Interested despite himself, Johnny padded over to the phone box. Mr Fletcher was actually kneeling down with his hands inside the telephone. A couple of other dead people were watching him. One of them was William Stickers, who didn't look very happy. The other was an old man with a mass of white hair in that dandelion-clock style known as Mad Scientist Afro.

'Oh, it's you,' said William Stickers. 'Call this a world, do you?'

'Me?' said Johnny. 'I don't call it anything.' 'Was that man on the radio making fun of me, do you think?'

'Oh, no,' said Johnny, crossing his fingers.

'Mr Sticker iz annoyed because he telephoned Moscow,' said the white-haired man. 'They said they've had enough revolutions to be going on wiz, but vould like some soap.'

'They're nothing but dirty capitalists!' said William Stickers.

'But at least they want to be dean capitalists,' said Mr Fletcher. 'Where shall we try next?'

'Don't you have to put money in?' said Johnny.

Mr Fletcher laughed.

'I don't zink we've met,' said the white- haired man, extending a slightly transparent hand. 'Solomon Einstein (1869-1932).'

'Like Albert Einstein?' said Johnny.

'He vas my distant cousin,' said Solomon Einstein. 'Relatively speaking. Haha.'

Johnny got the impression Mr Einstein had said that line a million times, and still wasn't tired of it.

'Who're you ringing up?' said Johnny.

'We're just having a look at the world,' said Mr Fletcher. 'What are those things that go round and round in the sky?'

'I don't know. Frisbees?'

'Mr Vicenti just remembers them. They go round and round the world.'

'Oh. You mean satellites?'

'Whee!'

'But how do you know how to—'

'I can't explain. Things are a lot simpler, I think. I can see it all laid out.'

'All of what?'

'All the cables, all the ... the satellites ... Not having a body makes them a lot easier to use, too.'

'What do you mean?'

'For one thing, you don't have to stay in one place.'

'But I thought you—'

Mr Fletcher vanished. He reappeared a few seconds later.

'Amazing things,' he said. 'My word, but we shall have fun.'

'I don't underst—'

'Johnny?'

It was Mr Vicenti.

Someone living had managed to get through to Mad Jim. The dead, with much laughter, were try- ing to dance to a Country-and-Western number.

'What's going OM?' said Johnny. 'You said you couldn't leave the cemetery!'

'No-one has explained this to you? They do not teach you in schools?'

'Well, we don't get lessons in dealing with ghos— Sorry. Sorry. With dead people, I mean.'

'We're not ghosts, Johnny. A ghost is a very sad thing. Oh, dear. It's hard to explain things to the living. I was alive once, and I know what I 'm talking about.'

Dead Mr Vicenti looked at Johnny's blank face.

'We're ... something else,' he said. 'But now you see us and hear us, you're making us free. You're giving us what we don't have.'

'What's that?'

'I can't explain. But while you're thinking of us, we're free.'

'My head doesn't have to spin round and round, does it?'

'That sounds like a good trick. Can you make it do that?'

'No.'

'Then it won't.'

'Only I'm a bit worried I'm dabblin' with the occult.'

It seemed daft to say it, to Mr Vicenti in his pin- stripe trousers and little black tie and fresh ghostly carnation every day. Or Mrs Liberty. Or the big bearded shape of William Stickers, who would have been Karl Marx if Karl Marx hadn't been Karl Marx first.

'Dear me, I hope you're not dabbling with the occult,' said Mr Vicenti. 'Father Kearny (1891- 1949) wouldn't like that at all.'

'Who's Father Kearny?'

'A few moments ago he was dancing with Mrs Liberty. Oh dear. We do mix things up, don't we?'

'Send him away.'

Johnny turned.

One of the dead was still in the cemetery. He was standing right up against the railings, clasping them like a prisoner might hold the bars of his cell. He didn't look a lot different to Mr Vicenti, except that he had a pair of glasses. It was amazing that they weren't melting; he had the strongest stare Johnny had ever seen. He seemed to be glaring at Johnny's left ear.

'Who's that?' he said.

'Mr Grimm,' said Mr Vicenti, without looking around.

'Oh, yes. I couldn't find anything about him in the paper.'

'I'm not surprised,' said Mr Vicenti, in a low

and level voice. 'In those days, there were things they didn't put in.'

'You go away, boy. You're meddling with things you don't understand,' said Mr Grimm. 'You're imperilling your immortal soul. And theirs. You go away, you bad boy.'

Johnny stared. Then he looked back at the street, at the dancers, and the scientists around the tele- phone box. A bit further along there was Stanley Roundway, in shorts that came down to his knees, showing a group of somewhat older dead how to play football. He had 'L' and 'R' stencilled on his football boots.

Mr Vicenti was staring straight ahead.

'Um—' said Johnny.

'I can't help you there,' said Mr Vicenti. 'That sort of thing is up to you.'

He must have walked home. He didn't really remember. But he woke up in bed.

Johnny wondered what the dead did on Sundays. Blackbury on Sundays went through some sort of boredom barrier and out the other side.

Most people did what people traditionally do on Sundays, which was dress up neatly and get in the car and go for family worship at the MegasuperSaver Garden Centre, just outside the town. There was a kind of tide of potted plants that were brought back to get killed off by the central heating in time for next week's visit.

And the mall was locked up. There wasn't even anywhere to hang around.

'The point about being dead in this town,' said Wobbler, as they mooched along the towpath, 'is that it's probably hard to tell the difference.'

'Did anyone hear the radio last night?' said Johnny.

No-one had. He felt a bit relieved.

'When I grow up,' said Wobbler, 'I'm going to be out of here like a shot. Just you watch. That's what this place is. It's a place to come from. It's not a place to stay.'

'Where're you going to go, then?' said Johnny.

'There's a huge big world out there!' said Wobbler. 'Mountains! America! Australia! Tons of places!'

'You told me the other day you'd probably get a job working at your uncle's place over on the trading estate,' said Bigmac.

'Yes ... well ... I mean, all those places'11 be there, won't they, for when I get time to go,' said Wobbler.

7 thought you were going to be a big man in computers,' said Yo-less.

'I could be. I could be. If I wanted.'

'If there's a miracle and you pass Maths and English, you mean,' said Bigmac.

'I'm just more practically gifted,' said Wobbler.

'You mean you just press keys until something happens.'

'Well? Often things do happen.'

'I'm going to join the Army,' said Bigmac. 'The SAS.'

'Huh. The flat feet and the asthma will be a

big help there, then,' said Wobbler. 'I can just see they'll want you to limp out and wheeze on terrorists.'

' I 'm pretty certain I want to get a law degree and a medical degree,' said Yo-less, to keep the peace.

'That's good. That way they won't be able to sue you if you chop the wrong bits off,' said Bigmac.

No-one really lost their temper. This was all part of hanging around.

'What about you?' said Wobbler. 'What do you want to be?'

'Dunno,' said Johnny.

'Didn't you go to the careers evening last week?'

Johnny nodded. It had been full of Great Futures. There was a Great Future in retail marketing. There was a Great Future in wholesale distri- bution. There was a Great Future in the armed forces, although probably not for Bigmac, who'd been allowed to hold a machine gun and had dropped it on his foot. But Johnny couldn't find a Great Future with any future in it.