The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived Page 5

  ‘No, but I’ll bet you’ve been jealous of his new stereo, or his computer system, or his bike or whatever. Same thing. Few people ever got past Command Number Ten, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Where is this leading?’ Norman asked.

  ‘It all leads to here. In the book of Revelation it states the exact size of the Holy City, Heaven. It’s described as a cube, twelve thousand furlongs to a side.’

  ‘What’s a furlong?’ Norman asked.

  ‘Search me, but it’s not that big. Listen, it’s all very straight forward. Hell’s been closed down, and Heaven’s full up. So here we all are.’

  ‘In the Universal Reincarnation Company?’

  ‘That’s us.’

  ‘No, hang about. Hell’s been closed down?’

  ‘That’s it. God had second thoughts, you see. Being the all-round nice fellow that he is, he began to feel a bit guilty about all those poor souls frying in eternity simply because they’d coveted an ox.’

  ‘Or an ass.’

  ‘Exactly, so he closed it down.’

  ‘Good for God,’ said Norman. ‘It’s nice to know that I won’t be going to Hell, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t have been going anyhow. You had to be eighteen to get in there. It was real X-certificate stuff. No minors allowed. And I mean, babies covet rattles and stuff. Imagine all those eternally frying infants; didn’t bear thinking about.’

  Norman agreed that it didn’t.

  ‘Not to mention original sin.’

  ‘Original sin?’

  ‘I told you not to mention that.’ Jack fell about in mirth. ‘One of God’s jokes that. The old ones are always the best, eh?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Norman jiggled his bum about. ‘No chance of a cushion I suppose.’

  ‘None, I’ve got the only one and I’m keeping it. So, like I say, until the extension is completed, the URC gets on with the job.’

  ‘I don’t think you mentioned “the extension”.’

  ‘The one God’s having built onto the side of Heaven to house all the millions of souls who won’t now be going to Hell. Heaven’s full up now, like I told you. So until the Celestial Corps of Engineers complete the extension, we have to keep right on with the job.’

  ‘Why can’t God just clap his hands and make the extension appear?’ Norman asked, which seemed a reasonable question.

  ‘That seems a reasonable question,’ said Jack. ‘But he can’t, mate, he can’t. That’s not the way he does business. He likes to think about things, mull them over. Remember he’s been here for ever and ever and ever. So it took him an awful long time before he got around to creating the Heavens and the Earth, didn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it did.’

  ‘So, until it’s all finished, it’s our job to keep the souls of the dead in circulation. Recycle them. When someone dies we log in their soul and then reallocate it to someone who’s being born. It has presented us with a few problems, because the dead outnumber the living by thirty to one. Supply somewhat outstrips demand. There’s a bit of a queue.’

  ‘Where?’ Norman asked.

  ‘In a big ring about the sun. You see, when you die your body leaves your soul.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s the other way around.’

  ‘Oh no it’s not. The moment you die your soul is free of your body. But your soul does not have any weight and is no longer subject to the law of gravity. So it just stays still. The Earth moves on around the sun and leaves your soul just hovering there. That’s why hauntings happen on the anniversary of someone’s death. The Earth has travelled right round the sun and arrived back in the same place a year later, where the soul is waiting. So if the soul wants to manifest as a ghost or whatever, it does. Most don’t, of course. They just hang about in space, enjoying the sunshine and watching the planets rolling by. It’s very relaxing. Quite cosmic really.’

  ‘So what do these souls look like?’

  ‘They don’t look like anything. They’re sort of little particles of energy. Quite powerful energy, because, after all they power up a human being for all of his or her life.’

  ‘So why not simply leave all these souls to just hang about in space enjoying the sunshine until the extension gets finished? Why bother with all this paperwork?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Jack. ‘Good question, mate.’

  ‘So what’s the answer then?’

  ‘Search me, I only work here.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to. This is all a complete waste of time. Who’s in charge? God?’

  ‘Not here. The controller’s in charge here.’

  ‘And what does he do?’

  ‘He controls things,’ said Jack. ‘It was one of his ancestors who came up with the idea. He’s a big fat fellow, the controller, we call him—’

  Brought up, as are all boys, upon Thomas the bloody Tank Engine, Norman was prepared to hazard a guess.

