Guns 'n' Rose by Robert G. Barrett Page A

Norton, kicking his off then locking the doors.
    There was one other car in the carpark and two surfies standing on a wooden platform above some bush checking out what the gusty sou-easter had done to the waves. Les followed Jimmy through the bushes split by a fenced-off pathway that led to the sand and a sign saying NO DOGS, NO LITTERING, NO TRAIL BIKES , etc, next to a swing-top garbage tin. Between the sign and the garbage tin was a pile of empty chip packets, flavoured-milk cartons and softdrink cans and several dog turds.
    Jimmy pointed over to the water’s edge. ‘The tide’s half out. It’ll be good walking on the wet sand.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ agreed Les.
    As he followed Jimmy across the beach, Les had a look around and checked things out. A small point jutted out on the left, beneath a towering headland thick with scrubby bush that almost hid a number of houses nestled amongst the trees. More houses ran up the green hills to a huge, blue water tower bulging out against the sky. Further along the treeline Les thought he could make out where Price’s house just missed the best part of the view. To the south, a wide curve of beach, a little like Bondi only longer, ended at another surf club and three towering headlands thick withmore trees and bush. All the houses and units around the beach seemed to end near the surf club and just back from the middle of the beach was a lagoon; back from the beach on the other side of the lagoon was a row of tall Norfolk Island pines. A few clouds had started to drift over and the sou-easter had stiffened, but Les was still surprised how few people were on the beach.
    â€˜We’ll just walk down the south end and back,’ smiled Jimmy. ‘It won’t take long.’
    Norton shrugged. ‘Whatever you reckon, Jimmy. I’m easy.’
    Jimmy strolled off along the water’s edge, kicking at the few small waves trickling in, waving his arms around, skipping flat stones across the water and just enjoying the bit of freedom they’d somehow managed for him. Les was happy to fall behind a little and let Jimmy do his thing and skipped a few flat stones across the water himself. He was also thinking of checking out some of the local real-estate agents’ windows before he left. After Sydney, the Central Coast just seemed to get better and better. A couple of joggers went around them, and a fat woman puffed along with a cocker spaniel almost as fat as she was on a lead. Then they walked past the lagoon and the pine trees, finally stopping at a shallow rockpool in front of the surf club. It was more sheltered at the south end and a few mothers were splashing around with their children in the pool while the beach inspector sat in his four-wheel drive keeping an eye on what few swimmers there were splashing around between the flags.
    â€˜I’ll tell you what, Jimmy,’ said Norton looking around him, ‘compared to Sydney, this place is God’s own.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ answered Jimmy. ‘The land of the three Bs.’
    â€˜The three Bs?’
    â€˜That’s right. Builders, bastards and boofheads.’
    â€˜I don’t quite get you.’
    â€˜Well, every prick up here with a hammer and a bag of nails reckons he’s a builder. The place is swarming with bastards—I can vouch for that. And believe me, Les, there’s no shortage of boofheads.’
    â€˜Ahh, come on, Jimmy. That’s just the chip on your shoulder talking. You’ll find boofheads everywhere. This place is tops.’
    â€˜Yeah, righto. Come on, let’s start walking back.’
    They headed back the way they came, taking their time with Jimmy in front and Les following. Just past the lagoon, Jimmy spotted something washed up on the beach. It was an old piece of roofing batten a little less than a metre long, baked black and hard from the sun and the salt water. He picked it up and started twirling it around; first like a drum