16
Those fates that decree what is going to happen and to whom, had evidently been applying themselves with such vigour to Cornelius Murphy, that they had quite forgotten all about his father.
Murphy Senior had been sitting outside his garden shed for the better part of this particular day and nothing out of the ordinary had happened to him.
‘I can’t understand this,’ said the daddy. ‘I was quite certain that the fates had something up their collective sleeve for me today. But it seems I was mistaken.’
‘That looks about the size of it,’ said Charlie, the daddy’s close friend. ‘Though I had a sort of a feeling myself.’
‘You can’t always trust a hunch and there’s a fact for you.’ The daddy sighed a heartfelt sigh and scratched in the dust with his dibber.
‘Some days are just plain dull.’ The voice came from an old watering-can, known to the daddy as Boris.
The daddy yawned and scratched his tweedy trouser legs. ‘Nice day though.’
The watering-can kept its own counsel. Charlie the trowel said, ‘Perhaps something will happen.’
But nothing did.
As it was now approaching 7 p.m. and beginning to turn cold, the daddy gathered up his pals and put them back on their shelves in the shed. ‘I’ll see you boys tomorrow,’ he said.
During the night that followed, certain persons surreptitiously prised the padlock from the daddy’s shed door, gained unlawful entry and tampered with his doings. The model town was vandalized. The watering-can, of which he was so proud, received second-degree denting and several of his best trowels were spirited away. Including Charlie.
With the coming of a troubled dawn, the full horror of the previous night’s happenings became manifest.
The daddy was quite disheartened by the sight of the up-turned hoe and the displaced shears. In fact he was taken somewhat poorly, which was the cause of no small concern to his wife, considering his normally robust constitution. She had to rush into the house and bring him out a chair.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked. ‘I think there’s still some left in the pot from last night.’
‘My trowels,’ moaned the daddy. ‘My Rygo and Westerley brass-tipped, cedar-handled trenching trowels. Gone and never called me mother.’
‘Typical of trowels, that is.’ Mrs Murphy folded her arms under her prosthetic bosoms. ‘Off without a word of goodbye. Not that they ever had much to say for themselves. Very uncommunicative.’
The daddy offered her a cold fish eye.
‘No thanks, dear, I’ve just put one out.’
‘Eh?’ said the daddy.
‘Tools,’ his wife went on. ‘Few of them there are that will answer to their names. And fewer that can solve even the most rudimentary algebraic problems. The humble dibber, for example, rarely knows more than the most basic form of communication. Namely, that of mime.’
‘Eh?’ said the daddy, again.
‘However,’ his wife went on, again, ‘I once observed a pair of secateurs perform the final act of Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore, without music, or vocal rendition, to the appreciation of an entire shed full of implements.’
‘Have you been sniffing glue again, woman?’
‘Certainly not. I was just trying to cheer you up.’
‘Well don’t bother. I will weather out this particular storm by myself.’
‘Stuff you then.’ His wife departed, taking the kitchen chair with her.
The daddy viewed his dishevelled shed. ‘What a mess,’ he muttered. ‘Who ever could have done such a thing?’
‘It was that Harry Thompson from the Borough Planning Committee,’ said a five-pound bag of fertiliser.
‘Councillor Winthrop was with him,’ an eighteen-inch garden sieve added helpfully.
Inside the house Mrs Murphy poured herself a cup of cold tea. ‘I shall have to have my husband taken away,’ she said. ‘Any man who talks to his tools is clearly mad. But any man who talks to them and gets an answer could well be dangerous.’
‘You’ll need a doctor’s note,’ said the teapot.
‘Doctor Jameson down at the clinic is always good for one of them,’ the coal-scuttle added.
Cornelius Murphy awoke with a bit of a headache. He was all tucked up in the abbot’s bed, although he wasn’t to know this yet, as he hadn’t opened his eyes.
‘Are you feeling better now?’
Cornelius blinked, focused and rapidly shut. ‘Not altogether good. I appear to have…’ he squinted at the pair of Tuppes, ‘…double vision.’
‘He’ll be as right as rain,’ said Brother The Uncle Eight.
