Perfect Gay Marriage
Author: Robert Tait
Date: 2013-07-23T12:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Australian gay fiction; LGBT; Mystery & Detective
Description: Join private detective Matt in his Australia-wide search for the true identity of a twink destined to be the younger, cuter groom at Australia's first legal A-list gay wedding. Perfect Gay Marriage exposes not only glittering Sydney's grubby underbelly, but also its sleazy backbottom. Content Warning This title contains explicit literary references to homosexual activies including, but not limited to: sex, lip-synching and home decorating.
Publisher: www.gay-ebooks.com.au
Rights: copyright Robert Tait 2013

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

Join private detective Matt in his Australia-wide search for the true identity of a twink destined to be the younger, cuter groom at Australia's first legal A-list gay wedding. Perfect Gay Marriage exposes not only glittering Sydney's grubby underbelly, but also its sleazy backbottom.

Perfect Gay Marriage  was published monthly as a serial on gay-ebooks.com.au. Starting with chapters 1 and 2 on the first of July 2011, the final chapter (24) was posted online on the first of August  2013.

Copyright

© 2013 Robert Tait

© 2013 produced by gay-ebooks.com.au

© 2013 Cover art gay-ebooks.com.au

Content Warning

This title contains explicit literary references to
homosexual activies including, but not limited to:

sex, lip-synching and home decorating.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

Contents

Part 1

01. The Couple in the Tiffany Frame

02. Wicked in Perth

03. Love and Other Fibs

04. "Rack off, you Sydney Sodomite"

05. The Ruin of Many a Poor Boy

06. In the Shit

07. Clucko the Chicken Clown

08. Neighbourhood watch

09.  _ _ra_ _x_ _l

10. All off or shaped?

11. Family Get-together

12. Final Report

Part 2

13. (A year - or possibly more - later)

14. The Unusual Suspects

15. Jamiekins

16. Master Paul

17. Housekeeper from Hell

18. Eckersley's Wake

19. _ o _ _ _ _ d i c _ _ _ y

20. Two-actor tent

21. Bad boy boyfriend

22. Obelisk Beach

23. "Exactly the opposite of what I wanted."

24. A Detective's Instinct

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

01. The Couple in the Tiffany Frame

THERE’d be many roads to travel before the truth was reached, but the first, the one where it all began, was by far the best, if judgement was based on wealth and power (and in Sydney in the second decade of the twenty-first century that was indisputable).

Wolseley Road, Point Piper, home of Australia’s richest man, a would-be Prime Minister, and dozens of other names familiar to even irregular readers of the financial pages. Rich men, mostly in their fifties, sixties and seventies, but with several younger ones also, heirs to family fortunes or the rapidly successful, thirty-somethings flush with fast money from mining, phone applications or whatever other current enterprise took from the many and gave to the few. There were some self-made women on the Road, but even less than the ten percent of women on the boards of the ASX 200. No, Wolseley Road’s female residents were almost entirely wives, the rich spouses of rich men, careful not to put a foot wrong themselves but willing to support their husbands through their every peccadillo, the dubious business deal, the mistress in Elizabeth Bay, the not-spending enough time with the children, all for the marvellous trade-off of never having to work, of shopping instead, and Pilates, and long charity luncheons.

It took fifteen minutes to get there from Taylor Square, although almost as long for the cab-driver to locate the street number. The traffic was light because it was Saturday morning, but the down-side of that was Matt’s Friday night had ended not too long before. It was rare to have a business meeting on the weekend and he’d planned to be in bed by midnight, but it was the Friday night of the Queen’s Birthday weekend, the mood was wildly infectious, one drink had led to twenty, the Oxford had led to the Columbian then the Shift then .... oh god, he didn’t want to think of what venue, let alone what contraption, he’d ended up in. Fortunately he lived around the corner from that particular den of iniquitous acting-out, so he’d been in bed soon after his last orgasm and managed a couple of hours of fitful dozing. Still, with each speed-hump in Rushcutters Bay his brain felt as if it bounced off his skull-bone, and when the cab accelerated up Double Bay hill he worried the mostly liquid contents of his stomach would accelerate even faster.

He spent a few minutes composing himself after the cab drove off. Chapstick on the lips, a zhush of the hair, several deep breaths, and a good look around. There wasn’t a soul in sight; the Road was still and quiet. Mostly everyone would be away for the weekend, he imagined, up at Palm Beach or over in Queenstown. Although it was hard to know, since every mansion was designed so nothing inside could be seen from the street, past the multi-car garages and the designer foliage. Actually, it was going to be a beautiful day, not cold like the previous week but bright and sunny, the kind of day anyone in northern Europe would be happy with in summer, but was still quite usual in the middle of a Sydney winter.

One final deep breath and a press of the doorbell. A heavily accented voice answered, Matt explained himself, then did as he was told so as to move from public space to some private realm. On the other side of the security gate the man with the accent was waiting, old, stout and completely bald, but immaculately presented in suit and tie. He beckoned Matt to follow, then led him down a series of wide corridors until they arrived at a large living area at the front of the house. Strangely, instead of a showroom of imported Italian furniture, or an art gallery specialising in muscular modern Australian art (Tillers, Quilty and Cullen), the sensation of stepping into the space was like walking on to a stage. The sunlight was overpowering, amplified by its reflection of the harbour below, every object was perfectly dusted and placed, the multiple vases of flowers were the most beautifully arranged he’d ever seen, but there was something else besides, a feeling that very little living happened there, that the room had no history or depth, that made him feel as if it was a set. It was a place where people did what they were expected to do, where unpleasantness was avoided, where masks were worn.

So he did what he was meant to do, sat on a low leather sofa and waited. Although not for long; very soon there was the faint noise of shoe on marble tile, before an imposing figure entered stage left. Usually when Matt met a famous person he was disappointed; they were shorter or scruffier than their photos, but not this time. There wasn’t a hair out of place, a pore unmoisterised, or a muscle not recently given a work-out. Although not so formally attired as his assistant, his chinos, a navy blazer and pink-striped shirt still looked as if they’d been bought at Ralph Lauren the day before and put on for the first time.

“Matt, good morning. Thanks for meeting me at such short notice.” His handshake was firm, although the hand cold.

“No problem at all, Mr Eckersley.”

“Please call me Stephen. Would you like a coffee?”

“Strong black would be good.”

There was no waiting this time; almost instantly the bald man appeared with a steaming cup and placed it on the coffee table next to Matt.

“Thank you, Josef,” said Eckersley. He smiled as Matt took his first sip.

“So, I’ve never done this before. Rather a novel experience. You might need to hold my hand. Not that I’m apprehensive. You come with the finest recommendations. As I said on the phone yesterday, discretion is an primary consideration, and I’ve been assured you’re absolutely trustworthy in that regard.”

It was true. When Matt had left the Police Force in dramatic circumstances two years before, then embarked on a career as a private investigator, he’d quickly realised that those who succeeded in that odd and misconstrued (although often very lucrative) profession, were those who told their clients what they discovered, and not a single other person. Not partners, not best friends, not even mothers. No matter how famous the person investigated was, no matter how outrageous their behaviour. Matt’s secret of success — his reputation — was that he kept secrets.

“And it doesn’t hurt that you bat for the same team.” He lowered his voice. “Not that Josef does. He has a string of Zsa Zsa’s he never lets me meet. But I’d trust him with my life, and normally he’d have done this job. Except his health problem has returned ...”

“I always start with my fee,” Matt said, not only because it was best to get that out in the open, but because it tended to save time, weeding out the wannabes from the serious clients, then explained his hourly rate and additional costs structure.

“Seems reasonable,” said Eckersley. “And next?”

“The purpose of the enquiry. What you want to find out. What you’re worried about.”

Usually there was a sigh then, or even a sob, but not this time. Instead a charming smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. I’m in love. Head over heels. I’m feeling peculiarly blessed.”

“Then ...?”

“Yes, why are you here? Due diligence, I suppose. Risk management. I’m on a lot of boards, you know, and it drives people mad but I’m the stickler, the one who asks too many questions, who doesn’t rest until every unforeseen eventuality is revealed and every hidden liability calculated. I’ve saved the shareholders of Australia’s a lot of pain over the years, I can tell you. And perhaps it’s not quite so necessary but I can’t help carrying this desire to know everything into my personal life.”

“Do you think the person you’re in love with could be seeing someone else?”

He didn’t merely smile at this; he laughed. “No, no, no. He’s head over heels as well. And faithful, I’m as sure of that as I’ve ever been sure of anything. No, it’s not the details of his current life I’m concerned about ... It’s his past.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

“I have.”

“But you need to check, make doubly sure?”

“Look, perhaps it wouldn’t matter so much if I wasn’t who I was or if we didn’t have planned what we have.” Eckersley stood up, walked across the room to collect a Tiffany frame, then handed it to Matt. “This was taken a month ago in Tahiti — when I proposed.”

Matt looked at a pink sunset, and two happy, handsome men in front of it. Eckersley was his immaculate self in a crisp turquoise polo shirt, while the younger man wore a v-neck tee, just tight enough to show off his stunning pecs, and had slightly longer hair the wind was playing with.

“Gay marriage will be through parliament this year or next,” said Eckersley, “and what we’ll need soon after is someone high profile getting married to show the nation the whole thing’s not a joke. Just as happened in England with Elton John. I love my boy, and I do truly want to marry him, but I see a chance to do my duty here, to do something of great social benefit, perhaps for the first time in my life. I want to show we’re not just as good as them, but better.” He waved his hand in a wide arc through the air, seemingly to indicate his Wolseley Street neighbours.

“What’s his name?”

“Er ... Cameron.” He took the photo and placed it back exactly where it had been. “Cameron Walker.”

“And my job is to investigate his history?”

“You know what the Australian press is like,” Eckersley harrumphed.

“They can only be managed up to a point. Oh, the marriage will get major coverage; I’ll have enough A-list guests to make sure of that. I think even my friend Tony will come. But then some sleazy journalist will start digging around. I’ve got no secrets myself. Even when I was married to a woman all those years ago, I never played around. I only started dating men after the divorce was through. And not one of them would or could dish the dirt. I’ve never done drugs and I don’t like kinky sex. Cameron says it’s the same with him. I believe him but I have to make sure.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s not working at the moment. He’s a dancer. Actually that’s how we met. He was in Wicked and we found ourselves standing together at the opening night party. The romance was very slow and old-fashioned, I’m proud to say. We dated for six months before he slept over.”

“Does he live here now?”

“He still has his own place in Altair. Shares with another dancer. Of course he’ll move in after the honeymoon.”

“What’s the time-frame?” asked Matt. “When do you want my report?”

“I’ve got business in London next week, not exactly sure how long I’ll be away. Does a month sound realistic?”

Matt nodded, while taking out his notepad. “Just a few other details please. His family, where he was born, went to school, worked. The basics.”

“Perth, a city I’ve never like so try to avoid. Cameron’s an only child and his parents died in a car accident when he was fourteen. He was raised by his dance teacher aunt — Glenda I think her name was. She died too, of breast cancer just before we met. Lots of sadness in his life, but you’d never guess from his positive attitude. He got into the Australian Ballet school in Melbourne, then came up here with Wicked. Anything else?”

“His birth date?”

“His birthday is the ninth of March and he just turned ... twenty-four. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Matt, and I look forward to your report. Josef will write a check and see you out. All the best, my friend.”

He decided to walk back to Surry Hills, try to wear himself out completely before going back to bed. Leaving Eckersley’s house he thought to himself how this was going to be one of the easiest cases of his career, verifying the obvious, perhaps finding a few skeleton-ettes in the closet, but nothing too unusual for a hot-blooded young Aussie gay male, nothing that would cause Eckersley to call off the wedding. But the closer to home, with the cockatoos squawking chaotically above his head in Paddington, and other screechers now day-partying on Oxford Street, his feeling changed; his, sixth-investigator’s-sense kicked in and he started to think there was something about the whole set-up that wasn’t quite right. Eckersley was such an anal, self-important prig — could someone twenty-five years younger really love him as generously as Eckersley claimed? Someone like the beautiful boy in the Tahiti photograph, with such a mischievous twinkle his eye, although that clichéd phrase wasn’t quite right. As Matt wrapped himself in his slightly unwashed sheets and just before he fell into deep, deep sleep, he realised a better way of putting it: the  twinkle in his eye.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

02. Wicked in Perth

MATT had bought a ticket to Sunday night’s Leather Pride party weeks before, knowing it would definitely sell out. Sunday was even a little cooler, meaning the wearing of leather was less ridiculous than usual in temperate Sydney. But he’d been in a strange and pensive mood since meeting Stephen Eckersley, which sometimes happened with his more interesting cases. It was part of the process, crossing over from his own life to other people’s, trying to understand the complex issues of those new lives, so as not to miss asking the important questions when opportunity arose. The issues here were love, trust, and commitment – fine and universal themes – but into the equation also came the less predictable notions of homosexuality, age disparity, and very large sums of money. So he left the leather in the closet, put off his extreme partying (which tended to bring forth Matt’s own big issues), hooked up with some of his less edgy friends and went off to one of the more vanilla Queen’s Birthday events instead.

He had a few drinks and a few dances, but even though the environment was totally familiar and unthreatening he still couldn’t relax. He was with a much younger crowd than if he’d gone to the leather party, lots of club kids in their twenties, and he kept imagining some beautiful blonde boy across the room, or at the bar, or in the middle of the dancefloor, was actually Cameron Walker. He’d stare, or even get closer, until he was sure he was wrong. And he was of course every time. Cameron and Eckersley would be at some fancy resort or their holiday house. But Matt couldn’t help himself wanting one of the boys in the club to be him. It was inevitable their paths would cross at some point, but he had a kind of itch, wanting it to happen now, not weeks away.

He was in bed – alone – by two am, then on the three pm Qantas flight to Perth. Because of the long weekend, the flight was packed, but he thought this was one investigation where flying Business would not be queried when expenses were presented. He dozed, watched a terrible rom-com with Reece Witherspoon, ate dinner, watched a terrible rom-trag also with Reece Witherspoon, dozed some more, and was in his downtown hotel room by nine pm. Even though that was eleven pm Sydney time, Matt was wide awake – and randy as hell. It was a long time since last having sex (well, three days, but three very long days), he was in an exotic city full of unknown men, so there was no choice but activate the application designed for exactly such occasions: Grindr.

Soon there was a hairy brute knocking on his door and even sooner after that Matt’s tongue was up the hairy brute’s arse. Grindr was a smorgasbord and he could have had any type he wanted; only after he’d arranged the date did he realise he’d now gone as far from Cameron’s look as he could. Instead of a hauntingly handsome youth he’d chosen a bulky, late-thirties dag, as if he was running away now. There were some cases where he was attracted to the subject of his investigation and others where he was repelled, but this was the first where he was attracted and repelled simultaneously.

Matt preferred bottoming – which very Sydney queen didn’t? – but he was versatile enough to top if that’s what was required. The chubby guy’s arse was as loose and hungry as they got. Matt didn’t need to ease his cock in the first time; it just got sucked forward automatically. “Pump me, harder, harder,” the guy begged, and Matt did his best to comply. it was a rough, almost brutal fuck, going on for what seemed longer than its twenty minutes, before they came together in one loud and tumultuous spasm.

“Whoa,” said Matt, “good one!” He removed the condom and expertly flicked it cross the hotel room into the bathroom bin. “Want a beer?”

“Can’t, mate. Got to get home.”

“Have another beer, then we can fuck some more.”

“Nah, wife’ll be home soon. She took the kids down to their Gran’s for the weekend.”

“Wife? Kids?”

“I’m bi, mate. Got a problem with that?”

“No, but does your wife?”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“What happens if she finds your phone?”

“She won’t. Grindr’s on my second one. Nah, it’s all good. She’s got her own interests.” He was fully dressed now. “Catch you later, eh?”

Matt hit the ground running the next morning. The internet had revolutionised the world of private investigation: it was harder for people to hide their secrets, but there were some things that couldn’t be easily or legally accessed online, only by foot, only in person. He started in the city, first the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages, then the Public Library looking at microfilms of old copies of The West Australian and Yellow Pages. After lunch he cabbed around the suburbs, visiting dance academies and a nursing home, where he was told the city’s most prominent ballet teacher until about five years before now resided. She was a bad-tempered old thing, Miss Valmai Hoff, probably because she’d ended up in a wheelchair with the most shocking arthritis, but her mind was still as sharp as her pointed toes had once been, and she gave him all the information he required.

Back in his hotel room, with the sun setting over the Swan River, he systematically laid out his notes on the bed. Not they he needed to go to any trouble, for they told a glaringly obvious story. No boy named Cameron Walker was born in Perth in the year he was meant to, nor in the couple of years earlier or later. No Walker husband and wife were killed in a car accident in Western Australia in the last twenty-five years. There’d never been a dance teacher in Perth with the first name of Glenda. Which meant Stephen Eckersley’s fiance’s account of his childhood was a complete crock of shit.

Matt ordered a club sandwich from Room Service, ate it while watching an interview with a disgraced politician on CNN, then fell into bed, sleeping so deeply he didn’t wake with an idea of his next move in the case, as often happened when he’d drawn a blank like this. So he went for a run instead, a tough one, miles along the river then up the hill to the Botanic Gardens lookout. Still no inspiring plan presented itself, just that he’d better get back home to Sydney as soon as he could to start the long and tedious task of record-checking, putting a true story to Cameron’s pretty face. Then, while having coffee and flicking through the paper, he spotted something. It was the break he needed, a lucky coincidence: the touring production of Wicked was playing Perth!

He phoned for a ticket but the show had just opened and both that Wednesday’s matinee and evening performances were sold out. But he knew you could usually score a single ticket by just turning up at the box office, so walked back to the hotel, told the Front Desk he’d be staying another night, showered and changed, then cabbed the considerable distance out to Burswood Casino. Then followed one of the most unpleasant days of his career, almost as bad as visiting car crash sites when he was a rookie policeman. He waited by the box office for an hour, until a group of pensioners arrived and handed back one of their party’s ticket (she’d gone a bit ga-ga, they explained, and had probably forgotten all about it). Matt re-bought it and everyone was happy – well, until the curtain came up. It had been years since he’d seen a musical and he’d forgotten how much he hated them. Totally ridiculous story, tacky sets and costumes, really irritating songs; it was as if someone had taken something camp and wonderful (in this case, The Wizard of Oz), wrung all the gayness out to make it “mainstream”, and killed it in the process. Not that it died quickly – on and on it went, so by the time Galinda and Elphaba had worked out whatever it was that was they had to work out, Matt was seriously worried about deep vein thrombosis, if not for himself then the rest of the elderly audience.

Still, he’d found out what he’d wanted to. With the help of an exorbitantly priced program he identified the gayest, most manic boys in the chorus. All he had to do was wait at the stage door after the second show, then follow them to wherever they “debriefed”, either at the casino or some bar in town. And then he might have to pump one before he pumped one, as it were.

But that was several hours away. It was silly to go all the way back to the hotel then all the way back out again – best to have a meal and kill some time where he was. After a glass of wine and a bland spaghetti marinara, he entered the gaming area. Past the roulette and backgammon tables he wandered, past the rows and rows of poker machines. At first it seemed all rather sad and aimless – a kind of hell, with lonely people staring intently at flashing lights, but he had time on his hands and the longer he stayed the more hypnotised he became too. Eventually he sat down at a machine called Cleopatra’s Treasures, fed money in and started pressing buttons. Three hours later, and three hundred dollars poorer, he started to feel just silly enough to wrest himself away.

His plan didn’t exactly work out. He waited in the cold westerly wind outside the stage door with a couple of autograph-seekers until eventually three of the boys appeared, but instead of going back into the casino or to the cab-rank they ran into the depths of the car park. Too hard to get a cab to follow them. But if they were going back to the city for a nightcap it’d have to be to a gay bar, and how many of those were there in Perth? Even though he waited ages again in line for a cab, he managed to get a driver who wasn’t a redneck, and told Matt what was open and what wasn’t. The first place he looked was a pub, no sign of them there, but the second, a dancebar, delivered as hoped. The three of them were impossible to miss, showing off their dance skills as if they were still on stage.

Would the day never end? They danced and danced, without even breaking for drinks, until well after midnight. But eventually two of them kissed the third good-night, and Matt knew he had to make his move.

He was worried the third – Kyle was his name – would leave soon too, but he must have stayed with the hope of going home with someone, because it was one of the easiest pick-ups Matt had ever managed.

“Great dancer. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Why don’t you take me home?”

Although once naked on the hotel bed things didn’t go so smoothly.

“Don’t touch there!” Kyle ordered.

“Do you want to fuck me instead?” Matt asked.

“Nooooo! I hate bumsex. It’s disgusting. Oral will do.”

So he blew Matt, then Matt blew him, or attempted to, because it went on forever.

“Everything okay?” Matt asked, picking a dyed blonde pubic hair out of his teeth.

“Mmm, there’s no atmosphere. Its so quiet in here. Haven’t you got some music?”

“Just the television.”

“I’ve got to have music. I’m going to sing, d’you mind?”

So as Matt went back to work Kyle launched into his favourite show-tune. “Don’t cry for me, Argentina. The truth is ... Aaaaagh!”

The two of them collapsed on the bed. “You have a great body,” said Matt.

“I’m a dancer,” Kyle boasted. “I’m been in Wicked for the past year.”

“Really? Fantastic! A friend of mine has a friend who was in the show in Melbourne and Sydney.”

“Who?”

“Cameron Walker.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know him?’

“Cameron? I can tell you a thing or two about that one!”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

03. Love and other fibs

IS that it?” Matt asked dryly.

The worst things Kyle could tell him about Cameron Walker were that he hadn’t always thrown his tissues in the bin after taking his make-up off, but had left them lying on the dressing-room bench they’d shared; that he’d once borrowed a scarf from Kyle and it’d taken three reminders to get it back; and – horror of horrors – he’d once made a disparaging comment about Lady Gaga. After that, Kyle hadn’t spoken to him for a week.

“But I forgave him. We all make mistakes.”

“If those are his only flaws, the guy’s a saint.”

“Mmm, I could tell you more, but Cameron’s a friend of mine – well, a Facebook friend these days. But if you’ve been in a long run together, there’s a very special bond. The theatre’s all about love, you know.”

What was he talking about? It was all about love if air-kissing passed for love.

Matt had dated a couple of actors over the years and from the stories they’d told the theatre was more about spite, malice, envy, back-stabbing and, not least of all, really, really nasty gossip.

“You’re a family,” Matt said sweetly as Kyle nodded in reply. “Then I’m not going to press you to dish the dirt on someone who’s like a brother. It’s just, well, my friend who knows Cameron said he couldn’t wait to get out of Wicked. Apparently he thought the rest of the cast were shits, the other male dancers in particular.”

“Did he really? So typical! That little two-faced bitch.”

“Maybe he was just joking.”

“He always thought he was better than the rest of us.”

“So come on, tell me, he must have done something a bit worse than not throwing his mucky tissues in the bin?”

“There was the missing money.”

“From someone’s wallet backstage?”

“Don’t be stupid. None of us leave money backstage – it’d go missing in a minute. No, this was from Kids with cancer.”

“Kids with cancer!”

Kyle stifled a yawn. “I’m not sure I can be bothered going over this again. It’s very boring.”

“Would you like a drink?” asked Matt, opening the mini-bar.

“Any alcopops? No? All right, I’ll have a beer. Cheers. Now where were we?”

“Cameron stealing from the kids with cancer.”

“I didn’t say that exactly. It was just after we opened in Melbourne, and the cast had a big charity fundraiser at the Melbourne Town Hall. All the leads performed – Sondheim, of course; charity dos are the only chance anyone gets to sing him – and us in the chorus got roped into selling raffle tickets. We would have raised thousands, all cash, which ended up in one of the organiser’s handbag. Anyway, at the end of the night she found it was missing; she worked out someone must have slipped their hand into her bag when she was dancing or in the loo. There was no CCTV, and no-one saw anything, but some of us got talking later, and why did Cameron spend so much time sitting at that table when they were all a bunch of old farts? We didn’t confront him, or tell the police, but we just knew.”

“It could have been a waiter?”

“It could have been Harry Potter in his Invisibility Cloak ... But then there was when the Skye Terrier got strangled.”

“The Skye Terrier got strangled?”

“Mmm, shocking, eh? Although perhaps not under the circumstances. Anyway, Jasmin Stokes-Mueller was just some chorus girl like the rest of us until she got one of the leads, and then she turned into a right c-word. Demanded this, demanded that – Mariah Carey, but without a hit record. The funny thing was she started going out to all these fancy-shmancy restaurants, eating stuff she’d never even heard of, and put on so much weight they had to reinforce the harness for her flying scenes. And she insisted her little Skye Terrier Bobby come to work with her. Management agreed, provided it stay in her dressing-room, but the problem was it didn’t, it ran out into the corridor and bit everyone on the ankle. Evil personifed ... ”

“Or doggified,” Matt interrupted.

“Whatever. So Jasmin comes back after a matinee and there’s little Bobby dead in it’s basket. She was too mean to have an autopsy, but it wasn’t very old and it’s neck was at this strange angle, so the only explanation was that it was strangled. Then some of us were talking, and put two and two together, and worked out it was Cameron who was the last person bitten. And badly bitten. Stitches. A scar. Still, we had no proof, so that was that.”

“You don’t have enough proof about anything,”

“Well, then there was the suicide in Tokyo, I’ve just remembered that.”

“Suicide in Tokyo!”

“Yeah, Snow White.”

“Snow White committed suicide in Tokyo?” Matt was so tired – the sun would be coming up in Sydney about now – and the conversation had become so surreal he wondered whether he was getting more than he’d bargained for.

“Can I’ve another beer? Thanks. Anyway, it’s tough being a professional dancer in Australia. There’s hardly ever any work, so most of us have to do a season every once and a while at Jap theme parks. They need tall blondes to play the fairy tale parts. I was there in 2009 and they were still talking about Prince Charming aka Cameron Walker. Not that it ever made the papers or anything because they’re very good at covering up scandals. While I was there they had to sack one Mickey for feeling up the kids. But Cameron was straight then, or more accurately confused, and he and Snow White – a nice girl from New Zealand – started this big relationship, then when he broke it off – undoubtedly because of his confusion – she went a bit mental and threw herself off the top of Space Mountain. Tragic.”

“That was hardly his fault.”

“No, but ... ” Kyle seemed to search his memory for more of Cameron’s dastardly deeds, then, not finding any, for the reason he was actually looking. The booze and the late hour were finally taking their toll on him too. “Oh, you’re right I suppose. He’s going to get away with anything with his looks, so why bother?” He rolled on his side and was snoring in a minute.

It took Matt a little longer, since he had to process, at least cursorily, what he’d just been told. Someone who stole from cancer kiddies, strangled a Skye terrier, and drove Snow White to suicide didn’t sound that nice. Yet there were no witnesses or proof or CCTV. It was backstage scuttlebutt, and even if some nosy reporter uncovered it also, nothing would ever be published for fear of libel, particularly when part of the equation was Stephen Eckersley, a hard-hitter with the best legal resources. Still, even if it was only half true, or a quarter true, it was an indication ... of something. A callousness, a ruthlessness at large, that just had to have manifested itself over the years in ways that could be properly ascertained. That was the task before Matt. And finally it sank in: this case was definitely not going to be simple and straightforward.

Kyle was in the foulest mood the next morning, the low after his manic high. Matt did his best to work into the conversation the one question he should have asked the night before, if he knew where Cameron grew up, but the chorus-boy just grunted he didn’t have a clue and had to go home immediately to take a Valium.

Matt spent the afternoon flying east, and got home to Campbell Street by eight o’clock. There were emails and Facebook to properly attend to, and three this-isn’t-urgent-but-it-really-is messages on his answering machine from his mother (since she claimed phoning him on his mobile cost too much money) that he had to reply to.

“Sorry, Mum, I’ve been in Perth on a case.”

“Uh-huh.” She never asked questions about his work, not because she knew he wouldn’t tell her much, but because she clearly didn’t approve, it being such a terrible come-down from his previous career.

“What’s up?”

“Well, the jacaranda’s blooming beautifully this year, the brightest purple in ages, but then we had a lot of rain this winter ... ” And so it went on, the smalltalk before she could respectably get round to her point. “And I almost forgot to mention, I’m a little bit worried about your sister.”

“You’re always a little bit worried about her.”

“She’s acting strange. I think the post-natal depression’s back.”

“Olivia’s in kindergarten, Mum. You don’t get post-natal depression five years on.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then talk to her about it. Or talk to her husband.”

“Oh, I can’t bring something like that up. I thought you could have a word, the way you do, get to the bottom of things, without making a big deal out of it.”

“I’ll phone her soon.”

“Thank you! Now, would you like to say hello to your Dad?”

“Only if he wants to say hello to me.” Matt’s father was a retired senior policeman and he’d taken the circumstances around Matt’s leaving the Force two years before very badly. “No? Thought not. We’re a typical family, aren’t we. You can’t talk to your daughter; Dad can’t talk to me.”

“We all love each other, Matt, that’s the important thing.”

“I’ve got to go, Mum. I have to find out how much another family loved each other.”

“Bye, love, take care.”

“You too.”

Like every other investigator he knew, Matt used an old-school index card system, with each card covering an important fact or place or date. There were now about twenty of these for Cameron Walker; they could be filed compactly or laid out as Matt did now over his desk so as to express the bigger picture, or more accurately, to reveal the holes in the picture. Clearly, first thing the next day, he had to find out where Cameron was born, where he grew up, and what his real family was like.

Births, deaths and marriages in Australia were public record, but still covered by privacy laws (birth details within the last hundred years, for example, were only available to the people involved). But it was the age of Wikileaks, where even the CIA’s most sensitive secrets were thrown around like so many empty candy wrappers, and Australian governments’ citizen registries could be accessed without extreme difficulty. When Matt was in Perth he just fronted up at the front desk with a sob story about looking for his brother who’d been adopted out, and the middle-aged female customer service officer, through a series of either nods or shakes of the head, had told him exactly what he’d wanted to know. But now he needed to do searches in every other state – and fast – so it was time to visit his mate, Bryce, hacker-extraordinaire.

Fortunately Bryce lived not too far away, in the same building as Matt but three floors below. Matt lived in the front of the building, with a north- facing balcony he spent a lot of time on in summer, while Bryce lived at the back, in an apartment that not only got no sun but where the drapes were permanently drawn. Except for the strange luminescence of multiple computer screens, it was always night in there, except that Bryce never seemed to sleep, for whatever hour Matt knocked on the door Bryce appeared in his uniform of cargo shorts and ruffled flannelette shirt, wide-eyed and wired. More than that, there’d never been a time when Matt had knocked and Bryce hadn’t answered, for he never left his ‘den’ (except for a big shop, although take-away pizza still seemed his preferred food, or an occasional beer at Furry Fridays at the Oxford). Bryce was a geek and a bear, but also transcended those easy labels by being a nice guy and a faithful friend.

Matt told him what he wanted, Bryce rolled his eyes as if to say here-we-go-again, doing-something-naughty, but then smiled as if to add don’t-worry, I’m-way-too-smart-for-us-ever-to-get-caught.

“How long do you think it will take?” Matt asked.

“Couple of hours. Got anything you need to do?”

“I might go to the gym.”

“What’s that?”

“Very funny. Tell you what, I’ll bring you lunch when I come back. Something healthy.”

“Okay, burger and chips. Burgers have lettuce in them.”

City Gym was rank with testosterone (most of it out of a bottle). Mid-morning meant there were no city workers doing a bit of faux exercise before or after sitting at a desk all day. Instead the place was full of serious muscle-men, with bulging biceps and bouncy, beach-ball bums. Most of them, particularly the Lebanese, identified as very straight, but there was definite homo-eroticism in their inter-action, the posing, high-fiving and occasional massaging of strained tendons, as well as the high camp point of the whole thing: pretending to be Superman. But Matt was in the mood to push himself too, starting out with a couple of more kilos of steel than usual, and ending up an hour later lifting more than he ever had. He was sore and sweaty, but his endorphins had been spectacularly released, giving him an almost drugged-like sense of invincibility. Of course Bryce would get into the system. Everything would be okay.

“So,” said the big man, munching on his Olympic Yeeros lunch, “there were three Cameron Walkers born during the period 1981 to 1991 (given you don’t think he looks under twenty or over thirty). One also featured in the Death Register, killed in a car accident in Bairnsdale in 1997, while the other two can easily be traced: one’s a school teacher in Armidale, the other an army officer in Townsville.”

It was as if someone had punctured Matt’s newly pumped-up muscles, and the air was whooshing out. “If he worked in Japan as Cameron Walker, that has to be the name on his Australian passport. But he doesn't exist!”

“What it means,” said Bryce, “is the little bugger's changed his name by deed poll. And those particular records are legend to crack.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

04. “Rack off, ya Sydney sodomite.”

CAN you do it?”

“Mmm ... They make it extra hard because of all the people in witness protection. If their new identities get out they’re dead.”

“Which is a complete joke,” said Matt, “because a good proportion of removalists are straight out of jail. So if a family gets a new name and is moved to a little town down the coast, the crims they’re being protected from find out sooner or later anyway.”

“It’s the best encryption going.” Bryce screwed up his face. “I’ll talk to this nineteen-year-old super-decrypter I know, but I can’t promise anything. Is there some other way to find this dude’s real name?”

“Not without getting to know him, or infiltrating his inner circle of friends. That’s going to happen at some point, but if it happens too soon the risk is he’ll suspect something and go back to clean up even the few traces he’s left of his former self – destroy records or warn his family not to say anything. From the picture I’m getting of Cameron Walker – or whatever his name is – if he finds out someone’s on his tail, and realises what he has to lose, he wouldn’t be past paying people off, slipping them a couple of grand to clam up completely.”

“Come back tonight,” said Bryce, “I’ll know if it can be done by then.”

So an afternoon in limbo! It was pretty much always the same with Bryce (or other techies) when there was a glitch: dire warnings of insurmountable difficulty, followed down the track by seemingly magical results. He wondered whether they all did it on purpose, just to inflict pain on mere mortals with average computer skills. Matt had been through it many times before, yet it was intensely frustrating, because he could clearly remember a few rare occasions when the predictions of failure had been correct, when he’d had to buy a new phone or computer, or even abandon completely a particular line of investigation.

