NOBODY DICK IN DREAMTIME
by
WILL LORIMER
Dedicated to Electra
and a thousand thanks to Ron
Copyright, Will Lorimer 2011
This Smashwords Edition Published by Will Lorimer
ISBN 978-0-9569577-4-0 – EPUB
“Story of Frankie Lee” (Bob Dylan) Copyright Warner Chappell Music Ltd
“Once in a Lifetime (Talking Heads) Copyright Warner Chappell Music Ltd.
Extracts from both songs reproduced by permission of Warner Chappell Music Ltd.
Cover artwork, Will Lorimer, with thanks to Hannah.
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Chapter 1
I had always thought gravity was only a conditioned concept hammered by evolution into our DNA to prevent us from falling. Here on the edge of the Nullarbor, Western Australia, I was walking on blue. Blue reflected in the impossible whiteness of this salt-glazed desert, so alone in all this arid radiance, the daemons of my thoughts all I had for company.
I was wrong, for I was not the sole possessor of this vastness. I shared it with another, at first only the barest smidgeon on the merging of sky and plain and then, as the blip grew into something comprising shape and form, I recognised an ancient Holden, a model of car as peculiar as any marsupial.
Responding to the magnet I keep concealed in my thumb, this relic of fifties Oz, an amalgam of various wrecks, ground to a halt, spewing a stinging spray of gravel a bare few feet from my unprotected knees.
With the vagueness of delirium I resolved, as I stumbled forwards, to change out of my kilt at the first opportunity... Such an impractical garment for this desert terrain.
Window glass, smeared and grimy, blurry underneath its Pickwickian Christmas card coating of white dust; the driver leaning over to unsnib the lock, stuffing something bulky underneath the passenger seat; then the door groaning open to reveal a white face, bloodshot wide-angled eyes, a crooked, broken-toothed grin. No introduction necessary: anywhere, any place, the Furry Freak Brother... And myself, yea, just another Scotsman on walkabout.
Tucking my tartan about my knees and gratefully accepting the sag of the torn leather seat, I slumped back, blissfully closing my eyes as the car took to the road... A wounded camel escaping a rodeo of circus sadists... A motor launch surging against a choppy sea, the tang of salt... burning rubber... oil... and...
Sitting bolt upright, I asked him abruptly, 'You wouldn't happen to have a smoke on you? Something real? Right now I think I'd offer up my soul in exchange for one little joint.'
Scratching his light beard, the nail long and yellowing, Furry Freak Brother seemed to be weighing me up for a nark; then as he stretched the elastic moment to breaking point, he chuckled, a covert smile breaking free from under the sparse thatch, and drawled, 'Reach under your seat, cobber, and ewe'll find a baag 'rapt in an owld bit of sack. Paypers and maytches inside. Carefwul ewe down't spill it. Beyst goddamn weed in Awz-traylia... Jest dreven one thouswand K's tew geyt et from a Chinah-man.'
So, Nirvana was a Chinaman's creation. I guess I'll believe in about anything, just so long as it gets me there.
Whining voices from the speaker beside my ear, a familiar rhythm. Talking Heads, I guessed, my favourite band, though I couldn't recall having heard the song before.
You may find yourself
In another part of the World,
And You may find yourself
Behind the wheel of a large automobile.
And you may ask yourself,
Well how did I get here?
No doubt prompted by the words of the song, Furry Freak eyed me a screwball gaze. 'Lesten, myte,' he said, 'we-ell how did ewe come tew be hitchin' owt 'ere, in all this fuckin' desert? A Scotchman een a kilt...' He slowly shook his head, 'I mean, part of my brain still thinks I'm fuckin' hallucinatin' ewe.'
Sighing I looked out of the window: blue of the salt now tinged with red dirt, road signs, what was left of them, triangulated jumping kangaroos peppered with gunshot. Passing Furry Freak the joint I asked him then, 'Are you sure you really want to know, it's a long story, and once I get started...' I let the sentence hang meaningfully.
A grinning Bugs Bunny gone to seed, Furry Freak slowly expelled the smoke between the gaps of his nicotine-stained teeth. His voice squeezed out like pressed garlic. 'Why not, cobber, passes the time dun'it, we ain't goin' nowhere fast, an' besides thies owld bweuty's engine loikes to overheat, so we got to take it re-al slow.'
Automatically reaching into the bag once more, I asked him, 'You don't mind if I roll another one do you, mate, a big one this time?'
'Sure', he drawled, 'It grows, it grows.'
I noticed then my hands were shaking. The story was welling up inside me and I had to spit it out...
And you ask yourself,
What is that beautiful house?
Who is this beautiful wife?
And you may ask yourself,
Where does that highway go to?
And you may ask yourself,
Am I right, am I wrong?
And you may say to yourself,
My God what have I done?
Into the blue again, after the money's gone...
Chapter 2
I created a small stir somewhere over Papua New Guinea. I had just changed into my kilt, sporran, and all. I was not seeking to attract attention, merely fulfilling an oath sworn on the road and observing fealty to my ancient clan.
There was another reason. I couldn't make up my mind whether I should declare my case of bikinis – all I had by way of collateral bar a few dollars – at the next set of customs. If I did I would have to pay a large tax. But who would suspect a Scotsman in highland dress of smuggling a load of glittery bikinis, hot from Bali, all three hundred of them in neat little draw-string baggies? I decided to choose the smuggler's option.
The puffy white clouds parted and I found I was looking down onto the out-out-way-back. Strange, like viewing a red planet from a spaceship. Mars? It all looked as though a dirty red giant had taken a bath, then pulled several plugs out. As it spiralled counter-clockwise, the great tide left salty nebula swirls in dusty red.
I don't know if you've ever seen Australia from above, mate, but it's like some bloody Plain of the Nazca down there. Quite discernible from the occasional fencing are myriad faint straight lines, sometimes tracking for hundreds of miles. I wondered, looking down on it all. Perhaps the pre-Aboriginal settlers of this land were millions of Eric Von Daniken clones, toiling midgets leaving mysteries for future books.
It was a bit of a comedown, landing.