  ‘We call him sir,’ said Jack. ‘But he won’t speak to you. He doesn’t speak to anyone. I’ve been waiting for years to get a new pencil, but no joy. But God will be at the back of it all. That’s where he always is. And I have just one word to say to you about God.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Jack.

  ‘Steady on.’ Norman covered his ears. ‘He might be listening.’

  ‘He won’t be. But when I say bollocks, I do mean bollocks literally. God built man in his own image, right? The image God had originally created himself in. And where did he put the bollocks, eh?’

  ‘I know where he put the bollocks,’ said Norman bitterly. ‘And I never got a chance to give mine a proper go.’

  ‘He put them on the outside, mate, that’s where. Now is that a bad piece of design or what? Tenderest parts of the whole male anatomy, and does he give them a shell, or tuck them up inside your pelvis? Does he heck. He sticks them on the outside, dangling there, waiting for the knee in the groin, or the football. Says it all to me, that does.’

  ‘Says what to you?’

  Jack tapped the side of his head. ‘Not on the ball.’

  ‘Most amusing,’ said Norman.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Never mind. Not on the ball, you said.’

  ‘Flawed genius. Came up with some great ideas, but let a few duff ones slip through the net. Bollocks on the outside, nipples for men, toe jam, smelly armpits, really smelly po—’

  ‘I get the picture. You’re saying that he’s not quite as omnipotent as he’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘You got it, mate.’

  ‘Well,’ said Norman. ‘Now I’ve heard the lot. Hell’s closed down. Heaven’s full up. The extension’s not finished. And a dirty great company’s been formed to reincarnate souls that don’t really need reincarnating at all. And we can all put it down to God because he put the bollocks on the outside.’

  ‘In a nutshell, right. In a nut-shell, geddit? No shell for the nuts. That’s a good’n, isn’t it?’

  ‘A real blinder,’ said Norman. ‘Please show me the way out.’

  ‘There’s no way out. Look, don’t knock it, mate. You’ve got yourself a full-time job, you should be grateful.’

  ‘I don’t know how many times I’m going to have to tell you this, but I don’t want a full-time job. Especially not here.’

  ‘There’s perks,’ said Jack.

  ‘What perks?’

  ‘Priority, when the extension’s complete. We get to be first in. For our worthy labours. That’s what the controller says. And it’s going to be an amazing place, I’ve seen the brochures. I’ve got one here. Somewhere. Soon as it’s finished, we’re in.’

  ‘How soon will it be finished?’ Norman asked.

  ‘Soon,’ said Jack.

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Quite soon.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Couple of thousand years,’ said Jack. ‘But the time will fly by. We’ve lots to do. Lots of catching up.’

  ‘No,’ said Norman. ‘No, no, no. I�
�m not staying. I want to float about in space and sunbathe and be cosmic. Where is the exit?’

  ‘You can’t go. Not now you’ve been here. It’s a rule.’

  ‘Then let me be reincarnated. I’ll take my chances. I won’t covet anything, just laze about.’

  ‘Aw, come on, Norman.’

  ‘What happened to “mate”? Really got up my nose, “mate”!’

  ‘Stay here, you’ll get to like it.’

  ‘I won’t. Get out my file, do the paperwork. Send me back to Earth.’

  ‘Well, if it’s what you really want, then I can’t stop you.’

  ‘Good, then let’s be going.’

  ‘All right. I’ve got a form somewhere. It’s a new scheme instituted by the controller for people who don’t want to work here.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Norman. ‘I really don’t want to work here.’

  ‘I think you get a choice.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Norman. ‘Then I’d like to be the lead singer in a really successful heavy-metal band. Or a Hollywood actor, I don’t mind which.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not really that kind of choice. You see, with all the backlog of souls, the controller has extended reincarnation beyond the human species.’

  ‘Lion then,’ said Norman, who was not going to be put off by that. ‘Or leopard.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jack. ‘Here’s the form. Take a look and tell me which one you fancy.’

  Norman snatched the form away and ran his eyes up and down it. The once. The twice. And the third time. Then with a very dismal face indeed he looked up at Jack.

  ‘So what do you fancy?’ asked that fellow. ‘Radish or sprout?’

