The Worm King Read online

  Vine? What? He edged towards the suspicious plant.

  It wasn’t a vine, it was a mass of wire. Winston couldn’t see any guards, so he risked using the lighter and saw wire looped round and round, stitching the gap that’d previously been there into a tangled, metal seam. It’d be easier to dig down through to China than try and cut through that mess. The lighter began burning his thumb so he let it flick off.

  Where to now? The front gate! Yes! Exactly where he’d come in with Francesco and Astrid. Melanie and her husband had tried to talk their way through, but he wouldn’t do that: he’d sneak in. Sometimes being small had its advantages.

  He crouched behind a charred stump, some fifty meters from the gate. It’d taken more than two hours to reach the gate, despite it being less than three hundred meters as the crow flew. He was exhausted and needed food, but more than anything needed a guzzle of water. Partway along, he’d passed a small trench below the wire which felt like an old wombat hole that’d probably collapsed after the fence was put up. It would have been simple enough to slither under at this point, nevertheless he’d pressed on to the gate.

  Three men were manning it, whereas there’d only been two when he was here yesterday with Francesco. They had a single lantern and spoke amongst themselves a few times although he couldn’t make out any words. Francesco’s truck was still there, and the four other vehicles looked the same too. There was no life evident in any of them but he couldn’t be certain because one car in the dark looks pretty much like any other.

  Winston was considering his options, when a truck arrived, followed by a jeep and a car. The convoy pulled up briefly before being waved though and he wondered if he could’ve hung onto the rear car’s bumper. When the final vehicle passed, one of the guards walked to the opposite side of the gate and watched it, so they already had that angle covered.

  He had a feeling security might’ve been tightened. Another thought nagged at him too: the implications of that patched-up hole in the fence. In actual fact, he’d be mad to even try and sneak through at the gate. If Harelip had fixed the fence, or got someone to do it, he would’ve also undoubtedly come around here and spoken to the guards. “Keep your eyes open for a dwarf,” was all he would’ve had to say. Getting nabbed here would be fatal.

  Something rustled on the ground nearby. ‘Fatal,’ he whispered. ‘Fatal, fatal, fatal.’ The rustle came again, but further away. When they’d been queuing up yesterday, bolting back Grange with gay abandon, had there been other people just out of sight, sitting in the dark like this, watching? Muttering to themselves? He wouldn’t be surprised. In case he ran into any others, he resolved forthwith to only mutter happy words. No sense making them lash out by whispering “fatal” in their ear as an introductory howdy-doody.

  ‘Groovy. Hehehe! Hahaha! Groooooovy. G-G-G-Grooovy, hehehe!’

  He had to warn Astrid and Francesco. Their room was definitely on the opposite side of the hotel, on the first floor. Or perhaps it was the second floor? Whatever, he should be able to chuck a stone at the window and attract their attention. Easy. Another rustle in the scrub, closer this time.

  ‘EASY!’

  So the plan was to return to Melanie, go through the wombat hole, tap on the window, free the others, back to the truck and gone-ski. ‘Easy.’

  Winston arrived back at the gap in the fence nearly four hours after having left it. He searched for Melanie for another two hours, but never saw her again. It began to rain. He lay on his back with his mouth open but immediately discovered it to be undrinkable, and even felt as though it were burning his skin, so was forced to crawl into an empty plastic rubbish skip he’d stumbled across near the wombat hole. He lay there withered and shivering, clutching his knees and crumpled up, muttering just loud enough so it could be heard over the drumming rain.

  ‘Easy. Groovy. Easy. Groovy. Easy . . . ’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Drive in the Country

  A shotgun boomed and a side window shattered.

  Arrrrrrrrgh! yelled Jerry, punching his foot to the floor. He’d laid four rectangles of cast iron plate across the driver’s dash, leg area and lower windscreen, leaving only small holes to operate the pedals and gearstick, maneuver the wheel and see ahead. The plates were loosely attached with two-inch bolts and the blast knocked one plate back into his arm, but it wasn’t a hard hit, and the other bolts held, so he was able to haul the wheel around and managed to avoid the tow-truck the aborigines had parked across the middle of the road. The old Bedford bus leaned precariously, tyres squealing, until it seemed that surely, surely, it must tip over . . .

