With a thunder of hooves, the Plimpton family arrived heavily on the scene. Recriminations reverberated off nearby buildings, distributed indiscriminately between Henry Plimpton and the Time Police. Lockland lowered her visor, thus cutting out the main part, but Parrish had no such luxury. Spittle flying, a red-faced and thoroughly agitated Mrs Plimpton screamed in his unprotected face. She was an enormous woman, with equally large offspring. They congregated around the tiny, tubby Henry Plimpton like cathedrals around a rabbit hutch.

‘Too public,’ said North, disapprovingly. ‘He should get them all out of there. If the neighbours turn up as well, we could have the makings of a riot.’

The same thought had apparently occurred to Parrish. The unfortunate Mr Plimpton, although still with the look of someone whose day wasn’t going well, was now a much better colour. Lockland couldn’t help wondering if he knew just how much worse his day was going to get.

‘Give me a hand,’ said Parrish and together they pulled off the last of the liquid string and hauled him to his feet.

‘Where’s your house from here?’

Henry Plimpton pointed a trembling hand.

Parrish regarded the still-shouting Plimpton family with dislike. ‘Is there any way of shutting them up?’

He shook his head. ‘Not that I have ever discovered.’

They set off down the alley, preceded by two yapping dogs and followed by baying Plimptons. Jeering neighbours hung from bedroom windows. It was only a matter of time before someone threw something. A gang of youths congregated threateningly.

‘Oh good,’ said Parrish. He drew his sonic. ‘I’m just in the mood.’

Lockland was less happy. ‘Suppose they call the police.’

‘Lockland, where have you been for the last six weeks? We are the police.’

‘I mean the real police.’

‘Then we shoot them, too. I’m really not in the mood to pander to 20th-century sensibilities. In fact, given the choice, I’m never setting foot in this century again. Pack of bloody barbarians.’

The pack of youths advanced. The average age was probably around thirteen. Most of them were smoking. Some of them clutched cans of alcohol. Because they couldn’t drink the water, Parrish assumed.

‘Here. That’s our Henery. Wossee done?’

Luke tried to brush them aside. ‘Nothing you need concern yourself with.’

‘You with the social?’

Jane turned to Parrish. ‘Social what? What’s he talking about?’

‘Jane, don’t engage with these people. You’ll catch something.’

A chorus of voices joined in.

‘Bastard cheek. Who are you, anyway?’

‘He says he’s a policeman. Don’t look like any policemen I know.’

‘SWAT – they’re SWAT.’

‘Like I said – what’s he done?’

‘He hasn’t done nothing,’ shouted a tearful Mrs Plimpton.

‘Heard he’s won the lottery.’

‘’Kin hell. You won the lottery, Henery?’