interested parties to enter the fray.
Floyd, having just allowed Jenny to talk him out of joining the turmoil, was smiling with anticipation. Glen Harkin was gradually coming back. The police suddenly arrived; Helen McGuinness was only seconds behind them.
‘What in god’s name is going on here?’ she screamed at Floyd. He was standing off to the side of the action. She noticed the crimson stain covering his hand and simmered. ‘And what happened to your hand?’
‘It’s only a scratch,’ he replied heroically. The small gash was bleeding steadily. ‘I’ll live!’
The fact it’d been acquired attempting to open a bottle of beer with a teaspoon was information he’d take to the grave. The ‘wounded hero’ routine might have been old, but it was a classic.
‘I leave you guys alone for one hour and I comeback to Wrestlemania! What the hell was I thinking?’ fumed Helen, the angry tone of her voice doing more to quash the ongoing brawling than the presence of Victoria’s finest.
‘And as for you older boys,’ she continued. She turned her attention to Douglas and his friends, including a very groggy looking Ox O’Conner. ‘You were supposed to be keeping an eye on things, setting some kind of example! An absolute disgrace; the lot of you! This is our home, and you trample it like a cheap bloody hotel.’
Her furious rant continued unabated. Douglas and his friends were forced to endure the brunt, but nobody escaped completely unscathed. The two police officers watched on with amusement.
About to protest his innocence, Douglas was looking on solemnly when a harrowing sound suddenly pierced the night sky. The tension evaporated instantly; even Helen’s steely disposition softened.
Big Glen Harkin was doubled over. His bloody knuckles were almost white as he strained to grip the back of a fragile plastic barbeque chair. This crude attempt at steadying himself from falling into the garden bed looked to be failing, and he was heaving. By god, he was heaving!
Two litres of cheap champagne punch, what looked to be at least a dozen chicken wings, and carrots; they were there too. Sounding very much like he was suffering at he hands of some barbaric torturer; the he was hurting. There was a brief silence, then Glen gave it some more. The big fella was parting company with the lot.
‘Could we be of any further assistance, Helen?’ asked a tall, well known, young constable when it was clear Glen had finally concluded his encore.
Constable Jerry Harrison stood about 6’ 3”. At least an inch was in the heel. His arms were flared like he was carrying a couple of bricks, and it was obvious to all the jacket was padded. He’d actually been pretty well liked too, when he played in the juniors at the Mordialloc Football Club. That was a long time ago though, long before his current occupation which ran contrary to the aspirations of most of his former team mates.
His partner on the call, and obviously the senior officer, commanded slightly more respect. Sergeant Barry Lowe was a traditionalist. Regulation mustache, stained shirt and frayed collar, he was carrying at least 20 kilograms of excess. Not exactly fat, it was weight he could handle if he had to. Calloused knuckles, the old copper had been around forever and was generally feared and loathed in equal measure. He was real old school alright; a real prick.
Helen, standing silently, appeared to be making a decision. Would she teach her sons a lesson, or not. Her face a mask of iron as she surveyed the scene. Glen in the garden bed whimpering. Floyd with his cut, crudely bandaged hand. Douglas with a torn shirt and bleeding lip. Ox O’Conner; he was looking disheveled and probably concussed, and then there was Bullet Bulowski; mildly ragged, he might have just walked off the set of an action movie. The list went on, with the surprise inclusion of Eliza, Doug’s girlfriend. A large welt was rapidly appearing down the side of her face as she continually dabbed a closing left eye.
‘Are you all right Eliza,’ Helen asked. She then moved caringly to inspect the girl’s damaged face. ‘I can’t believe you were involved!’
‘I actually slipped over in the bathroom,’ replied Eliza, sheepishly.
The fate of the party was hanging in the balance. Helen mulled over the explanation. She didn’t know whether the behavior was innate or learnt, but that girl, Helen decided with sadness, would make some sick bastard a damn fine wife one day.
‘Well I guess, as you “boys in blue” are so fond of saying; there’s nothing to see here!’ said Helen finally. She was looking directly at the injured Eliza. The welt was already blackening and the eye was beginning to close.
‘Well, we’ll be on our way then,’ officially stated the young constable. He made a big show of snapping closed his case book. His partner just looked relieved. A few crude pig noises accompanied the two officers as they made their way back out to the divisional van, but the coppers took it in their stride. The next poor sucker that found himself in the back of the divvy van; he’d pay for that.
CHAPTER seven
‘Floyd, are you sure? I’d be more than happy to stay,’ reasoned Jenny Jones. Floyd was doing the gentlemanly act of putting her into the taxi. ‘Your hand’s hurt, the place is a mess, and my exam’s not that important!’
‘On the contrrrary, my darling,’ replied Floyd. He was slurring whilst attempting to sound suave. ‘Your exams are your future. I promised you it wouldn’t be a late one and you’ve had a pretty good time. I appreciate the support, I do, but your friends have all gone. You probably should have left with Lizzy an hour ago. There’ll be a few late night stragglers getting very pissed, telling tall stories and generally making fools of themselves. You wouldn’t enjoy yourself anyway.’
‘Come with me?’ Jenny almost pleaded. ‘Your hand’s still bleeding. Aren’t you drunk enough?’
‘I’m not deserting my own party. It’s just after 1 o’clock. You wanted a taxi, I got you a taxi. I’m sorry you have your stupid exam, but you do!’ he explained. Floyd was failing to conceal his frustration. ‘Goodnight!’
‘The taxi was your idea! Floyd McGuinness, are you trying to get rid of me?’
Oh, she is quick tonight, he thought. What is it with chicks?! Floyd braced himself and leant in to give her a final kiss goodbye. He secured her seat belt at the same time. Cutting off any opportunity to take the argument further, he subtly closed the door.
‘Take good care of her, mate!’ said Floyd, banging the roof of the cab. The driver was Pakastani, Indian, or Sri Lankan and he was certainly quick to get the gist. From the open boulevards of Bombay to the back blocks of Mordialloc, the firm stare and the tap on the roof – that was universal.
Making his way back into the party, McGuinness felt 10 pounds lighter.
‘Bulowski, you old dog, are those secretarial school birds still supposed to be making a late appearance, or what?’ he almost shouted.
The gathering had thinned significantly. It was definitely past its peak, but there were still a handful of revellers. Available talent may have been a little thin on the ground, but the vibe remained solid.
‘They should be here about 2!’ Bulowski concluded with authority.
About an hour earlier Bulowski had also given his date the soul destroying news that it was time for her to leave. She’d taken it well though; it wasn’t the first time. The poor kid still had nightmares of the time she’d begged him to take her home, and he’d conceded. He’d made most of the journey on the back wheel.
Having commandeered the chairs around the barbeque Bulowski was currently holding court, entertaining the lads with tales of his dream bike – Harley’s ’38 Knuckle. He stopped mid-sentence: ‘Though I should probably mention one slight deviation from the original plan. They might be bringing a bloke or two with ’em!’
Floyd exploded. ‘Slight! Who the hell are these guys? And how many girls are we expecting here?’
Silence