The Witches of Chiswick

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 cupboard 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.”

“Take the drug,” said Tim. “The Retro. Take all the tablets. If they really work then you’ll get glimpses of the real past. You’ll see what your Victorian ancestors saw, smell what they smelled, feel what they felt. It’s all there inside your head, in your genetic coding, if it’s true and the drug really works.”

“I’m scared,” Will said. “I’m really scared.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Tim said.

“I wish I’d never hidden that painting.”

“You did it because you cared, because you didn’t want to see a thing of beauty being destroyed.”

“But if I take the drug and I do find out the truth, or some of it, where does that get me? If I’m still on some death list, what am I going to do?”

“Don’t know. But perhaps an idea will come to you. Perhaps something will come to you.”

Will let out his breath.

“Pooh,” said Tim. “Garlic”

“I’m sorry. Give me the drug.”

“You’re not going to take it here.”

“Where then?”

“I don’t know, but anywhere other than here.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t want you ODing in my cupboard.”

“What?”

“Well, it might happen. I’m not saying it will. Go home and take it.”

“And what if another robot turns up at my door?”

“Take it on the tram, or something.”

“No,” said Will. “I know just the place to take it, but you’re coming with me. I don’t want to be on my own when I do it.”

The Shrunken Head was still Brentford’s premier rock pub. For more than two hundred and fifty years it had played host to countless up-and-coming rock bands that had later gone on to find fame. In their early days the Beatles had played there, and so had the Stones, and so too had Gandhi’s Hairdryer, Soliloquy, The Lost T-Shirts of Atlantis, and Sonic Energy Authority.

Tonight it was the Apes of Wrath, Foetus Eater and the others, with the Slaughterhouse Five topping the bill.

The Slaughterhouse Five were a “suit band”, which is to say they were a three-piece. There was Dantalion’s Chariot, lead vocals, political awareness and whistling; the Soldier of Misfortune, who impersonated weather, and Musgrave Ritual, whose strummings on the old banjo brought pleasure to literally dozens. The Slaughterhouse Five were in line to be the “Next Big Thing”, but the line was very long and with only fifteen minutes of fame allotted for any Next Big Thing, there was always the chance of being out or asleep when the moment came.

The interior of the Shrunken Head was rough: it was dire, it was ill-kempt and wretched. The management was surly, the bouncers were brutal. The beer, a pallid lager called Little, was overpriced and underpowered. It was everything that a great live-music pub should be.

The clientele was big, fat, young and colourful, and whilst they drank, they dined upon rice muffins and an extensive variety of soft and easily chewable crisps called Soggies.

Will found a vacant table and seated himself. Tim went off to the bar and returned with two cups of Little and a large pack of rice muffins that he tucked into with gusto.

Will turned the phial of capsules on his palm. “Tell me everything you know about this drug,” he said to Tim. “What exactly are its effects?”

“Mind-expanding.” Tim mimed expandings of the mind. A mimester from the Apes of Wrath caught sight of this miming and mimed admiring applause.

“But you’ve never actually taken it, have you?” Will fixed Tim with a very hard stare.

“Not as such.” Tim shook his head sadly, showering Will with rice muffins.

“So you don’t really know what will happen.”

“I know this,” said Tim. “The drug was designed as a memory restorative for patients who’d suffered amnesia due to some accident or trauma situation or whatever, and it enjoyed a very high success rate. But then the doctors began to notice that the patients they were treating with it seemed to be remembering things they shouldn’t be able to remember: very early childhood experiences, their own births, and more. They could remember things their parents had done before they themselves were born. That had the doctors scratching at their skullcaps, I can tell you. But they worked it out, what was happening. The drug was allowing patients not only to access their own lost memories, but other memories, imprinted into the very cells of their brains, memories inherited from their forefathers. Pretty incredible stuff, eh? But you won’t get it on prescription through your healthcare plan. As soon as its properties were confirmed it was put on the restricted list. ‘For High Echelon use only.’ Ask yourself why.”

Will asked himself why.

“Get an answer?” Tim asked.

Will shook his head.

“Secrets,” Tim gave his nose a tap. “Too many secrets in the past that the High Echelons don’t want the likes of us to know about.”

“The secret-history business,” Will said.

“Exactly. It was really tricky getting hold of it. This is powerful stuff.”

“It’s not exactly a recreational drug, is it? Like Bawlers or Wind-ghast, or sherbet lemon.”

“It doesn’t blow the snits out of your gab-trammel, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Will sighed and gazed about the crowded bar of the Shrunken Head. It was another Friday night; young folk had come here to enjoy themselves, all dolled up in their finery. Those who had employment had finished with it for the week and were preparing to indulge in whatever excesses the weekend and their financial status allowed them. These were folk, everyday folk. They weren’t being chased by robots from the past. They didn’t have the imminent threat of arrest and probable execution hanging over their brightly-toned heads.

“This is so unfair,” said Will, taking another sup of Little. And then another swig and then another gulp. “My cup runneth empty,” he observed.

“I’ll get another.” Tim rose and took himself off to the bar.

“So unfair,” muttered Will. “I mean, I’ve always been up for taking risks, but this is all frankly ridiculous.”

“Hello, my lovely boy,” came a voice Will knew only too well.

“Gladys,” said Will, as Gladys now filled most of his vision.

“And you told me you couldn’t make it,” Gladys was a vision in scarlet – but a vision from the Book of Revelation.

“Tim persuaded me.” Will smiled warmly up at the acres of womanhood. “He’s at the bar. He’s been hoping you’d come. He’ll want to buy you a drink.”

“Oh goody.” Gladys turned and heaved herself into the swelling crowd.

Will once more considered the phial of capsules. What would happen if he took them? Would he be transported into some hallucinogenic vision of the past? Would his head fill up with a chaos of jumbled memories? Would he have some terrible, terrible revelation? Would he go mad? Or would the capsules turn out to be nothing more than laxatives, sold to Tim by some prankster?

“Too many questions,” whispered Will to himself. “And I really could do with some answers. But of course, it’s all such a terrible risk.”

At length, and at some length too, Tim returned to Will’s table. Tim did not return in the company of Gladys. Neither did Tim return smiling.

“Thanks a lot,” said Tim, placing two cups of Little and a packet of fruitcake-flavoured Soggies on the table. “Tuning up that scarlet harpy and setting her on me; very not funny at all. Call yourself my bestest friend?”

Will said nothing.

And Tim stared down at Will.

The plastic phial lay on the table top.

The plastic phial was empty.

Will sat rigidly, staring into space. His eyes were glazed, the pupils dilated. His face was an eerie grey and his lips an unnatural blue.

Tim reached cautiously forward and touched his hand to Will’s neck, feeling for the pulse of the jugular.

There was no pulse.

Will Starling was dead.