Alistair shook excess water from his hair and looked like a drowned rat whilst Balderick flapped his wings back and forth to dry himself also. Easing open the front door, he tip-toed over the threshold knowing Delilah would skin him alive for getting himself soaked to the bone. He wanted to sneak down the hall to his bedroom before she could catch him and as he eased the door closed, he held the latch so it didn't click. The living room door was ajar just a sliver, and Alistair could hear muted voices.

"You'll have to confide in him sooner or later," Delilah said as Alistair paused to eavesdrop.

"I cannae do that just yet, Delilah," Archie said softly. "I only ever told Andrew my secret and look what happened to him."

"You can't continue to blame yourself for that."

"I can and I will." There was a moment of silence before Alistair's grandfather continued. "I've had my ear to the ground for a few weeks now. I cannae put my finger on it but there's a whiff of mischief floating about."

"Maybe she's back?" Delilah proposed.

Archie tapped his cigarette. "It cannae be coincidence, is all I will say."

"We need to..." Delilah began then cut herself off. Alistair heard whirring and without warning, Delilah wrenched the parlour door almost off its hinges and like a deer in the headlights, Alistair was stunned. Delilah's eye went red as she scanned him over twice and was in a frightfully defensive mode.

"Alistair!" Archie spluttered, jumping up. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I just got home, I promise," Alistair said edgily. Delilah scanned him and calculated plausible deniability the safest option.

"You're soaking," Delilah moaned, running her fingers through his wet hair. "You'll get a death of cold you silly boy." Placing her hands on his shoulders, she marched him down the hallway to the bathroom. Pulling back the plastic curtain, she spun the hot tap.

"Strip off your clothes this very instant and take a hot shower to put some colour back in your cheeks," she ordered.

"Delilah!" Alistair cried. "I'm not getting naked in front of you."

Delilah crossed her arms.

"There is nothing I have not seen before," she confided.

"Delilah!" Alistair again moaned in embarrassment. She pointed at the shower.

"Get in there and I will give you your privacy," she said. "Get in there and get warm. I shall make you some soup." Delilah stormed out of the bathroom and Alistair could hear her tromping up the hall. He peeled off his wet clothes and jumped in to the warmth of the shower. Delilah was right; it did bring a rosy glow back to his cheeks.

Alistair caught his breath and tried to make sense of the overheard conversation. His pop never mentioned his father by name and he was intrigued. He also guessed Archie had realised he had been snooping through his private bag of belongings and now he would be in big trouble. Alistair got warm and the tap timer clicked, shutting off the hot jet. Dressing, he knew it was going to be on for young and old.

**********************

Intolerably, there had been no further discussion just a false pretence of serene domesticity. Archie was evasive, sipping tea, avoiding all eye contact; Delilah was acting like a turbo-charged mother hen. By next morning, he'd had enough and to get away from the hush-hush, Alistair snuck out and HyberBoarded to the Museum.

Upon arrival, Lewis Butler made a beeline for him and suggested visiting the Old London Exhibition Hall. Lewis was an old gent, whose wrinkles hid a lifetimes secrets; his raspy voice never betrayed his past. Gratefully accepting Lewis' offer, Alistair made his way through the Museum complex where Lewis let him enter without purchasing a ticket.

The Old London Exhibition Hall was a space as large as an Airship hanger brimming with interesting artefacts, interactive displays and multi-media exhibits of London from the past century. There was a smattering of visitors partaking in the fun, which suited Alistair just fine, because he could pretty much have free reign.

Inside, pinned to the wall was an arc of the London Eye, with three intact cabins; lined along the opposite wall were a number of buckled gates of the old Thames Barrier. Pieces of Nelson's column were also on display though the actual sandstone statue of Horatio Nelson had been smashed to pieces and glued back together and sat atop Trafalgar Tower that was now built on the old square.

The halls piece d' resistance was the remnants of Big Ben. With only one clock face of Big Ben having survived - complete with housings, masonry and both clock hands - it had been salvaged from the torched and derelict Houses of Parliament. The home of the extinguished Westminster System lay impotent on the banks of the Thames, a gutted shell; the City Council was preparing to raze it and a new skyrise complex was to be built on the foundations, and anyway, New London had Bigger Ben now.

Ambling along the trail, Alistair passed a portion of the London Bridge erected in 2021, some turn of the century Underground tube stock as well as the original Overground carriages and a string of Javelin stock – in all their battered, graffiti strewn glory. Eventually, Alistair came to a fork in the path and had to make a decision. To the left he could cross over and explore Regent's Park tube station, as well as poke about a British Airways Boeing 747. There was also opportunity to sneak a peek at the London Olympics Remembrance Hall and at a slice of Wembley Stadium 2 that had been saved from the Civil War Blitzes.

