Robert Rankin - The Antipope

Omally’s ambling silhouette lurched on ahead and vanished down into the dip before his plot. Jim, who had fallen to the ground upon his companion’s sudden departure, climbed shakily to his feet, tightened his bandana against the crisp night air and stumbled after him.

When he reached Omally he found the Irishman upon all fours grubbing about in the dirt. Happily he was some way from the spot where the magic bean had originally been buried.

“Aha,” said Omally suddenly, lifting a dusty bottle of Old Snakebelly into the moonlight. “Ripe as ninepence.”

“Good show,” said Jim collapsing on to his behind with a dull thud. The bottle was speedily uncorked and the two sat drawing upon it turn by turn, at peace with the world and sharing Jim’s last Woodbine. “It’s a great life though, isn’t it?” said Jim wiping the neck of the bottle upon his rented sleeve.

“It’s that to be sure.”

Pooley leant back upon his elbows and stared up wistfully towards the moon. “Sometimes I wonder,” said he.

“I know,” Omally broke in, “sometimes you wonder if there are folk like us up there wondering if there are folk like them down here.”

“Exactly,” said Jim.

Suddenly, away into the darkness and coming apparently from the direction of the Mission’s rear garden wall, the two wonderers heard a heavy if muffled thump.

“Now what do you wonder that might be?” asked John.

“Truly I have no idea, give me a drag of that Woody.” Omally passed Jim the cigarette and taking the bottle drained away a large portion of its contents. “Probably a pussycat,” said he.

“Big one though,”

“Archroy told me he once saw a giant feral torn roaming the allotment by night, the size of a tiger he said.”

“Archroy as you well know is greatly subject to flights of fancy.”

“He seemed very sincere at the time, came rushing into the Swan and ordered a large brandy.”

Pooley shifted uncomfortably on his earthy seat. “I should not wish to end my days as a pussycat’s dinner,” said he. Without warning there was a second and slightly louder thump, which was followed almost immediately by the sound of scrambling feet. “The monster moggy!” said Jim.

Omally threw himself down commando-fashion and crawled to the rim of the dip. Pooley snatched up a fallen farrowing fork and, draining the last of the bottle, stealthily followed him. Sounds of grunting and panting now drifted in their direction and were followed by a distant “ squeak-squeak ”.

“A giant mouse perhaps,” whispered Jim hoarsely.

“Don’t be a damn fool,” Omally replied, “there’s only one thing around here makes a noise like that, my bloody wheelbarrow.”

“Sssh!” said Jim. “It’s coming nearer.” The two lay in silence squinting lopsidedly into the gloom.

The indistinct form of a man appeared from the shadows. As it drew nearer both Pooley and Omally recognized the dark figure as that of the grizzle-chinned seafarer Captain Carson. He was dressed in a Royal Navy uniform and was pushing with some difficulty Omally’s wheelbarrow, which was weighed down heavily by two large and strangely swollen potato sacks.

He was now but ten yards away and the two hidden Rangers caught sight of the Captain’s face. It was a thing to inspire horror, the skin deathly white and glowing hideously in the moon’s septic light, the mouth turned down into an attitude of intense hatred and the eyes glazed and lifeless.

Pooley shuddered and drew his Irish chum down as the wheelbarrow and its zombiesque operator passed them at close quarters. “Something’s not right here,” said John, straightening up upon creaking knee-joints, “let’s follow him.”

Jim was doubtful. “It’s home for me,” he said.

Omally cuffed his cowardly companion. “That’s my damn wheelbarrow,” he said. Ducking low and scurrying from one hiding place to another the two thoroughly besmutted Rangers followed the ghastly figure with the squeaking wheelbarrow across the allotment.

“He’s heading for the river,” said Jim breathlessly, still grasping the farrowing fork. From a little way ahead of them came the sounds of more straining followed by two loud splashes. “I’d say he was there,” said John.

There was a squeak or two, then another loud splash. “He’s dumped my barrow, the bastard!” wailed Omally.

Jim said, “If you’ll pardon me, John, I’ll be off about my business.” He turned and blundered into a forest of bean poles.

“Duck, you fool,” whispered John, tripping over the struggling Pooley, “he’s coming back.”

The Captain appeared suddenly from the shadows of the riverside oaks. He surely must have seen the two fallen Rangers, yet his eyes showed no sign of recognition. Forward he came upon wooden legs, moving like a somnambulist, past the Rangers and back off in the direction of the Mission.

“There’s a bean pole stuck up my right trouser,” groaned Jim, “help, help, fallen man here!”

“Shut up you bally fool,” said John, flapping his arms and attempting to rise, “look there.” Pooley raised himself as best he could and stared after John’s pointing finger.

Away across the allotment a bright light shone from the Mission. Like a beacon it swept over their heads. For a fleeting moment they saw him, the silhouette of a huge man standing upon the Mission wall, his arms folded and his legs apart. Although the two saw him for only a brief second, the feeling of incontestable grandeur and of malevolent evil was totally overwhelming.

Omally crossed himself with a trembling hand.

Pooley said, “I think I am going to be sick.”

The Flying Swan was closed for three weeks. The sun blazed down day after day, and there were all the makings of a Long Hot Summer. There was never a cloud in the sky, the boating pond in Gunnersbury Park was down a full six inches and the bed of the dried-up canal cracked and hardened into a sun-scorched jigsaw puzzle. As each evening came the air, rather than growing blessedly cool, seemed to boil, making sleep impossible. Windows were permanently open, butter melted upon grocers’ shelves and every kind of cooling apparatus gave up the ghost and ground to a standstill. The residents who nightly tilled their allotment patches watched sadly as their crops shrivelled and died. No amount of daily watering could save them, and the press had announced that water rationing was likely.

When the Swan reopened it was with little ceremony. Nothing much seemed to have changed, some portions of the bar had been half-heartedly repainted and the gents’ toilet had been rebuilt. Neville stood in his usual position polishing the glasses and occasionally dabbing at his moist brow. It was as if Cowboy Night had never taken place.

The beer pulls had been returned to their places upon the bar, but only three of them were fully functional. “I put it down to vindictiveness upon the part of the brewery,” he told Omally.

“Good to see you back though,” said the Irishman, pushing the exact money across the counter and indicating his usual.

“That one’s still off,” said Neville. “And the beer’s up a penny a pint.”

Omally sighed dismally. “These are tragic times we live in,” said he. “A half of light ale then.”

Archroy sat alone upon the sun-scorched allotment, his head gleaming like the dome of an Islamic mosque. His discarded wig hung upon the handle of a rake in the fashion of a trophy before the lodge of a great chief. Evil thoughts were brewing in Archroy’s polished cranium. It had not been his year at all: first the loss of his cherished automobile and then the disappearance of his magic beans, the decimation of his tomato crop and now the aviary. The aviary! Archroy twisted broodingly at the dried stalk of what had been a promising tomato plant and hunched his shoulders in utter despair.