‘It is. You’re calling her bluff.’

Vicky overheard. ‘He’s right, Doug. You don’t wanna go before you have to.’

‘You know what Mum’s like,’ I said. ‘Half the stuff she says she doesn’t mean.’

‘She means it; all of it.’

A small room, smelling of spearmint leaves. A faded poster, with instructions for fitting deadbolts. Light blue walls, for pacifying, I guessed, but judging from the holes in the wall, it hadn’t worked.

I could still see the coppers, taking him away. Me and Pop standing in the drive, Pop approaching them and saying, ‘Why’d you wanna put him in handcuffs?’

All this before we’d found out what had happened.

There was a small window, and you could see across the road to Gleneagles High. Ted Hunter, smoke in hand, stood watching the Year Eights as they ran around, forming a pattern that’d last into adulthood. Now, I could see the point of the pool hall. Nothing they told you was true; or necessarily true. Fitness didn’t make you happy, or smart, or get you a good job, or keep you out of this place, apparently.

Pop had said, ‘He’s not eighteen,’ then one of the coppers had replied, ‘How about you leave it to us?’

A small table, chipped melamine, with a plastic seat each side. So he couldn’t hurt anyone, I guessed.

Pop had said, ‘No need to twist his arm.’

But he wasn’t talking about John.

Round and round, before he made them start jumping jacks. Like, if the blood flowed, everything would be okay. Exercise and matrices and anaerobic respiration would make us better people.

A fan, clunking, although it wasn’t particularly hot.

Pop had said, ‘If you’d just stop, let him be, he’d calm down.’

Curtis had looked at him like, Don’t worry, Doug. It doesn’t matter.

Before they’d put him in the van, bolted the door and driven off, as other cars arrived.

I couldn’t believe I was sitting in a spearmint-smelling room, waiting for my best friend. Life has a way of warping, changing, and throwing up piles of caramel-coloured shit, but nothing like this.

Teddy Hunter gave them softballs, and they started throwing them at each other. I could just hear him. Carn, you mob, get yer arses inta gear.

But the oval seemed a long way away; across a road of years, and a thousand front lawns. Whatever had happened there had happened before we could remember.

The door opened and a constable peered in and said, ‘You’re Clem Whelan?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Righto. Ten minutes. And careful, you’re being watched.’ He pointed to a camera in the corner.

Curtis came in and stood, waiting. ‘Now this, this is like something out of Easy Rider.’

But not funny said it. More, observational said it.

‘Prisoner.’

‘Carn here, you fat slag.’