‘All right if I have a look at the paper when you’re finished, Woz?’ Norton couldn’t help the sarcastic smile on his face as he asked his flatmate what seemed like an innocent enough request.
Warren smiled thinly back at Les across the kitchen table and looked up from what was left of his Daily Telegraph. ‘That joke’s starting to wear a bit thin now, isn’t it, Les,’ he replied tiredly.
‘Joke? What joke?’ Norton made an open-handed gesture. ‘I ask you a bit of a favour and you get the tom-tits. Jeez, you’re a funny bloke.’
‘Yeah, t’rrific, Les.’ Warren ran his fingers across the tooth marks and rips in his morning paper as he irritably tried to straighten it out and form it into some sort of legible reading matter. ‘And you’re about as funny as a strangulated hernia.’
‘Well that’s one thing you’ll never get, mate,’ intoned Norton. ‘Because to get a hernia, you have to lift something, or at least move.’
‘Yeah, righto, Les. Whatever you say, you Queensland Dubbo.’
What had been the bone of Warren’s contention for the last six weeks, and the object of Norton’s scarcely concealed mirth in the kitchen that Tuesday morning, was Warren’s paper. Or moreover, the condition it was in. Although they only lived barely five hundred metres from the newsagency, Warren still got the paper delivered. This annoyed Norton no end. He accepted that Warren loathed training of any description, but to think that someone was so lazy they couldn’t even walk five hundred metres to pick up a newspaper was decadence according to Norton on a par only with the fall of the Roman Empire. However, no amount of roasting or sarcastic remarks could get Warren to change his mind.
‘You are a lazy little bastard, Warren,’ Les would say. ‘I reckon the only reason you get out of bed of a morning is because you can’t take it with you. You’re the only bloke I know that gets winded during a game of chess. They couldn’t get your blood to circulate if they strapped you to a dialysis machine for a fortnight.’
But all these jibes and insults were like water off a duck’s back to the fair-haired advertising executive. Bondi, despite the sewerage, heroin dealers, Westies coming down for gang fights on the weekends and innumerable house break-ins, was according to Warren now moving into a yuppie-class suburb. A sort of Paddington with seagulls. And what could be more becoming for an upwardly mobile advertising executive than to be able to stroll out to the front of one’s house, retrieve one’s paper and flick casually through it while one ate one’s croissants and sipped one’s cappuccino first thing in the morning.
This yuppie decadence got to Les. The mornings he didn’t sleep in it annoyed hell out of him to walk into the kitchen and see Warren in his Yves St Laurent dressing-gown and a smug look on his face flicking through his paper like Noel Coward scanning a play before he’d go off for a hard day’s slog at Wirraway Advertising. Another thing that annoyed Les more than somewhat was Warren, although he’d read the paper at least four times, would take it with him when he left, making Norton walk down to the newsagency if he wanted one.
‘What are you beefing about, Les?’ Warren would breezily ask, as he’d tuck the paper up under his arm when he strolled out of the kitchen. ‘It’s only a two minute walk down to the paper shop. Don’t be such a lazy big turd.’
So Norton devised a plan to thwart Warren’s little early morning luxury. And an unsuspecting third party was brought in to help in Les’s heinous, insidious scheme.
The third party was old Menzies, the dog that belonged to Mrs Curtin, one of the pensioners from across the street, or ‘Ming the Merciless’ as Norton used to call it.
It’s hard to imagine Menzies as being even remotely cross let alone merciless. It’s even harder to imagine old Menzies as ever being a pup, which must have been around the same time Captain Phillip sailed the First Fleet through the Heads. He was a sort of fat, brown and black, cross-Kelpie Labrador. Most of his fur was gone — what wasn’t was greying and moulting and fast being replaced by patches of black, wrinkly skin. His old, brown eyes were starting to ruby and he had about half a dozen worn-out teeth in his head that looked more like a handful of rusty drawing-pins. They seemed to give him a permanent, lopsided, senile grin as he’d drag his arthritic old legs up and down Cox Avenue. Mrs Curtin had called him Menzies because above his eyes were two thin, yet bushy, black patches like a pair of thick eyebrows. She reckoned he looked like the one-time Prime Minister of Australia Sir Robert Menzies. By rights, old Ming should have been dead twenty years ago, but he was a survivor with a happy nature and had outlived half the dogs in the street. However, good judges round the area, Mrs Curtin included, all agreed that it was only a matter of time before old Menzies went to the big boarding kennel in the sky.
