The Antipope

20

As they stood puffing and panting in the heat of the Professor’s back garden Pooley asked his companion why he thought it was that neither of them ever seemed to be able to visit the old gentleman without arriving in either a harrassed or a drunken condition.

“I have no idea whatever,” Omally wheezed. “It’s all go nowadays isn’t it?”

“Lunchtime drinking at the Swan is not the peaceful affair it once was.”

The metal shutters were drawn down upon the French windows, and only prolonged knockings, shoutings and rattlings finally succeeded in eliciting a reply from within. The shutters rose, exposing first carpet-slippered feet, then an expanse of tweed trousering, then a red velvet smoking jacket and quilted waistcoat and finally the old white head of Professor Slocombe.

He beamed upon them. He spotted the parcel Omally clutched in his perspiring hand. “Good lad, John,” he said. “The last book I require, excellent.” Closing and bolting the heavy iron shutters, he took the parcel from Omally’s outstretched hand and turned away to his desk. There was a brief rustle of waxen paper and he held the exposed book proudly aloft. “Excellent, and I see it has withstood the rigours of Post Office despatch unscathed.”

“Don’t ask,” said Pooley as he noticed Omally’s mouth opening, “it is probably better not to know.”

“You look somewhat dishevelled,” said the Professor, noticing for the first time the state of his guests. “Why is it, do you think, that neither of you ever seems able to visit me without arriving in either a harrassed or in a drunken condition?”

“We have wondered that ourselves,” said Jim.

“And now,” said the aged host as the two men slumped before him sipping scotch and sighing deeply, “to business, as they say. There are very few hours left for me to school you in all you must know regarding our prospective attackers. I do not expect that their master will take an active part in the proposed assault upon us. That would not be fitting to his dignity. He will despatch his five minions to us, and at least on this score we should be grateful.”

“Extremely,” said Pooley.

“Here’s to you, Alex boy,” said Omally, raising his glass.

“I admire your bravado,” the Professor said gravely, “for my own part I find the situation somewhat alarming. I would have hoped that we could have had a try at him before he has a try at us, if you get my meaning.”

“You are pretty secure here,” said Jim, “as long as you keep well bolted up.”

“I have considered several manoeuvres,” said Professor Slocombe. “Abandoning the house and taking refuge at some undisclosed location, for instance, but this I could not do, for it would mean leaving the books. I considered calling on some help, your friend Archroy I understand has recently mastered certain techniques which I struggled with to a lesser degree.”

“He has?” queried Pooley.

“Most interesting,” said Omally.

“But I do not wish to draw more folk than are strictly necessary into this unfortunate business, so I was left with only one option.”

“Which is?”

“That the three of us should remain on the premises to battle it out.”

Omally said, “Surely there are other options? Let us put some to a vote.”

“I would gladly stay, but have a pressing engagement elsewhere,” said Jim.

“You should have mentioned it earlier,” the Professor said, a wicked twinkle appearing for a moment in his eye, “and I would not have closed the shutter; you see I have set automatic time locks on all the doors and they will not open for another fifteen hours.”

Pooley’s face fell. “You can use the telephone if you wish,” said the Professor brightly.

“I might call a locksmith then?” Jim asked.

“I think not.”

Omally put his hands behind his head and smiled broadly. “When I was in the army,” said he, “I was a happy man, never had to make a decision; it is a pleasure to know those times once more.”

“Oh good old you,” said Jim, “I have never known the joys of army life and can find little to recommend in that of the trapped rat. I greatly prefer freedom.”

“I am sorry,” said Professor Slocombe, “to have brought you to this, but it must be the old musketeer philosophy I am afraid, all for one, one for all.”

“This one would have liked a choice in the matter,” said Jim sourly. “After all, the character at the Mission did not mention me by name.”

“Do you think he would destroy us and let you off scot free then?”

“I do not believe he thinks me as much of a threat.”

“Never fear.” The Professor tapped his nose.

“Never fear?” Pooley threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. “After you with that decanter, John.”

Long hours passed. In the Professor’s study the temperature rose alarmingly, and the air became torpid and un-breathable. Jackets were removed and shirt-tails flapped aplenty. The Professor laboured away at his books as best he could and when Pooley found the energy he paced the floor like a caged animal. To add to his disgust Omally had the perfect effrontery to curl up in one of the Professor’s armchairs and fall asleep.

The mantelclock struck nine and Pooley tapped at the Victorian barometer which hung beside the marble fireplace. “Stormy” it read, but the temperature was still in the mid-80s.

The Professor looked up from his reading. “Try to relax, Jim,” he said, wiping the perspiration from his deeply lined forehead.

