The Antipope (The Brentford Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert Rankin

  The pink sofa was solidly constructed and well-padded with the finest foam rubber. It stood the assault upon it uncomplainingly, but something was wrong. Omally felt himself unable to perform with his usual style and finesse, the spark just wasn’t there.

  Archroy’s wife noticed it almost at once. ‘Come on man,’ she cried, ‘up and at it!’

  Omally sat upright. ‘Someone’s watching us,’ he said. ‘I can feel eyes burning into me.’

  ‘Nonsense, there’s nobody here but us.’

  Omally made another attempt but it was useless. ‘It’s that picture,’ he said in sudden realization. ‘Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘I can’t feel anything, that’s the trouble.’

  ‘Turn its face to the wall, it’s putting me off my stroke.’

  ‘No!’ Archroy’s wife flung herself from the sofa and stood with her back to the portrait, her arms outspread. She appeared ready to take on an army if necessary.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Omally. ‘I am sorry if I have offended you, hang a dishcloth over it then, I won’t touch it.’

  ‘Hang a dishcloth over him? Don’t be a fool!’

  Omally was hurriedly donning his trousers. There was something very wrong here. Archroy’s wife looked completely out of her head, and it wasn’t just the gin. The woman’s possessed, he told himself. Oh damn, he had both feet down the same trouser leg. He toppled to the floor in a struggling heap. The woman came forward and stood over him laughing hysterically.

  ‘You are useless,’ she taunted, ‘you limp fish, you can’t do it!’

  ‘I have a prior appointment,’ spluttered John trying to extricate his tangled feet. ‘I must be off about my business.’

  ‘You’re not a man,’ the mad woman continued. ‘ “He” is the only man in Brentford, the only man in the world.’

  ‘Who is?’ Omally ceased his vain struggling a moment, all this had a quality of mysterious intrigue. Even though he was at an obvious disadvantage at the feet of a raving lunatic he would never forgive himself if he missed the opportunity to find out what was going on.

  ‘Who is “He”?’

  ‘He? He is the born again, the second born, He––’ The woman turned away from Omally and fell to her knees before the portrait. Omally hastily adjusted his legwear and rose shakily to his feet. Clutching his patent shoes, he made for the door. He no longer craved an explanation, all he craved was a large double and the comparative sanity of the Flying Swan. Phrases of broken Latin poured from the mouth of the kneeling woman and Omally fled. He flung open the front door, knocking Archroy who stood, his key raised towards the lock, backwards into the rose bushes. He snatched up the peacefully dozing Marchant and rode off at speed.

  As he burst into the saloon bar Omally’s dramatic appearance did not go unnoticed. His cricket whites were now somewhat oily about the ankle regions and his nose had started to bleed.

  ‘Good evening, John,’ said Neville. ‘Cut yourself shaving?’

  ‘The match finished then?’ asked Jim Pooley. ‘Run out, were you?’

  ‘Want to change your mind about that hat?’ sniggered Old Pete, who apparently had not shifted his position since lunchtime.

  ‘A very large scotch,’ said John, ignoring the ribaldry.

  ‘John,’ Pooley said in a voice of concern. ‘John, what has happened, are we at war?’

  Omally shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh no,’ said he, ‘not war.’ He shot the large scotch down in one go.

  ‘What then, have you sighted the vanguard of the extraterrestrial strike force?’

  ‘Not those lads.’

  ‘What then? Out with it.’

  ‘Look at me,’ said Omally. ‘What do you see?’

  Jim Pooley stood back. Fingering his chin thoughtfully, he scrutinized the trembling Irishman.

  ‘I give up,’ said Jim at length. ‘Tell me.’

  Omally drew his breath and said, ‘I am a man most sorely put upon.’

  ‘So it would appear, but why the fancy dress? It is not cricketers’ night at Jack Lane’s by any chance?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said John in a voice oddly lacking in humour. He ordered another large scotch and Pooley, who was by now in truth genuinely concerned at his best friend’s grave demeanour, actually paid for it. He led the shaken Irishman away from the chuckling throng and the two seated themselves in a shadowy corner.

  ‘I have seen death today,’ said Omally in a low and deadly tone. ‘And like a fool I went back for a second helping.’