Norton couldn’t help but like old Menzies and got to be good mates with him. He’d always pat his bony old head and scratch his spiny back near his stump of a tail and he’d give a happy asthmatic whine while one arthritic leg would start to shake with delight. A lot of times Menzies would hear Les come home late in the morning and he’d wobble across the road to sort of say, ‘G’day, Les’ and get a friendly pat in return. Which was where and when the devilish plan formed in Norton’s head to thwart his mate Warren.
Seeing it was summer, Price was keeping the casino open a little later, so by the time they got the place closed up, the money in the safe and had a few staffies, Les was getting home after 5 a.m. At this hour and with a few Fourexs under his belt, the big Queenslander’s stomach would be rumbling like Mount Vesuvius, so he’d stop off at one of the Lebanese greasy spoons at the bottom of Bondi Road and get a couple of steak sandwiches to throw down his screech before he’d hit the sack. Six times out of ten old Menzies would come over to say g’day when he’d pull up and to get his back scratched and a pat. After being either stuck inside the smoke of the Kelly Club or outside in the hassle of Kings Cross arguing and more than often coming to blows with idiots, it was always nice and quiet out the front of the house. Les would sit on the fence, eat his steak sangers with a carton of Orchy and get the cigarette smoke out of his hair and clothes and try to get a bit of fresh air into his lungs while he and old Menzies would have a laugh and talk about old times. Menzies had originally been coming over about six times out of ten, but when Norton started giving him pieces of his steak sandwiches, Ming the Merciless soon began coming over ten times out of ten. They didn’t make a bad quinella either. Menzies doing his best to chew the bits of steak sandwich with what teeth he had and Les doing his best to try and find a bit of peace and sanity in the big city.
Being barely five hundred metres from the paper shop, Norton’s house was one of the first on the newsagent’s delivery list. The newsagent going past in his mini-moke was about the only sound that ever disturbed Les and old Menzies’ early morning tete-a-tete. He’d toss the rolled-up Telegraph into Norton’s front yard, get a wave from Les in return and continue on his way. Les wouldn’t even glance at the newspaper on principle. Nor would he pick it up and take it inside the house; even if it had been raining. Warren mightn’t have enough energy to walk down to the paper shop, but he was at least going to walk to the front bloody gate. Which was how the light bulb above Norton’s big red head lit up.
He’d give Menzies a few pieces of steak sandwich to get his appetite going, then smear grease, sauce and pieces of fried onion all over Warren’s newspaper. Ming would get the scent, Les would offer him the paper and the dog would immediately start giving it a ferocious gumming with what few good teeth he had. Ming the Merciless might have been old and his jaw muscles had definitely seen better days, but it didn’t take the old bloke long to gnaw away the headlines and the first ten pages of Warren’s paper. Being a simple Queensland country boy, this turned Norton on no end. He’d go inside laughing like a drain as Ming the Merciless would be left in the front yard salivating all over and gnawing pieces out of Warren’s Daily Telegraph. Yes, enjoy your morning’s read, you lazy little bludger, Norton would chuckle to himself as he’d walk softly past Warren’s bedroom. Though how long this was going to last Les wasn’t quite sure, because old Menzies’ shuffle across the road to meet him seemed to take longer and longer each night. It took Warren about three weeks to twig to who was responsible for the damage to his paper.
‘I know what’s been happening to my paper,’ said Warren, one Tuesday morning as Les walked into the kitchen after having a run down Centennial Park.
‘You do?’ replied Norton innocently.
‘Yeah. It’s bloody Menzies. That stinken, mangy old thing that belongs to your girlfriend from across the road — Mrs Curtin.’
‘Hey, don’t talk about Ming the Merciless like that: said Les. ‘He’s me mate.’
‘Mate or bloody not,’ Warren jabbed a finger at his Daily Telegraph, which was now being gummed regularly irrespective of whether Les smeared it with food or not. ‘It’s him all right. I sprung him when I got home from that all-night pool party on Monday morning. Just as I was going in the gate, that moth-eaten bludger of a thing was coming out. And here’s the evidence.’ Warren jabbed his finger at the paper again. ‘Tooth marks everywhere. Exhibit A.’
‘Nahh. I won’t have that, Woz. Old Menzies couldn’t lift up a nightie, let alone chew up a newspaper.’ Norton went to the fridge and took out a bottle of mineral water. ‘I hate to say this, Warren, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘It’s him all right. And the next time I catch him, I’ll put one right up his date. Stinken bloody thing. Christ! Have a look at my paper.’
