Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Excuse me,’ asked Les. ‘Where do the fishermen drink?’

  ‘Fishermen?’ said the barmaid.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She pointed to the left. ‘Try next door.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Les walked back out into the street and went into the other bar.

  It was smaller, just a room with two pool tables, more betting facilities, a juke box against the far wall and blue-curtained windows looking out on the street. There was a solitary barman in a shirt and tie and behind the bar were sporting photos and one of two blokes standing next to a monster crocodile they’d just shot and hung from a rope. About a dozen men were standing or seated on stools round the bar, with one bloke in a floppy captain’s hat sitting at a table pencilling a betting card. All Les knew about drinking in South Australia was, certain beers were pretty ordinary and instead of pots and middies, they drank butcher’s. He walked over to the bar and ordered a butcher’s out of a red tap, then stepped over to one of the windows and took a mouthful. It tasted like dog’s piss. Bloody hell, thought Les. No wonder they call them butcher’s. A couple of these and you’d be butcher’s hook all right. You’d be dead. He took another sip to make sure he wasn’t imagining things, shook his head and placed the beer on a small table beneath a glass noticeboard. Something inside the noticeboard caught Norton’s eye. J.D. won Friday night’s meat raffle. Under that another short notice said: Victor Harbor Angling Club will close if we don’t get members’ support. Les read it again then stared out the window. Angling club? Les was expecting professional fishermen. Not anglers. And the angling club was folding up. No wonder that woman on the bike didn’t feel the cold. She wouldn’t know what day it was. There wouldn’t be two fishermen in the whole bloody joint. Les stared out the window and shook his head. I don’t believe it. After a few moments, Les shifted his gaze from the window back to the bloke in the captain’s cap. He had a trimmed beard and a weathered face. Fuck it, thought Les, I’m here now, I suppose. He took the photo from his backpack and approached the man in the captain’s cap.

  ‘Excuse me, mate,’ said Les.

  The bloke looked at Les indifferently. ‘Yeah, what’s up?’

  ‘I’m looking for the crew of a boat. You wouldn’t know these blokes, would you?’ Les showed the man in the cap the photo.

  The bloke looked at the photo for a second, laughed and called out to the bar. ‘Hey Merv, Harry. Come over here.’ Two rugged-looking men in their late twenties, wearing check shirts and beanies, left the bar and came over. One of them had a brown moustache, the other had two teardrops tattooed next to his left eye. ‘Have a look at this. This bloke’s looking for the crew of this boat. What do you reckon?’

  The two men looked at the photo then all three of them started laughing amongst themselves. Les couldn’t see what the big joke was. The bloke with the tattoos stopped laughing, took a drag on his cigarette and turned to Les.

  ‘So you’re looking for the crew of that boat, are you, mate?’ he said, breathing smoke all over Les.

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Les.

  ‘You’re not a poofter, are you?’

  ‘What?’ said Les.

  ‘Are you a poofter, mate?’ asked the bloke with the moustache.

  ‘No. I’m not a bloody poofter,’ said Les indignantly.

  ‘You sure?’ said the bloke in the captain’s cap.

  ‘Yeah — I’m sure,’ said Les.

  Tattoos shook his head. ‘I reckon you’re a poofter.’

  ‘So do I, mate,’ added Moustache.

  The bloke in the captain’s hat gave Les a very indifferent once up and down. ‘I reckon you are, too.’

  Les could feel his fuse starting to burn out rapidly. Another half a minute and they’d soon know whether he was a poofter or not. Les took a deep breath, slid the photo into his backpack and closed it.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Norton quietly. ‘I was just trying to find those blokes in the photo. It appears I’ve made a mistake. Thank you for your trouble.’

  ‘That’s all right — sweetheart,’ said Tattoos.

  Moustache gave Les a wink. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a pink lemonade before you go?’

  ‘They got straws,’ said the man in the captain’s cap. ‘And little umbrellas.’

  Les smiled thinly. ‘No thank you. I’m not thirsty. And I think it’s best I leave.’

