As to the interior of the Swan, what can be said?

Well, much, but perhaps a little at a time.

It was now a most elderly pub, sedate, having age to its credit rather than its detriment. It retained the features that make a pub a pub, rather than a theme bar, which give it dignity: a mahogany saloon bar counter, eight hand-drawn ales upon tap, a row of Britannia pub tables, a darts board, a long-disabled jukebox.

Its windows, of etched glass, were tinted by a million smoke-filled breaths. Its carpet, somewhat bare of thread, had known the footfalls of a thousand heroes. And its walls wore faded paper, patterned in the past.

A yard of ale glass hung upon the wall behind the bar and below it, upon shelves, were Spanish souvenirs, bottles of rare vintage, and ancient postcards showing rooftop views of Brentford in a past now distant.

And between these and the counter stood a barman of the part-time persuasion.

And this part time barman’s name was Neville.

“Good evening gents,” said this fellow as Tim and Will entered the saloon bar. “And how may I serve you?”

Will looked at Tim.

And Tim looked at Will.

“Well,” said Will, perusing the row of antique beer engines.

“I have eight hand-drawn ales on pump,” said Neville, with much pride in his voice. “A selection which now exceeds any other pub in the locality by …” Neville paused. “Eight,” he continued.

Will smiled towards the lord of the bar. “And what would you recommend to a weary traveller?” he asked.

“A pint of Large,” said Neville. “And for your companion?”

“Same for me,” said Tim.

Neville did the business, drawing with the practised hand of the true professional. At length, when he was satisfied that all was, as ever was, and ever should be, he presented his new patrons with their pints.

Will viewed the pints upon the polished countertop.

“Supreme,” was what he had to say.

“Take a taste,” said Neville.

And Will took a taste.

“Beyond supreme,” he said, when he had tasted it.

“Then all is indeed as it should be,” said Neville.

Tim too took to tasting. “On me,” he said. “Where’s the monitor?”

“Monitor?” said Neville.

“The iris-scanner,” said Tim. “So I can credit you for the drinks.”

“We don’t have one of those, I’m afraid,” said Neville. “This is a cash-only establishment.”

“What?” went Tim. “But no one’s used cash for the last fifty years.”

“I had noticed that trade’s been dropping off,” said Neville.

Tim shook his head and his features vanished beneath his hair.

“Here,” said Will, delving into his trouser pocket and bringing out a handful of change. “Try this.”

Tim made a clearing in his hair and peered through it. “Antique money,” he said. “Where did you get that?”

“It’s a long story; just pay the man.”

Tim took the coins and handed some to Neville.

Neville rang up No Sale on the ancient cash register and presented Tim with his change. “I think you must have undercharged me,” said Tim.

“On the contrary,” said Neville. “Correct to the penny.”

“Then thank you very much.”

Tim followed Will towards a corner table, where they seated themselves upon comfy chairs and took further sup from their pints.

“Unbelievable,” said Tim. “Perfect ale. I never even knew this place existed.”

Will smiled a knowing smile.

“You’ve been here before?” Tim asked.

“Oh yes,” said Will.

“You never told me about it.”

“It wasn’t during your lifetime.”

Tim took a further sup. “This sounds promising,” he said. “I feel wackiness coming on. How come we’re the only people drinking in this wonderful bar?”

“All will be explained,” said Will, taking further sup. “This really is the best, isn’t it?”

“Spot on,” Tim raised his pint to Will. “So, just to recap, if I may. You’ve been into the future, to next Friday, where I gave you Retro, which enabled you to recall generations of your past. Then you travelled back into the past physically. And now you’ve brought me to a pub on my very block-step, which I’ve never seen before, to drink the finest beer I have ever tasted, that you apparently have tasted before, but not in my lifetime. Have I got all this right?”

“There’s a lot more,” said Will. “A whole lot more.”

“Oh good,” said Tim. “I’m really loving this.”

“There’s a lot that you’re not going to love.”

“Well don’t tell me any of that.”

“I have to tell you all of it. It’s not finished yet. It’s far from finished. In fact it’s only just begun and you have to help me, which is why I’m here.”

“But you were never away.”

“I was in the toilet,” said Will. “On the tramcar.”

“You were,” said Tim, supping more ale. “I remember that.”

“I went into the toilet, but the me who went into the toilet was not the same me that came out again. The original me, that went in, is still on the tram. I told him to carry on all the way around London Central before going home. I had to be very careful not to touch him. It’s a time-paradox thing. To do with David Warner in the old Time Cop movie. But we won’t go into that yet.”

“Still loving it,” said Tim. “But already starting to get a tad confused. Do you think you might explain?”

“It’s a long story,” said Will. “And I do mean a long story. It lasts for about three hundred years.”

“I’d better get some more beer in then.”

“It’s my round,” said Will.

“It’s your money I’ll be paying with,” said Tim. “You tell the tale, I’ll get in the beers.”

“Fair enough,” said Will.

And so Tim got in the beers.

And so Will told the tale.

Will told Tim about what was going to happen next week. About The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke and the digital watch on the Tinker’s wrist. And the witch women who had come to the Tate to destroy the painting and about how he had hidden it from them and substituted a Rothko.

And then Will told Tim about the foul-smelling Victorian robot with the horrible black eyes that had killed the other William Starlings and had tried to kill the one who was presently sitting talking to Tim, who was a different Will to the Will that had gone into the toilet on the tram, but was really the same one.

Which confused Tim somewhat. Although Tim did say that he was reminded of a certain classic twentieth-century Hollywood movie, where the robot was from the future.

“But this one came from the past,” Will explained. “To stop me from altering the future, which would have, in turn, altered the past. Which, in fact, it did.”

Which got Tim confused once again.

And then Will told him about exactly what had happened after Tim had given him the Retro on the Friday of the following week. Which really got Tim confused.

But the beer was so good.

And Will told his tale well.

And as with all well-told tales, this one was not told in the first person.

And it went something, in fact altogether, like this.