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Finding Harry: A Tale from the Northern Suburbs

Finding Harry: A Tale from the Northern Suburbs

Finding Harry: A Tale from the Northern Suburbs

403 pages
6 hours
May 4, 2017


In the multicultural northern suburbs of Melbourne in 1989, a Greek-Australian petty drug dealer disappears, presumed killed. His cousin, Epi, who works security and has ambitions to become a private investigator, is determined to find out what happened to Harry. His Greek family want to know: Is Harry really dead? Epi enlists the aid of Carol, his policewoman girl-friend, and goes about the task of behaving like he imagines a private investigator should behave to solve a crime. Asking questions, following clues, belting people and getting belted, and even finding time to take Carol out to dinner at Melbourne’s finest Greek restaurant. Despite fending off his ex-wife, having his son for a weekend visit and dealing with sarcasm from all sides, Epi actually manages to advance the investigation and discover the terrible truth about Harry.
May 4, 2017

About the author

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Finding Harry - George Eraclides



George Eraclides is the authorised biographer of Mr Epictetus Angelakakis, the private investigator and security consultant, who has operated in the northern suburbs of Melbourne, Australia, since the late 1980s. Involved in some of the most famous, and not so famous, cases involving the good people of the north, Mr Angelakakis has been extensively interviewed and his exploits fictionalised to protect the innocent and the ratbags he has had to deal with.

Mr Eraclides has also captured the underlying philosophical foundations, indeed the very ‘grounding’ (as Heidegger would say), of Mr Angelakakis’s investigative practice.

In other words, the bullshit that gets Epi going.

Anyone who aspires to becoming a criminal investigator, or is interested in the workings of a master-detective’s mind, will find much to ponder in this work. Or not.

Mr Eraclides inhabits the northern suburbs with his partner, two huge rescued dogs and a rescued cat and when he is not picking up after the dogs he spends his precious time thinking, poor sod.

He is also the author of a variety of works from science fiction satire to poetry, from observations on the meaning or otherwise of life to literary themes. You will find a selection of his writing on the website https://georgeeraclides.com/.

Please note: Living in a fantasy world can be damaging to your health, especially if you have a fragile ego. At some point in time, you will encounter reality, or what passes for it in a metaphysically confusing world. This encounter may undermine, and ultimately destroy, your fantasy and perhaps your mental health. This is a work of fiction and the characters only exist in an imaginary realm best left to philosophers to investigate.

The protagonist in this work has a rich fantasy life which, as luck would have it, manages to interact with our commonplace reality in ways that sometimes make sense. You might not be so lucky. If after reading this book, you find yourself drifting more and more into the strange world of Epictetus Angelakakis, the leading private investigator of the northern suburbs, then please seek professional help. The biographer of Mr Angelakakis wants you to be well.

The story features a lot of Australian English. If you are unfamiliar with this version of English, persevere; the context in which words are used will help you understand their meaning. Perhaps in time you will enjoy sprinkling Australianisms throughout your English communications, mate.

This story is set sometime in 1989. A lot of important things happened in 1989; the Berlin wall came down and the volume of rhetoric went up.

On Planet Coburg, life went on in a minor key, although people in Coburg would not see it that way……

Coburg 1989

I think it was Pascal who said there are two kinds of excesses: the exclusion of reason, and conversely, admitting nothing but reason. A life of excess damns you.

I was considering this and other ideas as I sat quietly watching a drunk vomit on the tram seat. In between energetic heaves of bile and phlegm, he would settle back and take a swig from his brown bottle. The disgusted tram-conductor, the shaking head of the driver, the dreary shop-fronts along the road and a late afternoon drizzle, all added a certain poignancy to the tram ride.

All this came together for me in one insightful moment. I knew once again why I hated using public transport. Because it’s so public, you partake of other peoples’ excesses.

Hence Pascal.

My car was undergoing some radical surgery. Rusting panels were being cut out to be replaced by shiny new steel. This was better treatment than my ongoing use of ubiquitous bog, the most common structural element of old cars that refuse to die. The surgeons would not be finished before Monday afternoon at the earliest, but the prognosis was good. A decent re-spray followed by a short convalescence while I found the money to pay the account, and then the car would be mine again.

