‘Nothing.’

‘I don’t have to explain.’

‘Is that why you couldn’t leave with the others?’

‘What? I can leave whenever I like,’ said the ghost of Mr Grimm, very quickly. ‘If I’m staying here, it’s because I want to be here. I know my place. I know how to do the right thing. I could leave whenever I want. But I’ve got more pride than that. People like you don’t understand that. You don’t take life seriously.’

It hadn’t been a long report in the paper. Mr Vicenti was right. In those days, some things didn’t get a lot of reporting. Mr Grimm had been a respectable citizen, keeping his head down, a man at the back of the crowd, and then his business had failed and there’d been some other trouble involving money, and then there’d been the canal. Mr Grimm had taken life very seriously, starting with his own.

People didn’t talk much about that sort of thing in those days. Suicide was against the law. Johnny had wondered why. It meant that if you missed, or the gas ran out, or the rope broke, you could get locked up in prison to show you that life was really very jolly and thoroughly worth living.

Mr Grimm sat with his hands clasped around his knees.

Johnny realized that he could think of nothing to say, so he said nothing.

Instead, he wedged the little pocket television deep in a bush, where no one, not even the keenest birdwatcher, would find it.

‘Can you turn it on with your mind?’ he said.

‘Who says I shall want to?’

The picture came on, and there was the faint tinkly sound of the familiar signature tune.

‘Let’s see,’ said Johnny. ‘You’ve missed a week . . . Mrs Swede has just found out Janine didn’t go to the party . . . Mr Hatt has sacked Jason from the shop because he thinks he took the money . . . and . . .’

‘I see.’

‘So . . . I’ll be off, then, shall I?’

‘Right.’

Johnny backed away.

‘I’m sure the hours’ll just fly by.’

‘Right.’

‘So . . . cheerio, then.’

‘Right.’

‘Mr Grimm?’ Johnny wanted to say: you can leave any time you want. But there seemed to be no point.

‘Right.’

Johnny watched for a while, and then turned and walked away. The other three were waiting for him by the phone box.

‘Was he there?’ said Yo-less.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s he doing now?’

‘Watching television,’ said Johnny.

‘I expect ghosts do that a lot,’ said Wobbler.

‘’Spect so.’

‘You all right?’

‘Just thinking about the difference between heaven and hell.’

‘That doesn’t sound like “all right” to me.’

Johnny blinked. And looked around at the world. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, wonderful. Which wasn’t the same as nice. It wasn’t even the same as good. But it was full of . . . stuff. You’d never get to the end of it. It was always springing new things on you . . .