“Keep your eyes on the road!” called the Colonel, as the cab struck a cyclist a glancing blow and sent him into a hedge.
“Right, sir,” said the cabbie, but his eyes darted once more towards the paper’s front page, and towards the text which Colonel William had not read in full; to the bottom of the text in fact, the bit that mentioned the reward, the one thousand pounds reward, generously donated by the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild for the recapture of Jack the Ripper.
“Bless my soul,” said the cabbie. “This is my lucky day.”
“What was that?” called Colonel William.
“Nothing guv’nor. You just sit back there, have a bit of a snooze if you like. It will be a long journey, but I’ll get you there as quickly as I can.”
“I shall,” called Colonel William. “I’m still somewhat groggy as it happens. Bit of a late night with the chaps. A quick forty winks will sharpen me up for my flight,” and the Colonel snuggled himself down and closed his eyes.
“We’ll see all about that, Jack,” muttered the cabbie and he pressed the button that engaged the cab’s central locking system. The clicking of the passenger door locks went unheard by Colonel William who was settling into slumber.
“And out you come, my laddie!” Colonel William was suddenly rudely awakened. Rough hands were being laid upon him. Pullings were occurring, hither, to and thus. “Don’t make a fight of it, or we’ll have to truncheon you down.”
Colonel William looked up. A constable, with bandages showing from beneath his regulation helmet, had him by the throat.
“Unhand me, you oaf!” cried the Colonel.
“That’s it. Constable Meek, club this villain senseless.”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” and the clubbing-senseless began.
And it didn’t end within the cab itself. It continued in the street, and into the Brentford police station, and then down to the cell, and then in the cell, where savage bootings were added to the clubbings senseless.
“Why are you doing this?” moaned Colonel William, who still had some degree of senseness to his account.
“You won’t escape from us a second time,” said Constable Meek joyfully putting the boot in once more.
“I’ll definitely get my thousand pound reward, won’t I?” asked the cabbie, putting in a boot of his own.
“Why?” called Colonel William. “Why?”
But then a truncheon really went down, and the Colonel’s lights went out, without any ten-nine-eight-seven-six, but only with one big ZERO.
34
The afternoon papers will filled with the tragedy.
MOONSHIP HORROR
Dozens dead and hundreds injured
And speculation was being given its evil head.
It was another assassination attempt upon the Queen, said some. The work of anarchists, said others, or Johnny foreigner, said still others. But one thing was clear in the minds of all the writers. This was not an accident. British technology did not fail in such a spectacular and terrifying manner. The moonship had been sabotaged, and the chief suspect had already been named, by most of the papers: Colonel William Starling of the Queen’s Own Aerial Cavalry Regiment.
He had failed to appear at the launching. A regimental colleague, a noble officer by the name of Algernon “Chunky” Wilberforce, had stepped in to save the day and pilot the ship. “Chunky” Wilberforce was to be awarded a posthumous VC.
The villain of the piece was clearly Colonel William Starling. His photograph tfo-graced the front pages of every afternoon newspaper, but for the Brentford Mercury, which featured the first chapter of the Brentford Snail Boy’s autobiography.
Plain Will Starling sat with Tim in the public bar of the Golden Rivet, Whitechapel. Plain Will Starling munched upon pork scratchings, his munchings punctuated by great drafts of porter. Plain Will Starling was a very worried young man and one having difficulty munching his scratchings.
“Take your muffler off,” Tim told him.
Will readjusted the muffler that covered his face. “I can’t,” said he. “Look at the afternoon newspaper. I now have the face of public enemy number one.”
“Seems very unfair on our great-however-many-times-granddad.” Tim was presently unmuffled, but then it wasn’t his face on the newspaper. “You don’t think he did it, do you, Will?”
Will sighed. “We know he didn’t,” he replied between muffled munchings. “Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man, did it.”
“We should turn him in to the police.”
“We’ve been through all that. Stop it.”
Tim made a thoughtful face and pushed back handfuls of hair. “So what do you propose to do next?” he asked.
“What would you do next?”
Tim made another thoughtful face, but it was indistinguishable from the first. And just because you make a thoughtful face, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the thoughts going on in your head amount to very much.
“Well,” said Tim, thoughtfully.
“If you want my opinion, chief,” said Barry.
“I don’t,” said Will.
“Don’t what?” Tim asked.
“Barry was asking whether I wanted his opinion.”
“I’d like to hear it,” said Tim.
“Well I wouldn’t. The way I see it, is this.”
Tim prepared himself to listen. He made a thoughtful, listening face.
“I haven’t a clue,” said Will. “I’m sorry to say it, but I’m totally lost. My other self is missing, our many times great-grandfather is missing. You and I are both wanted by the police, me somewhat more than you, it appears. We have Martians squaring up to attack Earth if the British Empire launches another moonship. We have witches up to goodness knows what evil. And let’s not forget those terminator robots. I’m sure I’m due for another visitation from one of them quite soon. And there’s Rune dead, and for all of my other self’s talk, I really have no definite idea who Rune’s murderer is, nor why he murdered those women. And that’s probably not even the worst of it.”
