Lonely Gully: Chapter 17
Herbie Bongmire makes a dramatic escape and returns to Lonely Gully as our heroes receive an unexpected call. Nikki Gemmell takes up our story.
This is “summer reading” like nothing you’ve read before: a diverse field of writers united by their connection to Australia’s national newspaper, collaborating on a novel that will captivate you through summer.
Each author had just three days to write their chapter, with complete freedom over story and style; it’s fast, fun and very funny. Tune in over the summer to see how the story unfolds.
Today, Nikki Gemmell takes up our story.
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This is the land where the light roars. Herbie Bongmire wants to dive into it. The unforgiving light is pushing into the car, ramming into his battered face. The sock jammed in his mouth is soaked with his sweat. It’s now or never, dude.
Herbie loves his harsh, high world, freckled by its boulders and snowed by its cockatoos; never wants to leave it. No way is he going to be loaded on to some plane bound for Wuhan to become the Aussie Sheepenstein going viral for all the wrong reasons. Dancing and singing like Dr Frankenstein’s puppet about the gentle delights of an Uighur rethink, the glories of Hong Kong’s free press and the toddler-like recalcitrance of Taiwan.
Lying on the rear seat, he stares at the back of Dead-Eye Dick’s head. The man driving this cage isn’t saying a word. Out the window a congregation of birds lifts like a cloud from a tree, screeching into their blue- sky freedom. Unlike Herbie. Everything hurts. Now or never.
As the car drives through a cathedral of singing trees the ABC cadet takes aim with his bound bare feet, right on the strap of Dick’s eyepatch. Herbie shoves the dome forward. Dick’s head ricochets off the steering wheel. The car snakes wildly through the dust of the dirt road. Spins. Sails over a grass verge and comes to a clicking rest on a dam whose surface is dried to petals of stiff cream.
Before anyone can say Herbie Goes to Lonely Gull-o the ABC cadet king-hits his jailer with his bound hands. Renders him oblivious. Herbie stares in wonder at his fists. Didn’t know he had it in him; Ita would be proud. And Herbie’s already clocked the Swiss Army knife on Dick’s car keys. After some backhanded contortion the blade of the knife has freed his ankles and wrists.
Every time Dick stirs, another king hit. Not to kill, but to silence. And to teach: don’t mess with the ABC cadet who’s got the glories of the Gold Walkley for his Four Corners splash as a life goal.
On a far hill is a circular shearing shed like a tin hat on scraped earth. Wisteria waterfalls from a rusting corrugated iron shed next to it. In the other direction is the Big Lamb, welcoming anyone who dares venture to the restless quiet of Guyra, alongside its two billboards. One reminds you to clip on a seatbelt; the other, that drought-struck men should talk if they need it. Talk. Ha. Herbie hasn’t talked, in a proper way, to anyone for a decade.
Which direction now? To the cops in town. To the airport with its mysterious, unmarked, waiting plane. Or to the suspiciously white building over the shearing shed’s ridge, the building that stands out like a pimple on Margot Robbie’s forehead – ah, Margot Robbie. Distraction. Again. But no. Not this time.
Hell hath no fury like an ABC reporter mis-identified. There’s only one place to be now. Herbie gives Deadeye Dick one last shove into the powdered mud and turns the car around. Revs, the furies congregating. Herbie’s arrowed to one person and one only now. His nemesis. Who turned him into this.
As Herbie’s bush-bashed car clatters and clangs and bumps and burps up the driveway to the Lonely Gully homestead, Tammy stammers in shock. “And my, here he is, the piece de resistance!” All her robotically created pigeons are now coming home to roost. She’s just been demonstrating, alongside Deb, the wonders of their ovine creation, Baaaraaack, to Lizard, new employee Anita, Mary who’s gone very quiet and Lizard’s dad, who suggested the genius idea of boneless chops in the first place.
Tam has just been explaining that the freshly deposited and entirely flaccid chops will likely win the coveted grand prize at the Guyra Lamb and Potato festival, at last. Surely. Yes? Tam winks conspiratorially at Mary. Who does not speak, just takes another hasty sip from her water flask.
