Nostradamus Ate My Hamster (17 page)

“This cannot be,” shouted the Himmler person. “Unless –”

“Unless, capitan of security?”

“Unless this is the fellow mentioned in the document. The one we have been expecting. How was this fellow? Was he tall, very thin, with a tricky little mouth?”

“Got him in one,” whispered Russell.

“You have him in one, my capitan.”

“Then all is well. You are not to blame, citizen, carry on with your business, the cost of the system will be taken from your wages.”

“You’re too kind, my capitan.”

“Yes, I am the nice one.”

Russell glanced down at the counter. There all on its own stood the programmer.

“The thief will be apprehended. All is well.”

“Thank you, my capitan. Oh and one thing, my capitan.”

“What is it?”

“Well, sir, in his haste he left without the programmer. The system is useless without it. I have it here. Oh, I
don’t
have it here.”

Outside in the mall, Julie said, “You stole it, Russell, I saw you.”

“Yep,” Russell patted at the pocket which had had so much use lately. “And I’m keeping it. We can stop all this right now. If Bobby Boy never gets the programmer, he can’t work the Cyberstar equipment. And if he can’t work that, they can’t make the movie.”

They walked back along the mall.

“I hope you’re right,” said Julie.

“And why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, there’s something bothering me.”

“And that’s what?”

“Well, we both agree on what we just saw, don’t we?”

“We just saw Bobby Boy steal the equipment. We must have arrived here only moments after he did, when he made the journey from the allotments.”

“That’s what’s bothering me.”

“Go on.”

“Well, Bobby Boy came here in the
Flügelrad
, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And we came here in the
Flügelrad
, didn’t we?”

“Yes again.”

“And you think that we landed in exactly the same place he did.”

“Yes again, again.”

“But I didn’t see another
Flügelrad
parked nearby, did you?”

“Ah,” said Russell. “No I didn’t.”

“So how would you account for that?”

The worried look returned once more to Russell’s face. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think we’d better get back to the park.”

They didn’t run, they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. But they walked very fast and they were soon back at the little park behind the something-strasser.

They were just in time to see several black VW flying cars lift off and sweep away into the sky.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Julie asked.

“I’m afraid that I probably am.”

They searched the bushes and all about the place. They crossed and they recrossed their tracks. But all they found were three neat depressions in the soil. The marks of tripod legs.

The
Flügelrad
was nowhere to be seen and they were now trapped in the future.

They sat on one of the benches in the pleasant park. It had a little brass plaque on the back.
Donated to the Schauberger Memorial Park by the Nostradamus Ate My Hamster Appreciation Society
.

“The way I see it,” Russell said, “we landed only moments after Bobby Boy landed and we landed in exactly the same place. And I mean
exactly
. To the inch. And there couldn’t be two
Flügelrads
, that were the same
Flügelrad
anyway, occupying the same space, so ours sort of merged with his. The two became one. It probably obeys some basic law of physics. Remember when we landed and everything went out of focus, then went back together again? That must have been it.”

“And so Bobby Boy leapt into his
Flügelrad
, which was also our
Flügelrad
, and escaped back into the past.”

“Yes, but
I
have the programmer.” Russell gave his pocket a pat. “Oh damn.”

“Oh damn, what?”

“I don’t have my dad’s gun any more. I must have left it in the
Flügelrad
.”

“You’re not really a ‘gun’ person, Russell.”

“No, I’m most definitely not.” Russell got up from the bench and stretched his arms. “I could really do with a drink. What say we take a look in at The Flying Swan?”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

They left the park and walked hand in hand along the something-strasser.

“Do you have any money?” Julie asked.

“Not a penny,” said Russell.

And they reached The Flying Swan.

“After you.” Russell said, pushing open the door.

“You are such a gentleman, thank you.” And inside they went.

Russell glanced all about the place. This was
not
the interior of The Bricklayer’s Arms. Nothing like. Here was a far more splendid affair. An alehouse with dignity. Etched-glass partitions, long polished mahogany counter with brass foot rail (and spittoon?). Mottled dartsboard over near the Gents. An elderly piano. Six Britannia pub tables. And that certain light. That pub light, all long shafts with drifting golden motes, catching the burnished silver tips of the eight tall enamel beer pulls to a nicety.

Russell breathed it all in. It felt
right
.

There were folk all about. Casting darts, discoursing at the bar, quaffing ale and smiling. They looked
right
. No stiffness of the limbs, no vacant eyes. Real they seemed, and right.

Behind the bar the barman stood, for such is where he does. Tall and angular, slightly scholar-stooped, pale of complexion with a slick-back Brylcreme job about the head. He wore a dicky bow and crisp white shirt and he looked nothing at all like David Niven. He looked noble, though.

“Good-afternoon, madam, sir,” the barman said as they approached him.

Russell looked up at the battered Guinness clock above the bar. It
was
afternoon. It was one o’clock. It was lunch-time. Russell’s stomach rumbled. He was hungry. He was penniless.

How best to approach this problem?

