The Witches of Chiswick

by Robert Rankin

  “Not without a period of intensive training.”

  “And you can provide this training?”

  “That is why I awaited your arrival, sir.”

  “No need,” said Will. “I know all the basic stuff about thwarting witches, driving horseshoe nails into their footprints, manufacturing witch-bottles from urine and fingernails and so on.”

  “That is very basic stuff, sir. I would not wish to open a book upon your chances of success, let alone your survival.”

  “You think so?” said Will. “Well, check this lot out,” and he flung open his long leather coat to expose a veritable armoury of weapons. Tim looked on approvingly.

  Upon his hips, Will wore a brace of pistols. He drew one from a holster and twirled it upon his finger. “This pistol,” said he, “contains—”

  “Bullets forged from silver chalices, inscribed with the sign of the cross and blessed by the Pope?” asked Gammon.

  Will nodded.

  Gammon shook his head.

  “Then this.” Will reholstered his pistol and whipped a stiletto from his belt. “Fashioned—”

  “From nails and timber reputed to come from the True Cross?”

  Will nodded once more.

  “Then this.” Will reached for something else.

  But Gammon said, “I’m so sorry, sir. Clearly you have done a considerable amount of research, but I suspect that your researches have been into witches of the medieval persuasion.”

  Will nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  “You will be dealing with modern witches, sir. Thoroughly modern witches. It is no longer bell, book and candle, nor phials of the Virgin Mary’s tears.”

  “Aw,” said Will.

  “You haven’t?” said Tim.

  “Paid a fortune for them,” said Will.

  “Nor,” said Gammon, “threads from the Holy Shroud of Turin, woven into the undergarments.”

  “Damn,” said Will.

  “In your underpants?” said Tim. “Isn’t that blasphemous?”

  Will waggled the claret bottle at Gammon. “Are you telling me,” he said, “that none of these things will be any good against witches?”

  “The pistols would no doubt prove effective in regards to shooting them dead, sir. But it’s doubtful whether you would ever get the opportunity to test this proposition. Personally I would advise the icons, the hacking weapons—”

  “The magical accoutrements,” said Tim.

  “I suspect that your definition of these differs from my own,” said Gammon. “And if you will pardon my forwardness, I will take the liberty of suggesting that we have spoken enough of these things and that it might be better if I were to show you rather than try to explain.”

  “Please do,” said Tim, putting down his glass and rubbing his hands together.

  “Sir?” said Gammon.

  “Go ahead,” said Will.

  “Then follow me, please.” Gammon turned upon an antique heel and shuffled from the study. Will topped up his glass and Tim took his up for a topping also.

  “Follow the leader,” said Tim. “And I’ll follow you.”

  In the hallway, Gammon produced a ring of keys and introduced one to the lock of a low iron-bound door. The door swung open to the sound of suitably dramatic creaking noises. Gammon reached into the darkness, threw a switch. Neon lighting illuminated a stone stairway that led down and down and down and down some more.

  And Gammon hobbled down this stairway, followed by Will and Tim.

  “I had the lighting installed myself,” said Gammon, when they had descended a considerable distance. “I know that candles tend to make for a more forbidding atmosphere, but if you’d fallen down these steps as many times as I have—”

  “Is it much further?” Will asked.

  “Much,” said Gammon.

  “I don’t fancy walking all the way back up again,” Tim said.

  “Nor me, sir,” said Gammon. “That’s why I always take the lift.”

  As all good things must come to an end, so too did the stone stairway.

  Tim looked up at the big door that lay (or rather stood, or perhaps, more precisely hung) before them.

  “That’s a big door hanging there,” said Tim.

  “Don’t be fooled by it,” said Gammon. “It’s not so big as it thinks it is.”

  “Is it just me?” Tim asked, “or do things always get whacky the moment we go underground? Remember the police station and all that interior-decorating nonsense?”

  “You weren’t at the police station,” said Will.

  “See what I mean?” said Tim. “Continuity and logic all go to pot underground.”

