‘I fear,’ said John, ‘that it is the regularity of “the work” which depresses me, the daily routine which saps the vital fluids and destroys a man’s brain. I prefer greatly to live upon wits I have and should they ever desert me then, maybe then, I shall take to “the work” as a full-time occupation.’ Omally took from his pocket a ‘Book Here for Canal Tours’ sign and began a ‘roll up, roll up’ routine.
Pooley rose from the table and excused himself. He had no wish to become involved in Omally’s venture. He wished only to forget all about subterranean caverns and vanishing canal water, his only thoughts on that matter were as to what might happen should they attempt to refill the stretch of canal. Was Sprite Street lower geographically than the canal? If it was, would the attempt flood the entire neighbourhood? It really didn’t bear thinking about. Pooley slouched over to the bar and ordered another pint.
‘Looking forward to Thursday night I’ll bet, Jim,’ said Neville.
Pooley did not answer. Silently he sipped at his ale and let the snippets of barside conversation wash disjointedly about him. ‘And my old grandad is sitting by the dartboard when he threw,’ came a voice, ‘and the dart went straight through the lobe of his right ear.’ Pooley sipped at his ale. ‘And as they went to pull it out,’ the voice continued, ‘the old man said “No don’t, it’s completely cured the rheumatism in my left knee.” ’
Pooley yawned. Along the bar from him huddled in their usual conspiratorial poses were Brentford’s two resident jobbing builders, Hairy Dave and Jungle John, so named for their remarkably profuse outcroppings of cerebral hair. The twin brothers were discussing what seemed to be a most complex set of plans which they had laid out before them on the bar top.
‘I don’t think I can quite understand all this,’ said Dave.
‘It’s a poser for certain,’ his brother replied.
‘I can’t see why he wants the altar to be so large.’
‘I can’t see why there aren’t to be any pews.’
‘Nor an organ.’
‘Seems a funny kind of a chapel to me.’
Pooley listened with interest; surely no-one in the neighbourhood could be insane enough to commission those two notorious cowboys to build a chapel?
Hairy Dave said, ‘I can’t see why the plans should be written in Latin.’
‘Oh,’ said his brother, ‘it’s Latin is it? I thought it was trigonometry.’
Pooley could contain his curiosity no longer, and turned to the two master builders. ‘Hello lads, how’s business?’ he asked.
John snatched the plan from the bar top and crumpled it into his jacket. ‘Ah, oh––’ said his brother, ‘good day Jim and how is yourself?’
‘For truth,’ Pooley replied, ‘I am not a well man. Recently I have been party to events which have seriously damaged my health. But let us not talk of me, how is business? I hear that you are on the up and up, won a large contract I heard.’
The two brothers stared at each other and then at Pooley. ‘Not us,’ said one. ‘Haven’t had a bite in weeks,’ said the other.
‘My, my,’ said Jim, ‘my informant was certain that you had a big one up your sleeve, something of an ecclesiastical nature I think.’
John clutched the plan to his bosom. ‘Haven’t had a bite in weeks,’ his brother reiterated. ‘Been very quiet of late.’
Hairy Dave shook his head, showering Pooley with dandruff. Jungle John did the same.
Neville stormed up the bar. ‘Less of that you two,’ said the part-time barman, ‘I’ve warned you before about contaminating my cheese rolls.’
‘Sorry Neville,’ said the brothers in unison, and rising from their seats they left the bar, leaving their drinks untouched.
‘Most strange,’ said Pooley. ‘Most astonishing.’
‘Those two seem very thick together lately,’ said Neville. ‘It seems that almost everybody in this damn pub is plotting something.’
‘Tell me Neville,’ said Jim, ‘did you ever see any more of our mystery tramp?’
‘Thankfully no,’ said the part-time barman, ‘and with this canal business taking up everybody’s attention, let’s hope that no more will ever be said about him.’
Pooley shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be too certain of that,’ he said doubtfully.
