Читать книгу Thicker Than Water - Lindy Cameron - Страница 5

Sand palm-tree tidal pool crab, scuttling from a crevice over crimson seaweed swaying in the shallows, not swaying spreading, liquefying blossoming out coating the surface sticky red reaching for incoming surf sounds awesome, threatening, howling yowling Raoul Manuel...

Kit sat bolt upright. Home, kitchen bench, radio, hungry meowing cat. Whoa.

"Thistle, thank you," Kit breathed, "bad dream, that was." She leant over so The Cat could affectionately head butt her cheek. Thistle had other ideas: she bit Kit on the chin.

"You harlot!" Kit swore. "One of these days I'll bite you back."

Thistle turned her back and flicked her tail, allegedly giving serious thought to what she'd do next - after breakfast. She jumped off the bench and waited politely by her bowl.

Kit rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck a few times to remove the kink from having fallen asleep at the breakfast bar, again. She squinted at the kitchen clock: 10:30.

Probably still a.m., she thought. She'd only dozed off for fifteen minutes this time.

"Thistle honey," she said, getting up to feed the feline and finish making her first coffee for the day. "I hope you've been paying attention to how we humans do the phone thing, because if I fall off my stool after nodding off, and end up out cold on the floor," she shook some dry bits into the cat bowl, "then no amount of yowling in my ear for your breakfast will wake me. You'll have to pick up the receiver and shit!" Kit jumped as the phone rang. The second half of the milk she was pouring in Thistle's other bowl missed it completely, so she left the call to her machine while she cleaned up the mess - until she heard Angie's voice.

"Katy, if you're there could you pick up please. I need to speak to you and kinda need your help right now, on account of the fact that Ma Baker and some of her sons are here and..."

"I'm here Angie," Kit said, after snatching up the receiver after running then skidding to a stop in her office.

"Thank the goddess, Katy my love. Did you hear what I said?"

"Sort of," Kit said, "Who is there? And where?"

"I'm at the bar with Julia and Gwen and, ah," she lowered her voice, "a royal Aunt and a couple of her henchmen."

"Queenie Riley is there?" Kit was astonished.

"Yeah. Do you think you could pop on over?"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"You could bring anyone else who's around," Angie hinted.

"I'll bring reinforcements. Oh, Angie, do not argue with this woman. Make her coffee, answer her questions, do not get smart. See you soon."

Kit hung up and ran into her bedroom where she pulled on her jeans, swapped her shirt for a bra and a fresh T-shirt and grabbed a shoe. She tore back out to the kitchen, threw several newspapers from the bench into the air before she found her wallet, keys, sunglasses and phone, then crawled under her desk for her other shoe.

So, Kit thought as she sat on the floor to put the runners on, Julia is back from her aunt's funeral in Bendigo and Gwen is...Who is Gwen? Ah. Gwen the witch, one of Angie's mostly-silent partners in the bar. But what the hell is Queenie Riley doing at the 'scene of the crime'?

Only one way to find out.

A minute later Kit was, as they say, hauling arse down the inside stairs to her upstairs apartment - oddly-descendible at speed only because, in the case of emergencies, illogical fears can be overridden - and heading towards the second door along the ground floor corridor. The door nearest the bottom of her stairs, was the one to O'Malley Investigations; the other was the entrance to the hub of Del and Brigit's feminist publishing empire.

Kit hoped like hell they were in and not busy.

They were and they weren't, so they leapt to attention when Kit declared, "Angie needs us now. The gangsters have arrived. You lock up, I'll get the car and meet you out front."

The large lawn in front of The Terpsichore had been taken over by a circus: a media circus; a police circus; a circus of protesters, already; and a lesbian support circus bolstered in turn by several drag queens who were probably on their way home from last night.

Kit parked on the opposite side of the road so she, Del and Brigit could swear and shake their heads and wonder how on earth they were going to get through to Angie.

