“But he knows nothing about being a counsel for the defence.”
“He’ll do okay. And remember I’m doing things my way.”
“And brilliantly too, I don’t think.”
“What was that, Barry?”
“I said, ‘brilliantly too, you won’t sink’.”
“As if you did! You sarcastic little sod.”
“What was that, chief?”
“Nothing, Barry.”
“Your honour,” said Tim McGregor, mooching into the courtroom. He wore his long black leather coat and had fastened his abundant hair behind his head in an abundant ponytail. He carried a bulging briefcase and continued with his smiling. “My client has acquainted me with the details of this case and I feel that I can offer a defence that will prove to exonerate him and his brother of all charges.”
Mr Gwynplaine Dhark glared at Tim.
Tim felt his bladder pressing for an adjournment to the gents.
“I object,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.
“Upon what grounds?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.
“Upon the grounds that this may prove prejudicial to myself.”
“These are somewhat unusual grounds,” said Mr Justice D. “Do we have a precedent for them?”
The clerk of the court consulted his tomes once again.
“No, don’t bother,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “Frankly, I can’t be arsed to listen. Let’s hear Mr McGregor out. Hear what he has to say.”
“Thank you, your honour,” said Tim. “I will seek to prove that my client is an innocent man. And so is his twin brother. That they have been wrongly accused and that a conspiracy exists to overthrow the British Government, destroy the technology of the British Empire and plunge the world into a new Dark Age. And that the root cause of this conspiracy is a cabal of witches who represent themselves as The Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild.”
“Grrrr!” went Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.
“This sounds most interesting,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “Will it take long, do you think?”
“A couple of months, perhaps,” said Tim. “I’ll be calling a lot of witnesses, including Her Majesty the Queen (God bless Her), Lord Charles Babbage, Mr Nikola Tesla, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and countless others.”
“Sounds like a lot of fun,” said the magistrate. “We don’t usually get a group of celebrities like that in this courtroom.”
“I object,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “This counsel is only seeking to muddy the waters. This is an open and shut case. Tyburn’s tree awaits these madmen. It is time for them to dance a jig for Jack Ketch.”
“Well, naturally I appreciate that. But imagine having Her Majesty—”
“God bless Her,” said all those present.
“Quite so,” said the magistrate. “Imagine having Her Majesty right here in this courtroom.”
“I can imagine that,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “Legs in the air and backwards over the bench.”
“Pardon me?”
“It is outrageous, your honour. Her Majesty would never consent to give evidence.”
“She already has,” said Tim. “I’ve just come from Buckingham Palace. And I’ve spoken, by telephone, to all the others; twenty-three in all. I am well prepared.”
“See,” said Will to Barry. “Tim’s on the case.”
“This is never going to work, chief.”
“It will, Barry. And with no violence and killing and with me and my other self walking free from the court and not dying. And the witches getting arrested and—”
“Dhark the warlock too?” said Barry. “He’ll just put his hands up and be led quietly to the cells, will he?”
“One thing at a time, Barry.”
“You’re on such a wrong ’n here, chief.”
“Well, it can’t hurt to give it a go.”
“And I shall go on to prove—” – Tim McGregor had continued speaking throughout Will’s brief conversation with Barry “—that Mr Gwynplaine Dhark is none other than a warlock working for Satan himself, and so must be put to torture and burned alive at the stake.”
“That sounds like a lot of fun, too,” said Mr Justice Doveston.
Mr Gwynplaine Dhark glared even harder at Tim, and Tim felt boils breaking out around his willy.
“This is never going to work, chief,” said Barry. “This is such a bad idea.”
Will whispered once more behind his hand. “I have no intention of being executed,” he whispered, “nor letting my other self get executed. And if this cabal of witches really exists, and some psychopathic killer, who my other self thinks is Satan, is connected with them, well, let’s get it all out in the open. Let’s bring them all into this court. Let’s see what happens.”
“It’s a really duff plan, chief.”
“And you had a better one?”
“It’s all in The Book Of Rune, chief.”
“Which you’d neglected to mention.”
“It would have been cheating. But I’d have got you through it without The Book Of Rune. Got you to do the right thing.”
“And I’d have ended up dead.”
“Not necessarily so, chief. Your other self would, but that’s his fate. We can’t mess around with that.”
“I can do what I want, Barry. And I want to do things my way.”
“It will end in disaster, chief. Let me get you out of here, now.”
“Get us out of here, now. My other self and me.”
“Can’t do it, chief, sorry.”
“Then we’ll just have to do things my way.”
Barry made groaning sounds.
“And save the world,” Tim was still continuing.
“Do what?” asked Mr Justice Doveston.
“My client,” said Tim McGregor. “He will save the world. This is his destiny. His fate, we can’t mess about with that.”
“We’ll see,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.
“I think,” said Mr Justice Doveston, “that I will adjourn the court now. It’s getting near to lunchtime and because of the nature of this case, I feel it best that members of the paparazzi and the British Broadcasting Company wireless service be alerted. This will give the Borough of Brentford the kind of publicity it has always needed. People don’t appreciate Brentford, they don’t understand it. A case like this will put Brentford on the map.”