“Relax? I can hardly draw breath. We will suffocate in here for sure, we are all doomed.”

“Come now, control yourself.” The Professor closed the heavy damask curtains across the iron-shuttered French windows.

“Control myself? Three rats in a trap we are, you’ve brought us to this. I have no wish to control myself, I prefer to panic.” Pooley began delving amid the curtains and rattling at the iron shutters of the window. “Let me out,” he shouted, kicking at the lock with his steely toecaps, “I choose not to end my days here.”

Omally awoke with a start. “Do turn it in, Jim,” he yawned.

“I’m not turning anything in,” Jim said morosely, “I’m for panic, what say you?”

“I say that we stand by the Professor. After all we are as much to blame for his plight as he for ours.”

“I have no desire to die,” said Jim. “I am yet a young man, and a potential millionaire to boot.”

“Pooley, your sixth horse will never come up.”

“Not if I stay here, it won’t,” said Pooley petulantly.

The Professor raised his eyes once more from his books. “I think the time has come for us to discuss this matter fully,” he said. “We are in a state of siege; panic is a useless and negative commodity which we cannot afford.”

“It’s always served me well enough in the past,” Pooley grumbled.

“If we do not stand together,” the Professor continued, “we shall surely be doomed. Our adversary is a ruthless, cunning individual. In his former incarnation he had the power of life or death over thousands, millions, he was a dictator, a brilliant strategist, he held sway over kingdoms. We are not dealing with some street-corner villain. It is clearly his plan to usurp the Papacy, to reclaim his lands and duchies. He sees himself carried aloft through Vatican City. Ensconced upon the Papal throne. Lord High Ruler of the Holy See. This is only the beginning for him.”

“We had best give up,” said Jim, “all is lost.”

“Bottle job,” said Omally to the Professor, indicating Pooley and making an obscene gesture below the waist. “His bottle’s gone.”

“We can’t fight him,” Pooley whined. “You know how powerful he is.”

“If the Prof says we can, then we can, that’s all there is to it. Listen, I’m a Catholic, not a good one, but a Catholic.” Omally opened his shirt and pulled out the army dogtag he still wore about his neck. “8310255 Private J. V. Omally, Catholic, I’m not letting that gobshite at the Mission get one over on the Church, I hate him!”

Pooley turned upon his companion. “What did happen after I blacked out that night, what did he say to you?”

Omally replaced his dogtag and rebuttoned his shirt. “Nothing,” he said, draining his glass.

“All right,” said Pooley, “as panic is clearly ill-received hereabouts, what do we do?”

The Professor rose from his desk, a book tucked beneath his arm. “We will fight. I am an old man but I have no intention of dying yet awhiles. We can expect a concentrated attack upon these premises, midnight being the traditional hour for such events. Things might not be as bad as they first appear; although we know that the Dark One can extend his power over a considerable distance, I do not feel that he will wish to do so tonight. His minions greatly fear the wrath of his displeasure, as well they might; they will use every power they possess to succeed in their quest.”

“We are outnumbered,” said Jim.

“But not without power. I consider these beings to be the product of conjuration, therefore they are vulnerable. I intend to use the rites of Holy Exorcism, and if these fail I have recourse to several other possible methods for their destruction. These beings are not immortal.”

“That is a big weight off my mind,” sneered Jim, “but listen, the rites of Holy Exorcism take a while to perform. I do not believe that such time will be made available.”

“Well, with the aid of this volume that Omally has brought to me I believe that I have isolated the key words and phrases which give the rite of exorcism its power. Much of that spoken by the priest is merely padding, theological jargon; if I am correct the exorcism can be broken down to nothing more than a few lines of ancient Latin and still retain its basic power.”

“Let us hope you are correct.”

“Well,” said the Professor smiling darkly, “if I am not then the matter will be purely academic.”

“That’s it Professor, cheer us up.” Jim Pooley returned to his contemplation of the wallpaper.

The Memorial Library clock struck midnight. The Butts Estate was in darkness, the century-old horse chestnut trees rising like clenched fists against the sky. Beneath them, bowered in the void, the Mission showed no lights. All was silent. Faintly then came sounds, the dragging of feet and the rustling of ancient cloth. A great iron bolt was suddenly drawn up and the aged door creaked ajar. An icy white shaft of light pierced the darkness, silhouetting the trees and casting their elongated shadows forward through the night. The door swung inwards upon its hinge and now dark forms swayed into the dazzling radiance. Misshapen forms, heavily robed and indefinite of shape, one by one they issued from the Mission, until five in all they stood before it. Then that heavy panelled door swung closed again, the blinding light was snapped away and the Butts slept once more in darkness.