Tim swigged away at his porter. “This stuff’s very poor,” said he. “The beer really is best in Brentford.”
“I think it might be a while before we go back there for another tasting.”
“We could get the Savoy to order us some.”
“We can’t go back to the Savoy, I’d be recognised at once.”
“Chief, if I might just make a suggestion.”
“Please be quiet, Barry.”
“But, chief.”
“No Barry,” said Will. “Let’s be positive here, Tim. Let’s think this through. What is the easiest option to take?”
“Well,” said Tim and he made his face again.
“Do nothing,” said Will. “Nothing.”
“But I wasn’t going to—”
“I mean, I do nothing. What if I was to return to the future, but a day before I discovered the Babbage watch in The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke. And then, what say if I don’t discover it. I ignore it, pretend I’ve never seen it. Then none of this would happen. We wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Tim thought about this. “Can’t be done,” said he. “And I’ll tell you why. If you return to the future to a time before you left it and came here, the original you would be already there. You met your original you on the tram, didn’t you? There can’t be two yous in the future, can there?”
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” said Will. “I’m sure we’d get on okay.”
“It’s a smelly idea,” said Tim. “You’ve met your other self, here in the past. You know that he comes from a different future. And a much better one than ours. Our future is rubbish: poverty, overcrowding, everyone bloated on synthetic food, chemical rains scalding the pavements, constant surveillance. Our future sucks. It’s a dystopia. Your other self’s future is a Utopia. It’s a much better option.”
“But if I save the other future, you and I will cease to exist.”
“So we’ll never know the diffe
rence, will we? And I’ll be born in the other future. That won’t be so bad.”
“It will for me,” said Will. “I’ll be the Promised One. I don’t fancy that for a future.”
“One out of two’s not so bad. Think of the rest of us. Don’t be so selfish.”
Will threw up his hands. “It’s hopeless,” he mumbled. “Whatever I do, I’m going to end up in the poo.”
“Then do the right thing. Thwart them witches.”
“Stuff the witches,” said Will. “And stuff the so-called Utopia. Our future isn’t that bad.”
“It’s worse than you know,” said Tim. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this. About what Barry told you about the death of God. You know that I’m interested in all this kind of business. Always have been, probably because I’m Rune’s magical heir. But religion has always fascinated me. Remember when you switched those paintings in the Tate’s archive and you saw those two women and I told you that they were witches and they had a lot of power? And I told you how I’d gained promotion because I’d put on my application form that I was a Pagan.”
“Yes, but—” said Will.
“Just hear me out, please. Think about the future we come from. No one actually worships God or Jesus any more. The churches are all franchised by IKEA or NIKE or ADIDAS or VIRGIN, and that’s not the Virgin Mary. The services have all been changed. The hymns are advertising jingles. The folk in churches aren’t worshipping God any more, or any God. They’re not worshipping anything. They’re just endorsing companies. Major corporations. And who are running the executive boards of these corporations? Witches, that’s who. I know this for a fact.”
“So what does it really matter?” Will asked.
“To an atheist it wouldn’t matter. But if you believed in God, it would. There is a theory, and it’s a very ancient theory, that Man and God are co-dependent upon one another. One cannot exist without the other. Without Man, God has no one to worship Him; therefore He is God to no one, and as such does not exist. God created Man to worship Him, to acknowledge His existence, to be a testament to His existence. The Egyptians worshipped Ra and Horus and Isis. Those gods were real to the Egyptians, those gods existed to them. But the temples of Ra and Horus and Isis were eventually overthrown; those gods were no longer worshipped, so what of those gods now?”
“They never existed,” said Will.
“You can’t prove that,” said Tim.
“You can’t prove that they did.”
“Please just listen to me. If gods did exist, would you find the theory of co-dependence feasible?”
Will shrugged. “Why not?” he said. “It makes some kind of sense.”
“So if it made sense with Ra and Horus and Isis, then why not the God of the Israelites and his son Jesus Christ? If no one believes in them any more or worships or acknowledges them any more, then they would cease to exist also, wouldn’t they? They’d die.”
“I suppose they would,” said Will.
“So, if you believed in them, you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”
“Of course I wouldn’t,” said Will.
“So, if you personally could do something to stop that happening you’d certainly do it.”
“I certainly would,” said Will.
“Such as, doing what you have to do to stop the witches messing with the future and wiping out all memories of Victorian super technology.”
“I suppose I’d have no choice,” said Will, “if I believed in God and God’s continued existence depended upon it.”
“But you don’t believe in God,” said Tim.
“I don’t,” said Will.
“Even though you have one of His Holy Guardians in your head!”
Tim fairly shouted these words at Will and these shouted words drew the attention of other patrons of the Golden Rivet. Amongst these were a big bargee, his smaller counterpart, a gatherer of the pure and a lady in a straw hat who was selling copies of the War Cry.
“Well,” said Will, and beneath his muffler, he made a thoughtful face.
“Well?” said Tim.
Will gave Tim a good staring at. “Are you telling me,” he asked, “that you think this is what it’s all about?”
“It’s what Barry told you it’s all about.”
“He didn’t explain it the way you have.”
