‘Why’d they stop it?’ Curtis asked.

‘I dunno.’

‘All the good bits end.’

I guessed he was right. It was all coming to an end: the desire to pull on shorts and a T-shirt, go out, hop on your dragster and ride Lanarks I—III for hours. No reason. No result. No arguments or wondering why anything happened the way it did. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Before next lesson.’

We walked to the front office. The girl was young, but she could type. I motioned to her and said, ‘Mr Andrews, the art teacher.’

She just smiled.

‘I need to call him. Do you have his number?’

‘We can’t do that.’

Curtis leaned over. ‘My brother says to say hi.’

She smiled again.

‘They let him out.’

The idea seemed to interest her.

‘I’ll do you a swap.’ He found a slip of paper and wrote his phone number in big, blocky letters.

‘I could get in trouble,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry,’ Curtis said. ‘We were never here.’

And she turned, and excitedly opened the filing cabinet.

John had decided: the car could be fixed so Mr Harper wouldn’t know. The engine refit, made to purr. The whole package presented in some sort of Wheel of Fortune moment to the world’s second most happy customer. He’d made it his business to come every day, and Pop had made sure he was there, to unlock the shed, turn on the power, open the louvres and supply Coke. To stand back, and encourage him.

And it continued, into the last weekend of March. It was still hot, but once you got working you didn’t feel the heat. Things just fell into place: rods, bolts, belts.

As John sanded he looked at me and said, ‘Why do you bother?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘He’s not right in the head.’ He blew the putty dust, wiped the panel with a damp rag and examined it closely. ‘What do you reckon, Doug?’

Pop stepped forward, turned, walked a few steps and stopped. ‘One foot, two, two and a half …’ I’d been watching him for a few minutes, and the behaviour never varied. He was lost in his own world of distance and counting.

‘What do you reckon?’ John asked again.

Pop said, ‘Doin’ a good job. Nice and smooth.’

John felt it with his hand. ‘Baby’s arse. He won’t be able to tell, eh, Doug?’

‘No.’

John continued working the sandpaper in small circles. ‘Curtis was dropped on his head. I’ve read that list of his.’

I waited, and wondered what Pop was really measuring.

‘Everyone he hates. But if you counted all the people who hate him … And he upsets Mum.’

I wasn’t about to buy into it.

‘Always on detention. Then she’s thinking …’ He wiped the panel again and said to Pop, ‘How’d you manage to do this?’

‘Wasn’t concentrating.’