As Nicky drove to Michael’s apartment in East St.Kilda, I conveyed the events of the evening. It was one of those rare occasions when Nicky didn’t interrupt, but just sat there and listened while we sped down Punt Road.

I’d met Nicky not long after commencing work at The Depot. The initial encounter between myself and the lean, tall and very good looking guy with white-blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, had been less than amicable.

In the few seconds it had taken for Nicky to place his drink order with me, I found him to be conceited, obnoxious and self-centered, so when he gave me a generous helping of attitude on top of all of that, I promptly (but politely – after all, I am a professional) responded with: “Speak to me like that again and I’ll make sure every beverage you purchase in this venue, from this night on, comes with a dollop of saliva.” I’d added a large, cheesy smile for extra effect.

“Now, if you’re prepared to have that chip surgically removed from your shoulder, and may be under go a Good Manners Implant, then may be – just may be - I’ll serve you. Do we understand one another?” I asked him in a reasonable tone.

Nicky looked at me with a stunned expression on his face. Then he broke into a broad and genuine grin. “I think I’m going to like you,” he remarked, looked both pleased and thoughtful.

At the end of my shift that night, when I was sitting with a couple of my co-workers at the bar enjoying a relaxing drink, Nicky sidled up to me and insisted on buying me a Flatliner - a lethal combination of Green Chartreuse, Tequila and half a dozen drops of Tabasco Sauce served in a shot glass.

One shot became two, two became four… and so on, until around 10:00 am, by which time Nicky and I had re-written the entire soundtrack for The Sound of Music, including this little ditty (sung to the tune of ’Do Re Mi’) which, perhaps not too surprisingly, is the only one I can recall anything of:

’… Ho, a queer, a flaming queer,
Ray, a guy who humps my bum,
Me, the only thing worth talkin’ about,
Fuck? As long as you’re well hung!
Oh! I really give the best head!
‘Bye, and I’ll call you sometime soon.
E, the pill that’s just kicked in,
And that will bring us back to ho, ho, ho, ho…’

His origins were a little murky, but over the years he had let a few things slip about his background, and from what I could piece together, he had lived in rural New South Wales with his family until he ran away at the age of 16.

He spent some time in Sydney – doing what, I’m not entirely sure. But Nicky French was a survivor and one of those people who had a knack for landing on their feet. Or if not his own feet, then someone else’s.

For four years he’d been the live-in partner of Dr. Brain Henstridge, one of the countries top surgeons. They shared an incredible penthouse in South Yarra that boasted some of the finest – and most expensive – views across the Yarra River and the city itself that loomed in the background.

Nicky didn’t work. I’m not sure that Nicky had ever held down a job; certainly nothing in the conventional sense of ‘employment’. He was, as he liked to say, a “... lady of leisure… Only not so lady-like. But on the plus side, I always swallow. Spitting is so crass, don’t you think?”

His boyfriend Brian showered Nicky with every extravagance a gay guy could crave; a sports car, clothes, credit cards on top of a generous monthly allowance, as well as Bvlgari jewelry and overseas holidays; yes, Nicky was seemingly living the gay boy’s dream.

Nicky knew The Scene and everyone on it; he knew how to play The Scene and (pretty much) everyone in it. After all, he was young, wealthy and handsome, and that made him a god, if not the god.

He parked his car across from Michael and Alexander’s apartment building. We got out and made our way to the front doors of the 1960’s style block, where I took out the keys to open the security doors. Their apartment was on the ground floor, just beyond the main foyer. Once inside, we found it lost in darkness. A couple of furry shadows scampered past our feet, up the hallway on our right, in the direction of the bedrooms and the bathroom.

“Ugh,” Nicky cried, appalled. “I forgot he has those feral little fuckers,” he said, referring to Booty, Bindi and Hamilton; Michael’s three cats. “Cats… disgusting animals.”

“You hate all animals,” I reminded him as I switched on the light in the entrance hall of the apartment.

“That’s so not true!” Nicky protested, sounding affronted. “If I can wear it and look good, then it’s fine. Anything else should be edible, and if it isn’t edible, then it’s just taking up valuable space and contributing to the whole greenhouse gases thingy-whosit, by farting and burping and stuff,” he said, explaining his simple philosophy.

