Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ smiled Blythe. ‘Let’s do that, Mr McNamara.’

  They finished their gin and tonics while ‘Putting On The Ritz’ played out of the speakers in the ceiling next door. Then they stubbed their cigars and Les followed Blythe across the lounge and up the stairs back to her room.

  Blythe’s room was almost identical to Norton’s. Only she had a fake tiger skin lounge and a bigger window with a better view. The bed lamps were still on when she opened the door.

  ‘I’ll just go to the loo,’ she said, dropping her keys by the bed. ‘Help yourself to the mini-bar if you want to.’

  ‘I might have a beer,’ said Les. ‘Would you like something?’

  ‘A small Scotch and water. No ice thanks.’

  ‘Okey doke.’

  Les knocked the top off a bottle of Hahn Premium then opened a bottle of Mount Franklin and made Blythe a Scotch. He placed her drink on the coffee table in front of the lounge, sat down and had a mouthful of beer. Blythe came out of the bathroom, sat down next to him and picked up her glass. Les clinked his bottle against it.

  ‘Well. Here’s to success, Blythe,’ he winked. ‘May all your poems be little ones.’

  ‘Thank you, Forrest.’ Blythe took a sip of Scotch and smiled at Les. ‘I just can’t believe my luck. I gave a reading at the writer’s festival and now I’m getting a publishing contract. All in two days. It’s almost too good to be true.’

  Les sipped his beer and shrugged. ‘I think it was meant to be, Blythe. Fate.’

  ‘Yes, Forrest,’ breathed Blythe. ‘Fate.’ They sipped their drinks and Blythe moved her knee against Norton’s. ‘Do you believe in fate, Forrest?’

  For a second a picture of the catering van exploding just as he left the cake box there flashed across Norton’s mind. ‘Do I ever, Blythe,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Would you say I had a fatal attraction, Forrest?’

  Les put his drink down and placed his hand gently inside Blythe’s thigh. ‘You’ve got a fatal something, Blythe. I can tell you that.’

  Blythe tilted her head up slightly. Les bent forward and kissed her. There was a slight hint of cigar smoke, but her lips were still sweet and soft and her tiny tongue as delicate as the white lace in her knickers. Whether it was the cigar, the mountain air, or just something about Blythe herself, Les wasn’t sure. But in seconds he had a rock hard boner ready to blast off. He kissed Blythe a while longer then stood up, took her hand and led her across to the bed.

  ‘Daddy missed out on dessert downstairs, momma,’ he smiled. ‘And daddy needs something for his sweet tooth.’

  ‘Ooohh Hugo. Do you think Emily Brent would approve?’

  ‘Vera. Poor old Emily never knew what she was missing.’

  Blythe kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed as Les slipped her knickers off and spread her legs. Then without any further ado, he pushed his face into Blythe’s beautiful little ted and went for it.

  It was absolutely sensational. Les couldn’t remember ever coming across one like it. Blonde and soft and trimmed. It was like a little rosebud. Pink and soft. If you put it out in the morning sun the dew would have settled on it. Blythe had also rubbed some sweet smelling oil around herself, making things even more enjoyable. Les chewed and licked and sucked like it was a slice of watermelon at a country picnic. Best of all, Blythe was going almost spare at the end of the bed. She kicked and bucked and wriggled her hips, screamed and moaned and sighed. It was music to Norton’s ears. Before he knew it, Mr Wobbly was frothing at the mouth and Les was ready to blow his bolt all over the inside of his jeans.

  ‘Ohhhhh Vicar,’ Blythe was in some kind of Agatha Christie dreamland. All she could do was moan.

  Les didn’t say a word. He just kept eating Blythe’s gorgeous pussy, getting hornier by the second. It was that good, he could have eaten it all night then backed up for seconds in the morning. Suddenly Blythe gave a little scream, grabbed Les by the hair, pushed her hips up and emptied out in his face. Les gave it one more lick then came up for air; eyes sparkling, a grin from ear to ear. He fell down alongside Blythe, pulled a hanky from his pocket and wiped his face while he picked a few hairs out of his teeth. Blythe’s eyes eventually stopped spinning around, she got most of her breath back and faced Les with her hands against his chest.

