The Witches of Chiswick

by Robert Rankin

  “Well, isn’t this cosy?” said Will’s mum. “Like one big happy family. That’s another thing I like about living in these times. Although the supper is growing cold and I’m—”

  And through the doorway came the gallant lads and token ladette of the DOCS, weapons at the ready and looks of some surprise upon their faces, faces which they now took to fanning.

  “The smell is him.” Will’s dad bounced up and down, eliciting moans from the foul-smelling figure beneath. “The murderer, we have him here.”

  “Let him up,” said Chief Inspector Sam Maggott. “We’ll take him in for questioning.”

  “Better just to pass sentence here,” said Officer John.

  “Rather too many unanswered questions,” said Sam. “I’d like to find out more about this unfragrant character before we remove him permanently from society.”

  “He’s still frisky.” Will’s dad came near to another upending. “Shooting him in the head while we’re still sitting on him would probably be for the best.”

  “I’ll do things my way, if you don’t mind,” said Sam. “I am the law, you know.”

  “Quite so, sir,” said Will’s dad. “So we should let him up, should we? He’s all covered in guns. One or two quite uncomfortable beneath my behind, as it happens.”

  “Let him up,” said Sam. “We have him covered.”

  And Sam’s team most definitely did. They all had their guns out and were pointing them mostly in the right direction.

  “As you wish,” said Will’s dad. “Everybody up.”

  And he did try. And so did Will’s mum.

  “I’m a bit stuck,” she said. “Could someone give me a hand?”

  “I’m at a bit of a disadvantage too,” said Will’s dad. “Can’t seem to ease myself up from this position.”

  “Help them up,” Sam told his team.

  Sam’s team holstered their weapons and set to the task of dragging Will’s parents into the vertical plane.

  “Thanks very much,” said Will’s dad. “This has all been most exciting.”

  “Aaaagh!” went the foul-smelling fallen figure, leaping now to his feet.

  “That’s quite enough of that, chummy,” said Sam. “Up with your hands and come along quietly.”

  “And drop your weapons,” added Officer Denton. “And do that before you put up your hands.”

  “Good idea,” said Sam. “Do as the nice lady tells you. Or there will be trouble.”

  It must be noted that it had now become very crowded in the Starling breakfasting-cum-suppering area which, although spacious enough to accommodate at least four well-fed adults, now found itself playing host to rather more than that. There were the mountainous Maggot, Officers Denton, Higgins, and Tudor; there was Tim McGregor, Will’s mum, Will’s dad, and Will. And there was also the terrific figure which was now towering over all of them and snatching up one of his weapons.

  “Fire upon the murderer,” Sam ordered. “And try not to kill too many civilians.”

  “Hit the deck,” shouted Will’s dad.

  “Aaaagh!” went you-know-who once again.

  And then the carnage began.

  The DOCS weaponry was, in its manner, awesome. It was the state of the art, and this was the twenty-third century. And although it did take Sam’s team a moment or two to get their guns out of their holsters, and a few moments more to get them actually working, they were soon blasting away with a vengeance, spraying chunks of the murderer to the four cardinal points of the compass and all those in between.

  There was so much flesh and gore – and all those other pieces.

  And when the smoke had finally cleared, which took a bit of a while as the air-conditioning system was now broken, there was very little of the murderer left to be seen, other than a great deal of metal cogwheels and a lot of broken springs.

  “Damn me,” said Chief Inspector Sam Maggott. “It was a robot.” Officer Denton shook her head. “It was,” she agreed, “but I don’t see how it could have been, sir. I mean, we don’t actually have any robots like that, yet. There’s no such thing as robots like that. They only exist in science fiction.”

  “The exception that proves the rule?” Sam suggested.

  “No sir, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, bag up the bits; we’ll take them back to the department.”

  Sam glanced about at the cowering civilians. The cowering civilians were covered in all sorts of vilely-smelling guts and gore. The outer covering of the impossible robot.

  “Thank you very much for your cooperation, citizens,” said Sam.

  With his mouth still open, and his mind somewhat numb, Will watched as Sam’s team did what they could to scoop all the bits and bobs into pink plastic bin liners[4].

  “I’ll help you,” he said when he could find his voice.

  “We’ll send in a clean-up team to wipe away all the splatterings,” said Sam, once the bagging up had been completed. “And so, farewell. And thank you once again for your cooperation.”

  And he took his leave, the words “one hundred per cent clean-up rate”, being the last the Starling family heard from him as he and his team departed.

  “Well,” said Will’s dad. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?”

  “The supper’s stone cold,” said Will’s mum. “I’ll have to reheat it.”

  “I think I’ll leave you to it,” said Tim. “I think I’ll go home now and take a shower.”

  “Yes,” said Will. “Okay, yes.”

  “Robot, eh?” said Tim. “Reminds you of that old movie, doesn’t it? You know the one I mean?”

  “Of course I do,” said Will. “Everyone knows that movie.”

  “Sent from the future,” said Tim. “Amazing. Whatever next?” And walking upon wobbly legs, Tim too took his leave.

