Archroy’s wife noticed it almost at once. “Come on man,” she cried, “up and at it!”

Omally sat upright. “Someone’s watching us,” he said. “I can feel eyes burning into me.”

“Nonsense, there’s nobody here but us.”

Omally made another attempt but it was useless. “It’s that picture,” he said in sudden realization. “Can’t you feel it?”

“I can’t feel anything, that’s the trouble.”

“Turn its face to the wall, it’s putting me off my stroke.”

“No!” Archroy’s wife flung herself from the sofa and stood with her back to the portrait, her arms outspread. She appeared ready to take on an army if necessary.

“Steady on,” said Omally. “I am sorry if I have offended you, hang a dishcloth over it then, I won’t touch it.”

“Hang a dishcloth over him? Don’t be a fool!”

Omally was hurriedly donning his trousers. There was something very wrong here. Archroy’s wife looked completely out of her head, and it wasn’t just the gin. The woman’s possessed, he told himself. Oh damn, he had both feet down the same trouser leg. He toppled to the floor in a struggling heap. The woman came forward and stood over him laughing hysterically.

“You are useless,” she taunted, “you limp fish, you can’t do it!”

“I have a prior appointment,” spluttered John trying to extricate his tangled feet. “I must be off about my business.”

“You’re not a man,” the mad woman continued. “‘He’ is the only man in Brentford, the only man in the world.”

“Who is?” Omally ceased his vain struggling a moment, all this had a quality of mysterious intrigue. Even though he was at an obvious disadvantage at the feet of a raving lunatic he would never forgive himself if he missed the opportunity to find out what was going on.

“Who is ‘He’?”

“He? He is the born again, the second born, He…” The woman turned away from Omally and fell to her knees before the portrait. Omally hastily adjusted his legwear and rose shakily to his feet. Clutching his patent shoes, he made for the door. He no longer craved an explanation, all he craved was a large double and the comparative sanity of the Flying Swan. Phrases of broken Latin poured from the mouth of the kneeling woman and Omally fled. He flung open the front door, knocking Archroy who stood, his key raised towards the lock, backwards into the rose bushes. He snatched up the peacefully dozing Marchant and rode off at speed.

As he burst into the saloon bar Omally’s dramatic appearance did not go unnoticed. His cricket whites were now somewhat oily about the ankle regions and his nose had started to bleed.

“Good evening, John,” said Neville. “Cut yourself shaving?”

“The match finished then?” asked Jim Pooley. “Run out, were you?”

“Want to change your mind about that hat?” sniggered Old Pete, who apparently had not shifted his position since lunchtime.

“A very large scotch,” said John, ignoring the ribaldry.

“John,” Pooley said in a voice of concern. “John, what has happened, are we at war?”

Omally shook his head vigorously. “Oh no,” said he, “not war.” He shot the large scotch down in one go.

“What then, have you sighted the vanguard of the extraterrestrial strike force?”

“Not those lads.”

“What then? Out with it.”

“Look at me,” said Omally. “What do you see?”

Jim Pooley stood back. Fingering his chin thoughtfully, he scrutinized the trembling Irishman.

“I give up,” said Jim at length. “Tell me.”

Omally drew his breath and said, “I am a man most sorely put upon.”

“So it would appear, but why the fancy dress? It is not cricketers’ night at Jack Lane’s by any chance?”

“Ha ha,” said John in a voice oddly lacking in humour. He ordered another large scotch and Pooley, who was by now in truth genuinely concerned at his close friend’s grave demeanour, actually paid for it. He led the shaken Irishman away from the chuckling throng and the two seated themselves in a shadowy corner.

“I have seen death today,” said Omally in a low and deadly tone. “And like a fool I went back for a second helping.”

“That would seem an ill-considered move upon your part.”

John peered into his double and then turned his eyes towards his old friend. “I will tell you all, but this must go no further.”

Inside Pooley groaned dismally, he had become a man of late for whom the shared confidence spelt nothing but doom and desolation. “Go ahead, then,” he said in a toneless voice.

Omally told his tale, omitting nothing, even his intention towards Archroy’s wife. At first Pooley was simply stunned to hear such a candid confession of his colleague’s guilty deeds, but as the tale wore on and Omally spoke of the Church of the Second Coming and of the sinister portrait and the Latin babblings his blood ran cold.

“Drink up,” said Jim finally. “For there is something I must tell you, and I don’t think you are going to like it very much.” Slowly and with much hesitation Pooley made his confession. He told the Irishman everything, from his first theft of the magic bean to his midnight observation of Omally, and on to all that the Professor had told him regarding the coming of the Dark One and his later meeting with the Other Sam.

Omally sat throughout it all, his mouth hanging open and his glass never quite reaching his lips. When finally he found his voice it was hollow and choked. “Old friend,” said he. “We are in big trouble.”

Pooley nodded. “The biggest,” he said. “We had better go to the Professor.”

“I agree,” said Omally. “But we had better have one or two more of these before we go.”

17

When Neville called time at ten thirty the two men stumbled forth into the street in their accustomed manner. They had spoken greatly during that evening and there had been much speculation and much putting together of two and two. If the Messiah to the Church of the Second Coming was the man in the portrait and the man in the portrait was none other than the dreaded Dark One himself, then he was obviously gaining a very firm foothold hereabouts.

As Omally pushed Marchant forward and Pooley slouched at his side, hands in pockets, the two men began to feel wretchedly vulnerable beneath the moon’s unholy light.

“You can almost come to terms with it during the day,” said Pooley. “But at night, that is another matter.”

“I can feel it,” said John. “The streets seem no longer familiar, all is now foreign.”

“I know.”

If Marchant knew, he was not letting on, but out of sheer badness he developed an irritating squeak which put the two men in mind of the now sea-going wheelbarrow, and added to their gloom and despondency.

“This lad is heading for the breaker’s yard,” said Omally suddenly. Marchant ceased his rear-wheel loquaciousness.

A welcoming glow showed from the Professor’s open French windows when presently they arrived. From within came the sound of crackling pages being turned upon the laden desk.

“Professor,” called Jim, tapping upon the pane.

“Come in Jim,” came the cheery reply. “And bring Omally with you.”

The two men looked at one another, shrugged and entered the room. Pooley’s eyes travelled past the old Professor and settled upon the spot where the bean creatures had been housed. “Where are they?” -

“They have grown somewhat, Jim,” said the Professor. “I have been forced to lodge them in larger and more secure quarters.” He rang his bell and Gammon appeared as if by magic, bearing a bottle of scotch upon a silver salver.

“Now then,” the Professor said, after what he felt to be a respectable pause, adequate for the settling into armchairs and the tasting of scotch, “I take it you have something to tell me. I take it further that you have confided all in Mr Omally?” Pooley hung his head. “It is all for the best, I suppose, it was inevitable that you should. So, now that you know, what are your thoughts on the matter, Omally?”