He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher. He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher. His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
That fire, they said, was red as red as red as red as a fox, your lips, a cherry; that fire, they said spread and spread and spread, faster than a cheetah or a nasty rumour;
Five children clasping mittens could not hug the entire trunk. Whole hands could hide in the folds of its bark. James, the tallest boy in class, could sit on a root,