Terry Pratchett - Johnny And The Dead

If Johnny had been there, he would have heard what happened next. But he wasn't, so everyone else would have just heard the wind, and perhaps, just perhaps, the faintest of arguments:

'You should know, Mr Fletcher. YOU invented it.'

'Actually, that was Alexander Graham Bell, Mrs Liberty. I just improved upon it.'

'Well ... make it work. Let me speak to the man on the wireless machine.'

'Was it really Alexander Graham Bell?'

'Yes, Alderman.'

'I thought it was Sir Humphrey Telephone.'

The telephone stayed on its hook, but there were a few electric crackles and pops from somewhere in the machinery.

7 think I have mastered the intricacies, Mrs Liberty—'

'Let ME do the talking. The people's voice must be heard!'

Frost was forming on the inside of the telephone box.

'Certainly not. You are a bolshevik!'

'What did Sir Humphrey Telephone invent, then?'

'Mr Fletcher! Be so good as to expedite the electric communication!'

When there wasn't the burger bar to hang out in, and when they weren't allowed in J&J Software because of whatever Wobbler's latest crime was, there was only the fountain area with the sad, dying trees in it or Groovy Sounds record store, which was pretty much like any record store would be if it was called Groovy Sounds.

Anyway, Yo-less wanted to buy a tape for his collection.

'Famous British Brass Bands,' said Wobbler, look- ing over his shoulder.

'Yes, but this is a good one,' said Yo-less. 'It's got the old Blackbury Rubber Boot Factory Band playing The Floral Dance. Very famous piece.'

'You're just basically not black, are you,' said Wobbler. 'I'm going to report, you to the Rastafarians.'

'You like reggae and blues,' said Yo-less.

'That's different.'

Johnny listlessly shuffled through the tapes.

And froze.

There was a voice he recognized. It was crackly with static, but it sounded a lot like Mrs Sylvia Liberty, and it was coming over the radio.

The radio was on the counter, turned to Won- derful Radio Blackbury's Mike Mikes Radio Show, which was as excellent and totally bodacious as two hours of phone-ins and traffic reports from the Blackbury bypass could be.

This time it was different. The phone-in had been about the Council's proposal to knock down the old Fish Market, which was going to happen no matter what anyone said, but it was a good subject for people to moan about.

'Well, what I say is hello? Hello? This is Mrs Sylvia Liberty speaking on the electric telephone! Hello? not to be allowed, er, in my opinion, er, it is totally hello? (click ... fizz ... crackle) / demand to be heard this INSTANT! The Fish Market is of NO importance whatsoever! er ... er ... and ...'

In his little studio on top of the Blackbury and Slate Insurance Society, Mike Mikes stared at his engineer, who stared at his switchboard. There was no way of cutting off the intrusive voice. It was coming in on all telephone lines at once.

'Er, hi,' he said. 'The caller on ... er ... all the lines

'Here, someone's You listen to me, young man! And don't cut me off to start playing any more of your phonograph cylinders! crossed line here, Mike, I Do you realize that innocent citizens are being EVICTED (click ... garble ... whirr ... fizz) many years of VALUED service to the community (wheeeowwwwwh ... crackle) merely because of an ACCIDENT of birth (fizzle ... whipwhipwhip ... crackle) you listen to young Johnn (snap ... fizz ... ) The People's Shroud is Deepest Black (wheeeyooowwww ... pop) We're Coming BACK ... stop that this minute, William, you are nothing but a bolshevik agit...'

But no-one heard the rest of the sentence be- cause the engineer had pulled all the plugs and hit the switchboard with a hammer.

Johnny and his friends had gathered around the radio.

'You get some real loonies on these phone-ins,' said Wobbler. 'You ever listen to Mad Jim's Late Night Explosion?'

'He's not mad,' said Yo-less. 'He just says he is. And all he does is play old records and go "yeah!" and "yowsahyowsah!" a lot. That's not mad. That's just pathetic.'

'Yes,' said Wobbler.

'Yes,' said Bigmac.

'Yes,' said Yo-less.

They all looked at Johnny. They all looked like people with something on their minds.

'Ahem,' said Wobbler.

'Er,' said Bigmac.

'That was them, was it?' said Yo-less.

'Yes,' said Johnny. 'It was them.'

'It didn't sound like normal radio. How can they use the phone?'

'I don't know. I suppose some of them knew how to use the phone when they were alive. And maybe being dead's a bit like ... electricity or something.'

'They nearly said your name,' said Wobbler.

'Yes.'

'Who was that one singing?'

'I think it was William Stickers. He's a bit of a communist.'

'I didn't think there were any communists left these days,' said Yo-less.

'There aren't. And he's one of them.'

'You know, any minute now Rod Serling is going to come walking in here with a big book,' saidBigmac. 'You know. Like in The Twilight Zone.'

'How come they know what's on the radio?' said Yo-less.

'I lent them Grandad's transistor.'

'You know what I think?' said Yo-less. 'I think you've started something.'

'That's what I think, too.'

'Nah!' said Wobbler. 'Come on\ Voices on the radio? I mean! That's just mucking about. Could be anything. Kids ringing up and messing about. Oh, come on! Ghosts don't phone up radio stations!'

'I saw this film once where they came out of the telephone,' said Bigmac, winner of the All- Blackbury Mr Tactful Championship.

'Just you shut up! I don't believe you!'

It was very, very chilly inside the phone box. 'I must say, electricity is very easy to master when

you're dead.'

'What are you doing, Mr Fletcher?'

'Very easy indeed. Who shall we talk to next?'

'We must speak to the Town Hall!'

'But it is a Saturday, Mrs Liberty. There will be

no-one there.'

'Then try to find young Johnny. I don't know

what he means about trying to find famous people

buried in the cemetery. WE'RE here, after all.'

'I'll keep trying. It's amazingly easy to understand.'

' Where's Mr Stickers gone?'

'He's trying to listen to Radio Moscow, what- ever that is. On the wireless telegraphy apparatus.'

'I say, this is rather invigorating, you know. I've never been out of the cemetery before.'

'Yes. It's a new lease of life.'

'You can escape from almost anything,' said Mr Vicenti.

There was a faint cough. They looked around.

Mr Grimm was watching them through the railings.

The dead seemed to sober up. They always be- came more serious in front of Mr Grimm.

They shuffled their spectral feet.

'You're outside,' said Mr Grimm. 'You know that's wrong.'

'Only a little way, Eric,' said the Alderman. 'That can't do any harm. It's for the good of the—'

'It's WRONG.'

'We don't have to listen to him,' said Mr Vicenti.

'You'll get into terrible trouble,' said Mr Grimm.

'No we won't,' said Mr Vicenti.

'It's dabbling with the Known,' said Mr Grimm. 'You'll get into dreadful trouble and it won't be my fault. You are bad people.'

He turned, and walked back to his grave.

'Dial the number,' said Mr Vicenti. The others seemed to wake up.

'You know,' said Mrs Liberty, 'he may have a point—'

'Forget about Mr Grimm,' said Mr Vicenti. He opened his hands. A white dove shot out of his sleeve and perched on the phone box, blinking. 'Dial the number, Mr Fletcher.'

'Hello, directory enquiries, what name please?'

'He's called Johnny Maxwell and he lives in Blackbury.'

'I'm afraid that is not sufficient information—'

'That's all we—' (Listen, I can see how it works, there's a connection—)(How many of us are there in here?)(Can I try, please?)(This is a lot better than those seances) ...