I tried to be serious. ‘… the talkers were talking …’

It was pitch black, but there were a few puffs yet.

‘Monday, eh?’ Curtis said.

‘I tried to convince Mum …’ But I just melted onto the concrete step, into a big glub of laughter. ‘… to let me quit … school, my darling …’

‘School …’ We embraced, and continued melting.

‘But she wouldn’t let me. Said … fuck, I don’t know what she said.’

We fell about, sucking the stubs.

‘Like, you must go back to school, you naughty little boy.’

‘No luck?’

‘Naughty, naughty … fuck, look, there’s yer rabbit.’

We were off after it, down the Rosies’ drive, the road, stopping in front of number 35. I watched the cooling house. ‘You know what Mrs Donnellan reckons?’

‘What?’

‘Ernie’s been killin’ her cats.’

We tried to stand still, but failed, but supported each other.

‘She reckons he’s been …’ But there was no point standing in the middle of Lanark Avenue. The Sharpes’ lights were out. Ernie would be at the Windsor. Ida was probably at someone’s place, making up for a lost husband. ‘Come on, if we don’t do it now.’

We ran down the Sharpes’ drive, into their backyard. I whispered: ‘Mrs Donnellan reckons he’s buried them somewhere hereabouts.’

Then we stumbled, and ended up on the parched buffalo. Rolled in some of Fi-Fi’s dried shit.

‘If we can see, I can tell her. She can call the cops.’

So we crawled, inch by inch, around the Sharpes’ fence line, feeling for lumps, fresh soil.

‘Who was that poet?’ Curtis asked.

‘Whitman … the beginning and the end …’

Then we sat up. My god, it was wearing off. Curtis said, ‘I don’t reckon he’d kill her cats, would he?’

A mound of soil. The size of six or seven cats. And fresh earth. We examined it, felt it and worked the loose soil. ‘What do you reckon?’ I asked.

He put his nose to it and smelt it. ‘Doesn’t smell … pussy.’

I checked. ‘No, but he could have them deep.’

‘Shall we look?’ We started digging and removed a bucket load before a light came on in the house.

‘Ssh!’

We dared not move. What if she stepped outside?

I said, ‘Into the bushes.’ And we dragged ourselves, inch by inch, into the cover of a woody diosma.

We heard the shower, and guessed Ernie was home.

‘Run!’

Down the drive, the road, into our respective homes.

‘What’s that smell?’ Mum asked, and I told her it was something Curtis’s dad was smoking.

Mum was at my door. ‘I’ve laid out your uniform.’

Then Jen. ‘Get outa bed.’

‘Fuck off.’

Then Pop. ‘It’s gettin’ late.’

‘I’m coming.’ When I went out for breakfast they were gathered like some grand inquisition. Jen said, ‘You can’t be doing this every morning.’