The Godson (26 page)

The drinks arrived. Les sculled his first bourbon to keep up with Madden. ‘How often do you do the caretaking on the farm, Ron?'

‘Two or three times a week. That estate agent doesn't pay all that much.'

‘Benny Rabinski?' chuckled Norton. ‘That'd be about right.'

‘But he pays for all me piss.'

That'd be enough, thought Norton, as the little caretaker downed the first can of VB, got rid of the can and immediately attacked the next one.

‘Whereabouts around here do you live?' asked Peregrine.

‘Not far from you. Next valley before the National Park.'

‘On your own?'

‘With a couple of mates.'

‘You'll have to call round before we go back, Ron,' said Les. ‘Have a bit of a drink and a barby.'

‘All right.'

‘Pity my girlfriend's father isn't out here,' said Peregrine. ‘He owns a brewery back in England. I'm sure he'd like to meet you.'

Norton gave the Englishman a steely look.

‘Anyway,' said Ronnie, downing can number three. ‘I'm in a shout back there, I'd better get back. Nice to meet you fellahs, I'll see you again. Thanks for the drink.'

‘You're welcome, Ron,' smiled Norton. ‘See you after, mate.' Ronnie gave them a quick wink and returned to his friends at the end of the bar. ‘Christ! Did you see that?' Norton's face was quite flushed from having to down a double Jack Daniel's and Coke. ‘Could that little cunt put 'em away or what?'

Peregrine was already half pissed from drinking champagne back at the farm and the two double brandies had now topped him right off. ‘I meant it when I said Stephanie's father would like to see him, Les. Believe me he would. I also know a couple of Harley Street specialists that would like to see Baldric's liver and kidneys too.'

‘Baldric?' queried Les. ‘What's this Baldric?'

‘Don't you think he looks like that fellow out of “The Black Adder”?'

‘His manservant?' Norton looked along the bar at the little caretaker who was turned side on to them and a ripple of laughter went through his body. ‘Yeah, you're not wrong, Pezz.'

They stood there watching the crowd while they drank, when another familiar face loomed up at the bar next to Peregrine. Les recognised her and smiled briefly; she smiled a pissy smile back. It was the butcher's wife. She'd changed into her Friday night ‘kill 'em' gear, a tight black knitted tank top and a black leather mini that her fat backside just squeezed into. Peregrine smiled at her as well, just as one of his songs came on the jukebox. The Young Ones murdering ‘Living Doll'.

‘I say, my dear,' he said to the butcher's wife, who looked just as drunk as he was. ‘Would you care for a dance?'

It was for sure no one had ever approached the butcher's wife like that before, not in Yurriki anyway. ‘Yeah, righto,' she cackled. ‘Why bloody not.'

Peregrine and the butcher's wife started boogalooing around in front of the jukebox, much to the amusement of several of the patrons and Les. The butcher's wife probably hadn't cracked it for too many dances lately and was giving it everything she had and having the time of her life. Peregrine was having a good time too — because he was pissed out of his brain. They stopped boogalooing and got into a bit of dirty dancing. Peregrine was no Patrick Swayze and the butcher's wife no Jennifer Grey but what they lacked in technique they more
than made up for in drunken enthusiasm. Peregrine spun her around and she threw her arms up. One tit fell out of her top and the crowd roared. She kicked her legs up, the crowd got a flash of red knickers and roared again. Norton nearly cracked up. Peregrine pouted and arched his back, whirled her around and around as the song finished, finally spinning her up against the bar next to Les with one of her legs on his shoulder. She was a bit starry-eyed and didn't know quite what to do when Peregrine kissed the back of her hand.

‘My dear,' he said, ‘that was absolutely delightful. Allow me the pleasure of buying you a drink.'

The butcher's wife was about to say yes, when a drunken voice close by roared out, ‘Hey! That's my bloody missus you're mauling, you bastard.' Wobbling around like a jellyfish, his eyes bulging and his smother all over his head, was the local butcher.

Peregrine gave him a withering once up and down from over his shoulder. ‘I'm terribly sorry, sir,' he sniffed. ‘I thought she was your mother.'

This didn't go over too well with either the butcher or his wife. ‘Oh, a bloody smart bastard, eh?' slobbered the butcher. ‘We'll soon see how smart you are, mug.'

