A childhood behind bars 
The nine-year-old Peter Lyndon-James didn't realise he was going to a children's prison until he had walked through the doors.
His father drove him to Longmore Detention Centre in Bentley late at night and officials took him straight to the ablutions block.
"They took me and put nit cream on me head, crab cream on me nuts, gave me pyjama pants and six comic books and marched me down to the prison cells," he says.
"I was a nine-year-old kid, I was petrified. My heart was going a hundred miles an hour. They pushed me into the prison cell and they slammed the door shut and I remember jumping on the bed, grabbing my pillow, and rocking from side to side and crying, saying if they would let me out now I would behave, I wouldn't run away again." 
Unwittingly, he had made this choice for himself. One of five children, his father left his mother for another woman when he was seven. His mother was in and out of rehab - so Peter was in and out of foster and children's homes. He ran away from several of these over the next two years, forcing child protection workers to find and return him - so many times that when he was nine and they caught him sleeping in a charity clothing bin at a Midland shopping centre, they lost patience.
They took him to a meeting room to see his father, who he had not set eyes on for two years.
"The counsellor there said 'we're sick of you running away and wasting our resources. We're going to give you a choice: go with your dad, or go to Longmore.
"I did want to go with my dad, that's why I'd been running away from all these homes, all I wanted was my family, but when I looked at him I heard this voice in my head telling me, 'he doesn't love me any more.'
"I felt this anger in my heart towards him. I told this lady I would go to Longmore. I didn't realise Longmore was a boys' prison. I thought it was just another children's home."
He spent three months at Longmore, and for the first time, met children who had the same stories he did, who came from broken homes, who accepted him for who he was. When he left Longmore he went into another children's home and, this time, he knew some of the other children from Longmore. That was when he started breaking into houses and stealing cars.
He spent the next nine years - the rest of his childhood and his entire adolescence - in and out of Longmore and then Caversham juvenile prison Riverbank, for stretches ranging in length from days to 11 months.
"You can take the prisoner out of prison, but..."
Adult life marked no change for Mr Lyndon-James - the only difference was that the prisons became adult prisons.
In total, he spent 26 years of his life in and out of them, though he says he felt imprisoned no matter where he was.
"You can take the prisoner out of prison; but then you've got to take the prison out of them," Mr Lyndon-James says.
"I didn't want to be what I was, I just wanted to be a normal person, I had been to 16 different schools and only made grade six. I couldn't read running writing, I'd never been on a family holiday, never sat at a kitchen table to have a feed, I had never played sports, never done anything normal. I wanted to be a geek, like a normal person, but every time I would try to hang out with a geek, do the normal stuff, I felt like I was a weed and I didn't belong. So I would go back to where I felt comfortable.
"But the problem was where I felt comfortable, everyone was doing what I didn't want to do."
By the time his second-last prison term ended in 2000, he was earning a living dealing drugs and stolen goods.
"Within three months I was selling $40,000 a day worth of methamphetamine," he says.
"I was driving with two-and-a-half kilos of rock under my seat. I was doing guns, explosives, lots and lots of bad stuff. I went really big, really quick. Then I got nuked.
"I got raided one morning. I'd just done 16 days with no sleep. I was on steroids, trying to hide the stupid stuff, and I heard the helicopter over the top and the TRG [the police tactical response group] coming through with shotguns, in bulletproof vests. I got done with a pound of pot and a couple of handguns."
He went back to prison - but this time, it was for the last time.
Bible College. No, not a misprint.
Mr Lyndon-James got out of prison, but this time, decided enough was enough. He spent three years on the only study he had ever managed in his life, emerging with an advanced diploma in theology. He spent the next five years volunteering three days a week as chaplain at Acacia Prison, ending in 2010.
In 2012, he saw a house with a big shed up for sale in West Swan.
"I saw a lot of people who needed help changing their life, and I used to cart them down to the rehab place in Mandurah," he says.
"Seeing this house, I thought, I had to buy it and start a place where I could help people make the right choices."
