Brumby’s camp looked like one of those old McCub-bin paintings, a blackened billy hanging over a campfire, a tarpaulin slung over a log between two trees for a tent, a tea-chest, a few other odds and ends, and that was it.
There was no sign of old Brumby. Murray called out a few times then opened the tent flap. There was old Joe, lying on his bunk, foaming at the mouth and turning blue. Murray didn’t need to know he’d been bitten by a snake. The thing was still curled up under his bed; a six-foot taipan. It started to uncoil slowly at the sight of Murray, and Wildlife and Parks officer or not, he grabbed his machete and hacked its head straight off, then threw it in the river. But poor old Brumby was just about a shot bird. Murray found the bite on his leg, slashed it with the machete, sucked some of the venom out then tied a tourniquet around it. There wasn’t a great deal more he could do for the time, but back in the ute he had some antisnake veno in his first-aid kit. If he could get some of that into old Joe he might be a chance. A pretty slim one though, because instead of a McCubbin painting, old Brumby was starting to look more like Gainsborough’s Blue Boy. It would be no good dragging Joe back through the scrub, the poison would only spread through his body. Murray propped his old mate up as best he could and started running back to the opal mine.
Murray had got about a kilometre when he heard a noise on his left. It was the same bushy haired blokes he’d seen at the railway station, only this time there were six of them and they weren’t wearing singlets and shorts. They were all dressed in full desert cammies and carrying machine-guns. Murray automatically stopped, but before he could say a word one of the men barked an order in some foreign language and all men raised their weapons. After the episode with the snake, Murray’s adrenalin was still pumping and something jogged his reflexes. He dived sideways and rolled backwards, just as a deafening burst of machine-gun fire tore into all the trees and scrub where he’d been standing. He rolled further and another burst from all six weapons ripped into the ground and kicked up rocks and logs barely centimetres away from his head. Murray waited a moment or two and heard the same man bark another order. Instead of charging at him, they knew what they were doing, they fanned out around him heading him towards the river.
Murray waited another second or two, took a deep breath then ran, crawled and rolled back to old Brumby’s camp, with whoever it was chasing after him, firing bursts of machine-gun fire. How they never killed him Murray didn’t know. But if Les didn’t believe him, his brother lifted up his shirt and showed him the bandages where two bullets grazed his waist next to all the cuts and scrapes. Les shook his head, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing. None the less, whoever they were, they were still dealing with a Norton. An unarmed Norton. But a very angry Norton who knew what he was doing and knew his way around the bush.
There was a slight ridge just in front of Joe’s camp. Murray dived over the top as another hail of bullets chopped into it, rolled down the embankment on the other side and into Joe’s tent. Old Brumby was still lying on his bunk foaming at the mouth and Murray knew he was pretty much a goner no matter what. If the poison didn’t kill him the blokes chasing Murray would. Murray grabbed Brumby off his bed, dragged him out the other side of the tent and threw him in the river, then dived behind some rocks, scrambled a bit further away just as the six men came charging down the ridge.
Whether it was the water or what that freshened old Brumby up, but he started waving his arms around and drifting along with the current it looked like he was swimming. All six men saw him splashing around and opened up with their machine guns. They didn’t just shoot him: they blew him to pieces. The machine-guns had drum magazines, and shells were just pouring out all over the place. Joe’s body rolled over and over from the force of the bullets, bits and pieces flying off everywhere. The six men kept firing till there was nothing left but torn pieces of clothing, scraps of flesh and gut and a deep, red stain slowly disappearing into the muddy water of the Balonne.
While this was going on, Murray crawled a bit further away and watched. Two of the men fired another burst into the water then, convinced it was Murray they’d just killed, the same man barked another order and they turned their attention to old Brumby’s camp. There wasn’t much but what there was they tore apart. They smashed up or ripped to pieces whatever of old Joe’s meagre possessions they could find, threw it in a heap then set fire to it with some kerosene they found. When it burnt down they kicked the ashes into the river, along with anything else that was left, including all their empty casings. They cleared old Brumby’s campsite, spread some rocks and bushes around and, by the time they finished, you wouldn’t have known anyone had been there. Convinced their low deed was done and they’d covered their tracks enough, the same man grunted another order and they started walking back along the river in the direction of the bridge. Murray gave them a few moments while he patched his wounds up with a bit of mud and leaves, then followed.