Truly, Nicky was Greenpeace’s worst nightmare. One could only hope he would never get it into his head to run for parliament, I thought to myself.

I led the way down the hallway towards the bedrooms. On turning a sharp corner I could see, in the gloom, that the door to Alexander’s bedroom was wide open, and just to the left was Michael’s room.

On entering Michael’s bedroom, I turned on the light. The medium sized room lit up and one of the first things I noticed was Bindi, a sleek tabby with thick, dark stripes, curled up lazily on the foot of the bed. She raised her head, looked at me with huge, inscrutable green eyes, before one of her front paws stretched out towards me, as if by way of greeting, and she managed a yawn. I leant over the bed and scratched her affectionately behind one ear.

My eyes scanned the room, taking it all in as if for the very first time. The bed looked remarkably undisturbed; sure, there were signs that someone had been laying on it and the pillows were crumpled and in slight disarray, but otherwise it hid it secrets well. It seemed impossible to fathom that only hours ago Michael had been lying there, dying.

There was a timber bedside table next to the bed. On it was a simple glass lamp, an ashtray (with several cigarette butts in it), Michael’s watch, a packet of Winfield Ultimate cigarettes (I flicked them open and noted three remained), a lighter, as well as a glass that was empty but for a tiny dribble of clear fluid. I picked it up, stuck my finger in and licked my finger tip: vodka.

I remarked: “It’s weird… This room – it kinda’ feels wrong somehow.” My eyes moved back to Michael’s bed while Nicky glided towards the double French windows that overlooked the balcony.

“I so know what you mean,” he replied. ”But I reckon a nice window treatment would soon fix that,” he concluded, studying the windows with a critical eye.

“Um, that’s not exactly what I meant.”

“No…?” Nick responded with surprise. “Well still, you have to admit,” he continued, his face screwed up with disapproval. “It sure wouldn’t hurt to go all Queer Eye on this place.” His expression changed to something akin to wonderment. “Y’know, for a fag with three cats, Michael’s ‘Homo Home Decorator Gene’ is clearly comatose.”

I’d turned around to scan the surface of Michael’s chest of draws, but now glared at Nicky. Realising his faux pas, he made an effort (in his own style) to acknowledge it: “Oopsies! Was that in bad taste?”

“Take a look in the wardrobe and see if you can find an overnight bag or something,” I suggested to him, and returned my attention to the surface of the chest of draws.

A variety of framed photographs adorned it, images of Michael with Desi, Tish, Alexander and myself, and other friends, in various social settings. Also sitting on the surface of the chest of draws were a couple of bottles of Dior’s Farhenheit, a large bottle of Dolce & Gabbana, as well as cK’s Eternity, the latter being my Christmas gift to him. Next to those items was a Von Dutch baseball cap, a large white candle, an oil burner and Michael’s wallet. I picked up the later, opening it and discovered it empty of cash, though it housed his various ATM cards and so forth.

Nicky spun sharply on his heel and threw open one of the sliding doors of the large built-in-wardrobe. The interior was lined with shirts, all grouped into distinct colours, and then those groups were broken down into ‘hues’ of that particular colour. Nicky appeared suitably impressed by Michael’s organizational skills.

“Guess when he wakes up we’ll have to get him some kind of get well gift,” Nicky said thoughtfully, flicking through the coat hangers and studying the items he found as if he were a judge at the Fashion Olympics.

I frowned at him. “I really don’t think Michael’s going to need dress shirts,” I said. “And as for a gift, well – “ I didn’t finish the sentence, and moved towards the desk that held the PC and a mini-CD stereo system. I opened one of the drawers of the desk and poked around inside, looking for any signs of what he may have taken.

“I mean, what do you get a guy who has just tried to off himself…?” Nicky said, ignoring my remark about the shirts. In fact, he pulled one out and held it up to his chest, testing its size. As Michael was of thin build, the shirt was clearly too small for him. He pulled a face of annoyance and thrust the item back in a resentful manner. “Perhaps a gift voucher for some way serious therapy…?”

“Nicky…!” My tone was steel-hard and defensive.

