Omally, caught somewhat off guard, was hard pressed for a reply, so he combined a shrug, a twitch and a brief but scholarly grin to signify that he had not yet drawn upon his considerable funds of intellect in order to deal fully with the situation.

The Professor, however, read it otherwise. “You are at a loss,” said he.

“I am,” said John.

“So,” the Professor continued, “what brings you here?”

Omally looked towards Jim Pooley for support. Jim shrugged. “You’d better tell him the lot,” said he.

Omally set about the retelling of his day’s experiences. When the Irishman had finished the Professor rose to his feet. Crossing to one of the gargantuan bookcases he drew forth an old red-bound volume which he laid upon the desk.

“Tell me John,” he said. “You would recognize the figure in the portrait were you to see his likeness again?”

“I could hardly forget it.”

“I have the theory,” said Professor Slocombe, “that we are dealing here with some kind of recurring five-hundred-year cycle. I would like you to go through this book and tell me if a facsimile of the portrait you saw exists within.”

Omally sat down in the Professor’s chair and began to thumb through the pages. “It is a very valuable book,” the Professor cautioned, as John’s calloused thumb bent back the corner of yet another exquisite page.

“Sorry.”

“Tell me, Professor,” said Jim, “if we can identify him and even if we can beat on his front door and confront him face to face, what can we do? Omally and I have both seen him, he’s getting on for seven feet tall and big with it. I wouldn’t fancy taking a swing at him and anyway as far as we can swear to, he hasn’t committed any crime. What do we do?”

“You might try making a citizen’s arrest,” said Omally, looking up from his page-turning.

“Back to the books, John,” said the Professor sternly.

“My wrists are beginning to ache,” Omally complained, “and my eyes are going out of focus looking at all these pictures.”

“Were they sharp, the beaks of those birds?” asked the Professor. John’s wrists received a sudden miraculous cure.

“Well,” said Jim to the Professor, “how do we stop him?”

“If we are dealing with some form of negative theology, then the tried and trusted methods of the positive theology will serve as ever they did.”

“Fire and water and the holy word.”

“The same, I am convinced of it.”

“Got him!” shouted John Omally suddenly, leaping up and banging his finger on the open book. “It’s him, I’m certain, you couldn’t mistake him.”

Pooley and the Professor were at Omally’s side in an instant, craning over his broad shoulders. The Professor leant forward and ran a trembling hand over the inscription below the etched reproduction of the portrait. “Are you certain?” he asked, turning upon Omally. “There must be no mistake, it would be a grave matter indeed if you have identified the wrong man.”

Pooley bent towards the etching. “No,” said he, “there is no mistake.”

The Professor turned slowly away from the two men at the desk. “Gentlemen,” he said solemnly, “that is a portrait of Rodrigo Borgia, born in Valencia January 1st, 1431, died in Rome August 18th, 1503. Rodrigo Borgia – Pope Alexander VI!”

“That is correct,” said a booming voice. “I am Rodrigo Lenzuoli Borgia and I have come for my children!”

The French windows flew back to the sound of shattering glass and splintering woodwork and an enormous figure entered the portal. He was easily seven feet in height and he inclined his massive head as he stepped through the casement. He was clad in the rich crimson robes of the Papacy and was surrounded by a weirdly shimmering aura which glittered and glowed about him.

The Professor crossed himself and spoke a phrase of Latin.

“Silence!” The giant raised his hand and the old Professor slumped into his chair as if cataleptic. Pooley and Omally shrank back against the wall and sought the lamaic secrets of invisibility. The mighty figure turned his blood-red glare upon them. Pooley’s knees were jelly, Omally’s teeth rattled together like castanets.

“I should destroy you now,” said the giant, “you are but worms that I might crush beneath my heel.”

“Worms,” said Omally, “that’s us, hardly worth the trouble.” He laughed nervously and made a foolish face.

“Ha!” The giant turned away his horrible eyes. “I have pressing business, you may count yourselves lucky.”

The two men nodded so vigorously that it seemed that their heads would detach themselves at any minute from their trembling bodies and topple to the floor.

“Come unto me my children,” boomed the awful voice, “come now, there is much work to be done.”

There was a terrible silence. Nothing moved. The two men were transfixed in terror, and the giant in the crimson garb stood motionless, his hands stretched forth towards the study door. Then it came, at first faintly, a distant rattling and thumping upon some hidden door, then a loud report as if the obstruction had been suddenly demolished. Scratching, dragging sounds of ghastly origin drew nearer and nearer. They stopped the other side of the study door and all became again silent.

The two men stood in quivering anticipation. A mere inch of wood stood between them and the nameless, the unspeakable.

The silence broke as a rain of blows descended upon the study door, the huge brass lock straining against the onslaught. Suddenly the panels of the elegant Georgian door burst asunder. As gaping holes appeared, the two men caught sight of the malevolent force which battered relentlessly upon them.

The beings were dwarf-like and thickly set, composed of knobby root-like growths, a tangle of twisted limbs matted into a sickening parody of human form, dendritic fingers clutching and clawing at the door. Forward the creatures shambled, five in all. They stood clustered in the centre of the room, their gnarled and ghastly limbs aquiver and their foul mouths opening and closing and uttering muffled blasphemies.

The giant raised his hand and gestured towards the French windows. The fetid beings shuffled towards the opening, one raising its vile arm defiantly at the two men.

Omally gripped his chum’s jacket, his face white and bloodless. Pooley shook uncontrollably, his eyes crossed, and he sank to the floor in a dead faint.

The last of the creatures had left the room and the giant in crimson turned his eyes once more to Omally. “Irishman,” he said, “are you a good Catholic?”

Omally nodded.

“Then kneel.”

Omally threw himself to his knees. The giant stepped forward and extended his hand. “Kiss the Papal ring!” Omally’s eyes fell upon the large and beautiful ring upon the giant’s right hand. “Kiss the ring!” said Pope Alexander VI.

Omally’s head swayed to and fro, the ring came and went as he tried to focus upon it. Although he would have done anything to be free of the evil crimson giant, this was too much. He was not a good Catholic, he knew, but this was supreme blasphemy, one might do a million years in purgatory for this.

“No,” screamed Omally, “I will not do it,” and with that he too lost consciousness and fell to the floor at the feet of the giant.

A shaft of early sunlight passed through the broken framework of the French windows and fell upon the prone figure of Jim Pooley. Pooley stirred stiffly and uncomfortably in his unnatural sleep, groaned feebly and flung out his arms. His eyes snapped open, nervously turning on their orbits to the right and left. He flexed his numbed fingers and struggled to his knees. Omally lay a few feet from him, apparently dead.

Pooley pulled himself to his feet and struggled to his chum. “John,” he shouted, gripping the Irishman by his Fair Isle jumper and shaking him violently, “John, can you hear me?”

“Away with you, Mrs Granger,” mumbled Omally, “your husband will be back from his shift.”