A mate agreed to move in and be the 'house leader'. Another, a psychiatrist, volunteered his services one day a week. Another, a GP, followed suit. Other friends volunteered to help run the house. Others said they could provide jobs at their businesses.
And so Shalom House was born. But as more tenants entered, the need to run a tight ship became apparent.
A 'Molotov mixture'
Not many tenants are actually ex-prisoners - at least not in the traditional sense.
Today, Peter Lyndon-James cares for men struggling with addiction problems.  Photo: Emma Young 
"A person trapped in a lifestyle of addiction to a controlled substance doesn't want to be who they are, but they feel they are past the point of no return," Mr Lyndon-James says.
"It's not as easy as just saying 'hey, stop doing drugs' when a person comes from an addictive background. Take me for example: I spent 26 years sticking needles in my arms and smoking pipes.
"When a person has set a pattern of five, or 10, or 15 years of regular addiction, the easiest way for them to solve a problem is to stick that pick in their arm. Because the second they stick that pick in their arm the problem is gone.
"Except it's not. It's just pushed underneath the carpet and it gets bigger and bigger and bigger. I've got lots of fellas in here who've suffered with rejection from their parents, bitterness, sexual abuse - a Molotov mixture."
Some of his tenants are alcoholics. Others are addicted to heroin, or synthetic cannabis, or methamphetamine, or tranquilisers, or all of the above. One was unable to cope with his Asperger's syndrome. Another had been hooked on prescription painkillers after his wife died and he had a near-fatal car accident in close succession.
"When you take away the substance you have actually got to teach that person how to communicate again, think again, express how they feel, deal with conflict, deal with financial pressures," Mr Lyndon-James says.
With problems this complex, it's clear why the first three months of their stay is largely about Mr Lyndon-James learning about their problems and teaching them the house rules.
And there are a lot of rules.
 'The strictest rehab in Australia'
     Stage 1    
When the guys walk through the door, they lose their phone and their freedom to leave unaccompanied. They lose TV, radio, books and magazines. They lose drugs, drug replacements (it's all cold-turkey here) and alcohol.
The men work nine-to-five on the 10-acre Henley Brook property when they first arrive.
They work nine-to-five on the property, on housekeeping, cooking and maintenance. They also do voluntary work for local charities. Many have not worked for long periods, so their body both detoxifies and gets used to full-time activity.
It's a big property, over 10 acres, and clearly takes a lot of work, but it's spotless. Far cleaner than my own house, I tell Mr Lyndon-James.
"I'm really anal about keeping it clean," he responds.
"This has got to be the strictest rehab in Australia."
Mr Lyndon-James works intensively with his new residents, identifying past failures and future goals with the help of an individualised mind-map that turns from black to pink as the resident passes milestones. He finds out what they want to do with their lives, whether it's a trade or start a business, and looks for work that will fit.
After three months, they are allowed one weekend's home leave to an approved person and accommodation.
     Stage 2    
After three months, work begins two days per week with one of the approved employers. Mr Lyndon-James is connected to about 20-plus businesses that provide the work his men need.
The residents of Shalom House are expected to work hard.
"I have boilermakers, tilers, painters, carpenters, builders, plumbers, electricians and landscapers. I have a whole heap of people from all different businesses that don't just employ my fellas, they 'disciple' my fellas. I make sure that anybody and everybody who has anything to do with my fellas for the duration of their stay with me ... are all on the same page. They make sure they're not teaming them up with anyone who drinks or smokes or swears or does drugs. To the best of their ability they try to be part of the solution, not part of the problem."
He says doing two days a week at first reintroduces the men, slowly, to the world of temptations. He says it is immediately clear whether that workplace is having a positive or negative effect on his resident's life, both from their behaviour and from the employer's feedback.
After four to six weeks, they move on to three days per week of paid work.
After five months, they are allowed another weekend's home leave.
Family-friendly books and movies are slowly reintroduced, but though the home has a gym, they're not allowed to work out, with the exception of the treadmill - Mr Lyndon-James doesn't want his men getting cocky, "walking around like a bunch of roosters.
