‘Yeah, this side,’ Ben says, reaching up to place a hand on the right side of his neck. ‘Still tender.’

‘Let me see,’ she asks, leaning forward.

Ben twists round and holds his hand over the sore spot. ‘Here,’ he says.

‘Move your hand,’ she says, pushing his arm down. ‘Here?’

‘Ow.’ He flinches and glares at her for jabbing a finger into his neck.

‘Puncture mark,’ she says.

‘Have I? Let’s see yours then.’

‘This side.’ She touches the left side of her neck. ‘See anything?’

‘What, there?’ Ben asks, jabbing his finger into her neck. She recoils, giving him the same glare he gave her.

‘Yes,’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘Is it punctured?’

‘Yeah. Harry?’ Ben asks.

‘I were out of it,’ he says, staring at them like they are both crazy.

‘Let’s see your neck,’ Safa demands as he leans forward in the chair. ‘Is it sore anywhere?’

‘Sore everywhere, miss,’ he mutters.

‘Here?’ She presses into his neck softer than she did with Ben and he flinches slightly with a nod.

‘Really?’ Ben gets up to look closer as she holds her finger gently on his neck. A tiny mark like the one on her neck.

‘I did break someone’s nose,’ Ben admits, sitting back down. ‘When they grabbed me . . . I thought they were the terrorists or something . . . I mean, it was pitch black and they had these head torches on blinding me but I hit out and I heard one of them say I’d broken his nose.’

It strikes Ben that Harry is the only one to have admitted doing something and looks the most relaxed while he and Safa are both protesting and trying to convince the others of their innocence.

‘Harry? What happened to you?’ Safa asks him.

‘Told you,’ he says. ‘I got into the base and set charges to light a path for the bombers to cause a distraction for the U-boats to be attacked. I’m a British Army commando.’ He stops and looks away without a flicker of expression. ‘I knew what I was getting into.’

‘And that was in nineteen forty-three?’ she asks.

‘Aye,’ he says stoically. ‘It is nineteen forty-three.’

‘And you’ – Ben looks to Safa – ‘were at Downing Street during a terrorist attack in twenty twenty.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I was at Holborn when something happened in twenty fifteen. Great. Got it. Makes perfect sense now.’

They both look at Ben with raised eyebrows. ‘Does it?’ Safa asks.

‘Nope.’

Another silence. They take turns to wipe the sweat from their faces while the rain beats a solid rhythm on the shutters behind them.

‘If you’re from the future,’ Harry says slowly, breaking the silence, ‘who wins—’

‘We do,’ Ben replies quietly.

‘The Germans?’

‘No! The British . . . or rather the Allies.’

‘What happens?’ he asks with such open emotion the other two think he really believes he is Harry Madden.

‘We won,’ Bens says with a shrug.

‘How?’