The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived

‘He says—’

  ‘I don’t care what he says, hide in the hedge.’

  The red car sped closer and Cornelius stood with his hands raised in the middle of the road. It was a narrow road. More a country lane really. Yes, that was it, a country lane. So the car couldn’t swerve around Cornelius. It being a country lane and everything. The car screeched to a halt with much blackening of tyre tread upon Tarmac. There was a loud popping sound and Cornelius looked on as the air bag, which is fitted as standard on a top-of-the-range model such as this one was, inflated, engulfing the driver in a big balloon of showroom-smelling safety fabric.

  ‘Help, help, set me free!’ shouted a most familiar voice.

  ‘It’s the man with the bogus Rolex,’ said Cornelius, giving Tuppe and his new-found friend from the stars the signal they had agreed upon (secretly).

  The tall boy stepped nimbly to the driver’s door and pulled it open. ‘Might I be of some assistance, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Get me out of here.’

  ‘Happy to oblige.’ Cornelius took the driver by the arm and pulled as hard as he could.

  Then he climbed back to his feet and returned to the car. ‘I’m afraid I’ve ripped the sleeve off your jacket,’ he apologized. ‘Perhaps we share the same tailor.’

  ‘Get me free, I’m suffocating here.’

  Cornelius withdrew from his pocket a multi-function Swiss Army knife. It had always puzzled him why if the Swiss were neutral they needed an army. Possibly this enemyless military body simply whiled away the hours inventing new blades for its famous knife. Or possibly Swiss Army was a trade name, like Ronco, or K.Tel. Or ASDA.

  ‘I don’t care,’ murmured the suffocating salesman. ‘Just cut me free.’

  Cornelius hastened to oblige. There was much ripping, much hissing and then more shouting. The Rolex-wearer issued from his automobile like a storm from a teapot. Or was it a storm in a teapot?

  ‘What are you playing at? Standing in the road like that, you could have been killed.’

  ‘I’m OK thanks,’ said Cornelius. ‘This car of yours can certainly pull up short when it has to. Have you got AVS fitted as standard?’

  ‘And a Blaupunkt,’ said the man from ASDA.

  ‘And leather upholstery by the look of it,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘The driver’s seat is capable of nineteen separate adjustments to mould itself to your lumber profile,’ said the driver proudly.

  ‘What anybody’s or just yours?’

  ‘Anybody’s. Sit in, I’ll show you how it works.’

  ‘Cor, thanks,’ said Cornelius. ‘I’d really like that.’

  It was the work of a moment of course. Nothing more. A door slam, a central lock (again fitted as standard), a flap aside of the shredded air bag and a twist of the ignition key (the one with the ‘My other car is an XJS 3.2 MFIi’ key fob).

  And that was that.

  Tuppe waved from the rear window.

  The ex-driver did not wave back. He lay in the middle of the road, thrashing his legs about and weeping bitterly.

  Cornelius settled himself down into the posture contouring and whistled a wistful air.

  ‘That’s very strange indeed,’ said Tuppe to the spaceman.

  ‘What is?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘Mavis here was just telling me—’

  ‘Mavis?’ asked Cornelius.

  ‘Mavis,’ said Tuppe. ‘That’s the spaceman’s name.’

  ‘That’s a very strange name for a spaceman.’

  ‘That’s what I just said.’

  ‘Fair enough. Hey look, we’re nearly there.’

  The road sign up ahead, which was now passing behind as Cornelius was driving rather fast, read, SKELINGTON BAY 1 MILE.

  ‘Where does your cosmic pal want to be dropped off?’ Cornelius asked.

  The spaceman spoke some more gibberish gathered, as before, at random from the top row of the typewriter keys (apart from the “busoms” bit earlier, which was quite cleverly thought out) and Tuppe said—

  ‘No, don’t bother,’ Cornelius told him. ‘He said to drop him off near the west pier. I got it.’

  ‘How did you get it?’ Tuppe enquired.

  ‘Because he’s not speaking Romany, he’s speaking Esperanto.’

  ‘I know lots of Earth languages,’ said Mavis the spaceman. ‘Do you mind if I change?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ said Cornelius, shaking his head and liberally distributing his hair all about the car. ‘Speak Swahili if you think it will aid your credibility.’

