Claire left Raquel and Jackson’s apartment still expressing concern about the incident with the man who had apparently broken in. But Jackson went to great lengths to reassure her, and they parted with a loving kiss.

After Claire had gone, Raquel was sitting on the sofa with a glass of brandy. "You're going to have to do something about Christopher," Raquel said as Jackson crossed the room and sat on one of the armchairs.

"I know," he replied. "I've got to try and explain to him that I never meant to hurt him."

"I think it's probably a bit late for that," Raquel pointed out to him, raising one eyebrow. "I did warn you about this, bunny. I don't mean to sound like I'm saying 'I-told-you-so', but - "

"Yeah, I know," he said despondently. "Well," he said, sighing, "I'd better do something." He got up and went over to the telephone. The sense of guilt as he dialed Christopher's number threatened to overwhelm him.

A young woman answered the Kelly’s telephone. Jackson spoke with Jaselle's voice.

"Hello, I'm Jaselle, a friend of Christopher's. Could I speak to him, please?"

The woman didn't answer right away. Jackson sensed anger and tension from her end of the line.

“It - it is important," he added.

"I'm sure it is," came the icy reply. "I'm Chris's sister, Suzi," she said. "You can't speak to him just now. He's in hospital."

"In hospital?"

"Yes, thanks to you," Suzi snapped. "Chris tried to kill himself tonight," she said bitterly. "All because of you," she sneered. "You fucking little bitch, I hope you're bloody pleased with yourself!"

"I'm - I'm sorry ...so sorry," Jackson mumbled, sinking into shock, but the woman slammed the telephone down in his ear.

Jackson gently placed the receiver back down on the cradle. His mind swam with the horror of the news. Bitter nausea surged in his stomach: What had he done?

When Jackson left the apartment, Raquel was still in bed, asleep. Along the way to the hospital, Jackson stopped by at a street vendor selling freshly cut flowers, and purchased a bunch to take to Christopher. Jaselle then took a taxi to the hospital.

His mother was a short woman. She looked dutifully concerned for her son. His father appeared older than his fifty years, and had pasty white skin from all his years in an office block, working for the water commission. He, too, seemed uncomfortable with being in the hospital, and shuffled from one foot to the other, looking about the room, but avoiding looking at his stricken son.

Christopher's younger brother, Jon, was in his late teens. He was tall, awkward and gawky .He looked both bored and suitably solemn.

Suzi, Christopher's older sister, was rather formidable in build and appearance. She was broad in body and stern faced. She possessed none of her brother's good looks. But her brown eyes were filled with softness when she gazed down at him, as he lay in the bed, so white skinned and empty, lost in his depression.

Christopher could feel their pity .He was choking on it. He didn't want it. It made him hate himself even more. But he hated himself most because of his hypocrisy, and because he still loved - yet hated - Jaselle.

He had always considered himself a free thinker. He had always believed he would be, and do, what he wanted, as long as it didn't harm another person and as long as it felt right and good. A simple enough philosophy, but one which had guided him through life more than adequately. He had not been bound to the narrow-minded mores of traditional society .He was above all that.

Bullshit.

He was, in fact, a weak, cowardly fool. He could not come to terms with the truth. He could not look at its face, because it was something that frightened him.

He was in love with Jaselle, or rather, the youth that was Jaselle. He was in love, but could not assimilate those feelings. He didn't possess the strength to say: "Damn what other people – my family, friends, the people I work with - think! I love Jaselle (or whoever he is), and I will stay by him/her.”

Christopher could not do that. He wasn't that strong. But he was sure that if it were the other way around, if Jaselle was in Christopher's position, Jaselle would have no doubts or fears. That was why he hated Jaselle, because she had shown him his greatest flaw: hypocrisy. That made him insufferably weak and no where near worthy of Jaselle.

There was no hope for them in the future, and he didn't have the courage to face a future with or without Jaselle.

As time passed, somewhere in the dreamtime that was the shell of his life, his family left the room and he found himself alone.

He looked, from where he lay, to the window of his room, which fronted the hospital. Slowly, he rose from his bed.

"Jaselle!"

All eyes went upward; from somewhere came a woman's scream, and Jackson's eye's bulged when he saw that Christopher was standing on the narrow ledge of the window of his room.

"Jaselle!" He screamed once more, this time looking down at the ground, directly at Jackson. Their eyes seem to touch for a moment, and then Christopher plummeted to the ground.

Another seemingly disembodied scream, and Jackson lost a breath in a moment of horror.

Christopher's body struck the pavement with a wet crack; something warm and viscose spattered Jaselle's face. Jackson wiped at his cheek with one hand and saw blood. He stared at it, feeling cold inside, his mouth agape.

"How do you feel today, Claire?"

"Good thanks," she said. It was a standard, but taunt, reply.

"I suppose you want to know what the results of your tests showed?" She said.

Claire nodded slowly, too afraid to speak.

"Very well," Dr. Freeman said and sighed. "Claire, the tests came back positive. You're pregnant...”

The word flushed her mind clear of thought. She could barely understand, let alone hear, as her doctor went onto to discuss the options available to Claire. All Claire could conceptualise was that she was pregnant; no more than four weeks, but she was carrying Jackson's child.

"He is here?" Bubba asked without regarding the young man at his side.

"He is here. He lives with the transvestite, Raquel de la Rose," Kurt informed him.

