The Witches of Chiswick Page 11

  The lad withdrew his hand from Will’s trouser pocket and made to take his leave at speed. The gentleman, however, grabbed him by the collar of his ragged coat and hauled him into the air.

  “Steady on,” said Will. “Don’t hurt him.”

  “Return it,” said the gentleman.

  The lad opened his pocket-picking hand to reveal a small plastic disc, the computer disc onto which Will had copied The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke.

  “It’s of no value here,” said Will. “Let him keep it.”

  “Absolutely not,” said the gentleman. “The repercussions could be enormous. Take back your possession, Mr Starling.”

  “Mr Starling?” Will held out his hand and the dangling lad returned the disc. “You know my name?”

  “And you know mine,” said the gentleman.

  Will took in the figure that stood before him.

  It was a mighty figure, impressive, a full and girthsome figure. A figure which, but for its apparel, would not have looked at all out of place in the twenty-third century.

  The mighty figure’s apparel was of the most striking and elaborate confection. A six-piece suit of lime green Boleskine tweed, with matching shirt and trousers, jacket and waistcoat and topcoat and top hat too. Affixed to the band of the tweedy topper was a large golden brooch in the shape of a five-pointed star and inlaid with many precious stones. Upon the waistcoat hung numerous watch-chains, similarly of gold, from which depended fobs of the Masonic persuasion. Upon the third finger of the great right hand, which presently held young Winston aloft, was a ring of power, set with a star sapphire and engraved all about with enigmatic symbols. In the left hand was a swordstick topped by a silver skull.

  The gentleman set free the lad, who fell to his feet and fled away.

  “Farewell, Winston,” said Will.

  “Speak my name,” said the gentleman.

  “Your name is Hugo Rune,” said Will.

  Hugo Rune removed his top hat and bowed. Will was amazed by the great shaven head and the pentagram tattooed upon its crown.

  The gentleman straightened, replaced his top hat and patted Will upon the shoulder. “I must offer my apologies to you,” he said. “It would appear that my calculations were incorrect to a nine hundredth of a degree. An unforgivable and costly mistake.” Rune stooped, plucked up a broken fragment of the time machine, tut-tutted to himself, shook his head in grave sadness and let the fragment fall from his hand.

  “I am confused,” said Will, who was.

  “All will be made clear. If you would be so inclined as to accompany me to my lodgings.”

  “Well,” said Will. “I …” and he stared up into the great broad face of Hugo Rune. It was an impressive face. The hooded eyes, the noble nose, the fleshy mouth, the heavy jowls.

  “I don’t know,” said Will. “I don’t feel altogether right.”

  “You have just travelled through time,” said Hugo Rune. “That you should feel altogether right is unlikely. Follow me please.”

  “It isn’t that, I think.” A feeling of foreboding now entered Will. It was a feeling new to him and one that he didn’t care for. It wasn’t fear as such, it was something more. But Will didn’t know just what. Which somehow made it worse. Rune knew his name. And Will knew Rune’s. But Will could not now remember how he knew it. In fact Will could not now remember a whole lot of things that he felt certain he could have remembered a moment before. Or was it a moment before, or a lifetime before? And were the memories Will’s?

  “All will be explained,” said Rune. “Follow me.”

  The mighty figure turned upon a mighty heel and plunged into the market crowd, which parted before him, much in the manner of the Red Sea before the touch of Moses’ staff. If, of course, you believed in such things, which Will, of course, did not.

  Will dithered for a moment, but having no better plan in mind, in fact having no plan whatsoever in mind, followed Hugo Rune at the hurry up.

  11

  Rune wasn’t difficult to follow, what with the crowd just parting before him. And as Will followed on, the feeling of foreboding grew. Will shook his head, but it didn’t help.

