It was Friday night, so Tom Wiley decided to go to the pictures. He grabbed a jacket and headed out the door. "Blast it," thought Tom, "forgot the car keys. I'm always doing that." He turned to open the front door again, then hesitated. How about a tram? "Nah", he muttered. $2.10 for one section was a rip-off, and you couldn't trust them. It was better to take the car. His old Mitsubishi Colt always started right off. The seats might be falling apart, the social butterflies might despise him, but the little car always got him there. This was going to be a lucky night, wasn't it?

As he turned into Park Avenue, the headlights caught a familiar face. It was Kate. She was amongst a crowd at the tram stop, and the crowd didn't look very happy. He suddenly remembered a flash news item that the tram drivers were going on strike. Thank heavens he'd decided to drive. But Kate ... mm. He rather liked her, but she had shown no interest in him. On an impulse he did a U-turn and circled back to the tram stop.

The girl didn't recognize his old car. Why would she? Tom was no glamour boy. It took her a long moment to place his face too - maybe he was someone from the college. A smart girl doesn't take lifts from strangers, but she was sick of waiting for the tram. She paused, then said "OK", and hopped into the front passenger seat.

"Where can I take you?", asked Tom.

"The city will be fine", she replied warily.

"No problem", said Tom, "You're Kate, aren't you?"

"Yes", she said, "how did you know?"

"I've noticed you at the College. Something to do with fine arts?"

Kate wasn't surprised. She was used to being noticed. Sometimes that was useful, but usually it meant fighting off unwanted attention. "Yeah," she growled, "I empty the rubbish tins."

"A fine job", smiled Tom, glancing at her sideways. "Oh oh, there's trouble up ahead. Damn it."

A booze bus was parked on the kerb, and police with flashlights were flagging down every car. "Just our luck", said Tom.

The traffic slowed to a crawl as it approached the police road-block. They waved some cars through, but Tom was out of luck. He shrugged. What else could you do? The shabby Colt was an easy mark. It was hard to love cops at any time, but at least these ones were courteous; also firm though. Tom and Kate had to step inside the booze bus, while the police looked the car over critically.

The inside of the booze bus was painted white, like a hospital, and a female officer gave them both a special plastic bag with a mouthpiece for a "breath test". Briskly she told them to blow into it. Both were stone cold sober, so there was no problem, but the experience was not pleasant. "Having a busy night?" chirped Kate, trying to brighten to atmosphere. " It comes and it goes," said the lady officer. "Now you two lovebirds stay out of trouble, OK?" Tom thought of a cheeky answer, but decided to shut up. He knew that if his breath were over 0.05% alcohol he would lose his licence for a year, and that was no joke. With only trams to get around on, how could he pick up a girl like Kate?

Outside a policeman was poking doubtfully at a patch of rust on the Colt's door. Tom's heart sank. He needed the car, and he couldn't or wouldn't blow money on repairs. Then a real drunk stumbled out of a Mercedes. The drunk man was abusive, and trying to sound important. What a mug. He was in serious trouble, and the police quickly forgot about Tom and his old car. Tom drove away as quietly as possible, and heaved a sigh of relief.

"That was a close shave", he murmured.

" But we're sober", protested Kate. "You heard the lady," she added mischievously. "We've got to stay sober to the bitter end."

Tom didn't smile. He was still distracted. " Sure", he said at last, "but I didn't like the way they were looking at my car. This car and I have a tender relationship."

" You'll just have to buy yourself a Mercedes", teased Kate. Tom seemed to register shock, but he was hard to read. Kate was not sure when he was being serious.

"Come, come!" he challenged her. "Would you ever accept a lift from a man in a Mercedes?" She laughed. But somewhere inside Kate a little voice was saying that the question actually was serious, and she wasn't quite sure how to give a serious answer.

"So where are you off to?", asked Kate. The experience with the police had given her time to look Tom over, and she rather liked what she saw.

"Nothing special", said Tom. "Just thought I'd take in a film. That's my big fling for the week."

"Mm. Old car, goes to the movies by himself. You're definitely not the last of the big spenders, are you?"

Tom gave her a quick glance. There was no malice there. It was all mischief and humour. He decided to tease her back. "Well madam, we do offer cut-price city tours: a hamburger at Hungry Jacks, a view of the Yarra in moonlight, a short visit to the pokies at Crown Casino."

Kate wrinkled her nose. "The client is a bit more upmarket than that. a salad at Fast Eddies at least. The moonlight bit sounds OK, but a detour to the Arts Centre would be more her style than Crown."

Tom considered it. He liked the girl. He liked the Arts Centre too, but even a minor performance could set you back $30 a ticket. That was heavy hitting on his budget. "Tell you what", he suggested. "I was actually going to see a film called "The Red Lantern" . It's Chinese, with Gong Li in it. Would your client be interested?"

"Oh, so you like Chinese films? Some of are not bad, are they. I wonder sometimes how many Chinese people get to see these films we like ... Mm, yes I'd love to come. But we go Dutch, OK."

Tom was delighted. She had dropped the third party game. She liked his company enough to go out, but there were no mutual obligations, yet. That was fine by him. "It's a deal", he grinned.

"I can usually get a park at the bottom of Beaumaris Street, near the Ibis Hotel", said Tom. "It's about a ten minute walk into town, but it's free."

"A bit of walking never hurt anyone", Kate agreed. Privately she noted that this guy really was Mr. Economical Man. He wasn't spending a cent more than he had to. Still, he seemed a nice bloke.

They walked by the blackened stone shell of the old brewery, across Victoria Road, and past the Municipal Baths at the top of Swanston Street. A sharp wind was whipping around the corners of the buildings, and Kate turned the collar of her coat up. Some students were straggling out of RMIT from the last lectures of the week, and the Oxford Pub across the road from the university was doing a roaring trade..

A bit further down the hill, Swanston Street was cut at right angles by the frantic commuter traffic that raced along Latrobe Street. That was really the start of the CBD. It was marked on one side by the State Library with its sandstone facade and Corinthian pillars, some heroic statues, and a wide area of pavement where a group of teenage skateboarders seemed to have permanent residence. On the other side of the road was the massive complex of City Central, which occupied four city blocks and had swallowed around $2 billion of Japanese money in the wild 1980s, a golden age of property speculation. One corner was built over a subway station to catch the passing trade, but on this blustery autumn evening, commuters rushed for the subway escalators, eager to be home and warm at the end of the working week.

Tom knew this part of town like the back of his hand. Some of the local wildlife seemed to know him too. An ancient hag who was fishing aluminium cans out of the rubbish bins paused to wink knowingly, and a Lebanese cafe owner grinned under his razor-thin moustache and said "salam" as they passed. Outside the subway escalator a tousle-haired young man played a saxophone. He was defying the tide of bodies with music that was mellow, then raucous, bold, then jaunty, then sad. He was, without doubt, the original Pied Piper, and a steady stream of coins and notes rained into his instrument case on the pavement. "Gidday Snowy", said Tom. The piper nodded, and drifted to cool jazz. Tom smiled. "Cheeky bugger", he said. "C'mon Kate. Snowy likes you. I'll have to get you away from him fast."

"So where is this film on exactly?", asked Kate. "In the Dendy in Collins Place, at the top of Collins Street", Tom said shortly. "I usually go on Mondays when they have the half price tickets. I'm tied up next Monday night though."

"Hm, careful with money again", Kate thought to herself. She couldn't resist a dig. "What are you saving up for Tom?" He looked at her a little defensively. "I'm not really a louse you know. It's just that I like to put a bit aside for the really important things in life."

"Such as..?" She was testing him openly now. Tom hesitated. "Well ... I use computers an awful lot, and they cost me a good bit." "Huh!" she snorted. "That's what you call the really important things in life!?" This girl definitely wasn't the shy sort, Tom mused. She was ready to pitch into a debate. He didn't mind that. If energetic arguments were her style, then she'd probably know the limits and not hold grudges. The women he hated were the ones who smiled sweetly and then put poison in your beer.

"Now there's a challenge. What do you call the really important things in life, Kate?" The girl didn't hesitate. "People", she declared; "without good friends nothing else is worthwhile." Tom scratched his head thoughtfully. "I suppose you're right in a way," he agreed. "Good friends are worth a lot, but sometimes they are a bit hard to find. There have been times when I haven't had too many real friends, but still lived an interesting life. Do you have a lot of friends? I mean real friends."

This time Kate did hesitate. "No", she admitted at last. "Oh, there are plenty of people I can talk to, but most of them don't really understand me." "Yes", sighed Tom, "I know exactly how you feel." Neither of them spoke for a minute. They didn't need to. They had stumbled upon the secret language of two people who suddenly know that they really do understand each other.

"Do you come into town often Kate?" Tom asked. "No that much", she said. "Actually I only came from Adelaide six months ago, so I don't know the centre of Melbourne very well."

" I come from Sydney", said Tom, "but I've been here for a while now. I know a few interesting corners of Melbourne, but cities are funny places. You keep finding unexpected things behind doorways on the street."

