The last time eleven year old Wyatt Dobrosco saw his mother alive, she was bound and gagged in the trunk of his father's car: lit only by the yellow porch-light of their unpainted weatherboard house, just outside of Wholesome, Nebraska.

They drove through the darkness. From time to time, Wyatt would tilt his head to gaze up at the moon. His father had nothing to say, and Wyatt, in the passenger seat, didn't feel like talking.

Nebraska was a great place to live if you liked corn. Fields of it stretched out forever on both sides of the road. Wyatt didn't. Never had. Never would.

Sheriff Clint Dobrosco killed the engine, the car's headlights died with it, and the night closed in around them.

'Stay there,' he said.

Wyatt knew better than to argue.

Clint Dobrosco had to twist at the hips and angle his shoulders to haul his six feet and six inch frame out the driver's seat, and the frost-brittle grass growing on the verge shattered beneath the soles of his boots as he made his way to the trunk.

Rosa Dobrosco wasn't a small woman, but the sheriff lifted her easily and carried her over his shoulder into the field, between the rows. The corn was high. The moon was full.

He wasn't gone for long. Wyatt thought he was gone for too long.

He waited until his father had started the car and they were driving away before asking, 'Were they there? Did you see them?'

'They were there,' Clint Dobrosco said.

'Did you see them?' Wyatt repeated.

'No, I didn't see them,' said his father. 'And I don't ever want to.'

Danny DiVestri was eight years old the first time he helped his mother inject herself with heroin. He was eleven when he killed her with an accidental overdose. She was a prostitute. His father was an unknown. With no other family, and nowhere else to go, Danny lived on the streets.

Albert Paisley was a homeless alcoholic of indeterminable age. A drunk and a derelict. In another life he'd had a wife and a child. A house with a two car garage. But all Albert had left in the world was the Book of Common Prayer and the bottle.

Danny was by the park bench Albert slept on just after sunrise and nudged him awake.

'Here you go,' said Danny, 'I got you some water.' And offered Albert a throw-away cardboard coffee cup filled from a nearby drinking fountain.

Declining the water, Albert unscrewed the cap from his flagon of muscatel and drank a toast to the new day.

The only other people in the park were joggers and early dog-walkers. Albert made room for him and Danny took the empty half of the bench beside him. They listened to the strident calls of currawongs in the canopy of leaves above them.

'I've got money,' said Danny, 'if you want some breakfast.'

Albert shook his head. 'No thanks, mate. You keep it.'

He didn't ask where the money had come from. He'd accepted the probability that Danny, who was not yet a teenager, had most likely sold his childhood innocence for the "necessaries" just to survive.

Albert said, 'See those birds? The big, ugly, black buggers making all the noise? Look like crows?'

Danny squinted. 'Yeah?'

'See the white patches behind their wings? That's where God held them when He painted their feathers.'

'You're a daft old codger,' said Danny, smiling. 'There ain't no God.'

'Of course there's a God,' Albert insisted. 'He just stopped paying attention awhile back. And rightly so, I reckon. But not to you. Not to the little children. Don't give up on him, mate. He hasn't forgotten you.'

Danny shrugged and said, 'You think? He's got a funny way of showin' it.'

'We were soldiers once,' said Albert, 'and young.'

Danny looked over at him. 'What?'

'Didn't have a choice, did we? The government brought in conscription. Pulled names from a barrel. If your name came up, you were in the army. Long time ago, now. Before you were born. You've probably never heard of the war in Vietnam. So, anyway, they gave me a gun and told me to go and shoot the little, yellow bastards. They weren't yellow, they were "Red". What did I care about communists? We were only there because the Yanks couldn't keep their noses out of it. Dragged us in with them. There was a village that had a church, from when the French were there. And in front of the church was a wooden cross, stood up in the ground. I don't know how he did it, but one of the village elders had had himself nailed to it. Nailed to the cross.'

'What'd yous do?'

'We took him down. Our medic bandaged his wounds. Then we moved on, to the next village. But I'll always remember that. The Old Rugged Cross.'

'Fuckin' hell, Bert.'

'Goes to show, though, doesn't it? Life is diamonds and dirt, hearts and hurt, madness and majesty.'

'You're not a poofter, are you, Bert?'

'No, mate. Not me. Never was.'

'Good,' said Danny, 'cause you're me mate, and a mate wouldn't try it on, would he?'

'My soul has been washed in the blood the Lord,' said Albert.

Danny snorted. 'That don't mean nuffink. All them priests. Don't you read the papers?'

Albert waited for the words that, he suspected, the child needed to say.

'I don't want to be a poofter no more.'

And there it was.

Danny wiped away silent tears. 'They make me do bad things, Bert. They said if you do it one time then you're a poofter, and it don't never go away!'

'I don't believe that's true,' said Albert. 'I think either you are or you're not, and if you aren't then... '

'But they said!'

'Listen to me, Daniel. Whatever you've done, there's nothing so terrible that God would turn his face from you.'

Danny shook his head. 'If I don't do what they want, they'll hurt me. And if I tell anybody, they'll kill me. I'm in the shit, and there ain't nuffink nobody can do about it.'

Albert quoted, 'Come unto me all who are heavily laden, said the Lord, Jesus Christ, and I will give you rest.'

Albert stood up on unsteady legs. 'Come with me. I know someone who can help you.'

They made their way out of the park onto Oxford Street. Albert stepped off the curb without looking. The driver of the Number 3 bus from Padstow to Central didn't have time to stop.

