They landed with just the tiniest bump.

Matthew Farrell, accustomed to the St Mary’s scramble to the cameras to ascertain their landing time and place and then allocate blame accordingly, was rather surprised when nothing happened. In fact, Ellis sat back and stretched. ‘Well, it’s all rather up to you three now, isn’t it? Don’t just sit there looking gormless.’

There was a moment’s frozen silence and then, predictably, Lockland fumbled for her notebook.

‘Put it away,’ said North, without even bothering to look round.

The three of them clustered around the screens.

‘Where are we?’ demanded Parrish, staring in disbelief. ‘Where the hell have you dropped us, Lockland?’

She flushed again, feeling the familiar panic. Had she got it wrong after all? No. No, she hadn’t. The coordinates were all correct. She said, as firmly as she could manage, ‘Exactly where and when we should be. 1996. The small town of Lower Spurting in the county of Rushfordshire. Pod – please provide brief details of Lower Spurting.’

Parrish sighed impatiently. ‘You don’t have to say “please”, Lockland. It’s a machine.’

The pod responded in a pleasant, female voice. ‘Lower Spurting. Created in the early 19th century as an overspill town for industrial Whittington. While Whittington prospered, Lower Spurting did not.

‘There are no buildings of historical or architectural interest.

‘Population approximately seventeen thousand five hundred.

‘For every one hundred females there are eighty-seven point four males.

‘Thirty-eight per cent of the population are over sixty-five.

‘Thirty-three per cent of the population are under sixteen. Of those aged between sixteen and twenty-five, thirty-six point three per cent have no academic qualifications and twenty-seven per cent are unemployed.

‘Overall unemployment is seven per cent higher than the national average at this time.

‘A small light-engineering park to the north-west provides minimal employment. The public cinema closed two years ago. The public leisure centre closed one year ago. There are no rail links. There are . . .’

‘Stop,’ said Parrish in an attempt to end this doleful litany.

‘I hold more information on behavioural patterns and population clusters.’

‘I said, enough.’

‘I can provide details of air quality, pollution, water purity . . .’

‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHUT UP.’

‘. . . religious groups, census statistics . . .’

‘No,’ said Lockland, quickly. ‘That’s enough. Thank you.’

There was a short pause and then the pod responded, ‘You’re welcome.’

Parrish stared at her. ‘Why would it say that?’

‘Because I said thank you. It’s a polite AI.’

‘Not to me.’

‘You shout at it.’

‘Lockland, it’s a bloody machine.’

North cleared her throat and made a gesture indicating that if Parrish knew what was good for him, he would direct his attention towards the screen where Lower Spurting sprawled in all its late 20th-century glory.

‘Dear God,’ he said, staring at the screen.