The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  Les decided to grab a half dozen cans at the pub as he drove back out along Plenty Road. He didn’t turn left into Reservoir, however. He went another five kilometres further on towards Melbourne, found a secluded little place just off the road under some trees and stopped there.

  Now. How did me and Murray and the old man use to make these bloody things? I can remember the ingredients but I’m not too sure of the measurements he pondered as he spread some on the grass and others on the roof of the car. Christ, it’s been bloody years. You start with the superphosphate don’t you. But how much did we use? The old man used to measure it in ounces. Was it a pound? Oh well, a bit more won’t hurt. He threw closer to 800 grams in the plastic bucket and added half the icing sugar, then gradually added the other materials leaving the zinc oxide till last. Satisfied there was enough there, he gave it a good stir with his hands.

  He opened the bonnet of the car, uncapped the battery and filled the eye dropper with battery acid. Now, how much acid do we use? Four drops? Ohh bugger it. He squirted the lot into the bucket. As soon as it hit the other elements it started smouldering and giving off poisonous fumes. Right. Got to hurry now. But what goes in next? The thinners, the diesel or the piss? And how much do I use? Ohh s’pose it doesn’t matter all that much. He poured in nearly all the thinners and half the diesel and pissed about half a cupful on top of that. With the rubber gloves on now, he churned everything up in the bucket till it was about the same consistency as plaster of Paris. Looks a bit thick he thought. He added the rest of the thinners, most of the diesel and a little more urine. Which made it too thin. So he added more fertilizer and the rest of the icing sugar.

  He tipped all the oil out of the can, opened the top half way around with the can opener, then wiped any excess oil off with one of the T-shirts and a bit of petrol. Watching to make sure he didn’t catch his hands on the jagged edges, Norton started packing the mix into the can. When it was full, he got a thick piece of branch and pounded more in until it was packed solid. I don’t know, he thought, looking at it while he had a swallow from his can of beer, there seems to be a lot more there than what we used to use. Oh well. As long as it works, that’s the main thing.

  With the pliers and a small pocket-knife he had in his overnight bag Norton managed to punch a hole in the middle of the top of the can. He wound the length of copper wire he’d bought at the hardware store to the small wire fuse on the detonator, then pushed the detonator down into the mix with a stick. He threaded the wire through the hole in the lid, then flattened it down. After that it was only a matter of binding the lid down tight with the sticking plaster, which he did over another can of Carlton Draught. Norton then had a crude, rather heavy home-made bomb, roughly the same size as a two litre can of oil.

  Well if that don’t work, thought Norton, nothing will. He had another look at it while he finished his beer. I dunno. It just seems a bit bigger and heavier than the ones me and the old man used to make. Still, that’s a pretty solid pier I’ve got to blow. He gave his shoulders a shrug. Then again, the bloody thing mightn’t work at all. Still, you can only try.

  There were two cans of beer left. Les had another one, checked his watch and had a look at the sun. It would be dark in around an hour and a half. He put the radio on softly and decided to have a sleep on the front seat for a while. But the five beers must have put him in a bit of a coma and it was just after seven when he woke up.

  Shit thought Norton, blinking at the dashboard clock. I’d better get bloody moving. He had a quick leak while he checked around the car to make sure he hadn’t left any mess or incriminating evidence behind, then sped off back to Reservoir Road.

  With the pine trees swaying gently behind it in the moonlight, the little church looked more peaceful and serene than ever when Les pulled up opposite and switched off his headlights. There was no-one around and the only signs of any life were the lowing of a few cows and the faint lights of some distant farmhouses. He drove down a little further, did a U-turn to bring him under the pine trees and killed the motor.

  After standing cautiously in the shadows for a few moments, Norton opened the boot and took out the bomb, the trenching tool, the batteries and the speaker leads. He put the batteries in the pocket of his tracksuit top and walked across to the church, leaving the boot of the car open. He had a small torch with him, but the light from an almost full moon was enough for him to see what he was doing. It didn’t take long, barely enough to raise a sweat, and he had a hole dug between the pier and the rock about a metre deep. That ought to be heaps deep enough he thought. He attached the leads to the copper wire, bound them with sticking plaster and placed the bomb in the hole, lid against the rock. He pushed it in firmly, then covered it with soil, patting that down firmly with his feet as well. There was a small culvert about midway between the church and the pine trees. Les ran the leads out behind him and lay down there. It didn’t take him long to rip the batteries out of their plastic covering and tape them together with sticking plaster. The ends of the speaker leads were already exposed so that was it. He was ready to go.

