Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas

by Robert G. Barrett

  The Royal was a much different place at night; more people, more noise and the crowd spilled out onto the footpath. They were all fairly well-dressed and appeared to be mostly in their mid-twenties and early thirties. The men didn’t actually look like yuppies, but Les couldn’t picture any of them leaning on a shovel for the local council either. The girls were attractive, well-groomed, and laughing away over their mixed drinks. Norton guessed that most of them would have been either nurses or staff from the hospital across the road. But there were no Sandra Jean Garretts amongst them. Les chose the saloon bar opposite the park and ordered a schooner of Brown Old which he drank out on the footpath while he checked out the punters and did a bit of thinking.

  Two schooners later, Les switched to middies; the first beers in a week were already starting to give him more than a glow. But he was feeling good and wouldn’t have minded having a mag or cracking a joke with someone, though so far he hadn’t seen a soul he knew. After a while, his thoughts started drifting back to Blue Seas and the lovely Sandra Jean, but whether he’d get her in the end or not, the old block of flats was losing him money and there had to be a way of cutting costs.

  He took a notebook and biro from his back pocket and, leaning against one of the wrought-iron poles out the front with his beer resting on an adjacent windowsill, Les started doing a bit of adding and subtracting. But the more he added and subtracted, the more it came up a no result. Norton was floundering around in a morass of boring facts and figures, getting more depressed, when he noticed an attractive woman doing pretty much the same thing barely a metre or so away. She looked about thirty years of age, and was wearing a black, woollen skirt, floppy, ankle length denim boots and a loose-fitting, red drawstring cotton top. She had brown shoulder length hair parted in the middle, and a pair of inquisitive blue eyes darted around the hotel above a pert nose and a wide, sensuous mouth. She was carrying a small clipboard on which she’d scribble furiously for a few seconds, then look around, then scribble some more. Somehow she caught Norton’s eyes and paused momentarily as she noticed him scribbling away too.

  Revved up with beer Norton was now in a gregarious, if not cheeky, mood. ‘Are you from the gas company too?’ he asked her.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ replied the woman.

  ‘I’m with the local council. I’ve come here to read the gas meters. I thought you might be doing the same thing.’

  Norton’s stupid grin brought a twinkle to the woman’s eye. ‘I’m certainly not here to read the gas meters,’ she said, then took a sip of her drink and placed it at the edge of a nearby table.

  ‘You’re a health inspector then. Either that or the police.’

  The woman smiled. ‘No, I’m not a health inspector. And I’m not a cop either.’ She took a peek at the notebook in Norton’s hand. ‘And don’t give me any of that shit about reading gas meters. If anybody around here’s a cop, it’s you.’

  Norton couldn’t help but roar laughing. ‘Yeah, that’d be right,’ he chortled.

  ‘To be honest,’ said the woman. ‘I’m a writer. I’m here researching a book.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’ Norton was impressed. He’d never met a writer before. A few pisshead, lowlife journalists, the odd gossip columnist and an editor or two — but no writers. Especially not a woman writer. ‘What sort of books do you write?’

  ‘Crime stories mainly. Murders, fraud, drugs, gambling — all that sort of thing.’

  Christ, thought Les, have you ever come to the right place at the right time. ‘I thought you might have been more into romance novels. You know, trembling young virgins, torn bodices. All that sort of thing.’

  The woman shook her head slowly and gave Les a tired look. ‘No, not this little black wood-duck. I leave all that sort of thing to Barbara Cartland and the other girls. Though I do throw plenty of good old-fashioned sex in my books. A decent root doesn’t go astray every now and again,’ she added evenly.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ laughed Norton and raised his glass. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’

  ‘Nola. Nola Lloyd.’

  ‘I’m Les.’ They shook hands briefly. ‘Where are you from Nola?’

  ‘Balmain.’

  Hello, thought Norton. A bloody feminist writer from right in the very heart of enemy territory. I can sure bloody pick ’em. Oh well, who gives a stuff? She doesn’t seem like a bad scout.

