Trash - Chapter Ten and Eleven

Chapter Ten

Jason arrived home at twelve o'clock.

His home was set a little apart from the other caravans in the park. His mother had been persuasive. The manager could see her point. She needed more privacy than his other tenants.

The dusty old mobile home sat, neglected, surrounded by empty bottles and bags of rubbish. The lights told him his mother was still up. He didn't expect her to be worried. He ignored the flash car parked nearby.

When he entered the caravan his mother was talking earnestly to a small, balding man who was perched on the bench at the end of the rickety table.

"Oh, Jason. This is Mr Raven, a friend of your father's."

"So you're Jason," said B.B. Raven. "Very like your father."

Jason sat sullenly on the bed. He had no reason to trust his father's friends.

"Just wanted to talk to him. Bit of business. Never knew he had such a lovely family."

Helen, woken by the conversation, was sitting on the bed next to Jason. B.B. stared at her.

"Yes, a lovely family. Your daughter should be taking acting lessons, Mrs Larsen."

Jason felt his spine prickle as B.B. spoke.

"Shall have to visit again. Please take this and buy a new dress for that angel." As he left the small room B.B. Raven dropped a fifty dollar note on the table.

"We don't want your money," growled Jason, but his mother quickly snatched the money out of his reach.

"Thank-you Mr Raven. Please excuse the boy - you know how they are at his age."

Raven turned and looked at Jason.

"Yes," he said, and walked to his car.

"Flash as a rat with a gold tooth," Richard muttered to himself.

His hunch had paid off. There was Raven himself, paying a call on Larsen. Only Larsen wasn't there. Larsen hadn't been anywhere lately. Richard Rank knew it because he'd looked for him everywhere. A dusty old caravan in a flea-bitten caravan park was his last hope.

Of all the gin joints in all the world . . . Richard knocked on the flimsy door, rattling everything in the rusting mobile sardine tin.

"Hello. Is Ralph Larsen there?"

Maggie Larsen peered around her son, who was blocking the doorway.

"Who wants to know?"

"Richard Rank. Private investigator."

"Clear off then. I don't have to tell you anything."

"I think your husband has information that could lead to the arrest of a very dangerous man."

"Well I don't know where he is!"

Sometimes the direct approach didn't work.

"What do you know about B.B. Raven?"

The silence was deafening. Richard was certain he could hear Maggie's make-up creaking. Maybe it was the rickety 'van.

"We don't know anything," said Maggie, tightening her grip on the fifty dollar note. It was safely in her pocket, caressing her fingers. Money talked. Richard reached the same conclusion.

"It's pretty silly to be silent when a few words in the right ear could be so profitable for all of us." Richard Rank absently pulled his wallet from his pocket. He inspected it's contents. When no-one spoke he shrugged and put it away.

"Pity. Still, if you happen to remember anything, or if Larsen comes home, you might want to get in touch." Richard took the pen from his pocket. He scrawled his phone number on the wall next to the door. He didn't think it would matter if he did. Then he left.

Bertha was parked at a discreet distance. He had nearly reached her when the boy caught up with him. The look on the kid's face said it all. The lanky youth was fighting to be free of the hands held out to him, hands offering to help - help him into the half-life of societies lowest. Raised amongst trash, he could no longer stand the stink.

Richard Rank thought back twenty years. He stared into his own eyes.

"You got something to say, kid?"

"What's he done?"

"Your Dad?"

"No. That Raven bloke."

"Be easier to tell you what he hasn't done, son. The man's a real slime."

"Why do you want my Dad?"

"He can help me nail Raven."

"Why should I help you?" Jason stood, watching Richard warily.

"Because it'll make you feel good," said Richard. He took out his wallet.

Jason muttered an address. He watched the money that emerged from Richard's wallet. He took it. Looking at the money, he walked quickly off into the night.

It wasn't much of a lead. But they do say "Out of the mouths of babes . . .". Richard climbed into Bertha. He thought about the babe he should be talking to. But there was no point thinking about that now. She would have to wait until later. When all of this was over.

Chapter Eleven

The mob of screaming girls surprised Cassie. For a moment she stopped to watch them. Most seemed younger than Linda. Cassie wondered if their mothers knew where they were. Then she looked at their clothes. She decided they had changed after they left home. Clad in an assortment of torn jeans and underwear, the girls wore edge fashions. With make-up over-done and clothing under-done, the teenagers wept, screamed and tried to break through the security cordon in the hotel lobby.

On a sudden impulse, Cassie joined them. She stood at the edge of the small crowd, observing for a time, then approached a girl who had fallen to the back of the others for a quiet cigarette. The girl crouched, waif-like despite her aggressive costume, supporting herself by leaning her back against a pillar. Her black dress was old and torn. Her face was heavily made up. Grotesque jewellery hung about her. Her hair was indescribable.

"Hi," said Cassie, wishing she had the benefit of some of Annie's experience and confidence when dealing with adolescents.

The girl looked at Cassie. Cassie was unnerved by the shrewd intelligence that gleamed in the dark eyes.

"What're you doin' 'ere?" the girl asked.

"I wanted to know why you were here."

"You a reporter?"

"Yes. I'm doing a story on Ezekial's Armageddon, and I thought it might be interesting to get things from the point of view of the fans."

"Huh!"

Cassie was surprised by the wicked grin on the girl's face.

"Come on, let 'em have their fun," the young woman continued, gesturing towards the girls who milled about, eager for a glimpse of the objects of their fantasies. "They're probably safer here than visiting their boyfriends. They won't get any closer to a man than they're getting to those security gorillas."

"Excuse me," said Cassie, slightly bewildered. "You speak as though you're not one of them. Aren't you here to see Ezekial's Armageddon?"

The girl now laughed, a rattling laugh that was quickly stopped by a hacking cough. After a few moments she regained her voice.

"Look, lady, the kids here have to have something to do with their time. They'll stand here and scream and then they'll go home and Mummy'll tuck 'em up safe in bed. Next week they'll have forgotten this lot and be head over heels in love with the next media-created pop hero. So what! Are you goin' to write how terrible it is? What's so terrible about it? They've got something to dream about. There are worse dreams around."

The girl ground out her cigarette and began to move away from Cassie.

"No wait, please," asked Cassie, touching the girl lightly on the arm. "I don't understand. Why are you here?"

"Me?" The girl chuckled wickedly. "Everybody's got to be somewhere. Besides," she said over her shoulder as she walked away, "they pay me real well to do this."

The girl pushed her way to the front of the crowd as some photographers began preparing to shoot. She put her hands to her head and began sobbing and shouting, "'Zeke, I love you!" The photographers began framing her in their photos, but were so busy with their equipment that they didn't see her wink as Cassie walked past. Cassie smiled.

The band was late for the interview. Cassie had expected them to be. She had done several interviews in the weeks since she was forced into her new position. The worst had been a young girl who was being promoted as the next Kylie, and who kept her waiting for an hour and a half while she talked to her mother on the phone. Cassie had found that people in this industry had a rather relaxed attitude to time.

This time it suited her, though. She had brought the background details with her and sat and studied them while she waited. Around her other journalists were taking their ease and gossiping. Cassie exchanged brief greetings with one or two who she recognized.

There were only five other journalists in the room with Cassie. The photographers formed a separate group to one side, exchanging stories and looking as though they could have been hired by "rent-a-party".

Justin, or "Scoop", as he had told Cassie to call him, was with the rowdy group. He looked like Jimmy Olsen gone punk. While the clothing and hairstyle were very convincing, his face beamed out from below the spikes, innocent and eager.

The information in front of Cassie was not all that interesting. She ploughed through the list of bands that each member of "Armageddon" had played with and read the biographies with an increasing belief that some-one must have typed out the same story six times by mistake, then shuffled around some dates and places so that it wasn’t too obvious. The names had been changed to protect the guilty, but the story was the same.

The most recent information consisted of a press release that had been put out by the band's promoters. It included details of the revised tour schedule and explained the reason for the postponement. The band had been ready to go and had even rehearsed in front of home crowds in the States, but Ezekial had disappeared. Frantic efforts had failed to locate him and the tour had been postponed. Then, the day before the tour had originally been going to start he had walked into a session with the band as though he'd never been gone.

Cassie could still remember the publicity that had been provoked by the whole business. The `Daily Eye' had put her story on the front page, "Pop Star Kicks Habit", with more in the entertainment pages. It wasn’t a story she had felt proud to see her tag attached to. At the time there had been press conferences and endless talk about the subject, but the "Eye" had insisted that she simply use all the existing information from the wire service. Her boss had been surprised and pleased when Cassie had been able to get a position in this informal meeting before the band played their first Australian concert.

It hadn't been that difficult. After trying to get straight answers out of politicians who were never there when you wanted to talk to them, Cassie was finding her new job far too easy. Jockeying for a position with this select group of journalists had almost been challenging. Cassie looked about her at the group in the room. Some of them looked as though they had just stepped out of a video clip. The promoters had been glad to have Cassie join the interview. The presence of a "real" journalist would lend credibility to their act.

Having read through the material in front of her, Cassie began to lazily flip through the accompanying photos. She was trying to sort out a different approach for her article. The papers had already run the predictable stories and Cassie had seen the official T.V. interview. The "agent provocateur" in the crowd below seemed to be the most controversial line to pursue, but Cassie wasn't sure that she wanted to harm any of the excellent anti-drug propaganda that the band had been able to generate.

Cassie was amused by the photographs. The band members stood, self-consciously tough, dressed in clothes that were carefully chosen to make them look spontaneously alluring. One photo had the band crawling through a holocaust scene, hair shining and carefully arranged in amongst the dust and destruction. The final series, of individual band-members, invited their audience into personal fantasies. The dominant, leather-look was, Cassie decided, somewhat predictable.

The final photo, of Ezekial, was a little different. An insert to the photo showed him sitting on a rock staring out to sea. The main photo showed the face as it gazed, handsome and brooding. Cassie found herself oddly drawn to the dark eyes and strong features.

"No wonder those girls are swooning outside," she mused.

