Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

9 Back to The Führer II

“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.

“Those are from the Emporium,” he said. “You nicked those.”

“I’ve saved them from mouldering away in that mausoleum. Movies are my life, Russell, you know that.”

“I know that you want to be a movie star, yes.”

“And I’m going to be. The biggest that ever there was, now you’ve brought the programmer. Oh yes indeed.”

Bobby Boy dropped onto one of the terrible chairs, which let out a terrible groan. Russell settled uncomfortably onto the other.

“Do you want a drink?” asked Bobby Boy.

“Yes, actually I do.”

Bobby Boy produced a bottle of Scotch and a pair of glasses from a desk drawer.

Russell viewed the label on the Scotch bottle. It was Glen Boleskine. The very expensive stuff that Mr Fudgepacker kept in his drinks cupboard for favoured clients. Russell raised an eyebrow.

“Look, Russell,” said Bobby Boy, “there’s no point in beating about the bush. I’m dishonest, I know it. Always have been and probably always will be. My father was dishonest and so was my grandfather before him. Actually my grandfather was an interesting man, did you know that he knew the exact moment he was going to die?”

“Get away?” said Russell, accepting a glass of stolen Scotch.

“Yes, the judge told him.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“No, but it’s true.”

Russell sipped the Scotch. He’d never tasted it before, although he’d always wanted to and he did have ready access to the drinks cupboard. It tasted very good.

“So,” said Bobby Boy, “I will tell you the story, which you promise you will divulge to no-one and you will give me the programmer.”

“All right,” said Russell, tasting further Scotch.

“All right,” Bobby Boy took out a packet of cigarettes, removed one, placed it in his tricky mouth and lit up. Blowing smoke in Russell’s direction, he began the telling of his tale.

“It was about a week ago –”

“Which day?” asked Russell.

“What do you mean, which day?”

“I mean,” said Russell, “Which day exactly. I want the truth from the very beginning.”

“Thursday,” said Bobby Boy.

“Truly?”

“All right, it was Wednesday. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Go on.”

“It was last Wednesday. I had the day off because I was sick.”

“I bet you weren’t really sick.”

“All right, OK, I wasn’t really sick. Look, do you want to hear this or not?”

“Go on,” Russell finished his glass of Scotch and reached out for a refill. Bobby Boy gave him a small one.

“It was last Wednesday and I was off work, skiving. Actually I’d gone to an audition. I had, truly. They were casting for a movie based on one of the Lazlo Woodbine thrillers. Death Wore a Motorhead T-shirt, adapted from the book Death Wore a Green Tuxedo. I was hoping to get the part of third-menacing-hood-in-alleyway. I didn’t get it though. They said I didn’t look tricky enough. Anyway I didn’t get back until quite late and I was taking a short cut across the allotments, checking the sheds to make sure they were all locked up properly.”

Russell raised an eyebrow once more.

“They were, as it happens. When out of the blue, or the black really, as it was quite late at night, comes this god-awful racket. Like engines failing. I thought it must be a plane about to crash. And I remember thinking, that’s handy, because I could help.”

Russell raised the other eyebrow.

“All right. Well it didn’t sound like a big aircraft. A light aircraft. Maybe carrying drugs or something. But it wasn’t an aircraft. I looked all around and I couldn’t see anything. Then out of the black, out of absolutely nowhere, in fact, that thing in the hangar. That Flügelrad materializes in the air about twenty feet in front of me and crashes right down onto the ground. I nearly shat myself, I can tell you. And I ran. I won’t say I didn’t. You’d have run. I ran for a bit and then I thought, Roswell. Alien autopsies. Video rights. What would a dead alien be worth? You’d have thought the same.”

Russell shook his head.

“No, you wouldn’t have thought the same. But I thought it, so I crept back and hid and watched. And after a while the hatch opens and the ladder comes down and then out they come. Not aliens, like I was expecting, but Nazi soldiers. SS blokes, all the uniforms and everything, and they climb down and look around. Looking really baffled. And then there’s all this shouting in German, like ranting. And I thought, I’ve heard that voice and then –”

“Adolf Hitler got out,” said Russell.

“Adolf Hitler got - What do you mean? How did you know that?”

