Free The Antipope by Robert Rankin

search.” The Captain drew the tramp a glass of water. The tramp received it with a great show of gratitude. “My thanks,” said he.
    “Yes,” the Captain continued, “my search.”
    The tramp seemed uninterested in the Captain’s search but he nodded politely.
    “Yes, carelessly I have upset my case of deadly scorpions; I fear that they have gone to earth in the sleeping quarters.”
    “Scorpions indeed?” said the tramp. “I have some experience in such matters, I will help you search.”
    The Captain eyed his visitor with suspicion. “That will not be necessary, I should not like there to be an unfortunate accident, these fellows are wantonly vicious in their attitude towards any but myself.”
    “If you are on such good terms, possibly you should just put out some milk and give them a call,” said the tramp helpfully.
    The Captain sucked strongly upon his pipe. “I fear that that would prove futile,” he said. “Devious fellows scorpions, and mine I believe to be deaf.”
    “Devious indeed,” said the tramp. “Have you seen this trick?” He held the glass of water out at arm’s length and stared into it with a fixed and steady gaze. The Captain watched in puzzlement, his eyes flickering between the glass and the tramp’s glaring red pupils, which now began to glitter with a strange and sinister light.
    Bubbles began to appear in the glass; one by one they popped to the surface, growing in force one upon another they burst upwards; steam began to rise.
    The Captain said, “It’s boiling, be damned!”
    The tramp handed the churning glass to the Captain, who gingerly received it. “I should like a room for the night,” said the tramp.
    “The water is cold,” said the Captain, dumbfounded.
    “A trick, no more. About the room?”
    “The scorpions!”
    The tramp said, “I don’t think we need worry about the scorpions. I have here in my pocket a trained cobra that will easily seek out any scorpions lounging about.”
    “Hold there,” said the Captain. “That surely will not be necessary. I think that the warm sun may well have drawn any errant insects beyond the bounds of the Mission.”
    “That is good to hear,” said the tramp. “Now, about the room?”
    “This room is vacant.” The Captain swung open a door to reveal a neatly dressed cubicle. “It is sad that it carries such a dreadful reputation.”
    “Indeed?” The tramp prodded the bed and turned back the woollen coverlet.
    “Yes, no soul has ever stayed a full night in it, none reveal what horrors take hold of them, but of those who attempted to remain, one committed suicide and three more are even now residents at St Bernard’s Asylum, hopeless lunatics.”
    “Indeed?” The tramp sat down upon the bed and bounced soundlessly upon the steady springs.
    “Gibbering they were,” said the Captain. “I have sailed the seven seas and seen sights that would blast the sanity from a lesser man but I can tell you I was shaken when I saw the looks upon the faces of those unlucky fellows.”
    The tramp shook his head slowly. “My word,” was all he would say. The Captain had an uneasy feeling that Brian Crowley had a hand in this. “The hospitality of the Mission is well known,” said the tramp. “Only last week I bumped into Alfredo Beranti and Roger Kilharric both joyfully extolling the virtues of your beneficient establishment.”
    The Captain scratched at his head. The names seemed strangely familiar. “And Dennis Cunningham,” the tramp continued, “forever praising the haute-cuisine.” The Captain became suddenly weak about the knees. He knew those names well enough, they were three of the cast of imaginary tramps with which he peopled the pages of his yearly accounts.
    “And Old Wainwright McCarthy,” the tramp said, “and…”
    “No, no,” screamed the Captain in an unnatural voice, “enough, enough!”
    “What time is dinner to be served?”
    “Dinner?”
    “Knobby Giltrap spoke highly of the shepherd’s