Terry Pratchett - Johnny and the Bomb

" ... although Klymenystra was a bit over the top."

"When was that?"

"About a fortnight ago."

"I was probably feeling a bit gothy at the time."

The bus pulled up at the end of Johnny's road, and they got off.

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 neighbors 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 Pokelnfest 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?"

"For something like Mrs Tachyon's trolley?"

"Try to pay attention, will you?"

"Sorry."

"Haven't you ever wondered what'd happen if a flying saucer landed in your garden? Or you found some sort of magical item that let you travel in time? Or some old cave with a wizard that'd been asleep for a thousand years?"

"Well, as a matter of fact I did once find an old cave with-"

"I've read books and books about that sort of thing, and they're full of unintelligent children who go around saying "gosh". They just drift along having an adventure, for goodness" sake. They never seem to think of it as any kind of opportunity. They're never prepared. Well, I am."

Johnny tried to imagine what'd happen if Kirsty was ever kidnapped by aliens. You'd probably end up with a galactic empire where everyone had sharp pencils and always carried a small torch in case of emergencies. Or they'd make a million robot copies who'd fly around the universe telling everyone not to be stupid and forcing them to be sensible.

"This is obviously something very odd," she said. "Possibly mystic. Possibly a time machine of some sort."

And that was the thing about her. She arrived at an explanation. She didn't mess around with uncertainty.

"Didn't you think that?" she said.

"A time machine? A time shopping trolley?"

"Well, what other explanation fits the facts? Apart from possibly she was kidnapped by aliens and brought here at the speed of light, which is something they do a lot for some reason. But there might be something else, I'm sure you've thought of it." She glanced at her watch. "No hurry," she added sarcastically. "Take your time."

"Well..."

"No rush."

"Well ... a time machined have flashing lights ..." "Why?"

"You've got to have flashing lights."

"What for?"

Johnny wasn't going to give in.

"To flash," he said.

"Really? Well, who says a time machine has to look like anything?" said Kasandra in a superior tone of voice, or at least an even more superior voice than the one she usually used. "Or has to be powered by electricity?"

"Yoless says you can't have time machines because everyone'd keep changing the future," said Johnny.

"Oh? So what's the alternative? How come she turned up with this new old newspaper and all these new old pickle jars?"

"All right, but I don't go leaping to great big conclusions!"

In fact he did. He knew he did. All the time. But there was something about the way Kasandra argued that automatically made you take the other side.

He waved a hand at the trolley.

"I mean," he said, "do you really think something could just press the ... oh, the handle, or the bags or something, and suddenly it's hello, Norman the Conqueror?"

He thumped his hand down on a black bag.

The world flashed in front of his eyes.

There was concrete under his feet, but there were no walls. At least, not much in the way of walls. They were one brick high.

A man cementing the new row looked up very slowly.

"Blimey," he said, "how did you get there?" Then he seemed to get a grip on himself. "Hey, that concrete's still Fred! You come here!"

A spaniel sitting by the man barked at Johnny and rushed forward, jumping up at Johnny and knocking him back against the trolley.

There was another flash. It was red and blue and it seemed to Johnny that he was squashed very flat and then pulled out again.

There were walls, and the shopping trolley was still in the middle of the floor, as was Kasandra, staring at him.

"You vanished for a moment," she said, as if he'd done something wrong. "What happened?"

"I ... I don't know, how should I know?" said Johnny.

"Move your feet," she said. "Very slowly."

He did. They met a very slight obstacle, a tiny ridge in the floor. He looked down.

"Oh, they're just the footprints in the cement," he said, "They've been ... there ... ages ... "

Kasandra knelt down to look at the footprints he'd been standing in. They were ingrained with dust and dirt, but she made him take off his trainer and held it upside down by the print.

It matched exactly.

"See?" she said triumphantly. "You're standing in your own footprints."

Johnny stepped gingerly aside and looked at the footprints where he'd been standing. There was no doubt they'd been there a long time.

"Where did you go?"

"Back in time ... I think. There was a man building this place, and a dog."

"A dog," said Kasandra. Her voice suggested that she would have seen something much more interesting. "Oh, well. It's a start."

She shifted the trolley. It was standing in four small grooves in the concrete. They were dirty and oily. They'd been there a long time, too.