Anyway, the house was silent. I imagined the moment. The sound of the postie, me in the drive, at the letterbox, opening my results, Mum looking over my shoulder. Come on, then. As all the promises, threats and persuasions came home, at last, to roost. Every hope and half-wish of every teacher and relative and neighbour, Jen, Pop, Mum, Val, Peter, especially, because he was hoping the most (or maybe Mum, seeing something better, but the same). Curtis saying, Ninety-three … you prick. No way you’re that smart. Mum, Pop and Val, and all of them, dancing across the Santa Ana (freshly mowed, always freshly mowed). And me, nonplussed, cos when you grow up fibro everything’s a bonus. And anyway, my life was already planned. Who I’d love, where I’d live, how I’d think and feel about everything and everyone I ever met. See, that’s the thing about Gleneagles: you finished where you started. The machine kept working, regardless of any reason why it shouldn’t. It just kept going, day, night, and the bits in between.

A hot day. A walking day. So I set off past David (‘Any word yet?’ ‘They reckon December three. I’ll let you know.’). Ernie, asleep on his porch. To the corner of Lanark II, the spot where street became car park. Falcons everywhere, but there was no point complaining. That’s just how it was, and always would be. That’s what made this place perfect: the fact that it was so dull, lacking culture, intellect, nature, beauty, enlightenment, history—pretty much anything anyone might want. Yep, we had it all, if you know what I mean. Across the road, past the stadium, with its sub-floor vents where me and Curtis dumped our uneaten lunches. I said, What cher doin’ tonight?

Wanna come over, make some Twistie necklaces?

Packets shrunk in the oven, laced together and worn around the neck.

Na, they look shit.

Just walking, because there wasn’t a lot to say, cos not much had happened since yesterday, or the day before, or the four thousand three hundred and thirteen others we’d known (Curtis had calculated).

Down the road that led to the primary school. Past Mrs Porter’s place (her husband dead at thirty-seven). My old school. Another million smells, and things to remember, but I want to write another book about that. I stopped beside the fence, watching the usual ball-kicking. Mr Gottl was there, and he noticed me. ‘Clem?’

I was a bit embarrassed, hanging around like I had nothing better to do. But it was too late. He came over and said, ‘How are you?’

‘Good, you?’

‘Jesus, come in.’

I did as I was told. You always did with your old teachers, no matter how much water had passed under the bridge. As his class played football he said, ‘You musta just finished …?’

‘Year Twelve.’

‘No? And me here, still doing the same thing.’

‘Same tops,’ I said.