John’s eyes rested upon the full-colour photograph of a voluptuous young female in leather corsets and thigh boots wielding a riding crop. ‘They have their uses,’ he said lecherously. ‘Can I borrow this magazine?’
‘No,’ said Norman.
‘And where is this Church of the Second Coming then?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Norman, ‘news of it apparently travels by word of mouth. The ladies I have questioned have been loud in their praises for the place but reticent about its location.’
‘Oh?’ said John. ‘I’ll bring this back in half an hour.’
‘No,’ said Norman, ‘it is well known that you photostat them at the library and sell the copies in the Swan.’
‘Merely satisfying a need,’ said John. ‘Your prices are too high.’
‘Get out of my shop!’ said Norman, brandishing a lemonade bottle. Omally made a rapid and undignified departure.
As he tramped up the Ealing Road towards the Flying Swan, John’s thoughts turned back towards the Church of the Second Coming. Hard times always brought out the religion in people, and this long hot summer with its rationed water and rising temperatures was enough to set the nervous and susceptible legging it towards the nearest church. There was a good deal of money to be had in that game, and after all one was serving the community by fulfilling a need. Any rewards could be said to be of a just nature. It was a thought, and not a bad one. By the time he reached the Flying Swan his mind was made up. He would seek out the Church of the Second Coming and insinuate himself into a position of responsibility. He would gain respect and prestige, might even become a pillar of the community.
Yes, Omally could feel the call of the mother church, he was by now completely certain that he had a true vocation. He pushed wide the saloon bar door and entered the Flying Swan.
‘God save all here,’ he said, ‘and mine’s a pint of Large please, Neville.’
The part-time barman did the business and counted Omally’s coinage into his hand. ‘It’s gone up another penny,’ he told the Irishman.
Omally smiled pleasantly and produced the coin. ‘How are things with your good self, bar lord?’ he said. ‘It is another beautiful day is it not?’
‘It is not.’
‘Makes one feel good to be alive.’
‘It does not.’
‘God is in his heaven and all is right––’
‘Turn it in, Omally.’
‘Just remarking upon the splendours of creation.’
‘Well, do it elsewhere.’
Omally removed himself to a side table where old Pete sat leaning upon his stick, his dog, Chips, belly up before him.
‘Good day to you Pete,’ said John seating himself. ‘It is another beautiful day is it not? I thank God to be alive.’
Old Pete spat in the direction of the cuspidor, which was the last relic of Cowboy Night, having been retained owing to its overwhelming popularity. ‘You should take to the wearing of a hat, Omally,’ said he. ‘The harsh sun has befuddled your brain. I have an old homburg I might sell you.’
‘God is in his heaven,’ said Omally.
Pete was lining up for another shot at the cuspidor. ‘A pox on God,’ said the surly old bastard.
It was clear, thought Omally, that the joys of the Church of the Second Coming had not yet made themselves manifest to the bar staff and patrons of the Flying Swan. A more direct approach was in order.
‘Don’t you ever go to church, Pete?’ he enquired.
‘Never,’ said the ancient. ‘I have a straw boater if you don’t fancy the homburg.’
‘Listen,’ said Omally, who was rapidly losing his patience. ‘Just because I feel the need to extol the glories of God for once it doesn’t follow that I’m heading for a padded cell in St Bernard’s.’
‘Glories of God?’ said Pete in a sarcastic tone. ‘You are an ungodly womanizer, Omally, with about as much religious inclination as young Chips here.’
‘Ah,’ said Omally. ‘That may have once been true but I have seen the light. I am mending my ways.’
‘I have a very inexpensive cloth cap I might let you have.’
‘I don’t want a bloody cloth cap.’
‘Go down to Father Moity’s then.’
‘No,’ said Omally, ‘I need to find a church of a new denomination, one which would offer an honest godfearing man a chance to be at peace with himself and his maker.’ Young Chips made one of those unholy noises he was noted for and his elderly master chuckled maliciously.
‘I can see I am wasting my time here,’ said John. ‘A seeker after truth is not welcome hereabouts, a prophet is without honour in his own land so he is.’
