“Yes?” said Will. “So?”

“Oh nothing.” Tim shrugged and tucked back the hair that now engulfed him. “So what happened next? Did you go to the launching of the Victorian moonship?”

“Not yet,” Will’s glass was once more empty. “That hasn’t happened yet in the time I’ve returned here from. I think I might go on to halves now,” he said. “Or I will shortly be too drunk to continue with the telling of my tale.”

“Right,” Tim drained his glass to its naked bottom. “But this Barry, whatever he might be. Is he still inside your head?”

Will nodded and tapped at his earhole. “Still in there,” said he. “Which is how I came to be here with you.”

Tim cocked his head upon one side and peered thoughtfully at Will. “Would you like me to winkle him out?” he asked. “I’d be happy to let him nestle in my bonce, if you want. I’m ever so keen to get going on whatever it is we’re supposed to be be getting going on.”

“Oh no,” said Will and he shook his head vigorously.

“Easy, chief,” said Barry. “I was having a nap.”

“Sorry, Barry,” said Will.

“Did he speak to you?” Tim made a most excited face.

“He rarely shuts up. But I’ll hang on to him for now. I’ve grown somewhat attached to Barry. We’ve been through a lot together.”

Tim shrugged once more and took himself off to the bar.

“Are you sure we really need him?” Barry asked. “I can find you far better, I really can.”

“We do,” said Will. “I’m still running things, remember?”

“As if you are, chief.”

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘Of course you are, chief’.”

“Well I am and that’s that. I’ll tell Tim the story and then we’ll all go back and sort out the last part. And then you and I can go our separate ways.”

“I might take Tim up on his offer, chief.”

“I thought you’d been having a nap.”

Tim returned with the drinks. “I just love this pub,” he said, placing two pints upon the table.

“I asked for a half,” said Will.

“The part-time barman wouldn’t hear of it. Heroes drink pints, he said. And he sells pork scratchings. Imagine that. Pork scratchings!” Tim waved a packet at Will.

“This wombat is thrilled by pork scratchings.” Barry wriggled about in Will’s brain.

“We don’t have pork scratchings any more,” said Will. “There aren’t any pigs any more.”

“You’re not all vegetarians, I hope,” Barry now shivered.

“Most foods are synthetic,” said Will.

“You’re talking to him again, aren’t you?” Tim sat himself down. “Could I see him if I peeped in your ear?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Okay, fine by me. So, go on with your tale.”

“Well,” said Will. “I have to tell you, I wasn’t feeling too well.”

“Nerves, I suppose.” Tim took up his latest pint and supped upon it. “What with you knowing that another Victorian Terminator robot might well be on your tail.”

“That constantly worried me.” Will glanced towards the saloon bar door. “I was always looking over my shoulder. But it wasn’t that.”

“So, go on.”

And Will went on.

Will awoke in Mr Merrick’s spare bed in Bedstead Square, at the London Hospital, Whitechapel. A now unappealing woman snored on top of him. Across the room, on a somewhat grander bed Mr Merrick slept in a seated position, his knees drawn up and his monstrous head resting upon them. It was the first light of day now and in that first light, Will viewed the full grotesquery of Mr Joseph Carey Merrick: the horrible pendulous flaps and folds of skin, the spongiform eruptions, the grubby underwear. And this man was a big hit with the ladies!

Will yawned silently and then took to gripping his forehead. It was possibly the worst hangover he’d ever had. Whatever had he been drinking last night? Will took to shivering. Medical alcohol, that was it. Laced with absinthe and mescal. A Merrickan Express, Mr Merrick had called it. Because it gets you into the “Love Tunnel” and makes you “Elephant’s trunk”. And it had.

Will now dimly remembered his former awakening. And the business of Mr Merrick and the transmitter. That had been true, hadn’t it? Or had he dreamed it? Had it been the drink? Will didn’t know for sure.

To be absolutely certain, he’d have to get another look into the adjoining room where the equipment had been. Will tried to rise, but the recumbent female weighed heavily upon his chest. Will eased her off and she made curious whimpering sounds. Will swung his legs down from the bed, rose with difficulty and staggered as quietly as he could across the room to the door in question.

Will reached out to the doorknob.

And then Will groaned.

There was no doorknob, as there was no door.

“No door,” whispered Will. “Barry, are you awake?”

“Keep the noise down, chief. I’ve got a right hangover here.”

“You’ve got a hangover?”

“I sustain myself on your vital juices, chief. Which means I’m pretty pickled. Can we get out of here and have some coffee? And some breakfast too?”

“Not yet. Something very weird happened last night.”

“You are the master of understatement, chief. You had a foursome with the Elephant Man and a couple of foreign princesses. I’d head on out before the paparazzi arrive, if I were you.”

“There was a door here and—”

“Did it open into another world, chief? Was there a big lion and a witch?”

“There was some very strange equipment.”

“I’ll just bet there was. Thankfully, I slept through that bit.”

“Oh, forget it.”

“Consider it forgotten, chief. So breakfast, is it? Sausages, eggs, bacon. No tomatoes, no mushrooms, no potatoes.”

Will shuffled back to his bed, found his trousers, shirt, cravat and shoes, and tweedy cap, dressed and quietly took his leave.

19

Whitechapel was beautiful at this time of the morning. But then so many places are. Unlikely places, even scrapheaps and abattoirs, have a romantic quality about them at sun up. It’s probably down to the fresh air and the silence and the light.

Will wandered through the deserted streets.

It was all rather magical, but Will’s head hurt him very much.

A potato lay in the gutter and, much to Barry’s horror, Will kicked it along before him.

“So what are your plans for today, then, chief?” asked the sprout. “Scarf down a big boy’s breakfast, then back on the omnibus and off to—”

“Wimpole Street,” said Will. “That’s where we’re going.”

“But why are we going there, chief? It’s so obvious that Mr Rune was pointing you towards—”

“Chiswick?” Will dribbled the potato along the pavement.

“Finally sunk in has it, chief? And kindly leave that poor spud alone.”

Will paused in mid dribble and took in big-breath-lungfuls. They never really help when you have a hangover, but you feel compelled to take them nonetheless.

“I will get to Chiswick in my own good time,” said Will. “And if those witches really exist and are the terrible threat to society which Rune considered them to be, perhaps I’ll look into the matter.”

Barry made oh dear, oh dearings.

“But I don’t believe that witches were responsible for the brutal murdering of five women. Witches, as far as I understand them, have strongly-held feminist convictions.”

“But you joined up the sites of the murders, chief. You saw the inverted pentagram. That spells witchcraft, whichever way you care to spell it.”

“I could have joined the sites together to form almost anything,” Will said. “A pentagon, for instance.”

“Well, yes, chief, I suppose you could.”

“And I could have chosen any point to draw a line to the site of Rune’s murder. The permutations are endless.”

“So hang about, chief. Why then did we go to Buckingham Palace?”

“Because there was someone I hoped to meet there.”