The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Yeah. On a clear day you can see right across the room.’

  ‘Hey, you seen the size of these bedrooms,’ called out Mumbi. ‘There’s two mice in here and they’re both hunchbacks.’

  ‘You are kidding, Les?’ added Yarrawulla. ‘If this place was any smaller you’d have to go out in the hallway to change your mind.’

  ‘All right,’ said Les, opening the door to the balcony. ‘I agree, it ain’t the Waldorf Astoria. But for fifty grand for five days work I’m entitled to throw you all in a Valiant station wagon underneath a bridge with a couple of flagons of plonk.’

  ‘That could be worse than this?’ said Mumbi.

  ‘Anyway come out here. I want to show you something.’

  They followed Les out onto the balcony for their first glimpse of the view across Redfern, which after the peaceful beauty of Binjiwunyawunya looked like hell on earth with its smog, pollution, fumes and noise from the trains and traffic thundering and roaring past.

  ‘Yeah, it’s real nice, Les,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘Has that pilot bloke refueled yet. If we hurry we might be able to get the four-fifteen back to Boulia.’

  ‘Hold on a second, Chalky,’ said Norton. ‘Before you go getting your bowels in a knot, just let me show you something.’

  Les pointed out the block of land in question and the old building with the AWEC office. He told them exactly what was going on between Price and Kilby and explained why he’d chosen that particular hotel, even if it was a bit on the grotty side.

  ‘A bit on the grotty side,’ said Yarrawulla, his blue eyes flashing. ‘That’s like describing the Battle of Stalingrad as being a bit noisy.’

  ‘Yeah okay, Yarra. But remember, you’re only going to be here a few days, and Kilby’s only just across the road. Mate, it’s perfect. You’ll be able to knock him off like shit from here.’

  ‘Fair enough I suppose,’ muttered Tjalkalieri, a little reluctantly. ‘Jesus, the things a man has to put up with just to try and earn a quid. Come on, let’s go back inside. The air out here’s that thick you don’t breathe it, you eat it with a knife and fork.’

  They trooped back inside and Norton closed the door behind them.

  ‘Well when do you want to start work?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah we’ll probably start getting things organised now,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘Then start chanting first thing tomorrow. Maybe tonight. The sooner we get this over and get out of this shithouse the better.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Mumbi. ‘You sticking around or are you gonna piss off?’

  ‘No, I’m here for as long as you are Mumbles,’ replied Les. ‘Anything you want, just tell me. Food, drink, whatever. Just tell me and I’ll go and get it. I’m also hanging about to make sure nothing happens to any of you.’

  ‘Thanks Les,’ said Yarrawulla. ‘You’re a regular bloody Mother Theresa.’

  The boys had a quick discussion amongst themselves as to their sleeping arrangements. Yarrawulla and Mumbles would go in one room, Les and Tjalkalieri in the other. They’d start getting things together straight away and more than likely start the chant that night, taking it in four hour shifts. They left the black canvas bag in the middle of the room and started unpacking the few clothes they’d brought with them, hanging them up on some wire coat-hangers in the cheap plywood wardrobes. Les said his stuff was still in the boot of his car, which he’d parked at the rear of the hotel. He trotted down and got it and was back in a few minutes. When he returned the three others were sitting on the old vinyl lounge, in front of the blank TV set, not saying anything but with odd half smiles on their faces. Les twigged something was going on so he tossed his overnight bag through the open door of the bedroom and returned their stares.

  ‘What’s... going on?’ he asked, a little suspiciously.

  ‘Les. We just remembered. There was something we forgot to tell you,’ said Tjalkalieri.

  ‘Yeah. What’s that?’

  ‘Well. To make this thing work we’ve got to have something belonging to Percy Kilby.’

  ‘You mean, like an article of clothing or something?’

  ‘No. Something from him. Of him. Like a few drops of sweat or some saliva.’

  ‘A few drops of his blood is what we really need,’ said Yarrawulla.

  ‘Blood? How the hell am I gonna get some of Kilby’s blood?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Tjalkalieri quietly. ‘But if you want this thing to work properly — you’ll have to get some.’

  ‘Now you tell me. Shit! This is going to be nice.’

