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"Fictitious Facts 1:
Cultivation of a Murderer." Continued;
Chapter 18
Friend or Foe
Weepy was in his last year of high school when Don first attended, he saw little of him because he mixed with an older group of students. Sam began secondary school a bit later than Don and did not have the opportunity to relish in Weepy’s company at all; not at school anyway. Weepy followed in his brothers footsteps and took the opportunity to abscond before completion. Like his brother, his options were limited; leave or get expelled. It was during the year of the introduction of decimal currency, 1966, and Sam, Don, and Kolora were now attending the same school. Mistakenly, Sam was preferred as one of his better friends out of those few people he joined with in boisterous play, and he hoped his friendship with him was cemented in concrete. At the time, Don was extremely happy the Clay’s chose to have Sam educated at the same institute, he believed he could always share a story in confidence and count on him for play or when help was called for, but Don’s exuberance for trust was later found to be deficient in regard to Sam’s moral fibre and honesty, his allegiance to the Rob boy’s proved supreme.
The years of hardship had caught up to Mrs Rob, she was getting no better in health and was regularly taken advantageous of from the forming of a sexual relationship with the local sawmill foreman. There was no real rapport between them, he wanted sex and she needed favours. He was a large mean dirty man who would strike first and ask questions later and knew if he wanted to continue his affair with Mrs Rob he would have to adhere to her compelling requests to help her boys out with a job. He already employed Sterge at the mill which operated about four miles up the road from their home, and much to everyone’s surprise he turned out to be a good worker. Mrs Rob also pleaded with the foreman to offer Weepy a job, and with extra coercion from Sterge the foreman saw fit to give him a start. Sterge attained his car license and drove Weepy to work each day in an old, beat-up, ‘FJ Holden’. Weepy sat in control of the car at every opportunity Sterge let him, regardless of his age prohibiting him from doing so. Most of the local community had been driving cars around the bush and on the roads from a very young age and rarely gave concern for authority. Weepy acquired significant competencies in the operations and mechanics of a vehicle as well as the accumulation of knowledge and skills resulting from direct participation in such activities; he was well advanced in these areas.
With both the Rob brothers now at work the school grounds were a little tamer, together or individually they were the main firebrands throughout their school years. Without either one’s input and oppressive rule to endure, Don expected he and Sam could continue their mate-ship without intrusive disruptions and looked forward to engaging in daily frolic. On Friday afternoon when the school bell signalled days end Don gained permission from his parents to travel home with Sam on the bus for a weekend sleep over. Naturally the weekends were the best part of the week and would be recognized with goodwill, but the freedom afforded involved lots of acquiescent karma by way of entertainment, illegalities, occasional sex, tobacco, alcohol abuse and more. Don joined in most things without protest, maybe because he was scared and feared reprisals or maybe because he was lonely and did not want to lose their friendship, or maybe he had an evil streak in him he was not yet fully aware of.
