‘Not sure what he uses, but he buries them in his yard. I’ve seen.’

‘What?’

‘Little graves. I’ve seen them. I could call the police. I might.’

‘Give it a bit of thought, Mrs Donnellan. I could help. Trap them, perhaps.’

‘I will.’

And with that, the ceremony was over, the pot empty, until next time. I shook David’s hand and left them alone, together, to save the leaves that they could use again.

Escaping the house wasn’t always about avoiding the heat. Sometimes Jen and the Abba habit that had gone on too long; Mum and the Drearies; Pop listening to the races, Our Velocity two lengths in front; slammed doors; the toilet hissing for hours if you didn’t lift the lid and jiggle the stopcock.

Mum had planted a fern. It had spread out against the sun, so you could sit on the wobbly seat and imagine you weren’t in Gleneagles. Until the Ford mechanics started changing tyres, or put on their Motörhead radio. Always noise. As if there was some thought to be avoided.

Vagueness in conversation …

Volume thirteen. Memory loss: Alzheimer’s. I smoothed the page and studied the photo of an old man—big, scared eyes, mouth open to any possibility. More old people looking at him, as if to say, Are you Harry?

Forgetting people or places …

Lanark Avenue was Pop’s universe. He knew, had known, every planet by its name, its issue (small, delicate moons trapped in orbit), its day and year length. He’d say, No, Mrs Lifton, her daughter moved to Perth, but now he had no idea who Mrs Lifton was. He’d given up on Lanark I and III. Now, it was just us, and Val and Peter and David (on a good day); the Burrells and the Glassons, because he loved how Ron could cut a sheepskin to fit any car.

Life expectancy after diagnosis: eight to ten years …

It had been four years since Mum had first taken him to the specialist. So what happened next? Nappies, bed sores, a body in the lounge room; a lump that had to be fed, and turned and toileted? The thought was tiring, and by thinking it, nothing was solved. Instead, I heard the rustle of cigarette foil, mints in a box, sage on my tongue. I left the book, climbed through the fence into number 29 and looked around. No one. Across the yard and up the metal steps, into the cubby. I lifted the floorboard and retrieved the packet, the three tightly rolled reefers that promised an escape from everything.

Whistling. Anne Burrell came out, unpegged a singlet and went back inside. I heard her calling something to Gary, a slammed door, and Synchronicity, loud on Curtis’s radio.

‘Shut that fuckin’ thing up.’

Gary, again, coming out in his singlet, unpegging a shirt, and heading in.

The music quietened. Silence. I watched and waited.