The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Not the cars everywhere then?’ Mr Craik stage-whispered back.

  ‘No, just here. Hasn’t spread further yet. But someone should do something about it.’

  ‘Typical that is,’ Mr Craik was getting into the swing of the thing. ‘Some kind of Government cover up, I’ll bet. Some germ warfare experiment that went wrong.’

  ‘I’m getting out, me,’ stage-whispered Mr Rodway. ‘And I’m the estate agent. I owe it to my wife and family.’

  ‘Someone should demand a statement from the mayor,’ stage-whispered Mr Craik. ‘Be careful there, waitress, you’re spilling the champagne all over the table.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the waitress put down the bottle with a bang and tottered away at a brisk old pace towards the kitchen.

  ‘Piece of cake really, isn’t it?’ asked Mr Rodway. ‘Getting rumours started.’

  ‘The mayor can be bought off then, I suppose?’

  Mr Rodway raised his eyebrows, then lowered the one above the eye he was now winking.

  ‘A member of your lodge?’

  ‘How do you think he got to be mayor?’

  ‘I feel that we shall enjoy a most lucrative business partnership,’ said Mr Craik, raising his champagne glass. ‘To Mad Car Disease.’

  ‘Mad Car Disease it is. Bottoms up.’

  ‘Where’s that waitress gone?’ asked Tuppe.

  ‘This food’s really good,’ said Louise.

  ‘Why did I get a plate of grass?’ asked Boris. ‘I wanted cod and chips like the rest of you. Hic!’

  ‘That sleazy-looking bald bloke at the table over there’s winking at us again,’ said Thelma.

  Louise waved to Mr Rodway. ‘I think I know who’ll be paying for our lunch,’ she whispered to Cornelius.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the large and miserable-looking man in the white tuxedo had switched off his ghetto-blaster and was now on his feet, ‘I hope you are all enjoying your lunch at The Casablanca dining-suite. As those who have dined here before, and I see a lot of familiar faces . . .’ The large and miserable-looking man man fluttered his fingers and a lady in a straw hat fluttered hers back at him. ‘As those who have dined here before will know, the Skelington Bay Grande (hot and cold running water in all rooms and fitted carpet tiles throughout) is always pleased at this time of the day to present its cabaret.’

  Polite applause pattered about the dining-suite.

  ‘And today, for the first time anywhere, we present . . .’ He stooped and flicked the switch on his ghetto-blaster, a drum roll drum-rolled.

  ‘I didn’t know we were getting a floor show,’ said Tuppe. ‘I hope it’s a stripper.’

  The large and miserable-looking man switched off his ghetto-blaster. ‘Courtesy of Samuel Showstein Productions, I give you Professor Tuppe and his dancing sheep.’

  ‘What?’ went Tuppe, as all eyes in the room turned towards the only sheep in the room.

  ‘Hang about, this can’t be right.’ Tuppe snatched up his contract. ‘What’s this?’ He found what he was looking for almost at once, as it was all that was written in the contract. “‘Three shows a day, everyday, starting today, cheque to be made out in advance to Mr Showstein. Cheque received with thanks by Mr Showstein.” Yeah, well I never signed this, so it’s not legally binding.’

  ‘Come on up now, Professor,’ called the white-tuxedo-wearer. ‘We all want to see the woolly wonder.’

  Cornelius looked at Tuppe.

  And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

  ‘You’d better do something,’ whispered the tall boy. ‘One quick little song and dance before we call for the desserts tray.’

  ‘Song and dance?’ Tuppe whispered back. ‘Look at Boris, he can’t even walk, let alone dance.’

  The little black lips of Boris’s sheep mask were curled into a lopsided grin. The woolly wonder was well out of it.

  ‘I’ll handle this,’ said Cornelius, rising to his feet and dusting himself down with a napkin. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I regret that Professor Tuppe’s dancing sheep strained a fetlock this morning in rehearsals and will not be able to perform until this evening.’

  ‘Aw,’ went the diners, and ‘shame’.

  ‘I’m sure you’re all animal lovers’, said Cornelius, ‘and would not wish to cause suffering to a dumb beast.’ Heads nodded all around, one or two people clapped.

