The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (32 page)

‘That's one of the directors of the gaol — and I think the bloke with him's from TV.'

‘Who are the blokes in the cells?'

‘Child molesters. Perverts. Kid killers. Prisoners giving evidence against other prisoners. We've got to keep them in there or the other crims'd kill them.'

‘Shit!'

The bearded crim in the end cell was really serving it up now to the director and the TV journalist. The language would take the paint off a wall. Norton wasn't averse to using a few four-letter words now and again, not in mixed company of course, but the bloke with the beard made Rodney Rude sound like a choirboy.

‘What are you fuckin' lookin' at cunt,' he roared at the journalist. ‘You greasy fuckin' big poofter. Where's your fuckin' gun screw,' he bellowed at the director. ‘You got the fuckin' thing shoved up your fuckin' arse have you. You've both been sucking too many cocks that's your trouble. You cunts. Get fucked.'

Now and again one of the prisoners in the adjoining cells would call something out also. ‘Yeah. Come and have a look at us,' yelled one. ‘We're the animals.' ‘Yeah. This is the boneyard,' yelled another. ‘Have a good look. We're the shit. We're the animals. Have a look.'

The journalist's face was a mask of shock and disbelief, like he'd burst into a timewarp and didn't quite know where he was. The director had more of a bemused look on his face with his hands stuck snugly in the side pockets of his fur-collared jacket. If it was at all possible, redbeard's voice seemed to rise in a further crescendo.

‘You pair of fuckin' greasy cunts You cock sucking pair of fuckin' poofters.' Even from where he was standing Norton could see the veins standing out on his neck and forehead. Hatred and rage dripped from every word. ‘You want something to fuckin' look at do you. You greasy fuckin' big poofter,' he screamed. ‘Well have a fuckin' good look at this.'

Redbeard turned his back to the cell bars and pulled down his trousers. Still screaming abuse he spread the cheeks of his backside apart to reveal the dirtiest, smelliest, blotch covered bum Les had ever seen. It looked like two great lumps of white dough, covered in red wood shavings, with a big burnt donut jammed in the middle.

‘There,' roared Redbeard. ‘How about sticking your tongue in there.'

‘Holy shit!' exclaimed Norton. ‘What an awful looking blurter.'

‘How would you like it stuffed and hung over your fireplace?' chuckled Bernie.

Norton shook his head. ‘Come on Bernie,' he pleaded. ‘Get me out of here. I've seen all I want to see.'

‘No, hold on a sec.'

Despite the continuing torrent of abuse the journalist approached Redbeard's cell to ask a reasonably polite question. Redbeard immediately spun round and spat all over him. As the shocked journalist stood there looking at the spit all over his coat, glasses and clipboard, Redbeard cupped his hand over his bum, bent slightly and strained. It was obvious he was trying to crap in his hand and fling that at the journalist as well.

‘Ohh bugger this,' said Norton in disgust. ‘I'm pissin' off — whether you like it or not.'

‘Seen enough have you Les?' laughed the big guard. ‘Righto. Come on.'

They were almost at the reception when the non-stop torrent of abuse was suddenly interrupted by a high pitched shriek. Norton slowed down but he didn't look back.

‘Sounds like he got him Bernie.'

The big guard stopped and turned towards the cells. ‘Yep,' he nodded. ‘All down the side of his nice tweed sports coat and trousers. Not a bad shot either — considering it was through the bars and he had the sun in his eyes.'

‘Get me out of here Bernie. For Christ's sake.'

‘Well Les. What do you reckon.' Norton had been discharged, changed back into his tracksuit and signed for the return of his watch and $20. He and Bernie were walking towards the main gate, and despite feeling dirty from not showering for almost three days, Norton still couldn't seem to shake the smell of disenfectant from himself. ‘Did you enjoy your little stay at Malabar Mansions?'

Norton paused before another guard unlocked the door in the main gate. ‘I'll put it to you this way, Bernie. I don't feel clever or glad about coming out here. But I don't regret it.'

Bernie nodded solemnly. ‘Fair enough.'

‘But after having a bit of a look around and a taste of what goes on here. There is one thing I do reckon.'

‘What's that Les?'