  “A consequence of time travel,” said Gammon, selecting a key about four feet in length from his key ring. “Something to do with the transperabulation of pseudo cosmic antimatter.”

  He turned the key in the miniscule keyhole and gave the door a little nudge with the toe of his buckled shoe.

  “Gentlemen,” said he as he threw another switch and brought neon tubes stuttering to light. “The adytum. The naos. The cella. The Master’s Sanctum Sanctorum.”

  Tim looked in.

  And Will looked in.

  And then Will looked at Tim.

  And Tim looked at Will.

  “It’s—” said Will.

  And, “It’s—” said Tim.

  “A computer room,” said Gammon.

  37

  “A computer room,” said Will, now inside the computer room.

  “A computer room,” said Tim, now also inside the computer room.

  “A computer room,” said Gammon, now entering the computer room. “Haven’t either of you ever seen a computer room before?”

  “Well, yes,” said Will, seating himself in a steel swivel chair upholstered in royal blue leather, “but not in this day and age.”

  “But surely anyone who is anyone has a Babbage nowadays? There’s one in every well-to-do household. And these are the top of the range. The 1900 series.”

  Will did big shruggings. “I’ve never seen anything like these,” he said, and he ran his fingers lightly over the keyboard of the nearest computer. It was of the manual typewriter persuasion, wired to a magnificent brass-bound processor bustling with valves. The monitor screen was set into a mahogany cabinet. The mouse was a silver pentacle.

  Tim sat down upon another chair and faced another keyboard. “I’m definitely loving this,” he said.

  “Five computers,” said Gammon. “Macro processor, Babbage 1900s, linked to the Information Super Side Street: the Empire-net. My knowledge of such matters is great, although not so great as it yet might become.”

  “Just one thing,” said Tim. “And don’t get me wrong, I am loving this, but I definitely recall something about icons and hacking weapons and magical accoutrements.”

  “Computer terms, sir,” Gammon stepped forward, tapped at the keyboard. The screen before Tim lit up. “Those are icons,” he said, and he pointed.

  “Okay,” said Tim. “I know what a computer icon is.”

  “Splendid, sir, and—”

  “Ah,” said Tim. “Hacking weapons, as in computer hackers?”

  “Sir does know about computers.”

  “And the magical accoutrements?”

  “Has sir never heard the phrase, ‘the magic of technology’?”

  “He has you by the short and curlies there,” said Will.

  “Hardly an expression you’d normally use.” Tim raised an eyebrow beneath his hair. Will raised one beneath his.

  Tim tapped at a key or two.

  “If you’d allow me, sir,” said Gammon, leaning over his shoulder and breathing upon him that particular variety of halitosis which is the exclusive preserve of the elderly, “I’ll put us online.”

  “Online,” said Tim fanning at his nose. “How cool is this?”

  “I’ve been working on my own household page,” said Gammon.

  “Home page,” said Tim.

  “Household p
age,” said Gammon. “Ten thousand things you’ve always wanted to know about Gammon, but were always too polite to ask. I’m up to five now.”

  “Five thousand?”

  “No, five, sir. Do you think your question merits number six?”

  Tim shook his head.

  “Is there a Hugo Rune home page?” Will asked.

  “Indeed, sir. The Master was always adding to his pages. Many pages, many, many pages; many, many, many—”

  “I get the picture,” said Will. “Might we see it?”

  “Restricted access only, sir. Perhaps, when you have completed your intensive training.”

  “This really isn’t helping.” Will swivelled about on his chair. “It’s all very impressive, if somewhat unlikely, but what is the point? How is this going to help with me getting the job jobbed?”

  “As I said to you, sir, you are dealing with modern witches. Thoroughly modern witches. These witches do not prepare their magic spells with toad’s blood and bubbling cauldrons. They do it through computers.”

  “They never do?” said Tim. “Not in this day and age, surely.”

  “Hold on,” said Will. “Are you implying that they do in ours?”

