The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘My God! What was that?’ said Peregrine.

  ‘Just an old Huntsman spider,’ replied Norton. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Well, shall we go back into that other room? It’s … rather gloomy in here, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Yeah, righto.’ Norton switched off the light and went back into the bottom lounge room.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon so far, Pezz?’ said Norton, pretending to be warming his hands in front of the pot-bellied stove. ‘It sure is different, ain’t it?’

  ‘It’s certainly quite odd for Australia,’ agreed Peregrine. ‘It reminds one of a stockade, or something one would expect to find up in the Canadian rockies.’

  ‘Yeah, right. It looks like fuckin’ Fort Bravo or something. That yank colonel must’ve thought he was John Wayne. Look out those windows, Peregrine.’ Les slipped into a Walter Brennan voice. ‘Imagine if’n them Injuns tried to get us folk in here. We’d pick the pesky critters off afore’n they got past that there first row of trees. Heh heh!’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ nodded Peregrine, gazing out of the windows to the view across the grounds. ‘Why don’t we get up early tomorrow and have a jolly good game of Cowboys and Indians?’

  ‘Okay,’ replied Les brightly. ‘But I bags being the goody.’

  ‘Very well, old boy. Whatever turns you on.’

  They went back out to the barbecue area, found a couple of glasses and had a drink of water while they took in the peace and quiet as the sun began to set; the only sound was the sighing of the wind and the continued calling of the birds in the trees and fields. Norton noticed a massive hole about seventy metres long and about five metres deep had been excavated a few metres out from the barbecue area.

  ‘Looks like they were just about to put a pool in,’ he surmised, as they walked over and gazed in. There was about half a metre of water in the bottom, some bullrushes and movement of what were probably frogs and crickets.

  ‘Pity they didn’t,’ said Peregrine. ‘Be nice to have somewhere to go for a bit of a dip.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. There’s bound to be plenty of billabongs in that creek for a swim.’ Norton kicked a rock into the hole and watched it splash on the bottom. ‘Good place to hide a body though, ain’t it?’ he grinned. ‘Eddie’d love something like that. Anyway, we’ve seen the house, let’s get unpacked before it gets dark. We can check the rest of the place out tomorrow. We might have a bite to eat then I’ll show you your present I got you.’

  ‘A present?’

  ‘Yeah,’ winked Les. ‘I’ll show you after.’

  Norton’s first priority was to stack the beer and champagne in the fridge; the groceries he left sitting on the kitchen table. The beds had blankets but no sheets so it looked like the young English baronet would have to do it a bit tough for the first night, though Les did promise himself he’d drive into Murwillumbah first thing tomorrow and get a set of personally monogrammed silk ones for his guest. He put the Radox bath on hold, settling for a nice long shower instead. After he’d changed into his tracksuit, Les went upstairs with the bag he’d got from the disposal store in Coffs Harbour. Peregrine was sitting on the end of his bed; Les dropped it next to him.

  ‘Here you are, mate,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Your present.’

  Peregrine opened the bag and cautiously pulled out a pair of tiger stripe cammies, a webbing belt, a khaki army shirt, combat jungle boots, a black singlet and a forage cap.

  ‘What the deuce is this?’ he queried. ‘I didn’t come up here to join the SAS. And I’m absolutely positive Margaret Thatcher took back The Falklands. What…?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ shrugged Les. ‘But we’re gonna be up here for two weeks. If you want to get around looking like Bryan Ferry that’s your business. But we’ll be tromping all over this place and there’s ticks, leeches, snakes, spiders and Christ knows what else out there. I’ve got a set of the same gear, but you please yourself.’

  Peregrine twisted the canvas and rubber boots in his hands. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘Okay. Thanks — it might even be a bit of fun.’ Peregrine spread the army clothing out on the bed. ‘So, what’s for tea?’

  ‘Chilli beans a la Norton.’

  Les was now in the kitchen where he’d turned his ghettoblaster to some local radio station playing hillbilly music. He’d unpacked two large tins of red kidney beans, chilli sauce, garlic, bread and other odds and ends and was frying some onions in a large pan he’d found in one of the cupboards. Peregrine came out to see what was going on.

