‘All of what?’

‘All the cables, all the . . . the satellites . . . Not having a body makes them a lot easier to use, too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘For one thing, you don’t have to stay in one place.’

‘But I thought you—’

Mr Fletcher vanished. He reappeared a few seconds later.

‘Amazing things,’ he said. ‘My word, but we shall have fun.’

‘I don’t underst—’

‘Johnny?’

It was Mr Vicenti.

Someone living had managed to get through to Mad Jim. The dead, with much laughter, were trying to dance to a Country-and-Western number.

‘What’s going on?’ said Johnny. ‘You said you couldn’t leave the cemetery!’

‘No one has explained this to you? They do not teach you in schools?’

‘Well, we don’t get lessons in dealing with ghos— Sorry. Sorry. With dead people, I mean.’

‘We’re not ghosts, Johnny. A ghost is a very sad thing. Oh, dear. It’s hard to explain things to the living. I was alive once, and I know what I’m talking about.’

Dead Mr Vicenti looked at Johnny’s blank face. ‘We’re . . . something else,’ he said. ‘But now you see us and hear us, you’re making us free. You’re giving us what we don’t have.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I can’t explain. But while you’re thinking of us, we’re free.’

‘My head doesn’t have to spin round and round, does it?’

‘That sounds like a good trick. Can you make it do that?’

‘No.’

‘Then it won’t.’

‘Only I’m a bit worried I’m dabblin’ with the occult.’

It seemed daft to say it, to Mr Vicenti in his pinstripe trousers and little black tie and fresh ghostly carnation every day. Or Mrs Liberty. Or the big bearded shape of William Stickers, who would have been Karl Marx if Karl Marx hadn’t been Karl Marx first.

‘Dear me, I hope you’re not dabbling with the occult,’ said Mr Vicenti. ‘Father Kearny (1891–1949) wouldn’t like that at all.’

‘Who’s Father Kearny?’

‘A few moments ago he was dancing with Mrs Liberty. Oh dear. We do mix things up, don’t we?’

‘Send him away.’

Johnny turned.

One of the dead was still in the cemetery. He was standing right up against the railings, clasping them like a prisoner might hold the bars of his cell. He didn’t look a lot different to Mr Vicenti, except that he had a pair of glasses. It was amazing that they weren’t melting; he had the strongest stare Johnny had ever seen. He seemed to be glaring at Johnny’s left ear.

‘Who’s that?’ he said.

‘Mr Grimm,’ said Mr Vicenti, without looking around.

‘Oh, yes. I couldn’t find anything about him in the paper.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Mr Vicenti, in a low and level voice. ‘In those days, there were things they didn’t put in.’

‘You go away, boy. You’re meddling with things you don’t understand,’ said Mr Grimm. ‘You’re imperilling your immortal soul. And theirs. You go away, you bad boy.’

Johnny stared. Then he looked back at the street, at the dancers, and the scientists around the telephone box. A bit further along there was Stanley Roundway, in shorts that came down to his knees, showing a group of somewhat older dead how to play football. He had ‘L’ and ‘R’ stencilled on his football boots.