Beachmasters by Thea Astley

Author:Thea Astley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ligature Pty Limited
Published: 2021-11-10T11:18:54+00:00

R-day, says Bonser, locking the big doors of his workshed as a matter of form, though he knew, had been assured over and over by Mango Wilson, the radio freak who had been manning the rebel government transmissions, that Talasa Pati supporters’ property was safe. Why, jesusgod, late last night even, right on the verge of it, that crazy bastard Leblanc had driven down from Vimape with a warning. The silly sod didn’t seem to know that all the day before half the town had been door-knocked by scraggy black youth politely warning, ‘There will be revolution in morning.’ Christ! What a place! There will be revolution in morning. But Leblanc loved the excitement of it, one of nature’s mercenaries, silly bugger, playing cloaks and daggers after midnight and hauling him off the nest. Wearing his damn military outfit, too, fat handgun stuck in his belt, army beret a-cock. Shit. I don’t want to be involved, he’d told him. Not visibly. There’s Angie to consider. I’m with you, mate, he had insisted, 100 bloody per cent but I am not visible. Repeat. Not visible. There were a hundred ways, he had told him, he could help without being seen to do it.

Stuff it, he thought, as he rammed the big bolt home.

He went over to his workbench and shoved a clutter of spark plugs to one side. The fluoro turned him blue. That shyster’s only here for the big hit, for what he can make. And then he’s off. His bacon isn’t on the line. He’s a blow in. The dust settles, he’ll blow right out. Big noise from Algiers? Morocco? Port Said? Not like us. Not like Angie and me who sweat our lives out here.

Christ, he said, I even love the old place.

He began working on the generator motor that old Lorimer had brought down last month from the delta.

He was behind on everything lately what with frigging around with Narota and his crowd. And this generator was a challenge. Lorimer had written it off, poor old coot. He tickled the nipple of the grease gun delicately and deftly. The light blaze over the bench threw a great shadow obliquely back along the concrete floor. A tough, confident boyo, he hummed while he worked. On a shelf to his right the radio hiccupped its way to the end of a rock screamer and then Mango’s voice dressed in phoney vowels came on with a news bulletin. God, Bonser said aloud, what’s he think he is? BBC Battle of Britain stuff?

‘… ish Paddock has now been taken.’ The trombone voice echoed in the tin and concrete hollow of the shed. ‘Hostages have been taken to Talasa Pati headquarters and later this afternoon, the island can expect a statement from the interim president, Mr Tommy Narota. At present all business houses are closed and residents are advised to remain indoors. The Nabiru government in Port Lena has announced a blockade. There will be no transport planes flying into Kristi. The telephone service has been cut.

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