The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (5 page)

The
nation’s press was represented in the person of ‘Scoop’ Molloy, cub reporter
for
The Brentford Mercury.

Scoop
leaned against a pillar near the fire exit, puffing on an illicit roll-up and
wondering what were the chances of anyone straining a new gag out of a court
case. On the evidence so far, not good, was his conclusion.

In ‘the
dock’, between a brace of bobbies, stood the defendant. A long lad in loose
light linen, a crumpled Hawaiian shirt, canvas loafers and no socks. He sported
a tall turret of hair, a fine aquiline nose, a pair of gentle eyes, a smiley
mouth and a noble chin that was all but made. There were points of interest to
be found around and about his person, that his loose linen suit lacked for an
arm being one, and that above his left eye there was a large bruise being one
other. No doubt in time, these would be explained.

The
long lad’s name (and he
was
a
long
lad, standing head and
shoulders above the boys in blue) was Cornelius Murphy.

And he
was the stuff of epics.

Cornelius
turned, grinned and waved an un-handcuffed left hand towards the balcony. This
gesture was greeted by much warm applause, a whistle or two and a cry of ‘Free
the Brentford One’. Scoop Molloy took out his pencil and made a note of that.

Mr
Justice Wilberforce, who had been leafing through the mound of papers on his
venerable bench, looked up from this leafing and said, ‘Silence in the bloody
court’, which boded about as well as it might have been expected to do.

‘Clerk,’
continued his Honour, ‘which is the charge sheet for this wretched villain?’

‘All of
them,’ explained the clerk of the court.

‘Damned
lot of the blighters. Be here all day at this rate. Just give me the gist of it
and I’ll pass sentence.’

Scoop
Molloy pocketed his pencil.

‘It is
a rather complicated case,’ the clerk of the court explained. ‘It began with a
minor parking offence, but its implications have spread now to encompass a
world-wide network of espionage, involving international crime syndicates, vast
money-laundering operations, political conspiracy and a threat to destroy the
economic stability of our native land.’

The
magistrate cast a disparaging eye upon Cornelius Murphy. Cornelius caught it
and cast it back. ‘Are you responsible for all this?’ asked the magistrate.

‘No,’
said Cornelius. ‘I’m innocent.’

‘Well,
we’ll see about that, won’t we? Nature of the first charge, clerk of the
court.’

‘The
defendant is charged that he did park his electric-blue Cadillac Eldorado on a
double yellow line outside the business premises of one Wally Woods Pre-eminent
Purveyor of Wet Fish to the Brentford Gentry, in or about the time of one p.m.,
last Thursday week.’

‘That’s
you, isn’t it?’ asked the magistrate.

‘Me,
your Honour?’ asked the clerk.

‘You,
Wally Woods, that’s you.’

‘Yes,
your Honour. It is me.’

‘Well,
did the fellow park there or did he not?’

‘He
did, your Honour.’

‘Then
guilty as hell. Let’s have him sent down.’

‘Boo,’
went the balcony.

‘Silence,’
went the magistrate.

‘Excuse
me,’ said Cornelius Murphy, ‘but I demand the right to be tried before a jury.’

‘Tried
before a jury?’ Mr Justice Wilberforce fell back in his chair. ‘Unthinkable.
Justice is a matter for the professionals. Not a bunch of bally unqualified
civvies. Where’s your defending counsel anyway?’

‘I
shall be defending myself,’ said Cornelius. ‘I shall be exercising my right to
silence and pleading rule forty-two, the fifth amendment and
Plan Nine from
Outer Space.’

‘Plan
Nine from Outer Space?’
Mr Justice Wilberforce
adjusted his wig. ‘Do you mean the original black-and-white nineteen fifties
classic, or Chris Windsor’s nineteen eighty-two fall-colour musical remake,
Big
Flesh Eater?’

‘The
original, your Honour,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

‘This
puts an entirely new complexion on the matter. I shall bear that in mind.’

Scoop
Molloy took out his pencil once more and scratched his head with it.

