The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (3 page)

‘So how do we go about cracking this code?’ asked Jonny, a few minutes later. In the company of his non-corporeal companion, Mr Giggles the Monkey Boy, three-quarters of a pint of King Billy and a packet of fancy nuts, which O’Fagin had discovered hanging upon a card that he never knew he had (so to speak). Jonny had repaired to a dark and mysterious corner of The Middle Man’s saloon bar.

‘It’s rather dark and mysterious in this particular corner,’ observed Mr Giggles, settling his hairy self upon a barstool. ‘There are many legends attached to this public house, and this particular dark and mysterious corner in particular, as I’m sure you know.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Jonny. ‘In fact, I’m not interested at all.’

‘It is a fact well known to those who know it well,’ continued Mr Giggles, ‘that it was in this very dark and mysterious corner that the legendary blues singer Robert Johnson recorded his thirtieth composition.’

Jonny Hooker supped at his beer. ‘Robert Johnson, the King of the Delta Blues, never came to England and he never recorded a thirtieth composition. He recorded twenty-nine compositions and
that
is a fact well known to those who know it well. And I am one of those who do.’

‘’Twere it only so,’ said Mr Giggles, helping himself to nuts.

‘’Tis so,’ said Jonny. ‘Now give me some of those nuts.’

Mr Giggles passed them over. Or appeared to. Or didn’t at all, because he didn’t exist. Or whatever.

‘They’re a tad too fancy for my taste, anyway,’ he said. ‘But this is definitely where Johnson made his final recording. You can still see his initials faintly visible, carved there in the table top. Beside the burn marks.’ And Mr Giggles crossed himself and kissed an invisible rosary.

Jonny Hooker glanced at the table; there were many scratchings to be seen upon its sullied surface. A couple of them did look a bit like an ‘R’ and a ‘J’.

‘He never came to England,’ said Jonny.

‘He did too,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I knew him well.’

‘I thought you were
my
imaginary friend,’ Jonny said. ‘I thought
I
thought you up.’

‘You thought me
back
,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I’ve been around on and off for many a year.’

‘Madness never dates, eh?’ Jonny downed the last of his beer.

‘I go where I’m needed,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘And I haven’t always looked like this. When I knew Johnson, I was a great big buck-toothed n****r.’
^*

‘I don’t think you’re supposed to say “that” word anymore,’ said Jonny.

‘Oh, pardon me, do. But n****r I was, and my dental work was a veritable disgrace.’

‘Is this really leading anywhere?’ Jonny asked. ‘Because I thought we were setting to to crack the Da-da-de-da-da Code, so that I might avail myself of whatever wealth there is for the taking.’

‘Money can’t buy you happiness,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘That is a supposition I would like to test through experience,’ said Jonny. ‘And seeing as I am really miserable now, I do not believe that a great deal of money could possibly make things worse rather than better.’

‘So,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘about Robert Johnson.’

‘I don’t want to hear about Robert Johnson. Robert Johnson cannot possibly have anything to do with me cracking the Da-dade-da-da Code.’

‘I would hardly have brought him up if he wasn’t relevant.’

Jonny Hooker tapped his empty glass upon the table. ‘You are a liar,’ he declared. ‘All you ever do is distract and confuse me. I try to think straight, to get my life on track, to be like other people—’

Mr Giggles giggled.

‘And you interrupt me!’ Jonny glared. ‘Like that! You’re in my head, talking your toot, keeping me out of kilter.’

‘I’m like the brother you never had.’

‘But I
do
have a brother. Only he won’t speak to me because I’m a nutter who’s always talking to himself.’

‘I’m like a
different
brother that you never had. A far nicer one, with a smiley face.’ Mr Giggles smiled at Jonny, his pointy teeth a-twinkle in the gloom. ‘So do you want to hear the legend, or not?’

‘And it’s relevant, is it?’

‘Bound to be,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Bound to be.’

Jonny Hooker returned to the bar, where he purchased a further pint of King Billy, then he returned to the dark and mysterious corner.

‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ asked Mr Giggles.

