

CINNAMON

SWEAT

by Paul Greenway

copyright 2014 Paul Greenway

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday

As a late-20s metrosexual sort of guy, Sean was acutely embarrassed about the possibility of being mistaken for an old fart driving around on a retirement holiday. But inside his campervan, he did have all the gadgets he thought no-one over 35 could possibly know how to use. On the dashboard there was a GPS, so he didn't have to stretch his arm over to the passenger seat and lift up a map; and it spoke to him, so he wouldn't feel lonely along the bare, dusty tracks – although this rarely happened because his left hand was illegally glued to a mobile phone. He did have to shout while calling his girlfriend, however, because of what he was reliably informed was trendy music blasting from an iPod plugged into an adapter for the cigarette lighter.

The repetitive and expletive-laden chorus of the hip-hop tune drowned out the first of several clunks from the engine. But with increasing alarm, Sean reluctantly ceased chatting on his phone and playing with his GPS, and listened to the unidentifiable noises emanating from the front of his van.

Sean was not a mechanic; he was a film-maker searching for things to point a video camera at around the mid-north plains of South Australia. With a grant from a government department he hadn't known existed that needed to offload funds before the end of the financial year, Sean bought state-of-the-art camera equipment worth more than the campervan. And he fiddled the paperwork for the grant to buy essentials, such as a TV, DVD player and guaranteed internet access, rather than what he deemed as surplus to requirement, such as a stove, fridge and reliable engine.

His flicker of concern at the time of sale about the campervan's possible undependability was now realised. He reluctantly shifted to a lower gear, slowed to the legal limit, and placed his left-phone-hand on the wheel. The clunking sound worsened as he approached a fork in the road. A signpost indicated that he was cruising, albeit increasingly slowly, towards "Chittingford Dales, Home to The Big Turnip", another 200 metres further on. With a functioning vehicle he could've turned left and travelled 47kms to Upper Chittingford or veered right to Whyalla, 95kms further across the plains.

As the campervan clunked to a halt, Sean's immediate instinct was not to open the hood of his vehicle but the side-door to extract his handy-cam. He panned across the seemingly-infinite flat, dusty and arid landscape and then zoomed into a rusted sign stained with magpie droppings. An array of symbols indicated options available in Chittingford Dales, such as an "i", which Sean now knew indicated "tourist information" and not "internet access". But every symbol was blacked out with tape except those denoting that the town did offer food or, perhaps, Sean thought, a knife and fork, and petrol, or at least a petrol pump.

Eventually conceding that he needed food as much as his van needed repairs, Sean started the engine again. But it wouldn't work; nor would his mobile phone. He bellowed helplessly. 'Hello? ... Hello? Are you there? ... Bloody hell!'

Almost immediately, his friend the GPS started flashing, so Sean bumped it and then thumped it in desperation before it conked out. He glanced at the iPod which began blinking alarmingly and then silently displaying a message Sean had never seen before and certainly did not like. He switched on the radio, always a last resort, but it buzzed and then promptly died.

Acknowledging that he now had no further options, Sean unfastened the handbrake and gradually pushed the campervan into Chittingford Dales. The streets were ludicrously wide, vast enough for three vehicles to travel each way, while the hopeful car parking lanes were also empty. Behind the telephone box that still took coins but had been vandalised to the point of complete uselessness was a shop with an ugly square façade. Signposted as a "Fruiterer", it had clearly stood vacant for years, probably decades.

In the undersized Edna Barrington-Smythe Memorial Park was an "Information Bay" that offered a potted commercial and communal history of the town. Surrounding a dusty mound in the middle of the park was a solitary ring of grass. Towering over the handful of functioning buildings was a silo that seemed over ten storeys high and a crumbling brick water tower with a faded mural of bullock carts.

To Sean, the silence was almost deafening; only a few magpies squawked, no doubt debating about which road sign to crap on. But he could hear faint but unidentifiable series of sounds that could only be described as _ping_ , _ding_ and _ching_. He glared, cursed and kicked his van, which was motionless at a junction of Chittingford Dales' only thoroughfares, Railway Terrace and Main Street.

Despite blocking the intersection in both directions, Sean instinctively reached inside again for his handy-cam. He zoomed into several houses with faded "For Sale" signs and others which were completely abandoned, including a myriad of churches and the former State Bank building with its peeling paint of an incongruous peach colour. Some shops still faintly marked as the "Draper", "Blacksmith" and "Saddler" seemed to have been converted years ago into trendy cafés or boutique shops, but were now also desperately seeking buyers. Massive sheds of corrugated iron with no definable purpose were rusting to oblivion, taking with it a history that no-one had bothered to document, or even cared about. The solitary building seemingly maintained and still functional belonged, for evident reasons, to the Country Fire Service.

The only signs of life within Chittingford Dales were at the intersection. On one corner was an empty concrete yard with a shed, an old-fashioned petrol bowser and a sign, "Dave's Mechanics". And on the other corner was a dilapidated hall with "The Institute" engraved on several outside walls. Directly opposite both were the requisite pub, The Lamb & Slaughter; and a row of shops, "Gail's Grocery", "Brenda's Bakery" and "Deb's Discs". Unlike every other store in town, these were not abandoned, for sale or needlessly bolted.

Nothing seemed to be happening at the hall, the shops or the mechanics, so Sean left his campervan in the middle of the intersection and instinctively looked to his left and right before crossing the road. Perched next to the ice-fridge on uncomfortable wrought-iron chairs along the pub's veranda were two men Sean would come to know as Bob and Jack. Both seemed surprisingly well-groomed and -dressed – not the rough farmers in dungarees or bearded miners in overalls that Sean imagined would inhabit the town. Sean offered them a cursory nod and semi-smile before eventually finding the only door that actually led into the public bar.

On three separate tables inside, two men and a solitary woman were nursing half-empty schooners of flat beer and eagerly devouring toasted sandwiches apparently coated with plastic wrapping. They silently stared at a nauseating soap opera on a black-and-white TV with the sort of fuzzy reception that made the vision and sound almost impossible to identify. The _ping_ and _ching_ sounds were now noticeably louder.

Hearing the stranger rattle three doors before finding the main entrance, Madge had hastily exited the kitchen and was now standing in front of a row of dusty bottles of wine and liquor. Surprisingly tall with curled fingernails and hair dyed with a bluish tinge, Madge decided to uncross her arms and appear welcoming to Sean. 'And what brings you to our fine town, son?'

'My van's broken down ...'

Madge nodded. 'That's why most people come here ...'

'... and it needs fixing.'

'... and why they stay.' Sighing loudly, Madge polished the same glass for a third time while ignoring Bob and Jack as they entered the bar.

'So, I, um, need a mechanic.'

'Dave! This bloke needs a mechanic!'

'Tell him I'm on my lunch break!'

Sean swivelled to his right towards the disinterested shout from Dave. He was sitting alone, sipping the undrinkable, digesting the inedible, and viewing the unwatchable.

'Dave says he's on his lunch break.' Madge shrugged. 'You want something to eat? I can put something in the microwave.' From below the counter, she lifted up and peered intently at a few pre-made "toasties" in plastic wraps. 'I can do you ham. Or cheese. Or ham and cheese ... Or cheese and ham.'

'Um, no thanks.' Sean nodded sideways towards the main door. 'I'll get something at the bakery.'

'Deb! This bloke wants to buy something at the bakery!'

'Tell him I'm on my lunch break!'

Sean swivelled to his left where Deb was seated at another table, similarly drinking, eating and watching. In her late 30s, Deb was plain and plump, her appearance not enhanced by a dowdy frock and oversized spectacles.

'Deb says she's on her–'

'I know.'

Madge crossed her arms impatiently. 'Well, son, if you don't want to eat at my pub, then how about a drink?'

Sean nodded eagerly. 'A latte, thanks.' Madge glared at her customer as several patrons spluttered their beers and guffawed. 'Or, um, maybe a cappu ... um ... cin ... er ... o?'

'How about a beer?'

'OK, a small, light ...'

Madge shook her head, uncrossed her arms, and poured a heavy, full-alcohol beer from the only beer tap into a highly-polished pint glass.

# * * * * *

With no offer of help – not least from Dave the Mechanic – Sean managed to cajole his campervan from the intersection to the mechanics yard. Surrounding the vast door-less iron shed was anything and everything that could rust, including corroded tractors and oil drums, as well as piles of unusable tyres, bales of serviceable hay, and stacks of crumbled bricks. The words on the poop-streaked sign indicated that "Dave's Mechanics" still offered petrol and repairs, but no longer sold spare parts, tyres or batteries.

In his mid-30s, Dave had a healthy ruddy complexion garnered from days of clean air and sunshine, and an unhealthy chubbiness gathered from evenings of beer and toasties. He expertly unfastened the hood of Sean's campervan and wiped his hands of grease – from Madge's toasted sandwiches, not Sean's van. A few moments later, Sean turned around in alarm as Dave walloped several parts of the engine with a spanner. This did, at least, identify the _ding_ sounds Sean had heard while cruising into Chittingford Dales.

The mechanic leant out from under the hood, wiped his hands again, and shook his head solemnly. 'Just as I thought. It's the gasket.'

'What's that?'

'I don't know what it does, mate. I just know it needs replacing.'

'Sounds serious.'

Dave nodded and wiped his hands again for no apparent reason. '... and expensive.'

'How long will it take to fix?'

'That depends on how you intend to get yourself a new gasket. You could walk to Upper Chittingford.'

'But it's forty five kilometres!' Sean pointed in the wrong direction.

'Forty seven.'

'And the gasket would be heavy.'

'... and expensive. Or you could drive there.'

'But ...'

Dave sighed and wiped his hands once more. 'So, I suppose I'll have to order you a new gasket from the mechanics over there in Upper C.'

'Which means?'

Dave stopped wiping his hands and raised one of them to his stubbled chin. 'Well, assuming my fax machine–'

'Your _what_?'

'–is working. Or I can leave a message on the mechanic's beeper ...' Dave paused to glare at Sean, who prudently decided not to comment. '... and assuming the bus from Upper Chittingford is running. And then there's the big footy game on Saturday, of course.' Dave raised his other well-wiped hand to his chin. 'Might take five days.'

' _What_?'

Dave glowered at his customer. 'Or _eight_ if I'm _too_ busy.' Sean gulped and peered around the mechanic's yard, which was completely devoid of any other vehicles or anything else indicating any other ongoing activity. 'If I were you, mate, I'd push your van into the Bella Vista Caravan Park and wait.'

'Where's that?'

Dave pointed perfunctorily towards another flat area next to the yard that was as equally devoid of customers and trees. A few poles did indicate that Sean's campervan could be connected to electricity from Dave's shed, but precious little else resembled a vista or anything _bella_.

'Is the owner of the caravan park on a lunch break?'

'Nope. I've finished my toasties.'

Sean knew the answer but instinctively asked anyway. 'I suppose at the caravan park there's no, um, Wi-Fi?'

'Why what?'

Sean sighed. 'So, what the hell am I going to do in Chittingford Dales for five–'

'Or eight.'

'–days?'

Dave peered around, wiped his hands and shrugged. He waved an arm towards the row of three shops. 'You could visit Deb's Discs.'

'Really?' Sean's gaze followed Dave's arm. 'There's a record shop?'

'Should be open when Deb's finished her toasties at the pub.' Dave buried his head beneath the hood and banged a few more engine parts with a spanner. 'And there's always The Big Turnip.'

# * * * * *

Sean didn't bother checking to his left or right as he crossed the broad dusty street and ambled towards Deb's Discs. Noticing a sign on the door, "Out to Lunch", he chuckled, turned on his handy-cam and strolled towards The Big Turnip. Sitting forlornly in a car park that had barely seen a vehicle since World War II, Chittingford Dales' major tourist attraction was about half-a-metre high, daubed in orange, and smothered with magpie droppings.

Barely able to control his mirth, Sean filmed the monument from several angles before he noticed Dave approaching. 'But it's a–'

'–little small, I know, mate. Those Guinness guys came around to check it out for their book, but they just laughed.' Dave shrugged. 'Probably because it's not really that big.'

Sean stared at the monument and then at Dave. 'But it looks just a like a–'

'–potato?'

'I was going to say "pumpkin".'

'Really? I'm not much on vegetables.'

Dave shrugged again, wiped his hands, and wandered into Gail's Grocery as Deb turned over the "Out to Lunch" signs on the front doors of all three shops.

# * * * * *

After devouring a pie of unidentifiable meat and a stale bun from Brenda's Bakery, Sean entered Deb's Discs. Barely wide enough for three customers, the walls were adorned with posters of several bands, but on closer inspection Sean realised they were of the same band – but the members, outfits and eras were all different. The racks were crammed with 12-inch vinyl LPs and 9-inch singles in strict alphabetical order. Scratchy pop-rock music that Sean vaguely recognised blasted from a stereo system with a turntable in the corner.

Instinctively flicking through the records in order, Sean ignored offerings by The Average White Band and The Bay City Rollers before noticing an immense section dedicated specifically to Cinnamon Sweat. Still trying to recall the song on the record-player, he picked up and peered at a 12-inch with the label "The Sweetest Sweat".

'Hi. I'm Deb.'

Sean turned towards the voice at the door. 'You just served me at Brenda's Bakery.'

'I know.'

'I'm Sean.'

'I know.'

'I'm staying here while ...'

'I know.'

'... my van is being ...' Realising there was no need to continue, Sean swivelled back to stare at the discs for sale and the walls plastered with posters. 'This is amazing. I haven't been anywhere like this for years. More like decades.'

'Yep.' She nodded with obvious pride. 'Deb's Discs does offer the best range in town.'

Sean raised "The Sweetest Sweat" LP with one hand and pointed to the walls with the other. 'You have so many records here by Cinnamon Sweat and so much stuff about them. But they were before my time.'

'That's a shame. They were huge in the 1970s. Well, '75. Actually, more precisely early June 1975. And maybe not that big, really.' Deb pointed to the LP in Sean's hand. 'That's their greatest hits album. Well, one of them.'

'How many records did they make?'

Deb expertly flicked through the special section dedicated to Cinnamon Sweat, extracted a 12-inch, and passed it to Sean. 'This is "Thanks for the Mammaries", their first studio album. And their only studio album, actually. The band also recorded eleven live albums. And their record company put out eight best-of collections.'

'So, what happened to them?'

'The band broke up during the disco era of the late '70s. Bloody John Travolta.' Deb snarled unconvincingly. 'Then, Cinnamon Sweat reformed in '83 and made a live reunion album. They broke up in '86 and recorded a live farewell album. Reformed in '91. Broke up a day later, so they didn't have time to make another live album. Then, they broke up again, which wasn't necessary because they hadn't actually reformed.' Deb continued with increased fervour. 'Anyway, long story short, they reformed for the 27th time a few months ago, but haven't released a live reunion album yet.'

'You seem to know a lot about them.'

Deb's grin was infectious. 'I was their number one fan. Still am. My mother formed "The Sweet Sweat Fan Club" nearly forty years ago. And I still run it – although there aren't many members left now ... Well, none actually.' Deb's frown disappeared as she gleefully recognised the next tune throbbing from the tinny speakers. 'You must remember this one! It's called "My Mamma Says I'm a Son of a Bitch".'

With admirable gusto and gumption, Deb began singing.

'Mamma says I'm so unkind,

She says I've gotta dirty mind,

She says I'm morally deaf, dumb and blind ...'

'No?' Deb moved to the turntable and expertly lifted the needle to another track. 'How about this one?'

Sean shook his head but tried to appear interested as Deb started bopping around the room and warbling.

'I'm gonna buy a red convertible and drive it every day,

I'm gonna max out all my credit cards and keep all my pay ...'

'Really? You don't know this? It's called "I Hope You Die Before I Get Old". It's a classic!'

'I'm gonna sail across the world with a chick half my age,

I'm gonna join a band with my mates and rock up on the stage ...'

'That song was part of their grunge faze, about fifteen years before grunge became fashionable.' Deb joined the chorus with far more passion than melody.

'I hope you die before I get old,

I'll be outta here before your body's cold,

Pack my bags before the house is sold,

I hope you die before I get old ...'

'Awesome, eh?' She sang the next verse in perfect unison.

'I'm gonna grow a beard and never cut my hair,

I'm gonna say whatever I want and bloody frigging swear ...'

Sean risked a smirk. 'But can you really relate to those words?'

'What? Why?'

'Never mind.'

Deb continued bopping out of time and singing out of tune.

'I'm gonna eat take-away every night and leave dishes in the sink,

I'm gonna leave the toilet seat up and never mind the stink ...'

'I like it,' lied Sean.

'After being a grunge band, Cinnamon Sweat went heavy metal, reverted to pop, before toying with funk, and finally returning to what they do best.'

