Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1)

by Shane Norwood

  “Skitten liggende gris! You focken dirty fockpig. I should focken kill you, so I should. You are no more the grandson for me. You hear it, ja? No more the focken grandson. I shit on you!” Exhausted and dizzy, Bjørn Eggen dropped the branch and leaned back against the hot metal of the Combi, breathing hard, as Monsoon lay curled in the fetal position, whimpering.

  Recovering his breath, Bjørn Eggen gently lifted Mary Rose from the back of the van and placed her supine in the shade of the tree, and she seemed to him as light and as frail as a bird. Dragging out the mattress from the back, he carefully rolled her onto it and removed her clothes, not concerning himself with her modesty. Fortunately, and through no foresight of Monsoon’s, the Combi had come equipped with a toolkit, and this Bjørn Eggen now lugged around to the engine, where he began to salvage what liquid he could. After half an hour, he had a container of windshield fluid, half a container of engine coolant, a whisky bottle full of discolored radiator fluid, and four hubcaps full of sump oil.

  The engine coolant he poured over Mary Rose, leaving the moisture to evaporate from her skin, and she moaned and stirred but did not wake. He put the windshield fluid to his lips, and tasted it. It was soapy, but potable, and removing his shirt, he soaked it in the liquid, and held it over Mary Rose’s lips, shepherding her as she unconsciously swallowed the precious drops. He repeated the process until she had swallowed perhaps a cup. He then poured the sump oil onto her and spread it evenly over her body, massaging it onto her swollen hands and feet.

  Finally he spread the damp shirt over her nakedness, picked up the bottle of radiator fluid, and set out to climb a distant eminence to see if he could see any sign of life or water. As he passed the still-prostrate and whining Monsoon, he attempted to spit on him, but his mouth was too dry.

  He had to rest several times as the sun rose in the sky and the heat began to pulverize him. Breathless, he reached a high point and looked around and sat down heavily as his spirits sank. It was a desolate wasteland of sparse grass dotted with slender gray trees for as far as the eye could see in any direction—no sign of human habitation, no smoke, no distant sparkle or congregation of birds or beasts to indicate the presence of water.

  And then he heard the plane. He looked up and saw the distant speck heading towards him. He scrabbled in his pockets for matches but found none, and his eyes began to search for something to signal with as the plane approached. He wanted to yell but had no voice, and anyway it was much too far away. He could tell that it was following the line of the road, which meant that it might be searching for them, and he watched anxiously as it reached the point where the Combi was parked. With indescribable relief he watched it dip and then bank into a tight circle and hold it, and he began to scramble down the hill as fast as his ancient pins would allow.

  As he approached the vehicle, he was surprised to see a column of smoke rise into the still air, and as he rounded an enormous boulder and the Combi came into view, he was even more surprised to see a lithe, naked black man squatting over a fire, cooking a large lizard.

  As he approached the man looked up, with a beatific smile on his handsome face. “Ah, g’day, mate. Tucker’s nearly ready. How d’ya like ya fucken goanna?”

  Too bewildered to speak, Bjørn Eggen looked to where he had left Mary Rose. She was gone. Rising panic caused his voice to break into falsetto as he said, “Vhat haf you vith the lady done?”

  “Ah, she’s right, mate. I ’ad to move ’er. Sun come round, see? ’Ere, I’ll show ya.”

  Bjørn Eggen followed the young man around a rocky outcrop and found Mary Rose laying in deep shade, under a simple shelter of gum branches. A small fire nearby sent up an aromatic cloud of smoke. There was a green compress on her forehead and beside her, some kind of embrocation or emollient in a gourd. Next to her was a Wellington boot or galosh of some description, and he could see that it was filled with water. Bjørn Eggen knelt beside her. She was still out, but her breathing was more regular, her pulse stronger, and she had lost her ghastly pallor and appeared now to be in a peaceful sleep. He looked up to see the young man proffering the boot.

  “’Ere, Blue. Ya look like ya need this yerself. Go slow, mate. Take ’er easy.”

  Bjørn Eggen put his lips to the neck of the boot, and the tepid, rubber-tasting water was better than any beer he had ever tasted.

  “From vhere haf come the vater?”

  “You ev to know where to look, mate. The old sheila’s ’ad a couple a sips, and I gin ’er some o’ me special brew. She’ll be right.”

