‘Say hello to yer mum, Vicky.’

‘Will do.’

I smoked, she smoked. ‘But I thought you were the ambitious one,’ I said.

‘Ambitious? But Evans loves me, if you know what I mean.’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘So the job’s safe?’

‘No, few weeks, then I’ll tell them to shove it.’ She lowered her head to the smoke, took a puff, smiled.

The door moved in the breeze. ‘Look.’ I went in, and she followed. Dom Polski watched from the wall, and there was a flag, and a coat-of-arms. A rack of clothes, folksy. She put on a coat. ‘Attention, comrade!’

I saluted. I remembered the hall, from an earlier Sunday school experience, me and Jen in a circle of plastic chairs as someone told us about fish and loaves. But now it was middle Europe. There was a record player, and Vicky switched it on. ‘Dance!’ she demanded.

So I approached, and we joined arms and waltzed to orchestra and accordion. Little circles, big ones, close, arm’s length, running around, chasing each other, throwing off coats and trying on jackets, until we were together, again.

‘So, that’s the plan: you keep me in luxury.’

I felt her lips on mine, and her tongue, and then, the floor dropped, and we were sitting in a pile of fur and velvet.

‘What if someone walks in?’ I asked.

It was like I’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Where the hand went, how quickly it moved, where it lingered. She, too, seemed to have the same knowledge.

‘Not a good idea,’ I said.

‘Not a good idea.’ She giggled.

‘Remember what happened to Curtis?’

She knew how every button and latch functioned, how my belt had to be pulled tight before it was loosened, how then everything fell away.

‘I can’t afford to …’ But all I could think of was Bob Grummet’s chemist, me, walking in, pretending to look at the bandages. And the girl, ‘Can I help you?’

‘No, ta.’

As I thought, What are you thinking? Stepped towards the door, but stopped, thought, It’s easy. Pick up the box, place it on the counter, hand over the money. Come on. She must sell a hundred packs a day … to dirty little boys … Come on. As I moved to a spot between the condoms and the tampons, and the girl walked past, again, and smiled, and must have known. As I thought of why I was here: Vicky smiling, running a finger along my collarbone, saying, ‘Thing about boy scouts, they’re always prepared, eh?’

‘I reckon.’

As I picked up the box, walked to the counter, but saw Hester Glasson.

‘Hi, Clem.’

‘Hi, Mrs Glasson.’

‘How’s yer mum?’

‘Good, ta.’ As I turned, so the box was hidden, and trawled the aisles until she was gone.