|
Fiction - The Witches Of Chiswick
|
|
Fiction - The Witches Of Chiswick
| Cover: |  |
|---|---|
| Title: | The Witches Of Chiswick |
| Author: | Robert Rankin |
| Published: | 2003 |
| Pages: | 356 |
| Category: | Science Fiction |
| Summary: | A boy living a couple of centuries in the future discovers a major cover-up at the end of the 19th century in the past and ends up traveling back in time to find out what went on. |
| Review: | 3/5, funny, didn't like the ending. |
|
It was the day after the day after tomorrow and it was raining. Upon this particular day, the rain was bilious green, which signified a fair to middling toxicity and so was only hazardous to health of you actually went out in it. Will Starling would have to go out in it. He was presently employed and wished to remain so. "Winsome Wendy Wainscot, Channel Twenty's wonderful weather woman, says it will clear by Wednesday," ventured Will's mum, a moon-faced loon with a vermilion hairpiece and hips that were a hymn to the hamburger. "I could call you in sick, Will, and you could apply yourself to doing a few odd jobs about the home." "No, thanks," said Will. "But some of the jobs are really odd. They would appeal to you." "No, thanks," said Will, once again. Will's portly father, a man who never said no to a native and took his coffee as it came, raised a quizzical eyebrow to his lady wife's banter. "The lad has work to go to, woman," said he, forking a sausage from the mountainous pile upon his breakfasting plate, popping it into his mouth and munching upon it. "He is now the winner of the cakes in this household, and for this much thanks, my sweet Lord of the Laminates." | |
|
"So who is treating us to this meal tonight?" Will asked. "A very close friend." Rune puffed cigar smoke and spoke through it. "We were fellows at Oxford together. He seeks success in a different field to myself. He is a man obsessed with logic. I have however helped him out in the past with one or two matters which have proved to be beyond the scope of his logic." "So, who is he?" "You'll see soon enough," Rune raised his left hand. "Aha, I sense his approach." Hugo Rune arose from his IKEA-looking chair and turned to greet the arrival of a tall, slender gentleman in an immaculately tailored evening suit. He carried a fashionable bag of the Gladstone persuasion. "William," said Hugo Rune to Will. "Allow me to introduce you to my very good friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes." Will climbed from his chair to shake the hand of the world's most famous fictional detective. Will's jaw had dropped and his eyes were somewhat wide. It couldn't be true, could it? "Mr Starling," said Mr Sherlock Holmes. "I perceive that you have recently been to -" "China," Will managed to blurt. "The toilet," said Holmes. "Your fly is still unbuttoned." Will hastened to rebutton his fly. | |
|
Will gazed into the Great Hall. It was a very wonderful Great Hall. The ceiling was a magnificent dome, painted in the style of Michelangelo, but with more cherubs and a great deal more naked folk indulging in what toffs euphemistically refer to a the pleasures of the flesh, but what commoners call shagging. The ceiling had been designed by Mr Aubrey Beardsley, but he hadn't actually done any of the painting himself, because he had a bit of a cough. His brother Peter (who would later find fame playing football for Liverpool and earning fifty-nine caps for England) had done all the colouring in. The walls of the Great Hall were hidden beneath swathes of red toile de Jouy fabric, which presented a most lustrous effect. The furnishings were splendid, and resembling, as they did, those in the famous apartments of Louis de Champalian, there is no need for description of them here. So, in all, it was a pretty natty Great Hall. It was also a very crowded Great Hall, and it swelled with swells and glittered with the glitterati. Wilde was holding court before a bevy of breathless beauties. Wilde had come dressed as the Pope, who in turn had come dressed as Wilde. Count Otto Black was to be seen, clad in the star-spattered robes and conical hat of Merlin the magician. He was chatting with Queen Victoria herself, whom Will was surprised to see wore nothing but a diaphanous gown and a pair of high-heeled clogs. Little Tich was there, of course, wearing his now legendary ever-popular big boots. Will was slightly disappointed to observe that they were not quite so big as he'd hoped they'd be. But then, you can't have everything, and Will consoled himself with the fact that he had at least caught a glimpse of Queen Victoria's muff. | |
|
"You will be needing this, sir," said Gammon, and he handed Will a slim metal pouch engraved with enigmatic symbols. "What is it?" Will asked. "It's a slim metal pouch engraved with enigmatic symbols," Gammon informed him. "And what is in this pouch. "The Scorpion, sir. The Master's Scorpion. To be used against the witches when the moment arises." "But what exactly does it do?" Gammon tapped the side of his veiny nose. "And what does that mean?" Will asked. "Shagged if I know," said Gammon. "The Master said that I should give it to you when the time was right, and I consider the time to be right. At least it is upon my watch, I don't know about yours. And so, farewell and may God travel with you. And if I might just offer you a piece of advice which is an ultimate truism and guide to life." "You might," said Will. "If you really want to." "It's the best advice I've ever had," said Gammon. "I read it on the side of a matchbox. It is 'keep dry and away from children'." "Well, thank you very much," said Will and he waved goodbye to Gammon. | |
|
Will and Tim buttoned up their coats, thrust their hands into their pockets and pressed forward into the noisy crowd. Street sellers were out in force, hawking Union flags and roasted chestnuts, centennial souvenirs and pictures of Little Tich. "Mud on a stick, squire?" asked a young rapscallion. "Mud on a stick?" asked Tom in ready reply. "Looks like a toffee apple from a distance, squire." "I'll take two then, please," said Tim. "No, you won't," said Will. "Poo on a stick," cried another rapscallion. "Looks like mud from a distance." "Press on," said Will. And Tim pressed on. |
|
|