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) . . .

The operator rubbed her headset. For some reason, her ear had gone cold.

‘Ow!’

She ripped it off.

The operator on her right leaned over.

‘What’s up, Dawn?’

‘It went – it felt—’

They looked at the switchboard. Lights were coming on everywhere, and it was beginning to be covered in frost.

The point is—

—that all through history there have been people who couldn’t invent things because the rest of the world wasn’t ready. Leonardo da Vinci hadn’t got the motors or materials to make his helicopter. Sir George Cayley invented the internal combustion engine before anyone else had invented petrol.¹

And in his life Addison Vincent Fletcher had spent long hours with motors and relays and glowing valves and bits of wire, pursuing a dream the world didn’t even have a name for yet.

In his phone box, dead Mr Fletcher laughed. It had a name now. He knew exactly what a computer was when he saw one.

¹So he ran it on pellets of gunpowder. Really. It was nearly the external combustion engine.

Chapter 5

Johnny went home. He didn’t dare go back to the cemetery.

It was Saturday evening. He’d forgotten about the Visit.

‘You’ve got to come,’ said his mother. ‘You know she likes to see you.’

‘No she doesn’t,’ said Johnny. ‘She forgets who I am. She calls me Peter. I mean, that’s my dad’s name. And the place smells of old ladies. Anyway, why doesn’t Grandad ever come? She’s his wife.’

‘He says he likes to remember her as she was,’ said his mother. ‘Besides, it’s Markie and Mo’s Saturday Spectacular. You know he doesn’t like to miss it.’

‘Oh . . . all right.’

‘We don’t have to stay long.’

*

About ten minutes after Johnny had gone, the phone rang. Grandad dealt with it in his normal way, which was to shout ‘Phone!’ while not taking his eyes off the screen. But it went on ringing. Eventually, grumbling and losing the remote control down the side of the cushion where it wouldn’t be found for two days, he got up and shuffled out into the hall.