The Antipope

by Robert Rankin

  A profusion of fatly bummed cherubim fluttering and fussing in their golden nakedness; row upon row upon row of candles blazing amid the rising gem-covered columns; the traceried woodwork and carved adornments; the proliferation of wondrous beings, half human half animal, set in attitudes of supplication, gazing ever upwards towards the titanic figure which crested the altarpiece and held in his outstretched arms a hanging tapestry woven in cloth of gold and depicting once again the motif of a great black bull. The banner of the bull. The banner of the Borgias.

  Pooley could have spent long hours in reverent contemplation of these wonders had not Omally chosen this particular moment to topple backwards into the darkness, bringing Jim down from his perch and tumbling him to the floor.

  ‘Sorry,’ said John. ‘Anything to see?’

  Pooley shook his befuddled cranium, unable to find words to describe what he had seen. ‘You have a look,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll give you a leg up.’

  Omally’s head rose unsteadily above the crowd, which still flowed unabated through the Mission door. He saw what Pooley had seen. Certainly the glories were undeniable in their magnificence, but there was something more. Omally cocked his head upon one side. The geometry of the entire hall was slightly amiss; it was not immediately noticeable, but the more he looked at it then the more obvious it became.

  He squinted up at the great pillars supporting the marvellous domed ceiling. Surely they were slightly out of true? Several seemed more closely spaced than the others and the one at the end was not quite perpendicular. And the dome itself, it was not absolutely round, more ovoid, or more accurately it was egg-shaped.

  The great golden altar, for all its unworldly spectacle, was definitely crooked, top heavy. The statuary was similarly lopsided, some leaning at dangerous angles. The icons seemed to have been nailed into place and the raised dais which filled an enclosed space before the altar was far from level.

  Some attempts had obviously been made here to correct the deficiency and Omally noted that a number of red flettons had been wedged under one corner of it. Red flettons!

  Omally stifled a great guffaw. So that was it! Old Pope Alex was certainly far from omnipotent if he dwelt under the misconception that present day jobbing builders could repeat the masterworks wrought by their fifteenth-century counterparts. The thought that the crimson giant at the Mission was actually capable of error set Omally in fine spirits. These fine spirits, however, were soon dispelled by what next occurred.

  The door of the Seamen’s Mission swung shut with a death cell finality and a cry rose up from the throats of the assembled multitude. It was not so much a cry as a howl. Omally hastily returned to floor level and endeavoured to lose himself once and for all amongst the shadows. The howl went up from all corners of the room, animal in nature, atavistic, echoing down centuries, primeval and cruel.

  The howl rose up, filling the great hall, reverberating about the dome and rebounding from the pillars. It rose and rose in pitch, forming into a scream. The hierophants threw back their heads; hands crossed on their chests like a thousand dead Pharaohs, they swayed upon their heels and howled. Pooley tightened the grip upon his ears, Omally rolled his eyes, and the Professor gripped the silver cross he wore about his neck and mumbled his phrases of Latin. All at once the howl changed, dropped down in tone and formed itself into a low chant.

  The Professor pricked up his ears. ‘It is a mantra,’ he said, although none heard him.

  Slowly the syllables formed upon one another, the chant went up time after time, driving itself almost physically at the three men crouched in the darkness behind the column. Omally was staring goggle-eyed and the Professor forced the Irishman’s hands up over his ears. ‘You must not hear this,’ he whispered. ‘You must not hear.’

  Omally hummed to himself one of his favourite Republican songs, the much-loved standard, ‘Kevin Barry’. He was halfway through the now legendary line about the British soldiers torturing the dear lad in order that he might reveal the names of his brave comrades when he suddenly realized that he was humming alone. Omally unclasped his ears. There was no sound, the awful chanting had stopped, nothing moved, the air was still. Or was it?

  It was a low incessant hissing sound, soft yet persistent. Omally raised his eyes once more towards the astonishing ceiling; ii was corning from above. He chewed upon his lower lip, this was a sound he recognized, a reassuring natural sound, not a part of the ghastly unnatural cacophony, this was something real.

