Robert Rankin - Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

“No,” said Jim. “And let’s face it, we’ve never actually met the fellow. We didn’t get atomized at Christmas time and we didn’t get sent into the future. The Swan’s still here and we’re still in it.”

“Makes you think,” said John Omally.

“It certainly does,” Jim agreed. “And it makes you wonder also.”

“Some say,” said John, “that he is still alive. In fact …” And here Omally gestured towards old Pete, who stood at the bar counter tasting rum, his dog Chips sampling a drips tray that Neville had put out for him. “Some say that old Pete is actually Russell.”

“Leave it out!” Jim coughed into his pint. “Not that surly old sod.”

“I heard that,” said Pete.

Me too, thought Chips, but he said only “woof.”

“Others,” Omally drew Jim near with a beckoning hand, “others say that if you were to go to Fudgepacker’s Emporium and discover the secret door, go down the steps and enter the boiler room, you would find a tiny curtained-off corner. And if you had the nerve, you might draw that curtain aside. And there, there, seated on a kind of throne-like chair, you would see Russell. Still a young man and just sitting there staring forever into space. You see, some say that he was never a real person at all, that he was just a construct. A bit of you and a bit of me. A bit of everyone who cares about the borough, called into life by magical means when the need arose. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. And possibly …” John paused.

“Possibly what?” Jim asked.

“Possibly if you were to go right up to him and put your ear to his lips, you might just hear this little voice.”

“Little voice?”

“Little voice. And it would say …” John paused again.

“What would it say?”

“It would say, Help me, help me .”

“Urgh no!” Jim shook his head fiercely. “That is a terrible story, John. That is quite horrible. That’s not the way it should end at all.”

“No, you’re right.” Omally finished his pint. “But, of course, other folk say other things. I heard tell, for instance, that because Russell stopped all the bad stuff from happening by giving up his whole life, that he, of course, changed the future. So if none of the bad stuff could happen in the future, he would never go there, get the time belt and have to do all he did. So, in a twinkling of an eye, everything un-happened and he was a young man again, working back at Fudgepacker’s.”

“I like that one,” said Jim. “That one I like. That’s what I’d call a happy ending. I hope it happened that way.”

“Me too.” Omally rattled his empty glass upon the table. “Me too.”

A young man now entered The Flying Swan. He was a fit and agile-looking young man, with a fine head of thick dark hair. He approached the bar and the new blond barmaid Neville had taken on for lunch-times turned to greet him.

She smiled the young man a mouthload of lovely white teeth. “What will it be, sir?” she asked.

The young man paused a moment, as if suddenly torn by some inner struggle, possibly regarding what blond barmaids expect a real man to drink. But the moment he paused for was a brief one and straightening his shoulders he said, “a Perrier water, please.”

“Oh good,” said the blond barmaid, beaming hugely and beautifully, as if possibly recalling something her horoscope had said. “Oh, just perfect.”

Omally looked at Pooley.

And Pooley looked at Omally.

“Now that,” said Jim, “is what I call a happy ending.”

“I’ll drink to it,” said Omally. “Hey, Russell, two pints over here.”

Not to be confused with the other professional position.

Not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnell.

Don’t ask!

Trays don’t really groan. It’s a lie.

A different version.

A Lazlo Woodbine thriller. And a bloody good one.

This is all absolutely true by the way. My Uncle John was a policeman.

Also true, I kid you not.

Aunt Mary being a big Frankie Vaughn fan at the time.

A present from a doting aunt.

Apart from one or two notable exceptions. Penge, Orton Goldhay, etc.

Actually Russell did not think this at all. This was a far too sophisticated concept for Russell to simply think up there and then. It’s probably just been included for the benefit of the astute reader whose mind it has crossed. There’s no telling, but that would be my guess.

The plans for these were actually found in Hitler’s bunker and handed over to the CIA, whatever happened to them next is anyone’s guess.

Nazi rhyming slang. Admirals of the Fleet: feet.

Albert Speer was Prince Charles’ uncle twice removed through the old Saxe-Coburg clan (allegedly). Prince Charles’ great grandad was also called Albert.

Zurich banker: wanker.

Aryan roots: boots.

Yiddisher’s nose: toes (This is Nazi rhyming slang and therefore anything but politically correct).

Russian fronts: er …

As Spike once said, “One bit in particular.”

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”

It could well be trespass.

Well, he always used to be when I was a lad.

It was a very high table.

So that’s his name.

The biggest independent film producer and distributor in the western world. Try to remember his name, because he turns up in the last chapter.

Poetic licence.

Cheap laugh.

Try saying that with something big in your mouth.

But I had you going that time, didn’t I?

Nazi rhyming slang. Yankee food parcel: arsehole.

We did this one earlier.

This isn’t a metaphor, it’s an aphorism.

And of course there was. Russell had sat on one of their benches.

The chap mentioned in Chapter 14.