"Now you are tempting me", smiled Kate. "What unexpected things should we hope to find tonight .." "You never know ..", said Tom mysteriously. "I'll tell you what though: we have a few minutes to spare. Let's make a small detour to the bottom of Elizabeth Street. It's perfectly innocent, " he added hastily. "I think you'll like the place."

There were fewer people as they walked down to Elizabeth Street and turned left. The motor bike shops and camera stores gave way to shopfronts that looked slightly decrepit. A tram terminus at the end of the street attracted a stream of pedestrians, but few people lingered. Soon the couple approached the tiled foyer of a building that must have dated from the 1950's. There were some brass name plates, and a shabby directory list to the tiny businesses that paid cheap rent in a warren of upper floor rooms. Kate didn't break her step, and was surprised when Tom made a sharp turn into the foyer, pulling her with him.

"What do you expect to find here?" Tom grinned. "A strip-tease joint", she guessed. "No, that's next door. We can visit it later if you really want to". "Very funny," said Kate, not smiling. The went through a doorway and found themselves going down some rather steep stairs that wound around at a halfway landing. At the bottom a young woman was reading a novel behind a low counter, and hardly looked up as they entered.

"A bookshop," exclaimed Kate, slightly puzzled. "Yes", said Tom unapologetically, " a second-hand bookshop. It's amazing the odd books that turn up here. And the odd people too. Now there's Guo Ha. Yes that little guy. He's a fellow you should meet. He keeps telling me never to go to China, but I think he only half means it."

"Hello Guo Ha. How have you been keeping?"

" Not bad Tom. You know... All the usual complaints -- low pay, long hours, my brilliance unappreciated. But that's the stuff of daily life, isn't it. How have you been getting on?"

"Pretty well Guo Ha. Not flogged, mugged or terrorized by the director for at least a week. Kate, I'd like to introduce you to my old friend and teacher, Guo Ha. He's an immodest fellow, as you will have noticed, but he has a heart of gold beneath".

"Pleased to meet you Guo Ha. Did you really teach this cheeky Tom Wiley something?"

"Yes, sort of. He came to my Chinese class for a while. He was always asking questions, but wouldn't learn the words from one lesson to the next. Since he was such a terrible student, I decided to make him a friend instead".

"Wow, you two really do have a barbed relationship. What are you going to say about me when my back is turned? Tom, whose side am I supposed to be on in this low level guerrilla warfare?"

"Oh, don't take any notice of us. I treat all my friends like this. The abuse just means we can trust each other with our lives. Just wait until I get to know you well. The air will be blue!"

" Heavens, maybe I should leave now," said Kate tartly. " My life is complicated enough without having to cope with assault and battery from a so-called friend."

" Let me rush to Tom's rescue", laughed Guo Ha. "He wouldn't hurt a fly. All the tough talk is bravado. Mind you, Tom really is careful about throwing money around. Every charity store, second-hand shop and bargain factory outlet in town knows his face. But when the chips are down you really can trust him with your life. He's worth a container-load of the well-dressed white shoe brigade."

"Ah, so we are going to be poor but honest", sighed Kate. "Why can't I meet a handsome, loyal, clever, filthy-rich chap who buys a girl diamonds? All right you two scroungers. Just what should we look for in this graveyard of dead books?"

"Well Guo Ha", said Tom raising an eyebrow, "have you found anything here that could excite Kate?" "I've certainly found something," laughed Guo Ha, "but it won't be of much interest to Kate."

"Oh, how do you know that? Try me", challenged Kate. She was not going to let these two strange fellows cut her out of the conversation. "I wonder if you've heard of Quong Tart," came Guo Ha's reply.

The other two looked at him blankly. "Well Quong Tart was a rare bird in Australia's early European history. You probably know that Chinese were not exactly popular in Australia 150 years ago. They came, along with adventurers from all over the world, to dig for gold. But between them and all the others it was hate at first sight. A total failure of communication."

"I've heard of "the Yellow Peril"", said Kate. "Is that what you are talking about?" "Mm, yes, in a way, " smiled Guo Ha. "That Yellow Peril propaganda got more than one politician votes. Remember, the Oz colonies were really tiny settlements, six months sailing time from England. Maybe it was fair enough for folk to be scared that the Chinese would bury them."

"So did your hero, Quong Tart, lead the first wave of invasion?", asked Tom, beginning to get interested. "Quite the contrary," said Guo Ha. "Oh, he was a mandarin of the Blue Button Order, honoured by the Peacock Throne, but his heart was in Australia. He became a rich tea merchant in Sydney, often wore a Scottish kilt, and was famous for helping the poor. He married an English girl, and probably did more than any other person to improve relations between the races."

"What on earth has Quong Tart got to do with this bookshop?" asked Kate. Guo Ha held up a book. "He's not well known," he explained. "You had never heard of him. So I was really pleased tonight to find an old copy of a book by Robert Travers that tells his story."

Tom gave a satisfied growl, but he wasn't looking at Kate and Guo Ha. "What are you up to Tom Wiley," demanded Kate. "I've been looking for this for months", grinned Tom. "Had a copy years ago, even remembered the cover design." "You're raving. Explain yourself," she said. She'd thought she was going out to dinner and had would up with a couple of book nuts.

"Toujours gai!" shouted Tom. The girl behind the desk looked up from her novel, shocked. "That's my motto. There's more than one dance in the old girl yet", he yelped.

"It has finally happened", sighed Guo Ha. "He has flipped completely". "No no", said Tom impatiently. "You don't get it. I've finally found a copy of Archy and Mehitabel. You know, by Don Marquis, New York in the 1930s, before MacDonalds Hamburgers plasticised the place. You must know!" he pleaded, then shrugged at their puzzled looks. "Oh, all right, you peasants. Archy is a cockroach in a newspaper office, and Mehitabel is an alley cat who has seen better times."

"That explains everything", Kate commented acidly. "Talking of cockroaches and alley cats, could we find some place without that sort of company, and have a bite to eat?"

Tom looked a little sheepish. "I asked Kate out to dinner," he explained to Guo Ha. "Somehow we've been lured into a detour." "There was supposed to be a film in the package deal too", Kate reminded him.

"Oh, um, yes the film. Look at the time. Will we eat now and take in the late session, or make a dash for the cinema?" he asked. "I'm all for keeping body and soul together", said Kate quickly. "What culinary delights can you conjure out of these mean streets?"

Guo Ha brightened up at the mention of food. "Have you been to the Shanghai Restaurant off Little Bourke Street? Do you like jiaotzi?" , he asked. "Jiou-what?" she stuttered. "Don't let him con you", growled Tom. "That Shanghai joint was a gambling den a hundred years ago, and I'll swear they haven't washed the opium smoke off the walls to this day. The place is infested with an ancient mortal who murders a violin while you eat. As for jiaotzi, they're slimy little things with a memory of minced meat in the middle. Forget it."

"You are the limit!" exploded Guo Ha. "I don't know why I talk to you, you barbarian. I suppose your idea of food is burnt sausages and chips at one of your so-called Ozzie barbecues.."

"Break it up you two!" demanded Kate. "Tom, Guo Ha's right. You've got no manners. Guo Ha, I have to admit I wasn't thinking of pigging out on dumplings tonight. That's what you mean by "jiaoze" , isn't it?" He nodded sadly. "OK", said Tom unrepentantly, "maybe we can come to a compromise. There is a little place on Liverpool Street, up near the top of Little Bourke. Vietnamese. They do a really nice salad." "You mean the Saigon Inn", chipped in Guo Ha; "yes, that's OK." "Well are you coming too?" asked Tom. Guo Ha shifted a little uncomfortably. "This is your night out", he reminded them. Kate looked at the two men from the corners of her eyes and did a calculation. "Of course you're coming", she said briskly, " but if I hear any more about cockroaches and alley-cats I quit".

"It's a bit of a hike", said Tom; "let's get moving". Outside the temperature had dropped suddenly. Late night shoppers turned the collars of their coats up and hurried between the pools of light, slipped into the big, air-conditioned stores to warm their hands before scurrying onto the trams. Kate walked between the two men, brushed their shoulders from time to time, wondered how it would feel to stroll arm in arm with the taller one. Just what was she doing here?, she asked herself. Was Tom her kind of guy? Almost reluctantly, she had to admit that he probably was. There was just no accounting for feelings.

"Why do I think I should be taking a girl out on Friday night, Guo Ha?" asked Tom, getting philosophical as they munched some popcorn to quell the hunger pangs for a while." Cultural hangover", suggested Guo Ha, "like putting milk in your tea. You can train yourself out of that stuff you know. I used to think I couldn't survive without fag before dinner, but here I am living on popcorn."

"So you con a woman a week out of habit Tom Wiley! Why do these poor creatures give up a quiet night by the TV set for a fellow like you?" Kate parodied, and added dryly, "now you two just hold hands and cuddle up while I take the tram home."

