At lunchtime, Justin said they should meet in the cubicles that afternoon and get some of the cracks out of the way. They were in different classes for biology, and Justin said how about 2.15, when both of them could arrange to go the toilets, there not being anyone else around.

‘I thought you didn’t want to anymore.’

‘What?’

‘You said not at school.’

‘Yeah, did I?’ Justin remembered saying it. He just didn’t know whether he’d actually said it. Things, he now realized, were even confused from as far back as Thursday last week, when he had thought they were learning about the Egyptians in history. They were studying the Second World War.

He’d even brought a book to school with him today about the pyramids – one that he’d found at home – thinking to show it Mr Lassetter, who he knew didn’t like him.

When Justin got into class, it was the Battle of Britain, and the two of them (he and Scott) were separated as they had been for months – Scott joining his place with the Axis powers on the left side of the room, and Justin, his place with the others.

It was a turning point in the war, apparently. Shane-o, Mark and Scott (Italy, Japan and Germany) were saying they didn’t want to invade Russia. They wanted to see how things turned out if they invaded Britain instead.

And Mr Lassetter let them. It was annoying, Justin thought.

‘I’m a little island,’ Justin said. ‘They’ve got most of Europe.’

But Mr Lassetter didn’t like him. He liked Shane-o, who now believed he was Mussolini.

***

Justin waited for Scott at the sports shed by the hockey fields. From here, he could see the school pool at the edge of the field, it’s crystal water, sunk down into a valley, and with the tall trees of the bush as a backdrop. There was a chill wind blowing, ruffling the surface of the pool, and behind it, the tall trees in the bush were struggling, collapsing and expanding, tugged and tossed by the wind.

When Scott arrived, his face was flushed, his red cheeks glowing, and his fair hair fanning over his head, peeling in the wind. He looked worried.

‘It’s cold, eh?’ he said.

Justin felt like putting his arm around Scott. His lips were so red and full, like he was wearing lipstick, and his eyes were so bright, sparkling like silver, crystal blue in the cold winter sunshine.

He was late because Frau Konniger had kept him back. He had said, “Mein hodensack ist heute abend eine cremige chaos,” as he was leaving.

Justin laughed. ‘It might be,’ he said. ‘Do you really think you can handle 178.’

‘Yeah, I took some tylenol.’ This was a joke.

Justin laughed. They started walking across the field, Scott hoisting his back onto his back and threading his arm through it.

‘It wouldn’t really happen though, would it?’

‘What?’

‘They wouldn’t get all smooshed up. They wouldn't be like cream.’

‘I don’t know, Scottie. The Cracker’s meted out some pretty cruel torture to you.’

‘But you wouldn’t really do that, would you? You wouldn’t crush them.’

Justin saw a lychee smashing on a string. ‘I don’t suppose so. The "nut-fuckers" are as hard as I can do.’

‘Yeah, but, if you…?’

‘I won’t give you too many.’

‘How many?’

‘I don’t know. Ten percent?’

‘Oh, man,’ Scott said. ‘My dick’s shriveled up and my balls are up in my stomach.’ He pulled at the groin of his shorts and lifted one leg as he walked, shivering.

‘I’ll warm them up.’

‘Oh yeah!’

‘They’d already be warm if you were wearing jocks.’

‘You said not to.’

‘Why would I say that?’

‘You said I should be naked afterwards – on the bus.’

‘You know, Scott, you don't have to do this. I thought you had all your cracks already. I can’t remember anything from Friday - not like you say it is.’

‘You tell me that now.’

‘Well.’ Justin stopped. ‘We can stop, if you want to – stop the whole thing.’

‘You’re not winning.’

‘Well, you can win then. You win. There. I don’t care.’

‘Are you going to let me give you 942 cracks?’

‘Of course not. But we’ll just say you won.’

Scott started walking again. ‘Fuck that. I want to crack your nuts. You’re getting all 942. There’s no way I’m not winning this and getting you back for a change.’

“The Cracker”, Justin had learned, recorded his tally as 58. He had only (apparently) taken 17 of these. The others had been deducted from Scott’s tally whenever Justin got some. It was a rule Justin had never heard of before, but on Friday (according to Scott) they had had an argument about it, Scott saying Justin had to take his cracks, and Justin saying Scott had to take all of his, then.

Scott had refused, saying they should be able to take them over time – when they could handle them. Justin had said (it sounded like the sort of thing he would say) that if Scott wanted to crack him, he would have to clear his tally debt today.

‘From now on,’ Scott said, ‘whatever you get, you have to take them on the day you get them. We agreed on that. On Friday, you said I had to do all of them or you weren’t going to play anymore.’

‘Yeah, but I never meant 178.’

‘It was 235. You gave me 57.’

‘Bullshit!’

‘You reckoned you’d won when I stopped. You said I’d never reach a thousand. You said I had to take all my little cracks like a man or you’d won. You were going to keep going. You said I had one final chance – today. We shook on it.’

‘Did I hug you?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t worry. I thought I hugged you afterwards. You were upset.’

‘No, you didn’t fucking hug me. You said “Fuck you, Scott” and you kicked my shorts off the edge. They landed in the creek. And then you took off. You screamed “fuck you” from up on the path. I thought we weren’t friends anymore. You said you didn’t want to know me unless I took them today. I had to walk all the way down to the weir to get my shorts back.’

‘That sounds pretty mean. I don’t think I would have done that.’

Scott threw his head back. ‘You think I’m gonna forget. I went home on the bus with wet shorts on. I kicked my jocks into the bush. It hurt like fucking hell.’

‘How are you going to handle 178 then?’

‘I’m just going to. Whatever I say, just keep going.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Justin, thinking it would soon be over. Scott wouldn’t handle 178. It would be over today – and he may as well enjoy giving them to Scott. He’d make it as hard as possible for Scott, he suddenly decided. He deserved it anyway.

‘If you don’t take them Scott, that’s it okay. I win. End of story.’

‘You already said that.’

On the scree behind the cave there was flat space surrounded by bushes. Whenever they cracked in the bush, they went to this place, which had the added advantage of a view towards the path, and of the path along the creek, if you stood up and looked. Scott had almost always been the one standing, and it had been his job, always, to look out for anyone coming.

They climbed around the cave and into the little clearing.

‘Can you not kick my shorts over the edge?’

Directly below them was the cave on the side of the creek. They were on its roof, and precipice just a few feet away was almost vertical, a sheer drop to the creek.

He had kicked Scott’s shorts off there? And left Scott in his shirt, his shoes and his tie, his jumper – and with his pack but no shorts? no jocks?

If that had been a dream, then Justin might have believed in it. As it was, he had no recollection of it at all. What he thought had happened on Friday, hadn’t, apparently, happened. Something else had. He had acted in some way he couldn’t imagine (according to Scott), said and did things he didn’t now feel.

Was he still sick? Was this just as much a dream as everything else? Still part of the fantasy? Part of a fever?

The sun came out from behind a cloud and shone brightly through the forest. Scott was unbuttoning his shorts, and unzipping the fly to reveal jocklessness – no pubes and his shriveled cock in the cold wind, his shriveled sack. The trees rustled above them and a bellbird called, and Justin had the feeling, as he had earlier this morning, that this was real life, life that he could taste and touch and smell.

But hadn’t it been like that on Friday? When he had?

‘I could hug you afterwards, if you want.'

'What?'

'If you're upset.'

‘Fuck off,’ said Scott. ‘I don't need you to hug me. 'm not a fucking pussy.’