Johanna and Matty had been in the same class all the way through primary school, often sitting together for art and spelling. She would kick Matty’s foot and wrap her thick hair, the colour of a new penny, around her fist.

Her parents ran the Song of Solomon Hotel, ten minutes’ walk up the road from the flat. It was a place for only Jewish people to stay – or at least, Matty had never seen any black or Indian or Chinese people there, or even white people who weren’t Jewish. There were electric candleholders on the windowsills that were permanently lit, and the carpets were plush and thick. It was always very warm.

Mamma didn’t mind Johanna’s family, even though they were not Christian. ‘They take their religion very seriously,’ she’d say. ‘Ah, it’s all near enough,’ Dad would reply. ‘Same gaffer managing both teams.’

Johanna turned round in the hallway with thoughtful, narrowed eyes. ‘If you’re a boy, you have to wear one of these.’ Held up a small cupped black circle.

‘Do you think that your dad’s really dead, then?’

Johanna was sitting cross-legged in her bedroom, the seam of her tights at her crotch on show. She was always asking questions in a cheerful voice that cushioned how frank they were. The teacher in the last but one year had done a double take when Johanna put up her hand and asked whether it was true that male foxes had spikes on their penises and that was why vixens screamed so loudly.

Matty shrugged, reaching up to touch the small cloth cap that Jewish boys and men wore. It was very light, but it was there, and settled. ‘Dunno. Yeah.’

‘D’you really think he drowned?’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’

‘There was that one from the Rolling Stones who died in his swimming pool.’

Brian Jones. And Dennis Wilson from the Beach Boys, too. Matty was becoming well versed in drowning victims.

Johanna put her lips together and squished them to the side, frowning as a way of saying sorry. Then her eyes brightened. ‘I know how we can find out.’

Matty thought that Ouija boards were for witches and demons. And was fairly sure that Johanna’s parents thought the same.

‘My brother did it once, to see if he could talk to Bob Marley,’ Johanna said, looking at it. ‘But I think you’ve got a better chance of talking to someone you actually know. I mean, why’s Bob Marley going to talk to some stupid teenage boy with bum fluff on his chin?’

She had brought two proper candles in from her parents’ bedroom, already lit. One had blue and white ripples, and the other was tapered and gold. They were for Jewish ceremonies, not for trying to commune with the dead over a piece of stiff cardboard that said CHARMIN: softer, thicker, more absorbent on the back.