  Well, thought Norton, wedging the batteries into the soil and positioning the speaker wires just above the points. If this thing works properly it should just blow that pier away. And I can soon toss out any bits of concrete left over, then dig around a bit before anyone comes over to see what the noise was. Anyway, here we go. He held the leads above the batteries, had a last look around to make sure there were no passing cars, put his face down and touched the wires to the points.

  Les was right that he knew the correct materials. But he’d certainly stuffed up the measurements. The charge went off like a car-bomb in Beirut. There was an almost ear splitting Ka-Blam that shook the ground around him and sent a tremendous thunderclap rolling and echoing through the surrounding hills and valleys. Wide eyed, his ears still ringing, Norton looked up just in time to see a huge orange and black fireball illuminate the surrounding countryside as it spiralled up into the night sky through the ashes, burning cinders and other debris raining down around him. In its glow Les couldn’t quite believe his eyes. The concrete pier was gone all right. So was the vestibule and half the side of the church. What hadn’t been blown away was burning and the fire was spreading fast.

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’ said Norton as he watched the tongues of flame licking hungrily up towards the roof of the church. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have used all that icing sugar.’

  The fireball disappeared, and apart from the crackle of the spreading flames, there was a profound silence following the explosion. Then every dog on every farm for miles started barking. Terrified horses were whinnying and galloping through the fields among the startled, lowing cattle. Even the roosters and chickens started getting into the act as more lights from the farms in the area were switched on. It was pandemonium. Then a kerosene heater or something blew up inside the church, adding to the din.

  Les couldn’t believe what a balls-up he’d made of things. There shouldn’t have been too much noise, but this sounded like a cross between the Edinburgh Military Tattoo and the Tet Offensive. It would only be a matter of time now and all the local farmers would be rushing over to see what was going on. Then the local fire brigade, and finally the police. He shoved the batteries in his pocket, grabbed the trenching tool and ran towards the church.

  Norton didn’t need a flashlight or the light from the moon to see what he was doing; there was more than enough light from the flames rapidly spreading through what was left of the church. The pier was well and truly gone. All that was left was a crater about a metre and a half deep by about two across. Not a brick or a piece of concrete was to be seen. The boulder was split in two and had obviously taken most of the blast. Jesus, it’s a good thing that was there thought Les, or the whole bloody lot might have gone up. He jumped in the hole and started digging around frantically, knowing he didn’t have a great deal of time.

  The earth was moist and clingy but the explosion had loosened it up qui
te a bit. Norton dug away like a man possessed while panels and burning lengths of timber began crashing down from the church, sending sparks and glowing ash showering around him. Silhouetted in the flames of the burning church, the trenching tool rising and falling above his head, Norton began to take on the appearance of some madman in a B-grade horror film. You can bet your life whatever was buried here got blown away in the blast he thought as another shower of sparks and ash flew over him. But the big Queenslander’s luck was in in one respect. He’d only been digging a minute or two when he hit something. Quickly he dug deeper as the light from the flames revealed a corner of rotted sack. Les grabbed it but it tore off in his hand. A few more digs revealed it was wrapped around something. Quickly he dug around it and pulled it out. The rotted sack was bound with equally rotted rope that crumbled in his hand. The old sack crumbled just as easily as he tore it away. The next thing, to both his joy and amazement Norton was standing holding an old black metal strongbox now covered by a thick film of damp rust. It was roughly the same shape as a telephone book but about half as big again; a heavy old-fashioned metal lock, now corroded solid, was attached to the front. Norton gave it a shake and something shifted inside.

  ‘This is it,’ he shouted out, eyes wide with excitement. ‘This is bloody it. Mousey — you bloody little beauty.’ With a big grin plastered across his dirt-caked face, Norton let out a cheer when a heavy beam crashed down from the church sending a shower of burning embers and hot coals over him; they burnt the side of his face and singed his hair as they stuck to his tracksuit and started smouldering. ‘Oww, shit!’ Les closed one eye and cursed at the pain.

