Nostradamus Ate My Hamster (18 page)

“After a while the cook demands to taste the soup. He dips in the ladle and takes a sip. Then he spits onto the floor. ‘It tastes of nothing but water with a stone in it,’ says he.

“The traveller too takes a sip. ‘It lacks for something,’ he says. ‘Do you have any herbs, thyme, say, or rosemary?’

“‘That I do.’

“‘Then let’s put them in.’

“‘Very well.’

“So in go the herbs and after a while the cook takes another sip. And he spits on the floor again. ‘Now it just tastes like water with a stone and some herbs in,’ says he.

“The traveller takes another sip. ‘It still lacks for something,’ he says. ‘Do you have any chicken stock?’

“‘That I do.’

“‘Then let’s put it in.’

“‘Very well.’

“So the chicken stock goes in and after a while the cook takes another sip. And again he spits on the floor, remarking that now it just tastes like boiling water with a stone, some herbs and some chicken stock in it.

“The traveller agrees that it still lacks for something and he suggests the addition of a half-eaten chicken carcass that is standing on a platter on the table.

“The cook adds this to the soup.

“‘How does it taste now?’ asks the traveller a little later on.

“‘Better,’ says the cook. ‘But it could do with some cornflour and parsnips.’

“‘Put them in,’ says the traveller. ‘And put in some of those carrots you have over there, and those new potatoes.’

“‘What about these mushrooms?’ asks the cook.

“‘Stick them in too,’ says the traveller.

“And the cook does.

“The cauldron boils and the traveller and the cook stand a sniffing. At length the traveller tastes the soup and says that in his considered opinion it is ready for the eating, but what does the cook think?

“The cook has another taste. ‘A touch more salt,’ he says.

“The traveller has another taste and declares the soup, ‘Just so’, adding that to appreciate it at its very best it should be taken in company with thickly buttered bread.

“The cook hastens to the bread locker.

“‘And fetch a jug of wine,’ says the traveller.

“And then the two men sit down to dine.

“Over the soup, which they both agree to be splendid, the traveller tells the cook of the sights he’s seen and the things he’s heard. And the cook tells the traveller about how he’s thinking of opening a small restaurant down in the town.

“The talk continues over the cheese board, accompanied now by brandy from the cook’s private stock and a couple of the castle lord’s cigars.

“Later, somewhat full about the belly and light about the head, the two settle down in front of the kitchen fire and fall asleep.

“On the morrow the traveller departs upon his way. The cook waves goodbye from the battlements and the last he sees of him, is the traveller disappearing over the brow of a distant hill, having stopped only once, to pick up a stone at random and pop it into his pouch.”

Omally smiled and took a drink from his new pint.

“And what happened next?” Russell asked.

“What do
you
think happened next?”

“My guess would be that the traveller went on to another castle and repeated the performance.”

“That would be my guess too.”

Jim Pooley returned to the table in the company of a pint of Large and a small gin with lots of tonic. “Did the cook fall for it again?” he asked Omally.

“He did,” said John.

Pooley placed the drinks on the table. “One day he won’t and I pity the poor traveller then.”

“Did you get it?” John asked Russell. “Do you understand the metaphor?”

“Oh yes,” said Russell. “I get it.”

“I wish I did,” said Jim.

Russell turned to Julie. “We had best drink up and set to work. I think I know what to do.”

“These will help.” Omally reached under the table and brought out two plastic bin liners. “A change of clothes for each of you. And there’s some money in the pockets.”

“Thank you, John.” Russell shook Omally by the hand. Jim stuck his out, but Russell politely declined on the grounds that things might become a little complicated and there was still a great deal to do.

They changed in the toilets. Russell togged up in the black suit with lightning-flash insignias on the shoulders and Julie into that dress of golden scales.

Back in the saloon bar they said farewell and thanks to Pooley and Omally.

“If it all works out,” said Russell, “we’ll see you both back in old Brentford. Here in this very bar. And the drinks will be on me this time.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Pooley.

John and Jim returned to their window seats and watched as Russell and Julie walked off hand in hand along the something-strasser, bound once more for the big shopping mall.

“I hope he makes it,” said Jim.

“He will,” said John.

