The Godson (22 page)

‘It almost reminds you of the inside of an old sailing ship.'

‘Yeah,' nodded Les absently. It reminded him of something else, but he couldn't quite think what it was. ‘Come on. Let's have a look downstairs.'

A set of concrete steps took them a good metre below ground into the bottom of the house and into a bedroom even bigger than the one upstairs. It too was made of more polished and crafted wood: maple and cedar walls, a double bed, a desk, and huge built-in wardrobe. But it was the enormous open bathroom that brought a gleam to Norton's eye — it was pure decadence. The walls were a blaze of various shades of blue and gold tiles set like a mosaic to look like waves breaking and the sun rising on a beach. There were shiny brass taps and faucets but the piece de resistance was a tiled, sunken bathtub big enough for six people. It looked like something
out of Nero's palace in ancient Rome. Norton chuckled inwardly — he could definitely see himself flopping around in the bath full of Radox while he sucked on one cold can of Fourex after another.

‘Well, I'm certainly glad we worked at those sleeping arrangements, Peregrine,' he grinned.

When he turned around Peregrine had opened another door which was an office with a long desk running along one wall with a computer on it which didn't appear to be working. They both had a tap on the keys then left it.

The bedroom led out past a laundry then back into another lounge room bigger than the one upstairs; this time the floor was made of brown ceramic tiles and the ceiling was much higher. There were more wooden beams and poles, double windows that didn't open with vents alongside, and a solid wooden ladder which led up to a small loft overlooking the front of the gardens. In one corner of the room was a potbelly stove with a Canadian brand name.

‘Christ!' said Norton. ‘Does this joint ever stop?'

‘It's certainly amazing,' agreed Peregrine.

A side passage laid with the same brown tiles led from lounge room number two past more windows which didn't open but gave an uninterrupted view of the front gardens. The corridor ran the length of the house past another tiled en suite, a couple of bunks in another kind of room, then into another bedroom. This time the ceiling was a lot lower and the walls were made of split logs and timber which was stained a dark brown, giving it a definite rustic or American backwoods appearance. You almost expected to find Davy Crockett sitting on the double bed in his coonskins cleaning a muzzle loader. It was quite dark and Norton hit a switch on the wall for a fluorescent light. As he did a huge Huntsman spider scurried across the wall and disappeared into a built-in wardrobe.

‘My God! What was that?' said Peregrine.

‘Just an old Huntsman spider,' replied Norton. ‘He won't hurt you.'

‘I'll take your word for it. Well, shall we go back into that other room? It's … rather gloomy in here, wouldn't you agree?'

‘Yeah, righto.' Norton switched off the light and went back into the bottom lounge room.

‘Well, what do you reckon so far, Pezz?' said Norton, pretending to be warming his hands in front of the pot-bellied stove. ‘It sure is different, ain't it?'

‘It's certainly quite odd for Australia,' agreed Peregrine. ‘It
reminds one of a stockade, or something one would expect to find up in the Canadian rockies.'

‘Yeah, right. It looks like fuckin' Fort Bravo or something. That yank colonel must've thought he was John Wayne. Look out those windows, Peregrine.' Les slipped into a Walter Brennan voice. ‘Imagine if'n them Injuns tried to get us folk in here. We'd pick the pesky critters off afore'n they got past that there first row of trees. Heh heh!'

‘I see what you mean,' nodded Peregrine, gazing out of the windows to the view across the grounds. ‘Why don't we get up early tomorrow and have a jolly good game of Cowboys and Indians?'

‘Okay,' replied Les brightly. ‘But I bags being the goody.'

‘Very well, old boy. Whatever turns you on.'

They went back out to the barbecue area, found a couple of glasses and had a drink of water while they took in the peace and quiet as the sun began to set; the only sound was the sighing of the wind and the continued calling of the birds in the trees and fields. Norton noticed a massive hole about seventy metres long and about five metres deep had been excavated a few metres out from the barbecue area.

‘Looks like they were just about to put a pool in,' he surmised, as they walked over and gazed in. There was about half a metre of water in the bottom, some bullrushes and movement of what were probably frogs and crickets.

‘Pity they didn't,' said Peregrine. ‘Be nice to have somewhere to go for a bit of a dip.'