He could go to the movies, but a quick check revealed there was nothing screening he wanted to see. He wasn’t so bothered about America going down the toilet, except it seemed to be taking Hollywood with it. He could go for a walk or a run ... except he’d already spent the morning in the gym and that was part of the problem. He was all pumped up and restless, frustrated not just technologically but sexually. But at the same time he couldn’t be bothered with Grindr or Manhunt, scrolling through all the pictures of Sydney men, the majority of which he knew or had already slept with. Then hooking up, having a fuck, then talking for an hour about nothing. He could just walk down to Oxford Street and pick up a stranger, but where? At this time of the day it would be a serial killer from the Oxford, an out-of-a-dress drag queen at Stonewall, someone having an afternoon out of Rehab at the Columbian, or someone on a walker at the Midnight Shift. Oxford Street just wasn’t reliably fabulous any more. In fact, most of the time, it was reliably un-fabulous. Matt wasn’t a bigot; he’d had sex with all the types just listed, but not when he was sober – not in the afternoon!

He wanted nice jiggy-jiggy with a stranger, no strings attached. So there was no choice really; it was off to the steambaths. Amazing how taking his clothes off, tying a towel around his waist, wandering around in the dark and steam, put everything else out of his mind every time.

The place was quite busy for a weekday afternoon, although it was Friday and maybe people had started their weekends early. And there were beauties there as well, young guys with toned bodies, the type that particular establishment featured in its advertisements but could be often outweighed (literally) by chubby older guys just seeking fit young lads. As the latest arrival, Matt caught the eye of several cuties, but settled on a guy more his own age, a good-looking thirty-ish guy with a rhinoceros tattoo above his left nipple.

Matt followed him into a cubicle, they kissed, towels fell to the floor and two proud penises rose to greet each other. Things moved fast from there: nipples in mouths, cocks and balls in mouths, then Matt was kneeling on the black vinyl bench with his bum in the air, the guy was rolling on a condom, lubing Matt up, sticking it in and thrusting, first gently, then faster and harder ... until both of them came big-time, jism everywhere, all over the vinyl, dripping onto the floor when the condom was removed.

“Thanks, bud,” said Matt, reaching for his towel.

“Hey there,” said the guy, pulling the towel undone again, “don’t go yet.”

“No offence, but I’m not in the talking mood. Just wanted to get my rocks off.”

“We don’t have to talk. Let’s just hold each other for a while.”

“Cuddle?” Matt said with a rising inflection, but as he did so he looked down at the guy’s very attractive body, his cock still hard, lying sideways on the bench. “Okay, just for a little while.”

The man wrapped himself around Matt and it was a feeling Matt hadn’t had in a long time. Neither of them said anything, or moved, or even seemed to breathe, for five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. It was still and quiet and safe somehow, being held by a man who’d asked to hold him. But eventually hands started moving places, and positions slowly changed, and Matt was sticking his cock in the guy’s arse this time, and it went on for longer, the rhythmic in-and-out, but still as explosive, maybe even more so, when they came again together.

“Fuck!” said Matt.

“Can we talk a little now?”

“I’m Matt. That’s a start. But what else do you want to talk about?”

“What do you do?”

“Mmm, not that. You tell me what you do.”

“Okay. I’m in the Prehistory Department at Sydney Uni.”

“Doing research on ancient same sex practices?”

He laughed. “No ... and my name’s Todd.”

They did talk for a while, a conversation that was trivial but also very pleasant, and then Matt said he really did have to go, and Todd said he did too. They dressed in the locker room together, left together, and waited for the Taylor Square lights to turn green together. When they did, and Matt turned left on the other side, Todd asked for his number. “Um ... I’m not sure,” Matt replied. So Todd gave him his and told him to phone any time if he felt like “talking”.

Bryce answered the door with a can of beer in his hand, and Matt followed him into the dim, smelly apartment. “Here’s one for you too,” said Bryce, his bearded face suddenly eerily lit by his opening the fridge door. “You might want to celebrate.”

”Who is he?” asked Matt.

“Cameron Walker was born Billy Karosky at John Hunter Hospital in Newcastle on April eleventh, nineteen eighty-five.”

Which was information that resulted in Matt, early the following afternoon, counting down the numbers of a depressing street in the suburb of Bolton Point, twenty kilometres south of Newcastle. It wasn’t officially a street, it was a ‘close’, but unloved for all that, with unmowed lawns, ripped sofas on small verandahs, and dogs from the banned-breeds list loudly acknowledging him behind every second fence, plus a bitterly cold wind was blowing from the south, but Matt was feeling peculiarly elated, the way he always did when a good lead was about to break a case.

The surname was unusual and there was only one listing in the Newcastle White Pages, in the town of Raymond Terrace. Matt simply explained he was looking for Billy Karosky, an old friend he’d lost contact with, and at that point was expecting the phone to go dead, but instead the woman said, “Little Billy? That’d be my ex-husband’s cousin’s boy. Haven’t seen him for years. Haven’t seen his mum for years either but she should still be in Bolton Point. The address? Yeah, I’ve got it written down in my Christmas card book. Hold on.”

There’d been a fast drive up the F3 freeway, coffee and food at Toronto, a smart little town with expensive-looking houses lining the foreshore of Lake Macquarie, then a short drive over the Fennell Bay bridge to another world entirely, where the Lake was invisible, indeed beauty of any kind, and, like it or not, people lived where they’d been placed, in Bolton Point’s poorly-designed, nineteen-seventies-era public housing estate.

Here it was, the second last house before the cul-de-sac-cum-burnt-out-car-depot. It too needed a coat of paint, and the net curtains looked more grey than white, yet it seemed oddly distinctive, simply by being even more nondescript than the rest. There was no falling-apart furniture on the verandah, no kids’ junk in the yard, and – thankfully – no vicious pitbull snarling behind the gate. The front door was shut and Matt feared there was no-one home, or even that the house was abandoned, but after a long wait he heard a bolt being drawn, a safety lock being released, then saw two dark eyes in the narrow couple of inches the door was opened. “Whatcha want?” asked a woman’s unfriendly voice.

“Um ... Hello there. I’m Matt Black. I’d like to ask some questions about a person who once lived here.”

“Who?”

“His name is Billy Karosky. Are you Mrs Karosky?”

“Might be. But I got no son called Billy. Got no son at all.”

Was she saying what Cameron had told her to say? If she was so frightened as to have turned her little Hardiplank cottage into a fortress, it shouldn’t be too hard to shake the truth out of her. “That’s not what I’ve been told,” he said in his most official-sounding voice. “You had your son on the eleventh of April, nineteen eighty-five, at John Hunter Hospital. It’s in the records.”

There was silence. The eyes seemed to grow even darker, even more intense, and then suddenly the door flung open and he saw all of her. She was short and slight of build, but with a great shock of frizzy red hair, now peppered with grey. Her clothes were like something out of Little House on the Prairie: a skirt to the floor and a long-sleeved white blouse buttoned to the neck. Most interesting of all, she held a Bible in one hand. “He’s dead, that’s what Billy is. Dead to me and dead to the Lord! Now rack off, ya Sydney sodomite.”

Then the door slammed hard in his face and he heard the lock and bolt being re-secured.

He walked back down the garden path, through the gate and back to his car. It was a shock, a surprise, and also very disappointing. But what really played on his mind was: how could she tell he was from Sydney – and how could she know he was gay? Did everyone, even a mad Bible-holding fashion victim in Hicksville, know what a Sydney fag looked like these days?

It suddenly made him mad. He should have broken the back of this case today, instead it was just more of ... nothing. He hadn’t driven a hundred kilometres for that, so he slowly took another look around the neighbourhood and made his next move.

On the corner block, with the close on one side and the main through road on the other, he had a clear view into the backyard, where a woman was taking washing off the Hills Hoist. She looked more normal – well, she was about seventy, technically obese, wearing a bright floral mumu, and with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, but that probably passed for normal around those parts, as opposed to Mrs Karosky’s Waco cult look. Matt put his head over the fence and started buttering her up. “Hi there, wonder if you can help me. I’m making enquiries about someone who used to live around here. Do you mind if I have a word?”

“Debt collector, are ya? We get a lot of you lot, looking for people who’ve shot through. Funny thing is it’s always the baddies you’re after, the trouble-makers, the ones who’ve left bruises and broken bones as well as bad debts behind them, so I’m always too glad to help. It may not look it, but we’re a tight little community here, we look after each other, and wrongs usually get righted, one way or another They call me Big Jean. Why don’tcha come inside for a cuppa?”

Sitting inside Big Jean’s small but cheerful kitchen, drinking a cup of brewed-in-the-pot tea and chewing on one her delicious home-made Anzac biscuits, he felt he may have rushed to pass judgement on Bolton Point. The old books and covers thing. He’d told her the truth, that he wasn’t actually a debt collector, but she remained friendly, welcoming and helpful. “I brought my kids up here and they turned out all right. One’s a dentist. They want me to move somewhere else, where no-one ever gets shot or stabbed, but I’ve been here thirty-five years and I kind of fit, know what I mean? So, who’re after?”

“Billy Karosky.”

“Whew! You’re game.”

“When did he leave here. And why?”

“You’re sure you want me to open that can of worms?” Big Jean lit a cigarette, sucked in fast then exhaled very slowly. “Suppose you’ve been up the road and had the door slammed in your face?”

“I did. She said he’s dead, but I know he’s not.”

“Cuck-oo! Cuck-oo!” Big Jean made the sound of the bird. “After everything that happened poor Pam Karosky joined the holy-rollers and hasn’t been the same since. Don’t know what she eats, because she only leaves that house to go to church. Even threw her tee-vee away, can you believe it?”

“What did happen exactly?”

“Well, it was a while ago, ten years or more. That’s right, I remember now, the cops came to get him the night Kathy Freeman won that race, so it was during the two-thousand Olympics.”

“Came to get Billy?”

“No, his Dad Josef. You see, Billy had an older sister Chantelle who’d already left home and she found out somehow that Josef was fiddling with little Billy – paedo stuff, you know? – and dobbed him into the police. We were all shocked – I mean, Josef was a big manly fellow, in the local bike gang and always off kangaroo shooting – but before the trial Josef hung himself in prison, which seemed to end everyone’s doubts. Except for Pam, who still wouldn’t hear a word against him. Oh dear, it was horrible how she kicked little Billy out on the street. Such a sweet looking kid, prettier than any girl, that one. Daphne Peters took him in for a while because one of her sons was in his year, but the house was too small for all her brood let alone strays, and one day – gone! Little Billy, no more than fifteen and out in the world on his own.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“No, luv. No-one kept in touch.”

“Where’s Chantelle?”

“Mmm, there were some nasty rumours about her I’m not sure I wish to repeat.”

“Go on.”

“She was supposed to be working in one of those massage parlours in Islington. Someone was sure it was her photo on the internet. But, you know, it might not have been. She could have moved to Perth.”

Please, thought Matt, not Perth again. Let it be somewhere closer to home. He thanked Big Jean, drove into Newcastle and booked into a hotel. He’d stay and try to find the sister in the next couple of days.

Matt opened a beer, lay on the bed and turned on the television. Incredibly, the headline was a dramatic story about Stephen Eckersley.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

05. The Ruin of Many a Poor Boy

WHAT's next? Buckingham Palace?” asked an angry commuter emerging into the light at Piccadilly Circus.

“A bleedin’ outrage,” said another. “It was bad enough an Egyptian buying Harrods, and the Chinese buying Jaguar – but a convict buying our tube is just beyond the pale.”

Their reaction was to the same news that had caught Matt’s attention, the headline story on the six o’clock news on the television in his Newcastle hotel room, that Stephen Eckersley had led a consortium of Australian banks and superannuation funds in successfully negotiating the purchase of the London Underground from the desperately cash-strapped City of London.

Following the outraged vox populi came a statement from Eckersley himself, looking particularly dapper, not like a convict at all but even more British than the British, in a pinstripe suit, puce tie and matching pocket square. “What we bring to the table is certainty. With a major cash injection, and a new management structure, the London Underground can move confidently forward into the twenty-first century. This is a great day for all involved, not least our millions of daily passengers. I personally guarantee: you will not be disappointed.”

This was followed by a short statement by the Mayor of London (rather mad-looking, but had there ever been a mayor of any city who wasn’t mad-looking?), “Hear, hear! We had no choice really, given our Olympics are falling in the worst economic conditions in a hundred years, but these Aussies are a godsend, not just paying a fair price but promising many exciting innovations.”

Yeah, thought Matt, like increased fares, reduced services, sacking all the cleaners so the trains are always dirty, sacking half the engineers so they break down ... Australians were terrific at many things (like making deals) but, if you were to go by Sydney’s Cityrail, trains were definitely not one of them.

After announcing his multi-billion pound deal Eckersley would be off to a celebratory lunch at some exclusive club or restaurant, then back to his suite at the Dorchester or Savoy. Tonight it might be Shakespeare at the National, or opera at Covent Garden. Meanwhile Matt was in the city Eckersley’s future marriage partner had come from but had kept hush-hush, perhaps for obvious reasons. Matt wasn’t familiar with Newcastle but from what he’d seen so far it was Bogan Central. The CBD was a disgrace, with empty shops everywhere and the landmark building, a nineteenth century sandstone Post Office, an abandoned, graffiti-ed ruin. What’s more, there seemed a real shortage of hotels; the two good ones were fully booked, so he was at an old place up near Fort Scratchley, with a creaky lift and an asbestos-lined bathroom. Definitely not the Savoy! Still, with a population of a quarter million, Newcastle had to have a gay bar, and a search on his iPhone said it was The Gateway Hotel on Maitland Road, and Saturday was karaoke night! Again, not quite The Magic Flute, but a better way of spending his evening than emptying the mini-bar while lying on the lumpy bed watching Doc Martin.

He got to the pub about eight o’clock. Unfortunately it was very empty, with only a very butch lesbian behind the bar, a very girlie boy chatting to her, and a very old man on a stool in the corner – all very very. He had a schooner of New, and as no-one else had arrived by the time he finished it he had another. By the time he’d finished his fourth nothing had changed but it didn’t really matter because he was blissfully pissed. As he ordered his fifth he had the sudden thought it might have been a good idea to have had some dinner, although now his gut was so full of hops and bubbles he wasn’t at all hungry. But what the hell, it had been a mad week and he needed to let off some steam somehow. Although it was all a bit weird – the twink and the dyke were still in deep, intimate conversation (what could be so engrossing? The GFC? Palestine? Global warming? The price of Mardi Gras party tickets?), while the old man hadn’t seemed to move at all (was he dead?). Matt downed the last of his glass – then, in a matter of seconds, it all changed. They came from this way, that way, until the place was completely crowded with screaming, animated fags, dykes, and a good representation of everything else – emos, hen’s night girls, bikies, even some straight-looking middle-class couples. Matt’s watch said ten o’clock, so clearly the provinces liked their social arrangements fairly fixed. Pity they hadn’t put it on the website, he thought, as he stumbled his way to the bar (now staffed by four).

At ten-thirty the girly boy who’d been chatting at the bar stormed back into the room in drag, and instead of whispering now shouted into the microphone that karaoke was about to begin, so just put your name on the list. Then it did begin – and didn’t seem to ever end. Song after song, all the favourites like My Heart Will Go On, Summer Nights, I Will Survive, The Greatest Love of All, as well as some really OTT shit like It Should Have Been Me, Bohemian Rhapsody and the weirdest of the lot, House of the Rising Sun. The last was sung by an ugly guy in his sixties, perhaps not actually ugly at all, just not suitable to Supre drag.

But even stranger was that it was the best entertainment Matt had had in years. There was such a complete lack of pretence, such a generosity of spirit, that his heart did indeed go on, and he loved them all, the truly tragic and the surely professional. Of course the fact he stopped counting the beers after seven helped too.

At some point he realised the singing had stopped and the bar was thinning out. There was a guy standing beside him, nice-looking if not a little blurry.

“Woof!” the guy said.

“I believe that children are our future,“ Matt replied, “treat them well and let them lead the way.”

“Show them all the beauty they possess inside,” the guy replied.

“Give them a sense of pride!” they shouted drunkenly together.

There was a slightly embarrassed pause, then the guy said, “Want to go back to my place?”

How did it end up like this? Matt thought. Then it all flashed before him – a house in the suburbs, nice but full of the guy’s life, pictures of his family, then sex, like sex with anyone, cock and arse, but he’d just had that the day before, and it surely wouldn’t match it, and even though this Newcastle man was in front him, ten of his faces spinning around like a ferris wheel, all he could see was the clearest image of Todd, the guy in Bodyline.

“Thanks, man, but not tonight.” He could hardly believe he was saying the words. So out of character. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” The stranger shrugged philosophically.

A random idea came into Matt’s head. “You never met Billy Karosky, did you?”

“Billy? Everyone knew Billy, for god’s sake. He worked at you-know-where.”

“Huh?”

“At Kev’s Kavern!”

“A coffee shop?”

“Coffee shop?” The guy with the imperceptible features laughed. “Brothel, you mean.”

Outside there were no cabs. Walking the miles along tragic Hunter Street he couldn’t get the lyrics of that damned song out of his head. “There is house in New Orleans ... and it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy.”

Sometime during his troubled sleep he got up to piss and knocked his head on the shower screen, so he woke at mid-day on a bloody pillow. Hard to explain to the maids. But it was inside his head that was the problem: a scale ten hangover. The only thing that ever worked for him was a serious run, so he drank three glasses of water and set off.

He jogged south past the main city beach, then up and over a giant headland to Bar Beach and Merewether. All the beaches were spectacular, as were the blonde surfer boys, particularly when pulling their wetsuits on under their skimpy towels. At South Merewether he stopped for a coffee, then headed back along funky Darby Street to the harbour. It was happy family time on the foreshore, but he was suddenly ravenous so took an outside table and ordered seafood spaghetti, which proved to be just about perfect. Newcastle was like a Mediterranean city, Matt decided: one noticed the ruins first, then the real treasures the next day.

That night he thought of phoning his sister, trying to find out what was supposedly wrong with her, but put it off again, went to bed instead and was asleep by eight thirty.

Next morning, other than the graze on his forehead starting to scab, he felt his normal healthy self. His plan was to track down Chantelle Karosky, hear what she had to say for herself, then next find out what he could about Kev’s Kavern, possibly talk to Kev himself, if such a person existed.

What he couldn’t know was that both pursuits would converge in a nasty and dangerous way.

Big Jean had said Chantelle was working in Islington and Google confirmed the suburb had a reputation for prostitution. It was also where The Gateway Hotel was located, although Matt hadn’t noticed anything on Saturday night, it just looked like the rest of inner-city Newcastle, although female hookers weren’t particularly high on his casual observation list. Now when he went looking – and in daylight – it was all too obvious. In one section of the main road and a couple of side streets off it he counted eight girls. After one more circuit he picked the most together-looking (not that that meant he’d introduce her to his mother), slowed the car and rolled down the window.

“Hiya sweetie,” she said, idling over. “Heard about my Monday special, have ya?”

“Maybe,” said Matt.

“Everything’s half price. Blow job’s twenty-five, Greek’s only forty.“

“No sex,” he said. “I just want information.” Matt took out a fifty dollar note and held it up.

“Honey, that’ll buy you the meaning of life.”

“Although it’ll be hundred bucks tomorrow, eh? No, all I’m looking for a girl named Chantelle Karosky. Can you point her out, or tell me where she works?”

“Chantelle? That old scrag?”

“She’d only be about thirty.”

“As I said, old! She’s long out of the game. Retired, you could say. I’d set your sights on another girl if I were you.”

“Does she still live around here?”

“I see her sometimes in Aldi, so I guess she’s got the same Houso flat as always. Want the address?”

“I do,” said Matt, handing over the money.

Although ravaged by years of heroin use, Matt could still see a family resemblance between Cameron’s beautiful image in the Tiffany frame and the tragic junkie on the other side of the torn fly-screen. That wasn’t really enough evidence to confirm her identity, but the cheap chain around her neck spelling out “Chantelle” fortunately was. She was Karen Carpenter thin, her bad blonde dye-job was growing out, she had scabs on her arms and legs, and when she spoke her teeth looked so calcium depleted they’d chip on a cigarette. “What’ya want?”

Matt told a little fib about looking for his old friend Billy, her brother.

“Billy?” There was no emotion in her whiny voice. Behind her Matt could see a giant plasma screen tuned to Ellen DeGeneres, and he couldn’t help thinking that would have cost a few thousand, plus the junk she was using didn’t come free, so there was money coming in from somewhere. Eventually, having turned the question over in her head, she said, “I got no brother Billy.”

“I know that’s not true.”

“It is. I got no brother, no sister, no nothing. I was an only child. So stop upsettin’ me.”

“I heard your mother threw Billy out, then he went to work at Kev’s Kavern.”

“Stop it. I’ve got nothing to tell ya. Now go away.”

“I’m not going, Chantelle, until I get the truth.”

There was a shuffling noise inside the flat, then a second person appeared, pushing Chantelle out of the doorway. He was skinny too, but very tall, covered in tatts, with a bikie goatie, and a generally threatening air. “Something wrong with your hearing, bud? If the lady says go, that means go.”

“Look,” said Matt, standing his ground. “All I want are answers to a couple of simple, innocent questions. That’s not too much to ask.”

Lurch flung the screen door open, so Matt had to jump suddenly backwards, then there was a fist in his face. Interestingly Matt could see the letters on each finger spelt out NEWC. “Fuck off! That’s not too much to ask either.”

After curb-crawling for half an hour, looking for the girl who’d told him where Chantelle lived, but finally accepting she was on a job or having a break, he decided to have lunch himself before trying to talk to her again later. He found an old-fashioned sandwich bar, the type long extinct in places like Darlinghurst and Surry Hills, ordered curried egg and lettuce on white bread, and ate it at a scratched formica table. There was nothing to read except the local free community paper, with news of residents fighting the Council to save an old fig tree, and a local teenager making it to the final fifty of Australia’s Got Talent. But there was also a couple of pages at the back that caught his interest, classified ad after classified ad offering massages and more from beautiful Bangkok beauties, double-D cup delights, even a sizzling sexy she-male. And there, for all to see, was what he wanted to know: Kev’s Kavern, catering to ALL tastes, with an address (and phone number).

It was in a mixed-use street, old weatherboard working men’s cottages interspersed with shops and warehouses. Next door was a scrap metal dealer and over the road a homeboy factory outlet, selling knock-of runners and tracksuits. The door at the front was nailed shut and there was a sign saying ENTRANCE DOWN ALLEY, with a red arrow for added emphasis. The alley was quite long, with the two-storey scrap metal place swallowing up the light. Right at the end was the door and, finally, the sign KEV’S KAVERN telling him he had the right place. He pressed the buzzer and waited.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to see Kev please.”

“Kev? Righto. Just hold on, will you?”

The minutes went slowly by. Somewhere outside the alley a cloud covered the winter sun. Just as he looked up and noticed a CCTV directed down on him, he heard steps behind. Then he was king-hit, down on the ground, felt the boot now in his stomach, next a fist in his face, and the last thought he had before blacking out was what a dumb tattooist, because only ASTL was written on the four fingers in front of him, meaning E had to be on the leftover thumb.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

06. In the Shit

HE thought he was dead and buried. And if not dead, buried anyway. Six feet under, not in a lovely cedar coffin but some stinking improvised upright container.

OMFG, the smell was the worst part, more unbearable than his aching head and body, the stench of dead animals, rotting plant life – and worse!

There was no light, just terrifying blackness, and no noise either – oh, maybe that was the faint hum of traffic, or it could it be a fly?

Gradually he returned to full consciousness. He could move his arms and legs, or rather twitch them, so tightly packed was he inside the – yes, it had to be, a wheelybin! By painfully contorting himself he finally got one arm from down by his side and up over his head, realising, even worse, it was a wheelybin that had been locked or chained tight from the outside.

“Help!” he yelled, simultaneously banging on the inside of the lid.

“Help! Help!” Bang! Bang!

He kept it up for five, maybe ten minutes, and just as he was about to give up he heard a voice outside – no, two voices, a man and a woman speaking Chinese.

Matt had once done a crash course in Cantonese when he was seconded to the Asian Crime Gang unit of the Police Force, and he could piece together what was being said.

“Someone in there.”

“Of course there’s someone in there, stupid husband. The question is who?”

“Could be another tramp hiding from a hail storm. Hope he hasn’t done a shit like the last one.”

“No hail last night. Not even rain. And why is there a lock on it?”

“He couldn’t have put that on himself. It’s on the outside.”

“You know what I think? Those God-damned bikies again!”

“Could he be dead?”

“He’s not dead, stupid. We just heard him shouting.”

“Best not to get involved. We can move the bin down the street – or over to the stormwater channel with all the shopping trolleys.”

Matt didn’t like the sound of that at all, so started calling “Help” again.

“We can’t move it,” said the woman’s voice. “The bin’s got our restaurant name on it. No, we have to let him out. Go get your hack-saw, husband.”

It was harder to get out of the wheelybin than Matt would have previously imagined, although his body wasn’t in tip-top shape, and the frail and elderly Chinese couple weren’t able to offer much support. He just couldn’t seem to make the final leap out, kept catching his feet on the rim and sliding back down into the mess of chicken bones, slimy bok choy and homeless diarrhoea. Eventually he pulled himself out with a nearby drainpipe and stood there in front of them.

“Where am I?” Matt asked.

“Don’t know,” said the old man in English. “We know nothing.”

“Of course we know.” The woman was less timid. “You’re out the back of our restaurant in Beaumont Street.”

“Near Islington?”

“Near, yes, Islington next suburb. You go now.” She pointed the way down the back lane.

He thanked them, got back to the main street, walked for ten minutes, then found his car exactly as he’d left it.

Back at the hotel he tried to de-wheelybin himself, which consisted of putting his clothes in a plastic bag and tying it tight (to be soaked in Napisan then put on long washer cycle when he got back to Sydney), scrubbing his shoes and spraying them with deodorant (he’d only brought one pair with him), then having the longest shower of his life. He’d have preferred a long soak, not only to get the smell of shit out of his nose but rest his beaten-up body, but his tacky hotel room had no bath. The odd thing was, towelling off and looking at himself in the full-length mirror, he couldn’t see a single bruise. The guy was a professional; he’d given Matt the message strong and clear, to back off, even get out of town, without leaving a broken bone or one physical sign. In fact the only mark Matt had on his body was the scab on his forehead from his drunken weekend, so if he went to the police they’d talk to the hotel front desk and dismiss him as some sort of self-harming nutter. The Chinese couple were sure to deny all knowledge, and he didn’t really want to tell the story of Billy Karosky to the boys in blue anyway. So it was on with the job, because actually when something like this nasty beating happened to Matt it had exactly the opposite effect; he wouldn’t be bullied and was more intent than ever to get to the truth.

He’d noticed a Poz People drop-in centre not far from The Gateway Hotel and thought he’d try his luck there. Sometimes the staff or volunteers at old community organisations had been there for years, knew everything, and were wonderfully indiscreet. Not in this case however; the girl behind the desk informed him she’d started in April so couldn’t help with his search for Billy Karosky. “But even if I could remember him,” she added with the primness of a recently graduated social worker, “all client records are strictly confidential.” Just as Matt was explaining that Billy probably wasn’t a client, just a gay guy who’d lived in Islington, a friend of his he’d lost contact with, an old man shuffled in from the back room, a bunch of pamphlets in one hand and a feather duster in the other.

“Wondered why you were in town,” he said.

Then Matt recognised him – the old guy in the corner of the pub on Saturday night, sitting on his one beer for hours.

“Nothing much gets past me. It’s all right, Erin, I’ll look after this gentleman. My work’s all done here anyway, so... ”

“I can buy you a drink!” prompted Matt.

“You bet you can – and dinner too.”

It was actually a less extravagant request than first appeared, for Monday was half-price night at the The Gateway, and cottage pie and chips for two still gave him change from twenty. Plus he bought just two beers all evening; the old man drank very slowly and Matt, careful not to replicate his last time in that establishment, did his best to copy him.

He told Matt his name was Jack and he’d volunteered at the drop-in place since retiring back in the last century. “When AIDS was really bad, when they were dropping like flies, although you’re probably too young to remember, almost everyone is. Anyway, I saw them all come through those doors, the very handsome and the plainest Janes, the well-off and the dirt poor, and some lived but most didn’t, and there never seemed to be rhyme or reason to any of it. Even less in hindsight if you want the honest truth. The way the whole damned tragedy’s all but denied just shows we haven’t learnt a thing.”

“Well, there are drugs now ... ”

“And we’re very grateful for that. Yes, I shouldn’t complain. You can get grumpy when you’re ancient. The important thing is people are surviving, not that our history’s had its balls cut off.”

“Did you know Billy Karosky?”

“I did. But he’s not your friend like you said, is he? There’s more to it than that.”

“No, Jack, he’s not. And nothing much gets past you indeed. But, while I promise I mean Billy no harm, I just can’t tell you why I’m asking questions about him.”

“I suppose I’ll hear all about what you’re up to eventually,” he said sanguinely.

“You well might.”

“Anyone who ever had dealings with young Billy always thought he’d end up with his name in the papers.”

“As a pop star or famous model?”

“Mmm ... Or a murderer.”

“You didn’t trust him?”

“It had nothing to do with trust. Oh, we all adored Billy – we got to know him at the centre because he was a ‘youth at risk’ – and he could turn on the charm like no-one else, but he was also a risk-taker, just loved danger, and for someone like that the road eventually forks, with great success one way and terrible failure the other. Has his road forked yet, can you tell me that?” Matt frowned, “The road has forked and two weeks ago I would have said he was heading for glory, but now I’m not so sure.”

“I’ll tell you the whole tale then,” sighed Jack, “if only for posterity’s sake. Billy said he was molested by his Dad, but I never bought that. I always thought it was Billy’s way of getting rid of him. I don’t know why, maybe the father was physically violent although just as likely in my eyes Billy might not have got his way as much as he wanted. You probably know all this already, about Mr Karosky killing himself in gaol, then the mother going mad and throwing Billy out. Anyway, he ended up living in Islington, with his sister Chantelle. She was a pretty girl but not real bright, and that brings us to Kev’s Kavern.”

“Who is this Kev?’

“Oh, he’s almost as old as me, Kev Kagan, but likes to keep his privacy. Kev’s Kavern’s been there for decades, an institution almost, the place where half of Newcastle lost their virginity, and I’m sure Kev wishes he’d originally given it another name. He makes his outings of course, but he’s a devious old bugger and no-one knows it’s him. Except me of course. You’ve seen him yourself, I believe.”

“When?”

“Saturday night Karaoke. He sang House of the Rising Sun.”

“The ugly guy in drag?”

“That’s Kev. He was having a bit of a joke on the rest of us. Although I don’t doubt he likes throwing on a dress.”

“But he’s in with the bikies?”

“They couldn’t care. They’re only interested in pushing their drugs and taking their cut. And Kev’s tougher than the lot of them when you get down to it. He’s knee-capped with the best.”

“I suppose I should think myself lucky. I just ended up in a bin.”

“How the Kavern works is Kev gets vulnerable young girls from the city outskirts, hooks them on heroin, then gets them to work long hours and still be in debt. When they’ve lost their looks he chucks them out and they end up as twenty dollar streetwalkers. Aussie girls have become a bit smarter, a bit more assertive of late, and he’s been finding it hard to get local recruits. So he’s recently got into the human trafficking area – luring Asian lasses over on student visas then locking them up and threatening them unless they get down to the Kavern. You can see the minibus drop them off in the morning and pick them up after midnight. The theory is they’re holed up in the garage of his Merewether mansion.”

“What a bastard.”

“You asked. And he’s always run a few trannies and barely legal boys at the brothel too.”

“Like Billy?”

Jack nodded. “But Billy was no fool. He only lasted a couple of months. Never got on the bad drugs. And left with one of his johns. Kev was furious but they were out of town before he could scar Billy’s pretty face. Mind you, Kev holds grudges so Billy would be wise never to return.”

“Who was the john?”

“Oh, some sad-sack character. A professor at the university. An odd name, German I think, was it Rath? Yes, Manny Rath. The rumour was they went to Melbourne.”

Matt’s glass was long empty and now Jack’s was too. They said goodnight and Matt walked off to his car angrier than he’d been for a long time. Over the years some money had probably changed hands between Kev Kagan and the local cops, but more likely the shameful situation at the Kavern had evolved though incompetence and neglect. Who really cared about the rights of visa over-stayers or homeless gay youth?

There was accelerant in his bag of tricks in the boot so he didn’t have to risk being filmed at a local service station buying some. The important thing was that no-one was inside the brothel when he carried out his plan, and that necessitated a very long wait in his car over the road. He got there about nine o’clock and watched the punters come and go, keeping tabs as they did. For a Monday night there were more than he’d have thought, about thirty men in the four hours he waited. The odd thing was that some were out in ten minutes, while others lingered for two hours or more. Finally the arrivals dwindled, and he ticked off every client until he was sure there were none inside.

Ten minutes later two pretty blonde girls in high heels tottered down the Kavern’s alley, followed by a much older, rather hatchet-faced woman (the receptionist perhaps), and a rather striking Aboriginal trannie. The old dame crossed over to the car in front of Matt (meaning he had to slide down out of sight) while the others headed off towards Maitland Road. Another ten minutes passed, then the famed minibus came down the street and parked outside the alley. Matt immediately recognised the driver as Lurch, the hired muscle who’d beat him up. Then, in a flurry, six Asian women ran down the alley and disappeared into the van. Next came ugly old Kev – now in a cheap suit and tie, and jangling a chain of keys – who got into the van’s passenger seat before it sped off.

Matt waited another ten minutes before phoning the Kavern’s number. Straight to answering machine, saying it was outside business hours but please call again tomorrow. Next he put on his balaclava, crept down the alley and pressed the buzzer. No response. Time to splash the accelerant all over and under the wall and door.

He lit a match, flicked it backwards, waited for the lovely conflagration, ran to his car and sped off too.

End of a Newcastle institution, he thought to himself. What a fucking shame.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

07. Clucko the Chicken Clown

NORMA Jean Baker became Marilyn Monroe; Roy Fitzgerald Rock Hudson; Reginald Dwight Elton John; June Gough June Bronhill (an abbreviation of the singer’s home town of Broken Hill); and, perhaps the most self-glamorising ever, Joseph Dzhugashvili became Stalin (the Russian word for steel).

