The Witches of Chiswick (22 page)

“Well that’s handy, chief,” chirped Barry. “You’ve got an evil twin and he’s Jack the Ripper. Case solved, then. Let’s head for Chiswick.”

“Stop it!” Will made a fist and struck his temple with it. “That man in the cell is me.”

“Could be a great-granddaddy, chief.”

“It’s
me
. I know it’s me.”

Constable Tenpole Tudor stared Will up and down and then gently eased him aside and had a good peer through the little metal grille.

“I’ll be a red-nosed burglar!” said he. “There’s a definite resemblance and no doubt about it. Do you want to put your hands up to being an accessory and come quietly with me? Or would you prefer to enjoy the privilege accorded to the titled classes of this time, tip me a guinea and stroll away unmolested to your London club?”

“The latter indeed.” Will peeped once more into the cell and Will had a good old tremble going. “It’s
me
,” he whispered to Barry. “It
is
me. What are we going to do?”

“
We
, chief? I thought you were calling all the shots now.”

“I must interview the suspect, constable,” said Will.

“You’ll have plenty to choose from then, your lordship.”

“What?” said Will.

“If you want to interview a suspect constable, half of the constables here are decidedly suspect.”

Will looked at the constable.

And the constable looked back at Will.

“Sorry,” said the constable. “Couldn’t resist it.”

“But it wasn’t funny.”

“Maybe not to you,” said Constable Tenpole Tudor. “But to me, it was hysterical. I’m all torn up inside over it, me. Can hardly keep a straight face. You can never beat a little humour to lighten a stressful situation.”

“Let me speak to the prisoner,” said Will.

“Mr Patrick McGoohan, your lordship?”

“Hit him, chief,” said Barry. “Employ your Dimac. Put this dullard out for the count. The Count of Monte Cristo, if you like.”

“The other day,” the constable continued, “I was in this hardware shop, needed some nails, see. And I said to the chap behind the counter, ‘I’d like some nails please’. And he said, ‘How long would you like them?’ And I said—”

“‘Forever’,” said Barry. “‘I want to keep them.’ That’s quite a good ’n.”

“It’s rubbish!” said Will.

“No,” said the constable. “That’s not what I said. I said, ‘About six inches will do. Or at least that’s what my wife always says!’” And the constable began to laugh.

“Different punch-line,” said Barry. “I preferred mine. The element of
time
being involved and everything.”

“And the other day,” said the constable, “I was playing cards in the jungle with some natives and—”

Will employed a Dimac move known as
The Donk of the Dark Dragon’s Doodle
, struck the constable hard in the chin and knocked him to the newly flag-stoned floor.

“Try that for a punch-line,” said Will.

“Nice one, chief. So what now?”

Will rapped the tip of Rune’s cane on the steel cell door.

The yelling which hadn’t ceased, but which hadn’t been mentioned because it would have interfered with the achingly funny dialogue, stilled away to nothing at all. And a voice called, “What is it, constable?” It was the voice of Chief Inspector Samuel Maggott.

“Special visitor, sir.” Will did his best to imitate the constable’s voice. “Sent from Scotland Yard to interview the prisoner. Member of the aristocracy.”

“Let him in, constable.”

“Very good, chief.”

Will knelt, relieved the constable of his keys and, after several attempts, selected the correct one and managed to open the door. He eased himself inside, calling “‘wait for me in the corridor, constable’,” over his shoulder.

Samuel Maggott turned in his chair and stared up at Will.

“By the—”

But he said no more as Will made free with his Dimac. This time the move was
The Terrible Twist of the Tiger’s Todger
. It involved the same fist and the outcome was identical. Samuel Maggott toppled from his chair and lay very still on the floor of the cell.

“You’re a regular twelfth-dan master, chief,” said Barry.

“Just leave this to me.”

Will sat himself in the now vacant chair and stared at the jacketed prisoner. The jacketed prisoner stared back at Will and there was fear in his eyes.

“Just be calm.” Will raised his hand. The prisoner flinched and Will lowered it again. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Who are
you
?” Will’s living double replied.

“My name is William Starling.”

