The Witches of Chiswick

28

Numbers in the courtroom had increased significantly since the lunchtime adjournment. Gentlemen of the press, clad in their distinctive white trousers, striped blazers and straw boaters, now crowded into the public gallery and milled about in the doorway. Other gentlemen from the British Broadcasting Company, dressed in sombre black morning suits, had erected microphones all about the courtroom and were bivouacked wherever they could, adjusting sound levels on complicated-looking equipment which bulged with valves and doodads. The poet laureate was making a guest appearance as a roving correspondent. And then there were locals. Many locals, drawn by the promise of scandal and controversy as the moth of fable (or otherwise) is drawn unto the flame.

There were also certain others in the courtroom, certain others who occupied the very front row of the public gallery: six women all in black, well-dressed women, lavishly dressed women, but with preposterously slender bodies and tiny, pinched faces. The clerk of the court called, “All rise”, and those who were able to do so, did so.

Mr Justice Doveston elbowed his way through the crush. “Get out of my chair, damn you,” he told a blonde Swedish weather girl, whose agent had advised her to make an appearance, “just in case”. The blonde Swedish weather girl vacated the magistrate’s chair and sank from view beneath his bench/table/desk or whatever the word is for the piece of furniture magistrates sit behind.

“And get out from behind my wardrobe,” said Mr Justice Doveston, who didn’t know either. The blonde Swedish weather girl departed, flashing her smile at the press photographers.

Mr Justice Doveston settled into his chair. He had a somewhat dishevelled look to him and there were traces of lipstick on his wig. “All sit down,” he told the court. And all that could, sat down.

Mr Justice Doveston smiled all round the courtroom. “This is a bit more like it,” he said. “I’m very pleased to see so many members of the press favouring these proceedings with their presence. And the gentlemen of the British Broadcasting Company.” And he tapped his microphone with his gavel, raising a scream from a sound engineer, who tore off his headphones and took to hopping about.

“Now then, now then,” said Mr Justice Doveston, in the manner that would one day be favoured by the now (then) legendary Sir Jimmy Saville. “How’s about that, then, eh?”

“Don’t you worry about anything,” said Tim to the heavily manacled Will. “I’ll have you both out of here and walking the streets as free men in no time at all.”

“It will probably take some time,” said Will.

“Oh, yeah, some time. But not much. A couple of months at most.”

Tim McGregor struggled through the crush to approach the magistrate’s bench. “If I might just speak to you for a moment, your honour,” he said.

“Ah,” said the magistrate. “Mr McGregor, I was hoping I’d bump into you again.”

“Well, I am the counsel for the defence.”

“And you’ll have to be an exceedingly good one.”

“I’m sure I will be, your honour.”

“Because, frankly, I’m rather miffed about Freddie ‘the loser’ Lonsdale being dismissed from the case.”

“The defendant’s decision, your honour.”

“But I’ve just been informed by Freddie that he is my cousin.”

“Oh,” said Tim.

Mr Gwynplaine Dhark was suddenly at Tim’s side. “I’d like to call my first witness, if I may, your honour,” said he.

“Ah, Mr Dhark. Well, of course. Someone famous, I trust.”

Tim looked Mr Gwynplaine Dhark up and down. He literally exuded evil. It seemed to ooze from the very pores of his skin. A terrible darkness surrounded him and a terrible coldness too.

“Brrr,” went Mr Justice Doveston. “Won’t someone turn up the heating. And the lights also, it’s growing rather dark in here.”

“Your honour,” said Mr Dhark, his lips drawn up into a smile that exposed his pointed yellow teeth. “I would like to call Master Makepiece Scribbens.”

“Makepiece Scribbens?” said the magistrate. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

“But surely you have, your honour. He’s a local celebrity.”

Mr Justice D shook his bewigged bonce.

“It was in all the papers. Your honour must surely have heard of cases in the colonies when young children, separated from their parents in forests and jungles, have been adopted and raised by wolves.”

“I do believe I have,” said the magistrate, in his best speaking voice and into his microphone. “And also gazelles, and also apes. Wasn’t there that Lord Greystoke chap?”

“Indeed there was, your honour. Master Makepiece Scribbens’ family was involved in a freak electric dibber accident on Brentford allotment. His parents succumbed; Master Makepiece, a tiny helpless babe, was left alone and friendless. He would certainly have died had he not been taken in, nurtured and raised by snails.”

Mr Justice Doveston wiped a tear from his eye. “That is a most moving account,” said he. “And this poor mite can offer some pertinent testimony in this case?”

“Indeed, your honour. He witnessed the incident in its entirety. And being raised by snails he is a perfect witness, because he cannot tell a lie.”

Mr Justice Doveston nodded thoughtfully. “Snails are renowned for their honesty,” he said. “As the old adage goes, ‘What a snail knows not of honesty, a fly knows not of deceit’.”

“Your honour couldn’t speak more truth. Does your honour not perhaps have a little snail in himself somewhere?”

“Flatterer,” said Mr Justice D.

“What?” went Will.

And “What?” went the other Will also.

And “I object,” said Tim McGregor.

“And why?” asked the magistrate.

