The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  Tom Mooney took a key from inside his coat pocket and opened the locks on the metal trunk. Inside were seven objects wrapped in white cloth; he took one out, removed the cloth and handed it to Patrick.

  ‘Are you familiar with these, Patrick?’ he asked.

  Patrick turned the odd-looking weapon over in his hand. It had an unusual AUSAT sighting arrangement like a telescopic lens sitting on top, and the even more unusual idea of having the magazine behind the trigger mechanism.

  ‘SA-80 Bullpups?’ he said. ‘No. I can’t say I am. AK-47s or M-16s are more what I’m used to.’

  ‘They’re a present from Maggie Thatcher’s Grenadier Guards in London. We got thirty of them three months ago before the saps even missed them,’ said Logan.

  ‘I won’t go into a great ordnance discussion with you now,’ said Tom. ‘But they take thirty rounds and the clip goes in here.’ He banged an empty clip into the bullpup then handed one each to the others. ‘We’ll sight them in and let off a few rounds when we get out into the countryside.’

  ‘There’s six thousand rounds of ammo there,’ said Liam. ‘But if that’s not enough, we’ve got this.’

  He took another object from the trunk, unwrapped it and placed it on the floor. He took three turnip-shaped shells from the trunk and placed them next to it.

  ‘My God,’ said Robert. ‘A rocket-propelled grenade launcher.’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Liam. ‘An RPG-7. Made in Czechoslovakia, but a present from some friends of ours in Lebanon.’

  ‘If we can’t shoot the bastard out,’ said Logan, ‘we’ll blow him out.’

  ‘Saints preserve us,’ said Brendan. ‘You’ve certainly come prepared.’

  ‘That we have,’ agreed Liam. ‘And with a bit of luck we hope to be away by Monday. Now here’s what we intend to do …’ He opened the map of New South Wales which Robert had placed on the table for him. ‘Going by that postcard he sent to his bitch in London, he’s only staying with one other — some Australian. Now I would say this place they’re staying at in Yurriki, Cedar Glen, would be rented. It may even be up for sale. And it would be the only place around that area with that name. Agreed?’

  Tom and Logan looked at Patrick, Robert and Brendan who nodded slowly.

  ‘Now,’ continued Liam, ‘we’ve had some lads make some inquiries at Australia House in London and it appears this Yurriki is just a one-horse town, if that. So we go to Murwillumbah. Get there Sunday morning and go to every estate agent in the town and tell them we’re English investors and we heard this Cedar Glen is up for sale and we’d like to buy it. One of them will surely have heard of it and give us the address. We’ll go and check it out and if it looks to be all right we’ll go in that night. And like I said, with a bit of luck we can fly back out on Monday.’ Liam Frayne eased back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. ‘Well that’s about it, lads. If we leave around midnight tonight, even taking our time, we should be there by ten on Sunday. What do you think?’

  The three younger Irishmen exchanged a quick glance. ‘Sounds fine, Liam,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Dead easy,’ agreed Brendan.

  ‘Aye,’ said Liam. ‘Just this British bastard and one Australian. Too bad about the Australian. I don’t mind them at all.’

  ‘They’re good people,’ nodded Robert.

  ‘And so were my two brothers and Huen McGine,’ said Liam, through a thin smile. ‘Now as you can imagine, Logan, Thomas and myself are quite tired from our journey. So we’d like a few pints, a good meal and then some sleep before we leave. May I suggest you lads do the same.’

  AROUND THE SAME time the Irish were heading out for a pint and a steak, Les and Peregrine had finished their morning walk, got through another good breakfast and were down at the smaller billabong reading and enjoying the sun; Peregrine was into a Jack Higgins, Les had decided to re-read parts of Women. The August sun was streaming down gloriously and Norton had stripped to the waist. Peregrine however, had opted to leave his T-shirt on, saying his neck and shoulders were getting a bit sore. Which was understandable. The Australian sun, even in winter, can be quite cruel if you’re not used to it; though Peregrine had appeared to be tanning up fairly well over the last week. Early in the afternoon he put down his book and turned to Norton.

  ‘So what are we doing tonight, Les?’ he said.

