The little back room became even more stifling as the sun sizzled across the concrete path. It was pointless trying to open the window for a breath of fresh air. There was no movement of air, nothing stirring at all out in the garden. He was supposed to draw the curtains when the sun reached the back of the house, but that made his pokey room feel even worse, like being locked up in a packing crate. Not ‘his’ room, exactly, Thelma had never called it that. She called it the ‘guest room’, though Seymour certainly didn’t feel like a guest. People were supposed to be deferential to guests and make them feel welcome. Thelma had bestowed no such courtesy on him. She’d made it clear that his presence was inconvenient, even though he hadn’t wanted to come and was bewildered by the whole arrangement. All he knew was that although he was supposed to spend three more weeks of the Christmas holidays with his dad, his mother had charged dramatically up to the caravan park and brought him home. Maybe she had a point—his father had made a boozy telephone call threatening to take Seymour away interstate for good. Seymour himself hadn’t been particularly worried. His dad had made the same threat once or twice in the past, but as he rarely had the funds to travel even to the next town to find work, an interstate trip held as much likelihood as a visit to the moon. His mother, however, thrived on drama, no matter how shallow.

He glanced at his new watch, which his dad, coming home tipsily one night to the caravan park, had given him in a fit of maudlin remorse. Seymour hadn’t wanted such a gift, but hadn’t known a compassionate way to refuse it, either. And it wasn’t really a gift, but more of a bribe for his permanent company.

It was only ten-thirty. Groaning with boredom and despair, he went up the hall and had another look through the coloured panels in the front door. All the houses in Victoria Road were exactly the same as Thelma’s—single-fronted red brick, each with a miserly sliver of front garden and one window set beside the door. Those windows looked like a gallery of eyes watching him, saying, ‘We see you, Seymour Kerley! Don’t you dare step outside while Thelma’s at work. She told you to stay inside, and we’re here to make certain you do!’ The whole street of one-eyed, spying houses was intimidating. Even their polished brass doorknobs looked like medals awarded for vigilance.