I had not willingly planned this unpleasant foray by tram. I felt exposed, with the only other passenger the emphysemic drunk going nowhere.

I was visiting my old aunt in Coburg on this Sunday afternoon, and trying to make a start on resolving a case I was too depressed to think about most of the time. Not a good sign for the beginning of any investigation.

Coburg was once described as a pretty suburb with charming valleys. That must have been before the concrete and bitumen took over. It’s now a gateway to the hinterland of Victoria through the gray-black ribbon of the Hume Highway, a part of that characterless sprawl we call the suburbs of Melbourne. Without the bisection of Sydney Road by Bell Street - those ancient arteries of the northern suburbs - you would not know where the hell you were.

I got off the tram early, preferring a longer walk to gather my thoughts. I gladly left behind the driver and the drunk, who were having a heated discussion over what to do about the congealing vomit.

I stopped at the Marathon Cake Shop in Sydney Road and picked up a few honey logs - rolled up baklava, but a lot smaller and cheaper. You also don’t get so many pastry flakes on your shirtfront that people think you’ve got chronic dandruff.

A television in the corner was showing the latest Greek music video. The young girl who served me was completely enchanted by the images and nearly dropped my change. Some nice looking kid was miming to a Euro-style pop hit as he pranced about on the steps of a villa somewhere in the Aegean.

His love life was going from bad to worse, and I think he was going to end it all by jumping into the sea unless his little princess took him back. At least his tan looked real.

Outside, a fine drizzle was giving the whole area a misty look and cars had their parking lights on.

The old drunk, who had been encouraged to leave by the driver and conductor, had settled himself down on the ground in an alcove inside the Coburg Market entrance, where he could stay dry and keep an eye out for the next tram. He was humming to himself and rocking back and forth.

When I walked past I noticed he wasn’t that old. Maybe in his late forties. I offered him a honey log as I went by and he took it quickly, long grimy fingers stuffing it down his throat. No point in wasting any time by chewing.

He saluted me saying, ‘Thanks Captain!’ and took a swig of the last dregs in his bottle as I went on my way up Sydney Road. The drizzle had become rain, and I pulled up my collar moving a little quicker and trying to stay under the cover of shop verandahs.

The wind was from the south, rushing up Sydney Road and bringing with it a slight salty tang that helped mute the smell of rotting fruit and stale fish in market dumpsters.

Walking to the intersection, I could hear the tram bell ringing in an angry staccato, as the driver tried in vain to force cars out of his way. On Sunday afternoons you can turn right into Bell Street, tram or no tram. I guess the smell of vomit added urgency to this driver’s desire to get to the terminus and get the seat hosed down. The pasty face of a female conductor was at the rear window trying to open it and let the foul air out.

I turned left down Bell heading past a bread shop, tax accountant, an upstairs brothel, a fish shop, chemist, and crossed to the other side of the road heading towards the railway line.

I passed Johnny’s Fitness Centre where through the cheap curtains I could see a few iron-heads picking up weights and putting them down. The familiar thud of clanging plates as they bounced on the rubber mats was a comforting sound which followed me past the railway crossing.

I turned right at the first street and walked down to my Aunt Sophia’s place.

The house was a shabby old weatherboard in need of paint and the front yard hosted some of the more popular varieties of local weeds. She was waiting for me on the porch wearing her mourning black.

‘Hello Sophia, how are you managing?’

I spoke in Greek, putting my arm around her tiny frame and giving her a hug. She smelt of camphor flakes but looked like the moths were winning. She had never really recovered from the death of her husband a few years ago, and now her son was missing, presumed dead.

The house was permeated by the aroma of the aniseed tea she brewed and drank all day - ‘for my bowels, the doctor said it’s good for my bowels’ - and a background stench of much-used cat litter.

As usual, I hectored her, to no avail.

‘Aunt Sophia I told you, you’ve got to open a window. Get some air. You’ll feel better.’

She waved a hand in the direction of fate, and turned shuffling back to the kitchen.

God, I thought, not the kitchen. The smells were at their most intense in that region of the house. I tried not to think about what she may have started eating and forgotten to finish.

