The Antipope

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.

“Ow! Oh! Ouch! Damn!” screamed Omally, clutching at his dented skull and hopping about it pain. He levelled his boot at what he thought must surely be a meteorite and his eyes fell upon the instantly recognizable if somewhat battered form of his own bicycle bell. Omally ceased his desperate hopping and cast his eyes about the allotment. It took hardly two seconds before his distended orbs fixed upon Archroy. The lad was carrying Marchant high and moving in the direction of the river.

Omally leapt upon his toes and legged it towards the would-be destroyer of his two-wheeled companion. “Hold up there!” he cried, and “Enough of that! Let loose that velocipede!”

Archroy heard the Irishman’s frenzied cries and released his grip. Marchant toppled to the dust in a tangle of flailing spokes. Omally bore down upon Archroy, his face set in grim determination, his fists clenched, and his tweed trouser-bottoms flapping about his ankles like the sails of a two-masted man-o-war. “What villainy is this?” he screamed as he drew near.

Archroy turned upon him. His hands performed a set of lightning moves which were accompanied by sounds not unlike a fleet of jumbo jets taking off. “Defend yourself as best you can,” said he.

Omally snatched up the broken shaft of a garden fork, and as the pupil of the legendary Count advanced upon him, a blur of whirling fists, he struck the scoundrel a thunderous blow across the top of the head.

Archroy sank to his knees, covering his head and moaning piteously. Omally raised his cudgel to finish the job. “No, no,” whimpered Archroy, “enough!”

Omally left him huddled in the foetal position and went over to survey the damage done to his trusty iron steed. “You’ll pay for this,” he said bitterly. “It’ll mean a new back wheel, chain set, bell and a respray.”

Archroy groaned dismally. “How did you manage to fell me with that damned stick?” he asked. “I’ve read the manual from cover to cover.”

Omally grinned. “I had a feeling that you were not being a hundred per cent honest with me when I lent it to you, so I only gave you volume one. Volume two is dedicated to the art of defence.”

“You bastard.”

Omally raised his stick aloft. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“And you’ll pay for the restoration of my bicycle?”

“Yes, yes.”

Omally caught sight of the heap of splintered wood and warped iron that had once been his second home. “And my shed?”

“Yes, anything you say.”

“From the ground up, new timbers, and I’ve always fancied a bit of a porch to sit in at the end of a summer’s day.”

“You bas…”

“What?” Omally wielded his cudgel menacingly.

“Nothing, nothing, leave it to me.”

“Good, then farewell. All my best to you and please convey my regards to your dear wife.”

Omally strode off in the direction of the post box, leaving the master of the iron fist on the dusty ground thrashing his arms and legs and cursing between tightly clenched teeth.

The Professor’s letter duly despatched, Omally set his foot towards the Flying Swan. He looked up at the empty sky, blue as the eyes of a Dublin lass. He would really have enjoyed this unusual summer had it not been for the sinister affair he had become involved in. As he approached the Swan he ran into Norman. It was early closing day and like Omally he was thirsting for a pint of cooling Large and the pleasures of the pot room. The two men entered the saloon bar and were met by a most extraordinary spectacle.

Captain Carson, on whom none had laid eyes for several months, stood at the counter evidently in a state of advanced drunkenness and looking somewhat the worse for wear. He was clad in pyjamas and dressing-gown and surrounded by what appeared to be his life’s possessions in bundles and bags spread about the floor. “Thirty bloody years,” he swore, “thirty bloody years serving the troubled and down-at-heel, doing the work that should have won me a Nobel Prize, never a complaint, never a word said against me, and here I am, out on my ear, penniless, banjoed and broken.”

Omally followed Norman to the polished counter and the lad ordered a brace of Largi. “What’s all this then?” Omally whispered to the part-time barman.

Neville pulled upon the pump handle. “He’s got his marching orders from the Mission. It’s been converted into a church now and he’s no longer required.”

Omally, who felt somewhat emboldened after his recent encounter with Archroy, wondered if now might be the time to broach the subject of his wheelbarrow, but the sheer wretchedness the Captain displayed drove any such thoughts from his mind. “Who kicked him out then, the Mission Trust?”

“No, the new vicar there, some high Muck-a-Muck it seems.”

High Muck-a-Muck, thought Omally, if only they knew the truth. But the fates must surely be with him, for the Captain must know a good deal about the cuckoo he had harboured within his nest. “Get him a large rum on me,” said Omally, “he looks as if he needs it.”

The Captain took the rum in both hands and tossed it back down his open throat. “God bless you, John Omally,” said he, wiping his mouth on his dressing-gown sleeve. “You are a good man.”

“I take it that the times are at present against you,” said John.

“Against me? What do you think I’m doing here in my bloody jim-jams, going to a fancy-dress party?”

