The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (35 page)

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?’

‘Not
half.’

‘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 pooh 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.

‘Bugger
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. Nor 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 tootsie.

‘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.’

Yes,
that would probably be it.

‘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.’