Читать книгу The Price of Fame - Rowena Cory Daniels - Страница 6

It's hard to stride in high heels but I tried, heading up Arthur Davidson's drive. My shoes crunched on private gravel, my breath misted with each exhalation and my stomach churned. Everything depended on this interview.

Although it was early autumn, high in the Dandenong Mountains outside Melbourne it had turned wintery cold. Mature Liquidambars flanked the path, their leaves littering the ground, the scattered reds and golds lending warmth to an otherwise grey day. For someone who grew up in sultry Queensland it was delightfully exotic. My blood-red overcoat matched perfectly. It was brand new and it was a statement of intent.

Since graduating in Film and Television from Queensland College of Arts, I hadn't had any luck pitching my screenplays to producers so, after my near death experience, I'd decided life was too short to play it safe. At nearly 29 I was taking matters into my own hands. My fingers tightened on the satchel briefcase containing a showreel of my best work.

I was going to make a documentary about the rise and rupture of the 80s band, the Tough Romantics. They had weathered a murder, scandal, drugs and fame to produce some iconic music, only to have internal relationships destroy their highly creative team. Since the accident six months ago, I'd done my research and written a treatment. I had an expression of interest from the ABC but, if I wanted to get enough funding for a 10-part series about the music industry, I needed more.

I needed the authenticity Arthur Davidson would give my project. After all, he'd been there the night Genevieve James was murdered. The same night a band was catapulted from cult following into the collective consciousness of the Australian psyche. Her murder had happened 25 years ago this autumn. Even though I was a kid at the time I'd never forgotten. It was the big scandal of the '80s music industry. The press had had a field day after discovering Genevieve, Pia and Tucker's three-way love affair: Rock n Roll Ménage à Trois!

But it was her other lover, the taxi driver, who had been accused of her murder. Pete O'Toole was old enough to be her father. He'd denied killing her and committed suicide before the case was ever brought to trial. No one had ever been convicted of Genvieve James' murder; the girl who died just three weeks short of her 17th birthday.

Growing up, I could not escape her belligerent, waif-like face staring out of all the newspapers. That publicity shot had been taken to promote the Tough Romantics and the media had used the photo repeatedly during the following years as the band went from strength to strength. Like the dingo-got-my-baby case, Genevieve James' murder and the fate of the surviving Tough Romantics was woven into the fabric of our society.

Even so it would have all fizzled out if Pia Zaffir, Jake Tucker and Arthur Davidson, hadn't had the talent to take them further - overseas in fact - to Britain where their tragic background aroused the public's morbid curiosity bringing their music to wider audience. Their cutting edge sound hit a nerve in Europe, particularly Germany. They were lured to the States where the pressure to become mainstream led to a sell-out album and, seven years after Genevieve's murder, the band split up citing incompatibility. Arthur Davidson came home, but Pia and Tucker went on to bigger things.

Arthur married, had three kids and started his own landscaping business. He had, in the last 11 years, become known for his human rights and charity work. Now he was up for election, standing as an Independent in his state electorate.

That was why he'd agreed to see me. His wife, who was handling his PR, had assumed I wanted to talk about the election. Lying, even by omission, made me feel slightly queasy and I took a deep breath to settle my nerves. Once I was in the door I would have to do some fast talking.

Arthur Davidson was bottled integrity. If he opened up to me, the other band members would follow. I planned to post a podcast of the interview on the Facebook page I'd set up for Genevieve James and blog the making of the doco, adding snippets to YouTube. Even after 25 years, devoted fans of the Tough Romantics maintained websites dedicated to the band. She still had a web presence as a virtual ghost and I hoped to use viral marketing to stir up interest. Everything I had was being ploughed into this series; it had to be a success. At least Nan was secure. With the sale of our family home she'd bought her own unit and had given me her blessing to do what I liked with my share, but even a shoestring doco eats up the dollars and if I wanted to do a whole series…

I turned the corner of the gravel drive, and paused to look at Arthur Davidson's imposing Edwardian house. Mellow brickwork blended with the established gardens, radiating tasteful respectability. This was what money could buy. And he didn't flash it around.

