The Witches of Chiswick (37 page)

“Thanks very much to you,” said that man, examining the tickets. “Seats twelve and thirteen, row A. Careful how you go now.”

“Farewell,” said Will and he and Tim left the hovering cab and clambered onto the gantry.

A bit of a wind was blowing.

“It’s chilly up here,” said Tim. “Like being on a very high rooftop.”

“A rooftop,” said Will and he smiled.

“And why are you smiling about a rooftop?”

“Remember when we were in the cell at the Brentford court house and I told you about the Lazlo Woodbine thrillers I’d read?”

Tim nodded, but his nodding was all but invisible, hidden as it was by his hair, which was wildly blowing all around.

“And how I told you that every Lazlo Woodbine thriller ends with Laz having a final rooftop confrontation with the villain. Who then takes the big fall to oblivion at the end.”

“You did,” said Tim. “Although I didn’t see the relevance at the time. Everything gets explained eventually, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” said Will. “And I’m freezing my privy parts off here, so let’s get inside.”

Inside the big top, posh folk were taking their seats. And anyone who was anyone was there.

Wilde was there, sitting upon a swansdown cushion, due to the scalding of his behind which he had received when the moonship exploded. And Beardsley was there, chatting with Richard Dadd about how well his brother Peter was doing playing for Brentford football club and about how a talent scout from Liverpool had recently spotted him. And the Duke of Wellington was there, chatting with Lord Colostomy, who was trying to sell him a bag. And Dame Nellie Melba was there, admiring the boots of Little Tich.

Lord Babbage and Mr Tesla sat next to Her Majesty the Queen (GBH), who sat next to Princess Alexandra, who had her hand once more upon Joseph Merrick’s good knee.

And Mr Sherlock Holmes was there, back from Dartmoor with another successfully solved case under his belt. And Dr Watson, who had secretly been shagging the Queen for the last five years, sat with him, sharing a joke about bedpans with the Queen’s gynaecologist Sir Frederick Treves.

The Pre-Raphaelites were all there, of course, and these shared a joke with a group of proto-surrealists.

The joke was all about fish.

And there was Montague Summers and Madame Blavatsky, Aleister Crowley and the Pope of Rome.

But they weren’t sharing any jokes. They weren’t even speaking to each other.

There was an air of expectation breathing all around and about this salubrious crowd, an air of exaltation, of wonder and of hope. For a new century was dawning, and given the advances of the last fifty years, it was a new century that they were all very much looking forward to.

For what would happen next? What great steps would the British Empire be taking? To conquer all the world? And then the stars?

“Definitely the stars,” said The Man on the Clapham Omnibus, who was tonight A Face in the Crowd, albeit a most exclusive crowd.

Exclusive folk filed in and took their seats. Upon a high gantry Tim eased open a door.

“We’re in,” said he. “Follow me.”

“You know where we’re going then?” asked Will.

“Not as such,” said Tim.

A buzzer buzzed in the dressing room of the Lower Rank Performers. And a light flashed too. “Five minutes to curtain up,” came a voice through the public address system.

In the big top, the orchestra took their seats and took to tuning up their instruments. The smell of sawdust from the ring mingled with the perfumes of the wealthy.

“Down this way,” said Will.

“So
you
know where we’re going?”

“Not as such.”

The last of the aerial hansoms which had conveyed the rich and famous to the flying circus had now departed. One final cab drew up, this bearing the cabbie Will had passed his tickets to. The cabbie had brought his brother with him, the one with the broken legs. These legs were in plaster. The cabbie helped his injured brother from the cab. “This will be a real treat for you, bruv,” he said. “You deserve it.”

“Cheers,” said his brother, supporting himself on crutches.

“I’ll just switch off the engine,” said the cabbie, and he leaned inside the cab and did so.

“There,” he said, grinning back at his brother.

The aerial hansom plummeted down towards Whitechapel.

The cabbie’s plastered brother said, “You twat!”

“If we’d thought a little harder about this,” said Tim, as he and Will wandered aimlessly along a service tunnel beneath the dirigible proper, “we’d have got ourselves a plan of this craft. I’ll bet we could have got one from the Patent Office, or somewhere.”

“We’ll find our way,” said Will. “Have a little faith.”

“Oh I do. I have plenty of faith. Listen.”

