Andrew was pleased our protest had been put back to midday. He pointed out that, like the reporter, he enjoyed a sleep-in on the weekends.

‘But you would have turned up at nine o’clock, though?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ he said. He gave me a small glare as if mortally offended I’d doubted him. ‘Unless I’d still been asleep,’ he added. ‘Which I probably would’ve been.’

We met at eleven-thirty in a park close to the shopping mall. I’d made a detour to the newspaper office, but the place was locked up tight. I regretted not getting the reporter’s phone number yesterday, but he probably wouldn’t have given it to me anyway. I just hoped he remembered. Anyway, this wasn’t really about getting on the front page of the paper, I reminded myself, but getting publicity for the ill-treatment of animals at the abattoir and exposing local businesses’ lack of concern at how their meat was sourced. Yes, getting in the paper would achieve the challenge, but ultimately this wasn’t about me.

Andrew was already sitting on a bench, a huge rucksack on the ground next to him. He looked pale and sweaty.

‘Mate,’ I said. ‘You look pale and sweaty.’

‘Not surprising,’ he replied, a little breathless. ‘Do you have any idea how heavy this thing is?’ He nodded down at the rucksack.

I didn’t and acknowledged this freely. But, in solidarity, I tried to lift it and nearly dislocated my shoulder blade. Possibly both of them.

‘What have you got in there?’ I said. ‘An anvil or a life-sized bronze of an overweight hippo? Or both?’

‘The equipment,’ said Andrew.

We’d discussed this last night. To chain yourself to railings you needed two things, we’d agreed. Railings and chains. We trusted the railings would be provided for us – it was staggeringly unlikely, we figured, that council workers would dismantle them from the front of the shopping mall during the night. That left chains. Neither Andrew nor I could afford to buy them, so this meant we had to raid parental sheds. Not stealing, naturally, but borrowing. We’d bring them back. I say parental sheds, but really there was only one shed worth checking out.

My father works in real estate and doesn’t own a hammer. Our shed is bare. Or it would be if we actually had one.

Andrew’s dad has a fluoro vest, more power tools than Bunnings and his shed is crammed with enough material to build a six-lane motorway.

‘Chains,’ I said.

‘And padlocks,’ said Andrew. ‘You can’t tie knots in chains. Well, not secure ones.’

We sat there for twenty minutes, partly to let Andrew get his breath back and partly because we had a specific appointment for twelve.

‘Destry has a boyfriend,’ I said.

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Andrew. ‘Good-looking guy. He’s just started at St Martin’s.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Why would I tell you?’

I spread my arms towards the sky and rolled my eyes. Slightly over-dramatic, I admit, but also pointless, since Andrew was gazing at his sneakers as if they held important secrets.

‘Hello, Andrew?’ I said. ‘You know I’m in love with Destry Camberwick and you didn’t think to tell me of one slight problem? That she has a boyfriend who makes me look like Shrek?’

‘He doesn’t make you look like Shrek.’

‘Really?’

‘No. You do that by yourself.’ Andrew got up and stretched. He looked at the rucksack and waved a hand at it. ‘Your turn,’ he added. ‘And Rob, I didn’t tell you about Destry’s squeeze because it makes no difference.’

I managed to get the rucksack up onto the bench, and then I crouched and slipped my arms through the straps. Standing straight was a problem and for a second I had an image of toppling forward, the rucksack crushing me like a cockroach. When they lifted it off me all that would remain would be a bloody stain on the grass. But I managed to stand, although I tottered a few paces.

‘No difference?’ I said. Andrew was mad and this was proof.

‘None,’ he said. ‘You’ll never get anywhere if you have this negative attitude towards things, Rob. It’s your biggest problem. You think you’re unworthy of Destry and therefore you always will be. Have confidence. If you have confidence then no one can compete with you. No boyfriend, no matter how good looking, would stand a chance against you.’

I must admit, his words made me feel good. Until I remembered.

‘You said I look like Shrek,’ I said.

‘You said you look like Shrek,’ he replied. ‘I was just agreeing with your own judgement. Don’t complain that I’m dissing you, when all the time it’s you talking yourself down.’

Sometimes, Andrew is too smart for his own good. I may have said this before.