The Book of Ultimate Truths

  ‘But what about the fish?’

  ‘Polgar’s grandson is Peter Polgar. He of Peter’s Pets in the high street.’

  ‘I know of it.’

  ‘And young Polgar is a gentleman of wild talent. Much given to the creation of the chimera.’

  ‘I have passed his premises on many an occasion,’ said Cornelius. ‘Those beasts visible through the grimy window are all a shade too mythical for my particular taste.’

  ‘Quite so and your reference to the window gives you the measure of the man.’

  ‘He is careful with his pennies?’

  ‘He is a tight-fisted bas–’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘And this fish in a bag is his latest accomplishment. An ungodly hybrid of squirrel and trout. His intention is the cuddly fish that feeds on acorns and sleeps through the winter when nobody wants to go outside and look in their fishpond anyway.’

  ‘He is certainly a sharp one, this Polgar. But I do detect a slight flaw or two in his reasoning.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I do. For one thing, this is now high summer and not the hibernation season.’

  ‘I did mention this to him. But he said he’d pay me a fiver if I took the fish out for a bit of fresh air in the hope that it might drop off to sleep. Fish never sleep, according to him, so if this one does, then that’s half the battle won as far as friend Polgar is concerned.’

  ‘Which does rather bring me to flaw number two. Did you care to touch upon the fact that fish rarely flourish once they are removed from water?’

  ‘No. I preferred to accept the fiver.’

  ‘I would have done the same. Shall we bury the fish then?’

  ‘What here? Hardly sporting to the Reverend Kemp.’ Tuppe emptied the unnatural issue into his lap. Cornelius viewed it with distaste.

  ‘Are those little feet?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems like. And it has really horrid teeth. Do you want to see?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘As you please.’ Tuppe took the furry fish by its tail and sniffed it. ‘Would there be good eating in a fish like this, do you suppose?’

  Cornelius held down his hair and shook his head. ‘Not in the squirrel parts. Toss the thing away, Tuppe. I have no love for fish, furred, feathered, fried or farmed.’

  ‘So be it. Sorry, little fishy.’ Tuppe flung the aquatic anomaly over his shoulder, wiped his fingers on the paper bag and clambered to his feet on the copper map.

  Cornelius put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and the two gazed off towards the lands of the east, wondering once more what the fates held in store for them.

  The sun cast their shadows behind them. And here occurred a curiosity. For although the two stood with their heads for once on a level pegging, the size of their shadows differed to no small degree.

  That of Cornelius was its usual angular self topped off with a twirling banner. But the shadow of Tuppe extended to nearly double the length of his companion’s. And even though the little fellow stood stock still, his shadow heaved and twisted as some living creature writhing in unimaginable torment.

  And all the birds that saw it stopped singing upon the instant.

  And the short hairs rose upon the neck of Cornelius Murphy and he felt suddenly afraid.

  Cornelius turned with a jerk, nearly dislodging Tuppe from his precarious perch. But there was nothing for him to see.

  ‘Oh ow,’ cried Tuppe, struggling to keep his balance. ‘What is happening?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Cornelius scratched at his chin. It was going to need a shave in a month or two. ‘The birds…’ He put a hand to his ear. The birds were singing once again.

  Cornelius shivered, ‘Let’s go down, it’s turning cold.’

  ‘Cold? Cornelius?’ Tuppe shinned down from the plinth.

  The tall boy turned away and began to pace away down the hill.

  ‘Cornelius, wait for me.’ Tuppe limped off in hot pursuit.

  In the long grass, where Tuppe’s shadow had performed its curious gyrations, the furry fish awoke from its nap, snapped its horrid teeth and crept away in search of a four-legged lunch.

  3

  Cornelius and Tuppe came down from the hill. At the place where the buses turn around they parted company. Tuppe returned to Peter’s Pets, composing as he did an improbable yarn about animal rights activists and the forcible abduction of a furry fish, into a more than plausible truth. And one which would demand compensation.

