The Antipope

by Robert Rankin

  Emblazoned across the shoulders of the jacket in letters of gold, marked out with what were obviously at least a dozen sets of Christmas-tree fairy lights, were the words: THE SPIRIT OF THE OLD WEST.

  It was Norman’s piece-de-resistance, and it actually worked. In truth of course, no human hand, no matter how skilled, could have wrought the creation of such a costume in the short time given as notice by the Swan of the impending Cowboy Extravaganza. No, this was the work of several long years. Originally intended as THE SPIRIT OF THE JUBILEE, it had been far from completion at the time of that event and Norman had feared that its day would never dawn. It had taken him several long and sleepless nights to alter the coronation coach into a covered wagon and change the Prince of Wales feathers into the war-bonnet of an Indian chieftain. The effect, all in all, was one to bring a tear of pride into the eye of its creator.

  The stetson had been a bit of a problem, as his source of PVC, a young woman customer who worked in the rubber factory, had been dismissed for unauthorized removal of the company’s stock. He had persevered, however, and done what he could with an aged trilby and an improvised brim. This he had sprayed gold and sprinkled with glitter from the carnival shop.

  The electrification of the fairy lights had been the biggest problem, and Norman’s rudimentary knowledge of the workings of electricity had cost him many a scorched fingertip. He had toyed with the idea of simply running an extension lead to the nearest available wall socket but this was too limiting to his movements. Thus Norman, through his usual system of trial and error, had perfected an efficient though weighty set of pre-charged solid-cell batteries which were strapped about his waist very much in the nature of Batman’s utility belt. A set of switches upon the buckle enabled him to alter the fluctuation and sequence of the lights in a manner both pleasing and artistic.

  Happily the PVC of the suit acted as an excellent insulator and the whole contraption was earthed through leads which ran down the backs of his trouser legs to brass plates nailed to the heels of a pair of rented cowboy boots.

  Norman tinkered happily about with screwdriver and soldering iron, here replacing a defunct bulb, here resoldering a faulty socket. Tomorrow all Brentford would salute his creative genius. No longer would they smile indulgently and allude to his previous failed ventures with unconcealed mirth. He’d show ‘em.

  Norman flicked a switch upon his belt buckle. Sadly he was not wearing the brass-heeled boots on this particular occasion and the crackle of electrical energy which snapped through his fingers crossed his eyes and rattled his upper set.

  ‘Damn and blast,’ said Norman.

  Archroy sat in the doorway of his allotment shed, elbows upon knees and chin cupped in the palms of his hands. At his feet a cup of cocoa was rapidly growing cold. His wife was up to something back at the marital home; there was a new roll of wire netting standing ominously in the hall and a large stack of red flettons in the back yard. She had muttered something about an aviary on the last occasion he had seen her. Also there was the affair of the beans weighing heavily upon his narrow shoulders.

  Archroy sighed tragically. Why couldn’t life be the straightforward affair it had once been?

  As he sat in his misery Archroy’s eyes wandered idly in the direction of Omally’s allotment plot. There upon the rugged patch of earth stood the solitary stake which marked out the location of the planted bean. Archroy had diligently watered the spot night after night. Omally had not been down to the site once during the last couple of weeks, and Archroy felt he had lost interest in the whole affair. He rose from his orange box and slouched over to inspect the Irishman’s dark strip of land. The stake appeared slightly crooked so he straightened it, stooping to smooth over the earth. There were no signs of life whatever, no pleasant green stripling or young plantoid raising its head to the sunlight. Nothing but the barren earth. Archroy bent his head near to the ground and squinted. This was, after all, his last bean and if this failed he would have nothing whatever to recompense him for the tragic loss of his Morris Minor.

  Perhaps if he just dug it up for a moment to check that it was all right, it couldn’t do any harm. Then if it showed any signs of life he could always replace it. No, it wouldn’t hurt, one quick look. He needn’t mention it to Omally.

