“Surely we know all this,” said Will.
“Allow me to continue,” said Mr Wells. “He suggested that they would do it subtly. Not hurl magical spells about but influence the present rulers of the planet. Kings and Queens have always had astrologers who advise them. They are superstitious enough to take their advice. Prime ministers and potentates, presidents and tyrants all over the world do likewise. Always have done, always will do. Read your history; you will find out that this was ever the case, back to the time of the Pharaohs and the Caesars.”
“Where is this leading?” Will asked.
“Towards the future,” said Mr Wells. “Towards a future controlled by witches in the guise of astrologers who advise heads of state. That is how they will rule the world once they have swept away all traces of Victorian technology.”
“I understand this,” said Will. “But what is your point?”
“You will find nothing at the headquarters of the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild. Perhaps a computer or two, but not the Doomsday Programme, if I might call it that.”
“You certainly might,” said Tim. “Millennium Bug was good, but Doomsday Programme – I love it. Brilliant stuff.”
“Her Majesty the Queen—”
“Gawd bless Her,” said Tim.
“Her Majesty the Queen,” Mr Wells continued, “has her own astrologer.”
“I didn’t know this,” said Will.
“But you know the identity of this astrologer. Count Otto Black. The programme will be in his possession.”
“I suppose that’s obvious really,” said Will. “If he is the King of all the witches. So where is he to be found?”
“The Sudan,” said Mr Wells.
“Where?” said Tim.
“His Circus Fantastique is presently playing a season for King Gordon in Khartoum.”
“Right then,” said Will. “Let’s finish up our drinks and head off to Khartoum.”
“A pointless exercise,” said Mr Wells.
“And why?” Will asked.
“Well,” said Mr Wells. “We might engage an aerial hansom to take us as far as Portsmouth. We would be there before morning. But the next steamer bound for North Africa is in five days’ time and will take eight days to reach Khartoum.”
“Still time,” said Will.
“No.” Mr Wells shook his head, although nobody saw it.
“The circus will have left Khartoum by then and be on its way back to England.”
“Then we will intercept it on the way. Take a steamer to Calais and then the Orient Express.”
“And you would miss him once more.”
“Why?” asked Will.
“Because Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique does not travel by land or sea. It is a flying circus.”
“Like Monty Python’s?” said Tim.
“I fail to understand you,” said Mr Wells. “The circus is airborne. A dirigible, constructed in the shape of a five-pointed star, powered by Tesla turbines. It travels at an altitude of five thousand feet, beyond the range of any aerial hansom. I feel that we must await Count Otto’s return to this sceptred isle. According to the posters I have seen all over London …”
“The circus will be playing here on the thirty-first of December,” said Will. “For the celebrations to mark the dawn of the twentieth century.”
“Precisely,” said Mr Wells. “It has been licensed by Her Majesty—”
“Gawd bless Her,” said Tim.
“Shut up,” said Will.
“—to moor directly above the Whitechapel area.”
“Whitechapel,” said Will, and he said it slowly and meaningfully.
“I’ll just bet,” said Tim, “that this pentagram-shaped flying circus will be hovering directly over the inverted pentagram formed by joining the sites of the Ripper murders. What do you think, Will?”
“Exactly,” said Will.
“Bullshitter,” said Barry.
“Go back to sleep.”
“Sorry?” said Tim.
“Barry,” said Will.
“So,” said Mr Wells. “We have to await Count Otto’s return.”
“I’m good with this,” said Tim. “Christmas is coming up. I’ve never enjoyed a Victorian Christmas. Will we have crackers and Christmas pudding and Tamagotchis?”
“Perhaps the first two,” said Will. “Please get another round in.”
Tim went up to the bar and got in another round.
“This is a particularly splendid ale-house,” said Mr Wells. “The beer is beyond reproach, the service remarkable, the seating most comfortable.”
Tim returned from the bar. “There’s a big bargee and a small bargee buying drinks up there,” said he. “And they keep looking over at our table.”
