‘Pretty good, Kingsley,’ was the general reply.
Well, thought Norton, at least everybody seems to know each other. He could see Eddie looking at him and the blood on his face.
‘I got here as fast as I could,’ said Eddie. ‘But it looks like you’ve got everything under control, thank Christ.’ His eyes ran across the four faces at the table. ‘So, what happened? Where’s all the Irish?’
‘You just walked over them,’ said Ronnie, nodding to where the hole had been.
Eddie had a quick look at the freshly-turned earth. ‘And where’s dopey fuckin’ Peregrine?’
‘Still asleep,’ said Les.
‘Still asleep? What do you mean — still asleep?’ Eddie noticed the RPG-7 and the bullpups stacked neatly near the table. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Where did all this crap come from?’
‘Why don’t you have a beer?’ said Ronnie. ‘And I’ll fill you in on what happened after I rang you.’
‘Yeah, righto,’ replied Eddie, as Ronnie got up and went to the fridge. ‘At least it’s a bit warmer up here. It was bloody freezing when we left Sydney.’
‘Ohh I don’t know,’ said Kingsley. ‘It was all right back at my place with the Lufthansa stewardess — till you dragged me away.’
Eddie and Kingsley found a couple of chairs and sat down while Ronnie told them how he, Ray and Lennie had come over the hill just in the nick of time, and about the quick gunfight and how they’d stripped and buried the bodies. Les then told them his side of it, how he’d got Peregrine pissed and full of Normisons and put him to bed. He showed Eddie the piece of paper with the copy of what Peregrine had sent on a postcard to his girlfriend in London. Eddie was far from impressed and said he wouldn’t have minded going up and putting a bullet in Peregrine’s aristocratic arse right there and then. Les took them upstairs and showed them where he’d held off the Irishmen till they rocketed the windows. The power was on but all the globes in the kitchen and dining room had been shattered; by the light from Norton’s torch they could see the damage and the spent cartridges strewn amongst the debris on the floor. The little Robinson was still lying where Les had dropped it; Eddie picked it up and put it back in the blue bag. Les took them down to the gatepost where the shooting had started, then back to the barbecue area via the driveway and where the two Irishmen had shot the windows out when they got in under the house. Back in the barbecue area Eddie and Kingsley were quite impressed. So were the others.
‘That was a bloody good effort, Les,’ said Eddie. ‘One bloke against six, with just an old World War II machine pistol.’
‘It was a bloody good thing I had that,’ replied Les.
‘I’m only sorry it had to come to all this,’ said Eddie, then turned to the others. ‘You too, fellahs. Thanks for everything.’
‘Ahh, that’s all right,’ said Ray.
‘Anyway,’ said Eddie. ‘You haven’t done too bad on the night. You’re four and a half grand in front. You’ve cracked it for two near new cars. There’s enough bloody guns there to start a revolution. And here’s something to have a drink with.’ Eddie threw a large envelope full of money on the table. ‘There’s another six grand. That ought to keep you going for a while.’
‘Shit, thanks Ed,’ said Ronnie. There was a chorus of thank yous from the others.
Eddie took a look at his watch. ‘Well, it’s all over here,’ he said. ‘If you blokes want to get home to bed, you may as well get cracking.’
‘Yeah, it’s not getting any earlier,’ said Lennie, yawning and stretching. ‘And I am getting a bit tired.’
‘At least we don’t have to walk home,’ grinned Ray.
The three Vietnam veterans rose from the table, picked up the Irishmen’s weapons as well as their own. Before they took the two garbage bags full of clothing to burn back at their place, Les removed two small articles, saying he wanted to keep them for a souvenir. There were handshakes and goodbyes all around. Eddie said he’d ring them later in the week to make sure everything was okay and he’d more than likely call back up before long. Ronnie told Les he’d probably call round tomorrow. He did have to go to Murwillumbah, but if not, he’d call round for sure on Tuesday. Les thanked the boys once more and they were gone.
It was quiet in the barbecue area after they’d left; the stars had reappeared and once again the nightbirds were calling to each other across the valley. Eddie said they’d have time for one more beer then Kingsley had to get the helicopter back before the owners — some mining company — missed it.
Les took a mouthful of beer, reflected into it for a moment then looked at Eddie and Kingsley. ‘Jesus, Eddie. That was bloody close,’ he said seriously. ‘Another half a second and I could’ve been fuckin’ dead. I’ll be seeing that gun coming up at me for the rest of my bloody life.’