  He dropped the strongbox and started brushing the burning pieces of wood from his face and clothing. The pain down the side of his face hurt like a dozen wasp stings. The little church was totally ablaze now and the heat around Norton was intensifying. Les hadn’t noticed it at first but he did now, especially with half his clothing almost alight. It was more than time for him to get out of there. He picked up the trenching tool and the strong box and sprinted for the car. Lights were approaching from the hills running up towards the reservoir.

  The strongbox and trenching tool had hardly hit the floor of the boot when Norton slammed it shut. He jumped behind the wheel, hit the motor and without switching on the headlights did a U-turn and roared back up Reservoir Road. He made it to the other side of the little bridge just as an approaching utility reached it and could faintly see the startled look on the driver’s face as he went past. He switched the headlights on as he reached the roundabout at Plenty Road and raced straight up the hills of Donnybrook past another two farm trucks speeding towards the burning church. In the rear-vision mirror it was an inferno now lighting up the countryside for what seemed like miles around. Les had turned left into High Street and was about two kilometres along it on the way back to Melbourne when he heard the sirens and the first fire engine roared past. A couple of minutes later another one went by, followed closely by a police car. He slowed down a bit then. All I need now is to get pulled over for speeding.

  Before long Norton had reached the outer suburbs of Melbourne. He slowed down for some traffic and had a quick look at his face in the rear-vision mirror. What he could make out didn’t look all that good and it also hurt like buggery; not to mention the holes in his tracksuit. But the bit of pain and some ruined clothing couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm. He was grinning to himself like a kid in an ice-cream shop. He’d done it. He still wasn’t quite sure what it was he’d done or achieved, apart from burning down some poor pack of bastards’ church. But it was quite a caper and Les was rapt. He stopped not far from where he’d bought the tools earlier and got some vaseline and cotton wool at an all-night chemist’s, then drove back to St Kilda.

  The Saturday night traffic heading back into Melbourne was heavy and in the darkness Les took a couple of wrong turns. It was well after nine when he drove into the St Moritz Motel. There was a large commercial waste bin almost next to where he parked the car. He dropped the leftovers from the bomb in it, along with the trenching tool. The shovel, which he never used, he left next to some other tools standing in one corner of the parking area. No one would know where it came from. He jammed the strongbox as far as he could into his overnight bag, and with one hand covering his face, walked briskly through the foyer to his room. The girl on the switchboard had her head down and didn’t even see him.

  After stripping off Norton examined himself in the bathroom mirror. He didn’t look too good at all. His hair was singed in front, the right eyebrow was almost gone and the skin around his forehead and cheekbone was blackened, red and blistered. And bloody painful. In a way he was lucky that burning piece of wood hadn’t blinded him when it fell. Shit, he thought, screwing up his face in the mirror. What am I going to tell Pamela? I look like the phantom of the bloody opera. Oh well, I s’pose I’ll think of something. And I’d better get moving too. It’s getting late. He got under the shower and when he washed his dirt-streaked hair, the hot, soapy water stung his face like buggery. He couldn’t lather part of it, either, when he got out to have a shave. Consequently, one half of his face looked okay, the other half looked rougher than five miles off Sydney Heads. Great red blisters, tufts of stubble everywhere, and a missing eyebrow to go with it. Jesus. I wonder what Warren’s going to think when I get home, Norton chuckled to himself.

  Despite his discomfort, Les was still on quite a high. He picked up the strongbox when he came out of the bathroom and gave it a good shake. There was something in there. But what? It could be anything. There was no chance of him opening it there. Apart from the huge old lock being corroded solid, the box was rusted shut as well. It would be a hacksaw, hammer and possibly electric drill job when he got it back to Sydney. Jesus I’d love to know what’s in the bloody thing he mused as he dropped it back on the bed. Les was still thinking on it when the phone rang just after he’d changed into a white collarless shirt, dress jeans and his black R. M. Williams.

  ‘Hello Mr Norton. There’s a call for you from Sydney. A Mr Edwards.’

  ‘Thanks miss.’

  ‘Hello Les?’