  And then he knew why the sky had seemed so strange to him that evening. The stars were missing, the moon had gone; while he and Pooley had been sitting in Jack Lane’s the sky had clouded over. John turned to his companion, who still had his hands desperately clamped about his ears. ‘Listen Jim,’ he whispered, prising Pooley’s hands from his head. ‘It is beginning to rain.’

  Outside the Mission and all across Brentford great drops were starting to fall. They struck the dust of the streets with muted explosions, spattered upon the roof tops and sizzled in the trees.

  At the Flying Swan Neville the part-time barman set aside his polishing cloth and gazed at the front windows in awe as long teardrops of water began to smear the dusty panes. It was gathering in strength now and any thoughts Brentford’s dehydrated populace may have had of dancing in the streets were rapidly smothered as the thunder began to roll ominously across the heavens and the lightning tore the sky apart. It was as if at some God-given signal the very floodgates of Heaven had been opened, the rain fell in torrents, a solid sheet of water. The parched ground sucked and gurgled, the allotment lands drew in the life-giving liquid and the stretch of dried-up canal bed devoured the downfall greedily. It was a storm such as none living could remember. Old Pete ordered himself another large rum and peered out through the Swan’s open doorway with much shaking of his ancient head.

  Norman leant upon the bar counter. ‘Annus Mirabilis,’ he said to the part-time barman. The year of wonders.’

  At the Seamen’s Mission Pope Alexander VIs congregation paid no heed to the downpour. As the lightning flashed about Brentford, bursting like a million flashbulbs behind the gigantic stained-glass windows above the altarpiece, they stood resolute, unmoving. Pooley and Omally ducked their heads as the thunder crashed deafeningly above. Professor Slocombe stared upwards, an unreadable expression in his pale blue eyes.

  Suddenly the Mission seemed to draw backwards, sideways, forward, simply away, to suck itself into a vacuum beyond the reach of the maelstrom which roared without. It was as if the building had been snatched away into a limbo, a separate dimension insulated totally from all that was real and touchable. The lightning was still visible, flashing behind the stained glass, but now it seemed unable to pierce the panes, stopping short of them as if held at bay by some invisible barrier. The roaring of the storm could still be heard, but it was muffled as if somebody had closed a padded door.

  A great light began to fill the hall. It grew and grew in brightness until every standing figure, every icon, statue and column became nothing more than a cardboard cut-out, lit dazzlingly from one side and lost in a void of absolute blackness to the other.

  Omally shielded his eyes and squinted into the glare. Pooley dragged his cloak over his head, dropping his cherished half brick to the floor. Professor Slocombe stood transfixed. From the side of the hall, amid the blinding glare, figures were beginning to appear, moving from the realm of dream, or nightmare.

  The congregation were shuffling backwards, forming themselves into a great arc stretching from the side enclosure to the raised dais of the golden altarpiece. The figures were moving forward in a slow methodical rhythm. Omally could make out their silhouettes, sunspots upon the solar disc. There were four shapeless stubby creatures bearing upon their shoulders something enormous upon a kind of chair. Before this procession a lone being moved unsteadily, gaunt and bowed, a golden censer swinging from his clasped hands.

  Omally widened his eyes; the figure was that of Captain Carson. H
e nudged the Professor but the old man put his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘I know.’

  The Captain was dressed in rough sacking robes, a golden sash knotted about his waist. His head was shaven and his feet were bare. His face was as vacant as those of the congregation.

  Behind him trod the four red-clothed and dwarfish figures, the identity of which was well enough known to the three watchers. Upon the shoulders of these creatures they supported a gilded travesty of the Papal throne, carved from a rich red timber of exotic origin, inset with many precious stones. The arms of this throne terminated in large gilded bulls’ heads, as did the very crest upon the chair’s high back.

