Robert Rankin - The Antipope

Pooley whistled. “The Great Mystery, eh?”

Soap threw the bolt, made several inexplicable clicking noises with what seemed to be switches and suddenly the room was ablaze with light.

“My God,” said Omally in a voice several octaves higher than usual. As the two stood blinking in the brightness Soap studied their faces with something approaching glee. These were the first mortals other than himself ever to see his masterwork and their awe and bewilderment were music to his eyes. “What do you think then?”

Omally was speechless. Pooley just said, “By the gods!”

The wall dividing the front room from the back parlour had been removed along with all the floorboards and joists on the ground floor. The section of flooring on which the three now stood was nothing more than the head of a staircase which led down and down into an enormous cavern of great depth which had been excavated obviously with elaborate care and over a long period of time. A ladder led up to the bedroom, the staircase having been long ago removed.

Omally stared down into the blackness of the mighty pit which yawned below him. “Where does it go to?” he asked.

“Down,” said Soap. “Always down but also around and about.”

“I must be going now,” said Pooley, “must be up and making an early start, lots to do.”

“You’ve seen nothing yet,” said Soap, “this is only the entrance.”

Omally was shaking his head in wonder. “You dug this then?”

“No, not just me.” Soap laughed disturbingly. “My great-grandfather began it shortly after the house was built, the lot fell then to my grandfather and down the line to me, last of the Distants, and guardian of the Great Mystery.”

“It’s madness,” said Omally, “the whole street will collapse.”

Soap laughed again. “No, never, my family have the know as it were, they worked upon the Thames tunnel back in the days of Brunei.”

“But that collapsed.”

“Never, that’s what the authorities said. The truth was that the navigators who dug that ill-fated pit stumbled upon an entrance to the worlds beneath and the tunnel had to be closed hurriedly and an excuse found to please the public.”

“You mean your old ones actually met up with these folk below?”

“Certainly. Shall we go down then?” said Soap.

Pooley said, “I’ll wait here.”

“I invited you in for a drink and a drink you are going to have.”

“I think that I am no longer thirsty,” said Jim, “and after this, I think that I might take a vow of abstinence.”

“God,” said Omally, “don’t say such a thing even in jest.”

“Come on then,” said Soap, “I will lead the way, it is not far to the first chamber.”

“First chamber?”

“Oh, yes, the caverns lead down into the bowels of the earth and subsidiary tunnels reach out in all directions, some for several miles at a stretch.” Soap flicked several more switches and led the way down the long flight of steps which reached downward into the darkness. As they descended the way before them sprung into light and the pathway behind fell to darkness.

“Clever that, eh?” said Soap. “An invention of my greatgrandfather’s, don’t ask me how it works because I don’t know.”

“Must save some money on the electric bill,” said Jim.

“Electric bill?” Soap gave another of his hideous laughs which boomed along the corridors and down into the pit, returning in ghostly echoes back to them. “I’m tapped directly into the grid. I’ve never paid for gas or electric as long as I’ve lived.”

Jim shook his head in dismay. “This is unreal,” said he, “how can all this exist and nobody know about it? And what did you and your forefathers do with all the earth from these diggings?”

“Aha,” said Soap having another tap at his nose, “aha!”

At length they reached a vaulted chamber. Pooley later reckoned that it must have been about fifty yards in diameter but it was impossible to tell for certain as the lighting was only evident at whichever spot they stood.

“Now, about this wine,” Soap said. “The temperature here is ideal for hocks, border roses, Rhine wines, sweet sherry and growing mushrooms.”

From an enormous wine rack Soap withdrew a dusty-looking bottle and having no corkscrew readily at hand punched in the cork with his thumb. “Bottoms up,” he said taking an enormous swig. He passed the bottle to Omally. “Try it, it’s a fifty-year-old vintage.”

Omally took a small indecisive sip, smacked his lips a few times, took a great swig and then one very very large swig. “It is indeed good stuff,” said he, wiping his sleeve across his mouth and passing the bottle to Jim Pooley.

Jim, who had watched the Irishman’s performance with interest, needed no telling twice. He put the bottle to his lips and drew off a long and satisfying draught.

“Very shortly now,” said Soap, accepting the bottle from Pooley and finishing it off, “very shortly now contact will be made, I may be only inches away.”

Omally nodded, his eyes wandering over the wine rack. Soap pulled out another bottle and punched in the cork. “Feel free,” he said.

Omally felt free.

“I have all the ancient maps you see, my forebears knew the locations and they knew it was the work of several generations, but now I am there, the moment is close at hand, mankind stands poised upon the brink of the greatest of all discoveries, the new Golden Age, the dawn of the new tomorrow…”

Soap’s voice was rising in pitch. John Omally took another hasty pull upon the bottle and passed it hurriedly to Jim. “We had best get out of here old pal, I have a feeling I know what’s coming,” he whispered.

Soap was stalking about the cavern, arms raised, ranting at the top of his voice. Jim and John watched in stunned silence as the haunting light followed him from place to place, eerily illuminating his frantic motions. As he drew further from them his voice faded as if absorbed into the rock; his staccato movements and dramatic gestures lent to him the appearance of some bizarre mime artiste acting out an inexplicable saga beneath a travelling spotlight.

Soap lurched over to the wine rack and popped the cork from another bottle of wine. “Here,” he said, “here I’ll show you, the legacy of the Distants, I’ll show you.”

“We’ll take your word for it,” said Omally.

“We really must be making a move now,” Jim added in a convincing tone which concealed the fact that he was having great difficulty in controlling his bladder.

“No, no! You are here, the only ones, you must be present when the Portals are unlocked, you cannot be allowed to leave!”

“That is what I thought was coming,” muttered Omally.

“This way, this way!” With the wine bottle bobbing in his hand and the eerie light shining about him Soap made his way rapidly down a side corridor leaving Pooley and Omally in the darkness.

“I cannot remember by which entrance we came into this place,” said John.

“I have no idea as to that myself,” Jim replied, “and I am beginning to feel very poorly, vintage wine and Neville’s Large making a poor cocktail.”

“I fear we must follow him or stand alone in the darkness,” said John, “for the trick of light apparently works only to his account.” Jim wondered if magnetism might play some part in the situation. But now seemed a bad time for idle speculation, so he shrugged his shoulders in the darkness and the two set off to follow the glowworm figure of Soap Distant as it moved away in front of them.

“I estimate, although it is impossible to be certain, that we must be somewhere beneath the London Road,” said John.

“I had the same feeling myself,” Jim replied. “But I hope you realize and will record upon some tablet or graven plaque even though it be in my own memoriam that this whole thing is utterly fantastic and totally impossible.”