‘Seven years—the wood woulda grown back.’ I moved closer, inspected every inch. ‘See, a little mark, just here.’

He squinted. ‘Bullshit.’ Then he walked back to the steps and sat down.

I followed, produced the third smoke and lit it. I could feel myself drifting, floating in the purple haze of another summer day survived.

‘How do you know he even done himself in?’

‘Common knowledge.’

‘Urban myth.’

‘Why else are they still trying to sell this place?’

‘Cos it’s a loada shit.’

Oswald, Tina and the holy daughter. Well, at least that’s how I remembered her: red cheeks and big blue eyes, a little grin, too-perfect teeth, sitting beside me as I tried to read about what Harry the dirty dog was up to, her saying, Shouldn’t you know some words by now?

I know some.

Grinning more. No, you don’t!

Do!

Because even then the small tortures were pleasurable.

It was almost dark. Some of the tall grass rustled. ‘Rabbits,’ Curtis said.

‘Rubbish.’

‘Les told me he used to have some. They got under the wire, and he never found them. Mum reckons they get under our house.’

‘My arse.’

He shook his head. ‘No rabbits … but he hung himself?’

‘Hanged.’

‘What?’

2/vi/76 Spent an hour with Mr Rosie. He teaches at Gleneagles High. Showed me all his books, and said I could borrow some.

‘I liked him,’ I said.

‘Who?’

‘Oswald. But he was pretty highly strung. Smart, though. You oughta seen how many books he had. Pop still reckons that’s why he did it: too many books.’

‘So you’re better off stupid?’

‘Apparently.’

More rustling.

‘Les said he had six, and they all got out. Four females. I mean, they woulda found somewhere, wouldn’t they? Rabbits can adapt to anything.’

It was worth a try. I stood, mostly stoned, and ran through the tall grass. Round and round in circles, stomping on the ground. ‘Come on, bunnies. Let’s have yers.’ I waited. ‘Any come out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bunnies?’

‘Big one. Green and pink.’

‘You’re hallucinating.’ I returned to my step, and although I trod lightly, and happily, I realised I was covered in burrs. I sat down and started picking them off.

Curtis said, ‘These smokes are probably not good for you.’

I smiled. ‘Says you.’

He leaned against the Rosies’ fibro, cupped his hand to trap escaping smoke, and said, ‘Pain relief … for people with cancer.’

‘Mum reckons Ossie mighta had depression. And if that was the case, nothing was gonna help him. But he was a decent fella. I remember: I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, but I do not talk of the beginning and the end …’

‘What the hell’s that?’

‘Walt Whitman. I do not talk of the beginning and the end …’

‘Of what?’

‘Whatever you want. Life. This smoke, which has nearly gone.’

‘Savour it.’