Not only had Andrew brought enough stuff to chain us both to the supermarket’s railings, he’d brought enough to fix the staff and all of the customers as well. Not just chains, but padlocks too. Small ones, hulking ones, over thirty in total. I found it hard to believe his dad would need so much material, even if he was a tradie (which he was). Maybe he collected chains and padlocks like other people collect china figurines and antique snuff boxes. That was a weird thought, and I liked it.

Andrew saw to me first. I sat on the pavement up against the railings and he wound the links through my arms and legs, across my neck and through the bars of the fence. Occasionally he put in a padlock and locked it. We’d talked about this: if the butcher or the supermarket manager came out, we didn’t want them unravelling the chains in five seconds and telling us to clear off. What kind of a protest would that be? No. We were here for the long term. A few passers-by glanced our way, somewhat puzzled, but no one challenged us.

‘How does that feel?’ said Andrew when he was done. I flexed my arms and legs, tried to shift my bum across the pavement. All good. I was trussed like a Christmas turkey. (No. Animal cruelty. I was trussed like a Christmas nut loaf. No. That doesn’t make sense.)

‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

‘Okay,’ said Andrew. ‘My turn.’

It was only then we realised the problem. Andrew stood with a couple of kilometres of heavy-duty chain draped across his arms. He couldn’t tie himself up and I was in no position, since I could barely move the fingers on one hand.

‘You could ask a passer-by,’ I suggested.

He did, but it didn’t work. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising. Excuse me. I’m fourteen years old and would much appreciate it if you’d lock me to this railing with lengths of chain and numerous padlocks.

Luckily, Grandad turned up right on midday.

‘G’day, guys,’ he said. ‘Need a hand?’ He summed up the situation quickly. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘If your brains were dynamite, you wouldn’t have enough to blow your hats off.’

‘We’re not wearing hats, Mr F,’ Andrew pointed out.

Grandad quickly and efficiently shackled Andrew next to me. It must have been a bizarre spectacle for anyone paying attention – an old guy tying up a boy in the centre of town. You can probably get arrested for that kind of thing. Luckily, no police came by. Plenty of other people did, but no one intervened, which, in a sense, was a real worry. We could’ve been holding up a jeweller’s shop and people would undoubtedly stroll by, heads over their phones, chained and padlocked to their own interior set of railings. Had people always been like this? I thought not. I resolved to ask Grandad at some point. He wouldn’t know all history but he’d lived through a fair portion of it.

‘Okay,’ said Grandad, tugging at the padlocks and chains. He appeared satisfied they were secure. ‘Comfortable?’

How can you be comfortable chained and padlocked to railings while the cold from frosty concrete creeps up your bum?

‘Great, thanks,’ we both said together.

‘And where are your placards?’

Andrew and I looked at each other. Correction. We tried to look at each other but the chains were so tight it was hard to make eye contact.

‘You said you’d get the placards, Rob,’ said Andrew.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Well, you should have said it. I brought the chains and padlocks after all. You can’t expect me to do everything.’

‘Now, wait a moment …’

‘Shut up,’ said Grandad. ‘You moronic mounds of cat poo.’ I was going to complain about the insults, but reckoned if I did, Grandad might gag both of us and then walk away. ‘So here you are, chained to railings, but no one knows why. Brilliant! Were you relying on telepathy or simply hoping people will ask you? “Excuse me, but are you chained up for a reason or is this how teenagers now spend their weekends?” I wouldn’t talk to you. I’d pretend you didn’t exist, just like all these people are doing.’ Grandad waved a hand to encompass the surroundings. The town centre was busy now, but no one was looking in our direction. Part of the problem was that we were both close to the ground, being chained to the railings and all, so it was difficult for anyone to spot us. Grandad sighed. ‘I’ll go and get some placards and a texta,’ he said. Now he shook his head. ‘Honest to God. You guys are meant to be the future of the human race. Heaven help us all! Okay. I’ll be quick. Don’t go anywhere.’

‘We can’t, Mr …’

‘He’s joking, Andrew,’ I said.

‘Oh.’

Pop was only gone ten minutes, but in that time Destry Camberwick rocked up.

‘Hi, Rob. Hey, Andrew,’ said Destry.

‘Destry. How’s it going?’ said Andrew.

‘Good.’ She squatted down so we could see her more easily, rather than staring at her kneecaps. Don’t get me wrong. I liked staring at her kneecaps. They were brilliant kneecaps. But it was also great to look into her eyes. ‘Now, I know it’s rude to ask,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t help noticing you’re chained to the railings.’ She put a hand on my knee and a part of me shrivelled and died. ‘Just as you said, Rob. But is there a reason? Or is this how you guys like to spend your weekend?’

I explained.

‘You need placards,’ she said when I was done.

‘I know,’ I replied. ‘My grandfather has just gone to get some. Oh, here he is.’

Pop had not only got placards, he’d written on them and pinned them to stakes.

Boycott Meat At Dixon’s The Butcher and Morgan’s Supermarket.

Don’t Support Animal Cruelty!

He propped them between our knees.

‘Grandad,’ I said. ‘This is Destry Camberwick.’

Pop looked at Destry and then back at me. At that moment I regretted introducing him; I should’ve known better. I should’ve said, I have no idea who this old fart is, Destry. That wouldn’t have worked but it might have bought me some time.

‘What? The Destry Camberwick?’

‘Er. Well. A Destry Camberwick,’ I said.

‘The one you’re in love with?’ asked Pop.

There was silence for two months. Okay, not two months, probably more like five seconds, but certainly plenty of time to die a couple of hundred times.

‘No,’ I said after two months. ‘That’s another Destry Camberwick entirely.’

You can hope for the earth to swallow you, but let’s face it, it’s unlikely to happen. Especially when you’re chained to a supermarket’s railings with a placard clenched between your thighs. There’s probably some law of physics involved.

Grandad looked Destry up and down.

‘I thought you were an eighties rock band,’ he said.