Will listened.

“What is
that
, do you think?”

Will listened some more. “Applause,” said he. “It’s applause.”

“The show is beginning,” said Tim.

And Tim was right.

The show was indeed beginning.

Applause.

Tumultuous applause.

The big top was plunged in darkness, but for the starlight that twinkled through the vast glass dome. And then a spotlight pierced the black, striking the centre of the ring, and then a figure stepped into the spotlight, and there was deafening applause to greet Count Otto Black.

The Count looked magnificent. He had a huge fur hat upon his narrow head. A gorgeous cloak of gold, its high raised collar trimmed with ermine, swept the sawdust and was secured about the Count’s slender throat by a golden brooch, engraved with enigmatic symbols. His great black beard was plaited into numerous colourfully beaded braids. His eyeballs glittered and his mouth was set in a yellow-toothed grin.

The Count threw wide his cloak, to reveal a crimson tunic worked with cloth-of-gold, pantaloons of yellow silk and high top boots of black patent leather. He extended his long and scrawny arms and waggled his twig-like digits. These were weighed heavily with gorgeous rings, many engraved with the inevitable enigmatic symbols.

“Greetings one and greetings all,” cried he.

And the crowd cheered and clapped some more. And the cabbie in Will’s seat whistled.

“My lords,” cried the Count. “My lords, my ladies and gentlemen, your Holiness the Pope, artists, poets, great thinkers of the age, I bid you welcome. And to Her Majesty the Queen, Empress of India, America and the African States, I am your humble servant, Ma’am.”

The Count bowed low, and the Queen giggled foolishly.

“I do believe
he’s
knocking her off, too,” Dr Watson whispered to Holmes.

“Tonight,” the Count took to strutting about the circus ring, the spotlight stalking his every step, “tonight, it is my pleasure to present for you an entertainment such as has never been witnessed before. One surpassing those of ancient Rome, or anything produced before the courts of Russia. You will witness wonders. You will experience thrills that will excite your nerves and stagger your senses. And, as Big Ben tolls midnight and the dawn of the twentieth century—” But then the Count paused and put a long and bony figure to his lips. “—then we shall see what we shall see, and you will bear witness to something that is beyond your wildest imaginings.”

“That’s something
I’d
like to see,” whispered the lady in a straw hat to her friend called Doris, “because
my
imaginings are rather wild.”

“And so,” the Count flung out his arms once more, “our show begins.”

“We’ve gone the wrong way,” said Tim. “Let’s try down that staircase there.”

Will scratched at his blondy head. “Has it occurred to you Tim,” he asked, “that this flying circus is somewhat bigger on the inside than it is on the outside?”

Tim made his bestest thoughtful face. “I wasn’t going to mention that,” he said.

“Down the staircase, then,” said Will.

The lights went up in the great big top and fifty dwarves upon ostrich-back
[31]
trooped into the ring. They steered their mounts through a complex dance routine, to the accompaniment of the orchestra, which played a selection of popular music hall numbers, including “Don’t jump off the roof, Dad, you’ll make a hole in the yard”, and “When your grey hair turns to silver, won’t you change me half-a-quid?”, and “Get out the meatballs, mother, we’ve come to a fork in the road”, which was always a favourite, but thankfully not the Big Boot Dance.

The crowd sang along with these, for they were the dance anthems of the day. Queen Victoria did the hand jive and Princess Alexandra, the five-knuckle shuffle.

Joseph Merrick simply hummed.

“Not bad, eh?” said the cabbie in Will’s seat. “Enjoying yourself, bruv?”

His plastered brother shook his head. “I’d be enjoying myself a great deal more, if I didn’t know that my aerial hansom was presently embedded in the roof of the Naughty Pope,” said he. “You big-nosed twat!”

Master Makepiece Scribbens gave his nose another powdering.

“A regular dandy,” whispered a voice at his ear.

Master Scribbens glanced into the mirror. Only his own reflection gazed back at him.

“It is I.” The voice belonged to Mr Wells. “Remember our rules. Do not acknowledge my presence, other than to nod or shake your head when deemed appropriate. Do you understand me?”

Master Scribbens nodded his wobbly head.

“Did you dispatch the complimentary tickets to William and Timothy?”

Master Scribbens nodded once more.