  Across the street Rune passed through a brick archway into a narrow tunnel between tall buildings. Will followed with some reluctance. It smelled bad here, even worse than the market street. Will fanned at his nose. The tunnel debouched at length into a yard. Tenement buildings rose to every side. Will peered up at them. There was a feeling of terrible desolation about this place, of desperate poverty and excruciating sadness. The walls were green with slime and mould. The sun but peeped in and there was a horrible chill. Will shivered and followed Hugo Rune.

  A paint-flaked sign upon a greasy wall announced this ghastly place to be Miller’s Court. In one corner a rusting iron staircase led up to a darkened doorway. Rune paced up this staircase.

  “Follow on,” he called to Will.

  And Will followed on.

  Rune took a great key from his pocket, thrust it into a keyhole that seemed far too small for it, turned the key and pushed open a door, which made suitably hideous groaning sounds. “Go through,” he said.

  Will peered doubtfully into the darkness beyond.

  “Go through,” commanded Rune.

  And Will went through.

  Rune followed him, closed the door, locked it.

  The two of them stood in absolute darkness.

  “What now?” asked Will in a tremulous tone.

  “Creep,” whispered Rune. “Upon stealthy toes.”

  And he struck a Lucifer and applied it to a knubby candle. The meagre light revealed a loathsome corridor and Will, who had now had quite enough and wished to be returned to daylight, voiced some words to this effect.

  “Hush,” said Rune. “My lodgings are, I will agree, insalubrious, but there is a purpose behind everything that I do. You really must hush.”

  “Why?” asked Will.

  “Because otherwise my landlady, Mrs Gunton, will hear us. She is probably far gone with gin at this hour of the day, but nevertheless, she lacks for a month’s rent and will make loud her concerns regarding this, if we grant her the wherewithal so to do.”

  “Ah,” said Will.

  “So kindly hush and follow me once more.” And Rune pushed past Will and led him by the faltering light of the knubby candle up a flight of rickety stairs, and eventually to the lodgings of Hugo Rune.

  These lodgings were not well appointed. They were meagre. They were sparse. They were wretched. They were a bit of a shambles. A wan light fell through unwashed windowpanes and illuminated a small and charmless room. Or hovel. A straw pallet served as a narrow bed, too narrow indeed for the bulk that was Hugo Rune. This straw pallet was somewhat rucked about. A chair, far gone with the woodworm, served no purpose at all and sprawled on its side in the centre of the hovel. Many papers, most of which were unpaid bills, lay scattered all around and about. A steamer trunk stood undisturbed in a corner, a large and glorious steamer trunk, too large, it seemed, to have ever been brought in through the doorway. And too glorious to have found its way into such a hell hole as this.

  “Violation!” cried Rune, peering all around and about and throwing up his mighty hands. “Foul violation. Someone has been here. Several someones in fact.” Rune sniffed at the fetid air. “They have been here,” he said.

  “They?” asked Will.

  “All in good time.” Rune perused the steamer trunk and nodded his great head. “All is as it should be regarding my trunk,” said he.

  The steamer trunk, all brass bosses and hasps and red leather paddings, was a thing of great beauty and evident expense.

  “My life’s possessions dwell within” said Rune. “I am at present a ship without a port.”

  “You appear to have fallen upon unfortunate circumstances,” said Will.

  “Well observed,” replied Rune. “But this is not in fact the case. I am independently wealthy. My father was in the brewery trade. Hardly a gentleman’s pro
fession, I grant you, but his demise benefited me to the extent that I have been able to experience things that most people can only dream about.”

  “Indeed?” said Will.

  “Sit down,” said Rune, kicking the straw pallet back into shape. “Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

  “Champagne?” Will almost managed a smile. “I’ve read of champagne, but I’ve never tasted it.”

  “A world without champagne?” Rune shook his head, removed his top hat from it, and placed the stylish item upon the steamer trunk. “For that crime alone we should act, if for no more.”

  Will sat himself down upon the straw pallet. “Who are you?” he asked. “I remember you, and your name, somehow, although I don’t know how I do.”

