I'm not sure."
"Don't you go all cryptic on me, Gary. I'm having a terrible night and I'm not in the mood."
"I don't know much about it. Mundy let something slip, years and years ago, in the seventies probably. I wrote it in my notes to make sure I'd remember it, but I haven't been able to corroborate anything."
"And this slip was…?"
"He was in one of his… moods."
"Mundy is nothing but moods. All of them foul."
Gary acknowledged this truth. "A worse mood than usual, then. He was complaining about missing what it used to be like."
"Ah yes," I remarked bitterly, "the good old days, when occupying rugged castles and eating the peasants all unhindered by the pesky tabloid media made life grand."
"Something like that. You know he's from England, originally."
"So I gathered." My supposition was that Mundy originated from the early 1700s at the latest, given that his syntax sounded like he was reading aloud from Gulliver's Travels.
"One night he made me go with him to clean up his new digs. He'd had to find somewhere new to live and he didn't trust the electricity to not burn the place down. Still doesn't, really."
Not surprising for a man who had grown up human in the time of tallow candles.
"He was trying to convince me to go to Magdalene's club and I wasn't interested. He started on about how great it used to be, and how when I'd had my first kill it would all be different."
At the look I gave him, Gary shrugged. "The whole idea made me feel a bit sick and I told him so. So he went off at me."
"Blaming you for the wrack and ruin of civilisation?"
"I hadn't been… dead… for long then; only five or six years. I thought he was an uptight square. Then he ranted a bit about how he'd been driven out of London and then England and then Europe by 'those damned hunters'. He said something about how they'd cleaned out the London docks and later, in Paris, he'd escaped minutes before they found his squat. He got out the window while they were busy killing the… other occupants."
Mundy was clearly not someone you could count on to watch your back. "Did he say anything else about these hunters?"
"He said he'd killed one of them in London, around the time of the French Revolution. A few years later another one was in his place; 10 years later they popped up again."
"Sounds like some kind of bogeyman."
"That's what I thought. Then I started making notes and he clammed up. I review my notes pretty often, but nothing really connects." He tapped his forehead with his finger to indicate the failure of his synapses to spark.
"Ah," I considered. "There were two of them there tonight. I saw this boy at the bottom of the stairs. Someone in the bar called him Abe."
"Yeah, but Mundy was talking about stuff from over 300 years ago."
"He also said there were always more of them." I tried to envision a bottomless secret society of slayers. Like ninjas, only in pantaloons. And, considering the few moments I had shared with Abe, bug-eyed crazy as well.
"Hmmm." Which was not the kind of response I'd been hoping for. He seemed preoccupied with peering over the edge of the building.
"You don't seem worried," I said drily.
"I'm…" the pause was so long I thought he'd forgotten what we were talking about, but he sighed again. "I'm worrying about one thing at a time."
I knew the feeling. "What's number one on the list then?"
"Getting off the roof without being seen."
Gary's sense of priorities was frequently puzzling unless you looked at them purely in terms of chronology rather than actual importance. In that scheme of things, of course that was number one, ranked ahead of slayers and reluctant errands for Mundy.
"We can stay here for a bit, if it's easier," I said. "No-one's expecting me at home."
We found a relatively comfy spot on the roof to watch the fire engines in Little Bourke Street. The warmth of the summer night was pleasant. Gary's pale skin winked orange-and-grey with the reflected light of flames and emergency vehicles.
Gary's shoulders were hunched unhappily and he looked troubled. Taking a leaf out of his book, perhaps it was time to tackle issues chronologically. I bunched up closer to him and rested my head on his shoulder, keeping my eyes on the lights.
"This errand you have to do for Mundy" - I felt his muscles tense - "do you really have to do it?"
"You heard Mundy."
"Do you have to do everything he says?"
"Not everything. But this I do."
"What is it you have to do?"
No answer.
"Where do you have to go?"
"Ballarat. Figured I'd go tomorrow."
"Ballarat? That's pretty far afield for someone who never goes out of Melbourne. Do you reckon you can find your way?"
I'd meant it jokingly - Ballarat's a big regional town, only a few hours north, so it's hard to miss, and surely anyone can read a train timetable and follow a map - but it elicited a startled response from Gary.
"Cripes, I hope so."
"Would you like me to come with you? It's Saturday, I'm rostered off work this weekend and Kate's away with Oscar. I can keep you company on the trip."
Gary was unsuccessful at repressing a hopeful look. "You don't need to help. You can go visit the local library or the museum while I, um, get on with it."
"Didn't Mundy say the guy's name was Alberto? You've mentioned him before haven't you?"
"Have I?" The innocent tone was unconvincing.
"He's the one you said lives in Sovereign Hill, reliving the gold rush years and trying to pretend the awful 20th century never happened.
Gary murmured an unhappy acknowledgement that this was, indeed, the guy.
"I wouldn't mind visiting Sovereign Hill, since we're going to Ballarat. I haven't been there since I was studying Australian history at school. I can pan for gold while you do whatever it is. I'll stay out of your way," I assured him as his troubled frown deepened. That seemed to satisfy him. "Why don't you bunk over at my place tonight?" I offered, "You can watch TV to kill time until we have to catch the train."
"Thanks."
"Are you sure you don't want to tell me what's going on?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay."
It wasn't, but I let it ride. Below us, fire trucks had dowsed the