  ‘I’m sorry, Forrest,’ she panted. ‘But I can’t have sex with you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Blythe. I was counting on that.’ Les unzipped his fly and pulled out Mr Wobbly, gave it a couple of strokes then put his hand on the back of Blythe’s head. ‘So get your literary laughing gear around this, sister. And tell the vicar why you weren’t at church on Sunday.’

  Blythe didn’t need much persuasion and Les didn’t need any prompting. Blythe hardly had her lips around Norton’s knob before he started blowing. Blythe gave it about half a dozen decent sucks and Les almost levitated from the bed as he emptied out. Poor Blythe. It looked like she’d walked in front of a flying lemon meringue pie. It was in her mouth, down her throat, in her hair, across her eyebrows, running down her chin. After he stopped howling, Les gave himself one last stroke and some went on the curtains and the top of the TV.

  ‘My goodness, Forrest,’ exclaimed Blythe. ‘You certainly were excited, weren’t you.’

  ‘Excited,’ spluttered Les. ‘Blythe, I haven’t been this excited since Australia won the America’s Cup.’

  Blythe slipped her knickers back on and went to the bathroom. By the time she came back, Les had his fly done up and was lying on the bed with his hands behind his head.

  ‘What time are you having breakfast in the morning?’ asked Blythe. ‘I have to get up early myself.’

  Les took this as a hint. Blythe had got her contract. She’d given her publisher a decent blow job. Now he could pack up the casting couch and hit the road.

  ‘I might have a bit of a sleep in,’ replied Les. ‘I’m not sure. So why don’t you give me your phone number and all that, in case I miss you.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  Blythe wrote down her phone number and address. Plus where she worked. Les gave her Warren’s phone number at the advertising agency and told her to ring him there. Ask for Warren Edwards, his assistant, just in case he was in a meeting or interstate.

  ‘Well goodnight, Forrest,’ said Blythe, opening the door. ‘It’s been marvellous. I’m so excited.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Les. ‘Me too. I’ve got a good feeling about this.’

  Blythe batted her eyelids for a second. ‘I just hope you don’t think I’m awful.’

  ‘Awful?’ said Les. He placed his hands on Blythe’s shoulders. ‘Blythe. You’re not in the slightest bit awful. You’re wonderful. And you’re a gifted writer. Believe me.’

  Blythe handed Les The Portable Beat Reader. ‘Goodnight Forrest.’

  ‘Goodnight, Blythe.’ The door closed and Norton was left standing on his own.

  Boy, can I find them, thought Les, as he slowly trudged back along the corridor. Blythe bloody Selby. Anyway, I’m sure Mr Edwards will look after her when she rings. Shit! I wouldn’t have minded slipping her one though. What about Blythe’s grouse little lamington? I wonder did they eat lamingtons in any of Agatha Christie’s books? Les picked another tiny blonde hair out of his teeth. Not the way I just did, that’s for sure.

  The bar was closed and the Kurrajong Room was empty when Les came down the stairs. ‘Song Of India’ was playing from the speakers in the ceiling. Les went straight to his room, stripped off down to his jox and T-shirt then cleaned his teeth and got under the sheets, leaving one bed lamp on. He yawned a couple of times and stared up at the ceiling for a while, his mind a complete blank. It felt good. Suddenly Les found himself dog tired. Between driving up there in the rain, the booze, the rich meal and the blow job, he was knackered. Oh well, Les thought, as he switched off the light. It hasn’t been a bad trip so far. See what happens tomorrow. In less than a minute, the big Queenslander was dead to the world.

 
Norton’s bed was that comfortable and the room was so warm, he probably would have slept in till noon, except that whoever had the room before him had set the radio alarm for eight o’clock. Les was abruptly woken to the news, relayed from a Sydney radio station. Nathan David’s station. The news finished with the local weather report and Les was still half asleep wondering what day it was when Nathan David’s voice came blustering over the airwaves giving a slant on the news. Instead of sticking to music, it was a law and order rave about the leniency of the courts and Norton got a guernsey.

