The Book of Ultimate Truths

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Does he know the password?’

  The Campbell turned to his captive. ‘Do you know the password?’

  ‘Just say the first thing that comes into your head.’

  ‘Brassiere,’ said the Campbell.

  ‘Enter, friend.’ The door opened and Cornelius was ushered inside.

  ‘Oh,’ said he.

  Beyond lay rubble. The house was nothing more than a front wall. A small campfire billowed smoke and around this crouched…

  ‘Yes,’ said Cornelius Murphy. ‘This is more like it.’

  Around the campfire crouched three red-bearded Highlanders, clad in considerable quantities of musty-looking tartan and armed to the yellow teeth. Tall eagle feathers quivered in their war bonnets.

  ‘You asked about the dirks,’ said Jim.

  ‘And who is this?’ A fearsome warlike apparition flung a horn beaker aside and rose to his feet, making motions towards his sword belt.

  ‘A hostage,’ said the Campbell proudly. ‘Cornelius Murphy, this is Angus, he’s the leader. And over by the fire is Hamish, and Sawney let us in, of course.’

  ‘Hi there,’ said Sawney.

  ‘Hello,’ Cornelius waved at Sawney.

  ‘Hostage?’ Angus, or Black Angus as he preferred to be called, eyed Cornelius with contempt. ‘We send you out to buy sandwiches and you come back with a hostage?’

  ‘Buy sandwiches?’ Cornelius turned to the Campbell. ‘But you said…’

  ‘And where’s my bloody cigarette lighter?’ roared Hamish. ‘You know I cannot abide to light my Woodbine from the campfire.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The Campbell dug out the bogus grenade and handed it back to its rightful owner.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve been altogether honest with me.’ Cornelius made a stern face at the Campbell.

  The Campbell took off his spectacles and tucked them into his pocket. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he snarled, ‘if you know what’s good for you. And sit down, Angus!’

  Angus slunk back to the campfire. Cornelius viewed the Campbell. All trace of the short-sighted incompetent had vanished. The clear blue eyes glittered with menace. The face wore an undeniably evil expression. The Campbell leered at him. ‘An overly complicated piece of subterfuge perhaps. I am subject to whimsicality in these matters. You are now my hostage.’

  ‘I’m too thin to be a hostage,’ said Cornelius. ‘What is all this about?’

  ‘Hand over all your money please.’

  ‘I certainly will not.’

  ‘Then it will be all the worse for you.’ The Campbell snapped his fingers. The three warriors climbed to their feet, drawing murderous-looking blades.

  ‘I bags his jacket,’ said Sawney.

  ‘And I’ll take his flowery blouse, it will look well on my lassie.’ Angus ran his thumb along a knife lined with crocodile teeth.

  ‘What size are your boots?’ Hamish asked.

  ‘Eight and a half.’

  ‘They’ll do for me right enough then.’

  ‘I would prefer to keep them if it’s all the same with you.’

  Cornelius struck out with the right one catching Hamish an agonizing blow to the sporran. The highlander doubled up, eyes crossed and streaming. His companions made a rush at Cornelius. The tall and cornered boy swung his suitcase. He managed to catch Angus a half-decent clip across the right ear, but the sinister Campbell grabbed him from behind and clung to his neck. Cornelius elbowed him where he could, but the camouflaged figure appeared quite impervious to that kind of thing. Sawney raised his claymore in both hands and prepared to bring down the hilt.

  ‘Hold it right there!’ The voice did not come from Cornelius, although those were the words he had in mind to use. They came from a police loud hailer. ‘Lay down your weapons and let the hostage go.’

  ‘Aye what?’ The Campbell glared about him. He didn’t loosen his grip on Cornelius though.

  ‘You are surrounded,’ continued the police voice. ‘Put down your swords. And let the lad go, Campbell.’

  ‘Er?’ said the Campbell.

  ‘Best do what he says,’ said the tall boy.

  ‘No. I don’t see any police. Listen!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got the hostage and we’re keeping him.’

  ‘Our marksmen have you in their sights. Right at the big pimple on your forehead.’

