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

by Robert Rankin

The genius Tucker cast Orwell a disparaging glance before turning back to me. ‘Mr Rune,’ said he, for we had not been formally introduced, ‘these hidden areas of land…’

  ‘The Forbidden Zones.’

  ‘These Forbidden-Zones yes. What lies within them?’

  ‘Some dark and brooding force,’ I told him. ‘Perhaps some ancient intelligence which is not of man. The old maps labelled such areas with the words ‘and here be dragons’. I believe the Forbidden Zones contain strange beasts and stranger people, who sometimes spill across the borders and enter our world. Who has not heard reports of curious flying machines, out-of-place animals, abominable snowmen, ghosts, fairies and bogey men? And what of all those people who vanish without trace every year? Could they have wandered unawares into a Forbidden Zone?’

  Tucker’s jaw hung open. George was giving me a very stern look. And it was then that I remembered he had once earned a living as a London taxi driver.

  ‘Enough,’ said I. ‘A joke and nothing more. I hear the barman calling last orders and I believe it is George’s round.’

  George got them in and we made merry. But all was not well with Tucker. I had aroused in the genius a terrible curiosity. And I wish for all the world that I had not.

  I did my best to cheer him up and he eventually came around and joined in the singing.

  We left the bar that night somewhat legless and made our separate ways homeward, promising to meet up the following week at a café where George was working.

  But the meal we took there was a joyless affair. My worst fears were founded. Tucker had vanished from the face of the earth.

  Max told us that the genius had refused to share a cab home with him on the night of the darts match. Determined to cross London on foot, in a straight line.

  An eye witness later reported to a newspaper that he had seen a young man of Tucker’s description, arguing with the driver of a black cab. But this witness did not come forward to the police.

  What actually became of the genius may never be known. Only that he was lost for ever to this world. I left for a polar expedition on the day following our sad meal and did not return to London for over a year.

  When I did so it was to learn of a further tragedy.

  Apparently a mysterious fire had broken out in Tucker’s studio and destroyed all the work that was destined for his first major exhibition. The police suspected arson, several empty Spanish brandy bottles being found amongst the rubble. But nothing could be proved.

  The exhibition, however, had gone ahead. But it had displayed work credited to Tucker’s assistant. A shady and untalented individual of foreign extraction, whom Tucker kept on out of the goodness of his heart.

  The exhibition had been the hit of the year. And when I availed myself of a catalogue it was obvious to see why.

  The paintings were all the ones from Tucker’s studio. The work he referred to as his ‘Blue Period’.

  It is not for me to name the scoundrel who erased Tucker’s signature from the pictures and substituted his own. The greybeards of the artistic Establishment must do that. It is they who should name Picasso. One wonders why, noting the obvious lack of quality in the scoundrel’s later efforts, that they choose not to do so. Do I detect some kind of conspiracy at work?

  To this day two things still haunt me. Firstly that I was responsible for the disappearance and probable death of the century’s greatest artist. A disappearance which allowed a charlatan to hoodwink the world.

  And secondly, that I forgot to ask Wells for the guinea piece he owed me.

  Tuppe had been reading the passage aloud to Cornelius. But now he fell suddenly back upon the Cadillac’s rear seat and cried in a piteous voice, ‘Oh my God! They got Tucker!’

  Cornelius offered the small man a stern face in the driving mirror. ‘Put a sock in it,’ he said.

  ‘Well really.’ Tuppe made a face back. ‘As with the now legendary curate’s egg. This takes a lot of swallowing.’

  ‘Do we still have Victor Zenobia’s papers?’

  ‘They’re in the rucksack. On the floor here.’

  ‘Well have a root around in them. I seem to recall there being some letters, the mention of purchasing a London cab, maps and gunpowder. See if you can find them.’

  Tuppe shrugged. Reached over to scoop up the rucksack and fell into it.

  The Cadillac sped away towards the lands of the South.

  Cornelius and Tuppe had bade their farewells an hour earlier to the monks of Saint Sacco Benedetto and were now bound upon what was possibly the final leg of their moderately, if not altogether, epic journey. They were bound, in fact, for the domicile of a certain Mr ‘Jack London’.

