The Antipope (8 page)

Minutes later on the corner of Sprite Street Omally crouched, bent double, hands upon knees, gasping for breath. Pooley did little other than sigh deeply as he relieved himself through the railings into the Memorial Park. Between the gasps, gulps and Woodbine coughs, Omally uttered various curses, veiled blasphemies and vows of impending violence directed solely and unswervingly towards Soap Distant.

Pooley finished his ablutions to the accompaniment of one last all-embracing sigh. Having zipped himself into respectability he withdrew from his inner pocket a bottle of Soap’s fifty-year-old wine. “Shame to leave empty-handed,” he said. “One for the road John?”

“One indeed,” the Irishman replied. He took a great pull and swallowed deeply.

Pooley said “What should we do? Soap is clearly mad!”

Omally wiped his mouth and passed the bottle across. The full moon shone down upon them, in the distance cars rolled over the flyover and a late-night dog returning from some canine revelry loped across the road. All seemed so normal, so mundane, that their experience within the caverns was already taking on the nature of a bad dream. The clock on the Memorial Library struck two.

“If all that we saw was real and not some shared vision, I am truly at a loss to know what action we should take. Soap is not harming anybody, although I am certain that such an enormous maze of tunnels should be reported to the authorities, if only that they might be certified as safe. While I was down there I had the feeling that most of Brentford could have sunk easily into them, still leaving room for half of the Chiswick High Road.”

“But what about the doors?” said Jim. “Surely one man could not open them alone, they looked pretty hefty. You don’t really believe that they lead into the inner earth do you?”

Omally shook his head. “I haven’t a clue, although those crests, I’ve seen them before somewhere.”

All further conversation was however stifled by a low and ghastly rumble which came apparently from the lower end of Albany Road. Like a hideous subterranean clap of thunder it rolled forward. From far along the street, lights began to blink on in upstairs windows. Cats began to whine and dogs to bark.

Pooley said, “It’s an earthquake!”

Omally crossed himself.

Somewhere deep within the earth a monstrous force was stirring; great ripples ran up the paving stones of Sprite Street. A shock wave spread across the grass of the Memorial Park, stiffening the coarse blades into regimented rows. A great gasp which issued from no human throat shuddered up from the very bowels of the earth, building to an enormous crescendo.

Omally felt inclined to run but his knees had turned to jelly. Pooley had assumed the foetal position. By now Sprite Street was a blaze of light, windows had been thrown up, front doors flung open, people issued into the street clad in ludicrous pyjamas and absurd carpet slippers. Then as rapidly as it had begun, the ominous rumbling ceased, seemed to pass away beneath them and fade away. The denizens of Sprite Street suddenly found themselves standing foolishly about the road in the middle of the night. Shuffling their carpet slippers and feigning indifference to conceal their acute embarrassment they backed into their respective abodes and quietly closed their front doors.

The night was still again, the lights of Sprite Street dimmed away and Pooley rose to his feet patting dirt from his tweeds. “John,” said he, “if you will excuse me I am now going home to my bed where I intend to remain for an indefinite period. I fear that the doings of this evening have forever destroyed my vitality and that I am a broken man.”

“Certainly this has been an evening I should prefer to forget,” said Omally. With that he put his arm about his companion’s shoulder and the two friends wandered away into the night.

It was indeed a mystery. The pressmen thrust their way through the crowds of baffled onlookers and peered disbelievingly down from the bridge to the muddied track of twisted bicycle frames, old tin cans and discarded pram wheels which spread away into the distance. How an entire one-mile stretch of canal from the river lock to that of the windscreen-wiper factory could simply have vanished overnight seemed beyond anybody’s conjecture.

“It couldn’t have gone out through the river lock,” an old bargee explained, “it is high water on the Thames and the river is six foot up the lock gates on that side.”

“And at the other end?”

The bargee gave his inquisitor a look of contempt. “What, travel uphill into the next lock do you mean?” The interviewer coloured up and sought business elsewhere.

