Doctaroo and the Guy with the Golden Gnu.

Chapter One

A Tuesday morning in Hyde Park is much like every other morning in Hyde Park. Pigeons, Gulls and Starlings vie for attention from the tourists and joggers, each expecting seed, corn or the odd sandwich corner thrown to them by sightseers. However, this particular Tuesday was slightly different. The gulls had flown off to Margate, the pigeons had decided just to hang around Trafalgar Square and the starlings had discovered a garden in Beckenham where a little old lady had put out some fat balls and one of those suet-filled half coconut shells. The reason for this was that someone had parked an old, red Telephone Box on the grass near Prince's Gate. The door was open and an odd mixture of people came out.

There were four of them. Their leader was a woman who, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be in her late thirties with short blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses perched precariously on a squat, slightly bulbous nose. She wore a pale blue T-Shirt with the logo of the children's television programme "Rainbow" on the chest, denim Capri pants and a pink woolen cardigan draped across her shoulders. This was the thirteenth Doctaroo, who this time resembled a certain north east of England comedian. She turned to the first of her companions who was a man in late middle age with short grey slightly receding hair; a lined but nonetheless kind face and wearing comfortable brown corduroy slacks and cozy Fair Isle sweater. "Howay Mr. Walsh, pet. We're back in your old stomping grounds."

Mr. Walsh turned up his nose and sniffed the air. "Ah, yes. There's nothing like the smell of diesel and doner kebab meat to bring back the memories."

Doctaroo sniffed too. "Doner kebab? Yeah, well, if it's been eaten by a Rottweiler first and then pooped out…"

"It's an acquired taste," muttered Mr. Walsh and he stomped off in a huff.

"Big baby," came a shrill voice, like fingernails down a blackboard, except with a thick Liverpudlian accent. "You'd think he owned the place the way he goes on about it."

The person who owned the voice was a petite red head with huge false eyelashes Like two upside down spiders has decided to have a rest on top of her eyes and who wore a short monochrome mini skirt. This was Beryl, a chirpy, perky scouser. You know, one of the annoying ones who say they won't do anything because, "oh no, I'd feel ashamed…" but who then do it anyway because it was their idea in the first place. The sort you really, really wanted to hit with a dishcloth. Wrapped around a breezeblock.

"Leave him alone," came a gentle voice from behind. Brian brought up the rear of the group. He was six feet two of pure, rippling, unadulterated flab. We are talking zero muscle mass and 100% ragu sauce. He was an art student from Bethnal Green who dressed like David Baddiel used to in the 90s. The only problem was that he was from 2018.

"You're only defending him 'cos you're in love with him," shot back Beryl.

"I'm not in love with him," complained Brian, pulling a Twinkie he'd found from his coat pocket. "I just think he's an interesting and sensitive man," he said picking bits of pocket fluff off the sponge cake before stuffing it into his mouth.

Beryl gave him a disgusted look. "You've just shoved a whole Twinkie in yer gob in one go. You big fat cu…"

"That's enough," interrupted Doctaroo. This is a PG rated book. We don't want an R rating.

"I'm hungry," complained Brian. "Is there a Greggs nearby?"

“Here you go, pet,” said Doctaroo passing Brian a squished-up Mars bar she’d rooted from her cardigan pocket. “It’s a bit manky, mind. I’m not sure how long it’s been there.”

Brian snatched the proffered confectionery and greedily stuffed it into his mouth.

“Actually,” Doctaroo said sheepishly, “I think it’s been in there since I got my cardi.”

“Ewww,” squealed Beryl. “Didn’t you buy it from a charity shop?”

“Oh, no pet,” Doctaroo corrected her. “I got it from a jumble sale in 1977. I remember it ‘cos it was the Queen’s Silver Jubilee and there was a street party afterwards.”

“Ugh, Brian! You’ve just scoffed a chocolate bar from 1977!” Beryl laughed at him. “You’re dead gross.”

“Don’t care,” said Brian between bouts of furious chewing. ‘Tastes goooood.”

“Do you mind?” Said Mr Walsh, impatiently, “Some of us are in a hurry.”

“Liar,” scoffed Beryl. “You’re the only one in a hurry. We’ve gorrall the time in the world.”

“Look young lady,” said Mr Walsh striding up to her. “I had to put up with your little jaunt to Jupiter to watch the moonsrise last week. And I had to sit through that Alanis Morrissette concert you and Brian wanted to see. Even though you spent the entire gig throwing Tori Amos CDs at the stage and shouting, ‘…hey Alanis, that’s ironic!’ at her. Now it's my turn."

"Alright granddad, keep yer wig on!" Beryl retorted "No need to go off the deep end."

