I suspect that there are shames wrapped inside Gordon’s shame, guilts within his guilt. So desperate is he to avoid confronting his shame and guilt, he has turned for his financial salvation to the one person whose need for secrecy is as vital as his own. And in finance, secrecy merely makes the introductions for illegality.

Silly, silly, silly boy. Like everyone who knows him, I wonder why he makes life so hard for himself. What, dear Gordon, is the matter with you?

THE FIREHOUSE

The firehouse

Nothing could make Gordon Grimes’s heart chirrup quite as tunefully as a morning like this: clouds throbbing with rain, sea the colour of dreadnoughts, squalls on a sou’-easter devil wind whisking the water into foam quiffs. Ben was off to school early, Kelly had disappeared to work and Lou, bound inside a scarf, had headed out to meet a friend on her way to TAFE.

Bluebird Beach was scoured of humanity. Even Red Cap was cowering indoors, Snake had a job on, Cnut had not been sighted, and Dog, when he saw the forecast, had hurriedly arranged a client conference in Mirage Chambers, his virtual legal office which comprised a receptionist and a conference room. Mirage was the pop-up solution for legal practitioners who would not or could not afford, or would not be accepted into, a legitimate Ocean City firm. Dog would lurk in the toilets until his clients arrived, and then appear in the conference room laden with important documents, bubbling with confidence about their case, backed by the authority of his Potemkin Village chambers. It was the deception, as much as the peppercorn rent, that appealed to him.

Behind the top car park, the cafes had pulled down their wind-snapped awnings and given their shivering staff the day off.

For Gordon, then: a surf day.

He hadn’t given up surfing; he’d just given up surfing with people. Pristine days with sweetly groomed swell, bringing masses of board riders to Bluebird, kept Gordon indoors. Only on filthy days did he take his board from its cover, wax up, pour himself into his wetsuit and trot happily down to the rain-whipped sand.

Firie Sam Eastaugh, in board shorts and zipper vest, was already out at what passed for a south peak in the confused mess. Gordon bobbed next to him. They didn’t say hello: a waste of body heat. Gordon watched Sam stroke into a limp moment of chop that somehow stood up into a rideable wave.

‘How’s it been?’ Gordon asked when Sam paddled back.

‘Puke, but puke on me own. Here—go.’

Sam nodded Gordon into an unpromising knob of water which, to Gordon’s surprise, turned into a half-decent ride.

‘Careful we don’t make it look too good,’ Sam said. ‘The Zillas will be out.’