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

by Robert Rankin

  Opinions vary regarding the disaster that befell it. Some speak of cave-in. Others suggest that Jack the Ripper ran amok on that train. And that the authorities dynamited the tunnel to seal the mass murderer in for ever with his victims.

  There are others still, and these are wild-eyed fellows for the most part, who turn up around closing time and whisper words of warning into the ears of patrons who would rather not be hearing them, that the line the train travelled upon, passed through a certain area where two worlds meet. And that the train was literally swallowed up.

  But who in their right mind would believe a thing like that?

  Although.

  Anything could happen.

  Down there.

  Because in the darkness, deep below the London streets, something stirred even now. In the Stygian blackness, a circle of light appeared. A light issuing from an ancient bull’s-eye lantern.

  It swept along a ruined platform. And danced momentarily in the glass eye of a Victorian doll.

  And then the circle of light rose. Brought forth a coloured plaque. An unearthly coloured plaque.

  On which were printed the words, THE TRAIN OF TRISMEGISTUS MODEL 4.

  The circle of light bobbed about a bit and then illuminated a photograph, held in an unseen hand. It was a photograph of Jim Campbell, maniac, deviant and potential PM.

  The light bobbed again and a little slot marked ‘A’ was seen. The photograph vanished into it.

  And then there came a terrible sound. Echoing in that dark and eldritch place. The sound as of ancient gears grinding upon one another. Of cogs meshing. And a rumble of a mighty force, straining for release.

  ‘My father?’ Cornelius was shaking. He was also waving his fists and kicking the kitchen table.

  ‘Cling on,’ Tuppe clung on to the tall boy’s left leg.

  ‘Yes, I’ll cling on.’ Cornelius fought with his hair. ‘I always knew there was something. That I was different.’

  ‘You are,’ said the adoptive daddy. ‘You are the stuff of epics. Just like your father. You must continue with his work. You weren’t supposed to know about it yet. But with the coming of the deviant and everything…You have to stop him, Cornelius. Only you can.’

  ‘Only me?’

  ‘Only you,’ said Arthur Kobold from the kitchen door. ‘Go after the deviant, Cornelius. Destroy him.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘Oh no I can’t.’

  ‘Oh yes you can,’ they all went.

  ‘I can’t. The Cadillac is out of petrol.’

  ‘Cadillac?’ the daddy asked.

  ‘Nineteen fifty-eight,’ said Tuppe. ‘Electric-blue paint job, electric-blue upholstery…’

  ‘Wireless set that always plays Max Bygraves?’

  ‘That’s the fellow. How did you know?’

  ‘Because it’s my car. I bought it for Cornelius. For his birthday. My pal Mike was restoring it for me. Well, trying to fix the wireless anyhow.’

  ‘There goes your birthday surprise,’ said Tuppe.

  Cornelius had nothing to say.

  ‘Are you sure it’s out of petrol?’ the daddy asked. ‘You did try switching to the reserve tank, didn’t you?’

  The Campbell revved the engine of his particular motor car.

  ‘I’m getting out of here,’ he told Felix. ‘And you’re in big trouble by the way.’

  Felix covered his face. ‘Not the pie,’ he begged. ‘Anything but the pie.’

  The Campbell considered all the police cars. They were now parked in nice neat rows at either end of the foreshortened terrace. Men in body armour were climbing out of vans. They were carrying guns.

  ‘Stuff this!’ said the Campbell.

  There was almost as much activity going on inside number twenty-three as there was outside.

  The daddy was rummaging through kitchen drawers, in search of something important. The mother was flattening down the tall boy’s hair, so that he’d look his best for his epic confrontation. Tuppe was a bit stuck for something useful to do, so he just got in everyone’s way.

  ‘You’ll need this.’ Arthur Kobold pressed a velvet bag into the epic lad’s hand.

  ‘What is it?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘A very special gun. It will kill him.’

  Cornelius looked very doubtful indeed. ‘I’m not an assassin, you know.’

  ‘There’d be a very large bonus.’

  ‘Nor a bounty-hunter.’

