The Worm King Read online

  ‘This little beauty goes well outside any business. Department stores, lawyers, banks, you name it. Made a motzer outside the stock exchange a few months back. Got so much, they came out, and asked me about paperwork and, you know, would’ve been turned into a conglomerate by the end of the day. Probably would’ve had to hire someone, just to manage it all.’ He shook his head and brushed something from his shoulder.

  It was still there, so he brushed it away again.

  ‘Nope. This little gem’s up today.’ He held the last sign, cradling it like an old family photo.

  Insane! Please Help was scribbled wildly in red crayon.

  And why wouldn’t you whistle with a job like that? The walk to work was only eight paces down a grassy slope to the footpath. Take a seat, slip a few soap chips under your tongue and put out your sign. Position your beret in the appropriate spot, drop in a handful of seed change then watch the money roll in.

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Yes dear?’

  ‘That man’s got green stuff coming out his mouth.’

  ‘What? Oh Christ, don’t look. What? No, you can’t give him any . . . alright but don’t let go my hand.’

  The only person game enough to stop for any length of time was an elderly nun because nuns are by law obliged to stop for nutjobs. Winston had been reliably told that this was written into the Nun’s Charter so he wasn’t surprised to see her halt.

  ‘Do you need assistance, my friend?’

  Lord Brown’s head, which had been lolling loosely on one shoulder, bounced upright. ‘Hello sister. Yes, assistance would be marvelous, thanks.’

  ‘Oh. Do you need . . . food?’

  ‘No, more than I need.’ He smiled through bubbles of green foam and patted his pocket. ‘Just after money today. So I can buy more beer.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘That’s correct. Newcastle brown ale. Rather fond of it. I’m earning my brown wings. Do you have your brown wings sister?’

  ‘I suppose the downside,’ conceded the Lord now back under his fig tree, ‘is that you don’t usually get to have, you know, physical relationships. Not in the traditional sense anyway. But twenty-two dollars thirty in less than half an hour!’

  The old man scrawled madly in a spiral-bound notebook which looked three-quarters full then turned to the back and ticked several of boxes in a carefully ruled table. ‘Yes, definite correlation, definite!’ He sighed contentedly then put the book and pen back in the suitcase.

  ‘I’m on a smoko break now. This is probably the best time to catch me if you, you know, urgently need something done . . . ’

  ‘Right.’ Winston fumbled in his pocket for the form.

  He didn’t check it until reaching the train station. The neat handwriting said, “Work Experience Attended, Faculty of Anthropology, Lord Brown.”

  Nice.

  Chapter Four

  Three Sisters

  It was dead on sunset and the hangover Winston had nursed all day was fading when he arrived at the Three Sisters scenic lookout. A depressing drizzle cascaded from the grey sky and it was dim enough to see the floodlights which had already magically switched themselves on, holding the trio of rock pinnacles in a ghostly, wet glow. The visitor centre and shop were closed with just a couple of cars and one truck sulking in the damp, misty car park.

  He wished he’d brought an umbrella.

  The truck had a satellite dish perched on its roof and Channel Six News painted on the side so it certainly looked like the right place.

  A gaggle of raincoated people, most with brollies, stood near the back of the truck. One of the figures tapped another on the shoulder and they all turned, watching him approach.

  A girl broke away from the pack, taking a few steps towards him. ‘Winston?’

  ‘Yes.’ They shook hands.

  In the pale light he could make out a worried face and pointy nose covered by a cute splay of freckles. Her raincoat hood was pushed back and hair, red as ketchup, was all pony-tailed to the rear except for one angry lick plastered across her forehead.

  She wasn’t much taller than him.

  A set of headphones straddled the top of her head but she had them twisted sideways slightly, so as to cover only one ear. Her left hand clenched an umbrella while the right gripped a sound pole with a fluffy knob-end. The pole was attached to a cable that disappeared beneath the damp folds of her raincoat.

  ‘I’m Astrid. You’re late. And wet.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I had to stop and speak with the . . . with the Lord,’ stuttered Winston, caught off guard. A quick, nervous laugh to try and joke it off didn’t help one bit.

  She looked him up and down. Mostly down.

