“Well.” Will finished his pint of Large, smacked his lips and drew his knuckle across them. “I feel fully reinvigorated and I am glad that we are all here. Tim, what did you come up with on Rune’s computer?”

“Not much,” said Tim. “Shortly after you left me the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild website went offline. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that they’d discovered that I’d hacked into it.”

Will sighed.

“Nice sighing, sir,” said Gammon. “You may not be Dan Leno when it comes to performing the thoughtful face. But when it comes to sighing, your performance is nonpareil.”

Will sighed once more.

“Bravo,” said Gammon and he clapped his wrinkly hands.

“I will explain everything,” said Will, “to you, Master Scribbens, and to you, Mr Wells, wherever you might be.”

“I’m here,” said Mr Wells.

“And then I will explain my plan. We, together, can win the war against this Count Otto Black and his coven of witches. It can be done, and it will be done, and I know how to do it.”

“Do what, chief?” asked a voice in Will’s head.

“Barry,” said Will.

“Barry?” said Master Scribbens.

“Will’s Holy Guardian,” said Tim. “Inside Will’s head. It speaks to him.”

Master Scribbens now sighed.

“Not bad,” said Gammon.

“You little green sod,” said Will. “Where were you when I needed you?”

“Sorry, chief. Oh my goodness, Mr Rune’s study, what have you done to it?”

“I was in mortal peril and you were sleeping.”

“Time travel, chief. Very exhausting. I needed time to regenerate my awesome powers.”

“I nearly died.”

“You seem fine to me, chief. Although perhaps a bit puffed. Heart rate’s up somewhat.”

“Just be quiet,” said Will.

“And Master Scribbens is here,” said Barry. “What’s that slimy schmuck doing here?”

“He’s helping me, and so is Mr Wells.”

“Oh dear,” said Barry. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

“Just be quiet. I’m dealing with this.”

“And another oh dear for luck.”

“How’s Barry?” Tim asked.

“Taking a nap!” said Will. “Now let’s continue. We are here, and we will succeed; the gang of five.”

“Five, sir,” said Gammon. “Are you thinking to include me?”

“Why not?” Will asked.

“Because I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I have a great deal of cleaning up to do here.”

“All right, the gang of four.”

“Five,” said Barry. “Don’t forget me, chief.”

“Four!” said Will.

“Ungrateful oaf.”

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘You’ll probably want to take a faithful oath’.”

“Yes,” said Will. “Something like that,” and he raised his empty glass. “To success,” said he. “To the destruction of the witches and to saving the future. We will save the future. We will save history. We are the four.”

“We are the four,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens.

“We are the four,” said Mr H.G. Wells.

“The Fantastic Four,” said Tim.

“That’s been done,” said Will.

“The Fab Four, then.”

“That too.”

“The Four Tops?” said Tim. “The Four Feather Falls Appreciation Society? The Four Mile Island? The four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie? The Four Gospels? The Four Horsemen of the—”

“Stop!” said Will.

“How about The Far-Fetched Four?” said Barry. “That seems about right to me.”

40

Whoa – War! Uh!

Now, what is that good for?

In most opinions.

Absolutely nothing!

God Gawd, y’all—

The Far-Fetched Four held a counsel of war, but not in the manse of the late Hugo Rune.

Gammon ushered them out of there amid many apologies regarding pressing cleaning duties and the need for the Four to make good their getaway lest robotic reinforcements arrive.

“I will, as our colonial cousins are want to put it, muff it out with them, should they appear,” he said.

“It’s bluff it out,” said Tim, tittering foolishly.

“You will be needing this, sir,” said Gammon, and he handed Will a slim metal pouch engraved with enigmatic symbols.

“What is it?” Will asked.

“It’s a slim metal pouch engraved with enigmatic symbols,” Gammon informed him.

“And what is in this pouch?”

“The Scorpion, sir. The Master’s Scorpion. To be used against the witches when the moment arises.”

“But what exactly does it do?”

Gammon tapped at his veiny nose.

“And what does that mean?” Will asked.

“Shagged if I know,” said Gammon. “The Master said that I should give it to you when the time was right, and I consider the time to be right. At least it is upon my watch, I don’t know about yours. And so, farewell and may God travel with you. And if I might just offer you a piece of advice which is an ultimate truism and guide to life.”

“You might,” said Will. “If you really want to.”

“It’s the best advice I’ve ever had,” said Gammon. “I read it on the side of a matchbox. It is, ‘keep dry and away from children’.”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Will and he waved goodbye to Gammon.

And now the Far-Fetched Four sat in the Flying Swan, in a corner booth, but close to the door. Tim returned from the saloon bar counter with four pints of Large, skilfully held, and placed them upon the mahogany top of the cast iron Britannia table.

“Cheers, everybody,” he said as he seated himself.

“Cheers,” said Master Makepiece Scribbens, underaged drinker of the borough.

“Cheers,” said Mr William Starling, prospective saviour of the Future.

And, “Cheers,” said Mr H.G. Wells and his glass rose magically into the air and emptied half its contents into nothingness.

“How does he do that?” Tim asked. “You’d think you’d be able to see the ale swilling around in his guts.”

“It has to be magic, doesn’t it?” said Mr Wells. “Because otherwise, how could I actually see? The light passes through my retinas and travels straight out of the back of my head. Logically I should be blind.”

“Let’s not let logic get in the way of anything,” said Will. “How’s the ale, Master Scribbens?”

“Eminently superior to the hog’s piss that Count Otto Black used to feed me upon.”

“He treated you badly, then?”

“Not badly, not really, just without care. He is a man without any human conscience. People mean nothing to him.”

“Psychopath,” said Tim.

“I don’t know what that word means.”

“It’s a person afflicted with a personality disorder, characterised by a tendency to commit antisocial and even homicidal acts without conscience or a sense of guilt,” said Tim. “Or at least that’s what it says in the dictionary.”

“That would be Count Otto.”

“The murderer of Hugo Rune?” Will asked.

Master Scribbens shrugged his shapeless shoulders, replaced his glass onto the tabletop and slid it about in a distracted fashion. The glass’s bottom left a silvery trail.

Aware that the eyes of his fellows were upon it, Master Scribbens said, “Sorry, it happens. I can’t help it.”

“Forget it,” said Will. “I’m glad that you decided to join us upon our quest. You are aware that great danger lies ahead for us?”

“Obviously so. I might be weird, but I’m not wyrd, if you understand my meaning.”

“I do,” said Will. “So let us formulate our plan of campaign.”

Tim put down his glass and rubbed his hands together. “I just know I’m going to love this,” he said. “So, what is the plan?”

“Well, the way I see it,” said Barry.

Will shook his head. “No, Barry,” he said, “I will take care of this.”

“But, chief. It’s really straightforward. All you have to do is—”

“No!” Will took from his belt the stiletto fashioned from nails and timber reputed to come from the True Cross, pushed the blade into his left ear and rooted all about with it.