Mortaumal

by

Rigby Taylor

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. You are welcome to share it with friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided it remains in its complete original form and is attributed to Rigby Taylor. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Copyright 2015 Rigby Taylor

All Rights Reserved

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it

are the work of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Also by Rigby Taylor

Rough Justice

Dome of Death

Jarek

Sebastian

Fidel

NumbaCruncha

Frankie Fey

Time to Think

Dancing Bare

**********

Table of Contents

1 Mortaumal

2 Leo

3 Shrude Aywun

4 Confidences

5 Death

6 Mrs. Pettie

7 Dying

8 The lawyer.

9 Self Defence.

10 Pissed Off

11 Leo and Hugh

12 Family life

13 Fystie

14 A day at the river

15 School

16 School work

17 Mr. Brawn on Women

18 A visit

19 Beach Bully

20 Debriefing

21 Abuse

22 Rescue

23 Marshall on Childhood

24 Paying for It

25 Fystie Returns

26 Life with a lawyer

27 High School

28 Sergei

29 Zoltan’s Mother

30 The God Question

31 On Top of the Mountain

32 Marshall meets Angelo

33 Perdita

34 The Beach

35 Bullies

36 Ultimatum

37 Farewells

38 A Change of plans

39 Impersonation

40 Julian

41 The Truth

42 Elbert

43 A Social Occasion

44 A Room With a View

45 School

46 Mr. Preggy

47 The Basement Flat

48 The cop

49 Miss Bussty

50 Brawl

51 Perdita’s present

52 Stefan

53 Perdita Perdue

54 Talking and thinking about it

55 Lydia Sees Mortaumal

56 Procuring the Stuff

57 Sweet Revenge

58 An Unwelcome Offer

59 Exiting

60 The Runner

61 Flight

62 Rescue

63 Hale’s Place

64 Acrobatics

65 Planning

66 Getting Ready

67 Hale

68 Meet the Gelds

69 Mort’s Spiel

70 Hale’s Spiel

71 Performance

72 Revolution

73 The Plot Unfolds

74 Performing

75 Heading North

76 Oasis

77 Mortaumal meets Archibald

78 Mortaumal meets Calumnia

79 Mortaumal meets Oasis

80 Dinner with Calumnia

81 Hercules Explains and Mort Fits In

82 Mort Dances

83 Agony Mort

84 A Formal Dinner

85 After Dinner

86 Surprises

87 Revelations

88 Zadig

89 Hale Returns

90 The Best Laid Plans

91 The Hotel

92 The Problem

93 A Perfect Day For It

94 Consequences

About the Author

1. Mortaumal

According to his grandfather, Mortaumal was a smart kid. According to Mortaumal, Simon was a brainless bully. So why wasn’t it Simon with his face in the dust? Surely twice as clever should outsmart twice as big? But sadly, the world isn't affected by our wishes. He'd hoped that yesterday’s flushing of his head in a toilet would satisfy his tormenter for a while, but on the way home Simon had sprung from behind a billboard advertising Jezebel’s Gymnasium, dragged the unwilling object of his attention behind it, tossed him on his face in the dust and sat on his legs. Mortaumal was debating whether to humiliate himself by screaming for help when Simon dragged his shorts down.

Shocked, or perhaps excited at his daring, the bully allowed his grip to slacken sufficiently for his victim to slither away and tear off down the footpath, school bag flying, shorts barely back in place until… a busy road. A glance behind made him reckless. With a one-fingered salute to his persecutor he shot across in front of a large truck.

Outraged by the insult, blind to everything except the necessity for revenge, Simon put on a spurt and was on the point of grasping his prey when…

Screeching brakes, a squishy pop and screams of horror from pedestrians made Mortaumal stop and look back. A smile split his face and for the first time in what seemed a very, very long time, he relaxed. The front wheel of the truck had rolled over Simon, spraying blood and undigested bits of Mort’s lunch onto the footpath. The driver got out, looked under his vehicle and added to the muck.

‘He may be still alive!’ someone screeched, prompting a bystander to leap into the truck and back off, revealing a mess that inspired several more people to follow the driver’s example.

A deep voice directly behind Mortaumal began to chant softly:
‘Mother dear, what have we here,
Spread out like strawberry jam?
Hush dear boy, it is your Pa
Run over by a tram.’

Mortaumal’s involuntary laugh was loud, causing nearby heads to turn and frown.

‘The lad’s hysterical from seeing such a dreadful accident. Someone attend to him!’ a motherly type shouted.

‘It’s alright, he’s with me,’ the deep voice announced, placing a large hand on Mort’s shoulder.

A woman screamed, causing all heads to turn. ‘Where’s the kid who pushed that poor boy under the truck? I saw him do it! Find him before he escapes!’

The hand on Mort’s shoulder gently took his arm and led him down a side street, out of sight of the gathering crowd of thrill-seekers.

‘Don’t go away, young fellow,’ deep-voice said calmly, ‘I’m just going to get my son.’

Mortaumal looked back and saw a wheelchair slowly manoeuvring towards them. The man took hold of the handlebars, brought the wheelchair close, then bent over the occupant and adjusted some straps. A sudden fit of the shakes forced Mortaumal to sink to the ground. Visions of the mess on the roadway that could so easily have been him, filled his head, which began to spin, so he wrapped his arms around the nearest solid support, the powerful leg of his abductor. Tears sprang and great sobs wracked his frame.

A hand ruffled his hair and he gazed up into concerned brown eyes. His agony evaporated, but he didn’t release the leg.

‘I didn’t push him!’ Mortaumal sounded desperate.

‘I know you didn’t; I saw what happened. You’ve done nothing wrong, but when humans are hysterical it’s dangerous to be rational, that’s why we didn’t hang around. Are you feeling sorry for the dead boy?’

‘No, I was imagining it was me all squashed. It could easily...’

‘No it couldn’t. I saw you check you had time to cross the road. You’re far too smart to meet your end in such a cliché, so forget about it.’ his smile was genuinely friendly. ‘Time for introductions I think. I’m Leo.’ He held out his hand.

Mortaumal released Leo’s leg, stood, and manfully shook his hand. ‘I’m Mortaumal... only everyone calls me Mort.’

‘And which name do you prefer?’

‘Mort. Would you want to be called death to evil?’

‘Death to…? Of course...French. Whose idea was that?’

‘Granddad’s. He spoke French till he came here. He says he’s seen too much evil and hopes I’ll live up to the name.’

‘And so do I... but don’t let the responsibility get you down.’

‘Oh, he didn’t mean all the evil in the world, just bad people I meet.’

‘That’s a relief. Well... I’m delighted to meet you, Mort.’ Leo turned to the wheelchair. ‘This handsome young man is Fystie.’

Mort captured the hand that was fluttering in his general direction, shook it firmly, then held on to prevent it escaping. ‘Hi, Fystie, what’re you doing in a wheelchair?’

‘Trying to relax; my chauffeur’s not up to much, he seems determined to drive me through every stone and pothole in the city. What were you doing on your feet when we met?’

‘Going home from school. You talk a bit funny... I can understand you but... are you okay? You’re twitching a bit and your mouths open and…’

‘And I’m dribbling.’ Fystie’s face was a picture of despair. ‘Please don’t tell me you don’t find it sexy, I’ve been practising my come-hither tongue lolling, ready-for-a-kiss look for weeks! I thought that was why you’re still holding my hand.’

‘Of course it is,’ Mort didn’t bother to conceal his grin. ‘It’s very fetching.’

‘Then how about fetching the towel from behind my seat and using it.’

‘Mort extracted a towel from the bag hanging on the back of the chair and after gently wiping his new acquaintance’s face he looked deep into his eyes. ‘Sexy doesn’t begin to describe you, Fystie. Perhaps...’

‘Alluring? Sensual? Voluptuous…?’

‘All those things.’ Both boys cracked up with laughter.

‘I think we ought to be getting a move on,’ Leo interrupted nervously. ‘Ambulances, TV cameras, police… I’ve a feeling we ought to scarper.’

‘Yeah, I can’t wait to tell Grandpa. But...’ Mort looked uncertainly at Leo. ‘You said you’d seen everything... would you come and tell him so he doesn’t think I’m exaggerating?’

‘I was going to suggest it. Which way?’

They set off at a fast trot, Mort having to jog to keep up. After ten minutes Leo stopped.

‘Do you need a rest?’

‘No, but can I push the chair?’

‘Sure, until you get tired. This is the brake; make sure you engage it before you collapse.’

‘No worries, Leo. Hang onto your seat, Fystie.’

2 Leo.

Leo was the offspring of respectable, working-poor parents who considered the ability to read, write and calculate simple arithmetic quite enough education. They therefore raised no objections when he quit school with the blessing of his teachers on his fifteenth birthday. Working in a hardware store by day and training with the local AFL football club every evening, was his idea of heaven. After impressing selectors at a tryout, his fans were suitably disappointed when at the tender age of seventeen, a professional club signed him up and he moved interstate.

He considered himself lucky to be taken under the wing of Jock, an ex professional player and now team physiotherapist, whose internationally-famous-model wife didn’t object to having Leo board with them. Jock was a well-educated mentor, who managed to convince his protégé to complete his high-school education, eliminate alcohol, eat only healthy foods, take care of his body, and respect nature. Jock kept Leo’s muscles supple with expert massage, and his libido strong with daily doses of high quality semen, administered either orally or anally depending on their mood.

At twenty, against Jock’s advice, Leo married Amy, who for several years had been following in the footsteps of the legions of young women throughout the ages who trailed soldiers to war, or gold fields, or any other place where decent women fear to tread, secure in the knowledge that they’re sitting on their own little goldmines. Amy was considerably older than she looked, but despite plying her trade assiduously had failed to make her fortune. Realising that time was running out, she decided to marry Leo, a rising star predicted by pundits to be destined to earn millions.

Thus it was that after one of the festive after-practice evenings during which Amy and another public spirited youngish woman opened their legs to the entire team, the innocent target of her scheming felt honoured by her proposal of marriage in the mistaken belief that it was she, and not the room full of sweaty naked men in various stages of arousal, that had triggered his remarkably powerful sexual performance.

They were publicly shackled together in a pseudo Gothic church heavy with the scent of flowers and alcohol, watched by millions of TV addicts desperate to believe in a fairytale prince and princess in love.

Alas for Amy’s plans. At twenty-nine her dreams of fabulous fortune evaporated when constant injuries, although minor, made twenty-one year old Leo fear for his future health. He had too much respect for his body to want to end up a battered, overweight, alcoholic wreck like so many ex professional sportsmen, and so in the prime of youth and usefulness found himself with a small nest-egg, magnificent physique, slightly battered face that endeared him to females and prevented men from thinking him queer, and a termagant of a wife with a bun in the oven.

Amy felt little for her child when it finally arrived, apart from mild annoyance at the extra work. She dutifully breast fed him for a year, kept him clean and nicely dressed, and was on the point of almost liking him when his persistent physical oddities were diagnosed.

‘Cerebral Palsy! What the fuck sort of disease is that? It must be your fault; all that over the top physical exercise deprived your sperm of what it takes to make a healthy kid. So take him! He’s yours.’

Patiently, Leo reminded her that no one knew for certain what the causes of CP were, but it was neither his fault nor hers. It probably happened in the womb, and had nothing to do with genetics.’

‘That’s right, lay the blame on me!’

And so it continued for days, weeks, months… until a truce was declared. Leo was now in charge of the kid, as she called him. She was prepared to assist when she wasn’t at work or out with friends, but he was now his father’s responsibility. When Leo was working, Fystie was reluctantly entrusted to day care. When not at work, Leo carried his son everywhere in a specially designed sling — at first on his chest so they could gaze into each other’s faces, communicating every emotion, thought and idea, then later on his back. They walked/jogged/ran to the shops, day-care, work, the park. For longer distances Fystie was strapped into a pushchair.

Amy had decided the car was hers, which suited Leo who could never seem to get enough physical exercise. Unfortunately, winning three trophies in minor Muscle-Building contests provided no useful financial gain, and a string of temporary jobs scarcely paid the bills. Life as an escort for wealthy women paid reasonably well, until he learned about the dangers of injecting chemicals into his penis to achieve erections.

A series of billboards on which his sculpted frame caused sales of the designer underwear he was modelling to soar, was qualification enough for the managers of ‘Jezebel’s Gymnasium’, a meandering complex of converted warehouses to offer him employment. An almost-famous model would be an ideal demonstrator at their acclaimed Dance Yourself to Fitness classes.

It was the perfect job. The boss was happy to let Fystie sit and dream behind the stage during his father’s classes, as long as he kept well out of sight, and as he grew older the boy became a familiar sight around the service areas of the gymnasium, crawling, then tottering, stumbling and always laughing and chatting incomprehensibly to all who’d listen.

Leo now had all the physical activity he desired, plus a captive and admiring audience. His experience as a professional sportsman paid dividends in meticulously planned sessions that were always executed and explained with enormous energy and enthusiasm. Serious bodybuilders as well as casuals who simply wanted to look less wimpish on the beach, kept asking for him, and Aerobics for Addicts, in both the air-conditioned gymnasium and the tepid pool used for physically disadvantaged adults and children, were packed.

Naturally, other trainers were jealous. Equally naturally, Management thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to pay him more than those who did half the work. He didn’t mind — he was happy, which is more than could be said for Amy; numb of bum, perched on a stool scanning groceries at a supermarket checkout for eight hours a day, just to pay for a child minder.

When Leo started at the gym, numbers for what should have been the lucrative mid-afternoon sessions for bored housewives were falling disastrously, so he was charged with reviving interest. As he considered it a crime against nature to conceal any part of the body he’d lovingly built without steroids, he wondered if part of the reason for dwindling patronage was that male trainers wore baggy shorts and T-shirts, while the females bounced around in thongs and bras.

In a memo to Management he suggested that males should have the option to dress in a similar fashion to females, and vice versa; anything else was sexist. Management prevaricated, then granted him a trial period with the proviso that the tone of the establishment would not be lowered. Also, if he was going to wear a thong like a girl, he had to be hairless like them. This was no problem to a man used to Muscle Building contests.

Management worries evaporated when the numbers of both males and females in Leo’s classes more than doubled, nor was there a murmur about tone when his original modest thong shrank to a teensy little pouch. The increase in his hours of work finally saw a commensurate rise in his pay packet just in time for his thirtieth birthday, and the future was looking rosy until the afternoon when the boss’s wife, who handled finances and staffing, appeared backstage after his show dressed in her trademark flimsy sun frock and strappy sandals. She was short, emaciated, and sported curly blond hair that did nothing to hide her age. Scrawny is not the same as slim; blond doesn’t mean young; and sun damaged skin proves you’ve spent more years in the sun than you admit to living.

Her name wasn’t Jezebel, but it should have been. Without a greeting she approached him, slipped a finger into his pouch and ripped it off. Leo remained impassive, merely staring into her eyes as she fondled his scrotum and slid his foreskin on and off his knob until he was aroused. Slipping the straps off her shoulders she let the frock drop to the floor. She was not wearing underclothes.

‘Your contract’s up for renewal soon.’

‘Yes.’

‘So fuck me.’

Face still impassive, Leo picked her up, deposited her on the table against the wall, spread her legs, positioned his erection then said as if he didn’t care, ‘Are you sure you want this?’

‘Just do it!’ she snapped.

An almighty thrust forced the air from her lungs, followed by a gasp when he bent backwards till his hands touched the ground, dragging Jezebel with him so she was sitting astride his groin, impaled, feet dangling, hands flailing. A powerful hip thrust catapulted her a couple of centimetres into the air, to plonk back impaled even deeper, if that were possible. She began to slip sideways so he stood, replaced her bum on the table and let violent thrusting expunge his contempt.

The episode was never mentioned, but Leo’s hopes it would never be repeated had been dashed a few hours before he met Mort. Fystie had taken a sickie from school and, as usual, watched his father’s performance from the room behind the stage. When Jezebel joined Leo backstage she failed to see Fystie sitting in the corner, so dropped her dress and demanded a replay. Leo’s face again remained impassive. While lifting the woman onto the table he winked and smiled at his son over her shoulder to tell him it wasn’t serious, then did his best to ram his rod right through her.

The brutality of his father’s thrusting thrilled Fystie, who had always disliked the woman because she told everyone he was an imbecile; so he was disappointed when she walked away unhurt.

They left the Gymnasium immediately after, Leon furious with himself for not refusing the woman, Fystie energetically convincing his father that he’d done the right thing. It would have been insane to risk his job over a meaningless fuck. Distracted by their discussion they hadn’t noticed the kid having his head thrust into the sand.

3 Shrude

‘Don’t look,’ Mort commanded at the gate beside the house. ‘There’s a secret catch that no one’s allowed to know except me and Grandpa.’

Leo and Fystie dutifully turned away, Mort opened the gate and they proceeded along a narrow path that opened out into a luxuriant garden. Shade trees, flowerbeds and a struggling lawn fronted the wide verandah of an old Queenslander.

‘Hang on,’ Mortaumal said, whipping off his shorts, sandals and T-shirt, ‘Grandpa doesn’t like me wearing clothes at home in case I get dirty, he says a body’s easier to wash and dry.’

‘Sounds sensible, especially in this heat and with such excellent shade.’

‘Yeah... he’s nothing if not sensible. Grandpa!’ he called. ‘Visitors!’

A wheelbarrow approached from beyond the trees, pushed by a lean man wearing a battered straw hat and nothing else. He stopped about ten metres from them. Only his eyes moved, back and forth from son to visitors.

Leo stared at the lean, smooth, yellowish-tanned man who moved with such flexuous grace he was reminded of a snake. Surely he was too young to be anyone’s grandfather. Then the hat was removed and the face belonged to someone who had seen more than most, and not been impressed. Ageless but definitely not young.

‘Leo and Fystie brought me home in case I was mobbed by the crowds who thought I’d shoved that bully I told you about under a truck.’ Mort said as if it was now all perfectly clear.

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No, but I would have if I could have.’

‘Some things, Mort, should be thought and not spoken.’ The older man stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘Welcome. I’m Shrude, Mort’s grandfather.’

‘I’m Leo, and this is Fystie.’

Shrude nodded and shook hands with both.

‘It’s sweaty weather for pushing that thing around the city.’

‘I like the exercise.’

‘Hey! I pushed it, not you.’

‘Don’t show off, Mort.’ The voice was gentle, yet commanding. Shrude turned to his guests with a slight frown. ‘I was just going to make myself a drink, will you join me?

‘That’ll be great, thanks.’

‘We’ve no pool, but if you’re hot there’s a hose over there.’

‘Come on,’ Mort laughed, ‘get your gear off.’ turning to Fystie, ‘Can you walk?’

‘Why, wanna race?’

Leo undid the straps and helped his son out of the wheelchair, then while he removed his trainers, shorts and shirt, Mort did the same for the son.

‘Hey! We’re the same size if you straighten up. But you’re a bit wobbly.’

‘I used to be a sailor; takes a while to get used to dry land.’

‘You’d look really good if you weren’t sort of twisted. Can’t you straighten up? I wish my hair was curly like yours. And you’re getting hairs down there. I hope I get hairs soon.’

‘The reason I can’t straighten up, as you so rudely suggest, is because, unlike you, I have too many muscles and they’re all in competition. When one pulls, its opposite number sometimes does the same. Sometimes neither does anything and I collapse. I’m sure it’s only a question of training. I’ll get all my muscles under control one day; even my tongue!’ As if to prove his point, his right arm shot out nearly hitting Mort’s ear, and his left leg gave way, causing him to cling to his friend’s neck for support. Suddenly serious, he looked up into Mort’s eyes and frowned. ‘Are you repelled?’

‘Not at all.’ Mort also frowned. Also serious. ‘It’s... interesting.’ He held Fystie steady till he regained his balance, then stood back and nodded judiciously. ‘All your bits look normal. You’re much more attractive than that fat kid who got himself squashed, that’s for sure. It’s just so sad... you’re bent and... and... you could be so beautiful and... I’m trying not to cry. It must be horrible for you…’ He wiped impatiently at his eyes.

‘Don’t you dare be sorry for me!’ The outburst was fuelled by desperation rather than anger. ‘I was born like this, so I’m used to it and have as much fun as you.’ Fystie’s voice softened at the sight of Mort’s contrite face. ‘I know you were trying to be nice. I just get mad when people act as though I’m a tragic case. Come on, I’m overheated, turn on the hose.’

Leo had been nervously listening to the exchange. When his wife announced that he was on his own when it came to raising their son, the fragile little boy who now depended totally on him became the only person on the planet that he loved more than himself. Every time he took Fystie in his arms he felt as if his heart would burst with pride and love. And as his son grew older, the love increased along with fear for the future.

Meeting Mort had been wonderful. He’d never seen Fystie so witty, so communicative. And Mort could understand him! He wasn’t used to anyone else bothering to do anything more than listen politely for a few seconds, say something inconsequential, having understood practically nothing, then move on. There was something very special going on between the two boys. Both ten years old, both verbal and pretty smart, both on the same wavelength, whatever that meant. He breathed a sigh of relief that Mort had not misunderstood Fystie’s response to pity, and it was with an almost euphoric sense of lightness and joy that he picked up his son, swung him round and deposited him on a paved area while Mort sprayed them with cold water that made them gasp, then laugh in delight. Fystie began to dance, and fell over. Leo picked him up, then took the hose and sprayed the two boys who clung to each other for support against the powerful beam.’

‘Come and get it or I’ll throw it out,’ Shrude called from the verandah.

‘Must we put our clothes on, Mort?’

‘No way, you look like superman with all those muscles. I’m jealous. He cast a look at Fystie and shouted, ‘And I’m jealous of Fystie’s hairy balls!’

‘So…’ Shrude said with a contented nod when Mort’s tale had ended. ‘That young terrorist’s dead?’

‘Yeah, they’ll have had to scrape him off the road.’

‘Wouldn’t have felt a thing, more’s the pity. Thanks for bringing Mort home, Leo, and being prepared to stick your neck out if anyone should accuse him of anything. Grieving parents can be loose cannons, looking for anyone to blame except their offspring. It’s good he’s gone, characters don’t change with age, people merely learn to conceal the worst bits. Bullying boys become bullying adults, ruining lives wherever they go.’

‘You’re not sentimental then, thinking all life is sacred?’

‘Sentiment without sentimentality, that’s my aim. Like the way you treat Fystie.’ Shrude turned to him. ‘You’re very quiet, young man. Tell me about yourself.’

Fystie’s eyes widened. He grinned, saliva dribbled and he laughed. ‘I’m a superior being with the power to command men to do my bidding. Dad feeds, washes and cleans me and takes me everywhere I want to go, and only minutes after coming under my spell, Mort pushed me all the way here from the centre of town. That’s power, don’t you reckon?’

‘I’m sure you’re right, although my hearing’s not what it was. Would you be offended if I asked Leo to repeat it?’

‘Mort understands me, he’ll do it, Dad’s too polite and wouldn’t repeat anything rude.’

Mort translated, Shrude laughed, and Leo grinned in pride. After Shrude had been apprised of the daily problems faced by the cerebral palsy brigade, as Fystie called them, they went on a tour of the garden, where the boys soon disappeared to investigate Mort’s special places.

‘My father bought these three hectares for a song sixty years ago,’ Shrude explained, ‘planted the trees and ornamental garden around the house, and made a living from the rest, growing pesticide-free vegetables. I kept it up until the big supermarkets drove prices so low I had to work twice as hard for quarter the profit. Developers have offered millions, but when a doctor told me I’d be dead or in a nursing home before I reached sixty, I decided to just stay and enjoy the place.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Sixty-two.’

‘Isn’t that what’s called negative gearing?’

‘Yep. I’m on borrowed time.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Worn out. A heart has only so many beats in it, apparently, and mine’s on its last lap.’

‘You seem to be handling it very well.’

‘For Mort. I’m sick with fear about what will happen to him. I’m his only relative and I can’t bear to think of him in a foster home. He’s…’

‘Very special. I feel exactly the same about Fystie.’

A loud laugh from Fystie. ‘Why’s that chair hanging from the tree?’ he asked, pointing at a large armchair suspended about half a metre from the ground, draped in colourful silks that were waving in the breeze.

‘My wife likes it.’

A piercing shriek of laughter made the visitors jump. A wrinkled face appeared over the armrest and shouted something incomprehensible, before tossing a plastic bottle at Shrude.

‘Grandma wants some more water,’ Mort explained, picking up the bottle and running back to the house.

‘I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity,’ Leo smiled, ‘but why is your wife sitting in an armchair suspended from a tree?’

Shrude gave the chair a push that sent it spinning and swinging, triggering a burst of wild giggling from the occupant. ‘Because Nasturtium likes it, and it keeps her out of mischief. She was fine until three years ago when someone reported us to the cops for growing marijuana. We weren’t, never have, but that didn’t stop them tearing the place apart. Nasturtium confronted them, so they shoved her so hard she fell and smashed her head on the edge of the concrete steps and scrambled her brains. An internal police inquiry found they’d acted in self defence.’

‘That’s terrible!’

‘That’s Queensland.’

‘Too true. And it’s getting worse. We’ll soon be like the U.S.; more police kills than road deaths.’

Twenty minutes later they had completed the tour of the gardens and returned to the house.

‘Shrude,’ Leo said seriously, ‘this is the most relaxing day I’ve had for ages. I love your place, I like Mort and you, and I resent having to put clothes on, but we’ve got to go.’

‘Can Fystie come and play sometimes?’ Mort asked.

‘Don’t ask Dad, I’m the one in charge,’ Fystie announced. ‘Of course I can come, whenever the chauffeur’s available.’

‘I can push you after school and Leo can come and pick you up.’

‘Do I get a say in this?’ Shrude was grinning. He’d almost given up hope that his grandson would find a decent friend.

‘Is it okay, Grandad?’

‘Very okay. Fystie can stay over sometimes too if he likes. But if you’re not in a hurry, why don’t you both stay for a meal?’

4 Confidences

After a healthy and satisfying supper they relaxed on the verandah, the boys sharing a swing seat and talking softly while keeping their ears pricked, the men on rattan armchairs, and Nasturtium gurgling away on pillows on the deck. The pleasure both Shrude and Leo felt at discovering a like-minded soul, triggered confidences they thought had been well and truly buried.

Having noticed the absence of all references to Fystie’s mother, Shrude approached the subject obliquely. ‘It’s good you have a wife, at least Fystie’s not your sole responsibility.’

‘Actually he is.’ Leo went on to explain the circumstances of his marriage, his wife's obvious disappointment when he failed to become a millionaire professional, and her rejection of their disadvantaged son.

‘Yeah,’ Fystie said. ‘Mum’s ashamed of me. A few years ago when we met someone she knew on the street, she said she was minding me for a friend.’

Mort translated.

Shrude was horrified. ‘That must have been upsetting.’

‘Yeah. I wanted to die till Dad told me it’s because she feels so insecure and frightened people won’t like her. So now I just feel sorry for her and don’t care much. She still cooks and cleans and stuff for us. So she’s not a bad person. I…’ An unusually violent spasm rocked his frame and he stopped talking, looked down and hoped he wasn’t going to cry.

‘What about you, Shrude?’ Leo asked.

‘I’ve always been a randy bugger, but never wanted to marry; could get plenty of sex without it.’

“I’m not surprised,’ Leo said seriously, ‘You’re an attractive man.’

‘But not as well hung as you.’

‘That’s not important, although I overheard a client at work the other day gossiping about her husband. “He’s hung like a cashew, but rich as buggery,” were her exact words. The other women all thought it a wonderful joke.’

‘Poor bastard. Wives who gossip about their husband’s sexual prowess are the pits. I wonder what she’d say about you,’ Shrude said as if seriously considering the problem. ‘Poor as a church mouse but hung like a mule. I imagine many women are after your meat.’

‘Yeah! They sure are!’ Fystie yelled, proceeding to describe that afternoon’s performance.

‘Fystie!’ Leo laughed, ‘some things are best left unsaid. Mort, please don’t translate, I want to keep your grandfather’s respect.’

‘Sorry, Leo, Fystie’s my boss, not you.’

‘It was like a horse I saw on TV the other day fucking a mare. I was really proud of you, Dad.’

Leo clipped him affectionately over the back of his head. ‘Fystie, life without you would be pointless.’

‘Can I also watch next time? Mort asked excitedly.

‘I doubt there’ll be a next time, but if you’re there, an appreciative audience is always welcome.’

Shrude laughed. ‘Leo, you’re the first sensible person I’ve met for years. What do you do to make her so excited?’

Leo fetched his pouch from his shirt pocket, put it on and did a couple of hip thrusts.

‘I can’t believe you’re not mobbed every afternoon, by males as well as females.’

‘Not mobbed, but I get my share of offers from both.’

‘Which you accept?’

‘Only if they pay enough.’

‘And do they?’

‘Females think I should pay them — as if! Some males make extremely generous offers that I find impossible to refuse.’

‘Very wise. Does that make you gay?’

‘Gay, straight, trans, bi, hetero, homo...everyone’s trying to find a shelf to sit on. I’m just a sexual human animal. Always have been, even at high school. If I want sex and I’m attracted to someone, I’ll do it with them. What’s gender got to do with it? Nothing! But now its your turn for the hot seat, Shrude, if you didn’t want to marry, how’d you end up with Nasturtium?’

‘Women never believe a man if he says he doesn’t want to marry, they think men can’t live without them so they never give up trying unless you can convince them you don’t want kids, then they’ll stay for sex but give up on legally binding vows. I never loved any of them, or even liked them much, and was proud of avoiding the ball and chain. But then came Nasturtium,’ he leaned down and patted his wife on the shoulder. ‘I’ve never loved her, either.’

‘Then why did you marry?’

‘Because she was beautiful and as callous as Mort’s mother turned out to be. I was too set in my ways by then to marry, but she kept on at me, I was foolish, she tricked me and got pregnant, and in a moment of stupidity I believed her protestations of undying love and ended up chained to a nagging bitch, until seven years later the cops did me a favour and shoved her down the steps. Isn’t that so, Nasturtium?’

His wife’s eyes lit up and she let loose with a great whinny of delight. ‘Ye! Ye! Ye!’

‘Why didn’t you leave her?’

‘From a misguided sense of duty to our daughter, Mort’s mother, who rewarded us by taking off the day he was born. That’s why I’m taking care or Mort. But, and this is the important thing, if I’d divorced my wife, the courts would have given her custody when his mother disappeared, because like most people, magistrates labour under the erroneous belief that women make good parents and men don’t. Yet studies have shown that to fully develop psychologically, boys need a male parent. As long as the biological father is around, boys have few problems. So, as I’m the next best thing I hung around.’

‘I’m glad you did, Grandad.’

‘Me too! You’re the best thing in my life.’

‘That doesn’t sound misguided – perhaps a little misogynistic.’

‘The whole world’s misguided, Leo. Before humans lived in permanent settlements, women needed to be able to change their affections, allegiances and opinions in order to keep themselves provided for and safe if their hunter husbands died or they married and changed tribes. They haven’t changed and we shouldn’t expect them to. It isn’t a defect, it’s a strength. Men are the opposite. They had to keep their word and be reliable if they want the support of their fellow tribesmen in hunting and defence. That’s why male traitors are killed and politicians who don’t keep promises and change their ideas to win votes, are despised. We seldom expect women to be consistent, and don’t criticise them for changing their minds or decisions, because we know intuitively it’s not in their nature to behave any other way.’

‘It’s bloody annoying sometimes though.’

‘Men are equally irritating. Unfortunately, popular wisdom now decrees there’s no difference between men and women, so men are criticised for not behaving like women, and are derided – even punished for behaving as men should! Wives tell depressed men to join a club and express their emotions, because that’s what women do. But men need only one good mate they trust with whom they can share concerns. The last thing they need is to blab their problems to the world!’

‘That's for sure.’

‘Men tacitly encourage the myth that they are rough, tough and insensitive, so it isn’t strange that liberated women enjoy putting men down, complaining at their lack of sexual energy, making them the butt of jokes. But it isn’t a joke! It’s serious because whereas insults will fire women up to swap insults with pleasure, men who are insulted either become seriously depressed, or seek to avenge themselves through violence.’

Shrude turned to stare seriously at Mort and Fystie who were sitting with ears flapping, determined not to miss a word. ‘Never fail to take women seriously, Mort and Fystie. They are not stupid. They can be just as sharp as men. Just as capable of running a business, or teaching, of having good ideas and acting on them. They’re no less compassionate, and not less brave. However, they are not the same as men; their priorities are different. So I advise you to always be on your guard when dealing with them. Don’t believe everything they say. Don’t expect them to think the same as you about anything, or act and behave consistently. And most importantly, don’t imagine they’re not telling everyone your secrets that you’ve foolishly confided to them. Have you understood?’

‘Yes, Grandpa.’

‘Yes, Shrude.’

‘Men aren’t any better,’ Leo said thoughtfully.

‘They certainly aren’t, but whereas women are a mystery to us, men are knowable, so we can predict more or less how they will behave, and then plan for it. Men’s problems are compounded by the myth that women are sweet, gentle, motherly creatures, peaceful, caring and nurturing. And they can be like that. They can also be as cruel, vicious, unforgiving and callous as men. With no effort at all a women can wrap a man around her finger, whereas no man can make a woman do what she doesn’t want to without force.’

‘You make men sound foolish, Shrude.’

‘Many are, and getting ever more foolish as women take over. Consider marriage - men want a woman who looks beautiful, healthy and young, seldom concerning themselves with her intelligence or character. Women, on the other hand, are primarily interested in a man’s money, power and sexual prowess, because their instincts tell them those characteristics are most likely to successfully protect them and provide healthy sperm.’ Shrude laughed sourly. ‘Men are pathetic – look how many inane love songs there are praising women, and how few the other way round. And when women do sing about men it’s usually a complaint.’

Mort broke a silence that lasted nearly a minute, looking up at his grandfather with undisguised admiration. ‘That is amazing, Grandpa. You hardly took a breath. I hope I remember it all. The only women I know properly are teachers, and I don’t like any of them, but you’re the nicest, kindest, lovingest and bestest person in the whole world.’

5 Death

The following day at school everyone stood in silence for a very long minute to show respect for the dead boy, who, Mort was astonished to learn, had been universally popular, an excellent student, a loving son and a future leader. The world, it seemed, was a poorer place for the loss of this potential champion. However, the school’s loss was god’s gain because little Simon was now in heaven sitting on god’s right hand, being serenaded by a choir of angels.

Mort was suddenly assailed by doubt; perhaps he had misjudged his assailant. Surely, whoever god was he wouldn’t let Simon sit on his hand if he really was a bad person. And it must be uncomfortable to sit on someone’s hand. And maybe Mort was the nasty one for being so pleased by his death.

That evening Shrude put his grandson’s mind at rest. ‘When someone dies people always say good things about them, so other people will say good things about them when they die. Imagine the Principal had said she was glad the little snot-nose prick had been squashed by a truck, how would everyone react?’

Mort thought carefully before replying. ‘Lots of kids would have cheered, others would have been angry because they liked him, and his parents would have been really, really upset and it would all be horrible because there’d be fights in the playground and all that.’

‘Exactly. And that’s why in public people tell these white lies. The god she mentioned is the one worshipped by most Christians. They believe he made the universe and everything that’s in it, including you and me. He’s invisible, knows everything, and can do anything he likes. And when they die they believe there’s an invisible bit of them that goes to live with this god in heaven, although the body itself remains behind.’

Mort was intrigued. ‘Why has no one ever told me this? I’ve sung their songs about god and heaven and always thought he was sort of like the prime minister, or the queen, and heaven was his beautiful garden.’ He paused for several seconds. ‘But... how do they know this if he’s invisible?’

‘Good question. They don’t know; they simply believe it. And that’s an important thing to remember. Even you, a boy of ten can see it’s ridiculous. And that’s a lesson you must not forget if you want to live without making too many mistakes. If something you or others believe seems wrong or silly or doesn’t make sense, always ask yourself, “How do I know that? Where did I, or they, get that belief?” Usually you’ll discover the source is simply some human with an axe to grind.

Mort looked puzzled. ‘So what does happen when you die?’

‘Everything stops working.’

‘But what does it feel like?’

‘Nothing. Everything’s stopped working so there’s no feeling at all. Like a deep, dreamless sleep that goes on forever. Do you remember what if felt like before you were born?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s what it’s like.’

‘But what about all my thoughts?’

‘They are tiny electric impulses zipping around in your brain. When your body dies the electricity supply stops so there are no more thoughts, no more feelings... nothing.’

‘But…’

‘What happens to the light when you switch the power off?’

‘It... I don’t know. I never thought about it... I guess it just disappears.’

‘And so do your thoughts.’

‘Are you afraid to die, Grandpa?’

‘Not at all. Apart from you, I think it’s probably the best thing that will happen to me. Life for most people isn’t that wonderful, and when they get old, tired and sometimes sick, death is a blessed release. Only the people who loved them are sad.’

‘I’ll be really, really sad if you die.’

Shrude frowned and gazed deeply into his grandson’s eyes. ‘I want you to promise me, Mort, that when I die you will be happy for me.’

Mort was crying openly, unable to stem the sobs. ‘I will, Grandpa, but I will be very, very sad too.’

‘That’s because you are a good person. Now, how about trying to lose at chess?’

Mort tried, but failed. His grandfather’s wisdom could not compete with his grandson’s logic and foresight.

Mort and Fystie spent many happy weekends together, and Leo and Shrude became good friends, making the best plans they could for the uncertain futures that awaited them.

6 Mrs. Pettie

The school year was drawing to a close so all the children in Mort’s class handed in their ‘Illustrated Annual Diary’ for assessment.

The following day Miss Pettie said she wanted to see Mort after school for a few minutes. She was a large woman, broad of beam and bounteous of bust. Where lesser beings walked, she stomped with the unerring purpose of a tank charging into battle. Few dared interpose themselves between Mrs. Pettie and her target, and while others might speak or suggest, she declaimed with the self-satisfied arrogance of the bigot.

‘I’ve read your story and seen your drawings.’ She pursed her lips and waited.

Mort quailed, wondering what he’d done wrong. ‘Did you like them?’ he asked nervously.

The teacher put her finger on one of the drawings. ‘What are those two people doing and who are they?’

‘It’s Grandad and me doing the gardening.’

‘You’re both naked!’ she said as if they’d been in the process of slitting each other’s throats.

‘We always do the garden like that, it saves getting clothes dirty.’

‘Are you sure it’s only the clothes that get dirty?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What does your grandfather do with you besides gardening?’

‘We do everything. Grandma’s sick.’

‘I think I’d better have a word with this... grandfather.’

A chill ran through Mort. He had no idea what she was talking about, but knew she was making nasty insinuations. ‘Grandad loves me and I love him. We have fun together. You make it sound as if he’s bad.’

‘Fun eh? Did he tell you to call it fun?’ she sneered, grasping her purse in one hand and her young pupil’s wrist in the other. ‘Come on, we’re going to pay this grandfather of yours a visit.’

Feeling like a traitor, Mort gave directions as she drove.

Mort’s grandfather was pruning dead wood from a peach tree when Mrs. Pettie barged through the garden gate, shoving aside a very frightened Mort. Both adults stopped and stared at each other.

Shrude’s health had deteriorated significantly over the last months. Compared with Mrs. Pettie, he looked frail indeed. Tanned skin had wasted and sagged in multiple wrinkles. Ribs and hipbones protruded. Cheeks were hollow, thighs thin, joints seemingly too large. The change in his condition had been slow enough to pass almost unnoticed by Mort, but the situation was so unnerving he suddenly realised that his best friend in the world, his strong and wise protector was seriously ill. With a cry of protest, he ran forward and clasped his beloved Grandad around the waist.

‘Grandad, she says horrible things. I didn’t want to bring her here. Make her go away! I hate her!’

Shrude patted his grandson’s head affectionately and gazed warily at this Amazon who’d invaded his privacy. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

‘I’m Mort’s teacher and a foundation member of the local chapter of PCFP, Protect Children from Predators. Adult males have no business cavorting naked with innocent boys. He says he loves you and you him, but we all know what that means — especially old men with sick wives.’

‘Do we? What does it mean?’

‘It means that this poor wee lad is being used by you as a replacement for your wife.’

‘Oh, he’s more than a replacement, I love him dearly and have never loved my wife. But if you mean sex, then you’re barking up the wrong tree. You’re barking mad, and you know which animals bark.’

‘Are you calling me a bitch?’

‘No, I’m calling you a stupid, vicious, nasty old bitch. My relationship with Mort is loving, innocent and pure.’

‘Nakedness is a sin.’

‘You’re insane — although I admit it would be a very nasty sight if you took your clothes off.’

Mrs Pettie wasn’t listening. ‘Every right-thinking person knows that nudity leads to vice. It’s why Adam and Eve were evicted from paradise. There can be no greater authority than that.’

‘Your authority is a translation of a translation of a translation of a three thousand year old tale told by wandering desert tribes to explain their origins. Hardly compelling. Most thinkers differ on the message intended by that story; they reckon those two lost their innocence, and therefore their happiness once they started to ask questions instead of living from day to day like all the other animals. It wasn’t their naked bodies they were ashamed of, but their naked ignorance and stupidity; which made them wiser than you. I can’t believe ignorant bigots like you are permitted anywhere near young people. You have thirty seconds to get your great fat arse out of this place before I call the cops and have you charged with trespass and libellous insinuations. One. Two. Three…’

The guardian of public morality was already gone.

7 Dying

Shrude sagged to the ground, coughing slightly.

‘Grandad! Are you all right? Thanks for sending that horrible woman away. Are you alright?’

‘Just a little tired, Mort. I’m not used to confrontation. A person like that is a great black hole that sucks all joy, life and decency from the air. Its lucky she went or I’d have suffocated. Perhaps you’d fetch me a glass of water?’

Shrude rallied and after a meal seemed to be his usual self, but Mort remained worried.

‘Grandad, I’m sorry I didn’t realise you were getting so sick. Are you sure you’re going to be all right? Shouldn’t you go to a doctor?’

Shrude gazed affectionately at the only living thing he loved without restraint, and wished he had a stronger grip on life. But he had to be honest; anything else would be an unforgivable deception. Mort was ten; old enough to understand. He patted the cushion beside him on the couch. Mort sat and leaned against him while Shrude gently stroked his shoulder.

‘I’m worn out, Mort. Made of inferior stuff, apparently. I’ve been to doctors because I don’t want to leave you any sooner than I have to. It seems my heart is falling to bits, my liver doesn’t process toxins and my gut is host to unpleasant visitors that prevent me digesting properly.’

Mort could scarcely speak from fear. ‘Can’t they do anything in hospital, Grandpa?’

‘When you’re my age, Mort, you have to keep away from those places. There’s nothing they can do except keep me alive longer than I would if I didn’t go.’

‘Isn’t that good?’

Once they’d cut me open, filled me with drugs and sewn me back together again, I’d be useless. They wouldn’t let me come back here; I’d be sent to a nursing home and spend every day in bed, drugged, probably in pain, wishing I was dead, useless to you and Nasturtium. And this could go on for years and years, a living hell. And no matter how hard I pleaded, they would not let me die until they’d used the last drug and performed the last operation.

‘You see, lawmakers are mostly religious and frightened to die in case they go to hell, so they’ll do anything to stay alive. Ridiculous, as they’ll all die eventually. They reckon a person who has decided it is time to die is insane and should be prevented from killing themselves no matter how ill they are. And anyone knows about this and doesn't stop them is helping them, and therefore a criminal. I’ve had as good a life as I deserve, and the years with you have been the best. If I thought doctors could fix me up so I could live longer the way I’ve been until now, then I’d try it, but they all say there’s no hope of anything except becoming a vegetable in a nursing home for years and years. So I’m going to refuse to let them get their claws into me. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Mort whispered.

‘And will you be pleased for me, once I’m dead and no longer sick, and not be too sorry for yourself?’

Mort could scarcely speak. Tears were pouring over his cheeks, running into his mouth and his throat seemed too thick to speak. But he managed a husky, ‘Yes. I’ll be pleased for you when you’re dead, and try not to be too sorry for myself.’

‘Good lad. And if anyone is stupid enough to arrange a funeral for me, refuse to go. It’ll only make you sad and not help you cope. I won’t be there to see and they’ll probably get an idiot witchdoctor to say insanities about god and heaven and all that crap, like they did with that nasty bully. No child should have to listen to that nonsense, it undermines sanity. Keep me in your head and heart as I am, not as I’ll be when I’m dead, and in that way we’ll always be together.’

‘Yes, Grandpa.’ Unable to restrain his tears, Mort buried his face in his grandfather’s shirt. ‘Grandad. I love you so much.’

‘And I love you just as much, so don’t worry... you’ll have me around for a long time yet. But if anything should happen to me, I’ve made arrangements for you to live with Fystie, Amy and Leo. You’ll be happy with them I think.’

‘Yes,’ Mort lied. He loved Leo and Fystie, but disliked Amy. But now wasn’t the time to say so.

‘Tomorrow after school we’ll go together to the lawyer to settle everything.’

8 The Lawyer

Leo was already in the waiting room of Messrs. Trimm, Kutt and Payste who, according to their sign, were experienced in Family Law, Wills, Testaments and Bereavement. Mr. Trimm lived up to his name, being of average height, stocky with no suggestion of fat. He was pale of skin, and neatly packaged in a lightweight suit, white shirt and tie, and shiny tan shoes. His elegantly cropped, chestnut hair and neatly trimmed beard would have reassured even the most finicky female. He stood when his clients entered and offered a perfectly manicured hand, greeting both Leo and Shrude by their first names, like old friends. His greeting of Mort was sincere and unaffected, so Mort liked him immediately and was prepared to trust him to the end of the earth.

The two adults left the room and Mort sat on a chair that had been placed opposite the lawyer’s at his large desk. Mr. Trimm took some papers from a drawer, placed them on the table, then looked at Mort as if searching his face for permission to speak. Apparently he found what he was looking for, and in a cool and accurate manner explained the situation.

‘What I’m telling you today is totally private, Mort. Even Leo doesn’t know about it. That means no matter who asks you about it, they have no right to know, and you must not tell them! If anyone persists in asking, you must make an excuse to go away, telephone me immediately, and tell me about them.’ He passed Mort a card. ‘These are my details, phone numbers and addresses. Keep it handy, and if you lose it, come and get another. Copy the details into your diary or wherever you keep important records. Ok so far?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Repeat what I've just told you.’

Mort was word perfect.

‘Excellent. My first name’s Marshall. I’m doing this as a friend of Shrude, so you might as well be a friend too. Ok?’

‘Yes, Marshall.’

‘Good. It’s quite simple. Your grandfather sold his property to me five years ago, but retains the right to live there until either he dies or moves voluntarily away. The money has been put into an interest bearing account in your name. That was the best way I could think of to ensure no one will dispute the Will when he dies. There’s a small Trust Fund for Nasturtium’s needs, but that’s all. It means you are a relatively wealthy young man, although I’ll keep control of the money as your legal trustee until you turn eighteen.’

‘But... I don’t understand. Why is it a secret?’

‘If your mother hears about Shrude’s illness, she is likely to appear and demand her inheritance. He is determined she will get nothing, because if she got her hands on it you would be left with nothing. If we keep this a secret, she will imagine Shrude frittered away his fortune over the last five years, as there will be no trace of it. Whenever you need more money than the allowance stipulated in Shrude’s Will, phone or come and see me, and I promise to be sensible while keeping your best interests at heart. You won’t need any money for daily living if you go to live with Leo, because he will be receiving money for fostering you, and there’s some in that for your pocket money. Is everything clear so far?’

‘Yes,’ Mort nodded, brushing away a tear.

‘Good lad. Now, all the paperwork is complete. The Child Welfare people have approved Amy and Leo’s suitability as foster parents in the event of Shrude dying, so the only question for me is, do you want to go and live with them? That’s why I asked Shrude and Leo to wait outside, so you can be perfectly honest. Neither will be offended whatever your decision.’

‘I love Leo and Fystie, but I don’t like Amy, but I’d sooner live with them than anyone else, and I don’t want Grandpa to die and…’ Tears erupted. Great sobs wracked his frame and he curled into a ball in the large chair, sobbing silently. Marshall hurried around the desk and knelt beside the boy, cradling him in his arms, stroking his hair, murmuring soft, calming nothings, silently cursing himself for having spoken so impersonally.

Mort looked up through tear-blurred eyes and whispered, ‘Sorry.’

‘Never apologise for feeling strongly about anything. Your tears do you credit. It is I who should apologise for speaking so clinically. I’ve been a lawyer too long. You’ve been very brave and I admire you, and I like you even more now I’ve seen you are worthy of your grandfather.’

Mort and Shrude returned home, leaving Leo with Marshall, who had invited him to come and see his most recent etchings.

A week later, Mort was called out of class. When he saw Amy in the Principal’s office he knew what was coming and bravely followed her to the car.

His new home in a housing estate on the fringes of the city was very different from the large private block filled with fruit trees and vegetables where he had lived since birth. The unlined concrete block bungalow sat on its five hundred square metre patch of land in a row of identical dwellings, separated from each other by low wire fences. A few scraggly palms were all that remained of once dense rainforest, and of privacy there was none. His bedroom boasted a bed, chair, small built-in wardrobe and desk. The window looked onto a covered verandah that ran the length of the house, where Fystie spent most of his time when not as school.

Once his few possessions had been transferred, Mort felt slightly better and managed to put on a brave face, keeping his tears and sobs private and quiet. He didn’t want to know about their problems and they were doing enough for him without having to cope with a sadness that only he could cure. Problems shared may sometimes be problems halved, but sadness shared becomes a burden for everyone and too often prevents healing.

Dewey-eyed but true to his word, Mort refused to go to his beloved grandfather’s funeral, thus earning the contempt of Amy who refused to listen to his reasons, and the admiration of Leo who did.

A sense of duty prompted him to visit Nasturtium in her bright, clean nursing home. She seemed perfectly contented, had no idea who he was, and ignored him, so he never went again.

9 Self Defence.

Amy hated working in the supermarket. Leo loved working in the gymnasium. They seldom spoke, so didn’t argue. The atmosphere in the house wasn’t tense, but neither was it relaxing when both were in the room. Fortunately, shift work made it possible to avoid each other most of the time and there was always one person at home to look after Fystie. Mort and Fystie’s unusually deep friendship was the sole reason Amy had agreed to foster the lad. Not because she cared about her son’s happiness, but because Mort would relieve her of some of the burden of care.

Fystie spent his days at a special school for disadvantaged children. He was smart, observant, and a caustic commentator; therefore an amusing companion. Fortunately perhaps, few people, including his teachers, were able to understand his tart remarks. Mort slipped easily into their lives, eventually stopped wetting his bed [which Leo had assured him was perfectly normal] and crying himself to sleep, and never tired of retrieving things that Fystie’s spastic muscles kept tossing around or dropping.

A large storage shed attached to Jezebels Gymnasium was sublet to one of Leo’s friends for self-defence classes. Amy was opposed to Mort’s attending, as she thought men were quite aggressive enough without learning to fight. In vain did Leo explain that the boy would be learning self-confidence along with self-defence. She could see no difference between attack and defence so when her wishes were ignored, decided it was yet another proof her husband was deliberately undermining their marriage.

Excited and apprehensive, Mort joined a dozen other boys three afternoons a week and applied himself with his usual single-minded determination to becoming a martial arts expert. Hugh, the instructor, a lean, fit man in his thirties, kept the lessons focussed, practical and uncomplicated. Politeness was demanded, but there were no mystical ceremonies, no Oriental names for moves, and the students were free to wear whatever they liked as long as it didn’t restrict movement.

Hugh wore a speedo because the less he wore the more information his students received about arm, body and leg positions. He considered traditional martial arts costumes to be an anachronism and an unnecessary expense, perverting a skill grounded in reality by giving it a quasi-religious twist. Fitness and quick reflexes require a mind tightly focussed in the present, not on some ancient myth. Most boys followed suit when they realised how sweaty any extra clothing made them.

After a few minutes of relaxation activities at the beginning of the sessions, instruction was practical and down to earth. Each lesson focussed on a new skill, and revised older ones. Hugh would choose an attack mode, then teach the correct defence response, which was practiced until it became reflex. After a few weeks all students knew what to do if someone threw a punch, came from behind, grasped their wrists, tried to leg trip them, grabbed them around the neck and so on.

Hugh constantly reminded his students that the first and best option is to run away, and they should never provoke a fight. If fighting was inevitable, then they should disable their opponent quickly and walk away. It was self-defence, they were learning, not revenge or attack.

The results were visible after only a few sessions. The students stood taller and took more interest in the world around them. The mere fact of knowing a few moves that would at least stop their attacker long enough so they could make their escape, changed everything for lads who’d spent their lives in nervous apprehension of others. Boys for whom a slightly cringing stance with averted eyes had become second nature, thus attracting bullies, began to walk confidently and look others in the eye, because the knowledge that if their opponent wasn’t too much bigger they could make him sorry he’d picked a fight, did wonders for self esteem.

Mort lost the slightly nervous cringe that had so annoyed Amy, began to join in mealtime conversations, and was no longer always nervously on the lookout for bullies. He now had a weapon — himself. The first time someone tried to intimidate him, he stood straight and looked the prick in the eye, feet slightly apart, hands ready for action. The would-be bully turned away with a pathetic sneer. Mort was so elated he shared his delight at dinner. Leo was thrilled; Amy sniffed her displeasure.

Hugh taught his students that bullies can tell by someone’s posture if they are mentally weak or strong. ‘Strutting and cringing are both signs of weakness, and calm modesty is a sign of strength,’ he drummed into them if they began to get cocky. While most of Hugh’s philosophical asides passed over the heads of his students, Mort missed nothing and spent many hours thinking and discussing the ideas with Fystie.

His eleventh birthday passed without mention. Living in a place with no privacy he needed to keep at least some secrets, and his birthday was one.

10 Pissed Off

To his dismay, Mrs. Pettie had not forgiven his grandfather’s invective. She liked girls but barely tolerated boys. ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what little girls are made of,’ she taught them to chant. ‘Slugs and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of,’ the girls learned to shout gleefully. Mrs Pettie belonged to that unpleasant breed of teachers who seek popularity by publicly ridiculing students who were too polite or nervous to challenge her. She measured her success by the amount of laughter generated as she mispronounced spelling errors and rolled slightly protuberant eyes at other mistakes. As her victims were usually boys, the girls rejoiced in this further proof of male inferiority.

Mort, whose previous teacher had appreciated his enthusiasm and inventiveness, was dismayed to discover he was a dunce at everything that really mattered. He didn’t sit still, his spelling was atrocious, his writing unreadable, he interrupted, asked too many questions and was an intolerable know-all. His work was usually returned looking as if a chicken had been decapitated over it.

Mort’s wildly diverse interests made it unlikely he would be a brilliant scholar, but with a sympathetic teacher he could have been good. Things came to a head one hot Friday afternoon. Everyone was chattering, impatient for the weekend, when Mrs. Pettie called the class to attention and held up Mort’s latest effort at creative writing, an epic poem about a Warrior Prince who saved a city. He thought the story was so exciting that she would finally admire him, and smiled in pride when he realised his work had been chosen.

She called him up to her table to collect it, but instead of handing it to him, asked the class if they’d like to hear what Mortaumal had written.

Mort’s heart sank. That was the tone she used when preparing to make someone feel rotten.

‘Yes, yes, yes…’ It seemed the whole class wanted to be amused by Mort’s discomfort.

Mort’s unsmiling, silent stoicism in the face of yet another public humiliation was interpreted as being unable to take a joke, an unpardonable sin in others.

Sliding forward in her chair as if offering a rare treat, she adjusted her glasses and the class waited with bated breath for the next hilarious instalment of Mort madness. Giggles turned to guffaws as the woman deliberately mispronounced his metaphors and ridiculed his rhymes. Mort held his tongue and controlled his breathing and temper as his defence teacher had taught him, allowing his attention to wander while the class laughed and the pressure on his bladder increased.

‘Stand still, boy!’ Mrs. Pettie snapped as he jiggled his feet, increasingly desperate for a piss.

Concealed from the waist down by the large wooden desk, Mort looked vacantly at a point well above his audience’s heads while lifting the leg of his shorts and aiming half a litre of warm urine onto the rear of the teacher’s seat. It soaked through the thin skirt and pooled behind her. He was flicking off the last drops when Mrs Pettie felt something warm and wet, stared back in horror, then leaped to her feet.

‘You filthy little bastard!’ she shrieked, landing a solid backhand on the side of his head that threw him across the room.

Deadly silence.

‘Mort’s bleeding,’ someone said nervously.

Blood was gushing from the back of his head where he’d hit the edge of the wastepaper bin. It didn’t hurt, and he was fully aware of what was happening, but Mort wasn’t silly. He remained ‘unconscious’ until the ambulance drove him away. At the hospital he gave Leo’s gymnasium phone number, and by the time he’d received three stitches and a sweet drink, Leo had arrived. When he proved he knew about delayed concussion, Leo signed a form and was given permission to take his ‘son’ away. Mort spent the afternoon behind the scenes at the gymnasium, filling himself with sandwiches and soft drinks brought by sympathetic staff curious to see Leo’s new ‘son’.

11 Leo and Hugh

As his head didn’t hurt, despite the stitches, Mort couldn’t see why he should remain in the Gymnasium staffroom. Fystie had once explained the layout of the place, so he set off to see if he could find the spot where he could see and not be seen when Leo was performing. It wasn’t difficult. Loud dance music led him to a door that opened into a small area shielded from the main space by movable screens. He peeped around the edge and discovered he was directly behind the stage on which jazzercise instructors performed. He caught his breath in astonishment. Leo was naked. Taut bare bronzed buttocks flexed as he leaped and did amazingly high kicks, copied more or less faithfully by his class. Mort wasn’t shocked, he was thrilled, aroused, and unconsciously fondled his erection through his shorts.

Suddenly, hands grasped Mort around the throat. Instant reflexes rammed a sharp right elbow backwards, propelled with all his strength by his open left hand shoving his balled right fist. It felt as if he’d hit a brick wall. The realisation he hadn’t done any damage to his attacker made his heart pound violently.

With a soft chuckle the hands were removed. ‘Brilliant, Mort. You’re a natural. If I hadn’t been prepared you’d have seriously winded me.’

‘Hugh! I thought I was going to be murdered.’

‘Who’d want to murder you?’

‘My teacher for a start.’

‘Why?’

Mort told him and he was still laughing when the music stopped.

‘Is this the first time you’ve seen Leo in action?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think?’

‘He’s beautiful.’

‘Yes, he is,’ Hugh agreed.

Unsurprised at the compliment, Mort whispered, ‘I think he is the perfectest man in the world.’

‘What! Better than me?’

‘Slightly.’

Hugh grinned and they watched Leo thank everyone and walk towards them.

Hugh stepped forward, leaving Mort in shadow.

‘Hughie,’ Leo laughed, grasping the self-defence teacher in a tight hug and kissing him on the lips.

After what seemed a long time to Mort, Hugh disentangled himself.

‘Your new son thinks you’re the most perfect man on the planet.’

Leo turned and noticed Mort’s nervous frown. ‘Come on, give me a hug.’

Mort pulled a face. ‘Can I have a kiss too?’

‘Do you want one?’

Mort’s eyes lit. ‘Yes please.’ A kiss was something he had longed for, ever since his grandfather died. Leo was nice, but so far there had been no warm affection. Expecting the usual light touch of lips to his forehead, he was surprised but not displeased when Leo’s lips brushed his own. There were tears in his eyes when he looked up. His Grandpa had never kissed him like that, but he liked it just as much... perhaps even a bit more, it was so soft and... he couldn’t explain the feeling. It was almost embarrassingly intimate. So personal. Anyone can kiss you on the cheek or the brow, but no one would kiss like that if they didn’t mean it. His smile was beatific and his erection even harder than before.

‘So, you thought I did alright out there?’

‘You were wonderful. I thought you were really naked, even when you turned round. Because of the hair round the edges I couldn’t tell till you came close. Can I have one of those little things too? I’d forgotten your body was so perfect... you’re like one of those statues in that book we looked at. Hugh also thinks you’re perfect.’

Leo grinned. ‘Thanks. Yes I’ll make you one, and that’s nice of Hugh. I reckon he’s pretty perfect too.’

‘And I think what you did to your horrible teacher is perfect,’ Hugh laughed. ‘I wonder what she’ll say when you get to school on Monday.’

‘He’s not going back there,’ Leo announced flatly. ‘That bitch nearly killed him; he had to have three stitches.’

‘You could sue her.’

‘‘No. Justice has been done. She’s been pissed on in public and is probably shit scared that the damage to Mort’s head is worse than it is. It’s cost us nothing.’

‘She killed Grandpa,‘ Mort said softly.

‘No she didn’t,’ Leo replied just as softly. ‘After she’d gone Shrude rang and told me all about it. He was amused more than anything — even felt sorry for her a bit, silly cow. He’d been planning on leaving us for some time. He was really very ill, you know.’

‘Yes. He sort of warned me he was going to die. But I didn’t realise he was going to do it himself. I’m glad he did. He told me about how terrible it is to be put into a nursing home and kept alive against your wishes.’

Leo’s face suddenly lost its life. ‘That’s a possible future that terrifies me for Fystie. One day he’s going to need more care than we can give him... but I don’t want him to go to one of those places; stuck in a ward with dementia patients screaming and wetting themselves. Ever been to one of those death camps, Hugh?’

‘No, and I don’t intend to,’ Hugh announced firmly, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulders. ‘That’s your last shift for a few hours, come home with me for a meal.’

‘I’ve got to drop Mort off at home first. Amy doesn’t know about his brush with the teacher yet.’

‘Can I go with you and Hugh?’ Mort asked. ‘And come back here afterwards to watch you. I don’t like being home alone with Amy, she doesn’t like me.’

‘She doesn’t like anyone much that I’m aware of,’ Leo sighed. ‘But Fystie would be pleased to see you.’

Mort reluctantly agreed when Hugh promised all four would go swimming the following weekend.

12 Family Life

Although he’d now lived with his foster parents for several months, Mort still couldn’t work out why they’d married. They seemed even less suited to each other than his grandparents had been before the cops pushed her. Amy and Leo almost never spoke to each other, and then only in the most general terms. Leo was always pleasant and understanding to her and everyone else, but she never unwound enough to even smile.

Mort talked about everything with Leo, telling him about himself and his interests, secure in the knowledge he wouldn’t be ridiculed. Yet it didn’t work the other way; there seemed to be an invisible shell around Leo. When asked a question he always answered pleasantly unless it was personal, when he would pretend not to hear and change topic. Increasingly, he seemed distracted, almost sad, and Mort had to control an urge to wrap his arms around him and give him the sort of hug his grandfather had given him. This would start Mort thinking about his Grandpa and he’d struggle not to cry, even though Leo had told him that if a man cries with genuine feeling it indicates a good character. More than anything Mort longed to have a relationship with Leo as uncomplicated and mutually supportive as he’d had with his grandfather.

Amy was very different. She was distant. Not interested in him, which he conceded was fair enough as it was Leo who had insisted on fostering him because of his friendship with Shrude. What was beginning to seriously concern him was Amy’s lack of concern for Fystie. Her son was a great person, despite his crazy muscles and slack jaw and tongue that kept getting in the way when he talked. He was incredibly brave, but had recently been crying silently sometimes because of the pain. His hands kept bending at the wrists and sometimes his feet started to point like a dancer. He could still walk — usually, but his body sometimes twisted alarmingly and someone always had to stay close to stop him falling.

Amy would never walk with him, she’d just plonk him into his wheelchair, strap him in and tell him to push himself around and keep out of her way. But his muscles often wouldn’t obey him and he didn’t get very far. When the pain got so bad he could hardly breathe she’d give him strong painkillers and a sleeping pill, so he became dopey. Leo got angry when she did that and they’d shout about it, but he wasn’t home all the time.

Mort hated it when they shouted. All he wanted was a home like in a story he’d read. Warm and peaceful and loving. Never any arguments. Like he’d had with his grandfather. He determined to have a home like that when he grew up, and nothing would stop him. And if he married it would be with someone he loved until death and who loved him the same, no matter what he did.

Amy’s increasing distaste for her constantly active, irritatingly even tempered and, as she unfairly put it, exhibitionist husband, added to their marital strain along with the worry of how to cope with their disabled son. Shortly before Mort arrived to occupy the third bedroom, she had used the excuse of Leo’s erratic hours and Fystie’s special needs, to move out of their bedroom and double bed, taking Fystie’ slightly smaller, but much quieter and more pleasant bedroom at the rear of the house. Fystie’s large barred cot, which prevented him from falling out of bed as he slept, had been placed next to Leo’s double bed. There wasn’t a lot of room left.

13 Fystie

Cerebral palsy: cause unclear but it probably happens in the womb or during birth when something such as infection or lack of oxygen damages the infant’s nervous system. Boys, premature or low weight babies, and twins have the highest risk of this terrible affliction in which conflicting signals are sent to the muscles. Instead of one muscle contracting and its opposite number relaxing, enabling a joint to flex correctly, both muscles might contract or relax at the same time, causing a spastic reaction; opening a hand instead of keeping it closed so things drop; making legs and arms jerk uncontrollably; causing the tongue, which is almost pure muscle, to behave erratically preventing speech. As if this isn’t bad enough, muscles can continuously contract, pulling the body and limbs out of shape, twisting the spine, crippling the legs, forcing the feet to point down making walking difficult or impossible, or the hands to bend painfully towards the wrist preventing useful manual activity; even feeding oneself.

Some sufferers get off relatively lightly and can live more or less normal lives with assistance and a few aids, with little change in their condition over the years. Fystie wasn’t one of them. His muscle spasticity increased as he grew, and became increasingly painful. At times he turned dreadfully pale and sweat poured from every pore as he strove to blank out the agony until it passed. Almost never did a sound escape him even during the worst episodes, but he couldn’t conceal the physical effects that left him exhausted. He never complained, and understood and forgave strangers who made jokes about his deformed body, incomprehensible speech and jerky movements. He blamed no one, least of all his mother.

He was an intelligent lad who was reading by the time he was four, and could hold his own in argument and conversation with a witty turn of phrase and sharp observations. Sadly, few discovered this side of the boy, being too embarrassed to look at his slack jaw, lips drawn back with effort, spittle-drenched teeth and clumsy tongue while he struggled manfully to communicate.

Leo invariably understood the sense, if not every word his son uttered, and always let him finish his thoughts no matter how long they took to express. Amy was impatient and never let him finish, always interrupting and saying what she imagined Fystie wanted to say — which was what she would have said in the circumstances and bore no relation to the multitude of intricate thoughts inhabiting her clever son’s brain.

Fystie was eight when the full significance of his condition hit him. The knowledge that there was no hope of release from the prison of his deformed and uncontrollable body seemed to eat a great hole in his chest and belly. He couldn’t eat, think or speak and remained withdrawn for several weeks. The boy who emerged from this agony of introspection was cool, determined and eerily calm. Every spare minute was spent on the Internet reading everything he could find about and around his condition, and he joined Internet groups formed by other CP sufferers, where he made several acquaintances whose lives seemed to be as bad as his. Most were many years older, and filled his head with ideas Leo hoped weren’t too extreme.

When Mort arrived, Fystie had for the first time in his life a real friend, and Leo was relieved to once again hear the chortling laughter of his son. Mort scoured the local library and brought home whatever books Fystie asked for and they read them together, played board games, went exploring the local area, down to the drain, the small park and sometimes even as far as the beach.

There had been no educational centre for disabled children near where Leo and his family lived, so when it was time to go to school they moved to their present house near such a school. There, Fystie felt less of a monster but didn’t find an intellectual equal, even among the staff who were caring but overworked with no time or desire to socialise with their pupils.

Amy’s natural urges had allowed her to treat Fystie with love and care until he was three, but when he reached school age and she reluctantly accepted there was no cure, no hope of improvement and things might possibly get worse, the differences between her boy and those of her friends were too great to ignore.

Imagining they were being kind, her friends ignored Fystie’s disability, but covertly exchanged glances and took care that their own progeny did not to get too close to the wide-mouthed, spittle-spraying, flailing-armed monstrosity. Such insensitivity sowed anger in Amy’s bosom. Anger that mutated to distaste and loathing — not for her friends, but for the innocent child. When called on to bathe him, change his soiled underwear, even wipe away mucus and saliva, her distaste was so obvious Fystie shuddered and tried to withdraw when she came too close.

His wife’s aversion to their son was distressing for Leo, but she was immune to all pleas for compassion. The boy should have been put down at birth and that was the end of the matter. If Leo wanted to sacrifice his life for a monster, that was his choice, but left to her the kid would be put into a home and forgotten about.

Mort had been a godsend. Nothing about Fystie’s problems disturbed him. The first day they met they liked each other and decided to be friends for life. Although Fystie’s condition had worsened somewhat since that promise, it didn’t occur to Mort to behave differently. He calmly accepted the facts and got on with being the best friend he could. When Fystie’s muscles gave him pain, Mort was ready with oil and a gentle massage, the benefits of which were perhaps more psychological than physical, but of benefit they surely were. The two boys had no secrets, enjoyed the same quirky jokes, and behaved as best friends should.

One night, shortly after he came to live with Leo and Amy, Mort was sleeping in Leo’s bed because he was working late, when Fystie gave a cry of pain, his body contorting in agony. Mort climbed in beside him and hugged him tightly, preventing him from lashing out at the bed rails and damaging himself. Fystie eventually calmed and Mort removed his sweat and urine drenched pyjamas, carefully led him to the shower, getting in with him, then after drying them both, took his friend into his own bed, where Leo found him asleep in Mort’s arms.

14 What To Do Now?

Amy was unusually cheerful when Mort arrived home with his bandaged head. Their favourite meals were prepared and ready in the fridge for them to microwave when they were hungry.

‘You look very pretty,’ Mort informed her diplomatically, while agreeing silently with his dead grandfather that too much lipstick and too few clothes were probably a sign of desperation. A car horn was the signal for her to peck Fystie on the cheek, take up her purse and leave.

Fystie, who was in his wheelchair in front of a blank computer screen, pulled a wry face. ‘What brought that on?’

‘No idea, but it’s a welcome change.’

‘Thank goodness you’re home. My stupid hands are twitching too much to even turn this thing on, let alone press the right keys.’

Over their meal Mort told Fystie about pissing in his teacher’s chair. Fystie nearly threw himself onto the floor in delight. Both laughed till tears ran.

‘You’ll have to come to my school now,’ Fystie shouted.

‘Can’t, I have to be disabled.’

‘I reckon not being able to hold your piss should count, and not suffering horrible teachers, and being stuck with me must rank as a very severe disability,’ he grinned.

‘And I must be a mental cripple if I sometimes sleep with a dribbling spastic kid.’

Fystie nearly choked on his tongue from laughter. ‘You make it sound as if we have sex. Like in those videos we watched. Leo saw that last one in my downloads folder, just after you left for school.’

‘Shit! What'd he say?’

Just that they didn’t look very fit. And if that’s all it took to be a porn actor he’d have a go himself.’

‘He wasn’t shocked?’

‘Not at all, just told me they faked having all those orgasms in one session. In reality the film is shot over several days, and even the cum is often detergent they squeeze through a thin tube. I can’t wait to have an orgasm. I wonder what it feels like. He says most kids don’t have them till they’re eleven or twelve.’

‘Your cock gets stiff enough.’

‘Look who’s talking!’

‘I think I nearly had one watching Leo at the Gymnasium this afternoon.’

‘He’s good eh?’

‘Fantastic. Then Hugh kissed him on the lips for a long time, and then he kissed me too. My cocks getting stiff again thinking about it. You’ll have to suck me off.’

‘You can kiss my bum!’

Both boys rolled around giggling at ideas and images they barely comprehended, but which sounded adult and exciting.

‘You know it mightn't be such a stupid idea,’ Mort gasped when he could stop laughing.

‘What? Kissing my bum or being a porn star?’

‘Going to your school. You learn everything we do at ours, so I could do my schoolwork, then help them with you and the others at lunch times and after school.’

‘You’d hate it. Not many of the kids are as handsome and attractive as me... most are either dumb or brain damaged. You can’t have a conversation with them, all they want to do is play pathetic games.’

‘Fystie!’ Mort said in mock shock. ‘You’re an intellectual snob!’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘And here I thought I was unique!’

They grinned at each other. Mort wiped snot and saliva from his friend’s face and hands before playing a game of chess, moving Fystie’s pieces for him, then they showered together so Mort could clean all the parts Fystie couldn’t reach — which seemed to be increasing daily. As always when in the house alone, Mort slept in Leo’s bed in case Fystie needed him.

On Sunday morning Hugh drove the four friends several kilometres along a dusty road to a farm belonging to one of his ex-lovers with whom he’d remained on good terms. The sky was overcast, the air hot, the water in the stony waterhole cool and clear, and within a minute there was a pile of clothes on the bank and four naked males splashing, diving and swimming. Fystie was a different person in the water. Relieved of gravity’s burden, his aches receded and he was able to pull himself through the supporting liquid, his deformed body unseen. Not that he felt embarrassed with these people, but when only his head was visible he could pretend the rest was like everybody else’s.

Mort was a natural swimmer, having been taught by his grandfather. Diving off rocks, swimming between legs, disappearing from one place and surfacing in another while Fystie worried he’d drowned. They’d brought sandwiches and soft drinks, and after a quick meal Leo lifted Fystie carefully into his sling, slung it over his shoulders and, after climbing over the fence that protected the area around the swimming hole, they set off up hill in the hope of finding a view back down to the city.

The walk was neither beautiful nor uplifting. Cattle had eaten everything they could reach, leaving dead scrub, debarked trees, and great piles of shit that fed marsh flies that zoomed silently in for a meal. One with huge green eyes managed to take a bite from Leo’s foreskin. Mosquitoes arrived baying for blood, and a pair of squawking parrots told them they had no business being there. They never got high enough to see anything interesting and the stench of a dead kangaroo sent them laughing and slapping their bodies back to the pool for another dip.

During supper that evening at Hugh’s, they discussed the idea of Mort going to Fystie’s school.

Hugh grinned in astonishment. ‘You’re an odd kid, that’s for sure. Well, you can only ask.’

Leo shook his head. ‘We’ll have to be more subtle than that. I know the principal; she brings some kids to exercise in the pool at the gym. And one of her staff members belongs to my aerobics group. She’s nice enough, but a stickler for rules. You’ll have to make yourself indispensable, Mort, like I did at the gym. Take Fystie to school, then ask if you can stay for the day because you’re changing schools and have nothing else to do. Make yourself useful so she asks you back, then after a couple of days if you still want to stay there, make your suggestion as if you’ve just thought of it.

15 School

Mort practised his spiel on Fystie during their short walk to school. ‘Reckon she’ll be convinced?’

‘You’re a born con man.’

‘Thanks, and pushing you to school every day in this thing will make me as fit as Leo, so one day everyone will want to watch me dance naked like him.’

‘You’re already fit and he doesn’t dance naked.’

‘Almost. Have you seen his pouch?’

‘I helped him make it.’

‘Great! Then you can help him with the one he said he’d make for me. Here we are, which way do we go?’

Nerves had made Mort arrive very early, so the school was empty except for three teachers who could be seen through classroom windows. After parking Fystie in a sheltered area under trees next to seats and playground equipment, he helped him out of his chair, then went and knocked firmly at the door labelled “Administration”.

‘Come in.’

‘Good morning, Mrs. Dominint, I’m Mortaumal, Fystie’s foster brother. I’ve brought him to school because…’

‘I hope nothing’s happened to Leo?’

‘No, he’s fine. I…’

‘Why didn’t he bring him as usual, and why aren’t you at school?’

Mort was already losing the thread of his carefully prepared presentation, so frowned in concentration. ‘That’s why I’m here. You see…’

‘You’re the young lad who micturated on Mrs. Pettit’s chair! Aren’t you?’

‘Micturated?’

‘Relieved himself. Piddled…’ She pulled a face to conceal a smile.

‘Yes, Miss, but…’

‘I thought you’d been badly injured and were in hospital.’

‘No, Miss, I only had three stitches. But you see…’

‘Have you told the school you’re not dying?’ Mrs. Dominint had given up trying not to smile.

‘No, Miss, you see I’m not going back there.’

‘Why not? You’d be a hero.’

This was something Mort had not considered, however he valiantly chose to stick to his prepared spiel. ‘Leo and I thought it would be better to spare Mrs. Pettie the embarrassment.’

‘How noble. But I doubt that embarrassment is an emotion with which Mrs. Pettie has any familiarity, which is a pity as she would derive some benefit from it.’

Mort had no idea what the woman was talking about and was in danger of being totally sidetracked, so doggedly returned to script. ‘The point is, Mrs. Dominint, I think it would be better if I found a new school, and while I’m searching I hoped I could spend the day here to be of assistance to Fystie and the other pupils.’

Mrs. Dominint held her tongue, while allowing her eyes to register disbelief.

Before despair at the apparent hopelessness of his mission overwhelmed him, Mort nervously ploughed on. ‘I look after Fystie a lot of the time at home, you see, because Leo’s so busy, and Amy is often at work or out. I feed him, shower and toilet him, we talk all the time and play chess, and go on the internet, and laugh and I put him to bed and massage him if he hurts too much and...’ tears were welling in his earnest eyes and he had to stop and swallow. ‘And he is my bestest friend and…’ His throat seemed to close and he couldn’t continue. He’d done his utmost, so took a deep breath, blew his nose and impatiently wiped his cheeks before looking manfully into the Principal’s eyes; his grandfather having warned him not to trust men who won’t look you in the eye.

‘Can you really understand what Fystie is saying well enough to have a conversation?’

‘Of course I can, he speaks as good as anyone. He’s much cleverer than me, can even beat me at chess. And he makes me laugh all the time.’

‘And you love him.’ It was a statement, not a question, so Mort felt no embarrassment in agreeing.

‘You'll have to go back to your old school because there’s no other school handy, and even if there were, how would you find it if you’re here all day? Do you realise that if you don’t go to school Leo will be accused of being a bad parent and you’ll be taken away from him.’

A freezing chill enveloped the boy. ‘No!’ he whispered with such intensity of feeling Mrs. Dominint shuddered. ‘Leo is the nicest man in the world. I can’t... they can’t… I…’

Mort’s thoughts churned. His plan wasn’t working so he’d try the direct approach – one he’d have preferred anyway, only trying the other because Leo had suggested it. ‘Well, Miss, if there’s no other school, can I come to this one and at interval and lunchtime I can help you. And if the teachers are busy I can help other kids with their work and…’ he ran out of ideas.

I’m sure you would be of great help to Fystie, but he’s the only CP student. The rest have different problems.’

‘What’s CP?’

‘Cerebral Palsy, what Fystie has. It’s terrible for him, especially as he’s so quick and intelligent. This is not the ideal environment for him, but at least here he doesn’t get laughed at like he did at his previous school.’ Mrs. Dominint shook her head sadly.

‘What’s wrong with the other kids?’

‘Oh, a range of difficulties, mental as well as physical. Two boys spend most of their time in wheelchairs, unable to move even as well as Fystie, the rest of the pupils are reasonably active. All have learning difficulties, but we love them and do our best to make their lives happy and productive.’

‘I could help them play games and stuff too.’

‘It’s a tempting offer, Mortaumal, but we don’t have time to spend teaching one person.’

‘You wouldn’t have to teach me, just give me the exercises and I’ll work out how to do them with Fystie, and Leo can help me at home and I’ll be no trouble, you can teach me when you teach the other kids. I’ll…’

‘Won’t you miss your friends at the main school?’

‘I don’t have any friends except Fystie. I’ve never had any. Only Grandpa and Leo. Other kids don’t like me much. They bully me because I’m a bit small and they reckon I’ve got yellow skin, but I haven’t, have I?’

‘No, you have a light tan and look extremely fit and healthy. What do Amy and Leo think about this idea? ‘

‘Amy isn’t interested, and Leo thinks it’s a good idea. He doesn’t want me to go back to that school, and hopes that if I’m here I’ll be able to make Fystie happier, because although he laughs a lot he isn’t really happy. He’s worried all the time when I’m not there. And he’s sometimes in pain and...’

The interview was out of his control. Mort realised he had three options: give up, burst into tears and plead, or try to reason with the woman. Fighting back despair he asked as reasonably as he could manage, ‘Please, Miss, can you enrol and teach me here just for a while and see if it works? I’ll work very hard, do anything you want. Look after some of the kids at lunchtime and after school?’

‘I wouldn’t have to enrol you. Because although we’re several kilometres from your old school, we’re run by the same administration, and have the same principal. But I can’t make a decision like this on my own; there are three other teachers who must be consulted, as they will be affected.’

‘Can you ask them now? It’s still early. Please?’

‘If you look out the window, you will see cars arriving bringing pupils. Their parents usually want to speak to me, and the other teachers are busy from now until lunchtime. Go and spend the morning with Fystie and the others and see what it’s like, then come back here at lunchtime and we’ll discuss it with the other staff members. However, you must promise to abide by their decision and not argue or keep pestering us.’

Mort’s relief was visible. He smiled and promised that if they didn’t want him he’d go back to Mrs. Pettie.’

Mort enjoyed the morning. No one told him he was a yellow-skin runt, shoved him around or made him feel stupid. When he crossed paths with the adults they smiled pleasantly. There were twenty-two pupils, ranging in age from five to seventeen. Fystie introduced him to everyone as his brother and they played with a ball until the chimes sounded to go inside. He then wandered around looking at what everyone was doing, showing interest, admiring, and on two occasions holding something while it was being glued.

At interval, Mort had fun playing ball with Fystie and a girl with a very narrow face and prominent teeth who, when she had the ball, instead of throwing it at one of them, would suddenly swing around and throw it in the opposite direction and then look surprised. No one minded. No one laughed at Fystie for his funny walk or incomprehensible speech; indeed, several children listened to him politely as if they understood. A fat little boy held Mort’s hand and smelled his fingers. A larger lad told him a story about a fish, and when they were all inside again with everyone concentrating on different tasks in more or less silence, he felt sure he would be happier here than in the aggressive, competitive atmosphere of the main school.

During interval Mrs. Dominint explained Mortaumal’s request to the other three teachers; Miss Glee, a round and jolly bottle-blond in a flowered sun frock; Mrs. Kind, grey haired, lean, serious with a tight mouth and straight back, wearing a grey trouser suit; and Mr. Brawn, tall, powerfully built with a barrel chest, powerful calves. A floppy T-shirt, tartan knee-length shorts and canvass boat shoes gave a sporty look, and a shaven head rendered his large round face more jolly than threatening. He confessed to thirty, but the women suspected forty was nearer the mark.

‘Mortaumal Aywun…’ he said with a thoughtful frown. ‘The name rings a bell. How come he arrived here on his own? And why’s he living with Fystie’s family?’

‘He was living with his grandparents, you must have heard of the Aywuns, market gardeners. Refugees from somewhere in South East Asia... Laos I think... or could have been Cambodia… somewhere there. His grandmother suffered brain damage. Some say the police beat her and others say the husband did it. Whatever the truth, she’s now gaga in a nursing home and the Grandfather died about a year ago.’

‘Where’s his mother?’

‘No one knows.’

‘Aywun,’ Miss Glee said with a frown. I went to school with Perdita Aywun. I wonder if it was her? She was a strange little thing. Not bad looking but no one liked her. Rumour had it she’d go with boys to the tin shed behind the supermarket and... you know, do it.’

‘Have intercourse, do you mean?’ Mrs. Dominint sounded irritated.

‘Yeah. It’s silly how difficult it is to say that.’

‘Not silly, criminal. The refusal of adults to speak openly, frankly and truthfully to children about sex is the cause of a great deal of misery.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She got herself pregnant and left school.’

‘She didn’t get herself pregnant, virgin births are a myth.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes, blame the girls.’

‘Sorry. According to gossip, she gave birth in the hospital and the next morning took off. Not been heard of since... although I suppose she contacted her parents otherwise the cops would have been advertising.’

‘Not necessarily, thousands of teenagers run away from home every year, and many aren’t reported. Most come home after a while. The cops stay out of it unless there’s a public scandal.’

‘That means Mortaumal could be…’

‘Anything could be,’ Mrs. Dominint said with a sigh, ‘but it’s not our business. You now know everything I know. Mortaumal will repeat everything to you at lunchtime, and then you can decide what to do. Has he been a nuisance so far?’

‘The opposite,’ Mr. Brawn said firmly. ‘He got Augustus, who hasn’t uttered a word for weeks, to laugh and talk about the drawing he’s been engaged with for the last week; made me feel a tad superfluous.’

Mrs. Dominint sniffed as if she agreed.

At lunchtime, Mort knocked nervously on Mrs. Dominint’s office door. She handed him a biscuit and a cup of weak tea that he managed to spill as he sat down. The teachers came in, smiled at him and sat in the three remaining chairs. Mrs. Dominint, in the chair behind her desk, formally introduced Mortaumal, then asked him to tell the teachers exactly what he’d told her, including how he cared for Fystie.

When he’d finished and answered their questions, the principal sat back in her chair in silence, as if determined not to influence her staff.

Miss Glee turned to Mort and smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you sooner be playing cops and robbers and computer games with children in the other school instead of worrying about disadvantaged children?’

‘I don’t worry about them, Miss Glee,’ Mort replied thoughtfully. ‘Fystie is my friend, so it’s fun to do things with him, and I didn’t like being at the other school, and I hate Mrs. Pettie, so this can only be better.’

‘Goodness, an honest young man,’ Mr. Brawn laughed. He had a warm, gentle voice that made Mort smile with him.

‘Please don’t take offence, Mortaumal,’ Mrs. Kind said slowly, but I can’t help wondering if you’re a little too young for such a responsibility.’

‘A few years ago,’ Mrs. Dominint interrupted before Mort could respond, ‘I was on a teacher exchange program to a school in rural India. Two years before I arrived, the village had no school, so a nine year-old boy wrote letters to officials, collected signatures from the locals, raised money from a few large businesses, organised textbooks and interviewed a young teacher. He also found a suitable room for the classes, organised the rent and cleaning, and kept the accounts. Mortaumal is eleven years old and has proven himself responsible. We render our children infantile by not trusting them to take responsibility, by not being honest about our aims and opinions, and by thus forcing them to be dependent instead of self sufficient.’

Mr. Brawn nodded his head vigorously. ‘I agree with you Angelica. I’ll be very happy with any assistance you can give me, Mortaumal. I’ve not been able to get close to Fystie, nor understand much of what he says, so already you’ve proven yourself useful. And I’m sure you’ll soon get the trust of the other boys.’

‘I’m for it,‘ Miss Glee announced decisively. ‘It’ll be no trouble to set you work at your level and check it.’

Mrs. Kind added her approval and asked Mrs. Dominint’s opinion.

‘I think Mortaumal could be quite an asset to us,’ she said carefully. ‘So I’d like to enrol him as a pupil/assistant for a trial period.’

Mort’s eyes shone. ‘I won’t let you down.’

‘If you do, I’ll send you back to Mrs. Pettie,’ she said with mock seriousness, and the others laughed. ‘But I still have to get the permission of the Principal.’ She picked up the phone, made her request, listened, smiled and replaced the receiver.

‘You can stay here as long as I find you useful, but we must have a letter from your foster father confirming his permission.’

‘Thanks, Mrs. Dominint, you’re a good persuader.’

‘Not especially, they were as relieved to be shot of you as you were to leave them. So everyone’s satisfied.’ Her eyes crinkled in what Mort assumed was a smile, and he relaxed for the first time that day.

16 School Work

Mort was perfectly happy to be the only student in his class. Two desks were set up in a small store room for Fystie and him, teachers set them tasks, explained what to do, then left them to it; correcting and setting new tasks when they were ready. As Mort had always suspected, ten minutes of undivided attention from the teacher was worth an hour of general instruction, and in two hours he could do what took five hours in a classroom. Here he was able to continue a task till its completion instead of constantly changing subjects every twenty minutes, and this suited his temperament. Fystie also was thrilled to be doing things other than reading and playing easy games. In his free time Mort played with the other students, helped them with their exercises and puzzles, read them stories and made himself so useful the teachers sometimes wondered how they’d managed without him.

He was especially useful on the days they went to the pool for physiotherapy and swimming. On the bus he was indefatigable in seeing to seat belts, checking no one was missing, and that everyone knew where to go and what to do. In the pool he was another eye to ensure there were no accidents. It seemed there was not an officious bone in his body. He always spoke to the other students as equals, never as if they wouldn’t understand, always treating everything, even problems and accidents as an adventure, and at the slightest suggestion of opposition by the pupils to anything he might say or do, he backed away, apologised, listened to objections and allowed them to feel they were in charge, if not of their own destiny, at least of the things they were capable of having some control over.

Once a week there was a formal staff meeting. Mort was invited to the last ten minutes when problems specific to individual pupils were discussed. At the third meeting he was asked for his impressions of the school and if he had any suggestions. Mrs. Dominint had prepared him for the question in advance so his response would be well thought out. Unselfconsciously unaware of the honour, and with seriousness worthy of a statesman, he said he loved how peaceful it was, and how the teachers were always patient and good tempered. The schoolwork, activities and games all met with his approval. The only thing he thought could be changed was the way the teachers sometimes spoke to the students.’ He paused, wondering if he should continue.

‘Well? Don’t leave us up in the air,’ Mrs. Kind grunted benignly, ‘sock it to us like a man.’

Mort laughed. He’d been relieved to discover that Mrs. Kind’s severe appearance wasn’t a reflection of her character; she made jokes, laughed and played harmless tricks on her pupils. He liked her, but something kept him slightly wary.

‘It’s just that sometimes when you and Miss Glee think you’re being nice, you talk to the kids as if they’re not all there... unable to understand. They probably don’t understand some of the words, but they know you don’t speak to each other like that, and probably wouldn’t talk to kids in the other school as if they were babies. They know you’re not trying to hurt their feelings, but they can’t help being a bit hurt. Does that make sense?’

‘Perfectly. Have they told you this?’ Miss Glee said without her usual easy smile.

‘No, I just noticed the way they looked. Please don’t take offence, Mrs. Kind,’ he said with a nervous smile, ‘but the other day you chucked Alistair under the chin, and squeezed his cheek as if he was a baby, and said “Come on Alistair, be a good boy for me,” and you sounded as if you were talking to an infant. He knew and I knew you meant no harm, but he’s fifteen and I could see his embarrassment in front of the others, so I asked him what the trouble was and he told me.’

‘I fear we’re all guilty of that sort of thing from time to time,’ Mrs. Dominint muttered, then sniffed slightly. ‘Thanks for pointing it out.’

‘Mr. Brawn doesn’t do that.’ Mort turned to him. ‘But you sometimes sort of back them into a corner. Like, if they do something to annoy someone, you insist they apologise immediately and that makes them stubborn. But they think a bit slower than you, so if you’d just point out their fault and the consequences, then let them think for a bit, they’d usually decide for themselves to make things good. They get pushed around all the time because most people imagine they’re too dumb to think. I reckon they need to feel as if they’re the ones making decisions about what they do.’ He looked down and blushed.

‘Mort, you’re a genius. Of course you’re right. I’ll work on myself. Thanks!’

Mrs. Dominint frowned. She was wary of people who accepted criticism too easily; in her opinion it indicated a weak character. ‘What about me?’ she asked with a slightly supercilious smile. ‘How can I improve myself?’

Mort blushed and a little voice in his head told him to be careful. His confidence evaporated. ‘Nothing Miss. You’re perfect.’

‘Mortaumal,’ she said with mock severity. ‘I can tell there’s something you’d like to say, so out with it. I promise not to take it badly.’

‘It’s nothing to do with the way you act; that’s great. You’re calm and never get cross, yet you’re always the boss. Everyone respects you and... it's just that…’

‘Yes?’ The head teacher’s smile was uncertain.

‘Well… you’re not young, because you’ve got lots of wrinkles, yet I think you try to look young. Your hair is long like Miss Glee wears it, but it makes you look old. Mrs. Kind is also old but just has it short and easy so it doesn’t blow in her face and she’s not always pushing it out of her eyes, so you don’t notice it. And sometimes your perfume’s a bit too strong…’ Mort stopped and wished he could suddenly disappear.

‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ Mrs. Dominint said in a soft voice that was not completely reassuring. ‘Thank you, Mortaumal. Do you know, I think my husband was trying to tell me exactly that two nights ago when we went to a concert. He asked me if I’d ever thought of wearing my hair up, and to be careful to check that no one suffered from asthma before I entered a room. I’ve got the message. My husband will be delighted.’ with a visible effort she smiled at Mort’s anguished face. ‘You’re a sensible young man, Mortaumal, may you always tell the truth and never suffer the consequences.’

He wondered why it felt like a threat.

School went on as before, although Mort had the impression the female teachers were not so easy and friendly as when he first started. He put it down to how busy they always were. It rained for several days, the pupils were kept indoors, and in desperation, Miss Glee, who was a regular at Leo’s jazzercise classes, joked that they should ask Mort’s stepfather to come and give a the kids lesson. Mr Brawn reckoned Mort should be able to fill the bill, being so fit, and Mrs. Dominint said it seemed an excellent idea. Mort said he’d try, but modesty forced him to say he didn’t think he’d be any good. When they insisted he said he’d ask Leo for ideas.

‘And you’ll have to wear the same sort of costume as Leo!’ Miss Glee said firmly, describing in detail how sexy he looked. ‘It’ll be great for the pupils to see something different, and easier for Mort to perform if he doesn’t look the same as he usually does.’

Mrs. Dominint raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think it would be appropriate for one of the pupils to dance around naked?’

‘He doesn’t take the classes naked!’ Mort said as if talking to a silly child. ‘He wears a small thong. He says it’s easier for the class to see exactly how to make the moves if his body’s not all covered up. That’s why Hugh, my self-defence teacher, wears a speedo during training; we all do, and it’s great.

‘I can’t see any problem,’ Mrs. Kind said with a slow smile. ‘It’ll do them good to see what a healthy body looks like.’

‘Mr. Brawn? What’s your opinion?’

‘Whatever Mortaumal’s chooses to wear is fine with me. The exercises will be very useful for the kids who seldom get enough, and it sounds fun. If they like it it’ll be a good way to make them fitter. We can have daily sessions. Several of the students are worryingly overweight, and most parents don’t seem to care.’ He turned bland eyes to Miss Glee. ‘What do you wear at those jazzercise sessions, Marian?’

‘Miss Glee blushed. ‘A thong and bra. Loads of people wear thongs, guys as well as girls. Bare bums everywhere. But it feels great; totally liberating to be jumping around almost naked…’ She stopped and laughed wildly. ‘Oops, sorry Mort, I forgot you were there, Am I raving?’

‘‘Yes dear,’ Mrs. Dominint said with a tight smile. ‘But that’s part of your charm. So, Mortaumal, wear what you like, as long as you are completely comfortable! There is nothing worse than a performer who looks embarrassed, he makes the audience feel embarrassed and unable to enjoy anything.’

‘I wont be embarrassed about what I wear, I will be embarrassed if I make a mess of the exercises.’

‘You won’t, because that’s not your character. So, can you start tomorrow? We could have a session just before lunch and see how it goes. Don’t take too much trouble, they all know you and won’t be critical.’

Mort’s eyes widened. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll do my best, but I haven’t prepared anything and…’ He looked up with a grin. ‘Yeah, no worries, Mrs. D.’

17 Mr. Brawn on Women

During the afternoon, Mr. Brawn came to check Mort’s work, drawing up a seat facing the two boys.

‘Do you know many women, Mort?’

Mort frowned and thought. ‘None, really.’

‘Then I’ll let you in on a secret. You might also find this useful, Fystie.’ Mr. Brawn cleared his throat. ‘There are five things to remember if you want to travel smoothly with a woman. One; they are always right, even if they’re wrong, so you must never, ever argue with them. The clever one’s will eventually realise they’re wrong, the others aren’t worth bothering about. Two; whatever goes wrong, it is not their fault; it is always the fault of the nearest male, who must apologise sincerely. Three; when speaking to a woman, every comment you make about her, other women, her work, her house, her garden... that isn’t an obvious compliment will be taken as an insult that she will not forgive until the male has begged forgiveness. Most husbands have to ask their wives to forgive them at least five times a day if they want to live in peace. Four; women are not equal to men, they are superior to them in every way, and deserve to be treated as goddesses. Five; males were put on this earth to serve, protect and provide for females without expecting any appreciation. Males have no other function apart from providing sperm if the female wishes to breed.’

Both Mort and Fystie were staring wide-eyed at their teacher, unsure if it was a joke or serious.

‘You think I’m exaggerating?’ he laughed ‘Ok, perhaps slightly, but in essence I’m giving you good advice. Do you really want to dance around in front of those three women and the other kids with your bare bum hanging out and your cods barely covered?’

Mort blushed. ‘Not really. I’d feel silly.’

‘Good man. I may be a little unfair, but I can’t help wondering if the three harpies are hoping you’ll make a fool of yourself, to pay you back for your honesty when they asked you what you thought of them. By the way, Have you noticed the boss still wears her hair long and still makes all around her gag from a perfume overdose?’

Mort frowned. ‘Yes. But why?’

‘Because you broke rule one... Mrs. D is a woman and always right, even when she’s wrong. And therefore you insulted her. It’s too late to grovel for forgiveness, she’d pretend she had no idea what you’re talking about and you’d insult her again by bringing it up. It’s the same with the other two.’

‘That’s... that’s... I don’t know what to say, Mr. Brawn.

‘Then don’t say anything until you do know. And call me Todd, unless you want me to call you Mr. Aywun. I don’t want to feel like a teacher with you. Ok?’

‘Yes...Todd.’

‘Can you remember it all or shall I write it down?‘

‘Write it down, please.‘

‘Oh, innocent young man! That would make me a very, very foolish person! Remember this; never put anything in writing unless a clever lawyer has checked it. You can always deny saying something, or tell them you didn't mean what they thought you meant, but you can’t deny the written word. Tell you what, come to my place and argue with me about it... I’d be interested to get your opinion. And don’t worry, I’m not a woman so I’m prepared to accept I might be wrong.’

Both boys could hardly stop giggling.

‘Needless to say, you must seal your lips. What I’ve been telling you is top secret for our ears only, you understand? That includes the invitation to visit me. okay?’

‘Very okay. Where do you live?’

‘Not far. I’ll draw a map. Come and get it before you leave school. Talk to your father and see if you can’t talk him into bringing you both for a visit; I’d like to meet him.’ With a gigantic grin he left them to their work.

The sound of a car horn after the evening meal had Amy cheerfully bestowing quick kisses on her three males, telling them not to wait up before hurrying out the door.

‘What gives, Dad?’ Fystie asked. ‘Mum’s been cheerful for two weeks now and that’s the third time this week she’s gone out. Didn’t get home till midnight last time.’

‘Checking up on your mother? Not very patriotic.’

‘That’s not patriotism, that’s…’

‘I know, I’m just being silly. Before I answer your question, do you prefer your mother now that she prepares the meals cheerfully and keeps the house neat without complaining, or would you sooner she returned to her previous moods?’

‘That’s a no-brainer! I love her again now. What happened?’

‘She has a lover.’

Silence.

‘Who?’

