"So," Fizban said, taking a long sip from his pint, "How's the new job going?" He was sitting with Dragor in the "Daft Old Bugger", which was Dragor's local pub now that he had moved away from Cottingham.
  "Oh fine," Dragor replied, "Fine. The only problem is that every time my boss thinks I'm slacking he starts hitting me over the head with a dead turbot."
  Fizban almost choked on his beer, then managed to gulp it down. "Well, I can think of better ways of increasing efficiency," he chuckled, "but I guess it does the trick, doesn't it?"
  "Not very kind to dead turbot though."
  Fizban grinned.
  "And what about you?" Dragor asked, "What have you been up to since I moved?"
  "The usual. Since moving into the field of archaeological combustives I've made some interesting discoveries. Have you any idea how many different ways of mixing nitro-glycerine have been used throughout history?"
  "No idea. How many?"
  "I'll tell you when I've tried them all."
  Dragor sighed. It seemed Fizban was right. Not much had changed.
  They sat talking for the rest of the evening, reminiscing, catching up, and competing to see who could think of the most ridiculous reason to utilise Mutley's time-travelling taxi service. Fizban won, of course, with his idea of going back and telling Alexander Bell that it was good to talk. The best Dragor came up with was going back to have a word with Terry about not using Gareth as sixth on the list.
  When the pub finally shut Fizban phoned Mutley for a lift home and Dragor returned to his flat.
  "Dragor has drinking," the bonsai tree announced as Dragor walked into his bedroom, "like a falling over."
  "Cheers," Dragor muttered, collapsing on his bed and falling almost immediately into a deep sleep.

  When he woke up, he knew something was wrong. He had no hangover. If that wasn't bad enough, he woke up in a clean suit and tie, dressed ready for work. On top of that, he wasn't actually in his flat. He was sat in an armchair in what appeared to be a ruined building. For some reason his briefcase was on the floor next to the chair. He was not particularly impressed, and he felt the need to tell the world.
  "FUUUUUUUUCK!" he yelled, "All the wierd shit happened in Cottingham! Whoever's doing this to me, are you listening? I don't live in Cottingham any more!"
  There was a muffled noise from inside the briefcase. It sounded like a loud brief exclamation followed by four slightly quieter syllables. The rhythm was all too familiar. Dragor found himself smiling despite the automatic feeling of dread that hit him when hearing that sound in situations like these. "Oh well," he mumbled to himself, "I should be used to this by now. Something incredibly strange is going on and I'm stuck with only an abusive bonsai tree for company. It could be worse." Almost happily, he opened his case. "Hi bonsai, any ideas?"
  "Ideas are bugger, like a nothing."
  "Are you sure? No inconceivably ridiculous ideas that will get us out of this?"
  "Out of this? You haven't telling me your problem."
  "I'm not really sure what it is. I woke up somewhere different to where I went to sleep."
  "You have jumping around, like a trans-hyperspatial time displacement."
  Dragor went cold all over. "Did you say time displacement?"
  "Hahaha, that's bugger!"
  "There's no chance that Jeremy Beadle or Noel Edmonds is hiding somewhere?"
  "You must joking! Time and space is bugger!"
  Dragor threw his briefcase across what remained of the room. It bounced off the wall, emptying its contents everywhere. The tree and his mobile phone landed at his feet.
  "OUCH! A BOUNCING TREE!" yelped the dwarf topiary.
  Dragor picked up the phone thoughtfully, then after a moment's hesitation dialled a number he had sworn a sacred oath never to call again unless it was really important, or he really wanted to. The call was answered almost straightaway and the person the other end didn't sound too happy about it. "No Fizban! For the last time, I'm not taking you forward to see First Contact before everyone else!"
  "Erm," Dragor stammered, quite taken aback, "Hi Mutley, this is Dragor, not Fizban."
  "And what do you want?" Mutley snapped, trying to sound less put out but failing miserably.
  "I seem to have suffered a trans-hyperspatial time displacement. Can you help me?"
  "A what?"
  "Time and space is bugger."
  "Oh right. Hang on, I'll try and trace when your call is coming from. You got any ideas?"
  "I'm in a building that looks like it was just down the road from the Whitehouse when the aliens came knocking."
