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

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Six!’ cried the daddy. ‘A lovely piece of batting there from the England captain. Straight over the pavilion roof.’

  ‘Well done, that man,’ went the wheelbarrow.

  The Campbell turned upon the daddy. He wasn’t smiling. ‘You really shouldn’t have done that,’ he snarled.

  ‘I’m afraid I really must ask you to leave now,’ said the daddy. ‘Or I will be forced to strike you on the head with my stick. Repeatedly, if needs be.’ He raised the stick in question, that the Campbell might gauge its fighting weight.

  But, impressive though this was, the Campbell stood his ground. He knotted his fists and the knuckles became deathly white. Veins rose and throbbed upon his forehead. And had Cornelius been present, he would no doubt have observed that they reproduced a scale map of the Mortlake sewerage system, with an accuracy which was little less than fearsome.

  ‘I’ll…I’ll…’ The Campbell’s baldy head began to bob up and down. His stocky frame shook violently.

  The daddy took a tightened hold on his stout stick. A passing sixth sense, which just chanced to be in the neighbourhood, informed him that something very unpleasant was about to occur.

  ‘No!’ shouted the Campbell, in a voice so loud that it rattled the chimney pots and quite put the fear of God into the otherwise atheistic watering-can. ‘No. No. No.’ The Campbell got a grip of himself and regained his composure, such as it was, in a quite astounding fashion. He straightened his spectacles upon his nose and adjusted the cuffs of his dove-grey jacket. ‘Not now,’ he whispered. ‘Not now, I cannot spare myself on you. Perhaps later, when I have all that I require.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ went the daddy.

  ‘Stuff you,’ said the Campbell. He lifted his hands and flung them wide. ‘Shazam!’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘See you later.’ The Campbell turned away. ‘You just stay put.’

  ‘Stay put? Now just you see here…’ The daddy took a step forward and struck his head on an invisible barrier. ‘Ow!’ he went on.

  The Campbell was making back to the house.

  ‘Hold on! Wait!’ The daddy put his hands to the unseeable barricade. The resistance was cold and glassy. Unyielding.

  ‘Stop! Let me pass.’ But the Campbell didn’t hear him. The Campbell was entering number twenty-three Moby Dick Terrace. The Campbell closed the back door and the daddy was left all alone.

  ‘He stitched you up like a kipper there,’ said the hoe. ‘You really should have seen that one coming.’

  The daddy struck the invisible wall with his stout stick. It rang like a great church bell.

  ‘Bother,’ said the daddy. ‘Cornelius, where are you?’

  ‘I’m here,’ called the voice of Cornelius Murphy.

  ‘Cornelius? What? Where?’ Tuppe jumped to his feet. And as he did so, he noticed something rather alarming. Here he was, on this bright August day. But…

  ‘I don’t have a shadow.’ Tuppe turned in circles like a dog chasing its own tail. ‘My shadow’s gone. Where’s it gone?’ He danced about foolishly on the hard shoulder. But his shadow did not dance with him.

  ‘Tuppe, help. I’m all in the dark here.’

  ‘Cornelius, where are you?’ Tuppe ceased his dervish impersonations. ‘You sound miles away.’

  ‘In here.’

  ‘In where?’ It was a very silly question really. Because it was surely obvious where Cornelius was.

  ‘You’re in there.’ Tuppe gaped at the big black coffin-shaped blot on the landscape. ‘Come out.’

  The words were scarcely spoken before the deed was done. The big dark coffinish thing began to dissolve. Trailers, as of greasy black liquid, slid from it. Became twisted streaks of moving darkness, which rolled like mercury. Then swept with a sudden lemming-like dash at Tuppe.

  ‘Ooh help, no…’ The small fellow leapt about as the blackness engulfed him. Then slipped like silk from his shoulders, dropped to the ground and congealed. Became once more his own little shadow. Tuppe stared down at it. ‘Gosh,’ said he.

  Cornelius blinked at him from the front seat of the Cadillac Eldorado which had now emerged from the big black whatever it was.

  The car was unscathed. The skid marks led directly to its tyres. Some mighty force had dragged the Cadillac from the path of the oncoming lorries. Had saved the bacon of Cornelius Murphy.