Through the diamond-paned windows I noticed somebody turn and rise. By the time I stepped onto the porch the door was opening. I don't know what I expected. Mrs Miles-Davidson was nice, not pretty enough to make another woman feel inadequate, yet appealing. She'd dressed in casual, sage green pants and a cashmere sweater one shade lighter. The outfit went well with the soft red-gold highlights in her hair. From the heels of her low Italian boots to the top of her salon-maintained hair she screamed restrained elegance.

I'd done my homework; I knew before she opened her mouth that Patricia Miles-Davidson was old money.

'Antonia Carlyle?' She gave me a practised smiled and offered her hand.

I shook it automatically. I'd met plenty of her type back when I was trying to make my marriage work. Then I'd only cared if I made a good impression because Nathan never let me hear the end of it. Now that I needed to make a good impression for my own sake, I experienced a stab of nerves as she looked me up and down. I didn't like having my clothes priced and my social status pegged. Let her make what she could of the vintage sixties, raw-silk cream suit under my red coat. Usually I opted for comfort but today I was Grace Kelly power dressing.

'Mrs Miles-Davidson?' My voice sounded throaty as if I had a cold. Partly nerves, mostly just me. I'd never smoked.

'Call me Patricia.' She stepped back. 'Come inside. Arthur was about to-'

'Pats? Where's that bloody-'

Seeing me, he broke off and a lopsided grin split his face. I recognised that same grin from the early photos of the band before the band's publicists had schooled him to glower for the cameras. Only now he didn't have shoulder-length, bright orange baby-fine hair. He had the kind of baldness you associate with blond men and his hair was so closely cropped it was almost shaved.

In his early 40s, Arthur Davidson had gone bald early, but he was still tall and lanky. His wasn't the physical type to put on weight. He wore charcoal grey pants teamed with a dove-grey, cable-stitched pullover that made you want to hug him. I just knew his wife had laid the clothes out on the bed for him.

'This is Antonia Carlyle, your interview,' Patricia told him.

I caught the message in her tone. I guess he did too because he cast me a swift, almost guilty-little-boy-look and I felt an instant tug of empathy. What was this man doing, going into politics?

'Go through to the study.' Patricia indicated the door. 'I'll bring in some refreshments. Would you like a coffee, tea?'

'Uh, coffee will do. White, one sugar.'

She left us and Arthur Davidson opened the door for me.

'What did you lose?' I asked.

'That bloody mobile phone. I think the kids have run off with it again,' he confessed, with disarming honesty.

And I knew I had to come clean. 'I'm here under false pretences, Mr Davidson. I'm not interested in the election. I'm an independent producer and I want to make a documentary about the early days of the Tough Romantics. I need to interview you for the intimate insights that I can't get from research.'

I pulled out the DVD. 'Here are some samples of my work, a showreel of my best stuff.' God, I was tactless. I gritted my teeth and made the best of it.

Arthur went very still, staring at the offered DVD. I guess he hadn't thought about the early days and Genevieve's death in years. For a heartbeat, real distress defined his slightly lopsided features. He'd been the philosophical one, Pia had been the smooth talker and Tucker had been the bad boy, but all the band members had lived the wild life in London in the early years. I'd seen some grainy black-and-white film of them stoned out of their brains, collapsed on threadbare couches in trendy squats with their fans.

I could sympathise with him. Reformed rocker, Arthur Davidson, didn't want the sordid details of his old band raked over, even if the scandal was over two decades old.

'Why would the public want to see a documentary about a girl who gets murdered?' A rueful smile lifted one side his mouth. 'Sort of gives away the ending, doesn't it?'

I felt an answering grin on my lips. 'The same could be said of Romeo and Juliet, Mr Davidson.'

He acknowledged the strike and accepted the DVD. 'Call me Arthur.'

