Mr Adolf Hitler, it was he.

And he looked in the very peak of good health.

Russell dithered (and wouldn’t anyone?). What to do for the best? Creep away and phone the police?

“Hello, yes, I’ve got Adolf Hitler cornered in an old aircraft hangar on Brentford dock, and I’ve got his time machine too. Could you send over a couple of constables? Thank you.” Russell weighed up the pros and cons. All cons, he concluded. He would have to go it alone. Go in there like a hero would, and do the right thing.

Now Russell, like all right-thinking individuals, was a great fan of the science fiction movie. And being so, there was, of course, one particular line he’d always wanted to shout at someone.

No, it was not “I’ll be back”.

And so, taking a very big breath, he kicked open the office door and with gun held tight between both hands and pointed at the Führer’s face, he shouted it out.

“Lead or a dive you’re coming with me. I mean …”

“What is this?” Hitler spoke with a thick Cockney accent. “Who let this Yankee[31] in here?”

“I’m not a Yankee.” Russell held the gun as steadily as he could. “Dead or alive you’re coming with me.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Mr Fudgepacker flapped his fragile hands about. “I’ll have this oaf removed at once, my Führer. Russell, put down that toy pistol at once.”

“It’s not a toy.” Russell squeezed the trigger and a round parted the Führer’s hair.

“Oh my God.” Russell gawped at the gun and at the Führer. “I’m so sorry. I had the safety catch off. Are you all right?”

“You stupid Russian[32].” The Führer clutched at his head.

“I’ll call a doctor,” said Russell. “No, what am I saying again? Stuff you. Put your hands up, I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”

“Russell!” said Mr Fudgepacker, sternly. “Look behind you, Russell.”

“You don’t think I’m going to fall for that old trick?” Russell took a quick peep over his shoulder, and then he said, “Oh dear.”

The noise of the gunshot had rather put paid to the partying. The sound system had been switched off. Many eyes were now turned upon him. Many faces were wearing angry expressions.

“I’ve got a gun.” Russell flashed it in their direction. “Well, you probably guessed that, hearing it go off and everything. But I’m not afraid to use it. I just used it then, didn’t I? And I’ll use it again, I will.”

The crowd looked rather unimpressed. Unimpressed, but surly, the way crowds can look when they’re composed of people who’ve had too much to drink and are suddenly bothered by some fool who wants to break up the party.

“I’m arresting this man,” Russell continued. “He’s an escaped war criminal and I’m taking him to prison.”

The crowd replied with a sinister growl that Russell found discouraging. But he was still prepared to put a brave face on it. “Don’t try to stop me,” was the phrase he chose to use.

“Growl” and now, “snarl,” went the crowd.

“Russell,” said Mr Fudgepacker, “put that gun down at once.”

“No I won’t.” Russell took stock of the two men in the office.

“And you put your hands up,” he told Adolf Hitler. “I won’t tell you again.”

The Führer’s hands shot into the air, no hero he with a gun pointing in his direction.

“You’ve let me down, Russell,” said Mr Fudgepacker.

“Me let you down?” Russell waved his gun, which had the führer flinching. “You wicked old man. I respected you. I worked hard for you.”

“And you will again. Now put down that gun and let’s talk about things.”

“Oh no no. No more talking. This man, Hitler, him, he’s coming with me. I don’t want to shoot him, but I will if I must. I’d probably get a medal from the Queen, if I did. Or maybe a presentation clock with Westminster chimes.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Mr Fudgepacker.

“Too late for what?”

“Too late to start some running gag about Westminster chimes.”

“Yes, you’re probably right. But he’s still coming with me. This is the end, Mr Fudgepacker. It’s all over now, the movie, everything.”

“You’re overwrought, Russell, sit down and have a drink.”

“No. I don’t want a –”

“Russell, look out!” Julie screamed the words.

Russell turned his head and met the eyes of Bobby Boy. The thin man leapt at him, gun in hand and then things seemed to move in slow-motion, the way they often do when something really awful happens. The thin man’s gun came up to Russell’s face, but Russell swept his wrist aside and brought his own gun into violent contact with his attacker’s stomach. Still carried by the force of his own momentum, Bobby Boy plunged past Russell, into the office and struck his head on the mighty Invincible. As he fell backwards his gun went off and the bullet ricocheted from the safe and caught him square in the left kneecap.

Russell looked on in horror as the thin man writhed on the office floor, blood pumping from his trouser leg.

“Call an ambulance,” Russell turned back upon the crowd. “There’s been an accident. Call an ambulance.”

Nobody moved.

“Come on,” shouted Russell, “hurry up. I’ll apply a tourniquet.”

Nobody moved once more.

“Well come on, do something.”

The people of the crowd did something. They threw back their heads and howled. It was a horrible sound, cruel, atavistic. It fair put the wind up Russell.

“Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop it!”

But they didn’t.

“Russell, quickly, come.” Julie’s hand was on his arm. She tugged at Russell’s sleeve.

“Yes, I will … I …”

Someone hurled a glass. It shattered above the office door, showering splinters down on Russell. Then a bottle too. The crowd advanced.

Russell fired a shot into the ceiling. The crowd held back a moment. Russell ran and so did Julie. Across the hangar floor they went and the howling crowd swept after them.

Russell tore open the little hinged door in the big sliding one and pushed Julie through the opening. He followed at the hurry-up, slammed shut the door and rammed the bolt home. You couldn’t open that from the inside.

Russell gathered wits and breath. From within the hangar came horrible howls and the sounds of fists drumming on the big sliding door.

“Thank you,” Russell gasped. “Thank you for warning me. We’ll have to get to a phone, call an ambulance ourselves.”

“Are you kidding?”

“He could bleed to death.”

“He won’t.”

“But –”

“We have to get away, Russell. They’ll kill us. Both of us.”

“All right, do you have a car?”

“No, do you?”

“No, I don’t have one. I wouldn’t have asked you, if I had one.”

“You should get one, Russell. Something fast. A bright green sports car.”

“Well, I’ve always fancied a Volvo, they’re very safe. Cage of steel and everything.”

“Volvos are driven by men who wear pyjamas,” said Julie, which Russell tried to picture.

“Waxed jackets surely,” he said. “What’s that sound?”

“What sound?”

“That sound.”

That sound was a sort of grating grinding sound. The sort of sound that a big sliding door makes as it’s being slid along.

“Run,” said Russell.

“Where?” Julie asked.

“With me, I have an idea.” Russell took her by the hand and they ran, round to the car park at the back of Hangar 18. Russell pulled the big glass valve from his poacher’s pocket. “We can use this,” he said.

Julie stopped short and gawped at it. “You dirty bastard,” she said. “Is that all men ever think about?”

“What?” Russell stared at Julie and then at the valve. “Oh no, it’s not a … You thought it was a … No, it’s a …” Sounds of loud howling reached their ears. “This way, quickly.”

Russell dragged her to the Flügelrad. “Get inside, come on.”