 
### Frankie Fey

A novel by

### Rigby Taylor

Copyright 2017 Rigby Taylor

Smashwords Edition

Discover other titles by Rigby Taylor at Smashwords.com:

Rough Justice

Dome of Death

Sebastian

Jarek

Mortaumal

Fidel

NumbaCruncha

Time to Think [Short stories]

Dancing Bare [Memoir]

[All books also available in print]

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Contents:

Frankie

Virtue, Ingenio & Constantine

Disaster

Into the Wilderness

Sylvan

Ingenio

Learning

Performance

Prospero

"85"

Extermination

Precautions

Karmai

Goodbye Melbourne

Loving

Rationality

Elimination

Revolution

Forum

Out with a Bang

Real Estate

Tactics

Strategy

Battle Ready

Engagement

Capitulation

Itchy Feet

A Reunion

An Interlude

Act of God

A Proposition

Wrestling

Porn

Revelations

What Frankie Saw

Biter Bit..

Sushant

Gangtok

Sankturi

Wiley

Shiv

Enlightenment

Kolkata

Escape

Howrah

Jürgen

Nayaka

Lucien

Rameswaram

Shiva

Rajeev

Thiruvananthapuram

Clarence, Violet & Inesh

Flight

László

About the Author

# Frankie

Unlike his peers at St Puritan's High School, fifteen year-old Frankie was addicted to observing things carefully so he could understand how they function, and why they aren't more efficient, more rational, more... sensible. Having endured a somewhat late onset of puberty, he had recently been making up for lost time by conducting experiments and observations in the field of sex and sexuality. Recent investigation into the aesthetics and mechanics of same-sex coupling with a classmate had yielded valuable data, so now he was ready to expand his research by evaluating the practicalities and satisfaction levels of copulation with the opposite-sex.

The Internet is an excellent provider of vicarious information, but true knowledge can only be obtained through first hand experience. Unfortunately, not being sportive, tall, conventionally handsome or socially competent, he had been unable to find a willing experimental female; the general consensus being that the new boy was skinny, strange, too ready with his stupid opinions, and knew too much about useless things and nothing about what counted.

Fortunately, there was Flora; a pleasant, pale, sturdily built lass with straight brown hair, soulful eyes, large breasts, shapeless legs, romantic disposition and a tendency to imagine no one was cleverer than she. When Frankie joined the class she lent him her notebooks so he could catch up, helped him with assignments, and, mistaking politeness for interest, bored him witless with inane gossip about the other students. Frankie's stoic restraint bore fruit when, desperate to unburden herself of an intolerable secret, Flora confessed her misery at still being a virgin while all about her were apparently losing theirs. When Frankie confessed that he too was an unwilling virgin, which in a heterosexual sense he was, her tears welled in sympathy and he settled back patiently to wait.

Two days later she shyly drew him into a quiet corner and offered to sacrifice her maidenhead on the altar of friendship. Frankie feigned astonishment, applauded her generosity of spirit, and equally shyly smiled his acceptance. Flora was instantly assailed by doubts.

'I'm not a slut,' she whispered.

'Neither am I.'

'You won't hurt me?'

'Never! You can tell me to stop at any time.' He smiled sweetly to underline his good faith.

Flora visibly relaxed. 'Tomorrow at lunchtime?'

'Sure...What'll I bring?'

'Just yourself—I've got everything. Meet me on the far side of the tennis courts as soon as the bell rings for lunch.'

The following day, while the other seven hundred and thirty four students were opening their lunch boxes in the quadrangle or under trees on the side lawn, Frankie and Flora were ducking under a wire fence into a scrubby wasteland. A barely visible track led to a concrete wall about three metres high and ten long.

'Hurry. We mustn't be seen; this place is out of bounds.'

Frankie looked back. 'We can be seen from the tennis courts.'

'Not if we're on the other side of the wall.' She skipped excitedly around the back to a grassy spot, used her sensibly shod foot to shove aside cans, plastic bags, cigarette butts and other detritus to make a space, took a rug from her schoolbag, spread it, handed Frankie a foil-wrapped condom, and plonked herself down, unsure what to do next.

Frankie sat beside her and looked around. 'What is this place? And how did you know about it?'

'Charlene told me. It's where lots of the girls come with their boyfriends. It's an old rifle range for when boys used to have military training about sixty years ago or something.' After a nervous look around she whispered, 'We've only half an hour left.'

'Yeah, right.' Frankie stripped, played with himself until he was stiff enough to roll on the condom, then stared in horror at Flora who had placed her neatly folded cotton panties on the rug beside her and, still wearing her regulation school uniform, sensible brogues, beige socks, and cream blouse buttoned to the throat, was sprawled on her back, eyeing his manhood in alarm. The front of her pleated tartan skirt had been drawn up just enough to expose a soft white hand covering her pudenda. The effect was lewdly prurient.

'What's the matter?' he demanded, failing to conceal his irritation. 'Never seen a penis before?'

'No. I mean yes. I mean are they always so big?'

'Usually bigger. I'm on the small side, so you've no cause for concern.' He paused and took a deep breath before saying something he would soon regret. 'I'm sorry, Flora,' he blurted, 'but there's no way I can have sex with you if you're wearing clothes!'

'But...'

'The full sensual delight of sexual pleasure can only be experienced when both participants are naked, stimulating all the senses and culminating in the physical entry of one into the other, at which time they become a temporary physical and spiritual unity.'

Frankie's soft, reverent tones insinuated themselves into the part of Flora's psyche desperate for attention, mystery, ceremony, and actions that would validate her existence as a female. As if mesmerised she ripped off blouse and skirt, tore off the brassiere, and lay back with legs impossibly wide apart, arms wide to the sky.

Frankie frowned and regretted telling her to strip. Exposed to the light of day the smooth, pale, over-abundant flesh was not an inviting mattress, nor did he relish the possibility that, face to face, she might want to kiss him.

'What's the matter?' Flora asked, nervousness galloping back.

'Nothing. You look wonderful—the primordial virgin.' Frankie's voice became even more intimate, suggestive and, to Flora at least, arousing. 'I want to make this special for you, and the most natural and satisfying way for men and women to copulate is the way all primates do it—the female on all fours and the male mounting from behind. The penetration is easier for both, the clitoris is better stimulated, and the male can use his hands to caress the female's breasts.'

Kneeling beside the speechless young woman, he gently rolled her over, placed a strong arm under her soft belly, heaved her onto hands and knees, then positioned himself behind, intrigued at how little difference there was in appearance between a female in this position and a male. The anus was the same and Flora's slightly swollen and darkish vulva looked very similar to a scrotum, except for the vertical slit showing pink at the edges.

He stroked it, triggering a whimper—whether from pleasure or fear wasn't clear. Then placing himself directly behind her, he positioned his knob at what he had read were the gates of heaven, and was about to thrust when...

'Stop right there, Frankie Goldmein!' The voice was loud, nasal, sharp and unpleasant and belonged to Mr. Hayter, the schools Christian Chaplain and defacto guidance counsellor.

Frankie turned his head and frowned at the man standing beside the wall. 'Why?' he snapped. 'What's it got to do with you?'

'Why? You cheeky upstart, I'll give you why!' The lean and pinched purveyor of morality bounded forward, grasped Frankie by the ear and dragged him backwards.

Enraged by the pain, Frankie slammed his fist into his attacker's celiac plexus at the top of his stomach. The Chaplain sagged back, gasping for breath, then vomited over the rug, just missing Flora's legs. She leaped to her feet wailing soundlessly as she scrabbled for her clothes, too nervous and agitated to dress herself. Frankie calmed her with his hands, then dressed her, telling her not to worry. He would sort everything out. He was just tying her shoelaces when the Chaplain, who had been leaning against the wall taking deep ragged breaths, shouted, 'Perverts!'

'Go back to school, but don't speak to anyone! I'll make sure you aren't in trouble.'

Flora remained frozen, transfixed by fear.

'Go!' Frankie snapped, giving her a sharp shove.

Flora stared wildly at Frankie, took courage, and ran.

'Cover your shame!' the Chaplain rasped.

Frankie gazed down at his lean frame and quiescent penis, from which he casually peeled the condom. 'I'll dress, but not from shame.'

'Wait for me outside the Principal's office in ten minutes!' the religious man snarled before staggering back towards the school.

Making himself as presentable as possible, Frankie raced to the Principal's office, arriving before the Chaplain. He burst in without knocking. Closing the door he stood in front of Mrs Payshince's desk with his hands behind his back.

Apparently unsurprised, the Principal, a middle aged, comfortable woman with grey hair and no obvious makeup or perfume, calmly placed her sandwich on a plate, wiped her mouth with a sensible handkerchief and raised her eyebrows to invite an explanation.

'The Chaplain followed Flora and me to the Rifle Range and saw us naked.'

'Flora?' The incredulity in her voice was unmistakeable. 'Flora Shiotte?'

'Yes. But I forced her.'

'How? She's twice as big as you.'

'I told her I'd spread nasty rumours about her on social media if she didn't.'

'And did you have sex?'

'No, Mr. Hayter must have been watching us for a while, because he stopped me at exactly the last second.'

'How?'

'By shouting. Then he grabbed my ear and it hurt so I punched him in the stomach, then he vomited over the rug, so I told Flora to dress and leave.'

The Principal's head was shaking in disbelief.

'It's true! So promise me you won't punish Flora; she's a good girl and I think you should keep all this a secret so she doesn't get ridiculed by the other girls who are really nasty to her sometimes, and...'

A knock on the door interrupted what was in danger of becoming a litany of complaints about the school he detested.

'Come in.'

An angry, self-righteous and fully recovered Chaplain recoiled in fury at the sight of his enemy. 'I hope you haven't been taken in by the lies of that moral cretin, I found him...'

'Yes, I'm aware of what you found. Frankie has explained it all.'

'What are you going to do about it?'

The Principal turned to Frankie. 'I will have to suspend you, Frankie, for punching the Chaplain.'

'What about what he was doing with Flora?'

'Thanks to you, Mr. Hayter, he did nothing.'

'But...he was naked and...'

'So were Adam and Eve in their innocence.'

'What about the girl?' The Chaplain demanded.

'What about her?'

'She must be punished.'

'Don't you think vomiting over her was punishment enough?'

'I missed. And if you don't order her punishment I will make sure she...'

'From what I can gather,' the Principal interrupted sharply, 'you perved, I think the expression is, on the two young people for some time before intervening. I don't think that will look good on your reference when you're looking for another job.'

'You mean you'd...?'

'Yes. So take heed of your guru's advice and forgive sins and nurture the sinners, Chaplain.'

He was shaking in anger, apparently unable to formulate a response.

'Don't let me keep you I'm sure you have important things to do.'

The Chaplain stormed out and she turned to Frankie. 'What is it about the school you dislike?'

'The teachers have tunnel vision and aren't interested in anything except exams.'

'Several teachers have told me you don't concentrate, have a wandering mind, and are constantly interrupting with irrelevant bits of information, asking impertinent questions, insulting them, and not bothering to study for tests.'

'Insulting them? How?'

'Telling them they're ignorant. Berating them for their narrow approach...' She let her voice trail off into a question.

'That's because as soon as they tell us something, dozens of related ideas pour into my head and I think about them as well as what the teacher's saying and then I ask them about it but they don't understand me and...'

'Won't your parents be angry when they find out?'

'No. They're used to me. They said that if I don't make a go of this school I'll have to either get a job or do correspondence. They leave it to me to do what's best for myself.'

The Principal was shaking her head in perplexity. 'You seem so...' she shook her head and changed tack. 'Why did you choose Flora?'

Frankie's grin transformed his face, triggering a sudden surge in Mrs. Payshinse's heart rate. His eyes literally twinkled, and health and life seemed to erupt from every pore. In that instant she fell in love—in love with the first young person who embodied everything she had always hoped to find, but never had in the teenagers in her care. A delight in learning, in living, in laughing and daring, in moderation and excess in... She stopped herself. 'I'm ridiculous,' she told herself. 'He's just another kid,' but she couldn't take her eyes off the animated face and body, and joined in his laughing as he described his relationship with the bovine Flora, who was the only person to befriend him when he arrived, and when they discovered they were both virgins they decided to rectify the deficit.

'So why are you taking all the blame?'

'Because she needs an education and likes it here, whereas I want to get kicked out. So, if you please, Mrs. Payshinse,' Frankie continued, tugging humbly at an imaginary forelock, causing her to laugh explosively, 'could you please, please expel me? I really don't like it here. It's not you,' he added hastily, 'I really like you, you're the best principal I've ever met, it's me... I just don't fit in... so... please?'

'Oh Frankie... you look so ordinary; but you're definitely not.'

'And so do you; and neither are you.'

The Principal heaved a sigh. 'I wish I'd got to know you earlier. Go and get your things and then collect your official expulsion notice at the front office. It should be ready in fifteen minutes.' She held out her hand.

Frankie grasped it, kissed it, shook it, then pulled her close and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. 'Thanks, Mrs. Payshinse. If all the teachers were like you I'd never want to leave.'

And then he was out the door and the room seemed dimmer, drained of energy and life, and the Principal sagged into the chair behind her desk and stared vacantly into space, wondering what she was doing and why, and how long she could keep going.

Frankie had just collected his letter from the secretary when Flora exited the Principal's office. She ran to him, wrapped him in a bear-hug, kissed him on the lips, held him at arm's length and whispered, 'Thank you, thank you, thank you. You are the nicest person in the world.'

And then she was gone and Frankie whistled happily all the way home.

Two hours earlier than usual he let himself quietly into the house, wondering why the gas delivery truck was parked in the drive. Not wanting to encounter his mother before he'd worked out a way of presenting his fate in a favourable light, he was tiptoeing quietly to his room when a scream followed by grunts and moans diverted him to his mother's bedroom. He should have guessed. Instead of writhing in the throes of death, she was writhing in the throes of ecstasy, in the identical position to that of Flora a couple of hours earlier, while the impressively hairy body of the man who delivered gas cylinders was doing what Frankie had been prevented from completing.

Leaning silently against the doorjamb he studied the scene in an attempt to understand what had so offended the Chaplain. Unable to see anything depraved in the activity, his shrug of incomprehension caught his mother's eye.

'Frankie! Are you all right?' she asked with unwonted concern, causing the gasman to stop mid thrust. 'Don't stop,' she snapped over her shoulder.

He recommenced rhythmical pumping, staring curiously at the intruder.

'I'm fine, Virtue. I just got caught doing what you're doing, so they kicked me out.'

'Oh, poor darling... ouff!' she panted after a particularly hard thrust. 'Go and uhhh make uhh... us a nice ahhhh... cup of ohhhh yes!!...tea and we'll talk it oooover. Give me ten minutes?' Her voice slid up an octave along with her lover's orgasm.

Having secretly watched his mother during other such apparently ecstatic couplings, Frankie shook his head at her insatiable lust and lack of discrimination when it came to partners. In the kitchen he pondered the meaning of life while preparing afternoon tea. Unsure if his mother would want sweet or savoury biscuits, he plonked both on a plate, poured boiling water into the teapot and sat, wondering how to make the best of his new freedom.

Five minutes later he heard the gasman drive away and the shower running, so poured two cups and took a plate of sandwiches out of the fridge.

Virtue arrived wet from the shower, still drying herself. 'Let's drink it out on the verandah.'

'The neighbours will see you and complain again.'

'Not if I hang the towel in their line of sight.'

They went out, she pegged up the towel then collapsed onto a chair. 'Ouf! I feel as if I've been running a marathon.'

'It sounded as though you were.'

'Was I very noisy?'

'No more than usual.'

'Cheeky monkey.' She took a sip of tea and a sweet biscuit. 'So, Frankie, you've been expelled again! Really. Why weren't you more careful? Who were you doing it with?

'A girl at school.'

'What happened to her?'

'Nothing. I said I'd forced her.'

'Why?'

'So I'd get expelled.'

'Typical... How did they find out?'

'The Chaplain followed us, perved for a bit, then stopped me just as I was about to take the plunge.'

'Next time choose somewhere private.'

'There won't be a next time. Having seen her saggy body and then you and the gasman, it no longer appeals.'

'That was unnecessarily cruel.'

'But true.'

'Are you going to tell your father why you've been expelled?'

'No way! He reckons masturbation's a sin, so he'd slaughter me if he knew I'd been caught fornicating. What about you?'

The mother concealed her amusement and smiled conspiratorially, 'I won't tell on you if you don't tell on me.'

'Fair enough.'

They shook hands. Not as friends, they'd never been that, but to confirm the loose alliance they'd formed when Virtue decided she was too young to be the mother of a clever five-year-old extrovert, so they pretended to be brother and sister whose mother had disappeared mysteriously, leaving them in the care of a grumpy old man whom Frankie called Dad, despite being certain he was no relation. It wasn't long before Frankie was very pleased that no one thought the outrageously flirtatious female who accompanied him occasionally, was his mother!

During lunch, Frankie gave a slightly more detailed account of the incident that set them both laughing.

'So... you're still a virgin at fifteen.' she stated thoughtfully. 'Does it worry you?'

'Not at all. I was just curious.'

'I'm pleased you were interrupted,' she said quietly. 'Girls like your Flora only need to think about sex to get pregnant. And I know what I'm talking about,' she said with unaccustomed thoughtfulness. 'And I'm not surprised they got rid of you,' she added with a sigh of resignation. 'All your teachers have disliked you. I can't recall a positive comment on any report card since you started school.' She raised her eyes to the ceiling and recited, 'Frankie is an intelligent child burdened by overweening self-importance. Frankie is an opinionated child. Frankie is irritatingly dogmatic. Frankie is convinced he's always right. Frankie's pontifical manner irritates pupils and teachers alike. Frankie should have sensitivity training before someone does him serious harm.' She gazed in confusion at her chirpy son who was nodding in delight as if she'd been reciting a list of compliments. 'Don't you care that your teachers all think you're a smart arsed, up yourself, self-important, know-it-all prick—an assessment with which I heartily agree?'

'Thanks mother.'

'You're welcome.'

'I don't care what they think about me,' Frankie added with a shake of his head. 'Teachers write nonsense like that because they're ignorant, unintelligent, dull witted, obtuse, pea-brained, brain-dead idiots too stupid to realise I'm smarter than them... and much more charming and interesting,' he added with a nod of finality.

Long before her son had reached school age Frankie's mother had learned not to wast energy arguing with him—he always won. 'I'll concede the last one,' she sighed. 'Meanwhile, how about using your superior intelligence to decide what we'll tell your father.'

'No need to tell him anything. He's always at work when I'm at school, so there's no reason for him to find out.'

'But what about school?'

'The Internet's full of study courses. I'll do it by correspondence.'

The mother shrugged. When it came to decisions she was no match for her son. Despite being considered beautiful by all who knew her, Virtue Goldmein's lack of education, formal or otherwise, had resulted in a deep-seated sense of intellectual inferiority, causing her to withdraw into irritable silence when forced to think about things not directly concerned with day-to-day living or sex. Her parents had not named their only daughter Virtue on a whim. Believing in the mystical power of names, they hoped to ensure she would remain pure and unsullied until marriage. To assist the name to work its mystical power, as soon as menstruation commenced she had been forbidden to leave the house unless accompanied by one or both parents, or her brother Ingenio.

Ingenio's name had been intended to make him inventive, creative, resourceful, shrewd and sophisticated. To their delight he embodied all of those qualities and, although three years younger than his sister, took responsibility for her as if he was older and wiser.

The same parents had insisted their grandson be called Frank, to ensure he was at all times candid, direct, forthright, plain-spoken, straightforward, open, honest, truthful, sincere; outspoken, and not afraid to call a spade a spade. Their daughter's name turned out to be egregiously inappropriate, but they had been spot on with her son.

#  Virtue, Ingenio & Constantine

Fifteen years earlier, Virtue's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Fey, had considered themselves fortunate in their two children; both Virtue and Ingenio were healthy and attractive, neither were rebellious, and both wanted to please. No easy task with parents who expected their offspring to reject earthly delights in favour of spiritual development.

Virtue Fey, however, also wanted to live in the same real, physically exciting world as her friends, not sit around nurturing her spirit with meditation and self-denial. It didn't make sense and she said so, repeatedly, causing her parents to label her unreliable and easy prey for sexual predators.

Unable to please her parents, Virtue sought solace in food until someone yelled 'Hey Fatty Fey!' from across the street. That triggered a bout of bulimia just on time to give her an attractive sylph-like figure that would be a benefit for life. As food was now off the list of pleasures, she indulged in marathon bouts of self-pleasure; which she soon realised was better than eating because it could be kept secret and left her feeling dreamy and contented—a state her parents fortunately confused with spiritual serenity. Masturbation is notoriously addictive and Virtue rapidly progressed from simple thigh massage to complex and intricate techniques that afforded hours of exquisite delight and gratifyingly explosive orgasms. The resulting ecstatic whimpers, her brother Ingenio warned her, could not be mistaken for spiritual rapture, so she ought to put a pillow over her head.

Ingenio, although three years younger, outstripped his sister both intellectually and physically. 'Your children are perfect representations of Yin and Yang,' a spiritual guru had once declared in an effort to curry favour when attempting to sign the Feys up for a course of his lectures.

Ingenio understood but couldn't sympathise with his parents' fixation on spirituality, privately rejecting their insistence that the spirit was separate from the physical body. When he was eleven years old he suggested that because the contemplation of spiritual things was performed by the brain, a physical organ, then spirit and body couldn't be as separate as his parents insisted. His abject apology when accused of heterodox rebellion allayed their anger, and as he was canny enough to never again evince the slightest doubt about their increasingly insane beliefs, he became the reliable, sensible, trusted son who could do no wrong.

Both Police Officer Fey and his Social Worker wife were obliged to work shifts, which meant there were many times when neither parent was at home to guard their offspring. When the children's babysitting grandparents retired to the Gold Coast, eleven-year-old Ingenio was appointed guardian of fourteen-year-old Virtue when both parents were at work. The decision pleased both children, who trusted each other implicitly, even though the only thing they had in common was implacable opposition to their oddball parents. Making the best of things, they escaped boredom by playing games, sharing secrets, surfing the Internet, and planning their future lives.

When Ingenio had his first wet dream, it was with Virtue he celebrated, just has he had been the first to know, observe and assist when she began to menstruate. They became avid subscribers of Internet health sites that explained how and why their bodies were changing, and kept photographic diaries of their bodily functions and changes - which couldn't come quickly enough. The future was somewhere they longed to be... independent and free of parental oversight.

Ingenio's unsatisfyingly messy wet dreams ceased when masturbation commenced, which provided another activity for the siblings to share and discuss in detail. Although always a solo activity, the pleasure was sometimes enhanced by facing each other on a bed while demonstrating their latest method of achieving ecstasy. Ingenio's interest was intellectual and scientific. Virtue's was in being admired. Neither felt sexually attracted to the other. Observing politely and not interfering was the rule, and only headless photos were posted on the Internet under their noms de plume.

Virtue was never allowed to leave the house alone. If she went to a friend's house, Ingenio went too. If one or other of the parents couldn't drop them off and pick them up, they had to call a taxi. Afraid of spiritual contamination of their house, their children's school friends were not allowed to visit. This suited Ingenio who liked school, but needed to keep his two lives separate. When Virtue's best friend, Angelique Tollirint, asked her to come after school to play, Ingenio reluctantly agreed to accompany her, imagining a boring afternoon of girl talk.

Angelique had a brother, Constantine, a year older than Ingenio, who was being home-schooled while his school Principal decided whether to let him return after he'd attacked several other boys with knives, and spray-painted obscenities on the walls. He had also been apprehended by the police for breaking shop windows, stealing money from parking metres and setting fire to parked cars. The police had warned his parents that next time he would be incarcerated in a Boy's Remand Centre from which they knew he would emerge a hardened criminal.

Both parents were at their wit's end, unable to understand why the boy they loved was doing such stupid things. When asked, he shrugged and refused to speak. Impotence had rendered their lives intolerable. A psychiatrist mumbled autism and prescribed tranquilisers, which they tossed away. His brain needed all it's cells sparking properly if he was to solve his problem. The lad wasn't basically evil; he always apologised after doing something stupid, but seemed incapable of change.

And then Angelique's pretty friend Virtue arrived one day after school with her twelve-year-old brother, who saw Constantine out in the garden, ran out and started chatting. The mother watched nervously, waiting for her son to attack the intruder. Instead he laughed, grabbed Ingenio's hand and dragged him off to the tool shed where his father had given him a workbench for his personal use. And there they remained until it was time to go home. At Constantine's insistence, Ingenio willingly promised to come back the next day.

Constantine was calm that evening at dinner, did his homework, played chess with his father and lost without a tantrum, didn't bother with computer games or a book, simply went to bed without complaining. His parents couldn't believe the miracle and metaphorically held their breath until the following afternoon when the same thing happened.

The two boys became best friends and while Virtue and Angelique were putting on makeup and clothes, talking about boys, playing music, dancing, giggling over photos of film stars and boy-bands, Ingenio and Constantine would be repairing Constantine's bike, making model aeroplanes, looking through his father's microscope... always practical and worthy activities until they deemed they'd earned the right to shut themselves in Constantine's bedroom, take off their clothes and explore each other's bodies.

Ingenio appreciated Constantine's practical, down to earth nature, and Constantine appreciated Ingenio's easy going sense of fun and lack of curiosity about the reasons for his previous rotten behaviour—especially as he had no idea himself why he'd been like that. What he did know was that he didn't want to be that person ever again.

Every afternoon Ingenio would be greeted by Constantine's smiling mother who plied them with cakes and drinks and the sort of loving attention that was foreign to Ingenio's parents. While allowing the two boys every freedom, the Tollirints kept discreet, watchful and eternally grateful eyes on them, in the process gaining a very good idea of how the relationship was developing.

One sunny weekend afternoon when Constantine's mother was at her bridge club, Mr. Tollirint stood in front of a mirror practising keeping his face looking relaxed and calm. He had a fair idea of what the boys were doing, and was determined not to seem even slightly censorious. They had to trust him to trust them to live their lives as they thought best and this seemed the best way to go about it. He stood outside the door taking deep breaths for a minute, then opened it and breezed in, face a picture of benign open-mindedness.

To his astonishment, he required no effort of self control, an honest laugh erupted, he took a chair, turned it around and sat astride, leaning on the back and facing the bed on which a pair of naked monkeys were innocently cavorting; Ingenio astride and energetically impaling himself on his giggling friend's erection.

They froze and stared at the amused parent.

'What's so funny?' Constantine asked with a hint of his former belligerence.

'You two. You look like a pair of young bonobos having fun and it looks so... so natural it makes me laugh from pleasure.'

'Seriously? You're not mad at us?'

'Of course not. Why should I be?'

Ingenio, heart thumping from fear of losing Constantine, asked anxiously, 'Are you really not mad at me... not upset about...' he gazed down at an erection that seemed to have grown over the last few minutes, then helplessly back to the smiling father.

'Good heavens no! You both look wonderfully fit and healthy.' He laughed at the surprised reaction. 'Seriously, Ingenio, I doubt that anything you would do could upset me. I'm very pleased you're Con's friend, and if ever you need anything, any time, you have only to ask. And you are always welcome in our house.' He turned to his son. 'Do you agree, Con?'

'Yes,' Constantine managed to reply in a strangled whisper. 'Then you still like me? You aren't mad at us for... for doing this?'

'Con, you are exactly the son I have always wanted you to be. As for what you were doing when I so rudely interrupted... you were having good clean fun, taking pleasure in each other and doing no harm to anyone. There is nothing healthier than that. So make sure you never pay attention to horrible people who tell you pleasure is a sin. They are evil.' He leaned back on his son's desk and smiled broadly, well pleased with himself.

Ingenio was lost for words and Constantine was shaking his head in astonishment. 'Thanks, Dad! You and Mum are the greatest.'

'Yep, we're a great pair. But I forgot what I came in for; do you want to go for a swim?'

Constantine whooped in delight.

Mr. Tollirint went to his room to change.

The boys prised themselves apart and Constantine said nervously to his boyfriend. 'You've bewitched Dad! But,' he lowered his eyes and his voice shook slightly, 'Just because Dad said that, you don't have to stay my friend if you don't want to.'

'Try and stop me!'

Eyes brimming, Constantine found a speedo for Ingenio, then they raced down to wait at the car.

Twelve minutes later they joined hundreds of others making sand castles, reading, splashing in the shallows, swimming out to the pontoon and diving off. Mr. Tollirint bobbed up and down in the warm shallows before relaxing on the beach, not daring to take his eyes off the two young people he treasured.

Later, while sharing a cup of tea with his wife, Constantine's father gave a reasonably accurate account of his afternoon.

'And you weren't shocked?'

'Not in the slightest. As you know, I was prepared to be all tolerant and understanding, but they looked so sweet and natural. So innocent and yet knowing, that I was bowled over. It was... it sounds daft, but it was beautiful to see them enjoying each other. Nothing to be tolerant about. That'd be like tolerating them breathing, it was that natural.'

'But how can they know at their age?'

'When I was Constantine's age I was jerking off over girly magazines wishing I could do to Margaret Simpton what he was doing to Ingenio. No one would have asked how I knew what I wanted; they'd have accepted that what I wanted was right for me. And that's clearly how it is for them. Right. And I have to say, seeing them so obviously in love made me the happiest man alive.'

His wife kissed him on the cheek. 'Well, you trust me to know what I'm talking about regarding women's issues, and I trust you to know what you're talking about when it comes to men. That makes us the happiest couple alive.'

Meanwhile, lying side by side on Constantine's bed, the two youths analysed what had happened that afternoon in an effort to work out what it meant for them and their future.

'It means that what we do is Ok... I think,' Constantine said uncertainly.

'Yeah. It means it's normal to fuck and wank and have fun as well as do all the other things we do. Your father wouldn't have said he was glad I was your friend if it was bad or strange.'

When the realisation that it was as good to enjoy each other's body, as it was to enjoy their mind, had been absorbed into the part of the brain responsible for emotions, their heads and hearts filled with an ineffable lightness. And when they understood and really believed that Constantine's parents considered their friendship good and desirable and hoped it would last, they floated in a warm tub of happiness. Smiles grew and a contented lethargy spread as they rolled to face each other. Then, as if propelled by an external force, they placed their lips softly together and remained absolutely still, hearts so close they couldn't tell whose was beating, wondering and almost hoping that if they stayed like that for long enough they would melt together and become one being.

It was their first kiss, because they knew from internet sites that sex was only sex, but kissing meant something else entirely. It meant you liked... no! More than that! It meant you loved someone. And both knew now, deep in what the Feys would call their spirit-selves, that they would love each other forever.

At home later that evening when Virtue learned of the intimate position in which Constantine's father had found the boys, she was jealous. It wasn't fair that Ingenio should have experienced an erect penis inside him. She was fifteen and should also know what it was like. Not in her anus of course, that was what men did to each other; she had a different hole for men to put their erections in. She already got a lot of pleasure from it, but... she wanted to experience everything and it was up to Ingenio to do it to her.

Ingenio refused point blank. He loved what he and Constantine did together—it was special and sacred, and he wanted to be faithful to him. Virtue should wait till she found a man who wanted to do it to her. She pleaded that she didn't want him to come inside her; that would be gross. All she wanted was to know what it felt like, then he could pull out and she'd finish with her fingers as usual.

Ingenio offered to buy a dildo, but she wanted to feel real flesh inside her. If he liked her he'd do as she asked!

Protesting that he didn't know how to do it to a female, they searched multiple sites for the most natural method. Virtue decided on the doggy position because she didn't want Ingenio looking into her eyes in case she looked stupid. Still he hesitated, although also wondering what it would be like.

Scientific curiosity made him want to compare the relative elasticity of anal and vaginal sphincters, the ease of entry, to see if a vagina could squeeze his penis so tightly that he couldn't pull out, like Constantine could—holding him a giggling prisoner until he relaxed. Would Virtue be able to make him ejaculate even if he lay still, merely by contracting her muscles like Con did? And then he remembered there was to be no ejaculation so he wouldn't be cheating. It'd be just another experience with no significance and never to be repeated.

'Ok, but no kissing!' he agreed after five days without seeing his lover and desperate for release.

On a cool evening just before bed, with both parents at work, they showered, then Virtue knelt on the carpet in the middle of her room while Ingenio thought of Constantine, played with himself, placed his knob in position and announced, 'Ready for insertion.'

'About time! Push it in slowly.'

Virtue's vulva was no stranger to fingers, several at a time in fact, and her copious lubrication made the entry effortless. Almost without realising it Ingenio found himself up to the hilt.

'What does it feel like?'

'Nice. Push it in and out for a bit.'

Ingenio did.

'Your cock's getting fatter thank goodness, I could hardly feel it before.'

'Can you squeeze it? It still feels a bit loose compared to Constantine.'

'That's because you're not very big.' Virtue squeezed.

'Yeah, I can feel it now.' he pushed it in and out for a minute then decided he'd had enough 'Can I pull it out now? I'm getting soft.'

Instead of replying, a soft purring that arose deep in Virtue's throat quickly became a loud humming while her bum began to grind into Ingenio's belly. Alarmed, he tried to withdraw. Too late. Every muscle and sphincter in Virtue's nether regions had gone into what they later learned was benign spasm. Grunting and sweating she writhed as if attempting to free herself from the annoying worm attached to her rear end.

To Ingenio it felt as if fingers had taken hold of his erection inside the belly of the beast, manipulating him mercilessly.

'I'm coming, Virtue!' he almost shouted. 'You have to let me out!' But she only writhed the more until with a great ecstatic whinny she arched her back and Ingenio was certain his essential self had been violently sucked out through his penis. He'd been too frightened to feel much more than an almost-pain, followed by relief when the gates of hell opened and he flopped out; sore and shocked.

'I couldn't help it,' Virtue apologised later. 'At first I felt almost nothing, then your balls rubbed on my clitoris and I got more excited than usual. Then my body took over. Amazing eh?'

'No it is not! You've got a week's worth of first-class semen inside you! Con and I have been doing sperm counts using his father's microscope. I have twice as many as normal men and they're all big and active! Do you want to get pregnant? Wash it out! I don't want to be a twelve-year-old father!'

They filled a plastic bag with warm water, snipped off one corner and squirted it into the still slightly distended orifice. No creamy stuff came out. They attached a hose to a tap and caused pain and slight superficial bleeding while flushing as deeply as they could, then gave up and hoped for the best.

And so it came to pass that despite her parents' best intentions, fifteen–year-old Virtue became pregnant; confirmed by a test kit Ingenio bought at a central city pharmacy. The positive result sent her into hysterics and Ingenio into devising a solution, which appeared in the form of Simon Goldmein, a family friend who arrived the following day to stay for a week while his house was being repainted.

Knowing an abortion would never be permitted, and as both young parents-to-be were determined not to have their child adopted, Virtue followed her brother's instructions to the letter.

Creeping into Simon's bedroom at the witching hour of midnight she used her considerable physical charms to entice the unsuspecting man into a giddy night of copulation—happy in the belief that she had inserted a fail-proof pessary.

Three earth shattering orgasmic ejaculations during one night of lust was miraculous for Simon, whose sole foray into the lascivious life had been with a pretty, pre-pubescent prostitute when he was twenty-four, who gave him crabs. Adult women terrified him, so he had restricted sexual activity to forty minutes of masturbation while watching nubile young girls pleasure each other on Internet web-cams on Sunday afternoons directly before afternoon tea.

A confirmed bachelor of thirty-seven and prematurely middle-aged—both physically and mentally, his apparent sexual success with Virtue left him so absurdly flattered he agreed to marry her when a week later she tearfully and apologetically showed him the test results and nervously confessed she must have put the pessary in the wrong way round.

Tearfully, Virtue confessed to her parents that she had crept to Simon's room and seduced him. When confronted, he agreed he should have refused Virtue's advances, but he would make up for it by marrying her. Parental moral outrage was well and truly tempered by relief that their daughter's shame would be concealed and their social standing enhanced by her marrying a wealthy jeweller.

Wisely, they pressed for a quick marriage before minds could be changed and the belly began to show. Their satisfaction in having accurately predicted their daughter's moral failure, was more than offset by their anger at their trusted son's failure to guard his sister.

The wedding, a week later, was a suitably quiet affair with only close family and friends, and passed without incident. But that was the last pleasant thing Simon experienced. Well before the honeymoon was over he was wishing he'd remembered Wilde's epigram... "Marry in haste; repent at leisure". Headaches and feminine indispositions prevented any repetition of the night of erotic abandonment with which he had been ensnared. He had shackled himself to an apparently frigid spouse whose flirtatious ways made it obvious to every other hotel guest that her desires lay with lean, tough, virile flesh—not the sagging pale and soft variety.

Like all men in that situation he became angry, cold and spiteful, closeting himself in his study on Sunday afternoons in an attempt to recapture the pleasures of singularity. And it wasn't too long before he discovered he was happier with self-pleasure because it was less fuss, just as enjoyable, and much less humiliating than begging for conjugal rights. And so the household settled into humdrum but not unpleasant monotony.

And then baby Frankie was born and poisonous suspicions arose in the minds of Virtue's parents because the mewling babe was identical to Ingenio at birth. There was nothing of the Goldmein strain in the scrawny little runt. Suspicions were soon confirmed by the inordinate attention, love, interest, kisses and care bestowed on the infant by thirteen year-old Uncle Ingenio, whose offers of assistance and demand that he be made godfather, triggered a vituperative and violent outburst from his parents.

A punch in the side of his head on entering the house after school one day, rendered Ingenio temporarily unconscious. He awoke tied to a kitchen chair, both parents armed with thin flexible twigs with which they slashed at his legs and arms demanding the truth. Seeing no point in allowing himself to be disfigured, he confessed in wide-eyed innocence to having inseminated his sister out of curiosity. No one had told him it was wrong.

The whipping stopped and they stared at their incestuous son in horror.

'If you ever tell anyone the truth, you will die,' said his policeman father with such conviction Ingenio didn't doubt it.

'I never will,' he replied with equal conviction.

'You are an incestuous fornicator who is no longer welcome in this house,' his mother snarled. 'You have ten minutes to get what you want and leave.'

Ingenio had often wished his parents would have a fatal accident, never imagining it would be him to suffer the equivalent. He raised his eyes to beg, but they raised their switches and he scurried to his bedroom, jammed his favourite clothes in a bag, followed by his laptop, and then couldn't think of anything else. Not wanting his parents to see his humiliation, he climbed out the window and ran as fast as he could down the street. And then stopped. Where could he go? The obvious answer was to Constantine's. But wouldn't it be shameful to admit that his parents had kicked him out? What if they asked him why? Then they'd also hate him. And he'd promised not to tell anyone. He sat until dark and cold forced a decision and the beginnings of a plan. He knew there were loads of kids as young as twelve who'd been kicked out by their religious parents because they were gay, so that's what he'd tell Constantine and his parents.

As expected, he was welcomed with open hearts and arms and was soon wishing he'd got himself kicked out of his parents' house years earlier. Knowing their working hours, it was easy to return to his old home and get the things he needed. Five weeks later his father was waiting outside the school for him, offering a return to the family home and hearth on impossibly strict conditions. Ingenio was suitably grateful, but respectfully declined the offer, leaving the parents cursing their hastiness but unable to do anything about it because that would almost certainly lead to exposing the unholy reasons for kicking him out in the first place.

#  Disaster

Fifteen years later, thirty-year-old Virtue was more attractive than ever. Although still not the sharpest knife in the drawer, she became an excellent cook, a competent hostess and therefore a possession of which her husband could be proud and his friends envious. A natural organiser, she kept the house immaculate yet pleasant. Delighted that she was not required to go to work, she used her free time to keep fit, involve herself in 'good deeds' and enjoy the life of a social butterfly.

The successful seduction of her brother, followed by that of Simon, led naturally enough to the seduction of scores of equally lusty men of whom her husband chose to remain ignorant, - the gasman being the latest.

Simon also chose to appear ignorant of the ups and downs of his son's educational career. Never doubting the lad was his, he often wondered guiltily if the fault lay in his lack of interest and empathy. He'd always imagined he would feel a bond with a child, and that his son would at least look a bit like him. Instead he was lean and chirpy, constantly active, asking questions, trying to do new things. And nor did he resemble any member of the Goldmein family who all tended to be short and wide with pudding faces, rather than tall and spare with sharp, inquisitive expressions. Clearly he was lacking the parental gene as well as empathy, and therefore it made sense to let his wife take responsibility for the noisy, curious, interfering, arrogant, know-it-all young whelp.

Any concerns Virtue had about Simon's reaction to Frankie's latest expulsion evaporated when he arrived home slightly tipsy, stood in the middle of the lounge and stated flatly, 'We're ruined,' before flopping into an armchair.

It took some probing but eventually the facts emerged. The fine old freehold building that had been home to Goldmein Jewellers and Watch Makers for eighty years, was sold. The decline in business had been gradual but unstoppable. Two years earlier, the legal firm in one of the upstairs suites had been absorbed into a larger organisation, as had the dentist who had occupied the other rooms for umpteen years. Since their departure the entire top floor had remained vacant. A similar fate had befallen the Gentleman's Clothing Store in the ground floor twin of the Jewellery shop. Unable to compete with cheap shoes and garments imported from low wage countries, the staff had joined the ranks of unemployed, and the once elegant menswear shop lay empty.

Goldmein Jewellers had fared no better. Despite possessing all the technical skills of his forebears, Simon's beautiful hand-crafted jewellery and elegant clocks and watches couldn't compete with the flood of cheap body ornaments and digital timepieces from slave economies taking advantage of global free trade permitted by a government that considered the protection of their own countrymen's jobs and businesses of zero importance. With no rents coming in and profits evaporating he had been forced to borrow to maintain not only the building, but also the expensive habits of a spendthrift wife. Adding insult to injury, when multinational financial institutions commandeered all trade in precious metals his small but previously lucrative trade in gold fell even deeper into debt. Unable to confess his failure to his wife he had continued to borrow, even against the lovely old house that had been bequeathed to him by his parents.

Because of its position, the commercial property was very valuable and two months earlier an attractive offer had been made that would cover all his losses. Eager to escape his spiralling debt crisis, Simon wanted to accept, but the bank manager assured him he would be foolish to sell during a real estate downturn. Trusting him, Simon had rejected the offer.

This very morning, however, the bank had foreclosed on the mortgage and Simon lost everything. He had signed over the deeds to both his commercial and residential properties an hour before arriving home. Permitted to take nothing from the shop, his sole assets in the world were his clothes, his car, and a portable butane-gas forge and leather bag of jewellery-making tools that he kept in the boot. They had three weeks to vacate their house and find somewhere to live.

Two days of shock were followed by revolt and anger against those who had encouraged Simon to continue borrowing when it must have been obvious his situation was hopeless. His greatest hatred was directed towards the bank manager who had advised against selling. In vain did his wife tell him it was Ok, she would find work. He didn't believe her. Frankie declared that Simon should have refused to honour the debt because, logically, the lender must share the risk of any venture in which he invests; if it fails then he must share the loss. To lend money foolishly should exact a penalty, but as it doesn't it would be immoral for Simon to pay it, because that would only encourage further immorality.

For the first time in fifteen years Simon looked on his son with something akin to affection. He smiled and stroked his cheek. Thank you, Frankie. You have made me feel much better. The feeling lasted until the following morning when they discovered the bank was selling the properties for many more millions of dollars than Simon's debt. Virtue wondered if her husband was having a heart attack. Veins and arteries dilated, his head thrashed wildly, his eyes popped, he foamed at the mouth and uttered whimpers of anguished rage which set his brain whirling and his teeth grinding.

'Yes!' he growled, lips retracted in a horrifying snarl that made Frankie want to laugh. 'Yes. Yes. Yes!' That fucking arseholed shit faced bastard is going to pay! I've been a doormat too long! Revenge! Retribution and fuck the lot of them!'

Virtue gazed on him with a combination of curiosity and admiration, never having heard him raise his voice, let alone swear. She placed a cold palm on his forehead, wondering if he was about to suffer a terminal cardiac infarct, and trying not to hope that he was—his life insurance was up to date and very substantial. 'Are you alright, Simon?' It was difficult to tell if she hoped he was or wasn't.

He swung round to face her. 'Will you help me make him pay?'

'Of course. Whatever you suggest, Simon.' Virtue's eyes lit at the hope of recovering her lost wealth and life.

Frankie, who had listened to the words not the emotion, pulled a wry face. His mother was deluded and so was Simon, but rather than point this out he decided it would be interesting to see how far his fifty year-old father was prepared to go.

For the next two days while Virtue pondered what to take, how to pack, where they'd be going... and solving none of those problems, Simon and Frankie sat in the car and watched the bank manager's house, noting his comings and goings. Such was Simon's anguish he didn't question Frankie's absence from school. That evening he outlined his plan. They'd abduct the bank manager when he was out exercising his dog in the evening. Frankie would pretend to have fallen and twisted his ankle in front of a vacant block. When the manager stopped to assist, Simon and Virtue would drop a sack over his head and bundle him into the boot of the car, transporting him to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town where they would torture him until he agreed to stop the deal.

'And when he does, what're you going to do then?' Frankie asked innocently.

'We'll worry about that after he's signed the papers,' Simon responded with venom.

The first part went according to plan, but the second didn't. After shoving the wriggling, swearing manager into the boot of the car, Simon and Virtue were so nervous they leaped in and drove off leaving Frankie behind—for which he was very grateful. During the journey, the manager thrashed around and kicked the valve of the butane cylinder, causing it to leak its odourless gas, which asphyxiated him before seeping into the interior where it affected Simon's concentration, causing him to veer wildly from side to side of the road. Virtue, who was in no better state than her husband, grabbed the steering wheel in an attempt to avoid a collision with a bridge. She over compensated and the car grazed the concrete wall sending out sparks that ignited the gas. A fireball erupted in an explosion that was heard a kilometre away.

Having no money and no mobile phone because he didn't want to be constantly available to anyone, least of all his mother, Frankie decided to walk to the only relative he liked, Uncle Ingenio who lived with his partner in a dilapidated old house in the upper reaches of the Yarra River. They'd been meaning to refurbish the place since moving there, but never got around to it. It was comfortable enough, didn't leak too badly, and most of the floorboards were sound. The doors and windows that didn't open were ones they'd probably never have used anyway, and while a spate of burglaries had targeted several elegant houses in the neighbourhood, no self-respecting thief would bother with such a wreck of a place. The best thing about the property, according to Ingenio and Constantine, was the garden; half an acre of wilderness bursting with native trees and flowering shrubs, scores of different birds, lizards, snakes, the occasional kangaroo rat, bandicoots, and Constantine always insisted, a wombat. A somewhat eccentric but productive vegetable garden kept muscles busy and bowels healthy, and a dozen hens provided eggs a-plenty.

Ingenio had been employed by the Department for Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research to develop individualised learning programmes for state schools, until the government decided to balance their budget by pulling the plug on both educational research and funding for state schools, entrusting the education of future citizens to whoever was prepared to buy the infrastructure. The Government's philosophy of education, if you could call it that, was that if would-be educators wanted to make a profit, they would have to maintain high standards to attract clients who would then pay according to results. The predictable result, of course, was a lowering of standards to enable every child and his dog to pass every test. With perfect success rates, fees increased and profits poured into the coffers of the savvy entrepreneurs. The children of parents who couldn't afford the cost of even a basic education, provided cheap child labour that was finally starting to make Australian exports competitive in a global marketplace.

Ingenio was woken at first light by a loud hammering on the door. At first not recognising his exhausted nephew who had trudged the thirty uphill kilometres throughout the night, he hoisted him into the air in delight, gave him a mighty kiss on the forehead, and a hug that squeezed the last centilitres of air from his lungs. When Frankie recovered enough to explain his presence, he was taken to the kitchen, fed on soup, toast, hot sweet cocoa and three fried eggs. Constantine joined in the feast and echoed Ingenio's incredulity at Virtue and her sad husband's predicament and crazy solution.

'They'll go to prison for ever,' Constantine, who was a Legal Aid lawyer, declared with a shake of his head.

'At least they'll be living rent free,' Frankie said with a giggle. 'They've no money, nothing. They're desperate.'

Ingenio turned on the wireless in case the missing bank manager was already on the news. What they heard silenced all tendency to laugh.

'They're dead.' Virtue's brother said thoughtfully. 'They were two of the most stupid people I've ever known, but I loved my sister and...' he sniffed away a tear. 'This is terrible!' He turned to Frankie and swallowed. 'Are you going to be Ok?'

Frankie frowned. 'Of course. Why not? If the fireball and explosion were as large as reported, then it sounds as if it was instant, so surely they're better off dead than rotting away in jail. It would have totally destroyed Virtue; she always thought she was too good to do anything except play the lady of leisure.'

'And there'll probably be a hefty life insurance payout,' pragmatist Constantine added cheerfully. 'What'll you do with it?'

'Can I stay with you two? Then we can use the money to do some of those renovations you're always on about.'

Ingenio was looking at his lover and nephew in astonishment. 'I've always known you were a cold-hearted fish, Con, but Frankie! Where's your empathy, your family feeling? Aren't you sad at losing your parents?'

'I'd be sadder if I had to go on living with them as paupers. Come on, Inge, admit it, they're better off dead than alive.'

'Ingenio waggled his head and frowned. 'What about the bank manager?'

'He cheated Dad out of everything, so deserved what he got.'

'And his family?'

'If he treated them the same way as he treated Dad, and he probably did because people's character is pretty constant, then they're probably pleased to be shot of him. And I'll bet his insurance policy will be ginormous; that'll help them cope.'

'Meanwhile, the cops will be looking for you,' Constantine said. 'Did anyone except those three know you were with them?'

'No.'

'Then it must never be mentioned. The story is that they dropped you off here on their way to waylay the bank manager, and that was the last you saw of them. You'd better be suitably distraught—can you manage that?'

'No problem.'

'Good. As for where you'll stay,' Constantine turned to Ingenio. 'What does the grief-stricken Uncle say?'

'He's staying with us.'

'Excellent.'

Frankie succumbed to a rare dose of boyish delight, leaped into his uncle's arms and kissed him, paid Constantine the same compliment, then invited them to another round of buttered toast and mango jam.

# Into the Wilderness

Virtue's parents took the news of their daughter's demise with such serenity the police figured they were either deaf or demented. They were neither. Her father, ex Police Sergeant Fey, had recently been granted permanent compassionate leave on a minimum pension, due to stress-related mental breakdown. The increase in violent crime over the preceding dozen or more years caused by political refusal to reduce incarceration rates by providing adequate housing, employment, health and education services, suitable recreational facilities and living conditions for socially disadvantaged children, and refusing to introduce rehabilitation programmes both during and after imprisonment, ensured that no matter how hard they worked, police officers hadn't a hope of maintaining a safe and pleasant urban environment. His wife, after long depressing years as a social worker, was as equally burnt out and bereft of hope as her husband—a normal reaction to the horrors caused by the disappearing social safety net for disadvantaged families and individuals. Both had been born with a powerful sense of social justice and fair play, but the rapidly widening chasm between the health, wealth and hopes of the multitudes, and the obscene riches and influence of the very few, were the nails in the coffins of their sanity.

Instead of wasting money on counselling, their employers prescribed sleeping pills and anti-depressants, which the Feys shoved in a drawer and refused to take, not wanting to destroy what was left of their brains. Instead, they searched the Internet for natural remedies for _Weltschmerz_ , and discovered the "Society for Spiritual Renewal and Repair", whose Enlightened Sages preached the Perfection of the Present.

It was a beguilingly simple philosophy: "When we think, our thoughts are always about either the past (what we have seen, read, heard or done) or the future (what we hope, expect or want to do or see done). This means that thinking prevents us from being fully conscious of the present. This is serious, because we live in the present, and this lack of conscious awareness of the present moment is the reason for the mess the human world is in. The solution is obvious—we must stop thinking and allow the mind to be constantly aware of the present moment."

Their daughter and her husband no longer existed in the present moment, so to think about them would be a pointless dwelling on the past. By the same logic there was no point in a funeral or any other ritual for people who were dead and unable to share in it. Ingenio and Frankie disagreed with the first point but agreed with the second. And once they learned there would be no inheritance, Simon's cousins also agreed that a burial ceremony would be a pointless expense and waste of time. This was good news for The Accidental Death Insurance Company who arranged a bulk-billed cremation with a score of equally forsaken hospital casualties, and pocketed the remaining Funeral Insurance payout.

Five weeks earlier, with their brains in ferment about planetary bio-collapse, water wars, land wars, global warming, global droughts, global starvation, rising seas and diluvial disasters... the Feys had discovered the "Catastropharian" Internet site, on which an advertisement for a large block of land in Southern Tasmania where one could live "in hyperborean bliss beyond the reach of mad mortals", attracted their interest.

They made an offer, conditional on the sale of their own house. Being in a sought-after central city location it was sold within a week, and the purchase of the Tasmanian property finalised. For what seemed the first time in their lives the Feys relaxed. They had somewhere to go where they could live in the present without fear for the future. For reasons that were unclear even to themselves—perhaps as a way of asserting their independence from a son they had never fully forgiven for rejecting them fifteen years earlier, they decided not to tell Ingenio about the sale of their house, or their impending move. Another disincentive to share the secret was the realisation during their afternoon meditation session, that their grandson Frankie would soon be the recipient of his parents' life insurance policy. As it would be a substantial amount, it was their clear duty to take responsibility for him.

At fifty-seven they were still in reasonable health, although they had to admit that establishing themselves in an untamed forest far from any possible nuclear target and high enough to escape even the most dire rise in sea level, would be a bit of a strain. Fortunately, lean and fit Frankie was in urgent need of firm moral guidance, so it would be their duty to remove him from the undesirable influence of his secular-humanist incestuous uncle, and take on the responsibility of providing the nurturing spiritual environment in which their grandson would absorb the pleasures of unthinking abstinence and the joys of simple living on the fruits of his labour. Frankie might think he wanted to live with his uncle, but he was too young to know what was good for him, so they invited Ingenio, Constantine and Frankie to dinner to arrange for Frankie's transfer to their care.

Mrs. Fey's cooking was almost good enough to distract from the large coloured photographs of exploding hydrogen bombs, melting glaciers, flooded cities, and hordes of starved, dead and dying refugees that decorated the walls of the dining room. The atmosphere was as unfriendly and tense as usual, so it was no surprise to Ingenio when his parents informed him that Frankie should live with them.

'No I shouldn't!' Frankie snarled angrily. 'I'm going to live with Inge and Con.'

'You are only fifteen and don't know what's best for you, and...'

'I am the only person who knows what's best for me, and living with old people is the worst thing possible.' He turned to Ingenio. 'Tell them. Inge!'

'He's right, Mum. He does know what's best for himself. He's asked Con and me to adopt him. The papers are already with the Department.' He turned to his father. 'Surely you can see that, Dad?'

Mr. Fey senior turned helplessly to his wife, who, in a voice dripping with sweetness and resolve, replied, 'The best thing for Frankie is to live with us, not with a couple of godless, spiritually void perverts!'

The three young men were shocked to silence. Neither of the parents had ever seemed to care about their son's sexual orientation or lack of spirituality. Frankie jumped to his feet ready to argue, but Ingenio silenced him with a protective hand on his shoulder. Then without saying another word they got up and left the house.

Before sunrise on the morning of the day they were to leave for Tasmania, the Feys loaded their old Land Rover with everything they needed—tent, sleeping bags, primus, cooking gear, dried food, water, clothing, gardening implements and the meagre contents of their bank account in cash. After a quick breakfast they phoned Ingenio, apologised profusely for their inexcusable rudeness at the dinner party, and, as a way of atoning for their indefensible insults, which of course they didn't mean, invited Frankie for lunch in the park followed by a visit to a much-publicised exhibition of environmental painting and sculpture in which he had expressed interest.

After some persuasion from Ingenio, Frankie reluctantly agreed and was pleasantly surprised by his grandparents' friendliness. Relaxing on a rug in the park, plied with delicious pies and sweets, he willingly agreed to forget the past and cement the bonds of love and friendship by joining them in swallowing in one go the contents of a small tumbler containing a special brew of herbs that had been picked and distilled that morning by his grandmother. It was very sweet and not unpleasant, so he accepted another. By the time they had cleared away the picnic he was deep asleep.

'I knew those sleeping pills would come in useful one day,' his grandfather grunted as they heaved Frankie into the back of the Land rover, handcuffed him to a stanchion, covered him with rugs, and drove away.

Several hours later he woke to the muffled sound of engines. Whatever he was lying on was vibrating slightly and rocking gently. He was naked, felt sick and headachy, groaned and tried to sit up. The handcuffs stopped him. In panic he screamed. Not words but a shriek of anger, fear and a refusal to accept what was happening to him.

'Shut up!' his grandmother snapped. 'If you make a noise I'll throw you overboard. No one knows you're here so do as you're told. You wouldn't live with us freely, so you're coming under compulsion. Get used to it.'

'Coming where? Where are we? Where are we going?'

'We're on a ferry on the way to Tasmania. We're not supposed to remain in the vehicle during the voyage, but I hid so you'd not be too upset when you woke up. If you promise not to shout I'll take off the handcuffs and we can eat and drink.'

'I need a piss.'

She passed him a flask. 'Do it out the door but don't make a fuss or you're dead. We are not going to suffer because of your pigheadedness.'

Frankie stared into her eyes, realised the threat was real, and wisely decided to do as he was told. Once on dry land he'd be able to escape.

His grandfather returned as soon as the ship docked. Frankie was again handcuffed to the stanchion and, like his grandmother, concealed under clothing and rugs as they drove out of the darkness into a sunny morning. It was a relief not to feel the rocking of the boat, but being chained was frightening. After an hour's driving they stopped for breakfast. He was freed, but without clothes or shoes, escape was not an option. Whenever they stopped for diesel or to buy food, he was handcuffed and concealed.

During the three-day trip south, an increasingly incredulous Frankie was introduced to his grandparents' esoteric beliefs through readings from the Catastropharian Handbook of Spiritual Survival, and treatises on the Virtues of Not Thinking, published by the Society for Spiritual Renewal and Repair.

One evening in the tent beside a mosquito-ridden swamp, realising his grandparents were not only crazy but also dangerous, Frankie agreed to join their band of believers in exchange for clothes and shoes. Kneeling with his forehead pressed into the damp earth he repeated after them a solemn vow to live constantly in the present moment and expunge all thoughts not directly connected to spiritual survival.

Furious and ashamed at having succumbed to such insanity, he made a silent counter vow to plan for a future escape, rather than embrace the present with a couple of demented old relics. Concealing his anger he asked if Ingenio knew where he was.

Instead of replying, his grandfather took out his mobile phone, dialled a number, then held it to Frankie's ear. Ingenio answered.

'Inge! It's me,' Frankie shouted. 'I'm...'

His grandfather snatched the phone away and spoke harshly. 'Your mother and I have departed the city of sin. Frankie is with us in good health. If you want to see him again, do not search for us and do not go to the police!' He snapped the phone shut, threw it onto the ground and stamped his booted foot on it until it was smashed to smithereens.

'Why'd you do that?' Frankie wept; almost insane with grief. Ingenio didn't know where he was so couldn't come and get him. He was alone with two mad people and he thought his heart would break. He sank to the ground and wept inconsolably while a hatred of which he hadn't realised he was capable filled him to bursting. Eventually he looked up, ready to murder this horrible old man who had stolen him away from the only person on earth he loved. But the old man was ready with a heavy stick and from the look in his eye Frankie knew he was prepared to use it. Quelling the bile that burnt his throat, he forced himself to remain calm. His only hope was to pretend to accept his fate and prepare carefully for escape. At least Ingenio knew he was alive, and that was the most important thing.

Trailing an aura of sanctity along with the fumes of a poorly tuned diesel engine, they drove slowly south through bleak, desiccated farmland devoid of both natural and human charm. On the western horizon mountains reared; too distant to relieve the dreary monotony. The trip took longer than usual because they avoided civilization by using secondary roads. Arriving in a state of exhaustion at the settlement of Geeveston, they replenished supplies before bouncing and rattling due west up a dusty, stony track into the Hartz mountains. Much of Frankie's anger and irritation evaporated as he gazed at the magnificence of unspoiled temperate rainforest. Gigantic old trees, dense ferny undergrowth, vertiginous drops to one side of the narrow road that wound ever upwards, vast panoramas at every second corner, and waterfalls tumbling down rocky hillsides, sometimes so close they splashed the Land Rover. After seventeen kilometres the road divided. They consulted the Lands Department Map and took the left fork—a dotted line that turned out to be little more than a rocky riverbed through even denser forest. Five kilometres and an hour and a half later, the rutted trail ended at a large cube of stones.

They clambered stiffly out, stretched, breathed deeply of the cold, fresh, odourless air, and stood gazing down a softly sloping, roughly cleared half-acre of wild grasses. About fifty metres in front of them the land dropped steeply, enabling magnificent views due south to distant snow-sprinkled mountains and deep, forested gorges. Scudding clouds propelled by gale-force icy winds straight off the Antarctic, raced across an indigo sky. Spring had arrived in Melbourne; here it was still winter. The strip of cleared land was bordered by dense forest about ten metres to the left of their vehicle, and a hundred metres to the right.

Apparently impervious to the cold, the Feys stood ecstatically at the top of the slope with raised arms, hurling incantations to the wind, shouting their relief at having made their escape from evil humanity. Shivering violently in insufficient clothing, Frankie inspected the stone cube, which turned out to be an unlined room with an ill-fitting wooden door, a fireplace, a window, and not much else. The wind whistled under the eaves of the slate roof and stirred up the dust of the earthen floor.

As they had done each evening since arriving on the island, Frankie and his grandfather erected the tent, this time inside the stone box, while his grandmother heated canned soup on a primus and sliced chunks of camp bread. After spreading their sleeping bags on the floor of the tent, they crawled into them for warmth, and downed the soup and bread. With nothing better to do, and as it was already quite dark inside, they made themselves as comfortable as possible. Despite the howling gale, they fell asleep. In the morning there was ice on the piss bucket outside.

The following months were a torment for a fit but skinny lad who suffered the cold and hadn't the inner fire of belief in the rightness of what he was doing that sustained his grandparents. After days of digging the heavy soil they planted Chinese cabbage, dandelions, chicory, endives and a few herbs. The results were unthrifty, but sufficed to stave off scurvy, and were a welcome addition to meals of dried beans, lentils, nuts and raisins, which were bought in bulk when the grandfather made the occasional arduous trip alone to the nearest shop. He always bought more than they would need and they soon had a respectable hoard of food stored deep in one of the narrow caves Frankie had discovered while looking for a cleaner source of water than the murky, rain-filled pond that had been excavated by the previous owner.

He'd been exploring the edge of the cleared land where it dropped steeply into a gorge, and while negotiating a rocky ledge, slipped and grabbed at vines that were rooted among the moist rocks of a narrow fissure. There were five such clefts, one of which was large enough to be called a cave; slightly larger than their stone hovel, with a smooth sandy floor. Beside it, a substantial trickle of clear water ran down the cliff into a small pool before spilling over into the gulley where it joined a stream and eventually, Frankie supposed, the sea. Over the next few days he and his grandfather chipped out a gently sloping zigzag path down to the relative tranquillity of the caves. Now they had a supply of good drinking and washing water, leaving the dam water for irrigating their herbs.

As winter reluctantly gave way to spring the cottage was buffeted by heavy rain, sleet and powerful winds, but remained solid until a minor earthquake caused a wall to partially collapse and the roof to slide off. They relocated to the largest cave, which was much more comfortable than the hut after they'd sealed the opening with stones and the door from the cottage. Gradually, they chipped away at the walls and roof to create enough space to move around without bumping into each other or the ceiling. One of the other caves was already the larder for their growing mountain of supplies, and when they discovered mushrooms growing in one of the others, their diet improved.

To keep warm and stave off boredom Frankie took over the gardening, leaving the grandparents free to perfect their ability to not think. For hours at a time they sat at the edge of the cliff above the caves and gazed out at the world, minds blank, senses open, aware but intellectually and emotionally uninvolved. Along with the loss of interest in the outside world, came a loss of interest in both food and personal hygiene. Conversation too ceased. Having no thoughts, they had nothing to say. They were returning to the womb.

Stupefied by the mindless labour, the endless cold wind, the lack of human interaction and stimulation and with no possibility of altering his situation, Frankie swallowed his contempt for his grandparents' crazy ideas and, with the determination of a genuine seeker after truth, began to meditate, sitting for hours in one of his secret spots, concentrating on not thinking, dragging his mind back every time it strayed, until one day he found himself in a state of complete sensory awareness; submerged in a myriad of sounds, smells, sensations and sights of which he had never been consciously aware. Not so pleasant was the terrifying realisation that he was totally alone; no different from the tallest tree or the tiniest bacterium, and just as insignificant. The monstrous indifference of life; the never-ending callous, unthinking, selfish struggle for survival demanded of all living things overwhelmed him. In panic he dragged his mind back to the present and spent several minutes deep breathing until he was calm enough to view the experience rationally. Eventually a slow grin spread along with the realisation that in some ways he had always been deaf and blind.

'Thinking focuses my brain on one thing and therefore stops me noticing everything else,' he explained to the trees and whatever else was listening. 'If I deliberately look at something, I only see what I'm looking at! But if I don't look, then I see everything around me.' He laughed wildly at the apparent paradox. 'If I look, I don't see!' he shouted into the wind. 'If I listen, I don't hear! If I think, I'm deaf and blind!'

His grandparents, interrupted while sitting in unthinking torpor on smooth rocks, failed to respond to his revelation; their eyes remaining unfocussed. Only a slight twitching of thin lips indicated awareness of his delight. He didn't mind, because he was beginning to understand what was going on in their heads.

But understanding didn't mean conversion to their choice of existence. They might want to join the living dead, but he was young, fit, healthy and energetic. He needed stimulation. He had grander plans than playing nursemaid to idiot grandparents. If his grandfather hadn't deliberately smashed his mobile phone he would have stolen it and phoned his uncle in the hope of rescue. He had no idea how to drive the unpredictable old Land Rover, and where the keys had been concealed remained a mystery. He could have walked nearly thirty kilometres to the nearest settlement, but each time he started out an irrational sense of duty to his crazy grandparents stopped him.

From the first moment of their arrival he'd been hoping there'd be tourists or bush walkers or a Ranger. But not a single human had appeared. With no radio or other news he couldn't help wondering if his grandparents had been right and the civilized world had imploded. Perhaps an atomic bomb had been dropped on Australia to knock out all the U.S.A. military and spying bases like Pine Gap, and he was one of the last people left alive while a radioactive cloud was on its way. Perhaps the Greenland ice cap had melted and caused a tsunami that had obliterated eighty percent of human civilization. Perhaps Ebola or another dread disease had wiped out all other humans?

The valley that belonged to them was too steep for him to enjoy walking in it and wasn't particularly interesting, being always in shadow, cold and damp. Fortunately, beyond the single-wire boundary fence stretched the National Park, which was full of interesting look-outs, caves, glades and even a magical lake. When not occupied gardening, preparing meals, cleaning and repairing their cave, Frankie wandered through the Park, filled with reverence at the enormity, abundance, diversity and seeming impossibility of life—from giant trees down to the tiniest ferns, orchids, lizards and ants. He followed animal tracks leading to the lake, found shallow caves and interesting rock formations, and no sign of human life, which sometimes pleased him and sometimes increased the loneliness that dogged him. And the nights. He could have done without them. Too dangerous to wander alone without a torch, so to bed as soon as it was dark. The cold. The ever-present fear of snakes, poisonous spiders or other creatures invading his space. The nightmares about looking for Ingenio and never finding him. Of being chased by nameless demons that would do something dreadful if he turned to look at them. No, the nights were not nice at all.

After the sensory revelation triggered by sitting still and not thinking, he got into the habit of wandering deeper into the forest where he'd choose a comfortable place to sit and open his senses for twenty minutes or so; each time discovering anew the life that lived unseen, but not unheard, under leaves, stones and earth. He noted hundreds of different species of plant, flower and seed, distinguished different birds from call, plumage, the way they walked or flew, and rejoiced as the living world became alive in a way he had never dreamed possible. Not knowing the common or scientific names of his forest companions was irrelevant because he had his own descriptors.

The air warmed up during the day but it was always cold at night and in the shade. Being young and fit, Frankie's body quickly adapted to the climate so he was seldom aware of discomfort and usually only wore sneakers, jeans and a t-shirt.

It was usually less windy down in the valleys, and so felt warmer. On sunny days, of which there were plenty, he would strip off and leap from a rock into the lake, emerging gasping for breath. Melting snow fed the stream that filled the lake, so the temperature was never much above freezing. Arms flailing he'd swim energetically to the sandy beach, stand in the shallows at the edge and scrub himself thoroughly with the fine sand from the bottom, determined to keep as clean as possible without soap, because he couldn't bear to pollute such a pristine world.

Afterwards, he would lie on a sun-warmed rock to dry, fantasising about being with someone like himself to share his daily wanking that, despite the momentary pleasure, always left him feeling a bit sad so he'd decide not to do it again. But he always did.

One afternoon while weeding the garden, he heard a vehicle arrive and stop. He sniffed the air. It sounded and smelled like a four-wheel drive. An adrenalin jolt alerted all senses. Who could it be? A murderer disposing of a body? Drug traffickers. Arsonists? The garden was invisible from the old stone hut due to the long grass, but he wouldn't be if he stood up, so he slithered for the cover of the forest and watched a tall, solidly built, deeply tanned man get out of a dusty Pajero with the National Park Logo on the side, stretch, shade his eyes to look briefly at the view, then wander over to the Land Rover.

Frankie guessed he was in his forties with a bushy black beard and a round, cheerful face. Powerful hairy arms dangled from a short sleeved, khaki shirt unbuttoned to expose black hair on a barrel chest and belly. Equally strong and hairy legs swelled from khaki shorts. Thick woollen socks and tramping boots completed the picture.

After peering inside the Land Rover, he kicked at a tyre, squatted at the front and rubbed the mud off the number plate, took out a tablet and typed something in. A few seconds later he stood, read the response, shook his head, looked around again, returned to his vehicle, placed the tablet inside, slammed the door and jogged into the National Park following an overgrown track that Frankie was embarrassed not to have noticed, having always entered from lower down their own property.

So, he was a Park Ranger. That was a relief. But why had he come? Was he checking to see if they were harming the forest? Well they weren't, so that was Ok. Where was he going?

Using his ears rather than his eyes, Frankie followed.

#  Sylvan

After a couple of hundred metres, the ranger veered south down the slope through places Frankie knew well. 'He's going to the lake,' he whispered to himself, following as close as he dared. 'I wonder if he'll swim.'

Watching from a few metres away, he laughed silently as the ranger stopped at the edge of the water, bent down and put his hand in, gave a slight shiver and stood up. 'Too cold,' he muttered, clambering round to Frankie's diving rock, where he removed his shirt and lay back to soak up the sun.

'Gosh you're a wimp!' Frankie laughed, revealing himself.

The ranger looked up in surprise. 'Who're you?'

'Frankie.'

'How'd you get here?'

'Walked.'

'But...how'd you get here from wherever you live?'

'I live here.'

'Where? How? Who with?'

'My grandparents.'

The ranger stood, approached Frankie and looked into his eyes as if questioning his truthfulness. He was larger than Frankie had thought, and tougher—if that were possible. No vandal or evildoer would dare confront him. 'According to the Lands Department website, there's only a Mr. and Mrs. Fey live up here—no one else.'

'You checked their number plate on the internet?'

'You were watching me?' The tone was sharp and slightly aggressive.

'I saw you arrive and wondered who you were. You're the first visitor since we got here.'

The ranger folded massive arms and stared down, daring the young whelp to lie.

Frankie bravely stood his ground, looking straight back into the greenish eyes. 'I suppose they don't know about me; I've never been away from this place since we arrived.'

'When was that?'

'Beginning of August. It was really cold and windy then. We don't have a radio or anything so I've sort of lost track of time. Is it December yet?'

'It's the fifth of February.'

Frankie shook his head in surprise. 'That means I've been here seven months! So it'll start getting colder soon. I hate the cold.'

'Didn't you have Christmas? New Year?'

'Our family aren't Christians, and Grandpa says every day is the first day of a new year. Calendars are like clocks, he reckons, tools to keep people enslaved.'

'Don't you go to school?'

'Grandpa says schools are just places to indoctrinate kids into believing that civilization and the way most people now live is good, when in reality it's bad.'

'What do you think?'

'He's sort of right. But learning to read and write and do arithmetic is useful.'

'Do you like living here?' The eyes and voice had lost their hardness and a concerned frown softened the ranger's unnervingly symmetrical features.

Frankie thought carefully. He'd asked himself that question daily and knew the answer, but wasn't sure the ranger would understand. He shrugged and hoped for the best. 'I love being free and having all this to myself,' he waved his hand to include the forest, hills and lake. 'But I get so lonely sometimes I want to die.'

'Where are your parents?'

'They died in a car accident.'

'That must have been terrible for you.'

'Actually... I didn't feel anything much. Still don't.' Frankie sighed. 'I wish this was just a holiday and I could go back to Melbourne and live with my uncle.'

'Why can't you?'

'Grandma and Grandad want me to live here and become like them.' He frowned slightly, not wanting the man to think he was a whining complainer.

'Is that what you want?'

'No!' The flimsy barrier he'd erected to prevent a descent into pathetic self pity dissolved, and all his loneliness, frustration and misery gushed forth. 'No! I'm nearly sixteen and haven't lived yet! I don't want to stay here and be like them! I hate them! They're mad! They don't eat or wash or do anything except sit and not think. Grandma says they've become so spiritual they're almost spirits and soon they won't need any food at all. I wish they'd die so I could escape!' He stood, rigid, eyes wide as tears streamed down his cheeks and shudders wracked his frame. There was nothing but truth in the outburst. He wasn't feeling sorry for himself. Not a hint of hysteria, only indignant anger and frustration at his situation.

After a few seconds of indecision the ranger enclosed the lad in his arms, rocking him gently until the tears and shudders ceased.

'Frankie took a deep breath and stepped away a couple of paces, wiping the tears roughly away. He sniffed impatiently. 'Sorry about that. It gets to me sometimes.'

'It'd get to me all the time. I'm impressed you've coped so well. I'd not have been able to.'

Frankie nodded with a sly grin. 'Yeah, you look tough, but you're actually a wimp. Too frightened to go for a swim.'

'It's too bloody cold.'

'Come on. I challenge you.'

'Challenge accepted!'

They tossed their clothes aside, clambered onto the rock, stood side by side and on the count of three leaped into the water. The race to the edge was a tie, but Frankie remained standing in water up to his thighs to complete his daily cleanliness ritual while the ranger jumped up and down, rubbed at his arms, legs and chest, and shook his head wildly sending water spraying off hair and beard.

'Fuck that was cold I'm going to warm up on the rock! What the hell are you doing? You'll freeze to death.'

'Keeping clean; there's not enough water back at the caves to wash properly and I don't want to stink like...' He shrugged, finished his wash with one last immersion, then also jumped up and down on the sand to shake off the drops.

'No soap?'

'Makes the water mucky.'

'Aren't you cold?'

'A bit, but not for long.' He sprawled over the warm rocks. 'Ah, delicious.' He turned his head and laughed at the ranger. 'I told you you're soft.'

The ranger sat up, leaned over and offered his hand. 'I'm Sylvan Forray.'

Frankie took the largest hand he had ever seen in his life, shook it and said seriously, 'Frankie Goldmein. Pleased to meet you. Do you come here often?'

They both laughed at the absurdity, then lay back staring at the sky; the ranger wondering what to do about this kid; Frankie deciding that although his new friend looked a bit like a tough thug, he was the opposite; kind and gentle. An ache filled his chest and the thought of his uncle triggered a painful constriction in his throat. He hoped he wasn't going to cry again. He wanted to wrap his arms around Sylvan's waist and be hugged and to tell him everything about his lonely life and mad grandparents. He wanted to share, to love, to laugh to know he was real and that someone liked and wanted him. He sighed. So many wants and nothing but sadness.

Sylvan opened his eyes and smiled. 'You sighed. What're you thinking?'

'That even though you look like a mobster you're a great guy and I really like you.'

'Yeah. I was thinking the same.'

'That I'm a lowlife?'

'That you're a nice guy.'

'I can't remember what I look like because we haven't got a mirror. Seriously... am I a bit... you know... ugly?'

Sylvan pretended to consider the question seriously. 'You're very lean, but obviously fit and strong. You told me you're nearly sixteen; but look more like a young twenty. I talk to hundreds of kids during school education tours and I reckon you're the best looking and the nicest kid I've met.'

'Thanks, but I'd sooner look like you—a really tough guy that people would take seriously.'

'With a criminal face.'

'No... I shouldn't have said that. I like your face and... I don't know why, but I trust you.'

'Thanks.' Sylvan lay back and an easy silence again descended for several minutes. Suddenly he sat up. 'Do you really want to leave this place and live with your uncle?'

Frankie's sprang to his feet. 'Yes! Yes, yes, yes! I'll do anything to get away. Can you help me? I didn't dare ask.'

'What your grandparents are doing is illegal—keeping you out of school.' He searched Frankie's face. 'You weren't making that up?'

'No.'

'Are they your legal guardians?'

'I don't know. I don't think so. I wanted to live with Ingenio and they'd filled out papers to adopt me, but Grandma and Grandad drugged me and when I woke up we were in the boat to Tasmania and I haven't been able to escape. I haven't agreed to live with them. The trouble is Ingenio doesn't know where we are, and we've no phones or anything to tell him... he must be sick with worry.' his voice trailed off.

'If I can convince them to let you go to your uncle. Would you like that?'

'Yes please!' Frankie stood in front of Sylvan and, taking hold of the huge hands looked into his eyes. Pleading. 'Please...'

Sylvan smiled uncertainly. 'Right, get your clothes on and take me to your abductors.'

Back at the Pajero, Sylvan took out his mobile phone.

'Who're you ringing?'

'Your uncle.' His eyes searched Frankie's. 'He really does want you, doesn't he? He does exist? I could get into real trouble if you're making this up.'

'Yeah. He really does. He loves me.' Frankie's tension showed.

'Have you any documentation—birth certificate or something like that?'

'No.'

'Money?'

'No.'

'Better clothes than what you're wearing?'

'No, I've grown out of the few things we brought, and these are getting tight.'

Sylvan nodded. 'It doesn't matter. If you know his number it'll save using directory enquiries, I can never get their voice recognition to understand me.'

'I memorised it the day we left and repeat it every day in case I get near a phone.'

'Good man. Let's hope he answers. What's his name again?'

'Ingenio.'

Frankie's crossed fingers worked and Sylvan began talking. 'Hello, my name is Sylvan Forray; I'm a National Park Ranger in Southern Tasmania. I'd like to speak with Ingenio Fey, Frankie Goldmein's uncle... I am? Good... No, he's in perfect health. The thing is he wants to go and live with you. Are you prepared to have him?... Excellent. I thought I'd better check before making a fool of myself... Your parents seem healthy and willing to let him go... I can get him to Hobart airport tomorrow, but as he has no money, no documentation and nothing suitable to wear, I figured it'd be best if someone came to pick him up... Yes, I'll wait.' Sylvan turned to Frankie. 'He's over the moon and just checking timetables.'

'Can I talk to him?'

'As soon as we've sorted out travel.' He held the phone to his ear. 'Arriving Hobart ten thirty tomorrow morning. Yes, we'll be there... It's no trouble, I'll let him speak to you now.'

'Inge! I'm coming to live with you...' The conversation was predictably excitable, satisfying and lamentably brief. He handed back the phone with shining eyes. 'Thanks, Sylvan. I really, really love you, almost as much as I love Ingenio. But... you told Ingenio my grandparents will let me go, but you haven't seen them yet; how can you be sure?'

Sylvan puffed out his chest and displayed his biceps. 'Would you argue with me?'

'You wouldn't...would you?'

'No. I've a better weapon. I know the law.'

Frankie led the way past the garden, which Sylvan admired, down the zigzag path and there, as if they hadn't moved since morning, sat two almost-skeletons wrapped in what looked like dirty sheets, staring tranquilly down the valley.

Sylvan wrinkled his nose. 'Boy this place smells ripe.'

The stench was coming from one of the openings in the cliff.

'They shit in a bucket in that cave,' Frankie explained, 'and I dig a hole and bury it every day. The trouble is they spill a bit and aren't too careful about washing themselves afterwards.'

'Fuck I can smell them from here. If cleanliness is next to godliness, your grandparents have a long way to go.'

Frankie giggled and pointed to a wooden door closing the entrance to a cave. 'They sleep in that cave there, and my sleeping bag's in that one further along so I don't hear them snore or smell them. My cave's also the kitchen because all the food's stored at the back of it.'

'No door on yours. I'll bet it's cold.'

'Yeah, it is, so I do exercises to keep warm. Need a new sleeping bag though. Mines got thin and too small so I use lots of dry grass and moss.'

They'd arrived directly behind the meditating pair, who seemed unaware of them.

'Grandpa,' Frankie lightly touched the elderly man's shoulder.

'Yes?' The voice was soft and weak.

'This is Sylvan who is going to take me back to Melbourne to live with Ingenio.'

'No he isn't.' the grandmother said in a strong, harsh voice. 'You're staying with us. We need you.'

'Actually, Mrs. Fey, I am, unless you want the police to arrive, evict, and possibly imprison you for unlawful restraint and neglect of a child, as well as preventing him from attending school. If that happens, Frankie will be taken into care and you will never seen him, or this place again.'

That woke them up. 'You can't!' The elderly man's voice was noticeably stronger. 'We are his legal guardians and we'll sue you for kidnapping. You'll be the one in prison!'

'Show me your legal guardian documentation.'

Silence.

'Here's the deal,' Sylvan said slowly and clearly. 'Either you let Frankie go and live with his uncle, and I leave you here in peace, or you resist and lose everything—this place, your grandson and your freedom. You've five minutes to decide.' He placed a hand on Frankie's shoulder. 'Show me your sleeping cave and while we're there get anything you want to take back with you while we wait for your grandparents decision.'

'What if...'

'They won't. They're not as daft as they pretend.'

Sylvan crawled in behind Frankie, who seemed perfectly at ease in the cramped space. The huge store of tinned and dried food amazed him, as did the resilience of a youth who could not only tolerate this situation but actually thrive in it. He doubted he'd have been as tough. Unnerved by the low rock tunnel and feeling claustrophobic, he backed out and waited. A minute later Frankie reappeared carrying only an envelope.'

'Are you sure that's all?'

'Yeah. I arrived with nothing so leave with nothing. This is Ingenio's photo and phone number that I've always kept with me.'

'You really do love him, don't you?'

'More than anything.'

They returned to the no-longer-meditating couple who were whispering angrily.

'Ok, what've you decided?'

'Take the young pup! He doesn't deserve us.'

'You're right about that!' Sylvan snapped, 'he deserves someone who cares about him more than themselves.'

Frankie arrived and shyly said goodbye. He was farewelled with a grunt. 'Thanks for giving me a holiday in this place, it's been mostly great.'

No answer.

Sylvan put his hand on Frankie's shoulder and led him up towards the Pajero, turning back to call, 'You both stink! The place is a mess. Your rubbish is piling up and you have no proper septic disposal. I'll come back in two months and if it's still like this I'll report you to the Health Department.' They drove away, Frankie jumping up and down with excitement.

'Tomorrow Ingenio's coming for me! Can I stay with you tonight?'

'Yes, but not at my house. My wife would want to know all about you, then she'd get all indignant and insist we prosecute your grandparents despite our promises; you wouldn't want that, would you?'

'Not really! They were doing what they thought best. And I've enjoyed myself heaps... mostly... at least now I'm leaving I can see it wasn't a total disaster. But we needn't tell her.'

'You can't keep anything from a woman who's determined to find out. In ten minutes you'd be telling her everything.'

'I can sleep in the Pajero.'

'I'm not leaving you on your own. I'll call her and say I have to stay overnight in the park; it wouldn't be the first time. We'll camp in a forest just outside Hobart.'

And they did. Sharing a groundsheet and blankets under the stars beside a stream, next to a small fire on which they cooked dampers and boiled tea. It was Frankie's best night since arriving on the island, and, he desperately hoped, his last.

#  Ingenio

The following morning at half past ten, after a breakfast of fish and chips that Frankie failed to keep down due to nervousness and a stomach unused to anything other than lentils, beans and raw herbs, they watched the plane touch down at Hobart Terminal. Frankie waited nervously. Would Inge really be pleased to see him? Ten minutes later Ingenio appeared through the arrivals door, looked around, saw Frankie and waved with the old friendly smile and slightly crooked front teeth. Frankie had forgotten how young, lean and bookish he looked. He'd even forgotten he wore glasses. But he sure hadn't forgotten how much he loved him. He pointed him out to Sylvan.'

'You're joking. He's only a kid, no more than a couple of years older than you!'

'He's twenty-seven. But you're right; he does look young. Do we look alike?'

'You're both young—but that's about it. You're lean and tough and look as if you'd be a dangerous man to cross. He looks as if he'd use words rather than fists, and would prefer to be reading than diving into icy water and scrubbing himself with sand.'

Frankie laughed. 'Ingenio's tough, mentally, and you can trust him to back you up.'

As he was carrying only a small holdall, there was no waiting and suddenly they were hugging in relief at finding each other again. This time it was Ingenio who was crying—from relief at finding Frankie not only alive but in excellent health, looking fitter, leaner, older and somehow more mature. Certainly no longer a boy.

Frankie introduced Sylvan who shook Ingenio's hand somewhat diffidently. He was at home in the forest with other wild creatures, but felt awed by the intelligent eyes, questioning looks and smile of Frankie's self-possessed uncle.

'It's freezing!' Ingenio shivered. 'Aren't you cold, Frankie?'

Frankie shook his head. 'This is warm compared to where I've been living.'

'You make me feel soft.'

'You don't look soft,' Sylvan stated abruptly. 'You look... I don't know, like...'

'A geek?' Ingenio laughed. 'Don't worry, Sylvan. I'm used to being told I look like a nerdy schoolkid. It has its uses—stupid people don't take me seriously so I can get away with murder.'

'No!' Sylvan was embarrassed. 'You don't look stupid; you look...nice. It's your smile and easy manner. It's...'

'Flattery, Sylvan is the key to my heart. But you're the hero of the day. I've no idea how I can ever thank you for saving Frankie from my mad parents. Seriously, we'll owe you forever. If you're ever in Melbourne, or you need anything... no matter what, where or when, contact us and we'll do whatever we can.'

Sylvan thanked Ingenio shyly, then looked away and grunted something indecipherable.

Frankie grabbed his arm, pulled him to face him, looked into his eyes and said carefully. 'Sylvan, Ingenio means it. We'll both be there for you whenever you need us. Ok?'

'Thanks,' Sylvan said with more certainty this time. 'You two are unalike physically, but oddly alike in character. How long are you staying?'

'The return flight's at three thirty.'

'Have you eaten?'

'Tea and a biscuit on the plane. Too busy before leaving.'

'If there are clothes for Frankie in there,' Sylvan pointed to the overnight bag. 'He can change in the toilets before we get you both something to eat. Frankie couldn't hold down his breakfast from excitement.'

Over sandwiches and tea at Café Marée where innocuous background music in an unpretentious environment allowed more or less private conversation, Frankie gave Ingenio a quick run down of his months as a quasi monk, and heaped praise on Sylvan for daring to rescue him without resorting to the use of his superman strength. Ingenio thanked Sylvan again, laughed at his farewell insult to his parents, shook his head at their filthy lifestyle and apparent craziness, and asked if he ought to do something for them.

'Why would you?' Sylvan asked. 'They're not mad. They struck me as sane and selfish, doing exactly what they want without concern for anyone. Now their young slave has gone, I wouldn't mind betting they clean up their act, get some decent food and have a proper dwelling built—that is if they want to stay. More likely they'll sell the land and buy a place in Hobart. Do you agree, Frankie?'

'Yeah. Don't go near them, Inge, they'll only try to make you feel guilty and trap you. I never want to see them again—honestly.'

After a comfortable silence while they finished eating, Sylvan asked nervously, 'Does Frankie have an aunt who's as nice as his uncle?'

'Ingenio laughed pleasantly. 'No, he has another uncle, whose name is Constantine, and who is mentally a bit like me but physically more robust.'

'And very handsome,' Frankie added. 'I love him almost as much as Inge and you.' He turned to Ingenio. 'Sylvan's got a nosey wife which is why we slept under the stars last night, so she wouldn't find out about me and insist we prosecute Grandpa.'

Sylvan blushed. 'Well, I said that because I was too embarrassed to tell you she kicked me out six weeks ago and I've been sleeping rough ever since.'

'Why?'

'I wasn't able to give her a baby.'

Wasn't able or didn't want to?' Ingenio's eyes were alert.

'Both. I don't want the responsibility; and I'm impotent.' Sylvan sighed hopelessly. 'There, I've said it. Embarrassing eh?' he sighed again. 'Let's forget it. There's nothing I can do.'

Ingenio laughed.

'It's not funny.'

'You're right, it isn't. It's tragic. You're a fabulously fit and strong man in the prime of life who is sexually attracted to other men, but married to a woman who wants kids but doesn't want you.'

'Hang on! What makes you think I'm queer?'

'I can't imagine a heterosexual male of your age taking the trouble to look after a fifteen-year-old youth, can you?'

'Well...'

'When you were Frankie's age, how many men took a genuine interest in you for yourself, not because you could do something for them?'

Sylvan frowned, looked up and said slowly, 'None. Not even my father. He always wanted me to be something other than what I wanted. You're right... most men, including teachers, treated me as if I was a nuisance unless they wanted something. It seemed like they had to prove they were superior. I hated most of them.'

'There you have it. Only people like us would do as you have done because we can empathise with a boy who isn't like all the others. By the way, I don't identify as queer or gay or any other label. I'm just a man whose natural inclination is to live with and love another man.'

'That's a definition I could live with.'

'How old are you?'

'Thirty-two.'

'Get the divorce then find yourself a man to share your life with.'

'Where will I find this mythical man?'

'Doing what you like doing.'

'I love being a Ranger.'

'Then jerk off to the trees until you come across someone similarly inclined.'

Sylvan grunted a laugh. 'When did you discover you wanted a man instead of a woman?'

'I've always known it, in the same way you've always known what you want.'

'Ah,' Sylvan said thoughtfully. 'There lies the rub. I've never known what I wanted—just done what everyone expected me to. All my mates were doing it, the family expected it, and when my wife proposed I said Ok because I like her—she's a good woman. But now....'

'You want my advice?'

Sylvan nodded.

'If your wife will take you back, then perhaps you could compromise and adopt a child. A dull marriage with someone you like in a social setting where you are respected and welcome, is perhaps better than a lonely life getting the occasional fuck from strangers while being shunned by your old friends. It's much harder for us to find good partners than it is for heterosexuals. The population of Tasmania is about three hundred thousand. Half are children. Half the adults are females. Of the seventy-five thousand adult men there are only about three and a half thousand gays—not a vast pool from which to select someone to share your life with, especially as some are already spoken for, about half are in false marriages, and a good proportion of the rest are in denial. Actually, the number of available gays will be infinitesimal because they tend to migrate to Melbourne, Sydney or Brisbane. Even on the mainland it's hard to find someone compatible, which is why there's as much family violence and as many messy divorces amongst same sex couples as among heterosexuals.'

'So I just put up with it?'

'You do what makes you happy, after thinking carefully about consequences. Go to a gay club, go home with a few guys, and then decide. If you come to Melbourne, I insist you give me a ring.' He fished in his wallet, produced a card and passed it to Sylvan. 'This is our address; I don't have a mobile phone because I trust no one.' He searched Sylvan's face. 'I meant what I said earlier, you'll always be welcome.'

'Then I am doubly flattered that you trust me.'

'You've proven yourself better than trustworthy, you're also a decent man.'

Sylvan had to return to work to write up and hand in his report on the Hartz Park inspection, so after an emotional farewell from Frankie, he returned to work.

The reunited pair filled in the remaining hours wandering through the shopping centre, and like all genuinely happy people saw nothing they wanted to buy except some bread, cheese and rolls that they took down to the harbour, sitting on the edge of an old wooden wharf with their legs dangling just above the water. Frankie wondered if he ought to get a haircut, but Ingenio said he liked it long because it suited his new wild persona.

'Are you saying I've gone feral?'

'Well, you have been living in a wild semi-natural state after escaping from domestication, haven't you? From me that's a compliment, so treasure it.'

Frankie grinned happily. Feral. He liked the sound of it. He certainly didn't feel or want to be domesticated and was relieved that Ingenio didn't expect him to be.

The flight was exciting. The small plane flew low enough to see fishermen on boats on the choppy sea below, and Melbourne looked just like flying over a Google map. Constantine was waiting for them and the reunion was all Frankie had hoped for.

It was a profound relief, yet strangely unsettling to be back in civilization. It took several days before he could get used to living with people who chattered and talked and laughed and took an interest in everything. They didn't pump him for information, wisely letting him offload his experiences in dribs and drabs as he processed them himself. What he missed almost painfully was the forest filled with non-human life, the clean air and possibility of danger, new things to discover, and the knowledge that whatever happened to him during the day was totally the result of his own efforts. Melbourne smelled dirty, the air thick, the noise constant and invasive. He tried to meditate but couldn't exclude all the things he disliked and couldn't ignore them. His brain felt as contaminated as his lungs.

And he'd lost his independence. Instead of being a lone wolf he was part of a team and had to consider the others. And there was nowhere to escape to! At least nowhere he wanted to go. Parks were tame and full of idiots. The city centre was jammed with cars and humans but no other life, and unbearably noisy. At least there was no television in Ingenio's house, nor radio, as according to Constantine all mass media were merely mouthpieces of multinational corporations and subversive of all that was decent. At nights he slept peacefully, appreciating the warmth and lack of fear, but some mornings he woke in tears at the realisation that outside was not wilderness, but mean suburbia and millions of incredibly stupid people who let others tell them how to live.

He managed to keep most of his sadness concealed, and spent a lot of time with Con who told him to also remember the unpleasant things like loneliness and fear at nights, the inherent danger of being alone in a forest, of accidents by falling, or poisonous snakes or falling ill. It was Constantine who persuaded Frankie to attend the local High School to complete his final year so he could go to university.

Frankie wasn't sure he wanted to, but agreed it'd be stupid not to keep all options open. 'But I'll be at least a year behind the other kids; they'll never enrol me.'

'It's not a State School, so they enrol whoever they like, as long as they pay. Last month the Victorian government decided to sell all services to private enterprise, from health and welfare to education, transport, police and prisons and communications. From now on the government's sole function is to pass laws and collect taxes to pay for their own generous, life-time salaries and superannuation packages.'

'Then who pays for all the other things?'

'Whoever uses them. No money? No services.'

'But what about all the poor people who can't find work?'