  Les swallowed his anger and headed for the door. Fuckin wallys. I should have known better. He was just about to open the door when who should walk in but the big bloke with the sidelevers he’d flattened earlier. He was wearing a black leather jacket and white sticking plaster all over his nose. Two enormous black eyes blinked painfully from behind the plaster and his jaw was wired up. Close behind him were two blokes almost as big. One was wearing a grey gaberdine trenchcoat, the other had on a bulky white jumper. As soon as Sidelevers recognised who it was, his face darkened and he turned to his two mates.

  ‘Grrhhnngggmmgh. Grmrngh brrghh,’ he grunted, pointing angrily at Les.

  ‘Ohh go fuck yourself,’ replied Les, and stormed past them out the door. He was across the footpath, heading for his car when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Hey. You with the fuckin backpack.’

  Les stopped and turned around. It was the bloke in the woollen jumper. Sidelevers and his two mates had followed him straight out of the hotel with Sidelevers bringing up the rear.

  ‘Yeah, fuckin what?’ replied Les.

  ‘We want to see you,’ said the one wearing the trenchcoat.

  Norton’s fuse suddenly burnt out. ‘You’re going to wish you hadn’t,’ he hissed, and dropped his backpack on the footpath.

  Les walked up to the bloke in the woollen jumper, feinted a left to his chin then belted a short right under his floating rib. The bloke’s eyes bulged and his mouth gaped open as Les doubled up with another short right over the top. The bloke’s legs wobbled as it slammed into his jaw and he fell down on his backside, eyes glazed, wondering what hit him. The bloke in the trenchcoat on Norton’s right swung a left at Norton’s head. Les stepped outside it and grabbed the bloke by the arm with his left hand then pulled him forward and back-fisted him in the mouth, ripping his lips open. Les gave him another one then straightened his right arm under the bloke’s chin and thumped his right knee into the bloke’s kidneys. The bloke fell back over Norton’s leg and banged the back of his head on the footpath as he landed at Norton’s feet. Les left him and walked across to Sidelevers who was looking for a hole he could crawl into and something he could drag over the top with him.

  ‘You big weak prick,’ said Les. ‘Look what you’ve done.’ Les jerked a thumb at Sidelevers’ mates lying bleeding on the footpath. ‘I hope you’re happy.’

  Sidelevers looked like he was ready to crap his pants. ‘Nnghhh. Nghhh.’

  ‘Shut up,’ ordered Les. ‘This is all your fault. And now you’re going to have to pay the penalty.’

  ‘Nnnnhh. Nnnhh. Gmmh nnh unh mghh.’

  Les was going to belt Sidelevers in the jaw again and smash it up some more. But he just couldn’t be that cruel. Instead, he stepped back and kicked him hard in the balls. Sidelevers grunted with pain and sank to the ground clutching his groin. The worst part was he couldn’t scream and everything bottled up inside him. Eventually the strain and the pressure were too much and the capillaries in his eyeballs burst, sending blood seeping onto the white sticking plaster across his nose. Les watched him for a moment then looked up. The three blokes he’d shown the photo to had come out to see what was going on.

  Les smiled at them. ‘Now. Which one of you hillbillies reckons I’m a poofter?’

  The one with the tattoos shook his head vehemently. ‘Not me, mate,’ he said, and scurried back inside.

  ‘Me either,’ added Moustache, turning to join his mate. ‘Never said a word.’

  ‘What about you, Captain Ahab?’ asked Les. ‘What have you got to say?’

  ‘I was just thinking,’ said the bloke in the ca
ptain’s cap, ‘that was a really clear photo. What sort of camera did you use?’

  Les picked up his backpack and got in the car. A few people had gathered in front of the hotel and he knew the best move now would be to put as much distance between himself and Victor Harbor as possible, before the wallopers arrived.

  Rather than take the main street after reversing out, Les turned left, past a video arcade and a second-hand bookshop, and came round a back way near a garage. On the way out of town Les saw the sign again: VICTOR HARBOR, WHERE YOU’RE ALWAYS WELCOME. Yeah terrific. Unless you feed the seagulls or you’re a poofter looking for a boat.