“First drinks are on the house,” said the barman. “Always are to new patrons. And do help yourself to sandwiches. There’s a plate on the counter there. Ham they are and very fresh.”

“Right,” said Russell. “Thank you very much. What will you have, Julie?”

“A Perrier water please.”

“And for you, sir?”

Russell looked at Julie.

“Have anything you want,” she said.

Russell cast his eye along the row of gleaming pump handles. The barman poured Perrier and added ice and a slice. He placed it on the counter before Julie and then followed the direction of Russell’s gaze.

“We have eight real ales on pump,” he said, and a tone of pride entered his voice. “A selection which exceeds Jack Lane’s by four and the New Inn by three. You’ll find it hard to out-rival The Swan in this regard.”

“Which would you personally recommend?” Russell asked.

“Large,” said the barman. “Without hesitation.”

“Then a pint of Large it will be.” Russell watched the barman pull the pint. He had seen beer pulled before, but somehow not like this. There was something in the way this fellow did it, that elevated the thing into an art-form. It was hard to say quite how, but it was there. The angle of the glass? The speed of the pull? Something. Everything.

The barman presented Russell with the perfect pint.

Russell sipped the perfect pint.

“This is the perfect pint,” he said.

The barman inclined his noble head. “I am pleased that you find it so. Might I ask you, sir, are you Mr Russell Nice?”

Russell coughed into the perfect pint, sending some of the finest froth up his nose.

“Sorry to startle you, sir. But there are two gentlemen over there, though I hesitate to use the word gentlemen, two
fellows
, who said that you might drop in, and if you did then I was to steer you in their direction.”

Russell steered his eyes in the fellows’ direction and thought worried thoughts. Secret police? Time cops? Terminators, perhaps.

“You’ve nothing to fear,” said the barman. “They’re quite harmless. Shiftless, but harmless.”

Russell viewed the two fellows. Two young fellows, quaffing ale at a table by the window. One had an Irish set to his features. The other did not. But it was hard to tell which one.

The one it wasn’t waggled his fingers in greeting.

“What do you think?” Russell asked Julie.

“I think
you
should make the decisions.”

“Right.”

They approached the two fellows and as they did so, the two fellows rose and moved out chairs. And then extended hands for shaking.

“Good day,” said the one with the Irish set. “My name is John Omally and this is my friend and companion, James the-next-round’s-on-me Pooley.”

“The-next-round’s-on-me?” asked Pooley.

“That’s very civil of you, Jim.”

“Omally? Pooley?” Russell looked from one of them to the other and then back again, as the hand-shaking got underway. John shook Russell’s hand and Jim shook Julie’s then Jim shook John’s hand and Julie shook Russell’s, and an old boy who was passing by and didn’t want to miss out on anything, shook all their hands, and started everything off again.

Throughout all this, Russell’s mouth was opening and closing and phrases such as, “you’re them,” and “you’re those two,” and “Pooley and Omally, it’s you,” kept coming from it.

“Sit down, sit down,” said John Omally, helping Julie onto a chair, whilst once again shaking her hand.

“You too,” Jim told Russell. “I’d help you, but as you can see …”

Russell stared at Pooley, who was now shaking himself by the hand.

“Stop that, Jim,” John told him. “It’s impossible.”

“Sorry,” and Pooley sat down.

And when all were seated, the barman came over and placed a plate of ham sandwiches on the table.

“Cheers, Neville,” said Omally.

“Neville?” Russell looked up at the chap in the dicky bow. “Neville the part-time barman?”

Neville winked his good eye and returned to the bar.

“I’m confused,” said Russell. “I’m very confused.”

Omally grinned. “And you have every right to be. But tell me, sir, is this the pre-showdown pint you’re taking, or the post-showdown one?”

“I don’t think that’s helped,” said Pooley.

“Have you bested the villain?” Omally asked. “Or have you yet to best him?”

“I’ve yet to best him,” Russell said. “But what are you two doing here? How is this …? I mean, you’re real, and this place … I don’t understand.”

Jim raised his glass. “We generally take a pint or two at lunch-times,” he said.

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Omally took a sup from his pint and dabbed a knuckle at his lips. “I think, Jim, that what your man is asking, is, why are we here.”

“I’ve often asked myself that question,” said Jim. “But I rarely get any sense for a reply.”

“Allow me to explain,” said John Omally. “Now correct me if I’m wrong, but the last anyone heard of us, we were being atomised and sucked into space. And all on a Christmas Eve in some unrecorded year.”

Russell nodded.

“God rest ye merry gentlemen and then goodnight.”

Russell nodded again.

“Crash bang wallop. A bit of a shock for all concerned.”

“I did ask what happened next,” said Russell. “But Morgan said that nothing did.”

“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?”

“He did,” said Russell. “I was there when he said it.”

Omally took a further sup and drained his glass. He handed it to Mr James the-next-round’s-on-me Pooley. “Would it surprise you to know,” Omally asked, “that it was all part of a diabolical plot, hatched by a fiendish entity with a red insect face?”

