The Godson (52 page)

Renwell joined Ledgerwood and they both looked decidedly uncomfortable as Les and Peregrine mugged it up in front of the blood-smeared, bullet-holed station wagon. Ledgerwood shot off four photos then Peregrine took his camera back.

‘Could you give us a few minutes?' he said.

‘Certainly, sir,' replied Ledgerwood.

The two cops walked over and got into separate cars, leaving Les and Peregrine alone in the driveway. There was an awkward silence for a moment, then Peregrine spoke.

‘Well I guess this is it, Les,' he said.

‘Yeah. I guess it is, mate,' replied Les.

In those six words Norton had summed it up simply and succinctly. No deep and meaningful relationship had developed between the two men or any of that bullshit — they had simply become, to use the Australian vernacular, just that: good mates.

‘What can I say?' said Peregrine.

‘Yeah,' nodded Les. ‘What can you say?'

‘We've had some fun.'

‘Yes, we sure have,' nodded Les again. ‘You've got me into six fights. I've been shot at. Blown up. I'm half deaf in one ear. My ghetto-blaster's fucked and I'm barred from the local pub. Yeah, it's been great, Peregrine. Don't forget to let me know when you're coming out again.'

‘Les, you are absolutely incorrigible,' grinned Peregrine. Then he extended his hand and his handshake was as warm and almost as strong as Les's. ‘Promise me you'll come and visit me in England. I'd love you to.'

‘You know, I might even do that, Peregrine.'

‘You've got my card. Tell me when you're coming, I'll send you the plane ticket. There'll be a limousine waiting for you. You'll have a car over there. I'll guarantee you the time of your life. And you won't spend a penny.'

‘Sounds good, Peregrine. I reckon I'd be a mug to knock that back.'

‘You certainly would.'

‘Anyway, come on. Dick Tracy and Sam Catchem are waiting for you.'

Les walked Peregrine to the car, they shook hands once more then Peregrine got into the back seat of the Fairlane.

‘Goodbye, Les Norton,' he grinned, as the window slid down.

‘Goodbye, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst — the Third,' Les grinned back. ‘You take care of yourself.'

‘You too, Les.'

The two engines growled into life then slowly the cars circled the driveway around the house to come past Les again. Norton waved and the last he saw of Peregrine was the Englishman's face, smiling and waving to him as the two government cars headed for the front gates.

Norton watched them disappear then went to the barbecue area, got a beer and sat down. Well, I guess that's that, he mused. And there's heaps worse blokes than Peregrine around, I reckon. Before he knew it he'd finished that beer and was into a second. Well, what'll I do? Hang around here for another day? There's no TV, no phone and now I got no radio and no cunt to talk to. And Rabinski could put his head in at any time. It's all right with those federal cops, but the state ones could be a different kettle of fish altogether. Especially when they find out who I work for. Norton finished beer number two and drummed his fingers on the table. His gaze drifted across to where the big hole had been and the six Irishmen were now rotting away under ten feet of earth. No, fuck it. I'll give the place a bit of a clean up, leave a note for Ronnie, if he doesn't call around, and piss off tonight. Les had one more beer and started to do just that.

T
HE TRIP BACK
to Sydney wasn't bad, but it was by no means good either. After packing the car with whatever groceries and booze were left over, giving the place a tidy up and leaving a note for Ronnie with his phone number, Les had a couple of hours snooze in the afternoon and left around eight. He dropped the keys in at Rabinski's without a note and after that it was an all-night drive peering through a half-shattered windscreen. There was a greasy hamburger at Coffs Harbour, a quarter of a chicken and chips at Kempsey and nothing else but staring into darkness and oncoming headlights as the miles went by. Les stopped for a coffee and more petrol at Bulahdelah, and the thin rays of the winter sun were just starting to come up when he got to the outskirts of Newcastle. He reached
the harbour bridge around eight-fifteen, just in time for the morning peak hour rush. After the clear balmy weather of the Tweed Valley, Sydney was cold, cloudy and polluted. The sou'westers had blown most of the industrial pollution out to sea but a couple of hundred thousand cars and trucks spewing out clouds of carbon monoxide more than made up for it. Then there was the noise. The only good thing was he'd picked up a bit of mud and dirt on the trip which covered the bullet holes apart from the ones in the windscreen, and he'd hardly got a second look from any of the cars alongside him. Stiff, sore and tired, he pulled up outside his semi in Cox Avenue some time after nine. It was good to be home, or at least to get out of the car.

