The Godson (43 page)

‘Okay. Now let's have a look at this back of yours. You've probably just… Holy bloody hell!'

Alison's eyes followed Norton's. She screwed up her face and sucked some air in through her teeth. ‘Oh shit!' she said.

Sitting behind Peregrine's armpit was an ugly, red lump with a black head on it the size of a grape seed. Radiating out from the lump were several thick red lines of about four inches in length. The area around the lump was also red and inflamed.

‘What's the matter?' Peregrine asked anxiously.

Norton gave the lump a light squeeze and Peregrine winced. ‘You know what's up with you, you stupid prick? You've been bitten by a tick.'

‘A what?'

‘A tick.' Norton prodded the lump and had a closer look. ‘Yeah. That's what these red lines are. The ECM rash. You've scratched the body off, but the head's still in there with the poison. Why didn't you tell me, you wombat?'

‘I… didn't really…'

Norton snapped his fingers. ‘I would have noticed it only you had your T-shirt on down at the billabong yesterday.' He gave a bit of a laugh. ‘You've got Lyme disease, old son.'

‘Please, Les. I'm not in the mood for your jokes. I want a doctor.'

‘I'm not joking, mate,' laughed Les. ‘That's what it's called — Lyme disease, tick poisoning.' He gave Peregrine a light slap on the good side of his back. ‘That's one thing I'll never do, Pezz. Call you a limey. You'll always be a rotten pom to me.'

‘Thank you. Now take me to a doctor.'

Norton shook his head. ‘You're not gonna need a doctor. Alison, get me that lighter out of your bag, will you?' Alison headed for Les's bedroom Les gave the lump on Peregrine's back another squeeze. ‘Now where's my Bowie knife?'

‘Bowie knife?' howled Peregrine. ‘I say, steady on.'

Chuckling like a drain at Peregrine's apprehension, Norton got a safety pin from his first-aid kit. He took the cigarette lighter from Alison and held the point over it till it was red hot. Les was about twenty times stronger than Peregrine at the best of times, but ill with Lyme disease, the Englishman didn't stand any chance at all. Norton forced his chest against the back of the chair and stuck the glowing point of the safety pin into the black head on the red lump in Peregrine's back. Peregrine howled, but the jaws on the tick's head automatically closed forcing it back out of the hole it had dug in the Englishman's back.

‘There you are,' smiled Les, picking the head off Peregrine's back. ‘One shitty little tick.' He dropped the head on the table and mashed it to nothing with his thumb nail. ‘I'll give it one thing, though — it only ate at the best.'

‘God, that bloody well hurt,' cursed Peregrine.

‘Yeah. For about two seconds.' Les dabbed some iodine on the hole and covered it with a band-aid. ‘When I take Alison into Murwillumbah I'll get some stuff from the chemist to draw all the poison out. You'll be as right as rain in the morning.'

‘Thank you,' replied Peregrine testily. ‘Now I might go back and lay down for a while.'

‘Good on you. You want a hand to your room?'

Peregrine shook his head. ‘I can manage. Goodbye, my dear,' he said to Alison. ‘It's been very nice to have met you.'

‘Yeah, you too Peregrine. Take care of yourself.'

They watched Peregrine slowly climb the stairs then Les turned to Alison. ‘And now, my dear, would you care for a tour of the estate? Or perhaps madam would prefer another bubble bath?'

Alison slipped her arms around Norton's neck and kissed him. ‘The bubble bath sounds like a good idea,' she smiled. ‘But I'll settle for a tour of the estate.'

‘As madam wishes. Come this way.'

Hand in hand they walked around the fields and the billabongs. Stopping to watch the birds or toss a stone in the creek, have a kiss and a cuddle, a tease and a chase and all the other silly things people are apt to do when they find themselves suddenly falling in love. Sadly before they both knew it, it was getting on for one o'clock and almost time to go. They strolled back to the barbecue area and sat facing each other over a last bottle of beer before leaving.

‘God, this place is so lovely,' said Alison. ‘The birds. All those trees. That little billabong.'

‘You've barely seen half of it.' Les took her tiny hands in his. ‘I'm going to be here for another week at least, I reckon. Why don't you try and come back down again before I go back to Sydney?'