  6

  ‘Radish entrecôte and boiled-sprout flambé,’ said Mr Justice Wilberforce. ‘Beef and broccoli. Choice of cheeses. Roly-Poly pudding. Most palatable. Damn fine port too. And Brandy. And that bally Vodka. Burn the arse out of Superman’s knickers that stuff. So back to business. Are we present and correct?’

  ‘We are, your Honour,’ said the clerk of the court.

  ‘And I assume that we’ve done the “all rising” and such like, as we’re all sitting down again now.’

  ‘I presume so,’ the clerk agreed.

  ‘So, as Freddie said, “The show must go on.” Mr D’hark please continue with cross-examining your witness.’

  ‘Ah,’ Gwynplaine D’hark was dabbing his chin with a silk napkin. ‘I regret that the young constable is no longer with us.’

  ‘That, I suppose, would be some euphemism for dead, would it, Mr D’hark?’

  ‘Could well mean that I suppose, your Honour.’

  ‘Didn’t like the look of the fellow anyway. Shifty eyes.’

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

  ‘Oh, you’re still with us, then. That’s something, I suppose.’

  Cornelius was indeed still with them. Although his appearance since he had been led away to the cells ‘for lunch’ had undergone a subtle change or two. He now had a fat lip to go with the bruise over his eye. And his jacket lacked for both sleeves. The policemen had undergone a subtle change or two also. One wore what the lads in the boxing fraternity refer to as ‘a bloody great shiner’. The other had one arm in a sling.

  ‘What do you object about this time, Mr Murphy?’

  ‘That the counsel for the prosecution has clearly feasted upon the blood of Constable Loathsome and left him a dried-up little husk down in the basement.’

  ‘An unsubstantiated allegation,’ said Gwynplaine D’hark, the D’hark Destroyer. ‘And a clearly libellous one. I would ask his Honour to add that charge to the list of crimes the defendant stands accused of.’

  ‘That’s the way we do justice here,’ said the magistrate. ‘Let the court records show that the defendant cried out to have another five years added on to whatever I deem in my leniency to award him.’

  ‘Boo, boo, boo,’ went the balcony.

  ‘I’ll second that,’ said Cornelius. ‘This is a hung court.’

  ‘And bloody well hung too,’ crowed his Honour.

  Scoop Molloy, who had brought a dictaphone back from lunch with him, switched it off in disgust.

  ‘So, who would you like to call next, Mr D’hark?’

  ‘Well, if it please your Honour, I would like to skip over all the minor charges and get right down to the meat of this case.’

  ‘I’ll bet you would.’

  ‘Silence, Mr Murphy, or I’ll hold you in contempt.’

  ‘The crux of this case, your Honour, rests upon the defendant’s wealth and the manner in which he acquired it. I would like to call to the stand The Crazy World of Arthur Brown.’

  ‘The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Mr D’hark? Do you mean the nineteen sixties madcap whacko rock anarchist, chiefly remembered for the only record anyone can chiefly remember him for?’

  “Fire”, your Honour? Yes, that is indeed the man.’

  ‘Well, wheel him in, Mr D’hark, let’s have a look at the bod.’

  ‘I call The Crazy World of Arthur Brown.’

  ‘Call the Crazy World of Arthur Brown.’

  ‘Call Theke Raziword or R. Ferbrown.’

  ‘Call Pal E. Scumdiddly Kent leftovers.’

  ‘It wasn’t funny the first time,’ said Scoop Molloy. ‘It’s never funny. Never was funny. Never will be funny.’

  ‘You are Pal E. Scumdiddly Kent leftovers?’ enquired Mr Gywnplaine D’hark.

  ‘I am Mr Arthur Brown,’ said Mr Arthur Brown, ‘of the accountant’s firm, Brown, Urquart, Montmorency, Harris and O’Leary Erickson.’

  ‘Which forms an acronym I believe,’ said the magistrate.

  ‘I believe so, your Honour,’ said Mr D’hark. ‘Apparently it gets a very cheap laugh at dinner parties.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘And why not indeed, your Honour.’

  ‘Well, we won’t wait for the laughter to die down, kindly cross-examine your witness, Mr D’hark.’

