The Day of the Gecko (9 page)

‘That's it. I'll call round at three and we all might have a nice cup of tea. It'll be good to see Aunt Vera again.'

‘You know where the place is?'

‘Yeah. You gave it to me last night. Jesus, your handwriting's a bit rough when you're full of ink.'

‘Eddie, I'm just on my way for a run. And I guarantee it's gonna be a lot fuckin' rougher than my handwriting.'

‘I'll see you at three.'

‘See you then, mate.'

Les looked at the phone for a moment, closed his eyes and shook his head reluctantly; what he would have preferred was another two hours of sleep. Instead, he laced up his Nikes, got into a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and sweatband, locked the flat up and walked outside, ready for about an hour of misery.

The wall of letterboxes opposite the comer where Macabee had been sitting was just high enough to do some easy stretches. Les limbered up for a few minutes and had his head down most of the time, so if any people walking past took any notice, he didn't see them. It wasn't a bad day; sunny with a few clouds around and a light nor'-easter. Norton didn't need any competition and he didn't need to do it too tough; just sweat all the piss out mainly. One lap of Royal Sydney Golf Course would do fine. It was nice and flat and not all that long, then a quick swim afterwards and dry off back at the flat. Les had one last stretch, touched his toes a couple
of times, then trotted gingerly off down Hall Street. He turned left into Glenayr, left again at Curlewis, bolted across Old South Head Road before he got squashed by two trucks and about fifty cars full of impatient drivers, then jogged off easily alongside the Golf Links towards Newcastle Street. Before long, Les had gone past Rose Bay and was grinding up O'Sullivan Road, appreciating any shade from the trees along the golf links as the sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes before it dripped off his chin onto his chest and arms. Then it was one more game of stuntman getting back across Old South Head Road, then back down Curlewis and across Campbell Parade before he pulled up at the bus stop near the start of Queen Elizabeth Drive.

After the run, Norton didn't know whether he felt better or worse; all he knew was he felt glad it was over. He had a long, cool drink of water while he soaked his head under the tap. That did feel better, and now for a swim. As he stood up, Norton's eyes were drawn towards Bondi baths which he'd been thinking about at times during his run. He had a quick glance at his watch and noticed he still had plenty of time. Why not go over and give the place a quick checkout before I have a swim? See just what's there. Plus it might be an idea if I show this major bloke that I at least know where the scene of the up-and-coming crime's going to be and I've got half an idea what's going on. Les wrung his sweatband out, had another drink of water and began walking down across the park towards the beach.

When he got to the promenade, Norton stopped at
the end of the railing for a few moments next to where a couple of kids had chained their bikes. Behind him a couple of surfers were using the shower, other people were walking past carrying boogie-boards or the ubiquitous plastic bottle of mineral water. The tide was fairly low, the sky and sea were both a crisp, bright blue. Seagulls hung in the air, tankers cruised past out towards the horizon, people were either scattered across the white sands or out in the surf, taking advantage of a few small swells rolling in. The nor'-easter had picked up, spreading a slight bump over the ocean, but it was still a picturesque day, showing Bondi Beach at its near best. Les took it all in for a short while, especially two girls in bright, if extremely brief, bikinis proceeding up the path leading to Notts Avenue.

The first thing that hit Les when he got to the steps, apart from a freak with a Walkman who wasn't watching where he was going, was a blast of thick, rancid air coming from the toilets, that made Les hold his breath. Ah, yes, you can't beat a nice smelly brasco for style. And what a delightful contrast. A view of Bondi's beautiful blue seas on one hand. And on the other, a smelly, rotten shithouse. Pooh! Les trotted up the steps, not letting his breath out until he reached Notts Avenue.

