The Witches of Chiswick

20

Mr Wells now sat in a comfy fireside chair, cushions all about him, his invisible broken ankle swathed in bandages and resting on a Persian pouffe. Will stoked up the fire and settled into a chair of similar comfort opposite the partially visible man.

“So, Barry,” said Will. “Would you like to tell me all about it?”

“Not really, chief.”

“Well, that is neither here nor there, nor anywhere else for that matter. Just tell me the truth and all of the truth.”

“And we’ll keep it between the two of us, yes, chief?”

“I don’t think so. Mr Wells seems to know something about this. I’d like him to hear it too.”

Mr Wells toasted Will with a glass of vintage port.

“All right then, chief. Tell you what, close your eyes and let your jaw go slack and I’ll work your vocal cords.”

Will shook his head and sighed. “If it will save time, then I will.” And so Will closed his eyes and slackened his jaw.

And Barry manipulated Will’s vocal cords.

“We must be off,” said the voice of Will. “Goodbye now, Mr Wells.”

“No!” Will’s eyes became widely open. “Just tell the truth and let’s be done with it.” And he closed his eyes and slackened his jaw once again.

And in that cosy room, with the comfy chairs and the dancing firelight and the light of the morning entering the windows, Barry told his tale through the mouth of Will Starling.

“Firstly,” he said. “You have to understand that none of this is my fault. Well, possibly some of it is, but most of it isn’t. You can look upon me as not just a Holy Guardian sprout assigned to bring comfort to a single individual, but as more of a Holy Guardian of the World sprout, a sprouty soldier of fortune on constant assignment to the forces of goodness and purity.”

Mr Wells made groaning sounds.

“Your ankle paining you?” Barry asked.

“Your banal conversation,” said Mr Wells.

“But it’s true,” said Barry. “It really is. As a scholar you must surely know that since the time of Christ, and possibly even before, mankind has been under the constant belief that it is living in the End Times; that the Apocalypse and Armageddon, and things of that nature generally, are about to occur.”

“This is indeed so,” said Mr Wells. “End Time cults have existed throughout history. There have been countless false messiahs, preaching that, ‘the end is at hand’. All have been wrong, however.”

“On the contrary,” said Barry. “Most have been correct. Mankind stands teetering on the edge of destruction. It always stands teetering on the edge of destruction. Always has, probably always will.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Mr Wells. “Amply proven by history. We are still here, are we not?”

“Only because of the likes of me.” Barry now moved Will’s hand towards his mouth and poured port into it.

“Oi!” said Will, regaining control of himself. “Cut that out. Just do the talking.”

“There is always some terrible conspiracy,” Barry continued. “Always some fiendish plot on the part of the forces of evil to destroy mankind and unleash chaos upon the world. Always. The likes of me are forever engaging in titanic struggle against the likes of them. We thwart their sinister plots and save mankind from extinction. Why only last month—”

“Only last month you were in Rune’s steamer trunk,” said Will, before relaxing once again.

“Chief, I can travel through time. I could pop off this moment, do things for years and years in another time and then be right back here a split second later, before you even realised that I was gone. There; I did it, then.”

“Tell us about your brother,” said Mr Wells. “I am sure Mr Starling would like to hear all about him.”

“I would,” Will agreed.

“Then just slacken that jaw and listen, chief.”

Barry continued with the telling of his tale. “I can’t do anything Without human help,” he said. “I need a ‘host’ to work with, as it were. Someone enlightened, who can actually hear the voice of their Holy Guardian. Most folk cannot. Choosing the right host isn’t easy, which is why some of my kind come to grief. They fall in with the wrong crowd, like my brother has a habit of doing, and then the trouble starts.”

“I spy a flaw in your line of debate,” said Mr Wells. “Surely everyone, according to reasoning, has a Holy Guardian Angel, be it angel or vegetable, assigned to them at birth.”

“That’s the way God does business,” said Barry. “Well, not God exactly, because He doesn’t get around to doing much of anything nowadays, but one of His operatives, in a department, in heaven, somewhere.”

“But everyone has one.”

“Yes,” said Barry. “I told you that.”

“So where is Mr Starling’s? When you moved in, did you evict the previous tenant?”

“Ah,” said Barry.

“Ah,” said Mr Wells.

“Allow me to explain,” said Barry. “Evicting the previous tenant, as you put it, is not something to be entered into lightly. It can have a dire effect on the ‘host’. Conflicting voices in the head, that kind of thing. It will be called schizophrenia in a few decades from now. It’s a tricky business. I am here at this present time because of the big trouble that is here. Mr Rune, for all his unconventional behaviour, was one of the good guys. He was dedicated to the fight against evil. I sought him out to help. But his Holy Guardian, Gavin the gooseberry—”

“What?” went Will.

