lunchtime on Saturday Don felt as hungry as Marshall already professed himself to be. They were in Don's shop beneath the Corn Exchange building in the centre of Manchester. When Don had taken over the lease from a defunct supplier of military uniforms the basement had smelled of dust and mushrooms, but now it smelled as though he'd imported the exact same odour of old books that had characterised his shop in West Palm Beach. Sometimes that vegetable odour made him feel starved, and now it did. "About time for a pizza, I think you'll agree," he said.
Marshall was perched on the other stool behind the counter, reading a book which Stephen King had been unable to put down. He adopted the crouch which Don knew meant he was going to read at least to the end of a paragraph and probably of a chapter. Don listened to the chimes of the cathedral across the road and the hollow blare of a train in the station beyond the cathedral, and watched the flickering of sunlight shuttered by passing traffic, an effect which made the books nearest the doorway appear to tremble with eagerness to be read. Books occupied the entire height of the interior walls and both sides of three parallel bookcases almost as wide as the shop, but Marshall had found his latest reading in the tray of paperbacks which loitered on the sidewalk. He raced to the end of the chapter and smoothed out a corner which a previous reader had turned down, and inserted a dinosaur bubble-gum card between the pages. "Hut?" he said.
"That's what I figured. Get a small one between us. Remember where Pizza Hut is?"
"Come on, dad, why wouldn't I? Between McDonald's and Burger King."
"See how they're bending over backward to make us feel at home," Don said, only to wish he hadn't when the sole present customer, a man who was leaning backward and raising his spectacles on their cord so as to scan a top shelf, pursed his whitish lips. "How much do you need? Here's two, here's another two. Four quids should cover it."
The customer lowered his head and let the spectacles slide down as far as his enlarged purple nose would allow. "Quid, to be precise, unless you mean tobacco. I don't think the language has been quite so radically revised yet, even slang."
"Just being facetious. Marshall knew that, didn't you, son?"
"Believe it. Don't sell my book, okay?"
"What class of material are the young reading these days? I suppose we should be grateful that they read," the bespectacled customer said, and approached the counter to peer at the cover. "On reflection, perhaps not. What is this kind of thing for?"
"Fun?" Marshall suggested.
"Isn't there enough unpleasantness abroad without imagining this kind of pah?" The customer flipped the book onto its face as though to hide its naked skull and scanned the blurb. "A nightmare from which you'll be afraid to wake. Why on earth give yourself that, child?"
"I don't get nightmares from reading books."
"From where, then?" said the customer with a sharp look over his spectacles at Don.
"Do you want me to go for the pizza, dad?"
"Follow your stomach."
Marshall pocketed the coins and ran up the stone steps, and Don hoped the boy had no reason to brood over the customer's last question. Since leaving the neighbourhood bullies behind in West Palm Beach he'd been sleeping more soundly, and even the child's voice on the phone at the party hadn't disturbed Marshall as much as it had affected his parents. Maybe the call hadn't been meant for him—Clement Daily had assumed it was only because of the age of the caller, and hadn't been able to distinguish a single word. The police had advised the Travises to contact them if there was another such call, but why should there be? He felt as though the customer's gaze, bespectacled now, was accusing him of having somehow caused it, except that the man was chastising Marshall's book with a stubby forefinger. "I trust you keep an eye on the ideas your son puts in his head."
"Do my best," Don said, raising
Marshall was perched on the other stool behind the counter, reading a book which Stephen King had been unable to put down. He adopted the crouch which Don knew meant he was going to read at least to the end of a paragraph and probably of a chapter. Don listened to the chimes of the cathedral across the road and the hollow blare of a train in the station beyond the cathedral, and watched the flickering of sunlight shuttered by passing traffic, an effect which made the books nearest the doorway appear to tremble with eagerness to be read. Books occupied the entire height of the interior walls and both sides of three parallel bookcases almost as wide as the shop, but Marshall had found his latest reading in the tray of paperbacks which loitered on the sidewalk. He raced to the end of the chapter and smoothed out a corner which a previous reader had turned down, and inserted a dinosaur bubble-gum card between the pages. "Hut?" he said.
"That's what I figured. Get a small one between us. Remember where Pizza Hut is?"
"Come on, dad, why wouldn't I? Between McDonald's and Burger King."
"See how they're bending over backward to make us feel at home," Don said, only to wish he hadn't when the sole present customer, a man who was leaning backward and raising his spectacles on their cord so as to scan a top shelf, pursed his whitish lips. "How much do you need? Here's two, here's another two. Four quids should cover it."
The customer lowered his head and let the spectacles slide down as far as his enlarged purple nose would allow. "Quid, to be precise, unless you mean tobacco. I don't think the language has been quite so radically revised yet, even slang."
"Just being facetious. Marshall knew that, didn't you, son?"
"Believe it. Don't sell my book, okay?"
"What class of material are the young reading these days? I suppose we should be grateful that they read," the bespectacled customer said, and approached the counter to peer at the cover. "On reflection, perhaps not. What is this kind of thing for?"
"Fun?" Marshall suggested.
"Isn't there enough unpleasantness abroad without imagining this kind of pah?" The customer flipped the book onto its face as though to hide its naked skull and scanned the blurb. "A nightmare from which you'll be afraid to wake. Why on earth give yourself that, child?"
"I don't get nightmares from reading books."
"From where, then?" said the customer with a sharp look over his spectacles at Don.
"Do you want me to go for the pizza, dad?"
"Follow your stomach."
Marshall pocketed the coins and ran up the stone steps, and Don hoped the boy had no reason to brood over the customer's last question. Since leaving the neighbourhood bullies behind in West Palm Beach he'd been sleeping more soundly, and even the child's voice on the phone at the party hadn't disturbed Marshall as much as it had affected his parents. Maybe the call hadn't been meant for him—Clement Daily had assumed it was only because of the age of the caller, and hadn't been able to distinguish a single word. The police had advised the Travises to contact them if there was another such call, but why should there be? He felt as though the customer's gaze, bespectacled now, was accusing him of having somehow caused it, except that the man was chastising Marshall's book with a stubby forefinger. "I trust you keep an eye on the ideas your son puts in his head."
"Do my best," Don said, raising
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