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

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Then I know what he’s up to,’ said Norman. ‘We did it in science with that moron Mr Bailey. Every cubic mile of sea water contains $93,000,000 worth of gold.’

  ‘It never does,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘It does too.’

  Tuppe passed this intelligence to Cornelius.

  ‘It never does,’ said the tall boy.

  ‘Apparently it does,’ said Tuppe. ‘With earlier bracketed notes attesting to the fact, apparently.’

  ‘Gold from the sea?’ Cornelius gave that some thought. ‘But surely it can’t be done. If it could be done someone would have done it by now.’

  ‘There’s nothing that can’t be done,’ said Norman. ‘Only things that have not been done yet.’

  ‘Did you get that out of a Christmas cracker?’ Thelma asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Norman. ‘But think about it, it all fits together. The books Cornelius saw about electrostatics and electroplating.’

  Tuppe passed this on to Cornelius.

  ‘Go on,’ said he.

  ‘Electroplating,’ said Norman. ‘We did that in science. You put two electrodes into an electrolyte, a saline solution of something, and pass a current through them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tuppe, ‘but if you wanted to draw the gold out of the sea that way you’d need a pretty monstrous pair of electrodes.’

  ‘You would,’ said Norman. ‘And Cornelius saw them coloured in on the maps like he just told us. It’s the twin piers.’

  ‘The piers?’

  ‘The piers?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘The piers,’ said Norman, pleased as a dead boy could be pleased. ‘If you electrified the piers, passed a massive current through these, it might just work.’

  ‘It wouldn’t,’ said Tuppe. ‘The sea’s too big, it would short out your power supply.’

  ‘I’m following this from what I can hear of it,’ said Cornelius. ‘And there was a computer printout in Rune’s room about the National Grid, and it had something like “NOT ENOUGH POWER” scrawled across the bottom.’

  ‘But it has to be it,’ said Norman. ‘The deadly electrical discharge, this has to be what Rune plans to do.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see where he’d get all the energy from,’ said Tuppe. ‘There wouldn’t be enough electrical power on Earth, he’d have to get it from somewhere else.’

  ‘Somewhere else.’ Norman ran his fingers through his Beatle cut and chewed at his bottom lip. And then he had the mother of all mental flashes. It was of billions of souls encircling the sun. Each of which was in itself an immensely powerful electrically charged particle. A particle that could be manipulated by Rune’s controller doppelgänger with his big sky nozzles. A particle that could be wiped out for ever and ever. Used up. Snuffed out in the cause of electrical discharge.

  ‘Oh shit!’ said Norman.

  ‘I heard that,’ said Cornelius.

  31

  ‘God’s teeth!’ spat Hugo Rune. ‘What am I doing dead? What am I doing here?’

  The large controller stared his unliving double eye to eye. ‘You’re all wet,’ he observed.

  ‘You get wet when you drown. Go somewhat bonkers also. I swear that at the moment of my death I saw sheep go swimming by.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a ship sailing by.’

  ‘It was nothing of the sort. But I shouldn’t be here. I should be being born again as myself on my original birthday. Why have you brought me up here?’

  ‘I wished to warn you,’ said the large controller. ‘We have had something of a “situation” up here. As you are well aware, the success of our operation here depends on nothing ever getting done. As long as we only employ loafers, who sit around all day squeezing their spots and testing the aerodynamics of paper darts, then you and I and the other three of us are free to go on undetected, growing ever in power, until we control all.’

  ‘This is the purpose of the exercise, yes. Absolute control of absolutely everything.’

  ‘Well, we have come slightly unstuck,’ said the large controller. ‘An oaf that Jack Bradshaw took on found out a good deal more than he should and has absconded with his knowledge.’

  ‘How?’ Rune asked. ‘And to where?’

  ‘Shot himself back to Earth from one of the big sky nozzles. And according to the readout on the screen, straight to our son Cornelius.’

  ‘Shot himself back?’

  The two Runes looked at each other.

  ‘Buttocks,’ they said.

  ‘I will deal with Mr Buttocks,’ said the large controller. ‘But now we must return you to your former self on your original birthday. Conduct our affairs with a little more care next time.’

