Read Online And De Fun Don't Done by Robert G. Barrett - Free Book Online Page A

rain as they packed up and walked back to the car. It had to be almost a hundred per cent humidity now and the sweat was running down the stubble of Norton’s face and dripping from his chin. Despite the heat, though, the atmosphere in the pick-up was quite cool, even if Laurel didn’t have the air-conditioning on.
    â€˜Well, that was tops, Hank. I never had so much fun in my life. We’ll have to do it again some time.’ Hank muttered something under his breath and took a heavy drag on his cigarette. ‘So where are we going now?’ asked Les.
    â€˜Home.’
    â€˜Good.’ Norton gazed up at the sky. ‘I can get my bike out of the rain.’
    They drove back to Swamp Manor more or less in silence. Hank said he had to make some phone calls for about an hour, by that time the rain should clear up and they’d go diving at some place called the Keys. Norton figured out Hank wasn’t doing him any favours; after his latest trauma Captain Rats probably needed a swim himself, or at least cooling off. They crunched up on the driveway next to the sagging carport. Hank stormed off to his part of Swamp Manor, ignoring Norton’s offer to help oil the guns, so Les got his bike from the back of the pick-up and put it on the front verandah, then went to his room to sort out his next move. He decided to unpack a bit more gear to try and make his miserable sweatbox a little homelier. He hung up his shirts and jeans and spread out a few T-shirts. Hank had mentioned he lived by a beach so Norton had thrown in a pair of hand webs and mini jet fins. Norton’s overnight bag had straps on it to double as a small backpack; he put them in it, plus a towel, and then changed into his Speedos. Les had just finished sorting out his tapes and was playing with the automatic telephoto lens on an instamatic camera he’d brought when a thought occurred to him. He hadn’t had a crap since he left Australia, and didn’t feel like one. Les was blocked up. Between his body clock, the heat, a bit of nerves and all that airline food his system was all out of kilter. And it would stay that way if he didn’t do something. Les fiddled with the camera for a few moments more, then not wishing to get around feeling like he had half a housebrick jammed in his stomach walked out to the kitchen. Les didn’t find what he was looking for in a bottle, it was in a paper carton, the same as a 500 ml milk one back home, and was under the sink. Les got a cup of hot water together, shovelled in two tablespoons, and down the hatch. It tasted like chewing a burning tyre. Les was expecting that and had poured an orange juice chaser. Fuckin’ Epsom Salts, cursed Les, as he swilled more orange juice round his mouth to get rid of the taste. Whoever invented that shit? He swilled more orange juice, shook his head in disgust then went back to hisroom to read more P. J. O’Rourke and wait to see what happened. After a few pages his stomach began to rumble ominously like the thunder out at the shooting range. A few more pages and Captain Rats stormed in.
    â€˜Well, are you ready?’
    â€˜Yeah, righto,’ replied Les. He put down his book and followed Hank out to the pick-up.
    Hank opened up an old plastic shopping bag he had in the back and handed Les a perished pair of flippers and a scratched and battered facemask. ‘You have been diving before?’
    Les nodded. ‘I brought a pair of fins with me.’ He had a look in the ancient shopping bag. ‘Where’s the snorkels?’
    â€˜You don’t need a snorkel.’
    â€˜I don’t? We are going skindiving, aren’t we? At least that’s what you told me.’
    â€˜If the water’s dirty you don’t need a snorkel.’
    Before Norton had a chance to suggest that even if you’re swimming in sump oil snorkels do come in handy, Hank was in the car with the motor running. Norton got inside and was about to say