“And there’s something else,” said Dave.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“If you don’t do it, I’ll punch your head in.”

“Oh,” I said.

Dave made a fist. “Sorry,” he said, “but we’ve come too far to go back.”

I considered Dave’s fist. It was a fierce fist. I’d seen it in action. “I’m sorry too,” I said. “I’m just being silly. I came here to bring Mr Penrose back from the dead. And that’s just what I’ll do.”

“Good man.” Dave hugged my shoulder. “Then, please hurry up.”

I took out the book I’d borrowed from the library and the special herbs that Mother Demdike had given me.

“Take the herbs,” I said to Dave. “And when I tell you, and not before, you put them into his mouth.”

Dave looked down at Mr Penrose and I saw a look of doubt appear on his face. “I’m not doing that,” he said. “That’s your job, putting the herbs in.”

“But you just said—”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Dave. “You should take all the glory.”

“You’re scared.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re afraid to touch his face.”

“You can catch the syph from touching a dead man’s face.”

“What’s the syph?”

“It’s a terrible disease.”

“All right, let’s forget the whole thing.”

Dave dithered, but only for a moment. “All right,” he said. “I’ll prise his mouth open with my penknife.”

I shook my head. I really did have my doubts.

“All right,” I said too. “Let’s do this.” And I opened the book and began to read out the ritual.

I knew that there was more that should be done than just reading out the ritual. I knew there was supposed to be beating drums and frenzied dancing about by half-naked brown ladies and even a cockerel getting its head chopped off. But it seemed to me that in theory the words and the herbs should be enough.

In theory.

Now, one thing that I didn’t know then was that when you perform a magic ritual you have to do it very loudly. You have to shout the words right out. Magic is a very noisy business, which is why its practitioners have always chosen out-of-the-way places like blasted heaths and distant forest glades to perform their rituals. The line that divides the world of man from the world of spirit is not a thin line, it’s a chunky solid affair that takes some breaking through. If you want to be heard on the other side of it, you’re going to have to shout very loudly indeed. I pass on this information to you in the interests of science. And because I know that passing on little titbits like this, as I will throughout this book, really gets up the noses of ritual magicians, who love to keep things like this secret.

“Speak up,” said Dave. “I can’t hear you.”

I spoke up a bit, then a bit more.

Dave rocked back and forwards on his heels and clicked his fingers and popped his thumbs. “Go on, my son,” he said. “Give it ritual.”

I gave it ritual and shouted the words.

“Go on,” I shouted at Dave. “Feed Mr Penrose the herbs.”

Dave took out his penknife and I averted my eyes as he prised the author’s teeth apart and emptied in the herbs.

I shouted away the rest of the ritual.

And then I was done.

Dave stepped back from the coffin. “What happens next?” he whispered. “Will he come alive?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose so.”

And we waited.

The sunlight fell in shorter shafts now; the room was becoming darker. Outside, in what seemed now a distant realm, the bell-sounds of other approaching police cars could be heard. Here in this old room, this peaceful room, we stood shoulder to shoulder, Dave and I, wondering what would happen next, each alone inside our heads with thoughts that were personal to us.

I don’t know what Dave was thinking, but I knew what was going on in my brain.

It hasn’t worked, my brain was saying. It was all rubbish and you will now be for ever a fool in Dave’s eyes.

“Are you sure you did it right?” Dave asked, and his voice seemed now very loud indeed in that room.

“I’m sure,” I whispered. “Although the herbs might not be right. Mother Demdike might have given me the wrong stuff.” That seemed a very good excuse to me.

“Gary,” said Dave, and he took out his cigarettes.

“Dave?” said I, and I eyed them eagerly.

“Gary, I just want to say this. We are bestest friends, aren’t we?” Dave took out two cigarettes.

“We are bestest friends that there can be,” I said.

Dave handed me a cigarette. “Whatever we do,” he said, “in the future – like, when we’re grown-up and everything – we’ll still be bestest friends, won’t we?”

“Yes,” I said. “We will.”

“I want you to know,” said Dave, “that I never thought this would work. Not really. I hoped it would, because if it had it would have been really special. Something wonderful that both of us had done together. It would have been incredible. And we could have talked about it one day, when we were very old men, sitting on a park bench or somewhere. We would have said, ‘Remember the time we raised P.P. Penrose from the dead?’ And that would have been something, wouldn’t it?”

I nodded. “It would,” I said.

“But it hasn’t worked.”

“No,” I said. “It hasn’t.”

“But what I want to say,” said Dave, “is that it doesn’t matter. In case you’re thinking you would look a bit of a fool or something.”

I nodded and then shook my head. “I wasn’t thinking that,” I said.

“You were,” said Dave. “But it’s all right. You went to a lot of trouble. Borrowing the book and getting the herbs and the skull from Mother Demdike. That took bottle. I wouldn’t go into her stinking hut. But it’s OK. This was a brave thing. We’re here in this room with this dead man, this great man, and we did try. That’s something.”

“It is,” I said. “We tried.”

“So, in a way, we’ll be able to look back on this. We’ll even laugh about it. We’ll say, ‘Remember when we were kids and we tried to raise P.P. Penrose from the dead?’ We’ll laugh, we’ll chuckle. We’ll have smoker’s cough and tweed suits and we’ll smell of wee-wee like old people do and we’ll laugh together.”

“I like that idea,” I said. “That sounds nice. Although I don’t fancy smelling of wee-wee.”

“So we must promise,” said Dave, “you and me, we must promise that no one will ever know about this. It will be our secret. Just the two of us. We tried to do a great thing, and we failed. But the magic, the magic which is our friendship, is in that we did try.”

“You are so wise,” I said to Dave. “With a wisdom of your age, of course. But you are wise and I am proud to call you my bestest friend.” I put my arm around Dave’s shoulder.

“We did a brave thing,” said Dave. “We did a noble thing. And now, as I can hear the front door being opened and the security chain being bashed about, I suggest that we climb out of the window and have it away on our toes.”

“I so agree,” I said, and Dave upped the nearest window.

I took a final look at Mr Penrose. He remained in silence. In repose. His eyes were closed and his nose shone in the sunlight. His mouth looked somewhat wonky though. “Goodbye, Mr Penrose,” I said. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t raise you from the dead. Dave and I tried. Goodbye.”

Mr Penrose had nothing to say and Dave and I took our leave.

The funeral of Mr P.P. Penrose, sporting man, best-selling author of the Lazlo Woodbine thrillers and Brentford’s most famous son, was held the very next day.

Dave and I didn’t need to bunk off school: a public holiday had been declared by the Brentford Town Council and the school was closed.

We followed the horse-drawn hearse, with its plumed black horses and its wonderful etched-glass windows and polished coach lamps, led by the slow-striding mutes in their veiled top hats and ceremonial coats.

Behind walked figures of renown. The Prime Minister was there and the heads of state from several countries of the British Empire.