The Butcherbird
“He was floating over the rocky outcrops of the Kimberley, drifting above the lapis lazuli of coral reefs, darkened here and there by the black shapes of Spanish mackerel or queen fish or barramundi closer to the shore, and then, suddenly, was staring down at the white sails of the Opera House, a train snaking its way over the Harbour Bridge, a massive container vessel squeezing beneath the span. His was the deep sleep of physical contentment and mental peace. Knocking, whatever its origin, coul...dn’t disturb it. Besides, there could be no such knocking here. The only way to reach Bonny’s penthouse on the twenty-fifth floor was via the concierge, who would buzz. And he wouldn’t buzz, ever, before seven-thirty. Mac pulled himself back to consciousness and looked at the bedside clock through half-closed lids. Six a.m.
What the hell was going on? He eased quietly out of bed and reached for his kimono, cherry blossoms winding their way through the patterned silk. It was a present from Bonny.MoreLess
What the hell was going on? He eased quietly out of bed and reached for his kimono, cherry blossoms winding their way through the patterned silk. It was a present from Bonny.MoreLess
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