  ‘That would seem an ill-considered move upon your part.’

  John peered into his double and then turned his eyes towards his old friend. ‘I will tell you all, but this must go no further.’

  Inside Pooley groaned dismally, he had become a man of late for whom the shared confidence spelt nothing but doom and desolation. ‘Go ahead, then,’ he said in a toneless voice.

  Omally told his tale, omitting nothing, even his intention towards Archroy’s wife. At first Pooley was simply stunned to hear such a candid confession of his colleague’s guilty deeds, but as the tale wore on and Omally spoke of the Church of the Second Coming and of the sinister portrait and the Latin babblings his blood ran cold.

  ‘Drink up,’ said Jim finally. ‘For there is something I must tell you, and I don’t think you are going to like it very much.’ Slowly and with much hesitation Pooley made his confession. He told the Irishman everything, from his first theft of the magic bean to his midnight observation of Omally, and on to all that the Professor had told him regarding the coming of the Dark One and his later meeting with the Other Sam.

  Omally sat throughout it all, his mouth hanging open and his glass never quite reaching his lips. When finally he found his voice it was hollow and choked. ‘Old friend,’ said he. ‘We are in big trouble.’

  Pooley nodded. ‘The biggest,’ he said. ‘We had better go to the Professor.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Omally. ‘But we had better have one or two more of these before we go.’

  17

  When Neville called time at ten thirty the two men stumbled forth into the street in their accustomed manner. They had spoken greatly during that evening and there had been much speculation and much putting together of two and two. If the Messiah to the Church of the Second Coming was the man in the portrait and the man in the portrait was none other than the dreaded Dark One himself, then he was obviously gaining a very firm foothold hereabouts.

  As Omally pushed Marchant forward and Pooley slouched at his side, hands in pockets, the two men began to feel wretchedly vulnerable beneath the moon’s unholy light.

  ‘You can almost come to terms with it during the day,’ said Pooley. ‘But at night, that is another matter.’

  ‘I can feel it,’ said John. ‘The streets seem no longer familiar, all is now foreign.’

  ‘I know.’

  If Marchant knew, he was not letting on, but out of sheer badness he developed an irritating squeak which put the two men in mind of the now sea-going wheelbarrow, and added to their gloom and despondency.

  ‘This lad is heading for the breaker’s yard,’ said Omally suddenly. Marchant ceased his rear-wheel loquaciousness.

  A welcoming glow showed from the Professor’s open French windows when presently they arrived. From within came the sound of crackling pages being turned upon the laden desk.

  ‘Professor,’ called Jim, tapping upon the pane.

  ‘Come in Jim,’ came the cheery reply. ‘And bring Omally with you.’

  The two men looked at one another, shrugged and entered the room. Pooley’s eyes travelled past the old Professor and settled upon the spot where the bean creatures had been housed. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They have grown somewhat, Jim,’ said the Professor. ‘I have been forced to lodge them in larger and more secure quarters.’ He rang his bell and Gammon appeared as if by magic, bearing a bottle of scotch upon a silver salver.

  ‘Now then,’ the Professor said, after what he felt to be a respec
table pause, adequate for the settling into armchairs and the tasting of scotch, ‘I take it you have something to tell me. I take it further that you have confided all in Mr Omally?’ Pooley hung his head. ‘It is all for the best, I suppose, it was inevitable that you should. So, now that you know, what are your thoughts on the matter, John?’

  Omally, caught somewhat off guard, was hard pressed for a reply, so he combined a shrug, a twitch and a brief but scholarly grin to signify that he had not yet drawn upon his considerable funds of intellect in order to deal fully with the situation.

  The Professor, however, read it otherwise. ‘You are at a loss,’ said he.

  ‘I am,’ said John.

  ‘So,’ the Professor continued, ‘what brings you here?’

  Omally looked towards Jim Pooley for support. Jim shrugged. ‘You’d better tell him the lot,’ said he.

  Omally set about the retelling of his day’s experiences. When the Irishman had finished the Professor rose to his feet. Crossing to one of the gargantuan bookcases he drew forth an old red-bound volume which he laid upon the desk.

  ‘Tell me John,’ he said. ‘You would recognize the figure in the portrait were you to see his likeness again?’