‘Clerk
of the court, read out some other charges,’ said the magistrate. What was wrong
with the first one, your Honour?’

‘Didn’t
like it. Shan’t bother with it. Next charge.’

‘Huh,’
said Wally.

‘Careful
with the “huhs” or you’ll find yourself in contempt of court.’

‘Nice
one,’ said Cornelius.

‘And
it’s nice one,
your Honour,
to you.’

‘Being
in possession of an untaxed and uninsured vehicle, to wit the electric-blue
Cadillac Eldorado. Refusing to show any proof of ownership and having no valid
driving licence,’ read Wally.

‘How do
you plead on that little lot?’

Cornelius
shook his head and vanished momentarily beneath his hair. ‘Which in
particular?’ he asked, when he could once more find his face.

‘Refusing
to show any proof of ownership,’ the magistrate suggested. ‘On that charge I
shall be pleading Bruce Geller’s nineteen seventy-six minor classic
The
Savage Bees.’

‘Indeed?’
Mr Justice Wilberforce stroked his chin. ‘You wouldn’t care to change that plea
to his nineteen seventy-eight sequel,
Terror out of the Sky,
by any
chance?’

‘Certainly
not, your Honour. The first had a credible plot and strong Performances, from,
amongst others, Ben Johnson. The second was strictly
TV
fodder.’

‘Well
said.’ The magistrate located his little gavel and smacked the venerable bench
with it. ‘The refusing to show proof of ownership charge is dropped, if it ever
constituted a charge at all anyway,’ said he.

‘Hoorah!’
went the balcony.

‘Shut
your faces,’ went the magistrate.

‘I’m
missing something here,’ said the clerk of the court.

‘Me
too.’ Scoop Molloy began to make what are known as copious notes.

‘Why
don’t we call a witness for the prosecution to get the ball rolling?’ asked Mr
Justice Wilberforce. ‘Who is conducting the case for the prosecution?’

‘I am,
your Honour.’ A gaunt figure dressed all in black rose slowly to his feet and
bowed slightly from the waist. His face was a deathly white and his black hair
swept back from a widow’s peak to vanish down his starched shirt collar and
emerge from his left trouser cuff. His eyes looked somewhat bloodshot and his
lips wore a dash of
Max Factor Midnight Red.
‘Gwynplaine D’hark QC,’
said he in a Transylvanian tone.

‘Quite
so,’ said the magistrate. ‘I note that you are not throwing a shadow at all Mr
D’hark. Should I find that significant?’

Gwynplaine
D’hark shook his head in a slow, deliberate fashion. Scoop Molloy patted his
pockets in search of a pencil sharpener.

‘I wish
to object, your Honour,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

‘On
what grounds?’

‘On the
grounds that the prosecuting counsel is clearly one of the undead.’

‘Fair
point. Would you care to comment on this, Mr D’hark?’

‘Not
really, your Honour, no.’

‘Oh,
come on now, we are both on the same side after all.’

‘Boo,’
went the balcony.

‘Shut
it,’ went the magistrate.

Gwynplaine
D’hark preened his lapels. ‘Your Honour’s point is well taken. I would answer
his request for me to comment in this fashion: by making a request of my own.
May I be allowed to conduct my case out of the shafts of sunlight?’

‘And
why might this be?’

‘Because
I feel that being reduced to a pile of smouldering ashes on the carpet might
inconvenience you, your Honour, prejudice the Crown’s case and give the
defendant the opportunity to call for a mistrial to be declared.’

‘Well
put, Mr D’hark.’

‘Thank
you, your Honour.’

‘I
object,’ said Cornelius raising his unhandcuffed hand. ‘I know of no legal
precedent whereby a necrophile is allowed to conduct a prosecution case.’

‘I
resent the term necrophile,’ said the undead Mr D’hark. ‘A necrophile is a
living person who makes love to corpses. I am a dead person who sucks the life
blood of the living. There is a very clear distinction here and I feel that it
should not go unrecognized.’

‘Well
put once more, Mr D’hark. Objection overruled.’

‘What?’
said Cornelius.