Mr Gwynplaine Dhark made snarling noises. Sulphurous fumes issued from his mouth. The whites of his eyes became black.
“So,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “Court adjourned for two hours. Lady in the straw hat up to my chambers for a bit of how’s-your-father. And Mr Dhark—”
“Yes your honour?”
“Clean your teeth,” said the magistrate. “Your breath smells something wicked.”
The cell had been recently decorated in pastel shades with a nautical theme. A lifebelt framed the window, through which could be seen that tent of blue the prisoner calls the sky. Several driftwood boats hung upon the wall beside the door and the customary straw pallet had been replaced by a hammock. Upon this hammock sat the other Will. Upon a throw rug with seagull motifs sat Will and lounging by the door stood Tim, attempting to smoke a Victorian cigarette and grinning all over his face.
“Isn’t this just entirely brilliant?” said Tim, coughing somewhat.
Will managed less than half a smile.
The other Will managed nothing but a frown.
“But it is,” Tim gave the cell a twice-over, for he had already given it the once. “I’d imagined rats and water dripping down the walls.”
The other Will made groaning sounds.
Will said, “You are up for this, aren’t you, Tim?”
“I am,” Tim grinned if anything more broadly. “And this is brilliant. Thanks for bringing me back here with you from the future. I’m loving this, I really am.”
“I haven’t introduced you,” said Will to the other Will. “This is my—”
“Brother,” said the other Will. “It has to be; he looks just li
ke my brother. Apart from the silly hair and the ridiculous coat.”
“Your brother has those, does he?” Tim asked.
“No,” said the other Will. “You do.”
Tim’s grin hardly faded. “He’s as much fun as you said he was,” he said to Will. “So what’s going to happen next?”
“Shall we have a look at The Book Of Rune and find out?”
“That’s cheating, chief.”
“I’m doing things my way, Barry.”
Tim delved into his briefcase and pulled out The Book Of Rune. “Picked it up from your room at the Dorchester, as you requested. There’s a bit of bother there, by the way. Apparently you paid a week up front when you arrived at the hotel, but your cheque bounced. I don’t think you’d better go back.”
“Perfect,” Will sighed.
“You didn’t really want to pay for the room, did you, chief?” Barry asked. “You are Rune’s magical heir, well, sort of. You’re following in his footsteps. Your money’s in a different account.”
“Let’s have a look at the book,” said Will and Tim handed it over.
“You’re wasting your time,” said the other Will. “There’s nothing about this in Scripture.”
“There isn’t?” said Will.
“Of course there isn’t. I know Scripture by heart. I’ve had it drummed into me all my life. Do you think that if it said I’d get drunk in a Brentford pub, get arrested and then put on trial for my life, I would have let it happen?”
“Well, I’d like to see exactly how I’m supposed to do the thwarting of the witches.”
“Thwarting,” said Tim. “I like that.”
“We’re frankly sick of the word,” said Will.
“Then you could use ‘confounding’ or even ‘trouncing’ or even ‘vanquishing’. Or ‘creaming’. That’s a good word, one of my favourites.”
“I’ve never heard you use it.”
“One of my new favourites.”
Will flicked through The Book Of Rune. “My goodness,” he said. “This is all terribly exciting. It reads like a Lazlo Woodbine thriller.”
“Never heard of those.” The other Will jiggled about on the hammock. “I’m really hungry,” he said. “Do you think they’ll serve us lunch, or will they just starve us?”
“I’ve already ordered lunch,” said Tim. “A delivery from The Flying Swan. It’s called a sowman’s lunch. It includes a lot of pork scratchings. But go on, Will. What’s a Lazlo Woodbine thriller?”
“Stumbled on them by accident,” said Will, “when I was downloading books from the British Library. I was looking for stuff by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the Woodbine books had been filed there by mistake. Woodbine was a nineteen fifties American genre detective, the greatest of them all. He worked only four locations: his office, where clients came over to offer him business; an alleyway, where he got into sticky situations; a bar, where he talked toot with the barman; and a rooftop, where he had the final confrontation with the villain. Who always took the big plunge to oblivion at the end. The Book Of Rune reads just like one of these thrillers.”
“So,” said Tim, “are you going for Woodbine or are you going to stick with the Sherlock Holmes technique?”
“I’m going to stick with the Will Starling technique. I’m doing things my way.” Will pushed The Book Of Rune into his pocket. “Let’s see what we can pull off in the courtroom, eh, Tim?”
“No sweat,” said Tim and he made an “O” with his thumb and forefinger. “After all, we’ve spent ages planning this, haven’t we?”
“Have you?” asked the other Will. “How did this come about?”
“I, er, did a little time-travelling,” said Will. “From the court a few minutes ago. Surely you noticed that one moment I was wearing my somewhat besmutted morning suit and the next I was, as I am now, rather nattily dressed in this Boleskine three-piece.”
The other Will shrugged. “I thought I was just hallucinating. This hangover is wrecking my brain. But how did you travel through time, did you reacquire my time machine?”
“No,” said Will. “But I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“But I want to be bored by the details. You travelled through time and you didn’t take me?”