Oh to be your teapot

Snug in its crocheted cozy

Or your cream jug

With its painted porcelain posy

How I would blush

My cheeks flush and rosy

If I could be your sugar bowl

'I won't forget you,' he says.

And with those few final words, I am gone from his life forever.

But, wait. Let us start again. For this, our story, begins elsewhere.

Benedict Goodnight stands under a key-stoned archway in the cloistered quad of Wallsford Comprehensive and tries not to stare at Sundae Loving. He knows it is not polite to stare. Not that Mistress Loving would notice. Young Master Goodnight does not exist in her world. No more than we exist in his.

But all of that is about to change!

'Are you drooling, Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'You are. You're positively foaming at the mouth, boy! Are you ill?'

'I'm in love, sir.'

'Love, eh? I wouldn't know the first thing about it. But do carry on.'

That was Benedict's problem. He never had. Carried on, I mean. With anyone. And certainly not with Sundae Loving. His heart was pure, and his thoughts were chaste. She was his Earth and he was her moon. Constantly in orbit. Unable to move away, and equally unable to move any nearer. A satellite love.

'And Goodnight?'

'Sir?'

'Try not to drown in your own saliva.'

Uncommon beauty is commonly overlooked. And while Mistress Sundae could not be considered a classical beauty, her whole was greater than the sum of her parts.

And Master Benedict? He was kind and honest. And the space between his ears was not an empty one. He was neither attractive nor unattractive, but your plain, ordinary, average boy on the street.

This is where I come in. My name is Giacomo Girolamo Casanova. And I happen to know a little something about love.

You will know, already, that I am dead. It happens. People die all the time. But death is not, necessarily, how you might imagine it. A life is not a candle to be snuffed out so easily. Sometimes a small wisp of smoke still lingers.

There are those who can hear me. Those who can see me. And those, though few, who can do both. Ben is one of them. As to whose shadow first crossed whose threshold, I cannot recall. It will suffice to say that we did meet, and were soon good friends.

One night, when he lay in his bed, and I was sitting in a chair by his window, Ben said, 'How do you get a girl to notice you?'

'Clothes,' I said. 'You must dress to impress!'

'Not helpful... Everyone at school wears the same uniform.'

'It is not what you wear,' I told him, 'but how you wear it. A tie is not a noose around your neck. A blazer is not a sack for harvesting vegetables.'

'Ok. What else?'

'Never tuck your shirt inside your underpants. Who taught you to do that?'

'I don't know. It's just something we do.'

'Who is we?' I asked.

'Guys, I guess. Boys?'

'A-ha! Yes! Little boys. Girls do not look at little boys. They cuddle them. They baby them. They bounce them them on their knees. Is that what you want? To be bounced?'

'Well... No.'

'Then you must be a man, and not a little boy. A young man, perhaps. But a man!'

'How do I do that?'

'First, you must think of yourself as a man. To think like a man, you must look like a man. Your hair. Your clothes. We will change everything! Trust me, my friend. You will not believe the difference!'

We began the very next morning. I laid out Ben's uniform while he showered. His body was nothing more, and nothing less, than I expected. Normal. There was nothing un-expected. The usual bits were in the usual places.

'Stand up straight,' I said. 'Do not slouch! Shoulders back! Chest out! Chin up! Now, repeat after me. I am a man!'

'I am a man.'

'You do not sound so sure. Say it. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Better. A penis is not something to be ashamed of. Say it!'

'A penis - '

'No. No. I am a man!'

'I am a man!'

'Good! Get dressed. There is still much to do!'

When Ben was dressed to my satisfaction, I asked him if he was a sheep.

'What? No!'

'So why,' I said, 'do you comb your hair over your eyes? Who are you hiding from? Use your fingers to brush it back from your face. Show the world you are not afraid!'

'You're wearing a wig,' he said.

'It was the fashion when I was alive,' I replied. 'It is not the fashion now.'

'But you still wear it.'

'It suits me to do so. And we are not concerned with my appearance. So, my young friend, what are you?'

'A man?'

'Yes, you are! And do not forget it!'

At Ben's school, I pointed out Mistress Sundae.

'You will walk past her,' I told him. 'You will catch her eye. You will smile. But you will not speak.'

He shook his head. 'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Her friends are there.'

'So? Are they gorgons to turn a man to stone? Go!'

And to his credit, he went.

He did the same thing the next day. And the next. Every day for a week. And what do you think happened on the Friday afternoon? As Ben was walking out through the school gates? She followed in the dance, of course!

Here is what I heard.

Her. 'Hi.'

Him. 'Hi.'

Her. 'You're Ben, right?'

Him. 'Yeah.'

Her. 'Cool.'

'Do not slow down,' I said. 'Keep walking.'

Mistress Sundae has to skip to keep up.

Her. 'You look different.'

Him. 'Do I?'

Her. 'That's my bus. I have to go.'

Him. 'Ok.'

Her. 'Will I see you Monday?'

Him. 'Sure... Maybe.'

'You were perfect,' I said.

Ben was not convinced. 'I dunno.'

'Wait,' I said. 'You will see.'

Monday morning came. Sundae was waiting at the school gates.

'Hi, Ben!'

'Hi.'

'You're here.'

'Yep.'

'I thought... When you said maybe... But here you are!'

'Here I am.'

'Cool. There's my friend Amy. Come and say hi.'

I never said the conversation was riveting.

On Tuesday they ate lunch together.

On Wednesday they held hands.

On Thursday they kissed.

On Friday they kissed again.

I did not stay to watch. I am not a voyeur.

On Saturday they met in a nearby park.

On Sunday -

Ah... Every day should be a Sundae!