The Shift Key

by John Brunner

She shook her head, looking troubled.

  ‘You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Keeping your finger on the pulse of the neighbourhood … Oh!’ Inspiration dawned. ‘Is it anything to do with Ken and Harry?’

  He looked warily to left and right.

  ‘Well, things seem to be calm enough right now, though of course it does take a while for that sort of thing to blow over. Is that what’s making you so worried?’

  ‘If you must know’ – coldly – ‘no, it’s not. It’s something that I’d rather not discuss.’

  Stick shrugged. ‘As you like. Never let it be said I meddle in people’s private affairs … Excuse me, squire!’ – tilting back his chair as Steven returned.

  ‘Anything important?’ Jenny ventured.

  Steven shook his head. ‘Not unless you consider Mrs Weaper’s plastic food important. I rang to say I won’t be back for supper.’

  ‘Oh, I’m keeping you –’

  ‘Not at all, not at all! I’m enjoying myself! Insofar as one can enjoy talking about this sort of thing … Shall we step across the road and have a bite at the hotel?’

  ‘I’m driving you out!’ Stick exclaimed, raising his half-empty empty glass. ‘Didn’t mean to! Sorry! I’ll be on my way soon as I’ve got rid of this lot!’

  But, when the cider was still poised in front of his mouth, there was a grand commotion.

  The door was flung wide and in marched a ruddy-faced, sturdily-built woman in a drab grey coat, clutching a black leather handbag. She looked around in search of a particular target, at first failing to spot him. Everybody fell silent anew.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Steven whispered.

  Stick was prompt to answer. ‘It’s Joyce Vikes – Harry’s wife. Come to fetch him home, is my guess. Bit early, though. She isn’t usually around till after nine.’

  On the table, Jenny’s hand sought Steven’s and clasped it tight. The pressure communicated without words: this doesn’t look like an ordinary case of wife-drags-husband-home-from-pub!

  His answering squeeze implied: You’re right!

  ‘So there you are! I knew it, I knew it! Boozing with your mates again, you vial of wickedness, you vessel of the Antichrist!’

  Stick’s eyes were sparkling. ‘Just listen to her!’ he whispered. ‘When she hits her stride it’s what they call “a proper education!”’

  Joyce was advancing down the room, slapping aside with her bag hands that tried to delay her.

  ‘What made me fool enough to marry you, with the brand of Babylon upon you? And now you’ve lured the Evil One to Weyharrow! Yes, you!’

  On the final word she swept her bag across the table her husband was sitting at, knocking over two half-full glasses whose owners were not quick enough to snatch them out of the way.

  ‘Been at the gin again,’ Stick said with a shrug. ‘It’s always the same! Whenever she and Harry have a row, she heads for the good old bottle. Then of course she comes over all pious. Used to go to a pentecostal church in Hatterbridge, I hear, before she kicked up so much fuss they threw her out. See, her and Harry got no kids. He says it’s her fault and she –’

  The rest of his words were drowned out. Joyce had begun to belabour her husband with her bag, while Ken Pecklow and his chums at the other end of the room burst out laughing. One of them was heard to say clearly, ‘Sometimes I think I’d trade hell-fire for life with Joyce, you know!’

  But she caught the words and swung around with eyes aflame.

  ‘Who said that?’

  Colin, raising the bar-flap to intervene, paused in mid-movement as Rosie touched his arm.

  ‘Who said that?’ Joyce repeated, advancing the way she’d come. ‘Whichever of you fools it was, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Don’t you realize this village is in the grip of the Evil One?’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Steven whispered. ‘She must have been in church and heard old Phibson’s rantings …’

  Stick gave him a curious glance, but had no time to say anything before Joyce blasted on.

  ‘That’s what made Parson talk so odd at meeting! That’s what made my Harry act the way he did – and you may stuff that down your busted gob, Ken Pecklow! Best farmer in the county, is my Harry! ’Spite of all!’

  ‘Joyce!’ – from landlord Colin.

  ‘You be quiet! You’re a vessel of evil yourself! This place is curst! You and your drink corrupt even those who seek the godly Light! You’re a limb of Satan!’

  Colin’s plump-jowled face grew red. He said, ‘If that’s so, why did you beg me for a bottle of gin today? And on tick!’

