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"It's not that I'm not grateful to be home," Arthur said, doing his best not to spill the pint of lager over the table, his lap and possibly the kind soul who'd bought it for him in the first place, "but I can't help feeling that something's – wrong – if you know what I mean."
"I'm not sure that I do," his new friend said in a puzzled voice. "You were kidnapped by a friend of yours who turned out to be an alien and ran off to outer space mere seconds before the Earth was destroyed? The Earth doesn't look too destroyed to me."
"Well, you see, that's it, isn't it?" Arthur said, feeling he'd scored a conclusive point.
There were a few seconds of silence as they both sipped their beers. Then his drinking partner frowned slightly.
"That's what, exactly?" he said.
"Proof," Arthur said.
He felt a little put out that this didn't seem to satisfy anyone currently sitting at the table, not even him.
"Well," he said, "I mean, I was there wasn't I? I saw the Earth destroyed –"
"Thought you said you were hiding in the cargo bay of a space ship nursing a hangover?"
"Look, this is my story, all right? The Earth was destroyed, and I spent a very unpleasant few years – many of them in time periods when baths were simply not available – and then let's not forget the whole thing was just a computer programme to begin with, and finally I find the Earth's been undestroyed and no time's gone by. It's not right."
"You're not right," the other man muttered. "Want another beer?"
Arthur decided he did, he very much did. He didn't know why he'd decided to unburden himself to a complete stranger, and then he remembered. Oh yes, it was because if he said any of this to someone who actually knew him, he'd be committed. As it was the barman of the Horse and Groom had taken to glowering at him whenever he came in, and claimed he annoyed the other patrons. A perfectly decent drinker/barman relationship ruined, and he knew just who to blame.
"Bloody Ford bloody Prefect," he snarled into the dregs of his lager.
"Can't stand them myself," the other man said, coming back with the beers. "Nasty common little cars."
"That's my friend's name," Arthur said with the dignity that only comes with four swiftly swallowed pints of beer. "I already told you."
"Bloody stupid name."
"Bloody awful friend."
They drank in silence again, and Arthur heaved a sigh.
"I wish I knew where he was."
"Yeah? How badly do you want to find him?"
"Dunno," Arthur said. "I think I want to strangle him."
"Good. Good. So, what do you think the opportunity to do that would be worth?"
Arthur blinked.
"What d'you mean?" he asked blearily.
"I mean, what sort of price would you be willing – oh, shit," the man said, looking at his understated, heavy and blindingly expensive non-digital wristwatch. "I'm running late. I'm picking someone up from the train. Tell you what, give me a call or look me up if you're in London. I may be able to help you."
He flicked an off-white business card across the table at Arthur, who blinked slowly and bemusedly.
"What can you do?" he asked, "I told you, bloody Ford's a bloody alien."
"I'm in the business of granting wishes," the man said with a sharp smile. "Call me. Nice to meet you, Arthur."
He shoved his sunglasses up his thin nose and held out a hand. Arthur shook it.
"Likewise, Anthony," he said.
Anthony grinned and left. Arthur spent a moment wondering why, seeing as neither of them had been smoking, there was such a smell of burnt matches. Then he finished the beer, pocketed the business card, and tried to get back to what was left of his life.