“Stop, please stop!” Will held up his nose-holding hand (a mistake). “Your sudden loquacity surprises me.”

“It’s another ploy,” said the lad. “A psychological tactic designed to win favour through empathy. On first impression you observe a ragged street urchin. But now you perceive an intelligent youth, fallen upon tragic circumstance. ’Ence you respond with a generous donation of alms, in the thought that there, but for the grace of Gawd, goes you. As it were. Gawd coddle me cods if you don’t.”

“I don’t,” said Will. “Which isn’t to say that I’m not impressed. But I must be going. Farewell. It was a pleasure to meet you, Winston.” Will turned to march away. And then did so.

“No, ’ang about, guv’nor.” The lad made to follow. “Oh me leg,” wailed he, breaking into a limp. “Me poor ulcerated leg.”

Will stopped and turned. “Your poor ulcerated leg?” he asked.

“And me ’ip,” said the lad. “Chronic arthritis brought on through cruel treatment in the workhouse.”

“I see,” said Will.

“Not to mention canker of the groin.”

“Canker of the groin?”

“I told you not to mention that.”

“The old ones really are the best,” said Will. “But listen, I am impressed. I’m really impressed, but I have no money to offer you. I’m sorry.”

“Fair enough,” said the lad. “Ey look up there, it’s ’Er Majesty’s Dreadnaught.” And he pointed heavenward with a grubby mitt. “Gawd nobble me knob if it ain’t.”

Will glanced in the direction of the urchin’s pointings.

The sky above was clear and blue and Will could view no Dreadnaught there. Will smiled and mused a moment, upon the implausibility that somewhere high above that clear sky of blue, lurked an almighty Gawd who harboured an obsession with Winston’s privy parts.

Will’s momentary musings were, however, brought to premature and inconclusive conclusion by the sounds of a sudden smack and an equally sudden squeal.

Will looked down to see the lad, with one hand deep in Will’s trouser pocket and the other clutching a reddening ear. And Will looked up once more, but this time not towards the sky. This time he looked towards the large gentleman who had just struck the erstwhile picker of Will’s trouser pocket.

“Away upon your toes, small boy,” said the gentleman.

The lad withdrew his hand from Will’s trouser pocket and made to take his leave at speed. The gentleman, however, grabbed him by the collar of his ragged coat and hauled him into the air.

“Steady on,” said Will. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Return it,” said the gentleman.

The lad opened his pocket-picking hand to reveal a small plastic disc, the computer disc onto which Will had copied The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke.

“It’s of no value here,” said Will. “Let him keep it.”

“Absolutely not,” said the gentleman. “The repercussions could be enormous. Take back your possession, Mr Starling.”

“Mr Starling?” Will held out his hand and the dangling lad returned the disc. “You know my name?”

“And you know mine,” said the gentleman.

Will took in the figure that stood before him.

It was a mighty figure, impressive, a full and girthsome figure. A figure which, but for its apparel, would not have looked at all out of place in the twenty-third century.

The mighty figure’s apparel was of the most striking and elaborate confection. A six-piece suit of lime green Boleskine tweed, with matching shirt and trousers, jacket and waistcoat and topcoat and top hat too. Affixed to the band of the tweedy topper was a large golden brooch in the shape of a five-pointed star and inlaid with many precious stones. Upon the waistcoat hung numerous watch-chains, similarly of gold, from which depended fobs of the Masonic persuasion. Upon the third finger of the great right hand, which presently held young Winston aloft, was a ring of power, set with a star sapphire and engraved all about with enigmatic symbols. In the left hand was a swordstick topped by a silver skull.

The gentleman set free the lad, who fell to his feet and fled away.

“Farewell, Winston,” said Will.

“Speak my name,” said the gentleman.

“Your name is Hugo Rune,” said Will.

Hugo Rune removed his top hat and bowed. Will was amazed by the great shaven head and the pentagram tattooed upon its crown.

The gentleman straightened, replaced his top hat and patted Will upon the shoulder. “I must offer my apologies to you,” he said. “It would appear that my calculations were incorrect to a nine hundredth of a degree. An unforgivable and costly mistake.” Rune stooped, plucked up a broken fragment of the time machine, tut-tutted to himself, shook his head in grave sadness and let the fragment fall from his hand.

“I am confused,” said Will, who was.

“All will be made clear. If you would be so inclined as to accompany me to my lodgings.”

“Well,” said Will. “I …” and he stared up into the great broad face of Hugo Rune. It was an impressive face. The hooded eyes, the noble nose, the fleshy mouth, the heavy jowls.

“I don’t know,” said Will. “I don’t feel altogether right.”

“You have just travelled through time,” said Hugo Rune. “That you should feel altogether right is unlikely. Follow me please.”

“It isn’t that, I think.” A feeling of foreboding now entered Will. It was a feeling new to him and one that he didn’t care for. It wasn’t fear as such, it was something more. But Will didn’t know just what. Which somehow made it worse. Rune knew his name. And Will knew Rune’s. But Will could not now remember how he knew it. In fact Will could not now remember a whole lot of things that he felt certain he could have remembered a moment before. Or was it a moment before, or a lifetime before? And were the memories Will’s?

“All will be explained,” said Rune. “Follow me.”

The mighty figure turned upon a mighty heel and plunged into the market crowd, which parted before him, much in the manner of the Red Sea before the touch of Moses’ staff. If, of course, you believed in such things, which Will, of course, did not.

Will dithered for a moment, but having no better plan in mind, in fact having no plan whatsoever in mind, followed Hugo Rune at the hurry up.

11

Rune wasn’t difficult to follow, what with the crowd just parting before him. And as Will followed on, the feeling of foreboding grew. Will shook his head, but it didn’t help.

Across the street Rune passed through a brick archway into a narrow tunnel between tall buildings. Will followed with some reluctance. It smelled bad here, even worse than the market street. Will fanned at his nose. The tunnel debouched at length into a yard. Tenement buildings rose to every side. Will peered up at them. There was a feeling of terrible desolation about this place, of desperate poverty and excruciating sadness. The walls were green with slime and mould. The sun but peeped in and there was a horrible chill. Will shivered and followed Hugo Rune.

A paint-flaked sign upon a greasy wall announced this ghastly place to be Miller’s Court. In one corner a rusting iron staircase led up to a darkened doorway. Rune paced up this staircase.

“Follow on,” he called to Will.

And Will followed on.

Rune took a great key from his pocket, thrust it into a keyhole that seemed far too small for it, turned the key and pushed open a door, which made suitably hideous groaning sounds. “Go through,” he said.

Will peered doubtfully into the darkness beyond.

“Go through,” commanded Rune.

And Will went through.

Rune followed him, closed the door, locked it.

The two of them stood in absolute darkness.

“What now?” asked Will in a tremulous tone.

“Creep,” whispered Rune. “Upon stealthy toes.”

And he struck a Lucifer and applied it to a knubby candle. The meagre light revealed a loathsome corridor and Will, who had now had quite enough and wished to be returned to daylight, voiced some words to this effect.