The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy Book 3)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘But you were sending me down for twenty-three years.’

  ‘Not really. Just for two weeks. Locked up in the cell beneath the County Court, while Mr Rune completed the project that he needed your money to help finance. He didn’t want you getting in the way. But now you are going to get in the way. And I’ll be blamed for it and, oh dear, oh dear.’ Mr Showstein began to blubber.

  Thelma offered him a Kleenex tissue.

  ‘Does this mean my summer season with Boris is cancelled?’ Tuppe asked.

  Blubber and sob, went Mr Showstein.

  ‘Was that a yes or a no?’

  ‘It was a no,’ said Cornelius. ‘Mr Showstein here will see to it that all the necessary contracts are drawn up and signed. Then, if he has any wisdom at all, he will leave Skelington Bay on the first available train and flee to distant parts.’

  ‘Yes,’ blubbered Mr Showstein. ‘In fact, I have the contracts right here. Take them, I shall pack my bags at once.’

  And with no further words said, Mr Showstein drew the contracts from the inner pocket of his violent suit, pressed them into Tuppe’s hands, patted Boris on the head and made a most speedy departure.

  The waitress, now returning with a tray of coloured cocktails watched him scurry from The Manilow. ‘Wot’s up wiv Mr Webley?’ she asked.

  ‘Webley?’ went Tuppe.

  ‘Yeah, that woz Clive Webley, the actor. D’n’cha recognize him? He woz in that film, wot wozzit now? Plan Nine from Outer Space, that woz it, got butchered by Tor Johnson. And he played the janitor in The Savage Bees. Wore a false beard in that’n. And—’

  ‘Surely you’re thinking of Kyle McKintock,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Don’t tork stewpid. Kyle McKintock’s the bloke wot always plays the small-town magistrate. Kyle McKintock! Leave it owt!’

  22

  ‘I wonder if my surname’s McKintock,’ wondered the ex-controller. ‘Sounds about right, doesn’t it? Claude McKintock? How’s the fire coming on, sonny?’

  ‘It’s coming on a treat.’ Norman was warming his hands by the blazing waste-paper bin that he’d strung beneath his unlikely hot-air balloon. The balloon was filling nicely. Pinocchio’s nose was rising like a stiffy.

  ‘What are you going to hold on to then, sonny?’ asked the ancient one. ‘Can’t hang on to the waste-bin; burn your ruddy fingers.’

  ‘I’ve got all that covered. See these? Wire coat-hangers. I’ve twisted them all together and they form this.’

  ‘A little trapeze.’

  ‘A little trapeze, you’ve got it. Secured to the waste-bin. When the balloon starts to rise, it’s onto the trapeze and up I go.’

  ‘Where did you get those wire coat-hangers from?’

  ‘The same place I was going to get the sulphur from.’

  ‘I got my pocket lighter from there,’ said the ancient one. ‘It’s a good place to look when you need something.’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ cried Norman. ‘We have lift off.’

  And indeed they did.

  Gently, gently, all majestic, bulge and rise and—

  ‘Me first, sonny!’ The ancient pushed Norman aside.

  ‘No, me,’ Norman pushed the ancient back. ‘We agreed on this. I’ll go up to the hole, get off and send the balloon back down to you by releasing the hot air.’

  ‘Me first, sonny!’ The ancient gave Norman a harder push.

  ‘No,’ said Norman. ‘This was my idea. I go first.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ The old one snatched at the trapeze as it rose between them and hoisted himself onto it.

  ‘Get off!’ Norman snatched at the old man, tried to drag him from the trapeze.

  ‘Let go of me, sonny, you’ll pull the whole caboodle to pieces.’

  ‘Get off, it’s my turn first.’ Yank, pull.

  ‘I’m on now!’ Kick, elbow.

  ‘Then get off.’ Tug, tug.

  ‘I won’t!’ Knee to stomach.

  ‘You will!’ Headlock, tight on. Fingers interlocked, potential submission hold that one.

  ‘I’m not letting go!’

  ‘Then for God’s sake move over and make room for me,’ cried Norman. ‘My feet aren’t touching the ground any more. We’re going up.’

  ‘We’re going up.’