‘I wouldn't worry. There's bound to be plenty of billabongs in that creek for a swim.' Norton kicked a rock into the hole and watched it splash on the bottom. ‘Good place to hide a body though, ain't it?' he grinned. ‘Eddie'd love something like that. Anyway, we've seen the house, let's get unpacked before it gets dark. We can check the rest of the place out tomorrow. We might have a bite to eat then I'll show you your present I got you.'

‘A present?'

‘Yeah,' winked Les. ‘I'll show you after.'

Norton's first priority was to stack the beer and champagne in the fridge; the groceries he left sitting on the kitchen table. The beds had blankets but no sheets so it looked like the young English baronet would have to do it a bit tough for the first night, though Les did promise himself he'd drive into Murwillumbah first thing tomorrow and get a set of personally monogrammed silk ones for his guest. He put the Radox bath
on hold, settling for a nice long shower instead. After he'd changed into his tracksuit, Les went upstairs with the bag he'd got from the disposal store in Coffs Harbour. Peregrine was sitting on the end of his bed; Les dropped it next to him.

‘Here you are, mate,' he said cheerfully. ‘Your present.'

Peregrine opened the bag and cautiously pulled out a pair of tiger stripe cammies, a webbing belt, a khaki army shirt, combat jungle boots, a black singlet and a forage cap.

‘What the deuce is this?' he queried. ‘I didn't come up here to join the SAS. And I'm absolutely positive Margaret Thatcher took back The Falklands. What…?'

‘Suit yourself,' shrugged Les. ‘But we're gonna be up here for two weeks. If you want to get around looking like Bryan Ferry that's your business. But we'll be tromping all over this place and there's ticks, leeches, snakes, spiders and Christ knows what else out there. I've got a set of the same gear, but you please yourself.'

Peregrine twisted the canvas and rubber boots in his hands. ‘I suppose you're right,' he conceded. ‘Okay. Thanks — it might even be a bit of fun.' Peregrine spread the army clothing out on the bed. ‘So, what's for tea?'

‘Chilli beans a la Norton.'

Les was now in the kitchen where he'd turned his ghettoblaster to some local radio station playing hillbilly music. He'd unpacked two large tins of red kidney beans, chilli sauce, garlic, bread and other odds and ends and was frying some onions in a large pan he'd found in one of the cupboards. Peregrine came out to see what was going on.

‘You like chilli beans, Pezz?'

‘I don't mind. Do I have a choice though? I suppose it's either that or starve?'

‘That's about the size of it, daddio.' Norton opened the two tins of beans and dumped them in the pan. ‘To be honest mate, I didn't know what we'd find in Yurriki. But there's a supermarket and a butcher shop there, I'll get some steaks and all that tomorrow. You'll love my beans, though. Tomorrow it'll sound like a Salvation Army band tuning up in here.'

‘Wonderful, Les. I can't wait.'

‘The hills'll be alive,' laughed Norton. ‘But it won't be with the sound of music.'

Peregrine walked over to the ghetto-blaster. ‘Do you mind if I lose that radio station, Les? That music is practically intolerable.'

‘Yeah, it is a bit punishing, isn't it? Put a tape on.'

Peregrine rummaged around in the cassette holder till he found one of the tapes he'd bought in Coffs Harbour. The next thing, Rod Stewart was rasping his way through ‘Gasoline Alley'. Les opened a can of Fourex and suggested Peregrine do the same with a bottle of champagne then they settled into a bit of steady drinking while the beans bubbled away in the pan.

‘Well, Peregrine,' said Norton. ‘Looks like it's gonna be a pretty quiet old two weeks up here, mate. No TV, no phone, no sheilas, nothing.'

‘It certainly looks that way,' agreed the Englishman.

‘So why don't we just roll with the punches? Eat plenty of good tucker, get plenty of sleep. Go for nice long bush walks and just relax till your cousin sorts all this business out back in Ireland.'

‘Yes. I think that's about the best thing we can do under the circumstances. Lewis will more than likely be on the case right now.'

‘He might, too. Let's hope he is.'

‘So here's to cousin Lewis.' Peregrine raised his glass and Les did the same with his can of Fourex. ‘I say, this High Noon's not a bad drop.'

