Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.
Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan
YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS THE REAL THING THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA THE GODSON BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS DAVO’S LITTLE SOMETHING WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE AND DE FUN DON’T DONE MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ
ROBERT G.
BARRETT
The Day of
The Gecko
As usual, the author is donating a percentage of his royalities to Greenpeace.
This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination.
First published 1995 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney
Reprinted 1996, 1998, 2000, 2001, 2004, 2006, 2010
Copyright © Psycho Possum Productions 1995
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:
Barrett, Robert G.
The day of the gecko.
ISBN 978 0 330 35722 7 (pbk.).
EPUB ISBN: 9781743549001
I. Title
A823.3
Typeset in 11/13.5 pt Times by Post Pre-press Group Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
This book is dedicated to my English teacher at Randwick Boys’ High School, Mr William (Bill) Neeson, for the odd clip across the ear, boot in the backside and those wonderful, warm words at the Bondi Beach Public School reunion, when I proudly gave him two autographed copies of my books — ‘Barrett, you were the biggest ratbag in the class. And you were the only one that learned anything.’ Thanks, Bill.
A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR
After ten years of writing Les Norton stories, and a lot of enquiries, I feel it’s time I cleared up a couple of things for my loyal and loveable readers. Firstly, a lot of people are wondering why the last two Les Norton books were set overseas. Am I now turning into some millionaire, jet-setting, Harold Robbins type of author, Concorde-ing round the world? Florida, Jamaica, Hawaii one minute. Next it’ll be Paris, Rome, London, Zurich. The only reason I set two books overseas was because I knew people there. I knew a bloke in Florida and I do have an Aussie mate who’s a cop in Honolulu. The Jamaican thing happened because I wanted to visit Cinnamon Hill Great House, the ancestral home of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. While I was there I thought I’d write a Les Norton story. As for me being a millionaire — hah! Though I have met some in my travels. But the majority I’ve met haven’t impressed me all that much. So basically I just go where I think I can get a story. And as I’m not real keen on travelling out of Australia, you can expect plenty of stories set here from now on. But going by the letters and by talking to my readers, I think Les should go over to England at some stage and see how his mate Perigrine is getting on.
Secondly, I’m also getting heaps of readers asking me if there is a Les Norton fan club? The answer is a definite NO! I don’t like the term ‘fan club’. Madonna and Kylie Minogue have fan clubs. So do Take That and Rod Stewart. I like to think I have readers. And a good team of readers at that. So we came up with an idea — Team Norton T-shirts. I took a few with me on my last book tour and they tore the last one off my back outside the hotel in Cairns. Initially, we were going to distribute them through bookshops. But that way any mug can walk in off the street and buy one. Therefore we have decided to keep them exclusively for my readers. So here’s what the deal is. You get a choice of four white T-shirts. On the front in full colour is the cover of either YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS, THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA, MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER OR THE DAY OF THE GECKO. Printed across the back is TEAM NORTON. Send a cheque for $32, along with your size (M, L, XL), choice of T-shirt and address it to Psycho Possum Productions, PO Box 3348, Tamarama, Sydney NSW, 2026. We’ll cover the postage. Remember though — these T-shirts look absolutely sensational and they’re for Les Norton read-ers only. So if any mugs ask where you got them, don’t tell them, or they’ll all want one. But just think of it — you walk into a pub or a club or whatever, wearing your TEAM NORTON T-shirt and you spot someone else wearing one. You’ve got an instant mate. You’re part of a team — Team Norton.
Thanks for giving me ten years of enjoyment. I’ll see you in the next book.
Robert G. Barrett August 1995
Nestled in the very comer of North Bondi, where Ramsgate Avenue begins its climb towards Ben Buckler, is a small cafe and take-away food business called Speedo’s. It’s about two doors up from North Bondi RSL and set on one side of two buildings — a private hotel and a small block of apartments. Two black awnings, split in the middle by a blue and white sign saying Speedo’s, have SPEEDO’S CAFE in white painted on one and TAKE AWAY painted neatly on the other. Above the two signs, the brown wooden tiles of the hotel balconies cling to the stucco concrete face of the private hotel as they climb towards the roof. Floor-to-ceiling glass doors face the street, there’s a blackboard out front which says coffee, juices, salad, focaccias, etc, and beneath the glass doors, built at an angle onto the footpath to allow for the rise of Ramsgate Avenue, are two long, narrow wooden tables and stools. A sign shaped like a world globe on the cafe door says SPEEDO’S CAFE TO THE WORLD and inside are more stools, counters, chairs and tables lorded over by a large red coffee machine. Small framed posters hang on the walls, there’s a full blackboard menu and the ubiquitous coffee shop notice-board with small ads for writers’ workshops, aromatherapy, skin care, therapeutic ryoho yoga, etc, etc. The take-away side just has a refrigerated drinks cabinet, the take-away menu, another coffee machine and whatever. For its size, Speedo’s does a thriving business because the food is good and the coffee is arguably the best in Bondi, which isn’t a bad rap because restaurants and coffee shops are just about cheek-by-jowl now all over Australia’s most famous beach.