'They starve, get sick and die under bridges. People have finally woken up to the fact that the planet is dangerously overpopulated, so this is a solution. A slow one, but things are speeding up as winter approaches.'

'A nasty solution.'

'Not nasty, natural. It's how all animals behave when threatened. It keeps me busy.'

'How?'

'The corporations that run the prisons need a ninety percent occupancy to make sufficient profit, so they set targets for the cops, who target anyone wandering around alone. They goad them into swearing or giving the fingers, then shove them in prison for attacking a police officer. I try to get as many off as I can.'

'But if they're poor, how do they pay you?'

'With the fruits of their labour. Stolen food, drink, petrol, clothes.'

'You accept stolen property? You! A lawyer.'

'Two companies own all food and clothing stores in the country and they collude on prices. That's stealing, so it's only justice to steal from them. Subsidiaries of eight large multinational companies own every thing in Australia from accommodation to agriculture, horticulture to vehicle spare parts. Construction to roads, transport to food. You name it, it's ultimately in the hands of one of the eight corporations.'

Why don't people complain?'

'Who to? All mass media are owned by corporations who like things the way they are. Consumer complaints are handled by the same businesses that are complained about. We're back to the time when kings and their henchmen owned everything and everyone else lived at the king's pleasure in more or less slavery. It's the way human society has been organised ever since they started living in villages and towns.'

# Learning

During the evenings of the first week back at school, Ingenio brought Frankie up to scratch in all his subjects—English, Chemistry, Physics, Biology, Maths, Philosophy and Drama, by using an individualised digital learning programme based on the national curriculum that he had designed, and was in the process of refining before putting it on the market. Constantine's equally useful contribution to enhancing the young man's future prospects was to convince him that it was more fun and more sensible to make people like you than to antagonise them.

'It's a game, Frankie. Study your opponents; learn their weaknesses then pander to them. They'll think you're a great guy and from then on you'll be able to do exactly as you please. With humans, like all animals, it's first impressions that are embedded in their brains and become virtually unshakeable, because no one likes to admit they've made an error of judgement.'

'Yeah, makes sense I suppose. The trouble is I've always thought that if I didn't tell them they were wrong then I was being as stupid as them.'

'You think people will admire you if you know more, or are smarter than them?'

'Well... yes.'

'Frankie! Open your eyes. People hate everyone who is better than them. They help people and choose friends who make them feel good, not smart-arse pricks who make them feel inferior.'

'But isn't it telling lies if you let them think they're good when they're useless?'

'It's diplomatic.' '

'But surely they know they're hopeless and if I tell them they're doing well they'll just think I'm a crawler.'

'Few people have an accurate assessment of their own worth, and research has shown there is no limit to the compliments people will willingly believe as long as they're given in a believable manner.'

'No limit?'

'None. Human capacity for self delusion is infinite.'

'I can't betray my values.'

'You'd sooner betray your future prospects? All you have to do is listen as if you admire the speaker, ask him questions he can answer so he seems clever, then tell him you wish you knew as much or some such banality.'

'But then they'll never learn.'

'If you think that matters, at a later date ask him what he thinks of your idea; presenting it as if you're worried he'll think you're stupid. He'll be so proud at having his opinion asked he'll start to think for a change; possibly even come round to your opinion eventually, then start telling others as if it is his own idea. But! And it's a big but, you have to be believable. If they think you're taking the Mickey, you're done for.'

Ok, I'll give it a go. Thanks, Con.'

'Well? Are you going to stay at this school or will you get chucked out as usual?' Ingenio asked after the first day.

'It's different from any school I've been to and I don't want to make a rash judgement. Ask me at the end of the week when I've had time to make up my mind.'

After dinner on Friday they relaxed on the back verandah, wearing pullovers as it had turned cold, while Frankie gave them a run-down of his first week.

'It's a small school; there are only twenty-four students in Year Twelve. Five Australians of which I'm the only European, the others are kids of immigrants from the Middle East or Asia. The nineteen foreigners are on Student Visas. Ten from India, four from Malaya, two from the Philippines, one from Taiwan and two from China. They're all rich kids who arrive at school in limousines wearing the latest gear. They're pleasant, but—cautious is the word that springs to mind. I feel as if they're weighing me up more than I am them. Do you know they speak better English than most Australians?'

'That wouldn't be hard. And of course they're a bit suspicious as you joined the class halfway through term.'

'Yeah, I suppose you're right. But isn't it odd that there are so many foreign students?'

'That's how schools stay open now they aren't funded by the government. Instead of closing they advertise for fee-paying foreign students.'

'But why do they come? The teachers are Ok but don't seem any better than others I've had?'

'Prestige, mainly. Their parents are wealthy so it's another way of impressing their neighbours. Snob value... "My son is completing his education in Australia". You can imagine the sort of thing. He'll probably never need to use any of it; just go straight into the family business, but it looks good on his resumé.'

'They're not dumb though. They seem sharper than most of the kids at my other schools. More awake, you know? Interested and wanting to know everything. They don't let the teachers get away with anything. But they're very polite and well behaved. Unbelievable.'

'Does that mean you like the place?'

'Yeah! And it's all thanks to you two. Inge for getting me up to scratch with the curriculum, and Con's lessons in diplomacy. I can't believe I haven't pissed anyone off yet—not even the teachers. But if its so expensive how can we afford it?'

'We can't.'

'We don't have to,' Constantine said with a laugh. 'I did a favour for the Principal.'

'Must have been a big favour. Someone told me the fees are in the tens of thousands.'

'It was an accident. One night at the police station while I was trying to get bail for a kid who'd been brought in on some piffling charge, I noticed a European boy bleeding and lying in his own vomit in the corridor. Every other kid was a shade of black so I investigated. He was unconscious. The cops said he was drunk and had no identification so after processing he'd be sent to the under-age lock up down by the docks. I couldn't let that happen because not only did he look sick rather than drunk, but a white kid wouldn't survive the night down there, so I took a closer look and discovered what looked like a phone number in ballpoint on the inside of his upper arm. I rang it and it was the principal of your school. His kid hadn't returned from sports practice and they were out of their minds with worry. The upshot is that if ever I need a favour that he can grant, I get it.'

'That's like a fairy tale.'

'For the boy it was a nightmare—he'd been mugged, doped and raped. And it's no fairytale for all the other young kids who're dragged off the streets by racist cops and locked away before being abused and used and then cast back onto the streets.'

'That is so terrible.' Frankie was trying not to cry. 'I didn't realise what an easy life I've had.'

'Yes, you have. The world is not a pleasant place for most people, but our miserable faces won't help them,' Ingenio said briskly. 'What are you're favourite subjects?'

'Drama and Philosophy. I'm auditioning for a play tomorrow. One of the Indian students in my class wrote it and he wants me and six others to act in it. It'll be the final item in the school concert.'

'What's it about?'

'Pretentious intellectuals who support their delusions of cultural superiority by ignoring reality.'

'Heavy stuff.'

'Only if you're wading through textbook theory. In the play the audience see these people making idiots of themselves, and as Mr. Wing the drama teacher said, even if they don't understand the philosophical concepts, there's enough action to amuse them and make them think.'

'It's certainly true that dry theory with no real life examples puts people off thinking. So it's funny?'

'Funny-sad. The action takes place on the beachfront of a luxury hotel that's just visible behind the palms. A pale naked body has apparently been washed up by the sea. Its presence is never explained. Eight elegantly dressed dark-skinned intellectuals wander in, arguing about the meaning of life. They trip over the body, then poke and prod, causing the creature to stagger to its feet, complaining in perfect English. They ignore his objections, restrain him, then continue poking, touching, and feeling until, like the Blind Indian Sages describing an elephant, they decide he is a primitive, pale, hairless ape. They are especially amused by what they call his nonsensical chattering.

'The man becomes so angry he pushes them violently away. The women scream. The men overpower the savage beast, tie him to a palm and decide to properly describe this curiosity with a scientific paper. The females take notes, the barbaric creature's mouth is forced open, teeth counted, ears inspected and skin examined for vermin. When someone wonders if the monster is suffering, he is informed that as it is not like them it will be unable to feel pain, fear, or any emotion 'higher' than the urge to eat, sleep and copulate. Consciences appeased, they embark on further painful and demeaning investigations, ignoring the man's obvious illness and distress.

'The humour derives from the prisoner's counter of each fatuous observation and conclusion with a philosophically correct statement, accusing them of cognitive bias, irrationality, lack of evidence, wishful thinking, ambiguity, the backfire effect, belief bias, conjunction fallacy, empathy gap, false consensus... in other words they're using all the irrational arguments loved by politicians that we've been studying in philosophy class.

'However, instead of applauding his erudition the intellectuals sneer at his gibberish, giving him a lesson in humility by placing a collar around his neck attached to a leash with which he's led around on hands and knees like a pony, forced to give the ladies rides on his back, and submit to patting, stroking and being rolled onto his back for belly tickling before being harnessed to a cart so he can tow them around the stage.

'Meanwhile the men discourse on the glory and wonder of the human mind and body compared to the degenerate, stupid creature they found. When he asks for clothes they don't understand, so he mimes the request. They are shocked. What an insult to the nobility of civilized humanity! An ape imagining it should wear clothes! Tiring of him, they force him up a tree where he clings, ill and frightened while his superiors continue their pointless discussions; bragging about their humility, humanity, wisdom, generosity, and compassion. Evolution could now stop, they declare. With humans like them at the apex of all life, no further improvement is possible.

'The man falls to the ground. They prod him with their toes, discover he's dead and angrily blame each other for the loss of their plaything. The curtain falls on them punching, clawing and snarling at each other like the wild animals they despise.'

A brief silence followed Frankie's summary of the plot.

'It sounds extraordinarily good,' Ingenio remarked softly. 'How long is it?'

'About forty minutes.'

'Who wrote it?'

'Sadu, one of the Indians. He'll also direct us. The other Indians are the actors. None of the others in our class wanted to take part. It's called Human Kind. I've got the script; you can read if you like.'

'How about you read it to us?'

Frankie did, having to stop frequently so they could laugh at the wickedly funny exposé of pseudo intellectual ignorance, racial conceit and logical insanity.

Half an hour later they again sat in silence, thinking about it.

'If it's acted as well as you read it,' Constantine said, 'it'll be a sell-out. You sounded as if it meant a lot to you.'

'It brought back the horror of Tasmania, living with two crazy people who treated me as if I was an idiot slave.'

'Poor boy.'

'Not poor. It reinforced your suggestion that I remember the _whole_ truth about that time, not only the good bits. Otherwise I'd be like the people in the play'

'You're very wise, tonight,' Ingenio smiled. 'I agree with Constantine that it'll be a success and look forward to seeing it.'

'Great, I'll tell Sadu. He's getting nervous now the Principal wants to invite the public to all performances. He's even working on a deal with a mid-city theatre.'

'At least your costume will be cheap.'

'You don't mind your nephew appearing naked in public?'

'I'll be the proudest uncle in the land.'

'Thanks.'

'So,' Con asked. 'Do you approve of the Principal?'

'He's a great guy. When he came and told us he wanted our play as the main attraction for the concert, I thanked him for letting me come to his school. But he thanked me; said the reason no Australian whites came to the school was because of racism, so I was proof that not all whites are racist.'

Con laughed. 'Frankie, I'm so glad you're living with us.'

'I'm even more glad, but I keep wondering why I am like I am. You know, a bit mad, interested in everything, exhibitionist, pig-headed. Yet my father was dull and boring and predictable. Why aren't I anything like him?'

Ingenio and Constantine looked at each other, pulled wry faces and nodded.

'Because he wasn't your father,' Ingenio said softly.

Frankie let out a huge sigh. 'Thank goodness! I've been terrified I'd turn into him one day. Who is?'

'There's a bit of a story about that, so bear with me,' Ingenio said nervously. 'Your grandparents treated your mother and me in a similar way to the way they treated you in Tasmania. Virtue was a prisoner outside school hours and I was her jailer. Naturally, being older she was jealous of my relative freedom. Spending so much time together, we had no secrets from each other. I was twelve when I told her Con and I were fucking each other and she was so jealous she demanded I let her experience it too...' he paused to see the reaction, but Frankie was giving nothing away. 'The upshot was that Virtue was exactly your age when she gave birth to you.'

'You don't mean...?' Frankie looked from one to the other then roared with laughter. 'You do! I'm the product of an incestuous fuck between a fifteen year-old girl and her twelve-year-old brother. I love it! You're both my father and my uncle—being my mother's brother. But... shouldn't I be demented? In-breeding and all that?'

'I'm pleased you find it amusing. You're not half-witted because you're the product of line breeding.'

'What's that?'

'When breeders want to improve their stock they take the best and healthiest son, over mother; or father over daughter, or son over sister to preserve all the qualities they want such as colour, size, and health. That's what we did. You're the brilliant product of a wunderkind boy and his street-smart, self-willed, sex-crazed sister. It's only when two dumb siblings copulate that their kids turn out dumb and demented.'

'Inge, you've made my day. I couldn't ask for a more illustrious lineage. But I'm jealous, I'm four years older than you were and still a virgin—regarding females.'

'But not males, I gather.'

'Only a couple of times before I was shanghaied to Tasmania.'

'Is there no one at school?'

'Well... Sadu's been swapping secret smiles and the occasional touch, but it's a serious crime in India now, so he's too worried to do anything.'

'Invite him for a sleepover whenever you like, don't you reckon, Con?'

'The sooner the better.'

'You two are the best parents a guy could want. By the way, Inge, do you want me to start calling you daddy?'

'Never! If the authorities knew our dread secret they'd never let me adopt you. So it's uncle or Inge.'

#  Performance

Thanks to Ingenio's computer teaching program, Frankie's academic results were adequate, and thanks to Con's advice, so was his school social life. Although fun loving and gregarious, he remained a private person and never accepted invitations, or gave any to fellow students.

At the first rehearsal of the play they sat in a circle and discussed what they would be wearing. When it came to Frankie, silence fell.

'What about you, Frankie?'

'Although his heart was thumping he shrugged as if it was no big deal. 'Naked of course. Anything else wouldn't make sense, considering the script.' He gazed around at wide-eyed stares. 'Have I got it wrong?'

'No. No. I'm relieved—I think. Everyone told me I'd never find anyone to play the part as written, so there's a version in which you can wear some sort of rag.'

'But that would change everything,' Frankie said dismissively. 'My uncle agrees this is a brilliant bit of satire that will only work if the pale monkey is naked.'

'Your family agree?' a girl asked in transparent awe. 'My parents would kill me.'

'So would mine!' the others agreed. 'No Indian could ever appear naked in public; it's just not the custom. We'd rather die.'

'Then why did you write the play?'

'It started as an essay for the philosophy course. Then I realised that as a play it would be easier to make my points. It was never intended for performance, so it was a shock when the Philosophy teacher gave it to Mr. Wing, who gave it to the principal, who insisted we put it on.'

'I'm glad he did. The only problem I see is that you guys are so uptight about nudity that you'll look embarrassed on stage and no one will believe you see me as an animal, not a naked human.'

'You're probably right. But... you really don't mind?'

'I'm looking forward to it.'

The others remained very doubtful. Until now it had been an exciting idea. Now it was becoming a reality they weren't so sure.

'We talked about it this morning,' Sadu said carefully, 'and we think that the audience will be too shocked. That they're not as easy about nudity as you and the principal think. That we'll make fools of ourselves and be hounded off the stage and out of school. It's just too radical. We thought we could do it, but now it's really happening we think you'll have to wear something.'

Frankie had no intention of wearing even a rag on stage. 'Let's invite Mr. Wing tomorrow, and if he can't convince you the audience will not be shocked, then so be it.'

Sadu checked with the others. They nodded nervously. 'Ok. If we've got Mr. Wing's approval it'll be on his shoulders if there's a riot. Well, now we're here let's have a read through.'

After school, Frankie closeted himself with Mr. Wing.

The following afternoon found the cast seated in the front row of the theatre, facing Mr. Wing who was perched on the edge of the stage. Sadu outlined their fears regarding the audience's reaction to nudity, and asked the Drama teacher's advice.

Mr. Wing was a smooth man with regular features, solid figure, sparse hair, mellow voice, warm smile, and a relaxing manner. In his trademark dark blue suit, pale shirt, tie and black shoes he looked like a corporate executive.

'Audiences go to plays because they want to suspend their day-to-day beliefs and enter into the fantasy of the playwright's mind. They do not want to be presented with dull reflections of themselves. They are not there to find fault, they're there to be amused. Therefore you start with a huge advantage—a theatre full of people who want you to succeed in transporting them into another world.' He looked around. Satisfied they were paying attention he continued.

'While reading Sadu's play I was caught up in the excellent language and ideas, and thought it was not only thought provoking but hugely amusing . On stage, its success will depend on you actors convincing the audience that what they are seeing is not only possible, but probable. If you can't convince them of that, you will be laughed at. Therefore you must play it with total seriousness.'

'Frightening.'

'Indeed it is. But fear can either debilitate, or spur you on. There is only one thing you have to convince the audience of.' He looked around and smiled encouragingly. 'What is it?'

'That we honestly believe Frankie is a pale ape and not human?'

'Correct. And how do you do that?'

No one offered a suggestion.

'You do it by convincing the audience that to you he is not a human and therefore his nakedness is no different from the nakedness of any frog, dog, horse, fish or other ape. Audiences take their cues from the actors. You must be completely at ease, never indicating by even the slightest glance, expression, intonation or any other reaction even for a second, that touching, stroking, restraining, inspecting, or playing with the naked creature seems strange. And of course all of you must never for an instant show you are aware of the audience. Frankie will be angry and upset. He asks for clothes. But if the audience senses he is shy about being naked on stage in front of a few hundred people, then their suspension of disbelief will evaporate and the spell will be broken.'

'That'll be difficult.'

'Good acting is always difficult. Now, Frankie, demonstrate my point.'

Frankie jumped up onto the stage and sauntered nonchalantly to centre front, gazing abstractedly over his fellow actors' heads. Apparently oblivious to their presence, he removed his shirt, smelled his armpits, pulled a face that drew a laugh, flicked off his shoes, casually peeled off jeans and underpants in one go, tossed them onto a chair, then nonchalantly pulled at his slightly shrunken penis, returning it to normal size before doing a few press-ups and handstands. Then he jogged on the spot for a minute before sitting at a desk. When picking up a pen he dropped it and it rolled away. He crawled around the stage looking for it, and by the time he found it there was no part of his body that hadn't been observed by his attentive audience. He nodded happily, picked it up and placed it behind his ear, then ran as fast as he could around the stage three times, arriving sweating and panting in front, where he bent over, hands on knees, breathing deeply, still apparently unaware of their presence.

'Who feels embarrassed?' Mr. Wing asked.

Nobody did.

'Why was that?'

'Because he seemed to be completely alone on stage as if there's wall between him and us that we can see through but he can't.'

'He was just being himself – not acting.'

'He wasn't playing to us.'

'Wasn't aware of us.'

'It was private and nice to watch.'

'Not embarrassing or sleazy at all.'

'But still sexy,' a girl added with a giggle.

'Would an audience be shocked at seeing on stage a naked young man in the prime of health and fitness like Frankie, if it was an integral part of the plot and he appeared not to be aware of their presence?'

'No... But... At first I was embarrassed seeing his penis bouncing around and his balls dangling from behind when he was crawling, but after a bit it seemed natural. It was good you made him do it long enough for us to get used to it, but the audience won't have that time.'

'And that's good, because audiences love to be slightly shocked. Does any one still feel awkward seeing Frankie's genitals?'

'It's liberating,' one of the boys declared. 'I feel as if I've been mentally taken outside after years in a small room.'

Nods and murmurs of agreement.

'It made me feel happy,' said another boy. 'I've always felt a bit ashamed of my bits, but now I don't. Thanks, Frankie.'

'You're welcome.'

'What about the rest of you?' Mr. Wing asked.

'Exciting.'

'Sexy,'

'Healthy,'

'Fit,'

'Nice,'

'Sort of wild and dangerous.'

'Now I'm not frightened of getting married.' One girl laughed, slightly hysterically.

Mr. Wing smiled and turned to Frankie. 'Demo number two, please.'

Frankie took his clothes behind curtains at the back of the stage and dressed, then returned and stood centre front looking embarrassed. After glancing nervously at them he looked at Mr. Wing and said nervously, 'Here? Now? In front of everyone? You want me to strip now?'

'Yes.'

With an insecure face and shaking fingers Frankie unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, trying to conceal his nipples, then he kicked off his loafers, unzipped his jeans, turned his back and took them down. Turning his head, he pleaded, 'Do I have to take my underpants off too?'

'Yes!' Mr. Wing snapped.

He did, then turned around, keeping his groin covered with his hands.

'Hands behind your back!' the teacher commanded.

Frankie reluctantly obeyed, gazing at his audience in mute appeal, then up to the ceiling in apparent mortification.

His audience were squirming in embarrassment.

'Ok Frankie, get dressed.' To the other students, 'How was that?'

'Despite the previous demonstration, I was embarrassed for him.'

'Yes. Poor Frankie.'

'He looked so ashamed.'

'I didn't like watching him. It seemed kinky.'

'The audience would get up and leave.'

'Thank you, Frankie. Do you all agree, then, that we will have no problem with audience reaction as long as Frankie appears unaware of the audience?'

A chorus of agreement.

'Excellent. Well, now that's sorted it only leaves the rest of you. Are you able to convince them that you do not see Frankie as a naked human but as a naturally naked wild animal? The way to ensure that is for Frankie to be naked during every rehearsal. No exceptions.' He paused for a protest that didn't arrive.

'Yes, that makes sense.'

'Frankie, you're amazing. Your body's like an anatomy textbook drawing. Nothing but muscle and bone. Not an ounce of fat.'

'Yes! You look almost inhuman. How'd you get so... so perfect?' Sadu asked.

'Got lost in the wilds of Tasmania for nine months, living on what I could find. It's lucky I haven't been in the sun for a while, when I was rescued I was darker than you guys.'

'And now you're like creamy ivory,' a boy said softly. 'So smooth and...' He paused, frowned and added, 'So healthy and fit I feel pathetic.'

'You really are amazing, Frankie! And so... sexy,' a girl giggled. 'I've never seen a live penis before.'

Nervous laughter.

'You'll embarrass him,' Sadu muttered.

'Are you embarrassed?' Mr. Wing asked?'

'Hardly! Not with those compliments. Actually, I love being naked. It feels real. Honestly, I feel more comfortable now than when I was dressed.'

'Will you bleach your hair and keep it long and wild?'

'No problem.'

'Pubic hair and armpits too?'

Frankie looked down. 'Mmm... I'd prefer to shave them. Will that be Ok, Mr. Wing?'

'Yes. It will make you look less sexual. Your character is not supposed to be sexy, he's supposed to be misunderstood, angry, humiliated, confused and pitiable.'

Murmurs of agreement.

'Do any of you foresee problems we haven't mentioned?'

'Yes.' Sadu looked worried. 'In the play we have to touch him all the time; sometimes intimately. While writing the story it didn't seem a problem, but faced with a real naked man I can see it might be...' He turned to Frankie, 'Won't you object to being prodded, inspected, tied up, rolled over, attached to a cart like a donkey, stroked and petted?'

'Not as long as your hands are clean and you only pretend to be rough. Don't worry, I'll act as if it really hurts.'

'Stop worrying,' Mr. Wing frowned. 'You're all good actors; the script's excellent and the only difficulty you'll have is remaining in character during those scenes. And that'll be easy once you're used to it. Therefore you must never skip those parts of the action during rehearsals. And if you're not satisfied, Sadu, make them repeat until they are totally at ease. Familiarity makes even the strangest things seem normal.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Any problems with that Frankie?'

'No sir, but I might get an erection until I'm used to it.'

The teacher looked at the rest of the cast and smiled. 'That'll be good. It'll be shock therapy for you Indians. Once you realise naked genitals are no different from naked faces, you're cured.'

'You think our modesty is an illness?'

'Yes. A mental illness.'

They laughed, but from politeness, not because they were convinced.

'Thanks everyone,' Mr. wing said seriously. 'If you behave like serious actors I've no doubt the play will be a great success. Remember, I'm available whenever you need me for no matter what.'

With a rehearsal every day it wasn't long before each character was believable and every move as firmly embedded in their brain as the words. The result being a stunning performance that became the benchmark of theatrical excellence in the school, and had audiences talking about it for years.

The art department made a magnificent job of the set in which a fantastic domed pergola and terrace gave onto a palm-fringed sandy beach. The costumes glittered and dazzled. Filtered lighting created a golden glow over everything and everyone. Frankie's bleached, tangled long hair cemented the difference between his pallor and the rest of the honey-brown cast. Ten concerts to enthusiastic audiences in the excellently equipped school theatre, in which their play was the final highlight of the concert, received rave reviews.

This was followed by a two-week season of three one-act plays, presented by a struggling independent theatre company in one of the last large, elegant old theatres remaining in the city centre. Their play was on last each night. TV and newspaper reviews were enthusiastic. "A brilliantly designed set" "Despite his nudity, the leading actor's naturalism and acting skill ensured the play's success." "A brilliant script exposing the moral vacuum in modern society." Similar reviews ensured the theatre was sold out for all twelve performances, allowing the company to last another year.

During the first week of the season of one-act plays, confirmation of Ingenio's adoption of Frankie arrived, along with official notification of his name change from Frankie Goldmein to Frankie Fey. Frankie declared himself the happiest man on the planet and his performance that evening almost blew the audience away.

Every night of the second week, the same elderly man sat in the same seat in the middle of the front row. Before the Friday evening performance Frankie received a note on a plain white card.

Frankie, I want to thank you for your excellent performances. I should like to meet you in the foyer directly after the performance tonight. Prospero LaDjess.

Cautious, as no one backstage had heard of such a person, but more curious than suspicious, Frankie dressed quickly after the curtain calls and hurried to the foyer. Prospero, as he asked Frankie to call him, was considerably older and frailer than he had appeared from the stage. Frankie, Prospero was perturbed to realise, was considerably younger than he had appeared on stage, therefore it was with some self-consciousness that the elderly man invited the youth to supper in his hotel suite. Frankie was honoured, but wanted his uncle's permission. Could Prospero go with him to meet Ingenio and explain the invitation? Delighted and relieved by the young man's response, Prospero certainly could, and twenty minutes later a taxi deposited the old man and his muse at the Fey dwelling.

Initially wary, Ingenio and Constantine soon warmed to the old man and it was decided that Frankie would visit Prospero directly after the Saturday Matinee. Ingenio and Constantine would join them two hours later, having been invited for dinner. When asked why he had invited Frankie, Prospero said he wanted to thank and get to know the young man who had given him such pleasure with his thoughtful interpretation of a misunderstood man.

# Prospero

Prospero occupied the entire top floor of a luxury downtown hotel. After welcoming Frankie and offering him a fruit drink, he excused himself for a few minutes. While waiting, Frankie inspected the large, light-filled rooms, not impressed by the starkly minimalist décor, but intrigued by everything else, especially several small artefacts displayed on the top of a glass bookcase. When he returned, Prospero explained that they were three-dimensional puzzles. Frankie pointed to what looked to be the most impossibly wonderful—six, square-section lengths of polished wood about five centimetres long that had been interwoven in a seemingly impossible manner, and asked if it was really like that. Prospero picked it up, handed it to Frankie and told him to press on one of the lengths of wood. It slid easily out and the magical structure fell to pieces.

'Now look what you've done!' Prospero said gruffly, before laughing. 'Pick them up and put them in your pocket. The day you learn how to put them together is the day you'll find yourself.'

Waving aside Frankie's gratitude, he led the way up to a gazebo on the roof garden; a veritable jungle of trees, vines and flowering shrubs, that had Frankie laughing in delight. More fruit juice and two hours of relaxed and enjoyable conversation felt like two minutes, because most of the chatting was done by the youth, unaware he was being expertly pumped for his experiences, ideas, hopes, values and concerns.

When Ingenio and Constantine arrived, the old man and his guest moved down to the dining room where a waiter served a simple but nutritious and tasty meal that had been prepared by Prospero's cook in the apartment's kitchen.

'This is a very pleasant meal in an extremely elegant apartment,' Constantine remarked. 'Do you often stay here?'

'This has been my home for the past eight years.'

'Must cost a packet,' Ingenio remarked.

'I own the hotel, so it's a perk,' Prospero smiled.

After desert, the waiter served tea in the lounge.

Prospero cleared his throat. 'What I am about to say is the product of three years' careful thought. Please listen carefully and do not interrupt, ask questions, or comment afterwards.'

Constantine opened his mouth, closed it, and like the other two gave the old man his undivided attention.

'I am ninety-seven. Three years ago I accepted my mortality and made plans to ensure it would be a pleasant experience. That left me with the problem of what to do with my considerable assets. I despise and distrust politicians and religious people, so wanted to ensure that no organisation or individual with even the remotest connection to government or religion would benefit. Secular charities are indiscriminate in their largess, often giving to people I dislike, so they would also not benefit. In my experience, discrimination is the key to a good life, so I decided that if and when I met young men with ideas and values I consider worthy, then I would offload something useful and valuable on them. Not as an inheritance, but as a gift, because the Wills of wealthy people attract challenges from those who think they deserve to inherit and haven't. My chat with Frankie proved my first impressions correct, so I want to gift him the title deeds to a property in the mountains west of Sydney. Nearly a thousand hectares of forest with a lake, cliffs, valleys and a fine old house as much in need of repair as your place, Ingenio and Constantine. My lawyers have prepared the documentation so it only needs Frankie's signature, that of his guardian, and two non-family witnesses; that will be Constantine and Gerard, my cook.'

Prospero took a large yellow envelope from a desk drawer and handed it to Constantine. 'Please read this while I fetch Gerard.'

In silent astonishment, Constantine read and checked the document, declared it valid and solid, and turned to Frankie with a perplexed smile. 'Have you any idea why he wants to give you this?'

'Frankie frowned and shook his head. 'No, all we did was sit on the roof terrace while I talked.'

'What about?' Ingenio asked.

'Me. He wanted to know what I'd done and what I thought about it and what I wanted and valued... that sort of thing. Can I accept the gift?'

'Are you sure there are no strings attached?' Ingenio asked Con.

'None whatsoever. As soon as he signs this, Frankie is the owner and can do whatever he pleases with the property, live there, sell it, set fire to it... it will be his.'

'Then it would be very ungrateful to refuse.'

They settled back in nervous excitement, still suspecting it was some sort of joke.

Prospero and a lean, swarthy man in his fifties wearing jeans and T-shirt, came through from the kitchen.

'Ready to sign?'

Frankie nodded, but didn't speak.

'The details of the lawyer who's been handling the estate are on the forms. Contact him if you have any questions or need his assistance.'

'Is he honest?' Con asked.

'He's a lawyer,' Prospero replied, 'As far as I know he hasn't cheated me, but I always bear in mind that clever epitaph on the grave of a lawyer, _Here lies John Brown; he lies still_.'

'Careful, I'm a lawyer.' Con laughed.

'I know, but you're a quasi saint who works for nothing in a vain effort to help the unloved.'

'How do you know?'

'You didn't think I'd give something as valuable as this property to a young man whose relatives would cheat him out of it, did you? It's a week since I was first awestruck by Frankie's performance; plenty of time to check you all out.' He turned back to the papers. 'Now to business.'

Pens were produced and signatures witnessed on both copies. Then the cook handed one to Frankie and the other to Prospero before returning to his kitchen.

Ingenio took Prospero's hand and looked into his face, searching for deceit. Finding none he placed a light kiss on the old man's cheek, and said a simple thank you. Frankie hugged the old man and whispered a tearful, 'I know I don't deserve it, but I'll try to be worthy of your trust.'

'No, no, no,' Prospero protested gently. 'That's not what I want. I don't want you to try to be anything or even be grateful. My intention is to give the few people I like the means to be completely themselves without economic or social constraint. That's all.' He sat back slowly and sighed. 'It is I who am grateful to you for your performance in that play. It was like watching my own failed, life-long attempt to open people's eyes. Suddenly I realised it was the effort that mattered, not my lack of success. Then discovering this afternoon that you are exactly what I thought; a young man who deserves to own this piece of land, lifted a heavy weight from my spirit. I can now die peacefully knowing I've done the best I can.'

He pulled an envelope from his top pocket and handed it to Frankie. 'Large properties do not run or maintain themselves, so to prevent it being a burden to you, I want you to take this to help with upkeep and repair. And now I'm tired. We won't see each other again, so I wish you a satisfying future.' He stood, took both Frankie's hands in his and said softly, 'Snakes are the best protection against vermin.'

Frankie nodded and smiled, wondering if it was an obscure warning or perhaps a joke. He'd have to think about it. The three men then left Prospero to his memories, arriving at the theatre just in time for Frankie to prepare for the final performance. The theatre had been booked out for a week, so Ingenio and Constantine stood at the back, marvelling again at their son's talent.

'What did Prospero say to you just before we left?' Ingenio asked in the car on the way home.

'That snakes are the best protection against vermin. What could it mean?'

'No idea. Perhaps there are a lot at the place he's given you and he's worried you might try to eradicate them.'

Back home they read and reread all the documentation in case it had been a trick. It hadn't. Then they opened the sealed envelope and were rendered speechless yet again, this time by a bank draft for fifty million dollars, and a key.

'That's a lot of money and a lot of land you've received today,' Con remarked thoughtfully. What will you do with it?'

'I don't know. What do you suggest?'

'I don't trust banks; it's virtually certain now that when banks stuff up and lose money they will be permitted to simply take their depositors' money to bail themselves out. Their completely legal reasoning being that you've given them the money, so it's theirs to do what they like with.'

'Then what's the alternative? It's a bit much to put under the mattress.'

'If you pay them to hold your cash in their vault, then it remains yours.'

'Sounds crazy. Is it likely the banks will fail?'

'Most economists reckon it's only a matter of time. And even if they don't fail they'll say they have so they can grab their depositor's deposits. The sole purpose of banks is to make as much money as possible for their shareholders by adopting the six principles of neo-liberal economics.'

'What are they?'

'Number one is: Reduce wages by de-unionizing workers and eliminating workers' rights. Two: Eliminate price controls and grant total freedom of movement for capital, goods and services. Three: Cut public spending on social services like education, health and maintenance of roads, bridges, water supply, while removing safety-nets for the poor. Four: Remove all government regulation that could diminish profits, including protecting the environment and safety on the job. Five: Privatise state-owned enterprises, goods and services, including banks, key industries, railroads, toll highways, electricity, schools, hospitals and even fresh water, thus concentrating and increasing the wealth of a few corporations by increasing the cost to consumers. And finally, eliminating the concept of the 'public good', or the 'community', and replacing it with "individual responsibility." These measures force everyone - including the poorest people in society - to take responsibility for their own health care, education and social security—then blaming them if they fail for being "lazy."

'That's already happening, isn't it? That's why most kids are on the streets instead of at school.'

'Yes, and that's deliberate,' Constantine sighed. 'Street kids are a valuable resource for the multinationals that own and run prisons. It gives them slave labour to put small factories out of business, thus increasing multinational corporate power and profits.'

'Sick.'

'No, it's completely natural animal behaviour to cheat and steal and feather one's own nest. That's how humans have survived.'

'But why will banks fail?'

'Because so much money has been printed it's worth less than the paper it's printed on. It's fiat currency; a scrap of paper that the government has declared to be legal tender, but it's not backed by a physical commodity – it's just a promise to pay. And because governments print more when they need money, much more money has been printed than there are goods to buy.'

'How on earth do you work that out?'

'Not by using Stock Market figures, because Stock exchanges are nothing more than casinos where people gamble with valueless chips. Computer savvy economics whizz-kids have worked out that if the real value of all the planet's assets were added together, then one twentieth of all the fiat money in circulation would be sufficient to buy them. In other words, there's twenty times more money in circulation that there are assets on the planet.'

'So nineteen dollars out of every twenty is worthless.'

'Precisely.'

'What about gold?'

'It's safe and holds its value, but only ingots; not a slip of paper stating you've bought the value of so many ounces of gold, because there isn't enough of that precious metal on the planet for even a quarter of the people who think they've bought it to actually have the real stuff.'

'What a filthy scam.'

'Filthy indeed. Lawyers may be shysters, but bankers are the absolute bottom of a very, very deep pile of shit.'

'So, what'll we do, Con?'

'Cash the bank draft and your parents' insurance payout, buy gold ingots with part of it, then put it all in a bank deposit box. What you do with the land is your call.'

'I want to do nothing with the land except keep it in as pristine a state as possible with no humans allowed except us. It may seem strange, but despite the unpleasantness I'm incredibly grateful to Grandma and Grandad for dragging me off to Tasmania. It was the best possible experience I could have had. I learned so much about myself and where I fit in nature. Not in a romantic way, but a realistic, evolutionary way. We need real, proper, complete nature if we want to survive, and I'm not going to help anyone to remove the little that's left.'

'Is that what you talked about with Prospero?'

'Among other things.'

'That's probably why he entrusted the place to you and left you plenty of cash to keep it safe. He's a perceptive man.'

'And...' Frankie paused, hoping he wasn't pushing things, 'I sort of hope you two will live there with me, if we like it. I don't want to keep it to myself. Even if we don't go to live there, I want to have the title deed changed so we three are joint tenants. Then if anything happens to me, it'll be automatically yours.'

'That's very generous. But there's no hurry. Let's see the place first.'

'Next Weekend?'

'We'll leave Friday after school.'

'Excellent!'

# "85"

After driving all night they arrived exhausted at a set of magnificent wrought iron gates hung between two giant eucalyptus trees. The surreal effect triggered an involuntary laugh of delight. They parked in front of the gates and got out to look, listen, and smell the environment. The winding road had been cut into the edge of a heavily forested slope. Their driveway, visible through the gates, wound up hill out of sight. Trees and undergrowth on the other side of the road obscured whatever view there might have been towards the city. The air was fresh. The silence broken only by bird calls. The smell was of fecund nature.

'Does your property have a name, I wonder?' Ingenio mused. 'There's no name of the house or occupier on the gate.'

'There's an old surveyor's peg to the left,' Con observed.

'Anything written on it?'

'Just the numbers eight and five.'

'Then "85" is what we'll call the place,' Frankie laughed, opening the gates. A sealed drive climbed gently for just over a kilometre through dry old eucalyptus forest that would become a death trap when the planet heated. Two sharp corners cut into the side of the hill offered vistas back to smog-shrouded Sydney. A final curve and another set of gates, these ones open, gave onto a large, sloping, oval clearing full of wild grasses.

At the furthest and highest edge was a two storeyed circular house built of rough-hewn, ochreous stone. Roman arches encircled the ground floor, and a filigree stone tower topped by a greenish onion dome, sprouted like a mushroom from the centre of the tiled roof that overhung the upstairs walls far enough to give shade in summer, but allow sunlight to penetrate in winter. A slightly smaller version of the house immediately to the left of the gate, appeared to be a garage, tool shed and greenhouse. Instead of a tower and dome, however, the centre of its roof sported a gigantic satellite dish. The entire oval grassed area was ringed by dense forest. Behind the main house the ground rose steeply to join apparently endless heavily forested hills.

They parked on a sealed area in front of what was probably the garage, got out, stretched, and nodded at a lean, sinuous man in jeans, work boots and pale blue tank top. He looked to be in his forties. Skin the colour of soot. Frankie had never seen anyone as black. Hair a short dense cap. A wide mouth and prominent brow over wary eyes made him interesting, but not alarming. He approached cautiously.

'I'm guessing one of you is Frankie Fey.' The voice was deep and unusually polite.

Frankie stepped forward, offering his hand. 'Yes, I am,' he said, unaccountably shy.

They shook hands.

'Do you mind telling me who you are and how you know my name?'

'Most people call me Snake. I look after the place for Mr. LaDjess. I got a phone call from his lawyer telling me he was dead and you're the new owner. Bit young, aren't you? Have you any proof you are who you say you are?'

'Bit young for what? I'm sixteen. This is my brother Ingenio and his partner Constantine. And yes, I have proof; it's in the car. I'll get it.'

Ingenio and Constantine shook hands with the man who called himself Snake.

'Partner as in boyfriend?'

'Yes. Got a problem with that?'

'Nope. Just don't want to put my foot in it. My only problem is what your brother's going to do with this place. And me,' he added as an afterthought.

'He won't keep you in suspension.'

'Do you have another name apart from Snake?'

'Of course.'

'What is it?'

'I'll tell you if we ever become friends.'

'Why was this gate open and the other closed?'

'The road gate's closed to prevent nosey parkers from driving up. There's a laser alarm just inside, so when it sounded in the garage, I knew someone was arriving and opened it.'

'We apologise for not telling you we were coming, but we have no idea how to contact you.'

'No worries. You're the owners, you can come and go as you like.'

Frankie returned and handed Snake a photocopy of his birth certificate and the property transfer.

Snake studied it then looked up with a puzzled expression. 'You didn't buy it? It was a gift?'

'Yes. As for what I want to do with it...' he watched carefully for Snake's reaction. 'I want to keep it as wild and private as possible. Humans have enough good stuff, the animals and plants need space and peace.'

Snake smiled and nodded. 'As I'm human, I suppose you'll want me to go, then?'

'Do you want to go?'

'No. I love this place. Been here nearly fifteen years.'

'What do you do?'

'Everything. Maintenance, security, repairs... you name it, I do it.'

'Can you think of any reason we wouldn't want you to stay?' Ingenio asked politely.

'Like, have you a criminal record, that sort of thing,' Constantine added.

'Some people think I've done criminal things, but I don't. Mr. LaDjess trusted me. He was paying me five hundred a week and I live rent free, so if that doesn't continue I'll have to go—can't live on fresh air and scenery.'

'I reckon we can manage that,' Frankie said thoughtfully, turning to Ingenio. 'So that's what Prospero meant when he said Snakes are valuable. We can afford to pay the same can't we?'

'Of course. What do you say, Con?'

'We'd be fools to let him go, especially after Prospero's Delphic utterance.'

'What did Mr. LaDjess say about me?'

'That Snakes are the best defence against vermin.'

Snake's anxious frown dissolved into a laugh. 'A few years ago we were plagued by illegal loggers and nurserymen scouring the place for rare plants, so I got rid of them.' He thought briefly and frowned. 'Or... it could be that when I phoned him about two months ago, I mentioned a visit by a bloke claiming to be his nephew, Tony Carracci, the son of LaDjess's sister who married an Italian. Mr. LaDjess told me he was vermin and not under any circumstances to let him on the property. I forgot all about him until last week when he telephoned me, asking me to call him as soon as a bloke called Frankie Fey arrived to take over the place. I had no idea what he was talking about until the lawyer rang to tell me the boss was dead and Frankie was the new owner. I mentioned Tony Carracci's phone call, and he more or less repeated what Mr. LaDjess said; Tony Carracci is a low-life bastard to avoid. I thought it was him when you arrived. I'm glad it wasn't!'

'How did this Tony Carracci know I was the new owner?'

'Everything's on the Internet, including land titles. For a handful of dollars you can find out who owns anything, pretty well. I imagine he's been checking this property every day for months, waiting for the old man to die.'

'The Internet terrifies me sometimes.'

'The important thing is he asked me to let him know as soon as you got here, but not to tell you about him. It seems he wants to catch you off guard for some reason.'

'What's he like?'

'Greasy tub of lard; probably in his late fifties. Brought a mean looking bastard with him. Not big, more your size, Ingenio, and not much older. But tough. You know... the sort that starts arguments so he can bash you up? Don't know his second name but Carracci called him Jerry. Wouldn't trust either of them. Carracci told me he wants to take out all the old growth hardwood trees to sell to Asia for furniture, and then subdivide the place into acreage lots. Reckons to make about a billion at least. Offered me a million if I help him get it.'

'Tempting.'

'Will a million bucks buy me a house in place like this? It wouldn't even buy a two-roomed apartment behind the railway station in Sydney. When I said that he upped it to five million.'

'Even more tempting. Did you refuse?

'I said I'd let him know. I wanted to find out your plans first. You might have been even worse than him.'

'And now?'

'Now I'm worried. I have to let him know you're here or he'll fix me. But I'm nervous about what he'll do to you if you refuse to sell the place to him. Honestly, he's a nasty bit of work.'

'When he asked you to help, what did you think he meant?' Constantine asked.

'That I'd help him and Jerry put pressure on you.'

'What sort of pressure?'

'The sort of pressure that a greedy man who stands to gain a billion dollars puts on those who oppose him.'

'And if you don't tell him we're here, he'll...'

'I'm not going to wait to find out. I'll take off somewhere. I'm not going to risk getting on the wrong side of that sort.'

'Then as we want you to stay, we'll have to meet him. Tomorrow?'

Frankie shook his head. 'I'm already nervous, Ingenio. I'll not sleep till we've got it over with. Ring him now so we can tell him we're not selling and then enjoy the rest of the weekend.'

'I don't think it's going to be that simple, Frankie.'

'Should we call the cops?'

'No way! He's filthy rich. The police are probably on his payroll—most cops are for sale. Only a complete fool trusts them.'

'That's my experience too, Snake.' Constantine agreed. 'The sole function of the army, laws, police and judiciary is to keep the rich and the powerful safe from those who want to share in their good fortune.'

'You're both cynics, but I fear you're both right. Ok, Snake,' Ingenio said nervously, 'You're the vermin exterminator, what do you think we should do?'

# Extermination

Tiredness evaporated as they sat around the kitchen table in Snake's tidy little flat behind the garage, drinking tea, eating toast and cheese and fruit, talking, drawing maps and diagrams, and coming up with a plan for the worst case scenario, hoping it wouldn't come to that. Not foolproof, but no one could think of anything better. To avoid using his mobile phone or landline in case it was tapped, Snake drove five kilometres to a public phone box to ring Tony.

Ingenio insisted he would pretend to be Frankie, for which his son was secretly grateful. It was decided that he would pretend he had driven up alone from Melbourne, so they busied themselves hiding everything that might indicate the presence of two others, carrying all their stuff and a video camera and blankets up into the shallow crawlspace between the timbered ceiling of the garage and its tiled roof. From below it looked as if there wouldn't be enough room for a human to squeeze in.

It was going to be hot, lying silently while secretly filming the meeting, but they didn't take up any water so there'd be no temptation to move and knock something and reveal themselves. When all was arranged, they stretched out on the grass in the shade drinking little so they wouldn't need to pee, eating sandwiches, and vainly trying to relax.

On his return, Snake left both gates open and when the laser bleeped just after eleven o'clock, they knew Tony's car had passed through, giving them time to get to their places. By the time the BMW pulled up beside Ingenio's vehicle in the parking area in front of the garage, Constantine and Frankie were lying on the boards of the crawlspace above, and the ladder was back on the floor, concealed under a pile of sacks.

Ingenio stood in the garage entrance watching Snake greet Carracci and Jerry, chatting and laughing. A cold wave washed through him. Could he trust Snake? Had he in fact been preparing a trap? Con and Frankie were already trapped in the crawlspace and he was defenceless. Deep breaths did little to calm his heartbeat.

Apparently satisfied, the two guests sauntered across, laughing at something Snake had said, and introduced themselves to Ingenio. Chatting amicably they followed Snake into the cool interior. Ingenio said he hoped they wouldn't be long as he'd only come for a quick look, to get an idea what it was worth before going to Estate Agents and putting it on the market. He was on his own because his wife wasn't interested in the place and was taking the kids to Saturday sports. He hadn't decided where he'd stay the night. Probably halfway home.

Ingenio learned that Mr. Carracci was a respectable developer with many important business connections and friends in the government. Snake offered cans of beer, then closed the garage doors to keep the place cool, and stood in front of them sipping at his can, relaxed but obviously on his guard.

What are you prepared to offer for the property, Mr. Carracci? Ingenio asked innocently, sipping at his beer. Jerry laughed loudly and Tony sniggered. 'More than you expect, Mr. Fey.'

After tossing their empties into a corner they peered suspiciously up and around the empty space. Deciding they were alone, they put their case.

'Snake has informed you that I'm Mr. LaDjess's only surviving relative and should have inherited this place. But the old man was completely gaga and didn't know what he was doing, selling the place to you, so you are going to sign the title over to me.' Without waiting for a response, he opened a briefcase and placed two documents on the workbench. 'These are duplicates of a transfer of this property to me, filled out and just needing your signature on both. You will sign them now. Snake and Jerry will witness them, and you will then return to Melbourne. Is that clear?'

Ingenio glanced at the documents, then looked up, clearly confused. 'There's no mention of how much you are going to pay me, Mr. Carracci.'

'That's because you are making a gift of the place as compensation for the emotional hurt I've suffered from being disinherited.'

Ingenio shook his head in denial and confusion. 'I understand your disappointment at not being bequeathed this place, Mr. Carracci, but I acquired this property legally, so I will not be giving it to you.'

If he was disappointed, Mr. Carracci's smug smile concealed it. 'And I say you will.'

'And if I don't?'

'You will not be returning to Melbourne.' The voice was matter of fact and relaxed.

'Are you threatening me?'

'Yes.'

'But then you won't have my signature.'

'Signatures can be copied, and friends in Lands Transfer Offices don't question official documentation unless asked to.'

'Ingenio turned angrily to Snake. 'You told me Mr. Carracci wanted to buy the place! You lied!'

Snake's laugh was evil. 'Fuck you educated pricks are stupid. You were going to just dump me on the street, but Tony's a gentleman; he's going to look after me, so shut the fuck up and sign the bloody thing.'

Ingenio's desperation was only partially an act. 'But... but surely you wouldn't murder me just to get a block of land. And the police are smart, they'd soon work out who'd done it.'

'They would come to the conclusion that a city boy had gone for a walk, fell down a cliff, of which there are many around here, and broken his back. Unfortunately, he didn't die immediately, he lay in quadriplegic agony for several days before dying of thirst and exposure and being eaten by ants, bandicoots, and other vermin. Changed your mind?'

'No! You wouldn't!'

Jerry grabbed Ingenio's arms, dragging them up behind his back causing him to grunt from pain, and rammed a bony knee into the centre of his back.

Mr. Carracci proffered a pen. 'Will you sign?'

'Never!'

'Get on with it, Carracci,' Snake snarled. 'The stupid fuck's not going to sign anything.'

Carracci nodded. 'You're right, Snake. Ok Jerry, snap to it.' He giggled inanely. 'But maim, not kill. We're not murderers. '

Just as Jerry was on the point of ramming his knee into his victim's spine, Ingenio screamed and dropped his head onto his chest. Two sharp cracks set a flock of kookaburras screeching in maniacal laughter outside as Jerry, followed by Carracci, dropped to the floor where they twitched for a few seconds before lying still, blood trickling from holes in their heads.

Snake blew across the barrel of his revolver like a cowboy in an old western movie, and replaced the gun in his pocket with a self-satisfied grin.

'Fuck you're a good shot!' Frankie shouted. 'But Ingenio! Is he all right? Get us down!'

Snake replaced the ladder and went to look at Ingenio who was writhing in pain. Constantine and Frankie raced across.

'Are you Ok? Ingenio! Speak to me! Is your back broken?' Constantine and Frankie were both on the verge of tears.

Ingenio looked up and grinned. 'I reckon I'm as good an actor as my son.'

'You utter bastard. That's the last time I worry about you.'

'Inge! If you do that again I'll kill you properly!'

Ingenio wrapped his arms around Con, kissed him and let himself be dragged upright. 'Sorry, I couldn't resist. At least I now know you'd care if I karked it.'

'Arrogant turd. I wasn't worried about that, I was imagining all the fuss I'd have to go though if we had three bodies to dispose of.' He looked up at Snake who was shaking his head in amusement. 'What're you laughing at?'

'Two crazy queers.'

'Where did you learn to shoot like that? It was fantastic. Straight from the hip! Perfect. And where'd you get a revolver?'

'It fell of the back of a truck. Thanks for the compliments on my aim—that's from years of practice exterminating hares and wild dogs.'

'Prospero was right, you're the best vermin exterminator ever, thanks, Snake.' Frankie looked as if he was going to be sick. At first he'd been excited, then fearful, then relieved, but suddenly it hit him. Two men who'd been alive only minutes before were now dead, and he and the others had done it. He turned very pale and began to shake. Snake grabbed him before he fell and carried him out into the sunshine followed by the others who weren't looking much better.

Snake looked at them critically. 'Frankie's okay. It's a normal reaction from a sensitive kid. Stress takes more out of you than exercise. Rub some blood into his limbs while I make us a cup of tea. It's just on midday so we have to get moving. It's almost certain Tony has arranged to call someone once this is over, so we can't hang around. Okay?'

'Yeah, sure. Don't worry about us.' Trying not to think about what they were doing and what they had just done, they removed both dead men's outer garments, and Ingenio and Con put them on, Ingenio in Jerry's and Con in Tony's. He had to pad himself a bit to take up the slack in the trousers, but ended up with a bum quite as flabby as Tony's. With Jerry's cap pulled down, Ingenio looked like him from behind. There was a hat in the BMW that fitted Con, and after a quick check they went over the plan one more time while they drank tea.

'Ok,' Snake said seriously. 'We have to get this right. It's broad daylight so it needs bravado, not nervous caution. Act confident and you'll be believed.' He spread a map on the table. They gathered around and gave it their full, nervous attention. 'This is the pub I go to now and again. I've never been there on a Saturday afternoon, it's too crowded with idiot karaoke wannabes. But few strangers go, so you'll be noticed. That means you don't have to do anything special. Buy a drink, pay for it, tip the barman, sit at the bar, or a table if there's no space at the bar, as close to the exit opposite the main entrance as possible, call each other Tony and Jerry a couple of times loud enough to be heard, and try not to leave readable fingerprints on the glasses, by smudging them each time you put them down.

'After a few minutes, start an argument. Intense but as if you're trying to conceal it. Then play it by ear. It might go something like this... Ingenio, will call Con a lying bastard. Con will tell him to shut the fuck up. Ingenio will get up and stand over Tony—not enough aggro to get someone to try and break it up though. Tony will shove him away and leave, closely followed by Con muttering that he'll make the fucking bastard pay. As soon as you're outside, you'll chase each other down this street here,' he pointed at the map, 'and I'll be waiting here,' he pointed, 'with the engine running. It's a very quiet service lane. There's no commerce on weekends so it's unlikely you'll be seen. But check anyway, then get in and make yourselves invisible under the rugs. It doesn't matter if someone recognises my vehicle because I'm a regular in town.'

'Yeah,' Con said uncertainly. 'It's clear enough. Don't worry, we'll be fine.'

'It's you that's worrying, Con. Don't. It's a cake-walk as long as you keep the argument low key so no one feels obliged to intervene or follow you. All we want is for a few guys to remember that two blokes called Tony and Jerry had an argument and took off down the street. Oh, and don't look up when you enter the pub, there are cameras at the entrance. Not sure if there are any inside or the exit, so keep your heads down as much as possible.'

'No worries,' Ingenio said more cheerfully than he felt. 'We'll be okay.'

A few minutes later, wearing rubber gloves and trying not to smudge existing fingerprints on the steering wheel and dashboard, Con and Ingenio drove Tony's BMW down to the pub, parked a block away, got out, locked the car and removed their gloves. Stuffing them deep in their pockets they wandered into the bar, heads down as if discussing something important. It was noisy inside. Karaoke down the end opposite the bar and plenty of stools empty. They went to the far end of the bar near a door marked Exit, sat on stools, looked at the karaoke and signalled over their shoulders to the barman. No customer took any notice. They ordered beers and asked him if it was always so busy. He didn't look at them properly, just grunted something incomprehensible and returned to watch the singer, without waiting for a tip.

This wasn't the plan. They had to be noticed. After what seemed an age the singer stopped and people drifted to the bar for refills, but no one gave them a second glance so Ingenio decided to hurry things along. He fell off his stool, flinging his arms wide as if to save himself, knocking his drink onto the floor. The smashing glass drew curious looks.

'You bastard, Tony. What the fuck'd ya do that for? Could have broken my back.'

'Because you're a fuckwit, Jerry,' Con snarled. 'Get up and buy another.'

'Fuck you, Tony.' Ingenio got to his feet and lunged at Con, who threw the contents of his drink at him, then headed out the exit, snarling, 'You're a fucking loser, Jerry, go fuck yourself.' Ingenio raced after him shouting, 'I'll get you, Tony, you fat prick.'

Still shouting they disappeared into the side street, then along a service alley, at the end of which stood Snake's Suzuki with the engine running. After checking the street was empty, they leaped into the back, lay flat and covered themselves with blankets as it drove quietly away.' Snake stopped at a takeaway on the edge of town to buy a pie and a coke, chatting briefly with the owner before driving sedately home, closing both gates behind him.

Back in the kitchen, a frantic Frankie was relieved to hear the vehicle pull into the garage. He raced out and hugged all three. 'I was so frightened you'd get caught. That something would go wrong. That...' he stopped, tears streaming down his cheeks. 'I'm sorry. I was being so strong and telling myself to be brave and sensible and all that crap, determined not to go all girly, and then... I realised how much I love and need you. I...'

Ingenio hugged him and the others told him not to worry. Real men were allowed to have emotions and express them. They were proud of him; both Con and Ingenio silently wishing they too could scream and shout and cry and get rid of all the tension that had been building. Instead, sitting around the table they tried fairly successfully to make light of it, laughing about their impromptu act at the pub. After a quick snack of bread, cheese, boiled eggs, tomatoes and Snake's excellent spaghetti bolognaise, they reckoned they'd be able to last another few hours.

'I hope so, because we've a lot to do before we can relax,' Snake reminded them. 'Cleaning up and removing all evidence will take at least till six o'clock. We'll have to get a move on if we want to finish before dark.

Bellies full, they returned reluctantly to the garage where they removed all their clothes, carefully bagged everything belonging to the two dead men, and put on clean overalls provided by Snake. There wasn't much blood to remove and scrub away, but the floor had to be swept and every centimetre of the grass, driveway and garage scoured for anything the murderous pair might have dropped.

They made two very tight parcels of bodies, clothes and personal items, wrapping them in heavy-duty plastic sheets, tightly sealed with duct tape. After placing them in the back of Snake's little Suzuki 4X4, they piled in and drove up a narrow, tree-lined track behind the house. After cresting a hill the track wound down into a gulley, over a ridge and then down to the base of a tall cliff, near the centre of which was a dark hole.

'That's the cave?'

'Yep.'

'We'll never squeeze in there!'

'Wanna bet?'

Even with two to a body it was tough work manhandling the corpses into the narrow cave. The roof was too low to stand upright. After about fifty metres the sandy floor began to rise until they were forced to crawl, then slither one after the other on their bellies, dragging and pushing the corpses between them. It was claustrophobic, despite the light from torches strapped to their foreheads, but fear of the consequences of failing to conceal the evidence conquered the fear of being trapped underground. After nearly half an hour of dragging, slithering, sweating and sliding, the roof plunged into the sandy floor. Snake directed his torch onto a horizontal gap in the rocks to the left at floor level. Constantine shone his torch in.

'It get's bigger in there, but there's no floor. It's just a black hole! We can't go in there. I can't see anything. Where does it go?'

'No idea. But whatever goes down there won't be seen for a long time.'

The plastic wrapped bundles were too large to be squeezed through the slit, which was a metre long but a bare fifteen centimetres high, so they separated the bodies from the plastic and clothing, then crushed the ribs so they could squeeze them through. After a sweaty, exhausting age the two corpses slid down into darkness, followed by their clothes and plastic wrapping. And after what seemed endless wriggling in the confined space, the men's soiled and torn overalls, shoes and gloves followed the bodies into the black hole. To make certain all had gone, they peered with their torches into the slit, but could see nothing.

Every joint and muscle aching, bare skin scratched on protruding rocks that they were certain hadn't been there on the way in, knees scuffed, feet sore and bruised, they returned to the cave entrance, carefully brushing the sand with branches as they walked backwards to remove signs of their passing. Snake had been right; it was six o'clock before they had showered, dressed what turned out to be insignificant wounds, eaten and stopped twitching from effort and nerves. They sat at the table for a full minute, staring at nothing in silence.

'How can we return to normal life after a day like today?'

'What's normal for you?' Snake asked.

They told him.

'Will you all be coming to live here?'

'Would you mind if we did?'

'I'd be disappointed if you didn't. You've made me realise I'm lonely. I thought I was fine and didn't need anyone else. Macho man and all that stoic stupidity. But spending the day with three real men who dare to be themselves and not pretend they're heroes and tough and all that macho crap, is so great, I...' he stopped and looked away, not wanting them to see how affected he was.

Frankie got quietly to his feet and stood behind Snake, placing his hands lightly on his shoulders. Snake sniffed, then placed his left hand on Frankie's right. Carefully looking into the distance he said softly. 'That's the first time for years that anyone's touched me in friendship.' He turned his head and looked up at Frankie. 'I'm very, very glad Prospero gave you this place. He was a wise man.'

'How did you come to live here?'

'Twenty years ago I was just another unemployed black waster in Sydney doing nothing in the park. Then an old bloke got out of a flash car and crossed the road as if he wanted to go for a pee in the park toilets. Two guys followed, then jumped him. Normally I wouldn't have cared, rich people get what they deserve, don't they? But I was feeling angrier than usual so sauntered over and said all casual like, Can I join in? That made them laugh and relax so I slammed pointy knuckles into the bridge of their noses. They screamed, so I kicked them in the cods. They screamed again. Then I lifted the old guy to his feet and carried him back to the car. He looked pretty sick, but thanked me and asked if I could drive because he didn't think he could. I drove him to his hotel, helped him to his suite, and he offered me the choice of a thousand bucks or a job. I chose the job and was his chauffeur for five years. Then when he moved to Melbourne, I took over here and have been more or less happy until you blokes turned up.'

'That does it,' Con said brusquely. 'I'm sick of Melbourne and all those kids getting themselves into trouble, we're coming here.'

Ingenio nodded. 'I agree. Even though we haven't even been inside the house.'

'It's not as big as it looks, so if you don't like it you can live here with me,' Snake said with a grin.

'Snake, you are a gentleman! And if we do like it, you can come and live with us.'

'You'd have a black man living in your house with you?'

'Ah, I'd forgotten you were black. I suppose it would be shaming for you to live with three trashy white queers?'

'I guess I could stoop that low.'

'I reckon you're beautiful,' Frankie said dreamily. 'I'd love to have skin like yours.'

'Until the first person who passes you in the street holds his nose and asks his mates where the stink's coming from.'

'They don't!'

'They do. But it's late and we all need sleep.'

'Do you think we ought to leave now? Not stay any longer after...'

'No way! You're all so exhausted you'd crash and then goodbye to pretending you haven't been here. No, tomorrow I'll give you a quick tour, and then you can go, okay?' Now, we sleep. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise...' he grinned in embarrassment.

'As always, you speak excellent sense oh guru.'

'Silly bugger.' But Snake was pleased. 'The couch in the sitting room opens out into a double bed, he explained quickly to avoid descending into pathos, 'it's a bit small for three. I've got a double in my room, but... we could spread a few cushions and Frankie can have my sleeping bag.'

'If you've a double bed, why can't I sleep with you?'

Snake shrugged.

'Because, Frankie, he's worried you'll rape him. All queers are rapists and perverts, you see, and unable to resist fucking men.'

'Gosh, I'm a late developer. I've never felt like that,' Frankie sighed. 'Ok Snake, where's the sleeping bag?'

Snake was shaking in silent laughter. 'If you promise not to do naughty things to me, Frankie, then you're welcome to share my cot. I didn't suggest it because, as everyone knows, blacks eat young boys.'

'You're a cannibal?'

'Are you questioning popular wisdom?'

Ten minutes later all lights were out and four exhausted men were asleep. Con and Ingenio in each other's arms, Snake and Frankie back to back.

# Precautions

'Who knows you've come here?' Snake asked at breakfast.

'No one but us.'

'Which way did you drive?'

'Being Friday night we figured the main roads would be clogged with people getting away for the weekend, so we turned off just before Albury and went around Wagga Wagga to Cowra, and then side roads heading east till we got here. Took nearly eleven hours instead of eight and a half, but was safer with so much less traffic. We shared the driving between us so it wasn't too arduous.'

'If you didn't go through the centre of towns, then you were probably not caught on cameras. That's good. I suggest you go back the same way. Driving carefully no one will take any notice of you, especially as you're driving a Holden that looks the same as at least fifty thousand others. Then you'll get home in time for a shower and sleep before doing what you usually do. As an extra precaution against being caught on camera, I'll throw a bit of decorative mud at your car and numberplate so instead of reading PUT 4351, it'll look more like ROT 4357.

'You think we might be suspects?'

'Depends on whether anyone knows about Tony's plans. People like that never do anything without a back up and someone to alibi them if needed. He could have told anyone. He wasn't worried about murdering you, because it was going to be staged as an accident. But it pays to be safe. What about GPS?'

'The Holden's eighteen years old and goes like a dream, but the only electronics are ABS brakes, as far as I know.'

'Excellent. That means no one can open it up and check where you've been. Mobile phones?'

'Con and I have pay as you go cheap things that do nothing except make and receive phone calls.'

'They also record them, so take out the cards and trash them somewhere between here and Melbourne, in case you made a call you've forgotten about since leaving home. What about you, Frankie?'

'I don't want to be available twenty-four-seven, and there's no one I want to phone anyway.'

'Right. Here's my unlisted landline number. I'm usually around the yard at lunch and after five pm. Use any landline but your own if you have to ring me. It's better if, in the eyes of the rest of the world, we meet for the first time when you come here permanently. You have a key, you can come whenever you want; the place is yours. The sooner the better as far as I'm concerned.'

'We feel the same. But as we're the new owners, wouldn't it seem strange if we didn't contact you—the caretaker? You know, swap a few emails?'

'How would you get my email address?'

'We've got the lawyer's contact details, we could ask him.'

'Yeah it would seem strange if you didn't contact me, but he only has my phone number. How about I email you as the new owners, asking what your intentions are and saying the lawyer who pays my salary gave me your email address. You can reply saying you're coming over in a few weeks time, and you'll pay me to stay on at least until then. All formal like.'

'Perfect. Let's send the email now. It'd seem odd for you to wait any longer.'

'I'll include the mailing address for this place in case you need to send me anything solid; it's a Post Office Box in town.

The email was sent, then they continued discussing plans.

'We'll put the Melbourne house on the market as soon as we return, and come here permanently the day we have a buyer. Shouldn't be long, we've had offers from developers for years.'

'Excellent. Here's today's plan, then. We'll do a tour of the house, then a bit of a hike up the back so you can gauge the extent and beauty of the place you've been given, then we'll have lunch, and then you'll sleep till I wake you for a bite to eat, and then you'll set off.'

'Do you boss everyone around like this? We're not made of glass.'

'To me you are precious.' Snake avoided their eyes, his voice harsh from embarrassment. 'I've been shit scared that someone like Tony would buy this place and kick me out.' He sighed deeply. 'Instead, three of the nicest guys imaginable have it, so I'm protecting my interests by insisting you take great care not to have an accident or be suspected of complicity in the disappearance of Tony and his ugly mate.'

Snakes shyness, tone and words triggered a frisson of fear. Of course they'd be suspected if anyone knew they'd been here. And it made sense to sleep plenty before setting out. All three looked at him with increased respect, if that were possible.

'Believe me, Snake you are just as precious to us,' Frankie said softly. 'Do you trust us enough now to tell us your name?'

Snake's grin transformed his face from a somewhat humourless, stern visage into a cheeky, almost boyish face dominated by a wide mouth filled with perfect white teeth. The smooth skin around his eyes crinkled, his eyes sparkled and he looked down modestly. 'You can't imagine how good it feels when someone who's not a cop wants to know my name. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who've cared enough to ask. It's Karmai.'

'Ah...' Ingenio said, 'it sounds so exotic. One day you'll tell us what significance it has, if any.'

'And how you got the nickname Snake,' Con added.

'That's no mystery. When I first went to school I was nervous and used to lick my lips a lot. Someone said I was like a snake—snakes' tongues are always flickering in and out, and the name stuck. Banal eh?'

'As are most of the reasons we do things. But it doesn't change the fact that you're a brilliant strategist and a valuable friend. So, what name would you prefer, Snake or Karmai?'

Karmai grinned. 'Karmai, of course; too many bad memories associated with Snake.'

'Karmai you shall be, and we've decided to call this place "85" , unless it has another name?'

'It hasn't. There are Lot and Plan numbers, but I've no idea what they are. Why "85"?'

'There's an old survey post near the road gate with that number on it.'

'Actually, it's the number of the water hydrant beside it used by fire fighters during bush fires. At least it's better than 'Dunromin', or 'Bideawhile'. Meanwhile, time is of the essence, as you lawyers like to say, so let's do the dishes and take the tour.'

'It looks cute,' Frankie stated with the conviction of someone who knows nothing about architecture as they walked towards the house from the garage. 'I love the colour; it looks so sunny and warm.'

'It's supposed to look classical, not cute,' Karmai protested.

'What's classical?'

'You ignorant bumpkin! Ask me again when I have the time to educate you.'

Con laughed. 'You know a bit about architecture, Karmai?'

'Studied Art history with Open University.'

'What else?'

'Eighteenth and nineteenth century English Literature, and Chinese Political History before nineteen hundred.'

'Did you enjoy it?

'Of course; I now see the world of men through educated eyes, and can appreciate things such as this house.'

'It's smaller than it looked from the garage,' Ingenio observed.

'That's because we thought it was further away,' Con said thoughtfully. 'I also like it, but it'd be less like a doll's house if there were a few shrubs and trees softening the lines. I reckon houses should look as if they're part of the landscape, not monuments.'

The arches enclosed a two-metre-wide flagstone patio that encircled the house. They walked around it, peering in through wood-framed French windows to the dim interior. The key Prospero had given them fitted a massive wooden door at the rear that opened into a square room with a wide, wrought iron spiral staircase in the middle. A door on the left opened into a shower room and toilet, and a matching door on the right led to a laundry. The walls were decorated with pegs for hanging coats and outdoor gear.

The door opposite the entry and behind the stairs, opened into a cool, semi-circular space—all that was left of the ground floor. To the right, a neat kitchen was separated from the rest of the room by a breakfast bar. A small oval dining table and matching chairs were next to the kitchen, and the rest of the space, which seemed larger than it was thanks to five French windows that offered views between the arches to the encircling forest, contained a sofa, easy chairs, and bookshelves. They opened all the windows allowing the breeze to drift through, bringing the sounds and scents of nature.

'I love this room!' Frankie laughed. 'It's both in and out of nature. Can't wait to live here.'

The others agreed.

At the top of the spiral staircase was a similar vestibule to the one below, but with four doors; one for each bedroom and one for the bathroom. The narrow parts of the wedge-shaped rooms had been enclosed as wardrobes. Each bedroom had large windows, which they opened, breathing deeply of the fresh air. From the elevated position the view was more expansive, but remained private. No sign of human activity visible. The rooms were too small for twin beds, so each had a double. A chest of drawers completed the furnishing. All floors throughout were polished wood.

A cupboard in the vestibule at the top of the stairs concealed a narrow ladder that led up into the filigree tower, from which the view was even more impressive. The walls were not open to the weather, as it had seemed from below. They'd been glazed on the inside to keep out the wind. Frankie sat in the single deck chair and looked up with an exclamation of wonder. A map of the heavens had been painted on the inside of the dome; gold stars on a midnight blue background.

'I heard that the fellow who built this place was an amateur astronomer, and had a telescope up here. The dome could be opened when I first came, but when it started to leak I sealed it shut.'

'Will you be able to open it again?'

'Of course.'

'Then I'm going to buy a telescope.'

After closing the house, Frankie shouldered the pack containing their first aid kit and water bottles and followed the others up a kangaroo track behind the house, reaching the top of a ridge in about twenty minutes. The view was of the house and garage, trees, and the skyscrapers of Sydney drowning in a gray-blue haze in the far distance.

'When there's a stiff westerly in winter, the air clears and you can see the sea,' Karmai told them.

For the next two hours they wandered into valleys and discovered a waterfall with a trickle of water that, according to Karmai became a mini Niagara after heavy rain. A small lake about a hundred metres long and twenty wide, invited a swim, so they stripped and played around for half an hour before continuing through pockets of damp rainforest in the depths of valleys, then climbing steep slopes through dry, crackling sclerophyll that looked as if it would burst into flame at the slightest provocation. From the highest point Karmai pointed out their boundaries, but they were so far away and every hill and knob looked the same as so many others, they gave up trying to work out what was theirs and what wasn't. The property was too huge to comprehend and completely covered in forest of some sort. They'd seen and heard plenty of birds, and were rendered speechless at their good fortune.

After a healthy lunch they surprised themselves by sleeping for four hours, awaking dazed but refreshed, and at six o'clock were waving goodbye to Karmai, who's surface bravado failed to conceal a nervous vulnerability. He closed and chained the gates behind them.

The return trip was tiring but uneventful. The prospect of returning to the same old routine after the stimulus of the new property, made them feel sleepier than they were.

The next morning Frankie dragged himself to school, where his innate curiosity about everything soon had him concentrating on his studies. Con managed to keep five young toughs out of Juvenile Detention, and Ingenio responded to Karmai's email as they had discussed, and put their house on the market. That night they talked about how they'd live at "85". Con was certain he'd find useful work as a lawyer, probably again acting pro bono for deserving cases, and Ingenio would be able to continue working on his education programmes.

'What about you, Frankie? You're very quiet?'

Before Prospero's gift, Frankie had applied for a place in the Sustainable Living Philosophy faculty of a prestigious Melbourne university, which also had an excellent drama department. 'If I get in, I think I'll stay here and do the course. If you guys don't mind living there without me for a year or so?'

'You'll come and stay every holiday?'

'Of course.

'Well, I won't hope you don't get into the course, but if you don't I'll not pretend I'm not happy.'

The following morning Ingenio was engrossed in his work when a timid knock at the door had him grumbling. At first he didn't recognise the bearded visitor, and then it clicked.

'Sylvan! How wonderful! Come in. Come in! You look frozen and ill. What's the matter? No don't answer, sit and rest while I make us a coffee and something to eat.'

Sylvan started to giggle. 'Ingenio, you're as crazy as Frankie. I'm just tired, not ill, but I am hungry and cold. I thought it was going to be tropical on the mainland but it's colder than Hobart.'

Over toast, three fried eggs, coffee and a slab of homemade chocolate, Sylvan explained.

'A month or so after you left, your parents complained to Parks and Reserves that I had threatened them. So I told my boss about the conditions they were living in, and about their abducting Frankie. They sent an inspector up, but they'd cleaned up their act and were living in a new mobile home they'd bought, and said Frankie had only been staying for the holidays. So I was stood down pending a decision from the Parks authority. But your parents also went to the police and laid charges against me for abducting and interfering with their fifteen year-old grandson who had been holidaying with them. Those are serious charges and could get me twenty years behind bars, so I didn't wait, got on a boat and arrived last Friday night. Came here, but you guys were away for the weekend. At least that was what I hoped, but little voices kept insisting it wasn't your place at all; that you'd given me a false address. Yesterday I moped around, panicking, wondering what to do. Didn't want to go to a hotel in case the cops were looking for me. Yes, I know, paranoid. Slept in a park down the road. Bloody cold and it rained. Then this morning thought I'd try one more time, and you're here. Can't tell you how relieved I am.'

'You poor bugger! Stop worrying. When the police contact us we'll put them straight, so relax. The adoption's gone through so Con and I are Frankie's legal guardians. And Con will help you lay charges against my horrible parents for slander.'

'I don't want to get involved with them on any level, but thanks, Ingenio, I hoped you'd say something like that. My immediate problem is I've lost my job and I'm wondering if you've any idea where I could find work? I know it's a big ask, but...' Sylvan dropped his head and a great shudder ran through his frame, triggering in Ingenio a surge of pity and anger and hatred for his parents. How could they do that to such a fine man, the miserable rotten bastards.

'Well, you're safe here, and I have an idea, but we'll have to wait till the others get home. Meanwhile, you look exhausted so go take a shower then get into Frankie's bed and sleep.'

'But...'

'No buts, here's a towel, there's the bathroom, and there's the bed. Frankie will be thrilled to find you there, I guarantee.'

And so it turned out.

Before they woke Sylvan, they reinforced their determination to tell no one, not even Sylvan, they'd been to their new place, and of course never to mention Tony and Jerry and their fate. And then they agreed on what to do with their welcome guest, who was woken, greeted ecstatically by Frankie, and introduced to Constantine. He apologised for just landing on them without warning, and was assured he was more than welcome, and then dinner was served.

Constantine reckoned it would be pointless for Ingenio to write and tell the police the truth. 'Cops love to act as if the world's full of evil child molesters, so they'll probably accuse you both of being in cohorts and step up their hunt. If they get you they'll charge you with all sorts of perversions, blacken your name, lock you away until the court case, then eighteen months later discharge you with no compensation when you're found not guilty.'

Frankie was staring at Con in horror. 'Surely they aren't that bad?'

'They're worse. They see their role as instilling fear in the populace so there'll be no protests when they're issued with ever more powerful weapons, flak jackets and bullet proof vests, masks, tasers, you name it. They want to look like frontline fighters in star wars; like the yanks. Back in the nineteen fifties, cops used to walk through the most dangerous streets in the city on their own with nothing but a wooden truncheon and the nearest telephone blocks away. Today they don't dare walk; they travel in pairs in squad cars, bristling with assault rifles, wearing body armour, video cameras, and have constant communication back to base. And that's because their violence has created counter violence so you'd better stay out of their way until Ingenio and Frankie have deposited official legally witnessed statements clearing you. And that could take months.'

'We've got a new property in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney,' Frankie said casually. 'We've not seen it yet, but there's a caretaker looking after everything. Would you like to go there and give him a hand? There's a house that needs some attention and loads of other jobs.'

'Seriously? It sounds brilliant. But why aren't you there?'

'We're waiting till this place is sold. If you want to go and hide away for a bit, then I can email Karmai and tell him to expect you.'

'Karmai... An aborigine?'

'I imagine so. Is that a problem?'

'Of course not—if he's half as nice as a guy who came to study our National Park. No one else wanted to show him around so I did and it was great. Spent nearly a week together, camping, looking at the services and campsites. He's responsible for public access in a National Park in Far North Queensland. I felt really sad when he returned to Cairns. He said he'd write, but...' Sylvan shrugged. 'Guess I was a bit over the top.' He frowned. 'Are you sure Karmai won't mind having me barge in?'

'He'll probably be pleased to have assistance; it's a big place. He lives in a flat behind the garage. You can have the house, so you need never meet if you don't want to. When we sell this place and go there to live, we can work out a permanent arrangement. Whatever happens, you're welcome there for as long as you like. Meanwhile, if anyone asks, we'll say we haven't seen you, and have no idea where you are. Ok?'

'Ok? It's... it's ...you guys are the best people anyone could ever hope to meet.'

'Not everyone would agree with you.'

'What about your wife?' Frankie asked.

'I took your advice and we got back together, even discussed adopting a child, but when I was stood down as a ranger I became depressed. She said she couldn't be bothered with miserable men who weren't earning money, and told me to shape up or ship out. It was a hell of a shock; I'd always imagined women were sympathetic, but my friends told me it's normal. A woman has no use for an unemployed unhappy man.'

'Her loss, our gain, Sylvan,' Con said cheerfully. 'How's this for a plan. Tomorrow you'll take the bus to Sydney, then catch a local bus up to the stop nearest the property—it's about fifty kilometres. I'll draw you a map with the details, and from there it'll be about a ten kilometre walk to the house; nothing for someone as fit as you.'

'Sounds good to me.'

'What're you doing for money?' Ingenio asked.

'I brought as much cash as I could take out of the machine, but don't want to use the card again or they'll know where I am.'

'Sylvan,' Con said seriously, 'the cops won't have organised themselves yet. They probably still don't know you're not in Tasmania. So go to a Central Melbourne branch of the bank first thing tomorrow and close your account, asking for a bank cheque payable to Ingenio. Give it to him to deposit in our account, and he'll give you the cash. Any idea how much?'

'About ten thousand.'

'Good, that's not enough to raise questions. Then it's probably best if you take the overnight bus to Sydney because you won't have to find a hotel and can get to our place in time for lunch.'

The email to Karmai took some working out, finally they decided on:

Dear Mr. Yarmatji,

Re: The appointment of Mr Sylvan Forray.

At my final meeting with Mr. LaDjess, he said you were overworked, so I have engaged a man to prepare the house for us. Naturally, as we haven't yet seen the property, we haven't been able to give him any instructions; for that I am relying on you. I hope it will not be a burden. From the few days I have spent with Sylvan Forray, I am convinced he is of the highest character and will be an asset and of great assistance to you.

I remain hopeful of an early sale of this property and look forward to finally seeing my new acquisition.

Respectfully,

Frankie Fey.

# Karmai

Karmai stood by the gate for a long time after Frankie and the others drove away; mind blank. Deliberately not thinking. He felt drained. What the fuck had he done? He could have earned a cool five million. He grunted a laugh, no he couldn't. As if fat Tony would have let him live. But he needn't have told Tony that Frankie had arrived. He could have said nothing. A frightened blackfella, that's what he was. Frightened of what Tony would do if he found out. But the world was a better place now wasn't it? Yeah right. Since when had he wanted to make the world a better place? It was a shit heap and always would be. And if Tony has told anyone he was coming here then I'll be the first person the cops blame when he's reported missing.

He was tired of being frightened. Exhausted by it. All his life he'd lived in fear of the bloody cops. It seemed like every time he left the house he was stopped and asked who he was, what he was doing, why he was there. He soon learned not to answer back; a smart answer always resulted in a night in the watch house and a few more cuts and bruises. He'd been hauled out of Mr. LaDjess's car several times while waiting for him; the cops assuming he'd stolen it because no one would let a blackfella sit in their expensive car, let alone drive it. That's why he bought a beat-up old Suzuki for himself. Nothing too impressive.

Karmai absently rubbed at his right knee. It still hurt two weeks after a couple of cops picked on him while he was looking in a real estate window. They'd shoved him around and said he was getting up himself looking at real houses. There was a dog kennel waiting for him at the pet shop. He'd kept his cool, but they were crowding him so he tried to push past and that's what they were waiting for. The younger one slammed him against the wall for assaulting a police officer. His knee hit a ridge, cracking the patella. They warned him not to make a complaint and drove away laughing. A doctor strapped it up and told him to just forget about it or he'd get hurt worse next time. Cops are just another gang of thugs.

But he couldn't forget. Couldn't forget anything. And later in bed sleep didn't come. He couldn't stop thinking about Frankie, Ingenio and Constantine. If only they could have stayed he'd feel safer. But it was too dangerous for them. He sighed. Until this week he'd preferred to live alone. No one to criticise him, complain or tell him he was useless. Seeing Ingenio and Con so easy with each other made him realise what he was missing. He was forty-one, single, and exhaustingly lonely.

He'd got engaged to a girl when he was twenty-six, but she wasn't very dark—could easily pass for Mediterranean or South American. Like Karmai she'd lost all 'connection' to the land and culture that some indigenous guys reckoned gave their lives meaning. She said she loved him but after the fifth time the cops had roughed him up in front of her, and when the obviously empty motel said they were full, and hearing people on the street remarking loudly that it was a shame for such a pretty girl to be with an ugly black, she gave him back the ring. Their kids would be dark skinned and it wouldn't be fair to bring them into a world of such bigotry and hatred.

Karmai had been secretly relieved. He could cope, just, with the problems on his own, but he couldn't protect a wife from what was becoming an intolerable burden. He picked up girls occasionally, but apart from sex there was never a connection. He'd never been with a man, but admitted he liked looking at fit men when he went to the beach or swimming pool. And lately it was watching the men that gave him a hard on in porn videos.

But he knew loads of guys were like that. He had mates he played footy with who always went out in pairs picking up girls and taking them back home for foursomes on the double bed. They'd invited Karmai once, but he'd been worried he couldn't perform in front of the others.

The following day was spent nervously anticipating a visit from the cops, going over and over every possible question they might ask, reminding himself that no one had visited over the weekend, repeating that 'fact' over and over so he'd not hesitate if asked. But no one came and nothing about the disappearance was mentioned on the news. He kept telling himself that no one would ever suspect him; they'd have been there by now if they did. But he didn't believe himself. Somewhere deep down he knew that trouble was brewing, and if the cops had come at that moment he'd have confessed before they even asked, just to get it over with. Fortunately, a good night's sleep left him in a saner mood and Frankie's email restored his confidence. It'd be great to have someone else here—someone Frankie and the others trusted. It was good they hadn't told him anything. Secrets are secrets only till you tell the first person.

With something good to look forward to he finally allowed himself to relax. He was off the hook. And then the front gate alarm pinged and he wanted to run, but froze. Four minutes later a cop car drove up and sounded the horn at the gate.

Karmai jogged over, opened it and followed the car to the garage where they parked but remained sitting, chatting to each other for a couple of minutes; letting him stew. Finally they heaved their fat bums out of the car and stood staring at him.

Heart pounding, face impassive, Karmai waited.

'Ok, what've you done with them?'

The direct accusation triggered a realistic jolt of surprise. 'Done with who?'

'You fuckin' know. Come on, get it over with. Own up and it'll be easier for you.'

Keeping his voice level, but not impatient, curious but not annoyed, Karmai frowned, shook his head slightly and said, 'I'm sorry, but I really have no idea who we're talking about.'

'The two blokes who visited you last Saturday.'

'No one visited me last Saturday.'

'You were seen in the town.'

'I only went to the shops.'

'Why?'

'I was feeling hungry so drove in and bought a pie and coke.'

'Where?'

'The Takeaway at the edge of town.'

'And then you ran over a couple of drunks, killed them, threw them in the back of your crappy little vehicle and dumped them in the bush.'

Karmai wiggled his head slightly and smiled as if he was the half-wit nigger boy they had several times called him.

'Where's your heap of junk?'

'In the garage.'

They flicked their heads as an order to open the doors.

After a thorough inspection of both vehicle and garage, they wandered rudely through the tool shed and then through Karmai's immaculate flat, helping themselves to fruit on the way through, tossing clothes out of drawers, knocking over ornaments and books, determined to get a reaction they could follow up. Angry when they didn't.

The fatter and uglier cop swung round and stared at him.

'Look at this place—a fuckin' pigsty. Why don't you clean it up?'

Karmai stared out the window.

Coming at him from behind, the other cop grabbed Karmai by an arm, shoved it up his back and dragged him outside, hurling him onto the gravel drive. 'Answer a policeman when he asks you a question!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Who is the owner of this place?' the apple stealer snarled.

'Frankie Fey.' Karmai answered clearly.

'Why didn't you tell us he was here last weekend?'

'Because he wasn't.'

'Then why, you snivelling arsehole, did Mr. Carracci write in his diary that he was coming up here to see him?'

'I've no idea. I'm only the caretaker.'

A boot was raised ready to stamp on Karmai's head when...

'What's going on?' The deep voice was the sort that commands respect. It was the voice Sylvan used when herding secondary school parties around the National Park, especially when there was the possibility of danger.

The two cops straightened and looked up, impressed by the rucksack-carrying, tall, solidly built, deeply tanned man striding towards them. In preparation for the long walk from the bus to the property, Sylvan was wearing his work gear but without the National Parks Logo. His bushy black beard, powerful arms, short sleeved, khaki shirt unbuttoned to expose a powerful chest, strong legs ending in woollen socks and tramping boots, were the epitome of what everyone imagined a tough and ruthless army officer on patrol would look like.

'Who are you?' the cop's voice was noticeably more respectful than previously.

'I'm Sylvan Forray. Mr Fey has given me the job of preparing the house for when he moves up.'

'He was here last weekend.'

Sylvan's brain went into overdrive. The black guy on the ground must be Karmai. Frankie said he trusted him. The ugly pair of cops who had been preparing to stomp on the poor prick, were staring at him. He was looking at Karmai, whose eyes and tiny head movement were saying, 'No'. Sylvan had no idea if Frankie and the others had been here, but clearly Karmai had denied it so he would too. The thoughts had taken a mere nanosecond. His face hadn't altered its stern expression, and he said calmly, 'No, I was with Frankie in Melbourne all weekend.'

'Doing what?'

'He was doing his homework much of the time, his uncle showed me round town while we were sorting out this job.'

'Homework? How old is he?'

'Sixteen, I think. In his last year at high school.'

'And he owns this place?'

'Apparently.'

'How the fuck did a sixteen year-old kid get a place like this?'

'I've no idea. I'm just the hired help.'

The disappointment on the two faces would have been laughable if it had been a laughing matter.

'Who are you and how did you get here?'

Sylvan told them the minimum, hoping they wouldn't get in touch with their Tasmanian counterparts.

The cops withdrew for a whispered conference. Then, ignoring Sylvan, stared down at Karmai. 'I know you're involved in this somehow,' the fat one snarled.

They got in their car, spun the wheels and tore up grass on their way to the gate.

Sylvan dropped his rucksack and raced over to Karmai who was still lying on the gravel. Seeing no obvious sign of damage he gently lifted him to his feet.

'Are you all right, man? What did those bastards do to you?'

Karmai couldn't speak. He'd been on the point of confessing when this godlike creature arrived and saved him. He gazed at Sylvan, opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Eyes shut, his entire body began to tremble, shudder and convulse.

Sylvan wrapped his arms around him as if to stop him shaking himself to bits, then more or less carried him inside. Not daring to let him go in case he hurt himself, they remained entwined in the middle of the kitchen, Sylvan murmuring calming sounds as Karmai slowly relaxed. His head drooped onto Sylvan's chest and they stood silently, not thinking, soothed by the physical closeness of another living being. For both, it had been far too long between hugs.

Karmai opened his eyes and whispered, 'I think the shakes have stopped. You can let me go if you want.'

'I don't want. Do you want me to?'

'No.' Then a full minute later. 'What... what _do_ you want?'

Sylvan hesitated, thought, why the fuck not? and said, 'I want to kiss your neck.'

'Why?' Karmai's surprise was genuine.

'Because it looks so soft and silky, yet strong and...' he shrugged. 'I don't know. I'd just like to.'

'Ok, as long as you don't puncture my jugular and suck out my blood.'

Sylvan's laugh was deep and vibrated in Karmai's chest. 'That comes later.' He lowered his head and gently brushed the smooth black skin with his lips. He could feel the sudden tension; the difference between soft flesh and taut tendon. A pulse gently returned the kiss as his lips hovered lightly.

'Do you want me to stop?'

'No, but I'd like to turn around, but don't let me go.' Karmai turned until their chests were pressed together. He straightened and saw with surprise they were exactly the same height. Both men looked into each other's eyes and it didn't seem strange.

'What are you thinking?'

Karmai laughed softly. 'I thought you were reading my thoughts through my eyes. Perhaps they'll pass between our skulls.' He pressed his forehead against Sylvan's, but somehow both heads tilted slightly back and it was their lips that ended up pressed together—for a very long minute.

Sylvan was the first to pull back. His smile beatific. 'I've got a hard on.'

'Me too.'

'What can it mean?'

'In ancient Rome, wealthy women used to pay high prices to have sex with victorious gladiators while they were still covered in sweat and blood, because danger and physical combat causes such a surge of testosterone their cocks remained engorged for long enough to satisfy even the most voracious woman's sexual lusts.'

'So... it's the danger we've just averted that's the cause of me wanting to take off your clothes and lick you all over.'

'That must be it because I'm feeling the same.'

'Would it spoil the moment if I had a glass of water? I sort of dehydrated on the walk here.'

'Jeeze I'm so selfish. Of course! And you must be hungry and exhausted. All night on that bus!' He tried to push himself away but Sylvan held him close.

'You're not getting away until I know if you liked what we were doing, or were just in shock and grateful.'

Karmai thought quickly. He'd never cared if other guys were gay, but that was because he felt superior knowing he wasn't. But was he perhaps bi? He imagined never touching Sylvan again and a wave of fear washed through him and suddenly he didn't give a fuck what he was as long as Sylvan wanted to kiss and touch him. 'If we didn't do this again I think I'd want to die.'

'That's the right answer. Ok. Now, where's that water?'

After a shower in which each washed the dirt and dust off the other, Karmai made lunch while Sylvan sat and watched.

'You're so graceful it makes me feel like a lump of clay.'

'You're a handsome, tough, solid male and I'm a scrawny beanpole.'

Sylvan grinned. 'At least you're a good cook, going by the smell.'

They talked generally while they ate, about the property and what Sylvan's work might entail. Afterwards, they went for a walk up to the house, had a look through, and avoided talking about themselves or what happened with the police. Karmai couldn't shake off the feeling he'd been irredeemably violated by the cops. The psychological stench of evil made him ill. It wasn't until they'd wandered up through the trees to the first lookout and sat gazing out at the tranquil view that he was able to relax.

Sylvan gazed around in awe. 'So Frankie owns all this? I can't believe it. It's nothing like the rainforests I'm used to but it's just as beautiful. And they want me to help you take care of it. Are you sure you don't mind?'

Karmai smiled. 'Do you know how much I've longed to meet a man who loves wilderness as much as I do? It's been a gnawing rat in my belly most of my life. Everyone I know says they like nature, then go and live in the city because it's more fun, easier... all the reasons that are non reasons. And here you are.' He fell silent, staring at his feet. 'You'll tell me if I'm raving and too... I don't know, I've always been told I talk too much, get too emotional, am over the top... but,' he shrugged and turned shyly to Sylvan who was staring at him strangely. 'You think I'm mad, don't you?'

'I think you're my heart's desire, and if that's not over the top, I don't know what is.'

Karmai grinned, sat closer and wrapped his arm around Sylvan's waist. 'Why did you tell the cops you'd been with Frankie in Melbourne all weekend?'

'Because you were being badly treated by the ugly pricks, and I saw the look in your eye and slight shake of your head.'

'Do you want to know more?'

'No way! I could tell Frankie, Ingenio and Constantine were not telling me everything, but I trust them, so didn't ask. And I don't want to know anything until they tell me. I'm not a great actor and I'm pretty sure we haven't seen the last of those arseholes, so if I don't know anything I can't betray anything, Ok?'

Karmai sighed deeply. 'That's such a relief. Thanks.' He thought for a bit. 'You told the cops you'd left your job as a ranger. Why?'

Sylvan left nothing out.

'Fuck, I hope they don't tell the Tasmanian cops where you are.'

'Me too. If they do, I'll just disappear.'

'Not from me, mate. I'm not letting you out of my clutches.'

Sylvan grinned his pleasure. 'Constantine's a lawyer, he'll put things right, but I don't want to have to go through the hassles.'

'I've been locked up a dozen times. All blacks have. It's almost a rite of passage in this country, but you never get used to it. You might act hardened, but every time you're locked away for nothing a little part of you dies. It's as if the light of life dims and happiness moves further and further away.'

#  Goodbye Melbourne

'The cops have been to see Karmai,' Frankie called from his bedroom. 'Just got an email from Sylvan.'

Ingenio and Con came running.

'What's he say?'