  The turn-off to Goolwa went by, then the farms and countryside. Les stared into the twin beams of light splitting the darkness ahead of him and shook his head. The trip to Adelaide had turned out to be a complete waste of time and money. And deep inside Les had had a feeling it would. He just didn’t think it would end in so much violence and people laughing at him and calling him a poof. On the other hand, it would have been no use staying in Sydney. He had to take a punt. Maybe if he hadn’t breached his bail conditions it would have worked out differently. Who knows? Anyway, it was too late now and he was looking at a very dismal future when he got home. Very dismal indeed. He started thinking about some of the things that had happened on the trip and flashed on to the romp he had with Blythe at the Medlow. That was fun all right, mused Les. But you still can’t beat a good root. Les laughed mirthlessly. That’s something I can forget about, starting Monday. My sex life. Unless I want to chase drag queens around Long Bay. Yes, it had certainly turned out a bummer all right. Les blanked his mind and just stared through the windscreen, totally zoned out. He didn’t bother listening to a tape; he didn’t even notice any of the hamlets or turn-offs going past. Les just stared ahead, thinking about absolutely nothing.

  ‘Right turn. Five hundred metres.’

  Les slowed down and swung the Hyundai right. He didn’t notice the name of the road, but glimpsed a sign saying WATCH OUT FOR LOW-LEVEL BRANCHES. Les drove on down a narrow sealed road covered with a thin layer of mist, the headlights picking up dense forest on the right side of the road and a plantation of tall pine trees on the other. Beyond that the car was enveloped in total darkness.

  ‘In two hundred metres, take the next turn on your right.’

  Les slowed down again and turned right into the forest. A narrow, dirt road full of potholes and gutters rose up through the trees. Next thing a bumping, banging sound came from under the car. The noise seemed to snap Les out of his trance.

  ‘Hey! What the fuck am I doing?’ he exclaimed. ‘This isn’t the way to Adelaide.’

  Les stopped the car and looked around him. Christ. Am I a nice goose or what? I was bloody miles away. I deserve to have that navigator shoved up my arse. What was that noise though? Shit! Knowing my luck, something’s probably gone through the fuckin petrol tank. Les quickly turned everything off, found the torch in his backpack, then got out and shone it beneath the car. A branch had jammed itself under a firewall. He wrenched it away, tossed it to one side of the road then switched the torch off and stood next to the car. It was quite eerie standing out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a black, leaden silence that seemed to close in on everything. It was also very exhilarating. Suddenly the sky lit up and great shafts of light beamed down through the trees. At first Les thought it was a UFO. It turned out to be the biggest, brightest full moon Les had ever seen, drifting momentarily between a bank of clouds like a huge ball of beautifully polished silver. Les stared at it in awe before it disappeared back behind the clouds again and darkness returned. Shit! What about that? thought Les. That was unreal. Les was about to get back in the car when somewhere in the distance he heard the most awful scream he’d ever heard in his life. It split the darkness like a bolt of imaginary lightning and clamped an icy hand around Norton’s heart. It was a woman’s scream. Not of pain. A scream of sheer, hysterical terror. There was another scream, followed by a horrific wail.

  ‘No. No. Help me. Somebody. Please HELP me.’

  It seemed to be coming from somewhere near the top of the hill. Another scream sent a chill up Norton’s spine, then it abruptly stopped. Les found his heart starting to quicken. Shit! I don’t like the sound of that. Some poor sheila’s in bad trouble. Les stared into the darkness towards where the screams had come from. Fuckin hell! As if I can’t get into enough trouble as it is, he cursed, without playing Dudley fuckin Do Right. Why me all the time? Shit! Leaving the car where it was, Les picked up the branch, broke off the skinny end to make a club, and followed the dirt road up the hill.

  As he approached the top Les could hear people chanting, ringing bells and beating drums. When he got there, he could see a driveway leading back to an old abandoned farmhouse with cars parked around the front and lights glowing out the back. Les stopped near some trees for a closer look. The farmhouse was red-brick and sandstone, just like the old buildings in Goolwa, but not very big. The front door and windows were boarded up and two chimneys along the side squatted on a rusty galvanised-iron roof. A stone wall with several gaps in it formed a perimeter around the farmhouse and the remains of a high wooden gate stood out the front. At the end of the driveway, a man wearing a Driz-A-Bone and a woollen beanie was leaning against a tree with a gun over his shoulder. He had his back to the road and seemed more interested in what was going on at the back of the farmhouse than anything else. Quieter than a silkworm tiptoeing on a silk hanky, Les snuck up on the man and belted him across the side of his head with the branch, knocking him unconscious. As the man fell silently to the ground, Les grabbed the gun; it was a fully loaded pump-action shotgun. Les cradled it for a moment, then left it against the tree, knowing it was there if he needed it. There was a piece of cord hanging from the man’s coat; Les ripped it off, tied the man’s thumbs together then stuffed his beanie in his mouth. Gripping the piece of branch, Les kept low and snuck across to a gap in the stone wall to see what the man in the Driz-A-Bone had been looking at.

