The Witches of Chiswick

by Robert Rankin

  “You won’t,” said the other Will. “We’ll both die. You cannot cheat your fate and neither can I. And believe me, I tried.”

  “And you’ll keep on trying,” said Will. “Because you are me and that’s what we do.”

  A knock came at the door.

  Tim drew out his pistol.

  Will made him put it away. “It’ll be the tailor and the shoemaker and the representative from Asprey,” he told Tim, and to his other self Will said, “let them measure you up and order two suits of clothes. I’ll go and hide in the bathroom until they’re gone, I don’t want to be seen dressed like this.”

  Tailors and shoemakers and a representative from Asprey entered. Measuring ups were done, accoutrements, cufflinks and whatnots were chosen. Tailors and shoemakers and the representative from Asprey departed.

  “What now?” asked Tim.

  “Dinner,” said Will returning from the bathroom. “I believe that the Savoy serves a particularly fine cod and chips. We’ll have some sent up.”

  They wined and dined and then they wined some more, and brandied also. And when the brandy was gone they emptied the mini-bar.

  And the other Will cheered up once more and even laughed at a joke Tim told him that concerned a pop star and a plastic surgeon, although he didn’t really understand it. And when they all had finally drunk themselves to oblivion, they slept where they sat, or lay, for it had been, all in all, a stressful day for them.

  Although possibly less stressful than the days that were to follow, like the following one, for instance.

  31

  A loud and lusty bout of door-banging tore Will from the amorous arms of Morpheus.

  “What?” went Will, in some confusion. “What is going on?”

  “Porter,” called a voice. “Porter, your lordship.”

  “No,” went Will. “I don’t want any porter, nor any ale at all for that matter. I’ve drunk quite enough.”

  “I’m the porter, your lordship. Your apparel and accoutrements, cufflinks and whatnots have just been delivered.”

  “Ah.” Will blinked his eyes and sought to focus them. “Please leave them outside. I’ll fetch them in a minute.”

  “As your lordship pleases.”

  “What is going on?” Tim awoke in slightly less confusion, but then, Tim was a hardier drinker than Will. “Why is the world upside down?” he asked.

  Will sought to focus his eyes upon Tim. “It’s you,” he explained.

  “Oh yes, you’re right.” Tim righted himself. “That was a good old piss-up,” he said.

  “Our new clothes have arrived.” Will arose from the carpet and clicked various joints. “It will be a pleasure to put on a pair of trousers.” Will rubbed at his forehead. “We didn’t do anything stupid last night, did we?”

  “Not that I recall.” Tim, now in the upright position, parted his hair and beard. “No, I’m sure that we didn’t.”

  “Good,” said Will. “Where is my other self?”

  Tim fumbled up a glass and set to filling it from the dregs of various others that littered the suite. The suite was no longer quite so swish as it had been when Will’s party entered it. The suite now had the look of a Holiday Inn hotel room that had played host to a heavy metal band on tour, although it lacked for sleeping naked females.

  Sadly.

  “Where is he?” Will asked.

  “Perhaps in the bathroom.” Tim shambled to the bathroom and pushed open the door. “Not here,” he said.

  Will peered under the ottoman. “And not here either. In one of the bedrooms?”

  Will and Tim checked the bedrooms, and returned once more to the sitter.

  “Any luck?” said Tim.

  “None,” said Will.

  “He’ll be around. Perhaps he’s in the mini-bar.”

  “That’s not very likely, is it, Tim?”

  “Why not? You got in there last night, didn’t you?”

  “Ah,” said Will. And he checked the mini-bar.

  His other self was not in the mini-bar.

  Nor was he anywhere else in the suite.

  “Perhaps he’s gone down for breakfast,” said Tim, tossing back a cocktail of gin dregs and ginger beer. “That hits the spot,” he continued.

  “Oh dear,” said Will. “What’s this?”

