Three

Ten minutes later we were off down the road with our Jack Russell terrier, Tina, yapping and scampering around our feet. The toaster was bust, so we just munched on slices of white bread as we walked along. I carried the fishing rod, and Kenny had the rest of the gear – the hooks and floats and maggots – in an old ice-cream carton. I didn’t let him carry the rod because you never knew what he was going to do with it, and it was the one thing we couldn’t afford to replace. It was my dad’s old one from when he was a kid. Dad didn’t make a big fuss about it, but I knew it was special for him.

We were going to the Bacon Pond. It’s a funny name for a pond, I know. It’s called that because it’s right next to the Bacon Factory, where they used to make all sorts of meat pies and stuff, as well as bacon. It’s closed down now – the Bacon Factory, I mean. Everything’s closed down round here except the pound shops and the pubs and the Spar. I’ve heard people say they’re going to turn the Bacon Factory into flats for rich people, but I’ll believe that when I see the Ferraris parked outside.

“Tell me about the pike again,” Kenny said as we walked.

One of the things about Kenny is that he likes to hear the same story over and over again. In fact, he never likes a story until he’s heard it about ten times, and then he loves it, even if it’s actually a rubbish story.

But the story about the pike wasn’t rubbish.

“So you know about the Bacon Factory?” I asked him.

“Yeah, they used to make pies and ham and that.”

“And you know what they did with the old meat that had gone rotten and manky?” I asked.

“They used to throw it in the pond.”

“That’s right. And you know what used to live in the Bacon Pond?”

“Ginormous pikes!” Kenny said. “But stop asking questions and tell it properly.”

I laughed. The truth is I liked telling stories to Kenny, because he really, really listened. He listened with every bit of him, as if he could hear you with his legs and his hands as well as his ears.