Bite The Wax Tadpole (12 page)

“You don’t have the guts,” he yelled, laughing and raising his gun again, finger beginning to squeeze the trigger.

But before he could complete the action, the officer ‘s gun spoke first. With a scream of shocked surprise, Tony was lifted off his feet and collapsed backwards onto a pile of handily-placed cardboard boxes. The officer stood up, moved forward cautiously as more sirens approached. And then she froze as Melissa pressed the pause button on the remote.

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed in a cheap motel off the Parramatta Road. If the place had any stars it was in the Good Cockroach Guide but she wasn’t planning staying there for more than a few days so she figured a large can of Mortein should see her through. She stared at the static image on the screen for a few moments before she put her hands out in front of herself and mimed wrenching a steering wheel to the side while making screeching braking noises. She leapt off the bed and started running on the spot. “You’ll never get away, Tony. Give up now!” A pause then: “Peeow!” She flinched as the imaginary bullet hit the wall beside her before going into a roll and grabbing the hair dryer from the table. “Drop it, Tony, or I’ll shoot”, she yelled as she came up into a kneeling position. Click! On went the dryer. “Pow!”

She stood up and moved forward. “Acting”, she said to herself, “nothing to it.”

Wine glass in hand, Malcolm sat in the warm bath and contemplated his belly which rose out of the water like a pale sandbank. His thoughts drifted back to his dissolute youth when he’d once shared a tub with two girls during a touring production of “Charlie’s Aunt”. Be lucky to get a couple of goldfish in beside him now. Life, hah! He’d got to the stage where all his fond memories were back-ended by the thought: hmm, I’ll never be able to do that again. What was doubly troubling and deeply mysterious was the fact that when he thought back to his two bathing companions, whose names were long gone, not only would he not be able to physically accommodate them in anything less than the Sheik of Abu Dhabi’s private spa but the thought of actually doing so held no great attraction for him. Two women? God, what a lot of trouble and bother. He took a gulp of merlot and closed his eyes.

“Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew. Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d his canon ‘gainst self-slaughter.” Ah, yes, if you were ever looking for the apt quotation look no further than the old Swan of Avon.

Now, when you’re alone in the bath, relaxing with a glass of wine and declaiming Hamlet one of the few things you expect to happen is that someone in close proximity, someone so obviously trained in the fine art of delivering iambic pentameter, continues on with the soliloquy.

“Oh, God! Oh, God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world.”

Splashing about like a seal in a bucket who’s just figured out what that trapper’s club is for, Malcolm slopped bolt upright, spilling the remaining wine. It would be a fair comment to say his eyes bulged and the hairs on his neck stood up like the fretful porpentine. He was there! Norman Tubby was there! Sitting on the toilet seat as palpable as Macbeth’s dagger. (The one he drew forth from his kilt, of course, not the old dagger of the mind).

“You know”, continued Norman, “it’s one of the great drawbacks of being dead – you can’t get a decent drop of merlot anywhere. Not even for ready money.”

The recently superannuated Terry had celebrated – not the right word – by stopping on the way home and buying a bottle of Bourbon. He’d never drunk any before but the younger blokes at work, or more precisely his former place of work, seemed to get shickered on it quite easily and regularly. Consequently, he stood swaying in the living room of his neat as a pin bungalow addressing the framed photos on the Tasmanian oak sideboard.

“What am I going to do, eh, Marge, what am I going to do with myself? Play bowls or... or... or crazy golf like that wotsername suggested? In a pig’s arse. Sorry, luv. But what can you do, eh, what can you do? Can’t fight a television network, can you? No, you cannot.”

His gaze moved on to the next photo. In fading black and white it showed a lantern jawed man in the uniform of a warrant officer second class and a slouch hat with rising sun badge. Lying next to the picture was a presentation box, lined with velvet, in which the Korea Medal and the Military Medal lay proudly side by side. Terry saluted crisply and staggered sideways, just managing to avoid knocking over a vase of petunias.

“You went down fighting, though, didn’t you, dad? A hero. Real hero. Covered the retreat so’s your company could get away. Blew up the ammo store so’s the enemy couldn’t get at it. Set the fuse too short but still, that’s the way to go, eh? Out with a bang. Whoosh!”

