Liberty was her great-grandmother or something, but it would be hard to ask; you couldn’t very well say, “Hey, you look like this dead lady, are you related?”)
They didn’t look out of place. They looked as though they were used to platforms.
Johnny found he couldn’t listen to them properly. The pock-pock from the squash court on the other sideof the wall punctuated the sentences like a rain of periods, and the rattling of the door bar was a semicolon.
“—better. Future. For the young; people of our city—”
Most of the people in the audience were middle-aged. They listened to all the speakers very intently.
“—assure the good. People, of Blackbury; that. We. At United Amalgamated Consolidated; Holdings value. Public. Opinion most highly; and have no intention. Of—”
Words poured out. He could feel them filling up the hall.
And afterward—he told himself, in the privacy of his own head—afterward, the day after tomorrow, the cemetery would be shut, no matter what anyone said. It’d vanish into the past just like the old boot factory. And then the past would be rolled up and tucked away in old newspapers, just like the Pals. Unless someone did something.
Life was difficult enough already. Let someone else say something.
“—not even a particularly fine example. Of Edwardian funereal sculpture. With—”
The words would fill up the hall until they were higher than people’s heads. They were smooth, soothing words. Soon they’d close over the top of all the trilbies and woolly hats, and everyone would be sitting there like sea anemones.
They’d come here with things to say, even if they didn’t know how to say them.
The thing was to keep your head down.
But if you did keep your head down, you’d drown in other people’s words.
“—fully taken into. Account; at every stage of the planning process—”
Johnny stood up, because it was that or drowning. He felt his head break through the tide of words, and he breathed in. And then out.
“Excuse me, please?” he said.
The White Swan in Cable Street, known for years as The Dirty Duck, was a traditional English pub, with a Space Invaders video machine that Shakespeare himself might have played. It was crowded, and noisy with electronic explosions and the jukebox.
In one corner, wedged between the video quiz game and the wall, in a black felt hat, nursing half a pint of Guinness, was mad old Mrs. Tachyon.
Mad is a word used about people who’ve either got no senses or several more than most other people.
Mrs. Tachyon was the only one who noticed the drop in temperature. She looked up and grinned a one-toothed grin.
The patch of chilly air drifted across the crowdedroom until it came up against the jukebox. Frost steamed off it for a second.
The tune changed.
“‘Roses are blooming in Picardy,’” said Mrs. Tachyon happily. “Yes!”
She watched carefully as people clustered around the machine and started to thump it. Then they pulled the plug, which made no difference.
The barmaid screamed and dropped a tray of drinks when the game machine exploded and caught fire.
Then the lights went out.
A minute or two later, Mrs. Tachyon was left in the dark, listening to the barman cursing somewhere in a back room as fuses kept blowing.
It was quite pleasant, sitting in the warm glow of the melted machinery.
From the wreckage on the floor, the ghosts of two pints of beer detached themselves and floated across to the table.
“Cheers!” said Mrs. Tachyon.
The chairman of the Council looked over her glasses.
“Questions at the end, please.”
Johnny wavered. But if he sat down, the words would close over his head again.
“When is the end, please?” he said.
Johnny felt everyone looking at him.
The chairman glanced at the other speakers. She had a habit, Johnny noticed, of closing her eyes when she started a sentence and opening them suddenly at the end, so that they’d leap out and surprise
They didn’t look out of place. They looked as though they were used to platforms.
Johnny found he couldn’t listen to them properly. The pock-pock from the squash court on the other sideof the wall punctuated the sentences like a rain of periods, and the rattling of the door bar was a semicolon.
“—better. Future. For the young; people of our city—”
Most of the people in the audience were middle-aged. They listened to all the speakers very intently.
“—assure the good. People, of Blackbury; that. We. At United Amalgamated Consolidated; Holdings value. Public. Opinion most highly; and have no intention. Of—”
Words poured out. He could feel them filling up the hall.
And afterward—he told himself, in the privacy of his own head—afterward, the day after tomorrow, the cemetery would be shut, no matter what anyone said. It’d vanish into the past just like the old boot factory. And then the past would be rolled up and tucked away in old newspapers, just like the Pals. Unless someone did something.
Life was difficult enough already. Let someone else say something.
“—not even a particularly fine example. Of Edwardian funereal sculpture. With—”
The words would fill up the hall until they were higher than people’s heads. They were smooth, soothing words. Soon they’d close over the top of all the trilbies and woolly hats, and everyone would be sitting there like sea anemones.
They’d come here with things to say, even if they didn’t know how to say them.
The thing was to keep your head down.
But if you did keep your head down, you’d drown in other people’s words.
“—fully taken into. Account; at every stage of the planning process—”
Johnny stood up, because it was that or drowning. He felt his head break through the tide of words, and he breathed in. And then out.
“Excuse me, please?” he said.
The White Swan in Cable Street, known for years as The Dirty Duck, was a traditional English pub, with a Space Invaders video machine that Shakespeare himself might have played. It was crowded, and noisy with electronic explosions and the jukebox.
In one corner, wedged between the video quiz game and the wall, in a black felt hat, nursing half a pint of Guinness, was mad old Mrs. Tachyon.
Mad is a word used about people who’ve either got no senses or several more than most other people.
Mrs. Tachyon was the only one who noticed the drop in temperature. She looked up and grinned a one-toothed grin.
The patch of chilly air drifted across the crowdedroom until it came up against the jukebox. Frost steamed off it for a second.
The tune changed.
“‘Roses are blooming in Picardy,’” said Mrs. Tachyon happily. “Yes!”
She watched carefully as people clustered around the machine and started to thump it. Then they pulled the plug, which made no difference.
The barmaid screamed and dropped a tray of drinks when the game machine exploded and caught fire.
Then the lights went out.
A minute or two later, Mrs. Tachyon was left in the dark, listening to the barman cursing somewhere in a back room as fuses kept blowing.
It was quite pleasant, sitting in the warm glow of the melted machinery.
From the wreckage on the floor, the ghosts of two pints of beer detached themselves and floated across to the table.
“Cheers!” said Mrs. Tachyon.
The chairman of the Council looked over her glasses.
“Questions at the end, please.”
Johnny wavered. But if he sat down, the words would close over his head again.
“When is the end, please?” he said.
Johnny felt everyone looking at him.
The chairman glanced at the other speakers. She had a habit, Johnny noticed, of closing her eyes when she started a sentence and opening them suddenly at the end, so that they’d leap out and surprise
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