Raiders of the Lost Car Park, page 7
7
Coincidence? Synchronicity? The unplucked nasal hair of destiny?
‘The way I see it,’ said Cornelius Murphy, ‘this is now my car.
‘Oh it’s definitely you.’ Tuppe was all smiles. ‘Understated elegance. Classic refinement. Top of the range.
Anna opened her mouth to voice her opinions, but Cornelius went on. ‘I think we should take it out for a spin.’
‘What?’ Anna now found her moment. ‘If this car has been standing here for the last sixty years, you don’t really expect it to work, do you?’
‘Of course it will work.’ Cornelius made little pointing motions towards the ignition key that dangled from the dashboard. ‘Brrm brrrm,’ said he.
‘Get real.’ Anna found she couldn’t fold her arms, so she duffed Tuppe on the head for good measure. ‘Ouch,’ said Tuppe. ‘Trust him,’ he said also.
‘Right then. Hold on to your hats.’ The ignition key was an elegant thing in itself. Silver and shaped as a dolphin. Cornelius gave it a bit of a turn. Something made a bit of a click. But that was about all. That was completely all, in fact.
‘Well?’ asked Anna.
‘Engine’s a bit cold probably.’
‘A bit cold? If this thing really runs on water, which I seriously doubt, the water will all have evaporated decades ago. This is very sad.’
‘Take no notice.’ Tuppe mimed encouraging key twists. ‘Give it another go.
‘I will.’ Cornelius gave it another go. Not a whisper. ‘Needs a bit of choke perhaps.’ He tweaked several enigmatic organ-stop sort of arrangements on the dashboard. ‘Brrrm brrrm,’ he said once more, as he once more turned the key.
‘I felt something.’ Tuppe bobbed up and down. ‘I felt something.
‘Feel it again and you’re a dead boy.’ Anna bopped him on the ear.
‘Do it again, Cornelius.’ And Cornelius did it again. And this time, a shiver ran through the silver car. A swift vibration. And then a purr and a whisper and a long low note.
Gurgling noises issued from the bonnet region. Cornelius massaged the accelerator pedal. The gurgling increased to become a throbbing rush. ‘There we go,’ said the tall boy, fingers dancing on the dashboard. ‘Like a dream.’
‘A wet dream?’ Anna suggested.
Cornelius raised the eyebrow of admonishment, pressed forward the gearstick of hope, and let out the clutch of, well, just the clutch, really.
The dream car moved forward without a shake, a rattle, or a roll. Magic.
Cornelius steered it around Mulligan’s ice-cream van, through the portal and out into the night. As they left the cul-de-sac, Tuppe even managed to locate the switch for the headlights.
Anna glanced back over her shoulder. ‘What about the portal, Cornelius? Shouldn’t we have tried to close it, or something?’
‘Certainly not. Tuppe and I are sworn to expose the blighters in the Forbidden Zones. We won’t be closing any doors after us. We’ll be leaving them open, for all the world to see.’
‘Fair enough. This car drives beautifully, doesn’t it?’
‘Certainly does.’
And it certainly did. They cruised through the backstreets and off towards the main road. As they approached this, they were forced to slow down. A car ahead was waiting to turn right. Its indicator was jammed on. The driver did not appear to be in any hurry.
Cornelius pulled up behind him. ‘Go on then,’ he muttered. ‘There’s nothing coming. Get a move on.
The car didn’t move.
‘Meep your horn,’ said Tuppe.
‘I don’t think it would be wise to draw too much attention to ourselves right now. Not in this car.
Perhaps he’s just stalled or something. We’ll give him a moment.
They gave him a moment. And several more.
‘What’s up with him?’ Cornelius wound down the window and stuck his head out.
‘Meep your horn.’
‘No. Not yet. Not...‘ Cornelius sniffed the air. He sniffed again. ‘That’s odd.’
‘What can you smell?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing is odd?’ Anna shook her head.
‘For me, yes. Wait here.’ Cornelius got out of the car and gently closed the door. ‘I’ll just take a look.’
Anna and Tuppe watched him. They saw him sneak up to the car in front, peep in at the driver’s window, jerk back, stoop to retrieve his cap from the road, peep once more into the car, then open the door and reach in.
