Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron
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as a foreign correspondent), then carefully enunciated the day's events. There had been: political skulduggery in Washington, bombs in Iraq, floods in Brisbane, a missing teenager in Footscray, a by-election in Nareen, a frozen body in Elwood, and two knuckledraggers out of something important because they'd hurt their groins.
"Diddums," Kit said, thinking it was trés weird that absolutely nothing had happened in the world today that The Age hadn't known about when it went to press early that morning.
She was about to flick stations happy to remain half-informed, still, by relying only on the headlines, when it suddenly occurred to her that since the recent redistribution of whatever it is that gets redistributed so that electoral boundaries can be changed, she might now actually be a resident of the Nareen electorate and therefore might have to vote for somebody sometime soon.
The contest for the seat of Nareen heated up today as the major parties officially launched their campaigns for the forthcoming by-election, " Bonney announced, as the images flicked from his familiar face to a host of people Kit had never laid eyes on before.
"That's nice Bonney boy," Kit said to the television, "but where is Nareen?"
"Liberal candidate, Joseph Cramer, supported by the rousing cheers of the party-faithful, went for the big sell, while Labor's Ellen Drury, and her small entourage, pounded the pavement of three bayside shopping strips to meet the people whose votes she hopes to win."
"Does this bayside bit extend to Richmond?" Kit asked, as Bonney crossed to a 'live' reporter.
"In the second day of his campaign Carter Walsh, leader of the fledgling Australia First party, was struck but unharmed by rotten fruit thrown by hecklers who were, otherwise, kept at bay by a small contingent of police. The new party, whose platform of 'old-fashioned family values' has been labelled by some as sexist, racist and homophobic, continues to generate controversy. The growing number of very vocal detractors now protests at every meeting attended by the still swelling ranks of supporters.
"And with two weeks until the by-election, occasioned by the suicide last month of sitting Independent MP Barry Page, the situation in Nareen will only get more interesting with the separate campaign launches tomorrow of the two competing Independents. Retiring Mayor of Brinlea, Carol Webster, has the political credibility, but ex-footballer Malcolm 'Beaner' Brody is flying the local sports hero flag; and both, according to the polls, have as much chance as the candidates of the major parties to win this vital seat in State Parliament. Adrian Becker, reporting."
'Live. You forgot the 'reporting live from downtown-somewhere' bit," Kit said, hitting the mute button. "I still don't know where Nareen is."
"Manglewort," Thistle said, leaping on to her lap.
"If you say so, cat-face. Downtown Manglewort it is," Kit agreed, scratching The Cat behind the ears in the spot she loved until she suddenly hated it.
"Ow, don't bite. Ooh look, there's Jonno," Kit added, pointing the remote at the television again. Thistle showed her disinterest by sliding under the coffee table to flick magazines onto the floor.
Meanwhile, Ed Bonney's voice-over was saying: "...according to Detective-Sergeant Jon Marek, who is heading the investigation."
Marek, who had a forest of microphones waving under his nose, was answering questions in his usual friendly style: "Of course the circumstances are suspicious; the woman's body was found locked in a freezer. No, we don't know the identity of the victim. No, this is nothing like the case in Brighton last week. No, we are not likely to have any suspects this early in the investigation when, as I said, we don't even know who the victim is. Yes, it was an anonymous tip. No, we don't know who placed the call - that's usually what anonymous means."
Oh dear, Kit thought, carrying her beer back into her office. They really shouldn't let Marek talk to journalists; or the public; or live people. She lifted the receiver and dialled his work number.
"That bloody-well better be you," Marek growled.
"Well it would be, no matter who I was," Kit replied.
"Yeah? Well shit, you're the wrong you. What do you want O'Malley?"
"I don't want anything, Jonno. You're the one who wants a favour. But if I did want the snarly-snappy-cantankerous you, I'd just record tonight's news and watch you over and over."
Marek sighed. "Sorry mate, I've had a shit of a day. And it's not going to end any time soon."
"That's OK. Ring me back when you've got time, or call in later for a drink."
"Yeah, right," he said. "I'll have time in about July, and later is likely to be Saturday."
"Oh. In that case you'd better ask me the favour now," Kit suggested. "I'm canoeing across Bass Strait on Saturday."
"That's nice. Um, it's about organising a game of golf..."
"You don't play golf," Kit interrupted. "I don't play golf."
"No, but your mother does, and so does mine. And my Mum has landed on my doorstep for two months so I was hoping you could ask Lillian to play with Sheila. Every day - for two months."
Kit laughed. "Where has your father gone this time?"
"Saudi Arabia. He's got the tender for installing the air-con in some swanky new hotel. But Sheila said she didn't want to go to a place that was all bunker and no greens."
"Mum would agree with that, so I'm sure she'd be delighted to play with Sheila."
"Thanks Kitty. Gotta go."
"My pleasure," Kit said to the empty line. She replaced the receiver. "And I don't canoe either."
The phone rang. She picked it up.
"Make sure you wear a life jacket," Marek said, before hanging up again.
The phone rang again. She picked it up.
"O'Malley? I swear I'm not suffering delusions."
"Oh, hi Hector."
"What was the job?"
"I was wondering if you could do a background check on someone for me."
"Sure. Who?"
"A writer called Darian Renault," Kit said. "Author of Shoot. Have you read it, or heard of him?"
"Haven't read the book but I've heard that he's a wanker."
"That's a fair description. I doubt it's his real name. He says he's twenty-eight but looks older."
"Well he probably would if he's an ex-junkie."
"Maybe. But I don't think he is. Was," Kit commented. "Anyway, he lives at 42 Chumley St, Abbortsford with his pregnant girlfriend Rhonda Devon who used to be a nurse. She says they met in Adelaide three years ago when Darian was there on holidays."
"OK. Give me a couple of days," Hector said.
"Good. Then we should talk about making your detective delusions a reality - sort of," Kit said.
"Yeah? Are you fair dinkum, O'Malley?"
"Usually. We'll talk about it, OK?"
Kit hung up. Moments later she shook her head to retrieve her mesmerised consciousness from the swirling doodads of her screensaver. She batted the mouse with her fingers to stop the constant movement on the monitor, then decided she should check chapter nine of her detective novel to see if the crime-fiction fairies had written anything for her while she'd been out working her day job.
They hadn't.
Her hero - the bold, dashing, assertive, vivacious, clever and adventurous Flynn Carter - was still moping about, uselessly, having been struck down by a virulent strain of the once-resolved sexual tension bug. Which, unlike the unresolved variety, was much harder