With a shout of pain, Syd finally let go. Les shoved him away and gulped in some air. He barely had time to massage his throat when Syd was on him again, raining punches. Les copped one on the eye, the nose and another in the mouth; Syd knew how to put them together and they all hurt. Les belted a couple of left hooks into Syd’s face, busting up his mouth. A short right mashed up his nose. The punches were doing plenty of damage but they didn’t seem to be stopping Syd all that much. Norton covered up as another torrent of punches slammed into his arms and the top of his head. Out the corner of his eye he saw Franulka sitting cross-legged on the night-and-day. She wasn’t screaming or horrified at the sight of two big men punching and gouging the life out of each other. It was almost as if she was enjoying it.
Les and Syd fought and swore across the room smashing the table and the wardrobe as they went. Norton was getting more punches in but they still didn’t seem to be hurting him. Syd was a hard man but he was in too much of a wild state of mind. Les kneed him under the ribs and head-butted him, splitting open Syd’s eye. A big roundhouse right slammed into Norton’s ear. Then they crashed into the kitchen, sending pots, pans and dishes everywhere. Before Les knew it, Syd had his massive hands around Norton’s throat again trying to choke him, and Norton knew that if he didn’t do something drastic, Syd would more than likely kill him. Besides that, the big Queenslander was starting to run out of steam. Norton’s hand went into the sink on top of an old cake of Sunlight Soap slopping on a plate that had been soaking. He grabbed the cake of soap and smashed it into Syd’s face, squashing plenty into his eyes. The enraged roadie screamed with pain as the soap blinded him, and clutched at his burning eyes. This gave Les time to set himself and drive probably the best uppercut he’d ever thrown in his life up between Syd’s elbows right on to the point of the chin. Les smiled to himself as he felt Syd’s jaw crack under his fist like a dry biscuit. The roadie screamed some more as a follow-up left hook smashed out half his front teeth and another big right crushed his already battered nose. The tide of battle had finally swung in Norton’s favour. Syd started to slide as Les grabbed him by his ponytail and speared him from the kitchen, face down into what was left of the lounge room. He wrapped his left forearm around Syd’s throat jamming his wrist into his Adam’s apple. Gripping his left hand with his right, Les then stuck his knee behind Syd’s neck and started squeezing the lot together.
‘Now,’ hissed Norton, ‘see how you like being choked. You big cunt.’
Les could feel the blood and spittle bubbling out of Syd’s mouth and face running over his arm. The big roadie made a futile grab at Norton’s arms, then after a few nervous kicks began to go quiet. Norton still didn’t let up; he was going to crush the life right out of Syd and, if need be, tear his head right off his body.
The next thing he knew Franulka was banging on his back shouting at him.
‘All right, Les. For Christ’s sake, don’t fuckin’ kill him!’
‘Don’t kill him?’ retorted Les. ‘What do you think the prick was trying to do to me?’ Norton continued crushing Syd’s Adam’s apple.
‘Fuck off, will you, Les? He’s got to drive us to Revesby Workers’ Club on Wednesday night.’
‘What?’ Subconsciously Norton started to slacken his grip.
‘He’s got to drive us to the gig on Wednesday night. Christ almighty!’
Norton looked up at Franulka and suddenly let go. Syd gurgled in some air through the blood and smashed teeth then passed out. At least he wasn’t dead.
‘Ohh, Christ! Have a look at him,’ cried Franulka. ‘How’s he gonna drive the fuckin’ truck on Wednesday?’
Norton crawled to one side of the room, trying to get his breath back. He continued to stare at Franulka. Here was their roadie or her boyfriend or whatever the poor sap was, smashed to a bloody pulp, half dead and all she could think about was whether he could drive their stinken purple truck through the week. Blues singers could have written a thousand songs about Franulka. She might have been a top sort and an unbelievable screw but she was the original Hardhearted Hannah from New Orleans.
Naturally, all the noise and shouting brought the girls down from upstairs; Syd must have called for Franulka and they’dVe told him where she was. Wearing their tracksuits Gwen and Isla stepped cautiously up to the door and looked in. They saw Franulka and then Syd, covered in blood, lying at her feet.
