Nostradamus Ate My Hamster (13 page)

“I am
not
a bloody character,” said Russell. “What are you implying? That I’m just a made-up character in a book?”

“Character in a book?” Bobby Boy laughed his grating laugh. “Now that really
is
absurd. No, Russell. But you’re not a real person. You’re a construct. A bit of this person, a bit of that.”

“Crap,” said Russell. “And so what does that make you?”

“Oh, I know what I am. I’m a tricky lying villain. And Mr Fudgepacker here is a clapped-out old pornographer.”

“How dare you!” gasped the old one. “I am a maker of Art House movies.”

“A clapped-out pornographer who has sold his soul to –”

“Don’t say His name.” Mr Fudgepacker began to totter. Russell leapt up and guided him into his chair.

“Thank you, Russell,” said Mr Fudgepacker. “You’re such a nice young man.”

“Well, you’d know,” said Bobby Boy. “You made him up.”

“Bollocks,” said Russell.

“Just tell him, Bobby Boy.” Mr Fudgepacker scratched at a bubo on his wrist. “I want to get home and rub some pig fat on my scrofula.”

“OK. Russell, you have been brought into existence to achieve a great end: to aid the changing of the world. You see everyone’s confused. What am I here for? What does it all mean? Have you ever asked yourself those questions?”

“No,” said Russell. “I don’t think I have.”

“We wrote it out,” said Mr F. “It was very slow and it didn’t say anything new.”

“Accidental movements of the gods,” said Bobby Boy. “Everything that goes on on Earth. We dance to the tunes the gods don’t even know they’re playing.”

“Strangely enough, I don’t understand a word of that.”

“People aren’t important,” said Bobby Boy. “Not singly. It’s what they do
en masse
that matters, the direction mankind goes in as a whole. Mankind is really a vast multi-cellular organism, spread across the face of the planet. Or like billions of tiny silicone chips that when all wired together would form this single planetary brain. That’s the way forward, you see. That’s the ultimate purpose of it all.”

“Well,” said Russell, “at last I’ve met the man who has the answer to the meaning of life. This is a privilege.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“No, I thought you were giving it away.”

“In the beginning the way was clear. All men spoke the same language. All the little chips were wired together. Remember the story of the Tower of Babel?”

Russell wondered whether he did.

“You do,” said Mr Fudgepacker. “You’ve got Christianity programmed into you.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.”

“All spoke the same language and so they could function as a mass mind. But the gods weren’t too chuffed with that, so they knocked down the tower, which was really this huge transmitting device to communicate with other worlds, and they scrambled the language. Mankind has been fighting amongst itself ever since.”

“Very interesting,” said Russell. “So just where do
I
fit into all this?”

“Your job was to raise the money for the movie.”

“There isn’t going to be any movie,” said Russell. “I’m going to put a stop to the movie. The movie is evil. You’ve done something evil and I’m going to stop it.”

“You can’t stop it now. The movie will be shown and all who see it will be converted. It’s not the plot of the movie that matters, Russell, it’s what’s
in
the movie.”

“And what’s that going to be?”

“Have you ever heard of subliminal cuts?”

“I’ve heard of them, but that’s like Satanic back masking. It’s rubbish. It doesn’t work.”

“Ours will work. But then ours came straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were. Or rather, straight from the mouth of God.”

“That thing?” said Russell. “That thing on the screen?”

“You shouldn’t call your God a thing, Russell.”

“That’s no God of mine.”

“It’s the only one you’ve got. The others are gone, long gone. They tired of playing games with man. Once in a while they think of us in passing and their accidental thoughts, their accidental movements of thought, cause waves on the planet. Religious fervour. Holy wars. But they play no active part. All but one of them, that is. He likes the place. He sticks around. He has
the time
for us.”

“No,” said Russell. “You don’t know what you’re saying. That thing’s the devil. You shouldn’t worship that.”

“There’s no devil, only rival gods.”

“You’re barking mad. I’ll stop all this.”

“Enough,” said Mr Fudgepacker. “Quite enough. All who see the movie will be converted. A new order of life, Russell. A new order of being, freed from all worry. You should appreciate that. To be free of all worry and care, all hatred, all doubt. Free to merge into the whole. A new future, Russell. Sadly you will not be here to see it.”

