That’s what his parents said as soon as the squatters took over the land below their house. Rohan’s dad added another meter of thick concrete bricks to their garden wall and topped it with curling barbed wire. He certainly wasn’t going to wait for the first break-in and be sorry later. They lived on the ridge of a steep hill with the garden sloping down. Despite the high wall, from his bedroom upstairs, Rohan could see over the spiked-wire circles down to the place where he and his friends used to play. The wild fig trees under which they had made their hideouts were still there. They had spent hours dragging planks, pipes, sheets of metal and plastic—whatever might be useful—up the hill from rubbish tipped in a ditch below. The first squatters pulled their hideouts apart and used the same old scraps again for their own constructions. Rohan could still see the “ski slope”—the red earth down which he and his friends had bumped and flown on a couple of old garbage can lids.
