Raiders Of The Lost Car Park Part 20

'It's not my responsibility.'

'Oh, responsibilities, is it? Well you drove the car. You set him free. What if he was better penned up in the zones? What if they kept him there because of how dangerous he is? Did you think of that?'

-'Not until now. Did you?'

'Not until now, no. We'd best go back.'

'We can't go back.'

'Of course we can. You can reason with him. He let us go without changing us into white mice. He likes you.

'We can't go back. See for yourself.'

Cornelius gestured back towards the house. To where the house had been, but wasn't any more.

There was just an overgrown plot of land, with an estate agent's sign up. MILCOM MOLOCH ESTATES.

DEVELOPMENT SITE FOR SALE.

Tuppe turned a bitter eye from the site and back to his friend. 'You knew that was going to happen, didn't you?'

'I began to suspect something a couple of minutes ago. When I realized how hungry I still was.'

Tuppe rubbed his stomach. 'Me too. And after we ate all that-'

'Did we?'

'Aw shoot!' Tuppe turned in a small circle. 'The car's gone and everything. This is well beyond me.'

'And me also. Shall we thumb for a lift?'

'Any particular direction you favour?'

'None whatever. You stand this side of the road and I will stand on the other. We'll let fate decide.'

Tuppe looked at Cornelius.And Cornelius looked at Tuppe.

'Let's do it,' said the small fellow.

17.

The bus was a single-decker British Leyland, circa 1958. To say that it had seen better days would not altogether be telling the whole truth. Unless you considered plying a regular and turgid trade between Hounslow bus station and the Staines depot for twenty-three long and thankless years to be your definition of 'better days'.

Not so the bus. For it, the better days were now. Because this was a liberated bus. A bus now free of its yoke. Gone were the rows of dreary seats. Gone the dull green paintwork. Gone the sweaty driver's b.u.m upon its forward throne. And gone, all gone, its number.

I am not a number. I am a free bus!

The free bus was now a bus apart. It had been lovingly repainted in many a rainbow hue. It housed two young families. And it was driven by a lady with a perfumed posterior. It was a happy bus.

It pulled up without even a squeak, although its brakes had long gone off to kingdom come. A young chap with curly black hair and a smiley face, swung open its doors. 'Want a lift?' he asked.

'Yes please,' said Cornelius Murphy.

'And your mate?'

'Please also.' Tuppe scampered across the road and clambered after Cornelius.

'Magic bus,' said the small one, taking it all in. 'You're not Ken Kesey, by any chance?'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks,' said the young chap.

'Excuse me. No offence meant.'

'None taken. That's my name. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'Is that Mr b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, or b.o.l.l.o.c.ks something?'

'It's b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to everything.' The young chap smiled hugely. 'Shut the door and make yourselves at home.'

'Thanks, we will.' Cornelius ducked his head, they made buses smaller in those days. And he shut the door. 'Where are you heading?'

'To wherever the good times are.

'That's where we'd like to go,' said Tuppe.

'Then you're in good company.'

'Yes.' Cornelius gave the interior of the bus a thoughtful sensory scan. Bright-eyed children grinned at him from a hammock strung crossways between the windows. A guitar was being played with skill and a girl was singing. And delicious smells wafted from the cooking area. It was all rather blissful.

'Very good company indeed,' said Cornelius Murphy.

The lady at the wheel put the happy bus into gear and it rolled onwards.

'Want some eats?' asked b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

And Cornelius looked at Tuppe. 'Yes please,' they said.

They dined on pulses and brown rice and fresh veg-etables and strawberries and cream.

'OK?' b.o.l.l.o.c.ks asked.

'Not half.' Tuppe loosened a b.u.t.ton on his dunga-rees. 'Not half, thank you very much.'

'You guys employed?'

'Ah now.' Cornelius took off his cap and stroked his bandages. 'We were, sort of. But it didn't work out.'

'What happened to your head?'

'We ran into a spot of trouble,' Tuppe explained. 'Cornelius got some of his hair pulled out. It wasn't very nice.'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks nodded. 'Cornelius. That's your name, then?'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' said the tall boy. 'We haven't introduced ourselves. I'm Cornelius Murphy and this is Tuppe.'

'Tuppe?' asked b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'It's short for Tupperware. Not a lot of people know that.'

'It comes as a revelation to me,' said Cornelius.

'I was going to save it for some special moment. But, sod it.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to it,' said their host.

'Absolutely.'

'What about you?' Cornelius asked. 'I guess that's your lady at the wheel. And the two marvellous kids in the hammock are yours. And then there's the other family. Although the adults aren't sleeping together at the moment. Something to do with him getting stoned and falling into a slurry pit. I shouldn't wonder.'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks viewed Cornelius with alarm. 'How?'

'His nose.' Tuppe tapped the small one of his own. 'He has a gift. He can smell who's who. Who belongs to who. Stuff like that.'

'Can you smell trouble?' b.o.l.l.o.c.ks asked.

'Oh yes. I can smell that all right.'

'Smell it now?'

