The Witches of Chiswick

by Robert Rankin

  The evil creation flexed its muscular shoulders, pushed out its barrelly chest, took up the martial arts stance known as the prelude to The Curl of the Curlew’s Codpiece.

  Will took up that known as the prelude to The Peck of the Pigeon’s Pecker.

  And then the two engaged in battle.

  And it was battle proper.

  Fists flew with fearsome rapidity. The study’s air boomed as the sound barrier was breached again and again. Furniture splintered, and big chunks of plaster were blasted from the walls and also the ceiling as leaping kicking fighting bodies hurtled here and there and forward and backwards, performing impossible aerobatics and doing all the damn fine stuff that aficionados of martial arts movies (the original Hong Kong dubbed into English versions) know and love, and love some more.

  A wonder and a joy to watch, but a blighter to put down in words.

  The martial mechanoid tore the marble shelf from the fireplace and swung it at Will. Will kicked it into fragments.

  The rampaging robot now flung his right fist at Will, Will caught the fist and tore it free of the arm.

  “Bugger,” said the handless horror, and it kicked Will in the stomach.

  “Bugger,” croaked Will, doubling up.

  And then the evil clockwork creature kneed Will right in the face, and Will went down with a bit of a thump.

  The monster came at him.

  The fingers of its remaining hand fixed about Will’s throat.

  Will grabbed at the wrist but was head-butted in the face. Will sank back, half conscious, and the automated fingers closed in about his windpipe.

  “You enquired, regarding who sent me,” said Will’s erstwhile assassin, applying lethal pressure. “I am the servant of Count Otto Black, King of all the witches.”

  Will gagged and floundered. He flailed at the force that bore down upon him, but his strength was gone.

  “See me,” said the voice of Will’s doom. “Look into my eyes and see your nemesis.” And he held Will’s face close to its own. Will looked into the eyes of his destroyer, and he saw a face there, in those dead black eyes, as through a camera lens.

  A gaunt face with a long hooked nose, dark deep-set eyes, a high forehead and a long black beard. The last face he would ever see; the face of Count Otto Black.

  And that face smiled, and that face laughed, exposing a mouthload of crooked yellow teeth. And a voice echoed in Will’s ear; the voice of the Count.

  “Goodbye to you,” said this voice.

  And the fingers closed, and that was that for Will.

  39

  “And that is that for you.”

  Another voice was to be heard in the devastated study. The automaton raised its head and looked around. Above it a scimitar which bore the autograph of Salome hung in the air, motionless and all alone. Hovering. And then it swung down in a vicious sweeping arc and swept the head from the automaton. The robot’s single remaining hand left Will’s throat and clawed at the empty air that its owner’s head had so recently occupied.

  And then the automaton collapsed, and that was that for it.

  “Wake up now. Come on, William, rouse yourself.”

  Will lurched into consciousness, coughing and gagging.

  The face of Tim looked down upon him. “Tim, you saved my life.”

  “I’d like to take the credit,” said Tim. “But it wasn’t me. I missed all the excitement.”

  “I’m sorry I waited so long before coming to your rescue,” said a voice. “But I needed, as you did, to know the answer to the question you asked the automaton.”

  “Mr Wells,” said Will.

  “Pleased to be of service,” said the voice of H.G. Wells.

  “And Gammon?” Will did some more coughing and gagging.

  “I am in excellent health, sir, a mere concussion, nothing more.” The face of Gammon loomed over Will. “I telephoned the Flying Swan and had this sent over for you. I thought you might appreciate it.” And a pint of Large now filled Will’s vision.

  “Let’s get him up,” said Tim, and Will was aided into the vertical plane. He clutched at his throat.

  “That really hurt,” he said. “I thought I was finished there.”

  “You gave a very good account of yourself,” said Mr Wells. “All that leaping about and those kicks. Most impressive.”

  “The bullets worked somewhat better.”

  “Bullets tend to do that.”