  “I haf no idea how I should be thanking you, my friend,” he said, putting the boot carefully down.

  “No need, mate. We all ev to look out for each other, out ’ere. They call me Jimmy. Wombat Jimmy.”

  Bjørn Eggen stood, unsteadily, and offered his hand, observing how much Jimmy looked like a young Wally. “I am Bjørn Eggen, and my companion is Mary Rose. You are perhaps related to Wally, I think so, ja.”

  Jimmy’s face split in half. “Dunno, mate. With that old bastard, who knows?”

  “Ja, it is so. Vhat of the other one?”

  “’E’s up shit creek without a fucken paddle, mate. Crook foot, crook nose. Someone must’ve upended ’im.”

  “Ja. Is so. Vas me who haf him upended, as you say so.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Vas him who haf done this terrible thing to us. Mary Rose haf maybe to be dying from him, I think.”

  “Ah, yeah? The dirty fucken mongrel. Good on yer, mate.”

  “Where to is he now?”

  “Asleep in the Combi. I fix ’im up a bit, but ’e needs a doctor for that crook foot.”

  “Fock him. Vhat now vill ve do?”

  “‘Ang fire ’ere, I reckon. Wally reckons the truck will be ’ere bout sundown. You get a bit of rest. I’ll wake you up when it’s cooler, for your grub.”

  “Thank you again, my good friend.”

  Jimmy smiled at Bjørn Eggen, and went to attend to his goanna. The old man sat down and looked at Mary Rose. He put his hand on her forehead and found it cool and not clammy like before. He bent over awkwardly and kissed her, and then lay down beside her. The bare, baked earth was the deepest, softest, most comforting feather mattress in the world, and before he had completed his third breath he was sound asleep.

  Wally could see the fire blazing and the sparks lifting into the moonless night for a long time before they arrived at where the Combi was. Not knowing what to expect, he had come prepared and had a pump-action over-and-under 12-gauge on his lap. Helmut was driving, and Stavros was in the back with his fowling piece, which he had reloaded with buckshot. Bruce, who had abandoned his wait for Kylie Minogue, sat next to him, armed with his traditional weapons and with a broad white band painted across his face. Wally slowed as they approached, but accelerated again when he saw Jimmy silhouetted against the blaze, waving them on.

  “G’day,” Jimmy said as they began to climb out of the truck. “You blokes stop for a beer on the way, or what? Eh, Bruce, corroboree’s next month, ya fucken prawn.”

  “Fuck off, wombat fucker.”

  Wally strode straight over to where Bjørn Eggen sat by the fire. Mary Rose lay beside him awake but shivering, despite the heat.

  “G’day, mate. ’Owareya?”

  “I am fine, but Mary Rose haf not do so vell I think.”

  “What about this bladdy mongrel?”

  Monsoon was huddled on the opposite side of the fire, staring into the flames, and did not look at Wally or acknowledge his presence.

  “What happened, Bjørn Eggen?”

  “This one haf the drugs to us given, and tied us up in the car. For vhy I do not know. The car haf the engine broken and we haf become stuck. If not for Jimmy, Mary Rose would be very bad, I think. Very bad, ja.”

  Wally knelt beside Mary Rose, and took her hand. She smiled weakly, and tried to speak, but could not.

  “Vally? Vhy for have this one done this terrible thing?”

 
“The fucken wonga, mate. ’E nicked the wonga.”

  “A vonga is being vhat?”

  “I’ll explain later, mate.”

  Wally climbed into the back of the van, and banged around for a few minutes. Climbing out, he walked over to Monsoon and stood over him. “All right, you little shithead. Where is it?”

  Monsoon stared steadfastly into the fire.

  “He haf not to me anything said, since I am giving him the punch in the nose, ja.”

  “All right. ’Ere, Jimmy, find us a fucken funnel web, will ya?”

  “No worries.”

  One second Jimmy was there, the next he was gone, leaving Monsoon staring at the place where he had been, wondering what a funnel web was, but knowing that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.

  Wally sat down next to Bjørn Eggen. Bruce and Stavros came over with a case of beer, and some bottled water. “We brung some chicken broth. We dint know what was up, but we come prepared.”

  “I will make some for the lady,” Helmut said.

