Robert Rankin - The Antipope

The Other Sam nodded sagely and Jim knew that he had nothing to fear from the pale blue eyes and the haunting thoughts which dwelt behind them. “The evil is among us,” said the Other Sam. “I will help you as best I may, but my powers are limited and I am no match for such an adversary.”

“Tell me what I should do.”

“The Professor is a man who may be trusted,” said the Other Sam. “Act upon his instructions to the letter, accept no other advice, although much will be offered, follow your own feelings. The Dark One is vulnerable, he lives a life of fear, even Satan himself can never rest, truth will be for ever the final victor.”

“But who is he?” said Jim. “I have been plunged into all this. Outside the sun shines, in offices clerks toil away at their mundane duties, buses rumble towards Ealing Broadway and I am expected to do battle with the powers of darkness. It all seems a little unfair.”

“You are not alone, James.”

“I feel rather alone.”

The Other Sam smiled wanly; wisdom shone in his ageless blue eyes. Professor Slocombe was a wise and learned man, but here was knowledge not distilled from musty tomes, but born of natural lore. Pooley felt at peace, he was no longer alone, he would cope with whatever lay ahead.

“I have stayed too long already,” said the Other Sam, “and I must take my leave. I will not be far when you need me again. Take heart, James Pooley, you have more allies than you might imagine.”

With this he rose, a pale ghost who did not belong to the hours of daylight, and drifted out into the sunlit street where he was presently lost from view behind the gasometers.

Pooley took his teacup to his mouth, but the insipid grey liquid had grown cold. “Cold tea and warm beer,” said Jim, “and they say an army marches on its stomach.”

As August turned into September the residents of Brentford stared from their open windows and marvelled at the endless sunshine. Norman tapped at his thermometer and noted to his despair that it was up another two degrees. “It’s the end of the world for certain,” he said for the umpteenth time. “I am working at present on an escape ship,” he told Omally, “I am not going to be caught napping when the continents begin to break up.”

“I wish you luck,” replied Omally. “I notice that there are no new Fine Arts Publications in your racks.”

“Business has fallen off of late.”

“Oh,” said John, “must be the heat.”

“I hear,” said Norman, “that the rising temperatures have started something of a religious revival hereabouts.”

“Oh?” said Omally, thumbing through a dog-eared copy of Latex Babes .

“The Church of the Second Coming, or suchlike, seems to be taking the ladies’ fancy, although” – and here Norman’s thoughts drifted back to his own bitter experiences as a married man – “one can never expect much common sense from women.”

John’s eyes rested upon the full-colour photograph of a voluptuous young female in leather corsets and thigh boots wielding a riding crop. “They have their uses,” he said lecherously. “Can I borrow this magazine?”

“No,” said Norman.

“And where is this Church of the Second Coming then?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Norman, “news of it apparently travels by word of mouth. The ladies I have questioned have been loud in their praises for the place but reticent about its location.”

“Oh?” said John. “I’ll bring this back in half an hour.”

“No,” said Norman, “it is well known that you photostat them at the library and sell the copies in the Swan.”

“Merely satisfying a need,” said John. “Your prices are too high.”

“Get out of my shop!” said Norman, brandishing a lemonade bottle. Omally made a rapid and undignified departure.

As he tramped up the Ealing Road towards the Flying Swan, John’s thoughts turned back towards the Church of the Second Coming. Hard times always brought out the religion in people, and this long hot summer with its rationed water and rising temperatures was enough to set the nervous and susceptible legging it towards the nearest church. There was a good deal of money to be had in that game, and after all one was serving the community by fulfilling a need. Any rewards could be said to be of a just nature. It was a thought, and not a bad one. By the time he reached the Flying Swan his mind was made up. He would seek out the Church of the Second Coming and insinuate himself into a position of responsibility. He would gain respect and prestige, might even become a pillar of the community.

Yes, Omally could feel the call of the mother church, he was by now completely certain that he had a true vocation. He pushed wide the saloon bar door and entered the Flying Swan.

“God save all here,” he said, “and mine’s a pint of Large please, Neville.”

The part-time barman did the business and counted Omally’s coinage into his hand. “It’s gone up another penny,” he told the Irishman.

Omally smiled pleasantly and produced the coin. “How are things with your good self, bar lord?” he said. “It is another beautiful day is it not?”

“It is not.”

“Makes one feel good to be alive.”

“It does not.”

“God is in his heaven and all is right…”

“Turn it in, Omally.”

“Just remarking upon the splendours of creation.”

“Well, do it elsewhere.”

Omally removed himself to a side table where old Pete sat leaning upon his stick, his dog, Chips, belly up before him.

“Good day to you Pete,” said John seating himself. “It is another beautiful day is it not? I thank God to be alive.”

Old Pete spat in the direction of the cuspidor, which was the last relic of Cowboy Night, having been retained owing to its overwhelming popularity. “You should take to the wearing of a hat, Omally,” said he. “The harsh sun has befuddled your brain. I have an old homburg I might sell you.”

“God is in his heaven,” said Omally.

Pete was lining up for another shot at the cuspidor. “A pox on God,” said the surly old bastard.

It was clear, thought Omally, that the joys of the Church of the Second Coming had not yet made themselves manifest to the barstaff and patrons of the Flying Swan. A more direct approach was in order.

“Don’t you ever go to church, Pete?” he enquired.

“Never,” said the ancient. “I have a straw boater if you don’t fancy the homburg.”

“Listen,” said Omally, who was rapidly losing his patience. “Just because I feel the need to extol the glories of God for once it doesn’t follow that I’m heading for a padded cell in St Bernard’s.”

“Glories of God?” said Pete in a sarcastic tone. “You are an ungodly womanizer, Omally, with about as much religious inclination as young Chips here.”

“Ah,” said Omally. “That may have once been true but I have seen the light. I am mending my ways.”

“I have a very inexpensive cloth cap I might let you have.”

“I don’t want a bloody cloth cap.”

“Go down to Father Moity’s then.”

“No,” said Omally, “I need to find a church of a new denomination, one which would offer an honest godfearing man a chance to be at peace with himself and his maker.” Young Chips made one of those unholy noises he was noted for and his elderly master chuckled maliciously.

“I can see I am wasting my time here,” said John. “A seeker after truth is not welcome hereabouts, a prophet is without honour in his own land so he is.”

“Listen,” said Old Pete. “If you really feel the need for something a bit different in the religious line why don’t you go down to the Church of the Second Coming, I hear they have rare old times down there.”