‘Shit,’ he said. Loud enough for John to hear. Who looked over, and called, ‘Where is it?’

Curtis showed him the stub, and smiled.

‘I’ll fuckin’ kill yer.’

Curtis went to give him the finger, over-balanced and fell. He rolled a few times and sat up, unaware (it seemed) where he was. John was coming across the gorse, towards the flapping iron. Now, as Mr Fantastic, I had to act. I shuffled forward, closed my eyes and jumped.

It wasn’t that far. No more than it used to be. I gathered the Thing, helped him up, back to the fence, pulled back Pop’s newly repaired iron, and helped him through. We ran into the lane, and the voice followed us. ‘Carn here, you little fuck!’

Past Don’s dunny, down the lane, around the corner and into the car yard.

‘Ssh!’ I said, settling Curtis against a Falcon wheel (One Time Owner, One-Off Price $2999).

We waited.

‘Curtis!’

He giggled. I heard footsteps between the new and used cars.

‘Too gutless to show yourself?’ John called.

I could smell fresh rubber. And the cars were particularly clean. Little plastic flags flapped in the breeze. Prayers, although this was no time for devotion.

‘Gutless.’

Again, footsteps. I grabbed his arm, moved him again, settled him beside (nearly under) an exhaust pipe.

‘You gotta come home sometime.’

Then we listened as a salesman approached John and said, ‘Are you looking for something?’

‘No.’

And John turned, and walked back down the lane that led to our homes.

Then the same man was standing above us. ‘What are you two after?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘My friend here felt a bit sick.’

We stood, crossed the road to Kentucky Fried Chicken, pretended to be cars and went through the drive-through. The girl said, ‘We only serve cars,’ and Curtis said, ‘Broom, broom, I’m a Mercedes-Benz.’

She said, ‘Fuck off.’

He said, ‘Two-piece feed, but I don’t want any wings.’

We walked around the block. Curtis said, ‘I can’t go home,’ and I said, ‘You’re gonna have to,’ and he said, ‘Come in with me, will yer?’ and I said, ‘No fucking way.’

Another unproductive day. My novel, on the tool shed roof, blowing away in the afternoon breeze, down the greasy lane, onto North East Road, where it was (fittingly) run over.

As we walked I said, ‘It didn’t walk backwards.’

‘It did. I don’t believe in God, but I believe in the backwards-walking chicken, because I’ve seen it, and I know it’s real.’