The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived

  ‘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 full-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.’

  ‘Starring?’

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

  ‘Quite so. Then let it remain a matter o
f 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?’

  ‘Hard to tell quite yet. The prosecuting counsel has turned out to be a bit of a surprise. But as I know something about the magistrate that he doesn’t, I think it should all be over by teatime.’

  ‘How many years do you think they’ll give you?’

  ‘No years at all. I shall be walking from this courtroom a free man, with my head held high.’

  ‘What, higher than it is now? That’s something I’d like to see. From a first-floor window, of course.’

  ‘Truth will triumph,’ said Cornelius. ‘And why are you so late, by the way?’

  ‘I had a phone call from that private detective you employed to trace your dad’s whereabouts. Apparently he’s done the business and tracked your old fella to the offices of Transglobe Publishing.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Cornelius. ‘But what is he up to there?’

  ‘Selling his autohagiography apparently. It’s called The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it would be. Anything else?’

  ‘Indeed. The stuff you’re interested in. Your private eye bugged the offices, and he says that your daddy claims to be engaged on some secret government project. Something very big and hush-hush.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Yeah and he’s going to—’

  ‘I do hate to interrupt your conversation,’ said the policeman who was handcuffed to Cornelius. ‘But my mate and I would like to get off down to the chippy for some lunch now.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’

  ‘So if you don’t mind, we’ll just take you back to the cell, give you another roughing up, then nip off.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Cornelius. ‘I’ll see you later, Tuppe. Let’s say three-fifteen outside The Flying Swan.’

  ‘Inside,’ said Tuppe. ‘I’ll get you a drink in.’

  ‘Nice one. Make it a bottle of champagne on ice.’

  ‘I will. So long, Cornelius. Be lucky.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘So long, policeman.’

  ‘So long, Tuppe.’

  ‘So long.’

  5

  The interior of the mighty building held even less promise for Norman than had the outside. And the outside had not held very much.

  Once through the revolving doors, he found himself in a large reception area, with a generous expanse of grey marble floor and much in the way of oak panelling. It lacked, however, the rays of sunlight that favoured Brentford County Court and chose to dwell in a gas-lit gloom that Norman found depressing.

  There were some nicotine-coloured columns that dwindled away to an invisible ceiling far above, a row of lift doors set into a distant wall and a nearby desk with an antiquated switchboard mounted upon it. Behind this sat a lady in a straw hat knitting something grey and sock-like.

  It was not the same lady, but, as Norman had not met the first one, he was not to know this. Yet.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jack. ‘Follow me.’

  Norman looked up and off and around and about. ‘Where are we?’ he asked. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘All in good time. Follow me.’

  There was another lift involved. This one rose a great many floors.

  Norman’s spirits did not rise with it.

  Then there were corridors and passageways and doors and doors and doors. At very great length Jack stopped before one of quite singular anonymity, pushed it open and announced, ‘We’re here.’

  The room revealed sulked in that kind of half-light you find under kitchen sinks when you’re trying to clear the blockage in the S-bend. It was not a large room and it was crowded.

  This room suffered from a severe case of ‘filing cabinet’.

  There were dozens of them, shoulder to wooden shoulder, one on top of the next. Norman did not trouble himself to count just how many there were, one alone was sufficient to trouble him greatly.

  And this was not a tidy room. It was to be felt that the ‘order out of chaos’, for which God is so famous, had not extended itself to this particular neck of the cosmic woods.

  At the unbeating heart of this room, a sturdy desk offered its support to a bastion of box files. Many more of these formed towers of varying heights upon a carpet for the most part invisible beneath bundles of bound documents and discarded paper cups.

  Jack closed the door, trod a wary but well-practised path between the obstacles, swept some folders from a chair and sat down upon it. ‘Sit anywhere you like,’ he told Norman. ‘Care for a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d like to go home,’ said the dead boy, ‘if this could somehow be arranged.’

  ‘It can’t, mate. Sorry.’

  Norman sat down on a stack of box files and made a glum face. There was a window in the room. But beyond was only blackness to be seen. A large sign, pasted across the window’s glass, read ‘DO NOT OPEN THIS WINDOW’. It did not inspire confidence.

  Jack rooted around in a desk drawer. Presently a Thermos flask and two paper cups emerged into the uncertain light. Jack shook paper-clips from one cup and wiped the other upon a jacket cuff. ‘So,’ said he, ‘what do you think of my office? Pretty fab, eh?’

  ‘Am I supposed to work here too?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Jack filled the paper-clip cup with tea and handed it to Norman. ‘Sugar’s already in. I needed an assistant, you see. I’ve got a bit behind. Well, a lot behind and I saw your name come up, so I put in to be your PLC and take you on. And so, here you are.’

  ‘Thanks a bundle,’ Norman said.

  Jack grinned his grin. ‘You don’t seem too pleased, mate.’

  ‘I told you. I don’t want to work. I want to laze about. If I’d had the chance to win that £1,000 at the man-powered flight competition I’d have been able to have lazed about for years.’

  Jack poured tea into his own paper cup and sipped from it. ‘You never would have won,’ said he. ‘A priest wins it: inflates his stomach with helium and propels himself through the sky by fa—’

  ‘What do you mean, a priest wins it? How can you know that?’

  ‘We know everything here. It’s all in the ledgers and the files. W
ho gets born and when. How long they live for, why they die. All that.’

  Norman whistled. ‘You know all that?’

  ‘It’s our job to know. Like when I said I put in an application to be your PLC. Do you know when I did that?’

  ‘Last week when I died, I suppose.’ Norman took a swig of tea, made an alarmed face, then spat out a paper-clip.

  ‘Not last week,’ said Jack. ‘Five years ago.’

  ‘Bummer,’ said Norman. ‘So whatever happened to free will?’

  ‘You were free to do whatever you chose. It’s just that we happened to know what you would choose before you chose it.’

  ‘And so who are you? And what is this place? Some sort of heavenly records office?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Jack gave his nose a conspiratorial finger-tap. ‘We’re not that. We’re the best-kept secret in the history of eternity. This is The Universal Reincarnation Company.’

  If he was waiting for applause, he didn’t get any. Norman simply shrugged and asked, ‘the what?’

  ‘OK,’ Jack finished up his tea. ‘Another cup?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ Jack poured a second for himself. ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’

  ‘Not particularly, no.’

  ‘Well, I’ll begin anyway. It all began when God created the Heavens and the Earth.’

  ‘Is this going to take long?’ Norman asked. ‘Only I—’

  ‘Only you what?’

  ‘Only I nothing really. Go on, God created the Heavens and the Earth.’

  ‘He did, and it was his original intention that only really good people should go to Heaven when they died. The rest all went, you know.’

  ‘To Hell?’ Norman asked.

  ‘We don’t call it that. It was called the EDF.’

  ‘Surprise me,’ said Norman.

  ‘Eternal Damnation Facility. You see, God gave Moses the ten commandments, right? Nine of which are reasonably easy to keep, if you put your mind to it. No killing, no stealing, no committing adultery, could be a problem that, but no big deal. But he slipped in Command Number Ten. The one about, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s ox.’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve ever coveted my neighbour’s ox at all,’ said Norman. ‘Nor his ass, come to think of it.’