The tall boy sniffed. 'No. But I can smell the dope in your left top pocket though. Lebanese Scarlet.

Any chance of an after-dinner spliff?'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks collapsed into a pile of gaily coloured cus.h.i.+ons and laughed like the drain of now legend.

The happy bus rolled onward. Spliffs were shared and b.o.l.l.o.c.ks made all the introductions. There was his wife, Louise. Flaxen hair, Pre-Raphaelite features, coffee lace and ankle bracelets. Bone. Big Bone, slurry pit survivor. Tattooed in moments of madness and built like a brick s.h.i.+t-house. His untattooed wife Candy, brown eyes to drown in, a degree in astro-physics and the kindest hands in Christendom.

And then there were the children. Five in all, they seemed like ten. And laughed a lot. Everybody laughed a lot.

Cornelius sat amongst the cus.h.i.+ons. 'How did you get all this together?' he asked b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

The smiley fellow smiled. 'Necessity,' he said. 'Which, like Frank Zappa, is the mother of invention.

No jobs, no hope and a bus all rusting away in a sc.r.a.pyard. We found each other and the bus found us.

And that's how it is now. The bus and us.'

'How do you get by?'

'There's the dole cheques and diesel is cheaper than rent. Where are you guys from?'

'We're from Brentford,' said Cornelius.

'Brentford?' b.o.l.l.o.c.ks fell into laughter once more. 'You have to be kidding.'

'I wouldn't lie about a thing like that. What's so funny about Brentford anyway?'

'Nothing's funny about it. But that's where we're heading. To Brentford!'

Prince Charles sat in his private office at Buckingham Palace. The mid-afternoon sun shone in at his win-dow and the drone of the London traffic went on and on and on.

But the prince didn't hear it. Because the prince was dreaming about trains.

He spent most of his time nowadays, dreaming about trains. Not that he didn't have other things to do. There was never any shortage of mail to be opened, read through and answered. And being, as the Press now called him, the People's Prince, he did it all himself. And he did have a very great deal of this mail piled up on his desk before him right now. But he didn't feel in the mood to answer it. Most of the envelopes smelt strongly of perfume, and con-tained, as ever, offers of marriage.

Prince Charles sighed. In his mind's eye he saw the Duchy of Cornwall. Not as it was, but how it could be. Would be, when he became King. Translated into a great steam network, with a full-size reproduction of the 1920s marshalling yards of Crewe, super-imposed across five hundred acres of 'set-aside', he'd personally 'set-aside' for the purpose. And he saw himself, all spruced up in a natty black uniform, striped waistcoat and cap, checking his regulation GWR-issue pocket watch up on high in the signal box. Skilfully manipulating the levers, as the mighty King Cla.s.s locos rolled onto the turntables,took on water and blew their whistles.

The prince had long ago realized that the only way forward was backwards. If mankind was to survive, it must throw off the shackles of technology and return to traditional values. A fair day's work for a fair day's pay. A proper cla.s.s system. And steam trains that ran on time. And a steam train named after himself! The Good King Charles.

He knew exactly the kind he wanted too. The American 1940s Big Boy. Biggest steam locomotives the world had ever seen, the Big Boys. Eight front-driving wheels fixed, another eight swivelled, front and rear bogies. 4-8-8-4 wheel arrangement. They ate up twenty-three tonnes of coal every hour.

Wonderful.

He could really be the People's Prince in one of those. They could pull over seventy coaches. He could do out the carriages, load up his art collection and the best of his furniture, get the phone laid on, television, guest sleeping cars, sell up all his palaces and country piles to house the homeless, then travel the country. Royalty on the rails. The monarchy on the move.

'Toot toot toooooooooooooo,' went the prince. 'Woo woo wooooooooooooooo.

Ring ring ring, went his telephone. Ring ring ring.

The People's Prince picked up the receiver. 'One speaking,' said he.

'Yo, Babylon,' came the hearty Rastafarian tones of his new equerry, former Brentford used-car dealer Leo Felix. "Ow's it 'angin'?'

'Er, yo bro',' answered the prince. 'How's it hanging, yourself?'

'Like one of your granny's bloodstock. Blood clot. Dere's a chick 'ere, say she come about de job of secret-Harry, or som'tin. You say you doin' all de interviewin' yo'sel'. Shall I an' I send 'er in?'

'Ah yes. If you and you would be so kind.' Prince Charles replaced the telephone, straightened his tie and his double-breaster and stroked a few hairs over his bald spot. A knocking came at his chamber door and the prince rose slightly and said, 'Come.'

Polly Gotting opened the door and entered the office. Her long golden hair was tied back in a severe bun. She wore a white linen blouse, a calf-length skirt of appropriately royal blue, dark stockings and a pair of sensible shoes she'd borrowed from her mum. 'Should I curtsey?' she asked.

'Umm. No ... I ...' Prince Charles gazed upon Polly Gotting. She was very possibly the most beauti-ful girl he'd ever seen in his life. And he'd seen some. The sunlight played upon her hair and formed a glittering corona all around and about. She veritably radiated.

'Would you like some tea?' asked the heir to the throne.