Nostradamus Ate My Hamster (7 page)

“It wasn’t our fault, we didn’t do anything.”

“So
who
did, Russell?”

“I don’t know. The walls sort of opened, she came out, then these things came out. Great black things in armour. I don’t think they were people.”

“Will that stand up in court, do you suppose?”

“We’ve got to go back.”

“What?”

“Go back, try to explain, apologize, offer to make good.”

“
What?”

“
We must take the blame,” said Russell. “I know we must. We’ll say we were drunk and fighting. We’ll tell him we’ll pay for the damage.”

“Have you gone stark raving mad?”

“It’s the best way. If he’s called the police, I don’t want them bashing down my mum’s door at six in the morning.”

“But the bar’s wrecked, it could be thousands of pounds.”

“We could lie,” said Russell.

“What did you say?”

“I said we could lie.”

“You don’t know how to lie, Russell.”

“But
you
do, Morgan. You lie all the time.”

“That’s not true, I never lie. It’s Bobby Boy who tells all the lies, not me.”

“What about those mushrooms you say you’ve got growing in your shed, the ones that are the size of dustbin lids?”

“A slight exaggeration perhaps.”

“What about when you were late for work and you told Frank that terrorists had hijacked the bus?”

“Now that
was
true.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“No, you’re right.”

“So
you
should do the lying.”

“What am I going to say?”

“You’ll say that armed men burst into the bar to raid the place and that we fought them off.”

“Oh,” said Morgan. “Actually that’s quite a good lie, isn’t it?”

“Better than most of yours.”

“Paramilitaries,” said Morgan, warming to the idea. “With their faces blacked out, carrying General Electric mini-guns, and I fought them off single handed using certain martial arts techniques I learned from the lamas in Tibet.”

“Two big blokes in balaclava helmets,” said Russell. “With coshes and we
both
waded in,
together
.”

“We could come out of this as heroes.” Morgan rubbed his hands together. “Get in the newspapers and everything.”

“If we can stay out of court it will do for me.”

“Quite so.”

They trudged back. Trudging had become the order of the day really. Back they trudged.

There were no police cars outside The Ape of Thoth. All was very quiet. A young couple were just going in.

Russell and Morgan exchanged glances, steeled themselves, took deep breaths and entered the bar.

And then they just stared. They didn’t speak. They didn’t breathe. They just stared.

The bar was normal. All completely normal. No broken furniture. No smashed glasses, no shattered ashtrays. Chairs and tables just as they had been, the dartsboard on the wall, everything normal. Utterly, utterly normal.

Morgan let his breath out first. “What the fu –”

“
You!”
Luis the landlord vaulted over the bar. “
How
did you …?
What
did you …?”

“What?” went Morgan.

“I come back and all is well. Nothing is broken. How did you do that? How … how?”

“I …” went Morgan.

“What are you talking about?” Russell asked.

“What?” went Morgan.

“What?” went Luis.

“What are you talking about?”

“This place, all smashed up, I chased you.”

“You never chased us,” Russell said. “We’ve only just come in. This is the first time we’ve been in this evening.”

“What?” went Morgan.

“You bloody have, you bloody –”

“This man is clearly drunk,” said Russell. “Come, Morgan, we will drink elsewhere. Good night to you, landlord.”

“What … what?”

Russell hustled Morgan from the bar.

Outside Morgan went “What?” once more.

“Something’s happened,” Russell said. “Something big, somehow I knew the bar would be OK. Don’t ask me how, but I knew it.”

“When did you know it?”

“Just before we went back in. Something big is happening, Morgan, and we’re in it.”

“You can be in it, Russell, I don’t want to be. I’m just an ordinary bloke. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

“But you always said –”

“Don’t worry about what I always said, I was probably lying. I don’t want any adventures, I want to go home for my tea.”

“You’re in it, Morgan, whatever it is.”

“No, no, no. Hurricanes in the bar, things appearing and disappearing. Wreckage becoming unwrecked. This isn’t my thing, I don’t get involved in that sort of stuff.”

“That sort of stuff?” Russell made a thoughtful face. “Like an adventure, do you mean? Like a real adventure?”

“There was nothing real about any of that.”

“She knew me. She knew my name, she called me Russell and she kissed me and she said, I love you.”

“I’m going home.”

“I’m not, I’m going to find out.”

