The Antipope

24

By two thirty the following morning, the storm was over. Along near the Brentford docks all lay silent. The yellow streetlamps reflected in the broad puddles and a damp pigeon or two cooed in the warehouse eaves. After such a storm the silence had an uneasy quality about it, there was something haunting about the glistening streets, a certain whiteness about the harshly clouded sky.

Above the soft pattering of the leaking gutters and the gurgling of the drains another sound echoed hollowly along the deserted streets. A heavy iron manhole cover was slowly gyrating on one of the shining pavements. The cover lifted an inch or two and then crashed back into place. Slowly it eased up again and then with a resounding clang fell aside.

A hand appeared from the blackness of the hole beneath. Dreadfully charred and lacking its nails, it scrabbled at the wet pavement, then took hold. An elbow edged from the murky depths, swathed in what had obviously once been the sleeve of a lavish garment but was now torn and filthy.

After a long moment the owner of both elbow and hand, a hideous tramp of dreadful aspect and sorry footwear, drew himself up into the street. He dragged the manhole cover back into place and sat upon it breathing heavily. His head was a mass of burns, while here and there a lank strand of hair clung to the scar tissue of his skull. Below two hairless eyebrows, a pair of blood-red eyes glittered evilly. He made a feeble attempt to rise but slumped back on to the manhole cover with a dull echoing thud. A faint light glowed about him as he swayed to and fro, steaming slightly.

A faint sound reached his ears, a low hissing. He raised his bloody eyes and cocked his head upon one side. Around the corner of the street came a canary-coloured vehicle. Upon the top of this an orange beacon turned, its light flashing about the deserted roadways. It was the council street-cleaning cart and in the front seat, hidden by the black-tinted windows, sat Vile Tony Watkins.

He saw the tramp squatting upon the manhole cover clad in what appeared to be the remnants of some fancy-dress costume. He saw the faint glow about him, probably a trick of the light, and his hand moved towards the power button of the water jets. The ghastly tramp raised his hand as the cart approached. He stared up into the windscreen and a low cry rose in his throat, a look of horror crossed his hideous face. But the cart was upon him, its occupant laughing silently within his dumb throat. The jets of water bore down upon the tramp and the yellow vehicle passed on in to the night.

Vile Tony squinted into the wing mirror to view his handiwork but the street was deserted. Nothing remained but a pool of blood-coloured water which glowed faintly for a moment or two then faded into the blackness.

From the shadows of a nearby shop doorway, a crop-headed man stared out at the street, a smile upon his lips. He watched the yellow cart disappear around the corner, emerged from the shadows and stood looking down into the blood-coloured puddle. The toe of his right foot described a runic symbol upon the damp pavement. This too presently faded and the crop-headed man drew his robes about him, turned upon his heel and melted away into the night.