The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Well,’ agreed Les, ‘I am more than a bit curious, yeah.’ Norton watched as the three men exchanged glances then settled back into their chairs.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do my best.’ Madden took another swig of beer and belched. ‘The three of us are vets. Eddie was our platoon sergeant in Vietnam first time around. I won’t go into all that rattle. But when we got back, it just wasn’t the same for a lot of us. It was almost like being a stranger in your own country.’

  ‘Yeah, some fuckin’ homecoming,’ said Lennie. ‘We marched up George Street and some sheila stepped out of the crowd and spat in my face.’

  ‘It’s a bit hard to work out, Les,’ added Ray. ‘You’re in a jungle one week fighting Vietcong. And you come home and find university students running around waving North Vietnamese flags.’

  Norton shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Anyway, we teamed up again after we got back,’ continued Ronnie. ‘I bought a few acres up here years ago to get away from every cunt. Built a bit of a shack on it and Ray and Lennie joined me. It was more or less a coincidence Harcourt lobbed here and built his joint. We knew him in Vietnam. Eddie did a bit of business with him the second time around. And we did a bit of work for him when he got the duck farm going. Anyway, we all owe Eddie a big favour from Vietnam and he’s been good to us with a quid since we been up here. And it was just by another coincidence that Peregrine lobbed in not long after Harcourt put the place on the market.’

  ‘Where did he go?’ asked Les.

  ‘We honestly don’t know, Les.’ Ronnie had another mouthful of beer. ‘We’d been talking to Eddie on the phone about the place saying how we’d like to buy it. Make it a sort of a halfway house for vets having a bit of trouble. But none of us had the money. Not long after, Eddie rings back saying he needs somewhere to snooker that Peregrine bloke and why. What about here? And would we keep an eye on things if something should eventuate. Well, like I said, we all owe Eddie a favour. So here you are and here we are.’ Madden shrugged and took another mouthful of beer. ‘And that’s about it, Les.’

  ‘Yeah. But how come you knew there was going to be trouble here tonight?’

  ‘We didn’t, really,’ replied Ronnie. ‘But Eddie rang around eight and said Peregrine had been sending postcards from here back home. Said some pommy blokes had been sniffin’ around and to really keep our eyes open from now on. Actually we were up home getting into the piss when we heard all the fireworks start.’

  ‘Why, where’s your place from here?’ asked Norton.

  ‘Only about two klicks the other side of the stables,’ said Ray.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We knew you were pretty sweet inside the house,’ said Ronnie: ‘So we didn’t break our necks arming up and getting ourselves together. But when we recognised those RPG-7’s, we knew you were in trouble. So we got our fingers out.’

  ‘If they hadn’t have had those, you’d have been sweet,’ said Lennie. ‘This place is built like a fortress.’

  ‘Yeah. It sure is,’ agreed Les.

  ‘Anyway, we double-timed down the hill. And I guess you could say,’ the little caretaker broke into another one of his wheezy laughs, ‘the cavalry arrived just in the nick of time.’

  Norton flashed back to the figure in the doorway aiming the machine gun at him and a chill ran down his spine. ‘You can bloody well say that again. And I reckon I owe you blokes a drink, too.’

  ‘Ahh, don’t worry about it,’ said Ronnie. ‘Eddie’ll probably shout us one. Plus we got six bullpups and a rocket launcher.’

  ‘Yeah. And they’ve got to have left a car round here somewhere,’ said Ray. ‘We’ll keep that. Change the plates. Bodgie up the rego.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Les. ‘But if you blokes want something — anything — just ask.’

  ‘Another beer’d go well,’ winked Ronnie, finishing his bottle.

  ‘Help your bloody selves,’ said Norton. This time Lennie got them.

  Norton watched as the three Vietnam veterans enjoyed another cold bottle of beer, completely oblivious to Liam Frayne’s body laying not much more than six feet away. He knew all along there was something about Ronnie Madden that wasn’t quite right. The way he eluded questions. The way he answered others. The way he changed the subject. Now all the questions seemed to be answered, but it was all too cut and dried. Les took another thoughtful sip of beer as he watched the little caretaker.

  ‘How come you never told me all this in the first place, Ronnie?’ he asked.