“I would have, chief, if you’d given me a chance.”
“It’s absurd,” said Will. “Ridiculous. And more than that, it’s unfair. I, an atheist, am expected to single-handedly save the life of God.”
“It does have a certain irony,” said Tim. “But not single-handedly, Barry and I are here to help you get the job jobbed.”
“Why do I not find this comforting?”
“Listen,” said Tim. “I didn’t believe in God. My mum’s a Sister of Sainsbury’s, like your mum. I was brought up in that faith. I signed up as a Pagan to advance my career. Now I realise what I really did. Satan’s powers on Earth have always been kept at bay by God, because Satan had far fewer believers, worshippers. But with God out of the picture and the witches worshipping Satan, then Satan has all the power. He’s in control. Our society is falling apart; things are worse every day. The new day’s always worse than the day before. It really is a dystopia, Will, and it’s turning into Hell on Earth.”
“All right,” said Will. “Stop. Stop. I get the picture.”
“And do you believe what I’m saying?”
“I don’t know,” said Will. “I’m not sure.”
“You must believe in Barry. He talks to you.”
“That doesn’t mean that he’s a Holy Guardian. He might be a demon.”
“Oh, so you believe in Satan? If you believe in Satan, then you must believe in God.”
“Aha!” said Will. “Then that’s the flaw in your theory. The witches must believe in God also. And so if there’s still folk who believe in him, he won’t die.”
“I think you’ll find it’s all to do with the worshipping, the acknowledging of him as all-powerful.”
“Maybe Barry’s not an angel or a demon,” said Will, who wasn’t giving up without a struggle. “Maybe he’s something else entirely.”
“And what might that be?” Tim sank more porter and wrung out the drippings from his beard.
Will made a very thoughtful face beneath his muffler. “Maybe he’s an alien,” said Will. “Like Mr Merrick.”
“Well,” said Tim. “Mr Merrick certainly did have a few sprouty bits about himself, but I don’t think it’s very likely, do you?”
“It’s as likely as your theory. Barry originally told me that he was a genetically engineered time sprout from a planet called Phnaargos.”
“I was winding you up, chief,” said Barry. “You’re beaten and you know it. I’m the real McCoy. I’m one of God’s little helpers. And I have the Big Figure’s interests at heart. I know He’s been a bit lax with managing this planet. His well-known hands-off approach to Godship. He leaves it to fellows like me to be the voice-of-the-conscience and try to keep folk on the straight and narrow. But I don’t want Him to pop his almighty clogs. I’d be out of a job, for one thing. I’d have to defect to the other side, or they’d see to it that I got mulched into the Great Compost Heap in the Sky.”
“I need to think about this,” said Will.
“You need to act,” said Tim, “not think. Do your stuff. Get the job jobbed. Save the future. Save God. I reckon you’d earn yourself some big kudos with God if you pull this off. If you were to die in the process of pulling this off, I reckon there’d be a lot of jolly awaiting you in heaven.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“There’s no pleasing some people,” said Barry.
“There’s no pleasing some people,” said Tim.
“All right!” said Will. “Stop. Stop, the both of you.”
“The both of you?” The big bargee peered down at Will. “It’s you again, ain’t it?”
Will looked up
at the big bargee. And then Will groaned. “You don’t know me,” he said.
“I do, mister. I recognised your voice. And I recognise this bloke with you, your defence counsel, the one who took the hostages. Take off that muffler, let’s ’ave a look at your mug.”
“I’ve got a skin disease,” said Will. “You wouldn’t want to see my face.”
Tim looked up at the big bargee, the big bruised-looking bargee, the big bruised-looking bargee that had been in the Brentford courtroom.
“Show me your face.” The big bargee dug into his sailcloth trousers and brought out a copy of the morning’s Brentford Mercury. “It’s you, mister. And there’s a thousand quid reward on your ’ead.”
“Please go away,” said Will. “I don’t have time for this. Consider yourself to be a running gag that’s run its course and have it away upon your toes.”
“Is it him?” asked the lady in the straw hat.
“I’m taking care of this,” said the big bargee.
“There’s a ten thousand pound reward for his capture,” said the lady in the straw hat.
“It’s one thousand quid,” said the big bargee. “It’s in the paper.”
And he flashed his paper.
“It’s ten thousand,” said the lady in the straw hat. And she drew from her handbag her newspaper and flourished it at the big bargee. Her newspaper was a copy of The Times, a late-afternoon edition. It had upon its front page a picture of Colonel William Starling, Britain’s Most Wanted Man. He had a ten thousand pound reward upon his head.
“Muffler,” said the big bargee.
“No,” said Will.
“I’m warning you, mister.” The big bargee placed his paper on Will’s table and raised his fists in a threatening manner.
Will rose carefully to his feet.
“Easy,” whispered Tim. “We don’t want to cause a scene, now do we?”
Will slowly removed his muffler.
“Oh dear,” said Tim.
“Gotcha,” said the big bargee.
But Will shook his head. “Do you recall what happened to you the last time we met?” he asked. “Do you not recall the battering I gave you?”
The Witches of Chiswick Page 33