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

by Robert Rankin

  Cornelius chewed upon his bottom lip. Difficult one to answer, that. And no time left for reason. ‘Well, right, I suppose.’

  ‘I am right,’ Norman said.

  ‘But it’s a very dangerous plan.’

  ‘I’m dead, Cornelius. There’s no danger at all involved for me. You’ll still have to blow up the piers, of course. But I think I’ll be doing my bit for the good of mankind.’

  ‘Fair enough. What about you, Tuppe?’

  ‘Well,’ said Tuppe. ‘I know it was my idea to blow up the piers, but I’m having second thoughts now. We may be trying to blow up the wrong end. I think we should blow up the radio masts, then the electricity can’t reach the piers.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Also,’ said Tuppe, ‘if Boris could simply swipe back his saucer and fly off in it, the Runes would have to abort the whole operation, having no escape craft. I don’t think they’d risk the chance that they’d be amongst the point-one survivors. Not here.’

  ‘Another good point,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tuppe. ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘I’m going to commit suicide,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

  ‘What?’ went Tuppe and all.

  ‘Well, if I can get up to The Universal Reincarnation Company, I might be able to stop the controller sending out his signal.’

  ‘That’s a terrible idea,’ said Norman. ‘You’d hate being dead. It’s a real bummer, I can tell you. And anyway you don’t have to go up there. I’ve told you all about Old Claude. He’ll sort out the large controller. You see if he doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said the large controller. ‘If it isn’t Old Claude.’

  ‘Mr Buttocks to you, you bastard.’

  ‘Buttocks?’ asked Chunky. ‘Claude Buttocks? As in clawed buttocks? What a hoot, eh, Rune?’

  ‘Enough from you,’ said the large controller. ‘And you.’ He took Claude by the ear. ‘You meddling old lunatic. You’re in for severe chastisement.’

  ‘Let go of my ear.’ Claude wriggled like a maggot on a fish hook, which had a certain cruel irony about it. Although it was not one Claude wished to delve into. ‘Let go of me, I say.’

  ‘I shall take you apart a piece at a time, draw the nerves from your body and eat them one by one. Hell may have closed down, but I still hold the key. We’ll have the place all to ourselves.’

  ‘You don’t frighten me,’ said Old Claude, which wasn’t altogether true.

  ‘Muse upon it.’ The large controller gave Claude’s ear a very vicious twist. ‘It’s back to the lift shaft for you now. The little hole you crawled out of has been all plugged up. I’ll call for you in a couple of hours, when my pressing business is complete.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  Twist went Claude’s ear.

  ‘Ooooooh!’

  ‘Quite so. And where do you think you’re off to, Chunky?’

  ‘Nowhere, Rune. Perish the thought. Just wondering where the dancing girlies were, that’s all. ’

  ‘You’ll have your dancing girlies. But you . . .’ Another twist of the ear and a lot of dragging away.

  ‘No, let me go.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  In between the big machines and over to that terrible door again. Ear held firmly in one hand, bolts drawn with the other. Then through.

  ‘See you soon,’ called the large controller.

  ‘Aaaaaaaagh!’ went the ex-one.

  ‘So, I’m telling you, he’ll take care of it.’ Norman felt quite sure about this. ‘Very noble thought, Cornelius. In fact, as noble as it’s possible to get. But not a good idea. Trust me on this, I really know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I wish I could see him,’ said Boris. ‘Most disconcerting — this voice just kind of coming out of nowhere.’

  ‘I’ll grow on you, Boris. I did on Cornelius. And say, when you get your flying saucer back, would you take me for a ride in it?’

  ‘Certainly will.’

  ‘I think we should be getting a move on,’ said Cornelius. ‘What time is it now, Boris?’

  Boris consulted his watch. ‘Nearly nine o’clock.’

  ‘Nearly nine o’clock? It was nearly nine o’clock when we met up with Norman.

  ‘No, it was nearly ten,’ said the dead boy. ‘I was late, sorry.

  ‘Then what time is it now?’

  ‘Still nearly ten,’ said Norman, rattling his watch against his ear.

  ‘My watch has stopped,’ said Boris. ‘Luckily its under guarantee.’