The view from Speedo’s on a good day isn’t too bad either and, on this particular Monday morning in early February at around 10.00 a.m., it could have been a little better, but it wasn’t too bad at all. Although the ocean is partially blocked by a row of spindly, scrubby trees running alongside the park and a faded pine log fence that meanders up Ramsgate Avenue, you could still see North Bondi Surf Club, the pink outline of the Bondi Hotel, some of the waves and the white sand running all the way beside the promenade to the skateboard ramp and the brittle, green grass of the park at the south end. Despite a brisk rather cool southerly blowing, there was a cluster of people with their towels, radios and things on the sand outside North Bondi Surf Club, joggers on the wet sand and other regulars either slogging it out on the soft sand or doing exercises or stretches at the exercise station in the park alongside North Bondi Surf Club. Amidst all this were the power walkers striding along the promenade, arms flailing as they flung their hand-weights either up and down or side to side as they marched along either to a Walkman or their own particular cadence. Waxheads were few and far between. As well as the southerly blowing, it was low tide, so what small waves there were were getting dumped onto the sandbanks into choppy, shapeless white foam. Now and again a beach inspector in his blue
uniform would zoom up on a beach buggy, take a look around, then do a U-turn and zoom back off in the direction he came. It was a mild sort of a morning for a summer’s day in early February. Some puffy, grey clouds hung around and over the horizon, buffeted gently along by the southerly, and above these was another layer of clouds going in a different direction, so thin they looked like they’d been smeared across the sky. Somewhere in the middle, part of the moon still hung in the sky, a small, fading white crescent against the blue.
So all in all, apart from the wind and the few clouds around, it wasn’t a bad sort of summer’s day and the view from Speedo’s was pretty good. However, from the point of view of the thick-set, red-headed gentleman in the Levi shorts and white T-shirt seated on the wooden stool closest to the beach, as he stared out over his cup of coffee next to an empty bottle of orange Gatorade, the view was pretty bloody lousy. In fact, for all he cared about the weather and the view, it could have been pissing down rain while he gazed into the murky, stagnant water of an abandoned quarry. Once more, Les Norton’s cup of happiness had turned into a rusty tin mug full of dried leaves. And once more it was Warren’s bloody fault. Les had been kicked out of his own home; Chez Norton’s in Cox Avenue. The boot. Out. Piss off and don’t bother coming back.
Though to say he’d been kicked out was a bit of an exaggeration and Les did manufacture things in his mind at times. It was more of a voluntary exile. Whatever it was, Norton didn’t like it. And it was definitely Warren’s fault.
The trip back from Hawaii had been fairly uneventful. Les never quite let on he knew Warren had been porking a TV celebrity’s young daughter-in-law and, if Warren suspected Les knew, he never mentioned it. Les cashed Andrea’s cheque, Warren’s bums healed up and he went back to work and life went on pretty much as before at Chez Norton’s. A few nights a week at the Kelly Club, which was split with Billy Dunne, so it could have hardly have been easier. And when they did work, all they had to do was keep an eye on Price and his mates while they played cards, mainly Manilla, on credit, munched nibblies, drank piss and cracked jokes. You had to be a member now to get into the club, so there was no drama much to speak of at the door and Les was getting to meet some very interesting people at times. It was almost as much fun going to work now as it was going out or staying home, plus he got paid for it; and when it was quiet, if they didn’t get away early, Les could sit around and read a book or a magazine. Apart from that, it was get some exercise, go swimming or sit around the beach and have a perv on the beautiful girls. Les had rung DD a couple of times and was even thinking of going up and paying her a visit. So all up, life and times were pretty good at Chez Norton’s. Then, one night at a bar in Bondi, Warren met Isola; a skinny, six-foot-two-inch Dutch backpacker with brown hair, brown eyes, white teeth and a homely, if unsmiling, sort of face.
Warren had brought her back to the house three days before and Isola, along with her backpack, had been there ever since. The only saving grace was that she was pissing off to Indonesia with one of her Euro-trash, backpacker friends on Saturday. Not that Les minded Warren having a girl in the house; plenty of girls had stayed there at different times. But virtually from the minute Warren walked in the door with Isola, all they did was root. They didn’t make love, they didn’t fornicate, they didn’t screw. You could say they fucked. But mainly what they did was root. At first, Les found it rather amusing because he didn’t think Warren had it in him. But Warren was making up for lost time and he was also making every post a winner. They rooted in Warren’s bedroom, they rooted in the hallway, they rooted in the bathroom and they rooted in the kitchen. Les wasn’t at all surprised when he walked into the laundry one day with his smelly gym gear and there they were, going for it like a pair of seasoned-up hyenas, underneath the clothes dryer.
Les wasn’t quite sure if they’d ripped one off on his bed, though he had his suspicions. But he didn’t mind all that much. And Les didn’t mind if they started rooting in front of him while they were watching a video in the lounge room or if Isola would start giving Warren a head job while he was trying to watch the news. Les didn’t mind either if he walked out in the backyard and Warren would be giving Isola’s ted a giant munch on a blanket next to the toolshed. It wasn’t as if Warren was trying to impress Les with all the bonking; he and Isola were just two young, hot arses deeply in lust and they were going for it. Warren had even taken a week off work to be with her and it was good to see his flatmate having the time of his life.
