Free A Slip in Time by Maggie Pearson Page A

down around your ears.
    Utility furniture and rubbish pictures. China washbasins with matching jugs, odd rolls of wallpaper, Great-grandad’s Home Guard outfit, the coat so stiff it stood up on its own with the helmet balancing on top, and half a bicycle. Stacks of dusty magazines tied up with string, and boxes and trunks in all shapes and sizes. He’d got to pick something, so as not to hurt Grandad’s feelings. But what to choose? What to choose?
    â€˜Jack? Ja-a-ack!’ Mum yelled from the kitchen, letting him off the hook.
    He clattered gratefully back down the stairs. Mum pushed her purse into his hand. ‘He’s out of everything, almost. Milk, bread, All-Bran. I’ve made a list. Pop down the supermarket, will you, before they close.’
    From the living room a woman’s voice screamed, ‘Danger, Mr Holmes? What kind of danger?’
    â€˜If we knew that,’ Sherlock Holmes yelled back, ‘then it would no longer be a danger.’
    Grandad sourly mouthed every word in perfect lip-sync with them both.
    Jack flung his Millwall scarf round his neck, stuffed Mum’s purse in his pocket alongwith the shopping list and, still zipping up his jacket, fled down the front steps, into the gathering twilight.
    â€˜Don’t forget the Case of the Blue Carbuncle!’ Dr Watson roared after him.
    The snow that had fallen half-heartedly over the last few days was melting to a slush, which gave off a faint mist as the temperature rose. It was like looking at the world through a fine net curtain. Unreal. Sounds were muffled by it. Footsteps. Voices. Traffic noise slowly fading into the distance.
    Then came the cheerful sound of a barrel organ, ringing out clear and true. Some charity, collecting for the homeless, whatever. If he had some small change after the supermarket, he’d put it in the box on his way back. Mum wouldn’t mind.
    Jack turned and turned as he walked along, trying to get a fix on the music, which seemed to be near, then far, then all around.
    So he didn’t see it coming. Thick fog. Suddenly it was there, soft and yellow as a marmalade cat, rubbing itself up against him, twisting between his legs, then coilingupwards, reaching for his throat. The smell of it! Bad eggs and rotting fish, and something harsher, reaching deep down inside him. The streetlamps flickered and dimmed. Traffic sounds drifted far, far away. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the fog suddenly slid down and lay curled about his ankles.
    Jack looked around. Slowly, it dawned on him that he hadn’t got a clue where he was. He didn’t remember this street at all. Which was stupid; how far could he have wandered out of his way in the last couple of minutes? He strained his ears for the sound of traffic. All that came back was the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.
    And the barrel organ, grinding out the same tune.
    What should he do? He knew what Grandad would say. ‘You’ve got a tongue in your head, haven’t you? If you don’t know, ask!’
    That’s what he’d do. He’d ask the way, the first likely person he met. Simple. No problem.

3
Meeting in the Mist
    Fadge weighed up the lone figure looming out of the fog and slush, moving silently towards him. Blue canvas trousers, like a sailor. Laceup boots, white, like no boots Fadge had ever seen. Navy-blue padded coat, ditto. No buttons. A good, thick scarf, blue and white. He wouldn’t mind a scarf like that. No hat.
    That was a puzzler. A hat could tell you a lot about the person underneath. Which ones were good for a penny – or more – and which would only give you a thick ear. But no hat at all! Must be a foreigner. He was looking a bit lost.
    â€˜Cross the road, sir?’
    â€˜Sorry?’ Jack stared at the scrawny, scruffy, smelly little kid, with the black concertina, that might have been a top hat in a previouslife, balancing on top of his ears. He looked a bit small for a