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Monday, 17 October 2016


“So our friends’ lives are at risk because you guys screwed up?”  Jason was furious.  Keith had never seen him angry.  It was a revelation.  Jason didn’t go red in the face or start sweating.  His voice was ice-cold, but his eyes blazed sapphire with rage.  His wrath was even more telling because it was manifested in a quieter voice than normal.

Kaminski got angry too.  “It had nothing to do with me!”  He showed he was angry by raising his voice, and going scarlet.

Jason tilted his head to one side, inspecting the other man, and was silent for several heartbeats.  “True,” he said at last.  “But our friends are out there with a killer.  He took Cody already, but Cody escaped.  Only after he’d been tortured.  For hours.  He was nearly killed. The killer cut a piece of flesh out of him.” The sergeant looked visibly shocked at this.  “ And he’s with that man now, knowing that this time he might not escape.  And frankly,” raising his voice when Kaminski tried to speak, “the police haven’t given a fuck about the investigation.  Because we’re just a bunch of queers.  Who don’t count.  If my friends die because of this, you—the Police—will be hearing about this and I will be taking steps to see that this bias and incompetence are properly punished.  Good morning to you, Sergeant.”  And he turned on his heels, and taking Keith and Esmé by the arm, marched off to the lift.

“You can’t just …. Dammit!”  Kaminski started following them down the walkway to the lift.

The lift was still on their floor, and its doors were still open.  The three of them got in, with the policeman still several meters behind.  But the lift doors were as slow to close as they had been on the way up to the fourth floor.  Kaminski slid his foot between them before they closed, and obedient to their safety overrides, they opened again.

First Majorca Flats post     Previous MF post (#581)     Next MF post(#583)

Sunday, 14 August 2016

Promises, promises!

I said I was going to post 2 or 3 items a week, and promptly caught a cold which turned as it always does into bronchitis and fever and such like fun.  I've been off work and spent most of the last few days in bed.  But I am gradually getting better. I feel almost OK again, and only have coughing fits every couple of hours instead of every 5 minutes.  I'll post another episode later today.

Saturday, 30 July 2016


I'm aiming to post an episode of Majorca Flats every day or every second day.  We're moving towards the conclusion of this volume of the story--maybe another 50 episodes or so, and I haven't decided whether to keep going.  I've grown fond of Jason and Lou and Cody and Keith and Esmé, and of course of the sharp-witted Lucasta and Eleanor.  And of course no story really ends, does it?

On the other hand, I have several novels (6 in fact) which need revision and rewriting.  So the question is whether I should temporarily set aside Majorca Flats when it is finished and go back to work on my other novels.  I'm not sure yet,  Majorca Flats started out as a way to get past writer's block.  Surely, I thought to myself, I can do 100 or 200 words a day.  And it worked.

I write because I love writing, and because I get to know and care for the characters I've made.  But I feel that I have neglected the people in my older novels.

Anyway, I will finish book one of Majorca Flats over the course of the next few weeks, then I'll see how I feel.


Jason rang the number he’d written in biro on his hand.

“Hi, this is Jason Armstrong-Beaufort.” He’d decided to use his name rather than his title when dealing with the police here in Australia.  He thought that using his title would provoke disbelief.  And they didn’t have time to waste.  “I phoned about 20 minutes ago to tell you about a message a friend had left me saying he was in danger.  Yes.  Well, I just want to tell you that you don’t need to come because the police are already here.  Yes.  My friend must’ve called you guys before he called us.  Yeah, you can talk to one of them.  Sergeant Kaminski.”  He handed his phone over to the policeman.

When Kaminski had finished speaking he handed the phone back to Jason.

“What are you going to do now?  Don’t get involved.  Let us do our job.” They were obviously no longer suspects.

Jason shrugged.  “Colin made me promise not to get involved.  What are you going to do now?”

“We’re putting out a KALOF …” he interrupted himself when he saw their puzzlement “… a Keep a Lookout For …. Luigi’s car and the killer’s.”

“How did you know the killer’s name?  And his car number?”  Jason was beginning to get frustrated.

“We—well, the police—raided his house earlier this morning.”  Kaminski looked very uncomfortable.

“And …?” said Jason, his voice hard.

“He got away.”

“Wonderful,” exclaimed Jason.  Keith hadn’t thought anyone could put so much sarcasm into a single word.

The policeman coloured and stiffened.  He didn’t say anything, though.