They had a camp about two kilometres away, almost next to the river. Murray found a slight ridge fifty or so metres away and checked it out. The Land Rover was covered in desert camouflage and by the shape of the netting he could make out the wooden crate was still in the back. Even then it was almost invisible. There were three small tents, a table and chairs, and away from the campfire their machine-guns were stacked on their stocks, army style. Even without the six men standing about in their cammies and boots, the camp had a full-on paramilitary look to it.
By now Murray’s wounds were starting to seep through the mud and leaves, so rather than leave any sign of a blood trail he started back to the opal mine. He drove straight home, cleaned himself up and bandaged his wounds, and kept what had happened to himself.
The next day he still didn’t say anything to anyone in town or anyone that called out to the house. When he knew the sun would be behind him, Murray took a trail-bike down the opposite side of the river towards the camp. Even with a pair of Firebird 8 x 30, fluorescent red, objective-lens binoculars the camp wasn’t easy to find; whoever they were, they were professionals.
Murray found a safe spot to hide and zeroed in on the campsite. By the time the sun came round two hours later, Murray knew just about all he needed to know, and left as silently as he came. He still didn’t say anything to anybody, didn’t tell his wife or kids when they rang from St George that night. He had a few beers at the pub later that night, came home early and changed his bandages and thought about what to do. Only in about a ten times worse mood than his brother was when he got belted at CJ’s on Saturday night. Murray had been up about an hour still planning what to do when Les rang that morning. Now here they were.
‘So what do you reckon about that, Les? Blow up about me dragging you all the way out here if you like. But’ — a touch of sadness crossed Murray’s eyes — ‘if it hadn’t of been for poor old Brumby, you’d have never have seen me again.’
Les stared at his brother and shook his head. ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’ he said slowly.
‘And it’s a good thing I never had the dog with me. They’d have blown him to bits for sure.’ Murray spat into the dust. ‘Plus I lost a fuckin’ good hat.’
Les could hardly take his eyes off his brother as the words ‘never have seen me again’ sunk in a bit further. ‘Have you figured out who these roosters are?’
‘Yeah.’ Murray nodded his head emphatically. ‘They’re some kind of Muslim terrorists. I sprung these flashes on the sleeves of their cammies and a stack of rolled-up prayer mats. I couldn’t see all that much, but when I got home I rang a bloke in Brisbane and checked out the weapons. They’re Soviet Degtyarev PRC 56s. You don’t buy them in Woolies. By askin’ around the garage and that I figured out they got here around lunchtime Thursday. They’d have only just set up their camp and picked up that crate from the station. Friday they’d have been sussing the area out. They wouldn’t have known old Brumby was there yet, then they sprung me.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘They sure sprung you all right.’
> ‘What they’re doing out here I haven’t got a clue. But I sure as hell ain’t real keen on the wog bastards trying to kill me and turn our old mate Brumby into yabbie bait.’
Les scuffed at a rock near his foot. ‘So what are you gonna do, Muzz?’
‘What am I gonna do?’ The look of sadness in Murray’s eyes at the death of old Brumby was replaced by one of pure, icy hatred. ‘I’m gonna kill all six of the cunts. You gonna give me a hand?’
Les thought for a second, got to his feet, folded his arms and looked down at his brother. ‘Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?’
Murray jumped to his feet grinning. He shaped up in front of Les as if he could barely contain himself. ‘Good on you, mate. I knew you would.’
‘Hey, but just hang on a sec, Muzz. You can’t go racing out into the bush and take on half a dozen terrorists armed with machine-guns like you’re goin’ out pottin’ rabbits. I hope…’
‘Mate.’ Murray held up his hands. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got it all sorted out. We’ll do it early tonight. Take us three hours tops, no more. The bodies gone, the truck, the lot. They’ll disappear.’
‘Three hours?’
