The Day of the Gecko

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘So that’s it, eh?’ said Les.

  ‘Basically. All it is is a Claymore mine. Except instead of ball-bearings and shrapnel spraying out the front, there’ll be a small, fully contained thermal fireball — only blue with orange tints. They’re quite pretty really. There’ll be some noise and a few shockwaves for a moment. Nothing bad. Then that side of the handball court and the wall will look as if it’s been whipped out like a scoop of ice-cream, only with pumice flavouring. It might get a bit dusty too. So bring a hankie or something to put over your face.’

  ‘What about radioactivity?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about. I’m only using cooked-up, spent uranium, and what there is’ll get blown away. But wash your clothes and have a good shower later if you want to.’

  ‘I think I’ll be having a long shower.’

  ‘Well, that’s about it. All we can do now is sit around and wait till it’s time to go. You got some dark clothes you can wear tonight, Les?’

  ‘Yeah. I got some stuff in my bag.’

  ‘Okay, then why don’t we sit around, watch a bit of TV and relax. You’re not hungry are you, Les?’ Norton shook his head. ‘We might make some coffee and toast later, and be ready to leave by nine.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Les. ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Cybill’ and ‘Murphy Brown’ were funny. They had half a pot of coffee and some toast and were watching something about Russia on SBS when Les drifted into his room to see what was in his bag — something dark and something he didn’t need. His jeans were dark enough and he had his black grunge boots. He’d also tossed in a long-sleeved black T-shirt he’d bought when he was drunk at a Meat Balls ‘Fat Out Of Hell’ concert one night. And a dark blue bushmaster jacket George Brennan had conned him into buying at the club on another night. It was brand-new and had pockets and velcro catches all over it. But it was two sizes too big and you could have hidden a side of beef in it. Les got into his outfit, looked in the mirror and shook his head. I look like Matt Helm wearing a life-jacket. He had one last look around Susie’s room, then turned the light out and went into the lounge room. The Gecko was standing in front of his bags wearing black sneakers, blue tracksuit pants, a black T-shirt and the same jacket he had on at the station.

  ‘Nice outfit, Les. I see you’re a Thomas Cook man, too.’

  ‘I wouldn’t wear anything else, Garrick.’

  The Gecko looked at Les for a moment or two and he was definitely smiling. ‘Well, Les,’ he said, ‘I don’t quite know how to say this, but, this is it — you’ve been great to be on board with, and I’d like to offer you my hand. I hope everything goes to plan tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s hope so, Garrick. I have to tell you, though, it wasn’t quite the five days I had planned.’

  Les offered his hand and both men shook warmly and sincerely.

  ‘Now if you’d like to give me a hand with some of this, we’ll get going.’

  The Gecko picked up a blue canvas bag. Les picked up his bag and overnight bag.

  ‘Well, at least you don’t need your crutch now, Major. That’s one good thing.’

  ‘Yes, lad,’ replied the major. ‘I certainly don’t need it now. But I’ll keep it just the same. You never know when my ankle might go on me again.’

  Les hit the security buttons and turned out the lights, then they went down to the garage. Les got the car out, then put the major’s bags in the back, while he sat in the front holding the blue canvas bag. Les hit the button for the garage gate and they cruised up the side into Hall Street and headed for the boatsheds at Ben Buckler.

  Not a great deal was said during the short drive from Hall Street down to Campbell Parade, then Ramsgate Avenue. Les was hoping the bomb wouldn’t go off in the major’s lap and he was concentrating on something, though the major did say something about how he had two hand grenades with him in case some rubble needed shifting, and that he usually fired these bombs by remote control, but seeing as there were so many mobile phones, electronic garage doors, two-way radios and whatever else in the area, he was using cable, so they might have to get a bit closer to the explosion than usual. But it was nothing to worry about. No, nothing to worry about, mused Les, as they parked in the small reserve above the big rock at Ben Buckler. I’ve always wanted to be standing at ground-zero when an atom bomb goes off.