  ‘Mine isn’t,’ said Norman. ‘But it’s stopped too.’

  ‘So what time is it?’

  ‘Listen, Cornelius,’ said Tuppe. And in the distance, as if on cue, the town hall clock began to chime.

  Nine . . . Ten . . . ‘Eleven!’ shrieked the crew of The Lovely Lynne

  ‘Gawd,’ said Norman, plucking two grenades from the deck. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  ‘There’s a rubber dinghy at the stern of the boat,’ said Cornelius. ‘Load the grenades in that. You don’t want to get them wet.’

  ‘Could I load myself in too?’ Tuppe asked. ‘The flaw in my plan is that I can’t swim.

  ‘You and Norman get in,’ said Boris. ‘I’ll swim and tow you.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Norman. ‘The flaw in my plan is that in my present condition I probably can’t swim either.’

  ‘So many plans, so many flaws,’ said Cornelius. ‘OK, get to it. You try for the radio masts, Tuppe. I’ll start blasting away at the piers in as near to twenty minutes as I can get, counting seconds in my head.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Tuppe. ‘Once more I am filled with confidence.’

  ‘You will be very careful, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be OK. I would like to reinstate that running gag about people not noticing me. If it’s all right by you.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Boris tripped over Tuppe and fell straight into the dinghy. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t notice you there.’

  ‘Nice one, Cornelius,’ said Tuppe.

  They’d have blackened their faces, if they’d had anything to blacken them with. Cornelius suggested some of the cow poo that was still clinging to him. No-one seemed keen.

  He waved them away in the dinghy; sat down upon the deck and began to count seconds. It was all very iffy, was this.

  The chances of success did not seem altogether good.

  The dinghy vanished away into the shadows beneath the west pier.

  Cornelius counted and counted.

  After what seemed an age, but was really only three hundred and fourteen almost equal seconds, the dinghy appeared once more and set off across the bay bound for the east pier.

  Something made a large splashing sound near to the boat and Cornelius lost count. ‘Whatever was that?’ he asked himself. ‘Pilot fish perhaps?’

  He began to count once more. Splash went another loud splash.

  ‘Damn it,’ said Cornelius Murphy. ‘Five hundred and eighty-two, five hundred and eighty—’

  Splash went another splash. Somewhat nearer than the other two splashes had been. The dinghy had made no further appearance, Cornelius assumed correctly that Boris would be towing it ashore in the shadows beneath the east pier, to land in the blackened burnt-out area of Skelington Bay. And the tall boy began to have many second thoughts.

  He shouldn’t have let Tuppe go. Why had he done that? Tuppe should have stayed in the relative safety of the boat. He could have fired the mortar. Well, OK, no he couldn’t have fired the mortar, but he would have been safer. And Cornelius wouldn’t have just been sitting here, counting away the seconds until the end of the world, losing count every time a fish went splash. ‘Seven hundred and thirty-four, seven hundred and thirty-five, oh damn. How many seconds are there in twenty minutes? Twenty times sixty. Two sixes are twelve, then you’d carry zeros.’

  Mathematics had never been one of the tall boy’s strong points. No
r had games or woodwork. Cornelius had his own talents, different talents that cut him out from the norm. His acute sense of smell for one. He could sniff what you had in your pockets, tell you how much loose change and of what denomination. Not that he’d found much use for this particular talent of late, although it had got him out of trouble at times.

  Cornelius sniffed while he counted. Seaside towns are full of wonderful smells: the candyfloss, the hot dogs, the Lilos and beachballs and suntan lotion. Sea shells and seaweed and . . .

  Ah.

  Cornelius took a nose-full. The reek of sulphur had him on his back. ‘What the hey?’

  Something else went splash. And the boat gave a shudder. And Cornelius realized that he was no longer alone.

  ‘OK,’ said Boris as he beached the dinghy deep within the shadows of the east pier. ‘We’re on our own now. Good luck, Tuppe, it’s been good to know you.’

  ‘Good to know you too, Boris. If we get back together perhaps we might make a go of that dancing-sheep act.’

  ‘Yeah, right. And even though I still can’t see you, good luck, Norman.’

