Although the hour was early, the sun was weak, and Brian was not done with the night before. Yet again, he had managed the bench outside Nick Gianni’s corner shop, and no further. Nick was used to keeping an eye on Brian, getting to him if the flashing colours warped the ground too much for him to remain upright; getting to him before the thin blue line came down from its patrol along the Macleay Street ridge.
Brian was a likeable enough chap, but there was less and less of him remaining, his moments of sanity being sparse in the hours of each day. He lived three doors away, through the laneway to the automotive repair shop, in a studio that banked into the damp of the rocky escarpment. His disability pension covered his meagre needs. His habit was funded by plying his body along The Wall over in Darlinghurst.