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.

‘Your Honour will do,’ the magistrate said. ‘I take it you are representing Mr Grimes?’

‘Hundred percent! And my client opposes the application. Which I guess is obvious. That’s why we’re here.’ Dog shot Gordon a flamboyant wink.

Closing his eyes, Gordon slumped back into his seat. What the fuck was Dog doing here? He couldn’t ask. At this moment it was crucial to present a united front.

‘I know it’s obvious, Mr Gilsenan,’ the magistrate was saying. ‘What I’m asking is: what are your client’s grounds for objection? It seems the applicant has taken reasonable steps and conducted himself in a neighbourly way.’

‘My objection is also reasonable, Teeny.’

‘Mr Gilsenan,’ Tim Phelan said with an audible sigh. He’d always been asthmatic. The team used to call him Teeny-Weezy Timmy on account of his size, his sighs and his thighs. ‘The proper form of address, please.’

‘Come on, champion, just because you’re a beak you can’t—’

‘Your Honour will do.’