  Norton jammed his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and began to pace moodily around the room, while the others continued to study him intently from the lounge, looks of slight amusement on their faces. Norton knew there had to be a snag sooner or later. And now here it was. Go up and get some blood from this bloke, just like you’re asking him for a light or what time it is. But Norton was half expecting problems. Things were all falling into place too smoothly, almost too good to be true. Jaws clenched firmly he paced around a minute or two longer, then turned to face the others, angrily snorting a burst of air out through his nostrils.

  ‘Fair dinkum, you’re making it hard. The only way I can see of doing it, is to go up and belt him in the nose and mop it up with a hanky or something. The only trouble is, it could fall back on Price. And if he gives a description of who hit him and he kicks the bucket not long after, it could all fall back on me.’ Les looked at the others and shrugged his shoulders. ‘But what else am I going to do? I can’t just walk over there and cut his throat.’

  ‘That method’s no good anyway,’ said Tjalkalieri, slowly shaking his head.

  ‘No good. Why not?’

  ‘It has to be done unsuspectingly. It works better if the victim doesn’t know he’s being pointed. That bit of violence could break the spell and Kilby could realise something is going on. It might not stop us getting to him, but it would certainly make it a lot harder.’

  ‘Shit!’ cursed Norton again. ‘Shit! The next thing you’ll be telling me not to come back unless his blood’s RH negative or something.’

  ‘We don’t really give a stuff if it’s strawberry malted,’ chuckled Mumbi. ‘Just as long as you get us a few drops.’ Norton let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I guess I’m just going to have to work some bloody thing out I suppose.’ He stared despondently at the three others for a few seconds as he picked at his chin. ‘There’s a phone down in the foyer. I’m just going to duck down and ring someone up. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  Groping around in his pockets for some twenty and ten cent coins, Les jogged down the thinly carpeted stairs and found a phone not far from the front door.

  ‘Hello Lyndy. It’s Les. Is Eddie there?’

  ‘Oh hello Les,’ came the pleasant voice at the other end. ‘He’s out in the garden mucking around with his roses. I’ll go and get him. How are you Les, anyway?’

  ‘Good thanks Lyndy.’

  A minute or so later Eddie’s happy, and at the same time excited, voice came on the phone. It was obvious he was more than interested in how things were going.

  ‘G’day Les. How are you mate? I heard you got your mates down from Bindi... where ever it is. How’s it all going? Everything sweet?’

  ‘That’s what I’m ringing about Eddie. I need some advice.’

  Les still didn’t explain fully what was going on for the time being, but he told Eddie how he needed to get a sample of Percy Kilby’s blood. He didn’t say why; Eddie could try and guess a reason if he wanted to. But he promised he’d fill him in on everything before much longer. The wiry little hit man thought for a few seconds before answering.

  ‘I was just thinking. We had a situation like this once back in Nui-Dat. We had to get a positive ID on an ARVN colonel who we suspected was a VC regular. And we had to do a blood test without him knowing it. I’ll tell you what to do. What sort of watchband have you got?’

  Norton absently hooked his index finger und
er his watchband and gave it a flick. ‘One of those stretch, stainless-steel ones. You know, metal-flex or whatever you call them.’

  ‘Perfect. Can you get hold of a small file?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got one of those three-cornered ones in the boot of the car.’

  ‘Right. Well I’ll tell you what you’ve got to do.’

  With the phone glued to his ear, Norton listened intently to Eddie while a smile formed on his face which didn’t take long to turn into a huge grin. Eventually he knew everything he needed and hung up, thanking Eddie and promising once more he’d keep him informed of developments. Five minutes later Norton was sitting in a chair in front of the others, his watch in one hand, and filing away at the edges of the watchband with the other. He wasn’t saying anything, just sitting there filing away, a look of amused determination on his face.

  ‘Just what the hell are you up to?’ asked Yarrawulla.

  ‘Mind your own bloody business,’ replied Norton. ‘You’ve got your ancient secrets. I’ve got mine.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ chuckled Tjalkalieri, who with the others kept staring at Les with fascinated amusement.