'You must've seen them loads of times in concert?'

'Nope.' Deb stopped flailing her arms and started shaking her head. 'Never.'

'Really? You're their number one fan, but you've never seen them live?'

'I've been here in The Dales all my life. I took over the shop when my mother ...' Deb paused, gulped and looked away.

'But I think Cinnamon Sweat are touring South Australia right now.'

'I know, but I can't go. I don't have a car. The bus only comes past twice a week. Tickets probably cost ten dollars ... And who'd look after the shops when I'm away?'

# * * * * *

Sean knew where to find the dusty mound surrounded by the hopeful ring of grass in the middle of the Edna Barrington-Smythe Memorial Park. He was also relieved when the appropriate lights on his mobile phone started blinking encouragingly. 'Archie? Can you hear me?'

'Yeah, Sean. Just.'

'The landlady at the pub said that if I stand here on this mound between 3.15 and 3.25, face east and shout I might get some reception.' Sean grinned at the other four standing on the embankment, all facing the same direction and shouting into their phones.

'God, Sean. It sounds like you're on Mars.'

'It feels like it too.' Sean expertly opened his handy-cam with his non-phone-hand and started filming. 'My bloody campervan is shot, and I'm stuck here in Chittingford Dales.'

'Where?'

'It's the most ironic name in Australia. With the possible exception of the place I'm staying –the Bella Vista Caravan Resort and Spa. Listen, mate, you know what's going on in the music business ...'

# * * * * *

Now knowing which of the pub's doors would actually open, Sean wasn't surprised to find the same people perched at the same tables eating, drinking and watching as they had done at lunchtime. And he now recognised the ping and ching sounds that emanated from the microwave and the attached room crammed with poker machines.

Bob and Jack had come in from the veranda and were soon arguing about how best to set up the fire required during a winter evening in the state's mid-north. While trying to adjust every knob on the TV for better reception, Dave nodded perfunctorily at Sean.

And on the jukebox the familiar chorus was being repeated ad nauseum:

I hope you die before I get old,

I'll be outta here before your body's cold,

Pack my bags before the house is sold,

I hope you die before I get old ...

Madge stared at Sean in the same ambiguous way she'd done earlier that day, while Deb was polishing glasses pointlessly and singing tunelessly as if she'd done neither every evening for years.

Sean approached the counter and squatted on a stool next to a man who appeared bereft of any will to live. 'Well, I did it.'

'Fixed the TV?' mumbled Dave.

'Nope. But if Mohammad won't come to the mountain ...'

Madge scowled suspiciously. 'You ain't one of those religious funda-mental-cases are you?'

Sean opened his handy-cam and pointed it at Deb. 'Brace yourself, because coming to play here at this very town ...' He paused melodramatically. '... is Cinnamon Sweat.'

Deb opened her mouth and dropped the glass. Robotically picking up another to polish, she started stuttering. 'Wha-wha-wha ...'

'Oh, God.' Jack groaned from the fireplace. 'Not that bloody band, please.'

Perching himself more comfortably on the bar stool, Sean nodded when Madge wordlessly suggested he buy a beer. 'Listen, Deb, I made some calls ...'

'Wha-wha-wha ...' Deb dropped another glass.

'How about Bob Dylan instead?' Jack angrily flung another stump into the hearth.

'... and I pulled some strings ...'

'Wha-wha-wha ...' Deb absentmindedly picked up another glass.

'Or maybe John Lennon?'

'... and made some promises I probably can't keep. But the bottom line is that your favourite band, Cinnamon Sweat, are playing here in Chittingford Dales.'

Madge stopped pouring Sean's beer to catch the third glass slipping from Deb's hand, and guided her to a corner table.

'Wha-wha-wha-when?'

'Monday.' Sean turned towards Jack. 'And, sorry to say, but John Lennon is dead.'

Madge looked on helplessly as Jack dropped his glass. 
CHAPTER TWO

Friday

Sean strolled confidently past the row of shop windows with cobwebbed curtains, "antique" cups and saucers for sale, and ludicrously optimistic "For Lease" signs. On the mound, he nodded and grinned at the handful of locals he'd seen the previous day, including Jack, who was now too surly to acknowledge him.

Sean checked if the correct signals on his phone were blinking before expertly pressing a few keys. 'Mitch? Are you there?'

'Sean? I can just about hear you.'

'Listen, I have a great idea for you. Believe me.'

As a useless guitarist in a hopeless punk band during a previous life, Sean had gathered contacts, and contacts of contacts, across the music business and, more importantly these days, the video/internet industry. Mitch worked as a reporter/programmer for a website called RealiTV that streamed reality "fly-on-the-wall" programs live using the slogan "Onlooking Online".

Mitch was in his trendy, upper-floor office surrounded by ten equally nerdy staff, all engrossed in their laptops. 'Is this like the last idea for a series you pitched to me, Sean? About you following a group of nude models across Paris?'

'I still think that was a great idea.'

'What is it this time?'

'I'm here in a ...' Sean peered at the others on the mound, all facing east and shouting into their phones. '... in a time warp. I've turned left and ended up in 1953. In a one-dog town where people listen to vinyl records, communicate by fax, use beepers, don't have latte machines–'

'Good God!'

'–eat nothing but toasted sandwiches in plastic bags, and boast about something called The Big Turnip that looks like a small pumpkin.'

'Sounds horrible.'

'No.' Sean shook his head. 'Not really. But the premise for the video series is that I've arranged for Cinnamon Sweat–'

'Christ! Are they still alive?'

'Yep, but on life-support – medically, musically and financially.'

Mitch groaned. 'God, I covered that stupid band when I was ...' Sean pressed his phone closer to his eardrum as Mitch's voice flickered. '... toured ... music mag ... drugs ... Oscar ... dead ... 1975 ...'

'Sorry, Mitch, but you're cutting out. Madge said I should ...' As Sean started jumping and wildly flinging his non-phone-hand, he turned to watch the four others on the mound doing exactly the same. 'Can you hear me now, Mitch?'

'Yeah, that's better.'

'Which phase where The Sweat into when you interviewed them? Punk, pop or metal?'

'All three. And I only worked at that stupid magazine for one month. But how the hell did you get The Sweat to visit your ghost town?'

Sean jumped and flung his arm a little more. 'A mate told me that gigs on their current tour of South Australia have been cancelled for security reasons.'

'Which means a lack of tickets sold.'

'And the band was rapt to be asked to play. Anywhere. And they think Chittingford Dales sounds posh.'

'My God.' Mitch chuckled. 'Cinnamon Sweat, eh? They're probably even more untalented and ugly now. So, what angle is there for any reality video series?'

'Well, they're playing here on Monday in a town with an official population of fifteen. And that includes Deb, the founder, manager and sole remaining member of the group's first and only fan club.'

'That does sound truly pathetic.'

Sean was encouraged that Mitch hadn't scoffed yet. 'And Deb has never even seen them play live. This is massive human interest stuff.'

'And really cringe-worthy.'

'This is reality, Mitch. None of your usual contrived crap–'

'Hey!'

'–where people are selectively chosen and placed in quote-unquote real situations, and more or less given scripts, and provided acting lessons on how to act real.'

Mitch paused. 'Your idea does sound sad, lonely, pitiful and toe-curling.'

'It's real people doing real things in real places.'

'But that's always risky.'

'C'mon, Mitch. It'll be just like old times. You interview. I film. We argue.' Gazing at the others on the mound, all frantically jumping and flinging their arms, Sean opened his handy-cam. 'And I've already got some amazing footage that you would not believe.'

'But aren't you meant to be filming something important to justify this grant of yours?'

'Oh, yeah.' Sean hesitated. 'I'll just fudge it. I'll tell them my documentary is about a cultural experience among a disadvantaged community in a deprived rural area. It's almost true.'

'OK. I'll talk to my boss, Dustin. If he says "yes" – or, doesn't say, "no" – we're on ... But how do I get there, to Shitting Full Wherever?'

Mitch stopped making notes on his iPad as Sean continued his answer. 'You head straight through the '90s, go past the 1980s, bypass the '70s, ignore the '60s completely. And stop when you reach about 1953.'

# * * * * *

'Monday?!' Deb paced back towards the main door of her shop. 'But that's, that's the day after, after Sunday!'

'It usually is.'

'But that's in two ...' Deb stopped pacing to count on her left hand. '... No, _three_ days! God, my hair!' She swiftly lifted her other hand to her head. 'Gladys does it for me, but she's in Upper Chittingford getting her hip replaced.'

'Look, Deb, I'm sure your hair–'

'And the town is so, so _dusty_. I'll have to vacuum Main Street. Polish the street light. Dust off the Turnip ...' Deb frantically searched for a pad and pen and started writing a list. '... Sweep up the dead dogs. We'll need better loo paper for the pub, and we have to get–'

'– a coffee machine?'

'Huh?'

'And Wi-Fi?'

'Why _what_?' Deb glared at Sean for a split-second before continuing with her list. 'I have to make a welcome banner. Print tickets.' She scowled at Sean. 'My _God_ , there's so much to do!'

'Settle down. Dave seems in no hurry to fix my van, so I can stay and help.'

'Thank God.'

'But listen, Deb, there is something you should know.' Sean glanced uneasily at the array of posters adorning the walls. 'Cinnamon Sweat has been less than honest with its fans – or _fan_ in your case. During all the break-ups and reunions, there's been a turnover of band members.'

'Oh?' Her previous expression of panic was replaced with one of dismay.

'My friend Mitch reckons that in the band's 41-year history there's been ...' Sean extracted a phone from his pocket and scrolled through an email. '... 79 different members.'

'Oh, God.' Deb steadied herself against the old-fashioned cash register.

'Of the original four members who formed the band in 1973, one was arrested for something that involved girls who weren't as old as he thought, so he moved overseas. One checked into that famous loony bin for aging rock stars.' To avoid Deb's increasingly panic-stricken face, Sean again glanced at the email on his phone. 'Another killed himself, or was possibly stabbed, though his body was never found.'

Deb inhaled deeply. 'So, which of the band _is_ coming?'

'The same line-up that recorded their only album and toured South Australia in 1975.'

Deb now gulped nervously. 'Does that include Trevor?'

Sean checked the email. 'Um, yes.'

'Thank God!' Screaming like a 13-year-old girl, Deb clapped her hands and hugged a startled Sean. 'I'd _die_ if Trevor wasn't coming. I can show him these.' She hurriedly began unbuttoning the top of her blouse.

'Deb!' Sean turned away in horror and checked if anyone was peering through the window. 'What are you _doing_?'

Deb unfastened three buttons and proudly showed Sean a tattoo of Cinnamon Sweat on her upper chest, which he glanced at perfunctorily. Turning away again in embarrassment, he noticed Dave strolling past the shop window. The Occasional Mechanic growled at Sean and then glared at Deb before sluggishly moving on.

Deb pointed to some smudged ink on her skin. 'That's Trevor. Isn't he gorgeous? You can't recognise him these days, of course, because of the fat.' Deb's chuckle was infectious. 'Mine, not his!

# * * * * *

The Institute was located at the town's only intersection – opposite the pub, now temporarily closed; Dave's Mechanics, where Sean's campervan lay untouched; and the row of three shops, now with "Closed" signs. The building was typically square and built of sandstone, with tiny windows, a broad wooden door and drainpipes that emptied underground. Built in 1898, it was extended and renovated over subsequent decades for extra functions no longer needed in the 21st century, such as a library, dressing rooms for actors, and a cinema. The only indication that it was still being used these days as the Town Hall and local branch of the Returned and Services League (RSL) was the Australian flag fluttering next to a memorial dedicated to the three citizens from the town who had "Fallen in the Great War".

Inside, the floor was partially covered with tattered crimson carpet and littered with shabby plastic chairs and tables. Elsewhere, there was a diminutive stage barely 30 centimetres high; war service emblems haphazardly pinned to the walls; a frayed pool table; and a jukebox cranking out the familiar refrains of "I Hope You Die Before I Get Old".

Assembled awkwardly around a fold-up trestle table were Dave, still scowling at Sean; Bob; Madge; the lifeless man from the bar known as Cyril; and Arnold, a doddering octogenarian with an oversized hearing aid and undersized walking stick. In one corner, Deb was frantically dusting everything and anything in preparation for the band's arrival while singing the only tune on the jukebox with no melody but plenty of passion. And in another corner, Jack was creating a small shrine on a spare table with photos of John Lennon. As usual, Sean was filming in anticipation of using the footage for the RealiTV webcast, although no-one knew this yet.

Bob decided it was time to growl. 'Why can't this stupid group–'

'Hey!' Deb's voice resonated across the room and made the men shudder.

'–perform here at the Town Hall?' continued Bob more sedately.

'I told you,' said Sean. 'It's too small here. They'll have to play outside somewhere.'

'But why not here?' Arnold sluggishly stretched out one of his flabby arms. 'We hold everything in the hall. Cake stalls. Funerals. Emergency surgery.'

With his camera, Sean panned from wall to wall while speaking. 'And where would the band sleep? There's no caravans in the caravan park. Or any _bella vista_ for that matter.'

As Dave continued to scowl at Sean, Arnold pointed to a corner of the hall not being dusted by Deb or used as a shrine to the dead Beatle. 'The band can sleep over there. We'll move chairs around, shift the pool table, unplug the jukebox. We had forty-five people sleep here during The Floods of '75.'

'And what about food for the band?' asked Sean with justifiable trepidation.

'Toasted sandwiches?'

'Can you add tomato, Madge?'

'I suppose so, Jack.'

Sean zoomed into Madge. 'And they'll need drinks. They are a rock band.'

'We have never run out of beer, young man.' Madge smiled smugly.

'Except during The Pub Strike of '74.'

Madge turned brusquely towards Bob. 'How would you know? You weren't living here then.'

Sean coughed discreetly. 'But the band may need something stronger, like gin or vodka. And wine for their groupies.'

'OK, I'll make a list.' Madge grumbled as she ambled towards the counter.

Deb strutted to Sean's table and leant over menacingly. 'And wine for their _what_?'

Sean gulped. 'The, um, band probably has some young, um, you know, ladies traveling with, um–'

'Not here they won't!' Deb crossed her arms defiantly. 'No groupies in this town!'

Arnold languidly swivelled towards Deb. 'You may be proprietor of the grocery, bakery and record shop, and currently the town mayor, but I am still RSL President–'

'And only member,' added Deb sourly.

'–so I outrank you in this building. And I say we allow groupies.'

'We'll see about _that_!' Deb stormed back to the corner and angrily snatched at a duster.

Dave stopped scowling at Sean and began beaming at Jack. 'Yeah, groupies. What do you reckon?'

From the corner, Jack shrugged. 'I'm not bothered.'

Sean stood and collected his gear. 'OK. So, it's decided. The band will sleep here in the hall, somehow, but the gig must be held outside because of the crowd.'

'What crowd?' Jack sniggered.

Sean put down his camera bag. 'But, hang on, what if it rains?'

'Son, it has not rained here for ...' Bob glanced at his watch and pondered. '... forty-five years.'

'What about The Floods of '75?' asked Sean as he strolled towards the door.

'The floods started up there ...' Jack pointed towards the window through which Sean now peered. '... in the hills of Upper Chittingford.' Sean pointed his video camera towards the vast, arid and featureless landscape. 'The flood was their bloody fault.'

# * * * * *

Back inside the pub, Bob, Arnold and Sean were sitting patiently at one table, each with an eye aimed towards the fuzzy TV, while Madge was behind the counter serving drinks. Several others unknown to Sean drifted into the main bar from the pokies room. These included Lifeless Cyril, who drooped himself on to the bar counter, and Dave, who glanced at Deb, and then glared at Sean as he started filming. Looking inconsolably forlorn, Jack leant over the jukebox, which was not plugged in, nor playing "I Hope You Die Before I Get Old". Instead, "Imagine" rattled out of an antiquated cassette player.

Clutching a number of forms, Deb addressed the entire group, which now numbered eight men and six women, plus Sean. 'Listen, everyone. It's easy. Just tick the box for "yes" or "no".' She read out from one of the forms. 'The question is: "Do you want filthy slag groupies sleeping with – and, no doubt, performing disgusting acts and passing diseases to – members of this lovable group within the sacred confines of the Town Hall?" That's it.' Deb handed out one form to everyone, except Sean.

Sean whispered to Jack. 'Do I ..?'

'Don't be daft, son. To get a vote, you must've been born here, or have family go back at least three generations, or married someone else in town. _And_ served as mayor at least once.' Sean stared at Jack and shuddered. 'But Bob and I are given special consideration because we actually chose to live here all those years ago.' Sean's jaw dropped further and his shoulders continued to quiver.

While Sean wondered if the batteries in his handy-cam would last, everyone eventually read the form, ticked their response, and laboriously placed their forms into a box.

