Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (14 page)

Every time they'd change positions, Franulka would come out with all these strange phrases. ‘This is called gathering the microcosmic alchemical agent,' she'd say. ‘Clearing the eight psychic channels... Microcosmic orbiting... Driving the fire... The light and vitality at the mysterious gate... Formation of the immortal foetus... The egress...' Les didn't have a clue what she was talking about, but just about every time Franulka would change positions, she'd throw back her head, scream and get her rocks off.

Finally, in a lather of sweat, Les found himself on top with Franulka's knees somewhere up near her ears, so he started with a solid, steady stroke.

‘Ohh, yesss,' groaned Franulka. ‘The dragon and tiger in copulation. Leap into the great emptiness, Les.'

Norton didn't have to be told twice. Away he went, putting in the big ones. As he hit the vinegar strokes, the lead singer of the Heathen Harlots hit high C. Norton arched his back and drove it in faster and harder till finally he went off with an explosion that nearly blew his spine out. Franulka let out with a scream that virtually rattled the window panes and almost cracked every glass in the kitchen. Somehow they shuddered to a stop and lay there. Franulka was panting away, Norton's eyes were spinning around like a couple of well-oiled roulette wheels. After a while they both came back to earth.

‘Well, Les. What did you think of that?' purred Franulka.

‘What did I think of that?' answered Les. ‘I dunno. But I reckon it'd beat tai-chi hands down.'

Franulka gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You got a towel?'

‘Sure.'

Norton got a towel and they both got cleaned up. They'd finished the wine so he got a couple of beers from the fridge. Franulka put her knickers back on and her dress, but didn't bother to do it up. Les decided he may as well put his jeans and T-shirt back on as well. If the Shao-Lin priestess, or whatever she fancied herself as, wanted to descend into the cauldron of immortality or something again he could soon get them off. They sat on the old night-and-day sipping beer, having a bit of a kiss and a fondle while the radio played softly in the background. Norton thought it would only be a matter of time before they were into it again, when there was a knock on the door. Only this wasn't a nice little tap like Franulka's. This was a dead-set knock which if it had been any louder would have taken the door right off its hinges. Oh oh, thought Les, I think I know who this might be. In the suddenness of Franulka's arrival and the gear she had on Norton had forgotten all about him. He looked at Franulka and opened the door.

Syd was standing in the doorway, his face a stone mask. In his jeans and tight-fitting Johnny Diesel and the Injectors T-shirt, he looked about half a metre taller and about five kilos heavier than when Les had met him out the front.

‘Is Franulka in here?' he snarled at Norton.

Les was about to shake his head and give Syd a definite no, when a voice came from inside. ‘What do you want, Syd?'

Syd charged past Norton and found Franulka sitting comfortably on the night-and-day, her hair all over the place and her dress still undone.

Syd's voice was almost piteous. ‘Franulka. What are you doing in here?'

Franulka gave Syd a tired smile. ‘Ohh, I'm in here
selling bloody encyclopedias. What do you think I'm doing in here, Syd?'

His gaunt face now a portrait of anguish, Syd stared at Franulka. ‘Franulka! How could you?' Then the anguish turned to pent-up rage as he swung round to Norton. ‘What did I say to you out the front? You... you...
aaarrghhW

Norton more or less knew what to expect, but he didn't think Franulka would be so blunt and the suddenness of Syd's attack took him off guard. With a scream of hatred and jealousy the huge roadie threw himself at Les, forcing him against the wall and those two monstrous hands Norton had noticed holding the cigarette on Friday went straight to Norton's throat. Les barely had time to gulp in some air before Syd started choking the life out of him.

Les couldn't believe the strength in Syd's hands and fingers — it was like two steel bands clamped around his neck. Les banged his fists down on Syd's elbows, that didn't work. He brought his arms up; that didn't work either. Syd was as strong as an ox and a grief-stricken lover to go with it. Les tried to knee him in the balls but couldn't seem to get any leverage. His head was starting to swim now, after the best part of an hour's solid screwing this was all he needed; some crazed fifteen-stone roadie choking the life out of him. He knew he didn't have much time left before he blacked out. Syd's grip only seemed to get harder when Les brought his arms up and jammed his thumbs into Syd's eyes — he didn't just stick them in, he gripped the sides of Syd's head and began doing his best to gouge them both out. Syd screamed and jammed his eyes shut but Norton didn't have a bad grip either and if Syd was going to choke him, he'd be blinded in the process.