Walking towards the baths, Les noticed they looked clean and blue, but they were almost deserted; it would be lucky if there were six people between both pools. There was a sign on the wall, just under where the roof angles over towards the pool,
BONDI PUBLIC BATHS. HOME OF THE BONDI ICEBERGS. VISITORS WELCOME
. Beneath that, dangling forlornly over a brick balcony
near the door, was another sign,
HANDS OFF THE ICEBERGS. HOME OF AUSTRALIAN WINTER SWIMMING SINCE
1929. The sign, like the rest of the place, had a hanging-down look of defeat about it. As if 1929 had finally caught up. Or vice versa. Yep, mused Les, looking at the sign fluttering languidly in the breeze. I'll bet a lot of water has flowed under the baths since then, so to speak. And a lot of schooners flowed through the Icebergs, too. Les strolled on past an alcove of Otto bins, the fibro roof falling in over them and the locked double glass doors of the club. A bit further on he passed a yellow besser brick wall with a few strands of rusty barbed wire on top, a locked high gate that evidently led to some caretaker's place and came out at the park where Notts Avenue ended in a dead end and a small park overlooking the ocean. There was a vacant lot at the end of the wall and part of the handball court jutted out below where the baths area finished. A narrow, sandy trail led through some scrubby bush and weed down to the rocks and further on a set of steps began where Notts Avenue ended, going down to a pathway which meandered up to Mackenzies Point, then round to Tamarama Beach.

Before he began climbing down the trail, Les peered at what he could see of the handball court. Part of his view was blocked by an old, ramshackle grey paling fence at the end of the vacant lot which was full of rubbish. Hanging over the palings was a scrubby, flat tree that looked like it was trying to push the entire fence into the handball court below. Les could make out some grimy besser brick wall and rusting cyclone wire, but if the rest of the baths looked bad, this part looked
completely stuffed. He wiped some sweat from his eyes and started walking down.

The trail was just dirt, rubbish and dried scrub till it reached the rocks. Les clambered over the rocks for a few metres till he stood beneath the wall of the handball court where it sat facing out over the ocean under the caretaker's flat. A jump across a few more rocks brought Les to a locked gate dangling between two pumphouses and a sign saying
TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED. PAY AT THE FRONT
. A hop, step and a jump had Les up some more rocks and onto the top of one pump-house, then up a short flight of faded blue and white stairs onto a long concrete landing. One way led past the pool to the entrance. The other went straight into the handball court. Les took a sharp left.

He entered through an alcove of grey or grimy yellow besser bricks and at first thought he might have walked into a handball court in Calcutta or maybe Jamaica. It was completely shitted out, mon. There was a covered area to his right of peeling yellow stucco and the first thing he noticed was a meter board saying
JOHNSON PUMPS, NSW QLD WA
. Above it a family of starlings had a nest and it was covered in streaks of brown, black and white shit. There was enough guano there to send Christmas Island broke. If that wasn't enough, there was another one in the comer that had copped the same amount of shit, or more from another nest. Running round the walls were the remains of a wooden bench and some wooden railings dotted with corroded metal clothes pegs. Most of the wooden railings were on the concrete floor next to the remains of old chairs, discarded
clothes and other assorted rubbish rolling around in the dust and mud.

Les walked out into the handball court area. It was about thirty metres by thirty. One grey besser brick wall with a square hole in it faced the ocean, the wall behind the playing area was topped with twisted cyclone wire clinging to rusting poles and above the next wall was the grey picket fence that looked like it was ready to fall in at any moment and bring the scrubby tree with it. The handball court was green — mostly. What wasn't was chipped brown or cracks showing through the brick wall it was painted on. The white lines of the playing area showed and the battered metal plate, for low shots, still clung precariously to the far wall. But as far as a handball court went, you wouldn't hold the World Series there. Norton had a look round at the cyclone wire, the disgrace that passed for a wooden fence, plus the assorted rubbish everywhere, and shook his head. If the truth be known, we're doing them a favour blowing the place up. 1929? 1829'd be more like it. Blow it into 2099. Les walked over to the hole in the wall and gazed out again. This time he noticed a fair-sized rockpool beneath the handball court leading in from the ocean and on this side of the pool he also noticed a thick, rusty iron spike sticking out from the rocks which would be perfect for bringing a boat in; especially a rubber ducky. I'll bet that's where they'll tie up, he thought. Les walked back a pace or two and looked down at the granite, strengthened concrete floor. So that's roughly where they are, eh! Les jumped up and down on the concrete a couple of times. No disrespect meant there, fellahs. But I'm just wondering what the galloping
major's going to use to get through this? It'd want to be something good. Though they're not all that far down and that wall behind'd go like a pack of cards. Oh, well, Eddie said he was the best in the business. And that's enough for me.

