Diana! Episode 5

(Chapter 5 cont.)

The rose hip tea tasted sweet and sharp, and, by now, comfortably warm. Christine saw her fingers red, felt them warm, as she withdrew the cup from her mouth.
Diana had her back to the window. Flowing past her and into the room, a steady orange sunlight was interrupted by the occasional white flash reflected from the traffic outside.
"You have a nice house. You are here alone?"
"Sometimes."
"I mean, there is someone who shares the rent."
"I know. I'm just being difficult."
"That mean streak of yours."
"I suppose." Christine tried not to react, but this piece of perception, if you could call it that, pleased her. "I used to share with a lover, but that's been over for months." She exaggerated. It had been only a matter of weeks since Carrie had left her, but Christine did not want to frighten Diana with the prospect of a freshly injured heart. "I'll stay here by myself for a little while. I might clear out the spare room and get someone in. I might find another lover." Diana smiled, rising easily from the deep chair. Christine followed her with her eyes. "But I'll probably move out - I can't afford it much longer." Diana took a few paces across the carpet, and Christine saw that the talk and the tea had done her good.
Without looking at the Man Ray shot that most people could not keep their eyes off, Diana crossed the room. Her short, black coat rested evenly across her shoulders, then fell in a line where her spine curved inward, leaving the pleated hem to rest on her blue-jeaned buttocks. A lovely, straight back Christine thought.
Diana examined the stack of records. Nearby on the shelf was the picture that had attracted her attention earlier, a photograph of a middle-aged woman with straw coloured hair; she had some cards splayed on the table before her, and she was looking out of the frame and into the world. Diana flipped through the records, and in the process turned the photograph aside: "And your no-longer-lover is not that man you were with last night?"
"No," Christine laughed. "God no. I don't have male lovers. Not since I discovered women." Diana continued filing through the records. For Christine, it was hard to know what this non-reaction meant. Some women were shocked when she told them about her sexuality, and some were shocked and then ashamed of their own reactions, then made excuses to get away. Some women thought they'd be raped. Others were simply interested, and some women, gay or straight, became very interested indeed. Christine was proud of her ability to spot a dyke. She looked at Diana and could not make up her mind. Then again, she thought, there are dykes and dykes.
Diana took out a record. "Do you mind?"
Christine recognised the Brahms piano trio. "Go for your life."
Diana looked over the amplifier, the little mixer. Christine's knees clicked as she rose to help.
"No need," and her muscles formed a defined column up her neck as she turned her head. "I am rather good with technical things. It is just Input and Output, is it not?" Christine watched as Diana turned on the amp and the mixer, chose the correct turntable and settings. Soon, the first sliding, gentle notes of the piano were answered in layers by cello and violin. Like coloured lights overlaid on water.
Still standing, Christine tried to get a focus on Diana's aura, but the music-colour distracted her. Diana moved closer, stepping into a square of strong light cast from the window, and Christine's eyes were slow to readjust. A truck went by, like a shutter.
"So what is this fellow's name?" Diana asked, returning to her chair.
Christine sat again as well, with the feeling that she had somehow been permitted to do so.
"Who?"
"The fellow you were with last night."
"That's Jonathan. He writes lyrics."
"And you write music."
"That's right. If we stick together we could be small."
"You are not ambitious?"
"He is, in a meandering kind of way. I guess I am too. Writing songs is fun, and I reckon we'll find a few bands around town who'll play them. Fame and fortune is a bonus, that's the way I see it. At the moment we're just concentrating on getting that first band. Shit!" She remembered. "Pia, she's a friend, she's expecting me to pick up some gear. Are you all right?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
"Jonathan and I have some recording to do. I just..."
"I am fine, fine. I'm sure."
"Good, 'cause I'd really better get going. I'll ring you a cab."
"I only live in Victoria Street. I can walk."
"Walk my arse! You'll wreck my good work. I'll ring a cab."
"Thank you. You have been very kind to me."
Now Christine realised that she had moved too fast. Diana could be gone for good. The business with Pia could wait; she had not intended to mention it. Having let it out, she had backed herself into a corner. "Listen," she thought fast, "the Young Turkeys are doing one of Jonathan's old songs Saturday at The Rose. I was thinking of going. He'll be there too. Would you like to come?"
Diana smiled: "I would love to."
After half an hour the cab tooted out front. They had hardly left their seats before the horn peeled out again, long and loud. On the footpath, Christine felt the hardness of Diana's grip as they shook hands goodbye. Christine looked into the black centre of her eyes, but did not get a second glance. Diana squeezed her hand sharply, and Christine's hand relaxed, retreated in response. Diana slid into the back, and was gone.
The memory, the nerve-echo of her grip, lingered on her skin - those hard, fine bones, hard as the door handle she now twisted open, and clicked shut. She walked across to the stereo, returning the Brahms to its sleeve. She straightened the stack of records, and restored the picture of her mother to its usual place on the shelf. Christine's reflection on the glass shielding hovered above her mother's image. The photograph was an arm's length away, her fugitive reflection was twice that - an arm's length to the glass and an arm's length beyond, at once before and behind the image of her mother. Christine's eyes adjusted and re-adjust as her focus shifted. Her hand on the frame began to perspire, and she released the picture, examined the faint sheen of her palm, then wiped it dry on the back of her jeans.
When she and Diana said their goodbyes, Christine had looked into Diana's perfect eyes. There were lots of things about eyes that could make you want to look closer - clarity or milkiness, colour or penetration, or Jonathan's knack of being big-eyed and squinty-eyed at the same time. None of these things matched Diana. Christine had become aware that her gaze was deepening into Diana's black pupils. Something.
Christine felt a warm, damp sensation about her ankles. The softness slid across her shins and between her legs.
"Hello Annabel," reaching down to scratch beneath her cat's up-help chin. "Now. Where have you been?" Annabel, looking sideways, towards the closed door, said nothing.

