Tim knew that the type of vehicle he was in was known as a "ute", and was pretty certain that the bit he was in was the "cab", and that the bit behind him was probably called the "tray". He was disappointed that the tray wan't carrying bales of hay, crates of live chickens, and a dog or two. It had a big, manly, galvanised iron box containing either tools or human body parts, several coils of nylon rope and widgety metal things that presumably added value to the nylon rope, and Tim's bags.

The cab smelt like an ashtray. Much of it was an ashtray. Bent cigarette butts sprang like mushrooms from niches all around him. It was very early in the morning; he hadn't time to shower, and he really didn't like being out in public unwashed, with greasy hair.

"Where ya from?"

"Sydney."

"Sydney," echoed his driver, who Tim assumed was the landlord of the Railway Hotel at Tailors Creek, by virtue of the fact that he was probably the husband of the woman he assumed to be the landlady. That was in fact the case, and the man's name was Ken. Tim didn't know this because he had appalling social skills and hardly ever introduced himself, nor asked anybody their name.

For a while Ken looked as though he was trying to remember where he'd previously heard the unfamiliar word "Sydney", then said finally "You want to keep your back to the wall down there."

"Ah. Yes."

They crossed the highway, heading towards the coast, and Tim was very, very glad that he hadn't attempted to walk the distance. He'd clearly misjudged the scale of his map.

"Poofs," Ken added, by way of clarification.

"Mmm. Hasn't been a problem so far, but I'll bear it in mind." Then, realising he probably sounded a little supercilious, he thought he should socially reciprocate, in the form of "You lived here long?"

"Yep. Where you want to be dropped off?"

Tim knew the answer, but pulled the map out of his satchel anyway. "Nolan Place. I think it's the house at the end."

"Doug Henshaw's place?"

The name sounded familiar. Tim ferreted around in his satchel and retrieved another bit of paper. "Yes, that's it."

"You want to watch out for him."

"Back to the wall?"

Ken frowned. "No, nothing like that."

Tim noticed that the empty space on his map, which he had presumed to be native bushland or grazing land for ruminants, was in reality anything but empty. On both sides of the road was Colorbond™ corrugated steel fencing with an occasional gap for an entry road, or perhaps driveway. Behind the fences, he could see ceramic tiled roofs, crowned with aerials and satellite dishes. It was like a series of medieval walled towns in attractive designer colours.

"Doug's alright. You just don't want to get into his bad books." Barely slowing down, Ken gave the steering wheel a sudden twist, and they crossed the road into one of these gaps in the wall a split second before meeting a car coming the other way. "He can finish you."

Tim had no idea what was meant by that, or even whther he'd heard correctly, but he was excited that they were now into territory covered by his map. Tim liked maps. From this branch off the main road into town, all the streets flowered off into gently curving crescents or cul-de-sacs which on the map looked to Tim like the gaily coloured cross-sections of the human brain you see in New Scientist magazine.

There was something about the whole landscape here that was distinctly odd, but it was still quite early in the morning, and Tim couldn't put his finger on it.

Ken pulled on the hand brake at the end of one of these asphalt fronds, near the top of a hill, on the side of which stood a house significantly more grand than it's neighbours. It was multi-story, where everything around was resolutely California Bungalow, and it had a couple of quite old, tall trees in the front yard. Tim hadn't seen anything else that could be considered more than a sapling in any of the surrounding properties. Maybe that was what was odd.

"Thanks very much," said Tim, to a slow nod from Ken, who appeared focussed on something tremendously significant in a nearby rock garden. Tim fetched his bags from the back of the ute, and through the open passenger window called "Thanks again!"

"No worries mate." With a crunch of the gears, Ken Henshaw was off for his daily run into town.

At the top of a presumably charming garden path, lined with quite possibly tasteful native shrubs and grasses, Tim set down his rucksack and bin bag and rang the doorbell. The door was answered by an elegantly-dressed woman, possibly late fifties, more likely early sixties, who executed a well-practiced smile of greeting.

"Hello. Tim Curlis. Here for the granny flat."

"Ah. We were expecting you yesterday."

"Yes, sorry about that. Transport troubles."

"Never mind. Never mind." She beamed with appeared to be genuine bonhomie and stood aside. "Come in. Leave your bags there; I'll get Douglas to sort you out."

Tim crossed the threshold tentatively. "Thank you, er..."

"Oh, forgive me. Glenda. My heavens; what a handsome young man! What a handsome young man!"