Robert Rankin - The Antipope

Neville was comparatively unscathed. When he felt it safe he raised his noble head above the counter to peer through shaking fingers at the desolation that had been his pride and joy.

The Swan was wreathed in smoke, but what Neville could see of the basic structure appeared to be intact. As for the cowboy trapping and the pub furniture, little remained that could by any stretch of the imagination be called serviceable. The tables and chairs had joined the patrons in making a rapid move towards the front door, but unlike those lucky personnel their desperate bid for escape had been halted by the front wall, where they lay heaped like the barricades of revolutionary Paris. Sawdust filled the air like a woody snowstorm, and in the middle of the floor, lacking most of his clothes but still bearing upon his head the charred remnants of a chefs hat, lay Young Master Robert. Neville patted away the sawdust from his shoulders and found to his amazement one lone optic full of whisky. This indeed had become a night he would long remember.

The now emboldened cowboys had risen from their shelters and were beating upon the Swan’s door. Faces appeared at the glassless windows and inane cries of “Are you all right?” and “Is anybody there?” filled the smoky air.

Neville downed his scotch and climbed over the bar to inspect the fallen figure of the Young Master, who was showing some signs of life. The patrons finally broke into the bar and came to a crowded and silent standstill about the prone figure.

“He’s all right, ain’t he?” said Mandy. “I mean he’s still breathing, ain’t he?” Neville nodded. “Sandra’s phoned for an ambulance and the fire brigade.”

A great dark mushroom cloud hung over the Flying Swan. The first brigade, who arrived in record time, on hearing that it was a pub on fire, contented themselves with half-heartedly squirting an extinguisher over the blackened yard and salvaging what unbroken bottles of drink remained for immediate consumption. The ambulance driver asked sarcastically whether Neville wanted his home number in case of further calamities that evening.

When the appliances had finally departed, dramatically ringing their bells in the hope of waking any local residents who had slept through the blast, a grim and sorry silence descended upon the Flying Swan. The cowboys drifted away like western ghosts and the onlookers who had been awakened by the excitement switched out their lights and returned to their beds.

Neville, Pooley and John Omally were all who remained behind. Neville had brought down a couple of bottles of scotch from the private stock in his wardrobe. The three sat where they could in the ruined bar sipping at their drinks and contemplating the destruction.

“Heads will roll for this,” sighed Neville, “mine in particular.”

Omally nodded thoughtfully. “Still,” he said, “at least we’ll get that new bog roof now.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Neville.

“It was a good old do though, wasn’t it,” said, Jim. “I don’t suppose the brewery would be thinking of following it up at all, I mean maybe Hawaiian Night or a Merrie England festival or something?”

Neville grinned painfully. “Somehow I doubt it.”

“You must sue that Hairy Dave,” John suggested. “Him and his hirsute brother are a danger to life and limb.”

Neville opened the second bottle of scotch. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I don’t recall any specifications for materials coming with that plan from the brewery.”

“Aha!” said John. “Then all may not be lost.”

“The poor old Swan,” said Pooley, “what a tragedy.”

“We’ve had fine times here,” said Omally.

“They’ll ruin it you know,” said Neville, “the brewery, probably turn it into a discotheque or a steak house or something. There’s nothing they like better than getting their hands on a piece of England’s heritage and thoroughly crucifying it. It’ll be fizzy beer and chicken in a basket, you wait and see.”

“We’ll get up a petition,” said Jim. “Brentonians won’t stand for any of that.”

“Won’t they though?” Neville nodded towards the broken front windows. “Look there and what do you see?”

“Nothing, the lights of the flatblocks that’s all.”

“Yes, the flatblocks. Fifteen years ago there was a whole community there, small pubs, corner shops, the pottery, streets full of families that all knew each other.”

Jim nodded sadly. “All gone now,” said he. The three men sipped silently at their drinks as the air grew heavy with nostalgic reminiscence.

Omally, always the realist, said, “There’s little use in sobbing about the good old days. When my family came over from the old country we moved in to one of them little dens where the flats now stand. I can remember them sure enough. No hot water, no bath, outside toilet that froze in the winter, rats, bedbugs, the children coughing with diptheria, great old times they were. I’ll tell you I cheered when the bulldozer pushed our old house down. Bloody good riddance I said.”

Jim smiled slightly. “And if I remember rightly the bailiffs were still chasing your lot six months after for five years’ back rent.”

Omally laughed heartily. “’Tis true,” said he, “’tis true enough, the daddy took the lot of them back home then, sure he did. ‘Back to the land John,’ said he, ‘there’s a fortune to be made in the land.’ Mad as a hatter the daddy.”

“Is he still alive your da?” said Neville.

“Oh yes, he’s that all right. I read not so long ago in the Dublin press of an old fella at eighty-six being named in a paternity suit by a sixteen-year-old convent girl, that would be the daddy right enough.”

“The Omallys are notable womanizers, that is for certain,” said Jim. “There is many a well-pleased widow woman hereabouts who will testify to that.”

Omally smiled his winning smile. “I would thank you to keep your indiscreet remarks to yourself, Jim Pooley,” said he. “I am a man of the highest principles.”

“Ha,” said Jim as he recalled the spectacle of Omally’s moonlit bum going about its hydraulic motions in Archroy’s marriage bed. “You are an unprincipled bounder, but I am proud to call you friend.”

“You are both good men,” said Neville, a tear unexpectedly forming in his good eye. “Friendship is a wonderful thing. Whatever the future holds for the Swan, I want you to know that it has always been my pleasure to serve you.”

“Come now,” said Jim, patting the part-time barman on the shoulder. “There are great days ahead, of this I am certain.”

“Forgive me this sentiment,” said Neville, “I am drunk.”

“Me also,” said John.

“I am still able to stand and must thus confess my sobriety,” said Jim, refilling his glass with the last of the whisky.

Some time later two thoroughly drunken Lone Rangers, now somewhat shabby and lacking in hats and masks, were to be found wandering in the direction of the St Mary’s allotment. “I have a little crop upon my pastures which you will find most satisfying,” the Irish Ranger told his staggering compadre. Jim was desperately hoping that the Irishman was not alluding to some supposed narcotic sproutings from the purloined bean.

The two arrived at the iron gate and stood before that rusting edifice leaning upon one another for support. “I’ve done a little deal,” grinned Omally, pulling at his lower eyelid in an obscene manner and staggering forward into the silent allotment. It was another fine moonlit night and the old selenic disc sailed above in a cloudless sky. Long jagged shadows cast by bean poles, abandoned wheelbarrows and heavily padlocked allotment sheds etched stark patterns across the strangely whitened ground.