  Tim righted what was left of the fireside chair Will had recently occupied and helped him onto it. “There’s not much left of our legacy,” he said. “Couldn’t you have been a bit more careful?”

  “I was fighting for my life!” Will coughed and gagged some more.

  Gammon handed him the pint of Large. “This will help,” he said. “Alcohol always does.”

  Will sipped and coughed, then gulped, then coughed somewhat less. Then gulped a bit more and a bit more after that.

  “Mr Wells,” said he. “Thank you; thank you for saving my life.”

  “My pleasure, I assure you. I received the telegram you sent earlier, asking me to meet you at this address. Came as soon as I could.”

  “I unknowingly let Mr Wells in,” said Gammon. “That first ring at the door. The one I thought was children.”

  “I knew it was him,” said Will. “The second ring, however, I thought was someone else.”

  “He’s outside,” said Mr Wells. “He’s hungry. He’s eating the privet hedge.”

  “Eating what?” said Tim.

  “The fourth member of our party,” said Will. “Master Makepiece Scribbens, the Brentford Snail Boy.”

  “Eh?” said Tim. “What’s all this?”

  Will eased his throat with further Large. “Allies,” he said. “In the cause. We’re going to need all the help we can get. I telegrammed Mr Wells to meet us here, also Master Scribbens.”

  “Why him?” Tim asked.

  “Because he helped us at the court house. Remember that it was his idea that we disguise ourselves as him and Miss Poppins in order to escape.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “That will be him,” said Will. “Gammon, will you, please?”

  “At once, sir.”

  Master Makepiece Scribbens peered through the broken doorway at what was left of Hugo Rune’s study. He took in the ruinations and slowly shook his bloated head.

  “Well,” said he. “This must have been an incredible party, I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “It was not a party.” Tim pointed to the two defunct automata.

  Master Makepiece Scribbens stared down upon them and then he raised phlegm from his throat and spat it onto the nearest. “Spawn of Satan,” said he. “The evil cat’s-paws of Count Otto Black.”

  “Come in and meet Mr Wells,” said Tim.

  “Mr Wells?” said Master Scribbens, peering all around and about.

  “Mr Wells,” said Mr Wells.

  And all was explained to the Snail Boy, regarding Mr Wells.

  Well, not perhaps all, but some.

  “And so we are four,” said Master Scribbens and he moved forward into the wreckage of the room. But he didn’t walk. His legs and feet didn’t move. He slid along. He glided, upon a silky, silvery trail.

  “Nice to see you out of your wheelchair,” said Tim, making the kind of face that implies that it wasn’t that nice, as it happened.

  “Miss Poppins had to leave my employ. A more favourable position came up for her, nannying some children in Ludgate Hill.”[30]

  “Well.” Will finished his pint of Large, smacked his lips and drew his knuckle across them. “I feel fully reinvigorated and I am glad that we are all here. Tim, what did you come up with on Rune’s computer?”

  “Not much,” said Tim. “Shortly after you left me the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild website went offline. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that they’d discovered that I’d hacked into it.”

  Will sighed.

  “Nice sighing, sir,” said Gammon.
“You may not be Dan Leno when it comes to performing the thoughtful face. But when it comes to sighing, your performance is nonpareil.”

  Will sighed once more.

  “Bravo,” said Gammon and he clapped his wrinkly hands.

  “I will explain everything,” said Will, “to you, Master Scribbens, and to you, Mr Wells, wherever you might be.”

  “I’m here,” said Mr Wells.

  “And then I will explain my plan. We, together, can win the war against this Count Otto Black and his coven of witches. It can be done, and it will be done, and I know how to do it.”

  “Do what, chief?” asked a voice in Will’s head.

  “Barry,” said Will.

  “Barry?” said Master Scribbens.

  “Will’s Holy Guardian,” said Tim. “Inside Will’s head. It speaks to him.”

  Master Scribbens now sighed.

  “Not bad,” said Gammon.

  “You little green sod,” said Will. “Where were you when I needed you?”