Kit wondered if the Mob inside was as threatening as the mob outside; and voiced her amazement at the number of sightseers given there was nothing to see today, and that the murder had barely rated a mention in The Age - just all over the front page, half of page five, and an in-depth ready-written profile on the whole Riley clan on pages nine and ten.

"Then I imagine these folks are here," Brigit mused, "because of the barely off the verge of sensational coverage by all three commercial TV new programs - all last night."

"Ooh," Kit sneered as if she'd got a whiff of something foul. "I don't think that's good."

"Which part of all this very bad, is not good?" Del asked.

"That cute thirtyish redhead," Kit said. "Her name's Carrie; she was here yesterday."

"What's not good about her?" Del's tone signalled her visual appreciation.

"She's a maybe-baby dyke and she's talking to the press and that can't be good," Kit explained. "She won't have any insight into anything, except maybe how bizarre it is to find a dead man on only your second visit to a women's bar."

"Odds on they'll make her the celebrity then," Brigit foretold, opening the car door. "Come on. I think a bit of barging is in order."

"I knew Brigie's excursions to Mangle's gym would prove useful sooner or later," Kit commented to Del as they all got out.

"Please don't encourage her," Del begged, grabbing hold of Brigit's arm so they could flank Kit, but let her lead them through the throng.

"Yo Kit!" It was Rabbit MacArthur, taking time out from stirring the Straight Virgin Christians, or whoever the protesters were, to draw everyone's attention to their arrival.

"Hey Rabbit, keep up the good fight," Kit called back, as she forged on towards the beleaguered-looking Cathy Martin. Kit nodded hello but waited while the Senior D had finished giving mob-control instructions to a uniformed officer.

"Good morning O'Malley," Cathy sighed, with a smile.

"Bet you didn't think you'd have a carnival to contend with," Kit said.

Cathy pulled a 'seen it all' face. "Murder, especially strange ones, always draws the nutty elements out for a perv." She lifted her chin towards the well-dressed, middle-aged couple standing on the sidelines, holding a sign with a crude sketch of an angel - or a pyramid wearing a frisbee - that promised: 'God loves even the fallen - repent and know'.

"Know what?" Kit asked.

"Beats me," Cathy replied. "But the reporters nearly had your mate for breakfast."

"Is Queenie Riley still here?"

"No," Cathy smiled. "She and her thugglies left five minutes ago. She wanted to see where Gerry had been found."

"What did you do?"

"I showed her," Cathy shrugged. "It's not like there was anything there for her to see. I drew the line at letting her talk to Ms Nichols, who said she wouldn't unless you were with her, which is probably not a bad idea. No doubt Queenie will try again."

"Can we go in?"

Cathy glanced at Del and Brigit who were loitering innocently behind Kit.

"Del Fielding, Brigit Wells," Kit pointed. As they stepped forward, unnecessarily, to shake the detective's hand, Kit finished the intro, "Detective Senior Constable Cathy Martin. We're Angie's the next best thing to family, if that makes a difference."

Cathy smiled an okay. "I've already told Ms Nichols she can have her bar back, but can't open again until tomorrow. So, if you could ask her not to let anyone else in until then," she glanced at Rabbit and her mates, "I'd be grateful. Oh, and before you go, O'Malley, can I ask you a favour?"

"You can ask," Kit agreed.

"Karen Farrell didn't go from here to work yesterday; and I can't find her. Could you?"

"That's odd," Kit frowned. "I'll see what I can find out."

Kit had only taken three steps when she had to restrain Del from dragging her woman away by the scruff of her neck, after Brigie had quietly asked: "So Detective, are you a friend of Dorothy's?"

"Dorothy who?" Cathy Martin asked.

"Is there more than one?" Brigie queried, suggestively surprised.

"My mother's a Dorothy," Cathy said. "So is my landlady and my brother's cat."

"Brigit," Del snapped.

As Brigie turned on her heel to obey, Cathy winked at Kit which meant no more than that she'd understood Brigie's impertinent question. Kit raised an eyebrow, rounded up her 'reinforcements' and headed in to rescue Angie from a no-longer situation.

