Christmas Eve, 1879  It was a bitterly cold night in London. The
darkness seemed to ensnare the world in a glass globe of icy air
and cold pavements. Jack rubbed his hands together, despite them
being covered in thick woollen gloves, and sighed out a cloud of
white breath. The frost stung his cheeks raw, and he was
shivering all over. It was late, and around him young women in
their bonnets and crinolines held onto the arms of dashing men
who were helping them into Hackney cabs. Jack loved London, but
right now he was loath to be back in Cardiff. The ice on the
cobblestones was almost too much to bear, and the warm lights of
houses filled him with a deep longing for that warm glow of
comfort. He was only here for the night, anyhow.  Jack wrapped
his arms around himself, and barrelled headfirst down an
alleyway. The smoky smell in the damp bricks filled him with
nostalgia for the future. In forty or so years, this place would
be bombed to the ground and he would be here. The thought was
tantalising; the man he