29

“Hands up!” Tim levelled the pistol at Mr Justice Doveston. It was a blinder of a pistol, a phase-plasma pistol (in the forty-watt range) with laser sighting and everything. Will and Tim had stopped off in the twenty-first century to acquire it. The little red laser dot jiggled about on the magistrate’s forehead.

“This is unacceptable behaviour,” complained Mr Justice D. “Put down that pistol at once and hand yourself over to the constables.”

“I’ll shoot you dead.” Tim cocked the trigger. It was one of those hair triggers.[21] The pistol went off. Tim fell back and so too did Mr Justice Doveston. Mr Justice Doveston’s wig was on fire.

“Arrest this man!” cried Mr Justice Doveston.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Tim had fallen back into the crowd, but was on his feet with remarkable speed. “Put your hands up now and have the constables release the prisoners.”

Mr Justice Doveston battered away at his smouldering wig. “My best wig. You maniac”

“Next time, it’s your head,” said Tim, putting a very brave face on things, considering just how terrified he was. “It would have been your head that time, but the tracking’s slightly off.” Tim whispered the words, “thank the Goddess,” in completion of this statement.

“All right.” The magistrate raised his hands. “Constables release the prisoners.”

The crowd had remained strangely silent throughout all this, or perhaps not so strangely. After all, when confronted by a lunatic with a pistol, don’t most of us go somewhat quiet? Whilst silently wetting ourselves.

“Everybody else out!” cried Tim. “Out of the courtroom, all of you.”

“I’ll lead the way,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“No,” said Tim. “You stay. Your honour, tell everybody else to leave.”

“Everybody else leave,” said Mr Justice Doveston.

But nobody moved. Tim glanced all around and about. “Are you free yet?” he called out to Will.

“No,” Will called back.

“Tell the constables to hurry up,” Tim told the magistrate.

“Hurry up, constables,” said this man.

But the constables seemed disinclined to obey.

“What is wrong with you please?” Tim asked. “I’ll shoot the magistrate dead.”

Silence reigned.

Tim glanced about some more.

“Don’t you care?” he asked.

Heads shook slowly. Shoulders shrugged. Someone mumbled, “not much, really.”

“All right then.” Tim turned his pistol upon Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

Heads continued to slowly shake and shoulders to shrug. Someone else mumbled, “Go on then shoot him.” And several people chuckled.

“Incredible.” Tim did further glancings, and then he sprang forward, clawed himself over the witness stand, snatched up the box of salt and held it over the head of the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Booooo!” went the crowd, “Poor show,” and “Rotter.”

“Ah,” said Tim. “Got your attention now. Clear the court. All of you. Apart from the constables, you free the prisoners. Hurry now, or the Snail Boy gets it.”

And so did they hurry. They really hurried. They pushed and barged and elbowed and fought to escape from the court. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark was trodden down by the onrushing masses and Will and his other self found themselves free at last. (Sweet Jesus, free at last).

“Shall I go too?” asked the magistrate.

“You might as well,” said Tim.

“Shall I send you the bill for the refurbishment of my wig? Or would you care to settle up now? Actually, it’s probably better that you settle up now, because it’s unlikely that you’ll escape from this courtroom alive.”

Tim raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll just go then,” said the magistrate.

“I’ll help him,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, rising from the floor and patting dust and dirt away from his dire person.

“You stay,” said Tim. “We want words with you.”

“What about me?” asked Miss Poppins. “Would you like me to stay?”

Tim smiled Miss Poppins up and down, in a lingering kind of way. “I’d love you to stay,” said Tim.

The door of the courtroom closed behind the last of the leavers, a gentleman of the press, who had managed to shoot off a couple of pictures before his departure.

Another silence settled upon the courtroom. It was broken in less than a “jiffy” and a “trice”, by the voice of the other Will.

“And that was plan ‘B’!” The other Will rolled his eyes. “Most inspired, I don’t think.”

“Tim did very well,” said Will. “He handled it very well indeed.”

“Thanks,” said Tim, and he twirled the pistol on his trigger-pulling finger and winked at Miss Poppins.

“You’re all dead men,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “The magistrate was correct in his statement. You’ll never leave this courtroom alive.”

The other Will pointed a shaky finger at the counsel for the prosecution. “Please shoot this monster,” he said to Tim.

“Now, now.” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark waggled an unshaky finger. “You’d better behave yourself, or there’ll be no rat for your dinner tonight.”

“Shall I shoot him?” Tim asked Will.

Will shook his blondy head. “Not unless you have to,” he replied. “You don’t really want to shoot someone, do you?”

“Not really,” said Tim.

“Psssssh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Oh sorry,” said Tim and he put down the box of salt. “I wouldn’t really have poured it on you.”

“Passh.”

“No problem.”

“Eh?” said Will. “You don’t really understand what he’s saying, do you?”

“Stop all this nonsense,” said the other Will. “Shoot that evil warlock. Or give me the gun and I’ll shoot him.”

“Calm down,” said Will. “Nobody’s shooting anyone.”

“Then I’ll just leave,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“Shoot him if he tries to leave,” said Will.

“You will certainly die,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“Lock him in a cell,” Will said to Tim.

“Good idea,” said Tim. “Come on, you; move.”

“Er, chief,” said Barry, when Tim and Mr Dhark had left the courtroom. “As things seem to have gone arse-upwards here, what exactly are you planning to do next?”

Will whispered behind his hand. “Shut up, Barry,” he whispered.

“But chief, the local constabulary will be tooling up outside. There may well be another demonic terminator robot thingy on the way. The street will be filled with crowds and press. Things don’t look altogether hopeful.”

“I know what I’m doing, Barry.”

“But chief, I could just whip you back in time a couple of days and you’d never have to bother with any of this. You could do things differently.”

“I’m not stupid,” whispered Will. “I know that. And don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind to whip back in time a bit further and save Hugo Rune from getting murdered.”

“Ah,” said Barry.

“Yes, ah,” whispered Will. “But you won’t let me do that, will you?”

“My remit embraces certain parameters, but beyond them I cannot go.”

“So we’ll do things my way for now, and if I really foul up, which I won’t, then I’ll ask for your help.”

“Again,” said Barry.

“We picked up Tim, because I wanted to. I’m in charge here.”

“Yeah right,” said Barry.

“What was that?”

“I said ‘you’re right’.”

“As if you did.”

“Have you quite finished?” asked the other Will.

“Excuse me?” said Will.

“Talking to the demon in your head. I heard you.”

“He’s not a demon,” said Will.

“He’s not, squire,” said Larry. “He’s just my twatty brother.”

“Leave me alone!”

“I’m sorry,” said Will.

“Not you.”

“What?”

“I’m struggling,” said the other Will and he made struggling motions with his hands. He sort of mimed struggling, although not particularly well. “There’s one of them in me. It’s driving me insane.”