Deb swiftly emptied the box and counted the votes. 'That's five, plus my vote, which makes six _against_ the slags.' Deb smiled sweetly at the five other women all sitting in solidarity at one table. She silently counted the remaining forms. 'And that's, um, six in favour of the groupies.' She growled at the group of eight men now squashed together in apparent solidarity at another table. 'Which means two of you eight blokes abstained.'

The collective ire at the men's table was immediate and thunderous.

'What?'

'Who didn't vote for the slags?'

'We need groupies!'

'What does "abstain" mean?'

Filming the scene from a distance, Sean whispered to Madge. 'That's six all. What happens now?'

'There's one more eligible voter.'

'But Gladys is having her hip replaced!' Deb reached for her mobile phone and swore softly. 'Gotta get to the mound!' She scurried out of the pub.

Arnold rushed to the bar counter as quickly as an octogenarian with an oversized hearing aid and undersized walking stick could manage. 'Get me the phone, Madge. Quick!' The landlady of The Lamb & Slaughter picked up a large, clunky 1950's-style phone from beneath the counter and plonked it front of Arnold. With chubby, nicotine-stained fingers he dialled, waited and then slammed down the handpiece. 'Madge, where's the bloody switchboard operator?!'

'Hip! Remember?!'
CHAPTER THREE

Saturday

Deb removed a series of faded sepia photos of the town's glory days from the 1930s which featured hundreds of men in bowler hats proudly attending Australia Day marches. She replaced these photos with posters of the inglorious days from the 1970s of Cinnamon Sweat in ridiculously-tight and multi-coloured leather trousers. To complete her tacky renovation of the pub, Deb strung up ribbons and streamers left over from a sports competition in 1965, when the town had a school, and balloons that Arnold insisted on inflating, much to Deb's increasing impatience.

I'm gonna buy a red convertible and drive it every day,

_I'm gonna max out all my credit cards and keep all my pay_ ...

Ignoring everyone and everything – especially that song from the jukebox on constant rotation – Mitch was engrossed at a table, expertly setting up a sophisticated laptop with connections and cables to the handy-cam, microphone and several aerials.

I'm gonna sail across the world with a chick half my age,

_I'm gonna join a band with my mates and rock up on the stage_ ...

For the sake of the camera perched on a tripod and filming discreetly from a distant corner, Sean made a token effort to help Deb. 'Aren't you sick of that song?'

'No.' Deb glared at him.

'I am.'

'Listen, Sean, I'm so glad the town's fax machine is broken and your van won't be fixed until after the gig.'

'I'm also staying here for another reason.'

Deb glanced coyly at Sean. 'Sorry, but my heart belongs to Trevor now.'

'What?'

'You could've told me yesterday that you felt this way.'

'No. _God_ , no.' Sean pointed to his left. 'That's Mitch. He's from RealiTV, here to do a reality series about the band. The filming and interviews we do will be streamed online as a webcast on a dedicated YouTube channel.'

'I am not going to pretend I understand any of that.' Deb snatched another semi-inflated balloon from a breathless Arnold.

Mitch approached them but didn't bother helping. 'You see, I've uploaded edited film Sean has taken so far to our website and we will stream online ...'

'You're still speaking nerdish.'

'... in real time from now on, so people all over the world can get to know you and Chittingford Dales, and see the band play live.'

Sean unrolled another poster of The Sweat and gingerly picked up some drawing pins. 'This reality series is about you, Deb. You'll be really famous.'

'Not sure I want to be really famous. But I suppose I'll have to get used to it after ...' Deb paused to whisper as Dave entered the pub. '... I marry Trevor.'

Dave glared at Sean and sat at the counter. He was closely followed by Bob and Jack. Without anyone saying a word, Deb moved behind the bar and poured them beers.

'Is that band still playing here?' Jack snarled. 'What are they called? Simpleton Zit?'

'Yes, Jack, they are,' said Sean.

'Do you know anything about football?'

'No, Bob, I do not.'

'That's a pity, mate.' Bob sighed. 'Because there's a game this afternoon and our umpire's getting her hip replaced.'

Mitch picked up the handy-cam and started filming an interview with Jack. 'I've just visited the number one attraction in Chittingford Dales. And I have to be honest but it ...' Mitch hesitated as he noticed Madge and Deb making signals behind Jack's back. '... looks like a, um ...' Mitch was even more bewildered when Madge and Deb started making slicing signals across their throats.

'... turnip, Mitch.' Sean spoke quietly but firmly. 'It looks like a turnip.'

Still befuddled, Mitch turned to Jack. 'Um, so tell me about The Big, er, Turnip.'

'Bob and I arrived here just before The Floods of '75 which carried on to '76. The town was struggling. People were out of work. It was such a sad place to be. Deserted. Not like now.'

Mitch grinned at Sean. 'No ...'

Bob continued. 'So, we decided to build a turnip farm to keep the people happy–'

'–and myself busy after I had to quit ...' Jack looked away, yet nobody it seemed knew why.

Bob broke the surprisingly uncomfortable silence. 'But the farm got wiped out.'

'By the floods or fires?' Mitch tried to keep a straight face.

'By The Vegetable Plague of '85. So, Jack decided to build a memorial to commemorate the greatest tragedy to befall The Dales.'

# * * * * *

Once the pub had been adorned with posters, ribbons, streamers and balloons, it was time to garnish the Town Hall. As the location of the band's sleeping quarters, Dave was busily laying down mattresses while Deb was frantically fluffing pillows. Jack was attending to his shrine and discreetly pulling down posters of The Sweat from the wall whenever Deb's back was turned. Sean opened his handy-cam and Mitch turned on his microphone, and they approached Jack.

'Tough game of footy this afternoon.' Mitch tried not to smirk.

'Tell me about it,' said Bob, as he entered the pub with his arm in a sling and bandages across his face.

'Umpiring ain't easy.' Sean could not avoid smirking.

'We've got more important things to discuss now than stupid football.' Lifting a hefty briefcase onto a table, Deb growled to no-one in particular as she noticed that several posters had fallen to the ground. 'Thank you for attending this special council meeting.'

Jack sneered. 'Did we have a choice?'

'Not while I am Mayor.' Deb unclipped the briefcase and extracted a file. 'Opening business is the Cinnamon Sweat tour of Chittingford Dales. I've created an itinerary, but I can't give it to you until we get a copy-machine.'

'Did you say _coffee_ machine?'

'No, I did _not_.' Deb briefly glared at Mitch. 'I thought we'd celebrate the band's arrival with a civil reception ...' She paused as Sean and Mitch grinned at each other. '... when I will give the band – and, by that, I mean Trevor, of course – keys to the city.'

'To the _what_?'

Deb glowered at Mitch once more. 'In-ter-rup-ting _again_.' She turned to Sean. 'How long will The Sweat play for?'

'Not long, I guess.' Sean shrugged. 'They only ever recorded one studio album.'

Deb found a pen and made some notes. 'To comply with Bylaw 67G created after The Explosion of '91 the band will have to start the concert at 6pm.'

'But they'll probably still be sleeping then with their, um, their–'

Deb continued to glare with venom at Mitch. 'If you mean groping, fornicating and other lascivious acts with uninvited women, well, you know what the very _latest_ bylaw says about that!'

# * * * * *

Once the pub had been decorated and Town Hall desecrated, Deb focussed her efforts on beautifying the town. She started with a serious dusting and polishing of an unimpressive monument with an undersized bust of a man's head with an overlong name on a plaque beneath. But she decided not to bother with the water tower and grain silo. After standing back to admire her efforts at scrubbing off a particularly stubborn pile of magpie poo, she plugged in a lengthy extension cord and began vacuuming Main Street.

Strolling across the intersection with their camera gear, Mitch stopped at the monument. ''Who is _that_?'

Sean bent to read the long plaque under the small bust. 'That is Reginald Barrington-Smythe.'

'What's he famous for? Inventing toasted sandwiches?'

Sean squinted at the rusty inscriptions. 'He lived here all his life–'

'That is certainly some achievement.'

'–and no doubt invented the idea of big monuments in small towns.'

Sean panned his camera across a row of abandoned homes, each with a knee-high wire fence and gate needlessly protecting a tiny patch of untended garden. One shop had been used as a post office, evidenced by the bulletin board unchanged for years and the letterbox unused for decades. 'I bet more people reside in the cemetery than live in this dump.'

They found Deb in a puff of dust. Mitch pointed a microphone in front of her. 'We are now streaming fully online. You're already famous.'

Deb pouted and yelled above the racket from the antiquated Hoover. 'Famous like a real person? Or like a celebrity on TV?'

'Well, on your Facebook page–'

'My what?'

'–you've got thousands of friends.' Mitch had to also shout above the din.

'But I don't know any of them!'

'And you're so popular now that there are dozens of fake Twitter accounts using your name.'

'Why would the twits do that?'

'Because they can.' Mitch shrugged.

'Why don't the authorities stop it?'

'Because they can't.' It was Sean's turn to shrug. 'And you've received an invitation to perform on that Channel 8 show, "Celebrity Dancing Chefs".'

'But I can't dance. Or, um, chef.'

'Perfect.' Mitch shifted the microphone closer. 'So, tell me Deb, what is it that you like about Cinnamon Sweat?'

'Their long hair. And tight trousers.'

'And their music?'

'Most of the time.' Deb manoeuvred the vacuum cleaner around two crumbling wagon wheels alongside the footpath outside the pub.

'And what pushes you to still run their official fan club?'

'It all started with my Mum. She was a real fan. She was really, really close to the band.'

'Was she indeed?' Mitch was cautiously thrilled.

'She travelled with The Sweat throughout their tour of South Australia in 1975.'

'When you were born, Deb?'

'1976.'

Mitch glanced eagerly at Sean. 'Deb, was your father a fan too?'

'I never knew my father.'

Mitch found it difficult to contain his excitement. 'Does that mean you don't know who your father was? Could he be someone your mother shagged during that tour?'

' _What_?' Deb turned off the Hoover and glared again at Mitch. 'I don't think I like you.' She picked up loops of the lengthy extension cord and marched towards the abandoned Butchery.

Sean turned off the handy-cam and slapped Mitch across his shoulder. 'Don't be so bloody mean!'

'Don't be so bloody naive. Jeez, you wanted to do this reality video series. People love this stuff, Sean. It's what they crave. It rates. We get ads. Money comes in. I get a bonus. You get more work. It's a win-win-win-um ...' He paused to count his fingers. '... win-win.'

'Unless you're Deb.'

'Well, yeah. I suppose.'
CHAPTER FOUR

Sunday

The band's arrival was imminent. The pub and Town Hall had been fully adorned with ornaments to Cinnamon Sweat, despite the efforts of Jack, and Deb had lovingly dusted, vacuumed and polished the entire town. Even the diarrhoeal magpies had stayed away – probably because Lifeless Cyril had shot a few overnight.

Everyone was finishing their assigned duties at different speeds and at various interest levels as delegated by Deb, the event organiser and Mayor. Bob, Jack, Dave and a few others still unknown to Sean or Mitch had strung up a few more tacky balloons, streamers and ribbons along the electricity poles, and had looped a banner between the town's only two street lights. Madge and Arnold had managed to set up three trestle tables, all facing the same direction, with a range of colourful cupcakes and jam-topped scones, as well as an urn of tea.

Armed with camera and microphone, Sean and Mitch approached Deb, who was under the banner and arguing with a wrinkled woman clutching a Zimmer frame.

'You know I need a hearing aid,' said the woman quietly.

'That's why I wrote the name of the band on a piece of paper!' Deb gnashed her teeth.

'You know I need glasses.' The woman shuffled away as Sean and Mitch glanced upwards and then eagerly filmed the banner, which read "SEMEN'S WET".

Sean peered at Gladys but spoke to Deb. 'Who is she?'

' _That_ is the deciding vote.'

'I thought she was in Upper Chittingford getting her hip replaced.'

'I was.' Gladys shuffled back while squinting at a piece of paper and checking the banner.

Mitch positioned the microphone in front of Gladys' crumpled face. 'So, how did you get back here? There's no bus for three days.'

'I walked.'

'But it's forty five kilometres!' Sean was genuinely astonished.

'Forty seven,' shouted Dave, perched on the ladder.

Jack turned to Gladys. 'Can you umpire next week?'

But Gladys ignored him and twisted towards Sean. 'It only seemed a long way this time because I was carrying that bloody gasket for your van.'

' _What_?'

Jack grabbed Gladys' arm. 'Bob got beaten up at the game yesterday.'

'I can put the gasket in your van within thirty minutes.' Dave growled at Sean. 'Then, you and your camera can piss off.'

Jack continued to plead. 'But, Gladys, you're tougher than anyone.'

'Did you vote?' said Deb to Gladys.

'Of course.'

Gladys passed Deb the voting form, but quickly took it back. 'It's a secret ballot.'

Deb snatched the form from Gladys' arthritic clutch. 'Not when it's tied, and you're the deciding vote, and I am Mayor.' Deb eagerly opened it but soon grimaced.

'No band would play in this town without groupies.' Gladys chuckled. 'And I should know.'

Sean shuddered uncontrollably.

# * * * * *

Sean strode past The Big Polished Turnip to the dust-free mound where he telephoned the manager of Cinnamon Sweat. 'Hi, Boyd. Listen, there's been a vote. They decided that, um, no groupies will be allowed ...' Sean moved the phone away from his ear. Glancing with embarrassment at the others on the mound, he gradually brought the phone back to the side of his head. 'Yeah, I know, Boyd ... I know you have needs ... And the girls have needs ... The band, of course, does ... Often ... Yes, we all have needs. But, listen, I have a plan ...'

# * * * * *

The scones and cupcakes were tempting and the urn was boiling. The streamers and ribbons were still attached to the poles and the direction of the banner was correct – even if the wording was not. Everyone and everything was facing west, the direction from which Sean had pushed his van into town in what seemed to him a decade ago.

But Deb, of course, was frantic. 'Which way will they come? West through Rochester Woods? Or south from Attleborough Forest?' She turned to Sean. 'Find out!' He sighed and began marching towards the dust-free mound. 'Don't worry, Sean. You can get reception here in the street now that Gladys isn't on her dialysis machine.'

Sean checked his phone and was pleasantly surprised that the appropriate symbols were blinking encouragingly. 'Boyd? Can you hear me?'

Inside the van, a battered relic from the band's fateful tour of 1975, Boyd was clutching his phone with one hand while gripping the steering wheel with the other. His head swivelled from one window to the other as he desperately tried gauging his location and direction while also frantically searching for road signs. The soft acoustic track from the well-worn Led Zeppelin CD was punctuated with clunking noises. 'Yeah, Seany. Are there are some lovely ladies waiting for us?'

'Um ...' Sean peered at Deb jumping up and down with exhilaration and trepidation, and at Madge and Gladys preparing food.

Deb screamed breathlessly. 'I think I have to pee! Again!'

Boyd swivelled around from the driver's seat towards the back of the van. 'The promoter guy Sean says there's plenty of tasty chicks waiting for us.'

From the back of the van, there were howls of delight from the band.

'You beauty!'

'Awesome!'

'Come to papa, ladies!'

These were instantly followed by a chorus of complaints from the females.

'Oi, shut up!'

'Keep your bloody hands off them!'

'We'll kill those slags!'

A sudden thump forced Boyd to face the road.

Sean gulped. 'Well, I wouldn't say they were tasty as such.'

Deb skipped towards Gladys. 'I bet Trevor is still _so_ sexy. He used to have long golden hair. Look, I'll show you.' As Deb started unbuttoning her blouse, Sean again turned away with acute discomfort.

'Hey, Seany, what about food? Trevor's hungry.'

Sean glanced at the trestle tables. 'Yeah, there's, um, plenty of food.' He was grateful that he could at least hear and smell something sizzling. 'There's a barbecue ...' Sean spotted a small tub of ice. '... and, um, some drinks.'

Boyd wanted to swivel again towards the back of the van, but he heard another thump and promptly faced the front. 'Guys, the promoter says there's plenty of grub, grog and groupies.'

This prompted more remarks from the band.

'I want food more than sex.'

'Hope there's a nice cup of tea.'

'Maybe, some scones too.'

Sean approached the barbeque where Madge and Gladys were frying and burning ham, tomato and bread for toasted sandwiches. Noticing that the small tub of ice only contained cans of Coke and Fanta, Sean whispered to Madge. 'Where's the beer and wine?'

'If you want alcohol served before midday in this town, you need permission from the Commissioner of Liquor, Gaming, Casinos, Racing, Lotteries and Children's Playgrounds ... over there.' Madge pointed to Deb, still hysterically jumping and spinning in every direction.

'And, Seany, the film crew is ready, yeah? All primed up for The Sweat's best reunion DVD ever?'

