The Witches of Chiswick

by Robert Rankin

  It did not appear to be forthcoming.

  He came across Rune’s swordstick, the slim ebony shaft topped by a silver skull. Will twirled it between his fingers. He’d always rather fancied that cane.

  There were boxes now, beneath where the books had been stacked. Cufflinks; many, many sets of cufflinks. Will viewed these approvingly. Some were set with diamonds and emeralds. There was wealth here. And watches, gold hunters, several embossed with Masonic symbols set about their faces in substitute for numbers. And there were the golden brooches and the watch chains.

  “There is money here,” Will smiled to himself. “He certainly favoured a bit of jewellery.”

  Will opened box after box after box. Many great rings displayed themselves, magical rings, inscribed with enigmatic symbols, inlaid with cabochons and turquoise and lapis lazuli. Will gasped anew as each new treasure revealed itself. There was wealth here, great wealth: the legacy of Hugo Rune. Will plucked a ring at random from its box and put it onto his finger. The ring was far too big for his slender digit, but Will blew upon the ring and buffed it on his sleeve. “Splendid,” he said. He took up another and another until his hands could hold no more. “Thank you, Mr Rune,” said Will. “None of this will be wasted, I assure you.”

  Will let the rings drop from his fingers onto his bed and sought further treasure. Only one box remained in the trunk. Will fished it out. It was larger than a ring box, and weighty too; of considerable weight in fact.

  “This has to be it,” said Will. “The mother lode.”

  And Will sought to open the box, but could not.

  Will puzzled at this. There was no sign of a keyhole. It was just a box with a lift-up lid; a curious box though; an interesting box. Will studied the interesting box. It was of tanned hide, tanned pink hide. Will could not guess from what manner of beast this hide had been extracted, but there was something about it which Will found unsettling.

  Regarding the dimensions of the interesting box, it was cuboid and about ten centimetres to a side. Upon its lid was an engraved brass disc. Will studied the engraving upon this disc: a name, a single name.

  And lo, this name was Barry.

  “Barry,” read Will. “Now I wonder who Barry might be. Some former owner of this box, I suppose. So how do you get it open?” Will fought with the box but it was an unequal struggle. The box would not be opened. Will took out his pocket knife and selected a suitable blade. He struggled and forced, and the blade sheared off and almost took his eye out.

  “Right,” said Will. “Well, I’m not going to be beaten by a little box. If I can’t pry you open, then I’ll stamp you open. Even the most vigorous stamping is unlikely to damage a diamond.”

  “No chief, don’t do that.” The voice was a tiny little voice and came, it seemed, from far away.

  “Who said that?” Will span around. His box-free hand became a fist. “Come out wherever you’re hiding.”

  “I’m not hiding, chief. I’m nestling.”

  “Who said that?”

  “It’s me, chief. In the box. I’m Barry.”

  “Barry?” Will held the box at arm’s length, peered at it, lifted it to his ear and gave it a little shake. “Barry?” he said once again.

  “Yes, chief; Barry. Please stop jiggling me about.”

  “Wah!” went Will and he flung the box across the room. Across the room was not too far. The box bounced off a damp-stained wall and fell to the uncarpeted floor.

  Will lifted his foot and prepared to do stampings, this time not in the cause of finding hidden wealth but rather to destroy whatever lurked within the pink skin box.

  A creature? A demon? A witch’s familiar? Will didn’t know just what.

  “Ooh that hurts,” the tiny voice came from the box. It jangled Will’s nerves something wicked. “Don’t stamp on me, chief. I’m your buddy now. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me out of this box.”

  Will was getting a real sweat on. “Who are you?” he asked in a tremulous tone. “What are you?”

  “I’m Barry, chief. Please don’t stamp on me.”

  Will stared down at the box. “Are you a genie?” he asked.

  “A what, chief?”