‘Her boss from the supermarket. They sometimes go dancing or to the movies, but usually just go back to his place for sex.’

Another silence. ‘They fuck... like in making babies?’

‘The same. But there’ll be no babies I imagine.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he will wear a condom and she will be on the pill.’

‘No, I meant why does she want to have sex with him?’

‘She’s reasonably attractive and still almost youngish. Doesn’t she deserve to be appreciated physically?’

‘But you’re her husband, isn’t that your job?’

‘Should be, but it turns out I married too young; before I’d sorted out what I really wanted. I’d listened to all the songs, read the romantic stories, watched all the movies about love and marriage and sex and thought that’s what I wanted too... but that’s not how I was made.’

‘What do you mean? Don’t you also want to be loved and admired?’

‘Of course, and I am.’

‘By who?’

‘Hugh.’

‘You mean you and Hugh are... you fuck and kiss and all that?

‘Yes indeed.’

Silence.

‘So that’s why you aren’t jealous.’

‘Right. Does it worry you?’

‘No, I like Hugh, but…’

‘Yes?’

‘Will Mum be leaving us to live with her boyfriend?’

‘Probably not; and I’m not ready to commit to Hugh. But it’s fun at the moment. Are you sure you’re not shocked?’

‘Of course not. I think it’s great, don’t you, Mort?’

Mort grinned. ‘Yeah, Hugh's a lucky man. And you’ve good taste too, Leo. But we have to think about my debut as a jazzercise instructor. I need help! Do you really think I can do it? ’

‘Of course you can, it’s an excellent idea, but I’m not sure about you wearing a pouch like mine. You’re only eleven and people might think its a bit kinky.’

‘Yeah, that’s more or less what Todd said, didn’t he Fystie?’

‘Yeah. I reckon you’d look best in your speedo.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Who’s Todd?’

Mort repeated the little he could remember about Todd’s ideas on women, and showed him the map and telephone number. ‘Ring him now, Leo. I think he really wants to talk to you.’

‘Why? What have you two done wrong?’

‘Nothing. But he’s nice and... I don’t know. He just seems concerned about me.’

‘Your wish is my command.’

He replaced the receiver. “Sounds a pleasant bloke. I said we’d pop round about five o'clock tomorrow. Ok?’

‘Yeah, that’ll be good. Now, what’ll I do about this jazzercise thing? I’m getting nervous.’

‘Good, it’ll make you a better performer. Prepare your moves, practice until you’ve memorised them, then once you start the lesson your nerves will evaporate and you’ll feel great. The question is, what exercises? You have to be careful, those kids are not fit, most have poor balance and easily get excited, their muscles are weak, their concentration span short. Most are overweight and we’ve no idea of the health of their hearts. You’ve also got to think of those in wheelchairs. Slow, careful movements that are so easy anyone could do them, but not obviously so. Give them time to think during the exercises, don’t confuse them by moving on before they’ve mastered the move, and give praise every time it’s done right — individual, not only group praise.’

‘It’s getting a bit complicated. I’ll never be able to do it.’

‘Of course you will. Come on, lets brainstorm and make a list, then you can practise on Fystie and me.’

‘okay.’

‘‘Use some self-defence moves,’ Fystie suggested.

‘Yeah! That’ll be easy. I know lots of easy stances that look impressive.’

‘There’s a sure-fire way to make any lesson a success.’

‘Make it interesting?’

‘That’s important, but there’s a saying, “Nothing succeeds like success.” If you ask them to do things that they will definitely succeed in doing, they’ll come back for more. If they feel they’ve failed in any way, no matter how slight, they’ll hate it. Every teacher who creates a sense of failure in their pupils should be shot.’

‘Like Mrs. Pettie.’

‘Exactly like her.’

Ten minutes later they had enough suitable, simple, easy movements for several sessions.

‘Leo scanned the list and grunted approval. By the way, you’ve got to be careful of the image you project.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If they suspect you’re showing off, that’ll be the end of you. Everyone hates a poser. Your job is to make each person feel they are the centre of the lesson, not you. When you praise you must be sincere. Never fake praise! Most people have a very good idea of their own abilities, so it’s better to say nothing than give exaggerated praise.’

‘I’ll never remember everything. But I’d better start practising. Come on, line up.’

‘What music are we going to have?’ Fystie asked.

‘Fystie, you’re brilliant. I’d totally forgotten about that. What do you reckon, Leo?’

‘Something slow and happy, not noisy pop that’s designed to make people excited. I’ve a CD of Strauss waltzes that’ll be ideal.’

‘And you can have my Ghetto Blaster,’ Fystie offered.

Half an hour later Mort was so confident in the exercises and his ability to demonstrate them, that he lost no sleep.

Twenty minutes before lunch Mrs. Kind helped Fystie set up his portable CD player; Mr. Brawn cleared the largest room; Miss Glee supervised footwear and excess clothing removal, and Mrs. Dominint told them Mort was going to lead them in a jazzercise class just like the one’s his stepfather took in the town gymnasium where Miss Glee went. The atmosphere became tense with excitement.

The softly soothing strains of The Blue Danube introduced a self-conscious Mort as he stood on a solid low table so everyone could see him, grinned nervously and accepted cheers and claps and shouts of laughing excitement with a modest bow. He raised his hands. His class grew silent in expectation. Fystie nodded in support. Mr. Brawn winked encouragement. The women stood behind everyone with their arms folded, faces stern, ready for trouble.

‘If you copy exactly what I do, you will become, handsome, healthy, beautiful and sexy.’ Mort’s grin was infectious and they laughed again excitedly, wanting to believe him, determined to enjoy themselves, thus ensuring they would. The music swelled, drowning their consciousness of self, and...

Success is too feeble a word to describe what happened. Everyone concentrated with all their being. They copied faithfully every move, expression, and flick of the hand. Moves were repeated until everyone could manage them, and as repetition is half the fun of exercise, that was perfect too. For a few minutes Mort became a hero to be followed, admired and emulated.

The female teachers didn’t mention the speedo, nor were they particularly fulsome in praise. Nevertheless a ten-minute jazzercise class was added to the daily program.

18 A Visit

The following evening, Mort and Leo pushed Fystie in his wheelchair to Todd’s place. They maintained a brisk jog for the entire four kilometres and twenty minutes after setting off were knocking at the door of a pseudo Spanish villa surrounded on three sides by a high paling fence. They had barely caught their breaths when a utility truck pulled up and a rangy, deeply tanned man of about forty in heavy work boots, skimpy shorts and dark-blue singlet got out, slammed the door and bounced up the steps towards them.

‘Made it,‘ he said with a grin. ‘Todd’s running late, so rang me to come and meet you.’ Producing a key he slipped off his boots, opened the door and ushered them into a wide, tiled entranceway that opened into a light-filled lounge.

‘I’m Laurence, but everyone calls me Lanky.’

‘I can see why,’ Leo laughed. ‘Nice legs. Nice shorts too, what there is of them.’

‘Ha! That explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘According to Todd, you have two super intelligent young men in love with you.’ He turned to the boys, ‘That’ll be you two, Fystie and Mort.’

‘How do you know our names?’

‘According to Todd, Fystie has kept him sane, and you, Mort are making his life interesting.’

Leo looked pleased; the boys astonished.

‘I didn’t know Mr. Brawn...Todd, thought about me, ‘Fystie said in astonishment.

‘Believe me, Fystie, there are so few pleasant interesting people in this world that they stand out like dogs balls.’

‘Mort giggled.

Leo shook his head in astonishment. ‘You understood what Fystie said!’

‘Of course. He speaks English.’

‘And I make his life interesting.’ Mort looked bemused. ‘But…’

‘You’d be surprised, Mort, at the effect a pleasant, smart person like you has on those around them. You’re as rare as hens’ teeth, therefore precious.’

‘Hens don’t have teeth, do they?’

‘No.’

It took several seconds before the penny dropped and the boys laughed in delight.

‘Well, I’m hot and sweaty, so I’m taking a dip. Join me?’

He slid open glass doors to reveal a paved private patio containing a blue pool in the centre, water trickling from the mouth of a stone lion on the rear wall. Dropping shorts and singlet on the tiles, he dived cleanly in, revealing a seamless tan. The others didn’t hesitate and ten minutes later, an apologetic Todd joined them.

‘I never thought I’d be swimming naked with my teacher,’ Mort said dreamily. ‘You’re the bestest teacher I’ve ever had.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Mort. Fancy a barbecue anyone?’

Everyone did, and half an hour later they were lounging around the pool with plates of sausage, bread, and tomato salad.

Talk turned to Fystie and Mort and school. Todd had always been concerned that Fystie was wasting his intelligence by being with slower children, and now Mort had arrived his worries were increased. Both were learning everything they needed to pass examinations, but were missing out on the rough and tumble of socialising and cooperation, teams sports and the stimulus of competition. Most CP kids went to normal schools and learned to cope with the problems of discrimination. Perhaps…’

‘Did you enjoy the rough and tumble of school?’ Leo asked thoughtfully.

‘Hated it.’

Team sports?’

‘Loathed them all. Especially football, so bloody rough! All that macho crap. And I bruise easily.’

‘How many school friends have you kept in contact with?’

‘None.’

‘So socialising wasn’t a success. What about cooperation?’

‘In group projects, I did all the work and the others took the praise.’

‘That leaves us with competition. In my experience, competition makes enemies of everyone.’

‘You’re right.’

‘So what’s the real reason you invited us, apart from a desire to swim and break bread with three of the best-looking men in town?’

‘You mean that isn’t reason enough?’

‘I think now Todd’s met you,’ Lanky interrupted, ‘he’s wondering if his concerns show a total lack of sensitivity and might offend. You see, from what he’s picked up from the boys, you and his mother aren’t very close, so he... we... wanted to tell you that if, at any time you need somewhere safe to leave one or both boys, they will be welcome here, for as long as you need.’

‘That’s the least insensitive thing you could say! Thank you, thank you, thank you. It’s my greatest fear that something might happen — an accident or something, and there would be no one who could take care of them.’ Leo’s eyes filled and he choked up.

‘We haven’t asked the boys what they think about the idea yet.’

Fystie spluttered and shook, so Mort wrapped his arms round him. ‘I like it here,’ Fystie managed. ‘And I like you too. You’ve got a really long cock.’ He burst into laughter, spraying saliva.

Todd roared with laughter, Leo looked serious, Lanky grinned.

‘And I’m glad you asked me,’ Mort said seriously, unaware of Fystie’s faux pas. ‘You’re both really nice and you’re not fat at all, Todd. In the clothes you wear to school you look sort of sloppy and overweight. You should dress like Lanky.’

‘I would if I had legs like his. I deliberately dress badly for fear of being kidnapped and sold as a sex slave.’

‘Ha, if he dressed like me he’d be worried those three crones will guess he’s queer and make snide comments.’

‘Don’t they know you’re gay?‘

‘They probably guess it; they keep dropping hints, but I’m not going to satisfy their curiosity and have them spread it to all the parents.’

After coffee and further chat, it was getting late.

‘Come on, kids. Time to trot home.’

‘No car?’

‘My wife uses it. Suits me; I keep fit running to and from work. We’re only four kilometres from here, we’ll be home in no time.’

‘A hour more likely,’ Lanky said seriously. ‘Come on.’

He put the wheelchair on the back of his ute, they all piled in the front and were home in minutes.

19 Beach Bully

A few weeks later on a cool and blustery Saturday afternoon, Leo, Hugh and the boys took a vehicular barge across a crocodile-infested river and drove to a beach up the coast. At a spot where rainforest came right down to the water, there was a long parking lot with private camping places among the trees. Heavy rain and high winds had frightened most visitors away, so there were only two tents at the northern end.

They parked at the southernmost spot and wandered even further south along the beach to a rocky outcrop where they explored the pools, finding lots of crabs but little else. The sea inside the reef was seldom more than choppy in bad weather, but a cyclone a few hundred kilometres off the coast was sending great swells that broke over the reef, disturbing usually tranquil water, stirring up seaweed and broken coral; the legacy of trawlers.

They stripped for a quick dip; quick in case there were stingers or crocodiles, although in rough weather those two nasties usually avoided rocks and the shore, then retreated to a sheltered spot under the trees, out of the wind behind low dunes.

Hugh produced a groundsheet and drinks from his pack; Leo sandwiches and biscuits from his, and they munched contentedly. Afterwards, while the adults stretched out to replenish their tans in hazy sunlight, the two boys went for a walk back along the beach to where a stinger net enclosed a decent sized swimming area, at the far edge of which floated a small pontoon. The beach was deserted.

Walking had become more difficult for Fystie over the last few weeks; he reckoned his muscles felt as if they were getting longer, trying to push his feet off. Chest pains were another new problem. A sudden premonition of danger caused Leo to sit up and watch the two boys wander slowly along the beach. His heart ached — one boy slim, straight, perfectly formed; the other twisted, bent, hobbling on pointed toes, holding on to his friend to prevent himself from falling. Impotent sadness briefly overwhelmed him as he lay back out of the wind and cuddled up to Hugh.

The sky, blue-black at the horizon, was lit by occasional flashes of pinkish lightning. Above, torn clouds scudded inland. Bravely, the boys stood ankle deep at the edge of the swimming enclosure, laughing as the water swirled round their legs creating holes so their feet sank into the sand. Apart from the swishing of water and a soft banging as waves rocked the pontoon out at the edge of the net, it was strangely quiet.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Fystie said nervously.

A boy in long baggy shorts who looked a couple of years older than them, taller and heavier, with a jelly belly and quivering tits to match, came stomping importantly over the dunes from the camping area.

‘Get off our beach, faggots! Fucking naked perverts,’ he snarled, circling the boys as if sizing them up, stopping only centimetres from Fystie. ‘What the fuck’s this thing? A fucking monkey? Get off the fucking beach! This is for humans not mutants.’

Thanks to self-defence classes Mort was no longer terrified of facing up to bullies, so he stepped between Fystie and the newcomer.

‘He looks better than you!’ Mort balled his fists ready to defend himself and, with pounding heart, curled his lip and snarled, ‘You’re a fat, ignorant pig, go bag your head so decent people don’t have to look at it.’

Fystie moved back a little to give his defender room.

The boy lunged and Mort sidestepped, catching his attacker on the back of the head with the side of his hand. Fat boy stumbled, gained his feet, shoved Fystie to the ground, and then rounded on the little upstart. Mort ducked under a flailing fist, ran behind and leaped onto the bully’s back. The fat boy dropped and lay back, crushing and winding his slender younger assailant, then spun onto his stomach, knelt on Mort’s chest and wrapped his hands round his throat.

Mort kicked and struggled, but was no match for the other’s strength. Just as he thought he was done for, Fystie threw a handful of sand and pebbles as hard as he could at the back the fat kid’s head, doing no damage, but causing him to release his iron grip and turn to face this new threat to his authority. Mort leaped to his feet and dashed into the water, where he stood and shouted obscenities to divert attention from Fystie, calling his attacker a weak useless coward.

Fatboy turned and shambled towards the sea; face crunched in fury. ‘I’m not frightened of a scrawny little cunt like you.’

Mort went a little deeper. ‘Frightened of the water are you Fatboy? Can’t swim I’ll bet. Don’t worry, all that blubber will make you float. What a wanker. Shit scared of the water. Go back to mummy, arsehole and get her to wipe your bum.’

The boy gazed back up the empty beach, then checked in all directions as if to make sure no one was watching. His family had been camping here for a week so he knew the water wasn’t very deep; he’d easily be able to splash across and get the prick and give him a fright. Maybe drown the bugger. ‘Right, you scrawny yellow faggot, you’re for it.’

‘He charged into the water, just missing Mort who waded out towards the pontoon. The unusual swells had scoured quite deep holes in the normally gently sloping sandy bottom, so when his feet lost touch with sand Mort swam the last ten metres, hauled himself onto the deck and scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, wondering what to do next. If only Leo or Hugh would come to look for them!

‘Say your prayers you scared little queer,’ Fatboy jeered.

Mort bravely gave him the fingers again.

Relentlessly, the tormenter waded towards his victim. When the water reached his chest he flung himself forward and began to dog paddle. Fortunately, the multitude of pockets in his fashionable knee-length cotton baggies filled with water making forward progress difficult, giving Mort time to think. The problem was Fystie. He could easily manage to swim ashore, but with Fystie being so slow the fat kid would overtake them.

Fortune intervened. A couple of metres from the floating haven, his attacker stopped to rest and discovered he couldn’t touch bottom.

‘Fuck! It’s deep!’ he spluttered, desperately trying to keep his head above water.

‘You're going to drown, Fatboy,’ Mort yelled with as much menace and hope as he could muster.

The other boy’s eyes rounded in terror, but instead of turning and dog paddling a metre or so back, he panicked, flailed his arms wildly and sank. Touching bottom, he thrust himself up, spluttering. He opened his mouth to shout but a wave filled it with salty water instead and he sank again. For a second time he surfaced, coughing and swallowing, arms flailing weakly. Mort caught a glimpse of eyes wide in surprise before he sank for a third time. Not waiting to see if he surfaced again, Mort dived in and swam as fast as he could back to Fystie who fell against him and burst into tears.

‘I thought he was going to drown you. I was so worried. Where is he? Quick, let’s go before he comes after us.’

‘He drowned, I think.’ Mort was shaking uncontrollably. ‘Let’s go back to Leo.’

They’d walked about thirty metres when a coarse voice shouted, ‘Hey, you kids!’

They turned and saw a giant of a man striding rapidly along the beach towards them.

‘Have you seen my son?’ he yelled from twenty metres away.

‘Say nothing!’ Mort whispered.

They waited until he was right up to them, then pulled faces to indicate they hadn’t understood.

‘Have you seen a boy a bit older than you?’

They shook their heads and shrugged. ‘No. We’re the only ones on the beach,’ Mort said innocently.

‘What about you? Have you seen him?’ the fellow grunted at Fystie, who responded with a few well-chosen words of which the man understood nothing.

‘You’re talking fucking gibberish, boy!’ He turned back to Mort. ‘And you’re bloody disgusting running around naked like that.’ Nodding towards Fystie, ‘What’s wrong with that... that crippled moron? He looks as if he’s in pain.’

‘He is. He was born like that.’

A shadow of concern flickered across the man’s face and for a fraction of a second he looked almost human. ‘Poor bugger. Someone ought to put him out of his misery.’ He turned abruptly and ran back the way he’d come, calling, ‘Clive! Clive!’

20 Debriefing

The two boys stumbled the last hundred metres, then over the low rise to collapse beside Leo and Hugh.

‘You look done in. What happened?’

They told him.

‘You’re sure he drowned?’

‘He never came up again. If he hadn’t, he’d have come when his father yelled. I should have jumped in and saved him.’

‘No, you shouldn’t! Never, ever do anything like that! He’d have used you as a lifebelt and you’d have drowned instead.’

‘Yes!’ Fystie said. ‘He was horrible! He really wanted to hurt Mort. I was sure he was going to strangle him, that’s why I threw stuff at his head.’

‘You saved my life, Fystie.’

‘Clive was obviously a nasty bit of work,’ Hugh said. ‘The world’s better off without him.’ His laugh was sour and his voice harsh as he sang,
‘What I like about Clive,
Is he’s no longer alive,
There’s a great deal to be said,
For his being dead.’

‘That’s very clever, Hugh. Original?’

‘No, Leo, I read it in a book somewhere. It’s Mort who was clever, drawing the bastard away. He was killed by his own stupidity. If I had the power I’d drown every bully on the planet; no exceptions. But I reckon we’d better get going. We don’t want to be here when a search party starts asking questions and the body floats to the surface. We’re possibly not the only people behind the sand hills. There’s no telling who might have seen our two heroes and wonder. Fystie is not difficult to describe.’

Five minutes later they were driving quietly away.

Over coffee and chocolate cake in Hugh’s flat they reviewed the afternoon. Mort became almost hysterical, insisting he was the cause of Clive’s death. He was bad luck. Three people had died because of him.

‘Your grandfather stayed living for several years longer than he wanted, solely because he loved you, so stop that nonsense,’ Leo stated firmly. ‘The kid who ran into the truck had been taught to look both ways before crossing the road, how was it your fault that he didn’t?’

Mort shook his head, refusing to think.

‘Did you start shouting abuse at Clive? No. Did you shove Fystie into the sand? No. Did you attack Clive and throttle him? No. Were you deliberately being nasty to him or were you protecting Fystie when you ran into the water and made him so angry he followed you? Did you force him to wear those death trap shorts? No. Who did? His parents. So if anyone is to blame for the kid’s death, it’s his parents who taught him nothing of value and created a monster the world is well rid of.’

He stopped and Mort looked up with tearful eyes. ‘Is that true?’

‘Of course it is,’ Fystie said, nodding his head in emphasis. ‘Dad never tells lies.’

‘You’re a hero, Mort, so shut up and enjoy it, okay?’ Hugh grinned to soften the words.

Mort sniffed and smiled tentatively, and everyone relaxed.

In the middle of crumbling chocolate cake over himself, Fystie asked suddenly. ‘What happened when he died. What happens when anyone dies? I mean... he was struggling and frightened I suppose and then his lungs filled with water and he stopped breathing and his heart stopped and... do you think it hurt?’

‘I watched an interview with a fellow who almost drowned and was revived,’ Leo said quietly. He said the pain only started when he began coughing up the water from his lungs.’

‘But what happens if you’re not revived?’

‘Witchdoctors, priests, imams, ministers and rabbis tell their followers that when the body stops working, their essence or soul or what have you, zips away to somewhere vague where it meets the grand Ju-ju who started all this by making the universes and all that’s in them, including you and me and every bacterium and worm and virus. This Ju-ju’s pretty smart, like you Fystie, and keeps tabs on everything, deciding who’s going to get ebola and who just a cold; who will not starve to death and who will... that sort of thing. In between he does the big stuff like organising supernovas, creating black holes and sending photons through two holes at once.’

‘Very clever, Hugh,’ Leo laughed. ‘But it’s not really funny, is it. All that crap.’

‘After that boy was squashed by the truck I asked Grandpa what happened when you die,’ Mort interrupted. ‘He said sort of what Hugh said... religious people believe that when they die an invisible bit of them goes to live somewhere forever while the rest rots in the grave, unless it’s cremated. I said it sounded insane and he agreed. Then he told me to ask people how they know something and where they got that belief if what they say sounds unbelievable, and usually you find it’s just some other human who wants to make them do something.’

‘That’s for sure,’ Leo agreed. ‘And if you don’t worship their god you’ll go to hell and burn forever. It’s sick. Millions of people living in fear in case they annoy a god and have to spend eternity up to their necks in shit, or whatever their mad ministers tell them. It’s why they’re so scared of dying and won’t let people suicide when they’ve had enough, like Mort’s grandfather. But he was too smart for them, imported a drug from overseas where they’re not so crazy, and died peacefully.’

‘Yeah, I get that,’ Fystie said patiently, ‘I’ve read that no one’s ever found a bit that goes to heaven or anywhere else, and I know dead bodies just rot away — I’ve seen dead birds and rats. But what happens to all your thoughts and things? What does it feel like?’

‘Grandpa said it doesn’t feel like anything because you’ve nothing to feel with, nothing to think with, because our thoughts are tiny electric impulses zipping around in the brain, and when the body dies the electricity supply stops so there are no more thoughts, no more feelings... nothing. Like switching the light off. He said he wasn’t afraid to die, that it was the normalest thing in the world. He was feeling so sick he looked forward to it.’

Fystie thought for several seconds. ‘So... if I was dead I wouldn’t feel any more pain. My chest wouldn’t hurt and my legs wouldn’t feel as if they’re on fire.’ His voice was a mere whisper, but the passion was loud and clear.

‘Yeah! That’s right. He said that life for most people isn’t that wonderful, and when they get old, tired and sometimes sick, death is a blessed release. They’re happy to go and only the people who loved them are sad.’

‘I think I’ll be happy to die,’ Fystie said softly.

Wrapping his arms around his son Leo picked off bits of cake from his chest, and popped them into the waiting mouth. ‘I love you, Fystie,’ he said simply. ‘You’re the best thing in my life.’ Wisely, he didn’t say the words that felt as if they were burning a hole in his throat. I don’t want you to die, Fystie. I love you too much.

21 Abuse

Mort’s twelfth birthday arrived and departed unmarked.

The months slid by, leaving very few pleasant memories.

Hugh moved back to Canada when he realised Leo was never going to commit to him while Fystie was alive.

Amy’s lover decided he wasn’t prepared to share her with a dopey looking crippled boy.

Leo lost interest in everything except Fystie and was less than polite in his rejection of the sexual advances of one of his admirers, who then complained of sexual harassment and had him fired from Jezebel’s Gymnasium.

Mort blanked out problems at home by spending more time and energy with Fystie and other pupils at school, and grew closer to Todd and Lanky, with whom he and Fystie occasionally stayed.

There was no diminution in Mort’s love for Fystie, whose condition stabilised for long enough to give hope of permanent remission; a hope that was dashed one morning when he woke tied in a knot, muscles tugging in every direction, compounded by shoulder and chest pains.

Leo, who was now making more money with less effort that he had at the Gymnasium, couldn’t take time off for fear of losing his clients, so Amy took leave from work to fly to Brisbane with Fystie to see a specialist.

That afternoon a fat and giggly girl, who Mort was assisting with her painting, suddenly turned and vomited, splashing Mort from head to toe. She thought it a great joke and laughed delightedly. Mrs. Kind took him to the sickbay where there was a large tub for washing soiled clothes, and told him to strip off his shirt and shorts, which he did without thinking. She put his clothes in the tub, and warm water in a bowl, then wet a face flannel and proceeded to carefully wipe his body, starting at his head.

Mort stepped back, confused. ‘I can clean myself, Mrs. Kind,’ he said nervously. I’ve been washing myself since I was two.’ He stretched out a hand for the cloth, but she held it out of his reach with an odd laugh.

‘It’ll be my reward, Mort, for teaching you.’

‘Reward?’ he said in disbelief. ‘Washing vomit off someone isn’t a reward, I know because I do it for Fystie.’ He held out his hand again, beginning to feel annoyed.

She ignored him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘What beautiful skin, you have, Mort,’ she said softly as she raised his arms and wiped along and under them. ‘And such firm muscles!’ She wiped his chest and belly, pressing with her free hand against his buttocks. ‘You are also a sexy young man, I see,’ she smiled, wiping his scrotum, then cupping his balls in her hand while stroking his erection with the freshly moistened cloth.

Mort was rigid with apprehension. He wasn’t embarrassed, he was always getting erections, but only with Fystie and Leo, who took no notice. What on earth was the woman doing? She wasn’t hurting him, but he didn’t like her touching him like that either. He wanted to say something to stop her but his head felt jammed, no thoughts came, only an urge to smash his fists into her head when she slid her hand up and down his erection. Mort watched in shock as his glans was alternately covered and uncovered by his foreskin, then he ejaculated.’

Mrs. Kind let go and jumped back with a look of disgust on her face, ‘What a mess. Men are such filthy pigs. Clean it up while I get you something to wear.’

While she was away Mort’s brain began to function and shock turned to anger. He’d been wanking for ages, sometimes with Fystie who kept fantasising about Miss Glee’s tits, but usually alone, fantasising about Lanky. He’d always felt good afterwards, but Mrs. Kind made him feel dirty instead of clean and pure. The teacher returned with shorts and a T-shirt from the spare clothes cupboard. He avoided her eyes until he was dressed, then faced her, eyes cold.

‘I didn’t like what you did and I don’t want you to do it again!’

‘That’s good coming from you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mrs. Pettie told us about you and your grandfather. Don’t tell me you’re a queer and prefer an old man touching you. And don’t even think of telling anyone about this if you want to stay near your precious Fystie. If you imagine anyone is going to believe you; a nasty little boy who pisses in his teacher’s chair while she’s sitting in it, and had the cheek to tell Miss Glee and me we weren’t treating our pupils properly, then think again! Now get out!’

Mort got out and ran to Mrs. Dominint’s office. She listened politely, then told him he’d go to hell if he told such dreadful lies about a wonderful teacher like Mrs. Kind. ‘If you are unhappy here you are free to go, Mortaumal, that will spare your delicate nostrils further assault from my perfume,’

22 Rescue

Mort backed out of the office in horror. Todd had been right. They’d not forgiven him for criticising them. He shook his head in disbelief. Todd was away with a group of students, but Mort wouldn’t have gone to him anyway because they wanted to keep their friendship secret — wisely it seemed. It was now impossible for him to remain at the school. If only Fystie was there to talk to! As he had no idea where Leo might be he walked eleven kilometres into town to Mr. Trimm’s office. Heat-stressed and exhausted he was taken immediately to the lawyer’s comfortable rooms, sat on a comfortable chair and given cool drinks and biscuits before Marshall would let him tell his tale.

Without exaggeration, Mort told him what had happened.

Marshall gazed speculatively at his young friend. ‘Leo tells me you’re friends with a male teacher; what’s his name?’

‘Todd Brawn.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘Of course.’

Marshall picked up his telephone and asked his secretary to put him through to Todd Brawn at the school; it wasn’t official and he didn’t want to speak to the principal, so she was to pretend to be his girlfriend or something and ask for him. He winked at Mort as he waited.

‘Mr. Brawn? Marshall Trimm here, I’m a lawyer friend of Mortaumal who tells me he trusts you absolutely. He’s not in trouble but I’d be pleased if you could go somewhere private and call me back on your mobile.’ He gave the number and hung up. A minute later his phone rang.

‘Thanks for ringing back. Is there a security camera in your school sick bay? Good. Are you able to retrieve the disc from it as soon as possible without alerting anyone? That’s perfect. It’s important that no one knows. Give me a call when you’ve done it and we can arrange to meet. I’ll explain everything then. Thanks.’

His eyes were twinkling when he replaced the receiver. ‘If we’re lucky we’ll have proof of Mrs. Kind’s unkindness.’

Mort looked uncomfortable.

‘Not happy?’

‘It’ll be embarrassing to see myself being…’

‘Fiddled with?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? You’re a handsome lad — I think you’ll be proud. I’ll leave Leo a message to pick you up here. Meanwhile you can either go for a walk or sit in the waiting room and read the magazines or think about what you’d like to do about this woman.’

Leo and Todd arrived within minutes of each other and they gathered in Marshall’s room. Todd had taken the disc from the security camera and replaced it with a new one, but he hadn’t watched it so had no idea if the women had also thought of it and replaced it. A player was produced and Todd fast-forwarded to Mort’s entrance. They watched in silence and Mort discovered he wasn’t embarrassed at all. His grin nearly split his face. Marshall stopped the replay and looked at Mort.

‘What do you think?’

‘She was trying to embarrass me.’

Leo frowned. ‘It’s very odd. She looks as if she’s acting. I don’t think she’s sexually interested in him at all. It’s as Mort said. She’s trying to make him feel rotten. What do you reckon, Todd?’

‘I agree. She’s an odd fish. Her husband left her years ago. Rumour has it she’s a lesbian. She’s certainly vindictive about many things. But obviously it wasn’t planned. She couldn’t have known the girl was going to vomit over Mort. I’d say she’s a vindictive cow whose been waiting for a chance to take Mort down a peg or two — one of her favourite expressions. The usual way for women to hurt males is to sneer at their sexual equipment and prowess. That’s why she masturbated him, in the hope of making him feel disgusted with himself. It’s instructive that Angelica Dominint immediately supported her colleague. I think they’ve been wanting to get rid of Mort for a while.’

‘Why? He’s such an asset.’

‘That’s the problem. Angelica’s husband is a morose brute who, according to rumour, bashes her on a regular basis. She often wears scarves and long sleeves and trousers, which I assume are to conceal bruises. Both women are childless. Before Mort arrived they were like everyone’s mother, maiden aunt and fairy godmother combined. The kids hung on their every word and made them feel loved and important. But over the last year the affections of most of the kids have been transferred to Mort. You’ve no idea what an angel of mercy he is. Always ready to listen, to enter into their fantasy games, praise and encourage. He seems to be a bottomless pit of good sense, good humour and exactly the sort of relationship these kids need — friendship that comes with absolutely no strings attached, unlike the two women who demand a return on their emotional investment — their pupils have to love and unquestioningly obey. The kids sense that and unconsciously resent it.’

‘So, what do we do about it?’ Todd was angry, feeling he’d failed Mort.

‘How do you feel now, having watched the video, Mort?’ Marshall asked.

‘Really, really annoyed! I don’t want to do it with someone like her! I wanted to do it with…’

‘Fystie?’

‘I already do, but he’s always talking about Miss Glee’s tits, which makes me laugh and then I get soft. So I was waiting for someone sexy that I liked.’

‘Like Lanky?’ Todd asked with a sly grin.

‘How did you guess?’ Mort asked in surprise.

‘I’ve got eyes.’

‘You’re not mad at me?’

‘Hardly, I’m proud that my boyfriend’s an object of a handsome young man’s lust. The point is, Mort, will you feel better if you ruin her life by making her actions public?’

Mort thought for a long minute, then looked up. ‘How will that make me feel better about it? Then I’ll just feel guilty that I’ve been as bad as her.’

‘That’s very noble, but she shouldn’t just get away with it.’

‘I agree, Leo.’ Todd turned to the lawyer. ‘Marshall, what do you think about showing the video to her, telling her we’re keeping a copy, and that if she ever does a similar thing, we’ll make a formal complaint?’

‘A life sentence, Todd? Rather harsh don’t you think.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘What does the handsome and sexy recipient of her unwanted attentions think should happen?’

Mort couldn’t prevent a smile of pride that he was being treated as an equal, not an emotionally damaged victim. He sure didn’t feel like one, so it was a relief that the men admired him for the way he’d reacted, and didn’t talk as if it was the worst thing that could ever happen to anyone. Because he knew it wasn’t. Physically he was undamaged, and as he’d never been taught that sex or nudity was unnatural or something to hide, or be ashamed of and not discussed, there was no emotional damage, only the already dimming disappointment that he’d wasted an orgasm on an ugly old crone. It was funny really. He shrugged. ‘Show her the video. Tell her we’ve all seen it, and give it to her as a souvenir of me.’

‘Kneel, gentlemen to nobility and a sense of humour,’ Marshall said without cracking a smile. ‘How about I tell her to apologise to you if she wants the video?’

‘That’d be so embarrassing!’

‘Mmm...but fun,’ Todd laughed. ‘Can I come and watch?’

‘Do you want those three to know you know? Won’t it make your life there a bit difficult?’

‘You’re right, Marshall. I’ll stay out of it.’

‘What about Mort’s schooling? He’s not going back there.’

‘I agree. But he’s been long enough away from the other school for people to forget; I reckon it’ll be safe to return till the end of the year, and then he’ll be going to high school.’

Everyone agreed, Todd went home, and Leo was preparing to go when Marshall put a hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s scarcely worth your while to go home, Leo, why don’t you come and have a meal with me? Or is that a breach of client protocol?’

‘Probably, but I’d love to. The trouble is Amy’s away with Fystie and I have to take Mort home and make him a meal.’

‘Bring him along too. We’ll go to that new Thai restaurant by the river.’ He turned to Mort. ‘I had several delicious Thai meals with your grandparents, your grandmother was an excellent cook before....’

‘What about afterwards…?’ Leo asked Marshall, nodding slightly towards Mort.

‘Mort can read a book, listen to music, watch TV or watch your show. You’ve seen Leo perform, haven’t you Mort?

‘Yeah! At the Gymnasium, he was excellent.’

‘It’s a somewhat different show,’ Leo said apprehensively. ‘Different emphasis. Not for minors.’

‘He’s just been fiddled with by a semi-senior citizen,’ Marshall laughed. ‘He wanks. He knows all about sex. Do you want to keep him ignorant about the depths of turpitude that even respectable people sink to?’

‘What's turpitude?’

‘Depravity. Wickedness…’ Marshall Trimm’s eyes grew large and his laugh was maniacal.

Mort giggled.

‘People who don’t dare to be honest with their children, who pretend to be what they’re not, who think that even when children ask questions about sex they shouldn’t be told the truth about human nature, sex and everything else, are making life much more difficult for the kids, not easier. Mort needs to know that decent people often do things that hurt no one, even though others might think them perverse. How on earth are children to learn that our present fucked up moral code is a lie based on Victorian religious Puritanism and that this lie is the cause of failed marriages, unwanted pregnancies, sexually transmitted diseases, domestic violence and…’

‘And global warming, judging from the amount of hot air you’re producing.’

‘You may laugh.’

‘Thanks. But it’s enough that Mort should know. I don’t want him to die of laughter, or horror.’

‘You’re right, Leo. Learning must only happen when the pupil is ready and not before. I’ve always been too much in a rush. Be off with you both now, and meet me at the Thai Locust restaurant in half an hour, I’ve a few things to sign, and tomorrow’s instructions to give my secretary.’

23 Marshall on educating Children

In a private booth at the restaurant, which lived up to it’s reputation, Marshall expounded on his theories between mouthfuls of something very tasty and alarmingly spicy that had Leo reaching for the water. Mort was used to it.

‘It’s a serious problem for parents, this sex education. Telling a child too much too soon is as bad as not telling enough. Parents must wait till they’re asked. But most children are too shy to ask them because the atmosphere surrounding all mention of sex is fraught with embarrassment, unspoken taboos and other idiocies. Parents seem to forget that consensual sexual exploration between children is natural and commonplace. They’ve probably done it themselves. Perhaps the biggest problem is that there is no scientifically supported definition of a child! Many serious researchers think childhood lasts from the end of infancy, signalled by proficient mobility and the acquisition of useful language, until puberty is under way. After that they are young adults.’

‘That means I’m no longer a child,’ Mort interrupted.

‘Do you agree with that?’

‘Yes!’ And I’m sick of being treated as if I’m one.’

‘Yet in most Western countries a man is a ‘boy’ until he’s sixteen or seventeen, with the result that an eighteen year old will be labelled a paedophile for life if he has sex with a seventeen-year-old. Utter insanity.’

‘What brought this on, Marshall.’

‘I’ve been defending a middle aged man who sat a child on his knee at a family gathering. In full view of everyone he [accidentally he says] rested his hand on the nine year-old’s groin and the kid got an erection. That’s all, yet the mother noticed this and wants her brother in law to be sent to prison for life.’

‘Fuck! Makes your blood run cold. What’s happened to him?’

‘No decision yet, but the kid’s become an emotional basket case from all the wringing of hands and sympathetic drivel from angry females, so I don’t hold out much hope because judges cling to a popular myth that children have no sexual feelings, no sexual awareness or desires. This notion has little basis in reality, yet it serves as an artificial foundation for other myths such as the academic and media driven assumption that all sexually expressed child/older person interactions are adult instigated and intrinsically and invariably harmful to the child. But there is no research that supports this view. I’m not attempting to deny the existence of very real cases of child sexual abuse, for which I think the perpetrators should be severely punished. In fact in some cases I think the death penalty would be too good for them.

‘Unfortunately, humans who have been indoctrinated to believe religious myths that have no factual basis, transfer that faulty way of thinking to sexual matters as well, and deliberately ignore reality and the facts, choosing to rely on what they’ve been told to believe. It’s alarming and dangerous that new facts, including scientific research, are generally not accepted or respected in debates about morality and sexual behaviour — including the causes of homosexuality.

‘In a 2009 book, Susan Clancy revealed that the vast majority of children, especially boys, are not adversely affected at the time by consensual sexual experiences with older persons. In the cold light of scientific investigation it was revealed that no devastating effects usually follow. Unfortunately, a child whose willing relationship with an older person is discovered, will be subjected by the law to a bewildering array of demands for private details, cooperation in investigations, and even physical examinations. The treatment of the young person is frequently so bad that a psychiatrist is on record as saying, if the boy had not been buggered by the man, he certainly had been by the police and doctor. And even those whose childhood relationships remain private will be hounded by the incessant child sexual abuse media drumbeat for the rest of their lives until they start to blame those innocent experiences for their unsuccessful lives. It is no wonder that some succumb to the call to denounce their ex partners decades later.’

‘So… you think it is only non-consensual sexual activity that causes emotional and psychological problems.’

‘In a sensible world, yes. When they become old enough to express themselves, children who are seeking a close relationship with an adult often don’t see much difference between close mental and close physical contact, which we call sexual. Studies by Bender and Blau in 1937 noted that the child was not always passive, but in some instances seemed to be the initiator or seducer. The investigation of their own and other's genitals is all but ubiquitous among boys, and older boys instruct younger ones. Boys seem to be intrinsically forward and proactive with peers as well as with other persons, and will explore their sexuality whenever they can find an opportunity to do so. Despite the dim view taken by the "psychology industry” of those who might interfere with their cash flow, the reality is that some boys will always go to men they find attractive in order to have their sexual and emotional needs met.’

‘I should have met you twenty years ago, Marshall. It’d have saved me a lot of guilt.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘When I was eleven a tradesman came to replace the gutters. Dad had to drive into town to get more supplies, so I held his ladder and when I looked up his shorts I could see his balls. Got so aroused I stroked his leg. He didn’t say anything so I slid my hand up till I touched them. “You’re giving me a hard on, so now I’ve got to do something about it,” he said as if it was a bit of a nuisance. I was so surprised I giggled and followed him round to the back terrace, where he took off his shorts and said that as my fingers had made him stiff, they had to undo the deed. He lay back and watched me do it, then I did it to myself. I still get a hard on remembering. He wasn’t really interested in me. I think he was just bored. The trouble was I’ve felt guilty ever since. Now you tell me I was normal!’

‘You were, and still are.’

‘So am I,’ Mort said shyly. ‘I’d like to touch Lanky if he was interested. But I don’t want to do anything... you know... sexy. I’d just like to touch a bit and be touched and... he blushed. ‘I’d hate it if I had to do what they do in the videos — -fucking up the arse and sucking and all that stuff. I’d just like…’

‘A man to take an interest in you and show he cares?’

‘Yes. Like you do with Fystie.’

‘And how old should this man be?’

‘Not old! He’d have to look young and be handsome and clean and fit… like those high-school boys who ride past every morning. They’d be great.’

‘It’s odd,’ Leo remarked, ‘that there’s a word for a man who likes boys, but no word for a boy who dreams of physical contact with young men.’

‘That’s because no one believes they do. And if I said publically what I’ve just said to you two, I’d be labelled a pederast and put on the police watch list.’

‘Don’t worry, Marshall, your perverted opinions are safe with us.’

Marshall laughed.

‘Grandpa was nice to me,’ Mort announced. ‘But he was old. I’ve always imagined my father would have cuddled me and kissed my forehead and made me feel I was nicer than everyone else. Stupid, I know, because I’m obviously so ugly no one wants to touch me.’ He pulled a tragicomic face.

‘You’re certainly not ugly! And you’re very intelligent. What about your mother — if she was around?’

‘I’ve never seen her and don’t want to. She dumped me the day I was born. Grandpa didn’t like her because she was like Grandma. I didn’t like Nasturtium much and neither did Grandpa. She was crazy even before the cops shoved her. But my father must have been nice, otherwise why am I so perfect?’ He grinned cheekily.

‘That’s very sound reasoning, Mort,’ Marshall grinned. ‘Shrude would have been proud. So... apart from meeting a young prince who would caress you gently, what do you want most from life?’

Mort frowned at his feet, then looked straight into Marshall’s eyes. ‘I want to find my father. I want him to hug me and tell me he’s proud of me.’

‘If I can find him for you, Mort,’ Marshall said seriously, ‘I will... but it might take some time.’

24 Paying for it

Marshall’s apartment was above his legal offices. It was an older style building with high ceilings, elaborate mouldings, wide doors and hallways. The apartment had large rooms with long windows providing views over an adjacent park. It was furnished with heavy drapes, deeply padded armchairs, carpets Aladdin might have flown on, antique-looking furniture, table-lamps and wall bracket lights instead of a large central globe. Everything was old, well used and had probably never been expensive, yet the impression was of comfort, taste, neatness and order. Mort was entranced. This was the sort of house he’d like — if it had a garden.

He showered first, followed by Marshall, then while Leo was showering, Mort watched Marshall, who was wearing nothing but a blue towel around his waist, close the curtains, place a CD in the player, dim all the lights, and then gaze thoughtfully around as if checking.

‘You look much better in your towel than in a suit,’ Mort declared. ‘I thought you’d be flabby like the other old men at Leo’s gym. But you’re not. You look much friendlier too. I like you more. You should always wear a towel,’ he finished with a wicked grin.

‘Mmm… do you think my respectable clients would trust me more? And not so much of the old, if you please. I’m in my prime — according to Jean Brodie.’ Marshall smiled shyly, suddenly self-conscious, well aware that his stocky, pale body, although fit and fairly powerful bore no resemblance to Leo’s or the models in fitness magazines. ‘I’ve a few instruments of torture in a spare room that I use to keep myself fit, and I go hiking and camping. Perhaps you’d like to come one day?’

‘Yeah! I’d love to!

‘Anyway, there’s a library at the end of the corridor, with a TV and DVD player and several movies, and loads of books and CDs. If you’re tired, you can sleep on the divan. You’ll be able to amuse yourself.’

‘Books, I love them! Leo doesn’t have any, and we’re too far from a library. I sometimes feel I’m starving for something good to read.’ Mort looked around. ‘Is this where Leo’s going to perform?’

‘Yes.’

The lad stood as if to go, then hesitated. ‘The other day when you invited Leo to look at your etchings, was he coming here for...’

‘Sex.’ Marshall finished Mort’s sentence with an uncertain smile. There was a brief silence. ‘Shocked?’

‘Of course not. It’s just that…’

‘I’m so old and ugly.’

‘Yes. No! You’re not ugly, I’m just surprised.’

‘I would be too, except that I pay him for the privilege.’

‘How much?’

‘Tonight he’ll get five hundred dollars.’

Mort’s eyes popped. ‘You must be rich!’

‘Not especially. I have simple tastes so don’t spend much on living, and you’ll agree Leo’s an unusually fine specimen. I’ve always been prepared to pay for quality.’

‘What would I be worth?’

‘To me? Nothing. I like manly men with hairs on their chests, not hairless boys.’

‘Leo used to be smooth.’

‘Yes. I'm glad he stopped shaving when he left that awful Jezebel’s Gym.’

‘Why don’t you get a permanent boyfriend?’

‘My own age? The few men I know around my age who also like men, are either mentally interesting and physically repellent, or vice versa. I’m not desperate, but if I meet someone who’s prepared to put up with me, and who I’d be prepared to love and live with, I’ll grab him. However, I can’t see it happening at my age.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Forty-one.’

Mort nodded, having no idea what a forty-one year old should look like.

‘Why am I telling you this?’

‘Because... I don’t know.’

‘Because when children get curious, not telling them the truth about the important part sex plays in human behaviour, makes them grow into ignorant people with strange ideas who do stupid things. As I said at the restaurant, when they’re ready for it, children should be told all about everything that will be important to them as adults, so they can distinguish between what is fun and safe, and what isn’t. So they don’t have foolish expectations about sex with their girlfriends, boyfriends, wives and husbands. So that guilt about enjoying sex is eliminated, and people become emotionally and psychologically relaxed and sane about the most natural activity of all animals. Guess which so-called Western country has the highest rate of sexual deviancy, child sexual molestation, rapes, unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases.’

‘Russia?’

‘The U.S.A.. Guess which has the most repressive attitudes towards sex and sexuality.’

‘United States?’

‘Yes. The link is obvious to everyone except those involved.’

‘So what’s Leo going to do for five hundred dollars?’

‘That, young man, is not part of your educational curriculum. Some things in life are only fun if you’re doing them. Talking about them sounds… kinky. Now, off you go.’

Mort wandered down to the library, put his hand on the doorknob and paused. He deliberately hadn’t asked if he could watch, so hadn’t been told he couldn’t.

The doorbell rang.

Mort put his head round the library door, found the switch and turned on the light. Leaving the door ajar he crept silently back along the darkened hallway to the dining room where he sat cross legged in shadow behind the glass doors separating him from the lounge room. It was empty. Muffled voices from the front entrance drew closer.

Years of watching TV shows had not prepared Mort for the excitement of a live performance. Real people were going to be acting. It wouldn’t be faked like TV or the videos he watched with Fystie. His heart hammered in his chest making it difficult to breathe and he leaned forward in excited anticipation.

Marshall, wearing an irritated frown as well as his towel, came in followed by an apologetic and diffident Leo in knee-length shorts with lots of pockets, a T-shirt and sandals.

‘I was just taking a shower. Who are you and what do you want?’ Marshall asked testily, wrapping his towel slightly tighter round his waist. ‘I shouldn’t have invited you in, but the neighbour’s such a bloody gossip. Well?’

Leo explained that he didn’t earn enough in his day job, so he needed night work because his wife and child were sick. He’d heard that Mr. Trimm was a really nice guy who helped people down on their luck and sometimes knew where a bloke could find work.

‘What sort of work?’

‘Anything at all.’

‘Anything?’ Marshall replied with a slight smile.

‘Anything!’ Leo declared innocently.

‘As it happens, I’ve some cleaning needs doing. Do you have overalls?

‘No sir, but it doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters. Your clothes will get dirty. Take them off.’

‘But... I’ve nothing underneath.’

‘So what? There’s only the two of us.’ Marshall sat in the armchair and glared.

Mort sat transfixed. Already both men were different people, and he didn’t want to miss anything.

‘If you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

Leo frowned, removed his shirt, and folded it neatly.

‘And your trousers.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Slowly and sexily the trousers were slid off, revealing perky bronzed buttocks and powerful hairy legs. Leo kicked off his sandals and turned to face his new employer, legs slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back, penis slightly aroused, eyes innocent, lips open in guileless anticipation.

Taking a cloth from the sideboard, Marshall tossed it to Leo and told him to clean the floors under the furniture. Docilely, Leo dropped to hands and knees and crawled across the floor. The view as he reached under a low chair was worthy of any sexy magazine. Having completed the wiping he remained on his knees and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Is this good enough, sir?’

Marshall got down beside him, steadying himself by holding onto Leo’s thigh, then sliding his hand up to absentmindedly fondle the dangling bits. ‘Very good,’ he announced, standing again. ‘Carry on.’

But when Leo moved, he gave a cry of pain. ‘Oh, my back! I’ve slipped a disc.’

Mort gave a gasp of horror. Believing it real.

‘Luckily for you I know what to do,’ Marshall announced.

Mort relaxed.

‘I know a massage technique that will loosen everything up, and then I’ll flex your spine so the disc pops back. Here, lie on this.’

Marshall removed his towel with a flourish, and spread it on the floor.

Leo lay on it on his stomach, and Marshall commenced an intimate and somewhat invasive exploratory massage, before turning his patient over.

‘Goodness, young man, you have an erection!’ Marshall said as if shocked.

‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ Leo apologised. ‘Your hands felt so sexy, I couldn’t help myself. It’s so stiff it hurts but I don’t know what to do about it. can you help me?’

‘Mort giggled, entranced. This was so real! They acted so well he was caught up in the fantasy and a part of his brain believed it.

‘Well, that would be highly unusual, but as it seems to be uncomfortable…’

This time the massage was gentler and involved lips and tongue as well as probing fingers. Finally, Marshall sat back on his haunches. ‘Your muscles and bones now seem loose enough for me to flex the spine, so relax while I finalise the treatment.’ He slowly raised Leo’s feet and draped a leg over each shoulder. ‘Now you are perfectly flexed. Does it feel better?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

‘Good. However to prevent this happening again I’ll finish off with an internal massage.’

‘Internal?’ Mort detected a note of alarm.

‘Yes. Relax, it’s nothing to worry about.’

Reaching to the side, Marshall picked up a foil sachet that he opened with his teeth. Extracting a black condom he rolled it on, then picked up a tube from which he squeezed a translucent cream that he smeared in and around his patient’s anus.

Leo looked up with wide, horrified eyes. ‘What’re you going to do to me?’

‘Cure you completely.’

‘You are a generous man,’ Leo said softly as his mentor slid his manhood in as deep as it would go.

Mort watched in astonishment. He’d seen a few videos, but never really believed this was possible, imagined it was all a fake, but it was really happening! Marshall was thrusting and Leo, was enjoying it, telling Marshall how sexy he was, how manly, how potent.

Marshall’s orgasm was very noisy.

Mort wanted to cheer from excitement, but managed to refrain.

After withdrawing, Marshall checked Leo’s erection, which had shrivelled unrecognisably.

‘It worked!’ Leo said in delight, grabbing the end of the towel and wiping his belly. ‘You cured me - I came when you did.’

Marshall seemed inordinately pleased. With a powerful heave he pulled Leo to his feet and they went off to shower while Mort crept back to the library and pretended to read while recalling every part of the play, as he thought of it. Mostly it was funny, he decided. It was so unreal. In real life it could never happen. No one was so innocent as Leo had acted. But it was fun to watch, although he worried it might have been painful for him being fucked; Marshall had been rough. He’d ask him when they got home.

Leo, in his usual clothes, poked his head in the doorway. Not asleep? Come on — time to go. At the front door Marshall handed Leo an envelope, patted his shoulder, then shook Mort’s hand. ‘I hope you’ll visit again soon, Mort. Talk to Leo about that camping trip.’

‘Yeah, can’t wait. Thanks, Marshall.’

They jogged home through quiet, darkened streets, arriving refreshed and relaxed.

‘Iced chocolate?’

They gazed at each other across the table.

‘You’ve a funny grin on your face. You watched, didn’t you?’ Leo didn’t sound annoyed, so Mort admitted it.

‘What did you think?’

Mort’s eyes shone. ‘You were both great! You should be professional actors; I believed everything even though I knew it wasn’t really real. And Marshall looks much better naked than dressed. And you look better hairy. I loved it! But didn’t it hurt when he fucked you? And did you really come when he did?’

Leo assured Mort he hadn’t been hurt, he knew how to relax — but he hadn’t ejaculated, he’d told Marshall he had to make him feel proud.

Mort digested that. ‘He’s nice, isn’t he. He asked me to go camping and hiking with him. Can I?’

‘Definitely! It will be good for you. He’s a very smart guy.’

‘But he isn’t very happy, I don’t think. What you did was just acting, so he’s usually alone, and probably lonely, I reckon.’

‘You’re a sweet and kind young man, aren’t you?’

‘Not really. I just seem to feel what people are really like sometimes.’

Although it was only just after nine o’clock they went to bed to make sure they’d wake in time to pick up Fystie and Amy in the morning.

25 Fystie Returns

An hour later, Mort was still wide awake, beginning to sweat. The idea that something bad was about to happen kept rolling round in his head. He got up to walk around and noticed the light was on in Leo’s room. He poked his head around the door. Leo had thrown the bedclothes back and was lying on top, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

‘Can I come in? I can’t sleep.’

‘Leo patted the bed beside him. ‘Thinking too much?’

Mort snuggled up against his protector and draped his arm across his chest. ‘I can’t stop worrying that something horrible’s going to happen.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know... just something.’

‘There’s always something horrible happening somewhere, so you’re right, I guess.’

‘I mean to us. At least... when I was in my own in bed I felt like that, but now I’m with you I don’t. I feel sort of calm and happy.’

‘It’s odd how simply being with another person can make you feel good.’

‘Yeah... but I can’t think of anyone apart from you I’d like to be with.’

‘You’re right. It has to be someone you like and trust.’

Mort yawned. ‘I love the smell of your armpits,’ he said sleepily.

Leo pulled up the sheet, and within a minute both had been claimed by the god of sleep.

The following morning, refreshed and excited, they collected Amy and a heavily drugged Fystie from the Airport.

Back home over coffee and croissants, with Fystie asleep and Mort outside somewhere, Amy apologised for having left Leo to do most of the caring for their son over the last few years.

‘I hadn’t realised what an almost insupportable emotional drain it is,’ she said with a heartfelt sigh. ‘I’m not as strong as you, and now I’m even more lost. I know I won’t be able to cope.’

The problem facing them was a faulty heart valve. Surgery was indicated, but because of existing complications, that was accompanied by a risk of making thing worse. His CP symptoms seemed to have plateaued, although they’d never retreat, but his current opiate dosage was already unacceptably high and could also result in very unpleasant mental consequences. Fystie was determined not to have the operation, and had become violent when she tried to persuade him. That was one reason she had slightly overdosed him with painkillers and sedatives for the flight.

‘What’ll happen if he doesn’t have the operation?’

‘He’ll get a heart attack and die.’

‘If he doesn’t want the operation, then he doesn’t have to have it. It’s his life.’

‘How can you say that? He’s much too young to make such a decision.’

‘Would you want to go on living if you were like him, Amy?’

‘But he’s used to it. We’re his parents, not god. Only god can give and take lives.’

‘Which god are you thinking of? Humans have invented thousands. Or have you elevated our politicians and soldiers to the status of gods? How many innocents have they murdered this week somewhere in the Middle East?

‘They’re accidents.’

‘Don’t be more stupid than usual.’

‘Now you’re picking on me! If you’re so smart, you talk to him and decide.’

‘I will. And will you abide by my decision?

Amy hesitated, frowned, took a deep breath, shook the hair out of her eyes, straightened her shoulders and admitted she couldn’t take any more. Her ex lover had followed her to Brisbane, she’d stayed with him in a hotel, and decided to go and live with him.’

‘When?’

‘Before the end of this week.’

‘What about Fystie and Mort?’

‘Mort’s not our responsibility, he’s been great for Fystie, but I don’t like him. There’s something creepy about a boy who is always so thoughtful and helpful. And he’s far too honest and free with his opinions.’

‘And Fystie?’

‘I’m not strong enough, Leo. You know that. I’m not getting any younger, and Rob won’t wait forever. I can’t build my life around the needs of a crippled, sick son who could die at any time, especially if he refuses the treatment doctors suggest.’

‘So it’s Fystie’s fault?’

‘Stop being such an arsehole! Always putting it back onto me. Everything’s my fault.’ Tears began to flow freely. ‘Oh I hate you!’ She sat, cheeks wet, searching fruitlessly for a handkerchief.

Leo sat silently and wondered why men would never learn that women can cry at will, and deliberately don’t carry handkerchiefs so they can make men feel manly and useful by providing one when they switch on the waterworks.

After a minute of no response, Amy rounded on her husband; eyes as dry as his, voice a low-pitched snarl. ‘You are the most horrible, selfish, egoistical person I’ve ever met. Too weak to play football, a totally useless fuck, too stupid to get a real job, so had to flash your pretty body to all the sex-starved females in town, and now you’re a fucking prostitute! I must be a saint to have put up with you for twelve years. Well it’s over! You’ve just told me you’ll take responsibility for Fystie and his decisions about any operations he might need, so I’m now free. I’m going to pack.’

Leo waited till he heard her bedroom door slam, then signalled to Mort who had been listening from the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry you heard her nasty remarks about you.’

‘Nothing to be sorry about, the feeling’s mutual.’

‘What do you think about Fystie’s operation?’

‘The same as you. Only he can decide, and whatever he wants is fine with me.’

‘Even if…?’

‘Even if.’ The brave words didn’t stop tears pouring down his cheeks.

It was midday before Leo could get any sense out of Fystie. Amy had walked to the local shopping mall to have her hair done, and Mort stayed in his room, leaving father and son to make their decision without being reminded of him.

Fystie wasn’t in pain, and his head was clear. Not wanting to influence his decision, Leo didn’t tell him Amy wanted nothing more to do with her son.

‘Fystie, you know I love you more than anything on this earth, and will do anything I can to make your life as happy as possible.’

Fystie looked down as if thinking, then gazed out the open window, avoiding his father’s eyes. ‘Remember the day at the beach when that fat kid drowned?’

‘Yes,’

‘His father was right.’

Leo knew what was coming, bur pretended he didn’t. ‘In what way?’

‘He said someone should put the poor bugger out of his misery. Meaning me.’

‘okay. How can I do that?’

‘I’ve had enough, Dad. I know what it is to love, because I love you and Mort, but I also know I’ll never find a woman to love me. I’m often in pain — real pain that blacks out everything until I no longer exist except as a ball of fire. I look ridiculous — my mouth hangs open, I dribble, my tongue gets in the way when I talk, I’m all twisted, I spasm and usually can’t even feed myself and have started shitting and pissing in my pants. My heart’s fucked, yet they want me to get it fixed so I can go on and on and on and on. I had a visitor in the hospital, a fat religious git. One of those silly white collars. He asked me how I felt, so I told him. Guess what he said.’

‘Poor boy, pray to god and he’ll make it better?’

‘Almost. He said I was an inspiration for everyone of how to suffer and not give in. He told me suffering is the way to heaven, and we are all instruments of god’s purpose, and my purpose was to suffer, so I should be proud because god only chose strong and good people to suffer, and I’d get my reward in heaven. I was feeling sick so couldn’t laugh, instead I pretended to have a really bad spasm and sprayed spit all over him, screaming and all the rest so he ran away and called the nurse.’

‘Well done!’

‘So, when can I go?’

‘Whenever you like.’

‘Now?’

‘It’s nearly one o’clock. I’ve a couple of things to do first; how about one thirty? We’ll go for a drive and if you’re still certain, that’ll be it.’

‘Excellent. It’ll give me time to say goodbye to Mort.’ Fystie smiled, his eyes cleared and suddenly he looked healthier than he had for days. ‘I feel so happy, Dad. I can’t tell you…’ He sighed, heaved himself to his feet and shuffled off to find Mort, who was waiting in his room, deliberately not thinking in case he cried.

Leo had been preparing himself for this day for some time — since the episode on the beach, in fact, so it only took a few minutes to prepare the car, print some prepared letters, place them in sealed envelopes, and telephone Marshall.

Mort had cried, but not too much. He was happy for Fystie, said he’d have made the same decision, promised never to forget him and think of him every time he wanked, which made Fystie laugh. He was laughing a lot, Mort noticed, but it wasn’t hysteria, it was relief, as if an intolerable burden had lifted, enabling him to walk straighter, speak more clearly, as if for the first time in ages he had hope; which made perfect sense. He was hoping for release from life imprisonment and torture.

Holding back his tears until the car was out of sight, Mort ran to his room and flung himself onto the floor where he was convulsed by great wracking sobs that seemed to tear out his heart. First his grandfather, now Fystie. When he calmed down he noticed an envelope on his desk. Inside was a short note. Dear, Mort. Pack up everything you want to keep, call a taxi, and go to Marshall’s. He’s expecting you and will explain. All my love, Leo.

A cold dread enveloped the young man as realisation of the consequences of what was happening seeped into his consciousness. Scarcely daring to breathe, not daring to think, he grabbed a suitcase, took his notebook, clothes and the few mementos he treasured of his grandfather, Fystie and Leo. His laptop because it contained all his photos. After a quick look round the room, followed by a scan of the house to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, because there was no way he’d return if Leo wasn’t there, he telephoned for a taxi.

Marshall was waiting upstairs in his apartment. He shook Mort’s hand seriously and led him to a sunny bedroom with a view over the park.

‘This is your home now, Mort,’ he said gently. Put your things wherever you like, use the bathroom through that door if you need to, and when you’re ready, come and have a bite of lunch with me, you must be starving.’

Mort nodded, unable to speak. He wasn’t feeling hungry. Wasn’t feeling anything. He dumped his things on the floor. Then stood at the window for a while, seeing nothing. Then investigated the bathroom — a different one from the other night, this one was empty of anything personal so it must be his private one. He used the toilet. Washed his hands. Dried them on the large green towel. Then wandered out to the kitchen where Marshall was sitting reading. He looked up and smiled.

‘Scrambled eggs?’

‘Yes please.’ Barely a whisper.

The meal looked and smelled delicious; tomatoes, eggs, chips, fried apple slices and a handful of nuts, followed by strawberry yoghurt. They ate in silence.

‘Coffee, tea or milk?’

Mort grinned. It was astonishing how a full stomach seemed to make bad things less bad. ‘You’re wasted as a lawyer, you should have a restaurant... you could be cook and waiter.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ Marshall said with a sad smile. ‘Do you feel like talking?’

‘Okay.’

‘Do you understand what Leo has done?’

‘He’s helped Fystie to die so he won’t be sick any more.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Leo has also killed himself.’

Ice filled Mort’s entire body. In his heart he had known, but refused to let the knowledge penetrate his consciousness. His eyes grew very wide. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He closed it again and managed a whispered, ‘Why?’

‘Because he would be convicted of murdering his son, and would have spent the rest of his life in jail being beaten, raped and tortured by guards and other inmates.’

‘But Fystie wanted it.’

‘That makes no difference to the law. It is a criminal offence to even tell someone how to suicide, let alone help them to do it. Fystie had no hope of ending his own life, so as Leo loved him, he helped him. There was no way he could have concealed that, so it was either allow himself to be branded a criminal murderer, or join Fystie in leaving a world he didn’t like much. He wasn’t a happy man you know. He always put on a cheerful face, but like loads of people he wasn’t sorry to quit this life.’

‘How did he do it? When? How do you know he has? Perhaps Fystie changed his mind!’ We should find them and…’ Tears that had been refused exit by sheer willpower, broke through and Mort lay his head on his arms, sobbing silently. When the worst seemed to be over, Marshall placed a hand on Mort’s shoulder. The youth sniffed. Rubbed angrily at his eyes and looked up. ‘He has done it, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes. After leaving you he drove to a secluded spot about half an hour away, they both downed large doses of Fystie’s opiates and sleeping pills, then Leo connected a hose to the exhaust pipe, put it through a window, sealed the gap and ran the engine. He always said he would never let Fystie take the journey alone, so I imagine he took him in his arms and they talked till they fell asleep. The carbon monoxide replaced the oxygen in their blood and they would have died painlessly and peacefully. I know they died, because Leo rang me just before he started the engine. He said he’d ring back in twenty minutes if Fystie changed his mind. He hasn’t rung back and it’s now three hours since he rang, so I think all has gone according to plan. We should be happy for them.’

‘I am... I think. But I’m so sad for me! The only three people I’ve loved all killed themselves! I wish they’d taken me as well.’

‘I understand. I’ve sometimes wished I had Leo’s courage. But such feelings come and go. It will always hurt, but after a few years it will hurt less and you’ll find other people to love who will love you. Meanwhile, this has all been rather sudden and... Leo was concerned about you. He was planning on divorcing Amy, but then he wouldn’t be allowed to foster you, so I said I’d like you to come and live with me.’

‘I imagined I’d go to Todd and Lanky in an emergency.’

‘Are you disappointed?’

‘No! I like them, but I noticed they were always pleased when we left. They tried to hide it, but I think they prefer being alone.’

‘You notice so much I’ll have to be careful. But you’re right. They’ve only been together for a couple of years and are still getting to know each other’s habits and how to share their lives. It isn’t easy even when there’s just the two, but with a third person always there it would be impossible. Are you sure you want to stay with me? You don’t have to.’

Mort looked away, then decided on a frontal approach. ‘Do you want to have sex with me? Because if you do then I don’t want to stay.’

Marshall’s eyes crinkled a little as if in pain. He should have expected this. ‘The answer is no. Definitely no. The thought never entered my head, but it was very wise of you to ask. Why did you think I might want to?’

‘I saw you fucking Leo last night.’

‘Ah... How naive of me to think you’d stay reading in the other room.’

‘Are you angry with me for sneaking out to watch?’

‘Of course not. I hadn’t forbidden you. It was your choice, so if it had upset you, you would have only yourself to blame. Furthermore, curiosity is good in a man, as long as it’s coupled with a desire for self-preservation and not in pursuit of unworthy goals.’

‘Unworthy?’

‘I can imagine some people with the knowledge you now possess, using it to blackmail me or gain some personal benefit. Lawyers have to be more careful than most of their reputations.’

‘Then why weren’t you more careful?’

‘Mort...’ Marshall paused to find the appropriate words. ‘I liked you at our first meeting. Your grandfather had talked about you a lot, and Leo was always singing your praises. He and I had an agreement that if anything happened to him, I’d take care of you. However, although I knew a great deal about you, you knew nothing much about me. So I wanted to balance the books so to speak, before asking if you wanted to come and live with me. I’m a lawyer whose wife took off with a man who could satisfy her, but my children too have divorced me, mainly because instead of taking an interest in them as children I was so determined to conceal what I saw as my faults I never let them get close to me, so we remained strangers. If I’d been open with them about my sexuality and other things, and not kept myself apart, they might want to see me occasionally.’ He paused, slightly disconcerted to see Mort gazing speculatively into his eyes. ‘I wanted to be honest with you and... I guess I was hoping for a second chance to be a real father.’ He barked a short laugh. ‘Stupid eh?’

‘No.’

‘I was going to let you get used to me gradually, but Fystie’s condition suddenly deteriorated and there wasn’t time for us to get to know each other properly and last night I suppose I was just making sure you at least knew my worst side…’ His voice trailed off. ‘Did I make myself totally ridiculous?’

‘Of course not. You and Leo looked good together and it made me like you.’ He stared deep into Marshall’s eyes, making him look away. ‘I think you’re lonely,’ he said with a slight nod of the head.

‘Many people are.’

‘This morning I had no idea that Leo wouldn’t be coming home.’ Mort swallowed and fought back tears. ‘He hadn’t told me you’d look after me if he wasn’t there, so when you asked if I’d come and live with you it seemed so sudden I was suspicious. People are always warning kids about being abused so you begin to suspect everyone.’ He sat in silence for a few long seconds, then looked up with a slight frown. ‘If you still want me I’d like to stay with you... but... I’m a bit strange, I think. I’ve never had friends my own age... except Fystie.’ An uncertain, tremulous, tentative smile flickered then evaporated as tears began to trickle.

Marshall’s throat constricted and he had to swallow his own tears. Impulsively he gathered the lad into his arms and they hugged in silence until the moment passed.

‘So, young man, what’ll we do for the rest of the afternoon? We can splash around in the Spa on the roof, or do you fancy going to the beach for a swim?’

‘You’ve a pool on the roof?’

‘Only a small one, come and see.’

An innocuous looking cupboard gave access to a flight of stairs that led to the roof.

Mort gazed around in astonishment. ‘It’s a garden up here! This is wonderful. And so private.’

‘I’m glad you like it. It wasn’t private until I put the planting in. The pool’s behind those shrubs.’

‘Mort raced over. ‘It’s perfect. Can I go in? Must I wear togs?’

‘It’s yours too now you’re living with me, so feel free to take a dip whenever you like, and no clothes means less lint in the filters.’

Within seconds Mort had dropped his shorts and shirt and leaped in. ‘It’s warm! That’s brilliant. Let’s spend the afternoon here.’

26 Life with a Lawyer

An anonymous phone call had alerted police to the whereabouts of Leo’s car.

A handwritten note pinned to Leo’s shirt that explained in detail his reasons for his act was handed by the police to the coroner, and a copy found its way to national newspapers, whose editors all chose to ignore the reasons behind Leo’s act of bravery and compassion, preferring headlines about a murder-suicide. Speculative editorial and opinion columns all damned the man and commiserated with the innocent young boy killed by a male prostitute father who hadn’t the guts to go on, taking his son with him to deny the lad’s mother the right to take care of him. There were no dissenting views; no attempt to present the reality. Of course, the heavily censored Letters to the Editor all sang the same song.

Mort was horrified. ‘This is all lies! It wasn’t like this! You must tell them to change the story. They’ve no right to lie like this.’

‘It’s called free speech.’

‘But why doesn’t someone write and tell them the truth?‘

‘I did, but they didn’t publish the letter.‘

‘Why not?‘

‘Because what they wrote sells more copies, and that brings in more advertising, and so they make more money. Readers are not interested in the truth about anything, they want scandal, horror, death, mayhem, filth and disease. Australia doesn’t have an independent press run by intellectuals keen to inform and educate the populace by offering all sides to questions. Instead, three of the richest men in the world own just about every newspaper, and most TV stations, as well as magazines and internet sites, They use these platforms to further their own financial power and interests, and the truth would get in the way of that. They also don’t want to offend religions, so won’t print anything those bigoted hypocrites might object to such as a positive slant on euthanasia.’

‘Surely someone wants to know?’

‘A few internet blogs are reporting the truth, but they’re preaching to the converted, which demonstrates the great weakness of the internet and why it’ll never be censored; it divides and weakens opposition. There’s a blog or site for every dissenter, racist, bigot, conspiracy theorist or truth teller, where their ideas are accepted and praised by small groups who never meet or plan anything positive but they all feel they’ve done something by simply reading it. Of course they haven’t... their energies have been cleverly dissipated. Our inglorious leaders have ensured that divided we will fall, because there’s no longer any widely read or viewed mass medium that provides a balanced view of human activity. Even the purportedly ‘balanced’ state-owned channels, follow blindly the dictates of big business and the U.S.A.’

Mort contented himself with writing letters to everyone he thought should know the truth, from his state and federal representatives to the local council and church leaders. He received no replies, but the activity released some tension and he was able to continue living without wanting to buy a gun and shoot everyone.

Fystie’s old school, wary of notoriety, suggested he try a private religious school owned and run by ‘The Sons and Daughters of Jesus’, a minority sect disenchanted with what they considered the lax and far too ecumenical religious instruction provided in State and other schools. Their own sons and daughters deserved, and therefore got, a school specifically designed to indoctrinate them with the mysteries of their peculiar beliefs. As it was much closer to Marshall’s apartment than the old school, Mort happily agreed.

He had developed a taste for theatre, and Marshall took him to every live performance available, during which he sat as if mesmerised, afterwards hanging around back stage hoping to see the mechanics of how it was done. Thus, when it was announced at school that there would be a concert of plays and sketches based on biblical stories written and acted by pupils, Mort leaped at the chance to write, direct, design and act in a short piece.

Genesis, he decided, was worthy of his talents, so he designed an uncomplicated way of presenting god creating the earth and all that is in it. His plans were vetted and approved with the proviso that evolution would not be mentioned, and god would stop creating after he’d made the animals. Mort promised with his hand on his heart.

Meanwhile, on weekends he and Marshall sometimes took off on camping/hiking trips, driving to locations within a two-hundred-kilometre radius, then carrying everything on their backs to their final destination, pitching a tiny tent if it looked like rain, otherwise sleeping under the stars. In most of the national parks and forest reserves it was illegal to camp, but they were very careful and left no trace.

On the first outing to what a tourist brochure promised would be “A lush forest with fine views, a variety of animal and plant life and delightful waterholes”, Marshall suggested they try to live off the land like the original inhabitants had. Mort excitedly agreed.

They walked, searched, and finally opened their food parcels with ravenously twitching fingers at sundown, having failed to find even enough water to drink, let alone food.

‘How did the Aborigines manage to live before whites came?’ Mort asked in astonishment.

‘They were cleverer than us.’

‘You’re joking! They didn’t even have guns.’

‘When I say clever, I mean they understood that more than enough is too much. The guns you deem to be of significance when judging cleverness, have destroyed a way of life that could have gone on forever, were it not for the Europeans invading with their guns.’

Mort thought about this. ‘That bit about having more than enough makes sense, but why would guns destroy everything?’

‘When the first exlorers arrived they noted in their logs and diaries that there was such an abundance of fish in the sea and rivers you scarcely needed a hook and line. A simple net or trap or even bare hands would usually get you a meal. There were so many birds you could sneak up on them and skewer them on a sharp stick. Snakes, lizards, all sorts of small and large mammals were there for the picking if you were proficient with a spear. They were astonished, because where they came from most of the natural world had disappeared.’

‘It sounds wonderful.’

‘It was if you were fit and proficient with a spear and other simple tools. The whole world used to be like that, until the invention of guns let unskilled men who couldn’t even throw a spear, or swim, or make a trap, go on killing sprees — killing for the fun of it. For a while they had more food than they needed, and that allowed women to have many more children, and that required more slaughter of animals for food, and before long they'd wiped out their natural food supply and would have starved if it hadn’t been for farming. But farming is not a pleasant way to live for people who love their independence and enjoy a natural life, because farming is the opposite of natural, and success depends on lots of very variable things. In the relatively short time since Europeans invaded Australia, most of the continent has become unable to sustain human life without toxic farming practises that destroy the soil, water, air and all competing nature.’

‘That’s horrible! But are you saying their populations didn’t grow? That’s impossible. There are always more people every year.’

‘Only in good times. In bad times populations shrink. Wise cultures keep their populations to a level that can be sustained even in the worst seasons, because if they don’t, nature will do it for them — and starving to death is slow and not that pleasant. Since the beginning of life, all animals, including humans, have gone through good and bad seasons, eating and breeding, followed by starving and dying. At this moment about two thousand million humans are on the brink of starvation, and many of those will be dead in a year or less.’

‘But not here.’

‘Not yet. But if the climate changes as predicted there will be many millions of starving people here, just like the rest of the world.’

‘So… you're saying that Aborigines didn’t have to farm because they were smarter than us?’

‘They were smart enough to increase their chances of survival by not staying too long in one place so they didn’t cause the extinction of important animals and plants. Their ‘home’ was a vast area of land through which families walked, not returning to the same spot sometimes for years, giving nature loads of time to regenerate. That’s how they managed to have an abundance — except for drought years — for more than fifty thousand years — longer than any other culture has ever survived.’

‘With no guns.’

‘Using only tools powered by their own muscles, like every other animal on the planet. It’s the way life evolved, so it’s the only possible way to ensure long term survival.’

‘But how come we couldn’t find anything to eat today?’

‘This bit of forest seems large but it’s just a tiny pocket of regrowth left behind after being logged because it’s no good for farming. The topsoil eroded so half the original plants disappeared along with the animals and birds that needed them. We hadn’t a chance of finding anything to eat.’

‘You knew that but still made me starve?’

‘It takes longer than eight hours to starve.’

‘So you're saying that all the land between here and the city was once forest that we could have lived in if we could throw a sharp stick accurately?’

‘Yes. But we clever modern humans have burned, bulldozed, scraped bare, planted, sprayed, poisoned, built on, cultivated for food or grazed once natural land for cattle and sheep so that every family on the planet can have as many children as they want — a dozen if they like, even if they don’t grow a single grain of wheat, or vegetable leaf, or fruit, or know how and where the food they eat is produced. Many people can’t even prepare their food themselves any more; increasingly relying on others to process it for them. If that isn’t decadence, I don’t know what is.’

‘Decadence?’

‘Decay. Human civilization is decaying, rotting, stinking and putrid.’

As there seemed little to add to that observation, Mort remained silent and thought about it. He enjoyed these discussions with Marshall, in which he learned to sort facts from opinions, and to question unsubstantiated assumptions. Eventually, recalling his grandfather’s advice, he asked, ‘How do you know this?’

‘By reading scientific articles written by people who have studied, observed and tested their theories in practical situations.’

‘At school no one agrees with you. The teachers say god will provide, and everything is going according to his plan.’

‘Ha! What egregious arrogance! They reckon they understand their god’s plan, but if you showed them a plan of a wheelbarrow and asked them to build one, they’d be flummoxed. Did they tell you how they know this?’

‘It’s in the bible.’

‘Old or New Testament?’

‘Old... I think.’

‘That’s based on an ancient text compiled by wandering herdsmen who had been kicked out of their homeland by Egyptians, or Assyrians... I forget which. After a few hundred years of exile they needed something to stop their fellow tribesmen from drifting away and joining other tribes so they made up a tribal history and religion that records the apocryphal genesis of their race, and…’

‘That word...pokrifill or something. What’s it mean?’

‘Apocryphal – it means of doubtful authenticity, a polite way of saying it’s probably a pack of lies. For example their so-called history reckons the most powerful god had chosen them as his special people, and it sets out the way they can become rich and powerful.’

‘That sounds useful. How do you become rich and powerful?’

‘By making sacrifices to their god, then killing and cheating and killing and stealing and killing and raping and torturing everyone who disagrees with you or has lands that you want, or for any other reason you want them out of the way — as humans have always done and are still doing all over the planet.’

‘Horrible!’

‘That’s nature’s way.’

‘But the teachers at school say Australians are rich and well fed because god likes us.’

‘He didn’t like Fystie and Leo much.’

‘Yeah, I asked about that and they said that the sins of the fathers will be paid for by their sons for several generations or something, and god moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. I shut up then or I think they wouldn’t have let me put on my play, because they said god hates people who ask questions. And only those who trust him and obey without questioning will go to heaven.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘Hell no! Grandad and Leo thought it’s all crap. Just a way to make people do as they’re told. What do you think?’

‘It’s definitely not crap. Crap’s useful as fertiliser. It’s brainwashing to destroy children's ability to use their reason. I reckon religion should only be practised between adults in private.’

‘Then why did you let me go to that school?’

‘It’s important to know your enemy. First hand experience of people who unquestioningly believe impossible things can only stand you in good stead in the future, because organised religions are regaining the power they had until a couple of hundred years ago, and that’s very disturbing!’

‘They’re certainly crazy. It’s like being in a mad house. It’s as if their brains don’t work. They’re like a CD playing a loop of recorded dialogue that someone else has implanted. The kids too. It’s weird. But surely they aren’t really getting more powerful?’

‘When the Prime Minister decrees that the Government will provide all supposedly secular state schools with fundamentalist Christian chaplains instead of properly trained psychologists and counsellors, and will pay for the training of priests and other witchdoctors belonging to religious corporations with multi-million dollar tax-free assets, then you know the end of secular government is at hand.’

Mort joined a self-defence group run by Kim, a man in his fifties; short, slim, fit and serious. It was a class for people who just wanted to be able to stop an attacker long enough so they could escape. Mort's skills were so far in advance of the rest of the class that Kim told Mort he was wasting his time and should join a proper Dojo. Mort explained that he only wanted to practice to keep his reflexes automatic, and learn every possible way of putting an attacker out of commission. He didn’t want the costumes and all the rest of the stuff. The instructor narrowed his eyes, tried to stare Mort down, failed, so said he’d like to meet his father.

‘Have I annoyed you?’ Mort asked, bewildered.

‘What gave you that impression?’

‘You look angry and you want to see my father.’

‘This, young fellow, is my pleasant face. If you ever get to see my angry face, run for the hills. I want to see your father to offer to train with you.’

‘Yeah? Brilliant.’

Marshall was delighted with the idea and, having seen Kim arrive on a battered bicycle in worn sandals and shorts — he wore nothing else — insisted on paying the correct fee, even though Kim said he was doing it to keep himself in condition and payment wasn’t necessary. They trained three afternoons a week in the grassed car park behind the Lawyer’s office, rain or shine. Afterwards Marshall sometimes invited Kim for a meal.

On other afternoons Mort used Marshall’s small gymnasium to keep fit, careful not to overdo it. This, together with walking to school and weekend hikes when he carried a reasonably heavy pack, were putting the finishing touches on the physical and mental transformation begun by Hugh’s self defence classes. A sleek and healthy, confident youth replaced the timid boy who had so often been the butt of bullying.

Regular contact with the natural world outside the city, hours reading everything that looked remotely interesting in Marshall’s well-stocked library, and long complicated discussions with his guardian, helped him to formulate a theory that the only purpose in anyone’s life is the series of goals they select for themselves. If we let others plan our lives we cease to exist as individuals. A man must plan, live, and take responsibility for his own life. No one else can do it for him. There’s no god lighting the way. We’re each on our own. The cosmos doesn’t care, he realised; it is merely the place where it all happens. It’s like a house... it neither helps nor hinders the pursuit of happiness.

Long, and at times heated discussions with Marshall during mealtimes convinced Mort that the only reliable sources of information were his five senses. If his eyes, ears, nose, tongue and skin received no useful information about something, then probably there was nothing useful to know.

His head was always full of questions that annoyed most people because they thought he was doubting them. Surely, he thought, they wanted to arrive at the true facts supporting ideas? Surely they didn’t really believe that winning a popularity poll would transform very ordinary people into wise politicians who would not lead them astray? Didn’t they realise that asking questions is one of the few things that makes us different from other animals?

‘I take responsibility for everything I say and do,’ he explained one afternoon to a bemused teacher in the playground during interval. ‘So I can’t just believe without questioning! I’d make mistakes and then be blamed. Why doesn’t everyone do that? Aren’t they worried they’ll make fools of themselves?’

‘You are making a rod for your own back, Mortaumal. God doesn’t want you to think or doubt or question his laws, he wants you to trust him, to believe that he will take care of you. He wants you to let go, to relax and become like a new-born lamb, frolicking without care, not taking responsibility for things about which you know nothing.’

‘Lambs go to the abattoir and then get eaten. No thanks. I want to know what’s coming so I can get out of the way.’

‘Then you will probably have an unhappy and anxious life. I pity you.’

‘And I pity you,’ Mort muttered under his breath to the teacher’s retreating back.

Marshall laughed when told. ‘They join religious groups precisely because they are too frightened to take responsibility for themselves. If things go wrong they blame other members of their religion for not being as good as they ought to have been, so their god is letting them see his displeasure.’

‘That is so sick.’ Mort shook his head and sighed. ‘If you’re right, then I’ve been lucky to have met four people who think like I do.’

‘Perhaps it isn’t luck. I’ve a theory that independent, responsible people can recognise each other. It’s as if they broadcast a signal. I’m sure Leo spoke to you the way he did on your first meeting because of the way you reacted to his little rhyme when the kid was squashed under the truck. It was luck he happened to be passing, but not luck that he saw in you a kindred spirit who could laugh at a time like that, was not frightened of his hand on your shoulder, and instantly formed an intellectual bond with his son. Then your grandfather recognised it in Leo. Your grandfather and I saw it in each other when he sold me the property, so it was natural I should be interested in you.’

‘Did your wife have it?’

‘I think evolutionary survival mechanisms decree that women have different ways of thinking to men — that’s why I’ve never met a woman whose thought processes resemble mine. They’re clever and useful in different ways, but those ways are a mystery to men, just as ours are to them.’

The concert was on a Friday night. The assembly hall was full of nervous parents anxious that their offspring shouldn’t disgrace them.

‘Genesis’, Mort’s offering, was on first. The house lights dimmed, the audience quietened, the curtains parted on deep blackness, and someone giggled. An amber spotlight slowly grew brighter to reveal the bearded head of God floating magically among the stars. The audience cheered, unaware of the invisible boy swathed in deep blue material covered in stars and moons - his bedroom curtains - wearing a Father Christmas wig and beard from the school wardrobe, perched atop a stepladder that had been draped in black cloth. He raised his arms and shouted, ‘Let there be light!’ and the stage was filled with a soft amber glow. ‘Now I want day and night!’ he demanded somewhat petulantly. The lights went on and off several times and the audience began to titter before he yelled, ‘Okay, okay, slow down, lets just have day for a few hours. The lights remained on.

‘Now,’ God said thoughtfully, ‘I reckon we need some land.’

A small brown mound slithered on and stopped at god’s feet. God nodded approval. ‘Now some water!’ A blue band of light illuminated the base of the cyclorama on the rear wall. ‘Now some air!’ A strip of strong white light appeared above the blue water. The audience clapped.

‘That’s good,’ God declared. ‘Now lets have some plants!’ He pointed his finger at various spots on the stage and cardboard cut-outs of trees, shrubs and flowers magically flew through the air before planting themselves in the designated spots on the stage. The actors who had made and carried them sat behind them, invisible. The audience clapped and cheered.

Now I want animals!’ God announced, and a dozen papier mâché-headed animals cantered in, danced in a circle then lay down to sleep. More clapping.

‘I’m bored up here in heaven!’ God complained crossly. ‘I need someone to talk to. I know, I’ll make an animal that looks like me.’ Descending the ladder he approached the brown mound of earth and pulled it upright. Mort, who was inside, stood still while god pressed the cloth against him revealing the rough shape of a human.

‘Now,’ said God. ‘Let me breathe life into this animal... I shall call it Adam.’ He put his face near the head, blew hard and a few seconds later pulled off the brown cloth, revealing Mort, naked as the day he was born, but immeasurably more attractive. Adam gave a cry of joy, leaped into the air and ran about the stage, cart wheeling and dancing, buoyed by shouts and laughter, claps and cries of horror from the audience, many of whom were on their feet.

Miss Takyn, the stage manageress, raced onto the stage and chased after Mort. ‘You told me God would stop after the animals!’

‘Humans are animals!’ Mort shouted back, dodging between the plants.

‘Stop, wicked boy!’

To shouts of encouragement from the children in the audience she grabbed the brown material and ran around behind her prey, clearly intending to wrap him in it. Instead, she tripped and shot head first off the stage to land with a resounding crack onto the floor a metre below.

A deathly silence lasted several long seconds until pandemonium erupted and five strong men ran forward to rescue the poor woman.

Mort, sensing that now would be a good time to depart, did so with alacrity. No one stopped him on the way to the classroom to pick up his clothes. He ignored questions about the pandemonium from the performers waiting their turn, slipped out the back and ran home as fast as he could. Marshall arrived half an hour later.

‘You ran away,’ his voice was serious.

‘I was frightened. Did she hurt herself?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘How? It’s only about a metre.’

‘Fell with her head at a critical angle and broke her neck. Instant. Wouldn’t have felt a thing. I guessed as much when I heard the crack.’

‘Was it my fault?’

‘Did you push her?’

‘No! I was on the other side of the stage.’

‘I thought you’d promised to stop after the animals.’

‘Aren't humans animals?’

‘You know very well what she meant. They’re blaming you for making her upset.’

‘She made herself upset. And those stupid high heels she always wears, clacking along the corridors... that’s why she fell.’

Marshall’s expression was indecipherable.

‘Should I have stayed?’

‘Not unless you wanted to be lynched. Someone will probably be round to see you, but don’t worry. They’ve not a leg to stand on. I enjoyed your show, by the way. It was cleverly staged and lit, rather amusing and captured exactly the qualities that make biblical stories so attractive.’

‘Really? Gosh, thanks. What qualities?’

‘Infantile and idiotic.’

27 High School

Video footage placed Mort well away from Miss Takyn when she snagged her high heel in the brown cloth and tripped. His interviewers were undivided on the question of nudity, and equally united in condemnation of Mort’s blithe assertion that according to what he’d learned at the school, she was lucky because now she was with her god in heaven and didn’t have to wait like everyone else till she was old and ugly. Marshall’s presence at both interviews tempered discussions and ensured Mort was not blamed for anything.

As he had never liked the teacher, and knew no one who would have been upset by her death to whom he might offer sympathy, he didn’t attend the funeral, to the relief of the principal, as there might have been a riot from all the pupils whose chances of stardom had been foiled when the concert was cancelled.

There was no difficulty in obtaining sick leave for the traumatised boy for the three weeks until the end of term, during which he sat an entrance test for the local High School and turned thirteen. When informed that Mort did not consider his birth was something to celebrate, Marshall discreetly forgot about it, agreeing that the time for celebration would come when he found his father.

By the end of the holidays Mort was older, wiser, better informed and more secure in himself than at any time in his life, due in part to Marshal’s library, a fair amount of which was now stored in his head, and self-defence sessions with Kim where he'd learned a number of instant responses that should cause so much pain and damage to the attacker he’d have time to run for it, or pick up a rock or stick and defend himself while screaming or blowing a whistle – if he had one.

High School, he expected, would be no different from primary school, although with nearly a thousand students he might at least be able to find a friend.

It was certainly different! More organised, more regimented, more conformist, less tolerant, more racist, more bigoted, and alarmingly homophobic. Most younger female teachers seemed a bit scatty and too willing to please, while the older women seemed to be tight-lipped critics of youth.

Regardless of age, the male teachers appeared either maniacally ‘butch’ or nerds who avoided eye contact.

Boys were called by their surnames, apparently to indicate they had no independent worth, being merely part of a family whose worth had already been decided by the behaviour of previous pupils of that name. Girls were addressed by their first name, perhaps because when they married, and it was assumed they all would, they’d lose their surname so they might as well get used to it.

Boys were careful not to show the slightest interest in other boys, or music [apart from current pop] or art, or dancing, or theatre, or reading [except for sports magazines]. On the other hand, they were careful to appear aroused by girls who giggled to attract attention, showed their cleavages, wore makeup, jewellery, made cow eyes at boys, and were constantly doing their hair or checking their appearance in windows and mirrors.

Boys who were ‘real men’ threw balls at each other during interval, mock wrestled, aggressively occupied the parallel bars, and showed off to the girls. The rest gathered in cautious groups, whispered together as if worried they’d be found guilty of something, and discussed the latest computer game, cult movie, or non-sporting hobby. Group members seemed to have been friends at their previous school and did not welcome newcomers.

Girls were either goody-goods who sat up straight, laughed at the teacher’s jokes, always appeared interested, had their hands up before a question was asked, provided exactly the answers expected, and never asked unexpected questions. Or they were vacant dollies to whom school was a prison sentence to get out of at the earliest opportunity so they could become glamorous film stars or super models. In the classroom they were bored and sullen, passing notes, whispering scandal, or flashing their legs to the boys.

Mort kept out of trouble by smiling slightly when his classmates were stupid, crude, ignorant and rude, and by pretending he wasn’t interested in even the most absorbing lessons by not answering teachers questions even though he knew the answers, and nodding his head as if he really did think the bleached little tart showing her knickers was sexy. He further cemented his image by spending lunch and interval attached to a group of ‘normal’ boys sitting on the grass, instead of checking out books in the library, while pretending he knew nothing and had no opinions that differed from theirs if asked.

He was bored. He was chairman of the bored.

In the second week at assembly the Deputy Principal announced the formation of an Athletics Club. Anyone interested to go to the Gymnasium after school.

Mort and about sixty students of both sexes and all ages gathered in the gymnasium. The Sports teacher said if they were not prepared to train hard after school twice a week, take part in Saturday meets with other clubs, and compete in the inter-school athletics championships at the end of the season, then they should leave immediately. More than half left. Those who remained were divided into male and female, which seemed odd to Mort who’d been reminded several times already by female teachers, irritated at what they perceived as sexist remarks, that girls were just as good as boys in everything and must be treated as equals. The two student Athletics Captains were introduced, then the teacher wandered off.

Monica was an impressive young woman with her hair tied back in a sort of bun. She smiled at everyone and said she was happy to see so many athletes. She sat at a desk on one side of the space and wrote the girls’ names and preferences into an official-looking book.

Dudley, a tall, solid senior with pale skin, reddish brown hair and massive shoulders, stared around vaguely, then sat at a desk on the other side, scanning each face briefly before noting each boy’s name, age and class. Mort switched his gaze from the Captain to a much better looking, tall, lean, deeply tanned senior with bleached bristle hair who was lounging against the wall beside Dudley. He couldn’t help wondering if there was some special quality that made one person a captain and the other not.

The handsome guy caught his eye and Mort flushed, hoping he wasn’t annoyed. Marshall was always warning him not to stare so openly. The guy winked, sending a shiver through Mort’s groin, then levered himself off the wall and came to stand close behind him.

‘Mortaumal,’ he said so softly no one else could hear, ‘you’ve been staring at Dudley... do you think he’s handsome?’

Mort giggled and whispered back, ‘No way! How’d you know my name?’

‘I heard you tell Duddles.’

‘You’re the handsome one, and your hair looks great! It’s like a golden halo. Can I touch it?’

‘Not here, what would the neighbours think?’

‘That I was lucky.’

‘Or I was.’

‘How come Dudley’s the Captain and not you? He’s so boring.’

‘But reliable. Teachers trust that sort because that’s what they’re like themselves, boring, incompetent, fatuous wankers. They were promoted beyond their merit at school, so think they’re born to rule, and choose similar types to lord it over the rest of us.’

Mort chuckled. ‘I like you. What’s your name?’

‘Sergei.’ His grin inflamed Mort’s already aroused libido.

‘The first practice session will be on the running track tomorrow after school,’ Dudley announced as if it was a detention. ‘Bring your gear and don’t be late!’

Sergei collected his bicycle and wheeled it to the gates, accompanied by Mort.

‘When can I touch your hair?’

Sergei laughed. He had excellent teeth. ‘My girlfriend likes running her hand through it.’

‘Mort couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘You’ve got a girlfriend?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s an odd question!’ Sergei gazed suspiciously at his young inquisitor.

‘What I mean is, you look... sort of... it’s hard to explain. You seem too good for any girls I’ve seen in this place. They’re mostly scatty bimbos.’

‘Some are okay. The thing is, if I want to go to parties or dances I have to have a girlfriend.’

Mort shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’d want to go to parties if girls were there, they just gossip and giggle and spoil things — at least that’s what they were like in the schools I’ve been to. Aren’t there parties for boys only?’

‘Not when you’re at school. You’ll have to wait till you’ve left.’ He stopped, looked around to check if anyone was watching, then asked, ‘Still want to touch my spikes?’

‘Yes please.’

Sergei leaned forward and Mort placed his hands lightly on top. ‘They tickle my palms. It feels great. I wish I had hair like this.’

‘I wouldn’t like the competition.’

‘I could never be as handsome as you.’

‘As the fox taught the crow; people who flatter, live at the expense of those who believe them. You don’t fool me, young man. I know what you’re up to.’

Something in Sergei’s manner sent Mort’s heart pounding. He wasn’t sure himself what he was up to, he only knew he wanted to spend more time with this guy. As nonchalantly as he could manage he asked, ‘Do you like what I’m up to?’

‘So far.’

Which didn’t clarify anything. They continued walking, chatting easily about keeping fit, running and self-defence. At the gate, Mort asked impulsively, ‘Can we often talk like this?’

Sergei was already astride his bike. ‘Unfortunately, no. I’m a senior and you’re a junior. If people thought we were friends they’d assume we were queer and we’d be dead meat. Sorry.’ He started to ride off, then stopped, put one foot on the ground and turned his body. ‘I throw the javelin and discus, and don’t trust anyone but me with them, so I usually take charge of the rest of the gear after practice as well; feel like assisting me?’

‘Yeah! That’d be great!’

‘Good.’ Sergei thought for a second. ‘At the practice tomorrow I’ll ask if anyone wants to be my assistant. I’ll make it sound dull and time consuming, but in case anyone else wants the job, make sure you’re ready so that the second I finish asking the question you stick your hand up, then I can say you were first and no one will guess it’s a set up.’

‘Brilliant!’

28 Sergei

There was no competition for the position of general dogsbody in the Athletics Club, and no raised eyebrows when Sergei and Mort spent time together in the small storage room behind the grandstand; sorting, cleaning and preparing tapes, batons, hurdles, shot-put balls and other gear. On that first afternoon after checking the gear, they sat and faced each other on a couple of old mats they’d brought over from the gymnastics store.

Mort spoke first. ‘Why did you wink at me?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that. Because I felt as if I already knew you... as if we shared something. I can’t explain it. I spend most of my time fending off people, not letting them get to know me because I don’t trust them, and then I bloody well winked at the prettiest boy in the room. Crazy. What about you? How did you dare to ask if you could touch my hair? Don’t you know how fragile young male egos are? Anyone else would have thumped you, snarled that you were a fucking queer and demanded you be dumped from the team.’

Mort shrugged. ‘It’s the same with me. I just knew, inside me, I could trust you. I’ve had three good friends and it was the same... I knew instantly I liked them. If you’d turned nasty I’d have made a joke about it, said I was just testing or something.’

‘So, did you really want to touch my hair, or were you just testing the waters, so to speak?’

‘Oh, I really wanted to. I want to touch all of you. I’d like to...’ He stopped, blushed and looked at his feet.

‘Is there a quid pro quo for me?’

‘Quid pro what?’

‘What do I get in exchange?’

‘What would you like?’