  And going up they were.

  The airship Pinocchio rose gracefully in the lift shaft.

  Jammed together on the little trapeze, the two intrepid airmen watched the lift shaft floor diminish beneath them and its little lighted area slowly shrink until it was nothing more than a tiny dot.

  And then remain as a tiny dot. And shrink no further.

  ‘We’ve stopped,’ said Claude the ex-controller.

  ‘Does that mean we’re there?’ Norman wriggled about on the overcrowded trapeze. ‘I don’t see any daylight.’

  ‘It means the fire’s going out, sonny. That’s what it means.’

  ‘What?’ Norman all but fell off his perch. ‘This is all your fault. If you’d let me go all alone, I’d have whizzed straight up. Two people have weighed it down too much.’

  The oldster sniffed and grunted. ‘Knowing you’re right must be a real comfort to you, sonny. So what do you propose to do now?’

  ‘Well, er . . .’

  ‘Well, er . . .’

  ‘Er . . . Burn something! Yes, that’s it. Burn something, anything that will burn. Take off your shoes, burn them.’

  ‘I will not. Take yours off. Burn them.’

  ‘I thought of the idea first. You take yours off.’

  ‘No, I shan’t.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘We’re starting to drift back down again,’ said old Claude. ‘I think we’d both better take them off.’

  ‘Poo,’ said Norman. ‘What cheesy feet you’ve got.’

  ‘It’s not my feet that are cheesy, it’s yours.

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘It ruddy is.’

  ‘A vicar named Cheesefoot conducted my funeral,’ said Norman miserably.

  ‘We’ve stopped again,’ said Claude. ‘Your jacket,’ said Norman.

  ‘Your jersey,’ said Claude. ‘Your nasty grey school jersey.’

  ‘My jersey,’ said Norman. ‘Then your jacket.’ And so it went on from there.

  The socks were the next to be tossed up into the flaming waste-bin. The removal of the socks then led to further heated debate. This, however, concluded with an agreement that they should share first prize in the cheesy-feet competition.

  ‘I wish we could go faster,’ said Norman. ‘I’ve got to do something before all those innocent people get wiped out.’

  ‘This will help,’ said Claude, producing a grubby, crumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket.

  ‘A used paper hankie? I don’t think so.’

  ‘This came fluttering down to me years ago,’ Claude waved the thing about. ‘And I kept it. Knew it would be very valuable one day. Hung onto it I did. Knew its worth, see.’

  ‘Then don’t let me part you from it.’

  ‘Pay attention, you little twat.’

  ‘Who are you calling a little twat, you old fart?’

  ‘Just listen,’ said Claude. ‘This is a piece of evidence.’

  ‘Whoopie,’ said Norman. ‘A piece of evidence.’

  The old fellow sighed. ‘It’s about the bastard. That bastard up there and his clones on Earth. The bastard had a son. Son of bastard. Bastard son actually. His name is Cornelius Murphy.’

  ‘So?’ asked Norman.

  ‘So he’s one of the good guys. He’s the one you should seek out to help you once you’re back on Earth.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure I’m sure.’

  ‘So where will I find this son of bastard?’

  ‘I’ll shoot you down to him out of one of the big sky nozzles.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t want to help me?’

  ‘He will.’

 
‘How do you know he will?’

  ‘I just know it, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmmmph,’ said Norman. ‘So how will he be able to see me? The mourners at my funeral couldn’t.’

  ‘I’ll see to that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Don’t ask me all these damn fool questions. sonny, I’m the real controller, I know how the ruddy process works.’

  ‘Yeah but—’

  ‘Yeah but what?’

  ‘You can’t even remember your own name.’

  ‘Yes I can. It’s Claude.’

  ‘Claude what?’

  ‘I’ve remembered what it is, but I’m not going to tell you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’d laugh if you knew.’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘Oh yes you would.’

  ‘Oh no I would not.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ said Norman.

  ‘Cross your heart then.’

  ‘Good God.’ Norman crossed his heart.

  ‘Its Claude mmmmmmm,’ said the ex-controller.

  ‘I don’t think I quite caught the last bit,’ said Norman.

