Terry Pratchett - Johnny And The Dead

'Are you related to Sergeant Atterbury? He was one of the Pals.'

'He was my father.'

'Oh.'

'I never saw him. He married my mother before' he went off to the war. There was a lot of that sort of thing. There always is. Excuse me, young man, but shouldn't you be in school?'

'No,' said Johnny.

'Really?'

'I should be here. I'm absolutely sure about that,' said Johnny. 'But I'd better be getting to school, anyway. Thanks for talking to me.'

'I hope you haven't missed any important lessons.'

'History.'

'That's very important.'

'Can I ask you one more question?'

'Yes?'

'Tommy Atkins's medals. Were they for any- thing special?'

'They were campaign medals. Soldiers got them, really, for just staying alive. And for being there. He went all the way through the war, you know. Right to the end. Didn't even get wounded.'

Johnny walked back down the drive barely no- ticing the world around him. Something important had happened, and he alone of all the living had seen it, and it was right.

Getting medals for being there was right, too. Sometimes being there was all you could do.

He looked back when he reached the road. Mr Atterbury was still sitting on the bench with the two boxes beside him, staring at the trees as if he'd never seen them before. Just staring, as if he could see right through them, all the way to France.

Johnny hesitated, and then started back.

'No,' said Mr Vicenti, right behind him.

He'd been waiting by the bus shelter. Haunting it, almost.

'I was only going to—'

'Yes, you were,' said Mr Vicenti. 'And what would you say? That you'd seen them? What good would that do? Perhaps he's seeing them too, inside his head.'

'Well—'

'It wouldn't work.'

'But if I—'

'If you did something like that a few hundred years ago you'd probably be hung for witchcraft. Last century they'd lock you up. I don't know what they'd do now.'

Johnny relaxed a little. The urge to run back up the driveway had faded.

'Put me on television, I expect,' he said, walking along the road.

'Well, we don't want that,' said Mr Vicenti. He walked too, although his feet didn't always meet the ground.

'It's just that if I could make people see that—'

'Maybe,' said Mr Vicenti. 'But making people see anything is a long, hard job - excuse me ...'

He jerked his shoulder a bit, like a man trying to

find a difficult itch, and then pulled a pair of doves from inside his jacket.

'They breed in there, I'm sure,' he said, watching them fly away and disappear. 'What are you going to do now?'

'School. And don't say it's very important.'

'I said nothing.'

They reached the entrance to the cemetery. Johnny could just see the big sign on the old factory site next door, its blue sky glowing again the dustier blue-grey of the real sky.

'They'll start taking us out the day after tomorrow,' said Mr Vicenti.

'I'm sorry. Like I said, I wish there was something I could do.'

'You may have done it already.'

Johnny sighed.

'If I ask you what you mean, you'll say it's hard to explain, right?'

'I think so. Come. You might enjoy this.'

There wasn't even a dead soul in the cemetery. Even the rook had gone, unless it was a crow.

But there was a lot of noise coming from the canal.

The dead were swimming. Well, some of them were. Mrs Liberty was. She was wearing a long swimming costume that reached from neck to knees, but she still kept her hat on.

The Alderman had stripped off his long robe and chain, and was sitting on the canal bank in his shirtsleeves and some braces that could have

moored a ship. Johnny wondered how the dead changed clothes, or felt the heat, but he supposed it was all habit. If you thought your shirt was off, there it was ... off

As for swimming ... there was no splash when they dived, just the faintest of shimmers, that spread out like ripples and vanished very quickly. And when they surfaced they didn't look wet. It dawned on Johnny that when a ghost (he had to use that word in his head) jumped into the water, the ghost didn't get wet, the water got ghostly.

Not all of them were having fun, though. At least, not the usual sort. Mr Fletcher and Solomon Einstein and a few others were clustered around one of the dumped televisions.

'What are they doing?' said Johnny.

'Trying to make it work,' said Mr Vicenti.

Johnny laughed. The screen had been smashed. Rain had dripped into the case for years. There was even grass growing out of it.

'That'll never—' he began.

There was a crackle. A picture formed in the air, on a screen that wasn't there any more.

Mr Fletcher stood up and solemnly shook Solomon Einstein's hand.

'Another successful marriage of advanced theor- etics and practical know-how, Mr Einstein.'

'A shtep in the right direction, Mr Fletcher.'

Johnny stared at the flickering images. The pic- ture was in beautiful colour.

Enlightenment dawned.

'It's the ghost of the television?' he said.

'Vot a clever boy!' said Solomon Einstein.

'But with improvements,' said Mr Fletcher.

Johnny peered inside the case. It was full of; old leaves and stained, twisted metal. But over the top of it, shimmering gently, was the pearly outline of the ghost of the machine, purring away without electricity. At least, apparently without electricity. Who knew where the electricity went when the light was switched off?

'Oh, wow.'

He stood up and pointed to the scummy green surface of the canal.

'Somewhere down there there's an old Ford Capri,' he said. 'Wobbler said he saw some men dump it in there once.'

'I shall see to it directly,' said Mr Fletcher. 'The internal combustion engine certainly could do with some improvements.'

'But... look ... machines aren't alive, so how can they have ghosts?'

'But zey have existence,' said Einstein. 'From mo- ment to moment. Zo, we

find the right moment, yes?'

'Sounds a bit occult,' said Johnny.

'No! It is physicsl It is beyond physics. It is—' he waved both hands excitedly, 'metaphysics. From the Greek meta, meaning "beyond", and physika, meaning ... er ...'

'Physics,' said Mr Vicenti.

'Exactly!'

'Nothing ever finishes. Nothing's ever really over.'

It was Johnny who said that. He was surprised at himself.

'Correct! Are you a physicist?'

'Me?' said Johnny. 'I don't know anything about science!'

'Marvellous! Ideal qualification!' said Einstein.

'What?'

'Ignorance is very important! It is an absolutely essential step in the learning process!'

Mr Fletcher twiddled the ghost of a tuning knob.

'Well, we're all right now,' he said, watching a programme in what sounded like Spanish. 'Over here, everyone!'

'How very interesting,' said Mrs Liberty, dress- ing herself in the blink of an eye. 'Miniature cinematography?'

When Johnny left they were all in front of the busted television, arguing over what to watch ...

Except for Mr Grimm. He stood a little apart, hands folded obediently, watching them.

'There will be trouble because of this,' he said. 'This is disobedience. Meddling with the physical.'

He had a small moustache as well as glasses and, in daylight, Johnny saw that the lenses were those thick ones that seem to hide the person's eyes.

'There'll be trouble,' he said again. 'And it will be your fault, John Maxwell. You're getting them excited. Is this any way for the dead to behave?' Two invisible eyes followed him. 'Mr Grimm?' said Johnny. 'Yes?' 'Who are you?'

'That's none of your business.'

'No, but it's just that everyone else always talks | about—'

7 happen to believe in decency. I believe life J should be taken seriously. There is a proper way ; to conduct oneself. / certainly don't intend to indulge in this foolish behaviour.'