  The half moon slipped behind one of the numerous cloud banks crowding the night sky when they got out of the car. The air was somewhat humid and thick and a light southerly was tossing a few white horses across the inky blue water of Bondi Bay and a small choppy swell was washing unevenly against the shoreline. Traffic lights cruising up and down Campbell Parade seemed to blend in with the lights from the surrounding shops and buildings, melding in turn with the other buzz of street noise, and at the opposite end of the bay, the few remaining lights of Bondi baths and the Icebergs seemed to twinkle forlornly in the distance. It was definitely an ideal night to bomb an old building. Les took the major’s bags from the back of the utility and put them on the floor in the front of the car. Ben Buckler was a secluded area of Bondi and it was Friday night, so there was a good chance the bags’d be gone when they came back, along with the tonneau cover. Norton made sure the car was locked, the major picked up his blue canvas bag and they walked down Ramsgate Avenue to Bondi promenade.

  They didn’t say a great deal walking along the promenade either, it was well lit up and there was no shortage of people around. Couples arm in arm or hand in hand, kids on roller blades and bikes, others in small gangs either looking for trouble or hoping trouble would find them. Above the promenade on Queen Elizabeth Drive you could hear the pounding boom-boom-boom of house music pumping out of the suburbanite hoons’ cars either prowling up the Drive or parked nose against the railing. This caused Norton to flippantly remark to the major that, no matter how loud his bomb was, you’d be flat out hearing it amongst the thumping disco banality filling the air. The Gecko flippantly agreed. They reached the end of the promenade, then followed the path up to the steps near the toilet block that would lead them, together, into Notts Avenue for the last time. The baths were softly lit and naturally deserted, but as they approached the front door to the Icebergs the first thing they noticed splattered against the wall opposite was HANDS OF THE BERGS. DEATH TO THE ZIONIST DOGS. AL FATAH. You couldn’t miss it, even at night. It was bright red in letters about two metres high. Les imagined Eddie must have used a stepladder to put it up there.

  ‘Nice to see Eddie’s done his bit for multi-culturalism,’ remarked Norton.

  ‘Yeah. It’s a pity he can’t spell,’ replied the major.

  Three or four cars were sitting under the streetlights when they reached the end of Notts Avenue and the same lights cast a milky yellow pall over the slope leading down to the handball court. The major had an instinctive look around, then gave Les a nod and they started climbing down the sandy trail to the back way into the baths.

  There was a slight swell bumping against the shoreline and, although that end of the beach was more sheltered against the southerly, a fine mist of salty spray hung in the warm night air as they carefully hopped from one rock to the next in the darkness. The pool where Eddie would bring the rubber ducky in was about half full and swirling around noticeably with the tide, but Les couldn’t see him having any trouble getting it in; just as long as they could get it back out again with the extra passengers, alive and deceased. As they passed it, they both had another instinctive look around, then scampered quickly over the remaining rocks, past the pumphouse, then up the short set of steps and straight into the back of the handball court. It was just as dirty and still stank of their piss from last time they were in there. Only now it was a gloomy darkness, with barely enough light to cast a shadow.

  ‘Okay, Les,’ said the major, keeping his voice down. ‘You don’t have to do anything. Just keep an eye out, that’s all.’

  ‘Righto.’ Les looked around and began wishing he was somewhere else.

&n
bsp; The Gecko placed the blue canvas bag under the shelter next to the two meter boxes and unzipped it, taking out a small torch which he placed in his vest pocket. The mine was wrapped in a small thermal blanket with its legs folded underneath; he placed that beside the bag. Next was the spool of cable and the trigger housing, which he placed on the ground near to the mine. The Gecko then stood up and walked over to the handball court and the wall where he moved the beam from the torch around as if he was looking for something or making some last calculation. While he was looking around and watching the major, Les suddenly got this feeling someone was watching him. Les always had a sixth sense, which had developed working on the door when you’re trying to stay a couple of lengths in front of the trouble, and it hit him right in the pit of his stomach. Except for his eyes swivelling round, Norton stood stock still as he tried to fathom the situation. They were both definitely being watched. Two small red dots just above the floor beneath the shelter caught Les’s eye. He watched, transfixed, in the darkness for a second or two. Next thing a shiny black rat about as big as a Shetland pony leapt off the bench, hit the ground with a squeal and galloped over Norton’s feet, straight out the entrance where they’d come in.