‘Oh, God!’shrieked Gwen. ‘It’s Syd! What happened?’ She ran to Syd’s side, cradled his head and began wiping away the blood.
‘Christ!’ said Isla, and did the same thing.
‘Oh Syd, Syd,’ Gwen seemed to be almost grief-stricken with tears streaming down her face, she looked accusingly at Franulka. ‘What happened?’ she wailed.
‘He had a fight with Les,’ she replied, a little indifferently.
Gwen and Isla glared at Norton. ‘You bastard,’ said Gwen. ‘What did you have to do this for?’
Norton thought he was hearing things. ‘What did I do that for? To stop the big moron from doing the same thing to me. That’s all.’
‘Ohh, no! Syd, Syd.’ Gwen continued to hold Syd’s head and mop his face with the front of her tracksuit.
‘Come on! We’d better get him to a hospital’ said Isla. She gave Norton a steely look. ‘Bastard!’
‘No sweat,’ said Franulka. ‘There’s one across the road.’
Norton shook his head in disbelief. They couldn’t miss the blood on Les, the poor bloody caretaker, yet not a word of sympathy, no apology, nothing. It could easily have been him lying there, not Syd. And only a lucky thing it wasn’t. And it wasn’t even his fault.
‘Well, come on, Les,’ said Gwen. ‘Don’t just sit there. Give us a hand.’
Give us a hand. Norton was just about to tell the three of them to get well and truly stuffed when there was the noise of a taxi pulling up out the front. Norton’s timing to make a big hit with the girls in the band couldn’t have been better. Alastrina and Riona walked into the hallway carrying three pizzas. They couldn’t miss what was going on in Norton’s flat. Next thing they too were standing at Norton’s door in a state of shock.
‘What happened?’ gasped Alastrina.
‘Bloody Les did it,’ said Gwen.
The two latest arrivals glared at Les. ‘Bastard,’ they chorused.
Norton shook his head and didn’t move. To a general chorus of bastard, cunt, prick and a string of other vile names all directed at him, the girls somehow managed to get Syd to his feet and carry him to the door and out into the hallway, leaving Franulka behind.
Franulka picked up the three pizzas, moved towards the door then stopped and looked at Les, ‘What can I say?’ she shrugged.
From the floor Les gave her an expressionless once up and down and a sideways and back too. ‘How about goodnight?’
Franulka shrugged again then joined the others out the front.
Alone in the flat now Norton began to feel around his face through the pain and blood. He was going to have a black eye, a fat lip and a swollen nose in the morning and was bruised and scratched. But nothing was broken; it could have been a lot worse. He went to wipe some blood out of his eye, forgetting about the smears of soap still on his hand.
‘Oww, shit!’ he cursed.
Les dragged himself to his feet and went to the bathroom where he filled the sink with water and wiped the soap from his eyes. While he was at it he checked himself out properly in the mirror. It was like he thought; plenty of bruising, a bit of bark missing, but nothing broken. But his genuine American George Strait Tour T-shirt was completely stuffed.
Back in the lounge room the wardrobe was smashed along with the table, but his ghetto blaster still worked. The old night-and-day never got a scratch. Yeah, that’d be right, thought Les. Trust her not to get a mark on her. The devil Goddess or whatever she thinks she is probably put up some aura around her, or a vibe or some bloody thing while Syd and me were trying to smash each other to pulp. In fact if you ask me, this
whole fuckin’joint’s starting to get one giant, bad vibe about it. Something else kept nagging at Les about the old block of flats too but he just couldn’t seem to put his finger on it. He needed someone to talk this over with. He looked at his watch which had also managed to survive the fight. It wasn’t too late to ring a good friend.
The phone box across the road from the all-night garage opposite the flats was well-lit and not vandalised. Les jangled the coins in the slot, dialled and subconsciously turned back towards the old block of flats while he waited.
‘Yeah, hello?’ came a voice he was sure he recognised.