The advice to open windows was more for my benefit than hers. Why would fresh air and light improve her well-being? Once, in a fit of tough love, her son Harry and I threw open all the windows and sat there to prevent her from shutting anything. She was ill for a month. Mediterraneans have a fear of draughts, convinced that all the world’s ills that plague the human body can be attributed to the malevolence of draughts. Let yourself be exposed to even a hint of a breeze and you could die. Poor Harry. That was his last attempt to intervene in his mother’s decline.

I find it hard to talk to my aunt, just as I do to my own parents. Not because of shyness, hostility, or any residue of shame at the immigrant experience. It’s a simple matter of vocabulary. I don’t have it. I came to Australia in 1966 and before that my family and I were in England. I was born in Alexandria, Egypt and we were Alexandrian Greeks, which used to mean something in prehistoric times. I stopped Greek school when I was very young. Have you tried to have a sophisticated conversation using the vocabulary of an eight year old? So my conversations with them are frustrated by my lack of good Greek and their poor or non-existent English. Maybe it’s possible to express the fundamentals of life - love and hate, greed, sickness and death - in a simple amalgam of Greek-English, but I don’t think so. I always feel I am speaking pidgin, like a child speaking to a child. Most of what I want to say as a human being remains unsaid.

My cousin Harry was actually Charalambous - the light of joy - but we called him Harry. At age 28 he is presumed to have been shot dead in an alleyway behind a fruit shop, his car abandoned, and his body dumped somewhere. From the amount of blood left at the scene, they must have stuffed him in a car boot quickly, and there must have been two of them, because Harry although not very big, would have been quite heavy.

It had the appearance of what the media like to call an execution-style killing. I don’t know why they call it that. The word ‘execution’, however barbaric, has a trace of legitimacy associated with it, but nothing legitimate happened to Harry. No chance to struggle or deny his fate.

Somewhere in the diminishing mind of Sophia she wanted answers. Not the conventional who and why, followed by the criminal investigation’s usual ingredients, culminating in a solution to the tragic event. She wanted him found and answers she could fit into a pattern of meaning and purpose - a divine purpose that explained why her son had to go missing or worse, die before his mother. The meaning had to be found in some unseen force her Orthodox religion could barely hint at. Her husband’s death, her illnesses, now her son.

I knew what she was going to ask me.

‘Gia ti, gia ti?’ and ‘Pou eine?’

Why and where is he? Forget the details and just give me the significance, but I was drained of all meanings.

It was always the kitchen. That was where she lived. Once she had been a cheerful soul, my mother told me. Always laughing and singing. Come on, Sophia happy? Ever?

Even before all this happened, I knew her as a miserable, prematurely ageing woman. ‘What happened to her?’ I would ask. My mother would just shake her head.

‘Have some coffee. I’ll get you a cup’, Sophia told me.

I sat by the table and watched her fuss with the Greek coffee pot.

‘I know how you like it, strong and not too sweet, like my poor Harry.’

I rolled my eyes and noticed the ceiling was peeling.

‘Don’t start crying, okay? I know it’s a tragedy. Life’s a tragedy. D’you want to get any sicker and die? What about Helen and Soula. And poor Achilles?’

Achilles was the old tom-cat and he didn’t give a shit as long as he got fed. Helen was in Brisbane sucking up to the Japanese tourists. Soula, the youngest daughter, was recently married and trying to entice her husband into doing the decent Greek thing and impregnating her as soon as possible before, as she so tastefully put it, she got too old and had to go onto the IVF program. Soula’s limited knowledge of biology was matched by an equally limited ambition - to be better off than her mother and aunts, and never, ever, run out of credit.

The coffee was ‘metrio’, even, just the way I liked it. She sat opposite me and sighed.

‘I don’t sleep. Not even an hour. I see Harry’s face all the time. He’s calling me, Epi. Calling. I should have done more to help him.’

‘We all could have done better. You did what you could. He wouldn’t listen.’

She needed to talk. I wanted to check his old room for any clues the police had missed, but I let her talk and sipped my coffee. Parents, especially mothers, always think they should have done better. Made their children take the right path. Kept them safe. Even when they are 28 and know everything. If they’re strong willed and arrogant pricks like Harry, they’re hardly likely to take advice from a woman, especially their own mother.

I never did, and still don’t. Some laws of nature you can’t bend.

