Guns 'n' Rose (8 page)

Les had another shower and more Savlon-D, then changed back into his jocks and T-shirt. He had another glass of orange juice and while he was standing in the kitchen drinking it his eyes moved in the direction of the house next door. Mmmhh, I wonder? he thought moodily. He went through the kitchen closets till he found what he was looking for, went back to the bathroom again, then the front door, then turned off the lights and went back to bed. He was about to switch off the bedlamp for the second time when there was another knock on the door. Yes, I fuckin' thought so.

Les got up, opened the front door and there was Carol, barefoot this time, wearing a blue check, hangout shirt.

‘Whereabouts is your loungeroom?' she demanded.

‘Right here, sweetheart.' Les picked up the plastic bucket of water he'd placed by the door and dumped the lot right over Carol's head almost drowning her. ‘Now, fuckin' piss off.'

Carol let out a hideous, startled shriek, spun around and ran off down the front pathway leaving a tiny trail of wet footprints behind her.

‘Are you sure you don't want a towel?' Les yelled out before he shut the door. Shaking his head, Norton put the bucket back in the kitchen, then turned out the lights and crashed into bed for the last time; out like a light himself.

 

 

 

Les didn't feel too bad and was in half a good mood as he wandered into the kitchen at eight the next morning warbling a few notes of the old Neil Diamond song ‘Sweet Caroline' in his shorts and yesterday's blue Tshirt. Outside it was shaping up for another nice day; sunny, with a few clouds around and a light southerly blowing. He got some sausages out of the fridge and, although he was hungry, he didn't particularly feel like cooking anything and making a mess. As he was contemplating things three old kookaburras landed on the railing around the small sundeck outside the kitchen. Les watched them watching him through the flyscreen door, then cut up one of the sausages and laid it along the railing. It took about two seconds for the kookaburras to start squawking and carrying on amongst themselves as they attacked it.

‘It's all yours, boys,' said Norton, smiling at their antics. ‘I'm going down the beach to get the paper, have a swim and get some breakfast down there. Have a nice day.'

Les threw a towel in his overnight bag and locked
the front door. There was no sign of Carol out the front and apart from a few magpies and a woman watering her garden just down the street, no sign of anyone. Les got in the Berlina and drove down to Terrigal, where he got a parking spot under the pine trees in almost the same place as the day before.

The morning sun was sparkling on the ocean and a few people were either walking around or having a swim when Les strolled across the park to the promenade. S'pose I may as well dump my gear in front of the shower block, he thought, climbing out of his shorts and dropping his sunglasses on top of his towel.

As he jogged across the sand, Les thought he recognised one of the men he'd seen sitting outside the surf club the day before, only now he was coming out of the water carrying a paddle in one hand and a blue racing ski on his head. The tide was half out and there were no waves; Les charged straight in and started wallowing and splashing around in the clean, clear ocean. This soon had him feeling on top of the world and after a good blast of cold water in the shower block Les was feeling even better again. Then he changed into his shorts and a pair of dry Speedos and locked his bag in the car. Now it was breakfast time.

Restaurants and coffee shops ran right along the main drag. The paper shop was straight across the road and a few doors down on the corner of a narrow, blocked-off laneway was a skinny little place called Coffee Corner. The punters seated inside looked to be mainly locals so Les got the paper and wandered down.

Small wicker chairs and tables were spread around a colourful mural of Terrigal Haven on the wall and
delicious cooking smells drifted through from a cramped kitchen at the back. A bustly little bloke in a striped polo shirt and glasses was waiting on the tables while two blonde girls did the cooking. Les ordered two toasted ham, cheese, tomato and onion sandwiches and a mug of flat white. They soon arrived and were delicious—scrumptious even—and the coffee wasn't much short of sensational. He didn't have to pick James up till eleven so Les took his time flicking through the paper while he enjoyed his toasted sandwiches. He finished his coffee just as two women seated beneath the mural decided to attack a packet of cigarettes and kindly share the smoke with everybody else in the restaurant. Well, that was good timing, thought Les, as he paid the bill then walked back over to the car.

