I felt bad for her, but what could I do? Grow red and blue polyester flesh, a rubber mask, utility belt? Fly across the road, pick up Les, rocket up a hundred metres, drop him, so that he came crashing down (in a pile of flesh and bones) at her feet? No Marvel hero could save Wendy from Les. She was stuck with him. I’d told Mum and Pop, but they’d just said, ‘That’s for them to sort out.’

Let your love come easy and free …

‘Turn it down!’

‘I did!’

It must have been the fifth time she’d played it. It wasn’t right.

Les followed Wendy, shouting in her ear, but she ignored him. She picked up a singlet or teatowel she’d missed and went in. I trained my TK25 on their yard, in their windows, through their fly door and down their hallway. There were dark figures moving, but no more voices. What would Kirby’s Fantastic Four do? What did it matter what they’d do?

Shit! Some old girl walked past, looked in my window and saw me. I sat still. I wasn’t spying, as such—just gathering information, attempting to come to some understanding. Sociological observations that would definitely, probably, perhaps, come in handy one day.

I looked up and down the street. Down Ronald and Hester Glasson’s (30) drive. They were the Howard Hugheses of Gleneagles, keeping to themselves, trimming the hedge that screened them from the prying eyes (and telescopes) of suburbia. They had a big gal fence and, behind this, fruit trees that kept them from our world of dragsters and going home to Gravox. Ironic, really, since they ran a lamb’s wool seat-cover business from their back shed and every Saturday morning there’d be cars the length of Lanark Avenue, and Mr Glasson out measuring seats. Then he’d go in and return a few minutes later to fit the covers. Mum, Pop, Les Champness and Val Donnellan had all whinged, but never said anything to the Glassons. It was only a few hours on a Saturday morning, and there was always a chance you’d need your own cover one day.

There was nothing in Nan’s encyclopedias that could explain why Les shouted at Wendy, or Ronald and Hester refused to mix. I’d attempted to understand them. Employed various schemes: Terman’s, Maxwell’s Graduated Percentile. In the absence of facts I’d improvised, made my own method, based on observation and careful note keeping. I had a little book in my drawer.

12/i/84 LC shouting at WC again. Not drunk, just manic …

These records stretched back years. Every neighbour had their own page.

3/vi/79 LC put his fist through a wall. Pulled out his hand, continued feeding the birds.