Free Blue Lantern by Gil Hogg Page A

gracefully. “I enjoy my work. I live in comfort. I have as many women as I want. I’ve chosen this, Mike. I could have had a number of other careers. But I’ve decided on this one. I don’t spend time wondering what life might be like if I had another job, in another place. In that respect I’ve learned from Candide. I’ve created this environment, this world for myself.”
    Brodie had only a vague idea who Candide was, and he wasn’t going to disclose his ignorance by asking. He couldn’t determine what it was that brought a clever middle class kid from Perth, to embrace the Colony so wholly; perhaps a spirit of adventure, or a rejection of the, as Marsden described it, boring suburbia of his native Perth, with its immaculate houses and gardens, where nothing ever happened.
    â€œI don’t need to lean on others for approval of my taste or friendships. I don’t want approval. I think you’re a lot like me, Mike. That’s why I like you. You have a will of your own. You stand up to the morons. What I can’t understand is why you’re so friendly with a loser like Sherwin.”
    Marsden grinned at Brodie from his solitary, oriental spiced comfort. Brodie remained silent, swigging the cabernet sauvignon, avoiding the chopsticks, and spooning more pigeon into his bowl.
    â€œYou don’t fancy Paul Sherwin, do you? I mean he has no other attractions.”
    Again, Brodie didn’t respond, treating the remark as a jibe rather than a serious enquiry.
    Marsden reached across and placed his hand upon Brodie’s hand, which lay palm down on the table at that moment. “I despise dissipation, Mike but I’m a great advocate of pleasure consciously pursued. I think Lord Chesterfield said that in one of his letters to his son.”
    Brodie smiled agreeably, and ignored the message. But he knew that there would come a time when he would have to declare himself. He had allowed a wrong impression to be created, and he was confused at the prospect of how to tell Marsden without giving offence.
    After the meal, they were sipping cognac and listening to Ella Fitzgerald on the stereo. Marsden opened a drawer in his carved chest. Inside lay many photographs, perhaps more than a hundred. “You haven’t seen these. All girls. Take a look.”
    Marsden ran his fingers through the loose cards, cackling. To be polite, Brodie picked up a handful; they were casual shots taken in the street or on the beach, beautiful young Chinese and Filipino girls.
    â€œWhere do you meet them?” Brodie asked, knowing the answer, and without real interest.
    â€œIt’s as I said, speaking the language; mostly bars and ballrooms. All of them give you a snap. I never ask.”
    â€œAnd where are the rest from?”
    â€œShops, offices. They’re not the daughters of merchant princes.”
    â€œWhat’s happened to all these beauties?”
    â€œAs soon as things get complicated I chuck them. Some see there’s nothing in it and drift off. They go to bed easily. They don’t bargain with their cunts like our women. I get bored with them. Intelligence and depth aren’t easy to find, Mike. I could have more companionship with somebody like you.”
    Brodie bowed his head sagely, and attempted to return to the girls. “You’re getting on a bit now for all this cradle-snatching, Andy.”
    But Marsden had no thought that time was running against him. “Men get more attractive to woman as they get older. You lose a little hair. You look more worn. Women don’t care. They like an experienced man.”
    It was one of Marsden’s many certainties which Brodie did not share. When he studied his visage he could see the skull beneath advancing through the skin.
    â€œI think I’ve worn rather well,” Marsden said, producing two photos from his wallet. “Tell me which you think is the more attractive of these two