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would’ve picked her up and dashed her against the wall. A thousand pieces. No, a million. And no glue, not ever. He took one step forwards and slammed the door in her stupid made-up face.
    â€˜Come on, Jed,’ she cooed from the other side. ‘Don’t be like that.’ She banged on the wood with the flat of her hand. He knew it was the flat of her hand. She was careful never to scrape her knuckles or break her nails. She was a real beautician. ‘Jed?’ Her voice had hardened. ‘Jed, come on. Don’t be boring.’
    He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at her through the door. He thought he heard her mutter, ‘Little bastard,’ and she banged once more, one last time, and then there was silence. Then high-heels across the hallway and the kitchen door clicked shut.
    He climbed out of his bedroom window and stamped off up Mackerel Street, his red baseball cap jammed on sideways, as if he was turning left. That woman with the wedges of electric-pink and blue above her eyes. That woman, the beautician. His mother. She’d gone and thrown his radios away. All one hundred and twelve of them. She’d even thrown the Ferguson away, three feet high with wings of polished wood to gather the sound. Two years’ work collecting those radios. Two years’ love.
    He was wearing jeans that concertinaed round his ankles and a black T-shirt that said SUICIDE; he was thinking about changing it to MURDER now. He wedged his hands in his pockets, his thin arms locked and stiff. His head began to buzz like the TV screen when a channel shuts down at night. They call it snow sometimes, but it’s nothing like snow. It’s nowhere near that peaceful.
    She must’ve been planning it for ages with that nail-polish brain of hers. You’d need a special man to shift one hundred and twelve radios. You’d need a truck. He couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t believe it. He tipped his head to the clouds and groaned out loud. An old lady stopped and looked at him, concerned. He glared at her and stamped on up the road, round the corner and into Airdrome Boulevard.
    MURDER. That was the answer. Then, when she was dead, he could send her to the embalming studio, plenty of pink and blue, he’d say, don’t spare the pink and blue, he’d make her look like she was going to a fucking disco, and then they could put her in one of those viewing theatres on Central Avenue, he didn’t know how much it cost, he didn’t care, he’d save up. He could see it now:
    MURIEL MORGAN NOW SHOWING ONE WEEK ONLY
    She’d be laid out in her coffin, pink satin it’d be, with blue trimmings, to go with her make-up, maybe some neon too, and there’d be radios all round her, hundreds of radios, all tuned to different stations, all on top volume. He’d surround her with radios. He’d
bury
her in radios.
    He walked halfway across the city that day, he walked until night fell. He stood under the harbour bridge and watched the lights come on downtown. He leaned his head back against a pillar and shut his eyes and felt the silver trains shake down through the stone. He’d scattered his rage along a hundred streets and he was almost smiling now. He had a new idea.
    The next day he didn’t go to school. He went to visit Mr Garbett instead. Mr Garbett was definitely a mistake, he knew that now. One look at him and it was obvious. There was an understanding between them that didn’t need any words. And since he had so much in common with this man who smelt like a casino and ruled an empire of junk from a stained green throne, it was only fitting that he should have a part to play in Jed’s plan.
    â€˜How’s the tape recorder?’ Mr Garbett asked.
    â€˜Great, thanks.’
    Mr Garbett shifted on the sofa. ‘Sorry, but I haven’t got any new radios in.’ He grinned. It was one of their private jokes. New radios.
    â€˜That’s