The Antipope (21 page)

The patrons let out a collective gasp as the cleaver struck the parcel amidships and rebounded from the part-time barman’s grip to go hurtling over their ducking heads like a crossbow bolt and lodge itself up to the hilt in the dart board.

“Double top,” said Old Pete, “give that man a pint.”

Neville stood pale-faced and trembling, regarding the package with horrified eyes. “Not even bloody dented,” he said in a quivering voice, “not even bloody scratched.”

Leo Felix, who was making one of his rare appearances at the Swan, thrust his way through the crowd. “I an’ I got me an oxyacetylene cutter back at me work,” said the newly converted Rastafarian.

“Come on now,” said Pooley, “this has all got out of hand. Omally, take that package around to the Professor at once!”

The crowd would have none of it. “Fetch your blowtorch, Leo,” said somebody. Leo left the bar.

Omally picked up the package from the bar counter and made to move in the direction of the door. The mob surrounded him. “Put that down, mister,” said someone. “Leave it be till Leo gets back.”

“Come now lads,” said Omally, “this is madness, mob law in Brentford? Come now.”

“This is going too far,” said Jim, stepping into the fray.

“You do what you want mate,” said a burly navvy, “but the parcel stays here.”

“This man knows Dimac,” said Pooley, indicating his Irish companion, “deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, and can…”

“Instantly disable, mutilate and kill, his hands and feet being deadly weapons,” chimed the crowd in unison. “We’ve heard it.”

“Strike them down, John,” said Pooley, “give them iron hand.”

“My iron hands are a little rusty at present,” said Omally. “Archroy is your man for that sort of thing.”

“Did somebody call me?” The voice came from the saloon bar door, and the crowd, turning as one man, were stunned into absolute silence by what they saw. Framed dramatically by the Swan’s doorway, which had always been so excellent for that sort of thing, stood an imposing figure which the startled throng recognized with some difficulty as none other than Archroy.

He had discarded his usual ill-fitting wig for an ornate dark coiffure of oriental inspiration which was secured by elaborately carved ivory pins tipped with jet. He wore a full-length black kimono emblazoned with Chinese characters embroidered richly in gold thread, and walked upon the high wooden shoes much favoured by Samurai warlords of the fourteenth Dynasty.

“Blimey,” said Old Pete, “it’s bloody Hirohito.”

Archroy strode forward, scattering the crowd before him. “Show me the package,” he demanded.

Pooley was amazed to note that Archroy had even adopted a pseudo-Japanese accent. And there was something indefinably different about him, not just the eastern trappings. He had physically changed, that much was certain, broader about the shoulders and narrower at the hip. Through the folds of his silken sleeves muscles seemed to bulge powerfully.

Omally handed him the parcel with an extraordinary display of politeness. “If you please,” said he, smiling sweetly.

“And it cannot be opened?” The crowd took to shaking its collective head. “Impregnable,” said somebody.

“Huh!” said Archroy without moving his lips, “two men hold it up, one either side.”

Omally shrugged. “What can happen? Might as well do what he says.” He and Pooley stood several feet apart in the centre of the bar, holding the parcel between them in outstretched hands.

“Better get some assistance,” said Archroy, taking up a stance before the parcel. Several he men stepped forward and assisted with the gripping and supporting. They made quite an impressive-looking little group really, not unlike one of William Blake’s visionary tableaux of struggling heroic figures pressing on one upon another in endless titanic conflict. The subtler points of that particular similarity were however lost to most of those present, who merely cleared a path for the lunatic in the kimono.

“When I cry out, hold on as tight as you can,” commanded Archroy.

The grippers, holders and supporters nodded assent. Archroy took a step back and performed a series of ludicrous sweeping motions with his arms. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes; slowly he drew back his right arm, knotting the fingers of his hand into a fist with a sickening crackle of bones and gristle.

“Woosah!” he screamed.

Those who watched him throw the punch say to this day that they never saw his hand move; one moment it was suspended motionless at shoulder height behind him, the next it was similarly motionless but outstretched, fist clenched, at the spot where the parcel had just been.

The two clusters of grippers, holders and supporters collapsed in opposite directions like two tug-of-war teams suddenly bereft of their rope. There was an almost instantaneous crash, followed by two more. The awestruck spectators swung in the direction of the crashes. The parcel had travelled across the bar and straight through the outside wall, leaving a perfectly shaped rectangular hole to mark the point of its departure.

Through this the sun threw a crisp shaft of sunlight which fell in a pleasant golden diamond on to a section of the carpet which had never previously known the joys of solar illumination. Neville looked at the hole, then at Archroy, back to the hole and back once more to the destroyer of his wall. “You’re barred!” he screamed, searching for his knobkerry. “You’re bloody barred! Vandal! Vandal!”

