Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

Foodge 12 – Foodge’s War Part IV – Third Rate Romance

16 Sunday May 2010

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 13 Comments

Amazing Rhythm Aces - Too Stuffed to Jump

By Big M

It was late, passed eight o’clock, and the tension at the Trotters was almost palpable. Neville’s boys still hadn’t arrived, and the frequent high-pitched sound, and hint of blue smoke let them know that the Lambrettas were still outside, buzzing up and down the main street like blowflies in a charnel house. O’Hoo was buggered, so was punching out a few zeds in the Nathan Rees Memorial Cinema, upstairs. The bowling ladies had reluctantly been ferried home in the ‘Window Dressers, Pig and Whistle Courtesy Omnibus’, which Merv claims to have won in a poker game. As with most things around the Pigs, Granny was the only one with a bus/truck licence, so, she did the honours. This was with the exception of Beryl, who stayed to comfort ‘her Hedgie.’

Foodge was thinking at a frenetic rate. Two men missing, one, the leader of the most powerful gang in Sydney, the other, a fellow, and rival, gang member, and seriously respected artist. Foodge called Fern, asking her to bring all of his files on Ms Ann Thropy, Gez, the Angles and the Lambrettists. Naturally she had just had new acrylic nails, so, Emmjay would drive her down. They arrived shortly before nine; Fern resplendent in a green silk dress that hugged every curve, making her look like a jade princess. Emmjay, on the other hand, was on the receiving end of another ABC wardrobe malfunction so was wearing slippers, black pyjama pants, yellow smoking jacket with gold cravat.

Emmjay handed over the files (Fern’s nails hadn’t ‘set’), which were empty, except for a pamphlet in Gez’s on an Alpaca farm. This was partly, or mainly, Foodges fault, as he’d written nothing in the files aside from writing the titles on the manila folders. “Crikey, these are as useful as a cat flap on a kennel.”

Emmjay looked around. The Angles sat around brooding, drinking Trotter’s ale and snavelling egg and lettuce sandwiches. Rosie and BB were reading Tattoo Quarterly while Merv loaded a new lot of day-old fresh pastries into the pie warmer.  “What’s happened, boss, and why are there motor-scooters surrounding the place?”

“It’s a siege, Lambrettists versus Angles, that’s why the Angles are hiding in here.” Foodge was distracted by the sound of the TV.

“Two Lewisham men have broken Dolly Dyer’s record for catching Black Marlin in Australia. They are ineligible for the award on account of their gender; however, the Australian Angler’s Association is helping with the costs of having the animal stuffed and mounted…and in other news…” the newsreader droned on.

“Good on you Neville!!!” Merv couldn’t conceal his pleasure. “So, we won’t be seeing him, lucky bugger.”

Foodge’s mind was in overdrive. Neville was no help. What was the connection between the two missing men? Motor scooters? Well, that was obvious. Women? One was married, the other was recently divorced. What did Rocky import? Soap, or something? No. What did he export? Surf gear and something else. Ah thought Foodge. Ugh boots. There’s the connection. Alpaca Ugh Boots. Exporting them to South America. Gez was a retired Alpaca farmer, and Rocky, the owner of an Ugh boot factory! He turned the pamphlet over in his hands. He hadn’t made the connection, initially, because the farm was under the name of ‘H & G Alpacas’, not ‘Gez and whoever H was’.

Foodge dialled the number on the pamphlet. A woman identifying herself as ‘Helvi’ answered the call. He asked for Gez, and found himself speaking with him after a wait of a few minutes, whilst Gez divested himself of earmuffs, helmet, gloves, etc. Foodge explained the goings on at the Pigs. Gez just laughed, “that’ll be Rocky’s little brother, Lou, he’s been trying to take over the Lambrettists, and has probably seized the opportunity, while we’ve been away. Don’t worry, Rocky’ll call it off.” Gez hung up.

A couple of minutes passed, then, all was silent. The Lambrettists had gone. The Prof stood up. “Three cheers for Foodge” They all cheered enthusiastically. “Publican, your finest Passion Pop, all round.”  There was no publican to be seen. Merv and Janet had already realised the siege was over and had crept upstairs for some horizontal samba. Granny was asleep in the ladies’ lounge, snoring sonorously. Jail leapt over the bar, and started popping corks, and pouring carbonated wine into Ladies Waists, as Merv had never bothered with wine glasses. O’Hoo, woken by the cheers, staggered down the stairs, his creased face half covered with Police Association ink, and saliva over one collar.

There was the screech of feedback from a loudhailer somewhere outside. The disembodied voice called, “The building is surrounded with armed police, everybody lie down!!”

There was a huge noise from the front door, as someone tried to push the doors in, then realised that the doors opened outwards. Police in Kevlar jackets and helmets stormed in from every entrance, whilst the patrons quivered on the floor. Detective Inspector Rouge marched in, wearing high heels, silk stockings (complete with perfectly aligned seams, and a little butterfly on each ankle), and a short, red, cocktail dress. “Where’s O’Hoo, what have you bastards done with him?” she yelled.

O’Hoo struggled to his feet, trying to straighten his tie, and turn his jacket lapels the right way round. Rouge strode across the room, grabbed him by said lapels, and kissed him hard on the lips. “Thank God, little one, I thought you were a gonna! Now, what have these bastards done to you, you’ve been off the radar for two days?”

Foodge interjected. “We’ve done nothing, in fact, O’Hoo has been working ‘off the radar’ and, almost single handed located the missing Rocky and Gez, as well as stopping the Lambretta Vendetta!” Foodge went on to explain how O’Hoo had located the missing men with his brilliant powers of detecting, appealed to Rocky to call off the vendetta, and managed to keep all of the Angels in the pub, out of harms way.

“That’s my little Gerald,” cooed Rouge, with her face resting against his sweat stained shirt -front. “Who’s going to be nominated for a promotion?” She said as she tousled his greasy, thinning hair. With that, she ordered the armed police out, apologised to the patrons who’d been inconvenienced, then proceeded to walk out arm in arm with O’Hoo.

O’Hoo mouthed a quick, “Thanks Mate,” to Foodge, who responded with, “Bye, Gerald, see you round like the fat lady at a circus.”

Foodge sat on a stool, leaned against the bar, and skulled a pint of trotters, which a very thoughtful Jail had poured. Case closed. All over. Missed out on the money for finding Rocky. Missed the kudos for solving the case. No loose ends. An itch coming from his arse cheek told him otherwise!

The pub emptied pretty quickly. The Angels fired up their bikes, and took off for Highbury to attempt to salvage their collection of all things trigonomic. Fern had broken a new acrylic nail, so demanded that Emmjay escort her to the nearest beautician for emergency treatment. Rosie and BB mumbled something about creating more digital tattoo designs, so left with Jail in tow. Hedgie left with Beryl perched behind him on his outlandishly chromed chopper. It was a pity Hedgie didn’t pay as much attention to his personal hygiene as he did to his bike!  Granny had stumbled off to the cellar to check on her yeasts. Foodge was alone.