A sudden quietening in the room and a stir at the door announced the arrival of the band. Cassie sorted the folder on her knee and arranged her notebook and recorder. She looked up to find the band sitting in front of her smiling and playing up to the photographers while the other journalists organized themselves.

Cassie now studied the members of "Ezekial's Armageddon". She decided they were a fairly good-looking group of men, but once again found herself attracted to Ezekial himself.

The band's promoter, thoroughly enjoying his role of host to the event, now introduced the band-members. Then the journalists who were present were asked to introduce themselves. Cassie was oddly nervous, and aware only of the dark eyes of Ezekial watching her. When John from "Disc" magazine began the questions Cassie was relieved. Ezekial now turned to John.

"Yes. Giving up the drugs is what everybody seems to be most interested in." Cassie tried to prevent her gasp from being audible. "I would have thought you'd have heard enough about it already!"

"Could we hear it again, anyway? In person, you know."

Ezekial shrugged. "It's a bit hard to explain. I just decided one day that I wanted to be in control of my own life. . ." Cassie checked that her recorder was operating and began regaining control of herself before anyone noticed her agitation. Ezekial continued with his story and every word he spoke echoed in her mind making her certain. Yet, how could this be the same dishevelled man who had rescued her from those thugs at Refuge Cove?

" . . . so once I knew I could manage without my needles I went back to the band. I was glad to be back with my friends."

The other band members nodded. Biter, the group's drummer, spoke.

"We was glad to 'ave 'im back. The band ain't the band wivout 'Zeke."

A reporter that Cassie did not recognize now spoke.

"Ratso, there is always a lot of talk about drugs in the music scene. Are any of the other band-members using drugs?"

Sump Oil snarled but was restrained by a friendly arm from Hammers, the keyboard wizard.

"Look, I don't know what your industry is like here Down Under," said Ratso, "but back home it's tough. You have to be good to get anywhere. We don't let anything interfere with playing our music and playing it well."

"It's not fair to attack the band for my problem," said Zeke. "They looked after me and carried me when I didn't really deserve it. The bad shows I did because I was just too stoned aren't a secret. They're good people. Leave them alone."

Cassie's spine prickled. She turned and glared at the journalist, like every-one else in the room, but as she silently expressed her outrage at his attack on the good name of the band members, she remembered the night that her place of sanctuary had been threatened. She remembered a voice that had to be obeyed. The spell lifted a little and she looked towards 'Zeke.

Her eyes locked with his. She felt naked but unable to leave the visual embrace that reached out towards her. When the other journalists stirred 'Zeke looked away and Cassie was left more flustered than ever.

Her heart was pounding and she tried to wish away the flush in her cheeks. She withdrew into herself, seeking calm. Eventually she was able to follow the drift of the conversation. The reporters were asking the band about various exploits, about their private lives and the truth of a variety of rumours. When Cassie regained control Ratso was telling a rather tasteless story about Hammers.

"So there was Hammers, having an intensely personal moment with one of the fans when his old lady walks in. She just sits down and waits, cool as you please, and when he's done she says, "I wonder if I could speak to you about the `faithful' part of the contract?" Hammers would've jumped out of his pants if he'd had'em on."

Cassie didn't join in the polite laughter that followed the story. She looked at Zeke, finding that she was now less unsettled by his gaze. She suddenly realized that all the talk had focused on the group's past, apart from some general chatter about the tour that had brought them here.

"Will Zeke be taking a more active role in the band now?" she found herself asking. "How is this going to affect your music: do you expect that you may be taking some new directions?"

The members of Ezekial's Armageddon were quiet, and looked at one another, slightly at a loss.

"I have suggested some changes to the others, but they're not too sure," replied Zeke.

"Yeah, like, we just wanna keep makin' music and havin' a good time and makin' the crowds happy," said Biter as the others nodded agreement. All, that is, except the lead guitarist, Tristan.

"I think that Zeke's right," said the softly spoken guitarist. "There's no reason for our music to suffer because of what Zeke wants. It's time we stood up and said something worthwhile."

Michelle from the `Chronicle' was quick to see the newsworthiness of this apparent dissent.

"What is it that you want to do?" she asked.

Zeke hesitated before speaking.

"It's probably not fair to say this in public - you have to understand that what I'm saying is my own point of view, nothing to do with the band. It's just that I strongly believe that we can't go on ignoring what's happening in the world today. Every individual has to do what they can.

"This world is becoming more polluted every day. We’re only just beginning to understand the consequences of this. Global Warming isn’t the only problem. How this world will be in fifty years time is something we can only guess at, but there isn't any-one left who says that what we're doing hasn’t already upset the delicate balance of this planet.

"This is such a beautiful world! How can we let it be destroyed when we know that it won't benefit any-one in the long run? We have to do something now, before it's too late."

The appeal in Zeke's voice touched every-one present.

"He is right you know," said Ratso to the rest of the group. All of them nodded in agreement and Sump Oil grunted movingly.

Cassie found herself strangely detached from the emotion in the room.

"So your band will be joining the growing number of entertainers who are making capital out of political issues."

The other journalists looked at her in astonishment. Zeke was unruffled as he spoke.

"The band hasn't even decided what it will be doing. I have made my position clear and will stick to that whatever the band decides.

"This isn't about personal gain - not for me. If anything, that's what I'm most opposed to. So much of the trouble facing the Earth today can be traced back to the greed of a few people who already have more than they need anyway. One thing that I will insist on, though, is that the band cleans up it's own act. There's no point in talking about helping the environment if your own actions are harming it."

"Does this mean that Ezekial will try to stop Armageddon?" Every-one in the room laughed at John's rather weak joke, even Cassie, glad of an excuse to ease the tension.

"Well, thanks everybody," said the promoter, suddenly anxious to end the interview. "I think that'll about do it for today." It was fairly obvious that he had been unaware of Zeke's new political conscience.

The group posed for a few last shots, some with the reporters so that their papers could prove that they had really interviewed the stars. Cassie was uncomfortable, standing so close to Zeke for the benefit of the cameras, and unable to approach him.

She was reluctant to leave, but desperately needed fresh air. The band had been whisked away by the time Cassie left the other journalists arranging a meeting-place for their liquid lunch.

She had not gone far down the corridor when a hand grasped her firmly by the arm.

"I have to talk to you," said Zeke. He led her to a nearby empty room.

Cassie found herself standing, speechless, looking into Zeke's eyes. It was Zeke who broke the spell. Now that they were alone he seemed uncomfortable. He walked over to the window and scrutinized the street below.

"What did you want to speak to me about?" Cassie finally asked.

Zeke looked at her again and opened his mouth as if to speak. His hand reached briefly towards her, then he abruptly changed his stance.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not quite myself at the moment and . . . you are so attractive." Once again his manner softened, until he shook himself gently, shrugging away his mood, and continued speaking. "You recognize me, of course."

"Yes. And I want to thank you for helping me. I owe you a great deal."

"I only did what had to be done." He paused. "I need your help now."

Cassie was bewildered. Zeke continued.

"It would be very difficult to explain to people just how I got to be in a position to help you. I was . . . withdrawing from heroin, and I came into this country illegally. I wasn't thinking very straight at the time."

"You want me to keep it to myself?"

"Yes. Please." If Cassie had not already owed this man so much she would certainly have been moved by the entreaty in his plea. It was unnecessary. Again she found herself locked in his gaze.

And again he broke away.

"I have to go." He began walking to the door. As he passed Cassie he stopped. He rested his hands on her shoulders. One hand caressed her neck and gently cupped her chin. "I wish things were different," he said wistfully.

"The tour only lasts for three months," continued Zeke. "When it's over I want to come back here. Can I see you then?"

"Yes."

For a brief, electric moment Zeke's lips brushed against Cassie's: then he was gone.

Trash - Chapters 6,7,8 and 9

Chapter Six

"When's Annie picking you up?"

"About eleven."

"That's only three hours!"

"It's long enough."

"If we went straight to the dance we could be there for a couple of hours before we had to leave."

"You don't have to come!"

Linda strode ahead. James hesitated for a moment, then ran to catch up.

"I'm sorry, Linda. I know you have to do this, even if I don't understand why."

Linda was angry now. "It was all your idea in the first place, you know. We wouldn't have to come here if..."

"I know, Linda. I said I was sorry, and I want to be with you. Anyway," James smiled apologetically, "I wouldn't let any-one go to Morgan's place by themselves. Anything could happen."

As Linda's anger passed, James put his arm around her shoulders.

"There it is."

The street differed from other streets as much or as little as any other suburban street. The house that they approached had once looked very like those that it stood among. It no longer did. The other suburban front yards, in varying degrees of neatness, stopped abruptly at the fences which separated Morgan's house from the rest of the street.

The house itself could barely be seen. It peeped from behind a jungle of trees and shrubs, amongst which were woven creepers and flowers which had been allowed to sow themselves from the garden that must once have been tended in the now-wild yard. Strangely, there was not the host of weeds which would usually be at home in such an unkempt environment.

Linda and James walked through a tunnel in the vegetation towards the front door. As they drew closer they could hear voices chanting to the rhythm of a crude drum. James knocked carefully on the front door. The chanting stopped and they heard someone speaking inside, their irritation penetrating the walls.

"Morgan! Would you get your friends out of here! We don't want to be disturbed!"

Footsteps approached the door. It creaked open and Morgan peered out at them. Past him, Linda caught a glimpse of a room that was lit by candles and filled with a haze of smoke. A pungent incense wafted out the door and evaporated when it reached fresh air. Naked figures stirred the smoke, moving like sleepwalkers. Morgan stepped onto the verandah and closed the door behind him.

"What do you want?" he said as he tied the sash on a striking red kimono. Linda and James were lost for words. "Never mind. Let's go round the back." Then he lowered his voice. "Thanks for giving me an excuse to get out of the house. Sometimes I hate it when the relatives fly in."

As he led them round the side of the house, Linda nearly tripped over a stack of old brooms.

"Careful!"

She shook her head. Surely not?

