Robert Rankin - The Witches of Chiswick

And that was that really. Except of course that it wasn’t. For Will was now greatly intrigued: hugely, greatly intrigued. Why did the painting have to be destroyed? And what was this Sisterhood, that had the authority to come into the Tate’s archive and do the destroying? What kind of power did this Sisterhood have? And what was this business of “the other past”, all traces of which were being eradicated? Will was very hugely greatly intrigued. And as he had seemingly got away with saving the Dadd, well, why not try to find out what all this was really about?

Will rehung the Dadd amongst some French Impressionists that he had previously checked on his screen. Assured that it would be safe there for the time being, he took himself off to the staff canteen.

It was Will’s intention to get himself very close to the two female iconoclasts and listen in to their conversation, but sadly, this was not to be.

Will joined the food queue, and Tim McGregor joined Will.

“Hi, Will,” said Tim in a jovial fashion. “How are you doing?”

“Very well, Tim,” said Will, taking up his tray and preparing to load it.

“You look a bit hyper,” said Tim. “Not been up to anything naughty, I trust?”

Will grinned at Tim. Tim was all of Will’s height, big of hair and beard and of a medium build that was neither fat nor thin. Tim was Will’s bestest friend. They’d been to corporate school together and remained close ever since. Tim, a gifted computer programmer, was presently in Forward Planning at the Tate; his influence had got Will his job.

Tim was a practising Pagan – possibly, for all Will knew, the very last practising Pagan there was. Paganism had never really made it to the big time when it came to religions, and now even the big-time religions were nothing more than memory. Those that had not been absorbed and altered by corporate sponsorship had been consigned to the web pages of history: Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, all had vanished from the Earth, along with The Church of Branson, The Church of Elvis, The Church of England, Knotee (a string-worshipping cult) and, most recently, Roman Catholicism.

That the Church of Rome should have been dropped by its corporate sponsor had come as a bit of a shock to its millions of followers, and also to Will, who had been considering giving it a go because he’d heard that a lot of nice-looking girls of an easy-going disposition frequented its youth clubs.

Tim had explained to Will that he, Tim, had been made privy to “certain sensitive information” regarding the Church of Rome losing its sponsorship, information, which came to him via “certain contacts in the know”.

According to Tim’s contacts, a serious scandal centring upon St Peter’s of Rome had caused the sponsors to pull out.

Will had listened wide-eyed and open-mouthed while Tim explained the situation. Apparently it was down to the many incorruptible bodies of the saints housed in the catacombs beneath St Peter’s, which were not altogether what they appeared. It had always been accepted by the Church of Rome that a would-be saint must have three attestable miracles to his (or her) account before his (or her) death. And upon later exhumation, the body must not have decayed: that is, it should remain inviolate and incorruptible.

The problem was that there is another order of dead person that does not rot in the grave. The vampire.

And thus it was that many of the so-called saints interred beneath St Peter’s were in fact vampires. And these had, over the years, upon their many night-time forays in search of sustaining blood, managed to infect most of the clergy. And the infection had finally reached the Pope.

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you as suspicious,” Tim had said to Will, “how over the years Popes have lasted for so long and grown so very, very old? And how when they go out in public they are always inside Pope-mobiles with polarised glass windows or heavily shielded from sunlight beneath great big awnings and suchlike?”

Will had scratched at his blondy head. “Not really,” he replied.

“Well it’s true,” said Tim. “A team of Fearless Vampire Killers, a special division of the SAS trained for such action, abseiled down into St Peter’s and the Vatican and exterminated the lot of them: the Pope, the cardinals, monks and nuns and choirboys. Of course it wasn’t on the newscasts, but these things never are. Stuff like this happens all the time; it’s just that we never hear about it.”

Will had shaken his head and shrugged. It sounded as good an explanation as any. Will wondered whether he might apply to join the SAS Vampire Division. It sounded like an exciting kind of job.

“What are you doing at the weekend?” Tim asked.

“Nothing much,” said Will, anxiously looking towards the now distant topknots of the female iconoclasts.

“Fancy something a bit different?” Tim asked.

“Not really bothered,” said Will, scooping random foodstuffs onto his tray.

“You’ll love this, a dose of the old time travel.”

“A dose of what ?” Will ceased his foodstuff scoopings.

“I’ve got some Retro,” whispered Tim. “Half a dozen tabs.”

“That stuff’s illegal and it doesn’t really work, does it?”

“Keep it down.” Tim fluttered his fingers. “It does work, you can really go back into the past with it. In your head.” Tim tapped at his temple. “It allows you to access ancestral memories. They are inside your head, you see. The memories of your father before you were conceived. And your grandfather too. Depends on how much Retro you take.”

“And you really can access your father’s memories?”

“They’re inside your head, cellular, part of your genetic code. You don’t just inherit your father’s looks and hair colour, you get his memories too. But you can’t access them without chemical assistance.”

“I have my doubts about this,” said Will, helping himself to further foodstuffs. “Do you know anyone who’s actually taken Retro?”

“Well, no,” said Tim.

“And anyway, if my dad’s memories are in my head, I’d prefer that they stay somewhere hidden. I don’t want to know, thank you very much.”

“But you’d find out about all his dirty doings. Imagine, you could remember how he shagged your mum and conceived you.”

“What a hideous thought. No, thank you very much indeed.”

“Please yourself,” said Tim. “But I’ve got six tabs. That’s three each. You could go back to your precious Victorian era.”

“What?” said Will.

“It’s all inside your head,” said Tim. “Or at least that’s the theory. I’m going to take the drug on Saturday night. If you’re not interested, I’ll let you know how I get on. But you’re missing out on something special, I’m telling you.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” said Will. “But listen, can we talk later? There’s someone I have to see.”

“Don’t go near them,” said Tim. “If they even suspect that you’re listening in to their conversation, you’ll be in real trouble.”

“What?” said Will, all but dropping his tray. “What are you saying?”

“I saw you,” whispered Tim. “Those corridors down to the archive are constantly scanned. My department takes care of that. I received a memo this morning that two dignitaries were coming to inspect the archive. I was to monitor them as far as the archive security door and then erase their images from the scanning program. And I did, but guess who I caught sneaking down the corridors before they did?”

“Oh no,” said Will. “So I’m in big trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” said Tim. “I erased you too. But don’t go near them. They’re big trouble.”

“So who are they?”