  Cornelius stopped off at the telephone box to call Mr Yarrow at his home. He spoke once more in the voice of Murphy Senior.

  ‘My son is heartbroken,’ he told the youth employment officer. ‘He so wanted that job as a mime artiste. He is terribly distraught.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ replied the Yarrow, who most certainly was. ‘But be assured of this. I will not rest until I have secured honest employment for your son.’

  Cornelius feared that this would more than likely be the case.

  He felt that he had seen more than enough of Mr Yarrow.

  ‘I am sending the boy away,’ he continued. ‘A couple of weeks’ rest, that’s what he needs. Kindly have ten days’ holiday money sent on.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I am holding you directly responsible for the decline in his health. The constant disappointments. The building up and dashing down of his hopes. He is in no fit state to attend further interviews at this time.’

  ‘I am sorry, but I can’t sanction holiday money.’

  ‘Then I will speak to the headmaster directly. We are fellow freemasons. Have no fear, he will sort the matter out.’

  There was a bit of a silence at Mr Yarrow’s end of the line.

  ‘I hardly feel we need to trouble the head over such trifles.’ Mr Yarrow’s voice had that ‘lost soul’ quality about it. ‘Do you want the cheque made out for cash?’

  ‘That would be fine. I’ll speak to you soon then.’

  ‘Give Cornelius my best wishes and tell him I hope he gets well soon.’

  ‘I will. Goodbye, Mr Yarrow.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Murphy.’

  Cornelius replaced the receiver. It was all too easy. It gave him no pleasure. But then the pointlessness of unemployment gave him no pleasure. He was bursting with grand schemes. Conning a few pounds from Mr Yarrow and walking the streets held little appeal.

  Of course, he had no intention of becoming a nine-to-fiver. He was the stuff of epics after all. A young man of special gifts. Capable of changing the world.

  But the world was really taking its time to find this out.

  The dustbin men were picking up outside The Wife’s Legs.

  ‘Morning, Cornelius,’ they called gaily.

  ‘Morning, dustbin men,’ the youth replied.

  ‘Don’t forget to put your bin out today.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The bins were already out by the time Cornelius reached home.

  Home was number twenty-three Moby Dick Terrace.

  And number twenty-three was now the first house in the street. And number thirty-three the last. But more of that later.

  Cornelius lifted the lid from the bin which stood before his front door. The bin was, as ever, empty. A weekly tribute to the mother’s skills in conservation and the recycling of the Murphy waste. Whatever entered that house stayed there. If it could not be consumed or made to serve a useful purpose, then it didn’t get through the front door in the first place. The mother was ecologically sound.

  Her system was pretty straightforward. She only purchased unpackaged products, which she bore home in her ancient shopping bag. Fresh meat, fruit and veg. Whatever could not be purchased unpackaged she manufactured herself. Butter and jam and tea. What else did you need? The daddy’s daily tabloid served as fire lighter and bottom wipe. Junk mail was readdressed to the sender and despatched stampless. Peelings fed the compost heap. Discarded clothing went to good causes.

  Nothing slipped through the net.

&n
bsp; Nothing went into the dustbin.

  At Christmas the dustbin men always knocked to give Mrs Murphy a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers.

  Cornelius never failed to be unimpressed by the mother’s ingenuity. He reasoned that at least half the population of the country was engaged in the production, marketing or disposal of totally useless articles. And should everyone act like his mother, society would grind to a halt.

  Cornelius envisaged massive unemployment, anarchy and chaos. Pestilence and devastation would march across the land; and the four horsemen ride the sky. And all those nice dustbin men would be out of a job.

  Cornelius dug in his pockets. He found the letter of introduction to Monsieur Messidor and tossed it into the dustbin. He was doing his bit to save the world.

  Cornelius turned his key in the lock and quietly entered the ancestral home. He had not been altogether honest with the parents regarding the ‘job situation’ and considered it prudent to steal silently away to his room, rather than construct explanations for his early return from ‘work’.

