Raiders Of The Lost Car Park Part 10

'You got it, Sarge.'

For the next five minutes Sergeant St.u.r.dy said nothing. He stood and twirled the ends of his p.u.s.s.y-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 p.o.r.n video from me and not return it. Mr Minns very bad man. Mr Minns-'

'Thank you, Constable,' said Sergeant St.u.r.dy. '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 circ.u.mstances. The old crambe repet.i.ta, 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 St.u.r.dy 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 h.o.r.n.y 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 St.u.r.dy shook his head sadly. 'This is a sorry state of affairs,' said he. 'Get up off the floor and stop crying, Minns,' hecontinued.

Mickey had not been dragged away to the station. But he had been given a very stem talking to.

Crime, Sergeant St.u.r.dy told him, was best left to the pro-fessionals. 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 trans-gression, 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 k.n.o.bkerrie 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 out-side 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.'

When Mickey had finally worn out his welcome at Archie's (which was three pints of Cobra downed and still unable to decide upon a starter), he was politely ejected into the street. Which left him with the very real problem of where to go next. Home for another thrashing? Mickey wasn't keen.

Round to some friend's place, for a big spliff and an all-night chin-wag? Seemed sound. But for the fact that he had exhausted all such hospitality many years back. No, there was no choice involved. At two in the morning, Jack Lane's Four Hors.e.m.e.n was the only place in town.

Of all the pubs in Brentford, The Four Hors.e.m.e.n held the distinction of being the only one that did not recognize any licensing hours. As Jack Lane had now pa.s.sed his one hundredth year, the local con-stabulary turned a blind eye to the fact that he rarely opened his doors until all the other pubs closed theirs. It was a tradition, or an old charter, or something. And it was the only place the officers of the force could grab a decent pint when they came off late shift.

Two of them were doing so even as Mickey walked in. And one of these looked up to greet him.

'Evening, Mickey,' said reliable Ron St.u.r.dy. 'Your round I think.'

It was precisely three minutes past two, when Anna Gotting, Cornelius Murphy and Tuppe entered The Four Hors.e.m.e.n.

'Oh no,' Anna caught her breath. 'It's Mickey.'

'And the two policemen.' Cornelius stepped across the silent bar. Various patrons were posed in pubbers' positions. One making a throw at the darts board. Another in the act of ordering a drink. More, conversing about tables. A single fellow heading for the gents, which smelt, no doubt, identical to any other in the world. Old Jack held a gla.s.s beneath the whiskey optic. Ron St.u.r.dy had his mouth open and his right hand on Mickey's shoulder. All shared one thing in common, however. A certain quietude. All were utterly still. None appeared to be breathing.'We shouldn't hang around here too long,' said Tuppe. 'There is the fathering of the new order to be got under way. This I consider to be a matter of high priority, praise the Lord. Mine's a Jim Beam, if you're in the chair, Cornelius.'

'And mine's a very large vodka,' sighed Anna. 'Poor Mickey. I really quite fancied him.'

'Now that is sad.' Tuppe scaled a barstool.

Cornelius made his way behind the bar and took down a bottle of Tsar Nick, The Emperor of Vodkas, from the shelf.

'I can't hold with any of this,' he said as he rum-maged for a gla.s.s. 'There is no way the entire world can come to an end the moment we turn our backs for a few minutes. It just can't be.'

'Looks very much as though it is,' said Tuppe.

'But it just can't. I'll bet they're still all warm. Give them a feel.'

'I certainly will not.' Tuppe shook his little head. 'I have not ruled out the possibility of contagion.

You touched the fellow in the car, didn't you?'

'I touched the bloke at the bus stop.' Anna began to wipe her hand nervously on her T-shirt.

'That doesn't matter.' Tuppe tipped her the wink. 'As the mother of the new order, you will have a natural immunity. Shame about Cornelius. How does he look to you?'

'I look fine and I feel fine, thank you, Tuppe.' Cornelius popped the cork from the vodka bottle and made an attempt to pour out a large measure. But with no success.

'Something's wrong here,' he said, shaking the bottle about and peering into its neck. 'The drink won't pour. It's solid.'

'Whoa!' went Tuppe.

'What whoa?' Cornelius made with the vigorous bottle shakings.

'New order.' Tuppe folded his arms. 'No alcohol in the new order. G.o.d won't allow it. My case is proven I so believe.'

'Nonsense. It's just gone off, or something.'

'Or something. Try another then, 0 doubting Thomas.'

'I will.' Cornelius took down a bottle of Lagavulin.

It wouldn't pour. Nor would the Dalwhinnie. Nor the Johnnie Walker Black Label. Nor even the Bell's Extra Special.

'Don't forget the Jim Beam,' called Tuppe.

Cornelius tried the Jim Beam. Pour it would not.

'Want to try your hand at the pumps?'