'Arthur, then. You see, my doco won't concentrate on Genevieve's death. I want to research the band and its evolution. I plan a 10-part series on the Australian music industry and the Tough Romantics were the biggest thing in the '80s. Will you give me an interview? And, if you do, can I tape it to podcast?

As he breathed out through his nose, I could just feel the 'No' coming, but I could sense something else. He looked distracted like he was hearing inner voices.

Just then, his wife backed into the room with a tray and he snapped out of it, switching to professional mode. This was the Arthur Davidson who'd survived teen fame and sex-drugs-and-rock-&-roll to end up a pillar of the establishment - well, the alternative green establishment.

'The Tough Romantics are old news, Ms Carlyle,' he said smoothly. His wife's smile faded. She glanced at me, then back to him as he went on. 'If you want to milk a threadbare scandal to further your own career, I'm not your man. I'm an Independent, standing for responsible management of resources. I don't want to remind the public of my less than salubrious past.' His expressive clown-face grew troubled. 'We were just kids. Let Veevie rest in peace.'

Hearing him use Genevieve's nickname made something shift inside me. I felt raw and exposed. Despite this, I plunged on. 'Naturally, I can appreciate your position. But, like I said, I'm not going to concentrate on Genevieve's murder, or the drugs and sex angle. I want to explore the dynamics of the band, discover what drove its creativity, and what eventually tore it apart. And you're wrong about the Tough Romantics. Their music is gaining new devotees every year. Have you googled the band recently, seen how many websites the fans maintain? Even if Pia and Tucker hadn't gone on to forge successful solo careers the Tough Romantics' music would still be collecting fans.'

Arthur hesitated.

'Your coffee?' Patricia said. She was going to be the perfect hostess if it killed her, only her stiff smile told me how much it cost. 'Why rake over old ground, Ms Carlyle?'

'Antonia, thanks,' I told her, then held Arthur's eyes. 'I've been listening to the band's first four albums, looking at its development. Much of the early stuff was innovative and challenging. It had the in-your-face feel of punk combined with unusual melodic harmonies. Why didn't you go down that road? The work from your UK and German period was strong and interesting, then suddenly- burn out. What went wrong in the US?'

'It's simple. Throw enough money at someone and eventually they will turn into a monster. We all did. It was a case of arrested development. For years we'd been living in a cocoon of creativity, devoted to our music. To be blunt, Antonia, we were really boring little shits.'

His wife flushed.

I laughed as a wave of relief rolled over me. 'That's why I want to interview you, Arthur. Only you can get away with saying that.'

He grinned slowly. 'You've really done your research.'

I nodded, pleased to have him acknowledge this.

'So,' Arthur asked, 'who do you think killed Genevieve?'

It was way off topic. I floundered. 'I- I don't know. Pete O'Toole was the obvious suspect: a divorced man, prone to violent rages with a string of petty convictions in his youth. He protested his innocence when they took him in for questioning. They wanted him to plead manslaughter, but-'

'He killed himself. Wasn't that an admission of guilt?' Patricia snapped.

'That's what a lot of people thought, but he was never charged with her murder. No one was.' I didn't have an opinion either way, and my recent research had uncovered conflicting evidence. 'There was some doubt about his prints on the knife. The police never did find the missing mystery witness who could have confirmed O'Toole's alibi.'

'Maybe that's because he had nothing to say. Since the mystery witness was supposed to be O'Toole's closest friend, surely he would have come forward to save him if he could? The police knew what they were doing, Ms Carlyle. That taxi driver was bad news, mixing with druggies and street kids. It was all so sordid.' Patricia repressed a shudder, making a heroic effort to smile. 'My husband has led an exemplary life since we were married. Ask anyone. Look, the election is the weekend after next. Arthur stands a good chance of winning this seat. Politics is a dirty business. We don't want a documentary about his past coming out after he's elected to undermine his credibility.'

She turned to Arthur who was dunking a biscuit in his tea. I saw her wince. They'd been married 12 years and she hadn't managed to cure him of that. I didn't think she stood much chance now.

