“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 antiquo,” 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.
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.”