‘Hello, Billy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s Les!’
‘Les! G’day mate. How’s things?’
‘All right. Sorry I’m ringing a bit late.’
‘That’s okay. We’re almost ready to go home anyway.’
‘Sounds like you’re gettin’ it easy.’
‘It’s a bludge, like I told you. The front door’s closed, I just sit up the top of the stairs near a phone and keep an eye on things. Don’t even wear a tux. There’s only Price and George and about six of his mates in here. Drinking wine, talking shit and trying to take each other’s money at five hundred. I’m even reading books.’
Norton laughed. ‘Listen, Billy. What are you doing tomorrow?’
Billy noticed the tone in Norton’s voice. ‘Not much. Nothing I can’t get out of. You’re not in any strife, are you?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. But do you reckon you could meet me somewhere tomorrow?’
‘Sure. Where?’
‘You know The Royal Hotel at Randwick?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How about out the front at twelve o’clock?’
‘Yeah, no worries. I’ll be there.’
‘Thanks, mate. And Billy...’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t tell Price or anyone I called.’
‘Okay. If they ask me who it was I’ll say it was me missus.’
‘Good on you, mate. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow, Les. Twelve o’clock.’
Les strolled slowly back to Blue Seas Apartments, noticing that the old white utility was back. Jesus! They sure come and go in here, he thought. But at least she missed all the drama. He made a cup of coffee, put the radio on and tried to think. He was tired but at the same time his nerves were on edge. He switched off the light, lay back on the night-and-day and did his best to get to sleep; managing after a while to half doze off. He’d been that way for three-quarters of an hour or so when the noise of the front door made him open his eyes. There were hurried footsteps, then a discreet tap on Sandra’s door. Hello, thought Les, one of Ms Garrett’s late night lovers. Next thing I’ll be getting pinched for having premises for the purpose of.
He dozed off when not long after the door opened again. This time the voices told him it was the girls in the band back from the hospital. Les couldn’t hear Syd’s voice. Thank Christ for that, he thought. I wouldn’t have answered the door to those sheilas anyway. Les glanced at his watch. He’d been there just over an hour. Again he half dozed.
Again the noise of the door opening woke him up. That and his neck. The old pillow from home wasn’t all that good at the best of times, but tonight with his neck the way it was it was worse. There was an old cushion in the car he used on the front seat, he decided he’d get that for a bit of extra support. Somehow he dragged himself up from the night-and-day and walked sleepily out the front. As he stood there, he noticed the same grey BMW he’d seen the previous night and the same figure in the hat and trench coat getting into it. Only this time the figure had the back door open and was placing what was obviously a painting wrapped in brown paper on the seat. Norton stepped back into the shadows and watched with something a little more than just curiosity. The figure got the painting in, closed the door then got behind the wheel and the next thing the BMW cruised off towards Randwick Junction.
That’s all it is, Les thought sarcastically. He’s an art dealer. Sandra’s just selling all these blokes paintings. And to think I should have such a dirty, suspicious mind. Les shook his head and spat in the gutter. Yeah, that’d be right.
He got the cushion from the front seat and went back inside. Ahh yes. That’s better. More support. This time Norton did manage to get to sleep. Like a log.
It was after ten when he climbed out off the night-and-day and cleaned himself up. Cleaning his teeth in the mirror, Les could see his left eye had coloured up nicely overnight and it looked like he’d swapped top lips with Mick Jagger. His throat was sore but the bruises weren’t all that bad and could almost have passed for love bites. Apart from that — okay.
He got into a T-shirt and jeans and walked out to get the Sunday papers. It had turned out another nice, sunny day. Sandra was out the front standing in front of an easel, daubing at an oil painting. She couldn’t have missed Norton coming out the front door but she didn’t bother to look up from what she was doing.
‘G’day, Sandra,’ said Les pleasantly.
‘Huh!’ Sandra barely shifted her eyes away from whatever she was painting. ‘Oh. Hello, Jim.’
Norton frowned slightly. ‘Jim?’