  Two hand-grenades levitated from the dinghy.

  ‘Neat trick,’ said Boris.

  ‘Good luck to you,’ said Norman. ‘And don’t forget I want a ride in your flying saucer.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  And with those words said the three went their separate ways. The Magonian, the dead boy and the small man.

  Bound for what, was anybody’s guess.

  ‘I know I’ve counted twenty minutes,’ whispered Tuppe, as he hiked up the beach. ‘And it’s going to be a fair old march to Druid’s Tor, a bit of an uproar wouldn’t go amiss, Cornelius. What’s keeping you?’

  ‘Get back,’ Cornelius Murphy brought the rifle butt down into the face of the evil winged beastie that was clambering onto The Lovely Lynne. The thing sank back into the waves, groaning dismally.

  But another was coming up at the pointy end.

  Cornelius charged along the boat, swung the rifle by the barrel, clouted the beastie into the sea.

  Another screeched down at him from the roof of the cabin. Cornelius fumbled with the rifle, trying to get it around the right way and release the safety catch. The thing hopped down and stalked along the deck towards him. Cornelius took a hasty aim and fired. No sound. No bullets in the rifle.

  The thing waggled a scaly finger, blinked blood-red eyes, snapped its beak and stalked forward once more. Cornelius dropped to his knees and smashed the rifle butt down upon an eagle-clawed foot.

  ‘Waaaaah!’ went the beastie, hopping about.

  Cornelius gave it another wallop. Side of the beak. Caught the thing off balance. It plunged into the ocean.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ Cornelius snatched up the mortar. ‘There isn’t an instruction manual with this, I suppose.’

  No, there wasn’t.

  ‘I think you just sort of aim it and drop the mortar shell down the barrel.’

  ‘Grrrr!’ went a beastie, clawing its way onto the boat. Cornelius stamped up and down on its talons and the beastie fell away.

  ‘I’m in big trouble here.’ He fumbled with the mortar tube. The boat was rocking all over the place now. Cornelius struggled to insert the shell. He only had half a dozen. And these were now rolling about dangerously.

  ‘Grrrr!’ went another something, coming up from behind. Cornelius turned, fell backwards. The mortar shell shot down the tube, activated whatever mechanism launched these kinds of things and erupted from the killing end of the weapon with a mighty roar.

  The beastie took to lurching in twisted circles. It now lacked a head.

  ‘Urgh!’ went Cornelius, booting it over the side.

  Explode! went the mortar shell, striking home in the mangled car wreckage on the beach.

  ‘Careful,’ cried Tuppe, taking to his little heels.

  ‘Alert, alert,’ went loud hailers. ‘Gunboat in the bay. We are under major assault. Fall into battle positions.’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Cornelius, struggling to his feet, and feeling for broken shoulder bones. ‘And I don’t like the sound of it one bit. Let’s stick another shell in here.’

  And ‘Grrrrr!’ went another beastie.

  ‘Gunboats in the bay,’ went suited-Rune from his steamer chair in the vicarage garden. ‘That’s not on the curriculum, surely?’

  ‘Chunky’s blokes buggering about probably,’ Rune of the Mayor’s gown poured port from a separate bottle. ‘Have a glass of this, brother, it will hit the spot.’

  Crash, bang, wallop, went Old Claude, hitting something.

  Bit of a long time falling?

  Well. This may have happened a bit earlier.

  Hard to say, really.

  ‘Ouch, my bloody bum!’ went Old Claude.

  ‘Stuff me!’ went Jack Bradshaw. ‘It’s Ben Gu—’

  ‘Don’t bother with it, sonny. It doesn’t get a laugh. And who are you, for fig’s sake?’

  ‘Bradshaw. Jack Bradshaw.’

  ‘What are you doing at the bottom of my lift shaft, Jack Bradshaw?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jack.

  ‘Clerical error, was it? Found out something you shouldn’t?’

  ‘Threw in my lot with a bad crowd,’ was Jack’s explanation.

  ‘The bastard threw you down here, did he?’

  ‘If you mean the controller, yes.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it, eh?’

  ‘Well, actually,’ said Jack, ‘I was in the process of escaping.’

