The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (13 page)

‘He
says—’

‘I
don’t care what he says, hide in the hedge.’

The red
car sped closer and Cornelius stood with his hands raised in the middle of the
road. It was a narrow road. More a country lane really. Yes, that was it, a
country lane. So the car couldn’t swerve around Cornelius. It being a country
lane and everything. The car screeched to a halt with much blackening of tyre
tread upon Tarmac. There was a loud popping sound and Cornelius looked on as
the air bag, which is fitted as standard on a top-of-the-range model such as
this one was, inflated, engulfing the driver in a big balloon of
showroom-smelling safety fabric.

‘Help,
help, set me free!’ shouted a most familiar voice.

‘It’s
the man with the bogus Rolex,’ said Cornelius, giving Tuppe and his new-found
friend from the stars the signal they had agreed upon (secretly).

The
tall boy stepped nimbly to the driver’s door and pulled it open. ‘Might I be of
some assistance, sir?’ he asked.

‘Get me
out of here.

‘Happy
to oblige.’ Cornelius took the driver by the arm and pulled as hard as he
could.

Then he
climbed back to his feet and returned to the car. ‘I’m afraid I’ve ripped the
sleeve off your jacket,’ he apologized. ‘Perhaps we share the same tailor.’

‘Get me
free, I’m suffocating here.’

Cornelius
withdrew from his pocket a multi-function Swiss Army knife. It had always
puzzled him why if the Swiss were neutral they needed an army. Possibly this
enemyless military body simply whiled away the hours inventing new blades for
its famous knife. Or possibly
Swiss Army
was a trade name, like Ronco,
or K.Tel. Or ASDA.

‘Who
gives a toss?’ murmured the suffocating salesman. ‘Just cut me free.’

Cornelius
hastened to oblige. There was much ripping, much hissing and then more
shouting. The Rolex-wearer issued from his automobile like a storm from a
teapot. Or was it a storm
in
a teapot?

‘What
are you playing at? Standing in the road like that, you could have been
killed.’

‘I’m OK
thanks,’ said Cornelius. ‘This car of yours can certainly pull up short when it
has to. Have you got AVS
[8]
fitted as standard?’

‘And a
Blaupunkt,’
said the man from ASDA.

‘And
leather upholstery by the look of it,’ said Cornelius.

‘The
driver’s seat is capable of twenty—three separate adjustments to mould itself
to your lumber profile,’ said the driver proudly.

‘What
anybody’s or just yours?’

‘Anybody’s.
Sit in, I’ll show you how it works.’

‘Cor,
thanks,’ said Cornelius. ‘I’d really like that.’

It was
the work of a moment of course. Nothing more. A door slam, a central lock
(again fitted as standard), a flap aside of the shredded air bag and a twist of
the ignition key (the one with the ‘My other car is an XJS 3.2 MFIi’ key fob).

And
that was that.

Tuppe
waved from the rear window.

The
ex-driver did not wave back. He lay in the middle of the road, thrashing his
legs about and weeping bitterly.

Cornelius settled himself
down into the posture contouring and whistled a wistful air.
[9]

‘That’s
very strange indeed,’ said Tuppe to the spaceman. ‘What is?’ Cornelius asked.

‘Mavis
here was just telling me—’

‘Mavis?’
asked Cornelius. ‘Mavis,’ said Tuppe. ‘That’s the spaceman’s name. ‘That’s a
very strange name for a spaceman.’

‘That’s
what
I
just said.’

‘Fair
enough. Hey look, we’re nearly there.’ The road sign up ahead, which was now
passing behind as Cornelius was driving rather fast, read, SKELINGTON BAY 1
MILE. ‘Where does your cosmic pal want to be dropped off?’

The
spaceman spoke some more gibberish and Tuppe said— ‘No, don’t bother,’
Cornelius told him. ‘He said to drop him off near the west pier. I got it.’

‘How
did you get it?’ Tuppe enquired.

‘Because
he’s not speaking Romany, he’s speaking Esperanto.’

‘I know
lots of Earth languages,’ said Mavis the spaceman. ‘Do you mind if I change?’

‘Not a
bit,’ said Cornelius, shaking his head and liberally distributing his hair all
about the car. ‘Speak Swahili if you think it will aid your credibility.’

‘No, I
meant change out of my uniform. Cunningly disguise myself as an Earth being, to
avoid recognition.’

‘Oh
yes, please do.’ Cornelius kept on driving. ‘I’d like to see that.’

‘Thanks,
then you will. Would you mind looking away for a moment?’ the spaceman asked
Tuppe. ‘Only I’m not wearing any underpants.’

‘Oh
sure.’ Tuppe looked away.

There
were some sounds of a struggle, then the spaceman said, ‘You can look back
now.’

Tuppe
looked back. ‘Shit a brick!’ said he.

‘Language,’
said Cornelius, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Shit a bungalow!’ said he.

‘Pretty
convincing, eh?’ asked the spaceman. And it was.

Gone
the three-foot-sixer with the bulbous head and nose abundance. And in his
place…

‘A
sheep,’ said Tuppe. ‘You’re a sheep.’

‘No I’m
not,’ said the sheep. ‘I’m a collie dog.’

‘You’re
a sheep,’ said Tuppe. ‘Believe me. I know sheep. Not as well as I know pigs.
But I do know sheep and you’re one.’

‘But
I’m supposed to be a collie dog. Called Ben.’

‘Why
Ben?’ Cornelius asked the sheep.

‘Because
collie dogs are always called Ben, it’s a tradition, or an old—’

‘Sheep-dog,’
said Tuppe. ‘Collies are
sheep-dogs.’

‘That’s
me,’ said Mavis the sheep called Ben.

‘No,
it’s not you. You’re a sheep, not a
sheep-dog.’