What Les did mind, though, was being treated like a stranger in his own home. In fact it was worse than that. It was almost as if Norton didn’t even exist or he was invisible. Les realised poor Warren was completely pussy-whipped and could see nothing except Isola’s brown map of Tasmania. But Isola completely ignored Les. She didn’t speak to him, she didn’t look at him, she somehow didn’t even seem to acknowledge Norton’s very existence. It was weird; and Les somehow minded that. But what Les did mind was one morning when he walked into the kitchen to find another stack of dirty dishes, cups, pots, pans, knives and forks, and just about anything in the kitchen you could possibly get dirty, overflowing out of the sink, across the greasy stove and dripping down into a bulging kitchen tidy that was being steadily strafed by several fat blowflies that were probably bursting with maggots. Norton wasn’t at all looking forward to cleaning this horrible mess up, when Isola walked in wearing a pair of saggy blue knickers with half her grumble hanging out, no make-up, hair all over her head and smelling both of BO and some sheila that had spent the night rooting. As usual, she completely ignored Les while she found a clean glass and poured herself a drink of water.
‘Hello, Isola,’ said Les, trying his best to sound friendly. There was no answer. Then Les casually remarked, ‘I wish you liked cleaning up as much as you like rooting, Isola.’
Isola took a sip of water and without looking at Les said, ‘If you don’t like, why you don’t fuck off.’ Then she walked back into Warren’s bedroom and closed the door.
That had been earlier this morning. Since then, Les had left the mess in the kitchen, jogged six laps of Bondi on the soft sand, paddled four on the surf-ski, did a particularly mean thirty minutes on the heavy bag at North Bondi Surf Club, where he’d showered and changed; now he was seated outside Speedo’s staring morosely across his coffee cup and wondering what sort of sentence a magistrate would give him if he belted a certain Dutch backpacker right on the chin. Apart from that cop in Florida, Les had never hit a woman and didn’t think a great deal of men who deliberately did. But Isola was in dire need of a short right under the lug; leaving shit all over his house, then telling him if he didn’t like the idea he could fuck off was definitely making the cup of tea a little too strong. Maybe a year in the nick might be worth it? Get away from the whole scene for a while. Les shook his head. No, the legal fees’d be murder and she could end up suing me. Norton’s eyes narrowed. Maybe I could electrocute the moll? Drop a hair dryer in the bath when they’re both in there going for it after they surface around eleven. Get rid of both of them. No. I’d probably miss Warren when he gets his shit back together again. Plus the little prick owes me three weeks’ rent. Les shook his head again. No. There was only one thing to do. Move out. Anywhere. Fuck it, it was only till Saturday. He glanced up at the private hotel above Speedo’s. What about in here? Nice and handy to the beach. Or what about five nights up at the Ramada? Give myself a spoil. Then Norton scowled. Yeah, that’d be right. One hundred and fifty dollars a night because I let some soapy backpacker kick me out of my own house. Les didn’t know what to do. One thing he did know. If he went home, found all that shit was still in the kitchen and Isola gobbed off at him again, he was a special to tell her to get well and truly fucked herself, then kick her skinny Dutch arse out the door, along with her backpack, and Warren too if he didn’t like the idea. Norton finished his coffee and was brooding about something he wasn’t particularly looking forward to when he heard a woman’s voice just to his right.
&nb
sp; ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Priscilla, queen of the gambling dens. What’s the matter, darling? Somebody nick your handbag when you went to the ladies’ room last night?’
Norton glanced up absently at an attractive woman around thirty wearing a maroon tracksuit and Reeboks, her dark hair held back in a tight ponytail. Perspiration glistened on her face from behind a white sweatband and dark sunglasses; a pair of light weights dangled at her side from two dainty hands. Les peered at the dark sunglasses for a second, then his face slowly broke into a smile; definitely the first one that morning.
‘Side Valve Susie. Well, I’ll be stuffed. And just as cheeky as ever. How have you been, mate?’
‘Not too bad. Working mainly, trying to get in front. What about yourself?’
‘Pretty much the same. Trying to keep the wolf from the door. To tell you the truth, I’ve just finished training. I got down here earlier.’ Les glanced at Susie’s tracksuit and the two weights. ‘What are you up to?’
‘I’ve just been for a power walk round to Bronte and back.’
‘Shit! That’s not a bad hike for a young city girl on her own.’
‘Yeah, I did it a bit bloody tough this morning, too.’ Susie puffed her lips and blew a couple of drops of sweat from the tip of her nose.
Les nodded. ‘Yes, I think there has to be a better way than this.’
‘Tell me about it. My feet feel like lead.’
‘Well, why don’t you plonk your sweet little backside down here and I’ll shout you a bottle of Gatorade?’
Susie seemed to think for a moment as another drop of sweat formed on her nose. ‘Yeah. I think that might be a good idea. I feel buggered.’
Les got up to let Susie in. ‘Orange?’
The Day of the Gecko Page 1