‘Well… surely I should be allowed the same liberties as you? That’ll make you careful not to do anything you wouldn’t like done to yourself.’

‘Oh! I’d never do anything bad!’ Mort was embarrassed. Then turned red, felt hot and lost for words. Heart pounding he looked into Sergei’s eyes. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay what?’

‘Whatever I do, you can do.’

With a slow smile, Sergei ran long fingers through Mort’s shoulder length black hair, holding it up and letting it fall softly. ‘This is too beautiful to cut. It frames your face and makes you look handsome, so if you cut it short our deal’s off.’

Mort grinned his pleasure, reached out and stroked Sergei’s cheek and jaw. ‘It feels like sandpaper, rough and sexy. I hope I have a heavy beard like you one day, but I haven’t even got any hair on my…’ he stopped, suddenly realising what he was saying. Sergei would think he was rude.

‘Your balls? That’s good. Sleek and smooth is cool.’ He reached forward and stroked Mort’s cheek. ‘Like a baby’s bottom.’

They both laughed.

‘Do I have to ask before touching you?’

‘Ah... Rules. There must be rules because we’re doing something that could end badly if others find out. Rule one, never to be broken, is: Never treat each other as friends in public or at school. I’m seventeen, four years older than you, so it would ring the alarm bells of every god-fearing person if they guessed we liked each other, okay?’

‘Yes, it’s sensible, but when are we not in public?’

‘Here after practise, and… we’ll find times. Now, Rule two: We both must check that the door is locked with the key left in the lock so we’re not disturbed. And Rule three, we don’t have to ask before touching, but only you may initiate a new type of touching, because if I do something you’re not comfortable with, then we’ll have a problem because you’ll think you have to go along with it because I’m older.’

Mort considered this. ‘Fair enough. I’m really ignorant. You’re the first man I’ve wanted to touch like this.’ With a nervous smile he lightly brushed the outside of Sergei’s thighs with his fingertips.

Sergei smiled and leaned back on his elbows.

Gaining confidence, Mort shuffled closer, knelt beside his friend’s chest, leaned across and lightly kissed him before sitting back to see the result.

Sergei smiled dreamily. ‘So that’s what it’s supposed to feel like. My girlfriend wants to do it all the time, but this is the first time I’ve enjoyed it. Do it again?’

‘Serious?’

‘Yep.’

They lay side by side kissing and fondling. After a while, both lay flat on their backs gazing up at the ceiling, arms and thighs touching.

‘It’s much nicer than I expected,’ Mort said.

‘Mmm... I’ve still got a hard on.’

‘Can I...?’

‘You don’t have to ask, remember.’

Within seconds, shorts, singlets and running shoes were in a pile and by the time they’d satisfied their curiosity, including how far each could ejaculate, it was late and they had to hurry.

At home over dinner Mort told Marshall everything. The pleasure was rekindled in the telling.

‘Sounds exactly what you’ve been wanting,’ Marshall remarked with an amused nod. ‘You’re lucky.’

‘I am.’

‘And you’ll see him twice a week after athletics practice.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Want to invite him here?’

Mort thought this over. ‘He’s a senior. If anyone finds out, we’re dead. And I like doing sexy things with him, but we’ve not much in common. He’s more into sports stuff than me, and he likes parties and dancing. I don’t because I feel as though I don’t exist if there are more than two or three people in a room. He’s popular, I’m not. It’s the first time for both of us and I reckon he’s going to lose interest in me pretty soon.’

‘Does that worry you?’

Mort laughed. ‘Of course not! I feel so different now I know I’m not an ugly oddball that no one would ever want to touch. I’ve already seen a boy in my class who’s a bit like me.’

‘You mean gay?’

‘No! I hate that word. Leo did too. He said if you tell people you’re gay they’ll assume you’re a scatty queen or prancing fairy who wears women’s clothes at home. I’m…’ Mort thought for a bit then smiled. ‘I think these are Leo’s actual words; I’m a sexual animal, like most other living creatures, and, like about ten percent of males I prefer to be sexy with my own sex.’

‘Yes, that sounds like Leo. I do miss him.’

‘Me too,’ Mort said sadly, and sniffed. ‘I miss Fystie even more. Even though he wasn’t queer we understood each other in ways Sergei and I never would. We’d bore each other to death if we spent much time together.’

Mort easily retained his place in the middle of the class academically, and soon changed his opinion of most of his teachers and fellow students, including many of the girls, deciding they weren’t such a bad bunch after all. The athletics team did reasonably well in the Saturday meets, coming third in the inter-secondary schools competition. During the season Mort won seven, hundred-metre races, and six two-hundred-metre events, so he was satisfied. When the holidays arrived he shook hands with Sergei and said it had been fun.

The classmate he’d told Marshall about was the same age as Mort. Quiet and tall with dead straight light brown hair, an incipient moustache he had to shave every third day, runner’s legs, wary hazel eyes and an extraordinary ability to be overlooked. When teams were picked for playground games, no one thought of Zoltan, who was not interested anyway. When teachers chose students for jobs, Zoltan was always left reading quietly in the back corner. Mort, however, had noticed the way Zoltan looked at him and began sitting beside him in class.

Before long they’d share a complicit wink and slip a hand into the other’s nearest pocket, keeping a record of who was first to get a hard on. Zoltan was the first to remove the lining of his pocket, making for a much more sensitive experience. They discovered a surprising number of similarities of taste — Science fiction, concern for nature, walking, the bombastic music of Tchaikovsky and Handel, greasy fish and chips, mucking around in the water.

In the new term they both took up Cross-country running as a way of avoiding thuggish team sports like rugby and league. The teacher, Mr. Caprine, a lean, long-legged, unsmiling but not unfriendly man in his late thirties who taught physics, would hand each runner a map and compass, discuss possible hazards, check they had water bottles and whistles, running shoes and shorts, then squeeze ten boys into his Land Rover and drive to a nearby forestry reserve or national park.

They were supposed to remain in pairs, although they seldom did, being rabid individualists, and no times were recorded because Mr. Caprine reckoned competition destroyed the intrinsic pleasure to be gained from an activity. The routes were always circular; starting and finishing in the same place, and the students took off at two-minute intervals wearing the regulation brief nylon shorts for freedom of leg movement, and light, strong jogging shoes. As the routes were usually under the shade of trees, the boys copied their teacher and ran shirtless so as not to overheat.

Mr. Caprine aroused neither positive nor negative emotions in his charges. Out of sight, out of mind would describe their attitude to him, and that suited him perfectly. He liked teaching, but craved privacy. Other staff members thought him standoffish and left him alone, which was a relief. He only ever felt truly alive when running fast and free through nature, over rocks, along beaches, across barren tracts of land, along faint forest tracks.

About a quarter of an hour after the last runner took off, he would lock his vehicle and follow to make sure no one was in trouble.

The runners had an hour to get back to the van. How they filled in those sixty minutes was up to them — the teacher hoped they’d take some time to sit and contemplate nature, but mostly they simply ran flat out, then relaxed near the Land Rover until everyone else returned.

Mort and Zoltan always ran together as fast as they could to give them time to find a hidden spot and jerk each other off.

Marshall agreed to a sleepover. Zoltan enjoyed the meal and was impressed with the apartment, but wouldn’t like having no real garden. He and Marshall got on well, and he was jealous of Mort’s private bathroom. On one of the weekend camping trips he shared a pup tent with Mort. Marshall was pleased to have a tent on his own for a change.

On the fifth cross-country run, the two lads found a pleasant private spot as usual in which to relax. Mort was lying with his eyes closed on his back groaning softly while Zoltan performed an expert fellatio. He opened his eyes and Mr. Caprine was standing directly behind Zoltan with an odd expression on his face. He put a finger to his lips, winked, then with a smile, vanished. It was the first time Mort had seen him smile. The knowledge that he’d been watched by someone who found it amusing made him feel sexier and the orgasm was better than usual. He decided not to tell Zoltan because he’d imagine all sorts of problems.

Back at the meeting place and the following days in class, both teacher and pupil acted as if nothing unusual had occurred — which, Marshall assured him, was the case. Clearly, Mr. Caprine was a fine man.

‘My mother’s not like Marshall,’ Zoltan warned after having invited Mort for a return sleepover.

‘Not surprising, seeing she’s a woman. What’s your father like?

‘Me, I suppose. Haven’t seen him for three years. He and Mum split when she told him he was a messy, irrational and useless heathen. I went to live with him for a year but his new wife got up my nose — or I got up hers. So I was sent back to Mum who made it plain she preferred life without me.’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Yes. At the airport while we were waiting to collect my luggage. She hoped I hadn’t picked up my father’s slack habits, and if I didn’t want to be put up for auction I’d go to church with her and do as I was told.’

‘She speaks her mind.’

‘Yes, and often makes people very upset. So you’re prepared. Try not to be upset if she says something that makes you feel rotten. Think of it as a variation on Tourette's syndrome — where a person suddenly swears and uses filthy words.’

‘I’ll try to be understanding. Meanwhile, you’re at her mercy?’

‘Yeah. I can do whatever I want, as long as it’s what she wants.’

‘Poor you.’

‘Sounds worse than it is. Usually she’s not interested enough to care. Then suddenly she’ll decide to be a parent and I have to toe the line. She’s been okay for a while; I hope it lasts. She owns a health food store in the city. Has half a dozen employees who’ve been with her for years, so she can’t be a total nutter, it’s just that I’d like you to come for a sleepover, but I don’t want you to be shocked if she says something horrible.’

‘About what?’

‘You never know what will set her off. A while ago it was cleanliness and she’d inspect me after every bath.’

‘So that’s why you smell so nice.’

‘Do I?’

‘Mmm...can’t wait to smell your sexy armpits.’

‘Fuck, the bell’s just gone and now I’ve got a boner! Can’t hide it in these shorts.’

29 Zoltan’s Mother

On Saturday morning Zoltan and Mort had the run of the house while his mother was at the shop. It was a low, ranch-style place with a shallow front garden jammed full of native shrubs that concealed the house from the road. The rear garden was the same only larger — a quarter acre of trees and shrubs crisscrossed by meandering sandy paths. A patio beside the house held a small, free-form saltwater pool in which the boys swam and splashed until it was time to make lunch in an ultra modern kitchen. Zoltan proved to be a competent cook.

At one o’clock a dark blue Subaru sports car drew into the carport. Mrs. Etroit looked pleasantly normal. Medium height, slender build, wavy auburn hair cut shorter than Mort’s but longer than her son’s. Symmetrical face with no makeup, eyebrows not plucked, small gold studs in earlobes, slender hands with long fingers, short finger nails. No rings.

‘Smells good,’ she said passing bags of groceries to the boys. ‘You must be Mortaumal,’ she announced with no attempt at warmth. ‘The boy Zoltan’s in love with.’

‘Mum!!!’ He turned anguished eyes to Mort. ‘She’s joking.’

‘No she isn’t,’ his mother stated brusquely, marching into the house.

Mort frowned. ‘Are you?’

‘No! Yes! I don’t know. I like you a lot and I guess I talk about you all the time, but hell, I don’t even know what love is. If what I feel for my parents is love, then I certainly don’t love you. Does it matter?’

‘It’s just that that when people say they love you, they expect you to think like they do and like what they like and so on. They think they can tell you how to live and what to do. At least that’s how my grandmother was before she went crazy. She said it was because she loved me.’

‘I’m not like that, Mort! I like you because you’re different from me. I sit and smoulder but you let loose with your verbal flamethrower when you feel like it. It’s okay, I don’t expect you to love me, I’m not totally stupid.’

‘Lets settle for that awful American expression... fuck friends.’

‘You mean fuck buddies?’

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

‘Except we haven’t fucked.’

‘Yet.’

Laughter concealed nervous excitement and images the f word triggered, as well as a sense of foreboding.

After lunch, Mrs. Etroit took them to an old people’s home run by her church, where she was welcomed by a servile Matron who led them along urine-scented corridors to the recreation room. Mrs. Etroit gazed around the depressing space as if inspecting her troops, nodding vaguely at anyone who evinced the slightest interest. A covey of crones in soiled bibs were draped over mismatching, wooden armed, vinyl-upholstered armchairs. Others were in wheelchairs. They gazed in bewilderment at each other and the visitors, as if wondering where they were, while two nursing aides wiped dribble from their chins, plumped cushions behind them, and made no attempt to rouse those who were either asleep or preferred to sit and dream, wisely allowing their decay to continue without hindrance.

After a short wander around the room, heels clacking unpleasantly on the wooden floor, Zoltan’s mother arrived at an upright piano, wiped the seat with her handkerchief, sat, opened the lid, took a pile of sheet music from her capacious handbag, selected several pieces and placed them in order on the holder.

With a sudden pouncing movement she played five crashing chords, causing everyone to jump. Those who had been nodding off gazed around in fear; seriously disoriented.

Playing confidently, though with little subtlety while Zoltan turned pages, his mother hammered out a series of rousing hymns urging the soldiers of Christ to get a move on, beseeching Jesus to save their souls, and instructing them to lift up their hearts in praise of a vision of Jerusalem. About a dozen quavering voices were fortified by the two nursing assistants whose ability to hold a tune didn’t match their apparent enthusiasm.

Mort crept from the room, unable to bear such inane attempts to instil gaiety in people whose interests had obviously moved beyond such emotions. His heart filled with pity and he wondered how his grandmother was doing — if she was still alive. His grandfather had made the right choice — get out while he could do it himself and retain his self respect. To force people to end their lives like this was possibly the most degrading thing you could do to them.

In a small courtyard he found two ancient men in wheelchairs, one with no legs, the other with one arm and a neck brace.

Mort greeted them pleasantly and introduced himself.

‘You’re missing the singing,’ One arm said with a wry smile.

‘Unfortunately, we’re not; the caterwauling is audible from here,’ Legless snarled. ‘And the way that tart hammers the keys is enough to destroy anyone’s pleasure in music.’

‘If she wasn’t one of the owners of the place she’d never be let in.’

‘Surely,’ Mort said, astonished at their honesty, ‘she’s trying her best?’

‘She’s always nagging at us to go to her bloody church, telling us we’re ungodly heathens who will go to hell and fry for eternity. She gives me nightmares sometimes. Stupid, I know, but she’s so positive she’s right. And she shouts. The other day she grabbed me by the ear and shook my head; it hurt for hours afterwards.’

‘‘Didn’t you complain?’

‘She runs this place. Matron’s scared of her.’

‘Mind you, I’d go and watch if she did a striptease,’ One arm said in an effort to lighten the mood.

‘I’d sooner watch her hang herself.’

‘If you don’t like it here, can’t you…?’ Mort left the question hanging.

‘Would you like it? But what’s the alternative? Our children say they haven’t enough room in their houses, and their kids think we’re a waste of space. We can’t live alone, we’re not allowed access to any drug that would put us out of our misery, and we’re stuck here because we didn’t read the fine print and bought a strata title to our rooms that we can’t bloody sell, so we can’t afford to pay for anywhere else.’

‘Why didn’t you jump off a bridge, or tie a rock round your foot and leap into the sea while you still could?’

‘Bloody good question,’ Legless said appreciatively. ‘You’re a smart fellow! I often ask myself the same thing. The trouble is that as you age things only slowly get worse so you keep putting up with the changes without realising you’re running out of time and options. It seems silly to jump ship too soon, but by the time you’re ready it’s too late and you can’t climb onto the railings, or make your way out to deep water, or buy a gun to do it neatly.’ He sniffed and looked searchingly at Mort as if seeking confirmation of something. ‘Actually… I did try... and would have died when my legs were sliced off by the train,’ he continued softly. ‘But the bastards revived me despite an Advance Health Directive I’d signed with my doctor. So instead of jumping ship, I’m stuck here labelled as a mentally unstable depressive, which makes further attempts to do things impossible. I’m a fucking prisoner! When I got pneumonia they gave me penicillin! When I stopped eating they shoved a tube up my nose and into my stomach. That was more painful than my legs! I’ve been begging them to let me die for years.’ He fell silent.

Mort felt as if his heart had been wrenched out of his chest.

‘It’s as if those bloody politicians want to torture people. They’ll happily send planes and soldiers overseas to bomb, shoot and murder innocents, but won’t let people like me decide for themselves when they’ve had enough.’ One arm shook his head. ‘It’s enough to make you spit. I’m legally allowed to kill myself, but the only means I’m allowed are messy, dangerous and uncertain. So I’ll need help to do the dirty deed. But if anyone helps me, they’ll be done for murder.’

‘I understand... I really do,’ Mort said with such heartfelt emotion the two men looked at him strangely.

‘You know about this then?’

Mort nodded. Unable to speak.

At that moment Matron arrived. ‘Ah there you are, Mortaumal. Mrs. Etroit was worried you’d got lost. I hope George and John haven’t been telling you tall stories.’

‘No. It’s been very interesting.’ He turned and with great seriousness shook each man’s hand. ‘Thank you for talking so honestly with me. I would like to visit you again one day, if that’s okay?’

‘Very okay. A sensible young man like you is always welcome.’

The matron was becoming twitchy. ‘Hurry along now, Mortaumal.’

As they traversed the corridors she observed that the Home was very fortunate to have the patronage of Mrs. Etroit — such a lovely lady. So kind and thoughtful. So understanding. Such an upstanding Christian woman.

Mortaumal thought the lady protested her appreciation rather too emphatically.

Afternoon tea was underway and the boys handed round biscuits and mugs of weak coffee or tea – it was impossible to tell the difference. Both departed the establishment depressed, whereas Mrs. Etroit’s batteries seemed to have been recharged by the experience and she droned on about the trip to a farm she was planning for the old folk, and the Christmas treats she organised every year.

30 The God Question

The meal that evening would have been delicious had Mort not been badgered by questions he preferred not to answer.

‘We will be going to church tomorrow, I’m reading the bible passage. Are you a regular churchgoer, Mortaumal?’

‘No, I’ve other things to do on Sundays.’

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘Which one?’

‘Don’t be facetious! The one true God. The Christian God.’

‘Grandpa told me humans have worshipped over twenty thousand different gods. I don’t see how I could be expected to know you meant the Christian one. There are loads of gods who’ve been worshipped for longer.’

‘Now you’re being cheeky and deliberately offensive to God and me. You do realise that if you refuse to believe in him you will spend eternity in hell after you die?’

‘Mrs. Etroit,’ Mort said, his face a picture of incredulity, ‘Do you honestly believe there’s an omniscient, omnipotent, invisible man who created the universe and makes sure everything goes according to his plan, and that he cares if I believe in him or not?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how do you know that?’

‘I believe it because I have faith.’

‘But you don’t know. Sometimes when you think about it, don’t you wonder if it’s true?’

‘I don’t need to think about it — I just know.’

‘But it doesn’t make sense to believe something when there’s no proof.’

‘There is proof; it’s in the bible.’

‘Isn’t that just stories written by men to explain things they didn’t understand?’

‘They were guided by God.’

‘How do you know?’

‘They said they were.’

‘And you believe them?’ Mort shook his head in despair.

‘That atheist lawyer, Marshall Trimm has a great deal to answer for, filling your head with all this nonsense!’ she stated angrily. ‘It’s criminal that a ward of the state should be entrusted to a single man like that. A boy needs a mother.’

‘I assure you I do not need a mother! I’d like to have had a father, but I haven’t missed out on much because I’ve been brought up by three of the nicest and bestest men in the world. I can’t imagine anyone nicer than Marshall! No father could be better.’

‘Marshall Trimm has taught you to be godless and therefore without morals.’

‘Marshall and I never talk about religion. It was Grandad who told me about gods and religions. He said that the original religious stories of every religion are more or less the same, and they make sense, because they’re about reality.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, for example... some Bedouins in what Christians call the holy land, say Nature is god and thought is prayer. And that explains everything. The natural world created us through evolution over millions of years, and when we die at least a part of us lives forever, because we rot and become part of the natural world from which we evolved and which has supported us during our life. It’s an endless cycle. And when we think about life, nature, our place in it, and how we should live if we want the natural world to continue to take care of us, then that is the same as praying. The big things in nature like trees and rivers used to be worshipped because nature is our sole means of surviving. When Nature dies, we will die, so we have to revere Nature.’

Mrs. Etroit’s eyes opened wide in horror. ‘That is animism!’ she snarled. ‘You’re a pagan heathen! Christians know the real truth about everything, they understand that it all began with God, and will end with him.’

‘As long as we accept that Nature is God.’

‘That is blasphemy! God is peace and love and perfection.’

‘No,’ Mort insisted nervously. He could see she was upset but hoped to calm her by telling her the truth. ‘There is no peace because men who want power frighten ignorant people by telling them they know what god wants and if they don’t believe he is the one true god they will suffer terribly forever. So they fight with people who believe in a different god, and in the process they're destroying our real creator — Nature.’

‘You’re an animist!’ Mrs. Etroit hissed with enough venom to fell an ox. ‘Never have I heard such egregious nonsense!’

‘Is it bad to be an animist?’ Mort responded with a worried smile.

‘Yes. You will go to hell!’

‘But Marshall says…’

‘Marshall, Marshall... You’re obsessed with that man.’ Mrs. Etroit suddenly stopped, her lips drawn back in an unpleasant sneer. ‘Mr. Trimm is good to you, is he? How good I wonder?’

Mort was unpleasantly reminded of the horrible Mrs. Pettie who had made insinuations about his grandfather. ‘He’s like the best possible father and brother, and I don’t like the way you said that.’

‘And I don’t like your tone, young man. I am showing concern for your welfare. You should be grateful that someone cares about a boy left to the mercy of foster parents. Before Trimm you were living with that male prostitute who murdered his son then suicided, weren’t you? I’m not surprised you’re such an arrogant little heathen, completely unsuitable as a friend for my son who has been raised decently.’

Mort stood, heart pounding in his temples. His head was bursting. He could scarcely breathe. Suddenly his self control broke, not as a shout but as a low growl that caused the hair on Zoltan’s arms to stand up.

‘You are an evil woman, Mrs. Etroit. Even the men at the home we went to this afternoon told me they despise you. You preach love, humility and caring, but you’re full of self-pride, hatred, and bigotry. You lack compassion and are one of the rudest women I’ve ever met. Leo was the kindest, nicest man in the world, and he loved Fystie more than his own life. And I loved Fystie too. And I know that he begged Leo to stop the pain he was in and Leo sacrificed his own life for Fystie. And anyone who thinks like you do is rotten, foul, sick and perverted. I’m not surprised your husband left you and... and I pity Zoltan!’

He ran from the room, slammed the door behind him, threw himself onto his bike and rode as fast as he could back to the sanity of Marshall’s flat.

At school on Monday Zoltan was incoherent with shame. Mort, who had forgotten he’d turned fourteen that morning, told him not to be silly; it wasn’t his fault his mother was such a galah.

But her poison had done its work, and their relationship lost its joyous innocence.

At five-thirty the following Sunday evening, Zoltan appeared at Marshall’s apartment accompanied by a man to whom he bore a striking resemblance. They were both somewhat agitated, so were invited in.

‘I’m Zoltan’s father,’ the man said quietly. ‘He has something to say to Mort.’

‘Mort, I’m so sorry about everything. Mum had me watched by one of the teachers and I was so frightened of her that’s why I sort of ignored you at school. But she was right, the first thing she said to you. I do. But it’s too late now because I’m going to Perth with Dad because…’ overtaken by the shakes, Zoltan stopped mid sentence.

Mr. Etroit was watching the exchange with a frown, as if hoping it wasn’t what it looked like.

Mort gave him a glance of contempt, resisted the urge to hug his lover, shook his hand manfully and, with his back to the father, pursed his lips in a secret kiss and soft smile. ‘I understand, Zoltan, and there’s no need to apologise, honestly. I still think you’re a great guy. I’m glad you’re going to live with your father, but it’s a shame it’s so far away. What about your mother?’

‘That’s the second reason we’re here,’ Mr. Etroit said with a frown, still staring watchfully at his son and his strange too-clever friend. ‘It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, but Zoltan wanted to tell you first. My ex-wife was murdered yesterday at the old people’s home where she liked to play queen. George, an old bloke with no legs, lashed out with a sharpened spoon and sliced through her jugular, then wheeled himself away without telling anyone, so she was dead by the time they found her.’

‘I know George!’ Mort said excitedly. ‘I spoke to him that day we went there. He is really nice, but he hated your wife because she was always trying to make him go to church and telling him he was an evil old heathen and would go to hell. What will happen to him?’

‘He’ll be declared criminally insane and locked away. When questioned he said he wanted the death penalty because he was a murderer; but of course we’re a humane society and don’t do the Old Testament eye for an eye any more.’

‘Oh, the poor man,’ Mort said with feeling. ‘That’s one of the things he was so angry about, he wasn’t allowed to die. Every time he should have died like when his legs were cut off and when he got pneumonia, he was taken to hospital and brought back to life. He’s been begging to die for years. Poor, poor man. I must visit him and tell him I admire him.’

The others were staring in disbelief.

‘What about Zoltan’s mother, Mort? Have you no pity for her?’

‘Of course not. She was a horrible woman. It’s so unfair that she should die while George is condemned to live.’

31 On Top of the Mountain

An ‘Old-boy’ [previous student] who was now a famous rugby player, had been invited to speak to the school during the usual sports periods. To ensure one hundred percent attendance, all sports including cross-country running were cancelled.

‘I have to go running!’ Mort stated to a startled Mr. Caprine whom he’d cornered in the laboratory at the end of the period. ‘I just have to! I’m all tied up inside. Zoltan’s gone. Everyone I liked is dead. I’ve no friends. I think I’ll smash something if I can’t go for a really hard run. I need to exhaust myself. Please, can’t we skip this stupid talk and go for a long hard run — just you and me?’

‘I’d love to, Mort, but I have to sit on stage. How about after school?’

‘Serious?’

‘Serious. I’m not feeling very different from you. As soon as school finishes, meet me at the Land Rover. You’d better tell your parents you might be late home.’

‘I’ll use the office phone.’

‘No way! You’d have to explain why you might be late; the women in the office would hear and start rumours about us. Haven’t you got a mobile?’

‘No, there’s no one I ever want to call and I hate the idea of being available to whoever feels like annoying me.’

‘Here, use mine. Know the number?’

‘Yeah, but I’ve no idea how to use this thing. Will you ring Marshall and tell him for me? He lets me do whatever I like, as long as he knows where I am.’

‘ Marshall?’

‘ Marshall Trimm, my foster father.’

‘You call him Marshall?’

‘What else?’

‘He’s the man you go to the theatre with?’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve seen you both there. And didn’t I see you at the Art Gallery for that exhibition of Chinese landscapes?’

‘Yeah. I tried to paint like that afterwards, it looks so simple, but I was useless — especially when I tried to put in the tiny figures.’

‘You should take art classes and do some life drawing.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. Would you like to come?’

‘Would I? Yes! But ring Marshall now or interval will be over and I’ll be late for class.’

‘You’re right; I should be the one to ring, being the adult. It would look suspicious if I didn’t clear it with him first.’

‘Mr. Trimm? I’m Angelo Caprine, Mortaumal’s physics teacher. He wants to go for a run with me this afternoon after school. We’ll be back by six o’clock, will that be okay?’...‘Yes, just the two of us... Hang on. I’ll put Mort on.’

‘Hey, Marshall. Yeah. It was my idea because I’m feeling so bloody since Zoltan left and Angelo is a really great guy. No, he won’t molest me — unfortunately. Ha ha. Great, see you later.’ He handed the phone back to his teacher. ‘Is it okay if I call you Angelo and you call me Mort?’

‘Of course, as long as no one hears you. I’ve got to be careful of my image. Can’t have the other kids acting as if they’re my equals. He sounds nice, your foster father... did he really ask if I’d molest you?’

‘As a joke. He knows I can handle myself. He’s really nice... but you’re pretty good too.’

‘Shit the road’s rough.’

‘It’s a forestry track. I’ve never seen anyone else up here. This is where I come when I’m feeling sorry for myself. It’s a rather special place, there’s a view and... but I’ll let you discover it for yourself. And I trust you to keep it a secret.’

‘Of course. That’s one of the few things I know how to do, keep secrets.’

‘Hang onto your seat,’ Angelo warned before turning sharply left and heading straight for a stand of tall trees.

Mort thought they were going to crash, but kept silent as they bounced and rocked through a gap just wide enough for the vehicle. Twenty metres further on they stopped and the silence was palpable. Tree frogs first, then birds restarted their afternoon chorus of screams and calls for mates or territorial warnings. The two men got out and stretched.

‘We’re invisible here, and will be until we return. Like it?’

Mort was awed. ‘I didn’t know such a place existed so close to the city. It’s primeval. I feel like an intruder in my school uniform.’

Both were whispering, unconsciously determined not to disturb this world of natural things that humans had rejected in favour of technology.

Angelo’s expression was wary. ‘It’s bizarre you should say that; I always feel the same, so I try to behave as naturally as the rest of the animals.’

Mort’s eyes lit. ‘Sometimes when Marshall and I go camping in the forest, I run around naked if there’s no one else there.’

‘And Marshall doesn’t mind?’

‘He encourages me. Even strips himself sometimes. He’s got a great body for forty-one — a bit pale, but fit and healthy. How old are you?’

‘Thirty-eight.’

‘You look much younger.’

‘And you seem much older than fourteen. Especially the way you talk.’

‘So... let’s be naturists.’

‘Angelo hesitated only a second before grinning and whispering, ‘Let’s... except for the runners. It’s not smart to damage your feet.’

Seconds later, two naked men in running shoes set off along a wallaby track that led up the side of a fairly steep ridge, then turned north to follow it. For the next ten minutes the slope was easy and all Mort had to do was follow, so he had a chance to study his teacher. During the cross country runs he’d not liked to stare in case the other kids noticed, and had been too busy working out the route and keeping up with Zoltan to take a really good look at his teacher. He believed, as did his grandfather, that the body was an accurate indicator of a person’s character, so was pleased to have his first impressions confirmed.

Angelo was lean. Not thin or emaciated, but athletic and wiry... he’d be really tough to eat, Mort decided. No bulging sprinter’s calves or massive thighs hampered his agility. Sinewy, tanned legs sprinkled with short black wiry hairs were perfect for running long distances. His bum, slightly darker than his legs and also slightly hairy, was as lean as the rest of him. The muscles clearly visible stretching and tightening as he ran. The interplay of muscles also rippled across his back as he moved with the agility and grace of a wild animal up the slope, brushing effortlessly through overhanging bushes, glancing from side to side as if to check for danger.

They stopped. Angelo hadn’t even worked up a sweat. Mort was panting, but not seriously.

‘Need a rest? Want me to slow down?’

‘’No way! Where you go I go.’

‘Ten minutes more and there’s a lookout.’

With a grin and a light tap on Mort’s shoulder, he set off again at a slightly faster pace, although the gradient was much steeper.

Mort proudly kept up.

Angelo stopped suddenly. Mort ran into him, stumbled and fell to his knees. Angelo took his arm and pulled him upright, steadying him.

‘You’re amazingly fit! We both must take care now because there’s a vertical drop in ten metres, so keep behind me until I tell you it’s safe.’

They pushed through scrubby growth to their right and suddenly were standing on the edge of the world. A stupendous view opened out before them. On either side steep crags and densely treed slopes. Far below, the flash of a stream between folds of forested hills and valleys. Then farmland crossed by roads, and in the distance the murky air of the city with its mess of commercial buildings, backed by a twinkling ocean.

Angelo stood behind Mort with his hands firmly on his shoulders as if to prevent him leaping off. Mort pressed himself back into the protection of his partner’s body, relaxing as strong, hairy arms wrapped around him, keeping him safe. Safe from what, Mort wouldn’t have been able to say, but increasingly he’d been feeling as if he was tottering on the brink of a precipice... in danger of... of what? Of falling and dashing himself onto whatever was at the bottom? It was all in his head — he knew that, but for the moment at least there was someone behind him, protecting him from himself.

He could feel Angelo’s heart beating... unhurried... relaxing. He was aware of the rise and fall of his protector’s chest. Angelo’s breath tickled Mort’s cheek. Mort took a large breath, sucking in the same air Angelo had just expelled. It was warm, moist and sweet. The two men remained thus gazing out to eternity for several minutes, contemplating the enormity. Enjoying uncomplicated intimacy.

Reluctantly, Angelo released Mort and stepped back.

Mort felt a wrench of loss, and shivered.

‘You okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘What do you think?’

‘At first it’s awe-inspiring; what the Victorians would have described as sublime. But…’

‘But what?’

‘But modern science and technology have made nonsense of such descriptors. We know too much about the world; how the land was formed, eroded, changed.... And on closer inspection you can see that this nature is not held in awe by the inhabitants; they’ve blasted, cleared, constructed and destroyed not only the natural habitat, but also the ancient gods and fabulous creatures that dwelt here.’

Silence.

‘So... you don’t like it?’

‘I adore it! It’s wonderful. I feel as if I’m flying and if you hadn’t stood behind and held me, I might have thrown myself off. I was in the mood to do that this morning.’

‘As was I. But that first bit about science and stuff... where did you learn to speak and think like that?’

‘I read all the time. Marshall has a brilliant library — wall-to-wall books, loads of old one’s his grandfather collected. That bit was from a comparison of John Ruskin’s ideas and contemporary criticism. It just seemed to fit.’

Angelo was unable to hide his grin. ‘You’re astonishing the way you think about things. Makes me feel stupid.’

‘You’re not stupid! You’re an intelligent, kind and considerate work of art.’

‘I’m not going to ask what you mean by that. Come on, only another ten minutes to the top.’

A large, smooth slab of granite lay in a slight hollow, surrounded by scraggy, windswept trees that were home to a large paper-wasp nest and a host of brown butterflies. They dropped onto the warm rock and relaxed.

‘I reckon it’s about four o’clock. That gives us an hour to unwind and rekindle our love of life.’

Mort considered this. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a love of life. I’ve enjoyed bits here and there, but mostly I wish I’d not been born... it doesn’t seem worth the fuss.’

‘If any other fourteen year-old said that I’d be worried he was suicidal. But I suppose you’ve arrived at this conclusion through a rational process and logical thinking?’

‘Of course.’

‘Does the religious idea of purpose make sense to you?’

‘You mean being a faithful servant of god so you don’t annoy the puerile old fool and he’ll let you go to heaven? They don’t even believe it themselves. They’re all shit scared of dying.’

‘You said you had no friends... why’s that? You’re an attractive, personable young man. The other kids respect you and certainly don’t make fun of you.’

‘I’ve no friends because now Zoltan’s gone I don’t know anyone else my age I like, or have anything in common with. Most seem like babies. I guess it’s because I’ve mainly mixed with adults. It’s not surprising I’m not fussed about friends... after all, I don’t even like myself very much. My mother didn’t want me — disappeared the day I was born. Grandma didn’t want me. Grandad said he wanted me, but I know I was a lot of work, especially when he got sick. Leo liked me around because I made his son happier. Marshall likes having me live there because he’s lonely and it makes him feel useful, but what he really needs is someone more his own age to love and share things with. By living there, I’m preventing him from finding a partner, which is depressing. As for kids not making fun of me, that’s because I’m capable of maiming anyone who thinks they can make me do what I don’t want. They know it and are frightened I’ll smash their faces in.’

Would you?’

‘Instantly, if anyone tried to bully me. I’m also for the death penalty for violent crime, as long as there’s not a smidgen of doubt about guilt.’

‘Also for murder?’

‘Not unless it’s a by-product of the violent crime — done for personal gain. People often murder for specific reasons, and as some of those are valid, it would be silly to punish the person who removes an evildoer.’

‘What would be a valid reason for murder?’

‘If someone makes an innocent person’s life a misery through either psychological or physical means, or both. Cruelty should not be tolerated.’

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Immediately after the climb and standing on the edge of the world, I felt euphoric. Now I’m back to feeling as if I want to tear myself in pieces, violently... to get rid of whatever it is inside that makes me feel dead. It’s got worse since Zoltan left.’

‘Have you told Marshall?’

‘He’s a busy lawyer. My problems aren’t real. I’m a very lucky person. He does more than enough for me. There’s no way I’m going to burden him with my pathetic ennui. Because that’s all it is.’

‘This morning... why did you demand I take you on a run?’

‘I felt rotten. You looked so sexy during class and I had a fantasy that we’d go somewhere private, like I used to with Zoltan, and you’d fuck me. Shocked?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve recently read Mary Renault’s ‘Last of the Wine’ and in it an older boy fucks his younger lover because they believed that the manliness of the older would be transferred to the younger via the sperm. In the same way as people used to think that eating brains would make you cleverer, or cannibals thought they’d gain some of the power of their opponents by eating them. I admire you, and would love to have some of your qualities, so thought it’d be worth a try. Also... it seems like an experience every man should have at some point. Touching skin is fine, but to have someone actually inside you, emptying their vital juices into your body seems rather poetic.’

‘About as poetic as a penicillin injection. Anyway, technically, the alimentary canal from the mouth to the anus is not internal, it’s like a tunnel, open at both ends. You can’t say you’ve been inside the earth if all you’ve done is walk through a storm drain under the motorway.’

‘Angelo! You’re so prosaic. The French apparently take some medicines anally, because it is more rapidly absorbed. Do you think I’d derive some benefit from an injection of your protein enriched sperm?’

‘No sensible person fucks strangers without a condom. But you could suck me off and swallow.’

‘It wouldn’t have the same romance, and I think I’d gag... I loathe slimy food. I wanted to be a passive, pliant, languishing lover.’

‘Not your style, you’re an assertive young prick.’

‘Wanna be pricked by me?’

Angelo laughed. Not an ordinary laugh, but a sudden, uncontrolled almost hysterical bout of laughter that left him breathless, gasping. As soon as he started to say something, he’d start laughing again.

‘Oh! My sides. I hurt. You’ve ruined me. I can’t breathe…’ He lay back, his whole body twitching with the effort to stop laughing. Finally he took a deep breath. Held it, then relaxed.

‘I didn’t think it was that funny,’ Mort remarked with a wry grin.

‘It was and wasn’t. You triggered a catharsis. I’ve been wound up tight, a coiled spring, a stretched wire, a…’

‘Apologies for interrupting this string of clichés, but how can you be both coiled tight and stretched?’

‘Mort! I love you! You’re a breath of fresh air, a…’

‘Don’t tell me...I’m better than a glass of cold water, I’m a fountain of delight, I’ve released the safety catch on your shotgun and now you’re firing on all four cylinders. I’ve breached the dam and freed your emotions to billow forth and suffocate your enemies?’

They lay side by side in silence, breathing softly, occasionally giggling. After a few minutes Angelo gave a large sigh, sat up and gazed down on his young friend.

‘Thanks, Mort.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘It’s another cliché, but I’ve been repressing just about everything about myself, pretending I was someone I’m not, worried I’d be rejected if anyone found out I wasn’t like them. But this afternoon I’ve discovered that someone I like knows who and what I am, yet still likes me. I think I’ve been a foolish coward.’

‘But a very nice one.’

‘How can I repay you?’

‘A kiss will do.’

‘You strike a hard bargain.’ Angelo leaned over and looked into Mort’s eyes for a few seconds before lowering his head and letting their lips brush lightly, before lying back.

‘That was nice. Much better than feeling as if the other person’s trying to eat your face like they do in the movies. Must be terrifying to have someone shove a wide drooling mouth onto your face. I hate wet and sticky.’ Mort raised himself on his right elbow and stared down at Angelo. ‘Now for your reward for such a fine osculation.’

‘Osculation? Elucidate please.’

‘It’s a humorous way to say kiss, from Latin. I read it yesterday in a book of poems by Victorians. The clouds were osculating in the heavens. Now my fingers will osculate your fine furry flesh.’

Angelo failed to suppress a belly laugh as, with light fingers Mort traced along his inner thigh, lightly brushing the scrotum and flaccid penis, then up the line of hair to the chest where each nipple was granted a slight tickle, causing his patient to twitch. Rolling onto hands and knees Mort straddled his target, allowing both penises to osculate gently before he sank onto the body beneath, head nestled in the hollow between shoulder and cheek.

‘So... do you still feel like ripping your insides out and being fucked?’

Mort laughed quietly. ‘No. I fear I have a penchant for histrionics. All I needed was to talk freely as we’ve done. To say all sorts of sexy, silly, nonsense things and know the person I was saying them to didn’t think I was a nut case. And I think you like me. That’s the main thing, isn’t it? To know you are liked by the few people you also like. What about you? Are you still feeling depressed?’

‘No. I feel calm and relaxed, as if I have the strength to dare to be myself, and not to care overmuch what others think of me — especially as they usually aren’t.’

‘Aren’t what?’

‘Thinking about me.’

‘Thanks for bringing me here.’

‘Thanks for coming.’

32 Marshall meets Angelo

‘I’m all sticky, scratched and dusty, so I’m not putting my school uniform on.’

‘You can’t go home naked!’

‘If course I can, and so should you, you’ll ruin your good clothes if you put them over that filthy body. There’s a towel in the back, hang on.’ Mort clambered into the back of the Land Rover and retrieved a towel. ‘Here, wrap this around your loins if you’re shy. If anyone sees you they’ll think you’ve just come back from the beach.’

‘Fair enough. But if we have an accident, I don’t know you.’

‘Fair-weather friend, I see.’

Thirty minutes later the Land Rover pulled into the empty parking lot behind the office.

Mort got out and had just turned towards the door leading up to the flat, when he heard the crunch of Angelo putting the vehicle into reverse. He raced back and opened the passenger door. ‘You can’t leave! Marshall’s expecting you.’

‘No way! I’ll come and see him tomorrow. It’s late and I have things to do at home.’

‘Huh! So much for your newfound self confidence!’ Leaving the door wide open, Mort shrugged and stared accusingly.

‘I’m sorry, Mort,’ Angelo said, undoing his safety belt so he could lean across to close the passenger door.

While he fumbled, Mort raced round to the driver’s side, reached in and grabbed the ignition key. ‘I’m sorry, Angelo, Marshall made me promise I’d introduce you to him tonight. That was a condition of letting me go with you. You don’t want him to think you’re a child-molesting pervert ashamed to show your face to the in-loco parent of your innocent young charge, do you?’

With a laugh, the naked faun skipped around the vehicle, ran to the door where Marshall was now standing, threw the keys inside, then waited just outside, patting his knees as if cajoling a reluctant dog.

Nervously, Angelo wrapped his towel tighter, got out and slammed the doors, then scurried across to join Mort in the entrance hall.

With the exaggerated severity of a stern father, Marshall checked his watch. ‘Two minutes to six, good. I don’t trust my ward with people who are careless with the time.’

Mort laughed at Angelo’s expression of nervous bewilderment. ‘Marshall, this is my physics and cross-country teacher, Angelo. Angelo, allow me to introduce you to my best friend and official protector, Marshall.’

With cautious smiles, both men shook hands and assured each other they were pleased to meet.

‘Haven’t we met before? I feel as if I know you,’ Marshall remarked.

‘I’ve seen you both at the theatre, and recently at the Art Gallery.’

‘You should have introduced yourself.’

‘That would have been impertinent, I wasn’t friends with Mort then.’

Marshall nodded sagely.

‘We’re filthy from the best run I’ve ever had,’ Mort interrupted, ‘so we’ll take a shower while you finish the meal, okay?’

‘Yes your lordship. Will there be anything else?’

‘Mort! You can’t just invite me like that. I…’

‘Of course he can,’ Marshall interrupted pleasantly. This is his home, and I also want you to stay so I can check out the man who apparently thinks its okay to bring my innocent young ward home naked after a date. Highly irregular, what?’

‘But…’

‘Go on the pair of you, shower off all that dust and muck, then meet me on the roof for a soak in the spa. Dinner won’t be ready for at least half an hour.’

‘But my clothes are out in the Land Rover and Mort has the keys.’

‘Clothes would spoil the symmetry of your masculine physique, Angelo.’ With a sly smile Marshall retreated to the kitchen, and the others to Mort’s bathroom. Ten minutes later they were shaking off the drips when Angelo had a crisis of confidence.

‘Surely I should at least wrap a towel around me, and what’ll I wear in the spa?’

The same as Marshall and me. Come on, don’t make me force you.’

‘You’re a pushy young bugger, Mort. You win… for now.’ Angelo gave a theatrical sigh, tugged his foreskin down to ensure it covered his knob, checked himself in the mirror and shrugged in mock resignation. ‘Lead on Wunderkind.’

Marshall was already in the pool sipping a drink. A jug of fruit juice and two glasses were on a table within reach of the bathers.

Angelo was suitably impressed with everything, but kept worrying about later... at dinner. It was all very well for Mort to wander naked into his own dining room and eat, but he was a stranger, and it was the first time he and Marshall had met, so it’d be rude to…

Marshall allowed the protests to peter out, then, as if seriously concerned, said, ‘Angelo, please try not to panic, it interferes with rational thinking.’

‘But…’

‘I wasn’t joking when I admired your symmetry. The saying, clothes maketh the man, should be, clothes turneth beautiful men into dull conformists. So cut the crap and relax.’

Angelo grinned and obeyed.

Half an hour later, small towels protected the tapestry seats of antique chairs from the bare bums of three men who declared the meal edible, the wine light and liberating, the company delightful, and the conversation witty, varied, and stimulating.

After clearing away and doing the dishes, the two older men drank coffee in the lounge. Mort smiled at the memory of Marshall and Leo’s performance, downed his fruit juice then pleaded a load of homework, leaving the other two laughing, swapping stories, comparing impressions of theatre shows and, once certain he was out of the way, discussing the remarkable young man who had so brilliantly and, they realised, deliberately engineered their meeting.

The following morning Mort carried a tray of tea and biscuits into Marshall’s bedroom where, as he had hoped, two naked bodies were barely concealed by sheets on the antique double bed in which, according to Marshall, he had been conceived.

Over breakfast, Mort was asked if he had any objections to Angelo visiting more frequently — perhaps even moving in eventually when the lease on his apartment ran out.

For the first time anyone could remember, Mort found no words to express his pleasure.

33 Perdita

Both Marshall and Angelo had enough experience, and sufficient intelligence, to know a good thing when they met it, and neither saw any point in waiting longer than absolutely necessary. To Mort’s delight, two weeks after their first meeting Angelo was securely installed in Marshall’s bed, with his clothes and everything else he owned jammed into the third bedroom until they worked out what to keep.

After school on a Friday afternoon a few weeks later, Mort watched from the lounge room window as a green convertible pulled up in front of the building. A woman in high heels and tight skirt got out and strode into the offices of Trimm, Kutt & Payste, Lawyers. The sight was unsettling. He felt as if he’d seen something of importance but failed to understand what it was.

He was changing from school uniform into a pair of old shorts when the realisation hit. She reminded him of his grandmother; mainly in the way she walked. As if she expected to get what she wanted. Head thrust forward, arms rigidly at her side. Feelings of fear and curiosity vied for attention.

Half an hour later Marshall came up, face wrapped in a deep frown. ‘I’ve been talking with Mrs. Perdita Stygian, nee Aywun. She wants to see you. Do you want to see her?’

‘So that’s who she is,’ Mort said thoughtfully. ‘Must have got married. I wonder if Stygian’s my father.’ He looked at Marshall seriously. ‘I’ve thought a lot about this day and although I want nothing to do with her, I’m curious to hear her reasons for dumping me. What’s she like?’

‘Your grandmother without the manners.’

‘Yes, I got that impression when I saw her walk to the office. What do you think I should do?’

‘It’s your decision. She has papers to prove she gave birth to you, and if we turn her away, says she will come back with a court order demanding access to you. I’ve a fair idea what she wants, as we discussed when we first met. But she refused to tell me anything, insisting she speak with you.’

‘Well, she’s not getting any money. Okay, Lets get it over with... but stay close.’

Perdita’s sole visible legacy to her son was satiny olive skin and glossy straight black hair. But whereas Mort stood straight and faced the world openly, not attempting to conceal either his character or intentions, his mother appeared sly. Face slightly averted, she turned her body sideways when passing through the doorway, like a combatant offering the smallest target, able to retreat quickly if necessary. Lightly painted lips quivered in a patently fake shy smile as her head tilted slightly forward so she could gaze up from under finely plucked eyebrows in apparently wide-eyed innocence.

Her son and his guardian stood still; faces impassive.

Perdita held out her arms as if to embrace her long lost son. ‘Mortaumal,’ she said in a breathy whisper.

Mort stepped back slightly as if repelled. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in a voice devoid of emotion.

‘I’m your mother, darling. I want a hug.’

‘I don’t.’

Silence for several seconds.

‘Why have you come?’

This was clearly not the reception she had imagined. ‘I want to apologise to you for... not being there for you, I…’

‘There’s no need to apologise. I’ve had an excellent life. But just out of curiosity, why did you take off the day I was born, and stay away for fourteen years?’

‘Oh! Let’s not talk about that now?’ She flicked at imaginary tears with a lacquered fingernail, sniffed, and then fiddled with the contents her handbag as if searching for a handkerchief. Finding nothing suitable she raised little-girl-lost eyes to the men in supplication.

‘If you haven’t got a handkerchief, use your sleeve,’ Mort said with callous indifference.

Her mouth drew into a hard line. ‘You have not been brought up to be pleasant to women, I see,’ she said coldly. Fixing her son with a dry eye she snapped her handbag closed. ‘Not having benefitted from the selfless love of a mother, I suppose I can’t expect more from you. But I accept I am partly to blame and at last I have the chance to repair the damage done to my innocent boy.’ She inserted a dramatic pause as if waiting for him to excitedly ask her to explain. When no such interest appeared, and Marshall looked pointedly at his watch, she continued breathlessly, ‘I want you to come and live with me so we can get to know each other and be a real family.’

‘Mrs. Stygian, I…’

‘Oh please! Can’t you call me mother?’

‘You have never been my mother, and as I have never felt the loss and have no desire to change my life, you can never be my mother.’

‘You talk queerly, like a professor.’ Her lip curled in a slight sneer as if it was an insult. ‘You’re only fourteen, you…’ She lost her train of thought, stopped, shook her head and plaintively pleaded, ‘At least call me Perdita.’

‘Very well, Perdita. Let me make myself clear. I like living here with Marshall, and I do not want to go and live with you. The sole question I have for you is, why did you skip town on my birthday and stay away for fourteen years?’

Perdita turned to Marshall for support. He offered none, so she changed tack. ‘Tomorrow, Mortaumal, you and I will go for a picnic and I will tell you all about me.’ Her voice had become softer, yet still slightly menacing. ‘After that, you can decide what you will do. I will be in my car directly opposite here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Be there wearing something a little more appropriate than those old shorts. She turned on her heel and stalked out, leaving the two men feeling apprehensive.

Marshall immediately telephoned the nursing home and learned that Nasturtium Aywun had died nearly a month ago. They had sent a letter to Mrs. Stygian informing her of the death and that her mother’s legal advisers were Trimm, Kutt and Payste, but had failed to inform the lawyers. Marshall didn’t hold back when expressing his displeasure at not being told of Mrs. Aywun’s demise. On checking the Aywun file he found an entry from three weeks earlier about an enquiry made by Mrs. Perdita Stygian regarding her father’s Will. Unfortunately, the enquiry had been handled by a junior clerk who simply told her there was no Will or other testament, filed the reference and forgot about it.

Perdita was late.

Mort, irritated at being told what to wear as if he was an ignorant hick, proved he was by wearing the same shorts she’d told him not to, merely adding dusty trainers and a tight, abbreviated tank top that left his navel and most of the rest of his abdomen exposed. While waiting he mulled over Marshall’s parting warning.

‘Clearly, your mother suspects you are the beneficiary of her father’s estate. She is a cunning woman,’ Marshall had warned, ‘so be on your guard.’

‘Twenty minutes late,’ Mort snapped as he fastened his seat belt.

‘It is ungentlemanly to nag a woman, Mortaumal. We ladies are on this planet to make life bearable for men, who if left to their own devices would wallow in filth, die of starvation and return to the wild beasts from which they came. Don’t look for faults in the fairer sex; look for the virtues behind them and your life will be easier.’

The arrogant stupidity of this counsel left Mort gaping.

‘Close your mouth, boy! You look demented.’

Mort snapped it shut and stared at the Saturday shoppers, determined not to waste words on this woman. Without warning the car shot down a ramp into a basement car park. Perdita parked, then led her silent son to a door, inserted her security key-card, and a lift whisked them up to the top floor of the hotel. The room was large, bland and filled with light, with a view over the city to the distant sea. A queen size bed and side tables occupied one wall, windows another, a desk and door leading to the bathroom on the third, and a couple of easy chairs on the wall containing the door to the corridor. She marched across to the desk, pressed two buttons on the telephone, and waited.

‘Kitchen? Perdita Stygian, Room 906. I need a luncheon hamper for two, one adult, one child, in five minutes... good... put it in the boot of my car, a green convertible, number plate 041-OEE. Repeat those instructions… that’s correct.’ she replaced the receiver and turned to her son.

‘Thanks for dressing up.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘We’re going to a beach north of the city for a picnic.’

‘I didn’t bring my togs and I’m not swimming in these shorts.’

‘Then swim naked — if the tide’s in.’ She went into the bathroom and Mort heard taps running, water splashing, toilet flushing. When she returned to the bedroom with two towels she looked no different — still shrewd and devious. Irritably, she grabbed her handbag and tossed the towels to Mort. ‘If you need the toilet, go now.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Good. Come on.’

‘Must I wrap myself in this towel to hide the offending shorts?’

‘Do what you like!’

‘I intend to,’ Mort whispered to himself.

34 The Beach

There were two cars and a large mobile caravan in the parking area, but no visible humans. Perdita parked in the shade of a large Benjamina fig as far from the others as possible.

‘The shade’s welcome, but these trees drop bugs, leaves and bird shit,’ she muttered, closing the roof.

They sat in silence for a long minute, gazing out at a flat expanse of sand that stretched for a hundred metres until it met the placid waters of the Coral Sea. To their right, a ridge of yellowy, scrub-covered rock jutted into the water, creating a shallow bay. Trees blocked the view of the beach to their left.

‘Tide’s out,’ Mort observed.

‘Do you always state the obvious? Get the rug and hamper out of the boot and let’s have lunch.’

The hamper was little more than a small basket. The picnic was half a dozen sandwiches and two pieces of chocolate cake wrapped in plastic. A half bottle of white wine, a can of orange juice and a bottle of water completed the food. Plastic cups and utensils filled the rest of the space. They ate in silence. Perdita drank the wine, Mort the orange juice.

‘While I’m getting comfortable, you can put everything away.’

‘Yes Ma’am. Three bags full, Ma’am.’

When Mort returned, Perdita had discarded her clothes and was rubbing lotion onto arms, legs, belly and breasts.

Mort watched impassively.

When satisfied she was sufficiently lubricated, she lay back and told him to get her handbag from the car.’

Mort remained standing. Silent.

Perdita shrugged, prised herself to her feet and fetched it, then lay down again with the bag beside her.

‘Do you shave your pubes or are you naturally hairless?’ Mort asked.

‘I wax.’ She patted the rug beside her. ‘Get your gear off and come and sit down; unless you’re a prude.’

Mort dropped his shorts, peeled off the tank top and lay down. ‘I’d never have survived if I was a prude, living with grandparents who were more often than not naked. You look very like Grandma without your clothes. You’ve got the same narrow waist and huge bum.’

‘Cheeky bugger! It’s not huge, it’s sexy.’

‘To some people, perhaps. Not to me.’

‘You don’t wear underpants.’

‘No, they’re uncomfortable.’

‘Do you shave your pubes? Is that why you asked?’

‘No. I don’t have hair anywhere except on my head. That’s why I asked if you did. I wondered if it was a family characteristic. Grandad was almost hairless and Grandma didn’t have much, so if you were hairless too and if I knew who my father was, I’d have an idea if I should be worried.’

‘You’re fourteen. Sleek and attractive. Between your legs you’re obviously a man, but without your cock and balls it’d be hard to tell if you were a boy or a girl. Even your voice is indeterminate; low pitched, soft and sexy. Be grateful you’re hairless! It’s a nuisance; falls out in the shower, stops you finding ticks easily, uses up deodorant.’

‘So, who is my father, and why did you dump me on your parents?

‘I’ve no idea who your father is. Between the ages of ten and fifteen I was fucked by about thirty-eight different boys and men — I lost count. There are at least ten different boys who could be him. I don’t even remember their names.’

‘Didn’t they wear condoms?’

‘No. I was on the pill, and allergic to latex. Also, I’d read that you can’t trust condoms, they break and lots of guys use them several times on different girls so they’re unhygienic.’

‘What about disease?’

‘I inspected every penis thoroughly before it entered my tunnel of love.’ She glanced across at Mort. ‘I hope you’re as careful with whoever you have sex with!’

‘What I can’t get my head around, is you being fucked when you were ten! And with so many guys! Are you a nymphomaniac?’

‘When did you first wank?’

‘Nine.’

‘A year before me. How often do you masturbate?’

‘Two or three times a day, never more than six.’ He smiled. ‘But it’s not the same as doing it with someone else.’

‘Mum and Dad were always running around naked, as you know having lived with them for ten years, and it wasn’t unusual for Mum to be on her knees weeding and Dad would come up behind and they’d fuck like rabbits. They were always at it so it didn’t seem any stranger than showering, eating, or cutting toenails... except it looked and sounded much more fun. Mum squealed a lot.’

‘Yeah, I remember... until the cops hit her and she went gaga. Then she didn’t want it any more. I used to feel sorry for Grandad, but he said he’d been sick of her for years and only did it to keep her happy. He said wanking was less stressful for his heart.’

Perdita laughed pleasantly. ‘It’s so relaxing to talk about this with someone who understands that it wasn’t perverted, it was just the way we lived and sex was a natural part of the fun of living. If it’s not fun then don’t do it, I say.’

‘Yeah. Grandad reckoned humans should only have sex in nature, in daytime, and without shame. Insisting on privacy and dark rooms makes sex a perversion instead of a natural pleasure.’

‘That’s fine for people like us. But when you think about what most people look like, then dark rooms and secrecy seems preferable.

Mort giggled. ‘Too true. But Grandad and Grandma only did it with each other, so it doesn’t explain why you became so promiscuous.’

‘Why do you use big words? You’re just like Dad! Don’t you know it annoys people? If you mean slut, say slut.’

‘I didn’t mean you were a slut. I meant you were easy… indiscriminating when it came to sex.’

‘Doesn’t sound any better. Anyway, I started menstruating when I was nine, and started masturbating soon after. Mum loved being fucked, so I wanted to do it too. I asked Dad to do it to me, but he said I should stick to people my own age, so I used boys from school. It was usually fun and didn’t feel different from playing tennis with them. Of course the girls hated me and spread rumours that I was a whore, and then the boys started to tell everyone I was a cheap slut, the town bike…’

‘Bike?’

‘Everyone could go for a ride.’ Perdita’s voice faded and her eyes filled with what appeared to be genuine tears. She sniffed and flicked them away. ‘Sorry about that. I thought I was over it. Anyway, schoolwork suffered, I failed everything, skipped class, got caught shoplifting, hauled before the cops for prostitution... it was your friend Marshall who managed to get me off that. And then I got pregnant and stayed home. Mum was a bitch; Dad was a saint and never once criticised me.’

‘That’s one reason I loved him.

‘I didn’t want you. I tried to abort you several times but you refused to die. I knew I’d be a terrible mother and I’d probably bash you to death within a week if you cried. I had hardly any tits. Wasn't developing any milk and probably wouldn’t get any because I’d been starving myself, so the best thing for both of us was for me to leave you with Mum and Dad. And it wasn’t so bad, was it?’

‘They reckon giving birth’s really painful. Was it?’

‘No. Piece of cake. We had a hippie working with Dad in the gardens; one of those skinny, longhaired types with a ponytail. He said if I massaged my vulva every day and stretched it so I could learn to deliberately relax all the muscles, then it wouldn’t tighten up during birth and I’d be fine. The worst part was the weight dragging down on my belly; gave me terrible backaches. He taught me to crawl around on hands and knees, so Mum made me leather kneepads and gloves. He used to fuck me and then massage until I was so relaxed he could put his fist in. It was so successful you started to fall out while I was walking up the steps to the hospital. It’s because there was no pain or trauma that I could just get up and take off a couple of hours after you were born, feeling as good as if I’d just had a huge shit.’

Mort was silent for a long time, gazing at his feet and wondering how much to believe. If she was making it up she was a very good actress, if she wasn’t, then he should feel sorry for her. But there was something that grated. Probably the truth was somewhere in between. ‘Grandma’s tits hung like flaps and her nipples were like fingers. She said it was because of you sucking on them for three years. Your tits look like lemons and your nipples aren’t very big. Does that mean you haven’t had any more kids? That I haven’t any siblings?’

‘Siblings! There you go again. No, you don’t have any brothers or sisters because about a year later I got an infection that left me sterile, which has been good and bad. I’ve been able to fuck with no fear of pregnancy, but because most men won’t marry a girl who can’t have kids, I had to wait till Elbert came along a year ago.’

‘I’ve always wished I hadn’t been born. Do you think it could be because you tried to abort me?’

‘Of course not. But if you feel like that why don’t you throw yourself under a bus?’ The comment was tossed off as thoughtlessly as if Mort had said he liked ice cream and she’d asked what flavour.

He tried not to smile. Perdita wasn’t interested in him — or anyone else, he suspected. ‘I won’t do that because it would be messy and not pleasant for onlookers. I saw a kid crushed like that a few years ago. When I go I’ll leave quietly with no fuss.’

‘How old do you think I look?’ she asked, apropos of nothing.

‘I know you’re twenty-nine, yet you look younger than lots of the senior girls at school. I noticed at the swimming sports that most have fat tits and bellies. And they wear too much makeup, even at school. You don’t wear any except a bit of lipstick. You don’t need to because you’ve a beautiful skin and are very attractive.’ Mort had to turn away in case she saw his smile. Leo had once said it was impossible to flatter a woman too much; they’d believe anything no matter how outrageous as long as it was positive. When he had his face under control he turned back. ‘Trust me, Perdita, you could pass for my sister any day.’

‘You don’t think my breasts are too small?’ she asked, lifting them as if presenting sacred objects for worship, casually brushing the nipples with her thumbs.

Watching them swell triggered memories of Zoltan’s tongue doing the same thing to him, and he gazed down at his rapidly engorging penis with pleasure. ‘No, I think your breasts are exactly the right size.’

‘Is that why you’ve got a hard on?’

‘No, I was thinking of someone else.’

‘Male or female?’

‘Mrs. Stygian, my body is available for viewing to anyone who cares to look, but the contents of my head are private.

‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Are you queer?’

‘No more than anyone else. Are you?’

‘Do you like me?’

‘To paraphrase your reprimand when I mentioned you were twenty minutes late; it is impolite to question a gentleman. We men are on this planet to admire, serve and make life pleasurable for women, who if left to their own devices would still be living in caves, eating raw food and bearing dozens of kids because they’d be prey to every passing male. Don’t look for faults in the stronger sex; look for the virtues behind them and your life will be easier.’

‘You are so like your grandfather! He was also prone to erections — and proud of it. You even talk and sound like him. It’s weird!’

‘He was my model of the perfect man until I was ten. Still is in fact. I often ask myself what Grandad would do.’ Mort sat up and looked over Perdita’s shoulder towards the other cars. ‘Don’t look now, but a few minutes ago a van pulled in and two blokes went over to that caravan thing, spoke to someone, and now they’re headed this way. They don’t look friendly.’

Perdita quickly turned and looked.

35 Bullies

‘They look horrible!’ she whispered, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘I think they mean trouble! What’ll we do?’

‘You’ll do nothing. Just stay exactly as you are and pretend you’re my sister.’

‘When you’re sitting there with a fat?’

‘My girlfriend, then.’

‘You seem pretty cool about this.’

‘They’re flabby yobs looking for a fight. I know the sort. Be pleasant so we aren’t the one’s who start a quarrel, and leave the rest to me.’

‘But…’

‘Shhh. Here they are.’

Mort gazed innocently at the two shirtless young men who looked to be in their early twenties. Their shorts, slung low under flabby bellies, reached their knees. Thin, hairy white legs ended in black leather boots and short socks. One had breasts to rival Perdita’s, but less perky; the other was pigeon-chested with a large gold cross hanging between pale nipples. Both needed a shave. Both were grinning unpleasantly.

‘What have we here? A couple of nudists? Don’t you know it’s against the law to flash your cunt, bitch? And you’re fuckin’ disgusting lying there with a fuckin’ hard on!’

‘Would you prefer me to stand up?’ Mort asked innocently as he stood, dusting imaginary crumbs off his thighs.

‘You’re looking for trouble, you two,’ pigeon chest snarled. ‘Fuckin’ heathen wogs, think you can do what you like. Well this is a Christian country and we have standards.’ He stepped close to Mort, thrusting a mean smile and sour breath into his intended victim’s face. ‘You need to be taught a lesson, and I’m the one…’

A bony knee smashed into his balls. He yelped, grabbed at them and rocked back far enough for Mort to ram the protruding knuckles of his tightly balled left fist between the eyes. A scream of pain and both hands lifted to protect against further attack left him wide open for a second crippling smash to the groin. It had taken seven seconds.

‘What the fuck have you done!’ the other would-be terrorist shouted, kneeling beside his friend who was moaning and retching on the ground. ‘You’re a fucking…’

The first two knuckles of Mort’s other, equally well-practised fist slammed into the soft spot on the side of his head, between the eye and ear. The would-be tough dropped onto his back, eyes wide, mouth emitting a high pitched whine, which changed to an ear-splitting scream when a hard heel stomped on his genitals. The slight movement of pigeon chest groggily trying to lift his head caused Mort to swing round and slam his foot down on it, smashing it into the ground.

When certain that both assailants were out of it, Mort dragged off their boots and shorts, removed wallets and keys that he tossed to Perdita, then climbed into the Benjamina fig and jammed shorts and boots between the highest branches he could reach.

On regaining the ground he searched around and found a solid branch resembling a baseball bat, which he placed beside him as he lay back on the blanket, heart pounding wildly, face lit by a serene smile. Perdita was looking at him oddly, but said nothing.

‘You didn’t feel the urge to assist me?’

‘And risk getting my face rearranged? It’s okay for men, no one cares what you look like, but if I returned home with my hair in a mess and a cut lip, Elbert would divorce me.’ Perdita’s slight smile suggested she was not unused to violence, and had rather enjoyed the spectacle. There was no indication she had worried about what might have happened to her son. Probably, Mort surmised, because if he’d lost she’d have simply gone off with the winners to be raped but otherwise unhurt, as has been the lot of women since the beginning of time. Or had it all been planned? Was he supposed to be lying on a slab in a morgue, the victim of an unprovoked assault? He shook his head. Paranoia wasn’t sensible. A clear head was essential if he hoped to stay ahead of this woman.

‘Your erection’s gone,’ she observed with a disdainful sniff. ‘I guess that means you aren’t turned on by violence.’

‘I hate it.’

‘So what does turn you on?’

‘Gentleness, kindness, soft kissing and touching and knowing both of us want the same thing.’

‘And Marshall gives you that,’ she said with a slight nod as if it was an established fact.

The casual assumption that he and Marshall were lovers brought Mort up with a shock. He’d not seen it coming. She was good. That was the sort of probing he’d have to be ready for when she decided to discover where the money was. Keeping his face impassive, he stretched his muscles and gazed vacantly along the beach as if the statement was scarcely worth considering. ‘Of course not. Marshall’s my foster father, not lover. You’ve got sex on the brain. He’s in his forties for goodness sake and not interested sexually in me. Nor am I in him. Were you into older men when you were a girl?’

‘Anything with a penis that worked, to be honest.’

‘That’s the difference between you and me. Hello, they’re waking up.’

Both men were struggling painfully to their feet, holding their hands tenderly against heads and groins as if to protect them. They stared down at their own naked bodies.

‘You fucking bastard! One screeched, then winced and held his head. ‘Our clothes! What have you done with our clothes?’

‘Tossed them into the sea.’

‘But... our wallets. Our keys!’

‘Here.’ Mort tossed them over, then picked up the stick. ‘You’ve fifteen seconds to get back to your van and drive away…’

‘I’ll get the cops onto you! I’ll…’

Mort stepped forward and belted him across the bum, hard. ‘Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…’

‘They snatched up their belongings and ran.

‘Pale Europeans can be so ugly, don’t you think?’ Perdita remarked languidly. ‘I’m glad you won; I didn't fancy being fucked by them. Which brings me to the question, how on earth did you manage it? You’re only fourteen!’

‘They were bullies, and bullies get hards on by creating fear in their victims; watching them while making threats, pushing and provoking, hoping their prey will piss themselves and beg for mercy. They like to get close enough to smell the fear. You saw how he thrust his face into mine; that’s a classic opening gambit. Later, when they’ve extracted everything they can from mental torture, they start on the physical. They rely on the fact that most people will not throw the first punch, because that would make them the aggressor. Instead, the victims make excuses for the bastard confronting them. They tell themselves it was their own fault for saying or doing something offensive. They convince themselves that the other person doesn’t mean to be so rude, or it’s a misunderstanding of class or culture. They hang on to the pathetic hope that if they explain he will back off. There’s no end to the excuses people will make for not defending themselves. The second thing helping bullies is that fear makes people freeze. It’s a life-saving, primeval reaction that works with most wild animals — unless they’ve deliberately set out to attack you in defence of their young. Bullies know instinctively that their victims’ brains literally stop working, and rely on it. It gives them time to enjoy their bullying. I’ve been training myself to override this reflex, so the second I realise I’m faced with a bully I short-circuit any reluctance and let loose with a killer blow. Because you don’t get a second chance. If your first hit doesn’t seriously disable them, you’re dead. Simple really.’ He looked out to sea. ‘The tide’s in, fancy a swim?’

36 Ultimatum

‘Oh dear,’ Perdita sighed as they reluctantly waded out of the water. ‘The local prudes are massing to warn us that nude is rude and we’re doomed to hell.’

‘Let’s pretend we don’t speak English. What’s your Urdu like?’

‘Like yours, I imagine. Ah stuff it. Lets see what they’ve got to say.’

‘Don’t you mean hear?’

‘Fuck you’re irritating! At least you aren’t holding your hands in front of your cods. That always looks so pathetic.’

‘Of course not! I’m proud of my bits.

‘And so you should be. Look out, we’re about to be waylaid.’

‘They’re old and doddery. Smile!’

An elderly gentleman stepped forward. ‘Please excuse our intrusion, but we wanted to thank you for what you did this afternoon.’ He indicated the other three people. ‘This is my wife and my brother and sister in law.’ The others nodded in a friendly manner, smiling and carefully not looking anywhere lower than necks.

‘We planned on camping here,’ he continued, ‘but those two louts arrived and told us we had to go or they’d make us sorry. We didn’t know what to do. Then they saw you sitting down the end and apparently decided you’d be easy game. But you worsted them. I’m amazed to see how young you are. If more people were like you the world would be a better place.’

‘Thanks,’ Mort said with a grin. ‘It wasn’t difficult, they were dumb and flabby. It’s nice of you to tell us, though.’ He laughed good-naturedly. ‘We imagined you were upset because we’re naked.’

One of the women giggled. ‘Quite the opposite, my dear. We think you look wonderful. Seeing you both has been the highlight of my holiday so far.’

With smiles and nods they drifted away and Perdita led the way back to the rug.

‘Quite the little diplomat, aren’t you?’ she sneered. ‘Do you get off on being nice to people. Such a fucking prince charming it made me want to puke.’

Mort stared in surprise. 'They were being pleasant! They are nice people. Why would I want to be rude to them?’

‘They’re greedy old fuckwits living off my taxes. Bloody grey nomads. Think the world owes them because they’re old. I’d sooner spend the weekend with those two you smashed up. At least they’re real!’

Mort held his tongue. She was trying to annoy him, to get him off balance, to make him do or say something stupid. A sliver of something cold seemed to slide down his spine. His birth mother was a bully! Things were getting too complicated for comfort so he mentally shrugged the problem off. This was not an issue worth fighting over. ‘You’re probably right’ he said with a thoughtful nod. ‘I’m an innocent compared to you.’

‘That’s for sure,’ she muttered loud enough for him to hear.

Mort shook leaves and bugs off the rug and replaced it, then offered Perdita the water bottle, which she drained and passed back without thanks. While Mort ran to a tap to refill the bottle, she arranged herself comfortably on the rug.

Mort plonked himself down opposite. Okay, Perdita. What’s the reason you’ve brought me here?

‘Subtle, aren’t you? As you know Elbert and I are childless. I don’t care, but he does, so when he learned I had a son he begged me to find you and get you to come and live with us.’

‘That’s generous of him, but I’m happy where I am.’

‘He’ll be a wonderful father. You could do all sorts of things together. He’s only a couple of years older than me, not ancient like Marshall.’

‘I don’t want to change schools and…’

‘Elbert’s very rich; you could have everything you want, we live in…’

‘I don’t care how rich he is, I’m happy where I am.’

‘Of course, I should have realised you wouldn’t be impressed by money, what with the inheritance Dad left you; but don’t you want a young father and a real mother who cares for you?’

‘First of all, I haven’t any inheritance. Surely Grandad left his money to Grandma, so you should get it now? And second, I have a foster father who treats me pretty well. Thirdly, I do not want a mother.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘Women don’t understand boys — at least the women I’ve had anything to do with don’t.’

‘I don’t think you understand, Mortaumal.’ Perdita’s voice was flat, as if she’d given up trying to persuade him. ‘I’m not asking you to come and live with us.’

She paused and Mort’s heart soared.

She smiled humourlessly. ‘I’m telling you to come and live with us. It’s not a choice. We’re going back to Marshall’s apartment now, and you will collect anything you need for the next few days. Tonight we will fly to Brisbane. Your other stuff can be sent on later.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t make me!’

Perdita rifled through her handbag and produced a photograph. ‘Take a look at this.’

‘Mort’s eyes popped. ‘That’s me, when Angelo brought me back after a cross-country run, and that’s Angelo running after me. How did you get it?’

‘You’ve been followed, photographed and videoed by a private investigator.’

‘But that’s terrible. An invasion of my privacy. There’s a law against it and... why?’

‘Cleverly edited, the video and stills will prove that an innocent, fourteen year old boy has been taken by his teacher into the forest for sex. You even arrived home naked, chased by your naked teacher inexpertly wrapped in a towel. That teacher is now the lover of your foster father. All three of you have naked romps together in the spa pool on the roof, often sporting erections. I have enough evidence to put both adults in prison for child sexual molestation. In the unlikely event that they manage to escape that fate, the publicity will destroy forever their futures as teacher and lawyer.’

‘It isn’t like that at all! No one would believe you!’

‘No one would believe you, when they discover that for ten years you were brainwashed by your randy nudist grandfather who hit his wife so she lost her marbles and was dumped in a nursing home before he suicided from shame. And when they learn that the male prostitute who murdered his disabled son to deny the mother the right to have him, then killed himself, had been poisoning your brain for three years, your fate will be sealed. And I can cap that with the fact that your present queer foster father is estranged from his children because they despise his debauched lifestyle. Furthermore, rumour will soon be circulating that he has threatened to murder you if you dob him in.’

Mort couldn’t speak. The blood seemed to have drained from his body. He felt cold. Breathing became difficult. His heart pounded. ‘You would do that to innocent men?’

‘No one’s innocent, young man. Everyone’s guilty of something. Well? Will you come and live with me?

‘How do I know you still won’t ruin their lives?’

‘Why would I? I don’t dislike them. Marshall was very good to me once, and Dad liked him. I don’t even know the teacher. I’ll give them the videos and photos once we’re safely in Brisbane.’

‘Why do you want me to live with you?’

‘I don’t. Elbert wants you.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Medium height, slim and tough — very tough actually. Short curly black hair, skin as black as coal. He’s either a Kenyan or an Ethiopian, depending on who he’s talking to, but as far as I can gather he’s never been to either of those places. Lived most of his life in England. Well educated. Speaks like a toff. Anything else you want to know?’

‘Is he nice?’

‘Everyone’s nice if they want something from you. Well? What’s your answer?’

Mort shook his head in despair. ‘I’ve no choice.’ Wordlessly he picked up the rug, stowed it in the boot and climbed into the passenger seat. Perdita put on her sun frock and drove away, waving gaily to the four pensioners. Mort was unable to look because of the tears streaming down his cheeks and splashing onto his lap.

37 Farewells

Perdita remained in the car with the radio blaring pop music while her son ran upstairs. Marshall sat quietly while Mort gave as detailed an account of the afternoon as possible, considering his anguish, with Angelo recording it on his video camera.

‘She’s a dangerous woman,’ Marshall said angrily. ‘I reckon she organised those two louts hoping you’d be so damaged she’d be given access to you and the inheritance she’s so sure you have.’

‘That also crossed my mind. She certainly wasn’t pleased when I got rid of them, so I want to make a Will leaving everything I own to charity in case I have an accident, the car crashes or… so at least she won’t get the money. Can we do it now?’

‘Mort! You’re not going! It’s too dangerous. She’s got no proof. It’s blackmail. We’ll go to the police and…’

Mort stopped him. ‘I’m going. It will be an adventure. You know as well as I do that mud sticks and the cops in Queensland are probably helping her... they certainly won’t be on your side. Let’s make that Will.’

‘Ten minutes later it was signed, witnessed and sealed, with Marshall as the executor and Angelo the second witness, it was perfectly legal as neither were beneficiaries. As an added security measure, Angelo had recorded everything including Mort’s statement declaring his freely held desire to make whatever charity Marshall decided, the beneficiary of his estate.

It was a sombre group who prepared Mort’s suitcase, watched him dress in his best clothes, and bid tearful farewells. Marshall wanted to go out and confront Perdita, but Mort convinced him to remain inside, because he had a plan.

‘I’ll tell her I haven’t told you anything. I’ll say I came in and said I was going, but before I could say anything else you said it was a good idea. And then I realised you didn’t really want me now you have Angelo. And Angelo was extra pleased because he also didn’t like having me around now you two are an item. So I’ll pretend that I’m happy to be going because I suddenly realised I’ve outstayed my welcome and I’ve never been to Brisbane so it’ll be an adventure — -that sort of thing. I’m pretty good at making stuff up on the run.’

‘Don’t underestimate her. She’s cunning and stupid, the most dangerous combination.’

‘Thanks. I’ll remember. I’m certainly not going to give her any reason to gloat or act on her threat. I’ll promise to do exactly as she says, and stop being such a smart arse — she hates me using big words.’

‘You know that wherever I am, will always be your home, don’t you?’ Marshall was weeping openly.

‘Yes. And I’ll love you always.’ He turned to Angelo. ‘Please take care of him. He is the best man alive on earth.’

Angelo promised, and after one last hug, Mort ran downstairs, stepped out the door and slammed it shut behind him as if very angry. His face was dark with annoyance when he threw his bag in the boot and got into the car.

‘Problems?’ Perdita’s smile was not pleasant.

‘Those fucking bastards! When I said I’d be going to stay with you I expected they’d try to stop me! But they didn’t. You could see they were pleased. Marshall couldn’t wait to tell me what a sensible decision I’d made; as if he was worried I’d change my mind. And that two-faced Angelo. Just stood beside Marshall and nodded, telling me what a sensible young man I am. Fuck them! And here I was getting all teary down at the beach, saying how happy I was, and didn’t want to go with you because they wanted me to stay with them! How could I have got it so wrong? They couldn’t wait to help me pack my bag and kept promising to send everything on as soon as I wrote them where to send it!’ Mort subsided into his seat, head down, mouth a hard line, a picture of angry, rejected youth.

Perdita smiled and said nothing.

‘And I’ll bet that you and Elbert also want to get rid of me after a while. That’s been my whole bloody life! Grandma hated me. Grandad suicided without giving a flying fuck about me. Amy hated me. Leo suicided too once he got to know me! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’ ‘

You’ll be all right,’ Perdita said cheerfully. ‘You’re more like me than you realise. Tough.’

Mort looked up at her as if she was his new idol. ‘I hope so! I really and truly want to be like you.’

38 A Change of Plans.

Five minutes later they were back in the basement car park of the hotel. This time they exited the lift at the ground floor where the reception desk was busy with the arrival of a busload of tourists.

‘Elbert was going to send me the plane tickets; I have to pick them up at the desk. Wait here.’

Mort watched in mounting depression as she argued with the clerk, waved something at him, then thrust her credit card angrily. She was frowning as she came over.

‘We have to stay here the night. Apparently Elbert could only get tickets for tomorrow. That cheeky bitch at the reception was difficult about letting me keep my room. Come on.’

The room looked as neat, sterile and immaculate as before, but with an added sense of menace.

‘Where do I sleep?’

‘Here, with me.’

‘Sharing a bed?’

‘You can sleep on the floor if you like, but you’re not getting any blankets.’

‘Does the Hotel know I’ll be staying?’

‘I’ve paid for a double room. They expect two people to be sleeping in it.’ She went to the windows and stared out. ‘Come here.’

Mort joined her.

‘Look…’ She pointed. ‘Over there, between those Norfolk Island pines.’

‘That building? Yes. What about it?’

‘Perdita took a pair of binoculars from the desk drawer, handed them to Mort and told him to look.

‘It... it’s Marshall’s roof. I can see the shrubs and the edge of the spa pool. You took photos from here?’

‘Clever boy. Marshall shaved his pubes last week; his boyfriend has a long foreskin and sometimes wears a cock ring. But of course you already know that.’

Mort handed the binoculars back thoughtfully. ‘And you showed me this because...?’

‘Because I’m not completely convinced by your tale of woe. I don’t yet believe that you really want to come and live with us in Brisbane. If I suspect you’re having us on, the deal’s off. Those photos and videos will be sent where they’ll do the most damage.’

‘How can I prove it’s true, that I do want to come with you?’

‘By looking more cheerful for a start. By obeying me without question. I know what I’m doing, and you don’t, so I will get very, very irritated if you argue with me. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Perdita.’

‘Good. So off to the shower with you and wash your hair thoroughly. I want it soft and silky for tonight.’

‘What’re we doing tonight?’

‘Dinner and dancing on the roof garden.’

‘Of this hotel?’

‘Yes. They have an orchestra, there’s a spectacular view, and occasionally some handsome men.’

‘But I can’t dance.’

‘Of course you can. Everyone can dance, especially if they’re led.’

‘I don’t know how to lead.’

‘You won’t have to, you’re going as my sister.’

Mort opened his mouth to protest, saw the look in Perdita’s eye, closed it again and dropped onto one of the armchairs.

Perdita sat opposite him in the other. ‘Tell me, Mortaumal, would you consider yourself to be a happy person?’

‘Mort frowned. ‘Basically, yes.’

‘Do you see living as a serious occupation or as mainly a fun thing?’

Mort’s silence was longer this time. ‘I guess it’s always seemed pretty serious. I’ve had some fun, I suppose, but living usually seems a pretty serious business.’

‘Elbert was an orphan, adopted by an English couple who died or got sick of him or something, so he went to a series of foster homes, a bit like you. He said the worst part was never being able to relax. Kids who live with their parents never feel worried when they’ve been naughty that their parents will take them back to the shop. They never question their parents’ commitment to them, and they usually don’t feel guilty if they’re not perfect. But foster kids are always on edge, worried, never really relaxing because they know the people looking after them are doing it as an act of kindness, whereas real parents are doing it because they wanted the kid in the first place. So life for foster kids is a serious thing.’

‘Yeah…’ Mort nodded in silent agreement. ‘Even though Grandad said he wanted me, Grandma was always threatening to sell me if I was naughty. Not in a funny way, but seriously. I believed her so I was always a good boy. It was the same with Leo. I was never sure if he wanted me to live with them to amuse Fystie, to annoy his wife, or what. It’s the same with Marshall. He told me several times he was looking after me because he liked my grandfather. So… yeah, life’s been a pretty serious business one way or another.’

‘So isn’t it time you relaxed and did things just for the fun of it? Wouldn’t it be a fun, crazy thing to dress up as a girl and fool all the men? Go and have a long, hot shower and think about it.’

Deliberately not thinking about the evening ahead, Mort tried to relax in the hot water followed by the freezing needle shower and soft towels, but... ‘I don’t want to be a girl,’ he whispered to his reflection in the large mirror. ‘I don’t look like one. I haven’t any tits. My shoulders are straight. My hips are slim, I’ve got a cock and balls. So I can’t sit in a restaurant and go dancing dressed like a girl. What if someone asks me to dance and he shoves his groin against me?’ The thought triggered a smile. ‘Mmm. Maybe it mightn’t be so bad if he’s slim and handsome. And girls are allowed to turn boys down, so I don’t have to dance if I don’t want to.’

He turned and looked at himself from each side, made a sexy face as if kissing, stroked and kissed his shoulder, and began to think it might be an adventure. ‘I’ll be a secret agent in disguise. Escaping from a mafia whore planning to shoot me. And girls manage to be girls so it can’t be that hard. Yeah… I will.’ A shiver of excitement ran through him. ‘But if I don’t look really good I won’t.’ He frowned. ‘And it just might be a test to see if I’m really pleased to be with her instead of Marshall.’ His sigh was deep and sincere. Why did life always have to be so complicated?

Armed with a sense of adventure and a somewhat deliberate insouciance, he sallied forth to tell Perdita.

The room was empty. The earth had turned in the last hour putting the far end of the room in shadow. Both suitcases were still there so she must have gone down to the bar, or shopping. What to do? He hadn’t even brought an eBook to read. ‘I wonder what she wants me to wear,’ he muttered, opening the wardrobe and flicking through the dresses. There were nine. Most were flimsy little things with thin shoulder straps and skimpy tops that needed breasts.

He carried out five pairs of shoes and put them on the carpet. They weren’t real shoes, only sandals, some with flat soles, others with little spiky heels. He tried a pair with heels. They fitted perfectly but he nearly twisted an ankle when his foot wobbled. He walked up and down several times until he got the knack.

A leather trouser suit looked promising, until he tried it on. The shoulders were too narrow and the trousers so loose it looked as if he was wearing a sack. The one dress that could conceal falsies had a straight skirt with slits up each side to mid thigh. He stepped in and pulled it up carefully. ‘Like a glove,’ he muttered. ‘But my cods stick out like dogs’ balls. Even if I wore underpants I’d look ridiculous. He removed it and hung it again carefully.

Standing in front of the full-length mirrors, he gazed at himself critically. Turned sideways. Pressed his penis down, then held it up. Faced the front and pulled it down between his legs. His balls got in the way.

39 Impersonation

‘One of my boyfriends was a female impersonator.’

Mort leaped in the air with fright. ‘Who? What? Perdita! Where are you?’

She sat up. ‘I felt like a lie down.’

‘I didn’t see you under the covers. You’re in shadow and… have you been watching all the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘How embarrassing.’

‘Not at all. He used to push his balls up into his belly, sort of. All you could see were two slight bulges.’

‘That happens when they get cold, the bag shrinks and... I’ll show you.’ He pressed gently under his testicles, they slid into his abdomen, and the scrotum all but disappeared. ‘But what about my cock?’

‘He dragged it between his legs into his bum crack.’

‘Sounds simple.’ And it was. Mort stood proudly in front of the mirror, legs tightly together. ‘How's that?’

‘Convincing. Can you walk?’

‘A bit. Short steps. As long as I keep my thighs clenched tight.’

‘Hang on, there’s one final touch.’ Perdita took an eyeliner pencil and drew a soft edged line. ‘There, now you’re a girl.’

‘I’ve got a twat!’

A knock at the door. Mort froze.

‘It’ll be Beatrice bringing tea and biscuits. She’s a sweetie. Let’s see if she realises you’re not a girl. Stay exactly as you are! That’s an order!’

Mort began to sweat.

Perdita opened the door a crack. ‘Ah Beatrice, my sister’s trying on dresses so she’s naked. I hope you don’t mind?’

A mumble from the corridor.

‘I knew a woman of the world like you wouldn’t be shocked, come in. Pop the tray on the desk will you?’

A scrawny woman in a pale blue housecoat placed the tray carefully on the desk.

‘This is my sister, Magda. She’s refusing to come out with me tonight because she says her breasts are too small. Can you convince her they aren’t important when you’re only fourteen.’

Beatrice turned. ‘Goodness!’ She said with obvious surprise. ‘What a beautiful girl. Your sister’s right. With your figure and face you don’t need breasts to attract men. Look at me! As flat as a pancake, yet I found a husband and had two lovely children.’ She stepped closer, lightly cupped her hand under Mort’s left pectoral and lifted slightly. ‘They’re definitely growing. I can feel the beginnings. So don’t be impatient. Go out and enjoy yourself.’

‘Thank you, Beatrice,’ Mort said softly as she returned to the door.

There was a haunted look in Beatrice’s eye as she turned. ‘Even your voice is beautiful, Magda. To see you standing there naked and pure, restores my faith in life. Thank you.’ She closed the door behind her.

‘Silly Beatrice, I knew she’d fall for you.’

‘Argh!’ Mort wailed, spreading his legs in relief. ‘I got butt cramp from squeezing my cheeks. Then I worried my sweat would make my new slit run — that’d be funny. I can just hear her: “Magda! Where is your slit? How do you piss?” But how come she wasn’t shocked to see me naked?’

‘She cleans the room and does all sorts of extra things for nothing, and as I’m always naked when here alone, she’s got used to me.’

‘Perhaps she fancies you?’

‘Probably, but doesn’t realise it. Most women are partially lesbian.’

‘Do you fancy her?’

‘That had better be a joke!’

‘Yeah, it was. But... do I really look like a girl?’

‘Not at all. We’re the same height and you’re obviously no longer a boy. But nor are you a man. You still have a layer of puppy fat under the skin. Women keep this, which is why they usually look softer and smoother than men, whose fatty layer disappears. Beatrice mistook your chest muscles for budding breasts, because you look smooth like a girl, but also nothing like one, if you get what I mean.’

She studied her son as if for the first time and seemed a little surprised at what she saw. ‘Your face is quite different from a girl. You’ve a visible jaw line and cheekbones, firm lips, dark eyes that seem to be thinking and understanding the world around you — girls only think about themselves and understand nothing because they seldom actually listen. Thicker lashes than any girl, good teeth, a long neck, and your bodily proportions are more male than female. You’re sexually confusing but probably attractive to both men and women. In a couple of years you’ll be indistinguishable from other men and no longer competition.’

‘Competition against who, for what?’

‘Against females for males. In all cultures and ages many men have found androgynous boys irresistible. You have the smooth firm body they wish they still had, a future they’ve squandered, a vitality and curiosity never found in females. And boys are not cunning like girls; they have a nice tight hole and no risk of pregnancy. But there’s a more important, evolutionary reason for boys your age looking neither male nor female while they’re developing their skills and muscles. If you looked masculine too soon, then older men would get jealous, you’d get into fights and probably be killed or maimed. On the other hand, if you stayed looking quasi feminine too long you’d get raped. As you are, you present no challenge so are left alone — usually.

Mort was silent for several seconds. ‘That word, and…andro something.’

‘Androgynous — a combination of the Greek words for man and woman.’

‘I thought you hated big words. How do you know that?’

Perdita’s laugh was genuine. ‘At a party someone told me I was androgynous. I was furious and threw my drink at him — glass and all. It broke and he’s still got a scar over his eye.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘How did you discover the meaning?’

‘I went to a library and looked it up — the first and last time in my life I did anything like that, which is probably why I remember it. I never could remember any lessons at school. It wasn’t as rude as I imagined. I think the poor prick was trying to flatter me. Elbert told me he’d often been taken for a girl after his foster parents kicked him out when he was twelve; said it was how he managed to survive because lots of men fancied him.’

‘Do you think he’ll fancy me?’

‘I imagine so; he’s a normal male. But he probably won’t do anything about it. He’d certainly never force anyone to do anything they didn’t want’

‘So... I look like both a girl and a boy?’

‘Not at all. You’re something else altogether. An in-between stage of human male development.’

‘And a fine example of it.’

‘Conceited prick. Now, let’s get you dressed for tonight. First, a support so you can dance without revealing your guilty secret.’

Perdita’s thong-bikini did the trick perfectly, dragged tightly into his butt cleavage with the side tapes tightened firmly. Mort danced around and everything remained in place, his groin profile flat enough if it was covered.

‘Comfortable?’

‘Yeah. No worries. Might get a bit sweaty, and I don’t want to get a hard on, but yeah, it feels fine.’

Perdita sewed a couple of cotton-wool pads in the bodice of the blue halter-neck dress. With silver spike-heeled sandals he looked very sexy. Pale lipstick and a little eye shadow, a necklace of gold loops with matching earrings, and a side parting that allowed his hair to fall over one eye completed the picture and added at least seven years to his age.

Mort, however, was no longer so enthusiastic. The narrow sheath of the dress unpleasantly restricted his movement, despite the slits up the side. The hair was a nuisance as he had to keep flicking it away, and the lipstick felt sticky and unpleasant. Perfume he refused.

‘I’m a man, not a flower. Women use too much perfume, it gives me a headache.’

Perdita, who looked sexy in a filmy shift that left little to the imagination, led the way to the rooftop restaurant where, together with about a dozen mainly elderly patrons, they ate something unmemorable on uncomfortable chairs in semi darkness, while a man in a white suit tinkled nothing in particular on a piano. The roof garden was long and narrow, with the restaurant at one end, a dance area in the middle and a garden of pot-planted palms occupying the rest.

Perdita drank a bottle of wine on her own, then they wobbled along to the dance area and sat at a table drinking coffee. A small orchestra arrived to play waltzes and quicksteps, and groups of no longer so young, but not yet middle aged patrons who obviously knew the quality of the food, arrived and drank and danced. Dress was normal informal: females made up like tarts — perfumed, and festooned with cheap jewellery, wearing cunning confections that concealed nipples and vulvas and exposed just about everything else, escorted by males in shapeless drab with only hands and faces exposed.

40 Julian

Those men are looking at us,’ Perdita whispered. ‘I hope they’ll come over. I want to dance.’

‘Why don’t you go and ask one of them?’

‘They’d think I was a cheap slut. Men have to ask, and women can refuse. But if a woman asks a man, he is not allowed to refuse.’

‘That’s stupid.’

‘That’s the way it is. Ooo! See that group of blokes? I’m pretty sure I know them. Yes, the tall one’s coming over.’

‘So is another bloke from the other end of the bar. Oh, no he isn’t. Can’t seem to make up his mind.’

‘You can have him, he’s got a scar down his cheek.’

Despite himself, Mort felt a surge of excitement. Was this what girls felt waiting to be asked? Always nervous they’d be left on the shelf. Hoping for a handsome one but seeing him go to another girl with no right to press her case. Not pleasant, he decided. ‘Perdita!’ he whispered in panic. ‘The guy with the scar’s my Maths teacher, Mr. Gauchpied. What’ll I do?’

‘Dance with him, get him to kiss you then tell him who you are.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘You’ll never see him again, have some fun for a change... we’re leaving tomorrow.’

Perdita’s chosen male strolled casually to their table, grinning.

‘Miss Perdita, I believe?’

‘Master Aaron, I think.’

‘What’re you doing back here? I thought you’d made it big in Brisbane?’

‘Going back tomorrow.’

‘Harry’s getting hooked again, so there’s a stag party, wanna come?’

‘How many of you?’

‘Nine.’ He waved an arm towards the bar. ‘They're all over there.’

‘How many girls?’

‘Just you.’

‘What will your friends think if you bring me?’

‘It was their idea... you know them all… intimately. They thought it might be fun to renew the bonds of love — or whatever it was called. Can you still manage nine on the trot?’ His grin was lecherous.

‘Only nine? Scarcely worth the trouble.’ She grinned. ‘Might as well. I’m bloody bored here.’ Perdita turned to Mort and handed him the hotel room key card. ‘I’ll be late back. Let yourself in and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ She picked up her bag, took possession of Aaron’s arm and joined the others who, having observed Aaron’s successful trawl for a whore, were ready to leave.

As soon as she was gone relief poured through Mort like a healing balm. He took a deep breath and consciously relaxed in what felt like a bath of euphoria. When he opened his eyes, Mr. Gauchpied was gazing around as if looking for someone. Every few seconds he’d look at Mort, take two steps towards him, then change his mind and wander a few paces away again.

Mort began to sweat. Obviously his teacher had recognised him and was deciding whether to confront him; maybe even announce to the whole room that he was a fraud. But surely he wouldn’t. He was too gentle. His classes were usually pretty noisy because kids took advantage of that. Most of them had no idea what a brilliant teacher he was and didn’t respect him. He’d take enormous pains to explain things, even after school if you needed help, for as long as it took to make something clear. Mort always sat at the front, listened, did all his homework and never caused trouble, but the teacher never seemed to notice he was different from the others.

‘Ah fuck. I’ll get it over with,’ he decided. ‘I’m sick of being a girl anyway.’ So the next time the teacher looked at him he gave a wave and what he imagined was a rueful grin, to show he accepted that he’d been caught out.

Mr Gauchpied frowned, looked behind him to see who was being waved to, realised it was himself, and gave a tentative smile and nod.

Mort smiled again.

The teacher approached his pupil warily, as if unsure of his welcome.

Just as Mort was about to confess all, Mr. Gauchpied said shyly, ‘Hi, I’m Julian.’

‘I’m Magda,’ Mort replied, annoyed with himself for not having the courage to correct the misunderstanding. He was very, very sick of being a girl.

Julian stood in silence as if announcing his name had consumed his courage. ‘It’s hot,’ He managed finally.

Mort decided to be courageous — in for a penny, in for a pound. He pulled a face. ‘I thought you were going to ask me to dance.’

‘I was, but... would you really like to?’

‘Yes, if you’ll teach me.’

‘Gosh. Yes... yes... I’d like to very much.’ Taking Mort’s arm he led him to the floor. A few minutes later they were sailing almost gracefully around the oval space.’

‘You didn’t need teaching, you’re a natural,’ Julian enthused.

‘You’re a natural teacher.’

‘Oh! Is it that obvious?’ he said sadly.

‘No, I meant you’re a natural dancing teacher.’

Julian brightened.

‘But why are we dancing so far apart?’ Mort enquired guilelessly, ‘Other couples look as if they’re glued together.’

Julian blushed. ‘I didn’t want you to think I was forward.’

‘I won’t.’

With groins, chest and occasionally heads touching, they completed several more turns of the floor. Only once was Mort’s sandalled foot crushed under Julian leather sole. The music slowed and became sentimental.

‘You’ve got an erection,’ Mort whispered.

Julian immediately pulled apart. ‘I know, I’m sorry, I can’t help it, I’m…’

‘I like it,’ Mort said placatingly. ‘It feels sexy when you press it against me.’

‘Really? I thought girls hated it when men did that. They’re always criticising men for only being interested in sex instead of their minds.’

‘What’s wrong with sex?’

‘Nothing... except that… you know... I’ve never met a girl like you before, you’re so honest.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s wonderful!’

The music stopped, along with the conversation.

‘Shall I take you back to your table?’

‘Sick of me already?’

‘No! No… quite the contrary.’

‘Let’s look at the view and then we can dance again. I love it. When we’re dancing close together it feels as if we’re one body with four legs.’

Julian’ countenance was transformed as he led the way to the railing and they stood staring vacantly out at the black sky.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said to the passing clouds.

‘And you’re very handsome.’

‘I’m not, and I hate this scar.’ He touched it lightly.