‘The stuff of epics.’ His nephew grinned. ‘He’ll be fine.’
‘And double hearing.’ Cornelius groaned.
The abbot, now restored to dignity, dabbed the Murphy’s forehead with a cold sponge. ‘You are the hero of the hour,’ he told Cornelius. ‘You risked your life to save the monastery.’
The tall boy smiled up at the abbot. ‘I hope I didn’t cause too much damage.’
‘Have no worries on that score.’
‘Good,’ said Cornelius. ‘I won’t then.’
‘No, of course not. Brother Six has told me all about your mission here and the cash you’ve brought here from the Pope. The damage can be paid for out of that. It shouldn’t be more than twenty thousand or so.’
Cornelius groaned once more.
‘So tell me,’ the abbot went on, ‘about the soft drugs and the satellite television? When can we get started on that? And what’s the Pope really like, by the way? Is it true he has his own gymnasium? Have you ever seen him working out?’
Cornelius groaned once more, once more.
The abbot collapsed in a fit of irreverent laughter.
‘Eh?’ went Cornelius.
‘I’m sorry,’ the abbot dabbed at his eyes. ‘You should have seen your face. A picture.’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t worry. The young Tuppe here has told me everything. Why you are here. With whom you wish to speak. So, when you feel up to it, I will introduce you to Brother Rizla.’
Cornelius Murphy grinned from ear to ear. ‘Now that would be just the job.’ He paused and sniffed the air.
The abbot saw his expression change. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What do you smell?’
‘Bacon,’ said Cornelius Murphy.
The abbot and the Two of Tuppes left the tall boy to wash and dress. Cornelius was more than pleased to find that his clothes had been laundered and his shoes shined.
He took his breakfast with the abbot in an ill-lit refectory.
The tiny windows were set so high in the bulging walls that they scarcely offered any illumination whatsoever. Thus, large pewter candelabra stood upon each dining table, weeping wax into everyone’s meals.
While the Murphy filled his face with food, his ears were filled by the abbot’s speculations regarding the enigmatic Mr Campbell.
‘A demonic agency,’ the abbot assured Cornelius. ‘Captured me. Locked me in my cupboard. Stole my robes. And finally, I saw it change before my very eyes. Then, whoosh, straight out of the door. You saw that yourself.’
‘I certainly did.’ Cornelius pushed a fried mushroom to the side of his plate. The image of that mouldy fruit and veg parading out through the abbot’s door was going to haunt him for a good long time.
‘That would be Satan’s work right enough.’ The abbot swigged herb tea.
‘Satan?’
‘He of the cloven hoof, no other. Something of an occupational hazard in this profession. I shall have to atone. I will get one of the brothers to give me a sound birching. Come to think of it, I’ll get all the brothers to give me a sound birching. Better to be safe than sorry. Don’t you agree?’
‘Far better.’ Cornelius pushed his skinless sausage to the side of the plate. This Campbell was clearly something less than human. Or should that be more than a man? But a Satanic agency? That took a lot of coming to terms wi
th. Of course, there had been the matter of the toy Cadillac. Dark magic was certainly involved there. But real demons? A man that could turn into a carton of festering fruit? Worrying stuff. Whatever was in Rune’s papers had to be pretty important if Satan himself was after it. Satan himself?
Cornelius toyed nervously with his prunes. They had been wrapped in sliced bacon and served upon individual portions of toast. And very toothsome they looked too. But Cornelius felt no longer hungry. He pushed his plate aside.
The abbot took it and swept its contents on to his plate. ‘Devils on Horseback,’ he said. ‘My favourite.’
Whilst the abbot ate mightily, Cornelius sipped his herb tea and settled down to listen, as the abbot told him, between mouthfuls, of all the comings and goings Cornelius had missed.
Angus, Hamish and Sawney had been rounded up and were currently under lock and key in the monastery dungeon. The abbot had decided that it would be best for their souls if they indulged in a little community service. He planned to have them repair all the damage. Under heavily armed supervision, of course.