Morgan took them to a bungalow in the back corner of a yard that appeared to be better kept than the front yard. There were rows of plants, carefully tended, only none of them were familiar to Linda. James kept a firm grip on her hand.

The inside of the bungalow was a strange combination of a teenager's room, complete with posters and mess, and a display room of occult wares. Next to posters of Venom and AC/DC were astrological charts. The shelf space was occupied by sports trophies and statues of pagan deities.

James paused in front of a particularly graphic fertility statue.

"Your olds don't mind you having this stuff?" he asked as he ogled the disproportionate phallus. Morgan stopped clearing a space for them to sit.

"Oh that. That was my thirteenth birthday present."

"Oh."

"Look, I'm sorry about all this. This is why I didn't want you to come to my place last time. I know a lot of people think that it's all a bit weird."

"A bit?!" Linda gently elbowed James in the ribs. She found her surroundings somewhat unsettling, but had decided that she was in no danger.

"Yeah, well . . . My parents have always been . . . different, and I guess I sort of inherited it. When I was younger I tried being normal, but it just didn't work. So I just try to keep all this, you know, sort of low-profile."

"It can't be easy."

"No." Morgan turned to Linda. "It's not really the sort of place you feel great about bringing friends home to muck about. What's wrong?" Morgan suddenly took Linda's hand. "Stand here," he ordered. She stood where he indicated, on a symbol carved into the floorboards. He stood back and scrutinized her. "You've been near a manifestation. What happened?"

Linda sighed with relief. At least he would believe her. She sat weakly in a now-empty chair and spoke, barely able to tell the absurd tale. James sat on the arm of the chair, his arm round her shoulder, a little bewildered, but determined to protect her at all costs.

Linda described her visitor from the Twilight Zone, although she did not mention the name that the apparition had thundered from the doorway. While Morgan stood in the centre of the room, deep in contemplation, James roused himself and demanded, "You can't expect any-one to believe that, surely? I mean, this all started as a joke. It was all just a bit of fun." He looked from Linda to Morgan, and then back at Linda again.

"You were so upset I didn't know what to do. You wouldn't even tell me why. I didn't think you'd take me seriously when I said you should get Morgan to help you. I just wanted to cheer you up. It was a joke!"

Morgan listened but said nothing.

"What's happened, Linda? What's wrong? I don't understand . . . Why are you telling this ridiculous story?"

"Because it's true," said Morgan.

"Don't give me that bullshit! What is this? You reckon you can use this stupid . . fantasy, so you can crack onto her or something?"

"Don't James! Morgan's just trying to help."

"Surely you can see for yourself, James. There is something very wrong. There seem to be two problems, though. One is that I did something wrong and for some reason Linda copped what was meant for some-one else. The other is that Linda hasn't told us what's really going on. Maybe if you did we could both help," said Morgan, turning to James.

James grabbed Morgan's shoulder. "Leave her alone, you freak!"

Morgan didn't react. He was used to this sort of attitude. "I may be a 'freak', but I don't expect people to put up with me if they don't want to. You can leave whenever you want."

"Stop it!"

They both looked at Linda.

"Just stop it," she groaned, giving way to her need to weep.

James went to her and put his arms around her. Morgan paused, then began to rummage about in a trunk of books, papers and assorted unidentifiable objects. He finally drew out a well-worn volume and began to read.

Linda regained her poise and spoke.

"Look Morgan, I'm sorry about all this. You've been really good to try and help, you had no reason to. But, it's just not worth it. I just want all this to stop. I don't want to see any more ghosts."

Morgan finished the page he was scanning and replied, "You won't. This is the text that has the bit on vengeful apparitions - I used it when we had the seance. The tricky bit was that you won't tell me the full story. I didn't think it would matter - I sort of rigged things a bit, but, according to this, even if I mucked it up, the manifestation should have dissipated by now. It won't be bothering anybody. You say it appeared on Tuesday night?"

"Yes."

"Well, no sweat. It's all over."

"Oh. Thank goodness."

The silence in the room was disturbed only by the sound of frenzied chanting from the house. The voices reached a shrieking climax, then trailed away.

"That's obscene," commented James in disgust.

"You don't know what you're talking about," replied Morgan. "Although I am rather glad I didn't have to be there," he added drily.

"Is it always like this around here?" asked Linda.

"Sometimes it's worse," answered Morgan, with a smile.

"You know, you're pretty friendly for a big, mean wizard," accused James.

Morgan shrugged. "You work pretty hard at being Mr Popular. Maybe I reckon it's easier to let people think what they're going to think anyway. At least this way people leave me alone."

James snorted. "So your excuse for being a weirdo is that you're a weirdo."

Again Morgan shrugged. This time Linda spoke.

"You're being mean, James. All Morgan's done is try to help and there's been no harm done."

"No. Except that you've gone soft in the head and started having hallucinations."

Linda reached up and thumped James on the shoulder. He grabbed his arm and fell against the wall, groaning with feigned pain. Morgan smiled at the performance and decided he should be more hospitable.

"Would you like a drink or something."

"Do you have any of that stuff you see on T.V.? You know, with smoke coming from it - like on The Addams Family."

Linda hit him again.

"We're supposed to be meeting the others at the dance." A thought struck her. "Why don't you come too?"

Both James and Morgan were astonished by the idea. Morgan shook his head and was about to decline. Suddenly the brief quiet was pierced by a wailing from the house. Morgan wilted visibly.

"Oh no. It's my cousin, Harriet. Hells bells! O.K. Just give me a minute. I'd better tell the folks."

He left the bungalow before James could say a word. After he left, James found his tongue.

"What did you want to do that for?"

"Because I like him, and I really do owe him a favour. And besides, Nicole didn't have any-one to go to the dance with."

James broke into laughter. As he clutched at his stomach he managed to gasp, "Nicole is gonna kill you."

Chapter Seven

"What a mess!"

Fargoth and Zpud sat in the common room of the satellite port. Their craft had docked a short time ago. They were taking their ease, waiting for the summons to come. The other beings in the room kept a polite distance, but Skrunch strode over, buzzing with curiosity.

"Zpud! Fargoth! The whole planet is glowing. You must tell me. What happened?"

"You know that we can't talk to you until we've been examined by the Council." Fargoth was stern. Things were bad enough without complicating matters with gossip.

"But Fargoth, my dear, surely you realize that I am the best person to help you?"

"That isn't the point, Skrunch," responded Zpud. "More broken rules will not mend the ether."

"Don't quote proverbs at me! Why, you will always be younger than I. You can't be certain that you know what's at stake."

"And you were not with us when we surveyed the young planet we have just left. What is happening is too important to be settled by the grapevine." Fargoth was spared any need to continue by the crackling of the communicator.

"Attention! Will the crew of the Survey Craft Epsilon report to Council Interview immediately. Crew of Survey Craft Epsilon to Council Interview immediately!"

Fargoth and Zpud did not rush. As they left the common room, other members of the crew fell into step behind them. Skrunch, along with the other beings who were left in the relaxation area, glared after them, barely able to control their overwhelming curiosity. "I could be observing history being made," Skrunch muttered, annoyed at being denied an exclusive titbit.

They settled themselves comfortably for the interview. Fargoth and Zpud had been formally supported by the crew, and would speak for all, unless another crew member saw the need to add to what passed. As Speakers for the group, they were positioned towards the front of the room, directly in front of the Council.

Dagoth began, Speaking for the Council.

"Crew of Survey Craft Epsilon, we have seen the preliminary reports. The situation was deemed sufficiently grave for the Council to assemble and try to reach some decision. We are here; you are here."

The formal declaration jolted Zpud. He could feel the wave of tension pass through the crew behind them. This was not just an investigation. The Council were acting as judge, legislator and governing body of the planet: they were here to decide the law.

"As time may be short, we will not adhere to conventions. We have your reports on the situation, very thorough documents, but they lack anything that helps us to understand how this breach of rules occurred. There is a lot of information concerning the plight of this unfortunate world . . ."

"But that is the explanation. It's the whole reason . . ."

"Please forgive Zpud," interrupted Fargoth. "He is impetuous and inclined to lose his head at the slightest hint of informality. I fear youthful enthusiasm may have been a factor in this regrettable incident. But as much as I deplore the broken rules which have brought us before you, I do not believe that Kashi was wrong to act as he did. And no-one could regret his loss more deeply than I. May I address the Council?"

Dagoth nodded assent.

"Your information tells you about the planet and it's current plight, but it cannot tell you about the inhabitants of that planet. We observed them for some time before Kashi took such foolish action. What we saw was a few corrupt individuals with distorted morality who were behind the problems faced by the globe. Others tried to alleviate the problems, but as we all know, extreme problems often require extreme solutions. What I, what the entire crew fears, is that the young creatures who dominate this globe do not have the wisdom to deal with their troubles. The Council cannot be blind to the difficulties that many species have in predicting and planning for the future.

"I, speaking for all who were there, ask that this Council support a return expedition. We must see if we can save the planet, and people, that Kashi was prepared to die for."

"The Council appreciates your noble sentiments, Fargoth, but your solution will only make matters worse. What can possibly lead you to such a conclusion?"

"Zpud has prepared a report. It contains information which, as will become obvious to you, we could not trust to reports which many would see."

"Very well," said Dagoth. "Proceed."

"Well," began Zpud nervously, " when we approached the planet I was in the observation deck with Kashi. We looked at the blue-green world below us and, Your Honours, it was beautiful! We could see a globe that was a twin to the pictures of our world when she was younger. We felt as though we had been caught up in heaven, being allowed to experience such a moment of beauty.

"Then we began to monitor the information being relayed by the survey equipment. The initial information is rarely very useful, but as the computers began to correlate population, demographic and industrial centres, natural environments and the other factors that are necessary for a true picture, we were dismayed.

"The planet has evolved intelligent life, but the population pressures and industrial activity have severely altered the ecosystem. The atmosphere is changing in such a way that the remaining indigenous life-forms may soon experience difficulty surviving. Many species have already perished."

The Council chambers were hushed as those assembled absorbed the sorrowful knowledge.

