Casper Candlewacks in the Time Travelling Toaster. Ivan Brett

      “Around these parts?” The lad chuckled softly to the girl called Chrys, lowering his aim with the hairdryer. “I AM THESE PARTS!” The hairdryer was up again, closer this time, the end almost touching Casper’s nose, and the lad’s face shook with rage. “State your name and business or FEEL MY WRATH!”

      Something about the way the lad held his hairdryer, how smartly he was dressed, the fact that he’d just crashed a sports car into a lamp-post, hinted to Casper that it might be best to tell this madman what he needed to know.

      “I’m Casper Candlewacks.”

      A dirty smirk appeared on the lad’s face. “And I guess that makes the fat lump Lamp Flannigan, does it?” He tilted his hairdryer at Lamp.

      Lamp checked the name label on his boiler suit and nodded.

      “You think this is funny?” The lad swooshed his hairdryer to the left and pulled hard on the trigger. A WHOOSH of hot air sent a slew of breadcrumbs blowing from the bell, zooming to the left of Lamp and scattering on the grass behind him. Casper only had a second to snigger at the hopelessness of the lad’s weapon before a tearing screech from the sky froze the laugh in his throat.

      Dark shadows stretched from the trees and lifted into the air with ragged wings. One screech became one hundred as the air grew thick with the flapping of feathers. Casper lifted his eyes just in time to see clouds of shrieking birds blocking out the sun as they soared and circled, screaming, then plummeted down towards the patch of grass to snap at the breadcrumbs.

      Lamp screamed, spun and jumped for the comfort of Anemonie’s arms, but missed and flew headfirst past her into the garage. Anemonie paid no attention to Lamp, watching the birds with her hateful eyes as if weighing up an opportunity, while the two smartly clad strangers chuckled to each other.

      “Not laughing now, are we, Candlewacks?” laughed the lad, putting too much emphasis on the word ‘Candlewacks’ and doing bunny ears with his fingers. “You see, the local wildlife’s got a little hungry recently. Fewer people around to feed them bread. And then we came along with these little things.” He rattled the hairdryer to show there was plenty of bread left inside. “Just imagine, a smattering of bread over that little round face of yours.” He smirked. “Dinnertime! And those beaks are ever so sharp, you know. So… you want to tell me your real name now?”

      “What?” Casper’s mouth was full of feathers and his mind was full of claws and beaks. (Not literally, of course. That would be bird-brained.) “I… er…” But he’d forgotten his name. All he could think about were the vulture-like abominations fighting for bread on the lawn. With savage beaks and dark wiry talons, the birds clawed for the breadcrumbs, pecking, scratching, cooing… Cooing?

      Casper gasped. “Those are just pigeons?” The bread was long gone, as was the grass, but the birds still clawed away at the mud as if they’d not had a square meal, or a circular meal, or triangular, or any shape of meal at all, in years. Either that or they were digging for Australia. “But they’re so… savage,” said Casper, disgusted. “And look at the state of their feathers. What’s happened to them?”

      The lad laughed bitterly. “Times are tough for all of us, not least the pigeons. When they sniff bread they get a little… frantic.”

      “What do you mean ‘times are tough’? Times have never been better. Why, trade’s booming at my dad’s restaurant, Mrs Trimble has started stocking milk again and the mayor just opened our first bus shelter! Look, I don’t know who you are, but—”

      The hairdryer was pointing at Casper’s head again, and this time he knew to shut up.

      “What mayor? Which restaurant?” The lad’s lip quivered. “You’d better stop lying, sir, cos my trigger finger’s getting awfully itchy. So tell me again… who are you?’”

      “I’m Casper!” Casper cried. “How can I make that any clearer?”

      The lad looked like he was finding it tough not to explode. But then the girl called Chrys gasped, leant over and whispered something into the lad’s ear. His face changed, softened, and he cocked his head to one side, blinking. His eyes flicked to Anemonie, and then to Lamp in the garage, and then back to Casper.

      “I’m gonna ask you this only once, and your answer will directly affect whether you get eaten by pigeons or not. So tell me, Casper, what year is this?”

      “Ooh! Ooh!” squeaked Lamp, who’d stuck up his hand and was now hopping on the spot. “I know this! Pick me!”

      Was this a trick? Casper examined the strangers’ faces: snarling, doubtful, but deadly serious. Either they didn’t know, which wasn’t that unusual for Corne-on-the-Kobb, or it was a test. And with their hairdryers raised and loaded, the pigeons perched on nearby gutters watching the exchange hungrily, it wasn’t one Casper wanted to fail. “Twenty twelve?” he said hesitantly.

      The strangers shared a look, then turned back to Casper. “So it’s true…” gasped the one called Chrys, staring at him as if he was encrusted with diamonds.

      And just like that, the hairdryers were down and the lad had proffered a gloved hand for shaking. “Sorry about all that, old boy. Can’t be too careful these days. I’m Briar.”

      They shook. Briar’s grip was cold and glovey.

      “Briar Blight.”