‘Hi, Peter.’

He stopped and looked up, surprised. He was always in his own world. ‘How are you, Clem?’

I studied the hills. ‘You reckon there are many dead?’

‘They say there’s eighteen already, but when they search the houses …’ He continued working.

‘You should borrow our Victa,’ I said.

No reply. Why would you bother when cold steel could do the job?

‘Do you want me to go get it?’

And without stopping: ‘No, thanks.’

It seemed a funny time to be scything. Shouldn’t we all be gathered, muttering consolations, watching the fronts surge and recede? Plus, he was red-faced, the veins in his temple pulsing to the day’s irregular rhythms. ‘I could do it for you,’ I said. ‘Have it done in ten minutes.’

Again, no reply. As though he was doing it because of the day, not despite it. As some sort of mea culpa on behalf of Lanark Avenue, or all of Gleneagles. Perhaps, if he worked hard enough, the wind would drop, the flames die, clouds gather, rain fall. A scything Jesus, complete with beard full of biscuit crumbs, yellow-tipped fingers, like his mum, long fingernails, because who did he have to impress?

‘Is it heavy?’ I asked.

‘Very.’ He offered it to me. I put down my bag, took it and tried to copy his actions. He sat in his brother’s shady spot, lighting a cigarette, and seemed pleased. I wasn’t sure if this meant I should keep going. ‘You ever seen it like this before?’ I asked.

‘Not this bad.’

The Donnellans’ yard was its own disaster: fist cracks full of weeds and rat holes with snakes (Mum said she’d seen one). It had its own Mediterranean climate (in the shade of an olive tree) and libraries of old catalogues that had blown about for years.

‘Hard work, eh?’ I said to Peter.

He smiled, smoking with the fag cupped in his hand.

Fuck it! It was too hot for anything. I sat down and he offered me his smoke. I accepted, dragged, returned it.

‘I know all about you,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I’ve seen you and Curtis, on the way home.’

‘Just have one occasionally.’

‘What would your mum say?’

‘She prob’ly knows.’

He didn’t care. Six years at law school had taught him that rules were only for the people who made them. ‘It’s a bad habit.’

‘I got a bad attitude.’

He smiled again, and punched my arm. ‘This isn’t the kid I used to babysit. You don’t remember, do you?’

‘Course I do.’

‘Yer mum’d come in and say, I gotta go to town, you wouldn’t do me a favour? And she’d present you two, and a pack of chips. Then I’d get out the Monopoly and you’d get bored and five minutes later you’d be chasing cats around the backyard and Mum’d be calling, Clem, leave them alone will yer?’

We started to laugh, but it was too hot.