The Antipope (The Brentford Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert Rankin

  Omally held an empty wine-glass to the Captain’s lips. He turned it between his fingers then held it up to the light. ‘He’s stopped breathing,’ he said, ‘this man is dead.’

  ‘Get him out of here,’ screamed Neville, climbing over the counter, ‘I won’t have a stiff in my bar.’

  ‘Quick then,’ said Omally, ‘give me a hand to carry him out into the sun, maybe we can resuscitate him.’

  Omally grasped the Captain under the armpits and Neville made to lift up the slippered feet. What followed was even more bizarre than what had gone before. The old man would not move; it was as if he had been welded to the Saloon bar floor. Omally could not shift the old and crooked shoulders an inch, and Neville let out a sudden ‘Oh!’ and straightened up, holding his back.

  Several men stepped forward and attempted to shake and pull at the Captain, but he would not be moved, not one foot, one inch, one iota.

  ‘Do something,’ said Neville in a voice of terror, ‘I can’t have him standing there forever looking at me, he’ll go off in this heat, he’ll ruin my trade, it’s bad luck to have a stiff in the saloon bar.’

  Omally prodded at the Captain’s dressing-gown. ‘He appears to be freezing up,’ he said, ‘the material of his gown here is stiff as a board, you can’t even sway it.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Neville was beginning to panic. ‘He can’t stay here, get him out. Get him out!’

  Omally returned to the bar and took up his glass, while the crowd closed in about the Captain. ‘That is certainly the strangest thing I have ever seen,’ he said. ‘This might make you famous.’ Omally’s brain suddenly switched on. There was money in this, that was for sure. He swept back his glass of Large and made for the door, but the part-time barman had anticipated him and stood, knobkerry in hand, blocking the Irishman’s exit. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ said he.

  Omally began to wheedle. ‘Come on Nev,’ he said, ‘we can’t do anything for him now and we certainly can’t ignore him. You can’t just stick a bar cloth over his head and pretend he’s a pile of cheese sandwiches.’

  ‘No publicity,’ said Neville, fluttering his hands, ‘make me famous? This could ruin me. “Frozen Corpse in Saloon Bar Scandal”, I can see it all.’ (So could Omally, but he had phrased the headline a little better.) ‘They’ll say it was the beer, or that I poisoned him or God knows what else. The brewery will be down on me like a ton of red flettons, this is just the excuse they need.’

  Omally shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll say nothing, but that lot,’ he gestured over his shoulder, ‘I can’t vouch for them.’

  ‘Well don’t let them out, do something, stop them, get them away from him.’

  ‘Which would you like doing first?’

  ‘The last one.’

  ‘All right.’ Omally held his chin between thumb and forefinger, thought for a moment. ‘Just back me up on whatever I say.’ He took a deep breath and strode into the midst of the throng. ‘Nobody touch him,’ he shouted, ‘for God’s sake don’t touch him.’ The fingers which were inquisitively prodding the Captain withdrew in a hurried rush. ‘Who’s touched him?’ said Omally in alarm. ‘Which one of you?’

  There was a lot of shuffling and murmuring. ‘We’ve all touched him,’ said someone in a guilty voice.

  ‘Oh no!’ Omally put his hand to his forehead in a gesture of vast despair.

  ‘What’s he got?’ someone said. ‘Out with it, Omally.’

  Omally supported himself on the counter and said gravely, ‘It’s Reekie’s Syndrome . . . the Frozen Death!’

  Neville nodded soberly. ‘I’ve heard of it,’ he said. ‘When I was serving in Burma a fellow caught it, horrible end.’

  Someone in the crowd, for there is always one, said, ‘That’s right, a mate of mine had it.’

  Omally struck the counter with his fist. ‘What a fool!’ he said. ‘What a fool, if only I had recognized it sooner.’

  ‘It’s contagious then?’ somebody asked.

  ‘Contagious?’ Omally gave a stage laugh. ‘Contagious . . . worse than the Black Death. We’ll have to go into quarantine. Bar the door Neville.’

  Neville strode to the door and threw the brass bolts.

  ‘But how long?’ asked a patron whose wife had the dinner on.

  Omally looked at Neville. ‘Two days?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty-four hours,’ said Neville. ‘Twelve if the weather keeps up.’