  ‘Now, as I’ve been saying,’ trilled David, ‘I do have an interest in this particular film. But I am one hundred per cent up front with my financial dealings. And always have been. Not like some of the vile swine in this town whom we won’t mention at this time. But that has nothing to do with it. I saw the security camera video of this Norton character, allegedly placing the bomb on the film set. Allegedly? It’s there in black and white. He even smirks at the camera. Then the bomb goes off and a poor, innocent cook is killed. So how does Les Norton get bail? What? Are the police running some kind of open door policy at Waverley Police Station? Heavens above. Now this Norton character is out there walking the streets, probably to plant another bomb somewhere. I think I’d best leave it at that. But you do have to ask yourself, what in God’s name is going on with our judicial system?’

  Norton couldn’t believe his ears. Thanks David, you prick. I always said I wouldn’t piss on you. Why don’t you just hang me and be done with it? Christ! Les scowled at the radio as he switched it off. It wouldn’t surprise me if you had something to do with it, you little cunt. You and your mate King. And that miserable fuckin dyke. Shit! That reminds me, I was supposed to ring Gerry. It’s too early now. I’ll do it after breakfast. Les sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. The fog had lifted but it was still raining steadily and the thick clouds covering the Megalong Valley looked like huge waves as the wind pushed them over the mountains. Les opened the window, shivered, then slammed it shut again. It was still bloody cold. He took off his T-shirt, got cleaned up then put on his blue tracksuit and walked down to get something to eat.

  There were about twenty guests in the breakfast room, but no sign of Blythe. I suppose she’d be halfway to Bathurst by now, thought Les. Still rumblin’ from the grumblin’ and howlin’ from the growlin’. I wonder what she’ll tell them at the furniture shop? The register was on the left as you entered and the bain-marie started there. Les told the pleasant woman in charge his room number, then found a table with a view and filled up with fruit, scrambled eggs, bacon and whatever, washed down with coffee and orange juice. A number of thoughts went through Norton’s mind while he ate and hearing his name plastered all over the airwaves was one of them. Apart from a good breakfast, the day hadn’t got off to much of a start. He had one last coffee and signed the tab.

  Back in his cosy, warm room, Les could think of better things to do than be driving round in the rain trying to find some house in the middle of nowhere. He tossed the jemmy and a torch in his backpack, then perused his Blue Mountains street directory, deciding to check out the main cluster of streets first. He put his GAP anorak on, locked up and walked out to the car.

  Cars and trucks hissed by in the rain as Les drove past a car yard and some old disused buildings belonging to the hotel, then took a right over the railway line. A hairpin bend brought him alongside the train station and an old red building that was once the Medlow Bath Post Office and had since been turned into a book shop and tea room. The road curved round again to the left, stopping at a dead end in the bush and another road went down to the right. Les followed it down amongst more trees and bush, stopping at a longer street intersected with cul-de-sacs. According to his map, there were two small ones on the left and the rest angled off on the right before the long road to the airfield. Les swung the Berlina right.

  Medlow Bath was quite hilly, with more houses than Les thought, most of them built back from the road amongst the surrounding trees, making it even more difficult to find what he was looking for. All the cross streets ended in thick bush and the cul-de-sacs ran down towards a lush green valley dense with trees. A lot of the houses looked new and well built in either polished wood or rumbled bricks and nearly every home had a neat front yard full of flowers or ferns. Clusters of trees were turning from emerald green into beautiful shades of red and orange as they lost their autumn leaves. Others had shed huge strips of bark, which hung in the branches or lay across the road. Even in the mist and rain, Medlow Bath had a noticeable country elegance. There was the odd shack here and there with a rusting car body out the front, plus several overgrown blocks of land. A few had For Sale signs and in one driveway Les made out a truck with Blue Mountains Bushfire Brigade painted on the side. He wound the window down a little and the sounds of magpies and currawongs calling to each other drifted in along with the smell of wood fires burning in some of the homes.

  Les drove up and down, slowly crisscrossing each street and cul-de-sac as he checked everything out; there were plenty of yards with red gums or blue gums, but no red gates or blue letter boxes. He found one wooden building on a corner with a Japanese Shinto arch under the trees and a coloured lotus on the front gate. The Blue Mountains Insight Meditation Centre. Les shook his head. I don’t think that’s what I’m looking for. Les drove around some more then took the long road towards the airfield. After a few kilometres the houses began to run out and Les was starting to run out of patience. He did a U-turn near a council dump and drove back to where he started. Les drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and peered out the windscreen as the wipers click-clacked back and forth. It felt like he’d been driving round in the rain half the morning. Les looked at his watch. He had. This is fucked, he told himself, shaking his head in annoyance. I knew it was going to be a waste of time. There were two more cul-de-sacs to go, then the ones on the other side of the railway line and that was it. Les shook his head again, hung a left towards the end cul-de-sac and turned right.

