I keep meaning to ask Rube what it was like to really beat the hell out of that guy, but I never do. I always pull out.

Also, in case you’re interested, something has started to stink in our room, but we don’t know what it is.

‘What the hell is that?’ Rube asks me. A threatening tone. ‘Is it y’ feet?’

‘No.’

‘Y’ socks?’

‘No way.’

‘Y’ shoes? Undies?’

‘It’s this conversation,’ I suggest.

‘Now don’t get smart.’

‘All right!’

‘Or I’ll crush y’.’

‘All right.’

‘Y’ little —’

‘All right!’

‘Somethin’ always stinks in here,’ interrupts my dad, who has stuck his head into the room. He shakes his head in amazement, and I feel like everything’s going to be okay. Or at least half okay anyway.

‘Hey Rube.’

‘You just woke me, you bastard.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m glad I did. You deserve it.’

‘What is it this time?’

‘Can’t y’ hear ‘em?’

‘Who?’

‘Mum and Dad. They’re talkin’ again in the kitchen. About the bills and all that.’

‘Yeah. They can’t pay ‘em too good.’

‘It’s —’

‘Bloody hell! What is that smell? It’s a dis-grace, ay. Are you sure it’s not y’ socks?’

‘Yes. I’m sure.’

I stop, and breathe.

I think a question and speak it. Finally.

‘Did it feel good to smash that guy?’

Rube: ‘A little, but not really.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ He thinks for a moment. ‘I knew I’d beat him and I didn’t care about him one bit. I cared about Sarah.’ I sense him staring at the ceiling. ‘See Cameron. The only things I care about in this life are me, you, Mum, Dad, Steve and Sarah. And maybe Miffy. The rest of the world means nothing to me. The rest of the world can rot.’

‘Am I like that too?’

‘You? No way.’ There’s a slight gap in his words. ‘And that’s your problem. You care about everything.’

He’s right.

I do.

4

Mum’s cooking pea soup now. It’ll last us about a week, which is okay. I can think of worse meals.

‘Top notch soup,’ Rube tells her after it’s swallowed on Wednesday night. Miffy night.

‘Well there’s more where that came from,’ Mum answers.

‘Yeah,’ Rube laughs, and everyone else is pretty quiet.

Steve and Dad have just argued about Dad going on the dole. The silence is slippery. It’s dangerous, as I go over what was said:

‘I won’t do it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s below my dignity.’

‘Like hell it is. You’re even knockin’ on doors like a pathetic boy scout offering vacuuming and dusting for fifty cents apiece.’ Steve glares. ‘And it’d be nice to pay our bills on time,’ which is when Dad’s fist comes down on the table.

‘No,’ and that’s pretty much it.