“John?” said Jim.

“Jim?” said John.

“All that stuff about the metaphor, you wouldn’t care to explain that to
me
?”

“I would,” said John. “If I only knew what it meant.”

“So you know what it means?” said Julie as they walked towards the mall.

“Oh yes,” said Russell. “It all makes perfect sense.”

“Well, I understand that you’re the traveller.”

“Oh no, I’m not the traveller, I’m the stone.”

“But the stone was a fake, it didn’t do anything.”

“It was a symbol,” said Russell. “It represents the individual, the individual as a catalyst for change.”

“And the cauldron?”

“The cauldron is the world.”

“And the vegetables and suchlike?”

“Society,” said Russell.

“That sounds about right.”

“You see the stone couldn’t make the soup on its own, but without the stone the soup would never have been made.”

“I thought the cook made the soup.”

“The cook is an aspect of society. He represents society’s greed and its ultimate gullibility.”

“And the traveller?”

“The traveller is time.”

“A time traveller, then the traveller is you.”

“No, I’m definitely the stone.”

“And the boiling water?”

“Change,” said Russell. “Water represents change, because water can be changed into steam or into ice.”

“Water represents permanence,” said Julie. “You can change its form, but you can’t get rid of it. So perhaps the water represents society.”

“Society is the sum of its parts,” said Russell. “The soup is society.”

“You said the vegetables were society.”

“Yes, I meant the vegetables.”

“But you just said the soup.”

“The soup is made out of the vegetables.”

“So they can’t both be society, the soup
and
the vegetables.”

“They’re aspects.”

“You said the cook was aspects.”

“He is.”

“But he put the soup together, so he can’t be society too.”

“Perhaps it’s the castle,” said Russell.

“What do you mean,
perhaps
? I thought you knew.”

“I do know.”

“What’s the wasteland, then?”

“Time,” said Russell.

“The traveller is time, you said.”

“The traveller came out of the wasteland. The wasteland is an aspect of time. Endless you see, like an endless wasteland.”

“The stone came out of the wasteland. So the stone must be an aspect of an aspect of time.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What a load of old rubbish.”

“It
is not
.”

“What’s the kitchen, then?”

“Stop it,” said Russell. “You’re giving me a headache.”

By now they had reached the Schauberger Memorial Mall.

“Right,” said Russell. “So this is the plan.”

“You have a plan?”

“Of course. Now what I want you to do is this: go into one of the gift shops and buy a box to put the programmer in. Write out a note to go with it telling me to take the programmer to Hangar 18. Oh, and I’ll be in The Bricklayer’s Arms eating a stale ham sandwich when I read the note, so mention that, I recall it giving me a shock.”

“And while the little woman is attending to her chores what will her big bold man be doing?”

“There’s no need for that,” said Russell. “I have to acquire the means for us to travel back in time. Meet me in an hour outside the electrical shop.”

“Oh, you’ll have got that sorted in an hour, will you?”

“I very much doubt it, but if it takes me a month to get it sorted, and I
will
get it sorted, I’ll set the controls on the time device to an hour from now and I’ll meet you outside the electrical shop.”

“That’s very clever, Russell.”

“Thank you. Do I get a kiss?”

“I’ll give you one in an hour.”

Julie gave Russell a wonderful smile, then turned and walked off into the mall.

Russell watched until she was out of sight and then he returned to The Flying Swan.

Pooley and Omally still sat at the window seat, each with a pint glass in hand. A third pint, freshly pulled, stood upon the table.

Russell sat down, raised it to his lips and said, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” agreed Pooley and Omally.

Russell drained off half a perfect pint, then placed his glass upon the table.

“You knew I’d come back,” he said.

“Hoped,” said Omally.

“So you know that I’ve reasoned it out.”

“About the metaphor?”

Russell nodded. “Julie was the traveller and I was the cook. She’s working for them, isn’t she? For the bad guys. I’ve been had.”

“Very good,” said Omally. “But how did you reason it out.”

