The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (41 page)

‘You just caught me young fella,' he said with a wheezy smile. ‘Another two minutes and I'd've closed up.'

‘Good on you mate,' winked Norton.

‘So what can I do you for?' The owner hobbled around behind the counter.

‘Well mate. I need a bag of superphosphate and a can of thinners for a start.'

‘No worries.'

Norton shook his head. ‘You'd have to say that, wouldn't you.' The owner reached down behind the counter, got what Les ordered and placed them on top. ‘Righto. I'll tell you what else I want,' nodded Norton.

He ordered the other materials for his home-made explosive, materials that can be bought in just about any hardware store. The owner found a cardboard carton and began stacking them in it.

‘I'm gonna need about ten metres of copper wire too,' said Norton.

The owner shook his head. ‘Can't help you there lad. The most I can give you is about twelve feet. I ran out on Thursday and I'm waiting for the truck from Melbourne on Monday.'

‘Shit! Do you know where I might be able to get some?'

‘There's a TV repair shop at the far end of town,' replied the owner, screwing his face up. ‘You could try him. But I think he closes at twelve.'

‘I'll try him anyway.' Norton gritted his teeth slightly and checked what was in the carton. ‘Okay. Give us a plastic bucket, a pair of pliers and a can opener, and that should just about do me.'

‘No worries.'

‘Righto. Now what do I owe you?'

The owner itemised everything on the bill and rang up $87.80.

Norton paid him, thanked him and left the shop. He put the carton on the back seat of the Ford and drove up to the garage. He wanted a can of diesel fuel, but they could only give it to him in a plastic container. He got four litres and a large can of oil. These went in the boot.

Norton was a bit concerned when he cruised down the main street to find the TV shop closed. Three metres of copper wire was a bit too close for his liking. Maybe he'd find some somewhere else.

The chemist shop was easy and the skinny young chemist very helpful. He had everything Norton needed including the zinc oxide. The only thing that made the chemist a little curious was why Norton needed 300 grams. The six rolls of sticking plaster, the eye-dropper and two large torch batteries were a clue.

All Les needed in the supermarket was icing sugar and rubber gloves, plus a couple of Cherry Ripes to chew on while he was working. His only problem now was to find
some more wire of some description. Three metres was definitely too close. If the bomb worked properly, and if it didn't blow his head off, at that distance it could possibly deafen him. He decided to drift around the shops and see if he could spot something while he chewed on one of his Cherry Ripes.

He strolled over to the St Vincent de Paul opportunity shop and gazed absently in the window. He was going to need a couple of old T-shirts or something to wipe his hands on and clean up that oil. Then something just inside the window caught his eye and solved his problem.

There were two apple-faced elderly women in the shop having a cup of tea and some scones when Les walked in. They had blue-rinse hair, twin-sets with pearl necklaces and were all matronly charm and smiles.

‘Hello young man,' beamed one. ‘What can we do for you?'

‘I'll just have a bit of a look around,' replied Norton, returning the smile. ‘I might find something I like.'

‘No worries.' The two women went back to their tea, scones and conversation as Les drifted in amongst the racks of old clothes, tables of shoes, books, handbags and dozens of other odds and ends people had discarded.

An old three-in-one stereo had caught his eye from outside the window. Sitting on top of the speakers were two neatly rolled bundles of extension lead. Norton quickly ran his hands over them and judged them to be at least six metres long. Plenty. Jesus he thought. A man'd be a low bastard to steal something out of a St Vincent de Paul shop. I mean, that is about as low as you can get. With a deft tug he tore the two leads from the back of the speakers and dropped them down the front of his tracksuit top. The two old biddies, still munching away on their tea and scones, were completely oblivious to Norton's daring but heinous crime. On the way back to the counter Les picked up a couple of T-shirts.

‘How much for these?' he asked, dropping them on the glass top.

‘Those two,' said the woman closest. ‘Oh a dollar. Is that all right?'

‘Fair enough.' Les pulled out a fifty and dropped it on the counter.

‘Oh, dear, I don't think we can change that.'