  ‘Pimple?’ The Campbell released Cornelius and took to fingering his forehead. ‘That’s a birthmark, by the way.’

  ‘It’s a bloody big bubo,’ swore Hamish, clutching at his kilt. ‘A proper target, so you are.’

  ‘Where are you?’ shouted the Campbell, spinning about in small circles.

  ‘All around. We’ve had you under surveillance since you set up camp here. Now let the lad go or we open fire.’

  Angus and Sawney flung down their weapons. Hamish sat nursing his loins. The Campbell clenched and unclenched his fists.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off then.’ Cornelius backed towards the door.

  ‘Don’t forget your luggage, you fool,’ called the police voice.

  Cornelius hastily snatched up his bags. ‘Of course not. Thank you.’

  ‘And come out alone.’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  ‘The rest of you back behind the campfire.’ The Wild Warriors of West Lothian made a surly and grumbling retreat. Cornelius Murphy left the building.

  He ducked out of number twenty-three and slammed shut the door. And then he turned to thank his rescuers.

  The street was deserted.

  ‘Well don’t just stand there. Run for your life.’ The voice came close at his ear. Cornelius ran for his life.

  He dived away at the double and took himself as far as his long legs would carry him. When finally they would carry him no more, he ducked into a doorway and sank on to his bottom, breathing heavily.

  ‘Now open your rucksack.’ It was that voice again.

  ‘Is this God?’ Cornelius searched the heavens for shafts of golden light.

  ‘No. It’s me.’ The voice belonged to Tuppe.

  Cornelius pulled open the rucksack.

  ‘Tuppe! This is something of a surprise.’

  The small fellow climbed from the rucksack and stretched what there was of himself to stretch. ‘I’ll bet you’re glad I hitched a ride.’

  Cornelius embraced the small fellow. ‘Tuppe!’ was all that he could say.

  ‘That’s enough hugging thank you.’

  ‘Sorry. But it’s so good to see you. How…?’

  ‘I hitched a ride. I could hardly let you go off on an epic journey all by yourself. There’s no telling what kind of trouble you might get yourself into. So I climbed into the rucksack while you were taking a pee back at The Wife’s Legs. Been living on the daddy’s field rations. Can’t say much for the mother’s coffee though. And I could really use the toilet about now.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cornelius. ‘Just fancy that. You hitchhiking in my rucksack all the way up here without me knowing and then doing a perfect impression of a police loud hailer.’

  Tuppe held his nose and barked into the empty thermos flask. ‘Throw down your weapon and come out with your hands up, you are surrounded.’

  Several nearby windows came up and a number of guns flew down into the street. ‘Don’t shoot, G-man,’ called someone.

  ‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it myself,’ said Cornelius. ‘Thanks very much indeed.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. You would have done the same for me.’

  ‘Naturally. And I would have bested those blighters eventually, you know.’

  ‘I have absolutely no doubt of that. I just wanted the fight to stop before you began wading in with the rucksack.’

  ‘Quite so. Then, as my breath has now returned to me and I find myself in the company of my bestest friend, it is my considered opinion that we proceed together upon the epic journey and face as one whatever adventures lie before.’

  ‘Well said. And wherefore art we headed?’

&nbs
p; ‘The auction room, Sheila na gigh.’

  ‘And how might we get there, do you think?’

  Across the road a bus drew up at a stop. It was a big bright green bus and the sign on the front read, SHEILA NA GIGH.

  ‘We’ll take the bus,’ said Cornelius Murphy, smiling merrily.

  8

  His name was Felix Henderson McMurdo. But they called him the un-canny Scot.

  The old grizzled grannies cursed him as he passed them by. Doggies bared their fangs and babbies filled their nappies. Small boys spat down on him from the safety of high windows and their mothers clenched their buttocks and turned away their glowing cheeks.

  All that knew McMurdo agreed that he’d end his days on a hangman’s rope.

  Felix, who always thought of himself as a bit of a lad and an all-round popular fellow, took it with a smile.

  ‘The folk in these parts have a funny sense of humour,’ he told strangers to the parts of which he spoke. And the strangers smiled back at him and shook their heads.

