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plucked and twiddled a seeded grass stem.
Here’s a tree in summer.
She ran her finger and thumb along the stem, pulled away the seeds, leaving a bare stalk.
Here’s a tree in winter.
She thought of Jim then, the morgue, his corpse, the husk. She held the grass seeds between her finger and thumb.
Here’s a bunch of flowers.
She sprinkled the seeds on the grave.
Here come April showers.
Death brings forth new life. Even the dodgy seed can reproduce.
    â€˜We could improvise a Ouija board,’ Helen said. ‘See if we can contact him. Ask him how he’s doing.’
    Sam said, ‘The Ouija board only ever worked when you pushed the bottle with your finger.’
    â€˜I thought you were the one who was pushing it.’ Helen cackled. Jess joined in. Sam said nothing. Helen jabbed Sam in the back with the tip of her ankle boot, leaned down, passed her the joint. ‘Although you know what really did work?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The House of Levitation.’
    â€˜You’re right,’ Sam said. ‘God, that was strange.’ The House of Levitation; the ritual had filled the long summer of ‘76, the year of the drought when all hosepipes had been banned and it was too hot to go out on their bikes. Everybody wanted to be the corpse, because being dead didn’t require any effort. Of course, her sisters and their mates usually got what they wanted, so she had only played the cadaver once – lying on the warm soil, cardigan slung over her face, half dozing in the heat while Jess and Helen and three or so friends knelt around her and chanted. Welcome to the House of Levitation. This girl looks ill, this girl is ill, this girl looks dead, this girl is dead. And then suddenly she was up in the air, weightless, high above the heads of the chanting mourners, a fleeting sensation of flight and brilliant white light before she had looked down, screamed and fallen back to earth. She wasn’t sure what she had experienced, but she couldn’t dispel the nagging unease, the pull. Her hand touched the birthmark on the side of her face.
    â€˜What was the final line of that chant?’ Jess asked.
    â€˜Light as a feather,’ Sam said. ‘Stiff as a board.’
    â€˜Weird.’ Jess’s eyes were fixed on Jim’s headstone. ‘Perhaps he is still here. Hanging around, unable to leave and rest in peace. Maybe something is weighing him down.’
    The crow squatting on the rowan cawed, irritated, flew away.
    Sam said, ‘Do you ever see Jim?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ Helen demanded.
    â€˜Do you ever catch a glimpse of him in the street or propping up a bar somewhere?’
    â€˜No. I don’t see him.’ Jess narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you?’
    Sam let the smoke drift out of her open mouth, curl away. ‘No.’
    â€˜So why did you ask if we had seen him?’ Helen said.
    â€˜Just making conversation.’
    â€˜God, I’d hate to be stuck with you at a party.’
    Sam wriggled her hand in her pocket, felt the soft corner of the police diary, removed and placed it gently on the ground in front of the headstone.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜One of Jim’s diaries.’
    â€˜Is that a good idea?’
    She blanked her sisters’ glares, stared at the diary, black rectangle against the brown earth, closed book. She searched for something to say, the right words, but they didn’t come. Neither of her sisters spoke. They stood heads bowed by the grave and only the rooks could be heard. Eventually Helen said, ‘Some things in this life will never be resolved. And Jim is one of them.’
    Sam saw then that Helen had tears tracking down her face and so did Jess. They were as bad as her, if not worse. As bad as Jim. Never judge a Coyle by their cover. She thought Helen was about to let rip and bawl, but she held it in, wiped her cheek and said, ‘I’ve had enough of this bollocks. Let’s