The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (17 page)

‘Don’t
take the piss,’ said Boris. ‘Got you breakfast, didn’t I?’

‘You
did,’ said Cornelius. ‘And we’re very grateful. But what are you going to do
now? You’ve lost your flying saucer and you’ve missed the secret talks you were
supposed to be attending. You can’t stay here and spend the rest of your life
disguised as a sheep.’

‘I
don’t see that I’ve got much choice,’ said Boris. ‘If I go back they’ll throw
me in jail for losing the saucer. Couldn’t I just stick around with you blokes
and have a few laughs?’

Cornelius
looked at Tuppe.

And
Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

‘Of
course you could,’ said Tuppe.

‘No he
couldn’t, Tuppe. He doesn’t belong here. He’d get found out eventually. He’s
quite a convincing sheep, I agree. But not
that
convincing and, oh come
on, it’s an idiot suggestion to spend your life in a sheep costume.’

‘Rod
Hull has a right arm that spends its life dressed as an emu,’ said Tuppe. ‘And
it’s done all right for itself.’

‘You’ll
have to go home,’ said Cornelius. ‘You really will.’

‘I
know,’ said Boris. ‘But let’s have a few laughs first, eh?’

‘Yes,’
said Cornelius. ‘Let’s do that.’

‘So,’
said Boris. ‘Shall I dive back into the sea and fish us out a couple of crabs
for afters?’

Cornelius
looked around and about the beach. It was already starting to fill with folk.
And folk with pointing fingers.

‘No,’
said Cornelius Murphy. ‘Whatever you do, don’t do that.’

By noon, a very large
crowd had gathered upon the beach, drawn by the sheep—suited one.

‘Fetch,
Ben,’ cried a little kid, tossing a stick.

‘He’s
good with the children, isn’t he, Cornelius?’ said Tuppe, as Boris bounded off
along the beach.

‘He’s
drawing a lot of attention,’ said the tall boy. ‘You could earn us a couple of
cups of tea, if you would only persuade him into a dance routine. He doesn’t
have to do the Moon Walk, a soft-shoe shuffle would suffice.’

‘How
can you even suggest such a thing, Cornelius? Boris is born of a wise old
superior undersea race. To even hint at inflicting such indignity upon him is
nothing less than grotesque.’

‘Tuppe,’
said Cornelius, ‘we are broke. It is not a good thing to be broke at the
seaside. At the seaside one should enjoy oneself: take in all the pleasures,
make new friends, entertain these new friends.’

‘What
new friends?’ Tuppe asked.

‘Well,
I was thinking of those two suntanned lovelies over there. The ones in the boob
tubes and the white bikini bottoms.’

‘Roll
up! Roll up!’ cried Tuppe.

20

Which somehow brings us to
the matter of agents.

What is
it about the word ‘agent’ that couples it so perfectly with the word ‘dodgy’?

Think
about the last time you encountered an ‘agent’. Travel agent? Artist’s agent?
Literary agent? Casting agent? Secret agent?

ESTATE
AGENT?

Yes,
you get the picture. They can’t help themselves. They are the kind of people
who are drawn to careers as agents. Dodgy, that’s what they are. Slippery.
Lawyers are known as ‘legal agents’. Then there’s Advertising Agencies. Dating
agencies. Satanic agencies.

So on
and so forth.

Yes,
you
do
get the picture.

It’s a
giveaway word, is agent. You know deep down in your heart that whenever you
deal with an agent you are going
to get done.

You’ll
try your best not to, of course. You’ll work really hard at it. But you’ll lose
in the end, no matter. Because
they
will be up to something that
you
know
nothing about. They will have what is known as a ‘hidden agenda’.

And the
word ‘agenda’ comes from the same Latin root word as does the word
agent.
That
root word is
agere,
which means literally
‘to do’.

So,
there you go really.

