The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (20 page)

David
Rodway made the face of one trying hard to imagine such things. But he couldn’t
quite pull it off ‘I am an estate agent,’ said he, puff-puffing on his small
cigar. ‘The concept of human suffering has no meaning to me.

‘Good
man,’ said Stephen Craik. ‘I was just testing. Had to be sure. Couldn’t take
any chances that I might be dealing with a humanitarian.’

‘No
danger of that, squire. You’ll be wanting a receipt for the rest of the money
in your suitcase, won’t you?’

‘I will
as soon as I’ve spent it on something, yes.’

‘But
you have, squire, you have.
My shop,
remember? I’ll wager that the
figure I require for the purchase of my shop comes to exactly the amount you
have left in your suitcase.’

‘I
think it well might,’ said Stephen Craik. ‘Minus a twenty per cent deduction to
cover my own fees in this matter and all further matters to come.’

‘Did I
hear you say a
ten
per cent deduction?’

‘I
think you heard me say a fifteen per cent deduction.’

‘I
think I heard you loud and clear, squire. So what say we order up a bottle of
bubbly to seal the deal and start the rumour spreading?’

‘Sounds
good to me.

‘Waitress!’

The
waitress was serving a bottle of bubbly to the table where the tall boy, the
short boy, the brace of beauties and the sheep were sitting.

‘Enjoy
your meal,’ said Lola, tottering off.

Tuppe
raised his champagne flute. ‘To Boris,’ he toasted.

‘To
Boris,’ all agreed.

‘Cheers,
friends,’ said Boris sucking on both straws.

‘How
does
he do that?’ asked Louise.

‘He’s
not a real sheep,’ whispered Tuppe. ‘It’s a bloke in a suit.’

‘Aw
shit!’ Louise stretched forward and clouted Boris in the ear. ‘I’ve been
tickling his stomach for half an hour, no wonder he was getting so excited.’

‘I’m
having a great time, lads,’ giggled Boris.

‘I
think Boris is getting a bit pissed,’ said Tuppe to Cornelius.

‘Well
he deserves it, he’s earned us lunch.’

‘I
don’t think he’s earned us quite as much as that, Cornelius. In fact, I fear
that we’ll be many pounds short in the bill-paying department.’

‘Leave
the bill to us,’ said Thelma. ‘Our treat for nicking your car.

‘I
thought you didn’t have any money,’ Cornelius said.

Thelma
shook her golden head. ‘We don’t. We’re skint.’

‘Then
how?’

‘We’re
professional criminals,’ said Louise.

‘Took
it as a sixth-form subject,’ said Thelma. ‘Going on to do it as a degree course
at university in the autumn.’

‘Nice
one,’ said Cornelius. ‘I had thought of doing that myself But I chose to be an
epic adventurer instead.’

‘So
what kind of crime do you specialize in?’ Tuppe asked.

Thelma
sipped champagne. ‘Victimless mostly at the moment. Insurance frauds,
small-scale stock market swindles, supermarket heists, that kind of thing.’

‘We’ll
probably open up an agency of some sort, once we’re fully qualified,’ said
Louise. ‘But how did you come by all the money that this Hugo Rune’s ripped you
off for?’

‘That’s
a long story,’ said Cornelius. ‘And I won’t bore you with it here. But the sources
from which all the wealth derived have now dried up.

‘But
you’ll get all your money back from this Rune somehow, won’t you?’

‘Probably.
But I don’t think I really want it back. When you can have anything you want,
you soon find out that there’s very little you actually
need.’

‘I’ll
cross that bridge when I come to it,’ said Louise.

‘We’d
be happy to swindle you out of your money,’ said Thelma. ‘If you think it would
help.’

‘It’s a
deal,’ said Cornelius. ‘Call for some more champagne, Tuppe, while I help Boris
back onto his chair.’

‘Waitress!’
called Tuppe.

The
waitress was serving champagne to Mr Rodway. Mr Rodway was speaking to Mr Craik
in what is known in theatrical circles (and most others, really, except
possibly crop circles) as a ‘stage whisper’.