"Ah, yes," Bubba said, nodding to indicate that he understood. He turned and smiled at Kurt, but it was devoid of humor. He lifted up his hands and gently held Kurt's face in them, and placed a kiss on the young man's lips. "You're a good boy, Kurt," he remarked after the kiss. "Just don't fail me now," Bubba warned him.

Kurt did not respond verbally, or with any change to his facial expression. He got out of the car and walked around to the other side, opening the door for his boss.

They walked across the street and entered the nightclub from the side, staff entrance. Not having a key to the residents access door was not an obstacle for the extremely resourceful Kurt Marr. Utilising a thin, small tool that he carried inside his jacket pocket, he was able to trip the lock. The two men slipped inside.

Making front-page news in Melbourne's ’The Sun-Pictorial', was the gruesome account of a murder that had occurred late the previous evening. The front-page headlines declared: YOUTH'S BRUTAL MURDER!

As Raquel prepared to read on there was a knock at the door to the apartment. Raquel looked up. The knock was repeated, sounding more impatient and urgent. Raquel reluctantly rose from the table.

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Keep your padding in! Good grief!" he cried, as he went to answer the door. When he opened it, he found himself peering into the most intense, icy and disturbing blue eyes that he had ever seen.

"Yes?" asked Raquel, expectantly.

A knife flicked out and was plunged into Raquel's stomach. Instantly, Kurt roughly pushed him back into the apartment, knocking Raquel to the floor, where he collapsed with a stunned and pained groan, clutching at his bloody wound.

Bubba stepped into the room, closing the door behind them. He walked calmly over to the stereo system, which was tuned into a local radio station, and turned up the volume.

Raquel, clutching at his burning wound, heaved himself up onto his knees, sobbing with the pain, and trying to face his unknown attackers, for he was yet to recognise Bubba.

"Where is Jackson Crane?" Kurt demanded of Raquel, after looking into both bedrooms and the bathroom.

He gasped. "What? Why? Oh God… I’m bleeding…” Raquel moaned.

Kurt booted Raquel in the face, the impact of his boot breaking Raquel's nose and smashing out a tooth. Raquel screamed, spraying blood into the air, and slumped to the floor, covering his face in an effort to protect himself from further abuse.

"Don't ask me questions," Kurt warned him. "You just answer them or I will kill you. Fail to answer me, and I will stand here and watch you bleed to death," he said in his emotionless voice.

Bubba had, by this time, made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, watching with interest.

Raquel looked at the bulky figure in the chair with blurry eyes, his mind numbed by fear and a terrible headache, and distracted by a body full of pain. The face he saw seemed distantly familiar to him, yet somehow different. He was sure he knew him... The fat little man smiled at him and Raquel was more certain than ever that they had met before, as a cold shudder ran through his body.

"Where is Jackson Crane?" Kurt asked again.

"I don't know," Raquel wheezed, once more attempting to sit up. He was kneeling, slightly hunched over. He saw the dark blood that covered his hands and the front of his nightgown. His face turned into a mask of panic and terror.

"I'm bleeding to death! " he wailed, and beseeched his attackers. "Help me, please!"

"Quiet!" Kurt snarled, kicking him in the stomach. Raquel cried out, the wind knocked out of his body, and a gout of blood flew from between his lips.

The fat man finally spoke to him. 'Tell us where my pretty child is, Raquel. You can see how rough my friend can be. He can hurt you in ways that are so very innovative. Believe me on this one, O.K.?" Bubba said to him, in the manner of a concerned grandfather.

Raquel let out a low groan that rose from his stomach. He knew that voice and in particular, he remembered that one phrase: "my pretty child". It was Bubba. He muttered the man's name with loathing.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me," the man nodded, smiling. "So why don't you tell my young friend here, where we can find my pretty child. …”

"I told you: I don't know!" Raquel cried, suddenly finding reserves of strength. "Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Not ever, you piece of shit!" Raquel vowed with sincere determination.

Kurt's face remained composed as he proceeded to kick Raquel, with tremendous force, half a dozen times, striking strategic places of his anatomy. Raquel laid unmoving on the floor, his body battered and dripping with blood.

"Enough, enough!" Bubba cried. "You'll kill him and he won't be any use to me at all.”

Kurt regarded Raquel's form without pity. Raquel’s face was badly swollen and cut and smeared with blood. His eyes were closed. There seemed no sign of life.

"Damn it," Bubba spat, eyeing Kurt wildly. "You fool! He’s dead!" When he looked at Kurt he saw that the young man appeared totally unaffected by Bubba’s outburst and the fact that he had apparently killed Raquel.

Bubba shook his head with dismay that his plan had gone not as he had intended. "Well then, you know what to do. And make sure that you don't fuck it up."

Kurt removed a hip flask from the inside, breast pocket of his black leather jacket. He unscrewed the lid and splashed the contents of the flask around the room; on the furniture, carpet and drapes.

He returned the emptied flask to his jacket, and then took out a pack of matches. He lit one up, pausing for a moment to regard the flame, and then tossed it into a puddle of the fluid. The kerosene lit instantly and spread out, following the trail Kurt had made, quickly, consuming all it touched.

Leaving Raquel for dead on the floor, the two men evacuated from the apartment, as the room filled with smoke and fire. As they closed the door behind them, Raquel uttered a soft groan. One arm shuddered a little, and his eyes fluttered, but it was too much for him. The room grew black and hot around him, and he sank back into unconsciousness.