  ‘It’s Claude Buttocks!’ said Mr Claude Buttocks. ‘Claude BUTTOCKS.’

  ‘Claude Buttocks? What like in, clawed buttocks?’ Norman fell about in mirth and nearly fell off the trapeze.

  ‘You little bastard. You promised you wouldn’t laugh.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Norman dabbed at his eyes. ‘But I’m still only a kid. Bum jokes make me laugh.’

  ‘Hey, look there.’ The ex-controller pointed with a wizened, crooked finger. ‘See it, sonny?’

  By the light of the flaming waste-bin, Norman saw it. The inside of the big iron door. ‘Are we nearly at the hole?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep, just a wee bit more.’

  ‘Bung your shirt on the fire then.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Your shirt, it’s your turn.’

  ‘No it’s not, it’s yours.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Aw come on. Oh!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Oh.’ Norman saw the light. A glorious bright little lozenge it was. Easily big enough to climb through. Right there in the wall opposite the door which had just passed beneath (so to speak).

  ‘We’re there!’ Claude bobbed up and down and did hysterical gigglings. ‘We’ve made it, sonny. Stop the balloon. Let’s get going.’

  ‘Right,’ said Norman. ‘Stop the balloon. Stop the balloon?’

  ‘Pinocchio’s hooter, like you said.’

  ‘Pinocchio’s hooter, right.’ Norman gazed up. He could almost make out Pinocchio’s hooter, high up on the balloon. Above the red-hot waste-bin. Completely out of reach.

  ‘You little pillock.’ Claude smote Norman in the left earhole. ‘We’re passing it by. Do something. Do something!’

  Norman glared at Claude.

  And Claude glared at Norman.

  ‘Jump!’ they agreed.

  23

  ‘It’s very noisy in here,’ said Mr Craik, gazing about the crowded room.

  ‘Noisy is good’, said Mr Rodway, ‘for conspirators. In case you’re being bugged.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about bugging,’ said Mr Craik. ‘I work for the British government.’

  ‘Very funny, squire, very funny. So what do you think of the place, eh?’

  They were now in the Skelington Bay Grande, of course. In The Casablanca dining-suite. It was a ‘theme’ dining suite. Lynne had given her artistic talent its full head. Which you can take any way you want, really.

  The walls were imaginatively decorated with slightly out of focus black-and-white blow-ups of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. And a couple that were possibly of Plan Nine from Outer Space. There was a less-than-grand piano, which had been given a coat of white gloss and at this sat a large and miserable-looking man in a white tuxedo and dicky bow. He moved his fingers about several inches above the keyboard in time to the music-from-the-film cassette that blared from a ghetto-blaster between his spatted brogues.

  The tables had nice clean tablecloths on. And an aficionado of the swirly-whirly carpet tile would have found much to recommend the place.

  ‘So, what do you think, eh?’ asked Mr Rodway.

  ‘It has noise going for it,’ said Mr Craik.

  ‘And crumpet,’ said Mr Rodway. ‘Good place to pick up some tail, if you catch my drift. Look at those two who’ve just come in.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There,’ Mr Rodway pointed towards a brace of beauties, who now sat several tables away, laughing and joking with a tall boy, a short boy and a sheep.

  ‘They have a sheep with them,’ Mr Craik observed.

  Mr Rodway leaned over and whispered something obscene into Mr Craik’s ear. Mr Craik’s wild eyes took on a wilder look. ‘They never do!’ he said.

  ‘I’ll go over and ask them for you if you like.’

  ‘No, please don’t. We are here to discuss the fine details of your plan for clearing Skelington Bay. Particularly those regarding the financial aspects, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘Surely do, squire, surely do.’ The estate agent lit up a small cigar and spoke, as one would, through the smoke. ‘What we have to do’, he said, ‘is quarantine the entire town. Spread rumours first, then some kind of official announcement, from the town hall. Fleet of trucks, brought in to move everyone out. Then close off the roads. Once they’re all out, split them up, some to this town, some to that. Then tell them that Skelington Bay is going to have to remain in quarantine for ten years to be on the safe side and pay them all off.’

  ‘I’m very impressed,’ said Stephen Craik. ‘You will be organizing the paying off, for an agent’s fee, I suppose?’

