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His mother's a chain-smoking Ugg boot wearer who loves a drink, and his brother's just as bad as Gavin. It's actually quite a dilemma trying to decide which one's worse.
They live at the very bottom of town, not far from a dirty, frothy creek that stems from the river. The defining feature of the place is that the only thing the Rose brothers do is fight. If I go there in the morning, they're arguing. If I go in the evening, they're fistfighting. At all times, they're hurling abuse at each other.
Their ma can't control them.
To cope, she drinks.
She falls asleep on the couch as the latest soap washes over the screen.
Within a week, I've watched those boys fight at least a dozen times, until one night, the Tuesday, they have the worst one yet. It erupts out the front door and to the side of the house, and the older brother, Daniel, beats the absolute Christ out of Gavin. Gavin's buckled over, and Daniel lifts him up by the collar.
He lectures his brother and shakes his head back and forth at the same time.
"I told you not to touch my stuff, all right?"
He bangs him to the ground before walking purposefully back inside.
Gavin is left there, and after a few minutes he rises to his hands and knees as I watch from over the street.
Eventually, after checking his face for blood, he swears and begins half walking, half running down the street. All the way he's talking of hatred and killing his brother, until he finally stops and sits in the gutter at the very end of the slope, where bush lingers around the road.
This is my moment.
I walk over and stand in front of him, and I have to tell you, a nervousness manages to sidle up next to me. The kid's tough and won't give me anything for free.
There's a streetlight standing over us, watching.
There's a breeze, cooling the sweat on my face, and slowly I see my shadow step on Gavin Rose.
He looks up.
"What the hell do you want?"
There are hot tears cooking on his face, and his eyes bite.
I shake my head. "Nothing."
"Well get away from me then, you first-prize wanker, or I'll beat the living shit out of you."
He's fourteen, I think. Remember Edgar Street? This is a piece of cake.
I tell him, "Well, do it then, because I'm not moving." My shadow has covered him completely now, and he doesn't move. Like I thought, he's all talk. He pulls grass out of the ground and throws it to the road. He tears at it like it's hair. His hands are ferocious.
After a while, I sit down in the gutter a few meters away and get my mouth to wreck the nothingness that has followed his threat.
"What happened?" I ask, but I don't look at him. It'll work if I don't look.
His answer is succinct.
He says, "My brother's a complete arsehole and I want to kill him."
"Well, good for you."
He flares. "Are you taking the piss out of me?"
I shake my head, still refusing to look at him. "No, I'm not." You little bastard, I think.
He starts repeating it now. "I want to kill him. I want to kill him. I want. To kill. Him." His angry hair shrouds his face. His freckles light up under the streetlight.