  ‘You like chilli beans, Pezz?’

  ‘I don’t mind. Do I have a choice though? I suppose it’s either that or starve?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, daddio.’ Norton opened the two tins of beans and dumped them in the pan. ‘To be honest mate, I didn’t know what we’d find in Yurriki. But there’s a supermarket and a butcher shop there, I’ll get some steaks and all that tomorrow. You’ll love my beans, though. Tomorrow it’ll sound like a Salvation Army band tuning up in here.’

  ‘Wonderful, Les. I can’t wait.’

  ‘The hills’ll be alive,’ laughed Norton. ‘But it won’t be with the sound of music.’

  Peregrine walked over to the ghetto-blaster. ‘Do you mind if I lose that radio station, Les? That music is practically intolerable.’

  ‘Yeah, it is a bit punishing, isn’t it? Put a tape on.’

  Peregrine rummaged around in the cassette holder till he found one of the tapes he’d bought in Coffs Harbour. The next thing, Rod Stewart was rasping his way through ‘Gasoline Alley’. Les opened a can of Fourex and suggested Peregrine do the same with a bottle of champagne then they settled into a bit of steady drinking while the beans bubbled away in the pan.

  ‘Well, Peregrine,’ said Norton. ‘Looks like it’s gonna be a pretty quiet old two weeks up here, mate. No TV, no phone, no sheilas, nothing.’

  ‘It certainly looks that way,’ agreed the Englishman.

  ‘So why don’t we just roll with the punches? Eat plenty of good tucker, get plenty of sleep. Go for nice long bush walks and just relax till your cousin sorts all this business out back in Ireland.’

  ‘Yes. I think that’s about the best thing we can do under the circumstances. Lewis will more than likely be on the case right now.’

  ‘He might, too. Let’s hope he is.’

  ‘So here’s to cousin Lewis.’ Peregrine raised his glass and Les did the same with his can of Fourex. ‘I say, this High Noon’s not a bad drop.’

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘Mmmhh. It could do with just a smidgen of fresh orange juice.’

  Les smiled and winked at the Englishman. ‘I’ll make sure I get a case first thing in the morning.’

  TRAGICALLY, EVENTS BACK in Ireland weren’t quite working out as well as Peregrine would have liked them to, as Laurie O’Malley was to find out when he picked up the phone in his Red Hill residence in Canberra. It was the third time he’d been on the phone that week about his godson, Peregrine. The first time was when Peregrine had rung him from the Sebel Town House to let him know he’d arrived safely in Sydney. The second time was the day after T’Aime’s article in The Telegraph and O’Malley had to get in touch with Price to find out what was going on. Now this one from Peregrine’s father in England. Peregrine’s cousin, Captain Lewis Standfield’s Land Rover had just tripped a remote-controlled mine in Lisnaskea, County Fermanagh. The driver had been killed outright and Lewis was in a military hospital in Belfast with two broken legs and multiple internal injuries and was not expected to pull through. Ironically, the bomb wasn’t set specifically for him. He and his driver just happened to be another British patrol in Northern Ireland in the wrong place at the wrong time. It rated a paragraph in the London Daily Mail and a half a one in the Evening Standard.

  Yvonne entered the study and couldn’t help but notice the look on the Attorney General’s face as he stared grimly out at the cold, bleak surround
ings of Canberra.

  ‘Bad news, sir?’ she asked quietly.

  O’Malley nodded solemnly. ‘The worst.’ He looked at her momentarily then decided to ring Price direct.

  ‘Christ! What a bastard,’ said Price, after O’Malley had told him what had happened in Ireland. ‘What do you think is the best thing to do now?’

  ‘Peregrine’s father told me he’d been on the phone to Army Intelligence in Belfast and they’re trying to organise another SAS unit to go in and get this last Frayne brother. So you might have to keep Peregrine up on that farm for a week or two longer.’

  ‘That’s no problem, Lozz. I’ve got a good man with him now, and I can always send Eddie up there if it comes to a pinch.’

  ‘I still don’t think anything will happen to him out here. I just didn’t like that thing in the paper, that’s all.’

