Raiders Of The Lost Car Park Part 28

'Let's go in and ask.' Cornelius pushed open what was left of the door and they went inside.

The wife was turning pink sausages in a frying pan. Big men sat around tables, reading their small news-papers, tugging upon mugs of tea and discussing the sort of things big men discuss when in the company of their own kind.

'Morning, big men,' called Cornelius.

'Morning, Cornelius,' the big men called back. 'Morning, Tuppe.'

'Morning, big men.'

'I'll order breakfast,' Cornelius said. 'You tune up the big men. Find out what happened here.'

'Okedoke.'

Cornelius ordered breakfast. The wife looked decidedly shaky, but quite pleased to see him. She gave him the cream of the milk. Cornelius told her he was expecting a postal order.

'By the end of the week, or you're barred,' the wife told him.

The tall boy smiled warmly and freighted the mugs of tea to his favourite table by the window. It was a bit short on view this morning. Tuppe soon joined him.

'You would not believe what happened here,' he said as he scaled a stool. 'Someone opened fire on the place with a minigun.'

'A minigun? You're kidding.'

'I am not.'

'You mean a 7.62 M134 General Electric Mini-gun?'

'I do.'

'7.62 mm x 51 sh.e.l.ls? 1.36 kg-recoil adaptors?'

'And a six-muzzle velocity of 869 m/s. That's the one.'Capable of firing six thousand rounds per minute?'

'Correct. Was all that supposed to be funny, by the way?'

'Search me. So what exactly happened?'

'Well,' Tuppe sipped tea, 'as I say, someone opened up on the place yesterday afternoon and shot two men dead.'

'Blimey,' said Cornelius.

'Blimey is right. One was a policeman, well known in these parts. Inspectre Hovis.'

'Never heard of him. What about the other?'

'Ah,' said Tuppe.

'Ah? What is, Ah?'

'Ah is, I'm sorry.'

'Why, what have you done?'

'I haven't done anything.'

'Then why are you apologizing?'

'I'm not apologizing. I'm saying I'm sorry.'

'Is this supposed to be funny?' The tall boy sipped his tea.

'It's not funny. Listen, Cornelius. The other man who got shot, no-one got his name, but he was a great big heavily built man. With a shaven head. And he was wearing a nineteen-thirties Boleskine Tweed plus-fours suit.'

Cornelius spat his tea all over the table and all over Tuppe.

Mickey Minns awoke in the wardrobe. There had been some more unpleasantness in the Minns house-hold, but it was better left undwelt upon. The Minns bore an arm-load of clothing away to the bathroom. He really intended to enjoy the gig tonight and he wanted to look his very best.

The trouble was, as he stood in front of the mirror and struggled to get his arm down the narrow sleeve of a cheesecloth shirt, a-shade-of-green-that-dare-not-speak-its-name, none of the fab old gear seemed to fit any more.

It seems like one of those really wonderful ideas, keeping all of your old clothes. To still possess those faded purple moleskin South Sea Bubble hipster loon pants, with the patch pockets and the twenty-three-inch bottoms, the ones you wore to your first Happening. And the tie-dye five-b.u.t.ton granddad vest that you threw up all over.

Wonderful idea? I don't think so.

Mickey returned to his wardrobe and pulled out the Giorgio Armani suit that he had been saving for when he was invited to attend The Rock and Pop Awards.

Outside the horn of his van went Beep! Beep! Honk! Mickey peered out of the window to see Anna waving up at him.

Polly Gotting awoke in the bedroom of Prince Charles.

The ringing of the telephone woke her.

The prince reached over and picked it up.

'One,' said he.

Certain words came to his ear and these he answered with polite ones of his own.

More followed and the prince replied to these also. 'Yes,' he kept on saying. And then, 'Goodbye.'

'Whatever's happened?' asked Polly. 'You look terrible.'

'Ah,' said Charles Philip Arthur George, no relative of Barbara. 'I think I'd better go and have a word with my mum.

'I don't know what to say.' Cornelius didn't. 'Except I'm sorry I spat my tea over you. But he's dead. Rune is dead. I can't believe it.'

'Of course it could just be another great heavily built man, with a shaven head and a penchant for nineteen-thirties Boleskine Tweed plus-fours suits.''You really think so?'

'Not really, no.'

'I can't believe it. I just cannot believe it. Did anyone see who did the shooting?'