"Whoa back Kate," said Tom in alarm, "that's not fighting fair. I mean, well, damn it, I hardly ever get to take someone out on Friday night. Nobody like you. Hey, look at those freaks in the shop window." Five minutes ago he had been walking on air. He couldn't tell her how often he'd trod the pavements alone, how often nobody would have noticed if he'd fallen off the edge of the world. The truth was that Kate was a miracle which he didn't quite know how to manage, and now she was threatening to disappear in a puff of smoke. His male fear of getting in too deep fought with a new and disturbing fear of losing something precious. Completely cornered, he chose distraction. " They've volunteered to live in the window for 36 hours, nothing hidden," Tom explained unnecessarily. It was an irresistible human interest story for every journalist in town. Everyone knew about the window-livers.

" The freaks are all on the footpath ogling," sniffed Kate. "Those mannequins in there actually look like pretty boring people." They had to agree. If the window-dwellers could keep a crowd interested by cutting their fingernails, then both parties probably deserved each other. Tom heaved a secret sigh of relief. At least she'd stopped talking about going home. This dame was almost his match in her talent for insult. With a shock he suddenly realized the key to their mutual attraction. They were both romantics who hungered for sharp debate, even conflict. Let more timid souls get by with the little white lies of chocolates and roses. An old memory stirred somewhere, and then he had it. Hell, even her name fitted.

"You do them wrong my lady Kate," Tom smiled.

"What lady is that?" she shot back.

"Ah, good morrow Kate; for that's your name I hear."

They both laughed uproariously. Guo Ha scratched his head. After ten years in Australia he'd thought he understood the locals. This time though he was out of his depth, utterly. At last Tom noticed his forlorn friend, and calmed down for a moment. "Guo Ha," he said, " meet Kate of Kate Hall, my super dainty Kate ... unfairly named a shrew by old Will Shakespeare some time back, and now come to hunt us to our tryst with fate.

"Darned if I understand either of you," sighed Guo Ha, "but if you get a thrill from riddles, play on. Have some popcorn."

The threesome hurried through Bourke Street Mall, dodging the trams and not waiting to be saved by a hot gospeller on the corner, who was waving his bible and threatening hellfire and brimstone for the unwashed. "Poor man," said Kate, "he must have had an unhappy childhood." "Ah, even blokes like him are needed," said Tom. "He’s a street sweeper for lost souls." Kate was shocked. "I didn’t know you were religious," she muttered. Maybe all her ideas about Tom Wiley needed recalculating. Tom shrugged. "Relax," he said. "for myself, I get along quite nicely without a master, down here or up there on a thunder cloud. But look around you. Most of these dudes seem to need someone to blame for dropping a brick on their foot." They looked around them. "Dunno what you mean," said Guo Ha, " that skinny girl with the flaky eyes is probably on crack, Most of the rest look like pretty ordinary people." That’s exactly what Tom means," cut in Kate, "they’re ordinary, so they expect everything to be explained by gods and demons, even why their grandmother died on Fiday afternoon and not Saturday morning."

"Come on you two infidels," pleaded Guo Ha a little impatiently. "We have to find some loaves and fishes before you forbid all miracles. Now that," he added, pointing to a concrete archway with swooping eves, "as you know, is Little Bourke Street. There are more restaurants to the square centimetre here than any other place in town, but Tom has picked one right at the top end." "It’s Chinatown", added Tom. Kate just nodded. Even she knew that.

Presently they were approached by a figure in a gold lamé dress, with golden high-heeled shoes and handbag to match. In spite of the cold she wore no coat. Her bobbed hair and sturdy arms suggested a more no-nonsense lifestyle than the glitz she was wearing. To Kate’s amazement she came straight up to Tom, not Guo Ha. "Tom! I no see you two week." Her voice was as strong as her arms. Tom looked mildly desperate. She ploughed on. "Where you go, la? Anyway, I decide. I go back Guandong next month. Find nice boy." Relief flooded Tom’s face. "That’s great Zheng Mai. Have a good trip. I’m sure you’ll find a nice man." She smiled hugely. "Anyway, I say goodbye now. Have to see customer". And she clattered off into the night.

"Wow", breathed Guo Ha, "where did that one come from?" Tom sighed. "She sells fish to all these restaurants. She’s good at it too. I also teach her English, and for a while I was in mortal danger. A healthy Chinese girl at thirty without a husband is on the warpath. Heaven help any single men." Guo Ha roared with laughter. "I could tell you some stories about Zheng Mai .." Tom added dryly, but then decided he’d better not. "Another of your Friday night dates?" quipped Kate. "We’ll never get to that cinema," Tom muttered hastily, "let’s go."

The garish neon signs on Little Bourke Street crowded upwards in the narrow space. Some of the restaurants showed no more than a curtain behind a window, with a menu in Chinese and English taped to the glass. Others put their customers on display with huge plate glass shop-fronts, while the more traditional places had elaborate foyers with thick red door columns decorated in crimson and gold. Outside each stood a girl, anxiously trying to catch the eye of passing pedestrians to entice them inside, or to thrust a menu into their hands.

The road itself was too narrow even for local traffic, and only a few show-offs in luxury cars tried to nose through the ambling diners. Tom, Kate and Guo Ha zig-zagged up the hill, pausing only while Guo Ha slipped into a magazine & music store to buy one of the Chinese language newspapers. Eventually they came to a spot where the restaurants had begun to mix with granite-fronted lawyer's offices, there was a feel of expensive good taste, and the throng of passers-by had dropped to a trickle. A small sign said "Liverpool Street", and they made a sharp turn right.

"This had better be good," warned Kate with mock gravity. She had learned enough about her companions by now not to expect anything expensive, but there was no harm in keeping Tom a little nervous. It wasn't in Tom's nature to be nervous for long though, or even cautious. As they came abreast of a neat but unpretentious glass-fronted place with Saigon Inn in blue letters above the eves, he turned to face not right, but left, and pointed down to a darkened shop-front below a skyscraper. "There's Katerina's shop!" he exclaimed. Kate looked startled. It was clearly a dressmaker's & tailoring shop, with some kind of fixation on uniforms. Uniforms of the elaborate old-European variety. In pride of place by the door was a plaster gent in what may have been a magnificent Cossack's jacket of crimson with intricate gold epaulettes and shiny buttons. "My place?" puzzled Kate. "Oh heavens no," said Tom, almost absently, as if remembering another time and place. "No, Katerina Kuznetzov. A very sexy lady," he sighed, "except she's suddenly got fat. I used to teach her English," he added.

Tom didn't notice the gathering storm until it was too late. Gua Ha had wisely shifted out of the firing line. "You, you chauvinist!" Kate exploded. "I suppose you took her on a grand tour of your bookshops too. When was she dropped from your list of all-right-to-be-seen-with bimbos !?" Tom took two startled steps backwards, and tripped over the kerb, twisting his ankle.

"Ouch! God Kate, you've got a short fuse. It wasn't like that. I mean, she's still a good friend.. I mean ... damnit .. Look, I like you Kate, a lot. Let's enjoy dinner," he ended lamely.

The Saigon Inn was not crowded, but it was not empty either. It was too far from the downtown stores to attract late night shoppers, but the modest prices and pleasant atmosphere had cemented its reputation amongst nearby office workers.

As the three made their way to a window table, Tom was welcomed by Lucy, the manager, like an old friend.

"I know what you want," she teased him; "goi ga. It's always the same. How about your friends?" Tom grinned. Goi ga was a sort of Vietnamese coleslaw laced with thin slices of chicken and topped with crushed peanuts. He never could get the pronunciation right, but with a dab of fresh minced chili it was delicious. Tom liked Lucy. She was no beauty queen, but like Katerina across the road, with sheer determination she had clawed her way out of a country in collapse, made it to Australia, and against all the odds had established a successful business. Tom remembered his father complaining about "dagoes" - immigrants with foreign ways - but people like Lucy had transformed Australia within his lifetime, and it was a huge improvement, he thought.

Guo Ha and Kate were still a bit edgy after the argument outside. They didn't quite have Tom's ability to let trouble run off them like water off a duck's back. Actually Kate was feeling silly about her own show of jealousy. Heaven's, she wasn't marrying the man, was she? It was definitely time to be nice to everyone. "I haven't been here before," she smiled at Lucy; "what do you recommend?" "Well," purred Lucy, "Tom has never tried anything but the coleslaw, but actually the hotpot is my own favourite. It has deliciously marinated fish pieces, and all sorts of vegetables in our special sauce. There are lots of other dishes too, of course." "I'll go for the hotpot then," said Kate; "how about you, Guo Ha?" "On a night like this a hotpot sounds just the thing to warm me through," growled Guo Ha.

Lucy hurried away and Tom began to tell a little of her story in a low voice. "Lucy is quite a lady. She started out in the backstreets of Cholon. That's the Chinese quarter of Saigon." "So she's Chinese then?", asked Guo Ha, a little surprised. "Actually, no," smiled Tom. "As you know, Chinese and Vietnamese haven't always gotten along, but Lucy takes people as she finds them. Her world has always been a mixture of Asian cultures, not to mention American soldiers on R&R, and the whole madness of war. When the Vietcong took over Saigon in 1975 it seemed just another change of officials. But, as she says, her family got fed up with filling out three forms every time they wanted to kill a chicken. They escaped on a trawler. It's a grim tale. They were attacked by Thai pirates. She is the only survivor." As Lucy bustled up again with a large dish of prawn crackers, Tom suddenly put on a sunny smile and talked absently about the weather ...