  ‘Tuppe,’ Cornelius rubbed his eyes, ‘I don’t know how you did that. But I know that you did. Thanks very much indeed.’

  Tuppe smiled. ‘Nice to see you back,’ he replied. ‘Give us a grin then.’

  The telephone rang and Arthur Kobold answered it.

  ‘Put down that cake, Kobold,’ said the voice on the line.

  Arthur Kobold put down the cake.

  ‘What have you to report?’

  ‘As I predicted, Cornelius Murphy went to the monastery. I am reliably informed that he now has certain of the papers in his possession.’

  ‘And do you think he will bring these papers to you?’

  ‘No, I do not. He will surely go straight on to find the last man on my list. Once he has all the papers, then he will come to me.’

  ‘What makes you so sure of that?’

  ‘When he knows the truth, he will come here, to the one person he can trust.’

  ‘All well and good in theory. But our number-one priority is the recapture of the deviant. He must stand trial for his crimes. If he remains at large in the outer world and discovers the whereabouts of the ocarina, we are all doomed.’

  ‘Cornelius will lead him here. We will recapture him. Never fear.’

  ‘That is good to know,’ said the voice on the line. ‘Because I have to inform you that you only have until eight o’clock this evening to achieve this.’

  ‘Eight o’clock? But you said…’

  ‘Eight this evening. The Train of Trismegistus stands ready in the station. The boiler is stoked. The deviant must be recaptured today.’

  ‘Yes but…’

  Slam! went the phone at the end of the line.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Arthur Kobold. ‘Bugger the time and bugger the train and bugger the deviant too.’

  The deviant was washing his hands in the Murphys’ kitchen sink.

  He dried them upon a patchwork tea towel. Drew a glass of water from the tap and returned with it to the front parlour.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked the mother.

  ‘Much better, thank you. Everything seems to have righted itself.’ She accepted the glass of water.

  ‘I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better.’ The Campbell reseated himself on the family sofa. ‘It pains me greatly to see a beautiful woman in distress.’

  ‘Flatterer.’ The mother sipped her water. It tasted dreadful. She put the glass aside. ‘Where is my husband?’

  ‘Out in his shed. Said he was too busy to bother with you.’

  ‘Typical.’ The mother smiled coyly at the Campbell. ‘He’s somewhat past his sell-by date, that one. But let’s talk about you, Mr Kobold. Publishing must be an interesting business. Have you ever met Jeffrey Archer?’

  The Campbell shook his head. ‘His wife, Doris. I bumped into her once at a Young Farmers’ do in Borchester. Fascinating woman, she used to do this act where she stood on her head and put a bottle of Crème de Menthe…’ The Campbell leaned towards the mother and whispered gross details into her ear.

  ‘Go on?’ the mother nodded. ‘A bottle of Crème de Menthe? I’ve seen it done with a skinned rabbit and a colostomy bag, of course.’

  ‘Eh?’ went the Campbell.

  ‘And one time when I was in Tunisia I went to this bar where the castrati used to perform and there was this fellow who...’

  ‘Cornelius, you are driving rather fast.’ Tuppe clung to his seat.

  ‘We have to get to London. If this Campbell, whatever he is, is always one step ahead of us, he could well be at Jack’s place by now.’

  ‘Nah.’ Tuppe shook his head. ‘I’ve been thinking. He c
an’t know where we’re going next.’

  ‘He has done before.’

  ‘But that’s because we’ve let him. Listen to me. You know it must have been the Campbell who put the voodoo model car under your seat, mustn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t think who else it could have been.’

  ‘And how did he know we’d be staying at the Holiday Inn?’

  Cornelius shrugged.

  ‘Because you let on to Mike the mechanic that we were going there. Just like you told him we were going to the monastery.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You did too. Mike sold you the map. You asked directions.’

  ‘And you think the Campbell followed us to Mike’s?’

  ‘And probably duffed him up. Mike spills the beans. The Campbell hoodoos the motor car and gets to the monastery first.’

  ‘The evil sod.’

  ‘Agreed. But we foiled him back at the monastery. He doesn’t know Jack’s address. We wouldn’t have known it, if my uncle hadn’t just happened to have been working on Jack’s karaoke machine.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Cornelius bounced up and down in the driving seat. ‘The Campbell can’t possibly know.’