Foodge was alone exhausted. He’d been awake for the best part of thirty-six hours. He was unshaven and in desperate need of a shower, shave, and change of clothes. He had to admit to himself that he felt slightly betrayed by O’Hoo. Clearly Rouge and O’Hoo had been conducting a clandestine affair. Oh, well, he thought, Vinh was a very attractive women and O’Hoo was a very desperate man. Even Hedgie had hooked up!

Foodge’s reflections were disturbed by the rattle of the front door. A black leather clad, and helmeted figure strode confidently across the room. He was transfixed. The biker removed gloves and helmet, as long, black tresses tumbled down and an exotic, yet familiar scent filled the room. Foodge was gobsmacked. It was Miss Anne Thropy. “What does a girl need to do to get a refreshment around here?”

“Well…ah…oh..what can I get you?” Foodge mumbled.

“White Russian?”

Foodge knew that this was probably out of the question. Alcoholic drinks based on goat’s milk tended to be pretty ordinary, and the only milk at the Pigs Arms was from Granny’s goat, ‘Myrtle’.  Foodge shook his head, “What about a leg-opener, I mean a G & T?” He replied.

“Yes, Mr Foodge… I think you’re flirting with me.” Miss Thropy batted her long eyelashes. “Why don’t you just call me Anne?”

Foodge pushed the drink across the stained timber, “Here’s to your health, Mr Foodge, “ said Anne, draining the glass.

“Another, “ Foodge sounded a little too hopeful.

“No, thankyou, it doesn’t pay to drink and ride, nor does it pay to drink and drive a motorcycle.” Anne winked. “Coming?”

Foodge was a horny bastard, so didn’t need to be asked twice. He looked around as he opened the door for Anne. This place was like a home. Every feature etched in his mind, from the original art deco cornices to the threadbare carpet, from the rust-pitted chrome door handles to the juke box which only played one song, ‘Third Rate Romance, by The Amazing Rhythm Aces’. He sighed as he stpped into the cool night air.

Art

11 Tuesday May 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

≈ 28 Comments

Picasso's Weeping Woman - 1937

A tickle by Gregor Stronach

I’ll be frank about this… I’m not an art lover. Sure, I can appreciate a nice photograph from time to time – especially if it’s of me, and even more so if I’m doing something really cool and dangerous, like riding a motorcycle or picking my nose.

But when it comes to understanding art, I’m hopeless. So in an attempt to get my head around it, I’ve been thinking about it more and more – how does it work? Why do people spend their entire lives beavering away like morons and drones on a single canvas that they’ll probably cut to pieces in a drunken rage at four in the morning in the middle of winter because they’ve broken up with their partner and she’s taken the cat and moved interstate and she was the only one who understood me and I don’t think I can keep living without her. Or something…

So let’s work through this together, shall we? Let’s explore the world of ‘art’ and see if we can’t piece together the greatest puzzle of them all… what the fuck is art? And, more importantly, what the fuck has it got to do with me?

I can answer the first question right away: If you see an object, and you don’t know what it is or why it’s there, it’s probably art. But the second question… that’s the clincher, and it’s a question that anyone who has ever been subjected to art should ask themselves.

Painting.

I’ll admit to having loved it as a child, but painting these days leaves me cold. I struggle to apply a single block of colour to a household wall, let alone forge any meaningful, or even discernible, images in a mish-mash of flesh tones and bright primary pigments upon a canvas stretched as tightly as my nerves.

So I’m at a loss to understand even the basics of it. Sure, if the artist is going for that whole hyper-realism thing, then it’s easy to figure out what they’re saying with their work: “I have too much time on my hands and I’m too fucking cheap to buy a camera…”

But when it comes to abstract stuff – you know, those crazed impressionists or expressionists or whatever the hell they were calling themselves… I just don’t get it. I’ve had someone try to explain it to me in the past. “Look at the intensity of the brush strokes in this work,” they said. It was a large canvas, and I’m not sure which of the brush strokes they were specifically referring to, but having been left behind – hopelessly left behind, at that – within the first 20 seconds of the lesson, I let my mind wander.

As my eyes happened upon a rather portly gentleman who was ‘admiring’ a painting a few feet away, I decided that by imitating him – adopting his poses and mannerisms – I might at least look like I was appreciating the paintings in the proper way. Thus, after ten minutes of almost imperceptible frowning and some fairly serious beard-stroking, my teacher proclaimed “That’s it! You really look like you’re understanding this! Excellent! Let’s move on to the really abstract stuff now…” I nearly died.

I did get to see one thing that amazed me, though – a painting called Blue Poles, by some jerk with the amusing name of Pollock. Apparently the Australian National Gallery forked out the GDP of Kenya for this painting, and as far as I could tell, it looks like some madman has thrown paint on a canvas, attached a ridiculous price tag and waited for an over-zealous public servant with the keys to the treasury and severe myopia to wander in and buy it. It sums up the world of painting for me – overpriced, and overburdened by sympathetic souls. If ever people were making millions doing something that I can look at and say, “Jesus, even I can do that…” it’s painting.

But it’s not just the fact that Pollock’s Blue Poles leaves me none the wiser about art – the idea of a government shelling out millions of dollars for paint splashed randomly on a canvas makes me shudder like a shitting dog.

Sculpture

It was my dad who told me the secret to good sculpture – many years ago, I told him that I wanted to carve myself a large elephant, but that I needed his help. His advice was invaluable…he told me that if I wanted to carve an elephant, I should get myself a lump of concrete, making sure that the concrete is slightly larger than the elephant I want to create. Then, I was to get myself a hammer and chisel, assess the block of stone, and then simply knock off the bits that didn’t look like an elephant.

He’s lucky I didn’t start knocking off all the bits of him that did look like an elephant. That task I left to my mother. Hence, my dad is still a ‘work in progress’.

But I digress… I can see the benefit of some sculpture. It can be, and frequently is, quite rude. Some of the most famous sculptures of all time are pretty much just giant marble naked guys, or large marble women with ample, dimpled buttocks and vacant expressions on their faces. It’s interesting – given the oeuvre of the predominant artists of the day, we now expect that most art containing largish women or men with tiny penises will arrive in the form of sculpted marble.

These days, with the penchant of artists to use hyper-skinny crack-whore models, it would make better economic sense to use marble now – after all, there’s a lot less of the model to carve, keeping the raw material costs at a reasonable level. But no – they burnt money carving fat chicks out of beautiful stone 300 years ago, and these days they prefer to photograph the skinny ones. Sometimes humans confuse me.

