She made surreptitious hand signals to the rest of the crew and spoke in a quiet soothing voice. “No Sidney. Could you please tell us?”
Sid took a long deep breath and dropped his quivering hand. “It means we’re so deep in the shit, we’re going to need snorkels to get out of this!”
And that was when, Lampie remembered later, the problems really started.
Chapter 1 Past History and Remittance Men
“Oh darling, kiss me again. Ohhh my God, yes just there.” He felt teeth lightly graze the skin of his neck before they bit in a hard nip and sharp fingernails teasingly slipped across his back heading southward. Then warm lips moved over his and opened allowing a darting tongue to...
“BZZZZZZZ. G’DAY ITS ANDIE AND BAZZA HERE, ON GOLD FM, COMIN’ AT YAH THIS GREAT MORNIN’. WE GOT GREAT MUSIC AND THE LATEST REPORTS OF THE TRAFFIC SNARL ON THE ESPLANADE SO KEEP LISTENING AFTER THIS GREAT NEW SONG BY LOCAL CELEBRATIES, THE BUNNY STRANGLERS!”
Peter sat bolt up right in the bed, throwing off the quilt, wide eyed and suddenly awake, as the trembling scream of some third-rate rock ‘wannabe’ massacred his rendition of, well, it kind of sounded familiar. But his backing group’s idea of support music was feedback and lots of it. Perhaps they’d got their name mixed up – song stranglers would be more correct. It was then that Peter remembered the glorious few seconds before his alarm went off. He threw his head back on the pillow and drummed his fists on the bed, strangely in time with the feedback gargle.
“DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, FLIP, FLIPPER, FLIPPING HELL!!!!!!” Oh crap, it felt so real. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, smothering a whimper as other parts that had responded to the dream dragged painfully in the entangling sheet and thumped knotted into the mattress. It took a good few minutes to cautiously un-entangle and by then the memory of the dream was slipping away, as intangible as mist. It could have been Fiona, damn it! It had to be Fiona but the recollection was almost gone. Already despondent and drained, he dragged himself off the bed and began the morning ritual, coffee, fruit and crumpets.
As the Bunny Stranglers raucously slid on to what was considered a previous chart topper, Peter morosely looked into the black swirls of his coffee and tried to see where he’d gone wrong? It had all looked so promising just a few months ago back in dear old Blighty, with his feet up supping on a pint of Old Dogbolter’s Peculiar and chatting up impressionable first years girls. It had started with his post graduate supervisor Bartleby, the supreme expert on the crusading period at Portlee University. The old fellow thought he was the reincarnation of William of Tyre, a preeminent crusader prelate and historian, a pretty useful mania for a scholar specializing in 11th to 13th century history. A real boon to have someone on hand who could quote by heart every relevant document or chronicle, while his lectures were always entertaining as Bartleby became really passionate on the shortcomings of crusading princes, like Guy d’Lusignan, or the blood thirsty habits of Richard Coeur de Lion. Such affectations were not all that unusual in the halls of British academia.
It had been frequently commented that it was more useful to have eccentrics lecturing than committed. One in particular sprang to mind, Reverend William Buckland the great Oxford naturalist and geologist of the nineteenth century. His specialty was coprolites, or to use the laymen’s term, petrified animal turds. Well the renowned dean used to have wild beasts walking around his house and garden, perhaps as a ready source for modern samples or for his infamous dinners. He had the strangest desire to eat his way through the entire animal kingdom, and raised a few eyebrows by serving crocodile for breakfast not to mention horse tongue for tea. In the end, of course, it became a bit much and he was ‘retired’ to a more secure, animal free institution. If you look the good reverend up you could be lucky enough to get a more realistic view of his foibles or more probably a safely edited and sanitized version, such are the practices of history.