David
Rodway was an estate agent. In fact, he was Skelington Bay’s
only
estate
agent. Which was strange, considering that Skelington Bay was such a small
town. For as anyone who has ever visited an English village will have observed,
the smaller the village, the more the estate agents.
[13]

David
Rodway had worked his way up to his position as the town’s only estate agent.
He’d worked hard. Come up the hard way. Escort agencies, time-share agencies.
Barn agent was David Rodway. He’d been Cardinal Richelieu in a previous
incarnation. Although
he
didn’t know that.

The
present controller of the Universal Reincarnation Company knew it, of course.

‘Good-morning,
sir,’ said David Rodway to the wild-eyed but well-dressed young man who had
entered his premises carrying the bulging suitcase. ‘How might I help you?’

The
wild-eyed young man put out his hand; offered a Masonic handshake; received one
in return.

A brief
and codified conversation ensued. Lodge details and degree hierarchies were
exchanged. All appeared to be in order.

The
wild-eyed young man seated himself at the estate agent’s behest.
[14]
He took in his surroundings:
slick little set up. Clean carpet. Chairs just comfortable enough. Computer
terminal. Modern desk.
[15]
Greasy little baldy-headed slimeball — straightening a Rotary Club tie between
the neat pinstriped collars of his Burton’s shirt, jacket off, but sleeves
rolled down, initialled cufflinks — behind the desk.

‘My
name is Stephen Craik,’ said the wild-eyed young man who had once been one so
daring. ‘I am here in an official capacity, acting as an agent for a third
party who wishes to purchase some property hereabouts.’

‘Indeed?’
said David Rodway. ‘Which particular property has captured your sponsor’s
interest?’

‘All
that you have,’ said Stephen Craik. ‘And all the rest as well.’

‘All?’
David Rodway jerked somewhat in his chair.

‘All.
All of Skelington Bay, lock, stock and barony.’

‘I
see.’ Although internally a maelstrom of covetousness now kicked and thrashed,
externally, a passive smile played lightly on the lips of Mr Rodway.
‘All,
you
say?’

‘The
lot,’ replied Stephen Craik. ‘Firstly every property you have on your books,
for which I will pay cash, now. Then all the remaining: every shop, business,
licensed premise, public utility. All.’

‘All.’
David Rodway had a small shake on, but not so much as to affect business. ‘This
is a most singular request,’ said he.

‘My
sponsor is a most singular man.’

‘Might
I see the cash of which you speak?’

‘Of
course you may.’ Stephen Craik opened the suitcase and turned it in Mr Rodway’s
direction. ‘You might also wish to see this.’

He
handed the estate agent an envelope.

The
estate agent opened it and perused its contents.

‘This
money has been authorized by the Prime Minister,’ said he, ‘who is the
country’s Grand Lodge Master 55°-23
^□
.’

The
estate agent made a secret sign.

The
wild-eyed young man made another.

‘Well
bugger my budgie,’ said the estate agent. ‘What’s it all about then, eh?’

Stephen
Craik gave his nose a conspiratorial tap. ‘I am not permitted to say. Perhaps
the Grand Lodge Master is seeking a holiday hideaway. Possibly it has something
to do with the classless society he has created. I regret that I must remain
mute upon the subject.’

‘No
problem, squire. I know where you’re coming from.’ Mr Rodway’s fingers were
doing the walking across the keyboard of his computer terminal.
‘All,
you
said?’ said he once again.

‘All.’

‘All it
is then.’ The estate agent’s fingers took another walk. ‘My own bungalow
included?’

‘If it
is in Skelington Bay, yes.’

‘Phew,’
said the estate agent. ‘That won’t come cheap I can tell you. I’ve just had
these coach lamps fitted on the gateposts that light up when you drive in at
night.’

‘Very
classy,’ said Stephen Craik, wincing within.

‘Very,’
Mr Rodway agreed. ‘I’ll hate to part with DAVE-LES, but when the Grand Lodge
Master plays the Ban Tempi organ, all those of the apron must dance to
The
Birdie Song,
eh?’