“No.” The prisoner struggled and struggled. “This is some trick. You’re trying to drive me insane. You’re not me. You can’t be me.”

“Me?” Will shook his head slowly. He trembled now from blondy head to patent leather toe. “Are you
me
?”

“You’re one of them. Pure evil. Just kill me. I won’t tell you anything.”

“Nobody’s going to kill anyone. And I’m certainly not going to kill you.”

The two men looked at each other. Both were scared. But one was on the point of terror.

“What do you want from me?” The prisoner’s teeth chattered together. “How did I get here? Where am I?
When
am I?”

“Ah,” said Will. “
When
?”

“Chief, we really should be going. The lads from Scotland Yard are probably on their way here now. Things won’t look good for you, trust me on this.”

“I’m not leaving him here.”

“Then bring him with you. But let’s get out of here now.”

“Right,” Will jumped to his feet. “I’m getting you out of here. Come on now.” And he reached out his hand towards the prisoner.

“No!” Barry’s voice echoed in Will’s head, causing him to drop his cane and clasp his hands over his ears. “No, chief. Don’t touch him.”

“Not so loud.” Will clawed at his head.

The prisoner looked on with a horrified expression.

“You mustn’t touch him, chief. I’ve just had a terrible thought.”

“Tell me something new.”

“Oh ha ha ha, chief. A little humour to lighten a stressful situation. But I’m not kidding you. Don’t touch him. Under no circumstance touch him.”

“Why not?” Will asked.

“Because if it
is
you, there’s no telling what might happen. Well, actually, there is and it’s not good, I can tell you.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“You do, chief. And
time
is what it’s all about. This could be
you
, due to some time-travelling anomaly. And if it is, the two yous must not come into physical contact. It’s all that time paradox business. Two yous cannot occupy the same space. It would be like matter and antimatter meeting. Big explosion and then no yous at all. Did you ever see
Time Cop
? David Warner was in that and he got pushed into his other self and the two went whoosh. Horrible, it was, but a damn good movie. Actually, David Warner was in several movies with a ‘time’ theme.
Time after Time, Time Bandits
—”

Will thought for a moment. It was not a particularly long moment. It was possibly longer than a “trice”, but not as long as “a mo”. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

“Up!” he shouted at his blood-splattered doppelganger. “Come with me, if you want to live.”

“Good line, chief. Wrong movie, but still one of my favourites.”

The prisoner sat shaking. He turned his face away.

“They’ll kill you if you stay here,” Will told him. “It’s capital punishment in this era. They’ll hang you for being Jack the Ripper.”

“I’m not—” the prisoner groaned.

“Hurry,” Will told him.

The prisoner struggled to rise. Will almost helped him. Almost.

“Keep thinking David Warner,” Barry told him.

“Out.” Will threw open the cell door.

“What happened?” asked Constable Tenpole Tudor, peering dizzily in.

Will felled him with a second blow and snatched up Rune’s cane from the floor. “Out.” He waved the cane at the prisoner. “Out, and hurry.”

The prisoner stumbled across the cell, he stepped over the unconscious Chief Inspector and then the unconscious constable. Will prodded him into the corridor with the cane. “Along to the end and up the stairs,” he told him. “And hurry. I really do mean hurry.”

And along the corridor and up the stairs the prisoner stumbled. He seemed in a state of near collapse and he was buffeted from one wall to another. Will kept prodding and urging and in more than a “mo”, but less than a “bit”, they reached the miserable front desk.

And then Will saw them, through the melancholic front windows of the police station. Two hansom cabs were drawn up outside and folk were climbing down from them: official-looking fellows in high top hats and long dark-jacketed morning suits, and a number of women. Well-dressed women, lavishly-dressed women, but with preposterously slender bodies and tiny pinched faces, these women, four in number they were, looked curiously alike, as if sisters. But—

“Evil,” whispered Will.

“Chief, I can feel them,” Barry said. “Evil is right. Let’s get out the back way and let’s make it snappy.”

“Back.” Will prodded the prisoner once more. “Back through that door there.”

“Leave me alone,” the prisoner howled.

“I’m sorry,” said Will, and he poked him even harder. “But we are in big trouble here. Just go, if you know what’s good for us.”