Well that set the scene for history, and history was what this whole situation was about, how to interpret it, twist or use it to advantage, what histories were in, and what were out. So amongst the assorted odd-bods of the Medieval Department, William Zedekiah Bartleby fitted right in, while his ‘ecclesiastical’ status made him the perfect choice to serve on the many committees proliferating in the university habitat. To gain the chance to work with such an acknowledged expert, Peter saw little difficulty in having to cater to the professor’s idiosyncratic habits, like frequently having to address his doctoral supervisor as ‘your grace’ or kneel to receive a blessing at the end of every meeting. It was harmless and a little endearing.
So he’d submitted his finished thesis on the 4th Crusade to Bartleby for review and then later that day been putting a couple of finishing touches on his presentation when disaster struck. In mid lecture good old Bartleby, the rock of the Medieval Department for twenty years, changed manias. Rather than a believing he was a well learned and prominent Archbishop of the Kingdom of Outremer, he suddenly announced to all the assembled and surprised students that he was the ‘Great Rhinoceros’ and it was rutting season, he had to find his queen! The sight of a tweed dressed gentleman of older years pawing at the floor and bellowing was enough to awake even the most somnolent student. His performance was greeted with much hilarity amongst the assembly, and instantly an array of mobile phones emerged to ‘grab the moment’ for posterity.
This may have been settled down to no more than an amusing anecdote amongst students and staff, but one clever wit had called out that he’d best be quick for the “Great Queen of the Rhinoceros” was walking down the hallway. That was unfortunate for Bartleby immediate took to the news and charged out of the lecture theatre and down the hallway.
Lady Fate then dealt a very cruel turn for Professor Bartleby. The person named as his prospective mate was a formidable lecturer of Modern Feminist History, Ms Zupinsky, a woman of short stature, close cropped hair and pugnacious temperament. She was the terror of the contemporary history department, and bane of any male student foolish enough to enroll in her subject, though that was a bit difficult to escape since she’d arranged for it to be a prerequisite for most of the modern history units, thus annually capturing an entire batch of fresh students to either proselytise or persecute. It really didn’t need to be mentioned what she thought of the medieval department or its doyen, Professor Bartleby.
Peter had been in the small closet they called the post grads study area when he first heard the commotion. A bit irritated by the cheers, he’d poked his head out of the door and just to his left, a few paces down the corridor was the source of all his current misfortune. It was a scene out of some nightmare. Not even Sam Raimi could have captured the gut wrenching horror, Professor Bartleby, his trousers down around his knees, tweed jacket flapping like a bat on steroids, and an inflamed set of equipment proudly prominent. The good professor was bellowing like a moose and standing over the recumbent figure of Ms Zupinsky. The look on her face was something Peter hoped several bottles of scotch might erase, but then and there, the best description was outrage of a trapped wolverine crossed with sheer amazement and a building anger. Well what could he do? A battery of mobile phones was there to capture the act. In fact within the day the ‘event’ had its own fan page on YouTube, made graphically 3D by the posting of the more than a dozen angles. In horrified fascination Peter had gone online later and watched, while over fifty tribute clips had been added. It was the spawning of a dozen websites and in many he was to be seen trying to wrestle the possessed professor off his victim, though with all the usual truth of images, it could also be interpreted a ménage a trio. It was what the media department called a public relations nightmare, fast spinning out of damage control. It didn’t help that the bursar had been heard to say that, regrettable as the event was, it could have been worse. An hour after the lecture Bartleby was slated to lead a delegation from Parliament to see how the public’s taxes were spent.
In the wash up of the affair it could be said that Ms Zupinsky
cooperated in all the best traditions of collegiate habitus, which meant in real English, she tried to sue the pants off the University, the department, Professor Bartleby and one poor, harried post grad, Peter Wilks. As a response, the university had engaged an eminent physician from its emeritus roll, who pronounced that Professor Bartleby was suffering from sufficient ‘stress’ as to render him incapable of rational judgment, and had him immediately packed off to a padded cell. The department made a groveling apology to Ms Zupinsky, upped her salary and to complete the compensation made her Dean of Modern History, as well as placing the Medieval department under her supervision. A bit ironic really.