"Had a letter from Thi the other day," Lucy said conversationally, and turned to another table. "Thi!" exclaimed Tom, "I haven't heard from her for ages. Hey Lucy, don't disappear on me like that. What did she have to say?" Lucy winked conspirationally. She had certainly learned the Australian body language. "Uncle Tran sent her back to get married. She's as mad as hell about it, but she had to go."

Tom sighed. Thi was another girl he liked very much. She was five foot nothing and all energy. As an Ozzie from the age of six, she was no self-effacing Asian flower. The Vietnamese gent, if he was thinking in the old ways, was in for a rude shock. On the other hand, Tom mused, Thi might be in for a shock too. She might even find her mission, and her soul. The Viet Kieu (overseas returnees) were injecting the old country with new life and vigour. It was dirt poor after a generation of war and American sanctions, but there was a tough, adaptable streak in the Vietnamese character. Those willowy women in flowing white Ao Yais (white slit dresses with silk trousers) had fought beside their men in filthy mud tunnels for thirty years, and won. Now, reborn with the accents and languages of their adopted countries, girls like Thi were winning the peace.

"The wretch promised me an invite to her birthday party," said Tom with mock indignation. "Now don't get jealous," scolded Lucy. "I'll tell her to make sure you are invited to the wedding." Tom began to chuckle. "Ha ha, you won't get Thi into one of those fancy wedding gowns at some flash reception with a zillion video shots and a Rolls Royce at the door. She'll won't marry the poor mug of a groom until she's pushed him off a cliff with a bungee rubber around his ankles." It was Lucy's turn to smile. "Tom Wiley, be careful. I see you've made a heroine of Thi already. Remember, her family has a history of conquests. Her father was a general, after all. I'll write to tell her that you're smitten." "Lucy, you're a menace. You wouldn't dare," said Tom, half alarmed and half pleased. Lucy gave another one of her cheeky winks and disappeared through some swinging doors.

Kate and Guo Ha had watched this performance with bemusement. It seemed impossible to go a dozen meters in Tom Wiley's company without tangling in a whole different universe of characters and events. You had to either like it or hate it, join it or get off the bus. "Do you know Thi really well," asked Kate carefully. Tom, in his usual carefree way about to explain something, and then paused thoughtfully. "I taught her uncle English", he said vaguely. "Mm," said Kate, and decided to drop the subject. "Here comes our hotpot."

The hotpot, as promised, was delicious. The three friends settled down to some serious eating, and Kate's doubts began to evaporate.

Since they had missed the 6.50pm film session, Tom and his friends had a bit of time to kill before the next showing at 9pm. Even after dawdling through a meal at the Saigon Inn, it was only around 8.15pm when they found themselves out on the street again. "No worries", said Tom, "we can have a drink at Collins Place". "You and Kate can have a drink," corrected Guo Ha. "Folks, this is where I have to cut out of the picture. I have a stack of things to do at home."

"Come off it Guo Ha", said Kate, "this is a Chinese film. We need your critical eye to take it apart." Over the last hour she had become so used to Guo Ha in the conversation that it would seem incomplete without him. "Sorry," smiled Guo Ha, "thanks for the flattery, but I really do have to go. By the way, I've seen the film. I rather like it, but for some reason it wasn't a big hit with the mass public in China." "That's OK", said Tom, "great films like great books aren't written to please everyone. Well, if you have to toddle off, take care. Give my regards to Sun Jing."

The quick way across town to Collins Place was up past the Parliament, but that would be cold and deserted at night. Like a taxi driver with an unsuspecting passenger, Tom planned for another route. As they came out into Bourke Street, Guo Ha turned left for the metro station, while Tom and Kate turned right to walk down the hill. It quickly became busier with film goers for the central city cinemas, browsers in the late night bookshops and suburbanites on their night out to a pub or restaurant.

They were a youngish crowd on the whole, trying to look smart according to all the competing fashions of punk, rock, heavy metal, folk and innumerable other musical tribes, not to mention African, Chinese, Indian, North, South & Central European, Slavic, Turkish, Arabic, South American ... and heaven knows what other cultural influences that tinged the multicultural city. For the first time it occurred to Tom to look at Kate as a mannequin in this parade. He was a little surprised and ashamed by this sudden urge, but she was a person whose startling green eyes caught you immediately in a net of secret messages, so that the body dimmed into a mere background presence.

Still, now that he looked, Kate was indeed an almost classically attractive woman. She was slender, but not fragile; a brunette with the kind of fresh, light complexion that his mother used to call "peaches and cream". Almost any clothing would have been stylish on her body, which had the relaxed, easy power of a hunting cat. Her smart black coat and casual elegance made Tom feel a little shabby, but he was not a man to brood. As they came to the corner of Exhibition Street, his eye was caught by the colourful, extravagant temptations of a sweet shop. "Liquorice!", he gurgled.

"Ah, so you do have some weaknesses", teased Kate. Tom gave a mock-tragic sigh. "Indeed milady. Wine, women and song are mere distractions. But when it comes to liquorice my will-power is entirely seduced." Kate was genuinely puzzled. "What's special about a chewy stick of black stuff?" "Dunno' really," said Tom, "but somehow it gets you. Sort of lingering bitter-sweet, and the soft, chewy texture is satisfying. It's even healthy for you." This time Kate was incredulous. "Healthy for you?!" "Sure", he said, "look at those ingredients on the label. Almost no fat ..." She laughed. "Do you really read all that stuff? There's so much sugar in it, the wonder is that you don't go into toxic shock."

Undeterred, Tom picked up a brown paper packet of liquorice from a display stand by the Darrell Lea Chocolate Shop door and fished in his pocket for $2.25. "Hey Kate, have you got twenty-five cents change?" "Already you want me to pay for your vices," she complained, finding him twenty-five cents nevertheless. Inside a girl in a candy-coloured smock with a huge, floppy bow-tie was serving two teenage girls with spotty faces. "No wonder they have pimples" thought Tom virtuously, surveying the chocolate bars that they clutched. He knew that he would wolf the liquorice as soon as he laid hands on it. That was surely different from chocolate though, wasn't it?

Kate was unexcited by the bag of liquorice shoved under her nose, but she had noticed Tom's appraising glance a little earlier. As an attractive woman she had long since learned to live with glances like that. You could never admit to wanting attention, but she often did feel neglected amongst the stodgy female teachers who seemed to dominate her working life. "What are you thinking?" asked Tom. "It's not polite to look behind a lady's eyes," she said. Was she flirting with him? wondered Tom. Women were exasperating like that. You never quite knew. He decided though that it was high time to get a handle on who Kate really was.

"Tell me a bit about Adelaide," he invited. "I've only seen the place on a bus meal stopover. Where did you actually live?" Kate considered. Her real background wasn't something she shared casually. It was often easier to fob people off. But her intuition had been growing that, for better or for worse, Tom Wiley had a part to play in her future. "I grew up in the Barossa Valley," she said. "It's quite a few kilometers out of Adelaide, in the hills." "So you're a wine connoisseur then?" said Tom. Kate sighed. Every two dollar drunk knew that the Barossa Valley was famous for its vineyards. "Alright," she said, "it's cliché time. Yup, my family does own a vineyard, and I do know plonk from vinegar, but no, I'm no connoisseur. To tell you the truth, I'd generally rather have a light beer than a glass of wine." Tom blinked. She seemed to be leveling with him. That was a promising start.

"I don't see a lot of my family", volunteered Kate. "For the last few years I've lived in the city anyway, but even at times like Christmas we don't seem to have a lot to talk about." Tom decided not to press her. Kate was the kind of person who would decide for herself what to tell him. She went on. "The history of the vineyard itself is actually quite interesting. As you could guess from my surname, Kurtz, the background is German. You know, quite a few Germans came here last century. They even had their own bilingual schools, but all that closed down with the First World War. For some reason, a lot of them settled in the Barossa Valley and started growing grapes. That's why you know about Barossa Valley wine. I guess I'm part of that history, but my brother will inherit the vineyard, not me."

"So how much German do you speak?" Tom asked conversationally. She shot him a glance. "Believe it or not, I can get by in German. You still hear a bit of it in the Valley, though some of it is quaint. I studied German at university. It seemed a natural thing to do." "Me too, but I can't get by in it," said Tom ruefully. Kate was surprised. "Well," said Tom, " I struggled through a first year course, but from that day to this in Australian I've hardly met anyone who wanted to talk it." "Yeah," smiled Kate, "nobody calls us Huns nowadays, but the Germans had a big incentive to learn Ozzie lingo real quick." There was no arguing with that.

By now they had climbed the hill to where Exhibition and Collins Streets meet. The crowds and the lights were behind them. On the left was a largish grey stone church, faintly lit. Office buildings and professional suites all around had that arrogant scent of corporate money. The scattering of shop windows carried tasteful displays of books and expensive fashion items.. This was definitely not Tom Wiley shopping territory, but Tom was never at a loss. He motioned at the church. "The sky pilot in there's not a bad old stick", he remarked. "What was he doing talking to a heretic like you?" asked Kate. "Practising a little safe heresy," said Tom wickedly. "He didn't actually talk to me. Once a week they run a social encounter thing here. The socially genteel come to discuss good deeds."