“I’m not entirely certain,” said Tim. “But I don’t like the sound of this snail boy.”

“Oooooooooooooooooooooh!” went the crowd.

And “Oooooooooooooooooooooh!” went the gentlemen of the press also, and the chaps from the BBC and even the blonde Swedish weather girl, although she made more of an “Ooh”, and threw her head back when she did it.

“What?” said Tim.

“Impugning the reputation of snails for truth-telling,” said the magistrate. “You’re stepping on slippery ground.”

“Whatever,” said Tim. “Then I don’t object. In fact I welcome this witness. Wheel the blighter in.”

“Oooooooooooooooooooooh,” went all concerned again.

“Ow!” went the blonde Swedish weather girl, and she slapped a reporter who was touching her bum.

“What?” went Tim once again. “What is everyone oooooooooooooooooooohing for, this time?”

“Wheelchair-bound,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “A rather tasteless remark on your part.”

“But,” said Tim. “But.”

“Call Master Makepiece Scribbens,” called the magistrate.

“Call Mr Monkfish Scriwens,” called the clerk of the court, who had a boil in his left ear.

“Call Mrs Mavis Wiverns,” called a court bailiff at the door, who had a wart on his bottom that was being treated by acupuncture.

“Calling occupants from interplanetary craft,” called a constable in the corridor, whose great grandson would one day find fame writing lyrics for The Carpenters.

The courtroom door was open

The crowd was silently stilled

The atmosphere was electric

All hearts were thricely thrilled

And from beyond the corridor

Came the sound of squeakity-squeak

And closer and closer and closer came someone

A man? Or a monster? A freak?

“It doesn’t have to be done in verse,” said a BBC sound technician.

“But I am the poet laureate,” said the poet laureate. “And I’m going out live on air.”

“Sorry,” said the sound technician. “Please carry on.”

“I can’t now; I’ve lost my muse.”

“Perhaps you left it in your other kilt,” said the sound technician.

“I’ll go and have a wee look,” said the poet laureate, the Great McGonagall.

And into the courtroom came Master Makepiece Scribbens, the Brentford Snail Boy.

All eyes were turned towards the door, but upon his entrance and upon the sight of him many eyes turned away in horror. But most of these soon turned back, because, well, you’d just have to have a good old look, wouldn’t you? After all, he was raised by snails.

“I do hope this is going to be worthwhile,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “There’s been an awful lot of build-up.”

“Trust me,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I’m a Queen’s Counsel.”

A nanny pushed the wheelchair. She was a very pretty young nanny, bright of eye and rosy of cheek. Her name was Miss Poppins.

Her wheelchair-bound charge was neither bright of eye, nor rosy of cheek. A blanket covered the most of him and the most of him it covered seemed lumpen and shapeless. The little of him that was visible, to whit the head region, was puffy and bloated. His eyes were scarcely visible beneath folds of pale flesh. The cranium was bald and a curious musty odour breathed out from him. The wheels of the chair left twin slimy trails upon the courtroom floor.

“Mr Monkfish Scrivvens,” said the clerk of the court, “will you please take the witness stand.”

The Brentford Snail Boy’s mouth, two flabby flaps of skin, moved and sought to push out words, but failed.

“This looks like being a bundle of laughs,” Will whispered to Tim.

“We’re in big trouble here, chief,” said Barry.

“You have to be kidding, right?”

“Damn right, chief.”

“So why did you say it?”

“Because I haven’t said anything in ages and I’m not too keen on Mollusc Man getting all the attention.”

“Can you actually take the witness stand?” Mr Justice Doveston asked the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Pish.” The word emerged from the blubbery lips. “Pish, pash, posh.”

“He’s eager,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I’ll help him to the stand. Miss Poppins, if you will assist.”

“Super-cali-fragically,” said Miss Poppins and the two of them eased the invalid from his wheelchair and carried him to the witness stand.

“Pesh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“My pleasure,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“Let the witness take the oath,” said Mr Justice Doveston, fanning at his face with his gavel. “He smells rather iffy, let’s get this done.”

“Ah, no,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, taking several steps back from the Holy Book and crushing the feet of spectators. “He cannot swear upon the Bible. He has no concept of Christianity, although the nuns at Saint Sally of the Little Buttocks are presently engaged in converting him. He can only swear upon a box of salt.”

“Salt?” asked Mr Justice D.

“Snails fear salt,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “And slugs also, you know what happens if your pour salt on slugs.”

“Squesh,” went the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Ah yes,” said the magistrate. “Horrible business. He can swear upon the salt then, not that he needs to, but it’s protocol. And personally, and no offence meant, Mr Scribbens, I like salt. I’m very partial to salt. Particularly on a portion of cod and chips.”

“Me too,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, running a forked tongue about his lips. “And I also like plenty of vinegar.”

“Oh yes, vinegar, too.”

“They put it on a sponge,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “And offered it to Jesus when he cried out on the Cross that he thirsted.”

“I don’t think that has any relevance,” said the magistrate.

“None whatever,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I just like thinking about it.”

“HP sauce,” said the clerk of the court.

“What?” said the magistrate.

