Robert Rankin - The Antipope

Neville leant closer to the drunken Sea Captain. “What did he look like?” he asked.

“’Oribble, filthy, disreputable, evil creature, ragged as a Cairo cabbie.”

“And is he there now?” Neville continued.

“Well.” The Captain hesitated, swaying somewhat on his slippered feet, and held the bar counter for support. “You could say he is, but then again he isn’t. He was little when he came,” he made a levelling gesture at about chest height, “small he was, but now, huge, bloody big bastard, bad cess upon him.” His hand soared into the air high over his head and the eyes of the assembled company travelled with it.

“Aw, get out of here,” said Neville, returning to his glass polishing, “no-one can grow that big in a few months.”

“I should bloody know,” screamed the Captain, shattering his glass upon the bar counter, “I should bloody know, I’ve fed him, cleaned and swept for him, treated him like some Holy God all these months. He had me like a ship’s rat in a trap, no-one can stand against him, but now I’m out, he’s kicked me out of my Mission, but I’ll finish him, I’ll tell all I know, things he’s done, things he made me do…” Here his voice trailed off and his eyes became glazed.

“Yes?” said Omally. “What have you done?”

Captain Carson spoke not a word. Neville, who had taken shelter beneath the counter, rose again, wielding his knobkerry. “Get out!” he shouted. “You’re barred.”

The old man stood unblinking. His mouth was open as if in the formation of a word, but it was a word which never came.

“What’s happened to him?” said Neville. “He’s not dead is he?”

Omally walked slowly about the paralysed figure in the dressing-gown. He snapped his fingers and waved his hands in front of the staring eyes. But the Captain would not move, he was frozen to the spot. Those drinkers who had made vague attempts at private conversation or the perusal of the sporting press during all this, now came slowly forward to view the strange tableau. Suggestions were forthcoming.

“Flick your lighter, that brings them out of it.”

“Bucket of water, that’s your man.”

“Ice cube down his neck.”

“Make a grab at his wallet, that will bring him round.”

Omally held an empty wine-glass to the Captain’s lips. He turned it between his fingers then held it up to the light. “He’s stopped breathing,” he said, “this man is dead.”

“Get him out of here,” screamed Neville, climbing over the counter, “I won’t have a stiff in my bar.”

“Quick then,” said Omally, “give me a hand to carry him out into the sun, maybe we can resuscitate him.”

Omally grasped the Captain under the armpits and Neville made to lift up the slippered feet. What followed was even more bizarre than what had gone before. The old man would not move; it was as if he had been welded to the Saloon bar floor. Omally could not shift the old and crooked shoulders an inch, and Neville let out a sudden “Oh!” and straightened up, holding his back.

Several men stepped forward and attempted to shake and pull at the Captain, but he would not be moved, not one foot, one inch, one iota.

“Do something,” said Neville in a voice of terror, “I can’t have him standing there forever looking at me, he’ll go off in this heat, he’ll ruin my trade, it’s bad luck to have a stiff in the saloon bar.”

Omally prodded at the Captain’s dressing-gown. “He appears to be freezing up,” he said, “the material of his gown here is stiff as a board, you can’t even sway it.”

“I don’t care!” Neville was beginning to panic. “He can’t stay here, get him out. Get him out!”

Omally returned to the bar and took up his glass, while the crowd closed in about the Captain. “That is certainly the strangest thing I have ever seen,” he said. “This might make you famous.” Omally’s brain suddenly switched on. There was money in this, that was for sure. He swept back his glass of Large and made for the door, but the part-time barman had anticipated him and stood, knobkerry in hand, blocking the Irishman’s exit. “Oh no you don’t,” said he.

Omally began to wheedle. “Come on Nev,” he said, “we can’t do anything for him now and we certainly can’t ignore him. You can’t just stick a bar cloth over his head and pretend he’s a pile of cheese sandwiches.”

“No publicity,” said Neville, fluttering his hands, “make me famous? This could ruin me. ‘Frozen Corpse in Saloon Bar Scandal’, I can see it all.” (So could Omally, but he had phrased the headline a little better.) “They’ll say it was the beer, or that I poisoned him or God knows what else. The brewery will be down on me like a ton of red flettons, this is just the excuse they need.”

Omally shrugged. “All right,” he said, “I’ll say nothing, but that lot,” he gestured over his shoulder, “I can’t vouch for them.”

“Well don’t let them out, do something, stop them, get them away from him.”

“Which would you like doing first?”

“The last one.”

“All right.” Omally held his chin between thumb and forefinger, thought for a moment. “Just back me up on whatever I say.” He took a deep breath and strode into the midst of the throng. “Nobody touch him,” he shouted, “for God’s sake don’t touch him.” The fingers which were inquisitively prodding the Captain withdrew in a hurried rush. “Who’s touched him?” said Omally in alarm. “Which one of you?”

There was a lot of shuffling and murmuring. “We’ve all touched him,” said someone in a guilty voice.

“Oh no!” Omally put his hand to his forehead in a gesture of vast despair.

“What’s he got?” someone said. “Out with it, Omally.”

Omally supported himself on the counter and said gravely, “It’s Reekie’s Syndrome… the Frozen Death!”

Neville nodded soberly. “I’ve heard of it,” he said. “When I was serving in Burma a fellow caught it, horrible end.”

Someone in the crowd, for there is always one, said, “That’s right, a mate of mine had it.”

Omally struck the counter with his fist. “What a fool!” he said. “What a fool, if only I had recognized it sooner.”

“It’s contagious then?” somebody asked.

“Contagious?” Omally gave a stage laugh. “Contagious… worse than the Black Death. We’ll have to go into quarantine. Bar the door Neville.”

Neville strode to the door and threw the brass bolts.

“But how long?” asked a patron whose wife had the dinner on.

Omally looked at Neville. “Two days?” he asked.

“Twenty-four hours,” said Neville. “Twelve if the weather keeps up.”

“Still,” Omally grinned, “you’ve got to look on the bright side. He’s certainly keeping the bar cool, like having the fridge door open.”

“Oh good,” said Neville unenthusiastically, “better put up a sign in the window, ‘The Flying Swan Welcomes You, Relax in the Corpse-Cool Atmosphere of the Saloon Bar’.”

Omally examined the tip of his prodding finger. It had a nasty blister on it which the Irishman recognized as frostbite. “If he gets much colder, we should be able to smash him up with a hammer and sweep the pieces into the street.”

The Swan’s patrons, some ten in all, who with the addition of Omally, Norman, who had hardly spoken a word since he entered the bar, and Neville, made up a most undesirable figure, were beginning to press themselves against the walls and into obscure corners. Most were examining their fingers and blowing upon them, some had already begun to shiver. Omally knew how easily mass hysteria can begin and he wondered now whether he had been wise in his yarn-spinning. But what had happened to the Captain? Clearly this was no natural ailment, it had to be the work of the villain calling himself Pope Alexander VI. Obviously his power could extend itself over a considerable distance.