Mr Walsh glared at her, then walked away. “Howay, you two. We’ve got company.” Doctaroo had stopped walking and was staring at a group of about half a dozen police officers that had arranged themselves in a semi-circle in front of them. Six more were approaching them from the left and a further six from the right. Brian and Beryl turned back the way they had come only to find that another group of six was approaching from the rear.

All were armed with Glock 17s and were pointing them in Doctaroo’s general direction.

“Oooh,” said Doctaroo appreciatively. “I love a man in uniform.”

Mr. Walsh raised his hands above his head and the others followed suit. Doctaroo had trotted over to the nearest officer and was happily taking selfies with the embarrassed copper. She was trying to clamber up into his arms when a tall, thin, officious looking bloke in a light grey, tailored suit pushed his way to the front of the group of police officers.

“Are you Doctaroo?” He asked Mr. Walsh. Mr. Walsh pointed at the apparently sex-mad woman who was attempting to stick her tongue down the throat of the mortified, yet obviously slightly aroused young bobby. The suit hurried over to the officer’s aid. “Madam, please! I insist you desist!” He pulled her off the constable with considerable difficulty and ordered him to rejoin his colleagues. Doctaroo wasn’t impressed “Here, pet. You forgot to give me your number,” she called after him. The constable all but ran back to the relative safety of his fellow officers “Don’t worry, hinny,” she trilled, “you can give it to me later. And I’ll get your number at the same time.”

“Doctaroo, I really must insist!” yelled the suit.

Doctaroo looked him up and down and snorted. “You can insist all you like love, there’s no way I’d want your number!”

“Doctaroo, please...” began the suit, but Doctaroo interrupted him.

“There’s no point in begging either. I just don’t go for weirdos in suits. Well, not after that incident with that footballer and the Rigellian Ambassador, anyway. Took me ages to get the stains out.”

“Look, Doctaroo. My name is Nigel Maule-Ffinch; I work for the Home Office. I’ve been asked to escort you to Scotland Yard.”

“Whaddya wannus to go to Scottie Yard for, Nigel?” spoke up Beryl.

“I beg your pardon?”

“She means,” replied Mr. Walsh, “why do you want us at Scotland Yard, Mr. Maule-Ffinch?”

“Alright, granddad,” said Beryl indignantly. “I can fight me own battles you know.”

“You’d have to,” muttered Mr. Walsh. “Because they wouldn’t understand a bloody word you’re saying otherwise.” He ducked as a stiletto-heeled shoe flew over his head. There was a muffled “Ow!” As it collided with the luckless police officer that Doctaroo had earlier set her sights on.

“Sorry...” Beryl called out. “Can I have me shoe back please?” The young copper walked cautiously over, shoe in hand. Beryl took it and slipped it back onto her foot. Maule-Ffinch cleared his throat.

“Right, well. If you would all like to come with me please. We have arranged special transport to take you to Scotland Yard.”

“Well, it had better be something special,” said Doctaroo as she followed him to the exit, slipping her hand through the young police officer’s arm in the process. “I’m a girl with expensive tastes...” she lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “...if you know what I mean, pet.”

The officer’s face went the same colour as the London Transport bus that awaited them on the road outside the park gates. Maule-Ffinch opened the door and gestured them inside.

“What?” said Brian. “Is this what you call ‘special’? A double-decker bus?”

“It’s inconspicuous,” said Maule-Ffinch. “There are certain parties from whom we don’t want to draw attention.”

Doctaroo happily hopped on board the bus and dragging the police officer along with her, made her way to the back and plonked herself down on the vinyl seat. Mr. Walsh came next, followed by Beryl and finally Brian, who reluctantly sat down on the disabled seat at the front. Beryl poked him in the back. “Hey, you. You can’t sit there.”

Brian frowned at her. “Why not?”

“Cos it’s for the cripples, that’s why!” Beryl said indignantly.

“Okay,” sighed Brian. “For one thing, we don’t call them cripples ‘cos it’s offensive, inaccurate and wrong, and for another, we’re the only ones on board the bus!” Brian rolled his eyes and stretched out on the seat.

Maule-Finch sat down in front of Doctaroo. He turned and gave a gentle cough to attract her attention from her in-depth, oral re-examination of the constable’s tonsils. “Excuse me, Doctaroo?” Doctaroo grunted, not wanting to turn away from the task-in-hand. Maule-Ffinch went on: “If you could stop doing that for a moment, please?”

Doctaroo made it clear that stopping wasn’t something she intended to do any time soon. Maule-Ffinch, although taken aback by the gesture Doctaroo had made in his direction, carried on regardless. “Doctaroo, I really must insist on you releasing Constable Perkins.”

Doctaroo stopped kissing him and glanced sideways at Maule-Ffinch.“Why?”

