The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (31 page)

Norton blinked and smiled at the truck driver almost in amazement. He didn't have a bad sense of humour and this was one of the best yarns Les had heard in years. It was
also starting to become obvious that Max was enjoying getting a few things off his chest as well. ‘Go on Max,' nodded Norton avidly.

‘I've got a daughter nineteen. She's pregnant. To... I don't know who, and I'm positive she doesn't either. But if I did, I'd run and shake his hand. Because she's twice as fat and ugly as her mother and it's nice to know there's some blokes in Australia more desperate for a root than me.'

‘Jesus, Max. You can't talk about your own flesh and blood like that.'

‘Can't I?'

‘Yeah,' shrugged Norton. ‘I s'pose you're right.'

‘Okay. So that's my home life, Les. Two boofheaded sons sitting around smoking dope all day listening to shit music. A slug of a daughter propped in front of the TV twenty-four hours a day farting, whingeing and stuffing her fat pimply face with chocolates. And a wart hog for a missus that couldn't cook anything to save her bloody life. Not that it would worry the other idiots, because they only eat McDonalds and pizzas anyway. And it won't be long and I'll have a screaming baby on my hands as well.'

‘Yeah,' agreed Norton. ‘I guess it's not much to look forward to.'

‘So that's my wonderful home life. Now I'll tell you about work. As you know I'm a truck driver.'

Norton nodded slowly.

‘It's a prick of a job. Forget all that crap about modern-day cowboys and the romance of the open road. That's all bullshit. You're stuck behind the wheel of a monstrous, noisy, smoke-belching rig day and night, popping pills to try and stay awake with your eyes hanging out of your head. Fuel, running costs and taxes are crippling. You've got to speed, overload and dud up your logbooks just to try and make wages. And as soon as you drive out of the yard some prick on a motor bike pulls you over for anything, just to fill his fuckin book up.'

‘I know exactly what you mean there,' agreed Norton.

‘I chalked up about $5,000 worth of fines last year. I just laugh at the pricks and tell 'em to give me another one. I've got about $1,500 so far this year — which I'm cutting out now. There's no way I can afford to pay them anyway. Besides, most of the pinches are just rorts to get money out of you so they can pay the wages for all the bludging public servants in this state.'

‘You're not far out there neither,' agreed Norton again.

‘So I just come in here, cut out my warrants, save my money and get a bit of peace and quiet and good tucker at the same time. And that's my story, Les. This is the best rort ever if you ask me. I'm laughing.'

Norton stared at Max for a few moments, chuckling as he shook his head almost in admiration. ‘Yeah Max,' he conceded, ‘I guess with your home life this wouldn't be half bad to you. The only thing you'd miss in here is a bit of sex I suppose. But from the description you gave me of your wife, I imagine you're not worrying too much about that either.'

‘Hey, don't worry about sex. I get the best blow jobs I've ever had in my life in here.'

‘Blow jobs? In here. Where?'

‘Off the drag queens. They've got their own section where they can wear women's clothes and do their hair up and all that. One of the screws is a relation of mine. I give him the dough and he brings me in bottles of perfume and makeup and that, and I swap it with the drags for a polish.'

Norton was dumbfounded. ‘You're kidding?'

‘No way Jose,' replied Max enthusiastically. ‘I get blow jobs down there that almost stop your heart beating. Your legs go to jelly and your head spins around like a chocolate wheel. I've been having two or three a day, too,' Max added with a sly chuckle.

‘So that's where you get to of a day is it?'

Max winked. ‘Why do you think I sleep so well of a night? It's not just these bloody earplugs, I can tell you.' Norton unfolded his arms and shook his head at Max's last statement. ‘Well Max,' he laughed, as he settled back on the bed, ‘I reckon that might just about do me. I don't think I need to know anymore so I'm going to shut my eyes.'

‘Yeah. Me too. It's way past my bedtime.' Max reached over and turned off the radio. ‘I'll see you in the morning.'

‘Yeah. See you then.'

There was silence between them for a few moments, then Norton propped himself up on one elbow and stared over at the wily truck driver.

‘Hey Max,' he said. ‘Before we go to sleep. Just tell me one thing.'

‘Yeah, what?'