‘Now turn it up, Woz. You wouldn’t hurt old Ming, would you? He’s just about ready to put his cue in the rack as it is.’
Warren didn’t reply. He just glowered up at Les, who had his back turned as he walked towards the shower. If he’d seen the rotten smirk on Norton’s dial he certainly would have, though.
And so it went on for another week or so. Warren getting more frustrated and annoyed with each passing day and Les finding it harder and harder not to burst out laughing every morning he’d happen to see Warren’s face at breakfast. Norton knew something had to happen sooner or later.
To describe the following Thursday night at work as being a bit of a bastard, would be like saying Darwin was a bit windy at Christmas in 1974. There were fights and arguments in and out of the Kelly Club nearly all night. A couple of out-of-town punters got drunk quick and did their money even quicker. Convinced they’d been robbed, they started putting on a drama and had to be given the heave. Three good sorts Billy and Les let in turned out to be apple charlottes over from Perth. They started trying to pull tricks in the club and they got the lemon also. They wouldn’t go, so they had to be frogmarched down the stairs to much shrieking, protesting and abuse.
‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ said Billy, adjusting his bow-tie out the front after kicking the loudest and foulest-mouthed one, a tall brunette, fair up the jacksie.
‘Did you say a woman scorned or a woman’s corns?’ smiled Norton, watching the lovelies storm off up the street, giving the boys the finger as they left.
Price had taken a bait in some seafood restaurant at lunchtime, and he literally had the tom-tits all night. And the pong when he came out of the staff’s private brascoe was enough to make a dung-beetle bring up its lunch.
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Norton, stepping into the men’s room to find his boss propped over the sink washing his hands. ‘Did something die in here?’
Price’s usually tanned face was pallid and looked more like something you’d see on a bottle of poison. ‘Seeing you’re a mate, Les,’ he croaked, ‘I might shout you to a grouse seafood restaurant tomorrow. It’s over at Balmain and it’d just suit a big wombat like you.’
‘What do they sell in there?’ replied Norton, giving his ailing boss a quick once-up-and-down. ‘Tinned rat?’
The boys had another three fights out the front, nothing they couldn’t handle and nothing to worry about, although one bushy-haired Westie, who’d been giving cheek with a Westie mate and who Billy had to tap on the chin, swore he’d be back with a team and they’d sort both him and Les out after work.
‘You don’t have to have a long neck and feathers to be a goose, do you?’ said Billy, as they watched ‘Mop Top’ and his mate still cursing them as they skulked off up Kelly Street.
Norton smiled, shook his big red head and tilted an eye towards the bit of rain starting to patter down from the night sky. ‘I think it’s the humidity brings ’em out, Billy.’
Between all this rattle, Norton had to take care of two bottles of Cusano Rujo Mezcal for Warren. Some flight attendant mate of his, a regular at the club who lived in Coogee, got them in America through some other mate of Warren’s, a photographer who lived in Florida and imported them from some obscure little village in the middle of Mexico. It was a long and involved process to get bottles of something that not only got you roaring drunk, but almost put you in the rathouse at the same time as far as Les was concerned.
But eventually the night was finished and they were both more than happy about it as they walked up to where their cars were parked next to each other, near the fire station, around 5 a.m.
‘Well, am I ever glad that’s over,’ said Billy.
‘Yeah. It was a bit of a pain in the arse all right,’ replied Norton.
Les just had time to place the two bottles of Mezcal on the front seat when Billy tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up at a movement coming from the shadows. It was the Westie Billy had tapped on the Gilbeys earlier; only now he had five mates with him.
Billy and Les realised straight away that Mop Top and his mates hadn’t dropped by for a few hands of Five Hundred, so they immediately went into a well-rehearsed routine. Shoulder to shoulder they walked slowly towards the advancing mugs.
‘Listen, fellahs,’ said Billy, making an open-handed gesture. ‘We’re not looking for any trouble.’ Then he and Les let go two withering left-hooks.
It doesn’t matter who you are — Joe Frazier or Bruce Lee. If a super-fit, fifteen-stone Queenslander or the ex-middleweight champion of Australia king-hit you, you know you’ve been hit. The first two mugs went down quicker than Linda Lovelace. After that it was on, more or less. Billy and Les made left-hooks and uppercuts the special of the day and soon the other four were sitting on their backsides with their mates wondering what had happened. Though it wasn’t all plain sailing — Mop Top’s mates were solid and a bit willing and could possibly have been into a bit of Inca icing sugar. Billy lost a bit of bark and Les got a split lip. The boys were just about to do a bit of Balmain folk dancing up and down the yobbos’ ribcages to make sure they didn’t get up when they were frozen in the headlights of a paddy-wagon coming around the corner of Caldwell Street.
