and faded blue jeans. Her hair was a spiky black Mohawk, shaved high at the sides, and her face was almost hidden behind lashings of black and white makeup. A safety pin pierced one ear, while a rusty razor blade dangled from the other. Her eyes were fierce, her black-lipped mouth a snarl. She glared at me, two large fists resting on her hips. She had hate tattooed on both sets of knuckles.

"I'm Mad," she announced abruptly, in a deep harsh voice.

"Of course you are," I said, keeping my voice calm and soothing.

"It's short for Madeleine, you divot!" She brought up her right hand, and suddenly there was a flick-blade in it, the blade snapping out with a nasty-sounding click. I think I was supposed to be impressed, but then, I knew Razor Eddie. And Shotgun Suzie. The punk girl snarled at me. "What are you smirking at? You think I won't use this? This is Time's house. I look after him, because, well… someone has to. Otherwise, he goes wandering… Look, we don't like unexpected, uninvited visitors, so you can just turn around and go straight back where you came from. Or there's going to be trouble."

"Actually, I'm afraid I'm stuck here," I said. "I came by train. From the Nightside."

She sniffed loudly. "That shit-hole? I wouldn't go there on a bet."

"Yes, well, a lot of people have been known to feel that way, but… I really do need to speak to Old Father Time."

"Well he doesn't need to see you, so piss off, before I decide to start cutting lumps off you."

I thought for a moment. "Is there anyone else I could talk to?"

"No! I'm Mad!"

"Yes, we've already established that… Is there perhaps someone who looks after you, makes sure you don't hurt yourself, that sort of thing?"

"Right! That's it! You're going back to the Nightside inside thirty-seven chutney jars!"

I think we were both about to do something unfortunate at that point, so it's just as well Old Father Time finally decided to make himself known. He appeared out of nowhere, looking exactly the way I remembered him from our last encounter in the Time Tower. A tall gaunt man in his late fifties, dressed to the height of Victorian fashion. Mien Advent would have loved it. Time wore a long black frock coat of a most severe cut, over severely tailored grey trousers, and, except for the gold watch chain stretched across his waistcoat, the only splash of colour in his outfit was the apricot cravat at his throat. He was handsome enough, in an old-fashioned way, with a determined chin held high, a steely smile, and old old eyes. A thinning mane of long white hair had been brushed back from a noble brow, and left to lie where it fell. An air of quiet authority hung about him like an old comfortable cloak, only slightly undermined by a certain vagueness in his gaze.

"It's all right, Madeleine," he said calmly. "I know who this is. I've been expecting him. Now go and find something useful to do, there's a dear, while I tell this gentleman things he almost certainly doesn't want to hear."

Madeleine sniffed loudly again, and made her flick knife disappear. "Well, that's something, I suppose. Are you sure you can trust him?"

"Absolutely not, but it's been that sort of a day for several centuries now."

Madeleine walked around the hourglass and disappeared, leaving Time and me alone in the great Hall. He smiled briefly as he looked down at himself.

"I really should change this image for something more appropriate. I am a Transient Being, after all… but so many of you seem to find this appearance comforting, these days. I think I know why, and the Travelling Doctor has a lot to answer for…"

"Quite," I said, because you have to say something, into pauses like that. "I'm sorry to intrude, but…"

"Yes, yes, my boy, I know. Lilith has come to the Nightside at last, and it's all falling apart at the seams. But unfortunately, I can't intervene. I can't help you. No-one can."

"Ah." Not what I wanted to hear. "I came here because…"

"Oh I know why you're here, John Taylor. I know what you want from me. I've got it right here. But you won't like it."

He gestured vaguely with his left hand, and there floating on the air between us was a small black case with a dull matte surface. The lid rose up on its own, revealing the Speaking Gun, lying nestled in