  ‘What about you, Les? Where are you from?’

  Norton nodded towards Perouse Road. ‘Just across the road.’

  ‘Handy.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose it is.’ He finished his beer and made a gesture with the glass. ‘Can I get you a drink, Nola?’

  Nola thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, okay. Scotch and lemonade. Can you make it a double?’

  ‘Sure,’ smiled Norton.

  ‘You want some money?’

  Les dismissed her offer with a smile and disappeared in the crowd towards the bar. He was back shortly with Nola’s Scotch and another middy of old for himself.

  It turned out Nola was a writer, a popular one, and she’d had four books published. Norton thought that he’d seen a couple of the girls from the club reading her books down the beach. She didn’t make millions, but between her novels and other things she was doing all right and was in the process of selling the rights to one of her books for a telemovie. She shared a house in Balmain with another writer and a cartoonist for one of the newspapers. She came to the hotel on her own to do a bit of research for the book she was writing now: Ten Milligrams of Murder. It involved nurses, a large hospital, a murder in an old block of flats and a search for missing jewellery, amongst other things. Nola said she always researched her books meticulously no matter how trivial the subject or location involved. In fact, getting drunk and researching her books was a lot more fun than the actual writing; almost as much fun as the royalty cheques that came in twice a year.

  Les couldn’t help but like Nola Lloyd. She was full of chat, jokes and cheeky observations of the other drinkers, and she spoke exceptionally well with a deep, throaty chuckle thrown in. She also had the peculiar trait of letting her eyes zap around all over the place, taking in everything else as she spoke to Les, yet not diverting any of her attention away from him. It got Les in. It was almost as if she were two people in one. Others might find it annoying, but it intrigued Norton delightfully.

  A few more drinks and they were getting on famously, with Les starting to roar just a little. He couldn’t be bothered making up any stories and figured she’d only catch him out anyway. He told her what he did, where he worked and what he was doing here, though he didn’t let on that Blue Seas was a financial lemon and he was doing his arse over it. Nola continued to scribble more notes as she spoke to him and as Les got oiled up she started to get very horny-looking somehow. Her smile seemed to get wider, her waist got thinner, her boobs bigger and her hair shinier. Getting on towards eleven and an unknown amount of beer and Scotches later, an idea formed in Norton’s half-drunk mind.

  ‘I’ll tell you something Nola,’ he grinned. ‘This book you’re researching now. You said there’s a murder in an old block of flats and a search for some missing tomfoolery. Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s part of it, Les.’

  ‘Well, if you want to come over to where I’m staying, I might be able to show you something that could help you with your book. Something very fishy in the state of Denmark.’

  The woman novelist from Balmain gave Norton an amused if not quizzical look. ‘This isn’t some insidious ploy, is it, Les? To get me back to your manor, where the evil squire rips open my bodice and, ignoring my anguished sobs and cries for help, forces me onto the bed and has his reprehensible and dastardly way with me. Is it, Les?’

  Norton blinked at her. ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I just want to show you something that might suit that devious writer’s mind of yours. Besides,’ he added, ‘do I look like an evil squire?’

  ‘No. You look just like a typi
cal Australian jock half full of beer who’d root a goanna with a festered arse if someone would hold its head.’

  Norton angled his head towards one shoulder, poked out his bottom lip and tried to look hurt.

  ‘Oh, don’t give me any of that little boy lost shit, Les. Come on. Let’s go and have a look at what you’re on about.’

  ‘If you want any more to drink, there’s nothing back there but beer and coffee.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. A beer’ll do fine.’

  Nola put her clipboard in her bag and they headed towards the old block of flats with the novelist from Balmain falling against the caretaker from Randwick for support on more than one occasion. When they got there, Norton noticed the maroon Jaguar was parked out the front. Hello, he mused, looks like the artist is doing a little entertaining. Then again, maybe he’s just sitting for a portrait. Yeah, that’d be right. More like her sitting on his face. Oh well.