"It's about bloody time," she nonetheless exclaimed. "My yard is overrun with lunatics and perverts." Angie pushed a pile of pictures out of the way, then set out four cups on the bar.

"What happened to the gangsters?" Brigit asked. "I was hoping to meet the Queen Bee."

"See what I mean?" Angie pointed at Brigie. "Lunatics and perverts."

"Yeah, but we are the only ones that are allowed in," Kit said, as Angie half filled the cups with espresso. "Where are Julia and Gwen?"

"Who wants cappuccino?" Angie asked, poised to pour the hot milk and ladle the froth. "Everyone? Good. Julia took Gwen home because she had to prepare a moon phase."

"Didn't know Gwen was that powerful," Kit noted.

"What? Oh. No, I meant..." she held up her hands. "I gather that we, as in the Earth, is/are in a perfect possie for an auspicious moon thing. Gwen's coven are chanting about it."

"Oh please!" Del moaned.

"Each to their own Del," Angie insisted.

"Naturally," Del rolled her eyes. "But, given the circumstances," she stressed, "I do hope you didn't let any of those journos near your resident wicca expert. Your business partner being a witch is bound to send the lesbian vampire rumours into overdrive."

Kit laughed in agreement. "Yeah, I can just see the Hellmouth references in the headlines tomorrow. It's bad enough the reporters are out there interviewing Ms McDerm-"

Angie was shaking her head. "They're not."

"Yeah, they are. We saw them."

"Katy, they're not," Angie insisted. "Carrie is doing the interviews. She's a journalist."

"You mean she was here spying on us?" Brigit said, with fist-on-the-bar indignation.

"No, I don't think so," Angie said. She slapped a copy of the North Star, the local rag that covered Melbourne's northern suburbs, down on the bar. "I think she was here because she was here; but she got herself one hell of a story by being here."

"Yeah, but is she queer?" Brigie smirked.

"Darling?"

"Yes, Del? Oh, okay I'll shut up."

Blood-drained Man in Lesbian Disco

by Carrie McDermid

"That's a screamer with a byline, if ever I've seen one," Del noted. "Read it please, Kit."

Kit took a breath. "Okay. Alleged Melbourne crime lord Gerald 'Gerry' Anders was yesterday found murdered in a lesbian nightclub in North Fitzroy. Crime lord?" she laughed. "That's a gross exaggeration of..."

"O'Malley," Del interrupted. "Can you do it without the commentary? We can all get outraged afterwards."

"Yeah, okay. The deceased's blood-drained body was found in a metal tray-like box in the disco of The Terpsichore - a St Georges Road bistro and dance club run by women for lesbians. Aagghh! Sorry.

"The dead man was found by the owner of the venue, Ms Angela Nichols at 12.45 on Thursday afternoon. On discovering the body, which was suspended on a tray over the metal box which contained his blood, Ms Nichols called the North Fitzroy police.

"According to local CIB Detective Ray Conway, the deceased - who was later identified as 47-year-old alleged career-criminal Gerry Anders - had bled to death.

"This was confirmed by the first Homicide Squad member on the scene, Detective Senior Constable Cathy Martin. The forensic pathologist Dr Ruth Hudson declined to comment.

"Witnesses at the scene, when the body was discovered, claim they had no idea how the dead man could have got into the nightclub, as it is only open to lesbians and other women. Men are usually not allowed in.

"Do you suppose the idiot witness she quoted was herself?" Kit growled, before continuing. "Senior Sergeant Charles Parker, the man in charge of the murder investigation, stated that police already have a possible suspect - the man's a fuckwit! - that leads were being followed up and witness statements taken.

"The victim, Gerry Anders, who is a nephew of well-known Melbourne businesswoman Marjorie Riley and husband of one-time Saturday Show dancer Poppy Barton, leaves behind his wife and three sons Sean 25, Tom 22 and Mark 19.