“I’ll go and have a word with them,” said Will.
“No need,” said Tim. “I did. The part-time barman is throwing them out.”
Will looked up. And indeed the part-time barman was.
“Top bar,” said Mr Wells.
“You’re not wrong there,” said Will. “So this is the plan.”
“Just one thing,” said Master Scribbens, “before you outline your plan. I am contracted to appear, ‘by popular demand’, at Count Otto’s circus during the New Year celebrations.”
“A man on the inside,” said Tim.
“You really want to do that?” Will asked.
“The money is good and I need it.”
“Mr Wells,” said Will. “Do you believe that this Doomsday Programme will be on board Otto Black’s flying circus?”
“I have no reason to doubt it, do you?”
Will shook his head. “So we have to do it then. When his circus reaches England and hovers above Whitechapel on the thirty-first of December.”
“And we enjoy Christmas in the meantime,” said Tim. “Where shall we spend it? Do you know any other posh hotels you can talk your way into, Will?”
“Many,” said Will. “But that’s not how we’re going to play this. Action now is what is called for. We will dispense with the fifteen days in between and go directly to where the action is.”
“And how do you propose that we do this?” Tim asked.
“Barry,” said Will.
“Zzzz,” went Barry.
“Barry!” went Will once again.
“Oh-ah-what, chief?”
“Barry, it is time to rouse yourself and go into action.”
“Have you messed up already, chief? Sorry I missed it.”
“No,” said Will. “I haven’t. But there’s something I want you to do for me. Remember when you told me that you could not take me to the exact time and place when the big trouble was going to occur?”
“I do indeed, chief. If it was only known to me and not to you, then I can’t do it. Outside my remit. Sorry; that’s the way it works.”
“Well, Barry,” said Will. “Now I do know where and when I want to be. Exactly where and when. So you can take me there right?”
“Certainly can,” said Barry.
“So I’d like you to take all of us to—”
“All of you, chief?”
“All of us, Barry.”
“No can do, once more, chief. I can take you and Mr McGregor, but not Mr Wells and Master Scribbens.”
“No matter,” said Will. “They can meet us there in the future.”
“How far?” Barry asked.
“Not far,” said Will. “Only fifteen days.”
“Ah,” said Barry.
“Ah,” said Will. “Take Tim and me to the circus.”
41
It was a wonder.
Even in an age of wonders, it was a wonder.
Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique hung in the night sky above Whitechapel. The vast star-shaped blimp sparkled with thousands of light bulbs which flashed on and off, the way that some of them do, spelling out Count Otto’s name and tracing the outlines of galloping horses, gambolling clowns and dancing bears, high-wire walkers and juggler
s, mimes and marmosets too.
It was the thirty-first of December, the year was eighteen ninety-nine, it was half past nine and it wasn’t raining.
Will and Tim emerged from the Naughty Pope public house into a thoroughfare that jostled with New Year merrymakers. Almost everyone waved a Union flag and most were already drunk.
Will looked up and whistled. The sheer scale of the flying circus was awesome in the absolute. “That is big,” was all he could manage for the moment.
Tim shook his head and patted down his wandering hair. “It’s beyond anything,” he said. “But I just don’t get it.”
“What is it that you just don’t get?” Will was jostled by revellers. A young ragamuffin called Winston, who had recently failed his interview for the job of curator at the Tate Gallery and decided instead to join the rest of his brothers and pursue a life of crime, deftly relieved Will of his wallet.
“It’s technology,” said Tim. “Astounding technology. Count Otto Black designed the flying circus himself, didn’t he?”
“It said so on the flyer we were reading in the pub.”
“So why go to all the trouble and expense, if at the stroke of midnight, his Doomsday Programme kicks in and the whole caboodle goes belly up, ceases to exist, in fact?”
Will shrugged. Winston’s brother Wycliff deftly relieved Will of his pocket watch.
