‘You heard them on the radio!’

‘I heard voices. That’s what radio’s for, innit?’

It occurred to Johnny, not for the first time, that the human mind, of which each of his friends was in possession of one almost standard sample, was like a compass. No matter how much you shook it up, no matter what happened to it, sooner or later it’d carry on pointing the same way. If three-metre-tall green Martians landed on the shopping mall, bought some greetings cards and a bag of sugar cookies and then took off again, within a day or two people would believe it never happened.

‘Not even Mr Grimm’s here, and he’s always here,’ said Johnny.

He looked at Mr Vicenti’s ornate grave. Some people were taking photographs of it.

‘Always here,’ he said.

‘He’s gone weird again,’ said Wobbler.

‘You all go back,’ said Johnny, quietly. ‘I just thought of something.’

They all looked round. Their brains don’t believe in the dead, Johnny thought, but they keep getting outvoted by all the rest of them.

‘I’m OK,’ said Johnny. ‘You go on back. I’ll see you at Wobbler’s party tonight, all right?’

‘Remember not to bring any . . . you know . . . friends,’ said Wobbler, as the three of them left.

Johnny wandered down North Drive.

He’d never tried to talk to the dead. He’d said things when he knew they were listening, and sometimes they’d been clearly visible, but apart from that first time, when he’d knocked on the door of the Alderman’s mausoleum for a joke . . .

‘Will you look at this?’

One of the people who’d been examining the grave had picked up the radio, which had been lodged behind a tuft of grass.

‘Honestly, people have no respect.’

‘Does it work?’

It didn’t. A couple of days of damp grass had done for the batteries.

‘No.’

‘Give it to the men dumping the rubbish on the lorry, then.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Johnny.

He hurried off with it, keeping a lookout, trying to find one dead person among the living.

‘Ah, Johnny.’

It was Mr Atterbury, leaning over the wall of the old boot works. ‘Exciting day, isn’t it? You started something, eh?’

‘Didn’t mean to,’ said Johnny, automatically. Things were generally his fault.

‘It could go either way,’ said Mr Atterbury. ‘The old railway site isn’t so good, but . . . things look promising, I do know that. People have woken up.’

‘That’s true. A lot of people.’

‘United Consolidated don’t like fuss. The District Auditor is here, and a man from the Development Commission. It could go very well.’

‘Good. Um.’

‘Yes?’

‘I saw you on television,’ said Johnny. ‘You called United Consolidated public-spirited and cooperative.’

‘Well, they might be. If they’ve got no choice. They’re a bit shifty but we might win through. It’s amazing what you can do with a kind word.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, then . . . I’ve got to go and find someone, if you don’t mind . . .’