  For an instant he considered adding, ‘I had to buy him a six-pack,’ but fortunately kept his yap shut.

  ‘Dick’s in the truck getting ready. I’ll take you in and introduce you in a minute. You can dry off then too.’

  ‘Swell.’

  ‘I’m the producer, and also filling in on sound today. What we’d like you to do is . . . ’ she fumbled in her back pocket then drew out a square of paper.

  ‘ . . . Read this. Dick will ask you what the outlook for Katoomba is tomorrow, and you just say, “might get to seventeen, and raining all day”. He’ll introduce you as a local.’

  ‘But I live in Emu Plains?’

  ‘That’s not far. And you’re here now, right? It’s local enough.’ She handed him the card, which had “seventeen, Raining, ALL Day” typed on one side. He turned it over. The other side was blank.

  ‘Dick’ll do the weather update then go to the guests. First up is the man that runs the visitor centre back there.’ Astrid looked around and shook her head. ‘Must’ve gone to the loo again. Then the girl guides, then you.’

  ‘I bought a form that’s supposed to be signed for the university. Who does that?’

  ‘I can. Later. Better just check on Dick.’ She opened a door at the back of the truck and stepped inside, taking care that her fluffy knob was well under cover before passing the brolly back to Winston.

  If it hadn’t been for the rain, and the lack of light, the view would’ve been superb. On the other side of the lookout barriers the cliff plunged vertically into darkness. The floodlit pinnacles shone through the gloom, barely visible although he could just make out scrubby vegetation clinging desperately to the side of the rock. Even a vine dangling from one particularly sharp outcrop.

  The sort of place Tarzan would go, if he ever ran out of shit to do in the Congo.

  The truck door reopened and Astrid’s head reappeared. ‘Could you pop in for a minute?’

  Dick Snow sat in front of a bank of screens at the far end of a crowded, narrow interior that smelt of cigar smoke and hairspray. He mumbled loudly to himself while angrily thrusting a sheaf of pages towards a mirror dangling from a loop of wire hooked around some complicated-looking dial.

  Winston had seen him on telly many times but never realized how big his hair actually was. The sandy locks were sculptured into a hairy, space helmet-type arrangement. The muscles on his tanned face converged into a massively oversized jaw which curved down seamlessly into a crisp white shirt and navy blue sports jacket.

  Astrid gave Winston a towel then bustled past, up a little step and stopped beside Dick to lean forward and speak softly in his ear.

  ‘What’s that? Christian? Great, all we need!’ His deep whisper resonated in the confined space; Astrid looked up, embarrassed. ‘Winston! Thanks for joining us. Astrid tells me you want to do the weather today?’ The weatherman laughed.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I’m—’

  ‘She given you the lines?’

  ‘Yep. Sounds straight forward. I—’

  ‘Well, good, good, that’s excellent. You’re not going to try and slip in a prayer are you?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘No, all I meant before was—’

  ‘Exactly. Well, we’re doing the sunset weather update from different locations in the Blue Mounta
ins this week. Mudgee next week for two days then back to Sydney. We’ve done here before and the backdrop’s usually damn good. Damn good. But tonight won’t see so much. Not with this shit-awful rain. Who’d of thought it huh?’

  Winston stammered, ‘I thought you—’

  ‘Yes, of course. No, just stick to the script and you’ll be right. Speaking of which, better get back to it myself.’ He returned to the mirror. The meeting had concluded.

  Astrid ushered him out.

  The light rain gradually intensified into a steady downpour. At least he’d managed to hang onto Astrid’s umbrella. The panadol he’d popped before leaving home was losing its punch and the headache making a late, pounding charge. Thankfully the rolling nausea had backed off. Still, he was a hell of a long way from remounting the beerhorse.

  Near the front end of the truck a man in his fifties jiggled nervously under a tatty black umbrella.

  Three girls in matching olive raincoats stood beneath a single, large golf umbrella. Two were twins, identical blonde ringlets poking cheekily out the side of their hoods. One twin nudged the other and both looked at Winston, giggling. The third girl was taller and darker with a nose as wide and flat as a runway. Winston guessed she might be a Māori.