Jonny Hooker sat down and nodded.

‘Then I’ll begin.’

And with that he did.

‘As you must know,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘the legend of Robert Johnson runs to this. He was a not particularly good blues singer and guitarist way down in the Delta in the US of A, way back in the nineteen thirties. And, as legend has it, he went down to the crossroads at midnight with a black cat’s bone in his hand and sold his soul to the Devil. The Devil appeared, in the shape of a big, well-dressed black man, and he retuned Robert Johnson’s guitar. And after that Robert Johnson became the greatest blues guitarist of them all. When Keith Richards first heard recordings of Johnson, he asked who the other fellow was who was playing guitar accompaniment. But Johnson did the whole lot on his own, in one take with no overdubs, which Richards considered impossible because you can’t finger all those notes that he did at the same time. But then, you see, after Johnson had sold his soul to the Devil, he always played with his back to the audience. And folk who were backstage and took a little peep swore that he now had six fingers on his left hand.’

‘But he never came to England,’ said Jonny.

‘Did too,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Please listen, if you will. The accepted story is that Robert Johnson recorded just twenty-nine songs during his lifetime, before dying mysteriously at the age of twenty-seven.
But this is not so. Robert Johnson recorded thirty songs. He was contracted to do so by the Devil. Like Judas’s thirty pieces of silver, so Johnson had his thirty pieces of shellac.’

‘So whatever happened to the thirtieth recording?’ Jonny asked.

‘Aha,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Listen and you’ll learn. After Johnson had recorded twenty-nine songs, he knew he had just one more to do and then the Devil would come for his soul. So he did a runner – he fled from America and came here to England. He stayed upstairs at this very pub.’

‘Go on,’ said Jonny. ‘He didn’t, did he?’

‘He did,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘He convinced himself that he had outsmarted the Devil. Had outrun him. That the Devil would never find him here in England. But he did have his weaknesses. You see, he liked to drink and he liked the ladies. And one night, in nineteen thirty-eight, he was sitting here half-gone with the drink, carving his initials on a table, when a beautiful young woman walked in. She was a wonderful creature and Johnson was entranced. He wanted her and he engaged her in conversation. To cut a long story short, she agreed to have sex with him on condition that he sang her a song that she didn’t know. So he took up his guitar and sang one of his songs. But she sang along with it – she knew it. So he tried another and she knew that, too. He ran right through all of his twenty-nine songs. She knew them all. And she got up to leave. But he couldn’t let her, there was something about her that fascinated him too much. So he said, “I’ll sing you a song that you don’t know. You can’t know it, because I’ve never sung it before.” And he sang his thirtieth song.’

‘And when he’d finished she turned into the Devil and whisked him off to Hell,’ said Jonny Hooker. ‘Even
I
could see that one coming.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Was it
that
obvious?’

Jonny Hooker nodded. ‘It’s still a good story, though,’ he said.

‘That’s not the end of it,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You see, I was here on that terrible night – I was Johnson’s non-corporeal companion. And when he sang the thirtieth song, I recorded it.’

‘
You
recorded it?’ Jonny did blinkings at Mr Giggles. ‘You mean that you actually have Robert Johnson’s thirtieth recording? It must be worth millions of pounds. Where is it?’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I don’t have it any more. And I’m glad that I don’t, I can tell you. You see, there’s something on that recording that shouldn’t be on any recording. Terrible thing, so it is.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, as
you
figured out, the beautiful young woman was really the Devil in disguise and when Johnson finished his song, the Devil claimed him. And as he claimed him, the Devil laughed. A hideous, inhuman, ghastly, godless laugh. And it got recorded on the record.’

‘The Devil’s laughter?’ Jonny shivered.

Mr Giggles nodded hairily. ‘Now,’ said he ‘as you are probably aware, it is the habit of legendary musicians to die at the age of twenty-seven. Johnson died at twenty-seven. And after him we have Johnny Kidd, out of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, Pig Pen out of the Grateful Dead. Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain – the list goes on. They all died aged twenty-seven. It is
not
a coincidence. You see, they all had one thing in common: they were all Robert Johnson fans. And each of them, in their twenty-seventh year, got to hear something that they shouldn’t have heard. They got to listen to Robert Johnson’s thirtieth record. And they heard the Devil’s laughter. And if you hear the Devil’s laughter—’

‘You die,’ said Jonny Hooker. ‘You die.’