“A lucky guess?”

“Hm. Well, it was him, Russell. It really was. Looking exactly the same as he did in the pictures.”

“I believe you,” said Russell. “I really do.”

“Blimey,” said Bobby Boy. “Well, it was him. And he gets out and climbs down the ladder and shouts at these SS blokes and they shrug and continue to look baffled. And one goes back in and gets a map or something. And they study this and then they all march off. And I watch them go and when they’re well away into the distance, I creep over and have a shifty inside. Wait until you see it. It’s all old radio valves and dials and turncocks and levers. So I’m inside and I’m wondering what to do. It seems as if this thing’s crash landed and I think, well, should I pull out a few bits so it can’t be mended and phone the newspapers and do a deal? I mean, well, this has to be news, doesn’t it? So I’m tinkering about, wondering which bit to remove when I twiddle this dial and the next thing that happens is the ladder retracts, the hatch snaps shut and the whole thing shakes like crazy. And once again I have to hold onto my guts.”

Russell had finished his second stolen Scotch and he rattled his glass on the desk top. Bobby Boy poured another small measure into it.

“So I’m thinking, Get out before the frigging thing blows up. But then the rattling stops, the hatch opens again and the ladder goes down. So I rush out. And this is where it gets weird.”

“Oh, this is where it gets weird.”

“This is where it gets really weird. You see, it isn’t night any more. Only a few minutes have passed inside the Flügelrad but outside it’s daytime. And it isn’t the next daytime either. Oh no. When I take a look outside, everything’s different. The Flügelrad –”

“Why do you keep calling it that?”

“Because that’s what it is. I found the instruction manual and notes and stuff. I got a German dictionary from the library.”

“They don’t let you take out dictionaries, they’re in the reference section.”

“I nicked one, all right? But I managed to do a translation. But that’s later on, let me tell you what happened next. I get out and I’m not on the allotment any more. Well, I am. I am where the allotment used to be. Now it’s a park. A nice park and all around it are these smart new houses. But they’re futuristic houses. I’m in the future, Russell.”

Russell made the face that says, Yeah, right! without actually saying it.

“OK, I didn’t know it then. The Flügelrad has landed in amongst a load of bushes and it’s pretty well hidden. I’m standing up on the dome looking around, so I figure that as I’m here, wherever I am, I might as well have a look round. So I get out and take a walk. I cross the park and I go out into the street. And the first thing I see is The Bricklayer’s Arms. It’s hardly changed. Except for the name on it, now it’s called The Flying Swan, and the road isn’t the Ealing Road any more, now it’s the something-strazzer or something.

“German name, right? I’m pretty shaken up by this, as you can understand, but I go walkabout. And up where the Great West Road should be, there’s this huge shopping centre. Huge. Oh yeah, Russell, and there’s cars. Flying cars, I kid you not. Volkswagens they are. But sort of souped up and flying. Landing in car parks on top of the shopping centre.”

“What about people?” Russell asked.

“Yeah, there’s people. They look pretty hot. Tall and blond, really well dressed. The women have these golden scaley dresses. The men have the futuristic uniforms, like Star Trek, but they’ve got swastikas on them. Freaky, right? Well, I’m pretty sure now that I must be in the future, but I know there’s one way to find out – because they always do it in the movies – find a newspaper shop and check the date. Well, there’s no newspaper shop, because there’s no newspapers.”

“So how did you find out?”

“I’m coming to that. I’m all in my black, right, like I always am. Because it suits me so well, as you know.”

Russell nodded, although he didn’t agree.

“Well, as I’m walking along the street, blokes keep saluting me, flapping their right palms up, like the short Nazi salute. So I keep saluting back, and I stop one bloke and I say excuse me, like. And he snaps to attention and looks really worried and I ask him the date.”

“You just asked him the date?”

“Yeah, well actually it was a pretty stupid thing to do, but it was all so freaky and I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“And he told you?”

“He like barked it out. ‘Twenty-third of May.’ What year? I ask. ‘2045,’ he says, and ‘Sir’. ‘Very good,’ said I, and he salutes again and off he goes.”

