The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘This way,’ she grinned.

  Norton followed her to a bedroom a little closer. It was softly lit by a small table lamp next to a double bed with a mosquito net folded over the top. Norton could make out some posters and small paintings on the walls and above the bed were two fairly large speakers.

  ‘Get on the bed and take your jeans off,’ said Marita. ‘I’ll be back in a second.’

  Norton did exactly that. Then as he lay there with the pillows under his head he began to wonder what was going on. Were these two women for real? Were they murderers? Maybe they were going to castrate him and Peregrine. Weird thoughts and colours and ideas were swirling through his mind. Marita materialised back into the room and removed her tracksuit. She had a solid, full-breasted figure and watching her in her white knickers and bra Norton couldn’t help but feel a stirring in his loins. She sat on the bed next to him, bent down and gave him the lightest tongue kiss. As she did Les heard the speakers above his head scratch into life.

  ‘Just relax,’ she said softly, and ran her hand down to his loins.

  Norton eased back onto the pillows and began thinking this wasn’t too bad after all no matter what. These pillows were definitely the softest he’d ever felt and the bed had to be the most comfortable he’d ever been on. Smiling at him in her knickers and bra Marita was starting to look like Miss Universe. Norton couldn’t ever remember feeling better or more relaxed in his life. Suddenly the speakers above his head roared into life and a haunting melodic voice filled the room.

  ‘When I was back there in seminary school, there was a person there who put forth the proposition that you can petition the Lord with prayer.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Norton jerked his head up from the pillows. ‘What the bloody hell was that?’

  ‘Relax,’ said Marita. ‘It’s only the record.’

  Norton settled down and the voice went on.

  ‘Petition the lord with prayer. Petition the Lord with prayer.’ There was a pause for a few seconds then the voice seemed to scream from every corner of the room. ‘YOU CANNOT PETITION THE LORD WITH PRAYER!’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Norton again. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Relax,’ said Marita. ‘It’s just a record. That’s all.’

  Les settled back into the pillows once more and the sounds of a beautiful harpsichord playing filled the room, accompanying that same haunting, lilting voice.

  ‘Can you give me sanctuary? I must find a place to hide. A place for me to hide.’

  The music was wonderful, the voice rich and resonant. Who could possibly sing like that? Norton was trying to concentrate on the music as Marita’s gentle hand stroked him softly. Before long the swelling in his loins was a howling, pumping erection.

  ‘Ooh!’ he heard her say. ‘That is a hard one, isn’t it?’

  The harpsichord and the voice went on. Les was lost in a dream of colours and sound. It was fantastic. Marita continued to stroke him. The harpsichord paused and the music switched to a bouncing, heavy bass line of fast, trembling guitar and rattling maracas. At that precise moment Marita’s mouth found him.

  A shudder convulsed Norton’s body. Never had he experienced anything as good as this. Marita’s mouth was pure ecstasy. She drew on him as he writhed gently on the bed. New sensations. Weird music. Even weirder lyrics.

  ‘Peppermint mini-skirts. Chocolate candy. Champion sax and a girl named Sandy.’

  What the fuck is happening to me? thought Les. Marita went on. Her wild, hot tongue flicked up and down and across his dick and balls. She was teasing Les into a frenzy with her tongue. Then the music changed again to light jazz on an electric piano; the drummer had switched to a brush. Marita was driving him mad with her tongue. The words got crazier.

  ‘Catacombs. Nursery bones. Winter women growing stones. Carrying babies to the river.’

  Norton writhed on the bed and ran his tongue across his lips. Shit! What’s happening?

  ‘Streets and shoes. Avenues. Leather riders selling news.’

  Norton’s mind was racing. Marita had him that horny he didn’t know which way was up; she was driving him insane. He couldn’t last any longer. He wanted to roll her over, rip her underwear off and drive himself into her. He was seriously thinking of doing that when the voice called out.

  ‘The monk bought lunch.’ A laughing voice answered. ‘He bought a little… ?’ The voice replied. ‘Yes he did.’

  The easy, skipping jazz abruptly changed into a pounding conga beat with a screaming electric organ and pumping bass riff. The strange, haunting voice called out again.

