After that the old bloke simply laid into Ray with sadistic fury till the dealer was lying in a foetal position on the ground, soaked in blood and whimpering with pain. Then the old bloke stopped, rolled Ray onto his back and kicked his legs apart.
‘So, you cheeky fucking black fellow bastard,’ he said ominously. ‘You wish to fuck my beautiful little granddaughter, do you? With fucking what?’
The old bloke raised his walking stick and slammed it into Ray’s groin with such ferocity the handle broke. The pain was so excruciating, the dealer couldn’t even scream. He simply lay at the old bloke’s feet quivering, his bloodied, battered face frozen in horror at what was happening to him. It was that awful a sight, even Les had to momentarily turn away.
The old bloke gave Ray a few more in the groin then stopped, and with a cruel smile on his face, stood over Ray, who was fast going into shock.
‘Now listen to me, bastard,’ the old bloke said evenly. ‘When peoples ask you what happened, tell them you met old colonel from Spetsnaz. Spetsnaz,’ he repeated. ‘You got that, bastard?’ The old bloke gave Ray a last whack across the ribs then threw the broken walking stick into a grassy ditch running beneath the trees alongside the driveway. After a cursory look around, the old bloke calmly walked back to the Winnebago and, without any sign of a limp, climbed behind the wheel and drove off.
Well, smiled Les, as the Winnebago disappeared out of sight, that’s something you don’t see every day. He turned to Ray lying in the dirt, his chest heaving and his breath coming in tortured gasps. The dealer was a shattered, bloodied mess; if his dark tracksuit hadn’t masked most of the blood, it would have looked even worse. Voices coming from beneath the verandah made Les step across to the long railing and poke his head over. It was Ray’s two mates in their dark tracksuits.
‘He should be here. I saw him drive off.’
‘He might have gone round to Dawn’s?’
‘No. He said he was coming straight to the pub.’
‘Maybe he’s in the car park. Sorting things out?’
Following them along the verandah, Les watched Ray’s mates walk down to the driveway. They saw Ray lying on the ground, gave a shout and ran over to him.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said the first man, kneeling down by Ray’s side. ‘Are you all right, Ray?’
‘Fuckin hell,’ said his mate. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. Shit. Go and get the car. We’ll get him to the hospital.’
‘Yeah, right.’
The dealer ran off towards the Hemp Embassy, while his mate carefully rolled Ray over on his back. Besides being covered in deep gashes, Ray’s leg was broken, so was his left arm, and who knew what internal injuries he had. The first man looked up and saw Les peering over the balcony.
‘Hey,’ he yelled. ‘Did you see what happened?’
Les shook his head. ‘No. I just got out of bed. Looks like he’s been hit by a car. I’d better ring the police.’
‘Fuck the police,’ the man shouted back.
‘That’s exactly what I reckon,’ nodded Les.
Norton left the man still tending to Ray and went back to his room. He had a drink of mineral water then, taking his time, changed out of his trackies and into his blue shorts and the same T-shirt he wore at the club. Satisfied his credit cards and money were tucked safely in his pockets, Les walked back down to the end of the verandah.
Ray’s two mates had taken him away leaving several thick patches of blood soaking into the driveway. Les stared at the blood for a few moments, thoughtfully picking at his chin. It’s funny, he pondered. One minute that old bloke was limping around on a walking stick. The next minute his limp’s gone and he’s walking as good as gold. He must be onto some miracle cure. Les went back to his room, locked it, then followed the corridor down to the side entrance and let himself out of the hotel. He took the stairs to the footpath and walked over to the driveway.
Ignoring the spot where Ray had been lying, Les started searching in the ditch beneath the trees, and it didn’t take him long to find the old bloke’s blood-spattered broken walking stick. Using a sheet of newspaper that had blown down the driveway, Les picked it up and immediately his face burst into a huge grin.
‘You sneaky, rotten old bastard,’ he laughed out loud.