"You would have to see the environment to appreciate the beauty of some of the myriad species that inhabit this world. Our own planet, beautiful as it was and will be, never evolved such a variety of life-forms. Your Honour, if you would allow me, I have brought a mind-linked image projector with me. Official reports cannot give you the information which I can with this."

Dagoth conferred briefly with the other Council Members, then signalled that Zpud should proceed with the demonstration.

The holographic image swirled cloudily in the centre of the room before steadying to a clear representation. The beings in the room watched.

The crew members sat, pleased at the chance to revisit this tempting world. The Council Members wore expressions of aloof interest. These expressions soon changed.

Zpud took those in the room on a journey. They swooped through clouds, approaching snow capped mountain tops which dazzled when struck by shafts of sunlight. Their view sped down rugged slopes and plunged into emerald forests. In the misty green amongst the tree trunks they searched out rare and beautiful plants, marvelling at the blossoms, in awe at the delicate fragrances.

Then they abruptly soared through the canopy to explore other terrain. Barren deserts, plains seething with wildflowers, the depths of sparkling oceans: as the vistas presented themselves Fargoth found a new admiration for Zpud. The many scents, pungent and inviting, of this planet, had been created with remarkable accuracy. There could be nothing more carefully designed to appeal to the Council. If this recording were to be viewed publicly, the Council would have no choice but to support what had happened.

The holograph now turned their attention to the animals that inhabited this world. The fish, silver flashes in the ocean, were a glittering background for the impossible air-breathers that moved so gracefully among them, despite their size. Insects, from the delicate beauty of the butterflies to the complex social organization of the ants and bees, were briefly surveyed. Small rodents peeped out at the Council from the safety of distant bushes. Birds, suddenly startled into flight, caused a stir of astonishment amongst the Council.

The faces of the Council Members now showed wonder. The parade of creatures that passed before them was almost incomprehensible. Small animals, covered with fur, lived in the same habitat as lumbering giants with skins of leather. Gazelles, leaping gracefully along, were suddenly chased and attacked by cats of such agility that the Council gasped with amazement rather than horror.

There were creatures that swam and creatures that crawled. Some creatures ran on four legs, while others hopped on two. Some ate the plants that grew and some ate each other. The birth and rearing of young were briefly shown. The Council saw species which lived below the ground and others which never left the tree-tops. And all the while, as a backdrop to this cavalcade, the Council saw the incredible natural beauty of this young, blue-green planet.

"But which of these is the intelligent species? You have shown us none of the population centres or industrial complexes, have you?"

Zpud stopped the projection, then moved it forward and restarted it. The buildings and factories, which the beings now saw, were a stark contrast to the scenes of natural beauty they had left. The aerial view remained long enough to show the extent of these areas. The clouds of noxious fumes and vile liquid wastes were depicted, complete with odours, which caused some discomfort among those present.

The view then descended and entered what appeared to be a residence. The human occupant of the house was centred in the holograph.

The Council erupted. Gasps of astonishment were drowned out by cries of disbelief. As the initial reaction began to subside, Gaernik sprang to his feet.

"It's a trick!"

Chapter Eight

“Chapter One"

The land was cloaked with night. Faint tinges of light in the East heralded the coming day. The expectant silence that enveloped the slumbering valley was disturbed only by the anxious scurrying of small night creatures, eager to return to their homes and pass the day in safe repose.

A breeze sighed through the trees and gently tugged at the smoke that curled sluggishly from the rough stone chimneys of the thatched cottages that nestled together for warmth. A horse, startled by its own dreams, stamped a powerful hoof and tossed its head. The village slept on.

By the time the birds broke into their joyous morning chorus, the smoke from several of the chimneys had become more purposeful. A passerby could have heard the sounds of morning in a country household. Eventually a person emerged and stood, yawning, in the doorway of the dwelling closest to the sloping sides of the valley.

Shawn looked towards the beauty that filled the eastern sky. His face reflected the delicate orange and bold pink that painted the morning clouds.

His face also showed the years of hardship that he had endured. The lines about the eyes were etched deeply into the weathered skin. The hair that was tied back was thinner than it had been. His mouth, once full and sensuous, had become more tight with age, but the creased corners told of a readiness to laugh. The eyes that dominated the face expressed the gentle wisdom that had made him the leader of this village.

He stretched his stalwart arms and felt the strength of a body used to hard labour. A voice from the gloomy interior drew him away from the wondrous dawn.

"Yes. I'll be going as soon as I've tended the beasts," he replied.

Shawn now set about the chores that must be dealt with at the beginning of every day. The animals were fed and watered, or set free to roam and find their fare. He cast an affectionate eye over the backs of the geese as they paraded aggressively through the centre of the village. They would soon be fat and good for the table.

When all other work was done, he turned his attention to the lone horse that stood, champing contentedly on a meagre ration of chaff. Shawn fetched a brush from the storeroom and began to groom the noble animal.

His neighbour, newly emerged from his abode, saw fit to improve the morning with a joke.

"Don't rub the hair off him, Shawn."

In response, Shawn merely waved a contemptuous hand in the direction of the adjacent cottage, and continued ministering to his favourite creature.

When the horse was groomed to his satisfaction, he went briefly inside his home. He emerged carrying a rough saddle which he put carefully onto the animal's back. He mounted and, after a brief conversation through the sole window that allowed the welcome sunlight to enter this side of the rough stone cottage, rode briskly off.

As he passed through the village he returned the hearty greetings of his friends and associates. He walked to the last house, a small dwelling set apart from the others, stopped and dismounted. Sitting on a chair, absorbing the morning sun, was an ancient being. The puckered face drooped below a crown of white hair. It was impossible to tell the gender of this wizened person.

"Give me your blessing, wise one," asked Shawn reverently.

The figure stirred and coughed.

"Of course, son. May God smile on your journey and guide you in your endeavour."

Shawn bowed in gratitude, and was about to leave when the old woman, with surprising dexterity, reached out and grasped him by the rough fabric of his shirt.

"Be wary, son. The world is a place of deceit. Men's hearts hold more greed than morality. Do not allow your own honest, gentle nature to blind you to the faults in others."

"Thank-you, wise one. Your words have ever been a guide to the people of this village."

Shawn bowed again, filled with respect for this woman who had outlived so many others. Her grandchildren now cared for her, her own beloved children having long passed from the pain of this world.

He mounted his trusty steed, looking back once to see the wise old hag who sat at her post, a sentry to warn or welcome any who came to this favoured place. He turned her words over in his mind. To a simple man like himself, the old woman was unfathomable. To be able to advise those around her with compassion and dignity, despite her terrible affliction, was a source of great wonder to Shawn.

In his earliest childhood memories, the old woman had hobbled painfully around the bountiful valley, gathering secret herbs to tend the ills that afflicted the people about her. Her willingness to deny her own pleasure so that the suffering of others could be eased was a model that Shawn had willingly tried to emulate.

With these uplifting thoughts passing through his mind, Shawn urged his gallant mount into a loping trot. The pair travelled the road to the forest's gloomy edge and disappeared from view.

The people of the amiable village now pursued their daily tasks in earnest. Children were sent into the healthy light in the care of one or two older girls who kept watch on this horde of energetic youngsters. As they cared for the sprawling youngsters they diligently tended the plants, both useful and decorative, that grew about the small community.

Freed of the small fry, the women cleaned up after the frugal morning meal and began the myriad tasks that fell to their lot in life. Snatches of cheerful song could be heard as floors were swept and rugs aired and beaten. Two forward-thinking women were preparing to preserve summer fruits that would wait in their larders and then appear on the table to delight their fortunate families.

The older boys began collecting the flocks of sheep and goats together. The ragtag collection of youths and animals were soon moving noisily towards pastures further from the village. Their progress was slow and inconsistent. The youngsters made great sport of chasing after a young sheep who, in the exuberance of youth and the early hour, thought it would be preferable to walk a different path to the rest of the flock.

The men of the village assembled outside one of the cottages with an assortment of simple tools. After discussing the weather and exchanging a few pleasantries, half of them picked up their tools and began the walk to the fields to till the soil and tend their crops. The remainder took stock of the sheaves of straw that were piled against the stone walls of the dwelling and began to organize themselves for the task of rethatching the roof.

Men were soon on the roof, carefully removing the tattered straw that had rotted away in places. They worked with an unself-conscious steadiness, a product of a life where hardship and work were no strangers. By the time the women had finished their morning chores and had sent food and drink to the field-workers, the thatching party had re-covered over a quarter of the roof.

They broke to eat their midday meal under the shade of a large tree that stood imposingly in the centre of their community. It was often used as a meeting place, and now the women had brought out chairs and tables for the men to take their ease while they ate.

As the children pursued their boisterous games in amongst the adults, the occasion became gently festive. A young couple who had been shyly courting for some time now, were discovered kissing behind a nearby shed by one of the omnipresent urchins. Their embarrassment caused much hilarity in the group under the tree.

Two of the older men engaged in a test of strength, arms locked in a battle that told more about their iron wills than it did about their comparative might. The people about them barracked lustily, first for one, then for the other.

Then it was time to return to work. The men returned to their task, refreshed. The women cleared away the debris of a satisfying meal and returned to their many duties.

The day wore on. The roof had almost been finished when the men returned from the fields. They lent their assistance and the thatching was complete.

The boys brought the beasts back from pasture, all of them more content for their day of freedom. The children, now reduced to sitting and playing games in the dust, were called inside by mothers who had simple chores that would occupy the tired youngsters and help ready them for bed.

While most of the village retired indoors, a young couple could be seen walking, arm in arm, down the road towards the forest. They were not hurried, but strolled peacefully, happy in each other's company.

The villagers secured their animals for the night and cast last looks about them, their practised eyes noting the lessons for tomorrow's weather that were written in the clouds and the wind. In their last words to one another for the day they speculated on what was keeping Shawn this long, then they shut their doors behind them for the night.

In Shawn's cottage a lonely vigil had begun. Outside, the evening breeze sprang up and toyed with the smoke that rose from the rough stone chimneys of the village that nestled in the charmed valley.

