The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (14 page)

‘Blood?' Price screwed up his face and switched his gaze from the phone to Eddie. ‘What in the hell would he want Kilby's blood for? What the hell are they up to over there in Redfern? Black magic or some fuckin' thing?'

Eddie let out a bit of a snigger. ‘I don't know to be sure, Price,' he said slowly, ‘but it just might be, you know. It just might be.'

The two of them continued to stare at the phone in silence for a few moments while outside the office the sounds of the Kelly Club coming to life echoed softly through the frosted glass door and the polished red-cedar panelling.

While Les and the boys had been getting into their mundane Chinese takeaway earlier, Percy Kilby and Frank were seated comfortably in the Tai-Ping restaurant, spending what was left of Norton's, alias Vernon Stroud's, donation to AWEC, and enjoying the very best the renowned Chinese restaurant had to offer. Kilby's earlier discomfort had not been completely forgotten, it had been pushed aside as they both ordered up plenty with money being no object. They'd finished the triple-decker prawns and lobster medallions in chilli and garlic, accompanied by a chilled bottle of '73 Taylor's white burgundy, and the waiter had just deposited their fingerbowls on the table and two cracked mudcrabs with black-bean sauce, steamed to perfection and smelling good enough to turn the heads of the diners at the surrounding tables.

‘Jesus, how good are these,' said Frank after he'd finished his first delicious mouthful.

‘Yeah I know,' replied Kilby, his eyes rolling with delight as he tore into his. ‘They're the grouse aren't they?'

Frank raised his glass of wine and grinned disparagingly at his boss. ‘Here's to the Chartered Accountants Against Apartheid.'

Kilby raised his glass and grinned back. ‘Here's to apartheid in general. It and those white do-gooders all full of shit. They're the best thing that's ever happened. Let's hope to Christ South Africa stays flavour of the month for the next ten years. We'll be eating here every night.'

They both threw back their heads and roared laughing, then continued enjoying their cracked crab in almost silent ecstasy.

Frank and Kilby were just about finished and ready to order something else to drink when Kilby unexpectedly dropped his last piece of crab back onto his plate. His sauces-pattered mouth gaped open, his eyes widened with apprehension, and he began to stare into space. He gripped the edge of the table tightly and fearfully as his stomach began to heave violently as though he was attempting to hold back a series of uncontrollable hiccups. Next thing, his breath started coming out in short, choking gasps and his mouth opened and closed noisily like he was trying to belch and swallow at the same time.

Frank stopped eating and stared at his boss's convulsions in disbelief. This was the second strange attack in less than four hours. ‘Hey Perce,' he asked nervously. ‘Are you all right mate?'

Kilby had let go of the table and was now clutching fearfully at his stomach. ‘Frank. Help me out to the toilet will you? For Christ's sake!' he gasped between bouts of heaving.

‘Sure mate.'

Frank quickly got up from his seat and slipped his arm around his boss's waist. With Kilby almost doubled over in agony as he clutched at his stomach, Frank helped and guided him to the toilet as swiftly as he could, through the tables, past the astonished looks of the other diners and almost knocking over a waiter coming from the kitchen as they stumbled past.

Once he was in the toilet, Kilby burst into the nearest cubicle and began vomiting. Terrible, searing retches that sounded almost as if he was going to bring up his intestines. This gasping, horrendous sound was broken now and again when Kilby violently broke wind. He was in an appalling state. All Frank could do was stand there helplessly and watch his ashen-faced boss slumped against the wall of the cubicle bringing his heart up.

After about five minutes Kilby stopped. He let out a deep moan of relief and turned to Frank, who could scarcely believe the gaunt face staring at him from the cubicle. His boss's eyes were puffed and bloodshot; his dark brown face had turned a dirty slate grey; his hair was damp and sweat was running down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He staggered across to the wash basins, turned on a tap and began slopping cold water across his face while he gulped the odd mouthful down.

Worry all over his face, Frank watched Kilby in silence
for a few minutes. ‘How are you feeling now mate?' he finally asked. ‘You any better?' He had never seen his usually fit and tough boss in such a state.

Kilby didn't answer at first. He leant face down in the basin, still gasping and spluttering water as he tried to get his breath back. After a while he tilted his head back and drew in a deep breath of relief. ‘Yeah. I think so.' He blinked groggily.

