Hedge Hopping

My name is Prothero, Herbert Prothero. I am or rather was an accountant – not a profession given to flights of fancy I might add given what I am about to relate. Now retired and also widowed, I lead a quiet life: I am fond of reading and walking in the country near Newmarket where I have lived these past twenty years. If asked, people would probably say I am meticulous and methodical, if anything a tad timid and fussy – maybe in fact a bit of an old maid. That said, there may be something more adventurous in my character. I am a fan of the turf and regularly attend races at Newmarket and elsewhere. I also enjoy the odd flutter. But I am by no means a heavy gambler. Rather it is the races themselves – the crowds, the excitement and the open air– that please me. But even here the habits of my former profession re-assert themselves. I like faithfully to record in ledgers everything I can remember about the races I attend and derive much pleasure from so doing.

As I say, I enjoy rambling. On 16th April last year I set out for a longish trek to the northwest of Newmarket towards Ely. I prepared methodically as I always do, packing sandwiches, biscuits and a flask of coffee, plus a two and a half inch Ordnance Survey map, a compass and my mobile (which I always carry in case of emergencies).

It was a glorious spring day with scarcely a cloud in the sky. The air was fresh and crisp, the hedgerows dense with young sprays of blackthorn and the trees bursting with bunches of sticky brown buds. As well as crocuses and windflowers in the fields the first daffodils and bluebells were beginning to poke out of the soft moist earth. Indeed the balminess of the day was such that, after only a brief stop to eat my sandwiches in Wicken Fen, I decided to push on further than originally intended. 

Eventually I decided it was time to turn back. I had reached that point where pleasurable fatigue began to turn to grinding exhaustion. Not only that but ominous dark clouds were beginning to gather overhead. So I decided therefore to take a short cut across the old RAF airfield at Snailwell instead of tracing my usual circuit around it. As several rusting notices around the perimeter make clear, the airfield is Ministry of Defence property to which entry is strictly forbidden. But I had on several previous occasion had taken advantage of this short cut. And as the gaps in the hedges suggest, I am by no means been the only one.

Crouching down, I managed to squeeze through one of these gaps. However as I bent down somehow I lost my footing. Or rather it was as if some force spun me violently several times before finally releasing me. In all events I ended up flat on my back, looking up at the sky, winded but otherwise unharmed. But at once I had the feeling that everything had changed and changed utterly. 

In part this had to do with the quality of the heat and light. The air was distinctly colder and the sky brighter and clearer. I scrambled to my feet and saw to my astonishment that the sun which had been sinking in the west had now just above the eastern horizon. Had I somehow knocked myself unconscious and laid on the ground all night long? I noticed something else. The airfield runways were not as when I last crossed them – cracked and overgrown- but seemed to have been freshly resurfaced. 

At that moment I heard screeching and clanging – the unmistakeable clamour of fire tenders and ambulances. A great plume of smoke was spiralling up at the far end of the airfield from the wreck of an aircraft onto which some grey-clad figures were playing bright jets of water. Then, from directly overhead came a loud coughing roar. What looked like an old Lancaster was plummeting out of the sky, yellow flames trailing from one of its engines Transfixed, I watched as it came down on its belly with a sickening crash, ground along the runway in a shower of orange sparks, then tipped up, cartwheeled and finally exploded in a blinding ball of fire.

It was a scene I’d seen in many a war film, indeed a cliché: the shot-up survivor of a squadron limping back to base. Except that films cannot convey the blast and heat and the nauseating smells of aviation spirit and burnt metal and rubber. Nevertheless, I decided, this had to be film crew. I must have stumbled onto a set in which a spectacular stunt had just been staged. I was just reflecting how odd it was that there’d been nothing about the filming in the local paper when I found myself flung roughly to the ground and pinned face-down. 

‘Just who the fucking hell are you?’

Out of the corner of my eye I could make out several pairs of legs in blue-grey uniform trousers. Twisting my head round, I saw the man yelling at me: a short red-faced figure a few feet behind them. 

‘And what the fuck do you think you’re playing at? Don’t you know this area’s off limits to civilians?’

For some ridiculous reason I could not tear my eyes away from the brown stumps in the man’s mouth. Full marks to the make-up department, I thought, for re-creating such authentic Second World War teeth. Forcing myself to pay attention, I blurted out a reply.