Archroy, who was a great follower of Charles Fort, explained what had happened. “Teleportation,” said the lad. “The water has been teleported away by those in sore need of it, possibly inhabitants of a nearby sphere, most likely the moon.”

The pressmen, although ever-anxious to accept any solution as long as it was logical, newsworthy or simply sensational, seemed strangely diffident towards his claims for the existence of telekinetic lunar beams.

It was certainly a most extraordinary event however, one which would no doubt catapult Brentford once more into the national headlines, and at least bring good trade to the Flying Swan. Neville was going great guns behind the bar. The cash register rang musically and the no-sale sign bobbed up and down like a demented jack-in-the-box.

“And don’t forget,” said the part-time barman above the din, “Thursday night is Cowboy Night.”

Jammed into an obscure corner and huddled over his pint, Jim Pooley watched with loathing the fat backside of an alien pressman which filled his favourite bar stool. Omally edged through the crush with two pints of Large. “It was only after I got home that I remembered where I’d seen those crests before,” he explained as he wedged himself in beside Pooley. “They were the coat of arms of the Grand Junction Water Works, those doors must have been part of the floodgate system from old Brentford dock.” Pooley sucked upon his pint, his face a sullen mask of displeasure. “Then what of old Soap?”

A devilish smile crossed Omally’s face. “Gone, washed away.” His fingers made the appropriate motions. “So much for old Rigdenjyepo and the burrowers beneath, eh?”

Pooley hunched closer to his pint. “A pox on it all,” said he. “The Swan packed full of these idiots, old Soap flushed away round the proverbial S-bend and Cowboy Night looming up before us with about as much promise as the coming of Ragnorok!”

Omally grinned anew. “There are many pennies to be made from an event such as this; I myself have organized several tours of the vicinity for this afternoon at a pound a throw.”

Pooley shook his head in wonder. “You don’t waste a lot of time, do you?”

“Mustn’t let the grass grow under the old size nines.”

“Tell me, John,” said Jim, “how is it now that a man such as yourself who possesses such an amazing gift for the making of the well known ‘fast buck’ has not set himself up in business long ago and since retired upon the proceeds?”

“I fear,” said John, “that it is the regularity of ‘the work’ which depresses me, the daily routine which saps the vital fluids and destroys a man’s brain. I prefer greatly to live upon wits I have and should they ever desert me then, maybe then, I shall take to ‘the work’ as a full-time occupation.” Omally took from his pocket a “Book Here for Canal Tours” sign and began a “roll up, roll up” routine.

Pooley rose from the table and excused himself. He had no wish to become involved in Omally’s venture. He wished only to forget all about subterranean caverns and vanishing canal water, his only thoughts on that matter were as to what might happen should they attempt to refill the stretch of canal. Was Sprite Street lower geographically than the canal? If it was, would the attempt flood the entire neighbourhood? It really didn’t bear thinking about. Pooley slouched over to the bar and ordered another pint.

“Looking forward to Thursday night I’ll bet, Jim,” said Neville.

Pooley did not answer. Silently he sipped at his ale and let the snippets of barside conversation wash disjointedly about him. “And my old grandad is sitting by the dartboard when he threw,” came a voice, “and the dart went straight through the lobe of his right ear.” Pooley sipped at his ale. “And as they went to pull it out,” the voice continued, “the old man said ‘No don’t, it’s completely cured the rheumatism in my left knee.’”

Pooley yawned. Along the bar from him huddled in their usual conspiratorial poses were Brentford’s two resident jobbing builders, Hairy Dave and Jungle John, so named for their remarkably profuse outcroppings of cerebral hair. The twin brothers were discussing what seemed to be a most complex set of plans which they had laid out before them on the bar top.

“I don’t think I can quite understand all this,” said Dave.

“It’s a poser for certain,” his brother replied.

“I can’t see why he wants the altar to be so large.”

“I can’t see why there aren’t to be any pews.”

“Nor an organ.”