‘It looks sexy. Makes me think of a pirate captain whose face has been slashed by a scimitar while fighting off other pirates who want to steal his treasure.’ Mort reached out to touch it.

Julian froze and pulled his face back.

‘Sorry, I was wondering what it felt like.’

‘No no. I’m sorry. No one has ever wanted to touch it before. It repels most people. Girls I teach call me Scarface and reckon I give them nightmares. That’s why I was so slow to ask you to dance in case you would be put off. Of course you may touch it... if you really want to.’

Mort ran his fingers along the scar that ran from beside the right eye down to his chin. ‘It feels smooth, especially compared to your stubble. That’s sexy too.’

Julian turned to face Mort. His eyes were moist. ‘Why are you like this?’

‘Like what?’

‘So nice. Has someone set you up to make a fool of me? I stupidly told a colleague when I was feeling depressed that I was a virgin, imaging she’d keep it a secret, but the next day the whole staffroom knew.’ He stopped, face ashen. ‘Fuck! Now I’ve told you. I’m such a fool.’

‘Yes, you are a bit,’ Mort said kindly, ‘but a nice fool. I was taught at a very young age never to trust a woman with a secret, and I never will…’ He stopped, realising what he’d said, but Julian seemed not to have understood the implications and they stood in companionable silence. The orchestra started up.

‘Let’s dance some more.’

During the next break they wandered down to the garden area. Every second bench was occupied by kissing couples. They found one in deep shadow at the far end and sat.

‘May I kiss you?’

Mort giggled. ‘According to the books I’ve read, if you have to ask, then your partner doesn’t want to.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When both parties want to kiss, it’s like a magnetic attraction and they just do it without asking.’

‘I see.’

Silence.

Mort leaned towards Julian until their faces were almost touching. Julian turned with a look of surprise, then with an idiotic grin on his face, lightly brushed Mort’s lips with his own. His next forays were decidedly more energetic and it was several minutes before they came up for air.

‘Thanks…’

‘And never thank anyone for a kiss,’ Mort interrupted. ‘It’s mutual, so both are pleased. If you let a female think her kisses and caresses are worth more than yours, she’ll think you’re nuts and start to use them as currency. Before you know it you’ll be constantly buying her things to get her to do what she really wants to.’

‘How do you know all this? You’re only young. How old are you?’

‘Old enough. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Tell me, Julian, Why did you choose me tonight?’

‘I don’t know… At least I do, but it seems silly. When I looked at you I felt relaxed. You reminded me of someone I teach... Works hard, intelligent and never makes trouble.’

‘What class is she in?’

‘Oh, it’s not a she, he’s a junior. When he’s in the classroom I feel relaxed, even when the others are noisy. Handsome kid; the sort I’d like to have for a son if I ever marry, which is unlikely as I’m going off the idea — unless you’ll have me?’ His smile did not project optimism, and Mort began to feel very guilty. ‘Which brings me to the difficult part.’

‘Difficult? Why?’

‘Because I’m shy, I suppose. Okay, here goes. Can I see you again?’

‘I’d like that, but tomorrow I’m leaving for Brisbane.’

He grunted a laugh. ‘Well, at least you’ve restored my faith in women. I’d given up hope of ever meeting one I could feel something for.’ He stood and held out his hand. ‘Thanks for a wonderful evening. I’ll treasure for the rest of my life the first woman’s kiss I have ever enjoyed.’

Mort also stood, took his hand, looked into his eyes which were moist, and said softly, ‘Say that last bit again.’

‘This is the first time in my life that I enjoyed kissing a woman.’

‘Are you sure you really want a woman?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t be upset, but you seem too nice for... for what you say you... the sort of partner you’re looking for. You think you’ve found her in me, but you haven't. You don’t know me really. I’m not what I seem.’

‘I don’t believe you were just playing a game.’

‘I wasn’t. I like you and everything about tonight, but... women are mercenary, demanding, and aren’t interested in making men happy. Have you considered? Look, I don’t want to have this conversation here, it’s too important. Come to my room so I can explain privately.‘

‘But…’

‘Either follow me or don’t, it’s up to you.

41 The Truth

‘We’re both sweaty from dancing, and I want to wash this lipstick off my face. The shower’s in here.’ Mort led a silent and wary Julian into the bathroom. ‘You get in and I’ll join you. It’s not a trick, it’s the way I want to tell you the truth. Go on!’

Julian shyly removed his clothes and stepped into the shower while Mort stripped and scrubbed his face clean, keeping his back to the shower stall, from where Julian marvelled at the perfection of Mort’s slim, muscular body, sexy bum, smooth neck, flawless skin.

‘I’m coming but I don’t want you to see me yet, so I’m switching off the light, okay?’

‘This is all very strange.’

‘It gets stranger.’ Mort switched off the light and joined Julian, pressing his back against him. ‘Ha! Your erection indicates you’re not that nervous.’

‘It’s stiff from fear.’

Their eyes had adjusted to the light from the street and Mort turned his head to look over his shoulder. ‘Kiss me.’

Julian obeyed, and pulled Mort to him, letting his hands wander.

‘You will notice a decline in the volume of my breasts,’ Mort whispered.

‘I’ve never been a fan of big tits.’

‘But they’re compensated for lower down.’

Julian’s fingers groped then froze and he shoved Mort from him, but maintained a firm grip on his shoulders. ‘Who are you?’

‘Mortaumal, from your class. But this isn’t a joke. It’s serious and I have to explain. I’ll get out if you want.’

‘We haven’t soaped ourselves yet,’ Julian replied.

It was half an hour before they reappeared in the bedroom, clean, dry, naked and physically satisfied.

‘Bed or chairs?’

‘Bed.’

During the next forty minutes Julian was told the bare bones of Mort’s life to date.

‘I feel like an innocent child listening to a worldly-wise adult,’ Julian said at last. ‘You speak and think like someone much older and wiser than I’d imagined a fourteen year old could ever be.’

‘Fourteen year olds have ruled countries, led armies, fathered children, been made Cardinals. Our society infantilises both men and women. ‘

‘But how did you learn to be like this?’

‘I’ve spent my life with a few intelligent, free-thinking adults, none of whom have ever spoken to me in any words or terms different from the way they speak to each other. No subject was deemed inappropriate, no words too difficult, no thoughts too complicated. More importantly, I’ve read books — hundreds of books. I’ve always been given responsibilities that were meaningful. I thought I was playing, but it wasn’t child labour, I was having fun and feeling useful. I wasn’t given useless toys, pointless games, dumbed down entertainment.’

‘That’s amazing. I’m sure I could never have thought so... so conceptually at your age.’

‘Kids my age are capable of conceptual thinking, of making decisions about right and wrong, morality and so on. The only thing we lack is experience — but so do most adults. I’ve kept my eyes and ears open all my life and seen what a mess most people make of their lives and relationships because of woolly thinking, lack of planning, and a refusal to accept that there are consequences, sometimes harsh, for mistakes.’

‘Why did you decide at the last minute to tell me who you really are?’

‘When you said you’d never enjoyed kissing women, I realised you had no idea of your sexuality and were about to make a terrible mistake. I hoped that if you learned it was a male, albeit a somewhat androgynous one, whose lips you were enjoying, you might not make the mistake of shackling yourself to a female.’

‘I am so lucky to have met you.’

‘And I was lucky to have you as a teacher.’

‘I don’t want to go, I’d love to stay with you all night; but guess I’d better be off, when will that woman... your mother, be back?’

‘How long does it take nine men to fuck one woman? And she’s never been a mother to anyone, least of all to me.’

‘Surely she isn’t letting all those…?’

‘As far as I can gather I was conceived in one of those orgies. She reckons she has no idea who my father was, but I don’t trust her.’

‘Then why are you going away with her? You’re doing so well at school.’

‘I have no choice, believe me. But... I wonder if you’d do me a favour?’

‘Anything.’

‘Julian! Have you learned nothing in your twenty-four years? Don’t make promises before you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

‘I trust you not to ask me to do something wrong.’

Mort laughed. ‘Trust no one! You are incorrigible! You’ve got to get tougher, with the kids in class too. They aren’t sweet little innocents who don’t know better. They know bloody well how to behave, they just go as far as they can get away with. Put your foot down.’

‘That’s all very easy to say... but how?’

‘By looking them in the eye when you tell them not to do something, and holding their gaze until they look away. It’s the law of the jungle, the weaker one looks away first to show he isn’t aggressive.’

‘I never thought of it like that, it makes sense. I thought they’d appreciate a teacher who wasn’t aggressive. But enough of me, what can I do for you?’

‘Tomorrow, or as soon as you can, go and see Marshall Trimm, the lawyer. He was my guardian, and is concerned that I’m making a mistake going away with Perdita. Tell him everything that happened tonight. Leave nothing out, and leave him with the impression that I’m well, happy, and confident that all will be fine, and he is not to worry about me.’

‘Tell him everything? Even…?’

‘Unless you’re ashamed of it, which you shouldn’t be. You’ve been the perfect gentleman throughout. Marshall will admire you for your honesty. The important thing for me is that you allay any fears he might have about my safety.’

‘Why don’t you phone him?’

‘Because even though I’m not worried about the future, I miss him already and I’d cry. And then he’d really be worried.’

‘I’ll go tomorrow.’

‘Thanks. One last cuddle?

42 Elbert

Perdita staggered in at first light, showered, then collapsed onto the bed beside Mort who pretended to be asleep. She rolled over and he tried not to gag on her breath before sliding out and showering, dressing and going down to breakfast.

Perdita snored softly.

When he returned she was up and about, looking as fresh as boiled lettuce.

‘I brought you some croissants and a coffee.’

‘Put them over there. Are you packed? We leave in five minutes.’ She downed the coffee, tipped the croissants into the rubbish bin, took one last look around, then marched out to the lifts.

It was Mort’s first flight so he was disappointed to see only the back of the seat in front of him, as their seats were in the centre of the plane.

When her bag appeared, Perdita grabbed it and marched towards the main terminal area, leaving Mort to wait for his own. After collecting it he looked around the rapidly emptying Arrivals Hall, hoping she’d abandoned him. He’d give her five minutes then see about boarding a return flight. His heart thumped in hope, and a slight smile — the first of the day, flickered.

‘I imagine you’re Perdita’s boy.’ The accent was English Home Counties, the tone cynical, and the effect fascinating. It emanated from a slim man wearing tan loafers, form-fitting blue jeans and an unbuttoned, sleeveless white shirt. His skin was very black and slightly shiny. An Art Nouveau-style bone ornament was suspended against his taut chest by a narrow leather thong around a powerful, columnar neck. An aquiline, fairly broad nose sat between slightly blood-shot eyes with pupils as black as the smooth, wrinkle-free skin that surrounded them. His ears were small and flat against his head. Sensuous lips and strong chin and jaw were enhanced by a finely sculpted, three-day-old moustache and beard.

Mort grinned in delight. ‘And I imagine you’re Perdita’s Elbert.’

‘You’re taller and better looking than I expected for a fourteen year old.’

‘You’re blacker and much better looking than I expected of a Kenyan/Ethiopian.’

‘Did you have an interesting flight?’

‘If staring at the back of a seat in the middle of a tin box hurtling through the stratosphere for three hours is what locals consider interesting, then I suppose it was. Next time I’ll walk and actually see something.’

Both men laughed and shook hands.

‘It looks as if you’ve lost your mother.’

‘She’s not my mother, merely the incubator.’

‘Which makes you an incubus?’

‘Right, so be afraid when you’re sleeping tonight.’

They had wandered into the concourse and were looking around when Perdita appeared from the direction of the ladies toilets.

‘Where’s the car?’ she snapped.

‘Follow me, madam.’ Elbert said sarcastically, leading them across the car park.’

‘Carry my bag. It’s heavy.’

‘Carry it yourself. You insisted on packing a year’s supply of clothes.’

Grumbling and muttering, she followed, occasionally sitting on her suitcase to rest.

‘Sit in the front with me,’ Elbert ordered when they arrived at the very ordinary, beige Toyota hatchback.

‘What about Perdita?’

‘She can sit in the back.’

His wife apparently expected this, because after heaving her bag into the boot, she clambered into the back seat with no more than an exhausted sigh, lay back and closed her eyes.

They took the motorway north, then headed west into anonymous suburbia, stopping in front of a pair of wrought iron gates in the centre of a two-metre-high wall that extended about fifty metres on each side. Elbert reached out and ran a security card through a slot, the gates opened just long enough for them to drive through before clanging closed. Immediately behind the wall was a sealed parking area surrounded by six identical townhouses. Expensive cars were parked in front of four. They pulled up beside the house nearest the gate.

‘So this is your place.’

‘It’s where we live at the moment,’ Elbert said quietly as if not wanting to be overheard, ‘thanks to the generosity of Frank, who owns the whole place.’ Shaking his head to deter further questions he led the way inside.

Perdita followed and made straight for the toilet where she could be heard alternately vomiting and wailing softly.

‘She looks terrible,’ Elbert said with no trace of compassion, ‘and sounds worse. Any idea what’s wrong?’

‘No sleep last night; too much sex and alcohol,’ Mort informed him with a similar lack of compassion, having decided not to protect the women who didn’t give a toss about his happiness.

‘Sex?’

‘She dressed me up as a girl because she reckoned she didn’t want to go to the roof-top dance alone, then promptly dumped me to go to a stag party with nine guys she used to fuck at school. All nine did the honours again last night, apparently, so I suggest you take health precautions before screwing her — or even kissing. She could have picked up any of a dozen lethal bugs.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up. She’d better be on her feet tonight, we have to go out. No choice. Frank insists. And Frank’s the boss.’

‘What do you do for a crust?’

‘Now? Obey Frank. Before? Its a long story and I’m hungry.’

Elbert was a proficient cook, so an hour later they had eaten well but Perdita had eaten nothing and, if possible, looked worse; vomiting from both ends, sweating, turning yellow, sure she was going to die, but refusing the reluctant offer of a doctor.

‘Come for a drive.’ Elbert led the way and ten minutes later they were sitting on benches in a small park with a view across to the towers of the city in the smoggy distance.

‘I don’t like to talk in that place. It’s probably bugged.’

Mort looked a question.

‘In England, I worked for a company exporting a wide variety of stuff to Australia. They offered me the chance to become a junior director and run the Australian end of the business, so I sank all my savings into setting it up. Great for a couple of years, then they went belly up in the UK. I found other suppliers, but globalisation hasn’t been good for small businesses. I saw another opportunity, but needed a lump sum and took out a loan from Frank, who seemed a thoroughly nice guy. Which should have rung alarm bells — con men are always nice guys you’d trust with your sister. Then everything collapsed and Frank demanded his money.’

‘How much.’

‘Getting on for half a million.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Fuck indeed. I’d no way of finding that in a hurry, so he forced us to come and live here and work for him — running errands, delivering payments, meeting and rewarding clients. That’s what we have to do tonight. There’s a wealthy bastard due for a large kickback. Nothing’s above board or straightforward with Frank. Instead of just paying the bloke, he throws a conspicuous party, politicians and big end of town. Then someone no one knows shows up with beautiful partner, the money is quietly handed over while Frank is otherwise engaged, and…’ Elbert sighed, shook his head and slumped. ‘And now my bitch of a wife gets herself fucked stupid, catches some dreaded lurgy and won’t be able to go. Frank will probably kill me.’

‘I’ll take her place.’

Elbert’s face lost it’s tension, he relaxed and laughed. Mort looked at him in delight. His beautiful smile made him even more handsome. At that moment he would have done anything to make this man’s life easier.

‘One slight problem; you’re not a female.’

‘But I fooled everyone last night, even my school teacher.’

Elbert’s face had relapsed into despair. ‘Thanks, Mort, but it won’t work. Especially with the dress she has to wear.’

‘At least let me put it on and see what you think! Don’t be such a wimp!’

‘Elbert pulled a wry face. ‘Wouldn’t you be embarrassed to be partnered by a black man?’

‘Idiot! That’s the attraction. I think you’re incredibly sexy and handsome and…’ He stopped, suddenly realising that Elbert was more than likely a gay basher.

‘You’re queer?’ the voice expressionless.

‘No. I’m a sexual being, like all men.’

‘With no particular preference?’

‘With a preference for people who are strong, slim, intelligent, adventurous, honest, healthy and good looking.’

‘Narrows the field somewhat.’

‘At the moment the field numbers exactly none, because the only possibility is not adventurous.’

Elbert laughed again.

‘Come on.’ Mort challenged. ‘Prove me wrong.’

The dress Frank had provided for Perdita consisted of a short sleeved, heavily embroidered bolero fastened between the breasts by a silver chain, and a flat wrap for a skirt. The bolero had the advantage of concealing Mort’s squarer-than-usual-for-a-girl shoulders, but the disadvantage of preventing the use of a brassiere. This was solved by separating the cups of one of Perdita’s bras, padding them and sewing them on the inside of the bolero. When the chain was fastened Mort’s pecs were squeezed together slightly, providing a hint of cleavage.

The bolero stopped just below the breasts. The skirt, made of the same fabric, began thirty centimetres lower at the hips, and was joined at the right thigh with a silver chain. Each step caused the skirt to part, revealing a well-turned leg from ankle to hip. Perdita’s red bikini thong was again pressed into service, and the ensemble was garnished with glittering sandals, a navel jewel, matching silver earrings, necklace and bangles. The same simple makeup and hairstyle as he’d used the previous night completed the transformation.

Elbert’s grin refused to go away. He kept shaking his head in astonishment. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he kept saying. ‘So sexy. And the way you speak, low and slightly husky, like a cat purring. Very seductive.’

‘Why thank you, sir. That deserves a kiss.’

Elbert brushed his lips against Mort’s then stood back. ‘Do you like dressing as a girl?’

‘I hate the dressing; but I think I’m going to love the adventure. This is only the second time and will be my last. What astounds me is the clothes they wear. You don’t realise till you put them on. They’re insane. They serve no purpose other than to advertise the wearer’s sexuality. I don’t care about being practically naked, in fact I’d prefer to be naked because you can’t run, jump or bend, or even sit comfortably in things like this, or what I wore last night. That females wear this sort of thing by choice confirms my opinion that they’re too different from men to permit serious mental contact.’

‘I’m sorry... you don’t...’

‘No, no. I’m enjoying it, in the same way as I enjoy sitting exams. It’s not pleasant, but in this case it’s a chance to prove to myself I can be as good a girl as any female. But what’ll I do if someone gropes me?’

‘The people Frank socialises with think of themselves as cosmopolitan sophisticates; high flyers socially and financially. Not cheap or common, so there won’t be any overt groping.’ Elbert moved closer and gently squeezed Mort’s breast.

No reaction.

‘I’ve just squeezed your breast.’

‘I didn’t feel it.’

‘Exactly, so you must keep an eye on them in case someone does overstep the bounds of propriety.’ Elbert slid his hand into the slit of the skirt and caressed Mort’s groin.

Mort grinned. ‘Mmm...nice. So you do fancy me Elbert?’

‘You’re a slut. What should you do if that happens?’

‘Slap them down?’

‘No. With a gentle smile, take the offending hand and lightly place it somewhere else. I’ll show you. Touch me inappropriately.’

Mort caressed the bulge in Elbert’s jeans.

With a pleasant smile that suggested things might be different in another place, at another time, Elbert gently took Mort’s wrist and, without drawing attention to what he was doing, returned the hand to where it came from. ‘Try it.’

They practiced this several times.

‘Remember, you are a decoration, nothing more. Do not attempt conversation — no one has any. Do not try to be amusing — no one has a sense of humour. Do not be clever — Franks social networkers are as intelligent as a nest of wasps. You are there solely to prove that Frank can afford the best and most extravagantly dressed female appurtenances. Your job is to make men feel like gods, able to have any woman they desire, not to make them insecure.’

‘Won’t Frank be annoyed that it’s me and not Perdita?’

‘He’s only seen her twice and never spoken to her. If he’s there, which is not certain, he’ll think you’re her.’

‘And what is this transaction you’re making?’

‘I know nothing, and neither should you. Ours just to do or die, ours not to reason why. I’ll be wearing a specially lined dinner jacket, that’s all I know. When whatever it contains has been checked, I’ll be given an identical one and return to the party.’

‘Sensible. How long have we got? I need to pee and let the blood flow back into my cods.’

‘Four hours. Go take a rest. I’ll be back in time to help you dress again.’

43 A Social Occasion

A stretch limo carried them to a mansion in the hills. The tree-lined driveway was festooned with fairy lights. Music drifted from the floodlit house onto a terrace where several couples wandered like confused inmates of a geriatric ward. A liveried servant offered drinks. Carrying glasses of a pinkish bubbly liquid, Mort and Elbert mingled elegantly. Over-painted and underdressed women eyed Mort with jealous suspicion, while their dinner-suited males eyed him with ill-concealed lust.

Elbert discreetly pointed out a thin, stooped, elderly man in a loose fitting dinner suit, who looked as if he might drop dead at any moment. ‘That’s Frank. Nervous?’

‘Shitting myself. Is it too late to get a headache?’

‘I’m afraid so, he’s on his way. Deep breaths, calm. You look brilliant.’

‘Perdita, you look ravishing. I hope you like the dress?’ The voice was low, almost a whisper, and strangely intimidating.

‘You have excellent taste, Frank. It’s a wonderfully elegant fantasy.’

His nod was perfunctory, as if he’d already forgotten who she was. Turning to Elbert with the smile of a doting father, he placed his hand affectionately on his shoulder. ‘Don’t hang around here afterwards. Just do the rounds making sure everyone sees you, then leave. I want to see you first thing tomorrow regarding that little matter we discussed last week.’

‘What time?’

‘I’ll send someone.’ The smile evaporated and he shuffled away.

His place was taken by a corpulent fellow sporting several large rings on equally large fingers. He chatted to them amicably but incomprehensibly about nothing they understood, as if they were old friends, then moved on. Elbert excused himself and wandered casually into the crowd, while Mort retired to a corner seat to wait.

Within seconds a middle-aged tuxedo sidled up and sat beside him, absentmindedly placing his hand on Mort’s naked thigh. Mort smiled apologetically while gently removing the intrusive hand with slightly trembling fingers. As he did so he happened to look up. Frank was staring. When the hand was safely removed, he nodded as if to himself and disappeared. Seconds later the tuxedo excused himself and Mort was left alone until Elbert returned.

As instructed, they mingled for a few minutes, accepted compliments and fended off vague enquiries, then went out to their waiting limousine.

Perdita’s room stunk of vomit and diarrhoea.

‘You can’t sleep in there, come and share my bed.’

‘Thanks.’

They stripped, folded the borrowed garments carefully, showered, then with sighs of relief that it was over, flopped onto the bed and recalled everything that had happened that night.

‘I reckon the bloke with his hand on your thigh was a plant. Frank testing you. You did well.’

‘Thanks to you. What do you think he wants to see you about in the morning?’

‘The money I owe. It can’t be anything else because I’ve not the faintest notion of anything that’s going on in this place. I’m frightened all the time. Frank is evil. Depraved. What I did tonight is obviously something to do with money laundering.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Probably. He asked me if I’d like to get into that and make big money. I said no, and that pissed him off no end. He doesn’t trust me, I’m certain.’

‘Can’t you quit the country?’

‘He has my passport, as well as videos and documents ‘proving’ I’m some sort of gangster. If I leave here he’ll give them to the cops.’

‘That’s roughly what Perdita has done to Marshall to force me to come with her.’

‘We’ll get to that in a minute. First I want to clarify a few things. When I realised I was in trouble with the cash flow, I had what I thought was the good fortune to meet Perdita. She seemed sweet and innocent and in love with me, so I told her about my debts. She said not to worry because she was due for an inheritance. Her father had died and her mother was on her last legs in a nursing home, and she’d inherit enough to settle my account — if I married her. I’ve never wanted to marry, but being congenitally stupid, I did. Unfortunately, the mother, your grandmother I suppose, took longer than expected to die, and finally Frank forced us to move here where he could keep an eye on his investment. Then when she did finally die, it turned out Perdita didn’t inherit anything — the money was gone. We checked the lawyers and found nothing, so she became convinced it had been given to you. Her plan was to bring you here and get me to torture you or something, and force you to hand the money over.’

‘And here I am lying naked beside the man who is prepared to murder me to get his hands on my non-existent filthy lucre.’

Elbert rolled onto his side and gazed at Mort. ‘I’ve known you less than twenty-four hours yet it feels like a lifetime. If I had a son I’d want him to be like you — honest, intelligent, thoughtful, witty, daring, decent…’ He paused for a few seconds as if debating whether to continue, grunted a laugh and added, ‘this’ll sound mushy, but... you’ve liberated me. I was digging a hole deeper and deeper into the muck we call civilization, not realising I didn’t even want to go there. Everyone I’ve ever met has espoused the idea of progress, money, growth, profit, with never a mention of consequences. You’re a natural philosopher who seems to know instinctively how to live and retain your self respect. Thanks.’

He leaned over and kissed Mort lightly on the forehead, then removed the ring he wore on his right ring finger. It was gold, heavy, and set with a deep red sapphire into which had been carved a winged man. ‘My biological father left this to me. You are my defacto son, and now it’s yours.’

Mort placed it on his right forefinger and remained silent for a minute. ‘Thanks, Elbert, I’ll treasure this till the day I die. I wish you were my real father, so I’ve decided to…’

‘No! You are not going to do anything! I don’t want to hear any more about this. If I was young and free I’d take you away and we’d live together in bliss forever. But I’m not, and you’ve given me the courage to face the devil within, as well as the usurer without. Tomorrow morning I’m going to tell Frank the truth.’

‘And?’

‘And I will feel cleansed, pure and worthy of you, my precious stepson. Whatever happens tomorrow, remember it is my fault, my decision, and nothing whatever to do with you! Do you understand that?

‘Yes.’

‘Good, repeat it.’

‘Whatever happens tomorrow is not my fault, it is the result of your choices.’

‘Oh, Mort. I do love your rational, logical mind. Thanks for being with me tonight. Now, to sleep.’

Elbert rolled onto his left side and Mort snuggled in behind, arm draped over his new father’s hip, relieved the evening was over but still worried that Elbert was not out of the woods. Despite his fears, however, within minutes he was asleep. Elbert too slept deeply; happy for the first time in years that his torment was about to end one way or another. He had had more than enough of this life.

Mort woke with a start. Sunlight streamed through uncurtained windows. Elbert was gone. He leaped out of bed. Nine thirty. Perdita was banging about in her room. He went in. She was hurriedly throwing everything she owned into several suitcases and carry bags. She looked up, face drained. Fear staring from bloodshot eyes.

‘Go pack everything. We’re leaving.’

‘Where’s Elbert?’

‘They took him away at six o’clock. He’s not back so I think he’s not coming back.’

‘Who took him?’

‘Two men in overalls. They came in here first, then went to your room. You were wrapped around him, deep asleep. He woke and slid out without disturbing you. They told him to dress but he refused, said something ridiculous about facing his accusers clothed only in his innocence. They took him across to Manolo’s house, over there.’ She pointed out the window.’

‘Who’s Manolo? And what are all those huge cars doing there?’

‘Manolo is the boss of this place, and the cars belong to the Big Boys who surround Frank. I guess they’re here to question Elbert about the money he owes that you refused to give him! If anything happens to him it will be your fault.’

Mort was saved a reply by the appearance of a short, fat, bespectacled man in a dark suit. He knocked at the door and Mort ran to open it.

‘I’m Dr. Toksyn, looking for Elbert’s wife.’

‘I’m his son. What’s happened? Where is he?’ Mort was beginning to panic.

‘I’m his wife.’ Perdita looked awful.

‘It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that your husband died this morning of a heart attack, here is a copy of the death certificate.’ He presented a piece of paper.

‘When? Why?’

‘During questioning he became excited and it turns out he had a faulty heart that suddenly ceased working, so he collapsed. I was there, but could do nothing.’

‘But he was so healthy!’

‘After a certain age too much exercise weakens the heart.’

‘He was only forty!’

‘Can I see him?’

The doctor looked at Mort with a quizzical expression. ‘They said you were sleeping with him, naked, last night.’

‘Yes. Can I see him? I want proof that he’s dead.’

‘Put something on then.’

Mort returned in seconds wearing a pair of shorts. As they crossed to Manolo’s house, the large cars purred softly away, whoever was inside, invisible behind dark glass.

Elbert was lying naked on his back on the faux antique dining room table. He looked asleep. Mort ran to him and grasped his shoulders. They were already cold. He lightly kissed Elbert’s slightly parted, unresponsive lips, whispered, ‘I envy you,’ then turned to the doctor. ‘Did he suffer?’

‘Not physically, it was very sudden. I was not privy to his mental state.’

‘He was happy,’ Mort stated firmly. ‘Thank you for letting me see him.’ He held out his hand, which the doctor shook with some embarrassment, and returned to Perdita, who was loading everything into the Toyota.

A heavy-set man in his late forties with no bum in his trousers but a generous belly in his T-shirt waddled across and stood staring at them as they worked.

‘Frank sends his condolences on your loss.’

No response.

‘You can’t take anything of Elbert’s, it’ll be sold to pay his debts.’

Mort shrugged and buried his ring hand in his shorts pocket. Perdita zipped up a bag.

‘He didn’t want a funeral, so that’s a saving.’

Again no response.

‘Luckily, the life insurance Frank took out on him will cover his debts, so we won’t be chasing you for them.’

This was too much for Perdita who hissed, ‘You’re a slimy toad, Manolo. One day you’ll be poisoned by your own lying, cheating, murderous venom.’

Manolo laughed and strolled away.

Perdita got in and started the engine.

Mort covertly kissed the ring on his forefinger, checked his stuff was all packed, sat in the passenger seat and they drove quietly away.

44 A Room with a View.

The Gympie Road led them towards the City Centre; a bypass tunnel took them to a bridge over the river, which they crossed. Ten minutes later Perdita parked at the rear of an estate agent’s office.

‘Wait here.’

Mort got out and stretched his legs. The parking area was separated from the equally depressing back yards of other small businesses by rusty wire fences. The service road behind the office boasted scraggy trees behind which skulked a row of weatherboard houses built in the nineteen fifties. All in need of paint, new roofs and a gardener. Rotting car bodies and rusted supermarket trolleys served as post-modern garden ornaments in several yards. Someone was burning plastic in an incinerator, and an ambulance siren wailed along the main road.

Perdita returned looking less tense. ‘Got a place. Get in.’

Five minutes later they pulled into number 4B parking bay beneath a four-story block of flats.

‘What’s this place?’

‘Somewhere I used to live. Come on, get your bags, we’re on the top floor and the lift’s probably not working.’

It was, and half an hour later they had opened all the windows to chase out the stuffiness of a pleasant two bedroom, furnished apartment, and were standing in the lounge room where French doors opened inwards, and a wrought iron railing across the gap created the illusion of a balcony.

Mort gazed in silence across to the western hills.

Perdita perched on the handrail and leaned back alarmingly. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re going to fall if you’re not careful! How safe is that handrail? You could easily lose your balance and tip over.’

‘Would you mind?’

Mort looked down into the small yard that housed the rubbish bins. ‘Of course not, except for the mess. With a bit of luck you’d fall into one of the bins and save everyone a lot of trouble.’

‘I’ll remember that when I decide to go. I meant, what do you think of the place?’

‘Better than I expected. How’d you know the lift might not be working?’

‘I lived and worked in the flat directly beneath this one for a few years. It’s not classy, but people leave you alone and no one complains as long as you’re quiet and discreet.’

‘Discreet. That suggests your work was...’

‘Relief massage.’

‘So if I strain a muscle you can fix me.’

‘More like... tension relief. ‘

‘Psychotherapy?’

‘Sexual therapy.’

‘Prostitution. Why didn’t you say so?’

‘Because that word carries a lot of negative baggage.’

‘Yeah, like homosexual, gay and queer. Are you taking up where you left off?’

‘Not much choice.’

‘If anyone asks what you do, what’ll I tell them?’

‘Say your sister’s a therapist.’

‘Fine.’

‘You don’t seem surprised... or shocked.’

‘I’m not. What else could a good looking sixteen year old with no education who doesn’t like real work, find to do? I’d do it myself, except the thought of being slobbered over by fat, sweaty men with halitosis is too off-putting. How do you cope?’

‘Just close my eyes and think of the money.’

‘I reckon females are tougher, or more insensitive than males.’

‘They are.’

‘Is that how you met Elbert?’

‘Yes. We lived here after we married, before Frank insisted we move to his place.’

‘And he didn’t mind you screwing other guys?’

‘Hardly, he was also on the game by then, having run out of money.’

‘Males or females?’

‘Females are too racist. He tried being an escort, but none of the bitches who could afford him wanted to be seen in public with a black man. A few came here, but it was mainly males.’

‘You don’t seem to miss him.’

‘I don’t — useless prick, he was supposed to get the money out of you.’

‘Now his debt’s paid off, I guess I’ll be off home.’

‘Not bloody likely. I still want the money that’s owed me. I’m the daughter; I should have the inheritance. I know you’ve got it and you’re not leaving me until I’ve got it.’

‘Leaving aside the fact that I haven’t got it, if you’d paid off Elbert’s debt with it, you wouldn’t have it now, so …’

Perdita’s laugh was hysterical. ‘You surely don’t think if I’d got my hands on my inheritance that black arsehole would have got a cent of it. That was bait to get him to marry me.’

‘I envy Elbert. Better dead than shackled to you.’

‘Exactly, so the sooner you cough up the cash, the sooner you’ll be free.’

‘You promised you’d send your blackmail evidence back to Marshall when I was living with you. When will you do it?’

Perdita sniffed. ‘I’ve decided to keep it until you hand over my inheritance. Now we’re going shopping for sheets and towels and kitchen stuff. Come on and I’ll shout you lunch.’

That evening Perdita made several dozen phone calls informing ex clients of her return to business as usual. An hour later she waved a red appointment book proudly. ‘Three tomorrow, and the rest of the week's already filling up. They’ve missed me.’

‘Congratulations. What’ll I do when you’re in session?’

‘If you’re at home you can answer the door, take his coat, make him feel welcome, and bring us coffee afterwards — I’ll get a bell to ring for you. But first thing tomorrow you’d better find yourself a school.

A large co-educational state school twenty minutes jogging from the flat, was pleased to welcome a clean and attractive new pupil. An office woman took his personal details and asked that his guardian visit soon to complete essential formalities. After sitting a test he joined his new class without incident, and was as bored as he expected to be for the rest of the day.

Out of curiosity, Mort agreed to stay in and greet Perdita’s first customer that night because she didn’t know him and was nervous at being alone in the house with a strange man. Mort’s offer to act as a naked doorman was refused.

‘I want my clients to feel this is a thoroughly ordinary social occasion, not some bizarre sex game. Just wear your jeans and a modest top, like a conventional kid brother doing his homework. Answer the door, greet him politely, then start your homework, or watch TV or whatever.... Don’t hang around and look curious. Don’t ask questions, these guys are worried their wives will find out. okay?’

‘Okay. Do you want me to bring in coffee at intermission?’

‘Cheeky monkey. Perhaps when he gets to know you he’d like it. There are several who’ll pay you to watch, if you’re okay with that.’

‘Sure. No worries. Just say the word.’

The client was in his thirties, heavy but not fat. Balding, pleasant and very shy. He was about to run away when Mort opened the door, only restrained when Mort took his hand, shook it and more or less pulled him inside, introduced himself as Perdita’s brother, told him she’d be out in a minute, sat him down and offered a cup of tea, which he didn’t want but accepted in embarrassment.

Perdita’s arrival in nothing but a filmy transparent smock that concealed none of her talents, caused him to spill his tea. Mort rescued the cup, told him not to worry, and Perdita led him to the bedroom which had been done out cheaply but elegantly with no suggestion of the whorehouse.

Judging from his beatific grin on leaving, and the tip he bestowed on Mort, the evening had been a success.

The following day Mort telephoned Marshall from a call box, brought him up to date with everything, told him not to worry, asked after Angelo, and was advised to buy a prepaid phone with no identifier, and dump it after half a dozen calls. One with a video camera might be useful in case of problems. Marshall had represented several clients who had recorded disputes and later avoided battles with people over who said what to whom.

45 School

Mort made a friend. Han Hansen, a powerful, hirsute youth who happened to be sitting beside him on the grass when the entire school was taken out of their last period of the day to watch the First XI cricket team play a rival school’s eleven. Their legs brushed as if by accident and neither pulled away. Entranced to have his leg lightly caressed by his neighbour’s hairy calf, Mort achieved an instant erection, which he managed to discreetly display by leaning back on his elbows with one knee raised to shield the sight from other students. This clever manoeuvre caused Han’s leg to move discreetly up and down until there were two erections concealed from all except their instigators.

Like ninety percent of the general population they were bored witless by cricket, so the minute the bell rang announcing the end of school, ninety percent of the students leaped to their feet and disappeared, leaving a few teachers and a handful of students to discover who won.

‘Wanna come to my place? No one’s home.’

Mort grinned and whispered an enthusiastic, ‘Yeah.’

The front door of the somewhat run down brick and tile bungalow five streets from the school, was barely closed before they were on Han’s bed, clothes on the floor, grunting and writhing like a pair of rutting stags. Mort was slightly disappointed to see that Han’s tan ended abruptly under his shorts. The muscular but optically white flesh looked less appetising than his fantasies had predicted, however, Han made up for such a minor deficiency by applying his fingers, tongue and lips to reducing Mort to a quivering jelly of electrified sensation.

An intermission was called after the first explosive orgasms, in which they helped themselves to milk and chocolate biscuits, before exploring each other further and resuming the fulfilling of their desires in a more relaxed, but equally satisfying manner until, without warning, Han leaped from the bed shouting he was late for work.

Mort threw on his school uniform, Han a pair of jeans and T-shirt, and they raced off on Han’s bike, Mort on the crossbar with Han breathing sweetly down his neck as he pumped the pedals along quiet back streets to an ornamental plant nursery on the Toowong side of the river where he worked after school. It was run by Lydia and Stefan, a childless couple in their fifties.

Surrounded by wide verandahs, their house sat at the front of a long block. A dozen houses shared the boundary on one side and the grounds of a primary school the other. The rear boundary was a narrow service lane. The entire allotment was very private, being surrounded by a two-metre-high stone wall, a relic of convict labour from two centuries earlier when the site had been a prison. Mort wandered around, gave Han a lift with a few heavy pots, made friends with the owners, and secured permission to also help out occasionally as he had little to occupy himself after school. Lydia and Stefan couldn’t afford to pay him, but he didn’t mind as it was better than doing nothing, especially as it reminded him of his grandfather’s market garden.

Han was easy, uncomplicated company, knew dozens of jokes, and had the rare gift of being able to make listeners laugh at the right time. Mort could never remember any funny stories and was in awe of Han’s apparently inexhaustible font of amusing yarns, risqué anecdotes and ad-lib potty humour. Best of all were the puns and clever wordplay, not to mention regular sex whenever they had the opportunity.

In the absence of Cross Country Running, Mort chose woodwork as a hobby and discovered he was pretty good at working with his hands. In all the regular classes none of the teachers seemed interested in him — or anything else for that matter apart from staying on side with the class bullies. As in his previous school, Mort kept his head down and stayed out of trouble, which wasn’t difficult as he had some catching up to do because the curriculum was slightly different from his previous school. A wide general knowledge gained through reading and listening was no substitute for memorising textbook facts and teachers’ opinions to be regurgitated in examinations.

On one of Mort’s first forays into the city and suburbs in the early evening when Perdita had a client, he discovered a gymnasium made of three large shipping containers squeezed in behind an empty office block. The openings were facing away from the road, but the sound of a barbell dropping was unmistakable, so Mort investigated. Three lean dark men in torn shorts were using rudimentary equipment they’d obviously made themselves. They looked fit and friendly and laughingly offered the use of their gear. Mort tried a few lifts to see what it was like, but decided against bulking up, as the guys called it. A notice glued to the door advertised self-defence classes on Wednesday nights. He asked if he’d be allowed to go.

‘Sure... but it isn’t all flash and professional like whiteys have. The guys just wear shorts and learn how to get out of scrapes mainly. You know, if someone comes at you, what do you do?’

‘Kill him,’ Mort said only half joking. ‘It sounds just what I want. I’ve had some lessons, but need to keep fit and in practice and learn new tricks.’

‘Then come along, Bro. The guy in charge is Brawl. If I’m not there tell him Scrappy sent ya.’

The following Wednesday Mort went, was welcomed without prejudice, and in the first lesson learned a variety of tricks from Brawl, a sixty-seven year old with a mop of wiry grey curls and skin the colour of strong tea. In a practice fight, this soft-spoken gentleman who seemed to be constructed of steel and leather, was so fast and reflexive no one could surprise him. At all other times he was gentle and kind, never tiring of repeating, demonstrating, suggesting, putting his students at ease with themselves and each other. He didn’t bother with the historical context of the sport, just concentrated on practical, useful self defence that, as with Hugh’s lessons, included non-threatening body language and running away.

By the time he arrived home on Wednesday nights, Mort was a physically and mentally healthy young man able to deal with all that life might throw at him. By Thursday lunchtime he was an irritable, frustrated teenager again, ready to teach those teachers how to treat their pupils.

46 Mr. Preggy

The school term dragged on, more or less problem free apart from Social Studies, taught by Mr. Preggy who didn’t conceal his belief that Anglo-European culture and civilization was superior to all others. Unwilling to argue with the man and thus create problems for himself, Mort kept his mouth shut despite sometimes feeling as if his blood was about to boil in his ears. Crude jokes about refugees fleeing from wars, who were dying in Australian prison camps on remote islands, sorely tested his restraint. Even the misery of the increasing number of homeless people and the continuing disadvantaged position of most indigenous people failed to elicit the teacher’s sympathy. When the overweight fount of knowledge sneered they should get over it and pull their socks up, Mort, who was sitting as usual in the front row, decided enough was enough and raised his hand.

‘What?’ Mr. Preggy snapped.

Politely, so as to avoid seeming confrontational, Mort asked, ‘Sir, if your father’s house and land had been taken from him, and when he finally found work half his wages — already less than white workers — was taken by the government; and your mother, his wife was raped and beaten when walking home; and he was not allowed to live in the town so had to camp and forage in rubbish dumps on the outskirts, and had been given blankets laced with diseases, flour containing poison, and his only source of water had been drained, and you were treated like a mongrel dog by all the whites in town… Would you appreciate being told to ‘get over it and pull your socks up?’

‘My god, another bleeding-heart idiot with a black armband view of history. That’s in the past, mate. It isn’t like that today, they get millions spent on them.’ The teacher’s face had turned a shade of pink.

‘Statistics indicate that the majority of all government money allocated to indigenous welfare ends up in the pockets of Europeans.’ Mort’s continuing calm rational tone was beginning to seriously irritate the teacher.

‘What utter rubbish! It’s the Abbos themselves who’re raking off the cream.’

‘And it isn’t all in the past. Many indigenous people your age were taken from their parents, or their parents were, and it is still happening today faster than ever! How can you expect them to forget that? Could you?’

‘Well they should have looked after their kids better.’

‘With respect, sir, how were those poor people who were sent to the rubbish dumps, poisoned, starved, prevented from working, or if they did had their wages stolen to fund infrastructure for whites, supposed to look after their children?’

‘Different times, different behaviours. That doesn’t happen now.’

‘I apologise for disagreeing with you, sir, but it does. And it is people like you who are spreading the poisonous notion that it is all their fault.’

Mr. Preggy advanced on Mort, who quickly stood, placed his mobile phone in his top pocket, and came round to the front of his desk wearing a faint smile.

The teacher stopped with his face only centimetres from his pupil’s. ‘Take that back, you creepy little girly boy. What the fuck would a long-haired wimpish mongrel know about it?’

Mutters of ‘sit down faggot.’ ‘Shut ya face wanker.’ ‘Fuckin’ nigger-lover’ issued from the rear of the class.

‘Get your hair cut! You’re a disgrace to real men — unless you’re a girl,’ sneered the teacher.

Mort eyed the teacher calmly up and down. ‘I’d suggest you get rid of that fat gut, sir — or do you want people to think you’re a pregnant hermaphrodite?’

Silence.

In a sudden access of rage the teacher swung his hand in a backhanded swipe. Mort ducked, grabbed hold of the wrist as it passed and thrust it along in the same direction increasing its speed which caused his attacker to twist and lose his balance, enabling Mort to drag the arm behind and up his attacker’s back, forcing him to his knees.

‘‘Let go, you little prick.’

‘Not till you apologise, you big prick.’

‘Like f….argh!’

Mort heaved the arm up forcing Mr. Preggy’s face onto the floor. The teacher grunted in agony and finally muttered something.

‘I can’t understand you, sir. Say you are sorry for calling me a mongrel girly boy.’

It took another two more heaves before the required apology was given.

Mort let go, the teacher stood, massaged his arm, then sprang at Mort, who skipped lightly aside, slammed his fist into the teacher’s back and sent him sprawling onto the desk behind.

Screams from the girl. ‘Ah! You shit, Mortaumal! Now I’ve got blood all over my book. Sir! Get off! You’re dribbling blood everywhere.’ She eased herself out from behind the desk and stood to one side.

Mr. Preggy groaned, heaved himself upright, and without looking at anyone, shambled out the door.

The condemnation sounded universal, but in reality came from only half a dozen loudmouths. The rest were silent, waiting to see who was going to win; who to follow. According to the kids who spoke, Mort had no right to disagree with such a great teacher who everyone liked. He was an evil little refugee who should have been left to drown.

Mort gathered his books, concentrating on quelling the shakes. He scarcely dared move, let alone speak in case his voice trembled. Eventually he got himself under control and turned to face the now silent class.

‘If that man is such a great fellow and you admire him so much, why did no one come to his aid? It would have been twenty-five against one little girly boy, yet you sat there like scared rabbits. If I’m a girly boy, what does that make you lot?’

Silence while he shook his head in despair. ‘In your hearts you know I’m right. There are some fine people in this country, but too many are viciously bigoted and thoroughly nasty when it comes to race and difference.’

At that moment the Principal arrived supported by her deputy. She gazed around at the quiet classroom and told the girl to sit.

‘I can’t, Miss. Mr. Preggy’s blood’s all over it.’

‘Well go and get the caretaker to come and clean it off.’

‘Does anyone want to tell me what happened?’

Mort stood. ‘I’d like to.’

‘Very well.’

Mort gave a succinct, slightly downplayed account of what happened, making it seem like a simple disagreement between boys in the playground that ended with a bit of a scuffle — nothing serious. Then, as if he’d just remembered, pulled his phone from his pocket. ‘The video of my phone happened to be turned on, so you can view the incident if you like... it’ll be a bit seasick making, but…’

The Principal bought the lie, said she’d keep it in mind, then asked if anyone disagreed with Mortaumal’s analysis or would like to add anything. No one did, so she nodded and asked her deputy if he had any questions. He shook his head, and they left the room just as the bell rang for change of period.

The incident was never mentioned again. Mr. Preggy returned to class two days later and took up where he left off, apart from keeping his more extreme views to himself and avoiding all communication with Mort, who had made no friends through his spirited support for the disadvantaged, probably because the school serviced an aspiring middle class neighbourhood not keen on having wogs, nigs, homeless, dole bludgers, spiks, speks, religious nutters and coloured illegals living too close. His fellow students considered him dangerous. A trouble maker. A rabid lefty conspiracy theorist. Even Han wasn’t impressed when Mort told him about it that afternoon.

‘You’ll only make trouble for yourself if you stick your neck out. That’s not the way this country operates. If you’re not careful the cops’ll get a file on you, if they haven’t already. And then you’re stuffed. They watch your every move, read your emails, bug your phone, use facial recognition to follow every move on CCTV. They’ll know when you shit, sleep, who you hang out with, what you’re interested in. So... although I like you, I don’t think we ought to be seen together any more — it won’t do my image any good. I want to get on the student council and if they think I’m like you I won’t have a hope. Sorry mate, but that’s life.’

Mort shrugged as if it didn’t matter. ‘That’s fine, Han. It’s your life. I guess I shouldn’t come to the nursery then?’

‘Oh yeah. I was going to tell you but this made me forget it. I don’t have time to work there any more, so Stefan asked me to ask you if you’d like to take over from me?’

‘Sounds great, I can do with the money. I’ll go and see them now.‘

Han nodded; they shook hands briefly like strangers, and separated.

Lydia and Stefan were delighted that Mort was to work for them. They had found him much more sympathetic than Han, whose work was efficient and prompt, but who never allowed anyone to actually know him. Mort, although even more cautious than Han about who he allowed close to him, always responded to people he found genuine, who cared for their work, who were honest and simple — for want of a better word. Life, he had decided, was basically simple, but civilization made it unnecessarily complicated. Little by little his employers learned of his past, and opened their hearts and house to him as a refuge, if ever he needed it.

47 The Basement Flat

One rainy Saturday afternoon when Perdita was noisily engaged in assuaging someone’s physical tensions and there was no work for him at the Nursery, Mort decided to explore the flats instead of wandering the streets or watching TV.

Every floor was identical. The stairs wound around the central lift, and there was a small landing at each level with doors containing spy-holes for each of the four apartments. All was clean, if not polished, the walls were bare, and a vaguely disappointed Mort descended the stairs to the basement in the hope of discovering something interesting.

The space around the lift mechanism was cool and neatly swept, and four doors without spy holes were labelled Services, Janitor, Storage, and Private.

The ‘Private’ door was wide open, giving Mort a clear view along a dim corridor to a light filled room at the end. The source of the light wasn’t visible. Mort reasoned that if the door was open it couldn’t be that private, so he wandered in and discovered a large space with a kitchen at one end, a comfortable sitting area in the middle, and an open space containing an easel at the end where large floor to ceiling windows poured light over everything. Outside was a small garden where mixed flowers, shrubs and vegetables huddled in the drizzle.

‘Who the fuck are you!’ The voice was husky and the delivery lazy, giving the impression the speaker didn’t really give a fuck who the intruder was and didn’t care if he stayed or left.

Mort hurriedly and with some embarrassment apologised for entering without permission, and introduced himself.

The owner of the flat was short, stocky, bald, suntanned, not yet middle-aged, but no longer young, wearing blue overalls and a quizzical smile. ‘I’ve seen you around. You live with your mother, the whore on the top floor.’

‘How’d you know she’s not my sister?’

‘On the outside she’s young and pretty enough, but inside she’s a gnawed off bone, as my grandmother used to say. Not mother material I’d have thought.’

‘That’s for sure. Are you an artist? Can I see your pictures? This is a great room, I wish I had a place like this.’

‘Two questions, a statement and a wish… let me see... I paint in my spare time, but it’s for others to decide if my daubs are art or crap. Yes, you can see my paintings, and you’re welcome to visit this place….’ He paused and gazed at Mort quizzically. ‘On condition that…’

‘That?’

‘On condition you tell no one, come alone, and you sit for me. I like your face and want to paint it. But I can’t pay you! I’m a poor janitor paid a pittance, struggling to make ends meet and keep the wolf from the door.’

‘Then you shouldn’t leave it open.’ Mort grinned.

The janitor held out a short fingered, powerful hand. ‘Steward.’

They shook hands seriously, then Steward took his visitor into a room empty of furniture. On the walls were fifteen framed paintings — small works no more than thirty centimetres by twenty — hung at eye level. The rest of the walls both above and below the paintings were home to scores of mainly charcoal drawings that had been pinned apparently at random.

The subjects were men, painted in what Steward called a super realistic style — more realistic than a photograph, because he left out everything that didn’t suit the sort of character he wanted. No one had double chins, warts, sores, crossed eyes, pot bellies. But that didn’t mean they looked like heroic gods. They remained true to type, but were the best examples of that type. In other words, they looked like the image the sitters had of themselves, not what people actually saw. In this way both viewer and model were happy. In every painting two or more people — male or androgynous, were fighting, caressing, having sex, threatening, dancing, collaborating…

‘Not many women.’

‘None. Women are uninteresting and don’t like sitting for a man without being paid. They’re all whores at heart, and as they think all men are rapists, get disappointed when they discover I’m not.’

‘Where do you get the models?’

‘You’d be surprised how many men feel honoured if someone thinks they’re interesting enough to want to draw and paint them. When I see a bloke at the pub who interests me, or on the street or in the park, I start a conversation. Tradesmen sometimes sit for me if I give them lunch when they come to repair something. Once men trust me they’re usually easy, willing to do anything I suggest. If there were women around, the same men would clam up and become irritable and difficult, because they know that whatever they’re doing will be broadcast throughout the community within minutes. The whole world will be told they were sitting for their portrait so they must be a vain queer and so on. With other men they know their secrets are safe and no one is going to gossip and criticise.’

‘Yeah, that’s also my impression from the few women I know.’ Mort shook his head in apparent confusion. ‘And yet we’re told they’re the kind, thoughtful, loving one’s, and we’re the rough, thoughtless, selfish ones. I’ve been brought up by three wonderful people, but they were all men. The women in my life have never improved it.’

‘Exactly. There are a couple of blokes who regularly come and spend a night in my spare bedroom when they can’t stand their wives any more, or feel they’re in danger from them. Sort of a safe house. It’s always females in the News demanding protection from their husbands, but in my experience it’s just as often the other way round.’

‘Yeah, I believe it. But isn’t it hard to find two people to pose at the same time?’

‘Go take a closer look.’

Mort stood again in front of the drawings and paintings, brow furrowed, concentrating. Suddenly a loud whoop. ‘Ha! It’s always the same person. That’s smart. Why?’

‘Because everyone has at least two sides to their character, public and private. We’re all a mishmash of conflicting ideas, desires, hopes and fears and I try to show this.’

‘That’s why most paintings show some sort of conflict or opposition. Brilliant!’

‘Thanks. Now, when do you want to sit?’

‘Now?’

‘Right, get your clothes off.’

Mort tossed his shorts and tank top into a corner and stood calmly for several minutes while Steward walked around him, muttering about light, angles, environment, mood, texture…

‘Do you shave your pubes?’

‘No, I just haven’t any hair there yet.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Almost fifteen.’

‘You’re beautiful. And handsome. And sexy. And fit. And strong. But not happy.’

‘No.’

‘So we make a not happy painting. Will you be difficult about poses? Will you refuse to bend over in case I see your ring?’

Mort laughed. ‘As long as you don’t ask me to hurt myself, I’ll do anything you like’

‘It will take me a while to decide what I want to paint, apart from your face. I tend to see best when drawing, so that’s all I’ll do for a while.’

After an hour, Steward put down his charcoal. ‘Okay. Enough for today. You’re an excellent model, barely even twitched. You’d be amazed at how fidgety most people are.’

‘When do you want me again?’

‘Every time you feel like sitting. Don’t wait to be asked, because I won’t. It’s up to you to pop down here and if I’m home I’ll draw, okay?’

‘Very okay.’ Mort turned to leave the way he came in.

‘I’d rather you didn’t use that door again. There are often people out there wanting to see me and if they’re women and they notice you visiting, tongues will wag and I’ll get a reputation as a paedophile. Go into the garden, turn left, keeping close to the building so if anyone in the flats above is looking down they don’t see you, then through the gate into the rubbish bin enclosure. Check how to open the gate from the other side so you can come and go as you please, then wander round to the front door as if you’ve just been putting rubbish in the bins.’ He nodded dismissively. ‘See you when I see you.’ He went inside and closed the door before Mort could thank him.

‘Strange man, but I like him,’ he muttered, following the directions and arriving upstairs just as the client was leaving.

Mort’s relations with Perdita had become increasingly hostile and her insults so alarmingly spiteful that he began to question her sanity. Worried about her violent temper, he installed a lock on his bedroom door in case she took it into her head to attack him while sleeping. Every time they encountered each other she demanded he hand over the inheritance. She stopped making breakfast for him, and then the evening meal, which she often ate out while he prepared his own. And she no longer gave him any spending money in an effort to starve his inheritance out of him. He hadn’t told her he was working at the nursery.

In phone calls to Marshall, Mort continued to give the impression he was coping well, because he’d decided it was time to take responsibility for himself. If Marshall or anyone else came to ‘save’ him, he’d have failed. His job provided enough money for his simple needs, and Lydia and Stefan sometimes invited him for a meal. He mustn’t be a wimp. Being smart-mouthed, sharp and brave didn’t count if you could go home to someone older who’d protect you from your mistakes. Bravery was doing what you thought right, or even just what you wanted, with no one to pick up the pieces if things went wrong. Mort desperately wanted to be brave.

He turned fifteen with no fanfare

48 The Cop

School plodded along and Mort became increasingly introverted. The only thing he enjoyed was woodwork where he was making an elaborate small table with turned legs and complicated inlay. His reputation with staff members had taken a dive and he was treated with wary suspicion in case he also made fools of them by exposing their inadequacies. He was learning that the life of a truth teller is a lonely one.

One evening after eating boiled rice and beans with raw greens and fried eggs — his self-defence instructor Brawl’s all-purpose diet for health, fitness and enhancement of the senses required for self defence, Mort lay on his bed, head empty of thoughts, empty of hope, empty of ideas, empty of desires. A state of mind understandable perhaps in someone at the end of an active and purposeful life, but not recommended for teenagers in full health and fitness.

Random thoughts and images flickered across what he thought of as his internal viewing screen. A vision of Han, with his powerful hairy legs and calm self-assurance left a painful erection in its wake. Mort began to play with himself but couldn’t be bothered. The erection remained, however, triggering other sexual memories. Perhaps Steward was ready to draw him again? His grandfather reckoned most fit and healthy men get a kick out of showing their bodies. It isn’t a gay thing, he reckoned, simply a desire for peer approval. Steward wasn’t his peer, but he did approve of Mort and it’d be more fun to wank with an approving audience than alone, so…

Five minutes later he arrived at the basement flat to find half a dozen men milling around in the small garden, drinking and chatting. Hoping he hadn't been noticed he had just turned to retreat when Steward called, ‘Don’t go, Mortaumal. We need you.’

The men were all in or around late middle age, all vaguely respectable, all dressed rather dully. They were amateur artists who met once a week at each other’s houses to share the twenty-five dollars an hour it cost for a model. A lean Latin type with a manicured goatee and moustache that made him look sort of sexy, was the only one who wasn’t overweight. Two had full beards that made them look alike. They had been waiting for tonight’s model when Mort appeared. Steward drew him aside and asked if he’d come to pose for his painting. Mort said he had, and apologised for coming without ringing first.

‘No, no!’ Steward exclaimed. ‘I told you to do that. And now you’re here you can earn a few dollars.’ He explained about the other artists and the model who’d be arriving any minute. ‘He’s a handsome bloke, a couple of years older than you, will you pose with him?’

‘What if he doesn't want to do it with me?’

‘He’ll be delighted.’

‘If he’s unattractive then I’m not staying.’

‘Fair enough... ah, here he is.’

A jaunty cap on short curly hair, classic features, muscled bronzed arms and chest in tight T-shirt, slim waist, respectable bulge in lycra shorts, well formed thighs and calves. White trainers without socks completed the picture.

‘I know you!’ Mort said in shock. ‘You’re the cop who’s been giving road safety lectures at school and is so handsome all the girls have the hots for you.’

‘And you’re the handsome kid who asked intelligent questions.’

They grinned in relief at meeting someone who wasn’t old and slightly decayed.

Steward introduced them and asked Raul if he’d model with Mort.

Raul pulled a face. ‘What if he shoots his mouth off at school?’

‘I won’t! And don’t you tell anyone I do this, I’d never hear the end of it.’ Raul offered his hand. ‘We tell no one, okay?’

‘No one,’ Mort echoed, as they shook hands.

The artists moved inside and arranged their drawing boards on tables, portable easels, wherever they felt comfortable with a good view of the square of carpet in the middle of the room.

Mort had a sudden rush of panic. He was already getting a hard on. What would Raul think? What would the artists think! He beckoned Steward. ‘I can’t do it, I’m getting a hard on and…’

‘Steward grinned. ‘Everyone in this room, including Raul is gay or queer or homo or same-sex-oriented...whatever you want to call us. And we will all be delighted at your tumescence, so just enjoy yourself, okay?’

‘You’re...?’

‘A happy man? Surely you’re not so innocent as to imagine any self respecting heterosexual would invite a young man in, ask him to strip, draw him stark naked, and then invite him back whenever he likes?’

‘I... I just thought you were, you know, liberated... a tolerant freethinker.’

‘An education system mired in medieval religiosity like Queensland’s, could never produce such broadminded paragons.’

Embarrassed at his ignorance, Mort still only half believed, but bravely stripped and joined Raul on the carpet, where they adopted a three minute pose face to face, bodies almost touching, arms draped over the other’s shoulders. Raul appeared not to notice Mort’s erection poking into his belly.

‘You’ve a great body,’ Mort whispered.

‘Thanks, so have you. And a perky penis. Where’d you get those pecs and shoulders?’

‘Self defence classes and I work in a plant nursery. Some of the girls said you were so sexy they love to be fucked by you.’

‘Yeah, females are like that. Stupid cows. Imagine all they have to do is spread their legs and every guy on the planet will come running. As if any self-respecting bloke would shove his tool into their filthy holes. Did you know there are more disease bacteria and fungi in a woman’s cunt than in an arse? In fact, arseholes are comparatively sterile. So there’s no way I’ll be screwing them. Think of how jealous those cunts at school would be if you told them you cuddled the cop they had the hots for. Shame we’re sworn to silence.’

The whispered, friendly conversation continued intermittently through the following hour during a dozen short poses in which the models adopted a variety of what they hoped were wrestling poses, neither having learned the sport. Their complex intertwining made it increasingly difficult but increasingly interesting for the artists to work out whose legs and arms belonged to whom — but no one complained, it was too fascinating. After a ten minute coffee break they adopted two twenty-minute poses to give the artists time to work up their drawings a little.

After one of the most relaxed and happy evenings Mort could remember, he was almost embarrassed to accept the fifty dollars. Being paid for having pleasure seemed too good to be true!

They were invited to pose for the next three sessions. Steward would make sure Mort knew where to go.

Back in his room listening to Perdita’s faked moans of lust and another overweight loser grunting, He began to worry he’d made himself as cheap as Perdita by allowing Raul to touch him so intimately, and letting all those strangers see his erections. At least he hadn’t ejaculated, although there’d been copious quantities of lubrication — or pre-cum as Raul called it, that had to be wiped up. The artists seemed nice enough, and they’d told him several times what a refreshingly pleasant and normal young man he was.

But he’d seen them grinning and making comments about him that he couldn’t hear. He didn’t want to get a reputation as a slut. He hadn’t felt bad doing it — quite the opposite! It was afterwards. He tried to imagine what he’d think if he saw someone like him doing what he’d been doing. Would he think he was a common hustler? Raul was twenty-two — not old, but seven years older than him, so it was different for him. Guys that age were supposed to be sexually active and promiscuous. It was all so difficult. And did it even matter what people thought? He’d wait till morning to decide.

49 Miss Bussty

Towards the end of the school year it was hot. Forty-two degrees in the shade. The school was well ventilated when there was a breeze, but breezes seemed to be out of fashion — it was either a typhoon or the doldrums, howling winds, hail stones the size of tennis balls, thunder and lightning with floods, roofs torn off and trees ripped out by the roots, or utter stillness during which thick blue/grey smog settled on the city. People became irritable, couldn’t sleep, and bashings, domestic violence, motor accidents and murders increased.

‘The climate is changing,’ a few souls whispered, not daring to voice their opinion loudly and suffer the opprobrium of being labelled a conspiracy theorist. ‘Business as usual’ trumpeted the government. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got it all under control. The weather will soon return to normal.’

‘This is the new normal,’ whispered the whisperers, but no one believed them.

Complaints from the girls saw restrictions ease, and they were permitted to wear their light summer pinafore frocks without a blouse, and sandals instead of shoes and socks. The consequent lavish array of bosom cleavages, naked shoulders, arms and legs set many boys’ imaginations on fire. The sole sartorial concession for boys was to allow them to discard ties and undo the top button of their shirt. Knee-length shorts with shoes and socks remained compulsory.

Miss Bussty, Mort’s thirty-two year old General Science teacher, considered herself a doyen of style and led the charge to cooler fashion-wear with a skimpy little skirt that barely reached mid thigh, topped by a lace bodice designed to cope with breasts several sizes smaller than hers.

Mort, who found the heat and humidity particularly enervating, was unable to comprehend the reasoning behind the double standard, so wore leather thong sandals, his floppy nylon running shorts and a loose tank top.

‘What do you think you’re wearing, Mortaumal?’ Miss Bussty sneered as he walked into the room. ‘It’s not a nudist camp.’

Mort gazed calmly around the room. He’d already worked out that he had more skin covered than most of the girls, and if you calculated flesh to fabric ratio, considerably more than his buxom teacher.

‘I’m wearing more than most of the girls, and relatively, a great deal more than you, Miss. Why should boys be expected to cover everything while girls uncover everything? That’s sexist and it’s too hot to wear buttoned shirts and long shorts.’

‘Sniggers all round.

‘Girls look good wearing little, Mortaumal.’ The teacher’s tone was patronising. ‘Boys look rude. Men are not nice to see unless properly dressed. You look like a male prostitute touting for business.’

Roars of laughter greeted this witty riposte.

As Mort stared at his teacher’s cleavage a memory flashed through his head — he and his grandfather coming across his grandmother kneeling at the edge of a flowerbed, bare bum and vulva exposed. ‘Look! A vulva flower. Shall I fertilise it?’ Shrude had asked. ‘Yes please,’ his wife giggled. Shrude promptly sank to his knees and copulated enthusiastically.’

Blood pounded in Mort’s neck. His grandparents had healthy attitudes to sex, not like this cow whose insult he could not let pass. Pointing at the teacher’s generous breasts he sneered, ‘As a biology teacher you will know that when female mammals desire sex they show their bum and swollen vulva to the males. But because humans stand upright and wear clothes, their genitals aren’t on view, so when females are randy they display their bosom cleavage and paint their lips red like a swollen vulva. Your dress is cut so low your tits look like a giant bum, and your lips are painted red.’ He turned to the class. ‘Have you boys all got the message? Miss Bussty’s on heat!’ Picking up his bag he ran for his life.

The following day, still wearing his non regulation gear, he was called to the Principal’s office, told to stand in front of her desk with his hands behind his back, and instructed to write an apology to Miss Bussty before going home to change into the correct school uniform.

‘I will if she will. She told me I looked like a male prostitute touting for business.’

‘She was making a joke and trying to teach you how to dress.’

‘So was I. And while we’re on the topic of dress, can you tell me why girls are allowed to dress properly for the heat, while boys aren't. And don’t tell me its because girls are beautiful and boys are ugly, because that’s nonsense. And while you’re about it, why is it okay for female teachers to wear so much perfume it makes us gag, and shove their cleavages at us when marking our books? And why do females paint their faces like clowns, dye their hair, wear jewellery that makes them look like Christmas trees and shoes that are dangerous to run in?’ He paused for breath.

‘Finished?‘

‘No! Why, when loads of studies have proved that boys learn best with male teachers, are there so few male teachers? All the female teachers I have seem to dislike boys. They favour the girls and make boys sit up and act like girls. They don’t like us asking questions — think we’re trying to be cheeky. They don’t seem to understand anything about what boys like and want, and how they think and…’ Mort shook his head in frustration. ‘Forget I asked those questions. You’re a woman so the whole concept of sexual difference is beyond you. Women think men are just females with penises and are simply being difficult when they don’t live and behave like women, so it’s pointless even discussing this. So...no, I will not apologise to that woman for telling her she is displaying herself in a sexual manner as if she’s asking for it.’

An intelligent adult would have listened carefully to an intelligent fifteen year-old’s well thought out litany of concerns, and entered into a discussion in order to correct misconceptions, repair the pupil/teacher relationship, and possibly made a friend in the process.

The principal sniffed, gathered her papers together, gazed with a baleful eye at this offensive young upstart, took a deep breath and said in a voice that told him she had more important things to do with her time, ‘Go home and don’t come back. We need boys like you like we need an outbreak of plague. Go and find yourself a school that suits you.’ With a flick of the fingers Mort was dismissed.

The only thing he took from the school was his inlaid table, which was finished apart from the last coat of varnish. The Woodwork teacher was upset at his leaving, and gave him the brush and varnish required, telling Mort he would always be welcome back and to come and see him if he needed any advice on working with wood. They shook hands and, as he walked away, Mort shed the only tear to fall since his arrival in the city.

He didn’t tell Perdita; she had lost interest in everything about him except the inheritance.

50 Brawl

Getting expelled from school. Losing his friendship with Han. The stress of living with someone who hated him but wouldn’t let him go because she wanted his money. The fear of what would happen to Marshall and Angelo if she made her accusations public. The impossibility of ever getting a conventional education. These and other worries were undermining Mort’s health as well as the little pleasure in living he’d managed to extract during his short and eventful life. He began to lose weight; lay sleepless at night; spent hours just sitting, head empty of all thoughts except how to end the impasse.

He had completed the three sessions posing with Raul for the group of gay artists and enjoyed them at the time, but afterwards remained assailed by doubts. Why did doing what gave him pleasure sometimes feel as if it was... not immoral so much as... wrong? Not right? No, that wasn’t it. He knew he was doing nothing wrong, but he knew other people would disapprove, think he was a filthy exhibitionist, but he knew he wasn’t. It was good clean fun and Raul never seemed to doubt himself. There were no drugs, nothing crude or rude, they didn’t fuck, although in some of the poses it looked as if they did. When he’d asked one of the artists — the scrawny bloke with the goatee if he thought Mort was being sluttish, the fellow had been surprised. ‘Of course not!’ he said with a frown. ‘Don’t even think it. You’re a great model. There’s artistry but nothing degrading in your poses and you’ve given us more pleasure than most of us have had for years.’

But...Was it because Raul was older? He didn’t seem older and certainly not wiser, even though he was a motorcycle cop. In fact sometimes he seemed a bit simple — never questioning anything. Mort took a deep breath but couldn’t shake off the doubts. Perhaps he was basically dirty and everyone except him could see it, because there must be more behind his getting kicked out of school than what had happened. Surely kids couldn’t get expelled simply for telling the truth and sticking up for themselves. There was something about living with others he didn’t understand. It was time to get advice.

The following afternoon while standing on one leg inspecting the sole of his foot for an imaginary thorn, Mort gave Steward an accurate account of his fight with Mr. Preggy and the run in with Miss Bussty, then asked his opinion.

‘Opinion about what?’

‘What those teachers did.’

As George Bernard Shaw said, “Those who can, do; and those who can’t, teach.” I’ve always reckoned that too many teachers are the failed dregs of academia who get their kicks from knocking their betters.’

‘That means I’m better than them?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Nothing else?’ Mort found it difficult to conceal his disappointment. He’d been hoping for some revelatory philosophic insight that would explain all and set his mind at rest while damning everyone else to perdition. Clearly, Steward wasn’t the sort of person to delve into these sorts of problems. He’d even admitted to living on the surface, as he put it, so Mort should have guessed. ‘Have you decided what sort of painting you’re going to make of me?’ he asked to change the subject.

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’

‘You’ve told me you want to know who your father is so you can understand why you’re like you are. You met your mother not that long ago, has that explained who you are and why you are what you are?’

‘No — at least I sure hope it hasn’t!’

‘It seems that what you’re seeking is yourself. You feel as if you’re only half a person. So I’m going to paint you collapsed, not dying but giving up, while another more virile, enthusiastic, happy you is struggling to lift you, both physically and mentally, to wake you and melt into you so you become one, whole, complete person.’

Mort thought it sounded a good idea, but doubted he had the strength or will or desire to accomplish such a transformation. The talk with Steward had confirmed his opinion of many teachers, but he remained in an emotional limbo. Bored, tired, uninvolved, uninterested and, although not miserable, not happy either.

The nursery was now occupying nearly all Mort’s time and energy. He’d taken over most of the heavier jobs previously done by Stefan who had been complaining of indigestion and nausea for a while, and put it down to overwork and stress. Stefan had also lost a lot of weight, but said it was because his throat hurt to swallow. As Lydia’s bountiful supply of sympathy was mainly for personal use, Mort tried vainly to convince Stefan to see a doctor.

‘Don’t waste your time,’ his wife sighed. ‘He’s a typical male. Any excuse to avoid work. The slightest twinge and he thinks he’s dying. Women are the strong one’s when it comes to pain. I can imagine the weeping and wailing if men had to give birth.’

As she was childless and had recently raced off to the doctor with a suspected heart attack, only to discover it was heartburn, Mort wondered how she could be so sure of her opinion.

With the extra work and his lack of energy, Mort’s explorations of the city’s parks and reserves that had fired his imagination when he first arrived, ground to a halt. Only the Wednesday evening self-defence classes remained sacrosanct. While practising and sparring all his worries dropped away and for a couple of hours he was his old self. At least that’s what he imagined until Brawl drew him aside and asked what the matter was.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re thinner, your eyes are dull, and your body’s lost its vigour.’

‘I’m just a bit down at the moment. Hard work at the nursery. Not sleeping too well. Nothing serious.’

‘It’s serious when a kid like you goes downhill so fast. What’re you doing Saturday afternoon?’

‘Nothing planned.’

‘Good, you’re coming to my place for a hangi.’

Mort grinned. ‘You’re going to hang me?’

‘A hangi, not a hanging,’

‘What’s a hangi?’

‘Barbecue in a pit.’ Brawl wrote the address, drew a map, and extracted a promise that Mort would be there as soon as possible after the nursery closed on Saturday.

Brawl’s place was just over four kilometres from the nursery, so he jogged over straight after work. The wooden house was large, with a new corrugated iron roof. It was perched on high stumps that created a large covered area underneath where several tables had been set out. At least thirty people of all ages and sexes were milling around.

Mort wandered up the short drive and skirted the house, heading for the large garden at the rear, which boasted a lawn, three shade trees, and beyond them a vegetable garden, neatly set out in rows. A twinge of homesickness was alleviated by vague but friendly greetings from everyone whose eye he caught. If they were curious about this pale stranger, they concealed it politely.

‘I’m a friend of Brawl’s,’ was a passport to a glass of fruit punch — non-alcoholic he was informed proudly. Someone was strumming on a guitar under a giant old mango tree and two men were singing in harmony. Mort crossed the lawn to stand as close as possible, having discovered in those few moments that he loved simple two-part harmony. When they stopped he begged them to sing more of the same.

A very fat woman draped in a flowery purple cloth suspended from copious breasts, shoulders and arms bare and a pink hibiscus flower tucked into her hair, approached and stood glaring at him with her hands on her hips. In a voice that managed to sound both mellow and sharp she demanded, ‘Who are you? Why are you here? Where do you live?’

‘I’m a friend of Brawl’s from his self defence class; he invited me. I live near Toowong.’

‘I saw you looking at my grand daughters, they’re not available.’

Mort looked confused. ‘Neither am I.’

‘And neither are my grandsons!’ her eyes glittered in suspicion. ‘This afternoon is for family. No whiteys.’

‘Then it’s lucky I’m a beigey or should that be an ochrey.’

She frowned. ‘What’s that?’

‘Beige? Ochre? Pale yellow/brown.’

She didn’t crack a smile. ‘Where’re your parents from?’

‘Grandad arrived on a boat from somewhere northeast when he was young. He refused to say from where, because people only make stupid generalisations if you tell them any more. I’ve no idea who my father is.’

‘You’ve no business just barging in like this.’

‘I didn’t! I expected Brawl to be here. He didn’t tell me there’d be a party or I’d never have come. And if anyone had told me I’d meet someone like you, I’d have run a mile.’

‘Well, you’re here now, so go and find him... if you know what he looks like!’ With a suspicious toss of her head she swung around and sailed like a vast purple hot-air balloon towards the tables beneath the house.

Mort remained where she’d left him. Increasingly embarrassed and wondering whether to go or stay when his attention was attracted to the centre of the garden where a steaming hole was being opened — perhaps Brawl was there. Soil, blankets, banana leaves and wire baskets of food wrapped in more leaves were carefully removed. Then, accompanied by lots of noisy, friendly banter the baskets were carried to the tables where half a dozen older women divided the contents into large dishes, placed them on the tables, and everyone tucked in with their fingers, placing portions of pork, chicken, taro, steamed banana and several other vegetables on leaf plates before moving away, laughing, gossiping, chattering, to sit on chairs, on the ground, on blankets and eat in the shade.

Mort decided it was time to go.

‘Thanks for coming.’ Brawl was standing behind him. ‘Take whatever you need and come and sit with me.’

They found a quiet spot at the farthest end of the vegetable garden under a persimmon tree, sat cross-legged on the grass, and ate in silence.

‘What do you think,’ Brawl asked, licking his fingers.

‘Of?’

Brawl shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

‘I’ve never eaten with so many people before. It’s noisy, but everyone’s so relaxed and easy. Except for…’ he decided not to mention the fat woman in case she was Brawl’s friend. ‘No one’s frowning. Most people are laughing. Those two men sang so beautifully I felt like crying. What were the songs?’

‘They’re pop songs people sang sixty or more years ago, before rock and roll and electronically amplified music. Isn’t your family like this?’

Mort nearly choked. ‘I haven’t got a family. But if everyone I’ve ever known and liked was having a party it wouldn’t be like this. They’re all rather earnest about things — even enjoying themselves. It’d be more of a duty than something you just do for the fun of it. They make jokes, are determinedly agreeable, but it’d be a serious business. No one’s telling those kids to shut up, to sit down, to stop whatever they’re doing. I lived with my grandparents till I was nine and grandma was always nagging.’ He heaved a large breath. ‘Who are these people?’

‘My family.’

‘All of them?’

‘Family simply means anyone who’s even vaguely related, or think they’re related, or would like to be. The two guys who were singing are sons of cousins on my mother’s side. Several of the kids are theirs. Their wives are over there.’ He pointed at two fat women. My wife is the one in the purple dress. A heart attack waiting to happen. I think you’ve met her.’ His eyes twinkled.

‘Yeah, she is... large.’

‘Obese.’

They smiled thoughtfully.

‘Scrappy, the weightlifting bloke you met who told you to join my defence class, is my son, and that scrawny woman in the ridiculous high heels is my daughter. That handsome young man is my grandson, her son, and everyone else is an aunt, uncle, cousin or…’ he spread his hands and smiled.

‘Where is Scrappy? I liked him.’

‘At home, I suppose. My wife refuses to allow him to bring his boyfriend here; she’s religious so thinks god hates everyone who doesn’t have her opinions. He wouldn’t come anyway; he hates these sorts of gossipy, backbiting family gatherings.

‘Do your other children, cousins and grand children all live here?’

‘It seems like it sometimes. My wife runs an open house, which is why I’m seldom home. Would you prefer this sort of family to yours?’

Mort considered the question carefully, gazing intently round at everyone as if for the first time. Scrutinising, listening, thinking. Finally he looked up at Brawl with a deep frown. ‘Could I just go into my room, shut the door and be totally on my own?’

‘No. You’d be sharing with at least two others who have access whenever they want.’

‘Can I tell them to turn off their music if I don’t like it?’

‘You can, but they’ll laugh and ignore you.’

‘Who chooses what to watch on TV?’

The oldest woman.’

‘Does every adult have the right to tell every child off if they’re naughty?’

‘Yes. In fact every woman usurps the right to tell everyone else, especially men and boys, what they are doing wrong, what they should be doing and when. It can get pretty fraught if the guys disagree. Usually they just shrug and go and play football or something... simply to get out of the house and away from the women’s nagging.’

‘Then I’d hate it! I know it all looks nice and friendly, but I have to be allowed to do what I want without thinking someone might disapprove, or tell me I’m not doing the right thing, or I should be doing something else, or that I had to share a bedroom or my things because Kevin or someone didn’t have one and all that commune stuff that this looks like. Forgive me if I’ve got it wrong, Brawl, but I’ve been brought up as a loner and I’d feel claustrophobic after even one day of living so close to others.’

Brawl smiled. ‘I knew we had something in common; apart from self defence.’

‘Then why did you marry and end up like this?’

‘As you’ve realised, the pressures on family members to conform are enormous. On my twentieth birthday the slim, pretty girl who became my ginormous wife announced to her friends that we were engaged. We weren’t, we’d only fucked a couple of times, but that was enough, and to maintain the family honour I was forced to marry her. From then on my life has never been my own.’

‘You don’t seem unhappy.’

‘I’m not. I love my kids — usually, and my grandchildren — sometimes. My life is fairly easy. I’ve plenty of support if I need assistance with anything. If things go wrong there are dozens ready to help. Okay, I wouldn’t have chosen this life if I’d had the choice, but now I have it I either accept it or go mad. We all have the choice to make the best of the hand we’re dealt in life, or stuff it up by resenting it and wishing it was different. All in all I’ve been pretty lucky. As TV announcers delight in saying after accidents, “It could have been much worse”. Of course it could.’

Mort was silent, then looked up with a slight smile. ‘And your point is?’

‘What is there about your life that’s making you sick?’

‘Mmm… I guess it’s the uncertainty. I’ve done a few things recently because I wanted to, and I don’t regret doing them, yet I keep doubting that I should have done them. Living alone I’ve no one to bounce myself off, so to speak. If I lived here I’d have plenty of people to tell me if I was a fool or not.’

‘Bounce off me.’

‘Seriously? Why?’

‘I like you.’

‘Okay.’ Mort gave a succinct account of the things in his current life that confused him, but in the telling he became emotional and brushed angrily at unwelcome tears. ‘Who was right? Should I have just shut up like all the other kids and done as I was expected? Have I the right to be independent when it doesn’t affect others?’

Brawl put his hand on Mort’s shoulder and held it there, gazing into his eyes. ‘Don’t hold back, Mort. It’s manly to cry when you’re emotionally involved. It’s part of what makes you worth bothering with. No one’s watching or listening.’ He sat back and considered the questions. ‘Most kids are like most adults, timid, shy, frightened of being different. They don’t know enough to understand how things work, so they don’t rock boats in case they fall overboard. The tragedy is that cretins like those teachers are in charge of what should be temples of education. They’re bullies, destroying love of learning and pleasure in thinking with their bigotry, sexism, racism, blinkered morality and mindless conformity. And because most girls go for true blue Aussie guys who hate wogs and blacks and queers and everyone and every thing that isn’t like them, there’s not much hope of change.’

‘Do you think I should have just let Mr. Preggy get away with his racist crap?’

‘Everyone does what they must in order to be able to live with themselves. I suspect you had no choice if you wanted to remain sane. When people act in ways contrary to their true feelings and values, they become depressed and suicidal. Border guards who have maltreated asylum seekers, and soldiers who’ve killed innocents in the Middle East are obvious examples.’

‘And do you think I deserve to be kicked out of school?’

‘You deserve a medal. Quite frankly, you’re better off out of the place. You’ll learn nothing useful in such an institution, geared as it is to promoting the religion of endless material growth in a desert of morality engendered by unquestioning religiosity. According to the latest reliable science we’re all going to be out of a job pretty soon. This is the hottest year ever recorded; the last sixteen years have each been hotter than the previous. Great chunks of polar glaciers are sliding into the sea and slowly melting. It’ll take a few years, but last time the planet was as hot as it is now, the seas rose to between seven and nine metres higher than they are today. Brisbane, Melbourne and Perth are built on sea-level marshes. The Arctic Ocean is ice free in summer for the first time since before humans appeared on the planet. Vast tracts of once fertile land on the Darling Downs, the food bowl of Queensland, are lying arid, cracked and bare; not so much for lack of rain, although it has been very dry, but because inland the temperatures are between six and twelve degrees hotter than the coast. Insurance companies are unable to pay claims for the hundreds of houses destroyed in the fires that burned across the western hills last month, and the fire and storm seasons haven’t officially begun yet!’

‘I hadn’t thought about all that.’

‘Of course not. But it puts conventional education in perspective. You’re learning more useful stuff at the nursery than at school, so stuff them. Work hard, keep fit and prepare for what’s to come by learning to take care of yourself. No one else is bothering, so you’ve got an advantage already.’

‘Makes sense. Thanks.’

‘As for having fun modelling with that guy, who was hurt? No one. In retrospect, do you feel you’ve damaged your chances of a happy adult sexual life because of it, or would you like to do it again?’

Mort blushed and admitted something he’d not yet admitted to himself. ‘I’d love to do it again. In fact I’d love to dance and strip and then jerk off on stage in front of a cheering audience. Is that disgusting?’

‘No. Because you said a cheering audience. You don’t want to shock, you want to entertain with your body, and that’s no more wrong than entertaining with a beautiful voice, or clever writing or skilful painting technique, or clever batting in cricket, or clever goal shooting in basketball and soccer. As long as your desires remain simple, healthy, clean and non violent, you’ve nothing to worry about. But always remember that he who sups with the devil needs a long spoon. It’s easy to become contaminated morally, intellectually and physically. But I think you’re able to remain the sort of person you admire.’

‘You’ve no idea what a relief it was to tell you my secret wish, Brawl. And your response was…’ Mort grinned shyly. ‘Thanks.’

‘No thanks necessary. But about the future. Have you thought about how you’re going to live in an overheated world in which, according to the majority of scientists, no one is going to survive till the end of the century? Can you imagine what it’s going to be like during the years leading up to extinction? I’ll probably escape the worst, being older, but you and most of those young one’s over there won’t. And what about all the other forms of life that are being exterminated alongside humans? Did you know that between one hundred and fifty, and two hundred species of life are becoming extinct every day! Every day! But no one seems to care or want to do anything about it. Beside that, how do you rate your problems on a scale of one to ten?’

Mort burst out laughing. ‘You sure know how to put things in perspective! Now I’ve spoken to you I realise I’ve had an interesting and pretty good life so far. In fact, thanks to you I’m now feeling happy! So my problems rate a zero.’

51 Perdita’s Present

Brawl’s dire prediction about the future awaiting humans was not news to Mort; what was new was his reaction. Until then climate change had been something for ‘those in charge’ to ‘do something about’. He knew there was nothing he as an individual could do, because the day of individual influence, if there ever had been one, was over. Although all governments were denying it, the planet was not in fact ruled by them, but by giant banks and multinational corporations that controlled all mass media and most people’s opinions, as well as food production and fresh water, industrial production and distribution, energy production and distribution, the pharmaceutical industry, sickness services and hospitals, and increasingly - education.

Having control of governments meant they also had control over both their private security police and the regular police — increasingly armed with arsenals of weapons designed for the battlefield, but now ready to be used on fellow citizens. Control of governments also ensured that wars were fought wherever the economic interests of multinationals would benefit from destroying infrastructure, instigating border disputes, making war, bombing countries that demonstrated independence, or fomenting social discord and internal revolution so they could install brutal puppet dictators who would do their bidding by terrorising their populations and selling off natural resources.

The corporate worldwide surveillance network left no one out of the loop of their intrusive spying, ensuring that no dissident — even the most mild — was safe from retribution. If protesters weren’t murdered by the police, they were incarcerated in privately run prisons that gave the corporations that owned them enough slave labour to increase their already stupendous corporate profits.

It was common knowledge among the few, like Mort, who read the blogs of a scattering of brave, independent academics and philosophers, that point one percent of the planet’s population now owned and controlled ninety-nine percent of the world’s wealth. But knowing wasn’t understanding. The question that kept bugging Mort was, why hadn't these incredibly wealthy people stopped their meddling? If wealth and power were their aim, surely they’d have stopped once they had it all? But they hadn't. They were still dealing in human misery as the planet warmed, the seas began to rise and the natural world essential for our survival began to die. They were the only people who had the power to stop the slide into global chaos, but they seemed to have chosen not to. Why? Why would any sane person want to own a planet whose fresh water was mostly poisoned, whose air was fouled, and most of its soil degraded and toxic? What amusement was there in heating a planet until the life supports failed, causing more than seven thousand million people to start killing each other in search of food, shelter and water, while fires raged, nature perished and diseases ran rampant?

At first glance, to a logical mind such as that buzzing in the head of Mortaumal, the planetary rulers seemed insane... not mildly or amusingly insane, but vilely, criminally psychopathic. However by the time he had jogged the four kilometres home he’d decided they were not even that. They were just spoiled brats who’d discovered that having everything was unsatisfying, so they’d decided that if they couldn’t be happy with the planet, no one else was going to be either. Like selfish children they were deliberately smashing their toy to prevent anyone else from having it.

He knew he had no influence on the future of the human race or natural world, but Brawl’s question about what he was going to do personally in the face of impending change, merited deep reflection. Meanwhile, the probability of a very unpleasant future softened Mortaumal’s feelings towards the world in general and Perdita in particular, and he resolved to try to mend their relationship; but of course not so well mended that she’d have the inheritance. Not only did he think she’d do more harm than good with it, but she didn’t deserve it.

However, try as he might, nothing Mort did could please her. He ran all the errands she demanded, cleaned the flat, did the washing, washed any of her dishes she left dirty, and after preparing and eating his own breakfast, started taking his mother coffee and toast in bed before leaving for work.

Nothing Mortaumal did or said could shake her conviction that he had stolen her rightful inheritance. Cunningly, she offered to go halves. He insisted he had nothing to go halves with. She cried. Tears ran softly for about a minute, followed by great wracking sobs that had never yet failed to bring men to their knees. The sobs subsided to gentle sniffs interspersed by heart-wrenching shudders generated in the deepest recesses of her soul — about a millimetre deep, Mort guessed.

He’d seen his grandmother try the same trick, and at first disbelieved his grandfather’s dismissal of the tearful display as fake. But Perdita proved her father right by suddenly switching to a towering, dry-eyed rage.

Resisting the urge to taunt her for her duplicity, Mort shrugged and left her to it.

The following day, hoping she had come to her senses, Mort decided to try at least for a truce. He would make a special evening meal during which he would give her his most precious possession — the elaborate little table he’d spent so much time and care making at school. If that didn’t move her, nothing would and he’d give up.

While preparing for the evening — making it look special with fresh napkins, candles, flowers and everything a fifteen year-old could imagine a woman wanted, he allowed himself to hope that finally, with this offering they might at least live together peacefully.

Perdita arrived home at the expected time. The front door slammed and she stomped into the dining room.

‘Why’s it so dark in here?’ She turned on the lights making the lit candles look silly. ‘You’ve put out the best cutlery and china! I've told you a thousand times they're not for you!’

‘Sorry, Perdita, but I wanted it to be special, I've made you a present and thought…’

‘You thought. You thought. You’ve never had a decent thought in your life! What present?’

Mort brought out his treasured table. ‘I made this at school in woodwork classes. Got top marks.’

Without touching it to admire the accuracy of the inlaid wood, or feel the silken lacquer that had taken two weeks of painstaking sanding and smoothing and fifteen coats of shellac, Perdita curled a lip, then gazed around the room. ‘You arrogant shit. If you didn’t like my taste in furnishings, all you had to do was say so, not bring in some tarted up rubbish to try and make my stuff look cheap. This thing would look totally out of place, so keep it in your room out of sight.’ With a disdainful sniff she turned and stared at the carefully laid dining table. ‘Did you steal those flowers?’

‘No! I bought them on the way home.’

‘Waste of money! You know I don’t like flowers inside. Messy things, dropping petals. Flowers belong in a garden.’ She headed for her bedroom. ‘I’m going to take a shower as I’m dining with friends tonight. Make sure you put my china and cutlery away carefully and clean up properly! I don’t want to have a mess to clean up when I return.’

An intolerable heat seemed to rise up from Mort’s belly, through his chest and into his head, triggering a hope it would burst and spray blood and brains all over the room. It didn’t, so he went to his room and sat on the bed where a numb chill replaced the white heat, sending violent shivers throughout his body.

He sat in the dark until the front door slammed. She’d left without another word. He could scarcely breathe. His heart pounded. Two hundred deep and slow breaths calmed him enough to return to the empty dining room and eat the meal over which he had taken such care. After tossing the uneaten portions into the bin and meticulously cleaning up all traces of cooking, he took a hammer intending to smash the rejected work of art to punish her. At the last second he stopped. She’d just laugh. He’d be punishing himself. Slowly, tense muscles relaxed and he put the hammer away, caressed his table and shook his head in despair at his own stupidity.

He should have expected it. Perhaps he had, and it had all been a more or less deliberate exercise to prove conclusively that his mother wasn’t worth bothering with. The table had cost him more time and thought than anything he’d ever done in his life, and if she’d accepted it and then gone on being horrible, it would have reminded him forever of this night, so it was a relief to know she’d never have it. But he knew someone who would appreciate it.

Standing proudly upright for what felt like the first time since coming to the city, he shouted, ‘Fuck the bitch!’ A ten minute jog took him to Lydia and Stefan’s. He could hear Lydia playing the piano, so they'd finished dinner. He rang the bell.

Mort had read enough stories of youthful adventure and life to know he was supposed to be tough and manly and not tell anyone about his problems — certainly not anything that would put his family in a bad light. But tonight he’d realised Perdita was irredeemably horrible so he wasn’t going to lie and protect her reputation. He wasn’t after sympathy, he accepted his lot and never felt sorry for himself; but he would like confirmation that he hadn't deserved the treatment.

Stefan opened the door looking very ill, so Mort decided it wouldn’t be fair to burden him with his problems.

‘I just popped around to get some fresh air.’

‘I thought you'd still be wining and dining your mother,’ Stefan said with a brave attempt at bonhomie. ‘Did she like the table? Ah, I see you have it with you. Come in.’

They went through to the sitting room and with slight embarrassment Mort placed his table on the carpet just inside the door.

‘Perdita didn’t want it, there’s really not much room in the flat, so I hoped you’d like it.’

Stefan knelt beside it and stroked the top. ‘What exquisite inlay! And the lacquer. Mort! This is a masterpiece, we couldn’t accept it. It’s yours, you’ve put so much work into it and it’s so beautiful. Don’t you agree, Lydia?’

‘It is certainly a fine piece of workmanship, but if Mortaumal really wants us to have it, it would be ill mannered to refuse such a gift. Are you certain, Mortaumal?’

Suddenly he wasn’t. Lydia’s grasping response irritated him, but he didn’t want to be encumbered with the thing until he was settled permanently somewhere. Anyway, it was too late for second thoughts. ‘Of course you must have it... I...’

Stefan caught the slight hesitancy and interrupted. ‘Tell you what. We’ll look after it for you until you’ve a place of your own and would like to have it. It is very beautiful and we’ll take great care of it, won’t we, Lydia?’

Through a mouth drawn tight with displeasure, Lydia managed a smile and terse agreement, and Mort relaxed.

‘That would be ideal. I doubt I’ll ever want it, but its great to know it’s in good hands. Which brings me to you, Stefan, when are you going to see a doctor? I’m getting worried.’

52 Stefan

‘I’m fine, Mort,’ Stefan began, ‘All I need is…’

‘Mortaumal has to know, Stef,’ Lydia cut in. She turned to Mort. ‘As you know, Stefan has been short of breath and suffering abdominal pains for some time. We thought it was indigestion, old age — although he’s only fifty-eight. Yesterday the results of tests arrived and he has cancer.’

‘How horrible! Stefan, that’s awful! What sort of cancer?’

‘Stage three stomach,’ Lydia announced as if it was superior to stages one or two. ‘He let it go on too long without checking, so now it’s serious. He will have to have an operation to remove it and relieve symptoms, but first he will have chemotherapy and radiation that will shrink it before the operation. His first session is tomorrow.’

Silence while Mort pondered the lack of justice in the natural world. If honesty and niceness was rewarded then surely it should be Lydia and not Stefan who was ill? She was the one whose sneering about weak men had embarrassed and therefore prevented Stefan from seeing a doctor in the early stages. But he held his tongue. Stefan looked at him and winked as if reading Mort’s mind and agreeing with him.

‘So it’s pretty serious.’

‘He has about a seven percent chance of surviving five years,’ Lydia announced as if he’d won a raffle. But it’s getting late and he’s tired, so as you’re here you can give me a hand getting him to bed.’

Stefan protested, but he was in considerable pain as he’d not picked up his prescription for analgesics, and appreciated leaning on Mort to the bathroom.

Mort sniffed. ‘You’re a bit ripe, Stefan. Want a shower?’

‘I... I don’t think I can. I…’

‘I need one too, so I’ll get in with you, okay?’

Stefan was absurdly shy, and ridiculously grateful to be so gently washed, supported, dried and dressed in new pyjamas.

‘Lydia isn’t strong enough to assist me like you do, so thanks, Mort.’

Lydia was perfectly strong enough, but Mort said nothing and took him to his bedroom. Stefan and Lydia had slept in separate rooms for the last twenty odd years, and she wasn’t about to change that. When he was settled, Mort took Stefan’s bike and cycled to the All Night Chemist in Toowong to collect the prescription. As it was so late when he returned, Lydia suggested he stay the night in the spare room if Perdita wouldn’t mind.

‘She’ll not even notice.’

In the morning Stefan looked somewhat better thanks to a good night’s sleep, finally knowing what was wrong with him, and that at last something was going to be done about it. He deliberately didn’t think further then that. Mort promised to keep the nursery going and told him not to worry. It was a quiet time of year. He knew everything that was required and there were no problems he couldn’t handle with Lydia’s support.

One of Perdita’s best-paying clients had persuaded her to break the alcoholic drought that Elbert had insisted on if they were to marry. Having used her services before she married, he knew she had a weak head when it came to strong drink. Two shots of whisky erased all inhibitions and made her dizzy and willing to join him in perverse, some might say depraved sexual acts.

Arriving back at the flat the following morning Mort opened the windows to freshen the air and was disgusted to find his mother sprawled naked over the sofa in the lounge, head lolling back, mouth agape with a trickle of dribble running over her chin. He bent forward to wake her but the stench of her breath made him merely nudge her with the toe of his shoe. She woke with a start, tried to sit up but rolled over onto the floor where she lay for several minutes, awake but confused until Mort returned with a cup of coffee.

She managed to sit up and drink it, then crawled to the toilet to vomit. Another crawl took her to the bathroom and shower. Mort flushed the toilet, cleaned around it, washed the dishes in the kitchen, made everything ship shape, then returned to the nursery.

Several long weeks later after losing his hair, feeling nauseous, frequently in agony and more ill than he had ever thought possible, the operation to remove the tumour was performed and Stefan was on the road to recovery.

But the road was long and bumpy and proved more treacherous than anticipated. The original symptoms returned, and CT, MRI and PET scans showed the cancer had not only returned aggressively, but was starting to spread to other organs. He was now in stage four, an officious nurse informed him with apparent relish, and that meant a cure was not possible. All that could be hoped for was treatment to help keep the cancers under control and relieve symptoms.

It was decided he would have a laser beam directed through a long, flexible tube passed down the throat, to destroy most of the tumour and, with a bit of luck, remove obstructions without surgery. If that wasn’t successful, then a hollow metal tube would be placed where the oesophagus and stomach meet, to help keep it open and allow food to pass through. If that didn’t work, then he would have a gastric bypass or even a subtotal gastrectomy to keep the stomach and intestines from becoming blocked. This might require the placement of a tube directly into the small intestine to help provide pre-digested nutrition if, after the operation, he had trouble swallowing.

But before all that, a little more chemotherapy and perhaps radiation would be used to shrink the other cancers and relieve some symptoms. But, he was reminded, it was not expected to totally remove the cancer and effect a cure. From now on he could look forward to palliative care in a hospice, which would relieve most of the pain and symptoms and help him survive for possibly another five years.

