‘I will,’ he said.

‘Are you all right, young man?’ said Mrs Seeley.

Wobbler realized that he wasn’t panicking any more. He’d run out of panic. It was like being in a dream. Afterwards, it all sounded daft, but while you were in the dream you just got on with it.

It was like a rocket taking off. There was a lot of noise and worry and then you were in orbit, floating free, and able to look down on everything as if it weren’t real.

It was an amazing feeling. Wobbler had spent a large part of his life being frightened of things, in a vague kind of way. There were always things he should have been doing, or shouldn’t have done. But here it all didn’t seem to matter. He wasn’t even born yet – in a way, anyway – so absolutely nothing could be his fault.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much for asking. I’ll … just be off back into town.’

He could feel them watching him as he wandered back down the road.

This was his home town. There were all sorts of clues that told him so. But all sorts of other things were … strange. There were more trees and fewer houses, more factory chimneys and fewer cars. A lot less colour, too. It didn’t look much fun. He was pretty certain no one here would even know what a pizza was—

‘’Ere, mister,’ said a hoarse voice.

He looked down.

A boy was sitting by the side of the road.

It was almost certainly a boy. But its short trousers reached almost to its ankles, it had a pair of glasses with one lens blanked out with brown paper, its hair had been cut apparently with a lawnmower, and its nose was running. And its ears stuck out.

No one had ever called Wobbler ‘mister’ before, except teachers when they wanted to be sarcastic.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Which way’s London?’ said the boy. There was a cardboard suitcase next to him, held together with string.

Wobbler thought for a moment. ‘Back that way,’ he said, pointing. ‘Dunno why there’s no road signs.’

‘Our Ron says they took ’em all down so Jerry wun’t know where he was,’ said the boy. He had a line of small stones on the kerb beside him. Every so often he’d pick one up and throw it with great accuracy at a tin can on the other side of the road.

‘Who’s Jerry?’

One eye looked at him with deep suspicion.

‘The Germans,’ said the boy. ‘Only I wants ’em to come here and blow up Mrs Density a bit.’

‘Why? Are we fighting the Germans?’ said Wobbler.

‘Are you ’n American? Our dad says the Americans ought to fight, only they’re waitin’ to see who’s winnin’.’

‘Er …’ Wobbler decided it might be best to be American for a bit. ‘Yes. Sure.’

‘Garn! Say something American!’

‘Er … right on. Republican. Microsoft. Spiderman. Have a nice day.’