‘Look, I’m terribly sorry to have barged in like this. I know this area is restricted but lots of people sneak through unchallenged. I didn’t know you were making a film. Please, just let me get up and I’ll make my way out the way I came.’

If anything, this seemed to drive the man into an even greater rage.

‘Making a film! What the hell are you talking about? Don’t you know there’s a war on? Haven’t you seen what just happened? Brave men have just lost their lives – better men than you’ll ever be. Go out the way you came? No, sunshine, you’re coming with us! You’ve got some explaining to do.’

With that I was hauled to my feet and hustled to some low buildings at the far side of the airfield.

*

‘From where?’

Squadron Leader Roger ‘Tubby’ Fanshawe, a thick-set man of medium height with ginger hair and moustache, glared up at Flight Lieutenant Peter Hammond with bloodshot blue eyes. His stubby fingers, spam-coloured between their brown nicotine stains, drummed irritably on the desk. The nails were bitten down to the quick and the backs thickly matted with spiny red hairs rather like the legs of some tropical spider. As he waited for an answer, the throbbing behind his temples and the jabbing pain in his ribs reached a new pitch of intensity. Hats off to the Maltese boys. They had worked him over with admirable efficiency in the darkness of the ally behind Cynthia’s flat, taking care to inflict the maximum of pain without leaving any visible marks. 

Hammond coughed and resumed.

‘The twenty-first century, sir – 2018, to be precise. Says he went out for a walk, took a short cut across an old airfield and found himself here. At first he thought he was on a film set, then he decided he’d passed through some sort of time hole. That’s the story he’s sticking to for now. He’s in something of a state of shock, I should add, so I got the quack to give him a shot to calm him down.’

‘Passed through a what?’

‘A time hole, sir. Some sort of passage through space-time.’ 

Fanshawe’s bloodshot eyes bulged.

‘What else has he got to say for himself?’

‘Says his name’s Prothero, Herbert Prothero, a retired accountant, sixty-six years old, born after the war.’

‘After the war?’

‘Yes, sir, according to this Prothero we’ll beat the Jerries in 1945. We and the Yanks invade Normandy the year before. Prothero’s quite specific about that. Claims to be able to identify the beaches and even knows their code names. After that there was some more fighting, he says, but eventually we crossed the Rhine and got into Germany. The Russians overran Berlin and Hitler shot himself. A few months later the Yanks finished off the Japs with some new type of super weapon called an atom bomb.’

Fanshawe snorted. ‘That all, Peter? Anything else?’

‘Yes, sir. He says that the Reds found out how to make these bombs as well and there was a sort of long-drawn out conflict with them. Not open war but a stand-off – the Cold War he calls it.’ Hammond paused. ‘But the future’s not all bad, according to him. There will be enormous scientific advances. Apparently everyone’s has thingumabobs called computers so they can be in touch simultaneously with one another all over the world.’ 

 Fanshawe shook his head wearily.

 ‘A load of old tosh, Peter!’

‘Well, sir, he had these on him.’ Hammond laid out several objects on the desk in front of Fanshawe: a map, a compass, a wallet containing some bank notes and several plastic rectangles and a thin oblong object inset with a small plastic window. 

Fanshawe picked up the money.

‘Who’s the old biddy on the coins?’

‘The Queen, sir, Prothero says – our Princess Elizabeth, Elizabeth II to be.’

Fanshawe whistled. ‘She’ll live to good age then – that is, if this chap’s to be believed.’ He pointed to the plastic rectangles. ‘And these?’

‘Something called credit or debit cards, sir, he says. You can buy things with them instead of paying with money. This one’s a driving license.’

Fanshawe examined the piece of plastic. ‘Issued in 2014, it says. I take it the little snap is of friend Prothero?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Fanshawe picked up the oblong object. ‘Cigarette case?’

‘No, sir, a smart phone he says – some sort of communicator. It also contains a miniature camera’

‘Hmm, something else a spy might find useful.’

He sighed. ‘Well, you’re the brainbox, Peter. Read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, didn’t you? What do you make of this?’

‘Well, sir, he could be could be a spy. The communicator and camera support that idea. But why devise such a bizarre cover story? Alternatively he could be some kind of practical joker. But he’d have to be pretty clever to come up with things like these. Or …’ 

‘Or what?’ 

‘He could be what he says. I know it sounds fantastic but, well, we talked about these things at Cambridge – the space-time continuum and how it might be bent under certain circumstances.’ 