Darkness had long settled on the land when the pair of young lovers walked quietly back to town and slipped into their homes.

And still, Shawn had not returned. “

Chapter Nine

“The moon that rises

Casts shadows on my empty bed

The moths that try to beat their way

Through the window

By the light of the fiery moon

Cannot make up for your absence

My head embraces the pillow

Eager for the scent of you

Fragrance that has lingered from our good-bye

Good-bye lover

Good-bye"

The night that Jack had disappeared was still so clear in Cassie's mind. She had come home late, seeking comfort in the bed she had so recently shared with him. Hungry for sleep, she had instead lain awake, missing the man whose essence wafted from the sheets.

She had been annoyed with herself. He would be back in a couple of days. This much grief over two nights of being alone was silly. But she missed him. Her heart seemed to already know the news that would reach her in the morning.

As she looked at the old poem, Cassie now found herself thinking of her bizarre night at Refuge Cove. She did not remember the fear; but she remembered the unlikely hero who had disappeared before she could even thank him. She wanted to see him again. His eyes haunted her.

She had marched through the bush in the early morning, revelling in her surroundings and herself. She had hoped that she would meet up with the hiker, but she didn't. When she reached Sealer's Cove and stood alone at the edge of the magnificent crescent of beach, she was glad of her isolation.

Drinking in the power of the sea, steadied by the wild forest at her back, Cassie knew that she could live without Jack.

She had eaten a rough meal of stale biscuits, squashed fruit and stream-water. Her meal complete, she stretched herself to her feet. She raised her battered canteen to the ocean in salute.

"Good-bye my friend," she whispered, the breeze snatching her wistful words and scattering them. Then Cassie had shouldered her pack and continued on her way. That had been two weeks ago - another lifetime.

There was little difference between her life now and her life as it had been for the last year, but it felt different. At last Cassie found herself able to feel a part of the world around her. She was no longer merely a spectator, buffeted by the activities of others. But rejoining the world had its price.

Linda's aloof behaviour was worrying Cassie far more than she would let either Linda or Annie know. Whatever was bothering Linda had driven a wedge between mother and daughter. Knowing that prying would deepen the rift, Cassie could only hover about, on hand in case she was needed, irritating Linda with her maternal affection.

Annie, always sympathetic to her friends, was driving Cassie crazy. For one whole week now, Annie had been so pleasant that Cassie was beginning to suspect foul play. The Annie she knew and loved had been kidnapped and replaced with one of those androids that kept appearing in science fiction films.

Annie had so far refused to explain why she had suddenly cleaned out her room, or why she had tidied the kitchen twice, and had actually been seen to smile when she first got up in the morning.

Cassie's curiosity and anxiety stayed with her as she plodded through the duties of pop music correspondent. And all the while a strangely insistent thought haunted her idle moments.

"It's good to be alive," she thought, as she placed the note-book back into the drawer of her desk.

She walked into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea and found Annie sorting the rubbish that had accumulated on the bench. The plastic and glass had been bundled and placed in a box. Annie was rinsing a tin can that had contained tomatoes used for the lasagna she had made that morning. She placed it with the other cans and looked pleased with herself.

"Well," she declared, "it's all dressed up and ready to go."

"I suppose I'd better take it to the tip then."

"No, I will. I don't mind being the bearer of garbage. After all these years of teaching, I'm at home amongst the trash."

Cassie shook her head in amazement.

"But Annie, you hate going to the tip. What's going on?"

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Cassandra," Annie called over her shoulder as she pushed her way through the back door.

"I need a cuppa," Cassie muttered to herself with conviction.

"Yeah, but Morgan!"

"I told you, he's really quite nice." Linda was becoming tired of this. Ever since the dance she had suffered constant stirring. As she walked through the school-yard, people would call out to her, asking if she'd been to any good sacrifices lately. Or they would start in shock and cross themselves, backing away from her. Her friends had been no better.

"Besides, James's too busy with that tramp Nicole."

"Yeah, . . . well. Will I have to do anything special for the party? You know, `eye of newt and toe of frog', that sort of thing."

"For a friend you're a real bitch." Linda had had enough. She started to get up, but Ang put out a hand to stop her.

"I'm sorry, Linda. Please, don't go. You've had a really rotten time lately. We both have. I should know better than to say something like that. You bring whoever you want to my party."

Linda sat down again. How could she explain to Ang that Morgan was the one person who had been able to make her feel as if she wasn't a character in a bizarre soap opera?

"You know," Ang cleared her throat nervously, "I saw what happened the night of the dance."

Linda looked at her.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't think you'd really want to know." She looked at Linda, then stared grimly out the window.

"What happened?"

"Well," Ang paused for a moment, enjoying her chance to have this off her chest. "Nicole was being a real bitch. I was outside having a smoke with her when James came looking for her. He tried to tell her that you didn't mean to upset her. James could hardly get a word in. She was carrying on as though you'd got her a date with Freddy Kruger."

"Did she say anything before James came out?"

"Oh yeah. I tried to tell her that you were just being nice to Morgan. I said that he was the son of your mother's cousin, but you didn't want any-one to know."

"Well that's about the only thing she hasn't said to any-one who'll listen."

"Yeah. Anyway, when James came out she started carrying on about how if she had a guy like James, she wouldn't go two-timing him with a freak like Morgan."

"What!"

"That's what she said. Then she pointed at you and Morgan standing over by the supper table. He was saying something to you, but you know how noisy it was. He was leaning over talking into your ear and then you laughed and put your hand on his shoulder so you could reach his ear when you said something. James looked at you and went sort of red. He was really jealous, you know."

"We were just talking!"

"I tried to tell James that, but that bitch Nicole sort of rubs herself up against him and goes, `You know, you shouldn't worry about her. You're too good for her. I've always wished you were interested in me, not her.' By this time she'd nearly wrapped herself around him. Before he could say anything, she led him around the back. It looked as though they were headed for that spot under the hall where someone's put some old mattresses."

"You don't think . . ."

"I do think! Let's face it, James's been at you for a while now to go all the way. And Nicole's been desperate for him. She's never forgiven you for getting him. I reckon she'd do anything to get back at you. And James's been running around after her with his tongue hanging out ever since."

The two girls sat for a moment in silence. Ang's younger brothers were fighting. Their mother's voice suddenly added to the noise. The two small boys were scolded and sent to their room, leaving the house peaceful again.

"He's not worth being upset about."

"No."

"There are heaps of boys who'd like to go around with you. Jason was talking to me this afternoon. He wanted to know about you and Morgan, so I told him you were just friends, then he asked me if you liked him." She paused for effect. "I said I thought you did. He likes you. He wanted to know if you had a date for the party."

"Even if I didn't, I wouldn't go with Jason. He's trouble. I'm starting to think that all guys are trouble. All they ever think about is sex, and they couldn't care less what you think, as long as you look all right and they can make it look to their mates as if they're screwing you."

"Are you going to be a lesbian like Miss Friend?"

The two friends laughed. Then Linda spoke.

"Annie isn't a lesbian! Why do you keep saying that?"

"You should hear her when she gets going in class. One of the guys'll say something about Sharon being a slut or something like that and she goes right off the deep end. She calls them sexists and tells us girls that we should avoid the boys like the plague. It's really funny."

Linda grunted. "Maybe she's right. The guys just use you. I thought James was okay, but it didn't take much for him to change, did it? Though I guess Nicole must have made it pretty tough for him to say no."

"So you're bringing Morgan to the party."

Linda shrugged. "I told you. He's nice. I was talking to him at the dance. Besides, you owe him a favour, you know. He tried to help us get that filthy bastard."

"He knows about that!" Ang grabbed Linda's arm and stared at her in horror.

"No. Or at least, I didn't really explain what had happened. Oh Ang, I'd never tell any-one about that, not unless I had to."

"So what did you tell him? And what did he do, put a hex on him?"

Linda sighed. James had known she'd gone to Morgan for help, and he hadn't believed her story. Ang would never believe her.

"I just told him that this guy had been hassling us and we were scared that things could get out of hand if he didn't stop. I said we wanted him scared off."

"That's putting it mildly."

"Anyway, he tried to . . put a spell on that bastard, only it didn't work."

"Oh. But, how do you know it didn't work, and if that's all he did why do you reckon we owe him a favour?"

"Dunno.” Linda did not want to risk the disbelief of her friend – she didn’t believe what had happened herself. ”Ang, don't think I'm silly or anything, but I like Morgan."

Ang raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

"I'll be the only one who won't think you've gone soft in the head."

"He's nice Ang. He's different to James and the other guys. I don't think he cares what other people think. He seems like he's happy with my company - he doesn't just want to get into my pants.

"I've had enough, Ang. Mum always says that if I want something I should make sure I get it. Well I was getting pretty sick of James always wanting things his way, and never letting me say what I thought because he didn't think it was `cool' for girls to be too smart. What's more, if Morgan thinks he's going to do that, he can go jump too."

"You're right, Linda." She thought for a moment, then continued. "You know, maybe if we'd had a bit of that attitude we wouldn't have ended up in trouble with that creep. It was pretty stupid of us to go to that damn club in the first place. But maybe we could have gotten away. Maybe if we hadn't been so damn scared by what that bloody pimp said, if we'd just told him to piss off . . . " Her voice trailed away sorrowfully.

"Yeah, only it's too late now. You know Ang, I realized that we're being stupid about this. Either we should go to the police or forget about it and just get on with things. I know I just want to forget it, and if we just ignore him he can't do anything. When he realizes we're not scared he'll stop bothering us."

Linda wasn't prepared for Ang's reaction. She drew her knees up to her chin and began to cry.

"What's wrong Ang?"

"It's not over. And we can't go to the police. Linda . . . I saw the other one - the pimp." Ang was unable to speak for the sobs that caught in her throat. Linda held her until she calmed down enough to speak again.

"Oh Linda, it's just so horrible. He's got photos."

Trash - Chapter Five

The sound of the tent stirred by the breeze confused him.

