Robert Rankin - Brentford 01 - The Antipope

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The Antipope

Robert Rankin

Prologue

A long finger of early spring sunshine poked down between the flatblocks and reached through the dusty panes

of the Flying Swan's saloon bar window, glistening off a pint beer glass and into the eye of Neville, the part-time

barman.

Neville held the glass at arms' length and examined it with his good eye. It was very clean, small rainbows

ran about its rim. It was a good shape too, gently rising to fill the hand with an engagingly feminine bulge. Very

nice. There was a lot of joy to be had in the contemplation of a pint glass; in terms of plain reality of course,

there was a deal more to be had in the draining of one.

The battered Guinness clock above the bar struck a silent 11 o'clock. Once its chimes had cut like a butcher's

knife through the merry converse of the Swan's patrons. But it had been silent now these three long years, since

Jim Pooley had muted it with a well-aimed pint pot. These days its lame thuds went unheeded and Neville was

forced to more radical methods for clearing the bar come closing. Even the most drunken of revellers could

understand a blow to the skull from the knobkerry he kept below the bar counter.

At the last thud of the Guinness clock Neville replaced the dazzling glass. Lifting the hinged bar top, he

sidled towards the saloon-bar door. The Brentford sun glinted upon his Bryl-creemed scalp as he stood nobly

framed in that famous portal, softly sniffing the air. Buses came and went in the morning haze, bound for exotic

destinations west of London. An unfragrant miasma drifted from the Star of Bombay Curry Garden, sparrows

along the

telephone lines sang the songs their parents had taught them. The day seemed dreamy and calm.

Neville twitched his sensitive nostrils. He had a sudden strange premonition that today was not going to be

like any other.

He was dead right.

Jim Pooley, that despoiler of pub clocks, sat in the Memorial Library, pawing over ancient tomes in a never-

ending search for the cosmic truths which might lead a man along the narrow winding pathway towards self-

fulfilment and ultimate enlightenment. 'Looking up form and keeping out of the rain' was what the Head

Librarian called it. 'Mr Pooley,' she said, in those hushed yet urgent tones affected by those of her station. 'Mr

Pooley, why don't you take your paper around to the bookie's and there study in an atmosphere which must

surely be more conducive to your purposes?'

Pooley, eyes fixed upon his paper as if in a trance, mouthed, 'You have a wonderful body on you there, Mrs

Nay lor.'

Mrs Naylor, who lip-read every word as she had done upon a thousand other such occasions, reddened

slightly but maintained her dignity. 'Why can't you look at the books once in a while just to keep up appearances?'

'I have books of my own,' said Jim silently, 'but I come here to absorb the atmosphere of this noble edifice and

to feast my eyes upon your supple limbs.'

'You haven't even a ticket, Mr Pooley.'

'Give us a French kiss,' said Jim loudly.

Mrs Naylor fled back to her desk and Pooley was left to his own devices. His eyes swept over the endless

columns of racehorses. Somewhere he knew, amid this vast assortment, existed six horses which would win

today at good odds, and if placed in a 'Yankee' accumulator would gross £250,000 at the very least. Such

knowledge, of course, is generalized, and it is the subtle particularities of

knowing which horses to choose that make the thing difficult.

Pooley licked the end of his Biro, especially blessed by Father Moity for the purpose. He held it up to the shaft

of sunlight which had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared through an upper window. Nearly spent, more than

half of its black life-fluid ebbed away, and upon what? Upon ill-considered betting slips, that was upon what.

Pooley sighed, his concentration gone. The delicate balance had been upset, and all through Mrs Naylor's chatter.

Oh well, thought Pooley, the sun is now over the yardarm. He rose from his seat, evoking a screech from the

rubber-soled chair legs which cut Mrs Naylor like a rapier's edge. He strode purposefully towards the door, and

on reaching it turned upon his heel. 'I shall be around then this evening directly your husband has departed for

his night shift,' he announced.

Mrs Naylor fainted.

As Neville stood in the door of the Flying Swan musing upon the day's peculiarity, a beggar of dreadful aspect

and sorry footwear shuffled towards him from the direction of Sprite Street and the Dock. He noted quite

without thinking that an air of darkness and foreboding accompanied this lone wanderer.

'Ugh,' said Neville. He felt twin shudders originate within his monogrammed carpet slippers, wriggle up the

hairs of his legs and meet in the small of his back, where as one united shudder they continued upwards, finally

(although all this took but a second or two) travelling out of the top of his head leaving several strands of

Brylcreem defying gravity. Neville felt a sudden need to cross himself, and performed that function with

somewhat startled embarrassment.

He returned to the bar to await the arrival of the solitary traveller. Time passed however, and no such shadow

darkened the Swan's doorway. Neville sloped over to the door and gazed cautiously up the street. Of ill-omened

tramps the street was empty.