Captain Carson stood upon the canal bridge staring down into the mud and idly casting his eyes along the bank to where an official-looking Mr Omally, dressed in a crested cap and jaunty blazer, led a group of Swedish students along the rutted track towards the wood yard. The Captain’s loathing for tourists almost overshadowed that which he felt for the figure standing calmly at his side, hands in pockets and smoking seaman’s shag in one of the Captain’s favourite pipes. The figure was no longer distinguishable as the wretched and ill-clad monstrosity which had cast an evil shadow across his porch but two short weeks ago. Cleanly-shaven and smelling of Brylcreem, the figure was dressed in a blue roll-neck sweater and a pair of the Captain’s best khaki trousers, a yachting cap and a pair of sailing shoes.
The tramp had become a kind of witches’ familiar to the Captain, haunting his dreams and filling his waking hours with dread. Somehow, and the Captain was at a loss to explain how, the tramp had now permanently installed himself at the Mission. During meals he sat in the Captain’s chair whilst the Captain was obliged to eat in the kitchen. No matter which way the Captain turned the tramp was always there, reclining upon the porch, smoking his cigarettes, lounging in the cosiest fireside chair, sipping rum. He had tricked the Captain, again by means that the Captain was at a loss to understand, out of his chair, his tobacco, his food, drink and finally out of his bed.
The tramp sucked deeply upon the Captain’s briar and blew out a stream of multi-coloured smoke. ‘There would seem to be unusual forces at work in this neighbourhood,’ he observed.
The Captain surveyed his unwelcome guest with ill-concealed hatred. ‘There would indeed,’ he replied.
Somehow deep down in the lowest depths of his loathing for the tramp a strange and grudging respect was beginning to stir. The Captain could, again, not fully account for these feelings, but now, clean-shaven and well dressed as he was, the tramp seemed to exude a definite air of authority. Possibly of nobility. It was inexplicable. The aura of evil which surrounded him was almost palpable and the Captain seemed to sense his approach at all times; a kind of darkness travelled with the red-eyed man, a funereal coldness. The Captain shuddered.
‘Cold?’ said the tramp. ‘We’d best be going back then, don’t want you coming down with any summer colds now, do we?’
The Captain followed the tramp back towards the Mission with doglike obedience. As the tramp strode on ahead of him the Captain watched the broad shoulders swing to and fro in a perfect rhythm. Surely the tramp had grown, surely his bearing was prouder, finer than before.
No wonder, all the food he eats, thought the Captain. But who was he? His age was indeterminate; he could be anything between twenty and fifty. There was a vagueness about his features which eluded definition. The Captain had gone to great lengths to draw some information from him regarding his name, family and background, but the tramp was infuriatingly evasive. He had made only one statement upon these matters and this was, ‘There are five here that know my name and when they speak it, all shall know.’ As to who these five were, the Captain was unable to guess. Possibly the tramp alluded to five of the fictional names he had quoted from the Mission’s yearly reports.
The tramp turned into the Mission, which he opened with his own key. The Captain followed meekly; the tramp was wearing down his resistance to a point that he no longer questioned any of his actions.
‘I wish to speak to you upon a delicate matter,’ said the tramp suddenly. ‘It is a matter which affects both our futures and one which I know lies heavily upon your soul.’ The Captain raised a bristling eyebrow. ‘Possibly you will wish to open the reserve bottle of rum you keep in the locked cupboard beneath the stairs in order to fortify yo
urself for what I am about to say.’
The Captain humbly obeyed. The two seated themselves upon either side of the Captain’s table and two large tots of rum were poured.
‘It has come to my notice,’ said the tramp, ‘that there is one not far from here who would do us harm.’
The Captain’s face showed no expression but his mind paid silent homage to anyone who would wish ill upon his guest.
‘One Brian Crowley,’ said the tramp. The Captain started up in astonishment. ‘It has come to my notice,’ the tramp continued, ‘that this man harbours the desire to close down this Mission and to dismiss you, my honourable host, without thanks or pension. You who have done so much for the poor and needy, you who have dedicated your life to the unfortunate.’ The Captain shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘There is, I understand, a conspiracy between this Crowley,’ again he spoke the hated name, ‘and a certain Councillor Wormwood, to demolish this Mission in order to extend the Butts Car Park.’
