John touched the map, but Pop kept possession.

‘You know, I reckon I saw a documentary of this,’ John said. ‘And they said it was all in his head.’

‘Not at all,’ Pop growled. ‘Me and Clem, we reckon it’s true, don’t we, Clem?’

‘We do, Pop.’

‘Eleven hundred kilometres west of Alice. Of course, I can tell you this, can’t I, John?’ He was emerging from his funk, folding the map once, twice, and putting it in his pocket.

‘Course you can,’ John said. ‘It’s not like I’m gonna go look, eh? I got this apprenticeship to start.’

I heard voices in the driveway: deep, monotonous.

Pop stood, handed John his prize and said, ‘These’ll get you started.’

The voices grew louder. The yard gate opened, and there were footsteps. Mum explaining something. ‘He’s always out here.’

Three figures in the doorway: Mum, a man in a suit, and a copper, a constable. Pop said to them, ‘Funny time for a visit?’

No one responded. John placed the bag on the bench.

‘I’ll leave you, shall I?’ Mum asked.

And she was gone.

The man in the suit looked like a detective. Division 4. Decent pair of burns, and a suit with arms up past his wrists. He said, ‘How are yer, John?’

‘Alright, Mr Craig.’

Mr Craig said, ‘We did check, and it looks like it was his.’

‘So? None of my business.’

‘It is.’

‘You talked to Alan?’

‘He’s next. What say we go for a drive? You tell us your side, we write it down again. Again.’

‘Righto.’ He turned to Pop. ‘Can I leave these here?’

Pop seemed confused, but not Alzheimer’s confused. More, what-have-you-done? Just when I got you a job, and gave you a bag of tools.

They left and Pop sat down and Mum came in to sniff about, then Jen, with her bleached fingertips. Mum said, ‘I told you, Dad.’

‘I showed him the map.’

No one spoke.

‘Mighta been nothin’ at all. Them mates of his, eh?’

‘Yeah, nothin’ at all,’ Mum said, going in, followed by Jen.

Pop repacked his toolbox, complete with map. As he worked he said, ‘Take this over to Anne, will yer?’ He handed me the bag.

‘Shouldn’t you hold onto them?’

‘Na. Once you give something, it’s given.’

May

The world could be made and unmade. The jungle was real, if you wanted it to be. The bricks could make yurts, or yachts, or the house you lived in. You signed a contract with yourself, to build, to nest. And years later when you found it under your bed, it was still waiting for the Idea. So I made a shed; a box for holding E-Type Jags, tools, old men and their dreams. It was made from all the bricks in the world, but none of them. It held everything, but nothing. Because it was the act of making that mattered. Like the mythical Wilf, raising high the roof beams, clicking his own blocks together on some long-forgotten Saturday morning.