Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

4 Close Encounters of The Third Reich

Russell never went for lunch. He always waited until Frank went for lunch, then he did some tidying up. He really did want to get at those teacups in the sink. But he didn’t want to offend Morgan, so he usually settled for a bit of dusting and rearrangement. Today he had planned to have a go at the religious relics. John the Baptist’s mummified head needed a dose of Briwax and the phial of The Virgin’s Tears had dried up again, so called for a quick squirt from the cold tap (which isn’t dishonest if it’s just “topping up”).

But untrue to form upon this day, Russell put on his waxed jacket with the poacher’s pockets[10] and sallied forth into the streets of Brentford.

The Ealing Road first, he thought. If The Flying Swan ever had existed, then some trace of its whereabouts must remain. That was about as straightforward as you can get. People’s memories tend to be uneven and unreliable, but as Jim Campbell says, “Buildings are the pinions of history.” If a building had once existed, some trace, no matter how small, probably would remain.

Well, it might, for Goddess’ sake!

It’s a very short walk from Fudgepacker’s to the Ealing Road. You just turn right at The Red Lion. Most of the properties are old. Victorian at the very least. There are two pubs there, The Bricklayer’s Arms and The Princess Royal. Further up there’s The New Inn; so that makes three. Not bad in two hundred yards. But this is Brentford. And Brentford has the only football club in the country with a pub on each of its four corners.

Russell reasoned that should there be a gap somewhere, or a new building looking somewhat out of place, there was potential. So he marched up the Ealing Road. He couldn’t trudge, Russell, nor could be plod, marching was all he knew. Or jogging. Well, jogging was good for you, and you have to look after your health.

Russell would have jogged, but he was investigating, so he marched instead.

Past the corner tobacconist’s, and the bookies, and the greengrocer, to The Bricklayer’s.

Russell looked up at the pub in question. It was solidly built. A Victorian frontage, local glazed tile, fiddly bits, window boxes. Dug in, it was. Built to last, and last it had.

“If The Flying Swan really was along here,” said Russell to no-one but himself, “the folk who run this pub must know about it.”

Russell came to an abrupt halt before the door. Because here a great problem presented itself. Russell did not go into pubs. It was quite simply something he did not do. As a non-smoker, the very smell of pubs appalled him. And as virtually a non-drinker, there was little point in him going into them anyway.

Although regular pub-goers will tell you that all the most interesting people are to be found in pubs and that the heart of a town is its finest tavern, this is not altogether true.

Pub-goers actually represent a tiny percentage of any given town’s population[11]. Curiously enough, exactly the same percentage as regular church-goers. And regular church-goers will tell you that all the most interesting people are to be found in churches (and so on and so forth).

Russell dithered. This was probably all a waste of time anyway, perhaps he could just interview passers-by, get himself a clipboard and tell them he was doing a survey. That would be for the best.

Russell turned to walk away. But then he stopped to pause for further thought. It was no big deal going into a pub. If he came out stinking of cigarette smoke it hardly mattered, his clothes would be going into the wash at the end of the day anyway. He was being a real wimp about this. If Morgan were to find out, he’d never let him hear the last of it.

“Right,” said Russell, squaring his shoulders and taking a breath so deep as might hopefully last him throughout his visit. Up to the door, turn the handle, enter.

Russell entered The Bricklayer’s Arms.

It was really quite nice inside. It didn’t smell too bad. The furniture was all mellow browns and greens, glowing softly in that light you only find in pubs. The saloon bar was low ceilinged and narrow, a few high stools ranked before the counter and on these sat lunch-time patrons: secretaries from the office blocks on the Great West Road, young bloods in suits with mobile phones. A couple of old boys slung darts in the general direction of a mottled board, a number of trophies glittered in a case on the wall. Ordinary it was, what you might expect, anywhere.

Russell approached the bar. The young bloods made him feel somewhat uneasy. He was in jeans and a sweatshirt, they wore professional suits. Perhaps he should go round to the public bar.

“What’ll it be then, love?” The barmaid caught Russell’s eye. And most winsomely she caught it too. A tall narrow blonde of a woman, constructed to Russell’s favourite design. Wide blue eyes and a big full mouth that was full of big white teeth.

The words “a Perrier water” came into Russell’s mind, but “a pint of best bitter,” came out of his mouth.

“Coming right up.” The barmaid turned away, with a sweep of golden hair and a click-clack of high heels. Russell spied out an empty stool at the end of the counter and climbed onto it. Why had he said that? A pint of best bitter? Russell didn’t even like best bitter, Russell hated best bitter. But Russell knew exactly why he’d said it. Real men didn’t drink Perrier water. Blond barmaids liked real men. Russell liked blond women.

“There you go,” said the barmaid, presenting Russell with his pint. He paid up and she smiled warmly upon him. As she brought him his change she said, “Funny you should drink bitter, I thought my luck had changed.”

“Pardon,” said Russell.

“My horoscope in the paper this morning said love may come in the shape of a tall dark stranger.”

“Indeed?” said Russell, warming to the idea.

“A tall dark stranger who drinks the water of life.”