The Captain bit upon his lip. So that was their intention was it? How the tramp could have come by this intelligence was, of course, beyond any conjecture, but the Captain hung upon his every word. ‘I have given the matter much thought,’ he told the tramp. ‘Night after night I have lain cursing the very name of Crowley and racking my brain for a solution, but none have I found.’
‘I think that one might be relatively close at hand,’ said the tramp, ‘in fact, I feel its warm breath upon my neck even now.’ The Captain poured two more large tots of rum. ‘We shall invite these two individuals to dinner,’ said the tramp.
The Captain bent double in a fit of frenzied coughing. ‘Calm yourself,’ said the tramp.
‘I fear,’ said the Captain, ‘that the breath you feel upon your neck is one of severe halitosis.’
The tramp’s face was without expression, he drank down his tot of rum and watched the Captain, his eyes unblinking, two drops of blood upon colourless orbs. ‘Thursday night would be ideal,’ said the tramp.
‘But what if they won’t come. After all, Crowley hates me and Wormwood will never want to expose himself in any way.’
‘They will come,’ said the tramp, ‘and I think I can promise you a most entertaining evening.’ His ghastly eyes glittered with a fierce luminosity and the Captain tossed back his rum with a quivering hand.
Brian Crowley held up the gilt-edged invitation card to the sunlight. It presented a most extraordinary appearance, almost transparent and clearly wrought of the finest vellum. Never for one moment would he have attributed such style, taste or elegance to the old sea captain. The edging of the card had more the look of being worked in gold leaf than sprayed in the gilded paint of the printer’s shop. The typeface was of a design that Brian did not recognize, its finely drawn serifs and cunning arabesques seeming of almost Islamic origin. And the smell of it, something stirred within him, some recollection from his past. It was the smell of incense, church incense. He had smelt it many times before, as a choirboy at St Mary’s, that was it, church incense.
While Brian’s romantic imagination ran in luminous spirals about the card the callous side to his nature gloated, for the card which had flopped through his burnished letterbox to land with the many plain brown wrappers upon the purple shag-pile bore an inscription which made his heart leap for joy.
YOU ARE FORMALLY INVITED
TO A RECEPTION & BANQUET
ON THURSDAY 15TH JUNE
AT THE SEAMAN’S MISSION, BRENTFORD
IN CELEBRATION OF THAT HONORABLE
ESTABLISHMENT’S CENTENARY YEAR
AND ALSO TO HONOUR
CAPTAIN HORATIO B. CARSON
UPON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF HIS
RETIREMENT
Black Tie R.S.V.P.
7.30 p.m. for 8.00 p.m. Admission by this card only
Brian sighed deeply and pressed the scented card to his lips. Things could not have been better, the Captain to announce his retirement! He had not realized that it was the Mission’s Centenary Year, but it was clear that for the sake of appearances he must attend. The rest of the Committee would be there and his absence would not go unnoticed.
He would R.S.V.P. this very morning. At last the wheels of fortune were beginning to turn to his advantage. He could almost smell the delicious odours of Mario’s cooking.
10
As Monday turned into Tuesday and Tuesday did what was expected of it the patrons of the Flying Swan grew increasingly uneasy. Strange changes were taking place amid the timeless decor of the saloon bar. A grotesquely moth-eaten bison’s head had materialized above the counter and traces of sawdust had begun to appear about the floor. A large painting of a rotund and pinkly powdered female, clad only in the scantiest of ostrich-feather boas and an enticing if tobacco-stained smile, had been hung lopsidedly over the dartboard. ‘A temporary inconvenience,’ Neville assured the irate dart-players. ‘Hold on thar pardners.’ But the casters of the feathered flight sought their amusements elsewhere at Jack Lane’s or the New Inn.
‘Son of a gun,’ said Jim Pooley.
It was John Omally, a man who looked upon himself, no matter how ironically, as a guardian of the neighbourhood’s morals, who was the first to notice the new selection which had found its way into the disabled jukebox. ‘The Wheel of the Wagon is Broken?’ he said suddenly, his coarse accent cutting through the part-time barman’s thoughts like a surgeon’s scalpel. ‘A Four-Legged Friend?’
Neville hung his head in shame. ‘It is regrettable,’ said he, ‘but the brewery feel it necessary to alter the selection on that thing to keep in pace with what they think to be the vogue.’