  A Channel Six man was fixing a spotlight to a metal pole. A cable ran from the pole back to the truck. A second man fiddled with a camera on a tripod. A large sheet of clear plastic covered the camera and his head but his back and arse were getting a solid drenching.

  The spotlight clicked on, throwing a stark, white oblong across the edge of the lookout area. Astrid reappeared with another umbrella but minus her fluffy pole, and walked into the centre of the light. She looked directly at the camera then back over her shoulder at the pinnacles. A small shuffle to the left, another glance behind, a fraction more to the left and the position appeared to be just right.

  ‘Mr Malisovich, could you go here please.’ She pointed down at her feet then stepped aside when he came over and took the spot. ‘You girls, go on the other side here, and Winston, you go at the front, down there.’

  He was well used to being ordered down the front for photos. In every school photo, until his final year, they’d always made him sit cross-legged at the front holding the class name-board. In his last year Winston demanded he be allowed to stand in the back row where he was, of course, completely invisible.

  They took positions, and waited.

  Winston chanced a glance over his shoulder: the man with the tatty umbrella was jiggling nervously, the twins were reading the piece of paper one of them held and the Māori girl gripped the golf umbrella with one hand and picked her nose with the other.

  Astrid surveyed the scene.

  ‘Don’t do that please dear,’ she said to the Māori.

  Winston was concerned about where the excavations would be flicked or smeared, given the girl stood only a half-step behind him. He risked another peek. ‘Your forehead’ll cave in if you push your hand any further up there,’ he muttered out the corner of his mouth.

  The girl immediately withdrew the digit. He’d noticed several of her raincoat badges were sewn on at odd angles.

  ‘You’re a wanker mate,’ she said.

  Winston wondered what’d happened to the Girl Guide world of dib dib dib, cake raffles and helping old ladies across streets. These days they’d obviously pistol-whip the old sheila and whack her on the campfire.

  Astrid glared at Winston.

  ‘I think I need to go again,’ moaned Mr Malisovich. He received a free glare too.

  ‘We’re just about to kick off. Think you could hold on a couple of minutes?’ Malisovich nodded but didn’t look overly happy about it.

  The truck door swung open and Dick’s tanned jaw filled most of the frame. ‘We a go?’ he called to Astrid.

  She spoke quietly into a microphone on her lapel and then cocked her head, listening. ‘Sixty seconds!’

  Dick strode from the truck holding an umbrella emblazoned with the Channel Six logo. He came to a halt a meter in front of Winston then turned to face the camera. His right hand held a single page which he began reading to himself in a low voice whilst every few seconds looking up at the camera.

  Astrid stood to the side of Dick with her fluffy pole, which Winston hadn’t even seen her retrieve. She seemed to be everywhere at once. Finally, she got the pole high enough so it was out of shot but Winston felt for her, stretching on tiptoes and teetering at the edge of balance with her raincoat stretched tight while attempting with a spare elbow to nudge the microphone back on square. A job for an octopus, not a petite redhead with distractingly pert jugs.

  Winston refocused on the lens and concentrated on breathing in and out. They were ready for action . . .

  Dick Snow was a professional. The man rolled through his lines like a Colombian powderhound at an arse-sniffing party.

  Winston waited for his turn to come around, wishing he were somewhere else—anywhere—and trying not to dwell on his headache. Something thwacked the back of his coat and the Māori sniggered. Dick swung an arm up mid-sentence and pointed back at the rock pinnacles, almost karate chopping Winston in the process.

  ‘So if you want to try one of the best meat pies in the universe and catch a spectacular view at the same time, then the place to come is the Three Sisters visitor centre and visit my old friend Sonny Malisovich. Maybe not tonight though, right Sonny?’ Dick laughed, pointing up at the dirty night. ‘Everyone loves a good Aussie pie though don’t they? What about our girl guides, how’re you going?’

  The twins froze.

  Slow seconds passed. Winston turned to see the twins staring blankly and open-mouthed at Dick. Someone poked him sharply in the back, then again.

  ‘Seventeen and wet all day,’ he blurted, looking around in confusion.