  Which left just Will and his mum and dad: just Will and his mum and dad and all the terrible smelly splatterings.

  And there was one thing more than this: one thing that Will held tightly in his hand; one thing that he had picked up from the floor when he’d helped the team from the Department of Correctional Science to bag the pieces of the impossible robot.

  Will opened his hand and gazed down upon it. It was a small brass nameplate, a maker’s nameplate, with certain words printed upon it.

  They were:

  BABBAGE & CO.

  MAKERS OF

  AUTOMATA TO

  HER MAJESTY

  QUEEN VICTORIA

  PATENT NO. – 3610592

  MADE IN ENGLAND, 1895.

  6

  Supper in the Starling household was a somewhat sombre affair. It lacked the usual cheery banter. The intended supper had been discarded due to its adulteration by splatterings of gore, and although the replacement was toothsome, it could do little to raise the spirits of the Starlings.

  Will turned food with his fork and remained alone with his thoughts. His parents viewed him suspiciously. What had happened was down to Will and they knew it.

  After supper Will said, “I’m going out,” and took himself off to Tim’s.

  Tim McGregor lived thirteen floors up from Will, in an all-but-identical unit, the only difference being that Tim’s breakfasting area was not bespattered with gore.

  Will knocked at the door and Tim let him in.

  “You never ring the chimes,” said Tim.

  “I don’t like the tunes,” said Will.

  “Come inside then.”

  And Will came inside.

  “That was all pretty savage,” said Tim, steering Will towards his bedroom. “I had to have a shower. I’m still shaking.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you, Tim, something very important.”

  “I’ll show you my shoe collection,” Tim said. “I picked up a pair of antique brogues the other week. Well, they’re not actually a pair, but they should interest you.”

  “I’m not really interested in—”

  “Come and see.” Tim opened the door to his clothes cu
pboard and propelled Will into it.

  “Hang about,” Will protested. “What are you doing?”

  But Tim had followed Will into the cupboard and closed the door upon them both.

  “What are you doing, Tim? Let me out.”

  “Be silent for a moment, and I’ll explain.” Tim switched on a light and put his finger to his lips.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Just be quiet.”

  “Okay,” Will shrugged. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t want us to be seen or heard. I’m going to tell you some stuff. It’s very sensitive stuff. You must promise you won’t mention anything I tell you to another soul.”

  “Does your mum still listen at your bedroom door?”

  “Not my mum. The surveillance system.”

  “You’ve a surveillance system in your housing unit?”

  “More than one, and so have you.”

  “I certainly haven’t,” said Will.

  “You certainly have. They’re all over the place. I only found out a week ago. Came across the program when I was running through the Tate’s security systems. There’s an iris-scanner and a thermascan inside every home screen. And how many home screens do you have in your unit?”

  “One in every room,” whispered Will. “But this is outrageous.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? And I’d bet there’d be a revolution if it were made common knowledge. But it’s not very likely to be, is it? I don’t know whether we can be picked up on audio, or not, so I’m not taking any chances. We’ll conduct our conversation in this cupboard.”

  Will shrugged. “This is a bit of a shock,” said he.

  “But not as much of a shock as being attacked by a robot.”

  “That was a considerable shock. And it’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Because you’ve discovered that it was Babbage.”

  Will’s jaw dropped. “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “The robot was sent to kill you, because of what you discovered about the painting. And because you stopped the painting from being destroyed.”

  “What?” went Will. “What?”

  “You are in very big trouble. And I just don’t know what I can do to help you. Which is why I don’t want to be seen or heard talking to you about it. I could have simply refused to answer the door.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “You’re my best friend, Will. You’re a bit of a weirdo, but I like you. I don’t want to see you get into trouble, let alone get killed.”

  “But I don’t understand any of it. The business with the picture. And how do you know about that?”

  “There are surveillance cameras in the archive too. I saw what you got up to. It did make me laugh, I’ve never cared too much for Rothko myself. I erased your image. But I thought I’d check on what it was all about. So I accessed your workstation and had a flip through your morning’s work. I saw the digital wristwatch. Things fell into place. It’s not the first time it’s happened. There have been other historical artefacts that don’t fit into our accepted view of history. There’s a website dedicated to them: anachronisms. Or there was; it was recently closed down.”

  “But what does it mean? What does this mean?”

  Will took out the little brass plaque and handed it to Tim. Tim examined it at length and grinned broadly.

  “Incredible,” he said. “And I’m really holding it in my hand. Incredible.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “It means we’ve been lied to,” said Tim. “About history. What do you know about Charles Babbage?”

  “A little,” said Will. “He was the father of computer science. Born in London in 1791, he had a natural genius for mathematics and when he entered Trinity College, Cambridge in 1811, he discovered that he knew more about the subject than his tutors. In 1821 he began work on his Difference Engine, the first computer, which he completed in 1832. He designed it to work out mathematical tables and he went on to build his Analytic Engine in 1856, which was capable of advanced calculus. He should have been hailed alongside Brunel as one of the great geniuses of the Victorian age, but he was not. The British government showed no interest in funding his work and his inventions were never truly realised until the twentieth century. He was a man ahead of his time.”

