Charlie Bone and the Time Twister. Jenny Nimmo

      ‘That was a close one,’ murmured Gabriel Silk from the bed next to Charlie.

      Just before Charlie finally drifted off, he thought of the boy in the tower; cold, hungry, and probably frightened. What was to be done with Henry Yewbeam?

      Unable to sleep, Henry Yewbeam was staring out across the city. There was a small, round window in the wall between the bookcases and Henry, anxious to know if the world had changed in ninety years, had climbed on to a stool to find out.

      The world had, indeed, changed. The sky above the horizon seemed to be on fire. It had a terrifying orange glow. Could it be the rows of street lights leading into the distance? Pinpricks of radiance shone out from the dark blocks of houses and, below the tower, pairs of shining lights, some red, some white, swept across Henry’s field of vision, like earthly shooting stars.

      ‘Motor cars,’ murmured Henry, as one came closer. ‘So many.’

      ‘So many,’ said a voice, like an echo.

      Henry became aware that a man was standing in the darkness beside him. The piano music coming from the room next door had stopped. Henry was relieved; he didn’t have much of an ear for music.

      ‘Are you Mr Pilgrim?’ Henry asked.

      There was no reply to his question. In the soft light coming through the window, Henry could make out a pale face and very black hair. The man’s expression was solemn and faraway.

      ‘I’m Henry Yewbeam,’ said Henry.

      Still no reply.

      It was like talking to someone who wasn’t really there. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter if Henry told him the truth.

      ‘I’m very old,’ he said. ‘Or at least I should be.’

      In the distance a clock began to strike. The deep chimes of the cathedral pealed out across the city. Mr Pilgrim turned to Henry. His eyes held a strange glitter.

      Henry had just counted the twelfth stroke when Mr Pilgrim said, ‘Are you cold?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Henry.

      The piano teacher took off his blue cape and wrapped it round the boy’s shoulders.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Henry, stepping off the stool.

      Mr Pilgrim smiled. He stretched up to a high shelf and pulled a tin from a row of books. Lifting the lid, he offered the tin to Henry. ‘Oatcakes,’ he said. ‘You see, I live up here practically. And one gets hungry.’

      ‘One does,’ Henry agreed, politely taking only one oatcake.

      Mr Pilgrim didn’t offer him any more. He put the tin on the stool and said, ‘Help yourself.’ The faraway look had come back into his eyes. He seemed to be trying to remember something. Frowning, he murmured, ‘Goodnight.’

      And then he was gone, slipping away down the stone steps with hardly a sound.

      Henry would have liked the strange man to stay. He was grateful for the extra cape but, to tell the truth, it was not as cold as it had been. In fact, the temperature was rising rapidly. The icicles hanging outside the window were beginning to melt.

      All around the tower there was a steady drip, drip, drip of ice turning to water. It was a sound that filled Henry with foreboding. He had just worked out that his sudden twist through time must have had something to do with the cold. He had arrived in Bloor’s when the temperature had reached exactly the same degree as when he had left, in 1916. A change in the weather could make a difference to time travel.

      ‘I won’t be able to get home,’ Henry said to himself. ‘I’ll never see my family again.’ And suddenly his situation seemed almost too grim to bear. ‘But I must!’ he murmured.