"God Tom," exclaimed Kate, "try to explain something without sneering. What good deeds have you ever done?" "Well I picked you up from a bus stop," grinned Tom. "That must have been good for my karma." "Hm, time will tell," she said primly. "Anyway," Tom continued, " a place like this is fair game. It reeks of money and influence. The rich loved to be whipped gently. Every playwright and priest knows that. They think a little scolding pays their social dues. It makes the buggers feel absolved to rob and pillage on Monday morning."

Tom began to giggle. The shop window they were strolling past had a small but alluring display of mannequins in hugely expensive fur coats, fishnet stockings, and not much else. Kate looked at him quizzically. "So is it fur or fishnet stockings that your fetishes run to?" Tom was baffled for a moment. "What? Oh, ha, no. Short black dresses actually ... I was thinking of something entirely different. When you said I'd never make a buck I remembered the hairy-dinky-toy-man." It was Kate's turn to giggle. "There's no doubt about you," she gasped, "you've got no money, no class and no pride, but when it comes to characters, you pull 'em out of your coat pocket like gingerbread men." Tom scratched his head. Was she being affectionate or cutting? As usual he couldn't figure out the female agenda. It was best to just plough on regardless. "The hairy-dinky-toy-man beats collecting stamps anyway", he said lamely, but wasn't quite sure of what he meant himself any more.

Kate stamped her foot. "Well don't keep me in suspense," she demanded. "How will Mr. Hairy help you make a buck?" Tom smiled. "We go back a long way", he murmured. "All right, since you ask, I first met Mr. Hairy before he had any whiskers. We were both about five years old, and I lived a couple of streets away in a place called Avalon. It's a bayside resort about 20km out of Sydney, and very posh nowadays. Dad was not long out of his carpentry apprenticeship, so we were dirt poor and even at that age I knew other kids had things I couldn't dream of. It hurt. I did have this yellow dump truck dinky toy though. Heaven knows where it came from. You might remember there were sets of those little dinky toy miniature models. Trading them was a hot business amongst kids. Boys at least.

"Mr. Hairy at that time was a pudgy kid I'd seen in the school playground. He was always being bullied, but he was definitely better off than me. His dinky toy collection was enviable. What he didn't have was a yellow dump truck, so we set up an after-school meeting at a secret place in the bush. Mr. Hairy turned up with a pound note in a jam jar. He was in a terrible dilemma. His father had set him on the road to wealth with dire warnings not to spend the quid. It was supposed to sit on his bedroom shelf like an icon, and be added to until he was twenty. But Mr. Hairy did crave that yellow dump truck (which was worth much less than a pound). I tell you Kate, I wheedled that kid for two hours. I painted him word pictures, I walked him through the lies he could tell to his old man. When I took the pound note home it was my first major capitalist coup.

"Do you think my mother was pleased? Saw my potential? Nah. She boxed me around the ears, and dragged me by the scruff of the neck over to Mr. Hairy's mother to apologize. It has crippled me for life... Oh yeah. Mr. Hairy. Well I found out a few years ago that he has a dusty little shop near Sydney railway station, selling dinky toys. Funny how fetishes are made, isn't it."

A tram ground around the corner at the top of Collins Street and squealed to a stop, blocking the view of Collins Place. A handful of passengers, framed in the warm yellow light of the tram windows, seemed to be in another world. Tom and Kate stamped their feet on the cold street, impatiently waiting for the tram to pass. Since they seemed to playing some sort of getting-to-know-you game, maybe it was Kate's turn to tell secrets.

Kate wasn't sure how Tom would react to more information about her own background. He was certainly unorthodox, and that was refreshing. But people with their own well-thought out view of the world were often a bit rigid. Maybe it was worth testing him. "Well, my castrated capitalist," she mocked," you were gypped on a deal at five years of age, and have been sulking ever since... Do you really despise everyone who has made it?"

"Whoa back there", he protested, "not so fast. I can see that you've got me marked down as a rag-picker. That's OK. If you knew the high price of rags you'd be shocked. To get rich is glorious, if your style is glorious, and I don't mean flashing designer label jeans. Now old Molly, who you saw pulling plastic bags out of rubbish tins down in Latrobe Street, is actually loaded. And she writes damned good stories. Are you surprised? It's the mealy-mouthed, screw-you-for-every-dollar, moralizing hypocrites that I can't stand."

"Ah, a fine speech to be sure," smiled Kate. "Charles Dickens would have loved it. But what's the pay-off for your tribe of rag-pickers? A secret admiration society? When are you going to impress the rest of us? I say, if you've got it, flaunt it!"

"You only half-believe that yourself," laughed Tom. "Why are you working in a down-at-heel TAFE college at the wrong end of town? Yeah, I'm not rich, and sure, money is useful stuff. Time is even more useful, and being born poor, I've chosen to trade money for creative time. Enough in my defence. Defend yourself, Kate of Kate Hall!"

Suddenly they were through the air-curtain of the great atrium in Collins Place. Warm air eddied high into the cavernous space, visitors moved languidly, or draped over the tiered balconies, while below black and silver tables sprawled across a wide tiled floor. "Let me shout you a beer and some carrot cake," said Tom.

"Carrot cake?" queried Kate. "Is it a truth drug? Why can't we have a normal boring conversation about the weather? Now I suppose I'll have to play the "false lives" game and lie to you."

Kate nibbled her carrot cake thoughtfully. It wasn't bad. Tom was right: it made for a taste treat and textured base against the slightly bitter tingle of the lager. He'd been right about the Saigon Inn too. But what was his agenda? Was he just the usual bundle of male hormones chasing its biological destiny? Yeah, well, there'd have to be some of that in there, but what else? What was her agenda? Kate sighed. She didn't know herself, except that she needed a loyal friend. Someone to talk to freely as an equal. Huh! There was more chance of finding diamonds under the cinema seat. "Get real Kate", she commanded herself sternly, "you've only known Tom what's-his-name for a few hours." She stretched her toes and wiggled them. It was no good resisting. Some part of Kate suddenly made a decision.

"Are you missing Adelaide?" Tom asked gently. He had been watching the waves of emotion flicker across Kate's eyes as they sipped the beer, but had no key to read them. It was a private language. She laughed a little too briefly. "Have you ever met anyone who missed Adelaide?" "Well, um, yes," drawled Tom. "Adelaide get good reviews for its churches, tidy streets and cheap rents." Kate held up the glass of beer to her left eye and watched a grotesque, amber image of Tom's face swimming on the other side. "Have you ever been stalked?" she asked flatly.

"Hm, the odd mosquito has craved my blood," mused Tom. Kate was on the edge of saying something important. He didn't want to scare her off, and played for a temporary diversion. " From time to time those mediocrities who pass for managers set an ambush to shut me up. But ... um, no, I've never been stalked."

Kate was still looking at him through the glass of beer. It was distracting. She sighed. "I don't know why I mentioned it... Alright Tom Wiley. I'll level with you. You're almost a stranger. I shouldn't be telling you anything, and if you turn out to be a bastard, I'll brain you with a pick-axe. But there's a ghost at this party that needs exorcising."

Tom glanced over his shoulder in mock fear. His eyes were no longer laughing though. His mind was racing. Kate was the kind of woman who might attract attention like that. There was an air of the unattainable about her. Why on earth did she trust him? It was flattering in a way. But he was no knight in shining armour. Women had tried to set him up in the hero role before, and it had always ended badly. Reaching out, he picked up a large ash tray from the centre of the table, cradled it on bent elbows, and cocked his head to one side. "Alas poor Yorick" Tom spoke solemnly to the ash tray. "You were a fellow of infinite jest. Why have you been giving young Kate here a hard time?" Kate couldn't help smiling in spite of herself. "All my fault, good prince. Yonder blockhead was cut to his quick, and being less quick, would have me dead."

The prospect of becoming dead was not a pleasing one to Tom Wiley. Personally, he didn't mind the idea of being dead, though he'd much prefer to be alive. But getting to a state of deadness was a messy business. If some fruitcake was trying to take Kate down that track, Tom would rather not go along for the ride. For a moment he wished that Kate was just a flighty, off-the-shelf young woman obsessed with her hairstyle and hungry for a little flattery.

"Relax," smiled Kate wanly. "I don't think my ghost is carrying a Colt .45 or even a macheté. He wouldn't have the balls. He's a collector, who really wants me back in his display case, pinned like a butterfly, to show off along with his art collection and Porche."

"Argh," grumbled Tom, slightly reassured. "Never trust a ghost who drives a Porche. Even worse than a Mercedes. Now you had better tell me a few of the gory details. Does the gent have a calling card, in case you're snatched in the middle of the film?"

"Well Winston Arbeit is not hard to find," Kate explained. "Anonymity is not the lot of Porche drivers. He has a part-interest in a High Street gallery in Armidale, but he and I go back a lot further than that. Winston comes from the Barossa Valley like me. My family thinks the sun shines out of his arse, which is one reason they and I don't get on too well nowadays. When I started my fine arts degree at Adelaide University they appointed him as a sort of honorary elder brother to keep me out of trouble."

