The Witches of Chiswick

by Robert Rankin

  “Yes, that’s it. That must be it. I’ve heard of happy, but I’ve never experienced it before.”

  “Never?” Will’s face fell. “You’ve never been happy?”

  “I’ve seen people laughing. Lots of times. But I never knew why they laughed. They never laughed when they were with me. They always had grave expressions.”

  “Now that is evil.”

  “But I do feel it. I feel – happy. Can I have some more of this booze?”

  “But it’s against Scripture.”

  “Stuff Scripture!” said the other Will. “Stuff everything. I won’t play by the rules of Scripture. I’ll be free of Scripture. I’ll be free of everything.”

  “Once you’ve thwarted the witches,” said Will.

  “Once you’ve thwarted the witches. Tell me another joke. I don’t want to think about witches. We weren’t thinking about witches, were we? We were thinking about being happy.”

  “We were,” said Will. “I’ll get us in another drink.”

  And he rose unsteadily and went off to do so.

  The other Will sat staring dreamily into space.

  “I think things are going rather well, squire,” said a voice in his head. “I think we can pull this thing off and come up trumps all round.”

  “Who said that?” The other Will’s eyes widened and he stared all around and about.

  “It’s me, squire. Larry, your Holy Guardian sprout. I’ve been trying to get through to you for ages. The beer has eased the passage, as it were.”

  “Who’s saying this?” The other Will’s head turned this way and that.

  “Me, Larry, Barry’s brother. They thought I was done for in the Great Fire of London, but I wasn’t and now I’m in your head. I’m your protector. We can beat this other schmuck, we have him eating right out of our hands. Well your hands; I don’t have any.”

  The other Will clutched at his head. “I am possessed!” he howled, which drew the attention of several other patrons of the Hands of Orloc, amongst them a big bargee and his smaller counterpart, who had stopped off for the night in Brentford (which is upon Thames), and a lady in a straw hat, who was hawking copies of the War Cry.

  “Great scabs of scurvy!” said the big bargee. “Tell me, Charlie; ain’t that the bloke we had a punch-up with the other day?”

  “The undertaker’s lad, with the parsnip up his bum?” said his smaller companion. “I do believe it is.”

  “Get out of my head!” cried the other Will, beating at his temples with his fists.

  “Don’t go all stone bonker, squire,” said Larry. “I’m one of the good guys, I’m here to help.”

  “I am cursed.” The other Will beat some more at his temples.

  “Definitely the same geezer,” said the small bargee. “Must tread the boards. Seems to have only the one act.”

  Will eased himself between big bargee and small. “Excuse me gents,” he said. “Beer coming through.”

  “Gawd damn my eyes,” said the big bargee. “It’s another of them and just the same.”

  Will glanced up at the big bargee.

  “Oh,” said he. “It’s you.”

  “Can I interest you in a copy of the War Cry?” asked the lady in the straw hat to Will. “It’s to help our missionaries save the savages of darkest Africa. I’m hoping they’ll save a couple for me.”

  “What?” said Will.

  “Get out of my head!” shouted the other Will.

  “Here,” said a gatherer of the pure who had wandered far from home upon this day in search of the white stuff,[19] “I recognise that voice.”

  “I saw him first,” said the big bargee.

  “And me second,” said his smaller counterpart.

  “I know you,” said the lady in the straw hat to Will.

  “Chiesh,” said Barry. “I think I’ll take my nap now.”

  “Squire,” said Larry. “Stop beating at your temples. It’s rocking me all about.”

  “Aaaaagh!” went the other Will.

  “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” said Will.

  And then as surely as night follows day, or seagulls follow a mackerel boat, or the dustcart follows the Lord Mayor’s show, or drunken girls wearing halos and angels wings and enjoying a hen night in Brighton sing “follow the leader, leader, leader,” before getting ruthlessly shagged by young men who have been following them from bar to bar all evening, a bit of a fight got started.

  And things got somewhat out of hand.

  And.

