The Antipope

“What happened after I blacked out?” Pooley asked.

Omally turned away. “Nothing,” said he in a bland voice, but the violent shaking of his hands did not go unnoticed by Jim or the Professor.

“It looks like another sunny day,” said Jim, changing the subject.

“Will you gentlemen take breakfast with me?” asked the Professor.

There is little need to record the answer to that particular question.

18

As September neared its blazing end, the heat showed no sign of lessening. Now the nights were made terrible by constant electrical storms. Omally had penned Marchant up in his allotment shed, having read of a cyclist struck down one night by the proverbial bolt from the blue.

There could now be no doubt of the location of the Church of the Second Coming. Nightly its grey-faced flock stalked through the tree-lined streets of the Butts Estate en route for its unhallowed portals. Father Moity was going through agonies of self-doubt as his congregation deserted him in droves.

The Professor stood at his window watching them pass. He shook his head in sorrow and pulled down the blind. Many had seen the five red monks moving mysteriously through the midnight streets. It was rumoured that they attended at the rites of the new church. The Professor felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise when he thought of the alien monstrosities which inhabited those saintly crimson robes. He had seen them again only the night before, clustered in a swaying group outside his very garden gate, murmuring amongst themselves.

A streak of lightning had illuminated them for a moment and the Professor had seen the ghastly mottled faces, muddy lustreless masks of horror. He had slammed shut his doors and drawn down the iron screen he had fitted for security. His house was almost in a state of siege now, and he was certain that his every move was closely observed.

Omally had been acting as messenger and delivery boy, freighting quantities of thaumaturgical books which arrived daily in wax-paper packages at Norman’s corner shop. The old man rarely slept now, and his hours were spent committing to memory vast passages of obscure Latin.

“Every day draws us nearer,” he told the struggling Irishman as Omally manhandled another half dozen weighty tomes into the study.

“You must surely have half the stock of the British Museum here by now,” said the perspiring John.

“I have almost all I need,” the Professor explained, “but I have another letter for you to post.”

“Talking of books,” said Omally, “I have loaned your Dimac training manual to Archroy.”

The Professor smiled briefly. “And what became of yours?”

“I never owned one,” said Omally, “it was a rumour put about by Pooley. It kept us out of fights.”

“Well, good luck to Archroy, he has suffered more than most over this affair. I hear that as well as losing his car, his magic beans and the use of his thumb, he was also unlucky enough to have had his arm broken and his head damaged by a lunatic in a Fair Isle jumper.”

Omally, who now no longer adopted that particular mode of dress, nodded painfully. “I am grateful that my companions at the Swan have been discreet over that particular matter and I must thank my good friend Jim for the permanent loan of his second suit.”

The Professor whistled through his teeth. “Two suits Pooley, a man of means indeed.”

Omally sipped at his drink thoughtfully and knotted his brow. “Will all this soon be over?” he asked. “Is there any end in sight?”

The Professor stood at the open French windows, the setting sun casting his elongated shadow back across the room. “Great forces are at work,” he said in a distant voice, “and as it is said, ‘The wheels of God grind slowly but they grind exceedingly small’.”

If that was intended as an answer to Omally’s question the Irishman failed to understand it, but as the old man’s back was turned he took advantage of the fact and poured himself another very large scotch.

“Woosah!” An enormous scream and a startling figure clad in silk kimono, black trousers fastened tightly at the ankles and grimy plimsolls leapt from the allotment shed, clearing the five-foot bean poles in a single bound to descend with a sickening crash amongst a pile of upturned bell cloches.

“Damn it!” The figure stepped from the wreckage and straightened its wig, then, “Banzai!” The figure strutted forward, performed an amazing Kata and drove the fingers of his right hand back through the corrugated wall of his shed.

The figure was Archroy, and he was well on the way to mastering the secrets of the legendary Count Dante. The area around his shed was a mass of tangled wreckage, the wheelbarrow was in splinters and the watering can was an unrecognizable tangle of zinc.

Archroy strode forward upon elastic limbs and sought things to destroy. The Dimac manual lay open at a marked page labelled “The Art of the Iron Hand”.

“Aaaroo!” Archroy lept into the air and kicked the weathervane from the top of Omally’s shed, returning to the ground upon bouncing feet. He laughed loudly and the sound echoed over the empty dust bowl, bouncing from the Mission wall and disappearing over his head in the direction of the river. “Iron Hand,” he said, “I’ll show them.”

He had read the Dimac manual from cover to cover and learned it by heart. “The deadliest form of martial arts known to mankind,” it said, “whose brutal tearing, rending, maiming and mutilating techniques have for many years been known only to the high Lamas of Tibet, where in the snowy wastes of the Himalayas they have perfected the hidden art of Dimac.” Count Dante had scorned his sacred vow of silence, taken in the lofty halls of the Potala, never to reveal the secret science, and had brought his knowledge and skill back to the West where for a mere one dollar ninety-eight these maiming, disfiguring and crippling techniques could be made available to the simple layman. Archroy felt an undying gratitude to the black-masked Count, the Deadliest Man on Earth, who must surely be living a life of fear lest the secret emissaries from Lhasa catch him up.

Archroy cupped his hand into the Dark Eagle’s Claw posture and sent it hurtling through the padlocked door of Omally’s shed. The structure burst asunder, toppling to the ground in a mass of twisted wreckage and exposing the iron frame and sit-up-and-beg handlebars of Marchant.

“Luck indeed,” said Archroy, sniggering mercilessly. He lifted the old black bicycle from the ruins of the allotment hut and stood it against a heap of seed boxes which had escaped his violent attentions.

“You’ve had it coming for years,” he told Marchant. The bicycle regarded him with silent contempt. “It’s the river for you, my lad.” Marchant’s saddle squeaked nervously. “But first I am going to punish you.”

Archroy gripped the handlebars and wrenched them viciously to one side. “Remember the time you tripped me up outside the Swan?” Archroy raised his left foot to a point level with his own head, spun around on his right heel and drove it through Marchant’s back wheel, bursting out a dozen spokes which spiralled into the air to fall some twenty feet away.

Marchant now realized his dire predicament and began to ring his bell frantically. “Oh no you don’t.” Archroy fastened his iron grip about the offending chime and tore it free from its mountings. Crushing its thumb toggle, he flung it high over his shoulder.

The bell cruised upwards into the air and fell in a looping arc directly on to the head of John Omally, who was taking a short cut across the allotment en route to the post box on the corner of the Ealing Road.