"Now," said Madame Tracy in her own voice. "Mr. Geronimo would like to know, is there anyone named Mr. Scroggie here?"

Scroggie's watery eyes gleamed. "Erm, actually that's my name," he said, hopefully.

"Right, well there's somebody here for you." Mr. Scroggie had been coming for a month now, and she hadn't been able to think of a message for him. His time had come. "Do you know anyone named, um, John?"

"No," said Mr. Scroggie.

"Well, there's some celestial interference here. The name could be Tom. Or Jim. Or, um, Dave."

"I knew a Dave when I was in Hemel Hempstead," said Mr. Scrog­gie, a trifle doubtfully.

"Yes, he's saying, Hemel Hempstead, that's what he's saying," said Madame Tracy.

"But I ran into him last week, walking his dog, and he looked perfectly healthy," said Mr. Scroggie, slightly puzzled.

"He says not to worry, and he's happier beyond the veil," soldiered on Madame Tracy, who felt it was always better to give her clients good news.

"Tell my Ron I've got to tell him about our Krystal's wedding," said Mrs. Ormerod.

"I will, love. Now, hold on a mo', there's something coming through . . ."

And then something came through. It sat in Madame Tracy's head and peered out.

"Sprechen sie Deutsch?"

it said, using Madame Tracy's mouth. "Parlez‑vous Franrais7 Wo bu hui jiang zhongwen?"

"Is that you, Ron?" asked Mrs. Ormerod. The reply, when it came, was rather testy.

"No. Definitely not. However, a question so manifestly dim can only have been put in one country on this benighted planet‑most of which, incidentally, I have seen during the last few hours. Dear lady, this is not Ron. "

"Well, I want to speak to Ron Ormerod," said Mrs. Ormerod, a little testily. "He's rather short, balding on top. Can you put him on, please?"

There was a pause. "Actually there does appear to be a spirit of that description hovering over here. Very well. I'll hand you over, but you must make it quick. I am attempting to avert the apocalypse."

Mrs. Ormerod and Mr. Scroggie gave each other looks. Nothing like this had happened at Madame Tracy's previous sittings. Julia Petley was rapt. This was more like it. She hoped Madame Tracy was going to start manifesting ectoplasm next.

"H‑hello?" said Madame Tracy in another voice. Mrs. Ormerod started. It sounded exactly like Ron. On previous occasions Ron had sounded like Madame Tracy.

"Ron, is that you?"

"Yes, Buh‑Beryl."

"Right. Now I've quite a bit to tell you. For a start I went to our Krystal's wedding, last Saturday, our Marilyn's eldest . . ."

"Buh‑Beryl. You‑you nuh‑never let me guh‑get a wuh‑word in edgewise wuh‑while I was alive. Nuh‑now I'm duh‑dead, there's juh just one thing to suh‑say . . ."

Beryl Ormerod was a little disgruntled by all this. Previously when Ron had manifested, he had told her that he was happier beyond the veil, and living somewhere that sounded more than a little like a celestial bun­galow. Now he sounded like Ron, and she wasn't sure that was what she wanted. And she said what she had always said to her husband when he began to speak to her in that tone of voice.

"Ron, remember your heart condition."

"I duh‑don't have a huh‑heart any longer. Remuhmember? Any­way, Buh‑Beryl . . . ?"

"Yes, Ron."

"Shut up," and the spirit was gone. "Wasn't that touching? Right, now, thank you very much, ladies and gentleman, I'm afraid 1 shall have to be getting on. "

Madame Tracy stood up, went over to the door, and turned on the lights.

"Out!"

she said.

Her sitters stood up, more than a little puzzled, and, in Mrs. Ormerod's case, outraged, and they walked out into the hall.

"You haven't heard the last of this, Marjorie Potts," hissed Mrs. Ormerod, clutching her handbag to her breast, and she slammed the door.

Then her muffled voice echoed from the hallway, "And you can tell our Ron that he hasn't heard the last of this either!"

Madame Tracy (and the name on her scooters‑only driving license was indeed Marjorie Potts) went into the kitchen and turned off the sprouts.

She put on the kettle. She made herself a pot of tea. She sat down at the kitchen table, got out two cups, filled both of them. She added two sugars to one of them. Then she paused.

"No sugar for me, please, "

said Madame Tracy.

She lined up the cups on the table in front of her, and took a long sip from the tea‑with‑sugar.

"Now," she said, in a voice that anyone who knew her would have recognized as her own, although they might not have recognized her tone of voice, which was cold with rage. "Suppose you tell me what this is about. And it had better be good."

– – -

A lorry had shed its load all over the M6. According to its manifest the lorry had been filled with sheets of corrugated iron, although the two police patrolmen were having difficulty in accepting this.

"So what I want to know is, where did all the fish come from?" asked the sergeant.

"I told you. They fell from the sky. One minute I'm driving along at sixty, next second, whap! a twelve‑pound salmon smashes through the windscreen. So I pulls the wheel over, and I skidded on that, " he pointed to the remains of a hammerhead shark under the lorry, "and ran into that." That was a thirty‑foot‑high heap of fish, of different shapes and sizes.

"Have you been drinking, sir?" asked the sergeant, less than hopefully.

"Course I haven't been drinking, you great wazzock. You can see the fish, can't you?"

On the top of the pile a rather large octopus waved a languid tentacle at them. The sergeant resisted the temptation to wave back.

The police constable was leaning into the police car, talking on the radio. ". . . corrugated iron and fish, blocking off the southbound M6 about half a mile north of junction ten. We're going to have to close off the whole southbound carriageway. Yeah."

The rain redoubled. A small trout, which had miraculously sur­vived the fall, gamely began to swim toward Birmingham.

– – -

"That was wonderful," said Newt.

"Good," said Anathema. "The earth moved for everybody." She got up off the floor, leaving her clothes scattered across the carpet, and went into the bathroom.

Newt raised his voice. "I mean, it was really wonderful. Really really wonderful. I always hoped it was going to be, and it was."

There was the sound of running water.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Taking a shower."

"Ah." He wondered vaguely if everyone had to shower afterwards, or if it was just women. And he had a suspicion that bidets came into it somewhere.

"Tell you what," said Newt, as Anathema came out of the bath­room swathed in a fluffy pink towel. "We could do it again."