Ben is the one person I know capable of being involved in illicit deals that might include boxes of large amounts of money. He used to have a piggery on the farm, and everyone knew there was something not quite right about it. He shut it down some years ago. Rumours have it that he owns dodgy real estate ventures, brothels on the coast, and a holiday resort for paedophiles in Asia. Probably not true, but you get the gist of the bloke. No one makes up stories like that about popular, good-natured people.

‘Ben. What can I do for you?’ I’m not wasting pleasantries, and I know he isn’t expecting me to.

But, ‘Hey there, Davey boy. How’ve you been keeping?’ My alarm bells are clanging air-raid warnings. Ben is affable and relaxed. He is visiting an old friend he hasn’t had a chance to catch up with in a long while. I’ve not seen this version before.

‘Okay. You?’ I am suddenly aware that, except for James’s area, the lawn is long, and the garden beds are a mess. There are branches down, and leaves in piles everywhere, backed up against walls and tree trunks. The couch and the kikuyu have taken command of the veggie garden, and the timber fence along the north side is rotted and collapsing. Someone only has to drive into my garden to know what state I am in. It makes me sad to think what my mother would feel when she saw this mess. But why do I suddenly give a toss?

‘Oh, you know, all right. Getting on a bit, slowing down. Everything seems to hurt first thing in the morning when you’re my age.’

I can’t think of anything to say except, ‘Tell someone who cares.’ I refrain from comment.

‘But, like they say, it’s better than the alternative.’

‘What alternative?’

‘Being six foot under. Being dead, mate. Being dead.’ I think it’s meant to be a joke.

‘Yeah.’ We look at each other for a few seconds, and I guess he decides his approach is a waste of time. He’s never actually done anything wrong by me except treat me like someone of no account. Maybe that’s enough reason to hate him. And he is basically a shit human being who gets to feel like he is a part of a good community, has people who talk to him and humour him because they believe that is their duty in a small community. If he lived anywhere else, the only reason anyone would have anything to do with him would be money. At least that’s what I think.

‘I’m missing a box. That internet tracking thing says it was supposed to come in the mail today, but it didn’t. It’s got precious stuff in it. Precious to me, anyway.’

‘So how can I help you?’ Or perhaps you could bugger off.