He shrugged. I thought he looked uncomfortable. He had fixed up the old car with pieces of carpet, a mattress, and some bundles of magazines to make a decent-looking den. From a distance, it just looked like another old wreck. It was pretty cool, actually.

“Don’t tell my mum,” said Poodle. “She thinks I’m over at your place.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “My dad probably thinks I’m with you. Got any smokes?”

Poodle seemed to relax a bit. He had a packet of sherbet dabs, and some cigarettes, which we shared, sitting on the worn-out seats and watching the silent water. I’m not supposed to smoke, of course. Even though Dad does, in secret. But then again, I’m not supposed to read comic books, or listen to David Bowie, or look at pictures of ladies with their clothes off. All because of My Condition, of course. Still, it does occur to me that Dad might be just a little confused about what My Condition really is.

Poodle had left his magazine on the backseat of the old car. I don’t know much about cars, except that it was a soft-top, shredded by the elements. I also saw that Poodle had been doodling on his magazine, giving the cover girl a mustache and a massive cock and balls.

Poodle noticed me noticing, and made a grab for the magazine. I managed to hang on to it, though. I opened it, and saw the same kind of drawings inside. Oh, I thought. Maybe the red Flamingo girl from Church isn’t his type after all.

Poodle went red. His acne scars looked almost white against the colour of his neck. He said: “It’s just a bit of fun. I’m not gay, or anything.”

“’Course not. And those other books—the ones hidden under the car seat—those are just Enid Blyton. Right?”

Poodle looked sick. He turned away. I guess he knew there was no point in denying it. The car seat was stuffed with magazines—some of them what my dad calls beefcake mags, but a couple of novels too, with titles racy enough for dear old Dad to have himself a heart attack.

“I thought you fancied that girl from Church. The one who plays guitar,” I said.

He gave a sick little smile. “I wish. That would be so easy,” he said. “I mean, she’d never look at me, but at least it would make me normal—”

“Normal’s overrated,” I said.

He looked depressed. “That’s not what Dad thinks. I’m expecting the Talk any day now. The one about how self-abuse makes you blind, and pimples are just God’s way of telling you to take more cold showers.”

“I know that talk,” I said, and grinned. “I’ve been getting it since I was nine.”

“I thought if I—you know—got rid of my curiosity—”

“Then it would magically go away?”