The Book of Ultimate Truths

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Somewhat after eleven.’

  ‘He’s not coming. Let’s go home.’

  ‘Time gentlemen please.’ Neville the part-time barman smote the saloon bar counter of The Flying Swan with his knobkerrie. ‘Let’s have your glasses.’

  ‘I need my glasses,’ said Peter Polgar. ‘Buy some of your own.’

  ‘I don’t wear glasses any more,’ said Mr Yarrow, who had just stopped in for a tot of ‘Wiccans’ warmer’. ‘I have contact lenses.’

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ Jim Pooley waggled his glass at Mr Yarrow. ‘You were my youth employment officer. You tried to fix me up as a professional pot-holer.’

  ‘You too?’ asked Peter Polgar.

  ‘Get out!’ The Campbell told Felix Henderson McMurdo.

  The VW was now parked where the buses turn around at the foot of Star Hill. The police cars had all finally been outrun. And their wreckage towed away. The fire appliances had finished with the petrol station and their crews gone off watch. Most were now at their homes, preparing for a night of drawing down the moon and whipping off the Y-fronts.

  Felix got out. ‘Would it be all right if I just sort of drifted away into the night, never to be seen again?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘No it wouldn’t. What is that funky smell, by the way?’

  Felix fingered his sodden trousers. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  The Campbell lifted the VW’s bonnet. ‘Get in!’ he said.

  On top of Star Hill. And now hidden in the top of a tall tree. Cornelius Murphy and his best friend Tuppe were sitting uncomfortably.

  ‘It’s getting really dark now, isn,t it?’ Tuppe clung miserably to a lofty branch. ‘I think we should turn it in.’

  ‘There’s a nice full moon. We’ll wait a bit longer.’

  ‘But there haven’t been any explosions for ages. And there’s still no sign of the Campbell.’

  ‘He’ll come. You said he would.’

  ‘What do I know? Let’s go home.’

  ‘No. Hold on. I hear something.’

  And indeed Cornelius did. It was a distant sort of something. But it was growing closer. It sounded a bit like voices. It sounded a lot like chanting voices. It was chanting voices.

  Tuppe strained a small and shell-like. ‘Oh no,’ said he.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Chanting voices.’

  ‘Very amusing.’

  ‘Wiccans!’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Up here? Tonight? Oh dear.’

  Tuppe’s head bobbed about amidst the leaves. ‘They dance about in their bare scuddies, you know. I wonder who the high priestess is this week.’

  ‘Tuppe. We can’t have them here. Climb down and tell them to go away. Tell them the hill’s closed for repairs, or something.’

  ‘Not me.’ Tuppe shook his head vigorously. ‘Do you know how many Wiccans there are in this neighbourhood?’

  ‘Couple of dozen?’

  ‘Couple of hundred, more like.’

  ‘What?’ Cornelius took to chewing his fingernails.

  ‘Well, it’s a genuine religion, you know. The fact that we dance around in our bare scuddies tends to give some people the wrong idea.’

  ‘We?’ Cornelius spat out a mouthful of fingernails. ‘We?’

  Hugo Rune wrote a long and erudite monograph on the subject of shape shifting. And it would appear, from accounts given by his various biographers, that the great thinker and mystic was not averse to a bit of it himself, every once in a while.

  One tale, often repeated, is of how he once grew a pair of sideburns overnight, to win a bet with Herbie Wells. And there are numerous accounts of him actually shrinking to less than half his regular and prodigious size, at the approach of a waiter bearing the bill.

  It was Rune’s conviction that a lot more shape shifting went on in this world than folk cared to admit. And he claimed to have uncovered a Secret Society of Spontaneous Human Combustionists, responsible for The Great Fire of London, the destruction of The Crystal Palace and the R101, the blitz and his garden shed.

  One day the truth shall out, he wrote. And it was yet possible that the day in question would shortly be in the dawning.

  Down beside the VW, the Campbell’s human form dissolved into a gooey, runny, slimey, ill-smelling variety of vegetable soup and began to flow up Star Hill.

  Felix watched it occur through a crack in the bonnet and disgraced himself once more.

  ‘Oh no,’ whispered Cornelius. ‘Would you look at all that lot?’