“HP sauce, your honour. On the cod and chips. There’s nothing like HP sauce.”

“You’re right there. It’s a pity we’ve just had lunch. Let’s go and have fish and chips later.”

“And pickled onions.” The clerk of the court brought out the official box of salt that was kept for such occasions as this and offered it to the witness, who shied away at its approach.

“He is greatly afeared of the salt,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“But he loves a bit of lettuce,” said Miss Poppins positioning herself behind the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Please do the reciting of the oath and things of that nature with the witness,” the magistrate told the clerk of the court.

“Certainly, your honour. Will the witness, please raise his right hand?”

Miss Poppins lifted the Snail Boy’s right hand.

“Repeat after me,” said the clerk of the court. “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me, or I may be doused in salt, soused with garlic and lightly pan-fried and served with a hollandaise sauce upon a bed of tossed green salad.”

“Poosh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“He certainly does,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“I object again,” said Tim McGregor.

“And why this time?” asked the magistrate.

“Because anyone can see where this is going. The witness makes incomprehensible pssshing sounds and the counsel for the prosecution interprets them as suits himself.”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” the magistrate asked the counsel for the prosecution.

“On my word, your honour.”

“That was an ambiguous answer,” said Tim.

“Poosh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“You’re so right,” said the magistrate. “I wish I’d said that.”

“What?” said Tim.

“I wish I’d said that,” said Will.

Mr Gwynplaine Dhark approached the witness stand.

“Ow!” “Ouch!” “Oh!” went those who stood in his way as he did so.

“You are Master Makepiece Scribbens of number nine Mafeking Avenue, Brentford?” he asked.

“What?” said the other Will.

“Pssssh,” went the Brentford Snail Boy.

“And did you witness the altercation that occurred last night in the Hands of Orloc public house, Brentford?”

“Pssssh,” went the Brentford Snail Boy, dribbling somewhat as he said it.

Miss Poppins took out a white linen handkerchief, wiped the witness’s lips and then popped a spoonful of sugar into his mouth.

“It helps the medicine go down,” she explained.

“Would you be so good as to describe, in your own words, what took place in The Hands of Orloc?” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark asked the witness.

“This should be thrilling,” said Tim.

“Pussssssssh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“I can scarcely believe my ears,” said the magistrate. “And where were you when you witnessed these alarming events that you have given us such a precise and detailed account of? And which prove absolutely the guilt of the twin accused.”

“Psss,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Really?” said the magistrate. “Half way across the ceiling ignoring the unwelcome attentions of a sparrow-hawk. Your bravery is an example to us all.”

“I object again,” said Tim McGregor.

“Upon what grounds, this time?” asked the magistrate.

“Because this is absurd. He’s making silly noises and you’re pretending to understand him. There’s no justice in this.”

“I believe,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “that the counsel for the defence does not speak mollusc”

“I certainly don’t,” said Tim. “And nor do you, this is all nonsense.”

“I hardly feel that such damning evidence as this can be called nonsense,” said Mr Justice D. “In fact, I believe that you are in contempt of court. I will have to ask you to withdraw from the case.”

“No way,” said Tim. “I have heaps of famous witnesses to call, the Queen and everything. You wanted a trial that would bring some publicity to the borough and you are going to get it. This man,” Tim pointed at Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “is going down. Big time.”

“He doesn’t even speak the Queen’s English,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “He is totally incompetent. And according to Master Scribbens’ eloquent testimony, he was also an accomplice. He should be taken at once to the cells and from there to Tyburn to join the evil twins upon the scaffold.”

“I agree,” said the magistrate. “Much as I would have enjoyed meeting the Queen. Or indeed watching you burn at the stake if you’d lost the case. The witness’s evidence is damning. I think we’ll have all three executed this very afternoon.”

“Then fish and chips afterwards,” said the clerk of the court.

“No!” Will cried. He rose from his bench and flinched in expectancy of his imminent truncheoning-down. “This isn’t right. The Snail Boy is lying. The ceiling in the Hands of Orloc is far too low. If he’d been on it we would have been bumping into him.”

“What have you to say about this?” the magistrate asked Snail Boy.

“Posssh,” said the Snail Boy.

“As high as that?” asked the magistrate. “Eight miles high? That’s a very high ceiling.”

“See what I mean?” cried Will. “And we do have really famous witnesses to call.”

“We’ll call them to attend your execution then,” said the magistrate. “It will be a star-studded extravaganza. The blonde Swedish weather girl can pull the lever. Would you like that, my dear?”

“I’d like that very much,” said the blonde Swedish weather girl. “Nothing I like more than pulling on a big stiff lever.”

Mr Justice Doveston put on his black cap. “It is the verdict of this court,” said he, “that you and your evil twin are guilty of all the charges and—”

“Tim!” shouted Will. “I think we’d better go to plan ‘B’!”

“Plan ‘B’,” said Tim. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Never been surer.”

“Okay,” said Tim. And he reached into his briefcase.

And drew out a gun.

And he pointed the gun at Mr Justice Doveston. “Free the Brentford Two,” said Tim. “Or I will be forced to shoot you dead.”