‘Yeah, I know just how you feel,’ replied Eddie. ‘It’s scary all right.’
‘But bloody little Ronnie the caretaker.’ Norton had to shake his head. ‘He was the last bloke I was expecting to see.’
‘Ohh, don’t worry about Ronnie Madden. He was a bloody good soldier. One of the best.’
‘Yeah. He was telling me you were his platoon sergeant in Vietnam. Did you know Harcourt too?’
‘Sort of. I used to get him stuff for his troops. Camouflage uniforms. Rations. Booze. This and that.’
‘I lined him up with a couple of Australian sheilas once,’ said Kingsley. ‘Couple of entertainers. They said they wanted to see some fighting. So Harcourt got me to fly him and the two sheilas into the middle of a battle. He was a good bloke.’
Norton took another swig of beer. ‘But bloody Ronnie. I can’t get over it. I mean, he’s the biggest pisspot I ever seen.’
‘He wasn’t once,’ said Eddie reflectively.
‘Did it happen over there?’ Eddie nodded. ‘You want to tell us what happened?’
Eddie looked at his watch. ‘All right. I’ll tell you while I finish this beer then we’ll piss off. It was at a place called Nui Ba Dinh. Up in the Tay Ninh province. We were on a patrol. Funny thing was, we weren’t even supposed to be there. The yanks had the place. Our platoon was going through this valley looking for VC and NVA regulars, who we were sure were in the area. Anyway, there’s this old house almost like a bunker, off to our left. Some noggie’s taken a shot at us from a tree and we thought it came from the bunker. So Ronnie’s charged it, lobbed a grenade in the window and shot the joint up inside. At almost the same time the NVA artillery opened on us and a shell hit the house, burying Ronnie inside. Next thing, a regiment of NVA regulars hit us from the mountains. We were there for two days before the yank airforce and the NZ artillery bombed them all out. When we dug Ronnie out of the house, all that was in there was a Vietnamese family. Mum, dad, grandma and five kids. Ronnie had killed the lot and got buried in there with them for two days. Two of the little girls had died with their eyes open and Ronnie was pinned alongside them. Two days and two nights. Two dead little girls staring at him. I reckon that’d be just about enough to unnerve anybody. It unhinged Ronnie.’
‘Christ!’ said Norton. ‘The poor little bastard.’
‘Yeah. So if you reckon Ronnie’s a pisspot, well, now you know why. Every day and night of his life he still sees those two little girls staring at him.’
‘Jesus!’ Norton pictured Ronnie at the barbecues, pouring beer down his throat. No wonder. ‘And what about Ray and Lennie? They seem all right.’
Eddie gave a cynical laugh. ‘Ohh, yeah. They’re as good as gold. They only got sprayed with Agent Orange. They live on a shitty invalid pension. With a bit of luck they might live another five or ten years.’
‘Fuckin’ hell!’ Norton had to shake his head again.
‘Don’t worry, Les,’ continued Eddie. ‘There’s plenty of Rays and Lennies running around. With a lot of fat-arsed public servants in Canberra doing their best to forget about them. It was a prick of a war, Les.’
Norton noticed Kingsley staring at Eddie. ‘Some of us man
aged to adapt to it though,’ said the pilot.
Eddie caught Kingsley’s eye and gave another laugh. A strange one. ‘Yeah, some of us managed to adapt to it.’ His gaze switched directly to Norton. ‘Some of us even got to like it.’ He downed what was left of his beer. ‘Anyway, we’d better get cracking.’ Eddie and Kingsley rose from the table. ‘Can you drive shit-for-brains back to Sydney all right? Tomorrow or whenever? And we’ll piss him off back to England first chance we get.’
‘Yeah, righto,’ nodded Les. ‘Does O’Malley know what’s been going on up here. Would he know about tonight?’
‘I rang Price just before we left. And I’ll ring him as soon as we get back. I imagine he’s been in touch with Canberra. Who gives a fuck now anyway? I’ll see you back in Sydney. I’ll have a good yarn to you then.’
‘All right. See you Eddie. You too Kingsley.’
The pilot extended his hand, the almost permanent smile flickering in his eyes. ‘Okay, George,’ he said. ‘Good to see you again, anyway.’
