Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

10 Money Makes The World Go Around. Take 1

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?”