Martin turns and steps off the verandah, exasperated. “They’re not here,” she says, shutting the door. “Where are they?” demands Martin, shaking his gun. A tiny, emaciated woman in her late 40s, no taller than a ten-year-old, appears behind the flyscreen, her eyes wide and frightened. When he arrives at a white-cladding house on Riviera Avenue, he bangs on the door. He knows exactly where the culprits live – it’s only a short walk, about two minutes. Gun in hand, he strides up his street, around the block and past a lagoon dotted with small yachts and boats. He lets himself into the house, grabs his shotgun and loads it. It’s then that he sniffs a deeper, ruder stench: his front door and its handle are smeared with shit. Martin climbs off his bike and walks through the piles of rubbish towards the verandah. Martin’s many calls to local police so far have proved fruitless – they either don’t turn up to take a statement or don’t take his complaints seriously. For the past year a gang of local youths has relentlessly taunted and threatened him – pummelling him with rocks and eggs, cutting off his power cables and accusing him publicly of paedophilia. This is not the first time he’s arrived home to see his property trashed. As he turns into his driveway, he suddenly squeezes the brakes and stops short: his car and front yard are strewn with rotting prawn shells, smashed eggs, newspapers, empty bottles and used sanitary pads. Seagulls arc and whirl above him and fishing trawlers cut through curtains of mist. Dawn has just broken over the rivers of Tweed Heads as volunteer marine rescue worker Martin Grove, 62, cycles home after another eight-hour night shift.
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