More recently, Billy Karosky had become Cameron Walker. Well, it did sound slicker – more adult, more Aussie, more aspirational – but Matt knew that wasn’t the only reason for the name change. It was to hide Billy’s past: rent-boy for a start. Who knew what a trip to Melbourne would reveal? That was apparently where Billy had got some gullible client to take him when Newcastle grew too hot.

Matt had to get down there quickly. Time was running out for his investigation. But there were a couple of things to take care of in Sydney first. His mother wanted him to check on his sister and he’d been putting that off. And he needed to see Todd, the hot dude he’d met at the sauna last week. He couldn’t get him out of mind, and that didn’t happen too often, hadn’t happened in years to be honest.

He called him Tuesday morning. Todd sounded surprised but happy, and suggested they meet for a drink then dinner that evening. One drink led to another – but not to dinner. Instead they adjourned to Matt’s flat, were out of their clothes in a minute, then furiously at it for the next couple of hours. There wasn’t much in the gay fuck manual they didn’t try, with every aperture exercised, every last gob of spunk squeezed from their red-raw penises.

They showered, pulled on their underwear, then Matt opened a bottle of wine and phoned for pizza. After all the exercise, he for one was ravenous. And while drinking and eating they started talking, not trivially this time, but a proper conversation about who they were, what they’d done so far with their lives, where they were headed – even where they hoped they were headed, their dreams.

Todd was teaching at Sydney Uni and also writing a book on Göbekli Tepe, an eleven thousand year old stone structure in southern Turkey. He had a theory that Stonehenge could only have been built by people who’d seen Göbekli Tepe, and planned to visit both sites over the Christmas break for further measurements. Matt told about being in the Police Force, about the scandal that forced him out (a story he’d told hardly anyone, let alone a first date), and the satisfaction he got from his new job as a private investigator. And the talking felt as natural as the fucking; their minds seemed to fit as comfortably together as their bodies. Matt wondered whether this was how it happened: hardly expected, hardly even wanted, but still feeling as if it was the most wonderful thing in the world? Could he be falling in love with this man?

“Stay the night?” Matt asked.

“That’s pushing our luck,” said Todd. “If you go too fast you can crash.”

“No, please. I have to go to Melbourne tomorrow for a while. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“What, weeks?” He looked disappointed.

“No, probably just days. But that’s still too long.”

So Todd stayed, and as he didn’t have a class until ten they had breakfast together at Pieno on Crown Street.

“Have you heard of a professor called Manny Rath?” asked Matt.

“I don’t think so. Something to do with your investigation?”

Matt nodded.

“Hold on, I remember now. It was years ago and just gossip but Emanuel Rath left Ashmon Uni under a cloud. He was in the English Department, I think. Was there missing money? I remember everyone being shocked because he was a rising genius one day, then the next his career was over. Do you know where he ended up?”

“That’s why I’m going to Melbourne.”

“Phone me as soon as you’re home.”

Matt kissed him and they headed back to their lives.

While he was online booking a flight he got a call from his sister. Shit! The Todd adventure had completely put family duty out of his mind. Funny how a pretty cock could do that. Now Katie had got in first. She wanted to see him but couldn’t make it into the city and be back in time to to pick up Olivia from pre-school – so could he come out to her? He bought a ticket on an evening flight to Melbourne, and headed off instead that morning to Castle Hill.

It was surreally quiet inside Katie’s McMansion. No sound at all in any of the twenty rooms, that was until she started crying. He moved to the sofa and held her until she stopped, although that was quite a long time, at least ten minutes. And bit by bit he came down from his own high, started to feel sad because she so clearly was, because his mother was right and her old demon depression had returned.

“Hey, sis, have you talked to your doctor?” he asked when she was still in his arms.

“Don’t need to. Only need to talk to you.”

“Katie, I’ve got no expertise. You need to see a professional.”

“No,” she said, sitting back up and wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “You’re the only one who can help.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Matt, you’re a detective, you’re what I need. ”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve got to track Andy for me. He’s having an affair. There, I’ve said it, for the first time to anyone.”

“No, Katie, no ... he wouldn’t. He loves you. He stood by you through all the bad times before. He made his vows.” Matt was searching for any argument, because it really was a preposterous proposition. Katie was as cute as ever – and Andy just as unattractive. Everyone who ever met them thought the same thing, that he was way out of his league, perhaps the luckiest fat man in Sydney. They could have rigged his smile at their wedding to the electricity grid and powered a small town for years. “And ... and ... he’s a devout Christian!”

“Don’t mention that Church!” said Katie, referring to the pentecostal organisation they’d been heavily involved with for years. “I’m so over it. He’s never here, he’s always there, and finally I’ve worked out why. He’s fucking one of the other elder’s wives. Her name’s Gina.”

“Did you see them together?”

“I didn’t have to, I just know. But before I confront the bastard I need proof. You’ve got to get it for me, Mattie. I can’t afford to pay someone else.”

“You want me to investigate your husband, Olivia’s father? Seriously?”

“Yes! I need to know for sure. Otherwise, I’ll crack. Please, Mattie, do it, will you?”

He looked into her sad, desperate eyes and gave the only answer a big brother could. “Okay, when I get back form Melbourne, I will, yes.”

“Thank you, thank you ... ”

The hotel was nicer than the one in Newcastle, with a much firmer bed, giving him the deepest sleep he’d had in a week. First thing next morning he did a thorough internet search for Emanuel Rath, but without success. There were quite a few men with that name, indeed quite a few academics, but all were in the States. Not one had been at Newcastle or Ashmon, not one fitted the bill on Linkedin or Facebook, and if there had been any scandal about missing money it definitely had not made the newspapers. It was as if the guy didn’t exist. Deja vu! But it was just too nutty to ask Bryce the bear to do another illegal identity search. Instead it was time to get back to P.I. basics, wearing down the shoe leather, going out to the campus and asking too many questions.

He got the usual runaround for a couple of hours, that staff records were confidential, that forwarding addresses for past staff members were never revealed to the general public, et cetera, et cetera. And the usual brush-offs from people who looked like teaching staff in the English Department: “I’ve only been here five years,” “Sorry, can’t help, got a class in a couple of secs,” and, “Mmm, Rath, I’d really rather not comment, you know.”

Then out of a classroom came someone Matt’s instinct told him would talk. He was in his fifties, with bloodshot eyes and an ill-trimmed salt-and-pepper moustache, wearing an ancient hacking jacket and a burgundy cravat with an big egg stain, and carrying a scuffed leather brief case and a dog-eared paperback of Moll Flanders. Poof, thought Matt, and, more importantly, alcoholic.

Matt rushed forward and shook his hand. “Great to see you, old chap.”

“Er ... um.”

“We met at that conference, remember? Stayed up for hours talking in the bar on the last night.”

“In Adelaide?” “Yes, that’s right, Adelaide. I’ll never forget your take on Daniel Defoe.”

“Just been teaching him now as a matter of fact. But I’m sorry, dear boy, I’ve got a terrible memory for names.”

“Matt White from Sydney. Just down for some research. You don’t want a catch-up in the Uni bar, do you?’

He licked his lips thirstily. “If you insist. I don’t have another class until five, so a libation or two with a handsome young colleague wouldn’t be too much of a sin, would it?’

“Of course not,” said Matt, “Lead the way!”

Fortunately Matt remembered Defoe also wrote Robinson Crusoe, and a few vague details about that novel, specifically Man Friday, so could bluff his way through fifteen minutes of literary-babble. Not that it mattered, for Leonard the Senior Lecturer was more focused on the wines Matt kept buying him. When the time was right, Matt struck.

“I have a friend whose old friend came here to Ashmon, but he’s lost all contact. You don’t know what happened, do you? The fellow’s name was Manny Rath?’

Leonard’s expression changed dramatically. The colour of his face brightened so it matched his cravat, and all sorts of difficult-to-identify emotions crept into the myriad wrinkles, furrows and broken capillaries. Was regret one of them? Despair? Even fear? Leonard threw down the contents of his glass and Matt rushed to the bar to get him another.

“So, Manny ... ?”

“Your friend doesn’t know?” Leonard sighed. “He never heard?”

“Just that there was some problem or other – but not the full story. And Manny’s never answered any emails.”

“No ... he took it all very badly. I was his closest friend here, but after one intense cathartic confession he wouldn’t have anything to do with me either. Poor, dear Manny.”

“Tell me.”

“His area was late nineteenth century drama, Wilde and Shaw and ... well, that’s it I’m afraid, Wilde and Shaw. I’m eighteenth century novel myself, hate all that anal Victoriana, but we became good friends anyway. He had the most beautiful brain – your friend’s probably told you that. Anyone who ever came in contact with him professionally surely experienced the same thing as me, the most amazing intellectual glow. It wasn’t just his enthusiasm for his subject matter, it was the way he explained what was going on in those plays so magically – more magically than the plays themselves, if you want my opinion. It happens very rarely in this business, when literary appreciation matches, even surpasses, the work itself. There was Tolkien on Beowulf, Eliot on Donne, Leavis on Hopkins – ”

“So Manny’s career looked secure?” Matt cut in.

“Sorry, dear boy, I sometimes go off on a tangent like that. Almost as if I’m running away from the topic, eh? Probably why my lectures and seminars are often half-empty. Which, to get back to your question, is in no way similar to what Manny’s were like. Oh, it was standing room only! The kiddies adored him! That glow of course! Which didn’t go unnoticed by the powers that be. It’s all about enrolments these days, getting enough of ‘em signed up in the Faculty’s courses so we don’t suffer too terribly in the next round of budget cuts. I can’t tell you how it sends a shiver up my spine, all this talk about the book being dead. I’ve only got five years to go until retirement but I sometimes wonder if there’ll be any kind of an English Department left by then. Anyway, Manny’s popularity made all of us feel more secure. If he’d stayed, he’d soon have been a senior professor. Plus he was working on a book, The Wilde Ones. He very kindly let me read a draft. Oh, I can’t tell you ... ”

“It glowed!” said Matt.

“Should I stop drinking? Am I starting to sound silly?”

“Not at all. But it’s time you told me what went wrong. How did the brilliant career end?”

“He had this boy,” Leonard said softly, wistfully. “Like Wilde himself, I’ve just realised, undone by that wretched Bosie. This boy Manny had brought with him from the god-awful provincial post he’d worked at previously.”

“Newcastle.”

“That’s it.”

“He kept him hidden from all of us in the Faculty, even me, and I would have understood. But a right little scalliwag. If there was any comparison in Manny’s mind, I’m sure it wasn’t to Wilde. No, rather to Shaw and his Pygmalion. He wanted to turn this street urchin into a cultivated gentleman, so he taught him at home every night, not just Literature but Art, History, Food, Politics, the lot. Enrolled him in all kinds of courses too apparently, although ballet was the only thing he excelled at. Oh, that and the luxury lifestyle! Acquired a taste for the high life very quickly, not just stays at five-star hotels and dinners at Melbourne’s best restaurants, but expensive jewellery and clothing, all those silly-sounding labels I always think Swift must have invented. Prada, Gucci, Tiffany, Lilliput and Brobdingnag!”

“That all costs money,” said Matt.

“Money Manny didn’t have. No-one works at this place to make a fortune. Wages are practically subsistence. But he loved the little user I suppose. So he started stealing, transferring Faculty funds into his own account, brazenly but rather amateurishly, almost as if he wanted to be found out. Which he was luckily, after a couple of months. It was only thirty thousand he’d taken; if it had gone on for years it might have been hundreds of thousands and the university would have had to go to the police. As it was, there was a lengthy investigation where, in typical university mea culpa-style, it was decided our lax accountancy practices were partly to blame. Manny agreed to pay the money back in instalments, but of course was asked to resign.”

“Where is he now?”

“He disappeared ... Poor, dear Manny.”

“You know, don’t you?”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t tell a soul. But it’s a terrible burden. I’ll tell you if you agree not to pass it on to anyone here, only your friend in Sydney.”

“Agreed,” said Matt.

“It was a bizarre accident. I suppose it was the only job he could get. My niece decided to do a summer course in circus arts – an oxymoron if there ever was one – and I accompanied her to an open day at the circus school. There were all sorts of demonstrations – trapeze, juggling, and other such horrors – but the very worst was saved for last. Clowning! With a special lecture by the Professor of Clowning – who was a cross between a big chicken and a traditional jester. And it’s peculiar how you recognise people from the past, even when they’re heavily disguised. Under the hundreds of bright yellow feathers, under the giant red beak and the inches of lurid make-up, I knew it was him. Emanuel Rath has become Clucka the Chicken Clown.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

08. Neighbourhood Watch

MATT completed his index card titled Clucka the Chicken Clown: Sugardaddy Number One, then took some blank cards and pencilled in titles on them: Other Melbourne Sugardaddies?, Melbourne Friends? and Ballet School? In the next few days he’d do his best to fill in the cards, although, to be honest, his search of Cameron Walker’s past, for the first time since it had begun, didn’t have his primary focus.

Todd, damned Todd, the guy he’d met at Bodyline; Matt’s mind just kept returning to his handsome face, his smooth, taut body, and, yes, his fat, gorgeous cock. Every second minute he was imagining wrapping his lips around it, rocking back and forth on top of it – Jesus, it was like a teenage crush, so intense it was almost scary. He could phone or text of course, except they weren’t yet so familiar for him to carry off that kind of ordinary, what-are-you-up-to? conversation without sounding a little desperate. Best just to do his work, then get back up to Sydney as soon as he could.

If he’d have known he’d be on a trolley in St Vincent’s emergency soon after he arrived he might not have been in such a hurry.

He tried to grill Clucka, even got into his gaudy little dressing-room cum office on the pretext of enrolling in a clowning course, but as expected the professor denied ever having known Billy (or Cameron), then quickly showed Matt the door. At the Australian Ballet School he got the usual can’t-help-you attitude, nor was he able to spot a ballet-master likely to dish the gay dirt over a chardy or ten. There were plenty of the requisite sexuality, but none old and alcoholic, instead all were young, fit and rather fierce-looking. After students graduated from that august academy, however, they needed to maintain their dance skills, and at the second of the private studios he visited – a big, dirty room in an old warehouse with one wall fully mirrored – Matt got a lead.

The boy on the desk was the bored, distracted type and getting information out of him was akin to pulling teeth. But Matt persisted and eventually learnt that, although the boy himself wasn’t a friend of Cameron, being a couple of years behind at the ABS, he knew who he was and who he hung out with when he lived in Melbourne. His bestie was Paul Varjack, a really tall guy who usually came in for the four o’clock stretch class, then there was the rest of the gang, Toby, Jamie and Louis, although “gang” probably wasn’t the right word, it wasn’t as if they were bikies or anything, just shared the same house in Carlton and used to dance together at The Orange really, really late every Saturday night. Five hot guys, amazing moves, everybody else just stopped and stared – fuck, the desk-boy had forgotten how fab that was!

Paul Varjack was indeed tall, about 190 cm, also square-jawed and extremely muscular (in an athletic rather than body-building way). And as rude as shit. After Matt spun a story about Cameron being specifically recommended for a music video he was making, Varjack replied, “Don’t ask me. I’ve got nothing to say about Cameron Walker – nothing! – so get out of my face, okay?” When Matt tried to explain how he’d been told Paul was Cameron’s best friend, the dancer just snorted and walked away.

As for Huey, Dewey and Louie, the boy on the desk said he hadn’t seen any of them at classes for a while. ‘Dancers are gypsies, you know. They could be anywhere.” But Matt doggedly continued his interrogation until the boy remembered: Toby had got a job on a cruise ship – he’d joked about being a Princess princess; Jamie was in Dr Zhivago in Seoul; and Louis ... mmm .... oh yes, Louis was dead.

“Dead?”

“It’s old news, happened when they were all still living in that house together. Was it a drug overdose? Ice? Coke? Maybe he hung himself from the Hill’s Hoist? No, that was someone else. Sorry, you’ve got me ... but anyway, he won’t be able to help you with your questions. So he’s lucky in one way, I suppose.”

Matt took that as the end of the conversation. He’d wanted to ask if the boy knew the address of the house in Carlton, but it wasn’t too difficult to discover anyway. Pretending to be Cameron, he phoned the Ballet School to amend his address on file so he’d get his alumni notices correctly, but first he had to ask what address they did have on record. Bingo! It was Carlton, and when he found the address it still seemed to be a frat house, except no longer for gay dance students, if the beer bottles in the recycling bin and the Free Tibet poster on the front door were any indication. The next thing was to find a long-term neighbour; either side didn’t answer their bells, but over the road, at the best-kept house in sight, the door was opened, and not by just any neighbour but the nosiest kind (although the prominently displayed Neighbourhood Watch sticker had already alerted him to that possibility).

What a blessed relief after the ers and ums of the boy at the ballet desk. Here was the absolute opposite, someone who was thrilled to be asked, let alone be able to answer, his many questions. It usually happened once in every investigation and thank god it had happened now, when he was fed up wasting time and so keen to get back to Sydney. Possibly the person had read too many crime novels, imagined being a gumshoe themselves – or they could be just seeking validation for their snooping and gossipy ways. All the dirty secrets they’d unearthed could at last be given the honour of open discussion with a professional. Matt had come to pick the signs, the flicker in the eye, the salivating lips, the over-friendly salutation, all of which were evident in Mrs Belinda Widdicombe as she took his card and ushered him into her front room.

“Here, take the comfortable seat,” she said, shooing a large Persian cat off the armchair, and plumping up a scatter cushion embroidered with the message Keep Calm and Carry On. “You’ve come about the Mrs Trentacosta at number six, no doubt? She’s been carrying on with that fellow from work for six months and her poor husband’s just found out, I suppose. No, not them? Then the Dormans at number twenty-seven? His gambling’s got out of control and he’s defrauding his employer. Their garbage bin fell over one day and a very unusual bank statement fell out – I’ve got it here somewhere.”

“No, Mrs Widdicombe, I’ve inquiring about someone who used to live in number thirteen. Cameron Walker, in a household of young dancers, including Paul Varjack, Toby ... ”

“I knew it!” she screeched. “No-one would listen to me but I knew they were bad, the lot of them. Even when that one died the police wouldn’t give me the time of day – well, they rarely do. Said of course it was an accident, except I knew better. I knew the truth.”

“Tell me everything you know, from the beginning.”

“From the beginning, eh? Well, from the day they moved in they were running that place as a male brothel. Old Mrs Nisbet lived there for forty years prior, raising six children to be decent, respectable citizens, and if she knew how it ended up she’d be turning in her grave.”

“They were ballet students – perhaps the visitors were just friends or romantic partners?”

“That’s what the Council said. But how many romantic partners can a person have – half a dozen a night? I could see all the comings and goings” – she indicated her large window facing the street, covered with proverbial lace curtains – “and the traffic was so voluminous I started a log. Which of the boys were home, how many visitors they had, how long each visitor stayed, all down in writing, and so shocking as to curl the hairs on your head.”

“Can you show me the log?”

“The Council’s got it. It happens every time I make a complaint. My evidence gets lost in the system. I think the boys must have paid someone off.”

“Did Cameron Walker entertain a lot?”

“I got to know who was who, just by asking the other neighbours. The most popular was Toby, then the very tall boy got quite a bit of ‘trade’ – that’s the word they used, I believe – but the very good-looking one, Cameron, no, I’d say he had the least visitors of the lot. Although he did sometimes get picked up by a big, black car and driven away.”

So far there wasn’t anything particularly surprising in what she’d said (and certainly not shocking or morally reprehensible). One of Matt’s best friends had turned tricks to get through university, and was now a senior manager at on of the big four banks. it was perfectly logical that a household of fast-living gay lads should supplement HECS with a bit of rent-money from a thing they enjoyed and were probably very good at, given all the limbering up they did as part of their training. Better than waiting tables for fifteen dollars an hour. And it was also predictable, given the taste for the high life Cameron had gained when he was with the professor, that he should find himself a rich man in a big black car for special dates. What she next said, however, threw all such reasonable interpretation up in the air.

“And not just any kind of black car – one with diplomatic number plates!”

“Really?”

“And not just any kind of diplomatic number plates – Chinese! You know what it means, don’t you?”

“He was having an affair with a senior Chinese diplomat?”

“You really are naive, young man. Of course he was doing that, but we’ve all seen Mao’s Last Dancer, haven’t we? I have no doubt what they were doing was the reverse, converting him from capitalist to communist. Using all their oriental sex tricks, powerful opiates and next generation brainwashing techniques to turn him into a Red Army mole, ready to do their bidding when the time is right, when the special word is said, chop suey or some such!”

Right, thought Matt, perhaps it was best to move on. “Tell me about Louis? How exactly did he die?”

“Well, he was going to dob, wasn’t he? It’s the only logical explanation. All the others had been turned too – I’m an avid viewer of Fox News so know exactly how fast communism spreads – but poor little Louis wouldn’t cooperate. I believe he was ready to alert ASIO; that’s when the others knew they had to act. It was about that time I saw them, you know. One night, quite late, I was walking past their house when I accidentally dropped my hankie on the other side of their front fence. While retrieving it I couldn’t help notice what was going on in the front room. Little Louis was tied to a chair and the others were dancing around him in the most threatening manner. All were naked of course, with their bits and pieces flying around like you wouldn’t believe. I didn’t know which way to look! A black mass was my instant assessment, a little coven of gay male witches worshipping their Dark Lord. Well, there’s a lot of those dreadful Goths in Carlton, so it was an honest mistake. It was only a week or so later, after Louis was dead, that I put two and two together. They were taunting him, driving him mental, so he’d kill himself before going to the authorities.”

“I heard it was a drug overdose.”

“That’s even in the Coroner’s report. Paid off of course.”

Matt had realised, whether Louis had gone mental or not, Mrs Widdicome certainly had. In every investigation, as well as someone as keen as mustard to talk to him, there was always at least one nutter; on this occasion it it looked like she was one and the same. He made a show of looking at the time on his phone. “I’m so sorry,” he told her, “I have to rush.”

“But I haven’t told you about the nuclear device Cameron was assembling in the back shed!”

Yet on the Cityflyer he couldn’t stop going over what she said, pulling it to bits, trying to see if there was any sense in it. If Cameron had had a relationship with a senior Chinese diplomat, was it purely commercial or something more? If they were still friends, what did that mean to Stephen Eckersley’s business dealings? Could it help or hinder? Matt thought what Mrs Widdicombe had seen through the window was a rehearsal for some experimental dance routine, but what if there was just a little bit of truth in her demented fantasy? What if the others were bullying Louis for some reason, and had ended up driving him over the edge, just as happened with the girl in Tokyo? Was Cameron that callous, that dangerous? What it all meant, Matt realised regrettably as the plane touched down at Kingsford Smith, was that the boy in the Tiffany frame was back in full focus, and Todd had been pushed far too easily to the side.

He had to fix it, put everything back where it should be. It was nine o’clock but in the cab from the airport he phoned Todd and asked him to meet him at his place as soon as possible. By ten o’clock they were fucking wildly – although, as a little voice in a corner of Matt’s brain pointed out – perhaps not as wildly as he’d imagined they would. It was more like a successful return performance than a whole brave new show. But they came together, and kissed and cuddled, and before they did it again, Matt said he desperately needed to eat.

Thai Nesia was still open. Table for two beside the wall. Fish cakes, curry puffs, green curry chicken and massaman beef. There was no such thing as bad Thai food. Out into the crisp, late-winter night, walking past The Bookshop, crossing Taylor Square, but not parting like when they first met, instead turning left together, skirting the world’s strangest public fountain, then heading towards the new crossing, designed to accommodate pedestrians and bicyclists simultaneously.

The light was red but that never meant anything to anyone.

It wasn’t a bicycle that swung out of nowhere. It was a big, scary motorbike. And as it passed behind them the driver expertly swung a metre-long metal pipe so it connected hard with Matt’s left side. He screamed and fell to his knees, as strangers came running and Todd frantically tapped three noughts into his phone.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

09. _ _ ra _ _ x _ _ _ l

ELEVEN letters; third letter r; fourth letter a; seventh letter x; last letter l; clue “when black is white”.

Matt’s cryptic crossword was all done except for one word. How could he have spent as much time on the final entry as the whole rest of the puzzle? He was so desperate he cheated, typing in the clue on Google, but even that led nowhere, just lots of references to the Michael Jackson hit with a similar name.

The crossword was one way of filling in time while he rested at home, so he didn’t go completely stir-crazy. At least he wasn’t at St Vincents, in a ward with three groaning, farting, snoring, whinging strangers. He’d spent the night after being bashed in Emergency, with lots of pain medication administered and lots of images taken, but had been discharged the next morning after it was discovered, although badly bruised, he only had one minor rib fracture, which would mend naturally provided he had at least a week’s bed rest. Matt had to promise the doctor that’s what he’d do, and Todd was cooking dinner and sleeping over to make sure he did. But for someone so active, so used to racing around, knocking on any door on the slightest impulse, it was very frustrating to just go from bed to sofa, then from sofa to bed.

The visit by police the first morning had been a rather odd formality. The two young officers seemed wary, keeping their questions absolutely basic (undoubtedly they’d checked into Matt’s background and found out he’d been one of them once, until leaving under a cloud), and he hadn’t wanted to mention his current investigation, Cameron Walker or Stephen Eckersley (particularly Stephen Eckersley). As if by mutual agreement, it had been recorded as an arbitrary bashing, not even a gay bashing because that meant more paperwork. The big problem was that no-one had seen the motorbike’s numberplate, or could even describe the driver. But if Matt remembered anything important he should give them a call, and if they made any kind of breakthrough they’d immediately get back to him. Sure.

While not discounting the malevolent stranger theory, Matt couldn’t help but entertain other possibilities. Well, he had nothing much else to think about. Kev Kagan, Lurch and their bikie friends could be behind it, as pay-back for torching Kev’s Kavern. Except bikies, like ants and termites, were very territorial; Newcastle was their town and they’d be making trouble with other gangs if they did their dirty deeds down Sydney way. Besides, if Lurch was anything to go by, the Newcastle lot weren’t real bright, so it was doubtful they’d have found out Matt’s name and address so quickly. One very nagging thought was that Cameron himself was behind the assault. His sister Chantelle and his best friend Paul Varjack had been ridiculously adamant in denying knowledge of his existence or refusing to discuss his activities, almost as if they’d been following orders. Perhaps Cameron had cleverly foreseen his rich future husband would investigate his background – or perhaps he somehow knew Matt was already doing that. The whack from behind could have been a warning to back off, or even, if Cameron knew how much he’d already discovered, an unsuccessful attempt to silence him permanently. The weapon might have been intended to connect with the back of his head! So, who else was there? If Cameron had been really seeing a Chinese diplomat, and the Chinese knew that Matt knew, maybe they’d assigned one of their trained assassins to the case? But wouldn’t they have have used something a bit more state-of-the-art, a bit less bogan, than a metal pipe? At that point he’d realised he better cut down on the pain killers.

He hadn’t let his parents know; his mother would go into a panic and insist he go home to recuperate, and if he did he’d have to put up with his father making all sorts of macho digs about how he should have fought back. Nor did he tell his sister, since she clearly had enough on her plate.

So for the first four days it had been crosswords, The View, a Ken Follet he gave up on after a hundred pages, and lots of naps, with the only highlight, Todd, turning up after work or on his weekend errands On the fifth day he phoned Bryce the bear downstairs who came up and taught him how to play Minecraft, the hot new game for geeks, but as Matt wasn’t a geek, he begged off that too.

“Bryce, we couldn’t do stuff in the real world, could we?”

“Like what?”

“Let me think. Mmm, my sister Katie thinks her husband is having an affair. Obviously I can’t hide in the bushes this week, but we couldn’t track his movements online, could we?”

“Sure, there’s CCTV everywhere. I just have to crack into the right system.”

“They’re happy-clappers. Katie thinks he’s having an affair with another elder’s wife. Andy’s a real estate agent up in the Hills district where they live but business is quiet and he’s spending hours every day and night at the church they attend. His excuse is they need help with their bookwork, but Katie’s convinced he’s seeing this foxy Gina bird.”

“Give me the name and address of the place, go lie down for a while, then see what I’ve come up with.”

“Wow!” Matt exclaimed half an hour later. “They’ve got, like, twenty cameras inside the place.”

“More.” Bryce scrolled down. “Jesus is certainly watching over that lot. And I bet hardly any of them realise it. There’s about ten cameras in the church proper, so every single person’s face can be seen during a service, then there’s one in all the other rooms and corridors. Even the car-park’s covered! Totally paranoid, but all to our benefit, eh?”

“There he is!” said Matt, pointing to one of the squares on the screen. How easy was this? he thought as he watched his brother-in-law move from square to square, down one long corridor and into another, then finally into a room where he closed the door. There was someone else in the room, just out of range of the fish-eye lens. Matt brought the box up so it filled the whole screen. Andy was talking, listening, laughing, then stepping forward at the same time as the other person moved from where they’d been standing below the camera.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Matt as the two of them embraced and kissed. Because it wasn’t a Gina – instead perhaps a Gino!

“Fuck!” he said again as Andy got to his knees, unzipped Gino’s pants and took out his big stiffy. “I can’t look at this.”

“I can!” said Bryce the bear. “They’re hot!”

Matt took one parting glance to see what Bryce meant – yes, Gino, just like Andy and indeed Bryce himself, was fat and hairy, his bushy pubes sprouting so far out of his pants they couldn’t help but be lathered up by Andy’s slurping and slobbering.

“He’s coming!” called Bryce. “Yeah, yeah, the other guy’s blown and Andy’s swallowed it all. Now they’re swapping positions – mmm, you’re brother-in-law’s got a nice one, uncut ... ”

“Shut up, will you! I don’t need to know. Turn it off.”

“Aw!” said Bryce, closing the window and slumping back into the maybe-not-quite-sturdy-enough Officeworks chair.

“How am I going to tell my sister her husband’s a hungry homo? She’s not that stable to start with.”

“I’m not actually sure that’s the biggest worry. That church is so homophobic. I’d say Andy’s got himself into some real deep trouble there. Hey, got anything to eat? All that action’s made me hungry.”

After Bryce had devoured the previous night’s left-over vegetarian lasagne, Matt asked if he’d do something else for him. “Cameron lives in a luxury apartment block at King’s Cross that’s sure to have cameras in their foyer and lifts. Could you get those images up for me?”

“Couldn’t be harder than the church. What’s the name of the place?”

Again it didn’t take long for Matt to spot his target on the screen. Bryce had broken into the building’s surveillance system almost immediately, then rushed back to his cave downstairs (most probably the lasagne hadn’t done the job, and he needed a bit of hand relief after Andy and the other furry fundamentalist’s on-line action). One of the lift’s cameras showed Cameron getting in on a top floor, dressed in singlet, shorts and runners, with the obligatory Country Road carry-all over his shoulder, then disembarking on the ground floor and leaving the building. Matt guessed he was off to the gym, somewhere nearby like Fitness First in Kingsgate, and that seemed to be correct when he arrived back in an hour discernibly pumped (even in the not-so-crisp CCTV image), with another fit pretty boy by his side.

Matt could work out where they got off, eleven, then switched to that floor’s corridor camera as they entered an apartment. All Matt’s instincts told him it wasn’t a hook-up; their relaxed, even slightly camp, body language just said “girlfriends”. He’d be a gym buddy or showbiz friend – perhaps even Jamie back from Seoul. Anyway he didn’t stay long, then there was a long wait, the screen filled with an image of the empty corridor, while Matt sipped on – perhaps just because he could, because it was the first stake-out ever he’d done in the comfort of his own home – a very large, very strong gin and tonic.

At five o’clock a man got out of the lift and knocked on Cameron’s door. It was instantly opened and he disappeared inside, but not before Matt had got a good look. And this time he just knew something was up. Not Gaydar up or Grindr up, nothing normal and vanilla like that. The guy was about forty, solidly built, with a goatee and shaved head. He wore jeans and a a leather jacket, with a v-neck t-shirt underneath, just deep enough to reveal a heavily tattooed chest. And he carried a bag, not Country Road but big and black and label-less, as if it might carry rope, a whip, plus lots of products just in at Sax Leather ... It was an image that added up to one thing and one thing only: Recon, the get-together site of the hardcore, leather crowd. Matt had used it a couple of times. God, Cameron, he thought, what are you after?

He stared at the closed door as he finished another g and t, until there was a knock at his own door and he opened it to find Todd, his sweet, lovely new man, with another Thomas Dux bag of groceries, plus a large bunch of tiger lillies.

“For you!”

“No – ”

“You’re my sick baby and you need flowers.”

“They’re gorgeous.” Matt kissed him hard and fast on the lips.

“So go sit down on the sofa and let me look after you.”

“I wouldn’t mind another drink actually. Make yourself one too.”

They turned on the television and cuddled, watching dodgy people being chased down the street on Today Tonight. It felt really good – secure, safe and somehow really sweet (although that could have been partly due to the orange lillies’ overpowering scent).

“How are you feeling?” asked Todd seriously.

“It still hurts.”

“I want to make it better.”

“Blow me,” said Matt.

“Here? Now?”

Matt slipped his trackie dacks and undies down below his knees, then directed Todd towards his dick.

He could see Todd putting his lips over it, then for a second he closed his eyes and what he saw instead was Cameron. Suddenly the boy in the Tiffany frame was rolling off his back, off his bed, and instead kneeling on the floor, sitting on a dildo, easing his pretty, shaved rosebud arsehole over a big, nasty piece of black vinyl, while at the other end he was opening his mouth wide to accommodate the real thing, Recon-man’s equally massive, blood-filled cock.

Sensing Matt’s enhanced arousal, Todd increased the tempo of his licking and sucking, and just before Matt came another wild thought entered his head. A revelatory moment.

Eleven letters; third letter r; fourth letter a; seventh letter x; last letter l.

Just because Cameron was seeing other guys didn’t mean he might not love – truly love – his fiance Stephen. Just like now, falling in love with the most lovable guy in the world, Todd, who this very minute was gagging on his own cock, yet still fantasising about someone else. So that when Matt blew what he called out was not Todd’s name (and thankfully not Cameron’s) but the word that had been bugging him, the last answer to his crossword. “_ _ ra _ _ _ x _ _ _ l.”

He got it. And it explained a lot. He just hoped others got it too.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

10. All off or shaped?

STEPHEN Eckersley had paid him a month’s retaining fee, with incidental costs like hotels and airfares due at the end. But two and a half weeks in, Matt had everything he needed to present a factual report. He’d unearthed Cameron’s real name, his family history, where he’d worked, where he’d studied, who his friends and past lovers were, plus numerous anecdotes about his behaviour both here and overseas. It really felt as if there was nothing left to discover, so Matt could write the report while he was still recuperating, then just sit out the next ten or so days.