  The earth was soft and damp from its daily watering. Almost at once his fingers closed about a damp and clammy object which he hastily brought to the surface. Gently laying it upon his palm he smoothed away the dark earth which clung to it, exposing to his horror the familiar outlines of a common seed potato. Archroy’s expression became one of grave concern. He hurled the potato aside and flung himself to his knees. Rooting to and fro across the plot like a demented hog in search of a truffle he delved into the earth. Oblivious to the muddy destruction of his tweeds, Archroy covered every inch of the plot to a depth of some ten inches.

  There was nothing; the plot was as barren as a desert, although now it would be ready to yield many varieties of vegetable, having been so thoroughly turned. Archroy rose to his feet, mud clinging to the knees and elbows of his suit; his toupee, which the manufacturers had assured him would stand up to a channel swim, had become strangely detached from its moorings and swung above him like a spinnaker.

  Archroy turned his eyes to the potato. So it was treachery, no wonder the Irishman had not troubled to come down and water the plot. Why should he wish to water a seed potato?

  ‘Damn and blast,’ said Archroy.

  Captain Carson watched the vehicle approach the Mission. He had never seen anything quite like it before. The enormous lorry was absolutely, unutterably black. Not a trace of colour was there upon its deathly sides, but for a single red crest emblazoned in the likeness of a bull. The vehicle moved in total silence and seemed strangely lacking in form, like some half-remembered version of the way a lorry should be. It bore neither headlights nor radiator grille, and the windscreen, if such it were, was of the same night hue as the rest of the vehicle. The doors lacked any sign of handles nor even a crack or line to signify their location. It was a thing to inspire nightmare. Soundlessly it drew up before the Mission door, enveloping the Captain within its cold shadow.

  Shaking away his feeling of revulsion the Captain squared his shoulders and stalked up the short path to confront the dark vehicle. Certainly it was a unique and striking thing. The Captain noted with interest that there was not a single sharp corner, edge or angle to it, the surfaces flowed away from one another in curve after curve. The Captain stretched out an inquisitive finger to touch the lorry but withdrew it at a vastly accelerated rate. It was as if he had thrust it into a vat of liquid oxygen. ‘By the gods,’ he said, examining his frost-bitten digit.

  As if in response to the Captain’s oath there was a click near the front of the vehicle and the cab door swung slowly open. The Captain wandered towards it upon hesitant feet. No light showed from within, it was like peering into the black void of space.

  Without warning a figure appeared from the darkness as one stepping from behind a velvet curtain. He was as black and featureless as his conveyance. Down from the cab he climbed, bearing in his gloved hand a clipboard to which was attached a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Captain Horatio B. Carson?’ he enquired in a voice of indeterminate accent. The Captain nodded slowly and without enthusiasm. ‘Delivery.’

  ‘I ordered nothing!’

  ‘There is no cause for alarm,’ said a soft voice behind and slightly above the Captain.

  Turning, the Captain squinted up into the face of the tramp. ‘What is all this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Kindly assist this gentleman with the removal of all the old furniture from the dining-room.’

  ‘Old furniture? You can’t do that, the furniture is the property of the Mission.’

  ‘Kindly do as I request, all will be explained to you later.’

  The Captain threw up his arms in a gesture of helplessness and led the dark figure into the Mission, where under the tramp’s direction the two st
ripped the dining-room of its furnishings. When these had been heaped into an untidy pile in the yard, the tramp said, ‘And now if you will be so kind, the new furniture is to be brought in. May I beg your caution when handling it as some pieces are of great worth and all irreplaceable.’

  The Captain shook his head in bewilderment and mopped the perspiration from his brow with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. For the next half an hour his life was nothing short of a nightmare. The truck’s dark occupant swung open the rear doors of the mighty vehicle, exposing another fathomless void. Working without apparent effort and clearly oblivious to the great weight of some of the more ornate and heavily gilded pieces of furniture he and the Captain unloaded and installed in the Mission an entire suite, table, chairs, sideboard, cabinet, a pair of golden candelabra, velvet wall-hangings and a crested coat of arms. All these items would clearly have been well at home amid the splendours of Fontainebleau. Each was the work of exquisite and painstaking craftsmanship, and each bore etched into the polished woodwork or inlaid in precious metals the motif of the bull.

