The Worm King Read online

  ‘Yeah girl?’

  Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Did you undo the top of the sack? So they could swim away. The pauas?’

  He smiled and brushed an unruly strand from her forehead. ‘Yes, I did. I made sure they could all get out.’

  Just before Āmiria drifted off at long last, he lightly kissed her forehead. ‘You know girl, your mother would be real proud of you. Real proud.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Damn Bad Show

  Brigadier Hensley’s driver pulled up in front of the Hyatt and switched off the engine. The fellow was a sergeant with one of those unpronounceable names of Polish derivation, ending with a “ski” and far more c’s and z’s and w’s than any single word ever needed, so the Brigadier chose to pronounce it as infrequently as possible. There might’ve been some type of letter in there the Brigadier didn’t think he’d even seen before. A second vehicle had escorted them from Duntroon to the hotel but this returned immediately once they were through the gates. When he wished to return—probably in three or four hours—it’d been promised two of Snow’s cars would accompany him to Duntroon, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Wait for you here, shall I Sir?’ said sergeant ’Ski.

  ‘Good man.’ The Brigadier stepped out and drew his coat tighter against the bitter cold after the mugginess of the vehicle. He coughed, and keeping gloved hands firmly pocketed, looked about.

  Bob slouched on the hotel front steps, watching him. Perhaps eight others, maybe more, stood on the veranda and a couple in the doorway but none of them were standing anywhere near Bob. There’d been more guards at the gate this time too. The Brigadier didn’t like Bob much. Only met him twice before and couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something thoroughly unsavory about the chap.

  The Brigadier felt pensive, even apart from Bob. He felt damn pensive. Hadn’t seen Snow since the lads he sent to Yass took a mauling. His suspicion was, Forsyth might’ve been behind that affair, and he hoped he didn’t get any flack from Snow about it. Maybe it’d ended up in the PM’s lap, and that’s why he was getting the cold shoulder these days?

  The Major who’d taken the eighteen-man team into Yass later informed the Brigadier there’d been substantially more resistance than they’d been led to believe, and his men may’ve spotted at least one uniformed man with the group who supposedly held the fuel. They hadn’t seen his face properly because it’d been streaked with soot so weren’t completely sure if it was Forsyth. Two of Snow’s chaps who were severely wounded returned with the army medic. The Brigadier spoke with these men in the base hospital, to get a better feel for the situation (as a good commandant does) and both said the violent exchange at Yass had something to do with two young girls, twins apparently, as well as the fuel. That fitted right into Forsyth’s snaky profile. What a bounder! After the events at Yass, the Brigadier dug up Forsyth’s file again—what existed in paper form with the ruddy computers still off—and now wished he’d checked those notes better before taking him on as adjutant. Usually the Brigadier relied on gut-feel and first impressions when assigning new staff or dishing out promotions, but this was one instance where a quick flick through the quack’s comments might’ve been handier.

  He’d questioned Snow’s two men closely, especially regarding the fellows who’d been holding the fuel. They said it was some kind of crazed Viking, death-squad but with much darker skins than Vikings, and they’d been screaming in a foreign language. One of the injured chaps, who’d lost both legs after sustaining appalling wounds to the knees, said the creature that’d attacked him was only two feet tall. The Brigadier put this down to the morphine.

  Bob led him inside, through the hotel and down to the main ballroom on the lower level. The usually spotless carpet was filthy and crusty although most of the hallway lights were out making it less obvious. He guessed the bulbs had been removed to save power. The Brigadier was startled by the number of chaps just sitting around on the floor, simply watching them stride past. Bob didn’t speak once during the entire walk.

  The softly lit private room directly across from the ballroom seemed a glorious sanctuary after the shambles outside. The white tablecloth positively glowed, the silver cutlery sparkled, cloth napkins were folded up like a top French restaurant and they’d even gone to the trouble of an elaborate dried flower arrangement at one end of the table which fitted in splendidly. And the meal! Delectable! Only spaghetti bolognaise mind you, and he’d never been a huge fan of that woggy-type food, but still, a thousand times better than they were serving up in the mess these days. The main objection the Brigadier had to pasta and ravioli and all that foreign nosh was you could never tell what sort of meat you’re actually getting. He understood that’s why they started making the jolly stuff in the first place, to cover up dodgy meat. Not like your traditional Aussie roast or barbeque. Apart from a splosh of gravy or tom sauce, the meat was unadulterated and visible to all. But with this spag-bol who-ha, how do you know what sort of meat you’ve got!? At least one of the good things about eating at a reputable place like the Hyatt is you could always guarantee quality.

