The Godson (24 page)

‘Wonder what the bloody hell this was here for?' queried Les.

‘Reminds you of a bunker or something, wouldn't you say?' said Peregrine.

Norton shook his head in amazement. ‘Buggered if I know.'

They strolled around the mysterious clearing for a while, then began walking back the way they had come.

The trail brought them to the bottom corner of the property with the house about three hundred metres away and another two sheds between. They were about to head towards them when the sound of running water to their right made them walk in that direction. The creek running around the property split to form a tiny island of pebbles and ran into one of the prettiest little billabongs Les had ever seen in his life. It was about fifty metres across, crystal clear and the sound of the water flowing over the rocks was like music. A tiny bridge of flat-laid logs joined the island to the shore and as they approached several unseen animals plopped into the green
coolness, leaving only a trail of bubbles to mark their presence. After the heat, sweat, flies, mud and mosquitoes of their threehour walk it was just a bit too much for Peregrine and Les. They exchanged a brief look and, fully clothed, leapt straight in after the animals.

The water flowing down from the mountains was freezing cold but clean and refreshing. Both men let out a roar of shock when they surfaced.

‘Whoa! It's a bit bloody brisk!' spluttered Norton.

‘Yes. But not all that bad,' said Peregrine, ducking under again.

They wallowed and splashed around for a while then got out dripping water, grinning like two silly big kids.

‘Fair dinkum, you're a nice dill,' said Norton. ‘Fancy going swimming in all your clothes.'

‘What about your jolly self?'

‘Yeah, but I'm an Australian. You'd expect an Australian to do something stupid like that. Not the English, though — and especially not the Royal Family. Come on.'

Dripping and spitting water they sloshed their way back towards the house deciding to check out the last two remaining sheds and that would be it.

The one nearest the billabong was a concrete and wood building about the same size as an average house with a loading dock out the front; the double aluminium door was unlocked so they sloshed inside. From the smell, the number of sinks, old paper towel containers and other paraphernalia left laying around it wasn't hard to tell what it had been used for.

‘This has been an old slaughterhouse,' said Les. ‘That's what those other sheds were. They must have had some sort of a chicken farm or something out here at one stage.'

‘Phew! It smells like it,' grimaced Peregrine.

They slopped around the abandoned slaughterhouse, leaving trails of wet footprints on the dusty concrete floor.

‘Well, this is all very interesting,' said Peregrine. ‘But I think I'd prefer to be somewhere else.'

‘Yeah. It does nothing for me. Less for the chickens, though, I'd say.'

They left the way they entered.

Between the slaughterhouse and the farm was a wooden tool shed about the same size as a four-car garage. The windows were covered in dust and the door was locked but through the wire grill Les could see wooden benches, vices, shelves stacked with tins of rusty nails and screws, old fan-belts, petrol
tins and other assorted junk one would expect to find in a typical tool shed on an Australian farm. It was even less interesting than the slaughterhouse and Peregrine by now was looking completely stuffed so after a cursory look they left it, walked back to the barbecue area and flopped down in two chairs with a glass of water each.

‘Well, that was the farm, Pezz,' said Norton, starting to undo his boots. ‘What did you think?'

Peregrine slumped in his chair almost too exhausted to talk, let alone move. ‘Fascinating, I have to admit. Completely different from anything back home.'

‘Yeah. There's still the stables and that fenced-off area down towards the road, but bugger it. We'll have a look at that some other day.' Peregrine barely nodded his head in agreement and Les could understand his feelings; it wasn't a bad hike for a slightly-built fellow who wasn't at all used to this kind of heat and conditions. ‘I'd get out of all that wet gear if I was you,' said Norton, starting to remove his boots and trousers.

‘I will in a minute, Les.'

‘Okay. Suit yourself.'

Peregrine slumped back and closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them with a start when he suddenly heard Les cursing.

‘Fuckin' rotten little bastards!' he fumed. ‘Look at the cunts of fuckin' things.'

Peregrine stared at Norton who was frantically plucking something from his ankles which were wet and shiny with blood. He flung them on the ground where they squirmed around like two live black jelly beans.