'No. No I ...' Cornelius hesitated. His eye had become drawn to a most extraordinary phenomenon.

And it centred about the right hand of Mickey Minns. This hand hovered, immobile, a few inches above an ashtray on the bar counter. It was arrested in the very act of flicking ash from a cigarette. And it was this ash that caught the attention of the tall boy. The ash and the way it hung motionless in the air, halfway between cigarette and ashbowl. Cornelius stared at it in awe. And as he did so, a great and terrible truth came to him. An Ultimate Truth, as his daddy might have described it.

'Oh s.h.i.t,' said Cornelius. 'Oh s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t.'

'What is all this s.h.i.tting?' Tuppe asked. 'Are you auditioning for the part of serpent in this new Eden, or what?'

'No.' The eyes of Cornelius Murphy took it all in. All of it. He pointed with a quivery finger. 'Behold the dart,' said he.

Anna and Tuppe turned to behold. The dart hovered in the air, a mere six inches from the double top.

'Cor,' whistled Tuppe. 'That's clever. How does it do that?'

'It doesn't. It just seems to.'

'Very erudite, Cornelius. It doesn't, it just seems to. Would you care to enlarge on that at all?'

'It's us.' Cornelius chewed upon his knuckle. 'It's not them. There's nothing wrong with these people. It's us that's all wrong.'

'Still not following you, I'm afraid.''I am,' Anna smoothed back her hair. 'Think about Rune's car. Sixty-odd years old, but it smells brand new and it starts first time. It's the Zones. Time must be different in there. We went in and we came out and now we re- 'What?' Tuppe shook his head to and fro. 'We're what?'

'We're different. We're moving much too fast. The car is still new because sixty years in there equals about one minute out here. These people aren't really standing still, nor is the dart. We're moving so fast that we can't perceive their movement. We're in a different time frame. That's why the phones wouldn't work, the bottles won't pour. Why we can't feel any heartbeats.'

'This is deep,' said Tuppe. 'Very deep.'

'This is bad,' said Cornelius. 'Very, very bad.'

'Bad for me,' said Tuppe mournfully. 'But not so bad for you, I'm thinking.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Oh come on, Cornelius. This is perfect for you surely. Use your loaf. If we're really moving thousands of times faster than everyone else on earth, think what you can do. Before one second of real time has pa.s.sed, you could open up every Forbidden Zone in London, pull out all the booty, liberate your real daddy, print out the truth on broadsheets and stick one through the letter-box of every influential bod for miles around. And all before anyone can blink an eyelid. You win. You've solved it.'

'And if all that were so, how is it bad for you?'

'I don't get to be the father of the new order any more.

'You never were,' said Anna. 'But you're right on this, isn't he, Cornelius?'

'No,' Cornelius held down his cap and shook his bandaged head. 'Sadly not. Because for one thing we won't be able to get back into the Zones.'

'Why not? You still have the reinvented ocanna. And we know that it works.'

'It works when you play it at a normal speed. But at the speed we're moving? Forget it. We may be invisible to the naked eye, but we are also inaudible to any ear you like. It won't work. We're done for.

Before that dart hits the dartboard, we will probably have died of old age.'

'Depressing thought, isn't it?' said a voice from the door.

It was the voice of Arthur Kobold.

9.

'Well look who it is,' said Cornelius Murphy. 'It's Mr Kobold. Say h.e.l.lo to Mr Kobold, Tuppe.'

'No thanks.' Tuppe had no wish to speak to Mr Kobold. And nor did Anna. She kept very still indeed, hoping not to be noticed. This was not the right place to be, and it was certainly not the right time. All she now wanted was out.

Arthur beamed at the tall boy and took a pace forward. He was dressed, as ever, in his Victorian morning suit. High starched 'throttler' with silk cravat. Diamond stud. Gold watch fob gleaming. Hair combed up above his round flat face. Bigger side whiskers than ever. He was prim and portly. Round and romantic. He was not a nice fellow to know.

'I'll take the ocarina,' said he. 'Very enterprising of you, that. I will also take the route map and Rune's 'I think not,' Cornelius replied.

'And the keys to the water car. We wouldn't want that thing falling into the wrong hands. Can't have mankind getting above itself, can we?'

'Can't we?' Cornelius held the bottle of Jim Beam behind his back His fingers tightened about its neck.

'I wouldn't throw that if I were you,' said Arthur. 'Just hand over all the goodies and go home to bed.

When you wake up in the morning, all this will be a bad dream. Not that you'll remember much of it.

We'll see to that.' -'You see to everything, don't you?'

'Everything important. We let mankind deal with the trivialities. But we control the higher issues.

'Why?' Cornelius asked. 'Tell me why.'

'All right.' Arthur stepped up to the bar and placed his bottom on the stool next to Anna. 'Bottle,'

said he.

Cornelius pa.s.sed him the bottle.