The Witches of Chiswick by Robert Rankin Page A

a religious thing. A millennial cult, or something.”
    “Suicide?” Will spluttered. “But you said they were full up with holes. So they must have been shot more than once.”
    “Well there were four of them.”
    “Four?”
    “I gave up,” said Will’s mum. “I came home and made the phone call from here. I only notified the DOCS about the first Uncle Will, or perhaps it was the second one, I forget. I didn’t want to go bothering them with too many deaths all in the one day.”
    “This is terrible,” said Will. “My uncles.”
    “I’m getting confused here,” said Will’s dad. “Was it big-thighed Uncle Will, or the one with the pointy head, or …”
    “Both of those,” said Will’s mum. “And the one with the funny thing on the end of his nose.”
    “Oh he’s not one of ours,” said Will’s dad. “He’s another Will Starling, different clan altogether.”
    “He didn’t have the thing on his nose when I saw him,” said Will’s mum. “Mind you, he didn’t have the nose either. Shot right off it was.”
    “Stop!” shouted Will, rising from the soon-to-be-suppering table. “You must call the DOCS at once. Notify them of these other murders.”
    “I’ll do it later,” said Will’s mum. “The supper’s getting cold.”
    The front door chime of the Starling household chanted a corporate ditty.
    “Now I wonder who that might be,” Will’s dad wondered. “Go and answer it, son.”

5
    Will looked at his dad.
    And Will’s dad looked at Will.
    “Go on then,” said Will’s dad. “See who it is.”
    “No,” Will gave his head vigorous shakings. “It might be a man with a gun.”
    “I didn’t order a gun,” said Will’s mum, addressing her considerable husband. “Did
you
order a gun?”
    “Of course I didn’t order a gun, woman. Why would I order a gun?”
    “I mean,” said Will, now getting a bit of a shake on, “that it might be
the murderer
with a gun.”
    “Good point.” Will’s dad nodded chins towards his spouse. “The lad has a good point. You answer the door, woman.”
    “No,” said Will. “Don’t anyone answer the door. Perhaps they’ll just go away.”
    The door chime chanted its corporate ditty once again.
    “I’d best go,” said Will’s mum. “Whoever it is will wear out the battery.”
    “No, Mum, please.” Will rose from the soon-to-be-suppering table and flapped his slender hands about. “Don’t answer the door. I have a very bad feeling about this.”
    “You’re just being silly.” Will’s mum laid aside her ladle and smoothed down the besmutted frontispiece of her gorgeous gingham housecoat. “I will answer the door.”
    “No!” Will did leapings. He leapt from the table and he leapt in front of his mum. “I can’t let you do that.” Will turned to face the front door. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
    “It’s me, Will,” came the voice of Tim McGregor. “Let me in, you silly sod.”
    “Phew,” went Will, in the way that one does. “Hold on Tim, I’m coming.”
    Will’s mum shrugged her sizeable shoulders. Will’s dad said, “Serve up the vitals, woman.”
    Will opened the front door. “Tim,” he said. “It’s really good to see you.”
    “Good to see you too, Will. Why the delay? Were you having –?” Tim made certain gestures about his trouser regions.
    “Don’t be crude,” said Will. “Come in.”
    “Thanks.” Tim took a step into the Starling household. “Oh, I’ve brought this chap with me,” he said. “Met him in the lift. He was asking for you.” And then Tim didn’t say any more, as he was suddenly buffeted from his feet and hurtled forward, barging into Will and bringing him to the floor.
    A terrific figure now stood framed in the doorway. Well above six feet in the height of him and broad across the naked shoulders. The cropped hair on his head was black and so too were his hooded eyes. All black these were, and horrible to look upon. His face was a mask of bitter hatred, bushy brows