The walking stick was a length of lead pipe, sprayed with silver frost and fitted with a black rubber stopper at one end. At the other end, a piece of wood had been jammed into the pipe to form a handle, part of which had broken off. Les shook his head in grim admiration. No wonder the old bloke made such a mess of that goose. You could wreck a truck with this. Then Les snapped his fingers as something else occurred to him. The flag on the back window of the Winnebago. It wasn’t a vertical blue, white and red French flag. It was a horizontal white, blue and red Russian flag. The old bloke wasn’t French. He was Russian. And that word he repeated to poor silly Ray, ‘Spetsnaz’. They’re the Russian Special Forces. Eddie’s showed me videos of them. Shit! They’re as tough and hard as any soldiers in the world. The only difference with them is, they’re more brutal and utterly ruthless. The old bloke was ex-Spetsnaz. Christ! Ray’s lucky he didn’t beat him to death. And you can bet if Ray’s two mates had been with him, the old warrior wouldn’t have hesitated in giving it to them, too. Les balanced the length of pipe in his hand. Well, I’ll be buggered. Wait till I tell Eddie about this tonight. He’ll blow in his pants. After one more look, Les dumped the length of pipe back in the ditch and walked across to the newsagency.
Les bought the three Sydney papers then strolled down to the Spectrum Café. Noticing Gazza wasn’t around he placed the papers on one of the tables out the front, removed all the sections he wasn’t interested in and dropped them in the nearest bin. The Spectrum’s door was open and when he’d finished Les walked straight in to find half-a-dozen people seated in the café eating or drinking coffee, while Rip Van Winkle and the gang were huddled in the garden, all vibed up and ready to waste another day. Les ordered the same meal as before from the same man behind the counter and sat down at the same table. Same old same old, he mused as he opened The Australian. The only things missing so far are those fuckin elves. Les had a suspicious look under his table as the man brought his coffee and cutlery over.
The coffee was good and the food when it arrived was as tasty, with a little extra bacon this time. Les enjoyed the meal then lingered over one of the weekend magazines with another coffee. When he’d finished Les paid the bill, gathered his papers and stood out the front of the restaurant figuring out what to do. Between the tourist buses and people walking around, Nimbin had come to life. But Les wasn’t interested in strolling through town taking photos and such. He’d seen and bought all he wanted. Why don’t I simply spend the day reading the papers and maybe my book? he asked himself. Then, by the time I contemplate my navel, have a run, iron a dress and have a feed it’ll be time to bundy on at Lonnie’s palaise de boogie. After buying some apples, oranges and more mineral water at the supermarket, Norton walked across to the hotel.
Back in his room, Les kicked off his trainers and took the papers out onto the verandah. He had settled down at a table near his back door when the smell of someone smoking pot drifted up through the floorboards. A glance over the railing told Les three younger sales reps in tracksuits had taken over the franchise and business appeared to be brisk. There you go, smiled Norton, as he resumed his seat. Ray’s certainly got some reliable back-up in his sales team. I wonder how the sales manager’s feeling right now? VFO, I would imagine.
By late afternoon, Les had eaten all his fruit, drunk a bottle of mineral water and read every book, film and theatre review imaginable. He’d caught up on news from all over the world and gone through each boring long-winded political column there was, wishing he’d read his book instead. Boy! Do I need a run, he told himself, as he dumped the three papers in a plastic garbage bin down from his door. Between Alan Ramsay, Paul Kelly and the rest of those Canberra hacks, I feel like my
brain’s turned to boiled choko. He changed into his training gear, did a few stretches on the railing then let himself out of the hotel and jogged off in the same direction as the day before.
Again traffic was almost zero and the run was enjoyable. Les tried to keep a clear head. But pictures of the old bloke hammering the dealer in the blue tracksuit kept going through his mind. What’s that old saying? mused Les. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Try telling that to the old Russian in the Winnebago. He preferred shoving it in a microwave oven and leaving it on high for about twenty-five minutes. Les looked at his watch. Jogging nonchalantly along, he’d come a little further than the day before. He turned around and started back.
When Les got to the hotel there was a blue minibus parked out the front with LITTLE RIPPER AUSSIE TOURS painted along the side. And when he let himself into his room, his clothes had been neatly folded and placed on the bunk above his along with his bags and two bulky backpacks. Besides that, the back door was open and he had company.