He made a drunken lunge at Peregrine, who instinctively brought his hand up and pushed the butcher in the chest. The butcher was that drunk he was flat out staying on his feet and reeled back towards the pool table just as a big redheaded bloke with a bushy red beard brought his pool cue up for a cushion shot. It hit the butcher smack on the temple and knocked him flatter than a blob of cowshit. From the crowd's point of view it looked as though Peregrine had thrown the best straight left since Muhammed Ali.

The butcher's wife let out a wail and rushed to her stricken husband snoring peacefully beside the pool table. She pointed an accusing finger at Peregrine. ‘That rotten bastard just jobbed me husband!'

Dumbfounded, Peregrine looked at Norton, who for a split second closed his eyes. Friday night in a bush pub, the mob's full of piss and two strangers are in town starting fights and trying to steal their wives … Here we go again, thought Les. Next thing it was on.

Some big bloke in a Levis jacket lunged at Peregrine. Whether he just wanted to grab him or throw a punch Norton didn't know but he wasn't taking any chances. He blocked the bloke's arm with his left and slammed a short right into his ribs. The
mug barely had time to gasp before Les slammed his right fist down the side of his head mashing his ear like banana. He gasped this time and hit the floor at Peregrine's feet, out like a light. A punter with a beard jumped forward, flush into a straight left from Les that splattered his nose right across his face. As he dropped his hands Norton kicked him right in the balls then when he sagged, grabbed him by the hair and ran him head first into the bar. He slumped into the butt tray, blood pouring out of his nose and forehead all over Ronnie Madden's crushed VB cans.

That was two down plus the local butcher. The mob stopped for a moment then some other hero threw a big left hook at Les. Les ducked under it and banged a right into the mug's ribs and another over the top into his jaw, breaking it in about five places. He too got grabbed by the hair and slammed head first into the bar to land face up next to his mate, blood oozing out of his mouth and scalp. Norton was a little off balance now, with his back to the mob, and he just had time to see another big goose try to take him from behind. It was time for a bit of fancy stuff.

When it came to straight out rough-and-tumble street fighting and boxing there weren't many better than Les or Billy Dunne. However, with all these new styles of fighting going round and after their own experiences at work, they both decided that it wouldn't hurt to know a bit of this Oriental stuff. And the bloke they got to teach them was George Osvaldo, a half Portuguese, half Korean who used to run Kung Fu classes in a hall near Coogee when Martial Arts movies were all the go and everybody wanted to be Bruce Lee. George worked at another casino in Rozelle so they got to be mates and they started training with him at Clovelly Surf Club early on Tuesdays and Wednesdays when nobody else was around. George taught them a style of fighting that was a cross between Hapkido and Thai Boxing. It didn't look quite as spectacular as the stuff on the screen, but if you did plenty of leg stretches it sure worked.

Norton grabbed at the bar for support and fired a snap side kick with his left foot straight into the fourth mug's chest just near his heart and felt the ribs crack under his heel. The mug clutched at his chest, sagged a little, and Les spun a crescent kick with his right foot onto his jaw, smashing it down one side. He bounced back off the mob and as he wasn't quite standing up Norton was able to get him with a hook kick, his right heel smashing the other side of his jaw, and he hit
the deck. There was a solid bloke in front of Les wearing an old army shirt; Les sunk the toes of his left foot into his solar plexus, then grabbed him by the shoulder with his left hand and smashed his right elbow into his temple, splitting his eyebrow like a tomato. Les held him up and, with all his shoulder behind it, drove a straight right into his face, cannoning him through a gap in the mob and off the big red-headed bloke with the beard who had accidentally started the fracas in the first place, onto the pool table. Blood spurted out of his mouth, he gave a cough of pain and several teeth plopped out, adding a nice touch of white and red to the green felt table, before he too collapsed on the floor.

By now the mob had begun to realise that the red-headed stranger in their midst was, to say the least, horrifyingly efficient in the fighting department. There were battered and bleeding bodies lying everywhere and it was obvious that trying to get one in on Les was fast becoming a no result, so they dropped off. The jukebox had stopped playing and a couple of kids were crying as Les stood there, still tense, and exchanged glances with Peregrine. It looked like it was all over when the butcher's wife, who had missed nearly all the action, tending her husband, dropped her husband's head, jumped up and went for Peregrine.