  ‘Ohh shit!!’ he yelped.

  ‘What’s up?’ hissed the major.

  ‘A bloody rat just ran over my foot. Jesus!’

  ‘A rat? Christ! I thought you’d been shot.’ The Gecko muttered something and went back to what he was doing.

  God! I don’t like this, Les mumbled to himself, as his nerves settled down and he went back to keeping an eye on things. Rats, bombs, hand grenades, old bodies. I got a bad feeling about this, somehow. The major finished running his torch round the walls and that and appeared to be staring at something in the light at his feet. He bent down for a few moments, then stood up again and seemed to be deep in thought as if something was wrong. In the dark silence of the old handball court, this got Norton more than a bit concerned. All he wanted to do was get the job done and get out of the place.

  ‘Everything all right, Major?’ he enquired, trying to sound casual.

  The Gecko continued to stare at the ground a moment more, then turned to Les. ‘Someone’s been in here today.’

  Les stared down at the major’s feet. There were chalk marks and notations on the green edge of the handball court, some of which had been scuffed out. ‘Probably some blokes in here playing handball,’ he suggested, ‘or council building inspectors.’

  ‘Yeah, you could be right.’ The major glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, let’s pull our fingers out. It’s showtime.’

  The Gecko put his torch back inside his vest, picked up the mine, placed it carefully on the ground next to where Les had seen the chalk marks, with a couple of old housebricks across the folded metal legs. From where Les was standing, it appeared to be angled slightly forward and down. The major then screwed the detonating cable into the lug on top and ran the cable out. He gave the mine another small adjustment, then walked back, put the thermal blanket in the bag and picked up the spool of cable and the firing mechanism.

  ‘Here, Les,’ he said. ‘You take the bag while I run the cable out. We’ll go up those stairs near where we came in.’

  There was a narrow set of concrete stairs outside the entrance to the handball court that ran under the landing and up into the Icebergs Club. Les started walking towards the stairs, watching as The Gecko ran the cable out behind him and followed him up the stairs. About halfway up the steps, the major stopped.

  ‘Okay. Just here’ll do.’

  Norton sat on one of the steps and noticed he was sweating. His heart also felt as if it was going to pound through his chest, while he drowned in the adrenalin that was squirting out of his stomach. Les had been a little nonchalant at times through the week, making jokes about what was going on. Now, this was it, the moment of truth; and no matter what might happen, there was no turning back. Whatever Norton’s feelings, The Gecko ignored him. He clamped the cable into the firing mechanism and slid the top off. From his pocket he took two small ear-plugs and stuffed them in his ears, then looked at his watch on his left wrist while his right hand held the trigger. Les watched the back of his head in the gloom for a short while then his head seemed to nod slightly. Les stuffed his fingers in his own ears and closed his eyes tight just as The Gecko closed his right hand.

  The hoons on the prom and just about every other citizen around the beachfront and beyond must have wondered what was going on. One minute there was just the usual street noise of cars and pumping techno music. Then a massive explosion shook all the surrounding windows, interrupted the music and rattled out across the bay like the crack of some monstrous tidal wave smashing down onto wet sand. This was followed by a huge blue fireball, tinged with red and orange, that lit up half the beachfront, as it rolled and tumbled like it was trying to devour itself before it blasted out from the back of the baths, sending half the handball court, the sea wall, concrete, rocks and anything else in its path splashing and spattering into the ocean. What didn’t get blown out across the bay or up into the air tumbled down onto the rocks in front of where the handball court used to be. The flash vanished and the echo from the explosion faded, then a gigantic smoke ring spiralled up into the night sky through the settling dust and ash.

