As a last resort I look up at the sky, hoping the clouds have turned green or that they’ll part to reveal a fleet of flying saucers piloted by bug-eyed monsters intent on enslaving the human race.

But everywhere looks depressingly normal. The only thing out of kilter is me.

How did she do it?

Why did she do it?

Why did Ruth pick me?

Save the post-mortem for later, Rich. You’ve got a more urgent problem to deal with.

The Good Samaritans are exchanging worried frowns. No doubt this is because for the last minute and a half the girl in front of them has been acting like she’s escaped from somewhere.

And now it hits me...

Southern England, the late 1970s...

When my vision clears I’m alone.

And very much alive!

But my euphoria is throttled in its cradle. Something is wrong...