Raiders of the Lost Car Park, page 16
‘He’s the Stuff of Epics,’ said Tuppe.
‘I’d like to bear your children,’ said Louise.
‘Me too,’ said Candy.
Cornelius grinned a bigger grin than ever. ‘If I can square it with your husbands, I shall be honoured to oblige,’ said he.
The sun, which had so recently risen upon Cornelius, Tuppe and the folk of the happy bus, rose also upon Inspectre Hovis.
The man from The Yard lay prone upon the garret floor, smelling strongly of ether and a dire cocktail of illegal substances. The great detective, whose greatness had yet to be proved to many minds, had just the two days left to solve The Crime of the Century. That crime of crimes, which, as yet, possessed the substance of a ghost’s fart in a force-ten gale. Just two days left, before redundancy and goodbye, Mr Hovis. No knighthood, just goodbye.
The Inspectre dragged himself into the vertical plane. ‘I will survive,’ he told his wash-basin. ‘I will triumph,’ he informed his unmade bed. ‘I will succeed!’ he shouted to the four grey walls.
Thump! Thump! Thump! went the broom handle on the ceiling below.
Other people were waking up upon this fine and sunny morning and some in the strangest of places.
Mickey Minns opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.
His wife rolled over and smacked him right in the face. ‘Get back in your bloody wardrobe,’ she told him.
Anna Gotting woke up. She stumbled from her bed and bashed her fist on the wall. ‘Keep it down in there!’ she shouted.
Polly Gotting tried to keep it down. But ‘taking tea with the parson’ can get pretty loud.
‘Sorry,’ said Prince Charles. ‘Was one making too much noise?’
‘You might cut out the train whistles. But other than that, you’re doing fine.’
‘This is much more fun than polo,’ said the prince.
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Polly replied. ‘I’ve never read any of Jilly Cooper’s books.’
‘Just like that. Just like that,’ went the prince.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Tommy Cooper. He used to say, “Just like that.”’
‘I don’t think I quite understand.’
‘It’s a sort of joke thing,’ the prince explained. ‘When you said Jilly Cooper, I pretended that I’d thought you said Tommy Cooper. So I went, “Just like that”. In a zany, goonish, madcap kind of a way.’
‘Why?’ Polly asked.
‘Because you make me so happy,’ the prince replied.
20
There are twenty-three really wonderful things in this world, and being tall, young, handsome, well-endowed and the multi-millionaire lead singer of a world-famous rock band, probably accounts for a good half-dozen of them.
Or possibly not. Because as someone once said, ‘Money can’t buy you happiness.’ And being world-famous means that you can’t travel on the London Underground any more, which must be a real bummer!
Or possibly not. Although it is to be noticed that a good many rich and famous folk claim to be deeply miserable.
Of course, they may all be lying through their expensively capped teeth, to make the rest of us feel better, or it might just be true.
The lead singer of Gandhi’s Hairdryer was deeply miserable, but then he’d always been like that. Tall, young, handsome, well-endowed and a multimillionaire perhaps. But still a miserable sod.
At least he could, in all truth, claim that success hadn’t changed him at all. But whether this would have cheered him up much remains in doubt.
On this particular morning, as upon so many others, the lead singer awoke to find himself in yet another Holiday Inn.
And it will come as no surprise at all that he awoke flanked all about by naked females and the debris of yet another night without shame. Because, let’s face it, the wanton excesses of a rock band on tour have been chronicled many times before.
The frenzied debaucheries, the reefer madness, the whole kith and caboodle and the roadie’s spaniel. We have come to expect these things. Nay, even to demand them. It’s a tradition or an old charter or something.
And as such, the fact that the lead singer awoke all alone, wearing nice green pyjamas, in a neat and tidy room, with his clothes on a peg and his orange juice and Bran Flake breakfast on its way up, accompanied by a copy of the Daily Telegraph, came as a serious let-down.
But then, as has been mentioned, the lead singer was a miserable sod.
And on this particular morning, as upon so many others, the lead singer lay in his bed, with his hands behind his head, and dreamed about trains.
Because, though all the world might know him as Vain Glory, drug fiend, monster of rock and deflowerer of virgins, he was just plain Colin to his mum.