Saturday 20 July 1991
Moon: Waxing Gibbous

6 "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance."

The head Turkey said 'two' into the microphone as Christine set down a schooner for Jonathan and one for herself: the all-important second beer.
"Do you think she'll show?"
"Why shouldn't she?" Christine said, craning her neck and leaning forward to get a look at the stage gear.
"Would you like me to leave early?"
"No need," glancing back at him. "I think it's you she's interested in anyway. Although, frankly, I can't see the attraction." And she twisted on her chair to inspect the hardware, a smile upon her face.
"Did you get Bruno organised?" she asked, this time without turning back.
"Gave him the four-track," Jonathan rolled his schooner glass between his palms. "This week some time, he reckons. Whenever the studio's free. Tonight if we're lucky."
"Right," and she glanced back again. "Tonight then. I feel lucky."
"Beautiful. It's good to at least feel lucky." Christine snorted, returned her attention to the stage set-up.
The 'stage' was a wooden wedge raised about half a metre off the floor, jammed into a corner. The Rose was an old pub and the bar took up far too much room, built so a battalion of bar-staff could contend with the six-o'clock swill. From her table, sitting back in her chair, Christine could see a stack of speakers and the profile of the singer, but not much else. The other side of the pub was for dancing or for standing. Out the back there was plenty of room, among the pool tables and the card machines, but if a glimpse of the band was to be had from there, it was a wild accident, not to be counted on a second time.
The Young Turkeys were a punk/country/surf outfit. They regularly played Jonathan's first publicly performed song: "Since You Left Me, You 'Bin Gone", written before he had struck his partnership with Christine.
Christine and Jonathan had met through her old day job at the Bondi CES. This was a highly seasonal operation, and she liked to think of it as the new agriculture. Business would begin to build through spring, reaching a frenetic peak by February. Then winter set in, the full-time jobs returned to the market, and the seasonal clients migrated north.
In December, tempers and temperatures vied for supremacy, and it was one December that Jonathan's telephone enquiry was mistakenly put through to her. His dole had been cut off due to his tremendous earnings as a full-time song writer and part-time exam supervisor. Christine listened as he complained bitterly, although, really, it had nothing to do with her: she was doing him a favour just by taking the call. When she told him so, he told her a thing or two. She said she was a public servant, not a public slave. He said, right, I'll see what I can do to make your life easier, make a few calls, pull a few strings. She told him he was a fucking idiot and should piss off and bother some other poor sucker. He said 'don't you abuse me over the phone', and she said he could come on in and she would abuse him in person if he preferred. He said, right, that was fine by him. It was fine by her. Right. Right. And so they became friends.
Christine and Jonathan each felt on their fingers the air's moisture, condensed to liquid on the hard glass, as they drank: Christine, in long, slow draughts, Jonathan at a quick gobble. A kind of harmony of consumption. They wanted something to do besides wait.
"Another?"
Behind the black speakers, the drummer hit his sticks for the beat. On 'three' the bass slid down an octave, on 'four' the kick drum got a belt, and on 'one', the Young Turkeys launched into "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance".

Diana! Episode 4

5 "Christine's key slid easily into the lock."

Christine emerged from the shadow of the David Jones building on Elizabeth Street. Keeping to the sunlight, she passed the buildings of the Supreme Court. She had begun to feel quite cold: her toes especially, in her canvas shoes, each aerated by a fraying hole at big-toe level. A car passed close and she felt the slip-stream on her neck. The hump on her shoulder was sensitive to chills, so she gave it a rub. Further along, brass plaques announced: Solicitor, Solicitor. One said: 'Lawrence, Ferguson, Gass and ass'. She snorted: "Lawyer territory."

