In here, he won’t give me an inch, but out in the world, he’ll defend me to the death. The frightening thing is that I’m the same. We all seem to be.

A pause yawns through the air, before Rube and I start speaking without looking at each other. Personally, I look at a blotch on the wall, wondering, What is that? What the hell is it? As for Rube, I can sense that he has lifted his feet to the desk and rests his chin on his knees. His eyes, I imagine, are fixed straight ahead, on the old cement stairs.

‘Hitman Harry,’ I begin.

‘Yeah.’

‘You reckon he’s any good?’

‘Maybe.’

Then, right in the middle of it all, Rube says, ‘I’m gonna tell ‘em.’ His statement brings with it no extra attention, no movement. No prospect of believing that he’s thought out what he has said just now. It’s been decided long ago.

The only problem is, I have no idea what he’s talking about.

‘Tell who what?’ I enquire.

‘Can you really be that thick?’ He turns to me now, a savage look on his face. ‘Mum and Dad, y’ yobbo.’

‘I’m not a yobbo.’

I hate it when he calls me that. Yobbo. I think I hate it worse than faggot. It makes me feel like I’m eating a pie and drinking VB and like I’ve got a beer gut the size of Everest.

‘Anyway,’ he goes on impatiently, ‘I’m tellin’ Mum and Dad about the boxing. I’m sick of the sneakin’ round.’

I stop.

Think it over in my mind.

‘When y’ gonna tell ‘em?’

‘Just before you and me fight.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘They’ll keep us from fighting and Perry’ll kill us.’

‘No they won’t.’ He has a plan. ‘We’ll just promise that it’s the last time we’ll ever fight each other.’ Is this part of Rube wanting a real fight? Telling Mum and Dad? Telling them the truth? ‘They can’t stop us, anyway. They might as well see us for what we are.’

What we are.

I repeat it, in my head.

What we are …

Then I ask it.

‘What are we?’

And there’s silence.

What are we?

What are we?

The weird thing about the question is that not long ago we knew exactly what we were. It was who we were that was the problem. We were vandals, backyard fighters, just boys. We knew what words like that meant, but the words Ruben and Cameron Wolfe were a mystery. We had no idea where we were going.

Or maybe that’s wrong.

Maybe who you are is what you are.

I don’t know.