It was about six months since Don had his first sexual exploit with Kolora and they enjoyed a few more encounters to date. Up to this point he kept this information to himself, but on the bus trip to Sam’s, bragging and blab involved the ears of Sam; he revealed to him in confidence of his illicit associations. It was a naïve revelation which later highlighted to Don a serious underestimation of Sam’s loyalty. At Sam’s after supper, later during the night, Sam always wanted to get clear of his pesky sisters and suggested the customary gathering around a camp fire to lark about and discuss recent and future events. His mind must have been fermenting with plans to elaborate on Don’s disclosure of intimacy to whoever was willing to listen. Weepy and Fran were, as per usual, destined to join in around the fire. When they arrived, and even before they sat down, Sam blurted out the whole story about Don and Kolora with many added embellishments. Don tried to tell the story as it really was, in doing so he aroused Weepy’s impulsive jealousy, who then directed a million questions to him and would not succumb to simple answers. Most of his queries were shaped around a possible organized encounter with Kolora; Don was at a loss for answers. Weepy’s extraordinary and fanatical investigation stirred Fran into contempt, her eyes bulged and her face shrivelled, but instead of attacking Weepy she tried to ridicule Don;
“Rubbish, ya dreaming! Why don’t ya say what really happened? If anything. She probably told ya to piss off; you’re dreaming.” Weepy agreed;
“You’re nothing but a fuckin’ liar. Fuckwit! You don’t live here anymore; why ya here?” Don was beset by their attacks. He did not want to be reputed as a charlatan, but only he knew the truth and it seemed no explaining was going to convince them of his description of events. He thought: ‘I know what really happened but Sam put in so many other things; he’s a troublemaker. I shouldn’t’ have told him.’ If Sam’s braggadocio in publicizing Don’s secrets was to try and belittle him; he succeeded. Don fervently protected the authenticity of his story;
“I told you what happened and that’s what happened. It’s the truth, like it or fuckin’ lump it. I don’t care.” Fran used saccade eye movements with demeaning ambiguity, and her mouth wore a snarling grin, it was not out of character for her; frequently she acted like a flibbertigibbet. Following her aberrant behaviour came a moment of serenity and the silence bore homage to the crackling of the tinder. Then she broke tranquillity with improved temperament, almost to the point of cheery;
“Well, we’ll just have to see if ya as good as ya say ya are; won’t we?” It was obvious she wanted to rule the roost and hated the idea of outsiders spoiling her effete domination. Don laughed it off as did the others, but with contempt for him. All were a little bemused by her statement.
Eventually the conversation took a turn for the better and ideas were proposed involving plans for the next day; yabbying, shooting, exploring, and other day to day amusements were mentioned. Fishing was Sam’s favourite pastime, he made the suggestion to fish and the subject of discussion finally changed from Don’s quests to concentrations on the needs for a day’s angling. Sam was the only one with a genuine bought fishing rod. The other’s were rudimentary in such; they were made from straight barked sticks, with a cork hand-line taped ‘T’ shape to the thickest end, and a few eyelets made from washers bent at right angles bound and fastened along the pole. At day-break they packed the gear. Their swags consisted of cigarettes, beer, biscuits and sandwiches. They were ready to hike along the creek which snaked for miles from Wirrageen Falls to Visarg Bay. Fran thought fishing to be monotonous and tagged along with only her cigarettes, Pepsi, and attitude in hand. The banks at first presented a heavily tree-lined landscape with a few breaches to expose a terrain once utilized for agriculture. Scattered sparsely with irregular familiarity was a hay shed or two standing old and ramshackle, some were accompanied by rusty derelict farm equipment and remnants of hay and bones of cattle and sheep. Blackberries and wild passion-fruit covered sections of those ant ridden boundary fences still standing, and a lone lemon or apple tree would offer another reminder this place was once populated.
While trekking the creek bank, hiking and skylarking for hours, they continued to search for a good fishing spot. In the middle of nowhere they stumbled onto an old green clinker-built wooden row boat, it was beached and surrounded by dead foliage and muddy pools of stagnated water. Moored for the sake of the tide, but unsecured, it lacked mobility without assistance because the mangroves had it jammed between their tangled roots. Its antiquated appearance gave insight to limited functionality but for the purpose of fishing and larking about it was perfect. An added bonus was, the seats were partially intact, and spread in the bottom of the hull laid two splintered oars, hardly sufficient to impel the boat into active seaworthiness but capable of providing motion and adequate for the purpose of buffoonery. None of them had concerns as to the ownership of the boat. After a quick futile inspection for what may be leaks, they set about dislodging the bow from the hold of the roots by lifting and heaving it sternwards into the water. Weepy and Don boarded the boat and organised the oars while Sam and Fran gave a mighty heave to set her afloat. Sam managed to jump aboard with ease, but Fran misjudged the manoeuvre and caught one foot in the mangroves whilst her hands remained gripped to the wooden lug attached to the breast-hook on the bow. Her impulse to hold on in an attempt to stay dry had the opposite and inevitable effect, she could not keep a firm grip and belly-flopped into the cold water with a screaming splash. The boys were in hysterics but she was not amused. Standing thigh deep in water and drabbled ankle deep in mud she uttered a cornucopia of blaspheme. They dragged her up the side and pulled in the boat like a limp mullet. She was soaked and had no towel or means of drying herself, so after another burst of expletives she took off her clothes, all but her knickers, hung them on the gunwale and suffered in silence while they went about their expedition.