“Probably not,” said Russell.

“I’m heartened to hear it. You see, Jim and I have, in episodes past, been called upon to protect Brentford from all manner of beastliness. We rise to the occasion, although Jim here always makes a fuss about it, but we get the job done. In the natural scheme of things we would be doing it now. But your man with the insect face is not part of the natural scheme of things and he doesn’t play by the rules. He put us right out of the picture.”

“But he couldn’t put Brentford out of the picture,” said Jim, tucking Omally’s empty glass under the table and taking a sip from his own. “When horror bowls a googly in Brentford, someone will always step into the crease and knock it for six.”

“Most lyrically put, Jim. And a clean glass would be fine, the same again if you will.”

Jim Pooley left the table.

“Now, let me get a grip of this,” said Russell. “Obviously you’re real, I can see you’re real, and what you’re saying is, that this creature flung you and The Flying Swan and everything into the future to stop you interfering with its plans.”

“In a word, correct. We were literally erased from the plot.”

“But if Morgan had never told me the story, I would never have got involved.”

“The story had to be told in order to put us out of the picture. Fate decreed that it would be told to you and that you would assume the role of hero and get the job done on our behalf.”

“But I haven’t got the job done.”

“But you will.”

“And how can you be so certain?”

“Because we’ve seen the end of the movie. On the pub TV, we know how it ends.”

“
You
saw the movie?” Russell jerked back in his chair. “Then you’ve been converted. You’re one of
them
.”

“The movie did all its converting back in the Nineties.
We
weren’t there in the Nineties,
we
didn’t get converted.”

“I’m going to stop that movie,” said Russell. “If I can.”

“Oh you
can
and you will. But you see the movie is really a metaphor. All of this is a metaphor. Once you’ve figured out the metaphor, everything becomes clear.”

Russell downed his perfect pint. “Well, one thing becomes immediately clear, if you’ve seen the movie, you know how it ends. Kindly tell me what I do and I’ll get right off now and do it.”

“That can’t be done, I’m afraid. I’ve watched the movie four times. Each time it has a different ending. But why not ask the lovely lady here. She was
in
the movie.”

“Julie?” said Russell.

“You’ve seen all the bits I was in,” said Julie. “I don’t know how it ends.”

“I remain totally confused,” said Russell.

Pooley returned with two pints of Large. “Have you told him your story yet, John?” he asked.

“I was about to.” Omally accepted his pint. “As Jim’s in the chair, would you care for another drink?”

“Julie?” Russell asked.

“A large gin and tonic, please.”

“And I’ll have the same again,” said Russell. “Thank you very much.”

Pooley returned, unsmiling, to the bar.

“Have you ever heard the story of the stone soup?” Omally asked. “It’s an old Irish tale. Told to me by an old Irishman.”

“No,” said Russell. “Do you think it’s going to help me?”

“Without a doubt. The metaphor is the same. Grasp it and you grasp everything.”

“Then please tell your tale.”

“Very well,” Omally said. “The setting is old Ireland, in medieval times. A ragged traveller is trudging over a bleak, lonely moor. Night is approaching and he is hungry and tired. Ahead in the distance he spies a castle. He plods towards it and reaches the door as the sky blackens over and the rain begins to fall.

“The traveller knocks and at length the door opens on the safety chain and the face of the castle cook looks out.

“‘Wotcha want?’ asks the cook.

“‘Shelter for the night,’ says the traveller.

“‘Sling yer ’ook,’ says the cook. ‘There’s no place for you ’ere.’

“‘Would you turn away a fellow man on such a night as this?’

“‘Soon as look at ’im,’ says the cook. ‘Now be on your way.’

“‘I will gladly pay for a night’s lodgings,’ says the traveller.

“‘Oh yes?’ says the cook. ‘You’re a beggar man for certain, and how will you pay?’

“‘I have magic,’ says the traveller.

“‘What of this?’

“‘I have a stone in my pouch,’ says the traveller, ‘which, when placed in a cauldron of boiling water, transforms it into a delicious soup.’

“‘Show me this stone,’ says the cook.

“‘I have it in my pouch, if you’ll let me into the warm, I will gladly demonstrate its powers to you.’

“The cook tugs thoughtfully at his beard, for this was in the days when all cooks wore the beard, not just the female ones. And the cook says, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. As I haven’t eaten yet tonight, I’ll let you come in and demonstrate your magic. If it works you can share the soup, if not, I’ll kick you back into the night.’

“‘Fair enough,’ says the traveller.

“‘Yeah, and one thing more, if the magic works, then I get to keep the stone.’

“Well, the traveller looks doubtful about this. And he huddles in his rags. But the wind is growing stronger and in the distance a wolf begins to howl. ‘All right,’ says he. ‘It’s a deal.’

“Inside the castle kitchen the cook sets a cauldron to boil upon the Aga and the traveller takes a round black stone from his pouch. With the cook looking on, he drops it into the cauldron and gives it a stir round with a wooden ladle.