‘It is?’
‘It is.’ Norman put his brain into gear, engaged his mouth and showered old Claude with thoughts.
The ex-controller listened to them, then made a face of his own. A face of horror.
‘You can’t do that,’ he wailed. ‘You can’t. You just can’t.’
‘But I have to,’ said Norman. ‘It’s the only way. If I could fly up to the hole, I could get out, then open up the iron door, lower a rope or something and free you too. You could work the big sky nozzle for me then. And you would be free.’
‘Yes, but all my evidence. You’d burn it up.’
‘Some of it, but not all.’
‘Tell me what you’ve got in mind again, sonny. Go on say it again.’
‘I fly up the shaft,’ said Norman. ‘Not with wings, they just wouldn’t work in so small a space. But in a hot-air balloon. This paper’s damp, we could glue it together like papier mâché, make a balloon, build a burner underneath and something for me to hang on to, then light up, fill with hot air and float up the shaft. It’s a blinder of an idea, you have to admit it.’
‘But all my evidence.’
‘You’d still have all the stuff that was glued together to make the balloon. Look there’s an old tin waste-paper bin here, that could serve as the burner and we could break up these bits of old chairs to burn, you’d not lose much paper.’
‘How would you start the fire?’ asked the oldster. ‘Have a box of matches, do you?’
‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ said Norman.
‘Yes I bet there is for you, you smart-arsed little bastard.’
‘Does that mean we have a deal?’ Norman asked, while sticking his hand out for a shake.
‘It does,’ said the ex-controller shaking it vigorously.
17
The most amazing man who ever lived threw wide the Draylon curtains of the KEV-LYN suite and drew in his first breath of the new day.
And phew wot a scorcher it was.
The sun shone in through the UPVC — which was clever as it had also been seen to go down through it — and lit up the appalling apartment. A figure bundled up on the floor in blankets awoke with a start and went through the traditional, ‘What, who, where am I?’ routine. Then coming fully awake, arose and bowed before the man who was now his master.
‘Good-morning, guru,’ he said. ‘May I fetch you breakfast?’
Rune adjusted the sash on his monogrammed silk dressing-gown and straightened his matching cravat. ‘I’ll take the full Grande belly buster,’ said he, ‘whatever newspapers this establishment has to offer, black coffee, toast with honey, some jaffa cakes and a bottle of the finest brandy.’
‘As you wish, guru.’ The daring young man of the night before did not seem quite so daring now. Somewhat hollow of cheek was he and wild about the eyes. Something sinister had come to pass and something best not dwelt upon or even guessed at.
Urgh!
Rune waved the pale young man away upon his duties and settled himself down upon a Parker Knoll recliner of a hideous auburn hue. ‘So much to do,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But all the time in all the world to do it in. For some of us at least.’
*
‘Remove the asterisk,’ said Rune. ‘This chapter is at an end.’
18
Something was nearly at an end at the bottom of the abandoned lift shaft.
Nearly.
‘Roll that bit up,’ said Norman. ‘And glue it onto this bit here.’
‘This balloon will never fly,’ said the Ben Gun look-alike. ‘Its shape’s all wrong. What’s it supposed to be anyhow?’
‘It’s a head,’ said Norman. ‘Hot-air balloons always look like heads nowadays. Or farm houses or hairdryers. They never look like hot-air balloons any more.’
‘So whose head is this one supposed to look like?’
‘Jesus,’ said Norman.
‘Jesus? That doesn’t look like Jesus. If that looks like anybody then it looks like—’
‘Look, OK. I don’t know what Jesus really looks like. It’s a representation. It’s a hot-air balloon.’
‘I met Jesus once,’ said the ancient.
‘You never did.’
‘I did too. He told me this story.’
‘Go on,’ said Norman.
‘About after he’d been crucified, when he came up to Heaven.’
‘Go on,’ said Norman once more.
‘Yes. Well, he came up to Heaven and he was chatting with St Peter at the Pearly Gates and St Peter had to go to the toilet and Jesus agreed to stand in for him for five minutes. Checking in the new arrivals. The souls of the newly dead, you see.’