‘If your missus is such a beast and your kids are so horrible. Why don't you get a divorce and piss off?'

Max opened one eye. ‘Are you kidding, Les? Move out
of my grouse big home at Regents Park and leave it to those useless, loafin' bastards. While I go and live in a stinkin' one-bedroom unit somewhere. Not a chance.'

‘Fair enough,' nodded Norton. ‘It was just a thought, Max. That's all.'

Norton settled back down on his bed, pulled his blanket up and got ready to go to sleep when Max spoke again.

‘But I'll tell you what I am gonna do,' he said, a noticeable coolness creeping into his voice. ‘And I'll tell you this because I reckon you're the sort of bloke who'd keep it to himself.'

‘Go on Max.'

‘About a year or so from now, you'll be reading the name Max Gatenby in all the newspapers.'

‘Yeah. Why's that?'

‘'Cause I'm gonna blow the cunts up.'

‘You're what?'

‘I'm gonna blow 'em up. The house, their dog, the fuckin' lot. I've had this planned for a while now. You see, those arseholes in my house all watch
A Country Practice
. They love it. I hate the show myself. Especially that doctor and the cop. Anyway, they're all gonna be watching it one night and I'm gonna leave an overnight bag full of dynamite in the lounge room with a timer device. I'll go down the road. Have a few schooners, a game of pool and whooshka. Up she'll go. Chocolates, bongs, heavy-metal records. The lot.'

‘You're kidding.'

‘Not a chance. But that's only part of the plan. Just after I do it, I give myself up to a reporter on the Willesee show on TV. I'll get maximum coverage while I make out I'm mad as a meat axe. The cops'll come and drag me off on prime-time TV. They'll put me in Morisset. Pleading insanity and diminished responsibility, the most I'll get is ten years, and some social worker'll have me out in two. Mate. Two years of rest, medication, good tucker and blow jobs every day. Be like winning the lottery.'

Norton was even more astounded now. The tone in Max's voice told him he was deadly serious. ‘Yeah... well,' said Norton. ‘Whatever.'

‘They'll let me out of the rathouse after two years. The house'll be gone but I'll still own the land. It's worth eighty-odd grand. I flog it and buy a weekender up the North Coast — Forster or somewhere — and spend the rest of my life on the pension, fishin' everyday. And none of those pricks to annoy me. What's wrong with that?'

‘Nothing — I don't suppose Max. You've certainly got
your head screwed on better than what I thought.'

Max gave an evil chuckle. ‘I'm not just a pretty face Les.'

‘Indeed you're not. Anyway, I'll see you in the morning mate.'

Norton didn't know whether to laugh or what after that. So he went to sleep instead. And he managed to surprise himself, despite the circumstances of the day, by sleeping quite well.

It wasn't too bad a morning when the guards unlocked the cells and mustered them for breakfast; cool but not much cloud around. After his porridge and toast and whatever, Les drifted back to the front of his cell to wait for Bernie or whoever it might be to come and let him out; which Norton figured would be around lunchtime. The TV was blaring as usual and Jimi Hendrix was once again giving ‘Hey Jude' a punishing serve. Although it was sunny outside, Norton decided he'd wait in his cell, read some of Max's magazines and keep a weather eye on the door at the same time. He was propped up on his bed, thumbing his way through some old
People
and
Penthouses
when a sudden movement at the door made him tense up and drop the magazine he was reading. It was the old sweeper, Mousey or whatever they called him. He stood in the doorway for a moment or two without saying anything.

‘G'day mate,' said Norton eventually. ‘How're you feeling?'

Standing framed in the light above the door, Norton could see the sweeper had the makings of a black-eye and his bottom lip was swollen. ‘Listen pal,' he said. ‘I've been in here twenty years. And I'll be here another twenty fuckin' years. I won't get out of here alive.'

The sweeper didn't acknowledge Norton's greeting but went straight into some sort of a preamble, almost like a well-rehearsed speech, and every word was squeezed tightly out the side of his mouth. Norton had met a lot of old blokes like the sweeper since he'd moved to Sydney. Shifty old blokes especially from around the Eastern Suburbs and Balmain. For some reason they all loved to talk out the sides of their mouths. Some seemed to be able to talk out of both sides of their mouths at once and Norton swore that one old ex-wharfie he knew from up the Cross could talk out of his ears. The sweeper continued with his side-of-the-mouth sermon.