‘That’s what you do,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Horrible business, eh?’

‘Horrible,’ said Jonny. ‘But wait,’ said Jonny. ‘What about the recording?’ said Jonny. ‘Where is it now?’ said Jonny, also.

‘Where indeed? It wasn’t to be found amongst the personal effects of the late Mister Cobain, or so I am informed. I am also informed that a certain secret government agency set out to find it. This certain agency has apparently been searching for it for years.’

Jonny Hooker shook his head. ‘I will just bet,’ he said, ‘that there is not a single word of truth to any of that. I really, truly hate you, so I do.’

‘No you don’t, you love me, really.’

Jonny Hooker shook his head again and found that his glass was empty once more. Although unaccountably so, as he did not recall emptying it. Grumbling grimly, he returned once more to the bar counter.

O’Fagin was affixing up a poster to the wall.

‘What’s that?’ asked Jonny, feigning interest.

‘Blues Night on Tuesday,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Local bands. You should come along – you play guitar, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ said Jonny. ‘Regularly, in here, on Heavy Metal Nights. But I don’t know of any decent blues bands round here.’

‘I never said they were decent,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I only said they were local.’

‘I never even knew you had Blues Nights here,’ said Jonny, offering his glass for a refill.

‘Haven’t for years,’ said O’Fagin, receiving Jonny’s glass. ‘My daddy started them back in the nineteen thirties, but there was a bit of bother, so he stopped them.’

‘Bit of bother?’ said Jonny. ‘Fights in the bar and suchlike?’

‘Something like that,’ said O’Fagin, crossing himself and drawing Jonny’s pint. Which was no mean feat, as he did both with a single hand. ‘But all the greats played The Middle Man. See that faded photo up there?’ And he did head-gesturings. ‘That’s my daddy here in the bar. And Robert Johnson with him.’

‘You left that beer undrunk,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Right there on the bar counter, you left it.’

‘I paid for it,’ said Jonny, and he strode on up the road.

‘But why did you leave it? Why did you leave it?’ Mr Giggles danced at Jonny’s side.

The sun shone down and birdies gossiped in the treetops. A lady in a straw hat, waiting at the bus stop, watched the young man striding by and talking to himself.

‘Sad,’ said she, to herself.

‘Just leave it, Mister Giggles,’ said Jonny. ‘Just leave it.’

‘But why did you leave your pint?’

Jonny ceased his striding and glared at Mr Giggles. ‘You did it,’ he said. ‘I know you did it.’

‘Did what? What?’

‘Blues Night at The Middle Man! That photo behind the bar! I’ve drunk in that pub for years and I’ve never seen that photo before.’

‘So you’re implying that
I
somehow brought it into being?’

‘It’s what you do to mess me up. Why won’t you leave me alone?’

‘Because you need me, Jonny, that’s why. You need me, Jonny, you do.’

‘I
don’t
need you. I don’t
want
you. I just want my own mind. I want to think my own thoughts, make my own choices.’

‘You wouldn’t be able to manage on your own.’

‘Other people do!’

‘Other people are not like you. Let’s go back to the pub.’

‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘I’m going to the park.’

‘I don’t like the park,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘The grass smells bad because the dogs all wee on it.’

‘Then I will go on my own.
Please
let me go on my own.’

‘You might get lost or something. I’d best come along.’

‘One day,’ said Jonny, ‘one day I will drive you out of my head.’

‘I really hope for your sake that you don’t.’

‘And what is
that
supposed to mean?’

‘It means,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘that
I
am the lesser of a great many evils. If you were to drive me out, there’s just no telling who or what might take up occupation in my absence.’

Jonny felt a nasty shiver creeping up his spine.

‘I’m going to the park,’ he said.

