“What is that? And how did you get it into my kitchenette?” And, “Cough, cough, cough.”

Norman took to considerable coughing. Thick black smoke was now billowing freely from his bullet-scarred computer. Norman took to fanning at his face.

The portly gentleman fanned at his. “That, sir,” said he, between fits of coughing, “is my Time Machine. And I am Herbert George Wells of Wimpole Street, London.”

“Time Machine?” Norman coughed some more. “Herbert George Wells? You’re H.G. Wells. The H.G. Wells.”

“Your nemesis, you fiend.” The gun barrel was once more pointing towards Norman’s face.

“There’s been some kind of mistake.” Norman covered his face. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m innocent.”

“Enough of your duplicity. Confess your sins and die like a man.”

“I’m innocent.” Norman assumed the foetal position.

“Then die like the dog that you are.”

Norman heard the cocking of the pistol and then he heard the sound of the gunshot. And then he heard nothing more at all.

H.G. Wells said, “Oh, calamity.”

Winston said, “Sorry, gov’nor, but I couldn’t let you top him.”

The window of Norman’s kitchenette was now open. The computer’s fire had been extinguished and the smoke had cleared.

“But my Time Machine.” Mr Wells wrung his fingers. “The bullet ricocheted through the mechanism. It has been destroyed … entirely.”

“We can fix it, gov’nor. But I couldn’t let you top him, truly I couldn’t. It would’ve bin murder most foul.”

“But he was running the computer program, the signal emitted by which enabled us to locate him through time. He must be the one.”

“Be honest, gov’nor. Does he look like the King of Darkness to you?”

“The Devil takes many forms, Winston.”

“Yeah, but they’re mostly rulers of nations – dictators, according to you. This bloke’s a nobody.”

“I resent that,” mumbled Norman. “I mean, sorry, don’t kill me. I’m innocent.”

“He’s a non-such, gov’nor.”

“Then he’s an agent of the King of Darkness.”

“I’m a shopkeeper,” moaned Norman. “My shop is next door. See for yourself.”

“You were running the computer program,” said Mr Wells, “activating the terrible spell that would wreak havoc upon mankind.”

“I didn’t know what it was. I left the computer on. It was running itself.”

“A likely story.” The gun was once more pointing in Norman’s direction.

“I’m just a shopkeeper. A nobody, like that dirty little urchin there says.”

“Urchin?” said Winston.

“The computer was in an old store,” Norman explained, “in crates. I reassembled it. I didn’t know what it would do. Although …”

“Although what?”

“Nothing,” said Norman. “Although I wasn’t expecting this, perhaps.” He raised himself to a kneeling position, sought out his errant wig and repositioned it upon his shaken head. “Is that really a Time Machine?” he asked. “How exactly does it work?”

“It no longer works,” said Mr Wells, lowering his pistol.

“Perhaps I could mend it for you,” Norman suggested.

“You?” The gun was once more pointing in Norman’s direction.

“I have a Meccano set. You’d be surprised what I can do with it.”

“Meccano set?” said Mr Wells. “I invented the Meccano set.”

“And Velcro, too,” said Winston. “Mr Wells invented that. And Blu-Tack. And the jumbo jet.”

Norman was now almost on his feet. “It really is a Time Machine,” he was saying. “That’s exactly the way a Time Machine should look. And you really are H.G. Wells?”

“And I’m Winston,” said Winston. “Mr Wells’ personal assistant.”

“He’s nothing of the kind,” said Mr Wells. “He’s a common little thief who entered my house when I was putting my machine into operation, climbed aboard without me seeing him as I travelled into the future, and has been plaguing my existence ever since.”

“You like me really, gov’nor. I’m a lovable rogue. And I’ve helped you out of more than a scrape or two, Gawd nip at me ’nads if I ain’t.”

“Well, I never did,” said Norman. “A stitch in time saves two, as it were.”

“Enough of this idle discourse.” Mr Wells puffed out his cheeks, which were of the ruddy persuasion. “I am here upon a sacred mission. I have no time for trifles.”

“I quite like trifle,” said Norman.

“Me, too,” said Winston. “And humbugs.”

“I’ve got jars of humbugs in my shop,” said Norman. “And blackjacks and gobstoppers and—”

“Cease this idle prittle prattle. My machine must be repaired. Even now, in some future time, the computer program might be running again.”

“I don’t think you have that quite right,” said Norman, helpfully. “If it’s in some future time, then it can’t be running ‘even now’, can it?”

“It can if you possess a Time Machine. Now cease your stuff and nonsense, or I will shoot you through petulance alone.”

“Sorry,” said Norman, now fully in the vertical plane, “but if the computer program has been destroyed, and it does look very destroyed to me—” Norman viewed his burned out computer “– then your work here is done and you can return in glory to the past – as soon as the Time Machine is fixed, and I’m certain that I can help you to mend it. Do you have a set of plans with you?”

H.G. Wells shook his head. Sadly.

“Well, never mind,” said Norman. “A trouble shared is a trouble halved. And half a sixpence is a threepenny bit.”

“There’s truth to them words, gov’nor,” said Winston. “Now, about them gobstoppers.”

Norman looked over at Mr Wells, who was ruefully considering his ruined Time Machine. “Is it all right if I give Winston some gobstoppers?” he asked.

“Do whatever you will,” said Mr Wells, prodding at the bullet hole.

“This way, Winston,” said Norman.

“The way I see it,” said Jim Pooley, propping up the counter of The Stripes Bar, “as long as I keep following the professor’s instructions for the team’s tactics, we’ll win the FA Cup and the black magician and his henchmen won’t get their evil hands on the football ground and set free the biblical serpent.”

“Will you please keep your voice down, Jim,” John told him. “You have imbibed too freely, in my considered opinion.”

“This is only my seventh pint,” said Jim. “I’m fine.”

“Well, keep your voice down anyway. There’s no telling who might be listening.”

“They’re all watching the stripper, John. No one’s paying us any attention.”

“Well, keep it shushed. I’ve just seen Archroy. I’m going over to say my hellos. Will you be all right here on your own?”

“I’ll chat to Mr Rumpelstiltskin.”

“But not about private matters, eh?” John tapped at his nose.

“Absolutely not.” Jim tapped at his. And John made off through the crowd.

“Enjoying yourself, Mr Pooley?” asked Mr Rumpelstiltskin, sidling over. “Everything meeting your approval?”

“Everything’s fine,” said Jim. “Another pint, if you will.”

“Certainly, sir.” Mr Rumpelstiltskin drew Jim off another pint of Large. Jim accepted it with gratitude, but it really didn’t taste as good as those drawn in The Swan. Exactly why, Jim had no idea, but it just didn’t.

“But everything is okay, isn’t it, sir?” Mr Rumpelstiltskin asked.

“Everything’s fine,” said Jim. “And less of the ‘sir’. I can’t be having with the ‘sir’. Call me Jim.”

“Just as long as you’re happy, Jim.”

“And why shouldn’t I be happy?”

“Oh, no reason. Just talk. Things blokes say in pubs. You know the sort of thing.”

“I don’t,” said Jim, settling into his pint.

“Rumours, then,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “And what with all that weird stuff happening on the Benefit Night. And the team actually winning for a change. And what I just overheard you saying to Mr Omally.”