Les took another sip of bourbon and returned his gaze to the photos, his jaw now clenched with frustration. What is this fuckin’s sheila trying to tell me? The loot’s there. I know it is. But nothing makes sense. Norton scowled down at the photos, almost ready to let go a string of obscenities, when he started to blink. Then he began to blink some more. Wait a minute. Yes it does. Norton picked up one of the photos, stared at it for a moment then picked up the book of poems, read it, then tossed it back on the bed and picked up the photo again. My bloody oath it does. I was right and Millwood was wrong. In a paradoxical sort of way as he said. And what did I say to him? Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees? Les stared down at the photos and grinned. Well, you can’t, can you? Hah! No, you definitely canst not. Norton clapped his hands together hard and loud. Liz, baby, I think I know your little secret. Laughing now, Les pushed four of the photos together. And as for you, Eduardo, you shifty Spanish-named bludger who just happens to look like young Wayne. You’re a lot shiftier than even I gave you credit for. But what a good idea. Les laughed and held up his drink. Well, here’s to you, Eduardo old son. And you too, Elizabeth. You can fool some of the Nortons all of the time. And all of the Nortons some of the time. But you can’t fool all of the Nortons all of the time. Not the Australian branch of the family anyway. And I think I know the whole story too. Les grinned triumphantly and sipped his drink. Then it dawned on him that if he was right he was going to need, if not quite earth-moving equipment, then at least something along those lines. Along with his jubilation Les began to ponder on this new development when there was a knock on the door. Hello, who’s this? he frowned, and got up to open the door.
‘Errol? How are you, mate?’
‘Ire mon.’
‘That’s good. So am I. What’s…?’
‘De two ’oman, Delta and Esme. Dey waitin’ down de front wan see yu. Suntin baht de car. I tell dem get laas?’ ‘No. No, that’s okay, Errol. I’ll come down and sort it out.’
‘Ire mon.’
Les was about to close the door and stopped. ‘Hey I’roll. Come inside for a minute. I want to see you about something, mon.’
Les closed the door behind them and had a quiet, friendly chat with the security guard dropping a bit of an Arthur Daley arm around his shoulders at the same time. A few minutes later Errol was $50 US in front, with the promise of another $50 later on.
‘I’ll be leaving early and I’ll be back in the afternoon. I’m not sure when.’
‘No problem, mon.’
‘Good on you, I’rol. Okay, tell the two lovelies I’m on my way down.’
‘Ire mon.’ Errol closed the door behind him.
Beauty, Norton smiled to himself. That sort of settles that. Now I suppose I’d better throw a pair of shorts on and let the two Jamaican princesses have the home unit for the night. Then try and get a good night’s sleep myself. Hah! Tony Rebel and Red Rose’s ‘No More Gun Talk’ came ricocheting up the walls from next door. Don’t like my chances.
Esme and Delta were standing with their valuables next to the Honda, under the steady gaze of Errol, when Les came down the stairs. They didn’t look in too bad a shape. Fed, sober, they’d even shouted themselves a new plastic shopping bag from somewhere; and they were happy to see Les again.
‘Hello, girls,’ he smiled. ‘How’s things?’
‘Hi Les,’ chorused Esme and Delta.
Their night had been pleasant enough. They’d had a meal down the road, saw a band in a bar, had a few orange juices, walked around. Les told them about Millwood and himself. They’d had a nice meal too, but unfortunately they’d got a little drunk. Then he opened the car door.
‘Listen, if you want any pillows or that see Errol and he should be able to scrounge you some up. He’s alright. I’ll be down around seven and we’ll have breakfast. Then I have to go away for the day.’
Delta wasn’t wasting any time. She put her arms around Norton’s neck, gave him the sweetest little kiss then jumped in the front, leaving the door open for Esme. Esme stood there for a moment with this strange look on her face. She stepped across in front of Les and pushed her tunti right up against him.
‘Les, why yu no take me upstairs wi yu? No danza. No bandulu. Jus bi wi yu.’
‘Esme,’ smiled Les, ‘you’re a sweetie. You really are. But I have to get some sleep. I’ve got a lot on again tomorrow.’