Sean watched Mitch position their singular hand-held camera in front of Deb as she shouted. 'Tell the band to stop! I need to pee!'

Boyd continued driving with one hand while searching for road signs, controlling the band and groupies, and thumping into things unseen. 'Are you there, Seany? ... You're cutting out ... Seany? ... Can you hear me?'

Without warning, the overlong Led Zeppelin track stopped mid-song. This unexpected silence was immediately filled with utterances of dismay from the band.

'Hey, my iPad's not working!'

'What happened to the song?!'

'Why is my iPhone on the blink?'

Sean slowly removed the phone from beside his ear. 'I think the band is almost here.'

This made Deb even more frantic. 'But from which direction?!'

Sean paused as he wondered how to lie convincingly. 'Um, I think Boyd mentioned somewhere called Dingleford Lakes ...'

'You mean Dingleberry Lagoon! _Jeez_.' Deb swivelled 180 degrees. 'That's other there! From the east!'

The arrival party collectively groaned as they picked up all the trestle tables and tubs of ice, as well as the scorching barbeque and boiling urn, and shifted everything to face east. Dave scrambled up the ladder and twisted the banner around to face the correct way.

'Hang on.' Jack raised his arms. 'What's that noise?'

'It sounds familiar.' Bob turned his head.

'I've heard it before.' Gladys nodded.

Sean stared at them in disbelief. 'It's a car, you–!'

'They're coming!' shrieked Deb.

The vehicle noise became increasingly louder. The arrival party continued staring to the east in eager anticipation, but then turned in seemingly slow motion with mouths collectively open as the band's van chugged past them from the north.

Sean frantically pressed some keys and shouted into his phone. 'Boyd! Stop the van!'

Within seconds, the vehicle came to a clunking halt about 200 metres past the intersection. Obeying Deb's frenetic orders, the arrival party again picked up the tables, tubs, barbeque and urn, and rotated everything towards the south, the direction the van was now heading. But Dave could do nothing about the banner.

The van gradually reversed back towards the intersection. Amid more unidentifiable mechanical squeaks and creaks, the vehicle eventually died about 100 metres from the arrival party, in exactly the same way Sean's campervan had done so days before.

The silence – eerily devoid of _ping_ , _ding_ and _ching_ sounds – was eventually broken as the van door slid open. The three band members, each trying to look cool with a spectacular lack of success, squeezed out and, out of habit, stretched their limbs.

Each was old, fat, bald and ugly, and dressed completely differently: Trevor had an AC/DC T-shirt, leather belt and black jacket, and a ridiculous grey-haired pony-tail; Nigel was dressed like a punk with green, cropped hair and a face adorned with studs and rings; and the third, Cockles, was bedecked with disco-era flared trousers and flowery shirt.

From inside the van, the three groupies gradually raised their heads a little above the window edge before rapidly ducking down.

From the driver's seat, Boyd got out to inspect the numerous dents along the van's side and the blood and fur splattered across the hood. He stared at the banner, shook his head, and slid on his thick glasses. The three band members also squinted at the banner.

'What's it say?' said Trevor.

Boyd was flummoxed. 'It says "Semens Wet".'

Nigel clapped his hands. 'Sounds like an orgy's awaiting.'

Boyd and the three band members tried to maintain a groovy gait for the remaining 50 metres to the arrival party at the intersection, but their pace quickened as their genuine thirst and hunger overtook any pretence at being cool.

Sean whispered to Deb. 'Which one is Trevor?'

'I don't know!' She waved anxiously as the band approached.

'Check your picture.' Deb started unbuttoning her blouse. 'Not the tattoo!' hissed Sean, as he again noticed Dave glaring at him. 'I mean that photo you have!'

'Oh.' From her back pocket, Deb unfolded a faded snapshot of the four members of Cinnamon Sweat taken during the 1975 tour of South Australia, with each walking along a deserted country road in a similar manner. She held up the photo to compare the faces with those now only 20 metres away. As they came closer, it became blindingly obvious to everyone in the arrival party, especially Sean and Mitch eagerly filming, how much the band had aged from the posters adorning the town.

As Deb inspected the photo more intently, she realised she was suddenly face-to-face with her idol. 'Trevor!' She immediately became giddy and fainted.

Trevor, Nigel and Cockles stepped over Deb, now crumpled on the ground, as they excitedly approached the trestle tables, tubs, barbeque and urn.

'There _are_ scones!'

'I could kill for a cuppa.'

'Look at all those toasties!'

# * * * * *

It took about 15 minutes for the entire offerings of food and drink at the arrival party to be devoured by the band, so everyone adjourned, of course, to the pub. The band members and Boyd sat at one table devouring more toasted sandwiches and pints of beer. Dave, Gladys and Arnold stood in one corner observing, each still unsure whether inviting Cinnamon Sweat was a good idea, while Jack and Bob sat snarling at a separate table quite certain that it was not. Behind the bar counter, Madge was applying Band-Aids to the grazes across Deb's face caused by her swooning.

But Mitch didn't want to waste any time wondering, snarling or applying first aid. He abruptly placed a microphone in front of Cockles. 'How do you like Chittingford Dales?'

'Man, we ... we just ... arrived,' he mumbled between mouthfuls.

'But you drove through it twice.'

Cockles swallowed hard and gazed out the pub window. 'This is _it_?'

Mitch continued. 'Can you please introduce yourselves to our viewers?'

'I'm Cockles.'

'They call me Lover Lips.' Nigel revealed two rows of nicotine-stained teeth.

'And I'm Trevor.'

Instinctively, everyone spun towards the sound of Deb sighing loudly – except for Sean, who panned his camera towards the bar counter, on which Cyril's head lay motionless while clutching an empty glass, and to a man standing with a menu in his hand. 'I'm Steve,' the man mumbled.

Boyd shrugged. 'He's not in the band.'

'I'm just ordering ...' Steve grimaced at the menu. '... toasted sandwiches and a–'

'Don't bother about coffee,' added a caffeine-deprived Sean.

Ignoring Sean and Steve, Mitch shook his head. 'I am not calling you Lover Lips.'

'Then, call me Nigel.'

'Jeez. I think I prefer Lover Lips.' Mitch shifted his microphone. 'Why are you called Cockles?'

'I can't remember.' He shrugged. 'It was the 1970s.'

As Mitch continued the interview, he wordlessly indicated for Sean to film the band's outfits. 'You all seemed to be dressed a little differently.'

'Yeah.' Boyd exhaled. 'Trevor thought Cinnamon Sweat was still in their heavy metal phase. And Nigel thought it was the band's punk stage.'

'And, apparently, we never had a disco period.' Cockles sighed.

'Good thing, too,' mumbled Deb. 'Bloody John Travolta.'

Mitch continued above the growing number of grunts and groans from Jack at a distant table. 'So, what instruments do you play, Cockles?'

'The bass guitar, double bass, the cello, the Mellotron, the viola ...'

'What?' Nigel spluttered a mouthful of Madge's Ham and Cheese Surprise.

'Listen,' said Cockles with some menace. ' _I_ played the viola on "My Tongue in Your Cheek" – _and_ the piccolo.'

'And I am Nigel, more commonly known among the ladies as Lover Lips.' He peered around the pub for an attractive woman to leer at, but quickly gave up. 'I am lead vocals, harmonies, choir, harmonica ...' He turned to Cockles. '... and _I_ played viola and piccolo on "My Tongue in Your Cheek"!'

'No, you did not,' muttered Jack from a distance.

Mitch placed his microphone under Trevor's double chin. 'And what about you?'

'I play drums, and timpani, chimes, bells, xylophones, gongs, castanets, marimbas, bongos, triangle ...'

As Trevor continued listing the percussion instruments he claimed he could play, Sean again panned across to Cyril, whose head had still not moved from the stained towel along the bar counter, and to Steve. 'I am still not in the bloody band,' he shouted, turning towards the kitchen. 'And I am still waiting for my bloody toasted sandwiches!'

'Maybe, Madge is on her lunch break,' said Sean.

Mitch checked some notes on his iPad. 'OK. I'm confused. In one word, if that's possible, what do you each play or do in Cinnamon Sweat?'

'Bass,' said Cockles.

'I'm the singer.' Nigel grinned. 'That's three words. Or is it four?'

'Drums,' said Trevor, as Deb sighed again.

Mitch checked his iPad again. 'So, where's the guitarist?'

Boyd eventually broke the silence. 'Oh, um, let me get back to you about that.' Taking out a phone from his top pocket, he rattled a few doors before moving outside.

'So, um, Cockles,' said Mitch, 'tell everyone watching about your time in The Sweat.'

'I don't remember much, mate. I joined in 1974–'

'1973,' said Deb confidently.

'–then left a year or two later. Joined and left again in '87. Got married and divorced twice–'

'Three times.'

Cockles paused to count on his ring-encased fingers and nodded at Deb. '–in between stints in psychiatric wards, and traipsing across Asia dodging bounty hunters. I came back to The Sweat permanently in, um ... 2007.' He turned to Deb. 'Is that right?'

'Close enough.'

Indicating that Sean should move his camera towards Nigel, Mitch continued. 'And, Liver Lips, what's your history with the band?'

'I joined in '74. Left after the tour of '75. Re-joined on June 25, 1979. Left the next day. Released a solo album that sold nothing. Was forced by the court to join the band again in '82. Then, The Sweat broke up without me, so I did another solo album that sold even less ... Eventually, I thought it'd be better to stay in the band permanently. Well, my parole officer did, anyway.' Nigel glanced at Deb, who nodded.

'And you?'

Trevor answered with maximum speed and minimum interest. 'Joined '74. Left at end of '75. Joined and left again in '77. Left again the next year but hadn't actually re-joined. Created my own band called, um ...'

'... "Synonym Sweet". But the rest of them sued you.' Deb briefly glared at the other two members. 'So, Trevor re-joined the original band in '79 and has been the lynchpin ever since.' As Deb moved to the kitchen, she offered an infectious smile that Trevor ignored completely as he stuffed more cold toasties into his mouth.

Once more, Sean panned across to Steve, who angrily moved away, and to Cyril, whose head had still not lifted off the bar counter.

Everyone turned towards the familiar sounds of the pub doors rattling. Boyd entered, shaking his head. 'It appears that the band's original guitarist, Oscar, died at the end of their tour of South Australia in 1975.'

'That's right.' Nigel nodded and chewed.

'Yeah.' Cockles sipped ad sighed. 'Poor bastard.'

'I remember now.' Trevor frowned and swallowed. 'Oscar killed himself. But, you know, none of us can remember what the hell he looked like.'

As Steve stormed towards the door, he abruptly turned. 'Now, I remember. My Dad talked about you guys. The media at the time said that Oscar didn't kill himself but he was murdered ...' Steve paused for effect. '... by one of the band at the end of the tour in 1975.' Steve glared as the three band members shrugged at each other. 'Why is this not bothering you idiots?!'

'I can't remember anything.' Cockles shrugged and burped.

'It's all a blur, mate.' Nigel murmured and munched.

'If you can remember the '70s ...' Trevor belched and farted. '... you weren't there.'

Steve turned irritably towards Mitch. 'Well, isn't _that_ a story?'

Mitch shook his head. 'It's ancient news. Nothing proved. We've got a far juicier angle for our video series.'

Madge and Deb entered from the kitchen with more plates piled high with toasted sandwiches in plastic wrappers, which the three band members enthusiastically grabbed, eventually unwrapped, and rapidly consumed.

Storming out of the pub without any food from Madge or reactions from Mitch, Steve brushed past the three young groupies from the van, each in thin singlets and thick make-up. Dave and Arnold grinned excitedly, but Bob and Jack were impassive.

Deb snarled. 'I said no groupies!'

'They're not. They are, um, road crew.'

'What?' Deb turned menacingly towards Sean. 'Why are the roadies women?'

'Equal opportunity, sex discrimination, and all that.'

'And why have they got almost nothing on?'

'Because it's hot.' Sean gulped.

'They don't look strong enough to lift any equipment.'

'Not much gear is needed, Deb, for a small gig.'

Everyone turned as they again heard doors rattling and people cursing; some other groupies eventually found the main entrance to the pub. They were far older and considerably less attractive, so Dave screwed up his face with distaste, but Arnold still beamed. The younger groupies from the van scowled at their rivals, while Bob and Jack remained expressionless.

Deb pointed to the older groupies. 'And who the flipping heck are _they_?'

Mitch grinned. 'Yeah, Sean, who the flipping heck _are_ they?'

'They are, um, the, er, support band.'

Gulping down the remains of Madge's Cheese and Ham Delight, Nigel stood, belched, and curled his arms around the shoulders of two of the older groupies. 'Yeah, the original _support_ band from our tour of '75.'

Deb glanced dubiously at Trevor, who nodded. 'OK,' she said, 'but the support band will have to start at 4pm.'

Boyd swiftly glanced up from his iPad. 'What?'

'Don't worry,' said Sean. 'I'll sort something out.'

'But our band takes a nap around four in the afternoon,' explained Boyd.

'And that's when I take medication for my hip replacement,' added Cockles.

From a distant corner, Gladys shuffled closer to the band's table. 'I had one of those.'

Cockles stared at the wrinkled woman clutching her Zimmer frame. 'Have we met before?'

Gladys offered a playful grin and winked. 'Maybe, we did in a previous life.'

Boyd shuddered as he turned off his iPad. 'Where are we staying?'

Gladys nodded towards the window. 'We've made arrangements for you at the RSL.'

The three band members and six groupies look confused, so Sean explained. 'It stands for Royal Shangri-La.'

The collective responses among the nine visitors were immediate.

'Sounds nice.'

'I need a nap.'

'Me too.'

'I thought we were going to have some nookie.'

'Too tired.'

'Me too.'

'Have they got coffee?'

'What about Wi-Fi?'

The nine of them sluggishly followed Gladys out of the pub via the correct door. Deb noticed one of the groupies sauntering too close to Trevor, so she grabbed Arnold's walking stick.

'Oh, no ... I, um ... need, um ...'

As Sean helped Arnold up from the floor, Deb angrily pursued the band and groupies out of the pub while poking one of the women with Arnold's cane.

Mitch whispered to Sean. 'We need a crowd for the concert DVD. Other than three road crew and three support band.'

'At last count the town has fifteen residents.'

'Make that fourteen.' At the bar counter, Jack lifted Cyril's limp wrist and felt for a pulse.

'Deb and I won't be in the audience,' said Madge. 'We'll be catering.'

'And Bob and I are on band security.' Jack placed two of his fingers below Cyril's chin. 'And the others will be selling tickets, handling T-shirt sales, and so on.'

'And I'm on crowd control,' said Arnold, clinging unsteadily to the bar counter.

'So, that'll leave about how many in the crowd for the gig?' Mitch peered around the room expectantly.

Jack gave up on Cyril's pulse and considered. 'Um, about none. But out there ...' He pointed randomly through the window at the vast plains. '... there are 60 odd people.'

'Are they odd?' Sean's gaze followed Jack's arm.

'No more than us.' Jack placed a tea towel over the head of Cyril, who was now officially Lifeless. 'Who's going to be Commissioner of Child Care and Termite Control now?'

Madge shouted to Jack from the kitchen. 'See if there's anything in Cyril's pockets for his toastie tab, will you?'

'Perhaps we should invite people to the concert from Upper Chitting ...' Sean froze as Madge, Jack and Dave growled.

# * * * * *

Sean and Mitch strolled past "Gail's Grocery", "Brenda's Bakery" and "Deb's Discs" – each with a "Closed" sign on their doors – and were surprised to see a fourth shop in the row. Sean filmed the lettering across the window, "Department of Rural Development", and was highly amused to see extra words added after in different fonts and colours: "... Regional Infrastructure ... Environmental Protection & Sustainability ... State Construction Network ... Provincial Economic Stimulus Projects". Other signs on the window indicated that the Council Office also served as a library and sales outlet for a tractor firm, and provided "relationship advice", but was only open from 9am to 10am and 5pm to 6pm on Thursday and Sunday.

Sean and Mitch primed their camera and microphone, and entered. Typically functional but unimaginatively decorated, the Council Office was empty except for Deb, whose face was still grazed. She was hastily decorating the walls and windows with more Cinnamon Sweat posters, as well as balloons, streamers and ribbons removed from the intersection.

Also noticing the sign, "Barrington-Smythe Memorial Museum & Tourist Office", Sean couldn't help himself. 'Excuse me, Miss. Where is The Big Turnip?'

'Ssshhh! Can't you see this is a workplace?'

'No.' Sean peered around. 'Dave said you might be here. You know, he doesn't like me.'

'Dave doesn't like anyone who fancies me.'

' _What?_ But I don't ...'

Mitch grinned at Sean but spoke to Deb. 'I'd like to talk with you.'