“Seems a funny kind of a chapel to me.”

Pooley listened with interest; surely no-one in the neighbourhood could be insane enough to commission those two notorious cowboys to build a chapel?

Hairy Dave said, “I can’t see why the plans should be written in Latin.”

“Oh,” said his brother, “it’s Latin is it? I thought it was trigonometry.”

Pooley could contain his curiosity no longer, and turned to the two master builders. “Hello lads, how’s business?”

John snatched the plan from the bar top and crumpled it into his jacket. “Ah, oh…” said his brother, “good day Jim and how is yourself?”

“For truth,” Pooley replied, “I am not a well man. Recently I have been party to events which have seriously damaged my health. But let us not talk of me, how is business? I hear that you are on the up and up, won a large contract I heard.”

The two brothers stared at each other and then at Pooley. “Not us,” said one. “Haven’t had a bite in weeks,” said the other.

“My, my,” said Jim, “my informant was certain that you had a big one up your sleeve, something of an ecclesiastical nature I think.”

John clutched the plan to his bosom. “Haven’t had a bite in weeks,” his brother reiterated. “Been very quiet of late.” Hairy Dave shook his head, showering Pooley with dandruff. Jungle John did the same.

Neville stormed up the bar. “Less of that you two,” said the part-time barman, “I’ve warned you before about contaminating my cheese rolls.”

“Sorry Neville,” said the brothers in unison, and rising from their seats they left the bar, leaving their drinks untouched.

“Most strange,” said Pooley. “Most astonishing.”

“Those two seem very thick together lately,” said Neville. “It seems that almost everybody in this damn pub is plotting something.”

“Tell me Neville,” said Jim, “did you ever see any more of our mystery tramp?”

“Thankfully no,” said the part-time barman, “and with this canal business taking up everybody’s attention, let’s hope that no more will ever be said about him.”

Pooley shook his head. “I wouldn’t be too certain of that,” he said doubtfully.

Captain Carson stood upon the canal bridge staring down into the mud and idly casting his eyes along the bank to where an official-looking Mr Omally, dressed in a crested cap and jaunty blazer, led a group of Swedish students along the rutted track towards the woodyard. The Captain’s loathing for tourists almost overshadowed that which he felt for the figure standing calmly at his side, hands in pockets and smoking seaman’s shag in one of the Captain’s favourite pipes. The figure was no longer distinguishable as the wretched and ill-clad monstrosity which had cast an evil shadow across his porch but two short weeks ago. Cleanly-shaven and smelling of Brylcreem, the figure was dressed in a blue rollneck sweater and a pair of the Captain’s best khaki trousers, a yachting cap and a pair of sailing shoes.

The tramp had become a kind of witches’ familiar to the Captain, haunting his dreams and filling his waking hours with dread. Somehow, and the Captain was at a loss to explain how, the tramp had now permanently installed himself at the Mission. During meals he sat in the Captain’s chair whilst the Captain was obliged to eat in the kitchen. No matter which way the Captain turned the tramp was always there, reclining upon the porch, smoking his cigarettes, lounging in the cosiest fireside chair, sipping rum. He had tricked the Captain, again by means that the Captain was at a loss to understand, out of his chair, his tobacco, his food, drink and finally out of his bed.

The tramp sucked deeply upon the Captain’s briar and blew out a stream of multicoloured smoke. “There would seem to be unusual forces at work in this neighbourhood,” he observed.

The Captain surveyed his unwelcome guest with ill-concealed hatred. “There would indeed,” he replied. Somehow deep down in the lowest depths of his loathing for the tramp a strange and grudging respect was beginning to stir. The Captain could, again, not fully account for these feelings, but now, clean-shaven and well dressed as he was, the tramp seemed to exude a definite air of authority. Possibly of nobility. It was inexplicable. The aura of evil which surrounded him was almost palpable and the Captain seemed to sense his approach at all times; a kind of darkness travelled with the red-eyed man, a funereal coldness. The Captain shuddered.

