Other People Read Free

when you lost it, your memory. Where did it go, and was it lost for good or were you meant to be able to find it again? Well, here I still am, she thought finally; at least I haven't died or anything like that. Something about sleep worried her, but she let it pass. And even she could tell it was a beautiful day.
    She sat up, testing her wet senses, and blinking at the light that had made the long journey back again while she had slept. Small but influential creatures were screaming at her from above. She looked up—and realized she could name things. It was simple, just a trick of the mind's eye. She knew the name for the birds; she could subdivide them too, to some extent (sparrows, a hooded crow staring at her humourlessly); she could even loosely connect them with memories of the day before: the jumpy, thin-shouldered, frowning, supplicant dogs, a long cat flexing its claws on the glass of a shop window. She wasn't sure how things worked or what they had to do with each other, how alive they all were, or where she fitted in among them. But she could name things, and she was pleased. Perhaps everything was simpler than she thought.
    As soon as she stood up she saw them. In the middle distance over the damp green land there was a wasted, scattered area against a line of forgotten buildings. Other people were there, some standing, some still lying flummoxed on the floor, some sitting in a close huddle. For a moment she felt the squeeze of fear and a reflex urged her to hide again; but she was too pleased and too weary, and she had an inkling that nothing mattered anyway, her own thoughts or life itself. She started to move towards them. How bad at walking she was. They seemed to be people of the fifth and second kinds, which was encouraging in its way.
    As she limped into the slow range of their sight, one of them turned and seemed to eye her coolly, without surprise. Even at this distance their faces gave off a glow of distemper, suggesting rapid changeability beneath the skin. She was getting nearer. They did not turn to confront her although some knew she was coming.
    'Mary had a little lamb,' one of them was saying in a mechanical voice not directed at her,'—its face was white as snow...'
    She came nearer. They could harm her now if they liked. But nothing had happened yet, and it occurred to her exhaustedly that she could probably walk among them as she pleased (for what it was worth), that indeed she was condemned to move among the living without exciting any notice at all.
    Then one of them turned and said, 'Come on, who are you?'
    'Mary,' she lied quickly.
    'I'm Modo. That's Rosie.'
    'Neville,' another said.
    'Hopdance,' said the fourth.
    'Come on then, come in the warmth.'
    With nonchalance, with relief, they included her among themselves. She sat on their square grill, beneath which a vast subterranean machine thrashed itself rhythmically for their heat.
    'Here, wet your whistle, Mary. Keep the cold out,' said Neville, handing her a shiny brown bottle. She tasted its spit and fizz before Rosie claimed it.
    Neville went on, to no one in particular, 'Twenty-two years of age, I was one of the top six travellers for Littlewoods. My own car, the lot. They wanted to do a, an article on me in the papers. But I said—no, I don't want no publicity.'
    'No, you don't want no publicity,' agreed Rosie sternly.
    'You can keep your publicity, mate. That's what I told them.'
    'Publicity ... ? Hah!' said Hopdance, then shook his head, as if that settled publicity's fate once and for all.
    She resolved to be on the lookout for publicity. It was obviously a very bad thing if it was to be so vigilantly shunned even here... She peered at them through their hot breath. Their skin was numb and luminous, but all their eyes were ice. I'm one of them, she thought, and perhaps I always have been. And as she looked from face to face, sensing the varieties of damage which each wore, she guessed that there were probably only two kinds of