Robert Rankin - The Witches of Chiswick

“I’ll be up in a minute,” said Will. “I just have to finish this.”

“I’ll wait for you, then,” said Gladys.

“You’ll miss your place in the queue.”

“I’ll see you up there then.”

“Save me a seat,” called Will.

Gladys departed and Will was left alone in the vast subterranean dome.

Will did furtive glancings. He really was all alone. And he was troubled, yet excited. The dangerous thoughts of the morning which had brought him to his momentous decision were causing his hands to tremble. Will made fists of them, and then he removed the Rothko disc from the drive and subtituted another, one which he took from his pocket.

The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke once more filled Will’s screen. He tapped at keypads. Reference numbers appeared: the painting’s location in the art gallery’s archive. Will noted down these reference numbers onto the back of his left hand, below certain other reference numbers. He called up the building plan. The archive was housed on a sub-level almost directly beneath his feet. The first question was, how exactly to get there? Will traced the route, the staircases and corridors. It could be done. But then, getting to the archive was only a small part of the problem. Once he had reached and somehow entered it, would the painting still be there? Or would it have already been removed for destruction? And if it was still there, what then? Once he had got to it, if he could get to it, the big question was how to steal it. Because Will had become absolutely certain that this was the course of action he must take. And if he did manage to steal this painting, to save this painting, how was he going to get away with it?

He would certainly be the Number One suspect. And he would certainly be caught. There was very little crime in the days after the days after tomorrow. This was not because there was nothing worth stealing any more: there always is , and always will be , things worth stealing. And if there are things worth stealing, they will be stolen.

Will knew that the painting had to be worth millions. This would be the crime of the century.

But it isn’t a crime, Will told himself. Destroying the painting was a crime, saving it was praiseworthy.

And he did have a plan, and not just a plan, but one, if he could pull it off, that would allow him to escape undetected with the painting.

Three security doors lay between Will and his goal, security doors to which he did not possess the access codes. Mr Santos possessed the access codes; he regularly visited the archive, although Will’s pleas that he might join him had so far met with refusal. Mr Santos had the codes on a card that he kept in the top pocket of his white work coat, the white work coat that he donned when visiting the archive, the white work coat that presently hung upon the back of the door in his office.

Will removed the disc from his drive, popped it into his pocket and then removed himself to Mr Santos’s office. And so it came to pass that ten minutes later Will found himself standing in the archive of the Tate Gallery.

The archive was a vast and brightly lit subterranean gallery that dwindled into hazy perspective. Will breathed in the air and sighed. The air smelled of art: of canvas and paint and varnish and veneer, smells all new to Will, smells all flavoured with the magic of a bygone age.

To the left and the right of him, and for many, many metres beyond, stood tall metal racks, upon which hung …

Art.

High Art. The Art of the Victorians.

Will took a deep breath. It was all a little too much for him to really be in the presence of all this. His knees were trembling, his mouth was dry. Will was scared. But for all this, he felt something, something that perhaps he’d never really felt before. He felt alive. He felt that he was on a mission. And it thrilled him greatly.

The racks moved upon casters and Will slid one out at random, exposing the work of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, one of the great Pre-Raphaelites.

Will found himself confronting Proserpine .

He felt almost impelled to kneel.

Will took another deep breath. He should so not be here. This was so bad.

Will had the reference number of Mr Dadd’s painting penned on the back of his hand. And he also had a plan, which was a good plan – or would be, if it worked. Which it could only do if the iconoclasts who wanted to destroy the painting had not got to it first.

Will slid the rack containing Rossetti’s Proserpine back into place and checked the writing on his hand.

Aisle 33, rack 409, painting number five.

Will went about his business.

And he was all but on the point of completing his business when he heard the noise of a door being opened. And not just any door, but the very door that Will had entered by.

“Oh damn,” said Will to himself. “But perhaps I should have expected it.” He edged quietly away and hid himself amongst the racks.

“This way,” he heard a voice say.

“Are you sure?” he heard another.

“Well of course I’m sure.”

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Well, not here, but I’ve been to other places. I do know how to read a plan.”

“Oh yes, of course you do.”

These voices were young voices. And, to Will’s surprise, they were also female voices.

“It’s aisle 33, rack 409, painting number five,” said the first female voice. Will slipped a little further away.

“And what are we to do with this painting?” asked the second female voice.

“Burn it,” said the first voice. “Like we’ve done with the others.”

“We should burn them all,” said the second voice. “Just to be sure. There are too many loose ends.”

“They get fewer every day. All traces of the other past are being eradicated. There’s not much left. The Sisterhood is safe. The Sisterhood will remain in control.”

Will cocked his head to one side. The Sisterhood? Would that be the Sisterhood of Sainsbury’s? It was the only Sisterhood Will had ever heard of. The voices were close now; Will pressed himself into the shadows. He could see the tops of their heads: a violet wig, decorated with plastic flowers, and a pink wig. Big wigs on big heads. Will ducked his own head and held his breath.

“Here we are,” said the first voice. “Rack 409, slide it out.” Sounds of racks sliding reached Will.

“Painting number five, fish it down.”

“It’s a big one, we can’t burn it here. Where’s the anomaly, do you think?”

“Who cares. Fish it down; we’ll smash it up here and bag it.”

“Fair enough.”

Will heard further sounds, of stampings and tearings and breakings, and then of baggings-up, all accompanied by gleeful cries of triumph.

“Job done,” said the first voice. “Let’s go and get lunch in the canteen.”

The sounds of footfalls diminished. The sounds of the door opening and closing followed.

Will emerged from the shadows. He took himself over to rack 409 and viewed the space where painting number five had hung.

“A job well done,” said Will. “A job very well done.”

Which might have appeared a rather odd thing for him to say, had it not been for the fact that Will held in his hands The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke .

And it did have to be said that he had rather enjoyed the sounds of the Rothko that he had substituted for Dadd’s masterpiece being stomped to smithereens and then bagged up.

A large smile now appeared upon the face of Will Starling. And a sigh of relief escaped from his lips.

“I no longer need to steal this painting,” said Will to himself. “All I have to do is hide it somewhere here, recatalogue it under a different name, and tell no one. Job done, I think.”