Wednesday, 27 July 2016


He turned to Kaminksi.  “How did you get here before us, sergeant?  We were supposed to phone you telling you the address?”

“What do you mean?”  The policeman was somewhat warmer but still far from friendly.

“Luigi phoned us and then the killer broke through the door, so he cut the call.  So we phoned triple zero and told them what Luigi had said.  And said we’d phone them from here so we could tell them his address.”

“You mean you’d never been here?”  Kaminski’s lips curled in disbelief.

“Of course we’ve been here.  But we’ve never sent him a letter here.  Why would we?  We have his mobile number?”

“Have you phoned him?”

“Jesus, do I look that stupid?  Of course not!  What if he still somehow has his phone and the killer hears it ring?”

Kaminski’s lips tightened but he said nothing.

“I’d better phone them and tell them not to come,” Jason offered.

“Yeah.”  Kaminski wasn’t giving anything away.

Keith leaned over to Esmé and whispered in her ear.  “Do they become arseholes after they join the police or are they just that way naturally?”

Esmé didn’t think it would be a good idea to grin, so she just took his hand and squeezed it.

Sunday, 24 July 2016


Because he’d turned away, they could only hear one side of the conversation.  The sergeant’s shoulders relaxed as he listened.  “Andy Kaminski.  OK ….  Yeah   ….  You think it’s serious? …. You’d better go up then …. How long? …. Right ….  Yeah …..  I’ll call for backup …. Should I get the chopper out? ….. No? Why not?  ….. right.  No sirens?  Think we’re idiots?”  He grunted. “Right.”  He handed the phone back to Jason.  “He wants to talk to you.”

Jason took the phone.   

“Hi, Colin, it’s Jason.  I’m a friend of Cody and Luigi.”

“Hi Jason.  Look, I’ve spoken to Sergeant Kaminski.”  The slight emphasis he gave to sergeant made it official.  Jason waited patiently for the warning.  It duly came. “Don’t get involved.  We—the police—are trained for this, and you are not.  And if you get in the way, or give him another hostage, you’ll make things worse.”

“All right,” agreed Jason placidly.

“Promise!” ordered Colin de Graves, his voice gruff.

“I promise not to get involved.”

“OK, then.  We’ve got him.  Your friends will be safe.”  It would have helped if Colin had sounded more certain.

“Do you think he’s making for Mt Macedon?”

“I dunno.  But I’m here, fifteen minutes away.  I’m going up to the camping site.”

“You’ll hide your van, so he doesn’t see it?”

“I’m not a complete idiot, you know!”  Colin’s asperity embarrassed Jason a little.  But …. They were his friends.  And he wasn’t going to make a mistake again which cost a friend his life.  Never again.

“They’re my friends,” he said calmly but with steel in his voice.  “Luigi was the first person I met here.  And he matters to me.”  Jason turned to look at Keith and Esmé, both listening intently.  “He matters to us.  And Cody …” he faltered,  “… Cody’s suffered enough.”

Colin sighed.  “I know.  But would you try to guide the hand of the surgeon who operates on you?”

“Fair point.  OK.  We’ll trust you.  Please …. Don’t …” 

“We’ll do our very best,” promised Colin.

Jason handed the phone over to Keith.

Saturday, 23 July 2016


Keith stood for a moment, holding the phone, shifting from leaning on the outside of one foot to the outside of the other, his expression as neutral as he could make it.  He had plenty of experience with the police when he’d been hustling. And even when he’d been just cruising. The police hadn’t been on his side.  Once, he’d been beaten up “resisting arrest.”  Colin was different.  Colin was a top bloke.  But the policeman who’d brusquely ordered them to wait … Keith was afraid, even though it had been years since he’d whored.  He turned to look at Jason, feeling ashamed, and angry that he was ashamed. 

Jason flashed him a quick smile of understanding, and took Keith’s phone from him.  Stepping forward, he spoke with the kind of assurance—arrogance even—that comes from twenty generations of privilege. 

“Excuse me, sergeant Kaminski,” he said, his eyes flicking to the triple chevron on the man’s shoulder tab, and his name badge on his breast, his accent cut-glass, “The sergeant from Macedon would like to speak with you.  He was the man who interviewed our friend who lives here.  The one abducted by the Mt Macedon killer.”

The sergeant’s eyes darkened and his mouth tightened.  But he took the phone.

“Yeah?” he said, turning away from the three on the walkway, his voice showing his irritation. 

They watched him intently. 


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