‘Must've been that bloody crab, eh?'

Kilby shook his head lightly. ‘No it wasn't that,' he sighed. ‘They were only fresh in this morning. I don't know what it is. But Jesus, I've never spewed like that in my life.'

‘You don't have to tell me. I could see it. It was terrible.'

‘In my back pocket, Frank. Get my wallet and go out and pay the bill. Then come back and get me will you. I'll wait here. I'm still too fucked to move.'

‘Yeah, righto mate.'

Frank took the money, walked out to the front desk and paid the bill. The head waiter, having seen Frank helping his boss to the toilets and knowing Kilby was a regular, came over and asked if everything was all right; he was as surprised as he was worried because he knew the quality and freshness of the food was second to none — especially the mud crabs. Frank assured him there had been nothing wrong with the food, his boss was just sick from the flu, that's all, and he'd be fine once he was outside and got some fresh air.

Kilby was still propped in front of the wash basins, slopping water over his face, when Frank returned. Oddly enough, considering the horrendous bilious attack he'd just been through, Kilby had almost regained his composure. The colour was back in his face and his stomach didn't feel too bad even though only minutes before he'd almost turned it inside out. Frank had his arm around his waist but Kilby was almost able to walk through the restaurant and out to the car under his own steam.

‘Yeah, it's a funny one, Perce' said Frank, once they were inside the AWEC Toyota panel van and he was driving his boss home to Stanmore. ‘You looked half dead only a little while ago. Now you don't look too bad.'

‘Yeah. It's got me fucked. And you're not going to believe this, Frank.' Kilby shook his head and gazed out the window for a few moments before he spoke. ‘You know how crook I was back there at the Tai-Ping, and I brought everything in me up.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well now I'm starvin' fuckin' hungry again. In fact you can pull over at that hamburger shop up ahead. I'm going to get half a chicken.'

Frank switched on the indicator and now it was his turn to shake his head. ‘I think you'd better see a doctor tomorrow Perce.'

Norton was up around seven-thirty the following morning. Considering the narrowness of the bed, the one lousy pillow and the lumpy mattress, he had slept quite soundly. Tjalkalieri was already in the bathroom when Les climbed into the tracksuit he'd brought with him. Mumbi and Yarrawulla were seated on the lounge in their tracksuits also, listening to the radio when Les walked into the main room. They looked like two men who had just lost their entire life's savings at the races and picked up a purse with two dollars in it as they left the track.

‘Fair dinkum. This is a nice how-do-you-bloody-well-do, this is,' Mumbi grumbled as soon as he spotted Les.

‘Oh hello. What the bloody hell's up now?' yawned Norton.

‘No cup of bloody tea in the morning. That's what's up,' replied Yarrawulla.

‘Cup of tea. Cup of tea. Fair dinkum, you're like a lot of old sheilas.'

‘Hey don't worry about the old sheilas,' said Tjalkalieri, who had just walked into the room. ‘No cup of tea. No chant.'

‘My oath,' nodded Yarrawulla. ‘We are not amused.'

‘Oh for Christ's sake,' said Norton. ‘Just give me five minutes to have a crap and clean my teeth and I'll go out and get you a gallon of the shit. Anything to keep you happy.'

‘Get some fruit while you're down there,' said Mumbi. ‘Some apples and oranges and that.'

‘And a packet of those muesli bars, too, Les,' said Yarrawulla. ‘I don't mind them. They're all right.'

‘Are you sure there's nothing else you want?'

‘No. Not for the moment,' shrugged Tjalkalieri, who had now joined the others on the lounge. ‘But don't be too far away at lunchtime.'

‘Oh I'll be here, don't worry. You won't be able to miss me. I'll have my butler's uniform on.' Norton laughed as he shook his head in disgust and went to the bathroom.

When Jolly pulled Knobby Jones's panel van up onto the
footpath outside the AWEC office around eight a.m., exhaust fumes, dust and other pollutants were just starting to thicken the air around Redfern, drifting off up into the windless sunny sky to form the yellow blanket of smog that generally settles over Sydney by mid-morning. Jolly, a medium-built, darkhaired guy who always liked to dress well, was oblivious to all this. All he had on his mind was getting a packet of cigarettes before he started loading up all those hot VCRs. He sprinted across to the shops just around the corner from the Thames Tavern.