Christine would not usually choose the morning after a late night to hassle around for equipment, but last night, tired as she was, sleep had eluded her. She had given up trying by about six. By eight her eyes had been sore from reading, by nine her washing hung from the line, and by ten her dishes were stacked drying by the sink. After a second breakfast, she began stretching a few friendships with Sunday morning calls.

The first to relent was Pia. It's hard to know whether ex-lover status qualified you for lesser or greater leeway as far as favours go. This morning at least, Pia had been in no mood to make light of inconvenience, making it clear that she wanted no visitors until twelve at the absolute earliest. So Christine had decided to walk the few kilometres to the Wynyard buses.

Christine exhaled condensation onto the polished brass plaque riveted to the convict-brick wall. With the tip of her finger she drew a pair of crescents joining tip to tip, then a smaller pair inside, to create the shape of a cunt. Before walking on, she watched her art-work slowly vanish.

By the time she reached the corner of Market St, her armpits were becoming moist, though her toes were still numb. She thought of heading down to the GPO Building to check out the gargoyle Queen Victorias that ringed the façade. They were supposed to represent the conquered peoples of the world. Christine liked particularly the Indian Queen Vic - the one with a nose-ring. The Empire had a dyke for a Queen - no doubt.

She was about to turn off Elizabeth when, almost before knowing why, she halted. Stiffened. There is something about the squeal of tyres. Sweat had risen from deep within her, quick and hot, before the echoes faded. Her skin itched. That sound must be in our racial memory, she mused; like the wail of an infant it will unravel the nerves; it will not be ignored. With her nerves all a-jangle, she could not tell if the sound of impact she seemed to recall was real or imagined.

She did not have long to wait. On the corner ahead, Christine walked into a crowd of about a dozen. Even on a Sunday, this end of town was lawyer territory. A couple of suits jockeyed for position. Through the knot of people, talking, speculating, comparing stories, Christine heard: "Thank you. I am all right now." A man stood in the way. She bent at the knees, lowering her centre of gravity as she had been taught in Ninjutsu classes, and shoved him hard in the back: next, a little kid, who said 'fuck off'. She saw a taxi stopped in the street at a strange angle. Then she saw a woman prone on the bitumen, or rather she built a woman's form from a compilation of glimpses snatched through the shifting crowd - a bare calf, the glint of jewellery, the creamy arc of a neck, a hand held palm outwards. It appeared the woman was trying to get up. A man reached out to help her, and another reached to restrain him: "Let her lie still. Give Her Air!" Somebody else was holding a large coat in front of her matador-style, while the taxi driver alternated between apologies and insults. At last Christine's jostling and the crowd's movement conspired to give her a clear view of the victim. The woman on the ground fixed her blue eyes onto Christine: alone, bewildered. "Get me out of this! Please."

The woman from Raphael's appeared thinner and sicker in the sunlight. "Get me out of this." People tugged at her, casting their black shadows over her. She looked as if she wasn't too far from screaming, her eyes growing brighter, more urgent and more blue. Christine took pity on her distress. A man in a suit tried to push past, proffering a small white card, but Christine steadied herself again and with her elbow gave him a good hard jab into the cavity beneath his ribs.

"What's wrong?" She beat him to it.

"I was only knocked to the ground."

Christine touched the red mark on the woman's pale forehead where her skin was slightly roughened and broken. Although the flesh was swollen, and meaty red, there was no blood to speak of. Taking Christine's hand, the woman rose to her feet. When she tried her weight on her left leg, she hissed through clenched teeth. "It is just the knee. It will warm up, I am sure. Please," speaking low, holding Christine tight by the hand, and now the elbow: "get me out of this."

The cab driver was still pressing his apologies, and his abuse. "Shut-up," Christine said and, as he took a breath to continue, "get us to Darlo." His mouth snapped shut, opened, and snapped shut again. "You going to drive or what?" Christine gave the driver her address and they made their escape.

"Do you think you should go to Casualty, see a doctor or something?"

"No!" the woman said quickly. "Thank you. I hate doctors. I never go to doctors. I am fine, honestly. I was just knocked to the ground."

Christine slipped her arm from under her seat-belt, stretching to touch the woman's forehead, where a pink mark now showed beneath a lattice of scratches. "You hit your head. Are you sure you didn't black out?"

The woman looked into Christine's eyes, steadily, like a knocked-down fighter trying to stay in the ring. "No. I am sure. I have had a fright, that is all."

"Then you need to rest a bit. You can have a cup of tea at my place if you like."

"Thank you. I would like that. You are very kind."

The taxi took them through the Cross and into Darlinghurst, dropping them off outside Christine's. The driver dipped his head to look across at them through the passenger window. The fare read $8.20. "You've got to be joking," said Christine.

The cab spun its wheels. Christine revised her thoughts on tyre-squeals - that one felt just fine. She smiled: she had a mean streak. She liked this about herself.

