Robert Rankin - The Antipope

As he burst into the saloon bar Omally’s dramatic appearance did not go unnoticed. His cricket whites were now somewhat oily about the ankle regions and his nose had started to bleed.

“Good evening, John,” said Neville. “Cut yourself shaving?”

“The match finished then?” asked Jim Pooley. “Run out, were you?”

“Want to change your mind about that hat?” sniggered Old Pete, who apparently had not shifted his position since lunchtime.

“A very large scotch,” said John, ignoring the ribaldry.

“John,” Pooley said in a voice of concern. “John, what has happened, are we at war?”

Omally shook his head vigorously. “Oh no,” said he, “not war.” He shot the large scotch down in one go.

“What then, have you sighted the vanguard of the extraterrestrial strike force?”

“Not those lads.”

“What then? Out with it.”

“Look at me,” said Omally. “What do you see?”

Jim Pooley stood back. Fingering his chin thoughtfully, he scrutinized the trembling Irishman.

“I give up,” said Jim at length. “Tell me.”

Omally drew his breath and said, “I am a man most sorely put upon.”

“So it would appear, but why the fancy dress? It is not cricketers’ night at Jack Lane’s by any chance?”

“Ha ha,” said John in a voice oddly lacking in humour. He ordered another large scotch and Pooley, who was by now in truth genuinely concerned at his close friend’s grave demeanour, actually paid for it. He led the shaken Irishman away from the chuckling throng and the two seated themselves in a shadowy corner.

“I have seen death today,” said Omally in a low and deadly tone. “And like a fool I went back for a second helping.”

“That would seem an ill-considered move upon your part.”

John peered into his double and then turned his eyes towards his old friend. “I will tell you all, but this must go no further.”

Inside Pooley groaned dismally, he had become a man of late for whom the shared confidence spelt nothing but doom and desolation. “Go ahead, then,” he said in a toneless voice.

Omally told his tale, omitting nothing, even his intention towards Archroy’s wife. At first Pooley was simply stunned to hear such a candid confession of his colleague’s guilty deeds, but as the tale wore on and Omally spoke of the Church of the Second Coming and of the sinister portrait and the Latin babblings his blood ran cold.

“Drink up,” said Jim finally. “For there is something I must tell you, and I don’t think you are going to like it very much.” Slowly and with much hesitation Pooley made his confession. He told the Irishman everything, from his first theft of the magic bean to his midnight observation of Omally, and on to all that the Professor had told him regarding the coming of the Dark One and his later meeting with the Other Sam.

Omally sat throughout it all, his mouth hanging open and his glass never quite reaching his lips. When finally he found his voice it was hollow and choked. “Old friend,” said he. “We are in big trouble.”

Pooley nodded. “The biggest,” he said. “We had better go to the Professor.”

“I agree,” said Omally. “But we had better have one or two more of these before we go.”

When Neville called time at ten thirty the two men stumbled forth into the street in their accustomed manner. They had spoken greatly during that evening and there had been much speculation and much putting together of two and two. If the Messiah to the Church of the Second Coming was the man in the portrait and the man in the portrait was none other than the dreaded Dark One himself, then he was obviously gaining a very firm foothold hereabouts.

As Omally pushed Marchant forward and Pooley slouched at his side, hands in pockets, the two men began to feel wretchedly vulnerable beneath the moon’s unholy light.

“You can almost come to terms with it during the day,” said Pooley. “But at night, that is another matter.”

“I can feel it,” said John. “The streets seem no longer familiar, all is now foreign.”

“I know.”

If Marchant knew, he was not letting on, but out of sheer badness he developed an irritating squeak which put the two men in mind of the now sea-going wheelbarrow, and added to their gloom and despondency.

“This lad is heading for the breaker’s yard,” said Omally suddenly. Marchant ceased his rear-wheel loquaciousness.

A welcoming glow showed from the Professor’s open French windows when presently they arrived. From within came the sound of crackling pages being turned upon the laden desk.

“Professor,” called Jim, tapping upon the pane.

“Come in Jim,” came the cheery reply. “And bring Omally with you.”

The two men looked at one another, shrugged and entered the room. Pooley’s eyes travelled past the old Professor and settled upon the spot where the bean creatures had been housed. “Where are they?” -

“They have grown somewhat, Jim,” said the Professor. “I have been forced to lodge them in larger and more secure quarters.” He rang his bell and Gammon appeared as if by magic, bearing a bottle of scotch upon a silver salver.

“Now then,” the Professor said, after what he felt to be a respectable pause, adequate for the settling into armchairs and the tasting of scotch, “I take it you have something to tell me. I take it further that you have confided all in Mr Omally?” Pooley hung his head. “It is all for the best, I suppose, it was inevitable that you should. So, now that you know, what are your thoughts on the matter, Omally?”

Omally, caught somewhat off guard, was hard pressed for a reply, so he combined a shrug, a twitch and a brief but scholarly grin to signify that he had not yet drawn upon his considerable funds of intellect in order to deal fully with the situation.

The Professor, however, read it otherwise. “You are at a loss,” said he.

“I am,” said John.

“So,” the Professor continued, “what brings you here?”

Omally looked towards Jim Pooley for support. Jim shrugged. “You’d better tell him the lot,” said he.

Omally set about the retelling of his day’s experiences. When the Irishman had finished the Professor rose to his feet. Crossing to one of the gargantuan bookcases he drew forth an old red-bound volume which he laid upon the desk.

“Tell me John,” he said. “You would recognize the figure in the portrait were you to see his likeness again?”

“I could hardly forget it.”

“I have the theory,” said Professor Slocombe, “that we are dealing here with some kind of recurring five-hundred-year cycle. I would like you to go through this book and tell me if a facsimile of the portrait you saw exists within.”

Omally sat down in the Professor’s chair and began to thumb through the pages. “It is a very valuable book,” the Professor cautioned, as John’s calloused thumb bent back the corner of yet another exquisite page.

“Sorry.”

“Tell me, Professor,” said Jim, “if we can identify him and even if we can beat on his front door and confront him face to face, what can we do? Omally and I have both seen him, he’s getting on for seven feet tall and big with it. I wouldn’t fancy taking a swing at him and anyway as far as we can swear to, he hasn’t committed any crime. What do we do?”

“You might try making a citizen’s arrest,” said Omally, looking up from his page-turning.

“Back to the books, John,” said the Professor sternly.

“My wrists are beginning to ache,” Omally complained, “and my eyes are going out of focus looking at all these pictures.”

“Were they sharp, the beaks of those birds?” asked the Professor. John’s wrists received a sudden miraculous cure.