‘But
you’re a very good one,’ said Cornelius. ‘How did you do that, by the way?’

‘Do you
know anything about the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti—matter?’ the
sheep asked.

‘Only
that it’s bogus sci-fi waffle.’

‘It’s a
costume then,’ the sheep reached up with its little trotters (or perhaps
hooves, if sheep don’t have trotters), and pulled off its head. Mavis the spaceman
peeped out through the neck hole of his woolly suit. ‘Do you think it will
matter?’ he asked. ‘Sheep, sheep-dog, what’s the difference?’

‘Quite
a lot,’ said Tuppe. ‘Is this your first time on Earth?’

‘Certainly
not. I’ve been here lots of times.’

‘I don’t
think you’re being altogether truthful.’

‘Oh,
all right then, yes it’s my first time.’

‘So who
set you up with the sheep costume?’

‘My
mate Bryant. We graduated together, but he failed his pilot’s licence and works
in the stores now. When I told him that I’d been offered this job of flying to
Earth on a secret mission, he said that he’d help me out. He organized the
costume and the Earth name.’

‘Ben?’
asked Tuppe.

‘No,
Mavis.
He said that most Earth men were called Mavis, that it was a tradition,
or—’

‘Stop,’
said Cornelius, now stopping the car. ‘It’s all been very entertaining. But
enough is enough. We have arrived. This I would assume is the west pier, as its
brother lies in an easterly direction. Put your sheep’s head back on and kindly
leave the vehicle.’

‘Thanks
for the ride,’ said Mavis, slipping on his sheep’s head. ‘I really appreciate
it.’

‘What
are you doing?’ Tuppe asked Cornelius. ‘We can’t just leave him here disguised
as a sheep.’

‘Why
not?’

‘Well,
he won’t get five yards.’

‘I’ll
be OK,’ said Mavis, or Ben, or whoever. ‘I’ll nuzzle up against someone and get
taken home and fed and petted. I know the form.’

‘I
don’t think you quite do,’ said Tuppe. ‘People don’t treat sheep the same way
as they treat dogs.’

‘Don’t
they?’

‘They
do not. People may pet dogs, but they
eat
sheep.’

‘What?’

‘I’m
afraid your pal Bryant has put you on a wrong’n.’

‘Oh
dear,’ said whoever. ‘Whatever shall I do?’

‘Why
don’t you just come clean’, said Cornelius, ‘and own up. You’re not really from
outer space, are you?’

‘I
never said I was.’

‘Oh, I
think you did,’ said Tuppe. ‘Or at least implied it anyway.’

‘That
was my cover,’ said a mournful whoever. ‘In case I got caught. Bryant said that
if the collie dog costume didn’t work and saying I was an Earthman called Mavis
didn’t work, then I was to pretend I came from outer space and ask to be taken
to Erich Von Daniken.’

Tuppe
shook his little head. Cornelius sighed and drummed his fingers upon the sleek
Grand Prix style steering wheel, which came as standard on this particular
model. ‘It would seem’, said he, ‘that as Tuppe observed, your pal Bryant has
stitched you up. Now I can sympathize with you, but unless you tell me all of
the truth then I am not prepared to help you. We are sitting here in a stolen
car, this is not a good thing to be doing. So speak quickly or take your
chances elsewhere.’

‘I’m
not from outer space,’ confessed
the
whoever in the sheep suit.

‘Aw,’
said Tuppe. ‘What a cop out.’

‘So
where are you from?’ Cornelius asked.

‘I’m
from the same place that all the flying saucers really come from.’

‘Which
is outer space,’ said Tuppe.

‘No
it’s not.’ The whoever pointed a trotter or a hoof or whatever towards the sea.
‘It’s not from outer space. It’s from outta there.’

13

In space, they say, no-one
can hear you scream. Norman, who had been falling and screaming for some
considerable time, would, had he been asked, have been able to verify this. But
as no-one was around to ask. He didn’t.

‘Aaaaaaaagh!’
went Norman. ‘Aaaaaaaagh!’

And
then
Crash!
went Norman, as he ceased falling all at once and struck
home at whatever he had been falling towards.

‘Oh
God,’ went Norman. ‘Oh and help.’ He floundered about in a mound of debris and
wondered which way ‘up’ had once been.

‘Oh
God,’ went Norman again. ‘I could have been killed.’

‘No you
couldn’t,’ said a voice. ‘Not a second time.’ “Who said that?’

‘Stay
where you are and I’ll put on the light.’ Norman stayed where he was. Someone
put on the light.

And
Norman, blinking and twitching could now see where he was. In what looked to be
(and indeed was) the bottom of an abandoned lift shaft. Wedged into a pile of
mouldy papers and broken office furniture.

‘Where
are you?’ asked Norman. ‘Whoever you are.’

‘I’m
here!’ A veritable apparition sprang up before him. Long of white hair, long of
white beard, ragged of clothing and very wild of eye.

‘Fuck
me!’ said Norman. ‘It’s Ben Gun.’

‘No it
ain’t,’ crowed the apparition, dancing about him. ‘I’m Claude, I am.’

‘Claude
who?’

‘Don’t
remember. Claude Butler perhaps. Or was that a bicycle? Claude Raines?’

‘Phantom
of the Opera?’ Norman asked.

‘Never
been to the opera. Been here for years and years and years.

‘Oh
dear,’ said Norman. ‘Years?’

‘And
years and years. Wasn’t expecting you, though. Did you make an appointment?’

‘I just
dropped in,’ said Norman, with ne’er a hint of humour. ‘And I’d like to be
shown the way out.’

‘No way
out. Only up and can’t be climbed. Bloody big door at the top if you did and
hasn’t been opened for years and years—’