Before concluding this section it is worth drawing the reader’s attention to the so-called suicide, by hara-kiri, of the Japanese writer, Yukio Mishima.
He wrote with a Biro.
He that liveth by the sword shall perish by the sword.
The pen is mightier than the sword. Nuff said.
THE MYSTERY BIRO
I must, before concluding this erudite monograph, dwell upon a curious anomaly. The black sheep of Birodom. THE MYSTERY BIRO. This, unlike the rest of the species, craves the company of man.
It will appear suddenly in the pocket of a jacket you haven’t worn since it came back from the cleaners. In the glove compartment or boot of the car. At the bottom of a handbag or raffia shopper. In the kitchen drawer or tool chest.
And once it has found you, it is yours for life.
It is, inevitably, a shoddy, plastic, giveaway affair, with a spring arrangement housed within, purportedly to bring down the ballpoint.
It can be instantly recognized by its bright plumage. Bold primary colours and embossed lines of print, which spell out things like: NICKED FROM THE ARCHDUKE FERDINAND AERATED BREAD CO., or WANDERING BISHOPS WORLD CON 79.
Of course it doesn’t actually work. But it’s always there when you need it. And just you try and get rid of it. Leave it where you will. Folk will pursue you down the street crying, ‘You forgot your Biro.’ THE MYSTERY BIRO has come to stay.
As to its origins. These remain shrouded in mystery also.
Often a telephone number will be printed upon the Biro. But spare yourself a florin. Either the number has been discontinued, or the premises named upon it simply do not, and have never, existed.
The employment of a stout stick is recommended. Followed by the incineration of the pieces.
ANOTHER MYSTERY SOLVED
I am often asked how, with Biros vanishing as often as they do, is it possible for some writers to get so much down on paper in a single lifetime?
Shakespeare, for example.
Shakespeare wrote 100,000,000 words in twenty years. No small feat. I am happy to reveal here a little known fact about the ‘Immortal Bard’.
Shakespeare was, in fact, a retired pirate, who, after losing his right hand to a round of chain-shot on the Spanish Main, gave up the life of brigandry on the high seas and took up writing as a hobby to pass the time.
Intimates knew him as Stumpy Will and remarked upon the craftsmanship and lifelike nature of his carved elm prosthesis.
The forefinger of this was capped with a golden nib!
It is said that the impossibly prolific Master of Horror, Stephen King, has a Biro surgically grafted to his right hand.
Others (other than myself, of course) whisper that Terry Pratchett is half-man, half-Biro.
Think on!
THE BOOK OF ULTIMATE TRUTHS
Hugo Rune
Cornelius closed the book without comment. The television was going hiss and the tall boy looked at his watch. Nearly three in the morning. That seemed a bit sudden. He took up the remote controller and did the ever-popular ‘Channel Hop’.
‘Don’t mess with this guy,’ said an on-screen extra. ‘He knows karate.’
‘Goes with the sickle,’ replied Mr Elvis Presley.
‘Seen it,’ said Cornelius. ‘Twenty-three times.’
Hop
‘…furry, but with the head of a fish,’ said a man in an anorak. ‘Up on the hill. And it ate my dog, Prince.’
Hop
‘In answer to your question,’ said the large American author to the late-night chat-show host, ‘the Biro is surgically implanted into the forefinger of my right hand.’
Hop
‘The Sasquianna Hat Company,’ said Lou Costello, in black and white.
‘Hold on,’ said Cornelius Murphy.
Hop back
The imaginative chat-show host was now asking the large American author where he got his ideas from. The author seemed somewhat stumped for a reply to such an unusual and imaginative question and stared into the camera as if in search of inspiration. And then a huge smile formed on his face.
As Cornelius looked on, the author’s features appeared to swim. The hair faded. Heavy jowls formed and blue, piercing eyes glittered beneath a great beetling brow. The eyes gazed out from the screen. ‘Any other questions?’ asked Hugo Rune.
There was silence.
Onscreen and off.
