‘We could play a game,’ said Bigmac.

‘Not Dead Man’s Hand,’ said Wobbler. ‘Not after last year. You’re supposed to pass around grapes and stuff, not just anything you find in the fridge.’

‘It wasn’t what it was,’ said one of the girls. ‘It was what he said it was.’

‘All right,’ said Johnny to Yo-less, ‘I’ve been trying to work it out. Who are you?’

Yo-less had covered half his face with white make-up. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just his ordinary string vest, but he’d found a piece of fake leopard-skin-pattern material which he’d draped over his shoulders. And he had a black hat.

‘Baron Samedi, the voodoo god,’ said Yo-less. ‘I got the idea out of James Bond.’

‘That’s racial stereotyping,’ someone said.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Yo-less. ‘Not if I’m doing it.’

‘I’m pretty sure Baron Samedi didn’t wear a bowler hat,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m pretty sure it was a top hat. A bowler hat makes you look a bit like you’re going to an office somewhere.’

‘I can’t help it, it was all I could get.’

‘Maybe he’s Baron Samedi, the voodoo god of chartered accountancy,’ said Wobbler.

For a moment Johnny thought of Mr Grimm; his face was all one colour, but he looked like a voodoo god of chartered accountancy if ever there was one.

‘In the film he was all mixed up with tarot cards and stuff,’ said Bigmac.

‘Not really,’ said Johnny, waking up. ‘Tarot cards are European occult. Voodoo is African occult.’

‘Don’t be daft, it’s American,’ said Wobbler.

‘No, American occult is Elvis Presley not being dead and that sort of thing,’ said Yo-less. ‘Voodoo is basically West African with a bit of Christian influence. I looked it up.’

‘I’ve got some ordinary cards,’ said Wobbler.

‘No messing around with cards,’ said Baron Yo-less severely. ‘My mum’d go spare.’

‘What about the thing with the letters and glasses?’

‘The postman?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No. That could lead to dark forces taking over, said Baron Yo-less. ‘It’s as bad as ouija boards.’

Someone put on a tape and started to dance. Johnny stared into his glass of horrible punch. There was an orange pip floating in it.

Cards and boards, he thought. And the dead. That’s not dark forces. Making a fuss about cards and heavy metal and going on about Dungeons and Dragons stuff because it’s got demon gods in it is like guarding the door when it is really coming up through the floorboards. Real dark forces . . . aren’t dark. They’re sort of grey, like Mr Grimm. They take all the colour out of life; they take a town like Blackbury and turn it into frightened streets and plastic signs and Bright New Futures and towers where no one wants to live and no one really does live. The dead seem more alive than us. And everyone becomes grey and turns into numbers and then, somewhere, someone starts to do arithmetic . . .