Christine took the woman by her elbow, but the she leant no weight into Christine's grasp as they crossed the footpath. "It's okay. I've got you," Christine reassured. The pressure on her arm increased slightly, but Christine suspected this was mostly for her own benefit. Together they took the three small steps up to the doorway. Christine's key slid easily into the lock. Inside the brass casing, the tumblers made slick contact. The door slid open across the inside rug, and Christine stepped back for her guest to enter. Taking the step, the woman bit back on a cry of pain and her injured knee buckled. Christine caught her, heavy this time, by the elbow, guiding her over the threshold.

"My name's Christine, what's yours?"

"Diana. Diana White." Her voice was heavy and distant. Christine cast her eye about for the best chair. As usual, her cat Annabel had herself coiled right there. The cat had no favourite chair, but seemed to know in advance where you wanted to be. Fussy cat. As Christine began to calculate how she could best leave Diana in order to shovel Annabel aside, the cat looked up milk-eyed towards her mistress, then across at her guest. And scrammed.

"There you go," Christine laughed, as she helped Diana forward, "you can have the best seat. Annabel must like you." Christine leant a hand on the back of the couch, which had a tendency to engulf the unwary. When she entertained mixed company Christine liked to arrange it so that a bloke or - even better - two blokes, sat on the couch. They looked funny: their knees up in the air, their crotches sunk out of sight. That mean streak again. But today she had given Diana the best chair, out of hospitality. Christine thought briefly of the pool of cat-warmth that Diana's bottom was about to settle into and looked in vain for a sign of pleasure or distaste.

"Well! Diana White," clapping her hands, trying to lighten the air, "would you like Earl Grey, chamomile or rose hip?"

"Rose hip please."

"Good choice. Very warming after a shock."

Christine left the room, and Diana looked the place over. The three arm chairs, including the one she was sitting in, bore absolutely no resemblance to one another. A two-seater with concave cushions backed against the wall that joined the flat next door. On the wall opposite, above the bricked-in fire place, hung a Man Ray print of a woman's bum. Records, CDs, and books on shelves. One stack of shelves was devoted to stereo equipment: two turntables, a CD player, a cassette and a reel-to-reel; a mixer, amplifier, and a tuner. On the shelf among the records rested a small framed picture. Diana was about to leave her chair when Christine returned with a tray of provisions.

"So, what's the damage?"

"Please?"

"Give me a look at you." Christine set down two cups of tea, a large bowl of warm, fragrant water, and some bandages and cotton balls. She pushed back Diana's cool, soft hair, and tilted her head so she could inspect the injury. Her forehead was yellow around the red-raw centre, but there was only a slight grazing. In an hour or so there would be a nasty lump. But it was the skin around the wound that bothered Christine: pasty, almost grey, the blue veins showing through. Her cheeks showed no colour, but this was as you might expect after a shock. Her lipstick had been rubbed mostly away and, on her lower lip, there was a small cut where her skin had been torn.

Christine tried to keep her mind on what she was doing. "This'll sting for a bit, but in two days you won't see a thing." She began to press the warm, soaked cotton lightly onto Diana's forehead, cleaning it first, then gently massaging to stimulate the circulation. She enjoyed holding Diana's head in her hands. Diana looked up, and Christine held her glance for a long moment. Perfect eyes. Deep black pupils, clear blue and sharp white. The tiny red blood vessels were beautifully defined and healthy. She had not expected this. Perfect.

"Now, what about your knee? How does it feel?"

"It is a little stiff," flexing her leg back and forth. "It does not hurt."

"I can look at it if you like, but you'll have to take your dacks off."

Without speaking, Diana slipped off her black shoes. A little awkwardly perhaps, but showing no pain, she stood and turned side-on to Christine, unzipping and removing her jeans. Her legs were skinny, and not very pretty. She sat again in her chair, while Christine took her by the leg, holding her in the crook behind her knee. "Stretch out now. Good. Does pressure here hurt at all?"

"Not very much."

She lifted Diana's leg gently by the calf. "Put your foot against my shoulder.  Good. Now, push against me. Anything?"

"No."

"Not much wrong here. Just be kind to yourself for a couple of days. Ms White: you may re-robe."

Again Diana turned to the side, the same side, as she pulled up her jeans. Christine found this modesty attractive.

She returned to her place in the two-seater. Opposite, Diana took up her tea as she reclined in her chair. She cradled her cup in both hands, the steam lingering about her face, then drew in a long mouthful. Reaching for her own cup, Christine didn't notice the rising heat until the liquid seized her skin, scalding the tip of her tongue. She hissed, snapping her head back, then stared suspiciously into her tea's shiny surface. Beneath the moving light the liquid was a deep and rich red. Christine leant back into the couch and took another sip, small and cautious. "So, Diana," she said after swallowing, looking up, "what happened?"

"The lights said walk. I walked. The taxi turned the corner and must not have seen me, at least not straight away. He braked, so by the time he actually hit me, he was not travelling fast. I am sore from hitting the road. I fell awkwardly." Diana had an accent that she could not trace.

