what’re you doin’—”
The policeman’s voice faded behind him.
The bike swung out into the lane behind the station.
It was a cobbled street. The saddle was solid leather. Bigmac’s trousers were very thin.
No wonder everyone was very depressed, he thought, trying to cycle standing up.
“Nyah nyah nyah. Spy spy spy.”
“Shut up!” said Wobbler. “Why don’t you run away to London?”
“Ain’t gonna run away to London now,” said the boy. “’S lots more fun catchin’ spies here.”
They were back in the heart of the town now. The boy trailed behind Wobbler, pointing him out to passersby. Admittedly, no one seemed to be about to arrest him, but he was getting some odd looks.
“My brother Ron’s a policeman,” said the boy. “He’ll come up from London and shoot you with his gun.”
“Go away!”
“Shan’t!”
Opposite the entrance to Paradise Street was a small church. It was a Nonconformist chapel, according to Yo-less. It had a shut-up, wet-Sunday look. A couple of elderly evergreen trees on either side of the door looked as though it’d take a shovel just to get the soot off their needles.
The three of them sat on the steps, watching the street. A woman had come out and was industriously scrubbing her doorstep.
“Did this chapel get hit?” said Kirsty.
“You mean will. I don’t think so.”
“Pity.”
“It’s still here…I mean, in 1996,” said Yo-less. “Only it’s just used as a social hall. You know, for keep-fit classes and stuff. I know, ’cos I come here for Morris Dance practice every Wednesday. Will, I mean.”
“You?” said Kirsty. “You do Morris Dancing? With sticks and hankies and stuff? You?”
“There’s something wrong?” said Yo-less coldly.
“Well…no…no, of course not…but…it’s just an unusual interest for someone of—your—”
Yo-less let her squirm for a bit and then said, “Height?” He dropped the word like a weight. Kirsty shut her mouth.
“Yes,” she said.
Another woman appeared, next door to the one scrubbing her front doorstep, and started scrubbing her doorstep.
“What are we going to do?” said Kirsty.
“I’m thinking,” said Yo-less.
Somewhere in the distance a bell went off, and kept on going off.
“I’m thinking, too,” said Johnny. “I’m thinking: We haven’t seen Bigmac for ages.”
“Good,” said Kirsty.
“He might be in some trouble, I mean,” said Johnny.
“What do you mean, might be?” said Yo-less.
“And we haven’t seen Wobbler, either,” said Johnny.
“Oh, you know Wobbler. He’s probably hiding somewhere.”
Another woman opened her door on the other side of the street and entered the doorstep-scrubbing competition.
Kirsty straightened up.
“Why’re we acting so miserable?” she said. “We’re nineties people. We should be able to think of something. We could…we could…”
“We could phone Adolf Hitler,” Yo-less suggested. “Can’t remember his phone number, sorry, but information in Germany’re bound to know.”
Johnny stared glumly at the shopping cart. He hadn’t expected time travel to be this hard. He thought of all those wasted lessons when they could have been telling him what to do if some madwoman left him a cart full of time. School never taught you anything that was useful in real life. There probably wasn’t a single textbook that told you what to do if it turned out you were living next door to Elvis Presley.
He looked down the length of Paradise Street and felt Time streaming past him. Yo-less and Kirsty faded away. He could feel them there, though, as insubstantial as dreams, as the light faded from the sky and the soccer players went indoors and the wind got up and the clouds rolled in from the southwest and the town went to sleep and the bombers came out of the east and fire rained down on the houses and the allotments and the people and the goalposts chalked on the wall and all the nice, clean, white
The policeman’s voice faded behind him.
The bike swung out into the lane behind the station.
It was a cobbled street. The saddle was solid leather. Bigmac’s trousers were very thin.
No wonder everyone was very depressed, he thought, trying to cycle standing up.
“Nyah nyah nyah. Spy spy spy.”
“Shut up!” said Wobbler. “Why don’t you run away to London?”
“Ain’t gonna run away to London now,” said the boy. “’S lots more fun catchin’ spies here.”
They were back in the heart of the town now. The boy trailed behind Wobbler, pointing him out to passersby. Admittedly, no one seemed to be about to arrest him, but he was getting some odd looks.
“My brother Ron’s a policeman,” said the boy. “He’ll come up from London and shoot you with his gun.”
“Go away!”
“Shan’t!”
Opposite the entrance to Paradise Street was a small church. It was a Nonconformist chapel, according to Yo-less. It had a shut-up, wet-Sunday look. A couple of elderly evergreen trees on either side of the door looked as though it’d take a shovel just to get the soot off their needles.
The three of them sat on the steps, watching the street. A woman had come out and was industriously scrubbing her doorstep.
“Did this chapel get hit?” said Kirsty.
“You mean will. I don’t think so.”
“Pity.”
“It’s still here…I mean, in 1996,” said Yo-less. “Only it’s just used as a social hall. You know, for keep-fit classes and stuff. I know, ’cos I come here for Morris Dance practice every Wednesday. Will, I mean.”
“You?” said Kirsty. “You do Morris Dancing? With sticks and hankies and stuff? You?”
“There’s something wrong?” said Yo-less coldly.
“Well…no…no, of course not…but…it’s just an unusual interest for someone of—your—”
Yo-less let her squirm for a bit and then said, “Height?” He dropped the word like a weight. Kirsty shut her mouth.
“Yes,” she said.
Another woman appeared, next door to the one scrubbing her front doorstep, and started scrubbing her doorstep.
“What are we going to do?” said Kirsty.
“I’m thinking,” said Yo-less.
Somewhere in the distance a bell went off, and kept on going off.
“I’m thinking, too,” said Johnny. “I’m thinking: We haven’t seen Bigmac for ages.”
“Good,” said Kirsty.
“He might be in some trouble, I mean,” said Johnny.
“What do you mean, might be?” said Yo-less.
“And we haven’t seen Wobbler, either,” said Johnny.
“Oh, you know Wobbler. He’s probably hiding somewhere.”
Another woman opened her door on the other side of the street and entered the doorstep-scrubbing competition.
Kirsty straightened up.
“Why’re we acting so miserable?” she said. “We’re nineties people. We should be able to think of something. We could…we could…”
“We could phone Adolf Hitler,” Yo-less suggested. “Can’t remember his phone number, sorry, but information in Germany’re bound to know.”
Johnny stared glumly at the shopping cart. He hadn’t expected time travel to be this hard. He thought of all those wasted lessons when they could have been telling him what to do if some madwoman left him a cart full of time. School never taught you anything that was useful in real life. There probably wasn’t a single textbook that told you what to do if it turned out you were living next door to Elvis Presley.
He looked down the length of Paradise Street and felt Time streaming past him. Yo-less and Kirsty faded away. He could feel them there, though, as insubstantial as dreams, as the light faded from the sky and the soccer players went indoors and the wind got up and the clouds rolled in from the southwest and the town went to sleep and the bombers came out of the east and fire rained down on the houses and the allotments and the people and the goalposts chalked on the wall and all the nice, clean, white
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