Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 13

Ox O’Conner was the first to arrive at the party.

He was about 20 and a close university friend of Douglas McGuinness. Uncle Graham was straight on the scene playing usher. With hair plastered down across his forehead courtesy of too much hair wax, and a stained Hawaiian shirt straining under the burden of excess kilograms, at least he was doing his best to look the part.

‘Good evening, Doctor!’ Graham welcomed, still a little unsure of the gravelly octave of his own voice. ‘Any booze to put in the fridge, or maybe I can take your jackets?’

‘Come on, mate, you’ll make me blush. I’m only second year medicine, the same as Dougie,’ replied Ox, all nonchalant.

‘Two down and only another four to go!’ chimed in Ox’s girlfriend proudly.

“More if I decide to specialise!’ he corrected.

‘Well, if your workload is anything like Dougie’s you could probably use a night off,’ reasoned Graham. He was fidgeting; moving from left to right. His eyes looked like they were on springs. ‘You’ve definitely come to the right place!’

‘What about you big man?’ asked Ox, eyeing the former champion suspiciously. The puffy red face and the dripping perspiration were hard to ignore. ‘Can we expect you to fire a shot?’

‘Seventy-thee days sober … and counting!’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘I’ll just wait till this little soiree gets under way and then I’ll make tracks. It’s nice to see everyone and remember it for a change but I’m not quite ready to tempt fate.’

‘Yeah, who would have thought; good for you mate!’ said Ox admiringly. With his girlfriend smiling on and Graham mid sentence, Ox gave her the nod. They made a hasty escape out to the back yard.

An open family discussion had been held the week previous pertaining to Graham’s invitation. The family had all been impressed by his ability to stay off the booze for over two months. Helen, however, decided to run it past her two eldest sons anyway.

Douglas had been very supportive. He rationalised, as the doctor of the house, ‘their uncle was a very important part of the family and this could be an integral part of his overall recovery. He was in a program and looked to be getting some semblance of order back into his life. If his own family wouldn’t help him, who would?’

Floyd had been mortified by the mere suggestion. Not because he was unsupportive of his uncle. He just didn’t want his friends to bear witness to the pitiful specimen of a man Graham McGuinness had become. The guy had been a legend. Sure, he was coming to the end of his glory these days. Indeed, he might have drunk a bit much and even pissed his pants on occasion, but for the sake of god - go out with a bit of pride!

The fact that Graham’d been groveling around for the last two months apologising to people he hardly knew and seeking forgiveness for acts he couldn’t even remember, left a bad taste in Floyd’s mouth. It created a gaping void in his understanding of natural order. If his uncle no longer had all the answers; who did?

A compromise was finally reached. Provided Graham kept his pants dry, left early, and didn’t apologise to anybody, he was invited.

By 8 p.m. the place was still pretty empty. Ox, Douglas, and a few of the older crowd were out in the backyard staking their positions around the barbeque. Jenny Jones, with a couple friends in tow, had come early to help Helen with the decorations. One of Jenny’s friends, Lizzy, was also supposed to be a ‘sure thing’ for a Master Kennith Coen.

Sadly though, it wasn’t the first time Floyd had attempted to part his best friend from his well travelled cherry; and with birds a lot feistier than Lizzy Burns. If Kenny’s track record was any indication, tonight would be merely added to a long list of close calls and near misses. The kid seemed incapable of “closing the deal.”

By 8.30 Floyd was actually getting a little worried. Where were they all? The word was out. He’d even tactfully informed the local girls high schools. Most of those chicks, he knew, would turn up to the opening of a letter if there was a chance of free booze.

Some guise of his mates from St. Stephen’s should have been there by now too; they had no excuse. It was ironic to think of his original concern, the possibility of crashers, when a far harsher reality might be unfolding before his very eyes. Could his party somehow be a dud?

He needn’t have worried.

The crackle of the old Yamaha RD 400 was unmistakable. As it rounded the bend into Gipps Street, the bike was laying over so low sparks could be seen shooting from the offending foot peg. The dark pitted open faced helmet and Aviator sunglasses, Brando jacket and scuffed cowboy boots, a steed of rusted steel and faded chrome, the lithe frame, long flowing locks, the Cheshire grin; Bullet Bulowski had arrived. A petite young thing gripping for dear life completed the picture; her tight stretch jeans and scanty pastel pullover around Bulowski like a vice.