With a shout of pain, Syd finally let go. Les shoved him away and gulped in some air. He barely had time to massage his throat when Syd was on him again, raining punches. Les copped one on the eye, the nose and another in the mouth; Syd knew how to put them together and
they all hurt. Les belted a couple of left hooks into Syd's face, busting up his mouth. A short right mashed up his nose. The punches were doing plenty of damage but they didn't seem to be stopping Syd all that much. Norton covered up as another torrent of punches slammed into his arms and the top of his head. Out the corner of his eye he saw Franulka sitting cross-legged on the night-and-day. She wasn't screaming or horrified at the sight of two big men punching and gouging the life out of each other. It was almost as if she was enjoying it.

Les and Syd fought and swore across the room smashing the table and the wardrobe as they went. Norton was getting more punches in but they still didn't seem to be hurting him. Syd was a hard man but he was in too much of a wild state of mind. Les kneed him under the ribs and head-butted him, splitting open Syd's eye. A big roundhouse right slammed into Norton's ear. Then they crashed into the kitchen, sending pots, pans and dishes everywhere. Before Les knew it, Syd had his massive hands around Norton's throat again trying to choke him, and Norton knew that if he didn't do something drastic, Syd would more than likely kill him. Besides that, the big Queenslander was starting to run out of steam. Norton's hand went into the sink on top of an old cake of Sunlight Soap slopping on a plate that had been soaking. He grabbed the cake of soap and smashed it into Syd's face, squashing plenty into his eyes. The enraged roadie screamed with pain as the soap blinded him, and clutched at his burning eyes. This gave Les time to set himself and drive probably the best uppercut he'd ever thrown in his life up between Syd's elbows right on to the point of the chin. Les smiled to himself as he felt Syd's jaw crack under his fist like a dry biscuit. The roadie screamed some more as a follow-up left hook smashed out half his front teeth and another big right crushed his already battered nose. The tide of battle had finally swung in Norton's favour. Syd started to slide as Les grabbed him by his ponytail and
speared him from the kitchen, face down into what was left of the lounge room. He wrapped his left forearm around Syd's throat jamming his wrist into his Adam's apple. Gripping his left hand with his right, Les then stuck his knee behind Syd's neck and started squeezing the lot together.

‘Now,' hissed Norton, ‘see how you like being choked. You big cunt.'

Les could feel the blood and spittle bubbling out of Syd's mouth and face running over his arm. The big roadie made a futile grab at Norton's arms, then after a few nervous kicks began to go quiet. Norton still didn't let up; he was going to crush the life right out of Syd and, if need be, tear his head right off his body.

The next thing he knew Franulka was banging on his back shouting at him.

‘All right, Les. For Christ's sake, don't fuckin' kill him!'

‘Don't kill him?' retorted Les. ‘What do you think the prick was trying to do to me?' Norton continued crushing Syd's Adam's apple.

‘Fuck off, will you, Les? He's got to drive us to Revesby Workers' Club on Wednesday night.'

‘What?' Subconsciously Norton started to slacken his grip.

‘He's got to drive us to the gig on Wednesday night. Christ almighty!'

Norton looked up at Franulka and suddenly let go. Syd gurgled in some air through the blood and smashed teeth then passed out. At least he wasn't dead.

‘Ohh, Christ! Have a look at him,' cried Franulka. ‘How's he gonna drive the fuckin' truck on Wednesday?'

Norton crawled to one side of the room, trying to get his breath back. He continued to stare at Franulka. Here was their roadie or her boyfriend or whatever the poor sap was, smashed to a bloody pulp, half dead and all she could think about was whether he could drive their stinken purple truck through the week. Blues singers could have written a thousand songs about Franulka.
She might have been a top sort and an unbelievable screw but she was the original Hardhearted Hannah from New Orleans.

Naturally, all the noise and shouting brought the girls down from upstairs; Syd must have called for Franulka and they'dVe told him where she was. Wearing their tracksuits Gwen and Isla stepped cautiously up to the door and looked in. They saw Franulka and then Syd, covered in blood, lying at her feet.