The rusted rowlocks wedged in their mountings were rickety from rot making it tiresome to row, this helped make the easy choice of floating downstream with the tide. The changing scenery offered mostly a variety in trees, but other areas gave sight to mangrove covered fen, and the higher land gifted lush grassy pastures. The dulcet harmony of the birds was bested by the raucousness of the cicadas reverberating in sequence. It was still early in the day and already they drifted a good distance from their point of departure. While Weepy was mentally fantasizing aloud about shoving his dick in Fran, who immediately dressed, they spotted a fishing line cast and tied to a small stump. Under a cautious approach and prudent investigation they assumed the area to be uninhabited so rowed to shore and wound the line in to check for fish. It was without a hook so they threw the cork reel into the boat and moved on. Further on around the bend another line came into vision. They started to row over to the bank to inspect with the intention of including another line to their collection, but on approach a man skittered his way to the foreshore threatening in a loud bombastic declamatory manner and seeming to peer myopically through bulging eyes into space rather than directly at them. Dressed in torn blue baggy shorts and shirtless, his skinny legs prop a tall thin weather worn frame from which each rib jut out like piano keys, he was covered in scraggy long grey hair and wearing a pair of small round spectacles with lens as thick as the bottom of milk bottles; they made his eyes look huge. He stared and shouted:
“Hey, ya little pricks were did ya get that fucking boat from? It’s mine. Cum ‘ere ya fuckers.”
“Get stuffed.” Shouted Sam, knowing his feisty invulnerability to fear and intimidation was apt due to factors such as; the safety of the boat, there were four of them and one of him, and the hasty retreat by rowing away from danger was already in progress. “Why, what’s it got to do with you? It’s ours now.” Sam continued his impudence as the gap of water between the boat and the upset man widened.
“It’s my boat, bring it here!” he roared. “If I get hold of ya, I’ll kill ya, ya little bastards. Row it ‘ere.” Don was the most timid of the four. Even Fran was laughing and reviled the man as only she knows how. He rowed harder and faster to ensure they were as far away as possible from him and closer to the bank opposite before responding with a brash expression;
“Get stuffed, we found it.”
The tide was on the turn. The slow building of the surge inwards gave aid in forcing the calm waters to help speed the boat and they achieved a walking pace by rowing frantically. Remaining as close to the other bank as possible was predominant in Don’s thinking because the guy gave chase, still swearing and threatening to drown them if he caught them. He was throwing sticks, stones and roots, and his frustration and aggression intensified into an uncontrollable insanity. There was no way they wanted to come into contact with him, and knew the safety of the water gave them mouthing off rights. They gave him the finger and plenty of verbal insolence. He waded in the water up to his knees causing them to row harder and faster from worry he reach them by making a desperate swimming dash for the boat, but after careful consideration he retreated back to the bank. His pursuit and long harangue came to an end when the course of his athletic outcry was broken by a wide inlet of muddy crossing. It was bottom land not at all possible to cross without sinking to the knees in deep mire and too far around to deviate. Witnessing his temper flair to maximum due to defeat and taking comfort in the knowledge he had no way of catching them, they laughed and waved mockingly, still taunting in victory while continuing around the bend and out of sight; each still committed to odious and provoking vociferations.