Sydney, ten a.m., December 31st, is overcast, drizzling. I though it never rained here. Insult is added to injury by the first Australians I see – two officials who walk the entire length of the plane spraying all of the passengers with some insect-killer loaded with DDT. Do Frenchies always need delousing? I felt like shouting, 'I'm all right! I'm a Scotsman. You don't need to spray me.' I didn't think the Frenchies would appreciate it, so I waited humbly in line to get off the plane.
Sydney airport is a meat market. Six lanes of queuing cattle waiting to be dissected at six customs desks. Spreadeagled possessions on rubber-covered tables. Never in all of my travelling life had I seen any customs to compare with these.
Better to make a clean breast of it and declare all of the bikinis rather than see them impounded; and so, feeling like Mary with her little lamb, actually a little piggy-bag on wheels, I stepped bravely to the fore, deciding that if the duty was too high, I'd abandon them.
My stony-faced Australian customs officer stared blankly as I started my pre-rehearsed speech. Hoping I was the image of a kilted playboy, I held up a piece of paper marked with illegible scribblings, and gabbled, 'Here's a list of the contents of this small bag and a receipt showing you how much I paid for the contents – three hundred bikinis.' I observed that I had made a slip, said 'contents' twice, but I thought, that will screw up his head, shrugged and continued.
'I have to admit that I plan to sell half of the contents, but the rest of the other half of the contents are intended as gifts. You know, and I recommend this method, it works every time.' I reached into the bag and pulled out a loose bikini, dangling it before his eyes by its silken strap. 'The trick is to insist they try them on.' I brayed like a camel, winking at him.
The deadpan customs officer neither blinked nor lifted his gaze from mine. From the way he shifted his feet I deduced he had a bad case of haemorrhoids. Pointing over my shoulder he said in a gravelly voice, 'My mate over there wants to know, what does a Scotsman wear under his kilt?'
I leaned forward until my face was only an inch from his ruddy pockmarked nose, and rasped in a whisky-drinking voice, 'Baaallss.' My long one-syllable response was measured. Perhaps I could have said, 'A ball and chain, just like any other man,' but the magic of the kilt, Hogmanay and all things Scottish was just the job.
The customs man drew himself up to his full height, jerked his thumb towards the black rubber doors, condoms to the great outside. 'I don't want to know about your fucking bikinis, just carry on mate.'
First jet-slag stop: a hostel, garret no. 23. As I opened the door I was confronted by a large TV screen, a video playing of one of the bands I'd worked with so long ago. Pop stars, who needs them? Yeah I'd heard this song before. 'I promised me a sex change . . . Love between your dirty sheets will change me into you.' So the toiling headbangers had made it to number one here too, bunch-a-midget-creeps. What had I ever seen in them?
I threw the door wide. Loud English accents, four young men, each of them clutching onto a tube of Foster's lager like it was the last can in the world, an argument raging. The subject: cricket.
I stopped in my tracks, saying weakly, 'Sorry chaps, I've got the wrong room.' I slammed the door behind me. Fuck this shit.
I descended the stairs, bruised my knuckles raising dust from the cluttered reception desk.
A loud voice came booming through the wet-look opaque-glass office door. The silhouette turned out to be a profusely-swearing bald pus-ball. It leaned around the corner of the door, repeating again, 'Wha'd'y'want? ' Gusts of stale garlic assailed me.
Yes, German extraction, and no duelling scars – must be low caste. Fuck him too.
I demanded, 'Have you got any lockers? I want to leave my bags in a secure place.'
The pus-ball foamed. 'Wha'd'y'expect for five dollars and ninety-five cents? Fort Fucking Knox? This is a genuine dive, mate. You get one sagging bed, two sheets, and a lot of company. What's the problem? Room not to your liking? Shit, everyone else comes in with a rucksack, not one of these bloody executive briefcases on wheels. Now, what can I do to help you?' He leaned forward, trying to smile.
I left. I couldn't even stand to argue with this mountain of bile. Probably just another average Australian. Millions of them out there, in the fucking hostel or out on the street, what's the difference? I headed for the railway station and the left luggage office. As I looked at the Turkish-Cypriot baggage handler who handed over my receipt, he began to turn into a Doberman Pinscher, a slavering one, too. No, it was not my demented imagination.
What was it those first Dutch discoverers had called this continent? Van Daemons Land. Yea, truly I had descended, my long fall broken at last. Landed on my feet, I had, in the terrestrial hell. Nothing could have prepared me for this jangling ugliness, this crude crowd bustle. I didn't even feel this was really Australia. It seemed so much like England and the States all jumbled up. Over there a red mailbox, beside it a Morris Minor sandwiched between two big fast cars, behind it a hamburger joint.
I needed to see something that was genuinely of this land. I needed to feel a connection. And so I set off in pursuit of beauty.
New South Wales Art Gallery: I am searching for their permanent Aboriginal exhibit through a hotch-potch of western art – Matisse, Cezanne, Jackson Blowjob, Desperate Dan a la Lichstenstein, nineteenth-century visions of Highland cows transported along with stags, castles, kilted Scotsmen, Landseer et al, to Tasmania. Yes, there is a picture of this Tasmaniacal vision in some ghastly room of this gallery. There are nymphs, satyrs, bounding kangaroos and centaurs frolicking amid Grecian temples. Corridors and corridors of the bloody stuff, until I want to scream and retch.
I took a few wrong turnings in the labyrinth but finally, after an aching age, I discovered the sub-sub-basement. In a room adjacent to an exhibition of art college student photographs, I found the displays of Aboriginal art.
Jesus, I thought. Poor black bastard nigger coons, relegated to the base of this Antipodean shit-pile, over-lorded by the white establishment of European and American artists.
This is the professor talking: 'Recent evidence has been unearthed that suggests that the Aborigines have been in Australia for forty thousand years. Some hot-headed researcher has even suggested seventy thousand years. These discoveries are still being howled down by the establishment of the Australian universities. Many of them still uphold and expound "the woman, the dog, and the log" theory. Let me give you a brief summary.
'A pregnant woman, Big Black Bess, was swept off to sea while holding a female dog by the scruff of the neck, which was also pregnant. Somehow they slithered onto a log, which drifted many thousands of miles to Australia. The woman and her male child founded the race of Abos. The dog and her young founded the species of Dingos.