Esme’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘Deh suntin’ wrong wi me? Mi no good nuff, Les?’ She nodded her head slowly. ‘Ya. Ya mon. Mi no good nuff for yu. Daht’s it.’
‘Ohh bullshit, Esme. You’re the grouse. Fair dinkum, I’d swim across a beach full of bluebottles just to hear you piss in an old hubcap. But I want to be on my own. I have to think about something. Besides, I got a girlfriend back in Australia. What would she think?’
‘A wa do yu,’ protested Esme. ‘She no heh. She ovah deh. No, Les. Mi no good nuff for yu. Tell trut, mon.’
‘Oh arseholes! Come here.’ Les put his hand around Esme’s waist and gave her a kiss. It wasn’t too bad either. Her lips were disgustingly soft and warm, with a little bit of spice, and her body firm; even if she didn’t close her eyes. ‘Goodnight, Ez. I have to go. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Les gave her one more on the cheek. Esme stood there for a moment, giving Les another strange look, before she climbed in the back of the Honda. ‘See you later, Errol,’ winked Norton and climbed up the stairs.
‘Ire mon.’
Bloody sheilas, thought Les back in his room. It’s alright for them to knock you back for a root. But knock them back and they carry on as if you’re either a poof or there’s something wrong with you. What are you supposed to do? Light candles round it, roll out a prayer mat, get down on your knees and worship it? Christ! Creepy- crawlies aside, I’m too drunk, too tired and it’s too fuckin’ hot. Les finished his drink and yawned. Next door decided to play another reggae track just for a change. ‘Dirts Heart’ by Coca Tea and Ninja Man. Bloody hell! Do they ever play any rock ’n’ roll in this joint? Even some Col Joye, Bay City Rollers, ABBA, Duran Duran, techno funk, house music. Anything. Hang on. What am I saying? No, keep the reggae going. Ire mon. Norton yawned again and looked at his watch. It wasn’t getting any earlier. He switched off the light, lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
It wasn’t easy trying to sleep. He’d doze off but the steady bass, the short, tinny rattle of drums now and again or bursts of laughter coming from below would keep waking him up. And there was nothing Les could do about it. He’d toss and turn and try to switch off, but to no avail. Oh well. I suppose I’ll drift off sooner or later. I’ll just feel buggered when I wake up in the morning, that’s all. Les laughed bitterly to himself. I should have let Esme and Delta have the room. I’d be better off sleeping in the fuckin’ car.
Reggae music continued to pump into the room. Before long it all began to sound the same; one continuous bass riff punctuated by drums and unintelligible lyrics. By now Les was half asleep, half awake, drifting in and out of consciousness, more buggered than anything else. One minute his mind would be in Australia, the next minute it would be in Jamaica as he’d toss and turn and sweat into the sheets. Les yawned and rolled over and the beat seemed to get closer. Then the beat sounded like a knock on the door. Les opened his grainy eyes. It was a knock on the door. What the…? Les looked at his watch in the half-light, swung his legs wearily over the bed then got up and answered it.
‘Esme! What the…?’
Esme didn’t look horny or doe-eyed or in love. She was pouty and shitty.
‘Daht iez-haad, bugayaga I’rrol mon,’ she smouldered. ‘Him a one bad man dat. Let mi in, Les. Please mon.’
Before Norton had a chance to say yes, no, or maybe, Esme was inside. He closed the door, switched on the light and looked at her through puffy eyes. ‘What’s wrong, Esme? What did Errol do?’ Bloody hell, Les muttered tiredly to himself. He’s probably tried to get her pants off. I’m fucked if I’m going down there to defend her ho
nour, or her bloody chastity, or what bloody ever.
‘I eenai biksit mi sleep im done i wuk…’ Esme started blowing up.
Les held up a hand. ‘Hey, hang on, Esme. Slow down. I can’t understand a bloody word you’re saying.’
‘Ire mon. Mi bex. Sorry, Les.’
