‘He was under the house. Tell him, Clem.’

‘I had to drag him out.’

Peter opened the fridge and poured himself water. ‘Well, I did what I could.’

‘How’s that?’ Val asked.

‘This Alan character, he reckons John helped him steal vodka. But John swears black and blue. And I tend to believe him.’

‘What about Anne?’

‘Sittin’ in the corner crying. Don’t think she knows what to believe.’

‘You gonna represent him?’ I asked.

‘That’s the thing,’ he said. ‘This tall fella comes in—defence attorney—and says, I’ve got it, Mr Donnellan, is it? And I say, I think I’ll take it, but then Anne looks at me, then John, so …’

‘You can only offer,’ Val said.

‘They’re nuts,’ Dave added. ‘Some kid, I bet?’

‘Yeah … a kid.’ He stroked the cat’s head. ‘Might be best, anyway. I haven’t kept up with it.’

He studied the lino, and knew. There’d be no legal renaissance. Once you’d started mowing your yard with a scythe.

23/v/84 Mr Thomson is the opposite of everyone. Sits, most lessons, reading the newspaper, occasionally scratching his arse, before turning the page and saying, ‘Everyone okay?’

Sometimes Thomo would go on about Leonardo, or Titian, and how they were fakes and how their assistants did all the work. Probably because he was a failed artist. He’d shown us his watercolours, all runny and obvious and dull, and told us what competitions they’d won (local council stuff, mostly). He’d produced a Mona Lisa and said, ‘Really, it’s quite ordinary, but the ages have chosen to remember it.’ In the same way they’d chosen to ignore him.

To fix the problem, he read the sport section while we kept busy. Today, it was portraits. I had Jen’s tarot cards, so I pulled one, and began. The Devil. Big smile. Black eyes and a couple of decent-sized horns. It wasn’t like he was going to check, so what did it matter?

Curtis was busy. Her name was Tracey, and he’d taken a liking. They’d spent a few lunches together, holding hands, sitting behind the Moreton Bay at the far end of the oval. At first I’d joined them, but then he’d said, ‘Listen, Clem, me and Trace just wanna talk.’

Now they were drawing each other. Thomo was busy with a kettle and plunger in the corner, tuning the radio to the races, peering out of the window to see if there was anything on the horizon: fame, a better job, talent.

Trace asked me, ‘What yer drawin’?’

I showed her the tarot card.

‘The Devil, eh? He’s got big ears too.’

I didn’t reply. She was pretty thick. Curtis could do a lot better, but she was well put together, for her age.

‘Aren’t you meant to draw a person?’ she said.

‘He’s a fallen angel,’ I replied.

She didn’t get it. ‘But he’s not a person.’