  “Sorry, chief. Oh my goodness, Mr Rune’s study, what have you done to it?”

  “I was in mortal peril and you were sleeping.”

  “Time travel, chief. Very exhausting. I needed time to regenerate my awesome powers.”

  “I nearly died.”

  “You seem fine to me, chief. Although perhaps a bit puffed. Heart rate’s up somewhat.”

  “Just be quiet,” said Will.

  “And Master Scribbens is here,” said Barry. “What’s that slimy schmuck doing here?”

  “He’s helping me, and so is Mr Wells.”

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

  “Just be quiet. I’m dealing with this.”

  “And another oh dear for luck.”

  “How’s Barry?” Tim asked.

  “Taking a nap!” said Will. “Now let’s continue. We are here, and we will succeed; the gang of five.”

  “Five, sir,” said Gammon. “Are you thinking to include me?”

  “Why not?” Will asked.

  “Because I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I have a great deal of cleaning up to do here.”

  “All right, the gang of four.”

  “Five,” said Barry. “Don’t forget me, chief.”

  “Four!” said Will.

  “Ungrateful oaf.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said, ‘You’ll probably want to take a faithful oath’.”

  “Yes,” said Will. “Something like that,” and he raised his empty glass. “To success,” said he. “To the destruction of the witches and to saving the future. We will save the future. We will save history. We are the four.”

  “We are the four,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

  “We are the four,” said Mr H.G. Wells.

  “The Fantastic Four,” said Tim.

  “That’s been done,” said Will.

  “The Fab Four, then.”

  “That too.”

  “The Four Tops?” said Tim. “The Four Feather Falls Appreciation Society? The Four Mile Island? The four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie? The Four Gospels? The Four Horsemen of the—”

  “Stop!” said Will.

  “How about The Far-Fetched Four?” said Barry. “That seems about right to me.”

  40

  Whoa – War! Uh!

  Now, what is that good for?

  In most opinions.

  Absolutely nothing!

  God Gawd, y’all—

  The Far-Fetched Four held a counsel of war, but not in the manse of the late Hugo Rune.

  Gammon ushered them out of there amid many apologies regarding pressing cleaning duties and the need for the Four to make good their getaway lest robotic reinforcements arrive.

  “I will, as our colonial cousins are want to put it, muff it out with them, should they appear,” he said.

  “It’s bluff it out,” said Tim, tittering foolishly.

  “You will be needing this, sir,” said Gammon, and he handed Will a slim metal pouch engraved with enigmatic symbols.

  “What is it?” Will asked.

  “It’s a slim metal pouch engraved with enigmatic symbols,” Gammon informed him.

  “And what is in this pouch?”

  “The Scorpion, sir. The Master’s Scorpion. To be used against the witches when the moment arises.”

  “But what exactly does it do?”

  Gammon tapped at his veiny nose.

  “And what does that mean?” Will asked.

  “Shagged if I know,” said Gammon. “The Master said that I should give it to you when the time was right, and I consider the time to be right. At least it is upon my watch, I don’t know about yours. And so, farewell and may God travel with you. And if I might just offer you a piece of advice which is an ultimate truism and guide to life.”

  “You might,” said Will. “If you really want to.”

  “It’s the best advice I’ve ever had,” said Gammon. “I read it on the side of a matchbox. It is, ‘keep dry and away from children’.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” said Will and he waved goodbye to Gammon.

  And now the Far-Fetched Four sat in the Flying Swan, in a corner booth, but close to the door. Tim returned from the saloon bar counter with four pints of Large, skilfully held, and placed them upon the mahogany top of the cast iron Britannia table.

  “Cheers, everybody,” he said as he seated himself.

  “Cheers,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens, underaged drinker of the borough.

  “Cheers,” said Mr William Starling, prospective saviour of the Future.

  And, “Cheers,” said Mr H.G. Wells and his glass rose magically into the air and emptied half its contents into nothingness.