  The eyes of these bovine spectres were great red rubies, glittering flawlessly in the pulsating light which flowed from the being who lounged on the velvet cushioning of the fabulous chair. He was enormous, a titan; his great hands rested upon the bulls’ heads and one could have passed a copper penny through any one of the rings he wore. He was clad in the richest of crimsons, his gown smothered in jewels. These were woven into cunning arabesques, symbols of cuneiforms, diamonds, spirals and trapezoids, each complete of itself yet playing an integral part in the overall design. The gown swam in the throbbing light which surrounded the giant and appeared to pass through several dimensions, shrinking, growing and moving forwards and backwards as if alive. It was belted at the waist by a broad golden cummerbund and heavily quilted at the sleeves. Over his massive shoulders the giant wore the holy mantle and upon his head the papal mitre, cloth of gold and set again with priceless gems.

  The three men shrank back into the shadows that they might not meet the gaze of the giant as he passed. Never had they seen such a face, surely the very face of death. It was terrible, but it was also magnificent in its perfect control, absolute power and supreme arrogance. The great hawk of a nose, the prominent chin, the high cheekbones, the broad forehead, and the eyes two flaming red fires of hell.

  The throne halted at the dais of the altar. The being who called himself Pope Alexander VI stepped from it on to the platform. The four creatures lowered the great throne chair to the floor and prostrated themselves before their master. Captain Carson stood ghostlike; the censer swinging from his gnarled and tattooed fingers suddenly ceased its movement in mid swing and hung in the air in defiance of all the laws of gravity.

  Outside, great peals of thunder burst overhead, the lightning flashed and fought with the heavens and the rain smashed deafeningly upon the Mission roof. Within was silence: the flames of the candles upon the torchers stood absolutely still and offered little light.

  The giant slowly folded his herculean arms and gazed down upon his congregation, who stood immobile, heads bowed, before him. He spoke, and his voice echoed cavernously about the great pillars and filled the dome.

  ‘My people,’ he said, ‘my own people, to you is granted the supreme honour, to you my first chosen; this night you will bear witness to the consecration of the new Holy See. You are my disciples, and I, the born again, the logos, the master, I grant you this honour. You will spread word of my coming across the world, that all might know my power and marvel at my return.’

  The words rolled on and on, a litany of terror. In the shadows of the pillar Professor Slocombe closed his hand about his silver crucifix. Omally bared his teeth and fingered his half brick. Pooley wondered whether there might be a back door open somewhere near at hand.

  ‘For centuries mankind has awaited my return, and now I am here to fulfil the prophecies and to reclaim my throne. You who stand before me are my vessels, into you shall I pour my powers. You will be masters of men, none shall stand before you, through you shall I regain what is rightfully mine.’

  Professor Slocombe held his breath; so this was it, there were easily four hundred people in this hall and if each received only a portion of the giant’s powers they would be virtually unstoppable.

  ‘Kneel before me,’ roared the giant, ‘prostrate yourselves before me.’ The congregation threw themselves to the floor, pressing their faces down into the cold mosaic. Omally turned his head away.

  ‘Kneel, I say!’

  Omally’s eyes flashed back to the figure upon the dais, the face was contorted, twisted into a snarl, and the eyes were blazing.

  ‘You will kneel!’

  Across the hall, some ten or so yards from the three hidden figures, two men were standing defiantly amid the sea of fallen bodies. Omally had little difficulty in recognizing one of them. This individual was clad in a dark silk kimono, his head covered by an elaborate Japanese wig. His oversized eyebrows had been dyed the very jettest of blacks and were twisted at their extremities into short spikes.

  It was Archroy. As Omally watched, the samurai’s companion coolly divested himself of his dufflecoat to reveal a clerical collar and the vestments of a priest. It was Father Moity. Omally turned to the Professor, who shrugged helplessly. Pooley whispered, ‘This is going to be good, what odds the ninja then, John?’

  ‘You will kneel before your Master.’ The giant knotted his fists and drew himself up to even greater heights.

  Archroy curled his lip and Father Moity drew from his raiment a shining crucifix. The congregation were still, their faces pressed to the cold mosaic floor. They would not have dared to rise even if they could. Before the dais the four creatures were shambling to their unearthly feet.

  The Professor drew his two cohorts further back into the shadows. ‘If the opportunity should arise,’ he whispered, ‘I trust that you will employ those two poorly concealed bricks to good advantage.’

  Omally winked, Pooley said, ‘In for a penny.’

