The Worm King (27 page)

He quietly opened the door to room 235. Bob stood
on a chair with his ear pressed to the wall, one good eye watching the door as
Dick entered. The pale, creepy man dismounted without a word, and they went to
the side door which joined this room to 233. Normally the hotel kept the side-doors
locked, creating separate suites, unless some rich fuck decided he wanted space
from the rug rats and paid-up to shovel them in the adjoining room. These days Mr
Bob ran the Hyatt’s side-door policy, and he decreed this one be left unlocked.
They entered Bob’s room.

Bob! You really have let things go. A soiled
sleeping bag lay on the bed. In the distant past, the bag would’ve been patterned
in cheerful, purple-on-white circles and squares, but now displayed only a
mosaic of grays and rusty-colored, suspicious smears. No pillow or sheets or
blankets. Next to the bed stood an upended wooden crate, and sitting on this,
where one might normally have an alarm clock, he’d placed a butchers cleaver
and rectangular grit-stone. In the corner nearest the window lay Stefan Milosevic,
managing partner of prominent Canberra legal firm Mellon, Milosevic and Enright.
He was trussed up on the carpet like a Christmas turkey. Except for the tape
that is: you won’t usually find packing tape wrapped around your turkey’s
mouth, or beak, as the case may be. However the eyes were spot on: Stefan Milosevic’s
eyes bulged exactly like a Chrissy turkey.

Bob closed the joining door. No friendly
greeting or banter or idle chitchat. ‘Da Dago and the girl’th are th’till
playing cardth. Haven’t thaid nuffin. Was gabbling away wid dat udder fag waiter
yethterday, but today, nuffin.’

The girls and the Griffith councilor had
been playing cards since the lights came on, before his meeting with the Brigadier
and the Captain. ‘You know where they put that army fellow who’s staying here?’
He had a feeling Hensley might be struggling to keep his head above water just
like everybody else, so keeping tabs on the army was imperative.

‘Told dem down da end of thith corrwidor
thumwhere, but don’t know exthactly width one day put dim in.’ Bob sat on the bed
within easy reach of the crate. The puffiness on the side of his face seemed to
be tightening, which may explain why his lisp sounded worse than usual,
although directly around the stabbed eye itself appeared less infected, and no
longer suppurated. He picked up the cleaver. ‘Can I burn dat wubbish pile out
da back? I tink da dwarth might be hiding thumwhere wound it.’

Dick leant against the wall, looking down at
Milosevic. ‘Why can’t you shoot him?’

‘I twied. Mithed. He’th a cunning widdle
thit.’

It occurred to Dick that a fire risked
setting the hotel alight. ‘You be careful you don’t burn the whole place down.’
Sometimes Bob could be a terribly naughty boy.

The hog-tied Stefan Milosevic groaned. On
the carpet next to Milosevic a bloodstain took up at least 20% of the rooms
total floor space. About the size of a kiddies paddling pool. Stefan himself was
unhurt, more or less. He could undoubtedly claim some mental anguish, but right
at the moment his main concern would be what Bob up to.

Zzzzzssssshhhht! Zzzzzssssshhhht!
Zzzzzssssshhhht!
Bob pushed the blade across the
stone; down, then back; down, then back; down, then back; down then back.

Bob only had one hobby. When he wasn’t out hurting
people, he’d sharpen his knives and get ready to go out and . . .
 go,
run gory dog, run!

The paddling-pool puddle had that thick,
oily sheen arterial blood gets when it’s had a few hours to congeal, and the
carpet had soaked up as much as it could take, so a dense, tangy, coppery odor
hung in the air.

If the dwarf remained out there, maybe he should
move the twins again?

Zzzzzssssshhhht!
‘Don’t wowee, I’ll wait till da windth b’wowing wight. Da pile damp
dough, tho I’ll need thum petwool to get it th’tarted.’

Dick couldn’t stand the dwarf, however was
reluctant to part with any of his precious fuel supply simply to set the idiot
alight. That’s what made him a truly great leader: always willing to put strategic
necessities before entertainment. He paused, on the verge of suggesting Bob try
starting it with torn-up books from the hotel, when an idea gushed forth. ‘Get the
petrol from that truck parked out front of the gates.’

‘Twuck?’

