‘What I want to be,’ he said, ‘is something they haven’t got a name for yet.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ said Wobbler. ‘Like, in two years time someone’s going to invent the Vurglesplat, and when they start looking around for Vurglesplat operators, you’re going to be first in the queue, right?’

They went through the cemetery. The others, without saying anything, bunched up slightly. But there were no dead people around.

‘You can’t just hang around waiting for Great Futures, that’s the point,’ Johnny murmured.

‘Hey,’ said Yo-less, in a dismally jolly voice, ‘my mum says why don’t you guys come to church tonight?’

‘It won’t work,’ said Wobbler, after a while. ‘You say that every week.’

‘She says it’d be good for you. Especially Simon.’

‘Simon?’ said Wobbler.

‘Me,’ said Bigmac.

‘She says you need looking after,’ said Yo-less.

‘I didn’t know you were called Simon,’ said Wobbler.

Bigmac sighed. He had ‘Blackbury Skins’ on his T-shirt, a suede haircut, great big boots, great big braces and LOVE and HAT in Biro on his knuckles¹, but for some reason Yo-less’s mum thought he needed a proper home. Bigmac lived in dread that Bazza and Skazz, the only other Skins in Blackbury, would find out and confiscate his official braces.

‘She said you’re all growing up heathens,’ said Yo-less.

‘Well, I’m going to a funeral at the crem tomorrow,’ said Johnny. ‘That’s almost church.’

‘Anyone important?’ said Wobbler.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Johnny.

Johnny was amazed that so many people had come to Thomas Atkins’s funeral, but that was because they’d really come to the one before it. All there was for Atkins’s was himself and a stiff-looking old man in a blazer from the British Legion and the nurse from Sunshine Acres. And the vicar, who did his best, but had never met Tommy Atkins so had to put together his sermon out of a sort of kit of Proper Things to Say. And then some recorded organ music. And that was it.

The chapel smelled of new wood and floor polish.

The three others kept looking at Johnny in an embarrassed way, as if they felt he shouldn’t be there but didn’t know exactly how to put it.

He heard a faint sound behind him, just as the recorded music started up.

He turned around, and there were the dead, seated in rows. The Alderman had taken his hat off and was sitting stiffly at attention. Even William Stickers had tried to look respectable. Solomon Einstein’s hair stood out like a halo.

The nurse was talking to the man in the blazer. Johnny leaned back so that he could speak to Mr Fletcher.

‘Why are you here?’ he whispered.

‘It’s allowed,’ said Mr Fletcher. ‘We used to go to all the funerals in the cemetery. Help them settle in. Make them welcome. It’s always a bit of a shock.’

‘Oh.’

‘And . . . seeing as you were here . . . we thought we’d see if we could make it. Mr Vicenti said it was worth a try. We’re getting better at it!’