A woman’s voice called out from the front seat. ‘You two. Don’t move.’
Then a Holden with another two uniformed cops seemed to pull up at the same time.
As usual with ringleaders and weak mugs, Mop Top didn’t seem to be all that hurt. Before Billy and Les could get a chance to explain, he jumped up, wiping blood from his nose, and started screaming assault. And it did certainly look that way to the woman two-striper who climbed out of the wagon. A tall blonde in her mid-twenties and with not a bad head, she was in charge. She’d been transferred to Sydney from Wagga, she’d seen every episode of Cagney and Lacey and Hill Street Blues and she was determined to clean up all the crime in the inner city area. She must have left most of her brains back in Wagga because she gave Mop Top and his mates the benefit of the doubt and arrested Les and Billy.
‘I don’t bloody well believe this,’ said Billy as he clambered up into the back of the paddy-wagon, while Mop Top got into the Holden and they rang an ambulance for his mates.
‘Neither do bloody I,’ growled Norton. The door slammed, the lock clicked and he sat down trying to avoid the pile of curried pork and rice some punter had brought up in there earlier.
‘Who’s gonna ring Price?’
‘Dunno,’ muttered Les. ‘But if he had the tom-tits earlier, he’ll have ’em in spades now. It’s nearly half past bloody five.’
The wagon began rumbling towards Macleay Street and before long Norton could see the El Alamein Fountain through the grille and they were at Kings Cross police station.
The police station was half full of people coming and going — junkies, drunks, working girls, detectives, brawlers, etc, when the blonde policewoman led Les and Billy through the throng like she’d just captured Russell Cox. Before long the other two cops walked in with Mop Top, still screaming blue murder at the top of his voice.
‘In there,’ she said, motioning Les and Billy towards a small dock with the wall marked off in centimetres behind. As they shuffled towards it, Billy caught the desk sergeant’s eye and whispered something in his ear. Next thing he was led to a telephone.
‘Hey, what’s —’ said the policewoman.
‘Oh, shut up for five minutes will you, O’Connell. And give your arse a chance,’ said the grizzled old desk sergeant.
O’Connell gave a double blink then began huffing and puffing as she started to process Les. Over her head, Les could see Billy dialling a number. He caught Les’ eye, crossed his fingers and made a grimace as he waited on the line. The next thing, Billy said something into the phone, nodded and handed it to the desk sergeant. The desk sergeant said something, then it was his turn for a few double blinks; he almost saluted as he gently placed the receiver down, walked into an office and came out with a Divisional Inspector who couldn’t seem to get to the phone quick enough. The DI seemed to do nothing but nod his head for a minute or so before he hung up. He said something to the desk sergeant then turned to O‘Connell, gave her a thin smile, hooked a finger in her direction then pointed to his office. Sheepishly, she followed him inside.
‘Sorry about that, old mate,’ said the desk sergeant, letting Norton out of the dock.
‘That’s all right, sarge,’ replied Les.
‘Just wait here for a moment. The DI wants to see you before you go.’
‘Righto.’ Les joined Billy who was leaning against the desk.
‘Looks like we won’t be needing our room for the night after all,’ said Billy.
‘No, you won’t,’ agreed the desk sergeant. ‘But I know bloody someone that will.’ He walked over to Mop Top, who was still screaming his head off in the background, grabbed him by the collar and shoved him in the dock. ‘In there you. And shut up. You’re under arrest.’
‘Under arrest,’ bellowed Mop Top. ‘What for?’
‘Being a drop kick’ll do for a start,’ said the desk sergeant. ‘And don’t even think about getting bail. ’Cause you won’t see bail with a telescope.’
‘Well, that was just a bit of a mix up,’ said the DI, walking Les and Billy to the front door with his arms around their shoulders like they were two long-lost sons. ‘And plain old Constable O’Connell would like to apologise, too.’
Les turned back to the policewoman and noticed the two pips on her sleeves. He also noticed that, although she was red faced and almost in tears, now that her aloofness was gone she wasn’t half a bad sort. ‘Constable?’ he said.
‘She will be on Monday,’ nodded the DI.
‘All right if I have a word with her for a second?’
‘Sure. Go for your life.’
