The Day of the Gecko (25 page)

Eddie looked at them as if they were both talking Chinese. ‘Well, I think that's that. Why don't we grab these bodies and get the shithouse out of here?'

In the crisp silence after all the gunfire and explosions, Les could hear the breeze outside the handball court and the waves swirling over the rocks below. He also could almost feel the awful moaning, creaking sound he'd heard earlier, it was getting that loud now. Les was going to remark on this and changed his mind.

‘Yeah, good idea,' he nodded.

‘They're just over here,' said the major.

Les padded over in the dust as the major pulled out a knife then knelt down and started digging away at the edge of the hump he'd been scuffing at earlier. Eddie put his gun away, got a knife out and did the same. In no time there was a small cloud of dust around them and they had the first body prised out. It was wrapped in an old, dry oilskin — dusty, grimy, smelly and plain horrible, in general. Disgusted, but surprised at how light it was, Les grabbed the oilskin and laid it on the ground alongside him. Eddie and the major started digging furiously again and, before long, had the second body out. Les took it and laid it down next to the other one.

‘Right! That's it,' said Eddie, jumping out of the shallow hole they'd just dug. ‘Let's piss off!'

The major didn't move. ‘Hey, hang on, Eddie,' he said. ‘There's another body down here.'

‘There's what!?'

Eddie and Les peered into the hole where the major
had his torch flashing over something shining a dull, ash-coated black at his feet.

‘That's a body bag, Eddie. You don't need me to tell you that.' The Gecko moved the beam up to Eddie's face. ‘You never mentioned anything about this either.'

Eddie stared down at the body bag in total disbelief. ‘Shit! It's not bloody mine. Shit! Well, throw it in with the others, but I'm fucked if I know where it came from, Garrick.'

‘So you tell me.'

Eddie jumped back in the hole and helped Garrick dig the body bag out; Les bent down and took the end. It felt heavier than the two oilskins and even more horrible, and Les didn't like it one little bit. He didn't have a clue what was going on now. He was sure they were going to get sprung and all around him the dreadful, shuddering noise was getting louder like some crippled giant moaning out across the bay. Eddie and the major jumped out of the hole and picked up an oilskin each; Les took the body bag and the major's overnight bag. Then, like three dirty, filthy grave robbers in some Hammer movie, they clambered down the slope, half formed by the blast, to the rubber ducky rocking around gently nose-first where it was tied to the spike at the edge of the rockpool. Someone dressed in black, wearing a black balaclava, was standing in the front brandishing a paddle. Les didn't know the face, but he recognised the shape, and despite the horror show going on around him, he burst out laughing.

‘Don't tell me. It's bloody Rambo, and he's joined the IRA.'

‘Get fucked, Norton, you red-headed prick,' said
George Brennan. ‘I need your smart-arse remarks like I need a hole in the fuckin' head. About six hundred rats as big as Dobermans just tried to jump in the boat.'

‘Fuck the rats,' ordered Eddie, dumping his body in the back of the rubber ducky. ‘Just get the motor started and let's get going.'

‘Aye, aye, Captain.' George started moving to the back of the boat and hesitated. ‘Shit! What's that noise?'

‘Yes, I noticed it myself,' remarked the major. ‘It appears to be getting louder.' He dropped his body in the back of the rubber ducky and climbed in alongside it.

Les dumped his body bag on top of the others and climbed in next to the major. ‘I don't know what it is,' he said, wiping dust and sea spray from his face, ‘but something definitely ain't right.'

‘Just get the fuckin' boat going,' yelled Eddie, untying the line and turning the rubber ducky round so it faced the entrance to the rockpool. ‘Well, come on, George, you fat cunt,' he said, jumping into the boat opposite Les and the major, ‘what are you doing?'

