Free Eden by Dorothy Johnston

cupboard. I filled two with beer, handed Gail hers, then raised mine towards it.
    â€˜Welcome home.’
    Gail made another face. I waited for her to explain what was upsetting her, then said, ‘I missed you at Eden Carmichael’s funeral.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Your colleagues were there, sucking up to Ken Dollimore. Margot Lancaster turned up too.’
    â€˜What’s she like?’
    â€˜What she’d like is a chance to show she runs a decent business.’
    Gail frowned, but looked interested.
    â€˜Would you do an interview with her?’
    â€˜Why me?’
    â€˜You’re sympathetic. You know how to listen.’
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜And a good journalist.’
    Gail laughed, and said, ‘What makes you think she’d talk to me?’
    â€˜I’ll recommend you. How much did Bob Halford pay for the photo of Carmichael?’
    â€˜What makes you think he paid for it?’
    Gail put down her glass and began unpacking a box of assorted crockery.
    It wasn’t all that comfortable standing in the kitchen, but there were no chairs, or furniture of any kind, apart from bookshelves, in the living room. Here at least I had a bench to prop against.
    â€˜If I had a hot picture to sell,’ I said, ‘I’d at least offer it to The Australian or The Sydney Morning Herald .’
    Gail pulled out pieces of broken plate and tossed them into a bin. When she didn’t answer, I continued, ‘I’m assuming the seller had a personal motive. Revenge comes to mind. Humiliation on home ground. But that’s too vague. Something more precise. A personal relationship with Halford maybe. A favour being returned?’
    I’d rung the editors of both The Herald and The Australian and asked them if they’d been offered any pictures of Carmichael in his dress and wig. Both said they hadn’t, which was what I’d expected.
    â€˜Plus, I’m assuming that there must be others.’
    Gail straightened up and turned to face me. ‘What’s it to you?’
    â€˜I have my reasons for wanting to know.’
    â€˜Which are?’
    â€˜I’ll trade them, but at the moment I don’t feel like giving them away.’
    Gail gave me a long, calculating stare, then picked up a stained and dented saucepan. All her kitchen utensils were of the basic, hard-used kind. She threw the saucepan in a cupboard, then asked, ‘How’s your little girl?’
    â€˜She’s fine,’ I said, surprised.
    â€˜And Peter? And Ivan?’
    â€˜They’re fine too.’
    â€˜You know I had a bloke over there?’ Gail said, joining me at the bench and downing half her beer in one go. ‘A lovely guy. Vietnamese. Most of his family killed in the war. Smart, great sense of humour. Bit younger than me, but that didn’t matter. I met him through the agency. I started thinking about all that stuff. Marriage. Kids.’
    â€˜What happened?’
    â€˜His name’s Tan. He got moved to Hanoi. We kept it up for a while, shuttled back and forth.’
    â€˜Did he meet someone else?’
    â€˜He says not. I think he has, though. I think he’s trying to let me down softly.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’
    â€˜And I’m curious. This tough bitch attitude. This shit about trading information. Where’s it come from Sandy? Is it the new you?’

Five
    I smelt the intruder before I found any evidence of him. Nights on my own had made me sensitive to the sighs and solitary breathing of my house, the leftover smells of my rudimentary cooking. Something else was in the air, a faint, alien, metallic scent.
    I let Fred in, and he raced down the corridor, nose to the floor like a dog doing his duty.
    All the drawers in my filing cabinet were open. Files and folders lay scattered on the desk and floor, mixed with floppy disks and CDs that looked as though they’d been hurled across the room.
    Fred snuffled while I checked