The Book of Ultimate Truths (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy 1)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘What?’

  At a little after one of the sunny afternoon clock they stopped at a vast motorway services area thingy. Here Cornelius fed the motor car with the best petrol that money could buy and then took himself up to the restaurant to join Tuppe.

  The restaurant was a great long refectory of a place. A wall of windows overlooked the motorway. Ranks of Formica-topped tables were besieged by steel chairs, which did not encourage a long stay. Tuppe sat dejectedly at a table by the door. No food lay spread before him.

  ‘Whither lunch?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘It’s a self service. I can’t reach.’

  ‘How thoughtless of me. My apologies.’ Cornelius got in double rations. And much ice-cream.

  Tuppe set about the meal. ‘You know,’ said he, between great chewings, ‘I’ve never been in one of these places before. But I’ve seen them in the movies. There’s usually a heavy-metal band sitting in one corner, their van’s broken down, you see, and they’re on their way to an important gig. And there’s also this couple, deeply in love, well, she is, he’s going to go back to his wife…’

  ‘Cad!’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Quite so. And there’s a spy. He often gets shot dead in the toilet.’

  ‘What, he gets shot dead more than once?’

  Tuppe scooped beans into his mouth.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cornelius. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘There’s us, of course. Two young heroes on an epic journey.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  Tuppe glanced about the place. Apart from the two young heroes, the remaining cast of Vast Motorway Services Area: The Movie had yet to turn up. Tuppe did, however, spy out a lone figure at a distant table.

  ‘There’s him,’ said Tuppe, pointing past the tall boy’s elbow. Cornelius turned and squinted. The sun blazed in and lit upon a large, broad-shouldered, shaven-headed man. He wore a plaid plus-fours suit and a silk cravat.

  Whilst his companion’s back was turned, Tuppe swiped one of his sausages and thrust it into his mouth.

  Cornelius turned back. ‘He looks familiar. Perhaps he’s the spy. Where’s my sausage gone?’

  Tuppe suddenly spat stolen sausage all over Cornelius.

  ‘Steady on!’ Cornelius flapped at himself. ‘No need for that. It’s only a sausage. I don’t mind.’

  ‘No, no.’ Tuppe was coughing away like a mad thing. ‘It’s him. It’s him.’

  ‘Who him?’

  ‘In the photo. Get out the photo.’

  Cornelius pulled the late Victor Zenobia’s snapshot from his top pocket. ‘What?’ He made to have another look at the distant diner. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘Don’t look. Let me see the photo.’

  Cornelius turned it to Tuppe. Tuppe gave it a squint and then took a peep past the tall boy’s elbow. ‘It is him,’ he whispered. ‘Cornelius, it’s Hugo Rune.’

  ‘The bloke you’re talking about,’ said Mike the mechanic, ‘long tall bloke? Hair all over the place?’

  He was speaking to a bald-headed man. A bald-headed man who favoured a camouflaged combat jacket to a plus-fours suit.

  ‘What do you want with him then?’

  ‘It’s a private matter,’ said the Campbell.

  ‘None of my business then.’ Mike turned away, wiping his hands on an oily rag, the way only a real mechanic can.

  ‘I could make it your business.’ The Campbell’s hand fell upon Mike’s left shoulder. It was a heavy hand, with a good firm grip.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Mike turned and looked the Campbell up and down. He didn’t very much like what he saw. And as for the three highlanders lounging around the spikey Volkswagen. He prised away the hand, which still gripped his shoulder.

  ‘I need to know where he’s travelling to. It’s very important.’

  ‘He didn’t say.’ Mike shrugged easily, but his right hand crept around to the rear pocket of his overall, where he kept the big Stilson spanner. ‘Sorry I can’t help you.’

  ‘I really must insist.’ The Campbell removed his broken spectacles and slipped them into his pocket.

  ‘Look, piss off, will you?’ The spanner was out.

  The Campbell smiled at it. Then he smiled at Mike and stared deeply into his eyes. Then he leaned forward and whispered something into his left ear.

  The colour drained from the mechanic’s face. His body began to tremble. The big spanner fell from his hand.

  ‘Where?’ asked the Campbell.

