The Butcherbird Read Online Free PDF

table and looked around the room. He loved the old beach house and the ritual of the monthly lunch with this disparate group of prominent citizens, knockabouts and larrikins. The creaking timber floorboards, the roar of the Bondi surf, the smell of fish grilling, of chilli and garlic melting in the pan, jugs of beer on the refectory table, Armando in the kitchen yelling his way into any discussion he chose to join, yarns and stories, myths and fables spinning around the table, sometimes raging arguments about politics or sport—never religion. Tales of women they’d known or wished they’d known, good humour and mateship in the old ironic manner. Armando closed the restaurant for them now, even though there were only a dozen or so in the group and the room seated more than double that number. They’d been coming for years and he was proud to have them—judges and heads of companies, people you saw sometimes on television, other characters you thought you should know but couldn’t place, a few you felt it mightn’t be a good idea to recognise. He just cooked whatever he felt like and served it with his favourite wines; no bill, always the same charge.
    ‘Wake up, Jack, Maroubra’s in full flight. What are you dreaming about?’
    The voice came from the depths of the great lump of a man sitting beside him. It was a voice said to engender fear in the hearts of witnesses who had something to hide as the withering cross-examination of Thomas Wetherington Smiley QC lashed them from six feet five inches. Tom was slouched beside him, schooner in hand, drifts of froth finding their way onto the signature Zegna suit he always managed to make look like a charity cast-off within a month of purchase.
    ‘Get on with it, Maroubra, or we’ll rule you out of order and tell Armando to ration your grog.’
    Another towering figure rose from the end of the table and raised its hand slowly in a gesture of silence. ‘Gentlemen. As I was saying before Jack-the-lad graced us with his exquisite presence, reeking no doubt of bodily fluids, the nature of which most of us only dimly recall, an appalling and frightening apparition appeared at the door of number four Cross Street, Maroubra, the family home, at one in the morning last Friday.’ Maroubra paused for effect, glaring around the table, capturing each eye. ‘My son. Yes, gentlemen, the fruit of my loins, my only son, Gordy—rugby player, drinker, rooter—all fifteen stone of muscle and meat, beaten, bleeding. Shirt torn. The shirt his mother gave him for Christmas, five years ago admittedly, but ripped, covered in blood. Gordy, my son. I ask you, gentlemen—’ another pause, ‘who would dare lay a finger on my son and expect a happy life?’
    The group nodded, mumbled assent, took long drafts of beer or wine. There was expectation in the air. Maroubra’s stories were always rich with courageous deeds or extreme violence or remote and dangerous locations. Weird characters of dubious origin, often involved in his salvage business, threaded their way in and out of the fabric of the stories. But the pride of the family, beaten by unknown persons in the middle of the night—the wrath of Maroubra (kayak medallist, surf belt champion, mountaineer, stroke of the Olympic Eight), the wrath of this man was terrible to witness.
    ‘I extracted the details soon enough, gentlemen, as you can imagine. A professional job. Bouncers from New Zealand, Gordy in a club, a few beers more than he should, perhaps, but nothing we all haven’t done. They could’ve asked him politely to leave, but no, they smack him around the head. Bad call.’ Maroubra swung his gaze slowly around the table again and then lifted his eyes to the roof. ‘What was I to do to restore the honour of my family? Sometimes, gentlemen, you receive a sign. I looked up and there on the wall was my most treasured possession. The oar I used to stroke the Olympic Eight. With the crew’s names in gold. What could I