  Upon the mantelpiece of the previously unmentioned Louis XV Carrara fireplace, with the serpentine mouldings and the scrolling foliate friezes, an envelope leaned against the similarly unmentioned Louis XIV scarlet Boulle mantel clock, with the Berainesque panels, inlaid with pewter and brass, and the gilded central finial figure in the shape of a dancing bear.

  Will took down the envelope and read what was written upon it.

  “To Will,” he read.

  “It’s for you,” said Tim.

  “Thanks, Tim.” Will opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. Savoy stationery. Will now read aloud the words that were written upon this.

  “‘Dear Will’,” he read.

  “It’s for you too,” said Tim.

  “Turn it in, please.”

  “Sorry,” said Tim.

  “‘Dear Will,

  ‘By the time you read this letter I will be gone.’

  “It’s a ‘dear John’ letter,” said Tim. “Why’s it addressed to you?”

  “Tim,” said Will, “I have learned Dimac. Be silent now or you will in future walk sideways in the manner of a crab.”

  “That’s a bit harsh,” said Tim, jiggling bottles and coming up trumps with a measure of crème de menthe.

  “‘I no u hv mi intres at ?’,” Will continued. “‘But I hv 2 go.’ This seems to be written in code.”

  “I think that you’ll find it’s written in ‘drunk’,” said Tim. “Give it to me.”

  Will handed Tim the letter. “Let’s have a sip of the crème de menthe,” he said and Tim let him have a small sip.

  “‘I know you have my interests at heart,’” Tim translated. “‘But I have to go. I will be far away from here by the time you read this. Don’t waste your time trying to find me. Perhaps we will meet again once YOU have thwarted the witches. Best wishes, Will.’”

  “No,” said Will, and he tore the letter from Tim’s hands. “He can’t do that. He’ll come to grief. He can’t survive by himself. We have to find him.”

  “It’s all for the best, chief,” said Barry.

  “Shut up, you,” said Will.

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Tim, “although if I had, I’d have probably said that it was all for the best.”

  “We have to find him,” said Will once more. “I’ll call room service.”

  “How will that help?”

  “I need another drink.”

  “Oh good,” said Tim. “I’ll join you.”

  Will phoned down for breakfast. He ordered a bottle of champagne and a jug of iced orange juice. Well, a Buck’s Fizz is breakfast, isn’t it?

  The lad who brought the tray up also carried in the new clothes from the corridor. He had been trained in the arts of multiple carrying at a special academy in Greenwich.

  “Impressive carrying,” said Will.

  The boy looked Will up and down. “Thank you, madam,” he said.

  “Give the lad a tip please, Tim,” said Will.

  “Fair enough,” said Tim. “Stay away from Brentford,” he tipped the lad.

  “Most amusing,” said Will on the lad’s rather grumpy departure, “but this is really bad.”

  “Looks good to me.” Tim popped the cork from the champagne and decanted the bubbly into the nearest glasses.

  “I mean, my other self. We’ll have to find him.”

  “And where would we look?” Tim handed Will a glass of champagne. Will would have topped it up with orange juice, but there wasn’t any room.

  “Our pictures will be in all the papers,” said Will. “The police will catch him in no time.”

  “Then, fine,” Tim swigged champagne. “We’ll wait until they d
o, then liberate him. We’re pretty hot stuff on liberation.”

  “And what if Count Otto and his witches get to him first?”

  “Chief,” said Barry. “You could easily forestall that by getting to them first.”

  “I have to think.” Will took up a new suit of clothes and took himself off to the bathroom for a shower, a shit and a shave.

  He presently returned, well shaved and dashing, to find Tim grinning foolishly at him.

  “You’ve drunk all the champagne,” said Will.

  “Damn right,” said Tim.

  “Then sleep it off again. I’m going for a walk.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “I need some fresh air. I’ll be careful.”

  Will took the lift down to the reception area. The lift boy grinned up at him. Will avoided his gaze, but the lad just kept grinning.

  “What are you grinning at?” Will asked.

  “It’s you, isn’t it, sir?”

  “What?” said Will.

  “You, sir. It is you. Could I have your autograph?”