  Wally handed Bruce a beer, and opened one for himself. Bjørn Eggen looked at him quizzically.

  “I dunno whether you should be drinkin this in your state. You better ’av water, mate.”

  “Fock water. Give me a focken beer.”

  “Okay. Good on yer mate. Now, ’ere’s the plan. The plane is still by Jimmy’s. Mary Rose is in bad shape. She needs an ’ospital. We’ll drive back to the plane, and ’Elmut can fly you and ’er to Cairns. Okay?”

  “Ja, is very good.”

  Suddenly and silently, Jimmy was back. In his hand was a jar, and by the light of the fire something black could be seen scuttling inside of it. Wally took it from him, and carried it to where Monsoon sat. Stravros and Bruce joined him.

  “All right, boys. This bladdy mongrel don’t wanna talk to us. Maybe ’e’ll talk to our mate in the jar ’ere.”

  Monsoon screamed as Bruce grabbed him from behind and pinioned him, while Stavros grabbed his pants and pulled them around his ankles, exposing his genitals. Wally held up the jar to the firelight, so that Monsoon could get a good look inside. He shook it, and the huge spider reared up. Monsoon re-iterated his scream, only louder.

  “Right, ya fucken ratbag. If this beauty bites ya, ye’ll be a fucken goner before ya can say fucken Alice. ’Urts too, mate. You got three seconds to tell me what you did with the wonga.”

  Monsoon stared at the jar, and at the black, evil thing inside. He was paralyzed by fear and indecision, caught between terror and avarice. Terror was screaming at him to speak, and avarice was screaming at terror to shut the fuck up. Wally tipped the jar and the spider tumbled out and began to crawl, slowly and inexorably, towards Monsoon’s privates, its sleek black abdomen glinting in the firelight. Avarice screamed at terror to speak for Christ’s sake.

  “In the car, in the car, in the panels, in the spare wheel, get it away from me, kill it, let me go, stop it, stop it, aaaaaaah.”

  Wally bent down and picked up the spider, held it up to Jimmy, and tossed it into the bush. “That’s not a bladdy funnel web, ya fucken gallah.”

  “Nah, mate,” Jimmy said. “Couldn’t fucken find one.”

  The two parallel lines of small fires, seeming in perspective to be drawn together at their farthest remove, were going out one by one, and they could just make out the receding tail lights of the Cessna among the stars that blazed in the firmament with a brightness and clarity unknown and inconceivable to any city-dweller. Bruce and Jimmy were stamping out the fires that had been used to guide Helmut’s take off, extinguishing each carefully in turn to prevent a bush fire, which would be disastrous to the local wildlife population, not to mention Jimmy’s beer supply.

  Wally and Bruce and Crispin were doing enough damage to it already. They sat by a crackling fire of their own on the seats pulled out from the Holden, and Asia was stroking Walkabout’s belly under the terms of their agreement, whereby she wouldn’t stop rubbing his belly and he wouldn’t start farting. Monsoon sat in the shadows on the opposite side of the fire, nursing a beer, his wounded pride, and his thoughts of vengeance.

  “So, whaddya blokes wanna do?”

  “Oh, dear,” Crispin said, “I thought all this was over. I mean, we’re already at the ends of the earth. How far do we have to go?”

  “We could stay here,” Asia suggested.

  “For how long, Asia? Come on. Be real.”

  “So what do we do, then? Wally, what do you think?”

  “Well. Stavros reckons these blokes ’ave moved on, but even if that’s so, it don’t mean they ain’t comin back. Dingbat over ’ere ’ad what they were looken for stashed in the Combi. London to a fucken brick, they ain’t just gonna kiss it goodbye. If we was to give it back to ’em, maybe they’d leave it at that.”

  “What about the money? You want to give that back?”

  “Depends what your peace of mind is worth to ya, mate. I thought you’d be right enough out ’ere, but I was wrong. What are ya gonna do, keep runnin for the rest a yer lives?”

  “But what if we give them everything and they still…?” Crispin let the words hang in the air.

  Nobody spoke for a long time. Bruce and Jimmy came back and joined them, and they sat in silence staring into the crackling fire. Thin wisps of smoke marched out into the night, drifting up into the darkness. A bolt of brilliant green flashed across the sky.

  “Everybody make a wish,” Crispin said, plaintively.