"So you've slipped your minder's leash," grinned Tom, "and bitten him too." Kate was unimpressed. "I admit that fresh to the city at eighteen, it was reassuring to have an experienced man to turn to. On a student scholarship there was no way I could have been to posh restaurants and parties of the glitterati, but he was completely at home in that milieu. By the way, under their glitter, most of those so-called glitterati are pretty uninteresting. Of course, Winston wanted his payback for all this brotherly love. That's how it's scripted in the movies, isn't it. He saw me as a sort of licensed mistress. Maybe I should have been grateful. You have to grow up sometime. Well, I didn't know much then, but I've got to tell you, when it got closer than socks and undies, he had the romantic appeal of a wet jellyfish."

Tom couldn't stop himself from chuckling. The idea of Kate fighting off a wet jellyfish sounded like bad news for the jellyfish. Still, this particular creature had clearly continued to give her trouble. Maybe with a bit of imagination, they could scare the thing back into its own rockpool.

People had begun to drift towards the cinema doors. Kate reached for her coat, draped over the back of a chrome chair, but Tom ignored the movement of patrons. "We can do without twenty minutes of advertising junk," he said briefly. Tom was still curious about Winston Arbeit and his habits. There were too many missing pieces to the puzzle.

"How did you finally break with the jellyfish," he asked. Kate hesitated again, but she was in too deep now. "It was awful," she said at last. "I should have done it much sooner. About two years ago he took me to a big society party in Adelaide. You know, one of those things with waiters in ducktails and fashion columnists scuttling around like funnel-web spiders. Well, maybe you don't know. It's not you scene, is it.

"Anyway, Winston's entré into these things was his inside knowledge of the latest and greatest in art, especially avant-garde stuff. Social climbers lap that sort of gossip up, and will pay through the nose to get in on "next year's sensation" ahead of everyone else. Winston would screw them shamelessly, still does, after he'd spread the word about some "unknown genius" for whom he just happened to be holding a few paintings. Then he also had a stable of real unknown hopefuls that he exploited too, and often enough screwed literally, if they were packaged in a skirt.

"As you can imagine, I was fed up with the whole scene. This night, he'd been slumming it with one of his alley cats, and came in late, half-sloshed, to squire me as the demure princess to the art do. Yeah, I admit it, I'd been scheming. I played my part like a Barbie doll until we were in a large group of society vultures, guzzling sherry and lying to each other.

"Now, Winston had been building up to a special promotion of some indigenous art, Aboriginal paintings. It wasn't his usual territory, but the pickings were so lucrative that greed drew him in. The Aboriginal art market is a strange business, you know. Many of the paintings are genuine creative achievements, but the patrons, quite apart from the usual snobbery of well-heeled collectors, have the warm inner glow of feeling politically worthy. The artists, on the other hand, are just as likely to live in a tin shed with no running water. A gallery owner in this scene has to move between two worlds, but there was no way Winston was going to squat in the dirt with a bunch of blacks. It just happened that one of Winston's naïve hopefuls was a nice, suburban white lady who also did very creditable "Aboriginal paintings" and signed her name Maurice Yinapangu. This was just a personal fantasy that she enjoyed. For Winston it spelled dollars.

"Needless to say, I knew about Maurice Yinapangu. I was sworn to secrecy. Mm. Well, you can probably guess the rest. It was a wonderful tale for my sherry friends at the party to dine upon. And it had everything to do with Winston's rather sudden move to Melbourne."

Tom was a little troubled, but tried not to show it. Whatever the justification, revenge had a way of corrupting its agents. Maybe Kate had had no alternative. "What was the sting?" he asked carefully. Kate looked at him narrowly. "About half a million dollars, I'd say", she shrugged; "maybe more. He had some big corporate deals in the pipeline for this stuff." "Crikey!" exclaimed Tom. "My secrets aren't worth a fraction of that." Kate smiled sweetly. "Then we'll just have to find other ways to keep you in line, won't we."

Tom and Kate hurried down a ramp to the Dendy's box office, where the attendant was idly filling in a crossword puzzle. Kate guessed he was a black American, which was pretty unusual in Melbourne. The lobby was deserted. "G'day Francis," said Tom; "tickets for the lady and me thanks." "Evening Tom," said Francis gravely, in measured British English. "You've changed your routine a little?" Tom grinned. Kate hastily thrust her own ticket price onto the counter. "God," she muttered to herself, "another member of the Tom Wiley secret brotherhood. If Winston Arbeit ever has him snatched the city will come to a standstill."

Their timing was good. The trailer for an upcoming French art-house romance was just fading, as they stumbled, their eyes still unadjusted to the gloom, and felt their way over somebody's knees to a cinema seat. Tom slouched down comfortably to follow the sub-titles of the Chinese film. It took a trick of the mind, and an interesting storyline, to become immersed to the point where you were no longer aware of reading sub-titles. He was usually good at it, but glancing sideways, he sensed that Kate was wound up like a top. The public revelation to Tom of her private nightmare carried more force than she had expected, and turbulent emotions were surging over her fragile composure. Tom squeezed her shoulder. "Hey," he whispered, " tomorrow's a bran' new day." She gave a slight shudder, and seemed to let go of something, then suddenly became limp.

When Tom glanced at Kate again a few moments later he saw that she was more than relaxed. She was unconscious. "Christ!" he exclaimed, seized by a momentary panic. Someone in the next row kicked the back of his seat. He ignored them, leaned over and felt frantically about her neck for a pulse. His fingers found the big vagus artery, beating steadily. She was breathing deeply and evenly. Was he a total fool? Was Kate merely having a catnap? Nah. People didn't just go under like that, did they? He shook her by the shoulders. Not even a sigh. Tom wrestled with his inborn reluctance to make a scene, then snapped to a decision. "Bugger it. I've got to do something."

The two paramedics must have been in their late twenties, but they lived with that black humour which the condemned survive by. Lugging a resuscitation unit with the practiced insouciance of body plumbers, they hurried up to the ticket box. "Stiff, kicking or foaming at the mouth, Francis?" asked the one with a moustache. Francis motioned at the restless figure of Tom. "He'll take you in," he said. "I'll turn up the lights."

"She hasn't overdosed," said Tom defensively, leading the little group to Kate's prone body. "I've been with her all night. We've had a beer. That's all." The cinema crowd blinked in the sudden light and muttered restlessly. They didn't like their moment of fantasy to be so rudely interrupted. The paramedics ignored them. The one with the moustache took a quick pulse and lifted Kate's eyelid. He taped on the portable electrocardiograph and pressed a button. "Sound as a bell," he muttered. "Well this babe's not out on hard stuff," he announced, " But she's out on something. Sure you didn't slip her a micky-finn?" he asked, looking hard at Tom.

Tom was astounded. Police road checks on his old car were one thing. But to be lumbered with a drugged woman was a different order of peril. Everything about Kate was turning out to be risky. "I dunno' what the hell's going on," was all he could think to say. "What do we do now?" That was a familiar question for the paramedics. They briskly unrolled a stretcher and eased Kate across the seats into the aisle. "We'll have her checked out at RMH," said the moustache. "You'd better come along too pal," he added.

As the party emerged from the cinema, Francis wagged his finger in mock protest at Tom. "Go back to Monday nights and liquorice!" he demanded, "or we'll lose our Saturday night spenders. Now on with the show!" He made a hand signal to the manager who was peering from a doorway with disgust. "I'll get back to you Francis", said Tom wearily. "Sorry for the extra entertainment."

The ambulance made a stately 2km trip to Royal Melbourne Hospital. No life or death rush this time, and the paramedics looked slightly bored. "Sleeping Beauty coming in", they radioed. Tom squatted beside the utterly relaxed figure of Kate, and racked his brain. Who on earth could have slipped her a micky-finn? How? From what she'd been saying, you'd have to suspect the slimy Winston Arbeit. It sounded like his style. But what was the percentage, even for him? Why have somebody flake out in a cinema? Did Kate have some exotic disease? He looked at her face in repose. You could learn a lot from a face at rest. The hint of a slight smile seemed to play in the lightly etched lines at the corners of her mouth.

In no time at all the ambulance pulled into the casualty ramp of RMH, and Tom was directed firmly towards a reception lobby to await further enquiry. Wistfully, he watched the stretcher disappear through a heavy plastic swing curtain. He walked slowly up the ramp. It was late, it was cold, the circles of light from the hospital alcoves were feverish against the dark outlines of the night.

He pushed through the swing doors of the lobby and surveyed several rows of moulded, bolted down seats with distaste. Public waiting areas were gulags of purgatory from Moscow to Melbourne. They were all the same - in airports, unemployment bureaux, hospitals - the list was a long one. There was always a straggle of bored people, a TV set running a quiz show to sedate them, and someone behind a desk, paid to be uninformative, and contemptuous of the value of your time.

