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  ‘So what do we do?’ Shibboleth asked. ‘Follow the high priest again tomorrow and try to dance on the same stones that he does? We could sprinkle talcum powder over them earlier in the evening. I saw that done in an old movie. What are you doing?’

  ‘Just watch me through the goggles,’ said Ellie. ‘There’s an old hand-held computer game called SIMON. It flashed lights on different squares and you had to copy what it did. I shall do as the Rev Jim did, you do what I do and let’s hope for the best.’

  ‘All right,’ said Shibboleth. ‘But I’m no great dancer.’

  ‘Nor conversationalist,’ said Ellie. ‘But we can’t all be good at everything, can we? Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ said Shibboleth.

  ‘Then here I go,’ and Ellie bounced and bobbed away. She took the odd little sidesteps, then the dancings forward, then the steps backwards and then the steps forward again.

  And then she vanished.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Shibboleth. ‘You did it.’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ called a voice in the darkness. ‘I just tripped and fell on my face.’

  ‘Anything hurt?’

  ‘Only my pride. I’m coming back to have another go––’

  And so Ellie had another go.

  And another.

  And another.

  And not to be beaten, she had another go too.

  And another.

  ‘This really isn’t working, is it?’ Shibboleth asked.

  ‘There’d be a knack to it.’

  ‘Not one you’ve mastered quite yet, by the look of it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to have a go yourself.’

  Shibboleth shrugged in the uncertain light. ‘I’d probably only fare as well as you,’ he said. ‘Although if I was going to do it, I’d probably do it exactly the same way the high priest did. By taking three steps to the right instead of the two you keep taking.’

  Ellie returned to Shibboleth and punched him hard in the face.

  ‘Oh, ouch, damn,’ wailed Shibboleth. ‘There was no need for that.’

  ‘There was every need for that. If this is the way to get into the chapel, the service will be over before we even arrive. Do the dance. Go on, or I’ll hit you again.’

  ‘I think you’ve broken my nose.’

  ‘I haven’t. I could have done, but I didn’t.’

  ‘It really hurts,’ moaned Shibboleth.

  ‘Do the silly dance.’

  And Shibboleth lined himself up, said, ‘OK,’ and did the silly dance.

  And then he vanished. Just like that.

  ‘Have you fallen over?’ Ellie asked.

  But there was no reply.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ellie. ‘You did it. You actually did it.’

  She stood alone there in the uncertain light, looking down at the pavement slabs through her infra-red goggles. They shone faintly, offering up the heat of the day that they had stored within their ancient granite pores. A giant chessboard? A game board? An entrance? To what?

  To the chapel of It.

  Ellie drew draughts of healthless Mute Corp Keynes night air up her nostrils. This was to be it. Possibly a confrontation with It. Possibly anything. And this Shibboleth had gone before her. Was he on the level? Or was he leading her to her doom? Should she go on, or turn away and run? That was an option. Not much of one, but it was an option.

  ‘I have to see this through,’ Ellie told herself. ‘Innocent people have been hurt, killed. I don’t know what I can do about it. But I have to do something.’

  She glanced all around and about. She was all alone.

  If she was going to do it.

  Then now was the time.

  To do it.

  To do

  It.

  Ellie took another breath and blew it out into the night. And then she too did the silly dance.

  From paving stone to paving stone and never stepping on the cracks.

  And she, like Shibboleth, vanished.

  The moon appeared from behind industrial clouds. It shone down upon the great paved space, turning the paving stones the colour of a silver without price.

  And out of nowhere, or so at least it seemed, a fat man appeared. He was the fat man who had leaned upon the lamppost opposite the Swan and studied Ellie through his macrovision spectacles.

  The fat man crossed the wide open space. And then the fat man stopped. And then he too danced forward. Taking sideways steps, and three instead of two, and moving forwards and backwards.

  And presently and under the eye of the moon, the fat man vanished too.

  19

  It was no longer night.

  It was no longer Mute Corp Keynes.