Jolly, whose real name was Mick Rodgers, got his nickname because he was a pretty happy sort of a bloke. Someone once referred to him as Jolly Rodgers and somehow the name stuck. Jolly wasn't real keen about work, especially the nine-to-five caper, so he generally did a bit of SP or whatever else he could get his hands on, hanging around with various shifties in the Eastern suburbs. Which was how he got to know Les Norton and how he got to be moving hot VCRs for Knobby Jones. But Jolly — happy, mildly dishonest or whatever he was — was more than a little surprised when he almost bumped into a familiar red-headed figure ambling around the corner into Regent Street. A tall red-headed figure carrying a cardboard carton full of fruit, biscuits and takeaway cups of tea under his massive right arm.

‘Hello Les,' he said happily. ‘Fancy bumping into you here. How're you going?'

Norton too was taken a little by surprise, and not all that overjoyed, at someone seeing him lurking around the streets of Redfern. ‘Oh... g'day Mick,' he half smiled. ‘How's things?'

‘Pretty good. What're you up to?' Jolly couldn't help but notice the extra stubble on Norton's jaw and couldn't help but think it a little odd him being up so early in the morning... especially seeing as he worked so late on Thursday night. But Jolly always minded his own business and only asked more or less out of polite conversation.

‘Nothing really,' replied Norton cautiously. ‘I was just driving through so I thought I'd stop and get some fruit. An old mate of mine's got a shop just round the corner.'

‘Oh.' Jolly noticed the four paper cups of tea in the carton, plus the packets of biscuits, but decided not to say anything.

‘What about yourself Mick?'

‘I'm just delivering a bit of stuff for a bloke. That's all.'

‘Oh.' Norton knew of Jolly's somewhat shifty demeanour but declined to elaborate on that either.

They had a brief conversation while the cars whizzed past and the pedestrians scurried across Regent Street to the station. Then Les said he'd better make a move as he was illegally parked down the road.

‘You going down the Sheaf on the weekend, Mick?'

‘Yeah. I'll be there Sunday for sure.'

‘Well I'll have a beer with you then, eh?'

Fancy someone spotting me in Redfern of all bloody places thought Les as he turned into the hotel once he made sure Jolly was out of sight. And this hour of the bloody morning too. Oh well. Can't see him making any difference. Norton walked to the stairs only to find someone else he knew coming down. Ross Bailey, the owner.

‘Hello George,' Ross said cheerfully, rattling a great ring of keys in his hand. ‘How are you this morning?'

‘Oh g'day Ross,' Norton replied, wondering who he was going to bump into next. ‘I'm good thanks.'

‘Everything all right? Room okay?'

‘Yeah, good as gold thanks Ross.'

‘I'll have the girl change the sheets and vacuum the place out for you later.'

Norton's brow knitted for a moment as he thought over Bailey's last statement. If a cleaning lady came into the room and saw the boys running around covered in blood, paint and bird feathers and chanting away like demons with bones shoved through their noses she'd be likely to flip out. And if she vacuumed up all the little piles of sacred sand it could stuff up the proceedings as well. Yes, they could certainly do without a cleaning lady in room 9 at the moment.

Norton took the hotel owner gently by the elbow. ‘Ah, look Ross,' he said easily. ‘I was going to mention this to you earlier. Those three blokes in that room up there come from this really primitive tribe from right out in the middle of nowhere. They're almost still in the Stone Age.'

‘So?'

‘Well. One of their tribal customs — and a very strict one — is no women in their living quarters.'

Bailey looked at Les blankly. ‘Is that right?'

‘My oath. In fact I'm glad I bumped into you, because if a woman had of happened to have walked into that room, there'd be the biggest blow-up ever.'

‘Go on.'

‘You better believe it. If they ever catch any sheilas in their living quarters back in the desert they cut their bloody throats.'

‘Christ!' Bailey looked at Les incredulously for a moment, then a bit of a twinkle began to form in his eye. ‘Listen George,' he said, moving a little closer. ‘This mightn't be any of my business. But how do they get on when they want to have a root?'