Stefan was not overjoyed at the news. Mort was shocked to the core. Lydia nodded sagely, as if she had expected this all along.

Mort’s days were spent potting and re-potting seedlings, taking cuttings, watering and fertilising, discarding diseased or unthrifty plants, mixing seed-raising soils, ordering fresh supplies, keeping the place as clean and as sterile as possible, composting waste and maintaining the shade and glass houses and equipment. Lydia maintained contact with their retailers and made deliveries in the Nursery van, which Mort loaded. Fortunately, new interests in the evenings helped him forget for a while the ever present tragedy of Stefan.

Stefan’s days were spent either in hospital, or lying on a day bed on the back verandah feeling guilty, or on his good days tottering slowly around the garden, admiring and complimenting and showering Mort with thanks, which were appreciated. Mort also felt a little guilty at being so pleased at being trusted to take total charge of the operation of a small, but well run business.

Lydia was reluctantly persuaded to teach him the Nursery accounting system, and was equally reluctantly pleased when Mort made changes to their website that increased their visibility.

53 Perdita Perdue

Mort had kept in contact with Raul, who belonged to a couple of gay clubs that occasionally hired strippers. He introduced Mort to the owners who set a date for an audition. Raul told him that the strippers usually arrived on stage in a towel or some sort of sarong, jumped around a bit, thrust their hips, then took off the towel, did more hip thrusts in a thong, then whipped that off, jiggled their bits as if embarrassed, and ran off.

It sounded dull to Mort, who did an internet search and discovered that in the previous century, strippers, both male and female, used to sexily remove layer after layer of clothing to bring their audience to a pitch of excitement, while dancing athletically and erotically in a professional manner, arriving after about fifteen minutes, if the club required it, at total nudity, and then not just flashing it as if it was something shameful and running away, but completing the dance, giving the audience their money’s worth. Erections in men, and masturbation in both sexes, were not considered an essential element of the strip, indeed some commentators thought that was vulgar and spoiled the act, in the same way as the ancient Greeks thought large penises, at least on statues, vulgar and brutish.

Mort made himself a pouch like Leo’s, bought a pale blue thong and a speedo, washed and ironed his tiny running shorts, put on all those things, topped by a pair of faded jeans, a tight tank top, and a neat, long sleeved white shirt. On his feet a pair of plaited leather moccasins, on his head a cute cap.

The music was a problem; he wanted sexy with a strong beat, but not angry. He found something in Perdita’s collection and practiced until he had a fifteen minute athletic dance that incorporated lots of self-defence moves and showed off his strengths. It took a little longer in front of a mirror to learn how to sexily remove each piece of clothing apparently without effort and toss it nonchalantly aside without interrupting the dance.

At last he was ready and arrived at the audition. Nervous. Shaking. Scarcely able to speak. The music was very loud. He began his well-rehearsed sequences and instantly forgot about the three men watching. The dance overtook him and all too soon it was over and he was naked and they were clapping.

Silence. Then... ‘I’ve got a hard on,’ the manager said with what sounded like surprise. ‘Me too,’ the others laughed.

‘Well done. How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘And as smooth and sleek as a schoolboy. You’re not still at school, are you?’

‘No way! I’m manager of a nursery in Toowong.’

‘Is that where you got so fit?‘

‘Right.’

‘When can you start?’

‘Tonight?’

‘We have strippers on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Can you do all three?’

‘Sure.’

‘I can see you’re okay with nudity — you can put your gear back on if you like, although as far as I’m concerned you never need wear anything in here.’ The other guys laughed and nodded. ‘Are you easy about erections and jerking off?’

‘Of course, no probs if that’s what the audience wants.’

‘Good. You’ve no idea how precious most would-be strippers are. Think they’ve got something special hanging between their legs, but are too chicken to prove it works. Before we go any further, how much will those four shows cost us?’

‘What are you offering?'

‘Cagey. Well...how does two hundred dollars a session sound?’

Mort’s eyebrows shot up and he pulled a disbelieving mouth. He’d have done it for nothing.

‘Okay, make it three hundred for the first three, and four the last one on Saturday, on condition you ejaculate copiously and visibly.’

‘Sounds okay.’ Mort’s grin threatened to take over his face.

‘To recapitulate...we’ll have you for the usual nine-thirty sessions on Thursday, Friday and Saturday to whet appetites, then announce that you’ll go the whole hog in the second session on Saturday. That’ll keep the crowds here drinking. Did you use lasers to get so smooth?’

Mort explained.

‘Lucky bastard! See you here nine p.m. at the latest, in two days time.’

Raul was delighted.

And so was Mortaumal.

The performances were much more fun than he’d imagined, partly because the audiences were wildly appreciative of a boyish youth who lacked all pretension, obviously enjoyed himself, and whose performance was as practised and slick as any professional. Throughout, he was so busy concentrating on smiling, dancing, removing his layers of clothing sexily and involving his audience with winks, laughs, and the occasional flirtatious thrust of a buttock, or allowing someone to touch him, that it wasn’t till afterwards when he relived the experience at home that he could enjoy the full erotic pleasure. Even the following day was enhanced by sexual fantasies in anticipation of the next performances, which he was determined would be even better — and more fun — and which were.

Several other clubs invited him to perform, but only two were considered safe by Raul who would love to have done the same, but feared for his job if the Transport Department heard about it.

Apart from gaining his Learner Licence so he could drive the Nursery Van and also their car if needed, the high point of Mort’s sixteenth birthday was the cheers and applause during and after his performance of a breathtakingly energetic dance designed to emphasise his prodigious flexibility and satiny smooth contours. Stark naked, spot lit on a tiny stage surrounded by one hundred and eighty-seven total strangers, he mesmerised with leaps and pirouettes, sexy squats and thrusting hips. The finale, a jaw-dropping ejaculation that reached his closest admirers, would be talked about for decades.

Steward’s painting was slow to materialise, but that suited Mort because he wasn’t sure if he’d continue to be welcome in the cellar once the painting was finished. After recounting his success as a nightclub performer, Steward suggested he apply at an agency run by Salacia, a woman in her mid to late twenties who hosted lingerie parties in the evenings. She was always looking for nice young men to strip for clients who bought enough of her wares, as well as for middle-class thrill-seekers who thought having a stripper for mother’s fiftieth anniversary or their daughter’s hen party was the height of decadence.

With her husband, Crag, she had produced a healthy young boy, and bought a grand old mansion, intending to restore it to its former glory and use the elegant ballroom to host intimate private functions. So far, neither she nor her husband, a lean concreter who never seemed to wear more than a pair of torn off jeans with the top button missing and heavy work boots, earned enough to get the project off the ground. So they camped in the liveable rooms, grew their own vegetables and enjoyed life immensely.

On his way back from Steward’s one night, a raucous laugh made Mort look up from the rubbish bin enclosure as he passed through. Four stories directly above him, Perdita, with a glass in her right hand, was leaning out of the lounge room window, straining to see a spectacular lighting display over the western hills. There was no wind or rain, but the air was humid, heavy and ominous. Rumbling thunder had been creeping closer all evening and every few seconds night was turning to glaring, pinkish-white day as lightning zapped between heavy clouds.

‘With a bit of luck she’ll fall,’ Mort whispered to himself. Feeling guilty for the thought as he counted the seconds between lightning and thunder, deciding it was better to leave fate to its own devices. Not that he was in any way superstitious, of course.

Only two seconds. So the lightning was getting very close. Suddenly, a blinding flash and thunderclap. His chest seemed to explode and eardrums to shatter. It forced him to his knees. Heart pounding he waited several seconds in total darkness to recover his sight before looking up to the lighted window to see how Perdita had reacted. She wasn’t there.

Another flash and crash of thunder, less impressive but enough to see an odd shape on top of one of the bins. He approached, waited till the next lightning flash and saw a naked bum and legs draped over the edge of a bin; the head and shoulders inside. There was no sign of movement, no sound. No one could survive such a fall head first. Mort looked up. There was still no one at the window.

He raced round to the front of the building and up to the apartment, burst in and checked the lounge room. Empty. At that moment the bathroom door opened and a voice called, ‘Perdy! I thought you were going to join me. The water’s running cold.’ The voice was followed by an unprepossessing naked man who stopped in shock.

‘Who are you? Where’s Perdy?’

‘Did you push her out the window?’

‘What? Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘I’m her son and she’s dead. Fell out the window while watching the lightning show. Ended up in the rubbish bins below. I’ve just seen her.’

Silence while the naked man stared in horror.

‘You must believe me! I didn’t.’

‘I do. So I’ll give you one minute to get out of here and away before I call the cops. Unless you want them to suspect you of murder, which they will because she’s a whore and you’re her client.’

The guy stood as if transfixed.

‘Get the fuck out of here! What part of death, cops, fake murder charge don’t you understand!’

He sprang to attention, raced into the bedroom and reappeared roughly dressed, ran to the door, turned and said, ‘I owe you! Thanks!’ and disappeared.

Mort returned to Steward’s through the internal door, explained his reasons, then half an hour later retook the outside pathway, discovering his mother’s body on the way past thanks to moonlight that had broken through the clouds. He then raced upstairs, fortuitously meeting the elderly woman in flat Two B on the second floor, to whom he explained his anguished state. Then, back in his apartment he telephoned the police in as distraught a voice as he could manage.

At the inquest, Steward confirmed Mortaumal had been with him until half an hour after the time of death indicated by autopsy. No one else had been in the apartment. She was naked because she had been about to take a shower when the lightning display took her to the window, from which she had obviously leaned out too far, as marks on her thighs indicated, and she had been drinking, and it was a tragic accident. The only part of the finding Mort disagreed with was the word tragic.

A thorough search of his mother’s room the following day revealed a fireproof box containing the photographs and videos of Mort, Marshall and Angelo and the detective’s report, a bank book with a balance of over three hundred thousand dollars, and an account book in which she kept contact details of her clients, including some salacious secrets of eighteen men that would be useful if she decided to put a bit of pressure on them. In case she had been doing that wicked thing, Mort telephoned each of them from a public phone box. ‘Perdita is dead,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and I have destroyed by burning the book that contained your secrets.’ Five men cried in relief. All thanked him profusely and asked who he was.

‘Someone who loves justice.’

One name, Arch Lintel, had no phone number behind it, and no address. It was surrounded by lacy squiggles and little stars as if it was important. Mort pondered this and transcribed the name into his own private notebook before burning Perdita’s.

When Marshall heard the news he cried from relief.

‘What’ll I do with the photos and stuff?’

‘What would you like to do?’

‘Burn them.’

‘Good man. Do it as soon as possible. So, when are you coming home?’

Mort had been thinking about that and was surprised to realise he didn’t want to. He’d been independent too long. He didn’t want to live with someone he had to explain himself to, even one as positive and supportive as Marshall. It was too late. He had to live or die on his own — at least until he met someone his own age he wanted to share things with. But that wouldn’t be for ages yet. He was only sixteen — too young to settle down. With the dead weight of Perdita gone he felt as light as air, ready to fly off and become... what? He had no idea but that didn’t matter. He could take risks. He had money in a bank that he might never touch, but the security made life a game — a game he was going to play according to his rules and no one else's.

So he told Marshall about Stefan and his current responsibilities, said he was having a wonderful time, sent his love to Angelo, and promised to come and visit soon. To his relief Marshall laughed and said he was delighted and not surprised by Mort’s decision, but he still meant what he’d said the day Mort left... Marshal’s home was Mort’s as long as he lived.

‘You’ve made me cry, Marshall, from happiness. Thanks. You are absolutely the best.’

Since arriving in Brisbane Mort had not drawn on the money left to him by his grandfather, always managing to live by his own efforts. He wanted to keep it like that, so as soon as the inquest was over he checked the business practices of all the banks and deposited the inheritance from his mother in a small, but carefully managed building society that had no exposure to derivatives or other shady banking practices.

The two-week notice required before he could stop paying rent for the apartment was enough for Mort to dispose of everything else of Perdita’s, move his own stuff into the spare room at Stefan’s, and convince Steward to continue with his painting.

54 Talking and Thinking about it.

Stefan’s hair had mostly fallen out. His weight had stabilised at fifty-nine kilograms, ten below what used to be normal. His cheeks were gaunt, and deep furrows across his brow indicated debilitating pain. As the days passed his condition continued to deteriorate and despite the best efforts of visiting nurses it was becoming clear he would soon have to be moved to a nursing home for twenty-four hour care. He was not keen on the idea.

Lydia decided she’d had enough of running a Plant Nursery and as it was doing rather well, thanks to Mort, and was looking better than it had for some time, decided to sell. The sale would enable her to buy a luxury apartment in a tower block overlooking the Brisbane River, and the remainder would offset much of the expense generated by Stefan’s care. She watched television in the evenings on her own because she had the sound louder than either of the men could bear, due to unacknowledged hearing difficulties. Unacknowledged wax in the ears, Mort reckoned.

He and Stefan had previously played drafts together, talked and read, but as Stefan’s condition deteriorated, lassitude and nausea conspired to prevent him from doing anything except sitting or lying and talking softly, so Mort had started reading to him. Stefan had introduced him to the works of Saki (H H Munro), and despite his illness the exquisite prose and satirical lampooning of the Edwardian English upper class and politics always raised contented grunts of appreciation.

After Mort’s reading of Shredni Vashtar, Stefan asked him if he thought Conradin’s aunt had deserved her end.

‘How can you doubt it? She deserved every bit. Our so-called civilized society has made wimps of everyone by insisting the state take over retribution from affected individuals. Conradin’s plight would never have been addressed, and the aunt’s crimes never punished without the assistance of Shredni Vashtar. Natural Justice is what’s lacking in our society, along with an individual’s right to demand satisfaction for wrongs done to him.’

‘You’d like individuals to have greater say over their lives then?’

‘Yes... I am. Although I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

‘Would you like to be me?’

‘No way! I’d hate to be sick like you. I can’t imagine how you put up with it.’

‘According to the law I have no choice but to put up with it. And neither would you.’

‘Well I wouldn’t, I’d do what Grandad did.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He was on the way to being sick like you. He saw it coming and didn’t want to live if he had to have operations and drugs and go to a nursing home just to stay alive. He loved his market garden and working and all that. He reckoned that if he wasn’t able to live the way he wanted, life would be pointless. So he killed himself.’

‘How?’

‘I’ve no idea. No one told me. Weedkiller perhaps?’ Mort shook his head. ‘I was only nine. I suppose I should have asked. But it doesn’t matter; done is done.’

‘You said your grandfather thought life would have no point, does that mean he thought there is a point — a purpose in life external to ourselves?’

Mort laughed softly. ‘No way. He was adamant about that. He never tired of telling me that Life has no over-arching meaning or purpose. We’re a chance occurrence of no more consequence to the rest of the living world than the tiniest bacterium. Our brains demand a purpose, but that doesn’t mean there is one. However the lack of a cosmic plan shouldn’t prevent us from living as best we can, practising what the Greeks called eudaemonism. But that that can only happen if everyone has the same right to live as best they can. But as everyone has a different idea about what makes the ‘good life’ you’re unlikely to be left to live your life as you see fit. Everyone tries to influence you. That’s why he only had one or two friends. He reckoned other people always make life more difficult if you let them get close.’

‘A wise man, your grandfather.’

‘Yes. And a loving one. I think about him every day.’

‘You don’t blame him for killing himself?’

‘You’re joking! I’d think he’d have been crazy not to, considering his future prospects!’

‘So... you think I’m crazy?’

‘Not yet. But don’t expect me to hang around when you’re drugged to the eyeballs in a hospital bed, pissing and shitting into plastic bags, scrawny with bedsores. I like you as you were when I first met you, and I still like being with you because your brain is worth communicating with, but when that goes because of the pain and boredom and drugs and all the rest, so do I.’

‘Mort, your honesty is one of the many wonderful things about you. Thanks.’

‘No thanks. I’m just being me. So, what’re you going to do?’

‘I don’t think I could bear another round of chemotherapy, and analgesics are not stopping the pain. But the doctor refused to increase opiate doses because I might become an addict. He didn’t seem aware of the absurdity of worrying that a terminally ill man might become addicted.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. The selection process for doctors more or less ensures they’re good at passing exams but not very bright. So, what’s your plan?’

‘I was brought up as a Roman Catholic, and they reckon God gave us life therefore only God can take it away.’

‘I didn’t realise you believed in a god.’

‘I’ve tried not to, and for years managed to ignore my brainwashing, but now I’m weak it comes back and even thinking about topping myself sends stabs of guilt and fear of spending eternity in limbo.’

‘Limbo?’

‘A place of dread emptiness for people not good enough for heaven, not bad enough for hell.’

Mort stared at Stefan in astonishment. ‘Stefan, they dig up old graves all the time and occasionally find dead bodies in forests. Those people haven’t gone anywhere; they’re all in the process of becoming compost to feed other life. Surely you don’t think you’re different.’

‘In limbo, as in heaven and hell, it is the soul that suffers.’

‘I’m trying not to become irritated because you are physically weak. I hadn’t realised your brain was also becoming weak. Your soul, Stefan, is your moral or emotional nature, or sense of identity. Without a body it doesn’t exist. It’s like all other mental activity — electric charges that dissipate as soon as the energy source dies.’

‘I know. I know. I... would you help me to... do it?’

‘I’ll help you to be able to do it yourself. Because the final act must be yours and yours alone. I can’t believe you’ve put up with this horror for so long. So, tell me how I can help.’

‘There’s an organisation that gives information on how to exit this life peacefully. I was given a number to ring by a friend of a friend... it’s all very secret. I never dared contact them because of this debilitating inner guilt. But I’ve kept the contact details.’

‘Right. It’s too late to do anything tonight and you’re just about asleep, so first thing tomorrow you can give me the number and I’ll get started.’ He leaned over and kissed his friend lightly on the brow. ‘Sleep easily, Stefan, I won’t let you down.’

For the first time in weeks Stefan’s fearful muscles relaxed. The end of his suffering was nigh. He had told someone his guilty secret and hadn’t been criticised. He now had something other than endless pain and nausea to look forward to. With a soft sigh he let go and slipped into slumber.

55 Lydia sees Mortaumal

As it was only eight o’clock and Mort wasn’t sleepy, he went for a jog around the block to refresh his muscles. The television was blaring inane laughter on his return so he went straight to the bathroom, dumped his clothes in the laundry chute and enjoyed a relaxing shower. After turning off the taps he jumped up and down to dislodge the drops, then flung back the curtain to reveal Lydia sitting on his towel on the stool in front of the window.

‘Lydia, what a pleasant surprise.’

‘Is it?’

‘Is it what?’

‘A pleasant surprise?’

Mort shrugged and smiled.

‘Mrs. Pryer from my bridge club told me you performed at her friend’s fiftieth birthday party. Is that so?’

‘Probably. I never learn my client’s surnames.’

‘In front of her friends and their husbands, you removed all your clothes while cavorting erotically, danced with all the women while stark naked, invited them to rub oil on your buttocks and other... bits, recited a poem, then carried her out of the room in your arms.’

‘Ah Yes...that would have been Sybil. She’s no lightweight I can tell you. But it was doggerel, not a poem. It went like this:

Sybil’s turning fifty,

She’s really rather nifty,

At emptying the fridge,

And playing lots of bridge,

She’s really good at sex,

With willing husband Lex,

And as she’s such a ripper,

He bought for her a stripper.

Not bad eh? I made it up myself. Lex told me she was a bit of a glutton and a bridge player when he booked me, and asked if I could write something.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you... perform like that? Weren’t you ashamed?’

‘Rather proud, actually. The men also thought I was pretty good; one of them gave me an extra fifty bucks on top of the hundred agreed to, and asked me to perform for his wife’s next birthday. Said he was pleasantly surprised because he thought it would be rude, but it was fun and sexy and not rude at all.’

‘Hrumpff.’ Lydia had been prepared to castigate a repentant reprobate, but had no idea how to deal with a young man who was proud of his perversion.

‘If you’ve satisfied your curiosity, Lydia, may I have my towel?’

Lydia stood and advanced on her prey. ‘The bible tells us nudity is a sin.’

‘No, it tells us that Noah’s sons were embarrassed to see their father lying naked in a drunken stupor, so covered him so no one else would see how ridiculous he looked. Don’t you find it odd that god’s chosen survivor should be a drunken sot? What's your real objection? You’re not covering your eyes at the sight of my penis and testicles, or crossing yourself to guard against the devil, instead you’re approaching to get a better look.’

Lydia, now only centimetres from him, gazed mournfully into his eyes; her own were leaking noticeably.

‘Hey, Lydia. What’s the problem? Come here…’ Mort wrapped his arms round the distraught woman’s shoulders and let her rest her head on his chest while sobbing as if her heart would break. After a minute she stopped and sniffed.

‘Come on now,’ Mort’s voice was gentle. ‘Tell me what’s upsetting you.’

‘When you speak I can feel your chest vibrate,’ she said sadly to avoid answering. ‘Your skin is so firm and silky. May I stroke you?’

‘If you like.’

Lydia’s hands ran softly up and down his back, then slid over his buttocks where they remained, gently caressing. ‘I feel safe when you hold me like this... no, not safe... it’s hard to explain... it feels right. I know that’s ridiculous. I’m fifty-seven being hugged by a naked sixteen year-old, and it feels right... but I must stop.’ She eased herself away and looked at her feet. Several deep breaths later, she swallowed and looked Mort in the eye. ‘I know I’m a selfish woman. I’m not sympathetic to poor Stefan. I seem cold and unappreciative of all the work you do for us for very little reward. And if I think about it I hate myself. But I can’t change. Yet just now... with your arms around me, I felt as if I’m not such a horrible person.’

‘You’re just being true to yourself, Lydia. Both Stefan and I accept that. Let’s have a cup of cocoa and talk a little more.’

‘Yes.’ She swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good, I’ll just go and put on some clothes.’

‘You don’t have to. I rather like looking at you like that.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’

Five minutes later they were sitting in the lounge room with the lights off. A soft glow spilling from the kitchen revealed Lydia in silhouette, hunched over her drink like a Grimm Brothers’ witch. A shaft of light revealed Mortaumal, coiled like a wary faun in a large wicker armchair.

‘You are the first living naked man I’ve seen since Stefan and I moved to separate rooms twenty-three years ago. I thought I was doing the right thing. I can’t have children, you see — or he can’t, we never got tested, thought it would be discourteous to God to question his decision to make us childless.’

‘What makes you think it was your god’s decision, and not just a genetic accident?’

‘There are no accidents. God has ordained everything.’

‘He must be busy. How do you know this?’

‘It’s in the bible.’

‘I see.’

‘And as it is a sin to indulge in sex when you aren’t trying for a baby, I hoped I would become a better person — strong in faith, yielding not to temptation. Instead I grew cold and hard and began to hate Stefan. I’ve never told him this. And now I know I was stupid and made Stefan suffer. He never went to other women, just worked harder and kept trying to make me happy — an impossible task. And tonight I hugged and stroked a naked man. I feel terrible!’

‘Would you like to make Stefan happy?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then tell him it’s not a sin for him to end his life, so he doesn’t have to suffer any more.’

‘Oh! Oh no! I couldn’t! Suicide is a sin.’

‘Why?’

‘Because... because…’

‘Because god gave us life so only he can take it away. He doesn't take it away himself though, does he? He gets servants like bacteria and viruses to spread illness, or soldiers to bomb and kill anyone he doesn’t like. One of our drones killed seventy-five primary school children in Kurdistan last week; God must hate those kids.’

‘They don’t count... they’re not Christians.’

‘You don’t know that! But it’s certainly an honour that he lets our soldiers do his killing, don’t you think?’

‘I think you are twisting things.’

‘Have you considered that perhaps he is now telling Stefan to do his work for him?’

Lydia stood. “No. No… that’s not how it works, Mort. I couldn’t. I’m sorry. You are a nice boy and I know you mean well, but I would be dooming both Stefan and me to an eternity of torment after death. Please put out the lights and check the doors and windows are locked.’ She turned abruptly and hastened to her room.

56 Procuring the Stuff

The following morning Stefan gave instructions on where to find the phone number, and Mort telephoned, making an appointment to meet directly after lunch. He was given clear directions to a park, told to bring sufficient money in cash, a sturdy back pack, to wear one sleeve rolled completely up and the other half way, and where to wait. The contact would make sure he was alone and looked reliable before making himself known.

Mort prepared sandwiches for his lunch, emptied his backpack, asked Stefan for the cash, and set off, taking the train to one of the northern suburbs and arriving with half an hour to spare. He sat on a park bench near where the meeting was to take place, ate his sandwiches and pondered the secrecy that had been demanded.

A minute before the appointed time he stood, put his paper in the bin and walked to the meeting place. Seconds later a spry, elderly man wearing a small backpack approached and, with a flick of his head, indicated that Mort should follow. They walked a hundred metres to another bench and sat.

‘Smile and act as if we’re old friends... I’m your uncle or something.’

Mort smiled and the old man patted him affectionately on the shoulder. They relaxed and sat back as if they often came here for a chat.

‘Tell me what you want and why,’ the man said, not looking at Mort.

Mort explained everything.

‘Are you aware of the penalties for assisting someone to suicide?’

‘But I won’t be, he’ll do it himself.’

‘You will have assisted him to procure the means, and that is akin to murder, according to the law, so you will almost certainly go to prison. And if it is discovered that I sold you the equipment, I will suffer the same fate.’

‘But he wants to do it.’

‘According to the law, anyone who wants to kill themselves for whatever purpose, is insane. That means they are not responsible for their actions. As you are not insane, that means you are the responsible one, a murderer, deliberately talking him into killing himself so his wife can benefit from his death. You can be certain someone will suggest that you and the wife are having an affair, and that you have conspired together to share the money. But being a woman she will get off with a warning because you must have talked her into it. Our courts and judges ignore the well-published fact that wives kill husbands much more frequently than the media suggest. You will be sentenced to prison where you will be raped, tortured, made ugly and be an old man by the time you are released.’

‘But... the law is insane! Why?’

‘Because we are ruled by religion and religion feeds on fear, suffering, pain and misery, because then people are vulnerable to lies about god and salvation and all the rest of the garbage that lets people avoid facing the truth about themselves and their lives. Most members of parliament are devoutly religious, so they impose their dogma on everyone through laws. Religious corporations pay no tax so they’re immensely wealthy, yet still receive vast amounts of public money to waste on their so-called charitable works which frequently do more harm than good. Naturally, they oppose laws that would lift people out of poverty of purse and spirit, otherwise they’d lose their subsidies and converts.’

‘But surely they can’t influence the government?’

‘They threaten to tell their adherents not to vote for a political party if politicians don’t do as they’re told, which works because the sole aim of a politician is to get re-elected to office. Note I said in office, not power; they don’t actually have any of that.’

Mort frowned. ‘I was thinking something similar recently. If it’s true it means there's no way to change things.’

‘I’m counting on climate change and rising seas to perform miracles. Do you still want to go ahead with this?’

‘Can it be done so they don’t know it was suicide?’

‘There’s one sure way. Does his wife agree?’

‘Not yet, but I think she’ll come round.’

‘If she eventually agrees, do you trust her not to change her mind?’

‘Yes... No. No I don’t think she can be relied on.’

The man sighed. ‘I’m going to get what you’ll need. Give me your pack and wait here. It’ll take me half an hour. Think carefully and have your answer ready when I return. If you decide not to go ahead with it, I fully understand and will not mind in the least taking the stuff home again.’ With that he put Mort’s pack into his own, stood and walked briskly away, soon lost among the trees so Mort had no idea which direction he finally took.

Mort sat and thought. If this method leaves no trace, is undetectable, then with proper planning it should be safe enough. Stefan was already very ill, so a sudden death would seem probable. But whatever the risk, Mort had promised to assist and assist he would. He’d find some way to ensure Lydia made no problems even if she didn’t agree. Having sorted his thoughts he relaxed and contemplated his future. What did he want to do next now the Nursery was being sold? How could he prepare personally for an impending climatic calamity? All he knew was gardening. He wouldn’t mind making quality furniture, but the market for the sort of stuff he liked would be minuscule. He’d probably have another twenty years stripping for hen parties and birthdays if he was careful with his body, but he’d already been what the manager called overexposed at the three gay clubs, and would have to wait a few months before they wanted him again. Salacia’s business was unreliable. And if stripping became his sole means of feeling useful it’d soon become drudgery instead of fun. Because, he realised, it wasn’t the money – he had plenty, he had to feel as if he was useful in some way.

His reverie was interrupted by the return of Charon, as he had come to think of the old man. He carefully took Mort’s now heavy pack from his shoulders, placed it on the seat between them, removed his own empty pack from inside, and sat gazing out across the empty park to recover his breath.

‘In your knapsack is a cylinder of nitrogen with a regulator attached. The instructions are on a sheet of paper. An autopsy will declare death caused by his existing illness, but only if you do what?’

‘Remove the evidence.’

‘Yes! And yourself from the scene. If it can be shown that anyone was anywhere near the man at the time, they will be accused of causing death by failure to act. Someone should have called the ambulance as soon as he began to show symptoms of distress, otherwise it will seem as if they wanted it. So twenty minutes or so after he has gone, and while you are disposing of the evidence as far from the scene as possible, his wife must come in, discover the body and immediately dial 000 and call an ambulance. Got it?’

Mort shook his head in despair at the cloak and dagger insanity. ‘Got it.’ Shielding his actions from the view of anyone who might be passing, he took out his wallet, counted the money, passed it across, hoisted the heavier than expected pack onto his shoulder, and turned to the man. ‘I admire you more than you can imagine. Thanks, and be assured your secret is safe with me, whatever happens.’

The man smiled. ‘I know.’

Mort looked down to adjust the straps and when he looked up he was alone.

The knapsack with its contents was placed inside a locked suitcase under Mort’s bed while they waited to see whether Lydia would overcome her religious indoctrination and see the humanity of what was happening.

The following day Mort had been invited to lunch with Steward, and Stefan decided to take a wander round the gardens and have his liquid lunch on the verandah with Lydia. Everything seemed so precious to him — the sun, the view over his nursery, and the fact that he now had a way to end the misery. The sense of relief was like a powerful opiate. He felt light. An insupportable burden had been lifted because he was no longer trapped by his illness. He wasn’t at the mercy of doctors and nurses. He could stop it all in a minute. The knowledge wiped a year’s accretion of frowns and wrinkles from his brow. His skin lost its unhealthy pallor. He smiled, and Lydia noticed.

‘The medicines must be working, you look much better.’

‘I haven't taken any today. I don’t want to take them any more. They make me feel rotten, heavy, sluggish. I’m having a good day because I can now end my suffering when I choose.’

Lydia looked alarmed. ‘Stefan, surely you…’

‘I’m not suicidal, Lydia. Don’t think that. I don’t want to die. All I want is a reasonable quality of life. I’m not stupid. I know my present remission is temporary and if I don’t take matters into my own hands I’ll soon be forced to resume the drugs, have operations, radiation and chemo, then go to a nursing home from where there is no escape until medical science has tried every possible trick to keep me alive, granting me the modern medical miracle of years of sub-zero quality life.’

‘Say what you want to say, Stefan.’

‘Is it okay with you if I top myself?’

‘Mort mentioned it to me last night and I lay awake thinking about it. At first I thought, No! Stefan mustn’t! What would all my friends think? That I was unable to take care of you? That you were such a wimp you couldn’t take a bit of pain? Thousands of men have cancer but remain brave and a model for us all. And then I thought of your suffering. And then I thought about Jesus telling us it is noble to suffer. And then I realised he meant suffering in defence of him, not suffering for nothing, like you. And then I thought about me. I’ll miss you if you’re dead, but then I’ll miss you anyway if you’re in hospital, in pain, drugged and unhappy. And then I’ll be tied to visiting you as often as possible, otherwise I’ll feel guilty, and that would be exhausting. So do it if you must. But I can’t help you! You must leave me out of it.’

‘Do you want to know how?’

‘No!’ The word came out as a shriek of fear. ‘No! I don’t want to know anything. Anything at all!’

‘Thanks, Lydia.’

Awkwardly, they manoeuvred the conversation back to the usual subjects of seeds, potting mixes, orders, the weather, what was flowering… For that afternoon at least, life felt as if it had returned to normal.

57 Sweet Revenge

The self-confidant young doctor took one look at Stefan, sniffed, said, ‘It won’t last. Get back on the drugs,’ and walked out.

Remission lasted two weeks and three days, during which Stefan felt he gained more pleasure, enjoyment and awareness of the wonder of life than in all his previous fifty-eight years. Lydia, too, managed to relax and was occasionally seen to smile.

Mort had decided he wouldn’t stay long in the house once Stefan had gone, so began organising his affairs and wondering what to do next. So far he had done nothing with the name he found in Perdita’s notebook, but one evening he searched the internet and discovered a likely candidate — Archibald Lintel; an architect of the right age, from the right area, now living in Far North Queensland. Mort had to become a member of the Internet site to see more, but he wasn’t ready for that. Simply knowing there was a possibility this man was his father was enough for the present, in the same way as knowing he could end his suffering was enough to enable Stefan to face his future with serenity.

As the nursery was up for sale there was little for Mort to do apart from keeping it looking spick and span, giving him plenty of time to complete the five performances he had booked with Salacia. Four were the usual fun, but one was more fun than expected.

On arrival at the house he introduced himself as usual, was shown to an unused bedroom, Handed the hostess the CD, reminded her about turning the lights down, accepted, counted and pocketed the money, changed into his persona as a cute young mechanic, and waited just outside the door of the lounge until the music started.

Invisible in the darkness he peered through the slightly open doorway. The women were all in their twenties and thirties; a Hens’ Night for the bride-to-be, who was seated on a chair in the centre of a circle, the butt of some game they were playing with lots of shrieks and giggles. The women were all tipsy, drinking liberally from plastic tumblers shaped like male genitals. Every time someone sucked on the erect penis they would squeal in delight.

Then he saw her — tits overflowing an insufficient lacy bra. Miss Bussty with girlish giggles was placing a paper crown on the bride-to-be. She returned on unstable feet to her seat as the music started... a deep throbbing beat, and all the lights were turned off apart from a table lamp, setting off further shrieks of excitement.

Mort’s outer costume was faked greasy overalls over T-shirt, topped by a cap. With a grin of anticipation he tucked his hair up inside and pulled the peak well down. Lights were always dim during his shows because bright lights made the women self-conscious and too shy to let their hair down and have fun. With his face in shadow it was unlikely the teacher would recognise him, as we tend to only recognise people we expect to see.

He wasn’t wrong. One by one the fourteen women were danced with and offered a piece of clothing to remove. In between, gasps of delight at his flexibility and wildly erotic dancing. He was down to the last pouch, offering the string to each in turn, and then withdrawing it at the last second to squeals of delight.

Then he advanced on Miss Bussty, miming that she could remove it… but only with her teeth. On all fours she crawled around attempting to grasp the cord in her teeth, but each time she was almost there, Mort moved slightly. Finally, he held her head in both hands and pressed her face against the pouch, allowing her to remove it, only to expose a tiny semitransparent bag that contained his manhood. Leaving her on the floor he zipped away, twisting and turning to the guest of honour who was allowed to remove the flimsy scrap of fabric while squawking with excitement. Tossing the insubstantial thing away, he hoisted the bride to be to her feet and they danced around the room.

After a quick dance with everyone else he took a flask of non-staining scented oil, placed a few drops on each woman’s hand and to cheers and lewd encouragement each was allowed to apply it wherever they wished. Most of them gently massaged his buttocks, belly or chest, but Bussty, who felt she’d been ridiculed by having to crawl around the floor, grabbed hold of his penis. Screams of delight.

Mort stood stock still staring at Bussty, then winked and whispered, ‘Hang on to it, gorgeous,’ as he slowly backed away, drawing a mesmerised Bussty with him. When they reached the centre of the room, he whispered, ‘Suck me, sweetheart.’

She sank to her knees and opened her mouth to receive his still flaccid penis, but was pulled roughly to her feet and held in what looked like a passionate embrace while Mort whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t you recognise me, Miss Bussty? I’m Mortaumal, the boy you had expelled from school. When the video of this performance goes viral on the Internet you’ll be famous.’ Shock deadened her face. She uttered a strangled whimper then raced from the room. Mort completed a couple of pirouettes, bowed and exited to ecstatic applause.

Steward had finished the painting and hung it in the centre of the wall immediately opposite the door to his flat. He said nothing while Mort inspected it carefully, waiting until he had taken a couple of steps back to ask with surprising diffidence what he thought of it.

Mort was impressed with the technique, the colours, the representation of the two figures and the physical likeness, and said so enthusiastically. Privately, he thought it was no longer a depiction of his inner state. Everything had changed so much since the relatively inexperienced lad first visited the artist. No longer a divided character, he felt like a whole, and he hoped wholesome, individual who knew who he was and where he was heading.

Steward was inordinately proud and very grateful for his subject’s effusive compliments. ‘I’d like to exhibit it, Mort, will that be okay? It won’t be for a few months, a friend and I are exhibiting together in a gallery in the Valley. He’s putting in several drawings of you as well as paintings of other subjects.’

‘Will they be for sale?’

‘Yes. But I can say yours is already sold.’

‘Do you know, Steward, I’d be really thrilled to know that a painting of me by you was hanging in someone's house because they liked it. I’m moving on soon and have nowhere to store it, so…’ he shrugged engagingly.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Completely.’

‘Mort, you’re a brick.’

‘And you, Steward, saved my sanity when I first arrived, so I reckon we’re quits. In a few years I’ll come back and commission another, how’s that?’

‘Excellent! Don’t lose touch, Mort. I don’t care what happens to most people, but with you I’ve found a treasure. An email now and again so I know that you’re okay?’

‘Of course.’

58 An Unwelcome Offer.

Curious about an email requesting his presence at “The Five of Diamonds”, one of the Clubs he’d worked at, Mort took the train to Adelaide Street, jogged up the hill to Boundary, found the narrow cul-de-sac at the end of which was the service door with five red diamonds painted on it, and knocked loudly. It was ten o’clock. The trip had taken just under an hour. A few seconds later the door opened a crack and Paco the barman peered out.

‘Mort!’ His voice was shocked. ‘What’re you doing here? Go away! This isn’t the same place any more. Go away, quickly!’

‘Is that Mortaumal, Paco? Bring him in.’

Paco’s fire was instantly quenched. ‘Don’t tell him what I said,’ he muttered. ‘Just be careful, okay?’

He stepped back to reveal a somewhat pompous, pale fellow of about forty in white trainers, jeans and a multi-coloured shirt from somewhere exotic. He gazed down at Mortaumal over a well-fed gut.

‘Hello, Mortaumal. I’m Wiley.’ He did not offer his hand.

Mort was relieved; pudgy white hands with long black hairs on the knuckles did not invite touching, especially after Paco’s warning. And he had a feeling he’d seen the fellow before.

‘We’ve met before, a couple of years ago,’ Wiley announced, making Mort worry he could read minds. ‘I was one of Perdita’s first clients on her return to the city. You answered the door. You’ve hardly changed, what’s your secret? Found the fountain of youth?’

Mort shook his head. ‘Just a slow developer I think. I thought I remembered your face from somewhere. What’re you doing here?’

‘I’ve bought the place,’ Wiley led the way inside and onto the tiny stage. The club looked less than inviting in the glare of ‘daylight’ fluorescent tubes. ‘Got sick of only owning straight clubs so added this one to my stable. That makes five.’

‘Congratulations. But it seems odd to have a straight guy running a gay club. Isn’t it very different?’

‘No. Sex is sex whatever the orientation; and men make up a hundred percent of the clientele at all venues. Gays seem quieter, less trouble so far, but the shows are pretty dull, that’s why I wanted to see you. Still available?’

As it would seem decidedly odd to say no, after responding to the email invitation, Mort said he was, but only for a week or so.

‘They told me you’re up for anything.’

‘As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone.’

‘Right. What I want to do is bring in a wider clientele by ramping up the sex quotient in the shows. Full on lesbian sex is the current thing in the other clubs and very popular, so how do you feel about that?‘

‘Mucking around with a lizzie? No thanks.’

‘You know what I mean, the full works, with another guy.’

‘Not my scene, I’m a solo performer.’

‘Rap, come here!’ Wiley called.

Rap sauntered in, sweat pouring off chest and arms. ‘Been working out, boss,’ he said in the slow, hesitant tones of a mentally challenged child. Physically he was anything but challenged — lean and muscled, tanned to a deep yellowish brown. Nothing like the gym-toned bunnies usually associated with gay nightspots. No sleek layer of fat rendered his body smooth and godlike. He was all tightly corded muscles over strong bones. Craggy. That was the word. Craggy and primeval. And there was something distinctly feral in his face; lean with low, heavy eyebrows, eyes so dark they seemed black, prominent slightly bent nose, sharp cheek bones above hollow cheeks, and a protruding mouth with full, defined lips. All supported on a columnar neck and powerful shoulders. Sexy but terrifying to someone whose tastes in sexual dalliance could best be described as pale vanilla.

Every one of Rap’s muscles looked useful; none were just for show, and that made him impressive — and scary. Tiny brown erect nipples on a smooth hard chest, flat taut belly, hairy legs and buttocks that could carry him and a couple of bags of cement up ten flights of stairs without tiring. Between the legs an impressive bulge that threatened to escape the tiny pouch of his thong.

No thank you, thought Mort.

‘Mortaumal, meet Raptor — Rap for short. What do you think?’

Mort smiled at Raptor. ‘You’re one of the most impressive, sexually charged guys I’ve seen for ages.’

Raptor’s eyes were amused, but his mouth hung loose.

‘What exactly d’you want us to do?’

‘Like I said... the works. The girls pull, stretch and turn their cunts inside out, fiddle and lick their partner’s every orifice. Kiss and cuddle, and shove their fingers, toes and bits of fruit in their slash, then put on huge dildos and screw each other. Absolutely nothing is left to the imagination.’

‘Some of those things sound painful. Rap’s a powerful fellow who might forget his strength in the heat of excitement.’

‘Nothing you couldn’t handle, a fit kid like you. And once you’ve had a couple of Hanoi tabs you won’t feel anything except euphoria. Rap can’t get enough of them, can you Rap?’

‘No Boss,’ Raptor drawled from the exit door where he had drifted to join a couple of overweight minders in suits who were trying not to look as if they were standing guard in case someone wanted to make a bolt for it.

‘When’s the performance?’ Mort’s trademark insouciance was under threat and he covered a slight tremble in his voice with a cough.

‘Tomorrow night.’

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred and as many tabs as you like.’

Mort pulled a face as if considering, then nodded seriously. ‘You’re on! We’d better have a rehearsal though. I’m meeting the fellow I’m boarding with for lunch and he doesn't have a mobile so I can’t contact him, so I’ll come back straight afterwards to prepare a few moves and sequences.’

Wiley raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not even eleven o’clock, plenty of time to have a round with Rap. And I need to check the merchandise; make sure you haven’t got yourself covered in sores or tats. And take a couple of these.’ He handed Mort two dark blue tablets about the size of aspirins.

Mort accepted them cautiously. ‘What’re they for?’

‘They’re the one’s I told you about, euphoria. Cost heaps but my boys can have as many as they like.’

‘Generous,’ Mort said with the hint of sarcasm. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘No catch, I look after my staff.’

Mort nodded and accepted the pills. ‘Any chance of water?’

Paco, who had been hanging around pretending to work, went through a door and returned seconds layer with a plastic tumbler.

Mort appeared to toss back the pills and wash them down, then while removing his clothes he secreted the pills behind a set of shelves.

The three men watching saw only the old Mort... serene and slightly amused as always, unaware of the increasing fear that threatened to overtake him. At least Raptor’s instrument remained flaccid, while to his astonishment his own foolishly suggested he was keen for combat. Fear wasn’t supposed to be an aphrodisiac.

They stood, facing each other.

Wiley’s phone rang. He answered, told Mort and Raptor to get on with it, then took off for his office, followed by his minders.

Raptor quickly dumped Mort on the floor, landed on top, pinning him down, then whispered in his ear. ‘What the fuck are you doing? This guy’s poison. You’re too good for this. Get out. Don’t take any tabs, okay?’

‘You do.’

‘No, I toss them like you did.’

‘Why’re you here?’

‘I owe him — drugs and other shit. I live upstairs paying off my debts by letting every fat arsed faggot who can afford it fuck me night and day. And I’m not even queer!’

‘Why don’t you just walk out?’

Raptor’s laugh was sour. ‘It’s safer here. I’ve enemies outside, and the cops want me to help them with their enquiries, so this is preferable. How old are you!

‘Sevent….’

‘The truth, kid!’

‘Sixteen.’

‘You fuckwit! If Wiley learns that he’ll threaten you with juvenile detention for indulging in underage sex unless you become his whore. Right you hairless bastard,’ he suddenly snarled. ‘I’m gonna ram my rod so far up your arse you’ll be tasting the cum.’

Wiley had returned.

The two performers grappled, licked, played with bits and indulged in a little fellatio; Raptor doing all the things he intuitively realised Mort was reluctant to do. They finished, stood panting, and waited for a response.

Wiley’s vulpine smile was not designed to relax anyone, but his words were a relief. ‘Yeah, that’s the sort of thing. A bit rougher perhaps, and proper fucking, I’ve got some new rubbers with no cum-sack that look just like naked flesh. But don't bloody cum inside him, take it out, whip off the rubber and spray it everywhere — your specialty, Mort, I believe.’ His smile was patronising.

Mort nodded.

‘I like the contrast, brute and beauty.’ He turned to the most obese minder. ‘That’s how we’ll advertise it, Beauty and the Brute.’ Turning back to Mort. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Sweaty, a bit light-headed, and super cool, thanks. But Raptor’s tool’s a bit of a let down.’

‘That’s because he takes too many tabs. Don’t worry, an injection before the show and he’ll be an animal.’

Mort nodded earnestly like a true professional. ‘Excellent. Don’t want to make idiots of ourselves — and give the club a bad name. Right then, I’ll be back in about three hours to finalise things with Raptor when he’s not... euphoric.’ He frowned and nodded. ‘I take my work seriously.’

‘Like your sister. She must have made a packet.’

Mort’s brain raced. Sister? What sis... Ah! Of course, Perdita. ‘Yeah, what a role model,’ he said with a laugh, hoping his lapse of attention hadn’t been noticed.

‘Ever thought of taking up the profession?’

‘Nah. Fucking’s just for fun, not for a job. And it’s easier for a girl, if she’s tired she can just lie there and pretend. You can’t pretend a hard on.’

‘There’s always injections. You’re an attractive lad and I could put you in touch with some very wealthy clients. All top drawer. No trash. You could even move in upstairs, I’ve renovated and there are several fine apartments. Cheap rents. What do you say?’

‘I say ask me again when this gig’s finished and I’m out of work.’ He grinned boyishly and headed for the door.

‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

‘Eh?’

‘Clothes?’

‘Ah yeah. Felt so good I forgot.’ He dressed quickly, checked he had everything, then with a cheery, ‘See ya,’ accompanied by a cheeky salute, was out the door and sauntering through the sunlight and fresh air he had despaired of ever seeing again, terrified to look back in case… He wasn’t sure in case of what, he only knew he was very, very pleased to be out of there. The second he reached the end of the cul-de-sac and was round the corner on the busy road he took off like the wind, head plagued by worries. Had he ever told the previous nightclub owner where he lived? No, he’d been living in the flats. Could they trace him?

He phoned Raul, who had put him onto the Five Diamonds Club in the first place, told him what had happened and asked him not to give out his address. Raul was shocked, especially about the drugs and forced prostitution, and detecting Mort’s panic insisted he go straight to his place. His shift was about to finish, but if he wasn’t home, to wait; he wouldn’t be long.

Insanely relieved, but still somewhat paranoid, Mort hurried to the station.

59 Exiting

Raul’s motorbike was in the carport of the Spanish-style duplex. He was sitting on the front steps waiting and hurried Mort inside, set him down at the table and presented two packets of fish and chips and two cans of coke.

Mort opened his mouth.

‘Shut up and eat.’

They munched in silence till the last chip was gone. Raul burped. Mort giggled. After stuffing the papers in the bin, they carried coffees up two flights of stairs onto the flat roof. It was surrounded by a metre high parapet, giving privacy as long as you lay down, which was preferable to standing as the view was less than exciting; acres of corrugated iron roofs, scattered trees, kilometres of power lines and a reddish haze marking the centre of the city. Taking a couple of padded groundsheets from a weatherproof box, Raul spread them and the two young men lay down.

‘Okay, tell me all.’

Mort did, and afterwards lay on his back staring at the clouds scudding overhead.

‘You were safe only as long as he believed you were really interested and you were seventeen. Raptor was right about that. Every day kids go missing. Most are running away from their families, but a few are taken by crims.’

‘You’ve no idea how frightened I was, especially after Paco told me to get away but it was too late and.... and that Wiley is evil. I could sense it. Do you believe me?’

‘Oh yes. Evil is as easily recognised as goodness. Raptor saw your goodness and responded; that means he’s a decent sort.’

‘He is.’

‘Wiley didn’t, that means he’s morally blind, so don’t go anywhere near that area alone. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

The two friends chatted until Raul fell asleep, exhausted after a night shift. Mort went downstairs and phoned Lydia to see if he was needed. He wasn’t, so said he’d probably stay the night with friends.

Having noticed the place was a bit of a mess, dirty dishes, laundry basket full, dead flowers, dust under everything - not really dirty, but in need of a clean, he set to work and three hours later when he took the washing up to the roof to hang it on the line, the interior was spick and span.

Raul stretched, apologised for falling asleep, and came over all teary when confronted with his clean house and a light meal ready to be served.

‘Ah, Mort, marry me! Please! I need you.’

‘If I was your age, I probably would. I really like you. But there are so many things I want to do, places to go, things to see... and I’m sounding like a TV documentary. It’s not because you’re older, I actually like that, it’s because I’m so young I haven’t proved myself yet. If you’re still available in ten years, ask me again.’

‘I’ll do that. But now I’ve got you, will you stay the night?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Sex with Raul was as far from that demanded by Wiley as it was possible to imagine, and deeply pleasurable and satisfying as a result.

They left the bed at eight the next morning after an hour of laughing, touching, kissing, petting and other equally enjoyable activities. Raul had to report at ten o’clock, so after a quick breakfast Mort suggested that as he’d be leaving town soon they ought to swap addresses and other contact details. That done, a saddened Raul zipped off on his bike and Mort jogged for an hour, arriving home to find Lydia standing in the lounge room. She looked up irritably when he entered.

‘Stefan’s decided it is time.’ It sounded like an accusation. ‘But he’s fine, I made him take his pills this morning and he didn’t object. He says he can feel a change coming and doesn’t want to be unable to take care of everything himself, but...’

An icy fountain seemed to rise inside Mort. It was happening. Up to now it had been like a fantasy, something in the future that might never happen. But it wasn’t. It was real. Stefan was really going to kill himself.

‘It was your absence all day and night that set Stefan on this path, Mortaumal,’ Lydia muttered as they approached his room. ‘He was worried he wouldn’t be able to do it properly without you to check things. You do realise that makes you responsible for his decision to kill himself?’

Mort stopped, shocked. ‘No way, Lydia! Never say or even think that. It was Stefan who found the address and asked me to get the stuff.’

‘Without you he’d not have been able to get it. So you are the one killing him. He’s just doing what you’ve virtually talked him into.’

Mort took her elbow and dragged her back to the lounge, thrust her onto a chair then kicked the door shut and stood glaring at her.

‘How dare you manhandle me like that! My elbow hurts.’

‘Tough luck. I realise you’re upset, Lydia, you are about to lose your husband, but you could try to be an adult and rational. I’ve made up pesticides for the nursery, but that doesn’t mean I want to drink them. You’ve a packet of sleeping pills beside your bed that I got for you last month from the local chemist shop, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to overdose and try to kill yourself. Stefan will decide what he does with his life, Lydia, not you, not me. It has nothing to do with us. It is his life to dispose of or not. And don’t ever think I have encouraged him, because I haven’t. Not even once. Furthermore, I’ve stated bluntly that I will not assist him in any way whatever to use the stuff I bought. If he leaves it too late, then that’s his problem, I will not lift a finger to assist him to do the deed. Clear?’ Mort’s voice was harsh and Lydia quailed.

‘I know. I know. I didn’t mean to suggest you had, I…’

‘You did mean to, because you’re a pathetic, weak minded woman, brainwashed by your insane religion to never think for yourself about important matters. I’m going to see him. Coming?’

‘No. No, I don’t want to. I’ll go and wait in the garden. I’m sorry. You are right. I am silly and weak and everything you say. But... I can’t help it. I…’ she ran out.

Stefan was sitting in an armchair beside the bed looking serene and calm. He smiled at Mort and held up a photograph album. I’ve been flicking through old photos. It’s a good life I’ve had and I regret nothing. I could have done different things, but then I wouldn’t have done what I have done, and that would be a shame. And I wouldn’t have met you.’ He placed the album on the bed and took up the cylinder of nitrogen to which he had connected the hose, and placed it on his lap. ‘It’s quite heavy. Lucky I didn’t wait much longer. Now for the essential.’ He connected the tube to the plastic bag, placed it on the top of his head like a hat, then squashed it down to exclude all the air. ‘Get me a mirror, Mort, this I have to see.’

Mort took a hand mirror from the dressing table and held it up. They both laughed. Mort replaced the mirror and stood, leaving it to Stefan to speak.

‘How’s Lydia?’

‘Upset in the garden. Doesn’t know how to cope. Refusing to think.’

‘Her parents sent her to a Catholic boarding school when she was eight. She had a terrible time with those mad nuns. Bonkers the lot of them. Married to Christ but fiddling with each other and their pupils in frustration. I’m pleased she’s not here, she’d just make me feel rotten as if I’m a piker; chickening out of a fight; running away. I don’t know why she married me. To escape her family I’ve always thought. With you I feel calm. You’re so rational and clear-headed. I know you’ll always either tell me the truth, or not speak. I seem to have spent my life among people who don’t know what they want, but never tire of telling others how they should live. At least I’m ending my life in the company of someone I like, admire and feel happy with.’

‘Thanks, Stefan. And I’m here because I like and admire you,’ Mort said, wondering why it didn’t feel mawkish.

Stefan took a painful breath, exhaled noisily and smiled. ‘Have you worked out how you’re going to dispose of the evidence?’

‘Yeah, all worked out. I’ve been jogging up Mount Coot-Tha several times a week to keep fit, and there’s a large commercial dumpster at a building site that’ll be ideal. I’ll just blend in with the other lunchtime joggers and no one’ll take any notice.’

‘Well, it’s getting on for midday, so you’d better go and change.’

‘You’ll be alone...’

‘Mort, we are alone all our lives, individuals trapped in separate bodies, constantly trying to make intimate contact with others, gathering as many friends and acquaintances as we can, always disappointed that they don’t understand us, dreaming of being able to somehow get inside another person for a while. At least that’s my experience. Why should dying be any different? I’m reconciled to my aloneness, not lonely, and do not want anyone to hold my hand as I walk through the portals of death, so to speak.’

‘Yeah. Makes sense.’

‘Thanks. So don’t worry. I’m happy. Leave me to my final thoughts and go and get ready.’

Mort leaned over and kissed Stefan lightly on the brow. ‘Cheerio, Stefan; you’ve been exactly the right friend, at the right time for me.’

After a quick shower he emptied the main pocket of his knapsack, zipped his wallet and phone into a waterproof pocket in the top, put a bottle of water in one side pocket, then in a sudden spasm of nostalgia for Angelo and their last run together, he replaced his usual running gear with his old cross-country gear — jock strap, pale blue flimsy shorts, and matching singlet bearing the number ‘5’.

‘Everything seems to have shrunk,’ he muttered. ‘Guess I’ve grown.’ A dark blue sweatband to hold his hair in place, and well-used trainers on his feet completed his preparations. Picking up the knapsack, he took a deep breath and returned to Stefan’s room.

Stefan was slumped sideways on his chair; the only sound the soft hiss of escaping nitrogen. Mort felt for a pulse. There was none. He held the mirror in front of his friend’s mouth. No misting. He turned off the gas, stretched the elastic round the dead man’s neck and carefully removed the plastic bag, tubing and cylinder, which he stuffed into his knapsack. After a thorough search to ensure there was nothing left behind that might seem odd or incriminating or suspicious, he straightened the body’s head and stepped back, trying to view the scene dispassionately.

After half a minute he decided it was too soon to feel anything except an urgent desire to escape. Stefan didn’t look as if he was asleep. His eyes were closed, but the body was lifeless and so thin his head already looked like a skull. He’d think about his feelings later when it was all over. Now, he had to go. Hoisting the knapsack onto his shoulders, he saluted Stefan and went out to the garden to find Lydia.

‘Has he gone?’

Mort nodded. ‘Wait five minutes to give me time to get well clear, then call triple O. Tell them you were out weeding or something and came in to ask if he wanted anything, and found him like this. That’s all. Say nothing else. Do not mention me! It is not their business that I lived here for a while. There’s nothing suspicious in Stefan’s death, so they won’t even ask questions. Be brave.’ He pulled Lydia to him, pressed a kiss on her forehead, touched her lightly on the cheek and ran to the rear of the nursery where a small gate gave access to the lane that led to the main road to Toowong.

60 The Runner

Taking the same back streets he always used, Mort was making good time down a deserted service lane behind bankrupt shops and deserted warehouses when he noticed a couple of guys he’d sometimes seen hanging around that area. There was something about their stance today that seemed different; they were waiting — perhaps for him because the last time he’d run through they’d made unpleasant comments about his long hair and baby-face.

A shifty looking fellow in his late twenties, slightly overweight, dressed in black shoes and trousers, white shirt and blue tie, hair combed with a parting on the right, stepped out and blocked Mort’s path, moving from side to side as Mort attempted to go past.

‘Where’re you going, faggot?’ he sneered. Then to his mate, ‘Check the shorts, Tiny. His fuckin’ bum’s hangin’ out.’

Tiny was very tall, blond, and handsome in a Nordic way, with long arms dangling from what appeared to be powerful shoulders. His clothes were identical to those of his friend, but suited him better. Both men, Mort noticed, had small gold crosses pinned to the pockets of their shirts.

Tiny barked a short laugh, ‘Good one, Ruff. I guess he’s looking for a fat cock to fill it. Do you know who we are?’ he asked Mort, stepping behind him to prevent his running back the way he’d come.’

‘No.’

‘We’re the Protectors.’

‘Who or what do you protect?’

‘You’ve heard of Oliver Cromwell?’

‘No.’

‘He cut off the King of England’s head and was made Protector, to protect that country from heathen depravity.’

‘And you think I’m depraved so you want to cut off my head.’

‘We think you’re a filthy little sodomite, defiling god’s kingdom and unworthy to live; so we’ll cut off your balls, the source of your foul desires.’

‘What makes you think I’m queer?’

‘You know Mr Wiley?’

‘Yes.’

‘He pinned a tracer to your bag yesterday, and we followed you to the queer cop’s place. Mr. Wiley now knows where you live and he doesn’t like people who don’t keep appointments. This morning we waited here because we guessed you’d be coming.’

Cold fingers were scrabbling inside Mort’s chest. He’d got Raul into danger. ‘Who are you?’

‘We’re the good guys, helping the State Premier to cleanse the city of sin. We’re doing God’s work.’

How do you know what god wants?’

‘If a man lies with a man as with a women, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed. That’s from the bible... Leviticus.’

‘Hang on! What about the no killing commandment?’

‘Whoever sacrifices to any god except the Lord alone, shall be doomed. That’s in Exodus.’

‘So only people of the same cult are safe.’

‘Yes indeed, because everyone who doesn’t seek the God of Israel, is also to be put to death. That’s in Chronicles. You see, we know what God wants.’

‘How did the men who wrote that stuff know what god wants?’

‘God told them.’

‘And you believe that?’

‘Of course! I have faith. God wouldn’t let me have faith in a lie, would he?’

‘Do you never doubt the rightness of what you’re doing?’

‘Never, it is God’s will.’

‘Isn’t it strange that the will of god always conforms to the desires of his follower?

‘Not at all! He uses our talents. We’re good enforcers so that’s our task. It would be stupid to ask us to build a bridge, wouldn’t it?’

Mort was silent for a few seconds. ‘Seventeen young men were found mutilated last month. Was that your work?’

‘That’d be telling.’

‘How many of them died praising your god for his beneficence I wonder. It’s always sex that angers religious bigots, isn’t it?’

Ruff’s smile was predatory. ‘Always. That’s why we thought you’d enjoy a little chat with us — after all we’re men, and that’s what turns you on, isn’t it?’

‘You’re not unattractive physically, but mentally you’re offensive.’

Stepping closer, Ruff pressed his belly against his victim, forcing him back against Tiny, who didn’t move.

Mort kept his face in neutral, looked Ruff in the eye and allowed a slight smile to flicker.

‘Think it’s a joke do ya, queer-boy?’ Tiny snarled, wrapping his arms around Mort’s, pinning them and the knapsack tightly, then lifting his victim’s feet clear of the ground and carrying him into a gloomy loading area about eight metres deep that served a disused loading dock. Concealed behind a pile of crates and other rubbish, they were hidden from anyone looking down the lane or walking past.

Ruff followed them in, grinning. Tiny squeezed tighter, causing Mort to grunt from pain as the valve of the cylinder dug into his back. Giggling obscenely, Ruff began to drag Mort’s shorts and jockstrap down. Mort instantly stopped struggling, let his feet hang loose, and made a wish. Seconds later the wish was granted as Ruff held both garments aloft in victory and Tiny let Mort’s feet rest on the ground once more.

Relief surged through him. He wasn’t going to be hobbled. Quietly filling his lungs as much as he could while still able to breathe normally, he increased the tension in his shoulders and chest to make his upper body as large as possible, not that it seemed to make any difference to Tiny, whose encircling arms remained tight and unbreakable. At least Mort’s weight was now on his own feet.

‘You won’t be needing these any more,’ Ruff jeered, producing a flick knife and slicing the jockstrap into pieces, ‘because when we’ve finished you won’t have any balls to put in them.’

His laugh had a slightly mad ring as he tossed the garments away and began a sort of predatory dance in a circle, knife held high stabbing at the air, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on Mort.

A sudden release of air, and relaxation of all the muscles in Mort’s upper body, loosened Tiny’s grip just enough for Mort to drop to his knees. Tiny stupidly grabbed at the knapsack and singlet, allowing Mort to slither out of both, then before he could react, Mort sprang up and slammed bony knuckles into Tiny’s windpipe. The soft crack of shattering larynx was followed by a sickening gurgle and collapse.

With a scream of fury, Ruff raced at Mort, knife high in a great swinging arc that would have buried the blade in the base of Mort’s neck if he hadn’t moved slightly, caught the wrist and accelerated it’s progress, forcing it down and slightly inwards. Ruff overbalanced, tumbled forward and landed on his belly, his free arm unable to prevent his face smashing into the metal edging of the concrete loading dock. The lifeless body dropped to the ground and rolled onto its back, hand still clenched around the knife. A large dent in his forehead gushed blood. Eyes wide in surprise; mouth foolishly agape.

Mort turned to the big guy. Judging by the gurgling sound, blood was trickling into his windpipe. He was going to drown. Tiny looked up imploringly at Mort, who nodded, fetched the knapsack, swung it twice round his head then smashed it into the side of Tiny’s head. The heavy gas cylinder inside did its work and the gurgling stopped.

Time was passing and the longer he remained the more likely it was that someone would come past. Homeless people sometimes lived in these old warehouses. Mort wiped the splashes of blood off his knapsack with the singlet, checked inside and discovered a tiny metal disc the size of a five cent piece that had been pinned to the lining so it hadn’t fallen out in his bedroom. He placed it under the roller door of the warehouse, then stuffed the singlet and pieces of jockstrap around the gas cylinder to protect his back. After putting on his shorts he removed the little crosses from the two would-be assassins’ shirt pockets and placed them in their mouths, checked there was nothing left to incriminate him, made sure the service lane was empty, whispered heartfelt thanks to Brawl and all the others at the Self Defence Club who had trained, taught and practised with him so patiently, then jogged on up the lane. He had an important job to do; any emotional reaction to the unpleasant experience would have to wait until he was somewhere safe.

61 Flight

He had only gone twenty metres when he felt the disadvantage of very short shorts; his penis was flopping around in full view. He paused at the junction of the lane with the main road, noticed an electronics shop, and keeping his hand in front of the offending appendage, jogged over, took one of their brochures and used it as a screen while continuing on his way.

It was hot. Much too hot to be jogging, yet the usual lunchtime sprinkling of fit young men looking vulnerable in trainers, skimpy shorts and tank tops had willingly swapped the air-conditioned stupor of offices for the acrid air of city streets and a sense of liberty. Ignored by jostling crowds of lesser mortals in sandwich bars, restaurants and pubs, they dodged between pedestrians, zigzagged through slow moving traffic, and converged on the busy highway that flanked the city’s most popular asset — Mt Coot-Tha wilderness park.

Anonymous among the runners, the slender youth with long black hair restrained by a dark blue sweatband, whose cheeky shorts and naked chest attracted complimentary glances and at least two wolf-whistles, kept his gaze firmly fixed on his feet until, with a slight tightening of lips he swung to the right and headed for a large commercial waste bin occupying two parking spaces in front of a partially demolished building.

He began to limp slightly and on reaching the bins placed his knapsack up on the edge of the nearest, steadying himself against the metal while removing a stone from his shoe. When he reached up to grab the pack, he accidentally knocked it into the bin. Clearly irritated at his own carelessness he pulled himself up and hung over the edge to peer in. It was about half full of rubbish from the building site, along with the usual detritus tossed in by passing shoppers; fast food wrappers, soft drink cans and plastic bags. Balancing on his belly he reached down, retrieved the empty pack, made sure it was properly closed, slung it over a shoulder and sprinted across the road, dodging between two large delivery vans before gaining the opposite pavement where he hurdled a low fence and raced up the rise into the forest.

Once concealed by the trees he stopped, checked in his bag, discovered he’d dumped his singlet along with the cylinder and other stuff, and would have laughed at his stupidity if the need to warn Raul hadn’t been so urgent. He phoned and Raul answered immediately. Mort told him he’d heard that Mr. Wiley might be sending heavies to look for him at Raul’s place, so if they came, say it was just a one night stand and he didn’t even know my name. ‘I’m going away for a bit,’ Mort told Raul, ‘and I’m dumping this phone as soon as I switch off. I’ll let you know when I get another number.’ After promising eternal friendship they disconnected, Mort wondering if he should have mentioned the Protectors.

Deliberately avoiding the usual paths and tracks, he charged up through increasingly dense forest until he was within sight of the lookout. Directly beneath it was the overgrown track that led where he wanted to go. A busload of sightseers were pointing cameras and chattering in excitement at the view of tower blocks, motorways, suburbs and the river. No one had bothered to wander even a few metres from the decking to experience the much more interesting mysteries of nature. With a contemptuous shake of his head Mort removed the sim card, smashed it and his phone between two rocks, wandered casually to one of the rubbish bins at the edge of the car park, dropped them in, then set off at a punishing pace along a track behind the souvenir and coffee shop, over a ridge and down a steep valley to a quiet spot where he sometimes went when he needed to be alone.

Stopping at the edge of a small clearing he stretched to loosen muscles and peer into the forest on the other side of an almost dry, stony stream. He was definitely alone. Unsurprising as it was no longer the lush green attractive spot he’d discovered the year before. Dead trees now spread their branches like talons; the small patch of grass was grey and although the water hole was full, if it didn’t rain within a week it’d be a stagnant puddle.

His heartbeat slowed but his brain continued to race, mulling over everything that had happened that morning. A good run usually cleared his head, but today he couldn’t shake the fuzziness... the feeling that something wasn’t ‘right’. That he'd made a mistake. He gazed up at the unrelenting, unforgiving sky that hadn't let a drop of rain fall for months. A crow’s melancholy caw reflected his uneasiness.

After a quick look around and a longer period of listening to ensure he was still alone, Mort removed his shoes and shorts, stuffing them into his pack, which he hung on a branch directly above the pool before slithering silently in, releasing a slow breath of relief as muscles relaxed, heat dissipated and his brain slowed.

The patch of indigo sky visible above the clearing threatened even more heat. A current of hot air too slow moving to be called a breeze, brought with it the stench of a rotting animal. Crows circling and cawing as if bewailing the death of their world increased the sense of despair. Mort shivered. He couldn’t think in such a benighted place, so scrambled out of the water, checked himself for leeches and ticks, snatched his pack off the branch, slipped his feet into his shoes and took off up the ridge to a smooth flat rock, protected from the sun by an overhanging ledge and invisible from below as it was accessible only by scrambling down from the rocks above.

He sat, leaning against the exposed root of an ancient tree, drained his water bottle then lay down, resting his head on his pack. He needed to think. He needed to review his life. He’d arrived at a hiatus. The encounter with the Protectors had changed everything. The bodies must already have been found so there’d be a manhunt. Someone must have seen him — there was always someone who sees things. He was not difficult to recognise or identify. Hundreds of people knew him from the nursery — clients and tradesmen. He’d stripped for hundreds. He hadn’t changed much since school.

Yesterday he could have chosen to return to the nursery and Lydia, to help her with the sale — could have even bought the place if he wanted. No, perhaps he couldn’t have. That look on Lydia’s face as he was leaving. She was still convinced Mort had talked Stefan into killing himself. He didn’t trust her to stick to the story when the doctor came, so he’d never dare return in case he was wanted for assisting someone to die. He’d had to get away even before his run in with the ‘protectors’; that only made it more urgent.

He had to disappear. He, Mortaumal Aywun, was a double murderer. In self defence, but that wouldn’t make any difference to a judge. Both victims were white, while he was beige. They had religion, but he only had reason. They won on both counts because white means superior and religion means moral.

He began to laugh silently, at first controlled but then hysterically, rocking silently back and forth for several long minutes, gasping for breath, desperately determined to make no noise. Suddenly it stopped and a violent chill enveloped him. He curled up, hugging himself, uttering great choking sobs that felt as if they were ripping out his lungs. Eventually tears streamed and breathing slowed until he sucked in a great lungful of air, held it as long as he could, then let it out slowly and lay still, not daring to move in case it triggered another crazy reaction.

Holding up his hand he was pleased to see it didn’t shake. ‘And here I thought I was a man of steel, able to do whatever it took without suffering a crisis of conscience.’ He sighed. ‘It seems I’m human after all. Not sure if that’s good or bad.’ Mort frequently talked softly to himself when alone because it made thinking easier — it was like hearing someone else make suggestions for him to consider.

Sitting up again he took a dozen deep breaths and felt a little dizzy with all that oxygen, but nothing worse. ‘Ouf. System cleaned of dross, now perhaps I can think.’

Within seconds he began to laugh again, this time at the absurdity of his position; setting off into the unknown wearing nothing but inadequate shorts and running shoes. At least he had his wallet and debit card. But he couldn’t use that if they were looking for him.

He lay back, hands behind his head and considered possibilities and consequences.

‘I have to disappear,’ he said softly. ‘I am probably being looked for, so can’t risk putting other people at risk. That means putting on hold my search for Papa. And I can’t go back to Marshall’s. The only solution is to take off and see what happens. I’m sixteen and not stupid, despite having no parents, no home, an incomplete education and no prospects for fame and fortune.’ As always he chose to forget that he was already the possessor of a small fortune, because that would have spoiled the sense of adventure.

‘At the moment I can’t see anything I could have done differently so there’s no use thinking about what might have been and beating myself up over it. I must accept the situation and work from there. And I have to remain independent, not tell anyone anything more than absolutely necessary about myself. With all the humans I’ve known, nothing is ever straightforward. Their priorities are not mine. Should I change my name? If so, what to? No, hardly any point. If I make sure I’m not on anyone’s books, pay cash, don’t confide in strangers, take on jobs that don’t need a tax file number… I’ll be fine. He sighed at the impossibility of his plans and let the warm air and peaceful isolation lull him to sleep.

A sharp gust of wind ten minutes later dropped a dry twig onto his face from the tree above and he sat up in alarm. A quick glance calmed him, but he was disappointed at how nervous he’d become. That was one more thing to take into account. Once more he told himself the Brisbane episode was over. He’d miss Steward, Brawl, and Raul... but they had their own lives and he could never be part of them. That was all in the past. Naked — more or less — he’d set forth to see what fate had in store. Not that he believed in fate, but it sounded more romantic than simply to see what happened.

But he couldn’t just jog along to the nearest shopping centre to buy clothes with his cock flapping around. What to do? A documentary about the Papuan Highlands sprang to mind. The men wore nothing but a penis sheath whose original purpose was the same as his, to stop it dangling and getting damaged. The fellow making the film, who had lived with them for a month, explained that they pull their foreskin out beyond the glans as far as possible, then tie a string around it. The foreskin swells a little beyond the string so it doesn’t pull off, the string is threaded through the sheath, and that’s attached to a string around their waist.

In a semi-secret internal pocket of his knapsack was a cache of essentials. Elbert’s ring, a box of matches, a folding multiple tool that included pliers, blades, files and scissors, a needle, some cotton and a small ball of string. He didn’t need a sheath, so massaged his foreskin out as far as it would go, prepared a loop of string, lassoed the loose skin and pulled it tight. Too tight, within seconds it began to hurt. After six attempts, he worked out a method of tightening it enough not to slip off, but not so tight as to cut off the blood. The pain had made his penis shrink, which made his job easier.

After tying the string around his waist he jumped up and down. His cock stayed up and it felt fine. Odd, but fine. Very sensible in fact. He wondered what the world would be like if humans had been rational and continued as they began, using clothing only for protection. But such thoughts he realised were pointless; humans have seldom, if ever, made sensible choices. He tied his long hair back in a pony tail secured with the headband, put on his shorts, repacked and put on the knapsack, and jogged away through the trees, eyes alert, brain telling him that his nervous excitement was dangerous; he should be calm and collected.

After crossing a narrow sealed road he ran through the vast old cemetery, occasionally losing his sense of direction because of the necessity of avoiding other people. Arriving at a narrow, tree-covered road separating the tombstones from a continuation of the main park, he stopped to catch his breath and think. He’d been running blind and had no idea where he was. Stupid. He frowned, and after checking for ants sat on the dry grass and leaned back against a stump. It was too ridiculous. He, the master planner who always thought of everything had failed to plan for the possibility that he might need a plan B.

‘Ah!’ he snapped irritably, ‘I'm trying too hard to be perfect.’

He regained control of his breathing, emptied his mind and relaxed, allowing his brain to organise its thoughts without conscious interference. He’d taken off from the nursery with nothing except the clothes he was wearing, his wallet, water bottle and phone. Not even food. Why? Because he had only focussed on safely getting rid of the evidence. Why hadn't he predicted other problems, or at least guarded against unforeseen happenings? Because he’d grown careless. Life had become too easy. It was his own fault.

He knew from experience that women reasoned and made decisions quite differently from men because their aims were different. He should have expected that Lydia might change her mind, even after agreeing with him. It had been utter stupidity to know this but not act on it. She might have done exactly as Mort had asked her to do. But that was a risk he shouldn’t have been prepared to take. Another stupidity was helping Stefan... doing more for someone else than they’d do for him. Rational humans simply couldn’t behave like that if they wanted to survive. If the police became involved his freedom was over — even if they decided he'd done nothing wrong he’d be on their radar forever.

As for the two Protectors, they’d already shouted foul things at him several times at that exact spot! He should have realised they were working up to something. He had to stop this mulling. What to do now? Get out of the city. He’d find a shopping centre, buy a pair of trousers and a shirt, get some food, take a bus to the end of the northern suburbs, then hitch a ride.

62 Rescue

Relieved at having a plan, he stood, brushed leaves off the seat of his shorts and was about to set off in what he hoped was the right direction when a smart green van drove past on the other side of the narrow road. The window was down and the driver sent him broad grin. Mort returned it with interest. With a friendly wave the car disappeared around the bend, leaving behind a young man whose future suddenly seemed less miserable. To be smiled at by a stranger was such a rare and wonderful event he could remember every time it had happened. He was wondering why so few people smiled, even to people they knew, when the van returned and pulled up beside him. The driver leaned across and opened the passenger door.

Imagining he was being asked for directions, Mort approached.

‘Hop in.’ The voice was deep and slightly amused, the age in the late twenties; the body lean, tough, and tanned. The head boasted a beaked nose, square jaw, heavy green/blue shaving shadow, narrow mouth and shaven head making the best of semi-baldness. Bare feet, jeans and an unbuttoned short-sleeved white shirt were the extent of the clothes. A powerful chest was decorated with a tiny gold medallion nestled among close-cropped black hair.

‘Are you offering me a lift?’

‘What else?’

‘That’d be great! Where to?’

‘Not too far. Just a few kilometres north.’

‘That’s brilliant. I've no idea where I am and need to get some lunch and buy a few clothes. I wasn’t looking forward to any more jogging; it’s too hot.’

‘I wouldn’t bother buying clothes — you look great as you are. As for lunch, I can make you something at my place. My name’s Hale.’ The driver held out his hand.

‘Fabricato,’ Mort said cautiously, immediately regretting concocting such a stupid name. ‘But everyone calls me Fabri. And you don’t have to give me lunch.’

‘I'll be making some for myself, so you might as well join me.’

‘Great! Thanks.’

They'd driven a hundred metres when Mort realised what he'd done — accepted a lift with a total stranger. Three hitchhiker murders in the past twelve months, and he’d been the target of a murderous attack only a few hours previously, yet he leaped blithely into the first car that came along driven by a reasonably good looking bloke offering a lift. He ventured a quick look at the man who called himself Hale. He didn’t look dangerous — quite the opposite. But that’s how con men got away with cheating and murder.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ he asked nervously. ‘I'm expected at home and they’ll be worried if I’m late.’

Hale looked across. ‘You're nervous.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, isn't it?’

‘I could open the window and scream for help. Pull on the handbrake. Punch you in the side of the head…’

‘You could also grab the steering wheel and make us crash.’ Hale pulled into the side of the road, opened the glove box and handed his wallet to Mort. ‘Open it and check my name, driver’s licence and anything else you like. If you're still worried you can leave.’

‘I feel stupid.’

‘You're not. Go on.’

Embarrassed, Mort scanned the contents of the wallet. ‘You’re thirty-one.’

‘Yep.’

‘You look more like twenty-one’

‘Thanks. How old are you?’

‘I’ll be twenty in two weeks.’

‘You also look younger.’

‘I know! I hate that.’

‘Do I also get a look at your ID to check I’m not picking up a mass murderer?’

Mort froze. Fuck! Was Hale a plainclothes cop, one of dozens guarding all exits from the park? That’d be the logical thing for the police to do. Someone had seen him running away dressed as a jogger. All joggers went to the park. Hale was a cop! The colour left his face. He couldn’t speak, just stared at the dashboard in sick despair.

‘It’s okay!’ Hale sounded concerned. ‘I don’t really want to see your identification. Forget it. I’m an excellent judge of character and I trust you... okay? Calm down.’

Mort turned bleak eyes on the man. ‘Do you really trust that I’m not a criminal?’

‘Yes!’ There was no hesitation.

‘Thanks, because I’m not, but I have got myself into a spot of bother. There’s something about you I trust too, so here’s my Driver’s Licence.’

Hale opened it and laughed. ‘Thanks, Mortaumal. I knew you weren’t twenty; your body’s too smooth. You look like a tough sixteen year old, but your eyes could be those of a man twenty years older; they’ve seen more than they should have, I suspect.’

‘Not really.’ Mort put his licence back in his wallet and returned Hale’s to the glove box, keeping the Business Card. ‘Your card says, “Hale Lightfoot’s Astounding Acrobatics. Performances anywhere, any time.” What sort of acrobatics? Can I see them?’

‘When we get to my place I’ll show you — if you're still coming.’

‘Of course I am… if you still want me to.’

Hale was the product of parental indulgence and classically handsome features. Natural charm and a smile that could disarm an assassin ensured that his equally natural self-indulgence and thoughtless unconcern for others were dismissed by all who knew him as charming quirks. Looks, brains and physical agility had eased his way though boyhood and youth, and a substantial inheritance from paternal grandparents ensured that adulthood was no less free from worry.

His parents had been smart enough to give up attempts to curb his self-will by the time he went to school, thus freeing themselves to enjoy the development of their precocious offspring without the usual pangs of self doubt. If his life went belly up, it was his fault, not theirs. The wisdom of that decision was evident in the result — a well-balanced man who continued to love and respect them, while living a fulfilling life of his own.

At fifteen, Hale had joined a travelling troupe of acrobats; Cirque du de la Lune, whose handsome high-wire hero promised Hale’s nervous parents he would take great care of their only child and not let him out of his sight, even at night. He was a Cretan, so being ardent admirers of Knossos and Bull Dancers, they entrusted their son to him.

Life on the road was hard. Hale became skilful in several acrobatic disciplines, familiar with many countries and their inhabitants, learned three languages, and discovered that wherever he went his head and thoughts went along as well. Therefore, he figured, as it was impossible to escape himself, he might as well settle somewhere he liked and learn to relax and stop trying to be anything other than himself.

In Mortaumal’s body he saw a rare prize, and didn’t doubt his ability to snare him as a cheap and attractive sidekick in a new series of acrobatic performances he was planning. The kid was no fool, he could see that, and would be a challenge, but he obviously had something to hide and that made him vulnerable. There was something feline in Hale’s nature; he enjoyed playing with his prey before devouring him, never imagining he could become the prey.

Thus, instead of answering Mort’s question, Hale smiled softly and drove off, causing his passenger to once again doubt his decision.

Mort had always prided himself on not panicking and usually not rushing into a situation without careful planning. In sixteen years of sharing the planet with his inferiors had no serious regrets. He knew he wasn’t super intelligent — but he was observant, rational and logical, which was more useful. He didn’t want fame; he wanted to be independent like professor Higgins, to live his life, free of strife, doing whatever he thought was best for him. And this meant keeping a safe distance from all humans he didn’t know well. Especially strangers. Only… there was something about Hale’s smile that had lowered his defences. Was he losing his grip, or just feeling vulnerable after a trying afternoon? Whatever the reason he determined to be more on his guard than usual.

They were passing through a small shopping centre when Mort suddenly asked Hale to stop. ‘I think I saw a mobile phone shop back there, would you mind letting me out? I need a new prepaid.’

‘No probs. But I’ll come with you. Dressed like that in this suburb you’re likely to be set upon by frustrated viragos desperate for succulent flesh.’

He wasn’t set upon, but he did attract some curious looks and a muttered, ‘Disgusting!’

Hale dropped behind to look at a shop window, and when he caught up patted Mort on the bum. ‘Are you aware, young man, that at least two centimetres of your bum-cheeks are exposed?’

‘Only two? I’m losing my touch. At least that’s all that’s hanging out, you should have seen me a couple of hours ago.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Later... if you’re a good boy.’

That was Hale’s line — or should have been. He smiled to himself.

Back in the van they’d only driven a hundred metres when Mort thrust his left hand down his shorts and fiddled. Began to sweat. Looked across to a curious Hale and asked meekly, ‘If you don’t mind, I need to tell you now. Please pull over.’

Hale didn’t mind. He pulled over to the side of the road and watched in delight as Mort pulled desperately at his shorts, finally ripping them open and tenderly lifting out an engorged brown sausage.

‘I need your help, I think. Talking about my bum and stuff gave me a hard on and there’s nowhere for it to go because I’ve tied off the end and I can’t untie the string so please! Help!’

Mort lay back in his seat, Hale leaned over, tried not to laugh, failed, picked at the knot with neatly trimmed fingernails, failed to loosen it, so with two fingers managed to slide it off the end of the foreskin, to be greeted by a sudden flowering as it peeled back to release a rapidly swelling shaft and engorging deep brown glans.

‘Ahhh…’ Mort sighed. ‘I thought I could last till we got to your place and I’d go to the loo or something. But that was too much agony! What do Papuans do when they get erections?’

‘Better give me those shorts,’ Hale said with authority. ‘They’re torn right down the front. I can lend you some till we get these mended. Lift your bum.’

Docilely, Mort lifted his hips while Hale pulled the shorts from under him and tossed them into the back of the van between neat racks of shiny metal tubing, ropes and other interesting looking gear.

Mort started playing with the knot of the string around his waist.

‘Need a hand?’

‘Please.’ Mort lay back in apparent resignation, enjoying the attention, knowing full well that having done something for him, Hale would feel even better disposed towards him than before. That meant Mort had somewhere to stay the night. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what the string was for.’

‘To keep it from flopping as you’re not wearing underpants?’

You’re a genius! I got the idea from Papuan highlanders after I lost my jockstrap.’

‘You lost your jockstrap... how?’

Another sad sigh. ‘The usual way.’ And that was all Hale was going to get... for the moment.

Hale drove on; amused and confused. Was the kid playing hard to get? Not possible. He was the one in strife. He should be grovelling by now. He turned the van into a short driveway and pulled up in front of an unprepossessing suburban house and garage.

63 Hale’s Place

The house looked dreary. Worse than dreary. It was one of a row of identical brick and tile bungalows built on the cheap in the nineteen sixties. A remote control on the dash opened the garage doors. They drove in and the place became dark as the door clanked into place behind them. Hale led the way through a side door into muted sunlight and Mort uttered a shout of elation. The large back yard was surrounded on both sides by a high paling fence. The rear boundary of the property was invisible behind a veritable forest of tall eucalyptus trees and assorted flowering shrubs.

‘How large is this block?’

‘Two thousand square metres. Twice the usual. All the blocks on this street are very long because the backs of the properties used to flood. It hasn’t since I’ve been here, but the size and the trees are the main reasons I bought it.’

‘Wonderful. I can’t wait to explore. It’s like living on the edge of a forest. And so quiet!’

‘Just about everyone in the street’s a pensioner. They also love the peace and don’t want to leave. Lights out at eight o’clock, no loud radios, no kids on drums or barking dogs.’

‘I want to live here!’ It was obviously an exclamation of delight, not a request, but Hale smiled none the less.

On the lawn directly behind the house were arranged several metal frames that reminded Mort of his primary school jungle gym. He turned around in delight, inspecting the house. A wide, tiled verandah extended the full length of the rear of the building, with comfortable chairs, a table and several urns filled with trailing flowering plants. Three sets of French doors complete with shutters created an exotic, quasi-Mediterranean atmosphere.

‘This is surreal!’ Mort whispered. ‘The front’s horrible and the back’s paradise. Why don’t you change the front as well?’

‘I don’t want thieves to get any ideas.’

‘Good thinking. Can I see inside? Does it matter that I’m naked?’

‘ I forbid you to wear any clothes while you are my guest.’

‘Yes, Sir!’ Mort’s grin was smug.

‘Go inside for a wander around while I throw some food on a plate. We’ll eat out here. But take your shoes off first!’

Ten minutes later they were seated at the heavy wooden table on the verandah.

‘I can’t believe the inside of this place; it’s exactly what I like. High ceilings, lots of paintings, heavy curtains, comfy chairs, table lamps instead of central lights, bookshelves full, lots of interesting carpets… things that look as if you’ve brought them back from other countries. It’s cosy! I've always wanted a cosy house. Most houses I’ve seen are either bleak and poor or bleak and more or less modern. And I'm raving.’

‘No, you're not. I'm flattered. But eat.’

‘Mmm. The food’s delicious too. What is it?’

‘Imam Bayeldi. Stuffed aubergine Turkish style.’

They ate in silence, enjoying the shade, the peace and the company.

Mort paused as if he’d encountered a problem. ‘Do you live here alone?’

‘Usually.’

‘Seems a shame. Don’t you get lonely?’

‘Not lonely. But there are some things I miss.’

‘Such as?’

‘An open, enquiring mind on tap. Sharing a joke. Chatting. Sex when I want it.’ Hale’s smile was indecipherable.

‘Why aren’t you married?’

‘Apart from the fact that I’ve never met anyone I’d want to spend the rest of my life with, marriage hasn’t been an option for me until recently.’

‘Now it is, would you marry?’

‘Can’t see the point. Either two people stay together because they want to, or they part. I can’t see a piece of paper making any difference. Half of all marriages end in divorce despite the expensive ceremony. It’s a waste of money in my opinion.’

‘Yeah I agree.’

‘I’m taking a wild guess here, but you aren’t by any chance gay, are you?’

Mort managed to look shocked. ‘No way! I’m a very serious same-sex-oriented male. There’s nothing of the flibbertigibbet about me!’

Hale laughed. ‘Why not gay?’

‘Gay’s a stupid word; makes me think of scatty queens and prancing fairies. I’m a sexual creature, like most other so-called higher animals, and as with about ten percent of them I prefer to cuddle with my own sex. What about you?’

‘That pretty well describes me, and means we’re both exceedingly lucky.’

‘No one’s ever called me lucky before. How do you arrive at that?’

‘There’s an old saying — Greek, I think; “A woman in the house means a storm in the house.” Neither of us will have to endure that.’

‘Yeah! My grandfather was always saying he wished he’d never married; reckoned men and women were too different to share anything, especially their lives. He and my Grandmother waged constant war, and the people I was living with up till today existed in a state of cool truce for twenty-six years, according to the husband.’

‘Most married couples are more or less like that,’ Hale said knowledgeably. ‘Marriage is a trap with no exit. The woman takes over the house like a great fat spider, and if her cringing husband doesn’t do as he’s told she has a tantrum. If that doesn’t work she cries, because het men are unable to cope with a woman crying and will do anything or promise anything to stop her. Then over the years there’s a progression from the silent treatment through psychological violence when she tells him he’s a useless provider, his penis is pathetic and he can’t give her an orgasm; to physical violence in which she kicks, hits, punches smashes anything to hand, often against his head with no care for his health, while screaming loud enough to alert the neighbours. The only place he can do as he likes is in his shed; as long as he remains at her beck and call. And they can’t divorce because she’ll get everything and live like a queen, leaving him with the mortgage to pay off, the kids to provide for, and only enough money to share the rent of a crappy unit with some other poor bugger who’s also lost everything.’

‘Have you had experience of this?’

My brother was ruined by the bitch he married. He suicided when she reckoned he was fiddling with his children when they visited him on the weekend. He wasn’t, but they believed her and he was denied further access to them.’

‘That’s horrible. She’s the one who should have died.’

‘A US Department of Justice study of murder in families contains some surprising information. An analysis of ten thousand cases showed that wives murder their husbands far more frequently than people realise, but are punished only about a third as severely. Forty percent of spousal murders are by women, and when it comes to killing children, mothers kill more often than fathers and are more likely to murder their boys.’

Mort was grinning widely. ‘I’ll buy you a soapbox for Christmas.’

‘Don’t get me started on Christmas, Mortaumal!’ Hale laughed. ‘Was I raving?’

‘Never. Pure unadulterated rational discourse. And please call me Mort, all my friends do.’

‘Thank you, Mort. Now, where was I? Oh yes, you’re too intelligent to be heterosexual, that was the giveaway.’

‘You mean I don’t look queer?’

‘You look too sexy to describe.’

‘Yeah... I wank all the time.’

‘Are you a virgin?’

‘How can you doubt it?’

‘We’ll continue that line of inquiry in a minute. Are you into casual sex?’

‘Nope, it’s too dangerous. I’m well able to defend myself, but the idea of going back to some stranger’s place would be…’ Mort stopped, blushed and stared in dawning comprehension at his host. ‘That’s why you picked me up, isn’t it? That’s why this delicious lunch was already prepared? It’s why your fabulous bedroom is so neat and tidy! You expected to be bringing someone home for sex!’ Mort hoped his expression was deeply shocked; he wanted to seem innocent and keep Hale on his toes. It wouldn’t do to seem like an easy catch.

His host, however, remained quite unabashed and grinned proudly. ‘It’s why I was driving slowly along that particular road — it’s a known beat for rent boys, and it’s the reason I returned to have a second look; but as soon as you opened your mouth I knew you weren’t on the game.’

‘So why’d you offer me a ride?’

‘You’re cute, sexy, intelligent, healthy, bright… and I hoped that you just might be…’

‘You know what they say about optimists.’

‘No, what do they say?’

‘I’ve no idea. More to the point, what did you expect to pay me?’

‘If we went to bed now for an hour, I’d give you a hundred and fifty dollars and send you home in a taxi.’

‘Hell! That’s more than I spend in a week! I’m in the wrong game.’

‘It’s not too late…’

‘I’ve tried to visualise what it must be like, but I’m too ignorant. Can’t begin to imagine what I’d have to do — what you’d do. I might not like it.’

‘Surely there are loads of things you’d do for a hundred and fifty bucks that you might not enjoy. Or does selling your body seem perverted?’

‘That’s the silliest thing you’ve said today.’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Every worker sells his or her body and brain whether it’s making ice cream, washing windows, acting, dancing, playing an instrument or looking through a microscope.’

‘You’re not from a religious background, then.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You haven’t been brainwashed to think sex is the filthy temptation of the devil.’

‘The Devil, eh? No, the idea of sex being something different from all the other activities essential to life doesn’t make sense. Without fucking, eating, drinking, shitting, sleeping... humans would die out. And like all those things it’s pleasurable — or should be, and it acts as social glue as well as being useful. It’s no more special than any other essential activity, so it should be governed by the same rule that ought to regulate all human pursuits — don’t over indulge. More than enough is too much. If people obeyed that injunction we’d still be living in places with clean air and water, loads of fresh fruit and flesh for the taking, not overcrowded in stinking, poisonous cities. We’d be slim, healthy, fit, and have no time to be bored or complain about having nothing to do, therefore we’d be happier — or at least contented.’

‘And you reckon I need a soapbox! I’m outclassed and impressed. I confess I’ve never thought of it in those terms. You’re brilliant.’

‘Flattery will get you just about everywhere, except turning me into a prostitute. Not because I’m frightened of sex, but because I’m nervous about other humans. I imagine many people’s genitals are pretty filthy, STDs are rampant, and how do I know whoever’s paying me wont hurt me or do something I don’t want? Which brings me to the question, what exactly would you do to me?’

‘There’s no point in telling you as you don’t find me attractive — even garnished with a hundred and fifty bucks.’

Mort pretended to consider. ‘I guess you scrape over the attractiveness bar.’

‘Huh! Damned by faint praise.’

‘Better than none at all. But keep to the topic. If we ever make it to the bed, how do you intend to ravish this innocent young virgin?’

‘Who mentioned a bed?’

‘Me, just now. I’m certainly not going to risk ant bites and scratches on the lawn!’

‘Sounds reasonable. First, I’ll lick you all over.’

‘As long as you don’t dribble.’

‘Noted. Then I’ll caress your sensitive spots until you’re writhing in ecstasy.’

‘Or desperate to stop giggling — I’m ticklish. What if I said I didn’t like something you were doing?’

‘I’d cut your wages.’

‘That’s reasonable. Kissing?’

‘If you ask nicely.’

‘But you’ll leave the other end alone?’

It took a few seconds to register. ‘I never force entry into people’s back doors.’

‘Well... I suspect I’ll regret this, but I’ll surrender to your protestations of lust. However, I don’t want the money.’

‘I can afford it.’

‘I’d be constantly worrying you weren’t getting your money’s worth.’

Hale nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes... that’s looking distinctly possible.’

‘Prick.’

‘Indeed.’

64 Acrobatics

An hour and a half later two sweaty bodies sprawled over the bed, faces adorned with soft smiles of lingering pleasure.

‘I reckon I owe you a hundred and fifty dollars.’

‘For?’

‘Such a thorough and diverting introduction to the pleasure of the flesh. I can see, however, that I’m going to need lots more practice if I’m to attain your level of mastery.’

Mmm. It’s a shame you have to go.’

‘You want me to stay?’

‘If you want to.’

‘For how long?’

‘Till we get sick of each other. But unfortunately…’ Exaggerated sigh.

Mort’s heart skipped a beat.

‘As you told me on the way here, you’re expected at home and they’ll be worried if you’re late.’

‘Yeah. Well, that was then.’

‘And now?’

‘I’ve bought a phone, so I can let them know I’m safe in the arms of an acrobat.’

‘You’ll have to earn your keep.’

‘By selling my pristine carcass to strangers?’

‘I need an assistant.’

‘For Hale Lightfoot’s Amazing Acrobatics?’

‘The same.’

‘That’ll require some powerful teaching on your part.’

‘You’ve got powerful legs, a strong grip and are much tougher than you look. How’d you get so fit?’

‘Running, lugging heavy plant pots around, carting millions of cubic metres of soil and manure in wheelbarrows. Digging gardens… you name it.’

‘In a market garden?’

‘A nursery.’

‘When did you quit?

‘This morning while I was out jogging.’

‘Hence the lack of clothing. Do they know yet?’

‘Probably guessed by now.’

‘Will there be an Interpol alert with the Federal Police knocking on my door?’

‘Don’t imagine so.’

‘Wanna talk about it?’

‘In bed tonight?’

‘That was very, very clever. Ok, follow me.’

After disentangling arms and legs, Hale led Mort out to the metal frames on the lawn and stood casually beneath a bar two and a half metres above. With no apparent preparation, in a single seamless move he swung easily up into a one handed handstand, which he held for several seconds while doing the splits as if it was the simplest trick in the book. Then, with no sense of hurry and still one handed, he swung down, executed a complicated twisting flip and landed on his feet facing Mort.

‘That’s amazing. Its more than amazing, it’s magic! You defy gravity! I knew you were fit, but didn’t realise in the bedroom what an amazingly lithe body you have! You’re perfect! All those muscles yet you still look lean, not like the sacks of potatoes in muscle mags. Sleek, sexy and powerful. I can’t understand why you’d want to dally with me. Seriously. You could have anyone you wanted.’

‘You are what I want. A young man with an active brain and a smooth, slim, fit, and sexy body. Skin like creamy butterscotch, waist so slender it looks ready to snap, cute firm butt, excellent legs, chest wider than your hips, face… Have you started shaving yet?’

‘No. And I hate being hairless. It’s not manly. I loved the feel of your chest in bed, even though you’ve buzzed it short, really turns me on. As for my face, that you were polite enough to stop describing, not everyone can have features that look as if they’ve been chiselled from stone. Fuck, I’ll have to stop. I’m talking myself into a depression.’

‘I was going to say that your face doesn’t fit your body. Especially your eyes... grey and as I mentioned earlier, far too knowing for a sixteen year-old. There’s no innocence there, and neither was there in bed. This wasn’t really your first time, was it?’

‘It was the first time I enjoyed it so much.’

‘Flatterer.’

‘Lucky you’ve got high fences or the neighbours would be getting a thrill.’

‘Not lucky; I put them up before I remodelled the house. I’m a privacy freak. What the eye doesn’t see and the ear doesn’t hear, the brain doesn’t get curious about. As far as I can tell from occasional encounters, the neighbours think I’m a boring bachelor who seldom has visitors, sometimes goes out at nights, wears dull conventional clothes and doesn’t play his music too loud. In other words, I’m a treasure to be cherished and not annoyed by neighbourly nosiness. If I left, they’d probably get an unemployed family of smokers with half a dozen screaming kids playing the drums, getting drunk.’

