Waiting for Godalming (Completely Barking Mad Trilogy Book 3)

by Robert Rankin

  Icarus took the Velocette and rammed it into the barber’s mouth. ‘Now,’ said he. ‘I am going to give your head a little massage. I think I can remember exactly where Ms O’Connor applied the pressure. Let’s hope I don’t get it wrong. It would really be a shame if you were to suffer some permanent damage.’

  ‘Mmph!’ went the barber, shaking his head violently from side to side. ‘Mmph!’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Icarus. ‘Did I hear you saying that you would answer all my questions, clearly and precisely, without any need for painful measures being taken?’

  The barber’s head nodded up and down.

  Icarus removed the Velocette.

  ‘Please don’t think of calling out for help again,’ said Icarus. ‘Or I will put my thumbs in your eyes and twist them inside out.’

  Johnny Boy turned his face away. ‘I don’t want to watch that,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve finished watching TV now, then, have you, chief?’

  ‘That’s why I woke you, Barry, yes.’

  ‘And so, are we off on our way?’

  ‘We are, Barry, we are off on our way to Black Peter’s Tavern.’

  ‘Black Peter’s Tavern, chief? Please don’t tell me we’re going to Black Peter’s Tavern. Oh no no. Not Black Peter’s Tavern.’

  ‘You know it, then, Barry?’

  ‘Never heard of it, chief.’

  I’d always fancied a night at Black Peter’s Tavern. It was the kind of joint where all the big knobs hang out. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do. This joint was swanky. It had class. If you were here, you were someone.

  The decor was stylish to a point where it transcended style and entered the realms of perspicuous harmony, shunning grandiloquent ornamentation in favour of a visual concinnity, garnered from aesthetic principles, which combined the austerity of Bauhaus and ebullience of Burges into an eclectic mix before stripping them down to their fundamental essentials, to create an effect which was almost aphoristic, in that it could be experienced but never completely expressed.

  So there is no need to bother with a description.

  But trust me, it was sheer poetry.

  I breezed in, like a breath of spring

  And wafted my way to the bar

  The hour was the hour known as happy

  Which is happy, wherever you are.

  I took in the decor, the dudes and the dames

  And all found favour with me

  They had class written through them, like words in a rock

  That you buy in Blackpool on sea.

  In the time I’ve spent as a private dick

  I’ve drunk in all manner of bars

  From doss house dives with pools of sick

  To the haunts of movie stars.

  I’ve cast my fashionable shadow

  In many a wayside inn

  And raised my glass to beaus and belles

  And sailors and Sanhedrin.

  But you know you are home

  When you’re in amongst your own

  And this was home to me

  So I leaned my elbow on the bar

  And summoned the maitre d’.

  ‘Set ’em up, fat boy,’ said I. ‘A pint of pig’s ear and a packet of pork scratchings.’

  The maitre d’ raised a manicured eyebrow and viewed me down a narrow length of nose. ‘Would sir care to rephrase that?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly,’ I said, with more savoir-faire than a Sophoclean sophist at a sadhus’ seminar. ‘A pig’s ear scratching packet and a pint of pork, please.’

  ‘Sir has the wit of Oscar Wilde, which combined with the droll delivery of Noel Coward creates a veritable tour de force of rib-tickling ribaldry.’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said I.

  ‘Kindly sling your hook,’ said the maitre d’. ‘We don’t serve your kind in here.’

  ‘Just make mine a Guinness, then, and forget the pork scratchings.’

  ‘Coming right up, sir.’

  The maitre d’ drew off the pint of black gold, and I waited the now legendary one hundred and nineteen seconds for it to fill to perfection.

  ‘On the house,’ said the maitre d’. ‘And help yourself to the chewing fat.’

  ‘Why thank you very much,’ said I. ‘And what brings on this generosity?’

  ‘Look at this place,’ said the maitre d’, whose name, if you hadn’t guessed, was Fangio. ‘This is one classy number. Top-notch clientele, thirty-two brands of whisky, carpet on the floor and even paper and a bog troll in the gents’ excuse-me. This is my kind of bar, Laz. Do you think you might keep coming back to this one throughout the rest of your case? I didn’t take much to the Lion’s Mane, a wildebeest trod on my toe.’

