Robert Rankin - The Antipope

“Well.” Pooley paused that his glass might be refilled. “It was a strange one, this I know.” Jim told his tale as best he could remember, recalling with gothic intensity the squeaking wheelbarrow and its mysterious cargo and the awesome figure upon the mission wall.

“And the bright light, had you ever seen anything like it before?”

“Never, nor wish to again.”

The Professor smiled.

“Omally crossed himself,” said Jim. “And I was taken quite poorly.”

“Ah,” said the Professor. “It is all becoming clearer by the hour. Now I have a more vivid idea of what we are dealing with.”

“I am glad somebody does,” said Jim, rattling his empty glass upon the arm of the chair. “It’s the wheelbarrow I feel sorry for.”

“Jim,” said the Professor rising from his seat and crossing slowly to the French windows where he stood gazing into the darkness. “Jim, if I were to confide in you my findings, could I rely on your complete discretion?”

“Of course.”

“That is easily said, but this would be a serious vow, no idle chinwagging.” The Professor’s tone was of such leaden seriousness that Jim hesitated a moment, wondering whether he would be better not knowing whatever it was. But as usual his natural curiosity got the upper hand and with the simple words “I swear” he irrevocably sealed his fate.

“Come then, I will show you!” The Professor strode to the covered glass case and as he did so the frantic scrabbling arose anew. Jim refilled his glass and rose unsteadily to join his host.

“I should have destroyed them, I know,” said the Professor, a trace of fear entering his voice. “But I am a man of science, and to feel that one might be standing upon the brink of discovery…” With a sudden flourish he tore the embroidered altar cloth from the glass case, revealing to Jim’s horrified eyes a sight that would haunt his sleeping hours for years to come.

Within the case, pawing at the glazed walls, were frantically moving creatures, five hideous manlike beings, six to eight inches in height. They were twisted as the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, yet in the “heads” of them rudimentary mouths opened and closed. Slime trickled from their ever-moving orifices and down over their shimmering knobbly forms.

Jim drew back in outraged horror and gagged into his hands. The Professor uttered a phrase of Latin and replaced the cloth. The frantic scratchings ceased as rapidly as they had begun.

Pooley staggered back to his chair where he sat, head in hands, sweat running free from his forehead. “What are they?” he said, his voice almost a sob. “Why do you have them here?”

“You brought them here. They are Phaseolus Satanicus, and they await their master.”

“I will have nothing of this.” Pooley dragged himself from his seat and staggered to the window. He had come here for a bite to eat, not to be assailed with graveyard nastiness. He would leave the Professor to his horrors. Jim halted in his flight. A strange sensation entered his being, as if voices called to him from the dim past, strange voices speaking in archaic accents hardly recognizable yet urgent, urgent with the fears of unthinkable horrors lurking on the very edges of darkling oblivion.

Pooley stumbled, his hands gripping at the curtain, tearing it from its hooks. Behind him the scrabbling and scratching rose anew to fever pitch, small mewings and whisperings interspersed with the awful sounds. As Pooley fell he saw before him standing in the gloom of the night garden a massive, brooding figure. It was clad in crimson and glowing with a peculiar light. The head was lost in shadows but beneath the heavy brows two bright red eyes glowed wolfishly.

When Pooley awoke he was lying sprawled across the Professor’s chaise longue , an icepack upon his head and the hellish reek of ammonia strong in his nostrils.

“Jim.” A voice came to him out of the darkness. “Jim.” Pooley brought his eyes into focus and made out the willowy form of the elderly Professor, screwing the cap on a bottle of smelling salts. He offered the half-conscious Jim yet another glass of scotch, which the invalid downed with a practised flick of the wrist. Now fully alert, Pooley jerked his head in the direction of the window. “Where is he,” he said, tearing the icepack from his forehead. “I saw him out there.”

The Professor sank into a high-backed Windsor chair. “Then he did come, I knew he would.”

The first rays of sunlight were falling through the still-open, though now curtainless, French windows. “Here,” said Pooley. “What time is it?” As if in answer the ormolu mantelclock struck five times. “I’ve been out for hours,” said Jim, holding his head, “and I do not feel at all well.”

“You had best go home to your bed,” said the Professor. “Come again tonight and we will speak of these things.”

“No,” said Pooley taking a Turkish cigarette from the polished humidor. Through force of habit he furtively thrust several more into his top pocket. “I must know of these things now.”

“As you will.” The Professor smiled darkly and drew a deep breath. “You will recall the evening when you first came to me with that single bean. You saw my reaction when I first observed it, and when later that night you brought me the other four I knew that my suspicions were justified.”

“Suspicions?”

“That the Dark One was already among us.”

Pooley lit his cigarette and collapsed into an immediate fit of coughing. “The Dark One?” he spluttered between convulsions. “Who in the name of the holies is the Dark One?”

The Professor shrugged. “If I knew exactly who he was Jim, our task would be simpler. The Dark One has existed since the dawn of time, he may take many forms and live many lives. We are lucky in one respect only, that we have observed his arrival. It is our duty to precipitate his end.”

“I know of no Dark Ones,” said Jim. “Although I do remember that several months ago the arrival of a mouldy-looking tramp caused a good degree of speculation within the saloon bar of the Flying Swan, although in truth I never saw this dismal wanderer myself.”

The Professor nodded. “You have seen him twice, once upon the allotments and again this very night within my own garden.”

“Nah,” said Pooley. “That was no tramp I saw.”

“I am certain there is a connection,” said the Professor. “All the signs are here. I have watched them for months, gathering like a storm about to break. The time, I fear, is close at hand.”

Jim sniffed suspiciously at his Turkish cigarette. “Are these lads all right?” said he. “Only they smell somewhat doubtful.”

“You are still a young man, Jim,” said the Professor. “I cannot expect you to take altogether seriously all that I say, but I swear to you that we are dealing with forces which will not be defeated by simply being ignored.”

Jim glanced distastefully towards the covered glass case. “You can hardly ignore those,” said he.

“By fire and water only may they be destroyed,” said the Professor. “By fire and water and the holy word.”

Pooley pulled at his sideburns. “I’ll put a match to the blighters,” he said valiantly.

“It is not as simple as that, it never is. These beans are the symptom, not the cause. To destroy them now would be to throw away the only hope we have of locating the evil force which brought them here.”

“I don’t like the sound of this ‘we’ you keep referring to,” said Jim.

“I want you to tell me, Jim, everything you have heard about this tramp. Every rumour, every story, anything that might give us a clue as to his motives, his power and his weaknesses.”

Pooley’s stomach made an unmentionable sound. “Professor,” said he, “I would be exceedingly grateful for some breakfast, I have not eaten for twenty-four hours. I am feeling a trifle peckish.”