“Look, call it quits. Whatever has happened, has now unhappened, maybe it was a black hole or something, but it’s over. We got away with it. Let’s go home.”

“It’s not over. It’s far from over. It’s only just beginning.”

“Well, you do it on your own.”

“Morgan, come on.”

“No.” Morgan put up his hands. “I don’t want to know about it, I’m going home. Goodbye, Russell.”

“Goodbye, Morgan.”

Morgan didn’t trudge this time, he stalked. Russell watched him as he shrank into the distance, presently to be lost in the shadow of the gasometer.

Russell stood a while. The sun was going down now beyond the great oaks on the Kew side of the Thames, shadows lengthened on the flowing waters. A heron circled in the rose-painted sky.

Russell reached into his poacher’s pocket and brought out the golden package. “We shall see,” he said, and, turning on his heel (for heroes always turn upon their heels and Russell might, just might, yet prove himself to be the stuff of which a hero is composed), he strode off (for heroes also stride), to seek whatever great things fate might hold in store for him.

Oh yes.

“It’s her evening off,” sneered the landlord of The Bricklayer’s Arms (the one who
was not
Neville). “Some bloke was chatting her up at lunch-time, Perrier drinker. I think he’s taken her to the pictures.”

“Are you sure?” asked Russell.

“Of course I’m bloody sure, he picked her up in his car half an hour ago. What’s it got to do with you anyway?”

“Nothing. Do you serve food?”

“Ask me if we serve crabs.”

“Why?”

“Just ask me.”

“All right, do you serve crabs?”

“We serve anyone, sir.” The landlord laughed heartily. Russell didn’t.

“That was a joke,” said the landlord.

“Most amusing,” said Russell. “Could I have a sandwich?”

“A crocodile sandwich? And make it snappy, eh?”

“How about ham?”

“Don’t know, never been there.” The landlord guffawed further.

“Is this some new innovation? You weren’t laughing too much at lunch-time.”

“Things were iffy at lunch-time, they’re sorted now.”

“I’m so pleased to hear it, a ham sandwich then, if I may.”

“Anything to drink? The best bitter’s very good.”

“A Perrier water, please.”

“Poof,” the landlord served a bottle and a glass, took the money and shouted Russell’s food order through the hatch to the kitchen.

Russell removed himself to a side table. The bar was filling, merry chit chat, raised voices, laughter. Russell took the golden package from his pocket and placed it on the table. What was in it, eh? She had said, “the programmer”. What was that, a remote control for the telly? Something more than a remote control, surely? Should he open it now? Take a look?

“Ham sandwiches,” the landlord slapped the plate down on the table.

“That was quick,” said Russell.

“Fast food. So what’s that you’ve got? Your birthday, is it?”

“A present for my mum,” said Russell, troubled by the ease with which the lie had left his lips. “She’s seventy tomorrow.”

The landlord looked Russell up and down. “Enjoy your meal,” he said and slouched away. “Oh yes,” he said, turning back, “and I’ll have a word with you later about hiring the room and the costumes and everything.”

“Oh good.”

The landlord went his wicked way.

Russell picked up a sandwich and thrust it into his mouth. And then he spat it out again. It was stale. Very stale. Russell sighed, his stomach rumbled. Russell picked up another sandwich and munched bitterly upon it.

Open up the package. That was for the best. Russell opened up the package. The paper was odd, almost like silk, almost like metal also, but somehow neither. Odd.

A slim black plastic carton presented itself. And a letter. Russell unfolded the letter and perused its contents.

Dear Russell,

You won’t know why you got this yet, but you will. If things are going right you should now be sitting in The Bricklayer’s Arms eating a stale ham sandwich –

Russell nearly choked on stale ham sandwich.

If you’re not, then we’ve both screwed up, but if you are, then finish your sandwich and take this to the address below. All will be explained. Hopefully.

All my love,

Julie.

Russell read the address below, it was a warehouse on the Brentford Dock at the bottom of Horseferry Lane.

Russell reached to open the box; as he did so he placed the letter face down on the table. Something was written on the back. Russell read this.

DON’T OPEN THE BOX, he read.

“Oh,” said Russell, not opening the box.

