The Godson Read online

  ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘You had lunch with the Attorney General of Australia?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Price. ‘The Right Honourable Laurence O’Malley QC. Hard to imagine a bloke I used to SP with in pubs would finish up Attorney General of Australia, isn’t it?’ Billy shook his head in amazement.

  ‘And you’re going to hide this Peregrine bloke up the North Coast somewhere for two weeks,’ said Les.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Price, then he and Eddie exchanged smiles. ‘And that’s where you come in, Les me old son.’

  ‘I come in?’

  ‘Yeah. Who do you think’s going to take Peregrine up to the Tweed Valley and put him under his wing for a fortnight?’ Norton blinked as Price motioned his Scotch and soda towards him. ‘You are.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘That’s right, Les, you big bouncing bundle of fun. You are.’

  Norton stared at Price for a moment. ‘Hey, hang on a sec,’ he said guardedly.

  Price gazed around the room at the bemused looks the others were now giving Les. ‘Will you listen to this prick? He was whingeing about the cold out the front earlier. I offer him a trip up the North Coast to sit on his arse for two weeks in the sun and do nothing, and he’s blowing up. Can you believe it?’

  Norton made a defensive gesture with his hands. ‘Wait on, Price. I didn’t mean it like that. You just caught me off guard, that’s all.’ He shrugged and took a sip of Fourex. ‘Sounds like a piece of piss, to tell you the truth. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Right.’ Eddie placed a folded sheet of paper on Price’s desk. ‘That’s where you’re going. That’s the address of the farm and how you get there.’

  Norton reached across for the map just as Price dropped a large envelope on the desk. ‘There’s a photo of Peregrine. And five thousand in cash which should be more than enough for a two-week holiday. But,’ he added, ‘anything he wants, you get him. There’s also the address of a car dealer I know out at Tempe. Go out there Monday and pick out any car you want for the trip. It’s all sweet.’

  Norton dropped the map and picked up the photo of Peregrine Normanhurst. It was a little out of focus and taken from across the street: three casually dressed young men sitting on the bonnet of a Daimler drinking a bottle of champagne. ‘Which is him?’ he asked.

  ‘The one on the right,’ replied Price.

  Norton stared at the photo. All he could make out was that the person in question was of medium build and had fair hair. ‘It’s not much of a photo,’ he complained.

  ‘You’ll see him on Sunday,’ said Price. ‘You won’t be able to miss him. He arrives on British Airways flight 389 at 3.30 in the afternoon. Pick him up and keep him at your place till Tuesday. Then you can both piss off.’

  While Price and the others watched him with slight amusement, Norton studied the photo of Peregrine and the other items on Price’s desk. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s like that bloody show on TV, “Mission Impossible”. This is your assignment, Mr Phelps. Should you choose to accept it. This photo will self destruct in five seconds. If you are caught the agency will deny any knowledge of your existence.’ He shook his head again.

  ‘If I was you, you big red-headed goose,’ said George, ‘I’d cop it sweet. Two weeks in the sun. You’ve killed them.’

  ‘Reckon,’ added Billy. ‘I wish it was me that was going.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right,’ smiled Les. ‘A couple of weeks out of the cold in the peace and quiet. And all I got to do is put up with this Sloane Ranger. There’s no way those Irish are going to follow him all the way out to Australia. They’d never find him anyway.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Eddie seriously. ‘Never underestimate the Irish. It was a paddy taught me how to make letter bombs. And they love to get square.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough,’ answered Les. ‘But you know what I mean. There’s about one chance in a million of anything going wrong. It’s just a glorified holiday.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Price. ‘And I’m bloody paying for it.’

  Norton held up the envelope full of money and grinned. ‘Right on. I reckon me and Peregrine’ll give this five grand some hurry up. I hope there’s a TAB and a massage parlour in this Tweed Valley. Any good restaurants up there, Eddie?’

