Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

5

When Russell got back to Fudgepacker’s Emporium, which he did in a world-record time, he found Morgan sitting idly by the packing bench, smoking a cigarette.

“Morgan,” went Russell. “Morgan, I … Morgan … oh.”

Morgan looked up at the quivering wreck. “Whatever happened to you?” he asked.

“Morgan, I’ve been there. I’ve seen him. I saw him, he was there. What are we going to do? Oh dear. Oh, oh.”

“Russell are you all right?”

“No, I’ve been in this pub –”

“You’re pissed,” said Morgan. “Bloody hell, Russell, whatever came over you, you don’t drink.”

“I’m not pissed.”

Morgan sniffed. “You’ve chucked up, you pong.”

“Yes, I have chucked up, but I –”

“You’d better not let Frank see you in this state.”

“I’m not in any state –”

“Trust me, Russell, a state is what you’re in.”

“But I’ve been there, I saw him.”

“What, heaven? You saw God?”

“Not heaven, the opposite of heaven. Though there was an angel there, but because I didn’t drink Perrier water I didn’t get to take her out –”

“Russell, you’re gibbering. Are you doing drugs? You selfish bastard, you’re doing drugs and you never offered me any.”

“I don’t do drugs, I’ve never done drugs.”

“You’re pissed though.”

“I’m not pissed. I’m not. You’ve got to come with me now. No, we daren’t go back. We must call the police, no call the army. Call the SAS.”

“How about you just calming down and telling me exactly what happened?”

“Yes, right. That’s what I’ll do.” Russell took deep breaths and tried to steady himself. “Right, I’m OK, yes.”

“So tell me what happened.”

“I went out to see if I could find whether there really was a Flying Swan.”

“Oh,” said Morgan, “did you?”

“I did. And I found it.”

“Ah,” said Morgan, “did you?”

“Yes I did.”

“Go on.”

“What do you mean ‘go on’, aren’t you amazed at that much already?”

“Not really, but do go on.”

“I met Neville,” said Russell.

“Yes?” said Morgan.

“What do you mean ‘yes’? I just said I met Neville.”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean, which one?”

“Is this why you’re in all this state, because you think you found The Flying Swan and you think you met Neville?”

“No it’s not, and I don’t think I met him, I did meet him. But that’s not it. What it is, is really bad. Really terrible. He’s here, right now. He’s here in a shed.”

“Neville is in a shed?”

“Not Neville, him.”

“I’m up for this,” said Morgan. “Which him is in a shed?”

“A … Adolf H … Hitler,” stammered Russell. “Adolf Hitler! He’s here!”

“In a shed?”

“Behind The Flying Swan.”

“Behind The Flying Swan?”

“He’s there. I saw him. What are we going to do? We should call the army, shouldn’t we?”

“Russell,” said Morgan.

“Yes?” said Russell.

“I’m impressed.”

“Eh?”

“I’m very impressed.”

“What?”

“You’ve a lot to learn, but as a first-off I think you deserve at least nine out often for effort.”

“What?”

“I think where you’ve blown it,” said Morgan, “is that you’ve set your sights too high. Hitler doesn’t really fit the bill, what with him being dead and everything. You should have gone for someone else, someone feasible. Lord Lucan, you should have gone for. Lord Lucan hiding out in a shed.”

“What?” Russell said.

“But you also have to build up the plot. Rushing in and burbling ‘I’ve seen Hitler in a shed’ does have a certain impact, but you have to build up to it.”

“I’m not building up to anything. This is all true. I saw him, I did. I did.”

“You didn’t, Russell. You really didn’t.”

“I really did.”

“In The Flying Swan?”

“In a shed out the back.”

“And which pub exactly is The Flying Swan?”

“The Bricklayer’s Arms.” Russell still didn’t have all his breath back. “The Bricklayer’s Arms. And I can prove it. I can. I can.” He rooted about in his waxed jacket and pulled a crumpled piece of card from his poacher’s pocket. “There,” he said.

Morgan took the card and uncrumpled it. “The Bricklayer’s Arms,” he read, “alias The Flying Swan, famous pub featuring in the novels of blah, blah, blah.”

“It doesn’t say blah, blah, blah, does it?”

“It might as well do.”

“You can’t deny what’s in print.”

“Really?” Morgan fished into the back pocket of his jeans and brought out his wallet, from this he withdrew several similar pieces of card. “Here you go,” said Morgan. “The Princess Royal, alias The Flying Swan, The New Inn, alias The Flying Swan, The Red Lion, alias The Flying Swan. Even The Shrunken Head in Horseferry Lane, they all claim to be The Flying Swan. Do you know how many pubs claim that Oliver Cromwell slept there?”

“Did he sleep at The Flying Swan then?”

“No, he bloody didn’t. Half the pubs in Brentford claim to be the original Flying Swan. It’s bullshit, Russell. They do it for tourists.”

“But Neville?”

“Slouching bloke, rotten teeth, stained shirt?”

“That’s him.”

“Sid Wattings, been the landlord there for years.”

“Eh?”

“Is that blond barmaid still there? The one who can tuck her legs behind her head?”

Russell groaned.

“It’s a wind-up,” said Morgan. “I’m sorry, Russ.”

“Don’t call me Russ. I don’t like Russ.”

“It’s a wind-up, Russell If you’d told me you were going to look for The Flying Swan, I would have warned you not to waste your time. This Adolf Hitler you saw, how did he look?”

“He looked a bit rough, but he looked just like he did in the old war footage.”

“And you don’t think that a bit strange?”

“No,” said Russell. “That’s the whole point.”

“It’s not the whole point. It didn’t occur to you that he might have looked a bit older? Like fifty years older? Like he should have been at least one hundred years old?”

“Ah,” said Russell.

“Exactly, ah. This is where Sid’s slipped up. Hitler was dying anyway at the end of the war, he had all sorts of stuff wrong with him. Yet the Hitler you saw was no older. What did he do then, drink the elixir of life? The water of life?”

Russell let out a further groan as the image of a Perrier bottle swam into his mind, followed by certain other images of an erotic nature, some of them actually involving a Perrier bottle. “So it wasn’t really Hitler?”

“Could it really have been Hitler? Ask yourself, could it really have been?”

“I suppose not,” said Russell.

“I’m sorry, Russ, er, Russell. You’ve been had.”

Russell made a very miserable face and turned his eyes towards the floor. “I’ve made a bit of a prat of myself, haven’t I?” he said.

“It’s not your fault. That Sid’s getting a bit sneaky. Perhaps the competition’s getting too strong. Perhaps they’ve installed a Lord Lucan in a shed behind The New Inn. It’s a good wheeze.”

“It didn’t half look like Hitler,” said Russell. “But I suppose you must be right. It was a wind-up. It couldn’t really have been him.”

“Still,” said Morgan. “Look on the bright side, Russell. You actually had a bit of an adventure. It doesn’t matter that it was all baloney. I bet it got your adrenalin rushing about.”

“It certainly did that.”

“So you’ve lived a little. For a brief moment you weren’t reliable old Russell, who nothing ever happens to. For a brief moment you were actually having an adventure. And it felt pretty good, didn’t it?”

Russell raised his eyes from the floor and for a brief moment, a very brief moment, they really glared at Morgan.

“I’m going back to the office,” he said. And back to the office he went.