'It's... odd. I'll read it. "Hi Frankie. I arrived safely and found the place easily. Heck of a walk from the bus stop though. Police were interviewing Karmai when I arrived. Apparently a couple of blokes are missing. They wanted to know who I was, so I told them. I got the impression they'll contact Tasmania to check me out. The funny thing was they thought you'd been here last weekend, so I told them you couldn't have been because I'd been in Melbourne with you and you'd been doing homework most of the time and Ingenio had shown me around. They seemed surprised to learn you're only sixteen and still at school. This place is the best, and so is Karmai. Any news on when you'll be coming up? You won't believe how big and beautiful it all is. Cheers, Sylvan." Why did he say he'd been with us? It's great that he did but I wonder why?'

'Thank goodness he did! And thank goodness he got there in time to give Karmai support. But if the cops check with the Tasmanian authorities they'll know where Sylvan is.'

'He's a hero. Putting his own safety at risk. But you're right, why did say he'd been with us?'

'Karmai must have warned him somehow.'

'I'm going to pull a few favours from a cop in Central,' Constantine said. 'I'll get him to fax a detailed statement from us about Frankie's grandparents, insisting they stop the investigation immediately. If it comes from me, a nobody lawyer, it'll sit on someone's desk for a month. But Angus has some clout and can demand a reply within twenty-four hours.'

'So... not all cops are bastards?'

'The good guys are in administration. It's the wannabe warlords patrolling the streets who're megalomaniacs.'

'We have to get this place sold and go up there soon. It's too hard on Karmai.'

'Is there any reason, apart from selling the house, for either of you to stay?' Frankie asked.

'Not really. We're both free lancers.'

'Then give me power of attorney to sell it for you, and go. It can't be that hard to sell a house.'

'It isn't, the buyer does all the work as he's the one taking the risk.'

'Ok. Let's get that statement off to Tasmania now, then get yourselves organised.

'Shouldn't we watch the news?'

'Why? ABC is Australian government propaganda, and SBS and the others are all U.S. propaganda. You'll not hear any truth.'

'To see if they mention a missing businessman?'

'Ah...right.'

The announcement was brief. Two men appeared to have disappeared while visiting a town in the Blue Mountains West of Sydney. They were last seen arguing in a Bar. Anyone with information please contact...

The following day was spent packing and organising transport for their shift north, and in the evening viewers learned that the investigation for the two men missing in the Blue mountains was ongoing and a search party had been organised as the men had not been dressed for tramping in the hills.

The next morning Constantine received a fax from the Tasmanian Police Department stating they were ceasing the investigation into Sylvan Forray. An equally formal, but somewhat more conciliatory email arrived from Tasmanian Parks and Reserves, exonerating him from all counts of misbehaviour and inviting him to return to work. Frankie emailed the good news to Sylvan.

That night, TV News revealed that the police now had a firm lead. The two men had arranged to meet the owner of a bush block to discuss its purchase, however they failed to arrive. A witness who saw them leaving the pub told police they had headed towards the main highway to Katoomba. The Katoomba police have been asked to assist with the search.

Con said it was a common ploy to invent a witness when the cops had no idea what to do next. What often happened after such an announcement was that the real villains would relax, let their guard down, talk to someone or make a mistake, and bingo, they'll be caught. So, we don't fall for it. We don't mention it. We haven't been following this because it has nothing to do with us... clear?'

'Yes, Constantine. Very clear and very wise.'

The following day, Frankie owned a new Holden Volt for getting around town, and Ingenio and Constantine were on their way north, following a furniture removal van containing all the stuff they'd accumulated together in the previous fifteen years. Their station wagon was laden with things they didn't trust the moving company with—personal belongings and Ingenio's precious educational computing programmes.

Frankie found it easier to focus on study now he was alone in a house with one bed, one chair one small table and not much else.

Always a pragmatic opportunist, he took the opportunity to invite his friend, Sadu, the co-author and director of the play that had so changed his life, to stay with him several nights a week. His seduction of the lean and handsome Indian during rehearsals for the play had been an exercise in patience. Sadu's interest was obvious to Frankie, if not to his fellow Indian students, but he had been very careful to reveal nothing during rehearsals. So Frankie had taken the initiative and pretended that as he would be naked he needed help to ensure none of his moves would be offensive, and asked for one-on-one rehearsals during which Sadu would also remove his clothes so he could demonstrate exactly what he wanted and also why some moves and positions would be unsuitable on stage. Bravely, Sadu had securely locked the door, ensured all windows were covered, and delicately stripped before demonstrating, then physically manhandling Frankie into the positions he desired.

Naturally, touching led to caressing, caressing to kissing, and kissing to such an ecstatic conclusion they vowed to repeat it as often as they could; which wasn't often, as Sadu lived with an Indian family that had promised his parents to protect his virtue.

Their hours of intimacy, once they had Frankie's house to themselves after school, cemented a firm friendship, and Frankie was invited to stay with Sadu if ever he found himself in Hyderabad.

Ingenio's house was sold two weeks before the end of the academic year, so he took a room in a nearby hotel until exams were over, then after affectionately sad farewells to his fellow thespians and teachers, drove north.

When Ingenio and Constantine arrived at "85" they found Sylvan in the process of cleaning the house from the top of the dome to the base of the pillars of the verandah, repainting all the woodwork, and repairing whatever needed attention. Their few bits of furniture looked so out of place they had decided to wait till Frankie arrived before buying anything new.

On seeing the place again, Frankie realised he loved both house and land even more than he'd realised. There was something enchanting about the frivolity of the architecture and its placement at the top of a grassy field surrounded by almost impenetrable forest, backed by wild gorges, cliffs and mountains.

He'd been given the best bedroom with morning sun and a view towards forest and hills. Karmai had prepared a welcome banquet, which they ate in the dining room with every French window wide open. The effect was simultaneously relaxing, luxurious and simple.

Frankie was delighted to find that Karmai and Sylvan were living together. The police had returned once, but remained polite when Constantine informed them he was a lawyer and ostentatiously videoed everything. They had wanted to take Karmai to the Station for questioning, but when Con insisted that, as his lawyer he would be accompanying him with full video equipment and would remain at the station with his client until he was returned home, they said there was no rush. Some other time.

Karmai had been almost catatonic with fear by the time the police left. He hugged Con, tears streaming. 'Con, you have saved my life. If they'd got me there I'd have been left alone for an hour, then found dead when they returned. Probably hanged myself. It happens all the time. And they'd have a signed confession and say all the bruising and cuts were self-inflicted from guilt at having murdered the two blokes. You've no idea...'

'Actually I have, Karmai,' Con said sadly. 'It happens everywhere. The media have convinced the public that crime is on the increase and blacks are the problem, so they're happy when one disappears. Until this is over, please don't leave this place on your own. Make sure one of us is always with you.'

'I'll make sure of that,' Sylvan growled. I've waited forty years to find this man and I'm not going to lose him.' He hugged his lover, plonked a manly kiss on his forehead, and insisted they upgrade their security.

'Whatever you need,' Ingenio declared.

'The only access is via the roadside gate. I'd like that to be made tank-proof with electronic locks and video surveillance. Also the top gate.'

'Whatever you need, get it. Can you install it yourself?'

'Of course.'

Ingenio turned to Frankie. 'You don't mind me acting as if I own the place do you?'

Frankie laughed and turned to Constantine. 'Con, please fill in the required forms making you, Inge and me joint owners of this place, and if we give each other power of attorney, then only one needs to be present to sign things. And as we all need to have access to the money - joint accounts I reckon. '

'Are you sure? What if I run away with a pretty young man from the city? Or empty the bank account, or gamble it all away, or cheat you?'

Frankie looked at Ingenio, who smiled and nodded. 'If we can't trust each other then we don't deserve the luck we've had and this place. It's that simple.'

Con grinned. 'Your wish is my command, oh son and nephew of my handsome lover.'

Everyone laughed. Sylvan and Karmai shook their heads in disbelief that three people could so trust each other, and then it was time for lunch.

Life was busy, rewarding, and demanding. Con was already in demand in the town for pro bono services for the many unemployed and quasi-homeless people that were the inevitable by-product of the government's laissez faire capitalist laws. Ingenio's learning program was up and running and being disseminated via a new aerial and the satellite dish on top of the garage. His pet project—AmivaVifka, an acronym for Autonomous Mobile Interactive Verbal and Visual Interface for Knowledge Assimilation, was available freely to everyone now denied education in the user-pays education system. A free app could be downloaded to even the most primitive computer.

While learning how to use the program, Frankie spent a great deal of time with Ingenio and was surprised at how relaxed his father was; laughing, making jokes and fooling around in a way Frankie had never noticed before. Intrigued, he kept his mouth shut and observed instead of hogging centre stage as usual. When Ingenio asked him what he was thinking, Frankie had to ask himself what he was thinking, and was embarrassed to admit to himself he didn't really know his uncle/father at all. Ingenio had always just been there for him like a reliable car or piece of furniture. But when he thought about it, he suddenly realised how much he owed to him. How much he needed him. How much he loved him—not for what he had done for Frankie, but for who he was—his character, kindness, patience and endless good humour. A feeling akin to shame crept over him and he vowed to be more aware of other people as individuals in future.

Once he understood the program and how useful it would be at university, Frankie took the video camera and hiked into the surrounding forest to test the Wi-Fi range and image quality. Days were spent exploring his domain. Taking sandwiches and a bottle of water after breakfast he would set off and remain in the forest till almost nightfall. Ingenio worried, but Karmai told him to relax, he knew the property so well he'd have no difficulty finding him if he needed finding.

They kept track of the manhunt for the two missing men via online news bulletins, and when it was announced that the police were cutting back their investigation, they smelled a rat. The stench of corruption increased when the next bulletin described the drive-by murder of two women the police had been investigating on suspicion of fraud. What sort of fraud wasn't mentioned.

'I know those names.' Con stated. 'One of my clients was recently ripped off by them when trying to get his bond back after quitting one of their slum apartments.'

'Rents, land deals, I wonder...'

'Wonder what, Karmai?'

'Our bloke was into buying land for speculation. Rental properties are speculative; it wouldn't surprise me if there's a turf war. Tony and company have gone and others are squabbling over the spoils.'

'I'll probe a few police and government websites if you like and see what I can find,' Ingenio offered.

'For goodness sake don't leave any traces. When you're on the Internet it's like standing naked on stage in the spotlight shouting, I'm here!'

'I know, but if there are enough loops and alternative servers and pathways that never lead back home, it's safe enough.'

Frankie's examination results arrived on his seventeenth birthday, and informed him he wasn't as academically talented as he had thought. The university he'd signed up for didn't want him, so he searched for an alternative and found The Rationalist University of New South Wales where he was accepted the instant he offered to transfer the full cost of the first year's tuition. Karmai baked a cake to celebrate both the birthday and the fact that Frankie wouldn't be so far away in Melbourne.

The Rationalist University was a pleasant, privately owned, residential institute on Sydney's northern edge, with park-like grounds, elegant post-modern buildings and an excellent reputation for philosophy, art, drama and literature, as well as a constitution banning sexism by forbidding the use of all words denoting gender. The fees were high, but that wasn't a concern for the children of the wealthy families for whom a university education was merely one more trophy on their road to successful, corporate adulthood.

Living on campus was going to be a benefit, Frankie decided, because after eight weeks of sharing the place with two pairs of love-birds he was feeling increasingly like a gooseberry. The wider social sphere beckoned and he was ready to try his wings and learn how to become a social butterfly. He might even find someone sexually compatible.

For the remainder of the summer break Frankie walked, swam, climbed, meditated with Karmai and had enormous fun using and evaluating Ingenio's latest invention; a miniaturised mobile 'teacher' that fitted into a small backpack when tramping in nature, on the street, or in the classroom. For home use the 'teacher' was a small robot; a sphere of concentric, rubberised rings that allowed it to move in any direction, while gyroscopically stabilised. It had three hundred and sixty degree vision, a sense of smell, acute hearing and the ability to listen and respond intelligently to questions.

Ingenio's educational theory could be reduced to a few basic principles. Punishment destroys the will to learn. Reward encourages learning. Active participation is essential. After listening and/or reading, the student must ask questions of the book or instructor, and then ask questions of himself, and then answer questions and discuss the topics with the instructor. Finally, he must be able to teach the knowledge to a third party. As nothing succeeds like success, Ingenio's learning teaching machines provided endless positive feedback so the pupil knew when he had succeeded.

# Loving

While Frankie was at the Rationalist University learning how to think and socialise, Ingenio, Constantine, Karmai and Sylvan were enjoying the rural idyll; each couple in their separate house, as friendly and interdependent as the best of neighbours. Neither Karmai nor Sylvan wanted to accept Ingenio's offer to enlarge their flat behind the garage. They were perfectly happy and it'd only make more work. Once a week the couples enjoyed a meal together, alternating between houses, and they usually met at the lake for a swim before lunch, if it was warm enough.

One evening, a nervous Sylvan and an angry Karmai arrived to ask Ingenio and Con for advice.

'We've been arguing a lot lately. Does it mean we aren't compatible?'

'No, it means you care what the other one says or thinks or does.'

'Do you guys argue? Sometimes we feel like smashing each others faces in.'

'Of course we argue. It usually only means we've misunderstood the other, or are tired, hungry, or just feeling bad tempered... and its usually over nothing important. After a bit we realise we've been pricks and apologise and kiss and make up and vow to start anew and _never ever_ argue again. We've done that at least a thousand times since we met.'

'That's actually very funny.'

'Funny? Maybe, but true. And we never go to bed with an argument unresolved.'

'Do you think we rushed into sharing everything too quickly?'

'Definitely not. He who hesitates is a fool.'

'You guys have been together since you were twelve! How did you know it was right and would last?'

'We didn't. Never even thought about it.' Con stated bluntly. 'I was a complete mess at that age; hated school, the world, myself... I was getting ready to hurl a stone through the kitchen window when Ingenio came out to the yard and started telling me about the book he was reading. I listened and looked and for the first time I could remember, felt calm, relaxed and complete. As though he was the last piece in the complex jigsaw of my life. Or the keystone stabilising the precarious arch of my sanity. His voice mesmerised me—still does actually. I don't recall thinking anything.' He turned to Ingenio. 'What about you?'

Ingenio laughed softly. 'Con didn't give me time to think; just grabbed my hand, dragged me into the garden shed and ten seconds later we were starkers with hands going everywhere and lips glued together. Very exciting for a virgin to discover that having someone else jerk me off was even more fun than doing it to myself. Afterwards, I felt as if we'd always been best friends and it's never occurred to either of us that we wouldn't be together forever.'

'Amazing.'

'What's most important to you guys,' Sylvan asked bluntly. 'Sex or friendship?'

'Why say friendship when you mean love?' Con's face was serious.

Sylvan shrugged in embarrassment.

'He thinks it sounds soppy,' Karmai stated sourly. 'Actually I also feel stupid saying it, as if I'm trying to be a teenager again.'

'Genuine love is so rare, it's sad we're taught to think of it as a weakness.' Constantine's voice was dreamy.

'As for sex,' Ingenio continued, 'everyone has a different notion of what it is, ranging from a kiss to fucking. Sex is no basis for a lasting relationship. Both lovers need to be physically, emotionally, mentally and philosophically attractive to each other. If you like sex with someone but don't have much else in common, then stick to friendship and fucks, and live separately.'

'Here's what you have to do,' Constantine sounded a bit pissed off. 'Tell each other now, at this moment, what you honestly think of the other. Clear the air. Sylvan, you start.'

Sylvan looked at Karmai and frowned in thought. 'I reckon you're physically perfect. I love the cool way you approach problems and seldom get flustered. I'm in awe of your brain; makes me feel stupid sometimes. And we seem to agree on what we value.' He looked down at his bare feet and wiggled his toes. 'Your turn, Karmai. Come on, I can take it. Be honest.'

'Sylvan, you've got a sexy powerful body. I love the way you leap into doing things, makes me feel like a scaredy cat sometimes. You've the sort of practical, pragmatic brain I've always envied, and we're on the same page when it comes to how we want to live. So...'

'So, sex is the beginning, not the end, Ingenio stated firmly.

'And when it seems things are going wrong,' Con added, 'remind yourself what it was like before you had someone to share things.'

'You're both so sensible,' Karmai said quietly, 'but it's not easy to always be sensible. What about rocks in the path?'

'Come on you guys,' Constantine said sadly, 'you're made for each other. It's so obvious when you're working together; the way you talk and relate to each other. You act like lovers, not just friends. As for arguments, apart from tiredness and hunger, the main reason couples argue is that they can't help trying to change the other person. Asking why they do something this way or that, or worse, saying things like, "Why don't you do it this way?" When you live with a guy you soon learn he isn't exactly the same as you imagined he'd be when you first met, because we're all more complicated than we appear on the surface, and therefore more interesting. Rather than accept the other person's differences, couples unconsciously try to nudge their partner in the direction they prefer. And that makes the other guy feel insecure. He starts to think he has disappointed his lover. But as he can't change, because no one can change their character, he gets annoyed and either shuts up or argues, or takes off.'

Sylvan was nodding. 'Makes sense.' He looked at Karmai who was looking at him, but not smiling. 'Would it be too bad if I thumped him now and again when he gets too far up my nose?'

'You can try, you muscle-bound oaf, if you're looking for a black eye.'

'There you are!' Ingenio shouted with delight. 'You even agree on that. I predict a long and exciting future for you both.'

'Ingenio and I war with words, and they can be as hurtful as fists, I reckon', Con said thoughtfully. 'So it might be a good thing if you physically battled it out occasionally. Try not to spoil those handsome faces though, or do permanent damage.'

'You're serious, aren't you?' Karmai asked.

'I am. You're both tough men; used to finding physical solutions to problems, so why waste a talent? Just remember though, that characters are fixed. 'No one changes. The person you fell for is still there, even though he is more complicated than you first realised. That means we have to adjust our expectations and accept the totality of the man, warts and all, or bid our love goodbye.'

'No!' Karmai said with a soft intensity. 'I do not want to split up with Sylvan. I've never met anyone before that I feel like this about, and I'm sure I never will again. It's just that... Sylvan's so competent and occasionally I get the feeling he thinks I'm a bit dumb. But I've been running this place for ten years and know a fair bit about it, so I'd like him to sometimes just do as I suggest without offering other ideas. If it goes wrong, then he can gloat and I'll accept it.'

'I don't think you're dumb! I said before you're the cleverest man I've ever known. I love being with you... it's just... I love you so much I want to make your life easy.'

'And that's a serious problem gay couples have that heterosexuals don't,' Ingenio interrupted. 'Men have evolved to protect and provide for their spouse. This works brilliantly with women who have evolved with a powerful urge to be protected and provided for. Problems start when both guys want to protect and provide for the other. Pretty soon one becomes too protective, taking over hard jobs, doing unnecessary things for the other with the result that the other feels he's being treated as less than a man. He feels under-valued, and rebels. Two men living together have to consciously work at bolstering each other's sense of manly self worth, by listening and adopting their boyfriend's ideas, taking each other seriously, asking if help is wanted, not just barging in as if the other is incompetent. We have to curb our urge to warn, to protect, to imagine that we know what's best for him, when we don't. Ingenio and I have had to learn to listen to each other and pay attention to what the other wants, and to let the other take control of his own life, even it is not what we think is best. It's the only way.'

'You're right!' Sylvan blurted, 'I worry about Karmai and keep wanting to protect him and do things for him and that annoys him and then I say stupid things and then he...'

'Karmai draped an arm around Sylvan's shoulders. 'I know you only want the best for me, but I've looked after myself for over forty years and it makes me feel a bit useless always being checked up on as if to make sure I'm being a good, sensible little boy.'

'Fuck, I never thought of that. Sorry.'

'Don't be sorry, it's great to have someone who cares. I feel the same about you, but you always seem so bloody competent I wouldn't dare tell you to be careful.'

'Me? Competent? I'm the world's greatest bungler. I can't believe you haven't told me so, you're usually free with you opinions.'

'Does that annoy you?'

'No way! A man without opinions is dead.' Sylvan grinned, 'But you don't always have to be so honest.'

'Ha! You mean like at lunch time when I said your rissoles were too sticky?'

'Well...'

'You'd rather I said they were delicious?'

'Of course.'

'But then you might make them like that again.'

Every one laughed and tensions eased and over the following months and years the two older men slipped into comfortable, at times stormy, but always rewarding companionship because they never lost sight of the man they fell in love with, and learned to trust the other to continue loving them, no matter what.

As a result of their shared desire for independence and self-determination, the four men each developed routines in which they were busily, pleasurably and usefully occupied in maintaining their separation from the insanity of modernity. They left the world alone and, for the most part, were left alone, socially at least. They couldn't escape the need for food, services and technology, unfortunately.

For Ingenio and Constantine, independence in this uber-civilized world meant financial autonomy, without which there is no freedom or liberty, and it concerned them that neither Karmai nor Sylvan were financially independent. They needed to be certain that both men remained living at "85" because they wanted to, not because they needed the money the job provided.

So they arranged with Frankie that Karmai and Sylvan each be given five million dollars to do with as they pleased. Naturally, the intended recipients objected, declaring their friendship wasn't for sale, but after protracted discussion they realised that the opposite was the case—Frankie, Ingenio and Constantine wanted to free them as much as possible from the tyranny of overpopulated, over regulated, over policed, constantly surveilled civilization with its inescapable interdependence of idiots.

Ingenio's investigations into the world of property crime led to the despicable mire of slum landlords, rental rip-offs, murder and mayhem, bribes and the entire litany of corruption aided and abetted by equally corrupt politicians making laws and regulations at the dictate of their oligarch overlords instead of the people who thought they had elected them.

While looking into Tony's background, he gained the impression that more people were delighted at his disappearance than were upset. His enemies had been many, and therefore were all suspects. But that didn't let the five friends off the hook—it made things worse. A culprit had to be found to free the nasties from suspicion and constant police surveillance, so the inhabitants of "85" had to be even more on their guard than ever.

# Rationality

The somewhat bleak modernist architecture of the Rationalist University was softened by sensitive landscaping. The front was traditional; a driveway ending in a turning circle, in the centre of which bloomed roses and other pretty annuals. Topiary hedges and trees added further strict formality, and so it was a surprise to pass through an archway cut in the tall neatly trimmed hedge on the north side and discover a dozen grass tennis courts, several sealed basketball courts, a cricket ground, athletics track, football fields and an Olympic sized swimming pool, all surrounded by shade trees, lawns and shrubs. Service buildings were all semi-rustic and blended with the landscaping.

Directly behind the main block that contained lecture rooms, laboratories and studios, was a large grass and tree-filled quadrangle bounded on the other three sides by the halls of residence. Beyond them and to the western side lay the so-called Elysian Fields. Five hectares of carefully planned gardens based on those of Fontainebleau. They included a parterre and maze, alleys of trees with statues at intersections, and at the bottom of a gentle slope, the Recreation Pool. A free-form miniature lake, surrounded by terracotta tiles and lawn, shaded by evergreen trees, shielded from wind by a tall hedge, and made even more romantic by a pair of naked cherubs holding a large fish spouting water from it's mouth into the clear waters of the pool. To the south of these gardens a wild forest offered escape from orderliness and predictability.

Socially, the university was a gender-neutral space. Each student assessed on their merits, not their gender. To this end the founders designed a social environment in which males and females mixed, learned, played and relaxed as equals, unaware of gender differences. At least that was the theory.

The two hundred students, one hundred females and one hundred males, were housed in the three residential blocks surrounding the quadrangle. Each student enjoyed a comfortable suite consisting of a bedroom, sitting room with kitchenette, and a bathroom. Gender non-specificity was ensured by alternating the gender of the occupants. Thus each female had a male in the suites on each side, and each male had a female in the suites on each side.

Public facilities in the rest of the complex, including lounges and toilets, were unisex. All lecture rooms, laboratories, gymnasia and studios were capacious, well lit, and fitted with the most up to date apparatus. Frankie was delighted with the theatre, which could seat five hundred, had a deep stage, two-storey flies, and computer operated lighting and sound systems.

His delight in the place lasted until his third philosophy lecture when he learned that as well as Scientific Rationalism in which opinions and actions are based on the three firm foundations of Reason, Experience and Knowledge, the curriculum also included Philosophical Rationalism which declares that reason alone is the foundation of certainty in knowledge, and Theological Rationalism, which rejects facts and empirical evidence as of no value in religious discourse!

After a debate in which the argument that there must be a God because it was unreasonable to think the universe arrived on its own, was given equal points to a scientifically rational presentation casting doubt on the idea, Frankie visited the head of the Philosophy Department, introduced himself, and said he could not remain a student in her faculty when facts and evidence were considered irrelevant in discussion and debate. The elderly woman's face crinkled into a real smile and Frankie liked her immediately.

She wore no makeup or facial ornament, her hair was short, wiry and naturally grey, her cream, unfussy long-sleeved blouse was buttoned to the neck, her calf-length linen skirt was full enough to be comfortable but not a nuisance, and her shoes were low heeled, comfortable soft leather.

'I'm Lydia Ivanovna,' she replied, extending a leathery, wrinkled, liver-spotted hand - the unembellished fingers of which terminated in short unvarnished nails.

Frankie took the hand and shook it manfully, surprised at the strength of her grip.

'That would be a valid concern if it was the case in important decisions,' she said seriously. 'My reason for including all three definitions of rationality is that only by comparing them can we judge for ourselves which is the most useful. My job is to assist students to educate themselves by giving them the tools with which to research, think, reason and argue. As a general rule, humans will believe what they want to believe and strongly resist being told what to believe. My hope is that after analysing the results of all three types of reasoning they will see the superiority of the scientific method, and might modify their approach to problem solving. I say might because people who are prepared to modify their opinions and beliefs are like hens' teeth.'

'Hens' teeth?' Frankie asked, bewildered.

'Rare. If, for example, students were assigned the task of using the tools of scientific rationalism to prove there were ghosts, then they might, perhaps, begin to see the flaws in the belief that reason alone, regardless of facts, reality and experience, can prove the unprovable. But I wouldn't count on it,' she laughed.

Frankie's face registered his relief. 'Thanks Miss Ivanovna.'

'Everyone calls me Lydia.'

'Thanks, Lydia. You're not like I expected a head of Department to be.'

'I'm not like I expected either.' With a croaky laugh she swung her swivel chair back towards the desk, picked up a pen and began writing in a large book as if alone in the room. Wondering if he'd somehow annoyed her, Frankie quietly left the office and closed the door.

Other students were friendly in class, but in his free hours, although participating in several activities, he still felt like an outsider. The other male students all seemed to be on their guard. Against what he had no idea so began to observe carefully and take notes. His conclusions after only a few days were surprising - unisex facilities had a few odd effects on male student behaviour, while exaggerating normal female behaviour.

Males seemed unwilling to speak or offer opinions in class, while females seemed noisier, more assertive, not to say aggressive, and had loud opinions on everything. Males wore dull coloured loose jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, even in the hottest weather, while females wore the standard colourful and exotically flimsy bits and pieces designed to arouse sexual interest.

When relaxing outside, females gathered in groups and laughed, making loud, often derogatory comments about passing males. Males who ignored them were loudly labelled queers, and if they objected to the personal comments were called potential wife bashers. Any male brave enough to attempt to sit with them was told to stop perving and piss off.

When young men gathered in small groups, females would very soon rudely plonk themselves in the middle, interrupt the conversation and try to take over the discussion. If asked to leave they'd loudly announce their right to be wherever they chose... it was a gender-free campus so to discriminate because they were female was sexism and could earn the young men a fine from the equal opportunity department. Furthermore, if guys didn't want females to join them they were obviously queer and therefore sex-mad child molesters setting themselves up in opposition to the laws of God.

In keeping with the Founders' aims, half of all lecturers, secretaries, librarians, maintenance staff, cooks, cleaners, gardeners... were female, and half male.

Not only were all toilets and changing rooms unisex, but so was every sport, club or discussion group. In order to be officially registered they had to have more or less equal numbers of female and male members. Non-registered, single-sex groups were never able to find a space to gather.

He was impressed by the quality of the teaching staff and learned a great deal from the lectures and discussions in all his chosen subjects; Philosophy, Art History, Drama and Literature—a selection roundly applauded by Karmai, but considered one-sided by Sylvan, who persuaded him to add Financial Theory and the History of Money. Ingenio and Con didn't think it mattered what Frankie studied as long as he was happy.

In the Financial Theory lectures, Frankie paired with Prudence, a young woman as eccentric, scientifically rational and self-absorbed as himself. Short of stature, wiry of limb, with dead straight light brown hair, prominent nose, determined jaw and a parsimonious smile, Prudence was blessed with a brain the equal of Frankie's, and similar physical stamina and coordination. While engaged in research for a treatise on the social effects of governmental fiscal policies, both were outraged to learn that what Constantine had told Frankie was in fact true! The value of a nation's assets was decided by gambling on the future prospects of stocks and shares in the Stock Exchange. Fortunes were made and lost on the basis of hope, whim, rumour, price manipulation or mere speculation, but seldom on the actual real productivity, record, or prospects of the company.

Even more alarming was learning that instead of being simply a convenient tool of exchange, money was considered a commodity to be traded in the same way as wool, timber, oil or other genuinely useful goods. How could this be, they wondered when currency is merely a promise to pay, not a tradeable good. Upsetting was the realisation that the value of those paper promises-to-pay changed every hour at the whim of corporate money traders, so the value of Frankie's hoarded cash could drop to zero pretty fast. Prudence, who was as poor as a church mouse became increasingly irate, realising she would soon be on the streets unless she found one of the increasingly rare, well-paid jobs.

Being smart, rational and adventurous they decided to profit from their insight and joined the online traders, soon accumulating in the digital 'vaults' of banking institutions, vast virtual quantities of potentially worthless dollars, converting them as soon as possible into intrinsically valuable, productive rural and city real estate that would bring in a good steady income and have lasting value. Such a buffer of certain, real wealth was essential for anyone who wanted to live as they intended, unconcerned by the prejudice, irrationality and foolishness of others.

Prudence was even more delighted than Frankie, to whom wealth was no longer a novelty.

Time seemed to speed up and suddenly Frankie was eighteen and the summer break was over and he was well into his second year at the Rationalist University.

During Wednesday night of the eighth week of the second term, a second-year student leaped from the roof of his residence hall and splashed himself over the paved courtyard between the art department and the administration wing. Another young male was discovered the following morning hanging from the exposed rafters in the library, and the following night a good-looking young man from Frankie's acting group, tied rocks to his waist and jumped into the diving pool, from which he was fished out by the pool attendant when skimming the water at sunrise.

Because the bodies were discovered and cleaned away before most students were out of bed, it wasn't until three days later via cleaning staff gossip, that students learned the reason the young men had been missing lectures. There was no public announcement. No police or parents appeared. No religious or other services were held, and a pall of silent fear descended.

This totally irrational behaviour on the part of the administration annoyed Frankie, because ignorance breeds fear and distrust. When he said as much to Lydia, she shrugged.

'We are as ignorant as you about the suicides,' she said calmly. 'No one knows anything. The boys left no notes. Didn't tell their friends of their intentions—obviously, or they'd have been stopped.' She turned a cool eye on her student. 'Autopsies showed no violence. The young men weren't forced; they did it alone, willingly. Clearly they'd had enough and wanted out, but could see no way of getting out apart from death. Does it matter?'

Frankie grinned. He should have expected that question; similar ones had been churning in his head since the deaths. 'It doesn't matter to them, of course,' he said cheerfully. 'Dead is dead. But it matters to people who liked or depended on them, because they'll feel guilty, sad, all those things.'

'Does it matter that they feel like that?'

'Only to them. The guys clearly wanted not to live, so everyone should be happy that they got what they wanted. And the deaths were quick so they wouldn't have suffered much.'

'So we needn't do anything about them?'

'Rationally, that would make sense, but if we accept that humans are mostly irrational imitators, then we realise it's essential to put schemes in place to prevent a spate of copy-cat suicides.'

'Have you any ideas?'

'There's no point in planning programmes until we know the reasons for the suicides. Someone or something was making those guys so miserable they didn't want to live. _That_ is the tragedy. The misery of their lives! _That_ is what must be eliminated.

'So the only essential thing for us to do is discover their reasons for what they did, and fix it?'

'Yes.'

'What about counselling?'

'For me?'

'For the others.'

'None of the students I've met appear troubled by the deaths. Lots of girls wail sentimental drivel and ooze crocodile tears, but that's an act because they think it's expected of them and makes them appear sensitive. I suspect several guys do feel it deeply, but hide their emotions and shrug. Some are a bit jealous, I think, of their friends' bravery. Not many young people here are happy, Lydia. Their parents pile on the pressure and there's fear of the future. It's easy to wonder if life is worth all the trouble—at least when we have time to think rationally.

'I know that if I were faced with danger, survival instincts would cut in and I'd do everything I could to survive. But that's just reflexes. Rational suicide is an intelligent solution to intractable problems. A woman in her forties living next door to us when I was ten, had severe Multiple Sclerosis. Couldn't do anything much. She got pneumonia and would have quietly and pleasantly died if her sister hadn't arrived, called an ambulance and insisted on resuscitation. The poor lady wept for days afterwards and never forgave her sister for forcing her to endure more horrible years. She refused to ever see her again. The sister never understood because she was terrified of dying herself, and imagined everyone else was, at least that's according to my mother.'

'A sad tale. So, what are you going to do about the current case?'

'I'll let you know when I've done it.'

'Thank you.'

Frankie spent the rest of the term gently interviewing the young men's friends, explaining that reasons must be sought for the suicides, the causes established, and measures taken to ensure no repeat performances. He learned that the three young men were not friends, but had participated in extra curricular activity to do with their common subject, the Psychology of Religion.

Mr. Bland, a guidance counsellor, denied all knowledge of the young men because they had been allocated to his associate, Mrs. Glossop. Her response when Frankie asked if she'd noticed erratic behaviour in the students, was unexpectedly callous.

'They were obviously impatient to meet their maker.'

'Humans grow, Mrs. Glossop, they aren't made. And do you honestly think dead humans can arrange meetings?' Frankie's charming smile didn't soften his sarcasm. 'You were their counsellor, so you must have some inkling of their reasons.'

'At the compulsory counselling session at the beginning of term, all three boys refused to speak to me, let alone communicate their feelings.'

'Then you should have sent them to Mr. Bland!'

'Why? They gave no indication they were troubled. You ought to be careful, young man,' she warned. 'You are on dangerous ground suggesting that a woman is not as competent as a man at counselling.'

'I am suggesting that men are different from women and need men to talk to, that's all!'

'You're an ignorant puppy! Men and women are equal and similar in all respects. It is only men who want to maintain their supremacy who demean women by saying they are not competent! Get out of my office before I report you to the director.'

Frankie got out but didn't give up. He cornered several students who were in the same classes as the suicides and learned that all three had been deeply religious, believing in the absolute truth of the Christian bible, and had taken part in a special program run by two assistant lecturers in the religious studies department, Mr. Rios and Miss Taykin. They used to go away for weekend field trips with the two teachers, researching stuff for their Psychology of Religion course.

But he learned nothing more. It seemed to be an 'Inner Circle' thing. He would have to join to know more. Preferring to keep his sanity, Frankie stopped asking questions of people who knew nothing and had nothing to say – or nothing they were willing to say.

He concentrated on his studies, wrote assignments, prepared dissertations and enjoyed his new sport—archery. Not with a modern bow replete with pulleys and levers making it possible for a child to tension and hold the most powerful device, but a simple recurve longbow carved from ironbark. He set up a target in the adjoining forest and practised for hours, taking time out every quarter hour to meditate, allowing his body to recover and his ideas to float, swirl and coalesce. Each time he returned from archery practice he felt more relaxed, calm and focussed.

There was an archery club with competitions, of course—humans are very competitive, but he wasn't interested in seeing how he compared to others, his sole aim to improve his own ability. After six weeks he was able to fire all six arrows at four-second intervals. The accuracy wasn't that hot, but a speedy reload of ammunition also seemed important. To improve his fitness he started doing press-ups and going for runs at sunrise, joined by three other male students who were content to jog along in silence, listening to the birds, smelling the fresh air and feeling at one with the world. But then female students insisted on joining them and the sounds and smells of nature were replaced by deodorants and perfume and constant chatter. So Frankie began running at random hours on his own and enjoying the exercise again.

Although every student had a private room, male students didn't visit other males in their rooms because there was always at least one female in the corridor, which meant there were no secrets. And as everyone knows, when men gather in groups it either means they're queer or planning to gang rape a defenceless female. It was fine for girls to visit girls, because females gained strength and support from other females, to cope with living in this male dominated world where females are downtrodden and abused and raped and beaten and murdered by men. Every day. Somewhere.

Proof of the success of the Rationalist University's unisex policy was the fact that not one female student had been raped or abused or murdered. According to the Director, it showed that the system taught men to respect women, to accept that they are every bit as good as men and sometimes better, and that females will not tolerate being treated as less important or inferior in any way. The university was fully supported in this approach by teachers and parents whose liberal ideas and beliefs were daily challenged by Internet porn, the collapse of the family and the destruction of traditional values such as church marriage as the sacrament in which their morality, ethics and culture were rooted.

Brief discussions with female students in his classes about the suicides, suggested to Frankie that they had not the slightest interest in men's intrinsic needs and differences. They just kept repeating the mantra that males and females are identical and should be treated the same. That males need females to put them on the right path. If young men go to male guidance counsellors, they will probably become wife beaters or mass murderers. The guys who suicided were obviously unhinged, so it was better that they killed themselves rather than attack and murder innocent females.

To Frankie it became increasingly clear that the lack of close contact with other men on whom they could unburden themselves, was a serious problem for some male students.

The official history of the Rationalist University, available on its website, suggested that a group of feminists had controlled the board of governors for the first ten years, and it was they who had insisted on non segregated dormitories, the rationale being that segregated living accommodation would allow males to gang up on women and plot their subservience.

Frankie shook his head in despair. Couldn't they see the obvious consequence? That young men would find it very difficult to find the 'special' friend that all men need? This was certainly true for himself. After seven months drenched in non-sexist ideology, he had been unable to get close to any other male student, and had come to the conclusion that the youths killed themselves because they didn't dare make a close male friend in whom they could confide their problems.

Even in the lounges, where young men should have felt at ease to argue, speak and discuss, they felt constantly monitored by females who would join in, turn the discussion to their interests, and when the men complained, declared themselves contemptuous of male psychological weakness.

Young men who attempted to make friends with female students soon regretted it, because looking at any part of a female, apart from her eyes, was harassment. Remarks about her appearance, work, qualifications, abilities... any comment whatsoever about a female was harassment. If positive it was patronising. If negative it was aggression. Failure to dance at a social event was anti female. Holding the partner too close was groping. Too far apart was an insult. Not going to social events was anti female. Refusal to dance with a female who demanded it, was gross disrespect. Failure to instantly stop kissing, petting or any other sexual activity when the female said 'stop', was aggravated rape.

If a young man with problems requested a male counsellor, he was reprimanded for infringing the gender-free system.

Frankie typed up his report, saved it to a memory stick and handed it to Lydia Ivanovna, who agreed to read it over the holidays. After wishing him a pleasant break, she informed him that the three suicides were not the first. Six male suicides per year, was the average; usually in the second term; always swept under the carpet of respectability with the connivance of the parents. They could cope with the death of their son, but not with the disgrace of having a suicide in the family.

On the first Saturday of the four week winter holiday, Frankie set off home. He'd intended to leave the previous afternoon, but after the last lecture was overcome by such lassitude he thought it dangerous to drive. His brain felt like a grinding dynamo. Ideas, thoughts, plans, worries, questions, all charging around inside his head. He had to stop thinking. Mental rest had become urgent. So on Friday afternoon instead of packing his car he jogged into the forest with his archery gear. Everyone else had gone home so he wouldn't be disturbed. At a small stream he stripped, cooled his overheated body and head in the fast-flowing water, spent half an hour firing arrows into a target to focus his uncooperative brain, then spread his shirt, lay under a tree and stopped thinking.

An hour later, cold brought him to his senses. Refreshed, he returned to his room and slept deeply until morning when, without a glance back he drove quietly away, his car stuffed with belongings; the bow and quiver full of arrows resting safely on the passenger seat beside him.

#  Elimination

Saturday morning breakfast at "85" was an unquiet meal. Con was worried that Frankie hadn't arrived during Friday night and was ready to phone hospitals and police to see if there'd been an accident. Ingenio wasn't concerned because he had expected Frankie to wait until Saturday, to make sure he was relaxed enough to drive safely. Both he and his son were unable to enjoy anything if they were tired or stressed. Con agreed to wait till lunch time before panicking. As a sentimental welcoming gesture, at eleven o'clock they turned off the security locks of both top and bottom gates, setting them to open automatically at the approach of a car so Frankie would be able to drive straight up.

A small family-run sweet shop in the shopping centre near "85" produced the best rum and chocolate truffles in the world, Ingenio reckoned, so Frankie stopped off on the way home to buy a kilo. The car park was almost full so he had a fair walk to the precinct and was squeezing between a couple of cars when he heard someone say, "La Djess". His heart skipped a beat. Prospero was the only person of that name he'd ever heard of. Pretending to be consulting a shopping list he kept his head down and manoeuvred to see who was talking. A sunburned bald head was leaning out the driver's window of a dusty Land Rover, speaking to an elderly fellow pushing a shopping trolley.

'Sorry,' the old fellow said offering his right ear, 'I'm a bit deaf, what's that you said?'

'"I'm looking for the old La Djess property, a big bush block around here, it's recently changed hands – chap called Fey has it now.'

'Yes, I know the place, it's about ten kilometres along the western road. Can't miss it. They've put bloody great gates at the roadside as if ready to repel an invasion.' He pointed the way, nodded, smiled and continued pushing his trolley.

'Thanks, mate, the bald head called, turning to confer with his passenger.

Cold invaded Frankie's chest. The head had looked mean, the voice was coarse, and a powerful urge to race home and warn the others sent him running back to his car as the Land Rover drove away. A manoeuvring shopper's car prevented his exit for an agonising minute, and then a family and their children slowed him down so by the time he was on the road, the Land Rover had disappeared.

In mounting fear he drove as fast as he dared, but didn't catch up until he saw the Land Rover parked opposite the entrance. Relieved that the gate was closed so they wouldn't be able to enter, he carried on past till he found a place to turn the car, then drove quietly back, hoping they'd be gone. His sigh of relief when he saw the empty road, turned to alarm when he realised the gate was slowly closing! Inge must have set it to open automatically for him and when the bald guy had pulled into the entrance so he could turn his Land Rover and go back, it'd opened! In panic he drove up to the gates, waited thirty slow seconds for them to swing open enough for his car, then drove silently up.

The four friends were enjoying a game of lawn tennis on the court Karmai had mown in front of the main house, when they heard a car coming up the drive. They dropped their rackets and wandered towards the gate to welcome the young man to whom they owed their current pleasant lives. But instead of Frankie's Volt, a Land Rover appeared, drove roughly across the grass and stopped only metres in front of them. The engine died and two men got out, gazing around in a proprietorial manner. The driver was in his thirties. Tall, wide, pale, cautious. Shaven head sunburned to an unpleasant shade of puce. Bulky muscle stretched the fabric of his suit. The passenger was approaching the end of middle age. Thin dyed hair combed over a balding pate. Shifty eyes and an avuncular smile. Bulky fat stretched the fabric of his suit.

'Sorry to interrupt your tennis,' he said without the slightest hint of sadness, waving towards the house and court as if to distract them while his driver opened the boot of the car. 'A wonderful spot you have here.'

The driver closed the boot and moved to stand beside his boss, clasping a pump-action shotgun to his chest. He didn't smile.

A chill descended on the four men. Wearing nothing but shorts they felt vulnerable and stupid, especially when they realised they wouldn't have heard Frankie's car because it was electric and silent. They'd let their guard down and these two were not friendly. Probably friends of Tony. Fuck! No one spoke for about half a minute while the driver stared rudely at each man in turn and his boss turned slowly around, peering at the surrounding forest as if to ensure they were alone. Rotation complete, he flashed a winning smile.

'I've come to thank you for getting rid of Tony,' he stated as if they'd disposed of an unwanted implement. 'I was out of the country when this place came up for sale. He knew I had my eye on it, so deserved what he got for trying to cheat me.'

'Who's Tony, and who are you?' Ingenio asked as politely as he could manage.

'I'm Owen,' he stated as if they should have known. 'Owen Lodes, and this is Happy.' He turned to his gun-toting driver. 'Short for Trigger Happy.' The laugh was humourless. 'That's not a joke by the way.'

'And Tony?'

'Ah yes. Tony. I've come to conclude the deal he was unable to pull off. But I'm not a happy man. You have caused me a great deal of trouble.'

'How?'

'You are Frankie Fey, I assume?'

'Yes.'

'Well, the police think I did away with the late Tony and his ugly sidekick, and are making my life difficult. Therefore you will sign a confession to his accidental manslaughter, and then sign over the property to me as an apology for all the angst I've suffered.'

'No I won't.'

'What do we say to that, Happy?' he asked turning to his driver.

Happy turned a sour face to his boss, shrugged and grunted.

Waiting for just such a break, Sylvan sprang, and would have felled him if he hadn't stumbled. A loud crack echoed and he crumpled; the arm that would have felled Happy held tight against his chest to stem the flow of blood.

Face impassive; not taking his eyes off the three other men, the gunman slammed the toe of his shoe into Sylvan's guts while pumping another cartridge into the chamber.

'You bastard!' Karmai shouted, moving towards his mate.

The gun barrel was levelled at his head.

'Let me help Sylvan.'

'Not till I have the confession and the property transfer,' Owen snapped.

Sensing that it might be wise not to advertise his presence, Frankie stopped just before the gate and was about to get out when he heard a loud crack. There was no wind so it wasn't a tree branch snapping. He picked up his bow, slipped the quiver over his shoulder, and with an arrow already notched crept to the gate and peered towards the garage. About fifty metres away, Sylvan was writhing on the ground. The others looked as if they didn't dare assist him. Karmai was yelling something to two men, one of whom had a shotgun. That was the crack he'd heard. Fifty metres was the limit of his accuracy, but he had a large target and it didn't matter where he hit. Leaning against the gate post for stability he released a silent dart that slammed into the shooter's back, causing him to stumble forward and fall on his face.

The other man's reflexes were good, but it still took him four seconds to extract a pistol from his breast pocket, turn, see Frankie, squat and fire a couple of shots. But four seconds was all it took for a second arrow, aimed at the man's belly, to pierce his throat instead when he squatted.

The four hostages, having heard nothing, stared in astonishment as first Happy collapsed, then Owen fell onto his back, right hand scrabbling for a stick with feathers on the end. They looked towards the gate and as one shouted, 'Frankie! You wunderkind!'

Frankie waved and returned to his car. Karmai dropped beside Sylvan and cradled his head. The other two watched as Owen found the arrow shaft, tugged at it and, because there was no barb, easily pulled it out, not realising it had been plugging a hole in his jugular. The smooth red fountain was spectacular, but didn't hold the attention of Ingenio and Con, who were watching Frankie drive towards them, arm waving out the open window. The car stopped, he got out, and was hugged while they babbled incoherently. Thus it was he who calmed them and accompanied them back to a five litre pool of coagulating blood beside a dead man, and a second body, twitching, struggling to turn onto his side, eyes wide, mouth agape and an intermittent whine coming from a hole in his punctured chest.

'Sylvan's Ok!' Karmai shouted. 'It's his arm, not his chest, I'm taking him inside for repairs.' Half carrying, half dragging, he led his lover away, leaving the three owners staring at the arrow poking out of the unhappy man's back.

'Lucky shot,' Frankie said thoughtfully. Went between the ribs. Very lucky indeed.'

'What'll we do with Happy?' Ingenio asked, placing his bare toe against a twitching shoe.

Well aware of what was going on, the hapless Happy whispered, 'Help me. I can't breathe.'

'Can't have that, Happy,' Con snapped, picking up a large rock and slamming it down on the unhappy man's head.

The twitching and laboured breathing stopped and the three men nodded satisfaction.

'What a mess!' Frankie said in disgust. 'Not the homecoming party I'd expected. You guys always have to be original.'

'Fuck I love you,' Ingenio laughed. 'Come on, let's sluice it away before it dries in the sun, or it'll take a bulldozer to get rid of.'

By the time the gates had been locked and the blood hosed into the grass and soil at the side of the driveway, Karmai returned with a somewhat pale and wobbly Sylvan, whose left arm was neatly bandaged.

'Is it serious?' Frankie asked.

'Not very,' Karmai replied. 'He was so close the shot came out in a tight bunch and only nicked his biceps. If he'd been a metre further away he'd have lost the entire muscle. It'll hurt and there'll be scarring, but it's clean and I'll put him on light kitchen duties for the next week.'

Sylvan grinned sheepishly. 'Can't think what I was doing, racing at the fellow like that. What're we going to do with them?' indicating the two corpses.

'The same as last time. It was bloody clever of you to hurt your arm, you won't be able to help with the disposal business.'

'Ah, that cave that Karmai told me about. I can drag them with one arm. However, as we don't know if there's a satellite overhead making Google Maps, I suggest we drag them into the garage immediately. It would be inconvenient to have this scene on the map when hikers zoom in looking for Blue Mountain forest trails.

When the plastic bagged bodies and the car were out of sight in the garage, Karmai made a cup of tea and they sat around the table.

'I suppose we follow the same procedure as last time?'

'You sound as if you do it regularly?'

'It's beginning to feel like it.'

'No, this time we dispose of the car immediately, the bodies can wait,' Con said sourly, handing Ingenio two Smart phones. 'You're the computer genius, who knows they're here?'

Ingenio checked. 'No incoming calls, I guess he's as careful as us about using these things in delicate situations. One message stating that he's on his way to finish T's business in the hills. Should be back in the city by five. We have to assume whoever got this message knows about this place, so I'll message them back.'

'What'll you say?'

'His message is telegraphic, so how about, "Gate locked, need back-up. Trying M Katoomba." That'll do.'

'As long as there's an M the other's know about.'

'It'll keep them guessing.'

'Yeah. Do it Inge.'

'And then we drive the car over to Katoomba and leave it.'

'What about GPS? If they check they'll know he was here.'

'So what? He says as much in the email, but the gate was locked.'

'Yeah, But the cops who will be looking for them don't know the gates were locked so they'll assume they saw us.'

They went to the garage and checked. Having the only car fitted with satellite navigation, Frankie knew what he was looking for.

'I don't think it was working as they had to ask directions. At least it's a separate unit. Just have to unbolt it.'

'Won't that be suspicious?'

'These things get stolen all the time.'

Twenty minutes later, after wiping all possible fingerprints off door handles and steering wheel, Con drove the Land Rover quietly up the hill to Katoomba, followed at a discreet distance by Inge in his Holden—a less remarkable vehicle was not to be found in the country. Two other off-road vehicles were parked at the southern end of Cliff Street, so Con squeezed the Land Rover between them, and after locking the vehicle and checking no one was close enough to notice him or see enough to recognise him again, sauntered back the way he'd come to the post office where Ingenio was waiting. Half an hour later they were home with both gates again securely locked.

Karmai had lunch ready, which they gobbled down, then stripped and donned old clothes to protect knees and shoulders, loaded the bodies and personal effects, including smashed phones, into the back of the Suzuki, and followed the same process as with Tony and Jerry. This time it didn't seem so arduous in the cave, not being so strange, and by seven o'clock they were showered and eating a welcome dinner in the main house.

All five confessed to being slightly shocked at the ease with which they'd disposed of the two men, and hoped it didn't mean they were becoming as bad as their attackers. Frankie was feeling guilty for having fired merely on suspicion of evil. After hearing the gunshot, then seeing Sylvan wounded and the others threatened by a shotgun wielding man, his rational brain had shut down, swamped by ancient evolutionary survival urges.

Constantine was wondering if he should have called an ambulance for Happy, as his wound probably wasn't terminal as long as it didn't become infected.

The others assured Frankie that they'd not have survived without signing their confession, and calmed Constantine's concerns by assuring him that Happy's life with a collapsed lung would have been horrible, so it was kinder to put him out of his misery and ensure the five good and true men didn't lose their freedom.

In a unanimous decision, Karmai, Sylvan and Ingenio declared that both Frankie and Constantine had done very well indeed, because Owen and Happy were prepared to destroy their lives in the same way Tony had been, so it was natural justice that he should receive the same treatment.

'But there's a danger of it getting out of hand, isn't there? Who's going to follow up on Owen's disappearance and try to do the same thing?'

'And the cops are going to be very suspicious if we're the centre of another disappearance.'

'Well, we can only sit it out and hope for the best and enjoy our life while we have the freedom to do it.'

'It makes it all even more precious, doesn't it?'

Frankie's next four weeks passed in a blur. Every day busy among people he loved, doing what he liked best, and it was with little enthusiasm that he thought about returning to the university.

He had discussed the suicides and his theories with Ingenio and the others, and all agreed it was crazy to treat males and females as if they were the same. Karmai and Sylvan in particular were upset, confessing that they had several times in the past thought it would be better to be dead than continue their lonely lives devoid of a special friend to confide in and trust. As for what, if anything, he should do about the problem, Don't Stick You're Neck Out Too Far, was the consensus.

'You've given a copy of your observations to the Philosophy lecturer, so now write down your arguments for changing things,' Ingenio advised, 'remembering that brevity is the soul of wit.'

Frankie nodded thoughtfully. 'Good advice. But you're obviously dying to tell me your ideas, Inge, so let's have them.'

'Am I that obvious? Okay, start with the behavioural disadvantages of sharing spaces with the opposite sex, especially the dormitories, and then suggest alternative arrangements. Clothing preferences are another obvious indicator of differences, so males must feel free to wear similar clothes to females, and vice versa. Then you could suggest that as the law-makers clearly think the physical differences between penises and vulvas are not indicative of significant differences between the sexes, then it is irrational for either gender to constantly conceal them, and nudity should be considered perfectly natural and acceptable.'

'Yeah, that's good. And rationally, if both sexes are emotionally identical, then it doesn't matter if men see male counsellors, or if there are equal numbers of males and females in clubs and classes.'

'Right. And nor can it matter if males kiss and cuddle and have sex with males! Ha, that'll stump them.'

Brilliant! They'll be trapped. If they continue to insist males and females are totally equal they must agree to changes to prevent further suicides, otherwise they're accepting they _are_ different in some cases and that means their basic premise is faulty. Thanks Inge. I must say it does make their rationalism seem a trifle irrational, doesn't it?

'Indeed it does.'

By the end of the holiday the memory of Owen's visit had faded. There had been no visit from the police and no mention on the radio news that they tuned to for a week. Ingenio's secretive peeks into both police and media files produced no information. Perhaps Owen's enemies were pleased he'd disappeared and didn't raise the alarm for fear of setting off another police investigation into their own activities.

A timorous hope began to surface among the residents of "85" that perhaps there was no one else who wanted to take Frankie's property from him. But not daring to express that hope aloud, they carried on with their lives.

#  Revolution

Frankie returned to academia physically refreshed, all assignments up to date, head a ferment of plans to force the Rationalist University to be rational when it came to gender. To this end he visited Lydia Ivanovna and informed her of his strategy. She laughed, and promised to play the spy and inform the administrators of the forthcoming insurrection, firmly suggesting to the authorities that they not make fools of themselves by jumping the gun and prohibiting anything, but remain aloof until they saw how the student body reacted, and until the young revolutionary invited them to adjudicate.

'Do you think they'll give me time to sway the multitudes?'

She smiled again. 'I can be _very_ persuasive.'

After lectures, Frankie cornered as many male students as he could, plying them with his ideas and asking their opinion about the gender-free regime. To his surprise, most of them listened eagerly and agreed to attend a male-student-only meeting to be held the following day directly after lectures. Frankie chose the Garden Lounge for its relatively small size. Better to have a few people looking like a crowd than lots looking lost in a vast amphitheatre. He needn't have worried. The place was jammed with standing room only. A large group of staunch feminists, infuriated by their exclusion, demanded entry but were physically forced out, and the doors locked. Two male staff members had been allowed to remain on condition they didn't speak.

Frankie entertained his audience with quiet good humour and logic, ending with six proposals that he hoped would grab the attention of the University Administration and trigger a genuine debate about reform. So persuasive was he that when asked to do so, every male in the room stood and repeated in unison the words on the whiteboard.

'I will demonstrate that males and females are physically different by swimming naked during lunch hour all this week!'

'I will dress as casually as females showing bare shoulders and arms, lots of leg and whatever else I feel like!'

'I will demand an interview with a male counsellor, and throw a wobbly when I can't get an appointment!'

'I will spend time in the rooms of other males, partying, laughing making sexist jokes, bursting in on female rooms and joining in their gossip!'

'Between lectures I will sit in groups with other men and make comments about passing girls!'

'I will challenge females to wrestling matches, sprinting races, tree climbing, archery—whatever activity I enjoy, and call them out if they refuse or fail to prove themselves equal!'

When the cheering died down Frankie spoke seriously. 'Remember, guys, our purpose is to stir the place up, not to damage anything or start a war. We must be enthusiastic but peaceful; determined but do no harm; offend but not be offensive. We must be real men who are proud to be male. Our purpose is to make the feminists of both genders think about the consequences of denying our differences, not to force a gut reaction that bans us. Next week, we will hold a public debate with the Administration, during which those supporting the status quo must defend their rules.'

Clapping and cheering.

'One last thing. Do not go back to your rooms alone or you'll start to have second thoughts and chicken out. Spend the night with at least one other man; the more the merrier, and keep each other's courage up. I will be at the pool at the beginning of lunch, naked, to prove to you it isn't a joke; so don't wimp out or that'll be the last time I'll take an interest in male welfare in this place.'

Suddenly serious, they promised not to let him down, and then spent the evening wandering around in groups, annoying every female they passed and keeping other inhabitants awake till late.

Only Frankie was alone. Apparently no one thought he needed support. He didn't, but would have liked company. At least Lydia had proved herself; not a peep had been heard from any staff member. He shook his head and smiled ruefully. Did he really want to go out on a limb protecting the rights of the other students? Not desperately, but it was fun. He wouldn't do it otherwise. If officialdom stayed away from the pool at lunchtime tomorrow, that would indicate he had a strong chance of winning. And then came a knock at the door.

It was one of the lecturers who had attended the afternoon meeting; Mr. Saampa, Frankie's favourite lecturer in the Drama course. A slight young man in his late twenties, intense and lean with short dark hair, a neatly manicured black beard and black-framed spectacles. Dressed in jeans and an abbreviated tank top that exposed a flat belly and attractive navel. He smiled tentatively.

'Are you alone?'

'Yes.'

'I want to tell you that this afternoon you inspired me to stop trying to be what I imagined females and other males thought I should be, and finally be... myself!' He blurted the last word loudly as if in defiance.

'Thank you. And I see from your new mode of dress, that yourself is very attractive.'

'Thank you. Yourself is even more so.'

Frankie smiled sweetly but said nothing. He wanted Mr. Saampa to say what he came for without either prompting or assistance.

The lecturer swallowed, looked at his feet, then straight into Frankie's eyes. 'Are you so different from others that you don't need a companion to bolster your resolve?'

Frankie laughed. 'My resolve is in no danger of collapsing, thank you. But a companion would be pleasant... if it was someone I could be myself with.'

'You could be yourself with me.'

'You reckon? Well, its worth a try.' He stood to one side as an invitation for Mr. Saampa to brush past. Their fingers touched briefly. They walked to the window and stood side by side, arms just touching, gazing silently down at the gardens below.

'My name's Laurent.'

'I know, I checked the staff list.'

'Why?'

'Because you're one of the few lecturers I like.'

'And you're one of the few students I'd ever want to see outside class.'

'We're a mutual admiration society.' Frankie turned his head and smiled to show he wasn't being sarcastic.

'Are you just being polite, or are you pleased I'm here?'

'I'm pleased, especially as just before you knocked I was feeling nervous and insecure at spending the whole night alone... by myself...' Frankie's eyes grew wide and his cheerful manner made a very obvious and very melodramatic exit.

Laurent's expression became equally serious. 'Frankie! There's no way my conscience would let me desert a young man so delicate... so highly-strung.'

'That's very kind.' Frankie dragged the back of his hand theatrically across his brow. 'Oh Laurent...forgive me but... I feel faint and... so... so tired.'

'This is clearly an urgent case! Allow me.' Laurent tore off his host's garments, tossing them aside before doing the same with his own. 'A massage is required to restore life to these manly limbs.'

'A massage... my kingdom for a massage!'

And so they fell into bed where massage became frottage and then all the other things that two healthy, slim and fit young men love doing to each other before sleeping, then waking and doing it all again.

'I'll check the coast is clear before leaving,' Laurent said in the morning.

'Do you have to?'

'No. I would like every female in the place to know I had sex with the sexiest man on campus, then they'll stop pestering me to do it with them. But! And it's an important but. This place is not homo-friendly. You like Lydia, but did you know she is one of the loudest voices in the staff room against gay acceptance?'

Frankie frowned. 'I had no idea. You think we ought to keep it secret?'

'If you want to pass your exams and I want to keep my job, yes. Two students would be bad enough, but a student and his lecturer?' He shook his head in resignation. 'No one will make a fuss if we act like good friends in public, but they don't want to have their noses rubbed in it, as they like to say.'

A sense of excitement prevailed during morning lectures, in which significant numbers of male students wore flimsy running shorts, tank tops, Lycra wrestling singlets, sandals, even shirtless; whatever they fancied would make them look sexy or amusing or at least interesting and different from usual. It was a novel experience for youths who had been brainwashed into the belief that real men conformed to strict dress codes and took pains to conceal the very existence of their genitals.

No lecturer commented, and most other students thought it wonderful. Only a few angry and/or shocked female students protested; quickly silenced by scornful jeers from newly liberated males and genuinely delighted females.

The minute the lunch bell rang, over a hundred young men descended to the recreation pool where Frankie was bouncing on the springboard in his birthday suit, watched by the naked cherubs holding a large fish spouting water from it's mouth. The students clapped and cheered as he dived in, then tossed their own clothes onto the grass and followed him, shouting in delight, chasing each other, dunking, diving and splashing like innocent seals—revelling in the freedom and sensuous pleasure of swimming naked after a lifetime of being forced to swim in knee-length shorts that clung, chafed, filled with water, and made swimming well nigh impossible if not dangerous, and certainly not a pleasure.

Meanwhile, dozens of bikini-clad female students arrived to stare in confused alarm at such a puerile display; refusing invitations to enter the water for fear of getting their hair wet, being thrust under, or otherwise treated in an unladylike manner. When two male security guards arrived to check on the noise, they were grabbed, stripped and thrown in to join the fun.

To their chagrin, the girls, whose charms were so carefully displayed in next to nothing on the grassy banks, discovered the sexy, active, and happy young men, all with penises only a third the size they'd expected after excursions into internet porn sites, were no longer interested in them. More than one of the young women entertained the traitorous thought that it might not be so bad after all to be ravished by one or two – or even three of such cheerful young satyrs.

During the week that followed, nude bathing continued and enough of the young men did as they had promised at the meeting to create doubt about the status quo in both staff and students alike. Dozens of young men demanded an interview with a male counsellor and became hysterical when refused appointments. Visiting other male students in their rooms suddenly felt totally natural and no one could recall why they'd not done it before. Some tried sitting in groups with other men and making audible comments about passing girls, but discovered it gave no pleasure; it wasn't something men wanted to do - their natural urge was to please, not annoy. No girls accepted invitations to compete with male opponents when they realised they had to prove their claim to be the equal of men in all things, and they'd not be given any concessions because of their gender.

With Laurent's assistance, Frankie turned a drama rehearsal room into a temporary men-only lounge that was full every night with card players, a pool table, darts and loud noise and laughter. On the last night, they had a dance. They danced with each other, and that too was a hoot. More fun than they could remember.

'Why the fuck can't we have fun like this when there are girls around?' someone asked.

The answer was provided by a scrawny albino with mauve-tinted glasses whose sensitive eyes and skin precluded outdoor sporting activities and even indoor ones requiring normal eyesight. Stuart was reputed to be a genius and was universally liked for his bottomless good humour and wit.

'I've never had a girlfriend and don't want one,' he said with a smile. 'I'm one of those not so rare people who have little or no sexual libido. That frees me to watch and learn and I've come to the conclusion that I'm the luckiest man in the place. In case you hadn't realised, the point of Frankie's campaign is to remind us of the differences between males and females, some of which make it impossible for sexually mature men to behave like this when girls are present. In mixed company males are biologically wired to spend their time trying to attract a female for sex – and the sort of fun you've been having would make females dismiss you as frivolous and unsuitable husband material. The situation for females is as bad. Instincts compel them to spend virtually _all_ their free time preparing for, and actively trying to attract a male. In other words, both sexes are too busy obeying their evolutionary mating instincts to have time for horseplay and irrelevant fun.'

'You make us sound like animals,' someone called.

'You are, and just like all higher animals, attracting and keeping a mate is a _very_ serious business from an evolutionary point of view. Once we reach breeding age, instincts drive males to display, and females to snare the best male they can attract into sex and marriage. It's the nature of females to lure, and the nature of males to allow themselves to be lured and ultimately consumed, like so many spiders. You have my sincere sympathy.'

General laughter.

'But Frankie's not like that.'

Stuart glanced at Frankie for permission. Frankie nodded with a resigned shrug and grin.

'That's because Frankie wants a male companion, not a female, so there's none of the flirting and teasing, the saying yes and then refusing, having to buy presents and treat the other like a princess. Between men, relationships are straightforward—friendship with extras. There's no pretence, so there's no entrapment. Each understands the other, knows what pleases and what doesn't. It's a mating of equals. If I had a libido I'd prefer to be same-sex-oriented, that's for sure!

'Is there no hope for us sexy heterosexuals, oh sage?'

'I suggest you forget females until you are a hundred percent certain you want to burden yourself with a wife and children. Until then, take your friends to bed when you feel like sex. Unless you're madly in love, sex is essentially an individual sport, so who you do it with makes little difference as long as they're physically attractive and healthy. You'll save yourselves the irritation of not understanding why your partner acts the way she does, of always being in the wrong, of never pleasing, of never being quite good enough... a thousand things that make men crazy and want to beat sense into their girlfriends' heads. You'll avoid all the time and money wasted on the rituals of courtship, and not have holes pricked in your condoms.'

Howls of laughter.

'Yes, it would be funny to find the girl you've been screwing is carrying your child, wouldn't it? Loosen your prejudices, men. Be adventurous and invite your friend to your room tonight to have fun. I guarantee it'll be more relaxing and entertaining and equally as pleasurable with fewer difficulties than with your girlfriends. Hands up those who'll give it a go?'

Frankie had retired to a corner to sit in amused silence, delighted to have such excellent, if unorthodox support. He was much more relieved than he'd expected not to be a lone voice in the wilderness.

After the ribald roar of rejection died down, a few bold hands appeared in semi jest. Then a chorus of 'Go on, wimp.' 'I dare you.' 'Come on, be a man.' 'What're you afraid of?' And then a surprising number of bravely inquisitive souls declared that in the interests of science, and out of curiosity, they'd test the theory and report on the morrow—if they felt like it.

No one reported on their experience the following morning, but more young men than expected maintained a smug silence that suggested they'd taken Stuart's advice and not been dismayed by the experience.

# Forum

Frankie had thought long and hard about how best to present himself to the "Forum-To-discuss-Student-Concerns-Regarding-Gender-Equality". He needed to grab his audience's interest and generate controversy if he wanted to stimulate debate, so he talked it over with Lydia.

'I love this place,' he said seriously, 'but there's a fascist element.'

'Fascist?' Lydia sounded surprised, but clearly wasn't. 'Go on.'

'The school's democratic processes have been hijacked by vested interests that make laws to suit themselves.'

'What vested interests?'

'Fanatic feminism.'

'I'd gathered that was to be on the agenda after hearing about some of the male students' activities over the last few days. So, what did you want to talk to me about?

'Are you sure I have the approval of the powers that be?'

'There's been talk for a while about problems regarding gender equality, but those rules were put in place by student demand. Therefore they should only be changed by student demand. If the University Council were to impose change, they would be accused of dictatorial behaviour. Revolutions arise from the bottom, they are not imposed from the top.'

'Excellent. That leaves me with only one question, would Security come and prevent me from continuing if I gave my talk naked?'

'By naked I presume you mean physically, not mentally exposed?'

'Yes. Not a stitch from toe to topknot. I see it as a symbolic gesture to show I have no hidden agenda and I'm not trying to impress or distract with bells and whistles. It will also be a test of their tolerance and acceptance of difference. If they can listen and think about my ideas and not be distracted and upset by seeing my dangly bits, then they've passed.'

'And I imagine you will get quite a kick out of the experience?'

Frankie grinned. 'Of course.'

'But you're not an exhibitionist.'

Frankie's eyes opened wide in horror. 'Heaven forbid! Exhibitionists want to shock! I'm seeking approval! I want to discover if people can like me for my essential self, not for my conformity to externally imposed norms. If they do accept me it'll be a real confidence builder.'

'You never seem to lack confidence.'

'That's because I keep testing it—challenging others to disagree with me, to dislike me, to reject me.'

'Have you ever been rejected?'

'Not by anyone I care about.' Frankie shook his head as if confused. 'Don't you find it odd that no matter how eccentric my behaviour, people still seem to like me.'

Lydia laughed. 'Disingenuous boy! You know perfectly well it's because you take great pains to be likeable. You're friendly, never morose, always helpful and polite, clean, neat and sweet smelling, generous, modest, good looking and don't seem to take yourself too seriously. There's nothing about you to dislike, so something minor like challenging the social structures of a prestigious University while completely naked on the stage of the Great Hall in front of the entire student body, would be irrelevant to any sane person.'

Frankie giggled, then gazed at his mentor in mute appeal. 'It's not my fault, Lydia.' The sigh was tragic. 'I can't help being like that—it's my character.' He shook his head and shrugged sad acceptance of his fate.

Lydia laughed. 'Cheeky monkey; such a cross to bear. But you'll cope. I guarantee they will love you even more after the meeting. In fact I'll put money on it.'

'How much?'

'I'll take you to dinner in the city if I'm wrong.'

'You're on!' Frankie laughed, then kneeling before her he pleaded, 'Lydia, will you do me the honour of introducing me to the students at the meeting? I need you to add the essential touch of gravitas, in contrast to my levity.'

'Yes, on condition you get someone in the special effects department to make sure I look impressive and queenly.'

'You already do. But he'll make sure you're even more regal than usual.'

Laurent had concealed his doubts about Frankie's plan, while helping to ensure its success with a little stage magic. The midnight blue, velvet front curtains were drawn halfway across the unlit stage, leaving an opening into a black, impenetrable, empty space. When the Great Hall was filled with chattering students, a soft golden glow appeared deep inside the darkness, which slowly increased in intensity to reveal a beautiful Peacock Chair in which Lydia, draped in something vaguely classical, was comfortably ensconced while reading a very large book.

Laurent had placed the chair about a metre above the stage floor on a matt-black, wheeled platform, so from the auditorium the golden apparition appeared to float in an amber haze as she drifted silently towards the front of the stage. She looked up as if surprised to find herself there, and removed her spectacles. An expectant hush descended. Calmly placing her book to one side, she leaned slightly forward and spoke in a soft, conversational tone. With the assistance of a tiny microphone pinned to her blouse and a state of the art sound system, everyone felt as if she was speaking only to them.

'As many of you know, your fellow student Frankie Fey has been concerned by three recent suicides, and set himself the task of preventing them in future. He presented his ideas to the University Council for their opinion, and they decided they were worth considering, but as you know, changes to social protocol must be made by a student majority. That means the final decision on Frankie's proposals is in your hands. To ensure you all get the same message, Frankie has been asked to explain his ideas and thoughts to you all today. Then, over the next two days I suggest you discuss the ideas with your fellow students before voting on them.' She paused to let her words sink in, then, in a respectful tone as if announcing the Governor General, 'Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome Frankie Fey!'

Polite clapping morphed almost immediately into cheers, good-natured laughter, then even more spirited applause as Lydia's peacock chair drifted into the gloom at the side and Frankie slowly emerged from the darkness, gradually becoming solid flesh as he fake jogged towards them like a naked young Apollo into the soft amber glow About a metre from the edge of the stage and grinning widely, he suddenly tripped. Eyes wide in fear, arms outstretched, he catapulted forward, landing in an ungainly forward roll that looked as if it would take him over the edge into the orchestra pit. At the last second he stopped, buttocks perched right on the edge of the stage, legs dangling. Taking a huge breath he shook his head in amazement at his escape, heaved himself to his feet, then fastidiously flicked imaginary dust from an imaginary suit.

By now aware it had been a stage trip, his audience howled with laughter and stamped their feet. Instead of a boringly serious rant, here was someone who could make them laugh—no mean feat.

Wiping imaginary sweat from his brow, Frankie bowed deeply. 'Thanks for coming,' he said with genuine gratitude and nervous modesty; his voice, like Lydia's, seeming to speak to every individual due to the tiny microphone concealed in his hair. 'First, I want to make it clear that I like and admire this university, the staff, and the students, and I am not a misogynist; my best friend in this place is Lydia.' He blew her a kiss. 'And I love the gardens! They make me feel I'm living in Elysium... at least they did until three young men suicided. I was so shocked that anyone would choose to do that while studying and working in such a wonderful environment, that I determined to discover why.'

His audience were completely silent, absorbed. Already his nakedness was irrelevant. What's not to admire in a man who takes his subject seriously, but not himself? From that minute it was the content of his talk, not the man that held their attention.

'Obviously, the students had problems that to them seemed insoluble. But this is a caring environment with friendly staff, people everywhere, counsellors available, few stresses... so it couldn't have been caused, or even prevented by the university—could it? Students and staff are equal in all possible ways.' He paused slightly. 'But what do we mean by equal? Are we equally tolerant of all human behaviours that do no harm? Do all rules benefit everyone equally? Are we all equally rational? Do you consider all religious and political views to be equal?

'The university's gender-neutral policy is based on the notion that treating people equally means you are treating them the best possible way. But that's irrational because we're not all the same either physically,' he looked down at himself with a laugh that was echoed by his audience, 'or mentally. Of equal value, yes. But not the same! Mental differences are not so obvious, so please try to remain calm while I offer a few generalisations.' He looked away as if to think, then cast his eye around the auditorium before speaking with authority.

'In general, males like to protect; females like to be protected. Males like to provide; females like to be provided for. Females have their eyes on everything; males tend to concentrate on the job in hand. Females like to gossip and talk about themselves; males talk about general topics and don't like to gossip. Men become depressed if they are unable to provide, protect and be useful to others; females get depressed when they don't get what they want. Men write poems and love songs to women, women love to receive them. Both males and females like to express their sexuality through dress, but there equality ends. Females may wear what they please, but due to social and peer pressure, males may not. He stared thoughtfully out at his audience. 'I suppose many of you are thinking I'm a disgusting exhibitionist because along with other men I've been swimming naked in the Recreation Pool, and am now standing on the stage of the Great Hall with my man-bits hanging loose. I wonder what the reaction would be were I a female? Possibly admired—albeit grudgingly. So much for gender equality. Males should not be denied equality in choosing how to dress because females don't like to see their hairy chests or legs, or be reminded that they have external genitals. Why should males have to wear dangerous and uncomfortable board shorts to swim in? Equality has nothing to do with liking or approving of something. It is outside one's personal opinions.

'Too often in this university, males are denied equality of expression. Females have the right to criticise men, while denying males the same right. Men can be labelled misogynistic-woman-haters, but no such criticism may be levelled at females. All men admit they have no idea what goes on in women's heads, whereas most women are convinced they understand men perfectly, certain that males are just like them; that we are being deliberately perverse by not acting like them. But we are not females with penises! We are complete opposites! And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sole reason humans have survived for about three hundred thousand years!

'We do not have a gender neutral society in this university, we have a female-oriented society in which females feel comfortable and many males feel neutered—out of place, constrained by unnatural rules about their behaviour, dress and language. It's good that both genders are treated equally regarding lodgings, food, equipment, facilities and support, but I repeat... equal does not mean the same.

'What can we do about it?

'We can provide male-only spaces to which men can retreat and be thoroughly male without females judging, criticising, interrupting and taking over the conversation, then gossiping about it later with their friends and his enemies. Men cannot be natural in the company of women, because their evolutionary survival has required they impress, appear capable, on top of things, are brave, calm, strong, inventive, able to protect and provide for a female in order to breed. It's that simple. A few thousand years of living in towns and cities protected from the natural world has changed nothing in our essential behaviour. If a man admits to problems in front of a woman, he knows she will think he's weak and unmanly and will tell her friends and then he will not get a wife. Animal behaviour is basic, not complicated. Only when there is no fear of females seeing or overhearing, can males share experiences, fears, hopes and failures without shame. Because other men understand and have similar problems and are usually non-judgemental in whatever advice or commiseration they offer. And will not gossip about it.'

Frankie stopped and gazed down thoughtfully. His audience remained completely still.

'This is the important bit!' he said sharply. 'I learned that all three men who suicided were not offered counselling by a man, but by woman who has since resigned. The myth of gender equality allowed that to happen, so instead of being able to honestly confide their problems to a man trained to advise, support and understand them, they were forced to see a female counsellor to whom they could not confide because that would be against their basic survival nature!'

The shuffling of feet filled a short silence.

'According to two psychology texts I read recently, female humans become sad when they are displeased or dissatisfied, while male humans become sad when they are unable to please or satisfy others.' He held up a hand to forestall an outcry. 'Yes, I am aware that is a generalisation, but it's based on the empirical evidence of several psychologists' investigations of the suicides of farmers on drought-stricken farms, and failed businesses. Without generalisations, discussion is impossible. Surely rational generalisations are preferable to opinions based merely on one's personal likes and dislikes?

'When an unhappy young woman seeks counselling, among other things she will be offered sympathy and advice to be proud of herself simply because she is a woman and therefore deserving of respect. I discovered that similar advice is offered to male students here, because female counsellors appear to believe in the feminist myth that men and women are mentally interchangeable. But sympathy and platitudes about being worthwhile simply because you are a man, are no help. A man needs to know that he's not a crybaby; that he is brave for seeking help and trying to improve his circumstances, and for his determination to be useful and to please. It's the opposites thing again. Females want to be helped, males want to help; it's how we survived.

'Six out of ten successful suicides are by men, because they genuinely _want_ to escape their despair at being unable to extricate themselves from their problems. Few suicide attempts by females succeed, because their intention is to get attention and sympathy and help from others.

'It's not only in mixed lounges that men are not able to relax and be natural, it's also in the halls of residence. There is always a female somewhere, watching, commenting and gossiping, so men don't like to visit each other. And if they do, a female 'friend' is sure to arrive to see what's going on and report back. If she's asked to leave the man is branded anti female! Queer. Not a real man. What it boils down to is that there is no place on this campus for male students to be certain they can relax with other males, undisturbed by females.'

During the uproar following that comment, Frankie ran off stage and returned wheeling a large whiteboard.

'I have four proposals,' he said when the commotion ceased, writing clearly as he spoke. 'First, two of the three residence blocks should be changed to single sex, while the third remains mixed for those who prefer it. Second, unless they ask for a female counsellor, males should be counselled by males. Third, as well as a mixed lounge there should be both a male-only lounge, and a female-only lounge and recreation space, and single-gender clubs should be allowed. Fourth, it should be University policy that it is an unfriendly act to make remarks about others in public—no exceptions.'

He put down the marking pen and turned to his audience. 'Ok, that's it. A copy of this talk, together with explanatory notes is available on the Internet at www.frankiefeynonsense.net. I realise this is called a forum, and earlier I said we'd have a debate, but I now think an open discussion would be counter productive, because your responses to these proposals must be yours alone, not influenced by people around you with loud voices and opinions. If you feel like it, discuss them with friends, then in two days time we can all vote by secret ballot for whatever solution we think best.'

He bowed to enthusiastic applause from the men; muted acclaim from the women, then gallantly took Lydia's hand and escorted her off stage.

The changes were approved in full by ninety-eight percent of the university student population. During the next two weeks rooms were re-allocated, belongings moved and friendships strengthened. Males and females now had their own common rooms as well as a mixed gender one. All clubs were permitted to be exclusive to one gender if the members desired it. The rules regarding harassment also underwent an overhaul. An aggrieved claimant had to prove psychological or physical harm before a charge could be laid. Counsellors had to be the same gender as the counselled. In short, commonsense was restored, and male students discovered that females made good friends and were often witty, smart, intelligent and fun to be with, once you weren't terrified of being accused of disrespect.

Frankie became engrossed in his literature studies, devoured numerous supposedly great books, studied art history and discovered that artists were more truthful recorders of history than official sources. He loved art but wasn't prepared to put in the time to learn the skills required to actually make it, excusing himself by saying that artists need an audience, so that's what he'd be. He couldn't learn to read music, but taught himself to pick out tunes on a piano by ear, and loved to sing.

Acting was his favourite occupation and he performed in a dozen plays both ancient and modern, removing his clothes as often as he could persuade the director that the script demanded it. He enjoyed philosophy immensely, also tramping, sprinting, gymnastics, dancing, and swimming, but he took part in no competitions or team sports and refused to watch them. 'If something is worth doing, it's worth doing,' he would explain. 'Turning it into a mini war with winners and losers removes all the pleasure for me.'

He turned nineteen.

Frankie and Laurent's shared interest in the theatre, music, art and healthy living increased their pleasure in each other's company, and was in no way inhibited by their secrecy. Neither wanted to attend University socials and dances, going instead to gay dance venues in the city. They also spent occasional weekends with each other's family, and made several overnight trips further afield.

And then Laurent was offered a position as director of theatrical studies at Dunedin University in New Zealand. He was reluctant to leave Frankie, but both knew their relationship wasn't permanent—yet. Perhaps when Frankie had made his way in the world and experienced everything he was capable of, including those things that are best tackled alone, they might get back together. But even if they didn't, the experience had been exactly what both needed and would never be forgotten.

# Out With a Bang

The three paid up members of the Rationalist University Society of Independent Intellectuals held a moonlight meeting beside the lower pool to confer honorary membership of their club on Frankie, in the hope that his fame would boost both their prestige and membership of the Society. After crowning him with a wreath of oleander, having no laurels, they presented him with a hand-painted certificate recognising his status as a talented young man whose modest demeanour concealed an incorruptible intelligence, rationality, honesty and physical excellence. Frankie accepted the honour with gravity, then laughed wildly and tossed his three devotees into the pool before scampering off to a rehearsal.

Later, over a liquid supper, Frankie's three admirers analysed his character in the hope of learning how they too could become widely accepted and admired. Under the spotlight of their critical gaze they realised that although he wasn't really special, he was nice to be near simply because he _was_ nice to be near; his breath was sweet, his skin meticulously clean and glowing with health, and his eyes suggested he had a genuine interest in the opinions of whomever he was with.

After rather too many sips of sweet sherry they came to the gloomy conclusion it was his deliberately cultivated ordinariness and refusal to advertise his successes that deflected antagonism and prevented jealousy. It's easy to like people who are not obviously better than you. And that sent them into a slough of despond because above all else they did _not_ want to seem ordinary! They wanted to stand out, to be noticed, to be the envy of all. Nauseous from the vile sweet gunk they'd been imbibing, they lapsed into alcoholic torpor – still unable to comprehend that Frankie only stood out because he was the only person on campus who managed to seem as though he wasn't trying to.

As well as dancing and acting, Frankie loved to sing in a pleasant baritone that was usually more or less in tune. As a tribute to his spiritual mentor, Orpheus, son of Apollo and godlike poet and musician, Frankie purchased a second-hand lyre on which he accompanied himself when singing his own poetry set to tunes he made up as he went along. On summer evenings for a few days each side of full moon, devotees, both male and female, gathered on the grass in a quiet corner of the Gardens around a slab of marble that looked as if it should hold an urn or statue. As the bloated yellow moon rose above the surrounding trees, they were transported to Arcadia when a naked bronze statue of a young man in elegant contrapposto materialised on the plinth, lyre pressed lightly against his left flank, right hand reaching across as if to pluck the strings.

Frankie would sustain the pose (a copy of the sculpture of Orpheus by Charles H Niehaus) for fully five minutes before plucking the first notes from his instrument and singing softly. Later, wandering among amused admirers, his songs of sweet lament forced laughter and tears from even the most misanthropic eye. [Mainly, according to those not under his spell, because he was tone deaf.] Then, as mysteriously as he had appeared he would vanish into the trees, followed by the young man he had selected to assist in the removal of bronzing cream before sharing his bed.

In the middle of his final term at the University, Frankie turned twenty and took a two-week refresher course on economic theory where he renewed his acquaintance with Prudence, who had remained as eccentric as ever, delightedly informing him of the house she had built on acreage in the country, thanks to the continuing success of their speculative enterprises two and a half years earlier. They spent several evenings together discussing the course, during which Frankie let slip that despite all his experiences, there was one thing he had not yet crossed off his 'to do' list. He had never had sexual intercourse with a woman and felt he owed it to himself to rectify the omission.

Prudence sympathised, because she had a similar problem in reverse. In an uncharacteristic surge of generosity she offered to satisfy Frankie's curiosity on condition he join her in performing a balletic extravaganza as the last act of the Annual Student Variety Concert to be held during the last week of term. Naturally, the idea of ending his university days on stage in a blaze of glory was immensely appealing, so he accepted.

The Concert program consisted of items written, composed and performed entirely by students, and included one-act plays, poetry, stand-up comics musical interludes, a short operetta, and a concluding masterpiece \- Frankie and Prudence's much-anticipated ballet. They named it "Afternoon of a Satyr"—a wry comment on Debussy's _L'après-midi d'un Faune._ The music was composed especially for it by fellow student Constance Randie whose tunes and melodies were described by herself as musical collages—by others as plagiarism. Frankie would be the satyr, Prudence the ravished nymph. As always, there would be only one performance of the concert, it being mainly a fun, in-house production, to which there was usually no problem getting tickets. But leaked information that Frankie would be performing a sexy satyr dance, triggered a scramble for tickets.

One afternoon during rehearsals Prudence said bluntly, 'Lay off the young men until after the performance. I realise you're robust and saturated in testosterone, but as this is to be a one off I want to take no chances.'

Frankie nodded calmly. 'Have no fear, Prudence. I am determined it will be a momentous experience. It'll be my first and probably my last copulation with a female, so it would be embarrassing to be less than spectacular in front of one and a half thousand people.'

Prudence nodded satisfaction. 'I assume that, like me, you experience things with increased sensitivity and exaltation when observed by an approving audience?'

'Of course! In fact this performance is the last piece of research needed before I publish my monograph.'

'Prudence raised an enquiring eyebrow. 'What's it about?'

'The working title is "Proof of the Proposition that Public Displays of Intimate Acts Heighten and Increase Pleasurable Sensations and Intensity of Passion".'

'Verbose, but intriguing.'

'Exactly, and as the Great Hall is fully booked, the success of our enterprise is assured. Are you certain of the timing?'

'Of course! I will be in my most fertile state on the evening of the performance, and the fact that it is my first experience of male penetration will augment the heightened state of arousal and desire, and increase tenfold the likelihood of conception.'

'Brilliant.'

'I know.'

'Are we going to record it?'

'Naturally. I've three cameras that will capture everything, and after the show I'll edit them into a single movie. Do you want a copy?'

'Of course.'

'What about the orchestra?'

'What do you mean?'

'When the dance becomes interesting they might stop playing. We can't risk that.'

'Good thinking. I'll record their final rehearsal, then have it played over the speakers... louder than they can manage so if they go on playing they won't be heard.'

As one can never be certain how others will react to truth, Frankie told anyone who cared to enquire that the performance illustrates a mythical truth and would be in impeccable taste. He didn't specify whose taste. Nor did either of them warn balletic aficionados that it would be very different from the ballet usually associated with Debussy's _L'après-midi d'un Faune_ in which a sad woodland creature hobbles around to dreary music, tries to make friends with a nymph, but is so rudely rejected that when he finds her scarf he takes it home to wank over.

Although a satyr is always naked, nudity in the first part of the dance was out of the question because Frankie's extravagant leaps and scissor jumps could do irreversible damage to freely dangling testicles. So he made a pouch from a small piece of flesh-tinted sheer nylon that kept his scrotum lifted well out of the way and held his penis proudly vertical against his belly like a true priapic satyr.

Prudence's costume was a diaphanous confection reaching to mid thigh. Draped from her right shoulder it exposed her left arm and breast. Leaps and lifts caused the insubstantial gauze to float, mist-like, and remain suspended for several seconds after she returned to earth. Despite her feminist ideology she endured a pudenda waxing after Frankie convinced her that in the world of theatre, aesthetics trump ideals.

Every important personage and even greater numbers of unimportant ones filled the stalls and gallery, fully expecting to be bored by amateur, poorly produced and inadequately presented acts that they could criticise and disparage for weeks afterwards. Their expectations were well and truly satisfied by musical interludes, poetry readings, plays and sketches that so thoroughly bored them they returned after interval vowing that if after two minutes the ballet failed to amuse them, they'd just get up and leave. There was only so much amateur crap a sensitive human can take in one evening.

A hush fell as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose on a woodland scene bathed in golden light so perfect it set the audience clapping in delight. An expectant hush descended and a gentle sigh arose as a spot came up on Frankie draped languidly across a flat rock in the centre front of the stage—any closer and he'd have tumbled into the orchestra pit.

To the sylvan strains of an oboe, Frankie raised his head. Gilded horns poked cheekily through short curls. Hooded eyes scanned the forest. With a predatory smile he licked his lips and rose sinuously to his feet. The gasp that greeted the sight of his apparently naked groin was drowned by clapping as he leaped into the air in a double turn and landed in a catlike crouch, eyes ablaze, mouth wide in a silent laugh displaying powerful teeth and sending a thrill of terror into the hearts of the already enraptured audience.

His solo performance to wild music that sounded very like something Mozart might have written in a skittish mood, banished all disparaging thoughts from even the most hidebound redneck's brain. When the music changed to something that made some people want to sing 'Three Little Maids From School Are We', the satyr hid behind a tree and the nymph bounded in, full of girlish delight at having escaped her mother, or something equally dreadful. She danced superbly, and although less spectacular than the satyr, the absence of undergarments coupled with the anti-gravity qualities of the flimsy little shift, more than made up the deficiency; at least in the eyes of most males. The music changed again to became gloomy and longing as the nymph sagged onto the rock, gently fondling breasts, thighs and groin.

Absorbed in self pleasure she failed to notice the satyr who pounced from behind, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, making everyone in the audience also jump. She screamed silently and made her escape. After a robustly gymnastic display of chase, capture, escape, chase and recapture, during which her insubstantial garment was torn off by an increasingly impatient and randy satyr, she sagged to the ground at his feet, nuzzling at his groin for mercy.

He relaxed and gazed skywards in delight. She took her chance and escaped into the forest. He followed.

Returning alone and shiftless she began to dance, then stopped and looked over her shoulder, clearly disappointed that the satyr had given up. Shrugging sadly she picked up the torn remnants of her costume and was about to leave when, this time minus his restraining pouch, the satyr returned in a dizzying series of pirouettes that created sufficient centrifugal force to fill his penis with blood. He grasped the nymph. She sagged to the ground in wide splits, her face hard against his erection. He lifted her high above his head and spiralled slowly towards the front of the stage where, with a diabolical smile he lowered her onto his rampant manhood.

Utter silence. Everyone had forgotten to breathe.

Slowly, Frankie turned side on to the audience, released his hands and bent backwards, arms wide. Prudence, literally pinned to his groin, also bent back, arms and legs outstretched as they performed what has to be the most unusual pas de deux ever seen in a serious ballet, moving gracefully in a wide circle, ending up at the rock on to which the satyr gently lowered her.

He withdrew. She quickly rolled onto hands and knees, back a deep convex arch demonstrating perfect lordosis, presenting her lust. Frankie gazed down contemplating both of their swollen organs before thrusting his firmly into hers.

To the increasingly orgasmic strains of what sounded suspiciously like the last movement of Tchaikovsky's Italian Caprice, the dance culminated in what were obviously genuinely momentous orgasms. Then as the light and music faded, Frankie withdrew and skipped off into the forest, leaving the ravished nymph kneeling on the rock with her bum in the air.

The reaction was thunderous. Shouts of abuse and acclaim. Stamping of feet and deafening clapping, booing and shouts of encore! Frankie took the curtain call at the front of the stage, smiling and bowing, then indicated Prudence who was now on her back on the rock, holding her hips high in the air so gravity could assist the passage of spermatozoa to the desired spot. The hysterical audience reaction as the curtain came down was proof to both Frankie and Prudence of their success.

Two minutes later neither dancer was to be found. Both had evaporated and were never seen again at the university.

# Real Estate

Each morning Frankie woke to the glorious realisation that he was free of the restrictions, constrictions and expectations of the University in which he now felt he had been imprisoned for three years. It hadn't all been bad, of course. He'd been awarded an Arts degree and wrought major social changes in the place, as well as learning a lot of very useful tricks for living. But apart from Laurent, and perhaps Prudence, he'd made no friends he wanted to see again. For the moment he was content to drift; not impatient to start anything new, and not under the slightest pressure from anyone to do or be anything other than himself. Bliss.

Apart from a spectacular electrical storm with exceptionally strong winds that had brought down large branches and a couple of old trees, the weather gods had provided plenty of sun with the occasional shower. Karmai was pleased to have help in checking the boundaries and forest, and Sylvan too appreciated a hand with the constant maintenance required with all large properties. So there was plenty to do and even more to think about.

Directly after breakfast he would slip his feet into sandals, sling his bow and quiver across his back, and head off into the forest in search of hares that had been debarking trees, and foxes, dogs and cats that had been killing the young of endangered native animals. If he found a pleasant spot he'd sit, open his mind and try to regain the near rapture of meditation he'd achieved in Tasmania. But something had changed. He was no longer lonely or desperate. Probably too comfortable. His head seemed too full of information, ideas, questions—junk that interfered whenever he tried to stop thinking. The more he tried to empty his mind the fuller it became, chasing the serenity of meditation even further out of reach. He should do something that would stretch his brain. Take a risk. But not now. Life was too good to risk jeopardising things. Perhaps later. For the moment he wanted to simply enjoy feeling relaxed, calm and contented without guilt.

When the video of his dance with Prudence arrived, Frankie told no one, deciding to watch it in private in case it was a disaster. It wasn't, she had done a fine job, seamlessly editing shots from all three cameras to create a twenty-minute show from a fifteen-minute performance. Glowing with pride and anticipation he cooked a healthy, if tasteless dinner and invited Karmai and Sylvan to join them. They all munched stoically, wondering why their host seemed so nervously excited. After ushering them into the lounge with glasses of cold tea and directions to sit in front of the video screen, he pressed the button and sat back. Too late to stop now.