  “That’s somewhat more than a little” said Tim. “That’s a whole lot. How come you know all that?”

  “I looked him up in the library archives on Wednesday lunchtime. After seeing the digital watch in the painting I wanted to know whether there really had been a Babbage in Victorian times, who had anything to do with computers. There was, but he didn’t invent digital watches.”

  “I think he did,” said Tim. “And robots too. But not in the version of history that we’ve been brought up on.”

  “What other things?” asked Will. “On the website you saw. What other historical artefacts did you read about that don’t fit in?”

  “Ever heard of Jules Verne?” Tim asked.

  “I’ve read his books, on my palm-top, I downloaded them from the British Library files; they’re wonderful.”

  Tim shook his head. “What is it with you and the Victorian era?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always felt a part of it somehow; I can’t explain.”

  “So you’ve probably read Twenty Thousand leagues Under The Sea.”

  “Brilliant,” said Will.

  “Then you’ll probably be pleased to hear that according to the information on the website, the wreckage of Captain Nemo’s Nautilus was recently discovered in the Antarctic”

  Will managed one more “What?”

  “It’s true,” said Tim. “I know it’s true. I can’t prove it. But this—” he displayed the little brass plaque “‘ – is all the proof I need. You’ll have to run, Will. Get away. They know you’re onto them. The painting didn’t get destroyed. They’ll send another robot after you.”

  “Who will? The authorities?”

  “The Victorians. The robot was sent through time to destroy the painting and destroy you. That robot was sent from the past.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Will. “In a time machine, I suppose. Like the one that H.G. Wells wrote about.”

  “I’ve never heard of H.G. Wells,” said Tim. “Was he another scientist?”

  “Another novelist, like Jules Verne. This is absurd, Tim.”

  “Not according to the website. According to the website the Victorians made incredible advances in technology. The wireless transmission of electricity, laser technology, even a space programme. Bits and pieces have been found. I’m holding such a piece in my hand.”

  “So why has this been written out of history?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to piece it together. I can only conclude that it is something to do with the witches.”

  There was a bit of a pause and then Will said, “Did I hear you say ‘witches’?”

  “You did,” said Tim. “That’s what I said.”

  “You are saying that this has something to do with witches?”

  Tim nodded.

  “But Tim,” said Will, “and please don’t take this the wrong way, there are no such thing as witches.”

  “Oh, there are.” Tim’s head nodded and his big hair went every which way. “Those two women who came to the Tate were witches. I recognised them. They have a triple A security clearance. All the higher echelons are in the Craft.”

  “Witchcraft? Are you serious, Tim?”

  “Why do you think I’m a Pagan, Will?”

  Will shrugged. “Because it’s your choice. You can believe in anything you want to believe in. It’s still legal.”

  “No,” said Tim. “It’s because I want to get on. By declaring on my employment application that I was a Pagan, I got a head start. I’ve had three promotions this year. How many have you had?”

  “None,” said Will. “But how—”

  “Websites, Will. Conspiracy theory websites. I’ve
grown up on them. I love them. There was this really good one that said that witches are running the world.”

  “But it got closed down?” Will said.

  “It did. But by that time I had, how shall I put this, digested the intelligence. The website suggested that a cabal of witches run the planet. It all sounded terribly exciting, so I thought I’d put ‘Pagan’ on my application and see if it helped. It did. I hear a word here and a word there, and those two women were witches. I know it.”

  “This is all too much,” Will shook his blondy head. “It’s all too much to believe. And if real witches wanted me dead, surely they’d just cast a spell on me, or something.”

  “Did you watch the newscast earlier on the home screen?”

  “No,” said Will. “Dad tuned it to the relaxation channel. We watched waves breaking on a beach throughout supper.”

  “Shame. You’d have been interested in the newscast. It showed the serial killer who had butchered an undisclosed number of William Starlings being led away and later executed.”

  “What?” went Will. “But that’s not what happened.”

  “Are you telling me that you don’t believe what you see on the newscasts? Are you suggesting that there might be some big conspiracy?”

  “Ah,” said Will.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” said Tim, “or what really went on in Victorian times, but we’re not being told the truth. There is a big conspiracy. It could be something to do with witchcraft, or it couldn’t, but you’re in big trouble, Will. Whoever it is that wants you dead, wants you dead. They want to destroy the painting, which has the evidence of the truth in it and they want to kill you, because you know.”

  “Then they’ll want to kill you too,” said Will.

  “I’m sure,” said Tim. “Which is why we are talking in a cupboard. I am telling you everything I know, in confidence.”

  “So what am I going to do? Run? To where?”

  “I don’t know. But I think you should try and find out the truth.”

  “And how am I going to do that?”

  “Go back into the past.”

  “Oh right,” said Will. “Like, find the time machine that this robot came in? Get real, Tim, please.”