Lying on the bottom bunk opposite his was a fat blue-eyed blonde with her hair braided into two thick plaits; lying on the bunk above her was an even bigger blonde with her hair parted in the middle. They were both wearing jeans, folded at the bottom, socks and sandals and floppy white T-shirts. Their bling was coloured beads and metal bangles.
‘G’day,’ said Les, removing his sweatband.
‘Hello,’ drawled the blonde on the top bunk.
‘Hello,’ drawled her girlfriend.
Les got a bottle of mineral water, had a drink and sat down on his bunk. The blonde on the top bunk slid her massive behind over the side and sat down next to her friend on the bottom bunk where they both stared at Les staring back at them from about a metre away.
‘I’m Les, anyway,’ said Norton, offering his hand.
‘I am Nissa,’ replied the blonde with the plaits, pumping Norton’s hand.
‘And I am Solveig,’ said the other blonde, doing the same.
‘Nice to meet you,’ smiled Les.
‘You also,’ smiled Solveig.
‘We hope you don’t mind we moved your clothes?’ said Nissa.
Les shook his head. ‘No. That’s all right,’ he said. Les stared at the two girls and swallowed some more water. ‘So what’s doing?’ he asked.
The girls turned to each other for a moment. ‘What’s…doing?’ asked Nissa.
‘Yeah.’ Les nodded to the girl’s ample breasts. ‘How are they hanging? Soft as silk and full of milk. Or fat and dud and full of mud?’
The two girls looked at each other again and exchanged words in a foreign language. Solveig turned to Les and shook her head.
‘We do not understand,’ she said.
‘That’s okay,’ smiled Les. ‘I have a tendency to talk a bit fast. It comes from living in the Eastern Suburbs. So where are you from?’
‘From?’ said Nissa.
‘Yeah. Where’s home?’ asked Les. ‘You’re not Poms, are you?’ he joked.
‘Oh no,’ stated Solveig. ‘We are not Poms.’
It turned out the girls were Norwegian university students from a town called Trondheim, where they studied graphic art. They’d been in Australia for three days: in Sydney. Now they were heading for Fraser Island with ten other backpackers, after a stopover in Nimbin till Monday. Later they were going to Cairns and Darwin. Les told them the truth. He was from Sydney and he was in Nimbin working as a disc jockey, helping a bloke get a bar going. He’d be gone in the morning. The girls’ English wasn’t too bad in a sing-song fashion. But although Les was talking slowly, they’d often have to turn to each other and discuss something he’d just said in their native Norwegian.
‘And you are disc jockey?’ queried Solveig.
‘Too right,’ replied Les. ‘I’m one cool rockin hep cat daddy. Why don’t you come down the club tonight and check things out? You like rock ’n roll?’
‘Rock and roll is good,’ replied Solveig.
‘Yes,’ smiled Nissa. ‘I like to boogie on Saturday night.’
‘T-Rex,’ winked Les. ‘Then you’ll like the Double L Ranch.’
‘Double L Ranch,’ drawled Solveig. ‘Sounds very good.’
‘It is,’ said Les. ‘Anyway, girls, I have to have a shower and get ready for the pickle factory. Showbiz and my fans are calling.’
‘Whatever you say,’ replied Nissa.
Les rose from the bed and, feeling a little self-conscious due to the cramped conditions in the room, gathered up his towel and shaving kit. Shit! This is ridiculous, he frowned. There’s not enough room in here to swing a mouse, let alone a cat. Be nice if I rub against Nissa or Solveig while I’m getting changed and Mr Wobbly pokes his head out. Sleeping’s going to be a lot of fun, too, if I come home half-pissed after catching up with Eddie.
Les found a clean pair of jox and was about to leave when Solveig raised one cheek of her ample rump from the bunk and ripped off a fart that sounded like somebody tearing an old bedsheet in half. Taking absolutely no notice, Nissa snorted back through her nose, cleared her throat and gobbed out the back door. Well, smiled Les, holding on to his toiletries. I guess that’s set the tone for the night. No problems. Les excused himself and just before he stepped out the door, let go a fart that had been crammed inside him while he’d been sitting on his bunk talking. Les closed the door softly behind him and, whistling happily, strolled down to the showers.