'One of the big men says a friend of a bloke his brother knocks around with's mate heard someone say that the police did it.'

Cornelius whistled. 'You can't argue with evidence like that.'

'Can't you?'

'Of course you can. Why would the police shoot one of their own?'

'I don't think they did. You see there's something else. When the ambulance arrived, the bodies had gone. They'd literally vanished.'

Cornelius looked at Tuppe.

And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

'Them!' they both said.

A very bitter expression appeared upon the face of Cornelius Murphy. 'I think we can forget about the peace convoy plan,' said he. 'This time it's war.'

BRENTFORD: A TOWN UNDER SIEGE.

screamed the banner headline on the front page of the Brentford Mercury.

'Keep the noise down, you're giving me a head-ache,' said young Zorro, pushing the rowdy news-sheet through the wrong letter-box.

Actually Brentford was looking rather untidy. Which did not befit a borough that regularly swept the board with all the Best Kept awards. But untidy was definitely the word. There were all these shabby looking buses. They seemed to be parked on every corner and down every alleyway and on every vacant plot of land. There were at least a hundred of them on the waste ground behind Moby d.i.c.k Terrace.

But there was none in Gunnersbury Park. The cordon was holding like a dream. There'd be pro-motions in this.

The media were enjoying it. The SIEGE had even found its way on to breakfast television.

'Mr Omally,' said the bright-looking lady pre-senter, crossing her long legs before the sofa. 'You represent The Brentford Residents' Committee.'

Since I formed it last night, thought John. 'As long as there has been one,' he said.

'So, I suppose it must come as something of a shock to have twenty-three thousand travellers turning up on your doorstep.'

'Blitz spirit,' said John, who'd heard old Pete use the expression. 'And dig for victory.'

'But it must be imposing a terrible strain on the community.'

John nodded thoughtfully and kept his best side to the camera.

'We live in troubled times,' he said. 'Unemploy-ment. Homelessness. These are difficult days for us all.'

'Please go on.' The lady presenter recrossed her legs.

'I will.' John moved closer. 'You have very beauti-ful legs, by the way.'

'Why thank you.'

John smiled. 'Difficult days. Millions of young people on the dole. No jobs, no hope, so they take to the road. I'm sure you understand.'

'I do,' replied the lady presenter, somewhat breath-lessly.

'I knew that you would.' John placed a hand on her knee. 'It's tragic. We in Brentford welcome these people. We say, send us your tired and huddled ma.s.ses. Let us share your grief. Come share our bounty...'

'Wonderful.'

'Come share our bounty,' John went on. 'Be with us. Take a beer at The Flying Swan. Eight fine hand-drawn ales on pump. Convivial atmosphere. Sandwiches and light snacks available at the bar.Unrestricted parking in the Ealing Road. Would it be impolite of me to put my tongue in your ear?' he asked the lady presenter.

All around and about Brentford, the travellers were doing their best to make their presence felt.

Fences became campfires. Ozone-friendly graffito was being sprayed. Defecation was all the rage.

It was not their wish to be welcomed to Brentford as tired and huddled ma.s.ses. These people had a vocation. And just because John Omally was selling the virtues of The Flying Swan and preparing to enjoy those of a prominent breakfast television presenter, that wasn't going to change anything.

Prince Charles went in to have a word with his mum. He spoke many words and all of them in a tone of deep regret and apology. And when he was done he made a hopeful face, studied his reflection in his polished toecaps and waited for the axe to fall.

It didn't. 'You are a very naughty boy,' said the Queen. 'But no naughtier than your father or your grandfather I suppose. And let us face it, it's the duty of a royal to go off the rails every once in a while.'

Charles smiled his charming smile.

'I will agree to do my birthday wave during this pop concert thing, but on one condition.'

Charles made the face that asked, 'What's that?'

'I want you to present this Polly person to me tomorrow. If she is as wonderful as you say she is, you shall have our blessing. I am having The Arch-bishop of Canterbury over for tea. Bring her along then.'

'To tea?' Charles asked.

'To tea.'

'With the parson?'

'What are you grinning about?' asked the Queen. 'And where's my birthday present?'

24.

Everything begins with a word. Everything. The scriptures are quite clear about this.

In the beginning was the word and the word was with G.o.d and the word was G.o.d.

This, of course, is the principle of High Magick. The word and the power of the word. The inton-ation. The resonance. The vibration. Things of that nature.