‘Is it?’

She winks. ‘He should be, don’t you think? Handsome fella like him. Takes after his father. I bet a lot of the girls have a crush on him.’

I think about laughing, but then I glance at Shane. The glaze has cleared from his eyes. His mum’s tits bounce against his shoulders as she reaches over him to fold the flour into the eggs. ‘Oh yes,’ she sighs. ‘I bet a lot of the girls have a little crush on Shane.’

Mrs Pearce insists I stay until the cake’s done, ‘then we can all have a big piece together. Shane loves cake, don’t you, Shane?’

But Shane has disappeared through the back door.

When I try to say that I have to get going, Mrs Pearce just waves her green-finger-nailed hand in front of my face. ‘Silly! I’ll let Dan know you’re here. Why don’t you go out in the garden with Shane?’ She points a fingernail towards the door.

I look around the garden. The lilac bush at the end of the path belches out blossom. There’s a sweet smell a million miles from Mum’s lilac bath cubes. I love those bath cubes. You open the gold paper wrapper and hold the cube of salt in your fist over the steamy water. Apply pressure and – bam! – it explodes into the bath and fizzes away like sherbet’s supposed to but never does. I always expect a milky-silky bath after that, like the woman in Carry on Cleo (Dad loves that one). But you get in the bath and all you feel are grains of salt scratching away at your arse. And the water’s fizz just turns to a layer of scum.

I stand there smelling sweet bits of breeze. Then I hear music: Madonna singing about being touched for the first time.

Nobody’s about. The windows of the house are all closed. The only place it could be coming from is the shed. It’s a tiny wooden shed, half hidden by the lilac bush. The window in front is framed by a pair of ruched net curtains. A frill like a fancy pair of knickers runs all along the bottom.

I walk towards the music, keeping time with my footsteps.

I stand outside the door and listen. My fingers are so deep in my jeans pockets, I can feel the top crease of my thighs.

I call his name and wait for him to come.

three

Spring, 1985

The shed door opens easy.

I step over the wooden threshold and into the darkness. Blink. Shapes become clear. A tape player. A small table with a can of shandy on it. A dartboard. And underneath the target, Shane, sitting in a high-backed armchair.

He can’t have heard me call his name, because he doesn’t move from his position in the armchair. He just sits there, toes splayed, head back, eyes closed.

By now, Prince’s ‘Little Red Corvette’ is blasting out.

His body fills the chair, his hands dangling over the stuffed arms, his shoulders squeezed between the velveteen wings of the headrest, his thighs spilling over the seat. His jeans are too short. The knobbles of his ankles stick out.