  ‘Still,’ Omally grinned, ‘you’ve got to look on the bright side. He’s certainly keeping the bar cool, like having the fridge door open.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Neville unenthusiastically, ‘better put up a sign in the window, “The Flying Swan Welcomes You, Relax in the Corpse-Cool Atmosphere of the Saloon Bar”.’

  Omally examined the tip of his prodding finger. It had a nasty blister on it which the Irishman recognized as frostbite. ‘If he gets much colder, we should be able to smash him up with a hammer and sweep the pieces into the street.’

  The Swan’s patrons, some ten in all, who with the addition of Omally, Norman, who had hardly spoken a word since he entered the bar, and Neville, made up a most undesirable figure, were beginning to press themselves against the walls and into obscure corners. Most were examining their fingers and blowing upon them, some had already begun to shiver. Omally knew how easily mass hysteria can begin and he wondered now whether he had been wise in his yarn-spinning. But what had happened to the Captain? Clearly this was no natural ailment, it had to be the work of the villain calling himself Pope Alexander VI. Obviously his power could extend itself over a considerable distance.

  Neville had fetched a white tablecloth and covered the Captain with it. There he stood in the very middle of the bar like some dummy in a store window awaiting a change of clothes. ‘If you’d let me throw him out none of us would be in this mess,’ said Neville.

  Omally rattled his glass on the bar. ‘I shall have to apply myself to this matter, I am sure that in some way we can save the situation, it is a thirsty business but.’

  Neville snatched away the empty glass and refilled it. ‘If you can get me out of this,’ he said, ‘I might be amenable to extending some credit to you in the future.’

  Omally raised his swarthy eyebrows. ‘I will give this matter my undivided attention,’ said he, retiring to a side table.

  Time passed. The corpse, for all his unwelcome presence, did add a pleasantly soothing coolness to the atmosphere within the bar, not that anyone appreciated it. By closing time at three the bar had become perilously silent. At intervals one or two of the quarantined patrons would come to the bar, taking great care to avoid the Captain, and order the drinks which they felt were their basic human right. Neville, though a man greatly averse to after-hours drinking, could do little but accede to their demands.

  There were a few vain attempts to get a bit of community singing going but Neville nipped that in the bud for fear of beat-wandering policemen. Two stalwarts began a game of darts. There had been a few movements towards the pub telephone, but Neville had vetoed the use of that instrument on the grounds that careless talk costs lives. ‘Have you come up with anything yet, John?’ he asked, bringing the Irishman another pint.

  ‘I am wondering whether we might saw out the section of floor on which he is standing and despatch him into the cellar, at least then if we can’t get rid of him he will be out of the way, and if he remains preserved indefinitely in his icy cocoon he will do wonders for your reserve stock.’

  Neville shook his head. ‘Absolutely not, I have no wish to confront him every time I go down to change a barrel.’

  ‘All right, it was just a suggestion.’

  By five o’clock the mob, by now extremely drunk and ravenously hungry, began to grow a little surly. There were murmurings that the whole business was a put-up job and that Omally and Neville were in cahoots to con the punters out of their hard-earned pennies. In the corner, a couple of ex-Colditz types were forming an escape committee.

  Then
, a little after six, one of the prisoners went over the wall. He had been out in the gents for more than his allotted two minutes, and when Neville went to investigate, there was no sign of him. ‘Legged it across the bog roof,’ the part-time barman said breathlessly as he returned to the saloon, ‘dropped down into the alley and away.’

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Omally.

  ‘Reg Wattis from the Co-op.’

  ‘Don’t worry, then.’

  ‘Don’t worry? You must be joking.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Omally, ‘I know his wife and if he tries to give her any excuses about frozen corpses in the Flying Swan he will get very short shrift from that good woman. It occurs to me that we might let them escape. If they talk nobody will believe them anyway.’

  ‘They can always come back here to prove it.’

  ‘Not much chance of that, is there?’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I suggest that you and I withdraw to your rooms and gave them an opportunity to make their getaways.’