  And what a lot of a lot there was. The chanting grew louder as the figures appeared. They moved up the tracks, passing between the trees. Each clad in robes of white silk. Each bearing a lighted torch.

  Cornelius felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The cantillation and the robes and torches conspired to create an effect that was eerie and enchanting. Here, upon the top of this ancient hill. With the lights of the town far below and the full moon riding high in the star-scattered heavens.

  And still they came, figures in white, drifting like wraiths on to the brow of the hill. And here they formed into a great circle around the concrete plinth. And a mighty cry rose up from them.

  The circle broke and a tall imposing figure appeared. His robes were of gold, his hair and beard long and shining white. He carried a tall black staff, tipped with a five-pointed star. The white-robers bowed low as he passed them by.

  ‘Who is that?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘Oh, that’s Merlin,’ Tuppe replied.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Keep your voice down. It’s Merlin. If you’d ever bothered to attend any of the interviews Mr Yarrow sent you to, you’d recognize him.’

  ‘Mr Yarrow never sent me off to take an apprenticeship with Merlin the magician. I would have taken that job.’

  ‘It’s not Merlin the magician. It’s Martin Merlin, the monumental mason.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Merlin of the golden robe stood before the concrete plinth.

  ‘Give us a bloody leg up then,’ said he.

  Several figures leapt forward to offer assistance.

  ‘And don’t slinking off. If I fall arse over tit, I want some sod here to catch me.’

  ‘He certainly enters into the spirit of the thing does Martin,’ Cornelius muttered.

  ‘Ssssh,’ whispered Tuppe.

  ‘Right,’ said Martin. ‘Now let’s come to order. Before we kick off with the bare scuddying, a few notices.’

  ‘Mumble mumble,’ went the crowd.

  ‘Give over,’ went Martin. ‘Firstly, I still have a few tickets left for the annual coach outing to Stonehenge. We’ve got permission this time, so you won’t need to bring your stout sticks. Light refreshments will be provided and Mr O’Laughten from the off-licence is laying on six crates of brown ale.’

  ‘Hooray,’ went the crowd.

  ‘Now, I’ve had yet another complaint from the Parks and Amenities bunch at the town hall about our little get-togethers up here.’

  ‘Boo, boo,’ went the crowd.

  ‘Quite so,’ Martin raised his staff. ‘Apparently local residents have been moaning about the noise. And not without good cause. Certain of you, and you know who you are, have been slamming car doors and waking people up. So keep it down when you leave the car park. Oh, yes, and while we’re on the subject, there’s an Austin Allegro down there with its lights left on.’

  ‘Mumble mumble,’ went the crowd, shuffling its feet.

  ‘Typical,’ whispered Tuppe.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No-one wants to admit that they own an Austin Allegro.’

  ‘Well, please yourself, it’s your battery. Now, is there; anything else before we kick off? No? Right…’

  ‘Er, excuse me.’ A lady stepped forward. She was whitely robed. She also wore a straw hat. ‘About the tickets for the coach outing.’

  ‘Yes, madam?’

  ‘I bought a ticket last year, but I wasn’t able to go. Can I come this year for free?’
<
br />   ‘No, I’m sorry. Prices have gone up, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, what if I paid the difference?’

  ‘That would be all right, providing you have last year’s ticket.’

  ‘I do, it’s here in my handbag.’

  ‘Jolly good, then let the festivities commenc–’

  ‘Er, just one more thing.’ The lady in the straw hat put her hand up.

  ‘What is it now, madam?’

  ‘Well, I just wanted to know. If I wasn’t able to go again this year, could I get a refund?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that could be arranged. Now if you don’t mind–’

  ‘Would I get a refund on the full ticket price?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Well, would that be for both this year and last year?’

  ‘But you didn’t go last year.’

  ‘Well, that wasn’t my fault. The coach left without me.’

  ‘Haven’t we seen this woman somewhere before?’ Tuppe asked Cornelius.

  ‘Listen, madam!’ Mr Merlin waved his staff, ugly murmurs broke out from the crowd. ‘If you have last year’s ticket and you are willing to pay the difference, you can have a ticket for this year. If you can’t come this year, I will refund your money, for this year, do you understand?’