  ‘London,’ answered Mike, in a cold dead voice

  ‘Somewhere else on the way, I think.’

  ‘He bought a map from me…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘A monastery. Saint sack of Benny Detours.’

  ‘Saint Sacco Benedetto’s. There, that was easy, wasn’t it? I generally take pleasure in a more subtle approach. But I really don’t have the time right now. Thank you so much for your co-operation. You’ve been such a help.’ The Campbell leaned forwards once again and kissed Mike deeply upon the mouth.

  The mechanic wet his pants.

  Cornelius shuddered.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Tuppe asked. ‘You were miles away. You’re white as death.’

  ‘Something just happened. Not here. Somewhere. Something bad.’

  ‘This is very often the case. But what about him?’ Tuppe made furtive pointings. ‘It is him. Just like the photograph.’

  ‘It can’t be.’ Cornelius gulped his coffee. ‘That picture was taken more than half a century ago.’

  ‘Same suit,’ said Tuppe. ‘Same man, I’m telling you. Take a look. Go on.’

  ‘You leave my last sausage alone then.’

  ‘I swear.’ Tuppe crossed his heart.

  Cornelius turned and took a good long look. The bald-headed man caught his stare and waggled his fingers in a friendly fashion. Cornelius smiled and turned back to Tuppe.

  Tuppe held up the photograph. He didn’t speak. His mouth was full of stolen egg.

  The tall boy’s head sank deeply into his chest. ‘Tuppe,’ he whispered through clenched teeth. ‘It’s Hugo Rune. What are we going to do?’

  ‘We?’ Tuppe swallowed. ‘You’d best go over and pass the time of day. Ask him where he left his papers. I’ll mind your lunch.’

  ‘Oh no. We go together. You’re in this epic too.’

  ‘Okey doke.’ Tuppe shinned down from his chair.

  Cornelius rose from his. ‘Come on then.’

  The bald-headed man stared placidly towards them as they approached.

  And as he drew nearer, Cornelius became painfully aware of a curious buzzing sound in his ears. And of the fact that Hugo Rune appeared a mite indistinct about the edges. His great be-ringed fingers seemed to waver sometimes above and sometimes into the tabletop. There was something altogether untoward about the reinventor of the ocarina.

  Suddenly there was a whole lot of noise, commotion and hubbub. And a number of long-haired young men, with leather jackets, tight trousers and snakeskin boots, bustled into the restaurant. One of them carried a guitar case.

  Behind these came a weeping woman and a comforting man. And behind them, a furtive-looking fellow with a briefcase.

  And suddenly Tuppe and Cornelius were in the thick of them.

  And when they no longer were, Hugo Rune had gone.

  12

  They didn’t speak much during the afternoon drive. And they didn’t stop to pick up any hitchers either. So all the exciting young women, serial killers and wild-eyed prophets of doom, who raised their hopeful thumbs to the passing Cadillac, had to walk.

  And they didn’t even switch off Max Bygraves when he sang about the need for hands. Cornelius and Tuppe were troubled.

  They perked up a bit when they finally reached the car park before the North Ameshet Holiday Inn though.

  ‘My, my.’ Tuppe craned up his head to the mighty hotel. ‘And isn’t that tall?’

  ‘Even from where I’m sitting.’ Cornelius observed that of the twenty-seven windows on t
he first floor, eight were open, with their blinds up, eight were closed with their blinds down, nine were closed, with their blinds up, one was open with its blind down and one was closed, had its blind halfway up and the light on. Two eights, one nine and two ones. Or, a pair of eights, a nine and a pair of aces. The last poker hand dealt to Wild Bill Hickok, just before he was shot in the back by Jack McCall in Deadwood City, South Dakota.

  ‘Now in a place like this,’ Tuppe began, ‘there’s bound to be a heavy-metal band breaking up the room. Two lovers registered under the name of Smith, a spy with a roll of microfilm–’

  ‘Let’s book in,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Can we use false names? I’ve always wanted to do that.’

  ‘You can. I have to use my own. Mr Kobold’s money in the morning, remember?’

