Free The Shift Key by John Brunner

nuisance. Like I said, I just need to talk to somebody. I don’t know many people here – I’m in lodgings – and I blotted my copybook at work, so I wasn’t inclined to discuss my trouble with anybody in the office. I suppose I might try Mr Phibson. Excuse me.’
    Steven called after her, ‘He’s in church! And in any case you wouldn’t get much sense out of him – Damn. I had no business saying that.’
    Hand on the door of her car, she turned back with a puzzled expression. She said at length, ‘We had a lot of very weird phone-calls at the paper today.’
    ‘Were any of them about me?’ Steven grated.
    ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ Straightening, she gazed at him defiantly. ‘And others were about Mr Phibson!’
    ‘I see.’ Steven felt suddenly calmer. ‘Yet you decided to appeal to me anyway, or him instead. Why?’
    ‘In the hope that I might turn out not to be the only person living in Weyharrow who lost their marbles today. I mean, I don’t see how I can be. Not after what happened to Basil Goodsir. Did you hear about that? I was there!’
    ‘Mr Phibson said something … But no. Not in detail.’
    She recounted the story of her day in crisp terms, concluding, ‘And my editor had the gall to tick me off!’
    A sense of certainty grew in Steven’s mind. He said, ‘Miss Severance, I can’t believe there’s anything worse wrong with you than there is with me, or the parson, or this magistrate you just told me about. I need to talk to someone, too. I prescribe a long chat over a few stiff drinks. At the hotel? Or the Marriage?’
    ‘Isn’t it a bit irregular for a doctor to –?’
    ‘Nonsense! You’re not a patient of mine, or even Dr Tripkin’s. And I know even fewer people in the area than you do. What about it?’
    A haunted look came and went on her face. At last she said, half-inaudibly, ‘All right … But what did you mean about my not getting much sense out of Mr Phibson?’
    ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Forget it.’
    ‘No. Wait.’ Light was dawning in her face. ‘I’ve met him plenty of times since I moved here. And if what that person said who phoned the paper is to be believed …’
    She drew a deep breath.
    ‘Never tell me he thinks the Devil is at work in Weyharrow!’
    Steven started. ‘How on earth did you guess? This very moment that’s what he’s telling his congregation! At least, that’s what he was threatening to tell them.’
    ‘You’re right. A drink
is
called for. Jump in.’
    ‘Do you mind if we walk? I need the fresh air.’
    ‘Okay. Just let me lock the car.’

6
    No one any longer called the Marriage at Cana by its full name, though it was still to be read on the sign fixed to the wall facing the road, and that sign still depicted a jovial rustic wedding-party spilling gallons of purple wine over a long trestle table. Countless attempts had been made, especially in Victorian times, to change its name back to the Slaking House, or to anything else, but the villagers had resisted on stubborn principle. An unspoken compromise had eventually been reached: the sign had been repainted, and repainted and repainted, with no attempt to portray Jesus among the company, and ‘Marriage’ had been made larger and the other words smaller.
    Nowadays, anyway, not one customer in ten would have recognized the reference.
    Tonight there was an air of gloom in the pub, totally out of keeping with the jollity portrayed on the sign. On a high shelf a colour television played a quiz game against itself, unheeded. Among a bunch of cronies at one end of the room sat swollen-lipped Ken Pecklow, recounting to everybody who would listen how Harry Vikes had turned cattle into his field of turnips, and how he was going to have the law on him. At the other end sat Harry, a triangular mask of plaster supporting the bridge of his broken nose, with two or three companions who had as much reason as he did to dislike the Pecklows. The feud between the families went back so