Neville scratched his magnificent nostrils with a nic-otined finger and shrugged grandiloquently. 'Now

there's a thing,' he said to himself.

'Could I have a glass of water please?' said a voice at his elbow.

Neville controlled his bladder only by the merest of lucky chances. 'Lord save me,' he gasped, turning in

shock to the quizzical face of the materialized tramp.

'Sorry, did I startle you?' asked the creature with what seemed to be genuine concern. 'It's a bad habit of

mine, I really must control it.'

By this time Neville was back behind the bar, the top bolted shut and his shaking hands about glass and

whisky optic. 'What do you want?'

'A glass of water, if I may.'

'This isn't a municipal bloody drinking fountain,' said Neville gruffly. 'This is an alehouse.'

'My apologies,' said the tramp. 'We have I think got off to a rather poor start. Perhaps I might have a pint of

something.'

Neville downed his large whisky with a practised flick of the wrist and indicated the row of enamel silver-tipped

beer pumps. 'State your preference,' he said and here a note of pride entered his voice. 'We have a selection of

eight ales on pump. A selection which exceeds Jack Lane's by four and the New Inn by three. I think you will find it

a hard business to out-rival the Swan in this respect.'

The tramp seemed fascinated by this intelligence. 'Eight, eh?' He walked slowly the length of the bar past the

eight gleaming enamel sentinels. His right forefinger ran along the brass rim of the bar top and to Neville's

horror deftly removed the polish, leaving in its place a trail like that of a slug. Halting at the end he became

suddenly

aware of Neville's eyes and that the barman was involuntarily clenching and unclenching his fists.

'Sorry,' he said, raising his finger and examining it with distaste, 'again I have blotted my copybook.'

Neville was about to reach for his knobkerry when the friendly and reassuringly familiar figure of Jim Pooley

appeared through the bar door whistling a tuneless lament and tapping his right knee with his racing paper. Jim

mounted his very favourite bar stool with time-worn ease and addressed Neville with a cheery 'Mine will be a pint of

Large please, Neville, and good morning.'

The part-time barman dragged his gaze from the unsightly tramp and drew Jim Pooley a fine glass of the true

water.

'Ah,' said Jim, having drained half in a single draught, 'the first one is always the finest.' Pushing the exact

amount across the bar top for fear that prices might have risen overnight, he sought anew the inspiration, his by

divine right, that had so recently been denied him in the Memorial Library.

'I feel a winner coming on,' he said softly. This was occasionally a means of getting a free top-up at this hour of

the day.

Neville made no reply.

'I think this might well be the big one,' continued Jim. Neville maintained a stony silence. He did not appear to

be breathing.

'I wouldn't be at all surprised if . . . 'At this point Jim Pooley looked up from his paper and caught sight of the

part-time barman's ghastly aspect. 'Whatever's up, Neville?'

Neville clutched at his breath. 'Did you see him leave?' he stuttered.

'Who leave? I didn't see anybody.'

'He . . .' Neville peered over the bar top at the brass rim. It shone as unsullied and pristine as it had done when he

had polished it not fifteen minutes previous.

'A tramp.'

'What tramp?'

Neville decanted himself another large scotch and threw it down his throat.

'Well I never noticed any tramp,' said Jim Pooley, 'although, and you'll think this ridiculous when I tell you.'

'What?' said Neville shakily.

'Well, when I came in here just now I felt the strangest of compunctions, I felt as if I wanted to cross myself.'

Neville did not reply.

A scratch of the bell, a screech of brakes, a rattle of front wheel against kerb and a hearty 'Hi-O-Silver' and John

Omally had arrived at the Flying Swan. 'You stay here and enjoy the sun, I'll be out later,' he told his bike, and with a

jovial 'God save all here and mine's a pint of Large please, Neville' he entered the bar.

Neville watched his approach closely, and noted to his satisfaction that Omally showed no inclination whatever

towards crossing himself. Neville pulled the Irishman a pint and smiled contentedly to himself as Omally pushed the

exact amount of change across the counter.

'How's yourself then, Jim?' said Omally.

'I feel a winner coming on,' Pooley confided loudly.

'Now is that a fact, then it's lucky you are to be sure.' Omally accepted his pint and drained half in three gulps.

'You are late today,' said Pooley by way of conversation.

'I had a bit of bike trouble over on the allotment, Marchant and I were not seeing eye to eye.'

Pooley nodded. 'Your bike Marchant would be all the better for the occasional squirt of Three-in-One and

possibly a visit to a specialist once in a while.'

'Certainly the old lad is not what he was. I had to threaten him with premature burial before I could get it out

that he needed new front brake blocks and a patch on his back tyre.'

