Robert Rankin - Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

“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] 1859, Charles “Icarus” Doveston flew his Griffin 4, pedal-driven ornithopter, the plans may be seen in Brentford Library’s permanent exhibition, “WE DONE IT FIRST” , 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] It could well be trespass.

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.”