'Can't you see I'm busy?'

'No.'

'Do you have an appointment?'

'Do I need one?'

Unable to conceal her indignation, Deb checked a diary. 'I suppose we can meet now.'

'I need to apply for–'

'You'll have to talk to the Mayor ...' Deb snatched a form from a desk and handed it to Mitch. '... and fill out Form HG55P9.'

'But who ..?' Mitch stopped as Deb leant under the desk, took out a top hat, and put it on. 'You see, um, Lady Mayor, we need to construct a stage.'

'You must discuss _that_ with the City Engineer ...' Deb grabbed another sheet of paper from another desk and passed it to Mitch. '... and complete Form GWB5151F.'

'Are you ..?'

'No, that would be an obvious conflict of interests. But, as it happens, I am acting in that position because of Gladys' arthritis.' Deb bent down under a third desk and lifted up a hard hat, which she proudly placed on her head.

Although utterly confused, Mitch knew he had to continue. 'As you know, we, er, want to put on an outdoor concert.'

'Then, you'll need to contact the Environmental Protection Officer and get a special permit.'

'Are you ..?'

'By coincidence, I am temporarily in charge since Cyril ...' Deb grimaced. 'But I don't have the hat.'

'Why do we need this special permit?' Already clutching three forms, Mitch was unwilling to complete another.

'So that you don't intrude on sacred areas with secret Aboriginal paintings.'

'Where are these areas?'

'We don't know.' Deb shrugged. 'They won't tell us. It's a secret.'

For the sake of the camera, Mitch tried to control his exasperation. 'So, where _can_ the band play?'

Deb ambled to a distant poster-less wall and inspected a town map. 'Well, let's see ... Avoiding that sacred area I just mentioned and the residue from The Toxic Overflow of '05.' She peered more intently. 'And allowing enough space for traffic during the event. And, naturally, we can't be anywhere near The Big Turnip, which is heritage-listed, of course ... So, that leaves just one place.' Deb pointed to her left. 'Just out there.'

Sean peered through the window. 'The bowling green?'

'Yep.'

'But won't we wreck it?'

'Probably.' Deb shrugged. 'But it hasn't been used since Gladys started dialysis and Arnold had a stroke. And it's ideal. Flat surface, overhead lights, some shelter and a few seats. But it'll take a few days to process the paperwork through the Sporting & Recreation Division.'

'Why?'

'Sean, I am busy!'

'OK. OK.' Mitch pocketed the forms. 'We'll change the gig to Wednesday–'

'But that's three more days!' shrieked Deb.

'–and change the venue to the bowling green.'

Sean closed the monitor on his video camera. 'I suppose it shouldn't be that hard to advise the change of date and location to the five people likely to attend.'

Mitch unplugged the microphone. 'And it does give us an extra few days to–'

'–hold Cyril's funeral?' Deb nodded solemnly.

'–find a guitarist.'
CHAPTER FIVE

Monday

Dave leant back contentedly against the hood of the band's blood- and fur-splattered van and leered at the three young groupies, also known as the "road crew". After apparently impressing the girls with his explanations about the virtues of gaskets, he noticed Boyd storming towards him, so he ducked his head under the hood and started thumping the engine with a spanner. Sean was again filming from a distance without anyone knowing.

Boyd tried to look menacing. 'Get the van fixed quickly, will you, so we can get the hell out of here after the gig.'

'Don't panic, mate. You ain't going anywhere soon. Your gasket's blown.' Dave twirled his spanner and winked at the young groupies.

'What?'

'But you are in luck. Gladys brought a gasket over for Sean's van from Upper C. I'm sure she'd sell it to you for a little extra ...' Dave wiped his hands.

'... a little extra _what_?'

'Let's just say, I think she fancies Cockles.'

Boyd shuddered as the three band members approached. They were followed by Deb, who started poking the young groupies with Arnold's walking stick for no particular reason, and Gladys, shuffling as fast as her Zimmer frame would allow.

Trevor flailed his arms. 'Have you heard that the gig's been postponed to Wednesday?'

'Stuff that!' Nigel stubbed out his cigarette with his boot. 'I am not sticking around that long. I'm leaving town. And I'm leaving this bloody band!'

'Me too!' Cockles tried to catch up with Nigel as he stormed down Railway Terrace.

'You can't quit!' Boyd waved a document above his shoulder. 'You all signed a contract for a reunion DVD and CD, and both have to be recorded here, in this dump. But if you leave and break up the band, the contract also states that you would also have to record a _farewell_ DVD and CD–'

'Shit!' Nigel and Cockles stopped and swore simultaneously.

'–which would have to be recorded here too.' Boyd pointed to Cockles, who had slumped to the ground. 'And, by the way, you'll have to donate your body ...' Boyd glanced at Gladys, who was beaming at the bassist. '... to get a gasket for our van.'

# * * * * *

Inside her shop, Deb was squatting on the floor, which was strewn with every imaginable record, single, tour program, T-shirt and other paraphernalia connected to Cinnamon Sweat that she and her mother had ever collected. Deb opened a large scrapbook in which numerous newspaper clippings from the 1970s about the band were glued or stapled. Flicking through the scrapbook with a wry smile, she noticed an article from 1975 with a photo of the four original band members and a young woman, who was identified in the caption as Lynne Sanderson. After gently running her fingers across the photo several times, Deb opened another box of memorabilia that she'd only found that morning under a pile of unplayed John Travolta records. Among the ticket stubs, bootleg cassette recordings and other souvenirs of The Sweat, Deb was astonished to find four diaries.

# * * * * *

The front bar of The Lamb & Slaughter was bursting. Three of the four tables were occupied by Dave, Arnold, the band members and an assortment of groupies, all blankly staring at the fuzzy black-and-white TV, while the rest of the town's population was crammed into the pokies room.

On the other table, Sean and Mitch were leaning over a laptop connected by cables to the video camera and microphone. 'This is the highlights package I've edited and sent back to the guys at RealiTV,' said Mitch.

Sean glanced at the band but whispered to his colleague. 'But are you sure you want to ignore that stuff about Oscar being killed?'

'That's old shit. I need to focus on the new shit.'

Deb strolled into the bar, forlornly clutching the scrapbook. She stood at Sean and Mitch's table for a moment before gently placing it in front of Sean. 'This may help with your thingy, the cast of webs. It was put together by my mother.' Deb opened the scrapbook and proudly pointed to a photo. 'That's her.'

'Thanks.' Sean offered a genuinely sympathetic smile.

As Deb walked behind the bar counter, Mitch flicked through several pages with articles about the band. The name "Lynne Sanderson" was underlined in several paragraphs and in captions underneath numerous photos. 'Look. Deb's mother is in all these articles from papers from Port Augusta, Renmark, Whyalla ... And it says Lynne was Personal Assistant to the band during the tour of South Australia in 1975.'

'And Deb said her mother was really close to the band.' Sean whispered though he knew he couldn't be heard by anyone over the screeching from the TV or the _ching_ noises emanating from the pokies room. 'Lynne must've been a groupie back then.'

'Jeez, I hope so.' Mitch grinned.

'Deb doesn't know her father, so maybe one of the guys in the band is her father?'

'Jeez, I hope so.'

'Maybe, it's Cockles or Nigel.' Sean gasped. 'God, maybe her father is Trevor, who Deb has a crush on!'

'Jeez, I hope so.' Mitch raised his head upwards and silently prayed.

'But that is so _sick_.'

'It is, but in a good way – in the way that brings in viewers, ads and bonuses for the producers, which is you and me.'

'Oh God, what have I started?' Sean buried his head in his hands.

'Listen. My boss, Dustin, says that what we've filmed, and what's been posted online, so far is pretty lame. Only about five million people are watching worldwide. He told me quite bluntly, Sean, that we need more viewers. And he's right. Our footage has no sex, no violence, no drugs or even rock 'n' roll. And no-one wants to know anything more about those bloody geriatrics.' He nodded sideways to the band squinting at the TV. 'But now we have something really, _really_ –'

'–cringe-worthy.'

'Exactly.' Mitch extracted his phone. 'Dustin will love this angle. Which old fart muso is Deb's father? Could it be the guitarist who was killed or even murdered in 1975? Or is it Trevor?' Mitch was so excited his hands trembled. 'Maybe, Deb is in love with her own father!'

'Holy _shit_.' Sean again buried his head in his hands.

'Oh man, you could not make this stuff up ... Oh hi, Dustin ...'

# * * * * *

Among the abandoned shops and deserted houses along Railway Terrace was one home that was clearly occupied – and by someone who cared. The quaint garden featured well-pruned rose trellises and was surrounded by a head-high fence offering some sort of privacy from townsfolk who know everything about everybody. The dogs sleeping in the driveway were still alive and no rusted mechanical skeletons dotted the freshly-cut lawn.

Nestled into her grandmother's rocking chair along the back veranda, Deb untied the box she'd found that morning. Glancing through the gate to check that no-one was watching and, more importantly, that Sean wasn't filming, she slowly lifted out one of the four diaries. On the cover were the names "Lynne Sanderson" and "Oscar", as well as a photo of them together from the 1970s.

Deb flicked through several pages with one hand while ruffling the ears of her border collie with the other. Searching for answers, yet apprehensive that she might find them, she skimmed passages of the diary while glancing at photos that were haphazardly glued alongside the text.

One photo showed Oscar backstage practising his guitar. Deb read the words underneath. "Oscar was an awesome guitarist – so gifted and devoted to his music." Deb turned the page to see a photo of Oscar sitting alone in a hotel room drinking tea. She continued reading from the diary. "But Oscar was different, not like the others. He didn't have long hair, and didn't see the need to follow fashion with flares and flowery shirts ..." Deb noticed another picture of Oscar lying on a bunk bed alone, reading a serious book in a tour bus full of groupies, grog and joints. "... The others in the band and music press used to laugh at his choice of lifestyle ..."

In another series of snapshots, Oscar walks past a gaggle of groupies waiting at a stage door, but clearly declining their advances. "... Oscar didn't have girlfriends or like groupies. He didn't even want to have sex with me, but I understood ..." Deb gently moved her fingers over a photo of Oscar and Lynne holding hands while listening to, and meditating with, some sort of spiritual guru from India. "... Oscar didn't take drugs either. He didn't even drink. It was against everything he believed in and we were taught ..."

Another faded print showed Oscar and Robert chatting and drinking tea. "... Instead, Oscar spent most of his spare time with the band's manager, Robert ..." In another photo, Oscar and Lynne were sitting on a bed holding hands and talking earnestly, but like brother and sister. "... I really loved Oscar and he really loved me, but not in any physical way. We had a deep emotional and spiritual attachment. I would've done anything for Oscar – _anything_. I'm so very, very sad that he's gone. But I know, and understood what happened."

Deb turned to a page where the only newspaper article in the diary had been glued. The headline read: " _Cinnamon Sweat Guitarist Suicide at 27. Body Still Not Found._ " Deb involuntarily gasped as she read the words printed by her mother under the article: "But it wasn't suicide. My beloved Oscar was killed by someone in the band."

# * * * * *

Bob and Jack were fiddling about in the kitchen of the Town Hall, the only part of that building not used by the band taking naps and by groupies applying make-up. Dressed in a black suit and top hat, Jack peered into a casket, adjusted the corpse's hair, and slammed the lid. 'At least Cyril died doing what he really loved.'

Bob nodded solemnly. 'He will be missed.'

'By who?'

'No-one.' Bob wished he hadn't shrugged: his arm was still in a sling from umpiring the football on Saturday. 'It's just a saying.'

'Cyril will miss this stupid concert. Instead, he will be up there with John, the only Beatle who really mattered.' Jack raised his head upwards.

Bob softly closed the kitchen door and whispered. 'Do you think they know?'

'Nah, they're all too stupid.'

'Deb might find out.'

'Not bothered if she does.'

'Could be awkward, Jack.'

'I don't care! Now get me the embalming fluid from the fridge, will you?'

# * * * * *

After making another cup of tea, Deb settled back into her rocking chair and reached into the box for another diary. On the cover were the words "Lynne Sanderson" and "Cockles" above a photo of them together from the 1970s.

Again, Deb skimmed through the pages while fondly examining each photo. One of these showed Lynne and Cockles arguing passionately. Deb's mother provided an explanation in the diary. "Cockles was rough, a bad boy, but I adored him, perhaps because he treated me so bad ..." Cockles is seen looking flustered at a table surrounded by accounting books and receipts. "... He didn't look smart, but he knew about money. He knew the band was getting ripped off ..."

Another picture showed Nigel and Trevor chatting with groupies and smoking dope, while Oscar was practising guitar. "... The rest of the band didn't care as long as they had enough money for joints, girls and guitars. As the long, long tour of '75 wore on, Cockles became more and more angry and suspicious about money missing from the sales of tickets and T-shirts ..."

In a series of Polaroids, Cockles is angrily waving bank statements and receipts in the face of Oscar, who looks back innocently. "... Cockles became convinced that Oscar was ripping off the band and taking money while the others were all stoned ..." In another sequence of snapshots, Cockles is pushing and shoving Oscar while Trevor and Nigel are making feeble attempts to pull them apart.

Deb turned the page and continued. "... Several times, I saw Cockles really argue with Oscar and nearly beat him up. Oscar denied everything about the missing money, but Cockles didn't believe him ..." In a larger photo of a backstage party, Cockles is drunk and angry. In another, he is smashing a guitar on the ground. "... One night at Whyalla, after the last gig of the '75 tour, Cockles got really drunk, and was so livid. He was knocking over stuff and smashing guitars, looking to confront Oscar about the missing tour money."

Turning to the back of the diary, Deb unfolded a faded magazine article with the headline: " _Bass Player of Cinnamon Sweat Accused of Killing Guitarist_." Deb grasped the armrests of the rocking chair as words from the article seemed to leap out: "... end of Whyalla concert ... allegedly gagged the guitarist ... top of abandoned mineshaft ... witnesses heard loud voices ... begging ... screaming ... Cockles interviewed by police but cleared ... mineshaft searched but no body found ... Oscar officially listed as disappeared ... possible suicide ... band continues touring for sake of fans ..."

# * * * * *

In its heyday, slate, copper and wheat were shifted to Chittingford Dales from surrounding districts by draught horse and then shunted along a narrow railway on steam engines to the port at Whyalla for the long trip around the coast to the state capital, Adelaide. But the tracks had now buckled beyond repair and become choked with grass and miniature pine trees. The platform at the Chittingford Dales station had long ago crumbled, and the waiting room was now congested with sleepers, fences and other discarded junk. The only things still managing to flourish were the spiders and cockroaches.

Squatting on a suitcase along the platform, Cockles was playing an acoustic guitar and writing a song – neither of which he could do particularly well. Hearing Cockles wailing from inside the pub, Sean and Mitch approached him with camera and microphone primed. Deb stood behind the fence at the back of her garden, which was adjacent to the train station, and listened intently.

Cockles eventually noticed Sean and Mitch. 'Hey, listen to this, guys. I'm writing it for the gig. It's about my stay here ... _Dust bowl, hell hole_. _No place to rock 'n' roll_. _So slow, can't go_. _Have to stay and play the show_.' Cockles frowned as his plectrum fell down a crack. 'It's called "Hell-Hole Blues".'

Sean grinned. 'I'm sure the audience will love it.'

Cockles screwed up his face. 'What rhymes with purgatory?'

Mitch positioned the microphone below Cockles' hairy nostrils. 'Listen. How well did you know Lynne Sanderson?'

'Who?'

'She was the band's Personal Assistant.'

'When?'

'1975.'

'Where?'

'On your bloody tour of South Australia!' Exasperated, Mitch showed Cockles a newspaper clipping from the scrapbook that featured a photo of him with Deb's mother.

Cockles slipped the thick glasses from the top of his bald dome and stared at the picture. 'Never remember a name, mate, but always remember a body.'

'So were you two ..?'

'Were we _what_?'

'You know ...' Mitch waited for an answer before whispering. '... shagging.'

'Was she female?'

'Yes.'

'Have a pulse?'

'Yes!'

'Then, your question, my friend, has been answered.' Cockles found another plectrum and continued. ' _I'm stuck here in a pig sty_. _Wanna cry, but prefer to die_.'

The three men turned towards the creaking sounds of the rusty back gate to Deb's garden.

'Hey, Deb,' said Cockles, 'listen to this ... _Nowhere worse, such a curse. Get me a doctor or a hearse. I've got the Hell-Hole Blues_.'

Deb nodded. 'Nice.'

Cockles peered down the tracks in both directions. 'When does the next train come?'

'Not sure.'

'When did the last train come?'

'1962 ...' Deb turned as Arnold, with his head still bandaged from the previous fall, shuffled past with his walking stick. He was dressed smartly in a railway conductor's uniform. '... but no-one's had the heart to tell Arnold yet.'