Overcome with emotion and fermented maize, he collapsed onto the sofa. Bastards, bastards, bastards. Being unable to focus on anything other than repetitive abuse, he picked up the TV remote and hit the power button. On came the SBS logo. “And now another chance to see acclaimed Peruvian director Hugo Mendez’s critically acclaimed masterpiece: The Magical House of Rotting Corpses. Recommended for a mature audience.”

Phyllida slipped on the plastic poop glove and scooped up the fresh turd from the pavement. “Come along, Rupert, time for beddy byes”, she said, pulling lightly on the poodle’s collar. It was late and the narrow, tree-lined avenue was deserted. She repeated her lines from the play, lips barely moving, as they headed back to the apartment. Her words were slight breaths above the pitter of Rupert’s paws and the patter of her slippers. And then, quite startlingly, she heard the clack of high-heels close behind. She looked round and the clack ceased. There was no-one there. Maybe they’d turned into one of the high-walled gardens that fronted the houses and apartment blocks. Or, more disturbingly, maybe they’d hidden behind one of the broad fig trees that leaned darkly over the pavement, cutting off the street lighting. Phyllida walked on. The footsteps started again. Then stopped when she did. This was silly, she told herself; silly, 1940s film-noir stuff. Nevertheless she increased her pace. And so did whoever was following her. Rupert seemed to be enjoying the extra effort. Why did she have to have a bloody poodle who’d had all his hunting and fighting instincts bred out of his gene pool? Right now she needed a Rhodesian ridge back with anger management issues. Soon she was almost running, glancing over her shoulder, Rupert trotting along with his tongue lolling. Breathlessly, she stumbled into the pool of light outside her apartment block. As she punched in the entry code, the clacking stopped. She looked back into the darkness. Somebody was standing behind a parked van she was sure of it.

Once inside her apartment, and without turning on the light, she went to the window, peeped through the slats of the blinds. Across the dim street, just outside the pool of light cast by the street lamp, a figure, man or woman, hard to tell, was punching a number into a mobile phone. Now she was safely home, Phyllida started to relax. She was letting her imagination run away with her. She was having to learn too many lines, it was getting to her. All she needed was a chilled glass of chardonnay and...

The phone rang. She gasped, put a hand to her chest in an instinctively thespian manner. The figure across the street had their mobile to their ear. Turning from the window, Phyllida banged her shin on the coffee table – “Shit!” – as she ran to grab the phone. “Hello, who is this? Hello?” A long pause was followed by the sound of a disconnection. She raced back to the window. On the other side of the road the Figure was closing their mobile. Then he/she/it moved off and was lost in the shadows.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On the hillside above Rorke’s Drift, the Treorchy Male Voice Choir were lustily singing “Men of Harlech”. Rob could hear them quite clearly above the gunfire from the men of the 24th and the Zulus’ frenzied beating of spears against shields. In jeans and T-shirt, he sat behind the wall of mealie bags, a typewriter on his knees as Lieutenant Bromhead, resplendent in his red uniform coat, stood on top of the wall casually firing his pistol at the advancing horde while dictating. “Of particular interest are the yellow and orange Namaqualand daisies and the iridescent mesembryanthums. Are you getting this down, Jones?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Splendid. Jolly good.”

Suddenly, a Zulu leapt over the wall, landed in front of Rob and drew back his stabbing spear. Rob hefted the typewriter up in front him for protection but the warrior looked at him and shook his head as if to say there was no point in wasting a good spear thrust on him. “Never end a sentence with a preposition”, said the Zulu and ran on. Mr Bromhead turned round and shot him. “Grammatical advice from a Zulu warrior”, he said. “What is the world coming to?”

Since summer had arrived, mornings had ceased to break. They came to a swift boil as the sun stuck its fiery tongue over the horizon.

Rob sat in the kitchen feeling that the hadn’t so much slept as drifted in and out of consciousness like a lost explorer looking for a water hole in the desert. But at least it was quiet. Except for the birds twittering and tweeting and possibly e-mailing in the trees. He switched on the CD player as he downed a slug of caffeine. Randy was, appropriately, talking about inner peace, how to keep oneself strong amidst the hurly burly and the stresses and strains of everyday life, of achieving a kind of homeostasis at the centre of one’s very soul or being. It was Randy’s theory that, apart from energising creativity, universal inner peace or enlightenment would also lead to the end of all wars and conflicts. Taking deep, calming breaths, Rob tried to envision such a time when all was calmness and light and joy and happiness.