‘Good heavens. What on earth are they?'

‘Fuckin' leeches,' cursed Norton, giving them each a whack with the heel of one of his boots; which seemed to make absolutely no difference at all to the two squirming little bloodsuckers. ‘That's why I was telling you to get all your gear off.'

‘I haven't got any on me,' said Peregrine, with half a smile. ‘I'd certainly know if I did.'

‘You think so?'

Norton gave the two leeches another thumping with his boot then began wringing his clothes out and draping them over the chairs in the barbecue area. Les had his back turned to Peregrine when he heard the Englishman scream; he smiled as he turned around, knowing exactly what to expect. Peregrine had his boots and trousers off and his ankles and socks were
also thick with blood. There were six leeches: three on each leg.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!!' Peregrine was almost hysterical as he began tearing the leeches from his legs. Les picked the remainder off and couldn't help but burst out laughing as Peregrine began wildly smashing at the bloodsuckers with one of his boots. Like Norton's efforts, it seemed to make no difference to them at all. ‘Good God! How do you kill the bloody things?' howled Peregrine, continuing to flail away with his boot. ‘They're like creatures from outer space.'

‘Stay there a minute,' chuckled Norton.

He went up to the kitchen and returned with a container of salt, which he poured all over the leeches. It wasn't long before they were squirming black balls, spewing up all the blood they'd sucked out.

‘Let's have a look and see just what colour your blood is, Pezz,' said Norton. He looked closely at the leeches then shook his head, very disappointed. ‘No. Red, same as mine. You sure you're in line to the Royal Family, mate? You could be a ring-in. A lousy bloody commoner.'

Peregrine shuddered and gingerly peeled away the rest of his clothes. When he wiped the blood from his legs there were six deep black holes, neat enough to look as though they'd been bored in with a drill.

‘Jolly, rotten little sods,' he spluttered. ‘I didn't feel a blessed thing.'

‘No. They got their own local anaesthetic. Clever little buggers, aren't they?'

Peregrine shuddered and made a gesture with his hands. ‘That's the end of walks in the Australian bush — thank you very much.'

Norton chuckled and gave the Englishman a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘You'll be right, mate. Come on, get cleaned up and I've got some iodine and band-aids in my room. Then we'll go into town.'

They showered, changed, had a cup of coffee and about an hour later were driving into Yurriki. Peregrine was a lot brighter, but he was still definitely unimpressed by the attack of the killer leeches from outer space.

First stop was Yurriki's one-man butcher shop opposite the War Memorial. The butcher was about thirty and balding, with his hair combed into a smother. He had quick brown eyes and a face and paunch that said I love schooners. Bustling around behind the blocks he had a brusque, take-it-or-leave-it
attitude that he probably got away with because he was the only butcher in town. Helping him in the shop was his wife. She had thick brown hair, hazel eyes and a backside that said I love pork chops and sausages. Norton ordered ten T-bones, two kilograms of sausages and a dozen cutlets. The butcher told him bluntly to come back in half an hour and he might have it ready.

From there it was only a short stroll to the supermarket. Peregrine said he'd like to walk around and take a few photographs; that suited Les and he said he'd meet him back at the car. He also said he wished Peregrine had produced his camera earlier as he would have liked to have got some photos of him locked in combat with the killer leeches. The Englishman gave him a thin smile as he walked away.

At the supermarket Les got enough fruit, vegetables and groceries to send an expedition up Mt. Everest; he also shouted Peregrine a pair of blue stubbies, a plain cotton shirt and some thongs. Les had an ice-block, rang Eddie, and once again had to leave a message with Lindy, picked up the meat, which was unbelievably cheap, then met Peregrine back at the station wagon.

‘How did you go? You get a few photos?'

‘Yes. That rather large building is an old butter factory and there's quite a lot of wild flowers and lizards and things running around out the back.'

‘Yeah? That's good.'

‘They're also having a fete there this weekend. I saw a poster saying “Yurriki Buttery Bazaar, Sunday 21st”. What say we come down and have a look?'

