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clipboard.
    “Um…do you two know Mrs…. er…Tachyon?” she said. “Is that her name?”
    “I suppose so,” said Johnny. “I mean, that’s what everyone calls her.”
    “It’s a very odd name,” said the woman. “I suppose it’s foreign.”
    “We don’t actually know her,” said Kasandra. “We were just visiting her out of social concern.”
    The woman looked at her. “Good grief,” she said. She glanced at her clipboard.
    “Do you know anything about her?” she said. “Anything at all?”
    “Like what?” said Johnny.
    “Anything. Where she lives. Where she comes from. How old she is. Anything.”
    “Not really,” said Johnny. “She’s just around. You know.”
    “She must sleep somewhere.”
    “Don’t know.”
    “There’s no records of her anywhere. There’s no records of anyone called Tachyon anywhere,” said the woman, her voice suggesting that this was a major criminal offense.
    “Are you a social worker?” said Kasandra.
    “Yes. I’m Ms. Partridge.”
    “I think I’ve seen you talking to Bigmac,” said Johnny.
    “Bigmac? Who’s Bigmac?”
    “Er…Simon…Wrigley, I think.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Ms. Partridge darkly. “Simon. The one who wanted to know how many cars he had to steal to get a free holiday in Africa.”
    “And he said you said you’d only send him if cannibalism was still—”
    “Yes, yes,” said Ms. Partridge hurriedly. When she’d started the job, less than a year ago, she’d firmly believed that everything that was wrong with the world was the fault of Big Business and the Government. She believed even more firmly now that it was all the fault of Bigmac.
    “He was dead impressed, he said—”
    “But you don’t actually know anything about Mrs. Tachyon, do you?” said the social worker. “She had a cart full of junk, but no one seems to know where it is.”
    “Actually—” Kasandra began.
    “I don’t know where it is either,” said Johnny firmly.
    “It’d be very helpful if we could find it. It’s amazing what they hoard,” said Ms. Partridge. “When I was in Bolton, there was an old lady who’d saved every—”
    “We’ll miss the bus,” said Kasandra. “Sorry we can’t help, Ms. Partridge. Come on, Johnny.”
    She pulled him out of the building and down the steps.
    “You have got the cart, haven’t you?” she said. “You told me.”
    “Yes, but I don’t see why people should take it away from her or poke around in it. You wouldn’t want people poking around in your stuff.”
    “My mother said she was married to an airman in the Second World War and he never came back and she went a bit strange.”
    “My granddad said he and his friends used to tip up her cart when he was a boy. He said they did it just to hear her swear.”
    Kasandra hesitated.
    “What? How old is your granddad?”
    “Dunno. About sixty-five.”
    “And how old is Mrs. Tachyon, would you say?”
    “It’s hard to tell under all those wrinkles. Sixty?”
    “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
    “What?”
    “Are you dense or something? She’s younger than your grandfather!”
    “Oh…well…perhaps there was another Mrs. Tachyon?”
    “That isn’t very likely, is it?”
    “So you’re saying she’s a hundred years old?”
    “Of course not. There’s bound to be a sensible explanation. What’s your grandfather’s memory like?”
    “He’s good at television programs. You’ll be watching, and then he’ll say something like, ‘Hey, him…the one in the suit…he was the policeman in that program, you know, the one with the man with the curly hair, couple of years ago, you know.’ And if you buy anything, he can always tell you that you could get it for sixpence and still have change when he was a lad.”
    “Everyone’s granddad does that,” said Kasandra severely.
    “Sorry.”
    “Haven’t you looked in the bags?”
    “No…but she’s got some odd stuff.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well…there are these jars of