Cornelius caught his breath.
‘What about you, Mr Murphy?’ asked Hugo Rune. ‘Nothing you’d like to ask?’
Cornelius clutched at his hair. ‘What?’ went he.
‘Good question.’ Rune nodded his shaven dome of a head. ‘If you knew the what, then you would learn the why. And if you knew the why you should soon know the who.’
The bedside telephone began to ring. Cornelius snatched it up. ‘Who…?’
‘Tuppe,’ answered Tuppe. ‘I’ve got a pair of new-found friends with me. Female ones. I don’t like the look of your one much though.’
Cornelius slammed down the phone. ‘Mr Rune? Mr Hugo Rune?’
The big face filled the screen. ‘Find the papers. Find the map. Find me.’
‘Who has the papers? Do you know?’
The phone began to ring again. Cornelius snatched it up again.
‘Not now!’ he shouted.
‘I was only joking about yours. She’s a real cracker.’
‘Tuppe, not now.’
Interference crackled across the screen. Rune’s face began to fade.
‘No, wait.’ Cornelius fought with the remote controller, but the picture was breaking up. Static fizzed and popped. For a fleeting moment the Master reappeared. He was playing an ocarina.
And then he was gone.
‘Hey, Abbott,’ said Lou Costello, in black and white. ‘Who’s on first?’
13
His name was still Felix Henderson McMurdo. But now he was Scot (un-canny) many leagues from home.
He’d never hankered after the travelling life. In fact it had always been the last thing on his mind. Him having so many dear friends and everything. But circumstances had pressed, of late, most sorely upon him.
It was, he’d considered, the product of sheer happy chance, that his house alone in the street had escaped the conflagration during what the Press were now calling THE BLOODBATH OF SHEILA NA GIGH. And he was toasting this self-same happy chance in home-made elderflower wine when he first heard the chanting. And, turning back the net curtain in his wee front parlour, caught sight of what he took to be a torchlight procession.
McMurdo was touched to the very soul. That the people of Sheila na gigh could rise from the ashes of their homes and join together in a celebration, a unity in the face of such adversity, made him proud to be a Celt.
And so he slipped on his anorak and scurried outside, bottle in hand to join in the festivities.
It was only once he got outside that he became aware of what the good people were chanting. They were actually chanting his name.
It was with tears of joy in his eyes, that Felix went forward to meet the torchbearers, who by their chants were evidently proclaiming him the hero of the hour.
Much of what happened next was still hazy to him. He remembered shouts, ‘There’s the bastard now,’ was one, and, ‘He’s carrying a Molotov cocktail,’ was another. Then there was much scuffling and grabbing and a lot of talk regarding which lamppost the rope should be thrown over.
And there was the strong smell of hot tar. He could smell that even now. And all those feathers. And there was being thrown from the railway bridge and landing on top of the moving carriage. Then some hours later there was falling off the carriage into the cow field.
Then it all went black for quite a while. The next thing he recalled after that was waking up in hospital and this man with bandaged fingers in the next bed rambling on about a duffle-coat and how he’d been bitten by a wolf.
They’d all been kind enough to Felix in the hospital. Well, as kind as t
hey had time to be. Doctors and nurses, he supposed, were very busy people. And hospital beds, precious things. He was heaved out of his almost as soon as he regained consciousness. The doctor said he had a cousin in Sheila na gigh. Felix said he’d pass on his best wishes.
It seemed a little drastic the way they frog-marched him through Casualty and tossed him into the street. But it was very kind of the fellow in the next bed to give him a duffle-coat for a present.
From then on it had been a funny old kind of a day. He’d hitched a ride from a 1950s hearse. This had dropped him at a garage in Cromcruach and had then mysteriously vanished before he could offer his thanks. At Cromcruach he’d met a mechanic named Mike, who seemed in a terrible state. He kept mumbling that he’d met ‘the very Devil himself’ and was shivering terribly. Felix wrapped him up in the duffle-coat.
And then Mike ran off screaming about snakes. With the coat still on.