He looked all business; forearms flexed and a cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth, but it was an act. It was a secret shared by few, but the motorbike hero actually had a penchant for the larger ladies. Unfortunately though, they made him look small, they struggled on the back of his bike, and they just weren’t there when he was making the scene. Bulowski took style over substance any day of the week and it was, thought Floyd, one of his most endearing qualities.

Graham dutifully rushed out to meet him, only to have the motorbike whisk straight past. It almost mowed him down in the process. The offending rider didn’t deviate, didn’t acknowledge, didn’t flinch. Bullet Bulowski had been even more horrified by the recent metamorphosis of Graham McGuinnness than Graham’s own nephew.

With Graham cursing heavily under his breath, the inundation had begun. The McGuinness party wasn’t the only game in town on that particular Saturday night, and whether there was any truth to the line, ‘people were saving the best party until last’, they certainly came. By 10 p.m. it was standing room only.

It was sometime after 11 p.m., the argument broke out. Graham McGuinness had long since made his retreat. Kenny Coen was attempting to round ‘second base’ in an empty alley just within earshot of the party.

‘Doctor!’ big Glen Harkin could be heard grunting sarcastically. ‘The guy is not a doctor’s arsehole! Now if you want a real doctor, and I’m talking doctor of love here, I’d be happy to examine you free of charge.’

‘Big muscles, small brain and even smaller dick!’ mocked Leah Boland, the better half of Ox O’Conner. Ox just simmered in disgust.

Big Glen, strangely arrived without beer. He’d been funneling the fruit punch for about an hour; a bold attempt to bring on a buzz from its minuscule champagne content. Now was definitely not the time for Floyd to mention he’d also beefed it up with a generous dosing of ethanol, care of Dougie’s second year pharmacology project.

‘Just sit down, Glen, you big ape!’ contributed Douglas. He was fairly inebriated himself, and surrounded by a couple of close mates. ‘Or piss off and go home!’

With his girlfriend looking on admirably, Douglas McGuinness had the situation almost under control. Big Glen was just starting to simmer, and interested onlookers were going back about their business. Eliza went over and planted a big kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek.

‘My Hero!’ she cooed, flipping up her back leg and fluttering her eyelashes for all to see. Douglas blushed.

Glen arked up again.

‘And maybe, mate, after Ox’s bird there, I’ll give your missus a very thorough going over as well! You see, pal, this clinic never closes!’

A few snide laughs could be heard as Glen Harkin stood to his feet. He looked visibly impressed by the quality of his own banter.

Even Dougie couldn’t resist a grin and it might well have stopped there too. Unfortunately, Eliza let loose with a full glass of beer into the face of the big boy! It earned her a raucous cheer from all those in the vicinity; but then a solid backhander from Glen Harkin himself.

Douglas had seen enough. He took a few steps for momentum before launching at the drunken big man; a classic spear tackle. He hadn’t been a bad rugby player in his early days at St. Stephen’s, and it showed. Big Glen weakened, but he didn’t go down. It wasn’t till Ox, feeling somewhat responsible, entered the fray. The application of a reverse choke hold, all but suffocating Glen, caused the big man to finally buckle.

As Eliza screamed, a crowd began to gather. The sound of the commotion filtered through the neighbourhood, and down a blind alley. For Kenny Coen, it was all the excuse necessary to cut short his own adventure. Christ, he thought, swiftly making his way in the direction of the noise. He hoped to hell his soiled underwear wasn’t visible through his new Levi 501s. I’ve gone and bloody done it again!

Bullet Bolowski, also late on the scene wasn’t liking what he was seeing. He didn’t think for too long. A sharp right hook behind a left ear and Ox O’Conner loosened his grip on Glen. Ox turned angrily, then he made a dive for Bulowski. Only narrowly missing, he turned and straightened. The two squared off. Bullowski threw out a big left. Ox took it on the shoulder then tried to close the distance on the lighter man. Bulowski surprised him with a knee. It stopped Ox in his tracks, but it was too late. Down Bulowski went with a seething Leah Boland stuck to his back and tearing at his hair.

With Douglas and Glen still hard at it, wrestling on the grass, no further encouragement was needed for other interested parties to enter the fray.

