All divorced gambler Levi Matthews wanted to do today was take his daughter’s cat to the vet and then, just maybe, win enough money to pay for her wedding dress. Instead, he’s become the new Avatar of Tax. Naturally, he blinks through his briefing, so it comes as a near-fatal shock when he’s drop-shipped into London, 1799 on the back of a flying donkey.

Here, looking for unpaid hat-tax, he spectacularly fails to collect two shillings and six from James Hadfield. Hadfield, as it happens, is the would-be assassin of King George III who now, thanks to Levi’s inadvertent meddling, might just  succeed in bopping the monarch.

As he scrambles to save the King, tax the assassin, and retrieve the cat before the time window closes, Levi is both helped and hindered by his new colleagues: a secret satyr, a six-foot talking crow, a matronly Babbage engine, a sentient carriage, and a platoon of animatronic butlers.

Levi tries desperately to recall what they told him before he’d — been pushed? Had they pushed him? They’d asked him to do something. Which feels significant, because that would mean they planned something more than the imminent ‘Why hello London, pleased to meet you, don’t mind me while I spread myself very thinly over fifteen of your streets simultaneously.’

Just as he’s convinced that he can’t possibly survive, the donkey veers away from the onrushing ground. Freefall becomes a shallow dive, and that dive becomes a jaw-jarring landing. Hooves clatter against cobbles, far too fast for any normal equine. Levi gets a closeup view of the very solid-looking buildings rushing to either side of them. Pedestrians dive for cover, or stare agog, as the donkey weaves in and out of them. None of this, Levi believes with every iota of his heart, is normal.

This view is shared by a lay preacher that they zip past, a man with a preacher’s hat, a heavy cross around his neck and an even heavier bible clutched under his arm. All of which is so far, so preacher, but it’s the scars that stand out, running diagonally across the man’s face.

“Blasphemy!” he yells, as the slipstream of the speeding donkey knocks his hat off.

Levi cranes around for a better look at the man, already behind them. A face full of hate, further marred by scarring at his temple and accented by a red moustache. Of course, that does mean that Levi’s looking the wrong way when his steed runs out of improvised landing strip. The impact hurls him into the air. The last thing he sees before he crunches his eyes up tight is the cat box tumbling in the air above him, little Sheeran glaring through the bars like this entire situation is his fault.

“I was just checking you were still breathing,” the girl says sweetly. She tucks her chin in and makes big eyes at him, attempting to sell the lie.

And lie it is. The pocket of his frock coat, if that’s what the garment is called, is clearly turned inside out. He himself is sprawling in a pile of hay, courtesy of the nearby upended cart which presumably was his landing site. Passing adults in Georgian garb are very carefully not taking an interest in him.

Levi stands up, dusting the straw from his body, and retrieves his hat and his wig. Not his wig, not as such – he has his own curly brown hair – but the powdered grey wig that came with the clothes. The clothes don’t fit well. He’s just a smidge shy of six foot tall, with moderately broad shoulders and short legs. Whoever these threads were cut for, they had more of a pro wrestler’s build. And not that he’s seen a mirror since he’s been wearing it, but he doesn’t imagine the top hat suiting him either.

Alarmed at him towering above them, the siblings back away. The girl, the taller of the two, wears a dress of robust fabric tied high in an empire line, and the boy a peculiar suit, his jacket buttoned to the tops of his trousers and a lace collar jutting at his neckline. From their faces they are maybe ten and eight, but they have a wary look about them.

“Don’t mind us,” says the boy, “we’re just street urchins.”

One glance at the boy’s patent leather shoes is enough to convince Levi otherwise.

“If you say so, boyo.” His own Welsh accent contrasts markedly with the boy’s exaggerated Cockney patter.

Meanwhile, the girl has been clutching her fingers under one arm ever since she had sprung away from him. She sticks her lower jaw out.

“Why you got a mousetrap in your pockets, anyway?” The cold winter air turns her breath into puffs of vapour.

“Have I?” Somewhat carefully, Levi checks all those of his pockets that he can quickly identify. The frock coat has at least four, his waistcoat three, and his breeches a final two. Between them, they contain more items than he’s used to carrying. The oddest is a finger-trap, that the girl discovered. Also a monocle, a small notebook, a handkerchief, a book and pen, some kind of certificate, a whistle, and a wallet. A silver tin too, containing business cards. Oh, and lastly, a pocket-watch in his waistcoat. All these things, and not a one of them is familiar to him.

The preacher is still striding, and Levi, who knows trouble when he sees it, squares himself out, feet planted. Now that he’s closer, the man puts his battered hat back on. In addition to the scars and moustache that Levi already noticed, he has small, well-shaded eyes and wooden teeth. And a sword too, which seems particularly important because his hand is resting on its pommel.

The man jabs his finger into Levi’s chest, pressing against his sternum.

“Is there some trouble here?”

“Oh no,” said Levi, “they didn’t do anything. They were just helping me up.”

“I’m not talking about those children! You were flying! Devil’s work!”

“That wasn’t me,” says Levi, smirking. “That was the donkey.”

“You’d better stop laughing at me, old Croaker, see?” The man puts his free hand to a tin badge at his collar, tilting it so that the sun glints off it. Stamped with a star-and-crown emblem, it bears the initials G III R.

“If you’re a cop,” says Levi, “you’d better identify yourself. I’ve got rights.”

“What’s a cop? I’m James Hadfield, Constable of the City of London, and Man of God,” says Hadfield proudly, “and you’ve got as many rights as I say you have, devilspawn.”

“If riding into town on a donkey was good enough for the Christ, then it’s good enough for-”

But Levi’s pushed him too far, and Hadfield takes a swing at him. Turning, he catches the blow in the meat of his shoulder. He goes for jab of his own, but Hadfield ducks it, grabbing him by his collar and slamming him against the nearest wall. Levi’s the taller of the two but, it turns out, that’s a lot less useful than having an affinity for violence. Hadfield’s forearm presses heavily against his throat.

“Let’s understand one another here,” the preacher says. He’s aiming for a growl, but his voice is strangely squeaky and it ruins the effect. That doesn’t matter much; the black flickering at the edges of Levi’s vision does the intimidation for him.

Levi scrabbles at the pressing elbows, fails to gain purchase. His Adam’s apple, pinned in place, won’t let him speak. He raises his knee sharply into the man’s groin. Sensing it coming, the preacher shifts his thigh to take the blow there, unmoved.

The sound of hooves against cobbles, coming fast. Hadfield turns his head, his confusion turning instantly to alarm. A donkey speeds into view, moving with all the finesse of a sprinting beer barrel, and twice the momentum. It’s Levi’s donkey, rearing into the impact.

An iron-shod hoof catches Hadfield in the side of his bonce as he turns away. Blood speckles Levi’s face, and he slumps, gasping now that he can breathe. The donkey stands protectively between him and his assailant. It isn’t necessary. Hadfield staggers momentarily, clutching the side of his face. Then, whirling around, he runs away.