  "Can you be a little more specific?"
  "There seem to be other wrecked buildings outside. Does that help?"
  "Not really. Just means you're probably in a war zone."
  Dragor started looking around for a hiding place. He disturbed a rather tangled furry heap, which as it ran off appeared to be a cat. Dragor wrinkled his nose as a foul odour reached him. "EEEUURRRGH! What have they been feeding you?"
  "Can you move outside Drags, there's a good chap, your signal is getting weak," Mutley piped up.
  "You'd like me to stroll out into the middle of the street in a probable war zone?"
  "It might make your signal strong enough to get an accurate trace."
  "It might just get me shot too. OK, OK, I'm going." Dragor took a deep breath and ran out of the devastated structure and into what looked to be the road outside.
  "Gotcha!" Mutley shouted down the phone. "Oh dear."
  "What?" Dragor yelped, running down the street away from where the sudden bursts of gunfire seemed to be coming from.
  "Well, for starters, you're in the year 2014. Secondly, the Earth has suffered an ecological disaster and civilisation has collapsed. Finally, you're not just in the future you're in a different timeline, and in this one 'Everything I do' is still at number one."
  "What? After 23 years?"
  "'Fraid so."
  "How soon can you come and get me then?"
  "I can't."
  "You what?"
  "I can't come and get you."
  "Oh great. That's just fucking great." Dragor wheezed, still running.
  "But I know someone who can. I'll give them a call and send them along. Assuming I've got the fix right they should be there already. Of course if I've got it wrong you could be-"
  Mutley got no further. At that point Dragor ran headlong into a leather-clad pair of breasts, dropped the phone and fell over. "Shit!" he yelled. "Don'tshootmedon'tshootmedon'tshootme!"
  The voice that replied bypassed Dragor's ears and brain and went straight to his libido. "Why ever would I want to do that."
  When he rolled over and looked up the view took a similar shortcut.
  "Woooooo." he said.
  Standing over him was a woman dressed in leather trousers, a leather jacket, and knee high leather boots, all of which were tight-fitting, leaving the imagination free to get down to more serious business involving chocolate body paint and silk ropes.
  "Well," the woman said, in a voice that in Dragor's mind had already applied the chocolate liberally and was now wondering where to make a start on licking it off, "do you want to get out of here or not?"
  "Whaaaaa?" he asked.
  "I'm the one Mutley sent to get you."
  "Ahhhhhh."
  She held her hand out and helped him up. "So, where am I taking you to?"
  "Heaven and back," Dragor said dreamily, his eyes shut.
  "No problem," she replied. There was a sudden click.
  Dragor opened his eyes quickly, and found himself staring down the barrel of a small semi-automatic pistol. He snapped back to reality. "Erm, I didn't mean that, it's just, oh, I don't know, I just seemed to get a little carried away and, and, and," he stalled.
  The mysterious woman flicked the safety catch back on and slipped the gun back into her jacket. "That's ok," she replied, smiling the sort of smile women normally only wear when they have a pair of nutcrackers in their hand, "I'm quite used to it. Now would you mind letting go of my other hand please?"
  "Oh, sorry. Right, well, I want to go home."
  The woman was clearly unimpressed by this answer. "Where, and when?"
  "Erm, Howden, 8th November 1996."
  "Timeline?"
  "Ah, er, the one where Bryan Adams was only number one for 16 weeks. I think."
  "Only 16 weeks? That's a travesty."
  Dragor couldn't tell from the look on her face if she was serious. "Do you have a name?" he asked her.
  "That's a bit of a silly question. Of course I do."
  "Well, what is it?"
  The woman blushed. "Virginia. Virginia Evermore."
  "Can I call you Ginny?"
  "If you want it to be your last word, sure."
  "OK. I'll call you Virgin then."
  To his surprise she agreed. "I can live with that. Call me Ginny though and you'll wish you were the Marathon Man."
  Dragor covered his mouth defensively and tried to look meek. It didn't work. Most of his face was under the control of his libido.
  "So, down to business," Virgin said. "Did you bring anything else with you?"
  "I think so. A briefcase and a potted plant."
  "Where are they?" she asked, picking his phone up off the floor and handing it to him. "We can't go leaving behind things that shouldn't be here. The timelines must not be violated."
