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SATURDAY. RANDY SAT bolt upright in bed, his heart racing fast. Whatever was that noise? Sounded like a telephone? It was a telephone, his telephone. Quickly he dug it out of the clothes pile at the end of his bed and pushed the ‘talk’ button. “Hello?” he whispered.
“Hello, is that Randy?” It was Pierre.
“Yes.”
“I can hardly hear you, mate. Speak up!”
Randy buried himself under his blankets before he spoke louder, “Okay, how’s this?”
“Good. Now listen, Piho says you’ve still got three of the ‘items’, y’know? So here’s the deal: I’m going to be in town today for that Arts Festival thing of yours, so you meet me there this morning, okay? About nine. You won’t miss the tent – it’ll have a big sign up; “Botticelli’s” and a picture of a naked lady on a sea-shell. Got that?”
“Yep, but...”
“And don’t let me down! I’ll want to be cooking by nine thirty.”
“Yeah, got that, but like how come you’re going to be there?”
“Oh, friend of a friend - wanted to add a touch of class to his little do. By the way, I’ll be doing the ol’ French chef routine, so you know the deal.”
“Sure, deal’s a deal. You just remember your bit.”
“Hey, we’re in this together, dude. You just get me those goodies, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll be there. Bye.” He switched off.
#
THE DAY HAD STARTED cloudy. Everything was cold and damp. Randy biked up to the gates of the Wentworth Manor with his free ticket ready, but there was no-one at the gate to collect it, so he went on in. There were vehicles parked everywhere, a bunch of people putting up a huge tent on the front lawn, and other little tents going up here and there. As he drifted around, looking for the naked lady on the sea-shell, he overheard two blokes (farmers most likely) talking about the weather. Then his ears really pricked up.
“... Forecast said a southerly change this arvo.”
“Yep. Let’s hope it holds off till later, or we’ll be stunk out by the pig farm.”
“Oh yeah, Davy Gofford’s place.”
“Not any more it ain’t. Didn’t you know? Poor old Davy went belly-up about a month ago.” Then the farmer lowered his voice, “Y’know that wanker Boyd? He bought it. Got it for bugger all. He knew old Goffy was in trouble, too, the swine!”
“Boyd? Bloody hell! Guys like that shouldn’t be allowed.” The men moved off.
Hmm – thought Randy – maybe there’ll be a bit of local support for ARF after all! –
Finally he spotted Pierre’s tent. There was a big sign up: TRY TRUFFLES - NZ’s BEST - BAGATELLE $10, CHOUX PASTRY $12.50, OMELETTE $15.
– Yeow; what prices! –
But there was someone else heading for Pierre’s tent too - Barry Boyd, striding along purposefully and carrying a big parcel. Randy veered away at once, dodged behind a few trees, and came alongside the tent a few moments later. This would be interesting. Was Boyd the ‘friend of a friend’ that Pierre had mentioned?
“Ah! Barree,” he heard Pierre saying, “Bonjour! Will you try truffles today, non?”
“Bloody oath, mate. Wouldn’t miss it for quids! Now, here’s that bacon I promised.”
“Ah! Free range bay-con! You have no idea how important zis is to my customers. Zey will pay three times as much for zis stuff! If it is not free range, zey vill valk out!”
“Quite right, mate! That’s why I’ve devoted my entire operation to producing it.”
“Ah, you are a fine man. How much?”
“For you my friend: thirty-five dollars a kilo. Hundred and forty all up.”
“Ah, you’re zo kind. Thinly zliced of course?”
“Thin as you can get it, mate. Ah; cash. Excellent.” Then Boyd’s voice dropped, ‘Now, listen, mate, umm - it’d be a good idea not to mention my free range bacon around this town. I’ve, ah, I’ve got a few people out to get me, so to speak, so I’d rather they don’t know. Business secret. You understand?”
“Sure. How you say – my zips are peeled?”
“Yeah, huh-huh, that’s the one. Now you have a nice day, mate. Make lots of money!” And Boyd was on his way, out of the tent and across the lawn towards the manor house.
“Zank you,” Pierre called after him, “I vill!”
Boyd turned halfway, “I’ll be back for that omelette later, okay?”
“Sure zing, Mr Boyd...” Then, as Randy breathed a silent sigh of relief behind the tent, he heard Pierre add softly, “...you arze-hole.”
Randy waited till Boyd was gone, then went into the tent, “Gidday, Pierre.”
“Ah! Randee! Bonjour!”
“Yeah, yeah, bonjour and all that. Listen, I’ve gotta tell you something: that guy you just got the bacon from...”
“Oui?”
“Well he’s a bloody liar! He doesn’t have free range pigs! They’re all locked up! I’ve seen them myself! - Artificial lighting. - Concrete floors. - The works! It’s disgusting!”
Pierre was silent, tapping the tip of a large knife on his chopping board. “Is zat so?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, man! I know that guy! He’s pond-scum! He really is!”
“Well,” said Pierre evenly, “Zank you for tellingz me. I vill keep in mind.”
“Anyway, I’ve got you the truffles. Ah, only two, sorry. Piho was wrong.”
“Two? Ah – that’ll do. I’ve got enough. I’ll just zlice them zinner. Here is your money. And, ah, zank you for zat interesting informazion.” The knife came up and Pierre began chopping onions, the heavy blade rattling angrily.
Randy headed away, now hoping to spot someone else he wanted to talk to. But after ten minutes he gave up. The Mayor was not around yet. Randy headed for his bike. He was due to meet up with Tammy and the others at nine-thirty, and it was already quarter past.