‘Objection
overruled! Certainly Mr D’hark may be a reanimated corpse who feasts upon human
flesh, but he is still a Queen’s Counsel and therefore qualified to conduct his
case. This is England, you know, and I’ll take my horsewhip to the fellow who
says it’s not, by Godfrey.’

‘Has
anyone got a Biro?’ asked Scoop Molloy. ‘My pencil’s blunt here.’

‘Please
call your first witness, Mr D’hark.’

‘Thank
you, your Honour. I call Police Constable Kenneth Loathsome.’

‘Call
Police Constable Kenneth Loathsome.’

‘Call
Polly Scunstible Ken F. Loafs son.’

‘Call
Pal. E. Scumdiddly Kent leftovers.’

‘Forget
the Biro,’ said Scoop Molloy. ‘That’s a duff old gag, that one.’

‘Are
you Police Constable Kenneth Loathsome?’ asked Gwynplaine D’hark QC, deceased.

‘I
surely am,’ said the pimply Herbert in the ill-fitting uniform.

‘Then
kindly take this book in your left hand and repeat what is written upon this
card.’

The
pimply Herbert did as he was bid.

‘I
hereby take this oath of blood in covenant for my mortal soul that I will serve
the powers of darkness and—’

‘I
object,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

‘What
is it now, Mr Murphy?’

‘Counsel
for the prosecution is clearly leading the witness into forming a pact with his
Satanic Majesty, your Honour.’

‘Is
this true, Mr D’hark?’

‘Maybe,’
said the Queen’s Counsel.

‘Well I
take a very dim view of that sort of thing in my court. Don’t let it happen
again.’

‘I am
indebted to your Honour for drawing my attention to my breach of protocol.
Might I beg to have it stricken from the court record?’

‘Of
course you may.’

‘I
object again,’ said Cornelius.

‘You
are proving to be a most objectional young man,’ said the magistrate. ‘And on
what grounds do you make
this
objection?’

‘On the
grounds of the nineteen seventy-five movie
Bug,
your Honour, directed by
Jeannot Szwarc.’

‘Staffing?’

‘Bradford
Dillman, your Honour, and a fine supporting cast.’

‘Quite
so. Then let it remain a matter of public record that the prosecuting counsel
made an attempt to have the first witness sell his soul to Satan.’

‘Damn,’
said Gwynplaine D’hark, baring his pointed canines.

‘I’m
sure I’m missing something really obvious here,’ said Scoop Molloy. ‘I’ll just
kick myself when it all gets explained.’

‘I
think we have had quite enough delays,’ said the magistrate. ‘Kindly cross-examine
your first witness, Mr D’hark.’

‘Thank
you, your Honour. Now, Constable Loathsome, would you please tell the court, in
your own words just—’

‘I’ll
have to stop you there, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Justice Wilberforce.

‘Excuse
me, your Honour, but why?’

‘Luncheon
appointment. Little restaurant near here that serves a most affable
boeuf en
croute,
fried calves liver and grilled pineapple, bread-and-butter pudding
with clam sauce, and a home-brewed Vodka that could take the tar off a bargie’s
gumboots. Would you care to join me, Mr D’hark?’

‘If it
please your Honour, no. I rarely venture abroad during the hours of daylight. A
pint of plasma and a liver-sausage sandwich taken in the basement will be quite
sufficient. Perhaps the young constable will join
me.

‘Quite
so. Well, court adjourned until two p.m. All rise.’

‘It’s
my job to say,
all rise,’
said the clerk of the court.

‘Go on
and say it then, you bally fool.’

‘All
rise,’ said Wally and all rise they did.

‘How are you doing?’ asked
a voice at the Murphy Kneecap.

‘Hello,
Tuppe,’ said Cornelius, beaming down at a diminutive fellow, who had the face
of a cherub and the sexual appetite of Jeff Stryker. ‘I didn’t see you come in.

‘People
don’t as a rule.’ Tuppe beamed up at his bestest friend and erstwhile partner
in epic adventure. ‘So are you winning, or what?’