“Oh c’mon, Puck!” He whined, turning towards me. “Geez, lighten up! It’s not like anyone died for fuck’s sake!”

I felt my jaw tighten and a strange, sickly feeling slithered through my belly. “Do you ever think before you open that mouth of yours?” I asked him bluntly.

Realising he’d overstepped the boundaries of good taste, Nicky was momentarily thrown, but he quickly recovered himself: “It’s been known to happen,” he replied.

I sighed heavily. “Look, are you here to help or what…?” I asked, growing impatient with him as I closed one drawer and went onto the next; it too was equally devoid of helpful clues.

Nicky found a medium sized bag on the bottom of the cupboard. He dumped it unceremoniously on the bed, near Bindi, who took offense to the gesture and subsequently got up and jumped off the bed, exiting the room with a swish of her tail.

“OK, now what?” asked Nicky. He sounded bored.

“Now you can go through his draws and grab some stuff for him to wear,” I suggested.

Closing the third and final drawer, my eyes ran across the top of the desk; Michael’s house keys (complete with a small, cutesy-pie soft toy of Disney’s Tigger hanging off of it, which had been a birthday gift from Alexander), mobile phone – turned off – plus a few bills stacked up in an orderly fashion, his address book and a small notepad and pen.

I picked up the pad and flicked through it, finding all the pages blank, but noting that numerous sheets had been torn out and presumably tossed away. Faint traces of words remained, like echoes impressed upon the pages remaining, but so faint that they were impossible to discern.

Replacing the notepad, I took up Michael’s phone and turned on the power, entered his PIN (his date of birth) and waited as it connected to the network. Within moments, it buzzed and bleated, alerting to new messages. I went through the messages, noting a few text messages from various friends, plus a voicemail notification. But there was one sms sender who caught my attention: Leo. He had sent three messages in the early hours of the morning, when Michael would’ve been unconscious.

Leo was Michael’s most recent ex-boyfriend. They’d broken up several months ago after dating for just over six months, although Leo appeared not to have accepted the fact. He had certainly demonstrated issues, so far as letting go and moving on were concerned. Leo’s persistence (including frequent barrages of drunken sms, voice messages as well as turning up at the flat at ungodly hours of the morning, drunk and demanding to be let in) had prompted Tish, Desi and I to suggest that Michael take out a restraining order against the guy. But being the gentle, no-fuss type of guy he was, Michael had dismissed the idea as over the top.

I opened the first sms from Leo and read it: ’i miss u baby. can we talk? xo’. I flicked to the next message: ’please answer. really need to talk 2 u. miss u so much. got to c u. this is killing me’.

“Good grief,” I whispered to myself. “Get some dignity man,” I cried. Nicky asked what I was talking about, and so I told him about Leo’s messages.

“Ugh! That loser,” he uttered with disdain. “Never understood what Michael saw in that guy… although apparently he has a huge dick…” he told me matter-of-factly.

“He used to hit Michael,” I announced, surprising even myself. Aside from Desi and Tish, Michael hadn’t told anyone of Leo’s drunken fits of rage that often resulted in Michael limping away battered and bruised.

“You are shitting me?!” Nicky exclaimed, horrified. “What a total fucktard,” he cursed.

By this time, I’d moved onto the third sms: ’y don’t u answer me u fukin prick?! need to talk 2 u’. I shook my head, then punched in the number for Michael’s voicemail to check the messages.

“You-have-two-new-messages. Messaged-received-today-at 6:09am…” announced the robotic recording.

“Michael? I’m sorry about that last text...” It was Leo’s voice; guttural and slurring though he was (doubtlessly drunk), I would’ve recognised it anywhere.

In the background, I could hear male voices and a car door slamming shut then the toot of a horn. It seemed Leo had been on a street somewhere when he’d made the call. “I jus’ really need to see you, ok? OK, Michael..? I’m sorry, I screwed it all up… fuck I’m sorry,” he said, sounding as if he were on the verge of tears. Then he hung up.

“Message-received-today-at 6:24am…”

“I still love you baby,” Leo blubbered into the phone. “This isn’t fuckin’ fair! Talk to me! Please!” he begged, then his voice softened: “Just talk to me is all…” The line went dead.