  “Lord Peter Whimsy,” said the presiding magistrate, Mr Justice Doveston, at the Brentford Magistrate’s court, as this was the name Will had given to the police who had arrested him. “You are charged with the following crimes. That you and your twin brother entered the local hostelry known as the Hands of Orloc in Greendragon lane, in or about the time of eight thirty yesterday evening, in a state of advanced inebriation and did there cause a common affray. That you did employ Dimac, the deadliest of all the martial arts, whereby a fingertip’s pressure can maim and disfigure, upon Mr Michael Mugwump, otherwise known as the big bargee; Mr Charles Windsor, otherwise known as his smaller counterpart, constables Norman Meek and Reginald Mild. Mrs—”

  A cough from the gallery was silenced by an usher of the court.

  “—otherwise known as the lady in the straw hat, Mr Nigel Dempster, society columnist for The Brentford Mercury newspaper—”

  “Eh?” said Will. He sat as far as he could from his other self upon a bench in the dock, flanked by burly police constables; burly police constables who sported bandaged heads and bruised chins; burly police constables named Meek and Mild.

  “—the cast of the musical Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, which is presently enjoying its first run in the West End, and sundry others—”

  “I never hit anyone called Sundry Others,” said Will.

  The magistrate consulted his notes. “Ah no,” he said. “It’s not ‘sundry others’, it’s Mr Montague Summers, historian and occultist.”

  “He had it coming,” said Will. “He hit me with his rhythm stick.”

  “Three fat persons, click, click, click,” sang Barry.[20]

  “And ‘a wandering-minstrel-I-a-thing-of-heirs-and-braces’,” said the magistrate. “Who is a dyslexic”

  “He hit me first,” said Will. “With his janbo.”

  “And so, how do you plead?”

  “Innocent,” said Will. “My brother and I were set upon by ruffians; we were only defending ourselves.”

  “And the two policemen, constables Meek and Mild, whom you laid unconscious when they arrived upon the scene of the disturbance?”

  “I did no such thing,” said Will.

  “A bystander says that a friend of his saw you.”

  “That’s hearsay,” said Will.

  “No,” said the magistrate, “Hearsay was a short-lived, manufactured vocal harmony group. You are, however also accused of assaulting Little Tich, the popular music hall entertainer.”

  “He stood upon one of my big boots,” said Little Tich, poking his nose over the gallery rail.

  “Never laid a foot on him,” said Will. “This is all a case of mistaken identity.”

  “Might I approach the bench, your honour?” said a gentleman in a gown and a wig and a pair of high-heeled boots.

  “And who might you be?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

  “I am the counsel for the defence, Freddie ‘the loser’ Lonsdale.”

  “Eh?” said Will.

  “Do I know you?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

  “Of course you do, your honour,” said Freddie. “I only live around the corner. I’m the duty counsel for the defence. When I’m not gathering the pure.”

  “Are you a Freemason?” asked the magistrate.

  “Not as such,” said Freddie.

  “Then things look very bad for your client.”

  “On the face of it, yes,” said Freddie. “But you never know, I might strike it lucky this time. So
oner or later I’m bound to get it right.”

  “I admire your spirit,” said the magistrate. “Although you smell a bit iffy. But I don’t think you’ll win this one, and the penalty for common affray is death.”

  “It never is,” said Freddie.

  “It is, today,” said Mr Justice Doveston, “because today is Tuesday.”

  “Ah,” said Freddie. “I see. That makes sense. Still, I’ll try my best, and if I foul up again, well, tomorrow is another day. Wednesday, I suppose.”

  “If I might approach the bench,” said another fellow.

  “And who might you be?” asked the honourable one.

  “Gwynplaine Dhark,” said the fellow. “Freemason and counsel for the prosecution.”

  “He’s one of them.” The other Will shrank down upon the bench that he shared with Will. The other Will was holding his head; he had the first hangover of his life. It was a blinder, but at least, now sober, he could no longer hear the voice of a certain Larry.

  “Them?” whispered Will.

  “Them,” said the other Will. “The witches. That man is in league with the devil. He made me judge the most-blackest black cat competition.”

  “What?” went Will.

