“Now then, now then,” said Mr Justice Doveston, in the manner that would one day be favoured by the now (then) legendary Sir Jimmy Saville. “How’s about that, then, eh?”

“Don’t you worry about anything,” said Tim to the heavily manacled Will. “I’ll have you both out of here and walking the streets as free men in no time at all.”

“It will probably take some time,” said Will.

“Oh, yeah, some time. But not much. A couple of months at most.”

Tim McGregor struggled through the crush to approach the magistrate’s bench. “If I might just speak to you for a moment, your honour,” he said.

“Ah,” said the magistrate. “Mr McGregor, I was hoping I’d bump into you again.”

“Well, I am the counsel for the defence.”

“And you’ll have to be an exceedingly good one.”

“I’m sure I will be, your honour.”

“Because, frankly, I’m rather miffed about Freddie ‘the loser’ Lonsdale being dismissed from the case.”

“The defendant’s decision, your honour.”

“But I’ve just been informed by Freddie that he is my cousin.”

“Oh,” said Tim.

Mr Gwynplaine Dhark was suddenly at Tim’s side. “I’d like to call my first witness, if I may, your honour,” said he.

“Ah, Mr Dhark. Well, of course. Someone famous, I trust.”

Tim looked Mr Gwynplaine Dhark up and down. He literally exuded evil. It seemed to ooze from the very pores of his skin. A terrible darkness surrounded him and a terrible coldness too.

“Brrr,” went Mr Justice Doveston. “Won’t someone turn up the heating. And the lights also, it’s growing rather dark in here.”

“Your honour,” said Mr Dhark, his lips drawn up into a smile that exposed his pointed yellow teeth. “I would like to call Master Makepiece Scribbens.”

“Makepiece Scribbens?” said the magistrate. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

“But surely you have, your honour. He’s a local celebrity.”

Mr Justice D shook his bewigged bonce.

“It was in all the papers. Your honour must surely have heard of cases in the colonies when young children, separated from their parents in forests and jungles, have been adopted and raised by wolves.”

“I do believe I have,” said the magistrate, in his best speaking voice and into his microphone. “And also gazelles, and also apes. Wasn’t there that Lord Greystoke chap?”

“Indeed there was, your honour. Master Makepiece Scribbens’ family was involved in a freak electric dibber accident on Brentford allotment. His parents succumbed; Master Makepiece, a tiny helpless babe, was left alone and friendless. He would certainly have died had he not been taken in, nurtured and raised by snails.”

Mr Justice Doveston wiped a tear from his eye. “That is a most moving account,” said he. “And this poor mite can offer some pertinent testimony in this case?”

“Indeed, your honour. He witnessed the incident in its entirety. And being raised by snails he is a perfect witness, because he cannot tell a lie.”

Mr Justice Doveston nodded thoughtfully. “Snails are renowned for their honesty,” he said. “As the old adage goes, ‘What a snail knows not of honesty, a fly knows not of deceit’.”

“Your honour couldn’t speak more truth. Does your honour not perhaps have a little snail in himself somewhere?”

“Flatterer,” said Mr Justice D.

“What?” went Will.

And “What?” went the other Will also.

And “I object,” said Tim McGregor.

“And why?” asked the magistrate.

“I’m not entirely certain,” said Tim. “But I don’t like the sound of this snail boy.”

“Oooooooooooooooooooooh!” went the crowd.

And “Oooooooooooooooooooooh!” went the gentlemen of the press also, and the chaps from the BBC and even the blonde Swedish weather girl, although she made more of an “Ooh”, and threw her head back when she did it.

“What?” said Tim.

“Impugning the reputation of snails for truth-telling,” said the magistrate. “You’re stepping on slippery ground.”

“Whatever,” said Tim. “Then I don’t object. In fact I welcome this witness. Wheel the blighter in.”

“Oooooooooooooooooooooh,” went all concerned again.

“Ow!” went the blonde Swedish weather girl, and she slapped a reporter who was touching her bum.

“What?” went Tim once again. “What is everyone oooooooooooooooooooohing for, this time?”

“Wheelchair-bound,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “A rather tasteless remark on your part.”

“But,” said Tim. “But.”

“Call Master Makepiece Scribbens,” called the magistrate.

“Call Mr Monkfish Scriwens,” called the clerk of the court, who had a boil in his left ear.

“Call Mrs Mavis Wiverns,” called a court bailiff at the door, who had a wart on his bottom that was being treated by acupuncture.

“Calling occupants from interplanetary craft,” called a constable in the corridor, whose great grandson would one day find fame writing lyrics for The Carpenters.

The courtroom door was open

The crowd was silently stilled

The atmosphere was electric

All hearts were thricely thrilled

And from beyond the corridor

Came the sound of squeakity-squeak

And closer and closer and closer came someone

A man? Or a monster? A freak?

“It doesn’t have to be done in verse,” said a BBC sound technician.

“But I am the poet laureate,” said the poet laureate. “And I’m going out live on air.”

“Sorry,” said the sound technician. “Please carry on.”

“I can’t now; I’ve lost my muse.”

“Perhaps you left it in your other kilt,” said the sound technician.

“I’ll go and have a wee look,” said the poet laureate, the Great McGonagall.

And into the courtroom came Master Makepiece Scribbens, the Brentford Snail Boy.

All eyes were turned towards the door, but upon his entrance and upon the sight of him many eyes turned away in horror. But most of these soon turned back, because, well, you’d just have to have a good old look, wouldn’t you? After all, he was raised by snails.

“I do hope this is going to be worthwhile,” said Mr Justice Doveston. “There’s been an awful lot of build-up.”

“Trust me,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I’m a Queen’s Counsel.”

A nanny pushed the wheelchair. She was a very pretty young nanny, bright of eye and rosy of cheek. Her name was Miss Poppins.

Her wheelchair-bound charge was neither bright of eye, nor rosy of cheek. A blanket covered the most of him and the most of him it covered seemed lumpen and shapeless. The little of him that was visible, to whit the head region, was puffy and bloated. His eyes were scarcely visible beneath folds of pale flesh. The cranium was bald and a curious musty odour breathed out from him. The wheels of the chair left twin slimy trails upon the courtroom floor.

“Mr Monkfish Scrivvens,” said the clerk of the court, “will you please take the witness stand.”

The Brentford Snail Boy’s mouth, two flabby flaps of skin, moved and sought to push out words, but failed.

“This looks like being a bundle of laughs,” Will whispered to Tim.

“We’re in big trouble here, chief,” said Barry.

“You have to be kidding, right?”

“Damn right, chief.”

“So why did you say it?”

“Because I haven’t said anything in ages and I’m not too keen on Mollusc Man getting all the attention.”

“Can you actually take the witness stand?” Mr Justice Doveston asked the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Pish.” The word emerged from the blubbery lips. “Pish, pash, posh.”

“He’s eager,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I’ll help him to the stand. Miss Poppins, if you will assist.”

“Super-cali-fragically,” said Miss Poppins and the two of them eased the invalid from his wheelchair and carried him to the witness stand.