I’d stepped outside the hospital for a cigarette. Passing through the ER’s main doorway before the horseshoe driveway, I found a shadowy corner nearby and leant against a pole, where I subsequently lit up and inhaled deeply.

There was a concrete path that lead down the incline of the driveway, towards Commercial Road, but it veered to the left slightly, to a wooden pavilion set aside primarily for use by smokers. I could see small, orange starlights glowing from within the pavilion, a silent cue that others were nearby. But I preferred the darkened little corner of solitude and the company of my own thoughts.

Michael had left a note. This had been no accidental overdose of prescribed medication. He had intended to die. He had thought this through.

I closed my eyes for a minute, expelling a steady stream of blue-grey smoke, realising I could not cling to illusions. Michael had wanted to die. And there remained the likelihood he might still die.

His struggle with depression had raged for four or five years, perhaps even longer, although it hadn’t been until late 2000 that he’d been diagnosed. He took antidepressants, of course, and saw a psychiatrist on a regular basis.

It wasn’t difficult to fathom the source of Michael’s depression; we’d grown up together, and his family had become an extension – of sorts – of my own. And while it was many years later before Michael shared the full story with me, even as a small boy it was clear to me there were problems with the McDermott family.

To the community at large, his father, Bill McDermott, was a jovial, down to earth guy and a stable provider for his family, and unfalteringly loyal to friends and family. But at home, he was a melancholy alcoholic, given to unexpected fits of tears so gut wrenching it was as if you were witnessing the cries of a man who had lost his entire world. And as for Michael’s mother, Barbara, she appeared to be a charming, intelligent and gracious woman, well loved within the community – a driving force of her branch of the Country Women’s Association, a volunteer at the school canteen and a regular attendee at church on Sundays, yet all these factors belied a woman of a cruel and wicked temper.

I don’t think I ever saw Michael’s mother touch him in his entire life, for good or ill. But some times I saw Michael arrive at school or turn up at my family’s home with bruises on his arms, or a black eye or a red, palm shaped welt burning on his cheek.

But this was not even the worst of it. It wasn’t until he was in his late teens that Michael told me about his grandfather – a prominent grazier who had once been Mayor of Helton – and the years of sexual abuse Michael had endured at that man’s hands. It was his terrible secret burden that he hid from almost everyone, and certainly not something he ever intended to reveal to his parents.

He tried to tell me that he’d come to terms with it a long time ago and seldom reflected on those events, but somehow I’d never quite believed him. And as time passed, I watched as the past chipped away at my friend, breaking him down piece by piece. Whatever defenses he had constructed in childhood to protect himself from the past, the memories and the pain, had not made the transition with him from childhood into his teenage or adult years.

As I stood there, lighting up another cigarette, there was little doubt in my mind as to who was ultimately responsible for Michael’s present condition.

I heard slow, awkward footsteps from behind and casually looked over my shoulder. Alexander stumbled out in to the balmy night, his handsome face blighted with weariness, looking drawn and pale. His dark eyes retained that fixed, other-worldly quality I’d noted before, as he paused mid-stride, not seeming to be aware of my presence. He looked helplessly at the ground in front of his shoes.

“Alexander… hey…” I said.

His head rose and twisted in my direction quickly, as though startled. He took my image in and then replied in his low, deep voice. “Hey…”

I gave up my leaning post and moved towards him. “How you holding up, matey?”

He shrugged. “I just needed to get some air,” he said, and I nodded my understanding before asking if Tish had returned. Alexander shook his head and informed me that she was still deep in conversation with the female doctor. He fell quiet once more, never losing that sense that he was caught in some other, darker world.

I thoughtfully studied Alexander, who towered over me by a few inches, and felt a great swell of pity for him. Michael was doubtlessly his best friend in Melbourne, and probably one of the closest friends he’d ever had. I could hardly imagine what the day had been like for Alexander – to go from nursing a friend with a relatively mild condition, to discovering the suicide note… It was little wonder, then, that Alexander looked so tense, a slight trembling noticeable in his stance.

Michael had befriended Alexander through working at The Depot some two and a half years ago. My own memories of Alexander at that time were scant, but when prodded by Michael, I could vaguely recollect Alexander as a semi-regular patron.

Originally from the city of Perth, Western Australia, Alexander Simmons was one of four children from an upper-middle-class family. After completing his university degree, Alexander arrived in Melbourne to further his studies (no doubt he’d been much like us; seeking out a new life, far away from the parochial and narrow minded eyes of small, incestuous communities) knowing no one upon his arrival. Even by the time he’d met Michael, some eighteen months later, it appeared Alexander hadn’t made any friends during that time.

