Tuppe had already managed to get himself lost amongst the dancers. He’d been admiring a tall girl’s bottom and by the time she’d taken exception to this and cuffed him in the ear, Cornelius had gone. And so now Tuppe bumbled around between high-stepping legs, dodging the Wellingtons and worrying after his friend.
And the dancing was gathering momentum. This wasn’t just your average Wiccan bash. But then, this wasn’t really a Wiccan bash at all. As Tuppe, who had attended several gatherings, would have known full well, had he listened to any of the sermons, rather than spent all his time gazing at bottoms. Because these weren’t your genuine Wiccans.
Your genuine Wiccans do not form naked, dancing legions, two hundred strong, on moonlit hilltops. Much as they’d like to. Your genuine Wiccans form tiny, intimate, naked, dancing legionettes. Generally on the Axminster shag-pile in the front room of some bungalow in Ruislip. And there’s usually only about six of them.
Traditionally, there is a big-boned girl who works in a bank and reads the tarot. A computer programmer who’s into Black Sabbath. A retired chiropodist who claims he once met Gerald Gardner. A bearded hautboy player and his girlfriend called Ros. And one other, who can’t come because he’s got a cold.
No, this bunch were not your genuine Wiccans. They were something else entirely. This bunch danced to the off-beat of a very different drummer. They were members of an exclusive sect.
The Secret Church of Runeology.
This bunch were The Runies!
And they had all turned out tonight for a specific reason. To celebrate the centenary of their guru’s birth. Their holy guru, the guru’s guru. The greatest unsung genius of the twentieth century. The prophet. The Master. The man, the myth and the unpaid restaurant bill. The reinventor of the ocarina.
Mr Hugo Rune.
And they’d come with one shared purpose. To conjure forth the spirit of the Master, and hang upon its every word.
It was the way he would have wanted it.
Cornelius ducked and dived and bobbed and bopped. The Campbell’s head came and went in the frenzy of waving hands and leaping bodies.
But Cornelius didn’t seem to be making much progress. There were too many people. It was very frustrating. The Murphy set his jaw into an attitude of determination and pressed on.
The music, the instrumentation, the songs, howls and hoots, seemed now to be taking a definite form. A steady rhythm was growing. Though loose at first, it fell in upon itself from many disparate directions. The hand-clapping and foot-stomping drew a regular beat. One and two and one and two.
Cornelius found himself falling in step with it. As he followed the Campbell’s bobbing head, he did it now in time to the beat.
This made it a little easier. But not much. And then not at all. Cornelius lost sight of the Campbell.
One and clap and
One and clap and
Chant and clap and
Chant and clap and
‘Hu’ and clap and
‘Hu’ and clap and
‘Go’ and clap and
‘Go’ and clap and
Tuppe hopped about. On one leg and the other. Where was Cornelius? The small fellow worried and worried. He knew he’d never forgive himself if something terrible happened to his bestest friend. He should never have been so irresponsible. Staring at a tall girl’s bottom when Cornelius needed him. He should be ashamed of himself. He was ashamed of himself. ‘I shall put tall girls’ bottoms behind me for ever,’ vowed Tuppe.
Smack! went a tall girl’s hand. ‘Stop staring at my bottom,’ she said.
The dancers now took to leaping up and down. Pogoing like crazy fools. And the chant now resounded across the moonlit hill. .
‘Hu-go,’ it went. ‘Hu-go. Hu-go. Hu-go.’
‘Hugo?’ went Cornelius.
‘Hugo?’ went Tuppe.
‘Hugo!’ cried the high priestess on the concrete plinth. The lady of the legs. ‘Hugo!’ She clapped her hands again and again. ‘Hugo!’
Once more there came that electricity in the air. Something was about to happen.
A very distraught little Tuppe peered all about. He could see nothing but leaping legs.
‘Cornelius, where are you?’
‘I’m here.’ A hand dived down and scooped up the Tuppe.
‘Thank goodness,’ sighed the small fellow. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
‘Oh no.’ The Campbell shook Tuppe vigorously by the throat. ‘But I really thought I’d lost you. Y’wee bastard.’
‘Hu-go,’ went the crowd. ‘Hu-go, Hu-go.’