The DI returned to his office and Billy waited while Les had a quick talk to Constable O’Connell or whatever she was. After a few minutes Billy saw the policewoman smile then shake hands with Les.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Billy, as they started walking back to their cars.
‘Ahh, she wasn’t a bad poor scout,’ replied Les. ‘Just been watching a bit too much TV. That’s all. She probably thinks Kings Cross is Dodge City and she’s Wyatt Earp. And she’s a country girl.’ Norton emphasised this with a slap on Billy’s shoulders. ‘So she can’t be all bad.’
‘Fair enough,’ nodded Billy.
‘Besides. She didn’t have a bad arse, you know. And not a bad ankle either, underneath those horrible big, black shoes. So I got her phone number. She only lives over at Kingsford.’
Billy was chuckling to himself as they got a little further into the Cross. ‘You ever knocked off a policewoman?’ he asked.
Norton shook his head. ‘Can’t say I have. What about you?’
‘No. But I threw a scout mistress up in the air once. When I was about twenty.’
The next thing, almost as if they both had ESP, they both started singing, ‘Women in uniform. They give me a great big horn.’
Roaring with laughter, they trudged on through the dawn light coming up over the overflowing garbage tins, cockroaches and other denizens swarming around Macleay Street, Kings Cross, first thing in the morning.
If Les was singing and laughing walking through the Cross, he was far from it when he pulled up outside his house around 6.30. His split lip was weeping blood, he was getting a headache and he had a sour, rotten taste in his mouth from an overcooked kebab he’d bought in Macleay Street. It was drizzling rain when he half stumbled out of his car. He noticed Warren’s unmarked morning paper lying where the newsagent had tossed it on the verandah. Old Menzies was conspicuous by his absence. Just as well, mused Norton. I’m not really in the mood for chit-chat this morning. Not even with old Ming. And Warren’s bloody paper can stay there too. He went inside, cleaned his teeth and crashed down on his bed.
Seeing he’d been up all night, Les was expecting to crash straight out, but do you think he could sleep? Not a chance. He was now overtired and his mind wouldn’t stop ticking over as the night’s events kept flooding through his brain; hookers, brawls, women cops and an increasing headache on top of that. He tossed and he turned as the humidity seemed to turn his ever-brightening room into a sauna. Aah, bugger this, he thought, after about half an hour of restlessness. The day’s stuffed anyway, I might as well blot it completely out. He hauled himself off the bed and shuffled to the bathroom to get a couple of Warren’s Serepax.
That’s funny, Norton thought, after thoroughly searching every cabinet in the bathroom. They’re not here. I only saw a fresh packet sitting there a couple of days ago. Then something in the wastepaper basket caught his eye; the Serepax packet. It was empty. Christ! That’s odd, thought Les. There were about thirty in this the other day. Bloody hell. Warren must be eating these like Smarties. He dropped the empty packet back in the bin, settled for a couple of Panadol and went back to bed.
The Panadol eased his headache a little, but still he couldn’t sleep. He put a T-shirt over his eyes to keep out the light, but that didn’t help. Eventually he heard Warren get up, the shower running and the kitchen radio come on not long after that. Norton gave it about another fifteen minutes then decided to join Warren for a cup of something. There was no chance of him getting to sleep now.
Unlike Les, Warren was in an absolutely jubilant mood when Norton walked into the kitchen. He had on a crisply ironed check shirt and was whistling to himself as he spread his second croissant with cherry jam and sipped his freshly percolated coffee while he flicked casually through his unmarked, ungummed Daily Telegraph. He noticed Norton and smiled. And a particularly smug sort of smile it seemed too.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said breezily. ‘If it isn’t the singing bouncer. And how are you this morning, old son?’
‘All right,’ grunted Les.
Warren noticed Norton’s bloodshot eyes, drooping face and hair plastered all over his head. ‘Jesus! You’re a nice sight first thing in the morning. You look like Yosemite Sam after Bugs Bunny’s just given him an exploding cigar.’
‘You can cut the comedy, Warren,’ replied Norton tiredly. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Whenever are you, you big sheila?’ Warren continued to study Les as he fumbled around trying to make some Ovaltine and noticed his split lip. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Someone’s given you a smack in the mouth. What happened? Did you have to throw a couple of old-aged pensioners out last night? Is Price calling Bingo games up there now?’
‘As usual, Warren, you’re about as funny as the plague. But if you want to know.’ Les related to Warren the previous night’s events; right up to getting home, hitting the sack and just lying there. Which was why he was up now. ‘So that was it, Woz. One of the lowest nights I’ve ever had at the club. And now I can’t bloody sleep.’