  “My autograph? Why would you want that?”

  “To prove that I met you, sir. I will treasure it, pass it on to my firstborn son, when I have one.”

  “What?” said Will once again.

  “Well sir—” But the lift had reached the ground floor and the lift boy pressed back the retractable brass gate.

  Will left the lift and entered the Savoy’s lobby.

  The lobby was crowded with people; smartly dressed people, expensively dressed people, and people of all nationalities. Will even recognised one or two of them: the Greek ambassador and a member of the Chinese trade delegation that he’d met at Queen Victoria’s fancy dress ball. And as he left the lift, the heads of these people turned. And the voice of the lad who had delivered Will’s champagne and accoutrements was heard to cry out, “There he is. I told you it was him.”

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

  And he hastened his footsteps and prepared to make a run for it.

  And “Hoorah!” went the expensively dressed people, and they clapped their hands together and cheered.

  Will went “What?” for the umpteenth time that morning and pushed through the crowd, which patted his back and shook his hand and wished him the very bestest of luck also.

  And when Will reached the Savoy’s front doors, these were opened for him by twin doormen, who raised their thumbs and wished him good luck.

  Will stumbled out into the street beyond.

  That street was the Strand.

  He shook his head and scratched it also and glanced back over his shoulder.

  Folk were crowded against the now closed doors, waving and cheering. Will shook his head once more and stumbled on.

  On the corner of Oxford Street stood a newsboy. “Read orl abowt it!” he cried. Will straightened his sagging shoulders and approached the newsboy. The newsboy viewed his approach.

  “Gawd lather my love muscle,” said the newsboy.

  “It’s you, again,” said Will. “Winston.”

  “And it’s you guv’nor. And I never knowed. Gawd bless you guv’nor and Gawd save the Queen.”

  Will patted his pockets for change, but his new suit contained none at all.

  “On the ’ouse guv’nor,” said the newsboy, handing him a paper. “And might I shake yer Alice also?” He stuck out his grubby mitt and Will shook it.

  “And to think,” said the newsboy, “that I ’ad you down as a Berk.[22] Looks can be deceiving, eh?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Come on, guv’nor; you’re looking for your arse[23] in the paper, ain’t ya? And it’s there, right on the front page.”

  Will groaned.

  “And a regular ’ero you are, and I never knowed.”

  “Eh?” went Will and he unfolded the broadsheet.

  “MOONSHIP LAUNCH TODAY,” ran the banner headline.

  “Oh yes,” said Will. “The launch. In all the excitement I’d forgotten about that. But—” And then he glanced down the front page. And then he saw the photograph – his photograph – and he read the copy beneath it.

  It had nothing to do with his trial in Brentford, nor his hostage taking, nor his escape.

  Nor in fact, did it have anything to do with him whatsoever.

  Will read the copy:

  HERO OF THE EMPIRE

  Colonel William Starling, of The Queen’s Own Aerial Cavalry, and son of Captain Ernest Starling of The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers, posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for his valiant act of heroism, in saving the life of Our Regal Majesty from an assassin, during the launching of the Dreadnaught, will today pilot Her Majesty’s moonship, Victoria, on her maiden flight to the moon. Colonel William Starling has been in training for many months and hopes are high for the success of the flight to the moon, where Colonel Starling will plant the Union flag and claim the moon as the first off-world colony of the British Empire.

  Will stared at the picture once more and then he stared at it again. The resemblance to himself was uncanny, but for the colonel’s somewhat more splendid sideburns. “Colonel William Starling,” mumbled Will. “Son of Captain Ernest Starling, my great-great-great—”

  “Great ’ero of the Empire,” said the newsboy. “D’ya fink there’s blokes up there, Colonel?”

  Will mouthed a silent “What?”

  “On the moon? The theory that extraterrestrial life might exist is ’ardly new, is it, Colonel, guv? And this world of ours is literally littered with ancient monuments of gargantuan proportion that defy rational explanation and seem to point to an extraterrestrial ’ypothesis. For instance, the great pyramid of Cheops, the monuments at Karnac. Even our own Ston’enge. Do you not think it possible that members of an advanced cosmic civilisation landed upon this planet in the distant past?”

