From the top of the Heath, London looked like a distant fairground, the NatWest Tower and the Post Office Tower blinking, the curve of St Paul’s. Up here, there were clumps of people who had probably not moved all day, spread out on the grass or the benches. The air was still warm, and no one wanted to go home. Cigarette ends glowed. There was the tinny sound of a boombox playing a loud, sad song. The moon was fat as a new blister.

Almost there. Matty took the path down the hill towards the swimming ponds, back into the shadows. There were layers of darkness in the bushes to the side, dark becoming darker. It was better to be in the swamps in Vietnam, leading a platoon through the sweaty-leafed jungle, rifle attached to a canvas rucksack, wearing a bullet-belt.

A sudden rustle, and a man stepped out from the bushes. ‘All right?’ he said.

Matty walked on, fast, imagining spraying the man with bullets, not looking back until the corner. He had gone, the outline of the hill a long doodle against the sky.

‘Oi, wanker.’ A voice, low and stabbing as Matty jerked back, heart heaving. There was a laugh that could only be one person.

Matty pushed Nicks in the shoulder. ‘Dickhead.’

His teeth flashed, moon-coloured. ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been hanging around for ages.’ It was only a bit after midnight, just like they’d agreed. ‘Come on,’ he said, and walked ahead.

It felt easier, now that Nicks was here. The two of them moved like water. They passed a dog with coloured lights around its collar, and a man jogging, wearing a head torch. The air was humid and smoky.

They walked up to the end of the single-track road and along into the much gloomier lane, high fences on one side and woods on the other. There was the squeaky sound of a goose. Nicks was always a few steps ahead.

A sudden, muted rub of leaves to the side, a branch breaking, and this time Matty wasn’t frightened because Nicks made them both invincible. There was a movement behind tree trunks, something pale.

Nicks turned round. ‘What?’ He peered into the trees. ‘It’s nothing.’

It could be Dad. Dad’s ghost. You’ll see him again, The Man in White had said. ‘There’s someone down there.’

‘More than one, I reckon,’ Nicks said, with a grin before he sighed and sauntered back, the long stick he’d picked up trailing behind him. ‘Come on, then. If you want to see.’

Matty ducked under the railing and followed him down the narrow path of half-trodden leaves. Nicks seemed taller in the dark, his limbs relaxed and moving easily. He stopped suddenly and put a finger to Matty’s lips, the quickest touch, and jabbed the same finger over to the right.