But then he deflated, realising there was no point. He sat, waved to the camera, and said, ‘You’re number three.’

I waited.

‘Mum, Dad …’

‘What’d they say?’

No reply. He was wearing his own clothes; his own jeans, and shirt. I wanted to ask about the overalls, and slippers, but knew I couldn’t.

‘Yes, quite strange,’ he said. ‘Me, locked away.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘There’s a view of the school, so if I can’t go I can at least watch.’ He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Pessimum.’ And looked at me. ‘Doesn’t work.’

‘Guess not.’

‘I was gonna have a top ten hates of the day. Number one: John. He was always the top. Number two: White. Number three—’

‘Your own room?’

‘For now. Though I’ve been told …’

‘What?’

‘If I’m tried as an adult …’

We both knew. Strange, that one minute you could be reading a book (I’d seen him, half an hour earlier, on his porch), and the next, sharing a room with a rapist.

‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘It’ll all come out. You had to … yeah?’

‘Didn’t have to.’

Now they had a game going: pitcher, batter, bases. Me and Curtis in the outfield, where we couldn’t do any harm.

‘Hunter,’ I said.

‘He was okay.’

‘You never had him.’

‘Yes, I did. Year Eight.’

But it all returned to the room, and the spearmint smell. He was watching the game. ‘They should tell you what happens after all that.’

Or during. Since John had first jumped down from his tree, beat his chest, stolen a few packs of chips while Don was out the back.

‘… it’s nothin’ like that, eh?’

‘Guess not.’

‘Guess not. You always say that, Clemmy. Guess not. Little Tom Sawyer, eh?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘With yer little dimples. Guess not.’

I smiled; for his sake.

‘And how’s yer girlfriend?’

‘She’s not.’

‘Way she looks at you, like she wants to lay back and let little Clemmy—’

‘You didn’t have a choice,’ I said.

‘I did.’

‘You’re not gonna tell them that?’

He studied my face. ‘I can see what she sees in you.’

‘What?’

‘You’re sorta good-lookin’, in a non-poof sorta way. Compared to the Burrells, who are all … blocky. See, that’s what the chicks like.’

I didn’t know if I could bring him back, or should. ‘What, he’d just got home?’

‘Walked past me and said, What you readin’? And, as instructed, I ignored him.’

It didn’t matter. I already knew. How John had returned in syrupy, smoky clothes, two weeks’ growth, needle marks, the lot. How he’d gone in, and within minutes was shouting at his parents.

‘What’s the food like?’ I asked, as if it mattered.