  Madden shrugged his shoulders. ‘I just want to leave the past behind me, Les. There’s a few vets living up here apart from us and we’d all rather have it like that. Me and Eddie honestly thought the less you knew the better. He’s been ringing me every day to make sure you’re all right. Besides, from what I can gather, that Peregrine can be a bit of an egg roll at times. And he might have done something stupid, especially with that Robinson laying around.’

  ‘Sending cards back to London telling everyone where he is was dumb enough,’ said Ray. ‘Especially with the IRA wanting him like that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Ronnie. ‘And watching youse running around in those tiger stripes and jungle boots was enough.’

  Les gave a self-conscious laugh. But the pieces had fallen into place now, there was nothing else he really needed to know, leave it at that; it was bad enough that he had to force Ronnie and his two mates to relive unpleasant memories to save him and Peregrine. Norton sipped on his fourth beer and began to unwind; even his head was starting to clear up now. He looked curiously at one of the strange-looking little guns Ronnie and his mates had placed on the table. Tiny little things — they almost looked like children’s toys. Black metal, no butt. The two handles were just metal frames with a strange double trigger mechanism. They were lucky if they were half a metre long and even with the drum magazine, they wouldn’t have weighed much more than two kilos.

  ‘Where did you get these things?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen nothing like these before.’

  ‘They’re Seggerns,’ replied Ronnie. ‘They’re American. They make ’em in New Jersey.’

  ‘Or Noo Joisey, as Harcourt used to say,’ laughed Lennie.

  ‘We called round for a drink one day,’ said Ronnie, ‘and Harcourt had a crate of them sitting there. He gave us one each. Fucked if I know where he got them from. Didn’t bother to ask. But they’re the grouse for wild dogs and feral cats.’

  ‘Hey, there’s something I want to know, Les,’ said Ray. ‘Where’s bloody Peregrine?’

  Norton laughed. ‘Asleep.’

  ‘Asleep? How the fuck could anyone sleep through that?’

  Les explained about Peregrine being bitten by a tick and how he’d filled him up full of rum and sleeping tablets. Even with all that under his belt the boys still conceded that it still wasn’t a bad effort to sleep through a mini-war. Though in all probability it had worked out for the best.

  Ronnie finished his beer and dropped the bottle in the Ottobin. ‘Well, this sitting around drinking piss is all right,’ he said. ‘But what are we going to do with these six dead noggies?’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ said Lennie. ‘You’re the caretaker.’

  ‘I reckon dump ’em where Harcourt was going to put his swimming pool.’ Ronnie motioned to the hole behind them. ‘There’s some quicklime in the shed. Cover ’em with that then I’ll get the tractor and bulldoze the edges in. Couple of weeks and there’ll be nothing there but fertilizer and a few teeth.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Ray.

  ‘You want to give us a hand to drag ’em over Les?’

  ‘Yeah, righto,’ replied Norton, trying not to sound too unenthusiastic. ‘I’ll go and get the ones by the front gate.’ He finished his beer and headed in that direction as the others rose from the table.

  Robert and Brendan were laying face down almost next to each other; their clothes were a torn bloody mess and it looked like they had nearly been shot to pieces round the legs. At the
base of their skulls, just above the neck, two neat, almost identical holes had been drilled into the backs of their black balaclavas. Not bad shooting, Ray, mused Les. A pitch black night, two blokes running away. Yeah, not bad shooting at all. Les gingerly picked up the two dead Irishmen by the collars of their jackets and started dragging them back to the barbecue area. It was quite an unpleasant task and worse was to come.

  When he got back Ray and Lennie had the other four bodies by the edge of the hole. In the distance the lights in the toolshed were on where Ronnie was looking for the quicklime.

  ‘Strip them now, Les,’ said Ray. ‘Leave their clothes here. Toss any ID, rings, watches, wallets and that on the table.’

  ‘Tag ’em and bag ’em, Les, as the Yanks would say,’ smiled Lennie.

  Norton swallowed hard. ‘Yeah, righto,’ he said.

