Raiders Of The Lost Car Park Part 13

'And is that bad?'

'It could be when you translate the name into Greek. That would make it Hermes. Hermes Tris-megistus to be precise.'

'Oh s.h.i.t.' Tuppe took a step back from the front door. 'As in Train of Trismegistus?'

'That would be the one.

'Best not ring for service, then?'

'Best not. Let's go home and get some sleep. We've screwed up quite enough for one night.'

'Another day, another ocarina, is that what you're saying?'

'Something of that nature, yes.'

'Then might I trouble you to give me a piggyback? My legs are all walked out.'

'That', said Cornelius Murphy. smiling like a good'n, 'would be my pleasure.'

Inspectre Hovis had quite forgotten the meaning of the word 'pleasure'. He now sat in the gutter, cleaning the blade of his swordstick on a discarded Kentucky Fried Chicken box. A young woman all covered in custard had just pa.s.sed him by. The two of them had clashed terribly, colourwise, and she had looked him up and down and denounced him as a pervert. The Inspectre shook his head. It was an un-funny old world and no mistake.

Hovis shook green slime from his fingers and climbed to his feet. He was rightly perplexed.

It is a fact, well known to those who know it well, that all policemen above the rank of sergeant are not only Freemasons, but Jesuits. The reason for this is quite obvious when you think about it. The coming of the Millennium and the inevitable appearance of The Antichrist.

The exact dates and details of these earth-shattering events are known only to a chosen few. The Pope, his wife and their son Colin. Just how the pontiff came by this privileged information is a bit of a mystery. Some say that the dates and details were edited out of the New Testament, during its trans-lation from the original Greek, in the year 999. Others, and this seems very much more likely, that the Pope is on first-name terms with the Almighty, who regularly drops in for a cappuccino and a 'feet--up' in front of the telly, to watch the Italian football.

But, be all this as it may, the Church of Rome, seeking as ever to better the lot of the common man, has, over the years, taken certain steps to prepare itself for the big showdown.

Making sure that the police forces of the world are in its back pocket being just one of them.

Inspectre Hovis had mused upon the foregoing many times since his compulsory initiation into the Jesuit brotherhood. But he hadn't believed one word of any of it.

But all this business tonight had him rightly per-plexed.

The Inspectre sheathed his now once-more-immaculate blade and flexed his shoulders. He had best be away home before somebody reported him to the police.

He didn't see the silver car until it was almost upon him.

It came without much sound, but at considerable speed. As it mounted the pavement the Inspectre and the driver stared for the briefest of moments into each other's eyes. And then the great detective leapt for his life. Over the parapet of the bridge and down into the icy depths of the River Thames.

Cornelius gaped in horror. He'd seen the whole thing. And now the silver car was heading straight inhis direction.

'Oh b.u.g.g.e.r!' The tall boy turned and took flight, clutching the now slumbering Tuppe about his shoulders. The silver car whistled after him.

Cornelius did not run down the middle of the road, as they do in the movies. He knew better than that. He made for the trees of Kew Green.

The silver car b.u.mped up on to the turf, goug-ing great ruts out of the gra.s.s. A strongly worded letter, from the local residents' committee to the Home Secretary, would be penned the following day, regarding these ruts. Although they would be some-what far down the list of complaints, as a lot worse was to follow this night.

Cornelius dodged in and out of the oak trees, seeking a low bough to swing up on. But all had been clipped against such possible outrage.

'b.u.g.g.e.r,' puffed the runner.

The silver car swerved after him in hot pursuit.

'Wake up, Tuppe. We're in big trouble.'

'Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz,' went Tuppe.

The church on Kew Green is a historic affair. Designed by Sir Christopher Wren, it presents a wealth of period detail to the lover of ecclesiastical architecture. The transept to the north is of particular interest, with its fan vaulting and distinctive gilded funerary escutcheons.

Thomas Gainsborough lies buried in the church-yard and the walls enclosing this were built high against the 'resurrection' men. They remain high to this day. They may be scaled, using considerable care, but as to 'leaping them in a single bound'? No way.

Cornelius suddenly found himself pressed up against the south-facing wall, with nowhere left to run.

The silver car moved forward, catching him to perfection in its headlights.

The tall boy straightened the sleeper on his shoulders and raised a hand to stir him from his rest. But then he thought better of it. If they were both to die here, smashed up against a graveyard wall, perhaps it was kinder that Tuppe didn't know about it. He could apologize later. In heaven.

The silver car ploughed forward and Cornelius stood his ground.

It pulled up not three yards away and stood, its engine throbbing.

Cornelius shielded his eyes to the glare, clung to Tuppe with one hand and made a fist with the other.

'I'm ready,' said he.

The pa.s.senger door swung slowly open, and a voice called out the now legendary words, 'Come with me if you want to live.'

Cornelius squinted into the headlights' beam. 'Mr Schwarzenegger, is that you?'

'Don't be a silly a.r.s.e,' the voice replied. 'Get into the car. They are close behind.'

And close behind they were. Across the green four sets of headlights swept into view. They sliced be-tween the trees and across the gra.s.s. They were very close behind.

Without further words spoken. Cornelius dragged Tuppe from his shoulders, cradled him in his arms and ducked for the silver car.

The driver put the vehicle into reverse and spun the wheel around.