“Do you know whether they have taken their seats?”

Master Scribbens now shook his wobbly head.

“I have had no success in locating any computers aboard this vessel. Nor have I overheard anything suspicious. I do not know what to make of it.”

Master Scribbens gave his head a nod and then a shake.

“I hope we haven’t made a terrible mistake,” said Mr Wells.

“Cavalcade of Curiosities to the ring,” called a voice through the public address system in the Lower Rank Performers dressing room.

“I have to go,” whispered Master Scribbens.

“Break a leg,” said Mr Wells.

Tim tripped down the staircase. “Damn,” said he, as he picked himself up. “I thought I’d broken my leg.” His trouser was snagged up on a rivet, Tim yanked it free, ripping a hole in the fabric.

“Try and be careful,” said Will.

“Yes, well, I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. And I’ve ruined my smart trousers now.”

“I’m getting confused here,” said Will. “Doesn’t this corridor look exactly the same to you as the one we’ve just come from?”

“Do you mean we’ve been going around in circles?”

“Well, hardly, if we’ve just come down a staircase.”

“Let’s try this direction,” said Tim.

“I’ll follow you this time,” said Will.

Mr Wells followed the Brentford Snail Boy as he slid towards the circus ring. Mr Wells was most impressed by all he had seen of Count Otto Black’s flying circus and he felt quite certain that he had seen all of it. The symmetry of the corridors, the precision of the engineering. It was all so highly advanced. Even in this age of advancement, it was highly advanced. And he noticed for the first time a curious anomaly; that although the steel-tipped heels of his invisible shoes struck the steely floor of the corridor, they made no sound whatsoever. And yet earlier in the day they certainly had, and he had been forced to creep everywhere upon tiptoe for fear of being heard.

Mr Wells stopped, did a little jump, heard nothing, stroked his invisible chin and continued to follow the Snail Boy.

Will continued to follow Tim.

“Down
this
staircase,” said Tim.

“Fair enough,” said Will. “Careful you don’t trip this time.”

“Yes, as if I would.”

Tim took a step down the staircase, tripped and fell the rest of the way.

“You only did that to amuse me,” said Will, joining Tim at the foor of the stairs and helping him to his feet.

“I can assure you I did
not
.” Tim dusted himself down and gave the staircase a kick. “That’s curious,” said Tim.

“And rather pointless,” said Will. “Did you hurt your foot?”

“Certainly not.” The expression of pain upon Tim’s face made a lie of this statement. “But the sound.”

“What sound?”

“No sound at all.” Tim kicked the staircase once more.

There was no sound at all.

“Now that is curious,” said Will.

“Yes,” Tim agreed, “and not only that. See there,” and he pointed.

“What is that?” Will asked.

“The piece of my trouser that got torn off when I fell down the other staircase.”

Will looked at Tim.

And Tim looked at Will.

“I think we’re in trouble,” said Will.

“You know what the trouble with dwarves is,” said the lady in the straw hat.

Her friend Doris shook her head.

“Nor me,” said the lady. “But someone must know.”

And the crowd almost rose to its collective feet to greet the entrance of the Brentford Snail Boy and the Cavalcade of Curiosities.

The Dog-Faced Boy juggled pussycats.

The Big Fat Lady sang.

The Man With Two Heads talked to himself.

The Bell-End Baby rang.

The Siamese Twins played saxophones.

The Pig-faced Lady juggled.

And the uniped,

With the pointed head

Bounced up and down and—

“
What
?” Lord Byron asked the Great McGonagall. “Nothing rhymes with ‘juggled’ and you know it.”

“Smuggled?” the Poet Laureate suggested.

The orchestra in the stand above the artists’ entrance played selections from
Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat,
and also
Armageddon: The Musical
, which was having its very first run at a pub in Brentford, but which wasn’t going down to great critical acclaim.

“When will the dancing bears be on?” asked Her Majesty the Queen (blessings be upon Her).

Princess Alexandra didn’t answer. Her head was in the lap of Joseph Merrick, and it’s rude to speak with your mouth full.
[32]

Time goes by very fast when you’re having a good time, which might actually mean that there’s no such thing as premature ejaculation. But time
does
go by very fast.