"At the time of his death Mr Anders was being investigated by Victoria Police over his role in the execution-style shootings of alleged drug importers Julie and Mike Sherwood. The bodies of the Sherwoods were found in their car in bush outside Woodend in late January.

"Anders was also about to face court on charges of assault against a patron of his popular dance venue The Moshun Club; and was recently questioned by the Arson Squad over his possible connection to three inner-city hotel fires.

"Anders spent five years in jail for armed robbery in the late nineties, and was arrested two years ago for the alleged kidnapping of Melbourne entrepreneur Alan Shipper. Those charges were dropped following the death of Mr Shipper in a car accident before the trial.

"At this stage Gerry Anders' connection with The Terpsichore is unknown, but sources claim the late nightclub owner may have had a financial interest. Bloody hell!" Kit finished.

"That's kind of what I said," Angie smiled.

"You want I should go out there and deal with the bitch?"

Everyone looked at Brigit Wells, considered her offer seriously, then snorted with laughter.

"Who on earth are these sources she's claiming?" Del asked.

"I have no idea," Angie stated.

"And you'd never met this Anders bloke before?" Del continued.

"Never," Angie threw her arms out. "Never met him, never seen him in passing, never spoken to him that I know of. I did not know he existed, until he didn't any more right here, most inconveniently, in my bar."

"And he has no financial interest in this business?" Kit queried, but only for verification.

"If you mean did he have a financial stake in our bar then no, most-absolutely not," Angie stated. "If you mean did he have an interest in wanting to have a financial interest in the bar then, difficult as it is, you'll have to ask him because - never having met Gerry Anders or ever spoken to him - I wouldn't have a clue what he had an interest in. And now that he's quite dead, I'm not ever likely to find out. Nor do I care to."

"I gather you really didn't know him then," Brigit noted.

"What about anyone on his behalf?" Kit asked.

"Who on his behalf what?" Angie almost snapped. "Sorry Katy."

Kit waved Angie's impatient tone away. "Has anyone shown any interest in acquiring or investing in or offering to develop either The Terpsichore, the building or the land it's on?"

"In a word, no," Angie stated. "And if they did or had, you know I'd tell them where to go, especially if they contained too much testosterone without the required dose of queerness."

"Well," Kit shrugged, "that brings us back to the primo question: why was the body of Gerry Anders left in The Red?"

"And why was it drained of blood," Brigie said spookily.

"It's my bet the exsanguination," Kit rolled the word out of her mouth, "was done to increase the impact of a dead and naked man being found in a women's bar."

"But," Del raised a finger, "did whoever left him even know it was a women's bar? Could they have just chosen 'a place' where they knew he'd be found sooner rather than later?"

"Maybe," Kit shrugged.

"But you don't think so," Angie said.

"Nope. I think there is a connection, somewhere, between Gerry Anders and The Terpsichore. It may not be obvious or direct; and it may not have any meaning, other than as a stunt to enhance the murderous deed itself. It may be an inconsequential link, an insignificant connection between Anders and his killer, or the killer and this bar-"

"Whatever it is, it certainly results in some big words," Brigit commented.

Kit narrowed her eyes. "I'm thinking aloud Brigie; I often use big words when I think."

"Well, I reckon we could find this mysterious missing link a lot sooner than the cops," Del proposed, in an unlike-her gung-ho tone.

"Especially if the cops are being led around by Chucky Parker," Kit agreed, vaguely, because she was also thinking, rather more loudly: uh-oh!

She gazed at her friends and wondered how the hell she was going to head this one off at the pass. As helpful, resourceful and clear-thinking as her friends always were, forming a posse under these seriously-overshadowed circumstances would be totally not a sensible course of action.

Get them involved O'Malley, she thought, but with harmless sidetracks.

"Detective Martin seems okay, though," Angie was saying.

"You mean Five of Nine." Brigie waggled her eyebrows.

"Do I? Why?" Angie asked.

Brigie gargled a woo-hoo. "Five of Nine - you know, like Seven of Nine on Voyager, only Detective Cathy is not quite so sculpted with enhanced boobs and itty-bitty waist. And she's probably not as tall as Seven, but she does look like her. Don't you think, Kit?"