When it became clear he wasn't going to speak, I prodded, 'Why ask me about Genevieve James' murder, Arthur? Do you have a different theory?'

His slightly uneven eyes met mine. 'If you've read the statements you know as much as me. I wasn't even home when it happened. They sent me out to get pizza.' He sounded aggrieved. The high drama had happened while his back was turned. I suspected it was the story of his life. 'I reckon the only person who could have saved O'Toole was Joe.'

The casual way Arthur used these infamous names sent a frisson through me. 'You mean Joseph Walenski?'

Arthur nodded.

I'd come to the same conclusion. O'Toole claimed he'd been with Walenski at the time Genevieve was attacked. But Walenski had disappeared. If the police hadn't been able to find him 25 years ago, I had no hope of finding him now. Luckily, he didn't even figure on my must-interview list.

'You talked to anyone else?' Arthur asked.

'I've read the police statements. I have photocopies of all the newspaper clippings and articles from the early days right through to now. I've been talking to Jake Tucker's agent. He's willing to see me,'

Arthur snorted softly. 'Tuck'd talk to anyone if he thought it would help his tour.'

Was Arthur just being frank or was there bad blood between him and the band's guiding light?

Tucker was willing to talk, that was all I needed to know. As for Pia Zaffir, she was a lot harder to approach. When the band broke up she went into the movies. With her sexual magnetism and contacts, she'd walked straight into a leading role and hadn't looked back. Five years ago, at 38, she'd won her second Oscar for her role in Outing. Despite the rush of offers she had retreated from public life and done a Jodie Foster, buying designer sperm.

It was even harder to get near Pia since she'd had the baby. Motherhood had made her reclusive, driving the paparazzi to howl like bloodhounds on the scent. I'd heard she was coming back to Australia but her publicity people wouldn't even reply to my requests. It was incredibly frustrating. I was sure if I could just speak with her in person I'd win her over.

'Pia's come home for a family wedding,' Arthur revealed, following the same line of thought as me. 'I can ask, but I don't know if she'll see you.'

His wife's mouth opened, then closed in a tight line.

I fished around in my satchel for a business card and quickly scribbled my current phone numbers and address, then passed it across to Arthur. 'Here's how to contact me.'

He glanced at it. 'You're from Melbourne?'

'Queensland, actually. I'm renting number One-Eight-One.' I felt my face grow hot. One-Eight-One was the house where Genevieve James had been murdered. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes and was hidden. Resentment? I wasn't being ghoulish. I rushed on. 'Had to get the feel of the house, of St Kilda. The owners, Grace and Scott, are fans of the band. When I told them my plans they offered to let me rent while they went overseas. It's been renovated but-'

'It's nothing like it was. St Kilda's become trendy. When we lived there you could still-' he glanced at his wife and shrugged.

I knew what St Kilda was like 25 years ago. I'd done my research. The suburb had started as a little seaside town outside of Melbourne. It had become a holiday retreat for wealthy families, gradually losing popularity as the city engulfed it. Eventually the large homes were divided up into flats. For many years the suburb had had a bad name and deservedly so. Drugs and prostitution had lowered property values. Then low rents attracted people like Arthur and his band. Artists, writers and musicians mingled with druggies and prostitutes as the suburb took on a new life.

Then, like many inner-city suburbs, especially those near the bay, St Kilda had experienced a rebirth. When it became trendy the prices rose. Yuppies bought the terrace houses and did them up, forcing out the very musicians and artists who had given the suburb its character, along with the pimps and prostitutes.

Twenty-five years ago you could still score a fix on the street but Arthur hadn't wanted to say that in front of his wife.

'I have an expression of interest from the ABC and I've done my research,' I said, meeting his eyes.

He nodded.

'Will you give me an insight into what it was like being one of the Tough Romantics?'

I knew the answer before he shook his head. I hurried on. 'Everyone remembers Genevieve James' murder. They know your part in it. The band's past is explored in lurid detail on the web. It has a listing in Wikipedia. All someone has to do is enter your name and hit search. You can't hide from your past.