“Because,” stammered Maule-Ffinch. “He’s our driver.”

“Oh,” said Doctaroo. “Oh well in that case...” She relaxed her grip on the constable and he hurriedly stood up, smoothing down his uniform. He gave Maule-Ffinch a grateful smile and quickly made his way to the driver’s cab.

“Don’t forget, you owe me dinner later,” Doctaroo shouted after him. “And I want to go somewhere posh,” she called, “like Weatherspoon's.”

Chapter Two

Perkins settled himself in the driver’s seat and started the engine. It roared into life with a sound not usually heard outside of a track day at Brands Hatch. Clearly, the bus had been considerably upgraded and Perkins smiled at the vibrations coming from the steering wheel. A fan of muscle cars from a young age, Perkins was certain that, from the steady throb-throb he felt, the bus now hid nothing less than a turbocharged V16 engine under its bonnet. Probably. He looked around him and noticed that in addition to about half a dozen cup holders, there was also a brand new Blaupunkt fitted snugly into the dashboard. There was a CD on top of the dash and he popped it into the player. He put the gear stick into ‘Drive’ and flicking on the indicators, pulled out onto the bus lane. Grinning happily, Perkins applied a little more pressure onto the accelerator pedal and the bus went from zero to forty in less time than it takes a fat bloke to find the buffet at a christening.

At the back, Maule-Ffinch was trying vainly to explain to Doctaroo, Beryl, Brian and a worried Mr. Walsh, why they were being summoned to Scotland Yard. Beryl was clearly bored, Brian was stuffing his face with a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza he’d found wedged down the back of his seat and Doctaroo was too busy trying to attract Perkins’ attention in his rear-view mirror to listen to what Maule-Ffinch had to say. Only Mr. Walsh was paying him any heed.

“...so, you see,” Maule-Ffinch was saying, “in a nutshell, that’s why we need your help. Of course, the Chief Inspector will brief you properly, I’m just here to give you the ‘heads up’, so to speak.”

It was obvious that Maule-Ffinch had derived a great deal of pleasure from using the term, as the joy in which he said the words ‘heads up’ was written large on his face and he beamed happily at Doctaroo.

“Hmm? What’s that, hinnie?” She said absently, gazing up the bus at Perkins’ reflection. Maule-Ffinch’s face fell.

“I, I, I,” stammered Maule-Ffinch. “I was just telling you why the Home Office sent me...”

“Oh right.” Smiled Doctaroo, diverting her attention back to the flustered civil servant. “And why’s that then?”

Maule-Ffinch stared at her, mouth agape. “Didn’t you listen to anything I said?” he said quietly.

“Oh, aye,” she said, “I heard the bit about us going to Scotland Yard, but after that I sorta drifted off. It’s not your fault pet. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“Some people are good at tellin’ stories and some aren’t. Isn’t that right Doctaroo?” said Beryl weighing in with her two-pennorth. “I don’t think you’re cut out to be a storyteller, Nige.”

Maule-Ffinch opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it and closed it, then reconsidered and opened it again.

Beryl was looking out the window at the city, its people rushing here and there and generally doing what people usually do first thing in the morning in London. She shook her head in wonder. Doctaroo smiled at her. “Something wrong, pet?” she asked gently.

Beryl shook her head. “No, it’s just that...”

“Just that what, petal?” Doctaroo enquired.

“I came to London once. Back in ‘59 I think it was,” Beryl said. “With me Aunty Val and our Elaine. We stayed at a swanky hotel and went to the theatre to see a play.”

“Ooh, sounds lovely. What play did you see?”

Beryl turned to look at Doctaroo. “It was a dead serious one with that Alan Bates bloke in it. Me Aunty Val fancied him like mad. Look Back in Anger I think it was called.”

“Wasn’t that a song by Oasis?” asked Brian.

“No,” said Doctaroo. “You’re thinking of Wonderwall.”

“Prefer Wham myself,” piped up Mr. Walsh.

“Ooh, yes!” said Doctaroo enthusiastically. “I love a bit o’ Wham!”

“Wake me up before you go-go,” said Mr. Walsh.

“Aww, are you getting your head down for a bit? That’s nice.”

There was a sudden flash of flame from the driver’s cab followed by a loud bang and a billow of smoke from the dashboard. The bus suddenly accelerated and swerved out of the bus lane and into traffic, causing whatever Maule-Ffinch was about to say next to immediately vanish from his mind, replaced by blind panic and a primal whimper he later couldn’t even remember making. In an instant Brian was on his feet, but realising that this caused a sudden rush of blood to nip down to his legs, making him feel giddy and light-headed. He sat down again.