“Cold?” said the tramp. “We’d best be going back then, don’t want you coming down with any summer colds now, do we?”

The Captain followed the tramp back towards the Mission with doglike obedience. As the tramp strode on ahead of him the Captain watched the broad shoulders swing to and fro in a perfect rhythm. Surely the tramp had grown, surely his bearing was prouder, finer than before.

No wonder, all the food he eats, thought the Captain. But who was he? His age was indeterminate; he could be anything between twenty and fifty. There was a vagueness about his features which eluded definition. The Captain had gone to great lengths to draw some information from him regarding his name, family and background, but the tramp was infuriatingly evasive. He had made only one statement upon these matters and this was, “There are five here that know my name and when they speak it, all shall know.” As to who these five were, the Captain was unable to guess. Possibly the tramp alluded to five of the fictional names he had quoted from the Mission’s yearly reports.

The tramp turned into the Mission, which he opened with his own key. The Captain followed meekly; the tramp was wearing down his resistance to a point that he no longer questioned any of his actions.

“I wish to speak to you upon a delicate matter,” said the tramp suddenly. “It is a matter which affects both our futures and one which I know lies heavily upon your soul.” The Captain raised a bristling eyebrow. “Possibly you will wish to open the reserve bottle of rum you keep in the locked cupboard beneath the stairs in order to fortify yourself for what I am about to say.”

The Captain humbly obeyed. The two seated themselves upon either side of the Captain’s table and two large tots of rum were poured.

“It has come to my notice,” said the tramp, “that there is one not far from here who would do us harm.”

The Captain’s face showed no expression but his mind paid silent homage to anyone who would wish ill upon his guest.

“One Brian Crowley,” said the tramp. The Captain started up in astonishment. “It has come to my notice,” the tramp continued, “that this man harbours the desire to close down this Mission and to dismiss you, my honourable host, without thanks or pension. You who have done so much for the poor and needy, you who have dedicated your life to the unfortunate.” The Captain shifted uneasily in his seat. “There is, I understand, a conspiracy between this Crowley,” again he spoke the hated name, “and a certain Councillor Wormwood, to demolish this Mission in order to extend the Butts Car Park.”

The Captain bit upon his lip. So that was their intention was it? How the tramp could have come by this intelligence was, of course, beyond any conjecture, but the Captain hung upon his every word. “I have given the matter much thought,” he told the tramp. “Night after night I have lain cursing the very name of Crowley and racking my brain for a solution, but none have I found.”

“I think that one might be relatively close at hand,” said the tramp, “in fact, I feel its warm breath upon my neck even now.” The Captain poured two more large tots of rum. “We shall invite these two individuals to dinner,” said the tramp.

The Captain bent double in a fit of frenzied coughing. “Calm yourself,” said the tramp.

“I fear,” said the Captain, “that the breath you feel upon your neck is one of severe halitosis.”

The tramp’s face was without expression, he drank down his tot of rum and watched the Captain, his eyes unblinking, two drops of blood upon colourless orbs. “Thursday night would be ideal,” said the tramp.

“But what if they won’t come. After all, Crowley hates me and Wormwood will never want to expose himself in anyway.”

“They will come,” said the tramp, “and I think I can promise you a most entertaining evening.” His ghastly eyes glittered with a fierce luminosity and the Captain tossed back his rum with a quivering hand.

Brian Crowley held up the gilt-edged invitation card to the sunlight. It presented a most extraordinary appearance, almost transparent and clearly wrought of the finest vellum. Never for one moment would he have attributed such style, taste or elegance to the old sea captain. The edging of the card had more the look of being worked in gold leaf than sprayed in the gilded paint of the printer’s shop. The typeface was of a design that Brian did not recognize, its finely drawn serifs and cunning arabesques seeming of almost Islamic origin. And the smell of it, something stirred within him, some recollection from his past. It was the smell of incense, church incense. He had smelt it many times before, as a choirboy at St Mary’s, that was it, church incense.