Robert Rankin - The Antipope

Omally pricked up his ears. All this waste of breath and he might just as well have asked the old fellow straight out. “Church of the Second Coming?” said he. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.”

“Well, all I know is that two old dears were talking about the place in the supermarket. Seems that there’s some sort of New Messiah fellow started up in business, very popular with the ladies he is.”

“And where is this church to be found?”

“Search me,” said Old Pete. “I didn’t overhear that.”

What Omally said next was a phrase in Gaelic which his father had taught him when still a lad for use against the Black and Tans.

“And you,” said Old Pete as Chips set about the Irishman’s trouser bottoms. He might not have much religious inclination, that dog, but he did speak fluent Gaelic.

Omally shook the mutt free from his ankles and finished his drink at the bar. He began to understand how saints came to get martyred. It wasn’t all tea and crumpets with the vicar this getting into the church. And then a pleasant thought struck him; amongst the many ladies of his acquaintance there must surely be one who had taken up within the new church, and even if there wasn’t it would be a pleasure finding out.

Omally took out his little black book and thumbed at the pages. Where to start? A for Archroy’s missus. He would pay her a visit that very night.

“Another pint please, Neville,” said the Irishman jovially, “and to hell with the extra penny.”

Archroy stood in his back garden gazing up at the colossal mesh-covered construction which all but engulfed the entire yard. The deafening chatter of a thousand gaily coloured birds filled his ears.

Archroy’s worst fears had been realized that very morning when the dreaded lorry had arrived, bearing the exotic cargo which now flapped and twittered before him.

He had never seen birds quite like them before, nor had he seen such a lorry, black as death and seemingly without windows. And the driver – Archroy shuddered, where did his wife meet these people?

There must be a thousand of them in there, thought Archroy peering into the cage. The din was appalling, the neighbours weren’t going to like this one. Mrs Murdock appeared at the garden fence, a bundle of limp washing in her arms and a clothespeg in her mouth. “Lovely aren’t they?” she mumbled. “Just what this neighbourhood needs to brighten it up.”

“You like them?” Archroy shouted.

Mrs M. nodded enthusiastically. “Them’s lovely.”

Archroy shook his head in wonder, the whole neighbourhood was going mad. It must be the heat.

“I’ll bring them out some breadcrumbs,” said Mrs Murdock, oblivious to the row. “They’ll like them.”

“Better tell the bakery to staff up its night shift then,” muttered Archroy. What did they eat? He leant forward upon the mesh and squinted at the mass of fluttering feathers. As if in answer to his question a single bird detached itself from the ever-circling throng and swooped down upon him, removing with one deft peck a goodly lump of flesh from his right thumb.

“Damn you,” shrieked Archroy, drawing back in anguish. Blood flowed from the wound and through it he could glimpse the ivory whiteness of exposed bone. “Oh my God,” wailed Archroy, coming over faint. “Oh my God.”

He staggered back into the kitchen and bound the gory thumb with a length of dishcloth. The thumb throbbed like a good ’un, it was definitely a casualty department job. Archroy’s mind, alert to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune which constantly assailed him, could see it all in advance: BRENTONIAN SAVAGED BY BUDGIE. The lads at the wiper works would have a field day. Archroy groaned in a manner that he had come to perfect of late. Blood began to ooze through the makeshift bandage. Archroy tottered off in the direction of the cottage hospital.

He had no sooner turned the corner into Sprite Street, leaving behind him the kind of trail that bloodhounds love so dearly, when John Omally appeared pedalling slowly from the direction of the Ealing Road. He dismounted from his iron stallion and leant Marchant against Archroy’s fence. With a beaming smile upon his face he strode up the short garden path and rapped upon Archroy’s gaily coloured front door. “Helloee,” he called through the letter box.

All was silent within but for a brief rattling flutter, suggestive of a Venetian blind being noisily and rapidly drawn up. “Helloee,” called Omally again. “Anybody home?” Clearly there was not. “I’ll just have a look around the back,” said John loudly to the deserted street. “He may be asleep in his deckchair.”

Omally stealthily edged his way along the side of the house and tested the garden door. It swung soundlessly upon its oiled hinge to reveal the mighty mesh-covered structure. “By the light of the burning martyrs,” said John.

The cage was partly lost in the shadow of the house and appeared to be empty. Omally prodded at the wire mesh. It was solidly constructed, surely no flock of budgies merited such security. The door was solidly framed in angle-iron and triple-bolted. Omally slid the first bolt back. It wouldn’t hurt to have a swift shufty within. The second bolt shot back with a metallic clang. Omally looked furtively about the gardens. Mrs Murdock’s washing hung in a sullen line, dripping into the dust, but there was no sign of any human onlookers.

The third bolt went the way of its fellows and Omally swung the cage door slowly open. There was not a sound but for the tiny muted explosions of the drips. John stepped nimbly into the cage and peered up into the shadows. All was silent.

Without a second’s warning a vast multicoloured mass of squawking violence descended upon him. He was engulfed by a screaming, tearing oblivion of claws and beaks. Sharp horny bills tore at his tweeds and sank greedily into his flesh. Omally howled in pain and battered away at the wildly flapping horde which bore down upon him. He tore his jacket up over his head and blindly fought his way back to the door of the cage, the demonic creatures ripping at his shirt-tails and sinking their razor-sharp beaks remorselessly into him.

With a superhuman effort born from his infinite reserve of self-preservative energy Omally threw himself through the door, driving it closed behind him and flinging one of the bolts to. He sank to his knees before the cage door, blood flowing from countless wounds. His treasured tweed suit was in ribbons and he clutched between his fingers tufts of his own hair. Bitterly he looked back towards his tormentors, but the feathered fiends had withdrawn once more to their lofty perches high in the shadows. Nothing remained to signify their presence but a few prettily coloured feathers upon the cage floor.

Omally set a painful course for his rooms. His suit was in such exquisite ruin that there was no hope of restoration. His face had the appearance of one recently engaged in a pitched battle with a rampaging lawnmower. “Foul feathered bastards,” said John through clenched teeth. He ran a tender hand over his scalp and felt to his horror several large bald patches. “Feathering their bloody nests with my barnet.” He looked down at his hands as he steered Marchant somewhat erratically towards its destination. They were a mass of tiny v-shaped wounds. “Carnivorous canaries, what a carve-up!” Archroy would pay dearly for this.

An hour later Omally lay soaking in his bathtub, the water a nasty pink colour. He had affixed small strips of toilet paper to the cuts on his face, and made some attempt to comb his hair forward and up into an extraordinary quiff to cover his bald patches. He drank frequently from a bottle of Old Snakebelly and swore between sips. “I will set traps upon the allotment,” he said, “and catch the monster moggy – let’s see how those flying piranhas like that up their perches.”