Nostradamus Ate My Hamster (9 page)

“Yeah, you can laugh, but if you’d ever seen these monsters.”

Russell stopped laughing. He
had
seen them, chasing after the beautiful gold-clad blonde at The Ape of Thoth. “Go on,” he said.

“I ran. Like I say. Back to the
Flügelrad
. I lost the big black monsters in the park and I got back on board. But I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how you worked the thing. I didn’t have the driver’s manual.”

“Driver’s manual,” Russell began to laugh again.

“Stop bloody laughing. You’re pissed, you.”

“I’m not pissed. Go on, tell me what happened next. I’m loving all this. Well,
some
of all this.”

“I only wanted to escape. At that moment I didn’t care whether it was forwards or backwards. Any time would do. So I started pushing buttons and pulling levers and then there was all this banging on the hull. I pissed myself.”

Russell curled double. “I bet it didn’t half smell in there then.”

“You’re not kidding. But I got it going. Somehow I got it going and I got it going into reverse. I know you’re going to say, ‘That’s handy.’ Well it was, I can tell you. And I ended up back here. Right back where I started off from. Except, and this is the good bit, the good bit that got the bloody
Flügelrad
here, into
this
hangar. I got back a day earlier than I set out.”

“That would be the Tuesday,” said Russell.

“That’s right,” said Bobby Boy.

“That’s wrong,” said Russell.

“No it bloody isn’t.”

“Yes it bloody is.”

“Isn’t.”

“Is.”

“Is not.”

“It
is
,” said Russell, “because you were at work on Tuesday.”

“I know,” said Bobby Boy. “I saw me. I peeped through the window and actually saw me.”

“This is all lies,” said Russell. “Although …”

“I did worry about that,” said Bobby Boy. “Because there were two of me then. And I thought how can that work? Will there always be two of me now?”

“And are there?” Russell reached for the bottle. Bobby Boy drew it beyond his reach.

“No, the other one caught up, you see.”

“I don’t think that would work.”

“Who cares what
you
think?”

“Good point.” Russell creased up again.

“I got back before Hitler and his henchmen had arrived, so I had time, you see. Time on
my
side. So I covered the
Flügelrad
up with branches and corrugated iron and stuff and I went off and borrowed Leo Felix’s pick up.”

“You nicked it.”

“I didn’t nick it, as it happens. He’s a mate, he lent it to me.”

“And you hoisted up the
Flügelrad
and brought it here?”

“That’s what I did.”

“Well,” said Russell, “I don’t know what to say really.”

“You could say, ‘What a hero you are, Bobby Boy.’”

“I could,” said Russell. “But I’m not going to. So what happened next, or is that the end?”

“No, it’s not quite the end. Having got the old
Flügelrad
here and having had a shower and changed my trousers, I set about rigging up the Cyberstar equipment.”

“Er, just one thing,” said Russell. “You brought the
Flügelrad
here. But who owns this hangar, anyway?”

“I do.”

“
You
do?”

“My dad gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday, it was going to be my own film studio.”

“Oh yeah,” said Russell. “Your dad owns the brewery, doesn’t he? But I thought you and he –”

“Had a bit of a falling out. Yes, he’s cut me out of his will and everything. I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Sorry I mentioned it. Go on about the Cyberstar equipment.”

“Yeah, well, I unpacked it and set it up and plugged it in and read the instructions and then …”

“Then?”

“Then I find that the bloody programmer is missing. It’s not in the box. I can’t get the thing to work.”

“That’s tough,” said Russell. “After all you’d been through, so dishonestly and everything.”

“Up yours, Russell. So I thought, Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ll just have to zap forward to 2045 again and acquire a programmer.”

“So you won’t need the one I’ve got then.”

“Oh yes I will, because I can’t get the
Flügelrad
to work any more. I think it’s out of fuel or whatever. I was going to have another crack at it tonight, then you showed up.”