'Besides, you'll be safely elected by the time I get this series off the ground. I still have to finish the script, compile archival footage, secure copyright and edit the pilot doco. I'm not setting out to milk it for cheap thrills. I want to discover what makes a band original and creative-'

'At the expense of my husband's political career?' his wife asked.

'I'm not convinced of that, Mrs Miles-Davidson,' I replied while I watched Arthur, who was staring fixedly at his tea cup. Coward. 'Thanks anyway.'

I wasn't going to push. If I was lucky he'd think about it and come back to me. If not, I'd given it my best shot. I'd do it without him, somehow - but the thought made me sick with frustration.

I stood, smoothing down my thigh-length skirt. To give him credit, Arthur's eyes did not track to my thighs, they went to my face as he came to his feet with old world courtesy. I nodded to his wife. 'Mrs Miles-Davidson.'

She said goodbye, relieved enough for the smile to reach her eyes now that I was going.

We walked to the door, me with my satchel, Arthur with his coffee mug in one hand, and forgotten, half-eaten biscuit in the other. I felt a tug of fellowship that was totally irrational and was sorry we'd lost our initial rapport.

We stood at the door, him still distracted, me wondering what was going on.

'Nice place,' I told him, gesturing down the drive. The sun had broken through the clouds and shafts of horizontal, afternoon light set the fallen leaves on fire. I felt an almost visceral surge of pleasure. Growing up on Nan's pension I'd been starved for beautiful things.

'Did you come by taxi?' Arthur asked.

'My car's parked on the street. Didn't realise the driveway was so long,' I said. He didn't need to know I drove a creaky old Corolla. I could have bought a new car but I was hoarding every cent to finance my dream.

Arthur seemed in no hurry to see me off. He sipped his coffee and stared down the drive.

'There's a strange synchronicity about your arrival and your project, Antonia,' he said softly. This was the Arthur who wrote the band's philosophical lyrics, giving voice to the preoccupations of a generation. His expression cleared and he smiled at me. 'Almost opportune.'

'Opportune, why?'

'A number of things have fallen into place,' he said, which didn't really answer my question. Then he met my eyes decisively. 'I'm going to ask someone if they'll talk to you.'

Excitement skittered up my spine as I tried to sound professional. 'I appreciate that. I'd really love to see Pia-'

He made a negative sound.

I looked to him, surprised. 'Then who, and why?'

'Can't say who. Don't know if they'll come through. They go right back. As for why - because I owe it to Veevie's restless ghost.' Arthur gave me that lopsided smile which could have been either cynical or ingenuous. 'And perhaps, because a politician needs all the publicity he can get. Take your pick.'

As I looked into his face I realised both these reasons could have been true. And they probably were. 'Then what was with the, don't want to rake over the past for profit speech inside?'

He dunked his biscuit and ate it with relish. 'I had to sound you out, test your motivation.'

'And I passed the test?'

He grinned. 'I think we both passed.'

Now that was obscure.

After brushing biscuit crumbs onto his trouser leg, he offered me his hand. 'I'll call.'

I was being dismissed but at least I had hope. 'Great. I'll be waiting.'

By the time I'd driven back down the mountain to St Kilda and parked my car, I was no closer to understanding Arthur Davidson, ex-bad-boy/philosopher/rock-balladeer turned independent politician. And I hadn't recorded anything. Perhaps I could get him to repeat that 'we were little shits' quote for the podcast.

Feeling light-hearted, I shut the rear door of the garage and stepped into the tiny backyard of One-Eight-One. The sky had clouded over bringing an early end to twilight, cloaking the neat little yard in shadows. But I knew what it contained.

The house and yard were very different from when the Tough Romantics lived here. Then, One-Eight-One had been a run-down terrace house with an overgrown square of dirt yard. Now, the neatly-paved yard was dominated by a beautiful Japanese maple, reflected in a small pond. Very peaceful, very zen.

A shadow moved in the darker shadows.