'Bikes are not what they were,' said Jim. He finished his pint. 'This one's done for,' he said sadly.

'Seems so,' said John Omally.

'Whose shout is it?' said Jim.

'Whose was it last time?' said John.

Jim Pooley scratched his head. 'There you have me,' said himself.

'I think you were both buying your own,' said Neville, who had heard such discussions as these go on for upwards

of an hour before one of these stalwarts cracked under the pressure.

'Lend me a pound John,' said Jim Pooley.

'Away into the night boy,' the other replied.

'We'll call it ten bob then.'

'We'll call it a good try and forget about it.'

Jim Pooley grudgingly patted his pockets, to the amazement of all present including himself he withdrew a pound

note. Neville pulled Jim Pooley another pint and taking the pound note with both hands he carried it reverently to

the till where he laid it as a corpse to rest. Jim Pooley counted and recounted his change. The terrible knowledge that

Jim had the price of two more pints within his very pockets made Omally more companionable than ever.

'So how's tricks, then, Jim?' asked the Irishman, although his eyes were unable to tear themselves away from

Pooley's waistcoat pocket.

'I have been experiencing a slight cash flow problem,' said Pooley. 'In fact, I am on my way now to pay several

important and pressing debts which if payment was deferred by even minutes might spell doom to certain

widely known political figures.'

'Ah, you were always a man of strong social conscience, Jim.'

Pooley nodded sagely. 'You yourself are a man of extraordinary perception at times, John.'

'I know how to call a spade,' said John Omally.

'That you do.'

Whilst this fascinating conversation was in progress Neville, who had now become convinced that the ill-

favoured tramp had never left the Flying Swan but was hiding somewhere within awaiting closing time to rifle the

till, was bobbing to and fro about the bar squinting into dark and obscure corners and straining his eyes about the

upper portions of the room. He suddenly became aware that he was being observed.

Til just go and check the pumps,' he muttered, and vanished down the cellar steps.

Pooley and Omally drank a moment in silence. 'He has been having visions,' said Jim.

'Has he?' said John. 'An uncle of mine used to have visions. Said that a gigantic pig called Black Tony used to

creep up on him and jog his arm when he was filling in his betting slips - blamed that pig for many a poor day's sport,

did my uncle.'

'It's tramps with Neville,' Jim confided. /

'What, nudging his arm and that?'

'No, just appearing like.'

'Oh.'

The two prepared to drink again in silence but found their glasses empty. With perplexity they faced each

other.

'It's time I was away about my business,' said Jim, rising to his feet.

'Will you not be staying to have one more before you go?' John asked. Neville, rising like a titan from the

cellar depths, caught this remark; being a publican, he was inured against most forms of sudden shock.

'Same again lads?' he asked.

'Two of similar,' said John.

Jim eyed him with open suspicion.

'Ten and six,' said Neville pulling two more pints.

'Jim,' said John.

'John?' said Jim.

'I don't quite know how to put this, Jim.'

Jim raised his right hand as in benediction; Neville thought for one ghastly moment that he was going to cross

himself. 'John,' said Jim, 'John, I know what you are going to say, you are going to say that you wish to buy me a drink,

that in fact it would be an honour for you to buy me a drink and that such would give you a pleasure that like good

friendship is a jewel without price. You are going to say all this to me, John, because you have said it all before, then

when you have made these eloquent and endearing remarks you will begin to bewail your lot, to curse the fates that

treat you in so shabby a manner, that harass and misuse you, that push you to the very limits of your endurance, and

which by their metaphysical and devious means deprive you of your hard and honestly earned pennies, and having

done so you will confess supreme embarrassment, implore the very ground to swallow you up and possibly shed the

occasional deeply felt tear, then and only then you will beg, impeach, implore and with supreme dignity of stature

approach me for the loan of the very ten shillings and sixpence most recently mentioned by our esteemed bar lord here.

'I am conscious that this request for funds will be made in the most polite and eloquent fashion and that the

wretchedness you will feel when it will be a profound and poignant thing to behold and so considering all this and

considering that Neville is not a man well known for offering credit and that you are my noblest friend and that to

attempt to drink and run as it were would bring down a social stigma upon both our heads I will gladly pay for this

round.'

Omally stood, head bowed, during this touching oration. No more words were spoken and Neville received the ten and

sixpence in a duly respectful manner. The two drained

their glasses and Jim excused himself quietly and vanished off into the direction of the bookie shop.

Neville pushed Jim's glass into the washer and spoke softly to the pensive Omally. 'You have a good friend

there in that Jim Pooley,' he said.

John nodded. 'God moves in mysterious circles,' he said.

'How so?'

'Well' - and here John Omally drained his pint glass to the bottom - 'I was touched to my very soul by Jim's

remarks over the purchase of these drinks but strange as the man is he mistook the remark that I made to him

completely.'

