‘It’s supposed to be all uniforms and golden dresses here.’ Russell examined his appearance. Scruffy, he concluded.
Julie looked marvellous. She was still wearing the short black eveningnumber. The one that should have had more than a mention earlier. ‘We could try and steal some clothes,’ Julie said.
‘Oh no. We’re not stealing anything. We’ll go and have a look around, size up the situation. But we won’t get involved in anything.’
‘Fair enough.’
They strolled across the park. Julie held Russell by the hand, which made Russell feel proud. Soon they reached the something-strasser.
‘Look,’ Russell pointed. ‘It’s The Bricklayer’s Arms. And Bobby Boy told the truth. It has been renamed The Flying Swan.’
‘I wonder why.’
Russell shrugged. ‘I’m sure it will be explained eventually.’ And on they walked.
Folk passed them on the something-strasser, young folk, tall and handsome. But Russell didn’t like the way they moved. So stiffly, so unnaturally. They did not so much as glance at Russell, but they did look twice at Julie.
Ahead, where The Great West Road had once been, they found the mammoth shopping mall. All high glass and chrome, with the souped-up Volkswagens flying around it and landing upon upper platforms.
‘Shall we take a look at the shops, Russell?’
‘Why not.’
Through the glass revolving doors and into a massive entrance hall. Russell spied out the golden letters that crowned a silver arch, leading to a grand arcade of shops.
THE SCHAUBERGER MEMORIAL MALL
Russell shook his head and they walked on.
And all the shops were there, the ones Bobby Boy had spoken of. The clothes shops and the gift shops and the Adolf Hitler souvenir shops. And the Tandys with the German name.
‘That’s the shop,’ said Russell. ‘The one he stole the Cyberstar equipment from.’
Julie pointed through the window. Inside children were playing upon theholographic video games. Famous film stars, Cyberstar projections, stood as if in conversation. And beyond them, standing at the counter ...
‘It’s Bobby Boy.’ Russell stared. ‘He’s here, now. How can he be here, now?’
As they watched him, Bobby Boy turned from the counter, a parcel in his hands, and began to walk towards the door.
‘He’s coming this way.’ Russell hustled Julie into a shop doorway. ‘Why are we hiding from him?’
‘Good question.’ Russell made to step out and accost the thin man, but at that moment alarms sounded and lights began to flash.
‘Best keep a low profile,’ said Russell withdrawing once more into hiding.
Bobby Boy passed within feet of them, a frightened look on his long thin face. He took a couple of faltering steps and then broke into a run.
And then came the sounds of a terrible clanking. As Russell and Julie looked on, the two horrendous iron robots went by at the trot in pursuit of Bobby Boy.
‘Let’s hope they catch him,’ said Russell. ‘But I don’t understand how—’
‘Look.’ Julie pointed. Men in black uniforms with swastika arm bands came marching down the mall. They marched into the electrical shop and approached the chap behind the counter.
‘Come on,’ said Russell. ‘We’re innocent by-standers. Let’s go in and see what’s on the go.’
Inside the shop, an officer type, with Heinrich Himmler glasses and a bad attitude, was interviewing the counter chap. Russell mingled close to catch an earful.
‘He walked into the shop,’ said the counter chap, wringing his hands and cringing as he spoke. ‘He wore the black. Naturally I assumed he was a party member. And he looked at the Cyberstar system and he wanted to know whether the holograms could be made to do anything he wanted. Things not in the movies they’re programmed to re-enact. And so I said, yes of course, sir, and so he said he would take one. But when he eyeballed the screen for retina and iris identification, the alarms went off. He is unregistered. How can this be?’
‘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.
18
STRICTLY BAR-ROOM
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 Flügelrad’s, 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.’
&nbs
p; ‘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. Mottled dartboard 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 hadan 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 lunchtimes,’ 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 good night.’
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-r
ound’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.’
Nostradamus Ate My Hamster Page 18