Raiders of the Lost Carpark

by Robert Rankin

  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 translation 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 perplexed.

  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 in his direction.

  ‘Oh hell!’ 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 bumped up on to the turf, gouging great ruts out of the grass. 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 somewhat 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.

  ‘Hell hell hell,’ 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 churchyard 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 passenger 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 arse,’ 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 between the trees and across the grass. 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. Sudden impact is a predictable circumstance.’

  ‘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 assumed on the floor.

  He observed a stretch of Fair Isle sock. A goodly spread of Boleskine tweed. Much waistcoat, with a golden fob chain. 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 glass 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 documents which threatened our security, he gained access to your private car park. Drove off in your special car.’

  ‘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.

  ‘You used my special spell without permission.’

  ‘In order to recover your special car, sire.’

  ‘Which you did not do.’

  ‘No, sire. But am doing now.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Oh yes, sire. I dispatched four of your bodyguards to drive around the area in search. They called in a few minutes ago to say that they had located your car and were in pursuit. So all is really well and good. Good night.’

  ‘Well and good?’ The king rocked forward in his throne and threw his great arms wide. ‘You dispatched four of my bodyguards? My great, thick, clumsy, gormless bodyguards?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘To drive around the area, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘In what, Kobold? In what are they driving?’

  ‘Well. I told them to go down to your car park and take whatever they thought would get the job done.’

  The king fell back. His mouth wide open in his horror. ‘My bodyguards? Given free rein with my motor cars? Have you lost all your senses? Are you bereft, Kobold? How could you think of such a thing? What made you do it? What?’

  ‘Well, sire,’ Arthur Kobold chewed upon his knuckles, ‘you see, it’s not just the matter of your favourite car. It’s the matter of who stole it from Murphy.’

  The king groaned. ‘Go on,’ said he. ‘Tell me the worst. If worse there can possibly be.’

  ‘I’m afraid there can. Far worse. You see, when Murphy stole the car from your car park, it wasn’t entirely empty. I have every reason to believe that one of our “guests” had hidden himself inside the car. A certain category-AAA guest.’

  ‘A prisoner has escaped? I mean, “a guest has chosen to leave us?” Which one? Not Elvis?’

  ‘Elvis?’ Arthur Kobold asked. ‘We don’t have Elvis staying with us, do we?’

  ‘Ah... er... mm. Of course not, Kobold. Whatever put that into your mind?’

  ‘You just said—’

  ‘No I didn’t. You must have imagined it. There is only one King. And I’m he. So speak up, damn you. Who’s nicked my car? Out with it, Kobold. Spit it out. Or truly will you know my wrath.’

  ‘Hugo Rune,’ said Arthur Kobold. ‘Can I go now, sire, I need the toilet.’

  Hugo Rune put his foot to the floor and the silver car streaked over Kew Bridge towards Brentford. ‘As a rule I rarely drive,’ he told Cornelius. ‘There are two kinds of people in this world: those who sit behind a wheel and drive, and those who sit behind them and tell them where to drive. I am of the latter persuasion.’

  ‘You are my father,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Mayhap. However, put aside all thoughts of falling on my neck with kisses. Our lives are still in some peril.’

  A gorgeous long-bodied landaulet, which would have found a pride of place in the collection of Lord Monty, drew level with them. Its driver, a hideous great green thingy, yelled something gross in their direction.

  ‘One moment’s pause, before you yet again enjoy the pleasure of my conversation.’ Rune drew down hard on the steering wheel, caught the landaulet a thunderous blow and sent it spinning from the road. Cornelius peeped over his shoulder to make what he would of the explosion. Thoughts of the evil Campbell returned to his mind, and the devastation he had wrought upon a score of police cars. Like father like son.

  ‘Only one remaining now,’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘If you hang a right after the traffic lights, we can easily lose him in the backstreets and hide out at my house.’

  ‘What an absurd suggestion. We shall go directly to my manse.’

  ‘Whatever you prefer then. Kindly lead the way.’

  ‘Now that’, said Hugo Rune, ‘is what I do the best.’

  They lost the final car, a rare, if not unique example of the Cord, when Rune nudged it off the road into the newly reglazed front window of Polgar’s Pet Shop.

  From then on the drive became more sedate. They left the suburbs of the metropolis behind and travelled north. And Rune discoursed upon a great diversity of subjects. Cornelius spoke little and though a thousand questions crowded in his head, he couldn’t get a word in edgeways on. And so, at last, he fell asleep.

  He awoke to find the sun upon his face and Rune’s words once more in his ear.

  ‘And that is how’, said Rune, ‘the scoundrel Einstein stole my notes and walked off with the Nobel Prize.’

  ‘Outrageous,’ said Cornelius. ‘Are we there?’

  ‘Behold the manse.’

  The car was parked upon a sweeping drive of Chichester stone.

  Before it rose an ancient country pile, circa 1690. It was fashioned from the granite of the region, mellowed to a golden hue. The house had a hipped roof, pediment and cornice, which combined with the classic façade, so favoured in the period by Inigo Jones. There remained the Gothic touch in the mullion and transom windows. And near the angles, pilasters took the place of the usual rusticated quoins.

  Rune left the car and stretched his limbs before the house. Cornelius urged Tuppe into wakefulness. ‘Don’t shake me all about,’ said the small bloke. ‘I’ve been awake all the time. God, your knees are bony.’

  ‘Awake all the time, eh? Then I suppose you know where we are.’

  ‘No,’ said Tuppe. ‘I’m quite lost.’

  Cornelius viewed Hugo Rune through the windscreen. ‘And what do you make of him?’ ‘He’s looking well on it,�
� said Tuppe. ‘Doesn’t seem to have aged a day since that picture was taken.’

  ‘The one we found in Victor Zenobia’s trunk?’

  ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Cornelius wormed the crumpled relic from his pocket. There was Rune, surrounded by his acolytes, on his birthday, more than half a century before. And no, he hadn’t aged one day, one jot, or one iota. Nor had the suit he wore, the same nineteen thirties Boleskine tweed plus-fours number by all the looks of it.

  Cornelius looked up from the Rune of yesterday to see the Rune of today waving him to follow. ‘Shall we join him?’ asked Cornelius.

  ‘Do you smell breakfast cooking?’

  Cornelius wound down the window and flexed his sensitive nostrils. ‘And then some,’ he replied.

  13

  The hall was ‘baronial’, with a hammerbeam roof. The design of this roof, however, differed from most other hammerbeam roofs, in that it carried the great arch-brace through the hammerbeams and hammer-posts, instead of under the point of junction of the hammerbeam and hammer-post. Thereby balancing the vertical and oblique thrusts so perfectly as to permit a large span. As an additional vanity, spandrels between the king post and the braces had been filled with cusping.

  A long oak table, groaning with a veritable banquet, stood at the centre of this hall. And Hugo Rune spread out a great arm and said, ‘Behold the beano.’

  Cornelius had never seen such food, nor smelled such smells. The mingling fragrances rising from the exotic fare, as such it was, comprising dishes and delights to baffle the most seasoned gourmet, made music in his nose.

  ‘Seat yourselves.’ Rune took his place at the head of the table. ‘And feast.’

  Cornelius looked at Tuppe.

  And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

  And they both sat down and feasted.

  It took more than an hour for the three of them to get through it all. But they did. The spread was reduced to a desolation suggestive of a soldier ant march past.