The Witches of Chiswick

by Robert Rankin

  Heads continued to slowly shake and shoulders to shrug. Someone else mumbled, “Go on then shoot him.” And several people chuckled.

  “Incredible.” Tim did further glancings, and then he sprang forward, clawed himself over the witness stand, snatched up the box of salt and held it over the head of the Brentford Snail Boy.

  “Booooo!” went the crowd, “Poor show,” and “Rotter.”

  “Ah,” said Tim. “Got your attention now. Clear the court. All of you. Apart from the constables, you free the prisoners. Hurry now, or the Snail Boy gets it.”

  And so did they hurry. They really hurried. They pushed and barged and elbowed and fought to escape from the court. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark was trodden down by the onrushing masses and Will and his other self found themselves free at last. (Sweet Jesus, free at last).

  “Shall I go too?” asked the magistrate.

  “You might as well,” said Tim.

  “Shall I send you the bill for the refurbishment of my wig? Or would you care to settle up now? Actually, it’s probably better that you settle up now, because it’s unlikely that you’ll escape from this courtroom alive.”

  Tim raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll just go then,” said the magistrate.

  “I’ll help him,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, rising from the floor and patting dust and dirt away from his dire person.

  “You stay,” said Tim. “We want words with you.”

  “What about me?” asked Miss Poppins. “Would you like me to stay?”

  Tim smiled Miss Poppins up and down, in a lingering kind of way. “I’d love you to stay,” said Tim.

  The door of the courtroom closed behind the last of the leavers, a gentleman of the press, who had managed to shoot off a couple of pictures before his departure.

  Another silence settled upon the courtroom. It was broken in less than a “jiffy” and a “trice”, by the voice of the other Will.

  “And that was plan ‘B’!” The other Will rolled his eyes. “Most inspired, I don’t think.”

  “Tim did very well,” said Will. “He handled it very well indeed.”

  “Thanks,” said Tim, and he twirled the pistol on his trigger-pulling finger and winked at Miss Poppins.

  “You’re all dead men,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “The magistrate was correct in his statement. You’ll never leave this courtroom alive.”

  The other Will pointed a shaky finger at the counsel for the prosecution. “Please shoot this monster,” he said to Tim.

  “Now, now.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark waggled an unshaky finger. “You’d better behave yourself, or there’ll be no rat for your dinner tonight.”

  “Shall I shoot him?” Tim asked Will.

  Will shook his blondy head. “Not unless you have to,” he replied. “You don’t really want to shoot someone, do you?”

  “Not really,” said Tim.

  “Psssssh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

  “Oh sorry,” said Tim and he put down the box of salt. “I wouldn’t really have poured it on you.”

  “Passh.”

  “No problem.”

  “Eh?” said Will. “You don’t really understand what he’s saying, do you?”

  “Stop all this nonsense,” said the other Will. “Shoot that evil warlock. Or give me the gun and I’ll shoot him.”

  “Calm down,” said Will. “Nobody’s shooting anyone.”

  “Then I’ll just leave,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

  “Shoot him if he tries to leave,” said Will.

  “You will certainly die,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

  “Lock him in a cell,” Will said to Tim.

  “Good idea,” said Tim. “Come on, you; move.”

  “Er, chief,” said Barry, when Tim and Mr Dhark had left the courtroom. “As things seem to have gone arse-upwards here, what exactly are you planning to do next?”

  Will whispered behind his hand. “Shut up, Barry,” he whispered.

  “But chief, the local constabulary will be tooling up outside. There may well be another demonic terminator robot thingy on the way. The street will be filled with crowds and press. Things don’t look altogether hopeful.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Barry.”

  “But chief, I could just whip you back in time a couple of days and you’d never have to bother with any of this. You could do things differently.”

  “I’m not stupid,” whispered Will. “I know that. And don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind to whip back in time a bit further and save Hugo Rune from getting murdered.”