Both the dogs and the humans degenerated through inbreeding, which explains the inability of Aborigines to construct boats. What other explanation could there possibly be for the Aborigines' presence in this land so far away from everything else? And after all, didn't the white Australian need one hell of a good excuse to salve his conscience as he hunted the Aborigines, shooting them down like wild pigs in Tasmania?
'A new theory has emerged in recent years to counter the legend of the dog, the log and the woman. Cranium consultants have discovered that the skull of the Aborigine is a mix between that of Peking Man and Java Man. The Aborigine of today is similar to our ancestors of Neolithic times, perhaps the most valuable genetic storehouse walking the planet today, the living atavistic record of our uncoded past. Could it be that if we learned to understand the mind of the Aborigine, discover the meaning of Dreamtime, we might find the key to understanding ourselves?'
Chapter 3
I should have known, even sensed it, but I had no premonition... A letter was waiting at Sydney Main Post Office, a malevolent hand reaching out from twelve thousand miles away. Two enclosures – both from my dah-arling wife.
Ragna-Rock Castle,
Butty-howe,
Leven
Frankie,
The castle has not sold, the deal fell through, and don't ever think of coming back. Our joint accounts have been closed. I enclose the Circle of Gold chain letter, your best hope for the future.
Wishing you well, Annioff.
PS. Don't EVER write or call.
In a daze, I ripped open the envelope entitled 'Circle of Gold'. My eyes scanned the false print quick as a ferret. A chain letter - you know the kind. You pass it on to two people, sending money up the line. And then you wait a long, long time. Warnings were attached of the terrible misfortunes that would befall anyone who broke the chain.
I laughed bitterly. How characteristic of her to issue a curse without even putting pen to paper. Lady Macbeth has got nothing on that bitch. She didn't even have to wash her hands. Pontius Pilate could have learned a trick or two from her. Jesus Hieronymous Bosch. Suffering father of all those millions of little dickheads out there. Me included.
The sheets of paper trembling in my hands felt heavier than lead. Her pinioning malice was a drop-kick in the balls. Thwarted rage gripped my ribs in a cheese-press. Christ, and I should have been walking into a cheque for fifty grand, the first instalment of what was so rightfully mine. I didn't even have the cash to buy a ticket out of this godforsaken land. I'd been going to start my new life, and now I was fucked.
I could hear her tinkling cocktail-party laugh. She'd gotten what she'd always wanted, total control of our property, and there was nothing I could do. After all, wasn't I on Mars, and home a long long way away? Some home. A blighted chalice of ruin. But of one thing I was sure. I'd never return. Women? I'd never trust one of those Jezebel spawn ever again.
I was shocked, a Humpty-Dumpty man, the cracks appearing on my forehead – one sharp tap and I'd fall apart... The teeming throng of this city pressed in on me. I needed to lose myself in this continent.
I was jolted from my reverie by whistles and catcalls from workmen on the scaffolding across the street. Looking down I realised what had attracted their attention: checked socks, white-blanched hairy knees, and of course the tartan of my ancient clan. I couldn't go around looking like this.
My gesture of derision, the old familiar raised forearm followed by a tapping of the left hand on the elbow, was greeted by a chorus of more jeers and catcalls. Maintaining my dignity, I turned stiffly and marched on. Then, as I reached the corner, I bent down and showed the barbarians what a real Scotsman wears under his kilt. Feeling somewhat better I walked in the direction of the railway station. Fucking shitheads, the pox on them all.
I took one hell of a long look at my reflection in the railway station toilet. My face leered back at me. A corner of my mouth drooped. I pushed it up with a finger. It dropped again, rubbery and dead as if I'd just spent an afternoon with the Mad Dentist. I was sure of one thing, I needed surgery. I'd never seen anything so ugly. I hadn't shaved in a week. My eyes were decaying cabbages, the pupils black spots of blight. My skin was stretched drum-tight over cheek and jaw, the accumulated poisons of stress, rage and thwarted revenge etching livid streaks into my face. Fuck it, what did I care. I made the pretence of washing, splashed water over my face, changed out of my kilt, deciding then to leave it with the rest of my possessions at the left luggage office.
The view of the Sydney suburbs out of the train window did nothing to raise my spirits. Endless bungalowville sprawled like a ghastly one-storey diarrhoea. No confines in Australia to hold these slopping cities in – someone once told me that Sydney is almost a hundred miles across. I was seeing it now – squares, bloody squares, each house surrounded by a quarter-acre plot. Plastic swimming pools in back yards. Artificial lawns. I had not travelled so far to see this.
I hitched a ride in a dung-coloured Beetle. I judged the driver to be a little over twenty and he was clean-shaven apart from the blonde fuzz of his crew-cut hair. His most obvious feature was the typically Aussie cotton-wool-stuffed crotch of his Bermuda shorts.
I guessed this to be Mr Normal Australia. It turned out he was a policeman. Does this make him normal? I should say so.
I told him I wanted a ride to Melbourne.
There was a long moment as he looked me up and down, then he said tersely, 'Get in, can't say I'll take you all the way, but I'll take you some.'
He drove the vehicle as if it was an aged perambulator, hunched over the steering wheel, his inadequate cranium almost touching the windscreen, marbles glued to the road. In order to get a better view of his face, I squirmed forward in my seat.
He corrected me tartly, his acid voice somehow reminding me of my old school's vice captain. 'It is forbidden by law not to wear a seatbelt. In other words, BELT UP!'
To make conversation I ventured, 'What are your views on crime and law enforcement in Australia.'
His reply was instant. 'The sad fact is, in this country the police force is seriously short of manpower, the wages are too low. Too many bloody socialists around if you ask me, mate.'
I wondered if he'd incurred permanent damage through constant exposure to constricting shorts, his asinine voice was pitched so high.
'Politicians give lip-service to the need to combat the growing crime-wave, but many of them are in the pay of mobsters. The judiciary ain't too clean neither. A lot of scandal has been swept under the carpet these past few years.'
I mumbled, 'I'm truly, um, shocked to hear it,' as he continued his tirade. Obviously I'd hit on the motherlode of all his resentments.
