'Miss Havisham?' I asked, my voice tinged with fear.

'I'm just trying to think of the best words to get us there, girl!' she replied cheerfully.

'Stop!' I yelled as the point of no return came and went in a flash.

'Let me see …' muttered Havisham, thinking hard, the accelerator still wide open.

I covered my eyes. The car was running too fast for me to jump out and a collision seemed inevitable. I grasped the side of the car's body and tensed as Miss Havisham took herself, me and two tons of automobile through the barriers of fiction and into the real world. My world.

I opened my eyes again. Miss Havisham was studying a road map as the Higham Special swerved down the middle of the road. I grabbed the steering wheel as a milk float swerved into the hedge.

'I won't use the M4 in case the C of G get wind of it,' she said, looking around. 'We'll use the A419 — are we anywhere close?'

I recognised where we were instantly. Just north of Swindon outside a small town called Highworth.

'Continue round the roundabout and up the hill into the town,' I told her, adding: 'But it's not your right of way, remember.'

It was too late. To Miss Havisham, her way was the right way. The first car braked in time but the one behind it was not so lucky — it drove into the rear of the first with a crunch. I held on tightly as Miss Havisham accelerated rapidly away up the hill into Highworth. I was pressed into my seat and for a single moment, perched above two tons of bellowing machinery, I suddenly realised why Havisham liked this sort of thing — it was, in a word, exhilarating.

'I've only borrowed the Special from the count,' she explained. 'Parry Thomas will take delivery of it next week and aim to lift the speed record for himself. I've been working on a new mix of fuels; the A419 is straight and smooth — I should be able to do at least a ton eighty on that.'

'Turn right on to the B4019 at the Jesmond,' I told her, 'after the lights turn to greeeeeeen.'

The truck missed us by about six inches.

'What's that?'

'Nothing.'

'You know, Thursday, you should really loosen up and learn to enjoy life more — you can be such an old stick-in-the-mud.'

I lapsed into silence.

'And don't sulk,' added Miss Havisham. 'If there's something I can't abide, it's a sulky apprentice.'

We bowled down the road, nearly losing it on an 'S' bend, until miraculously we reached the main Swindon—Cirencester road. It was a no right turn but we did anyway, to a chorus of screeching tyres and angry car horns. Havisham accelerated off, and we had just approached the top of the hill when we came across a large 'diversion' sign blocking the road. Havisham thumped the steering wheel angrily.

'I don't believe it!' she bellowed.

'Road closed?' I queried, trying to hide my relief. 'Good — I mean, good-ness gracious, what a shame. Another time, eh?'

Havisham clunked the Special into first gear and we moved off round the sign and motored down the hill.

'It's him, I can sense it!' she growled. 'Trying to steal the speed record from under my very nose!'

'Who?' I asked.

As if in answer another racing car shot past us with a loud 'poop poop!'.

'Him,' muttered Havisham as we pulled off the road next to a speed camera. 'A driver so bad he is a menace to himself and every sentient being on the highways.'

He must have been truly frightful for Havisham to notice. A few minutes later the other car returned and pulled up alongside.

'What ho, Havisham!' said the driver, taking the goggles from his bulging eyes and grinning broadly. 'Still using Count "Snaill" Zborowski's old slowpoke Special, eh?'

'Good afternoon, Mr Toad,' said Havisham. 'Does the Bellman know you're in the Outland?'

'Of course not!' yelled Mr Toad, laughing. 'And you're not going to tell him, old girl, because you're not meant to be here either!'

Havisham was silent and looked ahead, trying to ignore him.

'Is that a Liberty aero-engine under there?' asked Mr Toad, pointing at the Special's bonnet, which trembled and shook as the vast engine idled roughly to itself.

'Perhaps,' replied Havisham.

'Ha!' replied Toad with an infectious smile. 'I had a Rolls-Royce Merlin shoehorned into this old banger!'

I watched Miss Havisham with interest. She stared ahead but her eye twitched slightly when Mr Toad revved the car's engine. In the end, she could resist it no more and her curiosity got the better of her disdain.

'How does it go?' she asked, eyes gleaming.

'Like a rocket!' replied Mr Toad, jumping up and down in his excitement. 'Over a thousand horses to the back axle — makes your Higham Special look like a motor mower!'

'We'll see about that,' replied Havisham, narrowing her eyes. 'Usual place, usual time, usual bet?'

'You're on!' said Mr Toad. He revved his car, pulled down his goggles and vanished in a cloud of rubber smoke. The 'poop poop' of his horn lingered on as an echo some seconds after he had gone.

'Slimy reptile,' muttered Havisham.

'Strictly speaking, he's neither,' I retorted. 'More like a dry-skinned land-based amphibian.'

It felt safe to be impertinent because I knew she wasn't listening.

'He's caused more accidents than you've had hot dinners.'

'And you're going to race him?' I asked slightly nervously.

'And beat him too, what's more,' she replied, handing me a pair of bolt-cutters.

'What do you want me to do?' I asked.

'Open up the speed camera and get the film out once I've done my run.'

I got out. She donned a pair of goggles and was gone in a howl of engine noise and screeching of tyres. I looked nervously around as she and the car hurtled off into the distance, the roar of the engine fading into a hum, occasionally punctuated by muffled cracks from the exhaust. The sun was out and I could see at least three airships droning across the sky; I wondered what was going on at SpecOps. I had written a note to Victor telling him I had to be away for a year or more, and tendered my resignation. Suddenly I was shaken from my daydream by something else. Something dark and just out of sight. Something I should have done or something I'd forgotten. I shivered and then it clicked. Last night. Gran. Aornis' mindworm. What had she been unravelling in my mind? I sighed as the pieces slowly started to merge together in my head. Gran had told me to run the facts over and over to renew the familiar memories that Aornis was trying to delete. But how do you start trying to find out what it is you've forgotten? I concentrated … Landen. I hadn't thought about him all day and that was unusual. I could remember where we met and what had happened to him — no problem there. Anything else? His full name. Damn and blast! Landen Parke-something. Did it begin with a 'B'? I couldn't remember. I sighed and placed my hand over where I imagined our baby to be — it would now be the size of a half-crown. I remembered enough to know I loved him, and I missed him dreadfully — which was a good sign, I supposed. I thought of Lavoisier's perfidy and the Schitt brothers and started to feel rage building inside me. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. There was a phone box by the side of the road, and on an impulse I called my mother.

'Hi, Mum,' I said, 'it's Thursday.'

'Thursday!' she screamed excitedly. 'Hang on — the stove's on fire.'

'The stove?'

'Well, the kitchen really — wait a mo!'

There was a crashing noise and she came back on the line a few seconds later.

'Out now. Darling! Are you okay?'

'I'm fine, Mum.'

'And the baby?'

'Fine too. How are things with you?'

'Frightful!' she exclaimed. 'Goliath and SpecOps have been camping outside since the moment you left and Emma Hamilton is living in the spare room and eats like a horse.'