‘No.’

We waited.

‘You couldn’t lend us some money, could you, Doug?’

He stood with his hands on his hips. ‘Why?’

‘Got a few people I know.’

‘What sorta people?’

‘They’ll help me get sorted. There’s no use staying here.’

Pop thought about this. ‘I got a few dollars, but I’m not sure what yer gonna use them for.’

‘Don’t worry, Doug. These fellas are okay.’

Pop went in. I waited, silently. John just stared at the floor. I said, ‘I could drive you where you need to go.’

He bit a fingernail, spat the residue. ‘I can walk. Just don’t say nothin’.’

Pop returned with a handful of money. He made John stand, then counted out three hundred dollars. ‘That keep you going?’

‘Thanks, Doug. You’re a lifesaver.’ He picked up his backpack.

Mum was at the back door. ‘You two coming in?’

‘Just let us know what’s going on,’ Pop said. ‘Phone us, right?’

‘Done.’

Three hundred dollars. I’d assumed his Lasseter money was quarantined. There were plenty of things he could’ve spent it on, but didn’t. Mum hated the 120Y. She’d left the 180B brochures around the house, but Pop had just put them in the bin.

John opened the shed door, checked it was clear, and was gone.

I said, ‘Reckon you’ve done your dough, Pop.’

He didn’t argue. ‘Sometimes these things are decided for you.’

The skipping woman, again. Around the block, back, never slowing. No singing, no smile, no emotion. I could set my clock by her appearance. This tall, African miracle of locomotion. Mum came in and said, ‘Anything?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

My job: to say when Les went out, so she could head over with the esky and return with the dirty dishes and washing. This routine three times a day, as we kept saying to Wendy, ‘So, what should we do?’ And she kept repeating: ‘He’ll be ready soon.’

I didn’t mind so much. Kraftwerk kept me happy, the electro-disco rhythm filling my room with Euro-vibe. Flat tyre on the paving stones … I stood, jiggled about, let my head roll and my shoulders sway. Jen came in and said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Kraftwerk.’

‘So gay.’

The bike is repaired quickly …

Mum, in the doorway, ‘Are you watching?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not. You’re dancing. What is that rubbish?’

The skipping woman, again, but I barely noticed, rewinding. The hell of the north: Paris-Roubaix …

Pop walked down the street in a sort of counter-orbit to the skipping woman. ‘Pop,’ I called, but he didn’t hear me, just passed down the street, around the corner, shuffling like some sort of prototype robot.

I checked the scope for Les, but there was no sign of movement. Then a face, popping up from beneath my window frame.

Hey, Clem.

Hey, Arnold.

What cher doin’?’

Waitin’ for Mr Lawrence to go out.

Why?

You know. Why do I gotta tell you?

You don’t.