There was also the matter of the vanishing hitchhiker. Originally discovered wandering in a confused state, by brothers Ten and Twelve, who were returning in the staff van from a Status Quo Anniversary Gig. This strange fellow had apparently risen from his bed of delirium, donned a habit, then magically mended the karaoke machine Brother Eight had been labouring away at for weeks. Then he had nobly, impersonated Brother Eight to protect him from the Wild Warriors. He had undergone torment at the hands of the Satanic Campbell, and received the metaphysical pie in the face. And then, during all the confusion that followed, he had slipped silently away, never to be seen again.
All about the monastery monks were a muttering about the hitcher’s possible identity. Scriptural verses of the ‘I was a stranger and you took me in’ variety were being quoted. The word was out that Saint Sacco’s had received a ‘visitation’. That the mystery man was none other than Our Lord himself.
And what with the Miracle of The Mended Machine, there seemed good grounds to support the theory. Added to this, brothers Ten and Twelve, lifting the sheet from the hitchhiker’s sick bed, on the off chance that any Turin Shroud-style laundry-soiling may have occurred, happened upon nothing more nor less than…
Two free tickets for the Status Quo Anniversary Gig in Tierra del Fuego. And if that wasn’t a gift from the Lord…well.
The abbot was weighing up the pros and cons of all this, before he took the very large step of writing to Rome and putting in for a pay rise.
‘But now,’ said the abbot, ‘I am sure that you are anxious to meet Brother Rizla. Shall I lead the way?’
Tuppe and his uncle were seated on the floor outside the refectory, discussing the sad decline in the popularity of the Porcine Circus and how young women were getting very tall nowadays.
They both rose as the abbot appeared with Cornelius. Not that it made any significant difference, height wise. But it was polite.
‘Brother Eight,’ the abbot smiled down upon that body. ‘I was just telling Mr Murphy here about the karaoke machine. He would very much like to speak to you about it. But for now I am taking him down to meet the Secret Brother. So perhaps you should stop the small talk and shove off back to your workroom. Get some work done, eh?’
‘Yes, Holy Father. Yes indeed.’ Brother Eight bowed. Not that it made any significant difference, height wise. But just to be polite.
‘This way then,’ said the abbot.
The abbot led Cornelius and Tuppe through a maze of corridors and down many flights of steps. Tuppe stepped very warily.
Cornelius asked the abbot, ‘Why is Rizla referred to as the Secret Brother?’
‘Brother Rizla suffers from a terrible affliction which makes it impossible to join in the everyday life of the monastery.’
Tuppe made a troubled face. ‘Terrible affliction? Would that be as in hideously disfigured or highly contagious?’
‘No,’ the abbot smiled wanly. ‘Nothing like that. You will understand when you meet him. His cell is just along here. Follow me.’
They turned the corner into yet another corridor. Cornelius eyed it with amazement. There seemed to be no perspective.
‘Distracting, isn’t it? The far end of the corridor is six times larger than this. Doors, everything. Watch.’
He strode forward. The effect was striking. The abbot appeared to shrink.
‘I’m not going down there.’ Tuppe shook his head fiercely. ‘I shall vanish for certain.’
‘Come on, Tuppe.’ Cornelius followed the abbot. Tuppe followed Cornelius.
The abbot stopped before a door some thirty feet in height. Into this a six-foot door had been cut and fitted. And into this, a little peephole. The abbot put his fingers to his lips and urged Cornelius to take a peep through it.
Cornelius did so and a startled cry rose from his lips.
Beyond the peephole lay a large and brightly lit room. It was sparsely furnished. There were many books. At the centre of the room stood a writing desk. At it sat a monk.
There was nothing particularly remarkable about him. He was tall, thin, whitely bearded and late in years. It was the thing floating over his head which had given Cornelius cause for concern.
It was approximately twelve inches in diameter. Glowing brightly. It was a halo!
At the sound of Murphy’s cry, the old monk looked up. The halo vanished, to be replaced by a large, free-floating, red question mark.
Cornelius drew back from the peephole and gaped at the abbot.