Cockles groaned and picked up his guitar. ' _No rain, much pain_. _And I'm never gonna leave by train_ ... What rhymes with "agony"?'

Deb took out a notepad. 'Listen, I'm writing a book about Cinnamon Sweat–'

'How about "anguish"?'

'–and I need to ask you a few questions about Oscar.'

Cockles leant the guitar against his suitcase. 'I can't remember much from the '70s, love. Well, nothing, really. Not even the names of my wives, kids or bandmates.'

'I know. I mean, I remember Mum telling me that. She also said that you and Oscar had arguments.'

'All of us had arguments, love. All the time. We hated each other. Still do.'

'Arguments about money?'

Cockles became noticeably irate. 'I never saw _any_ money from that bloody tour in '75. I ended up flat broke.'

'So, what really happened to Oscar?'

'I assume you read the newspaper stories. He disappeared. Down a mineshaft.'

'But why would he kill himself if he'd stolen all that money from the tour?'

'I'm no detective, love.'

'Did Oscar take money from that tour?'

'I thought so, until I found out that our manager at the time Robert was later arrested for tax evasion and embezzlement.' Cockles glanced to his left and grunted. Shuffling towards him was Gladys clutching a Zimmer frame, her face caked with make-up. She spotted Cockles, waved excitedly, and shuffled more determinedly. Leaning out from the ticket office, Arnold growled.

'Now, if you excuse me, duty calls.' Picking up his guitar and suitcase, Cockles started crooning as he ambled towards Gladys. ' _I'd rather put my body in a casket than sell myself for a gasket_ ...'
CHAPTER SIX

Tuesday

Sean and Mitch stood outside the pub checking their watches, preparing their camera equipment, and mindlessly humming "Hell-Hole Blues". A magpie swooped over them before they shifted to the relative safety of the poop-proof veranda. Somewhere, a dog howled, no doubt also dismayed at being stuck in Chittingford Dales. And Gladys shuffled out of the Town Hall with a broad grin as she adjusted her corset and stockings.

At exactly 9am, the only operable door to the pub was opened from the inside by Madge. 'You boys are early.'

'What else is there to do?'

'Especially, when there's no bloody coffee!'

Madge snarled at Mitch, but spoke to Bob and Jack as they hurriedly entered. 'And here comes the Odd Couple.'

Sean and Mitch slipped into the darts room, location of the weekly grudge match against The Cock Inn from Upper Chittingford, and now temporary storage facility for Cyril's casket.

'God, I'd kill for a skinny decaf.' With trembling hands, Mitch picked up a dart but missed the board completely. Instead, he skewered a photo of a previous landlord of the pub standing with a rifle over a dead kangaroo.

Sean grabbed the dart and yanked it out. 'What were Deb and Cockles talking about? That stuff about Oscar and the mineshaft?'

'I don't know, but it's still old news about sad, pathetic wannabe rock-stars. I want to focus on this love-child angle about Deb.'

Also missing the dartboard, Sean punctured a hole in a team photo of The Dales' last functioning netball team from 1987. 'But we haven't ruled out Cockles yet. He could still be Deb's father.'

'Or it could be Oscar, the dead one. Or Trevor, her crush.'

'But, Mitch, all the band probably slept with Deb's mother, or claim they did. Or did and can't remember what they–'

'I know! DNA!'

'You are kidding ... Aren't you?'

Deb had entered the pub before 9am via a delivery door to the kitchen, and been in the ladies toilets when she'd heard the beginning of the banter between the two caffeine-deprived dart hurlers. She continued listening to Sean and Mitch argue through a rusty air vent in the paper-thin wall.

'No, I'm not kidding. I am telling you, Sean, DNA is the only way to find out Deb's father. And that is the crux of the show. Let's go find Nigel and Trevor.'

'Can't I at least stay until I hit the dartboard?'

'No. C'mon.'

Deb heard doors slam and Cyril's casket tumble as Sean and Mitch scurried out of the pub. She bolted the door to the toilets and sat inside a cubicle. From the same box, she took out a third diary – this one with the names "Lynne Sanderson" and "Nigel" on the cover and, again, a picture of the two of them taken sometime during the 1970s.

Deb stopped flicking through the pages when she noticed a photo of Nigel grinning as he was being mobbed by groupies outside a hotel. She skimmed through the words on the accompanying page. "Nigel liked to be called Lover Lips. He pretends it's what the fans called him, but he made the name up himself ..." Another photo showed Nigel preening himself in front of the mirror. "... He was arrogant beyond belief, but adored by almost every female ..." The next page has a snapshot of Lynne snuggling up to Nigel on the tour bus. "... And how could I not adore him too? I was so attracted by his confidence. He had a presence and charisma that was utterly irresistible. I knew he could never be faithful to me, but I didn't care. I loved him ..."

In another series of pictures, Nigel is violently arguing with band members at a rehearsal. "... But Nigel had a nasty streak, an angry violent side to him if he didn't get his way. He did normally get what he wanted, but not from Oscar ..." Backstage, Nigel is arguing strongly with Oscar while yelling and pointing at a piece of paper. "... They argued over lyrics all the time, but on that tour of '75 the arguments were much more violent, because they fought over royalties for their biggest hit "My Tongue in Your Cheek"..."

A Polaroid snapshot shows Nigel clutching a cheque and squabbling with Oscar. "... Nigel said he wrote the song, but Oscar claimed that he did. In reality, they both wrote it and should've shared the royalties, or whatever it's called, but they wouldn't ..." Deb paused as she heard Madge groan while lifting Cyril's casket off the ground. "... It all came to a head in Whyalla, on the last gig of that tour. While investigating how Oscar had disappeared, the police found a knife in Nigel's guitar case. On it was blood. They analysed the blood. It was Oscar's. But the police couldn't stick anything on Nigel. Robert, the manager, somehow kept it all quiet and out of the papers."

Deb gasped. 'Flipping _heck_.'

# * * * * *

Leaning against The Big Turnip, Nigel was also writing a song with an acoustic guitar. Deb was about to approach him but scurried back into her shop next door when she noticed Sean and Mitch striding towards the band's lead singer with their camera and microphone.

Nigel appreciatively inhaled on a filter-less cigarette. 'What do you think of this, guys?' He delicately placed the stub on a curb and started singing and strumming. ' _Hell hole, no soul_. _Can't play my rock 'n roll_ ... _So bad, and sad_. _The sort of place to drive me mad_ ... It's called "Shit-Hole Blues".'

Sean grinned. 'Kind of catchy.'

'I'm going to play it solo at the gig. I want to surprise the others.'

'I'm sure they will be.'

Nigel stared at a notepad next to the cigarette butt. 'What rhymes with "pumpkin"?'

'Bumpkin?' Delighted with Sean's suggestion, Nigel fumbled for a pen.

Mitch moved the microphone near the lead singer's nose-ring and indicated for Sean to start filming. 'Are you also playing guitar at the gig?'

Nigel shrugged. 'Have to. We forgot to replace Oscar. Bit of an oversight by Boyd, our manager.'

'On the 1975 tour of South Australia, were you lovers with a woman called Lynne Sanderson?'

'Was she a looker?'

'Yes.'

'Then, of course, we were lovers. I slept with hundreds of women, but couldn't remember any of them until my fourth marriage in '93.'

Mitch glanced at Nigel's cigarette still smouldering on the curb. 'Can I have a fag?'

Nigel indicated towards a pack on the ground. 'Sure, help yourself ... _It looks like a pumpkin and was built by a bumpkin_ ...'

As Nigel continued crooning and plucking, Mitch furtively snatched Nigel's half-finished cigarette from the curb, flicked off the ash, and hastily placed it in a plastic bag inside his top pocket.

'Sean and I have to go. Bye,' said Mitch abruptly.

But Nigel wasn't paying any attention. '... _It's nothing like a turnip, or a bloody parsnip ..._ '

Noticing Sean and Mitch retreating, Deb strode out from her shop where she'd been listening attentively. She squatted on the curb opposite Nigel. 'It sounds a little familiar.'

Nigel screwed up his face. 'Really? Dylan? The Stones?'

'Look, I'm doing a book about the band, and need to ask you some questions.'

'I don't know who I slept with.'

'I don't care about that.' Deb paused. 'I want to know about Oscar.'

'I didn't sleep with him either. Although you never know. The '70s were crazy. And Oscar was a little different.'

'Did you have arguments with Oscar about lyrics and royalties?'

'Of course. All songwriters do.' Nigel couldn't avoid raising his voice. 'Always have. Always will.'

'To the point where one stabs the other?'

Nigel paused and shrugged. 'I wouldn't know.'

'It was all in my Mum's diary. A knife. Your bag. His blood. All kept quiet.'

'Did your mother also know that neither Oscar nor me own "My Tongue in Your Cheek"? Neither of us ever collected any royalties for our biggest hit.'

'Then who did?'

'The same person whose fingerprints were on the handle of that knife, who planted the knife in my guitar case, and kept it all so quiet with the police.' Nigel reached to the curb for his cigarette, and frowned.

# * * * * *

In the midst of another heated argument, Sean was again angrily tossing darts at the board in the pub. Most of the time, however, he missed and punctured the heads of local football and lawn bowls teams featured in a series of photographs from the 1980s. 'But, Jesus, Mitch, _that_ is the story, surely! Stabbing. Blood. Missing guitarist. Jealously. And what's this shit about her mother's diary?'

'I don't bloody know! And I don't bloody care!' Mitch flung a dart into the general direction of the board but it pierced the footy tipping competition ladder from 1997. 'We are still going ahead with the angle I discussed before. Is Deb the love-child of Oscar, the dead guitarist? Or does she lust after Trevor, her own father?'

'But–'

'C'mon.'

Sean reluctantly followed Mitch as he trudged from the darts room and into the front bar. Jack, Bob and Dave were staring at the TV while Madge was serving no-one behind the counter. On the jukebox, "I Hope You Die Before I Get Old" was playing as Nigel, Cockles and Trevor were humming along and trying to remember the words.

'OK, ready?'

Nodding unhappily, Sean sat at the only spare table and opened his daypack. Inside, was the small plastic pouch with Nigel's cigarette butt, as well as three other larger empty plastic bags.

Mitch approached the jukebox on which three empty glasses were stacked. 'Hey guys, let me buy you a beer.'

Still staring at the jukebox, the three band members spoke over the top of each other.

'Cheers.'

'When's the chorus start?'

'Make it a pint, mate.'

'What the hell are you singing in that bit?'

'Draught for me.'

'It's "red convertible", not "bread and vegetables"!'

As the band continued arguing about how to sing and play one of their major hits, Mitch picked up their three empty glasses. He glanced around guiltily as Madge glared back at him. 'Three of whatever they're drinking, thanks Madge. And toasties all round for the lads.'

Again, Nigel, Cockles and Trevor responded haphazardly without turning around.

'No tomato.'

'What's that line?'

'Extra cheese.'

'It's "chick half my age", not "chicken laugh on stage"!'

'And skip the ham this time.'

As Madge turned to squash as many plastic-wrapped toasties as she could into the microwave, Mitch moved the three empty glasses onto Sean's table. While Sean opened the daypack at his feet and gently placed the glasses into the three separate plastic bags, Mitch plonked some money on the bar counter.

But Madge spun around and growled as a series of loud and recognisable clinking noises came from Sean's daypack as he picked it up.

# * * * * *

The moment Deb turned the sign on the door of her shop to "Closed", she started sobbing. She again flicked through the diary about Oscar and stared at her mother's words: "But it wasn't suicide".

Deb closed her eyes and recalled what she'd heard from Cockles: "I thought so until I found out that our manager at the time Robert was later arrested for tax evasion and embezzlement".

And the comment from Nigel: "The same person whose fingerprints were on the handle of that knife, who planted the knife in my guitar case, and kept it all so quiet with the police".

Deb once more stared at the words scrawled under the newspaper article in the diary about Oscar: "My beloved Oscar was killed by someone in the band".

Deb wiped her eyes and whispered to herself. 'But, Mum, by who?'

She tentatively picked up the fourth volume of her mother's diaries. Similarly, the names "Lynne Sanderson" and "Trevor" were printed on the cover under a photo of them together at a gig from the '70s. Deb gazed lovingly at Trevor's picture and began sobbing again. 'God, don't let it be you.'

Again, Deb flicked through the diary, reading her mother's words and gazing at the photos. One showed Trevor and Lynne sitting on a bed together. "Trevor was always my favourite. Sweet, innocent, genuine. And the best lover I've ever had. So sincere, passionate, giving ..." In another picture, Trevor is angrily berating an unidentified man. "... But Trevor got jealous, very jealous, which was sweet at times, but not always. When the evil green monster reared its ugly head, Trevor often lost control ..."

Trevor is berating Oscar who is holding hands with Lynne. "... During that long tour in '75, I became very close friends with each member of the band. But none of the others knew that I'd become anything more than the band's Personal Assistant. That is, until Trevor saw Oscar and me together about one week before the end of the tour ..." In a series of snapshots, Trevor is hurtling furniture and screaming at Oscar. "... But it was all platonic, of course, because Oscar wasn't interested in me in that way. But Trevor went into a flying rage, throwing stuff all over the place. He was out of control, threatening to kill Oscar ..."

Trevor is talking to the road crew and evidently ignoring Oscar. "... At the time, I believed Trevor might've killed Oscar, but Trevor soon calmed down – sort of – and agreed to carry on with the tour. But Trevor wouldn't talk to Oscar again until a few days before the tour ended in Whyalla ..." Trevor is sneering at the camera. "... Trevor didn't talk to me either, so I went back to Oscar. He needed me anyway because he'd become ill. The stress of the tour was taking its toll ..."

Deb turned a page to see a photo of Oscar, clearly pale and skeletal. "... By the final gig at Whyalla, Oscar could barely stand up. He looked like death on two legs ..." In a series of furtively-taken and out-of-focus snapshots, Trevor is silently pouring powder into Oscar's tea and encouraging him to drink it, which Oscar does. "... Then, I found out that for the final few days of the tour Trevor had been putting something in Oscar's herbal tea. Trevor told Oscar it was good for his health and would make him feel alive ..."

Deb took several deep breaths before reading aloud the final words in her mother's diary. "... But the powder didn't make Oscar feel alive at all. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Completely. And Trevor knew what he was doing."

# * * * * *

Madge continued growling as the contents of Sean's daypack persistently clinked. He sat back down, grinned contritely, and gulped incessantly, until Madge turned towards the multiple ping sounds from the microwave.

Mitch whispered to Sean. 'How the hell are we going to get these tested for DNA out here anyway?'

'Never mind that, you idiot! Which glass belongs to who?'

'Shit!'

Sean smirked. 'We could collect that as DNA samples.'

'What?'

Without warning, Madge appeared and wiped their table. 'Or you could try collecting the band's half-eaten toasties ...'

'... or urine.' Arnold shuffled past with his walking stick.

'... or blood.' Dave glared at Sean from a distance.

With negligible shame, Mitch reached into the daypack at Sean's feet and extracted the three plastic bags, each holding one glass. 'You don't want to know what we ..?'

Madge shook her head several times. 'Long ago, I gave up trying to understand city folk.' She carried the three bags with the glasses to the counter.

Mitch continued whispering to Sean. 'What if we get DNA samples from their toothbrushes?'

'I don't think the band use them. Have you smelt their breath?'

'How about their hairbrushes?'

Sean shrugged. 'They don't have much on top to spare, but we'll have to use that. I don't fancy the other options. And we'll need a DNA sample from Deb, too.' He reached into his daypack and showed Mitch a pair of scissors. 'And we haven't even talked to Trevor yet, so let's start with him.'

# * * * * *

Mitch scurried along Railway Terrace carrying the daypack with the scissors as Sean sluggishly followed with the video camera and microphone. While anxiously searching for Trevor, they passed several of the town's residents. Sean instinctively filmed them, although he knew the footage would be rushed and, perhaps, out of focus.

He recorded Bob and Jack toiling assiduously over a series of hanging baskets in the front of their renovated Lutheran church – the only home, other than Deb's, that looked inhabited and habitable.

Next, Sean videoed Cockles being eagerly pursued by Gladys clutching her Zimmer frame. 'No more! Please, Gladys. It's not the '70s anymore!' They were both being followed by Arnold jealously brandishing his walking stick.

And, finally, Sean filmed Dave transferring the gasket from the engine of his campervan to the band's vehicle. Sean stopped to remonstrate with Dave, but Mitch forced him to continue. 'C'mon. We've got to find Trevor.'

Frantically peering in all directions from outside the abandoned Blacksmith's, Sean and Mitch soon spotted Deb at the intersection, resting on the town's only bench. Next to her, Trevor was staring fretfully down both roads with his arm and thumb outstretched. By his side, was a suitcase with a pair of underpants caught in the zip.

