The only person he imagines getting them as accurate as him is Mohsin the Ignorer. “Mate, did you fill out my footy-tipping sheet?” he asks when he sits down. Mohsin ignores him and Tom wants to spit chips. When Mohsin the Ignorer finally looks at him, Tom can’t hold back. “What’s your fucking problem?” Mohsin has the audacity to look taken aback and Tom just bars him with his own look and goes back to work. Like he does most afternoons at the Union before his shift, he stands at the door of the back room, watching Francesca and Justine negotiate their compilation. Each time, they acknowledge him with a nod before going back to the music. Once or twice he suggests a shift in key or a need for more force in a bend, but mostly he just watches as Justine plays her accordion and Francesca works with the lyrics and scribbles down the corrections. Today Francesca looks up at him again, and he senses it’s an invitation to let him come in and listen. “It’s going to be hillbilly,”