Night was on the go now. One of those balmy Brentford nights that poets often write about. Those nights that make you feel that everyone for miles around must be in bed and making love. You know the ones: Russell knew the ones. The air was scented with jasmine and rare exotic fragrances wafted across the Thames from the gardens of Kew. The splendours of Brentford’s architectural heritage caught moonlight on their slate rooftops and looked just-so. Just-so and more. The way they always have and, hopefully, they always will.

Russell breathed in the night air. It was a good old place, was Brentford, folk who didn’t live there never understood. There
was
magic in the air. Perhaps there always had been magic in the air. Perhaps the tales he’d heard
were
true. Of Neville and Pooley and Omally and The Flying Swan. On a night such as this you could feel that almost anything was possible.

And given what had happened so far …

Russell turned from the high street into Horseferry Lane. Sounds of merriment issued from The Shrunken Head. Papa Legba’s Voodoo Jazz Cats, laying down that gris gris on the slap-head base, with Monty on accordion.

Russell passed the pub and entered the cobbled way that led past the weir and Cider Island, on towards the ruins of the old docks. By the light of the moon Russell re-read the address.

Hangar 18.

A sudden thought occurred to him. Why am I doing this? this thought went. Surely I am walking into some kind of trouble here (this was a second thought, which quickly joined the first). Surely I would be better tossing this package into the Thames and going home (third thought).

Russell looked up at that old devil moon. “Something is happening,” he said softly, “and I am part of it. I don’t know what it is, but I am determined to find out.”

And so he walked on.

There were a number of buildings left at the old dock. Not many. Just the three, in fact. And two of those pretty gone to seed. The third looked rather spruce. Newly painted. The number 18 was writ mighty large up near the apex of the roof. Big sliding hangar-type doors.

Russell wondered just what sort of hangar this might have been; was now. Aircraft hangar? Could be. After all, it had been a plucky Brentonian who achieved the first man-powered flight
[21]
, although he’d been written out of history and the Wright brothers had got all the credit. Typical, that was. Americans always got the credit.

Not that Russell had anything against the Americans. Russell didn’t have anything against anyone.

Russell was not that kind of a fellow.

It was quiet here. The occasional heron call. A salmon going plop. Something snuffling in a bush near by. But quiet overall.

Russell strode towards the big hangar-type sliding door. Should he knock? Was he expected?

Might there be danger?

That was a thought, wasn’t it?

Best to be cautious.

Russell’s stride became a scuttle. In a big sliding door there was a little hinged door, Russell gave the handle a try. It turned and the door clicked open. Russell drew a nervous breath. This was breaking and entering. Well, it wasn’t
breaking
, but if he entered, it was
entering
. Was
entering
a crime? It might be entering with intent. Entering with intent to
enter
. That couldn’t be a crime, surely.
[22]

Russell pushed the door before him and stepped into darkness. And a number of things happened very fast indeed. Russell sensed a movement. He heard the swish of something swinging down. He jumped to one side. There was a sharp metallic clang, closely followed by a cry of pain that wasn’t Russell’s. And a hand that wasn’t Russell’s found its way onto the face that
was
Russell’s.

Russell gripped the wrist of this hand and gave it a violent twist. A second cry of pain, somewhat louder than the first, echoed all about the place and after this came many pleas for mercy.

“Where’s the light switch?” Russell shouted.

“Up there somewhere, let me go. Leave off me. Oh. Ow. Help!”

Russell fumbled about in the darkness with his non-wrist-twisting hand and found the light switch.

Click went the light switch and on came all the lights.

“Oh, oh, oh,” went Russell’s captive, and then, “Oh shit, it’s you.”

“And it’s you,” said Russell, releasing his grip and viewing the figure at his feet. A chap of his own age, dressed all in black, long thin hair, a long thin face, a long thin body, long thin arms, and legs that were long and thin. He also had a long thin nose, with dark eyes, rather too close for comfort at the top end, and a most dishonest-looking little mouth at the bottom. This was now contorted in pain.

“Bobby Boy, what are
you
doing here?”

“You almost broke my bloody wrist.”

“You attacked me with something.” Russell glanced around in search of that something. It lay near by. It was a long length of metal something. Piping, it was. “You could have killed me with
that
?”

“You were breaking and entering.”

“Ah,” said Russell. “This is not strictly true, I have considered this and –”

“Never mind that.” Bobby Boy struggled to his long thin feet and stood rubbing his long thin wrist. “What are you doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?”

