“Do you know this house, then?” says Pye.

“Sort of. A bit.” An understatement, of course. “My mum says she’d love to live here, but Dad says it’s too big.”

“That’s Macca’s baby brother!”

“Stokoe,” I nod at the little boy in the front driveway of 40 Chesterton Road. My old house. Pye’s giving me that surprised look again. “I pick these things up,” I say, by way of explanation.

We walk up to the house. “Hi,” says Pye to Stokoe’s mum, who is sitting on the step smoking a cigarette. Her dark-blonde hair is tied back and she’s really thin. “Are you, erm … Mrs MacFaddyen?”

She exhales smoke slowly, looks at us through heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Who’s askin’?”

All right, now – even I know that saying this to a pair of twelve-year-olds is daft. It’s the sort of thing gangsters say to each other in movies.

“I’m Pye Chaudhury. I’m a friend of Mac— Paul’s. From school.”

Mrs MacFaddyen smiles meanly and looks away. Her teeth are yellow and big. “Pye? As in steak and kidney?”

“Well, no actually, as in Pythag— well, yeah, steak and kidney’s fine.”

“Paulie’s never mentioned a Pye,” and when I glance across, Pye looks a bit crestfallen. Just then, Macca appears in the doorway. “This a friend of yours, Paulie?”

“I know him, mam. A’reet, Chow? Who’s your boyfriend?”

Pye laughs, but it sounds a bit forced to me. “This is Al.”

“Hello,” I say.

“Here, aren’t you two alike! You brothers? Twins?” asks Macca’s mum.

“Father and son,” I say, straight-faced, but she isn’t even listening.

“Oi, Stokoe, careful with your juice, you little bleeder!” Mrs MacFaddyen stubs out her cigarette with her foot, stands up and goes inside. “Watch him,” she says to Macca, jerking her head towards Stokoe. “He’s in a right mood this morning.”

As soon as she has gone, Macca picks up the cigarette end that his mum just left and, fishing a lighter from his pocket, lights it up again.

“So what brings you here,” asks Macca, dragging on the cigarette.

Pye looks at me then at Macca. “It’s er … it’s that calculator. Al needs it back.”

“Yeah,” I add, as if that would help.

“Well, it’s more than just a calculator, isn’t it?” Macca says slowly. He’s trying to be dead casual and even blows a smoke ring.

“Well, yes – obviously,” I say, “but I need it back.”

Macca doesn’t move.

“The thing is,” I say, “It doesn’t belong to me.”

“What? You stole it you mean? You naughty boy!” He sucks again at the cigarette end and walks towards us, grinning. This is not going well, I can tell.

“No, I didn’t steal it, it’s …”

“You just said it wasn’t yours.”

“Well, yes, but I’m just borrowing it.”

“So am I. So am I. Besides, it was a fair swap, wasn’t it?” He blows smoke out of his mouth and while I can’t be sure he’s blowing it in my face, it certainly seems like it. He continues: “Meanwhile, thanks for the present you left me.”

Pye and I exchange looks. I can’t decide which is worse: if he has found the laptop, or Alan Shearer.

“What present?” Pye asks.

“The strange present from our little electronical Santy Claus here. I thought it was you at first. Youse two really are alike you y’knaa. But when I saw you together, I realised that it was him coming out of me garage about an hour ago.”

I swallow hard because I don’t like the direction this is going. Pye is looking at me as if he suddenly doesn’t trust me.

“And by the way – Al, is it? – that’s an interestin’ line in robbin’ you’ve got going there. Unconventional, I mean. Most people take things, but you leave them! In my bunker, of all places!”

We’ve been walking up his driveway and by now we’re at the garage doors, which he opens fully. And there it is, on a little table, in a shaft of dusty light, like it’s been posed for an advert for laptops. Next to it is the book-sized black box and a tangle of wires.

At least he hasn’t found Alan Shearer.

“Wow!” says Pye. “Is that a … a portable computer?”

“I would say it is,” says Macca, “though I never knew they could get this small. Is it?” he asks me, and I nod. “How do you turn it on, then?”

Reluctantly, I reach forward and press the on switch at the back. The screen lights up. “It’s the very latest model. From America.”

“Hey! It’s in colour!” says Pye, awestruck.

“How man, Stokoe,” shouts Macca, “come and see this! It’s like the television.” This is just the start-up screen, a picture of a globe spinning in space, and I’m thinking, “you’re going to love the internet!”

Stokoe toddles over as fast as he can. “Ba! Telly!”

What happens next is dead simple and is over in two seconds, but seems to last much, much longer. Relativity strikes again.

I can’t blame Stokoe: he’s only a toddler. But when I replay it in my head later, I can recall every detail. His sticky chin, his wide, pale eyes, his little potbelly.

His wobbly walk.

He comes up to the low table and, what? Misjudges the distance? Stumbles? Either way, he nudges his cup of juice against the side of the table.

Its entire contents spill out. All over the keyboard.

The laptop doesn’t spark or explode or anything. It just stops working. The screen goes blank. We stare at it in silence.

My way home. My way back to Mum and Grandpa Byron.

Gone.