‘Hugo, Hugo?’ mouthed Cornelius. ‘What is going on here?’
‘My children,’ cried the high priestess. ‘My children, hear my words.’
The music and the chanting and the leaping ceased. The celebrants panted and wheezed and coughed. Most of them really weren’t up to this kind of lark anyway.
‘Let go…mmmmmph.’ The Campbell’s hand clamped across Tuppe’s mouth. ‘Shut it,’ whispered evil Jim. ‘Or I’ll snap your head off.’
‘My children. Tonight is the night. Our night. His night.’
‘His night,’ intoned the celebrants.
‘Although he is gone from us, he will return. His wisdom will open the way for us all. The scales will drop from our eyes. The hidden truths will be revealed. The Ultimate Truths.’
The Ultimate Truths? The tall boy gazed over the heads of the not so tall. The high priestess continued. She still had no clothes on.
‘The Master must be returned to us. To we, his followers. Tonight he will speak from beyond and we will bear his wisdom to the four corners of the world. We shall be the voice of Rune. We shall carry his word. We shall reveal all.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Cornelius. ‘Oh yes yes yes.’
‘Oh no,’ growled the Campbell. ‘Oh no bloody no.’
‘Oh grmmmph,’ went Tuppe, which meant, ‘Help!’
‘Oh yes.’ The naked lady on the concrete plinth raised her hands once more to the night sky. ‘By the power of our collective will, so shall we conjure forth his spirit. We must concentrate our energies. Marshal our thoughts. Crystallize them into positive forces. Direct them and cast them to him. Cast these charged thoughts to the Master. Cast them. Right down our nostrils. Like snot!’
‘Oh no you bloody well won’t.’ A baldy-headed, bespectacled, shortish, beefy, naked kind of a body shouldered his way through the crowd and glared up at the high priestess. He wore an ocarina, strung on a piece of string around his neck. And carried a big gun in one hand and a small dwarf in the other. ‘You’ll do nothing. Get down from there.’
‘Blasphemy!’ cried the crowd. ‘Beat the blasphemer with a big stout stick.’
The Campbell turned upon them. ‘Vice squad!’ he shouted. ‘You’re all under arrest.’
Now, this did catch the crowd with its proverbial trousers down. The celebrants took a step back. Then made a pause. Then took a menacing step forward. Then another back. They just weren’t sure. Vice squad or blasphemer? Difficult decision. Several magistrates and a couple of genuine members of the vice squad eased their way from the crowd and made off quietly to their Austin Allegros.
The crowd took two paces forward. Then another one back.
‘Stop that dancing,’ the Campbell demanded. ‘Stand still and put your hands up.’
‘Er, excuse me.’ A lady wearing nothing but a straw hat stuck her hand up and stepped forward.
‘That’s the way.’ The Campbell gestured with his gun. ‘Both hands now.’
‘I wasn’t putting my hands up. Well, I was putting one up. I just wanted to ask a question.’
‘Ask a question? What question?’
‘Are you really a policeman?’
‘Plain clothes.’ The Campbell sniggered. Nobody else did.
‘Oh good. Then in that case I want to file a complaint. I bought a ticket for last year’s coach trip, but I wasn’t able to go. So I asked the organizer if I could go this year for free. But h
e said I’d have to pay the difference, because prices were up this year. Which was fair enough. But what I want to know is this…’
‘What?’
‘Well, if you’re a policeman, why aren’t you out catching real criminals, rather than harassing good decent folk, who only want to worship in the church of their choice. This is a genuine religion you know. Just because we dance about in our bare scuddies some people–’
‘Shut up!’ The Campbell fired his gun into the air. ‘None of that was funny the first time round. The trouble with you people is you don’t know what is funny. But we do. Me and my kind. We know a good joke. And you’re it.’
‘How dare you.’ The lady in the straw hat made a fierce face.
The Campbell made a much fiercer one. ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘All of you. This world of yours. Your so-called society. Your so-called history. Your arts and sciences. It’s all a big joke. A big game. A big laugh. And it’s on you.’
‘Hold on there,’ cried the fearless straw-hatter. ‘You’re not from the vice squad. I know what you are.’