After switching off and replacing the phone on the desk, I started to turn towards Nicky to check on his progress, when something on the carpeted floor, just near the French windows, caught my eye. Intrigued, I went down on my haunches to peer more closely.

I found a series of muddied footprints leading from the French windows towards the bed. And while they had long since dried out and were faint, the flat tread was still noticeable. Standing up, I moved to the French Windows and tried the handle. To my surprise, they were unlocked. I opened them and stepped out onto the balcony, finding additional prints there as well.

They appeared near the railing of the balcony, which overlooked the tenants’ car park but was afforded some privacy by a number of good-sized shrubs that grew along a small garden that ran in front of the balcony.

I peered over the edge at the earth below, but it was too dark to see anything. Calling back over my shoulder to Nicky, I asked him to hit the light switch for the balcony. He complied promptly. Above me a shaded bulb glowed, spilling some light into the night. But even still, it was difficult to make out the ground on the other side of the railing.

“It rained for awhile this morning, didn’t it?” I said to Nicky, turning round and returning inside, closing and locking the balcony doors after me. “Drew said something tonight about a wild thunderstorm…” I recalled.

“Pff,” Nicky responded contemptuously. “How the Hell would I know? I never get out of bed before eleven,” he reminded me.

Standing at the foot of Michael’s bed I noticed that there were small traces of dirt on the doona, of a colour that matched the faint prints on the carpet. It was possible, I supposed, that the cats had tracked it in and left it on the bed. But yet, judging by the prints on the carpet, it was also possible that the owner of those shoes had sprawled upon the bed with their shoes on, leaving those traces of dirt behind.

“OK, well I’ve got T-shirts, jocks, socks and jeans… and a pair of shoes,” Nicky informed me, holding up the latter.

“Let me see those,” I said and took one of the flat soled sneakers from him. Studying the bottom tread I found no indication that they’d recently trampled through mud.

Nicky frowned at me. “Puck…? Are you going to go all Jessica Felcher on me again…?

I sighed wearily. “Who the Hell is Jessica Felcher?” I asked him.

“Y’know, that old duck from that TV show… um, what is it? Murder, She Wrote…?”

I handed the shoe back to him, a wry grin on my face. “Her name was Fletcher dickhead,” I corrected him.

“Whatever,” he sniffed irritably. “So now what? Is that all we need to get?”

“No,” I replied. “We’d better hit the bathroom and grab his toothbrush and stuff,” I suggested.

We were making for the door when my phone beeped. I paused and took it out of my pocket, discovering that it was a sms from Drew. I sat down on the edge of Michael’s bed to read it: 'just wanted to say hi & let u know i’m thinking about u. hope michael is ok. really enjoyed tonite & hope we can do it again asap. call if u need me ok? call even if u don’t need me xox : ) '

I could feel Nicky standing there, smirking and staring at me. “Let me guess – Drew?”

“Yeah,” I replied softly, holding the phone thoughtfully, my eyes wandering to the bedside table.

“So aside from having a friend trying to kill himself tonight, how did the Big Date go?” he inquired.

“It was nice,” I said blandly, my gaze fixed on the butts in the ashtray.

“Wow… ”nice”, eh?” Nicky echoed. “Could you be more excited?” he cried. “This is Drew Ducharme we’re talking about! The most eligible – not to mention hottest - guy on The Scene,” he pointed out. “And you’ve been pining for him pathetically for years! And all you can fucking say is ”nice”…?!”

“I’m kinda' distracted right now,” I advised him sharply. “Don’t really have time to think about Drew or... or what’s going to happen between us. Assuming anything does happen…”

Nicky let out a groan of sheer disgust. “Permission to bitch slap you stupid?” he said flippantly.

But I scarcely registered the request, as my focus on the ashtray took on new significance. I counted around ten cigarette butts – but of three different brands. One of them was immediately recognisable, being of a reasonably uncommon brand: Yves Saint Laurent. I knew only one person known to Michael who smoked that high-end brand.