‘Yes, you know, that old blue pickup? Bring
it in first. It belongs to the bitch from the station. I’ve been meaning to do
that for a while.’

Another job done; he was on a roll. Dick
looked at Stefan Milosevic’s taped up face once more, then walked across to the
lawyer and bent down, getting quite close so he could stare right into his eyes.
Tiny puffs of cold air shot from Milosevic’s nose at a quicker and quicker
rate. Only a true connoisseur tapes up a live bird’s mouth like that, before
sending it ovenside. Dick reached out and pressed his index finger against one
nostril, so the puffs coming out the other nostril doubled in pace, and then
some. Despite the cold air, sweat poured down the lawyer’s forehead.

Most think the tape is to stop the incessant
gobbling, but that’s not the reason at all.

Zzzzzssssshhhht!

It’s so every bit of expression comes out
through those eyes.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Hand Crank

Ā
miria was scared of what her father might say about a trade she’d just
made. Now it didn’t seem such a good deal after all, although when she saw what
the Hat returned with, her spirits lifted. Surely mine can’t be as useless as
his!?

They’d all been sent on a thirty-minute, emergency
supply-gathering mission around the gymnasium. The air stank, and according to
Lord Brown, one hundred and thirty-nine people were crammed in. Every time they
opened the door, those nearest got too cold and started whinging so they had to
close it again.

The Hat returned with two pornographic
magazines and a tennis racket so she decided to press ahead and tentatively
opened the rucksack. Her father peered inside.

‘I swapped all our food for three hand
grenades.’ She shook the bag slightly and it emitted a soft, metallic
clunk
which made her father jump back a step. ‘It’s okay. They work, but you have to
pull that ring bit on the top first. The fūlla showed me how to use them,
promise.’

The instruction to gather supplies had gone
out after a rumor was officially confirmed: at one minute past midnight tomorrow,
the Masons were going to hang a man for looting. Just string him up, from a
power pole at the main intersection in the middle of Tamworth. Lord Brown
thought this an excellent sign.

Sgt Kevin told them about the hanging when
he arrived to collect Tim. The sun didn’t even vaguely appear today, and it felt
colder. Some of the older people were saying what they
thought
was the
sun two days ago had just been the reflection of distant fires, but Āmiria
knew this wasn’t the case; it
had
been the sun, she was sure of it.

The sergeant pulled his coat tighter and
stamped his feet briskly on the wooden floor, trying to warm up. He’d spoken
with the Mason on the way in but weaved his way over alone, the Mason remaining
on the tower, reading. Her father waved a hand over his bedroll indicating they
sit. Hemi picked up the lantern for this particular corner of the gym from its
designated spot five meters away, which he wasn’t supposed to do, and moved it to
the narrow walkway running alongside Āmiria’s bedroll. Sgt Kevin, her
father, Lord Brown and the Hat sat. Āmiria squeezed in close behind her father,
with Tim on one side, and Tamati, Hemi and Geoff on the other.

The sergeant looked grim. ‘Listen Wiri,
there’s a couple of things. I don’t like some of this any more than you might,
but I gotta pass it on. Yeah, that deal with the looter’s a shocker, but I hear
it was actually much worse than you might’ve heard, because the old lady who
owned the house was still in there when he went through, and they reckon he
molested her something awful, but she’s too shocked to say much about it. She’s
certainly bruised real bad though, all around that area too, you know, and
they’re recent bruises, and this guy had all her stuff back at his place.

‘The other thing is, I’ve just had a talk
with Frank Smith, from the business council, which is virtually running
Tamworth now. He owns the big car yard out on 15. He said you can all leave
whenever you like, but if you had anything to do with that bus out on 34, west
of town, you’d better not count on getting it back. They’ve impounded it. The
council said if it
was
yours, they’ve feed and sheltered plenty of you,
so it’s only fair. I never said a word to him about any bus, so it didn’t come
from me.’ He glanced meaningfully in the direction of the Mason.

‘What!’ exclaimed Jerry, from somewhere behind
Lord Brown.

The sergeant attempted to press on. ‘The council
does
want
you to stay, so they can rebuild the city here. Smithy reckons
everyone will head away from the coast now, and the inland cities will be the
ones to take off. They’re saying this place will be the bee’s knees and some of
‘em are even talking about putting the festival back on next year! To lift
peoples spirits, you know? Personally, I think they’re dreamin.’