Into a rear office they went and Will slammed the door shut upon them. The key was in the lock and he turned it.

The office room was gas-lit. Filing cabinets of a doleful disposition lined the cheerless walls and at a disconsolate table sat a young policewoman.

Will stared at the young policewoman.

She was
not
a young policewoman.

She was a young man dressed as a young policewoman.

This young man looked up at Will.

“I know,” he said. “Don’t tell me. What gave it away? The wig, wasn’t it? If I’ve told them once, I’ve told them a thousand times. If you want someone to play the role of token woman, give them the tools for the job. But do they listen? No. These high heels are crippling my feet, and as to the corset—”

“What is your name?” Will asked. He asked the question in a slow and deliberate voice. He had a feeling that he already knew the answer.

“Policewoman John Higgins,” Policewoman John Higgins replied. “Who are you and—” He/she glanced from the face of Will to the face of the prisoner and back again.

“No time at all to explain,” said Will, “even if I could. Undo the prisoner’s straitjacket, if you will.”

“I certainly will
not
.” The cross-dressing officer of the law rose from his/her seat and reached for his/her truncheon.

“I don’t have time for this,” said Will.

“Stick your hand in your pocket, chief.”

“What?”

“What?” said Policewoman Higgins.

“Just do it, chief, tell he/she that you have a gun in your pocket. Make him or her, or whatever it is, unstrap the other you and open the back door.”

“Good idea.” Will did as he was bid.

“I’ve a gun in my pocket,” said Will. “Do what I say, or I’ll shoot you.”

And now there came sounds of a handle being turned and then fists being banged on the door that Will had locked, just two “trices” and three “half-a-mo’s”
[18]
before.

The token policewoman raised his/her truncheon and peered at the bulge in Will’s pocket. And, as it was impossible at such a moment to resist uttering the now legendary line, uttered it.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just—”

And Will’s finger squeezed upon a trigger and shot the end off the token policewoman’s truncheon.

“Gun, then.” Higgins dropped the truncheon and set about releasing the straps which held the other Will’s straitjacket.

Fists now rained upon the locked office door and there was a great deal of angry shouting.

“The back door,” Will said, when his other self was unbuckled. “Unlock it quickly, now.”

“It’s not locked,” said token Policewoman Higgins.

“Then come over here.”

“What is it?” The token policewoman teetered in Will’s direction.

“Only this, and I’m sorry.” And Will brought him/her down with a Dimac moved called
The Lunge of the Lion’s Lingum
, which this time involved Will’s elbow, as his fist was growing sore.

Will’s other self stood unsteadily rubbing at his wrists and shaking fearfully.

“Out of the door,” Will told him. “Don’t make me hit you too.”

The other Will staggered forward and opened the door. Will pushed him forward with the cane, forward and into an alleyway.

It was an alleyway of heart-breaking dejection.

“Along the alley. To the front of the building,” Will said.

“The
front
of the building, chief?”

“I’m running this, Barry.”

“And most violently too. Lots of pent up aggression coming out. I hope you’re not having a psychotic episode.”

“Go on,” Will told his other self. “Along the alleyway. Quickly.”

The street truly bustled with people now.

Many tradesmen hustled as they bustled and called out the Cries of Old London.

“Bluebottles, bluebottles. Get yer luverly bluebottles.”

And so on.

The two hansom cabs still stood before the police station. Will opened the door of the first one and ushered his other self into it. The cabbie looked down through his hatchway at the back.

“Sorry gents,” he said. “These cabs is taken. Hired by Very Important Folk. Hail another, if you please.”

Will closed the hansom cab’s door. His other self sat within, hunched up and cowering. Will stepped around to the rear of the cab. “Cabbie,” he called up. “Could you step down here for a moment.”

“How long a moment would that be, sir? More than a ‘tick’, would it be, or less than a ‘twinkling’ or a ‘flash’?”

“Do I spy a duff running gag?” Will asked. “Just step down here for a ‘jiffy’, if you will.”

“Oh, I can certainly spare a ‘jiffy’.”

The cabbie climbed down and a Dimac move called
The Wave of the Wombat’s Winkie
laid the cabbie low.