  A big smiley sun beamed down from the heavens of blue. Sparrows chorused from the branches of ancient riverside oaks. Flowers prettified their well-tended beds in the memorial park and a snoozing tomcat snored upon the window sill of the Flying Swan. The milk float jingle-jangled on its wibbly wobbly way. Another glorious day had dawned upon Brentford.

  Derek awoke to find that the world had gone upside down.

  He blinked and focused and stared upon the shelves of video games. Why were they all upside down, he wondered? And why was the ceiling now the floor?

  Derek coughed. He didn’t feel at all too well. Why would that be, then? Ah, oh dear and yes, that would be the drink and that would be why.

  Derek heaved himself into the vertical plane. That would be why the world had all turned upside down. He’d been lying, fully clothed, on his bed, flat on his back with his head hanging over the end.

  Not the way he usually slept.

  Which was all tucked up beneath his Star Wars duvet.

  ‘Oh what happened?’ Derek groaned, and slumping down upon his bed, he placed his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. ‘I got drunk, that’s what happened,’ he mumbled. ‘What did I do? Did I do something terrible?’

  Circuits meshed in Derek’s head. No, he hadn’t done anything terrible. He’d got drunk. Wandered about. Met up with Mad John and Mad John had brought him home. That wasn’t too terrible, although his mum wouldn’t be smiling at him this morning over the cornflakes. ‘It’s all her fault,’ mumbled Derek. ‘That Ellie. She’s got inside my head. Oh damn it. I really am in love with her. Oh God, what am I going to do?’ Derek peered at his wristwatch. It was nine thirty. He should have been at the offices of the Brentford Mercury half an hour ago.

  Derek dragged himself over to the dressing table and peered at his reflection in the mirror. It was grim. A boggy-eyed unshaven face peered back at him. ‘Oh God,’ mumbled Derek once more. ‘I’ve really fouled up this time. Those horrible sods from Mute Corp will be sitting at Mr Shields’ desk waiting for me. I have to go.’

  Derek did pathetic little pattings-down at his hair, muttered something about designer stubble coming back into fashion, opened his bedroom door and stumbled down the stairs. And he almost made it to the front door too.

  ‘Is that you, Derek?’ called the voice of his mum.

  ‘Yes Mum,’ called Derek. ‘Who else would it be?’ He picked up a folded piece of paper from the doormat. It was addressed to him in Ellie’s handwriting. But as Derek had never seen Ellie’s handwriting, he didn’t recognize it.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to give your mother a goodbye kiss before you go off to work?’

  ‘Oh,’ went Derek, shrugging, then, ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Derek thrust the folded and unread piece of paper into his trouser pocket, then he bumbled along the passageway to the kitchen. Past the framed photograph of the Queen Mother, presently celebrating her one hundred and twenty-second year. Past the framed photograph of his dad, possibly celebrating something up in Heaven. And past the framed photograph of himself as a baby. The Derek of today was in no mood at all for celebration.

  ‘Morning, darling,’ said Derek’s mum, beaming at him from the kitchen sink, where she stood drying her hands on an oversized brown gingham tea towel.


  ‘Morning, Derek,’ said Mad John, looking up from the breakfasting table.

  Derek stared at Mad John. Mad John was wearing Derek’s dressing gown.

  ‘Give your mum a kiss,’ said Derek’s mum.

  ‘And you can shake my hand if you want,’ said Mad John. ‘But no kissing please, it makes me want to shout.’

  Derek made that face you make, when you find out that some vagrant loony’s been having it off with your mum. It’s a very specific sort of face, it doesn’t really apply to any other situation.

  ‘And what kind of face is that?’ asked Derek’s mum. ‘The last time I saw a face like that, your father was making it. Shortly before he met with his tragic accident.’

  ‘I… I… you… you… he… he…’ went Derek.

  ‘What kind of language is that?’ asked Mad John. ‘Is it Runese?’

  ‘You… him.’ Derek pointed to and fro.

  ‘Give us a kiss then.’ Derek’s mum puckered up.

  ‘No,’ said Derek. ‘No, no, no,’ and Derek left the house.