But there were two problems with that plan. Number one, he wasn’t the sitting-out type – if he’d been paid for a month he was going to work for a month, whatever – and number two, he had an overwhelming feeling the facts in the case told only half the story. On paper Cameron was a lying, cheating, scheming, whore, thief and slut, with multiple people’s – and one dog’s – blood on his hands. It wasn’t going to make pretty reading, not for his fiance anyway. Yet Matt couldn’t help himself being drawn to the boy, and wanted to believe his empathy was based on all the things he hadn’t been told, the poetic aspects of Cameron’s personality that came through anyway: his aspiration, adventurousness and freedom of spirit. The wind between the mountains, the water between the rocks.

For fucks’s sake, Cameron was just so gay! He wanted everything the world offered – and he wanted it now. More than gay, he was so paradoxical! His rush to live his life had created a massive disjunction between desire and deed, a dark energy that tainted all his best hopes. For, after all, wasn’t scheming a type of aspiration, lying and cheating a more reckless aspect of adventurousness, and sexual ferocity an advanced expression of freespiritedness? Even if you were charging, when you were as cute as Cameron, could you ever be charging enough?

“Can a person be both good and bad?” Matt asked Todd. .

“Bit heavy tonight, aren’t we?”

“What’s the point of dating an egghead it you can’t have a serious discussion every now and again?”

Todd smiled, perhaps rather too smugly, and pecked Matt quickly on the cheek. “Give me an example.”

“Mmm, John Howard. He did all that evil shit, but still banned guns and loved Janette. So, good, bad, or good and bad?”

“Just another politician, I’d say.”

“Yes, that’s probably a pretty lame case. But what about Hitler? Did he have redeeming qualities?”

“Probably. But he wasn’t normal; he was psychotic.”

“So everyone who’s conflicted is psychotic?” Matt raised an eyebrow, since his life had once almost been ruined by exactly that easy, dismissive diagnosis.

“Jekyll and Hyde. Duh! – if you’re not comfortable with yourself, if you’re being pulled apart, you get stressed, you go mad.”

“All right. What if you have two opposite personality traits that are legitimate?”

“They weren’t in the examples you gave me.”

“God, you’re tough. Glad I’m not in one of your seminars. So, let’s look at gay men in society, say, before nineteen seventy. You’re a good person, you really want to be decent and responsible – but you also want what society’s rules illegal and immoral. You want dick!”

“We’ve moved on.”

“Have we?”

“Every now and then there’s a quirk in history. It’s actually what makes my discipline fascinating. But those quirks get shaken out. They do, Matt – don’t look at me like that. Homosexuals were treated badly, but now we’re in a correction phase. We’re heading towards normality.

“I think I’d rather be mad than normal.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Instead of being answered, Matt felt his question was even more more of a mystery. “Hey, what’s the time? Isn’t that Billy Wilder thing starting?”

“You like Wilder?”

“Yeah, but I kind of dislike him too.”

Todd didn’t peck him – he whacked him – and they went on with their night.

If Matt was his usual self, he’d have just followed Cameron to his gym, used the equipment next to his, struck up a conversation and taken it from there. But lifting weights or running the treadmill weren’t real wise with a broken rib. Likewise with Recon; Matt could lodge a profile and hope to hook up with Cameron, except “Sorry, I can’t bend, twist or move my body much at all actually” wouldn’t have gone down well with someone as limber as a professional dancer. Besides, there was Todd – the argument that Matt was fucking someone else as part of an investigation didn’t really hold up. Todd was his guy, the sex was great, he didn’t want to see anyone else, so that was that.

It looked like there was only way to get up close and personal with Cameron: plain, old-fashioned stalking.

Matt’s visit to his doctor on Thursday morning confirmed what he’d been feeling, that his fracture was mending nicely and he could proceed from full rest to moderate exercise. So he cabbed over to Kings Cross and ordered a coffee at an innocuous little cafe across the road from Cameron’s apartment building. One cup became three, with a toasted focaccia for lunch, carrot cake for afternoon tea, and every newspaper read twice, but eventually, just before four o’clock, his target appeared. Not dressed for the gym but well-presented in fashionably tight jeans, designer t-shirt, tailored jacket and aviator sunglasses.

At last, thought Matt. Not just in regard to that day’s wait, but the whole investigation. He’d seen Cameron in the photo in the Tiffany frame, and Bryce’s CCTV footage, but that was the first time in the flesh. And he was breathtaking: taller than Matt had imagined, with broader shoulders, a face as chiseled as an actor in a superhero movie, and hair that perfectly caught and held the late afternoon’s golden light. And when he moved it was with incredible strength, grace and economy, almost as if he was walking across a stage not down a street, with his head held arrogantly high (although this could also have been due to the fact he was moving down Darlinghurst Road, where the homeless and junkies produced superior airs in almost everybody else).

Matt felt pathetic by comparison. He knew his own looks were okay – he’s even been called handsome on a couple of intimate occasions, although not lately, and not actually yet by Todd – and he kept his body in good shape. But, shuffling along with his broken rib, he identified more with the pavement riff-raff than the young god a hundred metres ahead.

In Macleay Street, the polish after Darlinghurst Road’s spit, Cameron lingered in all the luxury stores, Macleay on Manning, Becker Minty and Arida, apparently killing time, although he did buy a small scented candle for eighty-five dollars and a bar of soap for forty. Then at five minutes to five he entered another establishment, except it was a kind of disappearance this time because the shop window was entirely painted in with a very tasteful shade of grey. Coming up close, Matt noticed the discreet little sign: Pott’s Point Male Spa – facials, waxing, grooming.

Matt immediately phoned the number. “You couldn’t fit me in, could you?”

“When specifically, sir?” The woman’s voice was deep and authoritative.

“Uh, now?”

“And what treatment did you require?”

Matt hadn’t shaved since the assault so a facial on a half-beard would be a bit silly. “Waxing,” he blurted out.

“We do have a vacancy in fifteen minutes. Does that suit?”

“I’ll see you then.”

Fortunately there was a bus seat a couple of doors down where he could get his breath back before entering the male spa at exactly quarter past.

“So – your shoulders?” the dramatic, raven-haired receptionist asked.

Matt had a smattering of hair across his chest but a completely smooth back. “Er, no ... ”

“Crack and sac then?”

“I suppose.”

“Room seven down the corridor. Hamish will take care of you. That way, behind the curtain.”

Stepping into the corridor, the mood was quite different to the up-front up-front area. The whole place was very white and spotless, with the smell a baffling blend of bleach, something burning (possibly human flesh), and bayleaf – or was it bergamot? There was ambient music playing, with muffled laughter and conversation coming from behind the doors he passed. The sense of privacy, even secrecy, was heightened when Hamish opened the door to room seven and ushered him inside. Pixie-like, he whispered confidentially, “All off or shaped?”

“Sorry?”

“Pubic art – I can do whatever you like. Do you want to see my scrap-book? There’s everything in there – animals, sailing ships, rainbows, flags. I even did Gaga’s face last week, well, the face she had last week. How about your boyfriend’s name – as long as it’s short. Someone asked me to do Michelangelo once, can you believe it?”

“All off, I guess,” said Matt.

“Very well,” Hamish sighed. “So, jeans and undies down please, then lie spread-eagled on the bench. It’s easier starting with the nether regions.”

“I’m recovering from a broken rib.”

“Here’s a little ladder to climb up on. It’s for the old guys. I’ve got a regular who’s over eighty, you know.”

The hot wax was painful, but in an oddly pleasurable way, particularly as it was being applied to the sensitive skin around Matt’s bum and balls. And also oddly relaxing, since Hamish was silent as he devoted himself wholly to the task. By the time Matt had rolled over and the wax was being applied to the hairs above and around his slightly tumescent penis, he was feeling extremely calm and at peace.

So calm that he gradually realised he could make out the conversation in the next room. The weren’t talking loudly but the wall must have been very thin.

“So when’s he back?”

“End of next week.”

“Why not leave your manscaping till then?”

“Nah, I think a bit of stubble’s a better look. I don’t want to come across as some cheap porn star. But still, the bush has got to go – my cock’s got to look as big as possible.”

“Don’t think you’ve got any worries in that regard, Cam. Bet you’re excited about his return?”

“Yeah, guess so. We’re going public – he promised. I just have to finish something before then. A little problem has to be permanently resolved. I tried, but it didn’t work out how it should have. So I’m getting out the big guns. To finish the job. There’s always something to spoil the fun, eh?”

“Always ... ”

“So how’s your big love affair?” Cameron changed the subject.

“I let him go. Too drug-fucked, that one.”

The conversation continued on the relative pluses and minuses of coke, ice, GBH and a few things Matt had never heard off, until Cameron’s beauty treatment was complete and he left the room. Not much later Hamish also finished his work on Matt, but after he’d paid the receptionist (three hundred and seventy five dollars! – which was definitely going on his incidentals bill) he stepped back out onto Macleay Street, where there was no sign of his target. He’d been halfway home, thought Matt, meaning the stalking was over for the day. So he hopped in a cab and was home soon himself, not long before Todd.

He told his boyfriend what the doctor had said, that a walk wouldn’t hurt him, then said he he had a surprise. “It’s a long story,” he said, rolling down his jeans and knickers, “but I’ve got a new look.”

“Gee,” said Todd, playfully running his hand over Matt’s smooth cock, balls and arsehole. “Awesome!”

“The doctor said you could be a bit rougher with me.”

“He didn’t!”

“No, but I’m so over gentle. So how’d you like to stuff a plucked chicken?”

Hours later, when they turned out the bedside light to sleep, Todd was off in seconds, snoring in utter contentment. But Matt found it harder, the conversation he’d overheard in the spa running over and over in his head like some torturous rap song. I’m getting out the big guns, the big guns, the big guns ... To finish the job, the job, the job ... Was it Matt himself he was talking about? Was he the little problem that Cameron had tried to resolve by having him bashed with a metal pipe? Was the reason it hadn’t worked out that the hired hitman hadn’t struck him in the head? If so, what was next – a knife in an alley, a drive-by shooting, a shove from behind on the platform of Town Hall station? Or was he being paranoid? Could he have been talking about something else altogether? A toothache, a rattle in his car, a friend such as Jamie who was giving him grief?

Eventually he crept out of bed, turned on his computer in the living-room, and repeated Bryce’s procedure to get to the CCTV camera that was directed on Cameron’s door. Would another on-line hook-up come knocking, someone Cameron could show off his “cheap porn star” genitals to? He stared at the closed door for an hour. No-one came, and Matt couldn’t decide whether he wanted them to or not. Then suddenly the trance was broken by his ringing phone. He grabbed it before it woke Todd.

“Matt, it’s your sister.”

“Katie, it’s almost one o’clock. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know what to do. Andy hasn’t come home. I thought he might be at church but the place has closed. He’s never ever been this late. His phone’s not answering ... and I’ve just got this feeling something terrible’s happened to him!”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

11. Family Get-together

HE wrote a quick note: Sorry Todd, had a one a.m. call from Katie, my sister. Her husband hasn’t come home and she’s in a state (more of a state than usual). There is something going on with him (long story – tell you later) so I’ve gone out to Pennant Hills to help her sort it. Probably won’t be home by the time you leave for work. Phone you when I get a chance. Lotsa – Matt.

The roads were quiet but became almost eerily so the further north-west he travelled. It seemed everybody in the Hills district slept when they were meant to – everybody except his brother-in-law! His disappearance had to have something to do with what Matt had seen on the CCTV of their fundamentalist church – Andy and another guy getting it on in a bible study room! – but he wasn’t going to tell Katie that. Number one, the surveillance was illegally obtained; number two, it wasn’t his job (it was Andy’s); and number three, he was too much of a coward. He’d never had any kind of intimate conversation with her, even a coming-out one (although of course she was aware of his “lifestyle”), so breaking the news that her husband was cheating with another man was way too daunting. That night anyway: it might have to happen eventually, but best to immediately eliminate the more dire possibilities.

And calm Katie down. He did that by boiling some milk and adding a dash of brandy. Then he got to work, phoning hospitals and police stations. By three o’clock he’d ascertained Andy wasn’t dead or injured, or arrested for that matter, which he tried to spin into good news. “Just because he’s never done this before doesn’t mean there’s no simple, innocent explanation.”

“Like what?”

“He might have gone to one of his properties and accidentally locked himself inside.”

“He’s got his phone.”

“Batteries might be flat.”

“He’s a real estate agent. His batteries are never flat!”

“Katie, I’m going to stay but I think you should go to bed and try to get some sleep. The chances are Andy will walk through the door first thing tomorrow.”

“No, you’re wrong. I know he’s gone. I know in here.” She tapped her heart before convulsing in tears. He led her to the sofa, sat down beside her, and that’s how they stayed until the sky grew brighter in the east.

Getting little Olivia to school took a few hours, then Matt tried the hospitals and police again, as well as Andy’s work and his whacky church, but all enquiries led unsurprisingly nowhere. At mid-day Katie said she’d report him as a missing person, but Matt told her to wait just a couple more hours, until he’d done his own check on Andy’s movements.

“What are you talking about?”

“I have some tricks. Can you find Andy’s credit card numbers and passwords?”

“Of course. Everything important is written in the back of our family bible.”

“But I need some time,” Matt implored. “Why don’t you lie down for a few hours? It’ll do you good.”

“I’ll take half a sleeping pill.”

“Good idea. I’ll wake you when we need to pick up Olivia.”

It wasn’t difficult discovering where, when and for what Andy’s credit cards had been used in the previous twenty four hours. Matt simply pretended to be him, using the card numbers and bulk of personal details on the back page of the bible, and spun a story about not being sure his recent transactions had been processed correctly. He’d used his Visa to buy petrol at Bulahdelah at two a.m., again to buy breakfast at Coffs Harbour, and his American Express to check into a resort at the Gold Coast just an hour before. He’d be sleeping after his long drive, but too bad – Matt phoned the hotel and asked to be put through to his room.

“Hello?” asked Andy, probably thinking it was Housekeeping or the Front Desk.

“Don’t hang up, whatever you do. You can run and hide from my sister, but you can’t play those games with me. What do you think you’re doing, man? She’s going out of her mind.”

“I had to get away, Matt. You have no idea what trouble I’m in.”

“I think I do.”

“ Huh?”

“You’re screwing another guy from your church. How’s that for accuracy?”

“How did – ?”

“It doesn’t matter how I know. But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Okay, yes ... But that’s only half the story. The pastor confronted us yesterday, showed us tapes, said if we didn’t up our tithe from ten to thirty percent he’d show them to our families and employers ... I don’t know, we both cracked, had to get as far away as we could.”

We? thought Matt. The other dude was with him. So it was just a little bit more than blackmail evasion: it was elopement to Gretna Green. “But you already have a wife. Don’t you think you owe her an explanation?”

“Have you told her?”

“No, I haven’t. But you’re going to. Jesus, Andy, what kind of denial are you in? You think you’re just going to disappear from Katie’s life and that’s it? And what about your daughter? How’s Katie going to tell Olivia where her Daddy’s gone?”

“I just thought I’d sort it out later.”

“After a month of non-stop fucking with this Gino guy?”

“Gino? Where’d you get that from? His name’s Kevin. And it’s not like that. I thought you of all people would understand. We’re in love, Matt.”

“Oh, spare me. Look, this is what’s going to happen. Soon I’ll wake Katie, we’ll pick Olivia up, I’ll get my mum and dad over, and you’ll phone your wife at exactly five o’clock. You’re going to tell her the truth, but in the kindest, most reasonable way possible. You just have to do what’s right, Andy.”

There was no reply.

“Five o’clock. So you’ve got a while to work on what to say. But on the dot, okay?”

Eventually he responded. “Okay.”

Next Matt phoned Todd. “It’s all a mess here. Families, eh? So I’m not sure what time I’ll be home tonight, or what state I’ll be in.”

“Then how about I stay at my own place? Give you some space.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve got papers to mark. As long as you’re all right?”

“We’ll get there. I’ll phone you, I promise.”

“Love you.”

That was a significant first, although lost in the drama of the day. “Love you too,” Matt hurriedly concluded the conversation.

Then it was his mother. “Don’t freak out, all right? I’m at Katie’s place. Andy’s left her without saying a word. She’s devastated but I’ve got him to phone her at five o’clock. I think you and Dad need to be here – just in case.”

“I knew there was something wrong. I told you, didn’t I? Should I bring something over for dinner? I’ve got chicken schnitzel in the freezer.”

“I think chicken schnitzel’s the last thing we’ll be thinking about, but do it if it makes you feel better.”

“Matthew, stop using that tone.”

“What tone?”

“Like you and you alone know how to handle things. You don’t always, if you need reminding. I’m her mother, after all ... ”

“Just be here, Mum, that’s all I ask.” Click.

He woke Katie. Groggy from the pill, she just nodded when he said he’d found Andy, that he was alive and well and would explain everything on the phone in a couple of hours. Olivia seemed oblivious to the family tumult, more excited about seeing her favourite uncle twice in the one day. Soon after they got home from the school pick-up, Matt’s parents arrived, then it was walking on egg-shells, talking about anything other than the matter at hand, until the appointed hour arrived.

Katie took the call in the living room with the door closed. Olivia was upstairs with her grandfather, inspecting the latest additions to her eraser collection, while Matt and his mother waited in the kitchen. At least Andy did as promised, not stringing it out any longer and phoning exactly at five. One minute passed, two, three even, then there was a blood-curdling scream followed by thunderous sobbing. Matt’s mother looked across the kitchen table at him, with just a hint of so, you haven’t handled it as well as you thought, have you? Then Katie appeared at the kitchen doorway, her face contorted in pain, humiliation and anger.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Her mother rushed to her side.

“He’s a SINNER!” Katie snarled. “An ADULTERER ... ”

“There, there, He wouldn’t be the first man who was. But it’s important not to upset yourself too much.”

“And a HOMOSEXUAL!”

“What?” asked her mother.

“A filthy BUM-FUCKER! Just like him!” Her shaking finger was pointed at Matt.

“Come on, sis, that’s not fair. You know I’m on your side.”

“Get out of my house, BUM-FUCKER!”

“Please!”

Katie howled loudly as her mother wrapped her arms around her. “Best you go,” she whispered to Matt over Katie’s shoulder. “Your father and I will take it from here.”

“But ... ”

“Go, son. We’ll call her doctor if we need to. But you’ll be no help, trust me.”

Back home in Surry Hills he opened a bottle of wine and drank the first glass in one gulp. He should phone Todd and talk it through, except that wasn’t his mood. Perhaps the “Love you” had scared him a little, but Matt was suddenly so over lovey-dovey, having his hand held, facing another challenge together. It was all such bullshit. We’re born alone, we die alone. We come in ones, not twos. And romance, attachment, commitment – all those things were just lies, illusions. Because where did they always lead? To hell, that’s where, or at least the Hills district, whatever you wanted to call the place his sister was in that night.

He finished the bottle in record speed and opened another. He could go out for some serious BUM-FUCKING with a stranger – or strangers – but that wasn’t his mood either.

His sister was a mental case but the way she’d spat that word at him really stung, like he was a little kid again, bad and dirty, someone who’d betray their family’s every hope.

It hurt because it was true. He loved bum-fucking. It was a wonderful thing. Perhaps he even loved it more than he loved any of them, or would ever love Todd – more than he loved love itself?

Hold it, he thought, get a grip. Otherwise the dark thoughts would feed on each other, take him somewhere he didn’t want to go. Best to have a glass of water, take a few deep breaths. It was about forty hours since he’d slept, but he knew he was still too wired to try.

He decided to wank, so turned on the computer and watched porn, handsome men doing the old in-out. But an hour later, having finished the second bottle, he’d scarcely managed a hard-on, let alone an orgasm. He got out of Titanmen, went instead to the camera aimed on Cameron’s door. And opened a third bottle.

There was nothing to watch but he was mesmerised nonetheless. That door, it held secrets he’d yet to crack.

Two hours later it opened. Cameron left in a hurry. He was only on the screen for a couple of seconds but Matt could see he was going out for sex. Tight jeans, tight t-shirt, tight and purposeful look on his face.

He kept staring at the screen, trying not to accept the obvious, that he was drunk enough now to go out too. Headquarters, where all the messed-up people went. He dragged himself from his desk, douched, put on a jockstrap under his jeans, and was about to head out into the night when there was a knock on the door.

Shit! It’d be Todd, Matt thought, here to be the good guy that he was. But no, opening it he saw it was the other man in his life – Cameron Walker himself.

“Sorry,” Cameron said, “wrong flat. I’m looking for – ”

Matt laughed impulsively. How many times in his career as an investigator had he used that same line? It was so basic as to be almost amateurish. “No, it’s the right place.”

“Can I come in?”

“Have you come to kill me?”

“That wasn’t me. Honestly, I don’t know who was behind that. If you’ve got a bible I’ll swear on it.”

“I don’t have a bible. So why have you come?”

“I’ve come to fuck you.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

12. Final Report

ANCIENT Greeks and Romans believed that occasionally the gods descended from heaven to have sex with mere mortals. That’s how it felt to Matt. Everything about Cameron’s body was perfect, every defined muscle, every snaking vein, every golden hair. And the sex was extraordinary, going on for hours, with every position tried, even a few Matt hadn’t known existed. The entire experience was ecstatic, right until he came for the third time (although his extreme inebriation, plus the cocaine Cameron had brought with him, might have had a little to do with that).

Covered in sweat, they collapsed onto the crumpled sheets.

“Fuck!” said Matt. “How good are you?”

“It’s what sex is for, isn’t it?” Cameron sighed. “To have.”

“But you’re getting married!”

“Sex with Stephen is good. And after a while we might have an open marriage.”

Matt laughed. “I don’t think the Stephen I met would agree to that.”

Cameron laughed too. “You’re probably right. So I guess I’ll just be having sex with the one man for the rest of my life!”

“Sure.”

“Matt, I need to talk to you.”

“Of course you do. But first, how did find out it was me investigating you.”

“Hello! How could I not? I send Chantelle money. I knows she puts most of it up her arm but at least she’d never do me wrong. She phoned to say someone was nosing around, described you, said your name was Matt. The same with Manny. You’ll think I treated him badly, but that’s not actually how he feels. He says I’m the best thing that ever happened to him. Anyway, he phoned, and so did Paul Varjack, who got your real name. Sydney’s not such a big town, you know. I asked around at the gym and someone knew who you are and what you do. I could get a job as an investigator too, huh?”

“And it was pretty obvious I’d found out everything about you, so you hired someone to bash me?”

“I didn’t, Matt. Someone else has a grudge against you. No, this is more my style.” He waved his hand across their naked bodies, and the sheets with wet patches everywhere.

“You think sleeping with me will shut me up?”

“It might help! And it gives me a chance to put my case.”

“I’m a professional, Cameron. If someone hires me to do a job, I do it.”

“No-one’s just a professional. Life’s messier than that. There are always exceptions – and there’s sometimes mercy.”

“So put your case.”

“My motives for marrying Stephen might not be as pure as his for marrying me. I might not love him as much as he loves me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have some degree of decency in my motives, or love him in my own kind of way – or that his motives are completely pure, or his love entirely without restrictions. I’m a nobody from nowhere, and, yes, he’s my ticket to security and comfort. But I’ll be his trophy wife, someone to look and act how he wants. What marriage is ever between equals? Who knows, ours might just work. I can grow to love him more. I can learn how to be good. I just want a chance – that’s all I’m asking you for.”

Mat was suddenly overcome by the exhaustion of processing Cameron’s plea – and by everything else that had happened. “I haven’t slept in a long time, man. I can hardly keep my eyes open. Sorry.”

“Whatever you do, I’ll understand,” Cameron said, kissing him on the cheek. “And I’ll survive. Take care. I’ll let myself out.”

He woke with the world’s worst hangover. His head ached, he felt nauseous, and his rib hurt for the first time in days. But the physical pain had nothing on his emotional condition. It was mid-day Saturday and he knew Todd would be waiting for a call, but how could he just pretend everything was as it had been? Matt hadn’t had meaningless sex with a stranger – he could live with that – instead he’d made a significant connection with someone he was fascinated with. He’d only been seeing Todd for a short while, and they hadn’t had any kind of discussion about the parameters of their relationship, but it still felt like betrayal. Shit! Had he thrown it all away again?

Instead he phoned his mother.

“We didn’t call the doctor,” she sighed. “We phoned the ambulance. She’s in the psych ward heavily sedated. We’ve got Olivia here at our place.”

“I’ll come over.”

“No, Matthew. I’ll visit Katie later, just to hold her hand while she’s sleeping. Your Dad will try to settle Olivia down; she doesn’t know what’s going on, poor pet. Best if you just leave it for a few days.”

“I want to help, Mum,”

“Well, you wouldn’t know it.”

“She had to find out.”

“Did she? Even if it kills her? Look, I don’t want to have this discussion now.”

“And nor do I,” said Matt. “Just tell Olivia I love her, okay?”

After a long bath he limped downstairs to Kantine for their all-day breakfast. Soon a couple from his building, David and Hideo, took the table one side of him, while a loud queen who lived in the building over the road, Jeremy, took the table on the other side. Matt knew them all to say hello to, but not nearly as well as David and Hideo knew Jeremy, so he quickly found himself in the middle of an extremely animated conversation about an op-ed in that day’s newspaper by a loon from a conservative think tank listing all the arguments against marriage equality. “Have you seen it?” asked Jeremy. “Outrageous! All the opinions polls show a majority supports change, yet the gutless politicians are held back by this sort of inflammatory drivel. The usual crap about the sanctity of tradition and the slippery slope to polygamy and bestiality.”

“I don’t think he said ‘bestiality’”, David pointed out.

“Didn’t he? Then he implied it. It’s enough for me to cancel my subscription.”

“Just write to the editor,” said Matt. “That’s why they print those extreme articles, so they can fill a a letters page without paying anyone.”

“We thought it would be law soon,” said Hideo. “Otherwise I have to go back to Japan.”

“Shocking,” said Jeremy. “These fucking conservatives just don’t see that their belligerence ruins lives ... ” Then he was off, listing all the arguments for marriage equality, his face getting redder, his voice getting louder, as the diatribe gained momentum. All his points made good sense, and he was undoubtedly very passionate about the issue, but Matt couldn’t help thinking why? It wasn’t as if he was that physically unattractive, but his quirky, uncompromising personality meant he was a very unlikely candidate for a serious, long-term relationship. Matt had known many such guys over the years, content with an occasional bonk, but otherwise perfectly happy with their own company. Did Jeremy think he would change if gay marriage was legal? Certainly the cause was valid, but the zealotry just didn’t add up.

So Matt wolfed down his eggs and excused himself. What he’d do, he decided, was take the cowardly route of texting Todd. Hi, he wrote, big drama sister in hospital maybe talk tomorrow xxx M. Then he lay on the sofa, watched whatever was on television, and felt very sorry for himself for the rest of the day.

Sunday morning his mood had improved but he was still not ready to face his responsibilities. He had breakfast out again, at the emptiest cafe he could find, then a long slow walk to Circular Quay and back. Just as he was turning into Campbell Street his mobile rang, he saw it was Todd, and realised he couldn’t put him off any longer.

“Hello,” said Todd cautiously.

“I’m sorry,” Matt replied.

“Are we okay?” Todd asked.

“A lot’s gone down. I should have called – “

“It’s okay, Matt. Just don’t string me along. If you’re ending it, say so. I won’t be happy but I can’t keep waiting.”

“I don’t want it to be over.” Matt’s voice broke. And he knew he had to say it because it was true. Even with what had happened, with all the complexities and uncertainties, it was true. “I love you, Todd.”

He heard Todd exhale. “Can I come over?”

“Please. Come now.”

They didn’t immediately have sex, but held each for a long time. Todd didn’t ask him any questions, just said “Shut up, it’s okay,” when Matt told him again he was sorry. The whole saga of Katie and Andy came out over dinner but Matt chose not to mention Cameron, decided at that point actually never to tell Todd what had happened. He’d keep it in the dark, where it belonged.

Then the sex happened, slower and more tenderly than any time before. It wasn’t Olympian, it was more earthbound and familiar than that, but all the better for it. They both slept soundly and when Monday came it seemed to Matt he’d dodged a bullet, that things were back to normal.

Or perhaps not exactly. Matt’s mother phoned him and now she didn’t sound quite so confident about taking control of the situation. “There’s something I haven’t told you,” she said, “but there’s no choice. Your father wanted to keep it secret – he’s such a proud old thing. Anyway, he’s got prostate cancer. The doctor says he should be able to beat it but it’s a big operation with lots of nasty side effects and months of follow-up radiation. That’s scheduled for the week after next. There’s no way Katie will be better by then, and we can’t put the little poppet through more upheaval, so – can you take her, Matt?”

“Olivia? Here?”

“Why not? You practically live next door to a primary school, don’t you? We can tell her it’s a special holiday. And she adores you, you know that.”

“Of course I will.”

He didn’t know how Todd would react but he should have. “Fantastic! I love kids and I can help out.”

In Tuesday’s newspaper there was an item on the back page about a big party Stephen Eckersley had thrown for the team that had put together his bid for the London Underground. (It was held in one of the unused train tunnels near Wynyard, which had been glamorised for the night with chandeliers, red carpets and an oyster bar. A signal perhaps, the paper asked, if Sydney’s rail network was next for the Eckersley privatisation treatment?) So he was back, thought Matt, and next there’d be a phone call. It came on Thursday – Josef, in his thick Hungarian accent, summoned Matt to a meeting in Wolseley Road on Saturday morning, leaving him two days to write his report.

Exactly four weeks since the initial meeting and it should have been warmer and sunnier, but instead the rain was so heavy Matt could hardly see the harbour from where he sat in the mansion's grand living-room. Otherwise it was the same as before: he waited several minutes for Eckersley to appear, then Josef served them coffee.

“I think I brought the weather back with me,” laughed Eckersley. “So, you’ve been well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And our little investigation? Complete?”

“It is,” said Matt, handing over the folder.

Eckersley took it cautiously, rested it on his knee as he read slowly, then relaxed back into his chair when he’d finished. “So, just as I thought.”

“You had nothing to worry about.”

“Cameron is from Perth,” Eckersley smiled. “His parents are dead. There’s no skeletons in the closet. No drugs, no scandals. He’s the good boy I knew he was.”

“That’s right.”

“Thank you, Matt. I’m glad to have had your help, but I imagine our paths won’t cross again. Have you got your final invoice? Just give it to Josef as he shows you out and he’ll transfer the funds into your account.”

Matt nodded. “Can I just say one thing? Very best wishes for when you get married. May both of you know true happiness.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

13. Judy and Liza

SO,” sighed Todd, looking at his watch, “they’re late as usual.”

“It’ll be Dietmar,“ Matt replied. “I’ve noticed what it’s like when they leave their flat. They’re like an old married couple. Bryce says it’s time to go and Dietmar gets all flustered – can’t find his keys or has to go to the loo. But they’re never that late.”

“It’s just inconsiderate, like saying their time is more valuable than other people’s.”

“Not everyone’s perfect, honey – always ten minutes early, like you. But does it matter?” Matt poured his boyfriend another glass of pinot noir. “It’s Saturday night. They’re the ones going out later, not us. So what’s the difference between seven and seven-thirty?”

“Olivia wants her dinner, that’s what.”

“Liv?” asked Matt. “You hungry?”

The little girl shook her head. She ate like a mouse so that came as no surprise. “Can we play Angry Birds?” she asked.

“Why would you want to when you’ve got a big old Angry Bird sitting next to you?” asked Matt.

“Uncle Todd? He’s not an Angry Bird!”

“Oh, but I am,” said Todd, reaching towards her. “And so are you. And you’re getting catapulted right across the room!”

“No!” she shrieked in mock terror.

“Here we go,” he said, grasping her gently by the waist before she struggled free.

She stood at the end of the sofa with her hands on her hips, thinking up her next move. “I’m going to caterpillar you, Uncle Todd, across the room, out the window, across the street – then over the Harbour Bridge!”

“You and whose army?"

“Just me,” she shrieked, diving back onto the sofa.

It was a full-on tickling match, with Todd pretending to lose and begging for mercy just as the doorbell rang.

“Okay, game over, the guests are here,” said Matt.

“You win, Olivia,” said Todd, “but just one thing: it’s catapult, not caterpillar, remember that.”

Todd was the cook in the house. Once or twice a week – on Todd’s busiest days at uni – Matt would do the job, producing predictable meals from his bachelor days’ repertoire (spaghetti bolognese, tuna surprise and steak and salad), but the rest of the time, and always if guests were coming, the kitchen was Todd’s. He said he enjoyed it, that it was his way of relaxing, although that was sometimes hard to believe when a dish wasn’t cooking as fast as it should, and Matt had to put his hands over Olivia’s ears so she wouldn’t hear the stream of Shits! and Fucks!, or ended up not looking nearly as glamorous as the picture in Chrissie Manfield’s latest glossy vol, when he’d sulk for the rest of the night. But he did enjoy the compliments when some wildly ambitious dish worked out perfectly, which is why Bryce and Dietmar were frequent dinner party guests: there was always effusive praise (possibly because it led to the offer of seconds, even thirds). Those big boys loved their food!

That night the menu was entrée of sweet potato and leek roulade, main of oven-baked salmon with herbs, served with a salad of quinoa, asparagus and feta, followed by a dessert of peach pie and home-made honeycomb ice-cream. The work was done, but nonetheless Todd gave Bryce and Dietmar a quick kiss before disappearing into the kitchen for finishing touches.

That left Matt to hear how Bryce and Dietmar had spent their Saturday, which could have been called Tales of the Allen Key, since they’d visited Tempe Ikea in the morning – had a lovely lunch of Swedish meatballs! – then returned home to assemble a sofa, bookshelf and desk. (When Matt and Todd had moved into a two bedroom higher up in the same building in Campbell Street Dietmar had only just arrived from Heidelberg, but bossily insisted Bryce move from his cheap apartment at the back of the building to Matt’s much sunnier old place. Matt had feared it was a mistake, thinking Dietmar would be off home in a week or two, but several months later they were not only together but thriving, setting up a proper home by getting rid of all Bryce’s tragic old furniture and making their “den” almost zhoosh.)

