The Worm King Read Online Free Page B

ago with some
girl . . . Bridget? Anyway, to buy an overpriced ice cream
on a one day excursion out of Sydney. Orange chocolate chip. She’d worn a rusty
polka dot dress and it soon became apparent the flavor was selected to go with her
outfit as opposed to any taste considerations.
    ‘This ice cream tastes like cough medicine.’
    ‘Want to go back and get another?’
    ‘No, I like this one,’ she’d replied with
the cone seductively all but jammed down the front of her low cut top (which he
was thankfully just tall enough to see into) while reddish-brown hair spilt stylishly
over her tanned shoulders. She carried it around, more or less uneaten, until
it’d dripped all over her hand.
    The second time had been when he went back
in to get a tissue. The fat European women with the bushy moustache who’d sold
them the ice cream looked down at him and pointed to the super-large packs of
pre-moistened, biodegradable, organic towelletes on the shelf. They cost nearly
triple the ice cream.
    At tourist spots like this, they really knew
how to take you apart.
    ‘Your wife work with you here too, Mr Malisovich?’
Winston asked the old bloke who was sitting on a plastic chair beside the door.
Maybe he thought everyone was going to try and bolt without paying for the
snacks they’re nibbling on. Which Winston fully intended to do. It wouldn’t be
a bolt, more a saunter. Revenge served ice cream cold.
    ‘My wife passed away last year,’ he said quietly.
    ‘That’s a shame,’ said Astrid who was cross-legged
on the floor next to him.
    Winston felt about as tall as he looked.
    Dick Snow and the three girl guides were sitting
in the middle of the shop floor around a battery operated lantern. One of the
twins was playing with a box of little penlight torches Malisovich had given her
to hand out to everyone. She’d passed them round but there were still five or
six left and she was trying to stand them end on end.
    Paul and the second cameraman (aptly named
Peter) reclined in the corner opposite the door. Both were tall, pale men wearing
similar poloneck jerseys and new sneakers of an obviously expensive variety. Their
Channel Six raincoats were laid neatly on the floor alongside.
    ‘Those fūlla’s homos?’ the Māori asked
Dick.
    His deep chuckle cuts across the drumming of
the rain. ‘On television, we say “homo-sexual.”’ He’d cleaved the word neatly in
two, leaning into the girl’s circle and lowering his voice as though sharing some
conspiracy. ‘Our lawyers don’t like us using those other words. It really pisses
the homo’s off.’
    ‘Dick!’ exclaimed Astrid. ‘That’s their
business dear. Anyway, I think Paul’s got a girlfriend, don’t you Paul?’ Paul rested
against the wall with his eyes closed, doing his best to ignore the
conversation.
    ‘Yeah, Dick’s mum. Goes like a train,’ he replied
without opening an eye.
    ‘Paul! Jesus. These kids don’t want to hear
that.’
    ‘I do,’ insisted the Māori. The twins
nodded agreement. ‘My granddad lives in Ngaruawahia and he once cut a homo’s doodle
off.’
    ‘I’m sure he didn’t do that,’ said Astrid looking
as unsure as anyone could be. ‘Shall we play a game? Who knows I Spy ?’
    The Māori wasted no time: ‘I spy, with
my little eye, something beginning with . . .  “C”.’ She smirked
at Winston and he didn’t like the way this was unfolding.
    ‘Visitor centre,’ called one of the twins.
    Astrid appeared relieved. ‘Well, that’s got
a “C” in part of it . . . ’
    ‘Cameraman,’ said Paul, unable to resist.
    ‘Cannibal,’ suggested Winston.
    ‘What’s that?’ Astrid asked.
    One of the twins said, ‘Isn’t it a person
who likes—’
    ‘No, I mean what’s that . . . ’
    But they could all feel it now. The floor
was shaking. Seconds later, the whole bloody building began collapsing around
them.
    The ground sprung violently back and forth
as though some massive fist below the crust