In my experience, things go missing on a regular basis, and often for no good reason. The one thing that I can say with some confidence, however, is that I have never knowingly mislaid (at least, up until the time of writing) an afternoon. Maybe I should consider myself fortunate, as this very phenomenon occurred on the island of Hopeless just last week.

The afternoon in question was not entirely missing, you understand. That would have been far too noticeable, not to say silly. The morning had arrived in its usual fashion –  that is, misty and grey, with a light drizzle. Lunchtime had followed, and between that and the early evening, there appeared to be a noticeable absence.

Philomena Bucket was the first to observe it, though she did so in the manner of someone realising that a familiar piece of furniture had been inexplicably relocated. 

“We seem,” she said, “to have come rather quickly to half past five.”

Reggie Upton decided to consult his pocket watch, with the confident air of a man who expected it to offer reassurance. Then, patting his waistcoat pocket, he remembered that he had given it to Winston Oldspot, the Night Soil Man, whose need had been greater than his.

“I must admit. ” he said, after a moment, “I have a definite feeling in my bones that somewhere, far away, the sun has already dipped over the yardarm, and it’s time for a drink, or two.”

There was a pause, during which the matter might have been allowed to settle, had it not been for the small but persistent difficulty that none of those present could account for the intervening hours.

“I distinctly recall,” said Rhys Cranham, “considering whether I might take a short walk.”

“And did you?” asked Philomena.

“I have no idea.”

Drury, who had been lying in a position that suggested both rest and readiness, raised his head, as if to indicate that he had been aware of the situation for some time and saw no reason to trouble himself with it.

“It’s probably nothing,” said Reggie, in the tone of a man who had encountered many things that had later proved to be something. “A localised irregularity, I don’t doubt.”

“But where would a complete afternoon have gone to?” asked Rhys.

Reggie considered this.

“One wouldn’t like to speculate, but it brings to mind an occasion, just after a jolly good lunch in the Officers’ Mess, when I…”

Hearing the remainder of this particular nugget of military history has to be postponed, for it was at this point that the ghost of Father Stamage made his presence known in the doorway, as was increasingly his habit. He inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging a question that had not yet been asked.

“Time,” he said, in a voice that carried with it a certain amount of ecclesiastical authority, “is not always as continuous as one might hope, especially upon this island.”

Philomena regarded him steadily.

“That’s as maybe,” she said. “But I would really like this afternoon to be returned.” 

There was a sound from the snug.

Not a loud sound, nor even a particularly distinct one, but sufficient to draw the attention of those present. It was, perhaps, the sound of a chair being occupied, or of something deciding that it might as well be.

Philomena moved towards the doorway and looked in.

The chair in the corner (the one that had, by general agreement, ceased to be available to the visible) remained as it had been, with its cushion placed in a manner that suggested recent occupancy.

Upon the small table beside it, however, there now rested a teacup.

It was not one of theirs.

This was not, in itself, unusual. Many things in Hopeless were not one of theirs. But this cup had about it a certain quality, suggesting that it had been placed there with intention.

Philomena stepped into the room.

“Rhys… Reggie,” she said, without turning, “would you care to join me?”

They did so, attempting to bring with them the calm assurance of men who preferred to confront anomalies at close quarters.

The cup was warm.

“That’s encouraging,” Reggie said.

“In what way?” asked Philomena.

“It suggests recency.”

“Or occupation,” said Philomena.

Reggie inclined his head.

“Yes. There is that.”

For a moment or two the air in the room seemed to settle around the chair, as though acknowledging a presence that had not troubled itself with introductions.

Drury, who had followed at a discreet distance, stopped at the threshold and did not cross it.

“Do you suppose,” said Rhys, “that the afternoon has been… stolen?”

Philomena considered this.

“I think,” she said, “that it has been used, and not by any of us.”

Father Stamage suddenly appeared at her shoulder.

“There are precedents,” he said.

“I’m sure there are,” she replied. “The question is whether we are expected to do anything about it.”

“Do we have any idea at all,” Rhys asked, “who has been making use of our afternoon?”

There was no answer to this.

At least, not one that made itself known in any conventional sense.

And the cup had disappeared completely.