‘I promise you.’ Murray gave his brother a wink. ‘You just meet me here tonight at seven. I’ll tell you what’s going on. And I’ll show you something that’ll blow your mind.’ Before Les had a chance to reply Murray looked at his watch. ‘I’m gonna get going and get all this together. I’ll see you here at seven. Have a walk round town and that if you want. But I’d keep it a bit low-key if I were you. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘I will,’ replied Les. ‘The less people know I called into town and helped kill six blokes the better, I s’pose.’
Murray smiled. ‘Go and have a feed at that Spanish joint though. No one knows you in there. And the food’s the grouse.’ Murray shook his head. ‘Then, after Elaine’s cookin’ I reckon anything’d taste good. She nearly poisoned poor fuckin’ Grungle.’
Les looked solemnly at his brother then grabbed his hand and shook it almost like never before. ‘Jesus, it’s good to see you, Muzz.’
‘You too, Les, you too. Anyway, I’m off. I’ll see you back here at seven.’ Murray got into his Holden ute and drove back towards town.
Les stood there for a little while watching the disappearing dust cloud. By now he’d had enough of swatting flies in the heat. He got back into the Jag, turned on the air-conditioning and had a bit of think. Well, wasn’t this a bloody nice turn of events. Not only have a bunch of ratbag terrorists almost killed my brother, now I’m going out to get into a gun-fight, or who knows bloody what with them. They’ll disappear. Yeah. And if they don’t we just bloody might. And finish up joining old Brumby as yabbie bait all along the fuckin’ Balonne. Chill memories of the shoot-out with the IRA at Yurriki flashed across Norton’s mind. Christ! I hope it’s not anywhere as hairy as that. But Murray seemed super confident. And this time we’ll have the drop on them. Les drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel. And what’s this thing he reckons is going to blow my mind? Old Muzz can get a bit carried away at times. I just hope to Christ he knows what he’s doing. Les suddenly laughed mirthlessly to himself. Better ring DD and tell her not to wait up.
Les continued to stare out the window as the air-conditioner hummed in the background. After a few moments a rumble in his stomach told him he hadn’t had a feed since…? And that new Spanish restaurant sounded all right according to Murray. He glanced at his watch, he had a good hour. And it might be a good idea to ring DD. Shit! What the bloody hell am I going to tell her? With this, his hunger, and the forthcoming gunfight on his mind, Les started the car and drove into town.
Sunday evening in Dirranbandi was definitely Sunday evening in Dirranbandi; a few cars parked outside the pub, a few crows crying to each other as the sun went down, a couple of stray dogs walking around in the dust and no people. There were no cars outside the post office at the other end of town and none outside the restaurant. Norton parked the car opposite; he didn’t bother to lock it, but he left his cap and sunglasses on and changed into a plain, white T-shirt. Even with a new name and the bullfighter on the window, the old Cafe de Luxe still looked its same dusty self. There were the two petrol bowsers out the front between the skinny wooden poles holding up the chipped fibro awning with the loose slats, and the same junk collecting flies in the window. It was open, but there didn’t appear to be anybody inside. Les walked up to the post office. Shit! This is going to be nice, he thought, as he got the phone number out of his wallet and rummaged around for some change. He shook his head sombrely as he dropped the coins in the slot then dialled the number.
‘Hello,’ came a girl’s voice at the other end.
‘Yes. Is Desilu there, please.’
‘She’s not in at the moment. She’s around at a friend’s house. Who’s this?’
Norton had a quick think then dropped his voice. ‘I’m a friend of Les Norton, he asked me to leave a message for a Miss Desilu Donaldson.’
‘Oh yes. She was expecting a call. What…?’
‘Les was supposed to take her out tonight, but there’s been a bit of an accident with the car and they’re at the hospital.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Les said not to worry, they’re not hurt all that much. But they’re at the hospital sorting things out with the police. Les couldn’t get away and he asked me to ring up.’
‘Oh.’
‘He just said to say that he might be a bit late getting round there, that’s all.’
‘That’s bad luck. Is there a number Des can ring?’
