‘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.

‘I 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, looking 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, tuned to Wonderful 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) I 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 sevice 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 . . .’