The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (19 page)

‘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 bleeding 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 ground
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…
Bum 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.’

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

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

‘It
bloody isn’t.’

‘It
bloody 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 bloody 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 take the piss.’

‘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
bloody isn’t.’

‘It
bloody 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 fat black 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, like
you do, 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.’