The Antipope (The Brentford Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert Rankin

  And then, amid the icy unstoppable blast, a low rumble penetrated the Mission, issuing up from the very bowels of the Earth. Its reverberations rolled across the floor, quivering the mighty torcheres and spilling out the candles. Omally felt the vibrations growing beneath his feet and knew where he had felt them before: that night in Sprite Street when Soap Distant had performed his ill-fated act of inner portal opening. The deluge had raised the level of the Thames, spilling the waters over the lock gates and down into the dried-up canal. The water was flooding from there into Soap’s subterranean labyrinth, which must surely run directly beneath the Mission.

  The great ill-constructed columns trembled and the figure upon the dais looked up, an expression of horror covering his hideous face. For a moment his power faltered, and that moment was all which was required. The congregation, freed of the binding force, began a mad exodus, cramming through the doorway and out across the Butts Estate. Sections of the frescoed ceiling began to fall away. A great crack appeared in the floor near the doorway and shot across the marble mosaic to the foot of the dais. Pope Alexander stepped back and prepared to marshal his power against the ruination of his Vatican.

  Father Moity climbed uncertainly to his feet. The floor was shifting beneath him and portions of it were breaking away and tumbling into the foaming waters which roared beneath. Archroy clutched his clerical companion and the two stood staring towards the figure on the dais.

  Pooley and Omally were endeavouring to raise the fallen Professor, who looked near death. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ the old man gasped, ‘his defences are down, strike now before it is too late.’

  Pooley scrambled off in search of his half brick, which had been torn away along with his cloak. Omally, who had clutched his throughout as the drowning man clutches at the proverbial straw, bore it into the light.

  Sadly Omally was no accurate hurler of half bricks; had he been sober it is possible that his aim would have been greatly improved. As it was his ill-flung projectile looped through the air, missing the crimson figure by several feet and striking one of the torcheres, cleaving out a row of the candles. These fell upon one of the woven tapestries, setting it ablaze.

  The crimson figure whirled as the flames licked up behind him. Archroy was advancing across the hall, his bald head flashing like a neon sign in the lightning flares. The rain lashed in through the doorway and the waters beneath roared deafeningly.

  The last of the congregation had long since departed. Pope Alexander VI was alone with his tormentors. They would all die for their blasphemy, each in turn. The old man scrambling across the crumbling floor, the young priest kneeling, those two skulking in the shadows and the maniac in the kimono. He would be the first.

  Archroy leapt on to the dais and confronted the glowing giant. ‘Come and get your medicine,’ he sneered, ‘come and get your––’ The words froze in his throat as the giant raised his hand. Archroy became welded to the spot. His face took on an expression of dire perplexity as he strained against the force which surrounded him.

  Professor Slocombe had reached Father Moity, and held out his old black book to the priest. ‘Read with me,’ he said. Pope Alexander turned in satisfaction from the oriental statue upon the dais. He raised his hands aloft and the light reached out from his fingertips and blazed across the hall, striking the two men. But nothing happened.

  The Professor and the young priest continued to mouth the ancient formula, and although their words were lost in the storm the effect was manifest. Their mouths moved in unison, intoning the spell, syllable upon syllable. Pope Alexander folded his brow and increased his power, the light radiating from his hands flooding the hall. His eyes burned and his body shuddered and trembled.

  Pooley’s fingers tightened about his half brick.

  The giant stiffened, concentrating every last ounce of his energy upon the two men. The corners of the old black book began to smoulder, sweat ran down the face of Father Moity, the Professor’s fingernails scorched and crackled. Jim Pooley threw his half brick.

  The missile struck the giant firmly between his flaming eyes. He had channelled his entire energy into attack and had kept little in reserve for his own defence. He stumbled back, his arms flailing, the beams of light crisscrossing the Mission like twin searchlights. And now another figure was moving across the dais. It was Captain Carson, and he clutched two blazing candles.

  The giant saw him approaching but it was too late; Captain Carson thrust the candles at the crimson robes, which caught in a gush of fire, enveloping the struggling figure. As he tottered to and fro, striking at himself, his power relaxed and Archroy, free of the paralysing trance, leapt forward. His foot struck the giant squarely in the chest, buffeting him back into the blazing tapestry which collapsed upon him.

  ‘By fire!’ shouted Professor Slocombe, looking up from his book.

  Pope Alexander staggered about the dais, an inhuman torch. Above the flames the unnatural light still glowed brightly about him, pulsating and changing colour through the spectrum. Captain Carson was clapping his hands and jumping up and down on his old legs in a delirium of pleasure.

  The Professor and the priest continued to read. Pooley emerged from the shadows and Omally patted him upon the shoulder. ‘Nice one,’ he said.