  Because, of course, on the rear seat, next to Tuppe, was a large packing case. And in this was a miraculously mended karaoke machine. And dangling from the packing case was a label, with Mr London’s name and address in big black print.

  Brother Eight had been profuse in his gratitude when Cornelius had offered to drop the machine off.

  Cornelius had told the small monk to think nothing of it, because he was going that way anyhow. And indeed he probably would have been, had he troubled to examine the delivery note for the Cadillac Eldorado, which Tuppe had received from Mike the mechanic and stuffed into the glove compartment without a second glance.

  For on this was also the self-same name and address!

  Coincidence is a queer old business. But then without it where would a yarn like this, or any other, be?

  A queer old business indeed, coincidence.

  ‘I wonder what the folks back home are doing,’ Cornelius wondered.

  And at the exact moment of this wondering…

  The front-door bell of twenty-three Moby Dick Terrace went bing bong and the mother rose from the sofa, teacup in hand, to answer it.

  On the doorstep stood a personable young man. He wore a dove-grey, double-breasted suit. White shirt, black tie. His shoes were highly polished. So was his head. His eyeglasses lacked a lens.

  ‘Good morning,’ smiled the Campbell, flourishing the brown envelope which Cornelius had left pinned to the pulpit in the auction room at Sheila na gigh. ‘I assume that the beautiful young woman I am addressing must be the sister of Cornelius Murphy. This is the right address, isn’t it? I have some money here for your brother. Has he returned home yet? I wonder if I might just step inside and wait for him? What a very charming housecoat, did you knit it yourself? Just through here, is it? Thank you.’

  18

  It’s a fair old haul, from what might have been somewhere in North Wales to somewhere else entirely in the London area. And an expensive one, if you happen to be driving a 1958 Cadillac Eldorado, which does about twelve miles to the gallon.

  There are numerous routes you can take. And any one of them might well lead to adventure. In fact, on an epic journey, and with such a distance to travel, the possibilities are endless.

  Tuppe consulted the map. ‘Motorways all the motoring way,’ he affirmed brightly. ‘M54, M40, London.’

  ‘Good,’ Cornelius grinned. ‘We don’t need any further complications.’

  ‘Exactly. I’ve got those letters from the rucksack. Shall I read them out to you?’

  ‘Please do. The more we know about all this before we confront Mr London, the better.’

  ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then I will begin.’

  The Cadillac sped on down the middle lane of the M54.

  Coming up behind, and evidently enjoying life in the fast lane, was an ancient black Volkswagen. It was all covered in spikes.

  ‘Mrs Murphy?’ The Campbell smiled sweetly. He was now seated on the family sofa, sipping tea. It was cold, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘You have a lovely home here, Mrs Murphy. But I see there’s so much redevelopment going on in this area.’

  ‘There was. But it’s all stopped now.’ The mother straightened a wandering bosom.

  ‘It must be a worry to you. B
eing in such an isolated and dare I say vulnerable position here.’

  ‘We get by. Would you care for a top up, Mr…?’

  ‘Kobold,’ the Campbell replied. ‘Arthur Kobold.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ murmured the teapot. ‘Don’t trust him, Bridie.’

  My dear Victor, (Tuppe read)

  Regarding our most recent telecommunication.

  I require the following items:

  One black London taxi-cab (new and in mint condition).

  One taxi driver’s uniform (you know my size).

  One miner’s helmet (also my size, full working condition).

  Two hundred yards of climbing rope.

  Two hundred yards of slow fuse.

  Ten cases of gunpowder.

  One box of matches.

  Spare no expense and purchase only the best.

  I shall expect delivery first thing tomorrow.

  Everything depends upon this.

  Yours omnipotently,

  H. Rune (perfect master).

  ‘Is that it?’ Cornelius asked.

  Tuppe turned over the letter. ‘There’s something scribbled on the back. In Victor Zenobia’s handwriting, I think.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘It says, ‘Up yours, fat boy!’’

  ‘A sentiment you no doubt share.’

  ‘Well…’ Tuppe shrugged. ‘Blimey!’ he continued. ‘Look out, Cornelius!’

