“You nicked it.”

“I didn’t nick it, as it happens. He’s a mate, he lent it to me.”

“And you hoisted up the Flügelrad and brought it here?”

“That’s what I did.”

“Well,” said Russell, “I don’t know what to say really.”

“You could say, ‘What a hero you are, Bobby Boy.’”

“I could,” said Russell. “But I’m not going to. So what happened next, or is that the end?”

“No, it’s not quite the end. Having got the old Flügelrad here and having had a shower and changed my trousers, I set about rigging up the Cyberstar equipment.”

“Er, just one thing,” said Russell. “You brought the Flügelrad here. But who owns this hangar, anyway?”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“My dad gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday, it was going to be my own film studio.”

“Oh yeah,” said Russell. “Your dad owns the brewery, doesn’t he? But I thought you and he –”

“Had a bit of a falling out. Yes, he’s cut me out of his will and everything. I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Sorry I mentioned it. Go on about the Cyberstar equipment.”

“Yeah, well, I unpacked it and set it up and plugged it in and read the instructions and then …”

“Then?”

“Then I find that the bloody programmer is missing. It’s not in the box. I can’t get the thing to work.”

“That’s tough,” said Russell. “After all you’d been through, so dishonestly and everything.”

“Up yours, Russell. So I thought, Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ll just have to zap forward to 2045 again and acquire a programmer.”

“So you won’t need the one I’ve got then.”

“Oh yes I will, because I can’t get the Flügelrad to work any more. I think it’s out of fuel or whatever. I was going to have another crack at it tonight, then you showed up.”

“And you tried to stave my head in with a length of piping.”

“Yeah, well, you could have been anyone, you could have been –”

“I could have been Hitler, or one of his henchmen.”

“You’re damn right. But all’s ended well. Give me the programmer please, Russell.” Bobby Boy stuck out his hand.

Russell moved beyond its range and gave his nose a bit of a scratch. It was a tad numb, was that nose. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? I’ve told you the story and you agreed to give me the programmer. What is there to know?”

“Quite a bit, as it happens. Like the circumstances by which I came by this.”

“You’re pissed, Russell.”

“Just a bit, just a bit. But how I came by the programmer, that was very strange. There had to be a reason why it was given to me personally. I’m involved in this, or I’m going to be involved in this.”

Bobby Boy nodded his long thin head. “I’ll tell you what, Russell, don’t give it to me.”

“What?” asked Russell.

“Just lend it to me. You keep possession of it, right? It’s yours, right? But you just give me a lend of it.”

“I suppose that couldn’t do any harm.” Russell rattled his glass and Bobby Boy hastened to refill it. To the top.

“So, we have a deal. We’ll be partners if you want. Like Merchant and Ivory, or Metro, Goldwyn and Mayer, or, er …”

“Pearl and Dean?” Russell suggested. “Russell and Bob, we could call ourselves.”

“Or, Bob and Russell.”

“I like Russell and Bob best.”

“Look it doesn’t bloody matter, Russell. There’ll be millions of pounds knocking about for both of us. I’ll draw up a contract.”

“I’ll draw up a contract.”

“We’ll both draw up a contract together. Now, if you will kindly lend me your programmer, I’ll show you something you’ll never forget.”

Russell knocked back his glass of Scotch, fell off his chair and said, “Can I use your toilet first?”

It certainly was something Russell would never forget. And not just the one something, loads of separate somethings. Bobby Boy set up the Cyberstar equipment, took the programmer and fiddled about with it. It was a bit like one of those radio-control things, with a joy stick and switches to work the arms and legs of the holograms and a throat mic, so that when you spoke, what you said came out of the hologram’s mouth in their voice. It was truly amazing. And the holograms were truly amazing. They looked so damn real. Bobby Boy had a video camera on a stand and they took it in turns to act alongside the golden greats of Hollywood. Bobby Boy squared up against Sylvester Stallone (in his Rocky persona) and knocked him out in a single round. Russell danced with Ginger Rogers. They did excerpts from everything from The Fall of the House of Usher to The Sound of Music. Songs from the shows and laughter echoed around Hangar 18 and tape after tape went in and out of the camcorder.

It was five in the morning when Russell staggered home to collapse onto his bed. It was three in the afternoon when he woke up.

And he did not feel at all well. Russell looked at his bedside clock and a strangulated cry escaped his parched lips.

Late for work. He was late for work! He’d never been late for work in his life. He’d let the side down, let his work mates down, this was terrible. Terrible!

Russell dragged his legs from the bed and put his head in his hands. He’d really screwed up here. How irresponsible. He’d have to apologize to everyone. Perhaps he should take Mr Fudgepacker a bottle of his favourite Scotch, after all …

Russell groaned. He’d spent the night drinking stolen Scotch, mucking about with stolen technology, recording it all on what was just bound to be a stolen camcorder. He was a bona fide criminal. Terrible. Terrible!

The room went in and out of focus. Somehow more terrible, were all those unanswered questions. What was going to happen? How did it involve the barmaid from The Bricklayer’s Arms? How had she been in the future, and where was she now? Was she safe? Had those clanking things caught up with her? And what about Hitler? That human fiend was abroad on the streets of Brentford. And streets of Brentford that would one day be given German names, in a future run by the Nazis. Terrible hardly seemed a strong enough word. If Russell could have come up with a stronger one, he would have.

“I have to get to work.” Russell tried to rise, but sank back onto his bed. “Oh God. What have I done?”

Fallen from a state of grace in a big, big way. That was what.

With much groaning and moaning and many a sideways stagger, Russell left his bedroom, then his house and bumbled off towards Fudgepacker’s.

The day was another sunny one. Brentford, as usual, was breaking all the records when it came to hot summers. Across the river, the rain poured down on Kew and in the distance, a heavy fog lay over Chiswick. You couldn’t see Hounslow from where Russell was bumbling along, but it was odds on that snow was falling there.

Russell pushed upon the big church door and found that it would not open. Russell pushed again. No go.

“What’s going on?” Russell asked himself.

There was a note nailed to the big church door. It wasn’t the one Martin Luther had nailed up several centuries before. That one was inside in a showcase. This was a new note. It was written in Frank’s handwriting. It read:

CLOSED FOR BUSINESS.

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY PLEASE CONTACT FRANK AT THE BRICKLAYER’S ARMS

“What?” went Russell. “What is all this?”

It was a shame that he hadn’t been told, what with him having just walked by The Bricklayer’s Arms, and everything.

Russell tried to turn upon his heel, but he couldn’t quite manage it this time, so he sort of stumbled in a circle, then set to trudging.