The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (40 page)

‘Certainly,' replied Mr Perry. ‘I'll get my wife to take a look at it. In fact I'll do it myself.'

‘You will, will you.' The smile on Norton's face turned into a rotten great grin. ‘I sure can't complain about the service here.'

‘We do our best,' smiled Mr Perry.

‘You certainly do indeed.'

Mrs Perry still managed to keep her composure and not a muscle in her face moved. But there was a distinct colouring in her cheeks. The girl on the switchboard had no luck at all, though. She sniggered and nearly wet herself. Filthy old thing thought Norton as he walked out to the carpark. Not only did she rape me. She lied to me as well. And me a stranger in town too. Rotten bitch.

There was a Melbourne
Gregory's
in the Falcon, which Les compared to the map he'd bought in Sydney and the sweeper's. This looks easy as cake he mused. Fitzroy Street onto Punt. Punt goes into Hoddle, which goes into High Street which takes me straight out to Woodstock. A snack. He started the car, found a radio station playing reasonable music and headed north.

There wasn't all that much traffic and it was a good clear day for driving. Before long he'd found Punt Road, gone under an overpass, crossed the Yarra somewhere and was on High Street going through Richmond. Just before North Fitzroy he found a hardware store and bought a shovel and a small trenching tool. He had plenty of time and there was a Greek milk bar next door, so he had a doner kebab, a couple of baclavas and a chocolate malted. With that under his belt and the tools in the boot, he headed north again.

The streets were wide and the suburbs flat; there was scarcely a rise or a gully let alone anything remotely resembling a hill. It was nothing like driving in the congested sprawl of Sydney with a set of traffic lights on nearly every corner. Oddly enough, the lack of high rise and the old wooden buildings on either side of the road reminded Les of Townsville of all places.

As he drove on a few thoughts began to occur to him. When it all boiled down, his chances of finding whatever was buried on this obscure map were pretty slim. And Mousey had been in the nick for over twenty years, so all this could be changed anyway. And if he did find it, what would it be? After all this time it might be rotted away. Then again, it could be somebody else's loot Mousey had got onto. Oh well, who gives a stuff? Win, lose or draw. He was still over $3,000 in front. Plus a top root and a big chance for an even better one tonight. So what the hell. He'd go out there, get as close as he could to the directions on the map, and dig a few holes. If he didn't find anything, stiff shit. It was still
a bit of fun driving around the Victorian countryside in a new car anyway.

A sign on the other side of a place called Epping said, Woodstock, 11 km. The countryside had opened up a bit now and houses were gradually starting to disappear. It was still a pleasant, sunny day but on either side of the road the flat sparsely-treed plains stretching out to a few low hills seemed more desolate and barren than ever. Suddenly those plains started to get hilly with more clumps of trees. Les was a bit lost in thought, listening to the radio as the miles slipped past and had to hit the brakes quickly at a sign saying, Donnybrook Road. Whittlesea, 15 km. He checked Mousey's map and smiled. This was it all right. The tyres squealed, gravel spurted and he sped up Donnybrook Road.

The road was one gentle sloping hill after another, dotted with farms and strung haphazardly with fences. The fields still looked a little dry and sparse, home to a few cows and horses and mobs of dumb-looking black-faced sheep. Around these animals were scattered rolls of hay and stock food bound tightly like bundles of roofing batts, only instead of being pink or yellow they were a dull khaki green. He topped a rise and about five kilometres in front of him was a huge, shimmering expanse of water. That's got to be the bloody reservoir. A sign on a shed saying Yan Yean Stables confirmed this. Down the bottom of that rise he came to a roundabout where Donnybrook Road met Plenty Road. A set of street signs said Melbourne to his right, Whittlesea 5 kms to his left, Reservoir Road straight ahead.

Norton checked Mousey's map again. ‘This is it,' he said out loud. ‘This is bloody it.' Despite his early pessimism, Norton was becoming quite excited. ‘Now. What's it say here again? Follow Reservoir Road two miles. Big tree on right. Cross bridge. Four pine trees on right. Fifty yards direct south of end pine tree. Dig here.' Norton rubbed his hands together gleefully and drove on.