The reactions were all Frankie had hoped for. Disbelief when they saw what he was not wearing. Admiration at his agility, dancing skills and professional competence. Shocked delight at the first pas de deux. Raucous laughter as the satyr tore off the nymph's clothes. Wolf whistles and shouts of joy when Frankie returned, pirouetting with an erection. Silent awe at Prudence's splits, the penetration and the balancing act as they moved back to the rock. Disbelieving chuckles during the subsequent savage rutting.

'You actually fucked her on stage in front of a thousand people!'

'Nearer fifteen hundred, actually.'

'Everyone could see your cock thrusting in and out!'

'I did my best to ensure that.'

'You both had ginormous orgasms!'

'Of course! That's what it was all about.'

'From the noise, I imagine the audience was not universally appreciative.'

'He who hopes to please everyone is doomed to disappointment.'

'But you enjoyed yourself.'

'Immensely!'

'Which begs the obvious question... why did you do it?'

'I'd been wanting to know what it was like to screw a female ever since I was twelve, and when I told Prudence, she confided that she was equally curious. In her case about two things: the feel of a real penis manipulated by its owner, compared to a dildo, finger or tongue, and if she was able to conceive a child.'

'Do you want to have a kid?'

'Fuck no! As soon as she knows she's pregnant, she'll abort it.'

'Are you sure? Women are strange creatures.'

'Prudence is stranger than most, and the last thing she would want is a parasite in her guts... her words.'

'Why didn't you just fuck some girl in your room?'

'I tried with three nubile wenches. I petted and groped, sucked on nipples, shoved fingers into holes, and tongue down throats... all the usual stuff that has normal guys creaming their jeans, but nary a twitch from my not so lusty sword. If anything it shrank! So I thanked them for the fun, but confessed that as I was saving myself for marriage, I'd better stop before their seductive charms forced me to break my vow of celibacy. They accepted the lie with pride, and I accepted that I was queer when it came to females. If I'd carried on attempting to fuck, within a week the entire female population of the university would have learned I'm heterosexually impotent, and that would have been the end of my reputation.'

'I still don't see how that led to your magnificent performance.'

'While in the confessing mood with Prudence, I admitted that the idea of sex in front of a large appreciative audience was so appealing it'd be certain to increase my libido and ensure a pleasurably propitious outcome. Prudence was unsurprised, and confessed she'd made a lot of money at high school by masturbating in a live nude peep show in the city, so would I join her in a dance she'd been choreographing? Whether or not it was theatrically successful, we would both have satisfied our curiosity.'

'Had you ever had sex in front of an audience before this performance?'

'That's for me to know, father dear,' Frankie grinned. 'All you need to know is that I inherited the proclivity from my mother.'

'Virtue? What...?'

'She was generous with her favours, and when I caught her with the window cleaner, the pizza delivery boy, the TV repair man, the gas man... she was always pleased to see me.'

'Poor Virtue.'

'Not so poor, she had a good life.' Frankie patted Ingenio on the shoulder and deposited a tender kiss on his forehead. 'To prove my point, or lack of it, Prudence and I rehearsed all our dance routines naked, but not even once did I get an erection, so our major worry was that I had to guess where the head of my cock would be when I lifted her up and shoved it in while she was doing the splits. Luckily she was so hot and horny on stage it sort of found its own way. If it hadn't we'd have skipped that bit and gone straight to the doggy episode on the rock. It all worked out well, I reckon.'

'And you never worried beforehand that you'd not get an erection on stage?'

'Never crossed my mind.'

'Well, it sure worked for me,' Karmai sighed. 'I've never seen a porno film anywhere near as much fun as this. When you impaled her and circled around, both leaning back with your arms out it was... beautiful.'

'Thanks.'

'Yes,' Ingenio was thoughtful. 'It _was_ beautiful. You managed to make an act of animal lust seem natural and the opposite of disgusting—whatever that is.'

'Delightful?' Con suggested.

'That's it. Delightful... almost sweet.'

'And the lighting and set,' Sylvan added. 'They were superb! Seriously, Frankie, this is a true classic. It's great Art! I want a copy.'

'You shall have it.'

'It'll go viral on the Internet.'

'No,' Ingenio was adamant. 'That would cheapen it. Keep it for sending to your friends as a gift, and to prospective employers.'

'And as a "Vote for Me" video when I stand for parliament?'

'Yeah, that sort of thing.'

The four men laughed and looked at their favourite son with even greater respect, admiration and love—if that were possible.

Copies were made and Frankie was content. He'd fucked a female, had enormous fun doing it, and didn't have to do it again.

Every day he checked the walkable boundary; more than twelve kilometres, some of it along the top of vertical cliffs, some along the bottom. One boundary with the National Park was a stream that fed a fine bathing pool perched almost on the edge of a vertical drop, over which the stream plunged to join a creek below. Walking was tough going at times, occasionally the track he'd roughly hacked was incredibly steep but always exhilarating. He loved best the lightly wooded glades.

The eastern boundary was shared by a large, treed, private block nearly as large as Frankie's. To the south the boundary was entirely national park, as was about half the western boundary. To the north, his property ran behind private, five and ten acre blocks with road frontages. The entrance to "85" looked the same as those, but was really only a narrow right-of-way leading up from the gate to the large acreage behind. All the private blocks had houses nestling among the trees, invisible from each other and the road.

One afternoon, carrying a dog he had just shot, Frankie was jogging along a flat stretch when he noticed several sight lines that had been freshly cut through dense forest along the National Park boundary. He followed the sound of voices to a couple of surveyors. They were friendly enough, taking more interest in the fact that he was hunting successfully with a bow and arrow than what he wasn't wearing. When asked about the removal of trees and bushes they said they were making the first totally accurate map of the National Park boundaries. Why? Because the government was going to sell it. Why? A shrug of shoulders. They didn't know and didn't care. Frankie didn't trust himself to continue the conversation, so thanked them and returned home, deeply concerned.

So were Ingenio and the others, who began wondering if their neighbours knew about it. They probably didn't, because they too were semi recluses, living in the forest for the peace, quiet and privacy, greeting each other on the road or in town, but not desiring social contact.

'When I think about it,' Sylvan said with a frown. 'It's a bloody long time since I've seen any of them.'

Con suggested Frankie visit them to check if they knew any more than the surveyors.

The following day he put on a pair of shorts and visited; not by crossing the boundary and approaching from the forest like a criminal, but as he would have them do if they visited him, by jogging along the road and entering through the gate and walking up their drive like an honest man.

Every house was empty, and looked as if it had been for several months. Overgrown gardens, dried out patio plants. Sad. He continued into town to ask about the empty properties, but the estate agent was close-mouthed until he realised Frankie was the owner of "85". Then his complaints seemed unstoppable.

How did people think real estate agents could make a living if they all made private sales? Ten properties along that stretch of road, all sold to goodness knows who for god knows how much money and the agent hadn't seen a cent of commission from what had to be millions! There should be a law against it! Why they were sold and to whom, he had no idea. It all happened so fast. One day the owners seemed like normal happy locals; one had a craft stall at the local market, and the next they were gone. No goodbyes, nothing. 'It just shows you never know people. You think they're your friends and then they just up and leave you.'

Frankie assured the agent he would use his services if he ever decided to sell, and returned home, now nervous as well as worried. That evening Sylvan and Karmai came for dinner to discuss it.

'It's obvious,' Karmai said with a shrug of resignation. 'You whiteys keep hanging onto the pathetic notion that your elected government will govern in the best interests of all citizens. But no government in history has ever done that. Look at my people. Two and a half centuries after invasion we're still rotting in poverty and prisons. What decent person would want to lord it over others? Not one. Violent bullies become policemen, and scheming selfish arseholes become politicians, telling everyone else what to do and how to live. Everyone knows that all governments are corrupt, making laws for the benefit of those who'll grease their palms with filthy lucre.'

'Hope springs eternal,' Sylvan sighed.

'Thank you, Karmai, we all agree politicians are a corrupt bunch, so what do you think is going on?'

'What they've been doing forever, stealing people's land for their mates. National Parks belong to everyone, not the government.'

'You have a good point,' Con pacified. 'But why? Who'd want to buy mainly steep bushland so far from the city?'

'Loads of people' Karmai growled. 'Come on, Ingenio, boot up the computer and find out who bought those properties and if they're the same people who wanted this block.'

They crowded around, offering suggestions that slowed and impeded the investigation, but eventually Ingenio found what he wanted.

'There's no secret about state-owned land. The government wants to sell off this section of the National Park to reduce their infrastructure debts. Then private developers will tender for the construction of a new city up here.'

'Who for and why?'

'For the rich and powerful to escape all the pollution I suppose. They don't say it in words, but that's what they mean.'

'But rich bastards already have their harbour side mansions and riverside holiday homes and canal estate castles... why aren't they satisfied?' Sylvan was angry.

'Because humans can never be satisfied. It's why we're in the shit with the climate and everything else.'

'Yep. Three thousand years ago some wise Greek philosopher told everyone that more than enough is too much. But no one listened then, and no one's listened since.'

'Got it!' Ingenio hissed into the computer. 'The Ministry for the Environment's latest climate and environmental forecast. This snippet's from their "Not for public dissemination" file. Listen to this. The melt rate of all glaciers on Greenland's eastern coastline has accelerated sharply. Reliable predictions are for a catastrophic slide within three years.' He searched again. 'Here's an interesting document. "Consequences for Australia of the Greenland ice shelf sliding... bla bla bla... will be... bla bla bla... ah here we are... a rise in sea level of up to four metres. There's your answer, Sylvan. Harbourside mansions and riverside holiday homes will be under water, so they'll be moving up here with the clean air and views over the catastrophe below.'

'And what about all the poor non-rich pricks?'

'That's the plan,' Karmai sneered. 'The rich guys've been wondering what to do with the unemployed workers when all the jobs are done by robots.... they'll let them drown. That's why it's in the official secrets file, so they won't make a fuss before it happens.'

'Even the New South Wales government wouldn't do that.'

Constantine's laugh was derisive. 'Wanna bet?'

By the end of the evening they had learned that the construction contract was most likely going to an American company because the Chinese bidders wanted to preserve twenty percent of the land for green spaces and wildlife corridors, but the Americans were prepared to sacrifice green space to provide twenty percent more dwellings, and that would mean greater revenue for the government.

'They'll be paying top dollars for the land, so that's why Tony Carracci and Owen Lodes were trying to get this place for nothing. Then when they sold it to the developer it'd be pure profit.'

'I wonder if our neighbours were terrorised into selling like they tried to do with us. It's certainly very odd that they all left. Let's try to contact them and find out.'

'Do we want to know?'

'Definitely. Because if that's what happened we can expect more nasty visitors.'

'Why is our place so valuable?'

'Without it, all they'll have is a doughnut; a ring of properties with a huge hole in the middle.'

'Why don't the developers themselves come in and buy?'

'In case it all falls through. They don't take risks. That's what sharks like Tony do. And it's a political ploy too. If the electorate learned that foreign companies were buying up national parks, there'd be uproar and the deal would fail. So the usual practice is to keep it a secret by having Australians buy first, and then spring it on an unsuspecting public when it's too late for them to do anything about it.'

'There's no problem keeping things secret, because banks and corporations own all media. The government's just doing their dirty work for them for kickbacks.'

'So what do we do?'

'We need more information. I'll get onto it tomorrow while you guys work on ways to increase our security. I don't want to sell, but I also don't want to be surrounded by luxury slums.

Karmai and Sylvan set to work on increasing security.

Ingenio got busy, found the names of their ex neighbours and their new addresses, and together with Frankie visited them all, learning that none had wanted to sell. All had been more or less terrorised into selling at a ridiculously low price, and threatened with unnamed terrors if they complained. The one person who had complained to the police, disappeared a month later while walking to the shops. The cops said they were too busy to follow up the complaint. Another man's brakes failed when he was too slow in agreeing to the contract. His wife ended up with spinal injuries and will never walk again. The cops tried to blame the husband, said he wanted to get rid of his wife. All of the previous neighbours would love to get their property back. No real estate companies were involved; they were all private sales.

'They gave us copies of the documents,' Ingenio said. 'The same person did the transfers of all five properties with the Lands Department. Her name is Avarisha Louka. She has an office in central Sydney.'

Constantine prepared himself for a visit to the lawyer.

#  Tactics

Karmai and Sylvan's beefed up front gate looked slightly more formidable than before, requiring a tank to get through—or the combination of the heavy-duty lock. Five more security cameras had been hidden on the road frontage and at the gate. Visitors had to use a local landline phone placed to the left of the gate, then wait for someone to come down and let them in. A small electric scooter parked by the garage made that a quick trip.

'Ok, What's next, Con?' Karmai was impatient to get started on stopping the sale of the National Park, and punishing the extortionists.

'Acting as Frankie's lawyer, I will pay this woman a visit and get the names and addresses of the people she did the conveyancing for. You and Sylvan will be my back-up strong men waiting close by to save me if I ring you. And with Frankie's assistance, Ingenio will inundate social media with news about the impending sale of one of the nations most beautiful National Parks for development by foreigners, as well as the projected flooding within the next three years of all low-lying areas, and the government's secret dealings to ensure the welfare of the wealthy.'

'Sounds good.'

'I'll also find some way of alerting property owners about the stand-over tactics of middlemen buyers.' Ingenio added. 'Ah, the wonders of the Internet. Free email no matter the volume. It can't be long now before ISPs start charging.'

'Are you absolutely certain you can remain anonymous, Ingenio? Surely everything that leaves your computer to whisk around the Internet has an origin tag, or whatever it's called?'

'Nothing's completely certain, Karmai. You're right that everything uploaded is given a tag identifying the Internet Service Provider, but fortunately there are thousands of them. I use a program that allows me to choose what provider to use, and if I randomly select and only use each ISP once, there's no pattern so they're not going to notice if I piggyback. And even if they do, they won't find the origin of the data. The Internet may be wonderful, but it's also the most dangerous tool humans have ever invented and will be our eventual downfall. Meanwhile we may as well make use of it. My pupils—sixty-eight thousand and fifty-one at the last count, will receive anonymous emails from new protest groups with names and codes that will fool spam filters, explaining what's happening and inviting them to a protest rally in Martin Place. Affordable donations will be solicited to make them seem genuine, all the money going through a laundry service I set up ages ago, before landing in the coffers of ANTaR.'

'Good one, Ingenio. And if we need more muscle, I can depend on over a hundred young men I've kept out of trouble since we came here. They're supposed to be criminals, but I'd trust all of them further than any politician or cop. What a world humans make for themselves.'

'Don't you want to remain as anonymous as possible?' Karmai asked innocently. 'Surely the fewer people who know you're involved, the safer you and the rest of us will be?'

'Of course, but...'

'I assume your non-criminal mates are human?'

'Con nodded.

'Then they will tell their mates what they're doing because they'll be proud to be taking down the big bad guys. You'll be a hero and a saviour and on the news before you can blink.'

'He's right, Con,' Sylvan agreed. 'We five have something precious to lose. Those guys have nothing to lose and everything to gain. We must retain our anonymity.'

Con looked around, saw the serious nods and conceded. 'You're right. I was getting carried away. Felt like Castro leading the downtrodden against the vile capitalist exploiters. Sorry.'

'Forgiven,' Frankie laughed. 'But I must have more to do than give Ingenio a hand.'

'You are in charge of keeping this place going, answering phones, making meals, making yourself useful without getting into trouble. You're tough but innocent. We're able to keep our heads when all about us are losing theirs. You, dear boy, would race into battle and get yourself shot.'

'Like the way Sylvan did when I saved you all with my bow and arrow?'

'Ah yes.' Con looked at Sylvan who blushed.

'I'm dispensable, Frankie,' Sylvan said seriously. 'You are not. You are the owner, the person with the legal right to hang on to this place. Were I in charge of you I'd send you away until all this is over.'

Karmai rounded on Sylvan, grabbed a fistful of chest hair and shoved his face into his. 'You are not fucking dispensable, Sylvan. You are the most precious person here, as far as I'm concerned. And if you do anything stupid like that again, I'll... I'll...' He shook his head to stop the emotion. 'But I agree that Frankie must stay out of this. You're a great guy, Frankie, we all love you, but you're not nasty enough yet. Leave this to us. If we have to worry about you then we'll be in danger of stuffing up.'

'He's right,' Ingenio said. 'I don't want to be concerning myself about you when I'm concentrating on making waves.'

'Ok,' Frankie shrugged. 'I'm flattered, and I'll keep out of your hair—until you come begging me to put a poisoned arrow into someone. How about I print off a few leaflets and paste them here and there in the town?'

'Promise not to be seen doing it?'

'Promise.'

Avarisha Louka's name, legal degree, hours of business and phone number were displayed in neat gold letters on the glass panel of a discreetly dark green door situated between a bank and a sports shop. They entered and climbed steep, carpeted stairs to the first floor where the lawyer had her rooms. The only occupant of the no-frills waiting room was a pale and wan young man with long, greasy hair, sitting behind a computer. He looked up guiltily. Con apologised for not having an appointment, but needed to see Ms Louka. The young man shut down his screen, told Con to take a seat, and disappeared into the room behind.

Con remained standing until, about five minutes later, a largish, somewhat shapeless woman in early middle age and a dusty pink dress, opened her door, eyed the visitor coolly, and invited him in. Her room was large and carpeted wall to wall in nondescript brown and beige and orangey shapes. Ideal for parties where the guests are prone to technicolour burps. The air, a toxic brew of stale cigarette smoke and overpowering perfume, caused Con to breathe shallowly and decide to keep the interview short. Shelves filled with books and folders made a floor to ceiling backdrop for the imposing desk and it's glowering owner, who sat down with a slight grunt, waved Con to the chair in front, raised questioning eyebrows and asked rudely, 'Who are you and what do you want?'

Con smiled pleasantly, secure in the knowledge that he who keeps his temper longest wins. 'I'm Constantine Tollirint, representing Frankie Fey,' he said clearly, noting a twitch in the otherwise dead face. 'He owns a large property in the mountains just east of Katoomba, backing on to the National Park. When all his neighbours sold their properties, he decided to sell too, but so far no one has shown any interest. So I contacted a friend in the Land Transfer Office who told me you had done the conveyancing. Acting under Mr. Fey's instructions, I am here in the hope you can put me in contact with the people who are buying in that area.'

Ms. Louka's face remained impassive. 'You are saying that Mr. Fey wants to sell?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'He's had enough of romantic isolation. Being in his thirties he's come to the conclusion he quit the bright lights too soon... I think.' Con pulled a wry face as if to share silent criticism of his client.

With no acknowledgement of his attempt at familiarity, the woman stated bluntly, 'Give me his details and I will contact the buyers.'

'I would prefer to approach them myself.'

'Not possible.'

Con sighed. 'Then I've wasted my time. Mr. Fey had intended to use the local Estate Agent, but I convinced him it would be better for him to use the people already familiar with these sorts of transactions.' He stood and held out a hand. 'So, as we are unable to do business, I'll visit the other fellow.'

A flicker of fear. 'Sit down, Mr. Tollirint. I was merely trying to save you time. Of course you may have the name of the buyer. I will post it to you as soon as possible.'

Con remained standing. 'No thanks. I'm in a hurry. I know from experience that a lawyer's soon as possible can mean weeks. If you haven't got the details, or permission to tell me, please just say so.'

This time the annoyance was obvious. She stared at Con as if to read his mind. After a few seconds he shrugged and moved to the door as if he'd given up.

'Here,' she snapped, scribbling on the back of one of her business cards, then handing it to him. 'This person bought the other properties.' She stared at him, lip curling contemptuously. 'I've heard about you, Mr. Tollirint, keeping riff-raff out on the streets instead of locked away where they belong. The world you're now playing in is very different. I suggest you buy yourself a long spoon.'

A nervous chill ran down Con's spine as he nodded, turned and left. Despite having maintained his composure he didn't feel he had won anything.

He joined Karmai and Sylvan at a coffee shop two blocks away and they drove to a small park on the harbour where they could talk privately.

'There's only one person buying, so I'm guessing our two buyers were working for him, and probably the blokes who intimidated the other property owners to sell were working for him too. So he's the one we have to go to. I've never heard of him, which is no doubt deliberate. But Ms Louka seemed frightened. She told me to buy a long spoon. What did she mean?'

'It's an old saying,' Karmai explained. 'He who sups with the devil needs a long spoon. I went to a mission school for a while and they were always saying that, meaning don't get too close to bad people or you'll get hurt.'

'Good advice.'

'What's the bloke's name?' Sylvan asked.

Con handed him the card on which Ms Louka had scrawled, A. Thrope, and a phone number.

'What sort of name's Thrope?'

'An odd one.'

'And why are we so sure it's a bloke? Loads of females just use initials so no one will guess they're not men. Writers of gay erotica are mainly females with names like Alex or Kris. Have you read any of their stuff?'

'No'

'Don't, it's just Mills and Boone with erections. Fantasy crap that does more harm than good to young guys questioning their sexuality. They need a dose of reality, not wet-dream fantasy.'

'I've never read any gay stuff; thought I was a heterosexual till I met Karmai. Do you reckon I ought to? You know... make myself more knowledgeable?'

'There's nothing to know. We're all individuals doing whatever we think is best for us. It's only our enemies who say we're all the same.'

'Yeah, right-wing nut jobs and religious crackpots. Apparently they're usually closet queers, trying to divert attention from their own lusts. Poor buggers.'

Back at "85" Ingenio had sent out his bulletins while Frankie prepared a score of notices. After dark he would stick them up around the town.

Pretending he wanted to look at what Ingenio was doing on the computer, Frankie leaned closer and blew lightly on his neck. 'I reckon necks are the most beautiful part of a man's body,' he said softly. 'They are the graceful, powerful columns that support our intelligence and wisdom.'

'It's too hot for philosophising, no matter how poetic' Ingenio grunted.

Frankie lightly kissed the tanned column.

Ingenio carried on looking at the screen.

He placed his hands on Ingenio's shoulders and massaged them lightly.

'You're radiating so much heat my back's pouring with sweat. Let's go for a swim.'

'Yeah, race you.'

They exchanged shorts for sandals, Frankie grabbed a large towel and they jogged down the track to the swimming hole where a trickle of water ran down rocks into a pool about as wide and deep as the average Jacuzzi. The surrounds were rocky, so they slithered carefully into the cool liquid, sat on smooth rocks and wallowed in silence.

'Ah, bliss.' Ingenio sighed. 'Another reason not to have air-conditioning. We'd not bother to come down here if the house was cool.'

Frankie reached over and removed a twig from Ingenio's hair.

Ingenio laughed. 'You're a fusspot, you know that?'

'I'm just...'

'Just in need of a boyfriend and something useful to do.' Ingenio lay back on the warm rock, closed his eyes and relaxed.

Frankie sat leaning against a boulder and consciously studied this man he thought he knew. Ingenio looked the same as always, but... smaller somehow. Of course Frankie had grown and Ingenio hadn't over the last four years. Even so he seemed more slightly built—less robust than Frankie had always imagined. Not fragile. Lean and... spare. That was the word. No flesh to waste, but fit and healthy. A sudden protective urge swept through Frankie when he realised he was now taller, heavier and physically tougher than his father.

'Inge,' he said softly, 'I'm really grateful that you pretended to be me when the heavies came knocking. I could never have faced them like you did, but I'm older now and tougher, so it's time I took responsibility for myself. Is that Ok?'

'Very Ok,' Ingenio said with conviction. 'I've never enjoyed telling lies and I was terrified each time.' He gave a short laugh. 'Believe me, it's a relief to know that next time someone wants to meet Frankie Fey they'll be dealing with you; as long as you promise to always take care.'

'I promise.'

They lay contentedly gazing up at the sky through leaves and eucalyptus flowers. A parrot screeched. Three large black butterflies chased each other. Cicadas chirruped.

#  Strategy

An Internet search for Thrope turned up nothing apart from a Sci-fi tale about a girl who had a one night stand with a Japanese thrope. Who or what the thrope was remained a mystery.

'Just dial the number on the card. It's only half past four, he could still be at the office.'

The phone was answered by a girlish voice. 'Dubbledada yoldiniys, Juriddian speaking, how may I help you?' At least that's what it sounded like. Frankie wondered if it was the same in other countries and who taught them to speak incoherently and if there was some sort of malicious plot behind it.

'I'm sorry, I understood neither your name nor your place of work.'

It was no clearer the second time and it was too hot to protest, so he gave up. Taking his lead from the receptionist, he slurred the Thrope person's status so it could sound like either Mr. Mrs. or Miss. 'I'd like to speak with Mzr Thrope.'

'Miss Thrope is out of the office at the moment. May I know who's calling?'

'Frankie Fey.'

'What do you wish to speak with Miss Thrope about, Mr. Fey?' A reasonable question, considering the woman's probable wealth and the enemies she must have accumulated along the road to fortune.

'I've been told that Miss Thrope is buying forested acreage blocks of land near the city, and as I have one to sell in the Blue Mountains, I wondered if she might be interested.'

He was asked to hold the line. Three minutes later she returned. Miss Thrope will see you tomorrow at eleven-fifteen.'

'Where?' Frankie asked.

'Here.'

'Where's here?' He just avoided snapping at her.

'Colonial Chambers.' She disconnected.

Ingenio was smiling. 'You look peeved.'

'A little girl just hung up on me.'

'What did you learn?'

'It's Miss Thrope, not mister, and her office is in Colonial Chambers.'

'Sounds like an old toilet. Where are they?'

'The bitch hung up without telling me.'

Ingenio searched and found a street view of a colonial style, two-storeyed office building in a cul-de-sac down by the inner harbour.

Frankie peered over Ingenio's shoulder, 'I expected a glass and steel high-rise office suite. Perhaps she's not so bad after all if she prefers a pleasant building like that.'

'We'll discover that tomorrow at a quarter past eleven.'

They found Con up in the observatory, asleep. Taking a freshly baked Madeira cake, the three men wandered down to Karmai and Sylvan's to tell them about Miss Thrope. Over a cup of tea they decided they'd all go into the city early the following day to check out the area, because knowing the environs when dealing with strangers could never be a bad thing.

'At nine o'clock the following morning, the five men parked their vehicles several blocks away from Colonial Chambers and went their separate ways, not acknowledging each other when their paths crossed as they checked surrounding buildings, the little park, the wharf behind the office, entrances and exits, security, roads, and who was coming and going. At ten thirty Karmai entered the restored elegance of the reception area and stared at the list of tenants.

'Snake! What the fuck're you doing here?' The voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried and Karmai knew it instantly. His face cracked into a wide grin.

'Buddy!! You're looking respectable!' he said just as quietly. 'What's the matter? Someone died?'

The well-fed middle-aged man of a similar ethnic persuasion to Karmai, put his finger to his lips and beckoned him to an open door. Karmai followed into a well-appointed office and looked around appreciatively. Buddy left the door ajar. 'Believe it or not, I _am_ respectable, Snake,' he said once they were inside but still speaking softly. 'You are looking at the concierge of Colonial Chambers.' He grinned and grabbed both Karmai's hands in his own. 'What are you doing here? Can you hang around till I get off? What've you been doing since... Are you married? Got kids? You're looking fit!'

'You're looking pretty good yourself. What've you been up to?'

'Got a couple of kids, fifteen and sixteen. This job pays well. Got me a house out west. No complaints from the missus—well no more than usual. You?'

'Still working at the place in the hills. Different owner, though. Good bloke.'

'Married?'

Karmai shook his head.

'What, no sex?'

'I get plenty, but without the hassles.'

'Yeah. That's the downside.' He shook his head and grinned. 'What're you doing here?'

'A friend wants to see Miss Thrope.'

Buddy pulled an astonished face. 'Why?'

'He wants to sell his place and she's been buying that sort of property. What's she like?'

Buddy peered into the foyer. 'I'm also security,' he explained, 'so have to know who's coming and going—and make sure no one's listening.'

Karmai was staring at his friend. 'We've been whispering. Isn't that sick? As if we're still in the lock-up. I've just realised... I don't think I've ever had a conversation with you at normal volume. In fact, have we ever met outside?'

Buddy's smile was sad. 'No. We met when we were thirteen in Cairns Youth Detention centre, then in Townsville a few years later. Then in Brisbane for too long, and then you disappeared. It's thanks to you I'm alive. I'd have topped myself if I hadn't had you to offload all my crap.'

'Likewise, Buddy. It wasn't one way. I was fucking lucky you were there every time they locked me up. How'd you get on your feet?'

'A prison visitor—not one of the usual bible bashers, but a decent atheist, took a liking to me and gave me a job. That's all it took—a regular job. Crazy eh?'

'Crazy isn't strong enough. They know that imprisonment, beatings, solitary, verbal abuse and all the other violent crap that goes on, makes kids worse, while responsibility and a bit of help turns them into law abiding decent people, but they choose torture because that gets them votes, then wonder why things get worse.'

They shook their heads, not wanting to remember any more.

'What about your Thrope woman?'

'She's an ugly bitch with a capital B. I keep praying someone will slice her into bits and feed her to the sharks. What the fuck's she buying property for?'

'Profit. She's been sending heavies to owners of large blocks of land to terrorise them into selling their properties for peanuts, then she sells the land at a gigantic profit to developers.'

'Sounds like her. She wants to get rid of me; says I lower the tone and blacks aren't trustworthy. Why's your friend selling to her then?'

'He isn't. He wants to meet her and see if he can persuade her to give the properties back to his neighbours.'

Buddy's eyes widened, then he opened a gigantic mouth and nearly choked on suppressed laughter. Wiping his eyes he spluttered, 'Never make me laugh like that again.' He started giggling. 'Anne Thrope doing something decent? Ha!'

'Does she have any weak points?'

'Well...' Buddy peered out the door to check no one was listening. 'I happen to know, via a friend who services upper-crust females, that she is a sucker for tough, hairy, butch mature guys. She likes to humiliate them, make them lick her arse and pussy, then shits and pisses on them. Ties them up and hurts them till they beg her to stop.'

'Charming. Which begs the question, why does your friend do it?'

'Three thousand dollars for an hour's pain and disgust seems worth it to him.'

Someone moved a chair in the foyer.

'Hang on. There's someone out there.' Buddy stood in the doorway and asked politely, 'Can I assist you, sir?'

'I'm just looking around. I love these old buildings; there are so few left.'

'Lots of people feel the same. We had a busload of Art History students last week. But please stay in the foyer and don't go upstairs. The tenants are very particular about privacy.

Karmai was wondering if he should go and tell Sylvan where he was when Buddy returned.

'That bloke out there!' he whispered, 'He's exactly the type the Thrope bitch loves to torment. I'll bet he's here for her.'

'Actually, he isn't. He's my...' Karmai hesitated, then decided not to be a wimp. 'He's my partner. My lover. We've been together for three years.'

Buddy's grin was even wider than before. 'Snake! That's brilliant! Seriously, I always thought you were too nice to get trapped by a female. He looks real nice; invite him in.'

'We're pretending we don't know each other because we're wondering... if my friend can't persuade her to do the decent thing, we might be able to...' he broke off suddenly aware that he'd given everything away. Face stricken he gazed in horror at Buddy, 'Fuck! You won't give us away, will you? I have to know before we fall into a trap. I was so crazy thinking about Sylvan out there, and daring to tell you and being so happy that you didn't call me a fucking filthy queer that I totally let my guard down and...' he grabbed buddy by the shoulders and stared into his eyes.

'Your secret is not only safe, but you've got an ally. If I can be any use whatever, you let me know. Got it?' He held out a hand and they shook. Karmai hugged his old friend but couldn't speak from relief.

'As it happens, I've an idea,' Buddy said thoughtfully. 'Invite your boyfriend in.'

Karmai went to the door and beckoned, then introduced his two friends.

'Snake tells me you'd like to get close to the Thrope?'

'Yes.'

'I've a mate who's an escort with an agency that guarantees his security clearance, health and financial insecurity, so he does whatever he's asked and tells no one because he desperately needs the cash and can't risk losing a client. His next appointment is in two days. I know, because he rang me and said he couldn't do it anymore because next time he would either throttle her or kill himself. He's a good bloke, but a gambling addict. He asked me to lend him the cash so he could quit doing her. But I know I'd never see it again and I'm not that flush and I wouldn't mind if he did throttle the bitch. However...' he paused, thought briefly, then looked up with an impish grin. 'As you want to get close to her and are exactly the type she likes, why don't you give my friend the three thousand, and take his place?'

'Doing what, exactly?'

Buddy repeated what he'd told Karmai.

'No wonder he wants out. She'll be out of commission before I do anything like that!'

'Good.'

'But there must be protocols, proof of identity, things he has to say or do before he's allowed inside. She may be kinky but she's obviously not a fool. I'll have to meet him. What's his name?'

'Vic.'

'Short for Victor?'

'Yeah. But should be Victim.' Buddy picked up his phone, spoke, then looked up with a grin. 'Four-thirty this afternoon at his digs?'

Sylvan nodded. 'Let me talk to him.'

Buddy passed the phone.

'Gidday, Vic. Sylvan. Buddy's talked me into doing a deal—perhaps. I'm promising nothing till I've spoken with you. Your place at half past four, right?' .... 'Yeah, I'll get Buddy to show me on a map. Cheers.'

Buddy printed out a map and marked the spot.

Karmai checked his watch. 'Frankie'll be here any minute, so we'll be off. His appointment with Miss Thrope's at eleven-fifteen.' He hugged Buddy. We'll catch up again soon, I promise.'

As they sauntered away towards the little park, Sylvan looked at Karmai and laughed. 'What's the matter? Don't you want to share me with the lovely Anne Thrope?'

'It's not that. It's just that I'll be wondering if you've washed off all her piss and shit before getting into bed afterwards.'

'Good point. I'll have to make sure I don't let it get that far.'

Con and Ingenio were sitting on a low retaining wall that separated slides, swings and sandpit from a patch of grass.

'You can't be serious!' Con laughed when told Miss Thrope's first name. 'No parent would ever call their daughter Miss Anne Thrope!'

'Well it seems they did, and according to Vic, Buddy's friend who fucks her each week at three thousand dollars a pop, she lives up to her name.'

'What does he have to do for that!'

They told him and the laughter stopped.

'She's gone beyond misanthrope, she's a sociopath.'

'And Sylvan's offered to take his place.'

'Only till the fun and games start, I hope!'

'Well before that, if I've anything to do with it. But Vic has to agree and give me all the info.'

'Let's hope you don't have to. Perhaps Frankie's silver tongue will persuade Miss Anne Thrope to be generous.'

'Buddy doesn't give that any chance.'

Frankie's pleas for decency fell on deaf ears. Well, one deaf ear, the other was missing, having been sliced off along with a piece of the woman's cheek and forehead when her defacto in a fit of irritation locked her in the bedroom, electronically sealed all windows and doors, and set fire to the house. She had managed to escape through the toilet window of their en-suite bathroom, slicing off bits of her face on glass she hadn't been able to remove properly. Some people thought her scars interesting, others creepy. Her lungs and throat were also no longer in perfect condition due to inhalation of very hot smoke. Some people found her husky voice sexy, others creepy.

Frankie was repelled. Not by her disfigurement, that triggered a deep feeling of pity, but by her manner. She was standing beside the window with the damaged side of her face in full view. In her forties and a tailored grey suit, she looked like a robust cylinder on two solid legs. Closely cropped hair and little differentiation between neck and small head, created a bullish impression. No makeup had been used to conceal the gruesome scarring that replaced the missing ear, cheek and forehead.

'Thanks for seeing me, Miss Thrope,' Frankie said politely into the silence.

'What do you want?' The voice was harsh and husky, more a snarl than a polite enquiry.

'I have decided to sell my land and wondered if you'd be interested.'

'Where is it?'

Frankie showed her a Lands Department survey map on which he had drawn a line around the property.'

'How much?'

'Fifteen million.'

She uttered a snort of disgust. 'I'll send my valuer to negotiate.'

'Like he did with my neighbours?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'None of them wanted to sell, but were terrorised by your agents into selling for peanuts. I am very relieved to know you knew nothing about it, so I hope that now you do, you will return the properties to them.'

'I didn't say I didn't know what my agents were doing; I said I didn't know what you were talking about. Everyone who works for me does exactly as I tell them and nothing else. People who can't keep their property don't deserve it.'

'A man suicided. A woman ended up paraplegic.'

'So?'

'If someone wants something of yours, do they have the right to terrorise you into giving it to them?'

'If I can't take care of myself, then I deserve what I get.'

'The law of the jungle?'

'No, the law of human nature. You live in a fool's paradise if you think humans are essentially good. I'm not a Christian, but I agree with their basic premise that humans are born mean, selfish and nasty and remain so. Every Homo sapiens is capable of doing whatever it takes to get what they want; even you, Mr. Fey. And if that means those in the way get hurt, too bad!'

'I appreciate your honesty, but I've changed my mind, I no longer wish to sell my land.'

Miss Thrope's laugh loosened Frankie's bowels. Nauseated, he gave a slight nod, walked to the door and turned. 'Thank you for seeing me; it has been an interesting, albeit depressing experience.'

'And now I've seen you, Mr. Fey, I'm confident I will own your land by the end of the year. Good bye.'

# Battle Ready

'So,' Frankie sighed. 'By sticking my oar in I've made an implacable enemy instead of helping the neighbours. We'll have to watch our backs constantly. Having met Miss Thrope, I take seriously her determination to evict us. She will have dozens of Tonys and Owens and Happys to do her bidding. We'll never be safe. I should have kept quiet.'

'Don't be silly, Frankie. She hadn't given up on us; "85" is the most important part of the land deal. It's good she's shown her true colours, now I won't feel bad opposing her.'

Karmai is right,' Con said firmly. 'If anything it makes it more important that ever that we eliminate the risk.'

'Eliminate?' Sylvan left the question hanging.

'She shrugged when Frankie told her about the suicide and said that those who lose, deserve whatever happens for not taking precautions.'

'You're right. She's arrogant. That's why she agreed to see him. She wanted to see what she was up against. Now she thinks she's onto a winner.'

'Are you saying I'm a wimp, Sylvan?'

'I wouldn't dare. But it's essential that none of you are associated with my impersonation of a male prostitute. Therefore, keep out of the way when I visit Vic.' He turned to Ingenio. 'Any chance of a new identity and papers to go with it?'

'And what name would that be under, sir?'

'Ivan Swindle?'

'Too explicit.'

'Max Diddle?'

'A bit cryptic.'

'Bill Smith?'

'Too original.'

'Joshua Godber?'

'He wouldn't be poor enough.'

'Martyn Hill?'

'That'll do, but I can't sing.'

They drove to the nature reserve at South Head, parked in a secluded spot and ate the lunch they'd brought with them. Ingenio opened his portable office and soon produced a fake employment pay-sheet, telephone bill, bank statement and Council Rates Demand in the name of Martyn Hill. He also took and printed two photos. One of Sylvan clothed, the other naked, both with a backdrop of sea and sky.

At half past four Sylvan knocked at the scuffed door of a unit in a run down block of ten. Vic, who had a superficial resemblance to Sylvan, seemed more nervous than overjoyed to meet his possible replacement.

'Hi, You must be Vic, I'm Martyn. We spoke on the phone from Buddy's office.'

Vic shook hands. 'Gidday, Martyn. I wonder if I've been a bit hasty. Now I've had time to think I realise there are problems.'

'Such as?'

'Someone will have to ring and tell the bitch there's been a change of escort.'

'Who would normally do that?'

'Ronaldo, the boss.'

'Ronaldo who?'

'Just Ronaldo. It's a fake name. He's pale, fat and floppy. Talks like a toff. All fake la di da. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.'

'I can manage that.'

'And you'll have to fax a photo and proof of identity to Maria; Thrope's security woman.'

'No probs. All that remains is for you to tell me everything I need to know so I don't stuff up.'

'Right. You'll need this disc to hold up to the security camera at the door to prove you're from Ronaldo's agency, and a password that Maria will issue when you phone her.'

Twenty minutes later, Sylvan could repeat every step perfectly, and had given Vic three thousand dollars in new notes and a promise that he would swear he had mugged Vic and forced him to cooperate, if things went belly up and the bitch wasn't put out of circulation and Vic was charged with whatever charges could be brought against him.

'I hear she's pretty ugly.'

'In mind and body.'

'How'd she get that way?'

The story of how Miss Thrope had achieved her deformed physical state had passed from escort to escort for several years. As to her deformed mental state and hatred of all men, it was assumed to be a consequence of her defacto's murder attempt and his subsequent acquittal of all charges when an all-male jury decided the fire had been an accident. The important thing was that if the slightest twinge of surprise, alarm or horror alighted on an escort's face on the first or subsequent encounters with the dame, or if her disfigurement were to be mentioned, he would be abruptly dismissed and never find work with that abuser of male flesh again.

That evening, Constantine, who could put on a posh accent, telephoned Maria. If Ronaldo's accent was fake then it would be inconsistent, so it wouldn't be strange if Con didn't sound exactly like him. Maria didn't question his veracity, nor his explanation that Vic was suffering a nervous breakdown so had arranged a replacement for the next visit. When requested, he faxed the photos and identity papers and waited while she studied them. 'He looks suitable,' she admitted, 'and his documents are satisfactory. Does he know where to come and all the rest?'

'He is well prepared as are all our stable.'

Maria's sudden laugh ended in a snort of derision. 'Stable! That's brilliant. They arrive like proud wild stallions and leave broken in.' She disconnected without further talk.

They had two days to reconnoitre, plan and allow nerves to replace confidence in Sylvan's head. How to get Miss Thrope to give the land back; that was the burning question. Their target lived in a riverside dwelling in a gracious tree-filled suburb. They drove to a nearby shopping centre, split up, wandered the surrounding area and both sides of the river, then met up to discuss the problem.

Obviously architect designed, the house looked like an unstable arrangement of stainless steel and glass boxes, the top one being cantilevered over the river. A two-metre-high stone wall topped by razor wire enclosed the entire property. Steel garage doors wide enough for a large car were the only entrance.

'We need to buy a boat.'

'What sort?'

'Aluminium dingy.'

'Can't we hire one?'

'And leave our names and addresses, credit card details and tell them why we want it?'

A boat shop at the marina near the mouth of the river had exactly what they needed, so they paid cash, secured it to the roof rack of the Toyota and drove to a boat ramp for small river craft like theirs, a kilometre up stream from the Thrope residence.

Pretending to fish they rowed slowly past, secretly photographing anything interesting. The fortress-like boundary wall continued right along the edge of the river, denying all ingress or egress on that side as well as front and sides. After exploring for a few hundred metres up and down river from the house, they returned to the ramp, loaded the dinghy and returned home where Google maps would provide answers to what lay inside the wall.

'Satellite views are an intolerable invasion of privacy,' Con sighed. 'No one has any idea when a photograph is being taken. I've read that people who've been caught nude sunbathing in their back yards, or in parks or on the beach have sometimes run into trouble when their faces haven't been successfully pixellated.'

'But they're useful. Now we know what lies beyond the wall. Lawns and trees but no flower gardens. A tennis court, a swimming pool and pathways. She may not have a view of the river from the garden but has a fine one from upstairs, especially that large room jutting out almost to the edge of the water. I imagine it's the lounge.'

'I can't believe she got permission to build that monstrosity.'

'Money, Karmai, money.'

'It's a bloody eyesore,' Frankie exclaimed. 'All that glass and steel. I'll bet it's bullet proof glass. And remember the reflections? She can see out but no one can see in.'

'Unless it's dark and she has the lights on inside.'

'She's probably got glass that turns opaque at the flick of a switch.'

'It's a fortress,' Sylvan muttered. 'I really don't see how...'

'How what?'

'How to implement our plan.'

'What plan?'

'Exactly!'

They brainstormed. Wrote ideas on paper. Drew pictures. And all came to the same conclusion. Impossible.

According to Vic, Maria, the security person, watched the sessions via hidden cameras so she could intervene if things got out of hand. He'd never been able to spot them, but sometimes she said things when he came down that indicated she knew what had happened. She wasn't a bad person. She bandaged deep cuts, and put plasters over others when needed, but otherwise seemed uninterested in what happened upstairs. If there were hidden video cameras, there was no way Sylvan would be able to extract the concession from Thrope before Maria called for backup. Therefore she had to be abducted and worked on elsewhere.

'What'll we do with her if she refuses?'

'Equally important, what'll we do with her when she's done what we ask?'

For some reason everyone looked at Frankie as if expecting him to know.

He frowned. 'She's maimed and angry and full of hate, and can't possibly be happy, so we put her out of her misery.'

Silent nods. It wouldn't make them as bad as her and her minions, because it was pre-emptive self defence, but it wasn't how they would choose to do business. Even if she did as she was instructed they'd never be able to trust her not to renege on the deal and take revenge. But before that problem arose they had to decide where to take her and what force they were prepared to use.

Sylvan was studying the satellite images. 'There's a very narrow balcony; more like a ledge really, in front of the room cantilevered above the river, and the sliders are ajar.'

'How can you tell?'

'There's a small bit of curtain poking out onto the balcony at the bottom.'

'You're right.'

'So if I can open them and get her out there, I could toss her over the handrail into the water where you'll be waiting with the boat.'

'And how will you escape?'

'I'll jump in after her.'

'You reckon you can toss a struggling body a few metres out into the river?'

'How big is she, Ingenio?'

'Average height. Solid. Probably sixty kilos. Three bags of wheat.'

'If you truss her tightly you could toss her like a caber.'

'Truss her with what? Sylvan will be naked.'

'But she won't.'

'She's not going to let him undress her so he can strangle her with her pantyhose.'

'Do women still wear them?'

'No idea.'

'The curtain looks as if it's that net stuff,' Sylvan said with increasing nervousness. 'I could possibly wrap her in that. If not, there's sure to be something I can grab.'

'While she's stabbing you in the back, screaming her head off, and Maria's calling in the heavies.'

'We could hire a hot air balloon and hover overhead, drop a line and...'

'Drift off over the ocean and never be seen again.'

'Stuff a phial of chloroform up your bum and dowse her.'

'Vic says Maria does a cavity search.'

'The woman's paranoid.'

'Remember what she said; if anyone gets hurt, it's their own fault. She's just making sure she never gets hurt by her toy boys.'

'How deep's the water in front of the house? '

'A couple of metres.'

'That's plenty, if she lands on her side.'

The only real danger for you, Sylvan,' Karmai said with a shake of his head, 'is that you're too nice. You'll be worried about hurting her. It's the reason heavies get away with terrorising people; they _love_ inflicting pain. Take a leaf out of Frankie's book, he saw someone aiming a gun at us and four seconds later there was an arrow in his neck.'

'You taught me that,' Frankie said softly, 'when you shot Tony and his mate the instant they proved they were murderous.'

'You'll have less than a minute, Sylvan.' Karmai's face was more serious than anyone had seen it before. 'You will have to immobilise and silence the Thrope woman by being quick and brutal. If you worry about hurting her, you're dead. Try and get her out of sight of a camera, then kneel or bend in front of her, pretend to suck her twat or something, then shoot up and head-butt her so hard she conks out instantly. As long as you hit either the nose or just above, you'll have enough time to slam her again then drag her clothes down to secure her arms and legs, or grab something handy. From head-butt to tossing over the balcony should take less than thirty seconds. No gag because it might choke her if she's thrown in the water, and then you've wasted our time.'

In the absence of any other plan, they organised everything required, went over all details till they were rote, then crossed their fingers while Sylvan practised springing up and head-butting, then immobilising with clothes and strips of curtain.

The nearer the time came for action, the more insecure he became.

#  Engagement

At eight o'clock on a cool and clear evening, Sylvan parked his nondescript little Honda a few metres from Con and Ingenio's Toyota, in an empty car park that serviced the same boat ramp they used the previous time. Pretending not to know them, he wandered casually down to the river. A gibbous moon cast deep shadows that could easily have concealed watchers. House lights from the other side made jigsaw reflections in the rippling water. To his right he could just make out the Thrope house where the river curved slightly to the north. A light seemed to be burning in the top-floor room. Taking deep breaths to calm his nerves he watched the others unload the dinghy, wished them good fishing, then set off at a trot back to the road. Ten minutes later he was pressing a buzzer beside an impressive steel door set into the wall.

'Take one step back and a little to the right,' a female voice commanded. He did so and noticed for the first time the winking lens of concealed cameras.

'Name!'

'Martyn Hill.'

'Hold your disc to the camera.'

Sylvan obeyed.

'When the buzzer sounds, push on the left bottom of the door.'

An opening large enough for a dog, slid aside. He crawled through, straightened up and walked, not ran, the fifty metres along a concrete path to a grand wooden door that opened into an oval atrium the height of the building. A wide spiral staircase just off centre that appeared to be made of nothing but glass and thin steel rods, didn't look either stable or strong enough to support the weight of a human. The atrium floor was laid with hexagonal terracotta tiles and the walls were faced with white polished stone. Three closed doors were solid stained wood, and the ceiling twelve metres above was darkly reflective; probably glass.

An open gallery encircled the first floor. He counted five doors, one of which was open and emitting the strident strains of a military march. Sylvan hoped it belonged to the room with a balcony. Lighting was concealed and at the level of dimness when you can see, but not clearly enough to be certain you're not in danger.

'Good evening, Martyn.'

Sylvan spun around; surprised he hadn't noticed the woman sitting primly on a comfortable couch to the left of the entrance.

'Do you know what to do?'

'Yes, thanks.' He removed all his clothes, placed them on a small table beside the couch, then stood in front of Marie who took hold of his penis and pressed a tube against it. A slight prick, then a tingling sensation as the injection of papaverine relaxed nearby blood vessels, increasing blood flow and triggering an erection. Then, following Vic's instructions, he presented his body for inspection.

Marie was thorough. Peeled his foreskin back from an already turgid member, pulled his cheeks apart to reveal a freshly scrubbed anus, and probed to check for goodness knows what. Then toes, fingernails, ears, teeth were checked. It felt like being in primary school again with Miss Dickey; a bodily hygiene freak.

'Do you mind me doing this?'

'No, you're very professional and security is essential for wealthy people. I'd do something similar if I were employing a stranger after-hours at home. Do you mind doing it?'

'Not to you, but most of the men your age are not so pleasant to touch.'

'I gather I've passed inspection, then?' He smiled.

The smile she returned was cautious as she peeled off her surgical gloves. 'You passed. Now, remember to relax and do as you are told and you'll be fine. I have already informed Miss Thrope that you are not Vic.'

'Was she annoyed?'

Marie got to her feet and moved towards the stairs. Of average height she looked to be in her late thirties - early forties, wearing a tailored beige dress and sensible shoes that showed off well-turned legs and a neat figure. Her wavy greying hair framed a pleasant motherly face devoid of makeup, at odds with sharp, almost glittering eyes. She peered into Sylvan's as if probing his mind, speaking slowly and very clearly. 'Not annoyed and not very surprised; which surprised me.'

Sylvan's heart thumped. Why did that seem like a warning? 'When do I get paid,' he asked truculently. It would ring alarm bells if he didn't seem interested in the money.

Maria produced an envelope. He checked the contents, then handed it back for her to put with his clothes. She checked her watch. 'Ok, up you go.'

Naked, Sylvan's strength and confidence had returned. Since living with Karmai and the others he'd grown to dislike the restriction of clothing, whose sole rational function was protection of the body in action and chairs in a house. In both fighting and working they were an impediment to movement and thinking, as well as giving opponents a handhold in close combat. He was entering a hostile space about which he knew nothing, so he had to be at the top of his form with all abilities and senses intact and available. Tossing out all doubts, feeling both mentally and physically powerful, he took the steps three at a time, then walked proudly through the partially opened door, which closed automatically behind him.

The music stopped.

An armchair in the centre of the surprisingly small room was the only furniture. It was facing the door and occupied by the shadowy figure of Miss Thrope. Obeying Vic's instructions, he stood close in front of her, hands on hips, manhood thrusting, gazing around the room while avoiding looking at her, which wasn't easy as she immediately busied herself with an unpleasantly invasive exploration of his body.

To his relief, this was the room with the sliding door and balcony. In fact, that was the only opening. The curtains he had glimpsed the other day had been removed, leaving opaque glass that reflected the room dully. The frame of the slider was solid steel, not the flimsy aluminium that can be lifted by a child and removed. And the lock looked very solid. No one without a battering ram would be able to get through that door from the outside. But was it possible to break out from inside?

A soft metallic clunk from behind, interrupted his thoughts. A second clunk at the sliding door in front of him was accompanied by the turning of the locking mechanism; a tiny red light glowed beside it to indicate its state. Both doors had been electronically locked. He was trapped. Anne Thrope hadn't left her seat, so Marie must have activated them from below. She was probably watching now on a screen in her room. Sylvan shook his head in disappointed surprise. She had looked so pleasant.

Suddenly he screamed and leaped back, staring down at his bleeding scrotum. 'What the fuck were you doing woman!'

Thrope was inspecting her nails from which blood dripped. 'I was trying to tear your balls off, Sylvan.'

'You can't...' he stopped. She'd called him Sylvan. He stared into the grinning half-face and snarled. 'My name's Martyn.

'And your boyfriend's Karmai and he's a friend of Buddy, who is going to pay me a visit as soon as I've disposed of you.' She laughed at his fury. 'I own Colonial Chambers, Sylvan. Do you really think I wouldn't keep an eye on that black bastard? He used the anti-discrimination act to prevent me firing him when I bought the place.' She stared at her prisoner. 'No man will ever tell me what I can and can't do. If they try they'll end up like you.' Her hollow, mirthless laugh sent a shaft of cold fear through his belly. 'You men are pathetic. Your friend Frankie asked me ever so politely to give my properties back.' She threw her head back and laughed again.

Taking his chance, Sylvan leaped forward and threw a punch at her head, only to have his arm slashed with the sharp edge of a stick that had miraculously appeared in Thrope's right hand. The cut was slight, but the blood was annoying. She laughed again, brandishing the stick. It was about a metre long, slim and obviously lightweight, with a bulb at one end and, he realised with a shock, a three-bladed cutting wheel at the other.

'This is my latest toy, Sylvan. Look how light it is.' She waved it around. 'And look what it can do.' A high-pitched hum filled the room as the blades began to spin ever faster until they were but a blur. 'Do you know about inertia, Sylvan? Although this little thing doesn't deliver much torque, the speed of the blades makes up for it. They'll slice right through your flesh and a fair way through the bone before stopping. I tried it on the neighbour's yappy dog. Head off in two seconds.' She advanced slowly, brandishing the humming instrument. 'Death by a thousand cuts sounds so exotic, doesn't it? Probably doesn't feel very romantic though. I think I'll start at the top—first your ears, then fingers, then nose, then lips and so on.' she laughed again and lunged.

Just in time Sylvan leaped back. But the room was small, only about five metres square so she could stand in the middle, take a step and swing and reach most of the room, while he had to duck and weave and cower and jump to avoid the whirling blades. She lunged again and he miscalculated. A cut to his shoulder began weeping red. He had felt nothing.

Keeping to the edge of the room, he managed to avoid the sweeping, swirling blades, but it was clear she wasn't really trying. A sudden lunge opened a shallow gash in his thigh. He couldn't keep this up. Another swing and the pad at the tip of his little finger disappeared.

This was getting serious. Time to do something. He dodged successfully for a couple of minutes, manoeuvring her far enough from the chair so he could make a dive for it, slithering across the floor. Thrope's haymaker swing had it's own inertia that put her slightly off balance, giving Sylvan just enough time to grab the seat cushion and hurl it into the path of the blades on their return.

If the cushion had been firm it'd have been sliced to shreds, but the blades jammed in the thick, soft foam, twisting the handle and causing Thrope to stagger slightly. Sylvan sprang forward and slammed a tightly balled fist into the bridge of her nose, smashing the bone. With a howl of anguish she swung the rotor scythe blindly. Sylvan grabbed the shaft and landed a solid punch to the side of the mad woman's head. She dropped to the floor, along with the still whirring blades, which nicked her ankle. Out cold, she felt nothing. Sylvan turned the thing off, stripped off her clothes, used bits to tie her hands and feet together, then tried to open the door to the stairs.

Locked.

A metallic click from behind made him turn. The red light was off and the lock to the balcony had opened. How? Why? No time to wonder. Hoisting the sagging, dead weight onto his hip he leaned over the balcony. The razor wire was directly below, so there was no chance of hitting that. But the edge of the water was a good metre beyond. The dingy with Con, Frankie and Karmai on board was waiting in the shadows to the left. The balcony rail was roughly ten metres above the water, but there was no way he could throw the floppy heavy body far enough to hit the water.

Keeping hold of her arm, he climbed onto the handrail, dragged her up and clasped her sideways across his chest in a tight embrace, squatted, then with all his force sprang out horizontally, not wasting energy on gaining unnecessary extra height.

When she hit the water he let go, and fell just beyond her, his foot grazing her. His cuts immediately began to sting. Without pausing to chat, he swam back towards the boat ramp. He was halfway there when the dingy pulled alongside, Frankie tossed him a rope and he was towed the rest of the way.

Ingenio was waiting in the darkness ready to help them put the moaning body in the Toyota and lash the dingy on the roof, then both vehicles drove quietly away, hoping they'd not been seen.

#  Capitulation

It was surprisingly quick. Or perhaps not so surprising. Anne Thrope was an intelligent woman prepared to face the devil and accept the consequences. Her methods of reclaiming self-respect after a terrible accident had been misguided, but probably seemed valid at the time. Like all extreme behaviour it had become addictive and ultimately destructive.

Consciousness returned with a jolt. Everything was hurting, especially her head. Her face was so swollen she could barely open her eyes. The broken nose hammered agonisingly. The cut in her foot felt as if someone was dragging glass through it. She seemed to be standing in mud. She was naked and cold. Every part of her body throbbed in agony. She tried to sit, but the cage was a narrow metal cylinder. Her feet were tied together, as were her hands. An eerie howl arose from deep inside her chest and disappeared into the darkness. She was thirsty.

Day took an interminable time to arrive. As the world lightened she realised she was in a sort of canyon at the base of rocky cliffs. Ants were crawling over her feet, up her legs and into her private parts. The itching and biting were intolerable. She urinated and understood why she was standing in mud. In that moment she knew with dread certainty that this was the end. There was no way out. The realisation brought a strange sense of relief and she hoped it would be soon. Her bowels relaxed and slime oozed between her thighs. She was thirsty.

At first light Frankie arrived with a flask of water. He placed a straw in her mouth and let her suck as long as she wanted.

'Do you know why you are here?' The tone was compassionate.

'Yes.' The voice betrayed exhausted submission.

'We want you to sign documents transferring ownership of my neighbours' properties back to them. I also want to make a video in which you say you do this willingly, and have decided to go away because your life has become meaningless, or any other reason that makes sense to you, if not to others.'

'If I don't sign, what will happen?'

'You will remain as you are now, with enough water and food to keep you alive. You will eventually die, of course, but it will be a protracted and excruciatingly painful death.'

'And what will you do if I sign?'

'The same as you would do in my shoes.'

'Will it be quick?'

'Quick and painless.'

'How?'

'Your choice... Bullet, Nembutal or Helium bag.'

There was no hesitation. 'Helium.'

Frankie nodded and returned to the house. A few minutes later Ingenio and Constantine arrived with documents, and Karmai with tools to remove the top part of the cylinder, freeing her to the waist, then he untied her hands. She rubbed circulation back into them. Tears flowed copiously, but she didn't complain. Frankie brought a bowl of warm, soapy water and a soft cloth. She dabbed at hair, face, neck, chest and hands, wincing at the stinging. He passed her a towel.

Karmai placed a lectern in front of her as a desk, handed her a pen and paper, and Con told her to practice her signature.

'I've copies of your signature, so I will not be satisfied with anything different.'

Ten minutes later, all documents were signed and witnessed.

Frankie arrived with a video camera and Sylvan with a shirt. He looked Anne in the eyes. 'You fought well,' he said seriously. 'I wish we had been on the same side.'

With great difficulty Anne managed to put on the shirt and do up the buttons. Her short hair needed nothing but hands run through it to look presentable.

'Your nose is swollen, but now the blood's washed off it looks better,' Frankie said in a professional manner. 'If I film you slightly from the side it won't be too noticeable. Have you thought of something to say?

She nodded.

'Good.' He started filming, cropping the aperture to exclude all but head and shoulders.

'I am making this video,' Anne said softly but clearly, 'to inform those who have the right to know, that I am tired of the mean and unprincipled life I've been leading and have decided to go away. You can look for me if you like, but I doubt if you'll find me. I've long been preparing for this day, and now it has arrived I am relieved. To Marie, I leave everything I own, together with my sincerest gratitude for all those years of patient friendship.' She ended with faint a smile, and no hint of duress.

Two hours later, the documents and video had been checked and rechecked, and Miss Anne Thrope was out of her misery, deep in the bowels of the earth with four of her former minions.

The following day a courier delivered the video to her lawyer, Avarisha Louka, and Con lodged the transfer documents with the Lands Department, then made hard copies of the new digital Title Deeds, which Frankie delivered personally to their owners, explaining that he had gone to Miss Thrope regarding the heavy handed approach of her agents when trying to buy his property, and convinced her to do the decent thing for them. A brief note enclosed with the documents, apparently from Anne Thrope, apologised for the behaviour of the people she had entrusted with purchasing the properties. Frankie usually managed to leave before stunned disbelief became effusively grateful curiosity.

Sylvan's cuts were already healing, thanks to Karmai's ministrations and saline bathing. The fingertip would always be tender, but the nail was intact so it'd still be useful.

Five days after the excitement at the Thrope residence, Sylvan received an email from Marie, inviting him and his five companions to a picnic lunch in Hyde Park. She would provide the food and beverages. A hand drawn map indicated the exact time and place.

They were on time and so was she. The grassy spot was under trees; there were no other picnickers, and the slightly exposed position meant they would be neither surprised nor overheard.

She greeted Sylvan with a light kiss on each cheek, and shook hands with the others.

'You forgot to take your clothes and payment the other evening,' she said with a slight smile, passing him a plastic bag containing three thousand dollars and his clothes. 'I put them in my car as soon as I realised you'd gone without them, so I wouldn't forget to return them to you.'

'That's very civil of you,' Sylvan said also with a smile. 'I hope I caused you no other trouble?'

'Nothing a little soap and water couldn't remove in the upstairs room and balcony. Within an hour the whole place was once more spotless.'

'There is a fine view from the balcony, I was pleased to be able to go out there.'

'When I saw you were interested, I released the locks.' She turned a bland gaze on Karmai, Con and Ingenio. 'Did you catch any fish? It must have been cold on the water.'

'Only one large one,' Con replied seriously. 'You have good eyes.'

'Not particularly. But very good cameras. At least we did until I decided to spring clean and got rid of them and their contents. One can be over zealous about security, don't you think?'

'Will Miss Thrope be joining us?' Frankie asked politely.

Marie shook her head. 'It seems she's gone walkabout. That is so typical of Anne. We were best friends at school, but she disappeared without a word two days after the end of our final term, leaving me and her parents worried sick. It wasn't until several years later, after her accident in fact, that we met again and she invited me to share her house. I've notified the police who poked around for a bit, but did you know that thirty thousand people go missing every year in Australia? So they were relieved when I told them no one was worried because of her history of disappearing. They filed it, but didn't give it priority. No doubt she'll turn up again sometime. Luckily, we gave each other enduring powers of attorney several years ago, so the house and everything else is mine by default; I've no need to wait for an inheritance that may or may not arrive.'

'What'll you do with Colonial Chambers,' Karmai asked softly?'

'Pay all debts, shut down the real estate business and rent the premises to someone nice. It's too fine a building to sell, it'd only be demolished and replaced by something soulless.' She cast a sly eye on her questioner. 'You're thinking of Buddy?'

'Yes. He's one of my best friends and I was hoping...'

'Your hopes are granted. He's an excellent manager and I want to keep him. As for Anne's other money-grabbing ventures, they'll all go. I subscribe to Thucydides maxim, More than enough is too much. I have more than enough, so I'm contented.' She turned a widely innocent smile on Sylvan. 'What about you, Sylvan? What are your plans?'

'Similar to yours, I imagine, Marie.'

She raised an eyebrow and seemed amused while the others looked confused.

Sylvan had figured that the only reason an attractive woman like Marie was unmarried, was the same reason he now was, so he wrapped an arm around Karmai's shoulders and said calmly, 'I've found the best man in the world to love.'

She clapped her hands in delight. 'Oh! I am pleased. You are so nice you deserve to be happy.' The smile faded and she turned a serious face to Frankie. 'You are an extraordinary young man, Frankie; one of the few who has ever impressed Anne. Normally, she kept home and work separate, but after your visit she came and told me about it... described you perfectly.' She frowned as if wondering whether to proceed, then... 'Please tell me...'

Having anticipated the question, Frankie was ready. 'She was with us for fewer than eight hours. When she left, quickly and without discomfort, she seemed relieved—almost happy.'

'Thank you. I'm sure she was.' Marie remained silent for a few seconds, then irritably brushed a tear from an eye, took a deep breath to compose herself and smiled. 'And what are your plans, Frankie? You are so young, wise and healthy, with all your life ahead.'

'I intend to travel to see if there are any discernable variations in basic human nature.'

'And what are the characteristics of basic human nature?'

'Emotionally and intellectually shallow, self-serving and irrational. Believing what they want instead of what's real. Unable to distinguish fact from fiction, or wisdom from cant. Preferring inaction to action; war to peace. Having unfounded pride in themselves while considering all others inferior... that sort of thing.'

'And what do you expect to find?'

'Ha! You'll not catch me that easily. I have no expectations. I subscribe to the Pessimist's Beatitude. Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.'

Marie laughed delightedly. 'Oh, I am so happy to have met you all. Just knowing there are people like you has revived my pleasure in being alive.' She stood, brushed herself down and blushed slightly. 'I wasn't a willing party to Ann's darker side. In the beginning her games were rough but not dangerous, but something happened about six months ago and what had been fun became dark and dangerous. I argued and tried to stop her but she became violent. Fortunately, I have a... a friend to confide in who gave me the courage to assist you.' She looked around at sympathetic faces, then with a sigh of relief waved at someone approaching across the grass. 'My friend has arrived to help me clean away the picnic, so I wish you all a happy, contented and worry free future.' She shook each man's hand, then turned with a wide smile to greet a slim and attractive woman just on the right side of forty, whose smile matched Marie's.

The News that night was devoted to public demonstrations that had taken place that afternoon in Martin Place and in front of the State Parliament. TV screens throbbed with protesters carrying banners demanding that National Parks not be sold to private corporations for profit and housing for the rich. Other groups waved flags and placards demanding action be urgently taken to limit the damage already caused by unusually violent storms, droughts, floods, higher tides and storm surges that had recently washed away large swathes of coastline north of Sydney, and sent waves onto the esplanades and front gardens of beachside suburbs.

It began as a peaceful but persistent demonstration, by honest people who didn't want to go home without some commitment from their elected leaders. However, when they sat down and refused to budge, the cavalry arrived, followed by hundreds of police in full riot gear, wielding batons. With no discernable provocation they began spraying capsicum directly into the faces of everyone who stood up to them. At the height of the chaos, loudspeakers blared instructions to lie on their stomachs and put their hands behind heads. Failure to do so was met with violent brutality. Men, women, boys and girls were being taught who was boss in Sydney.

Suddenly it seemed as if someone had pressed the pause button. TV cameras panned over a completely still scene of scattered bodies that had been trampled by crowds unable to escape. Then slowly, some dared to raise their heads, struggled to kneel and stand, supporting each other, staring in mute incomprehension at the carnage ringed by frozen cyborgs who suddenly came to life, chanting, 'Down. Down. Down. Down....' Slamming their batons into anyone who refused to remain prostrate before the might of the law. When only the guardians of the peace remained standing, they turned as one and marched away, leaving a vast carpet of wailing, crying, screaming people whose sole crime had been a desire to save the last remnants of nature.

No ambulances arrived. It was left to those still able to move to assist those who couldn't. The walking wounded dragged themselves and their loved ones away, leaving behind those too bloodied and wounded to move, among them, it was later discovered, a hundred and sixty-three corpses.

And then the scene abruptly changed to focus on an obviously angry State Premier and his Minister for Police, standing in front of the Australian flag.

'This afternoon's riots were the worst in the state's history. It is only thanks to the brave men and women of our police force that this terrorist attack has been foiled. Don't be fooled by the reasons the terrorists gave! Today it's stopping the construction of housing for people affected by climate change, tomorrow it will be stopping everyone from pursuing their legitimate interests. Their aim is totalitarian control over everything, from what you think and say and do, to what you may eat and drink.' He turned to his Police Minister. 'On behalf of the State of New South Wales I thank you and your officers for averting this disaster. They acted with commendable restraint and we are grateful.'

The minister nodded her head. 'Thank you, Premier. I am justly proud of the officers who this afternoon protected us from those who would destroy our society, our values and our way of life. Let this be a lesson to other would-be terrorists that we, the guardians of the people, will not tolerate attempts to overturn the rule of law and bring anarchy to our fine city.'

The screen went blank and the opening sequences of 'The Big Bang Theory' began.

Karmai turned off the television, and they sat in silence.

'We caused that,' Ingenio said in an awed whisper. 'With our notices and emails and all the rest. I feel sick.'

'Were we looking at the same program, Ingenio?' Karmai asked softly, 'I formed the impression that the police caused it. Before they brought in the horses and Darth Vader's troops, it was very peaceful.'

'Karmai's right; stop beating yourself up, Ingenio. It's obvious they had orders to smash the protest and make an example of them. Poor buggers!

'But whose orders?'

'That bastard who praised them.'

'He's probably got shares in the development.'

'He's a politician. That means he's corrupt, stupid and easily manipulated by money and the expectations of the lowest common denominator. If you use a popularity poll to choose people to rule you, it's unsurprising if you get nothing but vile demagogues and arse-lickers.'

In the days that followed, both State and corporate-owned mass media supported the police and government line, abusing the protesters while praising the brave enforcers of law and order.

Dissident Internet blog and news sites kept up the calls for justice, and Frankie became worried about what would happen if there were further protests.

'They're just letting off steam, Frankie, They know they can't change anything because the true purpose of the Internet is to maintain the status quo by enabling the dissemination of every possible point of view.'

'Sounds paradoxical – but surely that's good?'

'No. All it does is encourage the creation of multitudes of single-issue splinter groups that argue amongst each other and therefore lack bargaining power. And all the time that same Internet is spying on every one of them, making revolution impossible. The banking, corporate and military establishment, however, are not so foolish, they unite in opposition to popular demands, and so they prosper. I'm surprised they haven't adopted the Ancient Roman fasces as their symbol.'

Constantine sighed deeply. 'As usual, you're right, Inge. It's the tragedy of our times that the greatest communication device ever invented, instead of freeing us from superstition is being used to enslave us.'

As none of Frankie's grateful neighbours were again approached to sell, it appeared the developers were choosing another, less contentious site. Productive agricultural land on the Darling Downs, according to rumour.

# Itchy Feet

When the adrenalin surge triggered by the confrontation with Anne Thrope retreated, Frankie felt flabby—mentally and physically. He also missed having people his own age around to chat or swim or go for hikes with. Not that he'd ever got emotionally close to anyone at university apart from Laurent.

A wild storm threw a tree across the path to the swimming hole. Refusing Sylvan's offer of a chainsaw, Frankie set to work with axe and bowsaw and in four days it was reduced to a pile of logs ready for winter fires. Three other prematurely fallen trees followed, and by the time the woodshed was stacked to the rafters Frankie had the shoulders, chest and arms of a young Conan to complement his already handsome legs.

April had arrived and with it the usual influx of pet cats and dogs that had seemed fun at Christmas, but four months later were now larger, messier and hungrier; an inconvenient nuisance to be dumped in and around national and other parks, adding yet more predators to the feral foxes cats and dogs already there.

Frankie set himself the task of eliminating non-native animals in or near "85". At first light he'd strap on his sandals and a full quiver, tie a leather bag with high-energy food round his waist, and set off. He knew all the clean freshwater streams in the area, so didn't have to carry any water. Every day he eliminated at least five ferals, usually dogs and cats. Occasionally hares and foxes. Puppies would approach, tails wagging, so it was easy to put them down with a stone. Kittens were different. Cats are instinctively feral from birth, and being small, made difficult targets. Nonetheless, within two weeks the environs of "85" were at least temporarily clear of ex-pet ferals. Hares and foxes had apparently gone further into the forests, away from noisy humans clogging the visitor areas and walking tracks, so he decided to follow them.

After a week hunting in old-growth forests, Frankie gave up. Wild animals' camouflage, finely tuned senses and their ability to remain completely still for hours, far outstripped his ability to track them. He only saw those that had lost some of their fear, having being fed by day-trippers. So instead of hunting further from civilization he went as close as he dared, discovering that before Park visitors arrived and soon after they left, dozens of cats, dogs and foxes were to be found scavenging in and around rubbish bins.

Frankie would remain in ambush until about ten in the morning, then retreated into the forest. If far from home, he ate and slept until around four when most visitors departed. Then he'd make his way home via other picnic areas in the hope of more prey, arriving back just before it was too dark to see.

Often forced to follow public tracks because of steep terrain, he relied on his ears to warn of hikers and trampers so he could get out of their way, knowing they would never understand his mission. To most people all animals have the right to live, and they think it's cruel to kill one sort to favour another—unless the favoured animal is human, of course.

Certain he had managed to remain an invisible phantom of the forest, it was a shock when Ingenio showed him an iNews photograph of himself from behind, legs apart, arrow notched in bow, standing at the edge of the forest. "Naked Archer roams Blue Mountains National Park" was the headline that sent the image viral. Then several other photos appeared on dozens of blogs and news sites; some had obviously been staged, others equally obviously were Frankie. All were too blurry to be useful for identification, showing him running, squatting, dragging an animal, probably a dog, by the tail. What was very obvious in all of them, was the absence of clothes.

Comments ranged from sexy bum to demands that the State Police find him and lock the pervert away. Few understood his intentions and the good he was doing. Females were warned not to venture alone in the forest because no man would run naked in the Park unless he was intending to rape women and girls. Something had to be done about this creep who posed a threat to visitors, and was slaughtering wild life.

'I guess I was concentrating so hard I didn't realise anyone could see me,' Frankie shrugged. 'But that's where a lot of the ferals are, around those stupid people with their litter and stinking toilets.'

'Perhaps you'd better stop for a while?'

'Why?'

'Next time they'll get a photo of your face and then you're done for.'

'But surely they know that Australia has the worst mammal extinction rate on the planet? That I'm doing them a favour—preserving the animals and birds they've come to see? Don't they know that more than half of all native birds are on the brink of extinction solely due to feral cats? That bandicoots, wombats, possums and other animals are also in danger of extinction because of foxes and wild dogs? And their kids are in danger as well when wild dogs form packs and attack?'

'You can post those comments on the blogs, but no one will read them. They post and go; uninterested in what others think and write because they're only interested in themselves.' Con said calmly. 'Meanwhile, have you considered girding your loins?'

'No. I am an animal and I want to feel and act like one. I will only live and act as a civilized human when forced to do so.'

'Define civilized, oh primal male.'

Ingenio's request was couched as a joke, but Frankie knew he was serious, so he thought carefully before making an idiot of himself. 'Essentially, civilisation means groups of people living in permanent dwellings in an organised community. Claims that it's more advanced and desirable than what came before, are propaganda lies by those who benefit from civilization. Civitas, citizen, civil, civilization, civilized... all from the same Latin root. I wrote a paper on the subject in my first year and was surprised to learn that cities only survived because of the mass expulsion and dispossession of vast numbers of hunter-gatherers who were kidnapped from their lands and homes and families, stripped of their right to free movement and forced into slavery, so that a growing ruling class could live in luxury surrounded by city walls. It's the same way the sugar industry was made profitable in Queensland, with abducted Polynesian slaves.' He glanced at Ingenio who nodded to continue.

'Towns were kept peaceful by passing laws that declared dissidents were criminals, and prisons kept them away from others. Until just over a hundred years ago, slaves were the machines of production – especially in the colonies. Civilization and wealth were only possible through their unpaid or extremely low paid labour. The romanticised classical worlds of Greece and Rome were, like every ancient civilization, built and sustained by slaves, whom Aristotle defined as people with no rights to stability, political action, speech, or organisation.'

'So there were no slave unions?' Karmai asked softly.

'Definitely not.'

'But citizens were free?'

'In a manner of speaking. No one is totally free. But you wanted a definition of civilized. A civilized man, Ingenio, is one whose spirit has been broken so he remains more or less sane when living separated from the natural world in a small box close to other humans who are not only unrelated, but different in many ways from him. He has been trained to keep to a timetable, to be wary of expressing his individuality, and to accept the will of others. He can tolerate working inside, when it would be healthier to be outside. He will do work that has no relevance to anything essential, that produces nothing of intrinsic value, is monotonous and renders him so bored his brain becomes moribund so he can sit afterwards and watch mindless pap on a flat screen, imagining it's real life. This irreparably debased human will be partially demented and ill by the time he is sixty, and dependent on drugs to stay alive. Although why he wants to live such a demeaning existence beats me. It is an unnatural way for any animal to exist, but because of brainwashing from birth, most think it is worth the sacrifice so they can have the convenience of safety, shops and services.'

'Would you sooner be back in the time of hunter-gatherers?' Sylvan asked with a smile.

'It would be more challenging and real than how most people live now. If I didn't know any other way of living, it would feel good, I imagine. Clean air, land and water for a start. Usually abundant fruit, vegetables, fish and meat. The price of civilization is the extinction of two hundred species of life every single day. The sixth mass extinction event is well underway and rampant civilization is the cause. Apart from cattle and sheep, animal populations are half the size they were even forty years ago. I know there's no going back, and there are too many of us now to live naturally, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.'

'Have you considered that most humans aren't like you? Constantine asked. 'They can't see ahead like you can, and don't want difficulties, challenges, and having to keep fit and healthy and struggle for things?'

'Apart from you guys, I don't think I've met any one like me.'

'I admire what you are doing, Frankie,' Karmai said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. 'But civilisation is an unstoppable scourge, a cancerous growth that's devouring the natural world, so all we can do is take care of ourselves and hope we can avoid the worst before we die. As for your desire to be a natural man; the rule you mentioned about dissidents being criminals still applies in most people's opinion. So choose your places to be natural very, very carefully. Conceal your differences from everyone except the few you'd trust with your life. Humans are _not_ rational animals. They act on emotions, not facts, and whereas you can only seriously annoy another animal by invading its territory or stealing its food, you can annoy humans merely by looking or acting or thinking or speaking slightly different from them. An angry animal stops retaliating as soon as the irritation stops, but humans never want to stop retaliating, and their punishments are cruel. Retribution and revenge that continue for years are human traits unknown to other animals, and the cause of terrible misery and strife.'

'Thanks, Karmai. It's a good warning so I'll try to stop acting first and thinking later.' Pride prevented Frankie from admitting he was actually a bit sick of the early mornings, and anyway it was getting too cold to run around naked, so he pulled a serious face and put away his bow and arrows.

To Con and Ingenio's relief, their impetuous son found plenty of things to do. He took over the cooking and cleaning and joined the others when they went to plays, concerts, the beach and other outings. But he always felt he was the odd man out; the kid they felt sorry for. They didn't, but Frankie imagined they did and became slightly withdrawn.

Karmai and Sylvan liked to go to gay clubs while they still looked young enough, and always insisted Frankie went with them. He loved dancing and danced with many other young men, often being invited back to their place for more intimate pleasures; but he always chickened out at the last minute.

'Why didn't you go with that guy?' Sylvan asked as they drove home one evening.

'When I saw him in the stronger light of the entrance I realised he wasn't that good looking and his body wasn't very fit, and he had sticking out ears... you know? Not really my type.'

'You want someone as fit and healthy as you and at least as good looking?'

'Yeah. That's about it.'

'Laurent wasn't like that. He was healthy and lean, but not sportive, not particularly well built and not what most people would call handsome.'

Frankie frowned and nodded.

'You liked being with him because he liked you. He was interested in you, and you liked and were interested in him, and therefore the sex was also good. Am I right?'

A slow smile spread over Frankie's face and his frown disappeared. 'You're right, Karmai. You're right! None of the guys who invite me back are interested in me. They're only interested in getting their rocks off. I can sense it and it means there's no point in going with them because it won't lead to anything worthwhile.' He grinned. 'But it's nice to know they want my body.' He fell silent as they drove. Then added, 'But how can I meet someone who is interested in me?'

'By doing what you enjoy doing, keeping your eyes and ears open and being ready to pounce on any man who seems to tick all your boxes. Remembering that he who hesitates is lost, and it's better to try and fail than never to try at all.'

'And if you need further advice,' Sylvan laughed, 'Karmai has a platitude for every occasion.'

Despite being constantly busy, days dragged. Frankie realised the cure might be to find useful employment in the real world – strut his stuff among other men. But surely this was the real world? At least it was realer than the smog-drenched towers down along the coast. Ingenio had his ever-expanding Internet Education, Con was kept busy assisting poor kids with court appearances, Karmai maintained all the machinery and tools on the place and Sylvan kept the boundaries and everything natural in top order, but Frankie's work wasn't what he would call essential.

And then the penny dropped. He needed a challenge. A bit of excitement. Despite all the problems in Tasmania and the fears about their dealings with land grabbers, he'd been happy, alert, felt useful and excited. 'I'm bored,' he whispered softly to the trees. 'I thought only boring people got bored.'

He tried meditation again but his mind refused to even pause, let alone stop thinking. The desire for adventure became a deep-seated craving for excitement, danger, challenge... anything to give him an adrenalin rush and stimulate his body and brain. He also wanted sex. But he'd met no one like Laurent, or the easy fun-fucking sex with other students after his performances on the lyre. That had been more like acting and performing than intimate activity. No... sex was a health hazard so had to be taken seriously. It wasn't a pastime. It was about bonding. The ultimate act of intimacy that sealed ties for life. He shook his head at his own pomposity.

Who was he kidding? If anyone even slightly presentable came along he'd have his clothes off in seconds. Fuck bonding. He wanted a sexy, fit naked body to wrestle with. But that was never going to happen if he stayed at "85". He had to get away. To strike out on his own. To make his own life. Not financially as he hadn't the slightest idea how to make money apart from investing, and would starve rather than work in a factory or office. Luckily, he had plenty. But to make life interesting he'd act and behave as if he was poor. What he needed was to be in a position where he had to make decisions for himself, knowing he would have to suffer the consequences on his own, unable to phone Inge to rescue him. He sighed and stared into the forest. It was easy to dream, but how to turn dreams into reality?

As if summoned by his wishes, an advertisement popped onto his Internet screen a few days later while he was watching a yoga demo. It was for a Monastic Retreat where he could "Perfect the Art of Meditation Under the Guidance of an Experienced Master". Frankie took it as a sign that the God-of-the-Almighty-Electronic-Device-for-Spying-on-All-Who-Use-It had singled him out as worthy of its attention and wanted to reward him. He clicked on the links.

The first one opened on a scene of great beauty. A delicately handsome, vaguely oriental young man loosely wrapped in an orangey sheet that exposed his right shoulder and nipple, stood smiling beside a quaint old stone monastery with a crumbling bell tower, on the edge of a precipice with a background of jagged snow-capped mountains and fluffy white clouds in an indigo sky.

"In this environment," the blurb declared, "the dedicated seeker after enlightenment will learn to collect his thoughts, discover the inner man, expand his awareness of the infinite, and experience transcendental illumination in which the mystery of the universe will be made clear."

Wow! The next link was selling the transcendental charms of a half-timbered stone structure clinging precariously to a steep stony hillside, backed by tall poles with flags fluttering in the wind. A wall of giant boulders several meters tall enclosed a rough garden filled with herbs and tough grasses sprinkled with white flowers that, when he saw them, Sylvan reckoned were opium poppies.

Another link tempted him with a square stone tower topped by a reddish roof and fronted by a colour-coordinated doorway into a stone structure that seemed to have grown out of a hillside backed by stupendous snow-capped mountains rearing into a blue-black sky. This was the only one to offer an interior shot of a cosy room with simple wooden floor, two hand-made wooden stools against a solid, wooden, intricately carved bench and table of great age, with a solitary monk sitting in meditation before a vast fireplace jutting into the room, with a hot fire of large logs giving both light and warmth.

Frankie tossed a coin and attempted to make a booking for the first one, in case the handsome young monk would be available as tutor. They offered six-week monastic retreats for up to three hundred people in nearby dormitory blocks with all modern facilities including Internet access. He would have to share in the burden of preparing food and maintaining cleanliness and working in the gardens as well as meditating, but he had expected that. He hadn't expected to share the solitude with hundreds of other wannabe acolytes.

He felt a meditation coming on, so pressed the button to make a reservation, and was relieved to discover it was fully booked for the next three years. As were all the others when he investigated.

Another search turned up three more Buddhist retreats, also in the mountains, all in large, well serviced modern establishments that looked more like budget hotels than monasteries. He selected the least unattractive and gave far too many personal details, including address, next of kin, educational qualifications, previous transcendental experiences and... he baulked at giving his Debit Card number, which was fortunate as it was fully booked. As were all the rest. Clearly, Buddhist Meditation Tourism had taken off. Maybe he wasn't meant to meditate with stunning views across deep valleys to the jagged, thrusting, craggy, snow-clad mountains of the Himalayas.

He was on the point of shutting his computer down when an email arrived inviting him to "...flee the cares of the modern world and recharge his spiritual batteries in an environment of spectacular beauty and isolation, far from the maddening crowd and the constant surveillance of modern society." Frankie sat back and contemplated the email. Where had it come from? Very odd. Perhaps Google sent instant information to businesses, about people who were looking for something similar but unable to find it, and that triggered an automatic email. Creepy, but possible. And very clever. Personal emails are much better sales tools than open links. Makes the recipient feel special. There was no photo, and no link. That was strange. But perhaps the sender was the real thing, a monastery of simple Buddhists who wanted to make the world a better place, not make money out of it.

He replied to the email asking for further information, and received the name, "Sankturi", and a screenshot of a simple map showing how to get there from the nearest village; enough info for him to check Satellite images. Sankturi appeared to be a collection of stone buildings perched among ravines, snowy peaks, sparse vegetation, and rocky, mountainous hills in Northern India, almost on the border with Tibet. Zoomed images were too blurred to be very useful, but he clearly saw a track leading up from the nearest village. Excited at the absence of road access and modern dormitory blocks, he responded with a request to stay for a month, arriving in the middle of August.

Three minutes later his booking was confirmed, together with a request that on arrival he transfer five thousand U.S.A. dollars to the monastery account. Not exorbitant, but not cheap either. He supposed they had to survive, and it was not much more expensive than the other places, and looked far more exciting. Paradoxically, the amateurish approach to business compared to the other monasteries seemed to be evidence that it was genuine. Definitely odd, but didn't odd mean exciting?

The others weren't so impressed.

Ingenio cautioned against leaping in where angels feared to fly and agreed it looked amateurish. But to him that meant it was probably a scam. However, 'Internet Maps' proved it really did exist, and it _was_ almost in Tibet, so nothing was certain. And scams usually wanted money up front. Ingenio checked for links to references, past successes, famous people who'd spent time there, but found none. However, as most such things were usually self-referencing and total fakes, it didn't mean anything.

Ingenio then accessed Indian court and police records of the area and found no reference to Sankturi. No proof of anything, but not bad either. And the satellite views certainly looked adventurous. If Frankie really wanted to go, then of course he should, he was his own master. But he must promise that at the first indication things were not as they should be, he would return to a safe place, and he must keep in regular contact.

Frankie willingly promised to escape from anything looked like trouble, but baulked at keeping in constant contact. 'I want to feel independent, not tied to a string that you're holding onto back here. I'm not even taking a mobile phone. I want to experience the world as it was when you couldn't just call up a rescue team if you got a splinter in your foot. You're going to have to wait and see if I survive. It's a bit like Prudence wanting to know if she was able to have a child, so she went out on a limb and tried. As a male I have a very powerful urge to know if I can face risk and danger and new experiences with no safety net other than my youth, health and fitness.'

'And a hefty bank balance,' Con said somewhat tartly.

Frankie sighed. 'Thanks Con. And my money. But I'm going to live as if I'm on a shoestring budget.'

Having a little more than a month to fill before leaving, he decided to pay a visit to Prudence. It was over six months since their dance and having heard nothing apart from receiving the video, he wanted to make sure she had kept her end of the bargain and aborted their zygote, if there'd been one. He obtained her address from the university and set off, intending to be back the following day.

# A Reunion

A niggling worry played with Frankie's thoughts as he drove. What would he do if Prudence hadn't disposed of the few million cells that had begun to organise themselves in her womb after their artistic insemination? He had no sentimental attachment to the microscopic bundle, and hoped she hadn't developed any. No child deserved Prudence for a mother, and he wasn't ready to be a father. No child deserved to be thrust onto this earth, if it came to that. He took twenty deep breaths to avoid talking himself into depression.

According to the map, Prudence lived on a large block of land a hundred and fifty kilometres north west of Sydney. Satellite images showed it to be fenced and lightly forested. There were two large properties and a small nature reserve bounded on three sides by the bend in a seasonal creek that wound in great loops across the plain. One property had a house. That'd be Prudence's. What it looked like he couldn't imagine. If she had designed it, it could be interesting. As he hadn't a telephone number or email address, he would arrive unannounced. He hoped she wouldn't be upset.

After leaving the main road, a narrow, winding, unsealed track followed the creek. Driving required concentration as there was a steep bank on one side and an equally steep drop to the water on the other. After several kilometres the track turned inland up a gentle slope, ending at a turnaround with three gates. Which one was Prudence's? Frankie got out to stretch his legs. A narrow wooden gate on the left was neatly labelled: "Walking Track to Possum Valley Falls". A few metres to the right a cattle-stop served instead of a gate, and beside it a rough sign: "Passionfruit. Ian van Dahl". The driveway descended steeply towards the creek.

Fifty metres to the right of the cattlestop an ordinary farm gate hung between a pair of hardwood posts. Assuming it was Prudence's he opened it, drove through, closed it, then negotiated a rutted, kilometre-long drive that climbed gently through a forest to a sunny clearing containing a single storied house built in warm, yellowish stone. Five evenly spaced Roman arches springing from slender half-columns created a classical façade. Four were windows, the central one the front door. A square tower sprang from the centre of the tiled roof.

Frankie parked in a flat gravelled area surrounded by flowering grevilleas. He looked around, took a deep breath, smiled at the rural peace, then crunched over coarse gravel to the solid wooden door. A manly pull on a thick rope set a bell clanging in the tower. The reverberations had faded into the surrounding hills before the massive wooden portal opened just enough to reveal an eyeball.

'What do you want?' The voice was Prudence's, so he assumed the eyeball was too.'

'To see how you are, Prudence.'

'Why?'

Annoyed with himself for not having realised that this was exactly how she would respond to an unannounced visit, Frankie snapped, 'I take that back! I don't give a fuck how you are. I came to make sure you got rid of the foetus, you miserable misanthrope.'

'Oh.' A brief silence, then, 'I disposed of it, so you can go now.'

Instantly penitent, Frankie softened his tone. 'Your house looks very fine, it reflects perfectly your organised mind.'

'Thank you.'

'Can I have a glass of water? It's been a long drive getting here.'

'You should always carry water in Australia,' she admonished, opening the door. In a loose, sleeveless shift of something pale blue that covered her from shoulders to knees, she looked smaller than Frankie remembered.

'You've not changed a bit.'

'It's only been a few months! Come on.' She marched off at a brisk pace towards a sunlit doorway at the end of a cool, parquet-floored passageway.

Frankie followed the pattering of bare feet, peering into the rooms on each side, but seeing little in the gloom. The space he arrived in took his breath away. The entire rear of the house was a high ceilinged gallery with a kitchen at one end, dining area in the middle and a lounge at the other. The outside wall was pierced at regular intervals by floor to ceiling windows, open onto a paved courtyard enclosed by buildings in the same golden yellow sandstone as the house. Everything was neat and spotless yet welcoming and comfortable. Prudence handed him a beautiful crystal goblet.

'There's spring water over there,' pointing to the far side of the sun-filled courtyard.

A large niche had been carved into the wall of the building opposite, containing a life-sized sandstone statue of a slim, naked woman standing with hands on hips, pissing into a waterlily. Frankie laughed and filled his goblet. 'Where does the water come from?'

'A spring up the valley.'

'And where does it go?'

'Into a cistern under the pavers, our drinking water reservoir.' Prudence was standing in the same pose as the statue of the young woman.

Frankie yelped. 'I've just realised! It's you! A brilliant likeness. Who made it?'

'Empirika. She's standing behind you. Tell her and then go back where you came from!'

The sculptress was a fit and visibly tough woman with hooded eyes that gave nothing away. Larger and slightly older than Prudence, she was dressed in a dark blue overall with leather gloves poking out of a pocket, sandals and a white cap. As she stepped forward she pulled the cap off revealing a tanned, shaven scalp. Frankie shook the other hand, surprised at its muscular strength.

'Your sculpture of Prudence is perfect.'

'Thank you.'

He turned back to Prudence. 'And the house is perfect too. How long have you been here?'

'This land was the first thing I bought when you and I started making money on stocks and shares, so just over four years. It's the house of my dreams, so it was the first thing I did. My father supervised everything and it was completed in three months. A record according to the builder. I used to come here on weekends and every holiday.'

'It's one of the most welcoming houses I've ever been in.'

'You crawl like a pro,' the sculptress sneered.

Unsure if it was a joke or serious, Frankie remained smiling.

'He's a much finer specimen than he appears in the video,' Empirika said grudgingly. 'Tougher, more muscled.'

'Don't get excited. He's going.'

'No he's not. I like him.' She turned to Frankie. 'Come and see what I'm working on while Prudence gets her fanny into gear and makes us lunch.'

'Rika's a bossy bitch, Frankie. Please tell me you've come to take me away.'

Was she serious or joking? Frankie couldn't tell.

Before he could find out, Prudence retreated into the kitchen and began banging plates and pots.

Shaking his head at the incomprehensible behaviour of women, Frankie followed Empirika into a large, well-lit, high-ceilinged studio in the building behind the statue.

Empirika appeared grateful for Frankie's praise of her sandstone sculptures of animals, and females.

'That sculpture of Prudence is extraordinarily accurate and lifelike. You are very skilful,' he said in genuine awe. 'It's an amazing likeness. You've even caught that slightly cross-eyed madness she emanates when concentrating. She looked like that all through our dance. Is that how you got the idea?'

'Yes, I made lots of stills from the video and worked from those as she'd never stand still long enough for me to work from life. Now I want to make one of you. It'll be a companion piece in a matching niche, and you'll be pissing too, because as I saw it, in the dance you both metaphorically pissed on middle-class prudery. Here you'll do it forever. What did your parents think of the performance?'

'They loved it.'

'Mine too, but Prudence has never heard from hers since. They were in the audience, you know.'

'I had no idea. Poor thing.'

'Poor me! She's been depressed ever since, worrying that you thought she was a slut. So I'm relieved you're here. Didn't you see how happy she was to see you?'