'Oh?' said Neville.

'Yes,' said John. 'I had no intention of borrowing the price of a drink whatever.'

'What then?' said Neville.

'I merely thought to mention to him in as discreet a manner as possible that his flies were undone, but I shan't

bother now.'

John Omally offered Neville all his best for the time of day and left the bar.

Archroy had rented the section of allotment land nearest to the viaduct ever since it had been bequeathed to him

five years before by a half-forgotten uncle. Each night during the season he would come from his shift at the wiper

works and sit in the doorway of his hut smoking his pipe and musing about the doings of the day. Omally

owned two adjacent strips, having won one of them from Peg's husband at the paper shop, and old Pete had a

further one.

Over in the corner was the untouched plot that had once belonged to Raymond, who in a previous episode had

been snatched away into outer space by the invisible star creatures from Alpha Centauri. You could see a lot of

life on an allotment.

This particular warm spring evening Archroy lazed upon an orange box smoking the blend of his taste and

thinking that the world would be a better place if there was a bounty put upon the heads of gypsy car-dealers. Not

that he had anything against them in general, but in particular he was very resentful. Archroy was not only the

tenant of an allotment, he was also a man of marriage. Archroy's marriage was a nebulous affair, he working day

shifts and his wife working nights. Their paths rarely crossed. Omally thought this was the ideal state of

wedded bliss and prayed for a woman who might wed him then take a job overseas.

Archroy accepted the acclaim of his fellows for choosing so wisely, but privately he was ill at ease. Certainly he

saw little of his wife, but of her workings and machinations the catalogue was endless. Archroy kept coming home

to find new furniture and carpets; one day he stuck his head up in the roof and discovered that his loft had been

insulated. Strangely, Archroy was never asked by his wife to contribute to any of these extravagant ventures.

Possibly because he rarely saw the woman, but mainly he suspected, because an alien hand was at work in his

stuccoed semi-detached. He suspected that his wife had a lover, in fact not one lover but many. Archroy had an

inkling that his wife was putting it about a bit.

He had found five minutes one evening just as they were changing shifts to interview his suspect spouse.

Archroy had noticed that his old Morris Minor, which his wife described as 'an eyesore', was no longer upon its

blocks in the garage but seemed to have cried 'horse and hattock' and been carried away by the fairies.

'Woman,' he addressed his wife, for he had quite forgotten her name, 'woman, where is my car?'

'Gone,' said she, straightening her headscarf in the mock rococo hall mirror. 'I have sold your car and if you

will pardon me saying so I have made a handsome profit.'

Archroy stiffened in his shirtsleeves. 'But I was working on that car, it needed but an engine and a few wheels

and I would have had it working!'

'A truck came and took it away,' said his wife.

Archroy pulled at his hair. 'Where's my car gone to, who took it?'

'It was a gypsy,' said his wife.

'A gypsy, you part with my priceless car to a damned

gyppo?'

'I got a good price.'

Archroy blew tobacco smoke down his nose and made himself cough.

'It's on the mantelpiece in a brown envelope,' said his wife, smearing gaudy red lipstick about her upper lip.

Archroy tore into the front room and tore open the envelope. Pouring the contents into his hand he found five

brown beans. 'What? What?' Archroy began to foam at the mouth. 'Beans?'

'He assured me that they were magic beans,' his wife said, slamming the door behind her.

Thus it was that Archroy sat this particular evening in the doorway of his allotment shed, bewailing his lot

and cursing not only car dealers but untrue wives and all those born of romany extraction. 'Magic beans,' he

grimaced as he turned the offenders over in his palm. 'Magic bloody beans, I'll bet he gave her more than just

magic bloody beans.'

The 6.20 steamed over the viaduct and told Archroy that now would be as good a time as ever to repair to the

Swan to see what the lads were up to. He was about to pocket his magic beans and rise from his orange-box when

a stark black shadow fell upon him and sent an involuntary shudder up the wee lad's back.

'Might I have a look at those beans you have there mister?' The voice came from a disreputable tramp of

dreadful aspect and sorry footwear. 'Sorry, did I startle you?' asked the creature with what seemed to be a voice of

genuine concern. 'It's a bad habit of mine, I really must control it.'

'What do you want here?' snarled Archroy, outraged at this trespass upon his thoughts and land.

'About the beans?' the tramp said.

Archroy pocketed his beans. 'Clear off!' he said, climbing to his feet. The tramp raised his right hand and

made a strange gesture. Archroy slumped back on to his orange-box, suddenly weak at the knees.

'Those beans,' said the tramp. Archroy felt about in his pocket and handed the tramp the five magic beans.

