Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 27

‘Well, a grandiose old waste of time that turned out to be,’ said Floyd, walking through the front room of their old bungalow.

Bloody Gus was there too. It was all becoming a little too regular. Hearing Gus refer to his younger brother as ‘son’ had left a pretty sour taste in Floyd’s mouth. Now, the little red M.G. had made its way off the street, and into the driveway. Something clearly had to be done.

‘I said that was a waste of time,’ repeated Floyd sharply. ‘Glen never showed up. We drank about eight beers in his honour and the bastard left us there to pick up the bill! What’s wrong mum?’ he asked suddenly. Helen’s face was puffy. The tears welling in the corners of her eyes were hard not to notice.

‘It’s bad enough,’ choked Helen, breaking down as she leant a little too heavily on Gus beside her. ‘It’s bad enough I’ve just had a meeting with Champ’s crèche. They want us to find our little man alternative arrangements.’

‘They can’t do that! They’re a bloody council service!’

‘They can, and will,’ she continued. ‘They’ve been inundated with complaints from parents since last month. Any girl with blonde hair’s a stinky slut, dark hair’s a hairy whore, and I can’t repeat what he’s been directing at the girls with red hair. And then I get home to find the police waiting on the front patio.’

‘And what did those clowns want?’ asked Floyd, unable to resist a smirk. ‘Surely Champ’s name for red-heads couldn’t have been that bad!’

‘They wanted to deliver this to you, personally,’ she replied, holding up a letter.

‘A bloody summons!’ spat Floyd, eyeing the envelope. ‘What the hell am I supposed to have done now?’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘Well I wouldn’t be asking the bloody question if I knew!’ he replied angrily.

Gus went to say something but, seeing Floyd’s face, refrained.

‘It seems they’ve decided to push forward on the rape charges!’ fumed Helen. She was standing her ground but unable to contain her emotions. She began crying as she yelled. ‘It appears that a witness has finally come forward!’

Floyd was dumbstruck. What was there to say? Even Gus had gone all somber, giving him the same pathetic, sorrowful stare. He was massaging Helen’s tense shoulder with one hand and holding her hand tightly with the other. Bloody Gus; his acting might be second rate but his timing is spot on.

There was little need to open the lounge room door as Floyd made a hasty retreat. The way they were watching him at that very moment, he could have probably walked right under it.

It didn’t take long for the phone in his room to ring. He shared the second phone line with Douglas, so he hoped it wouldn’t be one of Doug’s idiot mates. The first thing he had to do was call his uncle Graham. What the hell was going on; their problem had supposedly been solved. He was half expecting a dribbling Kenny Coen, but was happily surprised to see Glen Harkin’s number come up on the caller I.D.

‘Well, well … where the hell were you?’ Floyd asked mockingly, his mood improving significantly. ‘Two hours we waited. If you expect me to troop all the way back to the Bridge Hotel now your dreaming. Good luck going home too, there’ll be a summons waiting!’

‘A what?’

‘A summons; it’s to tell you they are going to try and nail us over that stupid Timmy Hill mess. Don’t waste a minute! You’ll have to trust me on this one; everything’s under control.’ Floyd couldn’t believe he was sounding so relaxed. He was actually sweating profusely, and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

‘I just wanted to apologise, man,’ stammered the big guy.

‘Well, you owe us an afternoon on the booze,’ said Floyd. He was surprised by the apology but took it in his stride. ‘Don’t worry about it. So tell me, how much are they going to pay you?’

‘The lawyer made me do it,’ continued Glen meekly. ‘The club lawyer and the police have come to an arrangement. I didn’t have a choice!’

The phone went dead. The penny dropped in the spinning cranium of Floyd McGuinness.

‘Bastard!’

Floyd tore the phone line clean from the wall. His fist connected with the glass covered Elvis Presley print adorning the head of the bed. Shades of glass splintered everywhere. His mother yelled from the lounge room. Floyd sat disbelievingly, staring at the patterns, the fine glass cuts across the top of his knuckles.

The son of a bitch had sold them all out!