And now, just about to pull up, is Lonely Gully’s grand, if slightly unplanned, human experiment. Tam’s smile tightens. She hates it when things don’t go according to plan, especially in front of the boss. So. The Wuhan flight will just have to wait, along with the eyeless one’s whereabouts.
Tam had already clocked a text informing her the plane was unable to land because there was, er, no one at the airport to receive it. Speedy the caretaker couldn’t locate the key to the gate after the three-day bush christening of his grand niece, Plum; plus the Covid travel situation was looking tricky. The region’s last home-testing kit had been fought over at the local servo 27 days ago, leaving none within a 1208km radius; plus the privately owned drive-thru testing site had mysteriously shut down three days ago, all perfectly timed for Plum’s christening.
Tam, Deb, Lizard and his dad Rodney, Anita and Mary crowd on to the homestead’s wooden veranda. Mary takes one more sip from her water flask; she’s seen the young driver’s face and he does not look a happy man.
“And as if by magic,” Tam stammers as the car pulls up. Herbie leaps out. “I am not an animal, I am a human being,” he howls to the hurting blue above with arms outstretched to a god who’s not saving him. “Where’ve I heard that before?” Mary ponders, taking yet another sip.
It’s all Lizard can do but rush down to the poor, broken lad before them all and lead him quietly away with a “maaaaaaate, let’s talk”. Tam laughs gently. Ironically. “A human being, are we now?” She turns to Deb. Hands her a remote control. “The red button,” she urges. Deb is perplexed. “I may have done a little experimenting. In my own time,” Tam hastens. “Bow down, girlfriend,” she winks.
As Tam turns, Herbie catches sight of the gun tucked into her waistband. His one and only goal now is to rid the world of this one-stumped Dr Frankenstein who created the new him. Tam catches the crazed glaze over his eyes. There’s only one way out of this. “Press the red button. Red one. Now!” she Karens tightly to Deb.
Deb duly does. And as the raging bull charges he suddenly jerks, slices, wrings his hands in fury and transforms into a cross between Irene Cara and Jennifer Beale, shimmying, boogie-ing and punching the sky with jubilant fists. Herbie’s colonised body mightily fights the urge for leg warmers and in despair he busts out the snake and the moonwalk with a bit of Thriller thrown in.
But it’s no use. Jennifer wins. The killer instinct does too. Herbie pirouettes then side slides over to the stairs while screech-singing: “I can have it all, now I’m dancing through my life. I’m gonna kill you! Yes I will!”
Tam feels for her gun. Regrettably. This has gone too far. Even she’s recognising the Mary Shelley vibe now. This is one unhinged creation. Dead-stock, a factory reject, and it’s not backing down. Herbie’s limbs jerk uncontrollably, a cart wheel is attempted, the crowd is mesmerised. Then in one suddenly graceful sweep of an arm Herbie swipes the gun from Tam’s hand and turns it on the crowd.
Silence.
“If I cannot inspire love – I will create fear!” Herbie slobbers, twitching and jerking, sweeping the gun at them all then stopping with an aim directly, ruthlessly, at Tam’s head. Deb has pressed the button again and Herbie is suddenly, lethally and coldly, very still.
Lizard steps forward with his dazzling smile. “Maaaaaaate, if you kill us, you’lll be stuck like this for the rest of your life,” he throws across, not unreasonably. He winces. “And, well … Flashdance? It could have been, you know, Saturday Night Fever.”
“I didn’t pick this, Lizard! And there’s only one person here with their name on this bullet. Which leaves the rest of you to sort me out.” Herbie’s voice breaks, trembles. “To get me back. To what I … was.”
“But all I wanted, Herbie darling, was to win Guyra’s little Lamb and Potato Festival,” Tam stammers. “I just got a bit … carried away.”
“With my life,” Herbie spits. “I used to dance like Peter Garrett. Always the last one standing on the dance floor at the Guyra B and S Ball.” “Because you cleared it,” Anita mutters under her breath. “Prepare to die, Tamara,” Herbie yells.