“Eh?” said Russell.

“Only water of life in this place is Perrier water,” said the barmaid. “Still, I’ll keep looking, you never know, do you?”

“No,” said Russell, as she turned away to serve a young man who had recently entered the pub, and who stood by patiently waiting (and listening).

“What will it be then, love?”

“Perrier water,” said the young man.

Russell buried his face in his hands.

“If you’ve had too much, mate, go home and sleep it off.”

Russell unburied his face.

The landlord glared him daggers. “I pop out the back for half an hour and that blonde tart gets all the customers drunk. That’s the last time I hire an ex-contortionist go-go dancing sex-aid demonstrator.”

Russell made a low groaning sound.

“And don’t you dare chuck up,” growled the landlord.

“I wasn’t,” said Russell. “This is my first pint, I’ve only just come in.”

“Well, watch it anyway.”

“I will,” promised Russell, and the landlord went his way.

Russell sipped at his beer. It tasted ghastly. Russell gazed about the bar. It was all so very normal. Everything about Brentford was so very normal. Russell felt certain that it always had been normal, always would be normal.

There had never really been some golden age, when local lads battled it out with the forces of evil and saved the world from this peril and the next. It was all just fiction.

The landlord shuffled by with a trayload of empties.

“Excuse me,” said Russell.

“You’re excused,” said the landlord. “Now bugger off.”

“I wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”

“You might,” said the landlord. “But I doubt if you’d get any answers.”

“It’s about The Flying Swan.”

“Ah,” said the landlord, and it was as if some golden ray from heaven had suddenly been turned upon him. He drew himself up from his slovenly slouch and beamed a broad grin at Russell. It wasn’t much of a grin, being composed of nicotine-stained stumps for the most part, but it lacked not for warmth and enthusiasm. “The Flying Swan, did you say?”

“I did say, yes.”

“So what would you like to know?”

“I’d like to know whether it ever really existed.”

“Really existed?” The landlord slid his tray onto the bar counter and thrust out his chest. It wasn’t much of a chest, being scrawny and narrow, and the shirt that covered it was rather stained, but it lacked not for pride and confidence. “Of course it really existed, you’re sitting in it now.”

“I’m what?”

“This is it.” The landlord did further grinnings, he turned his head from side to side, displaying sparse sideburns and ears from which sprouted prodigious outcroppings of hair. “I’m him,” he said.

“You’re who?”

“Neville. Neville the part-time barman.”

“You never are.” Russell all but fell off his stool. “You’re Neville? I mean … well, I don’t know what I mean. My goodness.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said the landlord, extending his hand for a shake. Russell took the grubby item and gave it one.

“I’m Russell,” said Russell.

“And how many are there in your party, Mr Russell?”

“I, er, sorry?”

“Will you be wanting to hire the upstairs room? We provide costumes.”

“Costumes?” Russell asked.

“For re-enactments, of course, cowboy night, that kind of thing. Will there be any Americans in your party?”

“Americans?”

“We had a coachload in last year. They brought their own costumes, but we had to charge them for that anyway. It’s all in the brochure. I’ll get you one.”

“Phone call,” said the blond barmaid, leaning over the counter. Russell could smell her perfume. It smelled like pure bliss.

“I’m talking to this gentleman,” said the landlord.

“It’s the brewery, about that business.”

“Shit,” said the landlord. “If you’ll just excuse me, sir, I’ll be right back.”

“Yes,” said Russell. “Fine, yes. Well, yes.”

The landlord dropped back into his slouch and in it he slouched away.

Russell took a big pull upon his pint. This was incredible. The first pub he’d gone into. Incredible! Instant success! And Neville was here and everything. True, he didn’t look exactly how Russell had imagined him to, nor did the pub look quite right either. But you couldn’t expect everything. The number of times he’d walked right by this building and he’d never known that this was The Flying Swan. Incredible!

Mind you, it didn’t mean that the rest of it was true, but it meant something.

“Brilliant,” said Russell, taking another pull. He smacked his lips, perhaps the bitter wasn’t all that bad. It was an acquired taste probably. He’d try a pint of Large next. He’d never been sure exactly what a pint of Large was, but they sold it in The Flying Swan. And this was The Flying Swan.

“Brilliant.” Russell finished his pint. And as he lowered the empty glass to the counter, a strange feeling came over him. It wasn’t so much a feeling of satisfaction that he had accomplished the task he’d set himself so swiftly and successfully. It was a different kind of feeling. It was the feeling that he was about to be violently sick.

“Oh my God,” burbled Russell, clapping his hand over his mouth and making for the Gents. Where was the Gents? Through that door over there. Russell made for that door at the hurry up.

He stumbled through it, found the cubicle, entered same, slammed its door shut behind him and transferred the pint of best bitter from his stomach into the toilet bowl. Oh dear, oh dear.

Russell gasped and gagged, his hands upon his knees. Beer really wasn’t his thing. If only he’d gone for the Perrier water instead. A very clear image of a naked blond ex-contortionist go-go dancing sex-aid demonstrator filled his mind as his stomach continued to empty.

