Fly By Night
Narrelle M Harris
Duo Ex Machina – Book 1
This edition published by Clan Destine Press 2018
PO Box 121, Bittern
Victoria 3918 Australia
First published by Homosapien Books in 2004
Copyright © Narrelle M Harris 2004
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including internet search engines and retailers, electronic or mechanical, photocopying (except under the statuary exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-In-Publication data:
Harris, Narrelle M.
Fly By Night
Duo Ex Machina: Book 1
ISBN 9780648293750
Cover Design © Willsin Rowe
www.clandestinepress.com.au
Chapter 1 – The Wake
Fremantle, 1999
Frank stared at the wooden coffin as it was slowly lowered into the ground. He tried to picture Steven lying in it, but the image wouldn’t come. Not for Steven. Steven had been light and life and laughter.
Once more, Frank was gripped with that disturbing tumble of guilt and relief. Guilt that he hadn’t been there when Steven’s system had finally collapsed, a decade after his initial diagnosis; guilt that he hadn’t returned when Kevin had written to tell him Frank was getting worse; guilt that he hadn’t returned to Perth in time. Relief at all his absences as well, and then guilt at the relief.
Other mourners took their turn to throw dirt on the coffin, now sitting snugly in the hole. Frank thought that Steven would be horrified. ‘No light, darling, no air. So much dirt! I’m an old Queen of Tarts, Frankie. I have standards.’
Kevin stood by the grave, weeping – as much for himself as for his darling Steven. Kevin had never mentioned his HIV status; Frank would never ask, but he thought it likely Kevin was positive. He ought to say something comforting, but Frank had never been able to think of anything that didn’t sound trite. Everything was too deep, and too damned universal. He’d been to so many of these funerals, both in Australia and in Europe, where he’d worked these last three years.
The man beside him stepped forward to add his handful of dirt and Frank watched him with peculiar intensity. Milo’s handsome face was serious and sympathetic. He hadn’t known Steven, but he knew what the older man had meant to Frank. The mop of dark hair fell into Milo’s dark brown eyes; his fine, sensitive mouth frowned briefly as he scattered soil onto the coffin, the gesture smooth and graceful, even down to the brushing away of the last of the clinging dirt.
Such beautiful hands, so strong and certain. The sudden fear that one day those hands might be stilled gripped Frank: that Milo may never conjure music with those hands again, may one day lie in the ground…
A hand squeezed his shoulder; arms slid around his back to hold him.
‘It’s all right,’ said Milo.
Frank felt the brush of Milo’s cheek against his forehead, the light press of lips on his temple. He leaned into the embrace, hypersensitive to the texture of Milo’s jacket, the scent of his aftershave, the sound of his breathing. Never had anyone felt so alive to him before; radiant. Steven had once been alive like that – the personification of vitality.
‘I’m okay,’ said Frank at last. He met Milo’s compassionate gaze and managed a watery smile. ‘It’s just hit me. I’m not going to see him any more.’
The others mourners took their turn to scatter dirt into the grave and then walked away, leaving the two of them alone until Kevin approached, his hands flecked with dark soil that he couldn’t brush off for trembling. His thinning hair flopped over his forehead. A smudge on his cheek and brow showed where he’d tried to push it out of the way again.
‘You’ll come back to the house? For the wake?’
‘Of course we’ll be there, Kev.’
‘He was a-always so fond of you.’
‘I know. He meant a lot to me too.’
‘He was very proud of you.’
‘I’m glad.’
Kevin nodded stiffly, battling another bout of tears. ‘B-back at the house, then?’
‘We’ll go straight round.’
‘Good.’
A woman from the AIDS Council, who had also been crying, placed an arm around Kevin’s back and guided him towards her car.
Frank watched them go. Parked a little beyond the rest of the funeral party, he noticed again the dark blue sedan he’d seen on his arrival. The occupants were still in the car, watching the proceedings. Straight friends, too self-conscious to join them? Cowards.
We’re all cowards.
‘Want me to drive?’
Frank dragged his gaze away from the two men in the sedan. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’
David Tyson pushed his white Cortina over the speed limit as he tore down the highway back to the house at Point Walter. He’d really meant to be at the funeral, but other matters were more urgent. Steven’s death had made them urgent. Kevin’s grief had made them urgent.
Ross’ bloody-mindedness didn’t help either. Ross had taken over the contacts last exchange, though they’d insisted on sending the money the usual way. Next time they’d leave Kev right out of the equation. Ross was on his way back south, already calculating how much they’d get in this haul, provided everyone did their bit. Perhaps after this shipment, he could take some time off. Try painting again. Maybe.
David scowled at himself in the rear-view mirror. Maybe nothing. He’d taken his sketch pad with him to Geraldton. Stopping along the way, he’d set down in charcoal and pencil a series of tableaus of light and landscape. Everything he tried was mediocre or horribly pretentious. He’d flung the sketchpad into the ocean in disgust from the Geraldton wharves.
He pulled into the driveway at Point Walter ahead of Kevin’s car. ‘Sorry, Kev,’ he called out, ‘Business. You know. I’ll get changed and give you a hand here. Okay?’
Kevin stared at him. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, David.’
David cleared his throat uncomfortably, nodded briefly. ‘Yeah. Well.
