Later, after Anne and Gary had left, and Mum and Pop had gone across the road to tell Les and Wendy, and the whole street, I guessed, I went to my room, put my novel and my notes and my book of observations, and everything I’d ever written, in a box. Then I went out and lit the incinerator, and started feeding the flames. None of it meant anything.

I turned, and Vicky was there. She stood beside me, watching the blue tops. I took the last document, the novel, and went to drop it in, but she took it, held it against her chest, said, ‘You might regret it later.’

I did the Economics exam, and again, seemed to know what I was talking about. Praise the Lord of Shiraz, and his gentle, whispered ways. For three long, hot hours I’d heard him in my ear, telling me what to write, the best way to weld a sentence, and make a paragraph. The next day was English, and Mrs Masharin was there, saying, That is not an original thought, Clem. That is not a relevant quote. But: Now, that’s a point.

Then, one day in early November, when it was all over, school done at last (shorts and knobbly knees, Venn diagrams and pissy toilets), I lay on my bed and thought of the past few months; 1984, with its dodgy predictions, all and none of which had come true. The Fool and the Magician dancing around my room as Curtis (at the window) said, You got lucky yet?

Mind yer business.

Just remember, I beat you by six months.

I’ll remember.

As long as you live, you’ll always be second, Clemmy.

That seemed fair. He was the mould, and I was the copy. Always had been, always would be. And no one, really, would ever know. My grandkids, perhaps, saying, Pop, he’s a bit strange, eh?

Me replying, There’s a reason.

Why?

Fella I used to know.

And they’d lose interest and run off and I’d be left looking out of my window, saying, You got any smokes, Curtis?

Plenty. Under the floorboards. Come on.