When he got back to the room, Nissa and Solveig were seated out on the verandah stuffing themselves with corn chips and drinking orange juice. Les changed into his jeans and a dark blue denim shirt that was only crushed at the back, over a black souvenir T-shirt he bought in Lorne. After giving his hair a brief flick, he stepped out onto the verandah and joined the two Norwegians by their table.
‘Oh. Have a look at you,’ said Solveig.
‘Yes. You are very handsome man, Les,’ smiled Nissa. ‘I bet girls go crazy for you in disco.’
Les had a strong feeling the Norwegian girls were being just a little sarcastic, because he’d had a good look at his face while he was shaving, and Brad Pitt he wasn’t. But Les didn’t mind a bit of friendly banter. ‘You better believe it, barge arse,’ he winked. ‘As soon as I walk in the door, I’ll have snatches hurled at me like javelins.’
‘Snatches like javelins?’ queried Solveig.
‘Yeah. Big ones, little ones. Hairy ones, smelly ones. I might even get a whopper like yours, and have to lash a couple of fence palings across my back so I don’t fall in.’
Nissa tilted her head a little. ‘You know,’ she half smiled, ‘I think you are very cheeky man, Les.’
‘Yes. Very cheeky for sure,’ agreed Solveig.
‘Me?’ protested Les. ‘No way camel-toe ted. I was brought up in a very strict family of God-fearing Christians.’
Nissa turned to Solveig and they had a quick exchange in their native tongue. ‘You know anything about Norwegian women, Les?’ asked Nissa.
‘Yeah. I used to take a Norwegian girl out in Sydney. She drove a fijord fijalcon.’
Solveig ignored Les and stared directly into his eyes. ‘Maybe when you finish tonight at disco,’ she said, ‘we have party back here. Nissa has bottle of Norwegian aquavit in bag.’ Solveig wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Is very good, Les. Little bit aniseed. Make you feel hot inside, like big log in fire.’
‘Sounds great,’ smiled Les. ‘I’ll try and get away early.’ He looked at his watch and moved towards the door. ‘Anyway, ladies, I’m off to have something to eat. By then it’ll be time to start work. So I’ll see you later. You two little Norwegian sweet potatoes.’
‘Okay,’ nodded Nissa. ‘We find you in disco.’
‘Yes. Maybe we do that for sure,’ said Solveig.
Lord have mercy, shuddered Les as he let himself out of the room and took the stairs to the front door. That’s all I need. Come home tonight and have those two mastodons throw me up in the air. I’d rather get into another fight. Fuck it, thought Les, as he crossed the
road to the pizza shop. I’m half a mind to keep off the piss again tonight, get my stuff and drive straight to Ballina when I finish. I noticed an all-night motel there as I was driving in. I can stay there tonight and get a fresh start in the morning. Shit. I might just do that. I can always have a drink with Eddie in Sydney.
Les went for the chicken schnitzel again, plus a smoked salmon salad and a flat white to wash everything down. The dining room was half full and Les found a table beneath the paintings where he settled back to check out the other diners. They were mostly families, except for a table of four girls near the window, who kept glancing in his direction over their glasses of white wine. Les surmised they had been at the bar the night before and recognised the nark DJ that wouldn’t let anyone dance.
Having not eaten anything except fruit since breakfast, Les had no trouble knocking over both the salmon salad and the schnitzel, along with a second flat white. Fair dinkum, thought Les, as he drained the last of his second coffee, wouldn’t it be nice right now to be home on my lounge, kicked back in my trackies, catching up with Alan, Charlie and Jake in Two and a Half Men. Still, it could be worse. At least I’m getting to hear some good music. And five hundred bucks a night’s not a bad earn. Les paid the bill and strolled down to the bar.
Several people were drifting in and Buddy and Mason were on the door, looking fit in their polo shirts and jeans when Les came up the path. As soon as they spotted him their faces lit up.
‘Les. How are you, mate?’ said Buddy.
‘Hello, Les. How’s things?’ asked Mason.
‘Not bad, fellahs,’ smiled Les. ‘How’s it with you?’
‘Good,’ smiled Mason.
‘Hey, Les,’ said Buddy. ‘Did you get into a fight outside the hotel last night?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘With that bloke and his three mates you threw out.’
High Noon in Nimbin Page 13