  Tim shrugged. “I’ve heard rumours. Magic is a very precise science. If spells really work, they can only be made to do so by casting them correctly: pronouncing every syllable with absolute exactness, the precise intonation, accent, everything. A syllable wrong and the whole thing goes bum upwards. Spells are a formula to bend and mould space. You can’t just read them from the paper; that will never work.”

  “I have found no evidence to support the theory that spells do work,” said Will. “I’ve read a lot of books on the subject. A lot. But I have no tangible proof.”

  “They work,” said Gammon. “Magic works, I can assure you of that. In nearly two hundred years of service with the Master, I have witnessed many inexplicable things and I have observed the power of magic. Mr Tim is correct; the secret lies in the technique, in the precision. This precision can be achieved by programming a computer to so achieve it.”

  “And that is what you intend to train me to do?”

  “No, sir. The Master’s intention was to hack into the witches’ computer network. Allow me to show you.” And he leaned once more over Tim’s shoulder, breathing further halitosis.

  “Impressive,” said Tim, fanning once more at his nose.

  “You’ll have to pardon my slowness, sir. My fingers are not as young as they were.”

  “Nor as old as they yet will be.”

  “Please don’t take the piss, sir.”

  “Sorry,” said Tim.

  Tim’s screen lit up with a sepia display. It had much of the look of an embroidered cushion cover to it. A central inverted pentagram, with goat’s head motif, was encircled by lettering and surrounded by four skeletons holding handbags.

  Will peered at it and read the letters. “The Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild,” said he. “If it’s really a coven of witches, surely the inverted pentagram and the goat’s head are a bit of a giveaway.”

  “This is a restricted site, sir. The Master hacked into it.”

  “I see.” Will saw. “So what is on this restricted site?”

  “Absolutely no idea, sir. This is as far as the Master got. He was never very comfortable with computers. His fingers were rather large for the keyboard.”

  Will laughed. “He’d have been at home in our age,” said he. “Big fat keypads.”

  “Hang about here,” said Tim. “This all makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it?” asked Will.

  “Of course it does,” said Tim. “Rune wanted his magical heir to continue with his work. And that’s me, right?”

  Will nodded.

  “And why did he need his magical heir? Don’t say anything, I’ll tell you. Because in the time we come from computers are far more advanced than this. And what am I, Rune’s magical heir, skilled at? Computers, that’s what.”

  “So am I,” said Will.

  “You’re rubbish,” said Tim. “All those books you downloaded into your palm-top from the British Library. You’d never have got away with that if I hadn’t hacked into their system and covered up for you.”

  “You never told me,” said Will.

  “I’m your friend,” said Tim. “I did it because I didn’t want you getting into trouble. We were like brothers. That was before I knew we were brothers. But the point is, Rune couldn’t hack into the witches’ system. Perhaps no one in this age could. But I could. It would be as easy as can be.”

  “So why did he cart me around the world for a year?”

  Gammon affected a knowing smile. “Everything the Master did, he did for a reason. Everything he taught you, he taught you for a reason. Everything you have learned, you have learned for a reason. Everything—”

  “All right,” said Will. “Stop now.”

  “The two of you are here together now,” said Gammon. “Reason enough, I believe.”

  “Right then,” said Tim and he interlocked his fingers and made cracking sounds with them. “Let’s have a hack at these witches.”

  Will shrugged towards Gammon. “This will probably take some time,” he said. “Would you care to show me your household page?”

  “Home page,” said Gammon. “I like the sound of Mr Tim’s suggestion. I’ll put it to my chums next time I’m in the cyber restaurant.”

  “Café,” said Will. “You can have that one on me.”

  “Café restaurant?” said Gammon. “I don’t think that scans, as our colonial cousins might say.”

  “Show me your home page,” said Will.

  And Gammon showed Will his home page.

  And it was really, really dull.

  “Why is your favourite colour puce?” Will asked.

  “It’s not really,” said Gammon. “I only put that to make myself sound more exciting.”