‘No way!’ shouted Jerry, struggling to his
feet. ‘That’s me bus!’ Sgt Kevin shrugged sympathetically. For a moment it
looked like Jerry might dive straight at him, but instead he turned in the
direction of the Mason, and scowled.

Lord Brown immediately stood and grabbed
Jerry’s arm, then spoke quietly in his ear. Whatever he said took Jerry from
fuming rage to nearly serene in virtually a split second. Just like that! Āmiria
was amazed, and couldn’t imagine what he must’ve said because Jerry loved that
bus. Suddenly it came to her: there’s only one possible sentence he could’ve
uttered to calm Jerry down that quick. One thing, in the whole universe. He
must’ve said, “I’ll get your bus back.” Nothing else would have done it.

Āmiria wondered how he planned to do it.

After Sgt Kevin and Tim left, Lord Brown began
talking no-stop. Most of it was gibberish about old towns she’d never heard of,
apart from a ten minute diversion on something called the Poisson distribution
when Zelda asked how often comets actually fell, although absolutely no one
could follow what he’d said.

‘It
is
an excellent sign,’ he insisted.
Some lady who slept not far from them (and normally a bit snooty so Āmiria
didn’t talk to her often) had waddled over all concerned about the hanging and telling
everyone they’d be better off heading south, down to Dubbo.

‘The fact that they’ve scheduled it for the
beginning of the following day shows organization
and
reluctance. In
Dubbo, the hanging would’ve been considerably more spur of the moment, I can
assure you, because we came through there on the way here.’ He didn’t mention
the lions, thankfully, because the lady sounded like she might have rellies
there.

The Mason began working his way towards them,
calling out a name Āmiria couldn’t quite make out. Lord Brown must’ve seen
him too, but continued nevertheless, speaking loudly to no one in particular. ‘Tamworth
is very organized, nothing like Dubbo. It’s already evolved into a small
city-state. The organizations behind this setup aren’t bad in themselves, but
the darkness has bought out their baddest. The baddest of the bad now reign,
and there is far more evil to come. More than any of you could possibly believe.
This town has swung to the right so far that it’s come back around, and into
itself again. Each time it re-enters itself, plunging in at a lower, muckier
level and it keeps looping down and around like this until it implodith. Loopity,
loopity, down, down, it goes.’

‘The Bartletts? The Bartletts from Sydney?’ called
the Mason, nearer, and no longer shouting because he obviously wanted to listen
too. ‘The Bartletts? The Bartletts from . . . ’ He stopped
completely, arms folded.

‘When this loop-strain is removed it’ll be
like a rubber band snapping and bursterly surgith forwards on a tide of great verily.
It will trigger innovation, oh yes, and wave upon wave of lateral thinking, and
new roads, most of which will peter because they’re dangerous, and they will kill
you, or they’re no improvement on the old ways and the Greatness is all that’s left:
the teensy few who survive and manage to ride this all-encompassing travesty. Along
with the scum, who also ascend to the top as they must: festering and killing
everything their black hands touch. Those creatures who don’t innovate will be
left behind and gradually, oh yes, and with great certainty, they’ll be relegated
to minions. The Great, the Scum and the Minion. Within this jostling: this
trinity of death; one idea is destined to revolutionize. Or maybe it’s one
person? We must find this light! Find it, I beg you!’

Mason shook his head in disbelief and
continued walking. ‘The Bartletts? The Bartletts from Sydney?’

The minute he’d left, Lord Brown lowered his
voice and said, ‘Right. He’s gone.’ Then gave specific instructions to go forth
and gather supplies for departure. With dinner only an hour off, much talking
and general hubbub arose in the gym, making it the perfect time to move around without
attracting attention.

So ten of them spread hither to gather
supplies. Āmiria immediately went to the three young men in blue uniforms
who’d arrived yesterday. It turned out they were from an RAAF training camp on
the outskirts of Tamworth. She’d been watching them, and they always kept a
close eye on a canvas bag one carried, which she hoped might contain a decent
torch, or at least spare batteries for a torch. The grenades proved far more
enticing. Within minutes of completing the trade, the cadets were taken away
along with a bunch of others by the Mason and one of his cronies, to help fix some
shelter nearby. They’d obviously been starving, and Āmiria would’ve almost
been compelled to give them something even if they
hadn’t
had the
grenades or anything.

