was silent for the whole trip, except for occasional road directions, and was grateful to Milo for the silence. He was amazed that he remembered the way to Point Walter after so long away; but it wasn’t so strange. For almost seven years it had been home, the most important place in the world to him.
It was hard to find a place to park when they got there; it looked like everyone who had attended the funeral had already arrived, along with a few dozen others.
‘Nice place,’ remarked Milo. The house stood two storeys high behind a lush garden of tropical greenery. The driveway led to a short stone staircase up onto the front landing. They stepped through the open doors – lead-lighted with floral scenes of rich colour – to the foyer. A white marble staircase to the right led up to the second storey. Frank took Milo straight ahead, down a wide corridor and into the large rooms with wall-length windows which faced the cliff and the river.
The subdued sound of a crowd drifted down the corridor. Soon they stood at the threshold of the largest of the front rooms. Frank watched for a moment, a little taken aback at the number of people it contained. But Steven had always been popular.
‘Oh, there you are!’ Kevin came up behind them both, ‘Go on in. You’ll know someone in there, love.’ He had his emotions under control at last, though his eyes were puffy and pink-rimmed. He’d washed his face and combed his hair again, making it sit still with gel.
‘Sure. Can I- can I do anything to help?’
‘Thanks, Frankie, but no. Running things gives me something else to think about. I’ll let you know if I need a hand.’
‘Sure.’
Frank hesitated again at the door, moving only when Milo placed a guiding hand under his arm and steered him inside. He looked at all the strangers, at the acquaintances and friends he hadn’t seen for so long, wondering what he was supposed to say to them and feeling like he didn’t want to say much at all.
‘We don’t have to stay for long,’ Milo said quietly. ‘Put in an appearance, that’s all. I’m sure Kevin will understand.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Frank? Frank Capriano?’ A young man, several years younger than Frank, emerged from the crowd, grinning. ‘It is you! God, when did you get back?’
‘A few days ago.’ Frank turned to Milo, ‘Milo, this is David Tyson – he was Steve’s latest protege when I left. Dave, this is Milo Bertolone, my partner.’
David raised his eyebrows and grinned. ‘I heard you two were making a bit of a name for yourselves on the circuits in Europe.’
Milo shrugged, but was smiling. ‘Not too bad. One single in the top one hundred last year. We get good audiences at the gigs.’
‘Steven may have exaggerated our fame, just a bit,’ said Frank cautiously.
‘Well, you were his Golden Boy.’ David’s smile faded. ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t make it back earlier. He would have loved to see you.’
Frank nodded, the guilt rising again. ‘We couldn’t get away earlier. We spoke on the phone about it, when he was in hospital. Steve understood.’
‘He was disappointed, though.’
‘So was I.’ A sharp, defensive note came into his voice. ‘We couldn’t get away.’
‘Yeah. Do you want a drink? Here, I’ll get you one.’ David strode towards the drinks table while Frank glowered at the floor. He sensed Milo studying him.
‘We could have come back, you know. Those last few gigs-’
‘We needed the money, and the exposure.’
‘If you’d wanted-’
‘I didn’t want to, all right?’ The words came out harsh and angry, and Frank bit back on them. ‘Milo, I wrote to him, I phoned him every week. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t come back to watch him die. I couldn’t do that.’ Eyes closed, he felt Milo’s hand on his arm again.
‘Hey, it’s all right. Come on, Gormless Dave is returning with a scotch. Shall I send him back for the bottle?’
‘Hell, send him back for the crate.’
David returned bearing glasses but before he had a chance to speak, Milo deftly relieved him of the two drinks he carried. ‘Ta, mate. How about a couple of hors-d’oeuvres as well. Here you go,’ he handed a glass to Frank and took him by the arm, steering him across the room. He threw a friendly ‘Catch you later!’ over his shoulder to David, who stood, bemused.
Frank unhooked himself from Milo’s grip and, bemused himself, said, ‘What are you up to?’
‘Jealous bastard, if ever I saw one,’ Milo said matter-of-factly, and he drained his glass. ‘No point leaving you in the vicinity of a demolition squad, is there?’
‘Come on, Milo, he’s a harmless kid.’
‘When you left, maybe. Poisonous little shit now, though.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s got a point.’ The frown returned to Frank’s face, and he swallowed the scotch in one gulp.
Milo took the glass from him. ‘He doesn’t have to be bloody mean about it. And it’s not like he was at the funeral himself, is it? Hypocritical little prick. Hang on, I’ll go get that crate for you.’ He managed to draw a smile from Frank and only then did he head off towards the drinks.
Frank melted out of the crowd to stand by the windows. He turned his back on them and stared at the view. The paved backyard led to a low wrought-iron fence, an elegant barrier between the terracotta and the rocky drop which led ten or so metres down to the river. Wide and slow, the Swan River wound past below, reflecting the clear blue sky. A few boats were out on the water. He saw a couple of the Rottnest cruise boats go past, churning up the water as they went.
When he’d come to live here, he used to go into the backyard, climb the fence and sit on the rocks up here, watching. Steven had tried to stop him, worried that it was dangerous, but he’d done it anyway. He’d liked it out there. It had always made him feel kind of still, and kind of powerful, watching the world from high up. He’d seen a dolphin swim past once, and for a second he’d thought, if I dive down from up here, I’ll turn into a dolphin, and swim back out to sea with him. He’d been with Steven for almost six months by then. A few years back he’d written a song about it. Milo had done a brilliant arrangement for it. They played it sometimes, if the audience was in a mellow mood.
He should get back to them. Join in the wake. Kevin had gone to a lot of trouble and, in his usual style, exceeded himself. Plenty of food, alcohol, music, people – a big send-off for his partner of the last twenty-five years. Maybe a big send-off for himself as well. God, what a sick thought. Poor bastard. Frank hated funerals, and he hated wakes. He hated going to so many of them. He certainly didn’t want to have to make small talk, or talk about Steven. That hurt too much.
He observed his own reflection in the glass. Brown eyes, dark with emotion and shadowed with habitual worry, observed back from under a high forehead and a thatch of light brown hair. High cheekbones, a fine, straight nose, his sensitive mouth drawn into an unhappy frown. Milo told him he always