‘Very smart. So we keep the noise down and attract no attention so no one knows I’m here.’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘And when you’re sick of me you can cut off my head, stuff me in a bag and bury me in the garden with no one being the wiser.’

‘Exactly! And now you’ve understood your role in this gothic romance, I can commence your instruction in the ancient art of acrobatics. My act is no more than a series of exercises requiring flexibility, strength and balance. I usually work solo, but I could do more impressive stuff with a partner. How much do you weigh?’

‘Sixty-six kilos.’

Hale nodded, grasped the bar above his head with both hands, then pulled himself up and over until he was resting on his belly. ‘Can you do this?’

‘Piece of cake.’

‘Hang on.’ Hale dropped to the ground and ran back into the bedroom, returning with a tiny cache-sex. ‘Better put this on for the first training sessions, it take a bit of practice not to squash your bits when they’re hanging loose. After a week or so you’ll be able to do without it.’

‘Right. But why do you train bare arsed?’

‘It builds up more strength and precision if you have to hold yourself a bit further from the bar, and that looks impressive in a show... as if you’re flying instead of glued to the bar. And at least half my customers choose me precisely because I perform naked.’

‘Understandable. Do they pay more?’

‘No. I love being naked. It feels so free, and after reaching a certain skill level, performing can get boring unless there’s a bit of danger. In many of my more complicated routines there’s always a chance of squashing the sticking out bits and that makes it exciting. Like all performers I do it for the fun, the buzz of appreciation and applause. And being naked in front of a crowd of dressed strangers who are clapping and laughing and enjoying seeing my cods swinging in the breeze is cocking a snook at convention.’

‘Cocking a what?’

‘A snook.’ Hale demonstrated. ‘An ancient and venerable tradition that’s been replaced by this.’ He offered Mort an elegant finger of contempt.

‘Looks stupid. The finger’s better. Would you call yourself an exhibitionist?’

‘No more than a concert pianist is one. An exhibitionist wants to shock unwary strangers. I don’t want to shock anyone. I want to excite them, make them laugh and admire my skill. My audiences are all willing participants. It’s a mutual pleasure.’

‘That’s a relief. I’ve sometimes wondered if there’s something wrong with me.’

‘Why? Have you…’

‘Will I be expected to perform au naturel too?’ Mort interrupted.

‘Got a problem with that?’

‘Only with the unflattering comparisons that will be made with your body.’

‘Crap. If you weren’t comfortable with yourself you’d not have gone jogging like that. People often ask if I’m embarrassed, I tell them I’d be embarrassed to have a fat gut, rotten teeth, stinking armpits, bad breath, dirty feet, a shitty arse, but not of my average but perfectly formed genitals. Then I ask if they’re embarrassed standing there with their bare face hanging out?’

Mort laughed. ‘That’s good. We’re pretty similar. I once went nude cross-country running with a teacher. It felt great.’

‘A teacher? I never had such luck. Was he good in bed?’

‘He wasn’t into fourteen year-olds, became my guardian's lover though.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser. You are certainly not the innocent you pretended when we met. You must have had loads of guys and girls come on to you.’

‘If they did, I didn’t realise because I wasn’t interested. Except for a cop who’s very nice. But that’s history.’

‘Would you want to be a video porno star?’

‘You can’t be serious! I’ve done a few live shows and the fun is knowing you’re being applauded by living people who are laughing, clapping, encouraging, becoming aroused. People I can see, touch, smell. There can’t be anything less sexy than performing for a camera and a handful of bored assistants who’ve seen it so often they’d be more interested if you had a blood nose.’

‘My turn to admire your wisdom. So, I imagine you don’t wank over porno flicks?’

‘I always see some flaw in the actors’ bodies or voices or behaviour. My imagination is a better stimulant for wanking.’

‘Too much of that can turn you into a hermit. We have to accept that reality can never compete with figments of our imagination.’

‘At the risk of giving you a swelled head, you’re as good as anything my imagination can envisage.’

‘Flatterer. Get your cods protected and follow me.‘ Hale jumped up and grasped the bar, then pulled himself up and draped himself over it on his belly.

When Mort was beside him, Hale slid forward, flipped his body over and dropped while maintaining his hold until his feet nearly touched the ground, arms twisted and stretched up behind. Then he drew his legs back between his arms and lifted the backs of them over the bar, hauling his buttocks up until they swung over and he was seated on top.

‘Your turn.’

It took two attempts and a bit of assistance from Hale before he could manage on his own.

‘Hell, I thought I’d be strong enough.’

‘You are; it’s only technique. Adjusting your centre of gravity and thus affecting balance. Once more.’

This time it was so easy Mort wondered why he’d had trouble before.’

They were perched side by side on top of the bar when Hale suddenly let himself fall backwards, leaving his knees hooked over the bar. At the end of the swing he straightened his legs and landed on his feet.

‘Your turn.’

Mort followed but released his legs too soon and ended up on his hands and knees.

‘Again.’

It took two repetitions before Hale was satisfied. ‘You’re better than I hoped.’ Without appearing to jump, he suddenly seemed to fly up half a metre to stand on a solid looking box, where he stood, legs spread for stability, right hand on his hip, and his left arm held straight out over the edge. ‘Now do it again using my arm instead of the bar.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Shhh! Too loud. No noise that might arouse interest is ever to escape our lips. Not only because of the neighbours. You see, during a performance everything you do must seem effortless. Any grunts, exclamations of pain, irritation, surprise or pleasure spoil the effect. Be careful to let your hands slide otherwise you’ll tear my skin off. Better take some powder from that tin on the bench and rub a little on your hands, it helps them slide even if they’re sweaty.’

To Mort’s astonishment Hale’s arm remained steady. His strength was prodigious.

After two hours of repetition and learning to balance on one leg while standing on top of the high bar, Mort was tired but energised and excited. They each drank two litres of water; it had been sweaty work in the heat, and washed off the dust in a shared warm shower.

There’s a breeze coming up, and you’re dangerously overheated, so put this on.’ Hale handed Mort a large, dark blue woollen bushman’s singlet that hung loosely half way down his thighs. ‘This keeps vital organs, hips and thighs warm, while allowing you to cool down slowly. I don’t want you getting a chill.’

Mort put it on and laughed. ‘It’s like a dress.’

‘Yeah, but very comfortable.’

‘Sure is, thanks. What about you?’

‘My muscles are used to this sort of exercise so not overheated.’ He checked the elegant French clock on the mantlepiece. ‘It’s five o’clock, time for a meal. What would you like?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’

‘Boiled eggs, yoghurt, fruit, homemade chocolate and a handful of nuts.’

65 Planning

They ate out on the verandah as before, the few mosquitoes not putting a serious damper on things.

‘Tomorrow I’ve an audition with some insanely wealthy potential clients. Do you think you’ll be able to amuse yourself for a couple of hours?’

‘Can’t I come and watch? I’ll be a good boy.’

‘You’d be bored.’

‘I would not! Who’s the audition for?’

‘The Church of Fumutie are planning fifteen fundraising concerts in greater Brisbane.’

‘What’s Fumutie?’

‘Forgiveness, Understanding, Modernity, Unbound Tolerance and Indefinite Ethicality.’

‘Makes no sense.’

‘What religion does?’

‘And what on earth is Indefinite Ethicality? Sounds like a recipe for doing whatever you feel like.’

‘As far as I can gather that’s exactly what it is. They’re as wealthy as Croesus and want to put heated swimming pools in all their day-care centres and other schools, as well as professional quality lighting and staging in all assembly halls — or something equally pretentious and insane, so if they approve of me I’ll be the second half of the program and the main drawcard for all fifteen shows.’

‘Now that really is putting their money where their mouth is. Preach unbound tolerance and indefinite ethics, and demonstrate it with a naked performer as your major act. What a hoot! Doesn’t sound anything like the religious school I went to for a couple of months. Against their wishes I played a naked Adam in a short skit I wrote, so the teacher in charge ran like a headless chook all over the stage trying to cover me.’

‘This group’s very different. Whereas narrow minded bigots join rabid fundies, and middle of the road middle classes join mainstream sects that espouse their mild prudery, mild sin, mild god and his gentle Jesus alter ego, the Fumuties tout for business by endorsing the internet-age obsession with free sex, pornography, nude selfies, endless consumption, egregious self promotion, the certainty that you are the centre of the universe and as good or better than everyone else, and the accumulation of wealth as desirable aims. Do all that and their god will reward you.’

‘Sounds like a smart move.’

‘Judging by their visible wealth, it’s super smart.’

‘On the other hand… Although I’d really love to go and watch, I can’t help wondering if I should keep out of the public eye for a few days.’

‘Ah yes. You were going to tell me about that.’

‘Later?’

‘No, now. So prepare your thoughts while I bring my accounts up to date.’

Twenty minutes later they were sitting face to face across the dining table, sipping weak tea.

‘I don’t think in segments,’ Mort began, ‘for me everything is a continuum so I’ll give you a quick rundown of my whole life that’ll help explain my actions today. And one day I hope you’ll tell me about yourself.’

Hale smiled softly. None of the guys he’d invited home over the preceding ten years had ever asked him a personal question. He liked to learn about them and could remember lots of interesting histories, but it seemed he wasn’t of interest to anyone else. ‘I would like that, Mortaumal.’

Mort smiled in his turn at the use of his full name. Usually he didn’t like it, but the way Hale said it — softly as if it was an intimate secret — sent tingles of pleasure through his loins.

Half an hour later, having learned what Mort considered the significant events of his sixteen years, Hale sat in silence gazing out the French doors into the darkening garden for several long minutes, then shook his head and turned to Mort. ‘Whoever named you was clairvoyant.’

This wasn’t the expected response. ‘It was my grandfather; what do you mean?’

‘Mortaumal. Mort au mal... Death to bad things in French.’

‘Yeah, he used to say he hoped I would live up to the name.’

‘Well you did this afternoon with those two assassins. He would have been proud.’

Mort nodded seriously. ‘Yeah, he would have.’

‘And the abbreviation, Mort. Death. Very apt. All those deaths. Most intriguing.’

‘Creepy?’

‘Not in the least. But as the last three of the nine deaths with which you’ve been intimately involved occurred today, I understand why you’re reluctant to venture forth.’ He gazed speculatively into Mort’s troubled eyes. So, Mortaumal, what’s the best thing to do with a problem?’

‘Face it?’

‘Exactly. Get your phone and call Lydia to see if she let you down.’

Mort closed the phone with a smile. ‘Stephan’s at the morgue and the doctor wrote a death certificate, no questions asked. Therefore no police were involved. He died a natural death and she sounds very happy to be a widow. When I said I wouldn’t be returning she said, ‘That’s a good idea,’ and asked what to do with my belongings. I said I’d let her know.’ He sighed in relief. ‘One down, two to go.’

‘That motorcycle cop should have some idea what’s happening about those two who tried to kill you, so give him a call too.’

‘I didn’t tell him about them, just warned him about Wiley, so he has no idea I might be involved.’

‘Ah yes. That was wise. So it would be stupid to ask him; it would only create suspicion where none now exists.’ He reached round and took a tablet from the sideboard. ‘Here, take this and check the news headlines. ‘

Mort browsed ABC then Seven News and a couple of online newspapers, then shook his head. ‘Not a mention. That’s odd, don’t your reckon?’

‘Didn’t you tell me those self-styled protectors said they worked for the Premier — among others. Cleansing the city of sin, or words to that effect.’

‘Yeah. So?’

‘So it’s probably being hushed up. The law only applies to little people like you and me, not to the moneyed guys or those with political clout. They sounded like loose cannons, those two, taking on jobs their minders knew nothing about, like working for that fellow Wiley, so you’ve probably done some official person a favour. Looks like you’re in the clear, as long as I’m the only person on the planet you’ve told.’

‘You are.’

‘Then we are safe.’

Mort’s heart leaped. Hale said we are safe. Not you are safe. Crazy, but suddenly the world seemed a much more pleasant place and his burden became light enough to bear with ease.

‘So, as there’s no manhunt for you, you don’t have to avoid the public gaze.’

At that moment the front doorbell rang loudly causing Mort to jump.

Hale frowned. ‘Odd. I’m not expecting anyone.’ He stood and pressed a switch beside a small monitor screen Mort hadn’t noticed. A man’s face appeared. ‘Ah, it’s Midas Geld, the chief witchdoctor of Fumutie. I hope he hasn’t come to cancel.’

‘Shall I go?’

‘No, I’ll only be a minute.’ Hale pulled on a pair of shorts and went to the door.

‘Mr. Lightfoot, I apologise for visiting you without an appointment.’

To Mort in the dining room, the voice sounded full and deep. Unctuous as if the witchdoctor was conferring a blessing.

‘Not at all, Mr. Geld. Come in.’

‘Call me Midas.’

‘Thanks, Midas. Call me Hale.’

The well-lubricated voice, Mort discovered, belonged to a tall, lean, somewhat theatrical looking fellow wearing a dark green tracksuit and white joggers. He looked to be in his early forties with thick, light brown hair springing from a wide forehead, straight eyebrows overhanging deep-set pale blue eyes, and a generous mouth filled to overflowing with perfect teeth that he enjoyed displaying. If he’d said he was selling insurance Mort wouldn’t have been surprised.

Midas Geld took one look at Mort, whose knees had suddenly jammed together when he remembered he was wearing nothing but a singlet, and thrust out a large, strong, hairy hand encrusted with several rings. ‘Midas Geld, Miss. Do you know you are the most beautiful young lady I’ve seen for years?’

Mort laughed aloud and shook the hand. ‘No, Midas, I wasn’t aware of that, but now I am I’ll record it in my little book of interesting facts.’

With a fruity chuckle, Midas turned to Hale. ‘Where did you find this superb creature? Introduce us at once.’

Hale stood behind Mort and placed his hands possessively and rather more firmly than necessary on his shoulders. ‘Midas Geld, allow me to introduce you to Calypso, my fiancé. Midas is the priest of his church.’

‘Oh, ha, ha.’ The laugh was forced. ‘I’m not a priest; my full title is Facilitator of the Church of Forgiveness, Understanding, Modernity, Unbound Tolerance and Indefinite Ethicality. The word priest smacks of esoteric rites, secret codes, sacrifices and magical incantations. My church is just a simple, down to earth bunch of ordinary men and women trying to make sense of the modern world.’

Despite the discomfort of having his balls crushed between his thighs, Mort managed to sound genuinely impressed. ‘How interesting. Please, won’t you sit down, Facilitator, Geld, so you can tell me more about yourself.’ He pointed to a chair on the far side of the table, giving himself time to rescue his testicles and send Hale a look that would have shrivelled his spine if he’d known Mort longer.

‘What’s the problem, Midas?’ Hale interjected before Mort could speak his mind.

‘The problem is that our success has brought out the fire and brimstone brigade, who are denouncing us in the media as godless heathens; much as the Catholics denounced Anglicans and Protestants, and they denounce every new version of Christianity that rears it’s head. Unfortunately, this criticism has created a great deal of nervousness among our female elders — my wife in particular, and as what she says is parroted by most of the females, it’ll be touch and go whether or not we can employ you. They’re wondering if having a naked acrobat might be counter productive when it comes to retaining and gathering members.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘They’re crazy! Our members joined precisely because we’re in favour of everything today’s men, women and teenage sons and daughters love to think, watch and do. Our continued success depends on keeping ahead of the pack, on constantly introducing new and more daringly popular activities. He who stands still get’s crushed by the juggernaut of conformity. Religion is big business in Australia, and we’re on the way to joining the big boys. Hell, if the Catholics can make a ten billion dollar annual tax-free profit, we should be able to too.’

‘Indeed.’

‘The feedback supports me. Members are constantly telling me they felt dead before joining us. Now they feel alive, sane and free of all the crap posing as morality. They enjoy themselves without guilt trips.’

‘It sounds as if you are doing the world a valuable service,’ Mort said brightly. ‘Is keeping fit and slim also part of your dogma?’

‘Absolutely! How intelligent of you to realise it. One of our sub-dogmas is “Keep slim, young and beautiful, if you want to be loved by god.” It works a treat. No obesity, lots of fit people — at least the men. The women do their best, but they’re fickle creatures. Present company excepted, I’m sure,’ he added, tossing a boyish smile at Mort, who wondered what he was getting at for a minute.

‘Tell me, Midas,’ Mort asked as if he cared, ‘how and why did you get this church of whatever it’s called, going?’

‘It’s a long story…’

‘We’ve plenty of time, haven’t we darling?’

Hale smiled a silent snarl.

‘Caterina, my wife, spent her entire inheritance on the construction of a huge house in the country — a white elephant, a great box that ate money. My work as a white-goods salesman and lay preacher for a traditional religion left us with not enough money to pay the bills. Then I read about Ron Hubbard, a Science Fiction writer who, for a bet, started a pseudo scientific religion that tapped into the new interest in popular science in the 1950s. For a joke he called it Scientology. To his astonishment, thousands of people believed it and he became a multimillionaire. So I reckoned we should tap into the zeitgeist of today and do the same thing. To her credit Catty’s been with me all the way.’

‘How brave; I can’t imagine how you went about it.’

‘Six months with a good taxation lawyer and a journalist was all it took to invent the name and write the history, creed, dogma, beliefs and liturgy. A brilliantly planned Internet site attracted a paid up membership of thirty-seven thousand eight hundred and twenty-five people in the first two weeks! We submitted the details to the Taxation Department, claiming we are a religion and therefore a charitable trust for taxation purposes, and from then on it’s been like printing money.’

‘How? I mean, why? I mean what made it a religion and not just a club? And how is it like printing money?’

‘It’s a religion because we believe in a supernatural overlord.’

‘What do you call him?’

‘He’s an 'it', to stop the females complaining about patriarchies. Tryadd is a triple sexed, three headed, six-armed and legged god whose invisible presence and blessing is called down upon us once a week in a devout service during which we praise It for granting us fun, sex, money and health.’

‘Why has it three of everything?’

‘We decided to remain in the Judeo-Christian family of sects, and they believe that god is three things in one — father, son and sacred spirit. We simply made it more obvious. To be taken seriously, we needed a new name. Jews call theirs Yahweh, or something like that, Christians simply call him god with a capital g, and Muslims have Allah. I reckon Tryadd’s as good as the others. What do you reckon?’

‘Utterly brilliant.’

‘Thanks. As for making money, FUMUTIE is a corporation comprised of the assets of all premium members, who are directors and receive salaries. As it’s a charity there’s no tax on anything, their salaries are counted as losses, and there’s no land tax or local body rates to pay on their properties. Add government grants to assist with upkeep and repair, and a few extra charities that attract government subsidies, and everyone’s incomes and profits more than doubled overnight.’

‘But it’s so obvious it’s not a charity if anyone looks at the books.’

Midas’s laugh was almost hysterical. ‘That’s the best part, no one is allowed to audit, look at, or check in any way the finances of any religion. We’re safe from scrutiny.’

‘Unbelievable. Who are the premium members?’

‘They’re successful business people who will benefit from a tax-free status. The rest of our congregation, workers and other waged people with no substantial assets are Significant Members. It’s important to keep their numbers high to maintain our status as a mainstream religion, and to keep the petty cash coffers full with their membership fees, attendance at concerts, filling our schools, and supporting businesses run by fellow church members, where they get a discount. The next round of concerts are part of a drive to attract new Significant Members, that’s why I want it to be a slap in the eye to every traditional church, and a trumpet call to attract everyone who’d secretly like to undermine the mealy mouthed purveyors of sexually censorious middle class morality with its guilt-ridden platitudes about everything that’s pleasurable. I reckon we’ll double our congregation if we have Hale as the main drawcard.’

‘The business plan seems rational, but not particularly charitable.’

‘True, but it’s no different from the other mainstream religious corporations, and not illegal.’

‘So what’s your wife’s problem, is she opposed to nudity?’

‘Goodness, no! Every believer in Tryadd holds close to their hearts the principal of total freedom of body. However, what their hearts hold dear seldom triggers the physical equivalent such as the removal of clothes in public, or random rutting. And if the fathers of the church don’t do it neither will the sons and before you realise it we’ll be back to banning the body.’

‘What about mothers and daughters?’

‘Caterina, my wife, runs intimate body sessions with groups of females who get all touchy feely and practice having orgasms and so on, but until the males start running around the place with everything hanging out, they’ll keep out of sight when playing with themselves. Most of the male Elders need a kick up the crack to make them face the duties of their ideology. And I’m trusting you, Hale, to convince them that “Nude is the New Novelty”, and they have to be part of it if they want their profits to continue expanding.’

‘You’re the preacher — you do it.’

‘What do you think I’ve been doing? You’re in search of new audiences, so it’s your turn. I think part of my wife’s pig-headedness is that she suspects I want to divorce her — and suspects me of devious plots.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes I want to dump her; but no I’m not planning anything devious. But I have the impression that in her workshops, as well as organising awesome orgasms, they’re beginning to challenge male authority and wisdom. I’ve a suspicion Catty’s undermining the whole equality of the sexes thing. Some of the looks the women give their men are less than appreciative. Technically, we’re equal, but men must remain the bosses when it comes to the crunch.’ He turned to Mort. ‘I suppose you disagree with that?’

‘Au contraire,’ Mort murmured. ‘I think it is sensible. You have created an essentially masculine structure, so if you want to keep it that way it would be foolhardy to allow meddling by women.’

Midas’s eyes widened. He got to his feet and knelt in front of Mort, taking his hand and gazing up into his eyes like a puppy. ‘Dear, beautiful, sexy, Calypso, please come with Hale tomorrow and talk to my wife. Convince her to divorce me and support us in remaining true to our roots of total freedom. Remind her we have to keep ourselves firmly in the forefront of everyone’s mind by doing things no other religion would, such as these fifteen concerts. We need the new members and we need to make a profit of at least five million when souvenir side sales are included, to pay for the new schools — three of either sex.’

‘You have single sex schools?’

‘Of course, do you approve?’

‘‘Absolutely!’

‘What sort of souvenirs will you be selling at the concerts?’ Hale was suddenly interested.

‘The usual stuff, but we were hoping for half a dozen photos of you in spectacular poses. Do you have any and would you agree?’

‘What’s my cut?’

‘Give us the photos and any details such as name and website, then we’ll have them printed onto cards and sold. Say... eighty-five percent for us?’

Hale grinned. ‘You’re definitely not a charity! But I could do with the advertising. I’ll bring some photos tomorrow.’

‘Excellent.’ Midas turned his puppy-dog eyes on Mort and lightly stroked her thigh. ‘And you, oh magnificent Madonna of magnanimity, please come tomorrow and convince my wife of her duty.’

After carefully removing Midas’s hand from his knee, Mort looked across at Hale’s pleading eyes. ‘Okay,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll be there, but I can’t imagine Caterina will pay the slightest attention to me.’

‘Oh, she will. She will fall in love with you and lick your feet if you ask her to. Trust me. I know my wife… you are exactly the type she drools over.’

‘Hang on! I’m not…’

‘Worry not dear lady. Apart from drooling, she is totally harmless.’

‘I’d better take a towel.’

‘Oh, very droll. Well, I’d better get back to the grind of charitable excess.’

Hale saw him to the door and returned with a grin plastered from ear to ear. ‘You are superb!’

‘Do I look like a girl?’ Mort tried to remain calm, but failed spectacularly. He had been ambushed! His whole being was outraged. It was insupportable that he, a confirmed misogynist who’d spent his entire life being as manly as possible, should be considered effeminate enough to act a female for the third time! His whole body rebelled along with his head. ‘I’m a fucking man!’ he snarled. ‘I’ve got balls and a cock. I don’t have tits. I’ve got strong legs and shoulders that are wider than my hips! You’re bloody lucky I didn’t just spread my knees and let my cods hang out!’

‘You’ve also got a sweet beardless face,’ Hale interrupted serenely, ‘and a soft, husky, sexy voice, and long hair and even longer eyelashes, not to mention kissable lips.’ His placid smile was as tranquil as Mort’s face was anguished. ‘You’re also a damned good actor... and that’s what I’m asking of you; to act a woman — not be one. Play my fiancé just for tomorrow. Look on it as a challenge. And if by some stroke of malignant fate there happens to be secret police in the audience on the lookout for Mortaumal, they’ll not see him, they’ll see the irresistible Calypso.’

‘Calypso! What a fuckwit of a name!’

‘Desirable, seductive Calypso enchanted Odysseus with her singing, keeping him away from his wife, Penelope, for several years.’

‘Do I have to sing? My voice isn’t exactly enchanting.’

‘With a face and body like yours you need not utter a note, although a sweet smile and the occasional agreeable utterance would not be amiss.’

‘What’ll I wear?’

‘Excellent question.’

‘And the answer is?’

‘I’m thinking. This sect thinks the god Tryadd rewards good people by making them rich.’

‘What happens to those who don’t get rich?’

‘I imagine they quietly disappear, ashamed at having fallen out of favour with their god. Tomorrow’s cocktail party where I’ll be strutting my stuff is for the well-heeled Elders of the Church, who consider themselves to be the crème de la crème of modern society; sophisticated and smart. It’ll be a fashion show for females.’

‘Then I’ll wear this bush singlet and boots.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t have boots, however I do have a nice little cocktail number left behind by a female who joined the troupe for a few months, then left when she realised I wouldn’t turn it into a sleazy sex show and we wouldn’t be fucking on stage — wouldn’t be screwing ever in fact. Ran off after a performance with one of the audience, leaving everything behind. Last I heard she shoves a variety of fruit up her fanny in a peep show in the Valley.’

‘A fitting reward for her perfidy.’

‘Indeed.’

66 Getting Ready

‘Come on then, let’s see this rag you want me to wear.’

The dress was a semi-sheath of black silk that reached just below the knees. Long tight sleeves were firmly attached at the shoulders to a chaste, loosely draped panel that covered his chest from neck to knee. Presumably there had not been enough material to cover the back, which was left exposed right down to the suggestion of a cleavage. Clusters of pearls like bunches of miniature grapes adorned the shoulders, trickled across the high neckline and around the edge of the gaping hole where the back ought to have been. A pair of low-heeled strappy sandals fitted his feet without too much pain, and it took only five minutes to firmly affix satisfactory breasts. Hale, whose talents extended to hairdressing, soon had Mort’s hair piled up in a classic chignon fastened with a pearl comb he reckoned he’d picked up in Tajikistan. This accentuation of his newly acquired fiancé's elegant long neck, gave Calypso an air of graceful sophistication. A touch of lip-gloss and eye shadow completed the transformation.

‘Well?’ Hale asked after Mort had spent several silent minutes checking himself out in the full length mirror.

‘I’d better borrow something to crush my manhood. Much as I like it hanging loose, it would probably be a bit of a giveaway.’

Hale produced an elasticised thong, which did the trick without having to massage his testicles into uncomfortable places.’

Mort continued to frown. ‘I look like a woman!’

‘Until you move. Don’t forget to take small steps, keep your knees together when you sit, and don’t wave your hands around, they’re a bit too large for a woman.’

‘So... I’m not really feminine?’

‘Not in the slightest. In fact I’m having second thoughts. I don’t think you’ll be able to carry it off. We’d better forget it. Sorry to put you through this.’ Hale began to unfasten Mort’s sandals.

‘No, no. I’ll do it. Hell, if I can’t act like a woman for a few hours then I’m not much of a performer! Any suggestions?’

Hale suppressed a shout of triumph. ‘If people talk to you, act vague, pleasant and relaxed and don’t ask questions or show intelligent interest. That’s a sure giveaway. Chatter inanely about hairstyles, underwear and makeup, and be a tad jealous of other women’s clothes, jewellery, life style. I’m sure you know how to handle females.’

‘Lydia was a dab hand at mesmerising other women into a state of unthinking extravagance. I’ll copy her.’

‘Excellent. Now, hang it over the back of that old armchair so it’ll be ready for tomorrow.

‘Is your costume ready?’

‘With a bit of luck all I’ll be wearing is a little makeup.’

‘You wear makeup?’

‘I have to under lights, otherwise I look ill. Just a little brown eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara to make the eyes seem larger and me more innocent. Sometimes a highlight on cheeks, and lip liner...depends on how I’m feeling. And I darken my nipples, but lighten my cock and balls so they’re the same colour as the rest of my skin.’

‘I still don’t believe you’ll persuade those people to let you perform naked. Do you care if you can’t?’

‘Of course not, it’s a game; a way to maintain my sanity in a civilization who’s idea of morality is declaring a penis offensive, while applauding the bombing of innocent people in countries that don’t do as they’re told by big banks and multinational corporations.’

‘I know what you mean, and I know there’s nothing I can do about it except look after myself. The guys in power are determined to bring on Armageddon — or something, that’s why their newspapers lie and, as Shaw said, the law is an ass. It is getting serious though, isn’t it? Endless wars and refugees, and the climate changing and... and all that?’

Hale laughed. ‘It is. But as you wisely said, neither you nor I can do anything about it, and those we elect to run things aren’t interested so I’m not going to get an ulcer over it. I can perhaps make people think, but I can’t make them rational. If they discover for themselves that nude isn’t rude, it might chisel a chip off their blockheaded dogmatism. They might even realise they are mortal, that birth is lethal and we don't have long on this planet even if we live to be 100, so we might want to pursue what we love instead of only pursuing the next dollar.’

‘You’re not just a pretty face. By the way, have you decided what you’re going to do tomorrow?’

‘A fifteen minute routine. If they’re vacillating, I’ll give them a bit of a pep talk, and offer to do another few minutes in a pouch, then let them decide. I don’t want to lose the booking over my unimpressive genitals.’

‘Not unimpressive when in action. If they book you for fifteen shows, how much is that going to set them back?’

‘Virtually nothing.’

‘But…’

‘I’ll get six thousand dollars, and they’ll claim it as a work-related expenditure and tax break, because, as Midas explained, they’re a religion and therefore a charitable organisation.’

‘You should start a religion.’

‘Unfortunately, I have ethics and a moral code that would prevent me from ripping off the poor people who actually pay the tax these bastards pocket. But enough philosophising, let’s go and check the gear. Never leave anything until the last minute; that leads to shame and embarrassment if an essential element isn’t there or working properly.

‘I was going to ask about that. The jungle gym out there looks a bit weighty to lug around.’

‘That’s why I had an engineering firm build me a demountable frame of an exceptionally light, but immensely strong alloy.’

‘Can’t wait to see it.’

‘It’s in the van. Come on, I always test it the day before in case gremlins have got in since the last show.’

‘When was that?’

‘A week ago at a Private Boys’ School in the hinterland.’

‘Naked?’

‘Speedos. Nude would ruffle far too many feathers when the kids wrote home about it. Seventy-five boys ranging in age from eleven to seventeen, and their six teachers, sat wrapped in wonder at my antics. Afterwards I gave them a few lessons. They were very appreciative, especially when I told them I’d had such a great time they could spend my fee on more equipment.’

‘You’re amazing. I suppose most of the teachers were women? They were at all the schools I’ve been to.’

‘Not even one. I asked how they got away with it and they simply crossed their fingers. They’d recently taken a poll of boys and their fathers, and ninety percent said if any women were on campus, they’d leave. They all imagined what it would be like if their mothers were there, and voted accordingly. They want me back next term.’

Hale removed a long, green canvass bag from the rear of the van and upended it onto the lawn. Out tumbled a bundle of thin shiny tubes. He stood and gazed at it for a few seconds, made up his mind, took one length, lifted it and shook it slightly while slowly pulling it vertical. As if by magic, powerful internal springs at every joint pulled the structure into shape and locked them in place. Two minutes after opening the green bag a cube of glittering metal rods stood firmly on the grass. Hale leaped up, grasped a top beam, flipped over and, having exerted no apparent effort, stood on one of the top bars on one leg while holding the other vertical against his belly, toes pointed, arms outstretched.

‘How did you do that? You aren’t even wobbling.”

With a laugh, Hale fell forward, grasped the opposite horizontal beam and with arms held straight, swung round and round. There was about a centimetre clearance for his feet as they swung at great speed past the grass. Letting go, he somersaulted up and over till his hands landed on the opposite beam from which he hung by one hand, pulled one leg up with the other and hooked the foot over the bar, then did the same with the other foot. Meanwhile the first foot fell off. It was very funny. After three tries, both feet were hooked over the bar and he let go his hand. His feet failed to hold and he dropped to the ground, curling up into a tiny ball on impact. Mort held his breath, but a second later the ball opened and Hale shot straight up, hands seeming to fly past the high bar without touching it and then he was standing on it. He waved down at a wide mouthed Mort as a worried look crossed his face and his feet started to slide apart. He seemed to be trying to get them under control, but they kept sliding apart. He was going to either fall or split in two. Eventually, accompanied by Mort’s suppressed laughter — ever mindful of the neighbours — he was sitting flat on top of the bar, legs spread sideways so the toes almost touched each corner, scrotum and penis just visible dangling attractively over the bar, hands up behind his head in an attitude of total relaxation.

‘Toss me up the golden balls in the box behind the passenger seat, Mort.’

Mort raced to get them before Hale overbalanced, but he was sitting humming happily when he returned.

‘Toss them up one at a time to my left hand each time I nod my head, okay?’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

Hale nodded, Mort tossed one, which was immediately flipped nonchalantly into the air. Another nod. Another ball which joined the first. Soon five balls were making complicated manoeuvres above Hale’s head while he gazed dreamily at the sky.

‘Catch,’ he called softly, sending them back one at a time to Mort, who dropped all except one. He glanced up to apologise, but Hale was looking very worried. Then with wildly flailing arms he toppled backwards in what seemed like slow motion, turned over in the air and with a cheeky grin, landed on his feet, then cart wheeled across to lie grinning on his side at Mort’s feet like a devoted dog.

‘I saw it, but I don’t believe it! You can fly, you can contort, you can juggle... is there anything you can’t do?’

‘I have strong ankles and wrists that flick and help me along more or less invisibly, and the rest is practise and loose joints. Want a go? You have to grip tighter with the thin bars.’

‘You bet.’ Mort practised the exercises he’d learned, then attempted to stand on the top bar, wobbled precariously and only just prevented himself from falling. On the ground once more he was shaking.

‘It’s bloody high when you get up there! The frame looks so flimsy but it’s steady as a rock.’

‘There are tiny struts in the corners that keep it in shape, and a cube is very stable.’

‘What other magical tricks does this very ordinary looking van contain?’

‘Take a look.’ Hale removed and inspected three LCD floods that could be turned on and off when he clapped. A hundred metres of electric cable. A sound system responsive to movement, a rope, his makeup box, a towel, drinking water, dried fruit, and a flesh-coloured pouch.’

‘What’s the rope for?’ ‘

‘I hang from, it. It’s wound up in a special way that takes about an hour to do and ten seconds to undo. I’ll show you one day.’

‘Can’t wait to see it. What music do you play?’

‘Depends on the audience. Tomorrow it’s Vivaldi’s concerto for two mandolins. It’s fast, harmonious, and rolls on and on relentlessly to wonderful climaxes, like an express train racing to all the places you dream of going to. Vivaldi was a priest, so that ought to please the followers of Tryadd the Emancipator.’

Having carefully replaced the metal cube in its bag and checked everything else, they locked the van and the garage and returned inside.

‘I need a shower.’ Hale tossed Mort a few brochures. ‘Read these while I’m cleansing the body beautiful and you’ll get an idea of what you’d be letting yourself in for if you join me.’

The promotional literature for “Hale Lightfoot’s Astounding Acrobatics” triggered several giggles and a couple of resounding guffaws of delight.

Hale reappeared, fresh and sweet smelling.

‘You’ve shaved your pubes — everything! You’re smooth from the top of your head to the tips of your toes!’

‘Like it?’

‘Dunno. You look... different... almost robotic... almost too perfect...l ike a shop window dummy. Why?’

‘What did you like about the hair?’

‘It’s sexy.’

‘Exactly. Hair is a clear marker of sexual maturity and draws attention to genitals. You’ve read the promotional guff, and as I told Midas I want my performances to be artistic, sensual, sexy but not sexual. Without hair, my body is a seamless costume with no distractions. I’m lucky to have tight smooth balls and a relatively small, thick penis that doesn’t flop around. After ten seconds at the most, people forget I’m naked and concentrate on the whole body. Patches of hair interrupt the line of beauty, conceal vital muscle groups, and ruin the effect I want to achieve. Do you understand?’

‘Yeah... I understand. So if you had a red sagging ball sack and a long floppy cock, you’d wear that flesh coloured pouch?’

‘Absolutely! I want to impress people, not make them squirm.’

‘And that problem with hair is why ballet boys wear tights, there’s nothing to distract from the perfection of their bums and thighs. Actually, you still look impossibly sexy!’

‘Thank you young man. Now, what was so funny in what you were reading?’

‘This... Lightfoot Acrobatics present an evening of astounding, internationally acclaimed calisthenics. The word comes from Greek: kallos meaning beauty, and sthenos meaning strength. The astonishing beauty, strength, grace and agility of one of Australia’s most perfectly formed men will be demonstrated through a program that includes juggling, acrobalance, acrodancing, bar and rope activities. I imagine this was written by your grandmother?’

‘Modesty forces me to admit I wrote it myself. But she read it on her deathbed and thoroughly agreed. Carry on reading, but stop laughing! It isn’t funny, it’s deadly serious.’

‘Yes, Sir! Your modesty overwhelms me, that’s all.’

‘Thanks.’

Mort cleared his throat. ‘Hale performs in the flawless costume nature provides for us all... the naked body. In a series of sensual yet austere, almost ascetic sequences of magical movement, he provides an exquisitely artistic experience never to be forgotten. ‘Exquisite? Magical? Never to be forgotten?’

‘Have you no concept of artistic license? What a philistine you are!’

‘Who’s Phyllis Styne? An old girlfriend?’

‘Idiot. I think you’ve read enough.’

‘Oh no! This is the best part. If you’d like to book a performance but think god made an aesthetic error when designing the male body, then Hale is prepared to accommodate your idiosyncrasy for a small additional fee. Please Note: We present acts of physical excellence and moral decency, so if you are looking for a sleazy sex show or strip tease, do not waste our time enquiring. Ah! Such subtlety, Mr. Lightfoot. What type of people are convinced by your message to hire you?’

‘Usually wealthy, middle-aged, ex-physical-culture aficionados who hanker after their youth, and also the younger set looking for an act to liven up their birthday party, marriage anniversary, hen party. Not stag nights though. Heterosexual males would feel threatened. Gay social clubs have employed me more than once. Unfortunately, the law requires a pouch in venues open to the public, so I waive the surcharge for shows in those places.’

‘You make it sound so normal.’

‘It is.’

‘What about the quoted reviews; are they also artistic license? “A stupendous, unbelievable show…” Barcelona Periodico. “An act of such astonishing virtuosity is not to be missed…” Buenos Aires Correro. And all those other reviews from far flung places... Exquisite, graceful, elegant, there are not enough words to describe Mr. Lightfoot’s performance; Acapulco Spiegel, Bellissimo. Il Stupendo! Urbino Osservatore...’

‘No, they’re real, from reviews when I was travelling with the Cirque de la Lune. But enough of me. Lets have a snack and listen to the Vivaldi while I wind down so I can mentally prepare; then to bed.’

67 Hale

Mort sprawled over the carpet listening to the Vivaldi Mandolin concerto while Hale did some stretching, bending, muscle toning and balancing exercises. Mort attempted to follow suit for at least ten seconds, then watched in awe as his friend did impossible things. As the music switched seamlessly from grand to playful, light and delicate to heavy and commanding, then back again, Hale’s movements were a visual accompaniment that added to the music, which seemed to wrap his body in perfect sound.

Mort shook his head in disbelief, unashamedly wiping away tears of delight. ‘That was awesome! I’ll never be able to do anything like that.’

‘Of course not. I’ve been doing this stuff since I was five, and had the best training possible. And I’ve naturally loose joints that allow the extreme deformations required for many of those exercises. Most people can never gain sufficient flexibility. All the strength in the world won’t help you bend, twist and balance on a knife-edge. You’ll be my partner in balancing acts. You’re already capable of most of the stuff. The routine I was just practising is part of tomorrow’s audition. What do you think?’

‘I’m blown away! I’d never have believed it possible.’

After watching Hale rehearse four other equally impressive routines, scarcely working up a sweat in the process, they showered, brushed teeth then leaped into bed to cuddle and kiss and stroke and explore and produce almost simultaneous orgasms.

Lying on his lover’s outstretched arm, Mort couldn’t stop grinning. ‘I’m lucky such a handsome, strong and clever man is also so hospitable.’

Hale turned his head and gazed at his guest in silence for what seemed like ten minutes but was exactly twenty seconds — he was counting his heartbeats. ‘And I can’t believe I’m lying beside the best looking, most intelligent and sexiest sixteen year-old in the state.’

‘I don’t believe you, but thanks. Actually, it probably isn't either strange or lucky.’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Remember I told you about Leo, the aerobics instructor I met by accident?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he explained that we instantly recognise people like ourselves. He said that when I laughed at his joke about strawberry jam, he knew I was alive. And I looked fit and worth saving.’

‘Plausible.’

‘Yeah. And he was handsome and strong and also looked alive. As if he dared to live and do and think and laugh when everyone else was weeping and wailing. So I also just knew that Grandpa would like him too.’

‘Mmm... So that’s why I decided to turn around and pick you up when I’d already passed a dozen young men on the make that I’d rejected?’

‘Yeah. And then I instantly recognised that you were also alive, so got in the van, came home with you, and trusted you with my dangerous secret.’

Hale nodded thoughtfully. Mutual recognition. Like seeks like. We can recognise intuitively people who are like us in important ways.’

‘Yeah. If I think about it, the dozen or so people I’ve liked and trusted were instant attractions. I didn’t even question it. I just knew that each was someone I could trust.’

‘But there aren’t many people like that. In fact you’re the first person I’ve felt an instant connection with for about six years.’

Mort snuggled up, took Hale’s hand, kissed all the fingers, then deliberately keeping his expression vague as if not really interested, asked, ‘Does this mean we’re... you know... partners? Will I be called your significant other?’

Hale frowned. ‘Leading with your chin aren’t you?’ The voice was cool. ‘It’s not yet twenty-four hours since we met, and you actually know nothing about me.’

Mort sat up in surprise. ‘Oops, sorry Hale. I thought you'd guess I didn’t mean it. I was just being silly. Sorry. I always leap in where angels only jump or something. Forget it, please!’

‘No. It’s important and I’m glad you brought it up, even in jest. You said earlier that you’re thinking of looking for your father?’

‘Yeah. Nothing urgent. Just curiosity. I’ve no intention of dumping myself on him or anything like that. Just…’

‘I understand. How old is he now?’

‘The same age as Perdita — the woman who carried me in her womb for nine months then dumped me. Thirty-one.’

‘I’m thirty-two.’

Silence.

‘Perhaps I go for older men?’

‘But not to live with forever. When you’re my age and in your prime, I’ll be forty-eight and approaching the end of physical attractiveness. And when you’re forty-eight and still sexy, I’ll be sixty.’

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

‘But I would! I want a life partner who’s my own age so we can get wrinkles and sagging flesh together; be bored with parties and dancing and watch TV together.’

‘Does that mean you don’t want me to stay too long?’

‘No! It means I want you to stay and be my non-committed, not jealous, not bossy, easy-going friend who’s also my lover, until I meet a man my own age who wants to settle down with me. By then you’ll have found yourself someone and we’ll be a couple of sexy couples who are best friends... or something like that.’

Mort grinned in relief. ‘That sounds exactly what I’m after. You’re so nice to me I was worried you had hopes of us becoming... you know, a fixture. I’m too young and silly and ignorant to commit myself to anything for long. But I’m still curious about you. Is it too late to tell me about yourself?’

‘It’s not as interesting as your life. My parents were conventional middle class people who never went to the theatre, just sat and watched TV then went to bed early, even though they were only in their forties. To their credit, they’ve never stopped loving and supporting me in everything I’ve ever done. And I love them still. Mother is the template for excellence in parenting a boy. After caring for me until I was nearly five and could walk, talk and think, she said she’d done her bit, and as she had no idea what made males tick, Dad could take over. From then on he was the one I went to if I needed advice or assistance. If all women were so sensible, their sons would grow up liking women, and most of the aggro all men seem to have against them would disappear.’

‘That sounds so reasonable it must be true.’

Hale grunted an appreciative laugh. ‘By the age of five I was crazy about gymnastics, and spent all my spare time when other kids were kicking a soccer ball around, learning to do cartwheels, stand and walk on my hands, walk on stilts, climb ropes and do flips. Dad made me a bar and trapeze, and I joined a gymnastics club for a while. When I was fourteen we had our roof repaired by a fellow called Roman. He was about my height, stocky and strong, and worked in short shorts and heavy work boots. I wanked myself silly the first night thinking about him.

‘The following day when my parents were doing Saturday shopping I performed on the bar and trapeze, knowing he’d be watching. He came down, said I had a good body and offered to show me a few tricks. When he stood behind me and lifted me up to the top bar, I twisted my head and kissed him on the lips. He just laughed and gave me some useful balance tips as if nothing unusual had happened. He’d been a circus clown specialising in acrobatics and trapeze work. He reckoned clowns were often better than serious acrobats because they had to look as if they couldn’t do it, and that made it dangerous.

‘After quitting the circus he became a roofer because it kept him fit, supple and feeling alive. I liked and trusted him instinctively, similar to you with Leo. He had a large block of land surrounded by a two-metre-high iron fence with trees everywhere except for a small flat lawn and a good sized vegetable garden. He reckoned the land was more valuable empty than with the sort of house he could afford to build, so he lived in a tiny caravan, next to which was a frame and trapeze similar to what I’ve got on the lawn. I used to go there after school and train. Dad came round once and said he hoped I hadn’t pushed Roman into letting me use his gear. Roman said it was his idea, so they shook hands and Dad left. I thought he was handsome, but Mother thought he looked a bit too much like a gypsy to be trustworthy. But that didn’t stop her from encouraging me to continue going when I wondered if I was good enough.

‘When I’d learned a few things I asked Dad to come and see my progress. Roman provided a chair and Dad sat and smiled, pleased to have been invited. After my demonstration, Roman and I did a few routines together. I’d chosen two that involved some sexy body contact because I wanted Dad to know I was queer, but didn’t want to tell him because that would mean I thought it was a big deal. He had to ask me if I was, so I could just say nonchalantly, yeah, I’m queer, as if he’d asked me if I liked ice cream, and then he’d know it was no problem for me.

‘Dad clapped like a madman. Kept saying we were both very clever and told me not to tell my mother we practised naked because she would tell every woman she knew and then Roman would get into trouble, so we ought to always lock the gate to the garden. He thought it was wonderfully liberating. It was Saturday and Roman wanted to go to the movies, so I asked Dad if I could go with him and then stay the night so we could get an early start on Sunday. He didn’t reply. Roman called out that tea was ready so we went into the caravan. Dad remarked on how small and neat it was and looked pointedly at the bed across the end of the caravan. He frowned as if thinking, then his face cleared and he asked cheerfully, “How long have you two been lovers?” “Since the first day,” I replied with a shrug as if it was totally normal — which it was for loads of other boys my age who were screwing girls. One of my classmates was fucking a woman of twenty-three. Dad nodded sagely. “So that bed’s seen plenty of action?” “Plenty,” Roman replied nonchalantly. “Your son’s a sexy guy.” Dad nodded and said he’d read that many boys have their first sexual experience with an older woman, adding with a grin that it had also been his experience, so he supposed he shouldn’t expect me to be any different. Then he asked if I was happy. I said I was — very happy. He relaxed, smiled, stood, and said, “This is one more thing not to tell your mother yet.” Then he laughed and said, “That means there’ll be no grandchildren. Hale, my son, you’ve made me a very happy man.” He shook hands with both of us and whistled cheerfully all the way to the gate.

‘Roman and I were acrobatic lovers for a year until he took me to see Cirque de la Lune. I was blown away. We went to all their shows. He took me back-stage after the third show and I asked if they were taking on acrobats. They looked sceptical, but Roman told them his background and what I could do, so they gave me an audition, thought I’d be useful, and when they moved on I went with them. For the next twelve years the circus was my home. Travelling is not as romantic as it sounds. And now is not the time to tell you anything about it. My life since I returned is what you see here. I bought this house and started up Lightfoot’s Acrobatics, failed to find satisfaction in the company of rent boys, then today I found you and suddenly I want to go on living. Voila!’

Mort shook his head in disbelief. ‘I guessed you’d had a charmed life. Thanks for telling me. It makes you a... a realer person.’

‘Is there such a word as realer?’

‘There is now.’

They kissed, rolled over, and slept.

68 Meet the Gelds

It was exactly four o’clock when a pair of giant stone pillars topped with large marble balls announced the longish drive between trees that concealed the Geld residence from prying eyes. After a hundred metres Hale took a left fork, which eventually encircled an oversized fountain from which a dozen jets of water shot up and splashed down into a massive stone bowl the size of a swimming pool. He parked the van at the foot of an impressive flight of stone steps guarded by a pair of heraldic lions and flanked by classical concrete balustrades painted to look like white marble. This grandiose stairway led up to a Roman arch of white-painted bricks, fully three metres high and wide, that gave access to a loggia running along the entire front of the building, fronted with the same balustrade as that flanking the steps.

The body of the house was simply the usual abode of the nouveau riche, a two-storied brick cube as large as a country hospital with the usual rectangular aluminium sliding windows and doors. This uninspiring edifice was topped by a conventional tiled roof.

The heavy, nail-studded, wooden front door of the mansion was flanked by delicate stained glass windows. From the loggia, one could look beyond the fountain and its encircling cobblestones to a lawn dotted with flowering shrubs. About fifty metres beyond that was an impressive forest of tall trees.

Hale pressed the button marked ‘press’. Chimes played the first verse of Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring five times before the doors were was opened by a tall, pale youth in knee-length grey baggy shorts and matching cotton T-shirt.

Avoiding their eyes he looked beyond them to the van. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but you can’t park there, guests have to go round the back.’

‘We’re the performers — at least I am,’ Hale explained with a smile of such radiance that the lad flinched. ‘I need the van here to set up the equipment, then I’ll move it. I’ve come to see Mr. Geld.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. He’s my father.’ He began to turn, noticed Mortaumal, stopped, opened his mouth and stared.

Mortaumal, who had taken an instant liking to the young man, smiled sweetly, fluttered his eyelashes and held out his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Calypso. What’s your name?’

Blushing furiously the young fellow took the hand and waggled it, ‘I’m Massimo.’ Then in a burst of courage blurted, ‘You’re gorgeous!’

‘And you’re a sweetie,’ Calypso murmured, stroking his cheek. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’ The lad could scarcely breathe.

‘Mmm. Sweet seventeen. What a shame we’ve no time to chat. I suppose we’d better find your father.’

With a jolt Massimo woke from his daze enough to stutter, ‘They’re all in the drawing room, I’ll take you.’ But he didn’t move.

Hale was having difficulty suppressing his laughter. ‘Shall we go then?’

Massimo literally shook himself, dragged his eyes away from Calypso and led them through a cavernous entrance hall, past a grand staircase leading up to the first floor, then along a wide corridor. He stopped outside a panelled door.

“I’ll get Dad.’

While waiting, Hale repeated his instructions. ‘I’ll get permission to set up the gear, then leave you to spread the message and charm everyone until I rescue you in about twenty minutes. okay?’

‘I’ll never get away with it.’

‘You’ve already made one grovelling slave. The only other person you have to charm is the mistress of the house, Mrs. Geld. She’s the boss, apparently — at least the thorn in our side, so once she’s on side we’re home and hosed.’

‘What’ll I talk about?’

‘Nothing, let her talk. Agree that the woman’s place is to obey unquestioningly her husband, as long as he does what she wants, that all men are too silly to live without being shoved along by their wives, that she is intelligent, beautiful, wise and femininity incarnate... the usual things. There’s no need to be convincing. It’s impossible to overreach yourself when flattering a woman, and then...’ he shrugged and grinned. ‘I’ve run out of ideas. Ah… I think someone’s coming.’

The drawing-room door opened to reveal a large bosom decorated with green shot silk and strings of emeralds. Three gold teeth flashed for a nanosecond before disappearing behind glossy red lips.

‘Are you the entertainment?’ she boomed in the same tone she would use to ask if they were the septic tank cleaners.

They nodded.

‘I’m Caterina Geld,’ she announced proudly. ‘But everyone calls me Catty. You may too.’

‘Thank you, Catty,’ Hale gushed as if overwhelmed by such beneficence.

Catty accepted the homage with a curt nod and gazed along her nose at Mort. ‘And who is this?’

‘I’m Calypso, Mrs. Geld,’ Mort almost whispered, dropping his version of a curtsey.

Clearly charmed by such an act of respect, Catty offered a fat little hand, bared her teeth briefly and said, ‘Call me Catty, Calypso. What a delightful name.’ Turning to Hale. ‘Why is she here? I wasn’t told you would be bringing a guest, Mr. Lightfoot!’

‘Calypso is my fiancé, and please call me Hale. I apologise for not phoning to inform you. It was very remiss of me.’

The gold teeth flashed again. ‘No matter. No matter. Come in and meet everyone.’

The drawing room was large enough to lose a regiment of soldiers. A dozen or so adults standing around looked suitably lost, and relieved to be joined, even if it was only by the entertainment. An equal number of children ranging in age from early to late teens, lounged over well stuffed armchairs or lay on the floor, earphones and thin black wire protruding from heads that looked, in the dim light, like time bombs wired ready to be detonated.

The women were wearing smart little frocks that probably cost an average weekly wage, exposing more flesh than fabric. All were superbly made up, several surgically lifted up, and the glitter of jewellery competed with the light of a twenty-armed crystal chandelier. All the males were wearing dark suits, white shirts, dull ties and shiny black shoes and socks. No adult was sitting. All were clutching sparkling tumblers of liquid as if for support. The music was something vaguely recognisable that didn’t intrude or make you ask what it was.

‘Hale, thank you for coming.’ The mellifluous voice was instantly recognisable. ‘You’re looking very smart.’

In a dark suit whose elegance put those of the other men to shame, Hale took the powerful paw in his and shook it manfully. ‘As are you, Midas, thank you for inviting me.’

‘My pleasure. I want to offer all the assistance you need — we’re all curious to see if the show lives up to the brochures.’

Hale smiled. ‘May I introduce my fiancé, Calypso de la Mare.’

Midas Geld smiled, turned so his wife couldn’t see him wink, then assuming a serious face, draped an arm over Hale’s shoulders and drew him aside, waving to the other men to join him.

Imagining Midas was worried his wife would be jealous if he paid Calypso any attention, Mort gazed around and smiled nervously at his hostess and the seven silent females who were staring at him vacuously, as if not sure how to treat this uninvited intruder. ‘What a beautiful house,’ he blurted without thinking. ‘And those emeralds suit you to perfection, Catty.’

Mrs. Geld simpered. It was an unnerving sight, but Mort bravely maintained his enthusiastic smile.

The hostess turned to her other guests. ‘Girls, I want you to meet Calypso de la Mare, the fiancé of the entertainment. She…’

‘Catty!’ her husband interrupted loudly, ‘Hale’s going to set up his gear, so the men and boys are going give what assistance we can.’ He turned to Mort with the slightest of smiles. ‘I’ll leave you to the tender care of my wife, Calypso.’ Then spinning on his heel he led the way out followed by Hale, seven men and six boys.

Catty’s voice was as strained as her smile. ‘Well, that’s a relief. I’m sure Midas will ensure everything goes according to plan. It’s always tiresome to have the men hanging around, don’t you think, Calypso?’

‘Oh, definitely. They have so little understanding of a woman’s needs.’

This released a few tense muscles, allowing the seven underfed, over-painted, underdressed and expensively decorated women with thin lips and wary eyes to offer tentative smiles while waiting for Caterina Geld to show them how to treat this odd young woman. The five teenage girls who’d been left behind when the boys joined their fathers, drifted across to droop beside their mothers. All eyed Mort with wary interest.

‘Well,’ Mrs Geld said portentously, ‘Why are we standing? Sit!’

Everyone jumped to obey, arranging themselves on three plump sofas arranged in a semi-circle, leaving Mort to perch with his knees clamped tightly together on the edge of a shiny leather recliner, terrified he would slip back and expose his thong with its unfeminine bulge. A vision of Lydia floated before his eyes. What would she do?

Wide eyes registering awe, Mort leaned across and gently took Catty’s pudgy little white hand in his own strong, smooth brown one. ‘What a beautiful ring!’ He sounded genuinely impressed because he was. ‘It must be an heirloom and incredibly valuable.’

Mrs. Geld’s already voluminous bosom appeared to swell at least a decimetre. ‘Yes, dear, it belonged to my great grandmother. How clever of you to realise its value. It came from Shri Lanka — Ceylon that was. My family was in the precious stone business.’ She turned to another woman. ‘Elizabeth, show Calypso your Alexandrite brooch.’

Elizabeth obliged, and demonstrated the change of colour in different lights. ‘It is extremely rare, as none have been found for well over a century. There are lots of artificial Alexandrites that are very good, but natural one’s like mine are better.’

‘Oh, it is so lovely,’ Mort sighed. ‘And it looks so right on that lovely dress.’

Elizabeth simpered and managed a grateful smile.

‘But you also have a beautiful ring, Calypso,’ Catty gushed, taking Mort’s hand and examining the ring Elbert had given him. It was the first time Mort had worn it since Elbert’s death. He couldn’t bear to put it on when Perdita was alive, and until today there had been nothing he felt like celebrating. But since meeting Hale he’d felt reborn and somehow worthy of the ring.’

The women gathered around to look, clearly hoping he’d take it off, but that he was not going to do... it was too precious. One by one they held his hand, fondling it and the ring, asking questions. ‘It’s huge, too big for a woman really, but magnificent.’

‘Is it real gold?’

‘Twenty-four carat.’

Respectful silence.

‘What’s the red stone?’

‘A sapphire.’

‘I thought they were blue.’

‘Most are, this is very, very rare.’

Jealous silence

‘There’s something carved into it!’

‘Yes, a winged man.’

‘Is it an heirloom?’

‘Yes, it’s very old, from Ethiopia. My father left it to me.’

‘Is he a bla.... An Ethiopian?’

‘Part. He died two years ago.’

Murmurs of condolence. Then...

‘Your dress is quite daring, Calypso,’ Mrs. Geld stated with a slight sniff. Whether from a cold or disapproval wasn’t clear.

Mort blushed. ‘Oh dear, is it too much? I had it made by a little couturier in the City. Armando said it was very a la mode.’ Mort hesitated and managed to look pathetic enough to generate grudgingly positive comments and a demand that he model it for them.

Remembering to take small steps and keep his hands as small as possible, Mort made a circuit of the carpet in front of the seated ladies and girls who all wanted to feel the fabric, then touch the pearls, and declare they would never dare expose so much bare back, and it would look too much on most people, but Calypso could get away with it, whatever that meant.

Silence.

The girls, who had until then sat in mute silence, perked up when the eldest, a squat red-head asked abruptly, ‘De la Mare... any relation to the poet?’

‘A distant relative, I believe.’

‘You look too young to get married. Mum says I can’t get married until I’m twenty.’

‘I’m twenty-six. I’ve always looked young for my age.’

‘Are you living with your Mother?’

Mort froze, then tossed that unwelcome memory out and invented a new one. ‘Mother took over Daddy’s business, importing fine silks and objects d’art. She’s French, and in Europe at the moment visiting relatives. I’m meant to be staying with an aunt on the Gold Coast, but as Hale and I are engaged she lets me stay with him. My mother still treats me as an infant, but I’m not, I’m rather a serious person — like you, I fancy.’

The redhead perked up at that. Her seriousness had never been admired before, so her next question was couched more politely. ‘If it isn’t too rude to ask, what do you do? I’ll be leaving school soon and I’ve no idea what to do. It’s really rather frightening.’

‘Oh, I do understand. I feel for you. Until recently I was a legal secretary in an environmental legal office up north, but resigned to come back here and get married.’ Mort smiled shyly and looked at his feet, hoping he hadn’t been waving his hands around. How long was Hale going to be? He was already desperate.

69 Mort’s Spiel

An excitable woman whose jewellery had elicited no squeals of delight, even from her daughter, leaned forward and asked, ‘Is it exciting being engaged to a... an acrobat?’

‘Not exciting,’ Mort replied, frowning prettily. ‘But I like watching him practise, and he is very thoughtful and kind. Sometimes he has to perform at night when I would like to go out, but that is easy to put up with.’ He stopped with an almost post-coital smile lingering on sensuous lips.

‘Doesn’t it embarrass you that he performs naked?’ This from a girl who looked about fourteen.

Mort managed a shocked, ‘Not at all! I am very, very proud of him, he is so clean and perfect. He’s a very moral man and his ethics are impeccable. There’s nothing sleazy in being naked, you know, quite the opposite. In Renaissance Art, sacred or pure love is portrayed by nudity, while profane love — the love of clothes and worldly possessions, is portrayed by expensively dressed women. You might be surprised to know that several deeply religious people for whom Hale has performed, told me their faith was strengthened after seeing God’s design made manifest.’

Silence...then...

‘What does God’s design made somethingfest mean?’ the youngest girl asked with a slight lisp.

‘Well…’ Mort’s brain went into overdrive. ‘Made manifest means displayed or shown, is that clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘And God is perfect, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So everything he makes must be perfect?’

A grudging, ‘Yes.’

‘God’s design for a man is perfect, but most men are not, for lots of reasons. However, every now and again a man is born who looks as perfect as God intended, and when these people saw Hale performing naked, they thought he must be exactly what God had designed.’

‘Gosh! I can’t wait to see him!’

Murmurs and giggles of agreement from all the girls.

‘But don’t you get jealous that other women can see the... you know... privates of your man?’ The question came from a mousy woman who had to be the mother of the squat redhead.

‘No, no, no.’ Mort’s voice was soft and gentle as if speaking to a backward child. ‘A penis is God’s lance through which he creates new life in us women. It is a wondrous thing, as wonderful as our breasts that provide food for God’s newborn creations. None of you are concealing the fact that you have breasts, some of you have very fine cleavages... so why should a man conceal his wonderful instrument of creation?’ Mort paused, wondering if he’d gone a bit far, but the wide-eyed, open-mouthed faces surrounding him were obviously desiring more of such talk. Okay, he thought, you asked for it. Taking a deep breath, he looked down shyly and murmured, ‘But I’m talking too much. You are all women of the world; you already know these things.’

‘Yes, but it is refreshing to hear the point of view of someone not of our religious faith,’ Mrs. Geld boomed. ‘It is time all women talked about these things. Men too often treat us as if we’re too stupid to even think about sex. And they’re so proud of their precious penises. I look forward to seeing this paragon. But whether we should allow him to parade his genitalia in all fifteen of the concerts, to audiences that will have as many children as adults, is another matter.’

‘Yes, yes,’ muttered her acolytes.

‘But we’re children, and we’re going to see the man’s penis.’ The girl slammed her hand against her mouth, eyes wide in expectation of a command to wash her mouth out. When no reprimand arrived she relaxed and whispered, ‘penis, penis, penis,’ just loud enough for her friend to hear.

‘I am most interested in your thoughts on the matter, so please go on, Calypso!’ Catty commanded.

‘I’ve been reading about The Church of Fumutie,’ Mort continued, ‘and I am deeply impressed at the way you have brought religion into the twenty-first century, making it relevant to our times. You must be extremely proud.’

Murmurs of surprised agreement, tinged with slight disappointment that penises seemed to have slipped from the menu.

‘Sensible people understand that prohibitions create desires,’ Mort continued persuasively, ‘and when people are kept ignorant, facts are replaced by febrile imagination. If you declare that a penis may never be seen, then in people’s imaginations it becomes a dirty, dangerous, nasty object. Whereas if people saw them every day, they’d know it is a relatively small, attractive appendage, neither dirty nor evil. Like our ears, fingers, noses and toes. And being naked doesn’t turn men into wild animals as so many silly women think — quite the reverse. There are no rapes and other sex crimes in nudist colonies, because physical sexual differences are seen as natural. When every one is naked there’s no coquetry, no deception. Bodies are not a mystery to endlessly and unprofitably occupy our thoughts. Minds are freed to look for other, more enduring and valuable things.’

‘Have you been to a nudist club?’ A girl with well-developed breasts asked, blushing furiously.

‘Yes. I’ve spent many summers in the south of France on beaches where clothing is banned. It is wonderful. So liberating.’

‘And all the men and boys were naked with their... penises sticking out?’

Much giggling, but no mother said ‘shh’, being as curious as their daughters.

‘Usually they just dangle charmingly. Penises only stick out when they’re sexually aroused.’

‘Does that happen often?’

‘With teenagers, yes. At that age boys seem to be erect most of the time.’

‘Isn’t that rude?’

‘Definitely not! It shocks me to hear you say that. It’s a natural part of growing up, just as we girls have tender breasts when they start to grow. An erection is a magnificent sight! The smallish floppy tube becomes up to four times as large and long and very hard. It stands proudly upright and looks wonderfully powerful. You must consider yourself very lucky indeed if you ever have the chance to see one. I love looking at them.’ He sighed winsomely. ‘Unfortunately, men hardly ever have erections in public when they’re used to being naked. As for being rude... only a person who hates God would consider that his beautiful design was rude! Many wise people think it is an insult to God to insist that genitals must be covered.’

The redhead again. ‘But the fact remains that all men do cover their bits, so it seems odd that you don’t mind when other women see your man’s.’

‘As I said before, I’m proud of Hale in all ways, and all my girlfriends who’ve seen him perform, said they went home with a new respect for their husbands, who, although not as talented or as perfect as Hale, were, after all, made the same way, and their sex lives improved enormously when they understood this simple fact.’

‘What’s a sex life?’ The ten year-old again.

Again no remonstrance from an adult.

‘We have a working life, a life when we have entertainment, a life when we sleep, and people who find each other attractive like to enjoy kissing and caressing and…’

‘And pushing their erections into women!’ The redhead snapped unpleasantly.

‘Only if the woman asks for it because she enjoys it.’

‘Has a man shoved his penis into you?’

‘Happy, well-bred men don’t shove their erections into anyone. Shoving is rude and unpleasant. Sexual intercourse between people who like each other is an exciting and happy experience.’

‘Do women enjoy it?’

‘If they don’t, there’s something very wrong. And that’s what we mean by a sex life, which for a woman can be either wonderful or awful, depending on their attitude to men and their penises.’

Silence.

Caterina Geld cleared her throat. ‘You make it sound so simple, Calypso. But it isn’t really. Perhaps it should be, but it isn’t. And we have strayed from the purpose of this afternoon, which is to see if it will be suitable for Mr. Lightfoot to perform naked before a mixed audience in our fifteen fundraising concerts. That is what we must consider. Are our congregations as open minded about this as we are?’

They were saved from answering by the arrival of Massimo. The show would be starting in five minutes.

70 Hale’s Spiel

‘Where do you want to set up, Hale?’ Midas asked when the men left the drawing room.

‘Between the front steps and the fountain. The audience sitting on cushions — the kids on the lower steps, adults above. Then everyone gets a good view.’

‘You don’t mind your audience being so close? The kids’ll just about be able to touch you.’

‘The closer the better, then they’ll miss nothing.’

They arrived at the spot and waited for instructions.

‘Okay, let’s unload.’

Despite the assistance of eight adults and six boys everything was speedily unloaded, then Hale drove the van a hundred metres back along the driveway, undressed and jogged back.

‘He’s naked!’ one of the men said in surprise. ‘I mean... totally naked! Not a stitch.’

‘Not a hair, either.’

‘He’s in bloody good shape.’

‘Hasn’t got a horse cock, thank goodness. I hate guys who flash their fucking great dongs in the showers, makes me feel inferior.’

‘Me too.’

‘Got a neat pair of balls though.’

‘You’d have to have balls to put on a show like this, starkers.’

‘I wouldn’t dare do it in a suit.’

‘I’d probably get a great boner and trip over the thing.’

‘You’ve got to admire the bloke. Wish I had the guts.’

‘You’ve got the guts, Harry, it’s the balls that count.’

Their sons were listening in awed surprise. They’d never imagined their fathers would talk about such things. Erections, balls penises! Spines tingled in delight. Their fathers were real men — human, funny, not the stuffy know-it-alls their mothers kept complaining about. Despite their religion’s fine words about tolerance and freedom, Hale was the first naked adult they’d seen in the flesh; Internet didn’t count, and they were very impressed. Here was a real hero to emulate and follow through the corridors of doom — or wherever he led them.

A sigh of admiration rose from everyone as Hale shook the frame and it self-assembled. They helped with securing the flood lights; two on top of the lions’ heads and one on the ground directly in front, then the electricity was connected to the outlet in the loggia, and they sat on the steps admiring the ingenuity, the practicality, the neatness — all the things males naturally admire and females find uninteresting. They nodded knowingly as Hale tested the lights and sound equipment, asking their opinions when setting intensity and volume. Then their mouths dropped in awe as he did several spectacular exercises on the frame to test its stability.

Despite themselves they cheered when he stood on his hands on the top bar, lifted one to wave at them, swung down, flipped and ended up back on the top bar, sitting comfortably.

‘How on earth did you do that?’

‘Like this.’ Hale repeated the stunt and grinned like a kid who’d been showing off and knew it, but didn’t care because he trusted them not to think he was vain.

They didn’t. They were genuinely impressed.

‘I’d like to wait till the sun is setting in about twenty minutes, if that’s okay with you guys. Daylight robs a show like this of mystery.’ His laugh was self-deprecating, which raised their already high opinion of him even higher. That such a fine figure of a man who was so strong and could fly and perch like an eagle could be so modest, easy to be with, was a revelation. Even the men now thought he was worth admiring!’

‘I can tell you’re all wondering if I’m sane, so ask me questions.’

‘About what?’

‘Anything you like.’

‘Why do you prefer to perform naked?’

‘Because I like to play to full houses. That makes me more money and it’s more fun. A show with a naked man in it will fill a venue, whereas recently in a theatre not too far from here, a very witty one-man show barely covered costs because the performer was only clever. At the same time just up the coast, a couple of guys who flashed their dicks in a pathetic show called Puppetry of the Penis got full houses everywhere.’

‘Yeah, I remember that. I wanted to go but the wife wouldn’t let me.’

‘She was right. It was terrible. But... and it’s a big but, a show with male nudity must not be about sex, like the Chippendales strip shows, because men will not go for fear of being called queers, no matter how clever and professional the guy is. Fortunately, so far there’s no stigma attached to men going to see a naked man doing acrobatic tricks.’

‘I understand that,’ Midas said quietly, ‘but why do you charge less to perform naked than wearing a pouch?’

‘That’s my selfless campaign to free males from the tyranny of feminism.’

‘Everyone laughed.

‘You sound like a preacher.’

‘Well, I feel somewhat evangelical about the heartrending plight of modern males, virtually all of whom have been emasculated and become either lapdogs for their female ‘masters’ or violent reactionaries.’

‘I don’t understand.’

The frowns on other faces indicated they also had no idea what he was talking about.

‘When my father was a young man, he wore a string bikini at the beach and Mum wore a modest one-piece swimsuit. Most of the men wore a speedo and no one thought they ought to conceal the fact that they had a package between their legs. It was proof of manhood. Guys who wore baggy shorts were laughed at and called girls. Dad got wolf-whistles from women, some of whom would ask to have their photograph taken with him.

‘He wore his bikini all summer, to the shops, on the street; just about everywhere in the beach suburbs. Shorts, when men wore them to go to the movies at night, for example, were short and tight, displaying thighs and a proud bulge at the crotch.

‘In those days there were plays, movies, TV films and soap operas in which men were naked — not just a bum-shot but full frontals and more if the film or play required it. I remember being taken to a play called ‘Foreskin’s Lament’ about a football team in which a dozen men were totally naked on stage for the two acts that took place in a locker room. This was possible because everyone accepted that men are different from women physically and mentally — and that is as it should be.’

‘Huh! Try telling my wife that! She’s a feminist and reckons the only way society will be decent is if men behave like women.’

‘Yeah, my wife says the same, so I told her I’d start wearing skimpy little dresses like hers.’

‘What’d she say?’

‘She said men’s bodies are not beautiful, so they should be covered, and when Aesop, our son, came home with a brief speedo for the water polo team, she said he couldn’t wear them in public because it’s a form of sexual harassment... advertising his ability to rape.’

‘You are joking.’

‘No he isn’t,’ fourteen-year-old Aesop said seriously. ‘That’s what she said.’

‘My wife’s always going on about how I have to be more sensitive, like she reckons she is... as if! I have to talk about my problems like she does. Not bloody likely; she’ll just go and tell all her girlfriends everything.’

‘Yeah. After eating too many mangoes I checked my undies and found skid marks. Stupidly I told Raelene and now all the women she knows think I’m incontinent. Your wife Myrtle, Herb, sidled up to me the other day and offered to give me some adult nappies! Never again will I tell my wife anything I don’t want published in a national newspaper.’

‘Yeah, Myrtle told me you have sloppy bowels, Pete.’

‘Well, I fucking haven’t!’

‘What about sex?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Whenever I suggest a bit of nookie, Marjolijn says she doesn’t feel like it, then a while later she wants it, and if I say I no longer feel like it she gets all narky, says I’m useless. But if I agree, as like as not halfway through she’ll decide she doesn’t want it after all and if I don’t stop instantly she says I’m raping her!’

‘Marsha’s not that bad, but I can see it coming. She’s always going on about how women are victims because males are primitive creatures who only want sex and don’t understand the finer aspects of a relationship.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder if women are sane. I read the other day that a man whose togs showed the shape of his cods in a public swimming pool was accused of visual sexual abuse of females and asked to leave.’

‘That really is crazy. Meanwhile women can walk down the street day and night wearing nothing but a short tight skirt and a bra with their tits bulging out, and any man who comments is committing verbal sexual abuse.’

‘It’s becoming too dangerous to be with a woman without another male as observer.’

‘Yeah. My wife won’t let me cuddle and kiss my little girl; she says it’s child sexual abuse! My own daughter!’ The young man shook his head in despair.

Hale’s laughter was deep and genuine.

‘What so funny?’

‘You lot. You’re so hypocritical. If a guy came up to you and told you you’re handsome, or stroked your butt, you’d feel outraged. You’d punch him on the nose if he was smaller than you and probably complain to the management about harassment.’

‘Because that means he thinks I’m gay!’

‘Not necessarily. But so what if he did? He’s probably just hoping you are and trying his luck, just as you hope a woman is interested and try your luck. Why not take it as a compliment and put him off pleasantly? Even stupider than that is if you know a guy’s gay you’ll be careful not to let your son near him... right?’

‘Well... yes... of course.’

‘Because all gays are paedophiles, right? No! Wrong! Proportionately more heterosexuals are paedophiles than gays, so your son is safer than your daughter with a male.’

‘Yeah... but…’

‘No buts. Sauce for the goose and all that.’

‘But we men still have the problem that we’re not nice to look at so we have to be dressed in dull shapeless baggy clothes.’

‘And they keep telling us we’re insensitive.’

‘But if we say we like nice things, and are sensitive and compassionate they reckon we’re queer... less than men.’

‘But if we act like men we’re brutish. We can’t win.’

‘There are more female heroes in video games than men, now,’ one of the older boys said thoughtfully. ‘And in that film on at the Criterion at the moment, a girl in a very brief bikini takes on about a dozen fully armed men with nothing but a knife and she beats them all. Too stupid to believe, but the girls love it.’

‘I think women are actually ashamed to be female,’ Hale said thoughtfully. ‘That’s why they want to be called actors, not actresses, heroes, not heroines. They see women as inferior so it’s all about pretending they aren’t. Perhaps we should feel sorry for them?’

‘I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself at the moment.’

Hale laughed. ‘Thanks, guys for sharing your frustrations. I’m not married, but have had my fair share of experiences like yours, that’s why I put on a live show in which I’m an unashamed male. By parading my sexy bits I hope to inspire other men to say to themselves, ‘Yeah! Why not? Why should I be forced to pretend I haven’t any balls? Why can’t I be proud to be male? Why aren’t I allowed to look and feel sexy? And these brave men might take off their clothes at home and shock their wives and assert their right to be male and be proud again, like my father, and his father used to be.’

‘Do you know of anyone doing that?’

‘Yes. Many men have contacted me after seeing the show to tell me they now seldom wear clothes at home unless it’s cold. And their kids, at least their sons, are also doing that, and their wives have become less bossy and difficult because they have finally accepted that men are not the same as women and need to be treated differently.’

‘That’s not going to happen, though, is it? My son Jack is fourteen and he’s never had a male teacher! Not one and he… You tell them, Jack.’

‘The boys in my class decided to go on strike because one of our teachers reckoned men should not be allowed to teach in schools because of the danger of child sexual abuse. We read her an article that proved women were just as bad as men, and she called Mrs Stone, the principal, and said we were spreading malicious lies about women and must be disciplined. So we got a week’s detention to teach us to respect women. That’s the logic of those bitches. Anyway, we just stayed away from school for a week. Mum tried to make me go but Dad said it was fine.’ He turned a nervous face to his father, who ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘And then she said Dad was not a fit person to be trusted with bringing up a boy. I really, really hate her now.’

‘Try not to hate; it wastes energy. But what you’ve told us is one answer to the question of why there’s an increase in violence against females — although it’s odd that newspapers and social pundits are ignoring the fact that female violence against men is rising at a faster rate than males against females. And surely we have to consider the consequences of allowing females to have control of boys right through their school years until they’re virtually adults. Isn't it time someone asked why the mothers and all those female teachers haven’t been able to instil the respect they insist they deserve in the boys they’ve had in their care?’

‘Are you saying there’s no place for females in the world?’

‘Definitely not! Women should have equal opportunity, rights, pay and everything else. But unless they are prepared to accept their share of the blame for creating violent men, and accept that we’re equal but different in the way we think, the ideas we have, and the things that interest us, all they’ll get is continual violent backlash.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘Then it won’t work; females aren’t reasonable.’

‘Some are.’

‘None that I know.’

‘Hale, you said that if we wander round in the nud our wives and daughters will respect us.’

‘Yes, and I’ve just had an idea to prove it. Midas told me there’ll be supper beside the pool after the show, and I bet if you all left your clothes here on the steps and spent the rest of the evening naked, you’d feel so liberated and relieved at finally being a male, you’d never look back and your wives and daughters would finally respect you.’

‘How much do you bet?’

‘If all of you, men and boys, do that, then I will do all fifteen performances for nothing.’

You’re joking!’

‘No. I’m serious. But you mustn’t tell the women why! That’s essential! If you do they’ll just sneer and say you’re fools, because they refuse to accept that their behaviour has anything to do with the problems men have with women. So, you must promise faithfully that your sole response to "why are you doing this?" will be to say, “Because I feel like it”. Anything else would be pandering to their belief that they have the right to impose their notions of male behaviour on you. A real man does not feel obliged to explain his every action.’

‘Midas, how much will that save us?’

‘Nearly eight thousand dollars.’

‘That’s worth saving!’

‘Sure is, so we’re in, aren’t we Massimo?’

Massimo nodded, willing to follow his adored father anywhere.

‘What about the rest of you?’

It took a few minutes, but no one was prepared to prove they had no ‘balls’ by being too frightened to let them hang loose in front of their wives and daughters.

‘Excellent!’ Hale laughed. ‘But remember, the only reason you’re doing it is because you feel like it. Can I trust you on that? Do not mention the money! That will cheapen and ruin everything. And as your true motives will not be believed, never reveal them.’

‘Don’t worry, Hale. We’re not totally stupid even though we got married — isn’t that right men?’

Murmurs and nods of agreement.

‘What if I get a hard on?’

‘You won’t, you’ll be too nervous to think of anything sexy. Like I’m far too busy when performing to think of anything else. The blood’s all in my brain — none left for erections. But if you do manage it, be proud! Without stiff cocks there’d be no more babies.’

‘He’s right, you know. I never thought of it like that.’

‘I’ve always been embarrassed.’

‘My wife says I look ridiculous, so I feel stupid.’

‘Dad, why did you marry mum?’

‘She said she liked everything about me, then a few weeks later started gilding the lily as she called it!’

‘Sounds more like gelding.’

Sympathetic laughter.

‘Go on, Hale. Erections I think the topic was.’

‘Yeah. Until the Christians declared nude to be rude the erect phallus was worshipped. Every ancient Greek house had a stone effigy of ‘Hermes’ in front, which was little more than an erect penis. The male sex organ has been worshipped as a symbol of fertility forever. Little phallic sculptures were placed in the fields to ensure a good crop. The idea that one part of a man or woman is sinful to see is so stupid I can scarcely credit that it’s now a common belief. Humans really are the pits sometimes. Fancy having to wear clothes to go swimming!’

‘The followers of Tryadd are a Christian sect.’

‘Only nominally, Charles.’ Midas stood and scratched his head. ‘We started this religion because we think most humans need to believe in something or someone more powerful than themselves; someone who is control, but we wanted to cut through all the prohibitions, beliefs and other nonsensical mumbo-jumbo that is no longer relevant in the twenty-first century. We’ve done well on many fronts, but we’ve failed miserably on nudity, as this little session has proved. Nonetheless, we’ve done well; we have many thousands of members, five schools and more in the pipeline, and profits are soaring. However, recruiting has stalled. That’s why I decided to raise the stakes and finish the job by breaking the last taboo — male nudity. This is when we get the rest of the people who are sick of the mealy mouthed censorious crap of the other god squads. I’ll stick my neck out and predict an immediate increase in membership after the shows, enough to make us one of the big four players in the religious stakes. If I’m wrong, I’ll step down and one of you can take over. So if you’re with me on this, and after you’ve seen it you think Hale’s show is worth watching, and you want to give the finger to all those pious bigots, vote to have it as the main attraction in the concerts.’

Midas’s ultimatum set the men arguing and discussing among themselves, their sons offering their opinions, determined not to be ignored.

‘We’ve another ten minutes before it’s dark enough, Hale announced, ‘so I’ll go for a wander to get the blood flowing. Would you guys mind putting out enough cushions for everyone?’

‘Sure thing, Hale. Thanks for the talk. It makes a lot of sense, and don’t worry, we’ll all strip for you and say it’s because we feel like it.’

‘You're not stripping for me! It’s for you and your sons.’

‘Yeah... you’re right.’

They wandered up the steps in search of cushions, talking excitedly. Something was happening! They couldn’t remember the last time their hearts had beat in anticipation. This was turning out to be the best time they’d had for ages.

‘Can Massimo and I join you?’

‘Of course, Midas.’

The three men strolled out beyond the fountain across the darkening lawn towards the trees.

‘Thanks for the talk, I agree with everything. I wonder...’

‘What about you, Massimo?’ Hale interrupted. ‘Do you agree?’

‘I think so. But I’ll have to think about it.’

‘Very wise. You were about to say, Midas?’

‘‘Was I? Ah yes. As I mentioned to you yesterday, I want to divest myself of Catty and I’ll pay you to assist me.’

‘How?’

‘My brain’s empty of ideas.’

‘You’ve allowed her to believe she controls you. She wanted this horrible house and fountain, and lions and grand gateway to impress all her acolytes and you didn’t know how to refuse her, and now you can’t tell her to bugger off.’

‘You don’t like the house?’

‘It’s a monstrosity. As for your problem, you could threaten her with a scandal.’

‘What sort of scandal?’

‘Let her catch you in flagrante delicto tonight.’

‘Ha! Who with? Not one of those scrawny gossipy baggages in there. Anyway she wouldn’t care, it would only prove that all men are unfaithful and unable to control their sexual urges. That’s despite the fact that I haven’t screwed her since Massimo was born.’

Massimo turned to him in astonishment. ‘Is that true, Dad?’

‘Have you never wondered why you have no brothers or sisters?’

His son giggled. ‘I’ve always wondered how you could bear to do it with Mum, she’s so fat and you’re so slim and fit.’

‘With me.’ Hale’s face was a picture of innocence.

Massimo giggled again.

‘Then you can threaten to tell the whole world you’re queer. She wouldn’t like the world to know she’s been married to a same-sex-oriented male for all these years. That’d probably induce her to sign the divorce papers.’

Midas frowned.

‘Are you gay, Dad?’

‘From time to time.’

‘Cool!’

‘What about you, son. Would you like to screw Calypso?’ Midas’s voice was strained.

‘I really like her,’ Massimo said in a rush. ‘I don’t like any of the girls at school or church, but Calypso’s different. When she touched my cheek I felt…’ He stopped, suddenly shy. ‘Are you really going to do it with Hale, Dad? ’

‘I’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Wow! Doing it with Hale!’

‘Jealous?’

‘Of course! Look at him!’

‘Do you want to do it with Calypso?’

‘She’s Hale’s fiancé.’

Hale laughed. ‘She’s free to do as she likes, I’m not the jealous type.’

‘She’d never look at me.’

‘Don’t be too sure about that, Massimo,’ Hale said softly. ‘I think she fancies you. If you’ve got the balls, ask her. You might be pleasantly surprised. But now, would you mind running up to the females and telling them we’re about to start?’

‘Sure thing! Thanks, Hale!’

He sped away and the two slightly older men wandered slowly back to the fountain.

‘Can we turn off the fountain, Midas? The noise is distracting.’

‘Sure, no trouble.’

Hale lay on the grass to relax and mentally prepare, while Midas stood gazing up at the stars, contemplating a possible change of allegiance, orientation and fortune.

71 Performance

It was very dark. Slowly the metal frame appeared, glittering in the soft light — a fragile web constructed by a geometrically adept spider. The sudden trill of mandolins made everyone jump, then sit forward expectantly. Where was Hale?

A golden form burst from the base of the frame, shot straight up, bypassed the top rail, stood on top and faced the audience, arms stretched up towards the stars, head thrown back, legs apart and the dreaded penis nothing but a slim play of light — a modest and attractive proof that this was a male; no more than that. A twinge of disappointment fluttered through female breasts while male chests swelled in pride at being the same gender as that godlike creature.

As the two mandolins ran musical circles around each other, the golden creature jumped vertically as if he would fly off the bar. The orchestra burst into life but the outstretched arms flapped uselessly and he dropped back, one leg each side of the bar! A collective gasp of fear. Surely he’d...? No. Just in time his hands grabbed the rail between his legs and held him millimetres above disaster. He looked down with a wicked grin and everyone laughed in relief. But no! He slipped sideways, legs wrapped round the tube; he began to spin, apparently unable to stop. He was gaining speed and spinning round and round two metres above the ground. Suddenly his legs loosened and he slipped off. Fortunately, at the last minute his foot caught the bar and he was left hanging like a fruit bat.

Very nervous laughter. Was that intended? Or was he having a bad day and in danger?

Hauling himself up to sit on top of the bar, Hale shook his head as if wondering what was going wrong, then fell over backwards, flipped in the air and landed on the ground on his feet, instantly bouncing straight back up to the bar, swinging up to a handstand, nonchalantly releasing one hand to scratch his armpit and grunt.

Relief. Laughter. Hale was a clown and the children loved him. Penis forgotten. Everything else was much more interesting.

Then he was kneeling and reaching down as if trying to reach the ground two metres below. Overbalancing, he fell forward... but instead of tumbling to the ground and landing on his head, he spun right around so he was kneeling again on top, looking confused.

‘Massimo,’ he called plaintively. ‘I can’t reach my juggling balls. They’re in that box. Will you toss them up one at a time?’

Massimo’s delight was total. He raced to the box, took out the balls and looked up. Hale was now standing, feet apart, directly above him.

‘You’ve already got two balls,’ one of the men called. ‘Aren’t you being greedy?’

It took two seconds before everyone understood, the adult females looked shocked, the girls and everyone else laughed as if it was the funniest joke ever told. The elephant in the room had been named. They no longer had to pretend that Hale wasn’t naked, that his cock and balls were not in full view above them. It was funny. It wasn’t naughty.

As if juggling while balancing on the top bar wasn’t mind-boggling enough, the agility, flexibility and strength demonstrated by his calisthenics on the ground were even more unbelievable.

Suddenly twenty minutes had passed and the show was over. The music stopped. Hale stood in front of the frame, and leaned against it, face in a soft smile.

‘What’s the verdict? Do you want to see another shorter performance of similar routines with me wearing something to cover my bits? Or would you sooner have another ten minutes of different activities and sign me up to perform in my birthday suit?’

Excited chattering.

Midas came down to the front.

‘Everyone gets a vote, including the children. There will be as many kids as adults at the concerts, so it’s important their opinions are counted. I’m passing around pieces of paper. If you want Hale to perform as he did just now, put the whole piece of paper in the hat. If you think he should wear something to cover his loins, then make a small tear in the paper. But do it secretly so no one knows what you did, and no looking! I want your honest personal opinion, not what you think someone else wants.’

The papers were passed around, Midas returned with an old felt hat, collected them, and then placed them in two piles. One pile contained three pieces, the other all the rest.

‘The committee have decided to have you perform for fifteen concerts wearing the same costume you are wearing now. So, ten minutes more you said?’

‘I did.’

Everyone except Caterina and two sycophants clapped enthusiastically.

Ten minutes later even they didn’t stop clapping until Midas stood, thanked Hale again, invited him to stay for the barbecue, and asked the ladies to get it ready while the men helped Hale put his gear away and tidy up.

All too soon the van was packed and parked once more in front of the steps, then fifteen naked men and boys, hearts thumping crazily, blood pounding in their throats, marched proudly if nervously through the house to the rear patio, the pool and food.

72 Revolution

The males arrived just in time to prevent Mort from throwing off his disguise and declaring every female insane. It was a sight to be treasured. Midas, followed by fifteen healthy men. Heads high, talking easily among themselves, no hands covering groins, slightly nervous smiles glued to their youthful or not so youthful faces. All shapes and sizes from long and lean to short and stocky. Some hairy, others mostly smooth. Several tanned, the rest shades of pinkish white. The only two things they had in common were they all looked fit and able to walk ten kilometres without a fuss, and none were overweight. It was a revelation for Mort who’d unconsciously adopted the popular idea of male attractiveness — Latin looks, gym toned tanned bodies, symmetrical features and a thick head of dark hair. None of these men looked remotely like that, yet they were all attractive for the simple reason that they were slim and fit. That, Mort realised, is all it takes to be physically attractive.

The men were several metres out onto the patio before anyone registered, then… a loud, angry squawk.

‘Midas! You’re naked! Cover yourself.’

‘No, I feel…’

‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ Caterina screeched. ‘I will not have men running around naked in my house. Go! All of you filthy men. Go! This is the result of letting that sly fellow in to seduce you with his godless nonsense!’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Midas bellowed.

The shocked silence triggered a bout of nervous girlish giggles.

‘You women always do as you like with your bodies; painting your faces, wearing whatever and as much or as little as you like, so have the decency to let your men have the same freedom.’

‘But…’

‘Shut up Catty or I’ll throw you in the pool. I feel like wearing nothing, so that’s what I’ll do. Now, where’s that food?’

Astounded by his vehemence, the watching females remained silent for several seconds, and then the shouting began, followed by three separate splashes.

Three bedraggled wives heaved themselves out of the pool looking like drowned rats.

‘You’ve ruined my dress!’

‘My hair! Oh you utter pig... I’ll…’

Splash.

‘I’ve nothing to change into.’

‘Then follow my example.’

‘Oh... You are horrible!’

Then all three burst into tears, which were wisely ignored, so they stopped and fumed silently, planning revenge.

It was a warm night, towels were brought, hair and bodies more or less dried.

‘Come on guys, let’s have a swim while the women calm down.’ The speaker, a slim fellow with a wonderfully hairy chest and legs, raced onto the diving board, bounced several times causing several hearts to pound, then dived cleanly into the pool. Fourteen naked men and boys followed; bouncing and diving, hauling themselves out and running round to do it again, shouting, laughing, doing honey-pots, ducking each other and having the best time they could remember in a pool.

‘It feels great being naked doesn’t it? I’m never going to swim in those stupid baggies again. This is sooooo good!’

Shouts of agreement, laughter, noisy boisterous fun — while the females did nothing except look on in electrified astonishment and dawning envy.

‘Come on in,’ one of the boys called to the girls. ‘But you’ve got to strip, this is nude night.’

The girls shook their heads, unwilling to accept that the hot feeling in their throat was jealousy. They’d love to be as free as the boys. To dive in, clamber out, run around, look so slim and agile and fit and healthy, and dive in again and play and push people under and... Why was it never like that when they swam with girls? All they ever did was swim boring lengths or stand at the shallow end and gossip about everyone else and pull the boys’ and other girls’ characters and bodies to bits.

But... but these boys were not the one’s they thought they knew. These were... they didn’t know who they were. All they knew was they would very much like to cry because it was so beautiful; so like their dreams of arcadia where everything was different, but nice. There were no words to express the feeling of hopeless sadness when they suddenly realised they would never experience such easy fun doing the sorts of active things from which they were excluded because they were girls. But they stayed to watch because they wanted make sure they didn’t miss a single penis as it flashed past when the boys leaped out of the water and ran to the diving board. The older men were slower, more careful; interesting, but not so exciting.

Taking advantage of the relative peace while the other males had fun, Mort controlled his urges to join them in the pool and took Caterina’s hand, stroking it gently.

‘Catty dear, relax. It isn’t that important. They’re only men being silly. They’re trying to annoy us. The best thing is to ignore them and when they see we’re not impressed they’ll toe the line again.’

Caterina Geld sniffed. ‘Do you think so, dear? It was different when your fiancé was performing on that frame thing, he wasn’t part of us; it was as if he was on television — not real. But it’s hard to accept that all these men I know so well could be so... so…’

‘Let’s laugh about it, shall we? Show we’re above such silliness. Come on, you’re a strong woman. Let the men have their fun.’

‘I can’t do anything. I feel too upset. And so do the other women. You organise everything.’

‘If you're sure.’ Mort found a plastic poolside chair, hoped it would prove strong enough and assisted his hostess to subside into it, then joined the girls watching the males disporting themselves in the pool. Their mothers, unable to understand their husbands’ behaviour were arguing, complaining, vying for the status of most upset, wondering why their husband and son felt the need to expose their bodies. Men were there to admire women’s bodies, not to take pleasure in their own, which weren’t really worth looking at. Their daughters’ constant giggling only exacerbated their annoyance.

Perhaps the most aggravating thing — apart from discovering their husbands were not as pliable as they thought, was the laconic response, ‘I just felt like it,’ when asked why they were running around naked. It only made their spouses confused and upset, so it was something of a relief when after a quarter of an hour of noisy male horseplay, Mortaumal banged on an empty saucepan for attention.

They turned to see who would tell them what to do, how to react, how to stop being angry. That was always the hardest part. How to stop being angry? They weren't really; it was just the initial shock and Caterina’s reaction that made them think they ought to be. Now they secretly thought it wasn’t so bad after all. But how to admit it without losing face?

‘The food’s ready everyone,’ Mort called in a voice made somewhat lower than usual by having to shout. ‘Come and get it or I’ll throw it out.’ He grinned. That had been his grandfather’s expression all those years ago. It seemed a lifetime, but it was only six years. He sighed and watched as the men clambered out of the pool, shook themselves and jumped up and down, setting their audience’s pulses racing. Still dripping, they wandered over to the buffet to mingle with wives, sons, sisters and daughters.

Awkward laughter, sheepish smiles, silent apologies and glances of understanding were swapped as everyone bumped into each other, self-consciously helped themselves to plates, filled them and retreated to a stone balustrade overlooking the pool. Balancing plates on the flat top, they ate, chatted awkwardly about everything except clothes, kept eyes well above belts — or where belts would normally have been, moved back to the buffet for drinks, then finally gathered in groups; boys at one end, girls at another, males and female adults similarly divided, to sort out their ideas.

Hale joined Mort at the pool. Mort kicked off his sandals and they sat with their feet in the water.

‘Midas is still determined to divorce Catty.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘She’s being difficult, so we planned that she would surprise him in flagrante delicto with me.’

‘And you want me to ensure you are surprised?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘I’ve a mind almost as devious as yours.’

‘I’ve realised. So I’ll give you a signal when we leave, then you ask Catty, who I think is in love with you, to take you on a tour of the house, ending in Midas’s bedroom about twenty minutes later.’

‘No probs.’

‘By the way. Massimo is deeply in lust with you and I told him to try it on, said he’d be pleasantly surprised.’

‘He is rather sexy. Have you seen the size of his dick? It’s lucky I’m determined to remain an anal virgin. But I certainly wouldn’t turn such a sweet young man away. Has he guessed I’m not what I seem?’

‘No, so let him down lightly.’

‘Oh dear... I foresee problems.’

The girls were deep in gossip mode...

‘I didn’t know boys thighs were so sexy!’

‘I love their bums! So round and full.’

‘Have you seen Massimo’s penis! It’s twice as big as all the other boys. I want to touch it.’

‘You’re kinky.’

‘No she isn’t. I want to know what their balls feel like... they look so soft and cute, like little mice, nesting in their hair.’

‘What about Dad! His balls hang really low and when he bent over they swayed around.’

‘But they don’t look dirty, do they? I mean, I thought if there were naked men in a place they’d be… I don’t know what I thought. I just... it’s just that this isn’t strange at all after a while. Like watching Hale perform, I forgot he was naked.’

‘Me too.’

‘And some of the boys have really big muscles. I didn’t realise they were so different from us. They don’t look anything like a girl, do they?’

‘I like Jock’s stomach; it’s so hard and lean.’

‘Watch out, here comes Midas. Look at his huge thighs.’

‘So, girls. Are you all shocked?’

‘Not at all,’ the red head said with a nonchalant toss of her head. ‘We think it’s all perfectly natural and nothing to get excited about.’

‘Then I admire you all. I hope you’ll tell your mothers to react the same way.’ He turned to go.

‘Midas?’ The youngest girl was frowning.

‘Yes, Sonja?’

‘What does it feel like to have a tube sticking out like that, and balls hanging? Does it hurt? Does it get in the way?’

The four other girls held their breaths, expecting a snarl of anger. But Midas looked down at himself calmly, smiled and replied thoughtfully, ‘It doesn’t feel any stranger than my nose sticking out, or my ears hanging on the side of my head. I was born with them. And they certainly don’t hurt. Usually they don’t get in the way because they’re tucked neatly between my legs as you can see. You girls who have breasts know that it’s nice sometimes to walk around and let them hang free, don’t you?’

Shock was replaced by relief. So it was okay to do that! They’d always felt guilty. They nodded, eyes glittering with love for this man who was so understanding, so real, so sexy, so much the man of their dreams that they wanted to either scream or cry or both.

‘Well, I think you are all very sensible young women, and therefore you have a hope of having a happy marriage, as long as you understand that men are made differently, and think differently about many things.’ He wandered off.

‘What a sexy bum! I want to kiss it.’

‘I want to play with his fat tube and make it stiff like Calypso told us.’

‘Mmmm...me too.’

Everyone subsided in giggles. This was the most exciting night of their lives.

‘That was awesome! Swimming in the nud. Feeling the water rushing past my balls gave me a hard on. Fuck! I’m never going to wear togs again.’

‘You said that before. But I agree... except we have to in public.’

‘Yeah, but we don’t have to wear those bloody baggies. I’d never realised how much they hold you back. I’ve always hated swimming before, but tonight I felt as if I could fly through the water. Swimming’s a piece of cake. It’s... I’m buying a speedo as soon as I can get to a shop.’