  ‘Have no fear of that. You may expect our son’s file to vanish into nothing. I shall be practising safe sex with his mother next time around.’

  ‘Excellent, then we will continue as before. Kindly squeeze yourself into this little bullet affair and I’ll blast you back into the past.’

  ‘Rune does not squeeze himself into anything. Launch me from one of the other big sky nozzles.’

  ‘None of the others actually work anymore,’ said the large controller. ‘It’s squeeze into this one or nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Outrageous.’

  ‘But nevertheless so. Come now and I’ll help ram you in.’

  ‘Preposterous.’

  But it had to be so. And with struggling and straining and effing and blinding it was finally, outrageously, preposterously so.

  ‘Grmmph mmph bmmph,’ went the Rune in the bullet-shaped affair.

  ‘I’ve pre-programmed you,’ said the large controller. ‘I have but to push the button, so I shall.’

  And so he did.

  There was the necessary Whoomph!, the gush of flame and Rune was on his way.

  Back on Earth and many years before, Hugo Rune awoke. He yawned and smacked his lips together. New born and eager for the nipple.

  But where had the nursery ceiling gone? He appeared to be out in the open air and moving along a pace. A ride in the pram, perhaps, with dearest nanny? That was surely it.

  But it wasn’t. Rune became aware of a heaving and squirming against him. A most acrid stench hung over all.

  Rune made to cry out ‘What is this?’ but found to his alarm that he was speechless. His mouth seeming no more than a rudimentary slit. He tried to strike out at the vile objects heaving around him, but discovered to his further alarm, and with a good deal of growing horror, that he possessed neither arms nor legs.

  Something huge beyond proportion blotted out the sky, came down upon him, lifted him high. He saw a face. A human face, but vast, the size of a house. It was grinning. And he could see the hand that held him. Held him? Rune? The most amazing man who ever lived?

  ‘Here’s a real nice fat one,’ said the human face. A boy’s face. A grinning boy’s face. His own face. ‘Give us a number-nine hook and we’ll bait it up with him.’

  ‘No!’ Rune wriggled and squirmed.

  ‘He’s a lively one,’ said the young Hugo Rune. Six years old. The squirming Rune recalled the fishing trip. He recalled the maggot tin.

  ‘There’s been a terrible mistake!’ screamed squirming Rune, but silently. And then the hook went in.

  ‘Good luck, Hugo,’ said the large controller striding away towards the lift.

  ‘He he he,’ Old Claude popped his head up from behind the bullet-packing end of the big sky nozzle. ‘You may have pre-programmed the bastard, you bastard, but I shifted a few digits about when your back was turned. One down and four to go, I reckon.’

  And Claude danced a merry little dance.

  The most amazing man who ever lived sank deeply into the perfumed waters of his marble bath-tub and sought once more to compose the final equation in his formula for the universal panacea and elixir of life.

  And he would have done it too.

  But for . . .

  ‘Get out of that bedroom and do some work, you lazy good-for-nothing, or I’ll have my husband Cyril b
ash down the door!’

  The most amazing man awoke with a start.

  To find a ticket inspector smiling down at him.

  ‘So sorry to awaken you, Mr Rune, but I wonder if I might punch your ticket.’

  ‘Where my manservant Rizla?’ this new Rune asked.

  ‘Breakfasting in the first-class dining-car, sir.’

  ‘I shall have to put my own hand into my pocket then.’ Rune did so and fished out his first-class first-class ticket.

  ‘First class,’ said the inspector, clipping it.

  ‘When do we arrive at Skelington Bay?’ Rune enquired, returning his ticket to his poodle-skin ticket case (a present from Zsa Zsa Gabor), and slipping this into the inner pocket of his green tweed suit.

  ‘This train terminates at Bramfield Halt, sir. Skelington Bay is under some kind of quarantine.’

  ‘But I might engage the services of a hackney carriage to convey me there?’

  ‘They won’t let you through the road blocks, sir, the population has been evacuated.’

  ‘I am here on Downing Street business,’ said Rune. ‘To complete a task begun by my, er, twin brother. They will let me through.’

