And he thought: perhaps I did. Perhaps that all happened and then, just when I was dying, some kind of angel turned up and said would you like a wish? And I said, yes, I’d like to know what would have happened if I hadn’t run away, and the angel said, OK, you can go back. And here I am, back again. I can’t let myself down.

The world waited.

Johnny took a step forward.

‘You’re dead, right?’ he said slowly.

‘Oh, yes. It’s one of those things one is pretty certain about.’

‘You don’t look dead. I mean, I thought . . . you know . . . coffins and things . . .’

‘Oh, there’s all that,’ said the Alderman, airily, ‘and then there’s this, too.’

‘You’re a ghost?’ Johnny was rather relieved. He could come to terms with a ghost.

‘I should hope I’ve got more pride than that,’ said the Alderman.

‘My friend Wobbler’ll be really amazed to meet you,’ said Johnny. A thought crossed his mind. ‘You’re no good at dancing, are you?’ he said.

‘I used to be able to waltz quite well,’ said the Alderman.

‘I meant . . . sort of . . . like this,’ said Johnny. He gave the best impression he could remember of Michael Jackson dancing. ‘Sort of with your feet,’ he said apologetically.

‘That looks grand,’ said Alderman Tom Bowler.

‘Yes, and you have to have a glittery glove on one hand—’

‘That’s important, is it?’

‘Yes, and you have to say “Ow!”’

‘I should think anyone would, dancing like that,’ said the Alderman.

‘No, I mean like “Oooowwwwwwweeeeeah!”, with . . .’

Johnny stopped. He realized that he was getting a bit carried away.

‘But, look,’ he said, stopping at the end of a groove in the gravel. ‘I don’t see how you can be dead and walking and talking at the same time . . .’

‘That’s probably all because of relativity,’ said the Alderman. He moonwalked stiffly across the path. ‘Like this, was it? Ouch!’

‘A bit,’ said Johnny, kindly. ‘Um. What do you mean about relativity?’

‘Einstein explains all that quite well,’ said the Alderman.

‘What, Albert Einstein?’ said Johnny.

‘Who?’

‘He was a famous scientist. He . . . invented the speed of light and things.’

‘Did he? I meant Solomon Einstein. He was a famous taxidermist in Cable Street. Stuffing dead animals, you know. I think he invented some kind of machine for making glass eyes. Got knocked down by a motor car in nineteen thirty-two. But a very keen thinker, all the same.’

‘I never knew that,’ said Johnny. He looked around.

It was getting darker.

‘I think I’d better be getting home,’ he said; and began to back away.

‘I think I’m getting the hang of this,’ said the Alderman, moonwalking back across the path.

‘I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll see you again. Perhaps,’ said Johnny.

‘Call any time you like,’ said the Alderman, as Johnny walked away as quickly yet politely as possible. ‘I’m always in.’