  ‘Good idea. It hadn’t crossed my mind.’

  ‘No, I’ll bet it hadn’t. But surely this could be very dangerous. Panic, riot, civil unrest. Chaos. Think of the hardship. The human misery.’

  David Rodway made the face of one trying hard to imagine such things. But he couldn’t quite pull it off ‘I am an estate agent,’ said he, puff-puffing on his small cigar. ‘The concept of human suffering has no meaning to me.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Stephen Craik. ‘I was just testing. Had to be sure. Couldn’t take any chances that I might be dealing with a humanitarian.’

  ‘No danger of that, squire. You’ll be wanting a receipt for the rest of the money in your suitcase, won’t you?’

  ‘I will as soon as I’ve spent it on something, yes.’

  ‘But you have, squire, you have. My shop, remember? I’ll wager that the figure I require for the purchase of my shop comes to exactly the amount you have left in your suitcase.’

  ‘I think it well might,’ said Stephen Craik. ‘Minus a twenty per cent deduction to cover my own fees in this matter and all further matters to come.’

  ‘Did I hear you say a ten per cent deduction?’

  ‘I think you heard me say a fifteen per cent deduction.’

  ‘I think I heard you loud and clear, squire. So what say we order up a bottle of bubbly to seal the deal and start the rumour spreading?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.

  ‘Waitress!’

  The waitress was serving a bottle of bubbly to the table where the tall boy, the short boy, the brace of beauties and the sheep were sitting.

  ‘Enjoy your meal,’ said Lola, tottering off.

  Tuppe raised his champagne flute. ‘To Boris,’ he toasted.

  ‘To Boris,’ all agreed.

  ‘Cheers, friends,’ said Boris sucking on both straws.

  ‘How does he do that?’ asked Louise.

  ‘He’s not a real sheep,’ whispered Tuppe. ‘It’s a bloke in a suit.’

  ‘Aw rats!’ Louise stretched forward and clouted Boris in the ear. ‘I’ve been tickling his stomach for half an hour, no wonder he was getting so excited.’

  ‘I’m having a great time, la
ds,’ giggled Boris.

  ‘I think Boris is getting a bit drunk,’ said Tuppe to Cornelius.

  ‘Well he deserves it, he’s earned us lunch.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s earned us quite as much as that, Cornelius. In fact, I fear that we’ll be many pounds short in the bill-paying department.’

  ‘Leave the bill to us,’ said Thelma. ‘Our treat for nicking your car.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t have any money,’ Cornelius said.

  Thelma shook her golden head. ‘We don’t. We’re skint.’

  ‘Then how?’

  ‘We’re professional criminals,’ said Louise.

  ‘Took it as a sixth-form subject,’ said Thelma. ‘Going on to do it as a degree course at university in the autumn.’

  ‘Nice one,’ said Cornelius. ‘I had thought of doing that myself. But I chose to be an epic adventurer instead.’

  ‘So what kind of crime do you specialize in?’ Tuppe asked.

  Thelma sipped champagne. ‘Victimless mostly at the moment. Insurance frauds, small-scale stock market swindles, supermarket heists, that kind of thing.’

  ‘We’ll probably open up an agency of some sort, once we’re fully qualified,’ said Louise. ‘But how did you come by all the money that this Hugo Rune’s ripped you off for?’

  ‘That’s a long story,’ said Cornelius. ‘And I won’t bore you with it here. But the sources from which all the wealth derived have now dried up.’

  ‘But you’ll get all your money back from this Rune somehow, won’t you?’

  ‘Probably. But I don’t think I really want it back. When you can have anything you want, you soon find out that there’s very little you actually need.’

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ said Louise.

  ‘We’d be happy to swindle you out of your money,’ said Thelma. ‘If you think it would help.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Cornelius. ‘Call for some more champagne, Tuppe, while I help Boris back onto his chair.’

  ‘Waitress!’ called Tuppe.

  The waitress was serving champagne to Mr Rodway. Mr Rodway was speaking to Mr Craik in what is known in theatrical circles (and most others, really, except possibly crop circles) as a ‘stage whisper’.