The bus swerved alarmingly across the road into oncoming traffic. Mr. Walsh dived forward and hoisting the unfortunate Constable Perkins from the driver’s seat, he quickly took his place and tried to wrestle the bus back into the bus lane. He pumped the brake pedal with his foot, but to no avail.

“We’ve got no brakes!” he yelled to no one in particular. “How do you stop a double decker bus with no brakes?”

“Oh, I know this one,” Doctaroo called out. “I’m sure it was a question on Who Wants to be a Millionaire last week...”

“Well?” Mr. Walsh called back. “What was the answer?”

“I dunno,” Doctaroo shrugged. “The adverts came on and I went to make a cuppa. Shall I phone a friend?”

“Can they fix a bus?”

“No. But they fixed a puncture on my bike once.”

“Oh good,” said Mr. Walsh sarcastically. “I’ll know who to call if the tyres blow then, won’t I?”

There was a bang from the front left corner of the bus and it swerved suddenly into the kerb. Mr. Walsh struggled with the steering wheel.

“What was your friend’s number?” he shouted over his shoulder.

Maule-Ffinch shook his head and recovered his composure. Grabbing onto the handrail, he staggered up the bus to the cab. “Try the handbrake.”

“I have,” said Mr. Walsh. “It’s not working either.”

“How about turning off the engine?” Maule-Ffinch suggested. Mr. Walsh nodded and reached out to grab the key. As he touched it, there was a spark of electricity and he snatched back his hand and sucked his fingers. “I’m not doing that again, mate,” he said in alarm.

Maule-Ffinch scanned the road ahead. Approximately five hundred or so yards in front of them, the road was coned off and the traffic was down to a single lane. “It looks like there’s roadworks up ahead,” he said. “You’re going to have to crash the bus.”

“What?” shouted Mr. Walsh. “Are you crazy?”

“Possibly. My therapist says I have narcissistic personality disorder. I think he’s just saying that because I’m so much better at everything than he is. Anyway, look ahead to where they’re digging up the road, do you see those barrels?”

Mr. Walsh nodded. “Yeah, I see them.”

“Good,” said Maule-Ffinch. “They’re filled with water. I want you to drive into them, they should cushion the impact.”

Mr. Walsh stared at him as though he’d just been asked to paint his bum green, hide in a supermarket’s fruit and veg aisle and pretend to be a watermelon “Are you on tablets for your condition?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, yes actually, I am,” replied Maule- Ffinch.

“Good,” said Mr. Walsh steering the bus towards the barrels of water. “Get them to increase your dose!”

***

Aleksey Błażejewski had only been working for Westminster Council for a fortnight and he was enjoying his job immensely.

His current task was to oversee the repairs to a stretch of the road near Hyde Park Corner and he was proud of the work he and his team were doing. They had recently dug up part of the road to allow a cable television company access to the fibre optic cables that ran around six feet underground.

What he expected was a slight disruption to the local traffic.

What he expected was the job to go without a hitch.

What he expected was to be finished well within the estimated time of completion.

What he hadn’t expected was for a big, red, double-decker bus to come careering along the bus lane and smash through the barrels, finishing up front first in the hole they had recently dug.

The last thing Aleksey Błażejewski saw before the nearside wing mirror clipped him and sent him flying backwards and crashing into a pile of recently unearthed rubble, was the terrified face of a retired librarian from Penge.

It was, thought Aleksey Błażejewski as his eyes closed for what would be the last time in his relatively short life, completely unexpected.

***

Brian slowly opened his eyes and cautiously took in his surroundings. Doctaroo was tentatively getting to her feet; simultaneously checking for any injuries and helping Beryl pick herself up from where she had fallen. Mr. Walsh was extricating himself from the driver’s cab and, stepping over the late constable Perkins’ body, hurried over to where Maule-Ffinch lay in the doorwell. Brian clambered over to them. “Are you okay, Mr. Walsh?” he asked in concern. Mr. Walsh nodded.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Pity I can’t say the same for poor old Perkins though.” He gestured backwards with his thumb.

Brian moved over to the body, wincing as he saw the CD embedded in his forehead. “Blimey, that stereo packed a wallop, eh?”

“Oh, my poor Perkins.” Cried Doctaroo, clambering over the seats to where the late constable lay. “Oh, pet, no.”

“Killed by compact disc,” said Mr. Walsh sadly.

“Aww, that’s so sad,” Beryl cried. “What CD was it?”

Brian bent over Perkins’ body and read the disc’s title. “Er, Phil Collins’ Greatest Hits.”

“Oh, no. That’s terrible.” Cried Doctaroo.

“You’re telling me!” said a shocked Brian.

“Aye,” said Doctaroo. “You’d have thought it’d be something decent like Steps or Jive Bunny.”

2