But it was no easy sleep, for here moved creatures of nightmare. Slow of foot they laboured across the gravel drive, the ghastly dragging of their feet echoing over the empty estate. Low murmurings accompanied their progress, hoarse whispers and lamenting sobs. For they belonged not here, these spawn of ancient evil, and yet their tasks they must perform.

The slow ungodly procession trailed onward, keeping ever to the shadows beneath the ivy-hung walls. Now they neared the gate to the Professor’s garden and stood together swaying and murmuring.

Within the Professor’s study the three men waited tensely. They too had heard the midnight chimes. Pooley stood with his back to the wall, wielding a poker. The Professor himself was on the edge of his chair, book in hand. Omally supported himself upon the fireplace; the decanter was empty and he was dangerously drunk.

Long minutes ticked away upon the mantelclock, its pendulum swung its gilded arc and the three men held their breath.

Suddenly there came a rattling upon the window, a repeated and urgent tapping. Pooley shifted the poker from his sweating palm and wiped his hand upon his trousers.

The Professor said, “Who is there?”

“Is that you, Professor?” came a voice. “Omally with you? I’ve brought a crate of beer over. Open up.”

“It’s Neville,” said Pooley, breathing a monumental sigh of relief and flinging his poker to the carpeted floor. “What’s he doing here?” Jim crossed the room to throw back the curtains.

The Professor leapt to his feet and barred his way. “Stop, Jim,” said he in a desperate voice, “do not open the curtains.”

“But it’s Neville, he can pass the drink in through the iron screens, be reasonable.”

The Professor held up his hand and shook his head. “Neville?” said he loudly. “What is the name of your father?”

Pooley turned helplessly to John Omally. “What sort of question is that, I ask you?”

There was no sound. “Neville?” called the Professor again, but there was no reply.

“He’s gone,” said Jim. “What I would have given for a cold beer.”

Suddenly the knocking and rattling began again with renewed vigour, a voice rang out. “Help, help, let me in will you, I’ve got to use the phone.” It was the voice of Old Pete. “Please open up, you must help me.”

“Something’s wrong there,” said Jim, “open those curtains.”

“My dog,” wailed the voice, “a bloody lorry’s run down Chips, let me in, I must phone for help.”

“For pity’s sake,” said Pooley, “open the curtains.”

The Professor would have none of it. “Stand your ground, Jim,” he said sternly. “Put your hands over your ears if you do not wish to hear it, but make no move towards the curtains.”

“But you’ve got to do something, let him in.”

The Professor turned to Omally. “If he makes one step towards those curtains strike him down.”

Jim threw up his arms in defeat. “Wise up, Pooley,” said Omally. “Don’t you see, old Pete isn’t out there, it’s a trick.”

The Professor nodded his old head. “First temptation through Neville, then an appeal for pity, what next? Threats, I should imagine.”

Pooley had little time to mull over the Professor’s words before a deafening voice roared from the garden, “Open up these windows or I’ll smash the bastards down.” This time it was the voice of Count Dante’s most accomplished adept in the deadly arts of Dimac. “Open up in there, I say, or it will be the worse for you!”

Pooley threw himself into a chair. “If it is all right with you chaps I should prefer to simply panic now and have done with it,” he said.

Archroy’s voice slowly faded, still uttering threats, and the three men were left alone once more.

“Do you think that’s it then?” Omally asked, tottering to the nearest chair.

The Professor’s face was grave. “I should hardly think so, I suspect that their next attempt to gain entry will be a little less subtle.” In that supposition the Professor was entirely correct.

Omally twitched his nostrils. “What’s that smell?”

The Professor’s eyes darted about the room. “It’s smoke, something is burning.”

Pooley pointed helplessly. “It’s coming under the study door, we are ablaze.”

“Ignore it,” said the Professor. “There is no fire, the doors are shuttered and bolted, nothing could have entered the house unheard.”

“I can see it with my own eyes,” said Pooley. “Smoke is something I can recognize, we’ll all be burned alive.”

“I don’t see any flames,” said the Professor, “but if the smoke bothers you so much.” He stepped forward and raised his hands; of the syllables he spoke little can be said and certainly nothing written. The smoke that was gathering thickly now about the room seemed suddenly to suspend itself in space and time and then, as if a strip of cinema film had been reversed, it regathered and removed itself back through the crack beneath the door, leaving the air clear, although still strangling in the tropical heat.

“That I have seen,” said Pooley, “but please do not ask me to believe it.”