Norton's old Ford was still intact, which after sitting in the one place in Bondi for two weeks is a bit of a plus. Les shivered in the cold as he looked at the sky; banks of clouds coming in from the Blue Mountains suggested it could rain before the day was out. He shivered again as he got his bags out of the station wagon, hurried straight inside and dumped them in his room. Warren's room was empty and a cup and saucer in the rack and a warm kettle in the kitchen said he must have only just left for work. That's what I'll do, thought Les, have a nice hot cup of tea and some toast. When that was ready Norton somehow seemed inexorably drawn into the lounge room to look at something he hadn't seen for two weeks. TV. He switched it on and flipped around the channels, eyes grainy but too tired to sleep. It was all there before him. ‘Here's Humphrey'. ‘Play School'. ‘Mulligrubs'. ‘Fat Cat And Friends'. ‘General Hospital'. All the things he'd missed. Before Les knew it, Bill Collins was winding up the pitch for his midday movie,
Four Faces West
with Joel McRae, Francis Dee and Charles Bickford, and Les had started to wake up to himself.

‘What the fuck am I doing watching this shit?' he asked out loud.

Les switched off the TV and debated what to do. He decided against ringing Price or any of them and letting them know he was back. He didn't feel like talking to anyone at the moment; even his own house seemed strange to him and somehow he couldn't stop his thoughts drifting back to Cedar Glen with its trees, birds and billabongs. Ah well, better unpack my gear and get the rest of the stuff out of the car. Then I might go for a walk, get some meat and vegetables and make a casserole. And have a bit of a think. I'm buggered if I'm going to bed.

It was late in the afternoon and getting colder by the minute
when Les got back home. He'd ended up walking to Bronte cemetery along the cliffs, gazing out at the flat blue sea, avoiding people as he tried to get the peaceful openness of the colonel's property out of his mind and readjust to Sydney and the crowds and what now seemed to be new noises. For an old country boy he was finding it a lot harder than he thought and at times he felt like getting back in the car and driving back up there. Ah, maybe I'm just tired, he mumbled to himself. The blade steak casserole was ready and Les was sipping a bottle of Gosser when the front door opened around six; there was no mistaking those nimble footsteps coming down the hall.

‘Well, bugger me,' grinned Warren from the kitchen doorway. ‘The bloody landlord's back. How are you, mate?'

‘G'day Woz,' replied Norton. ‘How are you going?'

‘Good. When did you get back?'

‘This morning. I drove all night.'

‘Hello. Have to make a fast get away did we? Where's Prince Charles?'

‘He went back to Brisbane. Flew back to England from there.'

‘How come?'

‘He just did.'

Warren went to the other side of the kitchen and placed a pizza near the sink. He noticed the stew simmering on the stove and smiled.

‘So, what happened up there? Did you have a good time? Was there any sheilas? Did Peregrine get over his nervous breakdown?'

‘You ask many questions, grasshopper,' replied Les tiredly. ‘Why don't we have some tea and I'll tell you all about it?'

‘Okay.' Warren opened the fridge for a soft drink. ‘Jesus Christ!' he exclaimed. ‘What's all this? Stella Artois. Gosser. Becks. Bloody Corona. Even three bottles of French Champagne! And not a can of Fourex in sight.' He looked at Les in bewilderment. ‘What the fuck's going on? Have you caught some rare tropical disease or something?'

‘No,' sniffed Norton. ‘I've just re-educated my drinking habits, that's all,' he added with a yawn.

‘You've
what?

‘Re-educated my drinking habits. I just find that Australian beer can be a bit, I don't know, rebarbative at times.'

‘What? Ohh, don't give me the shits. You must have won this in a raffle. Or stole it.'

‘You are a peasant, Warren, there's no two ways about it.' Norton shook his head. ‘Come on. Let's get into that casserole.'

‘I wish I'd known you were coming home,' said Warren. ‘I wouldn't have bought that bloody pizza. How come you never rang anyway?'

