The giant slowly folded his herculean arms and gazed down upon his congregation, who stood immobile, heads bowed, before him. He spoke, and his voice echoed cavernously about the great pillars and filled the dome.
“My people,” he said, “my own people, to you is granted the supreme honour, to you my first chosen; this night you will bear witness to the consecration of the new Holy See. You are my disciples, and I, the born again, the logos, the master, I grant you this honour. You will spread word of my coming across the world, that all might know my power and marvel at my return.”
The words rolled on and on, a litany of terror. In the shadows of the pillar Professor Slocombe closed his hand about his silver crucifix. Omally bared his teeth and fingered his half brick. Pooley wondered whether there might be a back door open somewhere near at hand.
“For centuries mankind has awaited my return, and now I am here to fulfil the prophecies and to reclaim my throne. You who stand before me are my vessels, into you shall I pour my powers. You will be masters of men, none shall stand before you, through you shall I regain what is rightfully mine.”
Professor Slocombe held his breath; so this was it, there were easily four hundred people in this hall and if each received only a portion of the giant’s powers they would be virtually unstoppable.
“Kneel before me,” roared the giant, “prostrate yourselves before me.” The congregation threw themselves to the floor, pressing their faces down into the cold mosaic. Omally turned his head away.
“Kneel, I say!”
Omally’s eyes flashed back to the figure upon the dais, the face was contorted, twisted into a snarl, and the eyes were blazing.
“You will kneel!”
Across the hall, some ten or so yards from the three hidden figures, two men were standing defiantly amid the sea of fallen bodies. Omally had little difficulty in recognizing one of them. This individual was clad in a dark silk kimono, his head covered by an elaborate Japanese wig. His oversized eyebrows had been dyed the very jettest of blacks and were twisted at their extremities into short spikes.
It was Archroy. As Omally watched, the samurai’s companion coolly divested himself of his dufflecoat to reveal a clerical collar and the vestments of a priest. It was Father Moity.
Omally turned to the Professor, who shrugged helplessly. Pooley whispered, “This is going to be good, what odds the Chinee then, John?”
“You will kneel before your Master.” The giant knotted his fists and drew himself up to even greater heights.
Archroy curled his lip and Father Moity drew from his raiment a shining crucifix. The congregation were still, their faces pressed to the cold mosaic floor. They would not have dared to rise even if they could. Before the dais the four creatures were shambling to their unearthly feet.
The Professor drew his two cohorts further back into the shadows. “If the opportunity should arise,” he whispered, “I trust that you will employ those two poorly concealed bricks to good advantage.”
Omally winked, Pooley said, “In for a penny.”
The rain lashed down upon Brentford and Pope Alexander VI raised his massive arm and pointed towards Archroy and the young priest. “You, I will make an example of,” he roared. “You will know the exquisite agonies of lingering death.”
Archroy thumbed his nose. “Balls,” said he.
The giant gestured to his four hooded cardinals. “Bring them to me, spare only their lives.”
The grotesque creatures turned upon the two men, forward they came upon their twisted legs, murmuring and whispering. They had lost their fifth brother to a son of mankind and yearned only for vengeance upon the entire race. Their beaked mouths opened and closed, dripping vile slime. Closer they came, steering their way amongst the prone figures; slowly they approached the man of the cloth and the student of Count Dante. Archroy watched them come. “My bloody beans,” he said, nudging the young priest.
Suddenly they were upon him, their clawlike hands reaching out, knobby, crooked appendages displaying wicked barbs. Father Moity held up his cross and said the words of the rosary. Archroy pivoted upon his heel and swung about, his foot curling through the air in a blurry arc. He struck one of the creatures a devastating blow, sweeping it from its feet and propelling it through the air. It tumbled to the floor several yards away and came to rest beneath one of the great pillars, silent and unmoving. Its unholy brothers slashed at him but Archroy leapt high into the air above their heads, dropping to the floor behind them.
As they turned, the master of Dimac let out a mighty yell and drove forward an iron fist. He struck one of the creatures firmly at neck height. There was a sickening report as the thing’s head departed its body, a brief swish as it whirled through the air and a dull thud as it landed amongst the shadows to the rear of the hall. The decapitated body remained upright a moment, the arms flailing about and clawing at the space its head had occupied, then it toppled backwards, a crumpled heap of red cloth.
The giant upon the dais raised his hands towards the great dome. “Destroy him,” he screamed, “destroy him.”
Archroy stood undaunted, perfect testimony to the confidence-boosting powers of Count Dante’s art. As the two demented godless beings fell on him he drew back both his arms and flung them forward in perfect unison. His fists passed clear through the chests of the creatures, emerging from their spines amid a tangle of rootlike fibres and a great tearing of cloth. Archroy shook the now limp forms away from him and turned upon Alexander VI. “You’re next pal,” he said.
Omally stared in awe. This was the Archroy he had struck down upon the allotment? Pooley said, “That particular blow seems uniformly effective.”
Archroy stood thumbing his nose and flexing his muscles. Clearly it was impossible for him to feel any fear, no matter how appalling his adversary. Father Moity knelt at his side, hands clasped in prayer. Omally’s heart went out towards the young priest who, possessing none of Archroy’s ripping, tearing, maiming and mutilating techniques had come armed only with his faith to face the diabolical power of the crimson giant.
Upon the dais Pope Alexander VI stood, his entire body trembling, throbbing with unimaginable anger. Behind him, through the stained-glass window, the lightning flashed, casting his massive shadow across the great hall. The light about him grew and grew and became a blazing white inferno, forming itself into a blinding corona. His contours blurred, and naught could be seen of him but for the two red blood-bowls of his eyes.
A strange vibration ran through the air of the Mission. Omally felt the skin of his face being forced back as if by the pressure of increased g-forces. His cheeks seemed to stretch and draw themselves towards his ears, tears flew from his eyes and he found it impossible to close them. Pooley clung desperately to the great pillar and the frail Professor staggered back against the side wall. It was as if a hurricane of icy wind had been directed at them. The congregation were beginning to rise, shaking their heads like awakened sleepwalkers and shielding their faces from the glare.
Archroy stood firmly anchored to the floor, his kimono flapping about him. His exotic wig was torn from his head, exposing his alopecia to full effect. Father Moity raised his hand in benediction and uttered the first words of the holy exorcism, but the force struck him, buffetting him backwards and silencing his voice. Folk were tumbling over one another like rag dolls, bowling over the floor and fluttering against the walls. The door of the Mission burst outwards and crashed into the rain-lashed night, cartwheeling over and over across the Butts Estate. The figure upon the dais came and went amid the corona of light, his arms outstretched and his head thrown back.