  ‘Hey,’ said Price, emphasising the point with his finger. ‘You just make sure you look after this rooster while you’ve got him up there. And while he’s down here keep him very low profile; we don’t want anyone to know he’s in the country. It’s more than likely nothing’s going to happen. But like Eddie said, don’t underestimate these people.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough,’ said Les. ‘I was only joking. I’ll keep him under wraps at my place till Tuesday, then we’ll be on our way.’ Norton put down the money and picked up the photo of Peregrine and his friends. ‘What sort of a bloke is he, anyway? You any idea? You said he was filthy rich.’

  They sat there talking and drinking for a while longer. Price couldn’t tell Les anymore than what O’Malley had told him. But he did reiterate that back in England, Peregrine was in a lot more bother than he had realised. At around four, they locked up the club and turned out the lights. Les said goodbye, telling Price he’d ring him as soon as he had Peregrine in his house. Then with his case of Fourex tucked up under his arm he and Billy walked up to their cars, and that was another week over at The Kelly Club, though, for Les, it was a little more interesting and ended up a better result than some others.

  ALTHOUGH IT WAS quite sunny, Sunday still had a pronounced chill in the air. The sou’wester was keeping the temperature down but it was the kind of day that if you found a spot out of the wind it could be quite pleasant. Norton’s kitchen wasn’t too bad at all. The winter sun was streaming through the window where Warren, who had been up about half an hour before Les, had prepared a big breakfast of bacon and eggs and hash browns for them both. Now he was sitting back sipping coffee and listening avidly while Les told him about the house guest they would be having for the next couple of days. Being a man of good taste himself, Warren was more than looking forward to it.

  ‘This Peregrine sounds like he might be a pretty interesting sort of a bloke,’ said Warren, smearing another slice of toast with blackberry jam. ‘Shit eh? To think we’ll be having a member of the Royal Family staying at Maison Norton for two days. That is a turn up for the books.’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘I’ll put him in the spare room. He’ll be sweet in there and it’s only for a couple of nights.’

  ‘I don’t know how Sir Peregrine Normanhurst is going to handle the spare room if he’s been used to living in a castle. It is a bit grotty.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s got a bed. There’s a wardrobe.’

  ‘Yeah. One you found in the street. What about the two ton of rubbish in there?’

  ‘What about it? Half of it’s yours.’ Warren had to concede the point. ‘Anyway, if he don’t like it he can sleep on the lounge. Fuck him. What’s he want for nothing? Unless you want to give him your room.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a stuff if it was Prince Charles himself. He’s not getting my room.’

  ‘Well, that settles that. ’Cause Peregrine sure as hell ain’t gettin’ the landlord’s.’ Norton got up from the table and went to the loaf of Vogels sitting next to the sink. ‘You want another piece of toast?’

  They finished breakfast, taking their time over another pot of fresh coffee, and by then it was almost one. Warren left Les to do the washing up, saying he was going round to some girl’s place at Rose Bay and he’d see him and the house guest that evening. After he’d gone Les showered and changed into a pair of jeans and sat around reading the Sunday papers for a while. However, something Warren had mentioned earlier kept playing on his mind. He put the paper down and went into the spare room.

  Warren hadn’t been far out saying there was two ton of rubbish and it was a bit grotty. It looked like a rat’s nest. There were magazines, posters, di
rty clothes and other junk strewn or stacked around the floor. In the corner were car parts, batteries, the roof-racks off Warren’s car plus a spare tyre, his boogie board and flippers. Rusting away in another corner were two spear-guns, half a push-bike and more junk. The wardrobe was still the same ghastly purple colour it was the day Norton found it in Lamrock Avenue, complete with the cracked mirror and the tattered Save The Rainforests stickers. The single bed had a pillow, two old grey blankets and nothing else. There was no curtain, just a single, white Holland blind. Travelodge the room wasn’t. Norton surveyed the uninspiring scene for a moment then began stacking things and pushing others into the corners with his foot. He ran a carpet sweeper over the middle of the room and tidied the bed. Aah, bugger it, he thought. It’s only for two nights. He looked at his watch. I’d better get going. His plane might be early.

  Peregrine’s plane was on time, but Les was late due to a truck overturning on Gardeners Road. Not that it made all that much difference because as usual at Sydney airport it took the passengers on flight 389 over an hour and a half to get through customs. Standing behind the throngs of people, squeezed against the barrier at the arrivals section, Norton was glad he’d brought the Sunday paper with him.