  ‘Who are you calling dumb?’ giggled Boris.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Tuppe, ramming a hand over his mouth.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cornelius sitting down.

  ‘Oi you,’ said a young man, standing up. He was quite a broad-shouldered young man and fierce-looking with it. He wore a colourful vest, shorts and trainers. And sported on his arms those crude self-inflicted tattoos that are so popular amongst juvenile offenders in remand centres.

  ‘Are you talking to me?’ Cornelius enquired.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the young man. ‘Me and my mates have been watching you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ his mates agreed. They were similar-looking young men, with similar-looking tattoos. There were three of them (men that is, it was hard to count the tattoos).

  ‘Well, nice to say hello,’ said Cornelius with much politeness. ‘I trust you’ll catch this evening’s performance.’

  ‘We’ve been watching you feeding booze to that sheep.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the lady in the straw hat, standing up also. ‘We’ve all been watching that.’

  ‘I hate people who abuse animals,’ said the young man.

  ‘Me too,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘And I hate people who park their cars on grass verges.’

  ‘Me too,’ said someone else. ‘And I hate the sound of car alarms going off in the night.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Thelma. ‘Especially when I’m trying to get the stereo out.’

  ‘Blokes like you ain’t worth that,’ snarled the young man, making the approved gesture. ‘You need a good lesson teaching.’

  ‘Yeah,’ his mates agreed.

  ‘There’s no need for any unpleasantness,’ said Cornelius, taking a firm grip upon the Thirties-revival champagne cooler. ‘Let’s all calm down, have a drink on me.’

  ‘Here’s one,’ cried one of the young man’s companions, snatching up his glass and flinging its contents towards Cornelius.

  The tall boy ducked nimbly aside, taking the champagne cooler with him. Carling Black Label went all over Thelma.

  ‘Whoops,’ said Louise. ‘Bad move there, she takes great exception to that kind of thing.’

  ‘I bloody do.’ Thelma leapt from her chair, climbed onto the table and launched herself at the despoiler of her boob tube.

  The first young man launched himself at Cornelius.

  Tuppe launched himself to a place of safety beneath the table, dragging Boris with him.

  The lady in the straw hat turned round and hit her husband. ‘Bloody grass-verge parker,’ said she.

  Cornelius brought the first young man down with the Thirties-revival champagne cooler. Clunk! it went against his skull.

  His mates were on the move though.

  Thelma decked the Black Label thrower with a fearsome blow to the groin.

  Cornelius was suddenly engulfed in a firestorm of fists.

  ‘I like a good punch up, me,’ said Mr Rodway, looking on. ‘Not getting involved in one, you understand, but watching the boot go in. Most exhilarating.’

  ‘I like being trussed up and caned,’ said Mr Craik. ‘But then who doesn’t?’

  Clunk! went the Thirties-revival jobbie once again.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Mr Rodway.

  ‘That’s them over there,’ said the waitress to the crowd of burly kitchen porters. ‘The bald berk and the git with the crazy eyes. From wot I could get outta wot they was saying, they’re Government germ warfare blokes spreading a deadly virus in this neighbour’ood.’

  ‘Right, let’s have the bastards,’ agreed the burly ones.

  Now violence isn’t everybody’s cup of corpuscle, and m
ost of the diners weren’t keen to enter into the spirit of the thing. So they made for the exit. Of course they caused a certain amount of chaos doing so. And chaos is the neighbour of violence, the live-in-lover sometimes.

  ‘Take that,’ went the lady in the straw hat, lashing out with her knitting bag.

  ‘You kicked my Brixton briefcase,’ went the large and miserable-looking man in the white tuxedo, head-butting the wrong fellow.

  ‘Did somebody say briefcase?’ asked the vicar of Skelington Bay, who had been lunching with Max Clifford.

  ‘Death to the Government plague merchants!’ cried the burly kitchen porters, wading into all and sundry as they beat their righteous path.

  ‘Stay here,’ said Tuppe to Boris. ‘I’ve got to help my friend.’

  Louise was helping Cornelius and doing a good job too. She was not quite so vicious as Thelma. Well, actually, she was.

  ‘Oooooh,’ went a tattooed vest-wearer, doubling up in agony.

