Gordon’s initial reason for refusing was revenge for that demolished white house, which had been one of his take-off markers when he grew up looking at it from the surf. It belonged to the family of Neil Tasker, a school friend of Owen’s, and Gordon had always loved it. Gordon lost his objection at the development approval stage—Frontal’s council had yet to see a demolition it didn’t like—so now Gordon was fighting a guerrilla action with the hope of a negotiated settlement. The most irritating part was that David Archer was terribly good-natured, unfailingly giving Gordon a cheery hello down the beach or up the shops or over the fence while ignoring his letters, their tone shading in time from grumpy to desperate, suggesting a cash payment ‘in perhaps the high four-figure, low five-figure region’. Even now, Gordon’s attempts to play the righteous nimby were falling on blind eyes. David Archer flashed his surgically whitened teeth. Entitled cunt. An echo of Noel Chidgey’s hatred of the young came into Gordon’s head: What this generation needs is a good war.

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.’