  ‘So this is your sumptuous apartment is it Les?’ said Nola giving the caretaker’s flat a very laodicean onceover. ‘Looks nice. Who had it before you. Burke and Hare?’

  ‘A little ex-jockey with a crook leg,’ answered Norton.

  ‘He’d certainly have a crook something after living here.’

  ‘You want a beer?’ asked Les, going to the fridge and pulling out two cans of Fourex.

  ‘Thanks.’ Nola had a quick sniff around the kitchen. ‘Don’t bother about a glass. I’ll drink it straight from the can.’

  Norton flipped off the ring-pulls and handed Nola a can. ‘Cheers,’ he said, with a smile.

  ‘Yes. Cheers, Les.’ Nola took quite a healthy pull for a dignified writer and had another look around the tiny flat. ‘So this is part of your fabulous Blue Seas Apartments, eh, Les?’ she said, with just a hint of sarcasm in her clear, soft voice. ‘It’s really nice. It’s got... it’s got depth of character.’ She raised her can. ‘Here’s to the depth... to the deep Blue Seas.’ Nola took another good glug of Fourex.

  ‘Yeah. To the deep Blue Seas,’ replied Norton, matching her drunken grin and taking a good slurp of beer himself. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I didn’t bring you here just to show you my fifteen thousand dollar, Customtone dream kitchen. Grab your clipboard, Agatha Christie, and follow Hercule Norton to the scene of the crime.’

  The light in the hallway of flat five was the only one that worked but after Les fumbled around and switched it on it was enough to cast an eerie glow over the inside of the flat and the carnage littering the floors and rooms to make it look more like the scene of some horrible crime than ever.

  ‘My God!’ gasped Nola. ‘Whatever happened here?’

  ‘You tell me — you’re the writer,’ replied Les. ‘But I’d reckon someone was in here looking for something, wouldn’t you say? Like missing jewellery?’

  ‘Christ! TheyVe practically destroyed the place.’

  ‘Yes. They were certainly efficient, weren’t they?’

  Nola blinked around the flat in disbelief for a few moments then the Robert Ludlum or something suddenly came out in her. She dropped her beer on a shelf in the kitchen, grabbed her note pad and biro and began furiously scribbling away. She seemed to almost ignore Les as she flicked over the pages. He could hear her breath coming in short gasps; it was almost as if the whole macabre scene was turning her on.

  ‘Oh, this is fucking fantastic,’ she cried.

  ‘Madam, please. Mind your language.’

  ‘Fuck my language, sunshine. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.’ Nola stopped to take another healthy slurp of beer then began scribbling away some more.

  ‘You want a murder scene, Ms Lloyd? Have a look at this.’

  Les took her into the smashed-up bathroom and showed her the dried blood spattered around the bath; the sickly light coming in from the hallway gave it a dull, rusty sheen. It was sinister and gruesome to an extreme and Nola was loving every second and every detail of it.

  ‘Oh, Les,’ she almost shrieked. ‘This is unbelievable!’

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ replied Norton.

  ‘Like it? I love it!’ Nola threw her arms around Norton’s neck and kissed him full on the mouth. ‘You’re a doll, Les. Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Norton stood sipping his beer in the lounge room as Nola skipped from room to room taking notes. She toed through the wreckage on the floor, picking up pieces of torn and shredded clothing. She ran her hands over the smashed furniture and ripped bedding almost as if she was caressing it. Every now and again she’d let out a little squeal of delight. If Norton wasn’t mistaken it almost sounded as if the sensuous novelist from Balmain was starting to come to the boil. Finally, she returned to the kitchen, put down her clipboard and had a very lengthy and unladylike pull on her can of Fourex, almost draining it. She noticed Les watching her, and walked over to him and put her arms around his waist.

  ‘Oh, Les,’ she sighed. ‘What can I say? This is perfect. It’s... it’s just breathtaking.’

  Norton put his arms around her, stroked her hair and massaged the small of her back. ‘See, the Aussie jock wasn’t having you on. I told you there was something in here you’d go for.’