  ‘Yeah. Is that you Woz?’

  ‘Yeah. How are you mate?’ Warren sounded very bright and bubbly and loud over the phone. He also sounded like he’d had the odd drink or two as well.

  ‘I’m pretty good Woz. How’s yourself?’

  ‘Sen-fucking-sational. Les. I had to ring up to thank you for what you did on the ad. Les, it’s turned out absolutely sensational. Melbourne rang us straight after they’d seen the rushes. And they’re ecstatic. Everyone’s chuffed to the teeth.’

  ‘Ohh well, that’s good isn’t it.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Warren paused on the line for a moment. ‘Les. I hate to say this. But I am relieved you know.’

  ‘What do you mean, relieved?’

  ‘Well. I was a bit worried you’d fuck everything up.’

  ‘Ohh get stuffed will you. You rotten little nark.’

  ‘Well you know what happened last time.’

  ‘Yeah. But that was Brisbane. They’re all hillbillies up there. Or so you keep telling me. This is Melbourne mate. They’re all my type of people down here. All conservative and nice. And friendly. I was in my creative element.’

  ‘Whatever,’ chuckled Warren. ‘Anyway, the shoot’s turned out fantastic — and Les, you’ll love this. There’s another little bonus in it for you.’

  ‘Fair dinkum.’

  ‘Yep. The agency’s going to give you $5000.’

  ‘Go on. Well how about that? And so they fuckin’ well should. I am talent you know.’

  ‘Ohh yes Les. You’re Sam Neill and Eddie Murphy rolled into one.’

  The pair of them had a good laugh over the phone. Les was happy for Warren and he also couldn’t believe another $2000 had dropped in. Warren was happy because he knew his Jag-clad backside was as good as behind the wheel of the company Porsche; plus any other little lurks and perks his j
ubilant bosses would throw his way for sending Les along.

  ‘So how’s Melbourne treating you Les? Did you end up finding that old uncle of yours?’

  ‘Yeah,’ lied Norton. ‘It turned out he was living just over in ah... South Melbourne.’

  ‘How was he? Glad to see you?’

  ‘Yeah. He was rapt. But you wouldn’t believe it. He got me to clean up an old kerosene heater for him. And the fuckin’ thing blew up in my face.’

  ‘Shit! Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah. My face got a bit burnt, that’s all.’

  ‘Jesus. That’s no good.’

  ‘Yeah. I just hope it doesn’t affect my career in modelling.’

  ‘Ohh for God’s sake don’t ruin your movie star looks Les.’

  They continued talking and laughing for a while, till Warren thanked Les again then hung up telling him he’d pick him up when he landed in Sydney on Sunday. Norton couldn’t help but sit there and smile for a while after he’d put the phone down. Apart from his burnt face this Melbourne trip was turning out better and better. He had Mousey’s strong box and whatever was in it, he was $5000 richer, and he had a date tonight with a dead-set glamour. Why wouldn’t he smile? It wasn’t long before Les was laughing out loud.

  He made himself a nice strong bourbon and Coke and sipped it while he finished getting dressed. He wrapped the strongbox in his ruined tracksuit, stuffed it in his travel bag and shoved it under the bed. There was no point in taking the car into town. He’d probably get lost and Pamela would more than likely have one with her anyway. A quick call to the desk had a cab waiting outside for him ten minutes later. Norton finished his drink, put his black leather jacket on and was soon sitting in a Silver Top taxi heading for Collins Street and his date with the lovely and massive-breasted Pamela.

  The Greek cab driver gave Les an odd sort of look when he got in the front seat, and an even odder one when he said he was going to Richard’s. But Norton was completely oblivious to this, and oblivious to a number of other things as well. Like the bomb squad, the arson squad, TV crews, newspaper reporters, more detectives and other interested parties going over what was left of the Church of Scientific Achievement in Reservoir Road and asking questions around Whittlesea. Norton and the cabbie wouldn’t have said more than a dozen words between them as they cruised through the night. Norton only had one thing on his mind. Or two things would be more like it. Pamela’s tits. Before long they’d crossed Kings Bridge, turned down Collins Street and were outside the disco. Norton paid the cabbie and stepped onto the footpath.