Aunt Sophia had been deteriorating for some time before Harry’s disappearance. ‘Cerebral Atrophy’ the specialist called it. That’s when your brain starts to die at a rate ahead of the average for your age group. Just another aspect of Mother Nature’s providence or just a roll of the dice? In her case, it was another violation in the natural order of things.

I tried to change the subject as I could sense she was going to just go on and on endlessly, and I would have to become catatonic. Did she really think the constant repetition of her questions would break through some cosmic mystery like a hammer and chisel through stone?

‘Has the social worker been around, talked to you?’

‘What social worker, what I want with social worker? I’m not mad!’

She reached to take my hand as if my words were an irrelevant pause to her pleading questions. That human touch made me start and I pulled away, as if her grieving was somehow contagious.

‘Please see the social worker. They can help. They’re not for mad people, just people in shock, like you. They can send you a Greek one.’

She got up and fussed around the kitchen benches, muttering to herself.

She took a ratty old cloth Achilles had probably pissed on, washed it out in the sink and then wiped the light green laminex surfaces. I wondered how often she did that in a day.

It was all pointless. I was saying what I did not believe, just to keep her situation within what I thought should be the normal boundaries. I didn’t want her to end up any crazier than she sometimes seemed.

I thought about why I needed to be at Sophia’s. Not for my morale, that’s for sure. To search Harry’s old room, just in case. That’s what detectives are supposed to do. Search through stuff for clues.

His room had a fotaki, a little light glowing on the dresser - one of those Orthodox ones, the wick floating in the oil suspended in water in a cup. It burned slowly to the memory of the lost or dead. The room had a smell I associated with church, and it made me feel even more depressed.

I went through the stuff in his room, knowing I was covering old ground gone over by the cops. Old training gear from the gym, out of date clothes, a shoe-box with some official letters and receipts dated from the early eighties when he lived at home, posters of bodybuilders, male and female, a good one of Arnold Schwarzenegger and some hot chick from ‘Conan the Barbarian’ which I would have liked for my flat. Nothing else I could see of significance. I told Sophia I would be taking some papers to my place. I was going to hang on to them in case they were useful for something formal. The process made me feel like a detective.

The police had the good sense to get one of their specialist officers to talk to Harry’s mother, with an interpreter present. She was helping them with their enquiries, as were other members of the family, including myself. What came as a shock to most of us was the fact that Harry had been known to the police before his disappearance.

His activities had registered with no less a paragon of the constabulary than Smelly Brown. To be precise, Detective Ian Brown, a veteran of the force.

He was notorious for his unique interrogation techniques of suspects and his general insensitivity to the feelings of sentient beings.

I was new to this game so my path had yet to merge with his own: Smelly sifting through the human garbage, seeking clues or hints of clues, in the averted eyes, clever phrases, or guttural sounds of misanthropes he was sure had committed crimes. I lacked Smelly’s overall resources, and besides, I regularly changed my underwear.

Smelly learned his techniques from his father who had been a leading member of the ‘bodgie-squad’ in the 1950’s – thugs in uniform who beat on teenage louts according to the principle of guilty until proven innocent. The beatings were part of a well meaning effort to save the tax-payer the costs of lengthy investigations and criminal proceedings. Those were the good old bad old days. Working in a more humane era, Smelly employed a slightly more considerate style, using intimidation and olfactory overload to extract evidence. Many of his investigations actually go to trial.

Lucky for the family that Smelly was not directly involved in the interviews. These days he gets involved only when the leg-work has been done by juniors and the human excrement is finally presented to him for final sifting.

The investigation was still proceeding at a subdued rate, but the boys in blue and then the suits had hit a brick wall. Unless someone came forward with information the case would sit in the pending file. Which made it all the worse. No finality at the material level let alone the spiritual. Not an acceptable situation for my family.

Flat 9/15 Serenity Drive in Coburg

You think leafy, picturesque street? Older residents sitting in the sunlight waiting for their kids to show up and make them feel a part of their lives, sipping tea or an early sherry, saying hello to friends walking by while smiling vacantly at each other. It sounds like the kind of place developers salivate over while they wait for the owners to die or move to nursing homes. Serenity Drive, named by a poet to eventually be blighted by a developer, creating opportunities for dual occupancy by young professionals with sensible cars and instant low maintenance gardens of standard roses and pencil pines.

