The odd thing was that although the block was cramped and fourteen storeys high, it had been built in the middle of a huge area of what was theoretically grass (‘environmental open space’), but which was now the home of the Common Crisp Packet and Hardy-Perennial Burned-Out Car.

‘Horrible place,’ said Wobbler.

‘People’ve got to live somewhere,’ said Yo-less.

‘Reckon the man who designed it lives here?’ said Johnny.

‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘I’m not going too near Bigmac’s brother,’ said Wobbler. ‘He’s a nutter. He’s got tattoos and everything. And everyone knows he pinches stuff. Videos and things. Out of factories. And he killed Bigmac’s hamster when he was little. And he chucks his stuff out of the window when he’s angry. And if Clint’s been let out—’

Clint was Bigmac’s brother’s dog, which had reputedly been banned from the Rottweiler/Pit Bull Terrier Crossbreed Club for being too nasty.

‘Poor old Bigmac,’ said Johnny. ‘No wonder he’s always sending off for martial arts stuff.’

‘I reckon he wants to join the Army so’s he can bring his gun home one weekend,’ said Yo-less.

Wobbler looked up apprehensively at the huge towering bulk of the block.

‘Huh! Bringing his tank home’d be favourite,’ he said.

Bigmac’s brother’s van was parked in what had been designed as the washing-drying area. Both the doors and the front wing were different colours. Clint was in the front seat, chained to the steering wheel. The van was the one vehicle that could be left unlocked anywhere near Joshua N’Clement.

‘Weird, really,’ said Johnny. ‘When you think about it, I mean.’

‘What is?’ said Yo-less.

‘Well, there’s a huge cemetery for dead people, and all the living people are crammed up in that thing,’ said Johnny. ‘I mean, it sounds like someone got something wrong . . .’

Bigmac emerged from the block, carrying a stack of cardboard boxes. He nodded hopelessly at Johnny, and put the boxes in the back of the van.

‘Yo, duds,’ he said.

‘Where’s your brother?’

‘He’s upstairs. Come on, let’s go.’

‘Before he comes down, you mean,’ said Wobbler.

‘Shut up.’

The breeze moved in the poplar trees, and whispered around the antique urns and broken stones.

‘I don’t know as this is right,’ said Wobbler, when the four of them had gathered by the gate.

‘There’s crosses all over the place,’ said Yo-less.

‘Yes, but I’m an atheist,’ said Wobbler.

‘Then you shouldn’t believe in ghosts—’

‘Post-living citizens,’ Bigmac corrected him.

‘Bigmac?’ said Johnny.

‘Yeah?’

‘What’re you holding behind your back?’

‘Nothing.’

Wobbler craned to see.

‘It’s a bit of sharpened wood,’ he reported. ‘And a hammer.’

‘Bigmac!’

‘Well, you never know—’

‘Leave them here!’

‘Oh, all right.’

‘Anyway, it’s not stakes for ghosts. That’s for vampires,’ said Yo-less.

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Wobbler.

‘Look, this is just the cemetery,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s got by-laws and things! It’s not Transylvania! There’s just dead people here! That doesn’t make it scary, does it? Dead people are people who were living once! You wouldn’t be so daft if there were living people buried here, would you?’