And then they saw him pull out his hand at considerable speed, slam shut the door and lurch back towards them.
Cornelius flung himself into his seat. Breathing heavily.
‘What’s wrong?’ Anna gaped at the boy with the grey face and the popping eyes. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s a dead man driving that car,’ said Cornelius Murphy.
‘A dead man?’
‘A dead man. Sitting there, staring straight ahead. He must just have died. He’s still warm.’
‘It’s not Kevin Costner, by any chance, is it?’
‘No, Anna, it is not.’
‘Pity for him then. Because I’m not giving anyone else the kiss of life tonight.’
‘We should do something,’ said Tuppe. ‘Not that I know exactly what.’
‘Phone for an ambulance.’ Cornelius put the car into gear. Make an anonymous call. Whatever happened here is nothing to do with us. I’ll drive round him and we’ll find a phone box. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Tuppe.
Cornelius steered carefully around the stopped car. As they passed it by, Anna and Tuppe made furtive peepings. The driver sat like a dummy, staring straight ahead.
‘How very horrid.’ Tuppe made a sour face. ‘Drive on quickly, please.’
Cornelius did so. A hundred yards up the main road they came to the general post office. Three telephone boxes stood before it.
‘Wait here.’ Cornelius parked the car, got out and ran over to make the call. He lifted the receiver in the first box, waited, shook it against his ear, waited once more and then cursed briefly. The phone was dead.
Cornelius tried the next one. And the next. Then he returned to the car and leaned in at the window. ‘Out of order.’
‘All three?’ Anna asked.
‘All three. Lines are dead. Nothing.’ Cornelius looked up and down the road. It was deserted. Not a soul in sight. He sniffed the air once more. And then he shivered.
‘What is it?’ Tuppe got a worried look on.
‘I can’t smell anything. Not anything at all. I can smell us. But nothing out here. Something’s very wrong.
‘Get back in the car, Cornelius. Drive us home.’
‘Yes indeed.’
Cornelius drove on. There was a haunting stillness to the night. As if the very life had been sucked right out of it. The three travellers felt uncomfortable, oppressed. They didn’t speak.
They were nearing the Chiswick roundabout when they saw the bus. It was the late-night single-decker from Richmond. It was coming towards them. Or rather, it wasn’t. The bus had stopped a few yards before a request stop, where an old man stood with his arm outstretched. The old man was standing very still. Very still indeed.
Cornelius pulled up alongside the non-oncoming bus and stared up into the driver’s cab.
‘Not another stiff?’ Tuppe hid his face in Anna’s T-shirt.
‘I don’t like the look of this.’ Cornelius gave his bottom lip a bit of pensive chewing. ‘You two wait here. I’ll take a look.’
‘No,’ said Anna. ‘Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll take a look?’
‘Why don’t you both take a look, while I wait here?’ Tuppe suggested.
Cornelius couldn’t get the bus door open, but, as he crept along the side, he could see all of the passengers.
There were just the four of them. A lady in a straw hat, reading a paperback. A black guy in a leather jacket, half risen from his seat. Two yobbos in shell suits, lounging by the door. All were still. Frozen, like characters in a waxwork tableau.
‘Hello.’ Cornelius drummed on the window. ‘Can anyone hear me in there? Hello. Hello.’
‘Cornelius,’ Anna called, ‘come over here and check this out.’
The tall boy joined her at the request stop. She was examining the old fellow. ‘Is he dead then?’
‘I suppose he must be. His heart’s not beating and he doesn’t have a pulse. But he’s still warm. Feel his face.’
‘I’d rather not, thank you.
Anna hugged her elbows. ‘Cornelius, something terrible’s happened here. Something really terrible. Do you know what I’m thinking?’
‘No,’ said Cornelius. ‘I don’t.’
‘I’m thinking, is it all over? Did some plague, or something, sweep across London while we were inside that warehouse? Cornelius, I’m thinking, are we the last people alive?’
The tall boy gave a shudder, which he tried very hard to disguise as a shrug. ‘Let’s go.
‘Where to? To your house? Should we go there, do you think?’
‘No, I don’t think we’ll do that.’
‘Where then?’
‘We’ll drive around,’ said Cornelius. ‘Have a look. See what we can see. Yes?’
‘Yes. All right.’