  ‘I could hardly forget it.’

  ‘I have the theory,’ said Professor Slocombe, ‘that we are dealing here with some kind of recurring five-hundred year cycle. I would like you to go through this book and tell me if a facsimile of the portrait you saw exists within.’

  Omally sat down in the Professor’s chair and began to thumb through the pages. ‘It is a very valuable book,’ the Professor cautioned, as John’s calloused thumb bent back the corner of yet another exquisite page.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Tell me, Professor,’ said Jim, ‘if we can identify him and even if we can beat on his front door and confront him face to face, what can we do? Omally and I have both seen him, he’s getting on for seven feet tall and big with it. I wouldn’t fancy taking a swing at him and anyway as far as we can swear to, he hasn’t committed any crime. What do we do?’

  ‘You might try making a citizen’s arrest,’ said Omally, looking up from his page-turning.

  ‘Back to the books, John,’ said the Professor sternly.

  ‘My wrists are beginning to ache,’ Omally complained, ‘and my eyes are going out of focus looking at all these pictures.’

  ‘Were they sharp, the beaks of those birds?’ asked the Professor. John’s wrists received a sudden miraculous cure.

  ‘Well,’ said Jim to the Professor, ‘how do we stop him?’

  ‘If we are dealing with some form of negative theology, then the tried and trusted methods of the positive theology will serve as ever they did.’

  ‘Fire and water and the holy word.’

  ‘The same, I am convinced of it.’

  ‘Got him!’ shouted John Omally suddenly, leaping up and banging his finger on the open book. ‘It’s him, I’m certain, you couldn’t mistake him.’

  Pooley and the Professor were at Omally’s side in an instant, craning over his broad shoulders. The Professor leant forward and ran a trembling hand over the inscription below the etched reproduction of the portrait. ‘Are you certain?’ he asked, turning upon Omally. ‘There must be no mistake, it would be a grave matter indeed if you have identified the wrong man.’

  Pooley bent towards the etching. ‘No,’ said he, ‘there is no mistake.’

  The Professor turned slowly away from the two men at the desk. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said solemnly, ‘that is a portrait of Rodrigo Borgia, born in Valencia January 1st, 1431, died in Rome August 18th, 1503. Rodrigo Borgia - Pope Alexander VI!’

  ‘That is correct,’ said a booming voice. ‘I am Rodrigo Lenzuoli Borgia and I have come for my children!’

  The French windows flew back to the sound of shattering glass and splintering woodwork and an enormous figure entered the portal. He was easily seven feet in height and he inclined his massive head as he stepped through the casement. He was clad in the rich crimson robes of the Papacy and was surrounded by a weirdly shimmering aura which glittered and glowed about him.

  The Professor crossed himself and spoke a phrase of Latin.

  ‘Silence!’ The giant raised his hand and the old Professor slumped into his chair as if cataleptic. Pooley and Omally shrank back against the wall and sought the lamaic secrets of invisibility. The mighty figure turned his blood-red glare upon them. Pooley’s knees were jelly, Omally’s teeth rattled together like castanets.

  ‘I should destroy you now,’ said the giant, ‘you are but worms that I might crush beneath my heel.’

  ‘Worms,’ said Omally, ‘that’s us, hardly worth the trouble.’ He laughed nervously and made a foolish face.

  ‘Ha!’ The giant turned away his horrible eyes. ‘I have pressing business, you may count yourselves lucky.’

  The two men nodded so vigorously that it seemed that their heads would detach themselves at any minute from their trembling bodies and topple to the floor.

  ‘Come unto me my children,’ boomed the awful voice, ‘come now, there is much work to be done.’

  There was a terrible silence. Nothing moved. The two men were transfixed in terror, and the giant in the crimson garb stood motionless, his hands stretched forth towards the study door. Then it came, at first faintly, a distant rattling and thumping upon some hidden door, then a loud report as if the obstruction had been suddenly demolished. Scratching, dragging sounds of ghastly origin drew nearer and nearer. They stopped the other side of the study door and all became again silent.

  The two men stood in quivering anticipation. A mere inch of wood stood between them and the nameless, the unspeakable.