  ‘But you are a human being. The Campbell isn’t. Take the gun.’

  Cornelius pocketed the bag.

  ‘Found it!’ cried Mr Murphy, hoisting a grubby old book into view. ‘Come on.’

  There followed a lot of rushing and getting stuck in the kitchen doorway and cursing and pushing and general bad behaviour.

  ‘Hurry hurry,’ went Arthur Kobold. ‘He’s getting away.’

  And the Campbell was. Herpes meeped his horn. Tyres spun on the asphalt and he was off. Felix ducked his head once more as the VW shot towards the nearest police barricade, gave a mighty leap and plunged down the other side.

  Policemen ducked their heads and shook their fists. Some of the men in the body armour fired their guns. And then there was a lot of rushing and getting stuck in the doors of cars and cursing and pushing and general bad behaviour.

  Police cars swerved, bumped into one another, spun around and set off in hot pursuit of the Campbell.

  Jack Murphy admired the Cadillac. ‘The front bumper’s scratched,’ he observed.

  ‘The deviant,’ said Tuppe. ‘Wait ‘til you see what he’s done to your front parlour.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘My feelings entirely.’

  Cornelius was climbing into the Eldorado. ‘Where is the switch for the reserve tank?’

  Jack reached in and gave it a flick. ‘Just there. We’ll bump start you. You’ll need this.’ He handed Cornelius the grubby old book.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your real daddy’s A-Z. All the locations of the Forbidden Zones in London are marked on it. The deviant will surely run to the nearest. He’ll want to lose the police first, of course. Perhaps when he arrives at his destination, it might be nice if you were already there waiting for him.’

  Cornelius grinned. ‘What a good idea. Thanks…dad.’

  Arthur Kobold lifted Tuppe into the car. Cornelius passed the A-Z to the weeny man. ‘You are the navigator once more. Which way do we go?’

  Tuppe leafed through the grubby old book. ‘Blimey,’ said he, ‘there’re entrances every which way. But not many in this neck of the woods by the look of it.’

  Jack Murphy, his wife and Mr Arthur Kobold put their combined weight to the Cadillac and began to push.

  ‘Aha!’ went Tuppe, as the engine caught. ‘Just the one. And it’s pretty close. Right on the top of Star Hill.’

  20

  Mr Yarrow paid no heed to the racket. He was deaf to the screeching tyres, screaming sirens and grinding gears of the chase, as it passed by his front door.

  The youth employment officer was taking a bath. And he was in a merry mood. He sang loudly, as he de-waxed his ears with the pointy end of his loofah.

  The discordant strains that rose from his lips were somewhat difficult to identify. There were elements of Status Quo in there. But more than a hint of Max Bygraves. Whatever they were, they echoed loudly about the shabby bathroom, before burying themselves in the curious white silk robes that hung upon the door hook in the dry-cleaner’s bag.

  The ears done, Mr Yarrow set aside the now cerumen-encrusted fibrous interior of the fruit of the dishcloth gourd and applied pumice stone to his orange fingertips.

  The light porous acid volcanic rock, with the composition of rhyolite, deftly removed the residues of tobacco’s principal alkaloid (C10H14Nx) and presently Mr Yarrow set this aside also.

  He was scrupulously clean. And no mistake about it. He sank into the scented suds and scrutinized the visible portions of
his body. All spotless and nice to know. The contemplation of them caused Mr Yarrow to sigh not a little.

  He had never been a particularly fragrant fellow.

  Never a fop or a Dapper Dan. More a crusty-underpants merchant really.

  But not any more.

  Those evil days were good and gone. He was a reformed character now. And why? Because Mr Yarrow was a man in love. That’s why.

  And why shouldn’t he be? He was a man, after all. And she was a woman. And what a woman she was.

  Oh Roellen.

  Delilah of the double eggs, chips and peas.

  Our lady of the lissom legs.

  Roellen Ridout, café proprietress.

  ‘Down boy,’ Mr Yarrow told his well-scrubbed member, as it raised its head above the water. ‘Not yet.’