  Derek staggered and stumbled along the sunlit streets of Brentford. Streets that, had he noticed it, were looking rather spruce. There were sweepers sweeping these streets and painters on scaffolding, painting the houses. There were cleaners cleaning the lampposts and there were dustbin men and the dustbin men were emptying dustbins and whistling while they worked. In fact everybody was whistling while they worked. The sweepers and the painters, and the cleaners and the dustbin men, all whistling gaily as they worked. And all of these whistlers had one thing in common, well two if you counted the whistling. But the one thing in common they had most in common, was in the way they were dressed.

  One-piece, all white, zip-up overalls, with a big fat Mute Corp logo on the back.

  Whistle whistle whistle went the whistlers as they worked.

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Derek, then he clutched at his hung-overed head.

  There was scaffolding up outside the offices of the Brentford Mercury and whistling men swarmed upon this scaffolding, renovating here and titivating there.

  An old chap with long grey hair, leather trousers and a lacy flouncy shirt, who had once been popular on the tele, was directing operations. ‘I’m going for a retro feel,’ he was telling a whistler. ‘An homage to the twentieth century.’

  ‘Anything you say, Mr Lawrence, guv,’ said the whistling workman, continuing to whistle as he worked.

  Derek stumbled and staggered up the stairs to the offices. There in that of Mr Shields were the two men from Mute Corp. Little Mr Speedy and bigger Mr Shadow. Bigger Mr Shadow was looking at his watch. ‘I’m docking you an hour’s pay,’ he told Derek. ‘If you’re late again tomorrow, then you’re sacked.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Derek wiped at his cold and clammy brow. ‘But tomorrow’s Saturday. I never work on Saturday.’

  ‘You do now, and Sunday too. Everything has to be online for Monday. That’s when Suburbia World Plc opens to the public.’

  Mr Speedy tapped at keys on his briefcase laptop affair. ‘We went out on the World Wide Web at nine this morning,’ he said. ‘Projected figures suggest that we’ll have at least ten thousand paying visitors on the first day alone.’

  ‘Ten thousand?’ Derek sank onto the unpacked box of Mute Corp computer parts.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t sit on that,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘That’s going back to the company. And I’d like to know the whereabouts of the rest of that consignment.’

  ‘Search me,’ said Derek, dismally. ‘But ten thousand visitors? How can that possibly be? If you only went online half an hour ago?’

  ‘Make that closer to an hour. There’s a whole world out there,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘Beyond the boundaries of Brentford. A whole world of PC users, logging onto the Web, ever anxious for something new. Something special to entertain them.’

  ‘But there’s nothing special about Brentford,’ said Derek and then, realizing just how stupid that remark really was, he buried his face in his hands.

  ‘There’s a certain magic here,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘I’m surprised that you, as a resident, have never noticed it yourself.’

  Derek made awful groaning sounds.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘There is much to discuss. Where are the crad barges? Where are the five miles of perimeter fence?’

  ‘And the steam train,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing the steam train. I’ve never actually seen one before. What do they run on, petrol?’

  ‘Petrol?’ Derek made further groanings and meanings.

  ‘Well, whatever,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘I’m looking forward to that and also to seeing the Brentford Griffin. Old-fashioned holographics can still draw in the public. What time should I schedule a demonstration for? Shall we say three p.m.?’

  Derek made a pitiful sound.

  ‘You’re not going to let us down, are you, Derek?’ Mr Speedy asked. ‘We’d be very disappointed if you let us down.’

  ‘We’d have to dismiss you,’ said Mr Shadow.

  ‘And turn you in to the police, over that nasty business of the stolen computer games,’ said Mr Speedy.

  ‘And there’d be questions asked about Derek’s expenses,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘Which would probably lead to further prosecutions.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘I’d see to that.’

  ‘All right, stop!’ Derek hauled himself to his feet. ‘I’ll get it all done. Everything’s in hand. Just leave it to me, I won’t let you down.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘Then off about your business. Pacey pacey, chop chop and things of that nature generally.’

  Derek turned painfully to take his leave. And then he stopped and turned right back again. ‘No, hold on,’ he said. ‘What about the paper? It’s Friday. The paper is supposed to come out today. Oh my God. The paper. The paper.’ Derek tore at his hair, Mr Speedy and Mr Shadow watching him tearing at it.