‘Listen,’ said Old Pete. ‘If you really feel the need for something a bit different in the religious line why don’t you go down to the Church of the Second Coming, I hear they have rare old times down there.’
Omally pricked up his ears. All this waste of breath and he might just as well have asked the old fellow straight out. ‘Church of the Second Coming?’ said he. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.’
‘Well, all I know is that two old dears were talking about the place in the supermarket. Seems that there’s some sort of New Messiah fellow started up in business, very popular with the ladies he is.’
‘And where is this church to be found?’
‘Search me,’ said Old Pete. ‘I didn’t overhear that.’
What Omally said next was a phrase in Gaelic which his father had taught him when still a lad for use against the Black and Tans.
‘And you,’ said Old Pete as Chips set about the Irishman’s trouser bottoms. He might not have much religious inclination, that dog, but he did speak fluent Gaelic.
Omally shook the mutt free from his ankles and finished his drink at the bar. He began to understand how saints came to get martyred. It wasn’t all tea and crumpets with the vicar this getting into the church. And then a pleasant thought struck him; amongst the many ladies of his acquaintance there must surely be one who had taken up within the new church, and even if there wasn’t it would be a pleasure finding out.
Omally took out his little black book and thumbed at the pages. Where to start? A for Archroy’s missus. He would pay her a visit that very night.
‘Another pint please, Neville,’ said the Irishman jovially, ‘and to hell with the extra penny.’
Archroy stood in his back garden gazing up at the colossal mesh-covered construction which all but engulfed the entire yard. The deafening chatter of a thousand gaily coloured birds filled his ears. Archroy’s worst fears had been realized that very morning when the dreaded lorry had arrived, bearing the exotic cargo which now flapped and twittered before him.
He had never seen birds quite like them before, nor had he seen such a lorry, black as death and seemingly without windows. And the driver – Archroy shuddered, where did his wife meet these people?
There must be a thousand of them in there, thought Archroy peering into the cage. The din was appalling, the neighbours weren’t going to like this one. Mrs Murdock appeared at the garden fence, a bundle of limp washing in her arms and a clothes-peg in her mouth. ‘Lovely aren’t they?’ she mumbled. ‘Just what this neighbourhood needs to brighten it up.’
‘You like them?’ Archroy shouted.
Mrs M. nodded enthusiastically. ‘Them’s lovely.’
Archroy shook his head in wonder, the whole neighbourhood was going mad. It must be the heat.
‘I will bring them out some breadcrumbs,’ said Mrs Murdock, oblivious to the row. ‘They’ll like them.’
‘Better tell the bakery to staff up its night shift then,’ muttered Archroy. What did they eat? He leant forward upon the mesh and squinted at the mass of fluttering feathers. As if in answer to his question a single bird detached itself from the ever-circling throng and swooped down upon him, removing with one deft peck a goodly lump of flesh from his right thumb.
‘Damn you,’ shrieked Archroy, drawing back in anguis
h. Blood flowed from the wound and through it he could glimpse the ivory whiteness of exposed bone. ‘Oh my God,’ wailed Archroy, coming over faint. ‘Oh my God.’
He staggered back into the kitchen and bound the gory thumb with a length of dishcloth. The thumb throbbed like a good ‘un, it was definitely a casualty department job. Archroy’s mind, alert to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune which constantly assailed him, could see it all in advance: BRENTONIAN SAVAGED BY BUDGIE. The lads at the wiper works would have a field day. Archroy groaned in a manner that he had come to perfect of late.
Blood began to ooze through the makeshift bandage. Archroy tottered off in the direction of the cottage hospital.
He had no sooner turned the corner into Sprite Street, leaving behind him the kind of trail that bloodhounds love so dearly, when John Omally appeared pedalling slowly from the direction of the Ealing Road. He dismounted from his iron stallion and leant Marchant against Archroy’s fence. With a beaming smile upon his face he strode up the short garden path and rapped upon Archroy’s gaily coloured front door. ‘Helloee,’ he called through the letter box.