“I couldn’t,” said Will. “It was only possible for one of us to go.”
“Then it should have been me. Remember, I’m the innocent party. Let me travel through time now.”
“It can’t be done,” said Will.
“This is outrageous,” said the other Will and he made a very grumpy face.
There came a knock at the cell door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock, followed by the opening of the door and the entrance of a portly gentleman wearing, amongst other things, a chef’s hat and a leather apron. He carried a food hamper. “Good day gents,” said he. “I’m Croughton the pot-bellied potman from The Flying Swan. And I bring you your lunch.”
“Splendid,” said Will.
“Give it to me, please,” said the other Will. “I will eat my fill and you can share whatever remains.”
“We’ll all have fair shares,” said Will.
“That is fair shares. I am the Promised One. I eat before lesser folk.”
“He’s losing it again, chief,” said Barry. “Get Tim to give him a little smack.”
Will took the hamper, opened it and shared out its contents. Croughton the pot-bellied potman bowed and departed, closing the cell door behind him. The other Will sat on the hammock, folded his arms and sulked. At length however, he unfolded his arms and ate.
“That Gwynplaine Dhark is pretty scary,” said Tim, between munchings. “If he really is in league with the Devil and the witches, he could well be ordering up another demonic clockwork terminator, even as we speak.”
“He’s in league with the Devil, all right,” said the other Will, who had finished munching and now was supping from a bottle of ale. “We’re all going to die and it’s all your fault. He’ll have us all killed!”
“Not if I can help it.” Will now took to supping ale. “We’ll beat him and we won’t die. Trust me, I’ve no intention of dying just yet.”
“Trust him,” said Tim. “He means what he says. We have a plan. Two plans in fact. A plan ‘A’ and a plan ‘B’. Plan ‘A’ is an absolute blinder.”
“What about plan ‘B’?” asked the other Will.
“Plan ‘A’ is an absolute stonker,” said Tim. “We’ll get you out of here.”
“What about plan ‘B’?” asked the other Will, once again.
“You’ll really love plan ‘A’,” said Tim.
The other Will finished his ale and uncorked another bottle. “My hangover is leaving me,” he said. “Order some more ales; we can drink them during the afternoon.”
“I doubt whether the magistrate will allow that.” Will sought his second bottle of ale, but found that his other self had acquired it. “And give that back to me.”
The other Will said, “No,” and shook his head.
“Give him a smack, please, Tim,” said Will.
And Tim would certainly have done so, had not the cell door opened once again to reveal two large constables, wielding truncheons and carrying an assortment of handcuffs and leg irons. “Time to go, lads,” one of the constables said. “The hangman awaits.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Will.
28
Numbers in the courtroom had increased significantly since the lunchtime adjournment. Gentlemen of the press, clad in their distinctive white trousers, striped blazers and straw boaters, now crowded into the public gallery and milled about in the doorway. Other gentlemen from the British Broadcasting Company, dressed in sombre black morning suits, had erected microphones all about the courtroom and were bivouacked wherever they could, adjusting sound levels on complicated-looking equipment which bulged with valves and doodads. The poet laureate was making a guest appearance as a roving correspondent. And then there were locals. Many locals, dra
wn by the promise of scandal and controversy as the moth of fable (or otherwise) is drawn unto the flame.
There were also certain others in the courtroom, certain others who occupied the very front row of the public gallery: six women all in black, well-dressed women, lavishly dressed women, but with preposterously slender bodies and tiny, pinched faces. The clerk of the court called, “All rise”, and those who were able to do so, did so.
Mr Justice Doveston elbowed his way through the crush. “Get out of my chair, damn you,” he told a blonde Swedish weather girl, whose agent had advised her to make an appearance, “just in case”. The blonde Swedish weather girl vacated the magistrate’s chair and sank from view beneath his bench/table/desk or whatever the word is for the piece of furniture magistrates sit behind.
“And get out from behind my wardrobe,” said Mr Justice Doveston, who didn’t know either. The blonde Swedish weather girl departed, flashing her smile at the press photographers.
Mr Justice Doveston settled into his chair. He had a somewhat dishevelled look to him and there were traces of lipstick on his wig. “All sit down,” he told the court. And all that could, sat down.
Mr Justice Doveston smiled all round the courtroom. “This is a bit more like it,” he said. “I’m very pleased to see so many members of the press favouring these proceedings with their presence. And the gentlemen of the British Broadcasting Company.” And he tapped his microphone with his gavel, raising a scream from a sound engineer, who tore off his headphones and took to hopping about.
“Now then, now then,” said Mr Justice Doveston, in the manner that would one day be favoured by the now (then) legendary Sir Jimmy Saville. “How’s about that, then, eh?”
“Don’t you worry about anything,” said Tim to the heavily manacled Will. “I’ll have you both out of here and walking the streets as free men in no time at all.”
“It will probably take some time,” said Will.
“Oh, yeah, some time. But not much. A couple of months at most.”
Tim McGregor struggled through the crush to approach the magistrate’s bench. “If I might just speak to you for a moment, your honour,” he said.
The Witches of Chiswick Page 27