'Ah.' The tramp held one between thumb and forefinger. 'As I thought, most interesting. You say that your

wife received them in payment for your old Morris Minor?'

Archroy didn't remember saying anything of the kind but he nodded bleakly.

'They are beans of great singularity,' said the tramp. 'I have seen beans and I have seen beans.' He returned

the articles to Archroy's still-extended hand. 'These are beans indeed!'

'But, magic?' said Archroy.

The tramp stroked the stubble of his chin with an ill-washed knuckle. 'Ah,' he said, 'magic is it? Well that is a

question. Let us say that they have certain outre qualities.'

'Oh,' said Archroy. He felt a little better about the beans now, the loss of his trusty Morris Minor seemed less

important than possessing something with outre qualities, whatever outre might mean. 'What are you doing on

my allotment?' Archroy asked in a polite tone.

The tramp described a runic symbol in the dust at Archroy's feet with the toecap of his sorry right shoe. 'You

might say that I am here to meet someone,' he said, 'and there again you might not, if you were to say here is a

man upon a mission you would be correct, but also at the same time you would be mistaken. There is much about

my presence here that is anomalous, much that is straightforward, much that . . .'

'I must be on my way now,' said Archroy, attempting to rise and feeling at his knees. They offered him no

support. 'I am incapacitated,' he announced.

'. . . Much that will be known, much that will remain unexplained,' continued the tramp.

Archroy wondered if he had eaten something untoward, toadstools in his hotpot, or slug pellets in his thermos

flask. He had read of strange distillations from the Amazon which administered upon the head of a pin could

paralyse a bull elephant. There were also forms of nerve gas that might find their way into the sucking section of

a fellow's briar.

The tramp meanwhile had ceased speaking. Now he stared about the allotment in an interested fashion. 'And

you say that Omally won one of those plots from Peg's husband at the paper shop?'

Archroy was certain he had not. 'The one over in the corner with the chimney,' he said. 'That one there is the

property of old Pete, it has been in his family for three generations and he has made an arrangement with the

council to be buried there upon his demise. Blot the Schoolkeeper runs the one to the west backing on to the

girls' school, it is better not to ask what goes on in his shed.'

Archroy rose to point out the plot but to his amazement discovered that the old tramp had gone. 'Well I never,'

said Archroy, crossing himself, 'well I never did.'

No-one could ever accuse Peg's husband from the paper shop of being dull. His wife, when enquired of by

customers as to her husband's latest venture, would cup her hands upon her outlandish hips and say, 'There's

never a dull moment is there?' This rhetorical question left most in doubt as to a reply, so the kindly soul would add,

'You've got to laugh haven't you?' which occasionally got a response, or 'It's a great old life if you don't weaken',

which didn't.

Her husband, however, shunned such platitudes and preferred, during moments of acute brain activity, to deal

exclusively in the proverb. On the occasion of his bike going missing for the thirteenth time from its appointed

rack at the Rubber Factory he was heard to mutter, 'Time is a great healer.' And during that particularly hot summer

when someone set fire to his runner beans, 'Every cloud has a silver lining.'

Norman's proverbs never quite matched up to the situation to which they were applied, yet seemed in some

bizarre way to aid him to the solution of extremely obtuse problems. This lent him the air of a mystic, which made

him regularly sought after by drunks in need of advice. His 'ventures', as they were termed, were never devoid of

interest. 'Wading to France', for example, which began, as so many tales have a tendency to do, one lunchtime in the

saloon bar of the Flying Swan.

'There is much talk lately of these Channel swimmers,' John Omally had said by way of conversation as he

perused his copy of the Brentford Mercury. 'They do say that the dear fellows lose the better part of three stone

from the swimming.' There was an informed nodding as Omally continued, 'There's a king's ransom to be had

in that game if a fellow has the way of it.'

Norman, who had been listening and was currently between ventures, felt a sudden surge of regret that he had

never learned to swim. 'It never rains but it pours,' he said, which gave most to suspect that he was having an

idea.

'You don't swim at all do you, Norman?' asked the astute Omally, sensing money in the air.

'Sadly no,' said Norman, 'but I wade.' With these portentous words he left the saloon bar.

Little was heard of Norman for some weeks and his wife answered Omally's repeated enquiries with the

encouraging 'You certainly see some sights' and 'It takes all sorts to make a world doesn't it?'

The Irishman was pretty much at his wits' end when his eye caught a tiny paragraph on an inside page of the

Brentford Mercury: 'Local Man to Wade Channel.' Omally read the short paragraph once, then again slowly; then,

thinking that he must have misread it, he gave the thing a careful word-for-word scrutiny.