"Do we know what she's talking about?" Angie asked.

"Star Trek," Kit explained. "But, can we stick to this plot, please - whatever it is."

"Of course," Brigie nodded. "Plot stick away, Kit."

"Thanks. We need to find out if anyone that we know has any idea why the mortal remains of Gerry Anders were left here and not, for instance, in his own nightclub. We need to do this quietly and with care. We must consider who we ask things of, and to whom we tell any of the things that we know, or find out."

"By we, you do mean just the four of us," Del clarified.

"Yes," Kit nodded. "We four, with strict boundaries, should do our best to find out who, if anyone, knows what. And Angie, you need to hire me officially so I can act on your behalf."

"Righto, Katy, you're hired," Angie nodded. "Do I need to sign anything?"

"Yeah, but later; and only because a certain Detective Chucky Fix-You-Up is in charge of the murder investigation. Speaking of which, you must all remember that I am not, correction we are not - and I repeat - not investigating the murder of Gerry Anders. All we're trying to do is find a connection between Mr Anders, the live businessman, and this," Kit waved at the bar, "one of his last resting places."

"What do you mean by boundaries?" Brigit asked.

"She means," Del injected, "we can talk to other patrons and people we know and we can talk to each other, but we don't talk to the press including McThing, and we do not talk to any member of the Riley family. Right?"

"Right. Or any other crooks or crims or mobsters or strange people," Kit added. "Because of who Anders was, we are inadvertently dealing with some very bad people. We do not want to deal with them directly, and we certainly don't want them to know who we are, that we are interested in them, or that we care."

"What about Julia?" Angie asked.

Kit ran her hand through her hair. "Keep her informed and ask her to keep her ears open, but I suggest that she and the other owners keep a low and, if possible, silent profile."

"Especially Gwen and her woo-woo friends," Del added.

"What about Alex?" Brigit asked.

Kit sighed. They'd be calling on Rabbit and the Scooter gang to act as the Terpsichore Irregulars if she wasn't careful. Ooh, don't forget about Scooter.

"Alex is not due to leave Sydney until Sunday," she said. "Even then she may have to go straight to Adelaide. But, if there are no objections, I think we need her on the team anyway. At the very least Angie may need a lawyer."

Angie pulled a sour face. "You think so?"

"Sorry honey," Kit nodded, "but yes, I think so."

"Alex would also make a proper famous five," Brigit stated - way too seriously. Before anyone could groan, which they all got around to in a flash, she threw her palms up. "Hey, I'm just trying to lighten the mood here. I mean, it's not like we knew the dead guy. We are simply caught up in someone else's shit here and sure, while some of it is bound to stick on us, we do not have to lose our senses of humour."

Del stroked Brigit's shoulder. "I love this woman," she admitted. "No idea why; but I do."

"Ohh," Kit sighed. "Cathy says she's not been able to find Karen Farrell."

"I heard her say that," Del said. "What does she want Scooter for?"

"She was here when I opened up yesterday, but had to go to work," Angie explained.

"She didn't get there," Kit said. "Do you know where she works?"

"An old folks home in Brunswick, since her school closed down." Angie said. "I told the cops that, and Rabbit told them where Scooter lives. I wonder where she is?"

"Was Scooter Farrell acting suspiciously?" Brigit queried, in a vaguely Sherlockian tone.

"No more than usual," Angie laughed. "They'd all been on the piss something chronic on Wednesday night apparently, so Scooter was not a well girl. It's not surprising she couldn't cope with the oldies after finding a dead man with the hangover she had."

"That then is the first thing on the agenda," Kit announced, turning to Del and Brigit. "Can you two find out where Scooter is recovering, loitering or doing whatever it is she's doing..."

"Easy," Brigit declared, sliding off her stool. "Toilet first, though," she added, heading immediately in that direction.

"...without arousing the curiosity Rabbit & Co outside," Kit finished.

