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
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.