‘I
swear it’s true,’ he stage—whispered. ‘I read the report myself, some kind of
deadly
virus
and it’s spreading through the
cars
in
this neighbourhood.’

‘Not
the cars everywhere then?’ Mr Craik stage-whispered back. ‘No,
just here.
Hasn’t
spread further yet. But someone should do something about it.’

‘Typical
that is,’ Mr Craik was getting into the swing of the thing. ‘Some kind of
Government
cover up,
I’ll bet. Some
germ warfare experiment
that went wrong.

‘I’m
getting out, me,’ stage-whispered Mr Rodway. ‘And I’m the
estate agent.
I
owe it to my wife and family.’

‘Someone
should demand a
statement
from the
mayor,’
s-double-ued Mr Craik.
‘Be careful there, waitress, you’re spilling the champagne all over the table.’

‘Sorry,
sir,’ the waitress put down the bottle with a bang and tottered away at a brisk
old pace towards the kitchen.

‘Piece
of cake really, isn’t it?’ asked Mr Rodway. ‘Getting rumours started.’

‘The
mayor can be bought off then, I suppose?’

Mr
Rodway raised his eyebrows, then lowered the one above the eye he was now
winking.

‘A
member of your lodge?’

‘How do
you think he got to be mayor?’

‘I feel
that we shall enjoy a most lucrative business partnership,’ said Mr Craik,
raising his champagne glass. ‘To Mad Car Disease.’

‘Mad
Car Disease it is. Bottoms up.’

‘Where’s that waitress
gone?’ asked Tuppe.

‘This
food’s really good,’ said Louise.

‘Why
did I get a plate of grass?’ asked Boris. ‘I wanted cod and chips like the rest
of you. Hic!’

‘That
sleazy-looking bald bloke at the table over there’s winking at us again,’ said
Thelma.

Louise
waved to Mr Rodway. ‘I think I know who’ll be paying for our lunch,’ she
whispered to Cornelius.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen,’ the fat black man in the white tuxedo had switched off his
ghetto-blaster and was now on his feet, ‘I hope you are all enjoying your lunch
at The Casablanca dining-suite. As those who have dined here before, and I see
a lot of familiar faces…‘ The fat black man fluttered his fingers and a
lady in a straw hat fluttered hers back at him. ‘As those who have dined here
before will know, the Skelington Bay Grande (hot and cold running water in all
rooms and fitted carpet tiles throughout) is always pleased at this time of the
day to present its cabaret.’

Polite
applause pattered about the dining-suite.

‘And
today, for the first time anywhere, we present…‘ He stooped and flicked the
switch on his ghetto-blaster, a drum roll drum-rolled.

‘I
didn’t know we were getting a floor show,’ said Tuppe. ‘I hope it’s a
stripper.’

The fat
black man switched off his ghetto-blaster. ‘Courtesy of Samuel Showstein
Productions, I give you Professor Tuppe and his dancing sheep.’

‘What?’
went Tuppe, as all eyes in the room turned towards the only sheep in the room.

‘Hang
about, this can’t be right.’ Tuppe snatched up his contract. ‘What’s this?’ He
found what he was looking for almost at once, as it was all that was written in
the contract. “‘Three shows a day, everyday, starting today, cheque to be made
out in advance to Mr Showstein. Cheque received with thanks by Mr Showstein.”
Yeah, well I never signed this, so it’s not legally binding.’

‘Come
on up now, Professor,’ called the fat black white-tuxedo-wearer. ‘We all want
to see the woolly wonder.’

Cornelius
looked at Tuppe.

And
Tuppe looked at Cornelius.

‘You’d
better do something,’ whispered the tall boy. ‘One quick little song and dance
before we call for the desserts tray.’

‘Song
and dance?’ Tuppe whispered back. ‘Look at Boris, he can’t even walk, let alone
dance.’

The
little black lips of Boris’s sheep mask were curled into a lopsided grin. The
woolly wonder was well out of it.

‘I’ll
handle this,’ said Cornelius, rising to his feet and dusting himself down with
a napkin. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I regret that Professor Tuppe’s dancing sheep
strained a fetlock this morning in rehearsals and will not be able to perform
until this evening.’