He chanced an arm about her shoulder as they walked back to the car. She didn’t seem to mind. Or perhaps she just didn’t notice.
‘What’s going on?’ Tuppe asked, as Anna shifted him once more onto her knee.
‘I don’t know.’ Cornelius dropped into his seat. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘But they’re all dead?’
‘Seems so. But I just don’t get it. Dead people do not stand at bus stops with their hands stuck out.’
‘They do in the kind of movies I watch.’ The small fellow fluttered his fingers. ‘Then, when you’re least expecting it, they pounce! And they suck your brains out of your nostrils. Did you ever see Night of the Living Dead?’
Anna looked at Cornelius.
And Cornelius looked at Anna.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said the tall boy, putting his foot hard down.
They drove through Brentford. It looked a picture beneath the full moon. Miami? Vermont? The Taj Mahal? Forget ‘em. Brentford by moonlight. You want romantic? You got romantic.
But somehow not tonight. The big moon hung above the silent borough, ghost-white in the cloud-clear sky. And halfway up the Ealing Road the travellers came upon two fellows.
They were frozen in attitudes of drunken camaraderie. Arms about each other’s shoulders. Captured in mid stagger, a few yards from the door of The Flying Swan.
‘Do you know what I’m thinking?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Very possibly, but go on anyway.
‘I’m thinking, perhaps it’s the end of the world.’
‘No,’ Cornelius assured him. ‘The end of the world is all fire and brimstone.’
‘Well, so the Bible says. But what if that’s a misprint or something? What if the end is just, the end?
Everything simply stops, like a clock, runs down and stops.’
‘Like a clock?’
‘Or a movie. The big freeze frame. End picture, roll credits. Produced by, directed by, from an original idea by God. Fade out.’
‘No.’ Cornelius tried to make his ‘no’ sound convincing. But it lacked a certain something. ‘It can’t be that. What about us, then?’
‘The exception that proves the rule. Or...’ Tuppe paused.
‘Or what?’
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’
‘Out with it, Tuppe.’
‘Well.’ Tuppe scratched his tiny chin. ‘Suppose this is some unwritten version of the Biblical End. The end of a particular cycle. The beginning of another. Now, if this was the case and God, in all his infinite wisdom, wanted there to be a new cycle, then He’d need, you know .
‘I don’t know,’ said Cornelius. ‘What would God in his infinite wisdom need?’
‘He’d need a new Adam and a new Eve,’ said Anna.
‘Exactly,’ said Tuppe.
‘What?’ Cornelius stood on the brake.
Tuppe slumped back, holding his head. ‘Easy on the emergency stops. I nearly went through the windscreen.’
‘What are you saying, Tuppe?’
‘Calm down, Cornelius. Think about it. It makes sense, doesn’t it? The stuff of epics thing. I mean, how epic can you get? Fathering the new humanity.’
‘Me?’ A bit of a smile came to the tall boy’s mouth. ‘Father of the new humanity? I could go for that.’
‘You?’ Tuppe fell back with more than a smile. ‘I wasn’t thinking of you. I was thinking of me.’
8
It hadn’t been Mickey’s day at all. The police finally arrived at Minn’s Music Mine, about two hours after he’d called to report the ‘robbery’. By which time Mickey, whose powers of recuperation were the stuff of local legend, had sobered up sufficiently to realize the deep brown stuff he was getting himself into.
There were just the two policemen. One was a pimply youth, who spoke in a curious, unidentifiable accent. The other, a solid-looking body with a military moustache and a steely gaze. His name was Sergeant Ron Sturdy.
Mickey recognized the pimply youth at once. He was a dedicated purchaser of plectrums. Sergeant Sturdy recognized Mickey Minns.
‘Surely I used to be your probation officer,’ he said. The scene-of-crime investigations didn’t take too long. Sergeant Sturdy despatched his junior associate to make inquiries next door at Mr Patel’s. ‘Just mention my name and take a statement.’
‘You got it, Sarge.’
For the next five minutes Sergeant Sturdy said nothing. He stood and twirled the ends of his pussy-tickler, smiling occasionally at the fretting, sweating Minns.
When the long five minutes were up, the lad returned, sucking a Snickers. ‘Patel sang like a Bronx canary,’ he informed his superior officer.