Norman Hartnell, local Rubberware Foreman (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnell) stated

yesterday in an exclusive interview with the Mercury that it was his intention within the forseeable future to

have constructed certain marine apparatus which will make it possible for him to become the first man to

wade to France from England. Mr Hartnell (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnell) told the

Mercury in this exclusive interview when asked his reason for this attempt that 'Kind words butter no

parsnips.' Mr Hartnell is 43.

'What other Norman Hartnell?' queried John Omally, whose only claim to fashion consciousness was tucking his

shirt in all the way round even when wearing a jacket. There was still no word from Norman, and Omally even

took to phoning the offices of the Brentford Mercury daily for news. He was not a man to be cheated of his

pennies, and the more time passed the more he became convinced that whatever plans were hatching in

Norman's obtuse cranium, he, Omally, was due at least part of any income deriving from their fruition. 'It was

me reading about the Channel swimming that started it all, was it not?' he asked. Those present at the bar nodded

gravely.

'You have a moral right,' said Neville.

'You should get a contract drawn up,' said Jim Pooley.

'He owes you,' said Archroy.

That Saturday the Brentford Mercury, which had for some days been refusing to accept John Omally's

reverse-charge calls, announced in large and impressive type: BRENTFORD CHANNEL WADER NAMES THE DAY. Omally

read this startling headline over the shoulder of the paper's owner and gasped in disbelief. 'He's naming the day

and he still hasn't brought me in on it.'

'Pardon?' said the stranger.

'Fares please,' said the bus conductor.

Omally, who had in his palm a number of pennies exactly equal either to his bus fare or to the price of a copy

of the Brentford Mercury, shouted, 'Stop that dog,' and leapt off the bus at the next set of traffic lights.

On the well-worn bench afront the Memorial Library he studied the newspaper. There were the headlines,

below them a photograph of Norman smiling hideously with the caption: 'All roads lead to Rome, says plucky

Brentonian.'

Omally read paragraph after paragraph, desperately trying to pluck out something substantial enough to merit

legal action. Yes, the plucky Brentonian had been working for some months now upon certain marine apparatus

suitable to his requirements. He had made several unsuccessful tests with these (Omally raised his eyebrows at this

intelligence). He had gauged his exact course through careful study of coastal topography and undersea

mappings loaned to him by the Royal Maritime Museum. He had allowed for spring tides, onshore drift, wind

variations and even shoals of fish that might be encountered en route. He was certain of success. He had been

given the go-ahead by the Royal Navy, who had agreed to escort him with helicopter and motor torpedo boat and

keep in contact with him by certain sophisticated pieces of top-secret equipment which Norman had kindly agreed

to test for them during the walk over.

It was believed that this crossing would herald a new era in international travel. A veritable golden age was about

to dawn, and without a doubt the patent holder of this aquatic legware was sitting on (or more rightly in) a

proverbial goldmine, not to mention a piece of history. Omally groaned. 'Proverbial goldmine, he'll love that.'

The more he read, the less he liked what he read and the less he liked it the more cheated he felt and the more

furious he became. The cross-Channel walk was scheduled for the following Saturday; it was to be covered by

both channels and shown live on World of Sport. Norman was to appear that very evening on the Russell Harty

Show.

Omally tore the newspaper to ribbons and flung the pieces to the four winds.

It is not a long walk from the library to Peg's paper shop, one simply turns right down Braemar Road, right at

the bottom past the football ground, left into Mafeking Avenue and left again up Albany Road into Haling Road.

John Omally covered this distance in a time that would have made Roger Bannister hang up his spikes in

defeat. Panting, he stood in the doorway attempting to compose himself.

Two pensioners came out of the shop. 'Proverbial

goldmine,' said one. 'Place in history,' said the other.

Omally made an attempt to enter, but found to his amazement that the usually empty and dust-hung place of

business bore a sprightly and jubilant appearance, and was going great guns in the customer stakes. Bunting hung

about the door and 'Good Luck Norman', emblazoned upon lengths of coloured toilet-roll, festooned the front

window - which suddenly bereft of its timeless Woodbine display now blazed with photographs of Royal Navy

cruisers and postcards of Captain Webb. 'Souvenir Channel Trews on Sale Now' said a card. 'Bottled Channel

Water' said another. Below this was a display of seashells and a number of jam jars apparently filled with seawater

'Bottled by the Wader Himself and priced at a quid a time.

Omally made another attempt to enter but again found his way barred, t' is time by a number of schoolgirls

wearing 'Norman Wades OK' t-shirts.

'What is the meaning of all this?' muttered the Irishman as he edged his way forward. Over the heads of the crowd

he could see that Peg had taken on two extra salesgirls. Peg's gargantuan frame, sporting a 'Norman Wades OK'

t-shirt the size of a bell tent, could be made out swinging bundles of the Brentford Mercury on to the counter and

dispensing souvenir windmills and flags to all comers. The cash register was ringing like a fire alarm. Of Norman,

however, there was no sign. Omally edged his way nearer to the counter and made some attempt to draw Peg's

attention.

