“That sort of stuff?” Russell made a thoughtful face. “Like an adventure, do you mean? Like a real adventure?”

“There was nothing real about any of that.”

“She knew me. She knew my name, she called me Russell and she kissed me and she said, I love you.”

“I’m going home.”

“I’m not, I’m going to find out.”

“Look, call it quits. Whatever has happened, has now unhappened, maybe it was a black hole or something, but it’s over. We got away with it. Let’s go home.”

“It’s not over. It’s far from over. It’s only just beginning.”

“Well, you do it on your own.”

“Morgan, come on.”

“No.” Morgan put up his hands. “I don’t want to know about it, I’m going home. Goodbye, Russell.”

“Goodbye, Morgan.”

Morgan didn’t trudge this time, he stalked. Russell watched him as he shrank into the distance, presently to be lost in the shadow of the gasometer.

Russell stood a while. The sun was going down now beyond the great oaks on the Kew side of the Thames, shadows lengthened on the flowing waters. A heron circled in the rose-painted sky.

Russell reached into his poacher’s pocket and brought out the golden package. “We shall see,” he said, and, turning on his heel (for heroes always turn upon their heels and Russell might, just might, yet prove himself to be the stuff of which a hero is composed), he strode off (for heroes also stride), to seek whatever great things fate might hold in store for him.

Oh yes.

“It’s her evening off,” sneered the landlord of The Bricklayer’s Arms (the one who was not Neville). “Some bloke was chatting her up at lunch-time, Perrier drinker. I think he’s taken her to the pictures.”

“Are you sure?” asked Russell.

“Of course I’m bloody sure, he picked her up in his car half an hour ago. What’s it got to do with you anyway?”

“Nothing. Do you serve food?”

“Ask me if we serve crabs.”

“Why?”

“Just ask me.”

“All right, do you serve crabs?”

“We serve anyone, sir.” The landlord laughed heartily. Russell didn’t.

“That was a joke,” said the landlord.

“Most amusing,” said Russell. “Could I have a sandwich?”

“A crocodile sandwich? And make it snappy, eh?”

“How about ham?”

“Don’t know, never been there.” The landlord guffawed further.

“Is this some new innovation? You weren’t laughing too much at lunch-time.”

“Things were iffy at lunch-time, they’re sorted now.”

“I’m so pleased to hear it, a ham sandwich then, if I may.”

“Anything to drink? The best bitter’s very good.”

“A Perrier water, please.”

“Poof,” the landlord served a bottle and a glass, took the money and shouted Russell’s food order through the hatch to the kitchen.

Russell removed himself to a side table. The bar was filling, merry chit chat, raised voices, laughter. Russell took the golden package from his pocket and placed it on the table. What was in it, eh? She had said, “the programmer”. What was that, a remote control for the telly? Something more than a remote control, surely? Should he open it now? Take a look?

“Ham sandwiches,” the landlord slapped the plate down on the table.

“That was quick,” said Russell.

“Fast food. So what’s that you’ve got? Your birthday, is it?”

“A present for my mum,” said Russell, troubled by the ease with which the lie had left his lips. “She’s seventy tomorrow.”

The landlord looked Russell up and down. “Enjoy your meal,” he said and slouched away. “Oh yes,” he said, turning back, “and I’ll have a word with you later about hiring the room and the costumes and everything.”

“Oh good.”

The landlord went his wicked way.

Russell picked up a sandwich and thrust it into his mouth. And then he spat it out again. It was stale. Very stale. Russell sighed, his stomach rumbled. Russell picked up another sandwich and munched bitterly upon it.

Open up the package. That was for the best. Russell opened up the package. The paper was odd, almost like silk, almost like metal also, but somehow neither. Odd.

A slim black plastic carton presented itself. And a letter. Russell unfolded the letter and perused its contents.

Dear Russell,

You won’t know why you got this yet, but you will. If things are going right you should now be sitting in The Bricklayer’s Arms eating a stale ham sandwich –

Russell nearly choked on stale ham sandwich.

If you’re not, then we’ve both screwed up, but if you are, then finish your sandwich and take this to the address below. All will be explained. Hopefully.

All my love,

Julie.

Russell read the address below, it was a warehouse on the Brentford Dock at the bottom of Horseferry Lane.

Russell reached to open the box; as he did so he placed the letter face down on the table. Something was written on the back. Russell read this.

DON’T OPEN THE BOX, he read.

“Oh,” said Russell, not opening the box.

Night was on the go now. One of those balmy Brentford nights that poets often write about. Those nights that make you feel that everyone for miles around must be in bed and making love. You know the ones: Russell knew the ones. The air was scented with jasmine and rare exotic fragrances wafted across the Thames from the gardens of Kew. The splendours of Brentford’s architectural heritage caught moonlight on their slate rooftops and looked just-so. Just-so and more. The way they always have and, hopefully, they always will.

Russell breathed in the night air. It was a good old place, was Brentford, folk who didn’t live there never understood. There was magic in the air. Perhaps there always had been magic in the air. Perhaps the tales he’d heard were true. Of Neville and Pooley and Omally and The Flying Swan. On a night such as this you could feel that almost anything was possible.

And given what had happened so far …

Russell turned from the high street into Horseferry Lane. Sounds of merriment issued from The Shrunken Head. Papa Legba’s Voodoo Jazz Cats, laying down that gris gris on the slap-head base, with Monty on accordion.

Russell passed the pub and entered the cobbled way that led past the weir and Cider Island, on towards the ruins of the old docks. By the light of the moon Russell re-read the address.

Hangar 18.

A sudden thought occurred to him. Why am I doing this? this thought went. Surely I am walking into some kind of trouble here (this was a second thought, which quickly joined the first). Surely I would be better tossing this package into the Thames and going home (third thought).

Russell looked up at that old devil moon. “Something is happening,” he said softly, “and I am part of it. I don’t know what it is, but I am determined to find out.”

And so he walked on.

There were a number of buildings left at the old dock. Not many. Just the three, in fact. And two of those pretty gone to seed. The third looked rather spruce. Newly painted. The number 18 was writ mighty large up near the apex of the roof. Big sliding hangar-type doors.

Russell wondered just what sort of hangar this might have been; was now. Aircraft hangar? Could be. After all, it had been a plucky Brentonian who achieved the first man-powered flight[21], although he’d been written out of history and the Wright brothers had got all the credit. Typical, that was. Americans always got the credit.

Not that Russell had anything against the Americans. Russell didn’t have anything against anyone.