The Antipope

by Robert Rankin

  Slow yet certain footsteps crossed the marbled floor and firm hands gripped a monstrous throne which rose at the end of the pilastered hall. The brooding figure seated himself. Whatever thoughts dwelt within his skull were beyond human comprehension. His being was at one with the sombre surroundings, the gloom, the terrible cold.

  And then from hidden recesses of the darkling hall, there came other figures, walking erect upon two legs yet moving in a way so unlike that of humankind as to touch the very soul with their ghastliness. Forward they came upon dragging feet, to stand swaying, five in all, before their master. Then low they bowed, touching the chill floor with their faces. They murmured softly, imploringly.

  The being upon the throne raised a languid hand to silence them. Beneath the hems and cuffs of their embroidered garments, touched upon briefly by the cold sunlight, there showed glimpses of their vile extremities. Here the twisted fibrous claw of a hand, here a gnarled and root-like leg or ankle, for here were no human worshippers, here were the spawn of the bottomless pit itself. Foul and unspeakable creations, sickening vomit of regions beyond thought.

  The red-eyed man gazed down upon them. A strange light began to grow around him, increasing in power and clarity. His very being throbbed with a pulsating energy. He raised his mighty hand above his head and brought it down on to the arm of his throne. A voice rose up in his throat, a voice like no other that had ever spoken through earth’s long aeons.

  ‘I will have it,’ he said, ‘soon all shall be mine.’ The creatures below him squirmed at his feet in an ecstasy of adoration. ‘There will be a place for you my children, my five grand Cardinals of the Holy See, you will know a place in my favour. But now there is much to be done; those who would plot my destruction must be brought to their destiny; the Professor, he must be dragged before me, and the Irishman. Tonight you must go for them. I will tolerate no mistake or you shall know my displeasure. Tonight it must be, and now be gone.’

  The writhing creatures drew themselves erect, their heads still bowed in supplication. One by one they shuffled from the great hall leaving the red-eyed man alone with his unspeakable thoughts.

  Atop the Mission roof and hanging sloth-like by his heels, a lone figure had watched this gothic fantasy through a chink in the Mission’s ventilator. The lone figure was none other than Jim Pooley, Brentford’s well-known man of the turf and spy for the forces of mankind, truth and justice, and he had overheard all of the ghastly speech before he lost his footing and descended to the Mission’s row of dustbins in a most undignified and noisy manner.

  ‘Balls,’ moaned mankind’s saviour, wiping clotted fish scales from his tweeds and making a timely if somewhat shop-soiled departure from the Mission’s grounds and off across the Butts Estate.

  Archroy was working out on Father Moity’s horizontal bars. Since the arrival through the post of book two and

  later book three of Count Dante’s course in the deadly arts of Dimac the lad had known a renewed vigour, a vibrant rejuvenation of his vital forces. The young priest watched him exercise, marvelling at the fluency of his movements, the ease with which he cleared the vaulting horse at a single bound. All he could do was to clap enthusiastically and applaud the astonishing exhibition of super-human control and discipline.

  ‘You are to be congratulated, Archroy,’ said Father Moity. ‘I have never seen the like of this.’

  ‘I am only beginning, Father,’ Archroy replied, ‘watch this.’ He gave out with an enormous scream, threw his hands forward into the posture the Count described as ‘the third poised thrust of penetrating death’ and leapt from the floor on to a high stanchion atop the gymnasium clock.

  ‘Astonishing.’ The young priest clapped his hands again. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘It is the mastery of the ancient oriental skills,’ Archroy informed him, returning to the deck from his twenty-foot eyrie.

  ‘Bravo, bravo, but tell me my son, to what purpose do you intend that such outstanding gymnastics be put to? It is too late now for the Olympics.’

  Archroy skipped before him, blasting holes in the empty air with lightning fists. ‘I am a man sorely put upon, Father,’ said he.

  The priest bowed his head in an attitude of prayer. ‘These are sorry times for all of us. Surely if you have problems you might turn to me, to God, to the Church?’

  ‘God isn’t doing much for your Church at present.’

  The priest drew back in dismay. ‘Come now,’ said he, ‘these are harsh and cruel words, what mean you by them?’

  Archroy ceased his exercises and fell into a perfect splits, touched his forehead to his right toe and rose to his feet. ‘You have no congregation left, Father, hadn’t you noticed?’

  The young priest dropped to his knees. ‘I have fallen from grace.’

  ‘You have done nothing of the sort, your flock has been lured away by a callous and evil man. I have taken a lot of stick over the past few months and I have gone to some lengths to find out what is going on hereabouts. My ear has, of late, been pressed against many a partition door and I know what I’m talking about.’

  Father Moity rose clumsily to his feet. ‘I would know more of this my son, let us repair to my quarters for a small sherry.’

  ‘Well, just a small one, Father, I am in training.’

  The breathless Pooley staggered in through the Professor’s open French windows and flung himself into a fireside chair.

  ‘I take it from your unkempt and dishevelled appearance, Jim, that you bring news of a most urgent nature,’ said Professor Slocombe, looking up from his books.

  Pooley took a heavy breath. ‘You might say that,’ he gasped.

  ‘Steady yourself, Jim, you know where the scotch is.’

  Pooley decanted himself a large one. ‘Not to put too fine a point on the matter, Professor,’ said he, ‘you and Omally are in big trouble, in fact, the biggest.’

  ‘So, our man is going to make his move then?’

  ‘Tonight he is sending those nasty looking creatures after you.’

  ‘Well now.’ Professor Slocombe crossed to the windows, pulled them shut and lowered the heavy iron screen.

