I didn’t live at 17 Prime Street, but I wished I did. It was the best house on the street. A well-manicured house in which lived an even better-manicured family, the Quanders.
Quincy, the father, sold cars and from all accounts, he sold a lot of cars. His wife the lovely Queeny was principal at the local Primary school.
They had three children, Quentin, Quaid and Quinn. Every morning I’d see them head off to school in their hats and ties, they attended the Grammar school I went to the local public school.
Their family was well respected, they worked hard both at work and on weekends in their yard. It was all activity, mowing, edging, pruning and weeding.
Their side of the street was the better side, ours was the povo side, housing commission houses in various states of disrepair and so the Quanders were someone we looked up to and wished it was us with the automatic dishwasher and the kidney shaped swimming pool.
While my parents laboured at jobs they hated, that allowed them a single beer with our Sunday lunch, the Quanders had wine every night and dinner parties.
We’d listen to them clicking glasses as they made a toast, cheerily singing happy birthday and concluding with a raucous hip hip hooray.
A rumour circulated that the eldest of the Quanders, the strapping Quentin was about to embark on a quest to the mountains and there was great expectation of his success and the prestige it would bring to his family.
It came as a great surprise to all in the street when we awoke one morning to find the police outside their house. No one had heard anything, there was nothing to see but police vehicles and then an ambulance.
Quincy, we heard had gone mad. In a rage, he killed his wife and eldest son as they slept in their beds. Only the action of the youngest, Quinn, stopped his father.
The atmosphere of 17 Prime Street changed forever that day. We no longer looked up to it but rather shunned it as a house of mystery and death, a place we knew was not as it appeared.