Fanshawe bellowed. ‘My God, Peter, any more of that and the top of my head will come flying off!’ ‘Let’s try to keep our feet on the ground.’

Hammond looked away. ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir. Probably he’s just bonkers, a boffin, say, who’s been working under pressure on some hush-hush project and gone off his rocker.’

‘Well, that’s as maybe, Peter. But the real question is: what the hell do we do with the blighter?’

‘Well, with respect, sir, I think this is something we can’t handle ourselves. My advice would be to get in touch with Whitehall pronto and put them in the picture.’

Fanshawe groaned. He could just imagine it: the endless phone calls, the hordes of strangers tramping all over the place and, of course, the mountains of paperwork.

‘Yes, dammit, I suppose you’re right. But not till after the Bordeaux mission is done and dusted. Keep him on ice till then. Under lock and key and in complete isolation.’ Something struck Fanshawe. ‘Who else knows about this?’

‘Just the chaps who picked him up – Sergeant Briscoe and his squad.’ 

‘Well, order them – get it into their thick skulls – they’ve got to keep their traps shut. Absolutely shut. Got that? In the meantime carry on talking to this Prothero and see what else you can get out of him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hammond saluted, turned and marched out of the office. After he’d gone Fanshawe stared bleakly out of the window. Hell’s bells! The last thing he needed: a mystery man on the loose! As if he didn’t have enough on his plate already. The losses from last night to be written up and the details of the Bordeaux mission yet to be worked out. Not to mention the unholy mess he was in with the Maltese boys. Christ, why on earth did he always have such rotten luck! But it wasn’t just bad luck, was it? If he was honest, it was down to him. Always had to chance his arm, didn’t he? Always had to push things just too far. 

Like that spot of bother with the family sports car firm before the war. If Mum and Sis hadn’t kept their mouths shut he’d be in jug right now. With the result that they’d ended up in that poky little boarding house in Cheltenham. And he had to admit he’d had his share of good luck too. Like the war coming along. Thanks to the spot of flying in the university flying club he’d got into the RAF and never looked back. He hadn’t cared about the danger – in fact he’d loved it. He’d moved fast and survived while others had gone for a burton. The quick and the dead, eh?

Only to mess things up yet again! If only he could turn back time so that he never bumped into Cynthia and got in with that rackety poker-playing Mayfair set she queened it over! Fanshawe winced remembering how the two Maltese boys, after working him over, had pulled razors out of the pockets of their mohair overcoats and warned him to pay up the thousand guineas by the end of the week … or else. But where the hell was he going to get his paws on that kind of money? 

Fanshawe took out his service revolver and put it on the desk in front of him. A bullet in the head? Not bloody likely! Stay at the table to the last throw of the dice – that was his game. Besides there might be another way. Nip up to town one night on the QT, wait for them in the mews in the black-out and then … But why bother? After all what were his chances of making it back in one piece tomorrow from Bordeaux?

The mission was one more bloody cock-up – but this time not one of his making. Some twerp of a Yank air force general had insisted on going on a bombing raid just to see for himself what it was like even though he had been expressly forbidden to put himself at risk. The word was he knew something important – they wouldn’t say what – something that at all costs the Germans mustn’t find out. Then of course the damn fool got himself shot down and taken prisoner. And now the squadron had been landed with the job of bombing Gestapo HQ so he could break out and escape with the help of the Resistance. Or, failing that – not of course that they spelled it out – to blow him to kingdom come so he couldn’t let the cat out of the bag. Either way, it’d call for some hedge-hopping, low-level aerobatics in the Mosquitoes.

There was a tap on the door: Hammond again.

‘Well, have you managed to worm anything more out of our mystery man?’

‘Not much, sir. Says that all he wants is to be taken back to the spot in the hedge he came through. Thinks there’s a chance he might be able to crawl through get back to his own time.’

‘Hmm. Anything else?’

‘Well just one silly little thing. Seems he’s keen on the horses.’

‘Go on.’

‘Knows all the winners. Can reel them off for the past seventy years or more – seventy years of his time, that is.’

