"Look," said Kirsty, still reading the newspaper. "This is the olden days. She didn't mean it ... YOU know, nastily. It's just how she was brought up. You people can't expect us to rewrite history, you know."

Johnny suddenly felt as though he'd stepped into a deep freeze. It was almost certainly the you people. Sambo had been an insult, but you people was worse, because it wasn't even personal.

He had never seen Yoless so angry. It was a kind of rigid, brittle anger. How could someone as intelligent as Kirsty be so dumb? What she needed to do now was say something sensible.

"Well, I'm certainly glad you're here," said Yoless, sarcasm gleaming on his words. "So's you can explain all this to me."

"All right, don't go on about it," she said, without looking up. "It's not that important."

It was amazing, Johnny thought. Kirsty had a sort of talent for striking matches in a firework factory.

Yoless took a deep breath.

Johnny patted him on the arm.

"She didn't mean it ... you know, nastily," he said. "It's just how she was brought up."

Yoless sagged, and nodded coldly.

"You know we're in the middle of a war, don't you," said Kirsty. "That's what we've ended up in. World War Two. It was very popular around this time."

Johnny nodded.

May the twenty-first, 1941.

Not many people cared or even knew about it now. Just him, and the librarian at the public library who'd helped him find the stuff for the project, and a few old people. It was ancient history, after all. The olden days. And here he was.

And so was Paradise Street.

Until tonight.

"Are you all right?" said Yoless.

He hadn't even known about it until he'd found the old newspapers in the library. It was - it was as if it hadn't counted. It had happened, but it wasn't a proper part of the war. And worse things had happened in a lot of other places. Nineteen people hardly mattered.

But he'd imagined it happening in his town. It was horribly easy.

The old men would go home from their allotments. The shops would shut. There wouldn't be many lights in any case, because of the blackout, but bit by bit the town would go to sleep.

And then, a few hours later, it'd happen.

It'd happen tonight.

Wobbler wheezed along the road. And he did wobble. It wasn't his fault he was fat, he'd always said, it was just his genetics. He had too many of them.

He was trying to run but most of the energy was getting lost in the wobbling.

He was trying to think, too, but it wasn't happening very clearly.

They hadn't gone time travelling! It was just a windup! They were always trying to wind him up! He'd get home and have a sit down, and it's all be all right ...

And this was home.

Sort of.

Everything was ... smaller, somehow. The trees in the street were the wrong size and the cars were wrong. The houses looked ... newer. And this was Gregory Road. He'd been along it millions of times. You went along halfway and turned into ...

...into...

A man was clipping a hedge. He wore a high collar and tie and a pullover with a zig-zag pattern. He was also smoking a pipe. When he saw Wobbler he stopped clipping and took his pipe out of his mouth.

"Can I help you, son?" he said.

"I ... er ... I was looking for Seeley Crescent," whispered Wobbler.

The man smiled.

"Well, I'm Councillor Edward Seeley," he said, "but I've never heard of a Seeley Crescent." He called over his shoulder to a woman who was weeding a flowerbed. "Have you heard of a Seeley Crescent, Mildred?"

"There's a big chestnut tree on the corner-" Wobbler began.

"We've got a chestnut tree," said Mr Seeley, pointing to what looked like a stick with a couple of leaves on it. He smiled. "It doesn't look much at the moment, but just you come back in fifty years" time, eh?"

Wobbler stared at it, and then at him.

It was a wide garden here, with a field beyond it. It struck him that it was quite wide enough for a road, if ... one day ... someone wanted to build a road ...

"I will," he said.

"Are you all right, young man?" said Mrs Seeley.

Wobbler realized that he wasn't panicking any more. He'd run out of panic. It was like being in a dream. Afterwards, it all sounded daft, but while you were in the dream you just got on with it.

It was like a rocket taking off. There was a lot of noise and worry and then you were in orbit, floating free, and able to look down on everything as if it weren't real.

It was an amazing feeling. Wobbler had spent a large part of his life being frightened of things, in a vague kind of way. There were always things he should have been doing, or shouldn't have done. But here it all didn't seem to matter. He wasn't even born yet in a way, anyway - so absolutely nothing could be his fault.

"I'm fine," he said. "Thank you very much for asking. I'll ... just be off back into town."

He could feel them watching him as he wandered back down the road.

This was his home town. There were all sorts of clues that told him so. But all sorts of other things were ... strange. There were more trees and fewer houses, more factory chimneys and fewer cars. A lot less colour, too. It didn't look much fun. He was pretty certain no-one here would even know what a pizza was.