Mousey's map was in miles and yards but Les soon judged when he'd gone the distance. There was no big tree on the right. But there was a huge dead one bleached grey by the sun. A chipped circle around its base said that years ago someone must have got sick of seeing all those nice green leaves stopping soil erosion and giving shade and shelter to the birds; so they ringbarked it. But that could be the tree thought Les. Because if Mousey buried stuff out here years ago, before he went in the nick, that tree would have been
all lush and green then. Yeah, that makes sense. He moved on and sure enough there was the little bridge. It was rickety, wooden and old, so that made sense too. He went on further and nearly couldn't believe his eyes. Just off the road to his right, before it meandered up the hill to the reservoir, was a row of pine trees. Instead of four there were closer to twenty, but the four on this end were noticeably bigger than the others. Well that bloody well makes sense too, thought Norton. There could have been four there to start off with and somebody's planted a few more. That's why they're smaller. Well I'll be buggered. This is dead-set bloody it all right. This is fuckin' it. You little bloody beauty. Hardly able to control his excitement, Norton did a U-turn, pulled up in the shade of the pine trees, got out of the car and had a look around.

There were a few farm houses a kilometre or so from where he stood, the fields fenced off in front to keep the stock from wandering onto the road. Unexpectedly, there was a church just off the road about fifty metres the bridge side of the end pine tree. That's funny, thought Les. It doesn't say anything on the map about a church. Then again that church doesn't look all that old and probably wasn't built when Mousey buried whatever it is out here. In fact, thought Norton, twenty or so years ago there probably wasn't much here at all. Only the reservoir and that bridge. There wasn't anyone around so Les walked over to the little church for a closer look.

It wasn't very big and was made of whitewashed wooden panelling built up on concrete piers. The front door was locked but there was a two-door open vestibule built over that with two sets of wooden stairs running into it. Above the vestibule was a wooden cross bolted to the panelling and below that was painted the figure of a man standing legs apart, arms outstretched, in a circle inside a triangle. Above all of this was painted, in red, Church of Scientific Achievement. Can't say I've ever heard of this mob of bible-bashers thought Norton. Oh well. God bless them, whoever they are. Anyway it's time I got to work. Norton went back to the car, got the map, the compass and the tape measure from his bag, and with his adrenalin starting to pump a little now, walked across to the end pine tree.

For such an unusually fine spring day, Norton thought there might have been more cars or people around. He'd only seen a couple on the road in and none since he'd pulled
up. Just as well I s'pose, he thought. Whistling happily he flipped open the azimuth compass. The needle spun round and Norton adjusted the points. Due south was directly towards the church. Les checked it again. Yep. That was due south all right. With a big grin he tacked one end of the tape measure to the pine tree and began running out fifty yards. The tape was in both yards and metres so that was no problem. It was easy. Easy. Norton kept grinning and following the compass needle and running out the tape measure in the direction of the little church, which was suddenly starting to get closer and closer to the fifty yard mark.

Yes, it was easy all right. Too bloody easy. Norton's grin had started to disappear and he couldn't quite believe it when he found fifty yards due south of that end pine tree was spot-on with one of the corners of the Church of Scientific Achievement. He looked at the spot, frowned, wound the tape up and measured it again. One of the concrete piers supporting the church was right where fifty yards south was. Les measured it out again, even allowing a few inches for the growth of the tree over the years. But Norton could have allowed for the rotation of the planets over the last twenty or so years: fifty yards due south of that pine tree was smack-bang on line with one corner of the church. And whatever Mousey had buried here, twenty years ago or whenever it was, now had a dirty-great concrete pier sitting on top of it, and a fairly soundly constructed wooden church built on top of that.

Ohh no I don't believe this, Norton cursed to himself. I just don't bloody well believe it. But after futilely checking it out one more time, even wriggling the tape measure around in desperation, it was true. As true as God made little apples.

‘You fuckin' idiot Mousey,' Norton cursed out loud. ‘Why couldn't you have buried it fifty yards north? Or west? You stupid little prick. You deserve to be in bloody gaol.'

But you couldn't blame the Mouse. How was he to know that someone would build a church on that spot.