‘Can't you. Ohh well. Don't worry about it. I like to give a donation to the church now and again anyway.'

‘Ooh goodness,' said the other woman. ‘That's a lot of money.'

‘Ahh that's okay,' smiled Norton. ‘I'm a good Catholic boy.'

‘You must be,' beamed the first woman. ‘Thank you very much.'

‘That's okay.'

‘There should be more young Christian gentlemen around like you,' she said. ‘Not like some others in the district we know. Eh Doris.'

‘That's perfectly right Thelma. Not like some others.'

‘What do you mean by that?' asked Norton. He wasn't in all that much of a hurry and the almost shocked look on Doris had him curious.

‘Those people up in Reservoir Road,' she replied with an indignant roll of her eyes.

‘Reservoir Road?' That name rings a bell thought Norton.

‘Yes. That church of scientific mumbo-jumbo. Or whatever it is they call themselves.'

‘You mean the Church of Scientific Achievement,' said Les. ‘What? They no good are they?'

‘No good,' huffed Doris. ‘They're absolutely disgraceful. They've broken up at least six families in the district with their brainwashing methods. They get the children you know.'

‘Go on, eh,' said Norton, trying hard not to laugh.

‘And poor old Mr Collier,' said Thelma. ‘It was dreadful the way they got his land off him. He's almost ninety too. Poor old soul.'

Norton looked at the two gossipy old matrons. Christ, I'd hate to get on the wrong side of this pair. ‘Oh well,' he chuckled, folding up the two T-shirts, ‘the good Lord works in mysterious ways. You never know. These people might get their just deserts one of these days.'

‘Oh they'll get their comeuppances one day young man,' intoned Doris. ‘Mark my words.'

‘I'm marking,' smiled Norton. He picked up the T-shirts and moved towards the door. ‘Anyway. I must get going. I'll see you again.'

‘Goodbye young man. God bless you. And thank you very much for the donation.'

For some reason Les couldn't help himself. He stopped at the doorway, turned around, grinned and stuck his thumb up. ‘No worries,' he said with a huge wink.

Well that's about it I think, mused Les, dropping the Tshirts on the back seat of the car. He had a look at his watch, it was just after three. He still had plenty of time because
it would be no good blowing up that pier till it was dark, which should be six o'clock at the latest. That should give him ample time to drive back to Melbourne, get cleaned up and be at that disco to meet Pamela by nine-thirty. Sweet, he thought. Or as they so often like to say around these here parts, no worries.

Les decided to grab a half dozen cans at the pub as he drove back out along Plenty Road. He didn't turn left into Reservoir, however. He went another five kilometres further on towards Melbourne, found a secluded little place just off the road under some trees and stopped there.

Now. How did me and Murray and the old man use to make these bloody things? I can remember the ingredients but I'm not too sure of the measurements he pondered as he spread some on the grass and others on the roof of the car. Christ, it's been bloody years. You start with the superphosphate don't you. But how much did we use? The old man used to measure it in ounces. Was it a pound? Oh well, a bit more won't hurt. He threw closer to 800 grams in the plastic bucket and added half the icing sugar, then gradually added the other materials leaving the zinc oxide till last. Satisfied there was enough there, he gave it a good stir with his hands.

He opened the bonnet of the car, uncapped the battery and filled the eye dropper with battery acid. Now, how much acid do we use? Four drops? Ohh bugger it. He squirted the lot into the bucket. As soon as it hit the other elements it started smouldering and giving off poisonous fumes. Right. Got to hurry now. But what goes in next? The thinners, the diesel or the piss? And how much do I use? Ohh s'pose it doesn't matter all that much. He poured in nearly all the thinners and half the diesel and pissed about half a cupful on top of that. With the rubber gloves on now, he churned everything up in the bucket till it was about the same consistency as plaster of Paris. Looks a bit thick he thought. He added the rest of the thinners, most of the diesel and a little more urine. Which made it too thin. So he added more fertilizer and the rest of the icing sugar.