'The bleeding wages aren't too good neither,' he repeated. 'I'm twenty-three – twenty-threeV His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, his puckering mouth reminding me of a rodent. 'Forced to live with my parents because I can't afford to buy a house. But the bloody Dagos, Vietnamese, bloody boat-people, Wops and Poms waltz into our country, and that's not all. Social Security' – he thumped the steering wheel emphatically – 'a fucking permanent meal-ticket for the rest of their lives. Yeah, fucking politicians. Bleeding hearts. Intellectuals. Do-gooders. This country's going to the dog.'
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP. This Son of Sam sounded like something slimy spawned by an editorial in one of Murdoch's better rags. I turned my head to get some relief, just in time to note the passing of the bungalows. Up ahead a three-lane road, a motorway by Australian standards, beckoned. Rolling hills, dusty in shade. Wide open country. The occasional house surrounded by eucalyptus trees. Heat-haze. The land dry, seco. Up above, the skies – canned blue, straight out of a tin. Poured by the hand of the Master Architect. No nuclear radiation here – clean.
Hands shaking I reached into my breast pocket. God, if ever I needed tar to coat my lungs it was now. A brand new soft-pack – I ripped open the cellophane, tapping the pack theatrically. For once the damn trick worked and two cigarettes popped up, twin smoke-stacks thrusting for air. I waved the packet close to his face, saying, 'Care for a duty-free, mate?' while I searched the dashboard for the cigarette lighter.
Every filament and muscle of my companion's body stiffened. His pink finger stabbed violently towards the red-lettered sign prominent on the dash bearing the legend of that famous black New Orleans Jazz trombonist NOSMO KING. I was confused, so I replied blankly, 'Oh... Uh... Yeah... Nosmo King. Didn't he once play with the Duke?'
For the first time he took his eyes from the road. Washed out blue pinheads scrutinised me closely. He said caustically, 'I hope you're not one of these bloody Poms trying to sneak into our country.'
Blinking at this effrontery, I replied starchly, 'No I certainly am not one of these "bloody Poms" as you so aptly call them. I am a Jock. A true Scot of the blood. The name's McVicar. I come from a long line of them. And we all feel much the same way as you do about the bloody English. As for being an immigrant, I'm sorry, but I like my country far too much. I'm just a tourist with a big zipper... Uh, I mean, just a tourist on walkabout, mate.' Tapping the two cigarettes back into the pack, I pushed the packet into my breast pocket with a flourish, ripping it audibly.
A hint of a smile curled around his bloodless lips. 'Hmm. Ahuh...' He nodded, and then with a sudden awkward movement crossed his right arm over his left, offering me his hand. 'Well, that's all right then, mate. Welcome to Oz!'
Suppressing a groan, I gripped the dangling sweaty kipper, experimentally rubbing his second knuckle with my thumb to test if he was a Mason. He did not seem to register the signal. Maybe he was suspicious.
The sudden cacophony of air horns alerted us. Out of the emptiness loomed a giant chromium-plated truck. My companion, quick to react, swerved the car to one side.
'Bloody hell!' His tinny squeak was almost drowned out by the massive din of the juggernaut. 'I broke the first bloody rule of the road.'
'And what was that?' I shouted.
'Never take your bloody eyes off it, that's what, mate.'
At that moment I would have welcomed death, especially if there was only oblivion on the other side. Fucking women, God save me from their predatory molestations. I winced as I remembered what an effort that hard-on had been the last time I got laid in Bali. How long had it been? God! That was a necrophiliac fuck.
'What was that, mate?' he said.
I looked up in surprise, realising I must have talked aloud. I replied quickly: 'Oh, I think it was indigestion. Don't worry. It's not infectious. I'm still suffering from jet-lag.'
I went on rapidly smearing the grease of small talk over my tracks. 'Before that little interlude I was becoming quite enthralled by your views, ah... on immigration. Do you take an active interest in politics? Let me ask you the big question. What would you do if you were the prime minister of this land?' Grinning hugely, I pretended to hold up a microphone.
The cop's jaw jutted like a brick knocked out of place on Mount Rushmore, his eyes widening. 'I'd build a bloody wall all round Australia. That's the first bloody thing I'd do.' A viperous wriggling erupted in the basket of his face, spittle flecking his mouth, head bobbing like a dingo in a stormy sea.
'Yeah, a bloody wall, to keep out all the immigrants and imports.'
His voice rising in volume and tone, he was squirming in his seat, sweat shadowing his crotch.
'What do we need from the rest of the world?' he raged, his face reddening. 'You can all go and hang as far as I'm concerned! Let me give you an example. Take these Vietnamese, the so-called boat-people. All of them communists. Too bloody left-wing for the reds in Vietnam, that's why they were slung out. And what does our country do? Welcomes them with open arms. Talk about a red carpet, it's soaked with good Australian blood. Our soldiers fought in two world wars to prevent this from happening.
'Do you know the reason for the current crime wave in our cities is the arrival of the bloody boat-people. We can't penetrate their organisation, no one in the force can speak their lingo.' He threw his hand up in disgust. 'And why should we?'
'Yes, why indeed?' I said, suppressing a yawn.
'And then there's the bloody Poms. They take the biscuit. They take the fucking can. Bloody agitators. Socialist wolves in sheep's clothing. Behind every strike. Nothing's too good for them, all of them welfare experts, they get every type of benefit going.'
He jabbed at his chest, taking his eyes off the road once again. I prayed the next truck wouldn't miss. Perhaps if I nudged his arm at the right moment we could both go together. Now there's a thought, my last service for the biosphere, two less of us to fuck it up . . .
'And look at me,' he glared, 'born and bred an Australian, and I'm forced to stay with my parents while our bloody government gives these bloody immigrants houses, jobs, loans to start up businesses that only employ more Wops, Poms and Dagos.'
I shook my head sympathetically 'Sounds bad, mate, really bad. Do you ever see an end to all this?'
'What? For the country or me personally?' he snapped.
'Oh, yourself of course. Tell me about your family for instance.'
The policeman paused a moment, rubbing at the freckles on his smudge of a nose. 'It's my uncle's funeral I'm going to. He was thirty years a preacher in the Dutch Reform Church. In a couple of years, when I pass my exams, I'll become a lay-preacher. One day I'm going to raise a family. Two girls and two boys. Yeah, and when they're grown up, I'll buy them all a house. Not like my parents.'