That was Peter’s first inkling that all was not as it should be. The second was when Dr Jacobs acquired a transfer from Modern History to ‘straighten out the apparent irregularities of the medieval faculty as their new dean’. Now Jacobs and Bartleby had ‘history’, the real stuff, blood, passion and all the rest. Both loathed each other with an abiding hatred that could only come from sitting on the same committees. Medieval was considered by some departments as the darling of the Vice Chancellor, since for several years its funding had not been trimmed by a ‘growth dividend’ and that apparent ‘wealth’ was eagerly eyed by other less fortunate areas. None had been so persistent in their attacks as Dr Jacobs, who now sat, lord of a conquered domain and like the usurper, Henry Tudor, at the end of the Wars of the Roses, was ruthlessly pruning any potential rivals
Then the shit, as the Aussies so wonderfully put it, hit the fan. Peter was asked to come in, just for a friendly chat to review his proposal, and found himself in really deep trouble. It was his association with poor old Professor Bartleby. It made the acceptance of his submission a trifle problematic for the faculty and the university. What with all the adverse publicity, it could be seen as a grave lack of judgment to pass a doctoral submission that had any connection with the ‘retired’ professor. Dr Jacobs then gave a large generous smile and told him that the university had come up with a solution that could be seen as a win-win situation. Perhaps if Peter accepted a placement as a guest lecturer overseas for a year? By then the whole affair would have blown over and he could be safely granted his richly deserved award, and blah, blah, blah…
It was at that instant Peter knew he was being right royally screwed over and there was very little he could do about it. As a post grad, he knew the bitter politics and rivalries that infested the university, built up by years of snide peer reviews and petty jealousies. Jacobs was a past master at the game and continued beaming away happily as he explained the fortuitous circumstance. The university had recently signed a memorandum of understanding with a sister institution in one of the Commonwealth countries and since their Vice Chancellor had been selected to take over from ours next year, it had been a simple matter to arrange a visiting fellowship. At this stage Peter began to panic. Portlee University was one of the more recent higher institutions and lacked the prestige or political clout of the Oxbrige combination so in an effort to increase its stature, the current VC had gone on a blitz all through the former dominions, signing up local institutions. Peter had the bizarre experience of representing the postgraduate association in vetting those august bodies and was mortified to see that they included a number that could only be interpreted as one room garages in Antigua or malarial swamps in southwestern Tanzania. Dr Jacobs must have scented his terror for he soothingly reassured him that since Peter was already acquainted with the Antipodes, then he’d feel right at home at Skaze University in sunny Queensland. Sick with relief at avoiding tsetse fly alley Peter readily signed the instantly proffered papers and shot out of the office.
Upon reflection it may have been a poor choice, for his career, but a good one for his continued well being and he knew this because he was a part time tutor. Why be a tutor, what ever did that have to do with escaping to the Antipodes or his current situation? Well some post grads took on tutoring to pick up fresh faced first year girls who didn’t know any better, others for the cash needed for their varied addictions. Peter had fallen amongst the latter. He had to admit it, he liked eating at least one meal a day that hadn’t crawled out of the primordial ooze of the university cafeteria and a healthy serving of Real Ale like Old Dogbolter’s Peculiar. Such hedonistically expensive tastes required money, so a tutoring he must go. Anyway he’d also found that it was a wonderful conduit to tap into for useful tidbits, like extra marital affairs, current alliances or tiffs. He’d been a little concerned over the flood of rumors regarding the sudden failing of Bartleby, along with the usual tales of over doing the 70s LSD scene or heredity insanity, that were bandied about whenever any lecturer had an incident. Two reports in particular hit closer to the mark of academic reality. One the undergrads he’d been tutoring worked in the Staff Club and she’d mentioned to him that both Jacobs and Bartleby were lunching together that day and for once getting on quite well, laughing over jokes and sharing a bottle of French claret. Normally she wouldn’t have noticed but the label wasn’t one the club stocked and the manager had been onto the waiting staff to enforce the corkage surcharge. The other rumour was from a lab assistant in the ‘Goodley’ Pharmaceutical Research Foundation over in the Sciences faculty. Jacobs had been seen ‘stonking’ the senior researcher on a lab bench the previous week and mix that with the reports of serious problems with their latest test drug, phenobaribitol-whatever and its disturbing side effects, a suspicious person may find a plausible explanation for Bartleby’s recent behavior. Dr Jacobs was a vindictive man with handy connections and Peter didn’t fancy having to swallow the modern version of dried frog pills while strapped to a bed, burbling about the incredible sex life of the newt. So in keeping with the best traditions of the British Empire, he’d take a sojourn to the colonies of old New South Wales as a remittance man. After all it wouldn’t be so bad, he’d been there before.