  From where Les was sitting, it was like being trapped in an Otto bin before someone threw it down a lift shaft. Everything around him seemed to shake and the noise was unimaginable. Norton missed the blue fireball, but, even with his eyes jammed shut, it was as if someone had let off a flash camera next to his head. Then there was this awful silence.

  ‘Righto, come on, Les, bring the bag. Let’s go.’

  The major’s slightly muffled voice snapped Les back to life. He blinked his eyes open and noticed The Gecko had a hankie tied round his face; the one thing Les had forgotten to bring. ‘Yeah, all right.’

  Les picked up the bag and scrambled down the stairs after the major, who was winding up the cable as he went; arms and legs going at a hundred miles an hour. They raced along the landing and into the handball court, or what was left of it. It was pretty much like the major had said. As if someone had taken out a giant scoop and flicked it out into the ocean. Where the handball court had been was a crater about two metres deep and about six metres across, leading out to sea where, if Les wasn’t mistaken, a black rubber ducky was coming into view. Part of the wall into the handball court had been blown off, the fence and the far wall were down, and there was a fine dust settling over everything — something like volcanic ash. But where the sea wall and the handball court had been blown out, it almost formed a ramp down to the rockpool so, apart from the fine dust everywhere, getting the two bodies down to the rubber ducky wouldn’t be much of a problem at all. The burnt-off end of the cable finished near the crater. The major wound the last of it up and handed the lot to Les.

  ‘Put these in the bag, Les,’ he said and jumped down into the crater. ‘All we’ve got to do now is get these bodies and piss off.’

  Les took the spool and stuffed it in the canvas bag. He was about to join the major when suddenly Les heard this odd scratching, scampering, squealing sound. He looked at the ash-covered floor and it was like a moving grey carpet. Cockroaches. Millions of them. Along with the relations of the rat Les had seen earlier and their relations. Whatever hadn’t been nuked was heading for the nearest exit.

  ‘Don’t worry, Major. I’m right behind you.’ Les stomped two fat ones that were just about to get on his boots and jumped in the dust-filled crater.

  The Gecko was scuffing around on the floor of the crater with his foot. Les put the bag down and watched him as the fine, almost greasy, dust settled in his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, down his T-shirt and anywhere else he had an opening, like dry cement. As he was standing there watching The Gecko, Les heard another strange noise. A creaking, groaning sound, like some giant walking down a huge, old wooden staircase. It was weird and seemed to be coming from beneath him as well as a
round him. But sure enough, where the major had been scuffing with his foot, a slight hump was sticking out from the smooth floor of the crater that looked like dust-covered oilskin. Once again The Gecko hadn’t ceased to amaze. He’d not only gauged the depth of the crater almost to the centimetre, all the surrounding soil and smashed concrete had been loosened up, so they’d have no trouble digging the bodies out as well. Les almost allowed himself a grim smile. Apart from being covered in dust, sweat, and all sorts of other shit in the air, and having cockroaches and rats crawling over him, it didn’t look like it was turning out to be too bad a night. Les was about to comment on this to the major when the far side of the crater erupted in great plumes of dust and the angry whine of ricocheting bullets. Les didn’t have to be told twice this time to pull his head down. He dived up against the opposite wall of the crater and tried to dig his way into it as another spray of bullets kicked up more dusty geysers about his head. Les heard the faint rattle of a bolt action and the clatter of spent casings landing on concrete and also didn’t need to be told someone was firing a silenced automatic weapon at him. He turned to see the major had tom off his hankie and was burrowed up against the wall next to him.

  ‘Major, what the fuck’s goin’ on?’

  ‘Someone’s up there with a machine gun,’ answered the major. ‘Two of them.’

  ‘Not the bloody Mossad again?’