  The spikey Volkswagen roared by at speed, slowed suddenly and swerved in front of the Cadillac. Cornelius dragged the steering wheel to the left and applied the brake. Spikes glanced across the chrome bumper-work, raising showers of sparks. The Cadillac screeched to a halt in the slow lane. The Volkswagen sped away.

  ‘Don’t stop here. This is a motorway. Put your foot down. Keep going.’

  ‘That car tried to run us off the road.’

  Tuppe’s head appeared above the front seat. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Get a move on. There are three lanes full of lorries all coming this way.’

  Cornelius tried to restart the car, which had, somewhat inconveniently, stalled. ‘Bother,’ said he.

  The oncoming lorries made dramatic full-bore cruise-liner hootings.

  ‘Get out! Push it on to the hard shoulder. Hurry up!’

  ‘I can’t do that. It’s too heavy. Let me have another go at starting it.’

  ‘No, Cornelius! Get out! Jump!’

  Three lanes of lorries thundered forward, hooting mightily, but showing no sign of applying a little brake.

  Tuppe climbed on to the tall boy’s head and tugged at his hair.

  ‘Jump, Cornelius!’

  Cornelius turned his head, with Tuppe clinging to it. The wall of lorries rushed at him. He could see the faces of drivers and their hands flapping. ‘Save yourself, Tuppe.’ Cornelius plucked the weeny man from his hair and hurled him towards a grassy knoll beyond the hard shoulder. ‘Start, you bastard!’ he told the car.

  It didn’t.

  ‘Stuff you then.’ Cornelius made for the last-minute leap. His left trouser cuff caught upon the brake pedal and held him fast.

  The lorries were almost upon him. Cornelius fought to free himself.

  ‘Help!’ cried Cornelius Murphy. ‘Somebody help!’

  ‘Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarp!’ went the lorries. Slowing not one jot.

  Tuppe struggled to his feet on the grassy knoll. ‘Cornelius!’ he screamed, as the lorries filled his vision.

  ‘Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarp!’ went the lorries.

  In the front room of number twenty-three Moby Dick Terrace, Mrs Murphy suddenly clutched at her heart and sank into an armchair.

  ‘Ooh dear,’ she went. ‘Do excuse me, Mr Kobold. I’ve had a bit of a twinge.’

  ‘Can I help you, dear lady?’ The Campbell set aside his teacup.

  ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. Could you call my husband?’

  ‘Your husband? Where is he?’ The Campbell got to his feet.

  ‘Out in the back yard. Ooh I do feel queer.’

  ‘Leave it to me. I’ll take care of everything.’ The Campbell patted Mrs Murphy on the arm and left the front room. He closed the door gently upon her and slipped along the short corridor to the kitchen.

  Certain household items watched him with suspicion, but said nothing.

  ‘Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarp!’ Three lanes of lorries continued on their way, as if the mashing to pulp of a beautifully restored 1958 electric-blue Cadillac Eldorado was absolutely nothing at all.

  Tuppe watched the lorries recede into the distance, still meeping their horns. He scrambled down from the grassy knoll and stumbled to the now deserted motorway.

  The lorries were gone. And so was the Cadillac. No trace of it remained. No mangled metal, shredded seat, or crumpled chrome. There was not even the hint of a broken body, automotive or human.

  There was nothing.

  Well, not altogether nothing.

  There was something.

  But it was a something of very curious aspect. And not the sort of something you see every day. Leading to this something were skid marks. Now, these you do see every day. Although rarely so crisp and sharp and at such an exact right-angle to the carriageway. It was the something into which these skid marks vanished that was really worthy of consideration.

  This something was big and black and vaguely coffin-shaped. It stood upon the hard shoulder like a great three-dimensional shadow.

  Tuppe approached it with trepidation. He shuffled around it. He gave it a sniff. He dared a prodding finger. He backed away, baffled and bewildered. And finally he sat down on his bum and glared at the thing. It was big and black and vaguely coffin-shaped and it stood upon the hard shoulder like a great three-dimensional shadow. And that was really all you could say about it.

  The weeny man put his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin in his hands. His bottom lip began to quiver and a big tear welled up in his small right eye. ‘Cornelius,’ Tuppe began to blubber. ‘Cornelius, where are you?’

