Robert Rankin - Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

“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.”