The Antipope (14 page)

Neville opened the second bottle of scotch. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I don’t recall any specifications for materials coming with that plan from the brewery.”

“Aha!” said John. “Then all may not be lost.”

“The poor old Swan,” said Pooley, “what a tragedy.”

“We’ve had fine times here,” said Omally.

“They’ll ruin it you know,” said Neville, “the brewery, probably turn it into a discotheque or a steak house or something. There’s nothing they like better than getting their hands on a piece of England’s heritage and thoroughly crucifying it. It’ll be fizzy beer and chicken in a basket, you wait and see.”

“We’ll get up a petition,” said Jim. “Brentonians won’t stand for any of that.”

“Won’t they though?” Neville nodded towards the broken front windows. “Look there and what do you see?”

“Nothing, the lights of the flatblocks that’s all.”

“Yes, the flatblocks. Fifteen years ago there was a whole community there, small pubs, corner shops, the pottery, streets full of families that all knew each other.”

Jim nodded sadly. “All gone now,” said he. The three men sipped silently at their drinks as the air grew heavy with nostalgic reminiscence.

Omally, always the realist, said, “There’s little use in sobbing about the good old days. When my family came over from the old country we moved in to one of them little dens where the flats now stand. I can remember them sure enough. No hot water, no bath, outside toilet that froze in the winter, rats, bedbugs, the children coughing with diptheria, great old times they were. I’ll tell you I cheered when the bulldozer pushed our old house down. Bloody good riddance I said.”

Jim smiled slightly. “And if I remember rightly the bailiffs were still chasing your lot six months after for five years’ back rent.”

Omally laughed heartily. “’Tis true,” said he, “’tis true enough, the daddy took the lot of them back home then, sure he did. ‘Back to the land John,’ said he, ‘there’s a fortune to be made in the land.’ Mad as a hatter the daddy.”

“Is he still alive your da?” said Neville.

“Oh yes, he’s that all right. I read not so long ago in the Dublin press of an old fella at eighty-six being named in a paternity suit by a sixteen-year-old convent girl, that would be the daddy right enough.”

“The Omallys are notable womanizers, that is for certain,” said Jim. “There is many a well-pleased widow woman hereabouts who will testify to that.”

Omally smiled his winning smile. “I would thank you to keep your indiscreet remarks to yourself, Jim Pooley,” said he. “I am a man of the highest principles.”

“Ha,” said Jim as he recalled the spectacle of Omally’s moonlit bum going about its hydraulic motions in Archroy’s marriage bed. “You are an unprincipled bounder, but I am proud to call you friend.”

“You are both good men,” said Neville, a tear unexpectedly forming in his good eye. “Friendship is a wonderful thing. Whatever the future holds for the Swan, I want you to know that it has always been my pleasure to serve you.”

“Come now,” said Jim, patting the part-time barman on the shoulder. “There are great days ahead, of this I am certain.”

“Forgive me this sentiment,” said Neville, “I am drunk.”

“Me also,” said John.

“I am still able to stand and must thus confess my sobriety,” said Jim, refilling his glass with the last of the whisky.

Some time later two thoroughly drunken Lone Rangers, now somewhat shabby and lacking in hats and masks, were to be found wandering in the direction of the St Mary’s allotment. “I have a little crop upon my pastures which you will find most satisfying,” the Irish Ranger told his staggering compadre. Jim was desperately hoping that the Irishman was not alluding to some supposed narcotic sproutings from the purloined bean.

The two arrived at the iron gate and stood before that rusting edifice leaning upon one another for support. “I’ve done a little deal,” grinned Omally, pulling at his lower eyelid in an obscene manner and staggering forward into the silent allotment. It was another fine moonlit night and the old selenic disc sailed above in a cloudless sky. Long jagged shadows cast by bean poles, abandoned wheelbarrows and heavily padlocked allotment sheds etched stark patterns across the strangely whitened ground.

Omally’s ambling silhouette lurched on ahead and vanished down into the dip before his plot. Jim, who had fallen to the ground upon his companion’s sudden departure, climbed shakily to his feet, tightened his bandana against the crisp night air and stumbled after him.

When he reached Omally he found the Irishman upon all fours grubbing about in the dirt. Happily he was some way from the spot where the magic bean had originally been buried.