  ‘This is the best part of the trip. This is the trip. . . The best part . . . I really like.’

  At that instant Marita dived and her mouth seemed to take all of Les. The congas thumped and Marita went to work, her head going up and down. She drew harder and harder. Her tongue slithered. Her teeth nibbled gently. Norton now knew he was going to go insane. He clawed at the pillows behind his head, writhed around on the bed and screwed his face up with pain as Marita tortured him so exquisitely.

  ‘Successful hills are here to stay. Everything must be this way. Gentle street where people play. Welcome to the soft parade.’

  Norton moaned and groaned as stars exploded in his head. Rainbows tumbled and crashed into each other. Suns rose and set. Marita drew on. Then Norton could feel the itch starting to go through his whole body — Marita’s mouth was the only thing in the entire world that could scratch it. His head thrashed from side to side. What was she doing to him? Voices filled the room.

  ‘The lights are getting brighter … The radio is moaning. . . Calling to the dogs.’

  Ohh Jesus. Norton’s whole body stiffened. He knew it wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘There are still a few animals, left out in the yard. But it’s getting harder . . . To describe. . . Sailors. . . To the underfed.’

  What the fuck? The words were just a blur now coming from everywhere, the music a pounding barrage of strange, beautiful sounds. Norton could feel the torrent welling up in him. Marita was going for it, she had magic in her tongue and she wasn’t stopping; no wonder that old politician kicked the bucket. Norton prayed his heart would hold out too. Then it started and it felt like every drop of blood was being sucked out of his body. Norton arched his back and held the pillows, he wanted to scream but forced his face into the pillows, and as tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, he literally exploded into Marita’s mouth. The last thing he remembered before flopping back on the bed like a burst water bag was the voice as the song started to fade.

  ‘When all else fails, we can whip the horses’ eyes. And make them sleep. And cry.’

  The music stopped. There was a deafening silence. Then a very upper class British howl came from down the hallway.

  ‘Aaaarrrggghheeoowwoerarrgh-ow-ow-aaaahhhherrggh!!!’

  MARITA AND COCO led Les and Peregrine down the front steps to the station wagon as though they were two patients coming out of a surgery after a heavy valium sedation. Thanks for calling out fellahs, and thanks for the champagne. After they had freighted Peregrine’s clothing away to England first thing tomorrow they were off to Byron Bay to pick up the kids and have a bit of a celebration, they probably wouldn’t be back till the end of the week. But they’d see them at the dance on Saturday night. You know how to get home from here? Of course you do. Goodbye, Peregrine. Goodbye, Les.

  Still stoned off his face and a completely shot bird, Norton backed the car down the driveway, stopped and turned to Peregrine.

  ‘Do you know where the fuck we are?’

  Peregrine was in an even sorrier state than Les. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue,’ he blinked. ‘Australia?’

  ‘I think we go to the right.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘No. But we can always turn around and come back. We got plenty of petrol.’

  ‘Whatever. You’re driving.’

  They drove slowly up the road. Eventually they came to the two little b
ridges and the saw-mill.

  ‘Yeah. We’re right now,’ said Les.

  They drove along the deserted country road with nothing around them but the trees, the quiet and a brilliant canopy of stars above. After what seemed like ages, Les spoke.

  ‘Well, Peregrine, old mate, what did you think of that?’

  The Englishman shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to think, Les. I’ve never experienced anything quite like that. That Coco…’

  ‘If she was just half as good as Marita, she’d still be a sensation. I am absolutely rooted.’

  ‘I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.’

  They travelled on a bit further; creaking down the road at around fifteen kilometres an hour. Two small grey wallabies bounded in front of them then stopped at the side of the road blinking at the headlights going past.

  ‘You know, Peregrine,’ said Norton. ‘They weren’t a couple of bad sorts, those two girls.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with you. They were both quite attractive.’

  ‘In fact if they took off a little weight, I reckon they’d both be an eleven.’

  ‘An eleven? What’s an eleven, Les?’

  ‘A ten that swallows.’