‘Read from your book, son.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Constable Ken turned back the cover of his regulation police-issue notebook and read from it.
‘Big fat fellow he was (Mickey pulled in his stomach), but he had a mask on, so I didn’t see his face (Mickey let out his stomach). Van was Ford Transit. Painting on sides of flowers and love and peace. Very rusty old van. No tax disc, by the way.’
‘Anything else?’ Ron asked.
‘Yes, sir.’ Constable Ken continued reading. ‘Van had Minn’s Music Mine printed in big letters on back. It Mr Minns’ van. It Mr Minns in mask loading van with guitars. Mr Minns not paid paper bill for six months. Mr Minns hire out Donkey Capers porn video from me and not return it. Mr Minns very bad man. Mr Minns—’
‘Thank you, Constable,’ said Sergeant Sturdy. ‘I think we get the picture.’
Mickey opened his mouth to protest his innocence. But he was bang to rights and he knew it. His best chance was a complete confession, accompanied by a plea of mitigating circumstances. The old crambe repetita, in fact.
And so he began. He wasn’t a well man, he told the police officers. He’d never been the same since he’d done that three-month acid trip with Syd Barrett back in the Sixties. The chemicals were still in his bloodstream and only large libations of alcohol neutralized them and kept him on an even keel. And it was all his wife’s idea anyway. And she wasn’t a well woman. She beat him up a lot. Not that she could help herself. She’d never been the same since she was bopped on the head by a police truncheon during a peaceful protest about the war in Vietnam. And business had been so bad lately, what with the recession. And there was the unpaid paper bill and the road tax for the van and the hole in the ozone layer and everything.
Sergeant Sturdy offered a sympathetic ear to Mickey’s tale of woe. But when he felt that this ear had been bent quite enough, he raised a hard and horny hand.
‘Put the cuffs away,’ he told Constable Ken, who now had Mickey up against the wall with his legs spread and was giving the shopkeeper an intimate body search. ‘And wait in the car.
‘Aw, but, Sarge—’
‘Just do it.’
Constable Ken slouched from the shop, muttering in a mid-Atlantic manner. Sergeant Sturdy shook his head sadly. ‘This is a sorry state of affairs,’ said he. ‘Get up off the floor and stop crying, Minns,’ he continued.
Mickey had not been dragged away to the station. But he had been given a very stem talking to. Crime, Sergeant Sturdy told him, was best left to the professionals. The Robert Maxwells and the Carlos the Jackals of this world. Not to balding ex-musos with beer bellies and bad breath.
Society would be a better place if folk simply stuck to what they did best. Every man and every woman is a star, the policeman explained, shining in the firmament of their own individuality. Know thyself and to thyself be true.
Mickey nodded thoughtfully and wondered whether the sergeant had ever spent any time round at Syd’s place in the Sixties.
The stern talking to concluded with the instruction that Minns should never again stray from the path of righteousness and, that as a penance for his transgression, he should personally offer a month’s free guitar tuition to Sergeant Ron’s son Cohn.
‘He needs a really decent guitar to thrash about on, he’s a clumsy boy, but means well. Give him a go of your Les Paul Sunburst.’
Mickey’s wife was on the phone, booking a suntan session and a bikini wax, when her hubby returned home with the bad news that all the guitars had to go back to the shop. She’d beaten him up.
Mickey had limped off in search of a beer. He’d found one at The Flying Swan and located and disposed of a good many more before Neville, the part-time barman, called for the towels up and brought his knobkerrie into play.
Mickey then limped next door to Archie Karachi’s Star of Bombay Curry Garden for the traditional post—pub after—burner. It is an interesting fact, that, just as the Queen believes that all the world outside Buckingham Palace smells of fresh paint and new carpet, so, all Indian waiters believe that every Englishman is a foul-mouthed drunken fascist. It’s a weird and wonderful world we live in, and as Hugo Rune once wrote, ‘It has never ceased to fascinate me, that no matter where I travel, nor in what far-flung reach of civilization I unroll my sleeping-bag, no matter how educated or primitive the people, how rich or how poor, how spiritually enlightened or how entrenched in fundamentalist dogma, one thing remains forever the same. And that is the smell in the gents’ toilet.’
