Robert Rankin - The Witches of Chiswick

TITLE: The Witches of Chiswick

AUTHOR: Robert Rankin

PUBLISHER: Gollancz

COPYRIGHT: 2003

ISBN: 0 575 07314 4

ABEB Version: 3.0

Created: 2004/1/26 @ 21:53

An mdf Scan & Proofread.

The Witches of Chiswick

Robert Rankin

This book is dedicated to SPROUTLORE on the occasion of its tenth anniversary.

To those who began it, Anna Casey, Eimer Ni Mhealoid, Robert Elliot and, of course, the now legendary Pdraig Malid a special thanks.

For contributing to the Mercury , among other nefarious tasks: Tom Mathews, Peter McCanney, Darren Sant, Stephen Wok Boy Malone, Kaz Rathgar, Matthew Vernon, MJ. Simo Simpson, Chip Livingstone, C. elsewhere, Martin Gooch, Alan Holloway, Rachel Turkington, Katie Atkinson, Stephen Gillis, Mark J. Howard, Alf Fairweather, Paul Tonks, Simon C. Owen, Mark Howard, Neil Hind, Gordon McLean, Karl Macnaughton, Leanne Whelan, Laura Haslam, Mark Bertenshaw, Mark Paris, John Cross, Richard Allinson, Diana Hesse, Neil Gardener, John Flynn, Steve Baker, Daev Walsh, George and Chelle Bell, Kryten Krytennicus, Mark Stay, Nicholas Avenell, J. Oost, Alan Sullivan, J. Hagger, Ian Red Brown, James Elite Grime, Lee Peglar, Joe Nolan, Emma Jones, David Hill, Sarah Laslett, Andrew P.A.L.F. Bacon, Tim Keith, Stuart Lemon, Alec Sillifant, Bob Harrison, Tim McGregor, Keith Lawlor and the great Cardinal Cox, you wordy, hard-working people.

For making events what they are, and for being there since the earliest of days: Emma King, Lorraine Loveridge, Toby Tobes Valois, Robert and Hazel Newman. Dr Pete and Flick, Neil Johnson, Jason Joiner, Andrea Swinsco, Hillary Simpson, Dave Elder, Anne Stokes, Matt Langley, Rev. Jim de Liscard, Meike Benzler, Nolly, Rory Lennon, Sam and Greg Elkin, Liam Proven and Kjersti, John Waggott, Liat Cohen, Jonathon Baddeley, Trond Miatyeit Hansen, Anders Holmstrom, Mike Sparks Rennie, James Brophy, Leonia Carroll, Helena and Heidi, Ben Dessau and Heather Petty, Julie Rigby and Alex McLintock, Paul Atton, Mick Champion, Isabel and Debbie Cordwell, Lizanne Davies, David Jones, Joe Ritchie, Silas Potts, Stephen Shirras, Luke Shaw, Karl Scrammell, Nicholas Avenell, Clive Duberly, Andi Evans, Sarah Laslett, Bob Tiley, James Walker, Alan Westbury, Tony Wearing, Steven Dean and Mick and Phil OConnor.

To those who have left this mortal coil, we bid you adieu, and toast your names: John Joseph ODowd and the great Gerry Conlon.

To the main movers and shakers, writers of great skill and wondrous workers: Lee Justice, Dave Baker, Billy Stirling, Alix Langridge, James Shields, Stef Lancaster, and Michael Carroll.

And finally to the guy who runs it all, surprises me with ingenious ideas, and insane capers, has a strange glint in his eye, a smile and a gift of the gab that could charm the knickers off a nun. He has made Sproutlore what it is, and what it continues to be, a wonderful fanclub. The best, to James Bacon; my sincerest thanks, my good friend.

Acknowledgements also to Sean Gallagher, who thought up the title of this book.

The plastic phial lay on the tabletop, 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 Wills neck, feeling for the pulse of the jugular.

There was no pulse.