Norman nodded and busied himself with bits of wire and broken office furniture.
‘Yes, and Jesus was standing there at the Pearly Gates and this old Jewish fellow comes up to be let in. And Jesus says, “Name?”
‘And the old Jewish fellow says, “Joseph.”
‘And Jesus says, “Occupation?”
‘And the old Jewish fellow says, “Carpenter.”
‘And Jesus says, “Hang about, you look familiar, didn’t you have a son?”
‘And the old Jewish fellow says, “Yes I did, lovely boy.”
‘And Jesus, who is now convinced that the old chap is his dad, but wants to make absolutely sure, says, “Did your son have any distinguishing marks or scars the last time you saw him?”
‘And Joseph says, “Yes, he had holes in his hands and his feet.”
‘And Jesus throws his arms around the old Jewish fellow and says, “Father.”
‘And the old Jewish fellow throws his arms about Jesus and says—’
‘Pinocchio,’ said Norman. ‘Yes, I’ve heard it.’
‘You never have?’ said the ancient. ‘He told it to you too?’
‘Jesus never told you it,’ said Norman. ‘It’s a really ancient gag.’
‘He did too tell it to me. It’s his favourite joke. That and the one about “Peter, I can see your house from up here”. And of course it’s ancient. He told it to me about a thousand years ago. And that’s who your balloon looks like.’
‘Jesus?’
‘Pinocchio. You’ll never get it in the air.’
‘I will too. And I’ll get us both out of here.’
‘You ruddy won’t. You’re barking mad, sonny. Did you hear the one about “the elephant’s cloakroom ticket”, by the way?’
‘I’m all done here now,’ said Norman, standing back to view his creation. He couldn’t stand back too far, him being at the bottom of an abandoned lift shaft and everything. But he was able to get the general gist of the thing.
And a fair old thing it was too.
A touch of the Montgolfier brothers here, a hint of a Richard Branson tax dodge there, and for those with very long memories, a smidgen of the Nimble bread commercials up at the top end.
It looked mighty fine.
Mighty head-like and handsome.
It looked mighty like Pinocchio though.
‘Told you,’ said the ancient one. ‘Look at that big hooter. Jesus doesn’t have a big hooter like that.’
‘It’s a cunning innovation of my own,’ said Norman proudly. ‘To get you out. I light up the rubbish in the waste-bin, the balloon fills with hot air, I drift up the shaft to the opening. Then I untie the end of this Pinocchio’s nose bit, the hot air is released, the balloon drifts down again. You tie the nose up again. The balloon re-fills with hot air and you drift up on it to join me at the hole. Now is that clever or what?’
The old boy looked at Norman, he looked at the balloon, he looked at the Pinocchio’s nose and he looked back once again at Norman.
And then he grinned a fearsome grin and slapped the youth soundly on the back. ‘You are a genius,’ he crowed. ‘A veritable genius.’
‘Thank you,’ said Norman. ‘I do my best.’
‘You certainly do. You certainly do. So go on then, sonny, light up the waste-bin. Do your stuff.’
&n
bsp; ‘Ah yes,’ said Norman. ‘Light up the waste-bin.’
‘Light it up, sonny. Light it up.’
‘There must be some way of starting a fire.’ Norman rooted though his grey-flannel trouser pockets. They contained all the standard unsavoury things that fourteen-year-old boys always keep in them. But no matches. Norman considered his digital watch. He’d heard tell that if you took the battery out and crushed it, it would burst into flame. But he had tried that once, and it certainly didn’t work.
Norman glanced around and about. ‘Light-bulb,’ he said. ‘Smash the light-bulb, put something into the socket to cause a short circuit, flash bang, burst of flame.’
‘Oh my word no!’ The old white-bearder stepped back in alarm. ‘You don’t want to go messing with electricity, sonny. You really don’t. Do for you that will. Souls are charged particles. You could short yourself out. You’d cease to exist completely.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I am not. Stay clear of electrical discharge, that’s my advice to you.’
