Robert Rankin - The Antipope

“The water is cold,” said the Captain, dumbfounded.

“A trick, no more. About the room?”

“The scorpions!”

The tramp said, “I don’t think we need worry about the scorpions. I have here in my pocket a trained cobra that will easily seek out any scorpions lounging about.”

“Hold there,” said the Captain. “That surely will not be necessary. I think that the warm sun may well have drawn any errant insects beyond the bounds of the Mission.”

“That is good to hear,” said the tramp. “Now, about the room?”

“This room is vacant.” The Captain swung open a door to reveal a neatly dressed cubicle. “It is sad that it carries such a dreadful reputation.”

“Indeed?” The tramp prodded the bed and turned back the woollen coverlet.

“Yes, no soul has ever stayed a full night in it, none reveal what horrors take hold of them, but of those who attempted to remain, one committed suicide and three more are even now residents at St Bernard’s Asylum, hopeless lunatics.”

“Indeed?” The tramp sat down upon the bed and bounced soundlessly upon the steady springs.

“Gibbering they were,” said the Captain. “I have sailed the seven seas and seen sights that would blast the sanity from a lesser man but I can tell you I was shaken when I saw the looks upon the faces of those unlucky fellows.”

The tramp shook his head slowly. “My word,” was all he would say. The Captain had an uneasy feeling that Brian Crowley had a hand in this. “The hospitality of the Mission is well known,” said the tramp. “Only last week I bumped into Alfredo Beranti and Roger Kilharric both joyfully extolling the virtues of your beneficient establishment.”

The Captain scratched at his head. The names seemed strangely familiar. “And Dennis Cunningham,” the tramp continued, “forever praising the haute-cuisine.” The Captain became suddenly weak about the knees. He knew those names well enough, they were three of the cast of imaginary tramps with which he peopled the pages of his yearly accounts.

“And Old Wainwright McCarthy,” the tramp said, “and…”

“No, no,” screamed the Captain in an unnatural voice, “enough, enough!”

“What time is dinner to be served?”

“Dinner?”

“Knobby Giltrap spoke highly of the shepherd’s pie.”

“Six o’clock,” said the Captain.

“A little early, perhaps?”

“Seven then,” said the Captain, “or eight if you please.”

“Seven will be fine,” smiled the tramp. “Now I think I shall take a brief nap. Pray awaken me at six thirty.”

With that the Captain was ushered from the cubicle and out into the corridor, where he stood in the semi-darkness chewing upon the stem of his pipe, his breath coming and going in rapid grunts.

“And don’t over-season my veg,” came a voice through the panelled cubicle door.

The tramp sat back in the Captain’s chair and eased open the lower buttons of his waistcoat. “Very palatable,” said he.

The Captain had watched with set features whilst the tramp devoured two bowls of soup, all the shepherd’s pie, a plate of potatoes, two double helpings of peas, a bowl of custard and a large slice of chocolate gateau.

“Is there anything to follow?” asked the tramp politely.

“To follow?”

“Well, brandy, a cigar, or even a fill for my pipe?”

The Captain rose to his feet pulling away the napkin from his roll neck. “Now see here!” he roared.

“Gaffer Tim Garney was telling me of your generosity with the navy plug?”

The Captain flung the tramp his tobacco pouch. “Shag,” said he, slumping into a chair.

“Shag then, my thanks again.” The tramp took to filling his pipe, his glittering eyes wandering towards the Captain’s brandy bottle.

“I expect you’ll be wanting to make an early start tomorrow?” said the Captain.

The tramp said, “Excuse me?”

“Well,” the Captain replied, “I know you fellows, can’t keep you cooped up under a roof for very long. Life of freedom eh, knights of the road, the sky above, the earth below?”

The tramp scratched his head, raising small clouds of blue dust. “There I am afraid you are mistaken. Please do not construe from my appearance that I incline towards the life of the casual wanderer. On the contrary, my every movement is guided towards inevitable consequence. I follow my kharma as all must.”

“Indeed?” said the Captain. “Well, far be it from me to hinder you in your search for the ultimate truth.”

“I feel that our paths have not crossed out of idle chance,” said the tramp, “in fact, I will go so far as to say that destiny has pointed me to your door with a straight and unwavering digit.”

“Possibly this same destiny will point you in yet another direction tomorrow?”

“I doubt that,” said the tramp with a note of finality. “Now, about this brandy?”

The Captain rose early the next morning. He had lain sleeplessly upon his bunk chewing at his knuckles and muttering nautical curses into the early hours. The ghastly truth that he was no longer alone beneath the Mission roof gnawed at his hermitical soul like a rat at a leper’s foot. By dawn he had run himself dry of profanity and fallen into an uneasy sleep.

Now he stalked to and fro along the verandah emitting thick clouds of seaman’s shag and grumbling to himself. Somehow he must rid himself of this unwelcome visitor, but if Brian Crowley was at the bottom of it he must be on his guard. He would just have to treat the hideous stranger with politeness while hinting with firm conviction that the traveller might fare better in distant and sunnier climes. He looked up at the sky and was appalled to see that it was likely to be another beautiful day.

Suddenly a voice at his elbow said, “I see you like to make an early start to the day, Captain.”

Colour drained from the Captain’s face and he dropped his tobacco pouch, spilling its contents to the verandah floor. “Must you always come damn well creeping up?” he coughed as he took a great gust of smoke up his nostrils.

“I must say that I slept very well,” said the tramp. “What is on the menu for breakfast?”

The Captain folded his brow into a look of intense perplexity. “You seem exceedingly spry for a man who demolished an entire bottle of brandy and better part of an ounce of shag in a single evening.”

“And very nice too,” said the tramp. “Now as to breakfast?”

“I make it a rule never to over-eat at this time of the day,” the Captain explained. “Makes a man sluggish, impairs the limbs, corrodes the arteries. A simple bowl of bran and a glass of salt water serve as my early morning repast.”

“I should kindly prefer double eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, mushrooms, tomato and a fried slice. Possibly, as I have no wish to lessen your resolve, you would prefer to eat alone,” said the tramp.

The Captain pulled upon his lower lip. “Possibly that would be impolite of me, it is always wise to eat well before travel.” Here he looked at the tramp from the corner of his eye. “Thus we shall have a hearty meal of it before your departure.”

The tramp smiled. “Have no fear upon that account, I have no intention of moving on within the foreseeable future.”

The Captain frowned furiously and stalked away to the kitchen. The tramp scooped up the fallen pouch and proceeded to refill his pipe.

As founder and sole member of the Brentford and West London Hollow Earth Society Soap Distant thought it about time to put matters firmly into perspective. “There have been many words spoken and much local controversy over the arrival of a certain extraordinary being upon our streets of late,” he announced to the Saturday lunchtime crowd in the Swan’s saloon bar.