“Aaaaaaaaagh!” Russell reached into the desk drawer and brought out a bottle of Glen Boleskine. He was drinking now on a regular basis and it really wasn’t good for him. But all of this was all too much and what made it worse was that Russell was the only one doing any worrying about it.

Old Ernest wasn’t worried. He was back behind the camera reliving his golden days. And Bobby Boy wasn’t worried, he’d passed all the responsibility on to Russell and he was fulfilling his dream to become a movie star. And Frank wasn’t worried. And Julie wasn’t worried. And Morgan probably didn’t even know how to worry. Only Russell worried. And it wasn’t fair.

It just wasn’t fair.

Russell tasted Scotch and glared at the papers on his desk. Piles of them and many the fault of Frank. Frank just loved paperwork and now he was a prop man again he could give his love full head (so to speak). Frank was currently employed by Fudgepacker Films as well as Fudgepacker’s Emporium. Which put him in the marvellous position of being able to send paperwork to himself. Every time something hired from the Emporium got broken on the film set, the Emporium charged the film company. The film company then borrowed back its own money, bought a replacement item, leased it to the Emporium which then rehired it to the film company. Frank had never been happier.

Russell pushed Frank’s paperwork aside and glared at some of Mr Fudgepacker’s. The ancient film maker had told Russell this very day that the shooting was now all but over, so they would soon be into “post production” and post production would require even more money. Could Russell have a word with the Emporium, who Mr Fudgepacker felt were overcharging his film company for breakages on the set?

Ludicrous. And all in the cause of a movie that Russell had not seen one single minute of. And he was the producer.

“It just isn’t fair.” Russell made the sulkiest of faces. “I’m sure everyone’s been working very hard, but it’s me who does all the worrying and takes all the responsibility. They might have shown me some of it.”

Russell huffed and puffed and glared through the partition window to the studio floor beyond. Bare now, but for a few tables and director’s chairs and the video monitor on its stand.

Russell’s glare moved back into the office and returned to an area where it spent a good deal of its time these recent evenings: the area filled by Mr Fudgepacker’s safe. Mr Fudgepacker’s mighty INVINCIBLE, brought over from the Emporium and lowered through the roof by crane (at great cost, Russell recalled). Several tons of worthy steel containing …

Russell glared at the safe. Only Mr Fudgepacker knew the combination. Only he and nobody else.

Well …

This was not altogether true. Russell did a bit of thoughtful lip-chewing as he poured himself another Scotch. There was one other person who knew the combination. And that person was he, Russell.

He’d discovered it quite by accident many months ago. It had been lunch-time and there’d been no-one around and so Russell thought that now would be a good time to do a bit of cleaning. Have a go at Mr Fudgepacker’s safe, the old boy would like that. But Mr Fudgepacker hadn’t liked that. He’d returned unexpectedly to find Russell worrying away at one of the big brass bosses and he’d thrown a real wobbly. Russell had thought he was going to snuff it. Baffled by Mr F’s over-reaction, Russell had returned later with a magnifying glass to examine the big brass boss. And yes, there they were, a little row of scratched-on numbers. And it didn’t take the brain of an Einstein to work out what they were.

Of course, Russell would not have dreamed of opening the safe. That would have been a terrible thing to do. Russell felt guilty about the whole thing for ages.

But he didn’t feel quite so guilty now.

It wouldn’t hurt if he took a look at one or two of the test videos, would it? Just run them through the monitor and then put them back. What harm could that do?

Russell’s brow became a knitted brow. To open the safe might be a crime in itself. Breaking and entering, without the breaking. Or the entering. But it could be trespass and it was definitely a breach of trust. But then he did have a right to see the movie. He was responsible for the movie. And what if? And this was a big, what if? A “what if?” that also worried Russell and worried him greatly. What if the movie was a load of old rubbish? All ultra violence and hard-core pornography? A movie that would never be given a certificate by the censors?

It could well be. Fudgepacker loved his gore and with Bobby Boy having a hand in the script and the starring role, Marilyn Monroe would be sure to be getting her kit off.

And what about Julie?

“I’ll kill him,” said Russell. “If he’s persuaded Julie to … I’ll kill him. I will.”

Russell glared once more at the mighty INVINCIBLE. And then he reached into his desk drawer and brought out his magnifying glass. He looked at it and he made a guilty face. He could not pretend he hadn’t been planning this.

“Oh sod it,” said Russell. “It can’t hurt. I’m doing the right thing. I know I am.” And with that said, Russell got up from his desk, went over to the safe, examined the numbers on the brass boss, twiddled the combination lock and swung open the beefy metal door.

And there it all was. The precious Cyberstar equipment. The rented camera. Cans of exposed footage. Stacks of video cassettes in neat white numbered boxes. Russell did shifty over-the-shoulder glances. But there was no-one about, he was all alone in Hangar 18. He’d locked himself in.

“Right,” said Russell, pulling out a stack of videos.

On the studio floor Russell settled himself in for a private viewing. He plugged in the monitor, slotted the first video, poured himself another Scotch, took up the remote controller and parked his bottom on Mr Fudgepacker’s personal chair.

“Right,” said Russell once more. “Roll them old cameras. Let there be movie.”

Russell sat there and pressed “play”.

The monitor screen popped with static and then a clapperboard appeared. On this were scrawled the words NOSTRADAMUS ATE MY HAMSTER. Act one. Scene one. Take one.

Russell hmmphed. “I don’t think much of that for a title,” he said.

“You know, I don’t think much of this for a title,” said the voice of Bobby Boy.

“Just clap the bloody clapperboard,” said the voice of Mr Fudgepacker. Clap went the clapperboard.

Act one, scene one, was the interior of a public house. A gentleman in a white shirt and dicky bow stood behind the bar counter. His surroundings were in colour, but he was in black and white.

“Oh,” said Russell, “it’s David Niven. I like David Niven, but why is he in black and white?”

This question was echoed by the voice of Mr Fudgepacker. Although he phrased it in a manner which included the use of words such as “bloody” and “bastard”.

The screen blacked and there were raised voices off. Then the clapperboard returned with the words “take two” written on it. Now Charlton Heston stood behind the bar, he was in full colour. And a toga.

The screen blacked again and the voices off were raised to greater heights. Russell shook his head and took another taste of Scotch. The clapperboard returned once more. It was time for “take three”.

Tony Curtis replaced Charlton Heston. Tony wore a smart evening suit. He smiled towards the camera, raised his right hand in a curious fashion and then strode, ghost-like through the bar counter.

“Cut!” shouted Mr Fudgepacker. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s tricky,” Bobby Boy’s voice had a certain edge to it. “He’s a hologram. He can’t lift up the counter flap. We’ll have to rig some strings, or something.”

Russell gave his head another shake and fast-forwarded. By “take eighteen” Bobby Boy had managed to steer Tony from behind the counter and nearly halfway across the bar floor. Tony was carrying a Christmas tree fairy. Or rather, Tony was not carrying it. The fairy was dangling on a length of fishing line and it was rarely to be found in the same place as Tony’s outstretched hand.