‘My
sentiments entirely.’

‘Car!’
said the estate agent, examining his computer screen. ‘I had no idea that my
bungalow would be worth
that
much.’

Stephen
Craik shook his head and did a little sighing. ‘Will this take long?’ he asked.
‘I am on a very tight schedule.’

‘Not
long.’ Further finger walking. ‘My old mum would be better off in an old folks’
home anyway. Now let’s see. Gosh, who’d have thought a small terraced house in
this neck of the woods would be worth as much as that?’

‘Any
brothers or sisters?’ asked Stephen Craik.

The
estate agent looked up from his screen to catch a wild-eyed look which told
him, ‘Watch it!’

‘Quite
so.’ He returned to his calculations. ‘All done,’ he said at not too great a
length. ‘Care to see the total?’

‘Just
read it out and I will pay you at once.’

‘That’s
the way I like to do business.’

‘I’ll
just bet it is.’

And it
was.

Documents
of a legal nature were drawn up with a rapidity which would have quite
surprised the average house purchaser. Money changed hands. Hands were again
clasped, knuckles pressed.

‘A
pleasure doing business with you,’ said David Rodway.

‘All
the rest,’ said Stephen Craik.

‘The
rest, you said?’

‘I did
say all the rest, yes. I want all the rest by Monday at the latest and my
sponsor wants the town cleared of all of its occupants by Wednesday.’

David
Rodway counted money into his wall safe. ‘Can’t be done,’ said he, in a casual
tone.

‘Must
be done,’ said the wild-eyed young man, in a tone so far from casual, as to be
positively non-casual by comparison.

‘Can’t
be,’ Mr Rodway closed his wall safe. ‘Logistically impossible. We have a town
here of between fifteen and twenty thousand people. Plus all the
holiday-makers. You couldn’t move that many people in that time. You’d need
about ten thousand removal lorries. They couldn’t all get down the streets,
even if you could get them all here. Which you couldn’t. And plenty of people
would refuse to move anyway. And you can’t buy municipal swimming-baths and the
police station. Or the McDonald’s. You and I both know who owns McDonald’s.’
[16]

‘My
sponsor wants all,’ said the wild-eyed young man. ‘And when he says all, he
means all. He will be butted no buts.’

‘Butted
no buts, is it? Well, he’d have to be the great butter of no buts himself to
pull that one off.’

The
wild-eyed young man raised a knowing eyebrow.

‘You
don’t mean—’ The estate agent took on whiteness as a facial hue. ‘Not—’

‘He,’
said Stephen Craik. ‘As I was so informed last
night.’

‘The
Grand High…’

‘Do not
speak his sacred masonic tide aloud.’

‘Bugger
my beagle,’ said the estate agent. ‘And my wife’s border collie dog Ben.’

‘Think,’
said the wild-eyed young man. ‘There must be some way by which it can be done.’

‘I’m
trying to think,’ said Mr Rodway. ‘But fair dos, you walk in off the street
with a proposition like this. A proposition that has
him
behind it.
You’re telling me you want the whole of Skelington Bay cleared by next week.
Shit! That includes this shop. My livelihood!’

‘I have
no doubt you’ll surprise yourself when you consult your computer and see how
much your livelihood is worth.’

‘I’m
quite sure I
won’t,’
said the estate agent, constructing a figure and
adding an extra zero to it for good measure. ‘But I’m still telling you it
can’t be done. OK, offered sufficient money most people will sell up. And if
the PM is behind this, then no doubt all the public bodies, town hall and
what-nots can be cleared. But you won’t get everyone out.

‘There
has to be some way. There just has to.’

‘You’d
have to get them out by force,’ said the estate agent. ‘Evict them. That can be
done, of course, but it will take time.’

‘There
isn’t time.’

‘Then
you’d have to come up with something that would make them want to move of their
own accord. At once.