I’d had to think, but then remembered Mr Bulljaw. I was six or seven, the owner of my first Fantastic Four. I’d traced the figures against a window, coloured them and stuck them up around my room. Peter Donnellan had seen my Human Torch and said, Not bad, but …

What?

What about you?

Me?

Your own superhero. Someone who lives in the crawlspace and comes out when there are problems. I’d said, Give me a few days, and a few days later there I was at the door to number 33, showing Val, David, and my mentor. Saying, Mr Bulljaw.

Val: He’s a nice lookin’ superhero. What’s he do?

I’d explained. How he’d charge crims, gore them on his horn, fling them across the universe. I’d explained the source of my inspiration (B—C, pp. 34—35, Beef Cattle) and waited for praise.

I’d like a copy, if I may, Val had said, and it’s still there, in a frame on her wall.

I nudged Curtis and said, ‘What do you reckon?’

He just shrugged and drew an Uncle Scrooge with dollar-sign-eyes. There were fairies and footballers and Jodi Lodge (the girl who never spoke) attempting a dog, although it looked like a sausage with eyes.

‘You can still see the murals,’ I said.

Nick wasn’t happy. ‘He’s gonna do another coat, just to make sure.’

‘That’s bullshit, eh?’

He just turned the page of his book and kept reading. I said, ‘My neighbour’s a lawyer and he reckons they’ve got no right.’

‘Clem, it’s not about … what sort of lawyer?’

‘He doesn’t work anymore.’

‘He never worked,’ Curtis said.

‘He did. Told me he wasn’t cut out for it.’

Nick didn’t want to buy into it. He switched on the radio. Classical, quiet.

‘He used to be good. We’ve got this neighbour who used to hit his wife …’

Curtis poked me.

‘And she asked Peter … our neighbour, if she’d help him.’

‘When was this?’ Curtis asked.

‘He told me.’ I could remember Wendy scampering across the road, Les coming out, asking, You seen Wendy, Clem?

No, Mr Champness.

As he walked up and down the road, stopping in front of the Donnellans’. Wendy?

Looking at me slyly, though I wouldn’t say.

You in there?

Picking up a handful of gravel and throwing it on Val’s roof.

I saw yer. You want a fight, I’ll give you one.

Then Peter had come out and said, Go in, Clem, and I’d gone in, but stood at the door watching. It’d started calmly, but the voices had loudened and I’d heard respect her wishes and court order and it’s not acceptable. Then Mum and Pop and Jen were behind me and Mum’d said, Come away, it’s none of our business. Pop had said, Les is gonna do him, and Jen had pushed to see, and Mum had pulled us back in and closed the door. I’d gone to my room and looked out and saw Les pushing Peter, and Peter stepping back, then turning and walking in, then Wendy emerging from the front door, approaching her husband, taking his hand and leading him home.