  “Ah,” said Barry.

  “Yes, ah,” whispered Will. “But you won’t let me do that, will you?”

  “My remit embraces certain parameters, but beyond them I cannot go.”

  “So we’ll do things my way for now, and if I really foul up, which I won’t, then I’ll ask for your help.”

  “Again,” said Barry.

  “We picked up Tim, because I wanted to. I’m in charge here.”

  “Yeah right,” said Barry.

  “What was that?”

  “I said ‘you’re right’.”

  “As if you did.”

  “Have you quite finished?” asked the other Will.

  “Excuse me?” said Will.

  “Talking to the demon in your head. I heard you.”

  “He’s not a demon,” said Will.

  “He’s not, squire,” said Larry. “He’s just my twatty brother.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Will.

  “Not you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m struggling,” said the other Will and he made struggling motions with his hands. He sort of mimed struggling, although not particularly well. “There’s one of them in me. It’s driving me insane.”

  “His Holy Guardian is speaking to him, chief.”

  “You’ve a voice in your head?” Will asked.

  “I can hear it, it speaks to me.”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said Will. “It’s all right. It’s your Holy Guardian. You have nothing to fear.”

  “I have everything to fear, and so do you.”

  “All done,” said Tim, returning to the courtroom. “So what are we going to do now? You don’t have a plan ‘C’ do you?”

  “Don’t need one,” said Will. “What we want is publicity, right? To expose the witch cult, if it really exists.”

  “It exists,” said the other Will. “How can you doubt it?”

  “Okay. I’m not stupid. I’m well aware that the witch cult conspiracy business is what all this is about, whether they are real witches or not. But the best way to deal with them is to expose them to the public. I’d hoped to do it through the court case, but this is even better. A courtroom siege, a hostage situation; this will stir up the media. We’ll get our say on prime-time radio.”

  “They’ll kill us,” said the other Will. “They’ll send in the army and shoot us all dead.”

  “Not until we’ve had our say on the BBC.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” said a little voice.

  “Who said that?” asked Will.

  “I did,” said the Brentford Snail Boy. “You’re wasting your time. It won’t work.”

  “You can speak,” said Will.

  “Of course he can speak,” said Tim. “He makes those pssh noises, then he whispers. That’s how the magistrate heard him. I heard him when I was up there with him.”

  “That is so crap,” said Will.

  “Your plan won’t work,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

  “And why?” asked Will. “I think it’s a great plan. No violence and lots of press coverage.”

  “Firstly,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens, “you know nothing about the witches. A few theories, is all you seem to have. Everyone has theories. And secondly, they will never let you broadcast your theories to the nation. They control the media. You’re wasting your time.”

  “Hm,” said Will.
“So what do you know about all this? You lied in the court.”

  “I had no choice. They threatened to kill me.”

  “Fair enough,” said Will. “But what do you know about these witches?”

  “As much as he does,” said the Brentford Snail Boy, raising a wobbly hand and pointing one of its shapeless fingers towards the other Will. “I was caged up in the cell next to him. I used to listen to him screaming. I played dumb. They thought I was an imbecile.”

  “Why did they capture you?” Will asked.

  “They didn’t capture me. They borrowed me from the circus, Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique.”

  “Count Otto Black,” said Will. “I know that name. I saw him at the Café Royal on the night that Hugo Rune was murdered, and then at Buckingham Palace. Does he have something to do with all this?”

  “He has everything to do with everything,” said Master Scribbens. “Count Otto Black is the King of all the witches. You could never have won this case, even with all the witnesses you hoped to call. Count Otto holds the ear of Her Majesty the Queen (Gawd bless Her). He is above the law, which is why you will never be heard. You have to get out of here, or you will surely die.”

  “Your thoughts on this, Barry,” said Will.

  “My thoughts are that I thought you were doing things your way, chief.”

  “I am,” said Will. “All right. Then we have to get out of here.”