'Oh,' I smiled. 'Have you got any woman in mind to get married to? Tell me,' I waggled my eyebrows, 'is there a fair damsel waiting in the wings?'
'As a matter of fact, no. I'm going to buy the house first, then I'll get the wife. Yeah, and when I get married, it'll be for keeps.'
I chuckled. 'Throw away the key, eh? That's what to do with them. Even then they're too much trouble.'
He went on: 'Yep, I'm one of these people who believes that the woman's only place is THE HOME. That's how God planned it, and that's what's gone wrong with the world ever since – mothers out working. A woman's job is to bring children into this world, and to bring them up to be decent, loyal citizens.'
'Take them to church as soon as they can toddle, stop the rot before it starts. Sounds like you're a very reasonable sort of guy,' I said, waving my hand airily.
We passed a garage. By the exit sign a lone hitch-hiker optimistically raised a thumb. The policeman swerved into the opposite lane, at the same time twisting his neck to gaze over his shoulder. 'I didn't like the look of that one. You've got to watch yourself on the roads. A lot of people go missing every year.'
'What?' I sat up, allowing a tone of worry to enter my voice. 'I thought Australia was a safe country for travelling.'
'Listen, mate,' the policeman shot back, 'you'd better be bloody careful. There's killers stalk the roads. They even hunt in packs. Especially up north in Queensland. Lots of people don't like hippies and some take the law into their own hands.'
I said hotly, 'I hope you don't mistake me for a hippy.'
'Ha.' I got the first laugh of the trip. 'Listen, mate, if I thought you were one, it wouldn't be a lift I was giving you.'
Well, there you have it, straight from the Enforcer's mouth. A policeman said I wasn't a hippy. Next best thing to a signed and sealed certificate.
My bloody mate dropped me somewhere at the bloody edge of bloody suburbia in bloody Melbourne beside a bloody railway station. Clear black night: no moon, sky encrusted with diamante stars. They're not real in Australia. Check out the Australian flag, it's got seven seven-pointed stars on it.
My bloody mate waited to see if I was in time to make the last train. My declared destination was the house of a mate I'd met in distant Bali so, with an enquiry in mind, I approached a spectral being striding back and forth in front of the empty station. The crunching of gravel under my feet alerted him. He stopped in his tracks, swaying gently as if a gossamer-wind rocked him on the balls of his feet. He asked in a tremulous tea-strained voice, 'You waiting on a train to the centre, mate?'
I nodded, rendered speechless by the strangeness of this apparition.
'The mail train comes in twenty minutes, mate. Goes all the way to the centre.'
'Great!' I exclaimed. Cupping my hands I shouted back to the cop hanging out of the window of his car. 'I'm all right, mate! There'll be a train here in twenty minutes. Thanks for the ride.'
The cop acknowledged my cries with a wave of his hand and as he pulled out from the curve, I added, 'Hey man, and don't forget to keep a clean nose for the plainclothes at the funeral.'
As I watched the vestal-virgin tail-lights winking a bloody goodbye, a hole was knocked in the floor of my mood. The spectre was still dancing. It was then I realised he was totally, tropically mad. Hoping I was wrong, I addressed him in a strict voice, 'Are you sure there is a train in twenty minutes?'
His dancing became a furious tattoo. 'There IS a train in twenty minutes. It goes ALL the way to the centre. There IS a train, there IS a train. Chookady-choo, chookady-choo, and it goes under tunnels, goes under tunnels, ALL the way to the centre!'
Oh my God. I just gawped, my jaw slack. Then I was alerted by a noise from somewhere over my shoulder. I turned around.
A disembodied voice wafted out from the cavernous bowels of a bus shelter, crying out plaintively. 'Hey whoever you are. Don't listen to him. He's a crazy. Now if you'll all be quiet, maybe I'll be able to get some sleep.'
I rapidly crossed black tar macadam, stepping over a long slat of streetlight to peer into the gloom of the shelter. I could just make out a lumpy turnip shape protruding from bunched blankets. A radio crackled nearby and through the static came the distant voice of an announcer on the World Service: And now, an everyday story of country folk, The Archers.... Da di dum dee dutn di doo, da di dum di do da, da di do di dum di do, dum di diddly do da, dum di diddly dum di diddly dum di diddly do da...
I couldn't help it, I shouted at the sprawled thing, 'For God's sake man, what are you doing lying out here? Don't you have a home?'
'Oh yes sir, oh yes mate, I got a house, I got a home, I got a wife, I got a grasscutter. I got babies, mate. I got seven babies. I got a job, I got a job, and that's why I'm here, so I can get some sleep and catch the five-thirty mail train in the morning. I work all day, and I got to suffer this chattering idiot beside me, every night, every night. Now listen, I'm trying to get some sleep here and you can take my word for it, matey, there ain't no train. Not till five-thirty. Now will you both shut up.'
The spectre loomed over my shoulder, hanging like an upturned iceberg, spinning on the balls of his heels. He would have done any dervish troop proud. In many countries he would have been pronounced as holy and infused with the spirit of God, but here in Australia he was an outcast living in the gutter. He chanted, as a mantra, 'Oh yes there is, oh yes there IS, oh yes there IS a train.'
The turnip jerked up, throwing the blankets aside and cutting 'The Archers' off just as Walter Gabriel was about to enter the back door of Mrs P's thatched cottage. As the radio clattered to the ground, he shouted, 'You're all fucking mad! Just SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! I'm trying to get some sleep.'
Then, somewhere over across the square by some boarded-up shops, a telephone began to ring. Welcoming this distraction I ran from the station and discovered the phone booth under a headless street-lamp. It was a wrong number, but I chatted the caller up, told her my tales of the traveller, and what do you know? This night-owl promised to call a cab for me, which was just as well. I had no change. I felt just like a circus dog who's jumped through a hoop, or a Swiss yodeler mouthing spaghetti. I know I'll get out of this one – at least that's what I told myself. There's always another hoop waiting.
