“Yesterday,” said Tim. “Yes, I have heard it and it isn’t very good.”

Will scratched at his blondy head. “Strange,” he said. “I was certain that the old ones were the best. Don’t know what put that into my mind. But I have to be off and I will see you a week yesterday. On the tram home. You won’t remember any of this because it won’t have happened yet. But as it will happen now, up until I leave in the time machine, I’m advising you to go home, now. It will be for the best. You really must trust me.”

Tim looked hard at Will.

“Something happens, doesn’t it?” he said.

“A lot happens,” said Will.

“I mean, to me.”

Will nodded. “And I don’t want it to, so go home.”

Tim climbed to his feet. “This is deep,” said he.

“Oh yes,” Will agreed. “And very, very complicated.”

“So I’d better just go home.”

“Trust me, you should.”

“And you’ll see me a week yesterday?”

“I remember doing so.”

“And I’ll be all right when you do?”

Will nodded.

“Then fair enough.” Tim stuck his hand out for a shake. “Go with my blessings, friend,” said he. “Blessed be.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Will. “Farewell.”

And so Will walked away.

He turned a corner or two and found himself in yet another alleyway. This was a substantial alleyway. There were many dustbins in it. And a fire escape with one of those retractable bottom sections. Light streamed into this alleyway from the street it led to. Across this street was a burnt-out antique gun store.

Will didn’t have to search the alleyway; he knew exactly where the time machine was hidden. He knew exactly what it looked like. He flung aside bins and rubbish bags and gazed upon it.

And there it stood in all its Victorian glory, a padded leather-armchair jobbie surrounded by all manner of intricate polished brass. Valves twinkled and rivets shone. Well, we all know what a Victorian time machine looks like.

Will climbed into the padded leather seat, strapped himself into the harness and put his hands to the control panel.

And then a certain thought struck him. How, exactly, did he know the location of the time machine? Certainly, the Retro had allowed him access to his ancestral memories, which had also allowed him access to his own when he was in the past, which he had travelled to in this very machine. And he had met the man who had built this machine that had been sent into the future bearing the black eyed monster that sought to destroy him. But that didn’t explain how he knew where the time machine was now, before he’d located it and travelled into the past.

“There’ll be a logical explanation,” Will told himself. “One that is so simple, that I’ll kick myself for not figuring it out now. So, if I recall correctly, and I do, all I have to do is pull this lever.”

“Hold on there. Don’t do it yet.”

Will turned his head.

“Tim,” he said in a voice of considerable alarm. “Oh no, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t worry,” said Tim. “It’s not a problem. If you’re going to see me a week yesterday. I figured that—”

But Tim didn’t say any more.

Because Tim was cut down by the rapid fire of a General Electric Minigun.

“Oh Tim. I’m so sorry.”

And Will threw the lever.

And back.

With all that you might expect. Or at least hope for.

The whirling tunnel of oblivion. Galaxies twisting and turning. Psychedelic special effects. The full Stanley Kubrick. Although that bit in 2001 wasn’t time-travelling. Or was it? But it was damn good anyway.

And through whirlings and shiftings and bendings and collapsings of time and space and most of reality, a pinpoint of special light appeared and grew and grew.

Until into a burst of brilliant sunshine, the time machine, with Will onboard, materialised upon solid ground, upon a cobbled street, in the year of 1898.

And was promptly run over by a horse-drawn brewer’s dray.

10

The bottom of Tim’s now empty glass struck the polished surface of the Britannia pub table. The Britannia pub table was in the saloon bar of the Flying Swan, as were Tim and Will. It was Thursday night in the saloon bar of the Flying Swan, and in all the rest of Brentford.

“But that’s terrible,” quoth Tim.

“I know,” said Will. “I barely escaped in one piece. And the time machine was mangled. And I was trapped in 1898, which actually, I didn’t mind at all. I mean, I’ve always been fascinated, you might say obsessed, with the Victorian era.”

“I would say obsessed,” said Tim. “And I do, but—”

“But I didn’t really care about the machine getting smashed, it didn’t seem to matter. I mean, I was actually there, Tim. In the past. Can you imagine?”

“No I can’t, but—”

Will finished his pint of Large. “The same again would be nice,” he said.

“But this is terrible!”

“No, it’s not. It’s wonderful beer. The most wonderful beer in this day and age.”

“Terrible,” said Tim once again.

“It’s not, it’s wonderful.”

“I don’t mean the beer,” Tim’s glass struck the table for a second time, causing Neville to raise an eyebrow.

“I mean me,” said Tim in the whisper known as hoarse.[6] “I mean, me getting killed. That’s terrible.”

“That was your own fault,” said Will. “I warned you, in so many words. I told you to go home.”

“Killed,” said Tim. “I’m going to die.”

“We’re all going to die. That’s an inevitability, it’s quite impersonal reality.”

“But I’m going to die next Friday. Me! That makes it quite personal.”

“You’re not going to die next Friday. Which is why I returned from the past today. I had to get you to this pub and tell you everything.”

“So I’m not going to die next Friday?”

“No,” said Will, “you’re not.”

“Oh good,” said Tim and he breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s fine then. So I’m loving this again. Go on, tell me more.”

“Go and get more drinks first.”

“Oh yes, right.” Tim went and got more drinks.

“So what happens next?” he asked, upon his return.

“Lots,” said Will, supping away at his latest pint. “Lots and lots and lots.” And he continued with the telling of his tale.

Will’s head was full of memories that were not his own. They were his to a degree, because he had inherited them. They had been bequeathed to him, but they were not the thoughts of Will; and they were not born through the experiences of Will, which made the fact that he was now actually in the nineteenth century something of a sensory shock.

If having nearly been ground into the cobbles by the enormous hooves of onrushing dray horses was not, in itself, an assault upon the senses, then his sudden awareness of his situation and surroundings, when the danger had passed and he sat, bruised to some extent, but otherwise unharmed, became momentarily overpowering – mostly because of the smell.

Will’s hands clamped about his nose. His head swam and tears rose to his eyes. The nineteenth century didn’t smell at all good.

The twenty-second century was all but odour-free. Personal bodily pongs had long since ceased to be problematic. There were just so many super-efficient proprietary-brand deodorants, several of which had their own church franchises. Preservatives kept foodstuffs fresh and as foodstuffs were generally consumed with swiftness, there was little left for the waste disposal and recycling systems. And although toxic rains were frequent, citizens wore protective garments when braving them, or simply stayed indoors, so it was anyone’s guess what the rains smelt like.

Things were not so in the nineteenth century.

Will sat in a pile of horse manure. Will jumped up from the pile of horse manure, right hand fixed across his face, left hand flapping wildly. It took him quite some little time to truly get his bearings. But when he did. But when he did.