A light clicked on somewhere at the back of Fanshawe’s mind, a faint little glow at the far end of a very dark and twisting corridor. Suppose, yes just suppose for the moment that there was something in what this chap Prothero was saying. If the names of those winners of his turned out to be really pukka, one bet could build on another and … 

Fanshawe clenched his hairy fists. Steady on, old man, get a grip! The idea was mad – mad beyond mad. Plus there was a mighty snag. If what this Prothero said was true, he was on a particular – what would you call it – time line – the same one as ours for now but stretching far into the future. Somehow – never mind how – he’d got himself shunted back to now, an earlier point on that self-same line. But if he told the brass hats all he knew, that line would be bound to change. It would shoot off in a completely different direction. Everything would be different then – including those winners. So, logically, if you wanted to make some cash the right thing to do would be to get the names of the winners out of this Prothero and then somehow propel him back into his own future. It was an utterly crazy idea but it might be worth a shot. After all what had he got to lose?

‘All right, Peter, let’s play along with this maniac. Do what he asks. Give him his stuff back – all of it, mind – and march him to that spot in the hedge he’s going on about. You with him – just you – no-one else. See what happens, then come and report back to me.’

Hammond gaped.

‘Yes, yes, I know, Hammond. The man’s clearly a loony – or a spy. I just want to call his bluff. See how he reacts. Who knows, it might bring him to his senses or force him to break cover. Oh, and one last thing, make certain – absolutely certain – that he writes down that list of winners before you go off. Who knows, it might be some sort of coded message. Got that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well there you have it, Hammond. Don’t just stand there. Get on with it, man!’

Hammond saluted sharply and marched out. 

Fanshawe stayed sat his desk, drumming his fingers and staring at the wall with its clutter of rosters and air ministry circulars. Images of expensive restaurants, clothes, cars, yachts and women ran through his brain. Of course he’d have to deal with Hammond somehow. Keep his lips shut. Fanshawe’s fingers strayed again to his revolver. His mind went blank. Next, something strange happened. Time seemed to stop and then speed up again. The light in the room dimmed and the wall in front of him shimmered and bulged. As he watched, the bulge began to rotate around a deep, dark central core, spinning faster and faster. Inside the core tiny points of light gradually became visible, forming themselves into small discs like miniature galaxies, their arms whorling off an endless profusion of yet more galaxies. Then the image faded and melted away, and the room was as it had been before. Fanshawe rubbed his eyes. Must be something wrong with him: no surprise with all the stress he’d been under. He looked through the window and saw Hammond striding back by himself along the edge of the airfield.

A few minutes later there was another tap on the door: Hammond again, looking bewildered.

‘You all right, Peter?’

‘It was the weirdest thing, sir. I took him to the hedge at the far side of the airfield. He crouched down and then, lo and behold, he vanished into thin air. Pouf! Just like that.’

Fanshawe screwed his face up. ‘What? But how on earth? Well, never mind that now. What about those horses? Hammond pulled out a mess bill with a long list of names scribbled in pencil on the back. Fanshawe grabbed it and stuffed it into his pocket.

‘I’ll deal with that. Anyway time’s getting on. We ought to go over the approach to Bordeaux once more. We’ll come in over the sea …’

*

I was back on my side of the hedge. Only seconds before I’d been crouching down on the other side with the officer behind me. Then the vortex or whatever it was grabbed me and spun me round violently as before. But now I was back home, or so it seemed, safe and sound in my own time. It was late afternoon once more, and the sun sinking in the west. Immediately I felt a great surge of relief. Scrambling up, I peered back through the hedge at the airfield. It was back in its old dilapidated state. But I was utterly confused. What had I just experienced? A dream … some weird hallucination? But it had all seemed so real!

Unable to find an answer, I brushed myself down and set off briskly down the lane leading to my house. Once inside, I checked everything carefully. All was just as I had left it before setting out on my walk, even my old horse race records. But that did little to calm me I felt, horribly torn and stretched between two rival times and realities. Still, there was no other option but to press on and try to fit together the pieces of my former life. As the days passed, though, my confusion and agitation subsided somewhat and I sank gradually back into my comfortable old routines.

A month later, dozing in my front room, I heard a vehicle draw up outside my house. Looking out, I saw an old but immaculately maintained Bentley parked in front of my gate with a chauffeur at the wheel. He stepped out, went round to the rear door and with some effort eased an old man – a very old man – out of the back seat. Supporting himself on a stick and puffing with exertion, the old man tapped his way up the garden path, then hammered on the door. When I opened it I saw a heavy scarlet face out of which blazed a pair of bloodshot blue eyes.

