Robert Rankin - The Antipope

When the bottle was finished Omally felt a little better, but there was still the matter of his suit. What a tragic circumstance. The remnants of his favourite tweed hung upon the bathroom door, he had never seen anything so absolutely destroyed. Fifteen years of constant wear had hardly impinged upon the hardy fabric, but five or so short seconds in that cage of fluttering death had reduced it to ribbons.

“God,” said Omally, “I bet those lads could strip down an elephant in under a minute, nothing left but four umbrella stands!”

An hour later Omally was out of his tinted bathwater and dressed. Actually he looked pretty natty but for the speckled face and bizarre hairstyle. He had found a pair of cricketer’s white flannels, a Fair Isle jumper and a clean cotton shirt. This had evidently been a Christmas present, as it was wrapped in green paper decorated with holly and foolish fat santas. As to footwear (the winged attackers having even played havoc with his hobnails) he chose a rather dapper pair of black patent dancing pumps he had borrowed from Pooley for some unremembered social function. He slung an old silk cravat about his neck and fastened it with a flourish.

Presently the clock struck seven and Omally wondered whether it might be worth chancing his arm for a swift pedal around to Archroy’s. If the bewigged one was there he could always think up some excuse for his visit. But if Archroy’s insatiable better half was home then he should at least be able to charm his way into a bit of compensation for the afternoon’s tragic events.

Archroy, as it happened, was not on the night shift. He had suffered the horrors of a tetanus injection, administered at the sneaky end by a sadistic nurse, and had received fourteen stitches in his thumb. The thumb was now liberally swathed in bandages and hidden within the overlarge folds of an impressive-looking sling. This sling now rested upon the bar of the Flying Swan.

“Caught it in the lathe,” he told Neville, but the part-time barman suspected otherwise. “Honest,” insisted Archroy, “nearly took my arm off.”

“Looks pretty bad,” said Jim Pooley. “You’ll be in for compensation.”

“Could be hundreds,” said Old Pete.

“Thousands,” said Neville. “You’ll be rich.”

“Mine’s a pint then,” said Pooley.

“And mine,” said Old Pete.

Archroy bought another round, there being little else he could do.

“Cut yourself shaving, John?” said Archroy’s wife as she answered the unexpected knock.

“In my eagerness to look my best for you my dear.”

“I like the strides.”

“They are all the rage in Carnaby Street.”

Omally was ushered hastily into the front room, where Archroy’s wife pulled the curtains.

“And who might this be?” Omally’s eyes had been drawn to a fine oil painting which hung above the fireplace in an ornate gilded frame, looking strangely out of place amid the pink dralon and mock veneer. It was the portrait of a stern, yet imposing figure of indeterminate years clad in crimson robes and sporting what appeared to be a skullcap. “Looks very valuable.”

“It is. Will you take tea?”

“I’d prefer something a little stronger if I may.”

“Gin then?”

“Absolutely.”

Archroy’s wife poured two large gins and joined Omally upon the quilted pink sofa facing the portrait. Omally found it hard to draw away his eyes as he received his drink. “There is something familiar about that painting,” he said. “But I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“It was a present,” said Archroy’s wife pleasantly. “Drink up John, here’s a toast to the future: Auspicium melioris gevi .”

Omally raised his glass and from the corner of his eye noticed that Archroy’s wife held hers towards the portrait as if in salute. “Surely that is Latin, is it not?”

“It is?” said Archroy’s wife innocently. “I think it’s just a toast or something, don’t know where I heard it.”

“It’s not important,” said John, sipping his gin. In vino veritas, thought he. “Shall we have one more?” he said, springing to his feet. As Omally decanted two large gins into the dainty glasses, he had a definite feeling that he was being watched – not by Archroy’s wife who sat demurely drawing her skirt up above her knees, but by some alien presence which lurked unseen. It was a most uncomfortable feeling and one which Omally threw off only with difficulty. He returned to the sofa bearing the drinks, his a single and hers a triple.

“To us,” he said.

“ Ab aeterno, Ab ante, Ab antiquo ,” said Archroy’s missus.

“Down the hatch,” said John.

After three more ill-proportioned tipples Archroy’s wife began to warm to her unexpected guest in the passionate manner Omally had come to appreciate.

“Shall we go upstairs?” he asked as the lady of the house began to nibble at his ear and fumble with his Fair Isle.

“Let’s do it here,” she purred.

“What, on your new three-piece?”

“Why not?”

Omally kicked off his black patents with practised ease and divested himself of his cricket whites.

“Been shaving your legs as well?” said Archroy’s wife, noticing the bloody scars about Omally’s ankles.

“Caught myself in the briar patch.”

The pink sofa was solidly constructed and well padded with the finest foam rubber. It stood the assault upon it uncomplainingly, but something was wrong. Omally felt himself unable to perform with his usual style and finesse, the spark just wasn’t there.

Archroy’s wife noticed it almost at once. “Come on man,” she cried, “up and at it!”

Omally sat upright. “Someone’s watching us,” he said. “I can feel eyes burning into me.”

“Nonsense, there’s nobody here but us.”

Omally made another attempt but it was useless. “It’s that picture,” he said in sudden realization. “Can’t you feel it?”

“I can’t feel anything, that’s the trouble.”

“Turn its face to the wall, it’s putting me off my stroke.”

“No!” Archroy’s wife flung herself from the sofa and stood with her back to the portrait, her arms outspread. She appeared ready to take on an army if necessary.

“Steady on,” said Omally. “I am sorry if I have offended you, hang a dishcloth over it then, I won’t touch it.”

“Hang a dishcloth over him ? Don’t be a fool!”

Omally was hurriedly donning his trousers. There was something very wrong here. Archroy’s wife looked completely out of her head, and it wasn’t just the gin. The woman’s possessed, he told himself. Oh damn, he had both feet down the same trouser leg. He toppled to the floor in a struggling heap. The woman came forward and stood over him laughing hysterically.

“You are useless,” she taunted, “you limp fish, you can’t do it!”

“I have a prior appointment,” spluttered John trying to extricate his tangled feet. “I must be off about my business.”

“You’re not a man,” the mad woman continued. “‘He’ is the only man in Brentford, the only man in the world.”

“Who is?” Omally ceased his vain struggling a moment, all this had a quality of mysterious intrigue. Even though he was at an obvious disadvantage at the feet of a raving lunatic he would never forgive himself if he missed the opportunity to find out what was going on.

“Who is ‘He’?”

“He? He is the born again, the second born, He…” The woman turned away from Omally and fell to her knees before the portrait. Omally hastily adjusted his legwear and rose shakily to his feet. Clutching his patent shoes, he made for the door. He no longer craved an explanation, all he craved was a large double and the comparative sanity of the Flying Swan. Phrases of broken Latin poured from the mouth of the kneeling woman and Omally fled. He flung open the front door, knocking Archroy who stood, his key raised towards the lock, backwards into the rose bushes. He snatched up the peacefully dozing Marchant and rode off at speed.