And, as Colin lay in his bed with his hands behind his head and dreamed about trains, a very strange thing happened. The corners of his mouth turned upwards into a kind of crooked rictus. Muscles which had scarcely seen service were brought into play. A smile appeared upon his face.
Colin was feeling decidedly gay.
Not in the shirt-lifting sense of the word, of course. He’d tried to be a homosexual, but he’d only been half in Earnest. And although his mother had made him a transvestite, he’d swapped it at school for a train set. Et cetera. Et cetera.
Decidedly gay. Because Colin had finally decided, once and for all, to give up rock music and devote his life to the restoration of pre-war GWR rolling stock. He would announce this at the gig tomorrow night. It would come as a big surprise to his fans and to the other members of The Hairdryer. But he felt sure they’d understand and wish him well. He felt sure they would.
The happy-busers had now finished their breakfast belly-buster. The children were outside, frolicking in the Thoroughgood. Cornelius was up the back end of the bus, enjoying the hospitality of Candy and Louise. That is, having sexual intercourse with them. Whether ‘tea’ was being taken ‘with the parson’, it was impossible to say. The bandages had come off the tall boy’s head and all that could be seen was hair.
Bollocks was tinkering with a radio set.
‘Wotcha doing?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Checking to see where everyone is.’
‘Ah.’ Tuppe wiped his eggy mouth on his sleeve. ‘I often wondered how all the travellers know where to meet up. CB, is it?’
Bollocks shook his head. ‘BBC.’
‘BBC? How’s that?’
‘Well.’ Bollocks made conspiratorial gestures. ‘The
BBC organize all the big festivals. Then they broadcast things like, thirty thousand travellers are expected this weekend at such and such a place.’
‘You’re winding me up,’ said Tuppe.
‘I’m not. There’re two broadcasts, see. The first is to confuse the police, this announces a false location for the festival, so the police set up road blocks all round it and use up their manpower. When this has all gone ahead, the BBC broadcast the real location of the festival. What they say is, “Thousands of disappointed travellers, turned away by police from such and such a place, are now believed to be heading for—” And that’s where the gig really is. And we end up there before the police arrive.’
‘But what about all the punch-ups with the police?’
‘Well, you can’t make the operation run too smoothly. The police would eventually suss that they were being had. So what happens is, the BBC arrange For there to be some violent skirmishes. It makes the police look like they’re doing their job, and it provides the BBC with some great footage for the six o’clock news. Everybody’s happy.’
‘But your blokes get beaten up.
‘Not our blokes. They’re all actors working for the BBC. Check it out next time you watch it. You’ll recognize a few old faces: ex breakfast TV presenters, that bloke who used to be on Blue Peter.’
‘Incredible,’ said Tuppe. ‘So who is it at the BBC that organizes the festivals?’
Bollocks shrugged. ‘Probably some old reprobate who remembers the good old days before the war, when the BBC used to make up all of the news.
‘That rings a bell.’ Tuppe scratched his head. ‘I’ve read that somewhere.’
‘I read it in The Book of Ultimate Truths.’ Bollocks twiddled the dials on the radio set. ‘Written by a forgotten genius, guy called Hugo Rune. Ever heard of him?’
‘I do believe I might.’ Tuppe suddenly became aware that the bus was beginning to rock violently.
‘Keep it down back there, Cornelius,’ the small fellow shouted. ‘We’re trying to get the BBC.’
Arthur Kobold sat in his dingy little relocated office, deep somewhere in a Forbidden Zone. He was fed up.
‘I’m fed up,’ he said.
‘You’re fed up? How do you think I feel?’ This question was addressed to him by the big deflated green thingy, which now lay in a wrinkly heap on the guest chair, looking not unlike one of Ed Gein’s hand-stitched evening suits.
‘Stuff you,’ said Arthur.
‘If you’d be so kind. Yes please.’
‘What are you doing here in my office anyway? You retrieved the diamonds. What do you want?’
‘I want my money.’
‘Money? What money?’
‘My time and a half for after midnight. And there were some out-of-pocket expenses. I’ve filled in a chitty.’