  Harry had been rising slowly from his chair. Now he ran forward, but too late. Joyce’s temper had reached fever pitch.

  She screamed: ‘The Evil One is loose in Weyharrow! It must be true! The parson told us so! Get thee behind me, all thou forces of Babylon! Put on sackcloth and ashes and beg forgivement – ness … Haraharcha wumble cloturanid orgle-fopsy premble prow!’

  ‘Hmm!’ Stick murmured. That must be what they call “speaking in tongues”. She used to do it a lot, they say, over at this church they threw her out of.’

  But by now Joyce was not content with speaking. Set on repeating her coup with that tableful of glasses, she made to sweep her handbag along the bar. Just in time, Rosie caught her wrist in a grip that belied the pulpy plumpness of her arm.

  ‘Harry,’ she said calmly, ‘I think you’d better take her home.’

  ‘I will!’ Harry seized his wife. ‘Come along!’

  ‘No! No!’ Joyce shrieked. ‘I have to tell everyone what Parson said! I have to tell how Weyharrow is infested with devils and you were the first to fall into their trap! I must! I –!’

  The door slammed on her cries, as Harry’s friends helped him to lead her away.

  There was a dead pause. Ken Pecklow broke it with a roar of laughter.

  ‘Well, all of you heard that, didn’t you? That’ll be their defence in court, no doubt, when my case comes to be heard against them! But who’s going to believe Harry was led by the Devil to turn his cows into my turnips? Don’t Old Nick have bigger fish to fry? We’ll see Harry in the looney bin before we’re through – and Joyce as well!’

  Abruptly he realized that no one else was laughing.

  ‘Well,’ he concluded awkwardly, ‘I best get along too.’

  As the door closed behind him, Stick remembered that his glass wasn’t empty yet. Reaching for it, he said, ‘And I’d better do the same. Carry on talking among yourselves. I didn’t mean to interrupt –’

  ‘Hang on,’ Steven broke in, his face very pale. ‘Stick – did you really say Stick?’

  ‘That’s what I generally get called.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about the people here. Far more than I do, at any rate. I’d like to talk to you for a bit. Have another. Or something else?’

  ‘Same again, and thanks!’

  ‘Jenny?’

  ‘Yes please!’

  While Steven was collecting fresh drinks, conversation resumed among the rest of the customers. Jenny’s eyes darted hither and yon, fixing at last on a brown-haired woman on a stool at the bar who had earlier been talking animatedly with a succession of young men. Now they all seemed to be leaving in the wake of Ken and Harry, she – Moira – was looking extremely miffed.

  From the doorway one man glanced back and cocked an eyebrow. Though clearly less than eager, she gathered her bag and gloves, emptied her glass, and followed him.

  ‘I won’t ever make it as a reporter,’ Jenny muttered under her breath. ‘I keep overlooking the obvious …’

  ‘Sorry? What did you say?’ – from Stick.

  ‘Never mind … Steve, you wanted to ask Stick something, didn’t you?’ – as he set glasses on the table.

  ‘Well, I would like to ask a few questions,’ Steven agreed, resuming his chair and drawing it an inch closer to Jenny’s.

  ‘Plough ahead, squire,’ Stick said expansively. ‘I won’t guarantee to answer, but what I can’t tell yo
u I’ll happily invent … Sorry. I didn’t mean that. But what is truth? – said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer … Anyway, here’s peeping up your kilt, señor!

  He sank half the fresh pint of cider, brushed drops from his moustache, tilted back his chair and looked expectant.

  ‘Well, you see,’ said Steven, ‘some very odd things have apparently been going on here today. Excuse me; I do now realize who you are, though we never met before. I’ve seen you at work, haven’t I? I’m Steven Gloze. And you know Jenny Severance – Jenny?’

  She was rising, her face a mask of determination.

  ‘Excuse me. It’s my turn for the phone.’

  ‘What about that bite to eat?’

  ‘In a little while, maybe. My phone calls come first.’

  She departed. Looking uneasy, Steven followed her with his eyes for as long as she remained in view, then turned back to Stick.

  ‘I was about to say: there have been some odd goings-on in Weyharrow today, haven’t there?’