  Rune shed his topcoat and removed from a large inner pocket a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I acquired this to toast your arrival,” said he. “But you should have arrived here, in this room. I cannot conceive how my calculations could have been at fault.”

  Rune uncorked the champagne, poured two glasses, handed one to Will.

  “Thank you very much,” said Will and he took a tiny sip.

  “To your liking?” asked Mr Rune.

  “Indeed,” said Will. “Very much so.”

  “Then that at least is as it should be.” Rune lowered his ample posterior onto the steamer trunk and cupped his glass between his hands. Hugo Rune stared down upon Will. And Will stared up at Rune.

  Will considered the man who sat before him. He was an enigma. Will found him most disturbing.

  Hugo Rune said, “What do you remember, Mr Starling?”

  “About what?” Will asked.

  “About how you made your arrival here, for an instance.”

  “Ah,” said Will and he wondered what to say; what, in fact, he should say. He knew nothing about this giant of a man. Whether he might be trusted, for an instance.

  “What do you know?” Will asked.

  “I know all,” said Hugo Rune.

  “Then why are you asking me?”

  Rune sighed. “It is of the greatest importance,” he explained. “What you do remember and what you do not. If you remember too much, you will be of no use to me. If you are aware of all that lies ahead for you here in this time, you would not be able to function.”

  Will shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Naturally not. Then allow me to explain. You were brought here from the twenty-third century.”

  “I came of my own accord,” said Will.

  “You had no choice,” said Rune, “considering the circumstances. I arranged these circumstances.”

  “You sent the robots to attack me? To kill people?”

  “Not that,” Rune held up a mighty hand. “But the wherewithal that you should be able to make your escape. After all, I worked upon the construction of that machine with my good friend Mr Wells.”

  “H.G. Wells?” asked Will.

  “The very same. He was hopelessly lost on the project, he called upon me to explain the concept of time to him. How time actually functions. It does not function as you might believe it to. Events in the future can affect the past. Not a lot of people are aware of this ultimate truth.”

  “I wasn’t aware of it,” said Will.

  “Naturally not. But I set Wells upon the right course.”

  Will sipped further champagne and found it greatly to his liking. “I really don’t understand any of this,” he said.

  “Which is how it must be. Of your ancestors, what do you remember?” Rune tapped at his temple with a pudgy finger. “What is in here, inside your head?”

  “Let me think.” Will thought. “Actually, not too much,” he said, when he had done with his thinking. “But I’m sure I could remember a great deal, two full centuries at least. I can remember everything up until about …”

  “The year of eighteen ninety-eight,” said Rune.

  “Yes,” said Will. “But nothing more.”

  Rune nodded his head and offered Will a very broad smile. “Exactly as it should be. Because you are now in eighteen ninety-eight and those other memories of your ancestors that you held in your head have yet to exist. The events that will become these memories have yet to occur. You cannot have memories of things that are yet to happen.”

  “But they had happened,” said Will. “Where I come from. The future. They had happened in the past.”

  “You are now in a portion of the past. This is the time that is real for you now. The only memories of your ancestors you have now, are those that exist up until the present moment. The future has yet to occur. You will achieve great things in the future. Under my tutelage, of course.”

  “Oh of course,” said Will.

  “Irony?” asked Rune. “Or sarcasm? I have little time for either.”

  “And you knowing about everything,” said Will.

  “That was sarcasm,” said Rune. “Make that the last time you use it in my presence.”

  “Listen,” said Will, “I don’t know who you are, or what you want from me. I have got myself involved in something incredible, and I feel, well, I don’t know, privileged I suppose, to actually be here. But how am I ever going to get home again to my own time?”

  “When your work here is done, you will return home. I promise that to you.” Rune now delved into a waistcoat pocket and brought out his cigarette case. “Care for an oily?” he asked.

  “Oily rag,” said Will. “Fag. Cockney rhyming slang. I’ve never actually smoked a cigarette. We don’t have them any more in my time. They’re deadly poison, you see. I learned in history class how the cigarette companies all went bust in the latter part of the twenty-first century, when thousands of dying smokers successfully sued them.”