  MONDAY MORNING AGAIN dawned bright and clear: Les was up around seven. He didn’t remember much about getting to bed. The drive home seemed to take forever, they had one drink then flopped around like two old molls for an hour gutsing themselves on Promite sandwiches before collapsing into bed to sleep and dream.

  Peregrine was wide awake when Les went up for a cup of coffee and without much trouble he was able to get him out of bed for a brisk walk around the property and a few exercises; Peregrine even seemed to enjoy it, asking Norton to show him some of those fighting tricks he knew. Les showed him a couple then suggested he stick to head butting. But even in the brief week the young Englishman had been in Australia Les thought he could notice a definite change in Peregrine. His skin had tanned up noticeably, he looked a little harder and Norton’s barbecued steaks seemed to be putting on weight in the right places. Peregrine was an intelligent, educated man, there was no doubting that, but now he seemed to be showing a definite maturity as well. Watching him ripping into his bacon and eggs at breakfast, Norton decided he liked young Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III. Les would even go so far as to give Peregrine the ultimate accolade an Australian can give an Englishman: not a bad bloke — for a pom.

  They took their time over breakfast then gathered up some books and fruit, and with a banana-chair each, headed for the large billabong. Norton’s two banana-chairs turned out to be a very good investment indeed. They spent the day reading, swimming, getting tanned up, and just plain relaxing. It beat the hell out of a day behind a lathe in some factory or the night shift down an asbestos mine.

  Around two-thirty Les started getting the barbecue together and they both started to get drunk. Before they knew it they’d eaten, drunk and laughed their way though a stack of food and drink, it was almost seven and they were both on the nod.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Norton, yawning, stretching and shaking his head. ‘But I’m just about ready for bed.’

  ‘I know just how you feel,’ replied Peregrine, returning Norton’s yawn. ‘A bit of a read for a while and I’ll be out like a light. But there is one thing I’m going to do before I go to bed tonight.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m going down to feed Bunter.’

  Norton gave a laugh. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Peregrine gathered up some scraps of meat then he and Les walked around to the first gate with their drinks. It took them a while but they eventually found Bunter sitting on the branch of a pine tree watching them intently. This time he had two other owls with him.

  ‘Hello,’ said Les. ‘He’s brought a couple of mates with him.’

  Peregrine studied the group of owls for a moment. ‘Yes. I’d say that was Harry Wharton and Hurree Jamset Ram Singh,’ laughed Peregrine.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A couple of his chums from the Greyfriars Reserve, Les, you unparalelled brigand.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Peregrine spread the scraps of meat down and they stood back. The fat, brown owls watched them intently for a few moments with their wide, almost humorous orange eyes then, sensing Les and Peregrine meant them no harm, they swooped down, picked up the scraps and returned to their tree.

  ‘Typical Bunter,’ said Peregrine. ‘Snooped the tuck and didn’t even say gratters. Wait till Mr Squelch hears of this.’

  ‘I might put some fruit out tomorrow night,’ said Les, ‘and see if I can get a few possums around. You ever seen possums, Peregrine?’

  ‘No. Can’t say that I have.’

  ‘They’re funny little bastards. Shit everywhere. But they make you laugh.’

  They watched the owls for a while then Norton started yawning again.

  ‘Jesus! I can’t believe how tired I am. It must be this country air. It couldn’t possibly be the piss.’

  TUESDAY MORNING WAS pretty much the same as Monday, sunny and warm with the odd cloud being pushed through by a light sou’wester. Les was up at six. Peregrine was still asleep when Norton quietly made a cup of coffee so he decided to go for a run. He put on his Brooks and shorts, did a few stretches then loped off.

  He jogged to the front gate, turned right and headed along the dirt road for about three kilometres then turned back. The undulating road ran next to a little stream full of birds calling to each other in the crisp, dawn light. A few farmhouses were built in off the road and now and again the sound of a dog barking would echo in the distance. He sprinted from the front gate back to the house, did a hundred sit-ups and push-ups and thought that might do it. Peregrine was sipping coffee when Les walked into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked, seeing Les in his shorts and running shoes, dripping with sweat.

  ‘I was up early so I decided to go for a run.’

  ‘Oh.’ Peregrine sounded disappointed. ‘Then you won’t want to go for a walk this morning?’