  ‘Well …’ Stick folded his hands together, seeming to find the intertwining of his fingers endlessly fascinating. ‘Well, if you’ll forgive me for mentioning it, I heard one very funny thing about yourself.’

  ‘From –?’ Steven steeled himself.

  ‘From a mate of mine called Willy Cashcart.’ Stick glanced around. ‘He sometimes drops in here of an evening, but I don’t see him. He said the chemist refused to give him what you said he ought to have – just some ordinary pills. He’s tried pills. None of them ever worked, and some of them made him feel sick.’

  To his incredulous relief, Steven realized he was talking to someone who wasn’t going to mock him for his error. Nonetheless, he said hastily, ‘I hope he realizes that –’

  ‘You prescribed something a bit unorthodox? Sure he does. But I told him straight out: he ought to give it a whirl, at least, and he said he would. Said he’d buy a cockerel from one of the local farms. You see, me, I’ve always believed that all these damned pill manufacturers – like the ones at Trim-borne – they’re on the wrong track! Oh, I grant that when it comes down to epidemic diseases like syphilis or TB they’ve discovered plenty of effective treatments. But if you want to be healthy, that’s to say avoid degenerative conditions like arthritis and cancer and MS, you have to lead a healthy life and eat the right food. The trouble I have convincing the lady I live with to give her kids a proper diet …!’

  Slurp! And the cider-glass was emptier by another inch.

  ‘Which reminds me. You were talking about odd things happening round here.’

  Steven nodded. His mind wasn’t really on what Stick was saying. He had been preparing an orthodox defence of orthodox medicine when Stick forestalled him by admitting its efficacy in particular cases. He took another sip of his drink. He’d chosen white wine because he had already had so much sherry at the parsonage, but he seemed to have absorbed a remarkable number of glassfuls.

  ‘Well, I had one happen to me today,’ Stick said, cheerfully oblivious. ‘When I got up, I could have sworn that Sheila’s kids – that’s Sheila that I’m living with – I could have sworn that they were boys. I pulled the covers off to rouse them, and they aren’t.’

  ‘You mean –?’

  But before Steven could complete the sentence Stick had added, ‘Of course, after the way I got stoned last night I couldn’t be surprised. I – Oh, shit. I didn’t mean to say that.’ He tensed. ‘You’re not going to shop me, are you? Isn’t what you tell a doctor under a seal same as the confessional?’

  Steven wasn’t listening. His attention had been caught by something being said up at the bar. While he and Stick had been talking, many of the clientele had changed. The customers now present were gathered around the section of the bar where Tom Fidger sat, conversing in low tones with Colin and Rosie. From time to time one or another of them glanced around as though afraid of being overheard.

  ‘Look, squire, I –’

  ‘Shh! Isn’t it Mr Phibson that they’re talking about?’

  And, clear into a transient silence, rose the words:

  ‘Like it or bloody not, he is our parson, ain’t he?’

  Simultaneous expressions of alarm crossed Colin’s face, and Rosie’s.

  And then, astonishingly, as though that had been the key to clinching a debate, half the drinkers turned away from the bar, not even emptying their glasses.

  ‘Good night,’ one of them rumbled.

  ‘Off to say your prayers, are you?’ Colin attempted in a bright tone.

  But the joke met with such burning disapproval that the rest of the men joined the move towards the exit.

  And were gone, leaving nobody at the bar except Tom Fidger, stirring uneasily on his stool. But he had a full pint before him and was reluctant to waste it.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Steven whispered.

  ‘Search me!’ was Stick’s reply. ‘I never saw the like. ’Course, I’ve only lived in Weyharrow a few months, but … Colin! Rosie! What’s up?’

  ‘By the sound of it,’ Colin rumbled, ‘Parson’s gone off his head.’

  Steven jumped to his feet. ‘Did he really say, at evensong, that the village is being invaded by the Devil?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear Joyce? She said as much!’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Steven clenched his fists. ‘I thought that must be due to too much gin. I –’

  ‘Wasn’t just Joyce,’ Rosie chimed in. ‘The word’s got around. And small wonder. Did you hear about the chef at the hotel?’

  Dazed, Steven shook his head.