Archroy was examining his knuckles. “What’s in that parcel?” was all that he could say.

The crowd was making moves towards the door, eager to see what the other two crashes might have been. “Maybe he’s demolished the flatblocks,” said somebody.

Pooley and Omally, intent only upon retrieving the Professor’s book, elbowed their way through the push and found themselves the first to emerge into the very daylight which was now beaming so nicely through the neat hole in the Swan’s front wall.

“My oh my,” said Omally.

Before them was a vehicle parked at the kerb, a pickup truck of a type much favoured by used-car dealers. It was one of this doubtful breed of men who sat in the front seat, white-faced and staring. That he should be white-faced was reasonable enough, for sliced through each side of the truck’s bodywork was a sharp-edged hole corresponding exactly in shape and size to that of the Professor’s parcel. Regarding further this whiteness of face, its sole unusual quality was that the driver of the see-through pickup was none other than that well-known local Rastaman Leo Felix. The hurtling missile had escaped striking, only by the briefest of inches, the oxygen canister strapped inside his vehicle. Had it struck home there is not much doubt that very little would have remained of Haile Selassie’s latest follower.

Pooley and Omally peered through the holes in the hope of lining up on the Professor’s parcel. “It’s over there,” said Jim, “in Mrs Fazackerley’s front garden.”

The two men skipped across the carriageway, dodging the traffic which had mercifully escaped the bazooka attack a moment before, and retrieved the parcel.

“Not even a scratch,” said Pooley, examining it. “Nothing.”

The crowd was now in the street thronged about Leo’s ventilated pickup pointing and speculating. Someone was waving a handkerchief before Leo’s wildly staring eyes. Neville danced in the doorway of the Swan, ranting and raving, and Archroy stood calmly regarding his demolition work and wearing a satisfied expression upon his face.

Omally nudged Pooley in the rib area. “Best make a break for it, eh?”

“Best so.”

The two fled away down the Ealing Road.

As they stood puffing and panting in the heat of the Professor’s back garden Pooley asked his companion why he thought it was that neither of them ever seemed to be able to visit the old gentleman without arriving in either a harrassed or a drunken condition.

“I have no idea whatever,” Omally wheezed. “It’s all go nowadays isn’t it?”

“Lunchtime drinking at the Swan is not the peaceful affair it once was.”

The metal shutters were drawn down upon the French windows, and only prolonged knockings, shoutings and rattlings finally succeeded in eliciting a reply from within. The shutters rose, exposing first carpet-slippered feet, then an expanse of tweed trousering, then a red velvet smoking jacket and quilted waistcoat and finally the old white head of Professor Slocombe.

He beamed upon them. He spotted the parcel Omally clutched in his perspiring hand. “Good lad, John,” he said. “The last book I require, excellent.” Closing and bolting the heavy iron shutters, he took the parcel from Omally’s outstretched hand and turned away to his desk. There was a brief rustle of waxen paper and he held the exposed book proudly aloft. “Excellent, and I see it has withstood the rigours of Post Office despatch unscathed.”

“Don’t ask,” said Pooley as he noticed Omally’s mouth opening, “it is probably better not to know.”

“You look somewhat dishevelled,” said the Professor, noticing for the first time the state of his guests. “Why is it, do you think, that neither of you ever seems able to visit me without arriving in either a harrassed or in a drunken condition?”

“We have wondered that ourselves,” said Jim.

“And now,” said the aged host as the two men slumped before him sipping scotch and sighing deeply, “to business, as they say. There are very few hours left for me to school you in all you must know regarding our prospective attackers. I do not expect that their master will take an active part in the proposed assault upon us. That would not be fitting to his dignity. He will despatch his five minions to us, and at least on this score we should be grateful.”

“Extremely,” said Pooley.

“Here’s to you, Alex boy,” said Omally, raising his glass.

“I admire your bravado,” the Professor said gravely, “for my own part I find the situation somewhat alarming. I would have hoped that we could have had a try at him before he has a try at us, if you get my meaning.”

“You are pretty secure here,” said Jim, “as long as you keep well bolted up.”

“I have considered several manoeuvres,” said Professor Slocombe. “Abandoning the house and taking refuge at some undisclosed location, for instance, but this I could not do, for it would mean leaving the books. I considered calling on some help, your friend Archroy I understand has recently mastered certain techniques which I struggled with to a lesser degree.”

“He has?” queried Pooley.

“Most interesting,” said Omally.

“But I do not wish to draw more folk than are strictly necessary into this unfortunate business, so I was left with only one option.”

“Which is?”

“That the three of us should remain on the premises to battle it out.”

Omally said, “Surely there are other options? Let us put some to a vote.”

“I would gladly stay, but have a pressing engagement elsewhere,” said Jim.