  After a while Norton stopped his filing, ran his finger along the edge of the watchband and gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘That ought to do,’ he said with a nod of his head. Then he slipped his watch back on; only instead of slipping it back on to his left hand, as was customary, he slid it onto his right. With the others still silently watching him, he unzipped his overnight bag and pulled out one of the bundles of money, peeling off $250 which he stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans.

  ‘There’s about ten grand in that bag,’ said Norton, zipping it back up. ‘If you guys want any just help yourselves. And your fifty’s there any time you want it.’

  ‘That’s okay Les,’ smiled Tjalkalieri. ‘We’ve got some money. You can pay us when we finish the job.’

  ‘Okay, suit yourself. Anyway,’ Norton started to tidy himself up as he stood there facing the others, ‘I’m off to see your mate Kilby and try and get your blood for you.’

  ‘You’re going over now?’ said Mumbi.

  ‘Like Chalky said, Mumbles. The sooner you get this done the sooner we can all get out of this shithouse. See you when I get back.’ Norton closed the door behind him and once more jogged down the dusty stairs to the foyer and out the front door.

  The big Queenslander was expecting the interior of the AWEC office to be pretty much like the dilapidated building it was housed in. But inside it wasn’t all that bad. Bright and reasonably tidy, the front door faced a solid wooden desk with a covered electric typewriter sitting on it in front of a swivel chair and a number of metal filing cabinets. These in turn faced an inexpensive brown cotton ottoman with a small magazine-strewn coffee table in front of it. Several leafy pot plants were propped up in the corners and several posters — land rights, anti-apartheid, plus a framed one of Malcom X — adorned the walls. To the right of the desk was another door with PRIVATE KEEP OUT written on it, and sitting on the edge of the desk was a tall, rangy Aboriginal man sporting a fresh crewcut, grey tracksuit pants and a matching sweatshirt. Going by the scar tissue around his eyes and a nose even more flattened than usual, Norton couldn’t picture him as being Percy Kilby and tipped him to be either an ex-boxer or a footballer. And probably one of AWEC’s thugs. The man on the desk glanced up from the Greyhound Recorder he was reading and gave Norton a quick once up and down.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said expressionlessly.

  ‘Oh hello,’ said Les, politely and clearly. ‘I was hoping to see Mr Kilby. Is he in by any chance?’

  ‘Mr Kilby’s busy at the moment,’ was the dull reply. ‘You want to leave a message?’

  ‘Oh! Oh, well yes, all right’ said Norton hesitantly and with exaggerated politeness. ‘My name is ... Vernon Stroud. I’m with the ah... Chartered Accountants Against Apartheid. I was hoping to give Mr Kilby a donation on behalf of myself and my colleagues.’

  ‘Ohh yeahhh.’ The tallish Aboriginal swung his legs off the desk and switched on half an oily smile. He’d seen all this before. As far as he was concerned Les was just another trendy white do-gooder wanting to hop on the anti-apartheid bandwagon. So they’d slip some poor dumb Abo a few bucks, then tell all the other trendies back at the office or wherever that even though they were white they were dead-set against apartheid and weren’t they wonderful, caring people and not at all racist. Until a family of Aborigines bought or rented a house in their street, then they’d raise hell with the local council to try and get them kicked out. But a hypocrite’s money was no different from anyone else’s as far as the thug from AWEC was concerned.

  ‘Well like I said,’ purred the man on the desk. ‘Mr Kilby’s a little busy at the moment. But if you ah... want to leave the money with me that’s okay. I can give you a... ah, receipt for it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ replied Norton quietly. ‘That’s a shame. I’ll have to come back, because I wanted to give it to him personally. I’ve heard so much about him. Oh well, it doesn’t matter.’ He began to make a slow but nervous gesture for the door.

  ‘Hey hold on a minute. He might’ve finished what’s he doing. I’ll give him a call.’ He reached across the desk and hit a button on the intercom. ‘Hey Perce.’

  ‘Yeah?’ was the scratchy reply.

  ‘There’s a bloke here wants to make a donation — in our fight against the regime in South Africa.’

  Norton couldn’t help but notice the cynicism in his voice at the last statement.

  ‘How much,’ scratched back over the intercom.

  ‘How much did you want to donate boss?’ smiled the man on the desk.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty dollars. Is that all right?’ replied Norton.