‘Yeah. It certainly sounds like it,’ agreed Warren.
‘It was unbelievable, I can tell you.’ Shaking his head, Norton got up to make another Ovaltine, then he turned to Warren. ‘Hey, that’s what I meant to ask you. Where’s all those Serepax? I went to get a couple and there’s none there.’
Warren seemed to colour a little. ‘Yeah. Well, I ah … I’ve been having a bit of trouble sleeping myself lately.’
‘Having trouble sleeping? Having trouble staying awake’d be more like it. What have you been taking? Ten a day.’
‘Not that many.’
‘Well the packet’s empty.’
Warren buried himself back in his paper as Norton continued to stare at him. Then abruptly he changed the subject. ‘Ohh, that’s the other thing I meant to ask you. I know you had a lot of trouble and that last night, but did John drop those two bottles of Mezcal off for me?’
‘Yeah.’ Norton gave his fingers a click. ‘They’re out in the car. I’ll go out and get them for you.’
It was still pattering light rain when Norton opened the car door. He picked up the two bottles of Mezcal from the front seat when a voice called out from across the road.
‘Oh, Les. Yoo hoo. Have you got a minute?’ It was old Mrs Curtin standing at the front of her semi.
‘Yeah, sure, Mrs Curtin.’ Norton tucked the two bottles up under his arm and trotted across the road.
‘I never got a chance to see you yesterday, Les,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘Did you hear what happened?’
‘No.’
‘Old Menzies is gone.’
‘Gone? What do you mean Mrs Curtin?’
‘He died in his sleep on Wednesday night.’
‘Fair dinkum? Ohh jeez, that’s no good. I’m gonna miss his bony, moth-eaten old head round the joint.’
‘Yes, I know, Les. You and Menzies were good mates.’ Despite the sadness of losing the family pet, Mrs Curtin seemed to be in a whimsical sort of mood and there was a definite smile creasing the corners of her eyes. ‘Still, Les, I think it was all for the best. He was terribly old, you know. His eyes were just about gone. His bowels were gone and he used to crap everywhere. He was full of arthritis. So … maybe it’s for the best.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les solemnly. ‘I suppose so.’
‘It’s a funny thing, though. He’s been real grumpy the last couple of years. But when we found him, he had this wonderful smile on his face. Almost like he was a pup again. And another thing, even though he’d been dead for hours, he was still quite warm. It was funny. Anyway, old Menzies went out in style.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Norton, ‘It sure sounds like it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Reminds me a bit of a dog I had in Queensland. He died from drinking a half-gallon tin of varnish.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He had an awful death. But a great finish. Anyway, I’d better get out of the rain. I’ll see you, Mrs Curtin. And I’m sorry about old Ming.’
‘Ta ta, Les.’
‘Aah, you got them,’ beamed Warren, looking at the two bottles of hooch. ‘Thanks a lot for that, mate.’
‘That’s okay. I’m just glad you’re drinking the shit and not me.’
Warren tilted one of the bottles and a huge, grey repulsive-looking grub swirled from one side to the other. ‘And then I’m gonna eat the grub.’
‘Is that what it is. It looks like some hairy Mexican chopped his toe off while he was bottling it.’
Warren smiled and took the two bottles to his bedroom, leaving Norton staring numbly at the kitchen table. His mind was still ticking over from lack of sleep, yet something else kept nagging at him, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
‘Anyway,’ said Warren, returning to the kitchen door. ‘I’d better get cracking. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Yeah, righto,’ replied Norton absently. ‘You know, Warren, I just can’t figure you taking all those Serepax like that. It just doesn’t seem right.’
‘Yeah, well you know how it is, Les. The pressures of advertising and all that. I’ll see you when I get home.’
‘Yeah, righto.’
As he went to leave, Warren turned to Les, gave him an absolutely diabolical grin and pointed to his Daily Telegraph still on the kitchen table. ‘I’ll tell you what, mate,’ he said. ‘Seeing as it’s raining outside, you can have my paper. Save you a walk down to the newsagency.’
Norton muttered a thanks as Warren’s grin seemed to increase.
‘And I’ll guarantee you something, Les. You’ll have absolutely no trouble reading it. There’s not a mark on it. See you later, mate.’
Norton continued to stare numbly at the paper. The front door opened just as his eyes lit up. ‘Hey, Warren. Hold on a minute, you little bastard.’