whatever I did, do, it doesn't stop him and I wake in a cold sweat, heart racing, sick to my stomach.
'Earth to Antsy?' Monty searched my face.
I caught myself scratching my palm. I managed a sickly smile.
'Everything okay?'
'Yeah.' I gathered my wits. 'Uh, O'Toole admitted he felt bad about punching Joyce's husband.'
'According to Walenski.'
'Proves my point. O'Toole must have told Walenski the circumstances for him to know about it.'
Monty acknowledged this then shrugged. 'It's weird. I've always thought of the Tough Romantics as famous rock stars. But this guy knew them when they were just kids.'
He'd echoed Arthur's words. I smiled. 'Exactly. Genevieve is coming to life for me, but the dynamics within the band,' I shrugged. It was odd. Genevieve was such a romantic name, yet according to Walenski's book she was just a thin, scared kid battling Tucker over the band's direction. I shuffled the pages into a neat stack. 'It's too late to go 'round to Walenski's tonight. First thing tomorrow?'
'Right. At least now we know why he didn't provide O'Toole's alibi. He didn't want the police to know he was a Chicken Hawk.' Monty saw my expression and took pity on me. 'He preyed on under-age boys.'
'How quaint.' I muttered, 'I've never heard that term before.'
'Naturally,' Monty winked. 'Nan would not approve.'
I grinned. He'd read Nan right. She was an honest-to-god Aussie Battler, bless her cotton socks. She'd worked her fingers to the bone to make ends meet and she'd tried to raise me to be a 'lady'. Not that she stuck her head in the sand. She used to say, I know there's filth out there, but only pigs choose to wallow in it.
Plates rattled and I looked up to see Monty stacking the dishwasher. A domesticated man? It was too good to be true.
He closed the dishwasher. 'How accurate do you think Walenski's portrayal of O'Toole is? He comes over as overtly moral.'
'Wouldn't what happened to that nine-year old get to you?'
Monty looked at me. 'It's a book, Antsy. It could be complete fiction.'
I winced. 'But we know parts of it aren't and there's Walenski's tapes. I'd love to get my hands on them.'
'Exactly. Walenski said he wouldn't give them to us because it might prejudice us against O'Toole. What does that tell you?'
'Not to leap to conclusions?' I waited but he said nothing.
I sighed. 'I don't know, Monty. I think we have to take this on faith, for now. When O'Toole talks about the people on the Street it rings true. You know, I think we've got the 'voice' of Joseph Walenski - a serious, prim and sensitive homosexual writer - interpreting the Pete O'Toole he knew, and perhaps giving him a bit more insight and sensitivity than he really had.'
A slow smile broke across Monty's face. 'You could be right. I always said you had good instincts, Antsy.'
I felt warm right down to my toes. His gaze held mine a moment too long.
I looked down and picked up the manuscript. Back at QCA, I made sure Monty and I had never had a 'thing'.The excitement of finding a simpatico mind and working together was enough for me. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate him from a purely aesthetic point of view. I'd have to be blind not to.
Right from the beginning I'd been aware that he was different from the others. For one thing he never played those dumb male-female games that I found so irritating. That's partly why I'd thought he was gay. But nothing else had changed, so why would he give off signals now? I had to be imagining this. I'd been celibate too long. There hadn't been anyone since Nathan. At first I was too hurt and then, well, the right person just didn't come along. To be frank, I wasn't looking for anyone. Writing and directing were my passion.
'Right.' I stood up, sliding the first chapter back into the envelope. 'I'm going to download my email and write up a few ideas while everything is still fresh in my mind.'
'Sure. I'll bring my computer in, set up, then hit the sack.'
As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom I realised I should get the manuscript photocopied and put it somewhere safe. Walenski claimed the book would clear O'Toole, so it must implicate the real killer. Was I committing a criminal act withholding this manuscript and the tapes from the police?
They hadn't known of their existence 25 years ago. I figured it wouldn't hurt them to wait until I was finished with the book. A little tremor of excitement ran through me.
I wasn't obsessed with the Tough Romantics, as Monty thought, but I was fascinated by their music. There was one particular song that I associated with my mother and her wasted life, because she'd loved it. Their music defined a generation and, 25 years on, it had stood the test of time. But I'd only ever had a passing interest in the band members.
Except for Genevieve. She'd died earlier the same year as my mother and I'd grown up feeling a strange kinship with her. For a while I even believed they'd died the same day. Poor Genevieve. Her life had held such promise and then her future had been stolen. She hadn't deserved what she got, unlike my dead, junkie mother.
The woman who gave birth to me had chosen the empyreal high of heroin over her own flesh and blood. And, in the end, even that hadn't blocked out the voices. Motherhood hadn't been enough of a reason to come clean and hearing voices was no excuse. Things might have been different, maybe, if they'd kept her in the funny farm instead of letting her out to self medicate. Or, maybe, if I'd meant more to her.
I was six when she died, and can barely remember her face. If it wasn't for the photos I wouldn't even know what she looked like. If it hadn't been for Nan's stories - I'd filled in the blanks from what she hadn't said - I would never have known my mother was an emotionally-crippled nutcase.
All too familiar anger churned through me. It took everything I had to channel that anger into productive energy. If I wanted to establish my career, I had to make a bloody brilliant pilot doco. And Walenski's manuscript was just what I needed to give me an insight into the Tough Romantics' world.
I put the old manila envelope under my pillow, plugged my laptop in to save the batteries and hoisted up my business skirt to sit cross-legged on the bed with my laptop. Gritty eyed, I focused on the screen. Nothing was going to stop me - not a junkie mother, not a sadistic and manipulative ex-husband. Nobody.
Walenski's book was such a coup. I really, really wanted to blog it. I sat there for a whole minute, fingers hovering over the keys. In the end discretion won out. Then I sat there trying to work out what to say without looking like an idiot with a secret. Finally, I wrote up the interview with Arthur, the man who still dunks his biscuits, and left it hanging on a promise of more.
I just wasn't that good at blogging. Maybe it was because I'd been raised by Nan, but I felt uncomfortable about revealing my private life to a bunch of strangers.
Then I stretched out with the laptop on my stomach and re-read my script. Argh. It was terrible.
It seemed like only five minutes later that Monty knocked on the door, waking me. I surfaced from an intense conversation with Genevieve and found I'd been scratching my scar in my sleep. For a moment I didn't know what was dream and what
