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moment or two more, then walked down to his room and started throwing the things he thought he’d need in a large overnight bag. He tossed in some T-shirts, socks, gym gear, stuff to wear at work, shaving tackle, etc. Not a real lot; he was only staying at Susie’s for six days, not leading an expedition up Mount Everest. Les was in an extra-good mood as he packed and sort of whistledsoftly to himself. It was almost like going on a week’s holiday, and bumping into Susie like that would put a smile on anybody’s face. Before long, he felt he had everything he needed, including the latest Paul Mann novel,
The Ganja Coast
.
    Les was about to leave, when he felt a rumble in his stomach and a short, sharp fart slipped out. The heavy bit of early afternoon porking had loosened him up and Les suddenly felt in need of a crap. And better to have one here than stink up poor Susie’s place. He walked down to the bathroom, only to find the door locked. From the sound of the way the water was hitting the bottom of the bowl, Les tipped it to be Isola. He waited a moment, then absently walked back into the kitchen.
    Les peered around at the mess, the flies and the large box of Kleenex tissues sitting next to the kitchen phone, then farted again. The second one was a lot louder, hotter and smellier than the first one. Norton stared at the box of tissues, shrugged his shoulders and thought, well, why bloody not? After all, it is my house. I own it, and being the said owner I can do what I like. Can’t I? Yes, Les, of course you can. Les took off his shorts and Speedos, climbed up and straddled his arse across the kitchen sink and shat all over the dirty dishes. About three good-sized turds. Shit! I needed that crap more than I thought, mused Les as he climbed back down. He wiped his date with the Kleenex tissues and dropped them on the pile of fresh, steaming turds. I’ll bet they don’t even notice it, thought Les as he put his shorts back on. Then he squinted his eyes. Christ! They’d have to. If Norton’s two farts were bad, the crap was diabolical. It took theflies around the kitchen tidy about two seconds to zero in on it for the picnic of their lives. Les didn’t bother to wash his hands in the sink. But he did open the back door in case there were any other flies outside who might like to join their friends in the kitchen for a free smorgasbord. Feeling better, and lighter, Les tip toed into his room, got his bag and crept quietly out the front door. The bathroom was still occupied as he left.
    There was a parking spot just out the front of Susie’s, so Les didn’t bother to use the garage. He eased his old Ford ute in behind a white four-wheel drive, entered the security door outside, knocked on Susie’s, waited a few moments, then decided to let himself in.
    Susie was sitting on a footstool near the TV in the comer, talking to someone on the phone. She’d changed into black corduroy jeans, boots and a thick, red-check hangout shirt. In the lounge, a tan leather jacket was thrown over a suitcase; it might have been summer, but Susie
was
going to Melbourne. She gave Les a quick wave. Les winked back, put his bag down next to an overnight bag that looked like it was full of CDs, and sat on the lounge. There was what sounded like a nice CD playing softly. Kind of Santana without the screaming guitar, and no vocals. Pleasant, cruisy music. Les settled back, listened to the music and half-earwigged Susie on the phone. It sounded like a woman called Carol. Finally Susie hung up.
    â€˜Oh, boy. That was my sister. Can she talk! I see you brought your stuff.’
    Les nodded.
    Susie smiled. ‘One more phone call.’
    Les watched her dial and settled into the music playing. It was still very laid-back, but good. From snatches, he could hear Susie was talking to some bloke called Joe. Les felt like going over and rattling through the CDs to see just what was there, but felt it