  "I know. I've discarded litter into undetermined periods of history before." Dragor muttered. He was glad his mouth seemed to be handling all the difficult stuff for him automatically. It left more brainpower free for his imagination, which, by now was really getting into the thick of things. "They were down this way, but there was someone shooting at me."
  "I know. It was me. Well, will be me."
  "Why?"
  "I would've thought that was obvious. You had to come running down here and bump into me."
  "But you could've just come and found me."
  Virgin's face took on the nutcracker look again. "You trying to lecture me on the basics of temporal mechanics?"
  The look he was receiving enabled Dragor's common sense to gain majority control of his face. He suddenly wished his mouth hadn't been talking on automatic. "Erm, no, of course not, but-"
  "No buts. Now, lets go find your things." Virgin turned and walked back along the street.
  Dragor stared. "What does she mean no butts?" he muttered to himself. "That's one hell of a butt," he continued, drooling again.
  "I heard that."
  Dragor gulped, took one last look at the view, then hurried along.

  "You did leaving me, like a shite!" the bonsai tree called out cheerfully as Dragor and Virgin walked back into the ruins.
  "I see what Mutley means about that tree." Virgin muttered.
  "Wow! You have finding a sexy babe!" the tree exclaimed.
  "Did that... thing just call me sexy?" Virgin asked Dragor.
  "It would seem so," he replied, "Why, do you have a problem with that?"
  "Well, no, it's just I've never had a plant find me attractive. But then, I've never seen a talking plant before."
  "Has to be seen to be believed, doesn't it." Dragor mumbled, collecting his briefcase and its contents. He decided, for the sake of argument, not to shut the bonsai tree away again. "Can I go home now?"
  "Not yet, no."
  "Why the fuck not?" screeched Dragor, something inside him suddenly snapping. "I've been here long enough."
  "You've been here just over half an hour. Stop moaning or I'll have to do something rash."
  "Bully."
  Suddenly Virgin grabbed him, lifted him up, pulled his face to hers and gave him a long passionate kiss. Dragor blinked a few times once she'd pulled away again, then smiled rather puzzledly. "What was that for?"
  "Just keeping you on your toes. Don't get any funny ideas."
  Dragor looked around, not knowing what to think. "Um," he began, before realising he'd completely forgotten what he was saying.
  "Hahaha that's bugger!" piped the tree, "Dragor must be confusion."
  With this Dragor felt he was on more familiar ground. "Thanks, that was helpful."
  "You were asking me why we couldn't go straight back." Virgin said, in a tone that suggested it was the least important thing she could be saying. Dragor looked across at her. She was wandering around the ruins, poking around and occasionally looking at something she was holding.
  "Well," Dragor said, "Why don't you stop playing Star Trek and answer me."
  "Because I don't know yet. You were brought here for a reason, I'm trying to find out why."
  "Oh. Bureaucracy."
  "Aha!" Virgin exclaimed. "I think I have it!"
  "You just kissed me. Does that mean I have it too?"
  "You'd do well to remember the semi-automatic pistol I've got next time you think of making a joke like that."
  "Bite me bitch."
  "Believe me, you don't want me to. They'd hear you scream in your own timeline." She walked up to him. "Did you say earlier you'd dropped litter in the timestream?"
  "Yes, I chucked the bonsai tree out of Mutley's taxi. But I got it back."
  "Did you bollocks. It's here. Well, it's now. Are you sure that tree you've got in your hand isn't the one you threw out of the car?"
  "Pretty much. It's got a newer pot. Why? Does it matter?" Dragor asked, feeling parts of his brain start to do little pirouettes and somersaults. Thinking about time travel and all its complicated consequences tended to do that to him.
  "Yes. The tree you chucked into the timestream has ended up here. In doing so it created a disturbance that dragged you here too."
  "Why me? Why here? And why now? It doesn't make no sense."
  "No," piped up the tree.
  "It's not convenient," Dragor continued.
  "No," the tree agreed.
  "It doesn't fit my plans."
  "No."
  "It's something I don't understand."