“Slacken up, chief.”

Will slackened up.

“Gavin the gooseberry wasn’t having any of it. He thought he knew best. So I manifested in physical form to Mr Rune during one of his many abortive conjurations. But he didn’t trust me, and he kept me in a box. I was trying and trying to win him over and let me come inside. I could have made short work of that Gavin, sprout against a gooseberry, no contest! But however it didn’t come to pass, because Mr Rune had a plan of his own and it so happened that my plan and his plan joined together perfectly. Rune sought knowledge of future events, very possibly to lay bets upon race horses, but I’m sure also to aid the forces of good. I suggested to him that although it was a radical thing to do, I might be persuaded to bring someone back from the future; someone who would have knowledge of past events which were still future events to Mr Rune. If you understand me.”

Mr Wells nodded and sipped port.

“And this was the clever bit,” said Barry. “Rune wanted to bring back his magical heir, a descendant of his. The last of his line, in fact.”

“Tim.” Will worked his own mouth.

“Tim,” said Barry. “But, as you know, there was a bit of a balls-up and you were brought back instead.”

“A moment please,” said Mr Wells. “If you hatched up this plan with Rune, why was I brought into this?”

“You were working on a time machine,” said Barry. “And Mr Rune wanted to borrow a hundred quid. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“Scoundrel,” said Wells. “Outrageous!”

“And a terrible mistake all round,” Barry continued. “I allowed myself to be placed in that machine. Allowed my time-travelling powers to be harnessed but not under my control. The machine was stolen, and used by the forces of evil against Mr Starling, because he had found evidence that the history he had been taught was incorrect, and his returning here would have an effect on changing things back to the way they should be. It’s all rather complicated. But the point I’m trying to make, and in answer to your question about previous tenants, is this. Mr Starling turned out to be the ideal candidate, because he doesn’t have a Holy Guardian of his own. In his age there are no more Holy Guardians, because in his age there is no more God.”

“What?” went Will.

And “What?” also went Mr Wells.

“In the age you come from, chief, there is no record of the incredible technological achievements of this age, am I right?”

“You are,” said Will.

“Because history will be changed in the year 1900. Everything will change as if none of the amazing things, the electrical automobiles, the Dreadnaught, the moonship that is soon to be launched, ever happened. The human race will take an evolutionary step backwards. This will lead to terrible things happening. Amongst those terrible things, and in fact the most terrible of them all, will be the death of God.”

“God cannot die,” said Mr Wells.

“I agree,” said Will.

“You do?” said Barry.

“I do,” said Will. “He can’t die, because He doesn’t exist.”

Barry had a right royal struggle to slacken Will’s jaw once again. “Exactly, because if no one believes in Him, He effectively ceases to exist. But whether you do or do not believe in God, chief, you know that history was changed. You’re here now, you can see how things really are. You can’t deny that, can you?”

Will just shook his head, slowly and thoughtfully.

“Something happens to change it all, to wipe out all records of what really happened here. All but a tiny detail here and there, like the digital watch the chief here discovered on a Victorian painting. One or two little things slipped through the magical net somehow. And the evil ones who stole the time machine tried to put that right, destroy the evidence and wipe out all knowledge. So far they’ve failed to do that, which means that we still have a chance at this minute to save the future from being interfered with. And to save good old God too. He’s not a bad old stick; He doesn’t deserve to get the chop.”

Will would have spoken, but he was speechless. Mr Wells, however, was not.

“I recall,” said he, “that you prefaced this tale with the words, ‘You have to understand that none of this is my fault’. And you have enforced this by telling us that although you were the power behind the time machine, you had no control over where it was sent.”

“Mr Rune set the controls,” said Barry. “He worked out the equations.”

“Rune told me that,” said Will, “when I first met him. I crash-landed in a street. Rune told me the calculations were slightly out. I don’t recall you being amongst the wreckage, though, Barry.”

“Had to make a timely departure, chief. A drayman’s horse nearly stepped upon me.”

“No, no, no,” said Will. “None of this makes any sense. If you wanted to be inside me, as my Holy Guardian, why didn’t you do it then?”

“You weren’t ready, chief. You were pretty confused, finding yourself in the Victorian era and everything. And you needed time with Mr Rune, so he could teach you stuff. Prepare you for the fight.”

“He taught me a lot,” said Will. “No magic, though.”

