Craig Owens stood at the top of Southampton Street and took in the view. "Now, that is nice!" he said aloud.

He had been here many times before. "Let's go to Covent Garden and look around the stalls," one of the ladies would say. "We could go up to the pub," one of the lads would say. And a day at Covent Garden would be arranged.

But today, there were no scented candles. There were no semi-accurate scribbles of famous people for sale. There were no acrobats; no jugglers.

Today, the scrubbed glow of the stone pillars was replaced by layers of dirt and soot from coal. The painted signs were peeling. The wooden stalls were rotting and the iron edges were rusting.

It was like he had been transported into the future to some dystopian nightmare. But this was not the future.

"Hallo," he said to the first stall holder. "I'm from out of town. Just arrived from outer space. Got any work?" Great jute sacks of potatoes were lined up along the side of a low-backed truck. "Get lost fatty. I'm busy," replied the grubby young man.

"A bit rude," he laughed, walking over to the giant market building. "Alright?" he chirped as he passed flower sellers and men with sacks on their shoulders. The cobbles that he knew as bleached and brushed for pedestrians were dirty and dusty and slick with bruised and discarded fruit. The air was heavy with motor fuel and it smelled like some of the wooden partitions at the edge of the square were being used as impromptu toilets.

At a corner of the market where piles and piles of bananas were being dropped off by van, an older man had set up a little brazier with a pan of chestnuts. Smoke curled randomly up into his face and flames licked carelessly out at passers-by. There was no indication of the price. "How much, mate?" Craig chirped.

"Give us a penny, young man," winked the old man. "I'm down to my last few." There were probably two dozen overly toasted nuts left in the pan.

Craig felt in his pockets. Although he had plenty of coins he was reluctant to spend the little he had too quickly. He fished out a large halfpenny pence and held it out to the chestnut-seller. "Aw. That's my last ha'penny. Just stick a few in a bag and I'll take them, mate."

With a scowl, six chestnuts were scooped into a small paper bag and dropped in Craig's hand.

He ate them as he walked over to the corner with the Jubilee Market. The chestnuts tasted oily and hard. "Fantastic," he said.

:::

"I can carry sacks if you want," suggested Craig. "Most of this is muscle, you know." He slapped his belly and smiled.

"It's too late in the day for carrying," said the man in the long coat at the vegetable barrow. "Someone might let you sweep up if you need the cash right now."

"Ideal!" said Craig. "My Mum always says I'm a genius with a brush. Who's best to ask?"

"Ask the professor lady over there," said the vegetable man as he wiped down the wet surface. He pointed to a modestly dressed woman packing away a flower stall. "Watch she doesn't try to make out she's cleverer than you. She should know her place really."

The young woman was rubbing dirt from her cheeks. "Hi there," he said.

"Hi there," she replied. She looked at him directly. "Do people say 'hi' round here? I don't even think the tourists say that."

Craig raised his eyebrows. He was not at all sure what he had said.

"I'm Martha," she smiled. "Martha Jones."

"Pleased to meet you," he said. "Chestnut?"

"No thanks. They taste like conkers. Just horrible really. But who are you?" asked Martha. There was an odd look in Craig's eye that intrigued her.

"I'm Craig, Craig Owens, but hold on a minute. You talk like me. Why's that?"

"Where do you come from," she asked quietly. She made sure no-one around them could hear what she was saying.

"Essex, of course. It's not a crime yet. Where are you from?"

"I'm from Clapham." She paused. "When?"

"What? Pardon me?"

"When are you from?" she asked without emphasis.

Craig's eyebrows raised slowly. "No," he said. "You are joking! I'm from a bit ahead." He took a breathe and proclaimed "I have come from The Future. What about you?" Excited, he gripped her by the upper arms. "When are you from?"

"Early twenty-first century. Of course, I was born in this century. But I was transported back from - I forget - 2007 probably. Did you meet the angels?"

"No. I don't know what that means. You're not one of those religious nuts are you? No offence, but I've got my own plans at the moment."

"No. They were - are? - creatures. They stole energy from us. Is that how you traveled?" She nodded. "You know, back in time." They both turned away like conspirators.

"No. I came with a bracelet thing, a ring. I found it by accident. But I decided to come here. Well here, as in London, but the year got all mixed up. Who's 'us'?"

"I have a friend. He does this quite a lot. I wouldn't say he was a professional or anything like that. But he gets us out of trouble eventually. Come to think of it, he gets us into trouble a lot too."

"Is he here? Maybe he can help me. I've got a few questions to work out."

"He's with a publisher. Arranging something for the future. DVDs I think he said."

"DVDs? What, now? They're more out-of-date than I thought. No, you want to get into downloads Martha. Much less bulk to carry round. I know a man down Waterloo who can find any sounds you want, anything at all. Better than file-sharing on the internet."

Martha smiled indulgently. "Maybe when we get back to that London, Craig? For now, I'm enjoying collecting vinyl records."

"Ah, yes. There must be ton of record shops around here. You can show me round at the weekend." Craig suddenly felt very at home.

Martha smiled and shrugged. "Hopefully, I'll be gone by then." Craig felt less happy.