Frankie nodded, unwilling to admit Prudence's welcome had conveyed the opposite impression. But he was flattered that Empirika wanted to make a sculpture of him, so agreed to pose; not thinking to ask how long it would take.'

After an excellent lunch during which Prudence was as lighthearted and uncomplicated as she had been introverted and difficult at university, Empirika suggested they go for a walk.

'Good idea, it'll get my blood flowing before the drive home.'

The land was gently rolling, so was easy walking when there weren't patches of dense and prickly undergrowth. In sensible shoes, long-sleeved shirts and slacks because of branches and thorns, they set off at a smart pace, on the way disturbing kangaroos, galahs, fairy wrens and a hare from its set.

'You have to get rid of the hares,' Frankie said brusquely. 'They kill sapling trees. Any foxes?'

'I think so. Or they might be wild dogs. We hear then howling at night.'

'That'll be foxes. Get rid.'

'How? We don't want to use poison or those jaw traps.'

'I managed to get several with a bow and arrow around our place, but that was because they were so used to humans they didn't scent me soon enough and I got lucky. These wild ones can smell a human at two hundred metres, and I'm only accurate for fifty. But I don't mind having a go, it'll be fun. But baited cages are your best bet.'

Empirika was staring at him. 'It was you with the bow and arrow on all those social media sites!'

'You've a good eye.'

'You've a great bum.'

'Thank you.'

'I've now decided that in my sculpture you'll be aiming your bow and arrow.'

'I thought I'd be pissing.'

'That too.'

They turned west at a solid corner post and descended steeply along the boundary. A chain saw shattered the peace.

'Who's sawing trees?'

'Our horrible neighbour.'

'Ian van Dahl?'

'How'd you know?'

'The sign at his entrance. You don't like him, Prudence?'

'He's going to turn his property into a passionfruit farm.'

'It won't affect you, will it? It's a fair distance from your place. I doubt you'll hear him.'

'First there'll be bulldozers clear felling everything, piling the trees into heaps and burning them for weeks. Then they'll plough it. Then put in hundreds of posts, wire them, have vehicles coming and going day in day out, then if the vines grow there'll be sprays, weed killers, fungicides, herbicides, pesticides and then pickers and trucks and...'

'Isn't his land too steep for crops?'

'I'd have thought so. And dry. I suppose he's hoping to use water from the creek.'

'But it's barely a trickle, is there ever any more water in it?'

'Believe it or not, it can rise in minutes till it covers the road.'

'Does that happen often?'

'We've been marooned twice already this year after heavy rain. We love it. It's like being on an island for a few days. That's why we think he's crazy because one good downpour will wash all his ploughed soil into the creek.

'Have you tried to discourage him?'

'He just laughs, what would two little girlies know?'

'Buy him out.'

'I've offered, but that just makes him dig in his heels. I imagine he thinks there must be something valuable here if we want to buy it.'

'Can I talk to him?'

'Be our guest.'

Empirika held two fence-wires apart for them to squeeze through, then jumped up, hung onto an overhanging branch and swung herself over the wires to land in a squat.

'You're a gymnast,' Frankie applauded.

'Used to be till I realised that strained joints come back to haunt you when you're old.'

'Sensible.' He looked around. 'There are still plenty of trees.'

'He's only making strainer posts at the moment with saplings. The tree-clearing comes next. The odd thing is he's always working on his own. We've never seen anyone else here. I don't even know if he has a family.'

They followed the clattering of the chainsaw down the boundary till it met the creek, and then across to a new tin shed where Ian was sawing saplings into three-metre logs. He was tall, lean and probably in his forties, with chiselled good looks, a dimple in his square, clean-shaven chin, sensibly short light brown hair, an open-necked bushman's shirt, jeans and work boots. He looked up, shut the saw down, placed it on the ground and approached his three visitors.

'We apologise for trespassing, Mr. van Dahl,' Frankie said pleasantly. 'We were out for a walk and heard you working and I was curious so jumped the fence and the others followed.' His smile was deliberately timid. 'Hope you don't mind.'

After a brief nod towards the women, the sawyer thrust his hand at Frankie. 'Ian. And you are?'

'Frankie.' Frankie grasped the hand and shook it.

Ian's lips stretched back to reveal slightly crooked teeth, but he wasn't smiling. 'What can I do you out of, Frankie?'

'Great spot for a house with the view across the creek to the hills.'

'Got to get the vines up and bearing first.'

'It's steep land for horticulture. Wouldn't the trees be more useful holding the soil together?'

Ian snorted derision. 'Those dumb clucks've been bending your brains, Frankie. Tree roots have nothing to do with erosion. That's just another greenie myth. They want us all to go back to the cave and chew grass. Either you're for progress or you're against it. What are you?'

'A realist.'

Ian frowned annoyance. 'I went to a talk by a really smart bloke, Doctor of something or other. He explained that it's all crap the changing climate and everything. He said god gave humans the earth to make a profit out of it, not to squat on it like dumb animals.'

'Are you religious?'

'What's that got to do with it? This bloke knows what god wants and why we're here.'

Frankie nodded sagely. 'Did he mention which god he was quoting?'

'Didn't know there was more than one.'

'There's one for everyone' Prudence said sweetly. 'Even for people who prefer money to nature.'

Ian picked up his chainsaw, drop-started it and advanced on his visitors who scurried back to their side of the boundary.

'Let's go for a swim.' Prudence set off at a trot.

'Great, but we're heading in the wrong direction.'

'I thought you'd checked a map.'

'I did.'

'And you didn't notice we live in a pocket. The creek makes a one hundred and eighty degree turn around the northern end of both properties; flowing north along the western side of Van Dahl's place and south along the eastern side of ours, where we've an excellent swimming hole.'

'Brilliant! Lead on.'

There wasn't much water, but a large hole in the stony bed was deep enough to relax in; not enough to dive.

They stripped and basked in the cool water till they chilled, then spread themselves over warm rocks to dry.

'That was so perfect,' Empirika sighed.

'Does it ever dry up?'

'Hasn't so far. We think it's a spring.'

'I see it's not only your head you've shaved.'

Empirika looked down at her groin. 'I hate clutter. Hair to me is clutter. I need to feel neat and smooth.'

'You've succeeded in looking very sleek and uncluttered.'

Empirika smiled. 'Thanks. And Prudence likes not getting a mouthful of hair when she gobbles.'

Frankie laughed and looked at Prudence's thick thatch. 'You don't mind being cluttered?'

'Rika's so strong she can grab a handful and lift me up by it.' She looked appraisingly at Frankie. 'Does that shock you?'

'Whatever gives you pleasure makes me pleased. I actually like you, you know.'

'Yes. I know. And I appreciate it. You're not bad either.' Her smile was gentle, almost fragile, and set Frankie wondering.

Back at the house the sun was setting.

'It's too late to go home tonight,' Empirika stated. 'Stay, and after a bite to eat I'll make some drawings to familiarise myself with your body.'

'Not too familiar, I hope,' Prudence remarked lazily. 'Familiarity breeds contempt.'

'Men are so different from women,' Empirika announced with a sigh after an hour of sketching from different angles. You've so many muscles. Even in your buttocks, not to mention thighs and groin. I should have studied anatomy. Now I understand why the great artists dissected corpses. I'll have to work it out for myself. And I imagine there'll be even more muscles visible when you're tensioning the bow. At art school I was criticised for drawing with too much detail, they said my work lacked feeling. But I don't really see something until I've tried to draw it as accurately as I can.'

'If its any consolation, Rika, yours are the first sketches and sculptures I've liked by a contemporary artist. So stick to your guns.'

'Thanks.'

'I'm off to bed,' Prudence stated. 'What time are you going and when will you be back to rid us of our hares?'

'Directly after breakfast, and I'll probably come back tomorrow night. But don't worry if I don't. I've no idea what's happening at home. You see I've decided not to take a phone when I go to India, so I'm getting used to being without it.'

'What're you going to India for?'

'To find nirvana. There's a monastery in the Himalayan foot hills that sounds interesting.'

'Probably a tourist trap for weak-minded westerners. You'll be sharing a doss house with fifty drug befuddled US and European no hopers and filling the coffers of the locals.'

'Yeah, probably.'

Frankie spent the night on a futon in one of the front rooms behind the arched windows. Sheets and a duvet were in a carved wooden cupboard. A full-length freestanding mirror, desk and chair were the only other articles of furniture. A door communicated with a forest-green tiled bathroom. A door on the far side of that opened into an identical room to his.

He opened the window wide, spread the sheets, took a shower, did fifty push-ups and sit-ups, then slept without waking.

On the other side of the central passageway, a larger bedroom, small office, walk-in wardrobe and ensuite bathroom comprised Prudence and Empirika's domain.

At first light Empirika came in to Frankie's room and tore off his bedcovers. 'Stay like that!' she demanded. 'I want to sketch you.' Squatting beside the futon she drew quickly with concentration. Five minutes later she stood. 'Thanks. I like to know what people look like when they first wake.'

'What do I look like?'

'A sleepy Priapus.' And she was gone.

# An Interlude

'Thank goodness you're back,' Ingenio said with a sigh when Frankie appeared at the door. 'You know Karmai and Sylvan have been a bit on edge lately? Well they had a real dust up yesterday and today Sylvan's ready to pack his bags.'

'What can I do?'

'Get them to see sense. Go! Now! If they break up it'll be your fault!' Ingenio shoved him out the door.

Karmai was in the workshop, banging at something and muttering to himself when Frankie jogged past. He hoped Sylvan would be in the cottage, and he was, literally packing his bags. Without saying anything Frankie grabbed an arm and dragged him out to the workshop, yelled at Karmai to stop whatever he was doing, placed them on saw horses facing each other and said, 'Who wants to be the first to get rid of all the shit that's clogging up your common sense?'

They sat and glowered at him.

'I'll toss a coin, heads Karmai, tails Sylvan.' The coin spun and fell with the head up. 'Well, Karmai. I'm your unbiased witness and impartial observer. Tell Sylvan exactly why you're angry. Don't hold back. Say everything you've been wanting to say straight up like a man.'

Karmai looked at Sylvan, who glared back. 'Get on with it!' he snapped. 'Say exactly what you think.'

'Ok. I will.' Karmai's fists were clenched. The tendons in his neck stood out. He was breathing shallowly and clearly under enormous stress. When he spoke it was all in one go with no breaks, in a hushed voice as if he was afraid to stop. 'Sylvan thinks I'm angry with him all the time. He thinks I boss him, that I only want my way of doing things, that I treat him like a kid. But I think he's too sensitive, and is just taking out his inferiority complex on me. Every time I say something he makes a snarky response. It really upsets me and I want to scream because...' he stopped and great fat tears began to spill over his lids and onto his cheeks. He brushed them aside angrily. 'But I'm never angry with him. It's the way I've been brought up. Everyone shouted at me as a kid. In our house English was pretty poor. No one knew many words. It was all rude and rough but we kids understood it was just noise. Underneath they loved us. I try, really, really try to speak sweetly and carefully, and then he says I'm being snarky, trying to make him feel bad by being too obviously nice. I can't win and I don't know what to do because I really, really love him and I can't bear the thought of ever being without him but I don't know how to say things without making him angry and... he stopped, took a great gulping breath, let his shoulders sag and the tears fall.'

Silence.

'Ok, Sylvan, your turn.'

Sylvan stood, opened his mouth, then with a sort of whimper ran to Karmai, knelt beside him, wrapped his arms around him and sobbed into his neck. What he said was unclear, but sounded like he was sorry, he knew Karmai didn't mean it, but something got into his head and once he started bitching and nagging he couldn't make himself stop in case Karmai thought he was a wimp, and Karmai did know much more than he did and he felt stupid sometimes and whenever he wanted to say sorry it was the wrong time and he really, really didn't want to go away all he wanted was the bad feelings to go away and...'

Frankie crept out.

'All fixed.'

'Thanks, Frankie. I knew you were the right man.'

'I know you and Con often bicker and snap at each other, but have you ever had serious fallings out?'

'Of course! We've had moments when we'd happily kill each other and decide to split up, but as soon as I calmed down and realised what it'd be like not having him around, I'd race like a madman to him and apologise and make up and discover he was feeling the same. Like two idiot kids. It's odd, our bodies grow old but in our heads we're still teenagers. Arguments don't matter, as long as they don't go on too long. One of the partners has to give in and admit their error. It doesn't matter which one, because it's not a competition and we both want to be good again. No relationship is perfect. We're individuals, not clones. So, when are you off to your guru in India?'

'That's on hold for a bit. First I'm going to have a statue made of me and get rid of a few hares for Prudence and her girlfriend. So I'll be away for a few days.'

'Time has a habit of slipping away. I had the impression you were considering travelling on local transport from the southern tip of Myanmar to the Himalayas.'

'Yeah, well... I discovered it's impossible without a local tour guide and all sorts of permission requirements. And there's only one border crossing into India and that's not always open, and all I'd see is other tourists because it's illegal to camp or sleep in villages or anywhere the authorities can't find you. I'd just get more and more irritated at the contrast between dire poverty and religious wealth and control. The simple life I was imagining has never existed. It's one of those fantasies like a previous 'Golden Age'. Cultural traditions might be interesting to some people, but not to me; they're all just ways to tame people; to make them all do the same thing at the same time, worship the same things and not disturb the wealth and pleasures of the few insanely rich people for whom they slave so industriously.'

'Fair enough. When are you booked in to the Ashram, or whatever it's called?'

'It's a Buddhist Monastery. I'm not actually booked in; I just said the middle of August. If I fly to the nearest airport I'll have time to do more interesting things here first, like hunting with my trusty bow and arrow and posing for Empirika who wants me to be standing sort of like in the newspaper photo. And... I don't know, just getting out into the local world a bit I suppose. I love it here with you guys, but...'

'But you need a wider audience. I understand.'

'I knew you would.'

It was too late to go back to Prudence's place, so he stayed the night, surprised at how pleased and relieved he felt to be back with Ingenio and Con when he'd only been away for a day. And after a relaxed breakfast the following morning he felt reluctant to leave, wondering why the prospect didn't seem as exciting as two days earlier.

A large mobile caravan was parked at the side of Prudence's house when Frankie returned. Empirika's parents had arrived to spend a month making films using the local fauna and flora. The Kwins made educational clips for teachers to demonstrate scientific, biological or any other point they wished to illustrate. Schools sent lesson plans and the Kwins made videos, which were updated when new information came to hand.

There was something manic about both parents. Harley, Empirika's father, looked to be in his forties, was tanned nut brown, lean and consciously impish with a crafty glint in his eye and a tendency to look sideways at his audience as if asking for applause. A full head of short black curls that looked in need of a wash added to Frankie's instinctive distrust of the man. His wife, Columbine, looked about the same age but oozed a calmness that Frankie suspected concealed a tricky, if not devious nature. A mature version of her daughter.

'My son, Massimo will be coming later, he's the cameraman.'

'Prudence tells us you're going to shoot hares.' Harley's tone was patronising. 'Can Massimo and I come with you to photograph the damage they do?'

'Sure, but you won't see any hares unless you wait for hours; they can smell a human hundreds of metres away, and when they sit still they're invisible.'

At that moment they heard a car power up the drive and skid to a halt. Someone shouted. A car door slammed and the car shot away, motor revving, wheels spinning. A minute later a vertically challenged young man with flawless olive skin, Latino looks and a powerful body that skin-tight pale blue Lycra shorts and an abbreviated tank top made no effort to conceal, bounced out to the courtyard, face illuminated by a double row of perfect teeth.

'This is Massimo.' Harley's tone was almost reverential.

'Where's Sharlene or whatever her name is?' his mother asked.

'Shareene. Gone. Pissed off. Doesn't want to see me again.'

'How wonderful.'

'Why?' Empirika asked.

'She wants to get married. I said I'd slit my veins first. She took it as an insult. And that was that.'

'That's a relief.' Harley turned to Frankie. 'Frankie Fey, allow me to introduce you to my over-muscled, under-sized and occasionally intelligent son, Massimo Kwin.'

They shook hands.

'Massimo. That means massive... doesn't it?'

Massimo laughed delightedly. 'I love you! No one has ever dared say that to my face. Yeah, I should be called Minimo. ' He laughed again, clearly unworried by his lack of height.

'It seems to me, though, that your proportions are perfect for your height.'

'Now I want to kiss you.'

'Later, Massimo!' Harley snapped. 'First we're going with Frankie to look for hares. Get your camera from the van.'

The three men followed the same route Frankie and the women had taken the previous day so Frankie could point out dying saplings with their bark chewed away. Massimo filmed them, as well as a scrape, where a hare had rested during the day, and a track and tunnel through dry grass that was probably a bandicoot trail.

'They are mainly active just before dawn and dusk, so I'll come out tomorrow and wait near those saplings. I'm not expecting anything. I'm only an amateur archer, but sometimes you get lucky and instead of laying its ears along its back, sinking as low to the ground as possible and becoming invisible, it might decide to make a run for it, then I've got a couple of seconds. Real hunters use rifles because an arrow's too slow and they see it coming. But where I've been shooting they're relatively tame because of all the visitors, so they sometimes just sat up and looked at me. I don't think I'll have the same luck here. I hope Prudence isn't upset if I don't get any.'

'Frankie, you're a typical male; you've no idea how a woman thinks,' Harley said with a shake of his head. 'Prudence doesn't give two hoots about the hares; she's just so pleased that you've made contact again. She values your friendship.'

'Really? But she knows I'm not interested in females.'

'That's one of the many things she values... you're no threat to her and Rika.'

Why did that sound like a warning? Frankie wondered.

That evening Harley announced he'd decided to make a video of his daughter making the sculpture of Frankie, so everyone sat around the studio watching Empirika draw him, chattering about camera angles, lighting, sequences and script.'

'We want to show the complete process from first sketches to finished statue. Have you any objections, Frankie?'

He shook his head. 'If you think something is interesting, film it, that's fine with me.'

'No worries about having your jewels on show?'

Frankie's laugh was genuine. 'You saw our ballet, Harley. Anyway, only you people will see me, everyone else will only see pixels on a flat screen.'

'I think you're disappointed about that, Frankie' Columbine remarked slyly. 'I think you would like to be seen in the flesh by live people so you know your audience's reaction.'

'That depends on the quality of the production and the type of audience, Columbine. I'm not an exhibitionist who wants to flash to all and sundry.

'Do you think there's a market for a documentary about a woman making a sculpture of a man pissing into an arum lily?' Empirika asked Harley

'Yes indeed. Not perhaps our usual customers, but it's time we extended our range to include more racy topics.'

'How are you going, Frankie?' Empirika asked twenty minutes later.'

'I'm trying not to twitch, sag or fall over, and failing.'

'It's time for bed anyway.' She put away her gear without thanking her model.

The Kwins occupied the bedroom on the other side of Frankie's bathroom. On previous visits Massimo had used Frankie's room.

'Do you mind sharing the futon with me?' he asked casually. 'If so, I can always sleep in the caravan.'

'I'm queer. Aren't you afraid I'll rape you? What about your girlfriends?'

'I'm stronger than you so safe from rape, and I'm out of girlfriends, thank goodness; there's nothing more exhausting than sharing a bed with an insatiable woman.'

Neither young man was shy, so they showered and to Frankie's relief Massimo simply lay on his side, fell instantly asleep, and they woke refreshed.

Dawn was breaking as Frankie slid out of bed, followed by Massimo. They donned jeans, T-shirts, windbreakers and joggers. Frankie slung his quiver and bow over a shoulder, then crept out into the chilly morning.

'I thought we'd be naked like you were in the photo.'

'And freeze to death? It's only about twelve degrees. Come on.' Frankie set off at a smart jog and ten minutes later when the sun came up, they were sweating. Slowly they crept towards the stand of saplings,

'Now, don't breathe or move until I say so.'

They sat side by side for a very long twenty minutes. Suddenly Frankie tensed, very slowly aimed his already notched bow and equally slowly tensioned it. Massimo froze, unable to see what Frankie was aiming at. The wait seemed interminable until with a twang the arrow flew, Frankie sprang to his feet and Massimo followed, still seeing nothing. Then Frankie was putting the poor lamed animal out of its misery with a heavy stone.

'What amazing camouflage! I didn't see anything, even when it was lying there! You must have eagle eyes.'

'Just practice. Once you know what you're looking for they sort of jump out of the landscape.'

'That was an amazingly good shot.'

'Not really. Look at its hind legs—they're both broken and there's blood. I'd say it's been caught in someone's trap, pulled itself free and that's why it was so slow I could hit it.'

'Poor thing! It must have been in agony. It's lucky to be dead.'

'Yes. That's why I don't like clamp traps. Cages are best. The trapped animal gets annoyed, but not hurt, and death is quick.'

'Will we eat it?'

'It's healthy, so yes. It'd be an insult not to.'

On the way back Frankie asked if Massimo intended to marry.

'If two people need a legal document to keep them together, then they shouldn't be together. Live with whoever you like, but if you want to have kids, then there should be a licence and a stiff suitability test and severe penalties for breaking the rules.'

'Is that why you rejected your girlfriend's proposal?'

'Partially. The reality is I could never live for long with a female. They don't think like us and drive men mad if they have to share everything with them. That's why there are men's groups all over the country, learning how to cope and not suicide while living with a modern woman.'

'Your parents seem happy enough.'

'They're not married. She calls herself Columbine Kwin, to sound like the mythical Harlequin's wife, and treats Dad as if he's the most worthwhile man alive. She's aware of his faults, just as she is of her own, but she reckons she loves him and they're both considerate of each other. If I meet someone like that then...'

# Act of God

Massimo's edited video about hares began with Frankie firing an arrow, zoomed in to a close-up of the dead hare to show the damage done by jaw traps, followed that with a couple of stock hare photos, the scrape, debarked saplings and a brief cooking lesson. It was amateurish - neither inspiring nor well made.

Empirika said she needed accurate measurements to begin chipping away at blocks of sandstone, so she wrote numbers beside her drawings while Massimo, armed with callipers, ruler and tape measure, called out the dimensions.

'Have you thought of putting all the measurements into a computer program, buying a 3D printer, filling it with a suitable mix, then pushing a button and going for a walk?'

Empirika stared fixedly at Frankie, her face expressionless. 'Are you serious?'

'Of course not! I'm the one who wants to use the simplest archery equipment, doesn't want to rely on a mobile phone, and loathes all the computerised and other hi-tech machinery that is destroying skills and the pleasure craftsmen, gardeners, engineers, builders used to have in their work. Teachers are virtually redundant now. I loathe the mass produced superficial perfection of most things for sale. I deplore the fact that there are no longer any commercially rewarding jobs that take energy, skill, time and patience. Is that the right answer?'

'Not bad. No wonder we're all in love with you.'

Frankie frowned at the slightly sneering tone. She certainly wasn't! As for her parents? She had to be joking! Massimo was casually friendly, that was all. There was something odd about the Kwins, he decided. Nothing specific. Just a feeling that they were conning him and using Prudence. He wondered if she felt the same. It was probably paranoia because he wasn't used to sharing space with strangers. But why did everything they say and do feel like a performance? 'Can you get a block of sandstone big enough to chip out a whole man?' he asked, wondering if his silence had seemed a bit long.

'It's possible, but it's a soft rock that breaks easily, so I carve legs and torso from one block, leaving a natural looking support behind one leg so it doesn't break, then the arms, then the neck and head from other blocks, then the penis, and the final act is to glue them together invisibly with a cement made with the same sandstone crushed to coarse powder. If I started chiselling fingers at the end of an extended arm attached to a shoulder, or tried to carve a penis while attached to a groin, it would crumble. Sandstone isn't marble, and even that requires a lot of care and penises were inserted later.'

'A lot of work.'

'That's what I love. But before I start chipping away I'll make a scale model in clay that I'll fire and give you when I've finished.'

That afternoon it rained. And rained. Great solid sheets of water hurled almost horizontally before gale-force winds all through the night. In the morning the deluge stopped long enough for them to walk down to the creek, which was now a fast flowing river stretching hundreds of metres across semi-submerged trees well into the low-lying property on the far bank. Large logs, branches and pieces of what looked like sheds floated past or were wrapped around trees in the water. They walked down to the gate, which was still above the flood, then a short way back along the road to civilization until it disappeared under the swirling flood. They were cut off.

'I love it when it floods,' Prudence said cheerfully. 'The feeling of being alone in the world and dependent on ourselves. Luckily we have tinned and dry food to last a couple of months.'

'It's starting to rain again,' Frankie warned. 'I wonder if Ian's shed's gone under. I'm going to check on him.'

'Why?'

'I've a bad feeling.'

'He's a vandal, let him drown.'

'Do you think he's still there?'

'No idea.' She sighed. 'But I suppose we ought to make sure.'

The rain was now so heavy they had difficulty seeing ahead.

'You're a good man, Frankie,' Prudence shouted through the roar, 'but I'm going back to the house.'

'Me too.' Empirika shouted, running after Prudence.

'I'll hang around in case you need help.'

'Thanks, Massimo.'

As they approached the bottom of Ian's drive they realised something was wrong. The aluminium shed was still there, but in the wrong place. It looked as if a large tree had floated down and slammed into the side, making a giant dent and knocking it off it's concrete slab. The buckled remnants were now trapped in a stand of trees.

'Look! Over behind that pile of rubbish.'

'What?'

'Isn't that Ian's truck?'

'Yeah. So he must be around somewhere.'

'If he's there he'll be up a tree or something. We might need rope.'

'And shoes because goodness knows what's under the water.'

Massimo and Frankie raced back up to the house, put on sandals and returned with two coils of rope. Down by the wrecked shed they called into the hushing, rushing, flood that stretched through the trees, flat but swirlingly alive for as far as they could see. Nothing. They called again, shouted and screamed.'

'Listen... over there.' Frankie pointed.

They waded into the water till it was up to their waists and dragging on their legs.

'Tie one end of your rope to that tree,' Frankie ordered, and stay here. I'll tie the other end round my waist and go out as far as I can to see if I can see him.'

'It's dangerous. Let me do it.'

'I'm a bit taller so can go deeper; and you're stronger than me for holding the rope and dragging me out of trouble.'

Frankie waded in the direction of the shout he thought he'd heard, grabbing hold of trunks to prevent himself from being washed away. He was up to his neck and about to give up when he heard the sound again. Slightly to the right, down river. On the far side of what used to be a small creek, draped in the fork of a eucalyptus tree was what looked very much like a body. It was only about twenty metres away, but separated from safety by a fast-flowing torrent that must have been at least fifteen metres deep. The water surged against Frankie in waves. He was at the end of Massimo's rope, so untied it from around his waist, lost balance while knotting his rope to it, and was swept off his feet. A few moments of panic until his legs wrapped around something harsh and scratchy. Fortunately he'd kept hold of his end of the rope and after several false starts managed to tie the end of the lengthened rope around his waist, then with an almighty shove pushed off into the swirling maelstrom that flung him helplessly in a large curve. Keeping his eye on the body in the tree, he swam like a madman, managing to be carried just above and beyond it, allowing himself to be swept past. When he reached the end of the rope he pulled himself back against the current to the tree, felt for foot holds, then pulled himself up until his head was on the same level as Ian, who was looking decidedly dead. But he'd shouted, so couldn't be.

Frankie undid the rope around his waist, struggled higher, leaned over and secured it firmly around Ian's waist, signalled to Massimo, who waved back, then began to lever the dead weight out of the fork and into the water. And then it hit him. If Massimo managed to haul the body back to shore, Frankie would be left without a rope. Not sensible. So he slapped and pinched Ian's face till he complained. Shivering violently, he stared vacantly into Frankie's face.

'Help' he whispered.

'I'm trying to, but you also have to help.'

Awareness and strength arrived with hope. 'Yes, yes. Anything.'

'Right. Stay where you are and keep the rope tied to your waist. I'm going to wind the excess loops around the branch until it's tight, then you must hold onto it and keep it tight while I use it to cross back to the other side. When I get there, you unwind the rope, make sure it isn't snagged on anything, then drop into the water once we've taken up the slack. Then we'll pull you back to safety. Ok?'

'I... I think so.'

'You'd fucking better do more than think so, Ian! Because if you let the rope go loose I could get dashed into a sunken log and lose my grip, and then Massimo will toss his end of the rope away and you'll be left here to die. Got it? Now, repeat the instructions!'

On the second go it was clear he understood, so the operation proceeded, was successful, and a waterlogged, nearly dead, freezing, cold and wildly shivering hungry man was carried and dragged by his exhausted rescuers up to the house.

Prudence made up a bed in the garage, plied Ian with hot water bottles, hot tea, warm porridge with brown sugar and cream, then let him sleep.

Empirika wasn't so sympathetic. 'He's a tough bugger, but an unpleasant one. If you'd got yourself killed saving him I wouldn't be impressed.'

'He must be tough,' Harley growled with as little sympathy, having listened to Massimo's account of the rescue. 'Clinging to that tree all night. With the creek as high and wild as Massimo described, he should be drowned or smashed to bits on passing flotsam. But how the hell did he get himself out there? Why didn't he save himself?'

'If the tree that demolished his shed arrived in the dark, then it's amazing he got out at all, and not surprising he was washed off his feet. As you say, he's tough.'

Ian van Dahl remained in the garage on his mattress for two days until the waters receded. He didn't want to see his place, his shed, or anything. He didn't want to think about it. When Frankie looked in, he burst into tears and mumbled, 'Thank you', over and over again. As soon as the roads were opened, Frankie drove him home to a wife who dragged herself unwillingly from the television to answer the door.

'Huh! You're back,' she remarked sourly. 'Typical. Stay away when there's trouble at home. We've had flooding in the basement, and water got into the attic when a couple of tiles blew off. But you don't care, sitting up there on your pathetic block of land leaving me to do everything.' She turned abruptly to Frankie. 'Where's his truck? Why did you bring him home?'

Frankie told her.

An unpleasant sneer disfigured an already bad tempered face. 'I won't thank you for bringing this useless lump back. You'd have done me a favour if you'd left him in the tree.'

A wave of pity for Ian swelled in Frankie's chest and he was on the point of saying something he would regret, but closed his mouth, shook his head sadly and left.

Two days later, a young woman arrived in a navy business suit, high heels, long bleached hair that she had to keep pulling aside so she could see, and too much makeup. Prudence answered the bell.

'Are you Prudence Prodijee?'

'Yes. Who are you?'

'I'm representing Mr. Ian van Dahl. He has instructed his legal advisors to sell his property, and wanted to give you first option to buy. If you wish to purchase the property, I have with me transfer documents to effect that.' She held out a business card.

Prudence read it silently. Sussan Obay. Head Clerk. Slorter, Pymp and Rippoff. Attorneys at law. 'Do you pronounce your name sussin, or soozin.'

'Soozin, of course.'

'Then why spell it sussin? Susan has only one s.'

'What are you? An English teacher?'

'No, merely a pedant.'

Sussan shrank back against the wall. 'You abuse children?'

'No, that's a paedophile. A pedant is a nitpicker.'

'You have nits? My sister got them at school, there's a shampoo that gets rid of them.'

'Thank you. I'll look into it. But tell me, why is Mr. Van Dahl in such a hurry?'

'That surely is his business!' She gazed around as if to check no one was listening. 'But... it seems his wife is not to be told.'

'Fair enough. But why didn't you phone me?'

'We couldn't find a phone number for you.'

Prudence checked the card again. 'Come in, Sussin.' She led the way into the main room where Frankie, Empirika and Massimo were drinking tea, having taken a break from posing, filming, and modelling with clay.

'This is Sussin, a legal clerk from Ian van Dahl's lawyers. He wants to sell his property and is offering me first refusal.' Prudence indicated Frankie. 'This is the man who saved his life during the flood.'

Frankie, still in his posing outfit, was leaning nonchalantly against the table. He nodded pleasantly. Sussan froze, transfixed, dragged her eyes from groin to face and whispered, 'Are you Miz Prodijee's Husband?'

'No, he's my boyfriend,' Massimo drawled.

Sussan looked at Prudence in fear.

Empirika's smile was predatory. 'Don't be sorry for Prudence, Sussan. She hasn't been left on the shelf; she's my girlfriend—we share everything!'

Something about the way she said that caused Frankie's heart to skip a beat.

'I... I would like to complete this business quickly, if you don't mind,' Sussan whispered.

'So would I,' Prudence replied. 'So Massimo will get Columbine to check that you are who you are. And you will give me all the details.'

'And Empirika will make you a nice cup of tea,' Frankie added pleasantly.

'Will I?' Empirika bristled, not pleased to be ordered around.

'Yes, if you want me to continue modelling for you,' Frankie laughed. 'I've just remembered something I have to tell Prudence.'

Massimo went out to find his mother and Empirika started rattling cups.

'Won't be a minute,' Frankie smiled at Sussan, dragging Prudence just outside the front door, which he closed. 'I don't trust the Kwins.' He whispered. 'I've no idea if you were intending to add Empirika's name to the title, but I strongly advise you not to.'

'Thank you for that unsolicited advice.' Prudence's voice was cold. She turned on her heel and marched back to Sussan to discover how much Mr. Van Dahl was asking, what caveats, encumbrances and monies were owing on the title.

By the time Columbine had checked the lawyers' website, confirmed the phone number, called the lawyer doing the conveyancing, confirmed the details and the non-negotiable price that was several thousand dollars less than Prudence was prepared to pay, Empirika had grumpily placed a cup of tea on the table.

Fifteen minutes later the transfer documents were signed and witnessed, a deposit had been transferred electronically to the lawyer's account, and a very relieved Sussan had returned to her car and driven away, leaving one thoughtful young woman, and one speechless with barely suppressed fury.

'If you hadn't saved him, his wife would have inherited the property and goodness knows what she'd have done with it,' Prudence said softy to Frankie.

'Sold it to a kennels, most likely, she looked as if she'd gone to the dogs.'

'Oohh... nasty.'

'Yes she was nasty. Very, very nasty.'

# A Proposition

Frankie realised he'd have to leave soon if he wanted to arrive at the monastery during August. But... having discovered a real friendship with Prudence he couldn't escape an odd feeling about her situation. He was enjoying checking the forest for fallen trees, replacing damaged fences, helping with the clean up after the flood and keeping fit with Massimo who was teaching him to wrestle, but when he was alone with time to think, or in the lounge in the evenings, or playing chess with Prudence, there was this constant niggling notion that he shouldn't leave her alone with the Kwins.

The two young men were lying in the lee of a large boulder sheltering from a chill wind after swimming. Massimo was leaning on his elbow, gazing down at Frankie while distractedly drawing a blade of grass round and round his navel.

Frankie smiled up.

Massimo frowned down. 'We have to talk.'

'Sounds serious.'

'It is and isn't. I need to earn some cash; can't sponge on my sister forever. She reckons Prudence has plenty for all of us. But I don't want to be dependent.'

'What about your parents?'

'They're skint too.'

'Do they make much with their videos?'

'Barely scrape a living. When Rika and I left home they sold the house, bought the van and have been living on the interest. But interest rates are so low they've had to eat into their capital. Dad's trying to get into soft-core porn to make a bit more money. He and Mum are too shy to ask you, so I'm the messenger. You can shoot me if you're offended. They want to know if you'll let them market the video of you and Prudence dancing and fucking. Should make a fair profit if its well promoted.'

'It's Prudence's. She did all the work. I don't care what they do with it.'

'That's a relief. And they want to make the sculpture video sexy with shots of you and Rika getting it off... What do you say?'

Frankie's laugh sounded false even to himself, but Massimo seemed unaware. 'She won't be able to make me stiff.'

'I can give you a hand and clever editing will make it look as if she's done it.'

'Rika doesn't mind?'

'She's easy, like the rest of us. It's only sex and bodies. No big deal. The pervs are the ones who get off on natural behaviour.'

'You should be in it, not me. You're better looking and cuter.'

Massimo plonked a kiss on Frankie's smile, then sat back and frowned.

'From this angle you look like a pro wrestler; your upper body is so powerful,' Frankie said to fill the silence.

'I'm glad you mentioned that because what I was getting around to was...' Massimo paused then blurted, 'What are you doing tonight?'

'After dinner with the Jamesons, I'm going to a performance of Cenerentola at the Opera House, then to an after-show party, then back here if I don't meet a nice young man who wants to seduce me. Why?'

'I've a couple of wrestling bouts tonight.' He looked at his feet. 'Wanna come?'

'So you _are_ a wrestler?'

'Yep.'

'How will we get there?'

'I'd hoped....'

'Of course I'll take you. I'd like to see you wrestle.'

'Thank goodness.' He sighed. 'And Columbine needs footage of the wrestling, including the audience, because she wants to make a video.'

'I thought she wanted sexy?'

'We wrestle naked like the ancient Greeks.' Massimo stopped, frowned and added, 'She hopes you and I will do some staged wrestling shots as well. The footage from tonight is to add an element of truth.'

'So that's why you've been teaching me to wrestle! I'll wait till I've seen you in action. And what about...?'

'All further questions will be answered in the car. The match is about an hour's drive away so let's get the cameras, and I need to shower and make myself trim and presentable.'

By the time Columbine had ensured all batteries were fully charged and taught Frankie how to check that the miniature hard-drive was receiving pictures from the wireless camera that looked a lot like a flat button, Prudence had a meal ready.

'Why do you like wrestling?' Frankie asked when they reached the sealed road.

'It's one of the few sports that strengthens and builds virtually every muscle in the body. Afterwards you feel electric. Alive. Buzzing... it's magic. All senses alert, every muscle ready. It's primitive. Real. Sexy but not sexual. When my palm is against a man's chest I can feel the mass of muscle, the racing heart beneath his ribs. With my arms locked under a man's armpits and around his neck from behind, I know the kind of person he is, and feel his next move before he makes it.'

'Sounds almost mystical.'

'It is, for those of us who do it because we love it.'

'What are the other guys like?'

'If I asked you what the people you live with are like, what would you say?'

Frankie thought, smiled and nodded. 'It's a nonsense question. They're each completely different, yet similar. And if I described each person singly there wouldn't be the sense of friendship or unity we have. Ok, then. Are they gay?'

'Another nonsense question!' He shook his head angrily. 'Another fucking label. What does 'gay' mean? To most people it means either a queer, hip-swaying, limp-wristed, eyelash-fluttering, screaming feminine wannabe, or a greasy creep who gives boys sweets and then feels them up and fucks them up the arse. That is what the words gay, queer, homosexual, trans, bi... mean to ninety-nine percent of the population because of those bloody gay liberation marches and parades and Internet porn videos and queers wanting to get married and kiss and stuff in public.'

'Surely religion has a lot to do with it?'

'Only for the genuinely religious who are very grateful to loudmouth gays for making themselves so obvious. That is why they're persecuted in so many countries. So if you tell someone you're gay, no matter how well they know and like you, no matter what sort of noble saint you are or how attractive, clean and pleasant you look; in their heads, and that's where it matters, you become one or other of the stereotypes and not someone they can trust with their kids, want to employ, rent their house to, or want to be seen with.'

'I fear you're right.'

'Men have always had sex with other men. It's natural. That's why most people don't give a toss if a healthy fit, pleasant guy has it off with his equally healthy mate in private. That's just guys being guys in the same way as girls kiss and fondle each other.'

'You have statistics to prove your assertions?'

'Statistics can be made to prove anything.'

'Yes, they can. And you're right about stereotypes. This guy's a nerd, that one's a drama queen, this guy's a muscle Mary, he's a faggot, queer, gay, bi. None of those words describe anything.'

'We ought to ask those who use them what they mean, and force them to narrow it down till they admit it means nothing.'

'They'll just say, "You know very well what I mean," and refuse to talk.'

'I reckon the stupidest thing is talking about gay culture, gay lifestyle. That's as stupid as saying you shaved with a gay razor, we ate a gay meal and now we're driving in a gay car. Imagine someone wrote about heterosexual culture and the heterosexual lifestyle; everyone would think they were insane.'

'Yeah. Only individuals should be criticised, not groups.'

'As individuals we stand, united we fall.'

'Good one. Maybe most of the so-called wise sayings are propaganda to keep the downtrodden, downtrodden.'

They drove in silence for a minute.

'How'd you get into wrestling for money?'

'I was skint so replied to an online ad for guys prepared to wrestle for cash. It was the place we're going to.

'And naked feels good?'

'We've all worn singlets in clubs, but naked feels more real, exciting, dangerous.'

'And the audience?'

'They keep coming back.'

'How much are you paid?'

'Two hundred tax-free bucks for each fight, a hundred dollar bonus for each winner. That's an incentive to fight for real! There's nothing staged and the punters know it. I used to do it three times a week. Often making the full, tax-free six hundred.'

Frankie whistled his surprise. 'What's the program?'

'Ten wrestlers. We're paraded in the ring at the beginning, and again after the interval, the opponents are announced so the punters can make bets, then we wait out the back till it's our turn.'

'How long do you fight?'

'Each pair have two, three-minute bouts in the first half. With a few minutes between fights, it takes about three-quarters of an hour. The second half is more... ritualistic, with different opponents.'

'Ritualistic?'

'Primeval males in ritualistic tests of manhood with the loser a scapegoat.'

'What do you mean, a scapegoat?'

'In the second-half losers are hoisted into an undignified position by the winner who carries him around the ring before shoving in the sacrificial knife.'

'He's fucked?'

'Well and truly.'

'And the audience?'

'Love it! They clap and cheer, whistle and stamp their feet. It's what they pay for; to see a tough guy humiliated as they feel they have been by life, and often their wives.'

'Have you been fucked?'

'Of course.'

'Condoms?'

'Always. I don't want genital warts or any other lurgy.'

'Does the loser really suffer?'

'He struggles, pulls faces, and pretends he's in pain, but we're all able to relax and it's usually no big deal.' He glanced across at Frankie. 'You think it's perverted, don't you? But it doesn't feel strange. It feels... right.'

Frankie laughed. 'It sounds like more fun and less kinky than the symbolical cannibalism of eating the flesh and drinking the blood of Jesus, as Christians do. But what if you can't get stiff?'

'During interval we get an injection. And that makes it more challenging because a stiff cock can really get in the way.

'And you like it.'

'Of course. It's fun! It's fantasy! We're no different from any other actors on stage doing what the audience wants, for cash. At least I can't see the difference.'

#  Wrestling

They parked with about fifty other cars in an unlit, weed-infested, partially sealed area next to the dull grey bulk of an old and decommissioned town-water reservoir. There were no lights or signs to indicate this wasn't anything more than what it looked like. The elevated position provided a distant view of the city, and an unpleasantly close view of a Greyhound Track; lights blazing, loudspeakers blaring. Two scarred wooden doors about twenty metres apart had been fitted neatly into the side of the curved reservoir wall. Patrons were entering the one nearest the cars.

'The performers' entrance is round the other side.' Massimo led the way around to a concrete shed built tight against the wall of the reservoir. Inside looked and smelled very clean, and was well ventilated. Nine naked men were sitting on wooden benches attached to three of the walls. Ten lockers lined the other. A sink bench in one corner had a boiler, a large teapot, cups, milk and a plate of sandwiches. The wrestlers were quietly chatting, rubbing oil, massaging joints. The atmosphere was calm but tense. Everyone greeted Massimo cordially, then returned to their meditation or however they prepared themselves for battle.

No one questioned Frankie's presence.

Massimo stripped and handed him a bottle of oil. 'Not too much, I don't want to glisten, just make it less easy for someone to maintain a grip.'

Frankie checked that the camera pinned to his T-shirt was connecting with the hard drive in his pocket, turned around slowly as if to stretch, then set to work. None of the wrestlers were conventionally handsome, but all looked clean and healthy; the sort of man you'd happily talk with at a party. Scars but no pimples, scabs or rashes. One broken nose. All were evenly tanned, lithe and powerful rather than heavy. Four had shaved their bodies, but the others were just trimmed like Massimo. As different from professional heavyweight TV wrestlers as a racer from a draught horse.

Massimo was looking at him. 'Do they turn you on?'

'They're not what I expected. They look like the sort of blokes you'd meet at work, in the pub, on the street... just healthier and more... more alive.'

Massimo nodded, pleased to have his opinion confirmed.

Indistinct male voices invaded the dressing room when the connecting door opened, and a fit, middle-aged man in a dark blue tracksuit came in with a clipboard and announced the order of fights and who'd be fighting whom. Gold or blue ankle bands were handed out to distinguish the wrestlers for the benefit of punters. Massimo would be third up, fighting a powerful looking Irishman with a shaved head.

'The bloke with the clipboard is Jerry; the owner, manager, organiser, front of house, runs the bar and the betting, and is also a bloody good referee,' Massimo explained. 'The patrons don't want any casual staff who might gossip, so he does everything himself and keeps the profits in his pocket.'

Jerry shook every wrestler's hand as if he truly cared, told Frankie he was welcome to stand in the shadows beside the screen that concealed the wrestlers' entrance and watch Massimo fight, as long as he was totally still and silent. But only that one fight! The slightest movement and Massimo would be fined a hundred dollars. Massimo agreed. When all wrestlers had received Jerry's good wishes they followed him out to the ring. Frankie peered around the screen. The auditorium was in darkness; only the circular wrestling mat was bathed in what looked like warm, golden sunlight that splashed onto the feet of the nearest patrons, so close they could almost reach out and touch the athletes. The wrestlers were introduced, flexed their muscles for laughs, then all except the first two returned.

While cheers, shouts and applause accompanied the first bouts, Frankie remained behind the screen, holding his tiny camera just around the edge, rejoining Massimo before his fight. He was deep breathing.

'It slows your heart rate,' he said distractedly, before lapsing into silence like the others.

When it was Massimo's turn, Frankie wished him luck, told him to be careful, then watched as the two men placed foreheads together and held a hand to the back of the other's neck. From that moment he was transfixed by admiration. They twisted, pulled, pushed, fell, squeezed, lifted, tossed and generally worked each other over. It looked hard work and very dangerous. At the end of the second bout it seemed Massimo had lost. Frankie had no idea why. Both wrestlers stood, panting and sweating, nodded seriously at the applauding audience, then walked calmly back to the dressing room.

'Fuck that was hard. I'm a wreck.' Massimo sighed. 'I'm getting too old for this game. Did you get some good footage?'

'I sure hope so. The guys in the audience are really close, aren't they?'

'They can hear and smell our farts, look up our nostrils and deep into our arseholes.'

'Charming. It's a pity the stands are so dark, I don't think the audience shots will be much use.'

'Don't underestimate Columbine, she'll make it look like its daylight.'

When Massimo had recovered, Frankie said he was going to tell Jerry he was interested in wrestling for him, so would like to view the second half from the audience to get an idea of what he'd be letting himself in for, then he'd get better shots for the video.

'You're mad!' Massimo's tone was brutal. 'You've powerful shoulders and arms, but apart from that you're not heavy enough. I don't trust Jerry not to make a fool of you. Don't make up stupid stories. Just ask him!'

Annoyed by Massimo's dismissive tone, when Jerry poked his head into the dressing room at the start of interval, Frankie asked if he could sit out front.

'Why?'

'Because I'd like to wrestle here one day and want to see how...'

'Don't be a fuckwit. If you think....'

'Jerry!' The agitated shout prevented further abuse. Jerry hurried across to a man in obvious pain. After a quick consultation, he spoke quietly to the silent wrestlers. 'Ronnie's Achilles tendon's come adrift. We've called an ambulance. Who was he fighting next?'

'Arthur.'

Jerry stood in the centre of the room and gazed around, frowning. He stopped with his gaze on Frankie, smiled unpleasantly and asked Massimo who his next opponent was.

'Harry.'

Jerry's smile grew along with Frankie's nervousness. 'Listen up everyone. The last thing we want is to cut the evening short along with your earnings, so as Massimo's friend says he wants to wrestle, Harry will now fight Arthur in the final round, and Massimo will fight...what's your name?'

'Frankie.'

'Frankie. Now, here's the clever bit. The punters won't be happy paying big bucks to watch an amateur, so Frankie will sit in the audience after the break, pretending he's paid to get in, and I'll tell them there's been an accident, and ask if anyone wants to volunteer to take on Massimo. You, Frankie, will wave your hand and I'll agree. You'll be on fourth so you can watch the first three bouts from the stands to get an idea of what you'll have to do. At the end of the third round I'll call you down, then it's up to you.' He turned to Massimo. 'Just don't kill him. I'm not insured for that. As for you, Frankie, I want you to come across as an arrogant know-it-all so the audience is delighted when you lose. Got that? If you stuff up, then Massimo gets no pay for tonight. Now, get outside and come in through the front door so no one guesses it's a set-up!

Frankie stared in horror at Massimo, who shook his head in despair.

'You're going to have lots of bruises tomorrow. I'll try to be easy on you, but if the audience suspects I'm being soft or that you're not what Jerry says you are, they'll demand their money back. I did warn you. Now, get out there and take lots of videos and learn a few moves.

A minute later Frankie wandered in through the main door. Jerry, who was now behind the bar, looked up and asked how he'd enjoyed the first half.

'Pretty good,' Frankie replied, nodding as if he was a connoisseur, then stood gazing around as if day dreaming, while ensuring the camera saw as much as possible.

The auditorium was a real eye-opener in the light. About twelve metres in diameter with a dark blue, circular wrestling mat directly in front of the screen that concealed the wrestlers' entrance. Three tiers of comfortable seats, the front row almost touching the mat, turned the space into an amphitheatre, giving every patron an excellent view. Air conditioning kept the place pleasantly fresh, and a small bar beneath the stands was well patronised. Jerry was serving drinks. The big surprise was the walls, which were covered by a large mural resembling a Douanier Rousseau painting. In the dim light of wall-bracket lamps shaped like flaming torches, he felt as if he was in a mysterious forest filled with smooth-trunked trees and large leafy plants, partially concealing furtive animal and human silhouettes. A large pale moon in an ominous evening sky created deep shadows. Painted mainly in shades of green with occasional tiny flickers of bright gold, red and blue, the effect was of a primeval space that was at once haunting and exciting. To sit in the stands watching powerful, naked men fighting in such an environment was going to be a memorable experience.

The patrons too were a surprise. Frankie counted sixty-two men aged from late twenties to late middle age. Neat, casual clothes as if they were going to the pub. Several were in suits. All looked like the average Australian male—pleasant, clean, ordinary and dull. Some were bearded, most clean-shaven. Slim, fat, stocky, athletic, blond, dark, mousy. None looked queer, gay or sleazy. Normal is the only word that described them. Obviously, Frankie decided, just as there's no homosexual type, nor is there a nude-wrestling-aficionado type.

The lights flickered, warning patrons to take their seats. Jerry pointed to an empty place in the middle of the second row. 'If your neighbour's surprised, just say it's a better view.

The neighbours didn't seem to notice, so he sat, even more impressed at the ambience when the lights dimmed. The golden glow directed onto the mat from three concealed spotlights, splashed onto the mysterious forest scene and subtly enhanced the almost ceremonial display of strength and flexibility of the nine well proportioned men in the prime of strength and health, erections thrusting proudly as they stretched and laughed and displayed their muscles.

After announcing the opponents Jerry held up a hand for silence. 'Gentlemen, as you will have noticed, we have no opponent for Massimo. That's because Ron, who was to have fought him in the next round, has been taken to hospital with a torn tendon.'

Mutters of annoyance.

'However... Several times over the years, arrogant young men have come up to me and said they thought the wrestlers were pussies, that they could demolish them if I would let them get in the ring. I've never taken up their offers, but as tonight we're one man down, I wonder if there's any young champ in the audience who thinks he could take on Massimo in the next round?'

'Yeah! Yeah!' Frankie shouted excitedly. 'I'll take him on. He got thrashed before, I can easily finish him off.'

Jeers, laughs, boos, 'Shut up and sit down,' echoed round the room.

Jerry raised a hand for silence. 'Ok, here's the choice, men; either I refund a tenth of your money to compensate, or we let this young man take on Massimo. Your choice. A refund or watch a braggart get hammered and fucked. Hands up for the refund.'

Not one hand was raised.

'Good. What's your name, champ?'

'Frankie.'

'Right, Frankie. Sit tight and say your prayers. You're on in the fourth round; we'll call you down then. Ok, on with the show!

The older man next to Frankie patted him on the knee. 'You're a brave fellow.'

While the six wrestlers in the first three bouts attempted to subdue each other, Frankie watched in mindless fear. The only thing he learned during the first fight was how to be a good loser by reluctantly accepting with courage and manly stoicism, being carried around, legs in the air, then forced to roll on his opponent's condom before being thrust ignominiously to the ground and stabbed by the winner's sacrificial 'knife'. Afterwards, they left the stage with arms around each other's shoulders, the best of manly friends, followed by the best of cheers.

Frankie could cope with that—he hoped. It was what was going to happen before the final humiliation that terrified him. But no matter what happened he was determined Jerry would not be able to complain about him!

The second and third fights passed in a blur of terrified incomprehension.

All too soon Jerry was standing in the centre of the mat with Massimo proudly erect beside him. 'Ok, young man. Down you come.'

By the time Frankie was standing on the star in the centre of the rubber mat he was shaking. Massimo calmly removed his clothes for him, tossing them away with disdain. 'Don't worry,' he whispered. 'You'll be fine.' He turned Frankie's back to the audience, bent him over and rubbed a lot of oil into his anus to amuse them while an assistant secretly pressed the injection gun against his penis. There was no need for the audience to know how their heroes managed to stay erect. Then Massimo turned Frankie around and with a sneer slapped his cock, setting the audience roaring with laughter. The slapping, injection and irritation worked, and by the time the two warriors had their heads together, hands on shoulders, Frankie was ready. He looked down at the throbbing organ and suddenly felt powerful. He wouldn't win, but he wouldn't give in easily.

The bell tinkled and Massimo waited. From nerves Frankie dropped and grasped Massimo around the knees intending to hoist him high, but Massimo leaned over and grabbed Frankie under the armpits, flipped over his back, dragging Frankie with him to land with a bone jarring thump. From then on for Frankie it was merely a question of staying alive. No matter how he twisted, squeezed, grabbed at arms and legs, he always ended up in an embarrassing position, legs spread so wide he thought they'd tear off, back bent at an impossible angle. For what seemed an hour Frankie did his best, but when the bell sounded his legs were on Massimo's shoulders and both shoulder blades flat on the mat.

Dazed, he struggled to his feet having experienced the longest three minutes of his life. And then it all began again! Massimo played with him so cleverly that the audience didn't guess he wasn't really trying and wasn't hurting his opponent much. He made Frankie appear not a total loser, but still a total amateur, and the bruises and almost dislocated sockets were real! And then he was swung over Massimo's shoulder, landed on his face, and before he could recover Massimo flipped him over and sat on his chest, pressing both shoulder blades into the mat.

Massimo got up, laughing, and Jerry tapped Frankie on the shoulder. The moment of truth had arrived. Too numbed to care, he was carried around with all his bits exposed, then 'wheelbarrowed' to the front of the mat, had his thighs spread, and Massimo plunged his sword.

The pain was nothing compared to all his bruises, joints and muscles. He was hardly aware of the thrusting, slamming and the massive heave that lifted his hands off the mat when Massimo climaxed with a guttural growl.

And then he was pulled to his feet and Massimo whispered, 'Grin like a brave man who's been fucked painfully but won't admit it!'

The audience was appeased and Jerry sneered, 'Not the hero you thought you were, are you?'

Frankie shook his head, shrugged and nodded, unsmiling.

'Ok, back to your seat, there's a real fight on next.'

'My clothes...'

'Get them later,' Jerry snapped as the last two wrestlers made their appearance, posturing and displaying like a pair of randy peacocks.

Frankie was too exhausted to feel shy about pushing past patrons to get to his seat. Most just grinned. The elderly man on his right shook his hand and nodded approval. The teenager on his left was unpleasant. 'You looked a fucking dick out there,' he said loudly.

Frankie sank into his seat and silently agreed. Despite his aching body he enjoyed the last fights, finally beginning to understand what was going on and how he could have done better. He hoped Massimo had been able to video this one.

Three minutes after the mat emptied, the auditorium was also empty and Frankie joined Massimo in the dressing room. Jerry was handing out envelopes to the remaining wrestlers, who gave Frankie an amused cheer. Jerry slapped him on the shoulder, 'Thanks, Frankie. You saved the day. Are you two fuck buddies?'

'Something like that.'

'If you ever learn to wrestle, come and see me.'

'I'll do that.' Frankie looked around for his gear.

'I've got your clothes in here,' Massimo pointed to his own small holdall. 'You don't need them. Let's go.'

The car park was almost empty.

'Want me to drive?'

Frankie ached so much he'd have welcomed it, but wasn't going to admit it, so they drove away in silence, each wondering what the other was thinking. Massimo worried he'd been too hard on Frankie; Frankie worrying he'd looked stupid and useless. It was five minutes before either spoke.

'I'm sorry for laying into you so roughly.'

'It was necessary.'

'No, I could have been easier, I was annoyed that you'd got yourself into that position and wanted to teach you a lesson.'

'You did. Was I a total embarrassment?'

'No. Obviously a total amateur, but a fighter.'

'Were you ashamed to know me?'

'Of course not. You acted the part brilliantly, and all the other wrestlers knew you'd never wrestled before and that Jerry had forced you into it by blackmailing me. So they were pretty damned impressed.'

Would he really have fined you so much?'

'Yep. So thanks.'

A comfortable silence accompanied them home.

They slept late. Massimo jogged and Frankie staggered to the swimming hole where the cold water dragged blood to joints, stimulated movement and helped ease the aches.

Back at the house they downed a substantial breakfast, then as Prudence, Empirika and Harley had gone into town to buy supplies, they joined Columbine in the van where she had been looking at the videos.

They're a mixed bunch, Frankie. Some are of the ceiling, others too dark, but others are superb. I can get an excellent idea of the place and most are useable. What a beautiful space from the audience's perspective; those murals. It looks as if they're wrestling in an enchanted forest, yet it's unfussy. Completely masculine. There's not a feminine element in any of the videos. And no women in the audience.'

Massimo barked a short laugh. 'Every one of those men is escaping at least one female. If even one woman were present every man would leave immediately and never return. They'd feel violated. Men can only really enjoy themselves if they are not being seen, judged and criticised by females.'

Columbine nodded sadly. 'I've never met a woman who can refrain from commenting on everyone around her—usually negatively.' She cleared her throat. 'The audience are not at all what I expected; they're so ordinary, just the normal couch potato. And the wrestlers! Such nice men! I hadn't realised how clogged my brain is with stereotypes. And the naked wrestling almost makes men in those singlet things seem perverted. Also the erections!' She laughed. 'You looked like gods.'

'Were you shocked to see the losers getting fucked?'

'No. It seemed a natural assertion of dominance. Lots of animals and birds do that. Bulls fuck each other for dominance. Roosters too. I was sorry to only have one video of you, though, Massimo. What happened during your second fight?'

'Jerry, the boss, asked Frankie to do something for him, so you missed seeing me win.'

Frankie breathed a sigh of relief. One shame avoided.

'What'll we call the video?' Columbine asked

'How not to make a fool of yourself on the mat. Frankie's up for it.'

'As long as you don't kill me.'

'Why don't you both have a bout now in the lounge while we've got the place to ourselves. I'd love to see you both wrestling—exactly like those men last night.'

'Exactly?'

'Yes.'

Massimo shrugged. 'Ok. What about you, Frankie?'

Frankie frowned. 'I guess so...' He looked into Columbine's eyes. 'When you said exactly like last night, does that mean you want to see the looser get fucked?'

Columbine's eyebrows rose in serene surprise. 'But of course! Without that the fight says nothing about dominance and interaction between males.' Her smile was that of an innocent child as she turned to her equipment. 'I'll close this down and meet you in the lounge in ten minutes.'

Frankie looked at Massimo expecting a protest, but he was already heading back to their bedroom.

Frankie ran after him. 'Won't it feel strange to fuck in front of your mother?'

'She's not my mother. You were Ok with it last night, what's changed?

'She just wants a sexual thrill.'

'So did those guys last night. I like being watched and thought you were the same. If you're worried about getting fucked, don't be. I intend to lose.'

'Why?'

'Because she doesn't like me—none of us like each other. She wants me to move out but I need somewhere to stay, so I figure that it'll make her so happy to see me get fucked she'll get off my back for a bit.'

'Ye gods! I thought you guys were one big happy family.'

'Fuck no. Empirika hates me because I know she's just using Prudence. Dad's jealous of.... Columbine's also jealous of me for... and I think they're all parasites. So are you on?'

Frankie nodded, Massimo picked up a timer, a bottle of oil and a foil-wrapped condom and as if hypnotised, Frankie followed him through to the lounge where Columbine had pushed carpets and chairs back to create a space. Two cameras sat on the floor and two were on tripods, all focussed on a chalk circle drawn on the floor. Columbine drew a dining room chair up to the edge of the circle and sat on it.

Massimo set the timer for three minutes and they faced each other, hands on shoulders, totally focussed. Ready for the slightest opening. In a blur of speed Frankie thrust an arm between Massimo's legs and heaved him off balance. From then on he had the upper hand. Every time it seemed that Massimo would best him, he found an opening, grabbed the chance and escaped, pinning Massimo instead. It looked brutal and there was copious sweat but fewer bruises and less joint strain than the previous night. The three-minute bell sounded and they relaxed and paced around for a minute to recoup.

Columbine licked her lips and nodded.

In round two it seemed that neither could gain the advantage. Slippery from sweat, heaving, twisting, lifting, until with an almighty effort Frankie dropped onto Massimo's chest, forcing his shoulders to the floor as the bell rang.

Facing Columbine, Massimo aroused Frankie, rolled the condom onto his erection, presented himself and stoically endured a deliberately brutal invasion from Frankie who needed to humiliate Massimo as payback for the humiliation of being allowed to win.

His mother laughed unpleasantly, snarling, 'Fuck him hard, Frankie. Hurt him, Frankie.'

Frankie orgasmed, withdrew, and collapsed onto his back, staring in disgust at Columbine, whose eyes were glued to her son, also on his back, facing her with legs wide apart as he casually masturbated, staring expressionlessly into her eyes until she looked away.

# Porn

After dinner they sat and watched Columbine's twenty-minute compilation of wrestling videos from the previous night, into which she had cleverly inserted the fight that afternoon, up to and including Massimo's finale.

After a two second silence she said, 'I'm going to make a longer version when I've edited the rest of Frankie's videos.'

'Most interesting, Columbine,' Prudence said thoughtfully. 'But I'm confused, while half the wrestling took place in that romantic forest scene, some seemed to be in this very room?'

'A trick of the trade, Prudence,' Columbine replied airily. 'It's amazing what you can do with digital images.'

'Yeah, amazing,' Harley sneered. 'How much did you pay my son to lose, Frankie?'

Frankie had no idea how to react, so didn't.

'You looked good, Frankie,' Empirika added. 'Made me realise what a runt my half-brother is.'

Frankie cringed. Where was this going?

'I prefer the setting in the first part, and the wrestlers in the second,' Prudence said calmly as if nothing untoward was happening and she'd been watching a documentary about butterflies.

'Thank you, Prudence,' Massimo grinned while Frankie looked around in confusion.

'Not much cum after all that wanking, half-brother,' Empirika taunted.

'Frankie's been sucking him dry,' Harley snarled.

'I find the sheer primal energy and strength exciting to watch,' Columbine stated as if defying disagreement. 'I was transfixed.'

'She should be,' Massimo whispered to Frankie, 'with a stake.'

'And the other wrestlers all seemed so gentlemanly,' she added.

'Ha!' Harley snorted. 'They're not typical males. Ok. Enough crap. Is naked wrestling pornography? If it is we won't continue with videos because I have decided porn is out. I took clips from fifty-eight Internet porn sites we trawled through recently, and they shocked me deeply. I'd like to know what you people think.' He put another DVD in the player.

Laughs, guffaws and exclamations of incredulity soon gave way to yawns and serious concern for the well being of the actors.

'That was not inspiring,' Prudence said sadly at the end.

'They're all the same.' Empirika shook her head contemptuously. 'Seen one seen 'em all.'

'Yeah, two or three people meet, take off their clothes and fuck with varying degrees of athleticism.'

'After first displaying all their sexy bits and pieces.'

'With an average of only four camera angles and ninety percent genital close-ups,' Massimo remarked. 'Top, sides and below, depending of which gives the best view. Not what you'd call inventive or artistic.'

'And not much scope for story-telling when you seldom see the rest of the body and the sole activity is full-on hard sex.'

'Like the video of Massimo and me just before?' Frankie asked innocently.

'Yes and no.' Prudence paused to organise her thoughts. 'It was explicit, but it was part of a logical sequence of events. A wrestling bout is sort of a story, and Massimo wasn't forced or in pain.'

'Yes. That's an important point,' Columbine agreed. 'Those girls' vaginas must get incredibly sore and probably torn. One had three erect penises in it and another up her rectum.'

'It's as bad for the boys,' Frankie said softly. 'That girl had her arm in that bloke's arse nearly up to the elbow. Her fingers must have been into his appendix. It's insane. I've read about anal fissures and splitting and infections and...yuk!'

'Why do they do it?'

'For the money, or they're homeless and lonely, or they're into drugs and the producer supplies them with whatever they need for turning tricks.'

'I've read the guys and girls doing the most dangerous and painful things are often stoned and don't realise what's happening. They can't feel anything down there. It's only afterwards that the pain gets to them, so they take more drugs and...'

'Not to mention the shame. It's not for nothing that so many porn actors suicide in their twenties.'

'They've probably got permanently damaged genitals. Vaginal and anal muscles can only be stretched so far without rupturing. They probably leak from front and rear after a few years. Who'd want to marry or have a relationship with someone who was incontinent before they were thirty?'

'I hope never to see another vagina or anus tortured by yet another gigantic cock ramming in and out. That girl with two penises in her mouth, two up her fanny and one in her backside couldn't have been more than fifteen.' Empirika shuddered. 'Would you have done anything like that, Frankie if you'd been poor and lonely?'

'You never know what you'd do if you were lonely, kept prisoner, tortured, starved, injected with drugs, promised a million bucks... I like to think I'd say no, but...' Frankie fell silent, unaware of the tears running down his cheeks. 'I just feel so sorry for the kids who've had a rotten childhood and evil parents. My father's boyfriend's a lawyer who spends most of his time in court trying to keep youths who've been abused, ill-treated, homeless, cheated... out of prison. It drains him sometimes. It's so hopeless. The courts don't care. The government doesn't care. Their parents and schoolteachers don't care. The kids are left to get into trouble by doing whatever they can to keep alive, and are then punished for it.'

Silence.

'So, are we all agreed? No porn?'

'Depends on our definition of porn.'

'What we've just seen!'

'There'll be nothing like that in the video of Rika making the sculpture of Frankie, or the wrestling.'

'But there's nudity.'

'Naked's not porn and neither's an erection. It's natural. What those people were doing is the opposite of natural. It's evil. It's depraved. The people who make them do it should be shot.'

'Yet porn is the most popular thing on the Internet. What does that make most people?'

'Sick. Mentally sick.'

'More likely it's just that they lack enough imagination or empathy to understand the cost to the actors of what they're doing.'

'Hang on,' Prudence said irritably. 'Everyone keeps saying porn as if we all agree what it is. But do we? Was it porn when Frankie and I fucked in an abnormal way on stage?'

'No, because no one got hurt.'

'And it was artistic—part of a fun ballet.'

'And it was amusing.'

'And you were doing it for fun, not profit.'

'Actually, it started as a scientific experiment; I wanted to see if I was fertile.'

'And I wanted to know what it was like to fuck a female.'

'Then why do it in front of one and a half thousand people?'

'Because it was fun.'

'You're exhibitionists.'

'That's a word usually used for people who want to shock. We don't. We want to do what you said we did... amuse, entertain artistically, have fun.'

'So if the explicit depiction of strange sexual acts isn't porn, what is?'

'It's only porn if someone gets hurt, in the widest sense.'

'Meaning?'

'If it's against their will, or they are hurt emotionally or physically, even if they're doing it willingly, or there's violence, or all those things.'

'So, as we have no plans to do any of those things, Harley's label is the only problem. We do what we intended, but don't call it porn.'

'What do we call it?'

'Erotica.'

There was general agreement.

'Okay, we intend to make short, entertaining visual erotic stories,' Harley growled, 'but I'm damned if I can think of a single story-line. Suggestions please!'

They pondered.

Suddenly Empirika asked, 'Do you have loads of friends, Frankie?'

'What? No. No. I don't make friends easily. Don't meet enough people I suppose.'

'Have you tried the Internet?'

'I don't want a lot of friends, they'd make my life complicated. Anyway, few people tell the truth about themselves on the Internet.'

'You're right. And if you're brave enough to meet them you're as likely to be mugged or cheated as befriended.'

'You meet new friends through other friends,' Columbine stated.

'Like... I met you guys because I came to visit Prudence?'

'And you also saved Ian and made it possible for me to buy his property and watch a video of you wrestling with Massimo. Everything we do has unexpected consequences. Meeting new people is just one of them.' Prudence's tone was impatient, almost accusing as if there was a message in her words that he was to dumb to understand. She was gazing intently at Frankie as if willing him to respond. He gazed around. The others looked equally mystified.

'What do you mean, Prudence?' he asked gently.

'You implied that the Kwins and I are your friends. But how well do you know us?'

'I... I only know what I've seen over the last few days.'

'So you know nothing about us! Are we who we say we are?' Her voice was taunting. 'Before giving out your credit card details on line, what do you do?'

'I check if the site's a scam.'

'What questions have you asked us to determine our bona fides?'

'None... I just thought... but you're right. You and I never actually got to know each other more than superficially at university. Is it too late to discover if you're all raving maniacs about to slice me up for dinner?' He gazed around the room. No one was smiling.

'Yes it is. But I've an idea that might help us understand each other better.'

'Well, don't keep us in suspension,' Empirika's sneering tone nullified the attempted joke.

Prudence sighed patiently. 'I think we should each write a very short piece about one episode in our life that explains who we are, and read it out tomorrow night. A window to the real person. A secular confessional. Afterwards, Harley can turn them into videos if he wants. Well?

It was agreed that the idea had merit. They had nothing better to do. But it'd be hard to select one event. And how much should they write?

Prudence smiled bleakly. 'Just jot down the bare bones to keep you on track when entertaining us.'

'How long?'

'Three minutes.'

'Must they be completely true?'

'I read somewhere that only five percent of most autobiographies is true. The point is the point, not the veracity of the details.'

#  Revelations

After the evening meal everyone sat on comfortable chairs in a large circle in the lounge, faces almost in shadow because Prudence had dimmed the lights to lessen feelings of embarrassment at revealing a tiny bit of themselves.

'I was a fat little girl,' Columbine sighed, 'bullied and abused at school and at home, which I left the day I turned sixteen. I decided to be strong, accept my fate and not be intimidated by the beautiful people. To celebrate my decision I bought a thong bikini and went to an aquatic theme park. When standing in a queue at a kiosk waiting for ice cream, a slender and graceful young woman in an identical thong to mine said loudly, "Fuck you're fat! Do you really think anyone wants to see your flabby carcass and ginormous arse?"

'I felt ten years old again; seething with hatred, determined on revenge. So I followed them around, ending up in the Big Slide, where, to avoid overcrowding at the top, people have to wait in a cage at the bottom of the stairs until the gate opens and lets about a dozen up. The doors closed just before they got to the stairs. The bitch and I were the only females in a cage full of drunken males on some sort of stag do. Gagging on beer fumes I pushed through until I was directly behind the evil cow who was trying to swallow her boyfriend's tongue.

'Two sharp tugs was all it took to snap the fastenings on bra and thong and drag them both off. Before she could react I barged my way out, binned her bikini then stood outside the cage and watched. It was at least ten minutes before attendants arrived, stopped the fracas then carried two bruised and naked bodies out onto the grass. The boyfriend bleeding, she screaming "Rape!". A wall of smart phones recording every detail to post on social media completed my revenge.'

'You exaggerate your size,' Frankie said politely.

'She _is_ pretty fat,' Harley sniffed.

'Retribution is one of life's greatest pleasures,' Empirika nodded.

'She deserved it,' Massimo added.

'But you're still sensitive about your shape and size, aren't you, Columbine?' Prudence asked sweetly. 'Your turn, Harley.'

Columbine shot her a glare of distilled dislike.

'My defining moment?' Harley stared unsmiling at Massimo and Empirika, who stared right back. 'At fourteen my mother disappeared because my father was a shiftless gambler in debt to a man who was threatening to cut off his ears and eyelids. The night after she left, our door was smashed in and a couple of heavies dragged us out of bed, put hoods over our heads, shoved us in the boot of a car and took us to a large house in the country, where a smooth, wealthy prick was standing in front of a fire. He asked if Dad had the money. Dad shook his head. One of his heavies stripped me, felt my arms and legs, made me bend over, looked in my mouth and arse, then told the smooth man I was clean and healthy.

"We'll take your kid as payment." "In full?" Dad asked. "Yes." "I'll need a receipt." The man nodded, took a pad from a drawer and wrote something. Dad checked it, grinned and held out his hand to seal the deal. "Fuck off," one of the heavies said, so he did, and that was the first happy day of my life. From that day on I was well housed, fed, clothed, secure, had regular health checks and a generous allowance to do as I liked when I had no clients. It was a form of slavery, I suppose, but give me that over low wages and having to house, feed, and clothe myself with no free time and no money left over for fun.' Harley looked around belligerently, daring anyone to disagree. 'Servicing men is no different from a mechanic servicing cars or a doctor servicing patients. I was a happy slave, and still am.' He looked at Columbine who didn't smile.

'That explains why you were not a good provider for your family,' Empirika sneered. 'Having been taken care of your whole life, and still doing it.'

'But your point is interesting,' Prudence said kindly. 'Studies have shown that throughout history domestic slaves with benevolent masters have usually led better lives that those of the grindingly poor. It is arguable that the majority of today's homeless poor would be delighted to be slaves with a master who housed, fed, treated them decently and took care of them. Instead, we are creating a vast underclass of working poor with none of the advantages slaves enjoy, because that is the cheaper option. The consequences, though, will be horrific. Hordes of diseased, filthy starving beggars and criminals making cities dangerous for the wealthy minority, who then impose horrible punishments on those they've maltreated, for the slightest misdemeanour.' She turned to Massimo. 'Ready?'

Massimo nodded and scratched his head. 'While working on a shoot in Melbourne I boarded with a family in a nondescript suburb. When I arrived the family were sitting goggle-eyed in front of a two-metre TV. My host, a middle-aged, flabby nonentity in singlet and shorts, paused the video, thrust out a clammy, soft hand and barked, "I'm Randy and the wife's Darlene." I wanted to wash my hand but first had to waggle Darlene's claw, averting my eyes from the bright pink housecoat that flapped open to reveal sagging tits. Sixteen year-old Lusa and fourteen year-old Sherrin didn't even look up from the frozen picture on the screen.

'I was told to squeeze between the girls on the settee while they finished watching the DVD, in which a girl who looked the same age as Sherrin was kneeling on the shag-pile sucking on the erection of a pumped up gym freak, while a powerful hairy chest was screwing her from behind. "Spit roast" Sherrin giggled and every one laughed. I couldn't join in. Afterwards, Randy made a show of adjusting his genitals while asking if I was going to seduce his daughters. More laughs. When I said I wasn't, he ranted about not wanting queers in his house, because they were decent God fearing people!

'Sherrin asked if I'd liked the video. I asked if she'd like to have that done to her. "In your dreams!" she sneered, missing the point. After cocoa and a biscuit, Randy showed me to my room and the bathroom. Ten minutes later I was showered and lying on top of the bed wondering whether to wank when the Darlene sidled in, closed the door and dropped her dressing gown to reveal a scrawny, heavily perfumed, almost tit-free body. 'Fuck you look old,' I said. She wrapped herself and stomped out, leaving the door wide for Randy who sauntered in and sat on the bed staring at my groin. He asked if I'd ever screwed a man. I said I hadn't. He said I could board for free if I'd fuck him. I said I'd sooner chop my cock off, so he shrugged, said it had been worth a try and sauntered out.'

Massimo sat back in his chair with an uncertain smile. 'Until then I'd thought I was normal and would fuck a hole in a tree if I was randy, but it was a relief to realise I had some standards and would prefer no sex than to touch those sorts.'

'Very sensible of you,' Prudence stated sweetly. 'It's a relief to know you're a man with high moral standards.'

Empirika snorted.

'Amen to that,' Frankie whispered.

Prudence caught his eye and smiled, then turned to Empirika and nodded.

After a contemptuous sniff to prove she thought it a stupid idea, Empirika sprawled back in her chair and spoke in a bored drawl. 'Ten years ago I took care of an aunt who'd broken her hip. The road behind her place winds up a steep hill past a lookout. It's a nice view over farmland, but most people just drive on. I used to walk up for the exercise, fresh air and the view when I felt like murdering my snappy old aunt. At the edge of a parking area there's a parapet in front of a nearly vertical drop of about twenty metres to a stony stream. I considered leaping off more than once.

'One day I was sitting with my back to a rock out of the wind when I heard a vehicle pull in, a car door slam, and screaming. Keeping out of sight behind my rock, I turned and watched a woman run across to the parapet shouting, "You have to marry me! You said you loved me so I told everyone at work and all my family that I was getting married! You're a user, an abuser, a rapist, a creepy crawling worm of a man and useless in bed...." How she expected him to want her after that, beats me. When that didn't work, she collapsed to the ground, shuddered, and filled the air with fake sobs.

'The bloke apparently thought the tears were real so said he was sorry, but he had always thought they were just friends, good friends, and he wanted to remain friends, but he was not the marrying kind. She started howling again and I was on the point of warning him not to believe her when he surprised me by sticking to his guns. "Cry as much as you like, Louise, I can't marry you. We would be at each other's throats in weeks." "I don't care,' she screamed. "I don't give a fuck if we're happy or not, I want to get married! If you don't marry me I'm going to jump off this wall." She clambered onto the parapet and stood facing him. He took a step forward. "Keep away from me!" she wailed with more fake sobs. "If you won't marry me I'm better off dead. I've invited everyone at work to the wedding. I will not be made a fool of!"

'The boyfriend, who was plain but pleasant, slightly overweight, fair and freckled, tried once more to calm her. I could see the stupid man was going to capitulate so said loudly, 'She's faking. She won't jump.' They got such a fright, both took a step backwards. That was Ok for him, but Louise had no more steps to take. In silence she swayed, arms flailing fruitlessly and then the silence ended as she disappeared into the void accompanied by an unearthly howl.

'We both froze for a second, then raced forward and peered over the edge. Louise was lying in an impossible position. 'She's dead.' I stated, wondering why I was pleased. All he said was "Fuck". Now you're free, I added. "Fuck," he said again.

'The cops are going to think you pushed her,' I said calmly.

"But... but I didn't. You know I didn't."

I was feeling bitchy so said, 'In a way you did. You refused to marry her even after she warned you she'd jump.'

I let him sweat for a few seconds then suggested we go down so it looked as if we cared, and then call the cops. If they didn't take too long I'd stay and tell them what happened.

We sat on rocks beside the blessedly silent woman whose face was buried in gravel. I told him he was better off without her. He nodded and we discussed what to tell the cops.

'When they arrived they asked us to re-enacted what had happened, so we stood side by side enjoying the view. The guy asked me to marry him. I said a gleeful 'Yes!' and leaped onto the parapet saying, 'take my photo up here! I'm so happy!' Then while he was going back to the car to get his camera, I pretended to stumble, flailed my arms, and made the cops shout to be careful and insist I come down before I also fell over. We made statements, went to the cop shop the next day to sign them and I never saw him again.'

'Did you feel pity for her?' Frankie asked.

'Of course not! Stupid bitch. She should have pretended to be the sort of girl he wanted to marry, and made herself indispensible. Serves her right for letting him see what a silly cow she was before tying the knot.'

'That's very interesting,' Prudence said quietly, 'You have hidden depths, Rikka.'

Empirika's face closed up. 'Thank you, Prudence.'

Prudence turned to Frankie. 'What revealing tale have you in store for us, Frankie?'

While mulling over his life, Frankie had discovered he was a very private person, unwilling to reveal anything important. He also didn't trust the Kwins. It had been a fun few days but it was time to go. Empirika was not going to make a sculpture of him, he realised with relief, there would be no series of videos, and nothing would come of these stories, which he was certain were all lies. Possibly therapeutic for the Kwins, but Frankie Fey was not in need of therapy. He had no problems, wasn't dissatisfied with life or anything else. He loved and was loved by Ingenio and Constantine and that was all that mattered. Certainly none of the events that had shaped him were for public gaze. But there _was_ one thing he wanted to clear up and this was his chance to do it.

'Since my first day at school,' he said seriously, 'I've had girls chasing me, trying to kiss me, wanting me to kiss them. Teachers laughed when I complained, saying I should enjoy it while it lasted. So I kissed an unwilling girl and was punished for sexual harassment. When I was eleven a soft, unhealthy boy who hated exercise, tried to kiss me. He was as unwelcome as the females. For self protection I became arrogantly dismissive towards all females and wimpish males who even smiled at me. Then at university I met a female with a brain, outlook, values and mindset that attracted me. But by habit and fear of inviting trouble, I avoided friendship by keeping our association strictly professional. Too late I discovered that my barriers had been unnecessary. We could have enjoyed three years of mental pleasure and friendly companionship. I doubt if I will again find such an intellectual soul mate, but if I do, I won't make the same mistake.'

'Why didn't you discuss the situation with the woman instead of assuming the worst?'

'Experience, Harley. Having never met a similar female, I was totally unprepared. Discretion is the better part of valour, and all that.'

'She was probably a slag,' Massimo grunted. 'Men are always attributing noble qualities to women they don't really know. Wishful thinking at its stupidest. You're better off without her.'

'Or she's better off without such a narrow minded bigoted male!' Columbine muttered audibly.

'Thanks Frankie.' Prudence smiled sweetly. 'I guess it's now my turn to explain why I'm strange.' She looked down at her feet, pulled a wry face then sat up straight and gazed into the space above her listeners' heads as if recalling a faded memory. 'My father is a pastor of the Exclusive Sect of the Sacrificial Lamb. There are perhaps a million adherents worldwide and they are not evangelical. They believe they have been chosen by the God of the Torah, Bible and Koran to live a life of total purity in order that they may drift like fluffy sheets of heavenly toilet paper among the devil's disciples, soaking up all the shit of the world. Sex with people outside the sect is forbidden, but compulsory within, so we can increase in number without diluting the essence of our God-given exceptionality.

'My rational, logical, highly intelligent brain, although seriously affronted by the idiocy of these beliefs, was persuaded by the fear of physical torture to remain silent. Despite my efforts to remain pure, at high school I fell in love with a teacher, Agnes Fortune. I was sixteen, she twenty-seven. At first it was her brain and mathematical genius that attracted my admiration, and then her ability to excite every part of my body with fingers, tongue and lips that made me her willing partner in every aspect of love, lust and desire.

'Naturally, rumours about our carnal transgressions in the mathematics store room were soon flitting around School social media sites like "Chatter", 'Babble" and "Blabber". Eventually, the Headmistress called us in, castigated us for not being more discreet, and asked Agnes if she wanted to continue teaching. To her shame and my mortification, she said she did, and accepted a transfer to our sister school in Western Australia, leaving me to endure jibes about being the jilted Sacrificial Lamb of Miss Fortune's lusts.

'My parents were equally furious that I had drawn attention to their sect, and withdrew me from school. For three Holy Days in a row I stood naked before the congregation, lambasted for my transgressions. On the fourth day I was returned to the loving fold of the community by rubbing holy oil on the naked body of the Supreme High Moderator, who then fucked me without a condom on the high altar, to the affectionate cheers and loving applause of the entire gang of doting idiots.

'As for my studies. I finished them under the brilliant tuition of an Under Pastor by the name of Eion Shaft, with whom I lived as a sex slave for the next eighteen months, after which I was considered cured and permitted to attend the Rationalist University, where I met Frankie, who enabled me to make my final rupture with that insane sect by inviting my parents to see me dance. I gave them the impression it was to be a work of graceful beauty that would so enrapture the audience it would soak up every immoral, base, villainous, and dishonourable vibration in the theatre. Instead, they saw me cavorting naked and being rudely fucked by a pagan satyr. Unfortunately, the shock didn't trigger terminal heart attacks, but it did sever the connection between us forever. So now I am blessedly free.'

Prudence smiled softly and sank back in her chair.

'Brilliant!' Frankie laughed.

'Yes, an amusing pack of lies,' Columbine sniffed. 'Your specialty, I think.'

Frankie caught Prudence's sly wink, so he relaxed. She did not need defending.

'Yeah, good one Prudence,' Empirika yawned. 'But I'm so stuffed I'm off to bed.'

'I think I'll take a stroll outside,' Harley announced. 'I don't feel tired and it's a beautiful night. Nearly full moon.'

'I've been sitting so long I'm ceasing up, so I'll join you,' Massimo yawned following his father.

'Was any of your story true?' Frankie asked Prudence.

'Only one thing.'

'That you met me.'

'Precisely.' After checking they were alone, she whispered, 'Be a dear and follow Harley and Massimo. But take great care not to be seen!' After a friendly pat on his cheek, she joined Empirika in her bedroom and Frankie wandered casually out into the shadows, following muffled voices along dark leafy paths towards the river.

# What Frankie Saw

There was enough moonlight to see shadows and shapes as they followed an overgrown path that led to a sagging corrugated iron shed full of old tyres and spider webs. Frankie had been there before but not entered, being wary of snakes. Knowing where they were heading, he increased the gap between them in case he trod on a stick or broke a branch. The scraping of the sagging door as it was dragged open, suggested they were entering, so he waited three minutes to make sure they weren't just picking something up and continuing their walk, then slowly crept forward. The old shed, deep black in the moonlight, looked like a flurry of fireflies. Electricity wasn't connected so they must be using a battery lamp and the light was escaping through rust holes in the walls and along the edge of the roof.

He crept to the partially open door. A patch in the middle of the earthen floor had been cleared for a mattress. Both men were naked; Harley on his back with his legs in the air, his son between them silently pumping. Harley's eyes were closed and a smile softened his normally critical expression. Massimo climaxed, held it for several seconds, then slowly withdrew.

'Fuck I needed that,' Harley said with feeling. 'Thinking of you with that creepy Frankie every night made me so horny I even fucked Columbine. And then I had to sit through the bitch's bloody video of you two fucking. How much longer do we have to put up with those two fuckwits?'

'Empirika says she'll have everything she needs in a couple of days. So relax. Do you want to fuck?'

'Of course.'

Massimo withdrew, rolled over and was getting onto his hands and knees when he glanced at the door.

Frankie pulled back. Heart pounding.

'I thought I heard something.'

'Bandicoots, echidnas, rats, possums, snakes, lizards... of course you heard something.'

Frankie remained frozen until the sound of rutting males covered his retreat.

Back at the house he wondered if he should wake Prudence, but decided against it. They couldn't do anything tonight, and as Empirika was involved in whatever was afoot it would be stupid to do anything unusual.

Massimo showered and crawled into bed half an hour later. Frankie pretended to be asleep while increasingly grisly scenarios tumbled through his head. It wouldn't be possible to talk to Prudence alone anywhere on the property without attracting suspicion. So where? And how to arrange it?

The following morning just before dawn he suddenly howled and clutched in agony at his belly. 'Sorry, Massimo,' he gasped, panting, eyes wide, face contorted in a spasm of suffering. 'I couldn't stop myself.' Another agonised groan sent Massimo to fetch Prudence who pressed here and there on belly and chest, eliciting yowls of torment and a secret wink. She took his temperature and said it was hovering on forty. An emergency! It was still only half past six, too early for doctors, and an ambulance would take ages, if it didn't get lost, so she decided to take Frankie to outpatients at the nearest hospital. Massimo helped him to dress and Columbine made a thermos of tea and a few sandwiches while Prudence dressed and brought her car around. Empirika remained in bed complaining about the noise.

'Have you got your wallet and car card?' she whispered as she settled him in the passenger seat. He nodded and they were away, zipping down the drive, along the road and into the city, stopping at the first park to drink their tea and eat the sandwiches. Frankie described the previous night's scene and conversation. Prudence remained silent for several minutes, concentrating.

'I guessed about Harley and Massimo. Harley's been visibly jealous of you sleeping and wrestling with him. And I'm sure Columbine knows, which is why she made the video of you two wrestling and fucking and made sure Harley had to sit through it. And Massimo would have loved making his father crazy with jealousy. They're a weird bunch. Massimo's a con man, but he's not a cameraman, hasn't the faintest idea. Didn't you notice, when he was filming you and the sculpture that is never going to be finished? As for Rika, did you see how angry she got when you suggested she use a 3D printer? That's because it's how the sculpture of me was made. She's competent, but not that good. She only asked you to stay because she thought that would annoy me, but then realised her mistake and now hates you being here, keeps suggesting I should get rid of you.' She laughed. 'That, of course, only made me determined that you stay. So she did me a favour because I'm really pleased you're here.'

'So am I'

'Good. And there's something very odd about Columbine's relationship to Harley. What woman would marry a man who's screwing his son? She's Rika's mother all right, but not Massimo's. I think Rika's story about causing the death of that jilted woman was a warning. Am I paranoid in thinking they want to get rid of us?'

'No. Sensible. Yesterday Massimo told me he wasn't Columbine's son. He dislikes them all, he reckons. How long have you known the Kwins?'

'Just on two years. In my second year at University I met Rika at an insignificant art gallery in the city where she was exhibiting small sculptures. She was sexy so I bought a couple of pieces and we swapped phone numbers. A week later she rang, I invited her out, and she's been here ever since. She's useful and good in bed. The other three came and stayed for a week in their campervan. The next time they stayed for a month, in the house. They're like gypsies. Always on the move. Always big plans and nothing to show for it. I've never seen any of their educational videos or anything else they say they've done. I just thought they were harmless layabouts living on their wits and the dole. Now it seems they aren't harmless and I'm worried. What can we do?'

'We, Prudence?' Frankie asked with a smile.

She blanched. 'Sorry. I know I seem cool and strange, but I've always considered you a good friend. Actually, it's embarrassing to admit, but you're the only person I know that I'd trust or confide in. And after your confession last night I was hoping you were...'

'I was.'

'What?'

'Referring to us. I want to be your friend and I'm going to help.'

'Thanks, Frankie. What do you suggest we do?'

'We write down everything we know, what we suspect and what we need to know, then I'll send the information to Ingenio, and if there's any information about them on the Internet he'll find it and report back.'

'How long will it take?'

'An hour or so.' Frankie laughed. 'When Rika introduced me to her family I assumed they were stage names, Harley Kwin, Empirika, Columbine, Massimo. Seriously, who has names like that?'

'You mean they ought to have normal names like Virtue and Ingenio?'

'Touché. Still, we'll ask Ingenio to check if they're fakes. Now, where's an Internet café when you need one?'

'What if he's not home?'

'I've a code that triggers an alarm no matter where he is.'

'I'd like to meet your father.'

Frankie grinned. 'Who knows what might happen.'

It took them ten minutes to compose and send the email. Half a minute later Ingenio responded, assuring them he'd get onto it immediately and asking for the make of the Kwin's campervan thing. And could they come to "85" and stay overnight in case there were further questions?

Frankie turned to Prudence. 'Can we? Do you trust those four alone at your place?'

'You've the keys to your car so they can't use that, and your wallet. There's nothing I value that they can harm, and if they do other damage I can call the cops and I've a feeling they might not like that. So yes.'

'Do you know the make of their vehicle?'

'As it happens, I do. I was struck by the absurd name and it's stuck in my head, it's a... a Faylabago.' She spelled it. Goodness knows how the manufacturers came up with a name like that.'

Prudence left a message on Empirika's phone that Frankie's condition probably wasn't serious, but he was being kept in hospital overnight for observation, so she'd find a motel and they weren't to worry about her.

Frankie emailed the make of the van and said they'd be home in a few hours. Three hours later they were back at "85" where Prudence was welcomed with tea and Madeira cake.

'After the show we wanted to tell you how much we enjoyed your portrayal of a nymph,' Constantine said, 'but you disappeared.'

'In case I got stoned to death.'

They laughed, enjoyed the tea and cake, then settled in front of Ingenio's computer to see what had been learned.

'I started with the sculptress,' Ingenio said with a frown. 'There was no sculptor called Empirika Kwin, but the exhibition you mentioned had her listed as Empirika Swyndill. No luck with Columbine Kwin, but here's a mug shot of Colleen Swyndill from Empirika's social network page, is this the woman?'

It was.

'You're extraordinarily ingenious, Ingenio,' Prudence declared. 'I'd never have thought sideways like that. I always think in lines. You deserve the name.'

'Thanks. Now to Harley Kwin. No luck with Kwin, Quin, Harvey Kwin, or any logical combination that sounds similar, so I tried Massimo, Wrestler, and found a video of a short, handsome, powerful guy wrestling in a North Sydney competition. Does that sound like him?'

'To a T. Can you get a surname?'

'I scanned old programmes from National Wrestling Competitions and found one from five years ago announcing a new member of the team, Massimo, formerly Martin Harley, a twenty-year old from Queensland. So I checked Harley Harley, Harvey Harley and similar combinations and found nothing. Then I scanned the Queensland Vehicle Registration records for the Faylabaygo Campervan. There are only a couple of hundred in the country, and one is registered to Jeremy Harley.'

'How interesting, we've been living with Jeremy and Martin Harley, and Colleen and Empirika Swyndill. All we have to discover now, is what they're planning.'

'First, a meal,' Ingenio laughed. 'When Karmai and Sylvan heard you were coming back they invited us to dinner. Karmai found a monitor lizard road-kill on the road and is preparing a traditional delicacy.'

'Can't wait.'

'They won't mind if I come?'

'They'll be as pleased to have the chance to congratulate you on your dancing as we were,' Constantine told her.

'Gosh. Fame for the only thing I'm no good at.'

'You're too modest, Prudence, Ingenio smiled. 'Constantine and I need to freshen up, so Frankie will show you to your room and the bathroom. Back here in about twenty minutes?'

Only the lizard's head had been squashed, the meat was white, tender and sweetly tasty, and the vegetables succulent and delicious. Prudence discovered to her astonishment that no one seemed to think she was strange, cold, clinical or aloof, so she relaxed and enjoyed herself. After discussing their quandary for an hour, during which Karmai warned them that conmen and women were seldom harmless so they should expect physical nastiness, and Sylvan offered his brawn if it was needed, they returned to the large house.

Frankie was pleased to be back in his own bed, alone, and Prudence loved the guest room, especially the view in the morning across treetops to distant hills.

# Biter Bit

'How on earth did the cops get evidence against criminals before the internet?' Frankie was checking through some of the previous day's printouts.

