16

The Reich Stuff

Russell awoke with a scream, fully clothed on his bed. “Oh my God!” Russell felt at himself and blinked his eyes in the darkness. Downstairs the clock on the mantelpiece struck three with its Westminster chimes.

It had all been a terrible dream.[30]

The hall light snapped on and Russell’s mum stuck her head round the door. “Are you all right, dear?” enquired the sweet old thing. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“Yes.” Russell drew deep breaths. “Yes, I did. But I’m fine now. Sorry I woke you up, go back to bed.”

“Would you like a cup of cocoa?”

“No, it’s OK.”

“Well, you get a good night’s sleep. You work too hard.”

“Yes, thank you, Mum. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“Typical,” said the voice of Russell’s sister from the hall.

Russell clutched at his heart. Those were palpitations and that had been the mother of all nightmares. That was truly gruesome.

“Someone is messing around with my head,” mumbled Russell. “God, that was frightening.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He still had his shoes on. One of them smelled rather strongly.

Russell took a deep breath, then kicked off his offending shoe and nudged it under the bed with his heel.

What was that dream all about? Conversion? Mr Fudgepacker had spoken all about conversion the previous night. Him and Bobby Boy. Was that the conversion? And what about that brass instrument? And what about taking his spine? Russell shivered. He needed a drink. No, he didn’t need a drink. The last thing he needed was a drink. He felt fiercely sober now and that was how he intended to remain.

Russell squeezed at his arms. He was still himself. He wasn’t inside something else. “Enough is enough.” Russell pushed himself to his feet. “I am going to get this sorted out. And I’m going to do it now. But I’m not going to do it smelling like this.”

Russell went to the bathroom and took a shower. He was sorry if it kept his mum awake, but it had to be done. Russell returned to his bedroom, dried himself off and dressed in a clean set of clothes: sweatshirt, jeans, clean socks and trainers. He took his other waxed jacket with the poacher’s pockets (the one that he wore for best) from the wardrobe and put that on. And then he looked up at the wardrobe and thought very deeply.

“All right,” he said. “It has to be done.”

Russell took a chair, put it next to the wardrobe and climbed onto it. From on top of the wardrobe he took down a shoebox and placed this upon his bed. Laying the lid aside, he revealed something wrapped in an oil cloth. That something was a Second World War service revolver. Russell folded back the oil cloth and looked down at it.

It had been his father’s gun. His father had given it to Russell on his eighteenth birthday. Russell had taken one look at the gun and pleaded that it be taken at once to the police station and handed in. But his father had said no.

“Keep it safe on top of the wardrobe. One day you might need it. One day.”

Russell took up the gun and held it between both hands. This, he concluded, was that one day.

Russell slipped from his house and made off up the road. He walked briskly and rehearsed beneath his breath the friendly hello he would offer to any patrolling beat policeman whose path he might happen to cross.

Down Horseferry Lane went Russell, his trainer soles silent on the cobbles, along the short-cut past the weir and Cider Island and into the car park at the back of Hangar 18.

And here Russell stopped very short in his tracks. There was still a large number of cars here: Frank’s mini, Morgan’s Morgan, several four-wheel drives belonging to the production buyers. But there was one other vehicle which caught Russell’s particular interest. It stood there in the middle of the car park looking quite out of place.

That vehicle was the Flügelrad.

Russell let a little whistle escape from his lips. Now here was a piece of evidence, if ever he needed one.

Gun in slightly trembling hand, Russell crept up close, keeping to the shadows, the hatch was open and the extendible ladder down. A soft blue light welled from within the cockpit. Russell took a step or two up the ladder and peeped in. Empty. Russell looked this way and the other, then shinned up and in.

Russell hadn’t been inside the Flügelrad before. On the night he’d first seen it he’d spent all his time playing with the Cyberstar machine. But it was just as Bobby Boy had said: old fashioned, all dials and stop-cocks and big glass radio valve things. A bit like a cross between the interior of a Second World War tank and Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. And this craft could travel through time? Russell glanced all around. Bobby Boy had mentioned a loose valve, or some such. Russell spied a large and likely looking one. Large and likely enough looking to be essential to the running of the Flügelrad.

Russell carefully removed it from its socket and slipped it into his poacher’s pocket.

“Put it back,” said a voice with a German accent.

Russell turned swiftly. One of the tall young SS types was framed in the open hatch. He was pointing a gun.

Russell pointed his.

“Drop your weapon,” said the German.

“Drop yours,” Russell said.

“But I asked first.”

“Drop yours anyway.”

“I’ll shoot you,” said the German.

Russell clutched at his jacket, holding the big glass valve close to his chest. “Then you’ll smash this. And your Führer wouldn’t like that.”

“My Führer?”

“Listen,” said Russell, “I’m on your side. Mr Fudgepacker sent me out here to see that everything was safe.”

“Ah,” said the German.

“Heil Hitler,” said Russell, raising his free hand in the Nazi salute.

“Heil Hitler.” The German raised his hand too. But he raised the one with the gun in it. Russell hit him very hard in the face.

The German fell backwards from the ladder and hit the ground with a terrible bone-crunching thump.

“Oh dear.” Russell hastened down the ladder to attend to the unconscious figure. “Are you all right?” he asked, and then, “What am I saying? Stuff you.” And with that he marched across the car park towards Hangar 18.

Merry sounds issued from within. The celebrations were far from over. Russell crept around to the big sliding door and pushed open the little hinged one.

There was a whole lot of shaking going on. Russell cast a wary eye about the place. Morgan was there and Bobby Boy was there and Frank was there and Julie was there. And many of the others he’d seen earlier. But there had been a few late arrivals at the Fudgepacker Ball. There was old Charlton Heston in his toga. And David Niven in his black and white. And the cast of Cockleshell Heroes, including the great David Lodge. The late arrivals weren’t dancing though, they were just sort of standing around.

Russell nodded. Better and better. So where was Mr Fudgepacker?

Russell squinted beyond the dancing drinkers and the standing Cyberstars towards the office. In there, perhaps?

Russell eased his way into the hangar and closed the door behind him. Keeping his back against the wall and himself very much to the shadows, he edged towards the office. No-one was looking in his direction, they were all having far too good a time. Bobby Boy had the programmer, and, yes, there in the middle of the dancers, Marilyn Monroe was getting her kit off.

Russell reached the office unobserved. He ducked down beside the partition window, then stuck his head up to take a peep in.

And then he ducked right down.

“It’s that man again,” whispered Russell.

And it was, seated across the desk from Mr Fudgepacker on one of the unspeakable chairs, with a glass of Glen Boleskine clutched in a chubby hand, was the evil sod himself.