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’ screamed Āmiria.

  ‘Holy fuck!’ shouted the Hat, while Peanuts barked madly.

  Torch beams from the road leapt around the inside and the wind whistled cold and savage between the seats. The shotgun exploded again: more glass broke. A gasp of pain sounded somewhere near the rear then all of a sudden the bus was upright, engine gunning like a rocket.

  They were through.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Roofies

  The cook was an overweight, effeminate, slobbery thing who looked on nervously while Bob slapped the carcass down on the bench, rolling it off his shoulder with a well practised flip.

  ‘Bob’ll be waiting in the kitchen with you,’ explained Dick. He put his arm around the cook’s shoulder and led him to the corner, near the storeroom door. The Hyatt’s kitchen was state-of-the-art but virtually no staff had turned up. ‘Listen,’ he said confidentially, getting down near cook’s ear, ‘Bob’s a bloke who does odd-jobs around the station, but between you and me, I think he’s mad as a meat axe, and just not long ago someone poked one of his eyes clean out, so he’s angry as all buggery too.’ He lowered his voice further. ‘And look at the mess it’s made; I mean, yuck! Wouldn’t you be a bit pissed too? Didn’t do a very good job of bandaging it up himself either, did he?’ Dick leant back and spoke up. ‘So can you please, please ensure that you make this just the way he wants? He’s a bit fussy when it comes to his cooking.’

  ‘Angry?’ mumbled the cook, watching Bob anxiously.

  ‘Well, no. He was already angry before. Now he’s just plain . . . gee, I’m not sure what you’d call it?’ Bob stroked the decapitated kangaroo and gazed at the cook through a single, squinty, bloodshot eye.

  The tube flickered in the hall which irritated Dick as he listened at the door of room 237. He could make out Astrid’s voice; the second was deeper and less distinct. The concierge had said the man was a town councilor from Griffith, demanding to see hotel management. Dick initially assumed it must be the dwarf’s fat Arab friend, and left them on ice, but after the incident with Bob and their renewed demands to see management, he’d decided to check first hand.

  No, it wasn’t the fat Arab either. Dick felt tricked. He felt outmaneuvered, while not knowing exactly how. It was a nagging feeling that A didn’t quite equal B didn’t equal C as it should. He knew what lay behind it all: a lack of discipline. The twins were running loose around the hotel with Sheng, that mongrel dwarf was still outside somewhere . . . a travesty. He had to hear what they’re saying. Dick pressed his ear a smidge firmer against the door but it didn’t help. If he crammed the twins in here as well, this is where the dwarf will come, if perchance he returns.

  ‘Mr Snow!’

  He pulled back from the door; a hotel porter rushed towards him from the far end of the hall. Dick held up a flat palm, glaring at the fool. The quiet voices in 237 stopped.

  ‘They’re asking for you urgently out in the courtyard Sir!’ He was a furtive and sneaky man with an unpleasantly high nasal voice. Dick had seen him talking with Bob on more than one occasion. But the porter was excited; something had definitely cropped up.

  When they’d travelled a safe distance down the hall he asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Daylight Sir. They think the sun’s coming through.’

  And daylight it did prove to be. High in the north-west and a
bout where the sun ort to lie, was a pathetically dull microscopic glow. A gaggle of guests were marveling at it, although not for long before the cold and gritty air forced them into the adjoining cafe where they launched into celebratory champagne and canapés.

  Dick found their optimism and merriment annoyingly premature. A smiling, elderly Indian businessman strolled over. He sported a turban and waved a smoked salmon canapé. ‘I say, it is good news is it not?’ He attempted to drive most of the heaped canapé into his mouth at once. After a couple of chews and a swallow, he poked the remainder in. ‘So what do we do now, my good fellow?’ His head waggled like one of those dogs that sit in the back window of a cheap car, and a sticky glob of cream cheese clung to his moustache. ‘When is it the time to get back in?’ Dick gathered the “it” was regarding some investment market.