Photography

Now this one I can nearly understand – except that most of the photography exhibitions I’ve ever been to have been catastrophically boring. Yes, I have a working knowledge of taking pictures – no journalist worth his salt doesn’t know how to take a half-decent photo from time to time – but when it comes to photography as ‘art’ rather than photography as ‘work’, I’m stumped.

Having been to see quite a few galleries whose walls were lined with photos, I can say this – if I see one more “single tree in an otherwise empty field with storm clouds gathered ominously behind it” photo, I’ll find the photographer and give him a Canon Colonoscopy. With the number of digital cameras being sold every day around the world, I reckon it’s a fair bet that there isn’t a single thing on the planet that hasn’t been photographed.

And so we’re left with another branch of photography that I truly despise – photos that rely on the inherent incongruent nature of their subjects. The whole ‘Oh look! It’s a woman wearing an octopus as hair!” or “Check it out! It’s an old man taking a shit in the middle of a freeway!” is more annoying than confronting, more patronising than educational, and ultimately entirely fruitless. Surely we have better things to do with our time than dress people in seafood or watch old people crap. If I’d wanted to do either of those things, I’d go back to work in a nursing home.

Film

I’m absolutely sure that whoever it was that decided to market filmmaking as an art form was attempting an early form of eugenics. “Let’s gather all of the world’s insufferable wankers into one place – with a bit of luck, the building they’re in will collapse and we can all be happy…”

I’ve met a few filmmakers in my time. Hell, I’ve been a filmmaker. It’s fucked. How people can make a living out of it, I don’t know – anything that’s utterly unenjoyable as a hobby has simply got to be the worst job in the world.

See, filmmaking is a horrifyingly vampiric art form. Once a movie is made, it’s there forever. Artists, prior to film, used to produce several versions of the same piece, each time improving upon it. Quite the reverse is the case with film – remakes are invariably shit, and sequels (and to an even greater extent, prequels) are universally banal and awful.

If it were up to me, I think that filmmakers should be licensed, like dogs. There would be a fairly strenuous initial period of testing and retesting, and anyone who falls back on the excuse that their film is ‘a metaphor’ should immediately be banned from ever making one again. Films are not metaphors. Films are a series of still pictures shown in rapid succession to give the impression of movement. Yes, they tell stories. Sometimes those stories are even entertaining. But most of the time they’re just self-indulgent whining about appallingly boring subjects.

Except when they’re blowing up entire buildings – that’s pretty cool.

Digital Art

It’s a fact of life that when a new technology or medium is invented, someone somewhere will look at it and think to themselves “wow… I can make some serious art with that.” In that sense, most artists are akin to the more prolific stoners in society – you know the type. They can be heard uttering phrases like “That television would make an excellent bong” from the depths of the couch, the morning after the welfare cheque has cleared.

And that’s why, all of a sudden, there’s been an explosion of electronic art. A number of reasonably intelligent nerdlings discovered that computers can be used to alter photographs, and the world was beset by Digital Art.

These electron jockeys, like all ‘New Artists’, consider themselves to be cutting edge – at the forefront of the collective psyche, producing tantalising works of art that end up on T-Shirts, or as Desktops. In terms of audience reach, they’re probably on the right track – but it’s highly unlikely that critical acclaim is around the corner.

You see, the invention of the internet has drastically reduced one famous artist’s prediction of fifteen minutes of fame to somewhere between two and three minutes – in essence, the lifespan of a digital artist at the top of his game could quite easily be slotted into the space between the sport and the weather on the nightly news.

Performance Art

There’s a special place in Hell reserved for all performance artists. I will spare you the brutally obvious diatribe on the topic of mimes… it’s so fucking fashionable to hate them these days that they’re in danger of becoming popular again with the avant garde, and we could yet see a revival. But that’s nothing a large, deep hole and a sign reading ‘Free Mime Food’ won’t fix.

The performance arts I particularly loathe are the ones where people intentionally hurt themselves to make a point – protest art, like protest music, is usually extremely tedious, insufferable for any onlooker and, for the most part, a colossal waste of everyone’s time. I cannot see a single redeeming feature in any activity that sets out to fix any of the world’s numerous ills, and usually ends with the sounds of sirens and the scampering footsteps of frightened co-conspirators as they flee into the night.

The problem with performance art is that, in these modern times, it has to be extreme to be noticed. Life was easier for artists in the 1960s – all they needed to do was take their clothes off and they’d be famous. But if Yoko Ono’s caterwauling and public nudity were thought-provoking and daring back then, today they’re limitlessly passé – performance artists have evolved.

The best example I know of is a chap called Mike Parr, who insists on inflicting prodigious amounts of pain on himself to make ‘statements’ about ‘issues’, thus forming ‘art’ that makes people ‘think’. Having seen him do his thing – I watched him having his face stitched up and then wire himself up to a potent source of electricity, inviting people to visit his website and press a button that would deliver a shock to his already brutalised form – I have to say that I applaud the man’s stamina. But that’s about it.

I’m sorry to say that it’s my dim opinion that this man, and anyone like him, is a 24-carat gold-plated fool. I refuse to be impressed by people hurting themselves to make a point. I can see no difference between them and people like Steve O and the lads from Jackass… except at least the guys from Jackass aren’t pretending to save the world.

Writing

All writers are fools. It’s a simple, inalienable fact. I know, because I am one. We sit down and pen missives on whatever topic strikes us (if we’re lucky) or whatever we’re told to write (if we work for someone else), and all that matters is making sure that each piece, or chapter, has a beginning, a middle and an end.

It’s actually debatable, in my opinion, that writing is not an art – it’s more of a craft. Although to me, the word ‘craft’ brings to mind small tubs of paste, ice cream sticks, tiny tubes of glitter with lids that won’t come off and a box of 64 brightly coloured Derwent pencils, the more popular colours being immediately apparent because the pencil is only half as long as its less-potent neighbour. Plus, the ends of the popular colours are chewed more.

But it’s not hard to string words together – everyone can do it in some form or another. Even the basics, like learning to ask for a bagel or asking someone where the toilets are in a pub are a form of wordsmithing – the only difference being that some of us possess the manual dexterity to type the words as fast as we can think them, and thus the published sentences appear a tad more coherent.

I dislike most writers. But, like all writers, I like my own work. I like to think that I write more for myself than for others – and for that reason, I can generally be assured that if I feel like making myself laugh, I can simply re-read some of the moronic things I’ve written over the years.

It’s the beauty of being a simpleton – repetitive things can often be amusing.

Wrapping Up

And so, you now know how I feel about art. I know that some of you will be shocked, and others outraged – but I can assure you that I have, by no means, set out to offend. Except filmmakers – you can all go to hell.

