Sacrifice
Narrelle M Harris
Duo Ex Machina – Book 2
This edition published by Clan Destine Press 2018
PO Box 121, Bittern
Victoria 3918 Australia
First published by Homosapien Books in 2004
Copyright © Narrelle M Harris 2004
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including internet search engines and retailers, electronic or mechanical, photocopying (except under the statuary exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-In-Publication data:
Harris, Narrelle M.
Sacrifice
Duo Ex Machina: Book 2
ISBN: 978-0-6482937-6-7
Cover Design © Willsin Rowe
www.clandestinepress.com.au
Chapter One
Melbourne 2004
Milo lay on his back, tangled amidst the sheets and blankets. Slowly the sounds of distant traffic, a newspaper rustling, the clink of a coffee cup, drifted into his consciousness. His eyes blinked open.
The first image, which made no sense, was a black silhouette painted on the door. Then he remembered he wasn’t at home, that wasn’t his door and the silhouette must be Frank, blocking the light pouring through the window of their suite at the Hyatt.
Ha. Now he’ll have to admit it gets sunny in Melbourne, thought Milo. Like everyone born and raised in Western Australia, Frank was convinced that Melbourne weather was one long, constant drizzle.
Frank was shuffling through a pile of newspapers. Milo squinted at them. The Age. The Herald Sun. A couple of the free street magazines. He cast a quick glance at the clock – 11:45. Ah well, forget about sleeping in.
‘Morning, Mi,’ Frank called out to him.
‘Morning, Frank,’ Milo called back. He nodded towards the papers. ‘What’s the damage?’
Frank grinned from the table. ‘To you? Nothing, as always, you gorgeous bastard.’
Milo grinned back. ‘Must be good.’
‘Listen.’ Frank shuffled amongst the papers. ‘Duo ex Machina’s latest album is a fresh breeze in the stale world of pop music. Building on their indy successes and last year’s movie soundtrack hit ‘Lunchtime Legend’, Duo ex Machina prove they have what it takes. Lyrical and charming, the depth of this album takes you by surprise. This is my favourite bit. Milo Bertolone’s guitar is elegant, articulate and mischievous, providing a formidable and complex foil for the deft lyrics.’
‘Fame at last!’ shouted Milo, waving his arms triumphantly as he sat up in bed. ‘And how much do they love you?’
‘Oh, they adore me,’ Frank assured him. ‘Frank Capriano’s keyboards are surprisingly complex beneath the surface, catchy tunes. As a lyricist and songwriter, he shows a canny ability to combine melody and ideas.’
‘What do the others say?’ Milo bounded naked out of bed to loom over Frank’s shoulder. ‘Oy! Get off!’ He danced away as Frank nipped him playfully at his chest, then slapped his rump. ‘Hey, lookit, Stefanie Royle thinks we’re Gods out of the machine and into the studio. Who’d’ve guessed she knew any Latin?’
‘She also says we’re the thinking person’s Savage Garden. Whatever that means.’
‘Don’t start on that again, you grumpy bastard. I know she likes nothing better than – how did you put it?
‘Empty rhetoric and spurious analogy.’
‘But she has agreed to the press conference this afternoon, and she is up for a statue in the Street Beat Awards. So be nice. Be civil. Behave.’ He waggled his finger at Frank, then tapped him on the nose and turned to rummaging through the papers. ‘Does anyone have anything to say about Thompson’s Angel? I sweated blood over the harmonies on that; want to see if anyone noticed.’
‘There was something here. Street Beat, I think. Someone in there was making a point about how we sound nothing like the Pet Shop Boys. I thought it was- ah, shit.’
Milo peered over the top of the street press newspaper. ‘What is it?’
‘This.’ Frank jabbed a finger at the front page of The Age, which had turned up in the shuffle. The stark headline: Second Murder in Botanic Gardens. A sub-heading said: Police suspect gay hate killing.
‘Shit,’ Milo agreed. ‘The world’s full of sick bastards.’
‘Yeah.’ Frank’s voice was neutral, but his eyes sought out the grainy picture of the gardens, and another of the previous victim.
‘Hey.’ Milo smoothed his hand over Frank’s fresh-shaven face, rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I know,’ replied Frank. ‘It’s just-’
It was hard to articulate the renewed grief of Kevin’s murder, five years ago. All the events leading up to and beyond it. The pain and fear for those he loved. Headlines like these always produced an echo. Dragging his eyes away from the newsprint, Frank asked, ‘What did Street Beat have to say?’
Milo seized upon the distraction and flipped noisily to the reviews page. ‘Aha! Marcos thinks Angel’s harmonies are heavenly.’ He rolled his eyes, but a smile was plastered across his face. ‘Well, that was the idea.’
‘Got some ideas of my own,’ said Frank, grabbing Milo around the waist and pulling him close for a hug, his face pressed against Milo’s stomach. The reassuring scent of him, the pressure of the warm olive skin against his face, holding close what he’d so nearly lost all those years ago. He began to kiss a line up towards Milo’s chest, and was met by Milo’s descending mouth.
The long, luxurious kiss was interrupted by three sharp raps at the door.
‘Damn.’
‘Ignore it,’ Milo urged, his hands supplying a strong argument in favour of the command.
‘Mmmm, that’s nice.’ Frank let Milo tug his shirt free from his jeans, but the knock came again, more sharply than before. ‘But I bet that’s Selma.’
‘She can wait.’
‘No, she can’t. Not if we want to go platinum.’ Laughing, Frank disentangled himself. ‘You get some clothes on, you lascivious creature.’
Milo pouted. ‘You never let me have any fun.’
‘What do you call last night?’ said Frank.
Milo grinned wolfishly. ‘A good start!’ He started searching the floor for last night’s discarded clothes.
‘On the chair,’ said Frank, and Milo located the things he habitually dumped in a corner, now folded and placed neatly on a cane chair near the bathroom. Then he ducked through the connecting door to the second room of their suite, trailing trouser legs and shirtsleeves.
Tucking his white cotton shirt back into his jeans, Frank answered the door as the insistent knock started again. ‘Hi,’ he began as Selma Donahue bowled in.
‘Hello, darling!’ A quick air-kiss and she strode inside – all buzzing energy, wrapped up in hair fudge and lipstick. Selma flicked her brightly painted fingernails through her