Free The Shift Key by John Brunner Page B

people can generate in a small place like this. It makes me glad we haven’t got a fish-and-chipper. Greasy wrapping-paper blowing down the road – Excuse me, I didn’t mean to drive you away!’
    Blinking, as the young doctor rose.
    ‘It’s all right,’ he muttered. ‘It was your mentioning fish and chips. I need to make a phone-call. Won’t be a second, Jenny.’
    And he headed for the phone at the end of the room.
    Stick sank a third of his pint, glug-glug. And looked at Jenny.
    ‘What’s wrong with everyone tonight? Any idea?’
    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-emptyempty 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