  He’d have to say the solitary, off-putting aspect of the meal was Bob serving them. The chap had obviously gone completely blind in one eye. When they’d last met the eye openly wept pus, and thank god that’d stopped. Still, not a pleasant thing to look at, especially during a nosh.

  ‘So, what’s all the news from the P.M?’ advanced the Brigadier cautiously, between mouthfuls, and trying to avoid looking at Bob waiting silently in the corner. He picked up the white ceramic bowl of grated parmesan and using the supplied spoon, sprinkled a liberal scatter on his spaghetti. It smelt like vomit and the Brigadier always thought this another of those clever woggy tricks to cover up what’s really in the thing. However cheese of any description was in short supply these days so he wasn’t about to turn it down.

  ‘Well, that’s partly why I asked you here, to see if you’d heard the . . . rumors.’ Snow raised one eyebrow questioningly. ‘No? Look, I’m sorry to pass this on and be the bearer of bad news and all that, but we understand the Prime Minister, and all the cabinet, have . . . well, died, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed the Brigadier. The fork froze midway to his mouth and the massive twirl of spaghetti he’d speared slid off, plopping back onto the plate and splashing sauce over the tablecloth.

  ‘Yes. Terrible, I know. They were in a convoy of three cars and took a wrong turn somewhere between Adelaide and Melbourne. Run out of petrol, then thirst got them apparently. They’d taken hardly any water. Or their spare water tank may’ve sprung a leak; we’re not quite sure at this stage.’

  The Brigadier was thunderstruck. What a dreadful turn of events. The PM dead! He shook his grizzled head glumly, making a distracted attempt at retrieving the runaway spaghetti whilst trying to think up a suitable response. Devastating news of the worst magnitude, yet . . . yet, an uncomfortable awareness grew at the edge of his mind, disturbing him: the shameful thought of how quickly the shock was passing. A few more deaths amongst millions. Six months ago it would’ve been global news—now it warranted a passing mention over spag-bol. After an appropriate pause, and more shaking of the head, he settled on: ‘Tragic. What a ghastly, sad way for her to go.’

  Snow nodded agreement. ‘Yes, I gather it was.’

  ‘So who’s running the show now?’ he ventured.

  ‘Well, I’m not privy to the exact machinations but I believe those who’re next down the chain of command, so to speak, have decided to establish new temporary seats of Government in different locations, partly because the channels of communication are still so poor, but also to prevent a similar catastrophe happening again, by spreading the risk. One of these new seats is located here, of course, at the Hyatt, while the others are at various locales around the state and country. About two dozen, I’m told.’

  The Brigadier thought this rather an odd setup but had no idea what the appropriate setup should be, when the P
M and her principal advisors all died at once, so was disinclined to offer an opinion. Somewhat guiltily he also thought he’d had a lucky let-off with respect to Forsyth, and wasn’t sure what tack to take now. He opted for the most neutral of paths: ‘So how are you seeing the average chap doing these days? In Canberra I mean?’

  ‘Unfortunately there’s no semblance of law and order whatsoever on the streets around Canberra. An enormous proportion of the population are on the verge of succumbing to starvation, or thirst. Those that haven’t done so already. Most of the suburbs have more or less degenerated to roving gangs looking for fuel and water and food.’

  The Brigadier distinctly remembered Forsyth saying something almost identical. Before he could consider this further, Snow parried by throwing back a similar question. ‘And how’re things bearing up at Duntroon?’

  He stumbled around for an appropriate answer and tried to paint an optimistic picture but had the feeling Snow saw right through it. Discipline and order had essentially remained intact at Duntroon, to a degree, but the men were becoming increasingly surly and despondent and disinclined to jump as quickly as the Brigadier would prefer. Downright slovenly, in fact. These were grim times. Jolly grim.