Tom sat in one of the bucket seats and studied his fingernails thoughtfully. "My mum's got a pain in her back," said a voice at his ear. "Oh," said Tom. The owner of the voice was a small boy with a shock of yellow hair. He was wearing a very used blue track suit and dirty white runners. "She got it after dinner," said the small voice. "Oh," said Tom. "Where's your dad?" "Dunno'. He used to drive a truck. My name's Deren. Have you got a Porche?" Tom gave a start, then sighed. Small boys were the same the world over. Hell, he used to be one himself. "Shouldn't you be at home in bed?" he asked. "I got mum here in a taxi." Tom looked at the boy carefully for the first time. He must have been about ten. His lips were defiant, but there was a slight quiver at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes hinted at tears. Tom fished around in his pocket and found a bit of string. "Know how to tie a figure of eight?" he asked matter of factly. Deren was all eyes and ears.

They progressed to a clove hitch, but Deren kept putting the loop the wrong way. "Now look," said Tom sternly, "just imagine you're on a square rigged barquentine in the roaring forties. The bosun has sent you to free up a topsail and you're clinging by your fingernails in the freezing cold. Then suddenly you have to undo that backward inside-out thing. How are you going to go?" Deren watched Tom with admiration, then studied the inside-out clove hitch. "Cut it with me knife," he announced. Tom guffawed. "Yeah. You'd be real popular, wouldn't you. Flying like a bird too, off the end of the spar." Deren gulped. Then they both looked up, to find the triage nurse studying them with interest.

The duty nurse was a little troubled. She had a kindly face that she disguised with the no-nonsense efficiency of a casualty nurse who can't afford to waste time on sentiment. "We found a wallet in the coat pocket of the lady you came here with," she said. "It contains the name Katherine LeGrange. Can you confirm that the lady is in fact Katherine LeGrange?" Tom realized with a shock that he didn't even know Kate's surname, but it would sound strange to admit that. "Yes," he nodded. The nurse went on, "our records show that she was admitted here two months ago, also heavily sedated. On that occasion she was brought from her place of employment, a college." "Oh?" breathed Tom. "You seem surprised, Mr. Wiley." "Mm," muttered Tom, noncommittally. Darn it, Kate hadn't done anything wrong, had she. He might as well tell the truth.

"Actually," said Tom, "I'm a teacher in the same place, but in a different section. I really only met Kate properly tonight. She agreed to come out with me." The nurse looked at him quizzically, then asked, "did she seem depressed, or behave in an unusual way?" Tom scratched his head. "Well, to tell you the truth, I don't know what her "usual way" is. She's very bright and capable, a very attractive woman. But she did finally tell me an awful story about a man she thought was stalking her. I don't see how he could have gotten at her. I've been with Kate all night."

The nurse looked suddenly weary. "I had a feeling this was going to be complicated. I've no time to go into the gory details. The drug in her blood is a common sedative, easily available on prescription. Her life was not in danger, so there's no need for me to call in the police unless one of you insists." Tom ruffled his hair. Was she testing him? He'd call the police, but it was Kate's business. "Maybe we'd better let her wake up and tell us what she wants," he suggested.

The nurse nodded. "OK. Could you show me some ID please, and give me a contact address and number? You might as well go home. Miss LeGrange won't wake up for hours." Tom looked around the waiting room somberly. "I should be heroic and sit up here all night," he mused, "but you're right. It would be pointless. I don't live far away. Could you call me as soon as she's out of dreamland? I don't mind being gotten out of bed." The nurse put on a professional smile. "No problem. She'll be fine."

Tom turned to go, then out of the corner of his eye saw a small boy watching him intently. "What are you going to do with that lad? He shouldn't be sitting around here at his age." The nurse looked uncomfortable. "His mum's in a bad way. I think I'll have to call welfare". Tom snorted. "He could kip down on my sofa for tonight anyway." "You'd get me shot," she said aghast, then smiled again. Intuition got the better of her training. " Take him out of here before I get sensible", she sighed.

He could have walked straight out the hospital door, but without thinking about it Tom did what any Australian kid would expect. He had a yarn to Deren. He slumped into one of the bucket seats, fished the string out of his pocket and idly tied a couple of knots. Deren approached cautiously. He looked up at the kid and grinned, then spelled out the deal in a slow drawl.

"The nurse says your mum is going to be here for a while. They wanted to take you away to some welfare place, but I reckon you could sleep on my sofa for tonight anyway. No mucking around though," Tom added sternly. The mask of tension on Deren's face dropped away. He was suddenly a small boy who was up very late. "Where do ya live?" "Brunswick," said Tom, "it's not far." "Yeah I know," said the boy, "I live in Brunswick too." "Great," said Tom cheerfully. "Well, let's get out of this joint. My car's up in Beaumaris Street, about ten minutes from here."

The air outside hit them like a bucket of cold water. Deren sucked in his breath and tried not to shiver too much. It would be no good if Tom thought he was a cissy. "Are you a sailor then?" he asked, in an offhand way that tough guys always used. "Nah," said Tom, "except for a bit of weekend stuff. Used to sail VJs and Cats years ago." "I'm gunna' be a sailor," declared Deren, coming to a decision.

Tom's little silver car was standing there humbly, all alone at the bottom of Beaumaris Street, waiting for its master. Deren looked at it doubtfully. Sorting people according to their cars was a game bred into his bones. He knew Land Cruiser drivers from Volvo drivers, he knew the Falcon and Commodore types, and even the Daihatsu wannabes. But matching the bucaneering figure of Tom up with this heap of tired metal broke all the rules. Tom took a shrewd sideways look at Deren, and guessed what was going through his mind. "Well, you see," he said slyly, "I've gotta' operate in disguise. If I drove an E-type Jaguar, every yob in town would be on my back. This way I can creep up without being noticed. ... And anyway, the little Colt has a few surprises up its sleeve too." Deren nodded wisely, instantly attracted to the idea of operating in disguise. Rain began to spatter on the windscreen as the engine sputtered into life, and they rolled through the deserted streets towards Brunswick.

"Did you think I owned a Porsche?" grinned Tom. Deren looked solemn, and shook his head vigorously. "My dad went away with a lady in a Porsche. We didn't see him again." It was Tom's turn to feel uncomfortable. "This story keeps going around in circles," he muttered to himself. "Eh?" said Deren. "I was just thinking," added Tom quickly, " that you and I must have met up for some particular reason. I guess we'll find out in the morning." Deren nodded wisely again.

The telephone call didn't come until 7.30 in the morning, from a nurse who had just started on the day shift. Kate LeGrange had checked out of the hospital an hour earlier, without saying where she was going. For the first time, Tom felt a surge of real anger. What sort of fool was he being played for? Damnit, she could at least have had the courtesy to thank him.

Still brooding, he rolled Deren off the sofa and chased him into the bathroom to have a quick shower. The little boy was half asleep, but enough in awe of Tom to take his orders without whining. It was Saturday, so Tom had told the hospital that the kid could hang around for a while until his mother decided what to do. With typical Melbourne contrariness, the bleak night sky had been swept away, and winter sunshine shone shyly through the big window at the end of the apartment.

"Stuff her," thought Tom. "There's enough to do without worrying about some fruitcake sheila." He grabbed his jacket, and was just about to stomp off for the usual armful of weekend newspapers when he noticed a book in the pocket. With all the excitement of the last fifteen hours, he'd clean forgotten about Archy and Mehitabel. Tom smiled to himself and opened a page at random. /life s too damn funny / for me to explain / it s kicks or money / life s too damn funny / it s one day sunny / the next day rain / life s too damn funny / for me to explain / but toujours gai / is my motto kid / the devil s to pay / but toujours gai / ... Yep, Mehitabel had said it all. The telephone rang.

"Oh, it is you," said Kate, relieved. "I took a punt on finding you in the phone book. You're the third T. Wiley I've rung. Did you know that another one of your clan was an off-course bookie?" Tom grunted. "Yeah, that's uncle Terry. He's worth quids. Where the hell did you get to?" Kate tried to mollify him. "Tom, I know I completely mucked up your night. I owe you heaps. Look, I think we need to talk. If it's OK, I'll catch a taxi over. See you in about fifteen minutes." Before he could answer she had hung up. "Women!", muttered Tom. "Bloody women."

Deren was watching him quietly. "Don't even think about getting a girlfriend," advised Tom. "They are nothing but trouble." "My dad got a girlfriend, and we don't know where he is," agreed Deren. Tom had put his foot in it again. "Tell you what digger" he commanded, "could you do me a favour and scarper down to the news agent for some papers? Here's a couple of dollars." By now the boy was wide awake, and only slightly scruffy in yesterday's clothes. "Do you want a Tats ticket too?" he asked. Tom was startled, then understood. "Nah, give that a miss." Deren was still slightly disbelieving. "My mum gets a Tats every week. She says that sooner or later she's got to get lucky." Tom jumped at him, pulling a face like a crazed monkey. The boy dodged expertly, and skipped out the door, laughing.

Tom had to hand it to Kate. He had expected her to turn up looking like something the cat dragged in. Instead she was all elegance and poise in an expensively tailored ski jacket and designer jeans. She perched gingerly on the edge of an arm chair and studied her hands.