  ‘I’ll bet that really hurts,’ said Mr Speedy.

  ‘I’ll just bet it does,’ said Mr Shadow.

  ‘Oow!’ said Derek, ceasing to tear at his hair. ‘It does hurt, I can tell you. But oh my God again. How could I have let this happen? There’s no Brentford Mercury. In one hundred and fifty-two years, we’ve never missed an issue.’

  ‘You don’t look that old,’ said Mr Speedy.

  ‘You know what I mean!’ Derek shouted, and then he clutched once more at his head. ‘The paper must come out today. It must. It must.’

  ‘And it has,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘Trust us, it has.’

  ‘Has?’ said Derek. ‘Has?’

  ‘It’s already on the news-stands and in the paper shops.’

  ‘And popped through the letter boxes,’ said Mr Shadow.

  ‘No,’ said Derek. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Mr Speedy picked up a newspaper from the desk and handed it to Derek. ‘We took care of everything,’ he said. ‘Mute Corp always takes care of everything.’

  Derek stared at the paper in his trembling hands. Its five-inch banner headline ran:

  JOY, JOY, HAPPY JOY

  HAPPY, HAPPY JOY

  ‘Uplifting isn’t it?’ said Mr Speedy. ‘That has to be a first in headlines, doesn’t it?’

  Derek’s jaw was hanging slack, his numb hands numbly turned the pages.

  GREAT DAYS AHEAD

  ran the headline on page two.

  BRENTONIANS TO RECEIVE MASSIVE CASH FUNDINGS:

  ALL WILL PROFIT HUGELY FROM KINDLY CORPORATION’S CARING CASH CONTRIBUTIONS.

  ‘Note all that alliteration,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘That was my idea.’

  ‘Very professional,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘Very Sunday Spurt.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Derek, pointing, pointing, pointing. ‘ “BRENTFORD SHAREHOLDERS’ BIG BUCKS BONANZA.” ’

  ‘My idea too,’ said Mr Shadow.

  ‘Very professional,’ said Mr Speedy once again.

  ‘Yes,’ said Derek. ‘But what does it mean?’ r />
  ‘It’s an incentive,’ said Mr Shadow. ‘You see, once, back in the early 1980s, there was this Waterman’s Arts Centre project. The locals made a right old fuss. So much so that the backers pulled out and left the Arts Centre for the locals to do with as they pleased.’

  ‘I’ve read all about it,’ said Derek, and here a tone of pride entered into his voice. ‘I am a Brentford Poet.’

  ‘Then you’ll know what happened. A wise old man called Professor Slocombe, I believe he still lives here on the Butt’s Estate, persuaded the locals to build the Arts Centre themselves and all become shareholders. The Arts Centre stands here today. No fuss. No bother. We’ve just done the same. All Brentonians are now shareholders in Suburbia World Plc. They’ve been allocated one share each. I’m sure that after they receive their first generous dividend, they’ll be buying a lot more shares.’

  ‘It’s all corruption,’ said Derek. ‘All of it. Bribery and corruption, blackmail and extortion.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any extortion involved,’ said Mr Speedy. ‘Although I’ll bet you’ll have to pay an extortionate price for that steam train. I’ll bet that could run to about ten thousand pounds, you’ll probably be needing some more petty cash, won’t you?’

  Derek’s mouth was hanging open once again. When he finally closed it once again and then opened it to speak more words, the words he spoke were these.

  ‘Ten thousand was exactly the figure I had in mind.’

  Which really didn’t say a lot for Derek.

  The Flying Swan was crowded when Derek stumbled in to take a liquid breakfast. There seemed to be an air of jollity around and about the saloon bar.

  Derek dragged himself to the counter and tried to get himself served.

  ‘Hello,’ said Old Pete, looking up from his Brentford Mercury. ‘Fancy seeing you in here again. You’re a bit of a sucker for punishment. Can’t you find yourself another Brentford bar to drink in?’

  ‘This was the nearest,’ said Derek. ‘And I really need a big drink.’

  ‘You work for the Mercury, don’t you?’ said the oldster. ‘As well as being a bard and a student of Runese.’