Floyd, having just allowed Jenny to talk him out of joining the turmoil, was smiling with anticipation. Glen Harkin was gradually coming back. The police suddenly arrived; Helen McGuinness was only seconds behind them.

‘What in god’s name is going on here?’ she screamed at Floyd. He was standing off to the side of the action. She noticed the crimson stain covering his hand and simmered. ‘And what happened to your hand?’

‘It’s only a scratch,’ he replied heroically. The small gash was bleeding steadily. ‘I’ll live!’

The fact it’d been acquired attempting to open a bottle of beer with a teaspoon was information he’d take to the grave. The ‘wounded hero’ routine might have been old, but it was a classic.

‘I leave you guys alone for one hour and I comeback to Wrestlemania! What the hell was I thinking?’ fumed Helen, the angry tone of her voice doing more to quash the ongoing brawling than the presence of Victoria’s finest.

‘And as for you older boys,’ she continued. She turned her attention to Douglas and his friends, including a very groggy looking Ox O’Conner. ‘You were supposed to be keeping an eye on things, setting some kind of example! An absolute disgrace; the lot of you! This is our home, and you trample it like a cheap bloody hotel.’

Her furious rant continued unabated. Douglas and his friends were forced to endure the brunt, but nobody escaped completely unscathed. The two police officers watched on with amusement.

About to protest his innocence, Douglas was looking on solemnly when a harrowing sound suddenly pierced the night sky. The tension evaporated instantly; even Helen’s steely disposition softened.

Big Glen Harkin was doubled over. His bloody knuckles were almost white as he strained to grip the back of a fragile plastic barbeque chair. This crude attempt at steadying himself from falling into the garden bed looked to be failing, and he was heaving. By god, he was heaving!

Two litres of cheap champagne punch, what looked to be at least a dozen chicken wings, and carrots; they were there too. Sounding very much like he was suffering at he hands of some barbaric torturer; the he was hurting. There was a brief silence, then Glen gave it some more. The big fella was parting company with the lot.

‘Could we be of any further assistance, Helen?’ asked a tall, well known, young constable when it was clear Glen had finally concluded his encore.

Constable Jerry Harrison stood about 6’ 3”. At least an inch was in the heel. His arms were flared like he was carrying a couple of bricks, and it was obvious to all the jacket was padded. He’d actually been pretty well liked too, when he played in the juniors at the Mordialloc Football Club. That was a long time ago though, long before his current occupation which ran contrary to the aspirations of most of his former team mates.

His partner on the call, and obviously the senior officer, commanded slightly more respect. Sergeant Barry Lowe was a traditionalist. Regulation mustache, stained shirt and frayed collar, he was carrying at least 20 kilograms of excess. Not exactly fat, it was weight he could handle if he had to. Calloused knuckles, the old copper had been around forever and was generally feared and loathed in equal measure. He was real old school alright; a real prick.

Helen, standing silently, appeared to be making a decision. Would she teach her sons a lesson, or not. Her face a mask of iron as she surveyed the scene. Glen in the garden bed whimpering. Floyd with his cut, crudely bandaged hand. Douglas with a torn shirt and bleeding lip. Ox O’Conner; he was looking disheveled and probably concussed, and then there was Bullet Bulowski; mildly ragged, he might have just walked off the set of an action movie. The list went on, with the surprise inclusion of Eliza, Doug’s girlfriend. A large welt was rapidly appearing down the side of her face as she continually dabbed a closing left eye.

‘Are you all right Eliza,’ Helen asked. She then moved caringly to inspect the girl’s damaged face. ‘I can’t believe you were involved!’

‘I actually slipped over in the bathroom,’ replied Eliza, sheepishly.

The fate of the party was hanging in the balance. Helen mulled over the explanation. She didn’t know whether the behavior was innate or learnt, but that girl, Helen decided with sadness, would make some sick bastard a damn fine wife one day.

‘Well I guess, as you “boys in blue” are so fond of saying; there’s nothing to see here!’ said Helen finally. She was looking directly at the injured Eliza. The welt was already blackening and the eye was beginning to close.

‘Well, we’ll be on our way then,’ officially stated the young constable. He made a big show of snapping closed his case book. His partner just looked relieved. A few crude pig noises accompanied the two officers as they made their way back out to the divisional van, but the coppers took it in their stride. The next poor sucker that found himself in the back of the divvy van; he’d pay for that.