  Norton was miles away. ‘Huh? What was that?’

  ‘Tonight. Saturday night. What’s happening? Are we going to that dance in Yurriki?’

  Norton shook his head and continued reading. ‘No, fuck the dance. Stay home and feed the possums.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Les. Don’t be such a slacker. It could be good.’

  Norton closed his book. ‘Look Peregrine, every time I go out somewhere with you, you either get me into a fight or try to kill yourself. Stay home and talk to your owls.’

  ‘If I stay on this farm any longer I’ll end up looking like a jolly owl.’

  ‘Good. I’ll cook you a mouse.’

  ‘Marita and Coco will be at the dance.’

  ‘Bugger Marita and Coco.’

  ‘You didn’t say that last Sunday night.’

  Norton went to open his book and closed it again. Peregrine was right. During the daytime the farm was absolutely beautiful. But at night, with no TV, phone or newspapers there weren’t enough b’s in boring to describe it. And the novelty of getting blind drunk every night was starting to wear a bit thin, imported beers or not. Yeah, thought Les. Another week of this and I’ll end up looking like an owl myself. Only my ears’ll start to droop and I’ll grow another toe on each foot. The dance could be all right. There might even be a few stray babes there. All he had to do was not get too out of it and keep an eye on Lord Snowdon. And that Alan who was running the show didn’t seem like a bad bloke either.

  ‘All right, Peregrine,’ he said, trying to sound as unenthusiastic as possible. ‘Anything to fuckin’ keep you happy. But if we go, it’s on one condition.’

  ‘Very well. What’s that?’

  ‘You gotta behave yourself. No starting any fights.’

  ‘Les, I do not start fights. They were just two unfortunate incidents.’

  ‘Yeah. What about when you head butted the butcher’s wife?’

  ‘Oh goodness gracious. I did no such jolly thing.’

  Norton couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about it. But if she’s there, Patrick Swayze, you keep away from her.’

  ‘I promise, I shall give her the widest berth imagineable,’ said Peregrine emphatically.

  ‘Good. Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll prop here for another hour or so. Then have a feed and a few beers, then put our heads down for a couple of hours. If we’re gonna go Saturday night boogalooing in beautiful, downtown Yurriki, we may as well go fresh.’

  ‘A very timely suggestion, Les,’ nodded Peregrine. ‘Absolutely spiffing.’

  Later in the afternoon, when they’d finished reading and had enough sun, Norton was still in his fatigues and boots getting the barbecue together over the football and a bottle of Gosser. He’d finished that and was into a bottle of Stella Artois when Peregrine came down the steps from the verandah overlooking the sundeck. He too was still in his fatigues, with a smile on his face and something in his hand.

  ‘I say, Les. This beano tonight is fancy dress, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so.’

  ‘Well, what do you fancy going as?’

  Norton shrugged. ‘I dunno. I might go as a whip. Crack it a couple of times and come home.’

  ‘What’s wrong with this?’

  On the table, Peregrine placed two red-checked tea towels and an old dark blue T-shirt he’d found in the laundry. With the barbecue knife he cut two circles of cloth from the bottom of the T-shirt, placed the tea towel on his head and bound it in place with the strips of T-shirt. For all the world it looked like a keffiyeh — an Arab headress. On top of his fatigues and combat boots Peregrine wouldn’t have looked ou
t of place running around some back street in West Beirut with an AK-47.

  ‘Well, what do you think, Les?’ he grinned.

  ‘What do I think? Christ! Benny Rabinski wouldn’t want to walk up the drive — he’d have a stroke.’

  Peregrine cut off another strip of T-shirt, got the remaining tea towel and did the same to Norton then dragged him in front of the mirror in Norton’s bedroom.

  ‘What do you say, Les? We’ll go to the dance as Arab terrorists. Those poor peace-loving hippies won’t know what to think.’

  Norton couldn’t help but stare at the two tanned reflections staring back at him in the mirror. Peregrine was right. They did look like members of the PLO. All that was missing were sidearms and sunglasses.