‘You like it?'

‘Mmmhh. It could do with just a smidgen of fresh orange juice.'

Les smiled and winked at the Englishman. ‘I'll make sure I get a case first thing in the morning.'

T
RAGICALLY, EVENTS BACK
in Ireland weren't quite working out as well as Peregrine would have liked them to, as Laurie O'Malley was to find out when he picked up the phone in his Red Hill residence in Canberra. It was the third time he'd been on the phone that week about his godson, Peregrine. The first time was when Peregrine had rung him from the Sebel Town House to let him know he'd arrived safely in Sydney. The second time was the day after T'Aime's article in
The Telegraph
and O'Malley had to get in touch with Price to find out what was going on. Now this one from Peregrine's father in England. Peregrine's cousin, Captain Lewis Standfield's Land Rover had just tripped a remote-controlled mine in Lisnaskea, County Fermanagh. The driver had been killed outright and Lewis was in a military hospital in Belfast with two broken legs and multiple internal injuries and was not expected to
pull through. Ironically, the bomb wasn't set specifically for him. He and his driver just happened to be another British patrol in Northern Ireland in the wrong place at the wrong time. It rated a paragraph in the
London Daily Mail
and a half a one in the
Evening Standard
.

Yvonne entered the study and couldn't help but notice the look on the Attorney General's face as he stared grimly out at the cold, bleak surroundings of Canberra.

‘Bad news, sir?' she asked quietly.

O'Malley nodded solemnly. ‘The worst.' He looked at her momentarily then decided to ring Price direct.

‘Christ! What a bastard,' said Price, after O'Malley had told him what had happened in Ireland. ‘What do you think is the best thing to do now?'

‘Peregrine's father told me he'd been on the phone to Army Intelligence in Belfast and they're trying to organise another SAS unit to go in and get this last Frayne brother. So you might have to keep Peregrine up on that farm for a week or two longer.'

‘That's no problem, Lozz. I've got a good man with him now, and I can always send Eddie up there if it comes to a pinch.'

‘I still don't think anything will happen to him out here. I just didn't like that thing in the paper, that's all.'

‘No. That was a bit unfortunate, all right. But he's as safe as a bank up where he is. I couldn't even find the place myself if I wanted to.'

‘Yeah. Fair enough, Price.'

They talked a little longer with Price telling O'Malley not to be unduly concerned, things would work out all right. He wouldn't tell Les or Peregrine what had happened to Lewis for the time being and if need be he'd keep Peregrine on the farm for six months if they had to. He'd keep him posted every time Les rang up.

However O'Malley wasn't the only one who had been on the phone to Northern Ireland that week. The three English journalists had rung Belfast from their unit in the inner city suburb of Stanmore on Tuesday to tell a certain bereaved party that they had missed their quarry by thirty minutes, and two days later the trail was still well and truly cold. If only they had known that by sheer coincidence the man they should really have been after was almost dead in a Belfast hospital, they could have saved themselves a lot of trouble, aggravation
and money in ISD calls. Unfortunately, that's often the way it is with the Irish.

Two men were sitting on the lounge in the unit looking at the third man after he had just hung up the phone. In the kitchen, two women with dark hair and green eyes were preparing coffee and sandwiches. On the wall behind the man who had just hung up the phone was the green, white and orange flag of the republic.

‘What did he say this time, Patrick?' asked one of the men on the lounge.'

‘He's not at all happy, I can assure you, Robert,' replied the man who had been on the phone, who then turned to the other man on the lounge. ‘I think you might have gathered that from the way I was talking, Brendan.'

‘I did,' replied the third man. ‘And it surely puts a chill in the air when that man's got the hump.'

‘Aye. It does indeed.' Patrick looked at the others for a moment. ‘So he said to keep looking. Try that hotel again. Keep ringing those journalists we know. The bastard can't be too far away. I'd best be telling you also that if we don't find him, there's a good chance he'll be coming out here himself.'

‘Oh, good Christ!' said Robert. ‘That's all we need. There'll be bodies everywhere.'

‘Aye,' agreed Brendan, ‘Liam's always been known to shoot first and think about it later.'