As a fresh-faced 16-year-old in mid-2000s Perth, one of my favourite pastimes was to spend the day at Carillon City. I’d catch the 34 bus into town and loiter around its labyrinth of shops — circling its elaborate golden balustrades, trying on clothes and eating sushi on the shiny tables of its 80s-style food court.
Visiting the desolate, shopper-less mall more than 20 years later, I feel a surge of conflicting emotions. The food court, once teeming with people eating and chatting under glowing neon signs, is not only eerily quiet but flooded with an inky black pool of water, as if a viral outbreak has removed all life from the place.
