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Chapters (52)
  1. Title
  2. Copyright
  3. About the Book
  4. About the Author
  5. Also By
  6. Contents
  7. Dedication
  8. Roll Call
  9. A Brief History of the Time Wars
  10. Jane
  11. Luke
  12. Matthew
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. 6
  19. 7
  20. 8
  21. 9
  22. 10
  23. 11
  24. 12
  25. 13
  26. 14
  27. 15
  28. 16
  29. 17
  30. 18
  31. 19
  32. 20
  33. 21
  34. 22
  35. 23
  36. 24
  37. 25
  38. 26
  39. 27
  40. 28
  41. 29
  42. 30
  43. 31
  44. 32
  45. 33
  46. 34
  47. 35
  48. 36
  49. 37
  50. Epilogue
  51. Author’s Note
  52. A Note on Recruitment

Mr Plimpton twisted his small, plump hands. ‘Live alone. In a little flat somewhere. In the country. By myself. Before I go insane. Somewhere quiet. Where I could enjoy some peace. Hear the birds sing. So they would stop talking at me. All the time. So I could eat what I want. When I want. Sleep when I want. Read. I can’t remember the last time they left me alone long enough even to read a newspaper, let alone a book. I wanted to listen to a little music. Real music. Not something shaking the plaster from the ceiling.’

Instinctively they all looked up to the ceiling.

‘You had a time machine, Henry. Why not just push off and leave them?’

He sat upright in his chair, pathetic but oddly dignified. ‘Oh no – they’re my family. It is my job to provide for them.’ He buried his face in his hands again. ‘What will happen to me?’

Silence – or as close to it as could ever be got in the Plimpton household – descended upon the room. Because that was a very good question. And one to which they all knew the answer.

5

5

‘Time to check in on them,’ said Ellis, putting down his mug and standing up. ‘Are you coming?’

‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll stay and pilot the drone safely home.’

Checking his weapon, he exited the pod and entered the 20th century. Having confirmed his destination and the route before he left the pod, it took him no more than a few minutes to find Seventeen Beaver Avenue.

The clean-up crew were waiting silently in the alleyway behind the house. The inhabitants of Beaver Avenue, knowing trouble when they saw it, were nowhere to be seen.

‘Through the gate,’ he said. ‘The pod is inside the wooden structure on your left. Be aware this is a residential area. Quick and clean, please. The illegal will be delivered to you in a few minutes. Collect and go.’

They nodded and opened the gate. The dogs took one look and backed off to the other end of the garden. Ellis proceeded up the path to the back door, where he was met by an outsized and outraged Mrs Plimpton.

Blocking the doorway completely, she demanded to know, ‘What is it? Who are you? What’s happening? What are you doing to my Henry?’

He could see she was upset. Tear tracks had run through her heavy make-up leaving her face looking like a ploughed field. Her startlingly auburn hair was falling down. She was only two steps from hysterics.

He made his voice calm and soothing. ‘All in good time, madam. Perhaps you’d like to make us all a cup of . . .’ He ran his mind back over 20th-century habits and preferences. ‘Tea.’