“And you tried to stave my head in with a length of piping.”

“Yeah, well, you could have been anyone, you could have been –”

“I could have been Hitler, or one of his henchmen.”

“You’re damn right. But all’s ended well. Give me the programmer please, Russell.” Bobby Boy stuck out his hand.

Russell moved beyond its range and gave his nose a bit of a scratch. It was a tad numb, was that nose. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? I’ve told you the story and you agreed to give me the programmer. What is there to know?”

“Quite a bit, as it happens. Like the circumstances by which I came by this.”

“You’re pissed, Russell.”

“Just a bit, just a bit. But how I came by the programmer, that was very strange. There had to be a reason why it was given to
me
personally. I’m involved in this, or I’m
going
to be involved in this.”

Bobby Boy nodded his long thin head. “I’ll tell you what, Russell,
don’t
give it to me.”

“What?” asked Russell.

“Just
lend
it to me. You keep possession of it, right? It’s
yours
, right? But you just give me a lend of it.”

“I suppose that couldn’t do any harm.” Russell rattled his glass and Bobby Boy hastened to refill it. To the top.

“So, we have a deal. We’ll be partners if you want. Like Merchant and Ivory, or Metro, Goldwyn and Mayer, or, er …”

“Pearl and Dean?” Russell suggested. “Russell and Bob, we could call ourselves.”

“Or, Bob and Russell.”

“I like Russell and Bob best.”

“Look it doesn’t bloody matter, Russell. There’ll be millions of pounds knocking about for both of us. I’ll draw up a contract.”

“
I’ll
draw up a contract.”

“We’ll both draw up a contract together. Now, if you will kindly
lend
me your programmer, I’ll show you something you’ll never forget.”

Russell knocked back his glass of Scotch, fell off his chair and said, “Can I use your toilet first?”

It certainly
was
something Russell would never forget. And not just the one something, loads of separate somethings. Bobby Boy set up the Cyberstar equipment, took the programmer and fiddled about with it. It was a bit like one of those radio-control things, with a joy stick and switches to work the arms and legs of the holograms and a throat mic, so that when you spoke, what you said came out of the hologram’s mouth in
their
voice. It was truly amazing. And the holograms were truly amazing. They looked so damn real. Bobby Boy had a video camera on a stand and they took it in turns to act alongside the golden greats of Hollywood. Bobby Boy squared up against Sylvester Stallone (in his Rocky persona) and knocked him out in a single round. Russell danced with Ginger Rogers. They did excerpts from everything from
The Fall of the House of Usher
to
The Sound of Music
. Songs from the shows and laughter echoed around Hangar 18 and tape after tape went in and out of the camcorder.

It was five in the morning when Russell staggered home to collapse onto his bed. It was three in the afternoon when he woke up.

And he did not feel at all well. Russell looked at his bedside clock and a strangulated cry escaped his parched lips.

Late for work. He was late for work! He’d never been late for work in his life. He’d let the side down, let his work mates down, this was terrible.
Terrible
!

Russell dragged his legs from the bed and put his head in his hands. He’d really screwed up here. How irresponsible. He’d have to apologize to everyone. Perhaps he should take Mr Fudgepacker a bottle of his favourite Scotch, after all …

Russell groaned. He’d spent the night drinking stolen Scotch, mucking about with stolen technology, recording it all on what was just bound to be a stolen camcorder. He was a bona fide criminal. Terrible.
Terrible
!

The room went in and out of focus. Somehow more terrible, were all those unanswered questions. What
was
going to happen? How did it involve the barmaid from The Bricklayer’s Arms? How had she been in the future, and where was she now? Was she safe? Had those clanking things caught up with her? And what about Hitler? That human fiend was abroad on the streets of Brentford. And streets of Brentford that would one day be given German names, in a future run by the Nazis. Terrible hardly seemed a strong enough word. If Russell could have come up with a stronger one, he would have.

