“Yeah,” I agreed. “And it always sounds like they’re telling you to get lost.”

The path climbed steadily, so you were always a bit out of breath but not enough to feel knackered. Our feet crunched over the snow, making a sound like you were eating biscuits.

The trees and hedges lined the path at the start and kept the wind off. But after twenty minutes we’d left most of the trees behind and were up on the high moor. That’s when it really began to feel cold. Partly it was because what was left of the warmth from the bus had seeped away, but mainly it was because of the wind. It was one of those clever winds that knows how to get into you, sneaking under your collar and up your sleeves.

I got the hat and gloves and scarf out of the bag and held them out to Kenny.

“Put these on,” I said.

Kenny hated hats and gloves and scarves. I don’t know why.

“You put ’em on. I’m not cold.”

It was impossible to get Kenny to do anything he didn’t want to. Well, you could bribe him, sometimes. But you couldn’t force him. And I couldn’t have made him, anyway. He was as scrawny as a streak of piss, but he was strong, with hands like spades and big bony feet. When we were kids, I could always beat him in a play fight by tickling him, and he’d beg me to stop before he wet himself. But now he always pinned me down before I could get anywhere near his skinny ribs.

“Fine,” I said.

And the truth is that it felt good having the hat and gloves and scarf on. Like getting a cuddle from your … Well, like getting a cuddle.

Four

Four

So me and Kenny chatted, and Tina had a sniff at everything that could be sniffed. And she peed on almost anything that stuck up out of the snow until she had no more pee left in her.

“Never eat yellow snow,” I said to Kenny.

“I’m not gonna,” Kenny said. “If it was really cold, would your piss freeze in mid‑air?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. Yeah, hang on, I remember watching something on the telly about Siberia, or somewhere like that. A man poured boiling water out of a kettle and before it reached the ground it had turned to ice. So that must mean your piss would, too.”

“I’d like to see that,” Kenny said. “Your piss turning to ice in mid‑air …”

“But your willy would freeze and snap off like an icicle if you got it out in Siberia,” I told him.

“It wouldn’t!” Kenny said, horrified.

“Would, definitely. If it was a clean break, they could probably sew your willy back on again. Or superglue it.”