'It just took a lot longer and used up more manpower, and was therefore difficult to coordinate. It's amazing how well they did. It's funny and sad,' Constantine mused, watching Ingenio at work, 'that we're all so grateful that our governments provide equipment and wireless bands and allow free, instant transmission of ideas and information around the globe, not realising that the primary reason is to have instant access to every citizen's details, thoughts, plans, finances and everything else. It's Big Brother multiplied. They're never going to restrict emails or anything else because that might interfere with their surveillance. That's why I like to keep a low profile. But even that's fraught with risk. There's a giant computer doing nothing but trolling for little-used names and sending alarm signals to check up why Frankie Fey isn't a regular user of his main account. What is he hiding? Search deeper. He's obviously a terrorist!'

'Sadly, Constantine, you are not exaggerating,' Prudence agreed. 'I'm so glad Frankie taught me to be financially independent. I do not want to work for a society that is becoming ever more invasive, repressive and unequal. I'd opt out if there was anywhere to opt out to.'

'Yeah. The planet has shrunk to a single, open backyard devoid of trees but filled with pointless games.'

'Con, I need your expertise,' Ingenio interrupted. 'I'm checking court records, but which courts? And I want police charge sheets, what do I ask for?'

While the two men searched, noted, saved and compiled, Frankie took Prudence for a walk down to the swimming hole and to the boundary with the National park where he'd shot the foxes and hares. She was impressed and wished she had more of a view from her place.

'I love my house, but it's beginning to feel polluted. I might sell it once I've rid myself of the Swyndill woman, and get something a bit like this where I'm not going to be cut off every time there's a flood, especially as floods are becoming more common.'

It was too cold for a swim, so they climbed to the high lookout, which had Prudence in raptures. Ingenio and Constantine greeted them on their return with satisfied smiles.

'We've got them,' Constantine announced gleefully. 'Colleen Swyndill, who is fifty-one, used to be a home-care nurse for aged and senile men and women whose children weren't interested until they realised the money they expected to inherit was filling the pockets of a nurse who had hacked into their parents' credit card accounts. She spent eighteen months in prison and lost her entire savings due to fines and reparation.'

'The nasty old bitch!'

'She was also accused of maltreatment of her clients, although no charges were laid. Her defacto, Jeremy Harley is forty-six, has a criminal record and has served several prison sentences for accepting deposits to paint houses, then not turning up. Also for stealing cars, and posing as a meter reader to gain entry to houses to steal jewellery.'

'It's lucky I've no jewellery to speak of, and my debit card is linked to only one account. The others are all secret and require passwords and electronic tokens, which I have with me.'

'Very wise because your friend Empirika Swyndill, is twenty-seven and a clever woman. Have you made out An Enduring Power of Attorney or a Will, Prudence?'

'No. Neither. I don't trust anyone enough to give them control over my affairs. I suppose I ought to make a Will, but I'm waiting until I meet someone I want to leave my stuff too. Why?'

'Because according to the Public Trustees office, they have on file an Enduring Power of Attorney signed by Prudence Prodijee naming Empirika Swyndill as the executor of her estate should Prudence Prodijee lose her ability to conduct her affairs. They also have a copy of a legally signed Will in which the same Empirika Swyndill is named as sole beneficiary.'

'But... how? The bitch must have copied my signature! I'll bet Colomb... Colleen pretended she was me and... surely this isn't possible?'

'No government department or Internet website is safe. They are shockingly understaffed and underpaid so have to employ incompetents, and this is the result. A competent hacker could easily create a false document and insert it into the appropriate government departmental file.'

'But... but this is terrible!'

'It certainly is, because those people will benefit from your death. And if Frankie gets in the way I don't think they'd worry about eliminating him. Karmai's warning last night was apropos.'

'What about Massimo?' Frankie asked.

Martin Harley has served several short prison sentences; the first aged fourteen for causing grievous bodily harm to a young man who disturbed him stealing his cars. The others also for aggravated aggression. He is currently wanted by the Queensland Police in connection with the disappearance four weeks ago of Shareen Murdok.'

'He said she had driven him to your place, Prudence, the day they arrived, but whoever was driving took off before anyone could check if it was Shareen. It could have been one of his mates getting him away from the scene!'

'Ingenio and Constantine, I am in total awe of you both,' Prudence stated, shaking her head in disbelief. 'In a few hours you've given me cause to be very concerned, but also prepared. But how do I prepare? And for what, exactly?'

'First question, do you want the cops at your place?'

'Not if I can avoid it. I don't trust them. If even once in the last hundred years they had admitted fault or had said that what they had done was not right, then I might trust them, but they have murdered hundreds of prisoners, mostly indigenous, been totally corrupt with prostitutes, drugs, real estate, hand in glove with developers, and even when courts declare that they hadn't acted according to the rules, they deny all fault. And if compensation is offered to families torn apart by police harassment, violence and murder, they vociferously oppose paying any compensation because that might be taken as acceptance they were wrong. There may be some good cops, but their union is evil and I'll avoid them if possible.'

'Fair enough. Actually, all you have to do is threaten them with the police.'

'How? By sitting down and telling them we know all their naughtiness and we will tell the cops if they don't go?'

'Not a good idea because you'll be discovered at the bottom of your swimming hole before you got near a cop.'

'Then how?'

'I suggest we print off an official Police notice warning that they are hiding in their area. They are dangerous, so citizens should avoid all contact and report any sighting immediately to the police. Do you have a mail service?'

'No, I have a Post Office Box in the nearest suburb.'

'Could you get one of the Swyndills or Harleys to collect the mail for you?'

'Yes, Rika also uses that mailbox and takes my car every second day to check it.'

Constantine and Ingenio shared a grin. 'Then you've got them.'

The notice was printed on a perfect replica of the NSW Police Department letter heading. Even the colour of the ink was correct. The message was simple and direct.

" _Notice to Residents of Molloi's Pocket and Surrounding Areas._

_The New South Wales Police Force is interested in contacting the following people: Jeremy and Martin Harley, and Colleen and Empirika Swyndill, to assist them with certain matters of public interest. It is believed they drive a Faylabago campervan and are camping or renting accommodation in your area. Please contact the police if you have any information regarding their whereabouts._ "

Underneath was a contact name, phone number, email address, and fax details.

'How many should we print?'

'Just this one. You don't want the locals complaining because the phone and email addresses don't work. Empirika won't know that yours is the only box to receive the notice. So, off you go, place this in your mailbox as you go past, checking first that your house guests aren't nearby having come into town for a pizza or something. Then drive home and be your usual, sunny selves, all cured of your bellyache.'

'Actually, Rika would normally have collected the mail today, but unless they drove their campervan she wouldn't have been able to. Massimo told Harley she was waiting for a certain letter before they could do whatever they were planning, so that's why she's been so keen to check. I'm such a fool to trust strangers.'

'No, you're a pleasant young woman and we are very pleased to have met you at last, and equally pleased that you and Frankie have realised you're friends. Come and see us again when he returns from India. Which begs the question, Frankie. When are you going?

'As soon as we're rid of those people. What're you going to do when they've gone, Prudence?'

'There's a month-long mathematics symposium I want to attend in Melbourne. I just have time to register. That'll give me time to sort my head out.'

It was late afternoon by the time they drove around the block checking to see if any Harleys or Swyndills were shopping nearby. They weren't, so Prudence opened the box, removed all the mail, and replaced it with the notice, folded with the police logo on the outside.

They then drove to a park where Prudence tore open the letter addressed to E Swyndill. She scanned it and handed it to Frankie who read it aloud, 'Dear Miss Swyndill, this is to confirm that The Mental Disability Certificate you faxed to us allows you to use your Power of Attorney to access the accounts of Miss Prudence Prodijee, and to dispose of any assets belonging to her on condition it is to her benefit. In the event of her death, then her latest Will and Testament will be your guide. Sincerely, Tchiet, Robb and Skumm, Solicitors.

The Harley-Swyndills were sitting in the kitchen when they arrived home, barely able to conceal their disappointment that Frankie hadn't died from his bellyache. They offered a cup of tea, but didn't ask how he was or where Prudence stayed the night or how she filled in her time.

'Did you check for mail?' Rika asked abruptly.

'Oh, stupid me, I never even thought about it because I never get any. You can go tomorrow.'

'Would you mind if I went now?' Rika asked in conciliatory tones'

'Of course not! Go for it. Although I'm beginning to wonder if you're getting love letters from a secret admirer.' She laughed to show she wasn't serious, then she and Frankie went for showers while Columbine and Massimo made supper.

They had just sat down to eat when Prudence's car drove roughly in and they heard Rika enter, go to the bedroom and use the toilet before joining them, Her face determinedly serious.

What's the matter?' Harley sounded annoyed.

'I've just received a note from Ruby,' she turned to Prudence and explained, 'she's storing all our extra stuff in her garage. Well, her house has finally been sold, she's been waiting three years so we thought she would never sell, and she wants us to clear the basement as soon as possible.'

'That's ridiculous. Where's her letter,' Harley snapped.

'No need to snap! It's in my handbag in the bedroom. Come and look at it if you're so impatient.' She stamped out, followed by Harley. They returned a minute later. Harley shrugged defeat.

'Rika's right. The silly cow forgot to tell us. She's moving out in two days. If we don't get there by tomorrow the basement will be cleared. We have to go tonight.'

'What? Now?' Massimo sounded genuinely annoyed.

'Yes, now!' Harley turned to Prudence who was looking convincingly confused. 'I'm sorry, Prudence, but this is urgent. We have some very expensive equipment in that basement, so we really have to go. But as soon as we've found somewhere else to store the stuff, we'll be in contact and come back and finish our filming.'

Prudence turned to Empirika. 'Surely you don't have to go?'

'I'm afraid I do, Prudence, some of my best stuff I've been saving for an exhibition is there. But we'll be back.'

Prudence and Frankie exchanged suitably astonished looks, then cleared away the meal and did the dishes, remaining in the kitchen while the Harley-Swyndills gathered all their possessions and stuffed them haphazardly in the van.

Hearing the vehicle start up, Frankie and Prudence walked through to the front just in time to watch their visitors motor sedately down the drive.

'They didn't even have time to say goodbye, thank goodness. I couldn't have stopped myself saying something offensive.'

'I've awoken from a nightmare,' Prudence said softly. 'It was so easy! Ingenio is a total genius!'

They waited until the sound of the engine died away, then wandered through the house.

'We've been lucky,' Prudence laughed from her bedroom, 'Rika's taken that antique clock, the gilt candlestick, and my silver bracelet.'

'And you've lost a futon and just about everything from the bathroom, including the scales and mirror.'

They subsided onto seats in the courtyard in a fit of nervous giggles.

'Thank goodness! Now they're proven thieves they'll _never_ be back.'

Frankie stayed another two nights to keep Prudence company while she organised her trip to Melbourne, and a security firm to make occasional checks of the house, then they visited the relevant Government offices to ensure the Will and Enduring Power of Attorney were nullified and expunged from all records. After assuring each other of their friendship, they promised to keep in touch and drove their separate ways; Prudence's brain immersed in higher mathematical conundrums; Frankie's envisaging enlightenment in a remote, mysterious, romantic and picturesque mountain-top Buddhist monastery.

# Sushant

After confirming the booking for the Sankturi monastery, Frankie had received detailed email instructions on how to get there. A direct flight from Sydney to Bagdogra, a taxi or shared jeep to Gangtok, and something similar from there to Lachung, where he'd been assured the locals would tell him how to find the path leading up to the monastery. Easy.

Into a lightweight, faded blue, waterproof canvass satchel that could be slung over a shoulder so he wouldn't look like a tourist in towns, or worn like a backpack, he packed a wallet containing fake documents to fool would-be pickpockets, a toothbrush, a pack of disposable razors, a light sweater, a thin showerproof windbreaker, and duplicates of what he was wearing—faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue cotton shirt with secret pockets in the side lining for his passport, debit card and spare cash. There was no room for spares shoes, so if his sneakers wore out he'd buy new ones. Fully loaded, the satchel weighed less than two kilos.

In Frankie's inexperienced opinion, travellers should accept and live by the habits, customs and rules of their hosts. If they expect to live and eat as they do at home, then they should stay at home. He had also decided it was the traveller's duty to be invisible. How else would he learn about other people and their lives? In the days before leaving he read as much as he could about the places he'd be visiting, the habits, customs and beliefs, yet still felt unprepared.

Ingenio and Constantine drove him to the airport but didn't stay, because long goodbyes are not only embarrassing, but also prevent the traveller experiencing the atmosphere and excitement of embarking alone on an adventure. Only two of the three business class seats in his row were occupied. Frankie had the window, and a slim, trim man who looked to be in his early thirties, dressed in tan slacks, loafers, white shirt and a lightweight jacket, was on the aisle. The take-off was uneventful and seatbelts had only just been unbuckled when the man leaned across and offered a lean brown hand.

'I'm Sushant.' The face looked intelligent, lean and perky with a hooked nose, sharp dark eyes behind rimless glasses, dense black cap of short hair, neatly trimmed beard on a square jaw and lips that were perhaps smiling, perhaps not.

'You're also handsome,' Frankie laughed as he shook the proffered hand. 'I'm Frankie.'

Sushant moved to the seat beside him. 'Thank you.' His voice was soft, almost conspiratorial. 'Why are you alone? Most Australians travel in noisy groups, and drink.'

'I'm not fond of noisy groups and don't drink.'

'Why are you going to Bagdogra?'

'To do a bit of trekking in the mountains of Sikkim. What about you?'

'I am going home. I am married with two children, boys, and I live in Darjeeling. I deal in fine cotton and silken fabrics unadulterated by artificial fibres, and am also involved in the export of tea and other herbs.'

'Did you enjoy your time in Australia?'

'I was there for six weeks during which I endured a cyclone, a flood, a heat wave, and flies. The scenery is monotonous and the women immodest, aggressive, contemptuous of men, and expect to be able to walk alone, half naked on the streets even at night. In bars and restaurants they are noisy and vulgar. Seriously, Frankie, your countrymen tell me Australia is the greatest country on earth, but I experienced unpleasant racism and learned that education standards are very low, unemployment is high, and the only jobs are in service industries because you import everything that used to be made there. Also, the Internet is slow, and.... I have no wish to be offensive, but Australia doesn't appear to be an independent nation... it seems to be just another pawn of the U.S.A. with mainly American TV content and news items, military bases, and the top secret Pine Gap.'

Frankie couldn't control his grin. 'In six weeks you've thought more about my country than people who've lived there all their lives. As I've never lived anywhere else, I can't make comparisons. And as I'm a product of the abysmal education system, I don't feel qualified to comment.'

Sushant laughed softly. 'I like you, Frankie. If you said to an Indian what I have just said to you about India, you'd have made an enemy. So... you are not patriotic?'

'As Dr Johnson wrote, Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel. Where did you go, to form such a negative opinion of Australia?'

'Overland between Adelaide, Brisbane, Melbourne and Sydney, and I made a tour through the outback. In an effort to impress me, my Sydney host took me to a Casino on the harbour, even though I told him I never gamble, then to a nightclub with naked girls sliding up and down poles and sitting on patrons' laps, jiggling their breasts so you could put money between them. But you weren't allowed to touch.'

'Did you enjoy it?'

'I kept worrying that she hadn't washed properly between her legs, and wishing she had cleaned her teeth. Then, when searching for a taxi further down the street, we saw a shocking sight! Men kissing and holding hands in public! In India they would be imprisoned and severely punished.'

'That's odd, because I read that India has a tradition of male friendship and love.'

'But not homosexuality. That is a western disease; a perverted way of life that destroys the practitioners.'

'If that is so,' Frankie said with a thoughtful nod of the head, 'then surely they should by now be extinct?'

'Ah!' Sushant replied with the confidence and smile of someone who knows what he's talking about, 'They may not breed, but they pervert young boys and turn them into depraved monsters like themselves. They are unnatural!' he concluded nodding his head in satisfaction.

'Unnatural?' Frankie laughed softly.

'Yes!'

'Really, Sushant! I must protest. As the eminent biologist Miriam Rothschild pointed out, homosexual behaviour has been observed in almost every known species of animal. Are you suggesting they are all unnatural?'

'Yes! Sex is for breeding and homosexual sex cannot make babies, so it is unnatural.'

'I admit that sex between a male and a female is necessary if you want a child, but ninety-nine percent of all sexual activity has always been for recreation, bonding and emotional fulfilment, children being too often the unwanted consequence.'

'It is still unnatural!'

'Are you saying that unnatural behaviour should be forbidden?'

'Most definitely.'

'Then wearing clothes, cooking food, building aeroplanes, houses, computers... all should be forbidden as they are all unnatural. Aren't you ashamed to be performing the unnatural act of flying through the air in a metal cylinder?'

'Not at all - I am a tolerant man,' Sushant stated with the smile of a man who is either an egregious idiot, or pretending to be. 'You see... there are degrees of unnatural.'

'Golly,' Frankie whispered, wide-eyed with admiration. 'You are so well informed! 'I've always imagined something was either natural or unnatural. That there are degrees of unnaturalness is intriguing.' –

'Consider a shirt made of cotton and nylon, that's 50% unnatural, but in this case nylon makes the garment stronger. But when a man's behaviour is unnatural, it affects his entire being and those around him. That's why the British, who made India the world's greatest democracy, declared that men who choose to be homosexual are criminals.' He paused and demanded with a smug smile, 'I hope you are not suggesting that the British could ever be wrong?'

'I wouldn't dare,' Frankie giggled. 'So - if it is a choice, that means you could choose to be homosexual if someone offered you a million dollars, or to avoid torture... or something like that?

'Never!'

'Yet you are saying that some men do choose this path to destruction. Why?'

'Because they are degenerate, and should have been put down at birth.

'Gosh. Is infanticide legal in India?'

'I meant abortion, which is legal if the continuance of the pregnancy would involve a substantial risk that if the child were born, it would suffer from such physical or mental abnormalities as to be seriously handicapped. Well, homosexuality is just such an abnormality and if it could be determined in the womb, then an abortion would be instantly approved. As well as that...'

'Speaking of wombs,' Frankie interrupted, 'have you heard of the psychobiologists Glenn Wilson and Qazi Rahman?'

'No. Should I have?' Sushant grinned widely showing perfect teeth. He was enjoying the argument, wanted to prolong it, and was not one to concede defeat without a fight.

'In their book, _Born Gay_ , they produced serious, evidence-based science proving that sexual orientation is determined in the womb and fixed at birth. It's not a choice.'

'Rubbish! Homosexuality is the result of bad parenting and an unhealthy, godless environment.'

'You are misinformed, because loads of studies have shown that the popular idea of environment – parental upbringing, peer norms, the family home, schooling – have no effect whatsoever on sexual orientation! The idea that distant fathers or overbearing mothers sabotage their sons' sexual development is not borne out by evidence, and the children of homosexual fathers and mothers are usually heterosexual. Don't you find it astonishing that so many researchers got it so wrong?'

'Not at all. They are probably all homosexuals promoting their life choice.' Sushant's smile was impish.

'That's a possibility, I suppose.' Frankie nodded as if accepting the point. 'But did you know that at conception all foetuses are alike, apart from some having a 'y' chromosome? And if developed in a test tube they would all become female.'

'Surely not!'

'Surely yes. But if during pregnancy the brains of foetuses with the 'y' chromosome get the correct doses of sex hormones from the mother, then the clitoris lengthens and curls into a tube that acts as a combined sperm-duct and urethra, and the ovaries descend to become testicles. And later on, at puberty, the voice box enlarges and the brain sees females as sexually attractive instead of males.'

'Never heard such rubbish.'

'That's so sad, because if you haven't heard it then it can't possibly be true.' Frankie gazed down at his feet, apparently abashed for several seconds before looking up with a gleam in his eye. 'As you know, Sushant, we are all different, and the brains of foetuses are too, and that's why some male foetuses absorb too little testosterone in certain parts of the brain, so they don't achieve full masculinisation, and part of the brain remains a little bit female, and the neural circuit that promotes sexual desire towards women is not laid down, so the foetus develops into a man who is attracted to other men. That means it isn't a choice. So can't you see that discriminating against same-sex-oriented men is as stupid as discriminating on the basis of eye colour or ethnicity?'

'Facts, science, reasons... what have they got to do with anything?' Sushant paused for a wide smile. 'Here, in India, in the real world, homosexuals are a disliked minority, and no government who tolerates them will be re-elected. Where I live, if people thought I considered homosexuals to be normal they would shun me in the street, my wife would be ashamed, and if I so much as looked at a man she would tell the world I was homosexual and demand a divorce! And she'd get it! along with the house, my sons and all my money! So you see, it is very, very, very important that I disagree with you.' The smile this time was tinged with sadness.

'I see... your personal health, welfare and happiness are more important than the happiness, health and welfare of about ten percent of the population?'

'Absolutely! And now...' He turned the full force of his dark-ringed, intelligent tired eyes onto his young tormentor. 'Are you homosexual?'

'I'm a man who only responds to questions to which there is a useful and informative answer. If you tell me you are heterosexual, what have I learned about important things such as your honesty, taste in music, ideas about pollution and conservation, how you treat you wife? The only thing your being heterosexual could tell me is that you belong to the group of humans that contains the most murderers, wife-bashers, child molesters, drug addicts, thieves and scoundrels. Which of those describe you?'

'You are a singularly irritating young man.'

'Why?' Frankie suddenly slapped his knee in delight and declared in a hushed whisper, 'You're a Muslim!'

Apparently shocked, Sushant sat upright, eyes slits. 'How dare you...'

'A Christian, then?'

'I most certainly am not! Why do you say such offensive things?'

'Because you're obsessed with sex and want to force everyone to conform to your narrow opinion of what's natural. That's classic Muslim and Christian behaviour. No self-respecting Hindu or Buddhist would entertain such intolerant ideas.'

'I am proudly Hindu.'

'Really? Because while preparing for this trip I read up on Hinduism, and if I recall correctly, the Hindu religion is a non-dogmatic faith, so there's no official Hindu dogma or position on the subject of homosexuality. In fact, the Hindu Scriptures declare that homosexuality is an orientation that is karmically predisposed, and not a matter of choice. People are born that way—as every homosexual will testify! And as you no doubt know, in the _Acharyas_ and _Alvars_ , which discuss everything conducive or problematic to spiritual life, they never mention homosexuality. If they had considered it was a problem they would certainly have mentioned it.' He paused to gauge the effect of his wisdom, but Sushant remained impassive, only the suggestion of a twitch at the corners of his mouth suggesting otherwise.

'I would have hoped,' Frankie continued, 'that as a father responsible for teaching his sons the right way to live, you would emulate the magnanimity, compassion and high-mindedness of Ramanuja, who did not find offensive the temple carvings of men engaged in sex, or a carving of a woman being pleasured by a dog, carved on a pillar of a _mandapa_ in which he used to teach in Srirangam. And nor did his followers for thousands of years. I reckon the world would be a better place,' Frankie continued placidly, 'if we all followed the example of Hindu sages instead of outdated, unjust British laws, and if we abandoned judgment of others in favour of practicing loving kindness and compassion towards all beings.'

Sushant nodded sagely. 'And what would you have told me had I been a Buddhist?'

'I'd have said that homosexuality is not specifically mentioned in the Buddha's discourses, so wise people assume it is meant to be evaluated in the same way as heterosexuality. In Buddhism it is not the object of one's sexual desire that determines whether a sexual act is right or wrong, but the quality of the emotions and intentions involved. Where there is mutual consent and where the sexual act is an expression of love, respect, loyalty and warmth, it would not break the third precept, which is a vow not to engage in actions such as coercive sex, sexual harassment, child molestation or adultery. Buddhism's rational approach to ethics and the high regard it has always given to tolerance, has meant that homosexuals in Buddhist societies have been treated very differently from how they have been in the Christian West or Muslim Middle East. I suggest your intolerance is a result of lingering Victorian British prurience and prudery in the education of upper class Indians.'

'Thanks for realising I'm upper class,' Sushant said with an amused smile. 'And now, if you've finished filling my ears with nonsense, I'll fill yours with sense.'

'I'm all ears.'

'Religion, as I'm sure a young man of your intelligence realises, is but a tool to keep the masses believing there are gods in the sky taking care of them, and if their lives aren't perfect, it's probably their own fault for not being sufficiently devout. But that Ok, because in their next life they will be reborn in a much better condition. In fact the more stoically they suffer now, the better will be their next life. To spice up the message and keep them quiet we give them festivals and holy days with songs and dances and statues of gods to admire in garishly painted temples. It's a tried and true method of crowd control that's worked since humans started asking the purpose of their miserable lives, and will continue until they stop being so stupid and realise there is no purpose.'

'So you're a cynical Hindu?'

'I do as my neighbours do because, as the Buddha so wisely advised, refraining from doing things that will put you at odds with social norms, will free you from the anxiety and embarrassment caused by social disapproval. In other words, when in Rome do as the Romans do, unless you're looking for trouble. Which brings me back to homosexuals, if they'd just act like other men instead of drawing attention to themselves, then no one would give a toss about their sexuality.'

'I agree with you there, but surely the Hindu Precepts and Buddha's five or however many-fold path, and injunctions to practise loving kindness and compassion, are good things?'

'Of course they are; they stabilise a country and that's good for commerce. Only a fool would make laws that encourage civil strife. However, I think this do-good nonsense has gone too far and is the cause of our major problem—too many people. We're drowning in humans, as is China and much of Africa because we're obliged to show empathy and cure the sick and feed the starving hordes. But when a government makes laws to reduce populations, the bleeding hearts decry our heartlessness, so we stop before there's insurrection. In a natural world those best able to survive will, and the rest won't. It's that simple. It's why those of us who think about things instead of simply believing supernatural gibberish, are unconcerned that half the country live in filthy slums in abject poverty; they don't live very long... at least that's the theory, but somehow it only seems to make them tougher.'

'Poetic justice. Doesn't it concern you that when the world's climate becomes hostile to human civilization, these tougher people may end up replacing you?'

'Good luck to them! I certainly don't want to be here when it all goes belly up. Meanwhile, I intend to live in the present, not waiting for life after death in order to have fun.' With his second genuine smile of the flight, he said softly, 'Arguing with you has been a great pleasure, Frankie. Thank you.' He slipped back to his aisle seat, opened his briefcase and immersed himself in a paperback novel with a half naked female on the cover.

The remainder of the flight was as eventful as one would expect when sealed in a metal cylinder for interminable hours, so it was with relief that an announcement during breakfast informed them they would be arriving in approximately forty-five minutes, the temperature in Bagdogra was twenty-six degrees, showers were expected and local time was six thirty a.m.

As soon as breakfast was cleared, Sushant slid across to sit beside Frankie and said softly, 'I apologise for my criticism of Australia. It is all the things I said, but it is also a wonderfully free and open country in which I felt, for the first time in my life, able to be truly myself. That is a most precious thing. Here in India no one feels free to deviate from what is expected by tradition, religion, family, mother, wife and friends. Here, we are all prisoners in spirit, mind and body. The other wonderful thing about Australia is the space. Even large cities seem half empty, they are places to wander, gaze, relax and breathe freedom. I have become increasingly allergic to the crowds in my country but there is nothing I can do about it. If I had religion I could tell myself it is the will of the gods and I am their willing servant, but...' he stopped, took Frankie's hand and gazed into his eyes.

Frankie's penis sprang to attention. Really, this man was far too masculine, handsome and sexy to be let loose in public. He held Sushant's gaze and managed, just, to refrain from kissing him.

'Thanks, Sushant. I guessed you were just as nice as you look, I'm really glad to have met you, even though you're pretending to be homophobic.'

'Ah, yes... regarding that. During the last few hours I reviewed my opinions and realised they are the result of only reading and listening, therefore they lack validity.' He frowned as if debating whether to continue.

Frankie smiled encouragingly, deciding not to speak in case he broke the spell.

'Without practical experience,' Sushant continued in a rush, 'my opinions are not worth considering, so I was wondering...'

'Yes?'

'If you would like me to show you around Gangtok for two days and we could get to know each other better, and...'

'Isn't your wife waiting for you?'

'Two more days won't matter. I'll tell her I have business in Gangtok. She'll probably be pleased, I'm sure she has a lover. So...' he squeezed Frankie's hand a little, 'Will you accept my invitation?'

Frankie could see no reason to refuse, so agreed it was essential to have practical as well as intellectual experience, and he too would benefit from it, so he accepted the kind invitation. 'Do you know what I'm looking forward to most?' he asked innocently.

'Seeing the city?'

'Learning what it's like to kiss a man with a beard,' Frankie whispered.

Sushant pulled his hand quickly away and gazed around, terrified in case they had been overheard. When he realised all was safe he subsided into uncontrollable giggles. 'I could never have talked about all these things with any Indian I know, or had such a fine discussion and... everything.' He swallowed and composed himself. 'I will wait for you at the exit of the airport, we will take a taxi together, and do you want a modern tourist hotel or a Sikkim Inn?'

'An Inn.'

'Excellent. Me too. They don't have security cameras and Internet and all that crap. Ah... the next two days are going to be perfect.'

Frankie passed through customs and immigration at Bagdogra Airport without difficulty, his Travel Agent having correctly completed the Visa and Inner Line Permit required to enter Sikkim. The air was clean and fresh; it had been raining but now the sun was shining and the whole world was perfect.

#  Gangtok

It was an exhilarating and beautiful drive up to Gangtok; cool mountain valleys aglow with late summer flowering shrubbery, numerous knife-edge bends winding ever up, dotted with cautionary signs telling the driver to slow down if he wanted to see heaven. The drivers of oncoming vehicles either couldn't read or had lost the will to live judging from their speed and apparent insouciance on blind corners. All around was dense greenery, pine forests, mountain meadows and wildly flowering shrubbery with occasional views up a valley to distant snow clad mountains.

Gangtok appeared as a bustling complex of steep steps, deep declines, heaped buildings and winding streets, strung out over a wide ridge.

Sushant found a small Inn that bore a striking resemblance to pictures Frankie had seen of Swiss chalets. Two storied in dark brown wood, a steeply pitched roof against winter snow, and a balcony across the front, supported on bright red painted pillars, shading a paved area in front with a few cane chairs and tables. Orange painted window frames created a decorative series of panels across the ground floor. The only room available was a double, but Sushant assured Frankie it was considered normal for two men to share a bed. Their host was an elderly man who had been enjoying the morning sun. He gave a perfunctory glance at Frankie's passport, said something to Sushant, whose reply made them both laugh, then directed them to their room on the first floor. It was tiny, just space for the bed and a chest of drawers, but clean and fresh, sheets starched and sweet-smelling. The view from their window was of forested mountains and valleys. The busy street below so romantically different from Australia that Frankie felt unaccountably happy.

'What were you and the bloke downstairs laughing about?'

'I told him you were my Australian cousin and he asked if you were a student. I said no and he said that was lucky because he'd heard that Australian students had been attacking Indians.'

'That was in Melbourne a few years ago.'

'Time means nothing to an Indian,' Sushant laughed. 'But I stink, let's shower.'

'Excellent idea.'

They stripped, wrapped towels around their loins and found the bathroom three doors along the corridor. A blue tiled room containing hooks for towels, a wooden bench, wooden buckets, a cold-water tap, a shower, and a drain in the centre of the floor.

'Bucket or shower?'

'Bucket, you don't get time to suffer the cold.'

They each filled a bucket and tipped it over the other, squirming from the freezing water, then soaped and sluiced off.

'That is so refreshing! Tip one more over me?'

Sushant obliged, then they towelled, returned to their room, draped their towels over a rail in front of the window and stood looking at each other.

Sushant frowned. 'I'm nervous.'

'Of what?'

'I don't know what to do. Look at my..., it's almost disappeared.'

'Mine too; it's the cold water. As for what to do, the only rule is to do what pleases you and not what doesn't. And it's polite to try to please your partner as well.'

'So... I don't have to... you know...'

'You don't have to do anything.'

'What if I can't get an erection?'

'Who cares? There's more pleasure to be had with the rest of your body than in that little tube.'

'If I don't get an erection with my wife, she gets angry, says it is an insult. And that makes it even harder to perform. I've heard her friends talking about their husbands and their erections and dread to think what she says about me.'

'Well, sex with other men is not like that at all. We understand that we can't always get a hard on or it suddenly gets soft, or we don't feel like continuing. No decent man would think of criticising you for your penis's performance. The important thing to remember is, it is not a competition, or a race, or anything but pleasure and fun. So relax and enjoy. You have a perfect body. Slim and golden, fit and sexy and handsome, and that beard!' Frankie moved close to Sushant and placed his hands on his shoulders.

Sushant shuddered, but not from distaste. 'This is the first time I have been naked with another man; Indians do not do that! And the first time I have been told I am handsome by a man. And now I am being touched sexily by another man.' He smiled and also placed his hands on Frankie's shoulders.

Slowly their fingers explored, then without realising how it happened they were lying on their sides on the firm bed, facing each other and stroking, exploring, lips brushing softly.

'Still nervous?' Frankie asked.

'No.' Sushant grinned nervously. 'And how was it to kiss a man with a beard?'

'Masculine. I now prefer it to smooth.' Frankie rolled Sushant onto his back, spread his legs, knelt between them and lightly stroked both feet. Sushant sighed from pleasure as Frankie slowly worked his way up the legs, lightly brushing only the tips of hairs for maximum sensation. A sudden exhalation of breath when his scrotum was stroked and then cupped, was followed by a grunt of pleasure when Frankie dragged a finger up his erection.

'See? You worried for nothing. This is perfect, exactly the right size and shape and so stiff it deserves a kiss.'

It received one, and then another, and then a tongue, generating a low moan that seemed to ooze from deep inside Sushant's chest.

Frankie continued up the belly using lips and tongue, triggering jolts of ecstasy at navel and nipples, then along the neck, before gently lowering himself until their erections kissed, followed by bellies, chests, and finally lips. And thus they remained until with a great grunt and spasm, Sushant orgasmed, nearly thrusting Frankie onto the floor with the force of his reaction.

'Never have I been so aroused,' he whispered when able to speak. 'Never! I had no idea my body was so sensitive. You are a magician! Now I do it to you!'

Afterwards, they lay on their backs, thighs touching, gazing into space in contented calm, not thinking, just enjoying uncomplicated, intimate contact with another man.

'So,' Frankie asked softly, 'Do you now think of yourself as a homosexual?'

Sushant raised himself on an elbow and kissed Frankie on the forehead. 'You are totally correct. Such labels are not only meaningless, they are dangerous. I remain me. A man. That's all. All my values, hopes, fears, plans remain intact. The sole difference is I now know that sex with another man can be as beautiful, if not more beautiful than with a woman, because it's between true equals. It is no different from if I had discovered a totally new form of music. My mind is expanded but I am still the same in essence.'

'You're not only handsome and sexy, but intelligent as well. So... are we going to lie here all day or go and see the town?'

Frankie's casual clothes would mark him as yet another of the thousands of tourists, so to look like Sushant's cousin he borrowed his spare slacks, shirt and shoes, and they exited the Inn feeling deliciously anonymous.

The city enchanted him. Sprawled along a mountain ridge, surrounded by dense forests, built on a series of terraces that descended into the valleys on either side, then trickled up side ridges ending in spectacular lookouts. They visited a tiny temple perched on the edge of a promontory at the end of a track. Inside was only room for one person crouching. The view literally took his breath away, leaving him feeling dangerously dizzy. He hoped it was lack of food.

They wandered back to the older part of town, along streets lined with three and four storied houses, shops and apartment blocks, many painted bright blue-green. Each road was level, then a sharp turn wound down to the next level where it felt as flat and normal as any other city street. But looking back they realised that the two or three storied houses at street level, were six or seven stories at the rear, due to the steeply sloping land. Motorbikes, cars and taxis kept pedestrians active. Frankie was surprised to see that most faces were not recognisably Indian. Sushant explained the history of Sikkim, it's roots in Tibet, Nepal and Bhutan, and that it had been a kingdom until the mid nineteen-seventies when it became an Indian State.

'Australia reckons it's a racially diverse country,' Frankie observed, 'but I've never seen so many different racial groups and types all together.'

They spent some time sitting on benches in Mahatma Gandhi Road, a wide and elegant, pedestrian-only boulevard with a grassy strip down the centre, bordered by benches on which people could relax and watch the world go by. Elegant terracotta urns every few metres contained conifer shrubs and poles for beautiful Victorian lamps. The whole place was spotless, thanks to litter laws that make Gangtok the cleanest city in India. As smoking is forbidden in Sikkim, that pollution is also avoided. Sushant was able to satisfy Frankie's curiosity about the most obvious of the different people wandering past; Tibetan lamas in yellow robes and Tibetan ladies in striped aprons and brocades, Gurung farmers from central Nepal, Gurkhas from eastern Nepal, fair-skinned Lepchas and Bhutias from Sikkim, Drukpas from Bhutan, Sherpas from the mountains, and all manner of foreign and domestic tourists.

Uninterested in the glittering shops, restaurants & bars on both sides of the boulevard, they meandered down from street to street, marvelling that the inhabitants dared to live like that; four and five storied apartment blocks in all shades of cream and brown with the occasional orange or blue, built on terraces, seemingly stacked one on top of the other, right up the side of the mountain. From a distance the roads that zigzagged up the hill between the buildings were invisible so it looked as if all the buildings were piled on top of each other. Spectacular, but incredible fragile, especially as the whole town was built on rock that was notoriously crumbly.

'This is a geologically unstable area because the Indian tectonic plate is still shoving the Himalayan mountains higher. Earthquakes are common' Sushant observed,

'What would happen if there was one now?'

'Half the buildings would slide down the hill, I imagine.'

'I'd be a neurotic mess living here. The beauty, the spectacular views, the clean fresh air and abundant nature wouldn't compensate for the constant fear.'

'Isn't that how you live in Australia? In constant fear of bush fires, floods and droughts?'

'Yeah. I guess you're right. You just make plans then get on with living.'

'Exactly. And now it's time for lunch.'

After enjoying a vegetarian meal at a small Sikkim restaurant they hired a taxi to visit an enormous Buddhist temple with a gigantic statue on top, then a lake, then a waterfall, and then they simply wandered along forest paths.

After an early evening meal, shyness enveloped both men as each wondered what the other would like to do before going to bed. Did the other want to go to a nightclub, to the cinema, a bar? Or did he want to make an early night of it. So they wrote what they would like to do on slips of paper, then flipped a coin. Sushant won and showed Frankie his wish. Frankie laughed in delight and showed his. Both wanted a shower and an early night.

'When I'm having sex with my wife,' Sushant said thoughtfully while they dried themselves after pouring cold water over each other, 'I've often wondered what it feels like to have a man's erection inside me. Is that strange?'

'I don't think so. Lots of men have the same question, and many try it—at least according to websites.'

'Have you had it?'

'Yes.'

'Did you like it?'

'Yes and no. I liked that the man wanted me, and it made me feel sort of powerful in a way I have no words to describe, but the physical pleasures weren't up to the psychological ones. I just felt as if I desperately needed a shit and was relieved when it was over. But loads of men love it so much they get addicted. Perhaps I have a lazy prostate.'

'What's the prostate got to do with it?'

'Apparently, when it's caressed by a passing penis it sends tremors of ecstasy throughout the body. Never happened to me, unfortunately. But then I've a poor sense of smell too. Maybe they're linked.'

Sushant was giggling. 'You are so funny, Frankie. So easy and honest. I wish I'd had someone like you as a friend when I was growing up. How different my life would have been.'

'Are you unhappy?'

'No... not unhappy. Not happy either. More anaesthetised I think. I do what I'm supposed to as well as I can. I'm successful in a small way. I have the required wife and two children and am respected, I think, by a multitude of uncles, aunts, sisters, cousins, in-laws, parents and grandparents on both sides... the vast tribe of people who think they have the inalienable right to tell me what to do, what to think, where I should go and all the rest.' He sighed. 'I'm a good Indian boy, so why doesn't it satisfy me?'

'False desires, the Buddha would say. Perhaps a good fuck is the answer, but I'll need a condom and lube.'

Sushant leaped from the bed and rummaged in his trouser pockets, holding aloft a small package.

'When did you get that?'

'This afternoon when you were looking through the magazines in that book shop.'

'You've been planning this.'

'Living in hope would be nearer the mark. But be gentle.'

Frankie was very gentle. Even so it took nearly an hour before the instrument of desire was fully inserted. But from then on all went according to the book. Frankie experienced an exquisite orgasm and Sushant found himself quietly satisfied with the experience, but not in a hurry to repeat it, confiding afterwards that pleasuring himself afterwards under Frankie's admiring gaze had been much more fun. 'It seemed so much better than usual with you watching. Is it the same for you?'

'I'd do it in front of a cheering audience of thousands if they were available. Most guys like being watched, it's why gang rapes are so popular.'

They slept.

Being young and fit they managed orgasms before breakfast, then after visiting the Botanical Gardens and bathing with other men in a pool beneath a waterfall in a forest, they bid each other a seriously sad farewell. Sushant had decided not to exchange addresses.

'My inbuilt sense of duty demands I continue with the life my mother and society chose for me. I'm not unhappy; there are compensations and I will treasure the last two days for the rest of my life. But if I had your address I would always be wondering if I should... if I could...' he stopped and stroked Frankie's cheek.

Checking to ensure no one was watching, Frankie took the slender, elegant brown hand, kissed the fingers lightly, and stepped into the shared taxi that would take him to Lachung. By the time he was seated and looked out the window, Sushant was gone, leaving a hole in his chest. He swallowed, and smiled at the other two passengers who fortunately didn't speak English.

#  Sankturi

Spiritually, if not physically refreshed, satchel under his seat, Frankie marvelled at the amount of forest remaining in such an overpopulated country. The smoothly sealed road soon left the valley and wound up rocky slopes with not a tree or shrub to inhibit the view of distant mountains. Then down and along stony canyons beside pale grey glacial water that roared over huge boulders and rapids. Then more green valleys. The most interesting of the stops was at a waterfall tumbling a hundred metres down rocks into a pool formed by a low dam, in which men stripped to their shorts, splashed, laughing and shouting from the cold. Frankie and his two fellow travellers joined them.

The scene was romantic, a deep cleft in the mountains among dense temperate rainforest trees. Then they were on the road again through more steep-sided valleys with roaring torrents and chalet type houses on terraces cut into the green grassy or heavily treed sides. A bright pink, beautifully maintained two storeyed house looked as if it might slide in to the river.

The road wound ever upwards and at the top of a bleak, treeless and windswept pass, the State Bank of Sikkim proudly announced that at 12,400 feet this was the highest Branch in India. Beside it was an open market where the most popular garments were heavily padded jackets; an unwelcome reminder of winter. Next to that, an elegant shelter without walls built among the stones and rubble of landslides, had a large and beautiful red and white velvety banner depicting roses, draped across the front. Beyond the valley the world's third highest peak, Mount Kanchenjunga (8,598 m/28,208 ft) rose in splendour among attendant snow-capped mountains that appeared to float under an indigo sky.

Half an hour later they were looking down on a straggling collection of buildings on the far side of a wide stony riverbed. Grey-blue water ran rapidly over rough rocks and boulders. A five storey yellow building and a bright blue similar structure looked odd among the single storey dwellings. The taxi crossed the river on a single lane iron bridge and stopped in front of a four storey white building with what looked like another small house on top, and banners and flags fluttering from poles on the roof. Towering directly above were rocky, snow-covered ridges and peaks. The air was chill. Lachung was only a hundred and twenty-five kilometres north of Gangtok but much higher up the mountains.

The white house was a hostel for trampers, so after a healthy meal and a stroll up and down the village and across the river, Frankie retired to a comfortable warm bed where he shed a couple of tears at being alone again. Sushant was twelve years older than him. They were totally different. It had to end like this, but... every parting is a form of death, he had read somewhere, and it certainly felt like that in the stillness of the mountains so far from home.

The following morning, before setting out along the road that his host assured him led to the mountain trail leading up to Sankturi, he visited a nearby ancient Buddhist monastery containing important engravings that, when he saw them, meant nothing. The hostel owner had seemed surprised that a young man would be heading further into the mountains with only a small satchel, wearing sneakers and an anorak over ordinary clothes, but what was it to him if the mad Englishman never returned?

The rough road led due west through spell-binding natural beauty, rough alpine forests, cleared terraces, canyons and mesmerizing views of snow-covered mountain peaks. But it was not the cosy luxuriance of Gangtok. Here, trees were sparse. Shrubs and dry, tussocky grass failed to conceal the barren rocks beneath. The occasional cottage had a rusting iron roof and tattered flags fluttering from poles. Drunken telegraph poles followed the track. Narrow runnels of water ran down great swathes of bare mountainsides and vast slabs of rock. In a few months all would be covered in snow. A shudder ran through him. He had been stupid to leave his visit so late. But then he wouldn't have met Sushant. He smiled at the way life depended on chance.

He shouldn't have visited that monastery. It had taken far longer than expected and the track he was heading for was further than he'd realised. He should have used a Jeep taxi. After eating the few sandwiches provided by the Hostel and drinking stream water, he trudged on, arriving much later than he had hoped at a collection of stone houses with a walled garden that the hostel owner had told him were opposite the path. They seemed to be abandoned. To Frankie's relief there was a signpost and a well-worn track.

Never had he felt so alone. Silence, apart from the wind that seemed perpetual, and rustling grasses. No other life visible. Frankie shouldered his pack, which, now he was wearing all his clothes against the cold, contained only a small bottle of water and a packet of biscuits. He checked the sign. Algae and lichens were obscuring the lettering but it was possible to make out Sankturi. He heaved a huge sigh. He was on the right track.

After a hundred metres of easy walking, the path rose steeply up steps of large flat stones held in place by smaller pebbles. It was the work of giants; each large flat step would require two or three men to lift, and it looked as if they went right to the top of the mountain! Soon he was high enough to look down on the narrow roadway and tiny houses, already out of breath from the altitude. He pressed on past huge boulders on one side, shrivelled dry yellow and brown desiccated grasses and thorny shrubs on the other. Every now and again he passed a gnarled pine tree decorated with fluttering flags in primary colours tied to strings strung from rock to tree to rock. Most were tatty as if they'd been there a long time. What if this wasn't the right track? What if no one was there? He was much later than he'd planned. It was getting very cold. He should have bought one of the padded jackets beside the bank.

The track, which now appeared to have been chiselled out of the side of a mountain of solid stone, was overhung by the sparse branches of drought-stricken trees whose roots seemed intent on tripping the unwary traveller. To the right, a sublime view across a ravine, triggered alternate waves of exaltation and terror depending on whether he was looking across or down.

The sun was already so low the track was in deep shadow. Clinging for support to a sturdy old pine, Frankie peered down a vertical wall of rock to a turbulent river rushing between boulders hundreds of metres below. Scrubby trees clung to the steep slope on the far side of the torrent, beyond which distant pale blue, snow-capped mountains appeared to float and shimmer in the waning sunlight. One little slip on a loose stone and that would be it.

As he reluctantly turned back to the line of stones marking the apparently endless track skywards, a stone slammed into the side of his head. Shocked and slightly dazed, he looked up in fear, imagining a landslide. Instead, a bony fist continued the work of the stone. He fell, hit his head on a rock and blacked out.

It was dark when he came to his senses lying sprawled across the track; naked, cold, hungry and thirsty. The thieves had taken everything. He rolled over and froze in fear. Unable to move. He was right on the edge of the canyon, along the bottom of which the turbulent stream reflected starlight. Craggy snow-sprinkled peaks supported a sky so clear, so devoid of dust or other pollution and so filled with stars that the constellations were no longer discernable. The entire great void of space seemed pulsating with life and light. But down on the ground for some reason it was too dark to see exactly where he was.

Too terrified to move in case he fell over the abyss, he spent a very long, very dark night of freezing cold that finally ended when someone carrying a heavy load on his back tripped over the shivering obstacle in the middle of the track. With a grunt of irritation the fellow gave Frankie a solid kick in the ribs to make him move aside, then continued on his way.

Frankie woke from his stupor with a shriek of terror. It was just light enough to see the edge of the chasm, so he rolled further away, sprang to his feet and called out. But the pale grey shape of a man plodding up the path might as well have been a wraith. What to do? The stones were sharp on bare feet, the wind was rising and grey clouds were already turning dawn to dusk. The collection of stone hovels at the beginning of the track was at least four hours back and he didn't fancy hobbling all the way back to Lachung naked of foot and body. If he'd been managing three kilometres an hour, then Sankturi would be just beyond the next rise... or the next. Hugging himself and pounding on chest and back to generate warmth, he staggered after the man with the pack until he disappeared into the mist.

Just when he thought he could go no further, blood dripping from torn feet, he arrived at a miserable collection of windowless stone hovels, roofed with broken slate, doors firmly blocking entrance to both cold winds and strangers. About halfway along the row of semi derelict dwellings, the road widened to become a cobbled square in which three women shrouded in rags were filling containers from a trickle of water that fell into a stone trough from a narrow spigot. When they saw Frankie they turned their backs. Opposite, was a stone building that appeared to be a shop; double doors sagging open to a dark interior with a few sacks, bottles and simple foods. Two men were sitting at a rough wooden table just inside the door, drinking from bowls.

Frankie hobbled over to them. They pretended not to see him. In desperation he touched one on the shoulder, only to have his hand viciously slapped away.

'Sankturi?' he pleaded, miming ignorance of its whereabouts.

The other man stared at him for a few seconds then said in a thick accent, voice dripping with hatred, 'American?'

'No!' Frankie whispered. 'Australian.'

The man spat on the ground. 'Same fuckin' thing.'

The first man pointed up the hill, then raised his fist as if to strike.

Frankie staggered away from the misery, poverty and blank eyes of hatred that he knew from his reading of alternative Internet news sites was justified. Mind closed, feet so cold he could no longer feel them, he staggered on into the increasing gale, not realising he'd arrived until his head butted against a grey stone wall. Lacking the strength to even knock at the scarred old wooden door, he sagged onto a seat beside it and stared vacantly into space until the cold roused him enough to pull on a rope attached to a tiny bell above the arched stone doorframe.

The door cracked ajar to reveal a diminutive old man in a loose, rumpled grey garment.

'What do you want?'

'To come in. I'm tired, cold and...'

'Come back tomorrow.' The door closed firmly.

Too dulled to react, Frankie rang again.

This time an older, frailer and even more rumpled old man opened the portal to enlightenment.

'Yes?'

His voice quivering from hunger, thirst, exhaustion and cold, Frankie marshalled his forces and attempted civility—difficult when cold, bleeding and naked. 'My name is Frankie Fey and I've booked a place here to discover...'

'Come back tomorrow.'

Door slammed.

What to do? The wind was picking up. He was literally beginning to freeze. He sagged onto the bell. This time it was opened by a tall, powerful, lean man in his sixties who stood with legs apart and arms folded.

'Who are you and what do you want?'

'I'm Frankie Fey!' Frankie whispered pathetically. 'I booked to study here. I...'

'We're busy. Come back tomorrow.'

Defeated, Frankie crawled into a corner as far out of the howling gale as possible. He was hated because his country was the war-mongering lap-dog of the U.S.A. He was tired. Too tired to care. He was going to die of exposure, but somehow it no longer seemed to matter. As he rolled onto his side and curled up, he noticed a flickering light. He crawled towards it. A stout wooden door had been left ajar to reveal a small room with a straw pallet and blanket on the floor, and a three legged stool holding a wooden plate containing a loaf of hard bread and a ceramic jug of water. He eased himself in, closed the door against the wind and relaxed in the silence. The tiny room felt surprisingly warm after the cold. He dragged himself to the stool and washed the bread down with water, wrapped himself in the thick, rough blanket, and decided to return to civilization as soon as he'd warmed up—dressed in the blanket if necessary. If they didn't want him, he certainly didn't want to stay. A minute later he fell into an exhausted sleep that lasted until hunger and a slight noise woke him.

# Wiley

Nervously, Frankie went to the door, opened it and peered out. No one. His stomach told him it was at least lunchtime. Fasting had done its work and triggered a substantial release of testosterone, generating a sense of purpose and energy and an obstinacy he hadn't realised he possessed. He wasn't going to run away with his tail between his legs!

Wrapped in the blanket, he left the cell and squeezed through a narrow gap between rock and building to explored the other side of the monastery, or whatever it was. The sun was high and blessedly warm. Directly ahead, two great craggy mountains joined by a monstrous white glacier, reared against the improbably dark blue of a cloudless sky. He relieved himself over the precipice, amused by the steam drifting off as his urine splashed down vertical rock.

Rounding a corner of crumbling stone he entered a cramped flagstone yard in which about twenty men of all ages in loincloths, were standing in front of a stone trough, filling wooden ladles with water that spouted from the rock, then pouring the freezing liquid over themselves, gasping and jumping up and down to keep warm as they washed.

Feeling dirty, dusty and desperately in need of a wash himself, Frankie dropped the blanket and joined them. They paid him no attention so he washed himself thoroughly, relieved to see his feet were not as badly cut as he'd imagined. Then, wrapped again in the blanket, he followed them inside through a narrow wooden door. And there his courage left him. The men disappeared and he sagged to the ground until the smell of boiled lentils drew him to the warmth of the kitchen where five men in rough, grey, long-sleeved tunics that fell to mid calf, were preparing bread and bowls of soup on ancient wood burning stoves. Without otherwise acknowledging his presence, a youth placed a steaming bowl and hunk of bread on the floor beside him, before carrying a large tray of food out through a wide archway.

Obeying silent, mimed instructions, he spent the rest of the day in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor, cleaning utensils, preparing vegetables. In between he sat on the floor as close to the warmth of the fire as possible. After the evening meal he was left alone for an hour, then directed to fold his blanket neatly, leave it on the floor, and go to a cell at the end of a draughty stone corridor lit by guttering candles. Inside, warmth enveloped him and he gazed around in astonishment. The floor was carpeted in shaggy goatskins. A large candelabrum gave both light and warmth from at least twenty thick candles. A tapestry covered the bare stone of one wall and a large oil painting of what looked like a sunny sylvan scene decorated another.

Beside an elaborately carved desk stood a man of indeterminate age, dressed casually in what looked like silken martial arts gear. Bare brown feet protruded below low-slung baggy cream trousers. A wide-lapelled loose coat of the same material, hung open to reveal a lean hairless chest and flat washboard belly. One of his nipples was pierced by a gold ring. The face contradicted the taut body, having collapsed into lines that suggested scowls. Brown, bloodshot eyes peered over prominent cheekbones, and the thin lips were not used to smiling.

He studied Frankie carefully then held out his hand. 'Wiley.'

Frankie shook the bony claw. 'Frankie.'

Wiley moved behind his desk and sat, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head while gazing thoughtfully at his navel. After eyeing his guest for several uncomfortable seconds he snapped, 'Why are you naked?'

'I was mugged and had everything stolen on my way here.'

Wiley nodded as if that was quite normal. 'Are you cold?

'Not in here—the rest of the place is freezing.'

'Why are you here?'

Frankie shook his head in astonishment. 'I was stressed after finishing university and your advertisement promised peace, meditation, sanctuary from the stresses of the world... that sort of thing.'

'What advertisement?'

'In the email you sent.'

The man opened a folder, checked something then asked abruptly, 'What's your email address?'

'Frankie ten at xyzmail dot com dot a u.'

'Do you write ten as one zero, or the letters t-e-n?'

'One zero.'

The man sighed and placed a photograph on his desk. 'Take a look at this man.'

'Frankie had to lean against Wiley in order to get a proper look at a pleasant, well-made blond man in his late twenties, wearing board shorts and standing on a beach holding a surfboard.

Wiley's hand ran up Frankie's thigh and massaged his buttocks. 'Do you know this man?'

Deciding that in his present position it would be unwise to protest, Frankie shook his head. 'No.'

'His name is also Frankie and his email address is identical to yours but with the letters t-e-n. You received his invitation by mistake.'

'I'm sorry, but... this is a refuge-monastery sort of place, isn't it? The men I saw washing looked like monks, and so did the guys in the kitchen.'

'Until three years ago it was a Zen Monastery. But the Master died and it closed, leaving three monks rattling around with nowhere else to go. They were thrilled when I bought the place and told them they could stay on.' He sat back with a smug smile. 'Turned out to be a smart move. Scarcely any renovation, no overheads, and I make more money than most five star hotels, without the fuss.'

'From what I've seen it doesn't rate as a luxury resort.'

'It's two resorts in one. The monks run a traditional monastic retreat for those who want it, and the other half is refurbished with mod cons for... other clients.'

'Clever. Do many people want the ascetic life?'

'We've twenty-two young and not so young men whose parents are prepared to pay well to keep them out of the way.'

'Why?'

'They're soft in the head, or drug addicts, or in strife with the law, an embarrassment to the family... loads of reasons.'

'And the other half of the place?'

'You're a nosey young bugger.'

'Not as nosey as the finger that's attempting to invade my bowels.' Frankie laughed to hide his annoyance.'

'You don't like it?'

'I'm flattered by the intimate attention, but... no, not really.'

Wiley slid his hand between Frankie's thighs and fondled his scrotum. 'In the refurbished part, I accommodate men who are prepared to pay royally for security and privacy.'

'Was the other Frankie one of those?'

'Would have been.'

'So that's why it's so expensive.' Frankie thought for a bit. 'Why wasn't I allowed in when I first arrived; naked, freezing, hurt and hungry?'

'We knew you weren't the bloke we'd been expecting, so hoped you'd just go away.'

'Naked with no money or passport? It's going to be a bugger getting a new one.'

Wiley reached under his desk and produced Frankie's satchel, plonking it onto the desk. 'Is this what you lost?'

'How...?' Frankie's eyes became slits and he would have moved away if his testicles hadn't been in the firm grip of a lean claw.

'I pay the fellow in the Lachung hostel to let me know whenever anyone asks the way here. When he told me you'd set off on foot, I sent a man down to wait in the abandoned houses to check if you were the fellow we were expecting, or an unwelcome intruder. As you looked nothing like the photo of the other Frankie, he phoned me and asked what to do. I thought you were probably a spy, so told him to discourage you, which he did.'

'He left me lying unconscious right on the edge of the ravine! I would have fallen over if I'd moved!'

'That was the idea. Unfortunately, another of my guests who'd spent the night somewhere else, was returning the following morning and thought you were just another druggie, so kicked you away from the edge. I could have strangled him when he told me.'

'It would have been an easy death,' Frankie said thoughtfully. 'I'd dream I was flying and then it'd be over.'

'Are you sorry he kicked you out of the way?'

'Sort of, although what happened between then and now has taught me rather a lot about myself. It would have been a pity to miss that.' He turned angry eyes on his host. 'Do you still want me dead?'

'No. You can make the three monks happy by being their only sane pupil.'

'I will transfer five thousand dollars to your account and leave. This is not the sort of place I expected.'

'How dull life would be if everything was as we expected.'

'Please give me my satchel.'

'No.'

'Why not!'

'Because you interest me. Why would a good looking, fit young man spend time up a mountain on his own in order to have his mind bent by a bunch of geriatric old misfits? Most people your age go around in groups, drinking, screwing, making a nuisance of themselves, learning to run with the pack.'

'That doesn't interest me. And now I know this is merely a safe house and lunatic asylum, I want to go.'

'Clearly, you don't know what's good for you. You should see a bit more of the world before running back to mummy.'

'I have no mummy.'

'Then you're a lucky man.' Wiley laughed, absurdly pleased with himself, and with his free hand placed the satchel in the solid-looking cupboard under his desk, closed and locked the door and dropped the key into the top pocket of his jacket. 'It'll be safer there than in a dormitory with a bunch of weirdos.' He pointed at a small silver bell on the far edge of the desk. 'Ring that, will you?'

Fear of having his testicles torn off was the only thing that prevented Frankie from smashing his fist into the side of Wiley's head. Instead, he leaned across and did as requested. Almost immediately an unattractively wrinkled old man in scaly skin and a grey woollen tunic similar to the ones worn by the kitchen helpers, came in, stood to the side of the desk and bowed slightly.

'Master, This is Frankie. He wants to get to know himself. I'll place him in your tender care.'

The lizard man's lips curled into a sneer as he gazed pointedly at Frankie's groin.

Wiley laughed too loudly, released his hold, and thrust Frankie roughly towards the old man, who grasped his charge by the shoulder, pushed him into the centre of the room and turned him slowly, prodding with a bony finger as if inspecting a beast at the saleyards. With a contemptuous sniff he shrugged, then led him out of the warmth into the freezing old monastery.

# Shiv

Frankie was so tired that a straw pellet on the stone floor beside twenty-two other sleeping men seemed like luxury. In a coarse cotton nightshirt and wrapped in a sweet-smelling blanket, he slept deeply, only to be woken what seemed minutes later by the sound of a loud bell. He leaped out of bed imagining an emergency. Everyone was calmly getting up. A single candle gave just enough light to see the woollen monkish habits they were putting on over their nightshirts. Frankie found his hanging on a wooden peg beside his bed. After sliding feet into sandals, folding their bedding neatly, rinsing hands and faces in cold water at a row of basins at the end of the room, they filed along the freezing corridor to the equally cold and bleak meditation room where they sat cross legged on straw mats and began chanting something incomprehensible. Frankie gave up the attempt to follow and tried to empty his mind, or at least stop thinking about his situation. It was difficult to keep still and think of nothing, but eventually he found himself drifting into a sort of semi doze—eyes open and aware of what was going on, but unconcerned.

The daily routine was mind numbing—as it was intended to be. Woken between three and four in the morning, they folded their blankets, dressed, washed then assembled for communal chanting. At around six o'clock they scrubbed their whole bodies at the trough where Frankie had first seen them, then came in for a light meal. When there was enough daylight to see properly inside, the place was scrubbed and polished. The inside of the ancient stone building was scrupulously clean. Depressing and dull, but clean.

After a lecture by the Master in a language Frankie did not understand, they washed faces and hands and shaved heads at the outside trough. No one asked Frankie to shave his head, for which he was grateful. This was followed by working in the vegetable gardens or preparing food in one of the two kitchens. Simple fare for the monks, rich Asian food for the paying guests. Monks not rostered for duties were free to do as they liked. Most liked to sit and do nothing.

After a meagre lunch of lentil or rice soup and bread, accompanied by whatever vegetables the gardens provided, they took a short nap, then meditation for an hour, then manual labour—repairing, working in the gardens, chopping firewood, cleaning toilets, weeding, carrying heavy loads down the mountain for a purpose Frankie never discovered as he was never given the task.

As darkness fell they recited mantras until the evening meal of leftovers. This was followed by more meditation during which the monks had to be repeatedly hit to stay awake. Mind destroying tiredness due to lack of sleep enabled the master to take over the monk's already troubled minds. No one can think clearly with insufficient sleep, so they lived in a sort of resigned trance, imagining they were Buddha's blessed brotherhood experiencing disturbing visions of nirvana.

What surprised Frankie even more than the timetable, were the rules. Everything was regulated from the way they had to pick up and put down their eating utensils to the way they took off their sandals. Any error and they were hit by an older monk with a stick, hard enough to make the miscreant wince. He knew hazing was still rife in boarding schools and the army, but hadn't expected it in a place dedicated to spiritual awakening. But after receiving several painful clouts on the shoulders himself he realised it made unpleasant sense; regulate a man's behaviour and his mind will accept regulation. But it seemed depressingly dreary to replicate in the monastery the miseries of life in the real world, just to prove that their sole hope of escaping reality was to retreat into their heads. Which was where all the other inmates, as Frankie had come to think of them, seemed to be. Drifting through the day like silent, sad automatons who seemed unaware of his existence and never attempted to communicate.

On the first afternoon when the other monks were sleeping, he had set off down the track in his tunic and sandals, but after only a few hundred metres a large man with a gun stepped out and forced him back. He was a prisoner. But not for long if he had anything to do with it. They couldn't watch him twenty-four/seven. Meanwhile he might as well experience the life of a monk while working out a way to retrieve his passport and debit card.

Over the following days - or weeks, Frankie began to lose count, he skipped afternoon meditation and wandered up the track above the monastery, having learned he was only stopped if he went downhill. He climbed nearby hills, explored valleys and sat gazing at the view, wondering why it depressed instead of elevated his spirits. And then he realised. It was as if he was back in Tasmania. Alone with a bunch of weirdos. Trapped in a cold, windy, uncomfortable place. Each time a sense of panic set his heart rate soaring. Deep breathing didn't help. Was this his karma? Blood pounded in his ears and he would return to the monastery determined to quit the place. But how?

One day he finally plucked up the determination to face Wiley, get his gear and get out. Concealing a sharp rock in his robe he knocked on the door. There was no response. He tried the door. It was locked and anger mutated into a worm of fear wriggling in his guts. What if he was never going to be free? What if...? He thrust the thought away and was on the point of returning to the meditation room when he noticed that the door that led to the part of the monastery where the paying guests were staying, was open. Every time he had tried it before it had been securely locked.

Heart pounding he went through and along a short corridor to another door on which he knocked. It was opened by an excessively slim and attractive young woman in a sari. Frankie apologised for interrupting and asked the whereabouts of Wiley.

'I don't know,' the young woman replied in a surprisingly deep voice. 'I will ask Lu.' She disappeared to be replaced by a middle-aged man in a lime green tracksuit with a face that probably originated somewhere in south East Asia. He held out a hand.

'Hi, I'm Lu; you must be Frankie. What's the problem?'

'I need to see Wiley. He's not in his office.'

'He's away on business for a couple of weeks, come in.'

Inside was the complete opposite of the rest of the monastery; a polished stone floor covered in colourful rugs, comfortable arm chairs and couches, a blazing fire, and on the far wall, large, double glazed windows offered spectacular views across an apparently bottomless ravine to jagged snowy mountains.

'This is beautiful! And I suppose your bedrooms are as comfortable?'

'Pretty good, you can sample mine tonight if you like.' Lu's predatory smile was probably intended to be enticing.

'Thanks, but I'm not into guys.'

'Neither am I, normally, but stuck up here a man gets desperate.'

'That's scarcely a compliment.'

Lu laughed a little too boisterously. 'What are you drinking?'

'Just water, thanks. If the monk master, or whatever he's called smelled anything else on my breath he'd beat me with his stick. I'm beginning to think he's a sadist.'

'He is.' Lu looked across the room and yelled, 'Shiv! A whisky for me and water for Frankie.'

'Can you please let me know when Wiley returns? He has my gear locked in his room so I can't leave.'

Lu's hand rested heavy on Frankie's shoulder. 'Of course I will let you know. Meanwhile, sit down and relax.' He dropped onto the sofa and patted the seat beside him.

Frankie sat as far away as he could, but Lu sidled closer till their thighs were touching.

The sari clad young woman appeared with a tray, handed Lu his glass and offered Frankie the tray. In the daylight streaming through large windows Frankie realised Shiv was no more than eighteen, had a well-defined jaw, a shaving shadow and an obvious Adam's apple. She was looking down at him intently as if trying to communicate.

'You're a man, Shiv.'

'Yes.'

Frankie turned questioningly to Lu.

'None of us are turned on by boys, but there are no females here so we make the best of what we've got. From behind with her skirt up all you see is a nice bum and a tight little hole. Tighter than my wife's hole, that's for sure.'

'And you all fuck him?' Frankie was unable to conceal his disgust.

Lu's face darkened. 'Her, not him! Shiv is female and don't you forget it!'

Frankie turned to Shiv. 'Do you like being fucked by these men, Shiv?'

'It is my job, sir. What I'm paid for.'

Frankie turned back to Lu. 'Why have I never seen any of you around the monastery?'

'We have our private garden, gymnasium, Internet, library and access to walking tracks. That's where the other two are. Shiv cooks for us and cleans. She's a good girl and well worth the fortune we pay her.'

'Except I haven't received anything yet, and I've been here five weeks,' Shiv said softly.

'You'll get it when we leave. Now bugger off and start making supper.'

Shiv scurried out a door.

'Well, it's been a pleasure, but I'm sure you have better things to do than hang around here.' Lu heaved himself off the couch and opened the door.

Frankie walked out silently and the door slammed behind him. 'Fuck! I shouldn't have sounded critical. He'll take it out on that poor guy, Shiv,' he whispered to himself. 'I am such a fool!' The feeling of being trapped almost overwhelmed him. They were both prisoners, he realised. He also had no control over his life! Taking long, deep breaths to slow his heart he shuffled back to the empty dormitory, the worm of fear burrowing deeper into his confidence.

The following morning during outside ablutions, Shiv appeared, wrapped in a blanket.

'I'm sorry to intrude, but the men are asleep and I needed to see you.' His face looked drawn and ill in the cold morning light.

Frankie took him to the outside room he had sheltered in when he arrived. 'What is it?'

'I overheard them talking about you last night. They often forget I'm there. Lu said you were a very pretty young man, so they shouldn't be too hasty about letting you go. They have no intention of releasing me; I know that for a fact. I'm very frightened. I don't want to end up in a brothel.'

'Did you know they were going to fuck you when you applied for the job?' Frankie asked.

'No way! The advertisement was for a man to cook and do minor housework, that's all. I thought it was to be in a city, not up in the mountains. And I'm also worried I might be infected. Until last week there were ten men here and they all fucked me. And I wonder... It's very sore. Can you look for me?' He bent over and pulled up his robe to expose a red and swollen anus.

'It looks sore, but not infected. Just bruised, I think. How on earth did you cope with ten?'

'I taught myself to relax my sphincter and have so far avoided splitting my ring, but I worry every time that it will happen. But they don't care; to them I am nothing but a fucking toy.'

Frankie was horrified. 'Do they use condoms?'

'Yes, but only because they're worried the others might have diseases, not to protect me. But they're mean on lube. I want to escape, but they have my documents and I don't think they are going to pay me for the five months I've been with them.'

'As soon as Wiley returns I'll get my gear and we'll leave. Together we'll easily make it down the mountain and escape. I've been going for walks and know an alternative way to the track from here.'

'Thank you, Frankie. You are the only nice person I have spoken to since I left home.'

#  Enlightenment

During the prolonged evening meditations, Frankie's 'essential self' had begun to morph from a precious, secret, personal jewel inside his head, into a vague feeling that he was part of an all-encompassing consciousness that included every living creature on the planet. The idea was intoxicating. It meant his thoughts could change the thoughts of others! And that meant that if there were enough people thinking the same thing they'd be able to change the world!

Fortunately, this delirium only lasted until he caught a chill and was excused the night meditation classes to catch up on sleep. Another potentially dangerous change was his developing ability to remain mentally calm when stressed; able to meet pleasure and pain, praise and blame, good and bad luck, with genuine equanimity. A state of mind which, if controlled is very useful, but if permanent is more or less the definition of a zombie. It was his brain's way of coping with the insecurity of his position.

In the free time during afternoon meditation, Frankie continued walking up the track to an abandoned village, climbing the nearest hills, and gazing at the magnificent panoramas. Recently he'd been crawling around examining the multitude of small plants and insects. From higher up the track, the ancient stone monastery with its arched doorway and crumbling old bell tower perched precariously on the edge of a mountain, looked extraordinarily romantic. But then so did the villages. The sad fact that nothing ever lives up to our imagined ideals is the cause of much dissatisfaction. He realised that people always want things to be a certain way, and when they're not they sulk. If humans would only want what is possible, they'd not need retreats and drugs and psychiatrists.

Frankie needed certainty. Without it he was in danger of falling apart or doing something really foolish.

Constantly having to shelter from cold winds he failed to understand why monks would choose such a benighted place, although he understood their desire to escape from human society, brilliantly described by Edward Bellamy in his book, _Looking Backwards_ that Frankie had recently downloaded from Gutenberg. Bellamy likened nineteenth century human society to a giant coach pulled along rough roads by the masses of humanity. The driver is hunger, and the seats on top of the coach are comfortable, well up out of the dust, with fine views. From their vantage point the few lucky passengers critically discuss the merits of the straining team. If a sudden jolt of the coach causes passengers to fall to the ground, they are instantly compelled to take hold of the rope and help to drag the coach, on which they had before ridden so pleasantly. It is therefore regarded as a terrible misfortune to lose one's seat. Those on top feel sorry for the poor wretches pulling them along, but never consider assisting them, even if the coach gets bogged down or comes to an impossibly steep hill. Hunger lashes the toilers so pitilessly many faint at the rope and are trampled in the mire. At such times the passengers will call down encouragingly, offering ointments and salves, exhorting them to patience while holding out hopes of possible compensation in another world for the hardness of their lot in this one. When the coach is travelling well again they are relieved, not for the toilers, but because they haven't lost their seat. The misery of the toilers at the ropes does not engender pity in the passengers, but pride in the value of their position and a determination to hold onto their seats even more desperately than before. If the passengers could guarantee they would never fall from the top, they would never trouble themselves in any way about those who drag the coach.

Most days when he was sitting quietly, men in rough peasant clothes would trudge past carrying bulky loads on their backs if they were going up, and compact loads if going down. They never acknowledged his presence, even when greeted. Sometimes they stopped at the monastery, sometimes they didn't. There was no point in asking the other monks; none spoke English and none showed the slightest interest in him, or anything else it seemed. The youngest was a mere boy of fifteen, the oldest a fellow in his fifties. All were lean to the point of emaciation. All seemed to have given up on life, accepting in bovine submission whatever fate befell them.

Every day Frankie became increasingly depressed.

Two days after promising to help Shiv he was summoned for a chat with the Master who asked in heavily accented English if he had any questions about life.

Frankie shook his head. Life posed him no problems, and even if it had he wouldn't ask a man who thought starving himself and his flock of food and sleep was the way to live. 'It's interesting learning about life in a monastery,' he said without much conviction.

'What have you learned?'

'That there's little difference between lives of constant toil and unquestioning obedience in the real world and that imposed here.'

'The difference is that here they learn to accept their lot and stop complaining.'

'What about enlightenment?

'Their burdens are lighter—that's a form of enlightenment.' His smile was smug and Frankie's distaste for the man became dislike.

'It seems to me they just become indifferent, accepting passively all the shit that's thrown at them.'

'Acceptance is not passive resignation. It changes the focus from fighting the present moment to working with the present moment. We need to accept and understand that it doesn't matter if we become stressed or calmly breathe deeply; the world remains the same. The bell of life will keep ringing. Failing to accept things as they are is a source of much suffering.'

'If humans had behaved like that from the beginning, we'd still be hunter gatherers.'

'Would that be a bad thing?'

Frankie smiled wryly. 'No, it would be a good thing—at least for the natural world.'

The Master nodded. 'So you approve of our methods.'

'No. Good ideas and behaviours should emanate from within the individual himself, not be imposed by force. You're taming them, not educating.'

'That's one way of putting it. But if they leave here they'll be able to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, be better workers prepared to accept lower wages, be more law abiding and better citizens.'

Frankie pondered the 'if' but decided not to go there. 'Better for the wealthy, but not for them.'

'There are always winners and losers, Frankie.'

The next day was clear and sunny after a heavy frost. Snow would be coming soon so he had to get out! After a strenuous walk Frankie found a private spot out of the wind to luxuriate in the thin sunlight that to him was the best possible tonic. Soon Wiley would return and he would escape with Shiv. His mood improved, he laughed and was suddenly able to see his situation objectively. He wasn't trapped, except in his mind.

A soft footfall caused him to tense, ready for action. What action he had no idea. A snapping twig. Unable to bear the uncertainty, Frankie sprang up and away, landing on a rock beside him, crouching like a nervous panther.

'I've disturbed you... apologies. I didn't realise anyone was here. I'm Michael.'

The speaker was of medium height and build, probably in his forties, dressed in heavy padded trousers and a fleecy coat with the hood pulled up. Impossible to judge his physical characteristics, but the voice and language was American English. He took a deep pull on his cigarette and tossed the butt away.

'That's litter.' Frankie remarked reflexively.

'It's biodegradable, and the ants love them,' the man responded in a pleasant baritone. 'You're Frankie. I recognise you from Lu's description. But you're leaner, harder, older and not so cuddly as I expected.'

'Lack of food, plenty of exercise and I've never been cuddly.'

'You look good.'

'Are you chatting me up?'

'Yes. I've a proposition.' He paused and gazed off into the distance.

'So you didn't stumble upon me by accident.'

'No, I followed you.'

'A stalker in the mountains—good title for a book.'

'Do you like being a monk?'

'It's mind bogglingly boring and pointless... perhaps that's what's ageing me.'

'I wouldn't be surprised.'

'What's your proposition?'

'Wiley told us about your independence, common sense, intelligence and personal charm, so as I'm looking for an attractive, fit, fluent English speaker as manager of a new nightclub, I wanted to offer you the position.'

'Here? In the mountains?'

'In Kolkata. I've just received an email informing me that the people who want to dispose of me have themselves been disposed of, so it's safe to return.'

'Just you or all three of you?'

'All three. We've a string of nightclubs across India.'

'I'm not qualified. I've never managed anything.'

'You've managed your life and finances very well.'

'You've checked my bank account?'

'Isn't the Internet wonderful?'

'It's a privacy and security nightmare.'

'Wiley told us you didn't object to his advances, and that's another reason I want you—it's a gay club.'

'I did object to his advances, and I'm not queer.'

'And you're not homophobic.'

'When are you going?'

'Today, because Wiley will be back the day after tomorrow.'

'He has my valuables. I'll have to wait till he gets back.'

'You don't honestly think he's going to let you leave, do you?'

'Why not?'

'You know about this lucrative hideaway for wanted men, and how he charges through the nose to keep the unwanted members of wealthy families drugged up until he disposes of them after they've been 'missing' for a reasonable time.'

Frankie's innocent heart froze mid beat. He sat down on the rock with a thump. 'So that's why they're all like zombies. I've never had anything to do with drugs so it didn't enter my head. But the Master? Surely he...'

'It was his idea.'

'But...but where do they get the drugs from?'

'You've seen porters passing every day, drugs on the way down and guns on the way up. Over the hills and far away is a mountainous country that is planning a revolution. Wiley's a middle man for many unpleasant things.'

'So when he goes away he's...?'

'Undoubtedly. So, are you going to hang around waiting till he shoves you off the cliff?'

'He's already tried that once. What about that girl... Shiv?'

'She's coming too. Lu has a job for her. So... if you're coming we'd better get your stuff.'

'I'm coming!'

Back at the monastery they were met by Lu and a bloated, balding, greasy Englishman called Algy. Both the others were dressed in slacks and blazers, stacking suitcases outside the main door. Shiv in his sari was assisting. He looked up in relief when Frankie walked in. Neither of the other two showed any interest.

'Wait outside Wiley's office.' Michael jogged down the corridor and returned seconds later with a fireman's axe. After smashing the office door he did the same to the cupboard and told Frankie to get whatever was his, while he went to ask the others if they wanted anything of Wiley's before he smashed the place up.

Frankie quickly put on his shirt and concealed his passport, debit card and money in the secret pockets. There were about a dozen other passports and credit cards as well as bundles of rupees also in the cupboard, so he grabbed a passport of a similar size and colour, a Visa card and a small wad of rupees, and stowed them in his satchel along with his other clothes, so if Martin made a rough check he wouldn't wonder where the real passport was. The rest of the money he added to his own, hoping it wouldn't be noticeable. The shirt was bulky and made of a canvass-like material, so even when the pockets were empty it looked the same as when full.

When Michael returned, Frankie was zipping up his trousers. 'That feels better,' he said in relief. 'That bloody monk's robe made me feel an utter idiot.'

Michael was too busy smashing every thing in sight, especially the electronic gear, to respond. Three minutes later they joined the others waiting for porters.

'What's Wiley done to annoy you?' Frankie asked Michael.

'The bloke who told me it was safe to come back also told me that Wiley was the one who informed on us. That's what.

Six porters arrived, hoisted the luggage onto their backs, then headed a procession down the stony path.

They'd been walking for about ten minutes when Algy shouted, 'Any moment now!' They stopped and crowded the edge of the track, looking back towards the monastery.

A sudden flash of orange was followed a full second later by a deep thudding boom. The ancient structure quivered, collapsed and became just another small landslide tumbling down to the raging river far below. For the second time that day Frankie froze, turning wide-eyed to Michael who was already striding boldly down the track.

'The monks? Those men and boys? That fifteen year-old kid?'

'How long to you reckon they suffered? Ten seconds? That's if they even realised what was happening. They were for the chop anyway in a year or so. We did them a favour.'

Frankie had to run to keep up. 'We could have told the police about the place and freed them.'

Michael's laugh echoed off the hills. 'The police will have had several fingers in this pie. Welcome to the normal world where dog eats dog and the devil takes the hindmost. Come on, I thought you were fit. It'll be dark before we get to the bottom if you don't speed up a bit.'

#  Kolkata

Shiv, still in his hated sari, kept up easily despite his thin sandals. By unspoken agreement he and Frankie pretended not to be interested in each other. Only the fat Englishman puffed and grunted like a stuck pig most of the way and began to lag behind. But by the time the bags were tied firmly on the roof of the waiting Jeep, he staggered across and collapsed onto the front passenger seat. The porters were paid and disappeared. Then Michael and Lu sat on the comfortable rear seats while Frankie and Shiv perched on the hard jump seats with little leg room and nothing to hold on to as they bounced, twisted, and swayed back to Lachung, over passes, down into valleys, zigzagging across ridges then along the valley to bypass Gangtok, followed by more zigzags down hill at what seemed breakneck speed until the road became straighter and smoother and they made up time, arriving just after midnight at Bagdogra airport.

The driver, who had not spoken a word the entire trip, continued about half a kilometre past the main airport building, then unloaded the gear near a neatly painted hangar and office; the terminal of "Three Brothers Airline" according to an elaborately painted sign. He drove away and two porters loaded the luggage into a small commercial jet that would take them to Kolkata. But not for three more hours. The pilot had to wait for a parcel. One of the porters ran back to the main building, returning with tea and fried pastries filled with vegetables that they downed like starving men.

The parcel arrived; they boarded the plane and zipped into the air like a leaf in the wind. Day was breaking as they flew over Kolkata. Frankie peered out the window, astonished to see that as well as the great Hooghly River there were also vast sheets of water to the east of the enormous city. Lakes and ponds seemingly everywhere. Michael, who was looking more cheerful than earlier, explained they were sewage treatment and fish farms. The city was huge, flowing over both sides of the river, yet within it there seemed to be almost as much wild land as urban. And it was so flat.

'Kolkata was built on what was pretty much a swamp,' Michael explained. 'So it's hot and sweaty during monsoons. And when the seas rise it'll probably go under, like half the other ports on the planet.'

An enormous white 'V' appeared below.

'That's the airport. Fasten seatbelts everyone.'

They taxied past the modern structure to a slightly more elegant version of the "Three Brothers Airline" office, and while everyone else was unloading, Algy phoned for transport. The air was pleasantly warm and dry. After the freezing winds of Sankturi, Frankie felt himself relax for what seemed the first time for weeks. He was definitely not a cold climate man.

Two expensively inconspicuous cars arrived. Algy accompanied the luggage, including Frankie's satchel, in one car, and Shiv and Frankie again had the jump seats facing their opponents, as Frankie was starting to think of them. Would he ever see his satchel again? He tried to read road names, but only managed _Jessore Road_ that went on for several kilometres. To the west he saw the top of a bridge before a left turn into _Mahatma Ghandi Road_ and then right again and then left and right several times through narrower streets until he had no idea which way the river was or even the direction they'd come from.

The car stopped on a pleasant road lined with shade trees, in front of a large, colonial style building of four stories with dull yellow walls, arched windows framed in white, narrow columns each side of the main door, and a fake balustrade across the front of the roofline. It looked neat, well maintained, and according to an elegantly painted panel, was the _Kool Kat Klub_.

'Where are we?' Shiv asked suspiciously as everyone got out.

'Old Kolkata. One of our nightclubs.' Michael pushed open the heavy wooden doors and they entered an elegant, marble-floored foyer with dark wood panelling, an ornate polished desk, a chandelier, and paintings on the walls. A handsome, greying Indian greeted his bosses with a deep bow and apparently sincere Namaste.

'I am very pleased you have both returned safely, Mr. Michael and Mr. Lu. Allow me to be of great service.'

'Thanks, Arnold,' Lu said abruptly. 'We're glad to be back, but we haven't eaten properly for days. Give us half an hour to spruce up and then something tasty to eat.'

'Yes sir. Certainly sir.'

'Through here.'

Shiv and Frankie were herded through double doors into a larger vestibule with a wide curved staircase leading up into shadows. Lu opened another set of double doors for them to admire a reconstruction of a classic nightclub from American movies of the nineteen fifties. A small stage at one end for the orchestra and performers, a dance floor surrounded by tables and chairs, and a bar at the back. It was elegant, pleasant, and looked pricey. 'This is the mixed nightclub.'

'Very chic.'

With a terse nod Michael bundled them upstairs to a similar room. 'This is the Male-only clubroom. In India men do not feel obliged to spend every waking minute that they're not working with their wives. Here they're entertained by more... shall we say esoteric songs, dances and... other entertainment.'

Neither young man felt the urge to comment, so they were herded up to the next floor where, instead of a theatre they were confronted by what looked like a Turkish Bathhouse, decorated in the style of an Arabian Nights fantasy with arches, domed ceiling, niches, fretwork. The dressing room was sumptuous. The washroom, steam room, large pool, massage room attractively practical. Private relaxing/massage rooms down a short corridor were comfortable and dim.

'The Turkish Bath is very popular. The boys who offer erotic massage earn big bucks.'

'Why are you showing us this?'

'Just filling in time until your stuff arrives.'

This time they were almost shoved up the stairs.

'This is the top floor where staff sleep if they're required to remain on deck for twenty-four hours.'

'Where are the staff now? The place is empty apart from Arnold.'

'We open from seven in the evening till three in the morning. Staff come on at five o'clock to prepare everything. Arnold guards the door and fields questions, and Ali is usually in the kitchen making food and keeping everything in order. Take a look at the rooms, then we'll go down and eat.'

A narrow corridor that ran along the street side of the building, gave access to six rooms. At Lu's encouragement, Shiv peered into the first room only to be shoved further in and have the door slammed and locked behind him. Frankie turned to run back, but was blocked by Michael who slammed a fist into the side of his head, stunning him, then he and Lu dragged him to the next room and tossed him inside. Frankie shouted, but heard only laughter as they walked away.

A sharp pain bored into his brain at the spot where he'd been knuckled. He tried the door. Deadlocked. He went to the windows, threw wide the drapes and stared out in dismay. Solid bars did not prevent the windows being opened, but not even a cat could get through them. Even if it did, it was a vertical drop of four storeys to a concreted parking area. He opened the only internal door. A bathroom with a small window above head height.

He stopped, took a dozen deep breaths to slow his heartbeat, then gazed slowly around, unthinking, letting his brain observe and understand. The washbasin was porcelain and securely attached to the small vanity unit. In the cupboard beneath, nothing but a large rubber suction cup. The drains must have been blocked recently. It had a short plastic handle. No use as a weapon. Pipes were all concealed. A toothbrush holder and small plastic beaker. Showerhead securely bolted. Mirror glued to the wall. And then it clicked. The bathroom probably shared the wall with Shiv's bathroom so they could share the plumbing. He tapped on the wall. No response. He banged the handle of the suction cup on the taps and waited. Three short sharp taps replied. He repeated them, and so did Shiv. Why hadn't he learned Morse code!

A phone rang in the bedroom. He raced back. Where the fuck was it. He gazed around in panic. They mustn't come up. Ah! Beside the bed a slim handset. He pressed receive. 'Yes?'

'Do you want lunch?'

'Why have you locked us up?'

'You didn't think you were getting a free ride out of that dump in the mountains did you?'

'No, and I can pay for it, and for Shiv. And where's my satchel? I need it. My family will be worried and make enquiries!'

'If they do they'll be told about the terrible explosion up at the monastery that killed everyone.'

'You wouldn't!'

'I would.'

'But Michael, you seem a nice bloke. Please... when I've got my credit card and passport I can pay for Shiv as well and anything else I owe you. So give me my satchel and let us out of here!'

'Oh what a shame. You should have told me this earlier. You see I've made phone calls and you'll start earning your passage tonight when a nice businessman comes looking for love from a handsome young Australian surfer. I can't afford to let him down.'

'I'm not a surfer.'

'I know, but it doesn't hurt to pretend.'

'I am not a prostitute! I am not for sale! I will strangle any man who tries to come near me!'

'Look at the bed posts.'

Frankie did and realised they were solid iron. Attached to them on large rings that could be slid to any position, were handcuffs. Big, solid, real old-fashioned police handcuffs.

'If we even suspect you are not going to cooperate, we will have you cuffed to the bed in whatever position your client desires. Meanwhile, if you change your mind about food, just pick up the receiver and dial one.' Michael cut the connection.

'Fuck!' Frankie whispered. He took a deep breath. This is what Shiv had endured for months. Well, he wasn't insane; he'd never give them cause to handcuff him. But there must be something he could do. He frowned, returned to the bathroom and tapped again. Shiv's taps echoed his. He shouted, but heard only an impossibly muffled reply, so he took the plastic beaker from the toothbrush holder, pressed it against the wall and put his ear to it. Shouted something again, then listened. Something about a window. Shiv kept saying over and over what sounded like 'to the window'.

Finally he understood and he looked up at the tiny window. Too high to see out so he got a chair, and inspected. The window opened inwards and there were no bars! But his shoulders would never get through.

'Frankie, Frankie.' A whisper floated through the opening.

Frankie pulled himself higher and shoved his head through, astonished to see Shiv's head and shoulders hanging out. The windows were barely two metres apart.

'I'm coming to you,' Shiv whispered, pulling his head and shoulders back in. Half a minute later Frankie watched in alarm as a pair of bare feet poked out, followed by bare legs, then a bare bum, until Shiv was draped over the windowsill held by his left arm; his right arm stretched out towards Frankie.

'Grab my arm!' he hissed.

Frankie tried, but it was just too far. He could get one arm and one shoulder through but that wasn't quite enough. 'Hang on!' he whispered, and raced back to the bedroom, took a sheet off the bed, twisted it into a tight rope, secured one end to the shower taps then decided they weren't strong enough, and if they broke the place would be flooded and they wouldn't have time to plan anything. So he wrapped the sheet around his chest under his armpits and put the rest and one arm and his head out the window.

Shiv had hauled his head and shoulders back into his room and was draped over the sill to rest his arms. Someone was sure to see his naked bum soon!

'Grab the sheet with your right hand,' Frankie instructed. 'Then when you're sure you have a good grip, bring your left hand across and hold on to the sheet with both hands for dear life. You'll drop and swing around a bit, but I've got it secure here and will haul you up.'

Shiv lowered himself till he was hanging by his fingers, gave a huge grin, Frankie tossed the sheet, Shiv grabbed it with his right hand, made sure he had a good hold, then let his left hand go and just managed to hang on to the sheet as he suddenly dropped and swung roughly like a human pendulum coming to rest below Frankie's window. It took all Frankie's strength to haul the sheet up over the concrete sill and seemed to be taking forever, but in less than a minute Shiv was squeezing through the window, blood dripping from grazes on shoulders, chest, knees and feet. He hugged Frankie, who could scarcely speak from shock. Shiv appeared unfazed.

'How did you dare?' Frankie asked.

Shiv shrugged. 'I know those men. They've been abusing me for five months. I would never be allowed to leave. They would have made a fortune having me fucked by all the ugly bastards in Kolkata until I was a useless husk, then kill me. Four seconds falling then instant death seemed an excellent alternative. And there was always the chance of actually getting here. I reckon we can beat them, don't you?'

'Fuck, Shiv. You're the bravest man I've ever known. I was terrified. It was lucky you didn't give me time to think about it or I'd never have risked it.'

Shiv gave him a pat on the shoulder. 'Ok, Frankie, now for the hard bit, how do we get out of here?'

#  Escape

'We need a weapon.'

They scoured the room. Nothing removable that could be used as a weapon. Even the phone was wireless so no cord to strangle with. The towel rail in the bathroom was plastic. The chair was plastic. While Shiv was looking under the bed Frankie flicked the curtains closed.

'Eureka!'

'You what?'

'Look at this!' Frankie was on the chair carefully twisting at the rod that he'd used to close the curtain. The ring that held it to the runners opened easily so he pulled it out of the hole and passed the rod to Shiv. 'What do you reckon?'

'Brilliant.'

The solid brass rod was about a metre long with a good handle at the bottom and almost pointed at the top where it had been attached to the ring and curtain runners.

The phone rang. Frankie picked it up.

'No, I don't want lunch!' he snarled.

Michael ignored his outburst. 'Your mate isn't answering his phone. Do you know anything?'

'How the fuck can I know anything when I'm fucking locked up in this prison? Perhaps the lucky bugger's dead!' Frankie slammed the receiver down and raced to the bathroom to close his window. Shiv's would be open, but there was no point in giving them the answers.

'I think we're about to have a visitor,' he said with a frown. 'You didn't answer your phone, so they'll be coming up here to find out why, and when they see your open window with no dead body at the bottom they'll come here. What'll we do?'

'Kill them,' Shiv said easily. 'They killed all those monks and guys up at the monastery, now it's their turn.'

'Fair enough, but how?'

'What's that shelf for?' Shiv pointed to a narrow shelf that encircled the room just above door height. It looked to be no more than twenty centimetres wide.

'Ornaments and things I guess.'

'I'm pretty light, let's hope it's strong enough.' He placed the chair behind the door hinges, pulled Frankie beside it, climbed on Frankie's shoulders then stepped up onto the shelf, remaining flattened against the wall for several seconds before falling forward, to be caught by Frankie.

'If you can stall whoever comes in the open doorway, I can shove this thing through their skull.'

'If you can stay up there long enough. Hang on.' Frankie ran to the bathroom and returned with the suction cup. After spitting on the rubber he climbed on the chair and shoved it against the smooth painted wall as high as he could. When he stepped down it remained attached.

There was no time to test it. Footsteps approached. They heard Shiv's door being unlocked just before someone started doing the same with Frankie's. Shiv clambered quickly up Frankie's shoulders onto the shelf and balanced without putting much strain on the plunger handle. Frankie passed up the rod then managed to be standing in front of the doorway when it opened ready to block whoever was entering.

Lu shoved a handgun into Frankie's face and began forcing him back into the room. 'Where's that f...' was all he had time to say before Shiv dropped onto his shoulders, simultaneously ramming the pointy end of the rod through Lu's skull. Lu dropped straight down, Shiv stepped off as if alighting from a horse, picked up the revolver, then helped pull the man behind the door seconds before Michael appeared in the doorway.

'Where's that scrawny black bastard!' He shouted, lunging towards Frankie, offering a perfect target for Shiv's bullet that made a mess of his neck but didn't stop him from swinging round to fire wildly back at Shiv, whose second shot got him in the groin causing him to drop to the floor, writhing and moaning; not loud enough to be heard on the street, so they didn't bother administering a coup de grace.

'Help,' gurgled the almost slain man.

The two young men looked at each other and shook their heads.

'Sorry, Michael. We're busy. But it shouldn't take you more than half an hour to bleed to death.'

While Frankie closed and deadlocked the door, Shiv returned to his room to put on the sari and sandals.

'Shame. I preferred you naked.'

'Me too, but I have to hide the blood and bruises. And my three-day beard! Front door?'

'I don't want to hurt Arnold. Let's hope there's a fire escape.'

