Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Fantastic,’ murmured the figure in the urinal. ‘Please come back again.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Les. ‘In the meantime, try this.’

  Les stepped back and kicked the Gimp in the solar plexus. The figure gasped a tiny, shrill scream then clutched at its chest, unable to move. Les grabbed the figure under one arm and lifted it up from the urinal then pushed it out of the darkened toilet and started steering it through the crowd. Under the strobe lights and darting lasers, nobody took a great deal of notice. Any freaks who did, thought it was just part of the night. Mrs Norman Bates holding the Gimp and slashing at everybody with a toy sword. Les reached the first door where two security staff were standing with their arms folded.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asked one.

  ‘My friend’s having an asthma attack,’ shouted Les, camping it up. ‘For heaven’s sake open the door. I’ve got to get him into the fresh air.’

  ‘Okay.’

  One of the security guards opened the door. Les hustled the Gimp along the corridor to the next door and banged on it. The door opened and Les stepped outside still holding the paralysed figure in the black leather bodysuit.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked one of the security guards standing out the front.

  ‘My friend’s had an asthma attack,’ said Les. ‘I’ve got to take him to a hospital.’

  ‘Stay there. We’ll call an ambulance.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Les. ‘I can see a taxi.’ Before the security guard had time to blink, Les hustled the figure across the footpath straight into the back of Bananas’ taxi. ‘Righto, Bananas. Waverley Police Station.’

  Bananas looked at Les, looked at the Gimp and took off. ‘God strike me. You’ve got some funny friends, Les. Who’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Les. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough. Give me your mobile.’

  ‘Here you are.’ Bananas got the phone from the glove box and handed it to Les. ‘Phew! You’re mate’s not on the nose enough, Les. Where did you find him? In a shithouse?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Bananas, I did.’

  Bananas shook his head and drove towards Centennial Park. ‘You’re kiddin’, aren’t you, Les. Fair dinkum.’

  Les got onto Telstra. Got the phone number for Waverley Police Station and dialled.

  ‘Hello. Waverley Police,’ came a policewoman’s voice.

  ‘Yeah. My name’s Les Norton. Would detectives Tait and Caccano happen to be working tonight?’

  ‘Yes. They are. But they’re busy at the moment.’

  ‘Okay. Well tell them Les Norton will be there soon. And I’m turning myself in.’

  There was a pause at the end of the line. ‘What was your name again sir?’

  ‘Norton. Les Norton. You know? The bomb on the film set.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow you, Mr Norton,’ came the policewoman’s voice. ‘What’s the problem again?’

  ‘Just tell detectives Tait and Caccano. Les Norton rang. And I’m coming in to give myself up,’ said Les.

  ‘Yes, all right, very good, Mr Norton. I’ll see that they get the message.’

  Bananas looked at Les in the rear-vision mirror. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘I’m giving myself up to the cops, Bananas,’ replied Les, handing Lou back the phone. ‘And I’m taking the Gimp with me for company.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Bananas kept looking at Norton in the rear-view mirror. ‘You’re dead set mad, Les. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re probably right, Bananas,’ agreed Les. ‘But being mad’s the only thing that stops me from going insane.’

  They went past Centennial Park. Les got out of the plastic raincoat and everything else and dropped them on the floor of the taxi. Bananas came up through Charing Cross and pulled up almost out the front of Waverley Police Station. The Gimp looked like it was starting to breath normally again so Les gave it a short right under the ribs to settle it down a bit.

  ‘Okay, Bananas, you know what to do,’ said Les, picking up his backpack.

  ‘No worries, Les.’

  Les had some more cash in his pocket. ‘And here’s another couple of hundred to help clean your cab.’

  ‘Shit. Thanks, Les. Do you want me to wait around for a while, then come inside and find out what’s going on?’

  Les thought for a moment. ‘No. Don’t bother. Just make sure you get my bag up to the Kelly Club and give it to Billy.’

  ‘No worries, Les.’

  Norton shouldered his backpack and bundled the Gimp out of the taxi. ‘I’ll see you when I see you, Bananas.’

  ‘Good luck, Les.’

  Well. Here goes nothing, thought Les. He grabbed the Gimp under one arm and steered it across the footpath straight through the door into Waverley Police Station.