Fatigue and a high heart rate from rowing so swiftly demanded a rest. At any rate they were back past were they found the boat and nearer to home. There stood an old hay shed in which they could seek comfort and settle for rest, food and drink. A discussion and debate took place on how the boat could be tied and camouflaged until their needs warranted its use again. During the intransigent conversation moderated by Weepy, Sam digressed from the decision of focus and suggested they should name the boat ‘Stingermate’. The others were not sure where the name came from. Sam said;
“It’s the name of the boat in the television comedy, ‘My Name's McGooley, What's Yours?” Wherever it originated did not matter at the time because, all were agreeable and unperturbed as they continued their disagreements on what to do with it. Weepy ordered Don;
“Go up to that old shed over there and see if there’s any rope and we’ll tie it up here.” Happy to follow the order he cheerfully began his walk; “Yea okay.”
“Hang on I’ll come with you,” said Fran.
“Okay, hurry then,” Don replied. Sam shouted out to Don;
“Hurry. We’ll throw out the fishing lines and put branches over the boat so the idiot chasing us can’t find it.” Don and Fran reached the old hayshed. Its weather-beaten structure was on a lean and built in a form of ‘post and beam’ using rough cut timber sawn in slices to represent thin planks. The roof minus a sheet of iron or two was adequate to weatherproof the remains of the small bales of hay laying arranged and stacked in an untidy fashion. Horseshoe nails in the posts were holding worn horseshoes, rusty tools, a frayed bridle and bailing string; just what they were looking for.
Glancing around at the items of old Fran was pretending to show interest in the search for anchor material but her temerarious connive was soon realised. Her devious nature seized the opportunity to tease Don.
“I’m ready to fuck! She exclaimed. “Do you want it?” Everyone was accustomed to her inexorable nature and her audacious offer did not phase Don’s sanguine disposition one bit. He replied;
“Yeah, sure do, great.” She lifted her rumbled dress and lay on the soft loose hay for bedding. Don’s penis was up with a flick of the imagination; hard at just the thought of intercourse. He pulled her knickers down leaving them over one ankle, and as he did many times before, inserted his fingers in her entrance. She loved this and found the sensation irresistible, wriggling and groaning in wilful approval. Don removed his shorts and underwear, exposed his rigidity, and proceeded to bend over her for entry, but she stopped him by placing her hands against his chest, holding him off, and surprisingly conveyed one of her lubricious desires;
“I don’t want your dick in me. I want you to lick me down there.” Don was intimidated, he was acquainted with the art of cunnilingus from magazines and braggers at school, but unacquainted with the physical implementation of the art; never had he taken this approach before. He knew she was trying to belittle his efforts because of talk about Kolora the night prior. His ‘hard-on’ softened to a limp as he tried not to appear incompetent, bashful or amateurish. If he chickened out she would hold it against him forever by calling him names and telling everyone he was a liar and a ‘scared-e-cat’; and he knew she would. Remaining silent in feigned zealousness he crawled backwards on all fours, leaned forward and put his mouth over the heavy haired crack. The scent was likened to the odour-of-sanctity and the tang was tainted with slight bitter, yet succulent ale. In knowing if he was to take umbrage to her peculiar request it would stultify his reputation and deplete her manic activity, so he used his tongue in a lapping motion up, down and across her clitoris to the best he could. She passed into a phase of complete ecstasy. Her stomach muscles tightened with every wriggling tongue lap and bent upwards at the hips grabbing his head pulling him in harder at her will. Her pleasure excited Don into an irrepressible stage of frenzied osculation sending her even further into blissful delirium, he could feel himself coming way before his want, she panted even louder and moaned and twisted in uncontrollable spasms. With noises heavy in grunts she finished in complete bliss. Don lost his load over the hay. The rush of semen gave pleasure but was accompanied by sharp stinging explosions for which he was unaccustomed. She lay there with soft panting and eyes closed, obviously elated for her own egotistical conquest.
As Don gathered his thoughts, and his trousers, Weepy poked his head around the corner; he approached closer and stood with a hanky in hand wiping his eyes; Sam joined him in the spectacle. With much spite Weepy pushed Don on the shoulders and said;
“You’re becoming a fuckin’ nuisance. Where’s the fuckin’ rope we sent ya for?”
