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.”

5

When Russell got back to Fudgepacker’s Emporium, which he did in a world-record time, he found Morgan sitting idly by the packing bench, smoking a cigarette.

“Morgan,” went Russell. “Morgan, I … Morgan … oh.”

Morgan looked up at the quivering wreck. “Whatever happened to you?” he asked.

“Morgan, I’ve been there. I’ve seen him. I saw him, he was there. What are we going to do? Oh dear. Oh, oh.”

“Russell are you all right?”

“No, I’ve been in this pub –”

“You’re pissed,” said Morgan. “Bloody hell, Russell, whatever came over you, you don’t drink.”

“I’m not pissed.”

Morgan sniffed. “You’ve chucked up, you pong.”

“Yes, I have chucked up, but I –”

“You’d better not let Frank see you in this state.”

“I’m not in any state –”

“Trust me, Russell, a state is what you’re in.”

“But I’ve been there, I saw him.”

“What, heaven? You saw God?”

“Not heaven, the opposite of heaven. Though there was an angel there, but because I didn’t drink Perrier water I didn’t get to take her out –”

“Russell, you’re gibbering. Are you doing drugs? You selfish bastard, you’re doing drugs and you never offered me any.”

“I don’t do drugs, I’ve never done drugs.”

“You’re pissed though.”

“I’m not pissed. I’m not. You’ve got to come with me now. No, we daren’t go back. We must call the police, no call the army. Call the SAS.”

“How about you just calming down and telling me exactly what happened?”

“Yes, right. That’s what I’ll do.” Russell took deep breaths and tried to steady himself. “Right, I’m OK, yes.”

“So tell me what happened.”

“I went out to see if I could find whether there really was a Flying Swan.”

“Oh,” said Morgan, “did you?”

“I did. And I found it.”

“Ah,” said Morgan, “did you?”

“Yes I did.”

“Go on.”

“What do you mean ‘go on’, aren’t you amazed at that much already?”

“Not really, but do go on.”

“I met Neville,” said Russell.

“Yes?” said Morgan.

“What do you mean ‘yes’? I just said I met Neville.”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean, which one?”

“Is this why you’re in all this state, because you think you found The Flying Swan and you think you met Neville?”

“No it’s not, and I don’t think I met him, I did meet him. But that’s not it. What it is, is really bad. Really terrible. He’s here, right now. He’s here in a shed.”

“Neville is in a shed?”

“Not Neville, him.”

“I’m up for this,” said Morgan. “Which him is in a shed?”

“A … Adolf H … Hitler,” stammered Russell. “Adolf Hitler! He’s here!”

“In a shed?”

“Behind The Flying Swan.”

“Behind The Flying Swan?”

“He’s there. I saw him. What are we going to do? We should call the army, shouldn’t we?”

“Russell,” said Morgan.

“Yes?” said Russell.

“I’m impressed.”

“Eh?”

“I’m very impressed.”

“What?”

“You’ve a lot to learn, but as a first-off I think you deserve at least nine out often for effort.”

“What?”

“I think where you’ve blown it,” said Morgan, “is that you’ve set your sights too high. Hitler doesn’t really fit the bill, what with him being dead and everything. You should have gone for someone else, someone feasible. Lord Lucan, you should have gone for. Lord Lucan hiding out in a shed.”

“What?” Russell said.

“But you also have to build up the plot. Rushing in and burbling ‘I’ve seen Hitler in a shed’ does have a certain impact, but you have to build up to it.”

“I’m not building up to anything. This is all true. I saw him, I did. I did.”

“You didn’t, Russell. You really didn’t.”

“I really did.”

“In The Flying Swan?”

“In a shed out the back.”

“And which pub exactly is The Flying Swan?”

“The Bricklayer’s Arms.” Russell still didn’t have all his breath back. “The Bricklayer’s Arms. And I can prove it. I can. I can.” He rooted about in his waxed jacket and pulled a crumpled piece of card from his poacher’s pocket. “There,” he said.

Morgan took the card and uncrumpled it. “The Bricklayer’s Arms,” he read, “alias The Flying Swan, famous pub featuring in the novels of blah, blah, blah.”

“It doesn’t say blah, blah, blah, does it?”

“It might as well do.”

“You can’t deny what’s in print.”

“Really?” Morgan fished into the back pocket of his jeans and brought out his wallet, from this he withdrew several similar pieces of card. “Here you go,” said Morgan. “The Princess Royal, alias The Flying Swan, The New Inn, alias The Flying Swan, The Red Lion, alias The Flying Swan. Even The Shrunken Head in Horseferry Lane, they all claim to be The Flying Swan. Do you know how many pubs claim that Oliver Cromwell slept there?”

“Did he sleep at The Flying Swan then?”

“No, he bloody didn’t. Half the pubs in Brentford claim to be the original Flying Swan. It’s bullshit, Russell. They do it for tourists.”

“But Neville?”

“Slouching bloke, rotten teeth, stained shirt?”

“That’s him.”

“Sid Wattings, been the landlord there for years.”

“Eh?”

“Is that blond barmaid still there? The one who can tuck her legs behind her head?”

Russell groaned.

“It’s a wind-up,” said Morgan. “I’m sorry, Russ.”

“Don’t call me Russ. I don’t like Russ.”

“It’s a wind-up, Russell If you’d told me you were going to look for The Flying Swan, I would have warned you not to waste your time. This Adolf Hitler you saw, how did he look?”