“It’s a fiendish plot,” said Will. “And fiendish plots only really make sense to the fiends who plot them, I suppose.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” said Tim.
“Curious, that,” Will smiled, “considering that everything else so far has made such perfect sense.”
“That would be irony, right?”
Will nodded unthoughtfully. Winston’s other brother, Elvis, relieved Will of his circus tickets.
“Ah, no,” said Will, taking Elvis by the wrist and hauling him into the air. “I didn’t mind about the watch or the wallet, but I need those tickets.”
“Right you are, guv’nor,” said the dangling Elvis, as Will plucked the tickets from his grubby little mitt.
“Good boy,” said Will, and he set Elvis down.
Winston’s other brother, Kylie, deftly relieved Elvis of a digital wristwatch that Kylie had recently swiped from a toff named Burlington Bertie.
Tim reached down and deftly relieved Kylie of a packet of Spangles.
Will, in turn, deftly relieved Tim of his straw hat.
“I wasn’t wearing a straw hat,” said Tim.
“That’s mine!” said a lady, snatching it back.
“Sorry,” said Will. “I got carried away.”
The lady, once more in her straw hat, kicked Will in the ankle. Winston relieved her of her bundle of War Crys.
“Stop it now,” said Will. “It’s all getting out of hand.”
“Who’s nicked my boots?” said Wycliff.
“Let’s go, Tim,” said Will.
“Do we have to?” Tim asked. “I’ve acquired a packet of Spangles. Oh no I haven’t, they’re gone.”
“We have to go,” said Will. “It’s not clever and it’s not funny.”
“What swab’s scarpered with me wooden leg?” cried a pirate, collapsing into an ungathered heap of the pure.
Will and Tim buttoned up their coats, thrust their hands into their pockets and pressed forward into the noisy crowd.
Street sellers were out in force, hawking Union flags and roasted chestnuts, centennial souvenirs and pictures of Little Tich.
“Mud on a stick, squire?” asked a young rapscallion.
“Mud on a stick?” asked Tim in ready reply.
“Looks like a toffee apple from a distance, squire.”
“I’ll take two then, please,” said Tim.
“No, you won’t,” said Will.
“Poo on a stick,” cried another rapscallion. “Looks like mud from a distance.”
“Press on,” said Will. And Tim pressed on.
“Tell me, Will,” said Tim, as the two pressed on together. “What of the plan thus far?”
“Thus far,” said Will, “the plan stands at this. I have here two complimentary tickets dispatched to me by Master Scribbens, who is aloft, probably making himself up even now in preparation for his performance.”
“What exactly does he do for a performance?”
Will shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure. He hinted to me that there was a degree of sliding involved.”
“Hopefully we’ll be in time to miss his act, if you know what I mean. And what of Mr Wells?”
“He slipped aboard the flying circus with Master Scribbens this morning. He’s had a day to search for the computer programme. Let’s hope he’s been successful. An aerial hansom awaits us upon the corner of Hobs Lane; I ordered it earlier. It will take us up to the circus. Once there Mr Wells will take you to the computer room, where you will disable the system.”
“Right,” said Tim, somewhat dubiously.
“And I will take care of Count Otto.”
“Bring him to justice?” said Tim. “How?”
“Kill him,” said Will.
“What?”
“He was responsible for Rune’s death. I know I don’t have any definite proof, but I believe it all the same. And he is the King of the witches. All of this, everything that I and my other self have been through, is because of him. He has to die.”
“That’s savage,” said Tim. “It will make you a murderer. How can you live with that?”
“I won’t be living with that.”
“How so?”
“Because if I thwart Count Otto’s plans, our future will cease to exist, Tim. We will cease to exist.”
“I’m not at all keen on this plan. Isn’t there another we could try?”
“How many times has he tried to kill me?” Will asked. “And you too. He did kill you. One of his clockwork terminators shot you with a General Electric Minigun.”