  ‘No. That was a bit unfortunate, all right. But he’s as safe as a bank up where he is. I couldn’t even find the place myself if I wanted to.’

  ‘Yeah. Fair enough, Price.’

  They talked a little longer with Price telling O’Malley not to be unduly concerned, things would work out all right. He wouldn’t tell Les or Peregrine what had happened to Lewis for the time being and if need be he’d keep Peregrine on the farm for six months if they had to. He’d keep him posted every time Les rang up.

  However O’Malley wasn’t the only one who had been on the phone to Northern Ireland that week. The three English journalists had rung Belfast from their unit in the inner city suburb of Stanmore on Tuesday to tell a certain bereaved party that they had missed their quarry by thirty minutes, and two days later the trail was still well and truly cold. If only they had known that by sheer coincidence the man they should really have been after was almost dead in a Belfast hospital, they could have saved themselves a lot of trouble, aggravation and money in ISD calls. Unfortunately, that’s often the way it is with the Irish.

  Two men were sitting on the lounge in the unit looking at the third man after he had just hung up the phone. In the kitchen, two women with dark hair and green eyes were preparing coffee and sandwiches. On the wall behind the man who had just hung up the phone was the green, white and orange flag of the republic.

  ‘What did he say this time, Patrick?’ asked one of the men on the lounge.’

  ‘He’s not at all happy, I can assure you, Robert,’ replied the man who had been on the phone, who then turned to the other man on the lounge. ‘I think you might have gathered that from the way I was talking, Brendan.’

  ‘I did,’ replied the third man. ‘And it surely puts a chill in the air when that man’s got the hump.’

  ‘Aye. It does indeed.’ Patrick looked at the others for a moment. ‘So he said to keep looking. Try that hotel again. Keep ringing those journalists we know. The bastard can’t be too far away. I’d best be telling you also that if we don’t find him, there’s a good chance he’ll be coming out here himself.’

  ‘Oh, good Christ!’ said Robert. ‘That’s all we need. There’ll be bodies everywhere.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Brendan, ‘Liam’s always been known to shoot first and think about it later.’

  Patrick fixed his two compatriots with an expressionless gaze. ‘He also said that if he does come, he’ll be bringing Logan Colbain and Tom Mooney with him.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ said Robert again.

  FRIDAY MORNING DAWNED bright and clear at Cedar Glen with the dew glistening on the leaves and the calling of countless birds. A few tufts of cloud were being scudded towards Mount Warning by the light sou’wester, but it was beautiful for August, with no sign of rain. Les was up around six-thirty. The previous night he’d found an old deck of cards and they had a few games of gin rummy while they talked and Peregrine demolished his two bottles of Great Western while Les made an awful mess of his case of Fourex. Consequently neither of them had much trouble sleeping, in fact the only thing Norton could remember about getting to bed at ten was the coolness and moisture in the air and an owl hooting in a tree close by when he came downstairs to his room.

  Peregrine had his dressing gown on and was in the kitchen when he went upstairs.

  ‘G’day, mate,’ Norton said brightly. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad, actually,’ was the reply. ‘I slept rather well.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘I don’t know about your chilli beans though. They certainly keep one regular, and warm up the old date somewhat, as well.’

  Norton laughed and walked over to the stove. ‘That’s how a Mexican knows when he’s hungry, mate. When his arsehole stops burning. Anyway, there’s still plenty left. I might warm ’em up for breakfast.’

  ‘Oh God. Here we go again.’

  Good or bad, Peregrine still had a large plateful plus coffee and toast while they listened to the radio. Les suggested that seeing it was such a peach of a day outside and they were both feeling so good they should get into their army clobber and check out the farm, then drive into Yurriki afterwards and get some food and more drink. Peregrine said why not, and he’d see Les downstairs in about twenty minutes.

  ‘Sir,’ snapped Norton, clicking his heels together and giving Peregrine a brisk salute as he walked into the barbecue area.

  ‘As you were, corporal,’ smiled the Englishman, returning Norton’s salute.