“I asked first, and how did you manage to do that to me? I thought you were a man of peace.”

“I did ju-jitsu at a night-school course.”

“
You
did ju-jitsu?”

“It was a mistake, I signed on to do upholstery, but there was some clerical error and I didn’t want to upset anyone by mentioning it.”

“You were being polite, as usual.”

“I suppose so,” said Russell.

“So what
are
you doing here?”

“I was given something to deliver. Something important, I think.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“The barmaid from The Bricklayer’s Arms.”

“The one who can do the splits while standing on her head?”

“I think that’s probably the same one.” Russell nodded gloomily.

“Why did she give it to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, didn’t you ask her?”

“I didn’t get a chance. Look, stop asking me all these questions.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“That’s the last one I’ll answer. It’s a programmer.”

The dishonest-looking mouth dropped open and the eyes that were too close for comfort grew quite wide. “You’ve got the programmer? Let me see it, give it to me.”

“I’ll let you see it,” said Russell, “but I won’t give it to you until you explain to me exactly what it does.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then you can’t have it.”

“Oh come on, Russell, it’s mine. I’ll make it worth your while, I’ll give you money.”

“I don’t want money. I want … Holy God, what’s
that
?”

Russell stared and pointed. Bobby Boy bobbed up and down before him, trying to obscure Russell’s vision. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Just give me the programmer.”

“It
isn’t
nothing,” said Russell, gently easing Bobby Boy aside. “It’s a … it’s a …”

“It’s a UFO,” sighed Bobby boy. “But it’s
my
UFO.”

“You
built
it?”

“I … er, acquired it.”

“You stole it.”

“Technically speaking, yes.”

Russell took a few steps forward and stared up at the UFO. It wasn’t really a UFO. Which is to say that it
was
, but also it
wasn’t
. A UFO is an unidentified flying object and this object was clearly identifiable. It was clearly identifiable as the thing it was, which was, to say, a flying saucer. But then a flying saucer would qualify as a UFO. Many consider these to be one and the same. Russell was one of these.

“A flying saucer,” Russell whistled, and it
was
as James Campbell would say, “the full Adamski”. About fifteen feet in diameter, standing upon the traditional tripod legs. The neat little dome at the top. Several portholes. An open hatch, a nifty extendible ladder (now extended).

This flying saucer varied from others which have been reported over the years, in the fact that it had certain markings on the side. Not cryptic symbols of a possibly Venusian nature, but symbols Russell recognized at once. And the recognition of them put the wind up him something awful.

“It’s not
strictly
a flying saucer,” said Bobby Boy. “It’s a
Flügelrad
.”

“A German word,” whispered Russell. “And those symbols are –”

“Swastikas, yes. They still have the power to put the wind up you, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do.” Russell shook his head slowly. “This is old, isn’t it? All the nuts and bolts and stuff. I mean, it looks as though it was built years ago. And yet it looks brand new.”

“If I tell you all about how I got it, will you give me the programmer?” Bobby Boy had a reedy little voice. A real whiner, it was. If his appearance said,
tricky
, then so did his voice. Well, it didn’t actually
say
“tricky”, but it
was
.
Tricky
, that is.

“If I consider that you’ve told me the truth,” said Russell.

“Tricky,” said Bobby Boy’s mouth.

“Would you like to have a go at it?”

Bobby Boy’s mouth made little smacking sounds. Tricky little smacking sounds. “All right,” said he. “I will tell you everything. Exactly how it happened. Shit, I’ve been dying to tell someone, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t know who I could trust.”

“You can trust me,” said Russell.

“Yes,” agreed Bobby Boy. “You
can
be trusted, Russell. So if I tell you, I want you to promise me you’ll not tell anyone else.”

“Well …” said Russell.

“That’s the deal. Hurry now, before I change my mind.”

Russell, who had felt sure that
he
had the upper hand, now felt that somehow he didn’t. “All right,” he said, “I swear.”

“OK, come on into my office and sit down. This will take a bit of telling.”

“All right,” said Russell once more and followed the long thin fellow in black.

The office was suitably grim. Suitably grim for
what
, was anyone’s guess. But suitably grim, it certainly was. There was a wretched desk, two terrible chairs, a carpet that didn’t bear thinking about. And a great many film posters up on the walls. These were grim, being Fudgepacker productions. Russell spied these out at once.