But everyone else should not be upset by what I’ve written – if imitation is indeed the sincerest form of flattery, a spite born of envy must surely run a close second.

This article was first published at http://www.rumanmonkey.com

Foodge 12 : Foodge’s War Part III – Wolseley Seeing You Again

10 Monday May 2010

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 28 Comments

Gregor always liked to keep Miss Ann Thropy's Wolseley 6 nice...

Foodge’s War by Big M

Foodge, O’Hoo and Merv had little else to do but wait, so watched some cricket, a one day match between MNU (no-one knew what this stood for)  and the OPs. It was a replay and seemed like a universe away. “Y’know we’ll be in a shitload of trouble if it all kicks off?” Mumbled Merv, his eye on a batsman wearing a clerical collar. “lambrettists are the some of the fiercest fighters in this town.”

“Pppppfffft,” O’Hoo sprayed beer, lettuce and egg across the room, hitting the brass and timber ship’s wheel, hung on the wall for effect. “Packa Pooftas, that lot. Couldn’t fight their way outova wet paper doily.”

“No, Merv’s right.” Foodge chipped in, “Look at motor scooter riders. No one respects ‘em. Gotta push their way through heavy traffic, precipitates a bituv road rage. They gotta know how to fight.” Foodge still carried a scar from an altercation. “Lookit the Angles. They all look tough, ride big bikes, everyone gets outov their way. Never fight, they’re all blubber. Lookit Hedgie.” Hedgie was still there, too frightened to go into the streets until he was with the gang. “We need more people.”

The Bowling Lady’s production line was still in full swing. Merv leaned to the side and whispered into Janet’s delicately formed ear. She quickly jerked her head back, fixing him with that one eyed stare. “No, go on Love, we need’em.” Janet removed her apron and took off through the front doors like a male nurse trying to avoid emptying a bedpan.

Ten minutes elapsed then Janet sidled up next to Merv, nodded and winked, while he watched the TV, stoney-faced as the priest-cricketer got knockded out. She must have slipped in through the yard, where Granny was stacking kegs, sorting brown bottles from clear, and so on.

A sound split the air like a thousand deep throated, twin cylinder gnats, roaring up the main street. All assumed it must’ve been the Angles, on their charlies. The main door was opened by a short, rotund fellow, dressed in chauffer’s livery. He stepped to one side to allow the most ravishing creature on God’s earth to step through. It was none other than the very aromatic Ms Ann Thropy. “Thankyou, Gregor, you may wait in the car.” She walked toward Foodge, careful not to snag her stiletti in the fraying carpet. “I pay you good money to look for my ex-husband, and instead I find you here drinking with buffoons.” Her eyes wandered to O’Hoos hunched form as she pronounced the word, ‘buffoon.”

Foodge was flummoxed. “Well, ‘er, ah, you, ah, never gave me a , er, description of your, ah, husband, er, ex, er, ah, husband.”

“His name’s Rocky de Sastri, he’s 186 cm tall, well hung, I mean, built, and drives a black Lambretta. Is that all? With that she turned on her heel, forgetting the fraying carpet, tripped over her own feet, and collapsed on the floor. O’Hoo was all over her like a fat kid on a Smartie. The more he tried to help, the worse it got, especially with his best Police Association ink still wet on his filthy paws. Eventually Janet stepped in, helped her to her feet, wiped as much ink from Ms Ann’s shoulder as possible with a beer soaked rag, then helped her out the door to her waiting Wolseley Six.

Both Foodge and O’Hoo were about to have a eureka moment. Wait for it. Wait for it. “Rocky’s disappearance must have something to do with the Angle’s trouble with the Lambrettists,” both chimed together. “Find Rocky, and we’ll find the answer to our dilemma,” continued Foodge, just as the doors burst open and in strutted Rosie, her chief tattooist, BB and their bodyguard, Jail (because he’d been in there, and his initials are JL, get it?). Each carried a couple of shot guns, and each was adorned with ammunition belts criss-crossed over their chests, Zapata style.

“Oh, no, not shooters!” Foodge exclaimed, who’d developed hoplophobia in another life.

“Can’t win war without guns, Mister Foodge,” grimaced Rosie. “How did you think we won the Great Tattoo war of ’58?”  Merv moved out from behind the bar, took the guns ( a lovely Purdey Over and Under shotgun and one of which proved to be an old blunderbuss, for which Rosie hand-loaded ammunition) and stowed them in the office. Beryl poured the trio cups of tea, as they were all teetotallers.  Psycho killers, but teetotal, none-the-less.

“Look, thanks for your help, but we’re almost on the cusp of….” Foodge’s words were cut short by the arrival of the Angles, led by the Professor, who stepped up to Foodge, and embraced him like a brother (a sibling, not a bikey gang member), then walked over to Hedgie, and embraced him.

“I see you’ve assembled a formidable army!” said the Professor to no one in particular, as he removed his John Lennon style glasses. “We shall crush them like little beetles.”

“Well, wait a minute, that might not be necessary.” Began Foodge, who was immediately interrupted by O’Hoo, who was till enjoying the eureka moment, or, in his case, the eureka ten minutes.

“We should try to find Rocky.” Burst O’Hoo. “He’s the key.”

The Prof looked quizzical. “de Sastri’s missing, well, so is Gez. He went away on a water colour weekend in the Southern Highlands, and hasn’t been heard from since. Normally he calls every other day, just to inform us of his progress.”

“Water colour weekends, progress, what are you smoking, Prof?” Foodge was exasperated.

“Oh, well that’s easy, Gez goes away for a couple of days a month, paints his little heart out, then sells the paintings at a little art gallery in Paddington. Easy money for a great artist, and brilliant geometrician.” The Prof enthused. “ He’s been gone about five or six days.”

“So has Rocky.” nodded Foodge.

“I know, they’ve eloped. No, they’ve gone camping, no, they’ve joined the Mormons.” O’Hoo could barely contain himself. “I’ll get Fern to check the Registry Office, and the Mormons, and all of the camping grounds.”

Merv gave O’Hoo a clip around the back of the head. “You’re becoming hysterical, like a potato peeler. The same person has probably abducted them both.”

Hell Hospital: Episode 8

09 Sunday May 2010

Posted by in Hell Hospital

≈ 57 Comments

By theseustoo

Loreen just ‘happened’ to be waiting for Swannee as he came off duty for his lunch-break; a creature of habit, he always sat at the same table. She sat down opposite him just as he seated himself and he thought it would be impolite to reject her company by moving to another table; Swannee was nothing if not a gentleman.