  “A genie,” said Will. “I’ve read about genies, they’re magical entities trapped in bottles or lamps or suchlike. When you release them they grant you three wishes.”

  “Ah,” said the tiny voice. “I hear where you’re coming from. Genie would be one way of putting it.”

  “So you’ll grant me three wishes?” Will was warming to the idea.

  “I’ll certainly give it my best shot.”

  Will stooped and gingerly took up the box. He put it once more to his ear. “You promise?” he said.

  “No probs, chief. I’ll promise you anything you like.”

  “So how do I open the box?”

  “Just give the lid a twist, it’s a screw-on, you schmuck.”

  Will stared at the box. “What did you call me?” he asked.

  “Nothing chief. I said, just give the lid a twist. It’s a screw-on. Too stuck.”

  “I’m sure that’s not what you said.”

  “Well, please yourself, chief. If you have no use for three wishes. Like I don’t think!”

  “All right. Hold on.” Will pondered, as one would in such a situation; a situation, which it has to be admitted, probably wouldn’t come up in the normal course of one’s lifetime more than, maybe, the number of times one might find oneself called on to solve the case of Jack the Ripper. There could be danger in this box. Something horrible might lurk within. Opening this box would be risky business.

  It would be a big risk.

  Will gave the lid of the box a twist, and it fell aside, to reveal—

  “A sprout,” said Will, in considerable amazement. “You’re a sprout.”

  “Of course I’m a sprout,” said Barry. “You were expecting, perhaps, a genie!”

  15

  “A sprout.” Will lifted the sprout from its box and cradled it on the palm of his hand. “A talking sprout.”

  “I think we’ve established that, chief,” said the talking sprout.

  “But, a sprout,” Will had genuine awe in his voice. “A talking sprout.”

  “Yes, yes, chief. Let’s not make a big thing out of it.”

  “But, I mean, you’re a sprout. And you can talk.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” said Barry the talking sprout. “Did we suck too many lead soldiers when we were a lad?”

  “What?” went Will.

  “Or perhaps you were dropped at birth, that would always do it.”

  “What are you saying?” Will’s fingers tightened on the sprout.

  “Oooh!” went Barry. “Don’t do that, please, no.”

  Will’s grip slackened, slightly.

  “I’m trying to remain cool, calm and collected here,” Will told the sprout. “I’m sure that I’m not hallucinating you.”

  “He never mentioned me, did he?”

  “Who?” asked Will.

  “My master. Hugo Rune.”

  “No,” said Will. “He never did.”

  “Typical,” said Barry. “Please stop with the squeezing, will you?”

  Will released his fingers. He peered at the little green spheroid and shook his befuddled head. “I’m talking to a sprout,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You could say, ‘pleased to meet you, Barry’ and then, in about ten minutes time, you could say, ‘thank you very much for saving my life’.”

  “What?” Will went.

  “No, chief, not what. ‘Pleased to meet you’.”

  “No,” said Will. “About saving my life.”

  “A thank-you will suffice, so get a move on, then.”

  “What?” went Will once again.

  “Monosyllabic,” said Barry. “The lad is a numbskull.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What I’m saying, chief, is that big trouble is heading your way, s
o if you know what’s good for you, you’ll scoop up everything that’s worth taking from Rune’s trunk in your mouldy-looking bed blanket and have it away on your toes through the window.”

  “What?” went Will, once again.

  “Trouble,” said Barry. “Big trouble. On its way now. I know these things. Trust me, I’m a sprout.”

  “Right,” said Will. “Right.”

  “Then get a move on.”

  “Right,” said Will.

  “I really mean it,” said Barry. “It’s on its way up here.”

  Will’s gaze turned towards the door. From beyond it came sounds of something being smashed and heavy footfalls crunching on the rickety stairs. And Will could smell a horrible smell issuing through the crack beneath the door. A horrible smell that he knew all too well, so to speak.