  ‘Mr Murphy? Where are you?’ The Campbell pushed open the back door and perused the garden. Birdies twittered from the washing line. A retired tom-cat lazed upon the coal bunker dreaming of Gloria Swanson. Runner beans crept imperceptibly up the trellis. And in an upturned flowerpot on the top of a bamboo cane an earwig wondered what it was really all about.

  ‘Mr Murphy,’ called the Campbell.

  Sounds issued from the daddy’s shed. Singing. The Campbell cocked an ear. The final act from Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore, surely?

  ‘Mr Murphy,’ called the Campbell. ‘Helloee.’

  The singing ceased and Murphy the elder stuck his head out of the shed window. ‘Who’s that?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Mr Murphy.’ The Campbell stepped into the garden, closing the back door behind him. ‘I have some money here for your son.’

  ‘Money?’ The daddy’s head vanished from the window. It reappeared in the company of his body at the shed door. ‘Cornelius told me you might call by. He said I was to accept the money on his behalf.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The Campbell inched along the garden path. Beneath his feet the crazy paving shifted uneasily. And above his head the birdies ceased to twitter. The daddy sensed a sudden chill in the air.

  The Campbell sidled past the coal bunker. In his feline dream, the retired torn shrank in horror as Gloria Swanson pulled a gelding knife from her swimsuit and sprang upon him.

  ‘When exactly are you expecting your son back, Mr Murphy?’

  The retired torn awoke with a shriek. The Campbell glanced around at it. ‘Nice wee pussy,’ he said, reaching a hand. The cat arched its back and hissed at him.

  ‘We’ve a wrong’n here, right enough,’ the wheelbarrow whispered.

  The Campbell gave an easy shrug as the retired torn backed away.

  ‘Now, Mr Murphy. Mr Murphy? Where have you gone?’ The Campbell squinted about the garden. The daddy was nowhere to be seen. The shed door w
as now firmly shut.

  ‘Mr Murphy, where are you?’

  ‘Cornelius, where are you?’ Tuppe blubbered at the roadside.

  ‘I’m in here.’ The daddy called through the keyhole. ‘I’m very busy for now. Kindly leave the money on the coal bunker. I’ll pass it on to my son.’

  ‘I think not.’ The Campbell approached the shed. The birdies winged it off to perches new. The runner beans took a turn for the worse. ‘Mr Murphy, please come out.’

  ‘Sorry. Too busy. My shed is in disarray. I have clearing up to do.’

  ‘Now!’ The Campbell stamped a foot. The earwig in the flowerpot had a heart attack. ‘At once!’

  ‘Sorry. Goodbye.’

  ‘Mr Murphy, I really must insist.’

  ‘Oh well, if you really must insist, then I suppose I have no choice.’ The shed door swung open and the daddy emerged, large, red-faced and tweedily suited. He now wore an ARP helmet on his hairless head and carried a stick of the stout variety. ‘Get off my land,’ he said.

  The Campbell eyed both stick and helmet. His piggy peepers narrowed. Sunlight glinted on the single lens of his spectacles. He raised his left hand. ‘Thus and so,’ said the Campbell.

  Skin extruded. The paper plate grew. The metaphysical pie took form.

  And the daddy watched it do so.

  ‘Well?’ asked the Campbell.

  ‘Well what?’ The daddy studied the smiting end of his stout stick.

  ‘Well, this, of course.’ The Campbell made menace with the pie.

  ‘Oh that.’ The daddy shrugged.

  ‘What do you mean, oh that? I have just conjured forth this pie and all you have to say is, oh that?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a very big pie, is it?’

  ‘Not very big?’ The Campbell was appalled. ‘But I con–’

  ‘Conjured forth. Yes I heard you. Somewhat archaic expression and hardly accurate. Listen, if conjuring forth is your metier, you want to get yourself a wand. Or a stick. Get a stout one. Like mine.’

  The Campbell growled a horrible growl. Drew back his hand and hurled his pie at the daddy.

  Murphy the elder gripped his stick in both hands and swung it cricket-bat fashion. He struck the hurtling pie a mighty blow and sent it sailing over the roof of the house. The Campbell turned to watch it go. His mouth fell open.