According to Michael, Alexander would turn up at The Depot on his own and later leave on his own, and in between time, he would either stand or find a place to sit in the shadows of the club with a drink in hand, a veritable wallflower wilting away.

Michael was always one to pursue a cause, especially if that cause meant helping out a fellow human being. He looked upon Alexander and saw a desperately lonely soul who wanted to be a part of the community, who wanted friendship, fun, laughter, love and yes - even good old fashion sex. But for whatever reasons, Alexander had all the social skills of a plague carrying warthog. It seemed remarkable that a tall, dark and good looking guy could be so appalling ill-equipped – and ill at ease – when it came to dealing with people, even on a rudimentary level.

One night at The Depot, Michael made a point of striking up a conversation with Alexander as he served him, and whether out of gratitude or something else, from that moment on, Alexander made a point of hovering around his assigned work station in an effort to ensure it was Michael who served him.

It took a couple of weeks or so, but Michael was able to get Alexander to open up a little. They would chat during Michael’s fifteen minute break, and in time, Alexander would hang around until Michael’s shift was over and then they’d sit at the bar, drink, chat and so forth, and Michael would go to great pains to introduce Alexander to his co-workers and friends.

It was in this manner that Alexander became an extension of our clique; nothing would ever alter the fact that Michael, Desi, Tish and I constituted the ‘core’ group. But we were happy to allow others in - so long as they came with a recommendation from at least one member of the ‘core’, and so long as everyone in the ‘core’ got along with that new individual.

As all this was going on, Michael had been living with another gay guy who eventually decided to move into a new home with his boyfriend at the time.

As a result, this meant for Michael either looking for a new flatmate or moving out altogether, and as Michael was especially fond of the apartment and its location, he decided to do the former. When Alexander heard of this, he put himself forward – in an uncharacteristically bold display – as a possible housemate. Michael was delighted with the idea and so Alexander moved in. This was a particularly happy and important move for Alexander, as Michael had once told me that where he’d been previously living had been a stressful and unfriendly household.

Alexander had just not fit in with the two other guys he’d been sharing with. He’d frequently complained he felt as though he was living there alone, as his housemates kept entirely separate lives from his own and never showed any interest in him, or in being anything more than a group of people who just happened to reside under the same roof.

Via the virtue of living with Michael, Alexander became, I suppose, an honorary member of the ‘core’. And from there, Michael sought to extend Alexander’s horizons further by pushing him into taking some casual work at The Depot, in the cloakroom. I guess Michael’s objective and reasoning was of not only improving Alexander’s social skills by the ‘Trial by Fire’ benefits of working in customer service, but also permit him the chance to establish relationships with staff and patrons of the venue in his own right.

“Alexander, none of this is your fault, ok?” I told him. He looked at me speculatively, his eyes hooded. “You thought you were doing the right thing, matey. You did do the right thing,” I added, correcting myself. “There’s no way you could’ve known what was really going on. You need to know that,” I said, stressing that last sentence. “And in the end, you’re the one who’s saved his life.”

His expression appeared doubtful and conflicted. “He might not make it, Puck,” he pointed out in a faltering voice.

“He’ll make it,” I assured him. “I’ve known the guy all my life; he’ll make it. He has to.”

Alexander’s pale face turned grey in the gloom, and he abruptly doubled over and threw up violently, puke spattering the pavement near his feet. He remained in that position for a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, drawing in a ragged breath. I stepped up beside him and patted him on the back. Alexander’s propensity to vomit in moments of (what were for him) extreme stress was fairly well known.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Forget it,” I said. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,” I told him and he slowly straightened up. He seemed about to say something else when Desi emerged from the ER’s doorway to tell us that Tish was back.

“C’mon,” I said to Alexander, my hand on his shoulder as I guided him towards the doorway. Limp and silently compliant, he allowed me to shepherd him inside like some docile, lost child.

He remained unconscious. There was a possibility that his kidneys and liver were failing, unable to process the toxins he’d ingested. Pumping his stomach was pointless – too much time had elapsed since Michael had taken the overdose; all they’d end up achieving was draining some bile from his stomach and rendering him even more dehydrated than he was already. A team of doctors and nurses were conducting a variety of tests in light of the grave concerns being held for his internal organs, including his lungs, of which one had partially collapsed.