‘I reckon they ought to get all those smart-arsed young
kids, that are running around thieving and vandalising things and that, and bring them all out here and give them a look at how they're gonna finish up.'

Bernie smiled and nodded his big head in agreement.

‘And if that didn't wake them up — nothing would. Because I reckon I can handle myself all right. And I've seen quite a few hairy things in my time. But mate. That's a dead-set horror show in there.'

‘You don't think you'll be back, Les?'

‘Not if I can help it.'

Bernie took Norton's hand and shook it. ‘I'll see you up Waverley Oval on Saturday morning Les.'

A door opened in the main gate and Norton stepped outside into freedom. Somehow even the sunshine seemed to feel different on the other side of the wall. He walked briskly past the guard on the boom gate, almost expecting to be stopped and taken back inside, but he was scarcely given a second look. There were no taxis around in Anzac Parade so Norton caught a bus to Maroubra Junction and a cab from there to Bondi. When he stepped inside his humble semi it had never looked so good.

Norton was going to jump straight under the shower but decided he'd get a bit of exercise and have a think first, so he slipped on a pair of running shorts and drove down to Centennial Park. Running alone around the park in the bright winter sunshine seemed to add a whole new dimension to the word freedom. As he sped past the ponds full of water birds and swans his thoughts drifted back to those stony-faced men he'd seen jogging around and walking backwards and forwards across the square at Long Bay. An uneasy feeling hit him in the stomach as he thought how easily in the past he could have finished up doing a stretch out there. And possibly, if it hadn't been for Bernie Cottier, he could still be out there now. Norton quickly shook those thoughts from his mind. The last three days he would keep to himself, except of course for Warren and George Brennan and the boys at the Kelly Club. Especially George Brennan who was forever roasting him about being tight-fisted with his money. Wouldn't George have some ammunition to fire at him when he found out Les had spent three days in the can rather than pay a $53 traffic fine. He finished his run off with a series of stretches, push-ups and sit-ups; then went home.

Norton's first shower since Sunday was like a stroll through
paradise, and the grilled T-bone after it was heaven from the first bite. Warren hadn't left a note, but there was a copy of Monday's
Sun
near the kitchen sink. Les flicked through it until two familiar faces and a couple of paragraphs on page three made him put down his coffee and blink:

‘Stephen George Yiagnou and Vincent Brian Swales were arrested earlier today by members of the Armed Holdup Squad in connection with a series of hotel and service station robberies in the inner-city and Eastern suburbs. They have also been charged with possession of two shortened firearms and an amount of heroin...'

Next to the article were two mug shots of the youths who had travelled out to Long Bay with Norton. So that's what they were up to mused Les. Forgot what you were in for did you boys. Yeah. I'll bet. Then Les chuckled over his cup of coffee. I wonder what Max is up to right now? Probably over visiting his drag queen friends. Mad bloody Max. I wonder if he's fair dinkum about blowing up his family? Norton shook his head. Wouldn't bloody surprise me. Suddenly another thought dawned on Norton, almost like he'd been hit over the head by a piece of four-by-two. The old sweeper's envelope. Mousey's present or whatever it was. He rose from the table and retrieved it from inside the CIP booklet he'd tossed on the table.

A knife soon had the envelope open and next thing Les had a sheet of foolscap paper spread out on the kitchen table. It was divided in two by a line of biro, and the sections were two roughly drawn maps with even rougher printing on them. The smaller map was a half-circle with Melbourne written across it and four lines representing roads radiating out of it. Norton could make out Hume Highway on one, what looked like Upper Harrisburgh on another; the others he couldn't read. The top map was a continuation of the Hume Highway with roads running off it, a little row of dots and more printing. Mousey's printing was woeful to say the least. You had to be a professor in Ancient Egyptian hyroglyphics to make it out. There was an unreadable road running off the Hume Highway towards a circle saying what looked like Yin Yoe Residence. Follow this one mile. Turn left onto some other road at twin pine trees. Norton shook his head. Follow this half a mile to other twin pine trees. At least that's what it looked like. Fifty yards south of pine tree on right. Dig here. The pine trees were signified by four circles. Next to dig here was a large X.