  ‘What about my husband?’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  ‘Well, he bought a ticket last year and he couldn’t go either. But he doesn’t want to come this year.’

  Grumblings and mumblings rolled around the circle of torch-bearers. Feet were beginning to stamp and there were cries of ‘burn the witch’ and ‘bring out the wicker man’.

  The lady in the straw hat clouted the nearest protester with her handbag. Someone threw a clod of earth.

  It struck Martin Merlin.

  Martin struggled to keep his balance. ‘Who bloody chucked that?’ he demanded.

  ‘He did,’ cried someone.

  ‘I never,’ cried someone else. ‘Take that!’

  ‘It’s a genuine religion you know,’ whispered Cornelius, as punches were exchanged beneath his tree and a decent-sized barney got on the go.

  And then a most extraordinary thing happened. A kind of ripple flowed through the rowdy congregation, as of electricity borne in the air. The punching and pushing and general bad behaviour ceased. An embarrassed foot-shuffling uncomfortableness took its place.

  Cornelius sensed that something important was about to occur and craned his neck to get a better look. His hair became intimately entangled with the branches above.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked Tuppe.

  ‘She comes,’ the small fellow replied. ‘Can’t you feel her? She comes.’

  And come she did. The circle broke once more. Mr. Merlin stiffened to attention and whacked his staff on the copper map. ‘All kneel,’ he bawled. ‘All kneel before the priestess.’

  And kneel they did.

  She strode into the circle. A tall and beautiful woman. Proud and erect. A billow of golden hair, a swish of silken robes.

  Cornelius fought to free his tangled locks. His eyes bulged. ‘It’s The Wife!’ he gasped. ‘From The Wife’s Legs Café.’

  ‘I wonder if she’s doing suppers later.’

  Mr Merlin biffed the nearest kneeler with his staff. ‘Help me down, you wally.’

  The high priestess approached the concrete plinth. There was no shortage of helping hands to give her a leg up.

  And didn’t she look something in the moonlight! All that golden hair. Those flashing green eyes. The full red lips. The generous helping of nipple-definition and the length of leg. Lovely.

  She flung her hands wide. ‘Blessed be,’ she cried.

  ‘Blessed be,’ the circle agreed.

  ‘Love is the law.’

  ‘Love under will.’

  The high priestess crossed her hands above her breast. ‘I am the manifestation of Nuit. The continuous one of Heaven. I am the blue-lidded daughter of sunset. The naked brilliance of the voluptuous night sky. I am the queen of space.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Cornelius agreed. ‘You certainly are.’

  ‘Ssssh,’ whispered Tuppe.

  ‘To me! To me! I call forth the flame of the hearts in my love-chant. Sing the rapturous love songs unto me! Burn to me incense! Wear to me jewels. Drink to me, for I love you. I love you.’

  And with that said, she flung off her robe. And needless to say, she wasn’t wearing a single stitch beneath it.

  Cornelius Murphy all but fell out of his tree.

  ‘Love is the law,’ called the naked woman.

  ‘Love under will,’ the circle called back.

  And then it was down with the torches, up robes all and Devil take the Y-fronts.

  ‘It’s bare-scuddy time,’ said Tuppe.

  And bare-scuddy time it was.

  Cheers and shouts filled the night air, as drooping tums and dismal dangly-bits were shamelessly unfettered. And the dance began. The celebrants formed themselves into concentric circles and high-stepped it out for a knickerless Star Hill ho-down.

  Naturally most kept on their Wellington boots. Well, a lot of dog-walking goes on up there and…

  There was no shortage of musical accompaniment. Many a weird and wonderful instrument was being struck or plucked or strummed or smitten. The local chapter of the Olde English Folk Music Society was out in full force. And going about it with a will.

  This particular chapter, in keeping with most of the rest, was composed of earnest bearded fellows, who shared a love for an ancient instrument, an ethnic shoe, a cagoule, a pint of real ale and a girlfriend called Ros. Which kept Ros pretty busy when she wasn’t running her encounter group.

  Tuppe winced at the dedicated discord. ‘Not exactly The Quo, are they?’

  Cornelius shook his entangled head. ‘Look at that tall, bearded oaf plucking the hautboy.’