  ‘We didn’t have anything like that happen here, did we, Colin?’ – glancing at her husband for confirmation. ‘And that’s what makes it all so odd, you see. If this were truly a stink of iniquity –’

  ‘Sink!’ Colin cut in.

  ‘Stink!’ she countered indignantly. ‘A sink is a clean place, where you wash clothes and dishes! Not that you ever lend a hand for that kind of work, do you?’

  Detecting a gleam in Colin’s eye that harbingered the resumption of what sounded like a long-established quarrel, Steven stood up hastily.

  ‘Well, thanks very much for your hospitality. I hope everything will be back to normal tomorrow … Ah! Jenny!’ – with vast relief as he saw her returning from the phone. ‘Did you get through?’

  ‘Yes.’ She wore a smug little smile. ‘And my bloody editor is never again going to be able to accuse me of not filing a story when I find it under my nose.’

  A dreadful sense of chill invaded Steven’s belly. He tried to say what had been foremost in his mind; he shaped the words: ‘Well, how about that dinner we were talking about? It’s after nine, you know! I hadn’t realized how much time had slipped away while we were chatting. But I don’t suppose they stop serving much before half past.’

  They remained unuttered. All of a sudden Tom Fidger, elbow on the bar, had said, ‘That’s her! Turn up the sound!’

  And pointed to the television set, on which was displayed the face of a pale woman in horn-rimmed glasses, about forty, wearing a navy-blue jacket with gold-braided lapels.

  Nervous, but exact, Rosie hit the set’s remote control. At once a smug announcer’s tones rang out, tinged with patronizing amusement.

  ‘– tour guide Mrs Ella Kailet. Over to our interviewer at Victoria coach station!’

  ‘Mrs Kailet!’ – in a crisp light female voice. ‘According to what we’ve heard, your tourist group ran amuck because you told them that Stonehenge was a beacon to guide down flying saucers, and the Tower of London was built by giants from Mars. What have you to say to that?’

  Suddenly it was apparent that, behind her glasses, tears were streaming down this woman’s cheeks, while the camera held her fixed in its merciless gaze.

  ‘All I can say is that it’s what I’ve told other tour groups,’ she forced out, her voice reduced to a whimper. ‘No one ever complained before.’

  ‘And what if we confront you with the person who trained you as a g
uide?’ The screen displayed a middle-aged man in a dark suit, brows drawn together, lips tightly pursed. ‘Vincent Chank will tell a different story!’

  The camera panned away to show in the background a coach with half its windows smashed.

  That’s the one I fixed!’ Tom Fidger roared, slamming his fist on the counter. ‘I knew it was her!’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Colin barked.

  ‘Last night! On the main road! That was the coach they called me out to! Dirt in the fuel-lines, that was all it were in the long run! Took me an hour to track it down, though, ’cause she – that one you just saw up there – she kept saying they’d been blown through so it must be due to something else! I got chilled to the bloody marrow!’

  ‘Shht!’ said Rosie. But it was too late. The news-item was over, and the two presenters were sitting back and grinning at each other.

  ‘Well, if they’re going to watch telly, I’m leaving,’ Stick said, rising with a sigh. His glass was empty. ‘I hate the telly … Nice talking to you, though, Doc. And you, Jenny. See you around.’

  ‘Wait!’ Steven cried. But Stick was out the door, clean forgetting about the flagon of cider he’d meant to share with Sheila.

  Jenny was practically beside herself. Effortfully, Steven turned his attention back to her, and said, ‘Did you get the point of all that?’

  ‘Of course!’ She jigged up and down. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No! Except that that man at the bar seemed to recognize the woman, and her bus … Jenny, what about that meal? Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m going back to my lodgings.’ She rose and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll make do with an egg or something. I left my number, so I’d best be there when the calls start coming in.’

  ‘What calls?’

  ‘Lots, I hope. And you’d better be around in the morning because they’re bound to want quotes from you. Thanks for the drinks.’

  ‘Who’s going to want quotes from me?’

  She looked vaguely surprised. ‘Half the British press, I’d say. Who did you think I went to phone?’

  A terrible cold sensation gathered in Steven’s belly. He said faintly, ‘Jenny, you can’t mean –’