George was belting away at the rope on the outboard motor trying to get it started, but, despite his curses and the frantic effort he was putting in, it refused to kick over. Les could hear sirens now and see lights coming on in all the surrounding blocks of units and other lights approaching the baths coming down Notts Avenue. The moaning, rumbling sound filling the air suddenly seemed to reach a horrible crescendo, then right before Norton's eyes the landing next to the stairs where the major threw the first hand grenade collapsed
with a rumbling crash onto the landing below, sending great lumps of concrete and other debris smashing through the metal railing into the pool below. Seconds later, the railing alongside went and the entire front of the Icebergs Club came down with it, hurling more concrete, metal girders and bricks into the pool along with shattering panes of glass, flattened window panes and wrecked poker machines. Then the roof started to cave in and more sections of wall began tumbling down. The Gecko's low-yield nuclear device had blown out the handball court exactly as he planned, but the shockwaves had turned the concrete cancer rotting away through the rest of the place terminal and the entire old building was now in its death throes. Another wall collapsed along with more of the clubhouse and another row of windows, showering more shards of glass and debris across the pool. Everybody in the rubber ducky was watching in awe, including George, who was still trying frantically to start the motor, and Eddie, joining him with the cursing. Then the creaking noise seemed to hit this one dreadful note and the water in the pool started to bubble and chum. Fascinated at first, Les watched as a small crack appeared in the comer of the baths closest to them and water started to jet out like a firehouse. Next thing, the wall at that end seemed to quiver, then explode out from the weight of the water it had held back all those years. Norton's look of fascination soon turned to horror as a swirling wall of water about three metres high came racing towards them, along with the splintered wood, smashed glass and tonnes of other debris tumbling around inside it.

‘George,' he shouted, ‘get that motor going for Christ's sake, or we're rat shit.'

Just as Les called out, the motor kicked in. George gave it a quick rev, then gunned the rubber ducky straight out the entrance to the rockpool as the wave from the baths engulfed it. The rubber ducky hit the edge of the wave and flipped up into the air at an angle, almost turning over. Somehow it managed to straighten itself up, then slam back down on the other side with a thump that nearly sent the four of them sailing out of the boat along with the three bodies. George settled back down, gunned the motor again, then hung a sharp right and they headed straight out of Bondi Bay.

‘Holy bloody shit!' yelled Eddie, above the roar of the outboard motor. ‘How about that?' The little hitman's adrenalin was still racing, and he could hardly keep to himself now he knew they were in the clear.

Norton was feeling pretty much the same. ‘Jesus! I thought we were gone for a minute there. And we would have, too, if it hadn't have been for Rambo here.' George didn't reply but, hunched over the outboard motor, his eyes were still sticking out from under his balaclava like two boiled eggs.

‘I've got a feeling I may possibly have used a drop too much red mercury,' said the major.

Norton made a gesture with one hand. ‘Well, you can't say I didn't offer to help you, Major.'

Fading behind them in the wind and the foaming wake from the rubber ducky, the old Bondi baths was still subsiding bit by bit and there were several small fires now, caused by broken power lines sending showers of sparks into the smoking rubble. The entire sea
wall of the baths had disintegrated and the main body of water was gone, but water was still pouring out, flushing whatever debris was left on the bottom of the pool with it. And floating or lying around somewhere were four bodies, along with their weapons.

‘Well, you did it, Major,' said Eddie. ‘Great job. You too, Les.' Eddie reached over and slapped the pair of them on the shoulder. ‘I'll tell you what, Garrick, you should have seen the explosion from out here. It looked unbelievable. You sure know what you're doing.'

‘Thank you, Eddie,' acknowledged the major, ‘but there is one thing I'd like to discuss with you. I don't think you've been entirely honest with me, my boy.'

‘Honest?' Eddie seemed genuinely hurt. ‘What are you talking about, Major?'

The Gecko nodded to the ghastly pile sitting on the floor of the boat. ‘The body bag, Eddie. There was nothing in the contract about a third body. Two, I was told.'

‘Shit! I forgot all about the bloody thing.'

‘Yes, so I'd noticed,' replied the major.

Eddie was adamant almost to the point of remorse. ‘Mate, I swear, I don't know anything about it, or how it got there. Or who's in it. I know who's in the oilskins, but I'm fucked if I know who or what's in the body bag.'

‘Ohh yeah.'

While the wind flicked at their hair, Eddie and the major got into a mildly heated discussion about the body bag; with Eddie swearing on a stack of bibles Evel Knievel couldn't have jumped over that he knew nothing about it or who the blokes were shooting at
them from up on the landing. Sitting on the sidelines, Les could see that Eddie was telling the truth. Les also got the impression the major was winding Eddie up a bit as well. Finally the major appeared to accept Eddie's story.