‘There is, but I can’t think of it right off. Some place in Tweed Heads. I’m not from up here myself.’
‘Oh.’
‘So will you tell her that. And Les will ring her when he gets a chance. But he’s all right and not to worry.’
‘I’ll see that she gets the message. Thank you.’
‘Thanks very much. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
Norton hung up and looked at the phone, still shaking his head slightly. Not bad for off the cuff. But hospital. Shit! I hope that isn’t another omen. Like when I joked with Warren about him getting bashed up and I copped it that night myself. Norton stepped out of the phone-box and looked up at a few golden streaks spreading across the fading blue of the outback Queensland sky. You wouldn’t do it to me, would you, boss? Norton shook his head again. Oh well. If I’ve got to go, at least I’ll go on a full stomach. He put the number back in his wallet and walked down to the cafe.
The new owners hadn’t spent a fortune doing up the old Cafe de Luxe since they took over. The same old glass counter on your right as you walked in with the longer, laminex counter running past that. The same old three round mirrors on the wall behind it saying ‘Milk Drinks and Sundaes. Sweets and Confectioneries. Peach Melbas and Banana Splits’. The same three laminated plywood cubicles on your left, the same red laminex tables fading to white in the middle, the aluminium edges dented and scratched, and the same uncomfortable wooden seats. There were even the same old thirties-style mirrors hanging on the wall above. The only things new were, instead of the old pinball-machine, a video one, and a couple of Spanish travel posters and a few empty Chianti bottles stuck to the wall. Between this and the other counter were three more tables and white plastic chairs. However, at the end of the counter was a blackboard menu next to the kitchen, from which were wafting some pretty tantalising cooking smells. Very tantalising indeed. Les studied the blackboard menu — there were the usual steaks, chips, pies, hamburgers etc., plus a few Spanish and Mediterranean dishes — then Les took a seat in one of the cubicles with his back to the street. A minute or two later a plumpish woman about forty came out wearing a plain blue dress with big white buttons down the front and a blue apron. At first she could have passed for an Italian momma except her eyes were a flashing dark brown and her jet black hair was held on top of her head by a red wooden comb that looked big enough to ravel w
ool on.
‘Buenos nochas,’ she smiled.
‘Hello,’ Les smiled back.
Norton went for the taramasalata, capsicum salad and seafood paella. And a can of Golden Circle orange and mango to wash it down. His soft-drink and plate arrived, followed a few minutes later by the taramasalata and the capsicum salad. Murray wasn’t kidding about the food. It was just about unbelievable. Les couldn’t figure why the cafe wasn’t packed. If it had been in Sydney, the yuppie let’s-do-lunch set would have been kicking the doors down to get in.
The taramasalata just about sizzled on your tongue. The cod’s roe was mashed to perfection with just the right amount of crushed garlic, the black olives were as plump as gooseberries and if the carrot and celery sticks had been any crisper, he’d have needed both hands to break them. The capsicum salad had been lightly fried to perfection, the white pepper was freshly ground, the olives were plump again, there was just the right amount of chopped parsley, and Les knew virgin olive oil when he tasted it. The paella? What could he say? Beautiful mussels, scallops, king prawns and the thinnest fillets of fish. It wasn’t murdered with too much garlic or turmeric, and there were genuine strands of saffron spread across the long-grain rice. Les wiped a solitary grain of rice from his plate with the last of his bread and washed it down with the rest of his soft-drink then rubbed his stomach with satisfaction. A nice cup of coffee’d go well now, he thought. Les caught the lady’s eye and ordered.
While Les was eating, a few people had drifted in and out; buying milk, chocolates, cigarettes, whatever. They barely glanced at Les; in his cap and sunglasses he probably looked like any other truck-driver having a meal. He noticed a small pile of magazines on one of the tables between him and the counter. He picked a couple up just as his coffee arrived. Christ! Ten out of ten for the coffee as well, thought Norton, after he’d stirred in some sugar. Oh well, the condemned man’s going out on a good feed, Les mused as he sipped his coffee and flicked through the two magazines.
White Shoes, White Lines and Blackie Page 17