  ‘I hope you know what you are doing.’ Neville struck the bar counter with his knobkerry. ‘Omally and I have some pressing business upstairs,’ he announced. ‘We will not be long and I am putting you all on your honour not to leave.’ Conversation ceased and the eyes of the patrons flickered from Omally to Neville and on to the bolted door and back to Neville again. ‘We swear,’ they said amid a flurry of heart-crossing and scoutish saluting.

  Omally beckoned to Norman. ‘You might as well come too, you overheard everything.’ The three men left the bar and trudged up the stairs to Neville’s bedroom.

  ‘So what now?’ asked the part-time barman.

  ‘We sit it out. Do you still keep that supply of scotch in your wardrobe?’

  Neville nodded wearily. ‘You don’t let much get by you, do you, John?’

  Below in the saloon bar there came the sudden sound of bolts being thrown, followed by a rush of scurrying footsteps. Neville, who had brought out his bottle, replaced the cap. ‘Well, we won’t be needing this now, will we?’

  Omally raised his eyebrows. ‘And why not?’

  ‘Well, they’ve gone, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, so?’

  ‘So, we go down and dispose of the Captain.’

  ‘Oh, and how do we do that?’

  Neville, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed, rose brandishing the whisky bottle. ‘So it’s treachery is it, Omally?’ he roared. ‘You had no intention of getting rid of him.’

  ‘Me? No.’ Omally wore a quizzical expression, mingled with outraged innocence. ‘There is nothing we can do, he is welded to the floor in a most unmovable manner. If I was a man with a leaning towards science fiction I would say that an alien force field surrounded him.’

  Neville waggled his bottle at Omally. ‘Don’t give me any of that rubbish, I demand that you act now, do something.’

  ‘If you will give me a minute or two to explain matters I would greatly appreciate it.’

  Neville took out his hunter. ‘Two minutes,’ said he, ‘then I waste this bottle over your head.’

  ‘I deplore such wastage,’ said John, ‘so I will endeavour to speak quickly.’

  ‘One minute fifty-three seconds,’ said Neville.

  John composed himself and said, ‘As we both observed what happened to the Captain I do not propose to lecture you upon the sheer inexplicable anomaly of it. It was clearly the work of no mortal man, nor was it any natural catastrophe, or at least none that I have ever heard of.’

  ‘It’s Reekie’s Syndrome,’ said Norman.

  ‘Shut up Norman,’ said Neville.

  ‘It was caused,’ said Omally, ‘I believe, to shut the Captain up. He was about to spill the beans over what was going on at the Mission and so he was silenced.’

  Neville scratched his Brylcreemed scalp. ‘All right,’ said he, ‘but what do we do about him, we can’t let him stay there indefinitely.’

  ‘No, and nor can they. Now, I have listened to certain propositions put forward by Professor Slocombe.’

  Neville nodded. ‘A good and honourable man.’

  ‘Exactly, and he believes that there has come amongst us of late an individual who can affect the laws of chance and probability to gain his own ends. This individual is presently ensconced in the Seamen’s Mission and calls himself Pope Alexander VI. I believe that he is to blame for what happened to the Captain, and I also believe that he cannot afford to be tied into it and will therefore arrange for the disposal of same.’

  ‘You went over your two minutes,’ said Neville, ‘but if all is as you say, it would go a long way towards explaining certain matters which have been puzzling me for some months now. Have I ever spoken to you of the sixth sense?’

  ‘Many times,’ said Omally, ‘many, many times, but if you wish to retell me then may I suggest that you do it over a glass or two of scotch?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And may I also suggest that we keep a watch on the road at all times?’

  ‘I will do it,’ said Norman, ‘for I have had little to say or do during this entire chapter.’

  Night fell. Almost at once the sky became a backcloth for a spectacular pyrotechnic exhibition of lightning. The lights of the saloon bar were extinguished and the frozen Captain stood ghostly and statuesque, covered by his linen cloth. Norman stood at Neville’s window staring off down the Ealing Road, and Omally drained the last of the scotch into his glass. Neville held his watch up to what light there was. A bright flash of lightning illuminated the dial. ‘It’s nearly midnight,’ he said. ‘How much longer?’

  Omally shrugged in the darkness.

  The Guinness clock struck a silent twelve below in the bar and in Neville’s room Norman said suddenly, ‘Look at that, what is it?’