Chapter 2 Sun, Sand, Surf and Bloody Students!
Peter gave the door an extra hefty tug to close it as he left his university allocated rooms. It was jammed again. Dr Jacobs may have talked a lot about how he envied Peter, spending a few choice seasons lazing in the sun and going to the beach whenever he wanted, living the good life, bikini clad girls strolling along the street and so on. It was a lie and Peter knew it was a lie. Dr Jacobs had a very casual and non causal attitude to the truth. He avoided it whenever possible, and if by chance it strayed into view, a cloud of obfuscation was thrown up to lead it astray. Peter had underestimated just how far off the mark Dr Jacobs had been.
Skaze University was the most recent of Australia’s higher education institutions to appear on the scene. It had sprung up in the mid 1980s, under the proprietal naming and guidance of one of the country’s most prominent entrepreneurs, a gentleman of diverse business interests, who strode the international financial and sporting stage, to national acclaim and over brimming share floats for his companies. The instant venerable institution was set back from the beach edge suburbs, amongst the artificial canals and waterside mansions that stretched from the northern end of the Gold Coast to the fringe of the border of the neighbouring state of New South Wales. As a brief description of this part of Australia it was vastly inadequate. The ‘Gold Coast’, as the Aussies called it, existed in almost another realm of time and space, not to mention geography.
He’d first seen it travelling northwards on the coastal highway on a bus from Sydney. The sight had been a shock. They’d just pulled past a pleasant touristy seaside town of Tweed Heads, pretty much like many along the New South Wales coast. Then the bus passed the last ridge and there on his right, rearing up from the vista of sparkling blue waters, was a veritable Atlantis of tall buildings. The morning sun seemed to bounce off their gleaming walls in a myriad fountain of diamonds, like an ethereal forest of crystal. You could almost swear you’d driven into a Stargate film set by mistake. He’d been fascinated by the view as the line of towers slowly marched closer. Before he’d lost the fascination of the sight, the bus was in the thick of
the morning traffic.
The first few days had been a blurr of welcomes, settling in and dislocation. The time zone and alternate orientation north-south had made it a tad confusing and that period was best recalled as frequently asking every passer-by for directions. Thankfully they’d been mildly amused and helpful, as he endeavoured to become re-acquainted with Aussie customs and the off beat twist they put on the Queen’s English. Then after the second week in that golden land, the dissonances began to chime. Australia was different, really, really different, more so than the standard Englishman could readily comprehend. Never mind the fact that they still thought of old Liz as their queen and made much of the ties to Blighty, or that almost every show ever made in the UK for the past forty years was broadcast on both their free to air and pay TV stations. So if a homesick Pom needed a shot of the home country then they were guaranteed to get a good serve of the latest Eastenders or Holby City. He tried it and that was enough to make one cry into his beer, the homey voices and sights. That was damned hard to take since back home only the application of a dozen Newcastle Browns could numb his brain cells sufficiently to watch them.
It was bizarre, he’d been here before and knew that Home and Away and Neighbours bore as much relation to reality as ‘Allo ‘Allo did to the Second World War. But still a few weeks on the Gold Coast at Skaze University came damn close to convincing him that the script writers of those iconic soaps had spent time here gathering material for years of episodes. He could just see the production meeting between the writers and producer:
Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery) Page 3
