LITMIR.BIZ

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hard as she could in the balls. He collapsed onto his knees then keeled over into a foetal position with his hands between his legs.

      "Way to go, Katherine!" Dylan cheered.

      The previously chipper Angela now looked like she didn't give a shit - about anything. She kept blinking, to stop her right eye from watering, as she rubbed her face and stared down at the moaning Barry. "Wish I'd thought of that," she said flatly.

      "I'll go get Andy," Dylan volunteered. "He's head of security," he explained to Kit over his shoulder, as he took off in the direction of the studio's main office.

      "You okay?" Kit asked.

      "Yeah," Angela said softly. "He just won't take no for an answer."

      "Has he done this before?"

      "What do you think?" Angela asked, her tone still emotionless as she turned her back on Barry. "Only ever at home though, before I moved out and got a restraining order. Oh God no. Look. Everybody will know about this by the time lunch is over."

      Kit glanced in the direction Angela had indicated. Two guys in security uniforms had met Dylan en route and they, along with the Director, one Stunt Thug and two women were rushing over to - what...help? Oh, one of the two guys who'd been buying lunch was also loping in their direction, with his hotdog, which he'd apparently waited for; but the other guy, while showing his concern by perving on the action, obviously didn't want to lose his place in the queue. Kit shook her head.

      A strange gurgling, heaving sound behind her was followed by a more articulate "Aaah!" from Angela to her left. Kit realised, too late, that Barry - like some kind of unsquashable cockroach - had recovered enough to get to his feet, grab Angela by the arm and fling her backwards into the side of the dumpster. He grunted with satisfaction as his ex-wife slid unconscious to the ground, then he turned to make a charge.

      Kit sidestepped, but not far enough. Barry's elbow connected with her cheekbone as he stumbled forward over her outstretched foot. She rammed her knee into his coccyx, grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back, holding his thumb in the bastard-can't-move-if-his-thumb-is-being-held-in-that-position position.

      Five seconds later the security guards relieved her.

      "Escort him off the lot," the Director directed.

      "No," Kit pronounced. She took out a business card - one that said 'Kit O'Malley, Private Investigator' not 'Katherine Turner, writer" - and gave it the older of the two security guards. "Take him to South Melbourne Police Station and get him locked up. Ask for Detective Wilkes, Hanson or Barnes, give them that card and tell them I'll be there in an hour to file assault charges."

      "Sure thing," the guard smiled. "Our pleasure."

      "Who the hell do you think you are?" the Director demanded.

      Kit raised her eyebrows and cast a glance back at Angela who was being tended by the two women who'd rushed over with everyone else.

      "Did you hear me?" the Director asked.

      "Have you called an ambulance yet?" Kit asked by way of reply, pointing to the mobile in the Director's otherwise unhelpful hand.

      "What? I asked you who you were."

      "A deranged man, with a restraining order against him, gained unauthorised entry to your studio, assaulted two people, we're still waiting for you to call an ambulance, and all you care about is who I am," Kit exclaimed, flinging her hands up to demonstrate her exasperation. "I feel like I'm in a soap opera," she added dramatically, and then stepped back to see how Angela was.

      "Well, who is she?" the Director asked.

      "Gimme that, Tony," Dylan snapped, grabbing his phone.

      "She's coming round," one of the women said to Kit.

      "Angela, you okay?" Kit asked.

      "I don't feel so good," Angela slurred.

      "Forget the ambulance Dylan," Kit called out. "Get us one of those golf cart thingies, will you?" "Okay. I'll be right back."

      "Can you stand up Angela?"

      "Maybe. Can't guarantee I won't throw up, though."

      "That's okay," Kit said, as she and the other women helped her up and then over to the bench.

      "You're not really a writer, are you?" Dylan asked five minutes later as he snapped the safety belt around Angela in the back seat of Kit's car.

      "What makes you say that?" Kit asked.

      "I can ask Andy what your business card really said," Dylan threatened with a smile. He got into the front passenger seat beside Kit and pointed to show the quickest way off the studio lot.

      "I'm a private investigator," Kit admitted.

      "Cool!" he exclaimed. "I knew it. I mean I knew you weren't writing a book. Not at first, obviously, but you know."

      Kit laughed. "But I am writing a book," she stated.

      "You are?"

      "Yeah. I'm writing a detective novel."

      "A detective writing a detective novel. That's very Angela Lansbury. But that's not why you wanted to talk to me, I bet."

      "No," Kit agreed.

      "Was I a cover story so you could catch Barry?" Dylan asked.

      "No," Kit snorted. "I didn't know about Barry. I wish I still didn't know about Barry. The bastard has completely messed up my morning and, to top it off, as a consequence of now knowing about Barry, I am going to be late for a very important date."

      Kit glanced at the dash clock. It was 10:45 am. She might, might, manage to get Angela to Casualty, then drop into the local cop shop to make a formal complaint about Barry, before someone decided to let the bastard go, and get back into the city by midday - but she doubted it.

      Alex had said to meet her for lunch at noon. Kit already had that desperate sinking feeling that no matter how hard she tried, she was going to be late for the only thing in the world she wanted to be on time for.

      Murphy's bloody law, she thought angrily. Anything that can go wrong will be completely fucked up. Who the hell was Murphy, anyway? Kit wondered as she turned into Dudley Street, heading towards the top end of the city. She contemplated tracking him down and shooting him for thinking up such a stupid thing in the first place. This was obviously all his fault, being a twist on Lillian's rotational theory of life and art, because if Murphy hadn't made the law, this perverse universe wouldn't have to adhere to it.

      "I hope it's not a date date," Dylan said.

      "Why?" Kit asked, wondering if she'd been thinking aloud.

      "Because the other thing that Barry messed up this morning was your face."

      "What?" Kit asked, trying to get a look at herself in the rearview mirror.

      "He decked you with his arm," Dylan said. "Don't you remember? Didn't you feel it? Don't you feel it now? Man, perhaps I should be driving. You've probably got head injuries too."

      Kit pulled up at the next set of traffic lights, because they were red, and took the opportunity to swivel the mirror so she could see.

      "Oh shit!" she exclaimed.

      This was not unlike how she looked back in January; the last time she'd seen Alex - the last time Alex had seen her. Shit, shit, shit! The woman was going to think she was accident-prone or that she habitually attracted types of the undesirable whack-you-in-the-face variety.

      "Aaagh," she groaned, taking off again as the lights changed.

      "It's okay," Dylan said cheerily. "It's a radical purple. You could pretend..."

      Kit pulled up again at the Peel Street lights. She turned to Dylan, narrowed her eyes and just... looked at him.

      "Okay, yes, you're quite right," he acknowledged. "There's nothing that can

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