“She fits the part too well. I had my suspicions the moment she took the controls of the
Flügelrad
. Then she spun me the intricate story and I wasn’t sure. But she knew too much. In her eagerness to prove she was on my side she told me too much. And she wasn’t really surprised when we saw Bobby Boy in the mall and she wasn’t really surprised when we met you. And the one thing that she
must
know, she won’t tell me. And that’s the end of the movie. But what clinched it, was when I told her just now to buy a box to put the programmer in and write out the note. She didn’t even flinch at the thought or try to convince me otherwise, it’s what she intended, it’s why she landed the craft at the exact time she did. So that
I
would pick up the programmer Bobby Boy forgot to take.”

“You really
have
reasoned it out,” Omally raised his glass in salute. “Any more?”

“Yes. I don’t think she’s Fudgepacker’s stepdaughter at all.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I think she’s his wife.”

“Give the man a big cigar,” said Jim Pooley. “How did you work that one out?”

“Something she said about Hitler being a friend of the family. It wouldn’t have been her family then, she hadn’t even been born. And the fact that she was sheltering Hitler at the Bricklayer’s. No young woman of the nineteen nineties would do a thing like that.”

“So why is she still so young?” asked Omally.

“Ah, I’ve reasoned that out too. She’s still the same age she was in 1945. Because she came with Hitler on the
Flügelrad
, that’s how she knew how to fly it, you see.”

“But if she was Fudgepacker’s wife, why would she be on the
Flügelrad
with Hitler?”

“Think about it,” said Russell. “The war’s almost lost. Hitler has the opportunity to go into the future and step out as some kind of new Messiah. He may only have one ball, but would he have passed up the opportunity to nick his chief engineer’s beautiful wife and offer her a voyage into the future to be Mrs Messiah? I think it was the offer she couldn’t refuse. She fits the bill, doesn’t she? The Aryan type, tall, blond, blue-eyed. Hitler’s ideal woman.”

“Has he only got one ball?” Jim Pooley asked.

“I’ll ask him the next time I see him.” Russell finished his third perfect pint of the day. “So am I right, or am I right?”

“Right as the now-legendary ninepence,” said Omally. “In old money, of course.”

“But of course.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“You know what I’m going to do now.”

“And that is?”

“He’s going to the Emporium,” said Jim Pooley.

“Thank you, Jim,” said Russell. “That’s just what I’m going to do.”

The Kew Road was little more than a track. No grey cars moved along it now. Cars that fly have little need for roads
[33]
. The Emporium stood all alone in a scrubby field, a bit like a castle, rising from the waste. Russell paused before the Gothic door. He didn’t have a magic stone about his person, but then he wasn’t the traveller, was he? No, he was certain that he wasn’t.

But did he have a plan?

Yes, he was certain that he did.

He knew what was going to happen. He’d seen it on the video cassette, with Bobby Boy playing him and being led through the secret door down into the boiler room to meet the thing. He was asking for more time. Could that be the means to travel back in time? Russell couldn’t remember precisely how the words went, but if he mucked up the script a bit and got a few words wrong, would it actually matter?

“This calls for a bit of method acting,” said Russell to himself and he knocked upon the door.

After what seemed an age, but was probably less than a minute, the door creaked open a crack and Viktor Schauberger, alias Ernest Fudgepacker, looked out at Russell.

He hadn’t changed a bit. He was still the same old clapped-out wizened wreck of a man he’d been back in the nineties. But just a little bit more so.

As he swung wide the door and waved Russell in, Russell noticed the way that he moved, stiffly, like an automaton. Russell smiled and said, “Hello.”

The ancient man inclined his turtle neck. “So it’s that day already, is it?” he asked, his voice a death-rattle cough. “I did look at the calendar, but one day is much like another and this year like the last.”

“Are you well?” Russell asked.

The magnified eyes stared at Russell. They were the eyes of a corpse.

“The old place looks the same,” Russell said and he glanced about the vestibule. But the old place didn’t look the same, the walls were charred, the glossy floor tiles dull and cracked. Above, blackened roof timbers gave access to the sky.

“No customers now,” coughed Mr Fudgepacker. “No-one. Just me and Him.”

“You know that I’ve come to see Him?”

“I don’t allow Him visitors. I’ve never allowed Him visitors. But you are special, Russell, you gave Him to me.”

I’m losing this, thought Russell. But just play along.

“Is
He
well?” Russell asked.

