Sacrifice. Narrelle M Harris

him are grieving, and it’s horrible he’s dead. It’s no kind of luck that I knew him – it’s just sad. And, Mr Carter, if you’re trying to imply anything, I’d like to know what it is.’

      All eyes were on Carter, who shrugged. ‘I’m not implying anything, Mr Bertolone.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Milo sat down.

      ‘You okay?’ Frank murmured to him.

      Milo nodded and turned to Royle. ‘We’ll take a couple more questions if you like, Stefanie.’

      Royle quickly recovered her composure, and called for a few more questions.

      ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Milo,’ said a young woman, shooting a sharp glance at Carter. Milo nodded acknowledgment of her sympathy. ‘I was just wondering if you had any comments to make on the nature of these terrible crimes.’

      ‘I hope they catch the bastard soon.’ Milo nodded to another journalist, a middle-aged man from one of the big newspapers.

      ‘Is it true that you’re both gay?’

      Milo raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. ‘Frank here tends more towards the brooding end of the scale.’

      Frank relaxed and laughed, eliciting a grin from Milo in response. ‘Are you asking for a date?’ Frank asked the journalist, leaning forward. ‘I’m busy for the next month or so on tour but, hey, call my publicist. You seem a nice guy.’

      Some good-natured laughter greeted this, and the journo’s coy reply that he was ‘busy too’. Royle wrapped up with thanks all round, wished them luck with the album and declared the interview over.

      Frank and Milo escaped ahead of her. Selma ushered them rapidly into the lifts, then down to the limousine.

      ‘Off to St Kilda now, TJ,’ Selma told the driver. Then she flopped back into her seat between the two of them. ‘My god, that was close,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not surprised Carter’s got himself blackballed all over the place.’ At their inquiring looks, she elaborated. ‘Ian Carter has got a Masters in trouble-making. A real activist, always stirring the pot. He’s been arrested at least half as often as he’s been published in the last ten years. After attracting enough libel suits, even the slowest editors finally worked out he was more trouble than the stories are worth. But you!’ She planted a kiss on Milo’s cheek, leaving a bright red smear. ‘You are a natural. A genius. A saviour. They were eating out of the palm of your hand.’ She rubbed the lipstick smear into a line of rouge on Milo’s cheek.

      ‘And you,’ she planted a kiss only slightly less enthusiastically on Frank’s forehead, ‘were also wonderful. The brooding one. Yes, that’ll work very nicely in the publicity shots. Which were going to be in the Botanic Gardens, but in the light of recent events we’ve rescheduled. Cityscapes, we thought. St Kilda – young, funky, urban-hip.’

      ‘I don’t feel like having any pictures taken,’ Frank said, trying to see where the driver was heading.

      ‘Fine,’ Selma said. ‘That’ll help the brooding look.’

      ‘Just don’t look all sulky instead,’ Milo warned him with a grin.

      Frank bristled. ‘I don’t sulk.’ Milo’s sustained mischievous humour disarmed him in the end. ‘All right, I do. A bit. If you take me to one of these famed Acland Street cake shops I promise to brood to your heart’s content.’

      ‘Ah, my heart is thoroughly contented already.’ Milo kissed Frank on the cheek and sat back in the leather seat. ‘But I wouldn’t say no to a rum baba myself.’

      ‘You can have it as a reward,’ Selma promised, ‘after the photo shoot.’

      Milo sobered suddenly. ‘I should call Gordie.’

      ‘And he is?’

      ‘Gordon Robinson. He was a lot closer to Colin than I was, especially in the last few years. I’ve been meaning to catch up.’

      Frank tugged his teeny mobile phone out of his jeans pocket. ‘Got the number?’

      ‘Uhh, yeah, somewhere.’ Milo pulled out his wallet and started to go through a small heap of old bus tickets, movie tickets, receipts and scraps of paper.

      ‘Hang on.’ Frank fished a slim address book from his back pocket. ‘Here we go.’ He dialled, but the line was engaged.

      ‘I’ll try later,’ Milo said.

      ‘Photos first,’ said Selma firmly.

      ‘Yes ma’am.’ Milo saluted, then grinned.

      Chapter Three

      Milo had no idea that being a glamorous rock star could be such a tiring occupation. As the sun set over the St Kilda foreshore, he swooned dramatically at Frank. ‘Quick, daaaaahling, grab me a Perrier before I expire.’

      ‘Could you butch it up a bit there, mate,’ said the photographer, a slender, black-haired androgyne named Corby. ‘Wouldn’t want your audience mistaking you for Naomi Campbell.’

      Milo just laughed and leaned his back against one of the famous St Kilda palm trees. He grinned lazily into the camera.

      ‘That’s it, boyo, the centrefold look,’ said Corby in a friendly way.

      Frank shook his head. ‘You’re a shameless tart, Bertolone.’

      ‘Got that in one,’ said Corby. ‘Here, get in this shot. Turn sideways, look out to sea.’

      The backdrops Corby used were St Kilda’s crumbling old apartment facades, trams, the Espy hotel, the café strip on Fitzroy Street, softened by palm trees in the foreground and angled sunlight on their faces. Melbourne had obligingly come up with one of its beautiful autumn evenings. Cool but not cold; clear skies and the slightest of breezes; light jacket weather; great for long walks, lounging outside cafés or raging till dawn.

      Corby had worked out early that Frank was a lot less comfortable with the camera than his extroverted partner, so he used the discomfort to develop an aura of aloofness and mystery for Frank, always looking away, or inward, in contrast to Milo’s bold, confident gaze. Corby also managed to place them near each other, not quite touching but partially blocking each other, hinting at intimacy. Both Selma and Corby were pleased with the results so far.

      ‘Speaking of tarts,’ Milo’s expression brightened, ‘I can hear a cherry strudel calling my name.’

      ‘Nearly done,’ Corby assured him. ‘Frank, can you just get on the other side of the tree there; lean back, fold your arms. Milo, put yours behind your head. Great. Hold that.’

      “Nearly done” turned into another twenty minutes before Selma and Corby were both satisfied with the day’s work. Corby declined the offer of cakes – ‘Someone might nick the van’ – leaving the others to walk along the Esplanade and back to Acland Street. They passed the grassy park where Corby had taken five rolls of film a few hours earlier with the Luna Park rollercoaster struts for a backdrop.

      Milo made a call on his mobile phone, while Selma and Frank disappeared into the European to make good on Selma’s promise of rewards for good behaviour. They returned laden with exotic desserts. Selma nibbled around the edges of a mini pavlova, but smiled indulgently at Frank and Milo tucking cheerfully into second helpings. Frank found her proprietorial air amusing and annoying in equal amounts. Milo just thought it was funny.

      As they finished a second coffee, a tall, elegant woman strode up to their streetside table. Blonde, cool, with dark brown eyes and slender hands, there was something European about the way she walked, the way she dressed. Her age was indeterminate. Older than Selma, who was in her early thirties, but certainly under retirement age. ‘Milo, love.’ The accent was subtle, but definitely Australian.

      ‘Heeey!’ He jumped out of his chair to embrace her, then squeezed another chair into the circle. She sat smoothly. Like Milo, she