  He gripped the Indian’s shoulder, somewhat firmer than the fellow expected, going by his expression. ‘The bell’s tolling again; it’s time, now!’ he whispered. The muscles in the man’s arm tightened in surprise and the head stopped waggling, but Dick only squeezed harder and spoke again, nearer, and quieter: ‘Rise! Rise, you filthy creature of the night; dawn’s coming and you must feast, quickly now. Quickly!’

  Dick released the shoulder and departed without another word. He discretely left his drink untouched, because you never could tell what ends up in your glass these days.

  The Hyatt building manager’s office was pokey, yet functional. Four certificates for “Outstanding Staffer of the Month” decorated the wall behind the desk, arranged in a carefully proportioned rectangle. A printer and fax machine filled most of the available space to the left of the desk and the cane rubbish bin next to the coat stand by door was empty. An odd place to keep your bin, thought Dick, because you’d have to get up, or toss the rubbish from the other side of the desk, in which case you’d have to be good shot. The building manager was clearly made of more complex stuff than the cook.

  ‘Look,’ said Dick, sensing a distinct lack of enthusiasm for his proposal, ‘they need to test these in a constant signal, from twenty-two hundred for at least two hours.’ He held up his useless mobile phone. ‘The power’s got to be completely off, right through this zone, so there are no surges in the readings.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I completely follow . . . ’

  ‘The thing is, it’s just basic calafragalistics, and I’m sure we could sit down and nut it all through if you want: we’ll need a couple of decent calculators and a protractor. You can probably crunch it down with slide rule, if that’s all you’ve got, but it won’t make it any easier.’ Dick shrugged.

  The building manager glanced around his immaculately tidy desk; not a protractor in sight. ‘But the Prime Minister, and the cabinet, they’ll still be here? Shouldn’t we delay the test until after they leave?’

  ‘No, that’s why we want to do it then. We’re hoping to be able to inform the PM while she’s here. Give her the word that we’ve hooked up with the UK. It’d be a real coup for the hotel.’ Dick nodded knowingly. This is your chance, bigshot. ‘Real coup,’ he repeated. And now the final nail. ‘With the sun coming back a little, we wanted to make it a celebration dinner too. Even for the staff here, in the hotel. It’d be good for everyone.’

  ‘Alright then,’ agreed the building manager, reluctantly.

  Dick could barely suppress his glee.

  Too much glee, that was the problem: far too much. This would fix that. Dick inspected the empty bottle of Hypnodorm. Bob had stolen twenty-seven bottles from three pharmacies and one unfortunate aged-care home. Lower on the label was typed “30 tablets each containing 1mg flunitrazepam.” Flunitrazepam is a Schedule 8 drug in Australia, so was required to be kept in a steel drug cabinet. This normally made it easy to locate once you were on the premises, and with a largish sledgehammer and ample time, not terribly difficult to access. Flunitrazepam? What the hell were the marketing people thinking? Dick far preferred the quainter label most other countries used for this particular generic concoction: “Rohypnol: your date-rapists elixir of choice.” Roofies! No wonder “flunties” never caught on here. It’s too late now anyway. He tossed the bottle on the table along with the other empties and it skidded to a stop next to the porcelain bowl and pestle they’d used to crush up the tablets. Way too late.

  He had a dinner to organize and speech to prepare. The menu was settled, more or less. The centerpiece will be prime-aged loin fillet of kangaroo: the venison of the Australian forests; soaked in a garlic, ginger and roofie marinade with a tawny port and roofie gravy. For the non-meat eaters: barramundi (unfortunately thawed from frozen) accompanied by a lime & coconut roofie sauce. For the vegetarians, some kind of fucking salad—he didn’t really know—made from pumpkins. Those nutbags will eat anything. With a double-roofie dressing, of course.