“Because we’re writing you out,” said Bobby Boy.

“Oh no you’re not.” Russell launched himself at the thin man on the table. But the thin man ducked aside and he hit Russell hard on the top of the head. And then things went very dark for Russell.

Russell awoke with a groan and a shudder. He jerked up and blinked all about the place. The place was his office (suitably grim). He’d been sleeping in his chair.

Sleeping?

Russell yawned and stretched and then the memories came rushing back like bad beer from a banjoed belly.

“Oh my God!” went Russell, as this phrase seemed to find favour with him at the present. “Oh my good God.”

He floundered about and tried to get up, but his knees were all wobbly. On the desk before him was the bottle of Glen Boleskine. Without so much as a second thought, Russell took a mighty swig from it.

And then coughed his guts up all over the floor.

“Oh my God.” Russell’s eyes went blink again, all about the place again. The safe door was closed. Sunshine streamed in through the skylight. Russell turned his blinking to his wristwatch. It was just after three and that would be three in the afternoon.

The office door swung open. “Ah, you’ve broken surface, have you?” Bobby Boy breezed in with a grin.

“Get away from me.” Russell snatched up the whisky bottle and swung to his feet.

“What’s all this?” asked the thin one. “Are you all right, Russell?”

“Are you kidding?” Russell displayed his spare hand. He’d made a useful-looking fist out of it. “I’ll stop you. I’ve seen the tapes. You’ve made a big mistake not killing me when you had the chance.”

Bobby Boy made tiny smacking sounds with his tricky little mouth. “I don’t think you’re very well, Russell. Mr Fudgepacker said I should let you sleep. You’ve been over-working, you’ve not been yourself.”

Bobby Boy spied the mess on the floor. “Thought I knew that smell,” he said. “That’s pretty disgusting, isn’t it?”

“You’re finished,” Russell brandished the bottle. “Finished.”

“Come on,” said Bobby Boy. “We’ve a big surprise for you.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you have.”

“There’s something we want you to see.”

“Some … thing?” Russell’s eyes widened and his face, which was pale, although it hadn’t been mentioned that it was pale, although given the circumstances you would naturally assume it to be pale, which it fact it was, grew paler. Phew!

“That thing is out there,” croaked he of the pale face. “That terrible thing.”

“That’s no way to speak about Frank.”

Russell waggled the bottle, spilling Scotch down his trousers. “I won’t let you show it. I’ll destroy the movie.”

“What? You don’t like it before you’ve even seen it?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it all right. You know I’ve seen it.”

“You have not.”

“I have too.”

“Have not.”

“Have too.”

“Not.”

“Too.”

“        ”

“        ”

(Well, there’s not much else you can do with that, is there?)

“Russell, you can’t have seen the movie. We’ve been keeping it as a special surprise for you.”

“Back off.” Russell menaced with the bottle. Bobby Boy backed off in an obliging manner.

Russell pulled open the desk drawer and sought his magnifying glass. It wasn’t there. “Fair enough,” said Russell, “it’s daylight. I’ll be able to see the numbers.”

“What numbers?”

“You know what numbers. The combination numbers.”

“Yeah, right.” Bobby Boy shook his long thin head.

Russell backed over to the safe and keeping Bobby Boy at arm’s length, he sought the little numbers. He squinted at the big brass boss.

And then he squinted again.

And, yes, you all know what’s coming.

“There’s no numbers,” gasped Russell.

“There’s no combination lock,” said Bobby Boy.

Russell stared at the safe door. “Bloody Hell,” said he.

The safe did
not
have a combination lock. It had a big keyhole.

“But …” went Russell. “But … but …” Because, you have to confess that if this happened to you, you’d be quite flummoxed.

“I don’t know what you were on last night,” said Bobby Boy, “but if I were you, I’d give it a miss in the future.”

“Yeah yeah, well you’d know all about the future, wouldn’t you? Having been there, and everything.”

“
Me
? Been to the future? What are you talking about, Russell?”

“I’m talking about the Cyberstar program. The one you stole.”

“The Cyber-what?”