Instead, Alistair turned right and walked through a darkened tunnel, arriving in an offshoot hall housing the history of British engineering. Looming above him was the Churchill, the first vessel with a Hydra Drive, hung by steel wire from the ceiling. But to get to the Churchill, he had to pass a thick plexicase holding the first working Hill Methane Hydrate engine that did not require lubricated parts. Whilst quaint compared to today's standards, Alistair admired the evolution of the Manzell Vertical/Horizontal Inducted Stabilising Navitron Mechanism – or VHISN Mechanism for short. Mk I was a huge device the size and thickness of a house brick, whereas Mk II was half the size. Mk III and Mk IV were the size of plump grapes, not so different in appearance but Mk IV was wet wired. Mk V had been lost – reportedly the eccentric inventor melted it because he did not receive his due payment from the Government whilst Mk VI resided in Rio de Janeiro.

And there it was: Mk VII, the generation before its modern day equivalent. A wispy sliver the size of a pinky fingernail. He lingered at the display case: Alistair always paid his respects, knowing if it were not for the endeavours of Hill and Manzell motoring would be much different to what it was today.

Passing generations of red double-decker buses, lined up in a row, Alistair passed a cross-section of a BG Harmoniser stabiliser unit, marvelling at the inner workings that kept Hyper-vehicles balanced in flight. Skipping up a ramp, Alistair boarded the Churchill and as always remained amazed at how crude some of the older technology had been, just a meccano chassis covered in a poly-Dacron outer envelope. Sneaking in to the cockpit – it was off limits – Alistair sat himself in the pilot's worn seat. Putting on the headset, Alistair pretended to issue orders, untether the ship, burn the fuel cells and roar the thrusters, taking the Churchill off in to the clouds. His daydream ended when a Museum attendant looked up at him and Alistair didn't need a second warning to move on.

Disembarking from the Churchill, he shuffled onwards to the rear hall. He paused and tried to make sense of nonsense as he stared at the Fourth Plinth that once was found on the Northwest corner of Trafalgar Square. Commissioned in 1841, it had stood empty for more than 200 years and was covered in grime and pigeon poo. Patrons fawned over the plinth which had been removed from Trafalgar Square during the Civil War and had been recovered by looters from a dusty warehouse in Kent. Many items of historical importance to Old London had been hidden away or in some cases shipped to the Royal Family in Norway for protection during the Civil War. Such items were periodically returned to the Museum, and the Government was still petitioning the Mayor of Oslo to return Beckham's Memorial Fountain.

Alistair moseyed over to the sound & vision archives and pored over photographs of London at the turn of the century; the City look like an old-fashioned village compared to the New London megacity of today. In his time, Bigger Ben dwarfed the tallest building of the era by almost 3 to 1, and in their time, London still based itself at ground level.

Partaking in a virtual tour of Old London, he withstood a sobering ride through the virtual streets of the past. Brimming with everyday life, the streets were now the forgotten footpaths to the New London skyline. Journeying through 2012, the city seemed alive with friendliness, joy and prosperity, all because the Olypmpics were being staged in London.

Finally alighting, he shifted to a projection room documenting the construction of the London Wall on the old M25. It was necessary, after increased tidal surges and flooding of the Thames Estuary that the Thames Foundation abandoned repair work on the floodgates and instead fortified the City, by fashioning 120 miles of wall to encircle the inhabitants and keep the city dry. Though the Wall was still in use, it was a creaky, patched up ghost of its former grandeur and erosion in East London allowed the Thames to flood anyway, not that the city cared now it had grown upwards, unflinching as trench foot rotted its feet.

Alistair circled back to the entrance and slouched in a seat; a giant holorama replayed moments of jubilant English footballers sealing their 2022 World Cup victory; they had trumped the highly fancied Chinese by a margin of 4-1 in a long odds, backs to the wall, jolly good showing. Celebrations ensued as English manager Sir David Beckham embraced the winning English captain, and the players lapped up the adulation as the archived commentary was crisply repeated: It was one-all after nineteen minutes; it's 4-1 after ninety minutes. England's lions are roaring. The world won't believe it, but we've shown them now.

As the holorama faded and the whole showrecommenced, Alistair Raven, stuck in a rut, envied the past, even if unbeknownst to him, everything he had just experienced was an airbrushed, sanitised facsimile of the actual events. He wanted something to cheer for in the here and now but came up empty. Despondent, he'd seen enough and shoving his hands deep on his pockets, he mooched off home.