“Aha,” said Omally suddenly, lifting a dusty bottle of Old Snakebelly into the moonlight. “Ripe as ninepence.”

“Good show,” said Jim collapsing on to his behind with a dull thud. The bottle was speedily uncorked and the two sat drawing upon it turn by turn, at peace with the world and sharing Jim’s last Woodbine. “It’s a great life though, isn’t it?” said Jim wiping the neck of the bottle upon his rented sleeve.

“It’s that to be sure.”

Pooley leant back upon his elbows and stared up wistfully towards the moon. “Sometimes I wonder,” said he.

“I know,” Omally broke in, “sometimes you wonder if there are folk like us up there wondering if there are folk like them down here.”

“Exactly,” said Jim.

Suddenly, away into the darkness and coming apparently from the direction of the Mission’s rear garden wall, the two wonderers heard a heavy if muffled thump.

“Now what do you wonder that might be?” asked John.

“Truly I have no idea, give me a drag of that Woody.” Omally passed Jim the cigarette and taking the bottle drained away a large portion of its contents. “Probably a pussycat,” said he.

“Big one though,”

“Archroy told me he once saw a giant feral torn roaming the allotment by night, the size of a tiger he said.”

“Archroy as you well know is greatly subject to flights of fancy.”

“He seemed very sincere at the time, came rushing into the Swan and ordered a large brandy.”

Pooley shifted uncomfortably on his earthy seat. “I should not wish to end my days as a pussycat’s dinner,” said he. Without warning there was a second and slightly louder thump, which was followed almost immediately by the sound of scrambling feet. “The monster moggy!” said Jim.

Omally threw himself down commando-fashion and crawled to the rim of the dip. Pooley snatched up a fallen farrowing fork and, draining the last of the bottle, stealthily followed him. Sounds of grunting and panting now drifted in their direction and were followed by a distant “
squeak-squeak
”.

“A giant mouse perhaps,” whispered Jim hoarsely.

“Don’t be a damn fool,” Omally replied, “there’s only one thing around here makes a noise like that, my bloody wheelbarrow.”

“Sssh!” said Jim. “It’s coming nearer.” The two lay in silence squinting lopsidedly into the gloom.

The indistinct form of a man appeared from the shadows. As it drew nearer both Pooley and Omally recognized the dark figure as that of the grizzle-chinned seafarer Captain Carson. He was dressed in a Royal Navy uniform and was pushing with some difficulty Omally’s wheelbarrow, which was weighed down heavily by two large and strangely swollen potato sacks.

He was now but ten yards away and the two hidden Rangers caught sight of the Captain’s face. It was a thing to inspire horror, the skin deathly white and glowing hideously in the moon’s septic light, the mouth turned down into an attitude of intense hatred and the eyes glazed and lifeless.

Pooley shuddered and drew his Irish chum down as the wheelbarrow and its zombiesque operator passed them at close quarters. “Something’s not right here,” said John, straightening up upon creaking knee-joints, “let’s follow him.”

Jim was doubtful. “It’s home for me,” he said.

Omally cuffed his cowardly companion. “That’s my damn wheelbarrow,” he said. Ducking low and scurrying from one hiding place to another the two thoroughly besmutted Rangers followed the ghastly figure with the squeaking wheelbarrow across the allotment.

“He’s heading for the river,” said Jim breathlessly, still grasping the farrowing fork. From a little way ahead of them came the sounds of more straining followed by two loud splashes. “I’d say he was there,” said John.

There was a squeak or two, then another loud splash. “He’s dumped my barrow, the bastard!” wailed Omally.

Jim said, “If you’ll pardon me, John, I’ll be off about my business.” He turned and blundered into a forest of bean poles.

“Duck, you fool,” whispered John, tripping over the struggling Pooley, “he’s coming back.”

The Captain appeared suddenly from the shadows of the riverside oaks. He surely must have seen the two fallen Rangers, yet his eyes showed no sign of recognition. Forward he came upon wooden legs, moving like a somnambulist, past the Rangers and back off in the direction of the Mission.

“There’s a bean pole stuck up my right trouser,” groaned Jim, “help, help, fallen man here!”

“Shut up you bally fool,” said John, flapping his arms and attempting to rise, “look there.” Pooley raised himself as best he could and stared after John’s pointing finger.

