It continued. I imagined Pop watching. ‘Seems hard to believe your mum’d dob you in.’

‘Well, she did.’

‘You’ve had some pretty wild days, John. Old bastard like me, might guess how it’d end.’

‘How?’

‘I’ve seen it.’

‘So what?’

‘Things can get away from you. Then, it’s all fucked up, for good.’

Pop knew that John was good with a spanner. But Dad had been good with a saw, so you had to fix the big things before the little ones. No point building a house you couldn’t live in, or having a car you couldn’t drive.

‘Clem’s dad,’ Pop said. ‘You know what happened to him.’

‘Dad told me.’

How come he knew, before me? Had everyone in Lanark II discussed it?

‘Stick to the manual,’ Pop said. ‘Transmission there, see. You could get it going, eh?’

‘What about the panel?’

‘Have to think about that. Your mum mighta said something.’

‘You know?’

‘No, I don’t. But listen, boyo, if I thought it’d help you I’d call the coppers. What d’you think about that?’

No reply.

‘And if she did, good on her.’

‘You don’t know what goes on …’

‘At yer little prison? I could guess, but you knew, didn’t you?’

A silent minute. Pop said, ‘You could just about hammer out those panels, then undercoat it, spray it yerself.’

‘He’d tell.’

‘Not if it was done properly.’

Pop was nothing if not practical. Some things needed fixing, some weren’t worth the effort. Some things you could throw out, some things you couldn’t. ‘Don’t bother with it, John. I’ll tell him I buggered up. I’ll tell him he can take it to Golding’s, and I’ll pay to have it fixed.’

‘It’s not that big a job.’

‘You’re busy with other things.’

‘What about Clem?’

‘He’s busy with study.’

‘I got a bit of time spare, if you want.’

I could see Pop’s face. ‘Well, if you reckon. If you think we could do it?’

‘Easy.’

‘I could give you half the money.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘You need it. Fixin’ things, that’s the best way to pay the bills, isn’t it?’

‘I guess.’

Again, silence, as the hoist creaked under the weight of the engine.

Curtis’s theory was that if they kept making rules at this rate there’d be nothing we could do. This, in response to the announcement that the canteen was being converted to healthy eating. And we all knew what that meant: no more pies and hot dogs, Coke, chocolate milk and chips. This would impact our ability to make Twistie rolls, the staple of our school diet.

‘No one beyond the first oval,’ Curtis said. ‘No groups of more than three. But how are they gonna stop that?’

‘Quietly!’ Miss White said, from behind her telly-screen glasses.

‘No talking,’ Curtis whispered.

‘Curtis!’

This was the result of stencilling. We’d arrived for Monday art, waited outside the room (with its little white patches where Bulljaw had been painted over) then, Miss White walking towards us.