  ‘Jolly grim,’ he grimaced in conclusion, immediately wishing he’d gone for a more upbeat ending. But how could you? Eloise wouldn’t move one step from their cramped quarters. Terrified. And the Brigadier’s wife still had it better than many others, which in truth was part of the problem. Not all the chap’s wives were initially able to move onto base, and a number of those turned away didn’t make it. In retrospect they should’ve allowed all the wives and dependents in immediately. Just squeezed ’em in somehow, to head off the potential strife. He knew the men had always regarded him as something of a Colonel Blimp figure—one of the unfortunate costs of an English public school education—but he ran the base smartly and usually got the job done. However recently, their attitudes may’ve become more . . . threatening, even. He wondered how the morale of his fellows compared with the layabouts here. He must’ve passed at least twenty or thirty men, just on the walk down to lunch, so god knows how many there actually were sitting around the whole hotel. Certainly looked a disagreeable bunch. For a moment the Brigadier speculated on whether you’d contemplate merging the men from here, into Duntroon, should the need ever arise for extra resources. He shuddered at the thought.

  Bob had left the room. Snow topped up their glasses. ‘Cold, Brigadier?’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine.’ He took a healthy swallow. A first-rate burgundy from the Barossa. On a whim, he decided to test the waters further, and asked about the involvement of those two girls the injured men at base hospital spoke of.

  Snow appeared genuinely surprised. ‘Those girls!’ He pursed his lips and brushed his hair back in frustration. That huge Rolex had to be bigger than some artillery pieces the Brigadier had commanded on occasion. Snow pondered for some time before elaborating. ‘Those girls have been a thorn in my side recently, I have to say. You try and do your best by people, and it just gets thrown in your face. Anyway, Bob and I are intending to deliver them to Astrid Simpson, tomorrow in actual fact, so hopefully that’s the end of it. She’s their legal guardian now.’

  A horrible thought struck the Brigadier that this may see the poor things end up with Forsyth. But how could he raise this, without admitting Forsyth to be “that sort of problem?” He already regretted saying too much about Forsyth last time he were here with Snow. The Brigadier was flummoxed. Fortunately the dilemma happened to be postponed because Bob reentered with desert. A lovely golden syrup pudding, one of the Brigadier’s absolute favorites.

  Following desert, Bob cracked open a Tasmanian vintage tawny port. Then, from about the third or fourth glass, the Brigadier couldn’t remember a damn—

  He woke groggily, hog-tied on the floor. The rooms lights seemed awfully bright, and he felt frightfully sick. Quite nauseous in fact. By George, he’d been drugged! Would’ve been that swine Bob, who served up their food. What a bloody rotter! The Brigadier always thought of himself as a good reader-of-men, and knew that fellow was a bad egg. Maybe Snow’s in on it too? He’d have to be!

  If they’ve left the lights on, they probably won’t be gone for long. He called out twice, and thought each time there may’ve been a faint reply. It seemed to have strangely come from this very room, high up on the wall or roof. The Brigadier wondered for a chilling moment whether he might already be dead.

  ‘Who’s that? Where are you?’ he called, clawing his way around on the carpet with great difficulty until he could see the wall better.

  ‘Natasha,’ said a tiny, muffled voice. ‘And my sister Krystal’s in here too.’

  These could be the young lasses Forsyth was trying to get his hands on. ‘I say Natasha, you aren’t able by any chance to come in here, and help me get untied are you?’

  ‘Sorry, we’re locked in. There’s a little hole up in the wall.’

  Bother!! The Brigadier still thought it best to check, and make sure they were who he suspected. He tried to recall the name of that women Snow said he intended taking them to . . . Astrid someone-or-other.

  ‘Natasha?’

  ‘Yes Sir?’

  Sir? She certainly had delightful manners. Now he could make out the hole. On this side of the wall, a blotchy smudge directly around the hole marked where someone might’ve pressed their face, or ear, and two obvious hand-smudges slightly underneath on either side. They would’ve stood on that bedside table, which had been pulled along the wall and was directly below the hole.

  ‘Natasha, you don’t know a lady called Astrid do you?’

  ‘Yes! We do! Is she in there too?’ She sounded excited.

