The Godson (50 page)

‘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 managed 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.

L
ES 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. Read 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.'

Tears began to well up in Peregrine's eyes. No one had ever spoken to him like that before, never. But then again he'd never been in a position like this before, totally alone in a strange country in the middle of nowhere. He felt lonely, dejected and thoroughly miserable. ‘Oh God, what can I say?' he choked. ‘I feel such a fool. I'm so sorry.' Then the tears came. ‘I wanted so much to be your friend, Les. I really did.' Peregrine buried his face in his hands and great sobs racked his body as the tears poured out. Les looked at him with disgust. Then Les began to feel disgusted with himself. Standing over poor Peregrine who was half his size and sick as a dog as well. And abusing him like that. For one little indiscretion that was really only meant as a joke anyway. What about all the fun they'd had together? And what about what he'd done for those two battling lifesavers? Now the poor little bastard's sitting there crying his eyes out just because he's not a tough hard nutter like you. Big man, Les. You really showed that Hooray Henry, didn't you? Why don't you punch him in the head and be done with it?

‘Ahh, don't worry about it, Peregrine.' Les sat down next to the Englishman and patted his shoulder. ‘It's all over now and we're safe. And that's the main thing. We're still mates.'

‘I am sorry, Les,' sniffed Peregrine. ‘I really am.'

‘I know you are. And so am I. I shouldn't have gone on like that. I'm just in a bit of a shitty mood, that's all.'

‘I nearly got you killed.'

‘Ahh, forget about it. I'm still here, ain't I? Happy and smiling as ever.'

‘Are we still friends?'

‘Bloody oath we are.' Norton put his arm around Peregrine's shoulders and gave him a hug. ‘Come on, I'll make you another cup of coffee. You want one?'

‘Yes please.'

Les put the jug on and got some more coffee going. Peregrine's tears dried up, though he was still more than a bit upset. But he did realise that what he had done was quite stupid. Norton settled down and was pleased that the rapport
was back between them. It was pretty hard to hate Peregrine, even if at times he was a shocking dill.

‘So, how's your back now?' asked Les. ‘Is it any better?'

‘Yes it is, actually,' replied Peregrine. ‘I still don't feel quite one hundred percent. But I'm not nearly as stiff and sore as I was. And my headache has completely gone.'

‘Good. That's all the poison sweated out of your system. Anyway, drink this and I'll have another look at it in a minute.'