  The remnants of the previous flight had trickled through, pushing their metal trolleys full of luggage or dragging suitcases on wheels to be greeted and led away by laughing and occasionally crying relatives and friends. There was a pause for a while then a murmur went through the crowd as the passengers from flight 389, looking noticeably more tired and dishevelled than the previous crowd, began to arrive. Norton studied them intently, not really sure what he was looking for; a blurred photograph of one man amongst about two hundred people. Norton watched their faces as they went past the barrier picking up the different accents; mainly English with some foreign and Australian. Suddenly a figure slowly pushing a metal trolley at the edge of the crowd caught Norton’s eye. He was not quite as tall as Les, and was wearing a blue trench-coat and matching suede trilby. It was the figure’s positive bearing that got Norton. A definite aloofness, as if he was trying to distance himself from the others around him.

  From about twenty feet away, Norton studied the man in the trilby, as he removed his trench-coat and folded it neatly across an expensive leather suitcase in the trolley. The figure still seemed oblivious to the people around him, not looking for anybody, but exuding an insouciant confidence that whoever he was there to meet would soon come to him. Beneath the trench-coat, the figure was wearing a plain grey worsted suit cut in traditional English style: three-button front, ticket pocket and two splits in the back. A chalk-striped blue shirt, old school tie and brown suede shoes had Britain stamped all over them and considering whoever it was had just arrived from a thirty-hour flight, the only creases seemed to be in the blue handkerchief in the top pocket of his coat. Norton edged forward for a better look at his face. He had finely-chiselled features, high cheekbones and a straight nose over a strong mouth. His eyes were a hazel green and though Norton could see the graininess in them, the way they occasionally darted around suggested the person in question could at times have some sort of a sense of humour. He looked to be about twenty-two and definitely not the ‘Hooray Henry’ Les had been led to believe. Les stared at him till their eyes met then made a gesture and moved closer to the rail. The man in the grey suit moved closer also.

  ‘Are you — Peregrine Normanhurst?’ asked Les, a little hesitantly. The man nodded his head briefly. ‘Take your gear down there.’ Norton nodded to the end of the barrier and moved down as Peregrine followed.

  ‘I’m Les, anyway,’ said Norton, as Peregrine brought his trolley to a halt. ‘I’ll be looking after you while you’re out here.’ They exchanged a brief but warm handshake.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Les.’ Peregrine’s voice was clipped but extremely well-modulated.

  Les picked up the heavier of the two bags. ‘Follow me. The car’s just over here.’ Peregrine picked up his overnight bag and trench-coat and followed Les out of the terminal, stopping momentarily to take a pair of sunglasses from his inside coat pocket and slip them on.

  ‘How was the trip over?’ asked Les.

  ‘Absolutely ghastly,’ replied Peregrine tightly.

  ‘Yeah?’ Norton was surprised. ‘I thought they looked after you on British Airways.’

  ‘Oh, the food and service was quite marvellous — as one would expect. But we hit this bloody turbulence nearly all the way. I don’t think anyone got a wink of sleep.’

  The way Peregrine hesitated, almost spluttering when he used the word bloody suggested to Les that this might be the absolute height of his vocabulary of swear words. He made a mental note to watch his Ps and Qs, for the time being anyway. ‘Oh well. You’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight, anyway.’ Peregrine didn’t bother to reply.

  They arrived at Norton’s old Ford and Les opened the door. Peregrine looked at the old banger like he’d never seen anything like it before and stepped inside as if he expected something to jump out of the seat and bite him.

  ‘You ever been to Sydney or Australia before?’ asked Les, climbing behind the wheel after slinging Peregrine’s bag on the back seat. Peregrine shook his head. ‘Well, I live at Bondi. You’ll be staying at my place for a couple of days then we’ll be heading up the North Coast.’

  Peregrine nodded disinterestedly. ‘Are we going in this?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’m getting the loan of another car on Monday. Tomorrow.’

  Peregrine nodded again and stared indifferently out of the windscreen.