  Mr Yarrow sank lower and luxuriated. Tonight he would see her. And tonight he would declare his love. Tonight.

  During the ceremony.

  When he and all the other local Wiccans assembled before her.

  Her, their high priestess.

  This very night at the drawing down of the moon and the whipping off of the Y-fronts. At the bare scuddy dancing.

  On the top of Star Hill.

  On the top of Star Hill. On top of the copper map, on top of the concrete plinth, on top of the mortal remains of the Reverend Matthew Kemp, sat Tuppe.

  The Cadillac Eldorado was parked two hundred feet below, well hidden on the edge of the golf course. Its driver was viewing the not too distant car chase and wearing a worried expression.

  ‘Nice night for it,’ said Tuppe. ‘Splendid view also. We’ll have the blighter dry-gulched before he even knows what hit him.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t come here?’

  ‘He’ll come.’ The small fellow flicked back and forwards through Rune’s A-Z, but his eyes didn’t stray too far from the excitement. ‘I told you. This is the only entrance for miles. Once the Campbell’s, er…disposed of the police, he’ll make for here. Bound to. I think.’

  Cornelius remained doubtful. ‘I wonder how come all those policemen turned up in the nick of time like that anyway. I really did think it was you doing your voice again.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, after all that business of my shadow pulling you out from in front of those lorries, I’m beginning to wonder just what I might be capable of.’

  Cornelius shrugged. ‘Look at this gun Arthur Kobold gave me. I ask you.’

  Tuppe examined the weapon. It was a 1950s-style pressed-tin Dan Dare sort of job. The words THE CAPTAIN TRISMEGISTUS DEVIANT DESTROYER were printed on the side.

  ‘Doesn’t look quite in the same league as Saint Sacco’s firepower, does it?’ Tuppe handed it back.

  ‘Do you think I should test it out? Fire it at a tree or something?’

  ‘Best not. If a little flag with ZAP written on it pops out of the end, you’ll only get disheartened. Oh, look down there. The Campbell’s turned into the high street. I wonder if he knows about the new one-way system.’

  The Campbell didn’t. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. He curled his lip, Herpes meeped its horn and Felix clutched at his groin. A police car drew alongside.

  ‘Pull over!’ shouted its driver.

  ‘Och away with you.’ The Campbell tugged on the steering wheel. Herpes side-swiped the police car. The police car swerved. Mounted the pavement. And ploughed straight through the unwashed front window of Peter’s Pets.

  Cages tumbled. Broke open. Spilled out all manner of godless creations. Strange beasties rose in a flurry of beating wings, whacking wattles and quivering membrane. Flying lobsters barked and hissed. Scaley sheep clicked their mandibles. And things that went bump in the night went, sort of…bump.

  Peter Polgar survived without even a scratch. Because he wasn’t in his shop when the police car hit it. He was several streets away in a pub called The Flying Swan. Enjoying a drink and a chat. And looking forward, with some relish, to the uninhibited night of drawing down the moon and whipping off the Y-fronts, that lay ahead for him.

  ‘It’s a genuine religion, you know,’ he told Jim Pooley, who was propping up the bar. ‘The fact that we dance around in our bare scuddies tends to give some people the wrong idea.’

  Jim thought it did anything but. He studied the empty bottom of his glass. ‘Sounds like a clear case of religious intolerance to me,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Tuppe asked.

  Cornelius looked at his watch. ‘Coming up to eight. Is it important?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. I’m just hungry, aren’t you?’

  The telephone on Arthur Kobold’s desk began to ring. Ring ring, it went. But there was no-one there to answer it. Plenty of cake though.

  The Campbell ran another police car off the road. Their numbers were definitely thinning. But there was still the matter of that helicopter.

  That helicopter suddenly swept away and returned to base. It was nearly out of fuel. Which was pretty boring, considering how it could quite easily have done something really spectacular. Like crashing into power lines, or the side of a tall building. Or something.

  But then helicopters do cost an awful lot of money. And the men who pilot them do tend towards the cautious. And this wasn’t America. So, for anything like that to happen would have been a bit far fetched.