He smiled politely at Loreen and hoped she wasn’t going to make ‘small talk’… he wasn’t much good at small talk. Quickly he filled his mouth strategically with a piece of steak large enough to choke a saltwater crocodile and set to work chewing on it, looking all around the room as he did so in order to avoid having to look, and perhaps appear to stare, at Loreen or her remarkable cleavage, which she seemed to be perpetually inclined to display to its best advantage by leaning forward at just the right angle… But in any case, he thought to himself, why bother with hamburger here when there’s fillet steak at home. He knew the girls liked to tease him because of his unlikely reputation for marital fidelity; yet they always found he was easily able to resist all their teasing, no matter how provocative; if he even deigned to notice it at all.

While he was looking around the busy canteen, however, he failed to notice the small gelatin capsule that Loreen dropped into his black coffee, or even that she added sugar and stirred it for him.

Loreen then waited patiently as Swannee chewed his steak and eggs with chips and salad; stopping only occasionally to take a swig of coffee. As he finished his meal he realized three things, firstly that he no longer had any excuse to avoid talking to Loreen; secondly that he no longer wished to avoid looking at her cleavage and thirdly that the latter no longer reminded him of camping holidays in the hills with the cricket team. Another realization was a certain stirring in his loins and an irresistible urge… Loreen saw the look of unadulterated lust on Swannee’s face and merely smiled provocatively, leaning forward as far as she could, and said, “Hellooooooo… tiger!”

Ignoring his apple pie and ice-cream desert Swannee lunged forward at the delectable strumpet he now saw in front of his fevered eyes; he grabbed Loreen’s hand and dragged her away from the prying eyes of the rest of the canteen’s customers and through the kitchen, right past the astonished chefs and kitchen-hands, and into the large pantry at the rear of the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind them as he impaled her against the pantry wall…

*****    *******    *****

Harry the ambulance-man pushed Catherine, on a gurney, into the staff canteen, but there was no sign of her husband there at all, although strange noises seemed to be coming from the direction of the kitchen. Never one for standing on protocol, Catherine hopped down off the gurney and hobbled towards the kitchen, in spite of Harry’s protests.

“Don’t worry Harry; I’ve been through this often enough before; I’ll know when it’s gonna pop!” Dubiously Harry let her go, but followed closely.

Strange noises, Catherine discovered, were indeed coming from the direction of the pantry at the rear of the kitchen… it almost sounded as if someone were in labor inside the pantry… curiosity kept her going now as she tentatively opened the pantry door, but the sight that met her eyes stopped her in her tracks.

It took her quite a long moment to assimilate the sight of her husband’s rear elevation, naked from the waist down apart from his socks, pounding into some tart whose fishnet-stockinged legs were still wrapped around his own legs and thrusting insistently. When the moment of assimilation had finally allowed her brain to comprehend what was actually happening she acted immediately, intuitively and instinctively:

Before she had settled down with Swannee, Catherine had toured Europe with Billy Smart’s Circus as the main attraction in a knife-throwing act. Her act’s novelty was that whilst dressed as a ‘knife-thower’s assistant’, she would turn the tables on the ‘knife thrower’, who was really just her assistant, and use him for a target, while he spun on the revolving backboard. The acts novelty combined with Catherine’s matrushka-doll figure and anthracite eyes to make the act immensely popular throughout Europe, especially in the Carpathians; until she eventually found the rapid turnover of assistants more than a little off-putting and decided to quit showbiz to marry Swannee, who appeared in her life whilst on a European vacation.

Inside the pantry door, on Catherine’s left, were several wooden blocks of the kind which contain a selection of very long, very sharp and very pointy chef’s knives. Swiftly grasping a knife from each block in either hand Catherine dexterously threw both knives into Swannee’s back; he jerked severely and grunted while his newfound sexual partner moaned in ecstasy each time as four more times Catherine’s expert marksmanship planted four more pairs of knives in her adulterous husband’s back!

How could he do this to her?! And to the cricket team?! After all these years and all these children together, he has to go and throw it all away for the sake of a quickie in the closet with some harlot?! As the final pair of knives sunk deep into her errant husband’s kidneys, and as he slowly collapsed backwards off his erstwhile paramour, into the arms of ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’, Catherine let out a terrifyingly blood-curdling scream as a huge contraction suddenly hit her. The baby’s head had not only instantly engaged, but had already forced its way out of her vagina to hang there dangling, visibly to Harry from the rear through the obligatory gap in her hospital robe, between her legs.

Thinking quickly, Harry grabbed a couple of serviettes from a shelf and laid them on a large silver platter… then he waited with his hands held underneath the baby’s head, ready to catch it when Catherine could no longer resist the urge to give it the final push it needed. After this he cut the cord with another sharp kitchen knife and tied off both ends with pieces of string which the chef used for tying up roasts. Just at this point the doctors arrived along with several nurses. One of the doctors administered a hypodermic sedative to Catherine, who was still screaming and clearly quite beside herself as Harry presented her with her new child on a silver platter; until, finally sedated, she allowed herself to slump into the nurse’s arms and let them take her away to a secure ward, where the police would be waiting to interview her as soon as she came round.

As luck would have it, Loreen found a convenient air-vent which she knew led outside the hospital building and took advantage of all the commotion, while everyone’s attention was focused on Catherine, to disappear; nobody had had a clear view of her face and the medicos had finally arrived to take care of the unfortunate Swannee; there was absolutely no reason, she told herself, why she needed to involve herself in this unfortunate affair whatsoever. She determined that she would be both shocked and stunned when she heard the news tomorrow morning when she arrived for work…

*****     *******     *****

A Mother’s Day Card

09 Sunday May 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 10 Comments

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Kathleen May O'Connor and Barbara Ellen Jones - Nan and Mom - some time in the late 1950s

I remember like it was yesterday

The day that I left home

Dad came over sad and serious

But I was keen to roam

It fell to Mom

As it always did

To smooth over life’s hard knocks

With undies, towels and sheets she had

Packed a kind of glory box

And stuffed in there with

Meticulous care

Were the rations for the week

And a plain, plump little envelope

With instructions not to speak.

Some pots, a pan

Some coffee mugs

Toaster with plastic handles, blue

A smallish set of eatin’ iron

And sufficient plates

To feed myself

And one or two mates too.

We packed Dad’s car

And off we set

Heading for the Inner West

A rented room with Janice B

Was where I’d take my rest.

And now it comes to Mother’s Day

Remembering Mom’s loving care

Through all the years since I cut loose

As solid as a rock for me

My Mom’s always been there.

I’ll ne’er forget the words she said that day that I left home

“Take extra care,

My darling son

With girlfriends

When they’re cranky

Comb your hair

And brush your teeth

And always take a hanky”

Foodge 12 (Foodge’s War II) – Hedging Foodge’s Bet

05 Wednesday May 2010

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

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Merv had decided that this was the last time he was going to use the Modrian Brothers Tiling Company

The Second Big M Episode….

