Free The Witches of Chiswick by Robert Rankin Page A

transmission of electricity, laser technology, even a space programme. Bits and pieces
have
been found. I’m holding such a piece in my hand.”
    “So why has this been written out of history?”
    “I don’t know. I’m trying to piece it together. I can only conclude that it is something to do with the witches.”
    There was a bit of a pause and then Will said, “Did I hear you say ‘witches’?”
    “You did,” said Tim. “That’s what I said.”
    “You are saying that this has something to do with witches?”
    Tim nodded.
    “But Tim,” said Will, “and please don’t take this the wrong way, there are no such thing as witches.”
    “Oh, there are.” Tim’s head nodded and his big hair went every which way. “Those two women who came to the Tate were witches. I recognised them. They have a triple A security clearance. All the higher echelons are in the Craft.”
    “Witchcraft? Are you serious, Tim?”
    “Why do you think I’m a Pagan, Will?”
    Will shrugged. “Because it’s your choice. You can believe in anything you want to believe in. It’s still legal.”
    “No,” said Tim. “It’s because I want to get on. By declaring on my employment application that I was a Pagan, I got a head start. I’ve had three promotions this year. How many have you had?”
    “None,” said Will. “But how—”
    “Websites, Will. Conspiracy theory websites. I’ve grown up on them. I love them. There was this really good one that said that witches are running the world.”
    “But it got closed down?” Will said.
    “It did. But by that time I had, how shall I put this, digested the intelligence. The website suggested that a cabal of witches run the planet. It all sounded terribly exciting, so I thought I’d put ‘Pagan’ on my application and see if it helped. It did. I hear a word here and a word there, and those two women
were
witches. I know it.”
    “This is all too much,” Will shook his blondy head. “It’s all too much to believe. And if real witches wanted me dead, surely they’d just cast a spell on me, or something.”
    “Did you watch the newscast earlier on the home screen?”
    “No,” said Will. “Dad tuned it to the relaxation channel. We watched waves breaking on a beach throughout supper.”
    “Shame. You’d have been interested in the newscast. It showed the serial killer who had butchered an undisclosed number of William Starlings being led away and later executed.”
    “
What
?” went Will. “But that’s not what happened.”
    “Are you telling me that you don’t believe what you see on the newscasts? Are you suggesting that there might be some big conspiracy?”
    “Ah,” said Will.
    “I don’t know what’s going on,” said Tim, “or what really went on in Victorian times, but we’re not being told the truth. There is a big conspiracy. It could be something to do with witchcraft, or it couldn’t, but you’re in big trouble, Will. Whoever it is that wants you dead, wants you dead. They want to destroy the painting, which has the evidence of the truth in it and they want to kill you, because you know.”
    “Then they’ll want to kill you too,” said Will.
    “I’m sure,” said Tim. “Which is why we are talking in a cupboard. I am telling you everything I know, in confidence.”
    “So what am I going to do? Run? To where?”
    “I don’t know. But I think you should try and find out the truth.”
    “And how am I going to do that?”
    “Go back into the past.”
    “Oh right,” said Will. “Like, find the time machine that this robot came in? Get real, Tim, please.”
    “Take the drug,” said Tim. “The Retro. Take all the tablets. If they really work then you’ll get glimpses of the real past. You’ll see what your Victorian ancestors saw, smell what they smelled, feel what they felt. It’s all there inside your head, in your genetic coding, if it’s true and the drug really works.”
    “I’m scared,” Will said. “I’m really