Eventually the wine was poured – generously – and dinner served. The food was a triumph, with perhaps even more compliments than usual, even from Olivia, who’d only taken a few nibbles but was picking up the rules about what made her adored Uncle Todd happy. Accolades weren’t all that was needed, however: Todd had the slightly old-fashioned notion a dinner party wasn’t a dinner party without good conversation, a decent to-and-fro between the main and pudding. And sometimes that meant he could be a little provocative, argumentative, even nasty, which was unfortunately how it turned out that night.

There hadn’t been any big public issues stories that week, no political intrigue, financial calamity or church scandal, so the conversation settled on that old chestnut, LGBTIQ politics, and specifically where Bryce and Dietmar were headed afterwards: the Mr Harbour City Bear Competition.

“And you’re not struck by the irony of it?” asked Todd.

“No, what irony?” said Bryce.

Todd chuckled. “Irony’s notoriously difficult to explain. Perhaps I should have said the illogicality of it. The whole thing’s a reductio ad absurdum.”

“Speak English!” ordered Dietmar, who hardly spoke it himself.

“Yes, Uncle Todd,” echoed Olivia cheekily. “Speak English!”

Todd sighed theatrically. “So let’s get this right. The bear movement began as a response to the ideal of the good-looking gay man with a smooth and athletic body. It’s for your plain, hairy, fat guys, out to prove there’s more in life than appearance. Your average Joe! Now you’re holding a competition for the best bear – but what does that mean? The most average? The plainest? The most ordinary gay in Sydney?”

“No!” spat Dietmar. “The hottest!”

“I’ve seen the finalists online,” said Matt, “and they’re all gorgeous.”

“Exactly!” said Todd. “Bears have simply created a new ideal. The whole rationale of beardom is inclusiveness – but now there’s such a look it’s just as exclusive as the heavy lifting area of City Gym.”

“You don’t understand,” said Bryce. “Mr Bear is an ambassador for the community.”

“Where to?” asked Todd. “Taronga Park?”

“And raises lots of money for charity ... “

“Now I know I’m right!” crowed Todd. “When charity’s invoked, the debate’s over.”

“Yes, it is,” said Matt, changing the subject as he’d done numerous times before. Todd was smart, no question, but why did he have to remind everyone all the time? “Did everyone see Game of Thrones this week?” He knew they did, Todd because of all the historical irony, and Bryce and Dietmar because it was so oddly similar to the arcane and violent online games they played (and indeed had been playing when they’d met). So it was the Lannisters and Starks until Bryce, in turn, moved the conversation on to another topic.

“What we’re both hooked on is that new reality show, Perfect Gay Marriage. Have you seen it?”

“About the model making preparations for his wedding to the millionaire?” asked Todd. “Can’t stand it!”

“I like Jamie,” said Olivia.

“The bridesman?” laughed Bryce. “Oh, Liv, he’s like that rabbit in the Energiser ad. He never stops running around.”

“He’s funny!” she pouted.

“I prefer the other friend,” said Dietmar. “Did you see when they meet florist? He put das luder in her place. Hyacinths out of season? Then fly them in! Hahaha!”

“Paul’s his name,” said Bryce. “You’re very quiet, Matt. What do you think of the show?”

“Mmm, I think Cameron’s very brave, that’s all I have to say.”

“Brave?” Todd did a double-take. “He’s an extrovert of the first order. He’s having the time of his life.”

“And that’s why it’s so much fun,” said Bryce. “He’s got a bigger personality than Kim Kardashian – and he’s an Aussie queen! My only reservation is the groom – Stephen is it? – he’s as dull as eggs.”

“But not in it much,” commented Dietmar. “The last few episodes he’s away doing deal in China.”

“Apparently the lifesavers at Bondi Beach let people get taken by rips when they’re filming their reality series, because rescuing them when they’re drowning makes for better television,” said Todd. “It’s a disgusting genre, really.”

“How about dessert?” asked Matt. “The boys don’t want to miss the competition.”

“All the time in world,” said Dietmar. “Actually,” said Bryce, “it’s getting late. We want to get a spot close to the stage.”

“But I’m thinking to change clothes. What your opinion? These leather suspenders too much?”

“They’re fine, honey,” said Bryce.

“Noooo,” shrieked Olivia, the little fashionista. “They look dumb!”

Nonetheless dessert was enjoyed – with helpings – before the decision was made to take Olivia’s advice and ditch the suspenders with their tiny appliquéd paw-prints, although that meant going back to their flat to choose a belt for Dietmar’s size 42 jeans. But eventually, presumably, the bears left the building.

It was Matt’s job to stack the dishwasher while Todd tucked Olivia into bed and read her a story. He’d been working through Kay Thompson and tonight was Eloise Takes A Bawth, the final in the series. Matt arrived to kiss his niece goodnight as Todd was on the last page, with Olivia shrieking in delight at the insane tale of a girl her age managing to flood the very classy Plaza Hotel, including the Grand Ballroom where the Venetian Masked Ball was about to start.

“Just be careful next time you take a bath not to flood this building,” Matt said with mock seriousness.

“Read it again, can you, Uncle Todd?”

“No, it’s way past you bedtime, Liv,” Matt told her. “It’s sleepy-time.”

“But it’s Saturday! Please!”

“I’ll read it again tomorrow night,” said Todd. “But just now I’ll tell you a special, shorter story. About the real girl the imaginary Eloise was inspired by. You know in The Wizard of Oz – “

“My favourite movie!” shrieked Olivia, as if on cue.

“– the part of Dorothy was played by an actress called Judy Garland. Well, she grew up, married a director named Vincente Minelli and had a little girl of her own, but because she was a big star and made movies all around the world her daughter had be looked after by other people. But guess what? The girl – Liza – had a terrific childhood anyway, full of adventures, and went on to become a movie star too!”

Olivia looked pensive. “She was like me... Will I be a movie star too when I grow up?”

“We do hope so,” laughed Matt. “But that’s definitely it. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

They lay in bed, Matt on his back and Todd on his side.

“What was that?” asked Matt. “An introduction to Camp? I thought you’d be singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow next?”

“What’s wrong with contextualising? It’s important she knows she’s not the only child who’s been brought up by someone other than her mother,” said Todd.

“But that might not be true. Katie could get better. She’d improved a little last time we visited.”

“By which you mean she recognised us, enough anyway to tell us we’d both go to hell.”

“Or Liv’s father might turn up?”

“That’s when we see a lawyer.”

Matt turned so he was snuggled up behind Todd, his hard cock pressed up against Todd’s coccyx.

“No, Matt, not tonight. It’s been a long day.”

Todd was soon snoring softly while Matt retreated to his side of the bed, thinking about it all. Truly, he had no reason to be discontent. Olivia was a joy (no matter how long they had her) and how many people could boast a handsome man cooking them dinner most nights? Certainly he would have liked there to be more work coming in. Since the downtown in the economy there were less corporate investigations, although the divorces still provided a regular income. Together with Todd’s decent salary there was no problem paying the rent. His occasional melancholy was undoubtedly linked to the death of his father six months before, although presumably that would lessen as time did its healing. And, actually, he and his mother were getting on better than they ever had.

Mmm ... He could guess why Bryce and Dietmar were so taken by Perfect Gay Marriage. They were planning to get hitched themselves. Good luck to them, except he hoped they didn’t want Matt and Todd to be best men, with Olivia as flower girl (dressed as Goldilocks perhaps?).

There was so much to love about Todd. He was kind, and sexy, and often very funny, but suddenly Matt identified a dread deep inside himself. Todd had already hinted about them putting a deposit on a house, somewhere affordable in the inner west like Lilyfield or Marrickville, with a backyard for Olivia to play in and lots of other neighbours with kids. If Todd asked Matt to marry him ... Jesus, what would his reply be?

Completely wide awake now, he crept out of bed, closed the door gently behind him and sat with his iPad on the sofa. He turned to one of his favourite porn sites, not because he wanted to wank but just so he could see other men from his tribe – his about-to-be-lost tribe? – getting it on.

At just after midnight his phone suddenly rang, and he dived to answer it before it woke the others.

Funny how fate can intervene, and one dilemma can be moved sideways, even rendered irrelevant by a new one.

“Is that Matt Black?”

“It is.”

“It’s Paul Varjack speaking. I met you in Melbourne last year but I’m up here in Sydney now. I’m a friend of Cameron Walker.”

“I know who you are.”

“Cameron asked me to phone you.”

“Why couldn’t he phone himself?”

“He’s a bit distraught but he’d like you to come over, now if you can. I’m here with him at Wolseley Avenue. We’ve just discovered Stephen Eckersley’s body. It looks as if he’s been murdered.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

14. The Unusual Suspects

TODD and Olivia were at the table eating breakfast when Matt arrived home.

“Sorry. You read my note?”

“Yes, Stephen Eckersley, the guy from that television show,” – Todd looked over to see if Olivia was listening, and she was – “had a little accident. But why would they want you? Isn’t it a police matter?”

“I met Stephen and his boyfriend on an investigation last year.”

“You never said.”

“I can’t discuss my business, you know that, Todd.”

Still, there was an irritated, even disappointed, look on his face. “They’re such dreadful people. Couldn’t you have just said no?”

“I’m hardly run off my feet at the moment, and the money they’re offering is terrific.” But Matt wasn’t about to say what he’d had agreed to do for that money. Best to leave those details for later. “Hey, man, I’m beat. Do you mind if I get some sleep before I head back over to Point Piper?”

“Come on, Liv,” sighed Todd, “finish your Coco Pops and we’ll go to the library. Seems like we’re not your Uncle Matt’s top priority this weekend.”

But Matt couldn’t sleep. The same way the bedroom blind couldn’t wholly block out the bright morning light his conscious brain couldn’t stop regurgitating the madness of the last eight hours.

It had started as soon as he’d pressed the buzzer. The door had opened narrowly, a skinny hand with lots of rings and scarlet-lacquered nails had appeared, gripped him with the strength of an Olympic weightlifter and pulled him through the gap. “Sonia Basile,” said the extraordinary-looking woman. “And I trust you’re Matt Black? Then follow me.”

In massively-high platforms she marched across the small parterre separating the security gate and the wide, open door of the house. “Cam, you can phone the police now,” she shouted before turning down the corridor on the left, waiting until Matt had walked into the room at the end after her, then closed the door.

It was a home office, perhaps even Eckersley’s. “Sit down,” she told him, indicating a chesterfield, “we’ve got something to discuss. Mind if I smoke?”

Without waiting for a response she dug around in her lavish leather handbag then lit up, all quite a challenge with her lengthy talons, but giving Matt the opportunity for closer inspection. About forty-five, although definitely Botoxed so possibly older, she wore several items – tights, skirt, blouse and jacket – with lots of attitude but not much co-ordination. She was either so greedy she had to have every hot item of the season, or so confident she was merely using them to create her own distinctive look. The hair was dyed black, except for a dramatic Cruella de Vil-esque white streak at the front.

“I’m the producer of Cameron’s reality show. We were filming tonight because he had his bridesmen over for dinner to talk about their outfits. Just when the conversation was getting lively he went into his closet to get a shirt the colour he wants the boys’ suits to be. God, we didn’t even know Stephen was back form China. But anyway, there he was – there he is! – slumped down the end of the walk-in, dead as a dodo.”

“Have you called the ambos to make sure?”

“Don’t need to. I worked on All Saints and know how to take a pulse.”

“It’s terrible – “

“Oh, absolutely. Shocking tragedy. Very sad. Et cetera, et cetera. But we can’t let our emotions get in the way of good sense. Perfect Gay Marriage is rating brilliantly and lots of careers depend on it running its full twenty-four episodes. Not just us in this house tonight but all the little people back at the network; ad revenues are down, the channel’s in trouble, and if there’s any show that can turn things around, it’s PGM. So you see the problem? If you do, you might also see the solution. Without a groom, there’s no marriage, just a funeral. Except ... if he’s been mysteriously murdered, which appears the case, then we have a show even more daring than the original concept – the world’s first reality murder mystery!”

“And you want me to be the detective?”

“There, you’ve got what it takes! Powers of deduction! Plus you’re as cute as Cam said. I’ve got a contract in my bag somewhere – ”

“Hold on. What about the police? There was that show Cops, so they might let you follow them round like they did in that."

“I’m going to ask but the best I’m hoping for is a few background shots of blue uniforms and pixilated faces. Cops was all fights and car chases. This is about brain power and the police I’ve met have never exhibited much of that. If they can’t crack the case they won’t want it recorded.”

Matt nodded. She was right. “I’ll need some time to think about it.”

“There’s no time.” She sat down next to him and took his hand. “It’s television, luvvy. You’ll be rich and famous!”

“But what if I don’t want to be rich and famous?”

“Humph!” She was on her feet again and out the door. Matt sat there patiently, thinking what had she gone off to get? How did she think she could convince him? And – Jesus! – what had he got himself into this time?

The door opened in no time at all, but it wasn’t Sonia who walked back into the room.

He looked as extraordinary as ever. No, more so. He’d bulked up a bit and it suited him, made him look less cute chorus boy and more handsome leading man. His hair was longer and there was stubble on his cheek, and in posture and gait he seemed stronger, more assured. Matt got to his feet, met him in the middle of the room, hugged him hard, then stood back to look into his face, and it was then he realised where the real change in Cameron lay: his eyes. The mischievous glint had gone, replaced by a more mature sense of danger. They were deep and dark, promising not pranks and temporary thrills, but a real anarchy of the soul. After the night Matt had just had, the dinner party with a child, his oh-so-predicatable boyfriend, and two bear cultists, he wanted to dive into those eyes and know what risk was again – know what it was to be alive!

(It was only lying in bed the next morning, going over everything, that Matt remembered there was no red in them, that they weren’t eyes that had shed any recent tears.)

“Sonia asked me to say two things to you. First, it wasn’t me who killed Stephen – I swear, Matt – and second, I do truly need you help. So please sign the contract.”

Sonia appeared out of nowhere and pushed paper and pen into Matt’s hand.

“Okay,” he said, putting his scribble on the bottom of the page, knowing he was going to regret it but, like an addict, also knowing he had no choice.

When Sonia snatched it away and crossed the room to shove it into her bag, Matt noticed the cameraman standing in the doorway filming the whole thing.

“That’s Jacko,” said Cameron. “Don’t worry, soon you won’t notice him at all.”

“You sure?” asked Matt, for Jacko was a very good-looking guy, in a Surry Hills hipster sort of way. Tall and snake-hipped, but with big muscular shoulders to rest his large camera on, he had an untrimmed beard with a bit of ginger showing through and was dressed in a tight-fitting flannel shirt and low-waisted skinny jeans. “Hi,” Matt waved.

“No, sweetie,” interrupted Sonia. “First rule of the reality game is never look at the camera. Remember that. Was that the doorbell? Geez, didn’t take the police long. I’ll have a little chat with them while you two join the others. Jacko, go with them.”

The others were just Cameron’s friends, Jamie and Paul, lounging in the big room at the end of the house’s long central corridor, the one with the harbour on the other side of the closed drapes. When Cameron introduced Matt, Jamie jumped up, shook his hand and said, “It’s a nightmare, and absolute nightmare, but you’re going to save the show ... I mean, solve the murder, aren’t you?” while Paul Varjack just nodded, as surly and unpleasant as the previous time they’d met.

“Fill me on the basic details,” said Matt to the three of them.

“Welllll!” said Jamie, checking – almost imperceptibly – if the camera was on him, “we came over early to watch a movie downstairs in the home theatre. Bridesmaids! I’ve, like, seen it a hundred times but Sonia thought it would be funny, a shot of us laughing when they get diarrhea in the bridal gown shop, then talking afterwards about the worst time we had it. My story’s the funniest because I once got the runs on stage in a dance routine. It wasn’t the smelly sort so the audience didn’t know, except all the cast were slipping and sliding around – ”

“And I’ve heard that story a hundred times,” interrupted Paul. “So we were down there for a couple of hours, during which time Stephen must have arrived home from Shanghai, gone to his room and been murdered.”

“After the movie we had dinner,” said Cameron, “which also stretched out a bit, and when I went to the bedroom to get something I found him lying there. I screamed, they came running, and Sonia said he was dead.”

“And who do you think killed him?”

The three of them looked at each other, almost conspiratorially.

“It wasn’t me!” said Jamie.

“None of us would do a thing like that,” said Cameron.

“I think,” said Paul, “there’s only one suspect. Sonia!”

“Why is that?” asked Matt.

“Anyone can see how frustrated she is on the wrong side of the camera. This way she becomes part of the action, and if the ratings go up which I bet they do then she gets a big pay-rise too. She might look like a clown but her bag’s Marc Jacobs, shoes Christian Laboutin, tights Romance was Born, dress Josh Goot, and jacket vintage Chanel! She’s got tens of thousands of dollars on her back, all on a hack’s salary. The letters from the credit card companies must be mounting up.”

“Don’t be mean,” Cameron said to him.

“But how could she have done it if you were all downstairs?” asked Matt.

“When she went to the loo,” said Paul. “We were drinking lots of wine.”

“Then you would have all gone to the loo at some point too?”

“Guess we did,” said Jamie. “I don’t remember.”

“And just to make this perfectly clear, the only people in the house were you three, plus Sonia and Jacko?”

“That’s right,” said Paul.

“Midnight snack anyone?” asked the large woman with a crew-cut who suddenly appeared at the top of the staircase that led to the mansion’s lower floors. “The doorbell woke me – twice! – so I gave up trying to sleep. I could warm up some cheese pockets if you like.”

“Oh, and Ms Vers,” said Cameron, “our cook and housekeeper. Danny, this is Matt Black, who’s going to solve the crime.”

“Good luck!” she said gruffly.

“And no-one else?” asked Matt.

“No-one,” said Jamie.

“Do you think I should check on Josef?” asked Ms Vers. “He looked shocking when he went to bed.”

“No,” said Cameron. “It’s the chemo. Best just to let him sleep.”

“Josef’s here?” asked Matt. “The butler?”

“But he’s sick,” said Jamie. “He couldn’t kill anyone.”

Matt sighed in exasperation. “Cameron, Paul, Jamie, Sonia, Jacko, Ms Vers and Josef. Can I ask again? Is that a complete list of people in the house this afternoon and evening?” “Yes!” “Absolutely!” “That’s it!” came the chorus of replies. Then Sonia appeared at the door. “They want us to wait here while the Forensics do their job. Then they’re going to interview us one by one.”

“I suppose you’ll be first, Cameron,” said Matt.

“Oh no,” replied Sonia. “First is the Chinaman they found hiding under Stephen and Cameron’s bed.”

So began the long night, mostly spent waiting. There must have been a murder at Bidwell (another one!) because it was after three when the Forensics team arrived – several expressionless characters of dramatically different body shapes but all seemingly wearing the same size white overalls, so they were baggy on the thin ones and button-popping on the fatties. They didn’t seem to stay long, and the suspects expected their interrogations to begin immediately – but they just sat there staring at each other for ages. “What I think this means is they’ve got their man,” said Matt. “You’re not going to need my services because the Chinese guy clearly did it.”

“No,” said Sonia, adamantly but without explanation, “that’s not true.”

It would have been five when Cameron was eventually called. After half an hour he returned, saying, “I told them my story, then asked if they’d arrested the Chinese man. They’re said they hadn’t but they’re holding him until they can check out his story. He’s very distraught. Apparently he came from the airport with Stephen to discuss their joint business venture, waited in the lounge while Stephen freshened up, then when he didn’t re-appear went looking for him. He found the body but thought the murderer still had to be in the house so hid under the bed.”

“But who can verify his story?” asked Matt.

“Well, Josef, it seems. He picked them up from the airport. But I told them he’s very sick so they’re going to let him wake up naturally.”

The Homicide detectives continued to question the rest of them individually, with Matt being the last. Not that he had much to tell them, except about the contract he’d signed.

“You’re fucking joking?” asked the biggest boof of the two.

“I’m not breaking any law,” Matt countered.

“If you get in our way – even once – we’ll charge you with obstruction, got that?”

When they checked later and found Matt had once been a policeman himself he might get more respect, although if they dug deeper and discovered why he’d left the force, maybe less.

Everyone had been interviewed (except Josef), the body removed, and they were told they could go to bed or go home, whichever applied, although they should leave their phones on in case they needed to be spoken to urgently.

“I want you boys back here by, say, three o’clock, for a post mortem,” said Sonia. “Sorry, wrong choice of words.”

Matt phoned for a cab and Jamie asked if he could hitch a ride.

“Do you live near Taylor Square?” Matt asked.

“Sort of, but I’m going to Phoenix day club. I’ll have a dance then take some hottie home.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Darl, I can’t tell you what having a television show does for your pulling powers. I’ll have my pick.”

Eventually sleep came for Matt, but it was shallow and restless, the kind one has when something unpleasant is going to happen as soon as one wakes up.

And that wasn’t returning to the murder mansion; it was what would occur in his own house, when he told Todd exactly what he’d signed on to.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

15. Jamiekins

TERE'd been disagreements, just as there was in any relationship – angry words, slammed doors, sulking, followed invariably by very hot make-up sex.

But this fight was in a different category altogether.

“How could you be so stupid?” his boyfriend shouted.

“Stupid? Well, I guess not all of us are university lecturers. But it’s my decision, Todd, and I’m the one who’ll live with the consequences.”

“That is so typical. We’re a couple, if you haven’t forgotten. My friends and work colleagues have met you. Now they’re going to see you in some dumb, sleazy reality show. What’s that going to do to my reputation? And what about Liv? The other kids have noticed you pick her up at the school gate. Did you consider for one moment the teasing and bullying you’re opening her up to? Really, your selfishness is breathtaking.”

“Liv loves the show. She’ll be thrilled and proud. No, you’re the one who’s afraid of being teased – by all your prissy, snooty friends who’ve never liked me and have been looking for an excuse to bitch since the day we met.”

“I thought you liked my friends.”

“Well, I don’t. They’re pretentious wankers.”

“As opposed to the menagerie of queens and freaks you say hello to every time we walk down Oxford Street. Second-rate show-offs, the lot of them. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’d revert to type.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“No, you fuck yourself. Bastard!”

“I’m not changing my mind. I’m doing this!”

“You know, school holidays start at the end of the week. Instead of Olivia staying with your mother I might take some leave and give her a proper holiday. We can go up to Buderim and stay with my parents. After a fortnight you might have come to your senses.”

“Do what you like. I won’t be around here much anyway.”

“And when I’m back we can review our situation.”

“‘Review our situation!’ Oooh – that sounds ominous.”

“Were you two fighting?” asked Olivia when they emerged from the bedroom.

“Of course not, honey,” said Todd. “We were just rehearsing a play.”

“Mummy and Daddy used to fight like that.”

“I know what, we’ll make your favorite for lunch, Liv. California sushi – how does that sound”

“Not for me,” said Matt defiantly. “I’m off to work.”

Sonia was the only one already at the mansion (except perhaps for Ms Vers and Josef, down in the bowels somewhere). Cameron had stayed the night at Paul’s, Jamie was probably still fucking, the Chinese man was presumably in police custody and Jacko had phoned to say his alarm hadn’t gone off. “It’s a big problem with this show,” she sighed. “Everyone’s so damned unpunctual. But we’ll make use of the delay by having a little tete-a-tete. I’ve been thinking about the future format for PGM. It seems certain we’ve got a definite number of suspects, since the police would have told us if the mansion’s security cameras had picked up an intruder. So we should focus on a different person each episode, with you doing a background check and coming up with a theory why they’re the one, then confronting them with it.”

“I’m not sure I can do the kind of detection I normally do with Jacko breathing down my neck.”

“Oh, we’ll fudge that somehow. Re-stage it later – get actors to play your sources then pixilate their faces. I’ll think of something.

“So who’s first?”

“Eeny meeny miny mo ... How about Jamie? He should be straightforward enough. Oh, I know he seems just a harmless little twink, but really, how could anyone so irritating not be a potential killer? All that hyper-activity, attention-seeking and sluttiness just has to hide a terrible secret. He doesn’t have a moral compass, acts first and thinks later, holds grudges – I tell, you, he’s Ivan Milat in leotards! Matt, it’ll be a breeze.”

Rather than express his reservations, Matt asked if there was any coffee going.

“Don’t ask me. Isn’t coffee that dreadful butch housekeeper’s job? Although you can’t blame her for making herself scarce. If the police think this murder’s catered they’ll be asking her to fry some donuts ... Oh look, here are the others.”

Cameron and Paul sauntered into the room. “Jamie’s just arrived too,” Cameron told them, “but he’s being a media whore – giving interviews to the news crews outside.”

“The murder’s going to be headline news on tonight’s bulletins,” said Sonia, “but I hope he doesn’t give too much away.”

“He’s not stupid,” said Paul. “He knows we’ve got to save the inside goss for the reality show. No, he’s just putting on a sad face and saying what a tragic loss it is.”

Eventually Jamie joined them, followed by Jacko, then later in the afternoon the Homicide detectives. They said that Josef had indeed picked up Liang Chin-ying with Stephen at the airport, so he’d been released after surrendering his passport. The cops’ plan for that Sunday was to interview everyone again, and more thoroughly, with the hope that some important detail would be remembered the second time around (or, thought Matt, that someone’s first story would contradict their second).

Sonia decided Jacko could film Paul and Jamie comforting Cameron in his loss. “If you can’t manage the real thing I’ve got some tear-gel in my bag,” she said. That gave Matt some time to start his investigation into Jamie’s past. He went down the corridor to Stephen’s office, sat on the chesterfield and got his iPad and a handful of index cards out of his backpack.

Even without Bryce’s assistance hacking into the murky outer limits of cyberspace, Matt was able to find out an awful lot about Jamie. Although, unlike Cameron, Jamie hadn’t changed his name or hidden where he was from; quite the opposite in fact, for a quick Google led to Facebook (with loads of information on his profile page), plus several professional dance sites, including his agent’s, which verified his biographical details. Then there was his Facebook Timeline, with a new post about every half hour, a blog, and even a fan website some girl in Seoul had set up when he was touring there with Wicked and still regularly updated. Finally, there were profiles on Gaydar, Manhunt and Grndr. It was if he was as chatty, indiscrete and indeed promiscuous online as he was in person, for fairly soon Matt had filled in all his notecards, with information as diverse as his dentist’s name (Dr Sherson) to his cock size (22 centimetres).

Jamie Sunshine Wheeler-Dyson was born on a hippie commune near Nimbin in northern New South Wales on the 7th of March, 1990. His parents were Karen Wheeler and Ian Dyson, and he was the youngest of seven children. Karen was a alternative healer, using crystals and other semi-precious stones to realign the human body to the planet’s deep and abiding rhythms, and Ian a “horticulturalist”, specialising in organic hemp. Jamie was home-schooled by other members of the commune, but showed particular aptitude at dance, leading to a scholarship at the Australian Ballet School then regular work in musical theatre. He was still close to his family, had eight hundred and eleven Facebook friends, although so far not one steady boyfriend. The saddest thing that had happened in his life was the death of a childhood pet, and the best thing – by far, according to his blog – was six months ago, a short break in Kauai with his best friend Cameron.

It was not the biography of a psycho killer. Sonia had been wrong. After the police had left and they were all about to call it a day Matt took her aside and told her so.

“Shitty-poo! If we’re aiming for riveting television then every one of our eight suspects has to have a proper motive. I know you’re being rushed but time’s not on our side – we’ve got a fortnight to wrap this thing up, not just because of the budget but to make sure we beat the police. Jacko’s filming you and Jamie tomorrow afternoon and you’ve got to have something to accuse him with. Jamiekins can’t be that spotless! Just go over the facts again and make sure there’s nothing you’ve missed. Don’t let me down, okay?”

Heading straight home wasn’t that attractive a prospect, so he stopped at the Oxford for a drink. There was no-one there he recognised but it was nice to sit on a stool in a dim corner and do what he’d been told to. His first impression of Sonia had been a ridiculous flake, but now that he’d stepped into her world he was starting to, if not respect, then at least acknowledge her authority and persistence. As a reality television producer she was the zeitgeist – who wouldn’t be slightly in her thrall? Of course he knew she was challenging his professionalism, but if that meant going over the facts more rigorously, or even looking at them in different way, so be it. He’d use his imagination, take inspiration from wherever – Freud? Agatha Christie? – then give Sonia exactly what she wanted. He’d turn Jamie into a killer!

Actually, after his third vodka, it wasn’t so difficult. With the more salient of the index cards arranged in front of him a darker theme to Jamie’s life did begin to emerge. It was as if it was hiding in plain sight all the time, just as Sonia had intimated. He might have to shake out a few more details in the interview but there was definitely signs of aberrant psychology – plus possible motive. As he stumbled across Taylor Square, Matt couldn’t help thinking: did this mean that all of us were potential killers? If you looked long and hard enough would you even find something sinister about Mother Teresa?

He slipped into his side of the bed. Todd was snoring gently, not even right over on his side but halfway to the centre – still, it felt as if the Pacific Ocean separated them, or rather the Atlantic, a colder stretch of water, one with icebergs. Eventually Matt fell asleep, and when he woke it was light and Todd was gone from the bed, from the apartment too, off to work after dropping Olivia at school.

It took a while to set up the shoot. Matt and Jamie were sitting informally on the big sofa in the mansion’s living-room, but it was a sunny day and the shimmer from the harbour was playing on the camera lens. Eventually the drapes were pulled across to just the right point and Sonia whispered in Matt’s ear, “Time to suck him in and spit him out, got it?” before backing away and nodding to Jocko to start filming.

“You had an unconventional childhood, Jamie. Your parents were hippies and you never went to school. Can you talk about that?” Matt asked.

“Just lucky, I guess. The commune was in the most beautiful valley, with rainforest and waterfalls. Almost every day we saw a rainbow. Us kids were so free – we could express ourselves without judgement or discipline or any other boring restriction. I was dancing as soon as I was walking – ”

“How old were you when your mother stopped breastfeeding you?”

“What? How do you know about that?”

“There were hints on your blog. So how old?”

“I was nine.”

“Do you think that’s the reason you’ve never grown up? Why you don’t take responsibility for your actions?”

“NO! She was boosting my immune system in case I ever left the commune. She was a good mother ... I was her last baby ... and – ”

“She smoked dope all that time, didn’t she?”

“Organic marijuana!”

“Was the LSD organic too?”

“Can we stop this, Sonia?” cried Jamie. “I don’t want Mum to get arrested.”

“You signed a contract,” Sonia whispered from the sideline. “Read the fine print.”

“Tell me about the magic unicorn?” Matt continued.

“I guess I put that on my blog too?”

Matt nodded. “I think it’s important, Jamie. What happened?”

“Well, we had to share everything, all our toys and pets. But an exception was made for Willow, a girl my age who was a little backward. She desperately wanted a horse so they got her a little Shetland pony. It was so cute – and I was so jealous, because I’d wanted my own pet too, a magic unicorn. Anyway, every Friday Willow went off to the special school in town and one time she was away I ‘borrowed’ her pony, tied a cardboard horn on its nose and pretended it was mine. Except it panicked, and because it couldn’t see with the horn went charging over a cliff. Willow was upset but my Mum explained it wasn’t my fault, that accidents just happen.”

“It was your fault, Jamie.”

“No, shame and blame are how society controls people.” But Jamie wiped away a guilty tear nonetheless.

“It was the same this time, wasn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“You wanted what Cameron had, a rich husband. Perhaps you even wanted Stephen Eckersley himself. Did you make a pass then get rejected? Or did the envy just build to a point where you had to lash out, simply because you’ve never learnt how to limit your emotions? You just couldn’t bear that your best friend had something you didn’t; that’s why you killed Stephen. You were listening for him returning from overseas, then you crept away from the others and attacked him in the bedroom.”

“You’re right,” hissed Jamie. “I hated that fucking rich-lister. I wanted to kill him every time I saw him. Except ... except –”

“Yes?” asked Matt expectantly.

“I didn’t!”

Then he convulsed in primal sobbing. Jacko kept filming until Sonia eventually called “Cut!’

Next she took Matt aside. “Fabby!” she whispered. “Do that every time and we’ve got a hit.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

16. Master Paul

IT'S such a dilemma,” said Bryce, clicking away at his keyboard. “Dietmar and I talk about gay marriage all the time, but only in an abstract way. I know he’d love to do it, and I definitely would, but we’re both so soppy we’d want everything to be perfect, including the proposal. You know, a romantic dinner, a moonlit walk along the beach, a big diamond ring hidden somewhere unexpected, one of us on our knees ... The problem is who's proposed to and who’s on his knees?”

“Well, who usually is?”

“This is serious, Matt. If I go ahead and propose to him, will he be upset because he’d wanted to ask me? And is he not proposing to me for the same reason, that he’s afraid of looking selfish by grabbing the best role for himself?”

“Best role? The proposer has to buy the ring.”

“And I just thought of something – there has to be two rings anyway, so that makes it even more confusing.”

“You’ve got to discuss it. You could still have all the romantic shit but both be on your knees, with two rings.”

“But who starts the discussion? God, it’s a nightmare forging new traditions – ”

“Bryce! Just shut up and concentrate on what I asked you to do, eh?”

“I’m concentrating. Police records are a cinch to hack anyway ... Yeah, here it is: Stephen Eckersley’s autopsy report. Want me to print it off?”

“Please. Then I want you to find out what you can about Paul Varjack. He’s the next one I’ve got to accuse of murder, and he’s a lot more private than the last guy. All I could find was his Facebook page, and he only has seven friends and doesn’t seem to post.”

“Better give me some time for that. Want to come back in an hour or so?”

“I’ll have a coffee at Belgenny and study this report.”

Matt had seen numerous such documents during his years as a policeman and knew how to search for the salient points amongst the mass of medical jargon and scientific twaddle. There was a whole page on the contents of Eckersley’s stomach (which probably accorded with his chartered jet's fancy menu) and three on what was or wasn’t in his bloodstream (a small amount of alcohol but no drugs or poisons). His health at the time of death was actually very good, no sign of heart or other disease, so the report’s conclusion was that his demise was wholly due to enforced asphyxia, evidenced by cellular lung trauma and more significantly by the narrow line of contusion and bruising on his neck. In other words – he’d been garrotted!

Guns, knives and fists were Sydney’s weapons du jour, but there was a lot to be said for a piece of wire or fishing-line, even a guitar string, thought Matt. Of course one had to have a certain physical strength to hold it tight while the victim was struggling below, but it wasn’t loud or messy, and there was no sizable piece of evidence to dispose of afterwards. It suddenly made sense why the homicide squad had been searching the mansion so meticulously, although, if their general bad-temperedness was any indication, without yet finding a little roll of wire or cord.