“Ludicrous,” said Russell. “That never happened to Reece in The Terminator.”

“That was just a movie, Russell.”

“Oh yes of course, and your experience was real life. My mistake.”

“Do you want some more Scotch?”

“Yes please.”

Bobby Boy poured another short measure. “Well, he told me and he saluted and off he went. I went off to the shopping centre. The stuff in the shops seemed mostly as you’d expect. Clothes, things like that. Except in the gift shops there were all these posters and mugs and plates and things, all with Hitler on them. Whole shops that sold nothing else. I didn’t go in any of those. But I came across this one shop that really interested me, it was like a Tandys, but it had some German name. It was an electrical shop, right, TVs, hi-fis. Shit, Russell, you should have seen the gear they had. Computer games like you wouldn’t believe. Holographic stuff. Kids were in there playing them, sitting on little chairs, but they didn’t have those silly virtual reality helmets on, they were right in the middle of the games they were playing, spaceships whizzing past them, laser beams going everywhere. And that’s when I saw him.”

“Saw who?”

“Elvis,” said Bobby Boy.

“Oh yes, right.”

“Elvis. And Marilyn Monroe and James Dean, oh and Marlene Dietrich. She was there.”

“Shopping?”

“Not shopping, Russell. Just sort of standing there, chatting.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Russell.

“You will, because they weren’t real. They were holograms.”

“Oh, I see, go on.” Russell took another sip of Scotch.

“Holograms, so I go into the shop and the bloke behind the counter salutes me and looks edgy. And I have a stroll about and check out these holograms. Movie stars, Russell, it’s like I’m standing beside real movie stars. Like my life’s ambition, right? And you can’t see through them. And the shop bloke comes cringing up and asks if he can help me, so I said, ‘What’s all this then?’ And he explains that it’s a new computer role-playing game, like a 3D Karaoke. It’s called Cyberstars. You play a part in a famous movie alongside the stars and someone videos it for you. You’re actually in the movie, do you understand?”

“Yes, I get the picture.” Russell tittered foolishly.

“You don’t want to drink too much of that stuff, it’s very strong.”

“I can take it,” said Russell, which was not strictly true. “Go on, tell me the rest.”

“Right, so I say to this shop bloke, ‘Give us a go’, and he says, ‘What movie do you want to be in, sir?’ And I say, ‘What have you got?’ And he flashes up lists on his computer terminal and I’ve never heard of any of these movies, they’re all about The Glorious Fatherland and The Freedom of The State and stuff like that. And I say, ‘I don’t know any of these’, and then he gets really edgy and I say, ‘Can the Cyberstar holograms be programmed to, like, do anything, not play parts in a film, just do what you wanted them to do?’”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because I’ve always wanted to shag Marilyn Monroe, Russell, that’s why. Imagine that on video.”

“I can’t and I don’t want to.”

“You’ve no imagination.”

“I have, but it’s not like yours.”

“Yeah, well. But the bloke says yes. And I’m thinking, If I could acquire one of these computers and get it back into my own time, imagine that.”

Russell tried to, but he couldn’t quite.

“Millions of pounds,” said Bobby Boy. “Make a movie starring all the golden greats, all the dead golden greats, and myself of course. Imagine that.”

Russell thought he could imagine that. Slightly.

“So I asked the bloke, ‘How much?’ And he says, ‘Free to you, sir, of course.’ Of course! I’ve gone to heaven, right? This bloke is going to give me the technology that can make me a world-famous movie star, if I can get it back home, of course, for nothing. For free! So I say, ‘Right, absolutely, thank you very much.’ And he packs me up a system and gives it to me. Then he says, ‘Please eyeball the screen.’ And I say, ‘What?’ And he shows me this little screen on the counter and says, ‘Eyeball.’ So I give it a look in and make for the door. Then the bloody world goes mad. Well, madder. All those alarms go off and lights start flashing. So I run like a bastard. I run. I run out of the shopping centre and back up what was once the Ealing Road. And this black car drops out of the sky and these bloody great metal things, like robots, get out and they come after me. I do have to say this, Russell, and I wouldn’t tell just anyone. I shit my pants.”

Russell burst into what can only be described as drunken laughter.

“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?”