Diana! Episode 3

3 "Her little house was empty."

In the orange light of her doorway she separated her house key from all the pad-lock keys she used at the theatre. They felt cold and sharp, and Christine thought of Jonathan's opening lines to their new song:

I fit the key in the door

Of the little house that we share

She should get around to oiling the lock. The key stuck. She had to jam it it, twist it hard. Her door closed on the light behind her. Her little house was empty. She switched on the hall lamp as she walked through to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Why do I feel someone was here before?

Suspicion

Christine didn't mind Jonathan borrowing from her life: it was her life or his, so, obviously, he had made the best choice. She took a glass from the draining tray and turned on the tap. It was all over now anyway. She had played the part of jealous lover with her usual flair. The problem was that Carrie had played the unfaithful bit even better. It was strange how a fear of something could create that thing. Her fear of being left alone had sent Carrie ever further from her. Her anger over Carrie's imagined unfaithfulness meant that Carrie had begun to lie for no reason, and then for good reason. Suspicion. Now, if she could only make this song a success, it would all have been worth it. She looked into the misty liquid inside the glass: "Sure!"

Christine took one gulp and poured the rest down the drain. Carrie had been gone for three weeks, maybe four. She refused to count the days.

The window above the sink was black, and she sung softly to her own reflection: "I'm there when you come home at night, a little after dark, and as you reach out for that light: Suspicion...." She was not completely happy with the melody. And she crossed to the chair by the kitchen table, trying to think of a way to persuade Jonathan to change a line or two, to fit a rhythm she had in mind.

We got two small rooms and a share backyard

Hardly room to swing a cat

If there's no room for this

There's no room for that: Suspicion

The early verses were fine, but the last definitely required surgery. It was not until she found herself absent-mindedly flipping through her message book, with the song still in her head, that she again recalled Carrie, and her real-life suspicions. 'Work,' she thought, 'work.'

She reached for her address book, turning the pages, tallying the ownership of recording equipment against favours given or owed. Pia would be the best bet. She was another ex, but over the last couple of years their friendship had lost its ex-lover awkwardness. There was every chance she would still be awake, but Christine decided to leave it till morning.

From amongst the open envelopes and reminder notes, Christine took a letter post-marked 'Melbourne' from about a week ago: Margaret.  The paper was pink, its top edge torn where it had been ripped from the kind of ultra-cheap note-pad that Margaret always used. Christine ran her eyes over the scratchy hand-writing. Margaret's band was making a move north, so they would be in and out of Sydney for a couple of months at least. She smiled, leant back, recalling the caresses of a long ago drunken night: you could never tell. She might get lucky. And Christine's chair squeaked across the tiles as she headed for the calendar stuck to the far wall - to count the days.

Sunday 14 July

4 "Sincerely, 'Welcome'."

The mat says, sincerely, "Welcome"; but the heavy, green door is closed. The woman presses a red button, speaks a name, and the door opens for her. She walks across the wooden floor which has been polished until it is smooth and shiny and hard. Her steps echo in the space created by the wide flight of stairs and the high ceiling. Each sound is hard and polished, surrounded by silence. Mr Travers' chambers are on level three. His receptionist, forty, with a narrow mouth and hard, red nails, not too long, asks her if she has an appointment. When Diana replies that she does not need one, the woman does not betray her contempt. Mr Travers, she says, will attend to you soon. Wait.

Diana settles into one of five black leather chairs. There is a colour travel magazine on the coffee table, and a copy of the Financial Review, but she gives no thought to either. Although she can smell it brewing, she is not asked if she wants coffee. Inside her pocket, her fingers coil around a plastic lighter. She withdraws her hand and wipes the perspiration onto the leg of her jeans. Diana breathes in and out, a long deep breath. When the door opens, she fills her lungs again before she stands.

"My dear girl," he says, ushering her past. He leaves her standing while he makes for his desk. Mr Travers is a large, pale man with orange, receding hair cropped close to his skull. His eyes are a milky grey, and they quiver in their sockets: a condition know as Nystagmus that distorts his vision past the distance of two long paces. Their incessant vibration ceases only during moments of extreme drunkenness or stupor. He wears a double-breasted suit, pin-striped, with silver buttons. Coarse hair from under his shirt protrudes a little over his white collar. At his gesture, Diana sits opposite. He sits likewise, smiling with large, shiny lips. His eyes too, vibrating, smile. "My dear girl, how pleased, how very pleased I am to see you."

Mr Travers' desk is large and black: the desk-top is dark with the bright flecks, like stars, of mica and quartz. His hands hover above spotless blotting paper as he twists a thick fountain pen around and around in his clean fingers. Diana sees the frame of the window behind him, looking out across Bent Street; the window pane is invisibly clean. The room itself, a lawyer's office with book-shelves, a grey filing cabinet and a computer, has a smell which resembles a dentist's.