‘Come on now,’ said Omally, ‘surely it is the brewery who are dictating this particular vogue with their horrendous plans for a Western Barbeque and all its attendant horrors.’
‘Don’t forget the extension and the cheap drink,’ Neville reminded his Irish customer.
Omally cocked his head thoughtfully to one side. ‘It is a poor consolation for the ghastly transfiguration currently taking place in this establishment, I am thinking.’
Jim agreed. ‘To think I’d see the day when three of the Swan’s finest arrowmen defect to Jack Lane’s.’
Neville chewed upon his lip and went back to polishing the glasses.
‘I see you are still sporting your official guide’s cap,’ said Pooley suddenly.
Omally smiled and reverently removed the thing, turning it between his fingers. ‘You would not believe the business I am doing along that stretch of dried-up canal.’
Jim shook his head. ‘Although to the average man the disappearance of a canal must seem an extraordinary thing, I frankly fail to see what pleasure can be derived from paying out good money to wander up and down the bank peering into the mud. By God, I was down that way myself earlier and the smell of it is no pleasant treat to the nostrils.’
‘I have devised a most fascinating programme,’ the Irishman said, ‘wherein I inform the visitors as to the many varied and bizarre legends associated with that stretch of canal.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Jim.
‘We visit the very spot where Caesar encamped prior to his march upon Chiswick.’
‘Really?’
‘The place where the ghost of Little Nellie Tattersall, who cast away her earthly shell into the murky depths one dark and wintry Victorian night, still calls her tragic cry.’
‘Calls her tragic cry?’
‘And to the site of the famous Ripper murder of 1889. ‘It’s a highly educational tour.’
‘And they believe all this drivel?’
‘Whether they believe it or not is unimportant. At the current rate of business I may well shortly be having to employ an assistant to deal with the parties that are forced to queue for several hours at a stretch. There are more of them every day. There are many pennies to be made in this game,’ the Irishman said, flamboyantly ordering two pints.
Pooley peered round at the crowds which swelled the Swan. Certainly they were a strange breed
, with uniformly blank expressions and a kind of colourless aura surrounding them. These were the faces which one saw jammed into a tight crowd surrounding an accident victim or one fallen in a fight. Ambulance men have to force past them and little short of outright violence will budge them an inch.
Old Pete entered the bar, his half terrier close upon his heel. ‘There’s a coachload of Japs out there asking for the guide,’ he told Omally.
‘Duty calls,’ said John, leaping to his feet and thrusting his official cap on his head, ‘I shall see you anon.’
Jim bid his companion farewell and with a satisfied smile settled down to tackle the two untouched pints.
‘That will be ten and six please,’ said Neville the part-time barman.
‘Damn and blast,’ said Jim Pooley.
Norman threw the door bolt and turned over the sign which informed customers that he was ‘Closed Even for the Sale of Rubber Bondage Monthly’. Rubbing his hands together he strode across the shop and disappeared through the door behind the counter. The small kitchenette-cum-living-room at the rear had been allowed of late to run somewhat to seed. The sink was filled by a crazy mountain of food-besmirched crockery now in a state long beyond reclamation. Cigarette ends spotted the linoleum like the pock-marks of some tropical disease and great piles of newspapers, fine art publications and scientific journals were stacked into every available corner.
‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said. Reaching to the back door he lifted down and donned a leather apron, welder’s goggles and a pair of rubber gloves. ‘And now, the end is near . . . And so, I face the final curtain.’ With a grandiloquent gesture he crossed the room and flung aside a ragged strip of cloth which curtained a corner.
There, lit by the kitchenette’s naked light bulb and glowing like a rare pearl torn from its oyster shell, hung what must surely have been one of the most extraordinary suits of clothes ever viewed by mortal man. It was a stunning salmon-pink, and tailored from the best quality PVC. Its body and sleeves glittered with rhinestones and sequins worked into patterns roughly suggestive of Indian headwear and western horsemen. The trousers were similarly ornamented and ended in massive bell-bottoms edged with braid and long golden tassles.
The Antipope (The Brentford Trilogy Book 1) Page 9