Alison nodded. ‘I might be able to arrange something,' she smiled.

‘Unreal.' Norton's grin faded as he looked at his watch. ‘Well, what did the man say? Something about parting is such sweet sorrow?'

‘Yeah, something like that.'

Norton finished his beer and looked at Alison. His heart felt like a huge lead weight sitting in his chest. If there's anything sweet about saying goodbye to you, Alison, he thought, it's a mystery to me.

C
ALL IT THE
luck of the Irish, call it coincidence, call it what you like. But the two cells of IRA men couldn't believe their good fortune shortly after they rolled into Murwillumbah around eleven. The trip had been easy and without incident. Taking turns at driving and catching a nap on the back seat, the Irishmen arrived with their eyes a little grainy perhaps, but not all that tired. They had closed the distance between the two cars shortly before they reached Murwillumbah. Patrick was driving the first one with Liam alongside and Logan in the back. They turned left onto the bridge and one of the first shops they noticed when they took the next street on the right was the Tweed Valley Stock And Station Agents And Auctioneers. Liam said to stop and motioned for the others to pull up behind.

‘That estate agent's open over there,' he said. ‘May as well see what he's got to say while we're here. And remember, we're English.'

They got out of the car, stretched their legs and Liam told the others to wait there while they went over and quickly checked out the estate agency. There was only one person in the shop: he was about five feet tall wearing a white shirt and blue trousers. This person had no reservations whatever about working on Sundays. Saturdays — maybe, but definitely not Sundays, especially if there was a dollar to be turned.

‘Yes, gentlemen?' said Benny Rabinski, giving the three Irishmen his oiliest, number one, real estate agent's smile. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘Good morning,' said Patrick, slipping into an upper class, English accent. ‘We're out here from England and we're thinking of investing in some property in this area.'

Benny's round, bald face lit up like the aurora borealis. ‘Certainly. Would you gentlemen care to take a seat?'

‘Well, actually,' said Patrick, ‘to get straight to the point: the property we're interested in is called Cedar Glen, out at Yurriki. Would you happen to know it at all?'

Benny Rabinski beamed even brighter. He made a magnanimous gesture with his hands. ‘Gentlemen,' he said. ‘Such a coincidence this is! I happen to be the sole agent for Cedar Glen.'

The three Irishmen blinked at Benny then exchanged quick glances. They were barely able to contain themselves.

‘You what?' said Logan, without thinking.

‘Cedar Glen is on the market. I'm the only agent with that property on his books.'

‘I say,' drawled Liam. ‘How simply marvellous.'

‘An absolutely amazing coincidence,' echoed Patrick.

‘Were you gentlemen thinking of going out there now?' asked Benny.

‘No. Not today,' said Liam. ‘We… have to go back to where we're staying. We're expecting a call from our broker in London.'

‘Whereabouts are you staying?' asked Benny, doing his best to make polite conversation.

‘Up at… ah…'

‘On the Gold Coast,' cut in Patrick. ‘Surfers Paradise.'

‘Surfers Paradise. Yehh!' Benny grimaced. ‘Too gawdy. Too many signs. Down here is better.'

‘We couldn't agree with you more,' smiled Liam.

‘And when would you gentlemen like to inspect Cedar Glen?'

‘How about Wednesday?' said Liam. ‘In the afternoon.'

‘I'll make sure I'm here,' said Benny. ‘Is there a phone number where I can contact you?'

‘There is. But I'm dashed if I can remember the number,' smiled Patrick. The others nodded in dumb agreement.

‘There's only one minor problem,' said Benny. ‘A couple of gentlemen are staying there at the moment, renting with the intention of buying. I'd have to arrange with them for you to inspect the property. Actually one's an Englishman.'

‘Really?' purred Liam. ‘And who might the other chap be?'

‘An Australian. A Mr Norton. You wouldn't know him.' And nor would fine gentlemen like you want to, Benny thought to himself.

‘Jolly good,' smiled Liam. ‘Anyway, we must be off. And we'll be down to see you on Wednesday. In the meantime, could you give us the address of Cedar Glen, just in case we decide to drive out and take a bit of a look from the outside?'

‘No trouble at all,' smiled Benny. ‘In fact I'll draw you a map.'