  ‘We must not be caught napping then, must we?’

  ‘Where is John?’ Pooley cast his eyes about the room. ‘I thought he was here.’

  Professor Slocombe consulted his watch. ‘I should imagine that by now the good Omally is propped up against the bar counter of the Flying Swan raising a pint glass to his lips.’

  ‘I’d better go round and warn him.’ The Professor nodded. ‘Bring him back as soon as you can.’

  Omally was indeed to be found at the Swan, a pint glass in his hand and a large wax-paper package at his elbow. The Professor,’ he would say by way of explanation to the curious who passed him by at close quarters, ‘very valuable, very old.’

  Pooley entered the saloon bar. Neville greeted him with a hearty ‘Morning Jim, pint of the usual?’ and Omally merely nodded a greeting and indicated his parcel. ‘The Professor,’ he said, ‘very valuable, very old.’

  Pooley accepted his pint and pushed the exact change across the counter in payment. Neville rang it up in the till. ‘No Sale,’ it said. ‘The brewery have been offering me one of these new computerized micro-chip cash register arrangements,’ the part-time barman told Pooley. ‘They do seem to have some obsession about cash registers actually registering the money that is put into them. I can’t see it myself.’

  ‘Possibly they would take it kindly if you were to keep accounts,’ Pooley suggested, ‘it’s a common practice among publicans.’

  ‘We always run at a profit,’ Neville said in a wounded voice, ‘no-one could accuse me of dishonesty.’

  ‘Of course not, but breweries are notorious for that sort of thing. Why don’t you just accept the new cash register and let Omally give it the same treatment he gave to the juke box?’

  The Irishman grinned wolfishly. A brewer’s dray drew up before the Swan and Neville disappeared down the cellar steps to
open the pavement doors. Pooley took Omally aside. ‘You had better get around to the Professor’s right away,’ he said urgently. ‘There is a bit of trouble coming your way from the direction of the Mission, our man Pope Alex is out for your blood.’

  ‘Always the bearer of glad tidings eh, Jim,’ said Omally. ‘I have to go down there anyway, the Professor’s last book has arrived.’ Omally gestured to the parcel upon the bar.

  ‘More magic of the ancients?’ said Pooley. ‘I wonder what this one is all about.’

  ‘More unreadable Latin texts I should expect. That old fellow absorbs knowledge like a sponge, I do not understand where he puts it all, for certain his head is no larger than my own.’

  Pooley lifted the package from the counter and shook it gently. ‘It is extremely heavy for its size. You are sure that it is a book?’

  ‘I have no reason to doubt it, all the others have been.’

  Pooley ran a finger over the glossy surface. ‘It’s almost like metal, but look here, how is it sealed? There are no flaps and no joint, the book appears to be encased in it rather than packed in it.’

  ‘Indeed, now try and get it open.’

  ‘Better not to. The Professor would not appreciate it.’

  ‘Try anyway, I already have.’

  Jim dug his thumb nail into a likely corner of the package and applied a little pressure. The package remained intact. Pooley pressed harder, working his thumbnail to and fro across the edge. ‘Nothing,’ he said in dismay, ‘not even a scratch.’

  ‘Use your pocket knife then, don’t let it defeat you.’

  Pooley took out his fifteen-function scout knife and selected the most murderous blade. Holding the parcel firmly upon the bar counter he took a vicious stab at it. The blade bent slightly, skidded cleanly off the package and embedded itself in the counter top.

  ‘You bloody vandal,’ screamed Neville, who was entering the saloon bar door. ‘I saw that!’

  ‘I am trying to open this parcel,’ Pooley explained, withdrawing his knife and rubbing a be-spittaled fingertip over the counter’s wound.

  ‘Give it to me,’ said the part-time barman gruffly, ‘I’ll open it for you.’ He took up the can opener which hung on a chain from his belt. ‘Nothing to parcels if you have the know.’

  He scratched the opener roughly down the length of the package. There was not a mark. ‘What’s this then?’ said Neville. ‘Trick is it, or some new kind of paper?’ He began scratching and scraping with renewed vigour. He laboured at the parcel as one possessed, but succeeded in doing nothing whatever, save taking the nail from his left thumb and totally destroying his opener. ‘Bugger,’ yelled the part-time barman, ‘that was my favourite. Wait here!’ He strode from the bar leaving a fine trail of blood behind him.

  ‘Did he mean that the opener was his favourite or the thumbnail?’ wondered Omally.

  Neville reappeared behind the bar with a fourteen-inch meat cleaver clutched in a bandaged hand. Put it here,’ he demanded.

  ‘Now steady on,’ said Pooley, ‘after all it isn’t even our package. You will clearly destroy it with that thing.’

  ‘One good swing,’ said Neville, ‘just one. I’ll merely snip the end, I won’t damage the contents, I swear!’

  ‘He’s a good man with a cleaver,’ said someone. ‘He’ll open the bugger, never fear.’

  Pooley looked to Omally. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Can’t hurt. If he damages it we can always say that the Post Office did it in transit.’

  ‘OK,’ said Pooley, ‘one swing then, but for God’s sake, be careful.’

  The parcel was placed upon the bar counter and the spectators withdrew to what they considered to be a safe distance. Neville squared up to the parcel, placed his feet firmly apart and wiggled his behind in a manner much practised by top pro golfers before applying their wedges to a bunker-bound ball. Spitting on to his palms he raised the cleaver high above his head and brought it down with a reckless force which would truly have done credit to the Wolf of Kabul’s sidekick, Chung wielding the now-legendary Clicki-Ba.

  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 Japanese 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.