  ‘No, I meant change out of my uniform. Cunningly disguise myself as an Earth being, to avoid recognition.’

  ‘Oh yes, please do.’ Cornelius kept on driving. ‘I’d like to see that.’

  ‘Thanks, then you will. Would you mind looking away for a moment?’ the spaceman asked Tuppe. ‘Only I’m not wearing any underpants.’

  ‘Oh sure.’ Tuppe looked away.

  There were some sounds of a struggle, then the spaceman said, ‘You can look back now.’

  Tuppe looked back. ‘Excrete a brick!’ said he.

  ‘Language,’ said Cornelius, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Excrete a bungalow!’ said he.

  ‘Pretty convincing, eh?’ asked the spaceman. And it was.

  Gone the three-foot-sixer with the bulbous head and nose abundance. And in his place . . .

  ‘A sheep,’ said Tuppe. ‘You’re a sheep.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ said the sheep. ‘I’m a collie dog.’

  ‘You’re a sheep,’ said Tuppe. ‘Believe me. I know sheep. Not as well as I know pigs. But I do know sheep and you’re one.’

  ‘But I’m supposed to be a collie dog. Called Ben.’

  ‘Why Ben?’ Cornelius asked the sheep.

  ‘Because collie dogs are always called Ben, it’s a tradition, or an old—’

  ‘Sheep-dog,’ said Tuppe. ‘Collies are sheep-dogs.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Mavis the sheep called Ben.

  ‘No, it’s not you. You’re a sheep, not a sheep-dog.’

  ‘But you’re a very good one,’ said Cornelius. ‘How did you do that, by the way?’

  ‘Do you know anything about the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter?’ the sheep asked.

  ‘Only that it’s bogus sci-fi waffle used by a certain author as a really duff running gag.’

  ‘It’s a costume then,’ the sheep reached up with its little trotters (or perhaps hooves, if sheep don’t have trotters), and pulled off its head. Mavis the spaceman peeped out through the neck hole of his woolly suit. ‘Do you think it will matter?’ he asked. ‘Sheep, sheep-dog, what’s the difference?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ said Tuppe. ‘Is this your first time on Earth?’

  ‘Certainly not. I’ve been here lots of times.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re being altogether truthful.’

  ‘Oh, all right then, yes it’s my first time.’

  ‘So who set you up with the sheep costume?’

  ‘My mate Bryant. We graduated together, but he failed his pilot’s licence and works in the stores now. When I told him that I’d been offered this job of flying to Earth on a secret mission, he said that he’d help me out. He organized the costume and the Earth name.’

  ‘Ben?’ asked Tuppe.

  ‘No, Mavis. He said that most Earth men were called Mavis, that it was a tradition, or—’

  ‘Stop,’ said Cornelius, now stopping the car. ‘It’s all been very entertaining. But enough is enough. We have arrived. This I would assume is the west pier, as its brother lies in an easterly direction. Put your sheep’s head back on and kindly leave the vehicle.’

  ‘Thanks for the ride,’ said Mavis, slipping on his sheep’s head. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tuppe asked Cornelius. ‘We can’t just leave him here disguised as a sheep.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, he won’t get five yards.’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ said Mavis, or Ben, or
whoever. ‘I’ll nuzzle up against someone and get taken home and fed and petted. I know the form.’

  ‘I don’t think you quite do,’ said Tuppe. ‘People don’t treat sheep the same way as they treat dogs.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘They do not. People may pet dogs, but they eat sheep.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid your pal Bryant has put you on a wrong’n.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said whoever. ‘Whatever shall I do?’

  ‘Why don’t you just come clean’, said Cornelius, ‘and own up. You’re not really from outer space, are you?’

  ‘I never said I was.’

  ‘Oh, I think you did,’ said Tuppe. ‘Or at least implied it anyway.’

  ‘That was my cover,’ said a mournful whoever. ‘In case I got caught. Bryant said that if the collie dog costume didn’t work and saying I was an Earthman called Mavis didn’t work, then I was to pretend I came from outer space and ask to be taken to Erich Von Daniken.’