‘The name’s Fanshawe, Roger Fanshawe. I’d like a word. May I came in? I think you’ll find it worth your while.’ He turned to his chauffeur and tapped his watch to indicate a time to be collected, then when the car had disappeared down the road, followed me in and plonked himself down on the sofa.

‘Got any drink in this establishment, Prothero? I could do with one. No? Well, never mind. Now look here, you don’t know me but I know you, very well in fact. I’ve kept tabs on you for years. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Nothing sinister, I assure you, quite the reverse. You see, I owe you a lot – in fact a devil of a lot – and I’ve been wondering for ages how to repay you.

Let me explain. I was there that day back in 1942 at RAF Snailwell when you rather unexpectedly … gate-crashed our world. Exactly how you did it I don’t know – and I’ll ever understand. Anyway the point is that you did and that I there. Hammond, my number two, kept me in the picture. Indeed it was on my direct orders that he made you jot down that list before you took such unexpected leave of us. Now, like you I’m rather fond of the gee-gees myself and enjoy the odd flutter. Anyway after that business in Bordeaux – mission safely accomplished I hasten to add. Except for poor old Hammond. His number came up rather spectacularly. Of course I passed his belongings to his widow, minus of course your list. I still have it with me.’ Fanshawe reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled mess bill. On the back was the list of winners that I’d scribbled only a few weeks earlier but was now yellowed with age. 

‘Anyway to cut a long story short, after the war I made pretty heavy and profitable use of that list of yours, cleared up my debts in no time at all and started a range of businesses. Thanks to you I became a rich man – a very rich man indeed.’

He fixed me with his blue bloodshot eyes.

‘The thing of it is, Prothero, that as you can see, I’m an old man now. I’ve led a very full and agreeable life, but, not to beat around the bush, my own number’s finally come up. I’ve been feeling under the weather for some time, so I went and saw the quack a couple of weeks ago. He gave me the message loud and clear: cancer, cancer of the pancreas, advanced and inoperable. At most I’ve got a few months if I’m lucky. That brings me back to you, Prothero. As I said, I’ve been keeping tabs on you from a distance for years, scratching my head how I might pay you back. When the doc told me the bad news I finally made up my mind. I’ve decided to make you my heir, my sole heir. I’ve been married and more than once but always ended up divorcing the floozies – real bitches some of them, especially that Cynthia. But I’ve got no kids, at least not any I know of. So everything’s settled. Done and dusted. Made out the will and everything. You’re going to a rich man, Prothero, a very rich man.’

I was staring at him open-mouthed when I heard a click behind me. Standing in the kitchen doorway was a thick-set young man, with ginger hair, a heavy red face and blazing blue eyes. He was dressed in a black and silver SS uniform and held a luger in his right hand.

‘Hope you don’t mind me barging in unannounced like this, Prothero – it is Prothero, isn’t it? In fact I’ve been stood in the kitchen for some time listening to the two of you. Heard every word. Absolutely fascinating, if I may say.’

He and the old man stared at each other for several seconds. The newcomer shook his head. ‘So that’ll be me one day? Well, comes to us all, I suppose. But not too soon, I hope.’

He turned to me.

‘Bit of a surprise this uniform, eh? I ought to explain. After you’d vanished, Mr Prothero, I had a little business in Bordeaux. A real shambles. None of our planes got through to the target, mission a complete write-off. I got back OK, thank God, though poor old Hammond went for a Burton. After that nothing seemed to go right for our side. Maybe the Nazis wormed something out of that Yank that gave them the edge. The word is that had something to do with our code cracking. Very hush-hush apparently. Anyway, their U-boats went on an absolute rampage. Couldn’t stop them. Our shipping losses went through the roof. We just couldn’t carry on – the country was absolutely starving. An armistice was declared, and we were forced into a peace treaty. Of course it didn’t stop there. In time the Nazis brought in a quisling regime under Mosley along with that old stager Lloyd George – and, oh, with our playboy prince the Duke of Windsor ensconced once more on the throne. Not long after we entered into a full military alliance with the Germans.

‘I’d been at a loose end after the disbanding of the armed forces but then a new volunteer squadron was announced: the Hengest squadron to fight alongside the Germans on the Eastern Front. The chance to fly again and with excellent pay and rations! I don’t mind telling you I signed up in a shot.’ He pointed to a small Union Jack symbol alongside the twin lightning flashes on his collar. ‘And there was another bonus. It got some rather troublesome Maltese boys off my back. A word in the right ear, and, hey presto, they vanished into one of the new labour camps set up in the north of Scotland.