‘Electrical discharge! Oh dear, oh dear.’ Norman shook his ‘Oh dearing’ head. Then, ‘Gunpowder,’ he said. ‘Make gunpowder; all the ingredients are here. Graphite out of old pencils, sulphur out of those,’ Norman pointed to those certain things from which sulphur might easily be extracted. ‘And saltpetre. That’s potassium nitrate.’ Norman ran his finger down the nearest wall. ‘See that white powder, that’s a crystalline compound, forms on bricks in conditions like this. It’s all here.’
‘Seems so,’ the old fellow agreed. ‘Where did you say you were going to get the sulphur from again? I couldn’t quite see where you were pointing.’
‘Er,’ said Norman.
‘Er indeed,’ said the ex-controller.
‘Now just you see here,’ said Norman. ‘Unless we escape from this place and get to Earth and stop whatever is destined to happen before it does, millions of people, if not all people, are going to die. This is a big number. Surely you’d be prepared to overlook a bit of horse’s poo over where the sulphur comes from. I mean, check out the hot-air balloon. We are talking “fantasy” here, after all.’
‘Well,’ the old man shuffled his ragged footwear, ‘I suppose it is remotely possible that all the ingredients to make gunpowder would be down here.’
‘Of course they would.’
‘But to save any embarrassment, why don’t we just use this?’
‘What is that?’
‘It’s my pocket lighter,’ said the ex-controller.
19
‘Did you get us anything to eat?’ asked Tuppe.
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid,’ replied Cornelius. ‘I found a couple of bob in a pay-out tray of a fruit machine. But I reinvested it. Nearly came up three bells. But not quite.’
‘So we have no breakfast.’
‘Not as such. Have you given any thought to the matter of our business partnership?’
‘Cornelius Murphy Productions present Professor Tuppe and . . . no, not a lot,’ said Tuppe. ‘I asked Boris, but he wasn’t keen.’
‘Boris?’ Cornelius asked.
‘That’s my name,’ said the amphibious fellow in the sheep suit. ‘But tell you what, do you like fish?’
‘Love fish,’ said Tuppe.
‘Me too,’ said Cornelius.
‘Well, why don’t I catch us the fish. You get a fire going on the beach and we’ll cook up some breakfast.’
‘I don’t have a fishing-rod,’ said Cornelius.
‘I don’t need a fishing-rod,’ said Boris. ‘Catch them in my teeth.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Tuppe.
‘I am not. What do you favour, flounders or sea bass?’
‘Anything,’ said Cornelius. ‘You’ll want to get out of the sheep suit though, won’t you?’
‘Best not. Don’t want anyone to see me getting back into it.’
‘Well, whatever you please.’
‘Righteo then, give us a lift over the parapet and I’ll dive us up some brekky.’
‘Good one.’ Cornelius lifted Boris up and dropped him over the rail. Plop he went into the sea and sank away from view.
‘He’s a character and that’s for sure,’ said Tuppe. ‘Let’s get down to the beach and start a fire.’
‘Oi you!’ shouted a night fisherman who, with several of his burly mates, had been packing away his gear. ‘We saw that, you sadistic bastard.’
‘Let’s run to the beach,’ said Cornelius. ‘I like an early-morning work-out.’
‘You certainly know how to fry,’ said Boris somewhat later, as he munched upon a mackerel.
‘How do you cook under the sea?’ Tuppe asked. ‘Doesn’t the water put the gas out?’
‘Perhaps they use the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter,’ said Cornelius, tucking into a herring.
‘Don’t take the piddle,’ said Boris. ‘Got you breakfast, didn’t I?’
‘You did,’ said Cornelius. ‘And we’re very grateful. But what are you going to do now? You’ve lost your flying saucer and you’ve missed the secret talks you were supposed to be attending. You can’t stay here and spend the rest of your life disguised as a sheep.’
‘I don’t see that I’ve got much choice,’ said Boris. ‘If I go back they’ll throw me in jail for losing the saucer. Couldn’t I just stick around with you blokes and have a few laughs?’
Cornelius looked at Tuppe.
And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.
‘Of course you could,’ said Tuppe.
‘No he couldn’t, Tuppe. He doesn’t belong here. He’d get found out eventually. He’s quite a convincing sheep, I agree. But not that convincing and, oh come on, it’s an idiot suggestion to spend your life in a sheep costume.’
