The Witches of Chiswick

5

Will looked at his dad.

And Will’s dad looked at Will.

“Go on then,” said Will’s dad. “See who it is.”

“No,” Will gave his head vigorous shakings. “It might be a man with a gun.”

“I didn’t order a gun,” said Will’s mum, addressing her considerable husband. “Did you order a gun?”

“Of course I didn’t order a gun, woman. Why would I order a gun?”

“I mean,” said Will, now getting a bit of a shake on, “that it might be the murderer with a gun.”

“Good point.” Will’s dad nodded chins towards his spouse. “The lad has a good point. You answer the door, woman.”

“No,” said Will. “Don’t anyone answer the door. Perhaps they’ll just go away.”

The door chime chanted its corporate ditty once again.

“I’d best go,” said Will’s mum. “Whoever it is will wear out the battery.”

“No, Mum, please.” Will rose from the soon-to-be-suppering table and flapped his slender hands about. “Don’t answer the door. I have a very bad feeling about this.”

“You’re just being silly.” Will’s mum laid aside her ladle and smoothed down the besmutted frontispiece of her gorgeous gingham housecoat. “I will answer the door.”

“No!” Will did leapings. He leapt from the table and he leapt in front of his mum. “I can’t let you do that.” Will turned to face the front door. “Who’s there?” he shouted.

“It’s me, Will,” came the voice of Tim McGregor. “Let me in, you silly sod.”

“Phew,” went Will, in the way that one does. “Hold on Tim, I’m coming.”

Will’s mum shrugged her sizeable shoulders. Will’s dad said, “Serve up the vitals, woman.”

Will opened the front door. “Tim,” he said. “It’s really good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Will. Why the delay? Were you having –?” Tim made certain gestures about his trouser regions.

“Don’t be crude,” said Will. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” Tim took a step into the Starling household. “Oh, I’ve brought this chap with me,” he said. “Met him in the lift. He was asking for you.” And then Tim didn’t say any more, as he was suddenly buffeted from his feet and hurtled forward, barging into Will and bringing him to the floor.

A terrific figure now stood framed in the doorway. Well above six feet in the height of him and broad across the naked shoulders. The cropped hair on his head was black and so too were his hooded eyes. All black these were, and horrible to look upon. His face was a mask of bitter hatred, bushy brows drawn towards a nose of the aquiline persuasion, improbable cheekbones and a mouth that was a bitter, corded line.

The torso of this being fairly heaved with muscle and all around and about the gargantuan frame hung bullet belts and a fearsome collection of antique weaponry.

In his right hand he held a twenty-first-century phase plasma rifle (with a forty-watt range, naturally).

A hideous smell accompanied this monstrous personage. A rotten-eggy smell, the smell of sulphur, of brimstone, of that now legendary biblical pit that lacks for a bottom.

The terrific, black-eyed, evil-smelling figure glared down at the two young men struggling upon the floor, and then across to Will’s mum and dad.

“William Starling?” he asked in a deeply-timbred voice of the Germanic persuasion. “Which one of you is William Starling?”

“Now just you see here,” said Will’s mum, taking up her ladle once more. “You can’t come bursting into people’s accommodation, in a state of half undress, tainting the air and waving your fearsome weaponry about.”

“You?” asked the terrific figure, levelling his weapon at Will’s mum, a red laser dot from its sight making a caste mark on her forehead. “Are you William Starling?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Will’s mum. “Have you been drinking?”

“You?” the weapon swung in the direction of Will’s dad.

The laser dot appeared upon his forehead.

“Err …” went Will’s dad. “Well, actually …”

“No,” Will scrambled to his feet and fluttered his hands about. “He isn’t William Starling. There isn’t any William Starling here.”

“Where is the painting?” asked the terrific figure. “Tell me now, or all die.”

“Painting?” said Will’s dad. “What painting?”

“The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke.”

“Ah,” said Will. “That painting.”

“That.” The weapon now swung towards Will. The little red dot marked his forehead.

“I’ll tell you,” said Will, his hands fluttering again. “I know where it is. Just don’t harm my family. Please don’t shoot anyone.”

“Give me the painting, now.”

“I don’t have it here. It’s hidden. I can take you to it.”

“What is this all about?” asked Will’s mum, fanning at her nose with her ladle. “What have you been up to, Will? Something naughty, I’ll bet.”

The weapon was once more pointing at Will’s mum.