I froze, straining to see. My search produced only the dancing squiggles of light-starved eyes. I must have been mistaken; there was nothing there. I'm not usually so jumpy but, since moving into One-Eight-One two nights ago, I'd felt as if I was being watched. It was hard not to think about the band and how Genevieve had died here. I'd even had trouble sleeping and, when I did, my dreams woke me in a cold sweat. I was determined that the panic attacks that had nearly crippled me when my marriage crashed and burned would not resurface again.

The intruder moved. I froze. Not my imagination then.

The dark figure was a head taller than me with broad shoulders. It had to be a guy, not many women were built like that. I could smell that the calf-length leather jacket he wore was new. Would a mugger be wearing a brand new leather jacket? Maybe he'd stolen it from his last victim.

My heart rate went up a notch. Could I jump the pond and make it to the back door before he tackled me?

I didn't fancy my chances.

'Scared the shit outta ya, didn't I?' a familiar voice teased, his eyes and teeth flashing in the darkness of his face.

'M- Monty? You bastard!'

'Black bastard! Get it right, Antsy.'

'Antonia. Get it right, Monty!' More mind games. Since we'd met while studying he'd never called me anything but Antsy and it hadn't been long before the rest of the gang took to calling me that. I had him to thank for it.

He grinned unabashed. I brushed past, going around the pond. The motion-sensitive lights flicked on, triggered by the timer. Monty followed, as I unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped inside the kitchen/breakfast area. Apart from the garden spotlights, there was only the glow of the digits on the computerised oven.

'You're a shit, you know, Monty,' I said, flicking on the lights and adjusting the central heating. The lights were set into the ceiling, positioned over the workspaces. Even with the lights on, the place felt dim. It was all chrome and tinted glass - not my idea of a kitchen.

Floor-to-ceiling sliding doors made the little kitchen and breakfast nook part of the backyard. Clever retractable shade cloths allowed the winter sun in and kept the summer sun out. The place had been architect designed. It was a far cry from when Genevieve was attacked in this very room. It had been a kitchen then, too. Fatally wounded, she'd staggered out through the long grass and climbed into the front seat of O'Toole's taxi which was parked in the lane.

Why run back to the taxi if O'Toole was the killer? There was no point in locking the doors against him. The police claimed she wasn't thinking clearly. But this was just one more thing that didn't add up.

When he'd radioed dispatch to call the police, O'Toole had claimed he'd found her there and that she'd been too far gone to tell him who her killer was. She died in his arms. Poor kid.

The exterior spots flicked out, leaving only inky blackness outside. I felt vulnerable with the darkness looking in so, after dropping my satchel on the table, I went to the blinds and tugged on the cord to draw the verticals into place.

Finally, I turned to face Monty.

He stood across the slate tiles from me, an appreciative half smile illuminating his face, eyes oddly intent. 'Looking good, Antsy.'

My body, oddly, surged with desire at his compliment. The depth of my reaction surprised me and I turned away. 'It's not me,' I said, smoothing down the cream suit I'd worn to impress Arthur. 'I'm more at home in trackie daks.'

'No. I meant you're looking good for someone who nearly died.'

'Oh, that.' I slipped off the overcoat and hung it over the back of one of the bench stools. Who would have thought the garden tap was a killer? I'd turned it on a thousand times but the family home was old and, as we later discovered, mice had chewed through the wiring.

'Lucky for me our neighbour was a retired nurse.' I felt an odd surge of panicky guilt because, less than three weeks later, she'd dropped dead of a heart attack and there'd been no one around to save her. 'Mrs Ormiston saw it happen from her kitchen window. She was the one who got my heart started again, got me breathing on my own. No brain damage, thank god. I'd hate to be a vegetable.'

I paused, seeing the lurking smile in Monty's eyes. 'Okay, so I wouldn't know if I was, but I hate the thought.'

He nodded. 'Tell you what. If I ever end up in a coma with no brain function, promise you'll pull the plug.'