“He doesn’t change. He can never change.”

“That’s nice for Him.”

“
What?”
Mr Fudgepacker’s eyes took life. “Nothing is nice for Him. I see to that.”

Lost it completely, thought Russell. Him and me both, by the sound of it.

“Come with me.” Mr Fudgepacker took Russell by the arm. His fingers were hard, wooden, they dug into Russell’s flesh.

As they walked slowly along the aisle, Russell looked around at the stock. It was all going to pieces. The stuffed beasts worm-eaten and green with growing mould. Precious things that Russell had cared for on lunch-times long ago were now corroded, worthless junk. It broke Russell’s heart to see them so. One of the catwalks had collapsed, smashing sarcophagi and ancient urns. A rank smell filled the air. The perfume of decay.

Russell recalled some of the words that Bobby Boy had spoken. “How long? How long has He been with you?”

“For all these years. I am His guardian. All this, all this in the Emporium. His doing. You can’t capture time, Russell. It won’t be caught. Try and hold it in your hands and it runs through your fingers, like sand.” The old man cackled. “Like the sands of time, eh, Russell?”

Russell nodded helplessly. None of that was right, surely? That wasn’t what Peter Cushing had said on the video.

They reached the small Gothic door at the end of the aisle. Russell pressed it open and the two men passed through the narrow opening, down an ill-lit flight of steps and into the boiler room.

“This way.” Mr Fudgepacker led Russell between piles of ancient luggage, old portmanteaus, Gladstone bags, towards a curtained-off corner of the room.

Russell knew what lay in wait behind that curtain. He had seen the horror, he knew what to expect.

But it didn’t help. It didn’t help to know. Russell hesitated. It was very strong that thing. Could it be reasoned with? Russell felt that it could not. He would have to offer something. The stone that promised magic? The Judas kiss? He would have to lie, he’d come prepared to lie. But how convincing would he be? And how much
did
it know?

Russell felt afraid. His knees began to sag, yet at the same time prepared themselves to run.

“Part the curtain,” said Mr Fudgepacker. “But avert your gaze.”

Russell reached out to the curtain. There was still time to run. Still time to escape. He didn’t have to do this.

But he would. He knew that he would.

Russell took the curtain, it was cold and damp, it clung to his fingers. Russell pulled at the curtain and it fell away like shredded sodden tissue.

Russell turned down his eyes. But his hand came up to cover his nose. The smell was appalling. Sickening. Russell gagged into his hand and dared a glance.

And then he started back and stared with eyes quite round.

It sat upon the throne-like chair. All twisted to one side. A leg tucked up beneath itself, the other dangling down, the foot the wrong way round. The hands were shrunken claws with long yellow nails. The face. Russell stared at the face.

The face was that of Adolf Hitler.

Hitler’s head lolled onto his left shoulder. The eyes were open, but unfocused, crossed. Lines of congealed slime ran from the nose and open mouth, caked the chest, hung in stalactites depending to a crust upon the floor.

“Hitler,” Russell gasped. “He’s dead.”

“He is
not
.” Ernest set up another high cackle. “He just smells dead. The filthy fucker, he’s shat himself again.”

Russell took a step forward, but the stench forced him back. The once proud Reich Führer was now a shrivelled mummy, festering in his own filth. Paralyzed and helpless.

“What happened to him?” Russell asked. “How did he get this way?”

“Your doing, Russell. All your doing.”

“
My
doing? No.”

“It’s better than he deserves. The irony of it, Russell. The man who wanted the whole world for his own, now has this for his whole world. I must get a new curtain, it’s months since I’ve been down here, the old one’s all rotted away.”

“Months?” Russell asked. “Don’t you feed him? Wash him?”

“He doesn’t need feeding. I spray him with insecticide once in a while. Bluebottles lay their eggs in him. The maggots eat out through the skin. See, his left ear’s gone and some of the back of his head.”

Russell felt vomit rising in his throat. “This is inhuman,” he gasped. “Why? Tell me why?”

“You know why. He took my wife, my beautiful wife. Left me to grow old alone. But I’m converted now. Good for another four hundred years at least. And I’ll spend them with him. He’ll have time to muse upon his evil.”