“How did you get on with Mr Varjack?” Matt asked Bryce.

“Fine,” the helpful bear replied. “You know he’s a sex-worker?”

“Well, I knew he did a bit of that when he was a student in Melbourne – but still?”

Bryce raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah.”

“Through an agency?”

“Nah, all by his lonesome. Wanna see his website?”

It wasn’t a do-it yourself job; Paul had used a design team that specialised in luxury brands. It was all gold and black with arty, slightly-out-of-focus photographs. Still, it was obviously him ... Except, he wasn’t Paul Varjack, just Master Paul, and he was wearing a leather harness and holding a riding crop!

“He’s doing BDSM?” asked Matt.

“Yes, but look at his web address.”

“athousandshadesofgrey.com.au?”

“And read the copy on the homepage.”

“Master Paul provides discreet erotic discipline for the successful modern woman ... WOMAN!”

“Maybe he’s bisexual?”

“He’s a dancer in musical theatre!”

“Then it looks like he’s going where the money is,” shrugged Bryce.

“Cashing in on that mucky e-book. God, he really is a whore.”

“You know what I think? If you find his address book there’ll be some rich woman’s name in there who’ll lead you to a motive for his killing Eckersley.”

Over at Wolseley Avenue it was the usual chaos. The paparazzi seemed to be growing in number rather than falling away, while inside the mansion all the suspects were present (except Liang Chin-ying), a couple of detectives, several Phillipinas with vacuum cleaners, mops and dusters, plus a couple of wholly unexpected arrivals, two small scruffy terriers yapping and scampering madly.

Matt looked at Sonia for an explanation.

“Well, it’s a big house and Ms Vers can’t clean it all. And she doesn’t ever do bathrooms, apparently. Tuesday’s when the outside team comes in.”

“I meant the dogs.”

“Oh, aren’t they gorgeous? I just had a brainwave last night. Look, you did a great job with implicating Jamie, and fingers crossed you’ll deliver with the others. But reality’s a tricky medium; the murder’s our main storyline but we need a couple of other things going on to lighten the mood. I picked these up at the pound this morning but we’ll pretend Cameron got them himself to relieve his grief. They come from an abusive background and apparently have major behavioural issues so we should get lots of laughs out of them. Everything good with you?”

“I’ve got a strong lead on Paul.”

“Good-o. You’ve got until this time tomorrow to nail him. Oh look, they’ve got into the garbage. What a mess! Jacko, you filming this?”

Actually the dogs were such a constant diversion that Matt had no problem in rifling through Paul’s backpack, finding a diary rather than an address book, retreating into Stephen’s office, locking the door, then examining it closely. It was a sturdy leather-bound appointment diary, although that far into the year looked a tad worse for wear; several pages were either partly or wholly torn out and there were coffee-stains and doodles everywhere. Hairdresser and doctor appointments were scribbled in, plus the occasional shopping-list, but it soon became clear the book’s main purpose was to record Master Paul’s sex sessions – blue ink for client’s name, address and fee advised, and red ink for notes afterwards, usually the client’s preferences, plus actual payment which was always more than the first figure (presumably because of a tip). Matt wasn’t so much shocked by the preferences (hot wax, rope, re-enact scene in Chapter X, etc) as the money involved. He now understood why Paul’s business was A Thousand Shades of Grey because a grand was the basic fee for an hour’s work, with the tips usually equal to or even more than that.

So who were the women involved? And did one of them have a link to Eckersley? Matt started by writing each name and details on an index card. In half an hour he’d finished the tally – there were eleven clients, perhaps less than he’d originally imagined, but some of the women had seen Paul several times, and the money he’d been paid added up to just over sixty thousand dollars. For a couple of hours a week over eight months that was pretty impressive. It wasn’t just about re-enacting scenes from a bestseller; he obviously gave the rich women genuine satisfaction. The Master was masterly!

Of course he couldn’t phone them to discuss it. They’d hang up immediately, then set their lawyers on to him (and Paul too). No, after he replaced the diary in Paul’s backpack all he could do was Google the women to see if any anomalies or coincidences emerged. It was a long and tedious process, as all had prominent careers (or husbands or fathers who did) and there were lots of mentions in the press, not just to do with business but charity, arts patronage and Sydney’s A-list social scene. By five o’clock his eyes were sore and he had a bit of a headache, yet he was only halfway through and without much to show for it. Both sides of the index cards of the women he’d examined were covered with myriad information but none of it related in any obvious way to Stephen Eckersley.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Matt opened it to find Cameron standing there forlornly.

“Wondered where you’d got to. Doing your investigations, I suppose. Mind if I come in for a while? Those dogs are driving me crazy. One of them just shat on the Missoni rug. Plus all the rest of them are getting to me too. Sonia and Danny just had words.”

“Who came out best?”

“Danny of course. No-one sane takes her on.”

“I could do with a break as well. Come in.”

“There’s some Johnny Walker in here somewhere,” said Cameron, opening a desk drawer. Pouring each of them a glass, he joined Matt on the chesterfield.

“How are you holding up?” asked Matt.

“Okay, I guess. I thought that continuing filming, having lots of people in the house, would be a good thing, but now I’m not so sure. The more noise, the more emptiness, if that makes sense.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“The cops have released the body so Friday, I think. Josef’s arranging everything. I’m too all over the place.”

“My dad died this year,” said Matt. “It knocks you around. But you just have to go on like normal until it is all normal again.”

“My problem is I’ve never had a clue what ‘normal’ means,” sighed Cameron. “Can I ask you for something?”

“Sure?”

“Can you just hold me for a while?”

Matt put his Scotch on the floor, moved along the sofa and put his arms around the younger man. The hug lasted a long time. Matt thought a tear or two might have rolled down Cameron’s cheek but there was no sobbing, no noise or movement at all in fact. Now it was a case of the more stillness, the more significance, for Matt knew this physical intimacy was exactly what Cameron craved.

Except suddenly he was aware of something sharp pressing into his stomach. Cameron had a hard-on! And the realisation meant Matt got instantly hard himself. It was utterly inappropriate – and in a moment they were apart, and Cameron was on his feet, straightening himself and out the door.

Matt got home about midnight, slid into his side of the bed but once again couldn’t sleep. He’d filled in all the index cards but hadn’t found what he’d been looking for, and now all the details of Paul’s clients’ lives replayed in his brain, a hellish schedule of power breakfasts, board meetings, Chiswick lunches, gallery openings and opera first nights. Finally, as it had to, the rehash stalled. Yes, of course, that was it, the important overlooked fact, the link between money, the Master and murder.

“I’ll just hit him with the facts,” Matt told Sonia before filming began. “I’ll be naming names but you and the network’s lawyers can decide what to beep out before it’s broadcast.”

“Whatever,” she replied. “As long as you wipe the floor with him I’ll be happy.”

Matt began by asking Paul about his escort business. Although guarded, Paul tried to present a picture of himself as a struggling artist who needed to support his love of dance. “If I can bring pleasure to women and get paid for it, what’s the harm?” he said cockily.

“By ‘pleasure’ you really mean pain, don’t you?”

“They are often the same. I give my ladies what they want.”

Then Matt managed to get Paul to describe some of the tricks in his BDSM repertoire (Sonia and her viewers would love that, he thought). And just as he was talking about slip-knots, Matt caught him off guard.

“Is one of your clients Emily Failenson?”

“I couldn’t possibly – “

“Daughter of Lord Failenson, the English business magnate?”

“Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll explain. Lord Failenson led the rival bid for the privatisation of the London Underground. He’d lost most of his fortune in the GFC but this was his plan to get it all back again, and at eighty-three probably his last chance, his final winning deal. Except Stephen Eckersley spoilt all that. He snuck in first and made a fool of the old man. So humiliated was he in fact that he killed himself, jumped off Waterloo Bridge at low tide. When his daughter Emily found out you knew Eckersley she offered you money to kill him, didn’t she?”

Paul’s suave, cocky expression was replaced by ashen shock.

“How much was it? Twenty thousand? Fifty? A hundred? You’ll do anything if the money’s right – why not murder? I even know how you did it. You garrotted him with one of your special silken ropes, then you hid the murder weapon by shoving it up your dancer’s butt. All your lovely taut arse muscles kept it in place until you got home.”

Paul just sat there, furious.

Matt looked at Sonia until she eventually clicked her bejewelled fingers. “Oi, Paul, give us a reaction.”

“What do you want me to say? It’s a brilliant theory but you don’t have any proof. Emily won’t talk to you and I’m denying everything.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

17. Housekeeper from Hell

AS soon as this is all over, I’m firing her. Haven’t you noticed there’s no contact between us? We don’t talk — we don’t even look at each other. If I want something done I go through Josef. I realised about a fortnight after moving in here that was the only way to survive. She was such a bitch to me but I knew I wouldn’t win if I started playing the same nasty games, so I just decided to ignore her completely, and pretty soon she did the same to me.”

It was Thursday morning and Matt had just started his investigation of the next name on the suspect list — Ms Danny Vers, the housekeeper — by inviting Cameron into the study for a private discussion about her. After their last meeting in that room the chesterfield was being avoided: Matt was behind the desk and Cameron was pacing with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Sonia wasn’t real happy with my confrontation with Paul,” said Matt, “so I have to come up with some dynamite on Ms Vers.”

“Well, Paul is a tough nut, which you’d think would better qualify him as the murderer, but we all know what Sonia wants: humiliation and a messy breakdown like Jamie’s because that makes good reality television. But you’ve got a challenge in front of you — Danny’s an even tougher nut.”

“Why didn’t you tell Stephen about her nastiness?”

“I tried but he didn’t want to know. The two of them went back too far for him to ever let her go. She could get away with murder — oops, bad choice of words.”

“Well, maybe she could, even his,” sighed Matt. “Tell me about the games she played?”

“At the start it was just attitude. I mean, this is modern Sydney, not Downton Abbey! Nothing wrong with being efficient, but she was so damned formal — to the point of unfriendliness really. She never laughed at my jokes, let alone made one herself, and all the while there was this look — like I was some troublesome bathroom mould she hadn’t worked out how to get rid of yet. Then, when Stephen was away on a trip, it all got a bit mental. She had to be following me around the house because she started suddenly appearing and saying these things that were meant to put me in my place. I was in the kitchen pouring a glass of water and she stepped out from behind the fridge and said, ‘Please be careful with that glass. It was a wedding present for Stephen and Bec. Best to use one of the cheap ones.’ Or I was reading DNA on the sofa when she loomed up from behind and said, ‘You won’t leave that filthy mag lying around, will you? It’ll upset the Phillipinas.’ The big no-no was rearranging the furniture: the interiors had been designed by professionals so everything had to stay where it was. The funny thing is that I did start to feel like my taste was dodgy, that I was a piece of shit that had somehow got into the palace. Finally, I was upstairs in the turret watching the QEII leave the harbour when she crept up behind and said, ‘It’s a long way down to the ground from up here. Just think, if you jumped it would all be over. All the rubbish in your life gone. There’d just be blissful nothing!’”

“Spooky! What did you do?”

“As I said, from that point I froze her out.”

“I’ve Googled but there’s mention of Danielle Vers. Do you know anything of her background?”

“Mmm, just a few hints from Stephen. He inherited her from his parents, after they moved out of the house in Telegraph Road into a retirement village. She got on very well with Stephen’s wife but not well enough to go with her after the divorce. But Stephen never talked much about his heterosexual marriage.”

“Is his ex-wife still around? Is Danny still in contact with her?”

“Rebecca went back to New Zealand so I doubt it. And Danny doesn’t seem to have any kind of social life. She plays golf at Royal Sydney on her day off but that’s about it. Look, I better go because Josef wants to check through the funeral details again.”

“Just one thing — when is her day off?”

“Thursday, actually. Today.”

“Would she have gone yet?”

“She usually plays in the afternoon.”

Matt quickly found Sonia and asked her to borrow Jacko and the production van to follow Danny and get some telephoto lens footage of her on the golf course, or perhaps something even more dastardly like sitting for hours at the club’s poker machines. “Okay,” the producer agreed, “so much is being filmed inside these four walls I’m worried Big Brother will sue for copyright. You don’t want to take the dogs with you, do you? Release them just as Butch is teeing off? That should get a few laughs.” Matt declined, on the basis the terriers might disturb a possible secret meeting with an outside accomplice.

So they hid behind a hedge until Danny packed her golf clubs into the back of her Subaru Forester, motored up the driveway and out the estate, then Matt and Jacko exited through a side gate, ran up Wolseley Road to where the van was parked, jumped in it and sped off towards New South Head Road. The made it just as the lights changed to green and Danny turned — not left, as expected, but right!

Very soon she was entering the cross-city tunnel, with Matt keeping a reasonable and unsuspicious distance behind while Jacko filmed as seriously as if he was working on one of the Bourne movies. Actually the analogy wasn’t such a wild one, thought Matt. She might have somewhere else to go like the dentist before she back-tracked to Royal Sydney, or she might have been playing golf in the west, but he just had the strongest instinct the weekly game was a total fiction — she was off to a regular appointment but something completely different. The woman had a secret and Matt had his lead!

The road trip from central Sydney to the outer west is not one of the great journeys of the world. After fifteen minutes, having filmed the back of enough trucks, Jacko turned his camera off. Danny was a sensible driver, always under the speed limit so easy enough to follow, but on and on they went, past Parramatta, Cabramatta and Whatsitmatta, until finally she turned into the parking lot of a supremely suburban shopping centre.

“Eagle Vale Market Town,” Matt read the sign. “She couldn’t come out here to buy the groceries, could she?”

When she emerged from Woolworths twenty minutes later with a laden shopping trolley that seemed to be the case. But after loading the car she kept heading west, although not too far, soon parking in the driveway of a townhouse in Claymore. It was a public housing estate and reminded Matt very much of Bolton Point, the Newcastle suburb where Matt had met Cameron’s mother a year of so before. Even the house was a bit like hers: not trashed like so many of the neighbours’, but not particularly well kept either, just a roof over somebody’s head, no more than that.

Danny made three trips back and forth with the plastic bags of groceries (a week’s supplies for two or three people, Matt calculated). Jacko filmed it all, although disappointingly no-one else came out to help. Plus on every window the curtains were drawn and the blinds down, so there were no glimpses of who was inside.

“I hope she’s not long,” said Jacko. “When I was working on the news I came out here to film a riot. Ended up having bottles thrown at me too.”

His wish was granted. After less than half an hour Danny re-emerged, got into and the Subaru and headed back to the city. The traffic was heavier now and they ended up standing still a couple of times. Jacko wasn’t much of a talker, plus he had a rather disconcerting physical presence — or, in other words, he was an extremely hot guy not wearing quite enough deodorant and sitting a bit too close. Matt hadn’t had sex for more than a week and the pheromones started getting to him — but one sure way to calm him down was to think about Danny.

She’d been an evil bitch to Cameron but her reasons weren’t that obvious. Had she been in love with Rebecca? Was she just plain nasty? Or mad? Or was there some other reason?

“I won’t go back to the mansion,” Matt said. “I can work at home, so I’ll get off at Taylor Square and you can drive the van back.”

“Sweet,” the cameraman obliged.

“We still haven’t had the discussion,” said Bryce as soon as Matt entered his apartment. “You know, about how Dietmar and I propose to each other. I’m so nervous I’m off my food, well, morning tea — ”

“Sorry, can’t chat,” Matt said impatiently. “I want you to find out something for me. Who lives at a particular address and something I should have looked at days ago, what’s in Stephen Eckersley’s latest will?”

By seven o’clock Matt had what he wanted. He thought of going for a long walk, having a meal out by himself, killing time until Todd and Olivia were in bed, but it was the night before they were leaving for their holiday in Buderim and his sense of decency told him to go upstairs and spend some time with his niece — and his boyfriend! — before not seeing them again for a couple of weeks. Olivia was thrilled when he opened the door but Todd had a look on his face Matt would have had to make a list to describe: surprise first of all, then residual anger (a lot of that), but also — could it be? — joy? desire? forgiveness?

The two men played it cool, with no mention of the reality television series. Todd cooked a delicious dinner on which Matt complimented him; Matt helped Olivia pack her bag; then all of them went to bed. Matt and Todd didn’t fuck but Matt spooned Todd until he fell asleep, when he gently pulled away and lay wide awake on his side of the bed putting all the pieces of Danny’s puzzle together. As usually happened, the last piece clicked into place about three a.m.

Thursday afternoon, after making sure lighting and sound were right in the living-room, Sonia used the mansion’s intercom to summon Ms Vers from downstairs in the kitchen.

“Yes?” she asked through pursed lips.

“It’s your turn, doll,” Sonia replied. “Just sit there on the couch and Matt’ll ask you some questions.”

“And what if I don’t want to be asked some questions?”

Sonia smiled patronisingly. She’d lost every skirmish so far with Danny but she intent on not losing this one. “You signed a contract, luvvy.”

“I signed that contract because Mr Eckersley asked me to. But’s he’s dead, inn’t he?”

“Yes, but the contract’s not. And if you don’t fulfil your legal requirements the network’s lawyers will come after you like there’s no tomorrow. So sit down, all right?”

Ms Vers stood with her arms folded across her chest. She was a mountain of a woman and there was a sense that any moment she might explode volcanically. Instead she suddenly shrugged, sat down hard on the sofa and said, “It’s just some crummy telly show anyway. Ask your flippin’ questions.”

Sonia winked at Matt, as if to say, “Go get her.”

But, given what he’d worked out, Matt wasn’t sure that was going to happen.

“Ms Vers,” Matt began, “please describe your exercise routine.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is that the best you can up with? Who’d be interested in my push-ups and such.”

“It’s more than just push-ups, isn’t it? You use the mansion’s gym every day, isn’t that right?”

“So what? Mr Eckersley okayed it.”

“And you do more than just push-ups. You use the free weights, routinely lifting a hundred kilos above your head.”

“A chap’s got to keep in good nick. I’ve a very physical job, you know. Had to move one of those large pots on the terrace last week. Ants had made a nest underneath.”

“So you clearly have the strength to strangle someone?”

“Mr Eckersley, you mean? That’s bleedin’ nuts. Why’d I want to do that?”

“Because he was about to change his will, leaving almost everything to Cameron. There was still going to be something for you but a pittance compared to what’s in the current will. What happened? Did you find a draft or did you just know this would happen after your plan to drive Cameron out failed? You even tried to push the boy to suicide — but you miscalculated there too. I’ve heard you described as the toughest nut in this house but you’d finally met your match — no-one’s tougher than Cameron. And as much as Stephen pretended not to be interested, he’d noted your behaviour and come to see you in a different light, not the faithful housekeeper but a real nasty piece of work. His decades-long fondness had cooled — perhaps he was even thinking of letting you go.”

“Bulldust. I couldn’t care less about Mr E’s money. I’m not the type for diamonds and furs.”

“No, but it means a lot to your mother and brother.”

Ms Vers tensed up. “You leave them out of this. They’re none of your business.”

“My business is to uncover all the secrets in this house. Ironically Stephen probably didn’t even know you had a family, but they were the motive for you killing him, weren’t they? They were your motive for everything you ever did.”

“How’d you figure that? I hardly ever see them.”

“You visit every Thursday afternoon when you’re supposed to be playing golf. There’s no point denying it, Ms Vers. I know everything. Your younger brother was born with Fragile X Syndrome — he’s at the extreme end of the autism spectrum. Your parents have cared for him his whole life, but your father died unexpectedly in 2007 and now your mother is finding the job too hard. You always thought that when your brother eventually went into some quality care facility you’d have Stephen’s inheritance to cover the costs, or if he hadn’t died you could ask him for an advance against it. But you messed up. Not only had your relationship with you life-long employer deteriorated but it looked like your brother was going to need assistance earlier than you’d planned. You’d been backed into a corner — but killing Stephen before he changed his will solved everything.”

Ms Vers relaxed back into the softness of the expensive Italian sofa. “Couldn’t look after Petie myself, you know. Just wasn’t built that way. But I love the little fellow ... You don’t know what it was like in this place. Gay marriage, gay marriage, gay marriage, that’s all that was ever talked about. Then it was rah-rah-rah when the legislation got passed in Parliament. Meanwhile the Disablility Support Scheme gets pushed further into the background. It’ll never happen, well, not so it’ll help the Vers. There, those the answers you wanted?”

“Are you admitting you did it?”

“Of course not. But I had good enough reason, eh?” She stood and with great dignity walked away.

“Hold on!” called out Sonia. “That’s not what we want. You can’t be sympathetic. Come back here and be your usual horrible self.”

“Sorry, Sonia,” said Matt. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

18. Eckersley’s Wake

IT was just after midnight, meaning they’d been drinking steadily for over eight hours. Things were winding down for some (Sonia had passed out on the exact spot on the sofa where each suspect sat to be filmed during their interrogation, and Danny and Josef had finally stumbled downstairs) but winding up for others (all the boys, in fact — Cameron, Matt, Paul Varjack, Jamie and Jacko — who’d done a few lines of the best cocaine the eastern suburbs of Sydney could provide and were moving the party on to a whole new level).

“Put some music on,” said Cameron. “Rihanna! I want to dance.”

“Yeah!” screeched Jamie. “So do I.”

They tried to pull Matt up too, but he remembered the stories he’d been told about how their little gang used to get together at Melbourne’s Orange late every Saturday night and danced so well and looked so hot everyone else would leave the floor to watch. Jacko had no such reference — and it probably wouldn’t have mattered if he did since he was the most fucked up of anyone — and was soon jumping around on the mansion’s marble floor too. He was a cute guy but not much of a dancer, although that just showed up how skilled the others were. Not that they excluded him, taking turns to partner him and even trying to teach him a few sexy moves, but eventually he accepted the inevitable and stood in the middle like some sort of man-prop while the others just wove their magic around him.

It was an extraordinary show. Perhaps this is what happened, thought Matt, when dancers know each other for years, when they’ve gone to classes together, performed professionally together, and, as they were doing now, let off steam together. There was an ease and intimacy that infused every movement, so that very soon Matt stopped seeing three individuals, even three dancers, and started instead to appreciate the dance, the deep, dark rhythm of the planet, the connection between mankind and time and space ... Well, Matt was pretty whacked himself.

Eventually Cameron spun away from the others and flopped down next to Matt, bumping the comatose Sonia slightly out of the way. “I buried my husband today,” he said. “How mental is that?”

“Yes, he would have been your husband soon,” said Matt. “There’s no reason you wouldn’t have married him. I’m sorry, Cameron.”

“I did love him, Matt.”

“I know.”

“What did you think of the funeral?”

“It was fine. Stephen was properly honoured, and that was reflected on tonight’s news reports, as well undoubtedly in all the footage Jacko captured —”

“I hated it!” Cameron hissed.

“Why?”

“They just looked through me, all those politicians and mining magnates and famous people. As if I was some dumb trophy wife they’ll never have to have anything to do with ever again.”

“Some of them offered their condolences. Malcolm Turnbull shook your hand, didn’t he? And Ita Buttrose gave you a hug. Even the rich and famous can have compassion. Don’t be so hard on them — or on yourself. You’ll survive this tragedy and after Perfect Gay Marriage is a hit you’ll get other television work. You’ll be a proper somebody too one day, Cam.”

“You just don’t get it — and you’re the one person who should, Matt. I could have made it, sure, but only with Stephen’s protection. He didn’t know about my past but after we’d married, if he’d found out he would have stood by me, I’m sure. He wouldn’t have been happy but he would have wanted to protect his own reputation as much as anything, so would have used all his power and influence to keep it out of the media. Now that security’s gone, and it’s as if all those A-listers today know. They know I’ll never get anywhere without Stephen, and — I could just feel it — they know I’m a white trash whore from Bolton Point.”

“Fuck them! Half of them probably have backgrounds just as humble. This is Sydney, started by convicts, the most socially mobile city in the world. And you’ve got something now a lot of them don’t — money. Loads of it!”

“Yeah, but what happens when they find out about my mad mum and my junkie sister — and sucking dick at Kev’s Kavern?”

“Cam, it doesn’t matter any more. What’s to lose? Maybe you should just come out and be done with it. It’s the truth, after all. Turn into the second series of your reality series.”

“But I don’t want it to be the truth!” The boy wiped a tear from his eye — although Matt wasn’t going to risk a hug this time. If there were erections, they were both so wired they might not resist moving it to the bedroom. And sleeping with the widow after the wake was probably even too Orton-esque for Joe Orton!

“Hey,” said Matt, changing the subject, “where are the others?”

Rihanna was still singing her heart out but the makeshift dance-floor was empty.

“They’ll have got him,” said Cameron.

“Jacko? Isn’t he straight?”

“So what? Jamie and Paul have been planning this for weeks. Come on, let’s take a peek.”

Cameron grabbed Matt’s hand and led him down the corridor. Pushing the door of the home office slightly they glimpsed an extraordinary tableau. Jacko was slumped on the chesterfield with his eyes shut, his shirt unbuttoned and his jeans and undies down around his ankles. Paul Varjack was having a wild old time slurping Jacko’s cock while furiously slapping his ball sack and Jamie was sucking on his tits like some demented calf.

Cameron started giggling and Matt pulled him away. “I’d better go home,” Matt said back in the living-room. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll have a valium and go to bed. See you tomorrow?”

“No, it’s a day off. Sonia’s had some good sense about the schedule for a change. I’m back over on Sunday to film my next interrogation — Jacko actually. Another cameraman from the network’s going to do it. I just hope he’s still in one piece by then ...”

The cab dropped Matt outside the the Courthouse Hotel. Three a.m. Friday night, peak hour in Taylor Square, and he stood for a while taking in the apocalyptic scene: hordes of drunken gen-y’ers, straight and gay, working out whether they could afford to move on to another pub, club or wine-bar, or should just call it a night and head back to their bedrooms in their parents’ suburban homes; older gays from the Oxford definitely heading home, although probably not far — an apartment in Surry Hills or a dinky terrace in Redfern; a couple of drag queens moving quickly from Stonewall to Arq; several homeless where they were any hour of the day, slumped outside 24/7 Convenience Store; hoons in souped-up cars calling out abuse as they sped down Oxford Street; even horsemen (not four, just two, in police uniforms).

He was very high and very randy. The scene on the chesterfield was stamped on his brain. It was a porno image, but real and therefore much more potent. And his conversation with Cameron was so intimate as to be unsettling, in a weird, deep and indubiously sexual way. Matt hadn’t been with another man since Todd had moved in a year — or more— before, simply because he hadn’t wanted that, but suddenly everything seemed different. The big fight had opened a window, for really it was about so much more than the actual argument — their separate attitudes to the world, and most specifically to relationships. What they had was very nice but when forced to think about it, did Matt really want to commit to Todd one hundred percent for the rest of his life? At that very moment, standing in the middle of what wasn’t a Square but a crazy triangle, he was certain it wasn’t. The most important fact of all was Todd wasn’t there. He was eight hundred kilometres away — the sense of distance was almost tangible. Matt could just head off to Signal or Bodyline and scratch his nasty itch ... No-one would know, it wouldn’t matter, the sun would still come up in the morning just as it always did.

But something held him back. For the first time in his life he stepped away from the moment, and decided to think about it all again when he was sober. Perhaps the stakes were higher this time, or perhaps he was older, but the craving for sex with a stranger or three didn’t outweigh the sure knowledge that when the sun did come up he’d have an amyl headache and the feeling he’d just made everything worse. If he was going to cheat on Todd in the next few weeks he had to do it when fully cognisant, not off his tree like now.

So he pointed himself towards home and started walking as purposefully as he could manage. The lights at the Serafim’s Pharmacy pedestrian crossing was red but that never meant anything to anyone. As Matt started to cross, however, a big, scary motorbike swung out of nowhere, and as it passed behind him the driver swung a metre-long metal pipe so it would connect with his head.

Just like that time before!

Except maybe Matt was wobbling a bit, or the driver’s aim was off, because the pipe missed him completely. The bike sped off and Matt turned around to find someone who’d seen it, but even though there were a hundred people nearby all were so focused on their own dramas they’d missed the split-second incident. Should he go to the cops? Not in his current state. Best just to continue home.

It took a while to fall asleep, although that wasn’t so different to any other night lately. Except this time he wasn’t regurgitating one of his suspect’s secrets, just everything that had gone down the night of Eckersley’s wake, and the last thought he had before he did fall off was the assailant’s motorbike — not that he was any expert on brands, but he’d seen that type, perhaps even that very bike, somewhere just recently!

Matt woke early afternoon feeling perfectly rested and sober, although not yet up to having a big think about his relationship with Todd, or anything else serious for that matter, including the attempted assault. After a healthy breakfast and a long, adequately distracting read of the Herald, he headed off to the gym and had his first decent work-out in a week. Back in the apartment he listened to some music, watched some television, until eventually his mind did return to his personal issues. But he couldn’t let it, not yet, everything was still too daunting, so instead he took out some index cards and started work on Jacko’s story.

Matt didn’t need to ask Bryce for help since Jacko’s essential biographical details were freely available online. Jack Felix Madden was born August seventh nineteen-eighty-eight in Canberra, got an apprenticeship with the local television station after leaving school, then moved to Sydney three years ago to work as a cameraman, first on the six o’clock news then on various other network projects. His parents were still in Canberra with his two younger sisters, and while Jacko seemed to have a very active social life (as recorded on Facebook) there was no steady girlfriend, either now or at any time. He’d just been accepted to a directors’ course at the Film and Television School, so seemed committed to his career, but still found time for a lot of sporting activities, such as abseiling, paragliding and white water rafting. Perhaps he’d viewed gay sex with Jamie and Paul as another form of extreme sport!

He lived in Bondi Beach and Matt decided to drive out there and check exactly where. It was better than trying to divert himself in his own empty apartment. It had been a lovely sunny day but a cool north-easterly had arrived so when Matt parked a couple of blocks back from the beach he had to roll up his window. It was early evening and the various nearby restaurants, Mexican, Thai and Italian, were beginning to fill with their Saturday night patrons. Jacko lived in a run-down, three-story art deco block (for which he probably paid a fortune), but Matt didn’t want to get out of his car to find out which floor or whether at the front or back in case he ran into him. What he guessed was he lived in the front flat on the middle floor, the one with the surfboard on the balcony.

Sure enough, about forty minutes later, the lights went off in that flat then Jacko opened the front door and exited the building.

Nothing unusual about that. He was off to dinner too.

Except he had someone with him, and it was the last person Matt would have imagined.

Liang Chin-ying! The first suspect. The man who’d arrived back from China with Stephen. What was he doing having a meal in Bondi with Jacko?

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

19. _ o _ _ _ _ d i c _ _ _ y

AND you live at Bondi Beach?” Matt asked.

Jacko nodded. “Love the place.”

“Alone?”

The young man nodded again. “It’s a one bedroom.”

“Except you’ve got a houseguest at the moment?”

Jacko snapped to attention. “No, you’re wrong there.”

“I took some photos of the two of you last night, leaving the flat then returning together later. Why don’t you tell everyone who the person is — so I can then explain why you’ve taken him in?”

It was late Sunday afternoon and everyone seemed a bit flat, still not recovered from the excesses of Friday night, but Sonia had insisted Jacko’s on-camera interrogation proceed as planned. Matt had less of a case than with Jamie, Paul or Danny but was confident he could wing it. He was gaining a better sense of how reality television worked; facts and theories were all very well but it was the suspect’s reaction that mattered most. Tears were the aim, but confusion or defensiveness almost as good.

“It’s Liang — sorry, can’t remember his last name.”

“And who’s he again?”

“The guy who came back form Shanghai with Mr Eckersley. They found him hiding under the bed after the murder, but he didn’t do it — ”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The police let him go. And he swore to me he didn’t.”

“No, the reason you can be so certain is because you did it yourself!”

Jacko actually laughed. “I know that’s why we’re here but it’s so nuts. What motive would I have for killing him, or killing anyone for that matter? If you knew me you’d know it’s just not my thing. I can’t even swat flies.”

“Your motive was the usual one: money. Liang Chin-ying paid you to kill Stephen because he wasn’t brave or strong enough to do it himself. But when he checked to see if you’d done it he panicked — maybe he heard someone in the hall or it could have been a simple anxiety attack — then hid under the bed. When he was released by the police but told to stay in the country, who would he turn to for help but his co-conspirator?”

“Bullshit, man ... You are so off the truth it’s a joke.”

“Then you explain why you’re putting Liang up in your flat?”

“Okay. He didn’t want me to say anything but by the time this is broadcast he should have his refugee status. Liang is a princeling, or actually a grand-princeling because it was his father’s father who was one of Mao’s generals. Anyway, the family’s now mega-wealthy — they own lots of factories and shit although their main investment is in the fishing industry. Mr Eckersley was partnering them in a plan to fish Australian waters: he was lobbying his politician friends for permission while the Chin-yings were providing the boats (old herring trawlers, according to Liang, that can’t be used in the northern hemisphere anymore due to herring over-fishing).”

Off-camera Sonia was frantically signalling Matt to speed things up. A modern audience wanted shameful secrets, not Red Herrings!

“Except,” Matt interrupted, “something went wrong?”

“Exactly! In all the Beijing leadership manoeuvres Liang’s father has fallen out of favour and some other princeling has seized control of his fishing business. The new guy made a proposal to Mr Eckersley but it was nowhere near as good as the previous one — plus he’d become quite close to the Chin-ying family — so he turned it down and decided to get out of China as quickly as possible. At the last minute Liang contacted him and asked if he could hitch a ride on Mr Eckersley’s chartered jet. His father and mother had disappeared and he was worried for his own life.”

“So if you didn’t kill Stephen, Jacko, who do you think did?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? A hit-man employed by the evil princeling.”

“But no-one else entered the house?” Matt pointed out.

“So it’s one of the eight inside already.”

“You!”

“No! As I said, I’m no murderer. So to finish the story, when we were all waiting to be interviewed by the police I was sitting next to Liang and he told me why he was in the country. I believed him — I still do — so when he was released I picked him up and took him to my place. I knew he was terrified the same person who killed Mr Eckersley would be after him and would need some kind of ‘safe house’.”

“Your dodgy flat in Bondi?”

“It’s near the beach. I’ve been giving Liang surfboard-riding lessons.”

Sonia mimed her throat being slit, meaning end it.

“From my experience,” said Matt, “the more elaborate the explanation, the more guilty the explainer. You’re not off the hook yet, Jacko. Until I’ve thoroughly checked your story you’re still a suspect.”