  Archroy’s vindictiveness, however, knew no bounds. He was being given, at long last, a chance to get it all out of his system: his car, his beans, the birdcage, his mad wife and this staggering inferno before him who embodied everything he loathed and detested and who was indeed the cause of all the indignities he had suffered during the last year.

  With a cry of something which sounded like number 32 on the menu of Chan’s Chinese Chippy, Archroy leapt at the blazing giant. He struck him another devastating blow; the giant staggered back to the edge of the dais, wildly flapping his arms beneath the blazing tapestry in a vain attempt to remain upright, then fell with a hideous scream down through the gaping crack in the Mission’s floor to the torrents beneath.

  ‘By water!’

  Archroy slapped his hands together. ‘Gotcha!’ he chortled. The Professor and the young priest crossed the floor towards the chasm and stood at the brink. ‘He will not die,’ yelled the old man above the maelstrom, ‘we have not yet finished the exorcism.’

  Pooley joined the Professor and peered down into the depths. ‘He is going down the main drain,’ he said, ‘we can follow him.’

  The flames had by now reached the tracery work of the great altar and were taking hold. Smoke billowed through the Mission and several of the great columns looked dangerously near collapse. ‘Out then,’ shouted the Professor. ‘Lead the way, Jim.’

  Pooley looked up towards Captain Carson, who was still dancing a kind of hornpipe upon the dais, the altar flaring about him. ‘You’ll have to bring him,’ cried Jim, ‘we can’t leave him here.’

  The Professor despatched Omally to tackle the task, while he, Jim Pooley, Father Moity and Archroy tore out into the rain-lashed night. Pooley aided the Professor, although the old man seemed to have summoned up considerable stores of inner strength. It was almost impossible to see a thing through the driving rain, but as the four ran across the Estate Pooley suddenly called out, ‘There, that grille at the roadside.’

  Up through the grating a fierce light burned. As they reached it the old Professor and the young priest shouted down the words of the Exorcism. The lightning lit the pages of the old black book to good effect and as the glow beneath the grating faded and passed on, the four men rushed after it.

  Up near Sprite Street Omally caught them up. ‘I got him outside,’ he panted, ‘but he wouldn’t leave, said he wanted to see every last inch of the place burn to the ground.’

  ‘There, there,’ shouted Pooley as a glow appeared briefly from a drain covering up ahead. Professor Slocombe handed his book to Father Moity. ‘You must finish it,’ he gasped, ‘my breath is gone.’

  They passed up Sprite Street and turned into Mafeking Avenue, Omally aiding the w
heezing ancient as best he could while Pooley, Archroy and the young priest bounded on ahead stopping at various drains and reciting the Exorcism. As they neared Albany Road, several great red fire engines screamed around the corner on their way to the blazing Mission.

  At the Ealing Road Archroy, Pooley and Father Moity stopped. Omally and the Professor caught up with them and the five stood in the downpour. ‘We’ve lost him,’ panted Jim. ‘The drains all split up along here, he could have gone in any direction, down most probably.’

  ‘Did you finish the exorcism?’ the Professor asked, coughing hideously.

  The young priest nodded. ‘Just before we lost him.’

  ‘Then let us pray that we have been successful.’

  Omally looked about him. Before them gleamed the ‘lights of the Four Horsemen, for the five bedraggled saviours of society were now standing outside Jack Lane’s.

  ‘Well then,’ said Omally, ‘if that’s that, then I think we still have time for a round or two.’

  Professor Slocombe smiled broadly. ‘It will be a pleasure for me to enjoy a drink at your expense, John,’ he said.

  ‘A small sherry,’ said Father Moity, ‘or perhaps upon this occasion, a large one.’

  As they entered the establishment Pooley felt Archroy’s hand upon his shoulders. ‘Just a minute, Jim,’ said he, ‘I would have words with you.’

  Jim turned to the waterlogged samurai. The rain had washed the dye from his eyebrows, and they hung doglike over his eyes. ‘That pair of cricketer’s whites you are wearing,’ Archroy continued, ‘and the unique pattern upon the Fair Isle jumper, surely I have seen these before?’

  Jim backed away through the rain. ‘Now, now, Archroy,’ he said, ‘you are making a mistake, I can explain everything.’ With these words Jim Pooley took to his heels and fled.

  24

  By two thirty the following morning, the storm was over. Along near the Brentford docks all lay silent. The yellow light of streetlamps reflected in the broad puddles and a damp pigeon or two cooed in the warehouse eaves. After such a storm the silence had an uneasy quality about it, there was something haunting about the glistening streets, a certain whiteness about the harshly clouded sky.