  “Happily, that is in the future,” said Rune, withdrawing a cigarette, striking a Lucifer and lighting it up. “In this day and age cigarettes are very good for your health.”

  “Then I’d love to try one,” said Will.

  “It will make you sick,” said Hugo Rune.

  “Then I think I’ll not bother.”

  “Then let us press on with the business in hand. To whit, how you will play an active role in defeating the forces of darkness.”

  “Forces of darkness?” Will shook his head once more. “All lost on me,” he said. “Could I have some more champagne, please?”

  “It will make you drunk,” said Rune.

  “I’ve been drunk before,” said Will. “Happily, we still have alcohol where I come from.”

  Rune poured Will another glass.

  “The forces of darkness,” said Rune once more. “To whit, the witches.”

  Will coughed into his glass, sending champagne up his nose. “Witches?” he managed to say, when he had finished with coughing.

  “Witches,” said Rune. “Witchcraft is the scourge of this enlightened age.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Will. “Witchcraft is superstition. Medieval stuff. No one believes in witchcraft. Except perhaps my best friend Tim. He’s convinced that the world is run by witches.”

  Rune’s eyes grew wide. These wide eyes fixed upon Will. “Your best friend Tim?” said Rune, in a cold, dead voice. “Not yourself?”

  “Certainly not!” said Will. “I don’t believe in rubbish like that.”

  “But you are Will Starling? Second-born son of William Edward Starling, born on the second of February, in the year two thousand, two hundred and two.”

  “I’m the only son of William Edward Starling,” said Will.

  “No you’re not,” said Rune.

  “Oh yes I am,” said Will.

  “Not,” said Rune.

  “Am too,” said Will.

  Rune shook his head once more. “Born on the second of February, two thousand, two hundred and two.”

  Will now shook his head once more. “That’s not my birthday. I was born on the first of January. But …”

  “But what?”

  “T
he second of the second, two thousand, two hundred and two, that’s Tim’s birthday.”

  “Calamity,” cried Rune, throwing up his great hands, one of which spilled champagne while the other dropped his cigarette. “This is all your father’s doing.”

  “My father?” Will asked. “What has my father got to do with this?”

  “Everything.” Rune waved his hands about above his head. “From father to son the lore has passed. From second son to second son.”

  “I’m an only child,” said Will.

  “I’ve brought back the wrong brother,” Rune’s hands now covered his face. “This is disastrous.”

  “Tim isn’t my brother.”

  “Oh yes he is.”

  “Oh no he isn’t.”

  “Is.”

  “Isn’t.”

  “Is,” said Hugo Rune once more.

  “Isn’t,” said Will. “Although …”

  “Although what?”

  “Well, actually, he does look a bit like me, I suppose. He’s heavier and darker, but there’s a slight resemblance. And we’ve been best friends since childhood; he’s very much like a brother to me. Or was.” For now Will recalled that terrible something. The terrible death of Tim.

  “Was?” Rune peeped through his fingers.

  “Something awful happened,” said Will. “I don’t want to talk about it”

  “He was killed,” said Rune. “By the demonic automaton. I know what happened, what will happen. I was able to predict it. But not to predict that your father’s second son would not be born within wedlock. This Tim is your brother, but by a different mother.”

  “Bravo, Dad,” said Will. “You dirty blighter. I remember you’ve always spent a lot of time round at Mrs McGregor’s. So that’s what you were up to, eh?”

  “Ruination,” cried Rune and he jumped to his feet. “All my calculations, all my planning, ruined by your profligate father sowing the seeds of his loins in some harlot.”

  “Easy,” said Will. “Mrs McGregor is a very nice woman.”

  “Ruination,” cried Rune once more. “Woe unto the house of Rune and to the future generations thereof. All my work in bringing my magical heir to me.”

  “Your magical heir?” Will asked.