  ‘So slow down a bit, will you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Cornelius slowed down a bit.

  ‘Thank you.’ Tuppe lay back and watched the sky slide past. He felt reasonably certain that the Campbell didn’t know Jack’s address. But he felt equally sure that, by fair means or foul, he had probably gleaned that of Cornelius from the auctioneer in Sheila na gigh.

  And so they travelled south. They passed through Birmingham. A city notable only, in Tuppe’s opinion, for the excellence of its independent science fiction book shop, Andromeda, hit the M40 and headed on down.

  The journey was without further incident, which might have been the product of happy chance, but was more likely something to do with urging on the plot.

  And at a little after four-thirty of the sunny afternoon clock, they found themselves on the outskirts of Penge. Which as those in the know, know, is a very nice place, although Tuppe and Cornelius had never been there before.

  Sunnyside Road was living up to its name. A row of pleasantly appointed 1930s villas, divided by well-tended hedges and sheltered beneath redly tiled roofs. Lawn sprinklers sprinkled, pigeons cooed. A small girl skipped. All was normality and reason.

  At the end of the road, the Cadillac Eldorado stood out like a great sore electric-blue thumb.

  ‘It’s not what I expected,’ said Cornelius Murphy. ‘It’s all so…’

  ‘I think safe is the word you’re looking for.’

  ‘Which house do you think belongs to Jack?’

  Tuppe turned up the label on the karaoke’s crate. ‘Number eleven, The Laurels. Drive on a bit.’

  Cornelius drove on a bit and stopped outside number eleven.

  It was just the same as all the rest. Lawn, flowers, a stone gnome or two. Peaceful, normal, safe.

  ‘Are you feeling as uncomfortable as I am?’ Tuppe asked.

  Cornelius nodded. ‘It’s as if we’re trespassing. We don’t belong in a place like this.’

  ‘Go and knock on the door. Let’s get this over with.’

  Cornelius flattened down his hair. Net curtains were twitching around and about. The small girl had taken her skipping-rope inside.

  ‘All right. Let’s get it done.’ Cornelius climbed from the car. He closed the door quietly and picked up the crate from the back seat. He sniffed the air. It smelt wholesome. It smelt safe.

  Cornelius Murphy approached The Laurels.

  He opened the sun-ray gate. Walked up a short gravel path and stood before the front door. Its upper portion displayed a stained-glass representation of a laurel tree. Cornelius pressed the doorbell. Bing-bong, it went.

  Cornelius waited. But no-one came. So he waited again. A ladybird tottered about the rim of a polished milk bottle which stood on the doorstep. Cornelius observed that it had five spots on its back and that these formed the configuration of Cassiopeia.

  Cornelius pressed the doorbell again. Bing-bong went the bell once more. But still no-one came. He glanced around at Tuppe, who made an encouraging face.

  The finger of Murphy was just snaking out for a third time when the door opened a crack. ‘Not today thank you,’ came a voice from within.

  ‘Delivery,’ Cornelius replied, pointing to the crate.

  ‘Not here. You want next door.’

  ‘No. It’s here I want.’ Cornelius peeped in. The pinched face of an anxious-looking woman peeped out.

  Cornelius caught the fragrance of sandalwood talcum powder. And a glimpse of leopard-skin leotard.

  He put his foot firmly in the door. ‘Good day,’ he said, smiling bravely. ‘I assume that the beautiful young woman I am addressing must be the daughter of Jack London, Esquire. This is the right address, isn’t it? I have a crate here for your father. Are you expecting him home soon? I wonder if I might just step inside and wait for him? What a very charming leotard you’re almost wearing. Did you bag it yourself?’

  ‘Take your foot from my door, or I’ll set my dog on you.’

  Cornelius turned to offer Tuppe another shrug and saw to his astonishment, that a crowd had gathered, as if by magic, around the Cadillac. ‘Ouch!’ he cried, as the front door slammed violently against his foot.

  ‘No, please let me explain. I have to speak to Jack London.’

  ‘I don’t want you to explain. He’s moved. Go away.’

  ‘Oh come on.’ Cornelius bing-bonged the bell. His shoulder was now against the door.