‘Filled in a chitty? Have you gone stark raving mad? You don’t get any time and a half after midnight. You’re a conjuration. Moulded from etheric space by a process of controlled resonance, involving the use of certain restricted words of power. Imbued with a rudimentary intelligence and the physical wherewithal to achieve a certain end. To wit, the reclamation of the diamonds. This you have achieved. Hence, your work is done.’
‘You’re making me redundant,’ complained the wrinkly heap of skin.
‘You are redundant,’ said Arthur Kobold.
‘Then I want my redundancy money.
‘I don’t think I’m making myself clear.’ Arthur rose from his chair, plodded around his desk, plucked up the swathe of skin, tucked it to his chest, folded it once, folded it twice, smoothed out the wrinkles and folded it a third time. Then he went over to his filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, dropped the neatly folded redundant conjuration into a vacant file and slammed shut the drawer.
‘Get the picture?’ he asked.
‘Let me out,’ cried a muffled voice. ‘Unfold me at once, you fat bastard. Let me out, I say.’
Arthur Kobold returned to his chair. ‘Put a sock in it,’ he said. ‘Or it’s the paper shredder for you.’
Inspectre Hovis was in the Portakabin. He was shredding paper, loads and loads of paper. He had already shredded the important case notes for no less than twenty-three big unsolveds. Not to mention a quantity of vital documents, bound for the desk of Chief Inspector Lytton, which had turned up on his by accident.
Hovis was thoroughly enjoying himself When the telephone began to ring, he had considerable difficulty in finding it.
But when he had, he picked up the receiver and said, ‘Inspectre Hovis speaking,’ the way that only he could say it.
‘Sherringford, my dear fellow,’ said a voice. ‘None the worse for your regrettable wetting, I trust.’
‘Who is this speaking?’
‘It is I. Rune.’
‘Rune? I don’t believe I know any Rune.’ Hovis floundered frantically amongst the shreddings. He had to find another phone, get this call traced. ‘Rune, you say. How do you spell that please?’
‘As in Rune, you buffoon. You know me well enough. My file lies before you. Somewhere beneath the shreddings, I have no doubt.’
‘I do believe your name rings a small bell.’ Hovis ceased his foolish flounderings. The Portakabin did not possess, amongst its many hidden charms, another telephone.
‘A small bell?’ roared the voice of Rune. ‘How dare you, sir. My name is a clarion call. A mighty chime of hope, issuing from the tower of Ultimate Truth. For such as was, is now, and shall be ever more.
‘Quite so,’ said Hovis. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Help me? Help me? You think that you can help the man who has brought succour to the crowned heads of Europe? The man who taught the Dalai Lama to play darts? The man who shared his sleeping-bag with Rasputin, J. Edgar Hoover and Sandra Dee? The man who once scaled the Eiffel Tower in fisherman’s waders, to win a bet with Charles de Gaulle?’
‘What do you want, Rune?’ asked Inspectre Hovis.
‘Do you still have my diamonds?’ Rune enquired.
‘What diamonds are you referring to?’
‘Oh wake up, Hovis, do. The Godolphins. I sprayed the damn street with them. At no small risk to my health and well being. Thought they might stir up your interest. Tickle your fancy. Do you still have them?’
‘No,’ said Hovis. ‘I don’t.’
‘Nabbed by the blighter who reduced you to your underwear. Am I right?’
‘You are.’
‘Of course I am. I always am. You will meet me this afternoon. Three of the post meridian clock. At The Wife’s Legs Café, Brentford. There we shall discuss matters and you will stand me a buttered muffin and a pot of Lapsang. Come alone and unarmed. Your knighthood depends on it.’ And then the phone went dead.
Hovis thrashed shreddings from his chair and flopped into it. This was a turn up for the book and no mistake. Rune calling him. This put the cat amongst the pigeons and the nigger in the woodpile. It was a fine kettle of fish.
Hovis took out a small greasy clay pipe, filled it with opium and rolled plug tobacco and lit it with a lucifer. This was a regular three-pipe problem and no mistake.