  Bob also obtained thirty-two 10ml bottles of Ketamine Hydrochloride from a veterinary clinic. While an excellent and extremely powerful animal tranquilliser, Dick was initially inclined to discard the ketamine because it tended to have a pronounced sour taste. Then he thought: rhubarb crumble! The sourness of the ketamine would marry perfectly with the tartness of the rhubarb and sweetness of the sugar. It’d be a perfect compliment; almost a living, breathing dish. Like a cobra, coiled in your bowl. Pretty to look at, and you might even lean down and get away with a quick sniff, but if you dare touch it with that spoon, oh boy, are you in trouble!

  Dessert wasn’t likely to be commonplace for a while, so he intended to make sure the other guests and security and hotel staff were offered a bowl too.

  After all, it was the least he could do.

  Dick prided himself on always having two speeches prepared, so as to judge the mood of the audience and react accordingly. Tonight’s speech will be just the happy news. Firstly, there’d be a good lashing with the best of the hotels cellar. It was a celebration!

  There would be nothing in his speech about water shortages and people getting sick. Nothing whatsoever on vitamin D, which everyone gets from sunlight unless you eat enormous amounts of catfish or margarine, so he’ll skirt right around the link between vitamin D and the pineal gland, and the pituitary gland, and therefore the level of proteins and fatty acids and that whole bit. Especially the links between light deficiency and depression, lack of energy, carbohydrate cravings and panic attacks. He certainly won’t go near the fact that photosynthesis had effectively ceased and things like the Calvin cycle and reverse-Krebs cycle have globally ground to a halt.

  The rain, that’s another topic he was keen to avoid. Mulloolaloo had warned him to expect it to contain carbonic acid, nitric acid, hydrated sulphur dioxide and hydrochloric acid, depending on which way the wind blew.

  ‘Why the fuck,’ he ort to be screaming at the audience, foam flying from his lips, ‘why the fuck do you think no one’s staying outside!?’

  Then by rights he should make Bob stand up. ‘This is what a few years of zero natural light does to a man. Goulburn Super-Max!’ he’d rage. Then Bob would tear a live bunny apart with his teeth; slowly, so they could all hear it screech because that’s what Bob enjoyed doing. For an extra fifty he does a nanny goat.

  No, it turned out to be a fractionally droning speech, and he watched them suddenly, near the end, get very sleepy. All concept of time appeared to be gone. He’d told several protracted, pithy anecdotes on how the Aussie spirit was persevering under incredibly adverse conditions, drawn from human-interest stories he’d covered over the years. They were so calm it became infectious, and even Dick himself felt a pleasant, drifting sensation during a particularly droll question from the floor. Had he ventured down the other route, and they’d just sat through forty-five minutes of Bob’s Goat, relaxed they would not have been.

  During the decaffeinated coffee and hot chocolate, a hotel official spoke briefly in the ear of the under-secretary, who had a quiet word with the Prime Minister. She nodded and listened, then stood and clinked her glass, which was unnecessary because everyone was a
lready watching. She explained the power outage.

  ‘Before everyone adjourns, on behalf of the cabinet, and myself, I’d like to thank you very much Dick, for your excellent update and positive view forward.’ He raised his hand and smiled in appreciation at the round of applause while she stifled a yawn. ‘We look forward to hearing how the UK hookup unfolds in a few hours.’ She yawned again.

  Now, she was just a woman in a room. A decidedly unattractive, late-middle aged woman. Dick and Bob had gone from room to room to room. It’s a party! Hey, isn’t anyone awake? They were important faces but all met the same dark end.

  After a couple of practice runs, they’d gone to see Her, after all, Hers was to be the main party of the evening. He wanted it to run smoothly, for all concerned. Only his good self, Bob and Her.

  Dick sat on the leather chair beside the bed after placing his lantern on the small side table attached to the head of the bed. Bob plonked himself directly on the bed, ne’er one to care much about protocol.

  He took two cigars from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, then held one out. ‘Cuban, Prime Minister?’ She didn’t reply. ‘They’re rather good?’