  Tuppe shook his little head. Cornelius sighed and drummed his fingers upon the sleek Grand Prix style steering wheel, which came as standard on this particular model. ‘It would seem’, said he, ‘that as Tuppe observed, your pal Bryant has stitched you up. Now I can sympathize with you, but unless you tell me all of the truth then I am not prepared to help you. We are sitting here in a stolen car, this is not a good thing to be doing. So speak quickly or take your chances elsewhere.’

  ‘I’m not from outer space,’ confessed the whoever in the sheep suit.

  ‘Aw,’ said Tuppe. ‘What a cop out.’

  ‘So where are you from?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘I’m from the same place that all the flying saucers really come from.’

  ‘Which is outer space,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘No it’s not.’ The whoever pointed a trotter or a hoof or whatever towards the sea. ‘It’s not from outer space. It’s from outta there.’

  13

  In space, they say, no-one can hear you scream. Norman, who had been falling and screaming for some considerable time, would, had he been asked, have been able to verify this. But as no-one was around to ask. He didn’t.

  ‘Aaaaaaaagh!’ went Norman. ‘Aaaaaaaagh!’

  And then Crash! went Norman, as he ceased falling all at once and struck home at whatever he had been falling towards.

  ‘Oh God,’ went Norman. ‘Oh and help.’ He floundered about in a mound of debris and wondered which way ‘up’ had once been.

  ‘Oh God,’ went Norman again. ‘I could have been killed.’

  ‘No you couldn’t,’ said a voice. ‘Not a second time.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Stay where you are and I’ll put on the light.’

  Norman stayed where he was. Someone put on the light.

  And Norman, blinking and twitching could now see where he was. In what looked to be (and indeed was) the bottom of an abandoned lift shaft. Wedged into a pile of mouldy papers and broken office furniture.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Norman. ‘Whoever you are.’

  ‘I’m here!’ A veritable apparition sprang up before him. Long of white hair, long of white beard, ragged of clothing and very wild of eye.

  ‘Stuff me!’ said Norman. ‘It’s Ben Gun.’

  ‘No it ain’t,’ crowed the apparition, dancing about him. ‘I’m Claude, I am.’

  ‘Claude who?’

  ‘Don’t remember. Claude Butler perhaps. Or was that a bicycle? Claude Raines?’

  ‘Phantom of the Opera?’ Norman asked.

  ‘Never been to the opera. Been here for years and years and years.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Norman. ‘Years?’

  ‘And years and years. Wasn’t expecting you, though. Did you make an appointment?’

  ‘I just dropped in,’ said Norman, with ne’er a hint of humour. ‘And I’d like to be shown the way out.’

  ‘No way out. Only up and can’t be climbed. Bloody big door at the top if you did and hasn’t been opened for years and years—’

  ‘And years?’ Norman asked. ‘Do you think you could help me out of all this rubbish? I’m stuck fast.’

  ‘Rubbish?’ The loon bobbed up and down. ‘That’s not rubbish, that’s evidence that is. I’ll have my day in court, you just see if I don’t.’

  ‘I’d like to very much,’ said Norman. ‘But I have important business to attend to. Please help me out.’

  ‘Come on then.’ The ancient took Norman by the shoulders and dragged him from the mouldering mound.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Norman. ‘I didn’t like that at all.’

  ‘What did you do then?’ asked the white-bearder. ‘Clerical error was it, clerical error?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Norman dusted garbage from himself.

  ‘Found out something you shouldn’t have, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Yeah well, maybe.’

  ‘All here,’ crowed the loon. ‘All the evidence. What he’s been up to, what he’s up to now. He dumps it all down here to taunt me. Because I found out.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Norman.

  ‘I’m Claude,’ said Claude. ‘Claude somebody, just keeps escaping me.’

  ‘What are you then?’

  ‘What am I? I’m the bloody controller. That’s what I am.’

  ‘You’re the controller? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I found him out,’ said the controller. ‘Found out what he was up to. Caught him at it. And he got me and he threw me down here and he threw all the evidence down here on top of me and he bolted the bloody door. Bastard!’ the ancient shouted up the shaft. ‘You fat bastard! I’ll get you!’