Cruel fate. But just deserts.

Russell ran through the full repertoire of throwing-up techniques. It was a long time since he’d done that and he’d forgotten just how terrible it was. The stomach cramps, the tear-filled eyes, the bits in the back of the throat, the bits that came out of your nose.

At length the worst had passed and Russell was able to straighten up and draw breath.

You always feel so good afterwards, don’t you?

Russell didn’t.

He flushed the pan, left the cubicle and availed himself of the wash hand basin. Presently some semblance of normality returned. Russell perused his reflection in the cracked wall mirror. Not a pretty sight. His eyes now resembled those of the late great Peter Lorre and his face was a most distressing shade of beetroot red.

“I think I’d better go back to work,” said Russell.

And then he heard a noise.

The noise was that of shouting. Ranting really. Ranting and raving, in fact. And ranting and raving in a foreign tongue.

There was a little window open above the urinal. And the ranting and raving was coming through this. Russell tiptoed over, stood upon his tipping toes and peered through the little window.

Outside was a small back yard which held stacks of beer crates and the ruins of what once might have been a barbecue.

Beyond was a sort of shed. Probably a store. The ranting and the raving came from this.

Russell sighed and lowered himself to flat feet. Whatever it was, it was none of his business. He did not put his nose into other people’s business. That was not his way.

Russell checked his reflection once more. His skin tone had now returned to almost normal. His eyes were still a bit poppy though. He’d leave quietly. Come back later for Neville’s brochure. When he was feeling a bit more like himself. That would be for the best.

Russell left the Gents. The door to the rear yard was open a crack. The ranting and raving came through it. Russell shrugged. None of his business. Yet. It did sound pretty manic, perhaps someone was in trouble. Perhaps Russell could help. He was always eager to help.

“I’ll just take a little look,” said Russell to himself. “To make sure.” He opened the door and slipped out into the yard. The shed was a green clap-board affair, its door was closed, but its window was open. Russell crept up to the window.

What was that language? It wasn’t French. Russell knew French, well some French. This was a bit like French.

Russell ducked down, slid beneath the window, then edged up, to peer into the shed.

And then Russell ducked back down again. And a look of horror appeared upon his face. His face that had quite enough upsetting its normal cheery balance already.

He had seen that, hadn’t he?

He had.

Seen that. Seen them.

“No,” whispered Russell. “I’m sure that I could not have seen that.”

He eased himself up once more and took another look into the shed. There was little enough in there to be seen: a trestle table, a couple of chairs. Three men. Three men were in there. Two were standing before the table. To attention. The other was sitting behind it. This other was the one doing all the ranting. Russell took a big long look.

The two that were standing wore uniforms. German uniforms. Second World War German uniforms. Second World War SS Nazi German uniforms. They had their backs to Russell, straight backs. Cropped blond hair beneath smart caps. Jack boots.

The one sitting behind the table …

Russell’s breath hung in his throat, his heart went bump, bump, bump, bump. The one sitting behind the table wore a light grey uniform, very sharp, well cut, he was small, hunched, thick set. A black swathe of hair hung over one eyebrow, a Charlie Chaplin moustache sat beneath the nose of the contorting face. The contorting face that could belong to no other being who had ever walked the earth, apart from the one it belonged to now. Impossibly now.

The contorting face of Adolf Hitler.

Russell sank down hard onto his bottom. This wasn’t happening. This could not be happening. He must be drunk. Or something terrible had been slipped into his pint. He had to be hallucinating. That man in there could not, by any stretch of the imagination, possibly be the real Adolf Hitler. He simply couldn’t, that was all there was to it. Russell felt suddenly faint and his hands began to shake. Have another look, just to make absolutely sure, sure that, well, sure of something. Russell took a very deep breath and hoisted himself back to the window.

And took another peep in.

It was him. It bloody well was. He was just as he looked in the old documentary footage. A bit smaller, but folk always look smaller in real life. Except for the tall ones, of course, although they might look smaller. It was just a bit more hard to tell.

Russell ducked down again and tried to think his way out.

But it was him. Actors never got him right, they always looked like Alec Guinness. Even Alec Guinness looked like Alec Guinness, but then he would, wouldn’t he?

Russell’s thoughts became all confused. Something had happened, something most odd. Had he entered something? Like some parallel world? The world of The Flying Swan, where the impossible was possible and this sort of stuff happened every day?[12]

“It can’t be him.” Russell gritted his teeth and assured himself that it couldn’t be him. Well, it couldn’t. That was all there was to it.

Russell stuck his head up and took another peep. And found himself staring face to face with the monster himself. The very personification of all that was evil in the twentieth century. Adolf Hitler.

“Aaaaagh!” went Russell.

“Achtung! Achtung!” went Adolf and added further words of German which meant “Kill the spy!”

Russell didn’t know what they meant. But he knew what they meant, if you know what I mean. Russell took to stumbling, staggering legs and turned on his heels and ran.

As he ran through the bar the landlord thrust a brochure into his hand, “Discount on block bookings,” he said.

“Oh … oh … oh,” went Russell, running on, “Oh my goodness, oh.”