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whom he could not stop loving, even though she had walked out on him a year ago and was now pregnant with another man’s baby.
    The neurons clicked into place and Harry Flanders began to focus. He reached for his spectacles, glanced at the alarm clock and groaned into the receiver.
    â€˜Is it sunny there?’ Natasha asked brightly.
    Harry felt like screaming, but he managed to keep a lid on it.
    â€˜Gone nine there, right?’ Natasha went on.
    â€˜Seven.’
    â€˜Oops.’
    â€˜What do you want, Nat? Please tell me it’s big – another 9/11 or a Jacko.’
    â€˜You’ve heard about the Neptune Hotel, I take it?’
    â€˜What? Nat, I hardly know my own name right now.’
    She explained. He let her talk.
    â€˜They’ve given us the exclusive, provided we give it a primetime slot on BBC1. So Robert Jenkins was en route,’ she said. ‘Collapsed in Jakarta. It’s touch and go.’
    â€˜Shit!’ Harry said, suddenly awake. ‘I like Rob. What’s wrong with him?’
    â€˜Not sure, looks like a heart attack.’
    â€˜Shit!’ Harry repeated, pulling himself up and resting his back on the headboard. Robert Jenkins was the presenter of a high-profile BBC program, The World at Large .
    â€˜Yeah, so the Controller, no less, has passed the slot on to us.’
    â€˜But what about the election story?’ Harry went to take a gulp of water and realised the glass had gone. He cursed again.
    â€˜What’s up?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Look, Harry. The Neptune story has to take priority.’
    Harry winced. He had been in Sydney for a week covering the federal election. He was a political journalist, not an editor-at-large, and between marathon sessions in one Sydney bar or another, he had put a lot of work into the story. It was a snap election, a close-run race between two party leaders who hated each other’s guts.
    â€˜But I’ve done the research for a 20 minute segment, Natasha. Tom and Andy arrived last night to start filming.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, you’re the only one I can rely on. And Harry, this is a major story. Did you hear what I said just now ... an exclusive . Forget the damn election.’
    â€˜But...’
    â€˜No buts, Harry. Christ. I wish I was there, it sounds fantastic. It’s done nothing but rain here – British summer, right!’
    Harry wasn’t listening, just staring into space, barely taking in his surroundings. The room stank of booze and unwashed socks. Then he saw a glass on the other side of the bed. It contained a finger of brown liquid. Gripping the phone in his left hand he stretched over and pulled the glass to his mouth, downing the liquor in one.
    â€˜Harry?’ The tinny sound of Natasha Young’s voice came from the receiver. Harry stared at it and sighed. He could feel the wonderful burning sensation of whisky in the back of his throat, and remembered there was still a shelf of miniatures left in the little fridge under the TV.
    â€˜Harry?’
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜Terry will meet you at 10 am. He mentioned a café, The Beach. Know it?’
    â€˜I’ll find it.’
    â€˜Oh, and Harry? You can swim, can’t you?’

9
Sydney, the same day
    Harry sat at a waterfront table in the Beach Café at Circular Quay in the heart of Sydney. He was early for his meeting and was already onto his second black coffee, trying to blunt his hangover. From where he sat he could see the Opera House directly ahead, and to his left stretched the black expanse of the Harbour Bridge. It was a warm winter day, the air still. He could let his mind wander as he watched the crowds pass by, their backdrop a perfect blue. Growing bored, he flicked on his phone to get the latest from the BBC website.
    The only story was the building tension between China and the US. In fact, it was all anyone seemed interested in right now; even here, in Sydney, a week