He tipped all the oil out of the can, opened the top half way around with the can opener, then wiped any excess oil off with one of the T-shirts and a bit of petrol. Watching to make sure he didn't catch his hands on the jagged edges, Norton started packing the mix into the can. When it was full, he got a thick piece of branch and pounded more in
until it was packed solid. I don't know, he thought, looking at it while he had a swallow from his can of beer, there seems to be a lot more there than what we used to use. Oh well. As long as it works, that's the main thing.

With the pliers and a small pocket-knife he had in his overnight bag Norton managed to punch a hole in the middle of the top of the can. He wound the length of copper wire he'd bought at the hardware store to the small wire fuse on the detonator, then pushed the detonator down into the mix with a stick. He threaded the wire through the hole in the lid, then flattened it down. After that it was only a matter of binding the lid down tight with the sticking plaster, which he did over another can of Carlton Draught. Norton then had a crude, rather heavy home-made bomb, roughly the same size as a two litre can of oil.

Well if that don't work, thought Norton, nothing will. He had another look at it while he finished his beer. I dunno. It just seems a bit bigger and heavier than the ones me and the old man used to make. Still, that's a pretty solid pier I've got to blow. He gave his shoulders a shrug. Then again, the bloody thing mightn't work at all. Still, you can only try.

There were two cans of beer left. Les had another one, checked his watch and had a look at the sun. It would be dark in around an hour and a half. He put the radio on softly and decided to have a sleep on the front seat for a while. But the five beers must have put him in a bit of a coma and it was just after seven when he woke up.

Shit thought Norton, blinking at the dashboard clock. I'd better get bloody moving. He had a quick leak while he checked around the car to make sure he hadn't left any mess or incriminating evidence behind, then sped off back to Reservoir Road.

With the pine trees swaying gently behind it in the moonlight, the little church looked more peaceful and serene than ever when Les pulled up opposite and switched off his headlights. There was no-one around and the only signs of any life were the lowing of a few cows and the faint lights of some distant farmhouses. He drove down a little further, did a U-turn to bring him under the pine trees and killed the motor.

After standing cautiously in the shadows for a few moments, Norton opened the boot and took out the bomb, the trenching tool, the batteries and the speaker leads. He put the batteries
in the pocket of his tracksuit top and walked across to the church, leaving the boot of the car open. He had a small torch with him, but the light from an almost full moon was enough for him to see what he was doing. It didn't take long, barely enough to raise a sweat, and he had a hole dug between the pier and the rock about a metre deep. That ought to be heaps deep enough he thought. He attached the leads to the copper wire, bound them with sticking plaster and placed the bomb in the hole, lid against the rock. He pushed it in firmly, then covered it with soil, patting that down firmly with his feet as well. There was a small culvert about midway between the church and the pine trees. Les ran the leads out behind him and lay down there. It didn't take him long to rip the batteries out of their plastic covering and tape them together with sticking plaster. The ends of the speaker leads were already exposed so that was it. He was ready to go.

Well, thought Norton, wedging the batteries into the soil and positioning the speaker wires just above the points. If this thing works properly it should just blow that pier away. And I can soon toss out any bits of concrete left over, then dig around a bit before anyone comes over to see what the noise was. Anyway, here we go. He held the leads above the batteries, had a last look around to make sure there were no passing cars, put his face down and touched the wires to the points.

Les was right that he knew the correct materials. But he'd certainly stuffed up the measurements. The charge went off like a car-bomb in Beirut. There was an almost ear splitting
Ka-Blam
that shook the ground around him and sent a tremendous thunderclap rolling and echoing through the surrounding hills and valleys. Wide eyed, his ears still ringing, Norton looked up just in time to see a huge orange and black fireball illuminate the surrounding countryside as it spiralled up into the night sky through the ashes, burning cinders and other debris raining down around him. In its glow Les couldn't quite believe his eyes. The concrete pier was gone all right. So was the vestibule and half the side of the church. What hadn't been blown away was burning and the fire was spreading fast.

‘Jesus bloody Christ!' said Norton as he watched the tongues of flame licking hungrily up towards the roof of the church. ‘I knew I shouldn't have used all that icing sugar.'