  ‘I’ll still go for a walk with you. Come on. Get your boots on and I’ll see you downstairs.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good. And when we get back I’ll cook breakfast.’

  ‘Eggs Benedictine?’

  ‘Don’t know about that. But I can scramble them — I think.’

  Norton climbed out of his shorts and into his fatigues and they had a brisk walk around the property. Peregrine was striding out now, really enjoying his early morning exercise. He also appeared to be taking an interest in things too, asking Les the names of all kinds of birds as well as a few plants and trees. When they got back to the house, Peregrine was true to his word and cooked breakfast. With a little supervision from Les he managed to make enough bacon and scrambled eggs with shallots for two, and enough mess in the kitchen for twenty.

  ‘Well, how is it?’ asked Peregrine, feeling quite proud of himself.

  ‘Not too bad,’ replied Les, ripping into it. ‘You did good.’ After two hours of exercise Norton would have eaten a grey-hound and chased the mechanical hare. His eyes drifted across to the pile of mess in the kitchen. ‘But I might do it tomorrow. Give you a break.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Peregrine stabbed at another piece of bacon. ‘I’d quite like to go down to that smaller billabong today. The one in the corner near the duck shed. What do you say?’

  ‘Righto,’ shrugged Norton. ‘Be a bit of a change, I s’pose. What I might do though, seeing as I’m doing the cleaning, is to give the whole place a bit of a sweep and that. So I’ll see you down there.’

  ‘Good show.’

  They finished breakfast. Peregrine got his book and a bananachair and headed for the billabong. Les got the detergent and a pot-scourer and headed for the kitchen. After finally finishing the dishes he got a broom and swept out the top half of the house. It was amazing just how much dust and grit the polished wooden floors gathered and it took him some time. The barbecue area was
in need of a good clean too; there were grease stains and shit everywhere. But it wasn’t too unpleasant a task out in the open with the radio going and the birds bobbing around on the grass. S’pose I may as well do my room too, he thought, while I’m on the job.

  He cleaned out the shower and remembered that if he wanted to have that Radox bath he’d have to take a trip into Murwillumbah; there was no chemist in Yurriki. He flicked the broom across the floor and through the built-in-wardrobes. He pulled the bed out and got the broom in against the maple and cedar panelled walls. A movement under the bed caught his eye.

  ‘Hello,’ said Norton. ‘A rotten fuckin’ cockroach. The bastard must’ve followed me up from Bondi.’

  Swinging the broom like a golf club, Norton whacked the bug up against the wall that he’d just pulled the bed away from. Stunned, it lay on its back, legs and feelers going everywhere.

  ‘Now. One right in the ribs cocky, from old Uncle Les.’

  Norton swung his foot back and kicked the cockroach against the wall. The cockroach crunched, there was a loud click and about a square metre of maple and cedar panelling swung in and up from the floor a couple of inches. ‘What the …?’

  Les swept the cockroach aside and knelt down for a better look. It was obviously a hiding place with a secret panel. Under closer inspection he found one of the knots in the wood had an indentation in it big enough to fit your finger, though if you didn’t know it was there you’d be flat out to notice it. Les hooked his finger in and pushed. Once opened, the panel swung in quite easily but obviously you had to give it a decent thump to get it open. There was something inside. Les reached in and pulled out two Manilla envelopes and an oil painting. He looked to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t, so he placed them on the bed.

  The painting was about two feet by three feet, a head and shoulders portrait of an old Chinaman or an Asian. It was a brilliant portrait but at the same time done in great swirls of intense colours; reds, greens, orange, purple, yellow, yet not so bright or garish as to distract the viewer from the subject. A closer look showed the artist had even painted in a reflection of the subject in a kind of shadow. Norton was no art buff and this particular painting wasn’t the kind he’d wish to hang on his wall, but he could tell just by looking, that whoever the artist was he certainly had a unique talent. In one corner were the artist’s initials ENT. Les turned it over and on the back was another old painting indistinguishable because it had been painted over. In one of the other corners Les could faintly make out the name Reid. He gave it another once-over, shrugged and placed it on the bed.