“That’s my DVD, give it back!”, yelled his daughter from somewhere in the suburbs of Elysium.

“Whoo, touchy, touchy. Time of the month, is it?”, laughed his son.

“Give it back, moron.”

The argument continued, interrupted a few moments later by naked feet splatting down the corridor, the bathroom door being banged open and the sound of vomiting. For some reason Alison refused to retch in the en-suite.

“Here, have the bloody thing!”, yelled Toby.

“Ow, that hit me.”

“Sorreee...”

Rob sniffed. What the... oh, no, bollocks... He scraped the chair back, dashed for the toaster but too late. The bread was stuck and a black plume of carbonised toast curled up towards the ceiling where it demonstrated that the smoke alarm was in perfect working order. Rob grabbed a tea towel and attempted to waft the smoke away from the wailing alarm while, with his other hand, he tried to prise the burning bread out with a knife. He could just make out Randy’s mellifluous tones as he started to recite the Desiderata: “Go placidly among the noise and haste And remember what peace there may be in silence.”

“Fuck off”, said Rob.

Phyllida stepped out the apartment block’s main entrance and looked up and down the street. It went without saying that it was less sinister in the early morning sunshine. But dirty deeds could be done in daylight just as well as darkness. Last night she’d gulped down her chardonnay and decided against calling the police. Clacking heels, a phone call that didn’t connect and a Mysterious Figure in the shadows might possibly excite the interest of Sherlock Holmes or Hercules Poirot but if presented to the local constabulary would most likely end up filed under N for Nutter. Nevertheless, she had seen what she had seen and some caution was called for. But now she saw nothing untoward. Just the usual joggers and walkers and commuters slouching towards the station. She crossed the pavement towards the taxi and, as she opened the door, noticed the old, silver Ford Laser parked up the road. Someone was sitting in it. Or at least it looked like someone was sitting in it. It was hard to tell given the low sunshine and long shadows. She hesitated, half-inclined to march over and confront whoever it was, if indeed it was anybody. Confront them with what, though? Hey, you, what do you think you’re doing, sitting in your own car pretending to mind your own business? It was more likely that she would be the one going into a copper’s notebook. Telling herself that she really hadn’t the time to become paranoid, she got into the cab and they drove off.

But she couldn’t help but look back. Oh, good god, this is ridiculous. The Laser was pulling out. Should she call the police? Tell the taxi driver to take evasive action, whatever that might mean? She should at least take down the licence plate number. NX... oh, the car was doing a U-turn and the driver was plainly the little old Chinese lady who ran the German bakery on the Parade. Phyllida slumped back in the seat. Valium. That’s what she needed. Valium and a part in a revival of “Salad Days.”

Malcolm had arranged a late call at the studio so that he could attend his appointment with the neurologist at the large teaching hospital next to the university. It was a grand old place with turrets and imposing entrances and statues of the good and the great looking imperiously over the forecourt. It dated back to the days when surgeons in blood and pus stained frock coats operated with hacksaws and nurses were starched into their uniforms for life. To Malcolm’s eye, Professor Onslow looked as though he might have trained under one of the old surgeon-butchers. Apart from his longevity he was marked by a hump that would have made Quasimodo seem like a pin-up boy for the Alexander Method. Malcolm rather hoped that it indicated a lifetime poring over learned tomes and clinical papers about the brain and countless hours bent over exposed grey matter while restoring it to tip-top condition. He was, at any rate, regarded as one of the top neuro-surgeons in the country so Malcolm sat upright and expectant as the prof showed him the print-out of the recent MRI scan.

“It’s this white area here,” said the Prof, stabbing a bent finger at the print-out, “that’s the little feller who’s been giving you the headaches and the dizzy spells.”

“I see”, said Malcolm. “So what is it exactly?”

“Wish I knew. Bit difficult to tell, really, with it being inside your head. What we’ll have to do, that is, myself and some colleagues of mine, is take it out and have a jolly good look at it, see exactly what it is, see if it’s a malignant little so and so and whether it’s likely to have spread to other parts of your body. You haven’t had any new symptoms, have you?”