'It might be appropriate, at this time, that you position your head firmly between your knees.

Sud-den impact is a predictable circ.u.mstance.'

'Shiva's sheep!' Cornelius clutched Tuppe to his bosom and ducked his head. The driver tore the car about and bore towards his pursuers. He struck the first a glancing blow which sent the tall boy sprawling to the floor.

'Wake up, Tuppe,' said he.

But Tuppe snored on.

'I'll show these fellows I mean business,' said the driver.

'Hold on,' Cornelius clawed at the dashboard. 'What's happening?'

'We are under attack from the forces of darkness. You would do well to maintain the "crash position". Further concussions are reliably forecast.' The driver did a nifty handbrake turn and side-swiped an on-coming vehicle, rolling it into a tree, where it did the right thing and burst into flame.'A satisfactory result,' said the driver. 'I recall a time in Shanghai. Lord Lucan and I were engaged in a rickshaw race. Fifty-guinea wager. His lordship had the temerity to have his coolie elbow mine from the thoroughfare, in just such a fashion. Mind you, I evened the score on that occasion. Took out my pistol and shot the pair of them dead.'

'Oh great,' thought Cornelius to himself. 'I've hitched a ride with a psycho.'

'I heard that,' said the driver. 'Thoughts have wings. And yours flutter against my ears, even in the pitch of battle. Keep your head down please.'

He screeched to a halt. A car, rushing up from behind, ploughed into the rear with spectacular effect.

The driver laughed uproariously. 'That stopped the blighter in his tracks, what? Two down and two to go. Shall we make a chase of it?'

'Anything you say, friend.'

'Friend me no friends. No friends have I.'

'Whatever you say.' Cornelius chanced a glance up from the foetal position he had a.s.sumed on the floor.

He observed a stretch of Fair Isle sock. A goodly spread of Boleskine tweed. Much waistcoat, with a golden fobchain. Considerable silk cravat. And then a wealth of chins.

'My name is Hugo Rune,' the driver said. 'But you may call me guru.'

12.

The guvnor's court was grand and Gothic. Ancient and imposing. And craving of description in the medieval manner.

Broad were the flagstones that paved its ample floor and worn were they as gla.s.s beneath the tread of shoeless feet. Royal tabards, cloth of gold, adorned its sombre walls. And on these tabards beasts and weird devices were displayed. Wrought thereupon in such a distant age, that nought remained of meaning but their majesty withal.

The guvnor himself was also old. And though his subjects, far and near, did celebrate his birthdays with appropriate occasion, none was there to accurately count the candles for his cake.

The guvnor was also fat. Prodigious were his limbs and great the girth of him each way about. His middle regions pressed they hugely at a belt as broad as three hands' span and of such length that, stood upon its end, the tallest of the court could not stretch up to reach its buckle.

And of his boots? His tall black boots? Such was the bigness of these boots that, it was said by those who knew these matters and reported them with truth, the whole tanned hides of bullocks, two in number, had been employed, without much waste, their cobbling to complete.

And bearded also was the guvnor, very much indeed. And oh the beard of him, pure white, a pillow's fill. A pillow? Nay, a duvet. Several duvets, and a pouffe.

And of the robes of him? Speak of his robes? Of regal red were they, what other colour should a sovereign clothe? And trimmed with ermine, to a niceness, pleasing to behold. Unless thou art an ermine, naturally.

The guvnor was also drunk this night. And in his cups waxed anything but merry.

'Kobold!' cried the guvnor, and his subject answered, 'Sire?'

'Arthur,' said the king. 'Where have you been?'

'I just popped out,' said Arthur, with his shoes off and his knees bent in a bow, 'my Lord.'

'Out? Where out? And why?'

'On business, sire. As ever in the service of your realm.'

'I see.' The king leaned forward in his throne. And such a throne was his. So girt and splendid that no words might vaguely touch its grandeur or convey its glory, no. So shan't.

'It has reached my royal lughole', said the king, 'that there has been a spot of bother.'

'Nothing I can't handle, sire.'

'That's good to hear. To hear that's good. Most truly.'

'Good,' said Arthur. 'Truly good. Then I shall take my leave. Good night.'

'Not quite good night I feel.' The king raised up a hand. And what a hand it was. Bedecked with rings as splendid as the throne above. If not more so.

'My liege?'

'My car!'

'Ah, that.'

'Ah that indeed. My favourite car. My special car. Where might it be?'

'I fear', said Arthur, wringing out his hands, 'that it has been appropriated.'

'As in stolen, you mean?'

'Regrettably yes, sire. The lad Murphy, whom I recently employed to recover certain doc.u.ments which threatened our security, he gained access to your private car park. Drove off in the motor.'

'Then get after him.'

'I did, sire.'

'And?' The king sighed hugely (and such a sigh was his, etc.).

'There was some unpleasantness. And whilst I was otherwise engaged, the car was stolen once more. By another party.'

'And this occurred whilst you were using my birthday spell?'

'Ah,' said Arthur, wringing away like a mangle. 'You heard about that, then?'

'I am the King!''And such a king are you,' said Arthur. 'August, proud and true. And of a wisdom sound and fair and-'

'Drop it, Kobold. We tired of the medieval twaddle.'

'Sorry, sire.' Arthur hung his head.