It turned out Errol hadn’t tried to pork her or Delta. He hadn’t even made so much as a sexist remark or a mild sexual innuendo. Esme would have been happier if he had. Les had slung Errol fifty dollars earlier to get him a loan of a pinchbar or a crowbar; with another fifty in his dook when Les returned them in the afternoon. Norton remembered seeing Errol helping the caretaker earlier with the gate and figured he might be able to get him a loan of some tools. For a hundred dollars US Errol would have choked the caretaker and torn them out of his hands; stuff the new gate. Evidently there wasn’t much happening so Errol finished work early. He’d got the tools together on the sly, didn’t want to have them lying around and didn’t have a key to the boot of the Honda. So being the good, honest bloke he was, and not knowing when Les was leaving in the morning, he’d thrown them in the back, a pinchbar, crowbar, shovel and one or two other things, all over Esme; nearly busting her skull. Delta was alright in the front, but in the back you would have been more comfortable locked in an iron maiden. Errol’s philosophy, however, was Esme wasn’t giving him a hundred bucks and if she didn’t like the idea she could fuck off. So here she was; tired, shitty, a lump on her scone and Norton had a spare bed. Fair’s the go. Even his rotten ancestors wouldn’t have been that bad back in the slave days. Les looked at her, closed his eyes and shook his weary head.
‘Alright,’ he said, clearing some stuff off the spare bed. ‘But behave yourself. And no snoring or farting.’
‘Sure Les,’ answered Esme happily. ‘No problem, mon.’
‘You can leave that to me.’
‘Wa yu say, mon?’
‘Nothing. If you want a glass of water or whatever, it’s in there.’
Esme had a drink, took her sandals off, but left the rest of her gear on and climbed on the bed, pleased as punch. Les turned off the light, pulled a sheet over him and said goodnight to Esme; she smiled the same back at him. Norton closed his eyes and resumed staring into the cosmos as more reggae continued to pump in from next door. Bloody hell, he thought. How am I ever gonna get to sleep? And I’ve got to be on the ball a bit tomorrow. Norton was about buggered now and another thought was running through his mind; worrying him. If he was right about what he was going to do tomorrow, and he stuffed it up, there was a good chance he could get badly hurt; more than likely killed. There was also a chance he could get sprung. A slim one, but a chance nonetheless, especially if he stuffed up. Les was lying on his back, drifting off, half thinking about different things, miles away at times, when instinct told him someone was watching him. Someone was. Esme. Les opened his eyes slightly and Esme was lying on her side, resting on one elbow, staring at him. In the gauzy darkness Les could see and feel these soft pink eyes boring into him like laser beams. His mind on other things he’d almost forgotten about her and got a bit of a start.
‘Esme? What’s the matter? Can’t you sleep?’
‘Mebbi sleep,’ crooned Esme, her eyes never leaving Norton.
‘Yeah, righto. Whatever.’
Les closed his eyes again and continued staring into the cosmos, trying to get some rest at least, and not get up feeling too shithouse in the morning. Try as he might, however, Les found it impossible to switch off from the beams Esme was scorching into him from about a metre away. Go to sleep will you, Esme? Les almost pleaded. For Christ’s bloody sake. But Esme wasn’t letting up.
‘Les. Les.’
‘Yeah whad?’ mumbled Norton.
‘Wa wrong wi mi?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with you. Esme, go to bloody sleep.’
‘No. Suntin’ wrong with me. Wa?’
‘Esme. Go to sleep. You’re enough to give anyone the shits.’
Norton tried to get to sleep as Esme continued to stare at him and more thumping reggae pounded in through the bathroom window.
‘A hiry music deh pon i radio,’ she said dreamily.
It was some old Bob Marley track Les vaguely remembered. ‘Yeah. Some of it’s alright,’ he mumbled.
There was silence for a little while apart from the music. ‘Les, wa wrong wi me?’
‘Nothing. I can’t afford you and you’re too nice. Now go to sleep and stop being a pain in the arse.’
Even with his eyes closed Les could sense Esme slowly shaking her head. He yawned, settled back and again tried to ignore her. Next thing his bed moved. Esme was sitting on the edge staring down at him.
