![]() ![]() Well-thumbed, it opened at a page that proclaimed, “Political power comes from the barrel of a gun.” Gently, Tom replaced the book. He picked up a small volume with a red plastic slipcover. Tom scratched his head, then turned to look at the other titles, all of them political in nature. Grinning, Fred passed on towards the display of cider-making machinery, near the stage where the two boys were still struggling with the drum. ![]() Another lad, similarly dressed, was pulling at the other end. In the middle distance, between two rows of stalls, a hefty lad he recognised as Colm Parry’s son Declan, all got up like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, was struggling to push a large drum on a trolley across the lawn towards the stage. He put the book down next to a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, which was being offered for thirty pence. “Despite the title’s invitation, I don’t think so,” Tom said, running his finger between his neck and his dog collar. ![]() Someone named Abbie Hoffman was apparently the writer. Tom blinked at Fred, then snatched his hand from the book. ![]() He looked down to see Fred Pike, the village’s elfin handyman, smiling at him with a kind of manic glee. The voice at his shoulder startled Tom Christmas. “Thinking of stealing that book, Father?” ![]()
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