‘Oh no you don’t.’
‘Oh yes I do.’
‘Oh no you don’t.’
‘Oh yes she does,’ called the crowd. Glad to get a word or two in.
‘Who is he, by the way?’ asked Mr Yarrow.
‘He’s that bloke. You know. Britain’s number-one practical joker. The merry prankster himself. He’s Jeremy B–’
‘Oh no I’m bloody well not.’
‘Oh yes you bloody well are.’
‘He is, it’s him all right.’ The lady pointed at the Campbell. ‘See he’s shaved his beard off. That’s why I didn’t recognize him right away. Come on, own up. Where are the hidden TV cameras?’
Hidden TV cameras? Now that really did get the crowd on the bubble. Collectively it suffered the kind of crisis that Adam had suffered, when he tasted of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.
There was now a very concerted backing away. Faces and privy parts were being covered.
‘Stay where you are,’ ordered the Campbell.
‘Could I do my tea-chest bass playing on the show?’ Martin Merlin asked.
‘Don’t be daft, Martin.’ The lady shook her hat. ‘Novelty musical acts are Esther. Jeremy’s home videos of people falling off white plastic garden chairs and practical tricks.’
‘Tricks, is it?’ roared the Campbell. ‘I’ll give you tricks. Here’s one for you. Notice what I’m holding in my hands. In this hand I have a big gun. And in this, a small struggling twerp. I put the muzzle of the big gun to the head of the small twerp, like so, and then I–’
‘No you don’t.’ Cornelius Murphy stepped from the crowd. ‘That’s not what you do. What you do is this. Put down my friend. Give me the ocarina and go your way. I don’t care where you go, it’s not my affair. But that’s what you do. And you do it now.’
‘You…you…’ The Campbell began to heave all about. There were strange comings and goings up and down his person.
The crowd shuffled feet, stepped forwards, backwards and sideways. It was a confused crowd. It didn’t know what to do for the best.
‘See that?’ The lady in the straw hat pointed again. ‘He’s got a courgette instead of a willy. What a wag that Jeremy.’
‘Now,’ said Cornelius, raising his gun.
The Campbell shook his head. It was turning very lumpy. A veritable vegetable garden was sprouting.
‘Blurgh!’ went the crowd. Agreeing that a step back was in order. But only the one.
‘I’ll shoot the wee twerp!’
‘Then I’ll shoot you. I really don’t want to. But if you hurt my friend, I’ll have no choice.’
‘Guns can’t kill me,’ crowed Jim.
‘This one can.’
‘Oh no it can’t.’
‘Oh yes it can,’ went the crowd.
‘Shut up!’
‘It’s a very special gun,’ Cornelius explained. ‘It’s a Captain Trismegistus Deviant Destroyer. I don’t think Airfix do it.’
‘Trismegistus?’ The Campbell’s flowering head rose from his shoulders and turned several times in the air.
‘Put down my friend and give me the ocarina.’
The Campbell’s head whacked back on to his neck. Upside down.
‘Blurgh!’ went the crowd once more. ‘And yuk!’
The Campbell turned his gun upon Cornelius. He let Tuppe tumble to the ground and gripped the ocarina with the free hand. ‘You know I can’t part with this,’ said the mouth in the forehead.
‘But you know I must have it.’
The crowd looked from one of them to the other. This was the good old Mexican stand-off.
Members of the Olde English Folk Music Society sought about in their repertoire for a bit of suitable ‘Gunfight Background’.
‘How about ‘All Around My Hat’?’ a bearded fellow suggested.
‘Give me the ocarina, or else.’ Cornelius held his pistol in a steady hand.
‘Or else what?’ The Campbell held his in a likewise fashion. ‘If you use that gun at this range, you’ll destroy the ocarina.’
‘But you’ll be dead, of course.’
The Campbell mused upon this regrettable eventuality. His head rotated slowly and righted itself. ‘This is true,’ he said softly. ‘But then, without my father’s ocarina, it is just a matter of time before they catch up with me anyhow.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said they will catch up with me.’
‘Before that, you said your father’s ocarina. What did you mean?’
‘Hugo Rune was my father,’ declared the Campbell.