“Are they able to tell what Michael took?” I asked Tish, but she shook her head. I looked to Alexander. “Was there anything in his room? Any packaging that might give us an idea of what he popped?”

Alexander shook his head. “No. The ambulance guys asked the same thing when they turned up,” he said. “But there was nothing…”

“Well, whatever it was he took, it didn’t just miraculously appear from out of nowhere,” Desi remarked, and I nodded at her in agreement.

Tish interrupted. “There’s some paper work that needs to be completed – forms that have to be filled in,” she announced.

“What kind of forms?” I asked her.

“Next of kin type of stuff,” she said softly, and I sensed the same jolt of shock hit Desi as coursed through my own veins.

’Next of kin…? Oh God… they really don’t think he’s going to make it,’ I thought to myself. But I hastily chastised myself, realising that such procedures where doubtless the standard requirement and not in anticipation of things taking a turn for the worst.

“What do you want to do about that…?” Tish was looking directly at me. I suppose that as I’d known Michael the longest, and given the strength of our bond, it was natural to leave the decision up to me.

I reflected on it for a moment, my mind tumbling over a set of possibilities, and yet always that question - ’Why?’ - continued to taunt and tease.

’Michael…? What made you do this? How come I didn’t see this coming? Why didn’t you leave behind any clues?' I asked him. I realised, of course, that if there were any clues, then they’d be in his bedroom, back at the apartment.

“Tish, honey, you should take care of that,” I told her. “I mean, if you’re ok with that…?”

She smiled, but it seemed a little forced. “Of course I’m fine with it,” she replied. “OK,” she said, standing up. “I’ll get that sorted out now,” she told us and headed back towards the reception desk.

I turned my attention to Desi and Alexander. “I’ve just had a thought,” I advised them, pulling out my mobile phone. “Alexander, can I borrow your house keys for a bit?” I asked him.

He looked only mildly surprised, but was otherwise obliging. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and fished them out, handing them over to me while Desi asked what was going on.

“I’m going to go and pick up a few of Michael’s things – some toiletries and jocks and stuff like that,” I told her.

Desi’s expression indicated a sense of puzzlement. “But – “ she began, but I cut her off.

“Look, I’m going to take the attitude that in a little while, Michael’s going to wake up and be fine,” I declared. “And when that happens, he’s going to need some stuff if he’s going to be stuck in here for a couple of days or whatever,” I explained. “Plus the other thing is that if there’s anyone who can figure out where Michael might have put the empty packs of the pills, then it’s going to be me.”

Desi nodded. “True. And it might help if the doctors knew…”

“Exactly,” I said. “Sure won’t hurt.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Alexander asked, but I shook my head.

“Nah, you stay here with Desi. I won’t be long, I promise,” and I ran through the address book in my phone until I found Nicky’s number. I selected it and it began to dial. The call was answered promptly.

“Hi Nicky,” I opened. “Matey, I need a favor. It’s urgent. Can you jump in your car and meet me outside the Alfred ASAP?” I asked him. When he asked what was going on I hesitated before answering. “Please, just get here as quick as you can… without killing any one else on the roads in the process, if that’s possible,” I added thoughtfully.

Perhaps it was the tone of my voice, but Nicky was remarkably agreeable and didn’t push me for details or complain or harass me. He said he’d be there in ten minutes or less (he lived nearby), so I told him I’d be waiting out front of the ER, then thanked him and hung up.

I rose from the chair. “Call me if anything happens here,” I instructed them, and Desi nodded, assuring me she would.

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” she asked me.

I nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah… yeah, I am,” I told her. “I have to know… I have to know why. You understand, yeah?”

“Yeah, babe, yeah of course I do,” she replied.

After parting company with them, I wandered outside once again and took up position at my previous leaning pole. As I waited for Nicky to arrive, I lit up a smoke. The specter of that question lingered before me, ethereal and elusive: ’Why?’

An unexpected deluge of anger struck me as I thought of Michael and what he had done, before guilt and fear took hold once more. “I have to know, Michael. You have to make me understand why this has happened,” I whispered to myself.

A few minutes later, as I stubbed out another cigarette with the heel of my shoe, the headlights of Nicky’s metallic silver coloured Nissan Z flashed as he sped up the driveway and braked hard in front of me. I walked to the vehicle, opened the passenger side door of the two-door car, and got in. There was scarcely enough time to close the door and brace myself before Nicky hit the pedal and raced round the curve of the driveway, back onto Commercial Road, wheels screeching and billowing acrid, black smoke in our wake.

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