The sunlight was filtered by trees and cast a shifting dapple on the roof of the tent. As he watched the dancing shadows, he realized that his body was relaxed. The pain no longer knotted his muscles or twisted his gut.

He sat up and looked through the insect meshing to see a mild autumn afternoon. He unzipped the tent. He straightened up and stretched; a luxurious gesture. It felt good to be alive.

He sat between the tent and the small fire he had built earlier, feeding the flames with waiting wood. The heroin no longer blurred his mind but, as he sat enjoying the warmth of the sun on a pain-free body, he became uncomfortably certain that there was something he had forgotten.

Cassie stood on the side of the rugged hill that curved down to the water.

Here was a place to call paradise. There were no gentle tropical breezes or swaying palm fronds: no gaudy profusion of scented blooms. There was a small, sheltered bay with a white beach. A creek wandered over an inlet of sand that had found harbour among the wild scrubland at the shore.

As she walked down into Refuge Cove, Cassie could imagine how the sailors had felt when they named this place so many years ago. The hills surrounded her, shutting out the storms that buffeted her soul. The smells and sounds of the bush soothed her and she began to feel that she would be able to go on to face the next hurdle that life placed before her. First, though, she would rest in this place of sanctuary.

There was already a tent at one end of the camping area. Cassie smiled companionably at the unkempt man who sat between the tent and a small fire . He nodded absently in her direction. When Cassie looked over from the site she chose at the other end of the clearing, the lone hiker seemed to be deep in contemplation.

It did not take Cassie long to set up her small tent and organize her campsite. Her tent looked out onto the bay of sand that intruded on the bush. She wondered idly whether the tide would be high enough to flood the inlet as she had seen it do before.

By the time she had been swimming, made a meal and cleaned up, the sun was low in the sky. The other camper withdrew into his tent.

Cassie took advantage of the dying rays of the sun to take a short stroll to the beach. Her sense of the isolation of the place was broken by a boat which was just anchoring in the cove.

"Still," she told herself, "this is a place of refuge for seafarers. They've as much right to be here as I. I hope this doesn't mean there's bad weather on the way."

Cassie sat by her small fire listening to the sounds of the night for a time. The fire in front of the other tent had long died away, and the tent had disappeared into the darkened bush. Cassie could now easily believe that she was alone.

As she had walked through the bush many things had passed through her mind. Mingled with her sweat and the rubbing of her pack's shoulder straps were visions that ranged through the whole of her experience.

She could remember hugging Linda, the bitter-sweet child who had helped her keep her balance so many times over the years. At the age of sixteen Cassie had held a tiny baby girl in her arms and wondered at the miracle of life. She could still see the pointy skull; the red and wizened face. She could remember feeling small when the eyelids had opened and the huge blue eyes, full of peace and wisdom, had peered out at her.

She could remember David. The surliness of the wedding had passed, and now he stood and watched his daughter wriggle. He watched, but he would not touch.

"It's a pity he didn't feel like that about me," thought Cassie bitterly.

They had stayed together for three years. Cassie often tried to forget those years. David's pride in his daughter had quickly given way to annoyance. Linda had disturbed his sleep and taken Cassie's attention away from him.

For five months the two children had played at being grown-ups, but with Linda's birth the play had become real life. When Linda was three months old, David began to drink. Cassie began to organize her life so that she would not provoke her husband. She had nowhere to go that would not cause her to choke on her pride, and she decided that being beaten to submission once was enough.

Cassie's strategies had limited success. She did not discourage her husband's weekend sprees with his mates. She made sure that meals were ready on time and that Linda was in a good mood when David was due home. An affectionate, happy daughter would often set David up to look benevolently at his wife for the rest of the evening. Cassie learned to accept the blows when his humour was bad - the risk that Linda would become a target was too great.

Sex was largely a passionless business for Cassie. The adolescent desire that had created Linda quickly faded. Exhaustion was the main feeling in Cassie's life. She learned to simply accept David's crude approaches.

They were bad years.

When David brought his lover home, Cassie left. She had been planning it for some time. Money had been painfully saved from the meagre housekeeping, already taxed by her husband's drinking. Friends were ready to fetch her and house her as soon as the phone call came. Cassie was glad of the excuse. So was David.

The next years were bad too.

But in the blur of activity it took to raise a child, earn a living and gain some education, the years flew by. Something to reach for sped up her life, the way misery and pain had slowed it down.

She could remember her first "real" job. She had been contributing on and off to the local paper. One day the phone rang and Cassie had stood, elated yet stunned by their offer. Linda, so small, had waited impatiently until Cassie put the phone down.

"Are you going to have a new job, Mummy?"

Such a stupid damn thing to stick in your mind. How clearly she could see again the face of her seven-year-old daughter! Those blue eyes, so wise.

It was Jack's eyes that had first interested Cassie.

Jack.

The place of sanctuary that Cassie had instinctively sought had worked it's magic. For the first time she found herself able to think of him without pain. There was sadness, but not pain. She found a crooked smile on her lips as she remembered.

Staring at the dying fire she could almost feel the brush of his fingertips on her cheek; almost hear the lilting richness of his voice.

"Such a beautiful lady should not have such sad eyes."

She could remember eating with him, dancing with him, talking with him. With a nostalgic shudder she remembered lying in his arms, warm and sated; safe. She could almost smell him.

She didn't hear the rowboat that had put quietly to shore. Absorbed in her recollections and the depths of the crackling fire, she did not hear the men approaching.

Some sudden instinct made Cassie look about her. Three men were walking towards her, coming through the last of the scrub that separated the camping ground from the inlet of sand. Cassie was surprised, then curious. They must have come ashore from the boat she had seen - but why?

"Hello," she said.

"Hello. You . . . enjoy being by yourself do you?"

The question seemed incongruous. Why else would she be here? She laughed.

"Yes."

The men had stood by her fire, as if warming themselves. Now one of them walked around to her. Cassie was too startled to even think of moving away when he lunged towards her. In her disbelief she did not make any noise, but struggled silently for the pitiful few seconds it took for her to be subdued.

The man stood behind her, pinning her arms to her side with one huge arm of iron while his other hand covered her mouth. For a moment the scene around the fire froze in a bizarre tableau. Cassie felt her heart hit the bottom of her stomach as she realized that whatever these men wanted, they would get.

"Well, pretty lady, you're not alone now," said the man who had first addressed her. "The boys and I are here to keep you company. But, I am being rude aren't I? Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Tom, this is Dick, and that's Harry," he smirked, pointing at the giant of a man who held Cassie.

Cassie writhed, testing "Harry's” grip. She may as well have been bound with chains. Hope stabbed at her chest as she remembered the other camper, but looking at her captors she realized the futility of this thought. Her only chance would be if the hiker were the re-incarnation of Bruce Lee. The wry reflection allowed her to relax momentarily. She looked at the men. Why were they here?

"So, Cassie." He knew her name! "I've been told that you're in need of a little advice. It's probably just as well that you don't seem to have a great deal to say for yourself," he leered pointedly at the hand clamped over her mouth, "because I'm really concerned that you listen to me. Listen very carefully.

"It seems you've upset some people. Very important people. You should be more careful, you know." The man's sarcastically threatening manner was beginning to anger Cassie. She also began to hope that she wasn't actually in physical danger. He wanted her to listen, and remember!

As she listened, this hope was weighted down and sat in a solid ball at the bottom of her stomach. This was about her F.I.S.H.E. research. Some-one was very anxious that she did not continue to probe. They were prepared to silence her - permanently.

"So you can see, you can't get away from us, no matter where you go. Perhaps you should use the rest of your quiet communion with nature to contemplate that! And don't worry, it doesn't matter what you do, my boss'll know. He'll know if you don't do as you're told.

"That's the message we had to deliver, lady. Me and the lads'll be going now. Only you have to remember, this is just a social visit. Next time it could be serious."

Cassie was anxious now for them to leave. The implications of the "social visit" horrified her. When, instead of moving to leave, "Tom" stepped towards her, she was annoyed.

"You know, you haven't been very sociable," he said. "I think, since we're here and no-one'll ever know, we should all get a bit more friendly."

As he ran his hands over her body, Cassie went cold. She could not let this happen. When "Harry" shifted his grip so that "Tom" could undo her shirt, Cassie wrenched herself free and screamed at the men.

"No!"

She began to run before they reacted, but was swiftly trying to protect herself from the earth that rose and slammed into her body. The weight of the man, sitting on her back while others grabbed at her arms and legs, was smothering. Desperately she struggled, despite the knowledge that she could not possibly win.

When the weight on her eased it was unexpected. Scuffling noises told her of the fight she could not see.

When "Dick" began to rise a sudden need to hit back caused Cassie to grab his ankle and trip him. She turned around to see "Tom" and "Harry" grappling with the scruffy hiker. He was holding his own, but Cassie decided that one against three would be too much to ask.

She jumped on top of the winded "Dick" before he could recover. She snatched at a piece of wood that was on the ground. The large stick broke when she hit the back of "Dick"'s head, but it knocked him unconscious. Filled with anger she reached for a conveniently club-shaped fallen branch and joined the fight.

The men were alarmed to find themselves attacked from the other side by a wild-woman swinging a club. They soon crouched back, trying to avoid blows which now ceased.

The lone hiker stood over the men. He straightened up, looming to an unexpected height.

"Take your confederate and leave, now!" The authority in the man's voice froze Cassie with confusion. As the men gathered up the limp "Dick" and obediently began to leave, the walker's voice rang out.

"Don't bother this woman again. This life of violence that you lead is corrupt. Mend your ways!"

The men shuffled off and soon the sounds of a row-boat leaving shore and splashing out to the waiting boat could be heard.

Cassie remained frozen. The frenzy of the attack had drained her of vitality, and the shock of the experience overwhelmed her. Her shabby saviour turned to her, responding to the distress of the paralysed woman.

Cassie was barely aware of being sat in front of the fire. A blanket was thrown over her shoulders and soon a cup of strong, sweet tea was warming her hands. A voice compelled her, "Drink." The warmth of the fire and the now unbroken peace of the bush once again cast their healing spell. Feeling as though she had just woken, Cassie looked about her.