"Ere, mister," said a hoarse voice.

He looked down.

A boy was sitting by the side of the road.

It was almost certainly a boy. But its short trousers reached almost to its ankles, it had a pair of glasses with one lens blanked out with brown paper, its hair had been cut apparently with a lawnmower, and its nose was running. And its ears stuck out.

No-one had ever called Wobbler "mister" before, except teachers when they wanted to be sarcastic.

"Yes?" he said.

"Which way's London?" said the boy. There was a cardboard suitcase next to him, held together with string.

Wobbler thought for a moment. "Back that way," he said, pointing. "Dunno why there's no road signs."

"Our Ron says they took "em all down so Jerry won't know where he was," said the boy. He had a line of small stones on the kerb beside him. Every so often he'd pick one up and throw it with great accuracy at a tin can on the other side of the road.

"Who's Jerry?"

One eye looked at him with deep suspicion.

"The Germans," said the boy. "Only I wants 'em to come here and blow up Mrs Density a bit."

"Why? Are we fighting the Germans?" said Wobbler.

"Are you 'n American? Our dad says the Americans ought to fight, only they're waitin" to see who's winnin"."

"Er ... " Wobbler decided it might be best to be American for a bit. "Yes. Sure."

"Garn! Say something American!"

"Er ... right on. Republican. Microsoft. Spiderman. Have a nice day."

This demonstration of transatlantic origins seemed to satisfy the small boy. He threw another stone at the tin can.

"Our mam said I've got to stop along of Mrs Density's and the food's all rubbish," said the boy. "You know what, she makes me drink milk! I dint mind the proper milk at home but round here, you know what, it comes out of a cow's bum. I seen it. They took us to a farm with all muck all over the place and, you know what, you know how eggs come out? Urrr! And she makes us go to bed at seven o'clock and I miss our main and I'm going home. I've had enough of being "vacuated!"

"It can really make your arm ache," said Wobbler. "I had it done for tetanus."

"Our Ron says it's good fun, going down the Underground station when the siren goes off," the boy went on. "Our Ron says the school got hit an" none of the kids has to go any more."

It seemed to Wobbler that it didn't matter what he said. The boy was really talking to himself. Another stone turned the can upside down.

"Huh," said the boy. "Like to see 'em hit the school here. They just pick on us just "cos we're from London and, you know what, that Atterbury kid pinched my piece of shrapnel! Our Ron give it me. Our Ron's a copper, he gets a chance to pick up really good stuff for me. You don't get shrapnel round here, huh!"

"What's shrapnel?" said Wobbler.

"Are you a loony? It's bits of bomb! Our Ron says Alf Harvey got a whole collection an" a bit off a Heinkel. Our Ron said Alf Harvey found a real Nazi ring with an actual finger still in it." The boy looked wistful, as though unfairly shut off from untold treasures. "Huh! Our Ron says other kids down our street have gone back home and I reckon I'm old enough, too, so I'm goin'."

Wobbler had never bothered much with history.

As far as he was concerned it was something that had happened to other people.

He vaguely remembered a TV program with some film shot back in the days when people were so poor they could only afford to be in black and white.

Kids with labels round their necks, waiting at railway stations. Every single adult wearing a hat ...

Evacuees, that was it. Sent out from the big cities so's they wouldn't get bombed, it said.

"What year's this?" he said.

The boy looked at him sideways.

"You're a spy, incha," he said, standing up. "You don't know anyfink about nuffink. You ain't American "cos I seen 'em on the pictures. If you're 'n American, where's your gun?"

"Don't be daft, Americans don't all have guns," said Wobbler. "Lots of them don't have guns. Well ... some don't, anyway."

"Our Ron said there was something in the paper about German parachuters landing disguised as nuns," said the boy, backing away. "Seems to me you could've been a parachuter, if it was a big parachute."

"All right, I'm English," said Wobbler.

"Oh, yeah? Who's the Prime Minster, then?"

Wobbler hesitated.

"I don't think we've done that at school," he said.

"You don't get no lessons in knowing about Winston Churchill," said the boy dismissively.

"Hah, you're just trying to mess me around," said Wobbler. "Cos I know for a fact we've never had a black Prime Minister."

"You don't know nuffink," said the boy, grabbing his battered suitcase. "And you're fat."

"I don't have to stand here listening to you," said Wobbler, heading off down the road.