  Figuring Peregrine was tired and a little testy after his long flight, Norton didn’t bother him with any small talk on the way to Bondi. Referring to Les’s limousine as ‘in this’ didn’t go over too well, but he could understand the Englishman’s irritability and reasoned he’d be okay once he was settled down and had a cup of coffee and a bit of a feed. They arrived at Norton’s house in silence.

  ‘Which is yours?’ asked Peregrine dully, as he surveyed the row of semis once they were out of the car.

  ‘This one,’ smiled Les. ‘Come on.’

  If Peregrine Normanhurst’s stiff upper lip was beginning to curl a little when he walked in the front door, it almost rolled up his face and over his head when he stepped into the spare room.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon?’ grinned Norton. ‘It’s nothing marvellous, but at least you’ll be safe here.’

  Peregrine surveyed the room like it was the scene of an axe murder. ‘What do I reckon?’ He had another look around the room then turned to Les. ‘Do you know how to get to Kings Cross from here?’ Norton nodded. ‘Do you know the Sebel Town House?’ Norton nodded again. ‘Right. Then let’s go.’

  ‘You don’t like this?’ asked Les.

  ‘It’s rather nice actually,’ replied Peregrine, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I’m just curious as to who lived here before me. The hunchback of Notre Dame? Or do you use it to breed some sort of animals for scientific purposes?’ Without waiting for a reply, Peregrine picked up his bags and tramped back down the hallway. They were halfway up Old South Head Road before Norton found the heart to speak.

  ‘Listen, Peregrine,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what anybody told you before you left. But I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight the whole time you’re here.’

  ‘Then you can jolly well sleep on the floor of my room at the Sebel if you like,’ replied Peregrine. ‘But I am not staying in that… kip.’

  ‘Okay. Suit yourself,’ shrugged Norton.

  In silence they arrived at the Sebel Town House. Les parked the car, picked up Peregrine’s suitcase and followed him up the red-carpeted, marble steps of the Sebel into the rich brown carpeting and cedar panelling of arguably the finest hotel in Sydney.

  ‘Yes, sir. May I help you?’ asked the smiling young man at the reception desk.

  ‘I’d like a room please,’ said Peregrine, ignoring Les taking in the luxury and elegance of the surroundin
gs.

  ‘Certainly, sir. Anything in particular you have in mind?’

  ‘Your best.’

  ‘Well, sir. The Presidential Suite is taken. So is The Hardy Aimes Split Level and the Penthouse. The Sir Robert Helpmann is available at $700 a night.’

  Peregrine pulled out his wallet and produced a Gold American express card. ‘Tuesday morning we’re going to this North Coast of yours, is it, Les?’ Norton nodded blankly. ‘Good.’ Peregrine turned back to the desk clerk. ‘Then I shall take the Sir Robert Helpmann for two nights.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. What name is it please?’

  ‘Normanhurst. Sir Peregrine Normanhurst. The Third.’

  Visibly impressed, the desk clerk began filling in the appropriate paperwork. Norton, also impressed, looked on in silence. Christ! he thought. Seven hundred bananas a night. This pommy cunt might be a snob but Jesus, he’s sure got some style. Wouldn’t Price love him?

  The desk clerk summoned a porter who seemed to materialise out of thin air. ‘Room 1012,’ he said briefly.

  The porter almost snapped to attention. ‘This way, sir,’ he said to Peregrine. Les went to say something but Peregrine cut him off. ‘Now, Les,’ he said, with icy politeness. ‘I am going to my room. Alone, by myself, without you. I am going to have a light meal, a bottle of champers and in two hours I intend to have about fifteen hours sleep. Nothing will happen to me tonight. And I do not wish to be disturbed. May I suggest you do something similar and I shall see you on the morrow. Good day to you, sir.’ Leaving Norton standing there, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III followed the porter into the lift. He didn’t look at Les as he waited for the doors to close.

  Well, how about that, thought Norton as the lift doors swished shut leaving him standing in the foyer. And good day to you too, sir. You pommy prick. Still, he mused, if I had a bundle of dough and the choice between my place and staying here I think I know what I’d take. Then a more disturbing thought occurred to him. Shit! I’d better ring Price and let him know what’s going on.