“Right,” said Norman. “That’s that, then.”

“So if we can fix up the Time Machine, we’ll go home in it.”

“I’ll help you,” said Norman. “I’m sure together we can fix it.”

“You’re a good bloke, Norman, I can see that.”

“Thanks,” said Norman.

“I mean, you’re not an agent of the Devil made flesh, is ya?”

“Of course I’m not,” said Norman.

“Of course you’re not,” said Winston, thrusting yet another gobstopper into his mouth, but still managing to speak somehow. “You wouldn’t do anyfink that would help the King of Darkness gain control of the world, would ya? Like bunging him the plans for the supertechnology?”

“I certainly would not.” Norman crossed his heart. “Just one thing,” said he.

“Yeah,” said Winston, with difficulty.

“Do you know the identity of this Devil-made-flesh chap?”

“Of course,” said Winston. “We’ve already been to his time, five years in the future. We had to scarper back here quick – he nearly did for Mr Wells.”

“So,” said Norman, “what is his name?”

“William Starling,” said Winston.

Old Pete sat before his allotment hut upon a battered campaign chair. The chair had seen many campaigns and Old Pete had seen them with it. Old Pete’s hut was of the corrugated-iron variety, with a pitched roof, curtained windows and a rather elegant porch that the oldster had added to make it stand out from the many similar sheds that bespotted St Mary’s allotments.

Not that there had been any need to, for Old Pete’s patch was a sufficient cornucopia to draw the eye on any day of the week. Even including Tuesdays.

He grew the most wonderful things.

Amorphophallus titanium rose erect and proud from iron tubs and Rajflesia arnoldi, which the natives of its native Sumatra believe is pollinated by elephants, covered many feet of ground. Lycopodium sp, the plant that Druids grew to bring good favour, blossomed alongside Lunaria annua, which was said to have the power to unshoe horses that stepped upon it. There was Ferula asafoetida, which wards off the evil eye, and something known as the Tree of Life, upon which bloomed certain fruit that Old Pete was disinclined to harvest.

All in all it was a garden unlike any other, with the possible exception of those belonging to Professor Slocombe, or Gandalf.

It was all rather special.

Old Pete took a sniff at the air. Fragrances of stinkhorn and stenchweed and arse violet filled the ancient’s nostrils. He took from the tweedy pocket of his elderly waistcoat an antique pocket watch and shone a torch upon its pitted face.

Eleven-fifteen of the evening clock. Old Pete shivered somewhat. He replaced his watch, switched off his torch and turned his jacket collar upwards. And then he shivered again. But it wasn’t from the cold. Old Pete ground his dentures together, rooted about between his feet, drew to his lips a tin can and took a swill of sprout brandy. It tasted good. The crop had come in early this year and the still that Old Pete illegally maintained within his hut had performed its duties well. The old one sighed and took another swill. He was not a happy fellow, Old Pete was not. He would be a happier fellow were he able to sit here, undisturbed, for another hour swilling sprout brandy and then take himself off to his bed. But Old Pete knew in his antiquated bones that this was not to be.

He knew, he just knew, what was about to occur.

He had tried for so long, for all these long long years, to put the past behind him, and indeed the future, if that was possible. But he knew that this was the night, the night he had dreaded all these years. It would happen tonight, or it would not happen at all.

Sounds came to Old Pete upon the gentle Brentford breeze, sounds that he knew well enough – the sounds that he had been dreading.

The sounds of swearing and of engine noise.

“Get a bl**dy move on, you b*st*rd!” shouted Noman.

“Is this appalling language really necessary?” asked Mr Wells.

“I’m sorry, Mr Wells,” said Norman, “but if I don’t shout at this van it will not work.”

“Technology ain’t up to much nowadays,” observed Winston from the back of Norman’s van.

“It’s the Hartnel Grumpiness Hyper-Drive,” Norman explained. “The engine is powered by negative energy. There’s so much of the stuff about, and none of it being put to good use.”

“And where exactly are we now?” asked Mr Wells.

“Turning into the allotments,” said Norman. “Go on, you sh*tbag!”

“The allotments,” said Mr Wells as Norman’s van bumped through the open gates on to the rutted track beyond.

“Like I explained to you,” Norman continued, “Peg will be home any time. I couldn’t have her finding you two and the Time Machine in her kitchenette. You know what women are like, they ask all kinds of uncomfortable questions and they’ll rarely take even a well-told lie for an answer.”

“And so we are coming to your allotment patch.”

“To my allotment shed, yes. We can hide the Time Machine inside and you and Winston can sleep in there for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll arrange for board and lodgings at Madame Loretta Rune’s in Sprite Street. She’s a Spiritualist, but she takes in lodgers. You’ll get bed and breakfast.”

“Ah,” said Mr Wells as his head struck the van’s roof. “Spiritualism, is it? I have some interest in that myself. I am currently investigating the case of the Cottingly Fairies. Two young girls have taken photographs of fairies, you know. Very interesting case. I am an expert on this subject.”

Norman swung the steering wheel. “You’re a useless swine!” he shouted.

“How dare you!” said Mr Wells.

“The van, sir, not you. Faster, you f*ckwit!”

“Quite so.”

“Although.” Norman’s van ploughed down a row of beanpoles, destroying Mr Ratter’s potentially prizewinning crop. “Although, I think you’ll find that it was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who investigated the Cottingly Fairies.”

Winston chuckled.

“Why chuckle you?” Norman asked.

“Because Mr Wells is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It’s his pen name when he dabbles in a bit of fiction.”

“A mere hobby,” said Mr Wells. “The world will remember me as a great scientist, and a saviour of mankind.”

“But you don’t look anything like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” said Norman, as Mr Kay’s cabbages went the way of all flesh.

“False moustache,” said Winston. “Not to mention the hat.”

“The hat?” said Norman.

“I told you not to mention that.”

“Ah,” said Norman. Thoughtfully. “Well, we’re here now. Would you like to get out?”

“Not really,” said Mr Wells. “I would prefer to repair to Madame Rune’s for a cognac and a cigar, before turning in for the night.”

“Nevertheless,” said Norman, “this, I regret, is where you will be staying tonight.”

Amidst much grumbling from Mr Wells and immoderate chuckling from young Winston as he shinned over the passenger seat, the three debouched from Norman’s knackered van and into the moonlit allotments.

“You’re a very nice van indeed,” said Norman, “and I love you very dearly.” The van’s engine died and its lights went out.

“And what now, gov’nor?” Winston asked.

“That’s my hut over there,” said Norman. “The one with the solar panels and the wind-farm attachment on the roof. We’ll unload the Time Machine and drag it inside.”

“Just one thing,” said Mr Wells.

“Yes?” said Norman.

“Well,” said Wells, “I appreciate that you wished to remove us and my machine from your kitchenette before your wife returned home, in order to avoid having to answer any difficult questions.”

“This is true,” said Norman, opening the rear doors of the van. “A good wife makes a good husband, but a woman scorned is a mischief unto sparrows.”