  “Right,” said Will once again and he thrust Barry back into his box and Barry’s box into his pocket. Then he dragged the steamer trunk across the floor and rammed it up against the door. Rune’s jewellery was already on the bed, so Will snatched up the magic books and tossed them onto the blanket. He considered the clothes, but they were of no use to him. And what of his own belongings?

  Something struck the door a heavy blow.

  “William Starling,” called a voice, a deeply-timbred voice with a rich, Germanic accent.

  “Oh no,” went Will, and he gathered up the blanket, hastily knotted its corners, snatched up Rune’s cane and fled to the window.

  Further blows rained upon the door. Wood splintered, hinges gave. Will struggled to open the sash but it was jammed shut by years of accumulated grime. Will might have tried the crowbar, but there just wasn’t time, so he took as many steps back as he could within the tiny room, rushed forward and dived through the unopened window – which was three storeys up.

  Now it only happens in movies, because movies are movies and real life is something else entirely. In movies, if the hero dives out of the window, then there is always something soft below to cushion his fall: an awning, a pile of cardboard boxes, a passing wagon loaded with hay, an open-topped truck delivering mattresses; or a stunt mat.

  But real life is something else entirely.

  In real life there would be a row of spiked railings, a concrete area strewn with broken glass, a pit full of alligators, or, as happens on most occasions, the usual gang of cannibal bikers, or a flock of blood-crazed rabid chickens.

  Will smashed through the window and plunged three floors to his almost inevitable doom. The awning slowed his descent. He ripped through that, however; struck the pile of cardboard boxes,[16] bounced from these onto the passing hay-filled wagon, slid from that onto the open-topped truck that was delivering mattresses and from there toppled down to the stunt mat that someone had dumped upon the pavement.

  “Phew,” went Will, as he rose unscathed to his feet – to be promptly set upon by a flock of blood-crazed rabid chickens.

  “Wah!” went Will as he fought himself free and took to his heels up the street.

  Eight minutes later Will sat, all sweaty and breathless in a tavern called the Scurvy Stump and Lettuce. It was a Thames dockside tavern, the haunt of bargees and lightermen, pirates and ne’er-do-wells, smugglers and brigands, and gatherers of the pure. The tavern reeked of ship’s tar and tallow, shag smoke and brandy, bad breath and armpits, and unwashed bottoms too. It echoed with the coarse discourse of burly sea-faring types, and the talk was all of yardarms and spinnakers, top sheets and anchor chains. And of bilges and brigs, and the new electric warships that the Royal Navy had upon trials, whores and whorings, and how well Brentford might fare in the FA Cup.

  A one-eyed, one-legged barlord lorded it behind the bar, and a lady in a straw hat and Salvation Army uniform, moved about amongst the nautical clientele selling copies of the War Cry. Will, looking somewhat out of place in his funereal costume, sat in as dark a corner as he could squeeze himself into, but one that was near to the door. The blanket bag was between his feet, Rune’s cane at his elbow, a mug of grog before him on a stained and rugged table, and a pink box was held between his trembling hands.

  Will twisted open the lid and peered in at the recumbent sprout whose name was Barry.

  “Thank you very much for saving my life,” Will whispered.

  “You’ll have to speak up a bit, chief,” chirped Barry. “A bit of a din in this pub, don’cha know.”

  “I don’t want to speak louder.” Will raised the open box to his face. “I don’t exactly wish to be seen talking to a sprout.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” said Barry. “Not posh enough for you, eh?”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it. But thank you again for saving my life.”

  “At your service, chief. I suppose you’d like me to send you on your way home now.”

  “I’m homeless at present,” said Will, dismally.

  “I mean to your own home, in your own time.”

  “What?”

  “Please, not with the whats again. I can send you home if that’s what you wish for.”

  “Oh,” said Will. “Then you really are a genie.”

  “I’m a Time Sprout,” said Barry. “From the planet Phnaargos. Brought here on official business to the twentieth century. Got knocked off course, though. Been helping out Mr Rune.”

