The garages were in a little cul-de-sac around the back of the houses. They weren’t used much, at least for cars. Most of Grandad’s neighbours parked in the street, so that they could enjoy complaining about stealing one another’s parking spaces.

‘You haven’t even peeked in the bags?’ said Kasandra, as Johnny fished in his pockets for the garage key.

‘No. I mean, supposing they were full of old knickers or something?’

He pushed open the door.

The trolley was where he left it.

There was something odd about it that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was clearly standing in the middle of the floor but managed to give the impression of moving very fast at the same time, as though it were a still frame from a movie.

Kasandra-formerly-Kirsty looked around.

‘Bit of a dump,’ she said. ‘Why’s that bike upside down over there?’

‘It’s mine,’ said Johnny. ‘It got a puncture yesterday. I haven’t managed to repair it yet.’

Kasandra picked up one of the jars of pickle from the bench. The label was sooty. She wiped it and turned it towards the light.

‘“Blackbury Preserves Ltd Gold-Medal Empire Brand Mustard Pickle”,’ she read. ‘“Six Premier Awards. Grand Prix de Foire Internationale des Conichons Nancy 1933. Festival of Pickles, Manchester, 1929. Danzig Pökelnfest 1928. Supreme Prize, Michigan State Fair, 1933. Gold Medal, Madras, 1931. Bonza Feed Award, Sydney, 1932. Made from the Finest Ingredients.” And then there’s a picture of some sort of crazed street kid jumping about, and it says underneath, “Up In The Air Leaps Little Tim, Blackbury Pickles Have Bitten Him.” Very clever. Well, they’re pickles. So what?’

‘They’re from the old pickle factory,’ said Johnny. ‘It got blown up during the war. At the same time as Paradise Street. Pickles haven’t been made here for more than fifty years!’

‘Oh, no!’ said Kasandra. ‘You don’t mean … we’re in a town where no pickles are made? That’s creepy, that is.’

‘You don’t have to be sarcastic. It’s just odd, was all I meant.’

Kasandra shook the jar. Then she picked up another sooty jar of gherkins, which sloshed as she turned it over.

‘They’ve kept well, then,’ she said.

‘I tried one this morning,’ said Johnny. ‘It was nice and crunchy. And what about this?’

Out of his pocket came the newspaper that had wrapped Mrs Tachyon’s fish and chips. He spread it out.

‘It’s an old newspaper,’ said Johnny. ‘I mean … it’s very old, but not old. That’s all stuff about the Second World War. But … it doesn’t look old or feel old or smell old. It’s …’

‘Yes, I know, it’s probably one of those reprinted newspapers you can get for the day you were born, my father got me one for—’

‘Wrapping fish and chips?’ said Johnny.

‘It’s odd, I must admit,’ said Kasandra.

She turned and looked at him as though seeing him for the first time.

‘I’ve waited years for something like this,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you?’