“I have to get to work.” Russell tried to rise, but sank back onto his bed. “Oh God. What have I done?”

Fallen from a state of grace in a big, big way. That was what.

With much groaning and moaning and many a sideways stagger, Russell left his bedroom, then his house and bumbled off towards Fudgepacker’s.

The day was another sunny one. Brentford, as usual, was breaking all the records when it came to hot summers. Across the river, the rain poured down on Kew and in the distance, a heavy fog lay over Chiswick. You couldn’t see Hounslow from where Russell was bumbling along, but it was odds on that snow was falling there.

Russell pushed upon the big church door and found that it would not open. Russell pushed again. No go.

“What’s going on?” Russell asked himself.

There was a note nailed to the big church door. It wasn’t the one Martin Luther had nailed up several centuries before. That one was inside in a showcase. This was a new note. It was written in Frank’s handwriting. It read:

CLOSED FOR BUSINESS.

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY PLEASE CONTACT FRANK AT THE BRICKLAYER’S ARMS

“What?” went Russell. “What is all this?”

It was a shame that he hadn’t been told, what with him having just walked by The Bricklayer’s Arms, and everything.

Russell tried to turn upon his heel, but he couldn’t quite manage it this time, so he sort of stumbled in a circle, then set to trudging.

Sounds of much merriment came from The Bricklayer’s Arms. Russell pushed upon the door and it opened without a fuss. As he lurched inside a big cheer went up.

“Eh?” went Russell.

“For he’s a jolly good fellow,” sang a crowd of merrymakers. Russell viewed these with his blood-shot eyes. As they went in and out of focus he could make out Bobby Boy and Morgan and Frank and old Ernest, and a few production buyers he hadn’t seen for a while.
And
the blonde barmaid. Julie, wasn’t it?

Russell went “eh?” once more as old Ernest came hobbling over.

“You are a genius, my boy,” said old Ernest, feebly patting Russell on the back. “And when I say genius, I know what I’m talking about. There’s inspired and there’s genius, inspired is all well and good, but genius is genius. And I should know, I –”

“What is going on?” Russell asked.

Old Ernest turned to the crowd, who raised glasses to Russell. “He asks what’s going on, the boy who’s saved the company. The genius. Have a drink, have a drink. Champagne, Julie my darling, more champagne.”

Ernest patted Russell towards the bar.

“I am perplexed,” Russell said.

Bobby Boy grinned at him. “Such modesty.”

“What?”

“I told them everything,” said Bobby Boy. “About
your
invention.”

“My what?”

“Your invention. Your
holographic
invention, the Cyber-star system, that
you
invented. The one you demonstrated to me last night.”

“
Me?”

Bobby Boy made the face that says, “Go along with this, I’ll explain everything later,” without actually saying it.

“Oh,” said Russell. “
That
invention.”

“
That
invention, yes. And how we discussed its applications and who we should get to direct this movie that is going to be the biggest blockbusting movie ever made. Apart from the sequel, of course. And how
you
suggested Mr Fudgepacker as the director.”

“Oh,” said Russell. And it was a low “Oh,” a kind of low groaning kind of an “Oh”. He hadn’t suggested any such thing. Although he did recall going on at Bobby Boy about how he wanted to help out Mr Fudgepacker.

“So we’re all celebrating.”

“Yes,” said Russell. “So you are.”

“And I
really
want to thank you,” said the blonde beauty behind the bar.

“
You
do?” Russell tried to focus his eyes upon her and succeeded with next to no effort at all.

“Giving me a lead role, I’ve always wanted to be in the movies.”

Russell glanced towards Bobby Boy, who raised his eyebrows and his glass. “Cheers,” said Bobby Boy.

“Do you want some champagne, Russell?” asked the barmaid.

“No,” said Russell. “Just a Perrier water. And a sandwich.”

“Coming right up.” The beautiful barmaid gave Russell such a smile that he began to tingle all over. Most pleasantly.

