Soap’s chest heaved. His breath went in and out.

“Yeah, big news,” the barman continued. “They never caught the killer. Some witnesses said that they saw a kid in a black T-shirt and shorts legging it away afterwards, but the investigations came to nothing. I’ve got all the news clippings. First shooting here, that was. Been a lot more since then, of course, during the riots and stuff.”

“Riots?” Soap managed to say.

“When Virgin bought up the borough under a compulsory purchase order. Lots of riots. The locals put up quite a struggle.”

Soap felt giddy and sick. “I’m in the future,” he mumbled. “That’s what it is. Somehow I’m in the future.”

“You not from around these parts, then?” said the barman, squinting fixedly at Soap. “Only you do look familiar.”

“This is all wrong.” Soap shook his head. “It was all wrong before but it’s much more all wrong now.” Soap looked up at the barman. “Do you know a man called Omally?”

“John Omally?”

“John Omally, yes.”

“You just missed him,” said the barman. “He always comes in on this day.”

“He always comes in every day,” said Soap. “Some things will never change.”

“Once a year is all that he comes in,” said the barman. “Famous man like that.”

“Famous? John Omally? Famous?”

“Where have you been, mate? Underground or something? John Omally is the big record producer. He comes in here on this day every year. Because this was the day it happened.”

“The day?”

“The day of the shooting. The bloke who was shot was John Omally’s bestest friend.”

“Jim …” whispered Soap. “Jim Pooley.”

“That was his name. John Omally comes in here and drinks one pint of Large. We have to get it brewed specially for him. He drinks one pint of Large and he cries. Can you imagine that? A manly man like him crying? Fair turns my guts, that does.”

“I have to go. I have to go.” Soap lurched up and made for the door.

“Hold on there,” called the barman. “I do know you. I do.”

Soap ran back down the Ealing Road.

Within the Swan the barman was leafing through a pile of wanted posters. “I bloody do know you,” he said, and, “Yes.”

He withdrew from the pile a single sheet of paper. On the top were printed the words “Have You Seen This Man?” Below this was a photograph of Soap, blown up from a frame of surveillance footage. “Wanted for assault and the theft of a valuable wristwatch. Five thousand pounds reward!” The barman whistled. “They’ve been reprinting this poster every month for the last five years. No wonder he looked so familiar.”

The barman pulled out his mobile phone and dialled the Virgin Police Service.

Soap turned a corner, then another and ran into Mafeking Avenue. John Omally lived at number seven.

John Omally had lived at number seven.

The man who now did drove Soap away with a stick.

Soap limped on, bound for heaven knows where.

Back in the Swan the barman was babbling into his mobile. “It was definitely him. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned library clerk uniforms. And he’s well out of it. Drugged up or something. He can’t have gone far. You’ll catch him on camera and don’t forget who called it in. I want my five thousand quid.”

The Memorial Library was still standing. The bench outside was broken, but Soap sat down upon it. He buried his face in his hands and trembled terribly. He was in the future. Five years into a horrible future. A future where Brentford was being pulled down. A future where John Omally was a famous man, but Jim, poor Jim, was dead.

Soap struggled like the drowning man, for some small straw to clutch at. There had to be some sense to this. Some logic. Some reason. Someone to blame.

“It’s them.” Soap raised his head from his hands. “It has to be them. The men in the black T-shirts. The one running away after Jim’s murder. The ones on the speed cameras. The same ones at the Beatles’ concert in nineteen eighty. Exactly the same. The same age, the same clothes. My God.” Soap took a deep breath and nodded his head. “It is them. It’s time. That’s what it is. That’s what all this is. They travel through time. And they change things and no one knows they’ve been changed. No one but me. Me. I’m the only one who knows. I’m not affected by their changes. Because …” Soap paused. Because, was a tricky one. Why hadn’t he been unaware that the past had been changed? “Because,” Soap continued, “because I was beloooooow. I was deep beneath the Earth. That has to be it. Something to do with the magnetic field or something. Yes, that has to be it. So …” Soap drew in a very deep breath.

“So what the fucking hell am I doing in the future?”

It was a good question, that. And one that, given time, Soap might well have answered. He had done remarkably well so far, considering the state he was in and everything.

But to have answered that question, Soap would definitely have needed quite a little time. And quiet time.

Uninterrupted.

The helicopter came in low. It swept down over the library roof and hovered over Soap.

“Lay down your weapons and prostrate yourself upon the ground,” called that old loudhailer voice. “If you obey at once you will not be harmed. Any attempt to make an escape will be met by force of arms.”

“Shit!” said Soap, which is just what you say. “I’m in big trouble here.”

Soap stood up slowly, his hands in the air and then Soap panicked and ran.

Off went Soap at the hurry-up, action once more his word.

Above him flew the helicopter. All red and white with that logo on the side.

“Somewhere to hide,” gasped Soap as he ran. “Somewhere to hide, and quick.” He ducked down an alleyway between two terraced houses and fell straight over a dustbin.

Remembering the words of Inspectre Hovis, Soap did not hide in the dustbin. He stumbled on, between back gardens now, the helicopter keeping easy pace.

“Halt, or I fire!” came the voice from above.

“Shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Soap rushed on and down another alleyway and out into another street. From above came the rattle of rapid fire, around his feet burst the bullets.

“No,” wailed Soap, rushing on.

He had almost reached a corner when a long black car came sweeping up from behind. It swerved directly into his path and Soap toppled over the bonnet. He fell to the road, all flailing arms and legs, prepared to come up fighting.

The driver’s window of black mirrored glass slid down and a voice from within shouted, “Soap!”

Soap staggered to his feet. “You won’t take me alive,” he shouted back, as brave as brave can be.

“Come with me if you want to live,” called the voice – which rang a certain bell.

Soap gaped in at the driver. He glimpsed a great black beard, woven into intricate knots and laced with coloured ribbons, a pair of red-rimmed eyes and—

“Down on your knees!” called the voice from above. “Down on your knees, or I fire!” The helicopter dropped even closer to the ground, the noise of the blades becoming deafening.

“Come.” The driver beckoned Soap. “Hurry, or you’re dead.”

Soap couldn’t hear what the driver said, but, as his options were severely limited at the present, he tore open the rear door of the car and flung himself inside.

The driver put the car in gear and it shot forward, catching the still-open door on a lamp post and smashing it shut with a bang.

“Keep your head down,” shouted the driver. “And don’t get sick on my seats.”

Now, your modern Virgin Police Service helicopter comes fully equipped with an impressive assortment of weaponry. You have your small-bore machine guns for taking out a suspect at close range. Your General Electric mini-gun, dispensing its six-thousand-rounds-per-minute pay-load for crowd situations. And, of course, your missiles. Your missiles are usually reserved for special circumstances, destroying a paramilitary stronghold, or a tank, say. But, as every good Virgin Police Service officer knows, there’s nothing quite like the thrill of letting one of those suckers loose at a speeding motorcar.