  ‘As you will then, sir. I’ll have a cab summoned for you as soon as we arrive.’

  ‘Have my manservant awaken me then. Farewell.’

  ‘Farewell, sir.’

  ‘Well, we’ve not said farewell to Rune,’ said Norman. ‘Like I told you there’re five separate versions of him in circulation, another will probably be on its way here now to replace the one that went off the pier.’

  ‘Then he must be stopped,’ said Cornelius. ‘If he’s allowed to go ahead with this he’ll not only kill off everybody who’s alive, he’ll kill off the souls of all the dead people too.’

  ‘That’s definitely a first for anyone,’ said Tuppe. ‘I’m glad you can hear Norman now, Cornelius, it’s so much more convenient, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ahem,’ said the tall boy.

  ‘But I don’t understand why everyone will die,’ said Louise.

  ‘Electrical discharge,’ said Norman. ‘Rune will electrify the entire ocean. That’s two thirds of the world, he’ll short out the whole planet.’

  ‘Yes, but then he’ll die too.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know that,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Perhaps if he was told,’ said Cornelius. ‘If I could find the right Rune. My genuine father.’

  Norman shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’d give a damn. Remember the controller at the URC is Rune too and from what I gleaned from Jack Bradshaw, pre-incarnation is a secret that even God doesn’t know about.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘It’s only a thought,’ said Norman, ‘but I reckon that Hugo Rune might be planning to overthrow God.’

  ‘What?’ The Murphy head went up, the Murphy hair came down.

  ‘Well, I said it was only a thought.’

  ‘It’s a terribly bad one!’

  ‘I agree, but the real controller told me that he thinks Rune is the very Devil himself. After all, Hell did get closed down, so what happened to all the demons and stuff? Made redundant? I don’t know.’

  ‘Does this make me Son of Satan?’ Cornelius enquired. ‘Should I look for a triple-six birthmark on my bonce, or something?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s only a thought.’

  Cornelius climbed to his feet. ‘We must act, we have enough time.’

  ‘You must kill off all the Runes,’ said Norman. ‘Your dad too.’

  ‘Get real,’ said Cornelius. ‘Would you kill your dad?’

  Norman shrugged. ‘Well, he killed me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘I know a way,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Cornelius. ‘Then I am prepared to hear it now, before I try some other way and you tell me it’s not the way you would have done it.’

  ‘Blow up the piers,’ said Tuppe. ‘No piers, no electrodes. No electrodes, no electrical dischargings. No patricide required. There you go.’

  Bit of a silence.

  ‘You genius,’ said Norman.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘It is very good,’ Cornelius agreed. ‘But where would you get the explosives from?’

  ‘I know a place,’ said Norman. ‘I got some wire coathangers from there a little while back. But what is that terrible noise?’

  And a terrible noise it was.

  Of roaring engines and bellowing loud hailers.

  ‘It’s the cars,’ howled Tuppe. ‘They’ve broken through the barricades.’

  ‘It’s not the cars,’ said Cornelius, gazing over the heads of many thousands who were now leaping to their feet. ‘It’s military vehicles, coming along the road from London. A whole convoy.’

  ‘Nice one,’ said Tuppe. ‘I was going to mention the difficulties we might encounter with the cars when we tried to blow up the piers, but I didn’t want to go complicating the issue.’

  ‘Or spoil your applause,’ Norman suggested.

  ‘Yeah well,’ said Tuppe. ‘But the Army will soon sort out the cars. Hoorah for the soldier boys.’

  ‘Attention. Attention,’ went the loud hailers atop the beefy half-tracks and armoured personnel carriers. ‘This area is now under martial law. Please gather up your personal possessions and prepare to be evacuated for your own safety at once. This is an emergency situation and we are empowered to employ necessary force . Anyone attempting to remain behind on this hill, or re-enter the town will be considered a looter and shot. It’s nothing personal, you understand.’

  ‘Bummer, bummer, bummer,’ said Norman.

  ‘Never say die,’ said Cornelius. ‘No offence meant. But we’ll find a way to sneak back in. We’ve enough time. It will take more than a few soldiers at roadblocks to stop me.’