Felix was forced to conclude that the English were a very eccentric people. Friendly though. The heavy-metal band that picked him up were very friendly. They were on their way to a really important gig. And the driver wanted to get even more friendly with some exciting young women they’d picked up earlier. And so Felix offered to take over the wheel and drive for a while.
And it wasn’t really his fault. All those cars bumping into one another. He’d been adjusting the driving mirror and he’d only taken his eyes off the road for a moment. It was lucky that the twenty-seven-car pile up occurred within walking distance of one of those vast motorway service areas.
He’d had to walk on for quite a bit after that and it was quite late in the day when it occurred to him that the villagers had probably been just having a joke with him and that they would no doubt be feeling anxious by then and starting to worry. And he was just crossing over the dual carriageway to reach the northbound lane when the Status Quo tour bus ran over him.
He’d only sustained minor injuries and the drummer had patched him up and given him a pair of free tickets for an anniversary concert in Tierra del Fuego.
After that things became hazy once more. He thought he must have passed out on the grass verge. And the next thing he remembered was the minibus stopping and the monks helping him into it. Then it all went black again.
They sat over breakfast. They weren’t smiling.
‘It was Rune.’ Cornelius poured milk over his cornflakes.
‘Real crackers,’ muttered Tuppe. ‘Except for yours, that is. Locking us out of the room like that. Poor show, Cornelius. I had to make love to both of them in the lift. It was the least I could do.’
‘Tuppe, I saw him on the television set. He spoke to me. He’s still alive. He needs our help.’
‘You were drunk. You finished that bottle of J…Mr Beam.’
‘I finished that later. And I came out to look for you.’
‘I kipped down in the broom cupboard. I don’t think they should charge you full-board for me.’
‘Mr Kobold’s money arrived.’ Cornelius patted a bulging envelope. ‘Another five hundred pounds.’
‘Then you can make it up by purchasing me a change of clothes.’
Tuppe hailed a passing waitress. ‘We’ll go on to the full first-class breakfast now please, miss.’
The waitress smiled, winked and wiggled away.
‘Fine-looking woman,’ said Cornelius, admiringly.
Tuppe shrugged. ‘She was your one,’ he said
The summer sun shone warmly on the Cadillac Eldorado. It was drifting through the suburbs of outer Manchester.
They went every which way and there seemed no end to them.
Max Bygraves was singing ‘The Diabolical Twist’.
Tuppe was wearing a very smart tartan shirt and a pair of Osh Kosh dungarees. Several carrier bags with the Mothercare logo upon them lay on the back seat.
‘So,’ said Tuppe. ‘How do you intend to deal with this monastery business?’
‘I have given the matter much thought. It is not the easiest thing in the world to enter a closed order and have a chit-chat with a monk, who has most probably taken a vow of silence.’
‘So?’
‘So, I propose first to employ implicit honesty. And if that fails, to resort to other means.’
‘Which would be?’
‘Low cunning,’ said Cornelius Murphy.
‘Oh good. Low cunning has always been a favourite with me. Anything low, in fact.’
‘Do turn off Max Bygraves. The man fair gives me gip.’
There were all sorts of busy monkish things going on in the courtyard of the monastery of Saint Sacco Benedetto. But upstairs, in the guest cell, Felix Henderson McMurdo slept on right through them.
‘How far now?’ Cornelius asked. It was now mid morning and Manchester was far behind.
Tuppe consulted the map. ‘It’s sort of in North Wales. Almost. A bit on yet, I feel.’
‘Sing us a song then. Just to pass the time.’
‘I don’t do songs.’ Tuppe didn’t do songs. ‘I’ll give you a poem, if you want.’
‘Oh yes please.’
‘Which one would you like then?’
Cornelius almost scratched his head. But, as today he had taken the precaution of restraining his crowning glory within a Mothercare bag, he scratched his nose instead.
‘Give me ‘Billy O’Rourke’. That’s my favourite.’