  “I really don’t understand,” said Will, who didn’t.

  “It would take too long to explain now, chief. But if you want to go home, just give me the word and we’re off”

  Will pondered. He placed Barry’s box onto the rugged tabletop, took up his mug of grog and sipped at it. It was not at all bad, considering all the bits and bobs that were floating about on its surface. Will wiped a wrist across his mouth and replaced the mug. “I can’t go yet,” he said.

  “What’s that, chief? I thought you’d be eager to be away from here.”

  Will shook his head. “This is absurd,” he said. “This is madness. A time-travelling sprout. Madness. I must have gone mad.”

  “You’re fine, chief, you’re fine. I’m sure it’s a bit of a shock, but you’re fine. Trust me, I’m a sprout.”

  “Well, I can’t go just yet. I’ve sworn to avenge the death of Mr Rune. To bring Jack the Ripper to justice.”

  Barry whistled. “You really don’t want to get involved in that,” he told Will. “Let me take you back to your own time, that would be for the best.”

  “I’m staying here,” said Will, “until I’ve done this.”

  “You really don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, chief.”

  “I don’t care. I’ve made up my mind. It’s a matter of honour, if you like.”

  “Good lad, chief. I respect that. And it’s what I hoped you might say. So it means that I’ve finally found the right fellow. Pop me into your ear and we’ll get started.”

  “What?” said Will.

  “Chief,” said Barry. “Could you drop the ‘whats’?”

  “Sorry,” said Will. “But what are you talking about?”

  “You’ve had my box open too long. I can’t survive in the air for more than a couple of minutes. You’ll have to stuff me into your ear. That’s the way I do business.”

  “No,” said Will and he shook his head. It was a very definite shake. “I have no intention of stuffing you into my ear. You wouldn’t fit anyway.”

  “I’ll meld in; it will be fine. Trust me.”

  “I don’t trust you. We’ve only just met.”

  “I saved your life, didn’t I? And I can help you out. You’ll find I’m a really helpful chap.”

  “No,” said Will. “It’s out of the question.”

  “Then I’m sorry, chief. For the both of us. You’ll never return to your own time and, as for me—” Barry made little coughing sounds – “I’m a goner chief, sorry.” And, “cough cough cough,” went Barry some more. And, “croak,” and, “gasp.”

  “Stop it.” said Will. “I don’t believe you.”

  Barry made a ghastly strangulated
sound. And his leafy person began to visibly wilt.

  “Stop it,” Will plucked Barry from his box and shook him about. A big bargee caught sight of this and looked on with interest. He nudged a smaller campanion and pointed.

  “Wake up!” Will shook Barry about some more.

  “Fading fast, chief, goodbye.”

  “Stop it! Stop it! Oh dear me!” Will took the sprout and pushed it against his right ear. There was a kind of sucking sound and then a terrible plop.

  “Oooooh!” went Will.

  “Bugger me backwards,” quoth the big bargee. “Did you see that, Charlie, or are me peepers playing pranks upon me brain box?”

  “See’d it meself,” said Charlie. “Pushed a gherkin right up his nose.”

  “No he didn’t.” The big bargee smote his smaller counterpart. “It was a little cabbage what he had, and he rammed it into his ear’ole.”

  “Why would he want to do that?” Charlie asked. “Gherkin up your nostril makes good sense, done it many a time meself down in the horse latitudes. Staves off the scurvy and clears the sinal passages. Or is that a cantaloupe I’m thinking of, or possibly an aubergine?”

  “You, boy,” called the big bargee. “Undertaker’s lad. What did you poke in your ear just then?”

  “Ooooh!” went Will once more and he clutched at his head.

  The big bargee approached Will’s table. “Come on lad, out with it.”

  “Can’t get it out,” Will groaned and clawed all about his head.

  “Calm down, chief,” came a voice from inside it.