  Stripping and searching the bodies in the moonlight was a miserable and macabre experience for Les. The Seggerns had done a horribly efficient job and it wasn’t long before Norton’s hands were covered in blood, pieces of flesh and other matter. Ronnie chugged over in the tractor and turned off the motor. Sitting in the scoop was a hessian sack; he dropped it on the ground and cut the string sewn across the top. Before long the six blood-caked bodies were laying naked at the edge of the hole; their clothing was in two black garbage bags, their personal effects sitting on the table. Lennie was examining a gold ring, the front of which formed two initials.

  ‘Not a bad ring, this,’ he said. ‘I wonder what the LF stands for?’

  ‘Which one did that come off?’ asked Les.

  ‘The one at the end.’

  Les strolled over and looked impassively down at the body by his feet. So you’re Liam Frayne, eh? You’re the reason five of your mates are dead. He shook his head. Dopey bastard. You should have stayed in Ireland. Les turned round and the others were standing behind him.

  ‘We’ve got to place them in the hole now, Les,’ said Ronnie. ‘Neatly and side by side. So I can get a good covering of quicklime over them.’

  ‘Righto.’ Les took one of the bodies by the wrist, Ronnie took the ankles, and they carried it down into the hole.

  Soon the six Irishmen were lying face up in a few inches of smelly water at the bottom of the hole. Ronnie gave the bag a shake and walked over to the tractor.

  ‘You gonna say something first before you bury them?’ said Les. ‘After all, they are Catholics,’ he added with a shrug.

  Ronnie looked down from the seat of the tractor, smiled and turned to Ray. ‘What was it that big black sergeant said that day up at Bearcat? When the Yanks had just filled that pit with dead VC?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember,’ laughed Ray. He took off his beanie and stood solemnly at the edge of the hole. ‘Hail Mary and all that jive. If you cats could shoot straight you’d still be alive. Amen.’

  Ray put his beanie back on and Ronnie started the tractor. ‘I should have this done by the time Eddie gets here,’ he called out.

  ‘Eddie gets here?’ said Les. ‘How’s Eddie gonna get here? He’s in Sydney.’

  ‘Dunno,’ shrugged Ronnie. ‘When I told him what was going on as we were leaving, he said he’d get here as soon as he could. That was over two hours ago.’

  There was a hiss, the blade in front of the tractor dropped and Ronnie started bulldozing the earth piled up by the sides of the hole. Norton washed his hands and joined Ray and Lennie going through the dead Irishmen’s personal effects.

  ‘I might go and see if I can find where they left their car,’ said Lennie.

  ‘Righto, mate,’ said Ray.

  Les got two Coronas from the fridge, handed one to Ray and watched quietly as Ray began stacking separate piles: wallets, cash, ID, jewellery etc. Norton couldn’t quite come at touching it so he sat there in silence. It didn’t seem long before Lennie was back. He was jubilant.

  ‘Hey, it’s better than I thought,’ he said. ‘There’s two near new Holdens down by the main gates. The keys are still in them and everything. One’s only got 12,000 on the clock.’ He looked at the piles on the table. ‘How are you going?’

  ‘Grouse,’ replied Ray enthusiastically. ‘Six good watches. Around four and a half grand in cash. Three Australian driver’s licences. Some of this jewellery’s not bad either.’ He winked at Lennie. ‘At least we’ll get a good drink for our trouble.’

  ‘Reckon. What a ripper.’ He went to the fridge, got a beer and drank it while he watched Ray reading a piece of blood-smeared paper.

  Ray finished it and shook his head. ‘Fuckin’ idiot,’ he muttered, and handed it to Lennie.

  Lennie read it and shook his head too. ‘What a nice fuckin’ dill,’ he said, and handed it to Les. ‘Here. Read this.’

  Norton took the piece of paper: it was printed neatly in biro. My dear Stephanie. How goes it old pip it started. It was as good as a detailed map on how to get to Cedar Glen. That was bad enough. But when Norton got to the part that said… He’s a complete wally he was less than impressed.

  ‘No wonder they knew where to find him, the dill,’ said Ray. ‘That must have been on the card he sent his sheila. And somehow those IRA blokes have intercepted it.’

  Norton’s jaw set. ‘Do you mind if I keep this?’ he said mirthlessly.

  ‘Go for your life,’ replied Ray.