“So lame,” Sonia told Matt out on the terrace. “Even worse than your job on Ms Vers. I’ll have to get some footage of Jacko losing his temper and edit it in.”

“That’s going to be hard if he doesn’t even swat flies.”

“I’ll set those horrid little dogs on to him. Not even Mother Theresa could resist giving them a kick.”

“I did my best — “

“Well, you’ll have to do a lot better in future or I’ll be forced to re-think the concept. You’ve just got to nail the next suspect, make them look like the most criminal lowlife who ever lived. Who is next by the way?”

“Actually it’s you, Sonia.”

Next morning Matt had a big breakfast with Bryce at Kantine on Campbell Street, while explaining the difficulty of unearthing a new stranger’s most shocking secrets every forty-eight hours. “It’s true, I did a lazy job on Jacko, just unearthed one surprising detail which proved to be pretty worthless. You might have to help me with Sonia Basile, dig deeper than Facebook and Linkedin.”

Bryce had wolfed — or perhaps beared — down his scrambled eggs and bacon and started clicking away at his laptop. After five minutes he said, “Nah, there’s no dirty trails anywhere. A senior media professional like her would probably be very careful about what personal information gets out. So I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help this time.”

“I wonder ... ” said Matt. “I haven’t seen him in years but there was this old actor someone introduced me to once who knew everyone and everything. What was his name? Rodney something. Rodney Snipes! I’ll give him a call.”

“Darling!” screeched Rodney down the line. “Of course I remember you. The hunky private detective who wanted to know if the game show host was screwing the opera singer.”

“You were very helpful.”

“I’m in a retirement home now, dear — at Sans Souci! But one never truly retires from the biz. I’m the only first-nighter on a walker (well, since Margaret Whitlam died), and I’m still on the phone half the day catching up on the latest goss. So, young fella, what can I do you for?”

“Know much about the television industry?”

“Sweetheart, it’s all the one industry in Australia. Actors are doing Shakespeare one day, a baked beans commercial the next. Directors go back and forth too, forever torn between prestige and moolah.”

“Can you me me anything about Sonia Basile? She’s now producing Perfect Gay Marriage.”

“The woman with the rings, the shoes, and the hair — who looks like something from Cirque du Soleil!? Let me phone around and I’ll get back to this arvo.”

For the second time in as many days Matt had some free time. Who knew when it would happen again, so he tried to make the most of it, getting exercise both physical (a lot) and mental (surprisingly even more). He had a big workout at City Gym then jogged down to the Opera House; it was lunch hour in the city so there were hordes of office workers also running in the Botanic Gardens (and out of their suits, in their short shorts, some of the stockbrokers’ large, unselfconscious dicks were very eye-catching). Next it was a long soak in the tub and a curl-up on the sofa with a the Herald’s crossword.

He’d got hooked on crosswords a year — or longer — earlier, when he’d been laid low by the mystery motorbike rider’s first, successful assault, and now couldn’t go a few days without absorbing himself with one.

As sometimes happened, he got it all done except for one word. The clue was ‘bound and free’ and what he had to work with was thirteen letters; second letter o; seventh letter d; eighth letter i; ninth letter c; thirteenth letter y.

After half an hour he was tempted to Google ‘bound and free’, except what was the point of cheating if you were essentially playing against yourself? Still, it was very frustrating not being able to finish, so much so that his mind turned to other things, well, one other thing, the dilemma he’d been putting off: whether to admit it was over with Todd, that he couldn’t be faithful to one man for the rest of his life, or whether he should work harder, properly commit for once and for all, give the relationship its last big chance?

But after five minutes he realised it was just as difficult to think about as the crossword clue. He could turn on the television or read for a book, push his decision to an even later date, except ... except ... he was as sober and clear-headed as he ever was, so it was time to stop wimping out and start being honest with himself.

Todd had amazing qualities; he was smart, sexy and sensitive. One year into their partnership some of his imperfections were also becoming obvious (a tendency towards caution and pedantry) but Matt was sure his own flaws were also surfacing, perhaps for both of them because of the increasing, unspoken tension about their future together. When everything was sorted it might all be sweet and easy again. The great joy for both of them, their constant anchor, was Olivia, but, unlikely as it was, she could return to her Mum at any time — and then where would they be? Todd would want to foster probably, or even have a child of their own with a surrogate. But as wonderful as it was to be accidentally bringing up Olivia Matt had never wanted to be a parent and doubted he’d make a very good one in the long run.

The bottom line was Matt knew Todd loved him, and he also had to admit that he loved Todd, more than he’d ever loved any man. But what was love? Some beautiful, indefinable, ephemeral force that sometimes lasted a lifetime but usually didn’t. He didn’t want to grow old alone but didn't want to be trapped in a grumpy, habitual situation either.

Suddenly an image of Todd came into his mind, lying on a towel on Mooloolaba beach, watching Olivia splash around in the shallows. He’d have put lots of suntan lotion on both of them, be wearing his favourite, daggy boardshorts, and calling out something stupid like “Tsunami!” every time a breaking wave reached Olivia. How Matt missed him, missed them both, missed the nice, safe life they’d made together.

He should call them, hear their voices. But that would impossibly skew his debate between self and soul, the same way drugs and booze had almost pushed him the other way after Eckersley’s wake.

So, what was that other way? Instead of one man — men, men, men, men, men! And everything that came with an outlaw existence — boundary-pushing sex; the thrilling, challenging company of strangers; the excitement of never knowing where your life was going; and, perhaps most enticing of all, never having to compromise, pleasing oneself and oneself only. Yes, it was a hedonistic, selfish, even dangerous life, but it had served Matt well before and beckoned now for his return.

Even thinking about the men out there in city, in this serious way, made him want to check out Grindr to see who they were and what their cocks were like. It was an impulse as sudden and strong as wanting to phone Todd — how could he want to do both these things, and one so soon after the other? He was really getting nowhere with this mindgame, except for realising how hard it was to be a gay man in the first half of the twenty-first century.

The ring of his iPhone was welcome relief.

“Matt? Rodney here. How are you, pet? Look, I’ve been on the blower for hours but I think you’re going to be pleased.”

“Sonia’s got a secret?”

“A big one, honey-bun. Turns out she murdered someone once!”

“Hold on, I’ll get a pen.”

Half an hour later Rodney finished his tale. “So, did I do good?”

“Brilliant, Rodney. I owe you a favour.”

“Don’t be a silly-billy. It’s enough to know I can still be of assistance to a handsome young man. Bye then.”

“Just one more thing. Are you any good at crossword puzzles? This is the clue I’m stuck on ... “

Rodney gave it a moment’s thought then presented him with the answer.

Of course! Almost too obvious now he knew. Except what a fucking depressing word.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

20. Two-actor tent

SONIA had got one of the contestants in Australia’s Next Top Seamstress to run her up an outfit for her grand inquisition. Eduardo, a loud queen from Adelaide, had been the first person evicted from that top-rating cable show but Sonia had clicked with him at the series’ wrap party, and it had to be said he’d nailed her ‘look’. The two main inspirations of that spring were Daisy Buchanan from the twenties and Jane Fonda from the eighties, but he’d just ignored that they were utterly contradictory and combined a little beaded Charleston dress with a hot pink leotard and leg warmers. It was fashion with a capital SH, a complete disaster, but Sonia wore it with such confidence she elicited gasps of amazement rather than the more predictable guffaws.

She’d also bought a network hairdresser and make-up artist, who took forever working their miracles on her crepey skin and over-dyed hair, so that instead of filming at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon they didn’t start till five.

“That night I came here,” said Matt, “the night of the murder, while we were waiting around for the police to get their act together, I asked Jamie, Paul and Cameron who they thought the murderer was and you know who they said?”

“No idea.”

“You, Sonia.”

“Television producers aren’t popular people. We have to crack the whip occasionally. But when this is all over, after they’ve got to know me better, seen my soft side, there’s no way they’d think such a thing.”

“Nonetheless they claimed you were a frustrated extrovert who desperately wanted to be on this side of the camera. They said you were a clothesaholic who had to have huge credit card debts. So it is logical, Sonia: your killing Eckersley gets you into the show, and with a big pay rise probably.”

“Those treacherous little queens! They’ve made some kind of amateur alliance. But we’re not actually on an island — and even if we were my survival skills are better than the three of theirs combined!”

“All right, the boys might not be that reliable or unbiased. But I’ve got my own theory as to your motive. Stephen Eckersley wanted to pull the plug, didn’t he? Perfect Gay Marriage wasn’t working out how he thought it would so he decided to end production. Maybe he phoned from China to give you the news. But you’re going on fifty, Sonia, which is about eight hundred in television industry years. The show was your last chance to make your mark, so you hatched a scheme to kill him. This whole concept — eight suspects, one murderer — was planned beforehand. It’s just a little puppet-show and you’re the one pulling the strings — in Stephen’s case, literally.”

She chuckled derisively. “Wrong century, darling. If you want to believe in God go back to the fourteenth. Or if you want to believe in conspiracy theories just go back to the last one. No, what makes our genre so potent is that it’s perfectly in step with the times. Reality television is godless, aimless and mindless — no-one ever really knows where a show’s heading, let alone where it’ll end up. Sorry to spoil the illusion but Perfect Gay Marriage is making itself up as it goes along!

“But you did get one thing right: Eckersley wasn’t happy. He did want it canned, for exactly the reasons I’ve just outlined. He too was from another age, where rich men got whatever they wanted, and he thought PGM was going to be his gay fairy-tale, with him and Cameron getting married and ending up happily ever after. But it’s warts and all — he wanted us to edit out the warts but we couldn’t do that because they’re the viewers’ favourite bits. So, yes, we did have words on the phone while he was in Shanghai, but I simply reminded him he had a watertight contract like everyone else. If we’d had a follow-up conversation he’d probably have threatened me with going to the High Court — otherwise the only way he could get out of the show was dying. My god,” she said with a sly smile, “you don’t think he somehow garrotted himself?”

“No, he was definitely murdered.”

“Well it wasn’t me. Jacko might not be able to swat a fly but I’m not even sure what a ‘swat’ is. There aren’t any flies on the high floor of the air-conditioned building where I live. No, I’m not a violent person — ”

“But you’ve murdered before?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Should I tell the story? It was almost thirty years ago: you were a very pretty girl who’d just scored her first big role after graduating from acting school, the female lead in a prestigious Dingdong Shakespeare production of Romeo and Juliet. Romeo was also destined for acting glory, a handsome, sandy-haired ex-Head of the River champion called Lenny Whiting. Perhaps you were both trying so hard your characters’ motivations seeped into your souls, or it might have been inevitable that two equally gorgeous and hormonally charged young people, spending long hours together in the close quarters of Dingdong’s rehearsal space, should fall in love. Because that’s what happened — first kisses in the corridor during other actors’ scenes, then late-night dates at cheap restaurants in Stanley Street, all culminating in the loss of your virginity, Sonia, plus an ‘understanding’ of sorts, that the play came first, but afterwards there’d be serious and public commitment.”

“Who told you this?”

“Actually, it’s in the trial records.”

“As conjecture. I never admitted anything. I still don’t.”

“Not conjecture, Sonia. There was evidence and witnesses, which the jury believed. Anyway, rehearsals went brilliantly, the real chemistry between the two of you infusing the whole production, so the weekend before opening night the director gave the cast the Sunday and Monday off, time to step away, recharge your batteries, before the intensity of previews. It was your idea to go up the coast, although neither of you had much money so you drove to Kilcare in your little Volkswagon and pitched a tent on the camping grounds near the National Park. It wasn’t school holidays and even though the weather was perfect you had the campsite to yourselves. The first day you swam, hiked and presumably made love, then you cooked some fish on the campfire, drank some wine and went to bed. But it’s then that paradise was lost. I admit it is conjecture from this point, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense. In that little tent Lenny confessed his secret, that he was bisexual and he’d been simultaneously having an affair with the actor playing Mercutio. It shouldn’t have been a surprise; you can’t throw a stick in the theatre without hitting someone gay. But you were terribly naive — naive but temperamental! Boy did you snap, storming off to the car, revving it up and reversing it into the tent. Poor Lenny didn’t have a chance — he was crushed to death in an instant, and found that way by a dog-walker the next morning. You were arrested back in Sydney later that day, at first denying everything, but when confronted with fingerprints from the site and the residue of tarpaulin and blood on the V-dub’s tyres coming up with all sorts of pathetic excuses. It wasn’t a very efficient murder, although five years in gaol must have taught you better — you didn’t leave a single trace with Eckersley.”

Sonia struggled to contain her emotions, whatever exactly they were. “I didn’t kill anyone, not then or now. It was an accident with Lenny ... just a terrible, tragic accident.”

“What I don’t get,” said Matt, “is the ongoing association with gays. The time in gaol meant you had to abandon your acting career, but then when you went into television you chose the lighter end of the spectrum — morning, lifestyle and now reality. That world’s even gayer than theatre; you can’t throw a matchstick without missing a decorator, a showbiz reporter or a hair-stylist. And it’s culminated in Perfect Gay Marriage!”

“So come on,” she sneered, “give me a theory for that. Was I so damaged by Lenny I could only deal with men who weren’t interested in romance? Go on, use the word, say what you’re thinking — Sonia Basile, fag hag!”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Sonia gave a deep sigh and at last her true feelings began to reveal themselves. “When you kill someone — even accidentally — in a way you also kill yourself. You become a shadow of a person, a kind of ghost. I already had a propensity for imitation — any actor does — but after I left the nothingness of the Silverwater snakepit and entered the real world I found I couldn’t fit in again. I needed a shadowland, somewhere with less dimensions, populated with fellow ghosts. That was television, in light entertainment, with, as you say, lots of gays. Because, when it comes down to it, that’s what you lot are — human imitators. How else can you explain the whole gay marriage thing? I mean, why do you even want it? Just to mirror straight people’s mistakes?”

“That’s nasty, Sonia.”

“I still miss Lenny, you know. He was the love of my life. On that drive alone back to Sydney I thought of crashing into a tree ... instead I chose to carry on.”

“You know what I think? You’re not so much a fag hag as someone who wants to be surrounded by hag fags. This whole conversation has come full circle. Reality television might reflect the age, but it’s still crafted and contrived, as much as any of the television that came before it. In every show there’s someone ultimately in charge — and you’re that person here, Sonia. And the reason you’ve particularly chosen to work with gays is so you can wreak some kind of revenge on them, in return for Lenny’s betrayal. Who’d have guessed that campaign of vengeance would lead you to kill again!”

Sonia’s elaborate mask was now entirely removed and all she could do was stare at the camera. She looked incredibly vulnerable and even somewhat sad. Finally she pulled herself together, turned to Jacko and whispered, “Cut!”

Slowly they got up from the sofa. Matt moved his shoulders around, trying to get the knot out, while Sonia distractedly checked her messages on her iPhone. So it took them a while to realise Ms Vers was standing nearby with a very sombre look on her face.

Clearing her throat, she told them: “Sorry, chaps, afraid I’ve got some icky news. There's been another murder — or two.”

As Danny wasn’t renowned for her humour she had their instant attention. “What are you talking about?” asked Sonia.

“Those little mutts you brought to the house, I just found them in the laundry room, or rather what’s left of them. Someone’s put them in the dryer on the hot cycle for a couple of hours. It’s a nasty sight — I wouldn’t recommend it if you’ve got a weak stomach”

“How dreadful,” said Sonia. “Nonetheless we’ll need some footage. Properly edited, the viewers will lap it up. So don’t put your camera away, Jacko. Presumably who did this also killed Eckersley. That’s been one of our problems with the show so far, that an arrogant gay millionaire is not a particularly sympathetic victim, but when you throw animal cruelty into the mix we’re home and hose.” It seemed her moment of deep self-reflection was over.

“We’ll have to let the cops know,” said Matt.

“Hold on,” Sonia snapped. “If it was the same murderer then I’m trying to work out who’s in the house. Cameron’s moved back to flat in Altair, and the boys haven’t been around for a few days.”

“Actually, the three of them popped in this morning,” said Ms Vers. “They were off to the beach and Cameron wanted to pick up his favourite trunks.”

“So any of the original eight could have done it,” Matt pointed out. “Certainly motive’s easier this time round. Those terriers have bitten everyone on the ankles.”

“No,” Sonia corrected him, “there is one of the eight who’s not here. The Chinaman. And he’s the one person who hasn’t signed a contract so maybe this is our chance to write him out of the show.”

“Liang?” asked Jacko. “No, he’s here. I felt sorry for him cooped up in my flat all day so I brought him in with me today. He’s been in the home cinema watching Madagascar One, Two and Three.”

“And the home cinema is on the same floor as the laundry. Then we’ve got to have him in the show after all. Mmm ... he’s claiming to be a refugee, isn’t he? Well, it’s not as if they’ve got any legal rights in Australia. Come on, we’ll get some shots of the dogs, then ambush whatsisname. You’re going to have to think up your accusations on the spot, Matt.”

It wasn’t as easy as that, however. The home cinema was empty, the only sign it had been recently occupied an abandoned pair of 3D specs on one of he armchairs. So a search of the entire ground floor began.

“No sign of him anywhere,” shrugged Jacko, when they ended up on the harbour-edge terrace. “Looks like he’s fled.”

But Sonia was poking at something with her flapper shoes. It seemed that at any moment she’d indeed break into the Charleston. “I think it’s him hiding under the sun-lounge. Come out or you’ll get a right hard kick.”

Slowly Lian Chin-ying emerged from his hiding place, looking very, very frightened.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

21. Bad boy boyfriend

HERE, drink this.” Sonia handed Liang Chin-ying a full tumbler of whiskey. “Go on, pet, all of it. And just sit there on the sofa while we ask you a couple of questions. Ready, Jacko? And you too, Matt? Then let’s get the show on the road.”

“Er ... ” said Matt, edging closer. The young man was still seriously traumatised (his face was drained of blood and he kept nervously adjusting his spectacles with one hand while the other clung tightly to one of the sofa’s cushions) but he seemed to understand what was happening. “Why did you put the terriers in the dryer?”

“No! That not me. You have misunderstanding.”

“So who did it?”

“I not see. Was watching Madagascar when heard dogs bark in laundry room. Thought they were with maid, Vers-Nushi, when she do washing. Later bad burning smell, go down hall, open drying machine, then see ... ” He dry-retched at the horrific memory.

The pressure was on Matt so he couldn’t afford to be too culturally sensitive. “Drop the act, Liang, your story’s not believable. Isn’t it true that dogs are regularly cooked and eaten in China? You’d have had such meals yourself.”

“But not pet.”

“You killed them, didn’t you? Poor little” — Matt looked to Sonia while she mouthed the terriers’ names — “Pola and Loco.”

“NO!” Liang protested loudly. He put his alarm and agitation to the side and did what he’d perhaps been trained to do in the face of aggression and accusation: adopt an attitude of arrogance and assertion. He was the son of a princeling after all, imbued with a sense of entitlement, a belief that money and power would solve his every problem. “You are not stupid man so stop asking stupid question.”

Colour had come back into his cheeks. He’d stopped twitching. And the funny thing was, sitting there so rigidly, so humourlessly, the boy did appear to have acquired greater authority. Defensiveness suited him.

So where to now? Matt wasn’t much of a China watcher. He’d read the front page articles about recent spectacular events (the sabre-rattling with neighbours over disputed island territories; the fall of political star Bo Xilai because of his wife’s murder of an Englishman who was her business partner and possible lover; and the home detention of conceptual artist Al Weiwei over his support for free speech) and he had a general understanding of the country’s narrative (that the children of Orwell’s ‘some are more equal than others’ were now running the place), but the nitty-gritty, how the machinery of a communist totalitarian boom economy actually worked, was a bit of a mystery. Presumably the same way the world’s capitalist boom (or currently bust) economies worked — via greed, corruption and deceit, the channelling of wealth from workers to the elite through speculative investment. Given all that, perhaps the best tactic was to assume that Liang and his family were still players, that the story he’d peddled about fleeing Shanghai on Eckersley’s jet was deeply suspect.

“You told Jacko,” Matt continued, “that your father was elbowed out of his herring business by a rival princeling, that Stephen wasn’t willing to partner the new guy, and that you hitched a ride back to Australia because things were getting a bit hot.”

Liang nodded patronisingly. “Now you have right facts.”

“Oh, Liang, I’m just establishing what you said. I don’t believe any of it. You see, just as you killed the dogs, I think you murdered Eckersley.”

Liang fumed. “That insulting. Why I do that?”

“Here’s my theory.” Matt was scrambling to put the pieces together in his head. “First off, I don’t think there was another evil princeling. He was just some actor hired by your father. Eckersley had successfully negotiated a deal to fish Australian waters, he’d done his job, and as important as that was it really ticked your dad off he’d have to pay some sissy foreigner fifty percent of the profits for all time. So he invented a subterfuge where the project was abandoned and you pretended to need Eckersley’s help to leave the country, when in fact you just wanted to be close so you could kill him more easily.”

“If my father wanted Australian fish business he could buy out Eckersley Xiansheng.”

“But he couldn’t. Stephen had never been bought out in his life — he was the takeover man. Jacko said Stephen had become quite close to your family, so your father knew just how dirty a fighter he could be. He’d have sued ... or lobbied the Australian Government to rescind the license ... or just made a big hullaballoo, bringing publicity to the Chin-yings, which is the last thing you want. Killing him — and killing him immediately — was integral to the plan. I’m just wondering, was this this some sort of test your father set for you? To prove you were a son he could be proud of, someone as ruthless as him?”

Liang said something in Chinese, presumably a swear-word, then “You rude man. No respect. Australia not nice place, I think.”

“What about Jacko? He took you in.”

“Exception. You the rule. So I leave now ... go back to China.”

“Before you do,” Matt asked, “just own up to the murder, will you?”

“Never!” the boy hissed. “Because not me.” With that he stood and walked angrily out of the house.

“Cut, I suppose,” said Sonia. “He won’t get far without his passport. Although perhaps there’s a submarine waiting off shore — or a herring trawler. But thanks, Matt, nice and punchy. No evidence again of course, but enough footage to hang an episode on. So — same time, same place, on Wednesday? That should let you come up with a more substantial case. Who’s next on the list?”

“Cameron,” Matt replied.

“Really? Then it won’t be so difficult. He’s been my prime suspect from the start.”

At Campbell Street, Bryce was waiting for the lift. “How’s it going?” the bear asked as Matt swiped his key and walked through the foyer.

“Yeah, all right —if turning myself into a complete and utter arsehole is a measure of success.”

“Huh?”

“Today I was a racist. Another obnoxious role to play. I should really throw this television thing in, except ... ”

“It’s a television thing! You’re going to be on it, not watching it. Everybody knows it’s shit, but still they’d kill their mother to star on some show.”

“Or kill their husband ... I’m back to investigating Cameron, can you believe it?”

“But we found out all his secrets, didn’t we?” Bryce raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not so sure we did — and certainly I don’t know everything now. What I need at this point is a beer.”

“Then come down and we’ll have few together. Dietmar’s got a shift at St Vinnie’s and the fridge is full of cans. You can debrief about Perfect Gay Marriage, then there’s something I want to talk to you about, along the same lines actually.”

The lift had arrived and they stepped in together. “Congrat-ulations!” said Matt. “So one of you proposed?”

“Mmm, no, not yet.” The doors opened at Bryce’s floor. “See you soon, eh?”

Matt had a long shower, then properly checked his emails. Todd had sent some snaps of their visit that day to The Ginger Factory, one with Olivia screwing up her face as she tasted a candied piece. Matt’s heart jumped at the sight of her — and as he scrolled down he anticipated it happening again as an image of Todd came up, looking a bit more tanned and tropical. But there was only a picture of Todd’s parents, and a few more of Olivia. What did they say about pictures — or their absence? Matt just knew Todd was still pissed at him ...

After the anal retentive interior of Wolseley Road, the poshness of Veuve and Moet, the double and triple meanings of every conversation there, it was bliss to be relaxing in Bryce and Dietmar’s messy, Ikea-furnished apartment, drinking cans of Toohey’s New, and not being afraid to say whatever he wanted.

On an empty stomach the beer worked quickly. “I shouldn’t whinge, I suppose,” Matt said. “I’m getting paid well, and it’s a break from routine. And there’s been no major glitches so filming should be over before Todd and Liv get back from Queensland.”

“So you’ve decided you want to make it work with him?”

“Yes ... No ... The decision’s too fucking hard. But I know I miss my little family, really miss them, for what that’s worth. If only Cameron wasn’t next on the list. I should have put him first. There’s something about that boy that does my head in.”

“Do you think he is the murderer?”

“No ... Yes ... Oh god, I hope not. How am I going to conclusively find out anyway? I couldn’t with anyone else, and if Cam did it he’s even less likely than the rest of them to confess. He’s inheriting a fortune.”

“Have you got a plan of action?”

“Follow him? Hack into apartment building’s security cameras again? See if there’s anything suspicious going on. The garrotte had to come from somewhere, and had to go somewhere afterwards. But I’ve only got a day and a half, so I’m going to need to strike it lucky.”

“You know what I think? Talk to him off camera, when he’s relaxed and vulnerable. He owes you one. Maybe he even owes you the truth.”

“Get him drunk, you mean?”

“Or fuck him like last time.”

“No! Not with everything that’s going on with Todd — “

“Don’t tell me you don’t want to. It might be a chance to get him out of your system once and for all. And you could justify it again as ‘work’.”

“This isn’t you, Bryce. You’re the sooky romantic, not some devil on my shoulder, tempting me to the dark side.”

“Just being logical.” He handed Matt another beer and opened one himself.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” asked Matt. “I was thinking I was the one who had to break the impasse with the proposal issue, whisper in his ear or whatever. Now I’m thinking there’s something else going on.”

Bryce sunk back into the sofa (as much as it was possible to sink back into a sofa one had assembled oneself with an Allen key). “Oh, I love Dietmar to bits. Nothing’s going to change that. He’s my soul-bear. It’s just, things are turning out to be a bit more complicated than I’d thought they’d be.” “Welcome to the club.”

“I did a thorough online search of him,” Bryce confessed.

“You idiot! Didn’t you learn anything when I investigated Cameron? Still, it couldn’t be any worse than then, could it? Your fella doesn’t seem the drugs and prostitution type.”

“That’s just it. I don’t know who he is. There’s a Dietmar Ebersbach from Heidelberg who’s thirty-three and a nurse — only one of them. The problem is he’s still there and he doesn’t look like my Dietmar?”

“Yours has stolen someone’s identity?”

Bryce nodded. “Looks like it. But why? And who is he then?”

“So you need my professional help for a change?”

“I’ve gone as far into cyberspace as I can. If my Dietmar does have a good excuse and I contact the real one and he reports back then it’ll look exactly like what it is: that I’m snooping and I don’t trust him.”

“Can’t you do what you advised me to? When he’s relaxed and vulnerable just ask him what’s up?”

“This is different, Matt. I’m different. You’re not afraid to take risks, but I’ve always liked it quieter, because, I don’t know, I’m shy and fat and born like that. Dietmar’s my first real boyfriend and I can’t do anything that’s going to jeopardise that.”

“I don’t speak German.”

“We can get a translator if we need to. But most of them speak English.”

“All right, but I can’t start the investigation right away.”

“But soon?”

Matt nodded his agreement. “Hey, but before we have another beer we’ve got to have something to eat.”

The weather had turned warm. In the early days of the colony English settlers wrote home that they very much missed the ‘falling leaf’, that Sydney town was remarkable for its lack of a seasons. While it still never got hot for long, or cold either, there was now usually a sudden heating-up in October or early November. Global warming perhaps, for that year it seemed particularly vicious: the week before the temperature had been in the early twenties, now it was the early thirties, and later in the week it was expected to go higher. And it wasn’t a nice, dry heat either, but something muggy and oppressive that changed the mood of the city dramatically, not always for the best.

As usual they’d argued over what take-away to get, Bryce opting for pizza and Matt for sushi. Matt won for once but the best local Japanese didn’t deliver so he had to pop downstairs and around the corner to Bourke Street. He couldn’t pass near the pedestrian crossing outside Serafim’s Pharmacy without gulping, since someone had tried to kill or maim him there (twice!), but that night the scene beyond in Taylor Square was even more disturbing. The regulars clearly hadn’t drunk enough (if any) water so their alcohol and drugs (prescription or otherwise) were extra-strength. They were acting up (and out) big time — shouting, singing and fighting, with one even stripped down to his underpants having a seizure in the fountain. Yes, there was the sound of an approaching ambulance some do-gooder had called! It wouldn’t be the first such siren he’d hear in the next few days, thought Matt.

The sushi cost him fifty dollars, since he knew Bryce would devour a couple of pieces in one mouthful. But it was delicious, then they had a few more beers, watched the latest episode of Dexter, and Matt went upstairs to bed.

Again sleep came slowly. Tomorrow he’d meet Cameron and how would that end? The boy’s life was so ripe and meaningful to Matt because he’d discovered all his secrets one by one, on a long and difficult journey. Sure, he’d been commissioned by Stephen Eckersley, but he’d empathised with the subject of his investigation as never before, and that was why he’d behaved so unprofessionally at the end. Cameron’s history was that of a drug-taking prostitute, he was scheming and manipulative, a real bad boy, and the effect of that discovery on Matt was to rekindle his latent desire to be a bad boy too.

There were going to be more secrets. Was murder one of them? And if it was, what would Matt do about it?

Then there was the new unexpected case. Another perfect gay marriage challenged by lies, or at least a mystery wrapped up in lies. Bryce was right about one thing: he wasn’t much like Matt, wasn’t really attracted to danger and dissolution. If his future husband Dietmar turned out to be a bad boy, that would be the end.

Like Todd too actually. He didn’t want a fucked-up boyfriend either ...

So Matt fell asleep thinking of lines. The parallel lines of his kind’s relationships, stretching infinitely forward but anything but straight.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

22. Obelisk Beach

THE sharp spasm of pain that went with a cock the size of Cameron’s entering him didn’t happen. All its beautiful length and width slid right in, with his sphincter opening like an automatic door. Was it because Matt wanted him so much? Or because staring at his handsome face, only inches away from his own, was the most marvellous anaesthetic? All there was was pleasure, a feeling so good it surely couldn’t get better, but as Cameron starting thrusting, slowly at first then faster and harder, it did, until he was in a state of incomparable bliss, better than any opiate, any state of religious ecstasy, anything other than best fuck of his life.

It would be easy to say that Thursday began like any other day. The sun came up and Matt got out of bed. However, other than facilitating our move several hours back in time, that literary trope isn’t particularly helpful. The day felt odd from the start, odd and ominous.

When he opened the balcony door he was met with a blast of oppressive air — hot, humid and with a distinctive smell of car fumes, rotting garbage and some distant bushfire (or perhaps that was just the retired Qantas steward directly below having one of his occasional guilty cigarettes). He slammed it shut, turned up his air-con, poured himself a coffee and thought about his plans. His talking things through with Bryce the night before hadn’t seemed helpful at the time, but it must have been because he felt his attitude had changed, although to discover exactly how he’d need a bit more oxygen coursing through his brain. But he couldn’t be bothered trudging down the hill to Testosterone Central; today he’d have a work-out in his building’s own small but perfectly adequate gym.

Except Mr Sleazy had had the same idea. That was the name Todd had given the guy from the top floor, handsome and fit but forever on the prowl, not averse to making a pass at any other man in the building, gay or straight, single or partnered. Matt had shrugged off each encounter but Todd had angrily threatened to report him to the Building Manager after an incident in the lift with Olivia present. Matt had thought it was a typical over-reaction since Mr Sleazy’s pass wasn’t so explicit his niece understood anything. Still, he wasn’t in the mood that morning, so rushed through his sets, dismissed the offer of a thigh massage, and was back to his apartment in twenty minutes.

After showering and shaving he poured another cup of coffee. Then he started thinking about Cameron, the murder mystery — his own life too. But very quickly it struck him what had changed. He was sick of thinking. Done with all the paradoxes, contradictions and puzzles. Tired of plotting, planning and strategising. He just wanted to act, to barge in and get the job finished.

And with that new sense came great relief — and also energy. He picked up his phone, opened Contacts and scrolled down to Cameron. (Which had been Bryce’s suggestion the night before, although in Matt’s eagerness that was now forgotten, as least consciously, together with where such an approach should lead).

“Hello?” the boy asked drowsily.

“Sorry to wake you on your day off. Just wondered if we could get together sometime?”

“Sure ... I’m not doing anything today.”

“Coffee — soon? Or is later better?”

There was a pause. “What’s wrong with lunch?”

“Then it’s my treat.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Cameron. “I owe you more favours than you owe me. See you at Buoy at one.”

“And if it’s booked out?”

Cameron laughed. “We’ll get a table. We’re on television.”

The restaurant was ‘iconic’, with waiting-lists for Friday and Saturday nights of several months, and that was because the chef himself had been a star guest on a reality cooking competition. Well, not only because of that — the location was probably the best in the world. Their window table offered a perfect view of the harbour and Opera House, flickering in that day’s bright light like so many diamonds and pearls. And, actually, the food was pretty sensational too. Usually when a chef went on television the standard deteriorated; writing best-selling cookbooks and making public appearances was more appealing than slaving for long hours over a hot stove. But not in this case; from their amuse-bouches, through their oyster entrees then meat mains, all the way to their shared soufflé, it was taste-bud heaven. The bottle of extremely expensive sav blanc didn’t hurt either.

They made dumb small talk almost as if on a date. They bitched about Sonia and Danny and gossiped about Jamie and Paul. Cameron said he’d enjoyed Perfect Gay Marriage at first but now couldn’t wait for it to be over, when he’d just take off overseas for a while. He thought Paris. They were doing a Ring.

“Wagner?”

“The professor introduced me to it. I love the music but have never seen a Cycle. Apparently the audience is full of rich widows so I should be right at home.”

“Can you speak German? Or French for that matter?”

“Mmm, I can actually. Prof taught me those as well, and it seems I’ve a knack for languages. I’m learning a new one at the moment. Just put my ear phones on and listen to Esperanto lessons.”

“Esperanto? The made-up language that’s now abandoned?”

“That’s why I like it. The professor always said the best knowledge was the most useless.”

“Cameron, you are so full of surprises.” As that comment hung awkwardly in the space between them Matt realised there was another obvious implication.

“I didn’t murder Stephen,” Cameron said. “I told you that before. You believe me, don’t you?”

