Robert Rankin - The Antipope

“Of course.” The Professor rang the bell which summoned his musty servant. Presently a fine breakfast of heated rolls, eggs, bacon, tomatoes, coffee and toast appeared and Pooley set about it with ravenous zeal.

For the next hour thereafter Jim spoke of all he had heard regarding the mystery tramp, from Neville’s first encounter to Norman’s terrifying experiences in the Plume Café, and of the welter of theories, conjectures and speculations which had been rife in the Swan. He spoke of Soap Distant’s talk of.he Hollow Earth, omitting his own experiences within the mysterious subterranean world, and of Omally’s faerie ramblings and of those folk who held the belief that the tramp was the Wandering Jew.

The old Professor listened intently, occasionally raising his snowy eyebrow or shaking his head until finally Jim’s tale had run its course. “Fascinating,” he said at length, “quite fascinating. And you say that all those who had any personal dealings with this tramp felt an uncanny need to cross themselves?”

“As far as I can make out, but you must understand that a lot of what I have told you was heard second-hand as it were, nobody around here gives away much if they can possibly help it.”

“So much I know.”

“And so, what is to be done?”

“I think at present there is little we can do. We must be constantly on watch. Report to me with any intelligence, no matter how vague, which comes to hand. I will prepare myself as best I can, both mentally and physically. Our man is close, that is certain. You have seen him. I can sense his nearness and it is likewise with the creatures in the case. Soon he will come for them and when he does so, we must be ready.” Pooley reached out a hand towards the humidor. “Why don’t you have one of the ones in your top pocket?” asked the old Professor, smiling broadly.

Pooley sat that lunchtime alone in a corner seat at the Flying Swan, a half of pale ale growing warm before him. He sighed deeply. All that the Professor had said weighed heavily on his soul, and he wondered what should be done for the best. He thought he should go around to the Mission and confront Captain Carson regarding what Holmes would have referred to as “the singular affair of the purloined wheelbarrow”, which was something he and Omally should really have done the very next day. But the Captain’s animosity towards visitors was well known to all thereabouts, especially to Jim who had once been round there to scrounge a bed for the night and had been run off with a gaff hook. Anyway, it was Omally’s wheelbarrow and if he chose to forget the matter then that was up to him.

Maybe, he thought, it would be better for the Professor simply to hand over the bean things to this Dark One, whoever he might be, in the hope that he would depart with them, never to return. But that was no good, Pooley had felt the evil and he knew that the Professor was right. It would not go away by being ignored. Pooley sighed anew. A bead of perspiration rolled down the end of his nose and dropped into his ale.

Archroy entered the Flying Swan. Pooley had not seen him for some weeks; he had been strangely absent from the Cowboy Night fiasco. Jim wondered in which direction his suspicions pointed in the matter of the stolen beans. “He doesn’t know how lucky he is,” he thought.

Archroy, however, looked far from lucky upon this particular occasion. His shoulders drooped and his lopsided hairpiece clung perilously to his shining pate. Pooley watched him from the corner of his eye. He could not recall ever having seen anybody looking so depressed, and wondered whether the sorry specimen might appreciate a few kind words. For the life of him Jim couldn’t think of any. Archroy looked up from the pouring of his ale and sighted Pooley, nodded in half-hearted greeting and sank back into his misery.

Pooley looked up through the pub windows. The flat-blocks quivered mirage-like in the heat and a bedraggled pigeon or two fluttered away into the shimmering haze. The heat strangled the bar-room air, everything moved in slow motion except Father Moity, resident priest to St Joan’s, Brentford, who unexpectedly entered the bar at this moment. He strode towards the bar, oblivious to the battering heat, and ordered a small sherry. Neville poured this and noted that the priest made no motions towards his pocket upon accepting same. “You are far from your cool confessional upon such a hot day,” said Neville cynically.

“Now, now, Neville,” said the priest, raising his blessing finger in admonishment. “I have come to seek out two members of my flock who seem to have fallen upon stony ground.” Pooley much enjoyed listening to the young priest, whose endless supply of inaccurate quotation was a joy to the ear. “Two prodigal sons who have sold their birthrights for a mess of porridge.” Pooley chuckled. “You know them as Hairy Dave and Jungle John.”

“They’re barred!” said Neville with a voice like thunder.

“Barred is it, and what pestilence have they visited upon you on this occasion?”

“They blew my bloody pub up.”

“Anarchists is it?”

“Bloody maniacs!” said Neville bitterly.

“Raise not thine hand in anger,” said the priest, bringing his blessing finger once more into play. “How many times shall I forgive my brother, seven isn’t it? I say unto you seven hundred times seven, or some such figure.”

“Well, they are barred and they stay barred!”

“Tsk, tsk!” said the priest. “It is because of bars that I find myself here, a lamb amongst wolves.”

“And how is the bar of your Catholic Club?” asked Neville sarcastically. “Still doing a roaring trade with its cut-price drinks and taking the bread of life from the mouths of hardworking publicans?”

“Judge not, lest thyself be judged,” said the priest. “The bars I refer to are of the gymnastical variety.”

Keeping fit was an obsession with Father Moity which verged at times upon the manic. He was forever jogging to and fro about the parish; as Pooley watched the young priest he noted the giveaway track-suit bottoms and striped running shoes peeping from beneath his robes of office. He did chin-ups in the vestry, calisthenics in the pulpit and had developed a system of Tai-Chi exercises to correspond with the ritual movements of the mass. Even as Pooley observed him at the bar, the young priest was flexing his biceps and doing the occasional kneesbend.

None of these things went unnoticed, and the handsome, tanned and manly figure of the priest raised extraordinary feelings within the breasts of both matronly females and young housewives alike. He had become a focus for their erotic desires. Confession became a nightmare. Even women of well-known and obvious virginity confided to the handsome young priest their nights of passion in the satyric embraces of demonic succubi. Father Moity marvelled at their invention, but more often he covered his ears and allowed his mind to wander. Consequently his penances were likely to be “three Hail Marys and a hundred press-ups” or “an our father and a work out on the heavy bag.”

“Gymnasium bars,” the young priest continued, “for the church hall. I was promised that they would be constructed before the Olympic trials came on the television. I wish to take a few pointers.”

“Well I haven’t seen them,” sneered Neville, “and I have no wish to.”

Father Moity said nothing but peered into his empty sherry glass and then about the bar. “Jim Pooley,” he said, his eyes alighting upon that very man.

“Father?”

“Jim, my lad.” The priest bounced across the bar and joined Pooley at his table. “Would you by any chance have seen those two local builders upon your travels?”