  ‘You mean that the controller up there isn’t the real controller? That you’re the real controller?’

  ‘You thick or something, sonny? What did you think I’ve been saying?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Norman. ‘I’m somewhat confused.’

  ‘So was I. So was I. Kept seeing his name coming up again and again. Thought it was a clerical error. Tackled him over it. But he got me and he threw me down here and—’

  ‘Yes, you said all that. But who is he?’

  ‘He’s a bastard, that’s who he is.’

  ‘Surely that’s what he is.’

  ‘Don’t tell me my business, sonny. I caught him at it. I know who he is and what he is. And I’ve got all the evidence and—’

  ‘You’ll have your day in court?’ Norman asked.

  ‘I told you I would, didn’t I?’

  ‘What evidence have you got?’

  ‘All this. Piles of it. And you’ve made a mess of it, falling into it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Norman. ‘But I didn’t fall, I was pushed.’

  ‘Pushed by him, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Norman. ‘Show me whatever this evidence is. Please.’

  ‘It’s all here. Dates, facts, cross-references, births and deaths. All his, over and over again. There’re four of him down there this very minute, you know.’

  ‘Down where?’

  ‘Down on the Earth, you silly fool. Four of him exactly the same. Cloned himself, he did, and just goes on and on, getting cleverer and cleverer and more dangerous every time.’

  ‘You mean there’s someone down there who somehow manages to get reincarnated as himself again and again? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Not reincarnated, pre-incarnated. That’s what he does. He fixed it for himself, you see. Every time he dies his soul, or one of them, seeing as he’s now got four, goes back into the system and gets reallocated to himself again on his original birthdate.’

  ‘What, reincarnates in the past?’

  ‘Pre-incarnates. That’s what I said. Souls can do that kind of stuff. They’re not tied to physical laws. Time don’t mean nothing to souls. And he found that out. Smart bugger, so he is. He just keeps getting born again and again on his original birthday. Never makes the same mistake twice, I can tell you. Knows it all, see
. What’s going to happen. Bastard! I’ll have him though. I’ve got all the evidence right here, I’ll have my—’

  ‘Day in court. And quite right too.’ Norman knelt down and picked up a pile of mouldy old papers. ‘And all this lot refers to just one man?’

  ‘Same man, many lifetimes though. But all the same lifetime, as far as anyone else knows. Some scam, eh? Immortality, that’s what that is. Cloned himself, did I tell you that?’

  ‘You did mention it. How did he do that?’

  ‘Got himself born as quintuplets one time is my guess.’

  ‘Quintuplets? But I thought you said there are four of him down there.’

  ‘Four down there, that’s what I said. And one up here. The bloody fake controller! Same bloke! Bastard! Don’t you ever listen to what’s told you, sonny?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ said Norman. ‘But it’s quite a lot to take in at one go. You’re saying, now let me make sure that I’ve got all this straight, you’re saying that this man pre-incarnates again and again on his original birthdate. And that he remembers — is this right? — all the things he’d done when he was alive the first time and so does them better the second time, better still the third time and so on and so on.’

  ‘You’ve got it. Knows it all, does it all, goes everywhere, knows everyone. Always in the right place at the right time. Bastard!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Norman. ‘Bastard. But if he does that. If you could do that. Well, blimey. You’d be—’

  ‘The most amazing man who ever lived,’ said the ancient one. ‘And that’s not all you’d be. You’d be something more than that.’

  ‘Which is?’

  The oldster fixed Norman with a wild and glittering eye. ‘You’d be the very Devil himself,’ said he.

  14

  The most amazing man of several parts had been out of the picture for quite some time. But here he was back in it now.

  Ensconced was he in the best that Skelington Bay had to offer. Far less than what he might have wished for. But the best he was going to get here.

  The Skelington Bay Grande.

  The e had been added to Grand by the new owner who felt that it gave the place a bit of class. Much in the way that putting reproduction coach-lamps on your gateposts that light up when your car drives in gives your bungalow a bit of class. Or having personalized number-plates on your mini, or making a really interesting name for that bungalow by taking the first part of your wife’s first name and adding it to the first part of your first name and coming up with something like RON-DOR.