‘Rod Hull has a right arm that spends its life dressed as an emu,’ said Tuppe. ‘And it’s done all right for itself.’
‘You’ll have to go home,’ said Cornelius. ‘You really will.’
‘I know,’ said Boris. ‘But let’s have a few laughs first, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said Cornelius. ‘Let’s do that.’
‘So,’ said Boris. ‘Shall I dive back into the sea and fish us out a couple of crabs for afters?’
Cornelius looked around and about the beach. It was already starting to fill with folk. And folk with pointing fingers.
‘No,’ said Cornelius Murphy. ‘Whatever you do, don’t do that.’
By noon, a very large crowd had gathered upon the beach, drawn by the sheep-suited one.
‘Fetch, Ben,’ cried a little kid, tossing a stick.
‘He’s good with the children, isn’t he, Cornelius?’ said Tuppe, as Boris bounded off along the beach.
‘He’s drawing a lot of attention,’ said the tall boy. ‘You could earn us a couple of cups of tea, if you would only persuade him into a dance routine. He doesn’t have to do the Moon Walk, a soft-shoe shuffle would suffice.’
‘How can you even suggest such a thing, Cornelius? Boris is born of a wise old superior undersea race. To even hint at inflicting such indignity upon him is nothing less than grotesque.’
‘Tuppe,’ said Cornelius, ‘we are broke. It is not a good thing to be broke at the seaside. At the seaside one should enjoy oneself: take in all the pleasures, make new friends, entertain these new friends.’
‘What new friends?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Well, I was thinking of those two suntanned lovelies over there. The ones in the boob tubes and the white bikini bottoms.’
‘Roll up! Roll up!’ cried Tuppe.
20
Which somehow brings us to the matter of agents.
What is it about the word ‘agent’ that couples it so perfectly with the word ‘dodgy’?
Think about the last time you encountered an ‘agent’. Travel agent? Artist’s agent? Literary agent? Casting agent? Secret agent?
ESTATE AGENT?
Yes, you get the picture. They can’t help themselves. They are the kind of people who are drawn to car
eers as agents. Dodgy, that’s what they are. Slippery. Lawyers are known as ‘legal agents’. Then there’s Advertising Agencies. Dating agencies. Satanic agencies.
So on and so forth.
Yes, you do get the picture.
It’s a giveaway word, is agent. You know deep down in your heart that whenever you deal with an agent you are going to get done.
You’ll try your best not to, of course. You’ll work really hard at it. But you’ll lose in the end, no matter. Because they will be up to something that you know nothing about. They will have what is known as a ‘hidden agenda’.
And the word ‘agenda’ comes from the same Latin root word as does the word agent. That root word is agere, which means literally ‘to do’.
So, there you go really.
David Rodway was an estate agent. In fact, he was Skelington Bay’s only estate agent. Which was strange, considering that Skelington Bay was such a small town. For as anyone who has ever visited an English village will have observed, the smaller the village, the more the estate agents.
David Rodway had worked his way up to his position as the town’s only estate agent. He’d worked hard. Come up the hard way. Escort agencies, time-share agencies. Born agent was David Rodway. He’d been Cardinal Richelieu in a previous incarnation. Although he didn’t know that.
The present controller of the Universal Reincarnation Company knew it, of course.
‘Good-morning, sir,’ said David Rodway to the wild-eyed but well-dressed young man who had entered his premises carrying the bulging suitcase. ‘How might I help you?’
The wild-eyed young man put out his hand; offered a Masonic handshake; received one in return.
A brief and codified conversation ensued. Lodge details and degree hierarchies were exchanged. All appeared to be in order.
The wild-eyed young man seated himself at the estate agent’s behest. He took in his surroundings: slick little set up. Clean carpet. Chairs just comfortable enough. Computer terminal. Modern desk. Greasy little baldy-headed slimeball straightening a Rotary Club tie between the neat pinstriped collars of his Burton’s shirt, jacket off, but sleeves rolled down, initialled cufflinks, sat behind the desk.
The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy Book 3) Page 11