  For a Sunday night it was very quiet. There was a young couple talking to a policewoman behind the counter on the right. Another policewoman was on the phone behind her and a burly sergeant was going through a file at a desk behind her. At the end of the counter, near the noticeboard in the corner, Les could see the two detectives in sports coats and jeans. Caccano was on the phone and Tait had a notebook out, listening to what his partner was saying. Les walked past the stairs in front of the door, and bowled straight up to them, his backpack in one hand and the Gimp in the other.

  ‘Okay fellahs. It’s all right,’ exclaimed Les, dropping his backpack near the counter. ‘I’m here to give myself up. I’m unarmed so you won’t need your guns.’

  Detective Tait turned around and looked at Les without seeming to notice the Gimp. ‘Hello, Les,’ he said shortly. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What do I want?’ said Les. ‘I want to hand myself in. That’s what I want.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’re busy at the moment, Les. Can you wait till we’re finished on the phone?’ Detective Tait turned back to his partner.

  Les stared at the two detectives, totally admonished. What’s up with these two hillbillies? he asked himself. The last time I saw them they wanted to shoot me on sight. Every cop in Australia’s been looking for me. Now no one wants to even talk to me. Les looked around the police station. No one, including the young couple at the counter, seemed to notice he was there. But they certainly noticed the Gimp standing behind him. They were all wrinkling their noses and staring at it like it had just landed from another planet.

  Eventually Detective Caccano got off the phone. He discussed something with his partner then turned to Norton.

  ‘What’s your problem, Les?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s my problem?’ echoed Norton. ‘I’m here to give myself up. And to prove my innocence at the same time.’

  ‘Prove your innocence?’ said Detective Caccano.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Les. ‘I can prove I didn’t do it.’

  ‘We know you didn’t do it,’ said Detective Tait.

  ‘You what?’ said Les.

  ‘We know you didn’t do it,’ repeated Detective Tait.

  Norton’s voice rose. ‘What do you mean, I didn’t do it?’

  ‘Well, if you want to be like that,’ said Detective Caccano.

  ‘No. That’s not what I mean,’ said Les. ‘I mean … Shit! What the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘Didn’t your mate Eddie tell you?’ said Detective Tait.

  ‘Yeah. Where have you been?’ asked Detective Caccano.

  ‘I’ve been away. I mean … Look, tell me what’s going on, will you?’

  ‘Eddie Salita came in and saw us on Thursday morning,’ said Detective Tait. ‘And he brought in one of those crackers in a cake box, Like you were telling us about.’

  ‘He did?’ said Les.

  Detective Tait nodded. ‘He showed us how it worked. And I have to admit, we were very impressed.’

  ‘And you got another mate. Ray Tracy,’ said Detective Caccano. ‘Runs a Japanese restaurant next to the school.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Les. ‘The Gull. It was his movi
e I put my money into.’

  ‘Well, his partner is out here at the moment. A Mr Kobayashi,’ said Detective Caccano. ‘He was in the school with his video camera when the bomb went off. Ray brought him up when Eddie was here and they showed us the video. Compared to the school security camera, there’s a good two second’s difference between the explosions.’

  ‘Two second’s difference,’ said Les.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Detective Caccano. ‘When you watch Mr Kobayashi’s video, you can clearly see the cake box blow up in Knox’s face. Then you see the second explosion come from the left and blow Knox down the side of the catering van.’

  ‘We’ve got other forensic evidence to back this. So your story would stand up in court,’ said Detective Tait. ‘And even though you weren’t quite fair dinkum with us at the time because you were covering for Eddie, we can see you were telling the truth. So we’ve dropped the charges.’

  ‘You’ve dropped the charges,’ muttered Les.

  ‘That’s right, Les,’ said Detective Caccano. ‘You’ve walked.’

  Norton could scarcely believe what he was hearing. All he had to do when he came back from the Blue Mountains on Thursday was pick up the phone. And that would have either been Eddie or the Gull telling him he was in the clear. Instead he’d gone to all that trouble flying to Adelaide and gone through all that anxiety for nothing. On the other hand — he was laughing. Not only was he off scot-free, he had one hundred and forty-nine thousand dollars on its way to the Kelly Club completely GST-free. And a good sort’s phone number in his wallet. Norton was totally out of the shit, back stroking in gravy. It was a beautiful world after all.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Les. ‘I’m flabber and gasted.’

  ‘Thanks, officer, would be nice,’ said Detective Tait dryly.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Detective Caccano. ‘We’ll settle for a thank you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Les. ‘I’ll give you more than thanks.’ Les turned and pointed to the Gimp. ‘I’ll give you the bloody murderer.’