"O'Malley?" Del placed her hand on Kit's arm and looked deep and seriously into her sparkling-greens.

"Del," Kit acknowledged.

"Are you assigning us distracting chores so we'll keep our noses out of your official detecting business?"

"Yes," Kit smiled, "and no. I'm delegating less risky tasks to you, your girlfriend and Angie, so that none of us get too involved in the heart of this murder investigation. The Rileys are not nice people Del. It's more than likely they did something extra nasty to another bad guy that resulted in the over-the-top death that was accorded Gerry Anders."

Angie screwed her nose up in frustrated anger. "But I didn't to anything to the Rileys, or their cohorts or enemies, so why did some psycho-crook dump this shit in my lap?"

Kit gave an expansive shrug. "That might not have been the intention, Angie; but there's a thought. Can you find out if your co-owners have any, even remote, unwelcome connections to any underworld types or, failing that, if they've been approached by anyone about selling."

"Is that my job?"

"Yes honey, that's your job," Kit said and then frowned. "But, as I said, please be careful because I've just thought of another less-likelihood, but one that indicates just how dangerous the Rileys can be. Gerry Anders himself may have done something so wrong or unacceptable in the eyes of his own family that they did this to him."

"Oh shit," Del grumbled. "I may have to lock Brigie in the pantry until this is over."

"Why would Queenie want to see where he was found, if they left him here?" Angie asked.

"You're the one who called them lunatics and perverts," Del reminded her.

Angie shook her head. "I was talking about the god-warblers and the journos. Marjorie Riley was polite and seemed pretty upset this morning."

"Yeah?" Kit huffed. "That woman has been conning people her entire life Angie; and she makes a hobby of lying to the cops."

Angie ducked her head in concession. "It could have been an act I suppose. But to me it looked more like an 'I'm gunna get the bastard that did this to my boy' kind of deal. What I want to know, Katy, is why the hell she wanted to talk to me."

"Coz you found him. Dealing with her, however, is going to be my job, or one of them; okay? I saw enough of everything to answer Queenie's questions. And I'll pay her a visit so she won't have any reason to come back here."

Are you completely mad? Kit's mind screamed. Don't even suggest that as a last resort.

"Are you mental?" Del was asking.

"You know I am," Kit smiled.

"Will she remember you were a cop?" Angie asked. "It might smooth the way."

Kit put on her best don't-be-ridiculous face. "Being a cop, even an ex, wouldn't smooth a bloody thing with the Rileys, Angie. Besides, I've actually never met the old tart. I saw her heaps, but never had a reason to talk to her, arrest her, interview her, or be introduced to her."

"And don't you dare do any of those things now either," Del pronounced. "I mean not on you own, O'Malley. Don't call on her without company or back up, without being wired or watched, or without telling us when and where you're going to do such a stupid thing."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Kit grinned, thankful that Del at least seemed to understand the seriousness of their collective situation. She hoped that would also translate into Brigie-speak so they'd be able to keep her out of any trouble-making too.

"So Kit," asked the devil-herself, back from the loo, "what are you going to do?"

Kit started counting off on her fingers. "I'm going to try wangling more info from Detective Cathy, talk to Scooter when you find her and, right now, I'm going outside to interrogate the shit out of Carrie McThing and find out who her alleged sources are."

Del snorted. "She's a journo. If she's remotely worth her salt she won't divulge that info."

"Not even if I threaten to tell the other reporters out there that she and herself were two of her own quoted witnesses?" Kit proposed.

"You cannot out her, Katy O'Malley," Angie stated. "No matter what she's written."

"Unless she is a heterospy of course," Brigit allowed. "Then you can do anything you like to her. I'll help."

"Hey you guys," Kit raised her hands in surrender. "If she is gay I'd never out her - but she doesn't know that. So if she is, but I can't get her on side, then I'll just make noise."

"And if she isn't gay?" Del asked.

"Then I'll make a lot more noise."

"What if she is but you scare her back into the terrible darkness of denial?" Angie asked.