Away across the allotment a bright light shone from the Mission. Like a beacon it swept over their heads. For a fleeting moment they saw him, the silhouette of a huge man standing upon the Mission wall, his arms folded and his legs apart. Although the two saw him for only a brief second, the feeling of incontestable grandeur and of malevolent evil was totally overwhelming.

Omally crossed himself with a trembling hand.

Pooley said, “I think I am going to be sick.”

The Flying Swan was closed for three weeks. The sun blazed down day after day, and there were all the makings of a Long Hot Summer. There was never a cloud in the sky, the boating pond in Gunnersbury Park was down a full six inches and the bed of the dried-up canal cracked and hardened into a sun-scorched jigsaw puzzle. As each evening came the air, rather than growing blessedly cool, seemed to boil, making sleep impossible. Windows were permanently open, butter melted upon grocers’ shelves and every kind of cooling apparatus gave up the ghost and ground to a standstill. The residents who nightly tilled their allotment patches watched sadly as their crops shrivelled and died. No amount of daily watering could save them, and the press had announced that water rationing was likely.

When the Swan reopened it was with little ceremony. Nothing much seemed to have changed, some portions of the bar had been half-heartedly repainted and the gents’ toilet had been rebuilt. Neville stood in his usual position polishing the glasses and occasionally dabbing at his moist brow. It was as if Cowboy Night had never taken place.

The beer pulls had been returned to their places upon the bar, but only three of them were fully functional. “I put it down to vindictiveness upon the part of the brewery,” he told Omally.

“Good to see you back though,” said the Irishman, pushing the exact money across the counter and indicating his usual.

“That one’s still off,” said Neville. “And the beer’s up a penny a pint.”

Omally sighed dismally. “These are tragic times we live in,” said he. “A half of light ale then.”

Archroy sat alone upon the sun-scorched allotment, his head gleaming like the dome of an Islamic mosque. His discarded wig hung upon the handle of a rake in the fashion of a trophy before the lodge of a great chief. Evil thoughts were brewing in Archroy’s polished cranium. It had not been his year at all: first the loss of his cherished automobile and then the disappearance of his magic beans, the decimation of his tomato crop and now the aviary. The aviary! Archroy twisted broodingly at the dried stalk of what had been a promising tomato plant and hunched his shoulders in utter despair.

Things could not continue as they were. One of them would have to go, and the accursed aviary looked a pretty permanent affair. Three weeks in the construction and built after the design of Lord Snowdon’s famous bird house, the thing towered in his back garden, overshadowing the kitchen and darkening his bedroom. Its presence had of course inspired the usual jocularity from his workmates, who had dubbed him “the bird man of Brentford”.

So far the monstrous cage had remained empty, but Archroy grew ever more apprehensive when he contemplated the kind of feathered occupants his wife was planning to house within its lofty environs. He lived in perpetual dread of that knock upon the door which would herald the delivery of a vanload of winged parasites. “I’ll do away with myself,” said Archroy. “That will show them all I mean business.” He twisted the last crackling fibres from the ruined tomato stalk and threw them into the dust. “Something dramatic, something spectacular that all the world will take notice of, I’ll show them.”

Captain Carson sat huddled under a heavy blanket in the old steamer chair on the Mission’s verandah. His eyes stared into the shimmering heat, but saw nothing. At intervals his head bobbed rhythmically as if in time to some half-forgotten sea shanty. From inside the Mission poured the sounds of industry. For on this afternoon, and in the all-conquering heat which none could escape, great changes were taking place. Timber was being sawn, hammers wielded and chisels manfully employed. The metallic reports of cold chisel upon masonry rang into the superheated air, the splintering of wormy laths and the creaking of uplifted floorboards. Major reconstruction work was in progress and was being performed apparently with robotic tirelessness.

Hairy Dave swung the five-pound club hammer wildly in the direction of the Victorian marble fireplace. The polished steel of the hammer’s head glanced across the polished mantel, raising a shower of sparks and burying itself in the plaster of the wall. Normally such an event would have signalled the summary “down tools and repair to the alehouse lads”, but Dave merely spat upon his palm and withdrew the half-submerged instrument of labour for another attempt. His thickly bearded brother stood upon a trestle, worrying at a length of picture rail with a crowbar. Neither man spoke as he went about his desperate business; here was none of the endless banter, cigarette swopping and merry whistling one associated with these two work-shy reprobates, here was only hard graft, manual labour taken to an extreme and terrifying degree.

