‘Um, hello – Blackbury-two-three-nine-nine-eight-zero-who’s-that-speaking-please?’

‘Is that you? This is me.’

‘Oh. Hello, Wobbler.’

‘You ill or something?’

‘Flu. Look, Wobbler—’

‘You seen the papers today?’

‘No. Mum and Dad take them to work with them. Wobbler—’

‘Thing in the papers about Gobi Software. Hang on . . . says, “NO ENCOUNTERS OF THE TWENTY-FIRST KIND.” That’s the headline.’

Johnny hesitated.

‘What does it say?’ he said, very cautiously.

‘What does “inundated” mean?’

‘ ’S’like “overwhelmed”,’ said Johnny.

‘Says that Gobi Software and computer games shops have been . . . inundated with complaints about Only You Can Save Mankind. Because they made that offer of five pounds if you shoot all the aliens, and it says people aren’t finding any aliens. And Gobi Software are in trouble because of the Trades Descriptions Act. And they keep on using the word hacker,’ said Wobbler, in the sneering tones of one who knows what a hacker really is and knows that most journalists don’t. ‘And there’s a quote from Al Rampa, president of Gobi. He says they’re recalling all the games, and if you send back the original discs they’ll send you a token for their new game, Dodge City 1888. That got four stars in FAAzzzzAAAP!.’

Recalling the games . . .

‘Yes, but you haven’t got the original discs,’ said Johnny. ‘You hardly ever have any original discs.’

‘No, but I know the guy whose brother bought it,’ said Wobbler happily. ‘So it was just a problem with the game, right? You weren’t mental after all.’

‘I never said I was mental,’ said Johnny.

‘No, but . . . well, you know,’ said Wobbler. He sounded embarrassed.

‘Wobbler?’

‘Yes?’

‘You know that girl who was in Patel’s?’

‘Oh, her. What about her?’

‘D’you know who she is?’

‘She’s someone’s sister, I think.’

‘Whose?’

‘Goes to some kind of special school for the terminally clever. She’s called Kylie or Krystal or one of those made-up names. What do you want to know for?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just because she complained about the game in Patel’s, I suppose. Whose sister is she?’

‘Some guy called . . . oh . . . Plonker. Yeah. Friend of Bigmac’s. You sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. Fine. Cheers.’

‘Cheers. You going to be in tomorrow?’

‘ ’Spect so.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

Bigmac wasn’t on the phone. Where Bigmac lived, people hardly even got letters. Even muggers were frightened to go there. People talked about the Joshua N’Clement block in the same way that they probably once talked about the Black Hole of Calcutta or the Spanish Inquisition’s reception area.

The tower loomed all alone, black against the sky, like someone’s last tooth.

There wasn’t much else around the place. There was a row of boarded up shops, but you could see where the fire had been. And there was a pub made out of neon lights and red brick; it was called The Jolly Farmer.

The tower had won an award in 1965, just before bits had started falling off. It was always windy. Even on the calmest day, gales whistled icily through the concrete corridors. The place was some kind of wind reservation. If the Joshua N’Clement block had existed a few thousand years ago, people would have come from all over the country to sacrifice to the wind god.