  I gave the place a once-over glance about. With my new sense of Super-vision, given to me by the Red Head tablet I’d taken in mistake for an aspirin, I could see the men within the men and the women within the women. They all looked pretty damn fab gear and groovy and not a wrong’un amongst them. This place had everything that a place that had everything had. So to speak.

  ‘It’s definitely us, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Too true. And look at this uniform. The waistcoat favours my wasp-waist and the fitted slacks show off my snake hips to perfection. You look pretty dapper in the new trench-coat and fedora, by the way.’

  ‘We’re a regular pair of dandies, ain’t we?’

  Fangio tipped me the wink. ‘So,’ said he. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘A cab,’ I said. ‘But I left it outside.’

  Oh how we laughed.

  And laughed.

  The barber at the Ministry of Serendipity wasn’t laughing at all. The hands of Icarus Smith gripped the barber’s head.

  ‘Tell me’, said Icarus, ‘all about this barber’s shop. Tell me exactly why it’s here.’

  The barber’s lips were all a-quiver. Icarus kneaded his skull.

  ‘It’s for training purposes,’ whimpered the barber.

  ‘Go on,’ said Icarus. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘To train up operatives in the art of exo-cranial massage. We’ve trained thousands. Thousands and thousands.’

  ‘To what purpose?’ Icarus asked.

  ‘World peace,’ blurted the barber.

  Icarus squeezed his head.

  ‘It’s true. Everybody goes to a barber’s or hairdresser’s at some time. By using exo-cranial massage on them, the Ministry’s operatives keep them in a passive state.’

  ‘Keep them under control,’ said Icarus.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that,’ said the barber, hunching down his head.

  ‘I would,’ said Icarus, yanking up the barber’s head. ‘So the Ministry has infiltrated thousands of these trained operatives into barbers and hairdressers up and down the country, so that they can use their techniques to keep the population pacified and under control.’

  ‘I prefer the term, world peace,’ said the barber.

  ‘I prefer the term, world control,’ said Icarus.

  ‘Well, at least we know where all the workers in the orange jumpsuits and hard hats are,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘They’re squeezing heads in barber’s shops.’

  Icarus released the barber’s head. ‘There’s more to this,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Johnny Boy. ‘More than world control?’

  Icarus addressed the barber. ‘Are there operatives all over the world doing this?’ he asked. ‘Or only here in England?’

  ‘Only here, as far as I know,’ said the barber.

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Icarus.

  Johnny Boy looked up at the lad. ‘There are all kinds of colours whirling around you,’ he said. ‘Just what’s going on in your mind?’

  ‘Only this. What if all this angel and demon carry-on is a localized phenomenon? Centred right here in London. And what if it’s natural for people to be able to see demons and angels? Without needing the Red Head drug?’

  ‘Then they’d see them, woul
dn’t they?’

  ‘And some do. But they’re considered mad. But the rest don’t. And why? Because they’re having their heads subtly massaged every time they go to the barber’s or the hairdresser’s. From when they’re children onwards.’

  ‘And the massages affect the brain so people can’t see the truth?’

  ‘That’s what I think,’ said Icarus.

  ‘Angels and demons?’ said the barber. ‘You talking the jobbies from the bull’s behind parts, that’s what I’m thinking in my head.’

  ‘Just a couple more questions,’ said Icarus, ‘and then I’ll be done with you.’

  ‘I plead the Fifth Amendment,’ said the barber. ‘Also the Geneva Convention and the Waldorf salad. I tell you nothing more.’

  ‘How many people work here?’ asked Icarus.

  ‘I tell you that,’ said the barber. ‘About half a dozen. Me, Philomena the masseuse, Mr Cormerant the wages clerk, some guards that walk up and down. The chauffeur, no, he got stabbed in the corridor. The new chauffeur, the women in the canteen where nobody goes to eat, because the food tastes like pigeon poops. And the guv’nor, of course.’

  ‘The guv’nor runs the Ministry?’