"That's too bad," Kit said. "It'll be her own fault for smudging our rules anyway."

"We have rules?" Del asked.

"Of course we have rules," Kit said.

"What are they?" Angie queried.

Kit ran her right hand through her hair; then did the same on the other side with her left hand. "They're unspoken rules," she proclaimed.

"Ah," Del nodded. "That explains every-McThing."

"No," Kit said, sliding off her stool to pose with her hands on her hips. "It explains why she only smudged the rules. I am now going outside to set her straight."

"O'Malley," Del warned.

"Not that kind of straight, Del."

"Speaking of O'Malley, O'Malley," Brigit began... and then continued because everyone including Kit looked at her blankly. "How come Detective Cathy calls you O'Malley and not Kit or Ms O'Malley or Katherine?"

Kit shrugged. "Why shouldn't she? You guys do sometimes."

"Yeah, but only if we're trying to get your attention when you've vagued-off; or because we're mad at you. Not that we're ever mad mad at you, Kit, but you know what I mean."

Kit pondered the original question for a moment, then shrugged. "Obviously my old habits have a resurrection tendency," she said. "I always preferred fellow officers to call me O'Malley because, in my callow youth, I thought it sounded tougher than Kit. But it seems that, without even thinking, I also ask it of new cops I meet; like Cathy, yesterday. Marek was the only one who ever, sometimes, called me Kit; though more often it was Kitty - which was mildly annoying then, but kinda nice now."

"Interesting," Brigie noted, as if it really was, while she poked the pile of pictures that Angie had pushed aside when they arrived. "What's with the pics?" she asked.

"Julia, Gwen and I have been discussing the theme for a new feature wall."

Kit glanced over Brigit's shoulder at the photos, before grinning at Angie.

"I knew you'd approve Katy," Angie said, spreading the photos out. "We agreed, a process no doubt clinched by the masculine infringements of the past twenty-four hours, that the time has come for bit of myth making and a pictorial tribute to our favourite butt-kicking icons."

"It's about time," exclaimed Kit, who had groaned a year ago when the partners had finally given in to the sporty-dykes in the community and begun the Athletes Wall - still a work in progress - behind the pool tables. In the end of course, she had to admit that Cathy, Tatianna, Yvonne, Dawn, Susie and all the other splendid bods she didn't know from Eve, looked pretty spiffy up there. This, however, was her idea of the woman as hero and a perfect extension of the bar's other collages which featured the world's oestrogen-powered movers and shakers.

Angie had just indicated the large expanse of purple but otherwise undecorated wall beyond the piano; the only vertical space yet to get the Terpsichore treatment. All the other lacquered walls, from the entrance and left around by the booths and on past The Red, were covered with photos, articles and paintings of real-life women who had inspired, led or featured in every kind of human endeavour ever recorded in or left out of history - from music, literature, art and acting to science, politics, humanitarian work and exploration.

The new wall was to be dedicated to the imagination: to the world of goddesses, mythical she-beings, the female heroes of legend and, woo-hoo, contemporary pop culture.

"I only know half of these mythological and fictional women," Angie was saying, "so your special-girl is not going to recognise many of them at all, is she Kit?"

"Hey, we're getting there," Kit said. "But introducing a grown women with no concept of TV or movie culture to our known-universe is a very slow process. Alex does recognise Xena, Gabrielle and Buffy now - so it's a start."

"There she is Angie - that's Seven of Nine," Brigit said, tapping a 'women of Star Trek' photo. "That's a great one of Emma Peel, ooh and Ripley."

Kit was torn between curiosity and a job or two that needed doing. Bummer, the jobs won.

"I'm going out to tackle the media now," she announced.

"Be nice Katherine," Del prompted.

"I'll do my best, Delbridge," Kit nodded, bracing herself for the thirteen-ringed circus outside. On her way out - just for luck - she stroked the perfect, left bum-cheek of one of the four life-size stone caryatids whose eternal task it was to hold up the cupola over the Terpsichore's ridiculous foyer-fountain.