  The silence broke as a rain of blows descended upon the study door, the huge brass lock straining against the onslaught. Suddenly the panels of the elegant Georgian door burst asunder. As gaping holes appeared, the two men caught sight of the malevolent force which battered relentlessly upon them.

  The beings were dwarf-like and thickly set, composed of knobby root-like growths, a tangle of twisted limbs matted into a sickening parody of human form, dendritic fingers clutching and clawing at the door. Forward the creatures shambled, five in all. They stood clustered in the centre of the room, their gnarled and ghastly limbs aquiver and their foul mouths opening and closing and uttering muffled blasphemies.

  The giant raised his hand and gestured towards the French windows. The fetid beings shuffled towards the opening, one raising its vile arm defiantly at the two men.

  Omally gripped his chum’s jacket, his face white and bloodless. Pooley shook uncontrollably, his eyes crossed, and he sank to the floor in a dead faint.

  The last of the creatures had left the room and the giant in crimson turned his eyes once more to Omally.

  ‘Irishman,’ he said, ‘are you a good Catholic?’

  Omally nodded.

  ‘Then kneel.’

  Omally threw himself to his knees. The giant stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘Kiss the Papal ring!’

  Omally’s eyes fell upon the large and beautiful ring upon the giant’s right hand. ‘Kiss the ring!’ said Pope Alexander VI.

  Omally’s head swayed to and fro, the ring came and went as he tried to focus upon it. Although he would have done anything to be free of the evil crimson giant, this was too much. He was not a good Catholic, he knew, but this was supreme blasphemy, one might do a million years in purgatory for this.

  ‘No,’ screamed Omally, ‘I will not do it,’ and with that he too lost consciousness and fell to the floor at the feet of the giant.

  A shaft of early sunlight passed through the broken framework of the French windows and fell upon the prone figure of Jim Pooley. Pooley stirred stiffly and uncomfortably in his unnatural sleep, groaned feebly and flung out his arms. His eyes snapped open, nervously turning on their orbits to the right and left. He flexed his numbed fingers and struggled to his knees. Omally lay a few feet from him, apparently dead.


  Pooley pulled himself to his feet and struggled to his chum. ‘John,’ he shouted, gripping the Irishman by his Fair Isle jumper and shaking him violently, ‘John, can you hear me?’

  ‘Away with you, Mrs Granger,’ mumbled Omally, ‘your husband will be back from his shift.’

  ‘John,’ shouted Pooley anew, ‘wake up damn you.’

  Omally’s eyes opened and he peered up at his friend. ‘Bugger you, Pooley,’ said he, ‘out of my boudwah!’

  ‘Pull yourself together, man.’

  Omally’s eyes shot to and fro about the room in sudden realization. ‘The Professor!’ The old man lay draped across his chair, his mouth hung open and his breath came in desperate pants. ‘Bring some water, or better still scotch.’ Pooley fetched the bottle. Omally dipped in his finger and wiped it about Professor Slocombe’s parched lips.

  The old man’s head slumped forward and his hands came alive, gripping the arms of the chair. His mouth moved and his aged eyes flickered back and forth between the two men. ‘W-where is he?’ he stuttered. ‘Has he gone?’ He tried to rise but the effort was too much and he sank back limply into the chair. ‘Give me a drink.’

  ‘What price Dimac,’ said Pooley to himself. Omally poured the Professor an enormous scotch and the ancient tossed it back with a single movement. He flung his glass aside and buried his face in his hands. ‘My God,’ said he, ‘I knew he was powerful, but I never realized, his force is beyond comprehension. I set up a mental block but he simply swept it aside. I was helpless!’

  Pooley knelt beside the Professor’s chair. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked, placing a hand upon the old man’s arm.

  ‘The creatures!’ said the Professor, jerking himself upright. ‘Has he taken them?’

  Pooley gestured towards the broken study door. ‘With apparent ease.’

  Professor Slocombe climbed to his feet and leant against the fireplace for support. Omally was pouring himself a scotch. ‘He will have to be stopped!’

  ‘Oh fine,’ said Omally. ‘We’ll get right to it.’

  ‘I know little of the Catholic faith,’ said Pooley, ‘who was Pope Alexander VI?’