“He taught you Dimac,” said Mr Wells, ruefully rubbing at his bandaged ankle.

Barry cleared Wills’s throat. “Can I just ask one question?” he asked. “Mr Wells, how did you know about my brother?”

“Rune told me, over a very expensive dinner at one of his clubs, which I paid for. Rune liked to pontificate, to boast of his knowledge. ‘Science is bunk,’ he said to me. ‘Do not be fooled by scientific achievement; it has magic at its core.’ I didn’t believe him then, of course. We were celebrating the fact that the time machine was completed. I did not know then that the only reason it was completed was because Barry here had been installed within it by Rune. And I had parted with the one hundred pounds. And he couldn’t resist telling me. He told me all about you, and your brother. Barry’s brother, Mr Starling, was another of God’s little helpers, but he came to a sorry end.”

“A very sorry end,” said Barry. “Got cooked in the Great Fire of London. He persuaded his host there, a baker named Wilkinson, to get the fire started to purge London of the plague. The plague would have wiped out the entire country if it hadn’t been for my brother.”

“And,” Mr Wells continued, “Rune told me that he had arranged with Her Majesty that we would demonstrate the time machine before her at Buckingham Palace the following day. When we returned here after the meal, the time machine was gone.”

“Hold on,” Will’s voice was now once more under his own control. “This all makes some kind of sense, if Rune had already set the controls, and these ‘forces of evil’ had found out about his plan. All they had to do was put their terminator robot in the driving seat and send it off on its way while you were out at dinner celebrating. Is that what happened, Barry?”

“Near as damned, chief. I’ve been trying to figure it out myself. I know I travelled into the future and back, but who was at the controls, I don’t know. If I’m not inside a human, then I can’t see through their eyes. But I do know that Rune was being constantly followed. Time and time again I warned him, but he always boasted that he was invulnerable to attack. Sadly he was proved wrong on that account.”

And Barry relinquished his hold upon Will’s vocal cords.

Fire crackled in the grate. Will rose, fetched the port, refreshed Mr Wells’ glass and also his own. He returned to his seat and sat down upon it.

“Well,” said Will.

“Well,” said Mr Wells.

“I really don’t know what to say and what to do next.”

Mr Wells dusted talcum from his hands. His port glass hovered in the air. “I do not know what to believe any more,” he said. “I am a man of science, or perhaps I should say, was. If only I could claim that I achieved this dismal state of invisibility through science, then I would argue science over superstition. But sadly I cannot. My present state of being was not achieved through the administration of a medical decoction. I fear that I hold a certain degree of responsibility for your present predicament, Mr Starling.”

“I don’t understand,” said Will.

“I brought the evil to you.”

“I really don’t understand.”

“I travelled in the time machine myself,” said Mr Wells. “Before my dinner with Rune. Before the machine was stolen.”

“You did?” said Will. “When did you go to?”

“I went forward into the latter part of the twentieth century. I only altered the date Rune had set. Not the location. I travelled forward to Brentford, and I became involved in a number of most extraordinary adventures, before I returned here. Ten minutes before Rune arrived to take me to dinner, I met two remarkable fellows in Brentford; a Mr Pooley and a Mr Omally. But I have reason to believe now that I did not return from that time alone. Someone, or something, returned with me. And that someone or something absconded with my time machine.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Will asked.

“Because that someone or something dropped something when they stole the time machine. And I found it and I used it, which is why I am now invisible.”

“And what was this something?” Will asked.

“A computer,” said Mr Wells. “A miniature computer. It took me considerable time to fathom its workings, but when I did, I discovered that it contained a veritable storehouse of arcane knowledge: certain mathematical formula, mathematical and magical formula.”

Will shook his head. “Will you show this to me?” he asked.

“No,” said Mr Wells. “I destroyed it. Cast it into the fire.”

“Why?” Will asked.

“Fear, I suppose.”

“What did it look like?” Will asked.

“It was about this size.” Mr Wells motioned with invisible fingers. “You pressed it in at its lower edge and the top slid aside. On the inside of the inner lid were a number of markings. A serial number.”

Will dug into his pocket and brought out his palm-top. “Did it look anything like this?” he asked.

Mr Wells stared at Will’s palm-top. “It looked exactly like that,” he said.

Will pressed the lower edge of his palm-top and the top slid aside. “Do you remember the serial number on the inside of the inner lid?” he asked.

“I do,” said Mr Wells. “It was 833903.”

Will studied the number embossed upon his palm-top. He really didn’t need to study it, he knew it well enough by heart.

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