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into the den. He couldn’t help himself. “More than footy. I play it. Guitar. Dad teaches me. I’m into The Beatles. Elvis… He was The King…”
    “Old stuff.” The boy wrinkled his nose. “You look like you play music. I only like big drums…” He beat his hands in the air – Pow! Wak! Baow! – until he was out of breath.
    “Sweet,” Pete said. “Where d’you play?”
    “Just down here.”
    “On a drum kit? I could bring my guitar,” Pete said, but the boy was shaking his head.
    “Keep asking for one but they ignore me, so I just…” The boy beat the air again. For a long time. “Crazy, eh?” he panted at last. “Still want to share the den?” The boy’s fist was outstretched for a bump before he had finished asking the question.
    “Jimmy Dunn,” he said, “but everyone calls me Dunny.”
    “ Dunny ? ”
    “That’s my name, don’t wear it out. And what’s so funny?”
    “It means toilet in Australia.” Pete knew as soon as he’d sniggered that he shouldn’t have bothered.
    “Except we’re not in Australia,” Dunny took a step closer Pete, “we’re in Scot -land, alright?”
    “It’s just that my dad worked there once and—”
    “ My dad lives here and he’s Dunny and so are my uncles and my cousins. Everyone in our family’s a Dunny, alright? So it’s not funny.”
    “Alright.” Pete’s voice must have come out even smaller than he felt, and he was just about to add, “Sorry,” when Dunny dropped down into a squat. He blew a long raspberry fart, and flushed an imaginary handle.
    “Actually quite funny. Us Dunny Dunns all being toilets.” He grinned. “Except Wee Stookie.”
    “Who?” Pete was glad the conversation was moving on.
    “Stookie. That’s what you’d call a pl aaa ster in Engerland.” Dunny’s attempt at a Cockney accent was so pathetic Pete nearly laughed at him again.
    “A what ?”
    “Plaster cast. Like you get when you break something? Arms, legs… He’s always doin’ that, is Wee Stookie.” Dunny made another stab at his tragic Cockney. “My little bwuvver to you, mate. Only four he is.”
    “Wow, I’ve only ever bitten through my lip sliding down a hill in a box. Never broken any bones.”
    “Same,” Dunny said in his normal voice.
    “Quite like to,” Pete admitted.
    “Same. Maybe this arm.” Dunny held his left arm up to his chest as if it was in a sling. “So I couldn’t write my sums, but I could still run and…” Dunny booted an imaginary ball. “Yeah.”
    Dunny was shifting his arm about like it was already broken and he was trying to make it comfortable. Petewas lifting his right one to see how an imaginary sling felt on his chest, when Dunny swung his arm out and jabbed him.
    “What about your name then, Lan don boy? Something pure posh, is it? Cecil… or… or… Boris…” Dunny was snapping his fingers, trying to pluck more high-class names out of the air. “Or, I know: Ni -gel.”
    “How d’you guess? Nigel Fauntleroy the Third. Jolly delighted to meet you,” Pete hoity-toitied. He bowed, one hand on his tummy, the other against the small of his back.
    “Aye right,” Dunny snorted. “What’s it really?”
    “Peter Smeaton.”
    “Peter Smeaton?” Dunny pursed his lips as if he was deciding whether or not he approved of the name. “Anyone call you Pete? Cos I’m going to.”
    “Everyone except Jenny. She doesn’t talk yet.”
    “Sister?” Dunny clucked at Pete with pity.
    “It’s OK. Baby.”
    “You just wait till she starts.” Dunny shook his head. “She’ll never shut her trap. Girls in my class, man? Yak, yak, yak.” Dunny sighed. “Easter holidays. Peace and quiet. Two more days. Bring it on.”
    “I don’t go to any school now,” Pete said.
    “Why carry your school bag about like a swotto then?”
    When Dunny tugged at the backpack, Pete wished he hadn’t bothered bringing it down to the den. What would Dunny say about his football-figure collection? Would he laugh? Think he