'Sure. And you do the same for me.' I'd meant it lightly, but Monty nodded in all seriousness as if we'd just signed a pact in blood. That was the thing about Monty, he liked to play mind games. Back at the Queensland College of Art I'd always met him with a counter bluff, now I wished I knew what he was really thinking.

As I tried to see past his handsome face, past the trickster to the real Monty, the burn scar on my palm itched and I rubbed it, turning my hand to the light. 'That's all I've got to show for dying and coming back to life. We couldn't afford to rewire the whole house so we cut our losses and sold up. And here I am, sinking my share of the family home into a project I'm trying to get off the ground.'

And here I was with Monty watching me far too closely. I closed my hand feeling the scar pull across my palm. Trust Monty to come back into my life by scaring 10-year's growth out of me. 'Did I mention you're a shit, Monty?'

'Frequently,' he smiled. His black leather jacket made a soft, brand-new sound as he pulled a bottle of wine from the pocket, standing the wine on the metal bench top in front of me.

'What's this, a peace offering?' I studied the label. A Pinot Gris. He knew I was a sucker for a nice white.

'Nah. Bribery. I know what you're working on. I want in.'

I glanced up at him. Monty looks like the kind of a man you wouldn't want to run into in a dark alley. He's tall and black. From Mauritius originally, he was descended from European privateers and locals. His grandmother emigrated as a child and married a Scotsman, an amateur Celtic historian, hence the McArthur surname.

Even I can recite Monty's life story by heart - no matter where you go with him, his background eventually comes up in the conversation. Monty had perfected his way of handling this halfway through first year at QCA. It all sounds very romantic but, after his mother died, he was reared by his Scottish grandfather's older sisters. These maiden aunts managed to rationalise strict Methodist leanings with weird Celtic beliefs. Think fibro suburbia meets Druids. Being reared by 'aunts', with a long two-generation gap between them, meant Monty made the occasional comment the dotcom generation didn't get. I usually recognised the references because we were both out of sync with our peers.

And we were both devoted to film. Monty brought an innate visual flair to his role as director of photography. A bunch of us used to frequent the art-house cinema to watch obscure black and white films. Monty and I would sit side by side, nudging each other at the good bits - great camera movements, subtle foreshadowing, that sort of thing. One night while watching an Eisenstein he'd turned to me and said, 'You see, they had to work harder when they only had black-and-white.' And he was right.

I was a mature-age student at QCA, when Monty got in on a scheme to help underprivileged youth. But he didn't need it. He was brilliant. In the four years I'd studied with him we'd worked together on several projects. He'd been one of the gang, but I never let him get too close because of the almost seven-year age gap between us. After we graduated I'd heard he'd gone to Europe looking for work, but obviously it hadn't panned out.

That calf-length coat fitted him like a glove. He'd always had style, now he had it in spades. I caught myself staring.

With a mental shake I focused on Monty's offer. Did I want to work with him? I'd be mad not to. I knew what he could do with lighting and camera angles, but I hadn't mentioned this project to anyone. 'How did you know about my plans and the Tap Incident?'

'Tap Incident?'

'Back from the dead.' I hummed The Twilight Zone theme.

'Speaking of-' He fixed me with intense black eyes as an eager note crept into his voice. 'What was it like?'

'I don't remember a thing between turning on the tap and waking up in hospital.' His face fell and I had to laugh.

'You were clinically dead until that woman revived you,' he persisted. 'Sometimes-'

'No tunnels of light, no voices. Nothing. Sorry,' I shrugged, but caught myself picking at the scar on my palm. Time for more cream. One of Nan's friends was into alternative medicine and swore by the cream. I had been lucky though, no impairment of use, but the scar kept flaring up and itching. And it was worse since I'd moved to Melbourne.

'Sometimes, people who suffer a near-death experience discover a psychic-'

'No,' I said. I didn't want to go there. I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack - racing heart, sweaty palms - threatening to take control. I hated being out of control, hated it that Monty could push my buttons. 'Maybe this won't work out.'