‘Fuck off, you old slag,’ Curtis said.

Another wall collapsed, crushing tables and chairs. ‘My sculptures,’ I said.

‘My paintings,’ Curtis added. ‘My charcoals of Trace … from the early days.’

‘You sittin’ with a stiffy.’

‘Jealous.’

‘Of Tracey?’

‘Vicky?’

‘She’s classy. Intelligent. Motivated.’

‘Do tell.’

‘On Saturday she asked me to go on this bushwalk. Eight kilometres, gradients like this.’ I might’ve exaggerated. ‘Come on, Clem, keep up. See, she’s driven.’

‘Had any luck?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘Bullshit.’ He studied the flames. ‘It was probably John. He hated this place.’

Two firefighters finished disconnecting gas bottles and rolled them away.

Curtis was caught in the orange glow. ‘Long way to go for nothing.’

‘Wasn’t nothing.’

‘No gold?’

‘Wasn’t about that.’

‘What?’

The water stopped, and the captain said, ‘Fuck it, let it burn out,’ and the firefighters stood watching the last of the flames.

‘We got home and Mum storms out and says, You coulda killed yerselves.’

‘I heard,’ Curtis said. ‘The whole street heard.’

‘She went quiet for a couple of days, then last night it all comes out. I’s sittin’ with Pop and I said, Maybe we shoulda kept going? Even if we looked, and it wasn’t there? Then he told me, his phone call in Coober Pedy, Mum telling him there were plenty of maps. The fella at the pub had sold dozens of copies—and she’d seen them. Eggers, round the block, had one, and the Irish fella, across from the stadium, him and his brother had one. Nan told me, but she wanted you to think … I asked him how he felt and he said, Not bad, Clemo. I wondered why he seemed so resigned, and he said, Least we got to see a bit of country.’

Down, down, she burned, our acrylic Valhalla.

‘So, Baby Burgess’ll have to do,’ I said.

Curtis smiled. ‘You can use it for one of your stories. Then you can show it to Masharin, and she can tell you how brilliant you are and make you get up in front of assembly again.’

Earlier that morning: me, standing in the wings, as Miss White said, ‘Of course, it’s not all about sport. Here at Gleneagles High you got artz: painting, music, and literature.’

I’d looked at Mrs Masharin and said, ‘Maybe you could read it?’

‘No, all sorted. Clem, you, please.’

I’d held my story, shaking; a thousand sets of eyes ready to follow me on. ‘People don’t usually read stories at assembly.’

‘You, first time, please.’

Eventually I was ushered on. ‘Arnold’s view of the world was complex.’

Strangely, they were silent. Maybe what I’d written was okay. I noticed Curtis was missing from the spot where we normally sat. As I progressed, I became confident. ‘Arnold knew he couldn’t tell her, but he could see it in her eyes.’