Robert Rankin - Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

“Oh dear.” Russell hastened down the ladder to attend to the unconscious figure. “Are you all right?” he asked, and then, “What am I saying? Stuff you.” And with that he marched across the car park towards Hangar 18.

Merry sounds issued from within. The celebrations were far from over. Russell crept around to the big sliding door and pushed open the little hinged one.

There was a whole lot of shaking going on. Russell cast a wary eye about the place. Morgan was there and Bobby Boy was there and Frank was there and Julie was there. And many of the others he’d seen earlier. But there had been a few late arrivals at the Fudgepacker Ball. There was old Charlton Heston in his toga. And David Niven in his black and white. And the cast of Cockleshell Heroes , including the great David Lodge. The late arrivals weren’t dancing though, they were just sort of standing around.

Russell nodded. Better and better. So where was Mr Fudgepacker?

Russell squinted beyond the dancing drinkers and the standing Cyberstars towards the office. In there, perhaps?

Russell eased his way into the hangar and closed the door behind him. Keeping his back against the wall and himself very much to the shadows, he edged towards the office. No-one was looking in his direction, they were all having far too good a time. Bobby Boy had the programmer, and, yes, there in the middle of the dancers, Marilyn Monroe was getting her kit off.

Russell reached the office unobserved. He ducked down beside the partition window, then stuck his head up to take a peep in.

And then he ducked right down.

“It’s that man again,” whispered Russell.

And it was, seated across the desk from Mr Fudgepacker on one of the unspeakable chairs, with a glass of Glen Boleskine clutched in a chubby hand, was the evil sod himself.

Mr Adolf Hitler, it was he.

And he looked in the very peak of good health.

Russell dithered (and wouldn’t anyone?). What to do for the best? Creep away and phone the police?

“Hello, yes, I’ve got Adolf Hitler cornered in an old aircraft hangar on Brentford dock, and I’ve got his time machine too. Could you send over a couple of constables? Thank you.” Russell weighed up the pros and cons. All cons, he concluded. He would have to go it alone. Go in there like a hero would, and do the right thing.

Now Russell, like all right-thinking individuals, was a great fan of the science fiction movie. And being so, there was, of course, one particular line he’d always wanted to shout at someone.

No, it was not “I’ll be back”.

And so, taking a very big breath, he kicked open the office door and with gun held tight between both hands and pointed at the Führer’s face, he shouted it out.

“Lead or a dive you’re coming with me. I mean …”

“What is this?” Hitler spoke with a thick Cockney accent. “Who let this Yankee [31] Nazi rhyming slang. Yankee food parcel: arsehole. in here?”

“I’m not a Yankee.” Russell held the gun as steadily as he could. “Dead or alive you’re coming with me.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Mr Fudgepacker flapped his fragile hands about. “I’ll have this oaf removed at once, my Führer. Russell, put down that toy pistol at once.”

“It’s not a toy.” Russell squeezed the trigger and a round parted the Führer’s hair.

“Oh my God.” Russell gawped at the gun and at the Führer. “I’m so sorry. I had the safety catch off. Are you all right?”

“You stupid Russian [32] We did this one earlier. .” The Führer clutched at his head.

“I’ll call a doctor,” said Russell. “No, what am I saying again? Stuff you. Put your hands up, I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”

“Russell!” said Mr Fudgepacker, sternly. “Look behind you, Russell.”

“You don’t think I’m going to fall for that old trick?” Russell took a quick peep over his shoulder, and then he said, “Oh dear.”

The noise of the gunshot had rather put paid to the partying. The sound system had been switched off. Many eyes were now turned upon him. Many faces were wearing angry expressions.

“I’ve got a gun.” Russell flashed it in their direction. “Well, you probably guessed that, hearing it go off and everything. But I’m not afraid to use it. I just used it then, didn’t I? And I’ll use it again, I will.”

The crowd looked rather unimpressed. Unimpressed, but surly, the way crowds can look when they’re composed of people who’ve had too much to drink and are suddenly bothered by some fool who wants to break up the party.

“I’m arresting this man,” Russell continued. “He’s an escaped war criminal and I’m taking him to prison.”

The crowd replied with a sinister growl that Russell found discouraging. But he was still prepared to put a brave face on it. “Don’t try to stop me,” was the phrase he chose to use.

“Growl” and now, “snarl,” went the crowd.

“Russell,” said Mr Fudgepacker, “put that gun down at once.”

“No I won’t.” Russell took stock of the two men in the office.

“And you put your hands up,” he told Adolf Hitler. “I won’t tell you again.”

The Führer’s hands shot into the air, no hero he with a gun pointing in his direction.

“You’ve let me down, Russell,” said Mr Fudgepacker.

“Me let you down?” Russell waved his gun, which had the führer flinching. “You wicked old man. I respected you. I worked hard for you.”

“And you will again. Now put down that gun and let’s talk about things.”

“Oh no no. No more talking. This man, Hitler, him, he’s coming with me. I don’t want to shoot him, but I will if I must. I’d probably get a medal from the Queen, if I did. Or maybe a presentation clock with Westminster chimes.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Mr Fudgepacker.

“Too late for what?”

“Too late to start some running gag about Westminster chimes.”

“Yes, you’re probably right. But he’s still coming with me. This is the end, Mr Fudgepacker. It’s all over now, the movie, everything.”

“You’re overwrought, Russell, sit down and have a drink.”

“No. I don’t want a –”

“ Russell, look out!” Julie screamed the words.

Russell turned his head and met the eyes of Bobby Boy. The thin man leapt at him, gun in hand and then things seemed to move in slow-motion, the way they often do when something really awful happens. The thin man’s gun came up to Russell’s face, but Russell swept his wrist aside and brought his own gun into violent contact with his attacker’s stomach. Still carried by the force of his own momentum, Bobby Boy plunged past Russell, into the office and struck his head on the mighty Invincible . As he fell backwards his gun went off and the bullet ricocheted from the safe and caught him square in the left kneecap.

Russell looked on in horror as the thin man writhed on the office floor, blood pumping from his trouser leg.

“Call an ambulance,” Russell turned back upon the crowd. “There’s been an accident. Call an ambulance.”

Nobody moved.

“Come on,” shouted Russell, “hurry up. I’ll apply a tourniquet.”

Nobody moved once more.

“Well come on, do something .”

The people of the crowd did something . They threw back their heads and howled. It was a horrible sound, cruel, atavistic. It fair put the wind up Russell.

“Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop it!”

But they didn’t.

“Russell, quickly, come.” Julie’s hand was on his arm. She tugged at Russell’s sleeve.

“Yes, I will … I …”

Someone hurled a glass. It shattered above the office door, showering splinters down on Russell. Then a bottle too. The crowd advanced.