Les had another look around and suddenly felt he was being watched. Or maybe it was just the thought he shouldn't have been in there in the first place, on top of not having paid his way in. Norton had seen enough anyway. He left the way he came — down the steps near the pumphouse, and the rocks by the gate, then more rocks past the rockpool. A wave had filled the pool and it just looked too blue and inviting. Ah! Who gives a shit? thought Les, and he plunged into the pool. It was sensational. The water was all bubbles and surge, like an open-air jacuzzi. Les dived up and down, wallowed around for a while then scrambled out over the rocks on the far side. Rather than get his wet Nikes full of dirt and dust climbing back up the trail, Les followed the rocks back to the steps and came up that way. He didn't seem to notice anyone around as he walked up to Notts Avenue. But Les still couldn't help feel that someone had been watching him. He stopped to adjust one of his socks just before where the yellow besser blocks started and had a last look over the rocks. A stocky fisherman casting out on the rocks past the pumphouse caught his eyes. That's not my big mate, the Russian fisherman, is it? Les had another look. I think it is. Can't see the other one, though. Les had another look round while he adjusted his sock again. Oh well. Feeling good after diving into the pool, Les soon got into his stride and
squelched his way back up Hall Street to Susie's unit.

After a shower, some more water and another cup of coffee, Norton felt decidedly better than he had when he blundered out of bed earlier; there was no doubt the run and the swim did the trick. He was standing in the lounge room in a clean pair of jeans and a green Wallabies T-shirt taping one of Susie's Rippingtons CDs and thinking it was almost time he started heading for Central railway station when another thought struck him. When the galloping major got here, where was he going to sleep? He couldn't really expect him to doss on the lounge when there was a spare room. It was none of his business and Les wasn't all that interested, so he'd kept out of the boarder's room. Now it might at least be an idea to see what was in there. It was adjacent to Susie's and the door wasn't locked; Norton opened it and took his cup of coffee inside.

Ackerley's room was narrower than Susie's with a short, curtained window at the end that overlooked where the long, skinny balcony finished. There was a single wooden bed with drawers along the side and a built-in bedlamp in the far left comer and against the right wall was a skinny wardrobe with a small dressing table built onto its side. Next to the wardrobe were a couple of benches made out of milk crates with a number of books either standing up or falling over. A battered boogie-board and a pair of flippers lay against the wall on the left as you walked in and in the right comer there was an old barstool and desk on which a small word processor was sitting. The carpet was brown, the walls a kind of yellow, holding a couple of
posters pinned with Blu-Tack — one of the original Star Trek crew, the other was some bloke sitting at a table in a suit and metal-framed glasses, smoking a pipe. Les had a closer look. Jean-Paul Sartre. Buggered if I know who that is, he shrugged. A thin black-and-white doona and matching sheets were crumpled across the unmade bed and there were four small rings in the dust on the shelf across the bedlamp where someone had removed a small radio.

Les put his coffee down on the desk, gave it and the beadstead a quick wipe with his hand, tidied the doona and straightened the pillow. That'll do you, major, nodded Les, picking up his coffee. On the way out he had a glance at a couple of books to gauge Ackerly's reading tastes.
Time Scale. An Atlas To The Fourth Dimension
by Nigel Calder.
The Cosmic Code. Quantum Physics and The Language of Nature
by Heina R. Pagels. Les put the books back and looked at one of the posters. Yes, beam me out, Scotty. He closed the door, switched off the stereo, rinsed his coffee cup in the sink, then locked up the flat and walked down to the garage.

Les managed to find a parking spot along the ramp that ran up past Belmore Park and he had a minute or two up his sleeve when he locked the old Ford and walked up to the Country Trains platforms. Now what did Eddie say again? You don't know him, but he knows you. Just stand under the big clock and Garrick will find you. Well, shrugged Les, a man can only do what a man's told to do. A minute or two later Les was doing exactly that — standing under the big clock, waiting. He stood there for a good ten minutes, watching the crowds
of people around him coming and going, sitting, waiting, reading. Some carrying luggage, some not, some wearing Akubra hats or carrying guitars. Couples would embrace each other with happy greetings, other couples would be tenderly holding hands in a sad farewell. Les peered into the crowds of travellers or commuters trying to pick out someone that could be whoever it was he was supposed to meet. Maybe I've missed him, thought Les. Maybe he missed the train. Maybe I should light a cigarette, lean back against a wall like Marlene Dietrich in
The Blue Angel
and blow a stream of cigarette smoke up in the air. Norton kept looking about him and was thinking of getting an ice-cream when he heard a voice just to his left.