They ran to the end of the corridor, opened the window and discovered a rickety iron spiral staircase that ended in the driveway.

Down at ground level they tossed away the room key and walked nonchalantly to the front corner of the building. Frankie peered through the branches of a cypress towards the front door. He pulled back.

'There's a policeman talking to Arnold.'

'What're they doing?'

Frankie looked again. 'Arnold's giving him an envelope. The cop's walking away. Arnold's gone back inside. The door's closed.'

'Just a bribe. Ok, it's safe to go, but I'll follow a fair way behind,' Shiv whispered, 'It would attract attention if a foreigner was seen walking with a scrawny, poor Indian woman. Go!' he whispered urgently when Frankie hesitated.

The street was busy with bicycles, handcarts, pedestrians, cars... all knowing what they were doing and where they were going. Neither young man had the foggiest idea of where to go, so Frankie just sauntered along acting as he imagined a typical tourist would, pretending not to understand the children begging. After several blocks he asked a man where to find a clothing store. The man shrugged and raised his hands in apology. He spoke no English. Frankie smiled and moved on, choosing an obviously wealthier man next time.

His informant pointed and told him to go to College, then right to what sounded like Beebeeganguly, then turn left, and then the directions became complex and impossible to remember, but Frankie smiled gratefully and set off, followed at a discreet distance by a thin and tired woman, her head wrapped in a sari.

It was a long, dusty, hot and enervating trudge, during which they passed several busy markets that Shiv shook his head at. On a narrow road in what looked like a slum, stood several magnificently decaying examples of British colonial architecture. At the end of another longer road, tall modern buildings loomed. Down on the street the two young men were dodging begging women holding their dead-looking babies in supplication, other pedestrians, bikes, cars and handcarts.

Frankie asked directions several times, each time being pointed in a different direction, until suddenly, opposite the end of a T-junction appeared a long, single storey red brick building faced with white arches and columns. Crowds were milling on the wide paved area in front, so he headed that way. "Hogg Market", the sign above the arches announced.

Frankie waited and Shiv sidled up. They were inconspicuous in the crowd, so Shiv pulled nervously at Frankie's sleeve and pretended to beg. Frankie nearly laughed aloud as their situation finally caught up with him. They'd just murdered two men and were on the run. Hungry, thirsty, homeless, yet Shiv still had the guts to make jokes.

'I don't normally give to beggars,' Frankie growled, pulling a thin wad of notes from his secret pocket and handing them to Shiv. 'But I'm feeling generous.'

After an exaggerated bow of servile gratitude Shiv scuttled away and Frankie sank onto an empty bench. He felt gutted. He'd be Ok, but what about Shiv? He couldn't just leave him to fend for himself. And he didn't want to. He liked him too much... unless that was the effect of their morning's excitement. He gazed around at the crowds; buying, arguing, selling. He felt intensely alive, sharp, yet oddly relaxed. A cloud of diesel fumes engulfed him as an overladen bus drove into the car park. Everyone was on the lookout for something. Searching, impatient, exhausted, but not in a slough of despond. A smell between rot and sweet drifted out of a nearby food stall. Plastic bags, cartons, food wrappers, cans, rotting vegetables...rubbish everywhere; on the streets, in alleys, in gutters and on roads. Someone laughed. A young boy asked for money. It was all so unknowable that his natural dislike of crowds mutated into numbing claustrophobia, filling his head with fears that he'd never be able to escape the swarming multitudes.

He'd gained an idea of Kolkata's size as they landed, but down here he began to realise how huge, how complex, how impossibly impersonal and divorced from everything he thought he valued was this sprawling metropolis that resembled nothing he'd ever experienced or imagined. As he watched and observed, yet another feeling stole up on him. Respect. Respect for individuals who functioned autonomously in this maelstrom; calmly attending to their needs, doing without apparent complaint whatever was necessary to keep the spark of life alive. Even the multitude of beggars. He couldn't give to all, but... he'd have to ask Shiv how to assuage his guilt.

A slow grin spread as realisation dawned. Like everyone around him he was aggressively individual, but so what? He was a flyspeck. Nothing to anyone and they were nothing to him. Ten million individuals eking out an existence in this insane city. Jammed together. Struggling to make ends meet. Another beggar approached, but Frankie still had no coins so waved him away. And then a handsome young man dressed casually but well, looking every bit as comfortable but more contented than those around him, approached as if they knew each other. Frankie took a step back before realising it was Shiv. Along with the sari he had thrown off all vestige of female inferiority. He seemed to have grown several centimetres and could never be taken for anything other than a virile male. His back was straight, his head proud on a firm neck, his feet shod in elegant slip-on leather shoes, his face serene.

'Shiv! You look magnificent!'

'Thanks to you. Do you realise how much money you gave me?'

'No, but there's more where that came from, so don't worry.'

'You gave me forty-thousand-rupees.' He handed the remainder back.

'No way! That's yours. I took a bundle of cash from Wiley's desk before we left, and there's more that we'll share later. But now you're looking respectable, help me buy an unostentatious shoulder bag, trousers, shirt, jacket and shoes that'll make me look like an honest but not very wealthy local. Oh, and disposable razors and a toothbrush. Then find us somewhere to eat and talk.'

'Yes, sahib,' Shiv grinned with an exaggerated Namaste.

Twenty minutes later Frankie was the proud possessor of a knapsack filled with a change of clothes. He slung it over his shoulder and followed Shiv across the road, where he spoke to a middle aged man.

'That's the first time I've heard you speak anything other than English. How come you speak Hindi if you're from Pakistan?'

'What gave you the idea I'm Pakistani?'

'You look a bit like a Pakistani guy in my class at university. Lean with great bones and a symmetrical face, almost too perfect. Most Indians are not so... I don't know... their faces are not so well organised, and if they're dressed as well as you are now, they've run to fat, which isn't attractive.'

'I think that was a compliment, but I'm too hungry to care if it isn't. Come on, that fellow said the restaurant over there's pretty good.'

After a salad, lentils and vegetables, followed by fish with rice, they were feeling comfortably replete but still found room for delicious white sweet balls with nuts and candied fruit. Finally, after rinsing their palates, and in Frankie's case quenching the fires of spicy food he wasn't used to, with bottled water, they talked.

'First up, what do I do about people begging?'

'Give them food or clothing, not money, at least never more than twenty or fifty rupees. Many of them are pawns of syndicates who take all the money their team of beggars gather, leaving them only a pittance. Some people say begging is an industry and they just don't want to work, but I don't believe it. Who would want to sit all day in the dust outside a railway station if they could do anything else? It's the result of capitalism, corrupt police and no social welfare. But I can't do anything about it, and neither can you.'

'Who are you, Shiv? You speak English so well, you are fit and strong, brave and resourceful... where do you come from? How did you get into this situation?'

'I was born in Amritsar, fifty kilometres from Lahore, so you were almost right. A typical lower class family with too many kids. My grandfather had an important job in a hotel and spoke excellent English, so to force me to learn it he never spoke anything but English to me until he died. I went to a local school and learned to read and write. When I was nine the transport company my father worked for went bankrupt and he lost his job, so I went to work for a carpet maker. But sitting in a dim room for twelve hours a day tying knots wasn't any fun, so I took off and lived on my wits; message boy, temple cleaner, washing cars, selling rubbish... then I was a kitchen helper in a cheap restaurant. The boss had half a dozen similar eating-houses in the State, and when I was sixteen he sent me to one in Chandigarh, where I made myself useful and became chief cook. I worked long hours and saved a fair bit... had a heap of five-hundred-rupee notes. But then they were withdrawn from circulation. We had a month to change them, but the queues were kilometres long and the banks helped their customers first. I had to keep on working and suddenly it was too late, so I lost my nest egg. Worse, our business was cash only, but no one had cash any more so we had to close. I saw the advertisement for the job with those three guys, applied and here I am. Poorer and wiser. What about you?'

'Middle class family, plenty of money, good schools, mother and step father died in car crash when I was fifteen, went to live with my father, then university where I learned nothing practical except to understand the machinations of world finances. And that's it. No trauma, no difficulties, no shortage of money. I feel ashamed when I think of how I've just accepted my luck as if it was my right. I came here to see if I was able to live on my wits without the emotional support of family. Instead, I've been saved by you and that makes me feel even more useless than when I left. I can't help wondering if your life has made you a much more resourceful and better person than me.'

'It's funny how other people's lives sound so interesting, yet to them it has been mostly boring. You're not useless; you also saved _my_ life. What are you going to do now?'

'I want to leave this city. Mostly because I'm sick with worry that somehow someone will work out who did what and come looking for us. Also because I've realised I'm not interested in old British Empire buildings or looking at other people and their way of life as if they're exhibits in a fun fair. I've read a fair bit, Indian authors too, and what seems clear is that all humans are the same, basically, despite slight physical differences. It's only the circumstances in which they find themselves that make us think they're different. All groups have wise men and women who are respected but completely ignored, because for humans enough is never enough.'

'You're young to be so cynical.'

'Perhaps because I've read too much about the history of British colonialism. When I see an old colonial building I picture the wars of invasion and acquisition, the slavery, the cruelty, the millions of deaths and misery of the colonial period.'

'But whether you see them or not, doesn't change the past. You can have no effect.'

'I know, but having read about things like cutting off the hands of thousands of Indian cotton weavers so they couldn't compete with English cotton mills, or the ten million Indians who were starved to death when Churchill took all their food to build up food stockpiles in England in case they needed it during their second war on Germany, I just can't stop feeling sick. Especially as the food wasn't needed so the Indians died for nothing. I know life was not so hot before the British, but that's no excuse. Perhaps the worst effect of colonialism is that when the invaders finally went, they left behind the worst aspects of their own culture, having destroyed the integrity of the conquered people. Indian lives are now poisoned by puritanical and repressive laws and attitudes that have since been rejected by the British who imposed them.'

'You're referring to the decriminalisation of homosexuality?'

'Yeah. I know it's stupid to worry and care about injustice, but I can't help it.'

'Even though it's making you seem a bit crazy?'

Frankie laughed. 'Ah thanks for that, Shiv. I do go on don't I?'

'Yes. So stop thinking and now you're here, enjoy it.'

'I can't. It's too crowded. I love open spaces; places where there are no people and I'm unlikely to meet anyone. Where I can be myself without worrying I'm offending someone's sensibilities. So, as the rest of India will be as crowded, noisy, messy and upsetting as Kolkata, I'll go and visit a friend from high school who lives in Hyderabad, then head off home. What about you? Would you like to go to Australia?'

'I like crowded, noisy, busy, crazy cities and the anonymity they provide, as long as I have no family keeping track of me. Some of our restaurant patrons had family who moved to Australia to escape the restrictions of family. They said if you work hard you can earn a lot of money. They start family restaurants and shops and tend to stick together, form Indian societies, keep the festivals and customs, watch each other, gossip and create a carbon copy of the interfering, hierarchical family structures they thought they were escaping.'

'Which begs the question, if families are so interfering, restrictive and demanding of conformity, why do they persist? Why don't the kids just get up and leave?'

'Because in a land of dog eat dog with no social contract, no safety net for those who don't make it financially, the family is the sole buttress against adversity. It's fear, plain and simple fear of falling by the wayside and rotting along with the millions of grindingly poor people that is the glue that binds families. As for going to Australia, every Indian knows it's a racist country, so as I wouldn't feel comfortable with non Indians, and I don't want to live like the expatriate Indians, I'll stay in this benighted land where I know how to be myself and still feel comfortable. Perhaps start a restaurant, or a catering company, or a house-cleaning business, or... It depends on if I can find a backer.

'How much do you think you'd need?'

Shiv shrugged. 'About a million rupees.'

'Have you a bank account?'

'No. And those three bastards took my identity papers.'

'Can you get new ones?'

'If I go back to Amritsar.'

'If you get a bank account, I will back you.'

Shiv's face split in a grin of disbelief. 'Frankie, Frankie, Frankie, you are such an innocent. You don't know me. You are in lust with my handsome face and imagine I am as handsome inside my head. But I'm not. I'm a just an ordinary poor Indian who doesn't expect to ever have more than enough to eat and a place to sleep. If it's the roadside, that's Ok. If you put a million rupees in my account, I'd probably just blow it all on whores.'

Frankie shrugged. 'Once I give something to someone, it's theirs to do with as they like. If spending it all on pleasure is what you want, then fine.'

'But you'd never get your money back, let alone make a profit.'

'Yeah... well... I am not interested in profit. When I said I'd back you, I meant I want to give you enough to get back on your feet, a bit of money for you to do what you like with, because I like you and think you're worth helping. I know I haven't known you for long, but I believe in first impressions.' Frankie looked hard at Shiv as if calculating his worth. 'If you don't want me to feel good, then refuse my offer, but know that I will be miserable for the rest of my life.'

Shiv laughed silently. 'Frankie, I love you! But perhaps I don't want to have money. Perhaps it'll be more fun to remain fancy free and not get tied down in the business of making money. From what I've seen, money and responsibility are addictive and the addicts become slaves of their desire for just a bit more. It doesn't make them happy.'

'No, but the security it brings can free wise people from the shackles of fear, and allow them to be moderately contented. You won't always be young, strong, handsome and sexy.'

'Are you wise?'

'I'm working on it. What about you? Do you want a lover? Wife? Family?'

'If I was sexually attracted to men, I would want to live with you forever, anywhere, as long as you were there. But as I'm not, we both know that could never work. If we lived here you'd have no other friends to spend time with when I was out with my woman. And if we were in Australia I'd hate it if you spent time with other boyfriends and I'd have no friends to keep me company. We'd last six months and then it'd be over; and instead of loving you like a brother I'd start inventing reasons to hate you. I'm not upset about the last few weeks in the mountains, but it's taught me that I don't want a sexual relationship with a man.'

'I understand that. So, where to from here? A wife or a prostitute?'

'In India nice girls don't fuck before marriage, which is why at eighteen I'm still a virgin. My parents argued viciously. My grandmother made everyone's life a total misery – she was the only happy person in our house. I don't want children, there are too many already, so I can't have a wife because she will demand children and hate me, and the entire extended family will be on my back constantly if I don't give her one. So I don't want a wife. I'll hire prostitutes when I get enough money and use my hand until then.' His grin was enchanting.

'Make sure you always practice safe sex; disease is rampant.'

'Yes. Perhaps a rubber doll would be better, at least she wouldn't argue with me.' Shiv laughed again. 'So... what now for you?'

'I need to see if I still have some money in my account. Wiley had my Debit Card so it's possible he discovered how to use it. Let's settle the bill and ask the owner where to find an Internet Café.'

#  Howrah

The nearest public access internet was in Tottee Lane, according to the restaurateur whose face lit at his patron's praise and generous tip.

'Go that way some blocks,' he said with authority, 'turn right for some more streets, and then ask someone.' His grin was infectious and both Frankie and Shiv laughed with him when he added. 'Lots of lanes, lots of cars. You will find.'

And half an hour later they did indeed discover a narrow lane with a cracked roadway lined by small businesses devoted to the budget tourist. Faded yellowish stucco plastered with notices and advertisements housed a moneychanger. A guest house resided above a barber shop. A fast food eatery squeezed between the backs of buildings on parallel roads. Motorbikes and pedestrians, interacted amicably in the absence of cars. A puddle filled a dip in the roadway. At the end of the street an attractive tree in full leaf hung over the thoroughfare, bestowing charm on an otherwise grotty little service lane.

Festoons of electricity and phone cables, some high voltage, were draped like black snakes along the walls and hung in great loops just above the heads of patrons entering the Cyber Café. Upstairs toiled a designer of "Day garments and Nightwear". Next door was a travel agent. A woman in a narrow, green painted, open shopfront, ironed clothes. An air conditioner poking its bum out of the clothing designer's workshop window above the crumbling cyber café door, piddled on unwary patrons. It appeared that no maintenance had been performed on the exterior of the structure since it was built well over a century earlier.

Inside was clean, fresh and pleasant with cubicles lining the walls, separated from each other by natural wood panels. Up-to-date flat-screen monitors had video cameras mounted, and the keyboards were new and shiny clean. The manager was as charming as everyone else they had spoken to that day. Very impressive, Frankie decided. And very cheap.

About to log in, Frankie suddenly remembered that computers had memories. That the keyboards were wireless and very hackable. That Indians were among the smartest people on the planet. But that didn't mean they were more honest than everyone else, so instead of logging into his bank account he emailed Ingenio, gave him a brief, very expurgated description of his time in the monastery, omitting its demise. After describing his present whereabouts and excellent health, he asked his father to put ten thousand dollars into his debit account, and to please check daily and keep it topped up, because he was spending more time and money than expected in India, going next to Hyderabad, so please email him Sadu's address. Promising to reveal more next time, he clicked 'send'. He beckoned Shiv over and together they made a quick study of Google maps of Kolkata, finding where they were now and how to get to where they wanted to go. After clearing the search history Frankie shut the computer down.

'That was quick,' Shiv grinned.

'Yeah. Just emailed my father to tell him I'm alive in case there's some mention of the monastery exploding in the papers or on the news and he worries.'

'You like your Dad?'

'I love him.'

'I can't imagine loving mine, or any member of my family.' He shook his head in amused despair. 'Guess how stupid I am. I was looking in the paper for news of the monastery, then realised it was only yesterday, and the other thing was only a few hours ago. It feels as if it happened weeks ago. Is it the same for you?'

'More as if it was all a dream. If you told me I'd been hallucinating, I'd believe you. Ok, let's go sight-seeing.'

They continued west until they reached a park with playing fields in the distance and a temple and other buildings that didn't attract, then turned north on a busy road, from which they escaped by turning west as soon as the park ended. At a bank with an automatic teller, Frankie inserted his card and after what seemed a long wait while the machine checked and approved it, was relieved when ten, two-thousand-rupee notes poked out the slot. Shiv pretended indifference. They continued zigzagging north west, arriving at the colonial magnificence of Government House which they duly admired. A bit further along they stopped and stared at another impressive park-like place with ponds and beautiful colonial buildings, after which they wandered along Strand Road, admired the spectacular domed Main Post Office, then went down to the river. Ferries were plying to and from Howrah, which looked pleasantly treed and calm compared to Kolkata. But then this side probably looked pretty good from there.

Further on, dozens of poor people were standing on a pinkish stone Ghat washing themselves and their clothes, backed by the giant Howrah Bridge. A hundred metres further they were walking through a flower market. Beyond that rose steps that led up to the bridge walkway where they joined hundreds of other pedestrians, some carrying huge loads on their heads, or wheeling bicycles with loads on the back. Scores of Indian and foreign tourists with cameras leaned over railings, took selfies, mingled, and, despite everyone seeming to walk in opposite directions, miraculously avoided collisions.

A fragile looking railing was the sole barrier separating and protecting them from a thundering, everlasting stream of rushing, bustling, tooting, roaring cars, busses, trucks and the ubiquitous orangey-yellow taxis that seemed more numerous than people. The air was thick with exhaust fumes. The noise deafening. The walkway deep in litter, and Howrah was much further than it looked from the bank.

On the far side they followed the pedestrian path in a long zigzag south then back under the bridge, after which they crossed Station road to arrive on the banks of the Hooghly which they followed up river till they came to a wide set of steps leading up to a classic, single storeyed, sandstone temple, it's plain façade rendered powerful and dignified by wide square pilasters supporting a flat overhang and a type of battlement along the edge of the roof. The entire structure was shaded by a giant tree in full leaf that softened and made the elegant building seem inviting. Two large square window-like openings and a wide doorway welcomed visitors. Two men were standing on the steps talking quietly.

Inside was colourful. The floor polished to a mirror, the ceiling a complex of colourful circles. Dominating the busy space was a sensual, almost sybaritic rendition of Shiva in the lotus position. A cobra and many beads draped around his neck. A golden horn hung from his left shoulder and his luxuriant long, golden hair hung from a topknot down over his shoulder to his waist. A red belt with golden bells, and a black kilt covered his loins, and a heavy golden band encircled his ankle. It was a disturbing image. The eyes of the sensuous, almost smiling face seemed to be looking directly into Frankie's heart, questioning his intentions and actions, but not judging. Bee-stung lips and a body slightly too well fed created a sexual yet not inviting apparition. Shiva's raised hand, palm outwards, seemed to be telling Frankie to be careful. Nothing is what it seems.

He was relieved when, after briefly muttering something in front of the god, Shiv took him out to where the river flowed, boats plied, and the noise of the city breathed life into him again.

They walked further up river to a park with large trees where they sat to think and talk in the warm air.

'The sign on the path said that building was 'Shiv Mandir'. That's Temple of Shiva, isn't it?' Frankie asked.

'Yes.'

'You're called Shiv. Does this temple have a special meaning for you?'

'You're called Frankie, diminutive of Frank. Would you feel special if you read about the Franks conquering Gaul?'

'Sorry. That was stupid. And if I was called Peter I'd not feel special entering St Peter's in Rome. But I have to say you're much better looking than the Shiv inside.'

Shiv laughed. 'I'm proud to have that name because I reckon basic Hindu philosophy is an excellent guide to living, and Shiva's attitude to life and death suits me. But I'm not interested in all the decorative bits of Hinduism.'

They lapsed into companionable silence.

'What are you going to do, Shiv?' Frankie asked. 'Where are you going from here?'

'Back to Amritsar to get duplicate papers, taking great care not to see any relatives. Then I'll go to Chandigarh and see what's available. Maybe my old boss knows something.'

'You know so much and your English is not only almost accent free, but your vocabulary and usage is better than most Australians. Isn't that odd for a kid from a poor neighbourhood?'

'Very. In my spare time I've always read. Anything I could get my hands on. If there were words I'd read them, bus tickets, road signs, newspapers, menus, magazines and books. People throw newspapers and magazines away, so I'd grab them. There was a library that let me go in and read. I wasn't allowed to take books out, but I didn't want to because outside I had nowhere to sit. At the restaurant I slept in the pantry on a mat. That was my home.'

They sat in silence for some time, thinking about themselves, their lives and how they had no idea really what they wanted or where they were going. It didn't worry them, they had their youth and fitness, but they felt they ought to think about it, so they did.

Frankie sat up, checked no one was watching, then took from his secret pocket the rest of the money from Wiley's cupboard and handed it to Shiv. This is yours. I don't want or need it. You'll need it for the train, clothes, food, accommodation... I've no idea of prices; is it enough for a month until you get a bank account and I can put more in it?'

Face a mask, Shiv counted it. 'There are thirty-thousand rupees. With what you gave me before, that's nearly two thousand Australian dollars.'

'I know. It's not much, that's why I asked if you'll need more.'

'For the way I'm used to living, and intend to continue, it is plenty. Thank you.'

'Don't thank me. Thank Wiley. Now, as we both need to leave this ex capital of the British Indian Empire that I didn't like a few hours ago, but am already starting to appreciate, let's go to the station and check train timetables.'

The East Coast Express left for Hyderabad at a quarter to twelve every night, taking about twenty hours. Trains for Delhi and the west were more frequent.

'I don't want to leave tonight. I want to spend another day with you,' Frankie said softly, hoping he didn't sound mushy.

'I don't want to leave you at all,' Shiv said matter of factly. 'You are the only person I've met I feel able to talk with about any topic and express any opinion without worrying I'm offending you or you'll think I'm stupid'

'I feel very similar. That's why I want to share with you.'

'You're insanely generous.'

'Not at all. My motives are selfish. I just need to know you will be Ok. So... will you keep in touch and let me put some money in your bank account?'

'I will—when I get one.'

'Promise?'

'I promise.'

They decided to stay the night in Howrah, spend the next day together, then Frankie would take the night train and Shiv the next train to his destination.

'I need experience in talking to people, so I'll buy the tickets,' Frankie said firmly, arriving back half an hour later totally bemused. 'Did you know that trains are booked out weeks, sometimes months in advance?'

'Not in second class. That's how I always travel. It's crowded, but if you're strong it's Ok. Couldn't you get any tickets?'

'At first he told me it was booked out, then said he could check for cancellations but it would cost a bit extra. I said Ok, so he luckily found a seat on something called AC Chair.'

'That's comfortable chairs that recline with air conditioning. Better than the wooden seats I always sit in. You're lucky. How much?'

'Exactly twice the advertised price, in cash.'

Shiv laughed. Now he'll be able to buy his wife new earrings.' I hope you didn't spend that much on me?'

'Of course I did, here's your ticket.'

Shiv shook his head and again laughed, realising it was pointless to argue, and not really wanting to.

Howrah Hotel was cheap, not aimed at tourists, and charmingly romantic. Although used and abused for at least a century, it retained an elegance that hinted at its proud beginnings. From the noisy, messy street, the façade boasted a decorated arch between classical pilasters flanked by potted plants, through which appeared a vista of a charming courtyard that Frankie found irresistible. Inside was even more romantic than he'd hoped. A four storeyed courtyard in bright blue with elegant wrought iron columns supporting balconies that surrounded the palm and shrub filled space, replete with fountains, walkways and pleasant seating.

'This building has made me love Kolkata,' Frankie announced. 'It's taught me not to judge things by their exterior. And it's so quiet and peaceful, compared to out in the street.'

Their twin room was clean and neat, the beds comfortable and they talked till both fell asleep, waking late, breakfasting on delicious flat bread and tasty sauces, before setting out together to discover the delights of Howrah.

'Please don't wait on the platform,' Frankie said softly when he found his seat. 'I hate long goodbyes. It's been a great day. We've walked miles and miles, seen so many things and....' He held out a hand. Shiv took it, pulled his friend to him in a hug, then turned and walked proudly down the platform without looking back.

Wondering why he suddenly felt as if he could breathe freely again, Frankie busied himself organising his water bottles and the food he had packed, having heeded Shiv's warning about food sold on the train. 'What a great guy,' he thought, 'but... we're so different. We'd argue forever if we lived together. Anyway, that'd be impossible in this crazy country, and he wouldn't want to. And perhaps I wouldn't either. I hope he does contact me, but I've a feeling he's far too proud to accept a helping hand.'

# Jürgen

The journey took nineteen hours, the last twelve of which would be in daylight. The carriage was crowded and his seat was on the wrong side to see occasional glimpses of sea. The land was mostly flat and dotted with villages, towns and cities. Few countries and towns look good from trains, and this was no exception.

On leaving an almost clean and not too odorous toilet Frankie noticed a young man sitting on his tattered rucksack in the space between carriages. They chatted. His name was Jürgen, he was twenty-four, German, from Darmstadt, on an extended holiday with no itinerary or destination in mind. Frankie offered to pay for a seat, if there was one, but Jürgen muttered that it wouldn't be an adventure if he was comfortable, which Frankie thought interesting, if a bit silly. He was clean, lean to the point of emaciation, deeply tanned, with a sharp nose, prominent Adams apple, pale grey-green eyes that seemed reluctant to stay focussed on anything, and a scraggy beard. His teeth were good but more old ivory than white, and his dark brown hair was cut very short, apparently by himself with blunt scissors. A niggling concern for the strange fellow saw Frankie offering to meet him outside the main door of the station in Hyderabad. In a pleasantly accented voice devoid of enthusiasm Jürgen reluctantly agreed.

The journey became tiresome. Too many people walking up and down, gathering in chattering groups, opening odd smelling food parcels and treating the carriage like a picnic ground. Some were friendly and offered to share their food, but Frankie wasn't in the mood, so smiled bravely and pointed to his belly, receiving nods of commiseration.

He kept wondering what he would do after seeing Sadu. He didn't want to go home. He wasn't ready for that. The last weeks had sucked him out of the world he considered normal, into alien spaces that were normal to many more millions of people than inhabited his world.

He thought about Kolkata and wondered if he should have stayed longer. The swarming metropolis made him think of a wide, shallow-domed ant nest behind the garage back at "85". Inside, a warren of tiny tunnels, and if the outside was tapped the dome would instantly swarm with millions of tiny creatures pouring out of several entrances, ready to defend. Despite being blind, they managed never to crash into other inhabitants of their city. All were busy, all were physically individual, and all were inextricably constrained by a social web similar to that which humans call civilization.

Ok, so he didn't want to go home, but nor did he want to be a tourist gawking at the giant forts and monuments to oppression, power and wealth of both Indians and British. That would be depressing. He wanted to be an invisible ant scurrying around, discovering what it would be like to be one of the local ants. And then he felt stupid. How could he ever understand what life for the vast majority of Indians would be like? His relative wealth was the least of the differences between them.

The journey took an hour longer than expected and dusk was falling as he descended at Nampally Railway station feeling slightly woozy and stiff. After Howrah Railway station, the first impression was of an unnatural cleanliness and order, despite the crowds of travellers. Ignoring his obvious lack of luggage, several men and boys approached offering to carry whatever he had and take him to a good hotel, or show him the sights of the city. Very beautiful. Very historical, Big forts and lakes. He nodded thanks and dismissal, intent on securing train tickets for the rest of his stay.

During so many hours of thinking he had decided there were three things he wanted to see in India; Adam's Bridge because Arthur C Clarke had mentioned it in one of his novels; Kanyakumari because in an encyclopaedia as a child he'd seen a photograph of a huge statue of a philosopher marking the southernmost tip of the sub continent. And Kerala because in a school geography textbook had been a photograph of a tropical waterway lined with magnificent palms, with an exquisitely handsome, slim, dark young man in a brief lungi, poling a canoe through the placid water.

After studying railway maps on the wall, he was served by a bribable clerk who, for only twice the regular price, sold him open tickets in AC Chair trains from Hyderabad to Chennai, where he'd stay two nights, then similar tickets to Rameswaram Via Madurai, then two nights later to Kanyakumari, again via Madurai.

On exiting he turned back to look and was delighted to see the station building was perfectly maintained; neatly painted cream with reddish brown trim, the car park empty of litter, the crowds not overcrowding, and, to his surprise as he'd been nearly an hour buying tickets, Jürgen leaning against a wall, looking twitchy. It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun had set and hunger led them across the car park and along a road to a T-junction with a busy road. On the opposite side was a building that would have accommodated wealthy British travellers in colonial times. Pinkish sandstone, two storeyed with covered verandahs on both floors supported on strong stone columns. Balustrades of sandstone filigree and an impressively sculptural stone roofline completed an image of past splendour. Hotel Royal Grand was the name of this salubrious establishment.

Frankie dragged Jürgen to a vegetarian restaurant on the ground floor that smelled wonderful, but Jürgen said he had to go.

'Where?'

He shrugged. 'I'll find someone selling flat bread.'

'And where will you sleep?'

Another shrug. 'Doss house. On the street. Doesn't matter.'

'You could get mugged, robbed...'

'I've nothing to steal.' His eyes wandered, he nodded and turned away.

Frankie took hold of his shoulder. 'You're skin and bone. I insist you eat a meal with me as my guest. Come on!' He pulled an unresisting Jürgen into the restaurant, and after both ate themselves full, invited him to be his guest in a room in the Hotel Royal Grand, which, according to a notice beside a wide doorway further along the building, was upstairs where rooms cost a mere four hundred rupees. Jürgen shrugged and nodded.

As Frankie had discovered was so often the case in this miraculous country, the somewhat decayed exterior gave no indication of the interior, which was clean, polished, neat, and comfortable. Their twin room was at the rear where it was quieter. They showered in the spotless communal bathroom, slid between clean sheets, and discovered they were too wound up to sleep.

'I have to pay you for the meal and room.'

'No. You are my guest.'

'I insist. All I have is my body, so it's yours for the night.'

'Is that how you've been living?'

'Yes.'

'For how long?'

'I forget. I don't keep track of time. A long time.'

'Do you take drugs?'

'No unnatural poisons enter my body.'

'Unless one of your customers has a venereal disease.'

'Diseases are natural.'

'You want to die?'

'I do not want life.'

'Then get off the bus.'

'I don't understand. My English is not perfect.'

'Top yourself. Jump off a tall building. Tie a rope around your neck and hang by it from a bridge. Why come here to play this game? Why not clog up the doss houses and pavements of Germany? Don't you think this country has enough problems without you adding to them?'

'In Germany I would be taken to a crazy house and force-fed and kept alive forever. They do not respect the individual's right to choose for himself how to live.'

'So you've come here where no one cares if you live or die?'

'Yes.'

'And you're living in the crazy house of your own mind, keeping yourself alive forever. You might as well go home.'

'I despise my country.'

'You mean the people?'

'Yes.'

'Every person in Germany?'

'No!'

'I thought I was tired, but now I'm totally awake. Come on, let's go and see Hyderabad by night.'

'Why?'

'Because I'll thump you if you don't, that's why!'

They wandered for hours, avoiding busy thoroughfares and unlighted lanes, along narrow streets lined with two and three storey buildings, most with some sort of business at street level and offices or apartments above. Most food places were open and, although the streets were not as crowded as Kolkata, it was very busy. Everyone seemed to have an aim, a plan, something that pushed them on. The smells were alternately sweet and sour, rancid and savoury, interspersed with traffic fumes and always the noise of cars, motorbikes, air conditioners, people. Frankie felt as if they were the only ones wandering aimlessly. It was late when they returned, but the restaurant was still busy, and they flopped into bed with relief, falling asleep in seconds.

Breakfast was crispy flat bread, savoury balls and chilli sauce washed down with strong tea. Afterwards, they sat in the rear courtyard in silence.

'So,' Jürgen broke the silence. 'You think I should kill myself?'

'I think you should stop this pathetic wandering around like death warmed up, and decide once and for all whether you want to live or die. If you want to live, then bloody well start living, if you want to die, then decide when and how.'

'What do you mean?'

'If you decide to die, you might choose to hang yourself tomorrow, or in forty years time... that sort of thing. What you're lacking is a plan.'

'You're right, I suppose. I've been like this for so long I... But wouldn't it be weak to decide I want to go on living... for a while?'

'The opposite! Living's a bugger most of the time. Being dead is one long, delicious, dreamless sleep. It beats me why so many people are afraid to die.'

'That's religion. They're frightened they won't go to heaven or will come back as a slimy toad.'

'They're the ones who ought to be in the crazy house, not someone who looks critically at human activity and says they don't want to be a part of it.'

'You mean I'm not mad?'

'Far from it!'

'Do you feel like that?'

'Totally. But as the only certainty in my life is that I will die one day, I may as well hang around and see what happens; at least until it gets seriously intolerable.'

Jürgen grunted. 'I came here to die... and _was_ nearly dead, I'm sure of it. I hadn't eaten for three days. It wouldn't have been much longer. Then you came along and now I'll have to start all over again. It's annoying and embarrassing.'

'But you were still drinking water?'

'Yes.'

'Then you had several weeks to go. That would be seriously embarrassing, especially if some benighted German Christian charity woman came along and whisked you off to her shelter. But don't worry, I promise to tell no one. Meanwhile, let's hire those little electric motorbikes the young guys are riding, and go see the sights.'

'You know I've no money.'

'But I have, so here's the deal. You know this country better than me, so I'll hire you as personal assistant for three thousand rupees a day, out of which you will have to pay all your own expenses. I don't want you cadging off me all the time.'

'Are you serious?'

'Unfortunately, yes. That makes two of us in need of a crazy house.'

It was a perfect day. The bike-hire man sold them crash helmets and a map on which he drew neat red lines along all the easiest roads for novice riders to all the monumental places he thought they should visit. But warned them not to try to see everything in one day. If they hired the bikes for a week there was a discount!

It was a bargain and excellent advice. Relaxed, they could enjoy themselves, take their time, eat takeaways on the shores of Lake Durgam, spend a whole afternoon in KBR National Park, Drive past the new luxury residential tower blocks beside a lake, explore Golconda Fort. So many places to visit. So many interesting streets and lakes and people who, unlike the two Western dropouts, knew who they were, what they wanted and where they were going. On the surface at least, the inhabitants of Hyderabad appeared more cultivated, more intelligent and more sensible than the young men's own countrymen, so many of whom succumb to depression and other mental diseases and need professional counselling if the electricity goes off for half an hour, or their cake doesn't rise.

Frankie found an Internet café, checked his emails and chuckled over a message from home in which, along with Sadu's address, Ingenio, Constantine, Karmai and Sylvan had all added something. He wasn't ready to return yet, but suddenly he discovered he wanted to - eventually, which was not the way he had felt only one day ago. Was he really such a flibbertigibbet?

Sadu lived on the fifth floor of a large apartment complex on a hill about ten kilometres from the centre of town, if you could call any part the centre. Like most giant metropolises, the city seemed to be a collection of towns and villages, and in reality remained that for most inhabitants.

Not wanting to arrive unannounced, Frankie telephoned first from a public phone in a nearby grocery store. A female answered.

'Yes?'

'Hello, I'm a friend of Sadu from Australia, my name is...'

'Frankie Fey.' The tone was not pleasant.

'How do you know?'

'I was in the same class as you in Melbourne. I recognised your voice. Sadu and I are married now. Why are you ringing?'

'To find out when it would be convenient to visit him.'

'Why do you want to?'

'To see how he is. We were best friends. I was in the play he directed.'

'As if I could forget that bit of pornography!'

'It was not! It was...'

'My husband is busy.'

'You're jealous! What an insult to Sadu!'

'Hold the line.'

Voices argued, a door slammed then a breathless... 'Frankie!' The enthusiasm sounded fake. 'Where are you?'

'Not far from your apartment.'

'I'm married, with two children.'

'Congratulations.'

'My wife is...'

'Your wife is jealous, suspicious and doesn't want you to have contacts from your past. I understand. Are you well?'

'Yes. But I've gained weight. You would never approve.'

'Have you remained active in theatre?'

'My father in law has a thriving grocery business and I am his manager, so I haven't had time for wasteful things.'

'I understand. Well, it's been nice talking to you....' Frankie waited.

'Frankie,' Sadu's voice was a mere whisper. 'I'm so sorry. It's just that the other students guessed about us and...'

'And told your wife after you were married, and you can't risk it being brought up again. I understand, I really do, and will keep the memory of you in Melbourne intact. Take care.'

'You too.'

Was that the slightest whisper of a kiss, Frankie wondered before sighing with relief that he would never be saddled with a jealous spouse or demanding kids. That was followed by a sigh of sadness that custom and culture had made a menial slave of such a brilliant man.

After a light meal at a pleasant outdoor restaurant beside a park that evening, he recounted the story to Jürgen, who nodded in sympathy for Sadu.

'It's a relief to know I'm not the only crazy person who's going to spend his life doing what he doesn't want to.'

'It's not the same because _your_ salvation is entirely up to you. If you had shackled yourself to a dependent and traditional family as he has, you would never be able to free yourself.'

'Do you know anyone who is totally sane?'

'My father and his partner. At least to me they're a hundred percent sane.'

'Partner... as in...?'

'Boyfriend.'

'And you?'

'I have no boyfriend—yet. And you?'

'Open to offers, although I guess it's time to give up, having waited and searched for years.'

'Perhaps that's the problem.'

'What?'

'Waiting and searching. So many proverbs are wrong, All things do not come to those who stand and wait, and if you seek you will not find.'

'Why not?'

'Because none of us know what to look for or where to look! If you don't know yourself, how can you know what will be good for you?'

'What's the answer then?'

'The answer, my scrawny friend, is to do what pleases you while remaining alert, open, ready to grab hold of whatever opportunities arise that interest you. One of the best proverbs is, "He who hesitates is lost", because opportunity seldom makes a return visit.'

'Am I really your friend?'

'To my utter amazement, I have to answer yes. Not yet a bosom friend, but a likeable man whose company I enjoy – despite your miserable mug. What about me, am I your friend?'

'No. You're my saviour. I'm not worthy yet, oh sage, to call you my friend, but given time... I hope to earn that honour.'

'I deserved that. I know I'm a pompous pontificating prick, having been told it so many times throughout my life.'

Jürgen laughed. It was short, sharp and discordant, but genuine, and he seemed genuinely surprised at having uttered the sound.

Later, after a shower, lying on top of their respective beds in the old-world atmosphere of the Royal Grand, Jürgen asked diffidently, 'Am I too scrawny?'

'Too scrawny for what?'

'To attract your kisses and caresses.'

'No, but I've just said goodbye to such a friend in Kolkata,' Frankie lied. 'So I'm not ready for another amorous relationship.' Even to himself it sounded false, but better than an outright, No, you're far too crazy for me.

'I'm totally clean, you know!'

'I noticed that in the shower. How did you manage it?'

'I washed at every opportunity, of which there are many if you start looking, because so many people are dependent on public water supply.' He sat up, leaned forward and stared intently at Frankie. 'I ran out of money two weeks ago in Delhi. Someone told me about a street where young men sold themselves, and as I can pass for an Indian in the dark with the light behind me, I went there, was taken by a well padded man in a well appointed car to a quiet street where he parked and I performed fellatio. He smelled clean, but I didn't swallow. Then he drove me back and gave me a thousand rupee note.'

'Which you tried to spend, and discovered it was useless.'

Speaking rapidly as if afraid he'd be stopped before he finished, he blurted, 'Yes. Then I let another man suck me off for a handful of smaller notes. About two Euros. After that I begged and felt awful because it was my choice to be there, so I was stealing money from the poor kids who had no choice. Then fellatio on about a dozen men let me live for a couple of weeks, then I stowed away on the train where I met you. Somehow the ticket collector kept not seeing me.'

'Not a glorious tale.' Frankie frowned as if he was thinking deeply. 'You're lucky you didn't catch any diseases. Ok, time to sleep. We'll talk more in the morning.'

With a sniff that Frankie couldn't decipher, Jürgen turned over and fell conspicuously asleep.

Frankie worried he'd been too brutal. But what else could he have done? He didn't mind helping the guy, but he certainly didn't love him and had no intention of being his brother's keeper or lover out of compassion. He sighed and fell asleep hoping it wasn't all going to end in nastiness.

The following morning, perched atop the battlements of an ancient fort, gazing across the old town towards a vast arrangement of towering high-rise apartment blocks bristling against the clear blue sky, Jürgen suddenly said, 'What if I get another bout of depression? What if I suddenly take off again and mope around till I die?'

'Is that a question or a crie de coeur?'

'What would you do?'

'Go home and carry on living? What did you think I'd do?'

'You wouldn't try to save me again?'

'I can't do it again, because I didn't do it the first time. You did it to yourself by waiting at the station for me, so stop playing the hysterical melancholic and be honest. Were you enjoying yourself in India before you met me?'

'No.'

'Then why did you not just go home?'

Silence.

'Were you genuinely depressed in Darmstadt, or merely unhappy with your situation, feeling uneasy about being attracted to men, escaping a clinging girlfriend, trying to make yourself interesting by publicly quitting this life and telling everyone you were going away to die?'

Silence.

Frankie's laugh was triumphal. 'You were! I'm right! You hoped they'd say, Oh poor Jürgen, he is such a poetic, suffering soul. And when you said you were leaving forever because life had no meaning, you hoped desperately they'd say. No! Please don't go! Stay! We love you! But they didn't. They put some money together to help you go. So you went. But when you realised it was better at home than scrounging your way across this poverty-stricken, overcrowded land, living in squalor and misery, you couldn't return and lose face. You thought it really would be better to die than go back and face the sneers and jeers.'

Jürgen sprang to his feet, face red with anger. 'Shiser! Schwule!' he shouted, scrambling down the wall and disappearing around the corner of the fortress.

'He had to be told the truth,' Frankie sighed as he lay back on the grass and closed his eyes. 'As the Tarot so wisely tells us, face the devil within and then you can face the world without fear.' He dozed.

A shadow falling across his face woke him. He looked up at a large rock hanging a metre above his head. Reflexes literally threw him to the side where he gazed in horror at the heavy rock that had embedded itself in the grass exactly where his head had been.

Jürgen was standing, frozen, staring down. He turned saucer eyes to Frankie.

'I didn't want to. But you were so cruel! So cruel! Like everyone else you were laughing at me! Laughing at me.' He sank to the ground, hands over his face, weeping, still whispering, 'Laughing at me, laughing at me, laughing at me.'

When his heartbeat slowed, Frankie knelt beside Jürgen, put his arms around him and rocked him softly.

'It's Ok, Jürgen. Nothing happened. I understand. It's all been too much.'

Jürgen turned his head and stared at Frankie. 'But I nearly killed you! The first person who has been nice to me, and honest. You were right... That's what it was like. I...'

'Good man! That was brave to admit it. It means you're not crazy, just overwrought. Are you prepared to do one more brave thing?'

'Yes.'

'Aren't you going to ask what it is?'

'No. Whatever you suggest, I will do. I promise.'

'Good man. And I promise that you will soon be better.'

Seven hours later, Frankie watched an aeroplane take off on a direct flight to Frankfurt. Telephone calls to Darmstadt ensured Jürgen would be met and not reprimanded or laughed at or made to feel stupid. Frankie had been adamant about that. He would not put their son on the plane if he thought he was going home to the same sly taunts that had driven him away. That really got up the parents' noses, but they promised, and Frankie heaved a huge sigh. Other people's problems took a serious toll on energy. But! He grinned. He was free again and filled with the urge to move on. He'd get a good night's sleep then catch the morning train to Chennai.

# Nayaka

Add the train to rameswaram

The night had been cool and there was still an hour before sunrise. Frankie could only imagine how cold it must be now up at the monastery. The destroyed monastery. He couldn't feel sorry. Such places may have been, or still were for that matter, retreats from the unpleasantness of the world, but they were also mind-bending institutions in which for centuries reclusive men have preached about how those outside their walls should live. But the effect of all those words, all that self-denial, chanting, meditating, contorting and self-flagellation has been zero. Not one single thing about human nature or behaviour has been altered. So what was the point? None, as far as Frankie could see. If individuals were too stupid to see for themselves what makes their life worthwhile or unhappy, then let them put up with what they get.

Twenty minutes before the train to Chennai was due to leave, the platform was already filled, mainly with excitable Indians going on holiday - if the amount of their luggage was anything to go by. Groups of foreigners were also milling, chattering loudly in both American and Australian English, especially the girls who apparently needed to know the personal details of every other foreign national on the train. Their boyfriends only whispered together. To avoid being approached he decided to buy a Hindu newspaper that he'd pretend to read if they came close.

While pushing through the press of bodies around the newspaper seller, he felt a short sharp tug on the satchel he'd draped over his shoulder, instead of wearing it diagonally across his chest. He spun around but no one nearby seemed to have noticed anything. The thief had disappeared into the throng so he shrugged, bought his newspaper and boarded the train, feeling stupid and careless but not concerned as there was nothing of value in it. Even if he split his trousers his shirt was long enough to hang over his bum. And the clothes bought in Kolkata only a few days before didn't seem so suitable now. All the young people his age here were in longish shorts, T-shirts and sandals. And as he was heading south to the warmth, he imagined there'd be an even more casual approach to clothing.

Once the train had left the city behind, the view was mainly rural. He'd read that more than half of India's population lived in poverty, much of it dire, and the glimpses of towns and villages from the speeding train suggested they did. Building maintenance seemed long overdue and litter was everywhere. As they descended from the hills to the coast it became noticeably warmer. The coastal plain was an endless succession of tiny villages, larger towns, fields of crops, smallholdings, groves of bananas, and seemed to go on forever. He was sorry they were too far from the coast to see the sea, but, from the few glimpses he had of busy roads, was glad he wasn't driving a car.

During a half hour stop in Ongole, six hours after leaving Hyderabad, Frankie took a fast jog into the town, not surprised to see streets jammed with cars and motorbikes, no obvious footpaths, spider webs of electricity wires, and three to four storey concrete or brick, square, flat roofed shops almost hidden behind large advertising signs. An attractive white temple was beautifully maintained, but spoiled by a ramshackle lean-to stall set up against one front wall. Litter was everywhere and on the other side of the street a line of tin roofed shanties sold food. But then he looked over a wall and saw a beautiful garden, elegant houses, and then other streets that were neat and clean, lined with trees and positively charming. India was not to be pigeonholed.

After another eight hours in the train he was hungry and desperate to stretch his muscles. The sun was setting as the train pulled in to Chennai Station, a beautifully maintained, bright red, symmetrical three storeyed building with square towers at each end, a tall, square clock tower in the centre and white stone mouldings around the arched windows. It wouldn't have looked out of place in Venice.

Floodlights were being turned on, transforming an ordinary parking area and bus stop into a charmingly exotic, warm space, enhanced by women in colourful saris. Frankie stood in the parking area watching the crowds, trying to decide which direction might lead to a non-touristic hotel. A slight pluck at his shirt sleeve was accompanied by a deep voice speaking what he assumed would be Tamil. He turned to see a dark, shirtless young man in a white lungi and leather sandals. Frankie scanned the fit smooth body, lean face, quick eyes, black hair and perfect teeth exposed in a shy smile, and took a deep breath. 'I apologise. I do not speak your language.'

The young man placed both hands together, bowed, and in charmingly accented English said, 'My apologies, sir. My name is Nayaka, and I am asking if you are seeking the Goodnight Hotel.'

'Why did you think I might be looking for it?'

'I see an Indian gentleman travelling alone without luggage. I am accustomed to meet such men who are seeking our hotel.'

Frankie smiled. 'You didn't think I was a foreign tourist?'

'Oh no, sir. You are too polite and well dressed. Foreign tourists travel in groups, make a lot of noise, and are not beautiful to look at.'

'My name is Frankie.' He held out his hand, which Nayaka shook.

'I am delighted to make your acquaintance Mr. Frankie.'

'Just Frankie will do. Is your hotel one of those modern ones for tourists?'

'It is certainly not modern!' He replied with such engaging seriousness that Frankie wanted to kiss him. 'And it is certainly not for tourists. It is a simple Tamil guest house for single men.'

'No women?'

'No, sir.'

'Then I would definitely like to stay there!'

The young man looked doubtful. 'Are you certain, sir? There is no television, telephone, air-conditioning, room service, lifts, bar or restaurant.' He shook his head and frowned, then looked up and smiled, causing Frankie's heart to pump. 'But we do provide breakfast.'

'Do you live there?'

'Of course. It has been in my family for many generations.'

'Then I definitely want to stay there.'

A slight bow. 'Then please to follow me, Frankie.'

Even with directions it would have been impossible to find. After traversing three streets lined with two and three-storeyed shops and offices plastered with garish signs advertising everything from Sanitary Ware to Auto Enterprises, some of them topped by giant hoardings on roofs, they turned down an almost invisible, unlighted cul-de sac that ended in a gate that opened into a courtyard containing a vegetable garden and a two-storey stone building in need of new stucco and a lick of paint. Double doors opened into a pleasant lobby smelling of polish and spice and containing four rattan chairs and a low table. A surly, well-dressed man sat reading a newspaper. A lean, dark, dashingly moustached man of indeterminate age wearing an identical lungi to Nayaka, entered and handed the man a cup of coffee. He turned, saw Frankie, placed his hands together and bowed.

'Father, this Frankie. He wants to stay here.'

The man nodded an excuse to Frankie, pulled his son over to the reception desk and spoke rapidly in Tamil. After a brief exchange of opinions, at times heated, he smiled, beckoned Frankie over, and in a voice remarkably similar to his son's said, 'Welcome, Frankie. Nayaka has convinced me you will not find fault with our establishment. The charge is two thousand rupees per night, and that includes breakfast. How long will you stay?'

'May I see the room?'

'Certainly, sir, but if I may ask, where is your luggage?'

'Stolen at the station in Hyderabad.'

'I am not surprised, Hyderabad is uncivilized and full of thieves.'

Nayaka led Frankie upstairs to a small clean room with polished wooden floors, a thick colourful square carpet, an easy chair and windows looking over the vegetable patch. The sheets were crisp and clean, and the double bed very firm. The bathroom was just down the corridor. Frankie was delighted, returned to pay for two nights and asked directions to a non-tourist restaurant.

The coffee-drinking man stood, nodded to the room and silently left the hotel.

The father took Frankie's money, then paused with a calculating look in his eye. 'You find Nayaka handsome, I think.'

Frankie wondered nervously what the father was getting at, having imagined his covert glances at the young man had gone unnoticed. He knew homosexuality was a crime, but surely lustful looking wasn't? He decided to be honest. 'Yes. He is very handsome. And so is his father,' he added with a cheeky grin.

The father preened and bowed, then proudly informed Frankie that his son was an excellent masseur, so would Frankie care to employ him.

'How much?'

'One thousand rupees for the excellent number one massage; two thousand for the even more excellent number two stress relieving service,' he said as lightly as if giving the price of a haircut. 'You will be one hundred percent satisfied and sleep like a baby,' he added with ludicrous seriousness.

When Frankie hesitated, wondering if the offer was what he thought it was, the father added, 'Without extra charge, Nayaka will show you to an excellent restaurant and shops so you can replace what was stolen.'

Frankie looked at Nayaka whose smile sent blood pounding and almost prevented Frankie from breathing. He who hesitates is lost, he reminded himself before whispering, 'Thank you. I accept your very generous offer, and I invite your son to eat with me at the restaurant.'

The father nodded calm satisfaction while placing the money carefully in a drawer.

When Frankie turned to go, Nayaka had disappeared, only to reappear seconds later, this time in white trousers and a long jacket, feet in neater leather sandals. He looked positively regal.

'Why did you change clothes?' Frankie asked. 'You looked spectacular in the lungi, as does your father.'

'They are for working. Now I am not working so I want to look like a gentleman.'

A ten minute walk took them to an outdoor restaurant that satisfied many of Frankie's fantasies about India. Women in colourful saris, waiters in traditional garb, polished brass and glassware, garlands of fairy lights strung between the trees and someone playing a sitar. Nayaka ordered and Frankie sat entranced as a fresh green banana leaf was placed on the table between them as a receptacle for mounds of rice, small bowls of spicy lentil stew, coconut paste, dry fried vegetables, cucumber and onion salad and several more or less hot sauces. This was followed by tea with small round sweet cakes.

He had never had much interest in food, and would have been just as happy with bread, a boiled egg and cheese, but the face opposite made it a meal to remember. And compared to Australian prices it was insanely cheap. He left a generous tip to the attentive waiter, which delighted Nayaka.

Not far from the restaurant they found a market where Frankie bought a lightweight, slightly scuffed leather satchel that could be slung over a shoulder or worn like a backpack, and filled it with a packet of disposable razors, a toothbrush, a couple of cheap, white cotton bikini briefs, and the same type of knee-length shorts and shirt that local youths were wearing.

'You will look like a poor Indian,' Nayaka laughed.

'That's my intention, so thieves won't target me.'

Both young men were silent on the way back to the hotel; Frankie wondering if he was making a huge mistake, and Nayaka contented at having enjoyed a free feed and at last having a young customer.

Two very dark, tough-looking men in beards, jeans, work boots and T-shirts were sitting chatting in the lobby drinking coffee when they returned. They looked up, greeted Nayaka as if he was their best friend, chatted briefly, then returned to their seats as Nayaka led Frankie through a door behind the desk to a small lounge where his father was sitting in what Frankie imagined to be a yoga position. With no apparent effort he rose to his feet, adjusted his lungi, asked how their meal and shopping went, nodded his pleasure and took from a bureau a small bottle of oil that he handed to his son, and two foil-packed condoms, which he gave to Frankie. 'Make sure you use them,' he said seriously. 'My son is clean, but we don't know about you.'

'Very wise,' was all Frankie could manage, unable to credit what was happening.

Nayaka disappeared through a doorway and Frankie returned to the lobby where the father was greeting the two men warmly before leading them upstairs.

Almost immediately, Nayaka reappeared in his 'working' clothes and also led Frankie upstairs where they showered before retiring to the bedroom. After towelling each other dry, Frankie lay on his stomach while Nayaka gave his muscles an excellent going over, leaving no square millimetre unmolested before flipping him over and starting on the toes. Each leg was massaged to glowing health, with special attention to inside thighs, scrotum and penis, which was ready to burst before it was finally permitted to rest, while belly, chest, arms, neck and temples were relieved of all tension.

Then, straddling his client's thighs, Nayaka opened a foil packet, professionally rolled a condom on his client, slid forward and lowered himself onto Frankie's ready-to-explode member. Expert sphincter contractions, however, prevented early release and it was some minutes before the young masseur was bucked and bounced and almost tossed from the bed during his client's orgasmic frenzy.

Nayaka held the condom up to the light and laughed. 'This is nearly full!'

It wasn't, but there was a substantial amount and it hadn't leaked, which Frankie realised was the real purpose of holding it up.

They lay side by side on the bed in silence, Frankie's right arm under Nayaka's neck, his left hand stroking his thigh.

'Do you want me to leave now?' Nayaka asked sleepily, or shall I stay and we can do it again later?'

'I'd like you to stay all night.'

Nayaka smiled in relief. He had wanted to impress the handsome young foreigner, and clearly had succeeded.

'How old are you?' Frankie asked.

'Nineteen.'

'How long have you been... massaging clients?'

'Since I was fourteen. I didn't massage then, I wasn't strong enough. Just sex.'

'That's young! Didn't it hurt being fucked by strange men?'

'No, because my father taught me how to relax all the muscles down there, and move and manipulate myself and the client so it didn't hurt.'

'How did he teach you?'

'By massaging me and doing what the clients would be doing, but very carefully, so I wasn't damaged.'

'Your father fucked you?'

'Of course! How else could he teach me? It is a father's job to teach his son his trade. He is the best masseur in this business. He took over from my grandfather. The Goodnight Hotel is very well known for this service, that's why I thought you were looking for us at the station. Didn't your father teach you something useful?'

'Yes. Yes he did. And you are right. What does your mother think?'

'She is very happy with the money we earn.'

'Does your father still have sex with clients?

'Of course, he is very popular. It is our job.'

'So that man drinking coffee when we arrived was...'

'He had just been satisfied.'

'And those two waiting when we returned?'

Nayaka laughed. 'They always come together once a month. They like to watch each other. Usually I service them but as a special favour to me my father took my place tonight so I could be with you.'

'Your father is a very nice man and this is a very civilized establishment.'

'You are right.'

'But isn't it illegal to have homosexual sex in India?'

Nayaka sat up in shock and turned to Frankie. Clearly very agitated. 'We are not homosexuals!' his voice held an edge of panic. 'All our clients are married men. Real men like you, whose wives are not sexy with them any more. We are not acting like females and wanting to dress like them or be like girls! We are normal men. You are not homosexual, so why did you say we were?'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' Frankie pressed the distraught young man back onto the bed and stroked him gently. 'I was confused. You are correct, you and your father are real men and you are very, very good at your important work.'

Nayaka relaxed and smiled nervously. 'Thank you. Yes, it is important work. My father says we stop men from killing themselves. But you are the nicest client I have had.'

'And you are the nicest and best masseur I've had.'

They smiled, fell quiet, then drifted asleep, not waking until daylight turned the pale cream walls to gold. They had just removed the second condom after a muscle-stretching, arousing and exciting exploration of positions Frankie had no idea could be adopted while part of him was embedded in another man, when the father came in with breakfast on a tray.

They ate the spicy, batter-encrusted rice balls with chutney and coconut cakes while sitting side by side in bed, then showered, dressed and enjoyed a cup of coffee in the entrance lobby.

Unfortunately for Frankie, but fortunately for Nayaka, the young masseur had several clients that day, and also that night, so Frankie followed directions to the main shopping and business district, bought a map and guidebook, found a park, and read up on what to see and where to go so he wouldn't waste time getting lost.

Having never heard of Chennai he was astonished to learn that its metropolitan area is the fourth largest in India with a population of nearly ten million, most of whom are Tamils, with a population density of nearly thirty thousand per square kilometre. No wonder it seemed so crowded. The city stretches over a hundred kilometres north and south along the coast and fifty kilometres inland. It is a wealthy industrial city with a thriving automotive industry and some shipping. Temples from seven major religions are sprinkled across the city, which boasts the fourth highest population of slum dwellers in India—twenty percent of the population. The British called it Fort St George, then Madras, and then the Indians reverted to the ancient name of Chennai, derived from a small town called Chennapattanam. Frankie's most pleasing discovery was that about four hundred years ago, Nayaka was a Telugu King.

He planned his route carefully, marvelled at the Mahamaham Tank attached to an exquisite temple with dozens of people cleansing themselves on the steps, then wandered through leafy districts of businesses and apartments, past shopping centres, old and new buildings side by side, and in a small square a Christian church competing with Hindu and Jain temples. He crossed a white bridge that spanned a tidal river with underfed people washing themselves and their clothes on the banks beneath. A park with a waterfall tumbling over smooth rocks cooled the surrounding air. More business streets, this time not so neat - four and five story apartment buildings with flat roofs, mostly in shades of tan and brown.

Every street was crowded and bustling with cars, vans, busses, and thousands of helmetless riders on motorbikes zipping between other traffic and parking in great swathes along the edge of the roads. But vastly outnumbering all other forms of traffic were the pedestrians. More men than women were out and about, most dressed casually in long shorts or trousers, with shirts or T-shirts hanging out, feet in sandals. Colourful saris everywhere. Large tropical shade trees hung over roads from small parks. Wherever he looked he saw the ubiquitous kiosks, street vendors and giant colourful advertising hoardings.

Often there was no obvious demarcation between roadway and footpath, so walking was at times a precarious business, especially with signs stuck in the middle of what should have been a path, or hung precariously from poles, draped from buildings, waving like banners, obscuring traffic signs that had been placed so discreetly they appeared to be apologising for their presence; perhaps because no one seemed to be paying them any attention. And over everything was draped a loose lacework of electricity wires from poles that were usually vertical.

Frankie rested his feet, drank tea and ate a delicious sweet cake at a kiosk tucked into the edge of a shaded park just off a busy street. It was hot so it was a relief to arrive at the Marina Swimming Pool. A vast body of almost clear water filled with men and boys, most in board shorts, most overweight, most with perfect skins in varying shades of brown, most with straight black hair charming smiles and perfect teeth. Not a female in sight. The water wasn't deep and no one was swimming but all were playing, jumping in, splashing and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Frankie didn't want to wet his shorts, so cooled his head in the showers where the only slim man in the place was cleaning the floor.

Not far from the swimming pool was a very wide, slightly sloping, brown sandy beach occupied by clumps of men and their girlfriends or wives, looking like participants in an office picnic, taking photos of themselves, standing and looking at others, mostly dressed in western style jeans, shorts, shirts and sunglasses. All were carefully avoiding the small wavelets of the sea, which looked marginally cleaner than the pool. They seemed friendly and pleased when Frankie asked about fishing, tides and climate. But everyone he spoke to was a tourist and knew almost nothing about the city. Many were on guided tours of Hindu temples, of which Chennai has many fine examples of the 'must see' variety.

On the horizon, container ships slid by. Frankie removed his sandals and wandered down to paddle in the water where a group of skinny young boys in brief togs dived into the tiny breakers, splashing and having fun like boys everywhere, their fully dressed parents sitting nearby on the sand keeping careful watch. They were slimmer, darker, better looking and, when approached, seemed just as, friendly as all the other Indians he'd encountered. Delighted to be congratulated on their healthy children, they said they were locals, which is why their children were playing in the waves. Everyone else on the beach was probably a tourist from inland and therefore couldn't swim and were afraid of the water.

Spaced all along the beach, about fifty metres apart, mobile kiosks were selling Kwality Walls Ice Creams to people who really shouldn't be consuming any more calories.

Frankie wandered beyond the popular part of the beach to an area where giant jute sand bags had been placed in the water and against the bank to prevent the erosion of a line of trees and a narrow strip of sand; all that was protecting rows of expensive houses less than a metre above sea level from the anger of the elements. He imagined the owners were getting very nervous at the prospect of rising seas and an increase in scale and frequency of wild weather.

At an abandoned concrete structure that looked as if it had once been a luxury club and restaurant on the seafront, but was now half submerged behind vast whale-like bags of sand, Frankie checked he was alone, stripped and ran into the swirling water. It was refreshing, relaxing and gave him the energy to continue his trek, this time inland to where poverty met wealth, and a tidal stream meandered through flat land lined with tall palms and water weeds, and people were washing themselves and their clothes on the sandy, grassy banks. It looked idyllic; men and boys in the water removing their lungis to wash themselves, their women spreading washing over the grass to dry. The whole scene overlooked from the opposite bank by expensive apartment blocks nestling among tropical gardens.

A middle-aged man wandered up, stood beside Frankie and asked why he was there. When he discovered Frankie was interested in conservation and had observed the beach erosion, he seemed relieved to tell someone genuinely interested, about the problems facing the city.

'My name is Anand and I am a member of the Environmentalist Foundation of India,' he announced, offering a firm hand that Frankie shook while introducing himself.

'Are you interested in the environmental problems facing this area?' he asked hopefully.

When Frankie assured him he was, Anand frowned, cleared his throat, gazed down at the waterway and sighed.

'Chennai has, or had, three clean rivers,' he began thoughtfully, 'and more than three hundred fish-filled, unpolluted lakes and marshlands, not one of which has ever received any form of environmental protection. As a result not one water source is now fit to drink. Instead of being a global leader in lake preservation, all freshwater sources in Chennai have been permanently destroyed through the dumping of rubbish, septic tank waste, religious refuse, and being used as drains for neighbourhood and industrial waste. Some lakes are so toxic they actually catch alight and burn. To compound the problems, leachate from landfills is polluting groundwater sources, and the permanent layer of dust of the dried out lakes, blows into great clouds that spread across South Asia.'

Frankie shook his head in horror.

'In 2015,' Anand continued, 'many parts of Chennai city were inundated by floods, because instead of containing the excess water, the lakes remained bone dry because all inlets leading to them have been filled and built upon, causing floods in the city and wasting precious rainwater. Within the span of a few years, lakes that once provided fresh, clean water, food and health for thousands of years, have vanished into the ugly concrete jungle.'

'But that is terrible!'

'It isn't only Chennai; it is the same in Delhi, Coimbatore, Bengaluru and Hyderabad, and I believe the waterways of Kerala are also seriously polluted.'

'That's horrifying,' Frankie said shaking his head. 'You mentioned religious refuse, what's that?'

'Religious and spiritual debris includes sacrifices, plaster of Paris idols, polythene wrapped icons and souvenirs, non-permanent temples... even the wrappings of visitors' meals and snacks. Tamil Nadu has many fine temples that attract many millions of tourists who all buy mementoes, take part in processions and admire the temporary temple structures that are just dumped afterwards. Unfortunately, pro-environmental voices are labelled 'anti-religion'. But they're not 'anti' anything, they're 'pro' environment. Personally, I believe that nature worship is the greatest spiritual experience and the public needs to be convinced of that.'

'I totally agree with you, sir,' Frankie declared. 'But it isn't only India, the whole world is the same. Australia has destroyed vast areas of prime farmland through erosion and fracking for gas, virtually all forests have been destroyed for logging, with consequent erosion and silting of waterways. And fisheries have been destroyed through over fishing, erosion, fertiliser and chemical runoff. The Great Barrier reef is all but gone. No river, stream or lake is fit to drink. Sprawling city suburbs occupy the best agricultural land.' He shrugged his hopelessness.

After a short chat about less controversial topics, they bid each other a cordial farewell and Frankie headed back to the city along wide, busy roads with grass in the centre and along the sides, not much litter and an illusion of space. He was heading for a large, white building on a hill, the Indian Maritime University; a wonderful mixture of Classical and Hindu architecture. He admired, then stood in front of the almost Greek temple and gazed at the view of hundreds of square kilometres of flat roofed, pinkish, three and four storey apartments and commercial buildings stretching as far as one could see. It was well worth the walk as a reminder of things to come in Australia if the population isn't curbed. Australia may be vast, but India has many thousands more hectares of usefully productive land.

Legs aching, feet sore, hungry and thirsty, Frankie continued his trek through a commercial area in which men and women in white shirts and caps identifying them as Vigithon, were conducting a peaceful parade against corruption. He wished them well. The sun was setting when he arrived back at the restaurant of the previous night, where he ordered the same meal from the same waiter, who remembered him, smiled and provided the best service anyone could want. Because of that, but also because the waiter wasn't handsome, being tall and gangly with a slightly asymmetrical face and premature baldness, Frankie tipped him twice the price of the meal, slipping it secretly into his hand so he wouldn't have to declare it to the boss.

Ready for an early night after what he figured to have been at least a fifty kilometre hike, he surprised himself by finding his way back to the Goodnight Hotel at the first try.

The following morning Nayaka brought in the breakfast, which they again shared sitting on the bed, while Frankie related his adventures. He was pleased that the friendship had been real, even if the sex had been a purely commercial transaction. And then it was handshakes and cheerful farewells and suddenly Frankie was entering an even more exotic and well-kept edifice than the one at which he'd arrived. Egmore Railway Station looked to be straight out of an Arabian Nights fantasy, and Frankie hoped his voyage to Rameswaram would be as interesting.

# Lucien

The train was very long and it took several minutes before Frankie found his seat. As in the previous two trains, each carriage contained twelve rows of comfortable armchairs; two on one side and three on the other, with large, clean square windows giving excellent views. The overall effect was attractive, modern, clean and efficient. In Frankie's row, a North American male and female occupied the two seats on the left of the aisle, and a similar couple occupied the first two seats on the other side, leaving Frankie the window seat, which pleased him. The two couples obviously knew each other as the females had taken the aisle seats and were talking in harsh nasal voices.

They watched him place his bag on the rack above.

'Not much luggage,' observed the nearest woman, a buxom creature in her late twenties—early thirties, obviously single and desperate as she was wearing too much lipstick and too few clothes.

'You are very observant.' Frankie said without smiling, trying to sound like Nayaka. He must have been successful as she asked, 'Are you from here?'

'Yes.'

'We're Americans,' she announced as if expecting Frankie to tug his forelock.

'North, South or Central?'

'Whaddaya mean?'

'America is composed of two continents joined by a narrow strip of mountainous land,' he said as if to a child. 'Which bit are you from?'

The woman shook her head, pulled a face at her friends as if to say, fuck these locals are dumb, then said abruptly, 'north.'

Frankie smiled brightly. 'Canada or the U.S.A.?'

'The United States. Boston to be precise.'

'Yes, it is always good to be precise. Did you know,' he asked innocently, 'that just south of your country is the United States of Mexico?' Frankie's smile bordered on the idiotic as the woman shook her head in disbelief.

'So fucking what?'

'It amuses me that people from your country expect others to know that when they say the United States they don't mean The United States of Mexico.

'Yeah, you're a funny man. Anyway, I'm Margaret, this is Anna,' indicating the woman across the aisle, 'that's Robert, Anna's husband, and this is Lucien,' nudging the man next to her in the ribs. 'We're on a three week train trip across India.'

'And only half way through, unfortunately,' complained underfed and colourless Anna from across the aisle.

'You are not enjoying yourselves.' Frankie appeared pleased.

'I'm loving it,' chunky Robert volunteered. 'Everything's so different, so colourful, so... I don't know... so...'

'So overcrowded,' Anna added sourly.

'We've done Kolkata, Varanasi, Agra, Delhi, Bangalore and Chennai,' Margaret informed the entire car.

'What have you done to them?' Frankie demanded seriously. 'Not bombed them I hope!'

'She means we've visited them,' Lucien sighed, avoiding Frankie's eye.

'And now we're heading to the southern tip then up the west coast to Goa, Mumbai, and somewhere I've forgotten, and then home to Boston, the most civilized city in the world.'

'I suggest you don't tell that to Parisians, Romans, Madrilenos or Edinburgers,' Frankie said thoughtfully.

Margaret brayed like a donkey, causing her friends to shudder, Lucien to tell her to keep it down, and the rest of the carriage to interrupt their own conversations, turn their heads and frown.

Frankie was enjoying himself. 'And what do you think of India?'

'The food's too spicy and oily,' complained Anna.

'Too many people!' Margaret's whisper was nearly as loud as her laugh. 'Crowds everywhere pushing and jostling. At night I dream I'm being crushed to death in a crowded room.'

'I feel cheated at having to bribe to get anything done,' Robert said sourly. 'I know they aren't paid well and its how they survive, but I still feel as if I'm being cheated.'

'I was expecting wise gurus oozing simplicity, serenity and calm, not noisy parades and temples with kitsch garish statues and colours,' Lucien stated petulantly. 'It's like a theme park, a mad house. And the air! I couldn't breathe in Delhi. We had to wear air filters. And the beggars.' He shuddered dramatically and lapsed into silence.

'You have to find tranquillity inside your own head,' Frankie intoned with irritating pomposity.

Lucien giggled, looking sideways at Frankie as if wondering if he was serious. He appeared to be several years younger than Margaret.

Having vented their spleen, the odd quartet fell silent. Frankie turned away and stared out the window, watching town give way to countryside, almost mesmerised by the passing scene. Fields, huts, distant villages, plantations of palms and bananas, crops, grass, a few oxen, mostly flat land. Distant towns and temple towers and hills arriving and departing as they raced along the lush wide valley to Madurai.

He closed his eyes when the couple beside him began to argue in whispers, adjusting his position to appear obviously asleep, and to ensure one ear was free of obstruction and facing the right direction. The muffled whispers became clearer.

'Why didn't you come to my bed last night?'

'Didn't feel up to it.'

'You haven't felt like it all trip! Do you realise how insulting that is?'

'No.'

'When a woman offers herself to a man, Lucien, she expects him to accept the offer with gratitude! How do you think it makes me feel when you say, no thanks?'

No response.

'Am I so ugly?'

'No. No you're... Ok, I...'

'Ok! You scrawny little shit. Why do you think I invited you on this trip?'

'Because your boyfriend couldn't come.'

'I broke up with him three weeks ago because I thought you fancied me, and I wanted us to get to know each other better. You're a man, you're fit, you've got balls and a cock, why the fuck don't you make use of them?'

'No need to be vulgar.'

'I'll give you vulgar you snivelling excuse for a male. Either you shape up tonight, or I tell everyone at work when we get back that you're a useless faggot who couldn't even get it up!' She got to her feet, stomped on his foot, then told Robert to go and sit with Lucien so she could talk to Anna.

'What did you say to her, Lucien? She's ropable.' Robert could barely contain his pleasure.

'I didn't want to come on this trip; she ambushed me into it. I'd never spoken to her until a few weeks ago. She sat beside me at coffee break and told me about going to India. To be polite I said it sounded interesting. Then she joined me every break and a week later announced to everyone in the office that we were going on this trip of a lifetime! Not wanting to embarrass her in front of everyone, I waited till after work to tell her I wasn't going, but she said it was too late to back out, she'd made all the arrangements and if I didn't go I was a faggot. Not a real man. I told her to stuff her trip up her fanny, so she apologised and said she was stressed because her best friends were coming, that's you guys, and it was all booked for four and she had already paid for it out of her own money and there were no refunds and did I want to utterly ruin your holiday through my selfishness? And then she said I'd said I wanted to go, that's why she went to all the trouble and fuss and.... And then she cried! Fuck I hate it when females cry. You know it's fake but you can't help yourself. And you can't argue with someone who invents facts and dismisses reality. So I forked out the money and wish to hell I'd never spoken to the bitch.'

'Yeah, but you're enjoying it aren't you?'

'Not when she's around.'

'At least she's a good fuck.'

'How do you know?'

'We were fuck buddies for a year at university. That's how we met. Neither of us wanted more than sex. Then she found herself a boyfriend and I met Anna.'

'And now the boyfriend's dumped her and I've been shanghaied.'

'Come on, Lucien. She's no oil painting, but you don't look at the mantelpiece when you're poking the fire.'

'I've a gas heater!' Lucien muttered, and they lapsed into silence.

The landscape changed slightly. Time and a large lake passed slowly, then the Americans went in search of food, toilets and exercise.

Frankie fed from his store of bread, pickles and water, and thought about what he was doing, why he was travelling, and why it wasn't more satisfying. Should he stay in one place for a while instead of moving on after a couple of days? But why stay somewhere if you've seen it and you don't know anyone so are not really interested in it? He wasn't homesick for Australia, so what could it be? Perhaps he wasn't such a loner as he'd always thought. Was that why he kept attaching himself to other loners? And then he thought about Lucien having to spend another couple of weeks with that harridan and felt pleased to be alone. Poor bugger! He wasn't bad looking. Healthy and fit. Strange he hadn't travelled with someone more suitable. No, not strange. Most people never consider the consequences – they just act, then complain when it goes wrong.

They were still zipping past green fields, palm and banana plantations, crops, small villages in the distance, oxen, motorbikes, farmers in fields. Perhaps if he were an anthropologist he'd be more interested. He was still sort of looking forward to seeing 'Adam's Bridge' and the mountains of Sri Lanka across the sea. After that, he supposed the southernmost tip of India had to be visited, although logically it was of no more significance than the east-north-easternmost tip, or any other place where land met sea.

If he was lucky he might see Kushti wrestlers, although he knew the Indian Wrestling association wanted to ban the three thousand year-old sport so the men would take on Olympic wrestling instead and win medals. 'Fucking Olympics,' he whispered to himself. 'If all that money was spent on local sporting facilities, clubs and equipment, the western world would be a much healthier and happier place. The desire to win international sporting events was like a religion and just as destructive.

He'd seen a couple of videos of the amazingly muscular and often beautiful young Kushti wrestlers who eat, sleep and train together in a semi monastic fashion, dedicating their lives to their sport, eschewing sex. Frankie couldn't see how they could feel satisfied with such a narrow existence. But then that was more or less how great pianists, dancers, sportsmen lived. Not something he'd be prepared to do.

And the lot of all the poor peasants they were hurtling past was no better. Perhaps Westerners had too much choice of where and how they wanted to live, and that was what was making them depressed. Most people would probably be happier in a more structured environment. It might be better to go back to village life. Dig up the roads and railways. Become isolated, and live off one's own efforts. No. A bully would surface and make everyone slaves, and then a witch doctor would join him and put the fear of devils into their heads. He shook his head. Humans were too stupid to ever do anything right.

He sighed. Here he was in a country totally different from Australia, so why wasn't he more excited or interested in just travelling? Because, he decided after several minutes thought, at their core all humans are the same. Like every plant, animal and in between, all they really need is food, shelter and sex. And every species will do whatever they are capable of to ensure their own survival. Plants crowd each other out, starving competitors so they can grow, and grow, and grow. Humans and all other animals are at constant war with competitors and none of them have an "off switch". As for buildings, they differ only in façade. Inside they're just collections of boxes. And all organised religions have the same core beliefs, demands and purpose. And grand temples only made him think about other ways the money and effort could have been spent. Imagine if instead of building a giant cathedral, that vast amount of money and effort had gone into providing good clean housing for every citizen, fresh, clean water, and the infrastructure to keep them warm, dry and healthy. Then religion would be a force for good, instead of a force for irrationality, war and misery.

And that made him think of the U.S.A. where two- centuries of constant wars had become the state religion and staggering amounts were spent on them. The Iraq conflict alone had cost a trillion dollars, but a measly five percent of that—a mere fifty billion dollars could have provided stand-alone solar power to every house in the States.

Thinking about religion, set him comparing the benefits of the religious monastic life with what Nayaka and his father were doing. Religions sowed doubt, guilt and fear. Nayaka and his father relieved doubt and guilt and left the client feeling relieved and whole again. They were undoing the harm caused by religious obsession with nudity and sex.

And that made him smile. And that made Lucien, who came to sit beside him, see Frankie as a sympathetic soul on whom he could offload his grievances.

'You didn't tell us your name.'

'You didn't ask it.'

Lucien nodded. 'I can't place your accent. Who and what are you?'

'My name is Frankie and I am a man.'

'Ha! A privacy freak.'

'I am not a freak.'

'We're all freaks. I suppose you heard me sounding off about Margaret?'

'Yes.'

'What do you think I should do?'

'Do what makes you happy. Try not to do what doesn't.'

'But... I can't leave her here alone.'

'She won't be. She has her friends. Are you sharing money? Food? Anything?'

'No.'

'What about hotels; how does that work?'

'We each have a hotel voucher that can be cashed anywhere that will accept them. If there are two of us it's usually enough for a twin room. If I was on my own I'd have to top it up a bit. It's a stupid system because it means we can only stay at international hotels and I'd prefer to stay at local ones.'

'Will you be able to cash in unused vouchers?'

'Probably.'

'Have you access to money?'

'Yeah, no problem; this country's dirt cheap.'

'Then get off the train at Madurai and come to Rameswaram with me.' As the words fell out of his mouth Frankie knew, deep inside, that he would regret the offer. Here he was again, taking a guy with problems under his wing. What was the matter with him? He decided not to answer that question.

'She'll make a stink.'

'She already has. And if you think that's the last time she is going to stomp on your toes, think again. Once women know they can get away with violence they're just as bad as the men they're always complaining about.'

'And then?'

'Then I'm going to the southern tip and you can continue your trip on your own, discovering if you're as useless as you think you are. And if you are not then you will be able to meet them for the return flight, if it's booked for a particular day.'

'It's Ok for you, you live here, but it's a bit... you know, travelling on your own in a strange land.'

'It is you, not India that is strange. Don't you trust yourself?'

'Of course I do.'

'How old are you?'

'Twenty- five.'

'Become a man and take charge of your life. We'll arrive in Madurai in an hour. Two hours later the train for Rameswaram leaves, and four hours after than we'll be there.'

'Should I tell her?'

'Only if you don't want to leave the train. She's tougher than you because she has no interest in what you want. Leave a note on the seat. I think this train only stops for about ten minutes, so you can wait till it's just about to leave, then grab your luggage and jump off.'

At that moment Margaret arrived and forced herself between Lucien and Frankie. All animosity apparently gone.

'What are you two talking about?' she asked brightly.

'I can't see it is any of your business,' Frankie replied coolly.

'You're a very rude person.'

'Did I burst between you and your girlfriend over there and demand to know what you'd been talking about?'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'I wouldn't do it because it would be very bad manners.'

'Oh, aren't we hoity-toity.' She turned to Lucien. 'Come on, Lucien. Let's get away from this creep.'

'Why are you travelling with your mother, Lucien?' Frankie asked sweetly.

'I am not his mother.'

'Then why are you acting like one?'

'I'm his girlfriend.'

Frankie sniggered. 'Wrong word. It's a very long time since you were a girl, and friends treat each other with respect.'

'Why you...'

Frankie smiled. 'Please hit me, then I have an excuse to defend myself.'

'Lucien! Don't just sit there! Defend me!'

'Fuck off, Margaret.'

And she did.

'Wow! Look at those towers! We should have gotten off here to see them!' Margaret exclaimed as the train pulled out of the station. 'Hey! There's Lucien!'

The three friends peered out the window.

Lucien, with his rucksack on his back, was walking across the platform towards the exit.

Robert and Anna turned to each other and smiled.

# Rameswaram

After six hours of chasing the guidebook around every must-see sight in Madurai, Frankie and Lucien reluctantly took their seats on the train to Rameswaram.

'That was brilliant! In all the other cities we took guided tours. They're useless. Can't hear or understand the guide, can't see properly because of all the other tourists craning their necks, and you're rushed away just when things get interesting. It'd have taken a week with guides to see all the things we've just seen in less than six hours. I wish we were staying another two days.'

'You can stop again on the way back.'

'I'd like to, but my return flight's booked so I won't have time if I'm going to see everything else.'

'Right.'

'I'm so glad I decided to get off the train.'

'Yes, that was clever of you.'

'Those amazing towers... what're they called?'

'Gopuram.'

'Yeah, those and the temples and the city. It's just right, you know? Big enough to be interesting, not so big you feel swamped. And so green and lush, and more like I imagined an Arab oasis to be than an Indian city. Flat roofs. Groves of date palms. And the houses all blues and pinks and whites and over everything a sort of... tranquillity, despite all the human busyness going on. I felt I'd like to live there, but then it's easy to feel like that when you don't know the disadvantages. And I can't imagine a foreigner would be very welcome. And I'm glad I won't be here in April for the festivals. According to that brochure thousands of pilgrims come to see the Temples. Their architecture I'm beginning to appreciate, but not the reason they were built—all that religious claptrap.'

'How can you talk without breathing?'

'I can't.' He paused and frowned. 'Was I raving?'

'Your enthusiasm does you credit. As for religious claptrap, without it the temples wouldn't have been built. At its philosophic heart Hinduism isn't silly. Unlike Christianity it makes sense even in the scientific age. Ancient Romans gave the plebs bread and circuses to keep them happy; Indians give them temples and celebrations.'

'You're a cynic.'

'I tell myself I'm a realist.'

'My memory's shot. What's the name of that temple with the four towers - gopurams and the magnificent courtyard with a square lake in the middle and all those pillars and the red and white stone?'

'Menakshi.'

'Yeah. And all those people using it as a social centre as if it's normal; not all pious and holy like if you go into a church in Boston. It's a used and useful space.'

'And oddly serene despite all the colours and statues clambering over everything.'

'And the King's courtyard! Those massive sandstone columns, and complex arches, and the red infill... such splendour. Apparently they have concerts there. It'd look great at night.'

Frankie agreed, amused by Lucien's enthusiasm. Honesty forced him to accept that it had been more fun to visit the spectacular buildings with someone who appreciated them than he'd expected. Probably because on his own he'd also have seen the decorative excesses as a waste of money. Had he lost his sense of the frivolous? Was he becoming an ascetic prig? Was life always to be a serious thing? He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed just for fun. Perhaps...' No, he wasn't going to think anymore. He always thought too much.

They sat in contemplative silence as the train, filled mainly with busy, chatting happy Indian pilgrims of all ages on tours of Hindu Temples, raced through lush green countryside, past small lakes, forests, farming land, plantations, across rivers. Both young men were relieved to be informed by notices outside the toilets, that they were on one of the new 'Green' trains, so if they flushed the toilet their faeces would go into a holding tank, not between the rails as on every other train in the country.

And then they seemed to be flying over the water across a long bridge so narrow it was invisible from inside the carriage. A spit of land on the left jutted into slightly choppy water, protecting a fleet of small fishing boats. Among the trees, houses looked as if they'd be flooded at high tide. And then they were on land again traversing a tropical island with sandy soil, palm groves, market gardens, houses and roads and motorbikes and cows and cars and bicycles and walkers and then into the town itself. It was getting dark and the lights looked romantic.

Not far from the station they found a double room in a small hotel that catered for the less affluent devotees on Temple tours. After a walk through busy, crowded streets and a meal at an outdoor barbeque type place, they drank tea in the tiny hotel garden before going up to their hot and muggy room.

As neither cared which side they slept on they tossed a coin and undressed. Lucien paused in confusion when Frankie hopped naked into bed. Frankie pretended not to notice, but was amused when Lucien also stripped and slipped quickly between the sheets.

'I suppose Margaret is telling the others I'm gay, and as soon as she gets home she'll be broadcasting it to the whole office.'

'She won't when she realises it will make her look like a fag hag who is so unattractive she couldn't get a man to sleep with her. She'll make up a story in which she dumped you because she had a better offer.'

'I'm not gay.'

'Neither am I.'

'I never thought you were.'

'Good. What are you then?'

'I'm just... I'm just normal but ...'

But fastidiously discriminating. You're waiting until the right woman comes along.'

'Yeah! That's it exactly. How'd you guess.'

'It's a common delusion among men like you. Most give up waiting and give in to peer and parent pressure and marry, only to wish they hadn't.'

'Why do they wish they hadn't?'

'Because they meet a man who arouses in them the desires their wife can't.'

'Doesn't that make them gay?'

'Only if they tell everyone they prefer sex with men.'

'I'd never do that!'

'But don't you think parading down the street yelling that everyone must love you because you like sex with men will change people's attitudes?'

'Fuck no! It'd make them hate me.'

'So you think it's normal for people not to like individuals who do things differently from them?'

'Yeah, of course.'

'That makes you normal. And if one day you find a boyfriend, share a house, be a good citizen and don't make a song and dance about being queer, then you'll be treated the same as everyone else—which isn't very nice, usually. But that's another story. There are millions of men like us who prefer males to females, who consider it a personal, not a public matter. And if it wasn't for the homophobia preached by religion, and militant queers telling everyone they love sucking cock and licking arses while demanding they be loved by the whole world, most of us would have no problems other than those that all humans have.'

Silence greeted this homily. Then... 'You said men like us.'

'I did.'

'Do you think I prefer men to women?'

'You preferred me to Margaret.'

'But that wasn't for sex.'

'Who mentioned sex?'

'Ah...'

'Speaking of sex,' Frankie yawned. 'Margaret was angry because you didn't fuck her. How did she try to arouse you?'

'I don't think she did.'

'Come on... in the train she was exposing so much tit she looked as if she had her knees tucked up into her blouse. And her lips were painted as red as a pussy on heat. Who was she trying to arouse if not you?'

'Any man she could, I guess.'

'Come on, humour me, Lucien. What did she do alone with you in bed? I'll pretend to be you lying here like a wet blanket, and you be Margaret trying to get me to screw you.'

'I can't... it would be...'

'Ah forget it!' Frankie snapped. 'She was right. You're pathetic. G'night.' He rolled on his side facing away, adjusted his pillow and prepared to sleep.

A good thirty seconds later a heavy hand grasped Frankie's hip and shook it roughly. 'This is what she did on our first night in India. Ready?'

'Yep.'

'She shook me really hard and snarled, Lucien! You can't just turn over and go to sleep! My sex hormones are bubbling in my veins.' Lucien reached down and took hold of Frankie's penis. 'What a useless little tail,' Lucien sneered, waggling it around. 'Are you a man or a homo!'

'I'm just tired,' Frankie said trying to disengage himself.

Lucien raised himself on his elbow, took hold of Frankie's chin and forced him to roll onto his back. 'Close your eyes.'

'Is that what she said?'

'No, but I'll be embarrassed if you look.'

'Okay.' Frankie closed them.

Lucien straddled him and ground his hips into Frankie's groin, squashing his scrotum. Frankie yelped and reached down to free himself. Ignoring his groans, Lucien took Frankie's wrists and held his palms against his 'breasts', massaging himself with them. 'I'm offering you a woman's most sacred gift and you refuse to get an erection! You aren't interested. You don't deserve me!' Lucien began bouncing up and down, punching Frankie on the chest and wailing softly.

Frankie burst out laughing uncontrollably. He couldn't stop. Tears poured. He tried to be silent because of other hotel guests, but that made him choke and splutter.

'What's so funny?'

'Poor Margaret,' Frankie gasped when he had himself under control. 'Using all her womanly wiles to turn on a man and only succeeding in turning him off. Would you like to know how I would have approached the same task?'

Silence.

'You're right. It's a stupid question.' Frankie managed to sound slightly disgusted. 'You're terrified I might think you're not a red-blooded heterosexual hero. Forget it.' Frankie again turned on his side, adjusted his pillow and prepared for sleep.

'I wouldn't mind.' The whisper was so faint Frankie almost didn't hear it.

'What was that?'

Louder. 'I wouldn't mind.'

'Ok, lie on your side facing away from me.'

A full half minute later Lucien felt a single finger tracing up his thigh, triggering a tingle that ran right through him. Then the sheet was tossed back and Frankie said softly, 'Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful skin?'

'No.'

'It's lightly tanned,' he whispered, stroking it softly. 'And all over. Where's your tan line?'

'I'm a climber. A group of us do it naked. Without clothes it's easy to get scratched on rocks so it adds an extra challenge.'

'I know the feeling.' Frankie's hand brushed lightly over Lucien's flanks. 'Powerful thighs. How'd you get them?'

'Tramping miles into the hills to go the rock climbing.'

Frankie slid his hand up to Lucien's shoulder, then lightly massaged his arm. 'Strong arms for a lean young man.'

'That's from climbing.' The voice was dreamy. 'We use our arms all the time.'

'Nice strong neck.' Frankie lightly kissed it, sending a shudder through the body against which he was softly pressed. His hand slid down and caressed Lucien's belly. 'A six-pack no less. Fitness freaks should take up climbing instead of sweating it out in stuffy gyms.' He ran the palm of his hand along and under the far side of Lucien' face, gently turning his head towards him.

As if mesmerised, Lucien rolled onto his back and gazed up at Frankie in what looked a little like fear.

'Your eyes are almost black in this light. And I like that bump on the bridge of your nose.' Frankie hoisted himself up and over until he was hovering just above the other man, their bodies just touching, then slowly lowered himself until every possible square centimetre was in delicate contact.

Lucien' entire body froze. His eyes stared above and beyond Frankie's head. He began to vibrate and moan softly.

'Are you Ok?' Frankie asked nervously, rolling off.

Ignoring him, Lucien roughly grabbed Frankie's hand, wrapped it around his own erection and used it to pump violently until he sprayed over his chest.

Frankie pulled his hand abruptly away. 'That was _not_ the intended result.'

Lucien's sigh was soft and drawn-out 'It's the result I needed. And you never even touched my cock or balls.'

'Unnecessary. That's what bugs me about the word homosexual. It makes everyone think of sex, and to most people sex is cocks and cunts. And...' he shrugged, 'heterosexuals imagine we want what they want and are as inhibited and unimaginative as they are. It's why their relationships fail after a while. Just shoving your cock into a hole isn't a mind expanding activity.'

'But being stroked and admired is! No one has ever admired me before. I've always thought I was a skinny runt. My chest's not big and nor are my shoulders.' He gave a soft giggle. 'It made me feel really sexy, even though I knew it wasn't true.'

'What I said was true.'

'I wonder if Margaret had done to me what you just did, would I have been turned on enough to screw her.'

'Do you wish she had?'

'No way! Thank goodness she didn't! I might have stayed on that train with those boring people! Oops, the cum's starting to run. Quick. Pass the towel, we can't make the sheets sticky, what would the maid say?'

Frankie got out of bed, found the towel and tossed it to Lucien who couldn't stop grinning while cleaning himself. He looked cheekily up at Frankie. 'Why don't I feel stupid?'

'Beats me, I would if I was as overweight as you.'

Lucien sat up; shocked. 'Seriously? Am I fat?'

'Love handles are just the beginning, soon you'll be as roly-poly as your friend on the train.'

'And will you like me then?'

'No.'

'Seriously?'

'Yes. We have only the one body and we know how to keep it healthy, so there's no excuse for treating it with contempt. I find it impossible to like people who abuse themselves. I can feel pity. I can understand their reasons. I don't discriminate against them, but I cannot admire or like them.'

'That does it. I'll stop eating until I'm as lean and sexy as you.'

'Why?'

'So.....'

'So you can attract lots of young men who will do to you what I've just done.'

'Well... yeah.'

'Don't hold your breath waiting for them. From what I've read most gays aren't too different from heterosexuals when it comes to sex. Whip it in, whip it out and wipe it and don't give a toss about your partner's pleasure.'

Lucien failed to take the hint. 'I suppose you've done it with hundreds of guys?'

'No. Those are the sorts of queers who give same-sex-oriented men a bad name. There are very few men who turn me on.'

'What type do you like?'

'Not a physical type in the usual sense, more of a character type that's reflected in the physical body, if that doesn't sound too pretentious.'

'It does, but go on.'

'They must be clean and slim and fit and healthy and alive and perky and comfortable in themselves. And we must share some interests, values and characteristics. And, of course, they must like and be interested in me as well. That's why I could never be a rapist; if the victim didn't like me and what I was doing, I couldn't do it.'

Lucien had again paid no attention to Frankie's message. 'That's a very narrow field. Have you met anyone like that?'