  ‘No,’ he replied sadly. ‘She’s not. I think you might be seeing her tomorrow though, or sometime quite soon. Would that be good?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ The girl went quiet for nearly a minute, before tentatively asking, ‘So we’ll be leaving here?’

  ‘Definitely,’ he answered, fervently hoping it’d be true.

  Would it really be true? It saddened him to think he could lie so easily, without a qualm, and to a wee girl of all people. This may be one of the last chances he got to pass on something actually useful. He wished Eloise were here. He would’ve liked to have spoken with her, and said some of the things he’d never gotten around to saying. You always think there’ll be another chance.

  ‘Listen, Natasha?’

  ‘Yes Sir?’

  ‘When you see Astrid, whatever you do, watch out for a fellow named Forsyth. Make sure you stay right away from him. He’s a jolly dangerous chap,’ the Brigadier said gravely.

  * * *

  Dick had a splitting headache.

  Normally he took panadol but this time they plainly weren’t up to the task. Barely five minutes ago, Bob had butchered Brigadier Hensley. Dick still panted with the exertion of walking back so quickly from the room to his office. The office certainly had a more tranquil ambience than the abattoir Bob called a room. Bob had now gone outside to take care of the Brigadier’s driver. This left him with another chore to attend to, along with his existing mountain of jobs. At some point soon he had to go to Duntroon and explain why the Brigadier wouldn’t be coming into work for a while.

  He picked up the can opener, thinking a small aperitif might help with the headache. Beetroot was his favorite snack. Baby ones, straight from the can, using an English sterling silver hallmark stamped fork and accompanied by Glenfiddich in a lead crystal tumbler. Each of the ’roots looked uncannily like Hensley’s face, a second or two before he’d finally expired. The mellow flavor of the beetroot—in many ways not quite a fully-fledged veggie yet so much more than a fruit—went extraordinarily well with the peatyness of a superior whisky. A much underestimated combination, Dick reckoned. And the color! A blush of scarlet that left your head spinning.

  Bob the Beetroot. Or would you call yourself Beetroot Bob? Beat your root with Bob. One day would he have t
o get rid of Bob like that too? Dick stabbed his fork into another ’root, and thought dark thoughts.

  What would it take to placate Duntroon?

  He realized with a warm feeling (which the Glenfiddich may’ve had something to do with) that Duntroon will believe anything he says. If the recently dearly departed commandant of the joint accepted so easily that the Australian Prime Minister died of a car breakdown, they’d swallow anything. Look at what these days had come to! Why it was so ripe, for Dick. There for the plucking.

  He could take the army. March right in, and just take it.

  Three sets of regulation police handcuffs lay on his desk. Touching the heavy steel rings brought joy; stroking the interlocking chains made his cock hard as a rock: they represented power and the feeling of them rattling in his clutches was exquisite.

  Dick also proudly owned eleven working, drivable vehicles, parked at the rear of the hotel. But very little fuel. He had a hundred and twenty fired-up, rather angry, unstable men at his disposal, although less than half were armed. Duntroon had weapons aplenty, and he knew where to obtain fuel. It all seemed a no-brainer.

  He decided to test out his phone technique, and have a practice, so picked up one of the handcuffs and held the ring against his ear like an old-fashioned handpiece with the second ring dangling down as its cord. ‘Hello, is that Duntroon?’ A pause, enjoying the deep, rich timbre of his own voice. ‘Look, I’ve got Brigadier Hensley here and he chipped a tooth and it went septic and his whole head just exploded. That’s right, all happened in about ten minutes. Yes, damn bad show, what.’

  Dick chuckled and lowered the handcuff-phone. First, get that fuel. Getting it should merely be an exercise to hone his skills, but more than that, it’d be a gift to himself, and to Bob.

  If it unfolded as expected he’d reap the trifecta then move on to Duntroon. The fuel, one of the twins and more than likely the dwarf. A trifecta of blood-love. Coming away with both twins and the fuel would be too ambitious, and too obvious, anyway he’d rather get that mangy dwarf. Put him out of his misery. Bob hated the dwarf with a passion and would give his good eye to lay hands on him for an hour. He’d been a problem, right from first meeting him at Katoomba when he’d botched up that live hook-up, just before the earthquake. Caused a hell of a ruckus, with that ugly Māori Girl Guide, if Dick remembered rightly.