  ‘Jesus! I don’t know, Peregrine. The way trouble seems to find you, some reffo’ll be in there and take a shot at us.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ laughed Peregrine, and gave Les a slap on the back. ‘What is it you Australians like to say? She’ll be sweet, mate.’

  * * *

  IT WAS ALMOST seven when Les woke up from his afternoon nap. Peregrine was still in bed with the light on when Les went upstairs to make a cup of coffee. He got a brew together, gave Peregrine a few minutes then went into the bedroom and shook him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on, mate, time to wake up. It’s after seven o’clock.’

  The Englishman blinked his eyes open. ‘Huh? What? Oh it’s you, Les.’

  ‘Yeah. Did you get a bit of sleep?’

  ‘Yes. Mmhh.’ Peregrine yawned and blinked. ‘God, I’m tired though.’

  ‘You’ll be okay once you have a shower. I’ll see you when I come back up.’

  Les finished his coffee downstairs then took his time in the shower and having a shave. Feeling like a million dollars now he got back into his fatigues and army boots, adjusted the red tea towel on his head and stood in front of the mirror.

  ‘Les Norton, lion of the desert,’ he grinned. ‘You are truly the chosen one. Now, jewel of the cosmos, what are we going to take to drink?’

  There was a small, red plastic garbage-bin with a clip-on lid in the laundry. He took that out to the barbecue area, put in a dozen bottles of Corona and some limes, plus a dozen assorted other beers, and six bottles of French champagne for Peregrine. They would more than likely end up shouting some-one else there a drink; they could bring home what was left over. There was enough ice in the fridge to keep what drink there was chilled until he could get some more at the pub. If he couldn’t get served he’d sling someone a couple of bucks to get it for him. When he went back upstairs Peregrine was showered and dressed, except for the tea towel and was sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the floor. He didn’t look up when Les came in.

  ‘How are you feeling, mate?’ asked Norton. ‘Ready for a big one?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Peregrine. ‘I feel so tired. And I’m getting a darned headache.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes.’ Peregrine rubbed at his shoulder. ‘And somehow I’ve got this pain in the back.’

  ‘You might be getting your period, Pezz.’ The Englishman shook his head and continued to stare at the floor. ‘I’ll make you a cup of coffee. You got any Panadol?’ Peregrine mumbled a reply as Les went to the kitchen. ‘You’ll be all right once you get to the dance,’ he called out, as he switched on the electric kettle. ‘Couple of bottles of that French shampoo’ll fix you up.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ answered Peregrine.

  SOME NEW BARMAID was working in the bottle shop at the hotel so Norton was able to get two bags of crushed ice without any trouble. He parked the car behind the school and packed it into the plastic garbage-bin. Peregrine had brushed up considerably, but he was still noticeably stiff and stifling yawns as he got out of the car. Norton hoisted the garbage-bin up onto his shoulder, gave Peregrine a pat on the back and they crossed the street to the dance.

  There were small groups of people walking around or standing outside the front of the hall. Alan was on the door and he had to blink a couple of times before he realised who the two Libyan terrorists were. Peregrine and Les had to blink a couple of times to recognise Alan. He was wearing black leotards, black ballet slippers and a cummerbund, a black coat, black shirt, white tie and a silver frosted, ten-gallon hat. He looked like a cross between Rudolph Nureyev, Buffalo Bill and Frank Nitti.

  ‘Hello, fellahs,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You got here. Good to see you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Alan,’ grinned Les, paying for the tickets.

  ‘I’ve got to organise a few things out here,’ said Alan. ‘Find a spot inside, and I’ll come and have a beer with you.’

  ‘Righto,’ replied Les.

  The big old wooden building was a typical country hall forgotten by time. High ceilings, timber floors and tongue-and-groove timber walls painted white with brown seating running around the bottom. There was an alcove near the front door, a kitchen to the right, behind that was a sort of dining room and the band was on stage at the rear. There would have been about three hundred people in the hall, but there still seemed to be no shortage of room. You were flat out telling one from the other, in fancy dress, though Les and Peregrine still managed to get quite a few once up and downs as they walked in wearing their cammies.