  ‘Which one? Where?’

  Cornelius pointed. ‘Next to the slightly shorter bearded oaf who’s strumming the gittern.’

  ‘That’s never a gittern, that’s an archlute.’

  ‘No. I didn’t mean the oaf picking the archlute, I meant the oaf strumming the gittern. The oaf plucking the hautboy is next to him.’

  ‘The bearded oaf?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Got him. That’s never a hautboy though.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘No it’s not. That’s a heptachord. The bloke over there’s plucking a hautboy.’

  ‘Bloke with the beard?’

  ‘No, next to him.’

  ‘Oh yes. So he is. What’s the bald bloke in the spectacles playing?’

  ‘That’s an ocarina. Oh shit!’

  The Campbell, for it was indeed he, was not actually playing the ocarina. Not yet. He was just miming. But he was thoroughly enjoying himself, nonetheless. He pressed himself up against whatever naked flesh happened in his direction and jigged about merrily.

  Tuppe tugged at the tall boy. ‘Shoot the blighter, Cornelius.’

  ‘I can’t get a clear shot from up here. I might hit someone else.’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to go down. Quick, take off all your clothes.’

  ‘I certainly will not.’

  ‘Cornelius, you just can’t go wading in amongst all that lot fully dressed. If the Wiccans don’t duff you up, and they will, the Campbell will spot you, and then who knows what he’ll do.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Cornelius held on to his hair and leapt from the tree. ‘Jump, Tuppe. I’ll catch you.’

  Tuppe jumped. Cornelius caught him.

  ‘Bare scuddies then.’ Tuppe unfastened his dungarees and began to unbutton his shirt. ‘Hurry or we might lose him.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Cornelius took off his jacket, neatly folded it and laid it on a bush.

  The hautboys, archlutes and gitterns, not to mention the dulcimers, tabors, seraphinas, flageolets and union pipes, were all going at it hammer and tongs. The bombardons, polychord
s, shawms and timbrels were letting it all hang out. And the lady in the straw hat was playing the washboard. Martin Merlin accompanied her on the tea chest bass. ‘This must be the season of the witch,’ he sang.

  Tuppe slipped out of his cut-down boxer shorts. Revealing a midnight growler of epic proportion.

  ‘So it’s true what they say about little men,’ said Cornelius.

  Tuppe looked up with a grin. ‘But not what they say about thin ones, by the look of it.’

  Cornelius took up Arthur Kobold’s gun. ‘Shall we dance?’

  All across Star Hill there was a whole lotta shakin’ going on.

  Cornelius did a soft-shoe shuffle, and Tuppe, the Michael Jackson Moonwalk, and the two of them slipped in amongst the dancers.

  Cornelius manoeuvred his way through the bacchanal. He ducked and dived and bobbed and bopped. And did his best to keep the Campbell’s baldy head in sight.

  Cornelius held the pressed-tin gun straight down at his side. His plan was simplicity itself. Circle around behind the Campbell, stick the gun in his back, dance him away to a nice quiet spot and execute him.

  It was a quite appalling idea. And Cornelius knew it.

  Dance him away to a nice quiet spot and execute him? What on Earth was he thinking about? He couldn’t put a gun to the head of a naked man and squeeze the trigger. It was unthinkable. It was unspeakable. There had to be another way. And one that did not involve him in cold-blooded murder.

  But then, was it really murder? After all, the Campbell was not actually a human being. Although he did look all too human now. But he wasn’t and Cornelius knew it. The Campbell was a dangerous deviant. He was not a he. He was an it.

  But that didn’t make Cornelius feel any better. Because, when you got right down to it, what was the Campbell being executed for? What had he done to warrant the death penalty?

  He’d done a bit of kidnapping. He’d done a lot of kidnapping. And there’d been a great deal of violence and mayhem. The Campbell was a regular berserker. But was he a murderer? Cornelius had no proof that he was. No real proof. And even if he had, would that make matters any easier?

  ‘No,’ Cornelius told himself. ‘It would not. I have been manipulated throughout this entire affair and I will be manipulated no longer. I shall deal with the Campbell in my own way. Because, sod it, I am the stuff of epics after all.’