  The Campbell smashed another police car off the road. This one slewed across the forecourt of a petrol station, knocking down one of the pumps. The policemen had just enough time to leap from their car and take cover, before the entire petrol station erupted in flame. There was a really spectacular explosion.

  The boys on the hill watched the bowl of flame billow into the sky.

  ‘I shall have no compunction about shooting the Campbell,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Tuppe.

  Ten miles due east of Star Hill, or ten and a half from Peter’s Pets, as the four-legged crow now flew, there stands a pub. And this pub hasn’t changed one little bit since Hugo Rune played darts there back in 1931 and purchased a packet of pork scratchings for Max Ernst, because there wasn’t any bird seed on sale.

  True, the pub had been blitzed out of existence in 1941. But it had been rebuilt in 1951. True, it had been thoroughly refurbished in 1961 and completely modernized in 1971. But in 1981 the establishment was purchased by the grandson of its 1931 landlord and painstakingly restored to its original grandeur, down to the smallest, tiniest, most minutest little detail.

  Which meant, that if Max and Hugo were to stroll into this pub, this very night, they would find that, to every appearance, nothing whatsoever had changed.

  There still wouldn’t be any bird seed for sale. And Max would still have to settle for pork scratchings.

  Well, just around the corner from this ageless, seedless establishment, there stands a row of hoardings. These hoardings carry huge expensively produced posters on them. And these posters display really clever and difficult-to-understand images. So really clever and difficult to understand are these images, in fact, that only the smug little prannies at the advertising agencies who thought them up have the slightest notion as to what they are supposed to mean.

  Beneath these images, however, dire and terrible warnings shriek down at the passing populace. They don’t beat around the bush. They say that EEC COUNCIL DIRECTIVE (89⁄622EEC) reckons TOBACCO SERIOUSLY DAMAGES YOUR HEALTH.

  Well, just behind these hoardings there is a Forbidden Zone.

  It’s not a particularly big one. About a half a mile square. Well camouflaged though and it can’t be seen from the air. To its mysterious denizens it’s just another suburb. The only obvious difference being that this one has an old blocked-off tunnel entrance with a weed-grown track leading from it. A retired tom-cat sleeps upon this track. It is dreaming of Virginia Rappe.

  And when the old blocked-off tunnel entrance suddenly bursts open, the retired tom gets one hell of a start.

&
nbsp; Lightning arcs into the sky. Coloured lightning. Unearthly coloured lightning. And something quite horrendous rears into view. It’s hard to describe because it’s moving so fast. But it looks like some kind of train. And it’s got a definite steam on and lots of sparks flying from its wheels. It rips right through the hoardings and out into the street. It looks like trouble.

  And it is trouble.

  It is The Train of Trismegistus.

  ‘Yabba dabba do!’ it goes.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Tuppe pointed away towards the eastern horizon. ‘Lightning. Perhaps there’s a storm coming.’

  ‘Oh I do hope so.’ Cornelius made a bitter face.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to buy yet?’

  ‘Buy? With what?’

  ‘With all the golden booty from the Forbidden Zones that you will be helping yourself to once you’ve disposed of the Campbell and got back your old man’s ocarina.’

  ‘I thought I’d start with Old Kent Road. Then Whitechapel Road, King’s Cross Station and The Angel Islington.’

  ‘Just sort of work your way around the board, eh?’

  ‘That’s it. On the way I’ll house all the homeless, feed all the hungry and see to it that every aspiring writer gets a thousand Biros a week, for life. How does that sound?’

  ‘Very generous. What a nice fellow you are.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me what?’

  ‘What are you going to do with your share? Naturally half of all the booty comes to you.’

  ‘I thought I’d just waste mine on riotous living.’

  ‘I thought you might. Of course, if the Campbell doesn’t show up and I don’t manage to dispose of him and get my daddy’s ocarina back…’

  ‘He’ll come. Trust me, Cornelius, he has to come. He has to come here for the final big, dangerous, exciting epic confrontation. What time is it now, by the way?’