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.’

Thomo sat down and tasted his coffee. ‘Everything okay?’ Like he cared. He was our Nick replacement, but he was no Nick, or teacher, or anything, really. He’d told us he was on a contract and would be out on his arse come December, so I suppose the incentive wasn’t there.

‘Devil’s real, eh, Curtis?’ I asked.

‘Too right,’ he replied. ‘While I was with the spirits who dwell suspense, a lady summoned me.’ He put his lips to her neck, and pecked her white skin.

‘That’s disgusting,’ one of the other girls said.

Thomo looked up from his paper. ‘What?’

‘Tracey kissed Curtis.’

Thomo shrugged. As long as no one got pregnant on his time. ‘Give it a rest, Colin.’

‘I’m Curtis.’

Tracey said to me, ‘You live next to Curtis?’

‘Yes.’ I continued copying my devil: red leotard with a big arse and ball pouch. Loaded and ready to fire thunderbolts. Like Curtis probably, as he took her hand and stroked it.

She returned to her boy lover. ‘That’d be nice, bein’ that close, eh?’

‘We hang out,’ Curtis said.