  When all was installed the Captain numbly put his signature to the manifest, which was printed in a language he did not understand. The driver returned to his black cab, the door swinging closed behind him leaving no trace of its presence. The vast black vehicle departed as silently as it had arrived. The Captain leant upon the Mission porch exhausted, breathing heavily and clutching at his heart.

  ‘There is one more thing to be done and you may return to your quarters,’ said the tramp looming above him.

  ‘I can do no more,’ gasped the Captain, ‘leave me here to die, I have seen enough of life, too much in fact.’

  ‘Come now,’ said the tramp, ‘no need to be melodramatic, this is but a simple task.’ He handed the Captain a gallon can of petrol. ‘That rubbish in the garden, dispose of it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is offensive, put it to the torch!’

  The Captain took the can. Upon giddy legs he stumbled through the Mission and out into the yard to confront the mound of furniture which had served him these thirty long years.

  ‘The torch,’ ordered the tramp.

  The Captain’s fingers tightened around the petrol cap, he was powerless to resist. ‘Damn you,’ he mumbled beneath his breath. ‘Damn and blast you to hell.’

  11

  It was Thursday. The sun shone enthusiastically down through Neville’s window and twinkled upon the white cowboy suit which hung in its plastic covering upon the bedroom door. Neville raised a sleepy eyelid and yawned deeply. Today was going to be one to remember. He cast an eye towards the suit, pristine as a bridal gown. Beside it upon the chair hung the silver pistols in their studded holsters and the fringed white stetson. He put a hand beneath the pillow and withdrew the chromium sheriffs star. Squinting at it through his good eye he noted well how it caught the light and how the mirrored surfaces shone like rare jewels. Yes, he was going to look pretty dapper tonight, that was for sure.

  He was still, however, harbouring some doubts regarding the coming festivities. It was always impossible to gauge exactly what the locals might do. He knew some would attend, if only for a chance at the scotch and to take advantage of the cheap drink and extended hours. But the dart players had already defected and the seasoned drinkers were hard upon their heels, tired of being jockeyed from their time-honoured places at the bar by the continual stream of tourists and sensation-seekers currently filling the Swan. But still, thought Neville, if only a small percentage of the morbid canal viewers turned up, the evening would be far from dull.

  Neville climbed out of bed, placing his star reverently upon the side table. He stifled another yawn, straightened his shoulders and stepped to the window. From Neville’s eyrie high in the upper eaves of the Swan he was afforded an excellent view of the surrounding district. With the aid of his spyglass he could see out between the flat blocks as far as the roundabout and the river. He could make out the gasometer and the piano museum and on further into the early haze where the cars were already moving dreamily across the flyover. It was a vista which never ceased to inspire him. Neville’s spirit was essentially that of the Brentonian. From this one window alone he could see five of Brentford’s eighteen pubs, he could watch the larval inhabitants of the flat blocks stirring in their concrete cocoons, Andy Johnson’s milk float rattling along the Kew Road and the paperboy standing in the shadow of the bus shelter smoking a stolen Woodbine and reading one of Norman’s Fine Art Publications, destined for a discerning connoisseur in Sprite Street.

  This morning, as he drew great draughts of oxygen through his nose, an ominous and hauntingly familiar perfume filled Neville’s head. He had scented it vaguely upon the winds for many weeks, and had noted with growing apprehension that each day it was a little stronger, a little nearer, a little more clearly defined. What it was and what it meant he knew not, only that it was of evil portent. Neville pinched at his nostrils, shrugging away this disturbing sensation. Probably it was only nerves. He stepped into his carpet slippers and down two flights of stairs to the bar.

  The paperboy, seeing the bar lights snap on, abandoned his study of the female form and crossed the Ealing Road to deliver Neville’s newspaper.

