Scotland Island Part Two, the story so far: Blatant Removals, brain-and-muscle child of battling varsity student, Wes Piddens, had taken off like a bandicoot on rocket fuel. All was rosy until that fateful day he accepted an arduous job on Scotland Island and the cheque bounced. Go here if you missed last week’s Thrilling Episode.
They can’t get away with that! Ring up and demand payment, pronto.
Tried. No answer.
It’s an island. I’m not a Viking.
Let’s just put it down to experience.
So they did.
Six months later
My name’s Damian. I don’t know if you remember, but you shifted a piano on Scotland Island…
Oh, I remember. (SCOTLAND ISLAND!)
OK, well can you shift us to Kings Cross?
(SHIFT YOU? I’LL FEED YOU RUBBER CHEQUES AND SPIFFLICATE YOUR VITALS INTO SCAM SAUSAGE!) Well yes, Damian, I can shift you, but since your last cheque bounced, you’ll understand that I’ll require full payment in cash for that, plus a hundred bucks cash, up front.
What? Bounced? What? Oh, I’m very sorry. Of course. Yes.
Right, Damian, deal. Cash.
Thank you. One thing – I won’t be on the island, but Monica will, and she’ll have your cash.
Wes phoned Thorpo, his boon companion genius offsider.
Park your calculus, Thorpo, and shiver your sea legs. Scotland Island again. We sail with the morning tide.
So, they sailed. Monica paid up, they toted, they pontooned and sailed back again. They loaded the truck, then Monica piped up.
Can I come in the truck with you?
But the truck spat a fan belt.
Damn! Might take a while to fix. We’ll call you a taxi, Monica, and deduct it from the bill.
OK… Actually, I’m off to a rehearsal, but I’ll take the taxi anyway.
Midnight. Kings Cross.
Sorry, Damian. Broken fan belt and no pantyhose.
Isn’t she back?
Back from where?
She just said ‘rehearsal’.
She doesn’t rehearse for anything.
Well that’s a bit of a poser, isn’t it? Let’s get your stuff inside anyway.
Where’s Monica, Wes?
Some bloke on the phone wanting to know what you’ve done with his wife.
Wes here. No sign? That’s a worry. Taxi? Hang on, I’ll check and ring you back.
Thorpo, what taxi did we put that Monica into?
Hmm, he jammed his brakes on, and I remember wondering if there was a way of storing that energy instead of wasting it as heat and skid marks…
The company, Thorpo.
Oh, Black and White Taxis.
A week later
No, Damian, I haven’t heard from her. Yes, I’d be worried too. Call the police? Yep, I would. Good luck.
This is getting serious, Wes. We should put up some posters. What did she look like?
I didn’t really notice.
Well, long, flowing, shiny…
Short or tall?
Between Angelina Jolie and Xena.
I see. Good-looking?
Wes sensed danger.
I was busy.
I’ll check with Thorpo. He looked more than I did.
Just tell me. You’re in no danger.
(Wes senses danger)
She wasn’t my type…
Spit it out, Wes.
Not beautiful per se, but attractive-ish.
Tall, attractive, with flowing raven hair?
Borderline attractive, in a brooding-gypsy, faux-radiant, come-hither, semi-gorgeous way.
It was just a fleeting impression, Allie.
And what was she wearing?
Not much. I mean nothing flattering. Work skirt. Yep, a work skirt. Practical, but with like, a slash. And a top. Dowdy, tight in places.
In… places. Neckline… not plunging, but like…dipping.
Down, boy. I’m getting the picture. Hmm. I’m not certain we want this borderline-stunning, smouldering minx in trashy raiments found. You’re dismissed for the present. I need some time to sulk.
Allie cooled down eventually, but Wes fretted. Was he the last person to see Monica alive? Would the cops brace him, take him down town and grill him like a meat patsy? And what of his bald tyres?
It was a tense time, but the cops never did turn up with their phone books and rubber hoses.
Eighteen months later
Can you shift me from Glebe to Kings Cross?
Yep, sure. How did you hear about Blatant Removals?
Damian. You moved him from Scotland Island.
(SCOTLAND ISLAND!!!) He had a partner, Monica. She…
(Giggling) Oh, Monica came back six months later.
Where did she…?
A lesson to us all.