Mr Fletcher nudged Solomon Einstein.

‘Shall we tell them?’ he said.

‘Tell us what?’ said William Stickers.

‘Vell, you see—’ Einstein began.

‘Times have changed,‘ said Mr Fletcher. ‘All that stuff about being home at dawn and not hearing the cock crow and stuff like that. That was all very well once upon a time, when people thought the Earth was flat. But no one believes that now—’

‘Er—’ One of the dead raised a hand.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Fletcher. ‘Thank you, Mr Ronald Newton (1878–1934), former chairman of the Blackbury Flat Earth Society. I know you have Views. But the point I’m trying to make is—’

‘—dawn is a place as well as a time,’ said Einstein, spreading his hands.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Mrs Liberty.

‘On Earth, and around earth,’ said Einstein, getting excited. ‘One night and one day, forever chasing one another.’

‘There is a night that never comes to an end,’ said Mr Fletcher. ‘All you need is speed . . .’

‘Relatively speaking,’ said Einstein.

Chapter 8

There is a night that never comes to an end . . .

The clock of the world turns under its own shadow. Midnight is a moving place, hurtling around the planet at a thousand miles an hour like a dark knife, cutting slices of daily bread off the endless loaf of Time.

Time passes everywhere. But days and nights are little local things that happen only to people who stay in one place. If you go fast enough, you can overtake the clock . . .

‘How many of us are in this phone box?’ said Mr Fletcher.

‘Seventy-three,’ said the Alderman.

‘Very well. Where shall we go? Iceland? It’s not even midnight yet in Iceland.’

‘Can we have fun in Iceland?’ said the Alderman.

‘How do you feel about fish?’

‘Can’t abide fish.’

‘Not Iceland, then. I believe it’s very hard to have fun in Iceland without fish being involved in some way. Well, now . . . it’ll be early evening in New York.’

‘America?’ said Mrs Liberty. ‘Won’t we get scalped?’

‘Good grief; no!’ said William Stickers, who was a bit more up to date about the world.

‘Probably not,’ said Mr Fletcher, who had been watching the news lately and was even more up to date than William Stickers.

‘Look, we’re dead,’ said the Alderman. ‘What else have we got to worry about?’

‘Now, this may strike you as an unusual means of travel,’ said Mr Fletcher, as something in the telephone began to click, ‘but all you have to do, really, is follow me. Incidentally, is Stanley Roundway here?’

The footballer raised his hand.

‘We’re going west, Stanley. For once in your death, try to get the directions right. And now . . .’

One by one, they vanished.

*

Johnny lay in bed, watching the stricken shuttle turning gently in the moonlight.

It had been quite busy after the meeting. Someone from the Blackbury Guardian had talked to him, and then Mid-Midlands TV had filmed him, and people had shaken his hand, and he hadn’t got home until nearly eleven.