‘You dirty low bastard,' she shrieked. ‘Bash my husband, will you?'

‘Oh, you stupid woman,' protested Peregrine. ‘I did no such bloody thing.'

‘Bullshit!!'

She lurched forward tripping slightly over one of the bodies on the floor. Peregrine turned to Les and tried to get out of her way and he too stumbled over a body at his feet. His head went forward and the butcher's wife walked straight into it. From the mob's point of view it now looked as if Peregrine had head butted her. She screamed and, with a trickle of blood running out of her eyebrow, fell back into a woman wearing a white Levis jacket. As she held up the butcher's wife, blood went all over the sleeve.

‘Look what the animal's just done!' shouted the woman in the white jacket. ‘He's hit a woman.'

The mood of the mob turned sour. They angrily surged forward. There was just too many of them.

‘Fuck this,' said Norton and he grabbed Peregrine by the collar and propelled him towards the door; by the time the mob had worked out who was going to be brave enough to lead the charge at Les, he and Peregrine were on their way
to the car. As they went through the front door, Les heard a voice call out.

‘See you, Les. Thanks again for the drink.' It was the caretaker.

Norton caught his strange, almost knowing look. ‘Yeah. See you later, Ronnie,' he said tightly. The next thing he and Peregrine were burning rubber back towards Cedar Glen.

They reached the Nimbin turnoff before Peregrine, still trying to get into his seat belt, spoke.

‘Good Lord,' he gasped. ‘What was all that about?'

‘What was all that about?' recoiled Norton. ‘What do you
think
it was about, you fuckin' ratbag? You king-hit the local butcher and then you head butted his wife. Jesus! We're lucky we got out of the place alive.'

‘I swear to you, Les,' pleaded Peregrine. ‘I hardly did a thing. He fell over and she bumped into me.'

‘Bullshit! You started it. And no wonder the poor bloke got the shits. You just about tried to root his missus on the dance floor.'

‘We were only dancing. Having a bit of fun.'

‘Bollocks, Peregrine. You're a sex-crazed mad dog. You'll end up getting us hung. No wonder the IRA want to kill you.'

Les gave poor Peregrine the rounds of the kitchen all the way back to the farm. But underneath, it was all he could do to keep from cracking up. He'd seen exactly what had happened and knew it wasn't really Peregrine's fault. It was also one of the funniest things he'd seen and one of the best fights he'd ever been in. Blokes went everywhere — only the mugs who deserved it got hurt and Les never got a scratch on him. It was just as much fun, though, making Peregrine sweat.

Back at the barbecue area, the Englishman was still in despair and no amount of pleading could convince Norton that it wasn't entirely his fault. Les opened a bottle of Jim Beam, got some ice together and poured them both a stiff bourbon and Coke.

‘Here you are, Henry Cooper,' he said. ‘Get that into you.'

‘Les, please. You're going on like I'm some sort of nutter. I swear to you it was an accident.'

Norton watched as Peregrine took a gulp on his drink. ‘Yeah, all right. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt with the butcher. But if you're gonna run round getting into fights, you don't want to go head butting sheilas. It doesn't go over too well out here.'

‘Oh Good God, Les, how many times do I have to tell you? I didn't touch the wretched woman.'

‘I dunno,' said Norton, shaking his head. ‘But I'll take your word for it.'

Peregrine took a mouthful of bourbon and gave Norton a baleful look. ‘Anyway, you needn't talk,' he spluttered. ‘You looked like you were having the time of your life back there thumping into those unfortunate fellows. You must have done for about ten of them. God! I've never seen so much blood in my life.'

‘What?!! Ohh, turn it up, Peregrine. I got a few lucky shots in on about four drunks — that's all. Anyway, what did you expect me to do? Stand back and let a bloodthirsty mob tear apart the man whose life my boss made me vow I would lay down my own to protect?'

Peregrine thought on it for a moment. ‘Yes,' he conceded. ‘I suppose you're right. I didn't think of that. But really, was there any need to just about kick one chap's head off? And almost put another's through the bar?'