Читать книгу Sacrifice - Narrelle M Harris - Страница 5

The interview was held at the Sofitel, an even flasher hotel in the centre of Melbourne. Actually, it was more a press conference than an interview, with all the music and street magazines invited, along with the mainstream press. Stefanie Royle was conducting the formal part of the gathering, but the floor would be open to questions afterwards.

Selma took Milo and Frank in through the foyer. Milo complained jovially about the dearth of shrieking fans. Selma informed him grimly that there should have been, she’d arranged for some – then flashed a wicked grin that left them wondering how seriously to take her.

A lift deposited them on the second floor, and they entered a small meeting room where they were introduced to Stefanie Royle. The young journalist looked like she got her hair and dress tips from re-runs of Sex in the City, but she didn’t wear it comfortably, throwing off as she did a more Bridget Jones’s Diary vibe.

‘Thanks for the write-up,’ said Frank. He shifted self-consciously.

‘My pleasure,’ said Royle. ‘I meant it too. I wasn’t just rewriting the press release, you know. I do happen to think you’re good. The best thing since Savage Garden. Way better than the Pet Shop Boys.’

Frank blinked at that, cast a sharp glance at Selma – busy organising bottled water – then back to Royle. ‘Good to hear it.’ He flashed a quick smile, excused himself and trailed after his PR exec, leaving Milo to charm their host.

Selma was on her mobile phone by the time he caught up with her in the hall. ‘Selma…’

‘Yes, it’s all going wonderfully well,’ she was saying in a bright, brittle voice. She watched Frank watching her. ‘My flock needs me, however. Yes, darling, talk soon. Bye. Bye!’

The moment she hung up, Frank leaned forward. ‘Just how much spin do you think we need?’ he asked.

‘At this point in your career,’ Selma said, ‘every little bit I can manage for you. The Gallagher boys can get by on an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude, but you aren’t the Gallagher boys. You’re not Silverchair. You’re not even the Carpenters. So I’ll get your name out there, I’ll get everyone talking about you – and it’s up to you two to be good enough to take it and make something of it. That’s the deal you signed with the Parrot label. So go in there, be a bon vivant with Royle and, for God’s sake, if she comes out with anything about Savage Garden or the Pet Shop Boys again, tell her you think they’re talented lads and move on.’

‘We’re trying to capture those markets as well, are we?’

‘We want as many markets as will take us.’

‘Yeah.’ Frank shrugged and jammed his hands in his pockets. ‘Yeah, I know. I just… Royle gets on my nerves. I’d lay odds she didn’t know what Duo ex Machina meant until you told her.’

‘Sweetheart, half of them had no idea until I told them. These are not literary scholars, Frank. If you wanted to go Latin, you should have picked something easier. At least everyone knows Carpe Diem.’

Frank took a deep breath in irritation. ‘We tried that,’ he confessed at last, ‘in Europe. First time we were introduced onstage, some illiterate dweeb came out with a sheet of paper and introduced us as “Crappy Dum”. We’d changed our name before the second set.’

Selma’s red, glossy mouth twitched at the corner. ‘We all make mistakes, darling. And I was being rude. Duo ex Machina is a wonderful name, you’re wonderful musicians, and everyone loves you and is going to love you even more. Now, shoo! I have some more calls to make, and you have to go and charm the Melbourne media.’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘I’m very fond of you, Frank, and you’re forgiven. Shoo!’

Frank let her wave him away with her shiny polished nails, and ducked back into the room. Milo was smiling, laughing at Royle’s little jokes, flirting the way he did with everything that breathed. Ah well, time to do a bit of spin doctoring of his own.

‘Sorry about that.’ Frank smiled and slipped in beside Milo. Royle nodded, though her eyes were still on Milo’s roguish-prince face. ‘Selma tells me you’re up for an industry award this year. Street Beat’s awards, isn’t it?’

That broke the ice. Stefanie Royle spent the next fifteen minutes talking about the awards, her nomination, the funky dress she was having designed for the night. Milo began making suggestions of flattering ways to do her hair, and they became fast friends. Frank was content to back up Milo’s opinion. His half-joking suggestion to top off the coiffure with dyed ostrich feathers was taken on board with enthusiasm. Milo grinned at Frank’s dismay as Royle’s hands fluttered in the air, sketching out the potential flow of the feathers from her long, tizzy locks.

By the time they went into the main room for the interview, the three of them were great pals. While studio cameras rolled and press photographers snapped, Royle asked them all about Duo Ex Machina.

It’s from the Latin, Deus ex Machina – God out of the machine.

It refers to plot devices that suddenly save the day – yeah, like Dr Who’s sonic screwdriver – yeah. (laughter) We’re unlikely heroes.

Influences – besides caffeine and beer, you mean? (laughter) REM, Elvis of course – Milo reckons Vera Lynn is grouse. (laughter)

Our first album was a kind of do-it-yourself job. Yes, it sold very well, mostly in the West. We got local music stores to carry it, sold it on the Internet, after shows. An independent label picked us up after that. A Triple J Hottest 100 album next. And last year, yeah, the title song for the film, Lunchtime Legend. The writer knew Frank, asked us to do it.

