Part
9: "Strewth, Apples, you're the most morbid little bastard I've
ever met.''
IT PROBABLY wasn't the
most tactful question to ask a sick and yellow, easily angered bikie
lying in a hospital bed with his left leg high in traction, but
Apples asked it anyway.
"Have you every wondered what death is like,'' he
asked Foetus.
"What . . .?'' said Foetus in his booming, deep voice.
"Death, becoming extinct. Have you ever wondered
what it is like?'' asked Apples.
"No I haven't,'' said Foetus, clearly irritated.
"Why should I?''
"You're in hospital,'' said Apples.
"I'm not going to die. I've only got a broken leg.''
"And hepatitis!''
"Okay, a broken leg and hepatitis,'' said Foetus.
''But I'm not dying, all right.''
Apples, who was sitting on an armchair next to
Foetus's bed, took up a philosopher's pose with his right elbow on
the arm-rest and his fist supporting his chin. In the previous 15
minutes, he had already gone into detail about his arrest the
previous night. Foetus could tell he was a little proud but didn't
let on.
"You know,'' Apples continued. "I've started
thinking about what it would be like to be wiped from the face of
this earth.''
"Strewth, Apples, you're the most morbid little
bastard I've ever met,'' Foetus cried. "If you're going to be so
morose, leave me alone and take these grapes you brought me with you.''
"Don't you like Loo's grapes?'' asked Apples.
"No, what I'd really like is a smoke,'' said Foetus.
"I'll go and buy you a packet,'' Apples
volunteered, moving to get up.
"Sit down,'' said Foetus with a sweep of his
hand. "The kind of smoke I want you can't buy from a hospital canteen.''
"Oh, that kind of smoke,'' said Apples. "I
don't think the doctors would let you smoke marijuana in your condition.''
"What doctors?'' said Foetus. "All I've seen
today are a couple of old bats who call themselves nurses. The head
sister carries on like a sergeant major. Just look what they've done
to me . . .'' Foetus's left leg was in plaster up to his groin. He
threw away his blanket and pulled down the front of his underpants.
"Look at that,'' he said heatedly, pointing.
"They're my red underpants,'' Apples cried.
"Never mind that . . . look . . . they've shaved
me, haven't they?'' said Foetus angrily.
"I think they have to do that before they can put
the plaster on,'' reasoned Apples.
"It's my leg that's broken, mate,'' said Foetus.
"Well, why else would they do it?'' said Apples.
"How would I know!'' snapped Foetus, replacing
Apples' underpants. "Maybe that's how Sister Sergeant Major gets
her kicks.''
Foetus was still dressed in his leather jacket, which
he had insisted to the nurses was his pyjamas top.
Sister Sergeant Major, whose real name was Daisy
Rowbottom, had offered him several alternatives from the hospital's
stocks. There were full-length gowns, floral shortie pyjamas, even an
over-sized kids' flannelette pair adorned with Bart Simpsons. But
Foetus refused to agree to these gentle requests, which developed
into loud demands and then degenerated into a shouting match.
"Mr Foetus,'' Sister Sergeant Major had barked.
"I'm asking you for the last time: will you remove that
ridiculous jacket?''
"No, bugger off,'' Foetus had replied, and she
did, threatening to return with reinforcements. So far though, she hadn't.
The room was a two-bed ward on the second floor. From
the balcony outside there was a clear view of the main shops in the
High Street to the right and Councillor Northan's apple packing shed
to the left. The only other bed in Foetus's room, next to his, was
empty. It was normally occupied by a man named Trevor Throsby, a
26-year-old would-be electronics whiz who had stuck his screwdriver
in the wrong hole while trying to install a CD-ROM on his DX-486
computer. It had given him a nasty electric shock and the doctors had
decided to admit him for a few days to keep him under surveillance.
Trevor didn't seem particularly sick. He was one of
those really annoying know-all types, who looked like an anaemic nerd
but tried to portray an image as a swashbuckling Casanova. He had
done everything anyone else had ever done, only two times better. His
mountains had been higher, his cars had been faster and he had
out-scored Magic Johnson without even getting AIDS. He talked all day
and half the night. Foetus had seriously contemplated smothering him
to death with a pillow while he was sleeping, but the problem was he
never seemed to nod off.
"What's happened to your room-mate?'' said
Apples, looking over to the empty bed.
"They've taken him away,'' mumbled Foetus,
through his beard.
"What, you mean . . . he died?'' Apples
whispered, his eyes widening in horror.
"No such luck,'' said Foetus. "They've taken
him for a bath.''
"I wonder what it would be like for somebody to
die in the same room as you?'' Apples wondered aloud.
"Will you stop talking about dying,'' snapped Foetus.
"I can't help it. I had a lot of time to think
while I was in prison.''
"You weren't in prison. You were in the local lock-up.
OVERNIGHT.
"It seemed like a long time,'' Apples said.
"I got a lot of thinking done.''
"About death?''
"Yeah, and other things.''
Foetus changed the subject. "Where's Bruce?''
"He's gone looking for a Tiger,'' said Apples.
"But it's the weekend?'' said Foetus. "I
can't ever remember Bruce going hunting at the weekend, can you?''
"Maybe that's why he's never caught one,'' said Apples.
"He's not trying to catch one, is he!'' said
Foetus. "Why should he? The longer he spends looking for the
bloody thing, the longer he's getting paid by that rich yank. The
minute he finds one, bang, there goes his livelihood.''
"That's not true,'' Apples protested. "The
reason Bruce hasn't found a Tiger yet is that he's been too busy
training me.''
"Crap,'' said Foetus. "Let's face it: the
Tasmanian Tiger is as dead as a dodo. You and Bruce have got more
chance finding the Lochness Monster or the Yeti or a Tasmanian Aborigine.''
"What are you talking about?'' said Apples.
"There are plenty of Tasmanian Aborigines in Tasmania.''
"Not black ones,'' said Foetus.
"Maybe they're not jet black but they've still
got black blood,'' said Apples.
"Bullshit,'' said Foetus. "They've got red
blood just like you and me. What's more, most of 'em have got fair
hair and blue eyes. I used to ride with a so-called Aborigine in the
days when it wasn't trendy to be half-caste. His name was Bluey Brown
and he had blue eyes and a carrot-red beard.''
A buzzer sounded in the hospital. That meant that
visiting hours were over.
Just as Apples was about to leave the room, a hefty
woman, Sister Daisy Rowbottom, wheeled in Trevor who had wet hair
from his bath.
"If it isn't the old cow herself?'' muttered
Foetus, just loud enough to be heard.
"Come along, visitors out please,'' the sister
said officiously. "Mr Foetus, it is time for your enema.''
"Like hell it is. I didn't order an enema,'' said Foetus.
"Mr Foetus, while you're in my care you will do
as I say,'' said Sister Rowbottom.
"I don't need an enema,'' said Foetus.
"Of course you do,'' said the Sister. "Have
you moved your bowels today?''
"How could I?'' said Foetus. "I'm in
traction. I can't move anything.''
"Exactly,'' said Sister Rowbottom.