  1920s flappers were dancing with cowboys and pirates. Spanish senoritas were dancing with spacemen and French apache dancers. Swarming amongst them were the hippies looking much the same as they did at the bazaar. Tie-died jeans, coloured vests, floppy hats with patches or flowers on them and sling bags. Tai chi slippers and sandals and no shortage of bare feet. Straggly beards, straggly hair and pigtails on the men. Long hair and plaits on a lot of the women. There were people of all ages and types and, to Les’s and Peregrine’s delight, a number of girls on their own. Playing amongst the grown-ups were clusters of spotlessly clean, well-behaved children. Some were dressed as fairies with wigs and tiny wings on their backs; the way they laughed and giggled as they played and danced they could have passed for tiny angels. Nearly everybody seemed to know each other and it was like one big village get-together or knees-up. Most had a beer or a drink in their hand but nobody was outrageously drunk. Toes were tapping and bare feet were slapping on the floor. Everybody was smiling and happy and if you were looking for trouble you’d come to the wrong place.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon, Peregrine?’ said Les, placing the garbage-bin to one side of the alcove near the kitchen. ‘We may as well prop here.’

  ‘Suits me,’ replied the Englishman.

  Norton popped a bottle of Moet for Peregrine and a Corona with a slice of lime for himself. They took a decent slurp each, then stepped around the other side of the alcove to get a better look at the band. It was a five piece with a fat, happy-looking girl on bass and lead vocals and a guy dressed like a French sailor on saxophone. Across the bass drum it said The Hemsemmiches.

  Peregrine looked at Norton. ‘Les,’ he said. ‘What’s a hemsemmich?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Les. ‘About a dollar twenty with mustard?’

  The music was a kind of country and western, blues rock and not too bad. A lot of people were up dancing and most were listening or getting into it. To the right of the stage a DJ console sat in front of two turntables and behind these a tall, skinny guy in a floral shirt was rummaging through three or four milk-crates full of records.

  ‘Hey this could be all right here, Peregrine,’ said Norton, tapping away to The Hemsemmiche’s version of ‘Poor Poor Pitiful Me’.

  ‘Yes, it certainly could,’ replied the Englishman.

  ‘All these peace-loving folk. I don’t think even you could start a fight in here.’

  ‘Thanks, Les.’

  They returned to the alcove for fresh drinks and to watch the hippies and have a bit of a perv on the local girls while they listened to the band. Peregrine said his headache wasn’t getting any better and swallowed another two Panadols. After
a while Alan joined them. He offered them a beer, but Les took the top off the garbage-bin and said to take one of theirs. Alan gladly accepted a Lowenbrau.

  ‘So how’s it going?’ said Alan. ‘You having a good time?’

  ‘Yes, quite good, actually,’ replied Peregrine.

  ‘I like the band,’ said Les.

  ‘The Sangers? Yeah, they’re not bad, are they,’ agreed Alan. ‘The DJ’s good too. Arid I told you The Bachelors From Cracow are on later didn’t I?’

  ‘You sure did,’ nodded Les, raising his Corona.

  ‘Yep, it’s gonna be a good night,’ smiled Alan. ‘Anyway,’ he drained his Lowenbrau, ‘I’ve got some other people to say hello to. I’ll catch up with you later.’

  ‘See you, Alan,’ chorused Les and Peregrine.

  The band finished their last number of the bracket with the usual, ‘We’d like to take a little break now and hand you over to our disc jockey for the evening — Tony.’

  ‘Thank you The Sangers,’ said the DJ. ‘Okay, we’ve got some more good boppin’ music for a while before The Sangers come back. And don’t forget, later on our special guests all the way from Melbourne, The Bachelors From Cracow.’

  Alan wasn’t kidding about the disc jockey. He wasn’t just good, he was a boogieing fiend from rock ‘n’ roll hell. For a taste he hit the punters with Hunters And Collectors — ‘Relief. This went into The Fabulous Thunderbirds — ‘Powerful Stuff straight into The Hippos — ‘Dark Dark Age’. Then The Johnnys — ‘Motorbiking’. By the time he got to James Reyne — ‘Fall of Rome’ the crowd was in a foaming-at-the-mouth dancing frenzy, you could hardly fit another bum onto the dance floor and Norton could take no more.