The summer of 1972 was a scorcher. We were in the middle of a drought, every day the heat seemed to sear your skin the moment you stepped into the sunlight. You knew how a Vampire felt at sunrise. I was seventeen years old; it was school holidays and I was on my paper round, pedaling my Malvern Star around the parched plains of Pascoe Vale. One last drop off. Mrs. Kuepper was the last delivery, a whole block away from the...