  As he made to sneak up the corridor to the stairs, the sounds of heated debate reached his ears, issuing from the front parlour. Cornelius knelt and pressed an ear to the keyhole of the closed door.

  ‘And I still say the boy should be told,’ came the voice of the daddy.

  ‘And I say that he shouldn’t,’ came the voice of the ecologically sound mama.

  ‘But his gifts could play their part in saving the world.’

  ‘A pension plan and prospects is all he needs.’

  ‘You are missing the point, woman.’

  ‘Don’t call me woman. You’re the one wearing the wig.’

  ‘It’s not a wig. It’s a hair-enhancement facility. And those aren’t your own bosoms by the way.’

  ‘My bosoms play no part in this discussion.’

  ‘Nor does my bald spot.’

  ‘Your bald spot is indicative.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of your bald outlook on life.’

  ‘And who made it bald? You with the socks stuffed up your front.’

  ‘They’re matronly. They project a warm and caring image. The boy needs that. And he needs a haircut also.’

  ‘He can’t cut his hair. It’s big hair. Famous people always have big hair.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I’m not famous.’

  ‘I should never have married you. My mother was right.’

  ‘You never had a mother.’

  ‘Of course I had a mother. She was a pillar of the community.’

  ‘She was a figment of your imagination. You never had a mother. I never had a mother. You know that.’

  ‘But what about the boy?’

  ‘He should be told.’

  ‘We can’t tell him. We took the oath. He must never be told. He will find out for himself when the time is right.’

  ‘The stuff of epics,’ said the daddy.

  ‘About that…’ Cornelius swung open the parlour door without knocking and strode into the room.

  The daddy was snoring noisily beneath the daily tabloid. The mother was knitting something for seamen from coloured string.

  ‘About what, dear?’ she asked in a startled voice.

  ‘About…oh…’

  ‘You’re home early. Did you have a nice evening?’

  ‘Evening?’

  The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten. Cornelius noticed that the lights were on and the curtains drawn. He glanced at his wristwatch. It agreed with the clock.

  The daddy stirred from beneath his newspaper. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Cornelius, dear. What did you want, dear?’

  ‘I wanted to know…’ Cornelius could no longer remember what he wanted to know.

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Nothing, Mother.’

  ‘Then good night, dear. And don’t forget to put your light out.’

  ‘I won’t. Good night, Mother, Father.’

  ‘Good night.’

  4

  Cornelius Murphy awoke in a cold sweat. It was very dark and a clock chimed three somewhere in the distance.

  ‘Where am I?’ Cornelius rubbed his eyes and squinted into the darkness. The darkness seemed somehow unfamiliar.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ He felt around for the bedside table and the box of matches. His hand found something warm and wet.

  ‘What’s that? That’s not mine.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ The voice was not his either.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Another voice said dreamily, ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  The first voice asked, ‘Who is there?’

  Cornelius kept quiet. I am not alone, he thought, where are my damn matches?

  ‘I haven’t got them,’ said a new voice. ‘Go back to sleep, will you.’

  Cornelius began to feel the seeds of panic taking root in his stomach. ‘Help,’ cried he. ‘Let me out of here.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked a voice Cornelius hadn’t heard before.

  The tall boy tried to rise, but something heavy was lying across his legs.

  ‘Who’s doing that?’ asked a voice at his feet.

  Cornelius wriggled free. He stumbled across the room stepping on to grunting and squirming bodies.

  ‘Get off there.’

  ‘Who’s kicking me?’

  Oaths and shouts broke the temporary silences.

  Cornelius found himself at a door. He searched for the handle but found a light switch. He pressed his thumb down hard upon it.

  He was standing in his pyjamas in his bedroom, which was empty but for the usual furniture.

  Cornelius blinked. ‘A dream. A bad dream.’ He sighed deeply, switched off the light and returned to his bed.

  ‘Watch where you’re walking,’ said a voice. ‘That’s my face you’re stepping on.’

