‘Leave him alone!’ screamed the lout. ‘Leave him alone! How really dare you tell me to leave him alone!’

A filthy froth flew from his mouth and spattered Mac.

‘We’ll leave you alone,’ screamed the lout.

And with that he dragged Mac to one corner of the yard where a line of portable toilets stood waiting. The lout opened the door of the closest one, threw Mac inside and bolted the door behind him. As if this wasn’t quite enough, the lout completed the job by laying a heavy paving slab against the plastic door.

‘This is what it feels like to be left alone,’ he screamed through the door.

Mac stepped forward. ‘Leave him alone,’ he said loudly and firmly.

The lout pushed Gilly to the floor and turned to Mac.

‘You want some too, do you?’ he snarled.

‘What I actually want is for you to leave him alone,’ continued Mac. ‘There is absolutely no need for such malevolence!’

Gilly lay cowering on the floor.

‘Please don’t, Mac,’ he croaked but it was too late.

‘No need for absolutely such what?’ spat the lout. ‘Your fancy words won’t help you now.’ He grabbed Mac by his collar. The lout’s breath reeked of cheap ale and anger. Mac stood as tall as he still could.

‘I am simply asking you to leave the poor man alone,’ he repeated defiantly. The lout seemed momentarily stunned by the fact that Mac wasn’t cringing and cowering.

As the crowds toiled and laboured in the orange glare of the bonfires an enormous PA system played a medley of nostalgic tunes about the ‘auld’ times and the countryside; airs and jigs and graces that spoke of a life not like this one, a life more tranquil, a life back then.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Mac.

Boiler-suited bullies roamed the yard, shoving and forcing, using a fist here and a cudgel there if necessary.

‘Work!’ they shouted.

‘Faster!’

‘Harder!’

‘Better!’

A particularly brutish lout barged past Mac to grab an old man by the collar. ‘You helped write this rotten stinking stuff,’ he screamed, ‘now get on with destroying it!’

The man looked terrified. It was Gilly.

It was a frenetic few minutes for Mac and the others being processed, for that is what was happening.

Forced to stand in front of a table, Mac was asked to confirm his name, had his photograph taken and then was roughly led in line to the central courtyard. And what a sight awaited him.

Hundreds of elderly men and women dressed in rags and covered in soot were pulling books and manuscripts from the back of trucks and piling them up. Others set about the piles, ripping and shredding and tearing with their bare hands, filling barrows and then wheeling them towards enormous bonfires that crackled and spat in the half-light.

Here more ragged people threw the paper onto the flames. Everything was orange and everyone was choking.

‘My God,’ said Mac in horror, ‘they’re emptying the libraries!’

As he stumbled down from the bus and into the drizzly evening Mac instantly recognized where he was, the old Player Wills Factory.

Built in 1935, the factory had once been a thriving source of employment for the city, complete with its own theatre. It remained in use until 2005. Now derelict, the factory was popular with film crews and anyone else wanting to add a bit of urban decay to their art.

The bus had stopped at the South Circular Road entrance and Mac joined the rest of the passengers now queuing at the guard hut.

On both sides of the passengers leered and loomed blue boiler-suited men and women.

The arm of the seat digging into his side, the person sobbing next to him and the fear he was still feeling made it difficult for Mac to get comfortable but as the journey continued the drone of the bus and its motion caused Mac to finally fall into a fitful sleep.

He was half-awake when the bus stopped twice more and more unwilling passengers were forced down the back but quickly fell back to sleep.

‘Wake up, Sleepy Head,’ said the same sneering voice as a strong flashlight was pointed straight in his eyes. ‘This is the end of the line for all of you.’ Mac felt himself being pulled upright and then shoved towards the front of the bus.

It is sometimes fun to be taken somewhere and not know where you are going. There is something magical about the mystery. Supposedly.

But not always and certainly not this time. Mac tried to look out the windows but couldn’t see a thing. The sound of the engine was so loud that he couldn’t really hear anything either.

Mac tried to focus on the time he thought they were taking. He tried counting the seconds in his head as he couldn’t see his watch in the darkness but nothing he did could ever be precise and so the fact of this approximation only served to further fuel his fear.

‘We want shot of the lot of you!’ sneered the voice. ‘You lot and your reading and writing and thinking.’

If ignorance and distrust has a voice (which it so clearly does) then it would sound just like this one.

Mac listened in stunned silence as the rant continued.

‘Culture means nothing to us anymore. Nothing, I tell you. The Past is just a place where you stupid people live. Writing. Thinking. Reading.’

The voice’s face came very close to Mac now.

‘We’re turning back Time, saving the country from the likes of you and your band of boring biddies.’ The voice was so angry now that Mac’s neighbour renewed her sobbing.

‘Now, not another word out of anyone until we get there,’ it yelled.

The inside of the bus was very dark.

Mac could barely make out the seats in front of him.

‘Sit down, Grandpa,’ said a rough voice and Mac was pushed onto the closest seat. ‘Not another peep out of you.’

In the seat beside him someone sat sobbing quietly.

‘I’ve been here for three days now,’ she whispered. ‘Some of us have been here even longer.’

‘Quiet!’ said the voice. ‘I thought I said no talking.’

But Mac just didn’t understand.

‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What do you want with us?’

‘What do we want?’ mocked the voice. ‘What do we want?’

Mac heard a laugh.

‘I’ll tell you what we want.’