Sean and Mitch sprinted towards them; the latter in a panic, desperate not to miss any of their conversation. But Trevor and Deb continued chatting to each other while completely ignoring Mitch, Sean and their recording equipment.

Trevor shrugged. '... And, yeah, I threatened to kill Oscar a few times.'

'Wha-what?' Mitch was panting heavily.

'We all did.'

'Who did?'

'Oscar drove us mad.'

'Why?' Mitch breathlessly swivelled his head between Deb, who silently took notes, and Trevor, who didn't even acknowledge Mitch's presence.

'You know, Deb, although Oscar was a musical genius, he was not really one of the boys. Neither was our manager at the time, Robert. If you know what I mean.'

'No, I do not.'

'And Oscar was bedding your mother.'

'So Oscar must be–'

'And I really loved your mother.'

'I know ...' Deb nodded solemnly.

'I didn't.' Mitch glanced at Sean in desperation.

'... and that's why I don't and can't love you in the same way anymore.'

'Shit!'

'Never mind.' Trevor couldn't fake any semblance of sincerity.

Deb paused. 'But what about the poison in his tea?'

'Poison?' squeaked Mitch again. 'What poison?'

'I gave Oscar some herbal stuff to put in his tea. But I was drinking it too, and it did me no harm.'

Deb flicked over a page of her notepad. 'Where did you get this herbal tea stuff?'

'From Robert, our manager. Oscar spent all his spare time with Robert and trusted him. I didn't trust Robert, but I drank anything anyone ever offered me ... Is that all clear?'

'Yep.'

'What? No!' Mitch watched helplessly as Deb stood and left.

Trevor started tapping the side of his suitcase and singing. 'Tumbleweed, inbreed. Misery is guaranteed ... It's called–'

'We know what it's bloody called!' Mitch got up angrily.

'Hopeless cause, stupid laws ... They make me crazy just because ...'

As Trevor continued warbling, Sean furtively removed the pair of scissors from his daypack and reached around to the back of Trevor.

'... The town's adverse, and so perverse. Time to sing another verse ...'

A moment later, Sean opened his jaw and gasped. Behind Trevor's back, Sean dangled the clump of grey hair that once served as Trevor's ponytail. Mitch indicated that he and Sean should scamper immediately.

'... I've got the hell-hole, dust-bowl, no-place-to-rock-n-roll, blues ...'

# * * * * *

Without any assistance from the "road crew" or "support band", the three members of Cinnamon Sweat managed to eventually set up their limited stage gear in the middle of the bowling green for a rehearsal. This took about three hours longer than expected because of their collective ailments, which included arthritis, sciatica and irritable bowel syndrome. Cockles and Trevor had to share an amplifier because the other didn't function. And there was now only a single microphone, because the extra one had fallen off the band's van when Boyd slammed into possums and careered over potholes. Most of Trevor's drums had also disappeared from storage at the Town Hall, so it now resembled a beginner's kit from the children's section of a department store.

As Sean commenced filming, he was amazed how many people he'd never seen before suddenly appeared from nowhere. He approached Boyd. 'How is the band going to fill in ninety minutes for the gig tomorrow night?'

'They'll play their first–'

'–and only–'

'–album, I suppose, twice.'

'With long guitar solos?'

Trevor interrupted. 'But we don't have a guitarist.'

Deb pointed to the older groupies standing around in awe of Trevor and his diminished drum kit. 'What about one those, those things from the support band filling in?'

Boyd turned towards Sean. 'Um ...'

'I knew they weren't!' As Deb stormed off, she nearly dislodged the backstage curtain.

Trevor held up his hands. 'And I won't be doing any drum solos with my arthritis.'

Sean moved his camera back towards Boyd. 'What about an encore?'

'Will they get one?' Mitch sniggered.

Boyd shrugged. 'If that does happen, they'll have to play some songs for a third time.'

'I've written a song I want to play solo,' said Nigel.

'So have I!' Cockles was equally excited.

'Me too!' added the arthritic drummer.

'Shit!' They all turned to Mitch, who was reading a text message on his phone. He grabbed Sean's arm, moved away to a corner of the green, and whispered. 'Dusty says that Twitter is going berserk. People want to know which of the band is Deb's father.'

Deb stomped back towards Sean and Mitch. 'If you wanted to know that, you could've asked me!' She then flounced away again.

Mitch frantically followed her. 'I'm asking now ... Please, Deb! ... Who is it?' With the microphone attached to Sean's camera, Mitch knew he couldn't move too far too quickly, so he turned to Trevor. 'Are you Deb's father?'

'Nah, I was impotent for most of the '70s. Drug-induced.'

'Was it you?' Mitch moved the microphone towards Nigel.

'I remember having a vasectomy around then.' Nigel turned to Cockles. 'And he went through a phase then as a transsexual.'

'Did I?'

'That's why we called you Cock-less.'

Cockles nodded. 'Aaahhh, now I get it.'

Gladys leered and winked as she shuffled past. 'I happen to know that's not true now!'

Tangled together electronically, Sean and Mitch moved in tandem to Deb, who was still seething. 'So is your father the other one? The one who killed himself?'

Deb glowered at Mitch. 'Oscar did not kill himself. And while trying to dig up rubbish about my father you missed the big story.'

Mitch gulped. 'What big story?'

Deb expounded with outstretched arms. 'A story loaded with everything. Murder, drugs, suicide, deceit and hanging baskets.'

Mitch glanced skywards and mouthed "thank you".

'And don't pretend you believe in God!' Deb snatched the microphone from Mitch and swivelled to face Sean's video camera.

'So,' said Mitch, 'please tell us who your father is?'

Deb glanced at the camera again and gulped.

# * * * * *

Across Australia – and, increasingly, in dozens of other countries with subtitles – people had been watching the last few days in their entirety live online through the RealiTV website and on TV channels which had bought rights to the broadcast. Hundreds of fans worldwide had set up a myriad of Facebook and Twitter pages in various languages, and thousands more had illegally uploaded selected clips from the webcast on to YouTube.

One of these fanatics was Jed from Farrell Flat, not far away in South Australia. He was stuck at home watching another idiotic cooking program on TV with his dreary parents. But like all modern-day kids, Jed's hand and eyes were glued to his phone. 'Yeah. Who is the father? Tell us, Deb!'

Jed's parents gazed at him uncomprehendingly as he re-tweeted.

# * * * * *

Sean studied his phone and whispered to Mitch. 'The tweets are flooding in!'

Mitch risked pushing Deb a little harder. 'And please tell us also what happened to Oscar?'

# * * * * *

In Albury-Wodonga, a twin town straddling the border between Victoria and New South Wales, several mid-level clerks at the Australian Taxation Office piled into the canteen to buy subsidised burgers and to yell at a computer screen.

'What happened to Deb?'

'Was Oscar murdered?'

'Tell us!'

'C'mon!'

# * * * * *

Sean continued to scroll down his phone. 'And, Mitch, the tweets are getting angrier.'

Deb took a deep breath and faced the video camera. 'All will be revealed at the gig tomorrow night.'

Mitch's phone immediately rang. He checked the ID and whispered to Sean. 'Shit, it's the boss.' Mitch coughed several times and put on his everything's-under-control voice. 'Hi, Dusty. I'm–'

'Listen, Mitch. I'm sending two extra cameramen with quality recording gear right now. They'll drive overnight to wherever the hell you are. Our webcast – "Deb & The Sweat" – is going ultra-mega-viral across every country on the planet, like nothing else since that film clip of that python eating that panda. And we've syndicated the rights to hundreds of TV channels from Mongolia to Mesopotamia.'

'I don't think that's actually a–'

'So, we're going to stream the concert by the old farts and Deb's revelations live all night tomorrow. Mitch, this is like MTV and Big Brother and those idiotic Australian Idol shows all combined into one. And with as much cringiness as people can stand.'
CHAPTER SEVEN

Wednesday

As the sun dipped below the unexpectedly gloomy clouds hovering above the dusty landscape, Sean led the two cameramen from RealiTV to the stage set up on the bowling green. The string of lights dangling overhead created an eerie glow as Deb's favourite "Best of the '70s" record was being blasted through speakers attached to a turntable in her shop. A tatty black curtain strung between two light poles served as the "backstage" area.

Outside the bowling club shed, Madge was busily selling toasted sandwiches at inflated prices to a crowd that had somehow tripled the town's population. Nearby, Dave was peddling warm beer from a tubful of ice, and Cyril was inside his casket propping up part of the drum kit.

The toilets at the back had been converted into the "dressing room". Inside, the band was dressed in the same sort of outfits they wore when they arrived several days ago: Trevor in black heavy-metal gear, Nigel dressed as a punk, and Cockles donned with flamboyant disco-era flares and florals.

Trevor was preening himself in front of the greasy mirror and combing his hair, but looking rather confused. Inside the only cubicle, Cockles was practising his new song on an unplugged electric guitar. 'Dust bowl, hell hole ... No place to rock 'n' roll. So slow, can't go ... But have to stay and play the show.'

'That does sound a tad familiar,' said Nigel, as he tried yanking on a pair of leather trousers three sizes too small.

Just outside, Sean shuddered as he strode past a number of older women all tarted up and queuing outside the band's "dressing room".

With trousers around his ankles, Nigel turned towards the door as it clunked. He spread out his arms, and grinned inanely. 'Come to Papa, little lady ... Oh, I thought you were a groupie.'

Sean closed his handy-cam. 'I think you might be glad it was me.'

Nigel banged on the cubicle door. 'Cockles. Stop bloody playing in there. I need a pee!'

Sean immediately checked his surroundings, stepped outside to examine the wall, and came back in. 'You do realise that you guys are in the ladies' toilet?'

'Oh.' Nigel peered around. 'That would explain the lack of urinal.'

'... and all the women lined up outside.' Sean sniggered.

Mitch burst into the "dressing room" and stared at Nigel with his bare legs, now crossed a little impatiently. 'The band is on stage in five minutes!' He turned to Sean. 'Have you seen Deb?'

'No.'

'God, where is she?'

'I don't know. I haven't seen her since this morning.'

Mitch paused as he realised they were in the ladies. 'But Deb is the star of the show!'

'But I thought we were the–!' shouted Cockles through the cubicle door.

'Ha!' Mitch stormed out of the "dressing room" and entered the "backstage" area, where the "road crew" and "support band" were doing nothing, and Bob and Jack were trying to look serious as the self-appointed "security officers".

Mitch gulped as he scrolled through the latest series of tweets on his phone.

Get on with it, you idiots. Where's Deb?

C'mon you bastards. Put Deb on. She rocks!

Who the bloody hell is Deb's father? We wanna know!

We don't wanna see the old farts play. They're ugly and boring and crap.

Deb, tell us what happened to Oscar! We have to know! Now!!

Mitch clicked a few keys on his phone and started viewing the live webcast on the RealiTV website. Noticing a camera angle that now included him, he sneered at Sean, who was approaching with his video camera. 'Where the frigging hell is Deb?'

'I've asked around.' Sean looked fearful. 'And no-one's seen her all day.'

Mitch silently screamed an obscenity as the band and their manager strolled into the "backstage" area.

'It's time to start the gig.' Boyd peered around anxiously. 'Where's Deb?'

'I don't frigging know!' Mitch wished the "backstage" had a wall he could thump.

'Do you think something's happened to her?' Sean whispered behind his hand to ensure he wasn't recorded.

'Do you?' Mitch swallowed nothing hard.

Sean and Mitch glanced uneasily at each other, and then glared menacingly at the three band members, who grinned back.

Boyd checked his watch. 'OK, you guys get on stage now before the crowd ...' He gazed through a slit in the black curtains and groaned at the sparseness of the gathering. 'Just bloody get out there!'

From behind the black curtain, the band sauntered on to the middle of the bowling green and acknowledged the sporadic applause from the crowd, which had somehow doubled in size within seconds. Nigel, with a guitar slung around his neck, tested that the single microphone was working. Trevor checked his equipment with the most thunderous drum roll he could manage on his beginners'-sized set. And Cockles thumped a few strings on his bass guitar with a chubby thumb. Madge subdued the string of lights drooping above the makeshift stage, and Dave picked up the needle from the turntable in Deb's shop.

Nigel stretched out his arms. 'Hello, Chittingford Dales!'

'We're from Upper Chittingford, you wanker!' The rest of the twenty-five people in the crowd jeered in agreement.

'Oh. Um, anyway, it's so great to be back here after, er, so long. Here's a song about, um ...' Nigel glanced at the other two, who shrugged. 'Actually, I forgot what it's about.' He turned to the drummer.

Trevor raised his drumsticks high and boisterously counted in the song. 'One ... Two ... One, two, three ...'

At that exact moment, the heavens opened and sheets of rain slanted across the stage. Their antiquated electrical equipment immediately fizzled before completely short-circuiting, while the microphone blew over and their limited array of stage lights exploded. Almost instantly, the crowd dispersed, and within seconds all that was left on the flooded lawn were the three band members, each soaking wet in the complete darkness as rain continued to pelt and the wind howled even more viciously.

'... four.'

Some of the crowd crawled back to wherever they'd come from, but about fifteen rushed through the torrential rain to the only building with any lights: the pub.

'Have you seen Deb?!' Mitch had to shout above the deluge to Sean, who protected the handy-cam under his shirt.

'No idea where she is.'

They, and the two extra cameramen with their sophisticated and waterproof equipment, took refuge under the veranda before realising the pub was closed; the only functioning door was bolted tight.

# * * * * *

In a Welsh mining village with an unpronounceable name of twenty-three letters, a bunch of rugby players yelled at a TV screen in a pub.

'Go to the Town Hall, ya git!'

'The hall is bloody open!'

'Go there, you plonker!'

'But where's Deb?'

'And where is the freaking band?'

# * * * * *

Mitch's instinctive response to any crisis was to check his phone. He was relieved to scroll through some helpful, unaggressive tweets that urged him and the others in the crowd to shift to the Town Hall. 'Over there!' he roared above the persistent wail of the wind and rain. 'C'mon!'

The crowd obediently followed Mitch as he tried dodging the mammoth puddles that had formed at the intersection. They almost bowled over Gladys clutching her Zimmer frame and Arnold grasping his walking stick.

# * * * * *

In Pamu, a dreary fishing town south of the Estonian capital, a group of women rugged up against a Baltic blizzard huddled outside the window of a shop selling imported TVs, and shrieked.

'Yes. Good.'

'To the hall! Hurry!'

'But find Deb! You must find Deb!'

'Where is the old fart band?'

# * * * * *

The crowd scuttled through the torrent and poured into the Town Hall. In the claustrophobic foyer area, Mitch waited until Sean and the two cameramen had dashed inside. Mitch then stared restlessly at the flooded bowling green, where the black curtains were swinging from the top of a light pole, and the drums trundled across the lawn. 'Trevor! ... Nigel! ... Cockles! ... Deb, are you there?! ... Anyone?'

Standing smug and dry at the bar counter inside the Town Hall, Madge observed the crowd hustling in, each trying to wring the rain from their hair and clothes. The mattresses, blankets and pillows had been put aside, and the undersized stage was now set up with four stools, three acoustic guitars and some minor percussion instruments. As the crowd quickly gave up trying to dry out, they noticed the rows of plastic seats facing the stage and eagerly sat down.

While Sean and the two cameramen set up their recording equipment, Mitch anxiously peered around the hall. Sean caught his eye and shook his head.

# * * * * *

With collective arthritis, sciatica and irritable bowel syndrome, the band shuffled to the veranda of the pub before realising it was closed. They stopped squabbling among themselves for a moment when they heard sounds somehow piercing the squall. It wasn't the ping of Madge's microwave, or a ding from Dave whacking an engine, or the ching noises of locals losing at the pokies – or even the skwarrrk of the ubiquitous and diarrheal magpies. Eventually, the noise became familiar to the three men; words they hadn't heard chanted for decades, if ever.

'Cinnamon Sweat! Cinnamon Sweat!'

They twisted around in several directions before realising the chants emanated from the Town Hall. Rushing as fast as any sodden men with middle-aged infirmities could possibly move, they almost bowled over Gladys and Arnold, both staggering in knee-deep puddles without their respective frame or stick. As the band approached the hall, they also heard other chants that made no immediate sense to them.

'Semens Wet! Semens Wet!'

# * * * * *

In the kitchen of the "For Bidding Settee" restaurant, located within a few hundred metres of the most famous tourist attraction in Beijing, staff ceased chopping chickens' feet and screamed at the laptop on a table. 'Sin-mon Sweat! Semens Wet! Sin-mon Sweat! Semens Wet!'