“It has been known.”

“Listen.” Captain Carson banged his empty glass upon the bar. “That bastard has driven me from my home, evicted me, me with thirty years serving the troubled and down at heel, me who should have won a Nobel bloody Prize for my labours, me who -”

“Yes, yes,” said Omally, “I can see you are a man sorely put upon, but who has put you in this dire predicament?”

“That bloody Pope geezer, that’s who. Came into my Mission as a stinking old tramp and look what he turned out to be.”

Neville pricked up his ears. “Tramp?” said the part-time barman. “When was this?”

“About three months ago, called at my door and I extended him the hospitality that was expected of me, should have kicked him out on his bloody ear that’s what I should have done.”

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.

Neville had fetched a white tablecloth and covered the Captain with it. There he stood in the very middle of the bar like some dummy in a store window awaiting a change of clothes. “If you’d let me throw him out none of us would be in this mess,” said Neville.

Omally rattled his glass on the bar. “I shall have to apply myself to this matter, I am sure that in some way we can save the situation, it is a thirsty business but.”

Neville snatched away the empty glass and refilled it. “If you can get me out of this,” he said, “I might be amenable to extending some credit to you in the future.”

Omally raised his swarthy eyebrows. “I will give this matter my undivided attention,” said he, retiring to a side table.

Time passed. The corpse, for all his unwelcome presence, did add a pleasantly soothing coolness to the atmosphere within the bar, not that anyone appreciated it. By closing time at three the bar had become perilously silent. At intervals one or two of the quarantined patrons would come to the bar, taking great care to avoid the Captain, and order the drinks which they felt were their basic human right. Neville, though a man greatly averse to after-hours drinking, could do little but accede to their demands.

There were a few vain attempts to get a bit of community singing going but Neville nipped that in the bud for fear of beat-wandering policemen. Two stalwarts began a game of darts. There had been a few movements towards the pub telephone, but Neville had vetoed the use of that instrument on the grounds that careless talk costs lives. “Have you come up with anything yet, John?” he asked, bringing the Irishman another pint.

“I am wondering whether we might saw out the section of floor on which he is standing and despatch him into the cellar, at least then if we can’t get rid of him he will be out of the way, and if he remains preserved indefinitely in his icy cocoon he will do wonders for your reserve stock.”

Neville shook his head. “Absolutely not, I have no wish to confront him every time I go down to change a barrel.”

“All right, it was just a suggestion.”

By nine o’clock the mob, by now extremely drunk and ravenously hungry, began to grow a little surly. There were murmurings that the whole business was a put-up job and that Omally and Neville were in cahoots to con the punters out of their hard-earned pennies. In the corner, a couple of ex-Colditz types were forming an escape committee.

Then, a little after ten, one of the prisoners went over the wall. He had been out in the gents for more than his allotted two minutes, and when Neville went to investigate, there was no sign of him. “Legged it across the bog roof,” the part-time barman said breathlessly as he returned to the saloon, “dropped down into the alley and away.”

“Who was it?” asked Omally.

“Reg Wattis from the Co-op.”

“Don’t worry, then.”

“Don’t worry? You must be joking.”

“Listen,” said Omally, “I know his wife and if he tries to give her any excuses about frozen corpses in the Flying Swan he will get very short shrift from that good woman. It occurs to me that we might let them escape. If they talk nobody will believe them anyway.”

“They can always come back here to prove it.”

“Not much chance of that, is there?”

“So what do we do?”

“I suggest that you and I withdraw to your rooms and gave them an opportunity to make their getaways.”

“I hope you know what you are doing.” Neville struck the bar counter with his knobkerry. “Omally and I have some pressing business upstairs,” he announced. “We will not be long and I am putting you all on your honour not to leave.” Conversation ceased and the eyes of the patrons flickered from Omally to Neville and on to the bolted door and back to Neville again. “We swear,” they said amid a flurry of heartcrossing and scoutish saluting.

Omally beckoned to Norman. “You might as well come too, you overheard everything.” The three men left the bar and trudged up the stairs to Neville’s bedroom.

“So what now?” asked the part-time barman.

“We sit it out. Do you still keep that supply of scotch in your wardrobe?”

Neville nodded wearily. “You don’t let much get by you, do you, John?”

Below in the saloon bar there came the sudden sound of bolts being thrown, followed by a rush of scurrying footsteps. Neville, who had brought out his bottle, replaced the cap. “Well, we won’t be needing this now, will we?”

Omally raised his eyebrows. “And why not?”

“Well, they’ve gone, haven’t they?”

“Yes, so?”

“So, we go down and dispose of the Captain.”

“Oh, and how do we do that?”