  She snuggled into his chest. ‘Mmmhh, you’re not wrong.’

  Norton continued to rub her back as Nola’s breathing turned into a kind of rasping purr. Before long Les could feel her grinding herself against him. She angled her head up as Les looked down and in the half-light from the hallway he could see a sheen in her eyes almost as if they were glazing over. She ran her tongue lasciviously over her lips. Norton tilted his head to the side and down and kissed her; and the lady writer from Balmain knew how to kiss. Richard Burton knew what he was talking about when they asked him what was the first thing he looked for in a woman. And he said she must be at least thirty.

  Nola’s lips were soft and warm and pure delight and the tip of her warm, sweet tongue played havoc with Norton’s. He squeezed her into him and she ground harder against his pelvis. Les ran his hands up over her ribs and across her small but firm boobs enclosed but in no way supported by a delicate, white lace bra. He brought his hands down and began squeezing the cheeks of her neat backside, edging her skirt up at the same time. Nola started kissing him with more passion and hunger than ever; scrabbling at his hair and grabbing his T-shirt. Les kissed her neck and a tongue darted into his ear.

  ‘Why don’t we go downstairs to my flat?’ he said. The sheen in her eyes had disappeared and all that was there now was the pure devil.

  ‘What’s wrong with right here?’ she breathed.

  ‘You’re the boss lady.’

  Flat five wasn’t exactly Norton’s idea of a romantic setting and there wasn’t much in the way of furniture except for the half-smashed lounge with the stuffing and springs sticking out in parts. He eased Nola onto it, removed her denim boots and slipped off her dainty white knickers, leaving the woollen skirt on. He got out of his jeans and sneakers and no sooner had his Speedos off than Nola reached up and started working on his old boy like it was a big, juicy banana paddle-pop. Les went cross-eyed and he could feel the veins round his temple pumping as his knob swelled up like a balloon. That Richard Burton was no mug, all right. Oh well, thought Les. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. He spread her legs and decided it was time for a big face full of crime writer’s ted.

  Nola bucked and squealed as the big Queenslander went to work with his teeth and tongue. Moaning and groaning, she clawed at his hair and the neck of his T-shirt. It was a lot of fun but Les was getting too horny; he had to have her. He lifted up Nola’s knees and started to slide in. Nola let out a choking moan that seemed to come from somewhere down near her toenails, she shuddered, shook her head and clawed at his back till Les was all in, then away they went.

  Nola knew how to make love. She wriggled, kissed Norton’s neck and screamed with joy. Les felt like he was Errol Flynn. If Nola was making some noise while he had a face full, now she sounded as if he was chopp
ing off one of her legs with a blunt axe. Christ, thought Les. I hope those walls are double brick, or those poor bloody hippies’ll think there’s another murder going on. The beer kept Norton a little restrained but he couldn’t last forever; Nola’s ted was too warm, firm and moist and already he’d felt her go off under him twice. Ahh, fuck the neighbours, he thought. He lifted her ankles almost up under her chin and away he went, putting in the big ones. Nola shrieked louder and Les felt as if his brain was going to burst out of his ears. He felt her go off again, just as Les exploded himself; he rode it out, then came to a shuddering, panting halt.

  They lay there holding each other for a while, but if the old lounge was okay for screwing on it definitely wasn’t made for pillow talk. Les suggested it might be an idea if they got their gear on, went back to his flat and got cleaned up and maybe have another beer. Nola agreed.

  ‘Well,’ said Norton, raising his can and giving her a kiss on the cheek. They were cleaned up now and Les had his ghetto blaster on softly in the background. ‘Here’s to Ten Milligrams Of Mayhem, or whatever you call it. Did you enjoy your research?’

  Nola put her arms around Les and gave him that throaty chuckle again. ‘I told you research was a lot of fun, didn’t I?’

  They sipped their beers and sort of jigged around to the tune on the radio. Bang The Drum’s ‘Only You’. ‘Hey, Nola?’ said Norton.