SOME QUESTIONS FOR LOUIS

He's left no contact details. His phone he seems to have put aside, discarded, lost, I don't know. The occasional postcard comes, and that's it. I mention this because I was looking over his letter again and wondered why he was retracing the steps he said he took two years ago with his wife. Why come back and do the same trip? And it's been weeks, no, now months, that he's been down the south coast region. Doing what, I don't know. And I've been wondering about this a while now. I think about him.

I think about you, Louis, do you hear me? I've sat in six different cafes with the intention of making up some sort of review of each place, purely for practice, like you said, and such scribbling only left me deeply dissatisfied and desperate to leave. Instead I found myself pulling out your letter from a pocket, reading over again what you wrote, and then began transcribing the pages, between cups of tea or coffee, a sip of watermelon juice, a nibble of rosti with a side of pesto mushrooms on turkish, or a bite of a barramundi burger. Then the letter ended, and once again the cafe chatter was starting to close in. I couldn't concentrate. Surrounding spoken sentences were soon starting to seep into one another. The filter, for want of a better word, was failing. I had to get out.

Louis, I can't help but wonder what happened in Melbourne. Why did Susie leave all of a sudden? And did she or did she not return to London? I'm guessing, but it seems to me that she didn't, otherwise why would you return alone and repeat the route you took with her? I've been to Melbourne once before, I like the city, it's a place in which I could imagine living one day. The food is fabulous, the bars brilliant. We could meet there if that's where you plan to end up. Let me know.

Louis, where are you?

Shuffled scenes from our childhood are starting to come back to me. In dreams. The other night I saw again Lisa Hart, Ian Prince, Sanjeev Gurung, and Shaun Bright. Do these names mean anything to you? Sanjeev I know you remember, for that's who we talked about the day I saw you again, after so many years, walking down the street last November.

WHERE THE BLOOD OF WHALES

JR - In Eden, near Victoria - Where the blood of whales and seals once flowed as free as a bird - Gushing down town streets - OK maybe not gushing - But all the same ghosts here keep the body from going any further in the sea than knee high - Seems a shark haven - I'd ask a local but my ability to speak appears to have gone AWOL - A silent coon can give you the shivers I suppose - Especially one refraining from the safety of a smile - I doubt I'll stay much longer - Move on after the weekend - In passing I hear that it's the national day soon - That might be Monday then - So will go on after that - Flags are everywhere - Flapping from car windows - Perched on roof tops - Hanging from hotel balconies - Silly flag it seems to me - Looks like Britain with the lights out - Look after yourself - LA

HAPPY CHRISTMAS YOU HEATHEN

The letter wrapped up rapidly. I half expected some more pages to promptly follow but nothing came in the post. Hastily scribbled in a red pen half way down the page, Louis brought it all to a close. He agreed to go on traveling the country with Susie but only if he could return first to Katoomba to pick up a manilla folder of papers he said he'd need. And once there, rather than repeat the drive north, they decided to head south. So that's what we did, he said, we drove down the south coast and stayed there a while, places like Tilba, Bermaguii, some place called Tathra I think, Eden, Wilsons Promontory, and then a hellish hot drive on to Melbourne, which is where she left me, making a few calls and then boarding a plane to take her back to London, or so I thought. Here comes the postman. Happy Christmas you heathen. Louis.