  Will clipped the newsboy about the earhole.

  “Shut it,” said he.

  “Thank you very much, guv’nor,” said the newsboy, rubbing at his ear. “To say that I ’ave suffered child abuse from an ’ero of the British Empire will look very good on my CV when I apply for that assistant curator’s job at the Tate Gallery that I’m up for next week.”

  Will stalked away, and as he stalked away, he leafed through the broadsheet. There were no pictures of the real him. Not even a mention of the events the day before in Brentford.

  Master Scribbens had been right. Nothing to do with the trial had reached the media. Although. Will found a small article on the back page:

  POET LAUREATE GOES STONE BONKER.

  This told how the Great McGonagall had supposedly forced his way into a BBC studio the previous day and broadcast a bogus report about a fictitious trial in Brentford before dying in a freak electric lawnmower/microphone accident. Will raised his eyebrows to this.

  A gent in a top hat, fly-fronted beaver-skin ulster coat and spats saluted Will. “My very best wishes upon your historic voyage,” said he. Will sidestepped this gent and returned to the Savoy.

  The expensively dressed folk of all nations were no longer to be seen. The desk clerk waved at Will and wished him all the best.

  Will signed an autograph for the lift boy and returned to his suite.

  Tim wasn’t sleeping. He was up and about. He hadn’t bathed and he never shaved, but he was all togged up in his brand new suit.

  “You look rather perky,” said Will, “for a man who’s just downed a bottle of champagne.”

  “I drank the orange juice,” said Tim. “Full of vitamin C, sobers you up in an instant.”

  “Does it?” said Will.

  “Not really. I’m still as pissed as a pudding.”

  “Well, read this. It will sober you up.”

  Tim read the front page. “My goodness,” he said. “Electric garters that cure arthritis. What will they think of next?”

  “Not the adverts. The copy.”

  Tim read the copy. “By the Go
ddess,” he said. “Colonel William Starling, that would be—”

  “One of my ancestors.”

  “This is a surprise.”

  “Isn’t it.”

  “Yes,” said Tim. “But it shouldn’t be, should it. I mean, you took the Retro drug, didn’t you? You should be able to remember about this. Does he get to the moon okay?”

  “I don’t know,” said Will.

  “But you must know.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. When I got back here into the past, all I could remember was what had happened to my ancestors up until the now I was now in. The future beyond has yet to happen, so those memories have yet to exist. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  “No,” said Tim. “Well, sort of. But then you must have been able to remember that this Colonel William was training for the space programme.”

  “Strangely,” said Will, “I’ve had other things on my mind. But we have to get to the launch. I told you about the Elephant Man. He means to sabotage it, blow up the moonship when the countdown reaches zero. And you know what that could mean, don’t you?”

  Tim nodded thoughtfully. “No,” he said. “Not really.”

  “My ancestor,” said Will. “Colonel William Starling. My many times great-grandfather. If he was to die then—” Will drew a finger over his throat “No more Starlings. No more me.”

  “Oh,” said Tim. “I get you. This isn’t too good, is it?”

  “It’s about as bad as it can get, if things weren’t already bad enough.”

  “It’s no problem,” said Tim. “Phone the police. Tell them what you know. Have them arrest the Elephant Man.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Will.

  “But why not?”

  “Because he’s a celebrity. A friend of Her Majesty the Queen.”

  “The Goddess bless Her,” said Tim. “Phone Her then.”

  “Her Majesty, who is apparently a good friend of Count Otto Black, also. I can’t trust anyone, Tim.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “Yes,” said Will. “I can.”

  “Brilliant,” said Tim. “I’m loving this. Sorry about the trouble you’re in and everything. But I’m loving all this. Time travel. Alternative histories and futures. Robots and aliens and witches. Being here in the past with my bestest friend. I’m sorry, Will, but to me this is absolutely brilliant.”