Norton gave the side of the church a good boot. ‘Fuckin' bible-bashin' bastards,' he bellowed. ‘Why couldn't you build your rotten, fucking church somewhere else? You brainwashed bunch of hypocrites.'

But you couldn't blame the brethren of the Church of Scientific Achievement for building their house of worship there. It was a beautiful little valley they'd picked just down
from the Yan Yean Reservoir. Peaceful, green, secluded and almost in the shade of those lovely pine trees. An ideal place for worshipping the Lord or whoever it was the disciples worshipped. And the elders of the Church probably got the land for next to nothing, too. So there was no way in the world that you could blame them.

‘Bugger it,' Norton cursed again. ‘I should have known something would go wrong.' His darkening brown eyes moved balefuily towards the sky. ‘You're crooked on me aren't you. I know it. You always have been.'

Then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he could dig around it. He checked out around the pier. No, there was a big rock just on the pine trees side of it, so that stopped that. And he didn't know how far the pier went down. If he dug down and got underneath it, the bloody thing could collapse on him. He'd be there a month no matter what he did. The only way he could get to that loot would be to dynamite the bloody thing. And that was just out of the question.

Norton stepped back, shaking his head as he let go with another string of curses. ‘Well, that's bloody that ain't it. Thanks anyway Mousey. You wombat.'

He rolled up the tape measure, walked back to the car and threw it and the compass back in his overnight while he dumped his backside heavily down on the driver's seat. He'd put some fruit from the motel in the bag so he picked up an apple and started chewing on it morosely while he stared glumly out the windscreen at nothing in particular. The way he was chewing, the apple didn't last long so he put his hand back in the bag to find the two mandarins that were in there somewhere. While he was groping around another two little objects caught his eye. The pair of electric detonators. And another thought suddenly hit Norton like a light bulb of pure diabolical wickedness shining above his head.

I'm out in the bush. I've got the detonators. Why don't I make a home-made bomb and blow that bloody pier to the shithouse. This is farming country. I could get the stuff and knock one up in no time. He checked his watch. It was just after two. Jesus, with a bit of luck I might be able to find a hardware store and a chemist still open. Bloody oath. Why not? He hit the starter, jerked the car into drive and sped off in the direction of Whittlesea.

A toboggan hire, set into the hills on either side of Plenty Road, was the first thing Norton saw that told him he was
getting into Whittlesea. The local hardware store, still open, was a little further on. A ramshackle old house, a pub and a garage were next to it. Jesus, thought Les, I hope there's a bit more to the place than just that. He turned right at a saddlery opposite a roundabout and drove down a few hundred metres to where a statue of a soldier faced the main street from in front of another row of pine trees.

Turning left at the war memorial, Norton could see Whittlesea was a typical Australian small country town. One wide street flanked by various old wooden shops. The only one that seemed to stick out was the local barber shop complete with a red-and-white striped pole out the front. A St Vincent de Paul opportunity shop sat next to it, its windows full of old clothes and other bric-a-brac. The whole place had that sleepy appearance of a town that hadn't changed much in fifty years; like something out of a book on early Australiana. Nice little town mused Norton, but I'm not here to play
Ask the Ley land Brothers
. It's down to business. The chemist shop and supermarket are still open, but I'll go to the hardware store first.

The two front windows were dusty and full of dead flies and everything else you'd expect to see in a country hardware store. As he got out of the car Norton noticed that the owner was an agent for the ANZ Bank and for Australian Explosives and Detonator Company. Bloody hell, he thought. Look at that. That'd make things a bloody sight easier. But then again, a stranger in town buying dynamite... Anyway, if I can remember the recipe, this'll work just as well. A little bell above the fly screen rang as he entered the shop.

Inside, the little store was just as dusty and cluttered as the front windows. Tins of paint and gas bottles were stacked haphazardly next to chainsaws, primuses, rolls of fencing and water pump parts. A wizened old man in a grey dustcoat and flanelette shirt appeared from out of nowhere at the sound of the bell. With his unruly hair and glasses perched on the end of his nose he looked just as dusty and cluttered as his shop.