‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. What are you going to do with it?’

‘I thought I’d introduce it somewhere in the tenth millennium before the present one and see how it goes—food for mankind, that sort of thing. Well, time waits for no man, as we say. I’ll let you get back to Landen.’

The world flickered and started up again. Landen opened his eyes and stared at me.

‘Banana,’ I said, suddenly realising what it was that my father had shown me.

‘Pardon?’

‘Banana. They named it after the designer.’

‘Thursday, you’re making no sense at all,’ said Landen with a bemused grin.

‘My dad was just here.’

‘Ah. Is he still of all time?’

‘Still the same. Listen, I’m sorry about what happened.’

‘Me too,’ replied Landen, then lapsed into silence. I wanted to touch his face but I said instead:

‘I missed you.’

It was the wrong thing to say and I cursed myself; too much, too soon. Landen shuffled uneasily.

‘You should take aim more carefully. I missed you a lot, too. The first year was the worst.’

Landen paused for a moment. He played a few notes on the piano and then said: ‘I have a life and I like it here. Sometimes I think that Thursday Next was just a character from one of my novels, someone I made up in the image of the woman I wanted to love. Now… well, I’m over it.’

It wasn’t really what I was hoping to hear, but after all that had happened I couldn’t blame him.

‘But you came to find me.’

Landen smiled at me. ‘You’re in my town, Thurs. When a friend comes in from out of town, you look them up. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?’

‘And you buy them flowers? Does Colonel Phelps get roses too?’

‘No, he gets lilies. Old habits die hard.’

‘I see. You’ve been doing well for yourself

‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘You never answered my letters.’

‘I never read your letters.’

‘Are you married?’

‘I can’t see that’s any of your business.’

‘I’ll take that as a no.’

The conversation had taken a turn for the worse. It was time to bale out. ‘Listen, I’m bushed, Landen. I have a very big day ahead of me.’

I got up. Landen limped after me. He had lost a leg in the Crimea but he was well used to it by now. He caught up with me at the bar.

‘Dinner one night?’

I turned to face him. ‘Sure.’

‘Tuesday?’

‘Why not?’

‘Good,’ said Landen, rubbing his hands. ‘We could get the old unit back together—‘

This wasn’t what I had in mind. ‘Hang on. Tuesday’s not very good after all.’

‘Why not? It was fine three seconds ago. Has your dad been round again?’

‘No, I just have a lot of things that I have to do and Pickwick needs kennelling and I have to pick him up at the station as airships make him nervous. You remember the time we took him up to Mull and he vomited all over the steward?’

I checked myself. I was starting to blabber like an idiot.

‘And don’t tell me,’ added Landen, ‘you have to wash your hair?’

‘Very funny.’

‘What work are you doing in Swindon anyway?’ asked Landen.

‘I wash up at SmileyBurger.’

‘Sure you do. SpecOps?’

I nodded my head. ‘I joined Swindon’s LiteraTec unit.’

‘Permanently?’ he asked. ‘I mean, you’ve come back to Swindon for good?’

‘I don’t know.’

I placed my hand on his. I wanted to hug him and burst into tears and tell him I loved him and would always love him like some huge emotional dumb girlie, but time wasn’t quite right, as my father would say. I decided to get on the question offensive instead so I asked:

‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘Never thought about it?’

‘I thought about it a lot.’

We both lapsed into silence. There was so much to say that neither of us could think of any way to start. Landen opened a second front: ‘Want to see Richard III?

‘Is it still running?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m tempted but the fact remains I don’t know when I will be free. Things are… volatile at present.’

I could see he didn’t believe me. I couldn’t really tell him I was on the trail of a master criminal who could steal thoughts and project images at will; who was invisible on film and could murder and laugh as he did so. Landen sighed, dug out a calling card and placed it on the counter.

‘Call me. Whenever you’re free. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

He kissed me on the cheek, finished his drink, looked at me again and limped out of the bar. I was left looking at his calling card. I didn’t pick it up. I didn’t need to. The number was the one I remembered.

My room was exactly like all the other rooms in the hotel. The pictures were screwed to the walls and the drinks in the mini-bar had been opened, drunk, then resealed with water or cold tea by travelling reps too mean to pay for them. The room faced north; I could just see the airship field. A large forty-seater was moored on the mast, its silver flanks floodlit in the dark night. The small dirigible that had brought me in had continued on to Salisbury; I briefly thought about catching it again when it called on its return the day after tomorrow. I turned on the television just in time to catch Today in Parliament. The Crimean debate had been raging all day and wasn’t over yet. I emptied my pockets of loose change, took my automatic out of its shoulder holster and opened the bedside drawer. It was full. Apart from the Gideon’s Bible there were the teachings of Buddha and an English copy of the Koran. There was also a GSD volume of prayer and a Wesleyian pamphlet, two amulets from the Society for Christian Awareness, the thoughts of St Zylkx and the now mandatory Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I removed all the books, stuffed them in the cupboard and placed my automatic in the drawer instead. I unzipped my case and started to organise my room. I hadn’t rented out my apartment in London; I didn’t know if I was staying here or not. Oddly, the town had started to feel very comfortable and I wasn’t sure whether I liked that or not. I laid everything on my bed and then put it carefully away. I placed a few books on the desk and the life-saving copy of Jane Eyre on to the bedside table. I picked up Landen’s photo and walked over to the bureau, thought for a moment and then placed it upside down in my knicker drawer. With the real thing around I had no need for an image. The TV droned on:

‘… despite intervention by the French and a Russian guarantee of safe habitation for English settlers, it looks as though the English government will not be resuming its place around the table at Budapest. With England still adamant about an offensive using the new so-called Stonk plasma rifle, peace will not be descending on the Black Sea peninsula…’

The anchorman shuffled some papers.

‘Home news now, and violence flared again in Chichester as a group of neo-surrealists gathered to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the legalisation of surrealism. On the spot for Toad News Network is Henry Grubb. Henry, how are things down there?’

A shaky live picture came on to the screen, and I stopped for a moment to watch. Behind Grubb was a car that had been overturned and set on fire, and several officers were in riot gear. Henry Grubb, who was in training for the job of Crimean correspondent and secretly hoped that the war wouldn’t end until he had had a chance to get out there, wore a navy blue flak jacket and spoke with the urgent, halting speech of a correspondent in a war zone.

‘Things are a bit hot down here, Brian. I’m a hundred yards from the riot zone and I can see several cars overturned and on fire. The police have been trying to keep the factions apart all day, but the sheer weight of numbers has been against them. This evening several hundred Raphaelites surrounded the N’est pas une pipe public house where a hundred neo-surrealists have barricaded themselves in. The demonstrators outside chanted Italian Renaissance slogans and then stones and missiles were thrown. The neo-surrealists responded by charging the lines protected by large soft watches and seemed to be winning until the police moved in. Wait, I can just see a man arrested by the police. I’ll try and get an interview.’