The taxi came, I leapt for it, and not a moment too soon for the spectre was hot on my heels. Instantly I snibbed the door. Very irate now, he thumped impotently on the paintwork, his breath steaming, sliding lips reminding me of slugs on a greenhouse window. He yelled, 'I get to ride in taxis! I get to ride in taxis! I get to ride in taxis!'
I shouted back, 'Well, you're not fucking getting in this one, mate.' I turned to the driver, 'Get me out of here.' He needed no encouragement. I was thrown back in my seat as he gunned the accelerator.
'Where to?' he shouted, as we took off.
'Kangaroo Grounds, mate,' I called back. 'The address I've got here says Upper Dangalong. Know it?'
'Yup.'
Chapter 4
My purse groaned audibly as I peeled forty bucks from my wad and handed it to the driver. It was just beginning to sink in: the news from home. I could feel the noose tightening. Two hundred dollars and a bag of bikinis is a slender passport in a new land. The notes were hardly out of my hand when the driver pushed the car into gear and shot down through the tall overhanging eucalyptus trees, turning onto the main road a hundred yards distant.
Where was I? In front of me a shack. A shabby-white paint-peeling patched thing propped up by a porch and a veranda. Had it not been for the light leaking out of a back window of this crate I would have presumed this was a derelict orange crate with no inhabitants.
Slatted wooden boards creaked loudly as I stepped onto the porch. From somewhere nearby came the clanking of a chain and a strange reedy mewing. I discovered later this was the sound of Horace, the pet sheep. I had a sudden feeling of trepidation, as I took the head of the kangaroo-knocker and thunked it down on the metal plate.
A shout from inside, 'Who the fuck's that, at this hour. Maybeline! Go see who it is!' The command was imperious.
Slow shuffling steps in the hall, and then yellow light spilled out as the door swung slowly back on rusty hinges.
I liked the face of the woman who stood before me. Long black hair gathered up by a spotted neckerchief, in the style English working-class women used to adopt in days of yore. I liked that, so I smiled, and then she smiled.
I ventured hesitantly, 'You don't know me, I'm Frankie, a friend of Sheila's.
You know, Sheila Hardknob? I met him in Bali, he invited me to come and stay.'
For a moment Maybeline held a look of blank puzzlement on her face. And then she seemed to click 'memory' into her recognition.
Ow yeah, Sheila, yeah. Ow, 'e's out at 'is girlfriend, Porridge's 'ouse.'
'Jeez,' I said as I followed her down the darkened hall, almost tripping over the rucked carpet, 'you've certainly got some strange names around here.'
'Ow, that gows with the territory.'
'By the way, what is your name?' I asked.
She stopped and turned, her gypsy face strangely attractive, eyes now bright and shiny. It was as if I knew her from some place. Something about that voice. She smiled as she said, 'Maybeline. I 'opes you don't think that's a strange name.'
'Definitely not,' I replied gallantly. 'I think it's a very lovely name.'
Something in her step. A lilt or a tilt or a jaunty something. Then I knew. She reminded me of my wife.
Opening the door at the end of the sloping hall, she bounced into the room. My sinking spirit dropped a couple more notches and my eyes filled with tears, as the inhabitants of this cave swirled into my vision through the smoky atmosphere: two bearded, seedy-looking men, both on the turn from adolescence to old age.
Maybeline announced, 'Ere, Big Licks, look wot the night blew in. This 'ere is Frankie, 'e's a friend of Sheila's.' She turned to me, leaving a gap through which I could see the man of the house scowling at me. She said, 'Frankie, I'd like to introduce my 'usband, BL, and 'is bruwer OD, which stands for Owpen Door.'
Ignoring for the moment OD lying comatose on one of the three sagging couches behind a pyramid of empty stubbies, I studied BL closely. This Australian version of Attila the Hun greeted my entrance into the smoke-dark room with a loud guffaw, throwing back his head but at the same time holding me with narrow flint-stone eyes.
'Who the fuck are you?' he yelled, banging his drink down so hard frothing beer spilled on the floor, then falling back into a lolling position in the big chair. Waving big hands in the air, he shrieked in a mock-British accent, 'Not another Pommie baastaard! Chroist, the grass isn't growin' over the last one yet.'
I didn't like this at all. I didn't like Australia and, particularly, I didn't like him. The sight of this drunken sod, his head a leering pumpkin, made me want to strike out. I felt sticky red stuff pounding in my temples. Jutting my jaw forward, I growled, showing fangs and bulging my eyes menacingly. 'Listen mate, I'm a Jock. A true Scot of the blood. Aren't you getting yourself mixed up? We don't like Poms any more than you do.'
Attila extended a fat and dirty hand, 'All right, all right.' He waved towards a sagging couch. 'So have a fuckin' beer, mate. So tike a fuckin' pew, Jocky. We're 'aving a little rage here. That's 'strylian for party.'
Keeping my distance as I accepted the proffered stubby and leaning forward at an angle to avoid the possible drop-kick, I renounced tension, as an act of will, and gratefully accepted the couch's sag, taking in my companions with little shifty glimpses.
The Hun was now staring morosely into the empty fireplace half-filled with cigarette butts, empty beer-cans, detritus. Flaming red hair suggested a mean temper.
OD more than merited his name, whatever it meant. He lay splayed out on the sofa, legs hooked over the armrest, hobnail soles facing my way. At the other end of the couch, all the blood had drained into the cistern of his head, giving his face a marbled look.
A curious geometry about this room – for one thing, the three couches: I had one all to myself and OD was definitely occupying the whole of his. Mine, presumably designated the visitors' pew, was furthest from the fireplace and angled towards the door that I imagined led out into the back yard.
Maybeline's small sofa abutted against BL's leatherette swivel armchair. Just by looking at it I could tell that it and its contents were part of the Hun's personal and private domain, the inner keep of the castle.
A television was upended on the floor beside the back door, the screen stove in. It lay where it had landed, I guessed from the way the glass was splintered around it. The walls of the room, as the outside of this crate, were constructed from overlapping boards. I concluded that only people so mad as Australians would construct a house this way. Through inkblot cracks in the boards the occasional highlight of a star glittered. All around night, and this shack in the middle of nowhere. Poste Restante Mars...