Will Starling was dead.

Wills eyes suddenly opened and so too did his mouth.

Through a veil of cucumber I viewed the errant bicycle, said Will.

Pardon me? said Tim, in some surprise.

The spotty youth of time dwells upon the doorknob of pasta, said Will.

Again I confess to bafflement, said Tim. But rejoice, nevertheless, that you have not popped your clogs.

Will said nothing more for a moment, but then his opened eyes grew wide.

And then Will said, Run for your life.

My what? asked Tim. My life?

Run, cried Will and he leapt from his seat, overturning the table and wastefully spilling the drinks that Tim had purchased.

You have spilled the drinks, said Tim, stepping back to avoid the falling table and the glasses. By Our Lady of the Flatpack, you have taken the Retro, havent you, Will?

I know all. Will was up and about and now on the move. I know the past and the near future too. We must run quickly, and now.

A crowd was beginning to form. Detached from the general crowd, it encircled Will and Tim and the now fallen table. It was a crowd of onlookers, as crowds so often are, a crowd which had become interested.

Everybody run! bawled Will. Big trouble coming. Everybody run. And he made to push into the crowd, to reinforce his words, as it were, with appropriate and demonstrative actions.

The crowd, however, yielded not.

A lady in a straw hat said. There you have it, the youth of today, brains broiled on seedy substances. It was never so in my day.

Yes it was, too, said a chap in a J-cloth bandana. In your day it was all eating frogs up flagpoles and savouring the smells of Sarah.

Let me through, cried Will, buffeting against the burly belly of an interested onlooker. Its on its way. It will kill you all.

Please make way, said Tim. My friend is somewhat drunk; hes liable to project his supper onto a number of you, simultaneously.

At this, the owner of the burly belly that Will was presently drumming upon made an attempt to step back, but this attempt was without success as further ranks of interested onlookers now penned him in.

Run! shouted Will. And those who cant run, waddle.

And there, declared the lady straw hat, you bear witness to the perils of under-eating. Delirium. Under-eaters are so ungross, arent they?

Ill agree with that , said the chap in the J-cloth bandana, a chap of considerable girth. You may be a dotty old loon, but your finger is on the return key of truth upon this occasion.

Thats no way to speak to your mother.

Youre not my mother.

If I was your mother, Id give you poison.

If you were my mother, Id take it.

There was some applause at this, for even in the future, the old ones are still the best.

Prepare to receive vomit, Will opened his mouth and began to push a finger down his throat.

Back up! cried he of the burly belly.

Dont push me, said a burlier-bellied fellow behind him.

But this chaps about to hurl spew.

Thats no excuse for rudeness. The burlier-bellied fellow smote the burly-bellied fellow on the back of his broad-necked bonce.

Fight! shouted Tim. In that direction. Relocate yourselves, or youll miss it.

You can see a fight any day, said the lady in the straw hat. You can even order one via your home screen. Have a professional pugilist come round and give you a sound thrashing.

Can you? asked J-cloth man.

Indeed, said the lady. Give me your mail code and Ill have one sent around to you later.

Well I

My point is this, said the lady, standing her ground, although others were now giving theirs. You can always see a fight, but vomiting is another matter altogether. Its years since Ive seen anyone actually vomit. Oi! Careful there. And the lady swung her handbag to smite a relocating crowd member who was brushing up against her. My point, she continued, to the J-cloth wearer who was now being similarly jostled, is that vomiting is a rarity nowadays. Like, say, a one-legged fish, or a very small pony that you might carry in your pocket rather than ride upon, or perhaps

A chocolate chair, said J-cloth.

Dont be absurd, said the lady and she swung her handbag once more, bringing down her jostler, who collapsed onto the fallen table, breaking two of its legs and one of his own.

As fists began to fly, or at least to swing in heavy arcs, Tim pulled Will through a gap in the crowd.

Run? he asked.

Believe me, said Will. I do mean run.