Night after night, I slept badly. When you are as old as I am, there are a lot of memories that can turn into bad dreams.

The man’s face kept coming into my mind, when he leaned down at the car window, and each time I would reach for the memory, but it would elude me and I would wake, sweating, in the hot nights. My bed was covered with a “duvet.” I was used to sheets and blankets.

I ate little. Mam and I used to have simple food. I do not know why, but at Earl Grey House we are served things like curry, and spaghetti, and peri-peri chicken, which burns my lips.

Pizza is all right. I do not mind pizza.

I had been in Earl Grey House for a week and everybody from Sangeeta, whom I saw daily, to the children’s-home staff (led by a slightly scary lady who was introduced to me as Aunty Reet) was being very gentle and sweet. There were eight other children there of assorted ages. Two of the girls smiled at me, but I did not feel much like speaking. The last person I had spoken the truth to betrayed me to the police. Now I had to learn to live in my life of lies.

I do not suppose that the man with the Neverdead scars knows where I am now, and besides, I tell myself that I was probably imagining it all anyway.

It is easier that way. For the time being, anyhow.

Then the subject of Mam’s funeral came up. I knew it would, of course. Sangeeta asked me if I wanted to go. I said yes. I have been to more funerals than almost anyone I have ever met, including old people.

I had seen a headline in the local newspaper two days earlier:

WOODS FIRE VICTIM: “SIMPLE” FUNERAL FOR TRAGIC MUM

Sangeeta also asked me if I wanted to help organize it, but I said no.

So there we were, me and Aunty Reet, on a Saturday morning outside Earl Grey House, waiting for Sangeeta to take us to Whitley Crematorium, where dead people are burned instead of putting them in a grave.

I think Mam would have approved. We once saw a funeral for a Viking thane, or lord. I say Viking: he was Danish, at least, but he liked the old Viking ways because it was his family heritage. By then, his family had lived peacefully up the Tyne for four or five generations.

A floating platform had been constructed on the beach at Culvercot, although there was no village there then. The thane’s body was placed on it and surrounded with wood and sea coal, set alight, and pushed out to sea.

We all gathered and sang the old songs and ate meat that the thane’s family had provided. In truth, everybody knew that only the most important people were ever buried on an actual burning ship. For a start, you had to be able to afford a ship to burn. Ealdor Sveyn—the dead lord—was certainly not that important or that rich. He was, though, what you would now call a “snob.” He imagined himself to be grander than he really was. But we did not mind: the funeral feast was free.

So the platform was set alight and pushed into the bay, where it drifted out beyond the rocks. It soon collapsed in a hiss of smoke. The following morning, Ealdor Sveyn’s charred corpse was washed up on the shoreline. His grandson took it away and buried it in the ground somewhere.

All of this was flashing through my head as I stood outside Earl Grey House, looking out over the bay. It was warm, but there was a slight breeze coming off the sea.

I could see the exact spot, a little way out into the bay, where Ealdor Sveyn’s raft collapsed and sank, taking his half-burnt body with it. I could almost hear the chants and sad songs that were being sung by everybody on the shore. There was one by Bede that I remembered:

“Foruh them neidfaerae, nenig weirthit

Thonk-snottura than him tharf sie…”

“Are you all right?” It was Sangeeta’s voice, and I turned round. She said it again. “Are you all right? You were lost in the clouds, then, Alfie!”

“I am sorry. Were you saying something?”

“No. But you, you…were singing something! What was it?”

“Nothing, Sangeeta. Sorry.”

She looked at me, eyes narrowed, for a moment. She has done that a lot in the past few days. “OK, then. I was asking if you’ve ever been to a funeral before.”

I must still have been in my half-dream state. I said, “I have attended far too many.”

“I thought you said you had no relatives, Alfie? Is that because they’ve all died?” She did not say this aggressively. Was she trying to catch me in a lie? It felt that way.

I was thinking of a reply when Aunty Reet came down the steps of Earl Grey House and ushered us along to the waiting car.

I will avoid a long description of the funeral, because nothing happened until the end.

There were not many people there.

There was me, obviously, Aunty Reet, and Sangeeta. I had a pair of non-jeans that Sangeeta had bought me, and a dark pullover.

There was Vericka, and Robbie the Fire Investigations man. He winked at me and gave a tight little smile. That was nice of him. But I wished there were people I really knew. Friends. Of course, that was impossible. I had even lost my cat.

There was a reporter too, with a camera, which she put away after Sangeeta had a quiet word with her. I am not sure what a reporter was expecting to see. Probably more people, I should imagine.

There was a vicar, obviously.

After all the words had been said, and Sangeeta had squeezed my shoulder until I almost asked her to stop, and the coffin disappeared behind a red curtain like an especially sinister magic trick, that was it. We turned to go, and I saw them.

Roxy Minto and Aidan Linklater, standing at the back of the little chapel.