Yeah, I guess the AFI award for the music was handy. (laughter) That’s when Parrot Records found us.

We’re very excited about the new album. The thinking person’s Savage Garden, eh? Thanks. They were good, very talented lads. (laughter)

The interview wound up with them singing a couple of unplugged verses of the new single Ain’t Love Grand, which Milo liked to describe as their “unromantic love song”. This had been Selma’s decision: ‘Prove you’re no Milli Vanilli, push the song a bit, let everyone hear how great you sound together.’ And they did – Milo’s smoky tones weaving under Frank’s clear tenor, their voices moving from harmony to fusion. The round of applause from the press gallery was more than merely polite.

Royle opened the floor to questions, intending to field a handful before bringing the interview to a close. The recorded event would be edited and played that night on her Magic Music FM radio show and Saturday morning on her weekly cable television show.

They fielded simple questions about their early career and a Top 40 hit on the Euro-pop circuit in the late-1990s and were suitably modest about the possibilities of Album of the Year in the end-of-year 2004 Aria Awards.

Asked about their love lives, Milo grinned and asked if that was an offer, making it sound like an open invitation to everyone in the room. Frank opted for smouldering and mysterious through a Mona Lisa smile and ‘no comment’.

Another hand went up, got the nod. ‘Ian Carter, freelance,’ the tall journalist introduced himself. ‘You said earlier that you were unlikely heroes – but isn’t that exactly what you were five years ago, when you became involved in a Federal Police investigation?’

There was stunned silence throughout the hall for just a second, broken by the beeps of a rapidly dialled mobile telephone. Selma strode from the room, whispering frantically into the device.

‘Uh,’ Frank blinked, looked at Milo, looked back at Carter. An excited babble broke out on the floor, a hundred questions thrown up at once. Frank glanced to the rear entrance – towards escape – to see Selma gesturing frantically for him to stay. ‘Stay calm,’ she was mouthing at him. ‘Answer him.’

Damned if I will, he thought. If Selma was behind this… He clenched his teeth. This was too personal. It wasn’t funny.

But there was no escape from a room full of journalists who’d probably make something up if they couldn’t discover the facts. ‘What do you know about that?’ He tried to keep his voice neutral, but the words emerged clipped.

‘Only what was in the papers at the time. You helped the Federal Police solve a murder and stop an animal smuggling racket. Seems pretty heroic to me.’ Carter’s air of disingenuous interest was spoiled by calculating look in his brown eyes. Close-cropped blond hair fading to white and the ghost of a grizzled five o’clock shadow framed a long, square-jawed face etched with lines. He looked like a war correspondent who had wandered into the wrong room.

‘It wasn’t a Boys’ Own Bloody Adventure, you know,’ said Frank, his temper spilling out. ‘A friend of mine died.’

‘You came close yourself, I hear.’

Frank started to rise, an angry reply bubbling up.

But then Frank felt Milo’s hand on his arm, deflecting the anger and the tension.

‘I think,’ said Milo, ‘that “involved” isn’t the right expression here, guys. “Caught up in” pretty well covers it.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘An old friend of Frank’s got mixed up with the wrong crowd. We got tangled up in it by mistake. We weren’t heroes.’ He crooked a grin down at his partner. ‘Well, maybe Frank was a bit. But mostly we were just lucky. Or unlucky, depending on your point of view.’

Frank took a deep breath in the shelter of Milo’s grab at the limelight. The amazing bastard was charming crocodiles again. How did he do that?

‘In that case, Milo,’ said Carter in clear, all-friends-together voice, ‘is it lucky or unlucky that you know one of the victims of the Botanic Gardens killer?’

Milo’s puzzlement was clear. ‘Do you mean the first guy? What was his name?’

‘Not Denny O’Brien. The victim found this morning. His name has just been released – Colin Mettering. I understand you knew him at university.’

‘I-’ Milo shook his head. An image flashed into his mind’s eye – a young man, blonde, laughing. ‘Shit.’ He felt Frank’s hand on his arm and their eyes met. ‘Look, Mr… what’s your name? Carter?’ Milo looked out into the crowd at him again. ‘I don’t know where you get your information. I knew Colin. Not really well, but we had mutual friends. This is…’ he shook his head, ‘a hell of a way to find out.’ He frowned, sat down, looked helplessly at Frank. ‘Jesus,’ he murmured, his voice breaking, ‘poor Col.’

‘Your reaction, Mr Bertolone?’ Carter persisted.

‘I think you can see his reaction,’ said Frank acidly, curving one arm protectively around Milo.

Milo shook his head again, straightened up, stood to face the crowd. ‘It’s horrible, Mr Carter,’ he said gently. ‘Murder is a horrible thing. You want to know what kind of luck it is that I know Col. That’s not a question in very good taste, Mr Carter. Two people are dead, killed and dumped like they didn’t matter. And they do. I knew Colin Mettering as a friend of a friend ten years ago. He liked Warhol and Jackie Chan. He was a good bloke. I didn’t know him very well, but the people who loved 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.