Terry Pratchett: Johnny And The Dead

The odd thing was that although the block was cramped and fourteen storeys high, it had been built in the middle of a huge area of what was theoretically grass ('environmental open space'), but which was now the home of the Common Crisp Packet and Hardy-Perennial Burned-Out Car.

'Horrible place,' said Wobbler.

'People've got to live somewhere,' said Yo-less.

'Reckon the man who designed it lives here?' said Johnny.

'Shouldn't think so.'

'I'm not going too near Bigmac's brother,' said

Wobbler. 'He's a nutter. He's got tattoos and every- thing. And everyone knows he pinches stuff" Videos and things. Out of factories. And he killed Bigmac's hamster when he was little. And he chucks his stuff out of the window when he's angry. And if Glint's been let out—'

Glint was Bigmac's brother's dog, which had reputedly been banned from the Rottweiler/Pit Bull Terrier Crossbreed Club for being too nasty.

'Poor old Bigmac,' said Johnny. 'No wonder he's always sending off for martial arts stuff.'

'I reckon he wants to join the Army so's he can bring his gun home one weekend,' said Yo- less.

Wobbler looked up apprehensively at the huge towering bulk of the block.

'Huh! Bringing his tank home'd be favourite,' he said.

Bigmac's brother's van was parked in what had been designed as the washing-drying area. Both the doors and the front wing were different colours. Glint was in the front seat, chained to the steering wheel. The van was the one vehicle that could be left unlocked anywhere near Joshua N'Clement.

'Weird, really,' said Johnny. 'When you think about it, I mean.'

'What is?' said Yo-less.

'Well, there's a huge cemetery for dead people, and all the living people are crammed up in that thing,' said Johnny. 'I mean, it sounds like someone got something Wrong ...'

Bigmac emerged from the block, carrying a

stack of cardboard boxes. He nodded hopelessly at Johnny, and put the boxes in the back of the van.

'Yo, duds,' he said.

'Where's your brother?'

'He's upstairs. Come on, let's go.'

'Before he comes down, you mean,' said Wobbler.

'Shut up.'

The breeze moved in the poplar trees, and whis- pered around the antique urns and broken stones.

'I don't know as this is right,' said Wobbler, when the four of them had gathered by the gate.

'There's crosses all over the place,' said Yo-less.

'Yes, but I'm an atheist,' said Wobbler.

'Then you shouldn't believe in ghosts—'

'Post-living citizens,' Bigmac corrected him.

'Bigmac?' said Johnny.

'Yeah?'

'What're you holding behind your back?'

'Nothing.'

Wobbler craned to see.

'It's a bit of sharpened wood,' he reported. 'And a hammer.'

'Bigmac!'

'Well, you never know—'

'Leave them here!'

'Oh, all right.'

'Anyway, it's not stakes for ghosts. That's for vampires,' said Yo-less.

'Oh, thank you,' said Wobbler.

'Look, this is just the cemetery,' said Johnny.

'It's got by-laws and things! It's not Transylvania! There's just dead people here! That doesn't make it scary, does it? Dead people are people who were living once! You wouldn't be so daft if there were living people buried here, would you?'

They set off along North Drive.

It was amazing how sounds died away in the cemetery. There was only a set of overgrown iron railings and some unpruned trees between them and the road, but noises were suddenly cut right down, as if they were being heard through a blanket. In- stead, silence seemed to pour in — pour up, Johnny thought - like breathable water. It hissed. In the cemetery, silence made a noise.

The gravel crunched underfoot. Some of the more recent graves had a raised area in front of them which someone had thought would be a good idea to cover with little green stones. Now, tiny rockery plants were flourishing.

A crow cawed in one of the trees, unless it was a rook. It didn't really break the silence. It just underlined it.

'Peaceful, isn't it,' said Yo-less.

'Quiet as the grave,' said Bigmac. 'Hah, hah.'

'A lot of people come for walks here,' said Johnny. 'I mean, the park's miles away, and all there is there is grass. But this place has got tons of bushes and plants and trees and, and—'

'Environment,' said Yo-less.

'And probably some ecology as well,' said Johnny.

'Hey, look at this grave,' said Wobbler.

They looked. It had a huge raised archway made of carved black marble, and a lot of angels wound around it, and a Madonna, and a faded photograph in a little glass window under the name: Antonio Vicenti (1897-1958). It looked like a kind of Rolls- Royce of a grave.

'Yeah. Dead impressive,' said Bigmac.

'Why bother with such a big stone arch?' said Yo-less.

'It's just showing off,' said Yo-less. 'There's probably a sticker on the back saying "My Other Grave Is A Porch".'

'Yo-less!' said Johnny.

'Actually, I think that was very funny,' said Mr Vicenti. 'He is a very funny boy.'

Johnny turned, very slowly.

There was a man in black clothes leaning on the grave. He had neat black hair, plastered down, and a carnation in his buttonhole and a slightly grey look, as if the light wasn't quite right.

'Oh,' said Johnny. 'Hello.'

'And what is the joke, exactly?' said Mr Vicenti, in a very solemn voice. He stood very politely with his hands clasped in front of him, like an old-fashioned shop assistant.

'Well, you can get these stickers for cars, you see, and they say "My Other Car is A Porsche",' said Johnny. 'It's not a very good joke,' he added quickly.

'A Porsche is a kind of car?' said dead Mr Vicenti.

'Yes. Sorry. I didn't think he should joke about things like that.'

'Back in the old country I used to do magical entertainment for kiddies,' said Mr Vicenti. 'With doves and similar items. On Saturdays. At parties. The Great Vicenti and Ethel. I like to laugh.'

'The old country?' said Johnny.

'The alive country.'

The three boys were watching Johnny carefully.

'You don't fool us,' said Wobbler. 'There's - there's no-one there.'

'And I did escapology, too,' said Mr Vicenti, ab- sent-mindedly pulling an egg from Yo-less's ear.

'You're just talking to the air,' said Yo-less.

'Escapology?' said Johnny. Here we go again, he thought. The dead always want to talk about themselves ...

'What?' said Bigmac.

'Escaping from things.' Mr Vicenti cracked the egg. The ghost of a dove flew away, and vanished as it reached the trees. 'Sacks and chains and handcuffs and so on. Like the Great Houdini? Only in a semi-professional way, of course. My greatest trick involved getting out of a locked sack underwater while wearing twenty feet of chain and three pairs of handcuffs.'

'Gosh, how often did you do that?' said Johnny.

'Nearly once,' said Mr Vicenti.

'Come on,' said Wobbler. 'Joke over. No-one's taken in. Come on. Time's getting on.'

'Shut up, this is interesting,' said Johnny.

He was aware of a rustling noise around him, like someone walking very

slowly through dead leaves.

'And you're John Maxwell,' said Mr Vicenti. 'The Alderman told us about you.'

'Us?'

The rustling grew louder.

Johnny turned.

'He's not joking,' said Yo-less. 'Look at his face!'

I mustn't be frightened, Johnny told himself

I mustn't be frightened!

Why should I be frightened? These are just ... post-life citizens. A few years ago they were just mowing lawns and putting up Christmas decora- tions and being grandparents and things. They're nothing to be frightened of

The sun was well behind the poplar trees. There was a bit of mist on the ground.

And, walking slowly towards him, through its coils, were the dead.