The long hot summer’s day wore on, drawing itself into a red raw evening which turned to nightfall with a sunset that would have made the most cynical of men raise his eyes in wonder. Jim Pooley stirred from his hypnotic slumbers upon the Memorial Library bench and rose to his feet, scratching at his stomach and belching loudly. The gnawing within his torso told him that he was in need of sustenance and the evening sky told the ever-alert Jim that day had drawn to a close.

He found his cigarette packet lodged in the lining of his aged tweed jacket. One lone Woody revealed itself. “Times be hard,” said Jim to no-one in particular. He lit his final cigarette and peered up at the sprinkling of stars. “I wonder,” said he. “I wonder what Professor Slocombe is up to.”

With the coming of the tropical summer naught had been seen of the learned ancient upon the streets of Brentford. His daily perambulation about the little community’s boundaries had ceased. Pooley tried to think when he had last seen the elderly Professor and realized that it was more than a month ago, on the night of his valiant deed.

“The old fellow is probably suffering something wicked with the heat,” he told himself, “and would be grateful for an evening caller to relieve the tedium of the sultry hours.”

Pleased with the persuasiveness of this reasoning Pooley drew deeply upon his cigarette, blew a great gust of milk-white smoke into the air and crossed the carless road towards the Professor’s house.

The Butts estate hovered timelessly in its splendour. The tall Georgian house-fronts gleamed whitely in the moonlight, and the streetlamps threw stark shadows into the walled courtyards and guarded alley entrances.

Hesperus, the first star of evening, winked down as Pooley, hands in pockets, rounded the corner by the Professor’s house. The garden gate was ajar and Pooley slipped silently between the ivy-hung walls. A light glowed ahead, coming from the open French window, and Jim gravitated towards it, thoughts of the Professor’s sherry spurring him on.

It was as he reached the open windows that the sounds first reached him. Pooley halted, straining his ears, suddenly alert to a subtle unidentifiable strangeness, a curious rustling from within, a scratching clawing sound, agitated and frantic.

Pooley reached out a cautious hand towards the net curtain, and as he did so heard the scrabbling sounds increase in urgency and agitation.

There was a sudden movement, firm fingers fastened about his wrist and he was hauled forward with one deft jerk which lifted him from his feet and sent him bowling across the carpet in an untidy tangle of tweed. With a resounding thud the tumbling Pooley came to rest beneath one of the Professor’s ponderous bookcases.

“Mercy,” screamed Jim, covering his head, “James Pooley here, pacifist and friend to all.”

“Jim, my dear fellow, my apologies.”

Jim peered up warily through his fingers. “Professor?” said he.

“I am so sorry, I was expecting someone else.”

“Some welcome,” said Jim.

The ancient helped the fallen Pooley to his feet and escorted him to one of the cosy fireside chairs. He poured a glass of scotch which Pooley took in willing hands.

“That was a nifty blow you dealt me there,” said Jim.

“Dimac,” said the elder, “a crash course via the mailorder tuition of the notorious Count Dante.”

“I have heard of him,” said Jim, “deadliest man on earth they say.”

The Professor chewed at his lip. “Would it were so,” said he in an ominous tone.

Pooley downed his scotch and cast his eyes about the Professor’s study. “A noise,” he said, “as I stood at the windows, I heard a noise.”

“Indeed?”

“A scratching sound.” Pooley lifted himself upon his elbows and peered about. All seemed as ever, the clutter of thaumaturgical books, bizarre relics and brass-cogged machinery. But there in the very centre of the room, set upon a low dais which stood within a chalk-drawn pentagram, was a glass case covered with what appeared to be an altar-cloth. “Hamsters?” said Jim. “Or gerbils is it, nasty smelly wee things.”

Pooley rose to investigate but the Professor restrained him with a firm and unyielding hand. Jim marvelled at the ancient’s newly acquired strength. “Do not look, Jim,” the Professor said dramatically, “you would not care for what you saw.”

“Hamsters hold little fear for the Pooleys,” said Jim.

“Tell me,” said the Professor. “What unlikely adventures have befallen you since our last encounter?”

“Now you are asking,” said Jim and between frequent refillings of scotch he told the chuckling Professor of the excitements and diversions of Cowboy Night at the Flying Swan.