"I have an offer. I have found someone." And her voice is steady.

"Ah!" He leans back in his chair which swivels and contours without squeaking. "Straight to business."

"Business. I am not here for my health."

"My girl. Are you not?"

"Will you help me?"

"Of course." Laying down his fountain pen, the lawyer leans forward, pressing his hands on the desk. "If you are sure." Splayed out on the polished surface, his finger-tips create little haloes of vapour.

Diana reaches into her hip pocket. In taking each breath, the diaphragm, the wall of muscle beneath the lungs, pulls away into the stomach cavity and the air pressure within the lungs decreases. As the air pressure inside falls, there is space created for the outside air to escape, briefly, from the weight of the tonnes of atmosphere that press forever down upon the earth. Diana feels all this as she breathes in again and, with effort, exhales, withdrawing the lighter from her pocket as she does so.

"If you are sure, Miss White."

She is not sure. How can she be sure?

"If you prepare the papers," she says, "I will sign."

The lawyer Mr Travers watches as Diana places the lighter upright on the polished desk. "Yes," he says. He takes the lighter from the desk. For a moment the plastic lighter disappears inside his fleshy palm. "And is there a name?"

"Not yet."

"I can help, of course."

"No! No need. I know where to find him."

"Ah!" Mr Travers looks at Diana a moment, then his eyes slip from her, to the little lighter in his palm. "You know best, of course." He rolls the lighter between thumb and forefinger. A spark flies from the flint and the gas ignites, the yellow flame dancing in the moisture of his eyes. "I'll hear from you soon then."

"Soon."

The flame is extinguished, and Mr Travers slips the lighter into a drawer at his right. "Then, my dear, it will be my pleasure to prepare our contract." By the time Diana has fully risen from the chair, the man is already approaching from behind his desk. He takes her hand. "I am delighted that things have worked out for you." He wraps his arms around her waist and draws her to him. "You will be wanting a little something, I am sure. Just to tide you over?"

She looks up at him and prepares to smile, but she does not need to. He pulls her closer, and she leans into him without resistance. He kisses her with his big lips, and she groans faintly, with pain. She takes hold of his wrist, as if to steady herself, pressing her thumb against his blue, pulsing veins. His eyelids slide closed and open, and his glance for a moment is steady and hard. A small trickle of blood slides from between her lips as she eases away from him and he relaxes his grip. Diana wipes away the blood with her finger.

"Be careful," the man calls after her, "on your way home."

Inside his office, Mr Travers holds the lighter up to the sunlight, examining the shadow of the fluid-level within. He rolls back his sleeve. Entering the atmosphere's weaker pressure, the trapped liquid turns to gas, which a spark ignites. Mr Travers holds the yellow flame against the pink skin of his wrist. His nostrils flare as he draws the rich smell, in an easy stream, into his lungs.

The woman steps down onto the footpath. She turns, half on her toes, in the direction of Chifley Square, feeling better already.

Diana! - Episode 2

Saturday 13 July 1991. Moon: Waxing crescent

Christine disappeared left around a corner. Just beyond the intersection, a man broke away from his bunch of friends and stumbled off the curb, trying to hail a ride. It was late, taxis were getting choosy, and the driver took only one look. These boys were on the piss and off the prowl. They wanted out. Another taxi passed, so they turned for Kings Cross station, swaying and shouting, and kicking at walls.

Jonathan followed as Christine threaded her way through the narrow street lined by cars parked with two wheels up on the curb. Jonathan saw that her black T-shirt and blue denim jacket did not hide the slight hunch of her back beneath her right shoulder. Her path blocked by a wall of paint-splattered brick, she turned. Drawing now within a pace or two, Jonathan pulled a crushed Benson and Hedges packet from his shirt pocket took from inside a fat joint, its only contents, and stuck it in his mouth. Catching Christine's eyes, Jonathan smiled; seeing Jonathan forced to shove his bottom lip out to catch the joint from falling, she laughed.

The joint hung there unlit while Jonathan searched his pockets. "Fine host you are!" She had a lighter of her own in the top pocket of her jacket, but let Jonathan go on looking. He looked funny with the unlit joint drooping from his lips, his brow furrowed, his fingers searching, not finding. Finally he looked up with a grin, empty-handed. As he shrugged, his eyebrows rose with his shoulders, and his ears moved too, just a little. "My guess ... " She had to repeat herself to draw his attention, "My guess is someone at the pub is one lighter richer. It's OK though," she slipped a yellow disposable from her jacket pocket, "I came prepared." When Christine smiled, her gums showed. Jonathan had a sort of double smile: the first was a simple grin, squinty and broad, then from inside, from behind his eyes, came a second brightness, direct and personal. Christine wasn't big on bloke's smiles, but she liked Jonathan's. It was a smile, and she pondered this as she handed him her lighter, it was a smile that was somehow - grateful. "Thanks," he said, through the sparks that flew from the flint. He snapped back his head as a few strands of over-grown fringe caught and fizzed.