My attention returned to the Hun and Maybeline. What was it, I wondered, that kept them together? The reins were almost visible. I bet be puts on the spurs when he gets in the saddle. Maybeline looked downcast, embarrassed even, as if she sensed my very thought. I moved uncomfortably on the sagging couch, scratching myself. This heat was unbearable.
My movement alerted the Hun. Two fingers loomed, resembling huge, soggy penises as they swam into my heat-crazed vision, the fat, ugly, flaccid things vee'd on a veritable Roman candle of a joint which spluttered and stank of burning leaves.
Out of politeness I accepted this offering, choking on the first toke as the rush of grass, tobacco and noxious smoke hit the back of my throat. The shaking of my hand causing embers to fall and attach to my clothing. I stood up flailing. I could hardly bear it, the barbarity of Australia and all things Australian. They couldn't even roll proper joints. I bewailed the cruel God that had brought me to this land.
Another can of Tooey's, and another can of bloody Tooey's. Then the Tooey's ran out and I was passed a can of XXXX. My head began to pound with the savage drums of the local Ton ton Macoute. Refusing the next can the Hun thrust my way, I said, 'No thanks, mate, I've had enough. If it's no bother to anyone I'll just crash out on this sofa. I've travelled a long way to get here, half way round the bleeding world. '
In one sinuous movement the Hun hoisted himself up in his chair, a cobra rising from a straw basket. Taking one smooth step towards me, he intoned slowly, spitting venom into every syllable, 'Listen carefully, mate, and think yourself lucky to be gettin' advance warnin'. Out 'ere in the bush, we keep by nasty surprises, speshly for foreigners who can't take good 'strylian beer.'
To give myself something to occupy myself while I thought out my next move, I jumped to my feet and dusted off the dirty covers of the sofa behind me. Then, looking the Hun straight in the eye, I allowed a lean and hungry smile to play across my face before I said, 'Just try anything you like, mate, and while you make up your mind what you're going to do, I'll crash out here on the sofa. OK matey?'
Maybeline flapped across the room to stand between us, curiously reminding me of a hen taking a dust-bath. She turned first to the Hun and then to me, saying, 'Ow no, BL. 'Ow could you? 'E's sow tired, can't you see? 'E's been travelling a long way.' And, 'Frankie, it's just BL's sense of 'umour. Down't pay 'im no attention. You can sleep tonoite in Sheila's room. It'll be less noisy in there.'
The sagging bed in the dark closet was no more comfortable than the sagging couch in the sitting room. As I lay down, a gremlin Shostakovitch played a symphony on the springs. Bing! Ding! Bwoi-o-oo-wing!
The images of the posters on the walls and the ceilings swam around my head like a kaleidoscope. Heavy metal memorabilia. Big blondes on motorbikes. My bearded friend Sheila had an eye for the ladies.
Suddenly the door swung open and the Hun bumped off the door post as he lurched in. In one hand was a stubby, in the other a large joint.
I waved a hand as my head spun. Suddenly there were two, or three, or four, five, six images of the Hun, revolving on a cartwheel. I saw their six mouths open, and then I heard them say, 'Look mate, down't get us wronggg. We were only jokinggg.'
I shook my head in an effort to clear my brain, thinking, poor bastards, I guess being born an Aussie is like having a club foot. You're always putting it in it.
With effort, I pretended a yawn. 'BL, don't worry about it. I've just got to get some shut-eye. See you in the morning, mate. Ta ever so for the bed.'
The Hun had one endearing quality – he was predictable. If you half-inched around, scrupulously making sure that he noticed you were avoiding 'his territory', keeping your hands off'his woman', and not sitting in 'his chair', and if you did not flinch when he talked about sticking Abos into holes, then he liked to have you around. Anybody in the house automatically became part of his court, an essential adjunct to his position in life of local gangster chief.
This watering hole was the favourite port of call for the ne'er-do-wells of the surrounding badlands because the Hun was a dealer and a fence, trading in anything that was stolen, or illegal. You might think that such an occupation would be short-lived, but the Hun had been at it, and from this address, for years. He kept an ace up his sleeve – friends in high places. At one time he had been employed by ASIO (Australia Secret Intelligence Organization) His job? To hunt out terrorists in Malaysia. For his services he had been awarded carte blanche to deal in whatever he pleased on his home turf, without any interference by der local Polizei. In the unlikely event of a raid, the Hun would be forewarned several hours in advance by his old friends.
In the week that I waited for Sheila to reappear, I noted much of the Hun's time was taken up by mysterious journeys. He would return towing a trailer stowed with plunder behind the truck. Once he showed up with a motor launch. It was gone the next day.
I made an enquiry about the possibilities of investing in some low-quality weed, strictly for resale. When the Hun asked how much cash I had on hand, I shrugged my shoulders, replying 'I've got other collateral.'
'What like?' he grunted.
'Quite apart from my many abilities and talents, I am the proud possessor of two hundred and ninety-nine bikinis, and each one of them wrapped up in a neat little draw-string baggy. Just the thing for the ladies.'
'Bikinis?' The Hun threw back his head with laughter, waving open palms at the ceiling. At that moment a small black spider fell, dangling a line of thread, right onto the centre of his palm. Quicker than thought, he clenched his fist, crushing the poor bug and yelled, 'Maybeline! Why the fuck don't you clean this place? What do you do all day while I'm out? Moaning cunt!' He turned back to me, smiling. 'Now what's this latest line in patter, Jock?'
'Well, BL, I was going to suggest you take some bikinis as collateral for the grass. I could sell it and come back with the cash, then buy some more grass as well, mate.'
'Sucking fuck, mate.' BL spat with derision on the floor. 'Who do you know man? You don't know nobody man. And as for your idea of selling bikinis, the place is bloody flooded with that Balinese shit. You want grass? Get me the cash, all right, Jocky? That's it.'
I drew myself up defiantly. 'Listen BL, laugh if you like, but when I'm travelling, moving about the planet, I meet lots of people. There's loads of punters out there who don't know where to buy grass, and you can charge them what you fuckin' like, mate. Yeah,' I snorted, furling out my nostrils like a horse, 'and don't knock the bikinis mate. Maybeline loved the one I gave her.' I held my hand over my mouth. 'Oh Christ,' I exclaimed, 'I wasn't supposed to tell you that.'
