Nostradamus Ate My Hamster by Robert Rankin Page A

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.”
    Russell raised an eyebrow once more.
    “They
were
, as it happens. When out of the blue, or the black really, as it was quite late at night, comes this god-awful racket. Like engines failing. I thought it must be a plane about to crash. And I remember thinking, that’s handy, because I could help.”
    Russell raised the other eyebrow.
    “All right. Well it didn’t sound like a big aircraft. A light aircraft. Maybe carrying drugs or something. But it wasn’t an aircraft. I looked all around and I couldn’t see anything. Then out of the black, out