Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 8

The taste of stale tobacco finally woke him; that coupled with an eternal thirst. Trying to swallow, the strain of a swollen tongue glued to the roof of a fetid mouth caused him to cough. An SOS went out immediately. The old girl was listing badly; it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The mild stench of stale urine filled his nostrils. Floyd McGuinness opened his eyes to reveal the overhang of a low bridge; Victorian, wrought iron, large solid blocks, pitted texture, quality. Reflex kicked in as he felt for his wallet (check), and then onto his cigarettes, two battered cowboy boots and a faded denim jacket. His watch had stopped but the sun was up. The experience wasn’t new. The trains would be be running. He could make it if he hustled.

The stares and snide remarks of early risers were a badge of honour. He made his way in the direction of Flinders Street Station. The path less travelled could be a lonely journey indeed. A battle weary soldier returning from the front lines, the spoils of war unclaimed.

Resources had been slim when he decided, on a whim, to head out the previous night. The idea of a wing-man was abandoned due to it being a Tuesday. All of his so-called mates had seemed more concerned with passing their final year exams than being “shot out of a cannon.” That didn’t deter him. Shit, it had provided the catalyst.

He powdered the breech.

Alone he’d taken on all they could throw; jumping the train, shooting tequlia, even scoring a little hot passion pressed hard up against some seedy hotel bar. An over zealous bouncer was the end of that. Running low on options, he’d finally aimed for the Waterside Hotel. It was an end of the road slaughter house ‘only for the brave’, if finances or luck were keeping the nightclubs of King Street out of reach.

Hardy, seasoned dockworkers putting a bit of spring back in their step, and men to whom freedom had become a recent commodity, made up the brunt of the clientele. If you drank hard though, pissed straight, and kept your eyes down, your odds were slightly better than even. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in such dire straits, Floyd knew the score.

The joint was steaming; misery always attracting a pretty good crowd. A couple of tough old bandits even took him under their wing early. It was smooth sailing from there.

‘Bundy, bourbon and beer!’ they had all toasted repeatedly. It must have been well after midnight. ‘The education they don’t teach in schools anymore!’

He’d drunk to that alright. He drank till he couldn’t recognise his own twisted mug in the cracked bathroom mirror. Then, when the conversation had inevitably turned towards the settling of the bill, he’d legged it out the side door. He sprinted till he dropped.