“But you’re my most beautiful creation!” Tam cries as Herbie, all sweat and spit, lunges for her. But someone is quicker than both of them. Lizard grabs Herbie’s hand and swings the gun to the sky just as it discharges into the air. Everyone falls to the veranda floor as Lizard grapples with the ABC cadet. Mary takes another sip.
For an ABC dude, Lizard thinks, the kid’s surprisingly forceful. Tam’s tweaks have given him a superhuman strength. Lizard realises he won’t be able to overpower Herbie on physical strength alone so he turns on the superpower that has seen him through life, the one attribute that shows to the world he’s always been very loved. The legendary Lizard charm.
“Mate. Maaaaaaaaaaate,” Lizard soothes to Herbie as they both fight for the gun. “This is your big moment. Listen. Hear me out. You could take your place alongside Jana here. Karl. Macca. Laura will interview you on 7.30. Four Corners will hand over an entire two episodes to you. Louise will be fuming – those hours were hers, man. But now they could be yours. With the Australian Story of the century.” They both momentarily stop as Lizard paints a TV square with his hands. “The Legend of Lonely Gully,” he intones with perfect Peter Harvey gravitas.
And just like that, it’s as if the demon inside Herbie has suddenly curled up and gone to sleep as he envisages Margot Robbie presenting him his Gold Walkley.
Lizard continues in his soothing way, like he’s lulling a beloved sheep into quiet before the swipe across the throat. “This little invention here …” he winks to his beloved Deb. “It’s up there with the plastic skin, mate.” His eyes travel down to Deb’s belly, to the tatt waiting for him. “It’ll put us on the world map. You know, like them black boxes. And pacemakers.”
“The bionic ears!” Deb leaps in. Lizard pauses and grins. “Make Australia great again, old mate. Alongside those weird plastic bank notes.” “And, um, winged keels,” Anita throws in. “This’ll put us back on the world stage!” Rodney punches the air. “In a good way,” Mary slurs. “After all, it’s been a while.”
“So Herbie boy, this is your big scoop,” Lizard concludes. “And you don’t want to be blowing it, eh?”
Herbie drops the gun and surrenders.
“I bloody love you, Hieronymous, my boy,” Rodney shouts like his lad has just kicked the winner at the AFL grand final.
Two hours later. The PM’s office on the line. Canberra’s heading into the Midwinter Ball but they can schedule in a quick meeting beforehand. Deb looks across at Tam. Will Scotty Boy understand the significance of what they’ve actually done here? Their groundbreaking invention that will change the future of agriculture on this planet, forever.
Yet all this as Scotty has slashed university and CSIRO jobs – and it’s Chinese money that’s backed them. Complicated. They’re going to have to play a delicate game here. They need someone highly intelligent, and charming, and just a little bit cheeky, to sell their story to the Canberra mob. Be the face of the whole thing, plus keep Herbie onside while they (attempt to) unravel Tam’s tinkering.
The women look across at their Lizard boy. He grins back at them. Raises his thumb, winks. All good. He’s up for anything. As long as he can get his tongue on Deb’s blue-tongue lizard tattoo sometime in the near future, he’s sweet.
But as they prepare for their meeting just before Canberra’s biggest night of the year, someone else is preparing to meet them there too. Three people, in fact, Who hate anyone succeeding from Guyra who isn’t them. Who are riven by small-town jealousies and slights; seething with the insecurities of the ignored and dismissed. Button, Rachelle and Deadeye Dick are planning a little trip to Canberra’s night of nights too.
Nikki Gemmell’s latest books are the historical thriller, The Ripping Tree, and Dissolve, a non fiction examination of love, desire and womens’ work in a man’s world. Her work has been published in 22 languages. She also writes a column for the Weekend Australian Magazine. She has no idea how Lonely Gully will end and is very glad she doesn’t have to tie it all up. Over to you, Stan.
COMING UP: Stan Grant’s big finale on Saturday January 15.
Read every chapter in the paper, on The Australian’s app and at lonelygully.com.au
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