systems of twelve separate countries. Point of departure, unregistered. Point of arrival, Brize Norton.

Mr Esau Good had also had to sign the Official Secrets Act and he had been given an implant at the base of his skull. He had been assured by the masked surgeons who had performed this procedure against the will of Mr Good that should Mr Good mention the name of the gentleman that he would be conveying to Gunnersbury Park, even in passing, the voicing of this name would trigger the implant and blow his head clean off his shoulders.

Mr Good was somewhat upset by this circumstance, especially as he was something of a fan of the Big E and not averse to purchasing the occasional compilation disc or latest exploitation hit single.
^*

Christmas shopping was going to be tricky this year.

*

The Hercules Transport loomed in the heavens. Drew nigh unto Brize Norton and descended. Taxiing was done, steps were wheeled out to it, a door swung open.

And
he
stood framed by the opening.

And
he
wasn’t that fat anymore. He was, if anything, slender and trim. His hair, the jettest of blacks, his sideburns superb and his cheekbones as killer as ever. He
did
wear the jumpsuit, though – the white rhinestoned number with the black diamanté belt. But then he
would
wear that, wouldn’t he? Because he
was
Elvis Presley.

Mr Esau Good lifted his bum from the bonnet of his limo and made his way towards the grounded aeroplane.

There were many of those Men in Black types present, with the black suits and the sunspecs. And many high-ranking military personnel. And what surprised Mr Good, if anything
could
now surprise him, was the fact that all those present were so unsurprised.