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“It could of been,” Adam pointed out. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a medal just because some old car doesn’t know when to catch fire.”
They stood looking down at the hole. Anathema had called the police, who had put it down to subsidence and put some cones around it; it was dark, and went down a long way.
“Could be good fun, going to Tibet,” said Brian. “We could learn marital arts and stuff. I saw this old film where there?
?s this valley in Tibet and everyone there lives for hundreds of years. It’s called Shangri-La.”
“My aunt’s bungalow’s called Shangri-La,” said Wensleydale.
Adam snorted.
“Not very clever, naming a valley after some ole bungalow,” he said. “Might as well call it Dunroamin’, or, or The Laurels.”
“’S lot better than Shambles, anyway,” said Wensleydale mildly.
“Shambala,” corrected Adam.
“I expect it’s the same place. Prob’ly got both names,” said Pepper, with unusual diplomacy. “Like our house. We changed the name from The Lodge to Norton View when we moved in, but we still get letters addressed to Theo C. Cupier, The Lodge. Perhaps they’ve named it Shambala now but people still call it The Laurels.”
Adam flicked a pebble into the hole. He was becoming bored with Tibetans.
“What shall we do now?” said Pepper. “They’re dipping sheep over at Norton Bottom Farm. We could go and help.”
Adam threw a larger stone into the hole, and waited for the thump. It didn’t come.
“Dunno,” he said distantly. “I reckon we should do something about whales and forests and suchlike.”
“Like what?” said Brian, who enjoyed the diversions available at a good sheep-dipping. He began to empty his pockets of crisp packets and drop them, one by one, into the hole.
“We could go into Tadfield this afternoon and not have a hamburger,” said Pepper. “If all four of us don’t have one, that’s millions of acres of rainforest they won’t have to cut down.”
“They’ll be cutting ’em down anyway,” said Wensleydale.
“It’s grass materialism again,” said Adam. “Same with the whales. It’s amazin’, the stuff that’s goin’ on.” He stared at Dog.
He was feeling very odd.
The little mongrel, noticing the attention, balanced expectantly on its hind legs.
“’S people like you that’s eating all the whales,” said Adam severely. “I bet you’ve used up nearly a whole whale already.”
Dog, one last tiny satanic spark of his soul hating himself for it, put his head on one side and whined.
“’S gonna be a fine ole world to grow up in,” Adam said. “No whales, no air, and everyone paddlin’ around because of the seas risin’.”
“Then the Atlantisans’d be the only ones well off,” said Pepper cheerfully.
“Huh,” said Adam, not really listening.
Something was happening inside his head. It was aching. Thoughts were arriving there without him having to think them. Something was saying, You can do something, Adam Young. You can make it all better. You can do anything you want. And what was saying this to him was … him. Part of him, deep down. Part of him that had been attached to him all these years and not really noticed, like a shadow. It was saying: yes, it’s a rotten world. It could have been great. But now it’s rotten, and it’s time to do something about it. That’s what you’re here for. To make it all better.
“Because they’d be able to go everywhere,” Pepper went on, giving him a worried look. “The Atlantisans, I mean. Because—”
“I’m fed up with the ole Atlantisans and Tibetans,” snapped Adam.
They stared at him. They’d never seen him like this before.
“It’s all very well for them,” said Adam. “Everyone’s goin’ around usin’ up all the whales and coal and oil and ozone and rainforests and that, and there’ll be none left for us. We should be goin’ to Mars and stuff, instead of sittin’ around in the dark and wet with the air spillin’ away.”