  “It’s black, really, isn’t it?”

  Gammon nodded gloomily. “You’ve seen the future,” said he. “Tell me that one day black will not be the new black.”

  “In the nineteen eighties it’s grey,” said Will.

  “That’s not much of a consolation.”

  “Things are likely to change.”

  “Eureka!” cried Tim.

  “Already?” cried Will.

  “No,” said Tim. “Just thought I’d get you going.”

  “Fact number three,” said Gammon. “Favourite song.”

  “Let me guess,” said Will. “Little Tich’s ever-popular Big Boot Dance.”

  “How ever did you know?”

  “It’s a gift,” said Will. “No doubt inherited from Hugo Rune.”

  “Would you care for a go at fact four? Favourite present British monarch?”

  Will stroked at his magnificent beard. “Would you care to give me a clue?” he asked.

  Fact five, that Gammon’s favourite employer was one Hugo Rune, had as much surprise about it as a Blue Peter presenter’s cocaine habit.

  “Eureka!” cried Tim once again.

  This time Will ignored him.

  “No, really. Eureka,” said Tim. “I’ve cracked it. We’re in.”

  “Oh,” said Will and he wheeled his chair upon its castered feet in Tim’s direction.

  “Ingenious encryption,” said Tim. “Based upon the Kabbalah.”

  “I’ve read the Kabbalah,” said Will. “Couldn’t make any sense of it though.”

  “Not many can,” said Tim. “It’s purposely obscure and designed to confuse. But it’s not actually an occult work at all; it’s a cookery book. The entry code to the witches’ restricted computer files is a recipe for plum jam.”

  “I’d have got it eventually,” said Will.

  “You wouldn’t,” said Tim. “But here it all is. Care for a look?”

  “Indeed.” Gammon now leaned over Will’s shoulder, favouring him with his dire breath. Gammon viewed the screen.

  It was covered in li
ttle icons, in the shape of bats and pumpkins, cauldrons and black cats, and broomsticks. Below each of these were little titles: My incantations. My book of shadows. My favourite curses. My wart charms. And so on and so forth, and not very funny at all.

  “Cool,” said Tim. “What shall we go for?”

  “If I might make a suggestion,” said Gammon. “Select My World Domination Proposal”

  “Good choice that,” said Tim and he moved the silver star-shaped mouse.

  MY WORLD DOMINATION PROPOSAL

  Tim read, and then he paused before reading further. “I can’t read this,” he said.

  Will peered at the screen. “It’s Latin. I can read it.”

  “Then please do.”

  Will read it.

  “Out loud,” said Tim.

  Will read it out loud.

  “Translated into English,” said Tim.

  Will translated it into English.

  “That’s incredible,” said Tim.

  “It is,” said Will.

  “Could you explain it to me?” said Gammon. “My English isn’t all that good.”

  Will sighed. “What it says is this—” he said.

  “It says here,” said a pinch-faced woman, who sat at a computer screen not at all dissimilar to the one that Tim and Will now sat at, “that someone is hacking into our restricted files.”

  Another pinch-faced woman leaned over her shoulder. The breath of this pinch-faced woman made Gammon’s smell like fresh-baked bread by comparison.

  “Locate the intruder,” said the smelly-breathed one.

  The seated pinch-face tapped away at her keyboard. “The Butt’s Estate, Brentford,” said she. “See the street plan. That house right there.”

  “Call up the land registry,” said she of the smelly breath. “Let us see who owns this house.”

  “Won’t take a moment.” The sitter tapped further keys. “Aha,” cackled she. “According to this, the owner-occupier is one Hugo Rune.”

  “Rune.” The smelly-breather spat out the name, as one might spit out a maggot from a Granny Smith. “Our would-be nemesis from the future must be at Rune’s manse. We will deal with this directly.”

  And with that said, she picked up a telephone receiver, cunningly fashioned into a facsimile of a stallion’s plonker, and dialled out a three-digit number.