Alas not so. Think instead: industrial zoning with small factories, blocks of flats full of single mothers with screaming babies, the occasional run-down milk bar or weatherboard house, and old cars on nature strips, where nature wisely left long ago. A noisy and noisome place.

Serenity Drive is a temporary residence for me, just for a decade or two until I sort my life out.

I have been told to start my day in an organised fashion, as befits a private investigator with a logical, incisive mind, and a determination to get things done. That’s what the training manuals advise. In my experience, when you start the day well there’s only one direction in which things can go - straight down. So I keep my incisiveness for later when I might need it.

I was thinking about the talk yesterday with my grieving aunt as I went through the motions of making the bed and finding something edible for breakfast. I had the last of the cereal neat the other day when I realized I would need a gas mask to pour the milk. I might have to have cat biscuits again this morning. I read the list of ingredients on the packet and they didn’t seem too bad. I was sure Pushkin would not mind sharing. We are both mammals, so how dissimilar can our digestive systems be?

I tried a few of the biscuits and found them quite salty. They could be improved by a few beers and I could see why cats liked the stuff. Salt. I thought I’d better stop eating them and just catch breakfast on the go sometime later in the morning. If I had any more of this cat chow, I might get to like it so much I would start lifting my tail and marking the furniture, like Pushkin.

I drank a big glass of water to wash down the salty taste, trying to avoid thinking about water retention and expanding waist-lines, and then made a long black coffee. I threw about three big scoops of sugar into the steaming coffee just for the energy hit. They say your brain runs on glucose, and sugar is the next best thing available. I really needed my remaining brain cells to function properly today if I was going to get on top of this planning thing. The big grey and white and I sat on the couch together. He licked his arse while I rode out the insulin rush and thought about the case.

I had not pushed too hard with Sophia because I suspected she knew little about what Harry had really been up to. She only functions well in short bursts and then turns to her little rituals which are the loom of her life now, the way she hangs on to a little bit of reality. Cleaning the bench tops over and over again, or cleaning Harry’s old room, as though he was going to come back any day. Not a promising start to my investigation where everyone had an opinion, cops included. A common one in the papers came down to this: Harry was probably done by a pro.

I didn’t buy it.

Unless by pro you just mean someone who has a gun, can point and shoot. But with professionals, the will to kill must be there, and let us not forget the work ethic: a job is meticulously planned and undertaken for suitable remuneration. At least ten thousand dollars a hit, weekend penalty rates not included. Such killers are usually not known to the victim.

The police arrived very promptly after a truck driver, emptying dumpsters in an alley, reported finding blood near an abandoned car with its driver’s side door open. As they should have. The cops could have practically walked over, cups of steaming coffee in hand, because the police station was so damn close.

They cordoned off the place while the forensic ballet played itself out. The initial investigating officers claimed there was a high probability that Harry had been killed in the early hours of the morning and his body taken and dumped somewhere else. Evidence? From the shell casing left behind, Harry’s abandoned SS Commodore, the blood type, the briefcase with his papers, and no sign of a body or subsequent information about Harry.

If it was professional, why shoot Harry where you could so easily be seen, in an alley that runs behind some shops so often broken into, that a passing patrol car is a constant threat? In a place so close to the police station that a cop taking a piss in the staff toilet could look out of the window and see across to whatever the hell there was to see.

Why not do it somewhere less risky? The logic did not sit right with me.

Did ‘they’ want to make an example of him in some way? But then why not dump his body where it will be found, instead of maybe burying it in Kinglake National Park or the Peninsula. Those places are probably full by now anyway. A pro would know all that while a thrill seeking, ‘see what I can get away with’, killer, would never make it as a professional. Ego would lead to their downfall, through bragging or overlooking something simple, as they gloried in their daring, watching their crime flash by on the six o’clock news.

Motive was the other thing. Evidence suggested Harry was involved in drugs, mainly steroids, and pissed someone off who then had him killed. These kinds of crimes are such a commonplace event (petty criminal involved in drugs is found dead) they have become clichés on the evening news. What could Harry have done that someone would pay big bucks to have him killed? The police are ‘still pursuing their inquiries’ into that aspect of the crime.

The absence of a body means everything is still uncertain.

Try not to kill anyone

My day was going to be a buzz.