‘Me too.’

‘The girls seem cool about it.’

Yeah, but who cares, and for how long. Wait till they get to school and blab to all their gossipy mates. Have any of you told them why we’re naked?’

‘No way! Hale was right. Saying you just felt like it shuts them up big time. Midas said it all I reckon.’

‘Sure did…’ and the talk moved away from girls and on to interesting topics like cars and sport and computers and acrobatics and the holidays.

Hale joined the adult males whose conversation had turned to the economy, up-coming election, lack of rain, changing climate, fuckwit politicians who wanted to dredge the Barrier Reef and dump the spoil in an endangered wetland. They’d forgotten they were naked. They’d forgotten their wives were mostly still in denial, they were full of good food, happy with themselves and unwilling to return to their old selves.

‘What do you say we start up a nudist club for men only?’

‘Are we allowed to?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’d probably be fined for being sexist and forced to accept them.’

‘Then we’d all resign and leave the bitches who want to barge in to pay the rent.’

‘Ah fuck it. Let’s just get together regularly, unofficially as mates and go somewhere nice.’

‘And have our wives sue for divorce and half the estate and the kids and the house because we didn’t include her. Why on earth I got myself trapped I’ll ever know.’

‘At least you got yourself a fine young son.’

‘Yes. But I’m so worried about rising seas and droughts and floods that I often feel guilty about what’s ahead for him and wish I hadn’t had him. He’s got a shitty life ahead I reckon…’

‘All our kids have. It sure isn’t going to be the sort of life we’ve had.’

Midas excused himself, and a few minutes later Hale said it was getting late and time for him to be off.

Mort winked as Hale went past.

Taking Catty’s arm, he led her away from the other women. ‘Catty, I’m so lucky to have met you and visited your extraordinary house. Would it be presumptuous to ask for a small tour to see the inside? I can only imagine what your genius for interior decoration has come up with.’

Caterina literally glowed. A disastrous evening was turning pleasant. None of her church friends had ever wanted to look around; jealousy, that’s what it was, she knew that, but still it hurt. ‘Calypso! You sweetie. I’d love nothing more. I just have to go to the little girl’s room, so I’ll meet you in the entrance hall in five minutes.’

‘That’ll be wonderful, thanks.’ Mort caught Massimo’s eye and beckoned him over. ‘Your mother’s taking me on a tour, Come with us?’

Massimo’s eyed lit, ‘Yeah! Actually, I know why, I was there when Dad asked Hale to trap her. But I really want to tell you I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.’

‘Not sexy?’

‘Yeah! Really sexy.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Can I touch your back? It’s driving me mad looking at it when you walk past.’ He hung his head as if waiting for the rebuke.

‘I would like that very much.’

‘Honestly! Gosh.’ he ran his hand over Mort’s shoulder blades, then down his spine to the base where he ran out of courage.

‘Why are you stopping?’

‘I thought…’

‘Don’t think, that always spoils things.’

Massimo’s hand slipped lower, under the silk and on until it was caressing the sexiest buttocks he had ever imagined. His breathing became ragged. ‘Ah, fuck. I’ve got a hard on. Look at it, what’ll I do?’

‘You will stand straight so it sticks out as far as possible while still looking natural, and then we’ll walk past the girls and I’ll say something to them, you’ll just smile like a cat that’s licked the cream, and we’ll wander off to the entrance hall to meet your mother. Are you a man or a mouse?’

‘Massimo thrust out his chest, held his head high, smiled nonchalantly and they wandered casually to the girls who ceased their gossiping and stared with open mouths.

‘Massimo is taking me on a tour of the house, isn’t that nice of him?’

The girls were speechless until Mort and Massimo were almost out of earshot, then: ‘Did you see that? Massimo’s enormous.’

‘Yes!’

‘He was so stiff you could use it as a... whatever.’

‘I didn’t realise he was so sexy.’

‘That Calypso must be a whore, she’s got a fiancé and now she’s letting Massimo fuck her.’

‘Do you think they’ll fuck?’

‘That’s why he’s got that huge, huge, cock.’

‘I wish I was Calypso.’

‘What’d you do?’

‘Play with that big stiff rod. I can’t wait to get to school and tell everyone.’

They subsided into excited giggles, whispers and fevered imaginings.

73 The Plot Unfolds

‘Your mother said five minutes and we’ve only been about three, so let’s wait in this little room beside the stairs in case someone comes, we don’t want them asking questions.

They partially closed the door and stood looking at each other in the dim light from the chandelier above the stair well. ‘What’ll we do?’

Massimo’s eyes blazed, he took a deep breath, wrapped his arms around Calypso’s waist, gazed into his eyes, then glued his mouth against Mort’s, groaning in ecstasy, sliding his hands down the back of Mort’s dress, massaging his buttocks, and thrusting his erection against the other’s groin.

Then abruptly, he stopped, frowned, looked down, grasped the hem of Mort’s dress and hauled it up to expose a bright red pouch that was obviously full to overflowing with something that looked suspiciously like…

‘Hold your dress up,’ he commanded.

Nervously, for Massimo was not only tall but correspondingly strong, Mort held up the hem of his frock while Massimo kneeled, dragged down the pouch, grasped the erection that escaped, inspected it carefully, then popped it into his mouth and began gently raising and lowering his head, moaning softly. After a minute he removed it with a watery slurp, then stood and kissed with such passion Mort wondered if he had to faint before he’d be allowed to take a breath.

Finally Massimo pulled back and looked down at Mort with a wicked grin. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that to a man for as long as I can remember. It’s been hell in dressing rooms, watching Dad in the shower, guys at the beach… whenever I see a bulge. But I wasn’t gay so I couldn't do it. And then Calypso came along and I thought she proved I wasn’t gay because I fancied her like nobodies business. And then she turned out to be a man! So now I know I’m just like my father and I’m glad and happy and... thank you!’

‘The pleasure is also mine,’ Mort whispered. ‘But we have to be quiet. Your mother will be here any minute.’

‘Yeah, but my cock’s harder than ever. I don’t think it’s ever going to go down again. What’ll I tell Mum? That I’ve got a boyfriend? I think she would kill me, especially when she finds out Dad’s got the hots for Hale. I thought it was strange that I fell for you. Normally I run a mile if a girl comes near me. Ha! And tomorrow it’ll be all over the school that I’ve been screwing the sexy Calypso. Is that your real name? And are you really twenty-six?’

‘No, it’s Mort, I’m sixteen, and after your mother’s had her heart attack, or whatever, I’d love to see your bedroom.’

‘A year younger than me! You seem so sophisticated.’

‘I am.’ Mort grinned.

‘As soon as Mum’s out of the way you’re taking that frock off.’

‘I intend to. I hate pretending to be a female. Shhh... I think I hear her coming.’

‘What’ll I do with this erection?’

‘The same as you did with the girls — it’s natural, and if she doesn’t like it she doesn’t have to look.’

They wandered into the hall just as Caterina bustled in.

‘Oh, dear Calypso, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, I... Massimo! What are you doing here, and you’ve got a…’ she stared at her son’s engorged phallus. ‘Cover it!’

‘Why? I thought you might need help in case Calypso asks technical questions.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘She doesn’t mind that my cock’s so stiff, so why should you? It feels great.’

‘Really! Massimo. Where is your modesty?’

‘Oh, I know it isn’t the most perfect one in the world, but I like it. Come on, let’s go.’ He raced off up the stairs.

‘But I was going to do the ground floor first.’ Ah, such an impetuous boy. But tell me, dear. Is it normal for a son to show his mother his erection?’

‘Catty, it is a sign of trust if a teenager allows his mother to see his genitals. You should be proud. He is very well endowed! Many men would be jealous, and many women would desire him.’

‘Really? How interesting. He is an engaging boy. People like him. And I suppose I am proud of him, and I do try to live up to the precepts of our religion — to have Unbound Tolerance and Indefinite Ethicality and not be too old fashioned, fuddy duddy and censorious. But it is difficult to jettison the things we were taught at Sunday school, don’t you think?’

‘I never went to Sunday school, but I know what you mean, and I think you’re doing an excellent job.’

‘Do you dear? That is such a relief.’ She stopped at the top of the stairs. Massimo was nowhere to be seen. The light was flattering and she ran a soft little hand down Mortaumal’s cheek. ‘You are a very beautiful girl, Calypso. I find myself very drawn to you, I…’ without warning she dragged Mort’s head to hers and planted a sloppy lipsticked kiss on the identical spot where her son had been grazing only minutes before.

She stood back, took a handkerchief from her bosom and gently wiped Mort’s lips. ‘Oh dear. You don’t wear lipstick, do you? Next time I’ll wipe mine off first. I must say you kiss beautifully. Aggie Leanbottom’s teeth stick out, so it’s never as pleasant as one hopes with her. You’re even better than Marjory, and everyone says she’s a wonderful kisser.’

Mort was debating whether to laugh or chunder. ‘You kiss a lot of women do you, Catty?’

‘Oh yes, dear. We have a Women's Division of Fumutie, and meet in the basement sauna lounge twice a week for prayer meetings. We practice massaging and sensitising. You know the sort of thing. Breaking down the barriers between women; regaining the intimacy lost now we all live in nuclear families. You must join us one day.’

‘Thank you, I’ll bring my swimming costume.’

‘Oh we don’t wear clothes, that would inhibit the intimacy. No. We become real children of nature.’

‘Then why did you object to the men being naked?’

‘I don’t really; I just wanted to wipe the supercilious grin off Midas’s face. But you must admit, men are not beautiful like women. Their bits stick out so rudely and get stiff, like Massimo’s; nothing like the smooth simplicity of the female form. Don’t you agree?’

‘Not altogether…’

Caterina moved closer and Mort backed up the stairs, saved from another lunge from his pursuer by Massimo’s reappearance.

‘Mum. There’s a funny noise coming from Dad’s room. He might be having a heart attack. Come on!’ He raced away.

Caterina looked at Mort and crossed her fingers. It wasn’t clear whether in hope that Midas was in trouble, or that he wasn’t. Whatever it was, impatience put wings on her feet and she almost ran along the passageway to the door from which groans were issuing.

Massimo was standing outside literally wringing his hands, apparently in fear.

‘Midas? I’m coming in!’ Caterina threw open the door and stood on the threshold for several seconds catching her breath, arms akimbo staring at the double bed on which two well formed naked men were locked in sexual embrace; arms, legs, bodies, tongues intertwined in sensuous writhing, oblivious to all around them.

Caterina slapped a hairy buttock with all her force and shouted, ‘Midas! What are you doing?’

Her husband rolled over, exposing an organ as fine as his son’s and grinned dopily up at his wife. ‘Catty?’ His face cleared and his eyes focussed. ‘How lucky you’re here. You can be the first to know. Hale and I have decided to get married. As soon as we’ve both had our second orgasm I’ll come down and tell everyone that he’s moving in with me as my huswife. Tell me you’re happy for me.’

‘You can’t get married, you’ve got me.’

‘But I don’t fuck you, so I need another spouse. Don’t worry. I’ll explain it all to your friends.’ He lifted himself onto his elbow, leaned over to kiss Hale and said sweetly. ‘I have to leave you for a minute, gorgeous, because the old baggage wants me to tell everyone we’re getting married, then I’ll come back, okay?’

‘You will not tell everyone anything!’ shrieked Caterina in the high-pitched squeal of a woman who always gets her way. ‘You can’t do this to me! I’ll be the laughing stock of the church.’

‘I can and will unless you sign the divorce papers.’

‘Oh, you are so horrible. You want to take half of my lovely house and money, leaving me a pauper. It is so unfair.’

‘What are you talking about you stupid bitch? I don’t want anything from you — certainly not this awful house. And I don’t need your money. All I want is to go and live in a small house in town where I’m near the church and shops and life.’

‘You really don’t want half my money and the house?’

‘No! I mean yes. I mean I don’t want them.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so! I’d have signed the silly form ages ago if I’d realised. I’ve been wanting to get rid of you for years but didn’t know how to do it. Quick, where are the papers?’

‘It’s always the same,’ Hale said with a sigh. ‘Communication. If humans would only learn how to communicate, most of their problems would disappear.

The papers were produced, Caterina signed, Hale and Mort witnessed the signatures, Hale keeping his finger over Mort’s name until the paper was folded away, and Caterina smiled.

‘Ah! Such a relief.’ She turned to Massimo. ‘Where do you want to live, darling?’

‘With Dad.’

‘What a sensible decision.’

‘Calypso wants to see the dressing room, Mum,’ Massimo said dragging Mort through a doorway.

Caterina’s smile continued to grow. ‘When will you be going, Midas? Are you going to strike while the iron’s hot and all that stuff?’

‘Yes, we’re going tomorrow. I bought a house months ago in anticipation of this happy day.’

‘That was clever of you. But the church will continue as before?’

‘Exactly the same only better probably. People were beginning to gossip about us still being married after eighteen years. We’re supposed to be a modern church for the twenty-first century, so as more than half of all marriages end in divorce after seven years, it behoves us to mend our ways.’ He turned to Hale. ‘Don’t worry, your concerts will progress exactly as planned — and you will get paid.’

‘Of course he’ll get paid! What on earth are you talking about, Midas?’

‘Nothing, dear. Well, I think it’s time our guests went home. Would you be so good as to see to it?’

‘Of course, darling.’ Wearing a grin fit to split her face, Caterina went to tell her girlfriends the good news — she was free to turn the house and grounds into a quasi nunnery for all the single, and wannabe single females of their enlightened church. And she would be Mother Superior: or Lover Superior. She would personally teach every novice a dozen ways to reach orgasm. The possibilities were legion.

‘How can I thank you both?’ Midas asked, looking round. ‘Where are Massimo and Calypso Don’t tell me they’re snogging in my dressing room.’

‘Okay, I won’t.’

At that moment two naked young men entered, one pale, tall, lean and sexily hairy, the other slim, tough, yellowish brown and smooth with shoulder length thick black hair.

‘What the… who are... No! Don’t tell me... You’re…’

‘Calypso,’ Mort growled in as deep a voice as he could manage. ‘Fuck it’s bloody hard work being a female. Never again! And that’s a promise. By the way, Midas, You’ll be pleased to know your son’s a brilliant kisser and can spray his sperm about a metre. You’ll have to wash that blue shirt, I’m afraid.’

Midas laughed till the tears ran, thanked his guests again and invited them to visit his new bachelor pad when picking up the concert details and going over final details.

74 Performing

The schools of the church of FUMUTIE were all built to the same ground plan — two-storied blocks of classrooms on three sides of a quadrangle, the fourth side closed off by an impressive auditorium that seated seven hundred; used as an assembly hall, gymnasium and theatre. In front of the main auditorium doors, four broad steps led from a wide patio to ground level. In the centre of the quadrangle was a waist-high circular wall of stuccoed concrete. The five-metre-diameter well thus formed, was lined with blue tiles and contained water, aquatic plants and an impressive collection of ornamental fish. The roofs of the classrooms on either side were connected by arched metal rods, over which was dragged cream canvass awnings on hot sunny days. Wide arched passageways between ground floor classrooms on all three sides side gave access to and from the quadrangle.

As there was insufficient height on the stage in the hall for Hale’s performances, it was decided to cover the central circular aquarium with a solid temporary lid on which he would perform. The performers in the first half of the program were unhappy with the idea of being surrounded on all sides by an audience, so they would perform on the wide flat area at the top of the steps in front of the assembly hall. At interval, patrons would be told to turn their seats so they faced the circular stage in the middle.

Midas was delighted, because the quadrangle could hold many more people than the auditorium, thus increasing his profits; and by creating a theatre in the round, everyone’s view of Hale’s performances would be dramatically improved. Lighting with focussed spots mounted in the surrounding classrooms was easy to arrange, and the pool had it’s own electricity outlet for a sound system. The canvass sunshields would be used to protect the audience from the unlikely possibility of rain at that time of year.

Mort turned seventeen, but decided not to mention it; sixteen sounded more romantic.

At Mort’s suggestion, Hale painted the top bars of the frame matt black. They tried it one evening after dark and the effect was spectacular. When Hale shot up and did a handstand or any other activity on the top bar, he appeared to be suspended in space. During the dress rehearsal at the school they worked out where to place the lights so Hale was illuminated, but the bar wasn’t, ensuring maximum effect.

During the two weeks before the first show, Mort practised hard and managed some relatively easy but impressive looking balancing acts with Hale, on the bar as well as the stage. It was decided that Mort, in street clothes, would sit with the audience next to the main entrance. When Hale asked for someone to toss him up the balls for juggling, Mort would stand and be chosen, then he’d run up onto the stage and do it so well that Hale would ask the audience if it was okay to teach Mort a couple of tricks. They would be delighted, imagining a disaster. When it was successful, there’d be amazement, disbelief and something else to talk about and attract future audiences.

The first concert was a sell-out success. After watching an amusingly incompetent magician, listening to a flute concerto, being astonished by a hypnotist, having their ears hammered by a pop band, and their heart strings painfully plucked by a bunch of girls who called themselves the Harmony Singers, they were ready for interval. Changing their seats around added to the excitement.

Everyone was seated and the only person on stage was a technician in overalls, apparently making last minute adjustments. Suddenly, total blackout, setting off giggles of excitement and hushed whispers. The spotlights gradually increased in intensity. The stage was still apparently empty when the music started — a jolly, light-hearted orchestral introduction to tinkling mandolins; an amusing, delicate, knowable melody, harmonic; calculated to make everyone feel happy, at ease and free to enjoy.

From the first gasp of astonishment at Hale’s opening leap and balancing acts to the last triple somersault and his final bow, the audience was on the edge of their seats, gasping, laughing, clapping spontaneously, sighing in relief when it went well, and involving themselves totally with this beautiful man. Mort, performing in sneakers, jeans, T-shirt and a cute cap to conceal his long hair, generated laughs and applause that followed him all the way back to his seat.

After the show, Midas assisted them to dismantle the apparatus. ‘One thousand and two people paid forty dollars a ticket to see you. You’ll make me a millionaire. Thanks, both of you.’

It’s thanks to your blanket advertising, Midas. Your PR is brilliant. How many photos were sold?’

‘Those who hadn’t bought some at interval insisted we re-open the souvenir shop and every single remaining photo went. Hundreds of people promised to return for the next show. We may have to extend the season. Are you up for it?’

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow. But probably.’

Success continued and increased, if that were possible, until the thirteenth performance. Just before it was time for Mort to go on stage, a heavy man dressed in military gear and wielding a semi-automatic rifle, burst in and fired a shot into the air from right beside Mort’s chair, nearly deafening him.

‘You’ll all go to hell!’ he shouted. ‘Nudity is an offence to god!’ He raised the rifle, pointed it at Hale who seemed to be transfixed on the top bar, and fired a round just as Mort dived at him, slamming a fist into the side of his head.

Hale tumbled sideways as if in slow motion, then fell to the stage with a thump and lay still.

The gunman turned groggily to face his attacker, raised his rifle, then someone grabbed him from behind and attempted to pin his arms. The gunman swung round, shook him off and slammed the butt of the rifle into his face. Mort took his chance, picked up the metal chair he’d been sitting on and slammed it onto the back of the gunman’s head. The chair leg snapped off, so he stabbed furiously, opening up a fair sized hole that began to leak copious quantities of blood. Then without pausing Mort raced onto the stage where Hale was still lying, and knelt beside him. Hale opened an eye.

‘Is it safe to come out?’

‘You’re not hurt?’

‘Skimmed my shoulder, nothing serious, but I damaged something when I fell. What about you?’

‘I think I killed him.’

‘Then get the hell out of here! Go! No one knows you. Run all the way home — I’ll see you there.’

Mort was already gone.

Three hours later when the police had completed their questioning, the dead man had been removed, the injured patched up and three conflicting descriptions of the young man who disposed of the gunman had sufficiently confused the police, Hale returned home. Mort, who was somewhat footsore after a forty-kilometre jog was only a few minutes in front of him.

And that was the end of the concerts.

A week later when Hale’s broken ribs, bruises and torn ligament were on the mend he announced his retirement from the entertainment industry — at least for a while.

‘I feel like going on holiday. Let’s go and find your father. What was the name in your mother’s book?’

‘Archibald Lintel.’ Mort frowned. ‘Even if it’s him I doubt he’d be interested.’

‘Give him a ring and find out.’

‘Would you really like to come with me?’

‘I’ve nothing better to do. Go on! Where’s your sense of adventure?’

‘Ok. But don’t listen.’

‘Ring from over there.’

Ten minutes later Mort returned to the verandah where Hale was relaxing with a book.

‘Well?’

‘He said it could have been him; he knew Perdita intimately. He said we’ll have to have blood tests.’

‘And?’

‘He said to call him Arch. He’s an architect; will design anything from toilet blocks to towns. Works from home. Married a couple of years ago to a younger woman called Calumnia. Didn’t seem too happy.’

‘About you ringing?’

‘No, he was excited about that. About his marriage. It wasn’t anything he said, I could just sense it. He invited us both to come and stay.’

‘Me too? Did you tell him you’re queer?’

‘Yeah. That’s when I realised he wasn’t too pleased with his new wife. He said, lucky you. Then he asked if I had a boyfriend. I said I had a friend but he wasn’t a boy. He said no matter, bring him along too.’

‘Interesting. So where is he and when are we going?‘

‘He’s way up in Far North Queensland. I said we’d take off tomorrow and be there in about a week, because I want to call in and see Marshall on the way.’

Hale laughed. ‘You sure don’t let the grass grow. You’ll have to do most of the driving. Will Marshall want to see me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then let’s get packing.’

75 Heading North

They took secondary roads so Mort could see the countryside he had flown blindly over two and a half years before. The sight wasn’t inspiring. Endless, monotonous, unimaginative coastal suburbia followed by interchangeable towns separated by flat, dull farmland. Next time he’d take the motorway — or fly.

Marshall and Angelo were thrilled to see Mort again and demanded a run down of his life. They received an edited version that they still found unbelievably exciting. To Mort’s delight they were still as obviously in love as when he left. When he mentioned this, Marshall glanced at Angelo and grinned. ‘For me, every day with Angelo is the first day, and brings a wave of relief that I found him... thanks to you.’

Angelo kissed him on the cheek. ‘Such sweet words.’ He turned to Mort. ‘Marshall is my other half without whom life would be meaningless.’ He caught Mort’s eye and laughed. ‘Yes, I know there’s no meaning in life, but I hope you find what you helped me to find.’

The politeness with which they welcomed Hale turned to genuine pleasure when they discovered he and Mort were only casual lovers bound by nothing more than friendship. The following day the four friends hiked up to the spectacular lookout where Mort had opened Angelo’s inner eye, then later that evening while walking to a restaurant for a celebratory meal, Hale saw an advertisement in a Travel Agent’s window. An excellent deal on an open ticket, business class return to Santiago, Chile, plus an unlimited mileage, open ticket valid for all major South American Airlines.

‘I wanted you to meet my father.’

‘And I will. But that’s the sort of meeting where it’s essential you are completely yourself with no observers to make either of you self-conscious. It’s going to be difficult enough without me distracting you. I’ve been wanting to revisit South America and now’s my chance.’

‘What about the van?’

‘I’m trusting you to take care of it till I get back in six weeks — or so.’

‘Brilliant!’ Well, you’d better get packing.’

‘I’ll only take an overnight bag and buy stuff as I need it.’

‘Send me progress reports.’

‘Of course.’

After leaving Hale at the airport, Mort discovered that four days had been exactly the right amount of time to impose himself on his guardian. His experiences had made him too independent to tolerate as much parental concern and caring as Marshall felt obliged to offer, so with their best wishes and an instruction to return and stay longer next time, Mort set off intending to spend at least two relaxed days on the road, sleeping under the stars or in the back of the van if it rained.

Meanwhile, nearly a thousand kilometres further up the coast, Archibald Lintel roared up the ramp from the basement car park and shot out onto the road narrowly missing a pedestrian. Scantily clad tourists jostled locals. Harassed mothers dragged toddlers across the road as if unaware of traffic. Females in skimpy frocks and strappy sandals queued at hole-in-the-wall sandwich bars. Their male counterparts in shoes and socks, long trousers, white shirts and ties, hovered like marsh flies waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

Ten minutes later he was speeding through a suburban wasteland of corner stores, cheap, unlined concrete-block houses, power poles, mown lawns and little else. As he drove, the mild headache that had troubled him all day morphed into an intolerable pounding in his skull. Oh for the ability to turn the clocks back!

A nervous disquiet like a malignant growth crept through him. He ground his teeth. Gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white. Suddenly slammed on the brakes forcing the following driver to sound his horn and swerve violently. Shaken, he shook his head as if to clear it, sucked in a gigantic sigh and sagged back in his seat.

Returning home after a day in the city used to unwind his tensions, relax muscles and bring a smile. Problems with clients, builders, councils, surveyors, would slip from his mind as he relaxed at home beside the pool. But now the thought of returning to Oasis triggered a gut-level urge to smash everything and howl impotent rage.

On autopilot he drove through a shopping centre then turned down a short lane on his left, stopping at a pair of wrought iron gates at which he stared as if he’d never seen them before. With a shake of his head and spinning tyres he turned the car and sped back the way he’d come.

The guard who’d been watching his approach shook his head. ‘Lintel must have forgotten something,’ he muttered, entering the incident, time and date into the Oasis Gatehouse Log.

Twenty minutes later Arch was sitting on the edge of a sandstone bluff overlooking a calm sea dotted with heads wearing masks and snorkels. In his hand a scrap of paper on which he'd copied a sentence from Somerset Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence. “There is no cruelty greater than a woman’s to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she has only an insane irritation.”

The sea view did nothing to relieve Archibald’s tensions, which had nothing to do with a contract he was pretty certain to lose, or the school holidays with noisy estate children cluttering the grounds. His reluctance to return home had deeper roots — roots from which he could see no possibility of extricating himself.

‘I'm only thirty-two,’ he muttered angrily. ‘I can’t tolerate another forty years of purgatory. The fucking bitch!’ He slammed his fist into the rock, skinning his knuckles. ‘The fucking cow! Fucking spiteful bitch whore…’ He clenched his teeth, spat and continued the silent mental flagellation that had been gradually increasing for the past year. It wasn’t as if he hadn't been warned before the marriage two years ago. He accepted it was his own fault for believing a woman instead of his friends; but that didn’t help.

‘Why shackle yourself to a woman who’ll spend all your money and then take off?’

‘Marriage is slavery.’

‘You’ll have a mother in law and her family hanging around instead of your friends.’

‘She’ll want kids and they’ll just moan and complain that you’re mean if you don’t give them everything they want.’

‘Calumnia’s not your type.’

‘What interests do you share? None.’

‘She’s only after your money.’

‘You’re thirty and she’s only nineteen, for fuck’s sake!’

‘Step back and take a good look at yourself before leaping into the fire!’

Arch had taken what he thought was a good look at himself and seen a reasonably attractive, fit, thirty-year-old architect, financially successful; educated, interested in the environment and the arts, middle class and rising. Nothing had gone wrong in his life so far, so it was improbable, if not impossible for problems to arise in the future that he wouldn’t be able to handle.

Considering his qualities he’d thought it perfectly natural that a beautiful, innocent young woman would fall in love with him. ‘I’d fall in love with myself if I were a girl,’ he had whispered smugly to his mirror, not realising he'd already done that when he was twelve.

He accepted that all work and no play for the previous fifteen years had made him somewhat set in his ways, but he got on famously with his sister and mother. Surely Calumnia’s youth and inexperience was a plus? He'd be able to mold her into the perfect loving wife and mother he deserved. He’d always wanted a child, preferably a son, and it was now or never.

The first year had been pleasant — for Arch. Naively he’d assumed it was the same for Calumnia. After all she never complained — apart from the occasional grumble about his feeble sexual performances. That had hurt, as had her insistence that she didn’t want a child.

‘Ours is a marriage of minds,’ he would state with increasing uncertainty whenever Hercules Buff, his best friend and Activities Manager, casually asked if all was well at home. ‘Calumnia and I have the sort of relationship that lasts.’

His hesitant smile was that of a man who, although cynical about humanity in general, was prepared to make an exception for a beautiful young woman who said she loved him.

Hercules, who both pitied and envied his innocence, would change the subject.

Then six months ago the sky had fallen in during dinner when Arch had calmly suggested his wife cut down a little on her expenses.

‘You’re a selfish pig!’ Calumnia shouted, jumping angrily to her feet, knocking her chair sideways and breaking his grandmother’s antique vase.

There was no apology.

An icy chill descended.

In an effort to restore harmony Arch apologised as if he’d been at fault for suggesting Calumnia was a spendthrift. To his astonishment, during a veritable barrage of shouted complaints, curses and insults, he learned he had been at fault ever since their first date when he had failed to admire her hair, right up to this current insinuation that she was improvident. His wife, it became apparent, had been hoarding every perceived insult, defect, shortcoming, vice… just waiting for the right time to offload them. A deluge of hurts that boiled down to one simple fact; Arch had ruined her life by taking her away from her happy single life to this isolated prison camp, so he must be punished.

Every calming utterance he attempted, increased her fury until she began slashing at him with the carving knife. He easily held her off, but she screamed he was hurting her, raced from the room and barricaded herself in their bedroom. In miserable silence Arch did the dishes then retired to the spare room, literally too frightened to attempt to enter the one they shared.

That was the end of the fairytale. From that moment everything changed. Since that day they had slept in separate rooms and shared nothing except the dining table. It was unpleasant, but possible, and if things had remained like that he could have coped. But they hadn’t.

Arch sighed and replaced the quotation in his wallet. He’d given up trying to understand his wife. Indifference he could cope with, but not war! Marriage was supposed to have ups and downs but after honest reflection he admitted his had been mostly downs. And then a few weeks ago in an effort at rapprochement he made what he thought was a joke about her tennis lessons. It backfired. Calumnia’s face closed and she hurled her plate at Arch’s head. It did no damage apart from splattering him with gravy.

‘No one makes fun of me!’ she’d shouted, retreating to her room. Arch apologised through the door. No response. He’d begun to wonder if she was crazy, flying off the handle over nothing. He wandered out to the garden and sat on a deck chair, too miserable to even think.

About half an hour later the front door chimes tinkled. He was on his way to see who it was when Calumnia appeared, wrapped her arms around him, pressed herself against his chest and took hold of his hands, then quickly ran to the door, throwing it open and sagging to the floor, sobbing incoherently, splattered with blood.

Two police officers barged in, grabbed Arch, frisked and handcuffed him, and told him to lie on the floor. A policewoman supported Calumnia who was bleeding from a wound on her head and arm and apparently on the point of collapse.

‘Mr. Lintel, you are charged with attacking your wife and causing her grievous harm. You must come with us to the station.’

‘I did nothing!’ Arch shouted. ‘She must have done it to herself!’

‘Then how come you're covered in blood?’

Arch gazed in fury at the blood on his shirt and hands. ‘While you were ringing the bell she came rushing at me and wrapped her arms around me… that’s how!’

‘Liar!’ screamed Calumnia, apparently hysterical with fear as she gazed at her own bloodied hands. Blood trickled from her head, down her neck and cheek. ‘You tried to murder me!’

The policewoman stepped outside to call for an ambulance.

‘Who telephoned Emergencies?’ the constable asked. ‘

‘I did,’ Calumnia sobbed. ‘I managed to escape from him, locked myself in the bedroom and phoned from there.’

Arch was taken to the station in the police car and the policewoman accompanied Calumnia to the hospital in the ambulance. Three hours later her wounds had been bathed, dressed and pronounced superficial. She was given tranquillisers and driven home where she gave a statement and was asked if she wanted to press charges. If she did, then the courts could impose a restraining order on her husband, forbidding him to return home. Did she want that?

Calumnia decided she didn’t. The police station was informed. Arch was released with a warning that should they receive another such complaint they would be pressing charges whether his wife wanted to or not. He arrived home in a taxi, exhausted but not quite defeated.

Defeat came a few weeks later when Calumnia informed him crudely that she had a lover, much better than Arch had ever been as he could keep his cock stiff for hours. Arch’s offer of a divorce had been greeted with hysterical laughter. Only a fool kills the goose that lays the golden eggs. Her lover was as poor as a church mouse. And if Arch had any ideas about forcing a divorce he’d better remember the warning from the cops. One more attack and he'd be in prison for years, and the divorce settlement would bankrupt him!

Arch gazed out at the blue sky, turquoise water, and blindingly white sand. It all looked so rational and calm. He shook his head in despair at his own folly. He should have been honest with himself and left her when he first suspected all she wanted was an uncomplaining and undemanding provider of food, shelter, perpetual admiration and constant mea culpas. As a youth he’d seen older men cowering before their wives, and despised them, not realising it was a condition of wedlock. Lock indeed! And the woman has the key. Marriage might suit some men, but Arch belatedly realised he wasn’t one of them. His friends had been right.

And then he’d received a phone call from a young man who said he was Perdita’s son, and wondered if he might be Arch’s as well. Perdita — his first fuck. The only girl he’d really liked. The first time he’d done it with her he’d been the fourth after three other guys. They called her a slut but he’d felt sorry for her. And then she’d asked him to do it alone, and they used to go to the old boat shed. He’d liked Perdita. She was tough, but they shared a similar sense of dislocation; the knowledge that they didn’t really belong. And then she left school. Pregnant. Everyone except Arch, who was certain it was he who had put the baby in Perdita, seemed to forget about her.

Months later, in a fit of romantic fervour he’d told his father he loved Perdita and wanted to leave school and marry her to look after her and the baby. His father hadn’t laughed, he’d looked sad and told Arch that she and the baby had died in childbirth. Arch had been inconsolable for weeks; filling the gap with study and more study, becoming a successful, confirmed and more or less contented bachelor, until Calumnia set her sights on him.

The Pacific Ocean was still there, calmly uninterested in his woes. A faint breeze ruffled the hairs on his arms. Gulls wheeled above, intent on their own wellbeing. Without warning the strongest emotion he'd ever experienced ripped through him leaving him gutted with one crystal clear thought in its place. He loathed his wife! Detested her ability to twist everything he said and did to place him in a bad light. Hated her inflexibility. Was repelled by her cunning and treachery. She had planned to get him, then stolen his life and cuckolded him, spending his money on some poor idiot with a constant hard on. He didn’t want to know who. It was too degrading.

His heart pounded in neck and temples; head felt ready to burst. He took several deep slow breaths because he didn’t want to die yet. Not until he’d avenged himself. But how? Was it possible that the young man really was his son? Would... could... was it likely that he might help him? He’d be seventeen. If he was anything like his mother he’d be a force to reckon with. Arch smiled for the first time in weeks. Mortaumal, he’d said his name was. Death to evil. Odd, but he liked it. Perhaps it was an omen. He grunted a soft laugh. He’d never been superstitious and wasn’t about to start. The kid probably was his, but until he was sure he’d tell him nothing. See if he could work out for himself what sort of mess his presumed father was in.

Feeling pathetic and despising himself for it, he returned to his car and drove home, still thinking about Perdita’s boy. Wondering if he’d want him as a son. Or more importantly if the kid would want him as a father.

76 Oasis

[Excerpt from the brochure sent to prospective purchasers of the strata title residences.]

“Oasis ™ is a secure, forty hectare gated estate containing thirty-eight owner-designed villas, each surrounded by a high wall enclosing a private pool and two thousand square metres of well tended garden. These luxury abodes nestle into expertly maintained parklands and ancient rainforest.

The social centre of this earthly paradise is The Forum, which is comprised of five award-winning architectural gems designed to appear like ancient classical ruins. A playground and sports field contained within a mini Colosseum. An ancient Greek temple that encloses two top-class tennis courts. A large free-form swimming pool masquerading as a Roman Bathhouse in a rainforest, surrounded by smaller temples — changing rooms, sauna, and a gymnasium. And a replica of a circular Roman Temple that houses a theatre with professional lighting, stage and dressing rooms. Suites attached to the temple are ideal for social activities such as bridge and other card and board games, flower arranging, seminars or a thousand other uses.

The remaining thirty-five hectares of the estate is old growth rainforest, containing what are possibly the last examples of the forest giants that once covered almost the entire eastern seaboard of this island continent.

Two Mediterranean-styled cottages behind the Colosseum are the abodes of the Grounds Manager, Doug Verdi, and the Director of Social and Sporting Activities, Hercules Buff.

In Oasis™, security is paramount. The entire perimeter is surrounded by a three-metre high, chain-link fence topped by high-tension electric wires. It is guarded twenty-four/seven by security cameras linked to state of the art computers and constantly monitored alarms. The only entry to Oasis™ is through the main gates, which can be opened either with fingerprint touch pads, iris recognition cameras, or manually operated by the armed concierge in the gatehouse. No security personnel enter the estate unless sent for. No visitors will be admitted without the personal guarantee of a resident. Crime is unknown in Oasis. Emergency personnel and their vehicles can enter only if sent for by a resident or the concierge, once their authenticity is established.

Services: A silent electric railway runs through a secure ‘tunnel’ behind every house to the Forum. The single small carriage is used to convey service personnel to individual houses and/or communal buildings. All service personnel such as maids, cleaners, personal assistants etc. must undress in a special room attached to the gatehouse, be security checked, then don the required uniform before being transported by rail to the residence’s tradesperson’s entrance, which is connected to the train via a secure passageway. This ensures that no one but residents and their guests has access to the grounds of the estate.”

[Excerpt from Archibald Lintel’s unpublished memoir: A Personal & Private History of Oasis.]

“The first people to buy into Oasis were a young Sydney couple with inherited wealth, looks, intelligence and health. Until moving to Oasis the husband held a position of responsibility in the family importing company that occupied most of his time. His wife spent her days at the gym, shopping, playing tennis, boring her therapist, swimming, gossiping, having her hair and nails done, her fortune told, going to the cinema, playing golf, playing bridge, pottering in the garden. I the few hours left for recreation their social calendar was full with dinners, parties, picnics, theatre, horse racing…’.

By the age of twenty-eight the moral emptiness of their lives began to tell on their marriage. A brief flirtation with religion replaced the void with a vacuum. Alcohol and other social drugs were poisoning and depressing millions of brain and other essential cells. Wondering if a baby would improve matters, they were on their way to their isolated country cottage to make one, when the car broke down. Instead of phoning for assistance, they decided to continue on foot, taking a shortcut through a national park.

Three days later, dehydrated, exhausted but strangely euphoric they stumbled into the cottage where they assuaged monumental thirsts, ate sparingly and talked and listened to each other for several days in a genuine effort to discover the real person they’d married. To their mutual astonishment, they liked what they found and made a list of things that were essential for a good life. The list contained only two things…. to live in nature in exactly the way they wanted, not how other people expected them to live.

This meant leaving the old life behind. The family firm had an office in Far North Queensland that the husband could take over, so they drove up, and when looking for a place to live, discovered Oasis. The communal buildings were complete, and house blocks available. They loved what they saw and described the sort of house they wanted. I drew up plans, which they approved, and within weeks they were living in paradise.

The pregnant wife then took it upon herself to fill the remaining thirty-six residence blocks with compatible couples, via an attractive Internet site designed to lure people with similar interests and wealth. Within six months the remaining lots were sold and the individually designed houses were under construction.

By the end of the following year, Oasis had become a community of like-minded people who asserted their independence and difference from the usual run of human communities, by deciding at their first meeting to classify all residents as Patricians who, when in public, must always observe the Highest Standards of speech, cleanliness, and behaviour. A further requirement written into the Oasis Rule Book was that as long as the Standards were maintained, each family would be free to live as they pleased, no matter how aristocratically eccentric, without fear of ridicule.”

77 Mortaumal meets Archibald

Mort took his time, made side trips, saw most of the things the tourist brochures suggested, deliberately formed no opinions, enjoyed being alone, sorted out his ideas, hopes and plans, slept in a cane field the first night, beside a small stream in a tiny patch of preserved forest with a sign threatening extermination if caught camping, on the second, and in the low sand hills of a beach on the third.

He arrived in the city that contained his presumed father just before midday, bought a takeaway lunch and ate it on the waterfront, tossing scraps of bread to the seagulls. Nerves and hunger placated, he phoned Archibald Lintel and was given directions to a doctor’s surgery where they met, shook hands, chatted easily about nothing in particular until blood tests and a DNA swab were taken, then afterwards in a cafe they got down to business.

‘You’re very like Perdita in looks... but…’ Archibald gave a self-conscious grin, ‘less aggressive.’

‘You sound as if you liked her.’

‘I did. She was the only person at school I felt as if I had anything in common with. We didn’t talk much, neither of us were talkers, but we felt comfortable together.’

‘You’re the first person I’ve known who liked her. When I first met her I was fourteen and she was a selfish, greedy, bitch. I lived with her for a couple of years and she didn’t change.’

‘You said she died?’

‘Yes. Fell out of a window while looking at lightning.’

‘You don’t sound sad.’

‘I was delighted!’

‘How did you get my number?’

‘Perdita kept your name in a notebook of her clients. She’d surrounded it with lacy squiggles and little stars, so I guessed you were special. I did a search and, although you had moved north, you came from the right area originally and were the right age. Then I used the telephone directory and phoned. You sounded pleasant.’

Arch smiled softly. ‘Perdita was special to me too. So even if you aren’t my son I’m glad I’ve met you. But you probably are. I was the only one who had regular sex with her, and the only one she’d let do it without a condom. She said she was taking precautions, but obviously she wasn’t. I wanted to marry her, but my father told me she and the baby died at birth. No one seemed to know — or to care for that matter... apart from me.’

Mort was visibly shocked. ‘That’s horrible. Why would he lie to you?’

‘He wanted me to stay at school. Perdita had a bad reputation and he didn’t want me getting involved. I was only fifteen, remember. He didn’t take me seriously.’

‘Adults don’t. But a fifteen year-old’s feelings are as valid and true as an adult’s.’

‘Yes. But there’s no point in opening up old wounds. I thought you were bringing a friend?’

‘He decided to go to South America for six weeks instead. Left me his van.’

‘Must trust you.’

‘We trust each other.’

‘But you’re not…’

‘We’re very good friends.’

‘Well, I guess it’s time for you to see where I live and meet my wife.’

‘Does she know I’m coming?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure it isn’t going to be a problem?’

‘Absolutely certain. I phoned her on my way to meet you at the surgery. Said a long forgotten cousin had turned up. When I told her you were a personable young man she insisted you stay with us. So if you don’t mind I’ll introduce you as my cousin from Brisbane. Calumnia’s a bit volatile and wouldn’t take kindly to the news that I have a son.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘Yes.’ Archibald paused. ‘I’d like you and Calumnia to get along; things are a bit iffy at the moment. I don’t know who’s to blame. Perhaps I’m difficult and,’ he shrugged apologetically. ‘Already I’ve said too much.’

‘No you haven't. I understand. You’ve hit a rocky patch — that’s normal, and you’re wondering if there’s anything you can do about it. It’s to your credit. Usually people start by blaming everyone except themselves. As for being your cousin, that suits me. You look far too young to be my father!’ With a cheeky grin Mort reached across and stroked Arch’s cheek. ‘How often do you shave?’

‘What an odd question. A couple of times a week.’

‘When did you get pubic hair?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I’m yet to get any and I was wondering.’

‘Not till I was about your age — eighteen or nineteen, I forget when exactly. Perdita loved that I was hairless. She always said the other boys were animals but I was an angel.’

‘You do look slightly angelic. Actually, you’re very good looking; a bit like a Central European porn star — a combination of innocence and knowing ’

Arch grinned. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. The lack of hair’s possibly a coincidence so we’ll wait for scientific confirmation before celebrating.’

‘You won’t be annoyed at discovering you’re a father?’

‘The opposite! I’m sad I wasn’t there from the start, as I would have been if… come on, my car’s parked just down the road. I’ll wait in it until you come, then follow me.’

78 Mortaumal meets Calumnia

Arch parked just inside the open gates to Oasis, preventing Mort from driving his van in. He got out and waved to Mort to join him at the gatehouse where an armed guard and the concierge checked his identification and telephoned for a police security check on Mortaumal Aywun, which gave Mort a jolt. His relief when he discovered he wasn’t wanted showed on his face.

The concierge glared at him. ‘You look as if you expected us to discover criminal convictions!’

‘No, I drove through a red light in Rockhampton and was glared at by a cop on the other side. It seems he didn’t report me — or didn’t get my number.’ As an extempore lie Mort thought it was rather fine. The concierge obviously considered him a criminal. She harrumphed, took his fingerprints, issued him with a passkey, nodded, and bid them both an unsmiling good day.

‘Serena has a heart of gold, so I’ve been told. But she always makes me feel I’ve been a naughty boy. At least she’s reliable. We’ve had no unauthorised entries since she arrived seven years ago.’

Arch parked his Porsche in the garage beside a Mazda Sports, and waved Mort to a parking space at the side.

‘Better test your key,’ he said, standing back.

Mort slid it across and the door opened silently.

‘Impressive.’

Inside was white, smooth, light filled, and as tastefully furnished as a Modern Homes Exhibition showpiece. They followed the sound of a Television talking to itself.

Calumnia, swathed in something soft, long, pink and flowing, unwound from an armchair, stood and extended her hand as if expecting her guest to genuflect.

‘I’ve seen her before,’ was Mort’s first thought, before realising it was impossible. Calumnia was slim with dark hair that hung in loose twirly hanks to her shoulders. Eyebrows plucked to a high, thin arched line made her look permanently surprised. She didn’t need those glistening bright red lips. The long, black-lacquered fingernails looked dangerous but Mort bravely took hold of the flaccid hand, surprised when she suddenly tightened her grip and pulled him towards her, brushing cheeks in what she imagined was a continental kiss. Her breath was sour. At least she wasn’t wearing too much perfume.

‘Goodness, what a handsome young man,’ she announced as if surprised. ‘Despite that, there is a family resemblance. You both stand very straight and look as if you don’t believe what I’m saying.’

‘I don’t believe I’m handsome. But Arch is lucky to have such a beautiful wife.’

‘Thank you, Mortaumal.’

‘Please, call me Mort.’

‘As long as you don’t call me Cal.’ Her laugh was brittle and slightly off key. ‘Why have you come north?’

‘I’m looking for a job.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Oh, anything. I thought perhaps horticulture. I’m easy.’

‘Doug might have something for him,’ Calumnia said, turning to her husband.

‘Normally he would, but his son’s home from University and is helping him.’

‘No worries,’ Mort said cheerfully, I’ve saved a bit of money so I’m right for a while. It’s really great of you to let me stay, I won’t be a burden and can pay my way.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Arch said with a smile.

Calumnia gave him an unpleasant look.

‘Come on, I’ll show you your room and then we can take a tour. Do you want to come with us Calumnia?’

‘I’m meeting Ishbel for tennis in twenty minutes.’ She turned away, then as if on an impulse swung back and in a little girl’s voice simpered, ‘Oh, Arch, lets go to that Italian restaurant for dinner tonight, to celebrate Mort’s arrival.’

Arch shrugged to show he was easy. ‘I’ll phone for a table. ’

‘No need to sound so enthusiastic.’ She flounced out.

79 Mortaumal meets Oasis

‘I’d better make that phone call before I forget. Calumnia is not very forgiving of other people’s faults.’ Arch’s office was large, light filled and as neat and sterile as an operating theatre. One wall was dominated by a large drafting table, another by floor to ceiling chart drawers, and the third by a state of the art computer set-up. He made the call and hung up. No probs, they weren’t very busy.’

‘Why did you use a landline? I thought they were too old fashioned for the modern human; they don’t tell you your latitude and longitude or the temperature or where your nearest and dearest is phoning from. And there’s no camera or internet access, no way to plug them into your brain so you can hear the latest songs instead of birds or traffic... don’t tell me Oasis is stuck in the twentieth century!’

‘As far as cell phones go, yes. No one here likes them because they are far too invasive. It’s intolerable that husbands and wives, children and acquaintance can expect to contact you day and night, record what you say, know exactly where you are, and a thousand other things about you with their interfering gadgets. It’s Big Brother gone mad. One of the residents is an electronics whizz and set up a blocking wave, I think it’s called, that interferes locally with mobile phone signals. So we’re safe from that intrusion at least.’

Mort was grinning.

‘What’re you laughing at? I suppose you think we’re stupid?’

‘The opposite. It’s wonderful. I hate the damned things. I know I’m going to love this place. Now, show me this beautiful house.’

Half an hour later Mort had left his bag in the spare bedroom, admired the ultra chic modernity of everything, and was gazing longingly at the pool.

‘Take a swim.’

‘I’ve no togs.’

‘We don’t wear them at home.’

‘Brilliant.’ He stripped and dived in. Arch sat in a deck chair and watched.

‘Come on in.’

‘I’m suddenly shy.’

‘Why.’

‘I don’t like comparisons. You’re so... I was going to say beautiful, but you aren’t really. Your body looks like we always hope bodies should look, but never do. Cellini’s Perseus is the nearest I can think of.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘I’ll show you a print later.’

‘Come on, Archibald, don’t make me come and get you. I’m tougher than I look.’

‘Yes, you actually do look dangerous.’

‘I will be, if you don’t come in!’

Arch stripped and joined Mort swimming lengths.

‘The internet article said you’d designed this place.’

‘Did they make any criticism of it?’

‘Said it was Mediterranean pseudo classical, or something.’

‘The Architects Journal said was the tackiest, most pretentious, kitschest collection of buildings ever erected in the state. But I like it. My current designs are the opposite — practical, modestly priced and boring.’

‘I love this house, so if the rest of Oasis is as good I can’t wait to see it.’

‘Calumnia likes it because it impresses her friends.’ Arch clambered out of the pool. ‘Come on then, let’s go see the rest of the place.’

Mort’s clothes didn’t fit the standards required for Oasis, so he joined Arch in his wardrobe and they donned clean shorts, well pressed shirts and neat leather sandals, then wandered down an avenue of flowering trees past a dozen or so villas invisible behind walls and dense planting. It was quiet; the only sounds came from birds and cicadas. In the distance a laugh and a faint splash. The avenue opened out to a paved area shaded by giant benjamina fig trees. Through the trees on all four sides could be seen what looked like classical ruins. He and Arch were the only people there.

‘This is amazing,’ Mort grinned. I feel as if I’ve gone back in time. It’s so quiet, there’s a ruin over there if I’m not mistaken, and it’s all so clean yet not sterile. I love it already! It feels…’ he sniffed the air. ‘It feels happy. Crazy, I know, but that’s how it makes me feel.’

‘You couldn’t have said a nicer thing if you worked on it for the rest of your life. As your reward I’ll take you to see an ancient Greek temple.’

They stood partially concealed by a couple of fluted columns and watched the players.

‘This is so wonderful, tennis courts in the house of a dead god. I’m sure he’d love it. Who’s Calumnia’s partner? They’re not very good.’

‘Don’t tell her, she thinks she’s a pro. Ishbel’s the only female resident who will have anything to do with her, that's why Calumnia’s seldom here. There’s a coven of the friends she knew before we married who live in a nearby suburb and gather at each other’s houses to gossip and cast spells.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I’m not sure. Now to the main pool.’

The path wound between rhododendrons in full flower until the vista opened and they were standing among an oval of columns surrounding a very large pool with a fountain at one side gushing water that burbled over rocks into the water. The sides were partially tiled, partially bordered by huge boulders between which grew slender palms.

‘That’s some pool! It looks like a lake in a Roman ruin in the forest. Shouldn’t those kids be at school?’

‘It’s holidays.’

‘Hey! That guy over there talking to the two girls is naked!’

‘That’s his official uniform.’

‘His skin?’

Arch grinned and nodded.

‘What about the kids?’

‘They’ve grown up with Hercules as the naked wild man they obey better than they do their parents. He’s an excellent Social Activities manager. We’d never get anyone as dedicated to replace him, so keep on his good side. I’d better introduce you in case he thinks you’re an intruder and buries you in the ruins.’

Hercules turned as they approached. He looked somewhere between thirty and forty, deeply tanned, built like a wrestler. Solid, broad shoulders, thick neck, powerful legs, arms, chest and abdomen. All body hair trimmed to about a centimetre. Sharply defined facial features would become attractively craggy in twenty years. Short curly hair and a neatly manicured moustache and beard enhanced a strong jaw line. He walked towards them. Everything in proportion, perfectly natural, genitals no more in need of covering than his elbows.

‘Hercules, I’d like you to meet my cousin who’ll be staying with me for a while. Mort, This is Hercules Buff’

Hercules encased Mort’s hand in a powerful grip and held on, eyeing him up and down without smiling. ‘Welcome.’

Mort gazed into the cold, pale blue eyes and felt a shiver of fear. ‘Thanks.’

With no indication of his intentions, Hercules suddenly released Mort’s hand and threw a punch straight at his face.

Reflexes tilted Mort’s head as he grasped the wrist and pulled down with all his strength. Hercules dropped to his knees and rolled onto his right side, dragging Mort with him, then rolled on top and pinned him to the ground. Mort looked up into amused eyes and was pulled to his feet.

‘That was brilliant, young man!’

‘Thanks. I realised too late you were going to pull the punch, sorry for over reacting.’

‘No, no. You did right. He who thinks is lost.’

‘How did you guess?’

‘Your stance when we shook hands — cautious, ready for anything.’

‘You’re smart.’

‘I keep my eyes open. How long are you staying?’

‘As long as Arch’ll have me.’

Hercules raised a questioning eyebrow at Arch.

‘As long as he likes. You gave me a bit of a shock there.’

Hercules nodded coolly and turned to Mort. ‘I’ve had several men asking for self-defence lessons, but I haven’t the time or expertise. Will you take it on?’

‘I’m not into that kung fu stuff with baggy trousers and things. And I’ve never taught anyone.’

‘But you’ve been taught. Well?’

‘I’ll give it a go, but I really only know how to maim and run.’

‘That’s what we want.’ He stood still and thought for a few seconds, then looked at Arch. ‘Can you vouch for this bloke?’ The question sounded remarkably like a snarl.

‘Yes, Hercules. If he blows up the place or rapes one of his pupils, I’ll take responsibility.’

Hercules turned to gaze back at the pool, then called a warning to two teenage boys running over the rocks. They stopped immediately. Turning back to Mort. ‘I’m run off my feet with the school holidays. Fancy giving me a hand? Arch will organise payment.’

‘Sure, but I don’t need paying.’

‘No paying; no job. I don’t want favours.’

‘That should be easy enough.’ Arch said thoughtfully. ‘Do you want Mort to wear the official uniform?’

‘It’s up to him.’

It took a second to sink in. ‘You’re on. I’ve always wanted to do nude self-defence. When do I start?’

‘Come to the office when you’re ready — Arch’ll show you where it is.’ Hercules turned abruptly and went back to guard the children swimming.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Arch asked with a slight frown. ‘When I said to keep on Hercules’ good side, I didn’t mean you had to work for him.’

‘I want to keep active. But he seems upset about something. Don’t you two get on?’

‘We don’t dislike each other.’

‘And that’s all you’re prepared to say on the subject?’

‘If we turn out to be family, I’ll fill you in.’

‘Fair enough. Where’s the theatre?

‘Follow me, and on the way I’ll explain about the lack of clothes. Hercules has been with Oasis since the beginning. An excellent worker, but occasionally when off duty he used to wander around naked. When the women complained he said there was nothing in his contract requiring clothes, and every now and again he had the urge to live like a natural animal. The residents had paid big money to buy into Oasis; it’s very exclusive and they call themselves Patricians, proving it by dressing well and behaving impeccably with exquisite manners. Most change for dinner and the children go to the best schools.’

‘Patricians? What’re they?’

‘The ancient Roman Upper classes, known for their lavish lifestyle, sleeping with their slaves of both sexes, and other decadent habits. Oasis is a bit like a theme park where the owners pretend they’re aristocrats. Look at those women over there, dressed to the nines, wearing hats and gloves just to play cards or watch their children play a game.’

So that’s why my clothes weren’t good enough. Am I an honorary patrician?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll have to keep borrowing your clothes.’

‘What’s mine is yours.’

‘Thanks. That woman’s wearing a toga thing. Beautiful hairstyle and jewellery.’

‘They do everything well because it makes them feel special.’

‘They are special.’

‘Yes, but at the beginning they only felt special for a while and then realised they could have had the same things for half the price elsewhere, and disappointment crept in.’

‘You say they. Aren’t you also a resident?’

‘Yes, but as well as my house I also own everything except the residential blocks. I bought forty hectares, that’s nearly a hundred acres of rainforest reasonably cheaply, intending to preserve it for posterity, but the local council didn’t like that idea, so upped the rates to force me to clear the forest and subdivide. I compromised by clearing a relatively small area and building the most expensive dwellings in the state at the time.’

‘So you’re worth a few dollars?’

‘Not unless I sell everything, which I won’t.’

‘Good. I love it here. But you were telling me about Hercules.’

‘At a meeting someone argued that as Oasis was still mostly original rainforest, having a naked savage in the grounds would make the place unique and very special indeed. A majority agreed so a couple of presentable Aborigines were invited to come every day and wander around naked with their boomerangs and throwing sticks. To the residents’ astonishment the two blokes threatened to sue us for the insult. So we paid them off and decided that Hercules would be better and cheaper. We offered him a revised contract making it compulsory for the Activities Manager to work naked. Hercules thought they were insane, but signed, and has never worn a stitch of clothing since, and we all feel very special indeed.

‘That’s wondrously bizarre.’

‘As Hercules says, it’s insane! But also funny and delightful and typical of the residents. I love them and I’m sure you will too once you get to know them. So... if you don’t mind being sky clad you can give him a hand.’

‘Sky clad?’

‘It’s what Indians say about naked Jains who wander around.’

Mort shrugged. ‘I’d prefer that to having to dress in my best every day. I’ll go see him in the morning.’

‘Good. Now... what do you think of that?’

‘Ha! Its the Colosseum where you throw Christians to the lions.’

‘No longer allowed, unfortunately.’

They moved into the shade of an archway and watched children swinging, climbing on frames and playing a ball game.

‘There’s enough grassed area for any sport. Some women play softball and there’s a game of cricket most weekends... but all just for fun... there are no competitions. Activity is for fun and keeping fit, not for scoring points and making losers feel rotten.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. Is that your idea?’

‘It is a condition Hercules laid down when he first started here.’

‘That makes me like him even more. What’s that?’ Mort couldn’t help laughing as they approached the circular Roman Temple. ‘It looks great, but it’s in ruins at the back.’

‘Those ruins are very cleverly disguised changing rooms and offices.’

‘I love it, but why have you made everything look like a semi ruin?’

‘Because all empires are built on the ruins of other cultures; our civilization as well. We’re actually in the process of destroying our current civilization along with most of the natural world.’

‘Deep, Archibald... very deep.’

‘Thanks. Come inside.’

Inside, ten semi-circular, creamy sandstone terraces rose steeply, giving excellent views onto an elaborate little stage that was fronted by a pedimented proscenium and royal blue curtains. Above the seating and stage, a domed roof appeared to float on creamy sandstone columns. Between the columns, statues of gods and goddesses gazed down, while above them circular windows filled the theatre with an amber glow.

‘This is a very beautiful space, Arch. You must be incredibly proud.’

‘Yeah, I am a bit.’

‘How many does it seat?’

‘Two hundred. We bring our own cushions.’

‘I can’t wait to see a show. I think you said Hercules’ office is here.’

‘Yes, in the fake ruins behind the stage are dressing rooms and the Activities Office where he hangs out. I’ll show you later. ’

‘Who cleans everything. The whole of Oasis is spotless. No litter, no dust and dirt. Everything I’ve seen is pristine.’

‘Every morning at one o’clock, a small electric train brings a dozen men who clean the buildings and common areas.’

‘What about security?’

‘They strip under surveillance cameras in a special building at the gate, take a shower, put on Oasis overalls, come in and work, then repeat the process when they leave at five o’clock.’

‘No women?’

‘Only because they refuse the security measures. The men like it because they can never be falsely accused of anything, and we pay them triple the going rate. As you can see they do a spectacular job.’

‘Very smart.’

‘It was Hercules’ idea.’

‘Honestly, Arch, I hope you are my father so I can say my dad designed this place, it is so utterly beyond anything I could ever dream of. I feel prosaic, dull and ordinary when I see this. No wonder everyone feels special living here. They are, it is, and so are you.

‘Mmm... damned by faint praise. But I guess its better than nothing.’

Mort laughed loudly. ‘You are so cool, Archibald! To make Oasis heaven on earth, is there anywhere I can go running?’

‘There’s a track just inside the boundary of the estate, hidden among the trees; its about eight kilometres. Long enough?’

‘Brilliant. I can’t wait to get running again. My legs feel as if they’re shrivelling away if I don’t give them a good pounding every couple of days. Do you jog?’

‘Never done it. Can’t see the attraction.’

‘Gives me an excuse to be on my own. By the way, you’re in bloody good shape for an oldie. How do you manage it?’

‘Thirty-two is not old, as you will one day discover! There’s an excellent Gymnasium just past the pool, but we’d better go, Calumnia hates being late for anything.

80 Dinner with Calumnia

Dinner in Calumnia’s favourite restaurant began more pleasantly than expected. She wore a simple dress, not too much makeup, spoke softly, and only bared her teeth once when Arch said he thought the lights were too dim. To the waiters she was charm itself; to the waitress she was civil.

The meal was tasty but a bit oily for Mort. When both he and Arch refused wine, Calumnia drank the entire bottle on her own, then ordered another.

‘Is your background Italian?’ Mort asked when she spoke to the wine waiter in what he assumed was that language.

‘My grandparents immigrated from Cagliari.’

‘Which is where?’

‘Sardinia.’

‘That’s how you got your beautiful olive skin.’

‘Most people don’t find it beautiful. How did you get yours?’

‘Grandfather from Asia. And I know what you mean. But Arch obviously likes your skin.’

‘Arch adores me, don’t you darling?’

The venom in her voice gave Mort goose bumps. He looked at Arch and was astonished to see a smile, although it lacked conviction.

‘I worship the ground you walk on, my precious.’

And that was the end of conversation for the evening. As soon as they arrived home, Calumnia went to her room, slammed the door and turned on very loud pop music that made the windows rattle. Arch came and sat with Mort while he made up his bed.

‘Living with Calumnia has made me understand why the Greeks allowed women to drink wine, but not to socialise with men, and the Romans allowed them to socialise, but refused to let them drink wine.’

‘Oh, Arch. I wish you could see your face. It isn’t the end of the world.’

‘Perhaps. You haven’t been here long. I hope you’ll not regret coming. Calumnia’s not the easiest person to live with. But Hercules seems to have taken to you, so at least you’ve something to occupy yourself. I do intend to spend time with you, but at the moment I’m engaged in three projects, all of which need me at the building site most days.’

‘Stop worrying. I’m looking forward to helping Hercules. I like being useful and learning things. And in my spare time I want to go jogging, use the gym, explore the forest, use the pool, and with the van I can check out the city and coast. There are tons of things to do until you have more time.’

‘That’s a relief, because I really do want you to stay.’ Arch got up to go.

‘Arch.’

‘Mmm?’

‘I hope you’re my father, but even if you aren’t I want you to know I like you as much as if you were.’

Arch gave a short laugh. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, that after only these few hours I feel exactly the same — except I hope you’re my son.’

81 Hercules Explains and Mort Fits in

The following morning Mort found Hercules in his office filling in the day’s program. He looked up and handed Mort a form.

‘Fill this in please Mort, the Body Corp needs it.’

‘What name will I put?’

‘Mortaumal. As you work for them I think it’s best if everyone calls you by your full name, it gives you gravitas. Keep Mort for close friends... as a reward. It makes your friends feel special.’

Mort grinned. ‘Yeah. That makes sense. I wondered why everyone calls you Hercules. I keep wanting to call you Herc. Does anyone?’

‘Only one. But I’ve been a bit careless with him and somehow he stopped and now calls me Hercules like everyone else and I wish…’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Get that form finished.’

Mort completed name, age etc then frowned over the final question. ‘It says: “Natural man: full time/part time; delete which doesn’t apply.” What does that mean?’

‘Choose whether you want to be like me, never wear a stitch of clothing when in Oasis, or only be natural when assisting me.’

‘That’s easy. Full time. I can’t be bothered being careful about what I’m wearing. ‘But what if I get a hard on?’

‘That’s natural, so never apologise; they’d hate that, it would spoil the illusion of us being totally natural men! They aren’t prudes, they’ve accepted their humanness and learned to be themselves and have fun without ruining their health or anyone else’s happiness. I love them.’

‘That’s a relief. So… I’ll get my gear off then?’

‘Might as well.’

Mort stripped, tossed his shorts and shirt onto the top of a set of shelves and grinned. ‘Won’t be needing them again. Oh Hercules! It feels so good to feel the air on my skin. Now I’m ready for anything. But what am I, patrician or plebeian?’

‘The same as me, a patrician with all rights and privileges who generously offers his services to his fellow patricians. I gather Arch has explained all that?’

‘Sort of, he reckons we live in a theme park in which residents are lords and ladies on their best behaviour. I love it; it’s so beautiful and civilized, like a toy village filled with humanoids. Are they real?’

‘Oh yes, and very well aware of what they’re doing. They’re not mad. It’s a fun game. At home they argue like every other family and the kids can be devious little pricks. Like all humans they’re sex mad. Wife swapping is popular. There’s a bloke in his fifties who runs sensitivity programs for men where they feel each other up in a darkened sauna. But it’s done in the best of all possible taste, like the theatricals.’

‘Real theatre?’

‘Yes. Very good amateur. Better than most professionals. I don’t know anyone who watches TV or videos; these are people who like to do things, not have things done for them, and they’re always reading, writing and putting on plays and concerts.’

‘Could I join? I’m crazy about theatre. I’d love to act and put on shows.’

‘Of course you will join them. What other skills have you any apart from self-defence and a love of theatre?’

‘Cross Country running, Fitness, Balancing tricks, I can swim pretty well, I love reading and wouldn’t mind helping kids who find it hard.’

Hercules was grinning. ‘You’re a treasure. I’m going to lock you up and keep you.’

‘Before the rest of us have met Archibald’s cousin?’

They looked up to see a wiry bronzed man in designer tracksuit and trainers, matching sweat band, heavy gold chains round neck and wrist. The curly light blond hair of his head contrasted spectacularly with the curly black hair escaping his tracksuit top. He thrust out a lean and beautifully manicured hand. ‘I’m Romulus, and you are Mortaumal I believe.’ His smile was disarming and full of perfect teeth.

They shook hands and Mort laughed. ‘You look superb, Romulus! I don’t think I have ever met anyone dressed more elegantly, not a sports club in the universe would refuse you entrance.’

‘Why thank you young man, and may I say that your physical form and skin are quite the most delightful I can recall. As I walked in I think I heard you say you like theatre?’

‘I love it.’

‘Excellent! I have a part made for you. Come to dinner tonight to meet my wife and sons and we’ll discuss it. Meanwhile, Hercules mentioned in passing last night that you are able to teach self defence?’

‘Yeah. Basic though.’

‘That’s what we want. So, shall we go? Two other men are waiting in the gymnasium.’

Mort turned to Hercules. ‘Is that okay , boss?’

‘Very okay. See you in an hour.

Teaching didn’t seem like work, it was too much fun and the hour passed in seconds. When the self-defence students left for their work in the city, Mort returned to Hercules and a fourteen year-old who had never learned to swim. An hour later he could dog paddle across the main pool and had promised to come for daily exercises with Mort to build up his arm and shoulder muscles. After a quick snack, Mort met fifteen retirees on stage where they taught him how to use the sound system, and he got them laughing and exercising to music.

After a lunchtime snack with Hercules in his cottage, he posed for ninety minutes for a group of artists, then on the grass in the Colosseum introduced seven teenagers to the rudiments of self defence.

Hercules had also been busy all day so they were ready for a jog around the perimeter track. Mort had expected a bulldozed swathe beside an unattractive security fence. Instead it was a narrow sandy track winding between giant trees, the fence invisible.

‘If trampers outside the property see a fence,’ Hercules explained, ‘they’ll want to find out what’s inside; if they don’t notice it, they won’t. Simple.’

‘You are so clever, Hercules. But about this dinner invitation; are you sure it’s okay to go naked to dinner with Romulus?’

‘He won’t let you in if you don’t. Make certain you are scrupulously clean, especially your groin, and smell fresh... of yourself or plain soap, not perfume or stale sweat. There’s pleasant natural, and unsavoury natural. You as I are always pleasant natural. Check your rear end carefully in a mirror just before leaving. I sometimes find little bits that shouldn’t be there. If you are offered a small towel to sit on, thank them graciously and make sure you use it! I often go to dinner with residents because I like them and we get on well. Having a naked guest bolsters their feeling that their lives are special. And I also feel special, as do you I suspect.’

Mort grinned. ‘I feel more special here than I have ever felt in my life. I love it.’

82 Mort Dances

Romulus’s mansion was based on an ancient Roman house plan. The solid wooden front door was opened by a pleasant, slightly swarthy man in an unadorned, shapeless, sleeveless tunic that reached to mid thigh. Feet bare. He nodded politely. ‘You must be Mortaumal; Romulus is expecting you. Please follow me.’

They passed through an atrium with a square tiled goldfish pool in the centre and a couple of what looked like altars with statues of gods on them on each side wall. Beyond that was a garden surrounded by a peristyle with a fountain in the centre, grass and flowers and several trees. An archway in the opposite wall led into a magnificent dining room.

Romulus’s tunic hung from a gilded clasp on his left shoulder, leaving his right arm and shoulder exposed, and was short enough to display magnificent dancer’s thighs and calves. It was made of the finest linen, bordered with gold thread in a complicated egg and dart pattern. Soft leather thongs protected the soles of his feet. He extended his hand, which Mort shook firmly.

‘Mortaumal, thank you for gracing our house with your presence. Allow me to introduce my wife, Romola, and my twin boys, Castor and Pollux.’

Romola’s garment resembled a pale blue silken sheet pinned over her right shoulder with a jewelled clasp. Her left breast was exposed, the nipple gilded. She was of average height, lean, but definitely not fragile. She shook hands like a man. The two identical boys who looked to be about ten years old, had close-cropped curly blond hair, creamy skin, bright blue eyes and were wearing tunics identical to their father’s. They shook hands seriously and offered to take Mort on a tour of the house.

‘Thanks, I’d like that.’

One of the boys ran to his room and reappeared offering a ticket. ‘This is your entry ticket, Mortaumal. Pollux and I will be your guides for today.’

Romulus and Romola smiled proudly as Mort was led away.

A wide archway in the wall of the dining room opposite the entry led into smaller walled garden onto which all the other rooms of the house opened. In the modern kitchen, the man who had opened the door to Mort was preparing dinner. He was introduced as Jack, smiled, but didn’t shake hands as they were sticky with food. After a tour of the house that elicited as much praise from their guest as it deserved, they returned to the dining room and reclined on couches around a low carved dining table. The food, served with silent good humour by the cook cum butler, was superb and the company more fun than expected.

‘What do you like about the theatre?’ Romulus asked?’

‘So far all I've really done is perform. When I was eleven I put on a short skit I designed and directed… but that’s all, and I go to the theatre whenever possible.’

‘Performing. That’s good because there’s a concert in two days. Romola is a professional dancer and needs a partner for a short ballet I choreographed and will direct. It’s not complicated, I'm sure you’ll easily be able to do it after watching you during our excellent introduction to self-defence this morning. We can run through it after dinner and, if you like it, we will rehearse properly tomorrow.’

‘That sounds sensible. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.’

While the servant cleared the table, did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen before taking the service train back to the gate, they moved to the lounge where the twins sprawled over chairs.

Romulus outlined the plot. ‘There are only two themes that underscore all successful human storytelling; conflict and sex. In this ballet I attempt to correct the notion that men instigate sexual activity, and women are passive receptacles. In reality it’s more complicated; males are active concerning protecting and providing, while females are active about getting pregnant.’

‘Yeah, that makes sense,’ Mort nodded thoughtfully. ‘After all, they’re the ones who’ll be carrying the baby.’

‘Quite. After a short, musical introduction a drunken youth totters onto the stage, does a comic dance fighting phantom enemies, then falls asleep. A woman drifts on and performs an equally comic dance about her sexual frustration. She sees the sleeping youth, wakes him then dances seductively to arouse him. He leaps up and grabs at her. She pretends to have changed her mind and they skirmish in a comic pas de deux with lifts and acrobatics. After several complex manoeuvres she appears to lose the battle, landing on hands and knees. But her face breaks into a wide grin when the youth, who imagines he had been the instigator of sexual congress and therefore the victor, rams his erection into her.’

‘On stage? You want me to have sex with Romola on stage?’

‘Ideally. Simulated if you can’t manage an erection.’

Mort turned to Romola. ‘Wouldn’t you mind?’

‘Why would I?’

‘You are actors, Mortaumal. No one will imagine you are having an affair with my wife. The audience all know what happens on stage is fiction.’

‘Do you have a problem with me?’ Romola asked, eyebrows raised in patrician disbelief.

‘Not with you; with the fact that I’m still a virgin and have no idea what to do.’

‘A virgin! That’s even better!’ Romulus rubbed his hands enthusiastically. ‘I’ll modify the dances so the young man’s a nervous virgin fighting off the female, instead of the other way round, and that’ll give the woman an excuse to aggressively arouse him and show him what to do. That’s much better than my hackneyed idea. Female as predator... brilliant. Thanks, Mortaumal. Let’s do a quick run though now so you have something to think about tonight, and tomorrow we’ll refine it.’

‘But there’ll be kids in the audience as young as six, and Castor and Pollox are watching.’ Mort looked at his hosts’ blank faces and laughed. ‘You guys are amazing.’

‘No, just rational,’ Romulus said thoughtfully. ‘Our boys have seen us having intercourse many times. We don’t see it as different from any other activity.’

‘Neither do I. My grandparents were always screwing like rabbits.’

‘You understand, then. We do realistic theatre in Oasis, like the Romans, because the audience expects to see reality. We don’t go as far as them, fortunately. There are records of Roman plays in which when a man has his hand cut off, they took beggars from the street and actually cut their hands off. In one instance, a very famous actor playing the part of a fellow who, according to legend castrated himself, was forced by the emperor to actually do it on stage.’

‘What happened?’

‘He died.’

‘Fuck! That’s horrible.’

‘Indeed. But don’t worry, we don’t go that far. But at least we’re more honest than traditional performances of works such as The Rites of Spring, for example, where they’re supposed to end up in an orgy. But traditional productions choreograph it so “artistically” the audience thinks they’re just doing another dance.’

Mort couldn’t stop himself laughing. His hosts smiled their delight at having unearthed such a treasure.

‘Outside Oasis it’s considered normal for people to watch erotica and porn on the Internet, with actors who are unrealistically potent and artificially physically enhanced. This creates a sense of inferiority in viewers and unrealistic expectations in children of all ages who watch it regularly, despite parental restrictions. In Oasis we think that is very unhealthy. Whereas to see on stage people they know and like, having erotic fun and taking pleasure in kissing, touching and fucking each other, as long as it is part of the story, not just gratuitous, can only be good for children, and a relief for adults.’

‘That was my argument when I was a stripper. And you’re right about the kids too. They can see that sex is not a shameful act.’

‘So you’re okay with it?’

‘Can’t wait... but shouldn’t I wear a condom?’

‘I’m wearing a pessary and have no sexually transmitted diseases, and as you're a virgin, I imagine you don’t either. So if you’re happy to lose your virginity tonight, let’s get on with it.’

Romulus put on Chopin’s Les Sylphides and, following his direction, Mort danced around fighting invisible foes, causing several chuckles, then yawned and curled up to sleep.

‘You’re a natural, Mortaumal,’ Romulus said with relief. ‘You’re so graceful and your timing’s perfect. You’ve danced before?’

‘Only as a stripper. Self-defence gives me balance and some good moves, and I’ve worked with an acrobat.‘

‘Romulus is right, Mortaumal, you are good,’ Romola said warmly.

She was thoroughly professional, explicitly autoerotic, and her frustrated antics so amusing Mort laughed aloud. He hoped he wouldn’t look too amateurish beside her.

Romulus then walked them through a sequence of moves that would ensure the humour of the third scene in which Mort acted nervous ignorance while Romola discarded her dress, impatiently prevented him from escaping, pushed him around and manually aroused him. Then they repeated it with music.

Romulus was a hands-on director who didn’t hesitate to physically move his dancers into positions, so by the time Romola was on hands and knees, bum waggling in the wind, and Mort had been none too gently guided into the correct position behind her, his erection was rock solid. When commanded to thrust, he thrusted and kept on thrusting as the waltz played on until Romola screamed, he groaned, and a full load gushed into her. After withdrawing he gazed down in comic astonishment and dismay at his rapidly wilting appendage, taking hold and waggling it around as if trying to restore it to life. The parents as well as Castor and Pollux clapped and cracked up with laughter.

‘That’s hilarious, Mortaumal, that’s exactly the ending we need to prevent it becoming serious! Do it like that and you’ll win best actor award,’ Romulus laughed.

‘Yes, we have to keep that, it’s so funny’ Romola agreed. ‘Then Mortaumal will shrug and go back to sleep while I pick up my dress and skip off, face wreathed in a satisfied smile.’

‘You’re all right then?’ Mort asked.

‘Never better,’ she grinned. ‘What about you? No longer a virgin. How does it feel?’

‘No different from before. But it was interesting. At the beginning your vagina felt as if it was sucking my cock in. I hadn’t expected that.’

‘I’ve powerful pelvic floor muscles. They keep Romulus from straying too far. So you’ve no problems doing it for the performance?’

‘Of course not. As Romulus says, it’s natural and I’m a natural man so it’d be strange if I had problems with it.’ Mort began to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, but this whole evening has been so funny, I can’t stop laughing.’

And he didn’t until they brought him a glass of lemon tea.

Romulus arranged a practice session with Mort for the following day to memorise the moves and smooth the untrained edges of his dancing.

The following morning at breakfast Arch was relieved to hear about Mort’s first day on the job, and promised to be there for the concert. Calumnia, who had ostentatiously placed a towel on his seat, merely sniffed and said she wasn’t into theatrical nonsense. She preferred real life. Mort kept his fingers crossed and didn’t attempt to change her opinion. She took her coffee and croissant out to the garden.

‘It’s good you like Romulus; he’s a bit of a genius with choreography, and his wife’s an excellent dancer. What did you mean by saying the dance is sexy reality?’

‘I play a virgin, Romola seduces me and I fuck her. We had a rehearsal last night so I’m no longer a virgin when it comes to females.’

‘Are you okay about that?’ Arch asked. ‘I mean, your first fuck is supposed to be special.’

Mort laughed. ‘This was a wank. My first fuck will be with my botfriend. Actually, fucking Romola was less exciting than wanking. It didn’t seem unnatural or anything like that... only boring. There’s a sucking feeling at first, which was interesting, but then it’s like pushing into a slimy hot hole. If I hadn’t had an audience I’d have pulled out and finished off by hand. She seemed to enjoy it though, thank goodness. But it meant nothing to me. Now all I have to do is find a boyfriend.’

By the end of the day, Mort’s week was almost fully booked. Word had got out and his talents were in demand. He decided teaching was his destiny. He loved explaining, demonstrating, applauding, repeating instructions in different words, watching his pupils progress.

During the rehearsal, Romulus explained that once the moves were perfected and memorised, the way to create a fluid whole was to think of all his moves and positions from beginning to end as a single movement, not a sequence, so everything would flow seamlessly from one position to the next. Having grasped that, Mort’s delight in dancing increased and his confidence soared.

For obvious reasons, Romulus explained, only Oasis residents were permitted to watch plays and concerts. They understood reality, but visitors, no matter how well meaning, would be unable to resist telling friends outside Oasis and before long newspapers would be running exposés, the police would be investigating and they’d all be rounded up for running porno rings and child abuse. That made perfect sense to Mort who was also relieved that Calumnia would be spending the night with a girlfriend in town. He knew in his heart she could never understand the joy of natural behaviour.

The theatre looked splendid in the evening, lit by fake candles, the terraces filled with exquisitely dressed men, women and children, all chattering excitedly. The “Oasis String Trio”, a semi-professional ensemble, played at the beginning and between the acts. A comedy duo, a children’s orchestra and a tragic one-act play were followed by a magician, a teenage pop group and a witty monologue. Performers sat in the front row so they missed nothing, moving onto the stage when it was their turn, and returning after their applause. Mort and Romola were on last. The Trio played Chopin’s Les Sylphides better than the CD, the lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and Mort remembered nothing until he was holding Romola’s hand at the end, bowing to tumultuous applause.

83 Agony Mort

The following morning five somewhat serious teenage girls were waiting outside the Activities office when Mort arrived.

‘Can we talk to you, Mortaumal?’

‘Of course. What about?’

Last night and... and other things.’

‘Come inside.’

‘No. Hercules is in there; can we go to one of the other rooms?’

‘Of course.’ Mort was intrigued. Oasis girls always seemed so self-assured, mature and confident. They sat on chairs in a room used for flower arranging, while Mort perched on the desk.

‘We think you were wonderful last night. I’ve never seen any man dance so beautifully. I cried all night.’

‘So did we,’ chorused the others.

‘Thank you.’

‘Will you be dancing again?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Was the boy you acted, real?’

‘In what way?’

‘He wasn’t interested in the girl until she sort of forced him and seduced him by playing with herself and then making him stiff. And then after you fucked her... that was so exciting I got all wet down here…’ She stopped, embarrassed.

‘How flattering,’ Mort said with a smile. ‘And yes, that sort of thing is real for many males and females.’

‘But we’ve been told at school that boys are always randy and ready to rape women if they aren’t careful. We’re frightened to go into the city.’

‘Not true. The continuation of the human species depends on females choosing a mate who will produce strong babies and then provide for them. This is a heavy responsibility so they spend most of their spare time making themselves attractive and sexy, so if and when a suitable man comes along they can seduce him, as Romola did in the ballet. Young males, on the other hand, spend most of their spare time playing sport and learning skills so they will become strong and fit and able to provide for any baby that might arrive in the future. They certainly think about sex a great deal, but usually relieve the pressure by masturbating, which is essential because it maintains strong blood flows to the penis that are essential for good erections.’

‘So the ballet was about telling us that it’s up to the woman to get the man. It’s no use sitting around waiting for him.’

‘More or less, but it’s also telling women they have to work on arousing their man if they want him to be a good lover.’

Hillary blushed. ‘But what about rapes?’

‘There are always a few people who don’t obey the rules; they steal, drive too fast and so on. If females walk around cities and towns showing their cleavages, thighs, shoulders, in very tight, revealing clothes, most men who are sexually active will understand she is only flirting, not desiring sexual intercourse. But occasionally there will be a man who is not so well balanced, who misunderstands and thinks she is offering herself for sex, and if she forcefully rejects him he might get angry and rape her. That’s why females should be careful about the strength of the sexual signals they send in public places if they want to remain safe.’

‘That makes sense. And in the ballet you entered her from behind. Why?’

‘Presenting her rear end is the easiest and best way for a woman to show a man she wants to have intercourse. There’s no mistaking it. Even from the audience you could see her vulva was swollen like a sign saying fuck me.’

Everyone laughed.

‘Then why do most people do it facing each other?’

‘In the ballet the girl only wanted sex; nothing else. Face to face is intimate and you share kisses and affection and love, and that makes the act wonderful and personal.’

‘Did you enjoy doing it with her?’

‘I enjoyed the whole dance, that was simply part of it.’

‘You’ve got an erection now. Do you fancy us?’

‘No, we’re talking about sexy things. And it likes being admired.’

‘What makes you think we’re admiring it?’

‘Wishful thinking.’

‘I am.’

Laughter, and the tiny cloud of tension that had lingered, lifted.

‘I’ve always wanted to talk like this with boys, but never dared in case they thought I was perverted.’

‘It’s certainly not perverted! Curiosity is a very valuable, natural characteristic.’

‘Do you wax?’

‘No, just born like this.’

‘You said you don’t fancy us, is it because we’re ugly?’

‘No. You’re all good-looking girls. Its because like one in ten males I was born with the same feelings as you when it comes to sexual attraction.’

‘You mean…?’

‘Yes, so if a guy you fancy doesn’t respond to your signals, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you, there’s a possibility he might be like me. But if you care for the guy at all, don’t then shout to the entire world that he’s gay; he might not be, and even if he is why run the risk of ruining his life by making him feel insecure? He might simply prefer masturbating.’

‘Do you masturbate?’

‘Of course. It’s very pleasurable, which is why some men prefer it to screwing wives who just lie there and expect him to do everything. If you girls take only one lesson from that dance, it should be that if you want your man to desire you, take pains to arouse him and make him feel desired as well. Sex with another person should be a pas de deux, not a solo performance.’

‘Thanks Mortaumal, I feel much wiser now.’ Her grin was wicked, ‘Can we touch your…?’

‘As long as your hands are clean and you’re gentle.’

As they walked past, the girls gently grasped his erection for a few seconds, then looked up at him and whispered, ‘Thanks.’

He was just about to jerk himself off when four teenage boys trouped in and sat on the chairs. The smallest was grinning. ‘Having a wank, Mortaumal?’

‘I was going to. How can I help, gentlemen?’

‘You were great last night.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Was it real?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do some females really act like that? You know play with themselves, shove their fingers up their cunts and get all hot and randy and then if they find a guy, also make him randy?’

‘If they don’t, they should.’

‘So they also wank?’

‘Frequently. There are loads of ways they can tickle their fannies. Riding bikes and horses can do it for some girls, and I've heard dildos are very popular.’

‘We thought girls didn’t really like it much because after talking to them for a bit they come over all difficult and we have to tell them they’re the most beautiful girl in the room... all that crap.’

‘That’s a necessary ploy.’

‘How do you mean?”

‘Once they’ve got your attention they don’t want you to think they’re sluts, so they pretend they’ve lost interest. That triggers an evolutionary hunting response in most males to pursue and capture what they thought was theirs for the taking. By proving you really want it by chasing them and cajoling them into it, you convince them you’re serious about them, and not just after a casual fuck that might leave them pregnant with no man to help support the child. Sex can be a very hazardous game for women.’

‘Yeah… that makes sense, but I've never met a girl like Romola in the dance. Neither of the girls I've fiddled with have played with my bits. I had to do all the work.’

‘Lizzie’s like that, starts kissing, but when I get aroused she just lies back and expects me to fiddle with her for hours. She should do it to herself like Romola did last night. All I want to do is shove it in and come, like you did. Fuck it was a turn on to watch you, mate?’

‘Thanks.’

‘I guess you’ve screwed loads of girls.’

‘No. I was like the guy in the dance before I met her. She had to teach me.’

‘You’re a bloody good learner. Was it the best part of the dance?’

‘No. I liked everything else more. Fucking’s just fucking... less interesting than wanking unless you’re in love, I reckon.’

‘It was so funny when you pulled out and your cock shrank to nothing, and then you just looked at it and shrugged and went to sleep. That’s what I want to do, but Lizzie wants me to do it again and tells me I’m useless if I can’t. What’ll I do?’

‘Explain things to her, and dump her if she doesn’t treat you with respect. What about the rest of you?’

‘We’re still virgins.’ The young man grinned sheepishly. ‘I’d never have dared tell you if you hadn’t told us about yourself. I thought there was a law that said we had to screw girls if they asked. But there’s no one I want to do it with. Do you really prefer wanking?’

‘Most men do at your age, and after a few years of marriage, unless they’re still in love. The reason some don’t do it much is religion tells them it’s bad. And that’s a load of crap, its actually very good for you, keeps everything working in top order down there, and even seems to prevent the development of prostate problems when you age. Religions just want more and more kids to fill their churches.’

‘That’s crazy, the planet’s overpopulated now!’

‘Yeah. I’m not going to have any kids.’

‘But what’ll I say when my girlfriend says I must be queer if I don’t want to fuck her?’

‘Say she must be a nymphomaniac if kissing and cuddling isn’t enough at her age.’

‘Is that what you say?’

‘For some reason girls don’t ask me. Perhaps they can tell I’m not interested.’

‘You mean you’re…?’

‘Yes. I was born with the urge to do sexy things with males my own age.’

‘But last night…?’

‘We were acting, and that was part of the act. Simple.’

Silence.

‘Shocked?’

‘No! Not at all. In fact I wish I was gay. Females seem too complicated.’

‘Yeah, thanks Mortaumal, you’ve made me realise I have the right to choose what sort of sex I want and when. Until now I thought there was only one way — like in the porn videos and if I didn’t want that then I was a retard.’

‘Porn is dangerous. It’s pure fantasy. The world is not like that and humans are not like that. Be yourselves, do only what you feel comfortable doing and you won’t go far wrong.’

They shook hands and departed thoughtfully.

For the next few days Mort was greeted as a hero by young and old, congratulated on his performance and asked if he’d be a permanent fixture in the theatre calendar. And whereas in the first couple of days when he’d asked children and teenagers to do something or not do it, they’d looked at him as if ready to challenge his authority, now their eyes lit up and his wishes became their command.

From time to time Mort had the feeling he was being watched. But when he looked around there was no one paying him more attention than usual. A man in green overalls was sometimes pushing a wheelbarrow, but too far away to make out. He intended to mention it to Hercules, but always forgot about it.

By the end of the week there were two permanent self-defence classes, two groups of joggers, four swimming pupils, three children between the ages of six and eight with reading difficulties, five teenagers practising acrobatics daily, and exercise for ancients. When asked, he guarded the pool, umpired softball, was a sought after partner for the popular afternoon Tea Dances, posed for artists, and accepted any other job that arrived. Hercules was over the moon; he could now enjoy his work instead of always feeling run off his feet and not doing enough.

A week later Calumnia looked up from the television when Mort walked in after a run around the boundary.

‘Don wants you to phone him.’

‘What about?’

‘Ring the old fart and find out! I’m not your secretary.’

‘Where’s Arch?’

‘Working, like a real man, not poncing around flashing his balls at everyone. You’re fucking disgusting standing there stark naked in my house. Go put on some clothes!’ She’d been saying this since he began assisting Hercules, but this time she seemed more venomous than usual.

‘Calumnia, you know I’ve signed a contract to not wear clothes in Oasis.’

‘Who the fuck are you, Mr. Up-himself Mortaumal? You arrive out of nowhere claiming to be my husband’s cousin — as if! And suddenly you’re the naked hero of the place and the chairman of the Body Corp invites you to dinner!’

‘You said you didn’t know what Don wanted.’

‘I said ask him yourself! Well... answer me... who the fuck are you Mr. Flavour of the Month? What hold have you over my husband? If you think you’re going to weasel yourself in and do me out of what’s rightfully mine, think again.’

‘Okay, I will.’ Mort nodded, smiled, went to Arch’s office, found the number, and rang. ‘Don? It’s Mortaumal.’

‘Mortaumal! Thanks for ringing. Great performance the other night. I’ve a job for you, nothing to do with Oasis, so you’ll get paid separately. I’m a senior partner in a legal firm and am hoping to get the business of a fabulously wealthy woman who used to be a stripper and now owns a string of brothels, peep shows, strip clubs and porn shops along the entire eastern seaboard. She’s hesitating because she thinks we’re opposed to the way she makes her money.’ He paused as if unsure how to continue.

‘I’ve got that part; what’s my job?’

‘Convince her we’re true freethinkers when it comes to her occupation and that we’ll treat her affairs with our customary diligence.’

‘How?’

‘How what?’

‘How do you expect me to convince her?’

‘My business partner, who is not a resident of Oasis, and I will be in dinner suits, our wives will be looking like Christmas trees, and you will there to make up numbers and balance the sexes.’

‘Wearing?’

‘Your Oasis uniform. Very clean skin and well brushed hair.’

‘And that will prove you’re open minded free thinkers?’

‘We hope so.’

‘Hercules would be better.’

‘Hercules refused; he doesn’t approve of the woman. Not because of her business, but personally — he’s had dealings with her apparently.’

‘I’m only seventeen, for goodness sake. How old is your Madam?’

‘Mid sixties.’

‘I’m not a toy boy!’

‘Of course not! What do you think of me?’

‘That you’d do just about anything to get her account.’

‘Anything legal — we’re lawyers. Pimping for pretty young men is illegal.’

‘That’s a relief. How much are you paying?’

‘Two hundred and fifty if we lose, five hundred if we win.’

‘Sounds fun. What time?’

‘Six-thirty.’

‘Excellent. I’ll be there.’

‘But tell no one about it!’

‘Sealed lips are my most marketable talent.’

84 A Formal dinner

Dinner suits made clones of Don and his business partner, who looked irritably nervous as well as dull. Both wives had succeeded in outshining the setting sun with brightly coloured silks and twinkling jewellery on fingers, wrists, necks and ears. Don’s wife, Jane, eclipsed her rival with a flashy tiara that looked as if it had been pilfered from a cheap chandelier.

‘Mortaumal, This is Sly Littigayte and his wife, Avariss.’

Mort offered his hand but they stared at it in alarm, so he shrugged and withdrew.

‘Mortaumal is assistant Activities Director on the estate, an invaluable addition to the staff.’

‘Don! If this goes belly up we’re ruined. A naked young man, no matter how attractive, is not going to influence a hardened old whore like Procura Tahrt. She’ll eat him for dinner.’

‘Trust me, there’s more to this young man that meets the eye.’

Both women giggled. ‘There’s certainly nothing visible left to the imagination.’

‘I have guts, ladies,’ Mort said softly, and didn’t smile.

‘Oh, very droll,’ Sly sneered. ‘Just don’t make things worse, young man. You’re only here to prove we are broad minded with no objection to the way the woman earns her money.’

‘So you’re in favour of strip shows and prostitution?’

‘Other people’s perversions are not of interest to us.’

‘Perversions? Surely if so many people enjoy such things they must be considered a normal expression of human sexuality? In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if your views were in the minority, which would make you perverted — according to your logic.’

‘How dare you sp…’

‘Mortaumal,’ Don interrupted placidly, ‘Procura Tahrt has a formidable reputation in negotiations. She terrifies all who meet her. So it would be best to let us do the talking.’

‘Yes,’ Sly agreed. ‘Just sit there like a pretty ornament.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The front door bell rang. Don scurried to open it and returned with a slim and sprightly woman in her sixties with curly grey hair, no visible makeup, wearing what the French call a little black number. Simple yet elegant and suitable for all occasions. It flattered her figure, while stylish black medium-heeled shoes flattered her slim ankles. Two substantial silver bangles on her right wrist, small silver studs in her ears and an understated silver chain at her throat, were decoration enough for this paragon of ageless sophistication.

The men looked stunned, the women furious. Mort grinned, caught Procura’s eye and winked. She winked back.

Don woke from his trance and made the introductions. Procura was gracious, her voice low and intimate. Drinks were served out on the verandah; alcohol for the lawyers and their wives, soda water for the naked young man and the Madam.

‘You managed to find Oasis?’

‘Yes.’

Silence

‘It’s good you can still drive.’

‘I’m sixty-two, not ninety-two.’

Don coughed. ‘Do you live permanently in the north?’

‘No.’ Procura leaned over the balustrade. ‘I’d like to stretch my legs in the garden.’

Don moved to assist her but she took Mort’s elbow, led him down the steps and into the garden, out of sight of their hosts.

‘What would you say if I said, Perdita?’

‘Heartless.’

‘About seventeen years ago a sixteen year-old girl to whom you have a remarkable resemblance, landed on my doorstep with a tale about a baby she’d left somewhere. I didn’t believe her, as there was no evidence of any such thing. She didn’t even have tits! But she was a great worker; could service two football teams in an afternoon, leaving them all happy. Despite her character I quite liked her, but after four years I had to get rid of her because…’

‘She was blackmailing the clients.’

‘You do know her. But I should have been more understanding and not sent her packing. It’s one of my few regrets. What happened to her?’

‘She fell out of a window and broke her neck.’

‘Probably for the best.’

‘It was.’

‘I imagine you’ve been invited to convince me those two stuffed shirts have no problems with my calling?’

‘How’d you guess?’

‘Do you?’

‘Of course not! I like you.’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t dye your hair, you dress tastefully, don’t drink alcohol, have a beautiful voice…’

‘Mmm. A man of sense. How would you like to join me in a little game to test the lawyers’ professed tolerance?’

‘Sounds fun. But I like it here, so don’t do anything that’ll get me sacked.’

‘Don’t worry, I fully intend to put my affairs in the hands of these two pompous asses; but the minute I saw you I was reminded of Perdita’s wicked sense of humour and wondered if…’

‘Sly told me to just sit there like a pretty ornament.’

‘You aren’t pretty. You’re beautiful.’

‘Thanks. Poor bugger, he nearly shat himself when I walked in. He belongs to the nude is rude brigade.’

‘Come on then, let’s get started.’

Back on the verandah, Procura perched perkily on a chair and smiled brightly. Now I feel better, there’s nothing more refreshing than walking in the garden on the arm of a gloriously handsome naked young man.’ She turned to Mort. ‘I’ve no idea what Oasis pays you, but I guarantee you ten times as much if you’ll come and work for me.’

‘As a prostitute?’ Sly asked.

‘An escort.’

‘How much would he earn?’ Don asked, suddenly curious.

‘I’ve clients who’d pay from five to ten thousand.’

Stunned silence.

‘Surely no woman would pay that sort of money just for…’

‘Men, not women; they’re far too mean. Even saggy old bags think the boys should pay them.’

‘Men! But that’s…’

‘It’s just sex, Avariss. You sleep with a man, so why shouldn’t young men? There are many people for whom that sort of money means nothing. They’ll lose fifty thousand in a casino without blinking an eyelid. Of course, I have to be very careful selecting my boys.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘Good question. And if you lawyers are serious about handling my business, you should be prepared to learn something about how it’s run.’

‘We are! Aren’t we, Sly?’

‘Yes, Procura. We’re very interested.’

‘Good. Mortaumal, come and stand close. I’m going to teach Don, Sly and the girls how to select young men.’ She winked and Mort could scarcely contain a giggle.’

Groin thrust slightly forward, abdominals taut, chest proud, head high, eyes amused, Mort stood as close as possible.

She turned to her hosts. ‘Bring your chairs into a tight semi-circle; close enough to touch our model. Closer… Perfect.’

‘Mortaumal...’ Don’s voice sounded strained, ‘You are not…’ his voice trailed away as Procura raised an eyebrow.

‘Don,’ Her voice was cool. ‘You told me you are easy about nudity and sex; was that a lie?’

‘Don’t worry, Procura,’ Mort interrupted. ‘Don’s happy with anything as long as it’s healthy and hygienic. He was just making sure I’m okay with it.’

‘And are you?’

‘Yeah! Can’t wait to see if I’m top drawer material.’

Procura turned cool eyes on the bright red faces of her hosts. ‘Shall I continue?’

‘Yes, Yes, please it is most interesting. You were saying…’

‘I test for skin texture and sexual response to touch by doing this.’ She placed the palms of her hands on Mort’s shoulders. ‘As I slide my palms lightly over the surface I feel the ripple of muscles. The skin is silken and firm. Soft but hard. A wonderful combination.’ She slid her palms down till they hovered lightly over his chest. ‘I am barely touching these perfect pectorals, and I can feel his nipples swell and become hard, like tiny cones. How does it feel to you, Mortaumal?’