Tim shivered. “You do what you have to do,” he said. “I’ll take care of the Doomsday Programme.”
They had reached the aerial taxi. Will turned and took Tim’s hand in his. “It all ends tonight,” he said. “In a few hours from now. However it ends, I just want to say that you are the best friend I’ve ever had. And the best half-brother also.”
“Stop it,” said Tim. “You’ll have me getting a crinkly mouth.”
“I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”
“I’m not,” said Tim. “I’ve loved every moment.”
“So, shall we go?”
The cabbie swung open a passenger door.
“Slide in, gents,” said he.
The Brentford Snail Boy slid a flabby hand across the table of the “Lower Rank Performers” dressing room, took up a powder puff and dabbed chalk dust around and about his face. He examined his reflection in the brightly lit mirror and considered it up to passing muster, although not to passing mustard, and certainly not salt.
The Lower Rank Performers dressing room was packed with Lower Rank Performers: conjoined twins, pig-faced ladies, dwarves and midgets, dog-faced boys and alligator girls.
Master Scribbens sighed. These were his people. He was a freak and so were they: outsiders, things to be gawped at and laughed at by “normal” folk.
“A regular dandy,” said a soft lisping voice to the rear of the Snail Boy. “A regular matinee idol.”
Master Makepiece Scribbens looked up from his own reflection to that of the man who stood behind him.
The man who was partly man.
Mr Joseph Merrick.
Tonight he was maskless and clad in an enormous top hat, white tie and tails. He wore a white kid glove (tanned through a process which demanded extensive use of the pure) upon his serviceable right hand; the other was hidden by a sealskin muff. He leaned upon an ebony cane and grinned in a lopsided fashion that was grotesque to behold.
“Joey,” said Makepiece. “I didn’t know you were on the bill tonight.”
“I’m not.” The Elephant M
an took a seat next to the Snail Boy. “I’m a guest of Her Majesty, Gawd give her one for me. In the Royal Box. I’m sitting next to Princess Alexandra.”
“Lucky you,” said Master Scribbens.
“And she’s begging for it,” said Mr Merrick. “Keeps touching my good knee. I’m in there, I can tell you.”
Master Scribbens sighed. “I haven’t reached puberty yet,” said he. “But when I do, I hope that I’ll be as big a success with the ladies as you are.”
Joseph Merrick made elephantine trumpetings. “Sorry,” said he. “I shouldn’t laugh. But look at yourself. All you’ve got going for you is an abundance of natural lubricant. The ladies I pleasure get moist at the very sight of me.”
“You’re a very crude man,” said Master Scribbens.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Merrick. “I don’t wish to offend you. You and I are two of a kind, which is to say that we are not as others. We are neither one thing, nor the other. So what are we truly, tell me that?”
“Alone,” said Master Scribbens and he said it in a most plaintive tone. “Always alone, no matter whose company we are in. Even among our own kind.”
“Precisely. But things will change. Believe me, they will change.”
“I can’t imagine how,” said Master Scribbens.
“Oh they will.” The Elephant Man tapped his pendulous hooter. “They will change tonight. They will change forever. Be assured of that. I know these things. Trust me, I’m a freak.”
A freak. Someone different; someone apart; someone cursed by their own difference. But let’s not get too heavy here. But then, again, let’s do.
Mr H.G. Wells was certainly different. You can’t get much more different than being invisible. Mr H.G. Wells moved invisibly along a corridor. He had spent the day aboard the flying circus, checking it inch by painstaking inch, and so far had found absolutely nothing. He had entered the great central arena, the big top itself, which occupied the gondola at the centre of the five-pointed dirigible. He had marvelled at its splendour and design: seating for two thousand people, Royal boxes, an orchestra stand, a domed glass ceiling, above which could be seen the star-strung sky; and a mass of gilded ornamentation all around and about, which created the effect of some Rajah’s palace.
The Witches of Chiswick Page 38
