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I could hear his voice floating in on the breeze. A gravely, nasal, combustive voice, ever ready for action. Or perhaps more accurately no action. His name was Brett (well so the whole neighbourhood could hear). I followed the vibrations down the drive, the constant twang into the mobile phone. He sounded like he meant business. I had only just arrived. The slant of the sun was different, the bees hovered in the steamy air. A slightly sweet, acrid smell assaulted my nose from the local creek, recently turned into a hazardous wasteland from a factory fire. What was this place I had landed in? His voice commanded I stop. "Gidday, I'm Brett, you staying in the unit down the end?". I smiled and nodded, unsure of whether to engage. Duplicity with the gatekeeper seemed like a game with no end. "How is your day?" "Where you headed?" "I hate politicians, what bout you?" "Do you know how hard it is to be a single dad?" "Do you reckon I can sell this bookshelf on gumtree?"- these I could sense were my days ahead. My head thudded, I looked up to the sky to see if a plane had left an answer in its entrails. Journey away or into the scuzzy web of Beaumont street? The roasting concrete and Brett’s tongue had caught me fast. I was transfixed and a local (for now).