  ‘Quite so.’ Cornelius parked the car. And let Tuppe make the roof go up, down and up again several times.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tuppe. ‘I did enjoy that.’

  There is something strangely comforting about a Holiday Inn. No matter which part of the world you might be travelling in, if you enter a Holiday Inn, you can always be assured of two things. One, that it will be exactly the same as every other. And two, that Status Quo have stayed in it.

  Coincidentally, Status Quo were just leaving this one as Tuppe and Cornelius entered it.

  ‘Hi, Tuppe,’ called the drummer. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine. Anniversary tour?’

  ‘As ever.’ Status Quo left the building.

  ‘You actually know The Quo?’ Cornelius was impressed.

  ‘Of course. I’ve travelled. I told you.’

  ‘What’s the drummer’s name then?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Tuppe.

  Cornelius announced himself to a desk clerk who wore a badge saying, ‘Hello my name is Danny’. Danny confirmed that a room had already been booked and soon a porter, who wore a badge saying, ‘Hello my name is Peter’ conveyed the rucksack of Mr Cornelius Murphy and his companion, Mr Howard Hughes, up to their room.

  Cornelius tipped the porter. ‘Could I have a receipt for that please, Peter?’ he asked.

  Peter did not reply.

  Now, a Holiday Inn room is a Holiday Inn room. It is always very clean. It has twin beds. A little writing table and chair. A television set with all kinds of channels and a Bible written by someone called Gideon. It also has an ensuite bathroom facility, with all sorts of things in little sealed packets for you to take home for your children. And, of course, it has a telephone, on which you can make a right nuisance of yourself. Especially if you’re not paying the bill.

  ‘Can I call room service?’ Tuppe asked. ‘Have them send something up?’

  ‘Absolutely. I shall make much of unpacking my rucksack. As I no longer possess a suitcase.’

  Tuppe climbed on to the bed by the window. ‘Bags this one’s mine.’ He picked up the telephone. ‘Yo, room service,’ said he.

  Cornelius unzipped his rucksack.

  ‘Please can you send up a bottle of Jim Beam, two glasses, a plate of steak sandwiches…’

  Cornelius shook out his rucksack.

  ‘Bags of crisps, assorted…twenty small cigars…’

  ‘Where have my pyjamas gone? I know I packed them in here.’

  ‘And a pair of pyjamas, size large, pattern plain. Thank you.’

  ‘Another spot of Jim?’ Tuppe lounged upon his bed. A small cigar in his mouth. The bottle at his elbow.

  Cornelius made a bitter face over his steak sandwich. ‘You might have had the decency to order us some drink that wasn’t called Jim.’

  ‘Jim? Oh, the Campbell, Jim Campbell, I see. Sorry, my friend.’

  ‘Never mind. Pass the bottle.’

  Tuppe passed the bottle. ‘So what are we going to do tonight, Cornelius? Take in the night spots? Bop till we drop? Things of that nature? Pass the crisps.’

  Cornelius passed the crisps. ‘I am going to sit here, on my bed, clad in these very large pyjamas, study the daddy’s copy of Rune. Sift through the letters and bills and whatnot and see if I can make any sense of it all.’

  ‘Sounds rather dull.’

  ‘Tuppe, please help yourself to what cash you think you’ll need. Go forth and bop till you drop. But…’ Cornelius held up a cautionary finger. ‘Do not return here at three in the morning with a bunch of new-found friends who are looking to ‘party’.’

  ‘What if there’re only two new-found friends and they are both young and female?’

  ‘Then phone up from reception and give me time to comb my hair and hide my pyjamas.’

  Cornelius waved off his companion. Put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Made a vain attempt to tidy up the room, which was already looking like a heavy-metal combat zone, and took himself off for a shower. Later, he donned the vast pyjamas, switched on the television for a bit of background and settled down on the bed with the half-bottle of Jim Beam and The Book of Ultimate Truths.

  I have penned many profound words upon the subject of ‘inanimate objects’. A good many of these words have been produced through the aid of a Biro.

  During the course of a single year I will use upwards of one thousand Biros, yet I have never actually worn one out. Why should this be?

  My studies lead me to the conclusion that the Biro, as with many other forms of ‘inanimate object’, hates its role in life.