  ‘Yeah. What the fuck is that thing?’ asked Detective Caccano.

  ‘Christ! It doesn’t half stink,’ sniffed Detective Tait.

  ‘What is this thing?’ said Les. ‘This thing gentlemen. Is the Trough Queen. Sometimes known as the Trough Monster.’

  A sudden, inexplicable high hit Norton as if the heavens had just opened up and the sun shone only for him. Maybe it was hanging around with the poets in the Blue Mountains playing Agatha Christie? Or just the exhilaration of not having to go to gaol. He wasn’t sure, but suddenly Les thought he was Hercule Poirot or some great courtroom barrister and he started to soar.

  ‘This foul fiend,’ orated Norton. ‘This devious denizen of the night. This malodorous monster. Frequents the urinals at Sleaze Balls. And other dens of iniquity. Where. It gets its perverted, lascivious pleasures. By enducing persons using the toilet. To urinate upon it.’

  ‘It sure bloody smells like it,’ agreed Detective Tait, waving a hand in front of his nose. ‘Christ!’

  ‘And I. Les Norton, concerned citizen,’ continued Les. ‘Have just made a citizen’s arrest of this diabolical beast. Because it is my belief. This. Is the perpetrator of the foul deed. Wherein an innocent cook. One Albert Knox. Was blown apart by a bomb.’

  ‘Keep talking, Les,’ said Detective Tait. ‘I like it.’

  ‘And it is also my belief,’ said Les, pointing indignantly at the figure in the swimming goggles and black leather. ‘That if you take the same sniffer dog you brought to my house. Oscar. And search this insidious fiend’s premises. You will find evidence of bomb making.’

  Detective Caccano sounded interested. ‘Can you prove this, Les?’

  ‘Can I prove this?’ replied Norton.

  No. He couldn’t. Les was completely bluffing. It was just a gamble he’d taken to try and get some of the heat off himself. All he had was a photo of four blokes standing in front of an old boat. But who gives a stuff. He’d beaten a murder charge. He’d got around statutory rape. What could they charge him with now? Abduction and assault? The way Les felt, he’d beat that standing on his head.

  ‘Yes. I can,’ said Les. ‘The proof is in my bag. But first. I will unmask this wretched miscreant.’ Les undid the zipper, then reached behind the Trough Queen and gripped its mask. ‘Gentlemen, I give you — the Trough Queen.’ An audible gasp echoed around the police station as Les tore the Trough Queen’s mask off.

  ‘I don’t fuckin believe it,’ said Detective Tait.

  ‘Well, if I hadn’t been here to see it,’ said Detective Caccano, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it either.’

  Les stepped back and like the others stared in astonishment at the Trough Queen. Most of all Les. Possibly in amongst all the bullshit he’d done it? Maybe this was the murderer? The motive was there. Blackmail. The connection was there. Adelaide. The timing was there. Had a nose job been done? Could the Trough Queen make a bomb? Insurance coverage? Who cared? Les was off the hook.

  The Trough Queen’s lips curled back, trembling with anger. Eyes blazing with hatred, the figure in black glared furiously around the police station, shaking with rage. ‘You vile, rotten swine,’ it screamed. ‘Get me my lawyer. And my agent. This is absolutely outrageous.’

  Shaking his head in amazement, Les took his camera out of his backpack then handed the Trough Queen back its mask and swimming goggles. ‘And to think I used to go around telling people I wouldn’t piss on you. You’ve certainly made a liar out of me. Haven’t you, Nathan.’

  THE END

  STUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE

  Robert G. Barrett goes to Pohnpei and explores the mysteries of Nan Madol

  In my house I have two computers, one in my office and another downstairs in the den. I like to get a bit loose occasionally and knock out what I call ‘roughs’ on the den computer, which I tidy up in my office when I straighten out. Both computers are brand new and cost me a bundle. A while back the screen went on the one in the office and recently the one downstairs completely shat itself. Nothing would make the prick of a thing work and the bloke was away on holidays when I rang. As anyone knows, computers can be the most frustrating, maddening things ever invented when they play up. I kicked a hole in the door, threw tantrums and was seriously thinking of putting an axe through the one downstairs before I left it till the bloke got back from holidays. I needed it, too, because I wanted to knock out some roughs about something before I left for Nan Madol.

  Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of Nan Madol. Hardly anyone has. It’s way out in the middle of the Pacific in Micronesia, on an island called Pohnpei. Just past Kapingamarangi, somewhere between Nauru and Guam.

  I got hooked on Nan Madol through Erich Von Daniken and recently it featured in a series on the ABC called Quest for the Lost Civilizations. Thousands of years ago some race built these enormous structures there out of crystalline basalt logs and nobody knows how or why. Von Daniken claims it was visitors from outer space. Whatever, the place absolutely fascinated me and I always wanted to go there. I’d just finished my seventeenth book and I needed a break. So I booked a ticket, packed my swag and split for Micronesia.

  You fly to Brisbane then pick up Air Nauru with a stopover at Nauru on the way. Returning Nauruans take enough luggage on the plane with them to fill the MCG, so they overloaded the aircraft. After kicking a dozen fat Nauruans off the plane, along with their outboard motors and TV sets, we were able to take off an hour late. We flew into Nauru, superphosphate centre of the galaxy, at 3.00 a.m. and when the door opened you’d swear you’d landed in a monster chicken coop. By the time the plane was unloaded, we were bundled into Nauru’s one hotel at 4.00 a.m., handed our luggage, pointed towards our rooms and told to get stuffed. After a bit of sleep, I stumbled downstairs and had breakfast thrown at me then went for a walk in the heat with the romantic scent of Dynamic Lifter wafting gently though the palm trees. What can I say about Nauru? It’s hot, it stinks and the locals hate tourist
s and anybody else that can get out of the place. Before long they bundled us back on the plane and we took off for Pohnpei.

  We approached Kolonia airport late afternoon, right in the middle of a violent rainstorm. On the old scale, Pohnpei gets 190 inches of rain a year on the coast and 400 inland. When we arrived they were getting about two feet. You couldn’t see a metre out the window and the 737 was shaking in the turbulence like a ride at Dream World. The pilot took the plane down then had to abort the landing. ‘I’ll just have to circle over to the left for a few minutes,’ he said, ‘till the rain eases.’ We circled the airport for forty minutes and made four aborted landings. After the fourth one, my hair looked like Don King’s and my ring was hanging out that far you could have cut washers off it. Finally the pilot said, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t land the plane, it’s too dangerous. We’re flying on to Guam.’ I swear, I’ve never been so terrified in my life. We got to Guam around 9.00 p.m., got bundled into another hotel and given a feed, then it was up at 3.30 a.m. to catch the 4.30 a.m. back to Pohnpei.

  It was still raining when we returned to Pohnpei. However, the pilot was able to land the plane at Kolonia airport, where it was a pleasant 85 degrees F with 90 per cent humidity. A driver met me and I was bussed miles out of town to my hotel. I had picked the hotel off the internet. Beach hut, fabulous views it said. Waterfall just up the road. My US$90-a-night room had no fridge, no air-conditioner, no TV, no phone and two sloppy water beds with mosquito nets. A gap ran round the thatched ceiling and at night the room filled up with bugs. The room was 150 metres from reception, down steps hacked in the jungle and the beach was a mud flat half a kilometre down a llama trail. I wasn’t expecting the Mirage Resort, but Papillion had a better digs on Devil’s Island. Plus I’d paid eight days in advance. However, the hotel was the main spot in Pohnpei where they arranged reef dives and trips to Nan Madol. I booked a visit to Nan Madol the next day, Saturday, then hired a car and drove back into Kolonia to check it out. On the way back I stopped at a saccau bar.

  Saccau is the local version of kava and a saccau bar is several seats and tables on a dirt floor under a thatched roof. After straining the saccau through a Romanian weightlifter’s jockstrap, they pour it out of plastic containers and you drink it with beer chasers. It resembles thin grey mud and tastes like a horrible vegetable health drink. After about six glasses you feel as if you’ve had a couple of Serepax and some toothache drops. I drove back to the hotel, lay down in my room and sweltered for three hours, then got up feeling like I’d just eaten a mouldy Chiko roll and been stabbed in the guts with a rusty fishing knife. I drove back into Kolonia to get some soda water then came home and crawled onto the water bed. If the heat wasn’t bad enough, a family of Pohnpeians living down on the mud flat had at least fifty dogs and they barked non-stop from 9.30 p.m. till 4.00 a.m. My first night in paradise and I had to sleep with earplugs.