  The stone wall formed a backyard at the rear of the farmhouse. Outdoor heaters were placed round the yard and candles and hurricane lamps flickered on the walls. A wooden table sat against one wall, draped with a sheet of black satin. Placed on the sheet was a solid bronze candelabra, a chalice, several animal figurines and black velvet cushions embroidered with gold stars and pentangles. Standing in the yard were about twenty naked old people in varying degrees of ugliness and obesity. The men wore chains and medallions round their necks and carried small drums. The women had weird masks made from bird feathers over their eyes and held tiny bells. One particularly grotesque old man was wearing a fur hat made from a ram’s head complete with horns; in his hands was a long silver knife with a black handle. Next to him was another old man wearing a silver mask shaped like a hawk; he was carrying a ram’s horn painted with gold to look like a penis. They were all grouped around a wooden altar covered with a sheet of white satin. Tied to the altar by her hands and feet with a gag over her mouth was a struggling, terrified young woman, her blonde hair tied at the back and adorned with flowers. She was dressed in a long white gown, cut low across her shoulders with wide billowing sleeves and laced round her waist was a maroon bodice. Standing behind her was an old woman holding a hypodermic syringe. She removed the gag from the young woman who immediately started screaming again. The man wearing the ram’s head started waving the knife about, reciting some ritual, while the others beat their drums and tinkled their bells.

  ‘Oh mighty Azalzak, lord of earth, water, wind and fire, wand and sword. Prince of Darkness, Ruler of Spirits, come ye unto life as the sacrifice is made.’

  ‘Azalzak. Azalzak. Azalzak,’ chorused the others.

  ‘Hear the offering’s screams, oh mighty Azalzak. As they waken ye from the night. And beckon ye unto our desire.’

  ‘Azalzak. Azalzak. Azalzak.’

  ‘Oh ye mighty Azalzak, hear her screams. Soon you shall taste her body. Then you will drink her bl
ood from the witches’ blade.’

  At the word ‘blood’, the woman on the altar almost screamed her lungs out and started thrashing around that much it looked as if she’d break her bonds. The man wearing the silver bird’s mask then lifted the young woman’s dress up and began working the ram’s horn towards her vagina. The man in the ram’s head gave the woman with the syringe a nod and with the help of another woman she was able to prepare a vein in the young woman’s arm and stick the syringe in. A steady push with her thumb and the woman went completely comatose.

  Watching grimfaced through the gap in the stone wall, Les was almost sick as he realised what he had stumbled across out in the Adelaide Hills. It was a coven of Devil worshippers, Satanists, AntiChrists, or whatever their ungodly trip was. Not a bunch of flower-smelling, spell-casting, flute-blowing Wiccas. These were full-on, black magic, murdering nutters, complete with a high priest ready to perform a human sacrifice. You could bet this was where half those people in the photos outside the police station had finished up — as offerings to Azalzak or whoever. The chanting, drum-banging and bell-ringing got louder. The man in the ram’s head raised the knife above his head.

  ‘Now mighty Azalzak. Now. Taste her blood.’

  ‘Taste the blood. Taste the blood. Azalzak. Azalzak. Taste the blood.’

  That was enough for Dudley Do Right. Les stood up and flung the branch at the high priest. It turned end over end and the thick part whacked the high priest in the mouth. He gave a surprised shout and fell back, dropping the knife over the altar. A hush went through the coven and they all stopped chanting and banging their drums and ringing their bells. The man with the bird mask turned to see what had happened to the high priest as Les leapt through the gap in the wall, shouting and yelling at the top of his voice to get the coven off guard.

  ‘Go on. Get back. Get back,’ Les clamoured. ‘Keep away from her. Leave her alone. Piss off, the fuckin lot of you. You horrible-looking bags of shit.’