He pushed his hair precariously back, and this time the rising flame merely reflected in his eyes as the joint crackled. Christine received the joint between thumb and fore-finger but didn't toke on it immediately, waiting instead to watch Jonathan's eyes flutter against the sting of lagging smoke. Jonathan caught her watching him, and his laughter choked to a cough. "I'm..." Between gulps "so..." he managed "sophisticated."

At last Christine took her turn. "How was the show?" she asked with an intake of breath.

"Good crowd. The band did well. I think those guys could be good for us." A cockroach flew into the light, striking the wall then falling at Jonathan's feet. He stomped on it and dragged his shoe across the asphalt to wipe the splatter from his sole. It made no difference in the greater scheme of things but, by his reckoning, if you see a cockroach you should at least make an attempt to kill it. Christine on the other hand didn't mind sharing her city - even with creatures that had wings, six legs, and ate shit. Jonathan looked up from the scene of destruction. The joint he reached for had returned to Christine's mouth. She peered through the haze and the orange glow and took a long, slow toke.

"I didn't get much time to talk with Murdoch," Jonathan said as he watched the joint growing smaller, "but I gave their manager an earful during the breaks. Annie says he'll sing anything she gives him, so it's only her we need to impress."

"Well?"

"She's heard of you. Thanks ... She saw Across The Line and liked your sound-track. She wants a demo."

"The one we've got won't do. We'll need a new one. Ta ... "

"But she wants it next week."

"Shit! Why?"

"They're taking a break before summer to work up some new material. She's putting together a studio deal, maybe an album: that's what she says. If we want them to use our song, we'll have to be quick." He toked on the joint which she had again relinquished: "They're slow learners."

Wet Money had played that night at the Hopetoun and a friend of Christine arranged for Jonathan to meet them for a couple after the show. His shout. Jonathan was better than Christine at the promotional stuff. Christine tried not to be suspicious or jealous of his flair for these situations -- his ability to say things like 'You guys are Hot' and 'These songs are fresh and original' and 'Loads of grunt' whilst maintaining an earnest yet innocent facial expression. It was beyond her. She looked down at his brown, round-toed shoes, their thick black soles. All he needed now was some dress sense.

"Do you reckon we can get Bruno to operate?"

Jonathan passed her the joint. "If we supply the refreshment."

"Brandy maybe. What do you think?"

"Beautiful!" Jonathan watched the joint between the fingers of Christine's right hand light up her flesh as she inhaled.  With her free hand she reached up to massage the top of her right shoulder, then high on her neck below her ear, worrying at the tight muscles.

"Thursday then. Want a go at this?"

Jonathan held out his hand to receive a small, soggy piece of paper. His eye-brows creased: "Seems like a dead one." Having held her lighter all this time, Jonathan went to pocket it, but looked up sheepishly as Christine cleared her throat.

She pushed his hand away: "Don't worry, you keep it." She had about half a dozen of his in her cutlery drawer alone.

Now they picked their way along Darlinghurst Road, making for their regular cafe. "Raphael's" was plastered in big, red letters across the plate window. The best table was directly under the letter 'p'. Tonight, although it was set for four, someone was sitting there alone. The woman made no use of the view across the footpath, sitting instead with her back to the street.

Christine and Jonathan found a table beneath a poster of James Dean. Their red-headed waiter was new on staff, but he wound past the tables with ease, with grace almost, calmly evading a thrown out elbow, a chair suddenly thrust back. Smiling, he took Christine and Jonathan's order for a cappuccino and a short black.

Past Jonathan's right ear, Christine could see the woman at the best table. As Jonathan began to speak, Christine's eyes shifted from his face to the woman behind him. "Wet Money have got this big, hard bass sound, like early Stranglers." The woman was stirring her coffee, around and around. Looking into it. She laid down her spoon. Leant back into her chair. "But it's a fretless, so its funkier than them, jazzier." A thin, gold chain rested on her tight burgundy jumper, occasionally catching the light. She was wearing a short black skirt. Her bare feet were pressed into high shoes. "And that should suit 'Suspicion' pretty well."

Jonathan was interrupted as the coffee arrived. Prizing her attention from the lonely woman, Christine glanced about the cafe, conjuring the sound of a fretless bass for their song "Suspicion". Two black-haired men wearing black leather jackets were smoking and arguing - or at least, using loud Italian. A woman and a man leant toward each other across their table, their legs symmetrically pushed back under their chairs. Past a table of six, and through into the next room, Christine could make out a couple of sex workers wearing long, dark coats over their bright street clothes. Christine recognised one of them from a party about a month back. She had a sense of humour, Christine recalled: her real name was Yvette, but for work she called herself 'Pam'.