  Cornelius woke again to find the world up and waiting for him.

  The sun shone in at his window. The music of the everyday seemed louder than ever.

  Milk bottles clinked in E sharp. Women’s heels played taps upon the pavement. Heavy lorries did the big power chords and the postman whistled an old Rolling Stones number. It had to be Tuesday.

  Cornelius gathered his hair and his thoughts together. Something very strange was going on. Something very strange indeed. An epic something perhaps? He certainly hoped so.

  Having assured himself that he was all alone, he climbed from his bed, entered his dressing-gown and took himself down to the kitchen for the first breakfast of the day.

  The Murphy kitchen was not something to dwell on. It was an uncompromising little den which, in keeping with the rest of the house, stoutly refused to make up for its lack of charm.

  There were a couple of mismatched kitchen units, a butler’s sink, an ancient gas oven of the enamel persuasion, a leaking radiator and an odd-legged table with a red Formica top.

  Behind the table sat a large three-piece tweed suit. And inside the suit sat a large merry red-faced gentleman. He sported a wig composed from shredded J-Cloths, a present from his wife. His name was Jack Murphy and he was the daddy.

  Jack had recently taken early retirement from the dole in order to spend more time with his family. And to devote himself more fully to his hobby.

  Jack’s hobby was model making and he was currently engaged in a vast and ambitious project. The construction of a model town.

  At the end of the garden, in the shed of his own making, stood the fruit of his labour. It was a Utopian vision of Moby Dick Terrace and the surrounding area. Crafted with loving care, and precisely detailed, the model displayed a delightful semi-rural community. A harmonious blending of architectural styles, open spaces, shops and views and vistas.

  It differed considerably from the big brash construction currently on display at the town hall, which stood beneath a sign which read NEW TOWN DEVELOPMENT.

  Of course the word NEW was now s
omething of a misnomer. The town hall’s model was showing some signs of age and beginning to look a little dated. Although work on the NEW DEVELOPMENT had begun several years before, with much champagne bottle breaking and blue ribbon cutting, nothing very much had happened since. True the bulldozers had levelled the old town, but not a single foundation or main drain was, as yet, in place.

  This came as a surprise to many. But not those who knew Jack Murphy. And the borough planning committee had come to know Jack Murphy very well indeed.

  All works in progress had ceased due to complicated legal technicalities. These centred around the discovery (by Jack Murphy) of numerous old charters, deeds, documents and papers pertaining to rights of way, common ground, bridle paths, wells, waterholes and Lord alone knows what else.

  It was all going to take a good deal of sorting out. And while it did, the diggers stood idle and the construction crews drank tea in The Wife’s Legs. And number twenty-three Moby Dick Terrace stayed exactly where it was.

  Cornelius entered the kitchen, stubbing his toe on an upraised shard of lino and grazing his shin upon the door, which chose, this morning, to only open half of the way. The daddy smiled up from his copy of MacKenzie’s: Local Law and Lore 1655-1660.

  ‘Good morning, revered author of my existence,’ said Cornelius.

  The oldster chuckled. ‘Good morning to you, respected seed of my loins. Your mother’s gone out, but there’s tea in the pot.’

  ‘Glory be.’ Cornelius poured himself a cup and topped up the daddy’s.

  ‘My thanks. Two letters for you.’ A big hand indicated the pair of envelopes which lay on the unpolished table top.

  Cornelius sat himself down and regarded the envelopes with suspicion. One looked safe enough, bearing, as it did, Mr Yarrow’s distinctive scrawl. Cornelius tucked this, unopened, into a dressing gown pocket. Two weeks’ holiday money, he assumed correctly.

  The other envelope, however, was a different kettle of fish. This one was big and smart and official looking. It had the words PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL printed in the top left-hand corner. The tall boy’s name and address were typed on. Dead centre. Cornelius did not recognize the typeface. It had a slightly Gothic look to it. He picked up the envelope and gave it a bit of a shake. Something hard inside went to and fro.