  “Will,” said Tim. “You could just make the broadcast yourself. The BBC men have left all their equipment behind.”

  “And say you did,” said Master Scribbens. “What can you really say? What can you really prove? What do you really know?”

  “We have to get out of here,” said Will.

  And then a voice entered the courtroom. Entered was the word. This voice entered loudly, dramatically. It was a very noisy voice.

  It came through one of those police bullhorns, electric bullhorns, state-of-the-Victorian-art-technology. It said: “Give yourselves up, you are surrounded,” very loudly indeed.

  Tim began to panic, as did the other Will.

  They panicked in different ways. Tim flung his hands in the air, one holding the gun and the other not, and began to spin around in small circles. The other Will clapped his hands over his head and assumed the foetal position.

  “Release the hostages,” called the voice through the state-of-the-Victorian-art police bullhorn. It was the voice of Chief Inspector Samuel Maggott. “Release the hostages or we storm the building and shoot everyone, hostages included, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Your thoughts on this, chief,” said Barry.

  “We’re going to plan ‘C’,” said Will.

  There was now a big presence all about the Brentford court house: a big crowd presence, a big media presence, and a big police presence. The big police presence had a lot of state-of-the-Victorian-art weaponry to its account. It is recognised and understood by experts in the field of antique weaponry that the Gatling gun was the nineteenth-century progenitor to the General Electric Minigun, that now legendary weapon, favoured by Blaine in Predator and Arnie in Terminator 2.

  But, as it must now be understood by all, history cannot be trusted. And so several M162 Babbage Miniguns were being moved into strategic positions around the courthouse, much to the delight of the crowd, which was really looking forward to watching those bad boys being put into service.

  Tim took a peep through a window.

  “Cops,” said he.

  “How many?” asked Will.

  “All, I think.”

  “Plan ‘C’ it is then,” said Will.

  “And what exactly is plan ‘C’?” Tim asked.

  “Release the hostages,” said Will.

  “If I might make a suggestion,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

  There were an awful lot of guns trained upon the court house door when it opened; an awful lot of guns, an awful lot of awful guns, terrible guns; hideous, heinous, horrible guns. They all took aim and they all cocked but happily none of them had a hair trigger.

  Three figures issued slowly from the courtroom, heads bowed down, cowering somewhat. Miss Poppins pushed the wheelchair containing the Brentford Snail Boy, smothered by blankets. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, head bowed, arms raised, followed on behind.

  The police cordon parted to let them through.

  The crowd beyond parted also.

  And then the Babbage Miniguns opened up upon the building.

  And they did it style. They fairly stuffed that courthouse.

  The crowd cheered wildly, and waved Union Jacks. Why? Who knows; crowds often do! The policemen launched mortars, employed flamethrowers, flung grenades, lobbed in canisters of nerve gas and other weapons of mass destruction. And when it was finally assumed that nothing above ground level could possibly have lived through the holocaust, they moved in to search for what might be left of the bodies.

  Beyond the crowd, and someways far down the Brentford High Road towards Kew Bridge, Miss Poppins said, “That was a good plan.”

  “As long as they’re safe,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

  “They’ll be safe enough,” said Miss Poppins. “They’re locked in the cell downstairs. The police will release them.”

  “Then I think that we can say that plan ‘C’ was a definite success.”

  A hansom cab was passing and Miss Poppins hailed it. “Piccadilly, cabbie,” said she.

  “You’ve a very manly voice for a nanny,” said the cabbie.

  “Sore throat,” said Will, for it was he. “Now all aboard. We’re out of here.”

  30

  When your credit no longer holds good at the Dorchester, move on to the Savoy. And when the Savoy refuses to cater to your needs without further payment, then call upon Simpsons to accommodate you. And when Simpsons will no longer do this, and threatens to retain your luggage and personal effects subsequent to the settling of your bill, then it is time to take humble lodgings in Whitechapel, or board a steamer across the Channel to begin once more at the top.