  The Biro is by nature a celibate creature which resents spilling its virile essence upon paper. I do not arrive at this conclusion lightly, but through years of painstaking research and at no small cost to my health.

  My findings may be summed up thus:

  The Biro does not serve man willingly.

  The Biro is a wily beast, which, if given the least opportunity to make good its escape, will do so.

  TWO SIMPLE EXPERIMENTS WITH BIROS

  Purchase fifteen Biros. Hold them tightly all the way home to prevent escape. Place five in the pencil pot in the kitchen. Five in the decorative mug next to the telephone in the hall. Five in a jar on your writing desk. Pointedly ignore the Biros and allow one week to pass. Try and find a Biro.

  Bend down and tie your shoelace. Try and find a Biro.

  SUICIDAL TENDENCIES AMONGST BONDAGE BIROS

  Many attempts have been made to tame the Biro, or at least bring it to heel. All have been doomed to failure. One inspired notion was the creation of a Biro which was worn on a thong about the neck clipped into a plastic harness.

  This unnatural practice is rarely seen today. The severe psychological damage inflicted upon the captive Biros led them to tear themselves from their shackles and plunge into toilet bowls, become suicidally entangled about the gear sticks of fast moving motor cars or wrap themselves around handlebars.

  It is also understood that these Biros were capable of telepathically transmitting their cries for release to companions of their tormentors, with the result that these would remark, for no logical reason, ‘You look a right prat with that thing hanging round your neck, throw it away.’

  PARKER? GORN, M’LADY!

  There exists a school of thought, that an expensive Biro, wrought from gold or silver and branded with the potential owner’s name, will become a cherished possession. Perhaps the principle is that if the owner loves the Biro, the Biro will return the affection and become a loyal companion. Sadly no. In fact, due to the precious metals employed in the manufacture of these items, they are truly a cut above the average when it comes to evasiveness.

  These Biros are most popularly given as Christmas presents. But exalted be the man who can use such a creation to pen a thank-you note come Boxing Day. Most potential owners will spend the morning emptying dustbins and uncrumpling wrapping paper in the vain hope of unearthing the cherished-possession-to-be.

  I contend that such Biros employ an advanced form of camouflage. Also that they are capable of dematerialization. It is to be observed that many such Biros arrive in hermetically sealed gift boxes which are a right blighter
to get open.

  These boxes ensure that the Biros remain safely entrapped whilst at the shop. But caveat emptor, once you’re home with them, you’re on your own.

  The Irish maintain that there exists, somewhere upon the planet, a treasure trove of Croesusian magnitude, where these gold and silver fellows hobnob with single earrings beyond number and a million gemstones from engagement rings.

  It is situated at the end of a rainbow. Or so I have been led to understand.

  HOMICIDAL BIROS

  Man has never been slow to mould the world to his whim. But in doing so he has conceived many a dangerous folly. Nuclear Power, CFCs (Chelsea Football Club supporters) and suchlike.

  But none more potentially disastrous than the Whimsical Novelty Biro, or W.N.B.

  This is, to all intents and purposes, a normal Biro, but affixed to it is the head of some currently marketable ‘character’. Snoopy, Garfield, Bart Simpson, Barry The Sprout, or what-have-you.

  It is to be noticed that such ‘characters’ generally emanate from America. Home of the Serial Killer.

  The victim-to-be purchases, or is given, the W.N.B. and places it unsuspectingly in the top pocket of his or her jacket, with the humorous head protruding. Then at some time during the day, he or she has cause to turn their head sharply to the left, or attempt to take off the jacket.

  Either way the result is inevitably the same. A severed jugular! And does the Government insist that health warnings be printed upon W.N.B.s? Does it ‘eck as like! The needless slaughter has been going on for more than a century. But the conspiracy of silence prevails to this day.

  Note this: it is a significant fact that all the victims of the so-called Jack The Ripper murders died within walking distance of The East London Patent Pen Works. This factory specialized in the manufacture of dip pens capped with silver facsimiles of Queen Victoria’s crowned head.

  Only one such pen survives. It is kept under lock and key in Scotland Yard’s Black Museum.