‘I’m not standing for that!’ said dead Mrs Sylvia Liberty. ‘I paid five pounds, seven shillings and sixpence for my plot! I remember the document Distinctly. Last Resting Place, it said. It didn’t say After Eighty Years You’ll Be Dug Up and Moved just so the living can build . . . what did it say?’

‘Modern Purpose-Designed Offices,’ said William Stickers. ‘Whatever they are.’

‘I think it means they were designed on purpose,’ said Johnny.

‘And how shameful to be sold for fivepence!’ said dead Mrs Liberty.

‘That’s the living for you,’ said William Stickers. ‘No thought for the downtrodden masses.’

‘Well, you see,’ said Johnny wretchedly, ‘the Council says it costs too much to keep up and the land was worth—’

‘And what’s this here about Blackbury Municipal Authority?’ said the Alderman. ‘What happened to Blackbury City Council?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ve never heard of it. Look, it’s not my fault. I like this place, too. I was only saying to Wobbler, I didn’t like what’s happening.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ said the Alderman.

Johnny backed away, but came up against Mr Vicenti’s Rolls-Royce of a grave.

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Not me. It’s not up to me!’

‘I don’t see why not,’ said dead Mrs Sylvia Liberty. ‘After all, you can see and hear us.’

‘No one else takes any notice,’ said Mr Vicenti.

‘We’ve been trying all day,’ said the Alderman.

‘People walking their dogs. Hah! They just hurry away,’ said William Stickers.

‘Not even old Mrs Tachyon,’ said Mr Vicenti.

‘And she’s mad,’ said the Alderman. ‘Poor soul.’

‘So there’s only you,’ said William Stickers. ‘So you must go and tell this Municipal whateveritis that we aren’t . . . going . . . to . . . move!’

‘They won’t listen to me! I’m twelve! I can’t even vote!’

‘Yes, but we can,’ said the Alderman.

‘Can we?’ said Mr Vicenti.

The dead clustered around him, like an American football team.

‘We’re still over twenty-one, aren’t we? I mean, technically.’

‘Yes, but we’re dead,’ said Mr Vicenti, in a reasonable tone of voice.

‘You can vote at eighteen now,’ said Johnny.

‘No wonder people have no respect,’ said the Alderman. ‘I said the rot’d set in if they gave the vote to women—’

Mrs Liberty glared at him.

‘Anyway, you can’t use a dead person’s vote,’ said William Stickers. ‘It’s called Personation. I stood as Revolutionary Solidarity Fraternal Workers’ Party Candidate. I know about this sort of thing.’

‘I’m not proposing to let anyone use my vote,’ said the Alderman. ‘I want to use it myself. No law against that.’

‘Good point.’

‘I served this city faithfully for more than fifty years,’ said the Alderman. ‘I do not see why I should lose my vote just because I’m dead. Democracy. That’s the point.’

‘People’s democracy,’ said William Stickers.

The dead fell silent.

‘Well . . .’ said Johnny miserably. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Good man,’ said the Alderman. ‘And we’d also like a paper delivered every day.’