  ‘Oh yes. And how?’

  ‘I’m going to make gunpowder,’ said Jack. ‘Grind up these old pencils for charcoal, use the potassium nitrate that’s crystallizing on the walls and get sulphur from . . . er—’

  ‘I’ll gather the sulphur for you, sonny, it’s over there in the place you get the wire coat-hangers and the pocket lighter from.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Jack.

  ‘Grrr!’ went that beastie again.

  ‘Open fire!’ went men along the shoreline.

  ‘Get away,’ went Cornelius clouting the beastie in the stomach with his mortar.

  ‘Whoosh!’ went a flare, lighting up the entire area.

  ‘Damn,’ went Cornelius, well lit.

  ‘Grrr!’ went the beastie.

  Clout! went the tall boy.

  ‘Ouch!’ went the beastie, falling off the boat.

  ‘Good riddance!’ went the tall boy, shaking his mortar in defiance.

  Bang! went the muzzle of a Sherman tank.

  Wheeeee! went its shell.

  Clunk! went the shell from the tall boy’s mortar, falling out onto the deck. Then whoosh it went, igniting and firing vertically into the air.

  Down came the shell from the tank.

  And down, came the shell from the mortar.

  ‘Abandon ship!’ cried Cornelius Murphy, leaping over the side.

  37

  Boris had been creeping along in the darkness at the edge of town that Bruce Springsteen used to sing about. He saw the flare as it lit up the bay. He saw the tank fire and he saw something or other occur on The Lovely Lynne.

  And then he saw the big explosion.

  And then he felt very sick inside and crept on.

  Tuppe saw it too and he prayed very hard and struggled towards the Tor.

  Norman didn’t see it. He was lost up a back street. But as he didn’t know where the Hugo Runes were, he didn’t know that he was lost and going in the wrong direction. So he just continued on.

  Wrongly.

  ‘Gulp and gasp,’ went Cornelius, narrowly avoiding going down for that old third time. ‘I’m still alive, which is something.’

  Splash! went something quite nearby.

  But as the flare had died away and the flaming wreckage of The Lovely Lynne had sunk beneath the waves, it was very dark, so Cornelius couldn’t tell exactly where the splash came from. He struck out for the shore.

  Bad choice.

  Ding dong, Ding dong, went
the chimes of the town hall clock, ringing out the half-hour.

  ‘More port?’ asked Rune of the mayoral cloak. ‘Let me top up your glass.’

  ‘Get a bloody move on, Jack Bradshaw,’ shouted Old Claude. ‘Tamp it into something and blow the wall down, come on now.’

  ‘Ready for the final countdown here, Chunky,’ said the large controller. ‘I have erased all of Claude’s nonsense from the Karmascope. In thirty minutes’ time the old Earth will come to an end and the dawn of a new millennium will begin.’

  ‘Any chance of a deal on the scrap metal?’ Chunky enquired.

  Storm clouds were gathering above Skelington Bay. Boris could hear them at it. Well, he did come from a superior race after all.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Boris, creeping from the darkness, back to the light that Brian May used to sing about. ‘There’s my saucer.’

  And there it was, perched upon its tripod legs in the road outside the vicarage.

  It looked in pretty good nick. The government boffins had evidently done repairs on it.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Boris, creeping up.

  Nobody about.

  Up and in.

  Boris scrambled up, lifted the transparent dome and dropped down inside. He rammed oversized headphones over his ears and flicked switches on the dashboard. ‘Ambassador to base,’ he whispered. ‘Ambassador to base.’

  Long silence.

  Then.

  ‘Base to Ambassador. Is that you, Mavis?’

  ‘Is that you, Bryant?’

  ‘Yeah it’s me, how are you doing?’

  ‘None the better for listening to you. Mavis! Sheep outfit! Erich Von bloody Daniken! You turbot’s turd, Bryant!’

  ‘Only having a laugh. No offence meant.’

  ‘Well, much taken. Listen, we have a real emergency here.’

  ‘Are you winding me up now, or what?’

  ‘No, I’m not. This is for real. King Hugo’s a fraud. He’s not the king of this country at all. And at exactly midnight he is going to pump trillions of volts into the sea.’