“Please stay out of this,” Will told her. “Be quiet.”

“That’s no way to speak to your mother.” Will’s mum waggled her ladle.

“Silence,” ordered the terrific figure, fixing Will with a horrible black-eyed stare. “The painting must be destroyed. Take me to it, now.”

“I can’t.” Will now made pleading gestures. “The place where it’s hidden is closed until Monday.”

“Now, or I shoot the woman.”

“No.” Will flung himself to his knees. “Please don’t do that.”

“Now,” the figure ordered once again.

“Can I just go?” asked Tim. “I’m nothing to do with this.”

“He can get us in.” Will rose slowly and pointed at Tim.

“You bastard!” said Tim.

“He’s going to shoot my mum.”

“Well, I suppose I could get you in. It’s hidden in the archive, I suppose.”

“It is.”

“Now!”

“He’s lying to you,” said Will’s dad, heaving himself out of his chair. “He doesn’t know about any painting. I’m the real Will Starling and I know where it is.”

“No,” shouted Will, fingers a-flutter. “No, Dad, no.”

“The boy doesn’t know anything,” said Will’s dad. “The painting’s hidden right here, in this housing unit.”

Will’s eyes widened. “What?” he managed to say.

“It’s inside the air-conditioning system. You can see for yourself.”

“Where?” asked the terrific figure.

“Up there.” Will’s dad pointed to the grille in the ceiling above the home screen. “I’ll get it for you, if you want.”

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“Let me deal with this, Will. It’s all my fault. I’ll get the painting.”

“But …”

“Leave this to me.” Will’s dad struggled to manhandle his chair towards the home screen and the air-conditioning duct above it.

“What is he doing?” whispered Tim.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” whispered Will.

Will’s dad huffed and puffed.

“Out of the way.” The terrific figure, slung his weapon across his broad left shoulder, strode to the chair and snatched it from Will’s dad. He flung it down in front of the home screen, climbed onto it, reached up and took hold of the ceiling grille that covered the air-conditioning duct.

With a speed, quite remarkable for one of his corpulence, Will’s dad swung a foot and kicked the chair out from beneath him.

The terrific figure tumbled to the floor, bringing down the grille and a section of ceiling. Will’s dad flung himself on top of the fallen figure.

“Sit on his legs woman,” he shouted. “Squash the smelly blighter. Hurry!”

Will’s mum hurried and did as she was bid.

“Phone for the DOCS, lad,” Will’s dad told Will. “Tell them we’ve captured a murderer.”

Will’s mouth hung open.

“I’ll do it,” said Tim, and he did.

“Come in here, polluting the air and menacing my family,” cried Will’s dad, his beefy buttocks pressing down upon the back of the fallen figure. “I’ll teach you to mess with the Starlings.”

The fallen figure struggled, but was quite unable to rise.

“My dad,” whispered Will. “My dad did that.”

“They’re on their way,” said Tim, replacing the receiver. “They’re just up two floors. They’re coming right down.”

The fallen figure lurched, all but up-ending Will’s dad.

“More weight needed,” called that man. “Tim, Will, help us keep this stinker down.”

Will climbed onto his father’s shoulders. Tim sat down in Will’s mum’s lap.

“Well, isn’t this cosy?” said Will’s mum. “Like one big happy family. That’s another thing I like about living in these times. Although the supper is growing cold and I’m—”

And through the doorway came the gallant lads and token ladette of the DOCS, weapons at the ready and looks of some surprise upon their faces, faces which they now took to fanning.

“The smell is him.” Will’s dad bounced up and down, eliciting moans from the foul-smelling figure beneath. “The murderer, we have him here.”

“Let him up,” said Chief Inspector Sam Maggott. “We’ll take him in for questioning.”

“Better just to pass sentence here,” said Officer John.

“Rather too many unanswered questions,” said Sam. “I’d like to find out more about this unfragrant character before we remove him permanently from society.”

“He’s still frisky.” Will’s dad came near to another upending. “Shooting him in the head while we’re still sitting on him would probably be for the best.”

“I’ll do things my way, if you don’t mind,” said Sam. “I am the law, you know.”

“Quite so, sir,” said Will’s dad. “So we should let him up, should we? He’s all covered in guns. One or two quite uncomfortable beneath my behind, as it happens.”

“Let him up,” said Sam. “We have him covered.”

