‘The current climate is predominantly . . .’

‘If I want to know the bloody weather, I’ll look outside.’

Silence.

‘Is that it?’

More silence.

‘I think you’ve upset it,’ said Jane.

‘I’ve upset it? I pull off the most daring rescue in the entire history of daring rescues, and this witless, fire-trucking lump . . .’

‘No one else has any difficulties with it. You don’t ask nicely.’

‘Jane, it’s a machine.’

‘Actually, it’s an AI.’

‘It’s an AI that’s going to find itself at the bottom of the river any moment now.’

The AI responded. ‘Estimated river depth at this location . . .’

‘Right – that’s it. It’s just taking the piss now. I don’t care if an entire battalion of Time Police are outside the door at this very moment . . .’

‘Proximities show no immediate activity.’

‘I’m going to disembowel this thing.’

‘Current records show you do not currently possess the required expertise to . . .’

‘SHUT UP.’

Jane judged it time to stage an intervention. ‘Pod – thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

She turned to Luke, still breathing heavily. ‘Shall we go?’ They stepped out of the pod and looked over the damp, misty garden. The smell of earth and wet leaves was very strong. Everything in their little garden was quiet and still.

Luke turned to Jane. ‘Not too late to go back to bed.’

She shook her head. ‘We should take a look around. Suss out our surroundings. Look for escape routes and useful ­hidey-holes.’

‘Good thinking.’

Neither of them mentioned this might be the last opportunity they would ever have to wander as they pleased. If things went really badly – if someone really had issued a shoot-on-sight notice – then this time tomorrow they could both be dead.

‘Well,’ said Luke, offering her his arm. ‘Shall we go?’

She adjusted her clothing. Luke had made her a long tunic by stitching a sheet together, cutting neat holes for her head and arms, and hacking the surplus off at ankle length. Jane had ditched the jogging bottoms so kindly provided by the security people but she couldn’t be persuaded to take off her sweatshirt. She had pulled her tunic on over it and tied it firmly in place with a wide sash. She had then draped another sheet over her head, acting as part cloak, part stole, and there she was. As muffled as any proper Roman man would expect his woman to be.

Luke, on the other hand, enthusiastically embracing the double standards of the time, was rather racily showing a lot of leg with a knee-length tunic made in the same way as Jane’s. He had no cloak. Cloaks, like helmets, were for wimps, apparently.