I picked up the ashtray to examine it more closely. Nicky made a sound of revulsion. “Geez Puck, if you’re that hard up for a fag, just ask and I’ll give you the money to go buy some…”

“Don’t be a dick,” I replied. There were three Yves Saint Laurent cigarette butts, four Winfield butts – Michael’s brand – and two Peter Jackson’s.

I don’t think Michael was alone here last night,’ I concluded, but keeping my thoughts to myself. I was basing that assumption not only on the butts, but on the presence of the muddied footprints that, given the storm had hit sometime in the early hours of the morning, indicated someone had been in the room long after Michael had taken the overdose, but before Alexander had found him. And then there was the matter of the French windows being unlocked.

But the thing that bothered me most was the presence of the smoker of the Yves Saint Laurent cigarettes; that was Tish’s brand.

I looked up at Nicky. “OK, let’s check out the bathroom,” I said firmly, standing up and leading the way out of the room.

“Nicky, every person on the face of this earth has the right to be stupid from time to time, but you are seriously abusing the privilege,” was my response.

Nicky’s face screwed up with annoyance and his lips did a passable impression of a cat’s anus. “Skank,” he sneered at me.

“Ho,” I replied in kind.

“Bitch,” he countered.

“Arse drip.”

“Cock blister,” he shot back.

“Rectal fissure,” I said, matching his lightning fast reply.

“Scrotum scab,” he said, and poked his tongue at me in a childish gesture.

“OK, well now that we’ve reminisced over all your Mum’s pet names for you,” I said, “let’s get back to the hospital.”

He muttered and grumbled a ’hmph’, but dutifully followed me out the bathroom door. But I came to an abrupt halt, just inside the bathroom entrance, noting the small refuse bin on the floor. I picked it up and took a look at its contents.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Nicky.

“Looking for the blister packs or the boxes of whatever it was that Michael took,” I explained to him. But there was nothing of interest amongst the contents, so I set it back down.

We wandered back up the hallway towards the entrance. I offered to carry the over night bag Nicky had packed, and he happily handed it over. As we reached the door to leave, I was met by Booty - Michael’s obese cat that was sister to Bindi – who ducked out from the darkened living area and took to weaving around my legs, meowing and twitching her tail. The third cat, Hamilton, a black and white, scrawny tom with a thick, bushy tail, joined in, adding his own distinct, high pitched chatter. I paused to kneel down and pat them in turn.

It occurred to me that Michael’s cats probably hadn’t been fed in twenty-four hours, perhaps even longer. Therefore I asked Nicky to hold up while I went into the kitchen and got them some food. Nicky responded with a melodramatic and exasperated sigh, and mumbled about how the world would hardly be a poorer place if it were suddenly to find itself minus three flea bitten felines.

From the entrance hall, we walked into the combined living and dining area, flicking on the lights. This illuminated a rather large space that was warm and inviting, containing a bright red sofa, a couple of easy chairs, a tasteful glass topped coffee table, an enormous TV in one corner and an equally impressive fish tank (that Michael jokingly referred to as "... the whale tank...") in another; these two particular items having been purchased by Alexander just recently.

A small but quaint dining area was adjacent the living room, boasting a glass top table seated for four, on which sat a plain, elegant white bowl that contained a selection of brightly coloured glass fruit; grapes, an apple, banana, pineapple and so forth. I sat the over night bag on the dining table as I stepped into the small kitchen, once again finding the light switch. The three cats followed my progress, offering meows of encouragement and approval.

I went to the refrigerator and inside found a tin of Whiskas - Chicken & Vegetable Casserole. It had been opened, the contents covered up by a pink, press seal lid. I lifted it up and was immediately assaulted by the gut churning aroma of cat food.

It took only a couple of minutes to feed the threesome and refresh their water bowl. As I exited the kitchen, they looked up from their feasting as if conveying their sincerest gratitude.

I picked up the over night bag from the dining table and joined an impatient looking Nicky at the living room door. “OK, we’re done here,” I told him.

“Eeew… you smell of pussy breath,” Nicky complained.

I smiled. “Wow… that would be a first,” I replied with innocent amazement as I ushered him out the door of the apartment, closing it behind me, thinking that while I’d not found exactly what I’d been looking for, nor was I leaving empty handed.

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