Free Nostradamus Ate My Hamster by Robert Rankin Page B

said (last week, in fact, at The George), “The future and the past have a lot in common. This being that neither of them actually exists. Which leaves us with the present, whose round is it?”
    “Yours,” I told him.
    “It was mine last time,” he said.
    “But that was in the past,” I told him, “and the past does not exist.”
    “Fair enough,” said James and went off to the bar.
    Presently he returned, with just the one drink. For himself.
    “Where is mine?” I asked him.
    “Good question,” he replied, “I believe, at the present, we’re buying our own.”
    An evening out with James is always instructive. Though rarely profitable.
    But, time. Time is a bit of a bugger, isn’t it? It doesn’t really exist at all. It appears to be a series of presents, perhaps a never-ending state of presentness. But something
must
happen, because you definitely get older. Which is strange if you spend all your time in the present and never in the past or the future. Mind you, you have spent some time in the past, which used to be the present. But you’ve never spent any time at all in the future. Because when you get to the future, it turns out to be the present and by the time you’ve thought about it, it’s already the past.
    Russell never thought that much about the future, he was always happy with the present. Especially the birthday present, especially if it was a bicycle. Which it once had been, but that was in the past now.
    It’s all so confusing, isn’t it?
    Russell certainly didn’t know that he was going to be instrumental in future events which would affect the present yet to come. As it were.
    He wasn’t happy when he got back to the sales office. He was mournful.
    “Why are you mournful?” Morgan asked.
    “I am mournful,” said Russell, “because I do not want to be sacked.”
    “You won’t be sacked,” said Morgan. “If anybody’s going to be sacked, then that somebody will be Frank.”
    “It bloody won’t,” said Frank. “I’m the manager.”
    “I wasn’t going to bring my wild card into play just yet,” said Morgan, “but I think I will anyway.”
    “Oh yes?” said Frank.
    “Oh yes,” said Morgan. “You may be the manager, but Ernest Fudgepacker is my uncle.”
    “Shit,” said Frank.
    “I should go,” said Russell. “Last in, first out.”
    “Will you shut up about that.”
    “No, he’s right,” said Frank. “Don’t stand in his way, he’s doing the right thing. Forestall the ignominy of a sacking, Russell, go and hand your notice in.”
    “All right,” said Russell. “I will.”
     
    Now, this is all wrong, you see. In Hollywood they wouldn’t have this. In Hollywood they would say, “The hero is under stress and now the hero must fight back. And win.” That’s what they’d say. In Hollywood.
    “I’ll hand my notice in,” said Russell. “It’s only fair.”
    “Quite right,” said Frank.
    “Quite wrong,” said Morgan.
    “You know what though,” said Russell, “if we could do something to bring in some business, none of us would have to be sacked.”
    “Good point,” said Morgan.
    “You can’t run a company without a manager,” said Frank.
    “There must be something we could do,” said Russell. “Something
I
could do.”
    “What?” Morgan asked.
    “Hand in your notice,” said Frank. “Save the rest of us.”
    “That wouldn’t be fair to you,” said Russell. “Putting you through all the misery, waiting for the axe to fall. No, handing in my notice won’t help. I must do something positive, something that will help us all.”
    “Are you taking the piss?” Frank asked.
    “No, I’m dead straight. I’m going to think hard about this. Find a way to save Fudgepacker’s. That’s what I’m going to do.”
    “It’s five-thirty,” said Morgan. “Knocking-off time. What would you say to a pint of beer?”
    “Not in The Bricklayer’s?”
    “Not in The Bricklayer’s.”
    “I would say thank you, let’s do it.”
     
    The