‘Esme!!?’
‘Les. Wa matter wi yu?’
‘Oh Esme! Give it a bloody rest, will you? Go to sleep. Jesus!’
Norton lay back on the bed with his eyes closed, too tired and too buggered to argue any more. Anything for a peaceful life. There was silence, darkness and more reggae music.
‘Ire mon,’ Esme finally said. ‘I think I understand.’
‘That’s terrific, Esme. Now goodnight.’
‘But Les.’ Esme placed her hand on his chest. ‘Yu bin so good wi mi ’n Delta, I want do suntin for yu.’
‘Esme,’ protested Norton.
‘Relax mon,’ soothed Esme. ‘I give yu Jameercan sno’stum.’
‘Esme. For…’
But it was too late. Esme pulled the sheet back and started running her fingers across Norton’s chest and stomach muscles, very much liking what she was finding. It wasn’t long before her soft pink fingers were sliding gently down his midriff and under his jox. Shit! Isn’t this nice? thought Les. All I wanted was some sleep, now I’ve got this bird attacking me with some monstrous tampering. I s’pose I’ll just have to lie back and think of Australia. What else can a man do? Les let out a little sigh. I suppose it could be worse.
Norton might not have been all that keen for any porking, but Mr Wobbly was more than keen to get up and have a look around. Esme’s hands were gentle, she gave him a rub, a stroke and a squeeze and Mr Wobbly got keener than ever and from where he was now standing, he didn’t mind the view either. Then Esme got down to it. Her tongue and lips were soft and warm and her mouth moist and wide; a shiver went up Norton’s back then down to his knees. Ohh yes, he sighed. It definitely could be worse alright. Even the music started to sound better. ‘Stranger on the Shore’ by Scotty and Johnny P. It was all bass and beat pumping up the wall with Mr Wobbly now pumping away in unison also. Les writhed on the bed, sweat pouring down his face and stinging his eyes as Esme’s head bobbed up and down over his loins. In practically a dream-like state Les could make out some woman with a beautiful, crackling voice singing the lyrics and some bloke rapping out a chorus. ‘Tell you where me stand, tell you where me stand. Tell you where me, tell you where me, tell you where me stand. Need a ’oman to keep me healthy and strong. To all ’oman dis is an invateershun.’ Yeah, whatever, muttered Les. I ain’t gonna argue. It was all he could do to stay on the bed. Esme knew what she was about. Then the Jamaican girl hit warp ten and Norton’s erogenous zone or whatever at the same time, sending the big Queenslander cross-eyed. He gasped in some air, arched his back and Mr Wobbly exploded into what felt like a thousand pieces. Esme bit and chewed and, try as he might, Les couldn’t help but howl like a werewolf that had just put one foot in a dingo trap and the other on a cigarette butt as Esme got square for everything Norton’s ancestors had done to hers back in the good old days. His back arched again, his bones rattled, then Les flopped back on the bed, completely drained, with his eyes spinning around like roulette wheels. After a moment or two Les dragged in some air, let it out and glanced up at Esme, who was looking down at him through the soft light and the music with this enigmatic, almost Mona Lisa like smile on her face.
‘So that’s a Jamaican Snow Storm, Esme?’ Norton smiled dreamily back at her. ‘Unreal.’
Esme shook her head slowly. �
��N’Les,’ she garbled. ‘No daht. Di is. Shhsplluuurrrshhphllwt! Phwt! Phut!’ Esme sprayed the lot all over Les.
‘Ohh, you dirty, rotten low moll!’ howled Norton. ‘You prick!’
Les flopped back on the mattress with the Norton dynasty bloodline in his face, his eyes, all over his chest plus the sheets and pillows. He drew back his arm in a half-hearted attempt to belt Esme one, but he was too stuffed and now too weak to move. Esme had done a good job and all he could do was lie there and listen to her laughing as she went to the bathroom then came back and climbed on her own bed, still giggling. To make things worse again, Les found himself starting to laugh too. Naturally, like a typical woman, insouciant or otherwise, as soon as Esme’s head hit the pillow she was asleep.
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