Gunnersbury Park is a beautiful park. Just off the Chiswick round-about, if you’re coming up the A4, it boasts many facilities: two miniature nine-hole golf courses (pitch-and-putt), two bowling greens, five cricket pitches, one hockey pitch, thirty-six football pitches, six netball pitches, three rugby pitches, one lacrosse pitch, two putting greens, fifteen hard tennis courts, a two-and-a-half-acre fishing pond, an ornamental boating pond, a riding school, dressing rooms and refreshment pavilions.

Add to this the ‘Big House’, a museum packed with many wonders, a Japanese garden, a Doric temple, an orangery and several Gothic follies.

And it’s open every day of the year except Christmas Day, and you can even get married in the grounds.
And
visit Princess Amelia’s Bath House. But more about her later.

So it’s well worth a visit.

Jonny sat by the ornamental boating pond smoking a hand-rolled ciggy and wearing the Trinidad and Tobago World Cup football shirt he had purchased from a charity shop, but which, along with any description of himself, had escaped previous mention. Across from him, on the west shore, a park ranger named Kenneth Connor (who was not under any circumstances to be confused with the other Kenneth Connor) dragged a shopping trolley up from the water’s edge and muttered swear words underneath his breath.

‘All that Robert Johnson stuff,’ said Jonny, ‘all that
was
just a
story, wasn’t it? There isn’t really a thirtieth record with the Devil’s laughter on it, is there?’

‘Don’t you believe in the Devil?’

‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

‘Now who’s the liar? You think about things like God and the Devil all the time.’

‘I don’t think the Devil exists.’

‘Tricky one, that,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You know what they say: that the greatest trick the Devil ever played was to convince people of his nonexistence. That and to get Boy George to the top of the charts, of course.’

‘So is the story true, or is it not?’

‘It depends what you mean by “true”.’

‘Does it? Well, let us accept that what I mean by the word “true” is “what actually happened”.’

‘Sounds a bit ambiguous,’ said Mr Giggles, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.

‘It is not ambiguous,’ said Jonny. ‘Something either happened, or it didn’t.’

‘If only it were as simple as that.’

‘It is,’ said Jonny. ‘And by your prevarication, I think it safe to assume that it was
not
a true story.’

‘Well, you’d know,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘because if I don’t exist, it means that
you
made up the story. So
is
it true, or not?’

Jonny Hooker ground his teeth.

‘We should go back to the pub,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You could get very drunk and we could have a really good metaphysical discussion. Talk some really splendid toot. And you could tell me how I’m your bestest friend, again.’

Jonny fished a scrunched-up piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I am going to apply myself to this,’ he said. ‘The curious silence that both myself and O’Fagin experienced. The pregnant pause. It must mean something. I have nothing else to do with my life, so I will apply myself to this.’

‘Bravely said.’

‘And since you will not leave me alone, you can help me.’

‘I already did. I identified “da-da-de-da-da” as music and I told you a pertinent story about Robert Johnson.’

Jonny Hooker rumpled his brow and puffed on his cigarette. ‘Blues music is particularly da-da-de-da-da-de-da-da-de-da-da-deda-da-da-da-da.’

‘Then you’re definitely on the right track. You’ll probably have it sorted by teatime.’

‘You think so?’

‘Oh look,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘there appears to be a small child there, drowning in the pond. He must have fallen out of a paddle boat.’

‘Why would you want to distract me?’ asked Jonny. ‘I thought you were really trying to help.’

‘There really
is
a small child drowning,’ said Mr Giggles. And he pointed.

Jonny followed the direction of the hairy pointer. Somewhere near the middle of the pond and quite out of reach of the nearest paddle boat, someone small was splashing frantically.

‘It
is
a child,’ cried Jonny. ‘Someone’s drowning there,’ he shouted. ‘Man overboard,’ he bawled at the top of his voice. ‘Someone do something.’

But nobody did. The paddlers kept on paddling and the strollers-past strolled on.

‘A child’s drowning!’ shouted Jonny. ‘You in the boat, there – behind you.’

‘You’d best dive in,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘swim out there, save that child.’

