Straight out like I knowed this car don’t belong in this town, too good lookin. I sit down on the steps, tea in hand, Tim Tams beside me, and watch as the driver revs the motor and swings the car round to drive down my side a the street. I shade me eyes gainst the sun and watch as it pulls up near the front gate. A tall, blonde-haired man gets out. Leanin one arm on the car door he calls out, ‘I’m after Nev Dooley, does he live around here anywhere?’ ‘Yeah, here.’ I get to me feet. Curiosity drives me toward the gate. ‘Oh, you’re his Mum?’ he asks in a soft voice. ‘Reckon so, n who’re you?’ I read the black print on his neatly ironed, spotless tee-shirt: Foxy Loxy. ‘A friend.’ He smiles, reachin into his jeans pocket and bringin out a packet of menthol cigarettes. ‘A friend, that’s ya name?’ I eye off his girlie face. ‘No, sorry. I’m Trevor Wren Davidson.’ He laughs sorta nervous like, then lights up his cigarette. ‘Oh, where ya from then?’ I look down at his sandal-clad feet.