  Above the soft pattering of the leaking gutters and the gurgling of the drains another sound echoed hollowly along the deserted streets. A heavy iron manhole cover was slowly gyrating on one of the shining pavements. The cover lifted an inch or two and then crashed back into place. Slowly it eased up again and then with a resounding clang fell aside.

  A hand appeared from the blackness of the hole beneath. Dreadfully charred and lacking its nails, it scrabbled at the wet pavement, then took hold. An elbow edged from the murky depths, swathed in what had obviously once been the sleeve of a lavish garment but was now torn and filthy. After a long moment the owner of both elbow and hand, a hideous tramp of dreadful aspect and sorry footwear, drew himself up into the street. He dragged the manhole cover back into place and sat upon it breathing heavily. His head was a mass of burns, while here and there a lank strand of hair clung to the scar tissue of his skull. Below two hairless eyebrows, a pair of blood-red eyes glittered evilly. He made a feeble attempt to rise but slumped back on to the manhole cover with a dull echoing thud. A faint light glowed about him as he swayed to and fro, steaming slightly.

  A faint sound reached his ears, a low hissing. He raised his bloody eyes and cocked his head upon one side. Around the corner of the street came a canary-coloured vehicle. Upon the top of this an orange beacon turned, its light flashing about the deserted roadways. It was the council street-cleaning cart and in the front seat, hidden by the black-tinted windows, sat Vile Tony Watkins.

  He saw the tramp squatting upon the manhole cover clad in what appeared to be the remnants of some fancy-dress costume. He saw the faint glow about him, probably a trick of the light, and his hand moved towards the power button of the water jets. The ghastly tramp raised his hand as the cart approached. He stared up into the windscreen and a low cry rose in his throat, a look of horror crossed his hideous face. But the cart was upon him, its occupant laughing silently within his dumb throat. The jets of water bore down upon the tramp and the yellow vehicle passed on in to the night.

  Vile Tony squinted into the wing mirror to view his handiwork but the street was deserted. Nothing remained but a pool of blood-coloured water which glowed faintly for a moment or two then faded into the blackness. From the shadows of a nearby shop doorway, a crop-headed man stared out at the street, a smile upon his lips.

  He watched the yellow cart disappear around the corner, emerged from the shadows and stood looking down into the blood-coloured puddle. The toe of his right foot described a runic symbol upon the damp pavement.

  This too presently faded and the crop-headed man drew his robes about him, turned upon his heel and melted away into the night.

  Epilogue

  Spring has come once more to Brentford. Neville the part-time barman draws the brass bolts upon the Swan’s doors and stares out into the Ealing Road. Happily, of ill-favoured tramps the street is bare. Old Pete appears from Norman’s corner shop, his dog Chips at his heels. Pooley is upon his bench studying the racing papers and Omally is stirring from his nest, clutching at his hangover and muttering something in Gaelic.

  Archroy has left Brentford. The patrons of the Swan got up a whip-round for him and he has gone off to America to challenge Count Dante to life-or-death combat. Sadly, when he reaches New York he will be thwarted, since the legendary Count is nearing eighty and crippled with arthritis.

  Professor Slocombe still performs his daily perambulation of the village boundaries, Father Moity rarely has less than a full house come Sunday mornings and Norman is currently engaged upon a new project involving the Einstein’s unified field theory.

  For all Brentford’s other citizens, life goes on very much as before. Captain Carson has retired to a cottage beside the sea, the Trust awarding him a small pension. The Mission still stands, partially rebuilt; it is ironic to note that it could never have been demolished, for Crowley’s defunct uncle had seen to it that a preservation order had been put on the place.

  All in all, nothing has really changed. The events of last year have absorbed themselves into local folklore, and current conversation revolves around the newly planted crops upon the allotment.

  As to what the future may hold, few can say and those who can are keeping it pretty close to their chests.

  THE END

  Also by

  ROBERT RANKIN

  The Antipope

  The Brentford Triangle

  East of Ealing

  The Sprouts of Wrath

  Armageddon: The Musical

  They Came and Ate Us

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  The Book of Ultimate Truths

  Raiders of the Lost Car Park

  The Greatest Show Off Earth

  The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived

  The Garden of Unearthly Delights

  A Dog Called Demolition

  Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

  Sprout Mask Replica

  The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

  The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

  Apocalypso

  Snuff Fiction

  Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

  Waiting for Godalming

  Web Site Story

  The Fandom of the Operator

  The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

  The Witches of Chiswick

  Knees Up Mother Earth

  The Brightonomicon

  The Toyminator

  The Da-da-de-da-da Code

  Necrophenia

  Retromancer

  The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions

  The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age

  The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds

  Illustrated works:

  The Bumper Book of Ficts written by Neil Ga
rdner

  EMPIRES

  E-book edition cover illustration by Robert Rankin

  Art direction by Rachel Hayward

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Epilogue