Norton imagined what the local bazaar would be like. Wallto-wall hippies selling everything from organic wild fruit jam to crystals guaranteed to metaphysically transport you into the fourth dimension. ‘Yeah, why not?' he shrugged. ‘Might be a bit of fun. What else did you do while I was working me guts out getting the shopping?'

‘Nothing much. Strolled around, looked in the shops, sent a couple of postcards.'

‘You sent a couple of postcards? Shit! You didn't tell anyone where we're staying, did you?'

‘Oh, Les, the cards had a photo of Mt. Warning on them, that's all. And crumbs, I had to think of father and mother, and Stephanie. Besides, the way the mail moves out of this country, I'll be home a week before the blessed things get there.'

Norton thought about it, but somehow he just wasn't happy. ‘Yeah I s'pose you're right,' he said. ‘Anyway, you feel like a beer?'

‘Yes, I do actually — after all that jolly walking this morning, a cold glass of pilsener would go down rather well.'

Les gave Peregrine a wink as they got in the car. ‘Or as we say in Australia, mate, the first one won't even touch the bloody sides.'

What Peregrine didn't tell Les on the short drive to the hotel was that he'd had quite an interesting conversation with the postmaster. It appeared he was filling in for his father who was in hospital having an operation to remove some varicose veins; he usually ran a courier service from Murwillumbah to Sydney and Brisbane. When Peregrine casually asked how long it would take for the cards to reach England, he was told that for the right price they could be couriered to Brisbane and would fly out on Saturday. Sunday was a holiday at each end, but they'd link up with the courier service in London and be at their English address by Wednesday or Thursday at the latest. Peregrine certainly had no trouble finding the right price. He sent his parents and Stephanie a card each and also sent half a dozen to some of his fellow Sloane Rangers in London.

The interior of the Yurriki Hotel was pretty much what you would expect to find in a one-pub, Australian bush timber town. High wooden ceilings with thick beams and polished wooden walls covered by old photos of local rugby league teams, bullock wagons hauling giant logs and other memorabilia. Cheap brown curtains hung over the windows and tatty brown carpet covered the floor, on which were scattered several beat-up chairs and tables. There was the mandatory pool table with a few video poker machines close by and a jukebox next to a red phone in one corner. Opposite this was a snack bar and brick fireplace near a passageway that led to the toilets out the back. A sign above the bar, next to a photo of some mongrel-headed local alderman with a haircut to match, said ‘
We shoot every third salesman. The second one just left
'. A double-door led to a fairly extensive beer-garden full of chunky wooden chairs and tables. The bottle shop was next to the front door. In an alcove between it and the bar, several rough-headed locals were quietly drinking their beers when Les and Peregrine walked in.

They had a bit of a look around while they got a slow, silent once up and down from the locals and the publican.

‘Well, what do you reckon, mate?' smiled Les.

Peregrine had another look around him and briefly returned the stare of one local wearing a battered Akubra, who had a lop-sided jaw and teeth like a fruit bat. ‘What do I reckon?' he sniffed. ‘I reckon even the beer in here would have two heads, wouldn't it?'

Norton caught what Peregrine was looking at. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean. All we need is Burt Reynolds with his bow and arrow out the back, and a bloke playing a banjo out the front. Anyway, what are you gonna have?'

The Englishman peered into a glass-doored double fridge behind the bar filled with cans and bottles. ‘I'll have a Heineken, thanks.'

The tall, skinny barman, looking more like a council clerk in his horn-rimmed glasses, shorts and long socks appeared in front of them. ‘A bottle of Heineken and a middy of New,' said Norton. The barman served them then went back to the regulars in the corner.

The beer wasn't too bad, and nice and cold. They finished their first ones fairly smartly so Les ordered the same again.

‘Hey, mate,' he said to the barman as he got their beers. ‘You wouldn't happen to know if a Ronnie Madden drinks in here, would you?'

The barman nodded slowly. ‘Yeah,' he drawled. ‘Ronnie's a regular. Comes in most nights for a few. And always on a Friday.'

‘What's he look like?'

The barman thought for a moment. ‘Little bloke, gettin' on for forty. Long black hair, always wears an old brown hat. Got a gold stud with a ruby in it in his left ear.'