  They sat and drank beer while they watched Ronnie filling in the hole; Les was more inclined to sip his and think, the other two were ripping in. There was plenty of earth piled around the sides of the hole which had been softened by the previous night’s rain and the little caretaker knew how to handle a tractor with a scoop on the front. It didn’t seem like all that long before the hole was filled in and levelled over, Ronnie had switched off the motor and was joining them for a beer.

  ‘I hope you bastards haven’t drank all the piss,’ he said, adding his usual wheezy laugh.

  ‘There’s still plenty there, mate, don’t worry about that,’ said Ray.

  Ronnie got a bottle of Gosser and poured about half of it down his throat. ‘S’pose we may as well sit around and see if Eddie shows up,’ he belched, as he took a seat next to Lennie.

  ‘How long did he say he’d be?’ asked Les.

  Ronnie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno. But knowing Eddie, it won’t be all that long. Doesn’t worry me though, how long he takes,’ he added, with another wheezy laugh. ‘I’ll sit here and drink piss all night.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too,’ said Lennie.

  ‘Well, there’s no shortage,’ said Les. ‘In fact, how would you boys like a nice chilled bottle of French champagne?’

  ‘Hey, shit! That sounds all right,’ said Ray.

  ‘Coming right up,’ said Norton. He hustled up four glasses, opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and topped them up. ‘Well,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Here’s to… I don’t know. What do you want to drink to?’

  The three vets looked at each other. ‘I dunno,’ said Ronnie. ‘Let’s just drink to drinking piss.’

  ‘Righto,’ said Les. ‘To drinking piss it is.’

  They raised their glasses and all took liberal swallows. ‘Hey, this bloody stuffs all right, ain’t it?’ said Lennie.

  They knocked that bottle off, plus another one and some more beers. It wasn’t long before Les was half drunk and in a much more relaxed frame of mind. The boys exchanged yarns about the war and life in the Tweed Valley. Les told them different things about life in Sydney around the Cross and Bondi and how he’d got the job of minding Peregrine. He told them about some of the funny things that had happened to them on the trip and how he’d ripped off Benny Rabinski and his brother years ago. Les was telling them about how Peregrine had almost drowned at Cabarita on Wednesday when he noticed not far up in the night sky a bright white light and a small flashing red one fast approaching the farm from the south-west. A few seconds later came the unmistakable swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of a helicopter’s blades. The vets’ ears pricked up and they appeared to stiffen at the evocative sound. They stop
ped drinking momentarily then turned to see where it was coming from.

  ‘I reckon that’s Eddie now,’ said Ronnie.

  The little caretaker walked across to where he’d filled in the hole as the helicopter roared overhead, banked a few hundred metres and came back. Ronnie started making criss-cross motions with his arms above his head then brought them down by his sides motioning the helicopter to land. The helicopter hovered a few metres above him for a while as if the occupants were checking everything out; in the still of the night it seemed to make a dreadful racket tossing up leaves and dust and the landing light seemed to bathe the whole valley in its white glow. Eventually the pilot brought it down not far from where the hole used to be, sat there for a moment and killed the engine. The blade whined for a few seconds as it slowed down and once again there was silence. The passenger side opened and out jumped Eddie in his customary black jeans and black leather jacket. Slung under his shoulder was a Uzi machine pistol. The pilot’s door opened and Les couldn’t mistake the neat moustache, the black leather jacket and scarf and the World War II, peaked leather pilot’s cap. It was Kingsley Sheehan.

  Eddie had his arm around Ronnie’s shoulders as they walked across to where the others were sitting. He hesitated for a moment as if he didn’t quite know who to speak to first. ‘G’day Ray, Lennie,’ he said to the two vets, who greeted him back. Then Eddie turned to Norton. ‘Hello, Les,’ he said, a little more slowly. ‘How are you mate, you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, terrific Eddie,’ replied Norton. ‘It’s been great. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’ Les looked at the pilot who was now standing alongside Eddie. ‘G’day, Kingsley. How are you, mate?’

  The usual impish smile crinkled the corners of the pilot’s eyes. ‘Hello, George,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Norton. ‘It’s been a while. I didn’t know you owned a helicopter?’

  ‘I don’t,’ replied Kingsley Sheehan. ‘Eddie made me steal the bloody thing.’ He turned and smiled at the three vets. ‘Hello, fellahs,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. How have you been?’