‘I suppose you’re wondering how I found my way here. Well, as you can imagine not everyone in Blighty was happy with the new state of affairs to put it mildly. With money and arms from the Yanks the resistance began to a real nuisance of itself. Just yesterday – the very night before we were due to fly out east – they attacked the old airfield at Snailwell and overran it. I was lucky to save my skin. Just as I was scarpering along the perimeter with the attackers hot on my heels, something seemed to grab me and spew me out here. Couldn’t have been luckier – got me out of a tight spot, what?

‘The next item on the agenda was tracking you down. Actually it turned out to be a piece of cake, a couple of questions to the froth-blowers in the village pub and, Bob’s your uncle! I got a few odd looks on the way wearing this uniform but I took a leaf out of your book, Prothero. Said I was with a company shooting a war film on the airfield and wanted to look up an old friend in the neighbourhood. Once here, I let myself in through the back door – you know, Prothero, you really should keep it locked. I was about to introduce myself when I heard a car pull up. I decided to lie doggo and listen. I heard everything. Absolutely fascinating as I said. A real eye-opener.’

He looked at the old man. ‘Well, everything considered, you – or should I say we – seem to have made a pretty fair fist of things to date. Only the script’s going to be re-written from now on, old man. To kick off with, you’re going to cancel that will you’ve made benefiting Prothero . Gratitude’s all very well, but self’s the man. Next, you’re going to start making some rather large withdrawals from that stash of yours and hand them over.’

The old man tried to get up, but Fanshawe jerked the barrel of the revolver at him.

‘No, don’t interrupt, old chap. After all, it’s my money as much as yours, isn’t it? Just look on me as a sort of junior partner in the enterprise.’

At this the old man’s face suddenly contorted. He seemed to be struggling to say something, then pitched headlong onto the carpet. I rushed over and felt for a pulse. Nothing. I looked at Fanshawe and shook my head.

‘A goner, eh? Well, he had a good innings by the sound of it.’

‘Still, gives you a bit of knock, seeing oneself peg out like that. I’ve seen a lot of types kick the bucket but I must be the first chap in history to oberve it happen to myself. Anyway, back to business. A change in the flight plan, so to speak. It looks like that will of his is now going to come into play after all. You’re going to be a rich man from what he said, Prothero. But I’ll want my share, in fact the lion’s share. After all, as I said, the money’s mine, isn’t it? Oh, don’t worry, you get your chunk, and a good-sized one too. From what he said it sounds like there’s more than enough to go round.’ Fanshawe jerked the revolver in my direction. ‘That is, of course, if you play ball. If you don’t … well, do I need to paint you a picture?’ 

He walked over to the window and gazed out at the garden

‘So it looks like I’m going to be your guest for a while, at least until the cash comes coming through. Don’t worry, I won’t be any bother. I’ll lie low so long as things go smoothly. You’ll have to be the front man of course and cook up some sort of story for the chauffeur and the police. His sudden departure might look a bit suspicious at first, what with you recently being made his heir. But it should work out. After all, it’s pretty clear the old man died of natural causes.’

Fanshawe sat down in a chair, throwing a heavy leg over one of the arms. ‘Anyway why don’t you start off by filling me in on this future of yours, Prothero? So start spilling the beans. But take your own time. After all, there’s no hurry. We’ve got plenty of time, haven’t we, you and I, all the time in the world?’

I heard another click behind me and I spun round. Facing us in the kitchen doorway was a stocky young man in a beret and combat fatigues holding a machine pistol in his right hand. He had a heavy red face out of which blazed a pair of hard blue eyes. Blood was welling fast from a wound in his chest. ‘I can’t begin to understand how any of this happened,’ he said. ‘The last thing I knew I was stumbling along wounded on the edge of the airfield. Anyway here I am, and, whoever you are, from what I’ve just heard you say it’s pretty clear you’ve joined the enemy, you traitor! Personally I could never stomach working for the Nazis, so I jumped the other way. Anyway I haven’t got much longer here – whatever or wherever “here” is – so while I’ve still got the strength take that from the resistance!’ He pulled the trigger, and Fanshawe number two fell forward. Then, as the third Fanshawe followed him, all three figures suddenly vanished from the room.