Kit halted. He stood in the middle of the alley, wrestling with the twin sensations of alarm and disbelief. He turned around slowly.

The old man stood smiling at him. “How am I doing so far?”

Even in the uncertain light of the alley, the family resemblance was unmistakable-the strong nose, the heavy jaw and broad brow, the hair that rippled like waves from the forehead, the broad lips and dark eyes, just like his father’s and obnoxious Uncle Leonard’s. It was all of a basic design that Kit had seen repeated with greater or lesser variation in family members his entire life.

“Since university-Manchester, Media Studies, whatever that is-you have been working here and there, doing nothing of any real value-”

“Who are you?” demanded Kit. “How do you know these things?”

“But I’ve already told you,” chuckled the old gentleman. “I am your great-grandfather.”

“Oh, yeah? Would this be the great-grandfather who went down to the shops for a loaf of bread one morning and never came back? The same who abandoned a wife and three kids in Marylebone in 1893?”

“Dear me, you know about that, do you? Well, lamentably, yes. But it wasn’t a loaf of bread; it was milk and sausages.” The old man’s gaze grew keen. “Tell me, what did you go out for this morning?”

Kit’s mouth went dry.

“Hmm?” replied the stranger. “What was it? Tin of beans? Daily paper? This is how it always happens, don’t you see?”

“No…,” said Kit, feeling more unhinged by the second.

“It’s a family proclivity, you might say. A talent.” The older man took a step nearer. “Come with me.”