"We're all chickens," he says.
"You're not here to pump iron, you're here to change your life ... to learn to communicate, to relate, to act. You're not here to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. That's why they're chunky, they've all got little Shalom guts, that's what we call them."
     Stage 3    
When the men are ready, they start working four days per week, still working in the house on the fifth day.
Shalom House is spotless and peaceful.
They get their car back, their mobile phone and a key to a locker. They can leave the house on their own, with an 8.30pm curfew. They work one weekend day as a Shalom staff member and the other day is theirs to spend. They are allowed a weekend's home leave once a month.
Although Mr Lyndon-James is not fussy about denominations and is anxious not to be seen as forcing religion on anyone, tenants attend a family night at a Christian church once a week. 
By now, they have secure work.
Several men have begun mature-age apprenticeships, one has started his own transport business, another painting, another gardening businesses. One graduate has a construction site cleaning business, which now employs other Shalom men.
But do these guys really behave?
As I speak with Mr Lyndon-James, I wonder how this works. Do people leave? What kind of authority does he have that stops them revolting against the regime? 
Every hour is carefully plotted at Shalom House.

 The longer he talks, the clearer it becomes. Despite being friendly, sincere and genuine (with an impressive range of rehab-related dad-jokes) Mr Lyndon-James is clearly not someone to mess with. He wears his hard-knock heart on his sleeve.
This is proven when we happen upon a couple of residents in one of the kitchens (most of the others are at work or out on the grounds). They are nice men who greet me politely, but are very quick to tell Mr Lyndon-James they had only just finished the dishes, which is why they were still inside.
They all share a joke - but the respect they hold for him is clear.
The other key point is that Mr Lyndon-James only takes in those who really want to be there. He says most people don't get past the first phone call with him. 
Even while we sit and chat, there is a man inquiring and getting the spiel from a staffer.
"This isn't a light thing - you'll be in here for 12 months," I overhear him telling the guy, who then leaves.
"He won't be back," Peter tells me.
"Most people, like that fella there, I just put them off the first day. He's not ready. I'm not interested in helping someone who's not ready. My phone just rings and rings and rings. I get a lot of calls from people who know people who need help. But I always tell them that unless the person who's wanting the help is making the call I'm not interested. I also get a lot of people coming to me who say, 'my wife won't have me back unless I change' or 'my mum says I'm not allowed back home until I change'.
"I tell them, 'go somewhere else, bro, I'm not wasting my time'."
He "doesn't record stats or anything" but he recalls that in the three years Shalom House has been running, only a few people have left the house without completing the program. There is no waiting list, but the house is always full.
The practical stuff
Mr Lyndon-James has no income - he and his wife of 26 years pay the mortgage and the bills from the proceeds of her landscaping business. He works voluntarily full-time at the house, which is a registered not-for-profit that breaks even only because of the $300 per week rent he charges tenants - whether that is covered by government benefits (as it often is at first) or, later, their earnings.
Shalom House is a self-funded, not-for-profit organisation.
"No one can change them except for them. Every decision they make has a consequence. That's how we learn. If you continue to spare a person from consequences of their choices they will never learn. I don't think a society should have to pay. That's why I charge them the rent," he says.  
Shalom House has four full-time paid staff, three casual part-time paid staff, an army of volunteers, six vehicles and 30 residents. It has expanded to fill three houses over three years.
It accepts, but does not seek, gifts or donations.
"They're a really extreme bonus but we don't ask people for anything," Mr Lyndon-James says.
The future: 'a network of fellas'
Shalom House will this week expand into another house nearby, which will be used as transition housing for the men leaving. Three at a time will be able to stay for six months.
A group of residents at Shalom House
"I don't believe going back to mum and dad is a healthy option for a grown man ... so it will be a transition house while they find something else. By still being in the area they can have this network of fellas," Mr Lyndon-James says.
Shalom House will soon host Tasmanian Senator Jacquie Lambie, whose son has struggled with methamphetamine addiction, for a day-long visit.
See the full video here. 
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