He jerked his shoulder a bit, like a man trying to find a difficult itch, and then pulled a pair of doves from inside his jacket.

‘They breed in there, I’m sure,’ he said, watching them fly away and disappear. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘School. And don’t say it’s very important.’

‘I said nothing.’

They reached the entrance to the cemetery. Johnny could just see the big sign on the old factory site next door, its blue sky glowing against the dustier blue-grey of the real sky.

‘They’ll start taking us out the day after tomorrow,’ said Mr Vicenti.

‘I’m sorry. Like I said, I wish there was something I could do.’

‘You may have done it already.’

Johnny sighed.

‘If I ask you what you mean, you’ll say it’s hard to explain, right?’

‘I think so. Come. You might enjoy this.’

There wasn’t even a dead soul in the cemetery. Even the rook had gone, unless it was a crow.

But there was a lot of noise coming from the canal.

*

The dead were swimming. Well, some of them were. Mrs Liberty was. She was wearing a long swimming costume that reached from neck to knees, but she still kept her hat on.

The Alderman had stripped off his long robe and chain, and was sitting on the canal bank in his shirtsleeves and some braces that could have moored a ship. Johnny wondered how the dead changed clothes, or felt the heat, but he supposed it was all habit. If you thought your shirt was off there it was . . . off.

As for swimming . . . there was no splash when they dived, just the faintest of shimmers, that spread out like ripples and vanished very quickly. And when they surfaced they didn’t look wet. It dawned on Johnny that when a ghost (he had to use that word in his head) jumped into the water, the ghost didn’t get wet, the water got ghostly.

Not all of them were having fun, though. At least, not the usual sort. Mr Fletcher and Solomon Einstein and a few others were clustered around one of the dumped televisions.

‘What are they doing?’ said Johnny.

‘Trying to make it work,’ said Mr Vicenti.

Johnny laughed. The screen had been smashed.

Rain had dripped into the case for years. There was even grass growing out of it.

‘That’ll never—’ he began.

There was a crackle. A picture formed in the air, on a screen that wasn’t there any more.

Mr Fletcher stood up and solemnly shook Solomon Einstein’s hand.

‘Another successful marriage of advanced theoretics and practical know-how, Mr Einstein.’

‘A shtep in the right direction, Mr Fletcher.’

Johnny stared at the flickering images. The picture was in beautiful colour.

Enlightenment dawned.

‘It’s the ghost of the television?’ he said.

‘Vot a clever boy!’ said Solomon Einstein.

‘But with improvements,’ said Mr Fletcher.

Johnny peered inside the case. It was full of old leaves and stained, twisted metal. But over the top of it, shimmering gently, was the pearly outline of the ghost of the machine, purring away without electricity. At least, apparently without electricity. Who knew where the electricity went when the light was switched off?