White plastic blinds cracked and the heavy tape recorder fell silent. Owen was still wearing the headphones. The sound echoed in the empty room, making him shudder. He had enough raw data for today, but Owen Collins, the Junior Guardian of Time, found himself glued to the dusty window, overlooking the dreary street in Ardoyne.

"The locals are friendly," his mentor had said. "Your accent is perfect and you won't get into anything wild, like your predecessor."

The Junior sent to Belfast before Owen had mixed with troublemakers, got shot, and was barely pulled out by the emergency team of Seniors.

"Observe, record, remember," Owen repeated the Guardian's motto. "Nothing else."

He lived quietly, sleeping on the camp bed in the next room, drinking weak coffee in the cheap cafes, and rambling the city, divided and blocked by army checkpoints. The classified page of The Irish News carried his modest ad, presenting Owen as a reliable handyman. The phone in the flat, rented by his unfortunate colleague, rang almost daily.

Owen visited clients, always smiling, always polite. The bugs he had installed worked perfectly. Before the assignment, he had asked one of the Seniors why he had to use such a clunky tape recorder. The elder chuckled.

"You're going into the midst of the Troubles. If the police or whoever else decides to visit your flat, nothing in it should arouse any suspicion."

Owen wore black square-framed glasses, unnecessary for someone from the year 2576 AD, and a wrinkled shirt. The summer of 1976 proved itself to be hot in every regard. Almost every night he was woken by gunfire, and the humid breath of the sea hung over the city like a leaden cloud.

He was so used to the fake glasses now that he even squinted when taking them off.

"Here she comes," Owen muttered.

He had already listened to her chatting on the phone with a girlfriend, and to another call, where a male voice asked her to come at once to Holy Cross Church on Crumlin Road. When Owen had visited her tiny flat, the back door to the garden was open, and she smelled of wet soil and greenery.

Her name was Margaret and she was a florist.

"Probably something to do with flowers for a wedding or a funeral," Owen could not tear his eyes from her slender frame in the black mac. The humidity had finally given way to a drizzle. Stopping on the corner, she opened an umbrella.

"Glamorous," Owen recalled the word. "That's her."

The light turned red for pedestrians, but she crossed the street anyway. A dark flash of motorcycle sped past and she fell on the tarmac. Owen had never seen a person killed before. Crimson blood spread through her blonde hair, the wind carried away the open umbrella, somebody was shouting "Call the police!" and he still stood by the window, unable to move, observing, recording, remembering.

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