– Oh God! How’d I get into this mess? –
#
BACK IN TOWN THE KAINUI branch of ARF were secretly gathering for the final assault. Myra was dressed in her usual army surplus fatigues and black beret, poring over her maps. Justin was picking his fingernails and looking decidedly pale. Tammy was full of excess nervous babble. Ponga was silently sorting through an array of strange farm implements he had spread out on the floor, methodically packing a tool-belt with the most dangerous-looking ones. And Beau's ‘dispassionate eye’ was getting up everyone’s nose.
Randy arrived, hot and flustered. He had a terrifying moment when he saw some of the Rhonda things still laid out on the back of the sofa. They’d been there since Wednesday.
Ponga commented dryly, “Keen to get girly-ed up again, mate?”
Randy grimaced. Ponga chuckled and went back to choosing his machete-of-the-day.
“Come on everyone!” called Myra, spreading out her big map on the table, “Time’s running out! Let’s review our positions...”
#
IT WAS ELEVEN A.M. The jazz band started playing and the first (and subsequently only) Kainui Environmental Arts Festival was officially under way. The sun was coming out and the crowds were beginning to gather. Barry Boyd looked about himself with pride. He could not have come up with a better public relations scheme.
But little did he know that within the creeping stream of incoming traffic came an old blue Datsun, closely followed by a wild-looking guy on a motorbike, his backpack stuffed with tools. A.R.F was on the move! The car stopped near the gates. Tammy and Justin got out. She had a big roll of fabric under her arm. Justin carried rope. Myra peered around anxiously from behind the wheel.
“I don’t see them,” she growled.
“Maybe they’re at the farm,” suggested Tammy soothingly, also looking.
“Well I told them to meet us right here!” snapped Myra.
“They’re television people,” muttered Justin darkly, “They never do what the People want.”
“Hey! Isn’t that their van?” said Tammy suddenly, pointing through the manor gates. A television company van was parked in the shadows under the first trees.
“Yes, that’s them! Right, so you know the plan. Good luck!” The car moved on.
Randy twisted to look back. He had time to wave once before Tammy merged with the crowd. He had a bad feeling and tried hard to hold back his tears. He was wondering if they would be able to visit each other if they were both in jail?
A few minutes later they were cruising slowly past the pig farm.
“Damn!” said Myra the moment she saw Keith’s old ute parked out front, “He’s at work! Today of all days!”
“Okay,” said Beau calmly, videoing Myra from close range in the front passenger’s seat, “let’s just go to Plan-B.”
“Plan B? But we haven’t got a Plan-B!”
“Damn! We should have thought of this! Okay, okay, ah, keep driving. We’ll just have to stop up around that corner and keep watch. Maybe he’ll go home soon.”
Myra growled and hacked at her gears, and they lurched on. Twenty seconds later she stopped the car just around the corner, some fifty metres inside the boarder of the Journale Reserve. Beau scrambled out quickly to get a good camera angle while Myra climbed onto the roof to look back at the farm.
Randy got out too, nervously pacing up and down by the car and generally panicking about everything. It was about the the noticed that the oak trees continued on the other side of the road, going further down the hill. Had Journale planted truffles down there too? He and Piho had never looked.
Ponga, who was right behind them, parked his motorbike and shut off the engine. In the sudden silence the first thing Randy heard was a faint familiar shout.
“Blowfly! Get back here!”
It came from uphill. Moments later came a lot of scuffling and scrambling in the roadside scrub, then Blowfly himself came crashing out onto the road. He fell clumsily into the ditch, got up, charged across the road and plunged without hesitation into the scrub on the other side. Up the hill, getting closer, they could heard Piho swearing noisily, “Where the fudge have you gone, you stupid mutt!”
“He’s down here!” called Randy, “I’ll get him!” Without thinking he went in after Blowfly. He ripped his way through a bit of blackberry, tripped over an old fallen fence, and soon found himself in a familiar wilderness of old oak trees. He spotted Blowfly further down the hill, sniffing back and forth.
Next thing the dog-bell began to ring, ‘Woof-Woof-Woof!’
Damn! He didn’t have time for truffling right now. But he went down anyway. The idea of wasting it was hard to hack. He got to Blowfly just in time to rescue a real beauty.
“C’mon, boy, back you go now!” commanded Randy, pocketing the find.
‘Where’s my bacon?’ Blowfly seemed to say, leaping at Randy, ‘I want my bacon!’
“Get off! Quit it!” Randy staggered back up the hill, variously fighting off then dragging the dog. By the time he reached the road again he was filthy, battered, scratched, ripped and covered in dog slobber.
Piho was there. He didn’t say much. Just took hold of Blowfly’s collar and looked around at Randy and his fellow ARF members. “So, what’re you guys up to then?”
“Nothing,” answered Randy quickly.
“Nothing my arse! You’re up to something!” He noticed Ponga’s tool-belt and slowly his eyes light up, “You gonna free the pigs?”
They all glanced at each other. It was useless denying it.
“Yes,” said Randy coolly, “Wanna join us?” It was meant as a challenge. He was expecting Piho to say ‘no’. Piho, after all, was really good at avoiding getting involved.
First Piho bent down to clip the leash onto Blowfly’s collar, then he straightened up. Then, surreptitiously tucked a bag of bacon deeper into his jacket pocket, he surprised the hell out of Randy. “Okay!” said Piho, “What can I do?”
Ponga looked at the dog doubtfully, “What’s he like with pigs?”
“Oh, he’s cool,” Piho answered with a chuckle, “He won’t chase them. Promise.”
“What a shame,” said Ponga, obviously with a whole different idea in his head, “but maybe he could still be useful as a header-dog. Anyway, keep him on a tight leash and bring him along. If he’s a problem then we’ll just have to tie him up.”
Suddenly Myra called, “Action stations, everyone! Keith’s driving off!”