Robert Rankin - The Antipope

The night was still again, the lights of Sprite Street dimmed away and Pooley rose to his feet patting dirt from his tweeds. “John,” said he, “if you will excuse me I am now going home to my bed where I intend to remain for an indefinite period. I fear that the doings of this evening have forever destroyed my vitality and that I am a broken man.”

“Certainly this has been an evening I should prefer to forget,” said Omally. With that he put his arm about his companion’s shoulder and the two friends wandered away into the night.

It was indeed a mystery. The pressmen thrust their way through the crowds of baffled onlookers and peered disbelievingly down from the bridge to the muddied track of twisted bicycle frames, old tin cans and discarded pram wheels which spread away into the distance. How an entire one-mile stretch of canal from the river lock to that of the windscreen-wiper factory could simply have vanished overnight seemed beyond anybody’s conjecture.

“It couldn’t have gone out through the river lock,” an old bargee explained, “it is high water on the Thames and the river is six foot up the lock gates on that side.”

“And at the other end?”

The bargee gave his inquisitor a look of contempt. “What, travel uphill into the next lock do you mean?” The interviewer coloured up and sought business elsewhere.

Archroy, who was a great follower of Charles Fort, explained what had happened. “Teleportation,” said the lad. “The water has been teleported away by those in sore need of it, possibly inhabitants of a nearby sphere, most likely the moon.”

The pressmen, although ever-anxious to accept any solution as long as it was logical, newsworthy or simply sensational, seemed strangely diffident towards his claims for the existence of telekinetic lunar beams.

It was certainly a most extraordinary event however, one which would no doubt catapult Brentford once more into the national headlines, and at least bring good trade to the Flying Swan. Neville was going great guns behind the bar. The cash register rang musically and the no-sale sign bobbed up and down like a demented jack-in-the-box.

“And don’t forget,” said the part-time barman above the din, “Thursday night is Cowboy Night.”

Jammed into an obscure corner and huddled over his pint, Jim Pooley watched with loathing the fat backside of an alien pressman which filled his favourite bar stool. Omally edged through the crush with two pints of Large. “It was only after I got home that I remembered where I’d seen those crests before,” he explained as he wedged himself in beside Pooley. “They were the coat of arms of the Grand Junction Water Works, those doors must have been part of the floodgate system from old Brentford dock.” Pooley sucked upon his pint, his face a sullen mask of displeasure. “Then what of old Soap?”

A devilish smile crossed Omally’s face. “Gone, washed away.” His fingers made the appropriate motions. “So much for old Rigdenjyepo and the burrowers beneath, eh?”

Pooley hunched closer to his pint. “A pox on it all,” said he. “The Swan packed full of these idiots, old Soap flushed away round the proverbial S-bend and Cowboy Night looming up before us with about as much promise as the coming of Ragnorok!”

Omally grinned anew. “There are many pennies to be made from an event such as this; I myself have organized several tours of the vicinity for this afternoon at a pound a throw.”

Pooley shook his head in wonder. “You don’t waste a lot of time, do you?”

“Mustn’t let the grass grow under the old size nines.”

“Tell me, John,” said Jim, “how is it now that a man such as yourself who possesses such an amazing gift for the making of the well known ‘fast buck’ has not set himself up in business long ago and since retired upon the proceeds?”

“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?”

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.”