  ‘Here,’ said Mr Craik. ‘Those burly kitchen porters are coming for us.’

  Now who set off the fire alarm is anyone’s guess (Thelma would be a good one). And fiercely ringing bells always add that bit of something and step up the action.

  Tables were now being overturned and bottles thrown.

  A heavy-metal fan called Chris, who had been lunching with a party of fellow librarians, cried, ‘MEGADEATH!’ and pummelled on a passer-by.

  Tuppe bit the ankle of the vest-wearer who had Cornelius by the throat. The Reverend Cheesefoot, who was developing a passion for the lady in the straw hat’s knitting bag, caught one in the ear from her Roman Catholic husband, which brought in elements of the Anglo-Irish conflict.

  Cornelius clunked! the now-hopping vest-wearer on the head. ‘Gather up the girls and the sheep,’ he told Tuppe. ‘And let’s get out of here.’

  Kevin and Lynne were returning from a trip to the ASDA superstore in the next town. The fire engine overtook them as they drove along the promenade. They followed it.

  All the way home.

  The fire engine had to pull up short as an electric-blue 1958 Cadillac Eldorado was leaving the private car-park at some speed. And lurching rather violently from side to side.

  ‘There’s something wrong with this car,’ said Cornelius Murphy, clinging to the steering-wheel.

  ‘Just drive,’ said Tuppe. ‘We’ll get it fixed later.’

  In the rear seat was a drunken sheep with his hooves about the shoulders of two bedraggled young women. ‘You blokes are just great,’ he giggled. ‘You said we’d have some laughs. Just great. Just frigging great.’

  ‘Get your bleeding hoof off my tit,’ said Thelma. ‘Or I’ll punch your lights out.’

  24

  ‘Get off me. Get off me,’ screamed Norman. ‘I can’t hold on with you clinging to my legs.’

  He had his head through the hole did Norman, and one arm. But things weren’t looking too hopeful.

  ‘You need me,’ crowed Claude. ‘You’d better hold on.’

  ‘I can’t, you’re too heavy. You’re dragging me down.’

  ‘Save your breath, sonny. Pull us through the sodding hole.’

  Well, he’d got this far.

  He couldn’t fall back down again now.

  Could he?

  No. He couldn’t.

  Norman puffed and panted. He struggled and strained and bit by bit and inch by inch. Until at last.

  ‘We did it.’

  Norman gulped in air and Claude sat coughing.

  But they’d done it. They really had.

  They sat now upon a high gantry. The big machines that did the business for the big sky nozzles pulsed away beneath them. Rising steam puffs, oily smells, wee men in overalls.

  ‘What now?’ Norman asked between gulpings.

  ‘Revenge,’ said Claude. ‘Sweet revenge.’

  ‘All right,’ said Norman. ‘Let’s do it.’

  The two of them stood up, stretched, nursed bruised places, and considered the state of each other.

  The state wasn’t any too good.

  They were both down to their vests and underpants.

  ‘That’s a really cakky pair of knickers,’ said Norman.

  ‘Oh yeah? Well I bet yours aren’t short of skid marks.’

  ‘Mine were clean on the day I . . .’ Norman paused, made a very sad face.

  Claude patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a good boy,’ said he.

  ‘I’m a dead boy,’ said Norman, in a most mournful voice. ‘And I don’t like it one little bit.’

  ‘You have things to do,’ said Claude, giving him another pat. ‘Great things. But things best done with clothes on. Tell you what. You lure a couple of engineers up here and I’ll bop them on the head with this spanner and we’ll nick their overalls and shoes. What do you say?’

  ‘I say, where did you get the spanner from?’

  ‘Same place as I got the pocket lighter, I suppose.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘That was quick,’ Norman said, zipping himself into an engineer’s overall. ‘I never even saw you hit them with the spanner.’

  ‘Well, I never saw you push their unconscious bodies though the hole and down the lift shaft,’ said Claude, zipping himself into another.

  ‘You missed that, did you?’

  ‘Some bits you have to miss, sonny, when you’re in a real hurry to get things moving along.’

  ‘Which we are!’

  ‘Which we certainly are. So let’s get you to the nearest big sky nozzle and blast you back to Earth. You’re going home, Norman. Going home.’