“It’s why I wanted to get together. We’re filming your inter-rogation tomorrow.”

The boy nodded. “I was going to phone you today.”

Just like a year before, when Matt had finished his investigation into Cameron’s past and was about to report back to Eckersley. Except this time Matt had got in first and that must give him some kind of advantage. “No, I don’t think you did kill him, but at this point what I think doesn’t matter. You’re a suspect. You could have done it, and you’ve certainly got motive. If we want PGM to be believable, to succeed —and you want that too, don’t you? — I’ve got to treat you like everybody else.”

Irritation flickered across Cameron’s face. “No, it does matter that you believe me. And that we’re friends. That way you can go a bit easier on me.”

“That’s silly, Cam. You’re the star of the show. Your interview has to be the stand-out.” Except, thought Matt suddenly, if Cameron imagined Matt had some hot evidence not yet revealed, something that really implicated him. But what could that be? And how could he get it out of him?

“I guess you’re right,” sighed Cameron. Then he changed in a moment, flashed his Hollywood-handsome smile and said, “Hey, let’s get out here. Must be that sparkling water everywhere but I feel like a swim. Want one too?”

“Haven’t got swimmers.”

“Nor have I. So it’s Obelisk!”

Crossing the bridge in Cameron’s sports-car, top down and hot wind in their hair, Matt thought maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. Would Mr Sleazy be there, cramping their mood. And if not actually the guy from his building then loads of other Mr Sleazys, their eyes, indeed binoculars, trained on his and Cameron’s dicks? But no, the place was almost deserted, just a couple of old guys, who from their walnut-textured skins were there every day and thus immune to any new anatomical delights. It was a week-day after all, and mid-afternoon so the morning people had gone and the after-workers yet to arrive. Plus the sand was very hot — meaning they rapidly discarded their clothes and made a run for it.

Cameron used strong strokes to reach deep water, with Matt not too far behind. As they tread water the coolness from below gradually ascended, from their toes to their knees, up their torsos to their heads.

“Bliss!” said Cameron.

“See those clouds out west?” asked Matt. “Bushfires for sure. But we’re somewhere else entirely.”

“Our own little world.”

Matt felt Cameron’s hand brush across his chest, lingering slightly on an erect nipple. “We know you’re good at short distances,” Matt said, moving away, “but how about distances? Race you to that point.”

He struck off first, Cameron overtook him immediately, then he slowly crept up until, just about to overtake, Cameron found a final burst of energy and arrived at the rocks with two body-lengths to spare. When they’d caught their breaths they scrambled ashore. The sandstone on the promontory had been weathered into a variety of levels and shapes; by walking a couple of metres they found a cup-like recession, a half-cave, open to the harbour but closed on the sides and nicely shaded. There was even a little smooth ledge for them to sit.

Soon the heat had dried the water from the bodies, although it was quickly replaced by beads, then rivulets, of sweat.

Their was sexual tension between them, but it was in no way straightforward. Cameron was so gorgeous — and naked! — but strangely Matt didn’t find him nearly as tempting as last time. Something in the balance of power between them had shifted. Still, he daren’t look down at Cameron’s cock, or get so close their bodies made contact. Resistible could shift to irresistible in a hot second. What he had to do was turn the surreal situation to his own benefit, and prompt Cameron into revealing more than just his perfect body.

“I know about the incriminating evidence,” Matt bluffed.

“What?” The surprise in Cameron’s voice showed it wasn’t where he’d expected things to go.

“I know about what makes you look more like the killer than anyone else?”

“The trip to Casualty? But Stephen had the records wiped.”

“I’m a detective, Cam, and I’m good at my job.”

“It wasn’t what it looked like ... It was an accident.”

“Attempted murder?”

“You’ve got to hear my side of the story, not some gossipy nurse’s. Stephen was very naive about gay sex, but once I’d moved in and we’d worked our way through all the standard stuff, he got daring — very daring. Nothing like a man who comes out late, eh? I sometimes worried he’d leave me so he could properly explore all his fantasies and fetishes — except there isn’t a trick in the book I don’t know, and I tried hard to keep him satisfied. Anyway, we’d worked our way through dildos, nipple clamps and urethral enlargers when he said he wanted to try rope, not just bondage but having me tighten one around his neck when he came. The first couple of times went brilliantly — the best orgasms he’d ever had, he said — but as usual with these experiments, he needed to go closer to the edge each time. I twisted the rope, tighter and tighter, he was gasping like he was just about to blow, then ... He went all limp. God, it was awful. I thought he was dead. After a fairly amateurish attempt at CPR I called an ambulance. Stephen spent the night in observation but was fine the next morning — except for the rope burns around his neck. They wanted to call the police but Stephen phoned someone high up at the hospital and sorted it. Afterwards, he gave them a big donation.”

“You know how this looks, Cam. Like you’ve got form.”

“I didn’t kill Stephen, Matt. How many times do I have to tell you? So you can’t mention the rope in the interview.”

“We should go,” Matt said, diving in and swimming back over to the beach. This time Cameron made no attempt to level with or pass him. They dressed then climbed the bush track in silence — indeed no word was spoken until they’d crossed the bridge.

“Just drop me at Taylor Square,” Matt said.

But Cameron turned left on William Street and swung into Altair’s car-park. “We can’t leave things like this,” said Cameron. “Give me another chance to convince you. Come up and have a drink.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Please!”

“All right, just one ... ”

It was strange visiting Cameron’s apartment for the first time, particularly walking from the lift to his door (since Matt had spent many hours a year or so before watching the CCCTV trained on that space). Inside it was as he’d imagined, a modern, fairly minimalist space with a view over Rushcutters Bay. Cameron immediately went to the freezer, removed some flavoured ice and put it into the blender. “Nothing better than a bourbon slurpee on a hot day,” he said over the grinding noise. “I’ve always got some ready for an emergency.”

“You make it yourself?”

“It’s easy. Just bourbon, vodka and a few other special ingredients.”

Whoa! It was amazing. Freezing cold, really tasty — and incredibly strong. Matt guessed what the special ingredients were: spicy tea, peach syrup and Rohypnol.

“Come on, Cam, what are you trying to do? Get me drunk?”

“Or get myself drunk. That was horrible today, you thinking I’m the killer after all.”

“It does change things, doesn’t it? Particularly when you consider the dogs.”

“The dogs?”

“Well, they’re not that significant in themselves, but when you make the comparison with Stephen —”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I checked my notes this morning. Remember Bobby, the little dog you killed during Wicked? Well, it was repeated again with Pola and Loco, wasn’t it?”

Cameron laughed in disbelief. “I didn’t kill Bobby. Paul did! And as for Pola and Loco, why would I do a mean thing like that?”

“You visited that day.” Cameron took a big mouthful and waited until all the ice in his mouth had melted. “I thought you and me had got close, both last year and in the past week. I thought we were friends, that you knew me well enough to accept I could never kill anyone.”

“It’s got so complicated.”

“But why? It ‘d be simple if you just had faith in me.”

Cameron got them spoons to scoop out the ice from the bottom of their glasses.

“Want another one?”

“No, I said only one.” Although even one of that concoction was more than enough. Matt’s head was spinning. He felt as if he’d had a night out in Phuket.

Cameron reached out and took Matt’s hand. “Come with me,” he commanded, leading him into the bedroom. “I’ll show you how to trust me again.”

Standing at the end of the bed Cameron slipped out of his clothes. There was no ignoring him now. His porn-star cock was bright red and rock hard, a fascinating combination with his soft and pleading eyes. Then he started undoing the buttons on Matt’s polo. “I want to fuck you.” he whispered. “I know you want it too.”

“I do,” groaned Matt involuntarily, feeling his own cock grow instantly hard.

But he didn’t kick off his shoes or undo his belt, instead just stood there staring at Cameron’s handsome face and muscled body, with the scene to come fast-forwarding through his brain, a special gift of foresight courtesy of the bourbon slurpee.

Cameron would enter him. It wouldn’t hurt. They’d shoot together. It would be the greatest sex of his life.

But ... there was something Matt wanted more. Just one more comfortable, unthreatening fuck with Todd.

“No, man,” he said.

It was as if Cameron was reading his mind. “There are no rules, Matt. You don’t have to choose. You can have everything.”

“In this case, I can’t.”

“Please!” begged Cameron once again.

“Sorry,” Matt told him, turning and leaving the room and the apartment.

It was the hottest point of the day and the streets were strangely empty. People were at the movies or in shopping-centres, anywhere with air-con. By the time he’d walked home he was totally exhausted. He wasn’t hungry, even thirsty, but forced himself to drink a few glasses of good old tap water. After half-watching the news and some trash-television he went to bed, the earliest in weeks, and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.

Except he must have started dreaming — or thinking again! — because he woke with a start at that familiar time, three am. It was a detail from one of the index cards he’d gone over that morning.

Cameron hadn’t needed to use his wiles. He was going to get what he wanted after all.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

23. “Exactly the opposite of what I wanted.”

WE'VE had some screenings with test audiences,” Sonia told Matt the next morning. “Just to gauge their response, check if we’re on the right track.”

“And are we?”

“Smasheroo, sweetie!” Her shriek was so loud he had to move his phone away from his ear. “They love the post-murder episodes even more than what came before, the wedding preparation stuff that’s now screening — and rating well enough. But once your interrogations start screening we should top the two million national figure, sending our time-slot competition, Australia’s Next Top Barbequer, into oblivion. There’s the danger they’ll copy us to catch up, have one of the barbequers murdered so they can blame the other contestants, but I’m doing my best to patent the concept. Everyone’ll be trying to do it, even the singing competitions, but I want to have a say in exactly who and how, plus get a licensing fee. But you don’t need to know any of that. What I wanted to talk to you about, before we film the next segment, is the feedback we got from our focus groups.”

“Who’s their prime suspect?”

“Well, that’s exactly it. It’s nothing like it should be. Seventy-four percent thought Jacko did it.”

“And next?”

“Well, actually, me — on twelve percent. Then Liang on six and everyone else on two or three.”

“Maybe they think the least likely suspect is the one who did it, like in an actual murder mystery.”

“Mmm — not happy with that. The meat of the show has to be raw emotion — with your deductive reasoning just a bit of relish on the side. I want the viewers to be sponges, soaking it all up, not Hercule friggin’ Poirots. The whodunnit thing is a great way to strip lives bare, reveal everyone’s horrible, humiliating secrets, but I’m thinking we might have got the balance wrong. We’re how-many-suspects in? And we still don’t have a stand-out bad guy. We should have done Cameron first, not last.”

“But he might not be stand-out either.”

“Come off it, Matt, who are you kidding? I know he did it, you know he did it, and your job now is make the viewers believe he did it. That way we’ve got our reality essential, a member of the ensemble everyone can easily hate, and we can string out the series with lots of finger-pointing and acrimony.”

“I can’t frame him, Sonia.”

“Christ! I’m starting to think detectives are more difficult to work with than actors.”

“Proof is called proof for a reason.”

“Cameron! The murderer!” she yelled. “Just give me an equals sign.” Then she hung up.

In the right state — drunk, as at the wake — Sonia could be a lot of fun. In normal circumstances she was enough to make one lose all faith in humanity. He’d planned to wait the short time until Perfect Gay Marriage was a wrap before phoning Todd and saying, whether it was good decision or not to be involved, it didn’t matter any more — it was over and he couldn’t wait for their little family to get back together again. It’d be a lovely, normal conversation — a nice change! Suddenly he couldn’t postpone it any longer, but the only problem was Todd wasn’t answering his mobile and when he phoned his parents’ house in Buderim his mother told him Todd and Olivia had gone out on his father’s cruiser for the day.

“Todd promised they wouldn’t come home until they saw dolphins, so honestly I don’t know when they’ll be back.” She was a lovely lady and her tone was warm and polite, but did Todd detect more distance than usual — or was he just being paranoid? A terrible scenario presented itself: Todd confiding in his mum about their fight and separation, and worse than that, his decision to end their relationship when he returned to Sydney.

His next attempt at regular human contact didn’t go too well either. Since Matt’s father’s death, and even before that, when his sister had been institutionalised and he’d taken responsibility for Olivia, he’s become very close to his own mother, visiting or phoning every few days. But there’d been no contact since his stint on PGM had begun, so she was as pleased to hear from him as he was to chat to her. They had the usual pleasant catch-up until he asked after his sister, Katie.

“Something funny’s been going on, Matt. She’s done real well in the half-way facility, re-learning her life skills so she’ll cope when she comes back out. But a week ago they gave her a mobile phone — which was great because she could phone me whenever she wanted — except last Sunday she started getting these weird texts.”

“From whom?”

“It’s a blocked number so hard to say.”

“And what do they say?”

“She only got three before they took the phone away, and I can’t remember the words exactly, but it was about the end of days and repenting so she could experience the rapture. Nutty religious stuff — either a sick joke or meant for someone else. Still, it’s knocked her for a six; she’s heavily sedated again, back in the observation wing.”

“I’ll go see her on the weekend and sort it out.”

Cameron’s interrogation was scheduled for four that afternoon so Matt had a lazy day, slowly checking his index cards to make sure he had his story right, before arriving at Wolseley Road at the last minute. Surprisingly it wasn’t just Sonia, Matt and Cameron waiting in the living-room, but also Jamie and Paul Varjack. From Cameron’s nervous expression Matt guessed he’s asked them along for moral support. Ms Vers was even hovering, placing glasses and a jug of iced water on the coffee table.

“The gang’s all here,” said Matt, by way of welcome.

“Except for Liang,” said Jacko. “He took all his stuff from my place.”

“Doubt we’ll ever see him again,” said Sonia. “So, if everyone’s ready, we’ll get to work.” While pushing Jamie and Paul out of the way, and steering Matt and Cameron to the sofa, she gave Matt a meaningful wink.

Liz Taylor was dreadful as Cleopatra, or any role where she had to stretch herself. But when she was typecast, as a blowsy, foul-mouthed alcoholic in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? for example, she was Best Actress brilliant. That was true of a lot of screen actors (Meryl being the notable exception). And also one of the secrets of success of reality television: while the ‘plot’ was formulaic and repetitive, and the ‘cast’ was a bunch of ill-matched types, the ‘acting’ was sensational because people were playing themselves. Anyone who wasn’t came across as fake and was voted off at the first opportunity. Still, there were levels of accomplishment — some were better self-actors than others — and what Cameron was about to give was one of the great performances of the reality genre. He might have spent that morning ‘rehearsing‘ with Jamie and Paul, or it might have just come naturally, but in every way he was believable and sympathetic, the boy-next-door who’d met a millionaire, the kid who’d been lucky and then unlucky, someone whose confidence and optimism was being challenged but not crushed. An innocent charmer utterly incapable of murder.

It was the official portrait and, unlike the recent painting of the Duchess of Cambridge, a stunning work of art. Matt more than anyone knew there were so many other facets to Cameron’s personality (some possibly still undiscovered) but for now the portrayal seemed complete. It would fill an average plasma screen, in an average suburban living-room, quite splendidly.

Matt wasn’t as aggressive in attitude as he’d been with the others, instead calmly pointed out Cameron had more motive than anyone, given he stood to inherit a fortune. That resulted in Cameron’s mantra of having truly loved Stephen and being devastated by his loss. He fought against the tears but they flowed nonetheless — and copiously! Matt handed him a handkerchief before going through the details of the day Eckersley died. No, Cameron wasn’t aware he was in the house, didn’t even know he was expected back from China actually, didn’t realise he was dead until he went to the bedroom to get a sweatshirt and found him lying there.

“And the police have no proof otherwise. If they did they’d have come back to question you again, or even arrested you.”

“Honestly, I didn’t — ” Cameron started up again before Matt put his hand in the air to stop him.

There was fleeting moment of extreme tension. Was Matt about to reveal a smoking gun? Was the game finally up?

But, in a way, what Matt said was just as shocking. “And I have no proof you did it either. In fact, something like the opposite.”

Cameron was unresponsive. It was a rehearsed trick: to never look smug, instead let the audience make the positive assumptions.

“How many murders annually in Sydney?” Matt asked. “For the last couple of years the figure’s been less than fifty. And if you discount the bikie drug wars, there’s almost none — well, compared to somewhere like Chicago. We’re not a city of pre-meditated murderers. As for pet-killers, there’s even less, just a couple of sadistic teenagers each year. So the chances of two separate murderers amongst Perfect Gay Marriage’s group of suspects would be billions to one. What I’m saying is whoever killed the terriers has to be the same person who killed Stephen.”

“I swear, I didn’t kill Pola and Loco.”

“Cameron, I know! It’s what I’m trying to say. I can prove you didn’t kill the dogs — and therefore that you didn’t kill Stephen.”

There was a loud and very unprofessional grunt off-camera. Sonia was furious.

“The dogs were killed,” Matt continued, “on Monday, when Liang was watching a Madagascar marathon, starting mid-morning. Now everyone was a suspect because they were present in the house sometime that day. You came to get your favourite trunks in the morning. BUT! There was a pair of 3D specs abandoned in the home cinema, meaning it was Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted, the only one of the trilogy in 3D, that Liang was watching when he heard the yelps in the laundry, panicked and hid out on the deck. Meaning it must have been in the afternoon, long after you’d gone.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” said Cameron, sighing deeply. “Thank you.”

“CUT!” screeched the producer.

“It’s the truth, Sonia.”

“This is exactly the opposite of what I wanted. We can’t have the number one suspect cleared. Not at this point, goddammit — we just can’t.” She started speaking very slowly, as if to an idiot. “Now what we’re going to do is film it again and you can say ... I know, say Liang watched the last Madagascar first.”

“Sorry,” said Jacko, “I showed him how to operate the system, and I definitely loaded the original first, you know, where they escape from New York Zoo with the penguins — ”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” she said, shaking her hands in the air so her bangles clanked like thunder.

“I think you want the blame on Cam,” interrupted Jamie, “to deflect it from yourself, Sonia. If murder’s so rare, then you have to have done Stephen and the dogs. Its statistical or whatever Matt said, because you already killed that other dude.”

“Who asked for your input, you tit-sucking twerp?”

“Hey, bitch, don’t talk to my friend like that,” contributed Paul Varjack.

“Don’t call me a bitch, you lanky whore!”

“You’re a bitch and a has-been!”

“How dare you!” screamed Sonia, picking up the nearest object at hand, a fourteenth century jade vase, and throwing it at him.

He ducked, the vase hit the glass and smashed into approximately fourteen pieces.

“Right, that’s it,” said Ms Vers gruffly, putting Sonia in an arm-lock and marching her down the hall. “The rest of you too. I knew this telly business would end in shambles, so get out of here, the lot of you.”

“I can’t wait to leave,” said Matt.

“You can’t throw me out, Danny, it’s my house,” said Cameron.

“Not yet it isn’t, not till probate’s through.”

“NOOOOO!” screamed Sonia, thrashing and kicking rather unsuccessfully. “We’ve got to finish filming.”

“Finish it in the gutter,” said Ms Vers, opening the door to Wolseley Avenue and kicking her outside. She lay sprawled there while while the others joined her, either because of curiosity or fear of the housekeeper, until the big door slammed shut behind the lot of them.

“Haven’t we got enough footage to use?” asked Jacko, helping his boss to her feet.

“I don’t think so,” she said, dusting herself off. She was only slightly chastened by her brutal manhandling. “I couldn’t care less who murdered the mogul; the show just needs someone breaking down under overwhelming evidence. But we’re up shit creek without a snorkel. There’s no more suspects — ”

“Actually,” said Matt, “there is. There are eight suspects and we’ve only done seven.”

Sonia was counting them off on her jewel encrusted fingers. “Josef! But he doesn’t really count. He’s old and got cancer. Not only isn’t he up to garrotting someone, he’ll be boring on screen.”

“But he’s the butler,” Matt pointed out.

“Where can we find him?” asked Sonia, suddenly energised.

“Where he usually is,” Jamie replied, “in the garage fiddling with his motor bike. Cameron’s got keys.”

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

24. A Detective’s Instinct

WHAT'S the point?” shrugged Cameron. “There’s no way Josef would have killed Stephen. He worked for him longer than Danny did.”

“Well, he tried to kill me — twice!” said Matt. “Someone on a motor bike swung at my head with a metal pipe. I knew I recognised the bike from somewhere — and I’ve just realised it’s the one I’ve seen in that garage.”

“He’s the friggin’ butler!” cried Sonia. “It’s too perfect. Who else would our brain-dead audience be happy with being the killer? They’ll all say they picked it, that it was so obvious, when it fact it’s a complete surprise — even to us.”

“We should leave him alone,” argued Cameron. “Give a dying man the respect he deserves.”

“Since when did you become Miss Goody Two-Shoes?” asked Sonia. “Just shut up and open the garage door, will you?”

The place was cavernous, with a high ceiling and enough room for several vehicles. In a far corner Josef was working on his Kawasaki and as they entered he put down his tools and got to his feet. He’d been at the funeral and briefly the wake but that was all Matt had seen of him during the current carry-on. He wasn’t needed to open the door and discreetly usher guests inside because his master was dead, and the police investigation and reality filming meant formal standards had slipped somewhat. And he was sick; Matt saw properly now what a toll the cancer had taken, exhibited not only by weight loss but a change in his musculature. It was as if his strength had melted away, so that he looked uncannily similar to that other central European ex-he-man, Arnold Schwarzenegger (without a wig of course).

Although perhaps not all the strength was gone. “Vat you vant, breaking in like this?” he demanded angrily.

“Just a spot of filming, Joe, honey,” Sonia deflected. “A few questions for the telly. Won’t take a mo.”

“No!” he croaked. “Get out.”

She walked across the garage and grasped his frail fore-arm so hard it looked as if it would snap. (Perhaps, like a schoolgirl, she was taking out Danny’s treatment of her by bullying someone else). “A contract’s a contract, old man. Sorry, but there’s no way out of it.” Then she called to Jacko, “You ready? Then get your camera over here,” and to Matt, “Don’t let me down this time, okay? It’s time to finish this.”

Matt had winged it before, so didn’t panic. As Cameron had just pointed out, Josef had been in his job a long time. While that implied he was a devoted servant, from what had been revealed about Eckersley in the current investigation — his ruthless, self-serving ambition — there was another possibility.

“You didn’t like Stephen much, did you?”

Josef harrumphed. “You think that vas my motive for murder? That I didn’t like him?”

“Then let me rephrase: you hated him!”

Now he laughed, except the laugh turned into a coughing fit. When he finally regained his breath he said, “I didn’t hate him. Or love him. Like him or dislike him. Vere I came from those feelings vere luxuries. He vas my employer, no better or vorse than most. I did my job and he paid my vage.”

“You worked closely together for what, twenty years? You must have had some sort of personal relationship.”

“No, he never vanted me to be more than an employee.”

“So you resented him!”

Josef gritted his teeth. “No, I didn’t resent him either!”

Matt guessed the conversation would probably go on like this, with him listing every negative feeling in the dictionary and the butler obstinately rebutting each one, until Jacko’s camera battery gave out — or Josef’s heart and lungs. They’d never even get to the point of another denial of murder. It was not what was meant to happen — Sonia was standing behind him and he could sense her displeasure, bubbling away like a witch’s brew.

Something had to give. And it was Matt. He prided himself on his professionalism, on seeing a case through to the end, but this was no ordinary case. He’d had enough. He wanted to get out of that cursed palace, leave all the malice, vanity and delusion behind, and return to his own safe, sure, little place in the world. He wanted to go home, phone Todd, restart his life.

“Cut!” It was Matt who called it, not Sonia. “Thank you, Josef, but the interview’s over. You’ve got no motive and you didn’t do it, so I’m out of here.”

“WHAT THE FUCK!!!” she howled. “He did it. He had to. So get back in there, Detective Dumbnuts, and prove it. Otherwise the show’s a complete mess. Nothing will make sense. The network will cancel it tomorrow. And all — ALL! — our television careers will be down the toilet. None of us will ever work in the medium again.”

“I don’t care, Sonia. I don’t want to be a star. If you want Josef interrogated, do it yourself.”

“You know I can’t. I’m a suspect. All the rest of us are.”

“Come on, Matt,” whined Jamie. “I want to be the next Dan Ewing.”

“The next Kerri-Anne Kennerley more likely,” joked Paul Varjack.

“Then you’re the next Dowager Duchess of Downton!” Jamie countered.

“I’m witty but I’m not old!”

“Trust me, you’re not that witty — and you’re not that young either!”

“Cool it, guys,” said Cameron. “And Josef, you shouldn’t be under this stress — best you go to your room and rest. As for PGM, can’t you just re-edit the material you’ve got, Sonia? Liang’s back in China so pin it on him.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, sweetie — “

“No,” interrupted Josef, “soon I will get all the rest I vant. It’s true vat she says: the thing needs to be finished. And I don’t need someone asking me questions — I vill just tell you everything.”

All of them turned slowly in his direction.

“I did it,” he said simply. “I killed Stephen Eckersley by tightening marlin-strength fishing-line around his neck, just as I learnt in the Hungarian resistance movement fifty years ago. Some lessons die hard, eh?”

While they struggled to process what he’d said, he simply struggled to breathe.

“I also killed the tail-vaggers,” he continued eventually. “I threw them in the dryer and turned it to long cycle. And I tried to kill the detective twice on the pedestrian crossing outside Serafim’s Pharmacy. Can’t get everything right, eh?”

After another short coughing-fit he concluded his speech. “So that is the vole story. I am the murderer.”

But of course it wasn’t the whole story. All of them sensed it would still be some time before the curtain came down. And it was left for Matt to ask the obvious question, “But why?”

Sonia laughed derisively. “So you’re back now it’s got a bit easier, are you? Talk about a friggin’ diva!”

“I vill never tell you!” Josef wheezed. “Never!”

“But —“ said Matt.

“Who cares?” sneered Sonia. “We’ve got what we want — a confession at last! — so we don’t need to beg for more. As I’ve said all along, it’s a new genre we’re inventing. The Midsomer Murders fans can suck eggs. Oh, we’ll have an interview with a forensic shrink saying he’s bonkers, but the real excitement will be when the police carry him off to the clink on a stretcher. Don’t forget to scream and shout pathetically when that happens, Josef.”

“I von’t be going to gaol,” the butler responded.

“Of course you will. I’m phoning the police right now.”

“You have your phone — but I have a gun.” Shakily he removed a small revolver from where it had been tucked in his boot. “And gun trumps phone any day. So throw it on the ground — now! All of you, phones on the ground!” He waved his weapon menacingly as one by one they complied.

Except for Jamie. “I can’t ... I just can’t,” he said, clutching his iPhone 5. “Lady Gaga might twitter.”

“For god’s sake!” said Paul, grabbing it and throwing it on the floor with the others.

“Have you thought this through, Joe,?” asked Sonia patronisingly. “I mean, you can’t shoot us all, sweetie. And you can’t keep us hostage indefinitely either — we can probably stand here for days but you don’t look like you’d last half an hour. Do you want me to get you a chair? That way, when you do collapse, you won’t have so far to fall.”

“Shut up, voman!”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious. It’s the absurd last stand of a sad little man. I’m sure it’s not how you want it to end — and it’s certainly not how I want Perfect Gay Marriage to end — with a whimper, not a bang.”

One of his wheezing fits began, but instead of giving in to it, he used what seemed his final reserve of energy to raise the gun and shakily point it at Sonia. “I’ll give you a bang!” he told her — then pulled the trigger.

What happened next happened very quickly, and in a random, even illogical, manner.

Sonia was propelled backwards, landing in a twisted mess of designer labels up against some LPG gas cylinders. Matt rushed to her but was pushed aside by a surprisingly composed Jamie.

“I did a course in Bellingen,” he explained.

“I don’t think aromatherapy’s going to help,” said Paul. “She’s been shot.”

“St John first aid, you idiot. Now where’s the wound? It’s her shoulder, so we’ve got to staunch the blood-flow. I’ll move her move into a more comfortable position, then press down hard with — anyone got a clean hankie? Quick, Paul, take off your t-shirt — I’ll use that. And it’s important you stay calm and alert, Sonia. Just try to breathe normally. You’re going to be all right — ”

“Of course I’ll be fucking all right. The important thing is you keep filming, Jacko. Tell me you got him shooting the gun?”

“Uh-huh,” Jacko nodded.

“Thank Christ. Our future's are made ... Eergh, eergh —”

“She’s having a heart attack,” said Jamie. “Put your hand here and press hard, Paul. I’ll have to try CPR.”

“While I call an ambulance,” said Matt, reaching for his phone amongst the others on the floor.

“Keep avay from that,” rasped Josef, still waving his pistol about.

“She might die.”

“Good! Dreadful voman. No-one asks me vy I kill her, eh? You’d do it too if you had the guts. So I’m not taking any chances.” He pointed the gun down and fired again. Fortunately his shaky aim was much worse the second time, missing her by a metre or so, although almost hitting a gas bottle.

As he struggled to re-aim, Matt knew he had to make a move. If one cylinder was hit it would start a chain reaction, meaning a bang bigger than anyone wanted, enough to destroy the mansion and kill them all. He rushed low towards Josef, with the aim of tackling him and bringing him down. But again he was pushed out of the way. Cameron got there first, reaching straight for the gun — but Josef wasn’t giving in without a fight — there was a struggle — and another gunshot — and either, old man or young, could have been hit by the bullet discharged in the small space between them. But it was Josef, staggering backwards and then collapsing from the bloody wound to his chest, as Cameron stepped safely aside. His expression was blatantly triumphant, although the dying looks on Josef’s face were much harder to read — surprise? betrayal? and finally, resignation?

“What’s all the ruckus?” asked Danny, opening the garage door. “The Forrester better not be scratched.”

The ambulance arrived in minutes. Yes, Jamie had done all the right things and Sonia would survive. Next came the police, so it was another awful evening like the one when Eckersley died, with statements taken slowly one after the other.

By ten, it was over. The cops were content: Josef was the killer and Cameron had shot him in self-defence. Everyone was free to go. Cameron proposed Jamie, Paul, Jacko and Matt go back to his apartment for a night-cap. Jamie and Paul were up for it, but Jacko passed and so did Matt. He still had his call to make to Todd.

The three boys drove off, crammed into Cameron’s sports-car. Matt heard high-spirited laughter as they turned the corner and disappeared from view. Jacko offered him a lift in his van but he said not to bother, it was the wrong direction so he’d just call a cab. But it must have been a busy night because he waited on the narrow Wolseley Road pavement for ages. And inevitably his mind rewound what had just gone down, trying to process it somehow.

Josef was the killer, sure. And, as Sonia had pointed out, everything else faded away beside that simple fact. If you wanted a motive, just call him insane.

But ... he didn’t seem that crazy, no more so than any of the other suspects.

Which meant, if he was functioning, he had real reasons for doing what he did.

Shooting Sonia? Well, that was probably just as he said, an act of extreme provocation. Likewise the dogs: their biting and yapping would be intensely irritating to someone under a lot of pressure, not only from the chemo, but the murder investigation.

But why Eckersley?

And why Matt himself? Back a year or more ago when he’d been investigating Cameron’s murky past, and last week when he was half way through the current job?

Matt wasn’t really Sherlock Holmes. No good detective could ever be so clinical. If you observed every detail, discarded every theory that didn’t fit — in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred you still wouldn’t have a theory that did fit. Murder was as deep and dark as human behaviour got, and in the end all a good detective had was a good detective’s instinct.

Cameron had got Josef to kill Eckersly — and to try to kill Matt outside Serafim’s Pharmacy. (Perhaps even Polo and Loco, as some kind of set-up.) Matt felt it in his bones.

Had Cameron paid him? Promised him a fortune when Eckersley was gone? Or just simply fucked him? Josef wouldn’t be the first old straight man who’d fallen for the wiles of a beautiful boy.

Matt would never know the exact reason. Nor could he ever prove it. Which was why it would stay his secret — well, his and Cameron’s.

Finally the taxi arrived. But the cabbie was the worst kind, railing about queue-jumping boat people while driving as if road rules didn’t exist. Matt was actually shaking when he got out in Campbell Street. It was the shock of it all. He just needed to get into his own home — and call Todd.

But Bryce was in the foyer. “Have you done anything about you-know-what?” he asked.

“Sorry, mate, just finishing the current job. But I’ll get onto to it soon, I promise.”

The apartment was stuffy. He flicked on the air-con, had a glass of water, then scrolled down his contacts. “Todd? I have to ask you something important. I’ve needed this time to work out my priorities. And I’m sure now of what I want, more than anything else in the world. So — will you marry me?”

“Huh?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Matt, I can’t talk about this now. Dad and I just got home from the police station. A terrible thing’s happened — actually, I was just about to phone you.”

“Olivia? No! Not an accident on the boat?”

“It was afterwards, when we stopped for an ice-cream ... ” Todd was struggling to maintain control. “She’s alive — well, we hope she is. But she was snatched, Matt. She’s been kidnapped.”

“By who? Did you see them?”

“No ... Not really ... It was too dark ... But Dad found a note shoved in his pocket?”

“And what’s it say?”

“Just one word. Parousia.”

THE END

Or is it?  There seems to be a few issues still dangling at this point in the plot: like where's Olivia; who's Dietmar; and will Matt and Todd ever tie the knot? Matt Black's adventures will continue with a complete new mystery scheduled for Mardi Gras season 2014.

Perfect Gay Marriage was published monthly as a serial on gay-ebooks.com.au. Starting with chapters 1 and 2 on the first of July 2011, the final chapter (24) was posted online on the first of August  2013.

Robert Tait  — Perfect Gay Marriage

Want to read more great Australian gay writing?

Table of Contents

- Contents
- 01. The Couple in the Tiffany Frame
- 02. Wicked in Perth
- 03. Love and other fibs
- 04. “Rack off, ya Sydney sodomite.”
- 05. The Ruin of Many a Poor Boy
- 06. In the Shit
- 07. Clucko the Chicken Clown
- 08. Neighbourhood Watch
- 09. _ _ ra _ _ x _ _ _ l
- 10. All off or shaped?
- 11. Family Get-together
- 12. Final Report
- 13. Judy and Liza
- 14. The Unusual Suspects
- 15. Jamiekins
- 16. Master Paul
- 17. Housekeeper from Hell
- 18. Eckersley’s Wake
- 19. _ o _ _ _ _ d i c _ _ _ y
- 20. Two-actor tent
- 21. Bad boy boyfriend
- 22. Obelisk Beach

- 23. “Exactly the opposite of what I wanted.”

- 24. A Detective’s Instinct

- www.superiorz.org