  But once he was safely out of sight, these same strangers unclenched their buttocks and declared that ‘there goes a wrong’n if ever there was, who’ll end in a gallows dance.’

  Now, on the corner of Agamemnon Street in Sheila na gigh there was a tobacconist shop owned by a Scotsman named Patel. And outside that shop was the last outdoor cigarette machine in Scotland.

  And approaching that very machine, his only pound coin clutched in his fist, was Felix Henderson McMurdo.

  And just across the street was an auction room.

  It was one of those memorial halls or Methodist Congregationals, or Wesleyan chapels or whatever they were. They all look pretty much the same and you see them everywhere. They were raised in the middle years of the Victorian era from sturdy stocks and grey slate, with glorious tiled floors and superb vaulted ceilings. And they are a perfect testament to the canny Victorians’ sense of foresight.

  Because their interiors perfectly reflect the fine reproduction pine furniture that you find for sale in them today.

  There was scaffolding up outside this particular one and a pair of rugged, manly types were bolting a large sign into place. This sign announced that The Victorian Fitted Kitchen Company would soon be opening here for business.

  But today was auction day and the hall looked very well inside, stacked up with all that bygone bric-a-bracery.

  Cornelius and Tuppe entered the hall.

  ‘Nice ceiling,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Nice tiled floor,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Shall we peruse Mr Kobold’s intended purchase?’

  ‘Why don’t we do that very thing.’

  There were ranks of trestle tables. And these were piled high with items which had probably been all very well in their day. There was a good deal of ropey old furniture. Some duff oil paintings and the inevitable far-too-good-to-be-true Cadbury’s shop cabinets. Then there were the armchairs and sofas that travel around the country from auction to auction to auction. Why they do it and for how long they have, are anyone’s guesses.

  Tuppe examined a row of spittoons and an elephant’s foot commode. Above him Cornelius ran his eye over a box of ancient cane carpet beaters. He consulted the catalogue Mr Kobold had given him. ‘Lot forty-two. A collection of early French tennis racquets.’ That didn’t bode particularly well.

  ‘Tell me what I’m looking for again, I’ve forgotten,’ said Tuppe. ‘Ye gods!’ he added hastily dropping the lid of the commode.

  Cornelius read once more from the catalogue. ‘Lot one hundred. Large green canvas portmanteau containing personal effects of the late Victor Zenobia. Brush-and-comb set in calfskin case. Various papers. Duffle-coat (lacking toggles) some wear on elbows. No reserve.’

  ‘And all Kobold wants is the papers?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  Tuppe rubbed his tiny hands together. ‘Splendid. Then I bags the portmanteau. It will provide spacious accommodation for the journey home and spare you the expense of my fare.’

  ‘What a well-considered choice. Then I shall go for the brush-and-comb set in the calfskin case.’

  ‘No less than you deserve. Which leaves us with the matter of the duffle-coat.’

  ‘Lacking toggles.’ Cornelius made a face.

  ‘And some wear on the elbows.’ Tuppe made one to match.

  ‘We had best hold the duffle-coat in reserve.’

  ‘Perfect. As I notice that no reserve has been included in the lot, it should fit the bill precisely.’

  Pleased with the celestial harmony thus achieved, Cornelius and Tuppe set out in earnest to locate Lot 100.

  ‘Lot one hundred?’ Cornelius asked a tall porter in a brown overall.

  ‘Lot one hundred?’ Tuppe asked his shorter counterpart.

  ‘Over there.’ The tall porter pointed.

  ‘Over there.’ The shorter did likewise.

  Tuppe and Cornelius followed the pointing fingers and set off in different directions.

  Felix Henderson McMurdo pushed his only pound coin into the cigarette machine and mused upon the pleasures of the Wild Woodbine he was shortly to enjoy. Felix whistled ‘Cigareets and wuskey and wild wild women’ and wondered why the latter never made his acquaintance.

  And then he wondered why it was that he hadn’t heard that satisfying little clunk the coin usually made as it dropped inside the machine.

  On a distant corner two small boys tittered into their unwashed hands and one slipped a tube of Superglue into the back pocket of his ragged pantaloons.