  ‘Thank you, your Honour.’ The Queen’s Counsel from beyond the grave addressed the fellow in the witness box. A well-dressed, middle-aged city gent of a fellow. With a briefcase. ‘Now, Mr Brown—’

  ‘I object, your Honour,’ said Cornelius. ‘The witness hasn’t taken the oath.’

  ‘Stuff the oath, this is dragging on far too long. Mr D’hark, your witness please.’

  ‘As your Honour pleases.’

  ‘Greasy,’ said Cornelius. ‘Very greasy.’

  ‘Mr Brown,’ said Mr D’hark, ‘your firm, I believe, deals mainly with large-scale fraud, and income-tax evasion?’

  ‘This is the case, yes.’ Very polite voice.

  ‘And you have acquired a bona fide account of the defendant’s current assets, am I correct?’

  ‘I have, yes.’ The smart man withdrew a slip of paper from his briefcase and passed it to Mr D’hark.

  ‘Exhibit A,’ said the Queen’s Counsel. ‘Might I show this to the defendant, your Honour?’

  ‘Please do, Mr D’hark.’

  ‘So kind, so very kind.’

  ‘So greasy, so very greasy.’

  ‘That’s quite enough of that, Mr Murphy.’

  ‘Pardon me, your Honour.’ Cornelius accepted the slip of paper and gave it a brief perusal.

  ‘Mr Murphy,’ said the QC with the evil grin, ‘would you consider this statement of your current assets to be a fair estimate regarding the extent of your wealth?’

  Cornelius gave the slip of paper a less brief perusal than before. ‘It looks about right, to within a million or two.’

  ‘Would you care to read out the sum in question?’

  ‘Well, it says here twenty-thee million pounds.’

  ‘Oooooh,’ went the balcony, who had not said a thing since lunch.

  ‘I’ve given a lot of it away,’ said Cornelius. ‘But it keeps mounting up. I’ll give some more away tomorrow, if you want.’

  ‘I’m sure that you will, Mr Murphy. But where did it all come from? That�
�s what I want to know. We have no records to show that you have ever taken any regular employment.’

  ‘I’m self-employed,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Self-employed as what, exactly?’

  ‘I’m an adventurer,’ said the tall boy proudly.

  ‘And what kind of adventurer are you?’

  ‘An epic one. Most definitely.’

  ‘Hoorah,’ went the crowd in the balcony.

  ‘I’ll have the courtroom cleared if that rabble don’t put a sock in it.’

  ‘Murmur, murmur,’ went the crowd in the balcony. Quite quietly

  ‘An epic adventurer?’ Mr D’hark did more lapel preening. ‘And where exactly do these epic adventures of yours take you to?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to say, actually.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be coy, Mr Murphy. You left school six months ago without a job, there is no record that you have ever had a job, and here you are before us now worth twenty-three million pounds. This is no small achievement. Won’t you share with us the secret of your success?’

  ‘Would you?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘I am not in the dock,’ said Mr D’hark.

  ‘Your Honour,’ said Cornelius, ‘I would like to change my plea.’

  ‘To guilty? Well that saves a lot of time. I hereby sentence you—’

  ‘Not to guilty, your Honour. I would like to plead William Castle’s nineteen sixty-five movie I Saw What You Did.’

  The magistrate gave this plea a moment or two’s thought. ‘Won’t wash,’ said he.

  ‘Won’t it?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘No, it won’t,’ said Gwynplaine D’hark QC. ‘I would like to answer Mr Murphy’s plea by pleading Dark Star which was directed, although few seem to remember it, by John Carpenter.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Scoop Molloy.

  ‘You bloody haven’t, have you?’ asked the clerk of the court.

  ‘I have too. I looked those other movies up during the lunch-hour. I’ve figured it out.’

  ‘Tell us then,’ cried the balcony crowd. ‘Spill the beans.’

  ‘May I, your Honour?’ asked Scoop.

  ‘May as well,’ said the magistrate. ‘I’m convicting this Murphy anyhow. Man’s some kind of international arms dealer or something. Short sharp shock and twenty years of it, that’s what he needs.’

  ‘The Cars that Ate Paris’ said Cornelius Murphy.