Curtis lifted a floorboard, produced a packet of smokes, opened it and said, ‘Can’t say a word.’

‘Go on.’

A tightly rolled smoke. But I knew what it was.

‘Where’d you get it?’

‘John’s. There were a few in his drawer.’ He smelled it, offered it to me for a sniff. ‘Shall we?’

It couldn’t hurt. He lit it, inhaled, and offered it.

‘Nice.’ A herby taste in the mouth. ‘Is one enough?’

‘Let’s see.’

Back and forth, but it was such good quality, it lasted. Then, the sound of the gate between drive and yard. We knelt, looked out the window and saw Gary walking with a roll of aluminium over his shoulder. He stopped, checked no one was watching and continued towards the shed. Arrived, put down the roll and fiddled with a padlock. Removed it, took the roll inside.

Curtis smiled. ‘Foreignies.’

‘Are you high yet?’

‘Yeah.’

Although you never really knew with Curtis. I couldn’t feel a thing. I watched the shed. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘His stash …’ And he inhaled a gain. ‘Stash …’ Almost eating the word, rolling it in his mouth, salivating.

I didn’t need an explanation. Gary Burrell worked for a steel supplier. There was always a bit left over, and it was a shame to waste it. Like excess nectarines left in a wheelbarrow on the footpath. Like the gear in John’s drawer. John himself had learned the lesson early, and made the logical extension. Unfortunately, not as successfully as his dad. In a whole-street sense, no one really made the connection. Crime was in the eye of the beholder. What went around came around (if you waited till after closing).

‘He’ll smell it,’ I said, returning the smoke.

‘No, he won’t.’

I watched over the ledge as Gary came out, locked the shed and walked towards his back door. He stopped again, sniffing the air. I grabbed the joint from Curtis, snubbed it out and whispered, ‘Ssh!’

Gary went inside, happy with his day’s work.

‘I got others,’ Curtis said, shaking the box.

‘Clem!’

I saw Pop standing on our back porch. ‘Come on, yer mother needs a hand.’

‘Gotta go,’ I said.

‘I’ll save ’em,’ he replied. ‘Our stash, eh?’

Oh, and acting, that’s another thing he was good at.

We are defined by walking. Movement, away from the familiar, towards the unknown. As if there’s some promised land, or wizard, or Hardy Boy adventure; 31, 33, 35, and on, past the basketball stadium car park and the flats on the corner of Lanark III. This walk, I sensed—still do—is one I took before I was born. Always alone. There’s a destination, but I’m not aware of it. Vaguely, paddocky, with streams and stone ruins from some Walks of England documentary.