‘Oh, God!'shrieked Gwen. ‘It's Syd! What happened?' She ran to Syd's side, cradled his head and began wiping away the blood.

‘Christ!' said Isla, and did the same thing.

‘Oh Syd, Syd,' Gwen seemed to be almost grief-stricken with tears streaming down her face, she looked accusingly at Franulka. ‘What happened?' she wailed.

‘He had a fight with Les,' she replied, a little indifferently.

Gwen and Isla glared at Norton. ‘You bastard,' said Gwen. ‘What did you have to do this for?'

Norton thought he was hearing things. ‘What did I do that for? To stop the big moron from doing the same thing to me. That's all.'

‘Ohh, no! Syd, Syd.' Gwen continued to hold Syd's head and mop his face with the front of her tracksuit.

‘Come on! We'd better get him to a hospital' said Isla. She gave Norton a steely look. ‘Bastard!'

‘No sweat,' said Franulka. ‘There's one across the road.'

Norton shook his head in disbelief. They couldn't miss the blood on Les, the poor bloody caretaker, yet not a word of sympathy, no apology, nothing. It could easily have been him lying there, not Syd. And only a lucky thing it wasn't. And it wasn't even his fault.

‘Well, come on, Les,' said Gwen. ‘Don't just sit there. Give us a hand.'

Give us a hand. Norton was just about to tell the three of them to get well and truly stuffed when there was the noise of a taxi pulling up out the front. Norton's
timing to make a big hit with the girls in the band couldn't have been better. Alastrina and Riona walked into the hallway carrying three pizzas. They couldn't miss what was going on in Norton's flat. Next thing they too were standing at Norton's door in a state of shock.

‘What happened?' gasped Alastrina.

‘Bloody Les did it,' said Gwen.

The two latest arrivals glared at Les. ‘Bastard,' they chorused.

Norton shook his head and didn't move. To a general chorus of bastard, cunt, prick and a string of other vile names all directed at him, the girls somehow managed to get Syd to his feet and carry him to the door and out into the hallway, leaving Franulka behind.

Franulka picked up the three pizzas, moved towards the door then stopped and looked at Les, ‘What can I say?' she shrugged.

From the floor Les gave her an expressionless once up and down and a sideways and back too. ‘How about goodnight?'

Franulka shrugged again then joined the others out the front.

Alone in the flat now Norton began to feel around his face through the pain and blood. He was going to have a black eye, a fat lip and a swollen nose in the morning and was bruised and scratched. But nothing was broken; it could have been a lot worse. He went to wipe some blood out of his eye, forgetting about the smears of soap still on his hand.

‘Oww, shit!' he cursed.

Les dragged himself to his feet and went to the bathroom where he filled the sink with water and wiped the soap from his eyes. While he was at it he checked himself out properly in the mirror. It was like he thought; plenty of bruising, a bit of bark missing, but nothing broken. But his genuine American George Strait Tour T-shirt was completely stuffed.

Back in the lounge room the wardrobe was smashed along with the table, but his ghetto blaster still worked.
The old night-and-day never got a scratch. Yeah, that'd be right, thought Les. Trust her not to get a mark on her. The devil Goddess or whatever she thinks she is probably put up some aura around her, or a vibe or some bloody thing while Syd and me were trying to smash each other to pulp. In fact if you ask me, this whole fuckin'joint's starting to get one giant, bad vibe about it. Something else kept nagging at Les about the old block of flats too but he just couldn't seem to put his finger on it. He needed someone to talk this over with. He looked at his watch which had also managed to survive the fight. It wasn't too late to ring a good friend.

The phone box across the road from the all-night garage opposite the flats was well-lit and not vandalised. Les jangled the coins in the slot, dialled and subconsciously turned back towards the old block of flats while he waited.

‘Yeah, hello?' came a voice he was sure he recognised.

‘Hello, Billy?'

‘Yeah.'

‘It's Les!'

‘Les! G'day mate. How's things?'

‘All right. Sorry I'm ringing a bit late.'

‘That's okay. We're almost ready to go home anyway.'

‘Sounds like you're gettin' it easy.'