Part 8 (1/2)

'Come on. Feel it.'

Tuppe looked at Anna.

And Anna looked at Tuppe. They exchanged shrugs. Then they stretched out their hands. Then they both went, 'Ooh.'

'Something big,' said Cornelius.

'Covered by fabric,' said Anna.

'Canvas,' said Tuppe.

They traced their hands along, around and about it.

'It's quite long,' said Anna.'But not too high,' said Cornelius. 'I can feel the top of it.'

'And I can see its wheels,' declared Tuppe. 'Its wheels?' Cornelius turned around in small circles.

'Where are you, Tuppe? You've vanished.'

'I'm here.'

'You're not.'

'I am. I'm underneath. It's a car. Covered by some kind of tarpaulin. You can see it from under here. Pull it off.'

Cornelius gripped a handful of invisible tarpaulin and began to tug. The thing came away, weightlessly.

The visual effect was quite stunning. Far better, in fact, than anything you could do with the old Soft Image and Parallax Matador software, even if run on Silicon Graphics Iris 4D workstations, digitally matched and scanned into a large scale framestore. Of course you really had to be there to fully appreciate it. In the full 3D and everything.

Anna's eyes widened as the mantle of invisibility fell away.

'Beautiful,' said Cornelius Murphy. 'Beautiful.'

And it was. Cornelius had seen cars and he had seen cars. Many cars. His adoptive daddy had w.a.n.gled it for him to test drive some of the very best. But he'd never seen anything quite like this. The car was evidently of pre-war design, but with many features that looked distinctly modern. And it was silver. All over. Silver. Not as in silver paint. But as in silver. Polished, burnished silver. It was long and broad-bodied, yet the lines were sleek and aerodynamic. Flared fenders that swept into the sh.e.l.l without visible join. High b.u.mpers and trailing fins.

'What make of car is it?' Anna jigged from one foot to the other.

'I'm not sure.' Cornelius paced slowly about the marvellous automobile, peering in at the windows, lightly brus.h.i.+ng the polished bodywork with his sensitive fingers, holding down his cap and shaking his head all the while.

Tuppe climbed to his feet and joined the tall boy in his perambulations.

'Is it real?' was his question.

Cornelius shrugged.

'It looks fresh off the production line. But it's not, is it?'

'I don't think so.' Cornelius reached out and tried a door handle. The door clicked open. Cornelius lowered his face and took a little sniff. Showroom fresh. He pulled the door wide open and prepared to climb into the car.

'Careful, Cornelius. You never know.'

'Don't be fearful.' Cornelius settled into the driving seat. It was very comfortable. Green leather upholstery squeaked in a posh, exclusive manner. The steering wheel was of s.h.i.+ning golden wood.

Cornelius ran his hands about it. Savouring the feel. He studied the dashboard. The milometer displayed a row of seven stylized zeros.

'It's never been driven.

'Let's have a look.' Anna flung open the pa.s.senger door and dropped down next to Cornelius. 'It's booty, isn't it? What do you think it's worth?'

'A very great deal. Especially if it is what I think it is., Cornelius opened the glove compartment and scooped out a sheaf of papers. 'And I think it is.'

'What?' Anna bobbed up and down in her seat. Cornelius leafed through the papers. 'Oh yes,'

said he. 'Oh yes.'

'Come on, tell me.'

'Anna, this is the MacGregor Mathers.'

'Oh,' said Anna.

'Not Chitty Chitty Bang Bang then?' Tuppe scrambled into the car and perched himself on Anna's knee.

'Not. This is the MacGregor Mathers, you must have heard of it.' Tuppe looked at Anna.

And Anna looked at Tuppe.

And they both said, 'No.'

'If you're going to sit on my knee, then keep your hands to yourself,' said Anna.

'We give up,' said Tuppe.

Cornelius smiled. 'Then I shall tell you a little story. Are you sitting comfortably?'

'I am,' said Tuppe.

'Then I shall begin. Back in the nineteen thirties a rumour circulated in America. It concerned a Scottish inventor supposedly called MacGregor Mathers, that he had invented a car engine that ran on tap water.'

'Oh I've heard that one,' Tuppe put in. 'He tried to get it patented, but everyone laughed at him.

Then he demonstrated it to Henry Ford, or some bigwig, got tricked out of it and vanished into obscurity.

Ford, being in cahoots with the petrol industry, burned the plans. It's an FOAF.'

'A what?' Anna asked.

'A friend-of-a-friend story. An urban myth. Like the dyslexic devil wors.h.i.+pper who sold his soul to Santa.'