He tossed the match carelessly aside and it fell into a waste-paper basket. Here, in the final moments of its short, yet brilliant career, that match passed on that thing which Prometheus stole from Olympus, to a screwed up Kleenex tissue.
This tissue would smoulder gently away for quite some time. And it would be several hours before the fire began in earnest (not to be confused with the other Earnest). But when this fire did get started, it would rip through the Portakabin, reducing it to blackened ruination, in less than ten minutes.
Sadly, Inspectre Hovis would not be around to enjoy the conflagration. He would be in Brent-ford. In The Wife’s Legs Café, drinking Château La Swasantnerf and listening to the words of Hugo Rune.
Mad and mysterious be the ways of fate that shape our ends. Yet the veil that covers the future’s face may well be woven by the hand of mercy.
Some say.
…and the minister denied that recent allegations of sexual misconduct, illegal appropriation of Government funds and direct involvement in the sale of nuclear weapons to a Third-World power, had anything to do with his resignation. He merely wished to spend more time with his wife and children. Dreaming about trains.
‘Upwards of twenty-three thousand travellers are expected to attend the summer solstice festival in Gunnersbury Park on the border of Brentford tomorrow, where world-famous rock band Gandhi’s Hairdryer will be performing. Lord Crawford, whose family have owned historic Gunnersbury House and its landscaped grounds for the last two hundred and thirty years, said that he hoped everyone would have a jolly good time and that if anyone got caught short, it was OK for them to use his toilet.’
Bollocks switched off the radio set. ‘There you go, he said.
Tuppe bounced up and down. ‘I’m trying to follow this. The festival is not really going to be in Gunners-bury Park.’
‘No. That’s to fool the police. The festival is on Star Hill. We know this because Bone is a friend of the Gandhi’s drummer and he heard about it months ago.
‘Whacky stuff,’ said Tuppe. ‘I love it.’ Cornelius came bumbling down the bus. ‘Watcha,’ said the small fellow. ‘Finally broken surface?’
‘Yes thanks. Did I just hear that the gig’s been moved to Gunnersbury Park?’
Tuppe tapped his nose. ‘It’s all a secret. I’ll tell you later.’
‘Good shag?’ Bollocks asked.
‘Very nice thank you.
‘Hope you wore a condom. We’re all rotten with the clap.’
‘Of course.’ Cornelius grinned. ‘It pays to play safe.’
‘But I thought you were supposed to be fathering children,’ said Tuppe.
Cornelius did not reply to this. But he spied Bone at the wheel and realized for the first time that the happy bus was moving once more. ‘Where are we now?’ he asked.
‘Heading for Brentford.’ Bollocks skinned up a joint. ‘Tell me, Cornelius, who are you really?’
‘Really? What does that mean?’
Bollocks smiled. ‘Well, you’re somebody, aren’t you? We could all suss that when we picked you up. Then the business with the farmers. And now your big hair. Famous people always have big hair. There’s no point in denying that.’
‘He’s the Stuff of Epics,’ said Tuppe. ‘I told you.’
‘Is this an epic we’re in now, then? I mean, because we picked you up and you helped us out. Does this mean we’re in the epic with you?’
Cornelius rammed large quantities of big hair down the back of his shirt. It appeared to have grown considerably during the short period that his head had been bandaged. ‘I suppose it would mean you were in it too,’ he said, ‘if I was still in it myself. But I’m not.
‘He quit,’ Tuppe explained.
‘That’s a bit of a cop-out.’ Bollocks rolled a roach. ‘Why did you quit?’
‘His bottle went,’ said Tuppe.
‘It did not. I became, er, disillusioned.’
‘Bottle job.’ Tuppe made obscene little pinchings with his thumb and forefinger.
‘Tell me about it.’ Bollocks slipped in the roach. ‘Your epic, what went wrong, why you became disillusioned. Perhaps the bus and us could help.’
‘I don’t think you could.’
‘Well, tell me anyway.
Cornelius shrugged. ‘All right, I’ll tell you the lot.
I doubt if you’ll believe me. You’ll probably think it’s all bollocks.’
‘Probably,’ said Bollocks, twisting the joint’s tip and preparing to light up. ‘Everything else in this world is.’