The Hun exploded, storming out the room, slamming the hardboard door behind him. Bugs of all description rained from the ceiling.
'Fucking floozy! Where are you, you cunt!' Screams and the sound of pots falling. Then more doors slammed, as he stomped the boards back to the sitting room, the entire house reverberating to the sounds of his rage. He threw open the door, following his finger which had turned into a heat-seeking missile, targeted on my forehead. It stopped just an inch away, quivering slightly. His eyes bulged, and a thin flecking of nicotine-yellow foam clung to the corners of his mouth. He spat out his words very slowly, dry-ice coals, each one steaming visibly in the air.
'Listen to me, mate, you leave my fucking woman alone, otherwise you're dead meat, do you hear me! Don't you fucking lay one finger on her, or pollute her with one more of your fucking ideas. Fucking Pommie shithead!'
I shouted back. 'I'm not a fucking Pommie, and I didn't lay any of my fucking fingers on her. So there, mate. Will you get that in your head. I just wanted to make her a present, I had nothing else to give her. Alrighty?!'
The Hun nodded his head slowly, 'Yeah, well, get it straight, mate. One more move in her direction, and you're a goner. Got it?'
'Loud and clear,' I replied firmly. The only way to treat offensive yobbos.
The Hun held my eye, 'Over and out mate, over and out.' He spun on his heel and once more exited the room, this time striding for the front door. He shouted as he slammed it. 'I'll be back, and you'd better have my supper ready. Cunt!'
Later on, Maybeline provided me with a lifeline. Together we organised a tupperware-style bikini-party, and I the sole male on hand. Yes, I have cast an eye over the shapely forms of flesh supposed to be viewed only by their handlers' ogling eyes, and survived. There was the occasional comment such as 'Ow Gaud, they're sow scratchy.' Or, 'Are you sure it isn't just a little bit bowld? Me teets're fawling out.'
Well wha'd'ya expect if you must try on a pair of postage stamps? But I never said that, for there is one thing certain, 'to reveal all is to loose the sale' - that's what my Jewish shrewish Granny once told me, 'And keep your hands in your pockets, boy! It fair drives me mad to see you fidgetin' like that.' Obviously the shrivelled old crone had forgotten, there are other things to play with in little boys' pockets.
I'd lean back in my chair, cupping my jaw in a thinking man's palm. The other hand would be deep in my trouser pocket. 'Hmmmmmmm, that colour goes better with your flaming auburn hair.' Or I'd say, 'Yes, yes, yes it's good, that's very good.' And if I sensed the sale was slipping away, I'd say authoritively, 'Yes, but I have one that's just you, I've got it at the bottom of the bag. It's purple. Don't tell any of the others. It's the only one.'
Maybeline insisted we keep this party a secret, as if I needed to be told. The Hun never found out. Just as well. We managed to tidy up all the evidence before he returned from his treasure hunting.
Enter Sheila the Knob, my ginger-bearded friend who looked like an orangutan. Definitely not cotton wool stuffing those bulging jeans. You could tell by the way it throbbed and vibrated.
Once he confided, when we were on Bali, he had a terrible problem". He said, 'Listen mate, don't laugh. The doctors told me it could happen to anyone. You see, it's periodic. I mean it comes and it goes, but...' he hesitated, his eyes searching mine for evidence of future betrayal, 'you see, I get hard-ons that last for weeks at a time, and there's nothing I can do about it. There's only temporary relief in having a fuck. I mean, seriously man, I have to go on a special diet when it comes on, otherwise my whole body would become wasted. I've got to take lots of steroids. It's unbelievable.'
'How did this come about?' I enquired sympathetically, like a counsellor.
'Well, it all started when I got gang-banged by a group of women in the criminally insane ward of the mental hospital where I work. It was a long weekend, we were low on staff. I got locked in, and nobody knew. They stole my keys. First they took off all my clothes, strapped me down to a rubber table, and put a wig on my head. Then they took it in turns to jump up and down on me, while one of them kept me firm by clenching her fist on my dick. Forty of them. They all had several goes. It was unbelievable. The Industrial Injuries Compensation Board said they'd never heard a case like it. Then their report was leaked, and that's when everybody started called me Sheila Hardknob, it's stuck to me ever since.' Sheila took a deep shuddering breath, and sighed, mournfully.
He paused for a long moment before continuing. 'The psychiatrist explained it was a psychosomatic condition. They suggested I should act out my fantasies. So now the only way I can get rid of the hard-on is to wear a long blonde wig and a dress, then gradually it subsides.'
I shook my head incredulously. 'You poor bastard, I've never heard anything like it. You poor bastard. Tell me, is it good? When I think about it, it doesn't sound too bad. Listen mate, you could make a fortune in a Hamburg brothel.'
'Ow Christ, I'm disappointed,' said Sheila. 'I thought at least you would have had a different reaction. All my friends say things like that, but God, you don't know what it's like. For one thing man, it's painful, and it's endangering my health. The doctors said I've got to wear a special corset when I get these attacks.' He broke down and I held him while he sobbed. Just the confessions of another traveller one night on Bali in a tropical hotel.
Sheila said it was all right if I slept in his room. It was a good excuse for him to stay away. He was looking for a new place, a shack of his own, as he put it. He confessed that he couldn't stand living with the Hun. And he couldn't stand the way he treated Maybeline.
Well, that just suited me fine, because I wanted to wait around for this damn grass. I had seven hundred dollars now. Just enough to buy a pound. The Hun said it could be here any day. Some pals of his were bringing a load from Mount Gambia in South Australia, just over the state line.
I occupied much of my time while the Hun was away, by giving art lessons and encouragement to the apple of Maybeline's eye, Claude Duvalier Jr, CD for short, her four-year-old son from a former relationship.
When BL returned one day Maybeline was standing over the table cluttered with paper, scissors and glue, courtesy of the Occupational Therapy Dept of the Victoria Mental Institute, and Sheila. Maybeline was admiring CD's first completed artwork, a large collage of a tower, an angry-faced king poking his head out of the topmost window. All the apples from the trees surrounding the tower had fallen to the ground. In the sky, dark clouds hung like bats.