“If it’s done properly, I think it will.”

“And do you know how to do it properly?”

“I think so. It’s all in my book. You do a ritual with the herbs, then you feed the herbs to the dead corpse and it comes back to life.”

“It’s got to be a load of twonk, hasn’t it?” said Dave, which surprised me somewhat. “I mean, well, if it did work, then everyone would be doing it and people wouldn’t die any more.”

Dave had a good point there.

“You have a good point there,” I said to Dave. “But the reason everyone doesn’t do it is because it’s a secret. This book is a secret book; the formula for the herbs is a secret formula. Only very few people know the secret, so only a very few people ever get brought back to life. Probably very rich people like the royal family. I’ll bet the Queen Mum will live to be at least a hundred years old. Because each time she dies, they’ll bring her back to life with voodoo magic.”[4]

“You’ve won me over,” said Dave. “So when do we do it?”

“I thought we’d follow the funeral and see where they bury Mr Penrose. Then come back at night and dig him up.”

“Too much trouble,” said Dave. “All that digging. Why not do it at his wake? When all his friends are there. They’ll be dead pleased to see him up and about again.” Dave tittered.

“Why do you titter?” I asked.

“Dead pleased,” said Dave.

“That isn’t very funny,” I said.

“No,” said Dave. “You’re right. But I heard this really funny joke. Would you care to hear it?”

“I would,” I said.

“OK,” said Dave. “It’s the one about the man with the huge green head. Have you heard it?”[5]

“No,” I said.

“OK,” said Dave again. “So this bloke is standing at a bus stop and he’s got this huge green head, and I mean huge. It’s enormous. And this other bloke comes up and keeps looking at it; he’s fascinated, he can’t take his eyes off this first bloke’s huge green head. Finally the bloke with the huge green head says, ‘OK, go on, ask me.’ And the other bloke says, ‘What?’ And the bloke with the green head says, ‘Ask me how I got this huge green head. You want to, I know.’ So the other bloke says, ‘How did you get that huge green head?’ So the bloke with the huge green head says, ‘Well, it’s a really funny story. I was walking along Brighton beach and I found this old brass lamp and I rubbed it and this genie came out and said, “You’ve freed me from the lamp and so you can have three wishes.” So I said, “All right! Then for my first wish I want to be incredibly wealthy with this huge mansion with secret rooms with soldiers in and kitchens full of cakes and sweets and suitcases with diamonds and emeralds in them.” And there’s a big puff of smoke and I’m in this huge mansion with all the things I’d asked for. And the genie says, “What do you want for your second wish?” And I say, “Right, I want the most beautiful woman in the world to be my wife and she has to want to sex me all the time, with brief breaks while she cooks me sausages and cuts me pieces of cake and pours me Tizer and stuff like that.” And there’s another puff and she appears. Just like how I wanted. Incredible.’

“And the bloke with the huge green head pauses and the other bloke looks at him and says, ‘OK, go on. What did you wish for with your last wish?’

“And the bloke with the huge green head says—”

“‘I wished for a huge green head, of course,’” said I. “I have heard it.”

“And isn’t it a blinder?”

“I think it’s probably the funniest joke in the whole wide world,” I said. “I can’t imagine there being a funnier one.”

“I only wish I understood it,” said Dave.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You understand the pleasures of the launderette. That’s something in itself. So, are you up for this? We go to Mr Penrose’s wake and bring him back to life. This is a good plan, yes?”

“It’s a great plan,” said Dave. “We’ll probably get a medal from the Pope and a special certificate from Her Majesty the Queen for this. If it works.”

“It will work,” I said. “Trust me. It will work.”

Over the next few days I kept pressing the Daddy regarding the matter of Mr Penrose’s wake and how it would be such a good idea for me to come to it too. How it would be so educational for me and everything. But the Daddy wasn’t having any of that. He was adamant. I was not going. It was by invitation only and it wasn’t for children.

I kept an eye on the doormat for incoming invitations. I was up every day in time for the postman. No invitations slipped by me and the days were slipping away.

The next Wednesday came round and I feigned a cold so I could stay off school. I’d arranged with Dave that he should feign a cold also. But Dave felt that feigning a cold was for homos and so he feigned the Black Death, was given a good smacked-bottom by his mum and sent to school.

Dave bunked off school at lunchtime and came round to my house. I slipped quietly out of my bed of feigned pain and joined him across the street.

“The Daddy is getting all dressed up,” I said to Dave. “He’s getting ready for the wake.”

“Then we’ll follow him, commando-fashion.”

“What is commando-fashion?” I asked.

“Mostly camouflage,” said Dave. “Green is the new black this year.”

We hid behind a dustbin.

At a little after two, the Daddy left our house and swaggered up the street wearing his Sunday suit. My mother wasn’t with him. “Wakes are men’s business,” my father had said.

The Daddy swaggered up our street, turned left into Albany Road, right into Moby Dick Terrace, swaggered past the hut of Mother Demdike, then past the Memorial Park, turned right at the Memorial Library and eventually swaggered into the Butts Estate, where all the posh people of Brentford lived. Dave and I occasionally went into the Butts to throw stones at rich people’s windows and get chased away by their manservants, but we didn’t really know much about the place.

It had been built in Regency times with the money earned from the slave trade and the importation of tea and carpets and strange drugs. The houses were big and well dug in. There was that feeling of permanence that only comes with wealth. The poor might appear to be settled right where they are. But they’re only waiting to be moved on.

The Daddy swaggered up to a particularly fine-looking house, one with a Grimshaw-style front door and Fotheringay window staunchions, and knocked heartily upon the Basilicanesque knocker.

I was very impressed when the door was opened and he was actually let inside. It confirmed, I suppose, that he actually had known Mr Penrose.

“What now, then?” I asked Dave.

“Why are you asking me?”

“How do you think we’re going to get in?”

“We’re not,” said Dave. “Well, not yet at least.”

“Not yet?”

Dave shook his head. “It’s a wake. Which is to say, as you know, a party. For a dead man. But a party. People will drink lots of booze. And then they’ll get drunk and then they’ll come and go. And they’ll leave the front door open and we can sneak in.”

“You are wise,” I said to Dave. “We’ll wait, then.”

So we waited.

And we waited.

And then we waited some more.

“I’m getting fed up with all this waiting,” said Dave. “Hang on, someone’s coming out.”

But they weren’t.

So we waited some more, some more.

“Do you think they’re drunk by now?” I asked.

“Must be,” said Dave.

“Then let’s just knock. They’ll let us in.”

“Yes, of course they will.”

We knocked.

A pinch-faced woman opened the door. “What do you want?” she asked.

“My daddy’s inside,” said Dave. “At the wake. I’ve a message for him from my mummy.”

“Tell it to me,” said the pinch-faced woman. “I’ll pass it on.”

“It’s in Dutch,” said Dave. “You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it properly.”