Luke shook his head. Everyone in the game knew journalists became desensitised to tragedy. Like most of his colleagues, he coped with the day-to-day exposure to death and sorrow with a mix of black humour and alcohol, but Bernie was talking about someone he knew personally – someone who had indeed saved his life.
‘Yeah, right,’ Luke said. ‘Anyway, this line’s crap. I’ll be in touch soon, Bernie. I’ll file a couple hundred words on the post-bomb tourism situation tonight. Seeya.’
‘Cheers then. Find yourself a Swedish backpacker and a beer, you’ll be OK.’
‘Who needs Swedish girls when there are pommies around?’ Luke replied, smiling at the memory of the morning’s hot, sweaty s*x.
‘You colonial cad. Don’t tell me you’ve been deflowering some innocent English rose?’
‘Rosy all right, but n
