Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ woman, dressed in very long black stockings and what was probably a skirt but looked more like a crimson leather belt topped off, literally, with an almost-but-not-quite transparent black singlet, turned on her professional heels with a casual 'what, who me?' look. She approached the car and with one finely muscled arm resting on the roof she bent, from the hips with a perfectly straight back, to find out how she could possibly help the gentleman.

      Whatever it was he needed was apparently within her field of expertise. Kit followed the car down a couple of backstreets, then photographed the woman escorting Geoffrey towards the wide concrete steps of a nondescript two-storey house. St Kilda was full of these once grand old buildings, many of which had been divided up into self-contained apartments. Kit grabbed her leather jacket, chucked a blanket over her camera gear, leapt out of and locked her car and sprinted across the street. She struggled into her jacket, zipped it up to throat and pulled a black baseball cap from the pocket. She slowed down to a brisk walk but was level with the gate before she realised Geoffrey was still standing in the building's well-lit lobby. Pulling the hat down over her eyes she kept on walking till she gained the cover of a large tangled bush on the other side of the front garden, then vaulted the low fence and made a dash for the wide veranda, directly in front of which was a bed of hydrangeas. She pulled herself up and from a crouching position peered through the tall, narrow window beside the front door in time to see Geoffrey and the crimson tart ascend the carpeted stairs.

      Kit tried the door before she noticed the numbered key pad recessed into the wall.

      Pretty posh for a cathouse, she thought. Now what?

      The only access to the rear of the house was a narrow garden down the right hand side of the building, overgrown but not exactly unkempt. Kit noticed a light go on above her on the first floor but could only assume it was Geoffrey. She pushed her way through the bushes till she found the bottom of the fire escape. It was unlikely, however, that the rickety wooden stairs would provide a safe escape in the event of fire and absolutely no way was Kit going to test their ability to carry anything heavier than a woodworm.

      She figured the building, in its hey day, had been one of those charming seaside guest houses specialising in a touch of gracious living for middle class holiday makers. Or perhaps it had been an annual retreat for a collection of crusty old bachelors and spinsters - à la Deborah Kerr and David Niven in Separate Tables. Whatever it had been before the veneer of seediness had taken root in this part of the city, before drugs and prostitution had taken over from Luna Park and the beach as the main tourist attractions, it was now only the stuff of memory. The muffled sound of grunting and groaning followed by a clearly audible 'Oh yes! Yes Mr Bond. Give me both barrels,' escaped from the window just above Kit's head to confirm the fact.

      Kit climbed the fence, under where she'd seen the light go on, to see if there was higher ground on the other side. Next door was a derelict building, similar to the one in which Geoffrey was ensconced but missing most of its windows on this side. Derelict did not necessarily mean empty so she gave up on the idea of trying to get a better view and went back to her car.

      An hour later Kit was having serious problems with a dead body. She had just watched it fall forty feet from a South Melbourne warehouse roof into a conveniently-placed dump bin. Too convenient! It needed to be found fairly soon. She dragged it out of the bin and back up to the roof. This time it landed on the roof of a car. Now, that should attract some attention!

      She saved the file, closed it, and opened a new one. A new, empty one. She got up and walked away from the very blank screen, then wandered into the kitchen, removed the cotton scarf she'd tied around her neck, soaked it under the cold tap again and put it back on.

      How could she be creative when even the weather was against her? She was sure the heat was turning her brain to mush.

      Excuses, excuses, O'Malley! Kit knew she was doing everything she could think of to avoid the issue at hand. Which was...what?

      'Come on, you know,' she said to herself.

      'OK. It's love. Or is it romance?' herself answered.

      'Either one O'Malley. Just get on with it.'

      'All right already!' She went back to her desk and flopped into her chair a safe distance from the unhelpful keyboard. Everything was ripe, the set-up was perfect, it had to happen sooner or later.

      'Later,' she said. 'I'll think about it tomorrow.'

      I've heard that one before, Scarlett, a little voice from nowhere said. She eyed the blinking cursor suspiciously, as if it had been going through her garbage or reading her personal diary.

      'You've forgotten what it's like O'Malley, that's your problem,' Kit said dismally, as she downed the last of the iced coffee in her mug and escaped to the kitchen to pour some more from the jug.

      'Oh no I haven't,' she argued. 'I know it's been a while but it's not something you forget. My problem is I don't have the faintest idea how to write about it.' She made a piece of toast and vegemite to put it off a little longer.

      How do you make someone fall in love - on paper?

      How do you do it in real life, for god's sake?

      That one you can answer Katherine O'Malley.

      No I can't, Kit argued silently. I've no idea how that happened. I just opened my eyes one day and I was right in the middle of it. These things are not planned, so how the hell do you put it on paper so that it doesn't look contrived?

      'It is going to be contrived no matter what you do,' she shouted at the empty room.

      The Cat, which was sensibly maintaining a safe distance, mewed loudly as if she agreed wholeheartedly.

      'Oh be quiet Thistle. What the hell would you know? All you ever do with that handsome Mr Rufus next door is flirt.'

      Kit returned to her computer to see if it had written a page or two of erotic fiction while she'd been in the kitchen. The cursor winked on, off, on, off - taunting her from the otherwise empty screen.

      So far she had a fine cast of characters in a workable plot which actually had a beginning, a middle and an end - well at least the synopsis did. She had four and a bit chapters of a well-paced (she hoped) storyline, with carefully-placed victims, several viable suspects and one decidedly nasty piece of work who was motivated by lust - a lust for lust, a lust for power and a lust for money.

      So, she thought, the bad guy is suitably motivated - or is that typically motivated? Whatever. The bad guy is not the centre of the piece though. He is merely the thing that makes the good guy... what? That makes the good guy, of course. There would be no need for a hero if there was no bad guy.

      The thing here is that the bad guy doesn't even have to make it to the last page. The hero does, however. And what's more the reader has to care enough about the hero to want to make it to the last page with her.

      'Oh my god. What have I taken on here? I must be mad. Am I mad Thistle honey?'

      The Cat's meow was definitely in the affirmative.

      So, where was I? Oh yes. The bad guy has to be suitably motivated but the hero has to have depth. So what motivates the good guy? Or in this case the good girl. Why on earth would anyone want to be a detective? There's nothing terribly glamorous in it, that's for sure. I should know. And it's certainly not the money. Clients like dear old Celia do not grow on trees. So what then?

      Ask yourself Kit. As you СКАЧАТЬ