“You should have mentioned it earlier,” the Professor said, a wicked twinkle appearing for a moment in his eye, “and I would not have closed the shutter; you see I have set automatic time locks on all the doors and they will not open for another fifteen hours.”

Pooley’s face fell. “You can use the telephone if you wish,” said the Professor brightly.

“I might call a locksmith then?” Jim asked.

“I think not.”

Omally put his hands behind his head and smiled broadly. “When I was in the army,” said he, “I was a happy man, never had to make a decision; it is a pleasure to know those times once more.”

“Oh good old you,” said Jim, “I have never known the joys of army life and can find little to recommend in that of the trapped rat. I greatly prefer freedom.”

“I am sorry,” said Professor Slocombe, “to have brought you to this, but it must be the old musketeer philosophy I am afraid, all for one, one for all.”

“This one would have liked a choice in the matter,” said Jim sourly. “After all, the character at the Mission did not mention me by name.”

“Do you think he would destroy us and let you off scot free then?”

“I do not believe he thinks me as much of a threat.”

“Never fear.” The Professor tapped his nose.

“Never fear?” Pooley threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. “After you with that decanter, John.”

Long hours passed. In the Professor’s study the temperature rose alarmingly, and the air became torpid and un-breathable. Jackets were removed and shirt-tails flapped aplenty. The Professor laboured away at his books as best he could and when Pooley found the energy he paced the floor like a caged animal. To add to his disgust Omally had the perfect effrontery to curl up in one of the Professor’s armchairs and fall asleep.

The mantelclock struck nine and Pooley tapped at the Victorian barometer which hung beside the marble fireplace. “Stormy” it read, but the temperature was still in the mid-80s.

The Professor looked up from his reading. “Try to relax, Jim,” he said, wiping the perspiration from his deeply lined forehead.

“Relax? I can hardly draw breath. We will suffocate in here for sure, we are all doomed.”

“Come now, control yourself.” The Professor closed the heavy damask curtains across the iron-shuttered French windows.

“Control myself? Three rats in a trap we are, you’ve brought us to this. I have no wish to control myself, I prefer to panic.” Pooley began delving amid the curtains and rattling at the iron shutters of the window. “Let me out,” he shouted, kicking at the lock with his steely toecaps, “I choose not to end my days here.”

Omally awoke with a start. “Do turn it in, Jim,” he yawned.

“I’m not turning anything in,” Jim said morosely, “I’m for panic, what say you?”

“I say that we stand by the Professor. After all we are as much to blame for his plight as he for ours.”

“I have no desire to die,” said Jim. “I am yet a young man, and a potential millionaire to boot.”

“Pooley, your sixth horse will never come up.”

“Not if I stay here, it won’t,” said Pooley petulantly.

The Professor raised his eyes once more from his books. “I think the time has come for us to discuss this matter fully,” he said. “We are in a state of siege; panic is a useless and negative commodity which we cannot afford.”

“It’s always served me well enough in the past,” Pooley grumbled.

“If we do not stand together,” the Professor continued, “we shall surely be doomed. Our adversary is a ruthless, cunning individual. In his former incarnation he had the power of life or death over thousands, millions, he was a dictator, a brilliant strategist, he held sway over kingdoms. We are not dealing with some street-corner villain. It is clearly his plan to usurp the Papacy, to reclaim his lands and duchies. He sees himself carried aloft through Vatican City. Ensconced upon the Papal throne. Lord High Ruler of the Holy See. This is only the beginning for him.”

“We had best give up,” said Jim, “all is lost.”

“Bottle job,” said Omally to the Professor, indicating Pooley and making an obscene gesture below the waist. “His bottle’s gone.”

“We can’t fight him,” Pooley whined. “You know how powerful he is.”

“If the Prof says we can, then we can, that’s all there is to it. Listen, I’m a Catholic, not a good one, but a Catholic.” Omally opened his shirt and pulled out the army dogtag he still wore about his neck. “8310255 Private J. V. Omally, Catholic, I’m not letting that gobshite at the Mission get one over on the Church, I hate him!”

Pooley turned upon his companion. “What
did
happen after I blacked out that night, what did he say to you?”

Omally replaced his dogtag and rebuttoned his shirt. “Nothing,” he said, draining his glass.

“All right,” said Pooley, “as panic is clearly ill-received hereabouts, what do we do?”

The Professor rose from his desk, a book tucked beneath his arm. “We will fight. I am an old man but I have no intention of dying yet awhiles. We can expect a concentrated attack upon these premises, midnight being the traditional hour for such events. Things might not be as bad as they first appear; although we know that the Dark One can extend his power over a considerable distance, I do not feel that he will wish to do so tonight. His minions greatly fear the wrath of his displeasure, as well they might; they will use every power they possess to succeed in their quest.”

“We are outnumbered,” said Jim.