'The Norman action dolls are four pounds, love,' he heard her say. 'Yes, that's right, three for a tenner.'

Omally clutched at the counter for support. 'Peg,' he stammered, 'Peg I say.' Peg finally caught sight of the

swaying Irishman. 'Hold on John love, and I'll be with you,' she said. 'Yes love, the Bottled Channel Water can

be made available for bulk export purchase.'

The proverbial light at the end of the dark corridor, to which no doubt Norman had previously alluded in

some moment of irrelevance, was beginning to appear before Omally's bloodshot eyes. 'Could I have a word

with Norman, please Peg?' he asked.

'He's at present in conference with members of the press prior to an enforced period of lamaic meditation

necessary for him to attune himself to the correct cosmic state of awareness required for his walk,' said the

suddenly lucid Peg.

Omally nodded thoughtfully. 'No doubt then he will neither reveal himself nor the now legendary legwear prior

to the great event.'

'It's unlikely, love,' said Peg, then, 'Excuse me a moment. Yes, I can do you a gross of the "Wade Against the

Nazis" beany hats at cost if you are willing to do a deal on the film rights.'

Omally slid quietly away from the shop and along the road to the Flying Swan. He ignored the 'Wade for

Britain' banner which hung above the bar, and also the Disabled War Wounded Waders Fund tin that Pooley

rattled beneath his nose. He ordered a pint of Large. 'I have been cheated of my place in history,' he told

Neville.

'Do you want a regular Large or Wader's Jubilee Ale?' asked the part-time barman. 'Only the brewery seem to

have overestimated demand and I've got rather a lot going begging as it were.' One look at Omally's fearful

countenance set Neville straight. He drew Omally a pint of the usual and drew the Irishman's attention to a

figure in a white coat who was tampering with the antique jukebox. 'The brewery sent him down too, said we

needed a few topical tunes to set the scene as it were, said that with all the extra trade the pub would be

attracting some attempt on our part to join in the festivities would be appreciated.'

Omally cocked a quizzical eyebrow at the aged machine.

'You mean that it actually works. I thought it was broken beyond repair.'

'I suspect that it will not take him long to discover that it is only lacking a fuse in its plug.'

Omally's face took on a strangely guilty expression.

'I have seen the selection he proposes to substitute,' said Neville gravely. 'And I fear that it is even grimmer than

the one you have for so long protected our ears against.'

'It has a nautical feel to it, I suspect.'

'There is more than a hint of the shanty.'

'HMS Pinafore?'

'And that.'

'I suppose,' said Omally, hardly wishing to continue the conversation, or possibly even to draw breath, 'that there

would not be a number or two upon the jukebox by the Norman Hartnell Singers or Norm and the Waders?'

'You are certainly given to moments of rare psychic presentiment,' said the part-time barman.

At this point there occurred an event of surpassing unreality, still talked of at the Flying Swan. John Omally,

resident drinker at that establishment for fifteen long years, rose from his stool and left undrunk an entire pint of

the brewery's finest, bought and paid for by himself. Not a mere drip in the bottom you understand, nor an

unfortunate, cigar-filled, post darts-match casualty, but an entire complete, untouched, pristine one-pint glass of that

wholesome and lifegiving beverage, so beloved of the inebriate throughout five counties.

Some say that during the following month John Omally joined an order of Trappist monks, others that he swore

temporary allegiance to the Foreign Legion. Others still hint that the Irishman had learned through the agency of

previous generations a form of suspended animation, much favoured by the ancients for purposes of imposed

hibernation in times of famine. Whatever the case may be, Mr Omally vanished from Brentford, leaving a vacuum

that nobody could fill. His loss was a sorry thing to behold within the portals of the Flying Swan, time seemed to

stand still within those walls. Pooley took on the look of a gargoyle standing alone at the bar, drinking in silence,

his only movements those born of necessity.

But what of Norman Hartnell (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnell)? Certainly Norman's

ventures had, as has been noted, tended to verge upon the weird. This one in particular had transcended bounds

of normality. When Peg made grandiose statements about her husband's press conferences and tendencies

towards lamaic meditation it may be said without fear of contradiction that the fat woman was shooting a line

through her metaphorical titfer. Norman, who by nature was a harmless, if verbally extravagant, eccentric, had

finally played directly into the hands of that volatile and conniving fat woman. She had watched him night after

night experiment with inflatable rubber footwear, bouyant undergarments and stilted appliances. She had

watched him vanish beneath the murky waters of the Grand Union Canal time after time, only to re-emerge with

still more enthusiasm for the project. Only on his last semi-fatal attempt had she realized the futility of his

quest; if any money was to be made out of it, then she'd have to do it.