Back at the house Les had a bit of time to spare so he turned the stereo on in the lounge and stared out the window through the trees behind the house at the glimpses of ocean beyond. Les was gazing at nothing in particular when he noticed what looked like a white soccer ball bobbing around by the edge of the pool. I wonder how that got there? he mused. Probably Carol. It's either got a message on it or a bomb inside it. To kill a bit of time, Les thought he'd go down and take a look.

It was a cheap plastic thing with a design on the side. Norton scooped it out of the pool and gave it a couple of bounces when he heard voices drifting up from behind Carol's flat. That's where it's come from, nodded Les. The kids next door have kicked it over. He walked over to the fence to toss it back.

The owner next door was wrestling around a red and
blue tent with what must have been his wife and two children. He had dark hair, a moustache and glasses, and his wife was blonde. A boy about four had fair hair like his mother and the daughter about six had dark hair like Dad. They were all whooping and hollering around the tent as they tried to get it up, tried not to get in each other's way and tried not to laugh at the same time. It was quite a funny scene and Les was trying to think of something it reminded him of. He was staring away, possibly a little rudely, and it dawned on him just as the husband looked up and caught his eye.

‘I've seen this movie before,' Les called out. ‘It's the Griswolds.'

The bloke looked at Les for a moment, then laughed. So did his wife. ‘Yeah, right,' he answered back. ‘Hey, I've seen all those videos. They're great.'

‘Yeah, I don't mind them myself,' said Les. ‘Where are you off to? Wallyworld?'

The bloke laughed again. ‘No, actually we're going up to Myall Lake on the weekend. I just got this thing last night.' He looked at the tent and shook his head. ‘I'll get it together somehow.'

‘You mean
we'll
get it together, don't you, dear,' said his wife.

‘Didn't I just say that?'

Norton thought he'd leave the Griswolds to it. ‘Hey, is this yours?' he said, holding up the ball.

‘Ohh, yeah, the kids must have kicked it up there. Sorry about that.'

‘That's okay.' Les tossed the ball down to the kids, who immediately started kicking it around the backyard. ‘I'll see you later.'

‘Yeah, righto mate.'

Norton glanced at his watch and went back inside the house. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and sipped that while he tidied up his room, then changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt he bought in Montego Bay with Ire Jamaica on the front in red, green and yellow. After finishing his orange juice, he put the glass in the kitchen sink, got a tape, then climbed behind the wheel of the Berlina and headed for Kurrirong Juvenile Justice Centre.

With ‘Big Man' by Redneck Mothers bopping out of the stereo, the drive through Erina was a breeze and Les was past West Gosford and the Woy Woy turn-off and heading up the mountain road towards the gaol before he knew it. He turned right at the garage like it said on the directions he was given, and then past a football field or some kind of grassed oval dotted with trees and edged with a low white railing. There were more trees and blocks of old, colonial-style houses painted cream and blue with galvanised iron roofs, a boom gate and speed humps. Then Les turned right and went about another kilometre. This brought him onto a driveway set in nice bush surrounds with a fabulous view of Brisbane Water on the right and the gaol in front and on the left. There was a perspex or glass wall about ten metres high alongside the driveway, a metal fence topped with barbed wire the same height behind that, then the concrete buildings that looked just like a modern, maximum-security gaol for young offenders. A small grass circle propping up the flag sat in front of a windowless concrete building with one large, metal gate and a smaller blue door on the left.
Les was right on time, but not quite sure what to do, so he cruised slowly up to the gate and started to read a sign bolted to the Besser bricks. He got as far as
PLEASE NOTE. VISIT PROCEDURE. IDENTIFICATION MUST BE SHOWN PRIOR TO ENTRY TO THIS CENTRE
when the blue door opened and a young bloke wearing jeans, gymboots and a purple Billabong T-shirt, and carrying an overnight bag, stepped out. Les leaned across and opened the door and he climbed into the Berlina closing the door after him.

‘Thanks, mate,' he said, in a soft, clear voice.

‘That's all right, James,' answered Les. ‘My pleasure.'

A voice crackled over an intercom. ‘Would you mind not blocking the driveway. It's a turning area.'

‘Yeah, righto,' said Les, even though no one could hear him with the window up.

‘Ahh, blow it out your arse,' said George's nephew, adjusting his seat belt.

‘Yeah, fair enough,' said Les.

