‘Liquid Damage’, they call it in the computer trade. It’s fatal to computers. Most companies don’t even cover ‘LD’ in the guarantees. In short, if you get it wet, you’re stuffed.

Probably. But I hadn’t reckoned on Pye.

“Quick,” he says to Macca. “Get me a glass of water,” but Macca just stands there like a lump. “Quickly!” and he’s off into the kitchen. I’m desperate now, and I really don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m not expecting what comes next. Lifting the black box and wires out of the way, Pye grabs the water and pours it over the laptop.

“Oh great, that’s going to help,” says Macca. I’m too astounded to say anything at all.

“Shut up. We have to rinse out the sticky juice. Where’s the battery?” I turn the laptop upside down so it’s a tent-shape on the table, and the water starts to run out. “Screwdriver. Get me one now! And rubber gloves.”

He’s unscrewed the battery cover and is pulling on the rubber gloves that Macca has brought from the kitchen; then he takes out the dripping battery. “Risk of static shock. Now cat litter. Bring me the cat’s litter tray.”

It’s by the door to the kitchen, and full of cat turds, but I don’t care. Pye and I are working together. Picking them out with my hands, I heap up the grey litter sand and plunge the battery into the tray and cover it over.

“It’s silica. It’s a desiccant. It’s our only hope.” Macca is looking at us, uncomprehending. “It absorbs water.”

“Will it work?” asks Macca.

“No idea. But there’s a chance.”

“I’ve got more,” says Macca. “Cover the computer with it,” and he grabs a handful.

“No! The dust will be too fine. It could damage the PCBs.”

Now, I thought I knew a bit about computers, but Pye is way ahead of me, even though he’s thirty years behind.

“How do you know this stuff?” I ask, in admiration.

Pye shrugs modestly. “I saw something in PC World. Do you know it?”

“What? The shop?”

“Shop? No, it’s a magazine. It’s great. I mean, battery-operated computers are pretty new, and this one is way ahead of anything I’ve seen, but the principle’s the same.” He has heaped the cat litter on to the battery and covered it completely. “This must be Apple’s fightback product. It’s pretty neat. I like the new logo.”

“Fightback?”

“Yeah. They’ve been stuffed commercially by IBM. But hey, maybe they’ll be a success after all. Who knows?”

Pye’s talk, and his movements, have lost all the hesitancy he was displaying before. Suddenly he’s more confident, and fluent, and the way he has taken charge has had a curious effect on Macca, who is waiting for his command.

Pye has spotted this too. He seizes the opportunity and says, “And Al’s calculator. Give it to him.”

Macca hesitates.

“Now!”

Macca reaches into his pocket and brings out my mobile. “It, er … it doesn’t work any more. Something happened to it.”

I take it from him and flip it open. Nothing. It just looks like the battery has run down, but I’m not missing this chance.

“You’ve wrecked this as well,” I say. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “It’s just—”

Pye stops him by holding up his hand. “Enough! Come on, Al. Get the litter tray. I’ve got your computer. I have an idea. Come on.” He starts to leave the garage, holding the still-dripping laptop carefully. Macca starts to follow us, and Pye turns to face him.

“Not you. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

Pye turns away, but I see the look on Macca’s face. It’s never smart to belittle someone like Macca, I think to myself, hoping Pye’s new-found confidence hasn’t just overstepped the mark.