Since she was somewhat more than twice her husband's weight it had been a simple matter one dark night to

subdue him and instal him in the coal cellar, where, other than for continual cramps and the worrisome attention

of curious rodents, he was ideally situated for lamaic meditation should he so wish.

The long-standing and quite fornicatious relationship that she was having with the editor of the Brentford

Mercury was enough to seal poor Norman's fate. When the police, having received many phone calls from simple

souls during the week enquiring after their daily papers and packets of Woodbines, broke into Peg's paper shop

they found the bound and gagged figure of the erstwhile Channel Wader. Blinking in the sunlight, he had

seemed quite unable to answer the inquisitions by various television companies, newspaper combines and

foreign press agencies, each of whom had paid large cash sums for exclusive rights to the Channel Wade. Many

questions were asked, but few answered.

Peg had upped and awayed it with her pressman stud, never to be heard of again. Norman simply shrugged

his shoulders and remarked, 'A rolling stone gathers no moss yet many hands make light work.' These

proverbial cosmic truths meant little to the scores of creditors who daily beseiged his paper shop, but as Norman

had no legal responsibility, his wife having signed all the contracts, little could be done.

A few pennies were made by others than Peg and her paramour; Jim Pooley had successfully rattled his tin

under enough noses to buy Omally several pints of consolation upon his return.

Neville had a hard job of it to sell the Wader's Jubilee Ale, which was only purchased by those of perverse

humour and loud voice. It was only a chance event, that of a night of heavy rain, which saved the day, washing as

it did the Jubilee labels from the bottles to reveal that they contained nothing more than standard brown ale.

Norman seemed strangely unmoved by the whole business, considering that his wife had left him penniless.

Perhaps the fact that his wife had also left him wifeless had something to do with it. Possibly he still secretly har-

boured the wish to wade to France, but principle alone would have forbidden him to relay this information to

another soul. Still, as Jim Pooley said, 'Time and tide wait for Norman.'

If there were one ideal spot in Brentford for the poet to stand whilst seeking inspiration, or for the artist to set up

his three-legged easel, then it would certainly not be the Canal Bridge on the Hounslow Road, which marks the

lower left-hand point of the mysterious Brentford Triangle. Even potential suicides shun the place, feeling that

an unsuccessful attempt might result in all sorts of nasty poisonings and unsavoury disease.

Leo Felix, Brentonian and Rastafarian, runs a used car business from the canal's western shore. Here the cream

of the snips come to stand wing to wing, gleaming with touch-up spray and plastic filler, their mileometers pro-

fessionally readjusted and their 'only one owner's inevitably proving to be either members of the clergy or little old

ladies.

Norman had never owned a motor car, although there had been times when he had considered building one

or even constructing a more efficient substitute for the internal combustion engine possibly fueled upon beer-

bottle tops or defunct filtertips. His wife had viewed these flights of fancy with her traditional cynicism,

guffawing hideously and slapping her preposterous thighs with hands like one-pound packets of pork sausages.

Norman squinted thoughtfully down into the murky waters, finding in the rainbow swirls a dark beauty; he was

well rid of that one, and that was a fact. He was at least his own master now, and with his wife gone he had left his

job at the Rubber Factory to work full time in the paper shop. It's not a bad old life if you don't weaken, he

thought to himself. A trouble shared is a trouble halved.

'And it is a long straight road that has no turning,' said a voice at Norman's elbow.

Norman nodded. 'The thought had recently crossed my mind,' he said dreamily. Suddenly he turned to stare

full into the face of a shabby-looking tramp of dreadful aspect and sorry footwear.

'Sorry, did I startle you?' asked the creature with what seemed to be a voice of genuine concern. 'It's a bad

habit of mine and I really must control it.'

'Oh no,' said Norman, 'it is just that on a Wednesday afternoon which is my early closing day I often come down

here for an hour or two of quiet solitude and rarely expect to see another soul.'

The tramp smiled respectfully. 'There are times when a man must be alone,' he said.

'Exactly,' said Norman. The two gazed reflectively into the filthy waters for a moment or two. Norman's

thoughts were soft, wavering things, whose limits were easily containable within the acceptable norms of local

behaviour.

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TheAntipopeRobertRankinPrologueAlongfingerofearlyspringsunshinepokeddownbetweentheflatblocksandreachedthroughthedustypanesoftheFlyingSwan'ssaloonbarwindow,glisteningoffapintbeerglassandintotheeyeofNeville,thepart-timebarman.Nevilleheldtheglassatarms'lengthandexamineditwithhisgoodeye.Itwasveryclean,s...

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Robert Rankin - Brentford 01 - The Antipope

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