# * * * * *

Nigel, Cockles and Trevor stumbled into the Town Hall as the audience cheered. The three of them noticed the stage, picked up their instruments, and perched themselves unsteadily onto the stools. Bob and Jack moved to the side of the stage to continue their roles as "security officers", while Dave sold more beer and Madge maintained a roaring trade in overpriced toasties.

Mitch dashed into the hall again and mouthed the question 'Deb?' to Sean, who shook his head. Mitch scrolled through the latest tweets:

Who killed Deb? Where is she? We love Deb!

Deb is the best thing about your stupid program!

If you don't find Deb, we will kill you!

Find Deb or you will die!!

As Nigel raised his arms, green liquid dripped from his dyed hair. 'Hello, Upper Chittingford.' He was delighted with the audience's positive response. 'How many of you bought our first album "Thanks for the Mammaries"?'

The crowd became immediately silent.

'Before the band starts, perhaps I can answer a few questions.' Deb strolled towards the microphone on the stage. Instantly, the audience stood as one and cheered. Sean and Mitch turned to each other with disbelief and relief.

# * * * * *

In a café along the rocky highlands of Yemen, a bunch of young men carrying ceremonial daggers and chewing the hallucinogenic qat leaf stopped plotting the overthrow of their government and yelled at the TV screen.

'We love Deb!'

'We will kill anyone who touches Deb!'

'Deb for President of Yemen!'

# * * * * *

Deb continued with a confidence that astounded Sean and Mitch. 'The producers of this webcast-thingy were obsessed with something that doesn't matter even to me – and should never ever matter at all to anyone else. Something I could've answered if only they'd simply asked me.' Deb glared at Mitch, who decided to look sheepish and turn away. 'My father is not Nigel ...'

# * * * * *

'Not Nigel?' Deep inside a dingy bar along a seedy section of the port in Naples, Mario spluttered his café latte as he read the subtitles across the TV screen. 'I thought her father had to be Nigel!' He gesticulated towards his bodyguard who was polishing a pistol.

'Nah, boss. Nigel is too fat.'

# * * * * *

The crowd, which had somehow quadrupled within minutes, was spellbound as Deb continued. 'My father is not Cockles ...'

# * * * * *

In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, a cluster of Japanese whalers squatted around a table loaded with wads of yen. Staring at a laptop, they continued shouting odds, exchanging money, and sneering.

'Who wants a father called Cockles?'

'Too ugly!'

'I'll give you two to one that it's Trevor.'

# * * * * *

A group of Inuit inside an igloo near Barrow along the Arctic Circle groaned as Deb continued on their iPads. '... and is not Trevor. Or Oscar.'

# * * * * *

Deb had to raise her voice above the murmurs and gasps from the crowd. 'My father was an American soldier working in Perth.' She turned to the three members of the band. 'You see, during the tour of '75, my mother Lynne – who you all knew so well – thought she was pregnant. Then, she found out she couldn't actually have children. So, she adopted me – as well as my sisters, Brenda and Gail, who both live in Adelaide. And my brother, Dave.'

Mitch shook his head with disappointment and frustration as Sean smiled nervously at Dave.

'In fact, I've never met my father or biological mother. But the main story here is not my father, but Oscar, the original guitarist of Cinnamon Sweat. A man who was different, who loved poetry but didn't want groupies. During the tour of 1975, Oscar fell in love ...' Deb paused, unsure about the crowd's reaction. '... with the band's manager, Robert.'

The crowd couldn't decide if it wanted to gasp in shock or shriek with surprise. Those who dared to speak were firmly told to shut up so they could all hear Deb continue. 'Oscar was a genius, but spurned and ostracised by the band, and by almost all of its fans. You have to remember that in the 1970s Elton John had to pretend he was straight, and even marry a woman. These days, no-one cares, and Elton and his boyfriend are in women's magazines with their adopted children. But Oscar could not be open about his sexuality, so he disappeared after the final gig of the '75 tour at Whyalla. The police believed he'd committed suicide, although no body or note was ever found. Many in the media claimed that Oscar had been murdered ...'

# * * * * *

'My God!'

Along a corridor within the sacred confines of The Vatican, three white-frocked cardinals whispered to each other.

'Murdered?'

'How can that be?'

They were mesmerised as Deb continued in subtitles on their phones. '... by someone in the band.'

They bowed reverently as The Pope approached them and murmured. 'It must be Nigel. But I'll give you three to one on Trevor.'

# * * * * *

As Deb continued to explain each possibility, two of the band members gazed at the third with suspicion. 'In a diary, my mother wrote that Trevor had poisoned Oscar. She also said that Cockles had pushed Oscar down a mineshaft. And she believed Oscar had been stabbed by Nigel.'

# * * * * *

'C'mon.' During a late-night meeting of the United Nations General Assembly about the civil war in Syria, the President of the United States turned up his headphones and mumbled to himself. 'Tell me who did it.'

# * * * * *

'You see, each member of the band blamed Robert, their manager, for what happened to Oscar. But I asked the right questions of the right people – and their answers were all recorded on the "Deb & The Sweat" webcast-thingy.' She again glared at Mitch, who once more looked sheepish and turned away. 'And I realised that the band's manager, Robert, could never have killed Oscar, because Robert also loved Oscar.'

The crowd collectively inhaled.

'And Oscar could not have been murdered anyway because he is ... still alive.'

They gasped even more loudly.

'And, in fact, Oscar is watching this show ...'

The audience could not inhale or gasp any more.

'... from right here in this room!'

Deb had to yell as the crowd collectively exhaled and began prattling among themselves. 'My mother lied in her diaries about Oscar, because she wanted to keep the police and media away from the truth. Oscar and Robert wanted to escape the discrimination and persecution and homophobia rampant in the 1970s, particularly for someone in a rock band. My mother also wanted to protect Robert, so she helped him settle in a small country town. Oscar and Robert changed their appearances, but Robert did not change his name.' Deb turned towards the side of the stage. 'Did you?'

The jaws of Dave, Arnold, Gladys and Madge dropped as Deb smiled at Bob. And the crowd were shocked into silence as Deb pointed behind her. 'And I placed an extra guitar there, because I thought Oscar might like to join the band.'

The crowd erupted as Jack ambled onto the stage. The other three members of the band stood, clearly shocked but keen to shake his hand. Nigel indicated for Jack to pick up the spare guitar and sit on the empty stool. As one, Dave, Arnold, Gladys and Madge swivelled from Bob's direction and began staring open-mouthed at Jack.

Nigel had to holler above the uproar reverberating around the Town Hall. 'We'll start with a song Oscar ...' The lead singer grinned. '... I mean, Jack, wrote as the title track for our second album, which we recorded but never released ...'

# * * * * *

On the 25th floor of an office block in North Melbourne, several executives from "HasBeen Records" were assembled around a massive conference table and staring at a computer screen. The oldest and fattest of the group stood and bellowed. 'Get over there pronto, and sign that band for that second album!'

Two eager record executives with Armani suits dashed out of the room.

# * * * * *

'... and don't forget that tonight's gig is being recorded for a DVD.'

# * * * * *

On the deck of a luxury yacht bobbing along the Sydney Harbour, a handful of executives from "NostalGick Films" were watching the webcast on their iPads. The tallest and scariest of them leant over and yelled. 'Get over there now, and sign them up for rights to that DVD!'

Two ambitious young film directors jumped into an attached boat and rowed vigorously.

# * * * * *

Nigel had to pause so the crowd could regain some composure. 'Jack wrote this song in the '70s about pathetic old wannabes and has-beens still strutting around on stage at that time as if they were still teenagers.' He glanced at Jack. 'I changed the words a little so the song is now about us. I'm sure you can remember how to play it.' Jack nodded.

We're too old to grow more hair, and too lazy to even care,

And I'm too fat to wear my shorts, and my ugly face is full of warts,

We should get off the stage and act our age,

Get a proper job with a regular wage,

Cos we're too fat to rock 'n' roll,

Ugly, bald and far too old,

Burgers 'n' booze have taken their toll,

We're too fat to rock 'n' roll

The crowd inside the Chittingford Dales Town Hall – as well as Australians in their homes and offices, Welsh rugby players at pubs, Italian mafia inside dingy bars, Estonians outside TV shops, Arab terrorists in cafés, The Pope and cardinals at The Vatican, Alaskans in igloos and the American President – all joined in as the band repeated the chorus.

Cos we're too fat to rock 'n' roll,

Ugly, bald and far too old,

Burgers 'n' booze have taken their toll,

We're too fat to rock 'n' roll,

We're too fat to rock 'n' roll

... to rock and roll
CHAPTER EIGHT

Thursday

The next morning, the band, groupies and some of last night's crowd were still snoozing or nursing hangovers on the mattresses strewn across the floor of the Town Hall. As Madge served leftover reheated toasted sandwiches, she quietly sang some vaguely familiar words: 'Burglars 'n' blues have shaken their tail ... They're too fit for Roxanne's rolls.'

Sean's mouth and eyes opened wide as Madge created a perfect cappuccino from a coffee machine hidden under a dirty tea towel. Although desperate to satiate his caffeine addiction, Sean dashed out of the hall to avoid the two eager record executives with Armani suits and the couple of ambitious young film directors, all holding contracts and pacing about anxiously.

He located Mitch striding across the intersection. They checked if they were being hounded by the four men with contracts before briefly pausing at The Big Turnip. It had now been splintered into hundreds of pieces.

Mitch risked a chuckle. 'Must've been stuck by lightning.'

'... during The Storm of '14.' Sean opened his handy-cam.

'Doesn't really have the same ring to it, does it?'

They rushed towards the mechanics yard, where Boyd, Bob and the band members – now numbering four – watched Dave whack the engine of the band's van with a spanner while singing the second refrain from last night's opening song. 'Stay out of strife. Be nice to the wife. Accept what happens and lead an ordinary life.'

Sean noticed two other vans, both newer and far more luxurious than his or the band's. Logos indicated that they belonged to "HasBeen Records" and "NostalGick Films". On the other side of the intersection, Deb was signing autographs and posing for photos. Fans who had driven overnight from Adelaide screeched to a halt when they spotted Deb and Jack – thereby, creating Chittingford Dale's first and only traffic jam.

Jack managed to escape the throng and approached the others assembled around the band's van. 'I'm really surprised you guys didn't recognise me.'

Nigel shrugged. 'I can't remember anyone from the '70s.'

Jack peered around Trevor's back. 'What happened to your ponytail?'

'What?' Trevor clutched the back of his head and squealed. Sean and Mitch's glances of guilt were promptly overtaken by smirks of delight.

Jack chuckled as Trevor stormed off. 'But how did you know that Bob and I are gay?'

Deb momentarily broke away from the hordes, although she was still pursued by the more desperate hunters of autographs and photographs. 'Pretty obvious really.' Deb glanced at Mitch, who pretended he wasn't listening. 'Clues were throughout the webcast everyone saw.'

Several among the mingling masses were keen to answer Jack's question.

'We knew because Madge called you "The Odd Couple".'

'It was obvious to me and my wife because you lived together, and had a neat garden with hanging baskets.'

'And I realised when you both abstained while voting about the groupies.'

'Well, it was clear to Darlene and I because neither of you is fat, ugly or bald.'

Bob chuckled. 'And what made you think that Jack was really Oscar?'

'Pretty obvious really.' Deb again glanced at Mitch, who continued to pretend he was checking his iPad. 'All on the webcast that everyone was watching for days.'

'I know!'

'So do I!'

'No, let me explain!'

Others in the swelling throng were eager to explain.

'Jack said he moved here in 1975 after quitting something.'

'Bob wasn't living here during The Pub Strike of '74.'

'And I heard Jack say he hated the band, but he knew who played the viola on "My Tongue in Your Cheek".'

'And, of course, Bob and Jack disappeared when the tour finished in Whyalla, which is only ninety-three kilometres away.'

'Ninety-five.' Dave wiped his hands and turned to Boyd. 'OK. That's done. I've now placed the gasket Gladys brought back from Upper Chittingford into the band's van.'

'What?!' Sean nearly dropped his video camera.

'Don't worry, mate. I have what you need for your campervan.' Strolling to the vans belonging to the two sets of executives, Dave opened both hoods while continuing to sing: 'Cos we're too fat to rock 'n' roll. Ugly, bald and far too old. Burgers 'n' booze have taken their toll. We're too fat to rock 'n' roll.'

Sean spoke to Deb when a painful wrist forced her to stop signing autographs. 'What happened to your mother?'

'She lived in Upper Chittingford. She ran Lynne's Laundry.'

'Is she still alive?'

'No.' Deb paused, clearly pained. 'But that's another story.'

'Story? What story? Wha-wha-what happened to her?'

'Shut up, Mitch!' Sean barked at his colleague before turning back to Deb. 'But why did you set up that unplugged type stage in the Town Hall?'

'Because I checked the weather forecast for the day of the gig. And because the outdoor stage was in a prohibited location anyway.'

'What do you mean?'

Deb shrugged nonchalantly. 'The bowling green was too close to the nesting area of the Lesser Rainbow-Speckled Gully Warbler.'

Sean paused in disbelief. 'But why didn't you say that when we applied for the permit?'

'Because those birds only come out when it rains.'

They turned en masse towards the trendy ringtone on Mitch's iPhone. 'Hey, Dusty ... Yeah ... Oh ... OK, I will.'

Hesitantly, Mitch pressed the "speakerphone" key and laid the phone on his palm. He beckoned for Deb to come closer. 'Congrats everyone!' Dusty was clearly thrilled. 'The Facebook feedback has been ultra-phenomenal. We've started repeating the whole series again online from Day One and sold the rights to even more TV stations in countries I've never heard of. And it's all rating even better today than yesterday! Deb, you have turned stratospheric in Twittersphere ...'

Deb glanced at Mitch, who whispered. 'That's good.'

'... and on YouTube you've already had over twenty-five million hits ...'

Even more confused, Deb again glanced at Mitch, who explained. 'That's even better.'

'... and I'm going to commission a new webcast series with–'

'Great! I'd love to.' Mitch almost dropped his phone.

'Not with you.'

'Oh.' Mitch frowned and glanced at the band still watching Dave whack the engine with a spanner. 'I'm not sure The Sweat is really capable of–'

'And not with those stupid geriatrics either.'

'Oh.'

Dusty continued with his excitable explanation. 'I want Deb ...'

'Oh!' She jumped with excitement.

'... to host her own webcast ...'

'Oh?' She paused with uncertainty.

'... which will be streamed online ...' Deb glanced at Mitch, but he was too forlorn to explain anything. '... on Deb's own web channel through RealiTV.'

Sean grinned and whispered to Deb. 'I'll translate later.'

Mitch turned off the speakerphone and marched towards the abandoned Blacksmith's. As he began pleading, his voice faded in the distance. 'But, Dustin, I've sucked up to you so much and ...'

The band followed Boyd as he approached Sean and Deb. 'It appears that clips of the band on YouTube have gone viral ...'

'Which is good,' added Sean for the benefit of Deb and the band.

'... and your songs, especially "Too Fat to Rock 'n' Roll", have been downloaded by the millions ...'

'Which is also good.' Sean nodded.

'... through file-sharing networks.'

'Which is bad.' Sean stopped nodding. 'You're very famous, but not very rich.'

Boyd sighed. 'So, the only way to make any money as a band these days is to tour. Therefore, you need to get back on the road.'

Nigel turned to Jack. 'Will you join us?'

'Will you make any poofter jokes?'

Cockles slapped the guitarist on the back. 'I can't guarantee that Jack, but we won't mean it.'

Boyd turned to Bob. 'Do you want to manage the band again ...' He glanced to his right. '... and deal with those blood-sucking parasites?'

The ambitious young film directors and eager record executives with Armani suits all waving contracts rushed towards the mechanics yard. Dave had noticed them before anyone else and swiftly closed both hoods of the men's vehicles. 'The band's van is ready to go.'

'Great. Everyone, jump in!' hollered Bob. The four band members squeezed into the back of the van as rapidly as anyone could with collective arthritis, sciatica, irritable bowel syndrome and, now, gout. But none of them noticed that attached to the back of the van was a trailer containing Cyril's casket.

As the van with its trailer sped down Main Street and turned left at Railway Terrace, Sean filmed them for the last time as they passed the six groupies yelling at them to come back. He then recorded Gladys as she waved sadly. He zoomed into Madge on the pub veranda relishing a cappuccino. And he finally panned across to The Big Turnip being pieced back together by the visiting crowd.

The quartet of directors and executives jumped into their separate vans, but neither would start.

Still singing "Too Fat to Rock 'n' Roll", Dave sluggishly approached the vans, shook his head, and wiped his hands. 'Sounds like the gaskets. Could take five days.'

'What?!'

'... Or eight if I'm too busy.'

THE END

All words (and music) of the songs in this book

are copyrighted by Paul Greenway

73