  Peregrine’s army clothing fitted him perfectly, right down to the cammies tucked into his combat boots. His forage cap was at a slightly more rakish angle than Les’s but both men looked identical, as if they’d just stepped off the cover of Gung Ho or New Breed magazine.

  ‘How do I look?’ asked Peregrine.

  ‘Terrific. Like something straight out of the battle of Balaclava. Your cousin Lewis would be proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you, corporal.’

  ‘You’re welcome, sir.’

  Peregrine gazed around the property in front of them then up to the mountain range behind them. ‘Where do you want to start?’

  ‘Well, according to that rough map Eddie gave me, there’s a dam up there somewhere.’ Les pointed slightly to their right then directly up behind them. ‘But I reckon we ought to start at that gate there, and take that trail through the horse paddock and follow it up round that ridge. Might be a bit of a slog, but it won’t do us any harm. Not in this air anyway.’

  ‘Very well. You lead the way.’

  Norton adjusted an army sheath knife on his webbing belt. ‘Righto, mate. Let’s go.’

  They clambered over the gate and steadily began climbing, following an uphill trail. There was an old barbed wire fence choked with lantana on their left and the horse paddock fading away on their right. Les didn’t put the speed on too much but kept up a steady pace; Peregrine didn’t fall behind at all and even appeared to be enjoying the bit of a hit out.

  After about fifteen minutes, Les looked back and could barely make out the property two kilometres or so below them. The trail levelled off at an old wire gate in a clearing then went left with a narrower, steeper one going right. They crawled through a gap in the old wire gate and took the left trail. The track got noticeably steeper for at least another kilometre. The bush was dense on either side of the trail and thick with eucalypt and gum trees, but it wasn’t long before they began to notice dozens of huge stumps, most over ten feet tall and wide jutting up on either side of the trail like rows of rotten teeth.

  ‘God! Look at the size of these stumps,’ said Peregrine. ‘They’re enormous. What on earth are they?’

  ‘Probably old cedar trees,’ replied Les. ‘Legacies from our so-called pioneering days, when we lost seventy-five percent of our rainforests and half our animals.’

  Peregrine gave one of the stumps a kick and a great piece of rotted, rust-coloured wood broke away. ‘Good Lord! What must have it been like up here years ago with all those huge trees?’

  ‘Before they raped and pillaged it? Paradise, I imagine.’ Norton shook his head at the aftermath of destruction aroun
d him. ‘Between the Japanese and the sawmills, they’re still doing their best to fuck what’s left now. Come on.’

  They continued to climb steadily till the ridge levelled off again into the clearing full of native shrubs and blackboys. Through a gap in the trees they stopped to take in the magnificent view over the valleys and mountains right across to Mt. Warning, blue in the distance. The strain of the climb, plus the chilli beans must have begun to tell on Peregrine. Not long after they stopped he broke wind with a crack that sounded twice as loud as it was in the silence of the surrounding bush. By sheer coincidence a flock of at least twenty Red Crowned Cockatoos took off from a nearby gum tree at the same time. Norton turned to the young Englishman and gave him a look of utter contempt.

  ‘You filthy disgusting pig,’ he sneered. ‘You just frightened away all those beautiful birds.’

  Peregrine was completely flummoxed. ‘I…’

  ‘A bit of decorum, please, if you don’t mind. You’re not back in bloody England now.’ Norton shook his head and sniffed disdainfully. ‘Come on. And make sure you keep down wind.’

  ‘I…’ Red with embarrassment, Peregrine fell into step behind Les, firmly convinced it was his fart that had scared all the birds.

  They followed the trail further till they came to another clearing on the ridge dotted on either side with dozens and dozens of blackboys of all sizes.

  ‘I say, what are those things, Les?’ asked Peregrine.

  ‘Blackboys. They’re all hundreds of years old, you know. Oddly enough they flourish in bushfires. Look great, don’t they?’

  ‘They certainly do. Look at that one there.’ Peregrine pointed to a particularly tall one next to another one with two spears sticking up and a number of little ones around them. A flowering vine had taken root in the bushy green top of the tall one and from where they stood it resembled a wig woven with flowers. ‘It looks like a skinny black woman with flowers in her hair.’