  The rain lashed down upon Brentford and Pope Alexander VI raised his massive arm and pointed towards Archroy and the young priest. ‘You, I will make an example of,’ he roared. ‘You will know the exquisite agonies of lingering death.’

  Archroy thumbed his nose. ‘Balls,’ said he.

  The giant gestured to his four hooded cardinals. ‘Bring them to me, spare only their lives.’

  The grotesque creatures turned upon the two men, forward they came upon their twisted legs, murmuring and whispering. They had lost their fifth brother to a son of mankind and yearned only for vengeance upon the entire race. Their beaked mouths opened and closed, dripping vile slime. Closer they came, steering their way amongst the prone figures; slowly they approached the man of the cloth and the student of Count Dante. Archroy watched them come. ‘My bloody beans,’ he said, nudging the young priest.

  Suddenly they were upon him, their claw-like hands reaching out, knobby, crooked appendages displaying wicked barbs. Father Moity held up his cross and said the words of the rosary. Archroy pivoted upon his heel and swung about, his foot curling through the air in a blurry arc. He struck one of the creatures a devastating blow, sweeping it from its feet and propelling it through the air. It tumbled to the floor several yards away and came to rest beneath one of the great pillars, silent and unmoving. Its unholy brothers slashed at him but Archroy leapt high into the air above their heads, dropping to the floor behind them.

  As they turned, the master of Dimac let out a mighty yell and drove forward an iron fist. He struck one of the creatures firmly at neck height. There was a sickening report as the thing’s head departed its body, a brief swish as it whirled through the air and a dull thud as it landed amongst the shadows to the rear of the hall. The decapitated body remained upright a moment, the arms flailing about and clawing at the space its head had occupied, then it toppled backwards, a crumpled heap of red cloth.

  The giant upon the dais raised his hands towards the great dome. ‘Destroy him,’ he screamed, ‘destroy him.’

  Archroy stood undaunted, perfect testimony to the confidence-boosting powers of Count Dante’s art. As the two demented godless beings fell on him he drew back both his arms and flung them forward in perfect unison. His fists passed clear through the chests of the creatures, emerging from their spines amid a tangle of root-like fibres and a great tearing of cloth.
Archroy shook the now limp forms away from him and turned upon Alexander VI. ‘You’re next pal,’ he said.

  Omally stared in awe. This was the Archroy he had struck down upon the allotment? Pooley said, ‘That particular blow seems uniformly effective.’

  Archroy stood thumbing his nose and flexing his muscles. Clearly it was impossible for him to feel any fear, no matter how appalling his adversary. Father Moity knelt at his side, hands clasped in prayer. Omally’s heart went out to the young priest who, possessing none of Archroy’s ripping, tearing, maiming and mutilating techniques had come armed only with his faith to face the diabolical power of the crimson giant.

  Upon the dais Pope Alexander VI stood, his entire body trembling, throbbing with unimaginable anger. Behind him, through the stained-glass window, the lightning flashed, casting his massive shadow across the great hall. The light about him grew and grew and became a blazing white inferno, forming itself into a blinding corona. His contours blurred, and naught could be seen of him but for the two red blood-bowls of his eyes.

  A strange vibration ran through the air of the Mission. Omally felt the skin of his face being forced back as if by the pressure of increased g-forces. His cheeks seemed to stretch and draw themselves towards his ears, tears flew from his eyes and he found it impossible to close them. Pooley clung desperately to the great pillar and the frail Professor staggered back against the side wall. It was as if a hurricane of icy wind had been directed at them. The congregation were beginning to rise, shaking their heads like awakened sleepwalkers and shielding their faces from the glare.

  Archroy stood firmly anchored to the floor, his kimono flapping about him. His exotic wig was torn from his head, exposing his alopecia to full effect. Father Moity raised his hand in benediction and uttered the first words of the holy exorcism, but the force struck him, buffetting him backwards and silencing his voice. Folk were tumbling over one another like rag dolls, bowling over the floor and fluttering against the walls. The door of the Mission burst outwards and crashed into the rain-lashed night, cartwheeling over and over across the Butts Estate. The figure upon the dais came and went amid the corona of light, his arms outstretched and his head thrown back.