Silver towers stand proud against the East Australian sky line. November sunlight shines from the heart of Sydney city; office workers throughout the metropolis detest the heat as much as the Monday morning itself. Just another day.

Forty kilometres North, a lone figure walks the white sands of Palm Beach, oblivious to the world around him, save for his mate.

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

The voice carried on the breeze to where a silent observer stood still, keeping a vigil over the popular tourist trap. He hid behind the sandy walls of the surf club admiring, not for the first time, the picturesque coastline with its ever-green palms and outback-style fences, upon which he lent as if it were the only thing keeping him standing.

He took time of late to acknowledge the scenery, for it was the only thing he could look at without lying. Were he to meet anyone's gaze, they would see his secret--that the famous cutie, Chris Newman, is weak. He is Chris. He is weak. He does have a secret--one so terrible it would tear through the souls of his loved ones, leaving little but their trodden corpses on life's illogical path.

Why did things have to change?
Questions. Too many. Too few answers.

The observer derived the sense of security he often craved from the wall blotting out his life in the public domain. He longed for a place where he wasn't famous, where no one yelled his name from across the street; but in the depths of a heart he no longer held claim to, he knew that would never happen.

The golden Labrador pranced about in the shallow waters below. Afraid of the water lapping over its paws, it bounced around in the surf, unable to comprehend why the water retreated, then raced back for another attack, 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 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. This was the guy Chris had asked 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. I hate it."
"Fine--Chris. I'm Pete Mansky from the Sydney police. As I understand it, you've got 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 normal size for a man his age. "Can we start over? You called because you wanted help. I'm here."
Chris gave the hand 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. Everyone carries the intent to deceive."
"You can trust me."
"How can I be sure?" Chris asked.
"We're the police.”
"So? That's never stopped anybody before. You hear all the time of protected witnesses killed at new homes in different countries. Their deaths are staged to look like robberies, or a car crash, or . . . whatever."
"Only because in time the criminals realise they're alive. You won't be. The city will be rid of a dangerous organisation for good, meanwhile Chris Newman will commit suicide at a remote spot up north. 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?"

Shrieks of laughter escaped a group of tourists as they passed close by. Chris glared at them, Pete forgotten for a second, as he realised his own world was mocking him.

Pete waited until the laughter died before continuing. "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 the gang need you, but it won't be forever. They'll bleed you dry, then dispose of you like a sack of garbage. They'll kill you, for real."

"That's a touching story," Chris replied, "but you know what? I'm gonna take my chances--they can't touch me."
"Strong words, but those of a fool. Elton took a chance--look at him now."

For the first time during their encounter, Chris turned to Pete, and mentally took note of who this person, from whom he had sought help, was. Dark patches nestled beneath his eyes revealed a stressful existence; stretch lines the length of his forehead told of a life approaching retirement. His eyes gave no clues to his inner feelings, and every part of Pete's body showed little, if any, emotion. This was just another job.

"How dare you bring Elton into this." Chris's eyes bore into Pete's, searching for something, any sign of compassion. "Do you have no respect, man?"
Pete dug his hands deeper in his pockets, and walked away. Chris yelled after him. "Where on Earth do you think you're going? You're supposed to help me!"
"How can I help you when you don't trust me?"
"I trust no one. Don't take it personally."
"Fine," Pete replied. "You're an idiot, you're a selfish bastard, and you're going to die. Don't take it personally."

Of all the things people had called Chris over the years, selfish was none of them. Arrogant, attention-seeker, yes, but not selfish. Never selfish. It wasn't his nature, neither was deceit, neither was lying. But that was then. Things had changed; he had changed. The world had moved on.

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.

He released his clasp on the fence, and rounded the side of the surf club. Several kids were playing soccer on the green, minus a ball. It was imaginary, as were the goals, and the game was evidently self-refereed, for better or worse.

The game and the kids reminded him of days gone by when he and Mitch, then best friends, would play in the exact same manner.

"Six points!" one of the lads shouted.
"What? That was out!" an opponent yelled back.
"Was not. I'm telling you six points. Denise--you saw that, didn't you?"
"How could I?" The blonde who answered, Denise apparently, looked too old to be playing imaginary soccer, and, come to think of it, she looked so not the person to be playing soccer at all. "The ball's not even real, there's no posts, none of you can play, and this game sucks."

She stormed off in a manner reminiscent of a Tina mood. For all the things she had done to him when they were together, Chris still loved her. He would gladly take her back--if she wasn't in Britain, and if she wasn't getting married in a few months time. Damn the world. Damn Tina. Damn her fiancé for loving her like crazy and asking her to marry him. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe there was another Tina out there, waiting to walk into his life. Yeah, right.

Denise's streaked hair shone through the haze like a beacon bursts through a stormy night's cloud, just as Tina's would have done, had she not turned it to . . .

"Last chance, Christopher."

Pete's call stole his chain of thought. Denise had overwhelmed him so completely, made long-buried memories to re-surface, that he'd failed to hear the Mercedes pull next to the kerb behind him and spread itself over nearly three parking spaces. He recognised the song blasting from the stereo--one that would go down in history as a classic; a song that, unlike himself, would never die. Beautiful Day. How ironic--perhaps Pete had a sense of humour? Or simply a twisted streak?

The kids on the green were still arguing about the same damn shot. It was only a flipping game, no wonder Denise had deserted them. Where was she anyway? Probably gone by now, if she had any sense. The road was dead, as always, and no one occupied the picnic benches next to the green. It couldn't get more private than this.

Chris turned back to the Merc, and crouched next to the window. "Port Kembla, Monday at seven," he whispered.
"What's going down?" Pete asked between a broken rendition of "don't let it get away." He smacked the stereo, which only caused it to skip even more.
"You're smart," Chris said. "Work it out."
Pete reached out and placed his hand on Chris's shoulder. "You're a good kid. You're brave." 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."

He stood and watched Pete's Mercedes ease out of the car park and down the road until it was out of sight. He was alone.

"Six points!"