His day took a turn for the better when the magistrate called his case early. This was unusual. When he was here with Kelly, they were inevitably last in line, the magistrate at the end of his rope. It must have been arranged as a process of escalation: auto offences first, then property disputes, drugs and alcohol, assault, murder, genocide, all the way up to marital conflict.

Today’s magistrate, Tim Phelan, was a well-known Capri ex-footballer. He and Gordon had not had a conversation, other than across the courtroom, since secondary school, which permitted Tim not to recuse himself for conflict of interest. Instead of the required bow, Gordon gave Tim a chummy nod, which Tim returned. Looking good, Gordon thought.

David Archer stood up and read from a scad of correspondence about his numerous reasonable approaches to Gordon and his proposed schedule for builders to gain access down the path in a manner that would cause zero inconvenience. He omitted Gordon’s shakedown letters. ‘It’s obviously a very difficult site for the builders to access, Your Honour,’ David Archer, in flirtatiously metrosexual cadences, said to Tim. ‘Your Honour’ indeed, Gordon thought. Good luck with that. David Archer continued: ‘And we have bent over backwards to put our neighbours’ convenience first. The total time for access would be no more than five ten-minute periods spread over a period of two months, all with at least fourteen days’ notice, and we would concede any reasonable grounds for rescheduling.’

As David Archer upped his rate of italicising, Tim Phelan went through the correspondence, none of which Gordon remembered reading before he’d binned it. Gordon snuck a look at his watch. He was going to be cutting it fine with the seven-dollar charge, not to mention Norma’s birthday luncheon. Why couldn’t Tim have done his reading beforehand? Did they all have to stand here while he did his work? And in his comments, he kept calling David Archer ‘Mr David’, which riled Gordon up: it sounded like bias.

‘The respondent?’ Tim said, his half-closed eyes dimming on Gordon.

‘Mm?’

‘You’re unrepresented today? I note Mr David’s submissions have been prepared by legal counsel.’

‘You seen the cost of solicitors?’

Tim was about to say something but checked himself.

‘We’ve heard from Mr David at length. Have you anything to say, Mr Grimes?’

‘Ah, I was thinking we might be talking about a reasonable cash settlement.’

Tim’s eyelids drooped. ‘How much are you proposing to offer, Mr Grimes?’

Gordon felt a blush spread over his face like a dropped tin of paint. Proposing to offer? It dawned on him that being late for Norma’s birthday lunch might not be the absolute worst thing that could happen to him today.

‘Allow me, Timbo!’

Gordon, Tim Phelan and David Archer—even some of the other cases—looked towards the voice entering the courtroom. Dog wore a suit jacket and shirt and tie, but beneath the waist-high wooden barrier, Gordon saw board shorts. He still had a smear of sun cream on his nose. He looked better outfitted for a food court than the magistrates court. He was waving a curled-up document.