'Now and again.'

'Am I really fat?'

'No, just incipient love handles.'

'That's a relief.' He yawned.

'Yeah, I'm tired too,' Frankie agreed, lying on his side and pulling the covers up, hoping Lucien wouldn't want to talk.

He didn't. He lay down and was snoring in seconds.

Frankie lay awake, mulling. The minute Lucien had grabbed Frankie's hand and forced him to finish him off, he'd realised the guy was just another selfish prick interested in no one but himself. Didn't even ask Frankie if he wanted to jerk himself off, or offer to do it. Not only that, but Frankie knew a great deal about Lucien, while Lucien knew nothing whatever about Frankie, and clearly wasn't interested in learning anything. Unfortunately, it had been his idea to get Lucien to leave the train, so he was morally obliged to stick with him for four more days. How could he have got it so wrong? Was he a sucker for sad tales? First Jürgen, now this idiot.

He woke feeling grumpy but determined to use the next few days as a test of his self control. He would remain calm, pleasant and friendly no matter what, refusing any further sexual contact. He could forgive Lucien for being what he was, but couldn't forgive himself for being such a poor judge of character.

Their morning walk led them up crowded, colourful, pleasantly scented and busy streets towards the sea and a four storey white building fronted by arches with gold pillars. Three square, domed towers graced the roof, and colourful statues occupied niches on each floor. The dominant feature was a gigantic sculpture along the roadside boundary depicting a godlike figure and a giant snake that was wrapped around a mountain, its tail pulled by classically inspired heroes.

He followed Lucien through an elaborate gateway surmounted by a curly arch. Standing on the lintel gazing down at visitors were four brightly coloured, life sized, classically styled figures that wouldn't have been out of place in Ancient Greece. Inside the gate was another gigantic sculpture of someone lifting up a mountain. For ten rupees they entered the building and gaped at the sculptures of gods and demons arranged in scenes from Hindu myths. Apart from the gigantic snake sculpture out front, all the others were painted in bright colours, giving an idea of what Ancient Greek temples and sculptures that we always think of as white, must have looked like at the time.

After bidding the god and giant snake farewell they walked past beaches that in places appeared to be more litter than sand, probably from all the ships that passed on their way to and from Kolkata and other ports. Fortunately, men riding blue bicycles attached to blue trailers were busily filling them with rubbish and removing it.

A short distance along the shoreline three large red arches gave access to a wide ghat leading down to the choppy, murky sea in which scores of men and women, mostly fully clothed, although some fat men were shirtless in lungis, bathed to purify themselves.

Leaving the sea they headed towards a pure white gopuram poking above the rooftops. Apart from a couple of wide, clean, pleasant pedestrian-only streets swarming with every type of human imaginable, the other streets in the business area left no doubt they were in India. Two and three storey flat-roofed buildings in desperate need of repair, maintenance and paint, cluttered with huge signs. The road/footpath filled with more signs and motorbikes, poles, chairs, tables, people... and over it all a mare's nest of electricity wires.

As they approached the truncated pyramidal gate tower they were pleased to see it was as elaborately carved with swarming figures as the ones in Madurai. The entrance was at the end of a cul-de-sac. It's facade as massive and beautifully sculptured as anyone could desire. Frankie was delighted to learn from a passer by that it was dedicated to Shiva. That made him think of Shiv, and he hoped he was Ok. To right and left behind and beyond the roofs, he could see the tops of palm trees, domes and more cross-hatched electricity wires. He couldn't decide whether the casual mess surrounding the holy place was endearing or sacrilegious. The difference between European countries' precious approach to religious buildings and their environment, and the relaxed, usefulness of India's when it came to their temples, was interesting.

'In my opinion,' Lucien declared, 'the attitude of these people to their sacred places is sensible and therefore I prefer it. Buildings are to be used, as well as admired, not to be stuck in a glass case only to be opened on special occasions.'

They wandered on. Lucien drank from a tap in the park, laughing at Frankie's warnings of gastric enteritis. He also ate an ice cream from a street vendor, then they ate at a small restaurant in a commercial street lined with single storeyed concrete buildings painted blue and orange and yellow and white, all in need of maintenance. In a parallel street, water hoses dangled over the edges of roofs, an electricity pole was planted in what looked like a chimney, and the road ended in a grove of palms and tropical trees. In the middle of the narrow street a three-storey 'temple' had arisen made of wooden poles hung with brightly coloured cloth and large tubes of fabric that looked like columns supporting a fabulous pyramid and dome. On the second 'storey' of this obviously temporary construction, a stage had been prepared for the God, and the entire structure was mounted on a wheeled platform to be hauled along by men pulling on giant jute hawsers that looked strong enough to tow an ocean liner.

When half a dozen men, shirtless in lungis, picked up the ropes to test them, they would have looked like the gods pulling on the giant Snake in the sculpture - if they'd been lean and fit instead of fat. Their bellies protruded, breasts sagged, and that, together with the tottering, towering, exuberantly colourful Temple on wheels, made Frankie laugh softly. From delight, not from cynicism or contempt. Suddenly he was in love with this crazy land, even though he knew that this temporary temple would join what the conservationist in Chennai had called religious dumping.

That afternoon they explored further along the coast. The port was full of small fishing boats as well as a passenger ship that plied the coast as far as Kolkata. Wherever a sand spit reached into the sea creating a sheltered cove, small fishing boats were anchored against the wind, which was strong. Large birds were blown overhead. The sea was grey blue, the atmosphere humid, the skies filled with windswept clouds. They walked to the end of a sand spit from which they could see the long sandbar stretching out into the sea towards Sri Lanka, but the thirty or more low islets that were called Adam's Bridge, curved into the distance and disappeared over the horizon. Sri Lanka was too far away to be seen from sea level.

The advantage of being in a country where everyone else loved crowds, was that it was possible to find spots with no humans. They discovered one such place around the point, and decided to swim. They'd been told the currents were unpredictable, and dangerous creatures abounded in the water, but it wouldn't hurt to wallow in the shallows. Lucien's sandals and shorts were barely off before he raced towards the water. Unfortunately, he didn't make it, having to squat halfway. The stench of a liquid litre of half digested food drifted on the wind.

# Shiva

Frankie raced over. Lucien was ashen-faced.

'Fuck I feel terrible,' he muttered. 'I think I'm going to be...' he was. What hadn't exited his rear end came out his mouth. He swayed slightly. Frankie caught him, assisted him into the sea and sat him down. He felt very hot, so appreciated the cool. He splashed water over himself till he was clean, then Frankie led him back to the shade of the trees. Before they got there, however, another gut wrenching spasm, and yellow liquid was again running down his legs.

Back to the sea for a wash, then finally to the shade where he managed to remain for half an hour while Frankie forced him to sip bottled water to prevent dehydration. Then he was again dragging himself to the water.

After that Lucien was too weak to move. His head felt as if it was bursting, his eyes ached, his throat and anus were raw. But he reckoned he'd be Ok on his own for an hour, so Frankie dressed him, then returned to town to buy bottled water, a small billy, a bag of rice, matches and a cup. Back at the shore, he built a small fire of sticks, hung the billy over it and boiled the water and rice for twenty minutes. After cooling the billy in the sea, he gave a cup of the starchy water to Lucien to sip, eating the solids himself.

They remained there until dusk, Lucien sipping the thick rice water. Then after another explosive wet fart and dry retching, Frankie cleaned him up and they limped back to the hotel. After tucking Lucien into bed, Frankie went in search of the proprietor. He was sympathetic, gave him a plastic bucket and towels, and sent his wife up to check.

She wasn't as sympathetic as her husband until Frankie pressed the equivalent of two weeks' rent into her hand. Then she agreed to boil water and rice and allow Frankie to use the laundry facilities in the basement. Her humour improved even further when she realised Frankie didn't want the services of the maid, who was already overworked as the hotel was full. He promised to keep the windows open for ventilation, to keep the room clean and sterile, and make sure no guests were inconvenienced.

Despite being empty of food solids, Lucien had to use the bucket three times during the night. Frankie covered it in a wet towel to keep the smell in and emptied and cleaned it at first light, fortunately meeting no other guests. By breakfast time Lucien was too exhausted to speak; pale as death, gaunt with dark rings around wide eyes. He lay silently in bed. Became agitated when Frankie said he was going for a doctor.

'Doctors make people sick,' he whispered. 'I only trust you. I can feel myself getting better.'

He wasn't worse, but that wasn't good enough for Frankie. After cleaning and scrubbing everything he and Lucien had touched, replacing the sheets, washing and bleaching the soiled ones and hanging them out in the drying area, he left Lucien asleep with water and a clean bucket, and went in search of advice.

The proprietor directed him to the nearest doctor who was overworked and impatient, demanding payment before consulting. After listening to the symptoms and learning there was no blood discharge he dismissed them as nothing. 'They will pass. The rice water is good, but you can try this too if you want to waste your money,' he said writing a prescription.

When he saw the prescription, the pharmacist shook his head. 'This stuff clogs everything up. Instead of diarrhoea your friend will be constipated, and that is more dangerous.' And so Frankie returned to the hotel to tell Lucien he would get better soon because it wasn't serious. However, confronted with a body lying in vomit on the floor having missed the bucket, shaking as if from cold although clearly suffering from a high fever, he panicked. After cleaning up, he forced some more water and rice liquid down his friend's gullet, tucked him into bed and went to seek the advice of the proprietor.

As he left his room, another hotel guest, a lean, intense man in his forties with a heavy beard, dressed in sandals, lungi and shirt, stopped him. 'I hear you are taking care of a sick friend.'

'Yes. I hope we haven't disturbed you?'

'Not at all. Tell me about him.' He listened intently to Frankie's tale, nodded seriously and said with authority, 'I will take you to someone who will cure your friend. Come.'

They walked quickly and ten minutes later were standing in front of the entrance to the Shiva temple with the beautiful white gopuram.

'As we enter,' his guide said, 'you must keep repeating _Om namah Shivaya_. Practice it now.'

'Frankie practised the words until the guide was satisfied, then they entered, each softly repeating the mantra until they were standing in front of a creamy white statue of Shiva that was at least three times larger than life. The God, naked apart from the usual loin cloth, was seated in the lotus position. Long hair over his shoulders. A snake around his neck and arms. Face serene. Eyes all-seeing. Mouth suggesting a smile. Concealed lighting illuminated him perfectly and Frankie's heart began to thump. He knew it was because he lacked sleep and was stressed, but even so, the feeling that something special was about to happen was palpable.

'Now, repeat after me, _Maha Mrutunjay manthr_.'

It took Frankie several tries before his guide was satisfied. He then repeated it ten times and the man put his finger in a small pot and placed a mark on Frankie's forehead.

'Now, clear your mind of all bad thoughts and ask Shiva to cure your friend. Ask with full trust that your wish will be granted. To doubt the greatest god is not wise.' The man stepped back leaving Frankie to gaze into the serene face.

In the softest whisper Frankie said, 'Beautiful Shiva. Please cure Lucien because although he's a selfish git, he's not totally bad and if he dies that will make lots of trouble for me. By the way, I love your temple. Oh, and I really do believe you can do this, and I trust you implicitly.' While saying the words they didn't seem either childish or silly. He was completely serious, and when he stopped whispering, a great shuddering tingle ran up and down his spine as he stepped back, awed, unable to look into Shiva's face. After a slight bow he turned and without knowing how he got there was suddenly outside, having passed unaware between scores of worshippers who also took no notice of him.

The man was waiting. He nodded as if he knew what had happened, then said, 'Now we will buy amrita.'

'What's that?'

'Come and sit under that tree and I will tell you a story.' They sat on a wooden bench, a boy came and they ordered tea, and when it arrived the man who declined to introduce himself began to speak.

'Aeons ago the gods lost their strength and demons were overtaking the world, so Shiva, appearing as Vishnu, promised to restore their strength by instructing them in the preparation of amrita, a sacred substance that bestows immortality and vigour. "Do now as I command," he said. "Cast into the Milky Sea potent herbs, then take Mount Mandara for a churning-stick, the serpent Vasuki for rope, and churn the Ocean for the dew of life." Then, wrapping the huge serpent around the mountain, together they used it as a giant pestle in order to churn the potent herbs they had cast into the Ocean of milk. And that was how they made amrita. Today, men use a smaller pestle and mortar to grind milk and cannabis in order to make the earthly bhang.' He cleared his throat and gazed intently at Frankie to see his reaction.

Frankie's eyes were alight. 'That's what the sculpture in front of the white building on the hill is about. Thank you! I saw it yesterday morning and I think it is wonderful.' He realised the man was frowning, and blushed. 'I apologise, sir, for interrupting. Please continue.'

Appeased, the man continued. 'During the churning of the sea, evil poisons were produced that would have killed all life, so Shiva detoxified them by drinking them. In the process they turned his throat blue. That is why, if you have asked him sincerely, Shiva will remove the poisons from your friend. And now, if you have finished your tea, go and pay the boy who served us, be generous, and I will take you to buy bhang, today's version of amrita.'

The government-approved shop was well advertised. Frankie bought a small flask of the milky liquid hashish, thanked his guide profusely, and literally ran back to the hotel where Lucien was dry retching into the bucket. He sat him up and told him to sip the elixir.

Too exhausted to question the new drink, Lucien sipped and swallowed and sipped again, then lay back and within minutes was sleeping calmly. Frankie couldn't believe it. He sat beside the bed cooling the patient's forehead with a moist cloth and whispered, 'You'd better bloody well get better mate, otherwise I was cleaning up all that shit and vomit for nothing. And if you kark it I'll get bogged down in red tape.' As the sleep appeared to be deep, he went down to the hotel restaurant for a meal and told the proprietor what had happened. He was pleased, but not surprised, and hoped the effect was permanent.

It was evening when Lucien woke, feeling thirsty and able to talk.

'Actually, I feel as if I could keep some food down,' he said.

Boiled egg and rice without salt were washed down with weak tea. A further swig of bhang set him smiling, astonished that he didn't feel like throwing up. In fact he'd like to go for a walk. Five minutes later he was asleep, and stayed that way till morning. Frankie was still asleep when Lucien got up, a bit wobbly from lack of food, but ready to eat something substantial.

Frankie sat up and laughed. 'Well, you've certainly got rid of your love handles. Rid of just about everything except bones and skin. You need a good feed.'

'I certainly feel as if I do!'

They washed and dressed and were among the first guests for breakfast, greeted with smiles by the landlady and a nod from the bearded man. Frankie introduced Lucien to him. He smiled and bowed, but no words were exchanged.

Lucien wasn't able to eat quite as much as he'd imagined, but was feeling much better so they walked to the shore, sat on a concrete wall and Frankie satisfied Lucien's curiosity about the elixir.

'You bought cannabis on the street and gave it to me? That's brilliant! It means Indians are as sensible as the Dutch. In the States you could get twenty-seven years for what you did. What made you get it?'

Frankie told him about the bearded man he had introduced him to at breakfast, and his interview with Shiva. He seemed so serious that Lucien felt no inclination to laugh.

'I'd like to visit Shiva and thank him.'

'I've forgotten the words you have to say, but I'd also like to go there again.'

They did, and stood and gazed, but nothing happened. Neither felt anything except what they'd always felt in front of images of supernatural deities.

Outside again, drinking tea served by the same boy as last time, they discussed Frankie's odd experience.

'I suppose I was under stress, so talked myself into feeling I was in the presence of something powerful,' Frankie said.

'Makes sense. After all, the gods are men's creations, so it would be odd if men didn't also create feelings about them sometimes. And I imagine the gods wouldn't waste time on idle chatter. Neither of us needed him this time, so why would he come? And we didn't chant the right words so how could he take us seriously.'

'You're having me on, right?'

Lucien grinned. 'I also had a mysterious experience when I was delirious, I imagined the gods were speaking to me.'

'Really?'

'Yes, it was straight after I had that first drink of hashish. I heard a voice telling me I'd better bloody well get better because my death would be more of a bother than my illness.

# Rajeev

During the train journey back to Madurai and south to Kanyakumari, Frankie mulled over his weeks in India, astonished at how wrong his preconceptions had been. Instead of a degraded and worn out, chaotic land of ungovernably overcrowded cities and poverty stricken hordes of slum dwellers and peasants, he'd seen vast swathes of natural land and forests, apparently limitless supplies of water in rivers, streams and lakes – both natural and man made. And a population of apparently healthy, friendly people who, if not contented with their lives, at least displaying a calm acceptance of it.

He'd felt just as safe as he had in Australia, and instead of a chaotic mess had been confronted by a riot of colour, gorgeous architecture, and astonishing efficiency in a religious culture that liberated and supported instead of engendering feelings of guilt and repression. Of course there was crime and corruption – but they are endemic wherever you find humans – Australia being no exception. Despite his increasing affection for the country, however, he knew he couldn't live there.

Lucien's time on the train was spent chatting up an American with bleached hair, loud voice, and tight jeans who introduced him to the constrictions of the toilet, where both managed apparently ecstatic orgasms. Lucien arrived back at his seat delighted to have been the cause of such lust.

'I can't believe how blind I've been,' he announced breathlessly as he sank into the chair beside Frankie. 'I've always wondered why sex was a bore, and now I can't wait to get back home and get fucked by every gay man in Boston.'

'And contract herpes, syphilis, chlamydia, genital warts, gonorrhoea, throat infections, a split anus, and goodness knows what else.'

Lucien fell silent. Then, 'You think I'm a slut?'

'Stupid, randy and impatient. Did you check his bits out first?'

'No room in those toilets.'

'No room in those toilets that are probably like those in America and Australia, ridden with every known form of hepatitis and other disease contained in faeces and transmitted on toilet seats and doors by unwashed hands.'

'Now you've got me worried.'

'Good.'

As Frankie had come to expect, the southernmost tip of the sub-continent was more interesting than he had imagined. Thousands of religious tourists, the men often wearing nothing but a white lungi and sandals, were to be seen literally everywhere in Kanyakumari; visiting the shrines, enjoying the beach and scenery, observing the rituals at temples. It is an ancient town with palm trees, tropical vegetation and climate, a charming residential area, fishing villages and fishing port, high rise modern apartments, a commercial port, shops and businesses, tourist hotels and clean beaches with golden sands with day beds for sunbathers. But perhaps the most spectacular sight is two rocky islands half a kilometre off the mainland, where the Arabian Sea meets the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean. On the nearest island stands a giant, forty-metre-high statue to Tiruvalluvar, a Tamil poet and scholar. Just beyond that, a four-acre island rock has been carved into giant terraces on which stands a huge building.

Along with hordes of others they took the ferry and walked up a ramp to wide terraces, from which very grand steps led up to a vaster terrace and an elegant arcaded pavilion surrounded by a paved and balustraded area. Then another splendid set of wide steps brought them to the enormous, high domed sanctuary on the topmost plateau, dedicated to the memory of Vivikananda, a Hindu monk and scholar. The entire island is one more wonder of Indian ingenuity and architectural genius, thanks to a culture that admires equally both intellectual and spiritual greatness.

Even all the tourists didn't spoil Kanyakumari. The only unpleasant things were having to wear shorts to swim, and Argus eyed matriarchs in saris keeping a close watch on their men and children and everyone else it seemed while constantly gossiping.

While Frankie visited the Suchindram Temple, Lucien lazed on the beach and was picked up by a Frenchman. He arrived back at the hotel looking flushed and satiated. Frankie kept his opinions to himself, merely suggesting it must be time for Lucien to head north. But Lucien had decided to remain in Kanyakumari until the last minute before flying directly home from Trivandrum.

In a last ditch attempt to rid himself of the American, Frankie followed the advice of a young man in the tourist office and bought a ticket for a local bus to Papanasam, to experience the peace, clean air, mountains and national parks of the Western Ghats.

'I'm moving in with Guy-Michel,' Lucien announced the following morning. 'So you'll be rid of me at last. I'll settle my share of the hotel bill and...' he smiled uncertainly at Frankie who had not responded, 'Will you be Ok?'

Taken off guard by Lucien's apparent concern, Frankie's reply was more cordial than intended. 'No worries, I'm leaving for Papanasam in a couple of hours.'

The white bus with red stripes was almost full, the driver in his seat and the engine running when Lucien raced up and boarded. As there was no seat beside Frankie he had to go further back, grinning as he walked past. It took constant deep breathing until they stopped at the first tiny village to drop off and pick up passengers, before Frankie was able to calm down. Why had he told Lucien where he was going? He was his own worst enemy.

Calm at last, he pushed Lucien out of his head, determined to enjoy the ride, realising as they drove that this was the absolutely best way to travel. The worst is by air, because you see nothing. Trains are next, because they miss smaller towns and you see very little. Long distance busses are similar to trains, while local busses are perfect because they go into all the tiniest villages and towns, stop long enough for you to get out and look around, and the traveller can see, interact with and appreciate the diversity, the humanness of the people who live in these places that are so different from the vast cities. He didn't even consider driving a car – he wasn't insane.

In every village there was something interesting to see. His favourite was a dozen men with white marks on their foreheads wearing yellow lungis, walking in front of a decorated elephant on top of which was a man carrying a beautiful parasol. The procession that followed the edge of fertile fields, a banana plantation and palm grove was followed by cars and laughing children on foot.

The other passengers on the bus were friendly and pleasant, some offering to share their food carried in woven baskets. Palm trees were everywhere. The Western Ghats loomed hazy on the left. An old, enormously fat man in a white lungi was sitting outside his shop when the bus stopped to let off a passenger. The simple building was decorated with entire banana palms, roots and all, bunches hanging along the verandah. Sacks of grain stood at the entrance and a post office box leaned against the wall. Village streets were sometimes unpaved, and shops were always covered in large tasteless signs for banks, digital equipment and other services. And of course motorbikes and an aerial network of electricity wires were everywhere.

Two hours passed quickly and too soon they were pulling into the Tirunelveli bus terminal. Frankie waited a few metres away till Lucien approached looking sheepish.

'Why are you following me?'

'When I got to Jean-Pierre's room he was in bed with an ugly great Norwegian. Fucking insult, so I went to the tourist office and asked about busses to Papa something, and they remembered you, so told me where to go.'

'Why can't you leave me alone?'

'Because I like you. And you owe me.'

'I owe you?

'Yes. You kept me alive, so my happiness is now your responsibility.'

'How do you make that out?'

'Did I ask you to save my life? No. You just assumed I wanted to live, and made sure it happened. More often than not I've wished I hadn't been born, and right now I would prefer to be dead. So if you'd just left me to die I wouldn't now be depressed, making the lives of all around me miserable.'

'Makes sense. Would you like me to rectify my mistake?'

'Yes.'

Frankie stared at Lucien. 'You say that because you know that if I did, I'd end up wishing I was dead after the police and courts had finished with me.' He paused to stare into Lucien's eyes, then with dreadful intensity said, 'If I could wish you dead with no risk to myself, then I would do it immediately, but as I can't I guess I'm stuck with you until you have to go home.'

Lucien grinned. 'Come on, Frankie. I'm not that bad am I?'

Frankie didn't answer, instead turned on his heel and walked towards the old town to see as much as possible before the next bus left for Papanasam. He bought himself batter rolls and other goodies from a stall, and was amused by an enormous cinema complex covered in giant posters for upcoming films. Outside, queues snaked for hundreds of metres, beneath a gigantic, expertly painted cut-out fully three storeys high of the handsome male star holding a guitar. But he wasn't amused to see Lucien trailing him about a hundred metres back. He shrugged. Poor bugger. He was a mess. Perhaps he'd learned his lesson and would be different from now on. Everyone makes mistakes, how else do we learn?

Tirunelveli was a large country town with the usual busy roads lined with cars and motorbikes, three and four storeyed flat roofed apartment buildings in white, pink, ochre, blue; and of course business premises slathered in garishly coloured advertising. There were lots of green spaces, palms, gardens. It was sunny, exotic, friendly... but perhaps a little dull, possibly because there seemed to be as many Christian places of worship as Hindu. Making sure that life is a seriously dull business, is a Christian duty.

Frankie chatted to a couple of young men sitting precariously on the handrail of the bridge crossing a wide river. Both said they wanted to leave the town because they had too many relatives who thought they had the right to tell them how to live. They wanted to be free to be themselves. But where could they go? Frankie had no answer to that, so followed them to the front of a temple where they'd been working with other men maintaining and repairing crumbling parts of the structure. A large tree gave shade to lungi-clad men sitting, chatting, enjoying the peace. Frankie shook his new friends' hands, said he understood, and hoped they would find a way to not let others take over their lives.

Back at the bus terminal Lucien offered Frankie an ice cream.

'Ice creams contain similar bacteria to tap water, I don't want to get the shits, especially now I know you'd let me die.'

Lucien shrugged, smiled and ate both.

The ride to Papanasam was up hill, and the scenery became increasingly forested and beautiful. The town was a smaller version of Tirunelveli with similar crowds, motorbikes, parks, and commercial streets that gave the impression the place was teetering on the brink of chaos.

The hotel recommended by the travel agent was a delightful remnant of the British raj. An elegant two storeyed lodge with eight arches framing the front door and loggia, decorative plantings each side of red painted steps, a fountain in the centre of the sealed area in front of the hotel, multicoloured pennants fluttering from the roof, and thatched shelters for the cars. Everything beautifully maintained.

The only room available was a double, so they shared, and to Frankie's relief Lucien decided to sleep, so he took off on his own to discover that the air was fresher and cleaner in the mountain foothills, and the forests denser and more obviously tropical. Evening was approaching and street lights were coming on, making even the shops plastered with advertising look romantic. At a crossroads in the old centre, a wide flight of ancient stone steps led up to a paved, open space shaded by enormous trees. Young men were sitting on the steps chatting. Families wandered around the pleasant square, on one side of which stood a temple that Frankie decided was quite the nicest he'd seen. Not overpoweringly large. A beautifully carved portal and lintel surmounted by an arched miniature temple in turquoise and pink was the only touch of colour. Inside the shadowy, electrically lit interior, monkeys played around a gilded urn. The rest of the temple was natural sandstone, and the gopuram that seemed to be made solely of layer upon layer of statues of gods, was creamy white. From the street it looked like delicately carved ivory. To each side of the front porch, stalls were selling souvenirs, bananas and snacks. Across the clean paved area, a colourful awning protected another temporary stall selling trinkets and snacks. A large tree in full leaf arched above the decorative flat stone roof of a substantial open pavilion, supported on massive stone columns.

More lights were being turned on, creating a fairyland in which all was visible, but in a mysterious, romantic haze.

Five enthusiastic high school students in their uniform of sandals, dark trousers and white long sleeved shirts with red bands were discussing where to go next. Older, heavier men in lungis walked or wheeled their bicycles past. Then three slim young men with naked torsos and tight black trousers pulled up on motorbikes. Dark smooth skins, strong faces, good bodies. They looked at Frankie and flashed perfect white teeth in what looked like genuine smiles, triggering in him a surge of emotion somewhere between exultation and sadness. To an incurable romantic like Frankie, there was something about this ancient and enduring environment coupled with the young men's natural manliness that hinted at the possibility of a perfect society of such men who would be strong and fearless, noble and loving, honest and true. He sighed and looked around. Reality eclipsed the dream; sadness trumped exultation.

But he returned the smile and they asked where he came from. He shouted them soft drinks that they consumed in a nearby park, where they told him about their lives with such ingenuous honesty he wished they hadn't. That such godlike young men, despite reasonable education and serviceable English, were dependent on menial work if they could find it, saddened Frankie, although they seemed to accept their lot philosophically, looking forward to marrying and breeding. None had enough money to set up house on their own. All would have to live with parents for the foreseeable future. But they weren't depressed about it; that stupidity was Frankie's alone.

They were already seated again on their motorbikes when one of the young men called Rajeev asked if Frankie would like to go with him the next day to an ancient temple beside the river. Frankie certainly would, so they arranged to meet at the same spot the following morning around ten.

Lucien wasn't in the room when Frankie returned, so he ate in the hotel restaurant, and was asleep when he returned.

The following morning, mounted on Rajeev's pillion they rode sedately up forest roads into a valley where an ancient stone temple, wall carvings worn smooth by centuries of devotees' hands, had been built right on the rocky edge of a turbulent mountain river. Directly in front of the temple portico a weir created a shallow lake in which devout people were bathing and cleansing themselves. Older men in white lungis were wallowing, pouring water over themselves. Young men were holding their infant sons above the water, women in saris sat further up in the shallows, older children were playing in the fast flowing overflow. The golden brown torsos of the men blended perfectly with nature—although it would have been aesthetically even more pleasing if most of them had been slimmer.

The water spilling over the edge cascaded through rough stones before becoming a smooth river disappearing around a wide curve into dense tropical forest; tall, green, mysterious, inviting. It was deeply moving for Frankie to realise the place must have looked exactly the same for thousands of years.

With such idyllic places and approachable gods, it seemed no wonder to Frankie that Indians remained spiritual. He shuddered to think what Australians would do to such a place. First they'd fence off access forcing visitors to pay big bucks for entrance, because if something didn't make a profit then it was useless and would be replaced by something that did. Then they'd just keep a screen of trees each side of the river so it looked more or less the same, and bulldoze the rest of the forest, filling it with hotels and expensive housing. The temple would be steam cleaned, made to look as if it had been built only a few weeks earlier, and retro fitted with modern toilets and a souvenir shop.

When the only god people worship is money and profit, then nothing is sacred, nothing has value, and satisfaction evaporates.

How different this was from Australia where the sterile temples of the three Judaic religions invoked fear and trembling, unquestioning worship and self-sacrifice to an angry and jealous god ever ready to punish and slay those who disobey his edicts. Only when churches become like those of Hinduism; places to relax, gather, socialise, use, laugh and feel comfortable in, will they become and remain the centre of life.

From his saddlebags, Rajeev took two white cloths which they wrapped around their waists before removing their shorts and shirts, placing them in sight on the edge of the water before joining a group of young men in green lungis who were assisting elderly men. Everyone was friendly, smiling, intent on their own spiritual wellbeing. A perfect spot in which to soak away stress, massage the cool water into heated limbs, feet and head.

Floating gently Frankie gazed around at the large smooth rocks, tall grasses, palms, giant leafy trees, clear fresh water—a tropical paradise with forested mountains disappearing in the distance, dense vegetation crowding the banks; a scene unchanged for millennia, and prayed that no one would ever make a commercial horror of the place.

Rajeev took Frankie back to the hotel because he knew the manager and sometimes found work delivering and fetching stuff, or repairing small engines, as he was an expert mechanic. When they arrived, Frankie tried to give him some money, but he was charmingly offended, insisting that friendship had no price.

Frankie entered their room full of energy and goodwill and a decision to forgive Lucien and take him to see the temple. At first he couldn't work out what was happening, and then it hit him. Lucien was wrestling with a young man on the floor between the beds. Both were naked. The Indian on his hands and knees, whimpering with his arm pulled up painfully behind his back while Lucien was unsuccessfully attempting to rape him. They both froze when the door slammed, making it easy for Frankie to slam his fist into the side of Lucien's head.

The young man leapt to his feet and stood cowering in the corner. Frankie recognised him as the gardener's lad who was constantly weeding, pruning, watering, sweeping leaves, smiling, carrying chairs out to the patio for guests, always in a spotless white lungi and bare feet. Lean, glowing with health and wondrously dark brown. He looked about fourteen. Frankie picked up the lad's lungi, wrapped it around him and gently asked his name and if he was Ok. The boy had little English, but managed to nod and whisper, 'Ashok'. Placing a calming hand on Ashok's shoulder, Frankie snarled at Lucien who was groaning on the floor.

'What the fuck were you doing? Ashok obviously didn't want to be here.'

'He flirted with me in the garden, so I offered him some money and he followed me in. He was up for it all right. Don't blame me.'

'How much were you offering?

'Two hundred rupees.'

'That's about three dollars! You utter bastard. His English is virtually nil, so he obviously thought you wanted him to clean your shoes or do some small task. The kid's a charmer. He smiles at everyone so they won't kick him! He has a tough life. You make me so sick I can't bear to look at you.' Frankie went to Lucien's bedside table, took his wallet from his rucksack, removed all the paper money and handed it to Ashok, who recoiled.

Frankie looked into his eyes. 'Ashok. This is for you.' He pointed at Lucien and said, 'Bad man.' Then pointed at Ashok and said clearly, 'Ashok good.' Then he put a finger to his lips, shook his head and pressed the money into the young man's hand. 'No police, no boss, all for Ashok.'

Wide eyed in relief and disbelieving gratitude, Ashok nodded, tucked the money somewhere in the folds of his garment, and after an approving smile from Frankie and a pat on the shoulder, disappeared.'

Lucien was standing, holding his head and breathing heavily. 'You utter bastard! You've given him all my rupees, nearly two hundred dollars!'

'Shut up and be grateful. I saved you from rotting in prison for years and being fucked every day. Ashok is the darling of the staff and the manager here, so if you think he wouldn't have told someone that the nasty man in room forty-six lured him to his room and then tried to shove his dick up his bum, then think again.'

'You're such a puritanical prick. Fuck I wish I'd never met you.'

'The feeling's mutual. I'm going for a shower,' Frankie said softly. 'If you are still in this hotel when I return, I will ensure that you will be unable to walk, let alone abuse another young man.'

Frankie picked up his towel and his room key that also gave access to the bathroom on their floor and left the room. After stripping in the small changing space, he entered the shower, closed the plastic curtains and stood under the warm water for some minutes in an attempt to wash away the emotional stench of the selfish bastard who had better not be there when he got out. He didn't want to see him ever again.

Feeling better, he stepped out of the shower and dried himself. As he hung the towel on the hook he noticed his shirt was missing. The shirt with the secret pocket containing everything! Passport, debit card, money. He searched in panic in case he'd accidentally dropped it, but he hadn't. And then he realised. Lucien's key also fitted the bathroom. He must have crept in while Frankie was showering and taken the shirt, knowing what it contained.

'The bastard!' he whispered, throwing on trousers and sandals and racing down to the reception desk.

'Has the gentleman I arrived with left?'

'Yes, sir. He was lucky that a taxi had just dropped off some guests, so he left at least ten minutes ago. Is there a problem?'

'Yes, he stole all my documents and money. Did he say where he was going?'

'No, sir. Shall I call the police?'

A motorbike revved outside startling Frankie into action. 'Not yet,' he called, racing out just in time to intercept Rajeev who was leaving as he'd not found work at the hotel. 'Rajeev, a taxi left here about ten minutes ago.'

'Yes, I saw it.'

'Can you catch up to it?'

'Of course, Frankie. No problem, hop on and hang on.'

Wrapping his arms around the slender, smooth, naked waist of his chauffeur, Frankie discovered what a powerful, perfectly tuned motorbike can do in the hands of a competent rider. They leaned into corners, zigzagged between cars, left the ground when sailing over the top of rises, the wind pulling at their faces, stinging eyes if he looked forward.

They'd been riding for nearly half an hour and Tirunelveli was fast approaching. There were houses on each side of the road. In two more minutes they'd be in the city and the chance of finding Lucien without involving the police would be zero. Then they rounded a corner and Rajeev pulled alongside a speeding yellow taxi. One wobble and it would be death. But Rajeev didn't wobble, he signalled the driver to pull over. Despite being hit on the head by his passenger, he did, and the motorbike skidded to a halt in front.

The rear door opened and Lucien ran out, heading towards houses and the city. Frankie raced after him. Fitter, shorter, faster and stronger, he slammed into Lucien's back, hurling him forward into a ditch, still clutching his rucksack. Frankie wrestled it away from him, pushed his head into the mud, opened the rucksack, removed his shirt, checked that everything was still in there, then walked back to the taxi. After settling the bill for Lucien's ride plus a generous tip, he told the driver not to pick him up again as he was a known criminal. The driver thanked them and drove away. Ignoring the man limping towards the town, Frankie mounted behind Rajeev who took off in a cloud of very satisfying stones and dust.

Back at the hotel, Rajeev again refused payment. 'It was fun! A real-life car chase, just like the movies.'

'Fair enough, Rajeev, I agree that friends don't pay each other for favours, but are friends allowed to give each other gifts?'

'Well... yes, but...'

'Then, my good friend, I am leaving tomorrow morning and I want to give you a gift before I go.'

'Tomorrow? Then tonight we will have a farewell dinner at a restaurant, you me and my two friends.'

'I would like that, but on one condition; that I pay for everything.'

'No! No...'

Frankie shrugged, 'Then no go.'

'With a shy and relieved grin Rajeev shrugged and said, 'You are too good to me, Frankie, but please don't tell the other two that you are paying.'

'Of course not. So, how much will it be?' Rajeev told him. Frankie doubled it and handed it over. 'Until tonight then.' They shook hands and the motorbike purred away.

Using the hotel's computer, Frankie was able to book a seat on a bus the following morning from Tirunelveli to Thiruvananthapuram, the capital of Kerala, where he would stay a few days to explore, then board a flight to Sydney via Changi. When the bookings were confirmed he relaxed for what seemed the first time since he'd arrived in the country. It had been fun, but he needed to... to what? Recharge? He felt drained. He'd proved he could travel on his own, no big deal he admitted with more or less unlimited cash, but he wanted to return to base and think about it. Process the data. See what, if anything, it all meant. And best of all, now the end was in sight he could enjoy the dinner with Rajeev. Surely nothing could go wrong during the next four days?

Rajeev was the perfect host at a restaurant in a quiet corner of a park. Someone was playing music not far away. The food was delicious; the other two men friendly and pleasant, and there were no females in the outside area where they ate. Perfect. Rajeev told his friends he'd had a rich client at the hotel, to explain his sudden good fortune, and they all wished Frankie the best for the future; a wish he reciprocated.

The following morning Rajeev took him to the Bus Station in Tirunelveli. They bid each other a warm farewell, then Rajeev drove back, discovering in his saddlebag when he got home, an envelope containing two hundred and fifty thousand rupees, enough to set him up in the business he'd always wanted, motorbike repair and second hand bike sales.

#  Thiruvananthapuram

The bus was new, clean, and for those seated, comfortable. The driver took no risks and didn't speed, so they managed to avoid the numberless carts, motorbikes, bicycles, other cars and pedestrians that appeared to pay little heed to road rules. Frankie enjoyed looking at the land, towns and people of the green foothills of the Western Ghats and was surprised at how quickly two hours passed. Suddenly they were in Nagercoil, about twenty kilometres east of Kanyakumari. After a twenty-minute stop they left Tamil Nadu, rounded the end of the Western Ghats and entered the wet tropical paradise of Kerala. Sadly, the road ran inland so he missed the magnificent coastline of palms, forests, fishing villages, towns, farms and plantations. An hour later they entered the green suburbs of Trivandrum, as he was relieved to discover most people called the capital, and minutes later arrived at one of the most spectacular and modern bus stations imaginable, a fourteen storey giant half circle of white and black concrete.

For a city of a million, the capital of Kerala seemed calm, relaxed and spacious, stretching along the coast for kilometres of picture postcard tropical paradise beaches lined by dense bands of palms that came right down to the water.

After finding a small hotel and eating a late lunch at a kiosk, Frankie wandered around the commercial part of the city, which was as charmingly impromptu and deceptively messy as all the other cities he'd visited, with low-rise flat-roofed apartment blocks in pastel shades, multi storeyed commercial premises slathered in colourful and unsubtle advertising hoardings, and everywhere trees. Trees lining roads. Great clumps and rows of giant coconut palms. Large spreading leafy tropical trees shading squares and parks. Very, very attractive.

And of course temples. Without realising it Frankie had become enamoured of the powerfully solid, decorated pillars, porticoes and carvings of Hindu temple exteriors and their multi-storied gopurams guarding the entrance. According to a helpful devotee in a white lungi, entry through the gopuram symbolises liberation from the bondage of matter and the world of contradictions. Then as you proceed through the decorated, light filled, brilliantly coloured temple with its polished floors and titanic masculine architecture into the dark and undecorated Garbhagrahamm or central sanctum in which the image of the god is displayed, an air of deep mystery envelops even the most rational mind.

Looking indistinguishable from many young Indian men, Frankie was never prevented from unobtrusively following and imitating others. Most of the male devotees wore only a white lungi, beads and sandals. All had beautiful dark gold skin so it should have been sexy, but wasn't because most men over twenty-five had soft fat bellies. The priests especially were a severe disappointment. Having dedicated their lives to the service of their god, one would expect a modicum of self-restraint, but they were the least fit and the fattest of all.

Approaching a pleasant and not overweight young man in a white lungi outside a temple, Frankie asked the reason for the lack of clothes.

'It is for health,' he explained politely. 'The dome of the Vimanam directly above the Garbhagrahamm attracts cosmic rays and directs them straight down into the Garbhagrahamm which is very dark. Since cosmic rays cannot stay in dark areas, they are immediately emitted out of the Garbhagrahamm lodging in the naked torsos of the worshipping devotees. This makes those people the healthiest in the land.'

As for why the Garbhagrahamm has only one door, he explained that the Sanskrit word garbha means womb, and a womb has only one entrance and is dark, so the sanctum, which can be compared to the womb with it's function of giving birth to good, healthy living, is also dark with one entrance. The entire temple represents the body of the god. Frankie thanked him effusively, and continued to be delighted by the crowds milling in the vast courtyards, sitting or strolling around the temple ponds and gardens, eating, socialising, talking and relaxing as well as praying.

He'd even begun to consider the omnipresent beggars around temple entrances to be as essential to the whole process as the priests, by providing a way to demonstrate generosity.

A few streets away, a sterile pink and white mosque standing in isolated, vacant splendour, suffered in comparison with the social activity and friendly, unpretentious ambience of Sri Padmanabha Swami Temple.

And compared to Hindu architecture, the old British Colonial buildings, often in magnificent formal gardens, lacked artistry, fantasy and a welcoming atmosphere. They never caused him to laugh in delight as did the small colourful pavilions set among trees and gardens of the Sree Durga Bhagwati Temple.

Not being a night person he ate at dusk, walked for a bit to aid digestion, then slept his usual full eight hours, waking early to walk a couple of kilometres to the modernistic International Airport to make sure he wouldn't get lost and miss his flight two days later. On the edge of the parking area a bicycle hire place gave him the idea of exploring further than he could on foot, so he hired one with upright handlebars so he could see where he was going, bought a map from the same man, and pedalled away happily, visiting the zoo and natural history museum with its gardens and amazing topiary hedges shaped like elephants. Then on to a research centre. Then a deep quarry filled with water, followed by the suburbs around lake Akkulam on which a slim brown man in a blue and white lungi was punting himself across the placid water in an old wooden canoe, exactly like the photo in his school text book. Giant coconut palms grew right to the water's edge. The understorey was filled with luxurious growth. Above floated a turquoise sky. Reflections in the lake were barely disturbed by the passing canoe. And then the mosquitoes found him, proving that nothing can ever be perfect.

The following day he set off early and rode south beyond his small tourist map, along an unpleasantly busy highway because lagoons and rivers and canals prevented a continuous coastal road. It was worth the hassle when he turned off at Kovalam and followed charming tree-lined roads to the coast and a string of magical bays formed by a succession of low rocky promontories enclosing perfect crescents of ochre coloured sand fringed by millions of coconut palms. Grove Bay, Kovalam Beach, Lighthouse Bay ending with the Vizinjam pleasure port and a superb beach that, like all the others, was a deep crescent of sand lapped by low breakers rolling in from an almost flat Arabian Sea.

Some beaches seemed secluded despite houses and shops behind the palm trees. Some had car parks, five storied hotels with restaurants and promenades gazing over the sea. All had fishing boats looking like very robust versions of Venetian gondolas that had been dragged up onto the sand. Some of the boats had thatched shelters to keep the sun off the catch and the catchers while out on the water. At one bay half a dozen sleek speedboats took people for rides, destroying the peace. As for humans, there were many hundreds of men, children and women dressed as if to go shopping. Wandering up and down the sand or standing up to their knees in water. A few lay on wooden day beds under colourful umbrellas provided by the hotels. No one was swimming.

At Lighthouse Beach two young men were sitting in the shallow water, but not swimming. The buildings lining the foreshore were unpretentious. No hotels. He didn't bother stopping at the next beach where a raised concrete promenade had been built along it's entire length preventing easy access to the sand, probably to protect the continuous line of four and five storeyed hotels and other modern holiday apartments with their colourful awnings, from rising seas and the tempests that sometimes raged along the coast. Today the sea was transparent turquoise as smooth as glass.

After the pleasure port at Vizhinjam, where he bought himself a bottle of lemonade, he continued on to the beach, which was popular being so close to the business centre. Further along, however, it was almost deserted. A group of leanly powerful men in faded old lungis sat beside their boats repairing nets, coiling ropes and chatting. Three small groups of fully dressed locals were paddling in the sea, absorbed in their own activities. Frankie secured his bike, put his sandals in his satchel and approached the fishermen who pointedly ignored him so he kept on walking towards a tanned, middle-aged European couple sitting in the shade of a lone fishing boat close to the water; she in a black, one-piece swimsuit, he all but naked in a tiny red backless pouch. He was lean; she was solid.

They looked up, smiled, and the elderly man said politely with no obvious surprise at being approached, 'Good morning. How can I help you?'

'By explaining how you get away with wearing only a sexy little pouch,' Frankie laughed.

'Oh! How amusing. I suppose it's because we're English, not Indians. Thanks for saying I'm sexy.'

'He said the pouch was sexy, Clarence,' his wife interjected sharply, 'not you.'

'Quite.'

'You didn't seem surprised when I approached,' Frankie said to divert the slight unpleasantness.

'I thought you were a local because you're dressed like one.'

'That's thanks to a fellow who stole my bag.'

'How galling,' he commiserated. 'Did you lose much?'

'Only clothes.'

'We weren't surprised you came over,' the woman interrupted, smiling a little too much, 'because we teach English and are often approached by locals needing assistance with the language.'

'Is teaching lucrative?'

'Oh... we don't charge.' She seemed almost shocked at the idea. 'We felt so guilty when we arrived a couple of years ago, you know, ex-colonials and all that, living in a pleasant modern house when so many around us barely have the essentials, that we wanted to contribute something to the local area to show we mean well.'

Frankie managed not to smile at the hint of noblesse oblige. 'That is laudable.'

'Thank you. It's enabled us to make a few friends with the locals who almost certainly think of us as the eccentric Englishers who have no modesty on the beach and actually swim as well as paddle. By the way, I'm Clarence.' He offered his hand, which Frankie took and shook, amused at the unnecessarily firm grip.

'And I'm Violet,' his wife announced with a handshake quite as determinedly butch as her husband's.

'And I'm Frankie.'

'Are you staying in India long?'

'I'm leaving tomorrow.'

'Why? Are you disappointed?' Violet asked as if excited at the idea.

'Not at all. I'm in love with the place, although I don't think I could live here; I'm not keen on crowds. But the few Indians I've had more than a desultory chat with have been very pleasant.'

'Apart from the fellow who stole your things.'

'I never met him, of course, and he was probably poor and there was nothing valuable in the bag. In fact I was pleased at the excuse to buy the sort of clothes Indian men wear; I live in fear of looking like a tourist or acting like one.'

'How do they act?'

'I've seen several being very rude and impatient in trains, shops and restaurants, behaving as if the locals are inferior.'

'Rest assured the locals don't feel inferior,' Clarence laughed, 'quite the opposite. I sometimes think they feel sorry for us, as if we're refugees—which in a way we are.'

Frankie smiled politely.

'But surely you're not travelling alone?' Violet asked as if it would be the depths of stupidity.

'Yes. I see more and meet more people if I'm alone.'

'But of course you young people are in constant contact with parents and friends with your smart phones, so it isn't really the same as being alone.'

''Nope,' Frankie laughed. 'I don't have a phone and haven't contacted my parents for nearly a month – they have no idea where I am. It would seem like cheating to be tethered to a phone so I could be contacted whenever someone feels like it.'

'Well,' Clarence said in a voice tinged with envy. ' I think that is very splendid. Don't you agree, violet?'

'Yes, Clarence, Very.' She turned her smile on Frankie. 'Please excuse me, dear, but I have to make a phone call.' She took her phone just out of earshot.

'Why did you come to live here, Clarence?' Frankie asked.

'Because in England we'd only be able to afford a semi-detached house in a dull suburb of a dull city with freezing wet winters and overcrowded transport, urban violence, strikes and...' He stopped and shrugged. 'Here we can afford a pleasant house near a beach, a maid, restaurants and all the comforts we could only dream about in England.'

'A maid?' Frankie frowned.

'I know. It's so colonial and at first we resisted, then discovered the locals resented us for depriving a girl of employment, so we have one, overpay her, treat her like a daughter, and she is wonderful. It's a way of giving back; like our language classes.'

'I do apologise for that,' Violet said returning with a satisfied smile.

'Not at all. So... it seems you like living here?'

'Definitely. There are lots of things we can't do, but we didn't do them before either. We've always been a bit reclusive, preferring our own company.'

'I love the temples, do you?'

'We're both rabid secularists.'

'So am I, but the temples are wondrous works of art, so powerful and colourful!' Frankie's excitement was not transmitted to his hosts, who gazed at each other in bored disbelief. Oblivious to their lack of interest, he carried on extolling the temple's virtues until suddenly becoming embarrassingly aware of the glazed eyes of his listeners. 'Oh I say, I do apologise,' he said contritely. 'I tend to go on a bit when I'm excited.'

Clarence was smiling broadly. 'No need to apologise, Frankie. Such passion and eloquence is commendable in the young.'

'And to prove how much we enjoy your company, I insist you come to lunch with us,' Violet added. When Frankie hesitated, she said, 'Oh please don't tell me you've already eaten? Come anyway and have a drink.'

'No, I haven't eaten, and I'd love to come—as long as I'm not putting you out?'

'I wouldn't have asked you if you were.'

'Then I accept.'

'Excellent, because an Indian friend will be joining us any minute for a swim and lunch, so it will make an even number. Four is always better than three, don't you think?'

Frankie didn't, but was interested to see their house and meet their friend, so accepted with a smile.

'While we wait for him, why don't you go for a swim? We'll just laze about in the shallows. There are no dangerous undercurrents, so you can go out as far as you like.'

'I'd love to, but...'

'Ah, your satchel and clothes. You can trust us, but it's up to you.' Clarence looked quizzically at Frankie, who decided it was stupid to distrust people who seemed so genuine, so he laughed and stripped off his shirt, then stopped.

'Ah, I forgot. I'm in India. It's too hot and sticky to wear underpants and as these are the shorts I'll be wearing tomorrow on the plane I don't want to get them wet.'

'We're concealed behind this boat, and there's hardly anyone on the beach, so if you're quick no one will notice. Come on don't be shy.'

'I'm not shy, I just don't want to offend anyone. What about your friend?'

'I assure you, you won't offend Inesh! Off you go.'

Frankie stripped, put his shirt and trousers carefully in the satchel, placed it on the hull of the boat, then hurled himself from concealment into the shallows before swimming out about a hundred metres, where he floated on his back for some time then treaded water and gazed back at the land. The water was cool, clear and not very salty. The coastline looked even more romantic from the water, and he suddenly wished he'd not been in such a hurry to leave. He waved to Clarence who waved back. At that moment a dark man in a white lungi marched across the beach. He shook Violet and Clarence's hands, exchanged greetings, then all three entered the water and began bobbing up and down in the low breakers a few metres off shore.

That must be Inesh, Frankie thought. He looks tough and sexy. He swam lazily back to join them.

# Clarence, Violet & Inesh

Clarence, Violet and Inesh were wallowing in the shallows, staring at Frankie as he waded the last few metres.

'Inesh, this is Frankie, he's joining us for lunch,' Violet announced as if she'd just won the lottery.

Inesh stood and the two men shook hands. Inesh's grip was hard and lean, like his body. His face expressionless. 'How do you do,' he said with magisterial pomposity.

Frankie straightened perceptibly and with matching superciliousness replied, 'How do you do.'

Two seconds later their frozen faces cracked and both burst out laughing.

'You understood me.' Inesh was delighted.

'What did he understand?' Violet sounded put out.

'That I was using one of the most absurd greetings in any language.'

'It's not absurd,' Violet snapped petulantly. 'It is a very polite greeting. What's wrong with it?'

'Surely it's absurd to respond to the question, How do you do, with the identical question, How do you do?'

'It's just the way it is.'

'You're right and I apologise, Violet. It was rude of me to laugh at your language's polite absurdity.' Still chuckling, Inesh waded out of the water towards the boat where he turned and watched Frankie approach, blocking access to the satchel. They stood facing each other, one smiling, the other wondering what the smile meant and worrying that he was about to be criticised for his nudity.

'I'm so pleased you two are getting on so well,' Clarence said jovially, pulling on loose trousers and a shirt. 'It's always a risk inviting people who don't know each other to a meal.'

'Yes. Well, as you two seem to understand each other so well,' Violet said with a slightly disapproving sniff, 'we'll get on home to prepare luncheon. Inesh will show you where we live, Frankie. Give us at least twenty minutes?' She pulled a capacious floral shift over her swimming costume and with no further communication, the two Englishers were gone.

Inesh bared pure white teeth in another smile Frankie wasn't sure how to interpret. He looked to be in his thirties. Short hair, narrow - almost wolfish face, full lips and a strong nose. Lean and wiry with legs that had done a lot of walking.

'When you came out of the water you looked like Shiva emerging from the waves,' Inesh said reverentially. 'Powerful and at ease with yourself and the world, water dripping from your handsome body, wet hair clinging to neck and shoulders.'

Frankie pretended to believe the outrageous flattery and with wide eyes gasped, 'Really Inesh? I looked like Shiva? Wow! He's my all time favourite God.'

Inesh played along. 'Perhaps you are one of his incarnations!'

'Gosh! Is that possible?'

'Anything's possible. Why do you like him?'

'Because despite being the original, greatest and most powerful, he treats us mortals with respect, and as long as we're respectful and sincere, all we have to do is ask and he will do his best to assist. Not like the Jewish god who insists his followers debase themselves or he'll kill them. Also, Shiva's handsome, clever, wise and strong.'

'You've done your research.' Inesh stood aside to let Frankie open his satchel and put on his shorts. 'As you like Shiva you must be my guest at the Shiva festival next month.'

'I'd love to, but I'm leaving India tomorrow.'

Inesh stepped back as if in horror. 'No! I forbid it. Shiva would never have arranged our meeting if you were going to immediately disappear.' He took Frankie's hand and gazed into his eyes.

Frankie giggled.

'I see changes in your future,' he intoned softly. 'When the gods are involved, Frankie, nothing is as it seems.'

'Do you really believe in the gods?' Frankie asked.

Inesh chuckled. 'Never ask an Indian that question.' He paused as if in thought. 'What do I believe? I'm awed by two and a half thousand years of ancient wisdom during which the Jains insisted on complete nudity as part of their vow to give up all worldly goods. I'm impressed that over a thousand years ago the Sakas made tens of thousands of explicit human and animal sculptures on the walls of the city of Khajuraho, in which Kings and commoners dance happily in joyous sexual union, completely naked except for beads, bangles, and decoration. I'm proud that the beauty of the body was exalted and paraded even by my forebears. And, since sexual activity is an activity of the body — that too has been exalted. Other Indian temples such as Konarak and Ellora also display highly realistic erotic naked sculptures, to show that nudity and sex are an essential part of the living experience of the community, part of the social, educational, and religious life. And your Lord Shiva is often dressed in a scanty loincloth, because nudity is associated with honesty and purity. That's what I believe in; the beauty and sanctity of sex between perfect, naked bodies.'

'There aren't too many of those around today; just about the only men I've seen in Kerala who aren't fat are the fishermen and you. The Sakas sound like my type of people.'

'Am I your type of person?'

'I don't know you well enough.' Frankie adjusted his shorts. 'I wish we wore lungis at home, they look so much more comfortable in hot weather than trousers.'

'I seldom wear anything else. No shirt, no underpants, just one of these and leather thongs on my feet. It makes life easier because people take me for a spiritual man and give me precedence.' He laughed. 'Do you know it's considered bad manners by devout people for a man to enter a temple wearing more than I'm wearing now?'

'Yes, someone told me about that yesterday. It makes them healthy. But where I come from being overweight is not a sign of health.'

It's healthier because the fatter you are, the more area of skin you have to absorb cosmic rays.

Frankie laughed. 'That does it, where can I buy a lungi?

'I've a spare in my car you can have. Wear it to lunch and give Violet and Clarence a thrill.'

Inesh drove a Tata 4WD with a few dents and yellowy brown paint that needed a polish. Inside was neatly organised. All seats except the front two had been removed and replaced by what looked like camping equipment. Inesh opened a leather holdall and handed Frankie a clean pale blue lungi that he wrapped around his waist before removing his shorts. Inesh showed him how to twist the front so it didn't loosen, then stood back to admire his handiwork.

'You were born to wear one,' he said. 'Ok, let's be off.'

'Except I arrived on a bicycle, so I'll follow you.'

'No you wont, I tied your lungi too short for a bicycle, you'd get run in. where is it?'

Frankie wheeled it over and helped hoist it onto the roof rack and secure it. Two minutes later after driving about a kilometre past pleasant bungalows surrounded by palms and other luxuriant growth, but not many flowers, they parked in the driveway of Violet and Clarence's neat and characterless little bungalow, rendered attractive by dense plantings of tropical flowering shrubs.

'We're a few minutes early,' Inesh said, cutting the engine. 'Violet and Clarence are pleasant but have a bit of history you ought to know. Violet was teaching English to my sixteen-year-old nephew and paid him to fuck her. He didn't mind as he was always short of money, and when he began a similar service to Clarence he was raking in the rupees. But his parents discovered his secret and threatened to go to the police. My nephew asked me to intervene because it had been his idea in the first place, and he liked both Violet and Clarence and didn't want them to get hurt. So I convinced the parents no harm had been done, pointed out that if it was mentioned in court that their son had been willingly prostituting himself it would do their reputations no good, and so it all blew over. Since then, I try to see them once a month to make sure they're not letting their sexual urges get them into trouble. I imagine they are hoping for a bit of fun with you, so now you're prepared.

'I'm not fucking two old retirees!'

'Of course not! But it'd be a joke to thrill them with more of what they've already got you to do.'

'What's that?'

'Whose idea was it for you to swim naked?'

'Theirs.

'Right. But then I captured your attention and they left in a bit of a huff.'

'I don't think it's a good idea.'

Inesh grinned as if he knew more than he was letting on, took his mobile phone from the glove box and climbed out of the Tata. 'I'll lock the vehicle, but take your satchel, nothing's totally safe in India.'

'Not only India.' Frankie added, following Inesh round the back to a neat lawn backed by what looked like Tarzan's jungle and surrounded by a high hedge providing privacy. A table had been set up in the shade of a pergola, where their hosts were sitting staring vacantly into space.

They leaped up when their guests arrived. Clarence served cool fruit drinks, Violet took Frankie's satchel inside for safe keeping and exclaimed at how perfectly godlike he looked in his lungi. 'But Inesh, yours is still wet. It must be uncomfortable. Take it off and I'll hang it on the line.'

'It is rubbing a bit. If you're sure you don't mind?'

'Violet held out her hand and hung the cloth on the line while Inesh placed his phone on the table. Frankie wasn't shocked so much as surprised. Inesh had given no indication of... but then he'd said he admired all the sexy carvings and sculptures. But it made him nervous. With his hairy bum and thick penis, Inesh was the real life satyr that Frankie had pretended to be on stage with Prudence. Compare to him Frankie had looked like an innocent faun.

'What about you, Frankie?' Clarence asked. 'There's a runny sauce with the meal; it would be dreadful if it spilled on your new garment.'

Frankie did not want to give his hosts a thrill. He did not want to be naked in the same space as Inesh. He suddenly didn't want to be there. 'Well, it would be a pity, but don't you...?'

Clarence laughed boyishly, reached out and pulled the loosely tied lungi off. 'Of course we don't.'

Annoyed, but unwilling to risk a confrontation with people he was beginning to realise were not what they pretended. He shrugged and smiled and wandered with them around the garden looking at flowers and plants that had been damaged by monkeys and a passing elephant. Gradually, Frankie's nervousness dissipated. They were acting so naturally that by the time they were sitting at table he felt relaxed and a little foolish for worrying. Inesh was clearly an educated gentleman, and the two oldies... well; Frankie was stronger than both of them.

The meal was undercooked and inedible. The main topic of conversation was Frankie and his experiences, of which he gave a very edited account, making it sound a bit dull.

'And what do your parents think of their son going off on his own? I suppose you write long screeds about all the temples and sights?'

Frankie shook his head – suddenly cautious. 'No, my whole purpose in going away was to see if I could take care of myself.' He stopped as his heart leaped into his throat. He'd already told these people down at the beach that no one knew where he was. 'At least that was until yesterday,' he added. 'I had to email them I was here so they'd meet me at the airport in a couple of days.' Even to his own ears it didn't sound convincing, but his audience seemed to accept it so he began to relax. But then he realised he had no idea who these people were. Yet he was naked in their back garden and they'd taken his satchel away with all his documents and clothes! And he didn't know where! He began to panic and sweat. But they looked so friendly. He had to trust someone... didn't he?

'No!' said a not so tiny voice in his head. 'You don't!'

'Is there an English Club?' Frankie asked brightly to change the subject. 'I've read a couple of Somerset Maugham stories so I picture hot nights and pink gins and storm clouds brewing and violent tempests that increase the humidity but don't lower the temperature.'

'There is a club exactly like that, but its not for us,' Clarence sniffed in disdain. 'We're teetotal and not club people. With the Internet we're not isolated, and the locals are quite friendly enough. We sometimes have an English couple from down the road for dinner and a game of bridge, and vice versa. And we watch some Hindu festivals. We tried going to the Club, but it was, quite frankly, horrid. We're not snobs, but it's full of the sort of common English people with whom we'd never associate back home, sitting around, drinking too much, complaining about the heat, the quality of the servants, having to bribe to get anything, the lack of the sort of food they prefer... you name it, they moan and complain, are interested in nothing, and do less.'

'Poor things,' Frankie said with feeling. 'They're bored. How horrible for them. I've never been bored, but I've read it leads to all sorts of bad things. Why do they live here?'

'For the same reason we do. But they can't make themselves accept that just because India is different doesn't mean it is inferior. In fact, in many ways it is superior to Europe.'

'It's certainly better than Australia in some ways,' Frankie agreed.

'So, Frankie, you're leaving tomorrow; have you seen everything you wanted to?' Inesh asked.

'Everything except Kushti wrestling. I understand that after three thousand years it's being phased out in favour of Olympic wrestling. I reckon that's ridiculous. I'd hoped to see a match, but it's not important. Everything else has been just about perfect.'

'So perfect you're leaving tomorrow,' Inesh said accusingly.

'All good things must come to an end.'

'What nonsense. Show me your plane ticket.'

Violet took Frankie inside to a cupboard, opened it, handed Frankie his satchel and watched as he extracted his ticket.

'What a brilliant secret pocket,' she exclaimed. Did you sew it in yourself?'

'Yes,' Frankie grunted, reluctantly returning his satchel to the cupboard. As they walked back outside, he felt her hand caress his buttocks. A shudder ran up his spine. This was not a good place to be. But how to get away?

After scanning the ticket Inesh grinned. 'This is an open, transferrable ticket, and as long as you cancel a booking twenty-four hours in advance, there's no penalty. When is the flight?'

'Tomorrow night.'

'Then let's cancel it and you can come with me to visit some national parks in the Western Ghats.'

'Don't you have to work?'

'That is my work. I'm a fixer.'

'He's more than that,' Clarence interjected. 'Inesh is a brilliant engineer with responsibility for the maintenance of several visitor facilities, tracks and safety in... how many parks, Inesh?'

'Six.'

'So that's why your van is full of camping gear.'

'Yes. Although I only use it if there's no bed available in a guesthouse. I check up on about a dozen workers at each visitor centre. You'll have a great time up in the mountains; fresh air, away from the maddening crowds.'

Frankie nodded, but looked unconvinced.

'And I've just remembered,' Inesh announced casually. 'Deepak and Sanjay in Periyar used to be in a Kushti group in Menai that disbanded. I'm certain they'd put on a fight for you. You could even have a bout with them.'

'And get myself crippled.'

'So, you'll come?' Inesh's face was the picture of innocence.

Frankie had no intention of going anywhere with Inesh, but was careful not to reveal his intentions. 'Tell you what; you and I will wrestle now, on the lawn. Whoever is in the strongest position after two minutes—Clarence you keep the time—will decide.' As Frankie was heavier, taller and more powerful in chest, arms and shoulders, he wasn't worried about the outcome. He reckoned he'd learned plenty from his fight with Massimo.

'And you swear to abide by the winners decision?'

The first flicker of doubt tickled at Frankie's chest. 'Of course. Do you?'

'I swear it.'

Violet and Clarence took their chairs over onto the lawn and sat opposite each other about three metres apart. Frankie and Inesh stood between them, hands on each other's shoulders.

'Please don't hurt me,' Inesh whispered.

'Ditto to you.' Frankie replied.

'Two minutes starting... now!' Clarence called.

Inesh was from the ancient Greek school of wrestling—no holds barred, and before Frankie could move, a bony fist slammed with immense force into the soft spot just below his ribs, winding him.

Heart pounding, diaphragm in spasm, Frankie crumpled. In vain did he thrust his hands into his stomach to try and calm the rapidly vibrating muscle so he could draw breath. He was turning blue, quivering and gasping when Inesh threw him onto his back and repeatedly forced his knees deep into his belly, slamming the diaphragm back into normal mode until Frankie lay gasping like a freshly landed fish, dragging in deep breaths of warm air, head pounding. He looked up to see Violet on the front of her seat, gazing in morbid delight.

'Don't kill him too quickly,' she tittered.

'I won't,' Inesh muttered, pushing Frankie's feet up and over his shoulders to be grabbed by Clarence. When Frankie tried to use his arms, Inesh dragged the hands towards him and knelt on them while shoving a thick finger into his victim's anus.

Frankie's scream of pain triggered laughter.

'He's nice and tight, Clarence. I'm glad I'm going first. Pass us some of that mayonnaise, Violet, that'll loosen him up.'

Giggling like a schoolgirl, Violet poured it over Frankie's groin and remained to watch Inesh withdraw his finger and replace it with...

Inesh's phone rang.

Violet passed it to him. He listened, nodded, and rattled something off in very angry sounding Hindi before snapping the phone closed. He glared at his hosts. 'There's an emergency. I have to go. Violet, get a knife and keep him here till I get back.'

'How long will you be?' Violet stuttered. 'We can't...'

'You can! Only a few minutes.'

Violet returned and jabbed the knife into Frankie's ribs, then Inesh grabbed both his and Frankie's lungis from the line and took off.

As the sound of the vehicle's engine faded Frankie remembered his bicycle. He lay still, pretending he'd fainted. Violet was haranguing Clarence who muttered something angrily. Frankie blanked his mind and reduced his problems to two; get his satchel and escape. After that he'd think again. He shifted and Violet's knife jabbed again. Frankie moaned but remained unconscious.

'He's not that horrible colour any more,' Violet whispered. 'So he isn't going to die.'

'Unless there's internal bleeding.'

'Inesh didn't have time to fuck him.'

'No. Nor did I. Such a pity.'

'We shouldn't have called Inesh. The kid was a soft touch; we could have had him all to ourselves; he seemed to like us.'

'Too late now, you did call him.'

'We'd better tie him up.' Violet passed the knife to Clarence and shuffled away.

Taking his chance Frankie had barely twitched when a sharp pain in his ribs stopped him.

'If you move, this will slide straight through to your heart,' Clarence said coldly. 'I know what I'm doing and it wouldn't be the first time.'

'What're you going to do with me?'

'Tie you up until Inesh gets back.'

'And then what happens?'

'Depends on what he needs. Probably brothel till you're worn out, then spare parts for millionaires with dodgy hearts and kidneys. You're too pretty to waste as slave labour in the mines.' He paused thoughtfully and stroked Frankie's flanks. 'You've beautiful thick skin, so grafts are a possibility.'

'What do you mean?' Frankie couldn't keep the terror from his voice and Clarence smiled.

'It's the latest money-spinner thanks to new drugs that prevent rejection. Nepalese girls' skins have been used for a while to repair deep skin burns or after skin cancer removal, operation scars or simply old age, and now it turns out young men are even better. If the doctors are careful and don't take enough skin to kill the donor, sometimes they can last for years.'

'What do you get out of it?'

'Finder's fee. For you at least two hundred thousand.'

'Rupees?'

'Euros.'

Frankie's imagination worked overtime and he vomited.

'That was a waste of my cooking,' Violet snarled as she returned to expertly tie his ankles together. 'I was a five-star Girl guide,' she announced proudly. 'You'll not get out of that.' She stood and fiddled with another length of strong, thin hempen rope, wondering how best to go about it. 'Prod him to sit up so I can tie his arms behind his back,' she ordered.

Frankie sat without prodding and, with the knife probing ever deeper, allowed Violet to place his hands behind his back, but before she could do more he screamed, 'My eyes! My eyes! They're bursting out. Help! Help! My eyes! Do something! Arghhhhhhhhhh.' The scream, which should have had the entire suburb investigating, triggered an involuntary reflex in both Violet and Clarence who leaned forward to look. With an almighty lunge Frankie brought his hands up and slammed their heads together. The crack was audible and they slumped.

Violet remained still. Clarence groaned and moved groggily so Frankie smashed his fist into the side of his head. Then before removing the rope around his feet he used the one intended for his own arms to tie their necks tightly together and their hands behind their backs. Then he untied himself and lashed their ankles together, pulling the end of the rope up and through the rope around their necks. If they moved they'd strangle themselves. While checking the neck ropes weren't so tight they'd interfere with breathing, he realised Violet had no pulse. He hadn't intended to kill her, so his conscience was clear, but he was glad she would never hurt anyone again. He was angry enough to hope Clarence remained aware long enough to enjoy his situation.

Then he raced inside. His satchel and documents were still there. No time to dress. He took the knife and checked the clock on the sideboard. Four o'clock. It'd be light for another couple of hours. The decision on which way to go was forced by Inesh, whose vehicle pulled noisily into the driveway. Frankie raced out the back door and threw himself into the dense palms and bushes at the rear of the property, less than ten metres from the two bodies as Inesh rounded the corner of the house. For a brief second he stood and gaped, then kneeled and checked if they were alive, giving Frankie time to burrow into leaf litter.

'Help me,' Clarence begged, but Inesh ignored him, standing and staring intently around the garden. Accepting that Frankie had scarpered, he grunted and went into the house. From the noise of opening and closing doors it was clear he was looking for something. After several minutes in which a crawling creature had decided Frankie was a tasty morsel, he returned with a briefcase, a computer, a filing cabinet, both his hosts' phones and a lady's handbag. While he was placing them in his vehicle, Frankie squashed his attacker and slid even further into the moist, muck in case Inesh came prowling.

Instead, he returned and stared down at his two procurers, ignoring Clarence's increasingly anguished cries for help. Suddenly decisive, he slammed his fist into the side of Clarence's head to shut him up then untied both of them, carefully wound up the ropes and hung them on a hook beside the back door. After dragging Clarence inside he returned for Violet, then remained inside for several minutes, closing all windows before exiting, closing the door and driving rapidly away.

Scarcely believing his luck, Frankie slid on his belly through mushy ground to a wire-mesh fence that marked the boundary. Beyond it was a small stream and beyond that another similar fence marking the neighbours property. After a careful look back to make sure no one was watching for him, he was halfway over when a gigantic explosion threw him back on the ground. He stared at a giant fireball that had blown off the sliding doors to the patio and seemed determined to consume the rest of the house.

#  Flight

First the monastery, and now this! Frankie's logical brain refused to accept the coincidence so it shut down and concentrated on escape before the fire brigade arrived, people noticed him, asked questions, then blamed him for arson and murder. Fuck!!! This was not a nice thing to have happened. Ignoring cuts and scratches, Frankie scrambled over the fence, the stream and the neighbour's fence, paused among the trees to rub off the worst of the leaves, mud, blood and other detritus, then put on shorts, shirt and sandals from his satchel. He crept closer to the neighbouring house. There was no sign of life so he risked walking boldly past the verandah, down their drive and out to the street.

But which way? What direction was he facing? Should he go left or right? He'd cycled south from the city on a busy road for about fifteen kilometres to the first beach, then another say five kilometres past the other beaches, then with Inesh about a kilometre east, away from the beach to where he was now. He looked up at the sun, drew an imaginary clock on his palm and made the twelve face the sun. As it was around four-thirty he put his finger on where the number two would be. That was near enough due south. So he faced that way and thought.

They hadn't crossed a busy road in Inesh's car, so he'd better head east to where the road his bus had driven along two days before should be, and maybe there'd be a local bus. The poorly sealed road he was standing on was heading more or less north-east. That would have to do, so he set off. It was hot, his head ached, the cut in his ribs throbbed and mosquitoes came out to play. After several bends and two intersections he arrived at a two-storeyed concrete bunker of a building plastered with large, garish advertisements in Hindi.

Upstairs seemed to be offices, but a wide doorway in the centre at street level offered a shady interior, and a giant banner across the front in violent red, purple and blue proclaimed it was the Al Ameen Super Bazar. Giant photos of a girl and boy ecstatic in delight at the idea of Lazza ice creams, argued with Fundae Carry-Homes and American Ice-cream. He was thirsty and hungry having purged himself of the dreadful lunch, so he entered the large dim supermarket throbbing with refrigeration units, selected a couple of bottles of drink and four cellophane-wrapped food items, then waited until three women in saris had been served before handing his items to the overweight man behind the counter. After scanning the purchases, the assistant said something in Hindi. Frankie smiled and nodded, handed over a note, accepted the change, smiled and nodded again, then asked if there was a bus nearby heading to the centre of the city.

The man raised his eyebrows. 'Ha! I thought you were Ahmed's boy,' he said in a fairly thick accent. 'He's just returned from Mumbai. Do you know him?'

'No, sorry. About that bus?'

'There's one every half hour. Nearest stop is Theatre Junction.'

Frankie looked suitably lost.

The man took him outside and pointed back the way Frankie had come. 'Go down there, first turn right, keep going and you'll get there. Ten minutes.'

'Thanks very much. You are very helpful.'

The man nodded and returned inside.

As soon as he found a secluded spot, Frankie drank the liquid and ate the heavily spiced savoury rolls, then, nervously expecting to be smashed into by Inesh in his wagon, he hid his long hair by concealing it in his other shirt wound around his head, hoping it would look like the turban things worn by the fishermen. After passing dozens of bungalows and a hospital, the road became increasingly commercial and he arrived at the intersection of three roads.

Opposite was a large pale blue and cerise curved building that, according to the sign in both Hindi and English, was the Sree Neelakanta Theatre. Giant posters on the wall facing the street showed large faces of angry men, a woman, and smaller scenes of chaos, suggesting it was a movie theatre, not a live entertainment centre. To the right was a large alamanda bush in full yellow flower. He felt instantly, impossibly homesick. They had one of those beside the house at "85".

Telling himself not to be stupid, he looked around for the bus stop. There were two bakeries, two restaurants, a mini supermarket, an optician and an office block but no obvious bus stop. He asked a passing teenager who pointed to a post in front of the theatre. After ten minutes he'd just decided he was in the wrong place when two young men arrived and confirmed it was where the bus into the city picked up passengers. He relaxed. And then he saw Inesh's vehicle driving slowly down the road he had recently walked. In blind panic, he squatted behind the two young men and pretended to adjust his sandal. They ignored him and Inesh's Tata continued slowly along the road to the city, Frankie's bicycle still strapped to the roof rack.

The bus was packed, which was a blessing. Jammed into the centre aisle he'd not be seen from outside. It was a hot and sweaty ride, but with all the windows open not smelly, and half an hour later it stopped at the terminal where he had arrived. What to do now? It would be dark soon. He didn't want to return to the hotel in case Inesh could somehow find he'd been there. He was still hungry. A table for one at the rear of a large popular restaurant nearby was a temporary refuge while he ate a spicy meal that made him thirsty, so he drank two bottles of water then went to the toilet and saw himself for the first time in a mirror.

What a mess. Hair like a haystack, blood, grass and soil marks on his face and neck, clothes rumpled, hands filthy, eyes staring and chin in need of a shave. In Sydney he'd have been shunned as a homeless bum. Here, people had been as polite as ever. He remembered passing a men's hairdresser, so after splashing water over his face and neck and washing his hands, he allowed himself the luxury of a shave and haircut in the style of other men his age. The result was startling. He looked neat and reliable. Pleasantly ordinary. Less conspicuous. He felt just a little bit safer. It was seven o'clock. Where to spend the night?

Nineteen hours until his flight. Hide in a park? Find a different hotel? Go to the airport to confirm his ticket? But why would he do that? He had a whole day for that tomorrow. Eight hours to sleep, nine more hours to fill. He could buy a book and read for an hour. He shrugged. The problem seemed insurmountable. At any moment Inesh could see him and kill him. He had to hide. The portico of a temple beckoned. Outside, dozens of people were milling, but inside seemed dim and safer. He went in and stood in a corner to think.

'Ok, Shiva,' he whispered, hoping whichever god the temple was dedicated to wouldn't mind, 'Tell me what to do.' As he expected, there was no little voice in his head giving instructions so he wandered out, checked the coast was clear and just started walking. Five minutes later he realised he was on the way to the airport. Impossible to miss being illuminated like a Christmas tree with hundreds of lights draped over the scaffolding-like portico. Inside the great barrel-vaulted concourse, hundreds, if not thousands of travellers and their welcomers or farewellers were milling like colourful sheep. He found the desk for his airline and joined a queue, for once not impatient as it moved slowly forward. The man at the desk scanned the ticket, consulted a screen and frowned.

'That flight has been cancelled,' he said, peering at the screen. 'Union problems in Australia.'

'But what...'

The man held up his finger to stop the questions. 'The next flight with Business Class seats available is with Air India in three days time.'

'I can't wait that long. Is there no alternative?'

'There's a Singapore Airlines flight leaving in two hours, but there are only first Class seats available, do you wish to upgrade?'

'Yes.' Frankie handed over his Debit Card, was relieved when the purchase was approved, and clutched the boarding pass as if it was a life-raft.

'Have you no luggage?'

'No, I sent it on earlier.'

The man nodded.

Wondering why he had suddenly decided to go to the airport, would be the path to madness, Frankie decided. It was merely a coincidence. But that didn't stop him whispering thanks to Shiva.

A shower in the first class departure lounge brought him back to life. A steward found some disinfectant for his cut that was already looking infected. Tea and savouries in the lounge revived him, and two hours and twenty minutes later jet engines throbbed through the seat, he was thrust firmly back into welcoming cushions, and looked out the window with a shudder of relief as the lights of the city dropped away.

'I have escaped,' he whispered before falling asleep.

Four and a half hours later at Changi he made three circuits of the giant concourse to stretch his muscles and restore circulation. Eight hours later he looked down at Sydney through thick smoke. It was a relief to undo seat belts and leave the metal canister, despite acrid smoke that made ten o'clock in the morning seem like ochreous dusk. The sun a red ball in the sky. No one knew he had arrived and he didn't want to tell anyone. He needed time to process the last few days so he wouldn't become hysterical at the telling.

He wandered up to the observation area and watched an Air New Zealand flight land and disgorge its load. Unable to make himself leave the airport and take up his old life, he wandered down to the crowded arrivals court, watching people being met, hugging, laughing, kissing walking excitedly away. A young man remained standing alone in front of a large map of the city, peering at it through horn-rimmed glasses. A suitcase almost touching his leg. He removed his spectacles and peered even closer at some small print. Must be myopic, Frankie thought.

Like a shadow, a figure in dark clothes passed between Frankie and the young man and suddenly the bag was gone. It took precious seconds for Frankie to realise what had happened and set off in pursuit. But it was hopeless. The thief simply disappeared among the milling throng; just another passenger lugging a suitcase.

Frankie ran back to the young man who was staring around in shock. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Frankie ran up and took his arm.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I chased the fellow but he disappeared.'

'But what can I do?' he looked angry rather than fearful. 'Everything I own is in there.'

'Not your passport and money I hope?'

'I've still got my passport from going through customs, but most of my money was in there. I thought it'd be safe. It was practically touching my leg.'

'Tie it to yourself next time. Come on, we'll report it to the Airport Police.'

'But... who are you?' He looked suspicious.

'I didn't take your suitcase. I saw it happen and chased the guy who did, but didn't get a good look at him. Could have been male or female.

'The bastard, now I'm totally fucked.'

'Are you religious?'

'No.'

'Married?'

'No.

'Healthy?'

'Yes. but what has all that to do with it?'

'It helps me decide what I want to do. Who's your favourite living male singer.'

'Um... hang on...' his face lit. 'Bogdan Mihai.'

'Do you think I'm handsome?'

The young man sighed. 'I don't know you well enough to have an opinion yet, but I can't help liking you.'

'Excellent. Let's go to the cops.'

The police took names and addresses—Frankie gave "85" as both their addresses, they made a note of the contents of the bag, a description and what Frankie saw. They held out no hope of finding it, but promised to let them know if it was found abandoned. That sometimes happened.

Frankie led his new acquaintance out to the main concourse and sat him on a seat.

'What are...'

'Shhh.... I'm thinking,' Frankie grinned. 'Ok, now I'm ready. 'If you told the cops the truth, your name is László Brooker, you come from New Zealand, you are twenty-two, you had nearly a thousand dollars in the bag along with your clothes and parting gifts from friends.'

'Yes. Who are you?'

'I'm Frankie Fey, Twenty, resident of the address we gave the cops. Unemployed. How'd you get the name László and that beautiful brown skin?

'My father's Maori and my mother's the daughter of Hungarian immigrants. László is her father's name.'

'Right, László, here's what I suggest. It's getting on for lunchtime, so let's go into town and find something to eat, then we'll sit in the park and tell each other what we want the other to know about ourselves, and then we'll decide what happens next.'

'But I'm expected at my aunt's place. I was going to stay there.'

'Do you like your aunt?'

'She's alright.'

'Give her a ring and tell her something's come up and you'll be late.'

László frowned. 'What exactly has come up?'

'I've decided I like you and want to get to know you.'

'That was quick.'

'He who hesitates is lost. So ring her.'

'How?'

Are you telling me you don't have a little apparatus that snaps open and takes pictures and tells the world where you are and ...'

'No way! Mum tried to make me have one but I knew she'd be forever checking up on me. They're invasions of privacy.'

'Careful, I'm in danger of falling in love with you.'

László grinned. 'Aunt will just have to worry until I get there.'

'If you ever do.'

'Is that a threat or a promise?'

'Yes. But first I need some money.'

Frankie took a couple of thousand dollars from an automatic teller beside one of the Bank branches then they exited the vast concourse, found a taxi, and half an hour later were deposited in the centre of Sydney, having learned that the smoke was from bush fires burning in the mountains to the north-west of the city.

After buying bread rolls, cheese, bottles of drink, two tomatoes, and two bananas, they found a shaded patch of grass under a tree in Hyde Park and tucked in. When both were satisfied, Frankie took fifteen, hundred-dollar notes from his pocket and glared at László. 'Now, I don't want a fight. I am giving you some money. If you argue, I will wrestle you to the ground and stuff the notes into your mouth until you choke.'

'Why?'

'Because I like wrestling.'

'Why are you lending me the money?'

'Not lending—giving. Because I didn't catch the thief and I want you to feel independent and secure and not make decisions because you think you owe me. I can afford it and will not notice its loss. Ok?'

'I feel a fraud.'

'Don't we all.'

Frankie handed László the notes.

He counted them and froze. 'There's five hundred more than was stolen!'

'Your clothes and bag need replacing. So... get comfortable and listen to a brief synopsis of my life.'

# László

Ten minutes later Frankie's tale was done. Brief it had been, but nothing important omitted. László sat in silence while Frankie hoped he hadn't shocked him. Why he cared was something to be thought about later. He only knew it had been essential to be honest. After the debacle with Clarence and Violet he'd promised himself never to trust first impressions again, yet here he was again becoming involved with someone about whom he knew nothing. But this felt different. _Didn't Lucien feel different?'_ asked a little voice inside his head.

'Let me summarise your life.' László's smile was more than a little bemused. You've been orphaned. Abducted. Disorphaned. Educated. Inherited millions. Killed someone. Educated again. Saved someone. Sought enlightenment. Abducted again. Killed again. Discovered religion. Saved someone. Abducted again. Killed again. Rescued me.' He paused and gazed solemnly at Frankie for several seconds. 'Have I missed anything?'

'I don't think there's such a word as disorphaned.'

'Poetic licence. Better than saying you discovered that someone you thought was your father wasn't and someone you thought was an uncle was in fact your father and not dead, don't you think?'

'Absolutely. So... what do you think?'

'I think I am a total wimp. A wee, sleekit, cowering, timorous beastie. I cringe before your godlike form and character.'

'In fear?'

'In homage,'

'So you're not disgusted?'

'With myself?'

'With me, you great galah.'

'Of course not. But there's no way I'm going to tell you my own pathetic history.'

'Not even if I threaten to break your arms and legs and cut you up for dog meat?'

'Not even for that.'

'What if I promise not to laugh or sneer.'

'That would do it.'

'Ok, I promise.'

László sighed, lay back on the grass and gazed at the sky. 'The air is different here than in New Zealand. Warm. Do you know the air never gets warm there; even in Auckland? As soon as you're out of the sun you feel a chill. I don't think I ever really relaxed in that country, and yet here today in a new city with a total stranger I'm feeling completely relaxed for what seems like the first time in my life.'

'Probably because you're not likely to meet anyone you know.'

'Yes. Yes, that's it! There I always felt watched and evaluated. Always someone ready to tell me what I should be doing, how I should be behaving. "Oh László, you can't think that. You can't say that. When are you getting married? Please don't tell me you're queer. Your hair need cutting. You're too skinny. Put on some weight. You must come to this concert. You can't like opera, that's so gay. Why are you always alone?" He looked shamefacedly at Frankie. 'I realise that every young – or in my case youngish - person gets more or less the same treatment, but it doesn't seem to worry them. They just laugh or say fuck off or ignore it. But I can't. I have this insane urge; this self-destructive urge to be agreeable, to appease, to propitiate.'

'Ok, that's your psychological history covered, what about the physical?'

'Please try not to be so compassionately caring and concerned about my feelings, it's embarrassing.'

'Ok. But get on with it.'

'Primary school; no problem. High school no problems apart from boredom and discovering I'm not a team player. I keep fit but don't like organised sport. A few years ago my mother became infected with a severe case of Orthodox Catholic Bigotry and discarded me when she realised she wasn't going to be a grandmother. Dad took off to his _tangata whenua,_ ancestral lands near the Bay of Islands, to live with his relations who grow their own food, catch crayfish and think they're living like their ancestors before the Pakehas came and stuffed everything up. Got into the University Music Conservatory, but they concentrated on modern crap so I dropped out and managed a music store that was already on its last legs because of the Internet being an easier and cheaper source of CDs and DVDs. When that folded I was editor of a niche Press, publishing works of independent, off-centre authors. But eBooks and Indie Internet publishing sites like Smashwords and Amazon closed us down. So with no prospects and no friends I'd miss, I put my life's savings into a suitcase and bought a one way ticket to Australia.'

'Where we're either drought struck or waterlogged, unemployment is ten percent, millions are homeless, violence, suicide and crime are rife, the climate has become the enemy, laws are increasingly repressive, minorities are constantly threatened with abuse, violence and injustice, and the gap between rich and poor has become an unbridgeable chasm?'

'Don't tell me... you work for the tourism board?'

'How'd you guess.'

'If Australia's so bad, why did you return?'

'Because the rest of the world's the same. And I love Ingenio and want to be near him.'

'Then why are you with me instead?'

'Good question. I've no idea what you think of me, or even if you think of me at all. But when I saw you peering myopically at the map on the wall at the airport, I was curious. Then as soon as I heard you speak I wanted to know you. But realised that if I didn't leap right in and invite myself into your life I would lose the chance. But if I acted too precipitously and skipped the interview, I might arrive home with a gorgeous young man who didn't like me, and who I would dislike after a couple of days.'

'You want to _know_ me.' László pursed his lips as if considering the implications. 'Biblically?'

'That as well.'

'Try before you buy?'

'More or less.'

'What makes you think I'm gay?'

'I don't.'

'Then what do you think?'

'I think you're an attractive individual with whom I'd like to spend the night in a hotel so we can both see how we feel in the morning. I've a desire deep inside me for a lover, a friend, one person to love and cherish to the exclusion of all others, and in a moment of madness I wondered if you were the one. Some Enchanted Evening and all that crap.'

'It isn't crap and not yet evening, but mightn't your hopes be a consequence of your traumatic experiences?'

'Yes, but I've always felt like this, which is why I don't have the sort of casual friends most people have, because they seem a waste of time – and they usually think I'm slightly mad.'

'Did my answers to those questions you asked me at first, have any bearing on this?'

'Indeed they did. Your responses indicated we are in accord; even liking Bogdan Mihai. I like him best in Aurelio in Palmira, what's your favourite?'

'The Prince in Cenerentola.'

'Good choice. So... what are your thoughts on my proposal.'

'If you don't think I'm gay, why do you imagine I'd like to spend the night with you?'

'Because you've put up with my nonsense and not been repelled or become irritated.'

'Amused, actually.'

'There you are! We're men with similar ideas and ways of thinking.'

'But individuals.'

'Of course, and that means our choice of partner doesn't imply we have anything in common with other men who like men. And if you don't tell me to shut up I'll never stop.'

'You can shut up for now. We'll continue this engrossing discussion tonight in bed. Ok?'

Frankie literally glowed. 'What about your aunt?'

'There isn't one.'

'Then why...?'

'So you wouldn't feel sorry for me and imagine I needed help.'

'You're a danger to yourself.'

'But constantly on the alert.'

They caught a bus to Bondi, then walked south along the coast ending up at Coogee Beach where they took a room in a private hotel right on the waterfront and deposited their valuables in the hotel safe. The waves looked just right, the air clean and the sea limpid. As neither had swimming togs they wore the two unused bikini briefs Frankie had bought in Chennai. They swam and body surfed and swam again and chased each other through the waves and made sand castles before showering the sand off, dressing and finding a restaurant where they lingered and laughed and chattered and discovered they'd both enjoy a walk along the beach back to their hotel. Once in their room with the door locked they stood calmly, searching each other's face for confirmation.

'What'll we do, László?'

'We will stand naked, facing each other, and honestly describe the other's body so we know exactly what the other thinks of us, and... and I will know if I have to feel inadequate because you're stronger, more muscled, more attractive than me, and...' he stopped. Nervous. Embarrassed. Shrugged and stared at his feet.

'You're saying that physical attraction is as important as mental?'

'Yes... at least at the beginning. At least until we're both in our fifties and starting to decay.'

'I don't intend to decay until I'm at least seventy-five.'

'That's a relief. The thought of settling down with a handsome hunk who then gets fat and jowly is totally off putting. As my Mother used to sing before Jesus made her stupid, _Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved.'_

'She was right. We know we like each other's minds, but do we like each other's bodies? I agree it's important. I've known several people I really like talking to and arguing with but couldn't bear for them to touch me, nor me to touch them. We've been practically naked on the beach all afternoon, and I liked what I saw, but neither of us dared look too closely; so, off with the clothes!'

They took it in turns to inspect, starting at the toes and finishing with the scalp. It was a surprise to neither that they both needed to augment sight and touch with smell and taste, and obviously lips gave more information than anything else when it came to really sensitive areas.

For what seemed like five minutes but was more than an hour, they gazed into each other's eyes, unable to look anywhere else being pressed tightly together from top to toe.

'I can't find any fault,' Frankie said with a worried frown.

'I'm myopic and wear glasses.'

'Which make you look even more handsome and intelligent.'

'You have a magnificent nose. I'm embarrassed at mine; it's so wide.'

'Put your glasses on, László. People have asked if they can use my nose as a billboard, whereas yours is mathematically and aesthetically perfectly in proportion to the rest of your face.'

'I think yours is perfect. I don't trust men with small noses. It gives you character. Makes you look even more distinguished.'

'Your skin is flawless. A smooth velour the colour of golden syrup that seamlessly encloses the body I would have designed, were I a designer of bodies.'

'Even though my hips are nearly as wide as my shoulders?'

'That's for stability and endurance. I don't want a man who will compete with me, I want someone to complement me. I'm a sprinter; you're a long distance runner. Together we can do anything we choose.'

'I give in,' László said with a dispirited sniff, 'I can't find any faults in your body. Even your sticking out ears make me want to kiss them.'

'I've a similar problem. I look at your bristly black hair and long fingers and cute bum and want to lick you all over to make sure you're real.'

'Sounds reasonable. So, what'll we do now?'

'Continue exploring until we get bored and fall asleep?'

'Or have an orgasmic experience.'

'Sounds even more fun.'

And so they did, waking when the sun streamed into their room, for another exploration before racing into the sea to wash off the debris deposited during their hours of orgasmic investigation.

After breakfast they paid their bill then lay on the sand to decide their future.

'So, László Brooker, do you take me, Frankie Fey as your devoted lover for a long, long time?'

'I do. And do you, Frankie Fey take me, László Brooker to be your devoted lover for just as long?'

'I do.'

They checked that no one was watching and enjoyed a short, chaste but groin-tingling kiss to seal their vow.

Ingenio answered the phone. 'Yes?'

'Ingenio, it's Frankie. I'm in Sydney and will be home in a couple of hours.'

'Frankie! That's wonderful! I mean really, really fantastically wonderful! We were starting to get worried. How are you?'

'Never better. And I'll be bringing my partner, László.'

'The news gets better and better.'

'Are you guys Ok?'

'Never better. Thought we were going to be burnt out yesterday, but the wind changed and for the time being we're Ok.'

'Looks as if I've come back in time.'

'Indeed. Well, I'll get the kettle on and...' he sniffed. 'Oh fuck, I'm crying, blubbing all over the phone. Frankie you've no idea how happy, relieved and crazily excited I am to hear you. I've felt amputated all the time you were away. I'll hang up before salty water gets in the electronics. Be quick... and love to László.'

Frankie too was crying when he replaced the receiver. László grasped his arm, 'Are you Ok? Is it bad news?'

'No... the best. I just hadn't realised how much I love Ingenio and how much I was missing him. I'm a big baby inside.

*****

### About the Author

Back to Top

Rigby lives with his partner on several forested hectares in subtropical Queensland where droughts are getting longer and rains less frequent. He hopes everything won't go belly up before he karks it. Meantime, abundant wildlife keeps him interested, maintenance keeps him fit, his partner keeps him sane, and writing novels about sensible young men keeps him happy.

Thanks for reading Frankie. If you enjoyed it, please tell everyone you know and try my other novels.

Contact: Email: rigbyte@gmail.com

Find my other books here:

Rough Justice

Dome of Death

Sebastian

Jarek

Mortaumal

Fidel

NumbaCruncha

Time to Think

Dancing Bare

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