  “I wish Baby Joe was here,” Asia said. “I wish I could speak to him. I wish I knew where he was.”

  “It doesn’t work if you tell everybody,” Crispin said.

  Chapter 25.

  It was like a marriage slowly falling apart. Nothing you could put your finger on, no one specific thing, just a slow, steady decline until you woke up one morning and all respect had gone, all love, until there was just an empty shell, a charade that both parties played out until one of them summoned the will to end it.

  It had started to slip after the problems with the Mick. The Don had never treated him the same after that. Again, nothing specific, just small subtle things, a distance and coldness that wasn’t there before. And then all these Guineas show up, just because things were getting a little tight. What kind of a slap in the teeth was that, after all he had done for the man? Maybe the stories were true. Maybe he was losing it. Well, he’d better be careful. There was certain information that people would be grateful for. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t had any other offers. Maybe it was time to start thinking about taking one of them up. It was a shit life anyway. Hanging around all fucking day, taking shit, fetching and carrying, every once in a while a couple of hours to go out and grab a brewskie if he was a good boy. It had all been that Mick’s fault. He had sucker-punched him. Caught him when he wasn’t ready. Well, if he ever got the chance again, it would be different. Much different.

  Stratosphere looked at his watch, shrugged, downed his bourbon, washed it down with his beer, and pushed through the swing doors. And now what the fuck? Some holy Joe, panhandling outside a bar. They had no business being outside a bar. In church, okay. Even in the street, the mall…but outside a bar, taking advantage of people that had had a few, no way. It just wasn’t fucking right. And he was going to straighten him out.

  The priest stepped out into Stratosphere’s path as he walked towards him, and the orange and green light from the bar sign glinted on his spectacles as he held forth his bowl and said, “God bless the generous of heart.”

  Stratosphere grabbed him by the front of his smock, and spat into the bowl. “Stick that in your fucking collection, Father.”

  The accepted Christian doctrine, on such occasions, is to turn the other cheek, and, while this is no longer widely practiced, Stratosphere was still extremely surprised when the cleric responded by chopping him in the throat, pushing him into an alleyway, tripping him, embedding a switch blade into his groin, and twisting it.

  “I want the code,” the priest said.


  Stratosphere wanted to struggle, to writhe away from the pain, but the shock and fear was stealing his will and his throat was being pushed into the ground and his air choked off and the blade was burrowing deeper. He managed to say, “What fucking code?”

  “The code for the elevator. The top floor.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck…”

  The blade twisted.

  “All right, all right. Eight three six four, and then back again.”

  “Eight three six four four six three eight?” The priest said.

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  “You know what happens if this number ain’t right?”

  “Yeah, I know. I know.”

  “Good. Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll tell your girlfriend you said hello.”

  A realization flooded into Stratosphere’s brain. He half-smiled. “The fucking Mick,” he said, before the light went out.

  Handyman Harris was in a hurry. Seemed like he was always in a hurry these days, ever since his wife left him. And for a fucking mathematician. How do you figure that out?

  Take the kids to school, run his business, pick the kids up from school, take them to baseball practice, take them to piano lessons, bring them back again, feed them, spend some quality time with the little bastards, do the shopping, do the washing, do the cleaning, fix the car. Always something to do, always someplace to be, and never a minute to scratch your ass. It wasn’t easy being in his line of work and taking care of a couple of kids. And he was going to have to move to a bigger place. The kids needed their own room, and they needed a garden, and they wanted a dog, and he didn’t care what anybody said, it’s just not fair to keep a dog cooped up in an apartment. Guaranteed it was cheap enough. They don’t come much cheaper than free, and the security was great, but all those creepy guys around, and those cameras looking at you all the time? Uh-uh, no sir. He didn’t want the kids to be around it.

  That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway, but that wasn’t the correct starting price, and he knew it. The real reason was the man upstairs. You didn’t spend fifty-odd years in Vegas without knowing a losing bet when you saw one. I mean, he heard the stories about what went on up there, just like everybody else. Something was happening. The guy just didn’t carry the same weight. He was hearing things, comments, smart remarks, wisecracks that would’ve put you in traction before, and people were saying them now and getting away with it. He just had that feeling. The eagle was going to fall from its nest, and you didn’t want to be standing underneath when that happened.