Les walked across to where the hole had been and watched as Eddie and Kingsley climbed into the helicopter. A few seconds later it whined noisily into life, kicking up dust and leaves and forcing Norton to back away from the prop wash. He gave a wave as the tail rose, then the chopper lifted off, banked across the valley and soon disappeared into the night sky. He watched it for a moment then went back to the table and finished the last of his beer as he stared at the two objects he’d retrieved from the plastic bag and at what was left of his ghetto blaster. So much for a quiet Sunday night at Cedar Glen. He dropped the empty bottle into the Otto-bin, switched off the lights and went to bed.
LES WASN’T QUITE sure what time it was when he went to bed, but after a very ordinary night’s sleep, not bothering to shower and still in his ripped tracksuit, he was still tired when he got up around seven. He didn’t bother to shave, but a long hot shower revealed the cuts on his face weren’t all that bad, though he was thankful he didn’t get any splinters or slivers of glass or perspex in his eyes. Apart from that and a few bruises it wasn’t too bad. He threw on a T-shirt and jeans and went upstairs, where Peregrine was still asleep.
Daylight revealed just what a mess the kitchen, dining room and study were in. The walls were still all right, but the second blast had completely wrecked the study windows and blown nearly every shelf from the walls. Debris littered the dining room and kitchen. Shelves were lying everywhere amidst pots, cutlery and broken crockery. There was no gas leaking but the stove looked stuffed, although the fridge was still working and all the cupboards under the sink were intact. Les found the electric-jug and took that, some Nescafe and other stuff down to the barbecue area and made a huge, steaming mug of coffee. While he drank it he decided to walk around and check out last night’s battleground.
The Robinson may have only been tiny, but it sure had made a mess. Dozens of small holes were chewed into the driveway and there were gritty white patches everywhere where the bullets had smashed into the rockeries. The two gateposts looked as if a flock of giant woodpeckers had gone crazy on them. Behind one rockery, dull, red patches of congealed blood showed where Robert and Brendan had been wounded and then summarily executed. Les grimly took a mouthful of coffee and walked to the corner of the house. There was another patch of dried blood where Logan Colbain had been shot; it was almost as big as the two bloodstains at the gateposts combined. Behind that, panes of shattered glass lay all around the bottom of the house where the Irish had tried to get in downstairs. Les scuffed some with his feet, drank some more coffee and walked around to the driveway. A sticky red smear along one side of the station wagon and more clotted blood on the driveway showed where Patrick and Tom Mooney were machine-gunned. The car itself looked like something out of a Bonnie and Clyde movie. Four neat holes were drilled in the windscreen. There were another half dozen in the bonnet and about twenty along the side panels and windows. Miraculously, the headlights were undamaged and even more miraculously the car started when Les got behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. Even the windscreen wipers and radio worked. Well, at least it’ll get us back to Sydney, thought Les.
Norton was sick of looking at patches of blood when he came to the last ones running down the back stairs and on the path next to the barbecue area. It was the biggest of the lot and looked as if Ronnie had chopped Liam Frayne up with an axe. Those three final bursts from the little caretaker’s Seggern echoed through Norton’s mind again and again he pictured those deadly little black guns in the Vietnam veterans’ hands. He made a fresh cup of coffee and sipped it while he stared absently at his two souvenirs sitting on the table. Then a couple of thoughts occurred to him. Firstly, how was he going to explain all this damage to Benny Rabinski? The rapport between himself and his Jewish ex-landlord was lower than a Greek spongediver’s arse as it was. This would really put the icing on the cake. Can I have the bond money back, Benny? Certainly Mr Norton. Just explain to these nice policemen what happened out there. Then secondly, what was he going to say to poor Bill Kileen at Kileen’s Prestige Kars? Yeah, I’ll look after the car for you, Bill, no worries. I just loaned it to Al Capone for a couple of days while I was up there, that’s all. As usual Les had been left to carry the can again. Norton was brooding moodily about this when footsteps coming down the kitchen stairs made him turn towards the driveway. It was Peregrine in his dressing gown.
The Englishman’s eyes were a little puffy from too much sleep and he looked dishevelled, but most of the colour had returned to his face and it appeared Norton’s rough treatment had worked. He was moving around slowly though it seemed to be more with bewilderment than anything else.
Les watched him approach and a tight smile formed around his mouth. ‘Hello, Peregrine,’ he said, a syrupy malevolence dripping from his voice. ‘Feeling better, are we?’