  ‘Going home,’ sighed Norman. ‘Oh I do like the sound of that.’

  25

  Off the road and on the beach a little ways out from Skelington Bay, Cornelius drew the Cadillac to a squidily-diddly halt. ‘The brakes are all fouled up,’ he told Thelma. ‘What did you do to this car?’

  ‘It was all right yesterday. But ever since we left Collins’ Farm it’s been acting real funny. Anyway, stuff your car, Cornelius, look at the state of me.’

  Cornelius looked at the state of Thelma. Much as a Texan might look at the State of Texas, or a Carmelite, the State of Grace.

  Most approvingly.

  Tousled, Thelma was, about the golden tresses; her perfect cheekbones were lacquered with perspiration. Blue eyes showering sparks. Boob tube slightly torn. Firm young breasts rising and falling to a sensual rhythm.

  Forget Texas. Forget Grace.

  ‘Don’t stare at me like that,’ said Thelma. ‘Well, OK, you can if you want to.’

  ‘I’m sorry I got you into a fight.’

  ‘Don’t be, I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘I fear the vest-wearers may be walking with a pronounced limp for a few days.’

  ‘And sleeping rough probably,’ said Louise. ‘Or two of them at least. I lifted their wallets during the fight.’

  ‘They’ll all be sleeping rough,’ said Thelma. ‘I lifted the other two.’ Cornelius shook his head at this, then gathered in his wandering hair.

  He did not approve of such dishonesty, but considered that to take the moral high ground now, might well interfere with his chances of sexual intercourse later.

  Or sooner.

  ‘Why don’t we all go in for a swim and cool off?’ he suggested.

  ‘I’m for that,’ Tuppe pulled off his shirt. ‘How’s Boris?’ he asked.

  ‘Boris has passed out on the floor,’ said Louise.

  ‘Best leave him to sleep it off then.’

  ‘I don’t think the world’s quite ready for Professor Tuppe and his dancing sheep,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘I don’t think I’m quite ready for a life on the cabaret circuit,’ said Tuppe. ‘If that was the Skelington Bay lunchtime crowd, then stuff the Glasgow Empire on a Saturday night.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Thelma asked Cornelius.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Mr Rune and your millions of pounds, and whatever
it is that your millions of pounds are helping him to finance?’

  ‘I’ll get around to that,’ smiled Cornelius. ‘All in good time.’

  ‘I thought you were an adventurer.’

  ‘An epic adventurer. That’s me.’

  ‘Then it’s your job to make things happen, not just wait for them to.’ Cornelius rose to his full height in the driver’s seat and pushed his hair to the back of himself. ‘I have to know what Rune is up to,’ said he. ‘I shall be breaking into his hotel room this evening in order to find out.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Thelma.

  ‘Quite,’ said Cornelius. ‘But for now, I wish first to frolic in the waves.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then later I hope to seduce you.’

  Thelma grinned, ‘Why not combine the two?’ she asked. ‘Right now.’

  ‘Jolly good.’

  There was jumping in the waves near Skelington Bay. Jumping and a bumping and a humping. But it wasn’t gross. It was rather beautiful really. There’s something about making love in the sea which sets it in a realm apart. Showers, baths and Jacuzzis have much to recommend them. Particularly the latter. And who amongst us can truly put their hand upon their heart and swear that they’ve never done it one hot summer’s night in the Thomas the Tank Engine paddling-pool on next door’s back lawn?

  Not many!

  But the warm waves have it every time. It’s probably something primeval. Some inherited distant memory of mankind’s origins. Born of the sea. Rising to the land. Returning to the watery cradle. Something like that.

  Something almost spiritual.

  The party of nuns on the beach who were viewing Cornelius and Thelma considered that it was probably something almost spiritual. Those who could see what Tuppe and Louise were up to in the sand dunes considered otherwise, these hitched up their skirts and fled screaming up the beach.

  ‘That was sweet.’ Cornelius and Thelma now sat in the rear seat of the Cadillac, feet upon Boris the woolly cushion, sharing a cigarette.

  Tuppe and Louise were in the front seat. An exhausted Louise had fallen asleep. Tuppe was reading a copy of the day’s Skelington Bay Mercury, which he’d found blowing along the beach.