Read Online The Antipope by Robert Rankin - Free Book Online Page B

definitely numbered. The job supplied no pension, and with the swelling list of forged signatures speaking of the enormous physical effort required of one man to maintain the Mission there had been talk of employing a younger person. The yearly meeting between himself and the Foundation’s trustees had been but a week before and he, the Captain, had handed over his tailored accounts and spoken modestly of his good works. But a new face had appeared upon the Committee this year, a young and eager face. During the previous twelve months one of the Trustees had died and the lot had fallen to his nephew to succeed him.
    Young Brian Crowley had no love for elderly sea captains. His distaste for such patriarchs was only exceeded by his out-and-out hatred for tramps, loafers, down-and-outs, gypsies, foreigners and women. The limp-wristed Brian cared little for anybody other than an Italian waiter who worked at the Adelaide Tea Rooms. He had promised to set Mario up in his own restaurant, the dago waiter being a veritable “wizard-de-cuisine” and exceptionally well hung into the bargain.
    The fates, which had conspired to arrange the sad demise of his dear uncle and Brian’s succession to the Foundation committee, had also decreed that this year the Council would raise their annual offer for the purchase of the Mission to a more than adequate sum.
    The Captain sucked again upon his pipe. He could read faces well enough, and young Brian’s had been an open book. It might well be the time to shape up and ship out. His nest-egg was by now pretty substantial, enough for a small cottage somewhere, possibly by the sea. It might be nice to actually see the waves breaking on a beach. “I wonder if they make a lot of noise?” he said to himself.
    Suddenly far up the road a flicker of movement caught his eye. He watched with passing interest as a ragged figure turned the corner beside the Memorial Library and shambled towards him with an odd yet purposeful gait.
    It was the figure of a tramp. The Captain raised his nautical glass to view the apparition. A swift glance was enough. “Ugh!” said the Captain.
    The tramp plodded nearer and nearer, and the Captain rummaged about in his vast mental storehouse for a tale of woe suitable to the occasion. Strangely none seemed readily available. The tramp trod closer, his big floppy boots stomping down into the ground. The Captain began to whistle an uneasy version of the famous shanty “Orange Claw Hammer”.
    The tramp was crossing the road towards the Mission. He stopped. The Captain ceased his whistling. The birds were silent and the Captain could no longer smell the fragrant scent of honeysuckle. He felt cold, and even though the early summer sun breathed down upon him a shiver arose at the base of his spine. The Captain held his breath. Of a sudden the wretch turned upon his heel and stalked away down a side turning. As if at a signal the birds burst forth again into a cascade of song and the Captain regained the use of his nostrils. He let free a sigh of utmost relief and reached into his sleeve for his matches.
    “Could I trouble you for a glass of water, please?” said a voice at his elbow.
    The Captain turned in horror, spilling his matches to the ground. Beside him stood a tramp of hideous aspect. “Sorry, did I startle you?” said the creature with what seemed to be a voice of genuine concern. “It is a bad habit of mine, I really most control it.”
    “Damn you, sir,” swore the Captain, “creepin’ up on a fella.”
    “My apologies,” said the tramp, removing the battered relic which served him as hat, and bowing to the ground. “But if you would be so kind, a glass of water would serve well at this time.”
    The Captain muttered a terse “Come in then” and led his unspeakable visitor into the Mission. “You caught me at a bad moment,” he said.
    The tramp found no cause to reply.
    “I was just having a moment or two’s fresh air before I continue my