Nevertheless, her father was surprisingly
angry about the transaction and confiscated them. He said she might not even
get them back, which made her much happier because it meant she
did
actually have a chance at retrieval, provided she didn’t step out of line for a
while. Wiremu said when he saw those bloody cadets again, he’d be having a word
with them too.

Greg Tilson, an unemployed panel-beater from
Brisbane with no friends, deliberately picked his sleeping position a week ago,
choosing right near the Mason’s tower because he thought it’d keep him safe,
like. Then there’d be someone watching his stuff all the time, when he went to
the loo an’ that. Not that he had much stuff left. In fact, come to think of
it, pretty well nothing. Paid not to dwell on that. While he was trying
not
to dwell on it, a voice whispered in his ear:

‘Pssssssst!’

Greg turned to see a tall, gangly man slipping
to the floor beside him. The stranger wore a Diggers hat with a motley feather
stuck in one side. ‘What?’

‘Do us a favor?’

‘Why? Who are you?’ He’d seen this man
drinking and being loud and causing a ruckus yesterday, so was immediately
suspicious.

‘Name’s John. Do us a favor, will ya mate?’

‘What?’

‘See that Māori bloke walking to the
door?’ Greg looked up to see a dark-skinned yobbo walking slowly towards the
door, looking sort of in his direction, but not directly at him. ‘He’s going to
wait outside for you. He wants to speak to the Mason—yeah, the bloke on the
tower—but out in private. It’s real important. Just go out like you’re going to
the loo, and that Māori bloke’ll give you the message that he needs to
speak to the person in charge, and you come back in and tell the Mason. Easy as
pie; you’re just passing the message on. Can’t go wrong.’

After a five minute negotiation, the deal
was struck, and Greg agreed. Initially it all unfolded much as planned: Greg
strolled out, the Māori was waiting and straight away said, ‘I need to
speak to the fūlla in charge.’ So back inside went Greg, and told the
Mason, who said “Come with me” and they both went outside. But alas, there was
no Māori, or anyone. While the Mason called vainly into the dark, Greg
stammered, ‘I’m positive he was right here,’ and as he looked around, happened
to glance back in through the door just in time to see the man in the hat reach
up onto the Mason’s tower, and remove his Bible. Greg began to wish he’d gotten
more than, like, just a tennis racquet for doing this.

Three hours after dinner, Āmiria was
bored, scratching the fur on Peanuts neck trying to get the knots out when the
sound of the Hat’s laughter distracted her. He lay on his stomach next to the nearest
lantern, approximately five meters away. They’d put the gym on half lights until
5am, and their lantern was one of the three still on, although in an hour that
would go off and one of the others come on. The Hat glanced up sneakily, then
back down at the book in front of him. Geoff and Hemi lay alongside and Lord
Brown sat cross-legged with his back to the Mason, reading it too.

Āmiria slithered over, dragging Peanuts.
‘Look!’ snickered the Hat, ‘see, he’s made notes all through it!’ Geoff and
Hemi laughed.

‘That’s mean,’ protested Zelda. She and
David had swapped their bedrolls with an elderly couple, so they could be nearer
the lantern for a spell, because David was afraid of the dark, and the cold,
and the hard floor and virtually everything.

Lord Brown flicked a page over. ‘It’s an
excellent short story collection, but it is just a book. It’s a very long, old
book, with plenty of war stories and magic and—’

‘Rooting?’ interjected the Hat.

‘Hmmm. Yes. I was going to say romance but
that’ll do. Although I don’t think the exact terminology “rooting” crops up in
the Bible a great deal, unless it’s in some agricultural context that I don’t
recall. Still, it’s got all the ingredients of a good yarn. You don’t want to
take it too seriously though. All the stories are handed down from prophets,
who’re invariably men, and each prophet is reputed to have some unproven
special connection with an equally unproven mystical being. All the religions
have them, without exception. The Hindu’s have the sacred texts of the Rig Veda,
which were written five hundred years before the Bible. The Zoroastrians had
the scriptures of the Gathas, which were also churned out well before the
Bible. The Muslims use the Koran, which came well
after
the Bible. They’re
all ripping yarns, if you enjoy that sort of thing.’