The Professor wiped at his eyes. “I heard the explosion of course.” Here the old man became suddenly sober. “There were other things abroad that night, things which are better not recalled or even hinted at.”

Pooley scratched at his ear. “Omally and I saw something that night, or thought we did, for we had both consumed a preposterous amount of good old Snakebelly.”

The Professor leant forward in his chair and fixed Jim with a glittering stare. “What did you see?” he asked in a voice of dire urgency which quite upset the sensitive Pooley.

“Well.” Pooley paused that his glass might be refilled. “It was a strange one, this I know.” Jim told his tale as best he could remember, recalling with gothic intensity the squeaking wheelbarrow and its mysterious cargo and the awesome figure upon the mission wall.

“And the bright light, had you ever seen anything like it before?”

“Never, nor wish to again.”

The Professor smiled.

“Omally crossed himself,” said Jim. “And I was taken quite poorly.”

“Ah,” said the Professor. “It is all becoming clearer by the hour. Now I have a more vivid idea of what we are dealing with.”

“I am glad somebody does,” said Jim, rattling his empty glass upon the arm of the chair. “It’s the wheelbarrow I feel sorry for.”

“Jim,” said the Professor rising from his seat and crossing slowly to the French windows where he stood gazing into the darkness. “Jim, if I were to confide in you my findings, could I rely on your complete discretion?”

“Of course.”

“That is easily said, but this would be a serious vow, no idle chinwagging.” The Professor’s tone was of such leaden seriousness that Jim hesitated a moment, wondering whether he would be better not knowing whatever it was. But as usual his natural curiosity got the upper hand and with the simple words “I swear” he irrevocably sealed his fate.

“Come then, I will show you!” The Professor strode to the covered glass case and as he did so the frantic scrabbling arose anew. Jim refilled his glass and rose unsteadily to join his host.

“I should have destroyed them, I know,” said the Professor, a trace of fear entering his voice. “But I am a man of science, and to feel that one might be standing upon the brink of discovery…” With a sudden flourish he tore the embroidered altar cloth from the glass case, revealing to Jim’s horrified eyes a sight that would haunt his sleeping hours for years to come.

Within the case, pawing at the glazed walls, were frantically moving creatures, five hideous manlike beings, six to eight inches in height. They were twisted as the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, yet in the “heads” of them rudimentary mouths opened and closed. Slime trickled from their ever-moving orifices and down over their shimmering knobbly forms.

Jim drew back in outraged horror and gagged into his hands. The Professor uttered a phrase of Latin and replaced the cloth. The frantic scratchings ceased as rapidly as they had begun.

Pooley staggered back to his chair where he sat, head in hands, sweat running free from his forehead. “What are they?” he said, his voice almost a sob. “Why do you have them here?”

“You brought them here. They are Phaseolus Satanicus, and they await their master.”

“I will have nothing of this.” Pooley dragged himself from his seat and staggered to the window. He had come here for a bite to eat, not to be assailed with graveyard nastiness. He would leave the Professor to his horrors. Jim halted in his flight. A strange sensation entered his being, as if voices called to him from the dim past, strange voices speaking in archaic accents hardly recognizable yet urgent, urgent with the fears of unthinkable horrors lurking on the very edges of darkling oblivion.

Pooley stumbled, his hands gripping at the curtain, tearing it from its hooks. Behind him the scrabbling and scratching rose anew to fever pitch, small mewings and whisperings interspersed with the awful sounds. As Pooley fell he saw before him standing in the gloom of the night garden a massive, brooding figure. It was clad in crimson and glowing with a peculiar light. The head was lost in shadows but beneath the heavy brows two bright red eyes glowed wolfishly.

When Pooley awoke he was lying sprawled across the Professor’s
chaise longue
, an icepack upon his head and the hellish reek of ammonia strong in his nostrils.

“Jim.” A voice came to him out of the darkness. “Jim.” Pooley brought his eyes into focus and made out the willowy form of the elderly Professor, screwing the cap on a bottle of smelling salts. He offered the half-conscious Jim yet another glass of scotch, which the invalid downed with a practised flick of the wrist. Now fully alert, Pooley jerked his head in the direction of the window. “Where is he,” he said, tearing the icepack from his forehead. “I saw him out there.”