  John and Neville joined him at the window.

  ‘What is it?’ said Neville. ‘I can’t make it out.’

  ‘Down by Jack Lane’s,’ said Norman, ‘you can see it coming towards us.’

  From the direction of the river, moving silently upon its eight wheels, came an enormous jet-black lorry. It resembled no vehicle that the three men had ever seen, for it bore no lights, nor did its lustreless bodywork reflect the street lamps which shone to either side of it. There was no hint of a windscreen nor cracks that might indicate doors or vents. It looked like a giant mould as it came to a standstill outside the Flying Swan.

  Omally craned his neck to look down upon it but the overhang of the gabled roof hid the mysterious vehicle from view. The familiar creak of the saloon bar door, however, informed the three men that someone had entered the bar. ‘Here,’ said Neville suddenly, ‘what are we doing? Whoever it is down there could be rifling the cash register.’ ‘Go down then,’ said Omally, ‘you tell them.’

  The part-time barman took a step towards the door then halted. ‘Best leave it, eh?’

  ‘I think it would be for the best,’ said Omally.

  The saloon bar door creaked again and after a brief pause Norman said from the window, ‘It’s moving off.’

  The three men watched as the hellish black lorry crept out once more into the road and disappeared over the railway bridge past the football ground.

  Together the three men descended the stairs. The bar was empty, lit only by the wan light from the street. The lightning had ceased its frenzied dance on the great truck’s arrival and the night had become once more clear and silent. In the centre of the floor lay the white linen table cloth. Neville flicked on the saloon bar lights.

  Norman picked up the table cloth. Holding it out before him he suddenly gave a cry of horror and dropped it to the floor. Omally stooped to retrieve it and held it to the light. Impressed upon the cloth was what appeared to be some kind of negative photographic image. It was clear and brown as a sepia print and it was the face of Captain Carson.

  ‘There,’ said Omally to the part-time barman, ‘now you’ve something to hang behind your bar. The Brentford Shroud . . .’


  19

  Omally lost little time in conveying news of the previous night’s events to Professor Slocombe. The old man sat behind his desk surrounded by a veritable Hadrian’s Wall of ancient books. ‘Fascinating,’ he said at length. ‘Fascinating although tragic. You brought with you the tablecloth, I trust?’

  ‘I thought it would be of interest.’

  ‘Very much so.’ The Professor accepted the bundle of white linen and spread it over his desk. In the glare of the brass desk lamp the Captain’s features stood out stark and haunting. ‘I would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.’

  ‘It takes a bit of getting used to.’

  The old Professor rolled up the tablecloth and returned it to Omally. ‘I would like to investigate this at a future date when I have more time upon my hands, but matters at present press urgently upon us.’

  ‘There have been further developments?’

  ‘Yes, many. News has reached me that our adversary is planning some kind of papal coronation in the near future, when I believe he will reach the very zenith of his powers. We must seek to destroy him before this moment comes. Afterwards I fear there will be little we can do to stop him.’

  ‘So how long do we have?’

  ‘A week, perhaps a little more.’

  Omally turned his face towards the French windows. ‘So,’ said he, ‘after all this waiting, the confrontation will be suddenly upon us. I do not relish it, I must admit. I hope you know what you are doing, Professor.’

  ‘I believe that I do John, never fear.’

  The door to the Seaman’s Mission was securely bolted. Great iron hasps had been affixed to its inner side and through these ran a metal rod the thickness of a broom handle, secured to the concrete floor by an enormous padlock. Within the confines of the Mission the air was still and icy cold. Although long shafts of sunlight penetrated the elaborate stained glass of the windows and fell in coloured lozenges upon the mosaic floor, they brought no warmth from the outer world. For no warmth whatever could penetrate these icy depths. Here was a tomb of utter darkness and utter cold. Something hovered in the frozen air, something to raise the small hairs upon the neck, something to chill the heart and numb the senses. And here a face moved from the impenetrable darkness into the light. It was rigid and pale as a corpse, a face cut from timeless marble. The nose aquiline, the nostrils flared, the mouth a cruel slit, and the eyes, set into that face, two hellish blood-red orbs of fire. The face traversed the stream of frozen sunlight and was gone once more into the gloom.