You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids by Robert G. Barrett Read Free Book Online

given off by millions of eucalyptus trees, that gave the beautiful Blue Mountains their unique name.
    On these clear, cool winter’s days, the chilly south-west winds sing their mournful song as they sigh relentlessly down from the Blue Moutains, pushing the few tufts of grey cloud scatteredaround the sky like pieces of steel wool, over the loveliest harbour in the world and finally scatters them, like a mother bird saying goodbye to her fledgling chicks, through the magnificent Sydney Heads and out into the endless aquamarine of the Tasman Sea.
    Norton loved these early winter mornings, they were one of the few things in Sydney he liked; days like this you wouldn’t be dead for quids, Norton used to joke to himself.
    Though his night job gave him few opportunities to get up early, when he could Les would rise at dawn, drive down to Centennial Park and go for a good long run.
    After the noisy, smoky, sometimes hostile atmosphere of the Kelly Club and the neon gaudiness of the Cross and its seedy denizens the uncrowded green beauty of Centennial Park was almost a revelation to him. Sometimes as he’d belt along the edges of the ponds in the early morning mist, scattering the water hens and ducks near the banks, he’d close his eyes and for a few seconds imagine he was back running around the river banks near Dirranbandi, but all too briefly.
    It was one of these cool winter mornings in Centennial Park about six or so weeks after Les had had his boots stolen; he still hadn’t quite got over getting his good boots pinched but at least he was learning to live with it, and Tommy Butterworth had promised to get him another pair as soon as the opportunity arose.
    He’d been running in the park for about half an hour, he’d done two circuits, now he was criss-crossing, just running anywhere, stopping every now and again to do 20 or so push-ups and a few sit-ups then continuing on his way. He would do this for roughly an hour or so. He preferred to run in the more deserted parts of the park, away from the usual running routes and the other people; the less people he saw when he was running the more he liked it. He’d belt along these out-of-the-way trails, brushing any overhanging branches aside with his arms, jumping over logs or stumps; any clearings he came to he’d sprint across, taking in great draughts of cold air and letting it out behind him in huge billowing clouds of steam which would hang in the crisp winter air momentarily till they’d disappear in the wind.
    Les was pounding along in this manner, hardly a worry in the world feeling great, the cold air stinging his sweat-stained face.He was running along a narrow trail and spotting a small sheltered clearing up ahead, decided to take it in one great leap. He picked up speed and as he got to the edge of the clearing threw his hands forward to take off in a mighty leap, but his foot caught on something and instead of arching gracefully through the air, Les sprawled forward to culminate in a noisy, spectacular somersault of dirt, twigs and grass, landing flat on his back near the other side of the clearing. He lay there for a second or two, slightly dazed, then let out a mighty oath.
    â€˜Jesus fuckin’ Christ,’ he roared. ‘What the fuckin’ hell was that?’
    Gingerly he picked himself up, stood there for a moment rubbing his hip and inspected the damage; he’d skinned both knees and his elbow but nothing was broken or sprained. He turned to see what it was he’d tripped over.
    Limping back to the other side of the small clearing all he could see was a pile of spread-out newspapers. However, under closer inspection he noticed a scrawny, wizened arm stuck out under the newspapers that seemed to be groping towards an empty wine flagon, and sticking out from under the other end of the newspapers was a pair of skinny white legs clad in a pair of tattered blue pants. But, perched on the end of those skinny