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      Before I really started worrying I had to make sure.

      Mullvaney, our neighbour in the flat above, opened his door when I knocked.

      ‘Hello, Bartley. Corkscrew?’

      ‘No, no,’ I told him. ‘What’s the right time? Our clocks are going crazy.’

      He glanced at his wrist. ‘Nearly ten past.’

      ‘Nine or ten?’

      He looked at his watch again. ‘Nine, should be. What’s up?’

      ‘I don’t know whether I’m losing my –’ I started to say. Then I stopped.

      Mullvaney eyed me curiously. Over his shoulder I heard a wave of studio applause, broken by the creamy, unctuous voice of the giveaway compère.

      ‘How long’s that programme been on?’ I asked him.

      ‘About twenty minutes. Aren’t you watching?’

      ‘No,’ I said, adding casually, ‘Is anything wrong with your set?’

      He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Why?’

      ‘Mine’s chasing its tail. Anyway, thanks.’

      ‘OK,’ he said. He watched me go down the stairs and shrugged as he shut his door.

      

      I went into the hall, picked up the phone and dialled.

      ‘Hello, Tom?’ Tom Farnold works the desk next to mine at the office. ‘Tom, Harry here. What time do you make it?’

      ‘Time the liberals were back.’

      ‘No, seriously.’

      ‘Let’s see. Twelve past nine. By the way, did you find those pickles I left for you in the safe?’

      ‘Yeah, thanks. Listen, Tom,’ I went on, ‘the goddamdest things are happening here. We were watching Diller’s play on Channel 2 when –’

      ‘I’m watching it now. Hurry it up.’

      ‘You are? Well, how do you explain this repetition business? And the way the clocks are stuck between 9 and 9.15?’

      Tom laughed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suggest you go outside and give the house a shake.’

      I reached out for the glass I had with me on the hall table, wondering how to explain to –

      The next moment I found myself back on the sofa. I was holding the newspaper and looking at 17 down. A part of my mind was thinking about antique clocks.

      I pulled myself out of it and glanced across at Helen. She was sitting quietly with her needle basket. The all too familiar play was repeating itself and by the clock on the mantelpiece it was still just after 9.

      I went back into the hall and dialled Tom again, trying not to stampede myself. In some way, I hadn’t begun to understand how, a section of time was spinning round in a circle, with myself in the centre.

      ‘Tom,’ I asked quickly as soon as he picked up the phone. ‘Did I call you five minutes ago?’

      ‘Who’s that again?’

      ‘Harry here. Harry Bartley. Sorry, Tom.’ I paused and rephrased the question, trying to make it sound intelligible. ‘Tom, did you phone me up about five minutes ago? We’ve had a little trouble with the line here.’

      ‘No,’ he told me. ‘Wasn’t me. By the way, did you get those pickles I left in the safe?’

      ‘Thanks a lot,’ I said, beginning to panic. ‘Are you watching the play, Tom?’

      ‘Yes. I think I’ll get back to it. See you.’

      I went into the kitchen and had a long close look at myself in the mirror. A crack across it dropped one side of my face three inches below the other, but apart from that I couldn’t see anything that added up to a psychosis. My eyes seemed steady, pulse was in the low seventies, no tics or clammy traumatic sweat. Everything around me seemed much too solid and authentic for a dream.

      I waited for a minute and then went back to the lounge and sat down. Helen was watching the play.

      I leant forward and turned the knob round. The picture dimmed and swayed off.

      ‘Harry, I’m watching that! Don’t switch it off.’

      I went over to her. ‘Poppet,’ I said, holding my voice together. ‘Listen to me, please. Very carefully. It’s important.’

      She frowned, put her sewing down and took my hands.

      ‘For some reason, I don’t know why, we seem to be in a sort of circular time trap, just going round and round. You’re not aware of it, and I can’t find anyone else who is either.’

      Helen stared at me in amazement. ‘Harry,’ she started, ‘what are you –’

      ‘Helen!’ I insisted, gripping her shoulders. ‘Listen! For the last two hours a section of time about 15 minutes long has been repeating itself. The clocks are stuck between 9 and 9.15. That play you’re watching has –’

      ‘Harry, darling.’ She looked at me and smiled helplessly. ‘You are silly. Now turn it on again.’

      I gave up.

      

      As I switched the set on I ran through all the other channels just to see if anything had changed.

      The panel stared at their pot, the fat woman won her sports car, the old farmer ranted. On Channel 1, the old BBC service which put out a couple of hours on alternate evenings, two newspaper men were interviewing a scientific pundit who appeared on popular educational programmes.

      ‘What effect these dense eruptions of gas will have so far it’s impossible to tell. However, there’s certainly no cause for any alarm. These billows have mass, and I think we can expect a lot of strange optical effects as the light leaving the sun is deflected by them gravitationally.’

      He started playing with a set of coloured celluloid balls running on concentric metal rings, and fiddled with a ripple tank mounted against a mirror on the table.

      One of the newsmen asked: ‘What about the relationship between light and time? If I remember my relativity they’re tied up together pretty closely. Are you sure we won’t all need to add another hand to our clocks and watches?’

      The pundit smiled. ‘I think we’ll be able to get along without that. Time is extremely complicated, but I can assure you the clocks won’t suddenly start running backwards or sideways.’

      I listened to him until Helen began to remonstrate. I switched the play on for her and went off into the hall. The fool didn’t know what he was talking about. What I couldn’t understand was why I was the only person who realized what was going on. If I could get Tom over I might just be able to convince him.

      I picked up the phone and glanced at my watch.

      9.13. By the time I got through to Tom the next changeover would be due. Somehow I didn’t like the idea of being picked up and flung to the sofa, however painless it might be. I put the phone down and went into the lounge.

      The jump-back was smoother than I expected. I wasn’t conscious of anything, not even the slightest tremor. A phrase was stuck in my mind: Olden Times.

      The newspaper was back on my lap, folded around the crossword. I looked through the clues.

      17 down: Told by antique clocks? 5, 5.

      I must have solved it subconsciously.

      I remembered that I’d intended to phone Tom.

      ‘Hullo, Tom?’ I asked when I got through. ‘Harry here.’

      ‘Did you get those pickles I left in the safe?’

      ‘Yes,

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