  "If you two have quite finished," interrupted Virgin, "I'll try and explain. There's no real reason why it happened to you when it did, but it was bound to happen sooner or later and since you are the person associated with the tree most you were most likely to get caught up in it when it did."
  "Right, that's it," Dragor said to the tree, "as soon as we get back you're going straight back to that pokey little shop and its strange old owner and his funny little white creatures."
  "Oh fuck! Creatures will eating me! Like an after midnight!"
  "Anyway, the sooner we find this other tree the sooner I can get you both back," Virgin said, feeling she was losing control somewhat. "Coming?" she said, walking out of the ruins and off down the street.
  "I wish," Dragor mumbled before following suit.

  "How come it's so quiet? I thought this was a war zone." Dragor asked. They had been picking their way through the ruins for several hours, and had seen no other signs of life.
  "It was," Virgin replied, "Now it's nothing but a ghost town."
  "What happened?"
  "After the collapse of civilisation this was one of the first communities to find some form of order, but it didn't last. They became divided by the age old debate over which is better, pie or sponge. There was a war. Those who survived fled, and have made do with flan ever since."
  "Bit of a stupid thing to fight over," Dragor muttered.
  Virgin said nothing.
  "Everyone knows you can't beat a decent sponge."
  They walked on.

  They were still looking around when it started to get dark. Dragor was getting tired and impatient. "Don't you know where this other bonsai tree is then? I thought you had a scanner or something."
  "I can tell the general direction, but not how close we are."
  "So we could be wandering for days."
  "That's right. But I think we should stop for the night soon. I'm not wandering around an empty city in the dark."
  "Can't I just go back without it?"
  "Not a good idea."
  "Why not?"
  "You'd just end up back here again. Or somewhere else even harder to find."
  Dragor thought about this for a moment. "I see," he said, considering a few other matters. "So, do we huddle together to keep warm tonight?" he asked, smiling.
  "I must be cuddled!" squeaked the bonsai tree unexpectedly, "I don't wanting to frost!"
  "First we build a fire," Virgin said, "then yes, we huddle up, but you just make damn sure you keep your hands to yourself."
  Dragor looked sullen. "Does that mean I can't-"
  "No," Virgin said, quite firmly.
  "Or even just-"
  "No!"
  They stopped in a what looked like it was once a park. There was plenty of deadwood that had fallen out of trees to make a fire with. Dragor didn't see where Virgin got the food from, but decided he wasn't really that desperate to know.
  "So," he said, munching on a squirrel leg, "what happens when we find the other bonsai tree?"
  "We take it to where it is supposed to be."
  "Which is?"
  "Search me," Virgin replied, instantly regretting it. Dragor surprised her and kept any comment he had to himself. The grin on his face, however, said it all.
  Eventually they bedded down for the night. Dragor and Virgin curled up in a kind of tangled heap around the bonsai tree. It started to get cold.

  When Dragor woke up he found he was hanging in the air. His wrists had been tied together and suspended by a short piece of rope from a tree branch. His ankles were also tied together. Virgin was still asleep, lying close to the remains of the fire, her arms wrapped protectively around the bonsai tree.
  "Virgin!" he squeaked, "Virgin! Help! I've been tied up."
  Virgin stirred and woke up. "Damn right you have," she said, standing up and walking over to him. "I'm the one who tied you up."
  "WHY?"
  "Your hands wandered in your sleep. I restrained you for your own safety."
  Dragor found himself grinning despite his discomfort. "Just how far did they wander?" he asked.
  Virgin moved forward angrily, poking him in the windpipe with her forefinger. From the way it pressed into her neck Dragor could well believe that the finger was two foot long, made of reinforced steel, with twin barrels and a pump action reload. "They wandered far enough," she said, smiling in a way that didn't remind Dragor of nutcrackers so much as a large carpenter's vice. He winced.
  Once he'd been cut free and had breakfasted (unknowingly) on southern fried weasel Dragor felt much happier and more relaxed. Virgin noticed this and watched, slightly concerned. "We have to get you out of here soon," she said, "You're becoming accustomed to the timeline. If you stay here much longer you won't be able to leave."
  Dragor was not happy about having his mood darkened and made his feelings known. "Let's get a fucking move on then!"
  Virgin merely nodded and lead him off into the ruins.