‘Yes. Quite, thank you,’ replied the Englishman hesitantly.
‘Oh well, isn’t that good?’ said Les. ‘I’m so glad.’
Peregrine stared at Norton. ‘What on earth happened upstairs? The house looks like a bomb hit it.’
Norton couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What did you just say Peregrine?’ he asked.
‘The house,’ replied Peregrine innocently. ‘I said it looks like a jolly bomb hit it.’
‘Well isn’t that a coincidence?’ smiled Norton. Then the tone in his voice rose to a crimson-faced, veins-in-the-neck-bulging roar. ‘Because that’s exactly what did hit it, you fuckin’ idiot! A fuckin’ bomb! Three, to be exact. Plus about five hundred thousand rounds of fuckin’ machine gunfire.’
Peregrine flopped down in a chair. ‘I… I don’t quite understand.’
‘Because of you. You fuckin’ imbecile!’ roared Norton. ‘The Irish arrived last night. Six of them. With machine guns and a fuckin’ bazooka. I’m fuckin’ lucky to be alive.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yeah. Fuckin’ oh dear.’
‘Well… what happened?’ asked Peregrine. ‘Where are they now?’
‘Where are they? You want to know where they are? Come here, and I’ll fuckin’ well show you, you goose.’ Les took Peregrine by the front of his dressing gown and shoved him out to the middle of where the big hole had been. ‘Here’s where they are. Right fuckin’ here. You’re standing on them. I had to help Ronnie the caretaker and two of his mates bury them last night. If you don’t believe me, grab a shovel and dig down about ten feet. You’ll find the bodies. Full of bullet holes and covered in quicklime.’
Peregrine looked around him at the freshly turned soil and the realisation that Les wasn’t joking dawned on him. ‘But… I mean. How on earth did they find out where we were?’
Les looked at Peregrine like he was going to eat him. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. ‘How did they find out where we were?’ He grabbed Peregrine by the dressing gown again, shoved him back to the table, forced him back into his seat and thrust the blood-smeared piece of paper in his face. ‘Here, Einstein. Re
ad this. I got it off one of the bodies.’
With Les watching him like a maddened tiger, Peregrine blinked at the piece of paper, then his face began to colour noticeably. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, then coloured some more. ‘Oh dear.’
‘And I’m a fuckin’ wally, am I?’ hissed Norton.
‘I… I didn’t really mean that, Les. I mean, we had only just got here when I sent that. I… I was thinking differently then.’
‘Think!’ snorted Norton. ‘When did you ever think, you fuckin’ imbecile?’ He poured Peregrine a mug of coffee and thrust it at him. ‘Here. Bring that. And I’ll give you a guided tour of what happened last night. You’ll love it.’
With their coffees in their hands, Les took Peregrine around where he’d been earlier and told him exactly what had happened after he’d put him to bed. From the Irishmen opening up on him at the front gate, holding them off with the Robinson and the rockets hitting the house. The cavalry arriving, in the form of Ronnie and his two mates, the execution, burying the bodies, right up to a not very happy Eddie Salita arriving by helicopter. By the time they got to the last patch of blood on the stairs Peregrine was just about ready to throw up. Any colour that had returned to his face had disappeared and it was back to a chalky white.
‘And if you don’t fuckin’ believe me about how deadly Ronnie and his two mates are,’ said Les, back in the barbecue area. ‘Have a little look at this.’ Norton picked up one of the souvenirs he’d retrieved from the garbage bag: a black balaclava with a bullet hole drilled neatly into the back. He poked his index finger through the hole and it came out red and sticky from the still-damp blood. ‘How do you like that, Peregrine?’ he said, holding it about an inch from the Englishman’s face. ‘Not a bad shot, eh?’
That was enough for Peregrine. He rose unsteadily from the table and brought up all his coffee on the grass, then stood there for a while dry retching before sitting back down again.
‘It’s no good being nice to you, Peregrine,’ continued Norton, his diatribe now coming to a climax. ‘You’re nothing but a fuckin’ idiot. A bloke ought to put one right on your chin. Because of your plain fuckin’ stupidity we both nearly got killed last night. We’re deadset lucky to be alive. And you can thank poor little Ronnie the caretaker for that. So fuck you, Peregrine, you cunt. Get fucked.’
The Godson Page 38