‘What’s going on?’ I asked, thoroughly confused.

‘We’ve got to go!’ replied Bowden.

‘And leave me like this?’

‘Look.’

He pointed at the car. It was shaking slightly as a localised gust of wind seemed to batter it.

‘I can’t leave her—me—in this predicament!’

But Bowden was pulling me towards the car, which was rocking more violently and starting to fade.

‘Wait!’

I struggled free, pulled out my automatic and hid it behind one of the wheels of the nearest car, then ran after Bowden and leaped into the back of the Speedster. I was just in time. There was a bright flash and a peal of thunder and then silence. I opened an eye. It was daylight. I looked at Bowden, who had made it into the driver’s seat. The motorway services carpark had vanished and in its place was a quiet country lane. The journey was over.

‘You all right?’ I asked.

Bowden felt the three-day stubble that had inexplicably grown on his chin.

‘I think so. How about you?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

I checked my shoulder holster. It was empty.

‘I’m bursting for a pee, though. I feel like I haven’t gone for a week.’

Bowden made a pained expression and nodded.

‘I think I could say the same.’

I nipped behind a wall. Bowden walked stiffly across to the other side of the road and relieved himself in the hedge.

‘Where do you suppose we are?’ I shouted to Bowden from behind the wall. ‘Or more to the point, when?’

‘Car twenty-eight,’ crackled the wireless, ‘come in please.’

‘Who knows?’ called out Bowden over his shoulder. ‘But if you want to try that again you can do it with someone else.’

Much relieved, we reconvened at the car. It was a beautiful day, dry and quite warm. The smell of haymaking was in the air, and in the distance we could hear a tractor lumbering across a field.

‘What was all that motorway services thing about?’ asked Bowden. ‘Last Thursday or next Thursday?’

I shrugged.

‘Don’t ask me to explain. I just hope I got out of that jam. Those guys didn’t look as though they were out collecting for the church fund.’

‘You’ll find out.’

‘I guess. I wonder who that man was I was trying to protect?’

‘Search me.’

I sat on the bonnet and donned a pair of dark glasses. Bowden walked to a gate and looked over. In a dip in the valley was a village built of grey stone, and in the field a herd of cows was grazing peacefully.

Bowden pointed to a milestone he had found.

‘That’s a spot of luck.’

The milestone told him we were six miles from Haworth.

I wasn’t listening to him. I was now puzzling over seeing myself in the hospital bed. If I hadn’t seen myself I wouldn’t have gone to Swindon and if I hadn’t gone to Swindon I wouldn’t have been able to warn myself to go there. Doubtless it would make complete sense to my father, but I might well go nuts trying to figure it out.

‘Car Twenty-Eight,’ said the wireless, ‘come in please.’

I stopped thinking about it and checked the position of the sun.

‘It’s about midday, I’d say.’

Bowden nodded agreement.

‘Aren’t we Car Twenty-Eight?’ he asked, frowning slightly. I picked up the mike.

‘Car Twenty-Eight, go ahead.’

‘At last!’ sounded a relieved voice over the speaker. ‘I have Colonel Rutter of the ChronoGuard who wants to speak to you.’

Bowden walked over so he could hear better. We looked at each other, unsure of what was going to happen next; a chastisement or a heap of congratulations, or, as it turned out, both.

‘Officers Next and Cable. Can you hear me?’ said a deep voice over the wireless.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Where are you?’

‘About six miles from Haworth.’

‘All the way up there, eh?’ he guffawed. ‘Jolly good.’ He cleared his throat. We could sense it coming.

‘Unofficially, that was one of the bravest acts I’ve ever seen. You saved a great number of lives and stopped the event from becoming a matter of some consequence. You can both be very proud of your actions and I would be honoured to have two fine officers like you serving under me.’

‘Thank you, sir, I—‘

‘I’m still talking!’ he snapped, causing us both to jump. ‘Officially, though, you broke every rule in the book. And I should have both your butts nailed to the wall for not following procedure. If you ever try anything like this again, I most certainly will. Understand?’

‘Understood, sir.’

I looked at Bowden. There was only one question we wanted to ask.

‘How long have we been gone?’

‘The year is now 2016,’ said Rutter. ‘You’ve been gone thirty-one years!!’

We were both victims of the ChronoGuard’s bizarre sense of humour. It was just past noon the following day. We had been gone only seven hours. We both reset our watches and drove slowly into Haworth, each sobered by the experience.

At Haworth House a full media circus was in progress. I had hoped to arrive before this sort of thing really gained a toehold, but the hole in the Mi had put paid to that. Lydia Startright from the Toad News Network had arrived and was recording for the lunch-time bulletin. She stood outside the steps of Haworth House with a microphone and composed herself before beginning. She signalled to her cameraman to roll, adopted one of her most serious expressions, and began.

‘…As the sun rose over Haworth House this morning the police began to investigate a bold theft and double murder. Some time last night a security guard was shot dead by an unknown assailant as he attempted to stop him stealing the original manuscript ofJane Eyre. Police have been at the crime scene since early morning and have as yet given no comment. It is fairly certain that parallels must be drawn with the theft of the Martin Chuzzlewit manuscript which, despite continued police and SpecOps efforts, has so far not come to light. Following Mr Quaverley’s extraction and murder, it can only be surmised that a similar fate is in store for Rochester or Jane. The Goliath Corporation, whose presence this morning was an unusual development, have no comment to make—as usual.’

‘And—cut! That was very good, darling,’ declared Lydia’s producer. ‘Can we do it once more without the reference to Goliath? You know they’ll only cut it out!’

‘Then let them.’

‘Lyds, baby—! Who pays the bills? I like free speech as much as the next man, but on someone else’s airtime, hmm?’

She ignored him and looked around as a car arrived. Her face lit up and she walked briskly across, gesturing for her cameraman to follow.

A lean officer of about forty with silver hair and bags under his eyes looked to heaven as she approached, cracking his unfriendly face into a smile. He waited patiently for her to make a brief introduction.

‘I have with me Detective Inspector Oswald Mandias, Yorkshire CID. Tell me, Inspector, do you think this crime is in any way connected to the Chuzzlewit theft?’

He smiled benignly, fully aware that he would be on thirty million television screens by the evening.

‘It’s far too early to say anything; a full press release will be issued in due course.’