‘You're too kind,' said Patrick, returning Benny's smile.

Minutes later they left the estate agency, with Benny's map and his business card. It was all they could do to stop from jumping up and down in the air.

‘You'll not believe this,' said Liam, poking his head in the driver's side window of the other car. ‘The fockin' yid in that estate agency drew us a map of how to get to Cedar Glen.'

‘He didn't?' said Tom Mooney from the back seat.

‘Here. Take a fockin' look.' Liam handed Robert, behind the wheel, Benny's map.

‘Would you look at that?' said Tom, straining over from the back seat. ‘Do you want to go out now then?'

‘No. There's no great hurry.' Liam nodded to a large RSL club not far from the bridge and opposite where they were parked. ‘I think we should go across to that fine-looking club. Have a pint or two and a decent meal while we discuss this. It's almost lunchtime.'

‘Good idea,' said Logan. ‘I'm starving hungry and I've the devil of a thirst.'

They drove round and parked in the RSL parking lot.

Whatever their feelings and bitterness towards each other, Irish are still Irish the world over. Take them away from ‘the troubles' and they're the happiest, most gregarious people on God's earth. Liam and his two cells may have been the type
of people who wouldn't think twice about blowing you apart with a shotgun or shooting your kneecaps off if they had to. But paradoxically, when it came to a friendly beer or a laugh or doing someone a turn, the same men couldn't be there quickly enough.

The Murwillumbah RSL was quite large and modern. The bars were upstairs, with the usual banks of poker machines, a dining room, a bistro and a good sized auditorium overlooking the river. The six Irishmen found a table then Liam and Patrick went to the bar. While they were waiting to be served they couldn't help but notice the two fair-haired young blokes standing next to them in shorts, T-shirts and thongs. Their eyes were bloodshot, they hadn't had a shave for at least three days and even though it wasn't midday they were both laughing like loons and well on their way to getting roaring drunk.

‘Having a bit of a celebration, are we, lads?' smiled Liam.

‘Yeah sort of, mate,' slurred the young bloke closest to him.

Liam couldn't help but notice the bandaged leg. ‘That's a nasty wound you've got there, lad. What ever happened to you?'

‘I cut it on a rock and got twenty stitches in it,' was the reply. Then the young bloke and his mate fell about laughing.

‘And you're laughing about it? You're a strange fellah, I must say.'

‘Ohh, don't worry about it mate,' said the other young bloke. ‘That's his million dollar wound. What did we work it out at? Five thousand a stitch. You should have cut your bloody leg right off. We'd both be millionaires.' He hit his mate across the back and they roared laughing spilling beer over the bar.

Liam shook his head and looked at Patrick. Are all Australians as crazy as this? But there was something about the likeable, drunken young bloke that had him intrigued.

‘You're talking in riddles, lad. Tell me what happened.'

‘I saved some pommy from drowning. And he gave me 'n me mate a hundred grand each. Mate, we've been pissed since Thursday. And we ain't even started yet.'

They both roared laughing again spilling more beer on each other.

‘So here's to Sir Pomegranate Normanhurst.'

‘At least that's what it said on the cheques,' said his mate, then they burst into more drunken laughter falling against the bar.

Liam exchanged a quick glance with Patrick. ‘What was that name you said again?' he said quietly.

‘Ohh, I dunno,' said the bloke with the bandaged leg. ‘Peregrine. Pomegranite. Normanhurst. Something or other.'

‘But, Jesus,' slurred his mate. ‘He sure must have had some money.'

‘Well,' said Liam. ‘You're a fine broth of a lad. And I insist on buying you and your pal a drink. Come on now. What'll it be?'

‘All right. We'll force a couple down just to be sociable. Two schooners of Brown Old.'

Geoff Nottage and Brian Byrne had told everyone between Cabarita and Murwillumbah what happened on Wednesday and Thursday so many times half the population of the Tweed Valley had corns on their ears. As they slurped their beers they told a very interested Liam and Patrick what had happened.

‘And the big red-headed bloke who was with the English-man?' said Liam. ‘Tell me a bit more about him.'

‘Ohh, good bloke,' said Geoff.

‘Yeah, bloody oath,' agreed Brian. ‘Dunno his name. But top notch, don't worry about that.'