Silver towers stand proud against the East Australian sky line. November sunlight shines from the heart of the metropolis, filling offices across the city with a heat that is as unwelcome to the employees as the Monday morning itself. Just another day.

Forty kilometres North, a lean figure wanders the length of Palm Beach, Sydney's proudest work of art, now bronzed over in the early morning light.

"Come on Goldie, the water won't hurt you."

The voice carried on the breeze, up to where a car waited for its owner to return. Hidden behind the walls of the surf club, the silent observer admired, not for the first time, the picturesque coastline. He leaned against an outback-style fence, unable to look anyone in the eye any more, lest they should see his secret--that the famous cutie, Chris Newman, is weak. He is Chris. He is weak. He is afraid; scared for what will happen to Glad when she finds out his truth. From the beginning she has always accepted him for who he is, not what everyone wants him to be.

Why did things have to change?

Questions. Too many. Too few answers.

Made of brick the same gold shade as the beach itself, the surf club gave the observer the sense of security he often craved. He longed to be cut off from the public, just to be able to go to a place where no one knew him, but that would never happen.

He watched the antics of the golden Labrador on the beach below. Afraid of the water lapping over its paws, it splashed about in the shallows, unable to comprehend why the water retreated, then raced back for another go, time after time. After a few attempts to swim with the waves, the Lab gave up and galloped off to join its master. They soon disappeared from view behind a layer of greenery.

"Christopher!"

He didn't flinch at the sound of a man shouting his name. With the position and status he held in this city, it was difficult, if not impossible, for him to find a place where he could be alone, be himself.

He thought nothing more of it until the man stood at his side, his hands buried in the pockets of a crisp, black suit. This was no fan. It was the guy who was about to ruin his life.

"You must be Pete. I've been waiting."
"Pete Mansky, AFP."
"Drop the act, yeah? I know who you are, I know why you're here."
"I'm here because you called me, Christopher."
"I called the police, not the secret service. And don't call me Christopher."
"Fine--Chris. Pete Mansky, Sydney police. As I understand it, you've got important secrets to tell."
"Then you understand wrong. I've got a story to tell, yes, but you'll never know my secrets. I don't trust you enough to keep them."

Pete offered a hand, hairy, and twice the size of his own. "You called because you wanted help. I can help you."

Chris gave it a glance, then looked away, his mood blatant. He had no desire to make an ally in Pete. "You can't help me. No one can, because I can't trust anybody."
"You can trust me."
"How can I be sure?"
"We're the police, Chris.”
"That's never stopped anybody before. You hear all the time of protected witnesses killed in new homes, in new countries. Their deaths are staged to look like robberies, or car crashes."
"Only because in time the criminals realise they're alive. You won't be. The gang you've been working for will go to prison for the rest of their miserable lives, Chris Newman will commit suicide at a remote spot up north. Meanwhile you will have a new identity, new documents, a new life--here in Sydney, another state, another country, wherever."
"If I decide not to tell?"

A group of tourists passed close by. Pete waited until they were out of earshot, and leaned close. "We'll get them and rest assured, young man, if they get convicted, so do you. You're an accessory to crime--an illegal, and dangerous, position to be in. Right now they need you, but not forever. They'll use you for all you're worth, then dispose of you like a sack of garbage. You'll die, for real. Unless we get to you first."
"They already killed me when they killed Elton."
"Only a part of you died. The part that made you love him, that felt for him. With a bullet through your brain and without a second thought, they'll take the rest of you. Another rendezvous gone bad."

Chris had revealed to no one his suspicions of who killed his brother. For the first time during their encounter, he faced Pete. "How . . . "
"I see you're surprised. We've been watching that gang closely for the past year. We also believe they killed your brother, but there's no hard evidence. The job was too clean, too well executed, er . . . sorry, excuse the pun."
Chris glared at him. Given time, he may learn to trust him. He may have no choice. "What do I have to do?"
"I need details. What's going down. Give me one meeting place, date, time, and I promise they'll be gone for good."

His eyes burned. He longed to punch something, someone, and not stop, ever. On the horizon, a boat drifted slowly towards him, shrouded with the mists of hatred. In the space of a blink, it was gone.

"Port Kembla, Monday at seven. There's a boat, full of weapons, drugs, illegal immigrants, the works. It's their busiest job yet, apparently."
"Thank you, Chris. This is one of the biggest smuggling gangs in Australia's history. Thanks to you, I can crack it."
"Just go, Pete. I've had enough already."
"It'll be alright, I promise."

He placed his hand on Chris's shoulder, and slipped a contact card into his short pocket. He squeezed his shoulder, a final act of reassurance. The next time they would meet, it would all be over. Or it would have just begun.

"Monday night, Chris. Be there."

Pete's black Mercedes slid out of the car park as gracefully as it had arrived. Chris watched him leave. He was alone.