  ‘That’s what guv’nors do, ain’t it?’

  ‘And what is the guv’nor’s name?’

  ‘Mr Godalming,’ said the barber.

  ‘Mr Godalming?’ said Johnny Boy.

  And so did Icarus Smith.

  ‘Mr Godalming,’ said the barber once again.

  Icarus looked at Johnny Boy.

  And Johnny Boy looked back at him.

  ‘This Mr Godalming,’ said Icarus to the barber. ‘What does he look like? Does he by any chance look like Richard E. Grant?’

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ the barber laughed. ‘No, he look nothing like Richard E. Grant. His father look like Richard E. Grant. But he don’t. He look more like Peter Stringfellow. He’s young Mr Godalming.

  ‘Mr Colin Godalming.’

  ‘Still waiting for Mr Godalming, Laz?’ said the maitre d’ with a grin.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said I. ‘I’m right, I assume, that this is the bar where all the media types come after they’ve been interviewed by daytime TV.’

  ‘You’re right there, my friend.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said I. ‘Because I saw this guy on TV today and I’d really like to meet him.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Fange. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Celebrity hairdresser,’ said I. ‘Looks a bit like Peter Stringfellow. The name’s Godalming.

  ‘Mr Colin Godalming.’

  15

  ‘It’s a mullet,’ said Fangio the malnourished maitre d’.

  ‘It’s a what?’ I asked, in a readiness of response.

  ‘The haircut Peter Stringfellow has. Mullet, the classic 1970s haircut, as favoured by members of the Bay City Rollers and damn near everybody else. Peter Stringfellow is the last man on Earth to favour the mullet, now that Pat Sharp’s done away with his.’

  ‘I’m more of a Ramón Navarro man, myself,’ said I. ‘I can’t be having with hair that sticks out under my fedora.’

  ‘Class,’ said the string bean Fangio. ‘Pure class.’

  ‘So he comes in here, does he, this Colin Godalming?’

  ‘Regular as clockwork,’ said the wasted one. ‘He should be arriving here’, Fangio studied the watch on his twig-like wrist, ‘in about ten minutes’ flat, or if not flat, then he’ll walk in upright, as usual.’

  Oh how we laughed at that one.

  ‘Well,’ said I, to the half-starved meagre shrimp of a maitre d’. ‘That leaves us with ten minutes of prime toot-talking time.’

  ‘You won’t get a word out of me,’ said the scrawny wretch, ‘until you drop all those derogatory references to my slender, yet perfectly proportioned, physique.’

  ‘Do you have to run around in the shower to get wet?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m warning you, Laz.’

  ‘I heard that you once took off all your clothes, painted your head red and went to a fancy dress party as a thermometer.’

  ‘One more and you’re out of here!’

  ‘All right, fair enough. So what do you want to talk toot about?’

  ‘Well, actually, Laz, I’m thinking about buying a sofa. Is there anything you’d particularly recommend?’

  ‘Hm,’ said I. ‘A sofa. Well, it all depends on getting one that’s the right size and shape, at the price you can afford.’

  ‘Go on,’ said the maitre d’ with the slender, yet perfectly proportioned, physique.

  ‘You see, you have your chesterfield, your G Plan three-seater, also available as a two, your classic chaise-longue, your Le Corbusier chaise-longue and your drop-end Bavarian chaise-longue with the tapestried upholstery and silk vanity tassels.’

  ‘You sure know your sofas,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Buddy,’ I told him, ‘in my business, knowing your sofas can mean the difference between buttering scones on a battered settee and licking lard on a love couch. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.’

  ‘I know where you’re coming from,’ said the Fange. ‘For I’ve been there myself, on a cheap away-day to Norwich. What else would you suggest?’

  ‘Well, there’s your studio couch, your box ottoman, your oak settle, which with the addition of cushions can easily be converted into a sofa.’

  ‘I had an aunt who converted to Islam once,’ said Fangio. ‘She thought she was converting to North Sea gas, but she ticked the wrong box on the application form.’

  ‘Did she have a sofa, your aunt?’

  ‘No, just an armchair and a pair of pouffes.’