All was silent within but for a brief rattling flutter, suggestive of a Venetian blind being noisily and rapidly drawn up. ‘Helloee,’ called Omally again. ‘Anybody home?’ Clearly there was not. ‘I’ll just have a look around the back,’ said John loudly to the deserted street. ‘He may be asleep in his deckchair.’
Omally stealthily edged his way along the side of the house and tested the garden door. It swung soundlessly upon its oiled hinge to reveal the mighty mesh-covered structure. ‘By the light of the burning martyrs,’ said John.
The cage was partly lost in the shadow of the house and appeared to be empty. Omally prodded at the wire mesh. It was solidly constructed, surely no flock of budgies merited such security. The door was solidly framed in angle-iron and triple-bolted. Omally slid the first bolt back. It wouldn’t hurt to have a swift shufty within.
The second bolt shot back with a metallic clang. Omally looked furtively about the gardens. Mrs Murdock’s washing hung in a sullen line, dripping into the dust, but there was no sign of any human onlookers.
The third bolt went the way of its fellows and Omally swung the cage door slowly open. There was not a sound but for the tiny muted explosions of the drips. John stepped nimbly into the cage and peered up into the shadows. All was silent.
Without a second’s warning a vast multi-coloured mass of squawking violence descended upon him. He was engulfed by a screaming, tearing oblivion of claws and beaks. Sharp horny bills tore at his tweeds and sank greedily into his flesh. Omally howled in pain and battered away at the wildly flapping horde which bore down upon him. He tore his jacket up over his head and blindly fought his way back to the door of the cage, the demonic creatures ripping at his shirt-tails and sinking their razor-sharp beaks remorselessly into him.
With a superhuman effort born from his infinite reserve of self-preservative energy Omally threw himself through the door, driving it closed behind him and flinging one of the bolts to. He sank to his knees before the cage door, blood flowing from countless wounds. His treasured tweed suit was in ribbons and he clutched between his fingers tufts of his own hair. Bitterly he looked back towards his tormentors, but the feathered fiends had withdrawn once more to their lofty perches high in the shadows. Nothing remained to signify their presence but a few prettily coloured feathers upon the cage floor.
Omally set a painful course for his rooms. His suit was in such exquisite ruin that there was no hope of restoration.
His face had the appearance of one recently engaged in a pitched battle with a rampaging lawnmower.
‘Foul feathered bastards,’ said John through clenched teeth. He ran a tender hand over his scalp and felt to his horror several large bald patches. ‘Feathering their bloody nests with my barnet.’ He looked down at his hands as he steered Marchant somewhat erratically towards its destination. They were a mass of tiny v-shaped wounds.
‘Carnivorous canaries, what a carve-up!’ Archroy would pay dearly for this.
An hour later Omally lay soaking in his bathtub, the water a nasty pink colour. He had affixed small strips of toilet paper to the cuts on his face, and made some attempt to comb his hair forward and up into an extraordinary quiff to cover his bald patches. He drank frequently from a bottle of Old Snakebelly and swore between sips. ‘I will set traps upon the allotment,’ he said, ‘and catch the monster moggy – let’s see how those flying piranhas like that up their perches.’
When the bottle was finished Omally felt a little better, but there was still the matter of his suit. What a tragic circumstance. The remnants of his favourite tweeds hung upon the bathroom door, he had never seen anything so absolutely destroyed. Fifteen years of constant wear had hardly impinged upon the hardy fabric, but five or so short seconds in that cage of fluttering death had reduced it to ribbons.
‘God,’ said Omally, ‘I bet those lads could strip down an elephant in under a minute, nothing left but four umbrella stands!’
An hour later Omally was out of his tinted bathwater and dressed. Actually he looked pretty natty but for the speckled face and bizarre hairstyle. He had found a pair of cricketer’s white flannels, a Fair Isle jumper and a clean cotton shirt. This had evidently been a Christmas present, as it was wrapped in green paper decorated with holly and foolish fat Santas. As to footwear (the winged attackers having even played havoc with his hobnails) he chose a rather dapper pair of black patent dancing pumps he had borrowed from Pooley for some unremembered social function. He slung an old silk cravat about his neck and fastened it with a flourish.
