‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to say the word retarded anymore,’ Davey said.

‘Oh yeah? Since when?’

‘I don’t know, a while,’ Davey said.

‘Why’s that, then?’

‘I think it’s hurtful.’

‘God, I wouldn’t want to do that. They’re great fellas with their cupcakes, and always smiling. What should I say?’ she asked.

‘Mentally disabled,’ Davey said.

‘Right, and what if they’re physically fucked as well?’ she asked. Francie burst out laughing.

‘Mentally and physically disabled,’ Davey said.

‘Jaysus, that’s a mouthful,’ she said.

‘Don’t mind him, Mrs F, you say what you want to say, you’re hurting no one.’

‘Ah no, Francie. I have to keep up with the times,’ she said, and she grabbed what was left of the cupcake from him. ‘Still, they’re lovely cupcakes, aren’t they?’ she said.

‘Excellent,’ he said.

‘Now, one more thing before you go – help me pull this bed back.’

Francie did as he was told. The wall was dusty; Mrs Faye took a moment to pull a dusting cloth from her pocket and clean the cobwebs away.

‘Lean in,’ she said, and Francie leaned in. Davey followed suit; behind the headboard there was another verse.

‘He wrote this on his last day in this room. He didn’t want it to be seen by anyone but Rabbit. I respected that, but being the day that’s in it . . .’

They both read it. Davey looked from Mrs Faye to Francie and back to the wall.

‘Read it for me, Francie,’ Mrs Faye said, and she sat on her son’s bed and closed her eyes and listened with a slight smile on her face.

Dear God, she doesn’t believe in you, in all you say and do and do not do.

There is no other life for her, no place to go, no love deferred.

But I believe, I conceive a world where I am Johnny Faye the singer and that boy on stage with her, my Rabbit by my side, making me laugh, making my life.

Dear God, if my end be suffering, open that door, let me fly in and when her time has come to land, dear God, allow me to grab her hand.

Johnny Faye, 30 April 1989

‘Holy fuck,’ Davey said.

‘The date,’ Francie said to Davey.

‘Yesterday’s date!’ he said.

‘Give or take twenty-five years,’ Mrs Faye said.

‘Holy fuck,’ Davey muttered.

‘It’s a mad old world,’ Mrs Faye said, and she picked up her tray and moved to leave.

‘You’ll leave it as it was now, won’t you, lads?’ she said.

‘’Course, Mrs F.’

‘Good on ya,’ she said, and she left the room.