“Ah,” said the landlord, and it was as if some golden ray from heaven had suddenly been turned upon him. He drew himself up from his slovenly slouch and beamed a broad grin at Russell. It wasn’t much of a grin, being composed of nicotine-stained stumps for the most part, but it lacked not for warmth and enthusiasm. “The Flying Swan, did you say?”

“I did say, yes.”

“So what would you like to know?”

“I’d like to know whether it ever really existed.”

“Really existed?” The landlord slid his tray onto the bar counter and thrust out his chest. It wasn’t much of a chest, being scrawny and narrow, and the shirt that covered it was rather stained, but it lacked not for pride and confidence. “Of course it really existed, you’re sitting in it now.”

“I’m what?”

“This is it.” The landlord did further grinnings, he turned his head from side to side, displaying sparse sideburns and ears from which sprouted prodigious outcroppings of hair. “I’m him,” he said.

“You’re who?”

“Neville. Neville the part-time barman.”

“You never are.” Russell all but fell off his stool. “You’re Neville? I mean … well, I don’t know what I mean. My goodness.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said the landlord, extending his hand for a shake. Russell took the grubby item and gave it one.

“I’m Russell,” said Russell.

“And how many are there in your party, Mr Russell?”

“I, er, sorry?”

“Will you be wanting to hire the upstairs room? We provide costumes.”

“Costumes?” Russell asked.

“For re-enactments, of course, cowboy night, that kind of thing. Will there be any Americans in your party?”

“Americans?”

“We had a coachload in last year. They brought their own costumes, but we had to charge them for that anyway. It’s all in the brochure. I’ll get you one.”

“Phone call,” said the blond barmaid, leaning over the counter. Russell could smell her perfume. It smelled like pure bliss.

“I’m talking to this gentleman,” said the landlord.

“It’s the brewery, about that business.”

“Shit,” said the landlord. “If you’ll just excuse me, sir, I’ll be right back.”

“Yes,” said Russell. “Fine, yes. Well, yes.”

The landlord dropped back into his slouch and in it he slouched away.

Russell took a big pull upon his pint. This was incredible. The first pub he’d gone into. Incredible! Instant success! And Neville was here and everything. True, he didn’t look exactly how Russell had imagined him to, nor did the pub look quite right either. But you couldn’t expect everything. The number of times he’d walked right by this building and he’d never known that this was The Flying Swan. Incredible!

Mind you, it didn’t mean that the rest of it was true, but it meant something.

“Brilliant,” said Russell, taking another pull. He smacked his lips, perhaps the bitter wasn’t all that bad. It was an acquired taste probably. He’d try a pint of Large next. He’d never been sure exactly what a pint of Large was, but they sold it in The Flying Swan. And this was The Flying Swan.

“Brilliant.” Russell finished his pint. And as he lowered the empty glass to the counter, a strange feeling came over him. It wasn’t so much a feeling of satisfaction that he had accomplished the task he’d set himself so swiftly and successfully. It was a different kind of feeling. It was the feeling that he was about to be violently sick.

“Oh my God,” burbled Russell, clapping his hand over his mouth and making for the Gents. Where was the Gents? Through that door over there. Russell made for that door at the hurry up.

He stumbled through it, found the cubicle, entered same, slammed its door shut behind him and transferred the pint of best bitter from his stomach into the toilet bowl. Oh dear, oh dear.

Russell gasped and gagged, his hands upon his knees. Beer really wasn’t his thing. If only he’d gone for the Perrier water instead. A very clear image of a naked blond ex-contortionist go-go dancing sex-aid demonstrator filled his mind as his stomach continued to empty.

Cruel fate. But just deserts.

Russell ran through the full repertoire of throwing-up techniques. It was a long time since he’d done that and he’d forgotten just how terrible it was. The stomach cramps, the tear-filled eyes, the bits in the back of the throat, the bits that came out of your nose.

At length the worst had passed and Russell was able to straighten up and draw breath.

You always feel so good afterwards, don’t you?

Russell didn’t.

He flushed the pan, left the cubicle and availed himself of the wash hand basin. Presently some semblance of normality returned. Russell perused his reflection in the cracked wall mirror. Not a pretty sight. His eyes now resembled those of the late great Peter Lorre and his face was a most distressing shade of beetroot red.

“I think I’d better go back to work,” said Russell.

And then he heard a noise.

The noise was that of shouting. Ranting really. Ranting and raving, in fact. And ranting and raving in a foreign tongue.

There was a little window open above the urinal. And the ranting and raving was coming through this. Russell tiptoed over, stood upon his tipping toes and peered through the little window.

Outside was a small back yard which held stacks of beer crates and the ruins of what once might have been a barbecue.

Beyond was a sort of shed. Probably a store. The ranting and the raving came from this.

Russell sighed and lowered himself to flat feet. Whatever it was, it was none of his business. He did not put his nose into other people’s business. That was not his way.

Russell checked his reflection once more. His skin tone had now returned to almost normal. His eyes were still a bit poppy though. He’d leave quietly. Come back later for Neville’s brochure. When he was feeling a bit more like himself. That would be for the best.

Russell left the Gents. The door to the rear yard was open a crack. The ranting and raving came through it. Russell shrugged. None of his business. Yet. It did sound pretty manic, perhaps someone was in trouble. Perhaps Russell could help. He was always eager to help.

“I’ll just take a little look,” said Russell to himself. “To make sure.” He opened the door and slipped out into the yard. The shed was a green clap-board affair, its door was closed, but its window was open. Russell crept up to the window.

What was that language? It wasn’t French. Russell knew French, well some French. This was a bit like French.

Russell ducked down, slid beneath the window, then edged up, to peer into the shed.

And then Russell ducked back down again. And a look of horror appeared upon his face. His face that had quite enough upsetting its normal cheery balance already.

He had seen that, hadn’t he?

He had.

Seen that. Seen them.

“No,” whispered Russell. “I’m sure that I could not have seen that.”

He eased himself up once more and took another look into the shed. There was little enough in there to be seen: a trestle table, a couple of chairs. Three men. Three men were in there. Two were standing before the table. To attention. The other was sitting behind it. This other was the one doing all the ranting. Russell took a big long look.

The two that were standing wore uniforms. German uniforms. Second World War German uniforms. Second World War SS Nazi German uniforms. They had their backs to Russell, straight backs. Cropped blond hair beneath smart caps. Jack boots.

The one sitting behind the table …

Russell’s breath hung in his throat, his heart went bump, bump, bump, bump. The one sitting behind the table wore a light grey uniform, very sharp, well cut, he was small, hunched, thick set. A black swathe of hair hung over one eyebrow, a Charlie Chaplin moustache sat beneath the nose of the contorting face. The contorting face that could belong to no other being who had ever walked the earth, apart from the one it belonged to now. Impossibly now.