Foodge grabbed O’Hoo by both shoulders, “Please tell me you’re not going to call this in?  You know what happens to blokes like us if this place closes?”

O’Hoo shook his head, “No bloody way, there’s not a case I’ve solved that hasn’t relied on information received here.”

Merv pushed a couple of glass canoes of Pigs Arm Best Bitter, across the grainy, stained, timber bar. Granny had been experimenting with imported Tasmanian hops, hand roasted barley, and new yeast, which had been extracted from a pair of underpants found under the cellar stairs.

Foodge downed the brown fluid in one continuous gulp, “Christ that’s cold, what happened?”

Merv laughed, for the first time in years, “Granny fixed the refrigeration unit in the cellar, just this morning, turns out it was a busted fuse!”

O’Hoo mumbled something about draining a lizard, or, was it someone’s gizzards, and stumbled off.  Foodge reflected on his time at the Pigs. He’d started out as the rising star of the Police Prosecution Service, winning high profile cases by day and escorting some of the most glamorous women in Erskineville at night. The legal system would never allow a man like him, a (mainly) heterosexual teetotaller, into their inner sanctum. Foodge had been bullied by the other lawyers until he left, a broken alcoholic, fed on a steady diet of Pink drinks, with JW chasers.

Merv had been the one who’d turned everything around for Foodge. He’d literally pulled his face out of the urinal of the Pigs Arms gents, sat him down at the bar, fed him one of Granny’s famous Pigs Arms Big Breakfasts, then told him a few home truths. Merv pointed Foodge in the direction of work as a Private Dick, “A good Private Dick can name his own price and get as many roots as he can handle.”

Foodge’s life was transformed. He bought two pinstriped suits, a bow tie and his trade mark Fedora, which he never wore. Now, years later, he had a suite of one office, a luxury Zephyr, and a staff of two, if he counted Emmjay, the cleaner.

His reverie was disrupted by a soprano scream.

Local kids doing the "Wall of Death" on the carpark fence.

“Janet, my love, they’re only school kids,” called Merv. Janet had never really understood the concept of children being, well, children, as she’d never been a child herself. Every afternoon she screamed at the kids as they walked passed on the way home from school, thinking they were dwarfs trying to break the glass over the ‘Wretches Pilsener’ poster, outside.

O’Hoo was settling on the stool next to Foodge. “So, how are we going to avert World War Three?”

“This will have to be a triumph of diplomacy over bellicosity”, mused Foodge. “Those bloody Lambrettists have the strength of numbers to destroy Highbury and The Pigs, as well as everything that goes with it. We are going start with getting the boss of the Angles talking to the boss of the Lambrettists, but, how do we do that?”

“Hedgie,” called Foodge,” Can you come back over here, just for a minute?”

Hedgie was lying on the lounge, his head on Beryl’s lap, while Old Dot was at the piano, doing her best impersonation of Nina Simone. The only problem was that Dot could neither sing, nor play the piano well. Hedgie struggled back to his feet and ambled back to the bar.

“Hedgie, we need you to get the Professor down here, so we can plan our defence against the Lambrettists,” stated Foodge, as he fumbled with a pack of Camels. He never smoked, but kept them in his shirt pocket to add to the mystique of being a P.I.

“Professor won’t talk to you. Professor won’t talk to anyone. Not since his thesis on Fermat’s Last Theorem was ridiculed by the Feculty of Meths at the University of Sidney.” Replied Hedgie.

“Hedgie, the Angel’s only chance for survival is for the Professor to talk to Rocky  de Sasatra.” Urged Foodge.

The de Sasatra family had been the heads of the Lambretta club since the end of WWII. Foodge reasoned that if the leader of the Angels, the Professor, could talk to the head of the Lambrettists, there could be hope of peace.

“There is someone who can help,” interjected Merv, “Neville Coleman is the best man to act as a go-between.”

“Neville Coleman?” exclaimed Foodge,” the bloke who does the vegetarian meat raffle on Friday nights to raise money for the Annandale Sea Scout Dinghy Repair Fund. The bloody things rigged. His illegitimate son, Manne always wins. The poor kids still trying to get his dad to take him to the tofu farm to watch tofutabeasts being made into tofu burgers.”

“Where did you think the Pigs Arms Fisherman’s Club came from? They’re a break away, non-Lambretta, motor scooter group. Neville’s the leader?” grinned Merv. He’d both laughed and grinned in one day. Might be time to see a psychiatrist.

“OK,” said Foodge, “how do we get Coleman down here?”

“I’ll phone ‘im.” Mumbled Merv, as he turned to enter the ‘office’, which was about the size of a Public Telephone booth, only much less comfortable.

“Hedgie, phone the prof, NOW, here’s my mobile” said Foodge, a little louder than he intended.

“OK, OK, I’ll phone.” Hedgie backed away and headed for the public phone, one of the few left in Sydney that didn’t require a phone card, next to the ancient condom dispenser, next to the gents.

Foodge had forgotten that the Angles eschewed modern technology such as, mobile phones, calculators, electronic fuel injection, and such. The all lived for the day when the analogue computer would return, probably running on valves, coils and huge capacitors.

Merv was back behind the counter. “Neville will be back this evening, at the earliest.”

“Why, where the hell is he?” Foodge was umbraged that Merv had taken it upon himself to contact Neville without giving him the opportunity to speak.

“Him an’ Manne are at the Banks, fishing for Black Marlin”

“Black Marlin, does he really fish?” Foodge’s forehead was so screwed up it looked like a map of Afghanistan.

“Does he fish? He’s one of the last great big game fisherman. He’s fished all over the world, why, right now him an’ Manne are trying to break Dolly Dyer’s record!” boasted Merv, as he stood to his full height, towering half a head over Foodge.

Foodge was about to continue the argument when Hedgie’s considerable bulk re-appeared. Hedgie really was quite an unattractive fellow, mused Foodge, in one of those surreal moments one has during a crisis. “Thrall cumin!” blurted Hedgie, as the unmistakable stench of the gents wafted in, as if pursuing one of its members.

“So,” O’Hoo mumbled, as he, once again, managed to squirt ink from his Police Association pen all over his, now useless, Police Notebook, “Most of our side should be here for tonight.”

The Bowling Ladies had overheard all of this, and had already started a production line of egg and lettuce, or ham with pickles sandwiches. All on stale white bread, all with margarine that tasted something like 90-weight oil from an old Zephyr diff. An old dented urn was already bubbling away, like a witch’s cauldron, and a huge chipped, dark green, teapot had already been cleansed of algae, ready for the first acrid brew of the afternoon. The old girls were on a war footing.

The Adventures of Mongrel and The Runt 10 – Fire and Rain (02)

04 Tuesday May 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 31 Comments

Story by  Warrigal Mirriyuula.