  “What was that?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.

  “I object,” said Will, rising to his feet.

  “Shut it,” said Constable Meek, applying his truncheon to Will’s head.

  “Ow!” went Will, sitting down again.

  “I do object,” went Will, standing up again.

  Constable Meek raised his truncheon once more.

  “Less of that please, constable,” said the honourable magistrate. “You can do that at your leisure down in the cells, but not here.”

  “Your honour,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I was summonsed here late last night from Scotland Yard, when the mugshots of these twin malcontents were faxed over there from Brentford police station. One of these men is an escaped criminal, who broke out of his cells at Whitechapel police station. He is indeed none other than Jack the Ripper.”

  “Oooooooh!” went the folk who packed the gallery.

  “Knew it,” said the lady in the straw hat, who sat among them. “The one in the smart suit, it’ll be. There’s something about his eyes. He’s got murderer’s eyes. You can always tell. My late husband had burglar’s eyes. And he was a cutlery salesman. Which is the exception that proves the rule, in my opinion.”

  “Madam,” said Mr Justice Doveston, “I must ask you to remain silent, or I will be forced to have you thrown from the court and into a muddy puddle.”

  “You have lovely eyes, your honour,” said the lady in the straw hat. “Blue as a bruised behind and clear as an author’s conscience.”

  “Thank you,” said the magistrate. “You can stay. And I’ll see you in my chambers at lunchtime.”

  “Your honour,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “I don’t think it will be necessary to keep you until lunchtime. I have here a crudely forged document signed by Her Majesty herself, God bless Her, to the effect that both the accused are to be transported at once to Tyburn for immediate public execution.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark handed this document to the magistrate.

  “Seems sound enough to me.” Mr Justice Doveston exchanged a Masonic wink with the counsel for the prosecution.

  “No!” cried Will.

  And “No!” too cried the other Will.

  And down came two truncheons in perfect harmony.

  “Well, I’m done here,” said Freddie “the loser” Lonsdale. “You can’t win them all. Or in my case, none at all. Such is life.”

  “Taken like the man you are,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I can get you a front row seat at the execution, if you’d like one. Bring the wife, it’s always a good day out.”

  “Thank you very much indeed.”

  “I object!” Will covered his head with his hands to shelter his skull.

  “Object?” said Mr Doveston. “It’s a bit late for objections, surely? You should be showing remorse, it might lighten your sentence.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” said the magistrate, “only joking.”

  And he laughed.

  And Mr Gwynplaine Dhark laughed. And Freddie “the loser” Lonsdale laughed. And the constables laughed. And the lady in the straw hat laughed. And the big bargee and the small bargee and all the folk in the public gallery laughed too.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of humour,” said the other Will.

  “I do object,” said Will. “Please hear me out.”

  “Go on then,” said the magistrate. “I’m a fair man. Say your piece and then I’ll pass sentence and we’ll send you off to your execution.”

  “I need a moment,” said Will. “Just a moment. I have to think.”

  “Would you like me to adjourn the court?” Mr Justice Doveston asked.

  “Yes please,” said Will.

  “Then I will.”

  “Thank you,” said Will.

  “Only joking.” And all and sundry, including Mr Montague Summers, laughed again.

  “Lost on me,” said the other Will.

  “Just a moment,” said Will. “Please, just a moment.”

  “Clerk of the court,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “I am going to give the accused ‘just a moment’. How long will that be, exactly?”

  The clerk of the court flicked through legal tomes. “Well,” said he, “in Bacon versus the British Empire, the defendant, accused of subversion and intent to knob one of Her Majesty’s (God bless Her) ladies-in-waiting, was granted a ‘moment’ to reconsider his statement, that ‘she was gagging for it.’ The ‘moment’ in question was precisely two ‘ticks’ and three quarters of a ‘jiffy’.”

  “And is that a precedent?”

  “Well, I can refer you also to Shields versus Carroll, two pugilists who both sued the other for ‘hitting in the face in the ring’. On that occasion—”

  “I’m bored,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “I will grant the accused three ‘ticks’, one ‘jiffy’ and ‘half-a-sec’, because I’m such a very nice man.”

