Nelson glared at him before putting his backpack down on the ground and approaching the ball gingerly, staring at it as if it was some strange, unidentifiable animal that might leap up and bite him, were he to advance too quickly. In the distance, the boys were calling out his name, some being polite enough to add ‘Sir’, others using far less gracious terms. He looked in their direction, swallowing nervously. One of the taller boys had started to walk over, shaking his head in frustration, and Nelson realized that it was now or never. He pulled back his right foot and, keeping one eye focussed on the ball, aimed just below its centre, the toe of his shoe lifting it cleanly off the ground. He watched as it sailed through the air in a perfect arc, over the heads of the boys, all of whom turned to watch as it soared above the playing field, making its way along the length of the pitch before gradually starting to descend. The goalkeeper at the other end realized that it was coming directly for him and stretched his arms out in a desperate attempt to save it, but it was too late and the ball flew into the back of the net, top-right corner, as the entire playing field fell silent, every head turning towards Nelson, who was as stunned by what had just happened as everyone else.

He waited a few moments, nodded his head in satisfaction, retrieved his backpack and continued on his way into the school.

‘Fucking hell, Nelson,’ said Martin, staring at him. ‘Shame no one was filming that. Might have gone viral.’

POPULAR FICTION

‘Old woman.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Old woman,’ repeated the ghost. ‘That’s how stara zhinka translates.’

Beverley frowned and shook her head. ‘Then I must have written it down wrong,’ she said. ‘It’s more likely that it means something along the lines of beautiful woman.’

‘That would be prekrasna zhinka.’

‘Or captivating woman.’

‘Zakhoplyuyucha zhinka.’

‘I’m not sure your grasp of Ukrainian is quite as good as you think it is,’ said Beverley after a moment’s pause, her smile as forced as one of Piers Morgan’s co-presenters.

‘Well,’ replied the ghost, who took her language skills very seriously, ‘I have been speaking it since I was four years old. It was very important to my grandparents that we all stayed close to our roots. But it’s true that I don’t get a chance to practise it as much as I’d like.’

‘Then that explains it. You need to join a society of immigrants, my dear. There’s probably some sort of organization somewhere in London. Regular conversation with native speakers will help to keep you proficient and you won’t make such basic errors.’