Neville, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed, rose brandishing the whisky bottle. “So it’s treachery is it, Omally?” he roared. “You had no intention of getting rid of him.”

“Me? No.” Omally wore a quizzical expression, mingled with outraged innocence. “There is nothing we can do, he is welded to the floor in a most unmovable manner. If I was a man with a leaning towards science fiction I would say that an alien force field surrounded him.”

Neville waggled his bottle at Omally. “Don’t give me any of that rubbish, I demand that you act now, do something.”

“If you will give me a minute or two to explain matters I would greatly appreciate it.”

Neville took out his hunter. “Two minutes,” said he, “then I waste this bottle over your head.”

“I deplore such wastage,” said John, “so I will endeavour to speak quickly.”

“One minute fifty-three seconds,” said Neville.

John composed himself and said, “As we both observed what happened to the Captain I do not propose to lecture you upon the sheer inexplicable anomaly of it. It was clearly the work of no mortal man, nor was it any natural catastrophe, or at least none that I have ever heard of.”

“It’s Reekie’s Syndrome,” said Norman.

“Shut up Norman,” said Neville.

“It was caused,” said Omally, “I believe, to shut the Captain up. He was about to spill the beans over what was going on at the Mission and so he was silenced.”

Neville scratched his Brylcreemed scalp. “All right,” said he, “but what do we do about him, we can’t let him stay there indefinitely.”

“No, and nor can they. Now, I have listened to certain propositions put forward by Professor Slocombe.”

Neville nodded. “A good and honourable man.”

“Exactly, and he believes that there has come amongst us of late an individual who can affect the laws of chance and probability to gain his own ends. This individual is presently ensconced in the Seamen’s Mission and calls himself Pope Alexander VI. I believe that he is to blame for what happened to the Captain, and I also believe that he cannot afford to be tied into it and will therefore arrange for the disposal of same.”

“You went over your two minutes,” said Neville, “but if all is as you say, it would go a long way towards explaining certain matters which have been puzzling me for some months now. Have I ever spoken to you of the sixth sense?”

“Many times,” said Omally, “many, many times, but if you wish to retell me then may I suggest that you do it over a glass or two of scotch?”

“Certainly.”

“And may I also suggest that we keep a watch on the road at all times?”

“I will do it,” said Norman, “for I have had little to say or do during this entire chapter.”

Night fell. Almost at once the sky became a backcloth for a spectacular pyrotechnic exhibition of lightning. The lights of the saloon bar were extinguished and the frozen Captain stood ghostly and statuesque, covered by his linen cloth. Norman stood at Neville’s window staring off down the Ealing Road, and Omally drained the last of the scotch into his glass. Neville held his watch up to what light there was. A bright flash of lightning illuminated the dial. “It’s nearly midnight,” he said. “How much longer?”

Omally shrugged in the darkness.

The Guinness clock struck a silent twelve below in the bar and in Neville’s room Norman said suddenly, “Look at that, what is it?”

John and Neville joined him at the window.

“What is it?” said Neville. “I can’t make it out.”

“Down by Jack Lane’s,” said Norman, “you can see it coming towards us.”

From the direction of the river, moving silently upon its eight wheels, came an enormous jet-black lorry. It resembled no vehicle that the three men had ever seen, for it bore no lights, nor did its lustreless bodywork reflect the street lamps which shone to either side of it. There was no hint of a windscreen nor cracks that might indicate doors or vents. It looked like a giant mould as it came to a standstill outside the Flying Swan.

Omally craned his neck to look down upon it but the overhang of the gabled roof hid the mysterious vehicle from view. The familiar creak of the saloon bar door, however, informed the three men that someone had entered the bar. “Here,” said Neville suddenly, “what are we doing? Whoever it is down there could be rifling the cash register.”

“Go down then,” said Omally, “you tell them.”

The part-time barman took a step towards the door then halted. “Best leave it, eh?”

“I think it would be for the best,” said Omally.

The saloon bar door creaked again and after a brief pause Norman said from the window, “It’s moving off.” The three men watched as the hellish black lorry crept out once more into the road and disappeared over the railway bridge past the football ground.

Together the three men descended the stairs. The bar was empty, lit only by the wan light from the street. The lightning had ceased its frenzied dance on the great truck’s arrival and the night had become once more clear and silent. In the centre of the floor lay the white linen table cloth. Neville flicked on the saloon bar lights. Norman picked up the table cloth. Holding it out before him he suddenly gave a cry of horror and dropped it to the floor. Omally stooped to retrieve it and held it to the light. Impressed upon the cloth was what appeared to be some kind of negative photographic image. It was clear and brown as a sepia print and it was the face of Captain Carson.

“There,” said Omally to the part-time barman, “now you’ve something to hang behind your bar. The Brentford Shroud…”