‘Oh, Len, Les. Whatever.’
Terrific, thought Les. I really have made a hit with her, haven’t I? The bitch can’t even remember my name. Moll. Slightly miffed, Norton was about to walk on, then changed his mind. ‘What are you painting?’ he asked.
‘Not much,’ was the whimsical reply.
‘Mind if I have a look?’
Sandra shrugged a reply that was neither a yes, or a no. Oh well, thought Norton, maybe artists are a bit funny like that. He moved around and had a look at what Sandra was painting. It was Blue Seas Apartments at night. Sandra might not ever get anything hung in the Louvre, but she’d managed to capture the old block of flats in a sombre, night mood of mainly blues and yellows. Coming out the front of the flats was, of all things, a figure in a trench coat and hat. The face, like the rest of the painting, was very abstract, but there was an uncanny familiarity about it that Les couldn’t help but stare at.
‘Hey, that’s not bad Sandra,’ he said, after a moment or two. ‘It’s the block of flats, all right. Who’s the bloke coming out the front door?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘A friend?’
‘That’s right.’
Norton was about to say something and changed his mind. ‘You’re quite good, Sandra. Do you sell many paintings?’
Sandra continued to daub away. ‘A few,’ she replied absently. ‘My friend buys most of them.’
‘He’s got good taste.’ Yeah, for a Bulgarian, Norton thought to himself.
‘Thanks.’
‘Does it take you long to do a painting?’
Sandra shrugged. ‘I hope to have this finished by next Saturday. It’s going to be a birthday present to myself.’
‘Is it your birthday next Saturday?’
Sandra nodded without looking up from the painting. Norton did a little mental arithmetic.
‘November fourteenth?’ Sandra nodded again. Norton thought for a moment. ‘Isn’t that Prince Charles’ birthday too?’
This brought a slight smile to Sandra’s face. ‘That’s right. If he ever becomes king, there’ll be a public holiday on my birthday.’
‘And right royally so,’ smiled Les. Norton was going to carry on the conversation, but he somehow sensed Sandra didn’t seem all that interested. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you later.’
‘Okay.’
Norton left her and walked off to get the papers. The painting played on his mind all the way down to the shops — especially Sandra’s ‘friend’. No, he thought, shaking his head. It couldn’t be. I’m seeing things. Then he stopped in mid-stride. Or fuckin’ am I?
On the way back he gave Sandra a brief smile and got pretty much the same back in return. He went inside, poached some eggs and went through the Sunday papers
while he listened to the radio. Before long it was around quarter to twelve. Sandra was packed up and gone from out the front and so was her utility.
Les walked across to the hotel and found a table near the Perouse Road entrance. A few minutes later, Billy’s station wagon pulled in front of the hotel opposite the park.
Norton almost didn’t recognise Billy when he came walking towards him. Like Les he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt but he looked about a stone lighter and almost ten years younger than the last time he’d seen him. Billy saw Les staring at him and grinned.
‘Hello, mate. How are you?’
‘Good. Jesus, you’re looking well Billy.’
‘Yeah.’ Billy pulled up a seat then noticed Norton’s face and his grin got bigger. ‘Hello, what happened to you?’
Norton grinned back and shrugged. ‘What do you reckon?’
Billy shook his head. ‘Well, if you’ve copped that, I’d hate to see the other bloke.’
Still grinning, Norton gestured with his thumb. ‘He’s in the hospital across the road if you want to see him. Anyway, you feel like a beer?’
Billy shook his head. ‘Just a mineral water’ll do, mate.’
Les went to the bar and came back with two bottles of Hepburn Spa, and middy glasses full of ice and slices of lemon.
‘Well, cheers, Billy,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘Yeah, cheers, Les. Good to see you, mate.’
Norton couldn’t help but stare at his workmate. ‘I just can’t get over how well you look, shifty. What’s going on?’
Billy smiled as he drank his mineral water. ‘Well, I’ve been off the piss. I haven’t had a drink since we wrote ourselves off last Saturday night.’
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 11