‘Whooooooooooooah!’ went the crowd. ‘What?’
‘Your father?’ Cornelius was horrified. ‘But Hugo Rune was my father.’
‘Whoooooooooooooah and double what?’ went the gob-smacked crowd.
‘I don’t think they’re twins,’ said the lady in the straw hat.
‘You’re lying.’ The Murphy’s gun hand was beginning to shake. ‘You’re no brother of mine.’
‘Half-brother.’ The Campbell’s hand was as steady as the proverbial. ‘Different mothers. Yours out here, in this world. Mine inside. Inside the Forbidden Zones. That’s why I am what I am. A deviant. Outcast. Neither one thing nor the other. But both. And hating all. I’m taking everything. It’s my birthright. My legacy. And I’m not sharing, by the way. So it’s goodbye to you, brother.’
The Campbell cocked his pistol.
Cornelius dithered. The goalposts had just moved again. He didn’t know what to do.
The Campbell did, he squeezed the trigger.
And Tuppe did too. He took a mighty leap, knocked the Campbell’s gun aside. Tore the ocarina from his neck and ducked away.
‘Shoot him, Cornelius,’ he shouted.
‘Y’wee sod ya.’ The Campbell swung his pistol after the fleeing Tuppe and fired.
And Cornelius fired at the Campbell.
Something leapt from the barrel of the tin gun. It was a zig-zag of unearthly coloured lightning and it cracked through the air like a whip. It missed the Campbell though. It struck the Reverend Kemp’s concrete plinth. Cleaving it from existence.
The high priestess, who hadn’t had anything to say for ages, now at least had something to do. She fell down.
But there was no-one there to catch her. The Runies were running. Enough was enough after all. They’d come up here for the bare-scuddy dancing and a spot of centennial necromancy. Not to get caught in the crossfire of some family dispute.
Tuppe plunged between this leg, that leg and the other. He’d never been very fast on his feet, not until now, anyhow.
‘Come back!’ The Campbell fought his way after Tuppe.
‘Stop or I fire.’ Cornelius fought his way after the Campbell.
Tuppe ran. He didn’t know where he was running to. But he knew what he was running from. And so he just kept going.
When the legs thinned out, he ducked for the trees. Mad
e into them and ran on. The grass was high and he stumbled through it, panting deeply. But clutching the ocarina to his chest.
And he wasn’t alone. There were still folk everywhere. Gathering up their clothes. Fighting over whose were whose. Dante would have been in his element.
The Campbell was possibly in his. He marched on, buffeting folk to the left and right of him.
The high priestess was lying dazed on the ground. Mr Yarrow hadn’t been near enough to catch her when she fell and he felt very guilty about that. But he’d make it up to her with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
‘Pucker up, my dear,’ said the youth employment officer.
Tuppe struggled on. Ahead of him was a fence. Its cross bars would have blocked the way of a taller person. But not the Tuppe.
If he’d thought to look up, he would have spied the great big sign that was nailed above. This spelled out, in big red letters, a warning, thus:
DANGER
CLIFF EDGE
200 FT DROP
But he didn’t. So he missed it.
And then a large dark cloud covered the moon, and it got very black indeed on the top of Star Hill.
‘Oh bother,’ went Tuppe, feeling his way forward.
‘Oh damn,’ went Cornelius, floundering blindly about.
‘Oh perfect,’ went the Campbell, thrusting a finger into his left ear and twisting it around. Cogs whirred, his eyes revolved like the drums of a fruit machine. A succession of different eyeballs blurred down, finally to stop at an evil-looking cat-like pair, with vertical pupils.
‘That’s better. But to make doubly sure.’ He tinkered with his spectacles, adjusting them to night vision mode. ‘Perfect.’
The Campbell gave the area a quick infra-red scan.
To the south, the flickering rainbow images of departing celebrants. To the west, beside the smouldering ruins of the concrete plinth, a courting couple locked in erotic embrace apparently. To the north, and not twenty yards away, a single figure, tall and angular. The Murphy.
Evil Jim turned his gun in the tall boy’s direction. It was an easy shot, he’d never know what hit him.
The Book of Ultimate Truths (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy 1) Page 27
