The Witches of Chiswick by Robert Rankin Page B

drawn towards a nose of the aquiline persuasion, improbable cheekbones and a mouth that was a bitter, corded line.
    The torso of this being fairly heaved with muscle and all around and about the gargantuan frame hung bullet belts and a fearsome collection of antique weaponry.
    In his right hand he held a twenty-first-century phase plasma rifle (with a forty-watt range, naturally).
    A hideous smell accompanied this monstrous personage. A rotten-eggy smell, the smell of sulphur, of brimstone, of that now legendary biblical pit that lacks for a bottom.
    The terrific, black-eyed, evil-smelling figure glared down at the two young men struggling upon the floor, and then across to Will’s mum and dad.
    “William Starling?” he asked in a deeply-timbred voice of the Germanic persuasion. “Which one of you is William Starling?”
    “Now just you see here,” said Will’s mum, taking up her ladle once more. “You can’t come bursting into people’s accommodation, in a state of half undress, tainting the air and waving your fearsome weaponry about.”
    “You?” asked the terrific figure, levelling his weapon at Will’s mum, a red laser dot from its sight making a caste mark on her forehead. “Are you William Starling?”
    “Don’t be absurd,” said Will’s mum. “Have you been drinking?”
    “You?” the weapon swung in the direction of Will’s dad.
    The laser dot appeared upon
his
forehead.
    “Err …” went Will’s dad. “Well, actually …”
    “No,” Will scrambled to his feet and fluttered his hands about. “He isn’t William Starling. There isn’t any William Starling here.”
    “Where is the painting?” asked the terrific figure. “Tell me now, or all die.”
    “Painting?” said Will’s dad. “What painting?”
    “
The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke
.”
    “Ah,” said Will. “That painting.”
    “That.” The weapon now swung towards Will. The little red dot marked his forehead.
    “I’ll tell you,” said Will, his hands fluttering again. “I know where it is. Just don’t harm my family. Please don’t shoot anyone.”
    “Give me the painting,
now
.”
    “I don’t have it here. It’s hidden. I can take you to it.”
    “What is this all about?” asked Will’s mum, fanning at her nose with her ladle. “What have you been up to, Will? Something naughty, I’ll bet.”
    The weapon was once more pointing at Will’s mum.
    “Please stay out of this,” Will told her. “Be quiet.”
    “That’s no way to speak to your mother.” Will’s mum waggled her ladle.
    “Silence,” ordered the terrific figure, fixing Will with a horrible black-eyed stare. “The painting must be destroyed. Take me to it, now.”
    “I can’t.” Will now made pleading gestures. “The place where it’s hidden is closed until Monday.”
    “Now, or I shoot the woman.”
    “No.” Will flung himself to his knees. “Please don’t do that.”
    “Now,” the figure ordered once again.
    “Can I just go?” asked Tim. “I’m nothing to do with this.”
    “He can get us in.” Will rose slowly and pointed at Tim.
    “You bastard!” said Tim.
    “He’s going to shoot my mum.”
    “Well, I suppose I
could
get you in. It’s hidden in the archive, I suppose.”
    “It is.”
    “
Now
!”
    “He’s lying to you,” said Will’s dad, heaving himself out of his chair. “He doesn’t know about any painting. I’m the real Will Starling and I know where it is.”
    “No,” shouted Will, fingers a-flutter. “No, Dad, no.”
    “The boy doesn’t know anything,” said Will’s dad. “The painting’s hidden right here, in this housing unit.”
    Will’s eyes widened. “
What
?” he managed to say.
    “It’s inside the air-conditioning system. You can see for yourself.”
    “Where?” asked the terrific figure.
    “Up there.” Will’s dad pointed to the grille in the ceiling above the home screen. “I’ll get it for you, if you want.”
    “What are you doing, Dad?”
    “Let me deal with this,