  ‘Princey,’ called a voice from within. ‘Bad man at the door, Princey. Rip his foot off, there’s my good boy.’

  Cornelius withdrew his foot in haste and the door banged shut.

  The tall boy laid down the karaoke crate. Paused a moment to compose his thoughts. Then knelt low and pushed open the letter flap. ‘Will you please give me Jack London’s new address?’

  ‘No I will not!’

  ‘It really is a matter of some urgency. I deeply regret this, but if you don’t give me the address, I shall be forced to march up and down outside your house, weeping and wailing and proclaiming at the top of my voice that I am your jilted toy boy. Hardly an original ploy, I grant you, but it should cause a reasonable stir in a neighbourhood like this, don’t you think?’

  There was a moment of silence. Then the rattling of the security chain. Then the yanking open of the front door.

  The sunlight did not favour the woman in the leopard-skin leotard. Cornelius noticed that she bore an uncanny resemblance to the gaunt woman who ran the kiosk on Edinburgh station. He wondered if perhaps they might be related.

  ‘Now just you listen to me.’ The leopard lady of The Laurels glared up at her tormentor. She drew back her bony shoulders, bringing a pair of soggy-looking breasts into undeserved prominence. ‘I am going to say this only the one time.’

  Cornelius observed that the visible area of bosom cleavage closely resembled the flood plain of the Indus Valley, during a period of severe drought, as viewed from an orbiting weather satellite.

  ‘I told all those weirdos,’ went the woman. ‘I told the bearded guru in the pink Rolls Royce. I told the groupies and the good-time Charlies. I told the bongo players and the scrapers of washboards. I told the stilt-walkers, the dog-faced boys and the alligator girls. I even told Zippy the frigging pin head. And now I’m telling you. Jack London doesn’t live here any more. He’s moved. Gone away. Got it?’

  ‘I see.’ Cornelius nodded thoughtfully. His hair didn’t bother. ‘You get quite a lot of people asking then?’

  ‘No!’ said the woman.

  ‘But you just said…’

  ‘That was years ago.’ The leopard lady counted on a freckled claw. ‘Thirty years, to be precise. I have a very long memory.’

  ‘Thirty years ago? Jack London moved thirty years ago?’

  ‘That’s what I just said. My memory is virtually
photographic. And I never forget a face.’ She stared into that of the Murphy. ‘Especially when describing it to the police.’

  ‘I am certain then that Mr London’s new address will still be fresh in your mind. The sooner I could have it, the sooner I could be on my way. I am in such a hurry. You know how it is.’

  The woman sighed and let down her bosoms. The Indus Valley became Utah Salt Flats. ‘If I give you the address, do you promise to go away and never return?’

  ‘I swear by all the gods of light and darkness.’ Cornelius made an appropriately sacred sign.

  The woman eyed him up and down. ‘Another weirdo,’ was her conclusion. ‘Wait here. In silence. And I’ll write it down for you.’ The door crashed shut.

  Cornelius turned once more to view the crowd. It was composed of fresh-faced young folk. The boys all slicked-back hair, blue jeans and campus jackets. The girls, dime-store pony-tails, tight sweaters, flared skirts and Bobby sox. And all about sweet little sixteen.

  The front door of The Laurels opened for a final time and a slip of paper was thrust into the Murphy’s hand. ‘And don’t come back.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Cornelius studied the slip of paper. He studied his shoes. The closed front door. The sky. And then he stooped. Plucked up the karaoke crate. Tramped down the garden path. Through the sun-ray gateway. Across the pavement. And out into the road. The Cadillac’s wireless was playing Chuck Berry and Cornelius had to force his way through the now jiving throng.

  He flung the crate on to the back seat. Swung open the driver’s door. Climbed in and switched off the wireless.

  ‘Aw,’ went the crowd. ‘Dragsville’ and ‘unhip’.

  Tuppe, who had been gaily popping his fingers and grooving with the chicks, caught sight of the Murphy visage. It wasn’t grinning.

  ‘Cornelius?’ The weeny man tugged at his friend’s sleeve. ‘Something is troubling you. What might it be?’

  ‘Jack London has moved. In fact he moved thirty years ago.’

  ‘Thirty years? We’ve lost him then.’