Mort’s eyes were almost closed; his head tilted back, a soft smile on his face. ‘Divine,’ he whispered. ‘Like little electric shocks going straight to my groin.’

‘A perfect response. Look, ladies and gentlemen, the swelling at the base of his penis indicates exceptional sensitivity and response. The beast is arising.’

Despite themselves, the four observers leaned forward and gazed in awe tinged with guilt.

‘The only way to learn, is hands on experience, so Mortaumal will stand in front of each of you in turn. Don first, then Jane, Avariss and Sly.’ Procura’s voice was harsh and no one dared object. ‘Ladies, remove your rings.’

They did, handing them to their husbands to pocket.

The novice selectors of suitable young men began nervously, but quickly gained courage and began to relax and enjoy the experience. When all four had felt the strength of Mort’s shoulders, the delicious hardness of his nipples, and admired the by now engorged penis, he returned to the guru.

Procura placed one hand on his buttocks and the other on his abdomen. ‘A man’s character is visible in his buttocks. To work for me a man must have a firm, bubble butt. To test, firmly massage each cheek to feel the quality, while pressing firmly on the abdomen with the other hand. There you will feel plates of pure muscle that can withstand the most powerful punch any man can give.’

Keeping her hand on Mort’s buttocks, she slid her other down and cupped his scrotum, nodding knowledgeably. ‘The scrotum is an excellent indicator of sexual prowess. Mortaumal’s feels like a tight velvet bag, and as I gently massage it I detect two firm testicles about the size of medium eggs, one slightly larger than the other. These are in perfect condition and will produce copious amounts of ejaculate — essential for any young man hoping to enter this profession. Am I hurting you Mortaumal?’

‘No, I love having my balls massaged. You’re an expert.’

‘Yes, I am. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the pièce de résistance, the pillar of manhood; the shaft of delight. How powerful it is. As I gently slide my hand up and down I can feel it swelling even further, expanding, filling with blood.’ She sat back with a contented sigh. ‘Now it is your turn. Start with Don again, Mortaumal.’

There was virtually no initial reluctance this time. Each student massaged Mort’s bubble butt, pressed the hard abdominal plates, gently manipulated their model’s velvet scrotum and testicles before wrapping their hand around his manhood and sliding it up and down, eyes alight in wonder as his glans popped into view, then disappeared into his foreskin, only to emerge again; each time shinier, stiffer, more engorged. Sly became so engrossed in manipulating Mort’s turgid tower he was surprised when Mort said brightly, ‘You’d better stop, Sly. Cum is difficult to remove from clothes.’

The laugh was universal, genuine, relaxed, and not even slightly tinged with embarrassment.

‘Procura beckoned Mortaumal to her, removed one of the smooth silver bangles from her arm, and slid it with difficulty right down to the base of his penis.

‘It’s still swelling,’ Jane whispered. ‘The bangle is sinking into the skin. Does it hurt, Mortaumal?’

‘Not in the least,’ Mort smiled. ‘It feels sexy and nice.’

‘And it will help keep the erection firm longer,’ Procura stated with a satisfied nod. ‘Walk up and down, Mortaumal, so we can all admire you.’

Mort paraded, grinning widely. Suddenly he grabbed his belly and looked at his host in alarm. ‘Don, did you hear that? My stomach’s telling me it’s empty. Didn’t you mentioned a meal when you invited me?’

Laughter, apologies, and they moved to the dining room. The table was a delight of candles, silver, porcelain and crystal, the meal delicious. The talk friendly, humorous and relaxed; mostly about sex, nudity, prostitution, porn videos and other topics that an hour previously no one would have dared to mention in case they were thought to be perverted.

They retired to the verandah for coffee.

85 After Dinner

‘You said you do circus tricks, Mortaumal.’ Sly said as if he was genuinely interested. ‘Would you finish off this wonderful evening with a demonstration?’

‘I’m too full of food to be spectacular, but I think I can manage something.’ He stood in the middle of the space, took a deep breath, then dived forward into a handstand. Dropped into a ball and rolled along the verandah, emerging in another handstand. After slowly lowering his legs over his back till they touched the floor, he stood up, then slowly bent backwards again till hands and feet were once more on the floor, then stalked around the verandah like an enormous spider; the silver bracelet and penis swaying above like an antenna. After flipping onto his feet again, he bowed and the bangle clinked to the floor. He picked it up and handed it to Procura.

‘Keep it, Mortaumal, as thanks for such a delightful evening.’

‘Thanks, Procura. I’ll treasure it.’

‘Now, Don and Sly, I’ll put you out of your misery.’ She took two yellow envelopes from her handbag; one with a red band around it, the other a green. She appeared to think for a second, then handed the green banded one to Don.’ There you are, all signed and witnessed. My affairs are now in your capable hands.’

‘Thank you, Procura, we’ll not let you down. If it’s not an impertinent question, what was in the other envelope?’

‘A rejection of your offer. I was undecided when I arrived, but the fun we had with Mortaumal decided me in your favour. Without him…’ She sniffed and turned to Mort. ‘Escort me to my carriage, dear.’

They stood beside the car looking at each other in silence for a few seconds.

‘Dear Mortaumal. I feel better than I have for a very long time. I’d lost faith in humans, in humanity, in everything. But after an evening of madness with you I’m alive again. And through you I’ve apologised to Perdita for abandoning her. Here.’ She removed the other bangle. ‘Take them both. They’re a pair, like you and your mother.’ She held up her hand to forestall argument. ‘You and Hercules think of yourselves as natural men, and you are, up to a point. But your mother was truly natural. Circumstances and her character made her feral. She was a survivor, as you are, and did whatever it took to survive. Yes, I know she was a callous bitch, but she was also hard working, reliable, smart, cheeky, and daring; traits you have inherited, along with something more thoughtful and caring from your father. Do you know him?’

‘I think so. How do you know Hercules?’

‘Tell him everything about tonight, and then ask him.’

‘Would I really be a good escort?’

‘No. You are too discriminating. Successful whores, like your mother, must be completely indifferent to others.’

Mort wandered slowly back inside. The lawyers and their wives were still sitting on the verandah. He perched on the rail and looked out at the garden.

‘What happened tonight, Mortaumal?’ Sly asked quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘A woman with a well deserved reputation as a hard bitch, takes one look at you, you wink at each other — I saw you — and from then on she’s putty in your hands. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. How long have you known her?’

‘Tonight was the first, and probably the last time I set eyes on her. I’d never heard of her before. I liked her instantly, and the feeling was mutual. We’re kindred spirits, I guess.’

‘What did you instantly like? What do you mean... kindred spirits?’ Sly’s tone was gentle, curious, genuinely interested.

‘We both prefer to look natural; she in a simple black dress, me in my skin. She’s sharp, with a sense of humour. Neither of us suffer from the usual inhibitions that destroy happiness.’

‘She took you into the garden. Why?’

‘As soon as she saw me she understood I was there solely to prove how tolerant you are. So she asked if I’d like to have a bit of fun putting your tolerance to the test.’

‘So then you return and suddenly we drop all our inhibitions, our prejudices, our social conditioning and start feeling you up; enjoying it, laughing about it, me nearly bringing you to orgasm. And I still don’t feel embarrassed about it. Are you a hypnotist?’

Mort smiled. ‘No. I’m just a simple man, comfortable in my skin. I was obviously enjoying myself and not in the least embarrassed, so you weren’t either, and felt free to let your natural impulses off their leash for a while. Don’t worry, you’ll return to your stuffy, hidebound, narrow-minded, bigoted, censorious, conventional selves once you get home.’

‘You’re a little harsh.’

‘You are harsh in your rejection of Procura and others like her. Everyone sells themselves. You sell your legal knowledge, Jane and your wife sell their usefulness as housekeepers and wives. Actors sell their body’s ability to act and entertain. Sex workers are actors, selling their bodies and sexual fantasies instead of intellectual ideas. At Oasis I’m selling my desire to feel useful.’

‘And tonight you’ve been very useful.’ Don produced an envelope. ‘Take this with our profound thanks.’

Mort put it back in Don’s hand. ‘I’ve had a fun time; no need for payment.’

‘As a gift then? You’re just a kid. You’ll need the money.’

‘Don, I’ve more money than I know what to do with. What I did tonight was pure fun, and I love what I’ve been doing so far in Oasis. I’d do that for nothing except I know that people don’t value anything that doesn’t cost them money.’

‘I am learning many lessons tonight, Mortaumal.’

‘Please. We’re friends — call me Mort.’

Thoughtfully, Sly and his wife shook Mort’s hand, thanked him for an interesting, fun and unusually enjoyable evening, and left.

Jane began clearing away and Don offered to accompany Mort back to Arch’s place.

‘You’re quite an actor,’ he said thoughtfully as they wandered along the avenue.’

‘Thanks, but I haven’t been acting.’

‘Would you be prepared to do an acting job for me, for which I would demand the right to pay you?’

‘That depends on what it is.’

‘I have a recurring fantasy that a handsome young man comes to my room and treats me the way I have had to treat every woman I’ve ever taken to bed. None of my partners have ever bothered to make me feel as special as I have them, and it’s eating a hole in my heart. I know a woman could never understand my fantasy; she’d jeer and call me unpleasant names behind my back. I don’t want a professional sex worker, I want someone pure — like you. I want to know what these women experienced, just once.’

Mort thought so long Don worried he was offended, but held his peace.

‘You are much more sensible and emotionally together than I realised, Don. What you want is very reasonable. How much were you thinking of paying?’

‘One thousand dollars for about two hours.’

‘And what would you like me to do?’

‘Go into the bedroom with me, kiss me, tell me I’m handsome, desirable and all that, remove my clothes sexily, admire my body, kiss me all over. Get me to parade as you did tonight, take me to bed and caress me, bring me to a height of desire and then fuck me.’

‘Have you ever been fucked?’

‘No.’

‘It might hurt.’

‘I don’t care. I have this powerful urge to know what it feels like to have a man’s erection deep inside me, thrusting, swelling and ejaculating — filling me with his semen like you did to Romola on stage last week.’

‘Fellatio wouldn’t do?’

‘No, it isn’t as intimate.’

‘So no condoms. Well, I know I’m disease free, how do I know you are?’

‘I’ll get tested tomorrow for everything.’

Silence.

‘Have I shocked you?’

‘Mort looked at Don in surprise. ‘Of course not! When would you like to do it?’

‘Jane goes to play Bridge in the city on Thursday nights. We’d be free from six-thirty until ten.’

‘Fine. When you get your health certificate we’ll make a date. Meanwhile, get a soft dildo and practice, using plenty of lube.’

‘ Mort! I could kiss you.’

‘Only one.’

Arch drove into the garage while Mort was unlocking the door.

‘How was it?’

‘Great fun. I’m taking a shower, join me?’

‘They soaped each other, rinsed off, then stood under cold needles for half a minute before shaking off the drops and wandering out to the garden to dry. Mort gave an account of the evening, omitting details of the testing of Don and Sly’s tolerance.

‘So, Procura took Perdita in, and those bracelets you brought home are a gift in memory of her. Has what she told you changed your mind about your mother?’

Mort fetched the bracelets and handed one to Arch. ‘I still think she was a callous bitch, but I admire her primeval ability to fend for herself. This bracelet is yours, because you’re the only person who loved her. I’ll keep the other to remind me not to be too judgemental.’

‘That is very generous of you, Mort. You’re a sweet young man underneath all that cool rationality.’

Mort smiled. ‘If you’re not my father I’m going to insist you adopt me.’ He yawned. ‘I’d better go to bed. Self-defence at six in the morning.’

86 Surprises

Mort woke early. He hadn’t really slept. All night he’d been cursing himself for agreeing to Don’s request. What had he been thinking? He didn’t want to have sex with an old man; especially when Procura had just told him he’d be a useless rent boy. But could he back out? He’d given his word. Would Don be angry and tell him to get out of oasis if he reneged on the deal?

Mort went for a long run before meeting the self-defence guys, then took an acrobatics class with three girls, without having eaten breakfast.

At ten o’clock, hot, sweaty and hungry, Mort entered the house, helped himself to a chocolate bar and wandered through to the patio, intending to take a dip in the pool. Low voices stopped him. Calumnia was speaking. The deeper voice of a man responded. It couldn’t be Arch as he was out on a job. Mort moved silently forward and peered out. Calumnia, sprawled on her back on a towel, was being massaged by Hercules! Both were naked.

He’d never have guessed Hercules would fancy Calumnia! A simple, honest girl would seem more his type. He froze. What to do? He shrugged and accepted reality. He knew Arch hadn’t slept with his wife for ages, so she wasn’t doing anything evil by finding a fuck elsewhere. It probably explained why Hercules had looked uncomfortable when talking to Arch the other day; he was screwing his wife and was worried he’d be found out.

As Mort debated his options, Hercules slung Calumnia’s legs over his shoulders, gazed down at her, shook his head as if in despair, then thrust himself deep into his victim, eliciting a wail of delight, or pain, or complaint… it was difficult to tell.

Mort was surprised to see Calumnia so passive. He would have imagined her in high heels with a whip. She wasn’t even enjoying it. After seeing his own mother in far more compromising positions and rutting on stage himself, this wasn’t interesting so he wandered innocently onto the patio and sank into a cane chair with a loud sigh as if exhausted.

Hercules stopped pumping. Calumnia stopped moaning.

‘Hercules, Calumnia,’ Mort sounded convincingly exhausted. ‘Isn’t it too hot for that sort of exercise? Come and have a swim.’ He dived in and swam underwater then popped his head above the edge of the pool about half a metre from them. They remained frozen.

‘Hey! Don’t stop just because I’m here. A video of you would make heaps.’ He hoisted himself out of the water, gave Hercules a resounding smack on the bum, dripped water onto his back, then flopped onto his side facing them.

Calumnia turned her head away.

Hercules looked at Mort, who had closed his eyes as if uninterested. With a face devoid of emotion, Hercules began pounding into Calumnia, not slowing down even when her screams became hysterical. Finally he withdrew, pulled off the condom, tossed it into a waste bin and flopped onto his back next to Mort.

Mort clapped politely. ‘Now I know what rutting feral beasts look and sound like. It almost turned me on. Except you’ve no tits, Calumnia. I’ve larger breasts than you. But I imagine those giant nipples are great for sucking on.’

Calumnia sprang to her feet, hands covering her chest. ‘You fucking bastard!’ she snarled. ‘You evil, horrible, creepy queer fucktard! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’ She aimed a kick at his legs as she stalked past, missed then slipped, making her final exit on hands and knees, moaning about her ankle.

‘You have a silver tongue with women,’ Hercules observed diving into the pool. Surfacing again, he gazed thoughtfully at Mort, now lying on his back, hands behind his head, face expressionless.

‘Shouldn’t you apologise to Calumnia for the insult and sore ankle?’

‘How can facts be insults? She has to learn to face the truth. And I don’t believe the ankle.’

‘Yeah, she is flat chested.’

‘I thought men liked big tits?’

‘I like a tight cunt more. I must say she’s a difficult bitch.’

‘Should you be telling me that? I’m her house guest, remember.’

‘As my deputy you owe me undying loyalty and will never divulge any secret with which I might entrust you.’

Mort stood and approached the pool. ‘Like the fact that you’re screwing my cousin’s wife. Does he know?’

‘No.’

‘Is that why you’re so awkward with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why don’t you tell him? He wouldn’t care. Might even be grateful.’

Hercules hoisted himself out of the pool, wrapped his arms around Mort and pecked him on the lips. ‘See you later. Don’t forget to be at the Roman Temple at midday.’ And he was gone.

Mort followed and caught a glimpse of a leg disappearing through a doorway in the garden wall that he’d not noticed before. The solid wooden door slammed shut with a solid thunk.

‘I wonder where that goes? First something to eat, then I’ll explore.’

It made sense to have an escape route through the back garden. He’d noticed the trees over the wall and had been promising himself to investigate, so now was his chance. The door was hardwood and securely hinged on the inside. As well as the usual locking mechanism there was a bolt to slide across.

Mort wandered a few metres into the forest. How natural it seemed. Dense stands of tall trees, clumps of undergrowth, narrow vistas to sun-filled clearings. He knew it was a bit fake; the groundsman had to provide the occasional path through the ancient forest, but that didn’t spoil the effect. He stood completely still and became aware of the rustle of leaves. Several unknown birdcalls and an hysterically chattering kookaburra made him smile. Despite the sounds the forest seemed peaceful. The absence of human noises, he supposed. It wasn’t very different from the forest where he and Zoltan had run so long ago. When running he seldom, if ever, stood totally still and felt alone. This was special.

In his first year at High School the English teacher had read them a poem by W H Davies that began: What is this life if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare… the stillness was mesmerising. He determined to come out here more often. A couple of skinks caught his eye. Having decided he wasn’t a security risk they scampered across an open space. A yellow spider web built like a complicated maze, supported a giant brown spider with striped yellow legs. To his right, the rear wall of Arch’s house. A toad scuttled under a rock. Mort squatted to look closer.

A sudden wind gust followed by a click announced the closing of the security door. No handle on the outside and walls too high to climb. Even if he managed, embedded sensors would ring alarms in the guardhouse. Not a good idea.

‘I’ll have to go down through the trees and past the pool, then back up the Avenue,’ he muttered. ‘That’s at least a kilometre. Excellent.’

Taking a deep breath of clean forest air, he wandered towards the nearest patch of sunlight, enjoying the feel of dried leaves instead of grass under his feet. The patch of sunlight was a small clearing with a wrought iron bench, in front of which a winding path led down through the trees in what Mort thought was probably the direction he wanted to go. Not a soul in sight. Adults would be at work, but where were the kids? Tomorrow he’d start taking them for bush walks.

Mort sprawled on his back along the bench, closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep, unaware of a tall, well-built young man wearing a straw sunhat, forest green overalls and work boots, pushing a wheelbarrow through the trees on the left. The young man had not failed to notice Mort, however. He approached silently, put the wheelbarrow down, squatted beside the intruder’s head and lightly brushed a mosquito off his brow.

Mort’s eyes opened. ‘Don’t tell me! I’m dead! A demigod has come to carry me away. How did you get here?’

‘By email. Are you lost?’

‘Not now, I’m in Elysium.’

‘How did you find my woodland couch?’

‘I walked, wandered, lay down, a spell came over me and I fell asleep.’ Mort sat up, offered a guileless smile and extended his hand. ‘I’m Mort. Why haven’t I seen you before? Do you live here?’

The young man, dazed by a smile whose complete lack of duplicity rendered it intoxicating, took the proffered hand, held it firmly and smiled back. ‘Yes, with my father in the cottage next to Hercules. I’m Zadig Verdi. You haven’t seen me because I’ve kept out of your way.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re the beautiful, handsome, sexy, wonderful, sympathetic, clever, logical — I forget what other compliments everyone on this estate keeps showering on you — young man who is assisting Hercules.’

‘Who says all those stupid things?’

‘Everyone you have contact with, it seems. I imagined that anyone so popular must be a calculating prick, so I stayed out of your orbit in case I too became infected.’

‘Very wise. Although I must warn you that at this very moment, by holding my hand you are taking grave risks. Your heart and soul are being dragged unresisting into my orbit. Gaze into my eyes and repeat after me: I am falling in love with Mort.’

Zadig leaped away holding a forearm in front of his eyes as if to shield them from an unbearably bright light, then sank to his knees and wrapped both arms around Mort’s legs — gazing up into his face. ‘No! Please no! Ohhhhh… too late! Already my heart is enraptured. I am your slave. Command me as you will.’

Mort stood, placed his hands in Zadig’s armpits and lifted him to his feet. ‘Rise, Lord Zadig. You have proved yourself worthy, you may now kiss your master who loves you dearly.’

Zadig fell back and rolled on the ground laughing uncontrollably while Mort pretended to be offended. When he finally stopped laughing, Zadig took a deep breath and asked innocently, ‘It would seem you are not a stuffy prick after all, Master. Is the offer of a kiss still open?’

Mort’s smile was beatific. ‘For you, oh Zadig, the offer will always be open. Fuck! You’re gorgeous! Come on. Kiss me!’

Fifteen minutes later Zadig was sitting in the wheelbarrow clinging to the sides as Mort wheeled it zigzagging down between the trees at ever increasing speeds. Laughing and shouting, they arrived at the Verdi cottage where Mort unceremoniously tipped his load onto the grass.

Doug Verdi was standing at the door; gaunt of feature and sallow of tint. His shirt and trousers hung limply. Bare feet impeccably maintained. Clean-shaven with neatly trimmed hair parted in the middle gave him a sad, poetic look. He gazed unsmiling at the two youths as if wondering where they got the energy, then shook himself visibly and looked a question at Zadig.

‘This is my father, Doug Verdi,’ Zadig said with a proud smile, ‘Dad, this is…’

‘Mortaumal Aywun.’ Doug finished. ‘Flavour of the month. I’ve seen you with Hercules and I enjoyed watching you dance and fuck Romola last week.’ He held out a long, thin hand, which Mort took gently and shook lightly.

‘He’s not like we imagined, Dad, he’s funny and nice. But I had to kiss him before he would leave the forest.’

‘And does he kiss well?’

‘Intoxicating.’

‘Good. Well, go and shower off your dust and sweat while I interrogate this naked woodland sprite.’ He turned to Mort.

‘Come inside and tell me your intentions regarding my son.’

The cottage was a mirror image of Hercules’; equally cosy but not so neat.

‘My intentions are honourable, oh ancient sage.’

‘Cheeky monkey. You look as if you feel sorry for me. It isn’t necessary. The more lugubrious and depressed I look the greater my inner happiness.’ The smile was gentle and genuine. ‘I had a stroke six months ago, so my wife took off with her lawyer boyfriend. Zadig offered to give me a hand, and has now taken over as groundsman.’

‘That was good of him.’

‘Perhaps. He was studying some crap at university and hated it, so it was an excellent excuse to leave. And you are staying with Archibald Lintel.’

‘Yes.’

‘A good man. A very good man. The Body Corp wanted to replace me as I could no longer do the heavy stuff, but when Arch discovered that my wife’s lawyer boyfriend had stripped me of everything I owned so I’d be in the workhouse, he arranged for Zadig to be appointed temporary groundsman. A kid of nineteen. No one else would have taken the risk.’

‘I’m sure he could see the sense in continuity, and it’s obvious to even the weakest mind that Zadig is an exceptionally talented, reliable and trustworthy person.’

‘And you’ve known him how long?’

‘Almost half an hour; but it seems like forever — I’m in love with him.’

Doug’s face became concerned. ‘I too love Zadig, and will until the day I die. He is a sensitive young man and has never, to my knowledge, been in love with anyone. Are you in the habit of falling in love with strange young men?’

‘I’ve never been in love before. I know I seem flippant and silly, but I’m not known for making people unhappy — unless they deserve it.’

‘What do you like about him?’

‘We’re more or less the same age — I’m nearly eighteen. The same height. Both fit. We seem to have a similar sense of humour. We both love being in nature. We both like it here so I don’t want to take him away. He has a loving father who named him Zadig. Why that name?’

‘Zadig is the eponymous hero of one of my favourite books by Voltaire. I think I hoped my son would grow up to be as wise.’

Mort’s grin was impish. ‘Surely, having fallen for me proves his wisdom?’

‘Indeed. And it’s certainly time he fell in love, I’ve been worried he’s becoming a recluse, so I’ll trust you with him.’

‘Even though I’m naked?’

‘Because you’re naked I can see into your heart. Naked people can’t dissimulate. The body reflects accurately the mind, and I like very much what I see.’

Zadig bounced into the room, wrapped in a towel. ‘Have you two come to blows yet?’

‘We’ve come to a decision,’ Doug said gravely.

‘And?’

‘And your father agrees that before declaring my love I should first peek into your heart, soul and mind.’

‘Fair enough, how?’

‘First you must toss away that towel. Mens sana in corpore sano. If your body is as perfect as I suspect it is, then my opinion of your character will be confirmed and we can get married. Or at least shack up together and have sex.’

Zadig looked at his father who burst out laughing. ‘Go on, Zadig, don’t come over all shy on us. Mort has to check the health and beauty of your body to see if your mind’s worth associating with.’

‘Oh, is that all.’

Zadig dropped his towel.

Mort wandered over as if to inspect. ‘Mmm... Hairy sturdy legs, good hips, strong firm bum, ultra slim waist, broad hairy chest and abs, powerful shoulders, arms and hands that could strangle a bull, muscular neck, square chin, lips a bit thin, nose has been broken at least once, heavy black eyebrows over hazel eyes. Flat ears. Smooth brow. Well shaped head.’ He placed his hands behind his back and gazed at the ceiling as if thinking. ‘Most impressive, Doug. You have produced an almost perfect specimen that confirms my first impressions.’

‘May I go and get dressed now?’

‘If you want to make me feel underdressed.’

‘You two are totally nuts,’ Doug laughed. ‘That’s not the way to start a relationship. You’re supposed to be all tongue-tied and not declare your feelings in case you’re laughed at.’

‘Is that how you courted Mum?’

‘Yes — its the time honoured way.’

‘The way that leads to divorce. Thanks, but I think we’ll stick with our method. What’re you doing now, Mort?’

‘I’m meeting Hercules to see what job he’s got lined up for me. What about you?’

‘Zadig hasn’t had lunch yet,’ Doug said as if to protect him, ‘so off you go, and come and have a meal with us this evening, around seven. Once you’ve heard Zadig eat you might change your mind.’

Mort gave Doug an impulsive hug, and Zadig a self-conscious one, then ran off without looking at either. Outside he stopped in panic. Terrified he’d been stupid, smart-arsed, talked too much, tried too hard to be witty, clever. He broke out in a sweat. Zadig was special. He’d known it as soon as he’d opened his eyes. But Mort had been flippant; they probably thought he was just having them on. Oh why couldn’t he be more serious! Roll on seven o’clock!

87 Revelations

Hercules was writing the daily events on the blackboard. ‘You’ve nothing for twenty minutes when you pose for the artists. Then at four thirty you’ve a half hour of Swedish exercises.’

‘I believe I have you to thank for my invitation to dinner last night with Don and his partner.’

‘Yeah, I couldn’t make it.’

‘Don said you didn’t want to see Procura. Why not?’

‘That was my excuse. I knew you’d do a better job. But first tell me what happened.’

Mort left no detail undescribed.

Hercules laughed in delight.

‘Now tell me about you and Procura.’

‘I worked for her from when I was your age till I came here.’

‘You’re joking! You were a rent boy?’

‘Escort, stripper, peep-show performer... you name it. I guess that’s when I learned to hate the lack of tenderness and affection in commercialised sex. It’s really bad for boys and girls to watch it, they get the wrong ideas and risk missing out on the chance of good, loving sex lives.’

‘Yeah, I agree. I asked her if I’d be any good and she said I wouldn’t because I wasn’t indifferent to people. But you don’t suffer fools gladly do you?’

‘I can close off my mind; stop thinking about what a slob I’m with; you can’t. If the person you were assigned to was imperfect, you’d be rendered impotent.’

‘Yeah. And that leads me to a serious problem. Don walked me home and asked me to do something for him, and I agreed. But now I don’t want to. I now know I wouldn’t even be able to. What should I do?’

‘What did he want?’

‘I promised I wouldn’t tell.’

‘That means he wanted you to come to his room, tell him he is sexy and fuck him.’

‘How on earth do you... Were you listening in the bushes last night?’

‘He was an occasional client when I was a rent boy. It was a bit of a shock when he came to live here. Fortunately, I’m too old for him now.’

‘But what must I do?’

‘Go and see him or give him a ring and say that after thinking about it, you don’t feel comfortable with it. He’ll just say, fine, and it’ll never be mentioned again. He’s used to rejections.’

Mort hesitated.

‘Go on, do it now. Here’s his number.’

Mort put the phone down with a grin. ‘He just laughed and said he thought it was too good to be true. And thanked me again for last night.’

‘See? He’s not a bad man. But there’s something else bugging you, isn’t there?’

‘I know it’s none of my business, but if you’re into love and tenderness, why were you screwing Calumnia?’

‘She’s blackmailing me.’

‘How?’

‘I’m thirty-three, Calumnia is twenty-two. When I was twenty-six, she was fifteen. I was doing a bit of freelancing to make up for the relatively low pay I was getting here at the time, and went to a hotel room on the Esplanade to service two females.’

‘Two? Isn’t that stretching your prowess?’

‘I used injections. Lots of young women prefer to have a friend with them for safety. They were made up like sophisticates and looked nineteen or twenty. She recognised me when she married Arch and came here to live. About six months ago she demanded I fuck her. When I refused, she produced a video her girlfriend had taken. I have to admit she did look pretty young, especially with those flat tits. But at the time I just wanted to get the job over and they were definitely not virgins! I’ve worked with whores who were more restrained. Anyway, she threatened me with denunciation to the cops for child sexual abuse unless I screwed her. You know what the courts are doing even with cases from twenty or more years before. I wouldn’t have a chance. It’d be, “You should have checked her age, Hercules Buff. You are sentenced to fifteen years in prison for the psychological damage.” “But Sir, she’s been blackmailing me!” “Add another ten years for perjury. This young woman is deeply traumatised by your callous disregard for…” and so on. So I fuck her once a week, which seriously cuts me up because Arch is my best friend; he rescued me from Procura and gave me this job, which I love.’

‘He’s also hurting, you know.’

‘I know! I just can’t face him.’

‘Tell him.’

‘I can’t! I’m too ashamed.’

‘Herc, he wouldn’t care! He hates her.’

Hercules shook his head and looked at the clock. ‘Thanks for calling me Herc, but I don’t feel I deserve your friendship.’

‘You do. Come on, time to go.’

*****

Arch and Calumnia were sitting at the dining table when Mort came in after a punishing half hour of swinging arms, squatting, twisting and bending. They looked up as if relieved to be interrupted.

Pretending not to notice the strained atmosphere and Calumnia’s sneer, Mort greeted them enthusiastically, then turned to his hostess with an innocent smile. ‘That was some show you and Hercules put on this afternoon, you looked great together. But you’re noisy when he rams it into you. For a minute I thought you were in pain, but then you yelled at him to shove it in deeper.’

Calumnia seemed lost for words. She took a deep breath, looked as if she was about to say something momentous or stab her guest in the throat, then simply looked away as if uninterested.

‘I remember Calumnia’s enthusiastic love making from when we used to do it’ Arch said quietly. ‘I’m sorry we no longer do it, Calumnia, but I’m pleased you’ve found someone.’

His wife’s head snapped to attention. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘Arch shook his head and frowned. ‘No. No I’m not. I’m honestly pleased. I’m stupid and useless, I know that, but I’m not mean or jealous. You couldn’t have picked a nicer bloke.’

Calumnia’s face was a picture of uncertainty. ‘Arch... that’s... that’s very generous. If you mean it. But I think you do. Although I should be offended that you’re not jealous.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Will you be in for a meal?

‘Sorry, I’ve a client waiting in town. I’m just going to my office pick up some papers.’ He turned to Mort on the way out the door. ‘A letter arrived for you today. Come to the office and I’ll give it to you.’

‘And I won’t be here, Calumnia, because I’ve been invited to dine with Doug Verdi,’ Mort said with a bright smile.

‘You were trying to land me in it, weren’t you, you little shit?’ Calumnia whispered venomously. ‘Well, that backfired, Mr. slimy queer. And I don’t like your chances of staying around here when your cousin discovers what a little arse fucker you are. Get out of my sight!’

Mort ran as if terrified, then poked his head back around the doorway. ‘Will you show me your falsies some day, Cally? They’re extra good, I never guessed you’re a titless wonder.’ Giggling he skipped to Arch’s office where he was handed an envelope. He tore it open and scanned the enclosed paper. ‘Yes!’ he hissed, ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Eyes moist, he grabbed his father, wrapped his arms around him and they hugged for a long time.

‘I’m your father.’ Arch whispered as if frightened it wasn’t true.

‘And you’re much, much better than the fantasy father I used to imagine when things got miserable.’

‘And you are way beyond my wildest hopes when I dreamed of finding a son. Do you want to celebrate?’

‘I am celebrating. Inside I’m bubbling as if I’m going to burst from happiness. It’s impossible to celebrate more. But if you want to?’

‘No. This is far too wonderful to cheapen with what others would call a celebration.’ Arch’s grin widened. ‘We share the same DNA.’

‘Yeah! Part of my first cells were manufactured in your testicles and shot through your penis into Perdita’s womb. Isn’t that romantic? I’m beginning to like the horrible cow. She understood what a great guy you were, so she can’t have been totally evil.’

‘Do you want to tell everyone?’

‘That I’m the accidental by-product of a fuck by a couple of fifteen year-olds? It wouldn’t worry me, but I can’t see the point. What business is it of other people?’

‘None that I’m aware of. We know, and that’s the important thing. As cousins we’ll attract less attention.’

‘And that is important. Well, dearest papa, now seems an appropriate moment to inform you that I’ve fallen in love with Zadig Verdi, and his father has invited me to dinner, so wish me luck.’

‘I didn’t know you knew him.’

‘We met in the forest about six hours ago. I know it’s crazy but the second I saw him something flipped in my chest and brain. I wanted to eat him on the spot. And then he spoke and he’s funny, and witty and we seem to be on the same wavelength, and he took me home and his father likes me and warned me not to break his heart and he stood in the middle of their room naked and he is the beautifullest perfectest sexiest person on the planet.’

‘I’m pleased you’re keeping a cool head and not rushing into things.’

‘I’d never do that; he’d think I was desperate. But it’s several hours since I saw him and I don’t want to give him a chance to forget me, so I really must run.’

‘Leaving me already! Some son you turned out to be.’ Arch couldn’t stop grinning. ‘You’ve your mother’s good taste when it comes to men, I see. By the way, thanks to your revelations back there, I’m going to visit my best friend and tell him to stop feeling guilty. I’ve been wondering what was wrong, why he stopped…’ Arch frowned as if unable to find the words.

‘Stopped what? Inviting you around for a kiss and cuddle? You’re my father, you can tell me everything. Actually I couldn’t help wondering on my first day. You two are, or were, lovers — right?’

Arch took a step back and frowned. ‘Not physically. Herc has been my best friend since university. He paid for his studies by being a rent boy and escort, then after a couple of years decided he wasn’t interested in architecture and worked full time for Procura. When I bought this place he’d had enough of the sex trade so jumped at my offer of employment. He reckons he’s never married because he’s screwed too many women to want to be screwed by them. And I didn’t marry until a couple of years ago because I told myself I was too busy. Too late, I’ve learned it’s because I don’t really like women that much.’

‘So you’re not in love with him?’

‘I love him, but we’re not and never will be lovers. There might have been an element of sexual desire in my initial friendship with him, but it never developed. The friendship developed though, until we’re more like brothers than friends. He warned me against Calumnia when I introduced them. If only he’d told me then that she’d been screwing around since she was fourteen I’d probably not have married her.’

‘He kissed me in the pool after I saw him with Calumnia.’

‘He kisses people he likes; it isn’t sexual. It’s fun. He kisses me occasionally. Now, take a shower. You can’t go to dinner smelling like a ferret.’

88 Zadig

Doug Verdi was an excellent cook, but Mort tasted nothing. All his senses were focussed on the man he desired more than he had ever wanted anyone in his life. With scarcely concealed impatience the two young men offered to do the dishes, telling Doug he mustn’t overdo things.

‘I do feel a little tired,’ he said with a grin. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind if I go to bed?’

The dishes were washed and put away in record time and seconds later they were up the narrow stairs to the attic bedroom with its double bed and probably lots of other things which failed to attract Mort’s attention.

They stood and gazed at each other, then tentatively touched shoulders, chests, bellies. Gazing into each other’s eyes, both frowned.

‘It’s never seemed serious before,’ Zadig said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t want to get this wrong.’

‘I’m the same. I realise now I only cared about getting my rocks off with the other guys.’

‘How many?’

‘Three. But not buggery. Just mutual comfort, you might say. You?’

‘Four girls and two boys.’

‘Fucking?’

‘The girls, yes. The boys no. Only lots of groping sucking and jerking off.’

‘Why girls?’

‘If I’d said no, they’d have told everyone I was queer.’

‘Did you enjoy it? Did it feel strange?’

‘Not strange. Sex is sex whoever you do it with. But it was about as exciting as fucking a cushion. I felt nothing. I did it with four different females in the same week and told everyone about it so the girls would get pissed off at my lack of discretion and infidelity, and not bug me again.’

‘Very smart.’

‘What about you with Romola. I nearly came in my trousers watching you. You won’t believe how jealous I was. Went home and cried all night.’

‘That is sweet. But like you, it was only acting. There was no feeling. I prefer wanking. Whereas looking at you I want to press myself into you so we can become one person. You are soooo handsome.’

‘And you’re soooo beautiful. So smooth.’

‘I’m sick of looking prepubescent. I want to look like you; a real male.’

‘You don’t look prepubescent, you look like a strong young man who waxes. And I don’t want competition in the hair stakes, so stay smooth as long as you can so I can lick you all over without having to pull hairs from between my teeth.’

‘Mmm... smooth talker, but now…’

Like all lovers who want to love and not just orgasm, they explored, investigated, touched, stroked — with fingers, toes, lips, eyes, their entire bodies, as if determined to meld with the other. To become one whole being in which the tension that normally exists between the two halves of a human couple have been eliminated.

‘I feel as if I’ve found what I’ve been searching for all my life.’ Zadig said dreamily.

They were lying on their sides, pressed tightly together, foreheads, noses lips, chins touching.

‘Me too. I’m at peace and I haven’t even cum yet. Why do I feel like this? It’s not just because you’re utterly gorgeous, intelligent, smart, witty, tall dark and handsome... there’s something else.’

Mort stopped talking while Zadig found other uses for his lips.

‘Something else? You mean this isn’t enough?’

‘I can never get enough of you. It’s… how can I say it? I know in my bones I can trust you.’

‘Even with your pin number.’

‘Definitely.’

‘Is it worth knowing?’

‘No, but it proves something, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, that when we’re sharing everything I’m going to be in charge of our finances.’ Zadig took a deep breath. ‘I wonder what I can say to prove I trust you? I know; I trust you not to laugh when I tell you I fell in love with you the first day you arrived; when you wandered round the place with Arch. I’ve followed you everywhere, keeping out of sight, admiring the way you react so normally and naturally to the crazy people in this place. I haven’t slept properly for ages. I watch for you and watch over you and have been neglecting my work so if the slightest danger arrives I will be there to save you. I followed you to Don’s place and hid in the bushes. I saw you on the verandah, but couldn’t make out what was happening. But you laughed so it was okay. At the slightest cry from you I’d have been up there like the Avenger. Then I followed you home with Don. But you talked so quietly I heard nothing. I was literally going mad and Dad was so worried he was on the point of talking to you about it when I discovered you in the forest.’

Mort hugged Zadig to him but couldn’t speak. Tears streamed down his cheeks and onto his lover’s neck and back. ‘That is the wonderfullest thing anyone has ever done or said to me, and also the stupidest!’ He pushed Zadig away, held his head in his hands and kissed his nose, eyes and forehead. ‘Why oh Lord of the Forest, were you too frightened to tell me?’

‘Because you are the good friend of my boss, who is the owner of this place. You are physically perfect. Every inhabitant of this enclave of insanely wealthy people dotes on you. You are their naked god sent to make them feel special. And you do. Everyone you teach or help or watch or even speak to feels blessed, just as I do at this moment. Why would a young god with long, glossy black hair even look at me, let alone want to be loved by me?’

Silence.

Mort sniffed. ‘Yeah, you’ve got a point there. Why would he indeed? But what if this young god was a fake? What if he was an illegitimate bastard of a random teenage fuck whose mother became a prostitute, who didn’t complete Year Ten at high school, who hasn’t any marketable skills apart from being able to maim anyone who approaches? Would you then dare to approach him?’

‘Can you really maim on demand? I’ve watched you give those idiots self-defence lessons. They’ll never be able to protect themselves.’

‘But they’ll look as if they could, and that’s usually enough. Which brings us neatly back to my problem. Like those guys, I only look like what you said; I’m not like it in reality. In fact I’m so different that I have fallen head over heels in love with a simple woodsman.’

‘You mean you’re a fake! Well, that does shine a different light on things. Tell you what. Let’s just continue what we’ve been doing until we fall asleep, then in the morning we’ll decide if we want to stay lovers for ninety-nine or only seventy-seven years.’

‘Sounds reasonable, although I think I know my answer already.’

The following morning after a healthy breakfast, Mort and Zadig were standing outside the house wondering if it was safe to kiss goodbye when Hercules bounded down his front steps and came across.

‘Zadig, I see you’ve finally found the courage to follow your lusts.’

‘It’s more than lust, Hercules.’

‘And you, my lowly minion, is his lusty love reciprocated?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, exalted chief, ‘Mort stated cheerfully, planting a noisy kiss on Zadig’s lips. ‘See you soon, lover.’

Zadig’s eyes glowed but all he could manage was a husky, ‘Lunchtime,’ before grabbing a bag of tools, mounting his bicycle and pedalling off into the forest.

‘I can’t believe Zadig kept himself hidden so long, Herc. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Never interfere in other people’s love affairs.’

‘If you’d interfered more, Calumnia might not be living here.’

‘I suspect it was the other way round. I warned Arch against her, so he dug in his heels. He can be a stubborn prick. That’s how this place got built. I couldn’t have done it.’

‘I think Arch would like to see you.’

‘He came last night. Thanks for telling him. I was stupid not to. We’re back to normal again and it is such a relief. He’s my only real friend and the only one I want. It’s really funny that you thought we were lovers, I wonder how many other people have that idea.’

‘What do you think of me and Zadig?’

‘You are the perfect friend and lover for him, and he for you.’

‘And what would you say if I told you I’m Arch’s son?’

‘I always thought you were. You are like him in so many ways. It’s why you and I get on so well. But we have to make up a four for tennis with those athletic retirees from number twenty-seven in five minutes, so lets go.’

The days and weeks flitted by. School holidays ended, and a meeting of residents decided Mort was too valuable to lose so his position was made permanent. At the suggestion of Arch, Zadig, who had remained an elusive, shadowy figure since his arrival three months earlier, was officially confirmed as the permanent forest ranger/groundsman/caretaker of everything outside the Piazza, with a hefty increase in salary and elevation to a the same status as Hercules, with identical clothing requirements.

To Zadig and Mort’s astonishment, the disclosure of their status as lovers was welcomed with unrestrained relief. Ever since Mort’s arrival, despite their affection for him, parents of both boys and girls had been sorely worried their offspring would be seduced by someone of inferior financial and social status.

Their pleasure was such they invited Zadig to partake of all social activities in which Mort was involved — there being no parental concerns now he was an ‘open book’, like Mort; easily recognisable as not really ‘one of them.’ As several mothers wisely observed, a naked young man will find it very difficult to conceal nefarious intentions from a vigilant parent.

Zadig’s offer to build a rickshaw in which he could pull elderly couples on silent tours through the forest, endeared him to them, in the same way as Mort’s carefully planned exercise classes had won their gratitude by increasing their joy in life. They became Oasis’ most desirable couple, receiving so many invitations they rarely ate in their own home.

On days off they explored up and down the coast and throughout the hinterland in Hale’s van, sleeping in the back and becoming increasingly emotionally entwined with every moment shared.

And then an email had Mort driving the van to the airport to pick up Hale, who, Arch and Mort had decided, would stay in Mort’s room because Mort was moving in with Zadig.

89 Hale Returns

Calumnia’s pleasure at getting rid of Mort was soured by the prospect of yet another house guest. Oasis continued to bore her so she continued visiting her friends, playing the pokies, exposing as much of herself as possible on beaches and swimming pools, screwing any healthy young man prepared to pick her up, and seeing every change of film at the cinema complex in the city.

Arch was quickly seduced by Hale’s wit and charm, and never tired of watching him practise his acrobatic skills, gasping as he flew effortlessly around the frame that had been erected on the lawn near the pool. He even attempted a few tricks himself, earning praise from his tutor who had discovered an intense interest in architecture, going with Arch to every site, following discussions, keeping notes for him, photographing sites for later reference and making himself so useful Arch asked him to stay on permanently as his personal secretary.

In the evenings they looked at Hale’s videos and photographs of his South American trip, discussed the art and architecture, the customs... discovering in the process that every utterance of the other was profound, intensely interesting and indicative of a noble character.

Lying on their bellies one evening on Hale’s bed, cheeks almost touching as they looked again at a stack of photographs of beach scenes and scantily clad young men, they happened to turn towards each other at the same time. Lips brushed and somehow glued together. As if controlled by an exterior force their hands began removing each other’s clothes and then nature took over and Arch’s bed remained empty that night.

Calumnia’s displeasure with her life increased manyfold when she discovered her husband’s un-slept-in bed the following morning. Furious, she telephoned her mother on whose advice she had based her entire life. ‘If a man stops screwing you, dear,’ her mother had warned at the age of thirteen when she first opened her legs to men, ‘or his cock takes too long to get fat and hard, that means he’s screwing someone else. Rekindle his lusts, then find the bitch he’s shagging and ruin her reputation, her job, her marriage! Destroy her future! Anything less and you will never feel you’ve been avenged. And then dispose of him!’

Calumnia’s mother was well aware and proudly delighted that her daughter had arranged for her husband to be labelled a criminal wife-beater on false evidence, so when she learned that Archibald had not learned his lesson, but was insulting her daughter by sleeping with his male assistant, she decided enough was more than enough and advised Calumnia to get Arch to take her on holiday to a luxury hotel, and while there ensure that her husband beat her, so her wounds could receive the widest possible audience, because the more witnesses the better and newspapers are always interested in the scandals of wealthy people. Then, when Archibald was convicted and imprisoned for twenty years or more, she would get a much better divorce settlement than currently on offer; possible his entire fortune. ‘That place is worth millions,’ she gloated, ‘especially if you cut it up for development.’

Calumnia drank deeply at the fountain of her materialistic mother’s womanly wisdom and planned her snare with care. A different place, different air, different people, would rekindle the flames of passion and they’d cuddle beside the pool in front of everyone, then they'd go back to their room and a few minutes later she’d run out screaming covered in blood and blame Arch, just like last time. She took a deep breath and smiled in anticipation.

With something so positive to look forward to, Calumnia felt drenched in happiness. Alone with Arch after dinner, she smiled sadly and in the pathetic little-girl voice that usually proved successful with the horny brute males she had always preferred since her first foray into the world of man-trapping, she simpered, ‘Archie, sweetie-pie. I know I’ve not been perfect, and I’m really and truly sorry and I really, really, really want to repair everything and wouldn’t it be super if we could go for a teensie weensie holiday together?’

Arch, whose reaction to that babyish voice had always been to concentrate on something else to quell the urge to vomit, missed everything except holiday together. He gazed at her in astonishment, which his spouse interpreted as amazement at her honesty and sweetness.

‘Holiday together? Us? Where?’

Calumnia presented three brochures. ‘Any of these would be wonderful.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as possible. I want us to get back to being the same as before.’

As that was the direct opposite of Archibald’s plans, he decided to be honest. Looking his wife in the eye he watched a bright little tear tremble on a mascara laden eyelash, then tumble onto her cheek leaving a grey smudge. He took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘I’ll look at them tonight and tell you which I prefer in the morning.’

‘Oh, Archie!’ she squealed in genuine excitement. ‘I love you so much. I’m going to phone Mummy immediately and tell her how lovely my hubby is.’ She raced from the room before her spouse could recover his wits and say what he really meant.

Later, in Hale’s bed, after explaining that female tears unmanned him and that’s why he didn’t say what he intended, Arch gazed at his lover in despair. ‘I’m a wimp, Hale. I can’t say what I want. I can’t stick up for myself. I feel sorry for her even though she’s an utter whore and is threatening Hercules with the cops to make him screw her. She won’t divorce me unless she gets everything, so I’m stuck with her. I’ll understand if you don’t want to hang around.’

‘I’ll give you ten years to get shot of the bitch, then I’m on my way.’

‘I’d do it tonight if I only knew how.’

‘You’ve a very fine pool on the patio in which it would be easy for a drunken whore to drown. She could try climbing on my frame and fall and break her neck. She might lick the hot water jug cord and electrocute herself.’

‘If I wasn’t already on the police list of wife-beaters, I’d be tempted. But it can’t happen here – I’d be accused of murder.’

Increasingly frustrated, the two men browsed the brochures while dreaming about a future without a scheming, vicious, lying termagant of a wife. After several hours, the germ of a plan put down tentative roots and, after looking again over the brochures, they decided on a hotel at which Hale had performed several times. He knew the manager and reckoned it would be ideal. It was also the most expensive, so the clientele would be mostly middle-aged or older. Too many curious, bright young things would be an added risk. And being a popular hotel there would be scores of guests, assuring anonymity. Best of all, it was situated in a small bay surrounded by rocky cliffs. Sharks, stingers and crocodiles in the sea were added attractions. With a bit of luck, a scatty woman might go for a walk and fall off the cliffs, get lost or abducted, eaten by crocodiles, raped and left for dead. The possibilities were legion, but if they were honest, not something either of them felt capable of doing anything about.

‘Arch, you’ve an exceptionally intelligent son and a brilliant friend in Hercules, let’s go and see what they think.’

Despite the lateness of the hour, Mort and Zadig dragged themselves from bed and joined Arch and Hale in Hercules’ immaculate sitting room.

Arch laid his cards on the table.

When Mort heard about Calumnia’s accusation of domestic violence using self-inflicted wounds, and the police response, he was all for strangling her on the spot. But that wasn’t an option. Neither was their planned skulduggery at the hotel. In those places security cameras and gossipy eyes were everywhere. In the absence of a better idea they decided Arch should make a renewed offer of a divorce with a fifty-fifty split of assets.

‘Will you be able to keep Oasis then?’

‘Of course not. Oasis is my only asset, so it’ll have to be sold.’

‘What’s it worth?’

‘Many millions. It’s old growth rainforest in a prime location near the city. Developers have been hounding me ever since I bought the place. They’d cut it up into half hectare lots and triple their money.’

‘That's not going to happen!’ Mort was adamant.

‘She may settle for less.’

‘Her mother has consistently instructed her to settle for the lot or nothing.’

‘I’ve an idea.’ Zadig was nervous. ‘She’s cuckolding you, has denied you sex, there’s no child, and she’s contributed nothing. You might get off scot free with a divorce.’

Excited by the idea, they discussed it in detail.

‘She’ll lie in court, so we need to find some weakness we can play on.’

‘And I know how to find them,’ Zadig said quietly. ‘I’ve several movement-triggered video cameras I use for checking on the habits of wildlife. Let’s set them up all over your house and monitor her for a few days. We’ll be able to hear any telephone conversations too.’

‘Yes!’ Mort agreed with an evil grin. ‘We’ll bug the place tomorrow when she’s visiting her fellow witches in town, then after dinner you put the new divorce proposal to her, Arch, and eight independent eyes will observe and look for chinks in her depravity.’

‘Humans can’t use their eyes independently like chameleons.’

‘Thank you, Zadig. Four pairs of eyes attached to four independent and intelligent and dispassionate observers’ visual cortices will... what I said before.’

And so it was decided.

But it rained so Calumnia spent the day inside putting together a wardrobe suitable for holidaying in a luxury hotel. At lunchtime she cornered Arch and demanded his decision. Trapped, with no surveillance cameras watching, he reluctantly discussed the different hotels, easily convincing Calumnia to accept his preferred one by mentioning it was the most expensive and exclusive.

‘When? Arch. When can we go? Soon?’

‘Today’s Friday, the weekend will be busy, so let’s go on Monday.’

‘Oh Arch! Phone now? Please? I couldn’t bear to miss out.’

Arch phoned. Was there was a vacancy for a double room for one week from next Monday? There was? Good. Reserve it for Mr. and Mrs. Lintel. No, he wouldn’t give his credit card details over the phone; he would use the Internet to pay the deposit immediately after the call ended. Yes, he would be driving up, arriving on Monday afternoon.’

Shaken by the mere thought of spending a holiday with his wife, Arch retired to his office and used telephone banking to transfer the deposit, hoping he’d get a refund if they didn’t have to go. His wife retired to her den to phone her mother and friends; boring them with details of dates, times, plans and what she intended to wear.

‘That went well,’ Hercules sniffed when Arch confessed.

‘What’ll I do? I've booked the bloody hotel!’

‘We will modify our plan slightly.’

‘How?’

‘Plan B.’

90 The Best Laid Plans

On Saturday, three surveillance cameras were installed in the dining room in preparation for plan B.

On Sunday morning Arch made breakfast. Calumnia reluctantly joined him at the table.

Knowing his friends were at Herc’s place watching everything, Arch announced with a firmness that impressed himself, if not them, that he’d changed his mind. He wanted a divorce because a lawyer friend was certain that Calumnia wouldn’t get more than a few hundred thousand, as there was no child and she’d contributed nothing to the marriage — not even sex for the past year, and was committing adultery; Hercules was prepared to testify to that.

At first the watchers thought nothing was going to happen. Calumnia sat utterly still as the blood drained from her face. Then she stood, eyes wide in disbelief. A twisted smile dragged at her lips.

‘This time, husband dear,’ she snarled, exposing two rows of sharp little teeth, ‘you will be going to prison for life! This time it won’t be just scratches you’ve given me, but real damage.’

The five men watched in astonishment as the woman stood, grabbed an ornate brass candlestick and raised it over her head. Arch ducked, imagining it was about to be hurled at him. Instead, she brought it crashing down on her own skull. The unexpected weight caused it to fall with more force than intended, and the sharp, wax-catching disc at the base of the candle embedded itself in her temple. With some difficulty and obvious surprise, she pulled and heaved until it came free, releasing a river of blood that poured down her cheek, neck, and into her blouse. Staggering, she dropped the candlestick and vacantly watched it bounce on the table then roll onto the floor. She stared at Arch in shock. Opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Slowly her knees gave way. She sagged to the floor, eyes wide, body and limbs twitching for about a minute, then lay still.

When his friends arrived Arch was still sitting at the table, an odd expression on his face.

‘Are you okay, Arch?’

‘Never felt better.’

‘What about Calumnia?’

‘What about her?’

‘I think she’s dead.’

‘That’s why I haven’t moved. Did you see it all?’

‘Everything.’

‘Good.’

‘What happens now? Call the cops?’

‘And we will all be done for murder, Zadig. I have a police record for domestic violence, remember? And you, my friends will be convicted of conspiring to pervert the course of justice by providing me with an alibi.’

‘We have the video.’

‘Inadmissible evidence — she was being spied on without her consent. And videos can be doctored. A good lawyer would sow enough doubt about that to have us incarcerated. Do you really want to go through all that shit? Do you honestly think justice is served in any court in this country when a woman accuses a man?’

Zadig was looking down at the body. ‘That means we have a disposal problem.’

‘And a clean-up problem. Who’d have thought so much blood could come out of such a small hole.’

‘Let’s clean up, store the body somewhere and nut this thing out.’

‘That huge deep freeze,’ Hale suggested. ‘If it works. What have you got it for, Arch?’

‘When Hercules and I first lived here, before all the construction, there were sheep grazing so we slaughtered them and bought the deep freeze. Then when Calumnia decided to become a vegetarian we had no use for it and it just sits there. I can’t see why it wouldn’t work.’

They turned it on and it purred away merrily, getting cold within minutes.

‘Wrap her in something that’ll soak up blood.’

‘I’ve a roll of corrugated cardboard I use for protecting maquettes when visiting building sites.’

‘Perfect.’

An hour later Calumnia was rolled tightly in several layers of cardboard and beginning to feel cool. The table and floor had been made as clean and devoid of evidence as possible. The bent candelabra disc was cleaned and reformed, and five men were seated thoughtfully around the table.

‘Who will miss her?’

‘Her mother and the friends she tells everything to.’

‘Do they know you were going away tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you have to go, and on the way you must lose her and…’

‘And what about the body? Forensics can tell the time of death, where it occurred and how. We can’t just dump her in the pool and say she drowned because there’s no water in her lungs and she’s already partially frozen. Not a good look if want the cops to believe we’re innocent.’

‘I can dispose of the body,’ Zadig said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve a pile of logs and branches ready for chipping. We just wrap her in branches so she looks like one, add her to the pile and feed her through the machine. But she’ll have to be well frozen or else there’ll be too much liquid spraying. Only so much can be absorbed by the chips. I’ll set it to the finest size.’

‘But even distributed among the other chips it’ll start to rot and dogs will come and…’

‘I’ve a large pit ready for noxious weeds and other useless organic stuff that can be safely buried. We’ll put her in there under a couple of metres of mulch and soil.’

As there were no better offers, this was reluctantly accepted.

‘What we need is a distraction,’ Hale said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been in the circus, remember, and most performances rely to a certain extent on making the audience believe what you want, and not question what they see. Mort had a great idea with my act, for example. By painting the top bars of the frame matt black, at night it seemed as if I was standing on air.’

‘Very interesting, Hale, but I can’t see the relevance.’

‘What do we need our potential audience to believe and not question?’ Hale looked long and hard at Mort.

‘Hale! I can’t! I’d never convince anyone. This time it’s really serious.’

‘Yes... it is!’

‘What are you two on about?’

Mort explained and the cloud of despond at their hopeless situation lifted slightly.

‘No, Mort. I cannot ask you to risk your entire future freedom for me.’

‘You didn't ask, Papa. I offered, so don’t insult me by refusing. However, this is the absolutely last time I ever do this, understood?’

Relief at having found the beginnings of a solution, released the tension and everyone assured Mort he wasn’t on his own; they admired him and would ensure that nothing would go wrong. He nodded and smiled and tried to hide his fear under a brave voice.

‘Okay, Hale. We’ve got the distraction that makes people look the other way, but what happens when we get to the hotel? You know the place and the manager, our performance had better be good!’

They sat around the table, took out maps, studied distances, tide times and anything else they could think of, and formulated an impossible, far too complicated plan. But it was all they had.

‘Are those cameras still on?’

‘Better not be! We don’t want this recorded.’

They carefully removed all trace of the cameras and deleted the death by candelabra scene.

‘We’d better see if Calumnia’s clothes fit Mort.’

Calumnia had already packed her bags, so they went to her room and Mort tried things on. They were rather tighter than intended, but slightly sexier as a result. Even the swimming costume was possible. Calumnia’s flat chest had inspired her to buy a one-piece suit with a cleverly padded bra large enough to not disclose the falsity, but small enough to be believable. Mort did his ball disappearing trick and looked at himself in the mirror. ‘Can I still get away with it?’

‘If you casually hold a towel in front as you walk, it’ll be fine, and keep your knees together and sit with them bent, instead of lying on your back on the beach.’

‘What about his hair,’ Hercules asked. ‘It looks fine on a bloke, but for a woman it’s a disaster. Do you chew it off, Mort?’

‘My teeth can’t reach, so I hack it off with a pair of scissors when it gets too long.’

‘I used to cut my mother’s hair,’ Arch said with slight embarrassment, ‘until my father feared I was going to become a hairdresser and put a stop to it. I can probably remember enough. Hang on.’

He returned with comb and scissors. ‘The problem with Mort’s hair is it looks sensible, therefore masculine. Women’s hair must never look sensible. Sit still or I’ll cut your ear off.’

A few minutes later Mort’s crowning glory was neatly trimmed and shortened to just below his ears. Undercutting caused it to curl slightly towards his neck. Instead of a centre parting so the hair could be tucked behind his ears out of the way, Arch combed it diagonally forward so it fell over one eye. This restricted his view so he had to constantly flick his head, or pull strands aside with a finger to maintain binocular vision.

‘This is terrible! I can’t do anything if I have to be constantly shoving this bloody hair out of my eyes.’

‘That’s the thing that makes you look like a woman. Haven’t you noticed? They love to have hair hanging over their faces so they have an excuse to keep touching and playing with it in the hope someone will say what lovely hair they have.’

‘But that’s stupid.’

‘So are high heels, tight skirts, strapless dresses, just about every article of clothing women wear restricts some essential bodily function. They can’t even get into or out of some clothes without assistance. The more ridiculous and uncomfortable their clothing, the better they like it.’

‘I’m even more glad I’m not one now. Do I look like Calumnia?’

‘No, even though you’ve similar colouring and height, so lets hope none of the guests know her.’

They revised their plan again, and again, repeating and repeating it until everything was memorised. Nothing was written down. After each man had repeated the entire plan to the others, they checked the freezer. Calumnia wasn’t yet rigid so they made lunch. It wasn’t a jolly meal.

By three o’clock she was cold enough to not mush too much in the shredder, so Zadig fetched the small tractor and trailer he used for carrying waste around the estate, while Arch and Hale put on running shorts and singlets. When removing Calumnia from the freezer, Arch noticed a small puddle of blood had leaked from the cardboard roll and frozen solid. He carefully lifted it out and sealed it in a small glass container.

‘What’s that for?’ Hercules asked.

‘No idea. I have a feeling it might come in useful.’

‘Well don’t drink it.’ Hercules shook his head in disbelief and carried the bundle out to the back gate through which Mort had ventured the day he and Zadig met.

The tractor arrived with several long branches, which they placed tightly around the cardboard cylinder and tied firmly with hempen string. When she looked enough like a bundle of sticks to fool any but the most observant, Mort perched on the trailer as if hitching a ride for fun and Zadig drove to the tree shredder on the eastern boundary. It had been placed as far from the houses as possible because of the noise. His assistants jogged to the site by a different, slightly shorter route; out for a run if anyone saw them.

Tension mounted when it took several pulls to start the shredder. When empty it sounded like a mad siren, but sank to an angry roar when logs were pushed through. The essential packet was halfway through when the engine slowed markedly and the noise reduced for several seconds, causing hearts to pound, but then picked up, and ten minutes later after another dozen saplings had thoroughly cleaned out any residue of blood and flesh, Zadig fixed a small blade to the front of the tractor and bulldozed the heap of chips and sawdust into a deep hole, which he then covered with soil and pounded down by driving over it.

‘That’s not normal procedure, is it?’

‘Hell, no. I should be aerating the shredded material and letting it compost for mulch, but no one’s checking up on me — I’m the boss, so there’s no danger.

After playing a high pressure hose over the running blades and machine for a couple of minutes to wash away every possible trace of blood and pulverised flesh, they returned to their homes, prepared themselves, packed bags, and tried to sleep.

The following morning, Hercules and Hale drove out in the van, informing the concierge they were going south to Cardwell for a few days’ fishing. An hour later, Arch and a figure the concierge assumed was Calumnia, waved through tinted glass as they drove through the gates on their way north to a luxury holiday resort. Late that afternoon, Zadig, on his muddy but powerful BMW HP4 motorbike, saluted the concierge as he zipped through as if on the way to the shops as usual; his father was capable of handling any minor problem that probably wouldn’t arise while he was away.

Residents were informed by a notice on the Activities Office door that Hercules and Mort were taking the few days holiday that were due to them.

91 The Hotel

Arch and Mort took their time; they wanted to arrive at four o’clock.

Hale and Hercules drove fast and at ten o’clock arrived in the forecourt of the Regal Rainforest Resort.

‘This is an exclusive hotel?’ Hercules asked in astonishment. ‘It’s just a collection of cheap sheds with windows. I’ve seen caravan parks with relocatable homes that look classier.’

Hale surveyed the low, flat-roofed reception block surrounded by what looked like a scattering of shipping containers and grinned. ‘This, Hercules, is what passes for classy architecture in Australia. There’s no aesthetic tradition in contemporary architecture; they adopt the Bauhaus principal that function should dictate form, but leave out the bit where style and finish are considered, because that would cost more. Foreigners think it’s quaint, being so basic and crude, and the locals don’t know any better. And if there’s a cyclone it’s easy to replace.’

‘They stand out like sore thumbs. Should have asked Arch to design the place. Shouldn’t have got a building permit.’

‘The sole function of building permits is to augment local government coffers, they have nothing to do with ensuring well designed and attractive construction.’

They parked, then wandered into the reception area where a few potted palms failed to suggest luxury.

The receptionist shook her bleached head and sucked air through her teeth. ‘I don’t think we have any vacancies.’

‘Then please call your boss.’

‘You mean the manager?’

‘Yes.’

‘The manager bustled in. ‘Hale! How wonderful to see you again. Have you come to put on a show?’

‘Great to see you too, Malcolm. Yes, I can manage a show if you can manage a double room for Hercules and me.’

‘Of course I can.’ Malcolm extended his hand to Hercules. ‘Welcome. Are you part of Hale’s show?’

‘No, just his boyfriend.’

‘Good. Good. I’ve been telling him for years to find himself a mate. Hercules, eh? I don’t suppose you could put on a performance that included a bit of stable cleaning and monster slaying like your namesake? No? Never mind, At least the women will have fun ogling you both in the pool. Here are the keys to your cabin, number 23 just down that path. The same as you had last time if I’m not mistaken. I’m busy this morning, but come and have a drink with me this afternoon.’

‘Sure thing, Malcolm. Around four o’clock?’

‘Perfect.’

Their small but comfortable cabin overlooked the sea. Hercules was impressed with the view. They dropped their bags and went for a walk, taking photos, making notes and measuring distances. A check of the tides had been reassuring, for the next few days there was less than a metre difference between high and low. The weather forecast predicted no rough weather, although rain was a possibility. They kept their fingers crossed.

After a light lunch they stood on the edge of the cliff in front of the public lounge and admired the panorama. It looked as if a giant had taken a bite out of the cliff in front of them, creating a small, crescent shaped beach thirty metres below, accessed by wide, shallow steps descending to what from this distance looked to be pristine white coral sand, dotted with umbrellas and loungers. Three people were swimming close to the shore; a dozen more were walking or sitting or sunbathing. Two little paddleboats were bobbing around near colourful buoys to which a stinger net was attached. Further out, other buoys indicated the position of shark hooks.

The beach was enclosed by vertical rock walls that jutted about a hundred metres into the sea; so the only access to the bay was by sea or the steps.

Behind the hotel buildings and pool lay well-tended gardens, accommodation for staff, car parks and service structures. Beyond the gardens lay a few square kilometres of remnant rainforest — tall, dark and inhospitable. The main access to the hotel was a sealed road through this patch of forest, on which, Hale informed a despondent Hercules, careless drivers caused the deaths of the last few almost-extinct cassowaries every year. There was also an emergency road from the hotel; a seldom used, unsealed track along the cliff top that followed the sea for several kilometres until it turned inland and joined the main road where the forest ended and cattle holdings and tea plantations began.

At four o’clock, Hale and Hercules joined the manager for a drink in the lounge bar to discuss possible times for a show. The manager was relating an interminable story about some American guests when Arch’s car pulled up to the entrance.

‘Excuse me for a minute, guests have arrived, I must go and welcome them.’

Hale looked up. ‘I think that’s my friend’s car.’ He turned to the manager. ‘You aren’t expecting Arch and Calumnia Lintel, are you?’

‘As a matter of fact we are,’ the manager replied, proud of having his finger so securely on the pulse of his establishment.

‘How bizarre! They’re my best friends and we arrive at the same place on the same day. Do you know him, Hercules?’

‘We’ve met.’

‘Come on then, let’s say hello.’

Arch and Mort were approaching the reception desk when Hale let out a cry of pleasure. ‘Archibald Lintel! What are you doing here? And Calumnia! My god, every time I see you, you get younger and more beautiful.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, you great galah,’ Mort said in a sexy soft voice with a smile so beguiling the manager felt a slight arousal stirring his loins.

‘Hale, great to see you. I’ve been meaning to call but... you know. Clients. Never time to do everything.’

Hale turned to the manager. ‘Malcolm, allow me to introduce my best friends, Arch and his lovely wife Calumnia.’

They shook hands, assured each other they were delighted to have made each other’s acquaintance, completed registration, and were given the keys to their cabin.

‘You and Calumnia go and freshen up and we’ll catch up in the bar in about half an hour, okay?’

Hale and Hercules wandered along the cliff top to the alternative road. It was very rough, recent rains having scoured it somewhat, but that was good as no one would willingly venture along it in their expensive cars. Beyond the bay, the track, for it was little more than that, dropped rapidly until after about half a kilometre it was only a couple of metres above sea level.

Satisfied with their reconnoitre they returned and joined Arch and Mort in the bar, where the manager had introduced them to two couples from upper Arizona whose strident praise for the scenery was countered by complaints about the heat and humidity.

After a reasonable period they detached themselves from the Americans and went for a walk that ended in Hale and Hercules’s cabin for a council of war.

‘The sooner the better,’ Mort insisted.

‘Too soon would be suspicious. You and Arch have to establish yourselves as a loving couple, and Mort a competent swimmer. Dinner isn’t for another hour, so let’s go for a swim. It’s so hot and muggy it would be strange if we didn’t. We have to seem ordinary.’

A dozen people were lying on loungers around the pool, and about the same number were splashing around in the tepid water. No one was properly swimming, and the diving board was empty. The females looked half starved in skimpy little bikinis, the men, surprisingly, were mostly in speedos or equivalent, and unsurprisingly, overweight — some grossly.

The presence of three well built, lean youngish men took attention away from Mort, who walked demurely to the edge and dived cleanly in, swimming four lengths before allowing Arch to help him out of the pool where they sat on the edge with their feet in the water watching Hercules doing acceptable dives, and Hale stunning everyone with double somersaults and twists. Arch felt slightly inferior, having a stocky, solid figure despite constant efforts to become a little more like superman.

‘You should probably put your arm around me; we’re supposed to be married and still in love,’ Mort said with a sexy smile.

Arch did, and was slightly shocked. ‘Fuck, Mort. I’m getting a hard on. This is not right. You’re my son.’ He withdrew his arm.

‘Stop thinking that, Arch. Imagine I’m Perdita and we’re in love.’

‘It’s difficult.’

‘I dare you to go on the diving board with a hard on, that’ll show them you’re a real man.’

‘No way!’

‘Piker.’

‘If I had a body like Hale or Hercules or you, I might consider it, but I haven’t.’

‘Actually, I think I’d prefer your body if I was really your wife,’ Mort said thoughtfully.

‘Really?’ The delight in Arch’s voice was appealing. ‘Why?’

‘Because no woman would want to steal you away from me.’

‘You prick,’ Arch laughed. Forgetting himself he shoved Mort into the water. He surfaced, grabbed Arch’s leg and dragged him in, to restrained clapping from a few females and surprised looks from their men.

After chasing each other through the water for a while, the four friends returned to their rooms to prepare for dinner. The brochure said dinners were formal, so they felt a little silly arriving in dinner suits when every other male was in slacks and open necked shirts. Their wives, though, had compensated for their partners’ casual attire with what appeared to be the entire contents of their jewel boxes.

‘We don’t fit in,’ Hercules observed. ‘We’re too formal and Calumnia doesn’t look like a whore.’

‘And neither does this food fit my idea of the type of cuisine a luxury hotel would offer.’

‘But we won’t complain or make a spectacle of ourselves.’

They moved to the lounge where coffee was served. Several couples smiled at Mort and Arch, but no one approached.

‘There’s dancing in the lounge later on, I suppose we have to go?’

‘Yes, but not in these monkey suits. We’ll meet in your cabin, Arch, in ten minutes.’

‘You seem tense, Hercules.’

‘I am, and will explain when we’re certain of privacy.’

92 The Problem

Twenty minutes later they gathered in the large and almost luxurious cabin assigned to Arch.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘You are! You and Mort are supposed to be in love; you’ve only been married a couple of years. Yet you behave like a couple of mates. That business at the pool when you shoved Mort in, he dragged you in by your foot, then you chased each other around the pool like teenagers — male teenagers, not a loving, married, heterosexual couple. Two women asked me who you were. I told them your names, as that’s an essential part of the plot, said you’d married late, Arch, to a girl much younger than you. All your friends had prophesied, including me, that it’d never last, but you’ve proved us wrong, being both still in love.’

‘But…’

‘Hercules is right, Arch. You do not act like a loving husband. You took no notice of Mort at dinner, just chatted and left him to join in. You should have been showering him with attention, passing condiments, pouring his wine, picking up his napkin when he dropped it, instead of which he had to get down in that ridiculous tight skirt and pick it up himself.’

‘The problem is I feel silly. Mort’s my son. When I put my arm round his shoulders at the pool it felt wrong. When he kissed my cheek I felt like a paedophile with my son.’

‘The problem, Arch, is that we have literally put our lives on the line for you! If this goes belly up we’re for the chop. Sadly, it’s too late for you, but it’s not too late for us to back out. If at the dance this evening you do not act convincingly like a besotted lover, nibbling Mort’s neck, kissing, stroking, cuddling and gazing into his eyes, dancing every dance with him, or reluctantly letting one of us have a dance, but watching us all the time because you can’t take your eyes off him, then I’m out of here. Hale and I will get in his van and take off, and if Mort wants to come with us, that’s fine.’

‘But…’

‘No buts, Arch. Hercules and I are going for a walk. You and Mort must go to bed now and make passionate love to get over your stupid brainwashed notion that a father mustn’t have sex with his willing adult son. At this moment thousands of fathers are screwing their daughters, and some their sons, with mutual pleasure. Scores of teenage boys fuck their mothers and their sisters. We’re animals. Think of the Bonobos and come up with the goods or you’re on your own! Come on, Hercules.’ He turned at the door. ‘And keep the light on while you’re doing it!’

Without another word, they left the cabin.’

‘They’re right, Arch. It was embarrassing this afternoon when you refused to put your arm around me. You don’t act as if we’re in love. I know you feel silly, but we have to do what they said; desensitise ourselves — or you, I have no problem being sexy with you.’

‘At the pool you said I was unattractive.’

‘A joke Arch! Do you think Hale would be lusting after you if you weren’t sexy? Come on! We’ve showered together, now we’re going to explore a little further.’

They stripped and lay on the bed.

‘Are you sure you’re okay with this?’

‘Arch! Do you want to be strangled? I thought you were sexy and nice the first day I set eyes on you. So shut up and enjoy.’

Soft kisses became harder, more urgent. Hands began to wander, tongues and lips to explore other parts; bodies writhed; nipples swelled; erections grew ever stiffer and in the moment of simultaneous orgasm it felt as if their two bodies had exploded then melded into one.

Reluctantly, they rolled apart and gazed into each other’s eyes.

‘I’m very glad you found me, Mort.’

‘I’m very pleased I found you, Arch.’

‘We’ve still got twenty minutes.’

After the second, shattering orgasm they lay silent for several minutes side by side, then as one they turned to face each other, drawing light fingers along each other’s cheek. Words were superfluous. They now knew each other mentally, physically and spiritually, and liked what they knew.

When they walked into the lounge the afterglow of love seemed to follow them. Slightly idiotic smiles found on the faces of lovers who have enjoyed superior sex, lingered in secret glances and smiles, gentle touches and attentiveness, bathed in an aura of exclusivity.

‘Two cats who’ve licked the cream,’ Hercules grinned as they sat. ‘You might as well have a sign round your necks saying we’ve just has humungous sex.’

Arch and Mort smiled, walked dreamily onto the floor and spent the evening glued together, dancing every dance, refusing with soft smiles requests to change partners — the epitome of a truly loving couple. Nothing false, no ostentation, just simple, unobtrusive affection that makes others feel better for having witnessed it.

Before going to bed, Arch used the cell phone Calumnia used when out of Oasis, to message both her friends and also her mother. He kept it brief, telling them she’d arrived, it was very pleasant, and everything was progressing as planned. ‘That’s vague enough to cover anything she might have said to them, and should give nothing away to whoever will be investigating her disappearance. What do you reckon?’

‘Sounds good to me. Better too little than too much. I wonder, though, if you and I have had enough or too little desensitising?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mort. How can you have too much? But not too long, you need your rest for the swim tomorrow.’

They leaped into bed and this time turned out the light.

That afternoon, three hundred kilometres south of the not so luxurious resort hotel, while Mort and the others were cavorting in the hotel pool, Zadig had arrived at a camping ground attached to a national park renowned for it’s platypus viewing.

‘There are two of us,’ he told the Park Ranger, writing his and Mort’s names in the visitor’s register.

‘How long are you staying?’

‘One or two nights. I’ll pay for two.’

‘Fair enough. Where’s the other bloke?’

‘He couldn’t wait to see the platypus, so I’ll send him up later.’

‘I’m off duty in an hour. Tell him to come past in the morning; Tom’s on duty then.’

‘No worries.’

Zadig erected his two-man tent, spread two groundsheets and sleeping bags, put a small pack at the head of each, and went for a swim and a look for the platypus, which were apparently on a break. He took a shower and spoke to a couple of other campers in the communal ablutions block, introducing himself as Zadig. Half an hour later he went for a second shower, this time telling the elderly man who seemed curious, that his name was Mort.

The following morning he introduced himself to Tom as Mort Aywun, signed the book and waited for a phone call. At nine o’clock Arch rang and told him rain had forced a postponement, probably to the following day, he’d ring at the same time tomorrow. Zadig spent the day wandering forest tracks and sleeping, exhausted after a mosquito-ridden, sleepless, nervous night, made worse by the thought of having to endure another.

Back at the hotel, the rain prompted Hale to offer to put on a show for the guests that evening if the rain stopped. He spent much of the day practising away from prying eyes, while the others borrowed hotel umbrellas and went for a walk along the cliff-top track. It was muddy, which was good as that was another deterrent to sightseers. After a few hundred metres the track descended close enough to the water’s edge to permit access, and in answer to their prayers a tumbledown shack lurked behind an outcrop of rock; probably once a shelter for fishermen. They walked another two kilometres along the track, saw no signs of it’s being used recently, took a few photographs, noted important details, and returned.

After lunch the weather cleared slightly, although the wind was unpleasant, so they went down to the small beach and braved the waters, carefully avoiding any display of interest in the rocks on the right of the bay. As Mort said, you never know who is watching and wondering.

‘I reckon it’s about a hundred metres till I’m round the point, from then on I’ll be invisible to anyone here on the beach or up by the hotel, then another three hundred metres at least to where the track is low enough to climb up to it.’

‘Say half a kilometre. Can you swim that far?’

‘Easily, but I’d look silly just swimming straight around the point and disappearing. There has to be a reason I’d go so far.’

‘You could take one of those little paddle boats and fall off without anyone noticing.’

‘The fellow in charge is certain to keep a watchful eye on them in case of that. An accident would be bad for business.’

‘We’re going to be very bad for business. I’m starting to feel guilty. I like Malcolm.’

‘Got it!’ Arch nodded in satisfaction. ‘In the sports room there are flippers, snorkels and masks for the use of guests; we’ll get some and go snorkelling to look at coral and things. Then I’ll get cramp or cut myself or something, and come back in. Then while people are fussing over me, you can disappear.’

‘But the beach has to be full of people, it’s no use if we’re alone.’

‘So let’s pray for a bright day with a little cloud so those who sunburn easily will also come down.’

That night it was Hercules who phoned Zadig. ‘It’s on for tomorrow. He’ll go in the water at eleven, so you should be here by then. I’m sending a photo of the map with an x at the spot we’ll meet. Call me back when you’ve worked out how to get there.’

Ten minutes later Zadig phoned, said he’d checked satellite maps and found the place easily. He’d only need three hours, but would allow four to get there in case of a mishap, so would leave at seven, to arrive at ten. If the swim was cancelled, someone should phone any time after six.

Hercules reminded him to destroy and dispose of the phone and card afterwards; he would do the same.

At nine o’clock that evening the entire population of the hotel assembled on chairs in front of the lounge. Hale had set the frame up on the edge of the cliff. The air was utterly still and sensuously warm; the backdrop an almost full moon sending a wavy yellow path across the ocean. He had decided to use no music. The susurration of the sea and occasional night noises were enough. In an artificial environment music is important to set the mood. In nature at night the mood is already set — mysterious, magical, expectant.

Malcolm turned off all lights except the three spots Hale always used, and from his first magical leap — a golden streak of perfect flesh flying to the top of the frame where he remained vertical on his hands long enough for his audience to get over the shock and realise what they had seen, right through to the final dizzying triple somersault, landing on his feet in front of everyone, the atmosphere was electric with tension punctuated by gasps of astonishment, fear and relief when what seemed impossible proved the opposite.

‘One of the best shows I’ve seen,’ seemed to be the consensus.

Malcolm was delighted. Even the most difficult guest was at last satisfied with something, and he soaked up the praise for having organised such a performance.

While the hotel guests were still tucked up in their cosy beds, back in the forest Zadig rose early, swam, made himself a plate of muesli, received a phone call, packed his tent and gear and rode softly out, only to be stopped by Tom the ranger.

‘Gidday Mort. Where’s the bloke with the Arab name? Zad...something?’

‘Zadig. It’s Persian, not Arab. I think his grandparents came from there. He’s waiting for me at the end of the track — I hope! He loves walking, so set off an hour ago. You must have seen him on the way in.’

‘Oh, right. There was a bloke out on the highway. Too far away to see clearly. Must be pretty fit to walk so far.’

‘He is.’

‘Where are you off to today?’

Up the ranges to see the waterfalls, they should be good after the rain, then we’ll camp at Falls National Park. I hope the camping area’s as well looked after as this place.’

‘Thanks. Ride safely.'

With a wave Zadig rode quietly off and was soon lost to view.

On reaching the highway he picked up speed, keeping to the speed limit for three hours until he saw Hercules sitting on a stump beside the road.

Hercules looked at his watch. ‘One minute to ten — Brilliant. Great to see you.’

‘And you! I’d never have noticed this track! Thank goodness you got here first. How long did it take you to walk?’

‘I didn’t. Hale drove me here along the track. He’s gone to the shop up the road for something. He’ll drive back after you leave to muddy your tracks.’

‘That is so clever; when did you think of it?’

‘About half an hour ago. I suddenly realised your bike would leave a very suspicious trail.’ Hercules mounted the pillion seat. ‘Drive on McZadig.’

Fifteen minutes later the bike and Zadig were concealed in the decrepit shed, and Hercules was sitting on a boulder staring out to sea, contemplating the cosmic absurdity of life.

93 A Perfect Day For It

The god who looks after the innocent had decreed perfect weather for a swim. Wind free, slightly overcast, hot enough to entice people into the sea instead of wallowing in a tepid pool.

At a quarter to ten Mort and Arch arrived with flippers, masks, snorkels and beach towels, and claimed a spot amongst the other guests, swapping smiles and casual greetings. After rubbing each other somewhat ostentatiously with sun lotion, surreptitiously watched by males envious of Arch, and females envious of Mort, they relaxed for a while, propped up on their elbows, gazing out to sea, pleased that no other guests seemed intent on underwater sightseeing.

What they hadn’t counted on was the lifeguard sitting on his perch at the edge of the water in the centre of the beach. Too late to worry. With a bit of luck he’d get bored watching their snorkels and wouldn’t notice when Mort swam a little further out. When it looked as if everyone had lost interest in them they casually wandered to the water’s edge, sat and put on flippers and masks, slithered into the water, popped the snorkels into their mouths and swam lazily away.

At first they swam together towards and around the closest rocks on the right, then Arch stayed close to shore while Mort swam in ever increasing circles. When he was about two minutes swim from the point, Arch dragged his thigh across a sharp branch of coral. Instantly, the water turned red and he almost panicked. The cut seemed huge. Controlling himself, he managed to swim to shore where he called for help — the panic in his voice was real. It was a deep and jagged tear in his flesh.

Within seconds the entire beach came running, including the lifeguard with an emergency first aid kit. By the time he had dried, disinfected and dragged the gash together with tape, Mort had disappeared, unnoticed by a crowd hypnotised by the blood, raw flesh and the unpleasant yellow colour Arch had turned before vomiting and fainting.

It wasn’t until he was being carried up the steps on a stretcher that anyone thought to ask about his wife. Someone said she had returned to the beach before Arch cut himself, others said they thought she was still swimming among the rocks. An elderly gentleman had seen her mount the steps up to the hotel. No one panicked until the beach guard returned and said she wasn’t at the hotel. He scanned the sea with his binoculars and declared her missing.

‘No one go in the water! Do not use the paddleboats! Despite the hooks there could be a shark or a crocodile. She may have been stung and is seeking shelter on the rocks. Mrs. Lintel is a good swimmer, so if nothing’s happened to her she will be fine. I’m calling the search and rescue helicopter, they’ll be here in half an hour, everyone stay calm and use the hotel pool for the rest of the day.’

Mort was nervous. It had been too easy. He’d rounded the point unnoticed and with the help of flippers powered towards the shore. It was probably only half past ten — quarter to eleven. He could see no one on the shore. What if? He took deep breaths to calm irrational fears. His feet touched bottom. He waded up to a small patch of sand and had just removed snorkel, flippers and mask when Hercules and Zadig came scrambling down the rocks. They smiled grimly, but no one spoke.

A minute later, Mort was wearing motorbike leathers and following Zadig up to the concealed motorbike. They mounted and rode quietly away.

Hercules tore the swimsuit to shreds, emptied the contents of the flask containing Calumnia’s blood that Arch had removed from the freezer, onto the pieces, ensured they were absorbed, then tossed them and the snorkelling gear back into the water where they drifted slowly towards some rocks further out. He then wandered casually back up to the hotel and was nearly there when Hale passed him in the van. It wasn’t until he was entering the lounge that he heard the approach of a helicopter. He looked at his watch and smiled. By now they’d be merely one of dozens of bikes and cars pounding up and down the highway.

*****

Two helmeted and leather clad young men on a powerful bike, saddlebags bulging with gear, rode north for half an hour to a reddish brown sign marking the tourist route to the waterfalls. They turned left onto a winding sealed road that rose rapidly through heavily forested slopes. Two cars passed them going down. At an overgrown entranceway, Zadig turned in and stopped out of sight of the road. At that moment a vehicle drove up the road.

Mort was shaking when he dismounted and had to hold himself against a tree to avoid sagging to his knees. Zadig was instantly at his side, supporting him.

‘Mort, sweetheart, are you okay?’

‘Fine, thanks. Just a bit dizzy.’

Zadig checked a nearby log for ants and snakes. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘I’m fine, really. Don’t know what the matter is. Delayed shock I guess. All that tension, planning, pretending to be Calumnia, dancing, swimming, terrified it’d all blow up in our faces. And then suddenly I’m here. With you. It’s almost an anticlimax.’ He turned his face to Zadig. ‘Kiss me!’

They hugged for long minutes until Mort’s shoulders relaxed. He took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘I was so worried you’d crash the bike, have an accident, run into trouble. Every minute I was thinking about you, terrified something would go wrong and we’d be separated and I’d never see you again. If I’d thought about that when we were planning, I’d never have done it. Losing you would be a price too big to pay. I’d sooner die.’

‘Yeah, it isn’t until we’ve made a choice that we realise exactly what’s at stake. Humans can plan, but they seldom want to work out the consequences. I felt the same. Worried all the time that you’d be found out, thrown in prison, drown when swimming to me…’ He sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘Let’s never do anything like this again... separating and doing dangerous things.’

‘Too right. From now on, if we’re doing something risky we stay together. What happens now?’

‘I told the ranger we were going to spend the day at the waterfalls, so we’ll head up there so we know what we’re talking about if anyone asks, then we’re going to the Falls National Park to camp for a couple of days. Can’t go back to where I’ve spent the last two nights because one ranger thinks I’m me, and the other thinks I’m you.’

‘You really are amazing. Okay, let’s go.’

‘First, bare your lovely head while I play Delilah to your Samson.’

Ten minutes later Mort’s hair bore a striking resemblance to Zadig’s centimetre-long fuzz.

‘You look different.’

‘How?’

‘Tough. Mean. No... not mean, hard. No. Not hard. Able to look after yourself.’

‘And with long hair I didn’t?’

‘It sort of softened your face; gave you a slightly insecure look. Made me want to take care of you even though I knew you were an independent cuss.’

‘So you no longer want to take care of me?’

‘I do, but I now realise I don’t need to.’

‘And what do you prefer?’

‘This by a long chalk! Now I know I don’t have to worry about you. I will still worry, but not because I think you’ll be taken advantage of or get out of your depth. I feel more equal now. I realise you can also take care of me if I need it.’

‘It’s interesting how much difference a bit of hair makes. It feels better too. I’m glad it’s off, always something flapping round my head. I don’t know why I kept it so long. I think I unconsciously promised myself I wouldn’t cut it until my life was sorted. Well now it is and I’m a new man. I’m glad you still like me because I still reckon you’re the perfectest man on the planet.’

Zadig took Mort’s head in his hands and kissed his brow, nose, eyes and lips. ‘Beautiful words sealed with a loving kiss, but we’d better get going.’

As they powered quietly up the hill towards their future, glossy black tresses were cast on the winds, taking with them a troublesome past.

94 Consequences

Meanwhile, back at the hotel, the helicopter crew had seen nothing floating; body, shark, or crocodile, but they did report clothing in shallow water not far up the coast. A police sergeant and a constable pulled Calumnia’s torn togs and snorkelling gear out of the water, bagged and labelled them and placed them in the boot of their vehicle.

Hercules had walked round to the parking area to meet Hale, and together they entered the lounge to be met by an almost hysterical Malcolm. He clung to Hale as if for support.

‘Hale! It’s a disaster! Do you know where Calumnia is?’

‘No, why?’

‘She disappeared while swimming. And Arch cut himself on coral and is nearly dead from loss of blood. We’ve sent for an ambulance. Should we inform someone?’

‘Calm, Malcolm, calm. None of this can possibly be your fault. You run an impeccable establishment, so leave it all to the cops. Just remain calm, do as they ask with no questions. Be helpful; don’t protest your innocence; that makes cops suspicious. It will sort itself out.’

‘Yes. Yes. You are right. But …’

‘But keep calm. Where’s Arch?’

‘I’ll take you.’

The sick bay was in a separate building behind the office, a large airy room smelling of disinfectant. The resident nurse was taking Arch’s temperature. A policeman was standing watching. Blood had seeped through the bandage around Arch’s thigh. His eyes were open and he grasped Hale’s hand nervously.

‘Where’s... where’s…’

‘Calumnia?’

Arch nodded.

‘She’s disappeared. No one has any idea where she is.’ Hale gave a slow wink.

‘That’s terrible. What can have happened?’

‘The police are on to it, so don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be found.’

Hercules stepped forward and took the other hand, 'You’re a fuckwit, Lintel, gashing yourself. Do you want me to let Mort know?’

‘Yes, please Hercules. His number’s on my speed dial.’

The policeman stepped forward. ‘Who is Mort?’

‘Arch’s son, he’s on a camping trip with his friend.’

‘Where?’

‘Last I heard they were in the Platypus National Park.’

‘That’s about three hundred kilometres south.’

‘Yeah, something like that. But they’re moving around a bit apparently. He’s an independent kid, doesn’t take kindly to being told what to do.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘The cop checked his records. ‘Mr. Lintel’s only thirty-three.’

‘Yeah, a teenage fuck, apparently.’

‘So the missing woman’s his step mother, only a few years older than him, how did they get on?’

Hercules laughed. ‘I think he was in love with her.’ He looked at the policeman’s face. ‘No, not like that. He’s gay and Calumnia was brilliant. Made him feel totally at home. He’ll be gutted, poor bugger.’

The cop pulled a wry smile. ‘Not very politically correct, Mr. Buff.’

Hercules grinned and winked.

At that moment the ambulance arrived.

Within two minutes Arch had an oxygen mask on his face, had been given an injection, was carried into the ambulance, papers had been signed and they were on their way.

‘Will you be needing us? I’d like to be at the hospital when Arch comes out of surgery.’

‘We?’

‘Me and Hale, we’re his best mates. Hale gave a performance here last night.’

The policeman checked his notes. ‘You haven’t been interviewed. Give me your details then call in to the police station to make a statement before going to the hospital.’

‘What about Arch’s things?’

‘We need to check his room in case there are leads to what might have happened. He will be contacted when he can retrieve his effects.’

‘What about his car? Can I take it?’

‘While you’re cleaning out your room and checking out of the hotel I’ll have a constable take a look, then I imagine you can take it.’

Half an hour later they met the policeman at Arch’s car. He handed Hercules the keys and Arch’s mobile phone. Mr. Lintel asked you to call his son. Do it now, but we’ll keep the phone.’

Mort answered on the third ring.

‘Mort? Hercules. Bad news. Arch has cut his leg and is in hospital, and Calumnia’s missing. There’s a helic…’

‘What do you mean missing?’ Even from two metres away, the cop could hear the anxiety.

Hercules explained.

Mort was terribly upset. Wanted to come and help with the search. Was told he had to be calm and remain where he was, not to worry, he couldn’t do anything except upset Arch, so finish his holiday and they’d all meet up back at Oasis. Mort played his part well.

The constable took the handset and introduced himself, explained that everything that needed to be done was being done, so Mort should remain where he was — where was that exactly? ‘And tonight you’ll stay at Falls National Park camping ground? Right, stay there; a police officer will arrive sometime this afternoon to interview you in case you have any information that might help the police with their enquiries. So hang around the camping area.’

The interview at the police station in town was straightforward; they signed statements and were free to go, but were not to leave the country without police permission until the case was closed.

Mort’s interview was similar.

Arch was released from hospital the following day with twenty-five stitches in his thigh, a packet of antibiotics, a pack of sterile dressings and several bandages, on condition Hale would stay with him and follow the doctor’s instructions.

Over the next five weeks, everyone was interviewed several times by polite policemen who freely admitted that so far they had seen and heard nothing that made them suspicious of foul play. Arch had been in full view all the time. None of the mobile phones had any messages that could be called suspicious. Calumnia had sounded pleased with herself and was clearly under no threat when she sent the messages to her friends, and mother, all of whom agreed her plan was to cement her marriage with the man she loved.

Calumnia’s friends’ helpfulness was triggered more from self-preservation than concern for her fate. They carefully avoided saying anything that might invite further interviews and investigation into the lucrative but illegal prostitution business of which Calumnia had been an invaluable asset. Her mother too was worried. She had foolishly bragged to her friends about how her daughter was going to fleece her wimpish husband, and didn’t want the cops to get hold of that information. Nor did she want them to know her daughter had been blackmailing Hercules. She was dead, and from a gossipy woman’s point of view the untimely death of a daughter in love makes a far better story than the death of a bitch who was screwing her husband for all she could get — and failed.

A check at both National Parks proved that Mort had been staying at both during the tragic episode, so could not have had any part in his step mother’s accident.

Cleaning staff swore they had seen both Hale and Hercules in and around their cabin while the tragedy was unfolding on the beach.

To Hale’s astonished relief, no one bothered to find out who or what had driven along the coastal track to the town — he still had not thought of a valid reason for driving there at that time.

The bathing costume did not look like either a shark or a crocodile had torn it, however, the traces of blood were analysed and DNA matched to Calumnia, who had had her DNA taken when she reported being raped by a teacher at the age of sixteen, and chose a compensation package from the school rather than the ignominy of a court case.

Death by misadventure — possibly a shark or crocodile attack, was written on the bottom of the file.

Arch’s leg healed perfectly and he and Hale have become the most sought-after architectural duo in the state.

Hercules remains Hercules.

Douglass Verdi bought himself a small unit in the city, and Mort and Zadig remain in connubial bliss in the cottage, living exactly the life that suits them.

********

Thanks for reading Mortaumal. If you enjoyed it, please recommend it to other readers.

Mortaumal, Hercules and Zadig return in my novel, Fidel, along with Robert and Bart from Rough Justice, Sebastian and Jarek from Jarek, and Peter and John from Dome of Death.

If the urge to communicate overtakes you: please email me at: prethj@activ8.net.au

I respond to all emails and enjoy hearing from readers.

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Back to Contents

About Me

I live with my partner as naturally as possible in today’s world, on several forest acres in sub-tropical Queensland.

My first twenty-five years are recalled in a light-hearted memoir, Dancing Bare, in which I confess my misbehaviour in nineteen sixties London, Paris, Europe and North Africa.

I write the sort of stories I like to read, in which people who share my ideas, values, hopes and fears, cope bravely with dangers without compromising their principles. Stylistically, I want stories that are intelligent, reasonably fast-paced, and with sufficient but minimal description that doesn’t interrupt the unfolding plot, which is about more than just action. A bit of philosophising and the occasional polemic always please me.

I reckon fictional characters should be believable, not ‘supermen’ — just slightly larger than life. I also want the book to be well written and edited so I'm unaware I’m reading as I’m transported to a more interesting reality where there are at least a couple of people I can relate to. I don’t mind reading about sexual activity if it’s part of the plot and demonstrates character, but graphic sex bores me witless. I am disappointed that so many so-called ‘gay’ novels seem to be excuses for empty erotica.

I'm always slightly disappointed by ‘heroes’ who are unable to escape the compromises, petty disagreements, hopes, disappointments, mistakes, regrets, and the doubtful pleasures of wasteful consumerism that are destroying the planet.

My ‘heroes’ live in that world, but face their predicaments stoutly, understanding that more than enough is too much, while valuing what is truly valuable – a sustainable, living planet with clean air, water and soil, thus inspiring us lesser mortals to follow their example and strive with a little more perseverance to attain our goals. I realise I'm sometimes guilty of a bit of tub-thumping in my writing, but I like that in other writers because without strong convictions an author has little to offer readers apart from amusement.

Rigby Taylor.

My Books in the order they were written — and they read better in that order because although all are self-contained, they do refer to each other and characters from one sometimes appear in another.

Rough Justice is about the consequences of religious bigotry and homophobia; how a good parent deals with their child’s sexual orientation; de-stigmatising exhibitionism,; suggestions for maintaining loving relationships.

Dome of Death is a thriller revolving around the consequences of climate change and rising seas on unsustainable coastal ‘development’.

Sebastian is an unashamed defence of the joys of innocent nudity and sex in a country that’s becoming increasingly prudish, and nude equates to rude, although participation in wars and their murder, torture, terrorism, is seen as not only essential but heroic.

Jarek takes a tongue in cheek swipe at the extreme elements of women’s liberation, while offering a serious alternative to the way we currently teach our children.

Mortaumal is a light-hearted, slightly satirical tale of death and dying, affection and callous indifference, independence and love, male and female differences, that takes place somewhere in Queensland. Mortaumal gets himself into and out of very hot water while learning to defend himself both physically and mentally in a fast paced romp in which there’s sentiment but not sentimentality, social criticism, excitement, fun, and a bit of everything else.

Fidel weaves his brave but dangerous path through the morass of a fundamentalist religious takeover of government.

NumbaCruncha: After a chilling peek at the near future, NumbaCruncha takes a thousand year leap into the future, where the activities of humans have reached their logical culmination in a flesh-crawlingly evil dystopia ruled by the most unpleasant gang of conmen and women you're ever likely to encounter. Meanwhile, back in the forest, Sebastian and Jarek’s genetically evolved Men are waiting.

Frankie Fey questions everything while living an exciting, sometimes dangerous existence as he searches for meaning and purpose in Australia and India.

Each of the stories in Time to Think takes a gentle look at an oddity in human relationships and behaviour.

Dancing Bare is an amusing yet mildly critical look at some of the changes that have occurred since the 1960s, seen through the eyes of an aspiring actor, teacher, traveller, harmless exhibitionist and reluctant rent boy.

So… if you want to read novels filled with realistic gay heroes, excitement, adventure and romance – follow the links.

Rough Justice

Dome of Death

Sebastian

Jarek

Mortaumal

Fidel

NumbaCruncha

Frankie Fey

Time to Think

Dancing Bare