‘Wanna go?’ I’d handed him my racquet but Vicky had said, ‘No, we’re playing.’

‘I need a break.’

So Curtis had tried, missed every shot on purpose, and she’d got shitty and refused to continue until I took over. Then he’d sat in the shade and said to Vicky, ‘Did you play in Tumbletown?’

She’d ignored him.

‘You’ve got all the moves.’

She’d stopped, come over and said, ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’

He’d shrugged.

‘Just sit there with your opinions, bullshitting about … with your list. But no one’s listening.’

‘Clem listens.’

‘He has to. He hasn’t got a choice.’

Back in the shed, they were still at it. Curtis lit a smoke and sat opposite her. ‘I still remember that play we all did.’

She just said, ‘Do we have to breathe your smoke?’

He blew it up.

‘That’s not gonna help.’

But he gave her the same look. ‘Do you remember? I was a tree. You were a post box.’

‘I wasn’t a post box.’

‘Stop it, you two,’ I said. ‘Curtis, help us, will you?’

We ripped the pissy old carpet out of the boot.

‘But what I do remember,’ Vicky said, ‘is you having to wear that sign around your neck because you’d damaged a teacher’s car.’

‘Accidentally.’

‘And it said: I have misused someone else’s property.’

‘That was John.’

‘No, it was you.’

Stand-off. I remembered it. Gottl had come up with a scheme whereby students were given a dollar for washing teachers’ cars at lunch. Curtis had removed bearings from a wheel, and it had wobbled, and been discovered. Anne and Gary were notified (and guessed they’d produced a second John), and he’d been made to wear the sign.

‘You remember, don’t you, Clem?’ Vicky said.

‘Not really.’

And she just looked at me. ‘I gotta go help Mum.’ And left, without a word.

A knock. I ran to the door, and he was there, again. ‘Wilf?’

‘How are you, Clem?’

‘Mum’s out again.’

‘She’s always out. Trying to avoid me?’

I could feel my heart racing, and imagined Mum pulling up, and the fireworks. ‘D’you wanna get an ice cream?’ I said.

‘I reckon.’

I locked the door and we walked all the way down Lanark, and he said, ‘Someone’s moved inta the Rosies’ place?’

‘They’re back.’

‘No?’

‘How did you know?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve kept track.’

He was slender, a long neck leading up to a lean face with sunken cheeks, and what I guessed were my eyes peeping into the day. We went into Don’s, and Don said, ‘Hi, Wilf,’ and I wondered.

As we made our selection, I summarised my search, my Wilton odyssey, Bob, and the confetti of information that had rained down since our last meeting.

‘You were determined,’ Dad said.

‘I wanted to know, but Mum reckoned …’