Pat Hennessey the Fire Warden was walking over as Chook pulled off the highway up through the road gate in the Police Ute. The building had been almost entirely destroyed by the fire and a plume of grey and black smoke was drifting into the sky. The rain had stopped and the clouds that had hung low over the district all day were now beginning to slowly clear. Chook got out and dragged his Wellingtons from the back of the ute. As he undid his bootlaces Pat filled him in.

“Thanks for comin’ out Chook. I would’na ordinarily bothered ya ‘cep’ this isn’ what it first seems. Now that we’ve got the thing pretty much out we’ve found some things about this one that aren’t right.” The warden paused. “For a start we’ve got a body.”

That got Chook’s attention. He quickly looked straight at the warden as he pulled the left Wellington on. “A body?”

“At first it just looked like an outbuilding fire with a few dead sheep but, yeah, then we found the body. Ya better come an’ ‘ave a look.”

The warden turned to walk up the muddy path to the remains of the burned outbuilding. Chook didn’t like the sound of this and the sight of Bagley standing off to the side, his hat dripping and his driz-a-bone glistening in the rain, his arms crossed and a foul look on his face didn’t auger well. Chook pulled on the other boot and followed after Pat.

As Chook caught up to the warden the building was still just alight in spots, tiny flames leaping like dancers across the charred timber. Most of the ruin was smoking and steaming as the firemen played water over the blackened mess. There was the distinct sickly stench of burned wool, sheep flesh and diesel.

The smoking pile had been used to store feed and hay, odd tools, discarded machinery and obviously fuel for the tractor. The foundations, floor and gabled end walls of the building were constructed from local rubble blocks mortared with lime cement made from Molong limestone. The front and back had been timbered with thick axe cut slabs. An iron roof had replaced the original Sheoak shingles over the rough timber trusses. It had survived for well over a hundred years, an iconic piece of bush architecture, a practical and pragmatic building from the very earliest days of white occupation. The stone and heavy timber walls providing some security for early shepherds worried about aboriginal attacks as the white man’s mutton invasion continued inexorably into the Wiradjuri lands beyond the early colony’s Limit of Settlement.

The roof iron had collapsed into the building and lay, twisted, still hot, amongst the ash and charred wall slabs, roof beams and trusses. The carcasses of the dead sheep lay in a deep bed of ash, all in one corner where they had no doubt retreated from the flames only to be trapped and burned alive. Chook noted they had been rams, the blackened bony cores of their horns clearly visible. Chook felt a shiver run up his spine. Were these the prize Merino rams that Bagley claimed had been interfered with? No wonder Bagley looked dark. This could put a whole different complexion on the day.

As Chook followed the warden around to the rear of the building the smell changed and then there where the wall had partially collapsed out, Chook saw inside, the body; only the head and shoulders were visible, all tangled in charred timber and bent iron, the head reduced to a leering skull with adhesions of cartilage, charred flesh and burnt hair. The eyes had cooked in their sockets. The lips, shrunken back revealing blackened gums; the teeth, big, strong and dazzling white against the black, gave the appearance that the skull was laughing hysterically. Chook gagged and shivered again. It was unsettling, gruesome to look at. This burnt offering had once been a human being.

The warden stood back as Chook tried to get a better look at the corpse. He leaned inside the wall line. The whole business was still smoking and the smoke was getting in Chook’s eyes. He pulled his head away, his eyes watering. He reached out to get his balance and leaned on the rubble-stone wall. The stone was still uncomfortably hot and Chook pulled his hand away too quickly, loosing his balance and falling on his bum in the mud.

“Bloody fantastic!” said Chook, getting up to wipe the mud of his uniform serge.

“Yeah, we’ll have to wait until the whole thing’s cooled down before we can get the body out.” the warden offered a little too late for Chook’s griddled hand and muddy bum.

“Yeah, let’s do that.” Chook said sourly, but enjoying the soothing relief the mud was providing his hand. He waved it around a bit.

“Listen, has Bagley offered anything on the cause or nature of the fire? Bagley was still pacing some way off, his face a mask of dark animus.

“Hasn’t said a word mate” pulling his head to one side, chin in, and looking at the ground. “Not a dicky bird.”

Chook’s eyes narrowed and he looked over at Bagley. “That’s not like him.” His gaze stayed on Bagley.

“No mate it’s not.” The air between the men thickened with suspicion as they both kept Bagley in their gaze. “Once ‘ed arrived I expected to get chapter and verse on fire fighting delivered in the usual style.” The warden paused and looked at Chook. “’e ‘asn’t said a word, to anyone. Not a word. He’s just stood there were ‘e is. Highly unusual I’d say.”

“So he wasn’t here when you arrived. Who reported the fire?”

“Miss Hynde at “The Pines” over on the other side of the valley.” The warden pointed to a cottage about two miles away on the opposite side of Molong Creek, nestled in a corner where two tall stands of old Monterey Pines met. The little white house was magically aglow in the deep dark green of the pines, at that moment illuminated, picked out in a beam of sunlight breaking through the dispersing rain clouds. “You can see the whole valley from her place.”

Chook was momentarily transfixed by the uncanny scene. He shook his head and deliberately looked at Pat.

“Does Bagley know about the body?” Chook looked back at Bagley.

“Well the men got pretty excited when they first saw it. There was some shouting and hoying but I don’t know whether Bagley knows or not. Like I said, ‘e hasn’ come any closer than “e is now since ‘e arrived.”

The fire was out and the rest of the fire crew had begun to rake out the embers to spread the heat and hasten the cooling. They were about to start pulling off the crumpled iron when Chook shouted for them to stop. The firemen stopped and turned looking to the warden for direction.

“What’s on ya mind Chook? The warden asked while the men waited.

“Something about this doesn’t sit right.” Chook said with classic understatement. He took a good long slow look around the area. “Look it could be anything at this stage. Misadventure, suicide, manslaughter, or it might be murder. I’m gonna have to call it a crime scene anyway, so no one touches anything until I can get the Inspector out from Orange. How much water have you got left in the tanker? Have ya got enough to just keep damping the hot spots?”

“Yeah, sure; we’ve prob’ly got a couple a hundred gallons left. If we run low we can call the other tanker but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Why, whata ya thinkin’?”

Chook didn’t feel like explaining himself. He wasn’t sure he could anyway, but there was a growing feeling that the thing better be done by the book. Whatever had gone on here, it wasn’t simple. There was a whole lot more that Chook didn’t know. This was MacGuire’s land, his building; those were probably his rams; which meant Bagley was going to be a fixture of the investigation.

Chook wasn’t certain about what he was thinking and decided that a simple cover story would hold the warden. “Have you met Inspector Beuzeville from Orange? He’s a stickler for the regs. We’ve got a body therefore this is a crime scene until it’s released by the Inspector.”