Presently the clock struck seven and Omally wondered whether it might be worth chancing his arm for a swift pedal around to Archroy’s. If the bewigged one was there he could always think up some excuse for his visit. But if Archroy’s insatiable better half was home then he should at least be able to charm his way into a bit of compensation for the afternoon’s tragic events.
Archroy, as it happened, was not on the night shift. He had suffered the horrors of a tetanus injection, administered at the sneaky end by a sadistic nurse, and had received fourteen stitches in his thumb. The thumb was now liberally swathed in bandages and hidden within the overlarge folds of an impressive-looking sling. This sling now rested upon the bar of the Flying Swan.
‘Caught it in the lathe,’ he told Neville, but the part-time barman suspected otherwise. ‘Honest,’ insisted Archroy, ‘nearly took my arm off.’
‘Looks pretty bad,’ said Jim Pooley. ‘You’ll be in for compensation.’
‘Could be hundreds,’ said Old Pete.
‘Thousands,’ said Neville. ‘You’ll be rich.’
‘Mine’s a pint then,’ said Pooley.
‘And mine,’ said Old Pete.
Archroy bought another round, there being little else he could do.
‘Cut yourself shaving, John?’ said Archroy’s wife as she answered the unexpected knock.
‘In my eagerness to look my best for you my dear.’
‘I like the strides.’
‘They are all the rage in Carnaby Street.’
Omally was ushered hastily into the front room, where Archroy’s wife pulled the curtains.
‘And who might this be?’ Omally’s eyes had been drawn to a fine oil painting which hung above the fireplace in an ornate gilded frame, looking strangely out of place amid the pink dralon and mock veneer. It was the portrait of a stern, yet imposing figure of indeterminate years clad in crimson robes and sporting what appeared to be a skullcap. ‘Looks very valuable.’
‘It is. Will you take tea?’
‘I’d prefer something a little stronger if I may.’
‘Gin then?’
‘Absolutely.’
Archroy’s wife poured two large gins and joined Omally upon the quilted pink sofa facing the portrait. Omally found it hard to draw away his eyes as he received his drink. ‘There is something familiar about that painting
,’ he said. ‘But I can’t quite put my finger on it.’
‘It was a present,’ said Archroy’s wife pleasantly. ‘Drink up John, here’s a toast to the future: Auspicium melioris gevi.’
Omally raised his glass and from the corner of his eye noticed that Archroy’s wife held hers towards the portrait as if in salute. ‘Surely that is Latin, is it not?’
‘It is?’ said Archroy’s wife innocently. ‘I think it’s just a toast or something, don’t know where I heard it.’
‘It’s not important,’ said John, sipping his gin. In vino veritas, thought he. ‘Shall we have one more?’ he said, springing to his feet. As Omally decanted two large gins into the dainty glasses, he had a definite feeling that he was being watched – not by Archroy’s wife who sat demurely drawing her skirt up above her knees, but by some alien presence which lurked unseen. It was a most uncomfortable feeling and one which Omally threw off only with difficulty. He returned to the sofa bearing the drinks, his a single and hers a triple.
‘To us,’ he said.
‘Ab aeterno, Ab ante, Ab antique,’ said Archroy’s missus.
‘Down the hatch,’ said John.
After three more ill-proportioned tipples Archroy’s wife began to warm to her unexpected guest in the passionate manner Omally had come to appreciate.
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he asked as the lady of the house began to nibble at his ear and fumble with his Fair Isle.
‘Let’s do it here,’ she purred.
‘What, on your new three-piece?’
‘Why not?’
Omally kicked off his black patents with practised ease and divested himself of his cricket whites.
‘Been shaving your legs as well?’ said Archroy’s wife, noticing the bloody scars about Omally’s ankles.
‘Caught myself in the briar patch.’
The pink sofa was solidly constructed and well-padded with the finest foam rubber. It stood the assault upon it uncomplainingly, but something was wrong. Omally felt himself unable to perform with his usual style and finesse, the spark just wasn’t there.