  “How does he do that?” Tim asked. “You’d think you’d be able to see the ale swilling around in his guts.”

  “It has to be magic, doesn’t it?” said Mr Wells. “Because otherwise, how could I actually see? The light passes through my retinas and travels straight out of the back of my head. Logically I should be blind.”

  “Let’s not let logic get in the way of anything,” said Will. “How’s the ale, Master Scribbens?”

  “Eminently superior to the hog’s piss that Count Otto Black used to feed me upon.”

  “He treated you badly, then?”

  “Not badly, not really, just without care. He is a man without any human conscience. People mean nothing to him.”

  “Psychopath,” said Tim.

  “I don’t know what that word means.”

  “It’s a person afflicted with a personality disorder, characterised by a tendency to commit antisocial and even homicidal acts without conscience or a sense of guilt,” said Tim. “Or at least that’s what it says in the dictionary.”

  “That would be Count Otto.”

  “The murderer of Hugo Rune?” Will asked.

  Master Scribbens shrugged his shapeless shoulders, replaced his glass onto the tabletop and slid it about in a distracted fashion. The glass’s bottom left a silvery trail.

  Aware that the eyes of his fellows were upon it, Master Scribbens said, “Sorry, it happens. I can’t help it.”

  “Forget it,” said Will. “I’m glad that you decided to join us upon our quest. You are aware that great danger lies ahead for us?”

  “Obviously so. I might be weird, but I’m not wyrd, if you understand my meaning.”

  “I do,” said Will. “So let us formulate our plan of campaign.”

  Tim put down his glass and rubbed his hands together. “I just know I’m going to love this,” he said. “So, what is the plan?”

  “Well, the way I see it,” said Barry.

  Will shook his head. “No, Barry,” he said, “I will take care of this.”

  “But, chief. It’s really straightforward. All you have to do is—”

  “No!” Will took from his belt the stiletto fashioned from nails and timber reputed to come from the True Cross, pushed the blade into his
left ear and rooted all about with it.

  “Ow!” went Barry. “Oooh. Ouch. Stop.”

  “Then be still,” said Will.

  “It will all end in tears, chief.”

  Will applied the blade once more.

  “I’m taking another nap,” said Barry. “Wake me up when things reach crisis point and I’ll do my best to get you out of the mess.”

  Will wiggled the blade.

  “Zzzzzzzzz,” went Barry.

  “The way I see it is this,” said Will, refreshing his palate with further ale. “We have fifteen days to locate and destroy the witches’ Millennium Bug programme.”

  “Plenty of time,” said Tim. “It should be a breeze.”

  “We do have to find it first,” said Will.

  “Oh yes, we have to find it.”

  “So, where do we look?”

  “The Headquarters of the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild would seem favourite.”

  “I agree.”

  “I do not,” said Mr Wells.

  “You don’t?” said Will.

  “And nor do I,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

  “Why?” asked Will.

  Mr Wells finished his ale. “I do not go out much at this time of the year,” said he. “The wind blows right through me. But one of the benefits of being invisible is that you can travel upon public transport without having to pay the fare. Only today I was upon the Clapham omnibus and I overheard a fellow talking. The air was abuzz with rumours and theories of a conspiratorial nature regarding the destruction of the moonship at the Crystal Palace. This fellow believed that the moonship had been sabotaged by Martians.”

  Will said nothing.

  And nor did Tim.

  “An interesting theory,” said Mr Wells, “although wholly ludicrous in my opinion. However, I do have to say that it gave me an idea. I dabble with literature and have always considered writing a whimsical novel. I thought that I might base a novel upon this. A war between the Martians and men. I have even toyed with a title: Punch-up of the Planets. What do you think?”

  “War of the Worlds sounds better,” said Tim. “But what has this to do with anything?”

  “The man on the Clapham omnibus spoke also of witches. It was his belief that a witch coven existed, dedicated to bringing down society, overthrowing the social order, wiping out technology and installing itself as secret rulers of the world, running the planet through the application of magic”