“Why? What’s your problem? Look there’s plenty of rope there,” Don pointed but was cautious and did not want to antagonise him any more than he already was. Sam entered into the situation and reacted to Weepy’s statement. He said to Weepy in jest;
“You’re just jealous ‘cause you didn’t get a fuck.” This made matters worse and did not alleviate Weepy’s feelings of neglect. His hereditary traits ensured he received by genetic transmission from Sterge the incapability to harmoniously associate with mainstream society, so his first impulse was to hit Don. He pulled his fist back, clenched it tight in menacing aggravation, held it there for a second or two, and claimed;
“Ahh, he’s always in the bloody way, I should’ve hit him a long…...” He did not finish his threat because Fran’s limitless sexual needs saved the day, she said;
“Ya can all still have sex ya know.” Whether she offered herself with blatant gusto for Don’s safety or for her own wanting pleasure Don would never know, but it was her nymphomaniac type tendencies which alleviated what could have been a nasty end to what some may call a friendship. Don was relieved. Her proposition altered Weepy’s hostilities and transformed him into, sort of, a serene state. Don failed again to understand how his friend could turn foe so quickly. Don always knew he was not an insider but was in thought they had a binding relationship which stood them in steady faith; like the ‘Musketeers’. Many reasons could explain Weepy’s contemptuous behaviour. Don thought: ‘Maybe it’s because I’m not living in the same neighbourhood any more, or not as frequent in visitations as I once was. Nah he’s always been that way. Maybe his ability to be socially normal and without rage is impossible due to the life led and the family he’s been raised into; Sally’s nothing like them, she can be a pain in the arse at times, but overall she’s not nasty like her brothers. Could he be upset with me because I was lucky enough to root Kolora and he didn’t? I don’t know. Whatever the reason, I’m getting tired of his wicked ways.’
Fran lay on her back once again and without falter or query Weepy accommodated her. His thrusts were quick and he was finished before the tingling in her vagina could be neutralized from the previous session. He stood, pulled up his shorts and walked over to grab a length of bailing string. Silently, without hesitation he tramped back to the boat. Don assumed he was over his spat and was going to fasten the boat to a tree so he followed and left Sam alone with Fran to have his turn. He did not hesitate in communicating his disgruntlement to Don’s presence with soft mumbling protests. The bad blood between them caused him to fumble with nervous energy the twisting and joining of twine strands to form a rope strong enough to secure the boat. On completion he threw one end to Don and instructed;
“Here catch, tie the end to the tree over there,” pointing to a thick mangrove. In the process of carrying out his bidding he was told; “When you’re finished wind in the rods and get the gear out of the boat.” Don gathered the equipment and they made their way back to the barn. When they returned, Sam and Fran were sitting around a small fire they lit just outside the hayshed and puffing on a cigarette.
“Did we catch any fish,” asked Sam. In a churlish reply Weepy growled;
“No! Com’on let’s go,” and with his bare feet he kicked the fire residue into the hay waste skirting the barn; it flared instantly. Don’s reaction was;
“Quick let’s put it out.” Because of Weepy’s everyday liaison with the group, other than Don, he sought to test their loyalty. His idea was to partly ostracize Don by elevating his position of hierarchy through the resolve of their decision to put out the flames, or join in his fun and let it burn. He was prompt in the justification of his actions by rousing their emotions;
“Don’t be such a fucking wuss; it’s only an old barn. Leave it alone. Let it burn.” He looked at Sam and Fran but his scoff was directed at Don “Are ya gunna let it burn or not?” Sam and Fran laughed, they were goaded by blind solidarity into conformity and assisted in the flagrant crime by tossing lit lumps of hay into the barn. The flames spread rapidly and engulfed the whole structure within minutes. This time when Weepy spoke he was not as garrulous as before, he knew he consolidated his control and asserted a directive to perambulate the bush in exploration before heading for home;
“Now let’s go for a wander and have more fun. Pick up the gear.”