"Hello," said her dusty companion. "I'm glad you're feeling recovered. You really need some sleep now, so I'll be off. Nice meeting you. Good-night."

"Goodnight," said Cassie.

Before she could rouse her wits enough to speak further, the man had melted into the gloom in the direction of his tent. "Oh well," she thought, still a little dazed, "I'll speak to him in the morning. I must thank him."

She cleaned her teeth and zipped herself into her sleeping-bag. Despite the excitement of the night, sleep came easily. She was no longer concerned for her welfare and she was tired - so tired.

In the morning when Cassie woke, the lone hiker had gone.

Trash - Chapter Four

The incessant thumping of the latest pre-pubescent pop miracle did nothing to ease the throbbing in Cassie’s head. As she sat, waiting, the scene at the office earlier that day haunted her.

Bruce had faced her, raising himself from his seat and speaking quietly, a hoarse menace in his voice.

“I can’t make it any clearer than that. You’re now a pop music correspondent and you will confine your journalistic researching to who’s screwing who. You will not continue this half-arsed pursuit of Alex Eristic. The paper won’t publish, and the internet lacks credibility, so you’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t care,” said Cassie. “What I found was the truth and people have a right to know. Don’t you care about the future? Something has to be done.”

“You’re a naïve fool. You can’t do anything – none of us can. All that will happen is that you’ll fall on your sword. It’s professional suicide to worry at a story that is off-limits.”

“Who says it’s off limits? Who puts on the pressure? This is all wrong, Bruce!”

“And if you stick your neck out too far you’ll lose your head.”

The menace with which Bruce had said this scared Cassie more than she cared to admit. And now his contact, the legendary Stella, would initiate her into the workings of the music industry.

Other images replaced her boss. Cassie shuddered. At least her boss was real!

Had it been some kind of monstrous hallucination? Shared by all three of them. And who would believe them?

Afterwards Linda had sheepishly crept into the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight Snugglepot.”

“I’m not a kid any more Mum. Goodnight.”

Cassie had been glad of the company and listened to her daughter’s breathing gradually become calm as, safe in her mother’s bed, she fell asleep.

“Cassie?”

Cassie opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. She really didn’t like this kind of psychedelic décor.

“Yes.”

“I’m Stella, Mr Raven’s personal assistant. I”ll be showing you around our establishment. You are fortunate, as we have some top artists recording today. The lab can also show you the rushes on a video clip that won’t be released for another month.

“More than that, Mr Raven will actually be free for a few moments before we begin our tour. Come with me.”

And now Cassie would meet B. B. Raven!

His office was worse than his reception rooms. The colour scheme was not jarring, but the blatant display of success was nauseating. The office had been decorated in the manner of a nineteenth century gentleman’s study. Every stick of furniture breathed out expensive authenticity.

Antique volumes were arranged ostentatiously on the shelves that lined the walls. In a strategically placed display case, the climate control mechanism of which was imperfectly hidden, was, Cassie realized with a shock, one of Shakespeare’s plays – an original manuscript!

Objet d’art and priceless memorabilia decorated the braggart’s museum.

The balding man who crouched in the elegant leather chair behind the carved desk, seemed very out of keeping with the tone of the room. He did not share the air of careful preservation and Cassie briefly wondered what Annie would make of the man. Some appropriately nervous insect, or perhaps a frog lying in wait for a fly.

“Well, well,” he leered, “your journalistic reputation is too good for you to be so . . . attractive.”

Cassie formed an instant dislike for the man.

“I hope you will excuse me Mr Raven, I have no wish to detain such a busy man. It is kind of you to see me in your precious free time.”

“Yes. Of course.” Cassie’s frigid courtesy had the desired effect. He quickly calculated her value to him as part of the media, and subtracted all traces of lechery from his demeanor. “Your . . . aah . . . predecessor has left rather suddenly, I believe.”

The comment took Cassie by surprise. She looked at B. B. Raven and wondered at the change in him. The air of agitation had been smoothed over, replaced by a slick operator. But how did he know about Lilly?

“In this industry information is our most important tool. Know as much as we can about everybody. Sometimes think my spy network could tell Uncle Sam more about Iraq than the C.I.A.” He stopped to laugh at his joke, looked at Cassie, decided she was too clever, decided that he did not like her, decided that he would have to watch her carefully and, abruptly, stood up.

“You see my Shakespeare.” Cassie was actually pleased to have a reason to look more closely at the relic. B.B. Raven stood uncomfortably close to her, however, as he gave his carefully rehearsed discourse.

“Lot of people think this First Folio is out of place in a music company – particularly one that deals mainly with the the . . . aah . . . younger end of the market. Disagree – strongly disagree.

“Look at who Shakespeare was and what he did when he was alive. Here was an actor. To make sure he had work, he wrote his own plays. Bloody good plays too – best bits borrowed from here and there. People loved them. Guy built his own theatre from the money people paid to see’em. And he wrote for everybody! High-flown language for the gentry and bawdy humour for the folks on the floor.

“And that’s what we do. We entertain everybody – the whole family. The Searchers for Pa and Gran, The Insects for Mom and Dad, Ezekial’s Armageddon for the incurably trendy, Venom for the teens and Joey Blue for kid brother and sister. Even have a selection of classical music in the catalogue now.”

The quietly efficient Stella, who had waited by the desk, politely in the background, answered the intercom.

“Yes, I’ll tell him.” She turned to her employer. “Excuse me Mr Raven, you have an appointment.”

“Aah yes. Pity. Pity. Not finished with this charming woman. But this won’t be the last time we share common interests, will it? A positive pleasure. Good fortune in your new position.”

Cassie barely managed to mumble an appropriate response before being shepherded from the room by the invaluable Stella. The encounter left Cassie disoriented as Stella led her around, explaining multiple-track recording and electronic manipulation.

She took in the studios, met the stars who were in for the day and learned about the organization behind a hit single. But all the while she was haunted. A sleazy little man who chopped his sentences and bragged about his sources of information would not rest peacefully in her mind.

Why was an avenging ghoul looking for B.B. Raven?

B.B. sat behind the immaculately polished desk. One hand absently stroked his face. The woman was handsome, there was no doubt about that. But she was also shrewd and intelligent, and had a reputation for being like a boy who’d discovered his dick once she had a hold of something.

“Long as she doesn’t get a hold of me,” he mused.

The intercom buzzed. This month’s secretary quavered with fear. “Shall I send in Mr Larsen now?”

“Yes!” he snapped. He cursed being surrounded by unreliable people. Why were women so flighty? Stella was an exceptional woman. One who understood and was not afraid to do as she was told.

Larsen insinuated himself into a chair before B.B. could stop him. He tossed a large envelope onto the desk in front of B.B. and stifled a yawn.

“I think you’ll like these,” he hissed, his breath fouling the air. Years of habitual hedonistic abuse had soaked through the frame on which he hung his rather tasteless clothes.

B.B. opened the envelope. He looked at the photographs, lingering over each one before turning to the next.

“This one’s good,” he finally said.

He handed the photo to his procurer, who looked briefly at the naked figures. The children tried to hide their faces.

Larsen had contempt left for no-one but himself, and returned the photo to B.B. in exchange for his blood money.

“It’s not really to my taste,” he replied.

Trash - Chapter Three

The sun was leering through the window. Filtered by the blinds it caressed Cassie with stripes, warming her as she lay on the bed. The room was still and her body peaceful as she lay drowsing, exhausted.

She twitched and tensed. Her morning at work intruded, hijacked her half conscious thoughts and played itself out in daydreams.

The editor’s office had grown. Cassie walked through the door and towards her boss’s desk, but as she walked the carpet rolled out and the desk stretched further and further away. She began to run towards the figure that sat laughing beyond the desk.

“I’m a journalist, not an aardvark!” she yelled.

The distant goblin leapt to the top of the desk, which rose into the sky and began swooping madly. Cassie could now see diamond-studded glasses, a tangerine jacket, brightly sparkling sequins on the lapels and recognized the deformed creature as her boss.

“Elton wants his clothes back!” she yelled.

Suddenly the desk began to dive toward her, it’s occupant hurling paperweights and staplers at her. Once again she ran, this time looking for cover. A figure by a giant filing cabinet beckoned wildly.

“Quick! You’ll be safe under here.”

“Jack!”

Cassie looked around her, afternoon sun leaking through the blinds and softening the cluttered room with bright lines of light. She rolled onto her front and smothered her face with a pillow.

The pain was no less now than it had been a year ago. The difference was that she had learned to forget. She would bury herself in writing or working, concentrating on the small tasks that made up the days. She was even learning to walk away from the pain in her peaceful moments, enjoying a sunset without guilt, or smelling the hopeful morning breeze. But the pain grumbled at the fringes of her mind, ready to ambush and wound her.

By the time Linda and Annie came home, Cassie was sitting on the back verandah with a glass of scotch, hiding from the neighbours.

“Oh Mum!” Linda stormed past her mother and into the house, followed closely by the dog.

Annie fetched a chair and a glass from the kitchen. She sat next to Cassie, poured herself a drink, then picked up the packet of cigarettes. “I thought you’d given up, too,” she commented.

Cassie shrugged.

“Thanks, anyway,” said Annie, lighting the cigarette she took from the pack.

“I hope your day was not as bad as mine,” Cassie finally said.

“Oh average. I only performed five miracles before lunch. That Year Nine is still a problem. I asked Linda about them. I’m worried Cassie. She was really upset – I don’t know why. It was just so unlike her.”

“What was she upset about?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. She didn’t want to talk to me about 9B, and up ‘til now she’s been so helpful. Knowing what the little darlings are saying about the classes has been feedback that they won’t offer.” Annie rubbed her forehead, trying to think. “When I mentioned James she went right off the planet. Are they still going together?”

“I think so. Maybe I should talk to her. I might give her some time to calm down, though; I wish she wouldn’t be so pig-headed about my occasional smoking.”

“Mmmm. You should be pleased the girl has more sense than her mother. And how was your day?”