‘We didn't have the phone on at the farm,' yawned Les.

‘Oh.'

They had a beer each and started on the stew. With every mouthful Norton's eyes seemed to keep closing. By the time they'd finished he was almost asleep at the table.

‘Are you all right?' said Warren. ‘You look rooted.'

His eyes half-closed, Les rose from the table. ‘Will you clean up, Woz? I'm going to bed.'

‘Bed? It's not even half past seven.'

‘I don't give a fuck,' mumbled Les. ‘I'm going to bed.'

‘Well, what about the trip? What about what happened?'

‘I'll tell you about it tomorrow. G'night, Woz.'

Norton shuffled off to his bedroom and left Warren sitting there. Despite cars going up and down the road, sirens screaming in the distance and people walking past his window, Les slept like the dead.

A
FTER NOT MOVING
all night, Norton woke up feeling fresh as a daisy around six-thirty the following morning. There was no hanging around in shorts and a T-shirt like at Cedar Glen. This was Sydney in August, the house was cold and it was straight into a tracksuit and thick woollen socks. The bathroom scales told him he'd put on nearly three kilograms while he was away, pigging himself on steaks and gallons of imported beer, so a hard run and some even harder exercises were in order. It was too bleak for the beach; Centennial Park would be the go, besides, the ponds and trees might bring back memories of Cedar Glen. Might.

It had rained overnight and all the mud and dust had washed off the station wagon revealing the bullet holes, which looked bigger and brighter than ever. Les wasn't too keen to be seen driving it around and figured that the sooner he got it back to Bill Kileen the better. He replaced the spark-plug leads in his own car, it kicked over almost first time and Les headed for Waverley. When he got back, red-faced and streaked with sweat, Warren was in the kitchen finishing his second croissant and coffee over the
Telegraph
before going to work.

‘Hello, mate,' he said brightly, as Les came through the door. ‘How was the run?'

‘Good,' replied Les. ‘Jesus, it's cold outside, but.'

‘Yeah. It's been freezing the last couple of weeks. What was it like up there?'

‘Grouse. We were swimming and sunbaking in a billabong nearly every day.'

‘Yeah I noticed you had a bit of a tan up.'

Norton went to the fridge and got some mineral water. ‘So what have you been up to during the landlord's absence? Been having any wild parties while I was away? I hope you haven't been dragging any low molls back here.'

‘I don't drag low molls back here, Les,' replied Warren, continuing to read the paper. ‘I might invite a young lady back for a drink now and again. The low molls are your department, and the riff raff you rub shoulders with in your occupation as chief thumper and knee-cap dislocater at Kings Cross.'

‘Ha-ha-ha,' said Norton. ‘So what have you been up to?'

‘Not much really. Just work. Been out to dinner a few times, couple of parties. In fact there's a party on up at Mojo this Friday night. If you're lucky I might take you.'

‘And why wouldn't you take me?' said Les. ‘I'm a fuckin' male model.'

‘Yes,' agreed Warren. ‘Indeed you are. The face that launched a thousand bottles of poofy wine cooler.' He pushed the paper to one side, then got up and rinsed his cup. ‘Anyway, I have to get to work. You going to be home tonight to tell me all about the trip?'

‘Yep. Sure am,' nodded Les.

‘Righto. I'll see you about six.'

‘Okay, Woz. See you then, mate.'

The front door closed and Warren was gone. Les was glancing at the front page of the paper and having another glass of mineral water when he heard the door open again. Footsteps sounded in the hallway and he looked up to see Warren staring at him.

‘Is that white station wagon out the front the one you drove up north?' he asked, trying not to raise his voice.

‘Yep,' replied Norton, continuing to look at the paper. ‘Sure is.'

‘It's full of bloody bullet holes.'

‘You noticed, Warren.'

‘What the bloody hell happened?'

‘I got into a machine gun fight. That's all.'

‘What? You're joking.' Warren blinked as Norton looked at him expressionlessly and shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ! I don't believe it.'

‘I'll tell you all about it tonight, Woz. In the meantime, don't tell anybody about the car, or where I've been. All right?'

Warren shook his head as he left. ‘Christ! Who am I living with? Dirty Harry?'

‘No. Dirty Les. I'll see you tonight, Woz.'