And Sam’s team most definitely did. They all had their guns out and were pointing them mostly in the right direction.

“As you wish,” said Will’s dad. “Everybody up.”

And he did try. And so did Will’s mum.

“I’m a bit stuck,” she said. “Could someone give me a hand?”

“I’m at a bit of a disadvantage too,” said Will’s dad. “Can’t seem to ease myself up from this position.”

“Help them up,” Sam told his team.

Sam’s team holstered their weapons and set to the task of dragging Will’s parents into the vertical plane.

“Thanks very much,” said Will’s dad. “This has all been most exciting.”

“Aaaagh!” went the foul-smelling fallen figure, leaping now to his feet.

“That’s quite enough of that, chummy,” said Sam. “Up with your hands and come along quietly.”

“And drop your weapons,” added Officer Denton. “And do that before you put up your hands.”

“Good idea,” said Sam. “Do as the nice lady tells you. Or there will be trouble.”

It must be noted that it had now become very crowded in the Starling breakfasting-cum-suppering area which, although spacious enough to accommodate at least four well-fed adults, now found itself playing host to rather more than that. There were the mountainous Maggot, Officers Denton, Higgins, and Tudor; there was Tim McGregor, Will’s mum, Will’s dad, and Will. And there was also the terrific figure which was now towering over all of them and snatching up one of his weapons.

“Fire upon the murderer,” Sam ordered. “And try not to kill too many civilians.”

“Hit the deck,” shouted Will’s dad.

“Aaaagh!” went you-know-who once again.

And then the carnage began.

The DOCS weaponry was, in its manner, awesome. It was the state of the art, and this was the twenty-third century. And although it did take Sam’s team a moment or two to get their guns out of their holsters, and a few moments more to get them actually working, they were soon blasting away with a vengeance, spraying chunks of the murderer to the four cardinal points of the compass and all those in between.

There was so much flesh and gore – and all those other pieces.

And when the smoke had finally cleared, which took a bit of a while as the air-conditioning system was now broken, there was very little of the murderer left to be seen, other than a great deal of metal cogwheels and a lot of broken springs.

“Damn me,” said Chief Inspector Sam Maggott. “It was a robot.” Officer Denton shook her head. “It was,” she agreed, “but I don’t see how it could have been, sir. I mean, we don’t actually have any robots like that, yet. There’s no such thing as robots like that. They only exist in science fiction.”

“The exception that proves the rule?” Sam suggested.

“No sir, I don’t think so.”

“Well, bag up the bits; we’ll take them back to the department.”

Sam glanced about at the cowering civilians. The cowering civilians were covered in all sorts of vilely-smelling guts and gore. The outer covering of the impossible robot.

“Thank you very much for your cooperation, citizens,” said Sam.

With his mouth still open, and his mind somewhat numb, Will watched as Sam’s team did what they could to scoop all the bits and bobs into pink plastic bin liners[4].

“I’ll help you,” he said when he could find his voice.

“We’ll send in a clean-up team to wipe away all the splatterings,” said Sam, once the bagging up had been completed. “And so, farewell. And thank you once again for your cooperation.”

And he took his leave, the words “one hundred per cent clean-up rate”, being the last the Starling family heard from him as he and his team departed.

“Well,” said Will’s dad. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?”

“The supper’s stone cold,” said Will’s mum. “I’ll have to reheat it.”

“I think I’ll leave you to it,” said Tim. “I think I’ll go home now and take a shower.”

“Yes,” said Will. “Okay, yes.”

“Robot, eh?” said Tim. “Reminds you of that old movie, doesn’t it? You know the one I mean?”

“Of course I do,” said Will. “Everyone knows that movie.”

“Sent from the future,” said Tim. “Amazing. Whatever next?” And walking upon wobbly legs, Tim too took his leave.

Which left just Will and his mum and dad: just Will and his mum and dad and all the terrible smelly splatterings.

And there was one thing more than this: one thing that Will held tightly in his hand; one thing that he had picked up from the floor when he’d helped the team from the Department of Correctional Science to bag the pieces of the impossible robot.

Will opened his hand and gazed down upon it. It was a small brass nameplate, a maker’s nameplate, with certain words printed upon it.

They were:

BABBAGE & CO.

MAKERS OF

AUTOMATA TO

HER MAJESTY

QUEEN VICTORIA

PATENT NO. – 3610592

MADE IN ENGLAND, 1895.