  ‘That’s him,’ yelled a voice, near at hand.

  Cornelius turned.

  ‘Yeah, that’s definitely him,’ said another voice.

  Two men were approaching in the company of many policemen.

  The first man was unknown to Cornelius, the second looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Sorry, do I know you?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘You bloody should!’ screamed the first man. Medium height, gone somewhat to seed in middle age. Appalling ‘golfing’ sweater and slacks of a man-made fibre. All over smoke-blackened in appearance. ‘My name is Kevin and you burned down my bloody hotel!’

  ‘I did no such thing.’ Cornelius now found himself ringed around by policemen. ‘You have the wrong man.’

  ‘No I don’t, my wife and I saw you. On the roof, setting a bomb or something, then running out of the fire-exit. That little bloke was with you too.’

  ‘You must be confusing us with someone else,’ Tuppe suggested. ‘Easily done.’

  The second man was shaking and fuming. Cornelius noticed that his jacket lacked for a sleeve. Also that he wore what appeared at first glance to be a Rolex watch on his wrist. ‘It’s you. It’s you,’ he went.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘He’s my brother,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘You stole my car!’ screamed Kevin’s brother. ‘Top of the range, that car. What have you done with it?’

  Above the roaring of military vehicles and the bellowing of the loud hailers and the shrieking of people who now found themselves being evacuated for their own safety at gunpoint, the sound made by the bogus Rolex-wearer’s car as it chicken-ran itself into a Volkswagen on the prom and exploded could not be heard at all.

  ‘I can explain everything,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘What about this?’ asked an officer of the law, displaying a newspaper. Cornelius gave the front page a bit of a squint.

  It was the front page of The Brentford Mercury. It read:

  JAIL BREAK

  GALLANT POLICE OFFICERS INJURED AS

  CONVICTED CRIMINAL IN £23,000,000

>   SCAM ESCAPES FROM CUSTODY

  EXCLUSIVE BY STAR REPORTER SCOOP MOLLOY

  ‘Nice one, Scoop,’ said Cornelius. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  The police officer grinned. He had a tooth missing. He also had a black eye. ‘Remember me?’ he asked. ‘From Brentford County Court?’

  ‘Beam me up, Scotty,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

  Thelma and Louise, who had considered it prudent to slip away on the approach of so many policemen, looked on as Cornelius and Tuppe were led away to God knows where.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a bummer,’ Norman said.

  ‘They’ll get free,’ Thelma told the dead boy. ‘We still have plenty of time.’

  High in the cab of the leading military vehicle, a half-track of French design, English construction and sometime Iraqi ownership, sat three men. One was clad in full khaki kit, the beret of a Desert Rat perched on his red-faced head. Another was all in green tweed and commanded more than his fair share of seat. The remaining wore the remnants of a double-breasted suit and showed signs of extensive tar and feathering.

  ‘Splendidly achieved, Chunky,’ said Green-Tweeder to Red-Face. ‘And my thanks for picking me up from Bramfield Halt.’

  ‘Watched all the lunacy on the go last night from my billet at the kinky vicar’s,’ said Chunky Wilberforce. ‘Presumed you were at the back of it, so phoned up the chaps at the old eco-friendly reclamation centre and had them hot-foot it over here to get the ball rolling. But what were you doing at Bramfield Halt, anyway?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Rune. ‘And we have you to thank for all this, do we, Mr Rodway?’

  ‘Er, well, I . . .’ The estate agent shook a puzzled tar-spattered head. ‘I suppose you do, yes.’

  ‘And in your modesty you were making away from the town on foot, carrying nothing but that big bulging suitcase, when I spotted you and had Chunky stop to pick you up.’

  ‘Er, well, I . . .’ went Mr Rodway once more.

  ‘Lucky that we did eh?’ said Rune.

  ‘Er, hm . . .’ said Mr Rodway.

  ‘I am pleased,’ said Rune. ‘Most pleased, the town cleared well ahead of schedule. I think we can bring forward the deadline. What say you, Chunky?’