I’m Geordie. Bet you never thought you’d hear from me, hmmm? I’m the walk-on character in Linda’s little death melodrama. God, I’ll give her credit, she sure knows how to die with flair. It’s not something you usually get much practice at, is it?

So, since you never got to know me before, let me give you a chance now. My real name’s John, but no-one’s called me that for years. Except Mum, but she – well, yes. Everyone knows me as Geordie. Why? No good reason, except that in a certain group in a pub in Melbourne, there were two Johns, so they called him Bruce and me Geordie – cos I come from Newcastle. New South Wales, not England, but who cares?

I know I flounce far too much. I pout, and I cry, and I’m so melodramatic that sometimes I make myself sick, darlings… Lazarus calls me a walking stereotype, and I call him a walking stiff, and he says, “Walking stiffy more like, honey!” and… well, let’s say no-one’s feelings get hurt, hmm?

Lazarus is my opposite, my soul mate, and the person who understands me best in the whole world. He knows that I flounce and flame because I like the security of the mask. He knows that I’m truly ditzy, and he helps me keep it together. And he loves me. God knows why.

But this isn’t about me. Well, it is, but it’s about a particular part of me and my life. Like, why someone wants to kill me.

Yes, someone wanting to kill little old me! Somehow I doubt everyone finds that quite as shocking as I do. Especially the person threatening me, I suppose?

So I got home the other night, and there was a letter. Doesn’t sound shocking, huh? But this was handwritten, handstamped, everything that my mother still complains doesn’t exist anymore, that no-one cares enough to write to anyone, especially to her. So it caught my attention, got me all excited, and then – CRASH.


I do? Someone has a lot more faith in my memory than I ever have.

OK. That’s not quite true. I have an awful feeling I know exactly what they’re talking about.


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