And wouldn’t you just know it, that after the dwarves on the ostriches doing their dance, and the Cavalcade of Curiosities going through their motions, the high-flyers flying and the jugglers juggling, the wirewalkers walking their wires and Mr Aquaphagus swallowing and regurgitating not only goldfish, but mackerel, salmon, sea bass, hammer-head sharks and an entire school of dolphins; the Cossack Horsemen re-enacting the siege of Leningrad, and Lord Babbage’s clockwork ballet and Big Bloke’s Little Boot Dance; the dancing bears (who were greatly applauded by Her Majesty the Queen (Da-de-da-de-dah)) and the dancing elephants (which did not amuse her), and countless clowns, many mimes and, of course, Harry the Horse, who was dancing the waltz, the midnight hour approached.

“Are you having a good time?” Count Otto Black was back in the ring.

The audience applauded.

“Let me hear you say yeah!”

“Yeah!” went the audience.

“Yeah!”

“Yeah!”

“Yeah!”

“Yeah!” said Tim.

“What?” said Will.

“Someone’s shouting ‘Yeah!’ Count Otto Black I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Will sighed. He and Tim sat upon the staircase. They’d been up and down that staircase for the last two hours. “We’re stuffed,” said Will. “We’re trapped. We can’t even find the door we came in by. We walked into a trap. It’s like a mobius strip. No beginning. No end.”

“There has to be a way out,” said Tim.

“There is,” said Will. “It’s just that I’m not too keen to employ it. I mean, I
am
supposed to be doing things
my
way.”

“Don’t quite get you,” said Tim.

Will sighed.

“Barry,” said he.

And Will and Tim materialised in the great big top to the rear of the great big crowd.

“You only had to ask, chief,” said Barry. “It would have spared you a lot of walking around in circles. And look at the time.”

“I can’t,” said Will. “My pocket watch was nicked.”

“Well, it’s nearing midnight, chief. Just five minutes to go.”

“What?”

“Always with the ‘whats?’ you schmuck.”

“Yeah!” went the crowd once more, all but deafening Will.

“And now.” Count Otto strutted some more about the circus ring. “The end is near. And we must face the final curtain.
[33]

“My friends,” he continued, “I am going to make my case. Of which, as it happens, I am certain. I can tell you that I have lived a life that has been most full. And I have travelled upon each and every highway and more, in fact, a great deal more than this, I have done it all in the service of my Lord Satan.”

“That sort of spoiled the metre, didn’t it, chief?”

The audience went “Oooooooooh,” and “What?” and “Eh?” also. Some of the audience even said “Bless my soul.”

“Yes,” Count Otto Black nodded his black bearded head. “That’s what I said, Satan. That’s what you heard me say.”

There were shiftings in the audience now. Uncomfortable shiftings, movings from buttocks to buttocks, fans being wafted at increasing speeds, kid gloves being drawn on, top hats being pushed upon Macassar-oiled heads, preparatory to leaves being taken from seats.

“Still yourselves,” commanded Count Otto. “And do not think of taking leave of your seats. There is no escape for you.”

Grumblings rumbled through the audience, mutterings and utterings of outrage. And into the ring marched automata, many automata, many identical automata, terrific figures all, with the dead black eyes of demon-spawn and armpits reeking of brimstone. They drew out pistols of advanced design and waved these about in a menacing manner.

The crowd stilled to silence. The crowd was no longer such a merry crowd.

To the rear of this crowd, high up and skulking, Tim said to Will, “Now what do we do?”

“Slip away,” Will whispered back. “You slip out of the exit. Find the computer room. Sorry, Tim, but this is all fouled up.”

“And what are
you
going to do?”

“Barry,” said Will. “Take me back in time two minutes, to the centre of the circus ring. I’ll shoot Count Otto Black.”

“No can do, chief. Sorry. If you’d listened to me earlier, I could have advised you as to where might have been a good place to hide yourself, but you just wouldn’t listen. I can’t do what you ask, it’s not in my remit. It’s
really
cheating. But at least you are in the right place at the right time, which is something, eh? You’ll just have to play it by ear now.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Will.

“For what?” Tim asked.

“I was talking to Barry. Slip away, Tim. I’ll see if I can shoot Count Otto from here.”

Will drew a pistol from his belt.

And Tim slipped away.

He didn’t slip too far however, for Tim found the exit considerably barred.