Bobby Boy stuck his tricky little mouth close by Russell’s ear. “Don’t thank me now,” he said.

“So,” smiled Frank, giving Russell a pat on the back. “Prop man, brilliant.”

“Prop man?” Russell asked.

“Thank you very much,” said Frank. “Making me a prop man again. It will be just like the old days at Pinewood. These holograms of yours, do they smoke? Because I’d really like to light Marilyn Monroe’s cigarette.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged.”

“You’re a gent,” said Morgan, patting Russell on the parts that Frank wasn’t patting. The “back” parts, nothing more personal. “Promotion.”

“Promotion?”

“Well, I’m in charge of the Emporium now, manager. Now Frank’s going to be the prop man for the movie.”

“Oh, yes, right.”

“Perrier and sandwiches, Russell.” Julie placed a glass in Russell’s hand and pushed a splendid plate of sandwiches towards him. “If there’s anything else you want, all you have to do is whistle. Whistle, eh? Like thingy in that film.”

“
To Have and Have Not,”
said Frank. “Lauren Bacall, I hailed a cab for her once.”

“Sure you didn’t
drive
it?” asked old Ernest. “You talk like a bleeding cabbie.”

Russell sipped at his Perrier water. “Hang about,” he said suddenly. “Mr Fudgepacker is directing, Morgan is running the company, Frank is prop man, Bobby Boy is –”

“Starring,” said Bobby Boy. “What else?”

“What else, right. So what am
I
doing in all this?”

“You’re producing,” said Bobby Boy. “You’re the producer.”

“Oh,” said Russell. “The producer. That’s really important, isn’t it?”

“About as important as it can be.”

“Apart from the director,” said Ernest. “But then the director could never direct if the producer didn’t produce.”

“Well,” said Russell. “That is pretty good and important, isn’t it?”

“You’re right,” said Ernest. “You’re so right. You genius.”

Glasses were raised once more and another verse of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” was sung. It was the same verse as the first verse. As “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” only has the one verse. And the chorus, of course, which is “And so say all of us”.

“Thank you,” said Russell. “Thank you all very much.”

“No, thank
you
,” said the “all of us”.

“Er, Bobby Boy?” said Russell, sipping Perrier and munching on a sandwich that contained
fresh
ham. “What
exactly
does a producer do?”

“He raises the money to make the picture.”

“Oh,” said Russell. “That’s what he does.”

“That’s what he does.”

“And how does he do
that
?
Exactly
?”

“He finds backers to invest in the picture. Sort of buy shares. They get a percentage of the take afterwards. Should be an absolute piece of cake, considering what
we
have to offer. What about last night, eh? You and Elvis, eh? What a duet.”

“Oh yes, I’d forgotten about Elvis.”

“So that’s what you do. You’re a hero, Russell.” Bobby Boy now spoke in a confidential tone, which is to say, a whisper. “I’ve let
you
take all the credit. Well, I couldn’t tell them the truth, could I? They’d never have believed it, but this way it will work, I showed Ernest the videos and he went for it. It’ll save his company and everyone’s jobs. And we’ll get rich in the process. You
are
a hero.”

“A hero.” Russell grinned. “Thanks a lot. A hero, well. My goodness.”

“There you go,” said Bobby Boy. “You deserve it, you’ve got it.”

“Thanks a
big
lot.”

“No problem.”

“Right. Here, Bobby Boy. One thing. As producer it is all
my
responsibility, right? I mean the movie can’t be made unless
I
get the money, right?”

“Right.”

“So how much money do
I
need to raise?”

Bobby Boy stroked his long thin chin. “About forty million pounds should cover it,” he said.

The crowd sort of parted as Russell fell down. But they gathered about him and they looked all concerned. They looked
very
concerned, after all, he
was
the producer.

“Are you all right, Russell?” they went. “Speak to us, are you all right?”