‘No one's ever done a fuckin' thing for me since I've been
in the puzzle, pal. I've been robbed, stood over. Bashed by both the screws and the other crims, and no-one's ever given me so much as a kind word — let alone jump in and stick up for me.'

‘Ahh, that's all right mate,' shrugged Norton. ‘Don't worry about it.'

‘So here. I want you to have this.'

The sweeper handed Les an envelope. It was sealed, there was nothing written on the front or back and it appeared to contain a couple of sheets of paper inside. Norton examined it for a second or two, then looked back up at the door not quite knowing what to make of it.

‘Well... thanks mate.'

But the old sweeper had vanished even quicker than he'd appeared. Norton moved across to the door and had a good look around the wing, but he was nowhere to be found. With a shrug of his shoulders Les resumed his original position on the bed. He had another look at the mysterious envelope. He gave it a sniff. It didn't appear to contain any drugs and a shake verified there was only a sheet of folded paper inside. Norton decided against opening it and slid it inside the yellow pamphlet he'd been given on his arrival. Well that's a funny one. Oh well. He continued with his reading. He'd barely got another two or three pages when a loud knock on the door revealed the jowly but smiling face of Bernie Cottier.

‘Righto L. Norton, 6102,' he boomed. ‘This is your big moment.'

‘Don't tell me I'm finally getting out of this prick of a joint,' grinned Les.

‘Yep.'

‘What time is it?'

‘Around ten-thirty.'

‘Well how about that. And I wan't expecting to get out until at least lunchtime. Looks like I got an hour and a half off for good behaviour.'

‘You got all your belongings?'

Norton had already folded his blanket and towel. He slipped them under his arm and picked up the yellow pamphlet with the letter inside.

‘I might just keep this for a souvenir,' he smiled.

‘Suit yourself. Come on.'

They walked fairly quickly through the warrants section. Les had a last look around for Max, but he was nowhere to be seen. That figures, Norton chuckled to himself. They
were through the small office near the servery and heading towards the square when Norton turned to Bernie.

‘Hey Bernie,' he said. ‘That old sweeper I had the stink over. What's he in for?'

‘Mousey? Old Mousey Thomas. He shot two cops in Newcastle, around 1950. He's in for life is the Mouse.'

‘Fair dinkum?'

‘Yeah. He's bladed other prisoners. He hit a guard over the head with a piece of pipe in Goulburn, nearly killing him too. He's pretty harmless now. But he can be a bad old bastard — don't worry about that.'

‘Evidently.'

‘He originally came from Melbourne. They reckon he was involved in several murders and bank jobs down there. But they could never pin them on him. They got him for the Newcastle ones though. He's lucky he didn't hang.'

‘Yeah. Anyway, I was just wondering — that's all.'

They went past the square, towards reception, when Bernie made a motion with his head. ‘Come over this way for a sec, Les. There's something I want to show you.'

He led Norton through another gate which opened out onto a yard with a row of high bar-fronted cells running off to their right. They were about three or four metres across and almost twice that in height. Rubbish and other articles were strewn around the front and they seemed to be dark and gloomy inside, despite the light coming through the bars. At first appearance they reminded Norton of the monkey cage in a zoo. There looked to be only one man to a cell listlessly moving about and calling out to the prisoner in the next cell over the high wall separating them. Except for a lumpy red-haired crim with a bushy red beard in the end cell. He was screaming out at the top of his voice a nonstop torrent of the most vile abuse Norton had ever heard in his life. The abuse was directed at an older guard in a freshly dry-cleaned zip-front jacket with some sort of rank or insignia sewn onto the sleeves. He was accompanied by a worried looking brown-haired man in a sports coat and glasses carrying a clipboard and biro.

‘What's this?' enquired Norton.

‘Protective custody, Les. This is where you would have finished up if Chopper's boys were after you. Stay next to me and don't get too close.'

‘Who are those two blokes?' Norton nodded to the nervous looking man in the sports coat and his accompanying guard.