Dig here eh, mused Norton, drumming his fingers on the edge of the paper. Bloody Mousey. He must've read
Treasure Island
or something. Pieces of eight. Spanish doubloons. Argh! There he be cap'n. Poor little bastard he's been in the nick too long. What'd be there anyway? A case of Victorian Bitter? Some of those Four n' Twenty pies they all eat? A little disappointed, Norton chuckled and shook his head again. Besides, it's in bloody Melbourne and I don't think there's much chance of me ever going down there. Thanks anyway, Mousey. Still I suppose the poor old bugger meant well. Norton replaced the map in its envelope and put it in a draw in his bedroom. He then finished his coffee and cleaned up.

Feeling a little tired after the run and the big meal, Les decided to have a nap. But he must have been tireder than he thought, or his own bed just felt good, because it was almost six when he woke up.

He was a little groggy when he half-stumbled into the shower. But an extra close shave and a few bursts of cold water had him all bright eyed and bushy tailed when he got out. He made a toasted sandwich and a cup of coffee and was in the kitchen thinking Warren was a bit late when he heard the front door open. Next thing the fair-haired young advertising executive was standing in the kitchen doorway, a pizza carton under his arm, staring at him.

‘G'day Woz,' said Norton casually. ‘You're home late.'

Warren blinked. ‘Yeah. Well...' he replied slowly. ‘I... had to work back.' He stared at Norton in silence for a few moments while he put his pizza in the oven. ‘There... were a couple of phone calls for you,' he said hesistantly. ‘Hey,' he blurted. ‘Have you really been out in Long Bay?'

‘Fuckin' oath I have,' intoned Norton. ‘Three punishing days. And not a visit. Not even a letter — or a card. You're a nice mate Warren. Thanks a lot.'

‘Well... I...' Warren made a self-conscious gesture with his hands. ‘Ohh look, bugger it. Anyone that's mean enough to spend two days in the can rather than pay a lousy $53 fine doesn't deserve a visit. So fuck you. Besides. I've been flat out at work anyway.'

‘Hmmph!' grunted Norton. ‘It's nice to know who me mates are.'

Warren continued to stare at Les, then his face broke into a huge grin. ‘So what was it like anyway. What happened?'

‘Piece of piss,' shrugged Norton. ‘I'd do it again any time.'

While Warren made himself a coffee, Les told him most
of what happened to him and what it was like in the Bay. He didn't mention the fight or the sweeper's envelope but he told him about Max, omitting his intended bombing of his family. In all, Norton made it out to be a fairly easy time actually; just sitting around reading, watching TV and eating good prison food.

‘So that's about it roughly, Woz. I wouldn't really recommend it. But it ain't all that bad. The thing is though. The bastards never got my $53 did they? So it was definitely worth it — on principle's sake. Anyway,' shrugged Norton, ‘I'll tell you a bit more about it tomorrow. I gotta get to work soon.'

Warren shook his head. ‘Fair dinkum Les. You never cease to amaze me. I still reckon anyone that'd go in the can for three days, rather than pay a lousy $53 fine has got an empty breadbin for a head.'

‘Oh well. That's your opinion and you're welcome to it,' replied Norton indifferently. ‘Anyway. What's been happening while I was away? Any phone calls? What've you been up to?'

‘Billy rang a couple of times. I just told him you were out.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘Apart from that — nothing. I've been flat out at work on this new campaign we've got going.'

‘Ohh yeah. And what are you and all the rest of your North Shore yuppie pals up to this time?'

‘Mate. This is going to be bigger than mastadon turds. Wait here and I'll show you.'

Warren went to his room and came back with a six-pack of wine cooler which he placed on the kitchen table. Norton took a bottle out. It was green with a white label. Across the label in mauve and lime was St Kilda Kooler, superimposed on a drawing of a fun pier. Along the side of the six-pack was: St Kilda Kooler. Kool Off With A Kilda.

Norton rolled the smallish bottle round in his hand. ‘So what's this shit?'

‘This shit,' replied Warren dryly, ‘is going to be a very big selling drink in Victoria this spring and summer.'

‘I can just imagine.'

‘It will — don't you worry about that. Here. Why don't you try one?'

‘It's warm.'

‘There's some cold ones in the fridge.' Warren took a bottle
from the refrigerator, opened it and handed it to Les. ‘Try it Les. See what you think.'