  ‘Come on now.’ Felix gave the machine a playful tap. ‘Let’s be having you.’

  The machine did not reply.

  The hall was filling up. The auction was set to begin at one and it was nearing that time when Cornelius finally met up once more with Tuppe.

  ‘Any luck?’ The small fellow pulled at the tall boy’s trouser leg.

  ‘None whatever. I couldn’t find it.’

  ‘Give me a hoist up on to your shoulders then. Maybe it’s tucked away on a high shelf somewhere.’

  Cornelius shouldered his companion.

  ‘Oh golly. Put me down and join me there.’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Do as I say. Quickly.’

  Cornelius lowered Tuppe to the floor and knelt down beside him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the Campbell and his cronies. They’re down at the front.’

  ‘I never saw them come in.’

  ‘Then let’s trust that they didn’t see you. How come they’re here?’

  ‘Coincidence?’ Cornelius suggested.

  Felix Henderson McMurdo struck the machine a slightly less playful tap. ‘Pay up with my Woodies,’ he told it. ‘And sharp.’

  Mr Patel issued from his shop. ‘Away from my machine, accursed one,’ he told McMurdo.

  ‘My coin is stuck.’ The un-canny Scot smote the machine once more.

  ‘I’ll fetch my stout stick to you,’ warned the tobacconist.

  A suave-looking gent, with a dapper moustache, tweedy cap and sheepskin car coat climbed the steps of the Gothic pulpit and addressed the congregation of bargain hunters.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ Feedback shrieked about the vaulting and the congregation cowered beneath it, sheltering their ears.

  ‘Sorry,’ came a small voice from the rear of the pulpit. ‘Try again.’

  ‘ ,’ said the auctioneer.

  ‘Once again.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the weekly auction here at The Anabaptist Reform Church. I see a lot of familiar faces, but as there are a few new ones, I’ll just run through the procedures. As there’re a good many lots to get through this afternoon I’ll keep it plain and simple.’

  ‘Good,’ said a familiar face.

  ‘We accept all major credit cards. Personal cheques will also be accepted if accompanied by a valid cheque card. No personal cheques above fif
ty pounds please. Lots secured by deposits must have their balances paid off within twenty-four hours. Items under twenty-five pounds must be paid for in cash and no deposits will be accepted on these. So, with that understood, let us proceed to lot number one.’

  A lady in a straw hat put up her hand.

  ‘A little quick off the mark there, madam,’ smiled the auctioneer. ‘Please wait until I start the bidding.’

  ‘I wanted to ask a question,’ said the lady.

  ‘The toilets are by the door, madam.’ The auctioneer increased the magnitude of his smile.

  ‘I don’t want the toilet. I want to ask a question.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Can lots over twenty-five pounds be paid for in cash?’

  ‘Of course. Now, lot number one.’

  ‘But not lots under twenty-five?’

  ‘Those too, madam.’

  ‘Well, what if I purchased two lots which added up to less than fifty pounds, could I pay for them with a personal cheque, assuming, of course, that I had a valid cheque card?’

  ‘Yes, madam. If the overall figure is more than the twenty-five pounds minimum. Now can we please get on?’

  ‘Well, what if I decided to put one of the lots back into the next auction, could I postpone payment on that until after it was sold?’

  ‘No. Certainly not.’ The auctioneer was still smiling. Just.

  ‘So I’d have to pay for both lots when I bought them, even if I put one straight back into the next auction?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, what if the lot I put back didn’t reach the reserve price I decided to put on it?’

  ‘I suppose you’d just have to take it home, madam.’ The auctioneer’s smile was naught but a memory.

  ‘I don’t want a thing like that in my house,’ said the lady. ‘What kind of a person do you take me for?’

  Outside and across the street a small crowd was gathering.

  ‘All I want is my Woodbine,’ said McMurdo. ‘Paste me again with that stick of yours and you’re a dead Scotsman, Patel.’

  ‘At the end of a rope, that’s how he’ll end,’ said an ancient granny.

  ‘Surely I recognize you, madam,’ said the unsmiling auctioneer. ‘Weren’t you here last week?’