  Omally was stirring from his nest. Wiping the sleep away from his eyes with a soiled pyjama sleeve the man from the Emerald Isle rose, a reluctant phoenix, from the ashes of the night before. There was little fire evident in this rare bird, and had it not been for the urgency of the day which lay before him he would surely have returned to the arms of whatever incendiary Morpheus rekindled his combustible plumage. He lit a pre-cornflake Woodbine and through the fits of terrible coughing paid his early morning respects to the statuette of Our Lady which stood noseless yet benign upon the mantelpiece.

  The Irishman’s suite of rooms was far from what one would describe as sumptuous. The chances of it appearing in House and Garden, except possibly as an example of the ‘Before’ school of design, were pretty remote. Upon this particular morning, however, the monotone decor was overwhelmed by an incongruous and highly coloured object which stood upon the Fablon table-top in Omally’s dining-room. It was a large and gaudy carton bearing upon its decorative sides the logo of the carnival shop.

  Within this unlikely container, which Omally had smuggled home in a potato sack, was nothing less than an accurate reproduction, correct to the smallest detail, even to the point of spurs and mask, of that well-known and much-loved mode of range-wear affected by the Lone Ranger. It was also identical in every way to the one which Jim Pooley had hired not an hour previous to the furtive Omally’s entrance to the carnival shop.

  For Mr Jeffreys, who ran the faltering business, it had been a day he would long remember. How he had come into the original possession of the ten identical costumes was a matter he preferred to forget. But upon this particular day that he should, within a few short hours, not only hire out these two costumes, but the other eight to boot, was quite beyond all expectation. Possibly the ancient series had returned to the small screen, bringing about a revival. Anyway, whatever the cause, he didn’t care; the cash register had crashed away merrily and there would soon be enough in it to pay off the bill for the two dozen Superman costumes he had similarly ordered in error.

  Neville picked up his newspaper from the welcome mat and gazed about the bar. He had been up until three in the morning arranging the finishing touches. Little remained of the Swan’s original character; the entire bar now resembled to a Model T the interior of a western saloon. The sawdust which had for the last few days been getting into everybody’s beer now completely smothered the floor. Wanted posters, buffalo horns, leather saddles and items of cowboy paraphernalia lined the walls.

  The shorts glasses had been piled in pyramids behind the bar and the place was gaudy with advertisements promoting ‘Old Snakebelly - The Drink That Made the South Rise Again’. This doubtful beverage was the sole cause of the Swan’s bizarre transformation. It was the brain
child of the brewery owner’s eldest son, who had spent two weeks on a package tour of the States and had returned with a mid-Atlantic accent and a penchant for Randolph Scott impersonations. It was not the finest blend of spirits ever to grace a bar optic, and would probably have been more at home removing tar from bargees’ gumboots. The old brewer, however, was not only a man indulgent of his progeny’s mercurial whims but a shrewd and devious entrepreneur who knew a tax dodge when he saw one.

  Lunchtime trade at the Flying Swan was alarmingly slack. Two sullen professional drinkers sat doggedly at the bar, glowering into their pints and picking sawdust from their teeth. Old Pete entered the bar around twelve, took one look at the decorations and made a remark much favoured by gentlemen of his advanced years. Young Chips lifted his furry leg at the sawdust floor and the two departed grumbling to themselves.

  When Neville cashed up at three, the till had taken less than two pounds. Neville counted the small change with nervous fingers; he was certain that the ominous smell he had detected that morning was beginning to penetrate the beer-soaked atmosphere of the saloon bar.

  It all began in earnest when at three fifteen a van from the brewery catering division drew up outside the Swan in the charge of a young man with advanced acne and a cowboy hat. This diminutive figure strutted to and fro in a pair of boots which sported what the Americans amusingly call ‘elevator heels’. He announced himself to be Young Master Robert and said that he would be taking over personal control of the event. Neville was horrorstruck, he’d been looking forward to it for weeks, he’d got the sheriffs star and everything and now at the eleventh hour, this upstart . . .

  To add insult to injury, the young man stepped straight behind the bar and drew himself a large scotch.