Matty thought of something. A Sunday afternoon film that Dad had insisted they all sat down and watched – one for all of them, he’d said. Mamma had pretended she wasn’t crying and Dad had put his arm around her. It was a strange black-and-white one about a pilot in the Second World War whose plane got shot down, except the guide who was meant to take him to heaven couldn’t find him. The pilot had to go to heaven to argue why he should be allowed to stay alive, and one of the people there had been a woman, with a white shirt and a crisp white suit.

An angel.

A splash.

‘Oi, dick-brain. Were you even watching?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Liar. I’m showing you how to do it.’

The man got out, climbing the ladder. His trunks were white. You couldn’t see his eyes from here, and whether they were red.

‘I have to go,’ said Matty.

‘What? You only just got here.’

Matty swam to the ladder. There was no time for being scared. Only for following, and asking him if he was an angel.

‘Excuse me.’ A sunbathing man wearing a gold medallion had his hand up in the air.

Matty had loitered in the changing rooms as The Man in White sat there, chatting to an older man and seemingly in no hurry to leave. After a while, it felt too conspicuous, and Matty wandered out, thinking to sit on the grass for a bit, watch the gate.

‘Um, yeah?’

‘Someone’s trying to get your attention, I think.’ He gestured up the slope, to the bushes, where the scarecrow-boombox man from the other day, the one who’d been with Daz, was beckoning.

‘Afternoon,’ he said as Matty got nearer. He was lying back on his elbows, looking sunburnt. ‘You were away with the fairies there.’

Someone nearby laughed.

The man put his cigarette in his mouth and picked up an Our Price carrier bag. ‘Right then, mate,’ he said, through his cigarette, pulling out a cassette. ‘Here you go.’

The tape was a blank one with small handwriting on the cover. A couple of things were crossed out.

‘Cool,’ said Matty, and handed it back, glancing back over to the gate, not wanting to miss The Man in White’s exit.

His laugh was a short, sharp breath. ‘No, you pillock, it’s for you. Can’t have a proper music fan getting behind with the times, can I?’ The man sniffed and looked over towards the boating lake. ‘Got my mate down at Spin-Offs to copy some stuff for me.’

‘Thanks.’ Matty gazed at it, unsure what to say next.

The man’s look was like a friendly weasel – like the one from Animals of Farthing Wood. His cigarette smelt different from the normal kind. Burnt nettles. ‘What’s your name, then?’

‘Matty.’