The Voice, by Paul Fitzgerald and Elizabeth Gould
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- 33 -
"Paul," I replied, now feeling somewhat self-conscious.
"American?" Juicy asked.
"Once," I answered, as I tried to keep memories from
"Oh! Bit-o'sarcasm there. Never going back?" Juicy John
pressed, his curiosity and rapid-fire style, unhindered by
my lack of engagement. "I like it here, too; the history,
the blitz, the Queen, Windsor Castle and the Tower. For me
it's like it all hap pened yesterday. Did you know they
spiked the heads of the King's enemies on London bridge?"
"Yes, I'd heard." I said, trying not to seem annoyed.
"And do you know why?" The little man said in a whisper
as if sharing a deep and dark secret, his little legs
swinging back and forth excitedly. "Because there was magic
in them. Big magic." He said moving his hands in a broad
arc. "The strongest got buried outside the walls. And
they're down there still, watching . . . waiting-guarding
against what might come. Some say if you listen hard enough
on a dark night you can hear them talking and if you're
lucky they'll talk to you."
The train suddenly jerked as the main lights flickered
and the motor died, slowing the rickety beast to a stop not
far down the darkened tunnel from where we had started.
Except for Juicy-who let out an immediate string of
curses-there was little panic. Ever since World War II,
Londoners had grown used to this kind of inconvenience. But
the events were growing more frequent now and people were
beginning to wonder.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the crackling voice of the
intercom announced as the emergency lights flicked on. "A
security emergency has caused a temporary power outage in
this part of London. Please remain seated until power is