Every Saturday the boys of Acacia Heights turn the communal pool into party central. They set up the stereo, barbecue a family-pack of sausages and demolish a carton. Some days a fire starts up across the lake; mushroom cloud appears on the horizon and the smell of smoke drifts across the car park. Some boys stay. Some take off, sardined into a beaten-up Lancer, taking corners in third, hoping to watch the carnage. When the flames die down they come back, dive-bomb the pool, pushing and shoving, still high on adrenalin. I stay inside, watch smoke drift across the lake, thank fate for the changing wind, the suburb’s sprawl that’s kept me at a distance.

Day turns to night. The boys drink on until well past one, and I double lock my door in case they get any ideas.