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hip. Downing his tool he stepped over to us, snatching the can of cola from
Stu’s coat pocket.
    ‘Good of you to bring refreshments as well as tuck,’ he said, ruffling Stu’s mop of hair. He picked up a handful of steaming chips as his son shambled past.
    ‘If it isn’t young Master Hancock?’ said Rev. Singer, his perfect white smile dazzling as Dougie approached sheepishly. He popped a chip in and wolfed it down. ‘How are
you doing, Dougie? You’re looking a bit . . . peaky.’
    The vicar wasn’t wrong. My mate’s pale bald head and dark-rimmed eyes did his looks no favour.
    ‘I, um . . . have a part in the school play . . .’ he lied.
    ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Rev. Singer with a wink.
    ‘Did you tell him already?’ asked an alarmed Dougie, calling to Stu who had shambled off to a bench to eat his chips. Stu simply shrugged, his mouth full of salt-and-vinegar-drenched
potato.
    ‘Tell me what already?’ asked Rev. Singer, his smile slipping.
    I’d always liked the reverend. It was no surprise that Mum and Dad had asked for him to oversee my funeral. It had been Rev. Singer who had christened me after all, only right he should be
looking after me at the end. All of Stu’s friends knew he was a friendly ear, someone they could turn to if they were feeling low. He had always been straight with us, never spoke down to us.
He was a top bloke.
    ‘Sit yourself down, Dougie,’ said the vicar, parking his bottom on a nearby bench. Dougie went to join him. ‘Tell me what’s the matter, my boy.’
    My friend shifted nervously on the wooden seat, trying to think of where to begin.
    ‘Tell him you’ve seen me,’ I whispered, simply. Dougie glanced up at me, and Rev. Singer saw the look.
    ‘Has this got something to do with Will Underwood?
    Dougie did a double-take instantly, eyes wide as he stared suspiciously at the vicar. ‘You
did
say something!’ he shouted to Stu.
    ‘I said nowt,’ replied our friend, his mouth full of chips. ‘My old man’s a bit of a wizard when it comes to sniffing out the truth. It’s like he’s
telepathic!’
    Rev. Singer shook his head and smiled. ‘Empathetic is the word you’re searching for, Stuart,’ he sighed. ‘I like to think I understand what makes folk unhappy. Hopefully
I can play my part to make that sadness go away.’
    I didn’t like his choice of words.
Go away?
That could only mean one thing.
    ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I said. ‘Don’t ask him to exorcise me!’
    ‘I’ve seen nothing of you since Will’s funeral, Dougie, and I know you and he were very close. Grief is nothing to be ashamed of, my boy. If you’re upset, why don’t
you try talking about it? I’m a good listener. Isn’t that right, Stuart?’
    ‘Painfully good!’ replied his son, slurping vinegar from his fingers.
    ‘People deal with grief and loss in different ways, Dougie,’ the vicar went on. ‘I can only speak from my own experience, but I’ve always felt that talking to friends and
loved ones is a start. If you want to have a cry, then have a good cry. There’s nothing to fear from tears.’
    Dougie sniffed and fought back a sobbing chuckle. I felt my friend’s sadness, the mixed emotions that had clearly weighed heavy upon his shoulders since the night I’d died. And the
days that had followed, when I’d reappeared. He wasn’t grieving: how could he? I hadn’t gone away!
    ‘What’s your take on ghosts, Rev. Singer?’ he asked eventually, looking up to stare into the vicar’s eyes.
    Stu’s dad looked taken aback momentarily. He nodded.
    ‘I firmly believe most “hauntings” are no more supernatural than that bag of chips my son is devouring.’ Stu snorted as his father continued. ‘They’re a
manifestation of an internalised fear or vulnerability. Strange sounds, weird happenings, inexplicable phenomena and the like: people conjure ghost theories to help explain these things when
there’s usually a rational