“But not without power. I consider these beings to be the product of conjuration, therefore they are vulnerable. I intend to use the rites of Holy Exorcism, and if these fail I have recourse to several other possible methods for their destruction. These beings are not immortal.”

“That is a big weight off my mind,” sneered Jim, “but listen, the rites of Holy Exorcism take a while to perform. I do not believe that such time will be made available.”

“Well, with the aid of this volume that Omally has brought to me I believe that I have isolated the key words and phrases which give the rite of exorcism its power. Much of that spoken by the priest is merely padding, theological jargon; if I am correct the exorcism can be broken down to nothing more than a few lines of ancient Latin and still retain its basic power.”

“Let us hope you are correct.”

“Well,” said the Professor smiling darkly, “if I am not then the matter will be purely academic.”

“That’s it Professor, cheer us up.” Jim Pooley returned to his contemplation of the wallpaper.

The Memorial Library clock struck midnight. The Butts Estate was in darkness, the century-old horse chestnut trees rising like clenched fists against the sky. Beneath them, bowered in the void, the Mission showed no lights. All was silent. Faintly then came sounds, the dragging of feet and the rustling of ancient cloth. A great iron bolt was suddenly drawn up and the aged door creaked ajar. An icy white shaft of light pierced the darkness, silhouetting the trees and casting their elongated shadows forward through the night. The door swung inwards upon its hinge and now dark forms swayed into the dazzling radiance. Misshapen forms, heavily robed and indefinite of shape, one by one they issued from the Mission, until five in all they stood before it. Then that heavy panelled door swung closed again, the blinding light was snapped away and the Butts slept once more in darkness.

But it was no easy sleep, for here moved creatures of nightmare. Slow of foot they laboured across the gravel drive, the ghastly dragging of their feet echoing over the empty estate. Low murmurings accompanied their progress, hoarse whispers and lamenting sobs. For they belonged not here, these spawn of ancient evil, and yet their tasks they must perform.

The slow ungodly procession trailed onward, keeping ever to the shadows beneath the ivy-hung walls. Now they neared the gate to the Professor’s garden and stood together swaying and murmuring.

Within the Professor’s study the three men waited tensely. They too had heard the midnight chimes. Pooley stood with his back to the wall, wielding a poker. The Professor himself was on the edge of his chair, book in hand. Omally supported himself upon the fireplace; the decanter was empty and he was dangerously drunk.

Long minutes ticked away upon the mantelclock, its pendulum swung its gilded arc and the three men held their breath.

Suddenly there came a rattling upon the window, a repeated and urgent tapping. Pooley shifted the poker from his sweating palm and wiped his hand upon his trousers.

The Professor said, “Who is there?”

“Is that you, Professor?” came a voice. “Omally with you? I’ve brought a crate of beer over. Open up.”

“It’s Neville,” said Pooley, breathing a monumental sigh of relief and flinging his poker to the carpeted floor. “What’s he doing here?” Jim crossed the room to throw back the curtains.

The Professor leapt to his feet and barred his way. “Stop, Jim,” said he in a desperate voice, “do not open the curtains.”

“But it’s Neville, he can pass the drink in through the iron screens, be reasonable.”

The Professor held up his hand and shook his head. “Neville?” said he loudly. “What is the name of your father?”

Pooley turned helplessly to John Omally. “What sort of question is that, I ask you?”

There was no sound. “Neville?” called the Professor again, but there was no reply.

“He’s gone,” said Jim. “What I would have given for a cold beer.”

Suddenly the knocking and rattling began again with renewed vigour, a voice rang out. “Help, help, let me in will you, I’ve got to use the phone.” It was the voice of Old Pete. “Please open up, you must help me.”

“Something’s wrong there,” said Jim, “open those curtains.”

“My dog,” wailed the voice, “a bloody lorry’s run down Chips, let me in, I must phone for help.”

“For pity’s sake,” said Pooley, “open the curtains.”

The Professor would have none of it. “Stand your ground, Jim,” he said sternly. “Put your hands over your ears if you do not wish to hear it, but make no move towards the curtains.”

“But you’ve got to do something, let him in.”

The Professor turned to Omally. “If he makes one step towards those curtains strike him down.”

Jim threw up his arms in defeat. “Wise up, Pooley,” said Omally. “Don’t you see, old Pete isn’t out there, it’s a trick.”

The Professor nodded his old head. “First temptation through Neville, then an appeal for pity, what next? Threats, I should imagine.”

Pooley had little time to mull over the Professor’s words before a deafening voice roared from the garden, “Open up these windows or I’ll smash the bastards down.” This time it was the voice of Count Dante’s most accomplished adept in the deadly arts of Dimac. “Open up in there, I say, or it will be the worse for you!”

Pooley threw himself into a chair. “If it is all right with you chaps I should prefer to simply panic now and have done with it,” he said.