A story by Charlotte Despard

Faraday can’t find the timedoor again, and nobody believes it was there. His pictures don’t help: photograph the past with a DSLR and the focus is attractively shallow, the colours are bright and barely orange at all.

“It’s not 1987, it’s a cool people party,” Cabe says. “God knows how you got in.”

Faraday points out the legwarmers; Cabe counters with the defaced Kylie poster, the irony-thickened air, the fear behind all those young eyes. Their languidly disguised terror can only come from the hollow soul of a new century.

“They’re smoking indoors!” Faraday says.

Cabe chuckles. “Those zany hipsters.”