They drove back up the driveway. As Les slowed down for some speed humps he decided to check James out.

‘So, how's things? Okay?'

James turned to Les and started checking Norton out at the same time. ‘Yeah. Not too bad, thanks.'

James was slimly built, shorter than Les and very, very goodlooking. Neat black hair wisped across two jetblack eyebrows which were set above a pair of lively brown eyes. His nose, slightly flattened though not broken, had a small bump over the bridge. A set of perfect white teeth almost sparkled from a smooth face with a
suntan George Hamilton would have envied and a tiny cleft in James' chin reminded Les of his uncle back in Sydney. James could have been a little grained or worldly-wise from doing time, but if George's nephew was nineteen, Les rode a skateboard and listened to silverchair. This struck Les as a little curious. Something else the big Queenslander thought he picked up about James made Les chuckle a little to himself as well.

‘Anyway, I'm Les,' he said, offering his hand. ‘Can I call you Jimmy?'

‘Sure. Why not.' Jimmy's handshake was brief but firm as he continued to check out Norton and accepted his open, if maybe unexpected friendliness. ‘Hey, that's a choice T-shirt, Les. Where did you get it?'

‘Jamaica. Montego Bay.'

‘Fair dinkum? Have you been there?'

Les nodded. ‘Too right. Yah I nung. Respec, mon. Jah Rastafarri.'

‘Hey, good one, Les.'

They drove on, picking up a little speed. ‘Yeah, I been there,' said Les. ‘And I know all about the black problem, Jimmy.'

Jimmy's smile faded a little. ‘Oh, really?'

Norton nodded again. ‘Fuckin' oath. And I know just how to fix it.'

‘Do you now? And just exactly how would you fix this “black problem”, Les?'

‘Well, if I was running Jamaica, the first thing I'd do is bring back slavery.'

Jimmy was incredulous. ‘You'd what?'

‘Bring back slavery. Shove 'em all back in chains and flog the shit out of them and work the cunts into
the ground. That's all they're good for, the lazy black bastards.'

Jimmy gave Les a double, triple blink. ‘You're fuckin' kidding.'

Norton shook his head adamantly. ‘No way, mate. And back here, the first thing I'd do is shove a bomb under ATSIC and blow it to the shithouse. Then shoot the lot of the whingeing bastards.' Norton looked evenly at the horrified look on Jimmy's face. ‘Well, not really. What I'd do is get all the whites out of Australia and leave all the abos here with an AK-47 each, a thousand rounds of ammo and a few flagons of plonk. Then come back in about a month and there'd be none of the cunts left. Well, maybe a few. But fuck them—we'd just poison 'em like they did back in the good old days. Maybe gas 'em this time.'

Jimmy's eyes stuck out like two ping-pong balls as he recoiled from Norton's despicable tirade. ‘I don't fuckin' believe this,' he said. ‘Turn the car round and take me back to the nick. You're completely fucked.'

Norton gave Jimmy a double blink along with a look of shock and confusion. ‘Jimmy,' he said. ‘You're not—you're not a fuckin' abo, are you?' His eyes still bulging, Jimmy nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘You're a bloody koori. Well, I'll be buggered. I honestly thought you were a white man.'

‘Sorry to bloody disappoint you.'

‘That's all right. I should've known, though.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘By the chip on your shoulder. You've all got one, just some are bigger than others. Yours'd be about average, I'd say.'

‘Well up yours, too. You fuckin' boofheaded big redneck goose.'

Norton grinned and made a gesture with one hand. ‘Hey, think nothing of it. I stole your country, didn't I?'

‘Ohh shit!' Jimmy looked at the floor, looked at the stupid smirk on Norton's face, then stared out the passenger window. He knew he wasn't going to get far with Les and now that he knew where Norton was coming from he felt not only relieved but had to try hard not to laugh himself. He kept his feelings to himself for the time being, however, and they were past the Gosford turn-off before he spoke.

‘So just what do you know about me, Les?'

‘What do I know? Jimmy, all I know is you're George's nephew. You're bunged up in the nick on a dud pot charge. There's some Elliott going down in there and they've got you out till next Wednesday while they sort it out. I happened to be up here and they asked me to keep an eye on you till then.'