Christine looked at Jonathan's face and the blue outline of his body. Around his head and around his hands she saw his blue aura flutter. The aura of one of the Italians was also blue; the other's, orange. The waiter's aura was the colour of his hair, orange rusting into red. She didn't know his name, but she could pick him easily in a crowd because his aura contained dark spots, like on the face of the sun. Christine liked this about him. The woman at the table had her back to the busy street and the blue and red neons of the bars on the far side. The lights made her aura hard to make sense of. Some days auras shone better than others, even for people with good sight, like Christine.

Jonathan's blue aura turned green. He was drinking from his cup and looked a little cross-eyed as he stared into it. He didn't know that his aura had changed colour; and he didn't know that it was now becoming, in places, a yellow roughly the shade of the disposable lighter. Christine made for him a little hat of aura-light, and put a blue feather in it.

"What are you laughing at?" Jonathan had heard that laugh before.

"Nothing." And the denial.

"What are you doing?"

"I've made you a hat, that's all."

"Well I hope it suits me." He pretended to adjust the rim - but he had in his mind a hunting cap, the kind with ear-flaps, whereas, since Christine's distraction, it now resembled an ill-used Akubra, and the feather was no more. Looking up at Jonathan, Christine's smile was teeth and gums. She laughed again, and he enjoyed the sound. The lights of his aura swirled and flashed with one last flourish. Sitting at the best table, the woman with the gold chain around her neck lifted her head slightly and looked up at Jonathan through long lashes. Christine's focus shifted again. Watching the woman's eyes engage, she could see only their whites, like two crescent moons. Christine got a feeling she didn't like and shook it off.

"And how about you?" He had to ask again. "How was the play?"

"Fucking lousy."

"Did you get the moon up in time?"

"Of course I did. And it wasn't my fault last time. That rotten queen left out about a page of dialogue before the moon speech. How was I to know? At least it got a laugh, which was a small mercy."

"I was thinking of seeing it next week."

"You do, and I'll arrange an electrical accident."

By the time they had finished their second coffee, Christine had been through their preparations again: Thursday; Bruno; mics, tapes and a four-track reel-to-reel. She was pulling things together, marshalling their resources, glad, even light-headed, that at last their project was gathering momentum. She was glad, simply, to have company. The clientele had turned over in the last hour or so. Except for the woman, still sitting under the letter 'p', which was a 'q' from their side of the window.

They pushed back their chairs, headed for the counter. Waiting by the register, Christine saw the woman, half obscured by Jonathan, rising from her seat. The woman's ankles gave, just a little, as she walked across the tiled floor. Her hair was flattened with sweat against her temples, and her skin was grey and dull.

'Smacked-out,' Christine thought, but, as the she drew closer, Christine saw briefly the colour of her eyes. The woman's eyes were blue and clear, not the smoky, pin-pupiled black of a user. Her eyes were bright, but not as some are, reflections of the brightness around them. Their brightness seemed to come from elsewhere. Christine recognised that interested, evasive, isolated stare, and stepped back to allow her to reach the cash register ahead of them. The woman repeated the cashier's tally: "Two dollars," and Christine noticed how she pronounced both 'l's, cutting the word in two.

The red-headed waiter took her money with an open smile. The woman watched her own slim fingers as she slipped her change into a tiny purse, snapped it shut, then placed it into her black leather handbag. She turned, looking past Christine to Jonathan.

"Excuse me. Do you have a light please?"

Jonathan's eyes darkened before he remembered Christine's disposable in his pocket. "Yeah, sure." He felt Christine's gaze upon him, knowing that she would not approve of what he was about to do. Boys lighting cigarettes for girls - not the kind of cultural message she went for. His composure suffered a further blow when the lighter refused to catch. Without a word, the woman took it from his hand. The sound of the flint was like the snapping of a branch. Soon the yellow flame was lost in the clear eyes of her tired face. Her high cheek-bones warmed to the light, but the warmth drained as the flame was extinguished.

She withdrew the smoking cigarette from between her lips. "Thank you," she said. As she handed back the lighter her heel slipped again on the tiles and Jonathan caught her by the arm.

"You right?"

"Yes." She looked up at him. "Thank you." She pronounced each syllable separately, as if the words were unfamiliar. "I am just tired. I am only tired." And she sounded it. She steadied herself, without speaking again, turned and left Raphael's. It was Christine and Jonathan's turn to pay.

"Jonathan!" He had to wrench his attention away from the empty doorway.

"What?"

"She nicked off with my lighter."

He knew she was right, but his hands automatically went for his pockets. "Not your lighter." He looked up. "You gave it to me, remember?"

"Then you should be more careful. Now you'll have to cope with the remorse of losing the gift of a valued friend."

"Oh well," he engaged his squinty grin: "No great loss." Christine left ahead of him.

  The Coca-Cola sign was four storeys high. Above it, concealed within the light and the city haze, hung the waxing crescent moon slowly opening like an eye.