  So much, Hugo Rune had taught to Will.

  But, as Rune had worn out his welcome at all of London’s top hotels several years before Will met him, and as Will could no longer return to the Dorchester, it was at the Savoy that Will chose to spend the night with his companions.

  “Lord Peter Whimsy,” said the other Will as Will had instructed him to do, “travelling with my charge, Master Makepiece Scribbens, the famous Brentford Snail Boy, and his nurse and nanny, Miss Poppins. A three-bedroomed suite, if you will.”

  The benign automaton desk clerk at the Savoy smiled obsequiously and turned the visitors book in the other Will’s direction for him to sign. “Your luggage, your Lordship?” he asked.

  “I am Lord Peter Whimsy!” said the other Will. “I do not have luggage. Whatever I require is tailored to my needs, as and when I require it. And I require it now. Have a tailor, a shoemaker, and a representative from Asprey sent up to my suite at the soonest.”

  “Yes, your Lordship.”

  The suite was splendid enough in its way: three bedrooms and a bathroom leading from a central sitter, with a well-stocked mini-bar and a great deal of comfortable furniture.

  Tim sprawled upon a box ottoman.

  “I hope the tailor doesn’t take too long,” said he. “Being dressed as the Brentford Snail Boy really doesn’t suit my image.”

  “Oh, too bad,” said Will. “I just love being dressed as Miss Poppins.”

  “I think it looks rather good on you.”

  “I’m fine with Mr Gwynplaine Dhark’s outfit,” said the other Will. “And I will rejoice forever in the memory of him handcuffed in that cell wearing nothing but his underpants. Thank you, at least, for that.”

  “I’m glad it made you happy,” said Will.

  “Momentarily. But I’m gloomy enough now because by now our escape will have been discovered. And we will be at the top of the most wanted list. We’re in bigger trouble than ever.�
��

  “Don’t go putting a downer on things,” said Tim, fishing into the mini-bar. “We’re free, we escaped, and it was all down to Will.”

  “It was all down to Master Makepiece Scribbens,” said Will. “It was his idea.”

  “Our pictures will be in all the papers tomorrow,” said the other Will. “We should flee to France, or America, or Australia.”

  “Do you have a plan ‘D’, Will?” Tim asked.

  “In a few minutes from now,” said Will, “in fact, in possibly less than a ‘trice’ and a ‘twinkling’, a tailor and a shoemaker and a representative from Asprey will arrive. This is Victorian London. Our new clothes and shoes, accoutrements, cufflinks and whatnots will be ready for us by the morning. When we have them, we will leave. I have to sort out all this witch business, I know I do. I know that it’s me who has to do the thwarting. And I know that I will do the thwarting, because if I didn’t, then my other self here wouldn’t exist. I have to do it, no matter what it means for me.”

  “And me,” said Tim. “What about me? If you do this, then the me that is me may cease to exist.”

  “Which is why I have to do it my way. Not as it is written in The Book Of Rune.” Will pulled The Book Of Rune from his bodice and flung it onto the bed. “I have to save both our futures somehow.”

  “How?” Tim asked.

  “I don’t know, but if I do it differently, things will be different. Perhaps both futures will exist. Perhaps both futures always existed. I don’t know. This is very complicated, Tim, and I don’t understand it. I’m just making it up as I go along.”

  “Like the author,” said Tim.

  “What author?” asked Will.

  “Any author,” said Tim. “They just make it all up as they go along.”

  “No they don’t,” said Will. “Authors research everything. They plan every chapter, paragraph and sentence. They never waste a word. That’s what makes them such very special people.”

  “Turn it in, chief,” said Barry. “Everyone knows that authors are a lot of drunken bums.”

  “All I know,” said Will, “is that I’m really messed up. Rune has been murdered. The witches are on to me. There’s trouble after trouble. But I will sort it, somehow.”