  The Māori laughed. ‘Stupid cunt,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s right, we’re in for a damp one tomorrow,’ Dick smoothly continued. ‘By the weekend, the front should’ve moved southeast towards New Zealand and we can all get outside again. For those of you in the northern half of New South Wales, a low pressure system is moving—’

  Zzzzzzzick! The streetlight next to the truck disappeared. ‘We’ve lost the link,’ called the cameraman from under his plastic sheet.

  ‘—Your way,’ droned Dick, continuing unperturbed. ‘This will bring more unsettled—’

  ‘Still nothing,’ said the cameraman with a touch more urgency.

  Astrid tapped her earphone. ‘Nothing here either.’

  ‘—Weather for the rest of the week.’ Dick’s jaw finally clanked to a halt. He touched his ear and shook his head.

  ‘They’re out too,’ said the cameraman.

  The second operator, who’d set up the spotlight bolted back to the truck, wrenched the door open and stopped dead. The interior was pitch dark.

  ‘No, I mean the floodlights are out. On the rock.’

  Winston looked over his shoulder, seeing only an inky void where the Sisters used to be. The carpark had disappeared too, with the streetlights all off. Nobody seemed sure what to do and apart from the cold glare of the spotlight, the night suddenly became black as a grave.

  ‘Must be a power grid thing,’ said the number one cameraman, shortly after emerging from the truck with two torches.

  ‘Which means . . . ?’ asked Dick.

  ‘The power isn’t really working.’

  ‘We pay you for that, do we?’

  The cameraman looked down sheepishly and kicked at the asphalt, catching the edge of his shoe and nearly tripping over. He glanced up at Astrid and Winston but avoided Dick’s steely gaze. ‘Sat phones are out and I can’t get through on the mobile either. Anyone else’s phone working?’

  ‘Tried mine while you were in the truck,’ replied Astrid. ‘No signal either.’

  Winston’s mobile felt like a hunk of lead in his back pocket but he knew it had to come out eventually. The last thing he needed was for sole communication to rest
on his scungy phone. Three weeks ago it’d sat in a puddle of beer at the pub long enough to ensure the ‘five’ in the middle of the keyboard now seldom worked. Hopefully Astrid and Dick didn’t want to speak to anyone with fives in their number.

  He drew it out, scrolled down to the number for his flat then pushed dial. Nothing. Not a sound. Dead as doornail. Phew! Winston tried to put on a perplexed frown but it didn’t feel convincing.

  ‘You mind if I go for a minute?’ begged Malisovich.

  Astrid nodded. ‘I think we’re all finished up here. Thanks for your help Mr Malisovich, hope it wasn’t too painful.’ He immediately began toddling off in the direction of the visitor centre. ‘You have a lovely night,’ she called after him.

  Dick took one of the torches from the cameraman, opened the rear door and stormed inside.

  ‘Hey, Mr Malisovich?’ Astrid shouted because he was already well out of sight. Only then it occurred to Winston that the old bloke must be hobbling his way to the visitor centre by feel.

  A faint reply came back.

  ‘Can we try your phone?’ she shouted.

  Winston didn’t hear an answer but she took the second torch from the cameraman and scurried off in the direction of the visitor centre anyway.

  Rain drummed relentlessly on the roof of the truck. The umbrella was barely adequate to hold the downpour at bay and his pants were soaked. The two channel six men packed up the camera. There didn’t seem any point walking back to the train station because if the power was out, the trains would be as well. He still needed to get that form signed too.

  Now it felt like the sort of place Tarzan would avoid like the plague.

  One of the cameramen told the three girl guides to wait in the front cab but said nothing to Winston. The girls must be scoring a lift back in the truck, not that they deserved it. Getting chauffeured all this way just to open their gobs and stare at the camera! He hoped he’d be able to bludge a lift back to Sydney too.

  Astrid was taking a while?

  They eventually got the camera stowed although the men clearly weren’t keen on waiting in the truck with Dick. The spotlight was moved nearer the truck’s rear door. A cable ran from the light to a yellow plastic box that Winston presumed was a battery. The box sat on the asphalt next to an open compartment on the side of the truck, with the compartments folded-up lid giving the battery shelter from the worst of the rain.