‘Aw,’
went the diners, and ‘shame’.

‘I’m
sure you’re all animal lovers’, said Cornelius, ‘and would not wish to cause
suffering to a dumb beast.’ Heads nodded all around, one or two people clapped.

‘Who
are you calling dumb?’ giggled Boris.

‘Shut
up,’ said Tuppe, ramming a hand over his mouth.

‘Thank
you,’ said Cornelius sitting down.

‘Oi
you,’ said a young man, standing up. He was quite a broad-shouldered young man
and fierce-looking with it. He wore a colourful vest, shorts and trainers. And
sported on his arms those crude self-inflicted tattoos that are so popular
amongst juvenile offenders in remand centres.

‘Are
you talking to me?’ Cornelius enquired.

‘Yeah,’
said the young man. ‘Me and my mates have been watching you.

‘Yeah,’
his mates agreed. They were similar-looking young men, with similar-looking
tattoos. There were three of them (men that is, it was hard to count the
tattoos).

‘Well,
nice to say hello,’ said Cornelius with much politeness. ‘I trust you’ll catch
this evening’s performance.’

‘We’ve
been watching you feeding booze to that sheep.’

‘Yes,’
agreed the lady in the straw hat, standing up also. ‘We’ve
all
been
watching that.’

‘I hate
people who abuse animals,’ said the young man.

‘Me
too,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘And I hate people who park their cars on
grass verges.’

‘Me
too,’ said someone else. ‘And I hate the sound of car alarms going off in the
night.’

‘Me
too,’ agreed Thelma. ‘Especially when I’m trying to get the stereo out.

‘Blokes
like you ain’t worth
that,’
snarled the young man, making the approved
gesture. ‘You need a good lesson teaching.’

‘Yeah,’
his mates agreed.

‘There’s
no need for any unpleasantness,’ said Cornelius, taking a firm grip upon the Thirties-revival
champagne cooler. ‘Let’s all calm down, have a drink on me.’

‘Here’s
one,’ cried one of the young man’s companions, snatching up his glass and
flinging its contents towards Cornelius.

The
tall boy ducked nimbly aside, taking the champagne cooler with him. Carling
Black Label went all over Thelma.

‘Whoops,’
said Louise. ‘Bad move there, she takes great exception to that kind of thing.’

‘I
bloody do.’ Thelma leapt from her chair, climbed onto the table and launched
herself at the despoiler of her boob tube.

The
first young man launched himself at Cornelius.

Tuppe
launched himself to a place of safety beneath the table, dragging Boris with
him.

The
lady in the straw hat turned round and hit her husband. ‘Bloody grass-verge
parker,’ said she.

Cornelius
brought the first young man down with the Thirties-revival champagne cooler.
Clunk!
it went against his skull.

His
mates were on the move though.

Thelma
decked the Black Label thrower with a fearsome blow to the groin.

Cornelius
was suddenly engulfed in a firestorm of fists.

‘I like
a good punch up, me,’ said Mr Rodway, looking on. ‘Not getting involved in one,
you understand, but watching the boot go in. Most exhilarating.’

‘I like
being trussed up and caned,’ said Mr Craik. ‘But then who doesn’t?’

Clunk!
went the Thirties-revival jobbie once again.

‘Nice
one,’ said Mr Rodway.

‘That’s
them over there,’ said the waitress to the crowd of burly kitchen porters. ‘The
bald berk and the git with the crazy eyes. From wot I could get outta wot they
was saying, they’re Government germ warfare blokes spreading a deadly virus in
this neighbour’ood.’

‘Right,
let’s have the bastards,’ agreed the burly ones.

Now
violence isn’t everybody’s cup of corpuscle, and most of the diners weren’t
keen to enter into the spirit of the thing. So they made for the exit. Of
course they caused a certain amount of chaos doing so. And chaos is the
neighbour of violence, the live-in-lover sometimes.

‘Take
that,’ went the lady in the straw hat, lashing out with her knitting bag.