“A mere parlour trick,” said the Professor matter-of-factly. “If our adversaries are no more skilful than this, we shall have little to fear; it is all very elementary stuff.”

“It is all sheer fantasy,” said Jim, pinching himself. “Shortly I shall awake in my bed remembering nothing of this.”

“The clock has stopped,” said Omally pointing to the silent timepiece upon the mantelshelf.

The Professor took out his pocket watch and held it to his ear. “Bother,” he said, giving it a shake, “I must have mispronounced several of the minor convolutions. Give the pendulum a swing, will you John?”

Omally rose unsteadily from his chair and reached towards the mantelshelf. The alcohol, however, caused him to misjudge his distance and he toppled forward head first into the fireplace. Turning on to his back in an effort to remove himself from the ashes Omally suddenly let out a terrified scream which echoed about the room rattling the ornaments and restarting the mantelclock.

Not three feet above, and apparently wedged into the chimney, a hideous, inhuman face snarled down at him. It was twisted and contorted into an expression of diabolical hatred. A toothless mouth like that of some vastly magnified insect opened and closed, dripping foul green saliva upon him; eyes, two flickering pinpoints of white light; and the entire horrific visage framed in a confusion of crimson cloth. The sobering effect upon Omally was instantaneous. Tearing himself from his ashy repose he leapt to his feet and fell backwards against the Professor’s desk, spilling books and screaming, “Up the chimney, up the chimney.”

“I don’t think it’s Santa,” said Pooley.

Omally was pointing desperately and yelling, “Light a fire, light a fire!”

Pooley cast about for tinder. “Where are the logs, Professor? You always have logs.”

The Professor chewed upon his knuckle. “The shed,” he whispered in a trembling voice.

“We’ll have to burn the books then.” Omally turned to the desk and snatched up an armful.

“No, no, not the books.” Professor Slocombe flung himself upon Omally, clawing at his precious tomes. The broadshouldered Irishman thrust him aside, and Pooley pleaded with the old man. “There’s nothing we can do, we have to stop them.”

Professor Slocombe fell back into his chair and watched in horror as the two men loaded the priceless volumes into the grate and struck fire to them. The ancient books blazed in a crackle of blue flame and from above them in the chimney there came a frantic scratching and clawing. Strangled cries rent the air and thick black smoke began to fill the room. Now the French windows burst assunder with a splintering of glass and the great curtains billowed in to a blast of icy air. The burning creature’s hooded companions beat upon the shuttered metal screen, screeching vile blasphemies in their rasping inhuman voices. There was a crash and the creature descended into the flames, clawing and writhing in a frenzy of searing agony.

Pooley snatched up his poker and lashed out at it viciously. Omally heaped more books on to the fire. The Professor stepped forward, knowing what had to be done.

Slowly raising his hand in benediction he spoke the magical words of the Holy Exorcism. The creature groaned and twisted in the flames, its arms flailing at its tormentors. Pooley held it at bay and as the Professor spoke and Omally applied more fuel to the fire, its movements began to slow and presently it crumpled in upon itself to be cremated by the all-consuming flames.

The curtains ceased their billowing and from the garden there came a great wailing and moaning. Pooley cupped his hands over his ears and the Professor stood, book in hand, frozen and corpse-like. Omally was beating away at the burning books which had fallen from the fireplace on to the carpet. His face was set into a manic grin and he prodded at the remains of the fallen creature with undisguised venom.

The wailing from the garden became fainter and as it passed into silence the Professor breathed a great sigh and said, “All the ashes must be gathered and tomorrow cast into the Thames; by fire and by water and the holy writ shall they be destroyed.”

Omally plucked a half-charred volume from the grate. “I am sorry about the books,” he said, “but what else could we do?”

“It is no matter, you acted wisely and no doubt saved our lives.” The Professor fingered the ruined binding of the ancient book. “A pity though, irreplaceable.”

Pooley had unfastened his hands from about his head. “Are they gone?” he asked inanely.

“Unless they are regrouping for another assault.”

The Professor shook his head. “I think not, they will be none too eager to return now, but what will happen when they report the loss of their comrade I shudder to think.”

Omally whistled. “Our man is not going to be very pleased.”

“We are doomed,” said Pooley once more, “all doomed.”

“Jim,” said Omally wearily, “if you say ‘we are doomed’ one more time I am going to set aside the long years of our noble friendship and remodel your beak with the business end of my knuckles.”

“Come now gentlemen,” said the Professor, “I have a bottle of port which I suggest we now consume before taking a well-earned rest.”

Omally rubbed his hands together. “That would be excellent.”

Pooley shrugged his shoulders. “What else can happen?” he asked.

