A madman haunted Harris Street. He had thick white hair and a matching handlebar moustache. He usually wore a grey three-piece suit, but Graeme had also seen him dressed in beige slacks and a navy blazer. The madman waited in bus shelters and when someone drew level he yelled and swung his walking stick out in front, barely missing the skull or arm or pram of the passer-by. Sometimes he took up a post at the pedestrian crossing near the TAFE and shook his stick at the passing cars, shouting all the while. Graeme had passed him countless times over the past few years, but had never been able to make out the man’s words. Today, when Graeme saw the madman hovering at the bus shelter at the top of the street, it struck him as intolerable. He approached with a smile on his face and hands raised in surrender. ‘Oi!’ he said. ‘Can I speak to you?’ The madman sucked in his breath and looked around furtively. ‘I heard you calling out, but couldn’t make out what you were saying.