  ‘Two-fifty Perce.’

  There was a pause for a second. ‘Send him straight in.’

  ‘You can go straight in mate.’

  The tall Aborigine clicked off the intercom, opened the door behind him, and ushered Les into the other office.

  Kilby’s office was roughly the same size as the first one, and with roughly the same furnishings. An almost identical ottoman with a coffee table about the same size as the other, the same kind of desk, only minus a typewriter, and the same number of metal filing cabinets. More pot plants filled the corners and a similar number and style of posters hung on the walls — the framed one this time being of Martin Luther King. An Aboriginal land rights flag, red and black with the yellow sun in the middle, almost covered one wall and a stack of cartons with a canvas tarpaulin draped over them almost took up another. Seated behind the desk, on a rather plush looking leather chair, was Percy Kilby.

  In his early forties, with neat dark hair going grey around the temples, he was fairly stocky but nowhere near as tall as the other man. Like his mate, he too had a broken nose and scar tissue over his eyes, but not to the same extent. His one outstanding feature, however, was his eyes. Sinister and piercing, they seemed to dart everywhere at once and there was a noticeable hardness glowing from within. Relaxed in his chair, his hands across his chest, fingertips pushed together, Kilby was wearing a pair of brown trousers and a matching collarless beige shirt. He smiled thinly when Les walked in but didn’t bother to get up and didn’t bother to offer his hand.

  ‘So,’ he said evenly. ‘You wish to make a donation to our movement, Mr...?’

  ‘Stroud,’ replied Norton, still acting nervously. ‘Vernon Stroud. I represent the Chartered Accountants Against Apartheid.’

  ‘That’s... real nice of you Mr Stroud. Frank, will you get me the donations receipt book.’

  ‘Sure,’ replied the taller man. As he moved towards the door he pushed a swivel chair on castors across to Norton with his foot. Norton thanked him quietly and sat down. Frank was back in a few seconds with a dog-eared receipt book which he placed on the desk in front of Kilby.

  ‘Now,’ said Kilby, picking up a biro. ‘How much did you wish to donate Mr Stroud?’

  ‘Two hundred an
d fifty dollars for the time being,’ replied Norton, pulling the money out of his jeans and placing it on the desk. ‘We should be able to give your people some more at a later date.’

  ‘Extremely decent of you Mr Stroud. I’ll just make this out to the CAAA. That should be all right eh?’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ smiled Les.

  Kilby scribbled something almost unintelligible in the receipt book, ripped off the docket which he handed to Les and dropped the $250 into a draw of the desk at the same time. ‘There you are Mr Stroud.’ He winked. ‘If only there were more people in the world like you — what a wonderful world it would be.’

  ‘Why thank you Mr Kilby,’ beamed Les. ‘That’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever had. I can’t wait to tell them back at the office.’ Norton was all sweetness and light, but underneath he felt like throwing up all over Kilby’s polished wooden desk.

  Now that they’d got Norton’s, alias Stroud’s, money, there was a sudden silence in the room that thick you could have cut it with a knife. Kilby and his stooge Frank exchanged surreptitious looks and may as well have had a sign above them saying ‘Okay Stroud, we’ve got your money. Now how about doing us a favour and pissing off.’ After a second or two Les could just about read their minds and figured it was time for him to make his final move.

  ‘Well Mr Kilby,’ he said, getting to his feet and throwing in a bit of a staged cough. ‘Your assistant said you were quite busy so I guess I’d better get going.’ Kilby half smiled an acknowledgement: it was the least he could do for $250. ‘Anyway I must say it’s been an absolute pleasure meeting you.’

  Norton smiled and offered Kilby his hand. As the AWEC leader begrudgingly extended his across the desk, Norton clumsily knocked the swivel chair with his foot and made an awkward shuffle forward, spearing the underside of his right wrist over Kilby’s right hand. The sharpened edges of Norton’s watchband scraped across the bony top of Kilby’s right hand just behind the knuckles. Not enough to do any real damage but enough to break the skin and make it bleed.

  ‘Ow, shit!’ cursed Kilby, holding his hand in front of him and staring at the thin trickle of blood.