‘Not visiting graves has nothing to do with it, girl. Anyway, there’s history in there.’

‘Alderman Thomas Bowler,’ said Johnny.

‘Never heard of him. I was referring,’ said his grandfather, ‘to William Stickers. There was very nearly a monument to him. There would have been a monument to him. Everyone round here donated money, only someone ran off with it. And I’d given sixpence.’

‘Was he famous?’

‘Nearly famous. Nearly famous. You’ve heard of Karl Marx?’

‘He invented communism, didn’t he?’ said Johnny.

‘Right. Well, William Stickers didn’t. But he’d have been Karl Marx if Karl Marx hadn’t beaten him to it. Tell you what . . . tomorrow, I’ll show you.’

It was tomorrow.

It was raining softly out of a dark grey sky.

Grandad and Johnny stood in front of a large gravestone which read:

WILLIAM STICKERS

1897-1949

WORKERS OF THE

WORLD UNIT

‘A great man,’ said Grandad. He had taken his cap off.

‘What was the World Unit?’ said Johnny.

‘It should have been unite,’ said Grandad. ‘They ran out of money before they did the “E”. It was a scandal. He was a hero of the working class. He would have fought in the Spanish Civil War except he got on the wrong boat and ended up in Hull.’

Johnny looked around.

‘Um,’ he said. ‘What sort of a man was he?’

‘A hero of the proletariat, like I said.’

‘I mean, what did he look like?’ said Johnny. ‘Was he quite big with a huge black beard and gold-rimmed spectacles?’

‘That’s right. Seen pictures, have you?’

‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘Not exactly.’

Grandad put his cap back on.

‘I’m going down to the shops,’ he said. ‘Want to come?’

‘No, thanks. Er . . . I’m going round to Wobbler’s house.’

‘Righto.’

Grandad wandered off towards the main gate.

Johnny took a deep breath.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘It was a scandal, them not giving me the “E”,’ said William Stickers.

He stopped leaning against his memorial.

‘What’s your name, comrade?’

‘John Maxwell,’ said Johnny.

‘I knew you could see me,’ said William Stickers. ‘I could see you looking right at me while the old man was talking.’

‘I could tell you were you,’ said Johnny. ‘You look . . . um . . . thinner.’

He wanted to say: not thin like in thick. Just . . . not all there. Transparent.

He said, ‘Um.’ And then he said, ‘I don’t understand this. You are dead, right? Some kind of . . . ghost?’

‘Ghost?’ said dead William Stickers angrily.

‘Well . . . spirit, then.’

‘There’s no such thing. A relic of an outmoded belief system.’

‘Um, only . . . you’re talking to me . . .’

‘It’s a perfectly understandable scientific phenomenon,’ said William Stickers. ‘Never let superstition get in the way of rational thought, boy. It’s time for Mankind to put old cultural shibboleths aside and step into the bright socialist dawn. What year is it?’

‘Nineteen ninety-three,’ said Johnny.

‘Ah! And have the downtrodden masses risen up to overthrow the capitalist oppressors in the glorious name of communism?’