A pink dawn came to Brentford, gilding the rooftops with its sickly hue. Birds that should have by now flown south to winter it in tropical climes sat in silent rows musing upon the oddness of the season. As the old sun dragged itself into the sky there was all the promise of another fine and cloudless day ahead.

Pooley was the first to awake. He heard the milk float clattering over the cobblestones of the Butts, and, rising stiffly, he stumbled to the French windows and drew back the heavy curtains. The sunlight beamed down through the metal screen, laying golden diamonds upon the Professor’s carpet and causing Jim to blink wildly whilst performing the ritualistic movements of finding the first fag of the day. Like all first fags it was a killer. Jim did his best to draw some breath from the fragrant garden between coughs while he surveyed the damage the night had brought. The French windows had been torn from their hinges once more and their splintered remains littered the small lawn and surrounding flowerbeds. Shards of glass twinkled bright in the morning sunlight.

Pooley’s vile coughing awoke Omally who, scratching his nether regions, shambled over to join him. “A rare mess,” said the Irishman, “the glaziers will think the Professor a fine man for the wild parties and no mistake.”

Pooley gripped the metal framework of the screen. “What time does this open?” he asked.

“Nine o’clock, wasn’t it?”

The Memorial Library clock struck eight.

“An hour yet then.”

Omally shook the Professor gently awake. The old man stretched his slender limbs to the accompaniment of ghastly bone-cracking sounds. He yawned deeply. “So we are still alive then, that is a blessing.”

“Not much left of your windows,” said Jim. “Might be more economical to wall up the opening.”

The Professor looked at his watch and checked it with the mantelclock. “Time for breakfast I think.” He rang the Indian brass bell upon his desk and presently there came a knocking upon the study door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door swung open and the decrepit figure of Gammon appeared. “Breakfast for three, sir,” he said, hefting an oversized butler’s tray into view.

“I gave him the night off,” the Professor explained as the three men sat about the Moorish coffee table ravenously devouring the mountainous piles of toast, sausages, eggs and bacon loaded upon the tray. “I told him to return at seven and if he found the house intact, to arrange breakfast for three.”

“And what if the house had not been intact?” Omally asked between mouthfuls.

“If the doors were broken in and it was obvious that an entry had been made I ordered him to set the house ablaze and leave immediately, never to return.”

“And he would have done that?”

“Unquestioningly.”

Omally whistled. “He is a loyal servant indeed. It would have been my first thought to remove several of the more choice objects in order to spare them from the blaze, as it were.”

“Gammon has no need for that, I have seen to it that his long years of service will not go unrewarded.”

“You are a strange man, Professor.”

The Professor shook his head. “On the contrary, my motives are most simple, to advance science and to combat evil.”

“You make it sound simple.”

The Professor munched upon a piece of toast. “I believe in destiny,” he said, “I believe in the existence of the cosmic masterplan. No man is without a purpose, but few if any find theirs before it is too late. Perhaps I am lucky to believe that I have found mine, possibly not. Possibly ignorance as they say is bliss. It is written that ‘a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but a great deal of knowledge is a disaster’.”

“Probably written by Norman,” said Pooley, pushing another sausage into his mouth.

“A man without talent or ambition is a man most easily pleased. He lives his life with no delusions, other men set his purpose and he is content.”

“That is a depressing thought,” said Omally, “as that particular definition covers most individuals in this present society.”

“The balance must always be maintained. All have a purpose, be he pauper or king, such it has always been. There could be no giants if there were no dwarves.”

Pooley thought that there probably could be, but he held his counsel as he had no wish to be drawn into an arduous discussion at this time of the day. “Here,” he said suddenly, “how did Gammon get in if all the doors were on time-locks?”

Omally raised his eyes suspiciously towards the Professor, but the old man merely chuckled and continued with his breakfasting. Black coffees were drunk and at length Gammon returned to dispose of the tray. At nine o’clock the time-lock upon the metal shuttering snapped open and the Professor raised it. Gammon had swept every ash from the fireplace into a sack and this the Professor handed to Omally with explicit instructions.

“You must sprinkle it over at least half a mile,” he explained, “there must be no chance of the particles regrouping. And now I must say farewell to you gentlemen. It is no longer safe for me to remain here. I have other apartments not far from here and I will lodge there. When the moment comes that I need you I will be in contact. Go now and await my call, speak of these matters to no-one and be constantly on your guard. You should be safe during the hours of daylight, but at night go nowhere alone, do not allow yourselves to become separated.”

The two men stepped through the French windows, over the mess of shattered glass, and out towards the Professor’s gate. They turned to wave him a cheery farewell but the old man had gone.