"Let me get you a cup of coffee," suggested Tom, not quite knowing how to start the conversation. Kate said nothing, so he busied himself with a percolator in the kitchen. Coffee did strange things to his own body chemistry, but it was one of those cultural requirements like pepper and salt that you couldn't dare to be without.

She took the mug, and absently ejected a saccharine tablet into it from a vial she drew from her coat pocket. "I've flaked like that three times," she said, still not looking up. "It scares the hell out of me. They reckon someone is slipping me a drug, but I don't see how. I mean, Mr. Creepy wasn't around last night. How could he be? You picked me up from a bus stop. I'm beginning to think it is some ghastly disease."

Tom's face wore a look of worried concentration. Something was nibbling at his brain, but he couldn't quite put a label on it. "I hate the foxy aftertaste of saccharine myself," he grumbled. "How long have you been using the stuff?" Kate shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "Forever, I guess. I have to watch my glucose level." "No", persisted Tom, beginning to understand his own logic for the first time, "I mean, how long have you been using that vial?" The penny dropped for Kate. She gave a start, then dismissed the idea. "Nah, I use this every day. If it was spiked I'd be a permanent cot case." "But don't you see?" exclaimed Tom. " If just a few of those tabs were spiked, it would be like playing Russian roulette. Every now and again, randomly, you'd bite a loaded bullet."

"The bastard!" shouted Kate, suddenly energized. "The sniveling, sneaky bastard! He wanted to freak me out, so I'd crawl back into his cave for protection.. The slimy little grass snake. Ahggh!" "Whoa back there," smiled Tom, greatly pleased with his own cleverness. "We'll have to get the tablets analysed for starters. And it won't be easy to pin the blame on your pal, even if he did do it." Kate pushed the mug away across the coffee table, forcefully. The idea of a poisoned chalice had put her right off drinking for a while. Her mind was already seething with plans for revenge. "Well, let's see what news of murder, rape and arson the daily papers bring us," said Tom cheerfully. He had heard Deren click the latch of the front gate. Kate looked at him dumbly, then stared in shock as the boy burst into the room.

Kate and Deren eyed each other warily. She saw a smallish, rather scruffy boy and had some trouble fitting him into the identikit image of Tom Wiley that she had constructed. A single father? Well, anything was possible. Deren could see at once that Kate belonged to that class of creatures who floated between flash restaurants and expensive boutiques, convinced that the world owed them a plush lifestyle. Tom, sinking luxuriously into an armchair with his daily fix of news, failed to notice the new tensions. He read a headline with some satisfaction: Melbourne's folly, the giant Crown Casino, was going broke. "One day they'll nail the Premier to a crucifix outside that place", he grinned.

"Hello," said Kate, deciding to break the ice. "I'm Kate." "G'day," mumbled Deren, kicking at a table leg with his shoe. "Tom, wake up!" scolded Kate. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" "What? Oh, sorry...". Tom looked up from the paper. "Kate, meet Deren. Deren's mum is in the hospital," Tom added hastily, tuning in to the vibes. "We sort of got to know each other in the waiting room last night, so I said he could hang out here for a while." Kate sighed, disarmed. She'd been right about Tom; he couldn't help collecting outcasts.

"Deren," Tom explained gravely, "Kate is a good friend of mine. She was in the hospital too." Deren wasn't entirely convinced. "Did your back do you in, like my mum?" he asked. "Nope," said Kate, bending just like the girls in the TV aerobic classes to touch her toes. "See, my back is fine. Can you do this?" "Sure", said Deren, deadpan. No girl was taking one up on him. "Can you do this?" His right foot suddenly snapped up to head height, then clipped back with perfect balance. Tom looked at Deren with new respect. "Hey, that's real Bruce Lee stuff." The boy shrugged nonchalantly, pleased. "You've got me," admitted Kate. "I'm not starting any fights with you!"

"So how would you like to play it from here?" asked Tom, picking up the great pill mystery. Kate looked at Deren doubtfully. "Ah, don't worry, Deren's one of us, aren't you mate?" said Tom expansively, clapping the boy on the shoulder. Deren's back stiffened. Being trusted with anything was a new and intoxicating experience. "Alright," agreed Kate, putting faith in Tom's instincts. "Deren, I think some rat-skunk is slipping me micky-finns, but I can't prove it yet. That's what happened last night. I think he drives a Porche." Deren looked at her with intense interest. "Aah", he remarked. He knew about Porches and their drivers. "Are you gunna' call the cops?" he asked. Kate's eyebrows knitted uncomfortably, and Tom looked quizzical. "It seems kind of silly," she muttered. "I mean, all this conspiracy stuff, like a bad TV serial." She shrugged, and admitted, "I don't really know what to do."

"Well," said Kate, searching for a cheerful conversation topic, "when this spooky business sorts itself out, I'll have to teach you a bit about my business of art appreciation. It's very rewarding." She cast a doubtful eye over Tom's charity-store furnishings. She had a deep unwillingness, Tom noticed, to wrestle with the skeleton in her closet that was causing such unhappiness. Tom's instincts were entirely different. Faced with a challenge, he preferred to kick it in the teeth and be done with it. "I've been thinking about those pills," he announced. "Forensic chemists aren't on every street corner. I think we have to bring the police in on this to have the stuff checked out officially. If we look silly, we look silly. So what?" Kate fidgeted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

There was an intensely practical side to Tom Wiley. He had noticed long ago that most people lived on faith and superstition, letting someone else fix the "technical problems". He felt a twinge of disappointment in Kate. Was she just another passive "member of the masses", a "lamb in the flock"? One of those uncomplicated, trusting creatures looking for a quiet niche to live and die in? They had no real idea how anything worked, these little people. Their car was a mystery, but they had faith that someone, somewhere had arranged for it to work. Nor did they know how electricity got to their hot water heater. For that matter, they couldn't explain what electricity was even if you pressed them. Maybe they were right. He had wasted too much of a short life trying to find real answers to small things that a mechanic in Seattle or a statistician in Amsterdam already understood brilliantly without understanding much else. Civilization was a giant conspiracy machine, full of billions of tiny specialized human units floating in fuzzy clouds of faith. Economical no doubt, but what happened when the whole thing got out of whack? The dogged questioners like him were needed too.

Deren, he guessed, was young enough to pick up the ways of radical skepticism. Kate would take some working on. "Look Kate," Tom persisted, " you've been dragging around an awful secret for a couple of years now. Every time you try to bury it, it gnaws its way back into your life. Why don't you open the windows, let in the daylight, and exorcise the monster once and for all? The cops are not Sherlock Holmes, but they are used to dealing with this sort of stuff. What have you got to lose?"

"I suppose," said Kate slowly, "that what I would lose is my privacy. You are seeing this story from my point of view. Remember that Mr. Jellyfish has been cultivating society journalists for years. He can put a very nasty spin on this, maybe even come out looking like a victim. Can't you see the tabloid headlines? "Hell hath no fury.., says accused dealer"; "Vengeful mistress rats on distraught art dealer!".

Deren had been watching Kate with mild scorn. Being frightened of a newspaper struck him as a totally dumb idea. He still didn't quite trust her origins, but Tom must see something in her worth saving. The battle plan was crystal clear. "We've got to nail that bloke with the dope", he declared. "If he didn't plant the stuff, the cops are going to lay it on you. They'll say you bugged out. So we have to track him down and make him 'fess up."

Kate shook her head in exasperation, and looked to Tom for some common sense. Who was this kid? Batman Junior? Tom though had been energized by Deren's streetwise but childish statement of the obvious. "Right!" he growled. "Let's have a council of war. Kate, if we're going to corner the enemy we need to know everything you can tell us about his movements." "But Tom", protested Kate, "this is not a TV serial. The good guys don't necessarily win. Winston Arbeit is a smart cookie..."

"Anybody who drugs women for spite is not that smart," interrupted Tom abruptly. "That alone already tells us he's a bit unbalanced. Deren's right. With a some bluff and native cunning, I reckon we can nail him." Kate shrugged. "OK, you win. With your contacts you can probably have him kidnapped by a strike force of bag-ladies." Tome grinned. "Never underestimate a bag-lady. They go where fashion fears to tread."

"Well," said Kate slowly, "this is Saturday. Weekends are important in his line of business. It's when the mice are out to play... the clients. There'll always be someone in his Armadale gallery to pick up stray lookers -- yeah, sure to be a fine arts student like Miss Mugs here -- but he'll be in and out himself, tracking the hot prospects. He likes to have lunch with a nice bottle of wine in one of those trendy bay-side cafes".

Deren knitted his brows. "I know this kid in St Kilda who got kicked out of school for nicking purses. He's sudden death on roller blades. Your bloke wouldn't know what hit him". The two adults looked at Deren blankly. They were so slow. "Well, he could snip his wallet. Never know what you might find inside."

Tom ran his fingers through his hair. There was no doubt the kid had a sort of direct, compelling logic, but .. "That's smart Deren, you're right, we might get some good evidence. The trouble is, it puts him on the right side of the law and us on the wrong side". Deren looked deflated. Tom's eyes suddenly narrowed. "Kate, there's someone Winston Arbeit should meet. I know where he can get some rare and exquisite tiles from Central Asia." "Tiles?", muttered Kate, "tiles?"

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