“The hologram film stars. There’s no point in denying them. The movie’s full of them.”

“There’s nothing like that in our movie,” said Bobby Boy. And it did have to be said that he looked and sounded most genuine, even though, of course, he
was
a professional liar. “Mr Fudgepacker isn’t much of a one for modern technology. He’s a pretty basic fellow.”

“You bastards!” Russell had a serious shake on. “You can’t trick me. No, hang about, I get it.”

“What do you get?”

“There’s always a bit like this, isn’t there? Where something devastating happens to the hero and then he wakes up and it was all a dream. Or it
wasn’t
a dream, but the villain is making it seem as if it’s a dream. It’s a right hacked-out cliché, that is.”

“Tell it to Hollywood.”

“It’s a trick. That isn’t the same safe. You switched it while I was unconscious. You knocked me out.” Russell felt at the top of his head. It did
not
have a bump on it. “Oh,” said Russell.

“People are waiting for you,” said Bobby Boy. “This is all very childish.”

“Yes!” Russell shook his fist. “My childhood. What about my childhood?”

“What about it?”

“Well, I can’t remember it.”

“Can’t you?”

“I …” Russell thought about his childhood. He
could
remember it. He could remember lots and lots and lots of it. “I
can
remember it,” he said slowly.

“Well, bully for you, Russell. Now, are you going to come out and get your big surprise, or not? There’s food. Although most of it’s been eaten now. There’s a few ham sandwiches left.”

Russell nodded his head. “Yes,” said he. “All right.”

“After you then.”

“No, after
you
.”

“What a weirdo you are,” and Bobby Boy led the way.

As Russell emerged from his office a great cheer went up and “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” was sung at full blast with much gusto.

Russell blinked anew.

There was bunting hanging here, there and all about the place. There was a table, with the remnants of a mighty spread upon it. There were chairs set out in rows before a viewing screen. And there was quite a crowd of people.

Mr Fudgepacker was there. And Morgan was there. And Julie was there. And Frank was there (with a bit of paperwork he wanted Russell to take a look at). And several local publicans were there. And several production buyers were there (ones who hadn’t come into the Emporium to hire anything in months, but always have that knack of turning up when there’s a free drink). And Russell’s mum was there. And even Russell’s sister, who Russell was quite sure lived in Australia. Even she was there. And a few other folk also.

And they were all cheering and singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow”, although they’d got to the “and so say all of us,” bit by now.

“What’s going on?” Russell viewed them with suspicion. He was still not utterly convinced.

“It’s all for you,” said Bobby Boy, reaching over to give Russell’s back a pat, but then thinking twice about doing so. “After all, if you hadn’t had that win on the National Lottery and put it all into the movie to help Mr Fudgepacker out and save the Emporium, none of this would have been possible.”

“You’re very thorough,” muttered Russell, beneath his breath. “You haven’t missed a trick.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Well, come and have a sandwich and watch the movie.”

“Hip hip hoorah!” went all present, with the exception of Russell, who was looking from one to the other of them and worrying. Oh yes he was worrying all right, and he was in a state of stress. And he was thinking many thoughts.

And one of the many thoughts that he was thinking was …

What if I’m dreaming
this
?

Although considerably confused, he still felt certain that he hadn’t dreamed the rest. So if that was the case, then he had to be dreaming
this
.

And if he
was
dreaming this, then no-one could do any harm to him, and if he
knew
he was dreaming, he could do pretty much anything he wanted.

“OK,” said Russell, “fine. Thank you very much everyone. You’re all very kind. I’ll have some of that champagne, if I might. Ah, Julie, you’re looking well. Perhaps after the movie you’d like to come back to my place for some sex.”

Julie’s mouth dropped open.

“Oral sex is fine by me,” said Russell. “That’s a date then.”

The crowd parted before him and Russell made his way to the table. Glances were exchanged, shoulders shrugged.

“He’s been over-working,” said Mr Fudgepacker.

“Hey, Fudgy.” Russell gave the old boy a jovial pat that sent him reeling. “How’s it hanging, you old spawn of Satan?”

Murmer murmer murmer, went the crowd.