  “He is,” said the lady in the straw hat. “Lovely eyes. Just like my Malcolm, although he was a bit weird. Had this thing about tubas, thought they were golden toilet bowls. He went to see the London Symphony Orchestra play one night and—”

  “Madam,” said Mr Justice Doveston.

  “Sorry, your worship,” said the lady in the straw hat.

  “Right then,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “Three ‘ticks’, one ‘jiffy’ and ‘half-a-sec’ starting—” And he took out his gold Babbage Hunter digital watch and scrutinised his face. “Now.”

  There was silence in the court and all eyes turned towards Will.

  Will raised a hand to cover his mouth. The wrist of this hand wore a handcuff. As did Will’s other wrist.

  “You have to do something for me, Barry,” whispered Will.

  “Zzzzzzzz,” went Barry.

  “Barry, wake up. This is important.”

  “Only joking, chief. I’m on the case.”

  “Then you have to do something for me now. You’re supposed to be my Holy Guardian sprout and a time travelling sprout, to boot. Get me out of here.”

  “No sweat, chief. We’re out of here.”

  “And my other self.”

  “What, chief?”

  “Well, I can’t just go without him, can I? They’ll execute him.”

  “Nothing I can do about that, chief, sorry.”

  “Work your magic, Barry. Get us both out of here.”

  “No can do, chief. If he didn’t have a sitting tenant in his head, then I could do it. I could move two people through time simultaneously. But he does have, so I can’t.”

  “Well, stir the tenant into action, time’s running out.”

  “Time’s running out,” said Mr Justice Doveston.

  “Tell you what, chief. I’ll just take you and—”

  “That won’t do, Barry. I can�
��t just leave my other self to die. I can’t. That’s all there is to it. But, hold on, you’ve given me an idea, a brilliant idea. We’ll whisper, whisper, whisper.”

  “Why all the whisper whisper whisper, chief?”

  “Because I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” Will whispered some more.

  “That’s a bad idea,” said Barry. “In fact, that’s a really bad idea.”

  “Time’s up,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “I trust you made good use of your three ‘ticks’, one ‘jiffy’ and ‘half-a-sec’.”

  “I did,” said Will, who now it appeared, wore a complete change of clothing. “I have decided to discontinue the services of my counsel, Mr Freddie ‘the loser’ Lonsdale and engage a new counsel for the defence.”

  “Is that allowable?” Mr Justice Doveston asked the clerk of the court.

  The clerk of the court consulted further legal tomes.

  “Well,” said he, “in the Crown versus Hill, the defendant Mr Graham Hill, manager of the Big Cock Inn, Tillet, Herts, who had been accused of an anarchist bomb outrage upon the German Embassy, there was—”

  “I’m yawning again,” said Mr Justice Doveston.

  “It’s all above board,” said the clerk of the court. “And on the square and on the level and Masonic things of that nature generally.”

  “Then I have no objection. Wheel in your new counsel for the defence, Lord Whimsy. If he’s suddenly on hand. Is he?”

  “He is, your honour.” Will rose to his feet, and smiled towards the door of the court. “I would like to introduce my counsel for the defence. Mr Timothy McGregor.”

  27

  The door of the courtroom opened and Tim McGregor appeared in the opening. Tim smiled upon the assembled multitude, at the magistrate and the gathered everybodies and up at Will. It was a somewhat sheepish smile. It somewhat lacked for confidence.

  “This is such a bad idea, chief,” said Barry. “I could have got you anyone: the now legendary Mike Mansfield, solicitor to the stars; Robert Shapiro and ‘The Dream Team’ – they got O.J. Simpson off; or Vincent Lugosi, or Rumpole of the Bailey, or even Quincey – he never loses a case. Or Boyd QC, or Kavanagh QC. But you choose your mate Tim.”

  “He’s my half-brother and my best friend,” said Will. “And I’ve told him everything now. And I had to go forward and save him anyway. I couldn’t let him get killed.”