“Whatever you say Chook.” The warden was happy to be shot of the responsibility of being boss of the fire. It’d save him from having to deal with Bagley. If the police said this was a crime scene then a crime scene it was. Someone else could do the worrying.

“I want your men to pace out 50 yards in all directions from the fire. Then they’re to stay outside that perimeter except for the bloke on the hose and he should try and move around as little as possible. As soon as there’s no more smoke or steam, he has to move outside the perimeter.” Chook looked over at Bagley again. He’d have to talk with him. “I’m gonna have a yack with Bagley then I’ve got some calls to make. I’ll get someone out here as soon as I can, just make sure that there’s someone here all the time until he gets here. I’ve got a feeling in me water about this one.”

“Whatever you say Chook.” the warden said again, taking his cue from Chook’s serious tone. He turned and shouted at the firemen, “Righto, disconnect the pumps, pack it up. Bob you hook up to the tanker and run the little pump. Set ya nozzle to spray and just keep it playing over the hot spots. Mick, you pace out and mark a fifty-yard perimeter; and remember, all of you, don’t move anything, don’t disturb anything. This is now a crime scene, the cops are in charge.” The half dozen young volunteer firemen got to it. Mick was pacing out the perimeter and flagging it with tagged stakes, the others were emptying and rolling the hoses. The one called Bob had reconnected to the tanker and started the little petrol pump. He took up a position on the high side of the blackened ruin and commenced damping down.

Chook walked over to Bagley who had stopped pacing and was looking blackly at Fowler.

“You took ya bloody time Fowler.” Bagley always started every encounter with an insult or criticism. “If you’d been here first thing like I said maybe this wouldna happened.” Bagley let that sink in. “Those bloody rams were worth a small fortune. Every one of ‘em’s a ribbon winner.” His anger and frustration were plain.

Chook wasn’t in the mood for Bagley. He had no patience for the man’s abrasive and insulting way.

“Ya can’t go up there Bagley. It’s a crime scene for the next few days. I’m gonna have ta call in the D’s from Orange.”

“What, can’t handle a little fire Fowler” Bagley smirked.

That was it. Chook had about as much from Bagley as he was gonna take. The man was unfit for civilised congress.

“Look Bagley, there’s a dead body in the back corner. This “little fire” is much more important than the loss of some bloodstock no matter how valuable they mighta been. Bloody hell man, the rams are insured aren’t they?”

Fowler was just hitting his straps. “A man’s dead Bagley. Burned liked a forgotten Sunday roast.” Bagley didn’t react and didn’t seem to care. Just like the bastard, thought Chook.

“You don’t go closer than fifty yards and if I find out you have, then I’ll arrest you for interfering in a police investigation.” Chook looked Bagley straight in the eye “Have ya got that?”

“Ya wanna watch ya self Fowler. I’m not without influence round here.” Bagley threatened, inflated with pride, “While ever I’m manager here I’ll go where I damn well please and do what I need to.”

The fact that a dead man had been found on the property he managed didn’t appear to be figuring in his calculations at this point. To Bagley it was obviously a bloody inconvenience but essentially someone else’s problem. “What about my bloody rams?”

“MacGuire’s rams Bagley. Remember? You’re just the help.” Chook was really getting on Bagley’s tits now, he could see it, and saw no reason to back off. “I’ve had enough of you Bagley. You may think you’re a big wheel round here but to me ya just a bully; a loud mouthed common thug. Those you can’t thump ya threaten. You push ya luck on this and you’ll find out just what the NSW Police are capable of. Have I made myself clear enough now?”

Chook always felt a slow surge of blood when he invoked the brotherhood of the force.

“You’ll regret this Fowler. I’m not a man to make an enemy of.” Bagley was fuming. He spat into the mud, turned and walked back to his Land Rover.

“I’ll need to talk to you later. Make sure you’re somewhere where I can find you.” Chook shouted at Bagley’s retreating back.

“You can go to buggery Fowler. I’m sure you know the way.” Bagley got in the Land Rover and took off down the valley towards the main homestead, on his way to report to MacGuire.

Chook wondered what made a man like Bagley. Even a dead body didn’t move him. He had no friends so far as the Policeman knew; and though he was married, he and his wife had no children. All he had was his job at MacGuire’s, his own high opinion of himself and an indefatigable drive to get what he wanted no matter the cost to those around him.

He was a brutal boss known for violence against casual hands. He’d blinded a young rouseabout in a fistfight when Chook was a teenager. He’d been charged with grievous bodily harm but the charges were dropped when the complainant failed to show for court. There was talk he’d been paid off.

Over the years there had been many stories of Bagley’s cruelty and he reserved a specially callous contempt for the Fairbridge boys he took on, treating them little better than the animals themselves and reminding them all the time that they were the waste and detritus of the empire and they should be bloody grateful he employed them at all. In short he was a shit of a man in Chook’s opinion, and this investigation was going to be all the more difficult with him involved.

Fowler got on the radio in the ute and contacted the station in Orange. He made a quick report to Inspector Beuzeville who agreed it was suspicious and that it should be looked into more thoroughly. He couldn’t come right away; he’d be out at 6AM tomorrow morning. Best to get the body out before the heat of the day. In the mean time the Inspector told the Sergeant to secure the scene, cover the body as best you can and no one to touch anything, he’d bring the Coroner’s Pathologist and a police photographer with him, “Over and out.”

Chook got out of the ute and walked back up to the burnt out building. He told the young fiery that he had to go into town but that there’d someone back in an hour to relieve him. The young bloke just nodded as he distractedly continued to hose the sodden remains of the building.

Chook got in the ute and took off back into town. The sky was now clearing rapidly and the road was steaming as the afternoon sun came out from behind the clouds. There were still several hours of light yet and there was a lot Chook wanted to get done before Beuzeville came out in the morning. He’d get young Molloy to sit the night watch at the scene, Chook wanted to talk with Miss Hynde and he’d have to beard Bagley at home; and just to be sure he’d talk to MacGuire too, if he wasn’t down in the smoke.

This was more like it, Chook thought. Real Police work, hopefully with a real outcome. This wasn’t dealing with drunks or scolding kiddies, or another turn in the eternal dance with Jack. This was meat and potatoes Police work.

There weren’t that many bodies turn up in Molong in suspicious circumstances and Chook always took these cases very seriously. People needed to know what happened and the dead man, lying in the cooling ruin, that horrible skull silently screaming for justice, he would have one last mate and Chook wasn’t about to let a mate down.

Chook realised at that moment that though procedure required an open mind, the gut feeling that was developing deep inside him was insistently shouting “foul play”. Chook had learnt young not to deny his gut feelings, but what had exactly gone on here was still a mystery waiting to be deciphered.

Chook put his foot down and for the first time in weeks turned on the siren.