This town? Mate? He was such a fraud. Whenever Frontal or Conal had seen a ‘town’ spirit in Bluebird, they crushed it. Of all the things Gordon disliked about Frontal, foremost was his affectation of knockabout beaches banter. At school, Frontal never surfed, never belonged to the club, never played footy, never came to the ocean baths, never did much except sit at his desk in relentless pursuit of a good enough pass in geography for a traineeship in the local council to further his grand ambition to be the king pinhead in the empire of pinheads. There was nothing wrong with that—the world needed pinheads—but why not own it? Why, once you’ve got what you wanted, pretend to yarn with the crusty nobodies so that you can fake belonging among them while you stab them in the back and tear down their way of life? Why?

‘It’s you and your council that allowed it,’ Gordon said.

‘What you don’t understand is that the forces of economics and progress are greater than local councils. We don’t promote development; we’re here to control its excesses and retain the essential character of the town. Bluebird has become sought-after, and that’s not council’s doing. That’s people realising that the lifestyle that we’ve always enjoyed for free, they can enjoy at a price. So, inflation. Limited supply, surging demand. But Bluebird will always be Bluebird.’

Gordon wondered how Frontal could believe that Bluebird would always be Bluebird if he really did gaze upon all those empty shells that his council had approved. But maybe if you were on his salary, you could reconcile all contradictions.

‘How’s Kel?’ Frontal asked.

‘Good,’ Gordon said tightly.

‘Terrible what happened there, I really feel for you. She’s pushing ahead with the divorce?’

Gordon considered a number of replies, but honesty—telling Frontal to fucking fuck the fuck off out of here, and fuck off while you’re at it—demanded an energy he lacked right now.

‘Yeah nah.’

‘Expensive, divorce. I don’t know how you’re supporting yourself these days. It’s going to be hard. Probably why you’re so late with your rates.’

A liquid tide rose in Gordon’s throat. The rates—the fucking rates! If Joseph Conrad lived today, his Mr Kurtz would have found a better noun than the horror. Gordon had forgotten to pay the rates. What was it up to—two thousand, three thousand he owed? He was determined not to beg Leonie. Paying council would skim off the first layer from the deposit Sam had just organised through the bank. Shit, he would have to go back to Sam for another top-up sooner rather than later.

‘Local authorities look less kindly on you the longer you fail to play your part in your municipality’s upkeep,’ Frontal went on. ‘Not right to have everyone else paying for the garbage removal, the library, the lifeguards …’

‘The pinheads.’