“Over-working.” Mr F struggled to stay upright. “He’s not normally like this, as we who know and love him know. This is quite out of character.”

Russell winked at Ernest and whispered close by his ear. “I’ll give you ‘character’, you old bastard. Just show the movie.”

“Yes, yes.” Ernest eased his way past Russell. “Take a seat, dear boy. Down at the front.”

“With you and the man in black behind me, I don’t think so.”

“Anywhere you like, then.”

“At the back.”

“As you please. Well, seats everyone. Bobby Boy, get the lights switch on the projector and come and sit down the front with me.”

The crowd, looking somewhat bewildered, bundled for the best seats. Russell’s mum wrung her hands and shook her snowy head. The sister Russell was sure lived in Australia said, “Typical.” But whether this was directed against the bewildered bundlers or against Russell must remain uncertain.

When the bundling had finished and everyone was settled into their seats, the lights went down and the screen lit up.

A RUSSELL NICE
[25]
PRODUCTION

in association with

FUDGEPACKER INTERNATIONAL BIO PICS

presents …

“NOSTRADAMUS ATE MY HAMSTER,”
said Russell.

A SHOWER OF GOLD

“Eh?” said Russell. “A shower of
what
?”

“Ssssh!” went Russell’s mum.

“Typical,” said his sister.

Russell sat back, sipped champagne and stared on as the movie unfolded before him.

Bobby Boy played the part of a blind watchmaker’s apprentice. The time was the present and the place was Brentford. The watchmaker’s business was going bust and a wicked developer was doing all he could to acquire the premises, demolish them and build some great corporate enterprise on the site.

Julie played the developer’s PA, a high-powered woman with a troubled conscience. In fact, everyone in the picture seemed to have a troubled conscience. The watchmaker harboured some terrible secret from his past. His apprentice, while on the surface pretending to support the old man, was in fact scheming to sell him out. The developer was in love with Julie, but he had done something awful concerning the brother she didn’t know she had. And Julie, through a chance encounter, had fallen in love with Bobby Boy, neither of them knowing who the other one was. There was enough in the way of stress to bring joy to any Hollywood producer’s heart, and the plot, superbly crafted, led eventually to a denouement so apposite and touching that there wasn’t a dry eye left in the house.

And certainly not one in Russell’s head.

Russell sat there and blubbed into his champagne. The movie was a masterpiece. There was nothing trite or schmaltzy about it. The direction was impeccable. There was excitement, there was intrigue. There was
not
a Cyberstar to be seen in it.

The cast was entirely composed of local folk. And all were wonderfully professional. Bobby Boy out-Hanked Tom Hanks and the sallow creep who ran The Bricklayer’s Arms all but stole the show with a compelling performance as a crippled footballer trying to rebuild his life after the tragic death of his wife.

It was a film for all the family. And not The Manson Family, as had been the case with Mr Fudgepacker’s previous efforts. There was no sex here and no violence. There was humour, there was joy. There was love and there was hope.

It was very Heaven.

Russell blew his nose on his shirt sleeve. He could already see the reviews.

Sensational. A film you’ll want to see again and again. Simply sensational.

The Times

I don’t have to actually watch a picture to know whether it’s good or bad, and I haven’t watched this one. But I love it. Marvellous.

Barry Norman

Ernest Fudgepacker is one of the rare guys who can always make me cry.

Terry Pratchett®

And so on and so forth.

When the end credits had all rolled away and the lights went back on, folk rose from their seats and set up a thunderous applause, with the occasional break for eye-dabbing and sniffing.

Ernest struggled unsteadily to his feet and limped to the screen. He raised his wrinkly hands to the audience. “I think a round of applause should go to the man who made it all possible. The man who has worked harder than any of us. For Russell. Take a bow, my boy.”

Russell flapped a hand and grew a little rosy at the cheeks. But to cries of “speech, speech” and “well done that man”, he got up from his seat and took a little bow.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” said Morgan. “Almost had me sniffling. Almost.”

“They were all so good.” Russell scratched at his head. “All those amateur actors, they were brilliant.”

“Old Ernie knows how to get a performance out of people.”

“It’s a work of genius.”

“You made it happen, Russell.”