  ‘Ample seating. Did she live on her own?’

  ‘She does now, the pouffes moved out. They’ve opened a candle shop in Kemptown.’

  ‘A “pouffes” joke,’ I waggled my finger at Fange. ‘Not very PC of you.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Fangio. ‘But boys will be boys.’

  And we paused for a moment to take stock and think of the good times.

  ‘My problem regarding the sofa remains unsolved,’ said the slim boy. ‘I’d like the best, but I can only afford the very worst.’

  ‘Ah,’ said I. ‘What you have there is a Couch 22 situation.’

  Oh how we laughed once more.

  Fangio dried his eyes upon an oversized red gingham handkerchief. ‘My, I did enjoy that,’ said he. ‘That was top class toot. But look, here comes Mr Godalming.’

  ‘Colin Godalming,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘This would be the third child of God, who inherits the Earth. Mr Woodbine told us all about him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Icarus. ‘I’m well aware of that.’

  ‘And it makes sense,’ said Johnny Boy, ‘if God’s family have all been forced to move down here to Earth. Colin has his father murdered and falsifies His will. So he now owns the planet.’

  ‘Yes yes,’ said Icarus. ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘And he’s teamed up with the wrong’uns, which is why he came up with this scheme to massage everyone’s heads, so they can’t see what’s really going on. He’s been planning it all for years.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Icarus. ‘I understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘That Mr Woodbine is a genius,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘He knew it was Colin from the start.’

  ‘No,’ said Icarus. ‘Just stop that. It all fits too easily together.’

  ‘Well, it would if it’s correct. Why go looking for a more complicated solution?’

  ‘Because this is my brother we’re talking about. My mad brother. And if we get drawn into his madness we won’t be able to escape from it. It’s infectious. It’s like a disease. I’ve come down here to try to solve this myself. All I have to do is stay away from him for a week. If that’s possible.’

  Johnny Boy stared up into the face of Icarus Smith. ‘Please don’t take offence at this,’ he said, ‘but surely I detect a bit of sibling rivalry here. If Mr Woodbine really is your brother, then you should
be proud of him. And if he’s not your brother, then you’ve projected the face of your brother onto him, because your brother is your hero. Which might explain why you are as you are. The lad who seeks to make a name for himself as the relocator who set the world to rights. Either way it means that you really do look up to your brother, but you can’t bring yourself to admit it.’

  ‘No,’ said Icarus. ‘It’s not true. I am what I am because I had a dream. My brother lives in a world of dreams, but I inhabit reality.’

  ‘You’re just digging a deeper pit for yourself,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘This is all very Freudian.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Icarus.

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To find Colin Godalming, of course.’

  ‘Mr Godalming?’ I said, sticking out my hand for a shake. ‘Mr Colin Godalming?’

  The dude looked me coolly up and down. It was clear that I had the right guy here, I could tell by the way he shone. Streamers of light twinkled prettily about him and a golden glow, which wasn’t just the mullet, drenched his shoulders.

  ‘And who might you be?’ asked the third child of God, declining my offer of a hearty handclasp.

  ‘I’m a private investigator,’ I replied, in a tone which left no doubt exactly where I stood on the matter. ‘The name’s Woodbine, Lazlo Woodbine.’ And added, ‘Some call me Laz.’

  The guy regarded me as one would a pigeon squit plopped on a pampered pompadour. ‘Well, Mr Woodless,’ he said, in a tone which left no doubt exactly where he stood on the matter. ‘I don’t need a private investigator.’

  ‘It’s Woodbine,’ I said. ‘And believe me, buddy, you do.’

  The guy gave me the kind of look I wouldn’t waste on a whippet. ‘What is this all about?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have time to stand around here talking toot with a chap dressed up as a handbag.’

  ‘A hand bag?’ said I, in my finest Charlie’s Aunt. Or was it The Importance of Being Earnest? I always get the two confused. Or perhaps it was HMS Pinafore. No, I’m sure it was Charlie’s Aunt.

  ‘It might have been my aunt,’ said Fangio. ‘She used to have a handbag.’