I was finally going to pick up my car from the panel-beaters, and then planned to visit Johnny Gray’s gym to catch up with the talk. Harry often trained there, and as a sales rep, supplied the gym with sports supplements for their kiosk.

Then I hoped to see the legend of crime-fighting, the incredible Ian (Smelly) Brown. I had asked an old schoolmate of mine, D’Amico, a tough kid who grew up to become a cop, to get me an appointment with the great presence himself. There was a chance he would see me this week, otherwise I would have to go through police liaison and maybe catch up with him at the nursing home next century.

The sugar hit from earlier was starting to fade and I felt like going back to sleep.

The ringing phone returned me to the present.

It was the anything but dulcet tones of Louis, the Manager of Helping Hand Security. They’re the mob I freelance for, making enough small change to build up the serious side of my investigative work. When the detective side of things takes off, it’s going to be the end of my casual security work.

Louis always sounds like he is gargling pebbles under water. The quintessential mafia hood voice, so you imagine some goon about seven feet tall and just as wide, long black overcoat, face pockmarked and scarred from numerous knife fights and blows.

That’s Louis alright, except he’s about four feet ten, maybe five in the 1970’s platform shoes he wears. He scours op-shops to find those disco nightmares that could give you a nose-bleed if you forget to carry an oxygen bottle.

Louis’s one ambition in life is to look taller than Danny De Vito. That and to win enough on the horses to retire.

Would I work tonight, he wanted to know.

‘Nothing too difficult. An 18th birthday party in Rosanna. Only one man needed. Classy family wants to keep private school yobs under control so their princess can have a good time. Try not to vomit.’

‘It’s hard but I’m hanging on Louis.’

‘The Security Officer has to be sophisticated, make with the clever conversation. That’s why I thought of you Epi.’

‘I take it the Gorilla Squad is otherwise engaged?’

The plastic handset resonated to the gravelly hee-haw of Louis.

‘You break me up. There’s a soccer game on in Heidelberg. You know what that means. Another Balkan War. You want the Rosanna slot or not?’

A quick look in my appointments book, which was disappointingly blank, and the recollection of what I had for breakfast, convinced me I should oblige Louis.

He gave me the address.

‘Start at eight o’clock. Finish around three in the morning or whenever. You’re goin’ to get hungry, so take food. The old bat sounds as tight and cold as a mother in-law’s kiss. Oh yeah. And dress up. Company shirt, tie, you know the drill. Try not to kill anyone.’

I was starting to feel hungry again and my stomach was playing the Bohemian Rhapsody. I looked at Pushkin and he looked at me, then he mewled. I gave him more of the biscuits but made sure I kept some for tomorrow. I had another glass of water and another long black coffee, this time with no sugar, and got into my street clothes.

The FJ’s were badly worn and I had to remember not to stand in strong light in case the shine from the arse-end blinded someone. The black brogues were impressive and added an inch to my height, which always comes in handy in my business. They also have very hard toes, useful for kicking anyone I manage to knock down. Over a creamy shirt I wore my bomber jacket.

I left Pushkin asleep in his favourite chair, with the TV remote on the coffee table, in case he wanted to catch up with Donahue later. I shut the windows of the flat. He was not allowed out today. The owner of one of the dumps nearby had a pet Bull-Terrier cross. He had taken an instant dislike to Pushkin, who was oblivious to the hostility he generated when in close proximity to that powerful dog. I added some more cat-litter to his tray in case Donahue gave him the runs.

Out on the street Brutus growled at me from behind the fence as I walked by. I hissed my reply and kept on walking fast. The fence looked shaky and at times like these I really missed my car.

I clambered onto a tram again, hopefully for the last time ever.

Some people bury their heads in a book; others stake out their territory with briefcases; others display monumental arrogance by reading The Age newspaper so others not only can’t get around them but if they stop to read, they’re prodded in the back by others wanting to get by. Many stare at the street flowing by and some disappear inside themselves. I wish I was a painter or photographer so I could capture some of those alienated face-masks; you can see their eyes become concave like a radar dish when they focus in on themselves. What you’re not supposed to do is stare at anyone. Not even the bearded woman, the twitchy kid with frog eyes, the junkies wearing pink and black nightmares from the seventies and muttering to themselves, or the old witch in black wearing a headscarf and giving everyone the evil eye.

I stood

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