‘You think so?’

‘No,
I don’t
. You’re a rubbish swimmer, you’d probably drown.’

‘But someone has to do
something
.’ Jonny Hooker was kicking off his shoes.

‘Oh no,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Don’t be silly now, Jonny.’

‘You drew my attention to it.’

‘I thought it would cheer you up.’

‘What?’

‘
Schadenfreude
. It’s always cheering when someone’s in a worse state than you are. No, hold on.’

But Jonny was now in the pond. He was wading and shouting, stumbling and falling.

Rising and stumbling on.

It wasn’t deep, the ornamental pond. It only went down about
three feet, even in the middle where the struggling child was. But a man can drown in two inches of water, or so we are told. And a swan’s wing can break a grown man’s arm and the Great Wall of China can be seen from outer space.

The boaters were now taking notice of Jonny. They were clapping their hands and laughing. None of them appeared to be noticing the drowning child at all, though.

Jonny struggled onwards, stumbling, falling, rising, pointing. Shouting, ‘Drowning child!’

At last he reached the middle of the pond.

The drowning child was nowhere to be seen.

‘Oh my God,’ cried Jonny. ‘The child’s gone under. The child’s gone under.’

And Jonny dived. And dived and dived again.

Ranger Connor was quite apoplectic. It didn’t take much to get him going nowadays. His temper wasn’t what it had been. He always seemed to be on the edge.

And now he’d got himself all wet.

And so had Ranger Hawtrey.

It had taken the two of them to drag Jonny Hooker from the pond. And Jonny had put up quite a struggle. He’d punched Ranger Connor right on the nose. Ranger Connor had retaliated with a move that Count Danté (the world’s deadliest man) called the Strike of the Electric Dragon (which was named after the lightning on Venus, apparently).

Jonny Hooker was hauled ashore unconscious.

And Jonny Hooker awoke in hospital.

It was Brentford Cottage Hospital that Jonny Hooker awoke in. It’s mostly for private patients now. Special patients, really.

Jonny Hooker awoke to find himself struggling. Memories returned to him. The child in the ornamental pond. A park ranger with an attitude. A vicious blow to Jonny’s groin, one sufficient to put him beyond consciousness.

‘Ow,’ wailed Jonny. And then, ‘help!’

Because he could not move. He had been secured to the bed. He was indeed held within a straitjacket.

‘Help!’ shouted Jonny. ‘Somebody help me, please.’

A door that was closed then opened. A doctor appeared with a chart. This doctor approached Jonny’s bed and viewed Jonny doubtfully.

Doubtfully?

Jonny viewed the doctor. ‘Help me, please,’ he said.

‘We’re doing everything that we can to help you,’ said the doctor. And he tapped at his chart in a professional manner. ‘Everything that we can.’

‘I’m all tied up here,’ said Jonny. ‘Could you release me, please?’

‘There will be time enough for that later, I’m sure.’

‘The time is now,’ said Jonny.

‘No,’ said the doctor, ‘regrettably not.’

‘
Not?
’ asked Jonny. ‘
Why
not?’

‘Attempted suicide,’ said the doctor. ‘Throwing yourself in the ornamental pond like that and assaulting the park rangers who tried to rescue you.’

‘I did no such thing. There was a child drowning.’

‘There was no child. There was no one but you in the pond.’

‘There
was
a child.’

‘
No
child.’

‘Let me free,’ said Jonny. ‘Please let me free.’

‘You do have a bit of a history of this sort of thing, don’t you?’ said the doctor. ‘I haven’t brought your notes – there are so many of them. Phew, really heavy.’ And the doctor mimed carrying some really heavy notes. ‘We did call your mother, though. Apparently the police had to break into your house. You’d left her upturned on the bathroom floor. But she isn’t pressing charges.’

‘Charges?’ Jonny said.

And there was fear in his voice.

‘No charges,’ said the doctor. ‘But she did agree that you have become a danger to yourself, and to others. And so she has had you sectioned.’

‘Sectioned?’ Jonny Hooker said.

‘Sectioned,’ said the doctor.