‘Brother Rizla,’ the abbot told him, ‘suffers from a unique condition. We don’t know the actual name of it, so we have tentatively given it one of our own. We came up with Bloke-what-has-all-them-little-lines-and-words-and-stuff-coming-out-of-his-bonce-like-what-they-do-in-cartoon-strips Syndrome.’
‘This I have to see,’ said Tuppe.
The abbot knocked.
‘Come,’ called Brother Rizla.
The abbot swung open the door within a door and entered the big room. Tuppe and Cornelius followed.
And Tuppe saw the big red question mark.
‘Good Gawd!’ went he.
Brother Rizla’s face clouded and tiny daggers sped from his eyes toward the small blasphemer.
‘Oh no!’ Tuppe took shelter behind Cornelius.
‘Brother Rizla,’ the abbot nodded to the tall old monk, ‘I am sorry to trouble you at your devotions, but an urgent matter has arisen.’
The daggers were gone. The question mark swam once more above the brother’s head. ‘How might I help you?’
‘This is Mr Cornelius Murphy and his companion Tuppe.’
Tuppe peeped out and made a brave face. ‘Sorry,’ said he.
‘No, I am sorry.’ The old monk smiled serenely. The halo was back.
‘Brother Rizla, Mr Murphy here saved the monastery from destruction. A Satanic agency entered the cloister. It sought something. Something that you may have in your possession.’
‘Ah.’ Brother Rizla ran his rosary through his long slim fingers. ‘So it has come to that. I knew that one day it must.’
‘You have some papers, sir. Papers which once belonged to Hugo Rune.’
‘Rune!’ As Cornelius spoke the name a small dark thundercloud materialized above Brother Rizla.
Cornelius pointed to it. ‘Is this his doing?’
‘Not his directly. But he was ultimately responsible. If I had not gone with him. Gazed in there…’ Black letters spelt the word GLOOM across the thundercloud.
‘Would it trouble you greatly to speak of it?’ Cornelius asked.
‘No. Not any longer. But firstly you must tell me, why do you wish to see Rune’s papers?’
‘In order to have them published.’
‘Published!’ Several exclamation marks appeared. The monk shook his head. ‘They will never be published.’
‘I intend to see that they will.’
‘And who might you be to do s
uch a thing?’
‘He is Cornelius Murphy and he is the stuff of epics,’ said Tuppe. ‘If anyone can do it, he can.’
Brother Rizla stared into the air above the Murphy’s head.
Cornelius turned up his eyes. He could see only hair. ‘What are you looking at?’
The old monk stroked his beard. ‘Interesting. Very interesting. Your small friend appears to be telling the truth.’
‘What are you doing? You’re doing something.’ Cornelius felt suddenly very uncomfortable.
‘He’s reading your thought bubble,’ the abbot explained. ‘We all have them, all the time. Except when we’re sleeping, then all we have is little rows of Zeds. Of course, they are generally invisible to the naked eye. Brother Rizla is probably the only man on Earth who can see them.’
‘What a gift.’
‘Not a gift, Mr Murphy. A curse.’ The monk gazed down at Tuppe, who was now feeling the air above his head. ‘All in good time,’ said he.
‘I never said anything.’
‘No, but you were thinking it. ‘Grab the papers, Cornelius, and let’s get out of this loonie bin.’ That’s what your little bubble had written in it. Loony is spelt with a ‘y’, by the way.’
Cornelius spoke up. ‘If our thoughts are made plain to you, you will know that we speak the truth. Might I see the papers?’
‘As I told your friend, all in good time. I will give you the papers. But there is much we must speak of first.’
‘Then I’ll take my leave for now,’ spake the abbot. ‘I have a pressing matter which must be taken in hand.’
‘So I see.’ Brother Rizla smiled broadly. ‘Such atonement. You won’t be able to ride your bike for a week.’
‘Quite so.’ The abbot blushed. ‘Then farewell, Brother Rizla. And I will speak to you later, gentlemen.’
‘Farewell, Holy Father. And don’t forget to turn the other cheek.’
‘Goodbye and thanks,’ said Cornelius.
‘Be lucky,’ said Tuppe.
The abbot left in haste, closing the door behind him.
The Book of Ultimate Truths (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy 1) Page 19