‘All right,' he conceded, ‘I'll believe you this time, but don't let it happen again.'

Eddie grinned and pulled out his knife again. ‘I suppose we should have a look and see what's in the bloody thing while we're here.'

‘Ohh, Christ, Eddie,' said Les. ‘Do you have to?'

‘Yeah, why not? It might be full of money. It might be Elvis Presley.'

‘Actually, I'm a little curious myself,' said the major.

The Gecko shone his torch over the body bag while Eddie went to stab his knife in the top and slash it open. He didn't need to. The thick plastic zipper still worked and Eddie was able to open it easily. Les stared into the torch's beam for a reluctant look. It was the skeleton of a man in an old blue tracksuit. Strips of dried brown skin clung to the bones, a thick mop of grey hair, now more a greasy brown, sat on the skull and whoever it was had a strong jawline. The eyes were just empty dried-out sockets with more skin spread tightly around them like brown Glad Wrap. A sickening gassy odour came from the bag — and how long the body had been in there was anybody's guess. Whatever. It definitely wasn't the nicest thing Les had ever seen, or smelled.

‘Well, there's fuck all in here,' said Eddie. ‘And it definitely ain't Elvis. This bloke's got a good head of hair. But no sideburns, baby.'

‘Whoever it is,' said the major, ‘he had a bloody good set of teeth. Have a look.'

‘Yeah, you're right,' agreed Eddie. ‘They're perfect.' He turned to Norton. ‘Who do you reckon it is, Les? We know it's not Elvis.'

‘I don't know and I don't care. Zip the fuckin' thing back up. It's giving me the creeps.'

‘Heh-heh-heh!' Eddie went to zip the body bag back up and stopped. ‘Hey, wait a minute. There is something in here.' Les thought he noticed the major's torch catch on a piece of plastic. Eddie pulled it out. It was a white T-shirt wrapped in a plastic bag sealed with durex tape and looked as good as the day it was put inside.

The Gecko ran his torch over it. On the left chest, printed in small blue letters, was the word
THARUNKA
.

‘Tharunka', said the major. ‘I'm just trying to think what that is.'

‘Wasn't that something to do with a university back during the Vietnam War?' said Eddie. ‘I can't remember for sure.' He gave the T-shirt another once-over and handed it to Norton. ‘Here, Les, you have it. You like collecting T-shirts.'

‘I don't want the fuckin' thing.'

‘Go on, take it. It looks like your size.'

‘Oh, all right.' Les took the T-shirt and stuffed it inside his vest, knowing Eddie was winding him up a bit and he could dump the grisly thing somewhere later.

They skimmed across the ocean another two kilometres or so until Bondi and the Eastern suburbs were just a spider web of light in the distance. Around them
was nothing but a breeze on their faces and inky blackness, punctuated occasionally by the moon appearing briefly behind the clouds.

‘How much further, Eddie?' asked Les.

Eddie looked at his watch. ‘We're there.'

George slowed the rubber ducky down, the major stood up and gave a couple of quick blips with his torch and the aft lights on a game fishing boat lit up about fifty metres away. George eased the rubber ducky towards a metal ramp just above the propeller and Les could see the name —
Splashdown
. He had half an idea who owned it, when a voice with a kind of wheezy chuckle in it boomed out, ‘God strike me! It's McHale's Navy and Rambo's the skipper. Stop the fight, I'm getting out of here.'

The voice belonged to James D. Gloves, a happy-go-lucky, dinky-di Aussie bloke who ran a fishing magazine and did a show on radio. Gloves's three loves in life were fishing, women and corny jokes saturated with Australian rhyming slang. He was holding a line above the metal ramp, and was wearing jeans, a fishing cap and a fishing jacket over a dark T-shirt.

‘How are you, JD?' said Eddie. ‘All right?'

‘Homy as a Kimberleys cattle drive. You haven't got a couple of Barossa Pearls in those bags, have you, Eddie? I've got a larrikin's hat that hard you could smash beer bottles on it. I'll give her one before they go swimming. I don't mind a bit of necrophilia. An eye for an eye and a stiff for a stiff. That's my motto.'