Cassie leaned her head to her knees and covered her head with her arms.

“That good?”

Cassie turned to her friend. “You are now looking,” she said, through clenched fists, “at the newest journalistic addition to the popular music section of the entertainment pages of the ‘Daily Eye’!”

“What? . . But . . . They’ve taken you out of “the pool”? Didn’t they promise that you would stay there?”

“Yes.” It was a well-pruned syllable. “Apparently it is much better to get a gig writing crap as the “Funky Fairy” for “DownBeat”.”

“Oh shit.”

“You have a way with words, Annie.”

“It’s because of those articles, isn’t it - again? This is so wrong, Cassie. Those bastards shouldn’t be able to push you around like this.”

“Oh, you don’t understand, Annie. This is a promotion. More pay and everything.”

“In a pig’s eye. They’re trying to shut you up. I knew there would be more to that F.I.S.H.E. thing than you’ve found out so far. They were too happy to set up that enquiry. It’s a bloody crock!”

“Annie! You’re paranoid. I agree that someone’s probably applied pressure to have me kept safely away from the real news. I rang Paul at “The Chronicle”. I was going to take that job he’s been at me about.”

“Let me guess. No job.”

“No job. But Annie, honestly, all your ideas about fascist infiltration, C.I.A. espionage and using the Institute to cover up the real mess in the world is paranoid. Really, Annie. They don’t do that sort of thing any more.”

“And the Pope’s not a Catholic either, I believe.”

“Oh, leave off, Annie. I’ve had a dreadful day.”

“I’m sorry Cass. I wasn’t thinking. It just makes me mad to see you buried like this – not to mention the way the truth seems to be being buried with you. It’s not right.”

“No.”

The two sat side by side, the sounds of early suburban evening drifting to them in the leafy yard.

“What’ll you do?”

“Nothing. There’s not much I can do. The ideas are still out there, only they’re on the internet where the powers-that-be can dismiss them. Unless we can find more evidence. I’ll just have to keep doing my job and hope they either decide to take me seriously or forget all about it. And keep my eyes open for a place where they’ll appreciate a little journalistic integrity. And . . . I have been rather feeling another book coming on.”

“Oh! What do M & B want now? Claude-Pierre rides again, maybe? Or at least, “mounts” again . . . and again . . . and again.”

“No.” Cassie paused, realizing she had found a goal to chase. “I have another idea nagging at me, and I’m not expecting this new job to be overly taxing. Although the Bastard Boss from hell did say I might get the odd overseas trip out of it.

“Annie?”

“Mmmm.”

“Did you have anything planned for the middle of next week?”

“No. I’m taking a rest from my hectic social calendar. Had to tell the prince to take a number.”

“Would you mind keeping an eye on Linda for me? I thought I’d take a break and go bush. Maybe go down the Prom. I don’t want to go at the weekend when it’s busy. I need a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Yeah. It’d do you the world of good. You look all wrung out.”

“Thanks!”

“Any time.”

The women sat for a time, their silence disturbed only by “The Wheel of Fortune” turned up by Mrs Evans next door so that she could hear.

“I suppose I’d better talk to Linda.”

“I’ll start tea.”

“I know I’ve been spending a lot of time working. Have I been away too much?” Cassie was sitting on Linda’s bed.

“No Mum.” Linda sat at her desk, staring out the window at a broken paling in the fence.

“Linda. . . ” Cassie paused. How could she clear away the ice that Linda had put between them? She desperately wanted to take her daughter in her arms, hold her and make it all better. But Linda was no longer five years old. In front of her Linda saw a girl who was becoming a young woman; a troubled young woman who did not want to ask for help.

“Something’s worrying you, isn’t it honey?”

Silence.

“Has James done something to upset you?”

The painful silence continued.

“Linda, I love you. All I see is that something has upset you. I can’t stand by – I want to help.”

“You can’t!” The bitterness of Linda’s reply froze Cassie.

“Linda?”

“Look Mum, I’m not pregnant or on drugs or anything. I’m okay. I just don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“Maybe talking would help.”

“No.” Linda was rigid in her chair, staring out the window.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No Mum.”

Cassie hesitated. “Could you do something for me?”

No reply.

“Honey . . . if you are in trouble or there is something I can do, please, will you tell me?”

Still no response.

“You’re old enough to have a right to your privacy, but you’re too young to have to take care of yourself. I just couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

“Okay Mum.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Just one more thing, honey. Hug?”

Linda stood up reluctantly and allowed her mother to put her arms around her. Standing there, Linda remembered being a child whose mother had been able to chase away the worst nightmares and ease the worst injuries.

Putting her arms around Cassie, Linda wished she could speak to her mother, ask her to fix everything. She felt her mother’s hand stroking her hair and relaxed into the gentle rocking.

“I just want to feel safe again,” Linda muttered to herself.

“What’s that honey?”

“I love you Mum.”

Cassie hugged her daughter. Whatever was wrong she was sure Linda would tell her, eventually.

“I love you too, honey.”

Finally Linda broke away.

“I’ve got heaps of homework.”

Understanding that she had been dismissed, Cassie left the room.

“I’d better help Annie with tea.”

“Really Annie! I wish you’d wear your glasses.”

“But it was falafel mixture! How could I mix up a packet of falafel mixture with a packet of chocolate pudding?”

“Don’t know, but you have. I just don’t think the world is ready for chocolate falafel.”

Cassie shook her head, then set about salvaging their dinner. Annie could be terribly absent-minded, and cooking wasn’t her favourite occupation. Cassie remembered finding Annie bent over lesson plans on the dining table while dinner was being quietly reduced to ash in the oven. Then there was the time she forgot to put the oven on, and no-one realized until well after the guests had arrived. The flaming toast and exploding eggs were another matter entirely.

In an hour Linda was fed up with her homework and there was a meal on the table. The three women sat chewing companionably, the evening news barking quietly in the background.

“Did you tell Linda about the new job?”

“No. I didn’t get around to it.”

“A new job? What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to be a “roving reporter” for The Daily Eye’s popular music pages.”

“Music? Does that mean you’ll get to go to concerts and stuff? You’ll get free tickets?” Linda quickly realised that her mother had landed a great job. “Who’ll you get to interview? Oh Mum, this’s wicked!”

Cassie and Annie exchanged glances. Linda shrugged, and with a smile, Cassie sighed deeply.

“I’m glad someone else thinks my new job is wicked. I think it’s downright evil.”

“Mum? Don’t you want it?”

“It’s not what I’d have liked to be doing.”

“Don’t you think it’s time you got over all that stuff? It won’t bring him back.”

Cassie stared at her daughter, stunned. They had coped with Jack’s death in different ways. Linda by crying for two weeks then deciding to go on smiling. Cassie had thrown herself into trying to find out how Jack had died. Like the police, she could find nothing, but her instincts were drawn to Jack’s last assignment. Had he turned up to work at the Institute before he had died?

Her research led her to believe that the Institute was being manipulated and used for political purposes; that they were falsifying experimental results and accepting dubious donations from industry. But she found no evidence about Jack’s death.

Was Linda right? Had she damaged her career for the sake of ideals that were based on a need for some kind of vengeance? Had she mistaken the importance of what she had found?

The silence was broken by her sudden attention to the television. She left her seat and turned up the volume.

“ . . . Justice Mongrel’s preliminary findings are that there appears to be no basis for the accusations which had been leveled at the Federal Institute for Science in Harmony with the Environment.

“The final report will be published in two month’s time. The government has yet to comment on it’s role in this scandal.”

The screen showed a puffy bulldog face. The Justice had been bailed up by reporters against the bluestone wall of a court building.

“There will always be someone trying to make a name for themselves by attacking others. The Institute has been doing an invaluable job co-ordinating this government’s response to the ecological crisis. One can only wonder at the motivation of a person who attempts to undermine the good work that is being . . . “

Cassie almost knocked the television over as she switched it off.

“Bastards!”

Annie sought comfort for her friend. “Terry’s still working with you on this. You’re not alone. The two of you can’t be ignored. People will listen - you know you’re right.”

“Yeah Mum,” added Linda, “and you should tell Bruce to shove that job unless he’ll let you do the stories you want to do.”

Cassie looked at Linda through tears.

The women did not notice when the temperature of the room began to drop. It was Annie who first looked about her, bewildered, startled.

The house was unnaturally silent. The clock on the mantle-shelf was audible, it’s ticking echoing strangely. The house was somehow shielded from outside noises – the ever-present traffic on High Street, just a block away, could not be heard. No dog barked and Mrs Evans’ TV set was silent.

“This is how my dream starts,” whispered Annie.

Cassie was brought out of her misery by concern for Annie, who had suddenly gone pale – very pale.

“What’s wrong Annie?”

“Can’t you hear?”

“Hear what? It’s quiet . . . Oh!”

Linda reached for her mother, then, as one, the women turned to face the front door. Footsteps echoed outside the door. But it was not shoes on concrete they heard; it was boots on a resonant metal gangplank.

Windows began to rattle in their frames. The women held their hands over their ears.

Abruptly the footsteps ceased.

Heavy knocking boomed through the door – once, twice, thrice.

Before any-one could move, the door kicked itself open.

A fearful apparition occupied the front porch. A hideously distorted body, covered in gaping wounds that oozed pus, was hunched into the usually roomy porch. The face which blocked out most of the view of the body was a parody of a child’s face. Freckled nose and cupid mouth were mocked by hollow eye-sockets, within which raged cold, blue fires.

The innocent mouth opened, breathing pestilence and decay into the room. The voice was thunder and rattling bones.

“B.B. Raven!” roared the ghastly wraith.

“B.B. Raven?” it hissed with menace. Then it looked around the room, it’s absent eyes seeing through the whole house.

“Does B.B. Raven live here?” demanded the ghoul, leaning threateningly towards Cassie.

“No,” she trembled.

“Oh! . . . Wrong address,” said the ghost. “Sorry!”

And it disappeared, leaving the stunned women listening to the theme from Neighbours on Mrs. Evans’ television set.