‘‘Billy O’Rourke’ it is then.’ Tuppe did little coughings and clearings of the throat. The way one does. And began his recitation.
‘“There used to be totters,” said Billy O’Rourke,
With big smelly horses and that
And my dad knew gypsies w”ho smile when they talk
And live by the tip of the hat.
But nobody cared for the stories he told
And he sat all alone of a night
Until one day a traveller came in from the cold
A sorry and miserable sight.
To the traveller, said Bill,
“It would give you a thrill
To hear all the tales of my youth
Of days dead and gone
But the memory lives on
And I swear every word is the truth.”
Well the traveller grinned
And Billy beginned
To tell the most marvellous tales
Of earthquakes and crimes
And fabulous times
And whole families swallowed by whales.
And he spoke for three hours
About ivory towers
And warlords in armoury suit
And the traveller sat
And stared into his hat
Because he was a deaf and dumb mute.
Thank you.’
‘Bravo.’ Cornelius made cheering noises and drummed his hands on the steering wheel.
‘Care for another?’ Tuppe asked.
‘I don’t think so. One poem is pushing things. Even on an epic journey. Two would be nothing short of gratuitous.’
‘Quite so. Shall we have Max on again?’
‘Why not.’
They followed the map. Presently it led them from the main highway to minor roads and country lanes. Hedges rose to either side and the Cadillac’s wing mirrors clipped against them. The trees locked hands overhead. And eventually Cornelius had to put the headlights on. The wireless set hissed and crackled and Max Bygraves faded all away.
Tuppe fiddled with the knobs. ‘White noise,’ he exclaimed. ‘It shouldn’t be making that.’
‘Hills all around, do you think?’ Cornelius switched on the windscreen wipers. The screen was starting to fog up.
‘Hills wouldn’t do that.’ Tuppe shivered. ‘Could we have the roof back on? It’s growing a smidgen chilly.’
Cornelius flicked the switch. But nothing happened. ‘Now, that’s odd. It was working perfectly back in Manchester, when you had it going up and down at the traffic lights to impress those schoolgirls.’ He flicked the switch up and down a few more times. ‘De
ad. Are you sure we’re going the right way?’
‘Best check at the next crossroads. See a signpost or something.’
‘Or something.’ Cornelius drove slowly on. Branches clattered against the car. ‘This isn’t going to do the paint job any good. Oh damn.’
A branch whipped across the screen and tore off one of the wipers.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Tuppe. ‘Do you think we’d better back up?’
‘Back up, or walk.’
‘We can’t leave the car blocking this lane, can we?’
‘No.’ Cornelius put the Cadillac into reverse. The gearbox made terrible cries of complaint. Cornelius tried again, but to no avail.
‘We seem to be right out of reverse gears at the present,’ he said, in a gloomy sort of a voice.
‘Shall we press on then?’ Tuppe looked up at Cornelius.
‘Press on.’
They pressed on. And on.
Tuppe donned two nice new jumpers, but was still cold.
Cornelius switched on the heater. The heater did not work.
‘Cornelius,’ Tuppe hugged his elbows. ‘Cornelius, I am growing afraid.’
‘Fear not, my friend.’ The tall boy patted his small chum on the shoulder. ‘We’ll soon be out of here.’
But they weren’t. The headlights cut into the growing murk. The car bumped in and out of potholes. Both their watches stopped. And suddenly Cornelius stopped the car. Tuppe tumbled forwards from his seat. ‘What is happening?’ he asked.
‘Up ahead. In the road.’
‘What? What?’
‘We didn’t pass any turnings, did we?’
‘Not a one. What do you see?’
‘Wait here.’ Cornelius climbed over the windscreen. Across the bonnet. And dropped down in front of the car. He walked on for a few yards, stooped and picked something up.
‘What do you have there?’ called Tuppe.
‘Oh dear. Oh dear,’ said Cornelius.
‘What is it?’
Cornelius held up the object. It sparkled in the headlight’s beam.
‘Our windscreen wiper,’ said Cornelius Murphy.