  It was much the same as the others; a short street full of houses and trees, ending in a turning area at the bottom, and no red gate. Les came back and drove down the last cul-de-sac. A sign on the corner said Red Gum Road. It was almost identical to the other cul-de-sac, except it included a big house built from sandstone blocks on the right with palm trees out front, and further down on the left, a white Holden utility and a grey Ford F 100 parked haphazardly across a driveway belonged to several builders working inside a partially constructed brick cottage. Slowly and a little tiredly, Les reached the end of the cul-de-sac, when — bingo! There it was on the right-hand side. A blue mail box sitting on a low sandstone fence next to a red iron gate. A tall blue gum, covered in peeling bark, leaned over the sandstone fence, all standing in front of a small blue timber house with a red trim and a green-galvanised-iron roof. A vacant block of land sat opposite; Les pulled up in front of the vacant block and wound the window down for a better view.

  The front of the house had a small verandah on the left with a seat next to the front door, and on the right, a bedroom faced the street with two gables built over the window. Two windows ran down the right-hand side of the house along the driveway and on the left side was one window. The surrounding yard was fairly neat before it stopped at the bush. The sandstone fence half circled round the front of the house with the gate and the letter box on the right. Painted on the blue letter box was a yellow sun, moon and stars. Parked in the driveway was a black Ford station wagon with a wire grille at the back and sitting out the front was an old brown trailer covered in leaves. A faded sticker was peeling off the back near the tail light. Les could just make out what it said: Witches Do It In Spells.

  Les wound the window up then did a U-turn and drove back up the street, parking near the corner so he faced down the cul-de-sac. That has to be Knox’s house, he told himself. Rittosa had the tree out the front mixed up with the name of the street. The sticker on the trailer is the clinche
r. Les smiled tightly. That’s the good news. The bad news is, someone’s home. And the worst fuckin news is, that station wagon’s parked too far down the driveway, so you can’t tell if it’s gone from up here. Which means I have to wait here to see them go. And if I go away and come back I’ll have to drive past the house again. Les looked at his watch. Oh well. May as well make myself comfortable.

  Les waited almost an hour. One or two cars went past in the rain and Les could feel the drivers looking at him. He snatched another glance at his watch. That car’s not going anywhere. I could be sitting here all bloody day. Les drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. I may as well ring Gerry. There’s a phone booth opposite that book shop. Les started the car and drove back to the old post office.

  The phone was out of order and there was a note on the book shopdoor. Back In An Hour. Les shook his head. Warren’s right, I’ve got to get myself a mobile bloody phone. Bit late to be thinking of it now, though. He got back in the car and drove to the hotel.

  After parking the car, smiling and nodding to the staff as he walked up to his room, then dialling Sydney, Les had timed it perfectly to find Gerry’s phone engaged. He waited and rang another three times. Maybe he had the wrong number? Les checked with Telstra. No. He had the right number. The line was busy. Les stared at the floor, shook his head then walked out to the car and drove back to Red Gum Road. This time he took The Portable Beat Reader with him.

  The builders were still hammering away and the station wagon hadn’t moved. Les did another U-turn then parked in the same spot at the end of the street and continued waiting. Another car went by and not long after that, the white utility belonging to one of the builders backed out of the driveway and drove past. Out the corner of his eye, Les saw a young, thin-faced bloke, wearing a gold earring and with his dark hair tucked under a black beanie, watching him from behind the wheel. Les kept reading his book and waited. Before long the utility returned, and Les didn’t have to look up to know this time the driver was staring at him. Les began to feel one of his legs going to sleep and put the book down. Bugger it. I’ll try and ring Gerry again. He started the car and drove back to the hotel. Another ten minutes on the phone and her number was still engaged. Fuckin hell, cursed Les. This is getting ridiculous. He pulled his hood up against the rain, walked out to his car again and drove back to Red Gum Road.