by Paul Collis
The young police officer almost toppled from his chair when he looked up to see the black man standing silently, staring.
‘Hello. I didn’t hear you come in,’ he said in a cheerful manner. ‘How can I help you?’
He rose from his chair and approached Blackie at the counter. He couldn’t have been any more than twenty-one or -two. Blackie thought how stupid it was to give a man not long out of shorts a gun and a licence to use it. The pink face of the policeman, full of youth and cheeriness, seemed out of place to Blackie. The copper looked as though he would have better been suited to serving food at Macca’s rather than to be in charge of the front desk at Dubbo Police Station. His bright face still had pimples left from his youth, his tender white skin showed that he’d been shaving for only a short while. Blackie noticed how the cop’s yellow hair bounced as he walked. Thick and full was his hair, so unlike the scraggy mop that adorned Blackie’s head.
‘Ah, the beauty of youth,’ Blackie sighed, ‘so wasted on the young.’ Blackie looked hard at the man in blue opposite him before he spoke.
‘Yeah mate. I wanna see Hunter McWilliams,’ Blackie said slowly.
‘Sure,’ said the constable. ‘Who shall I say is calling, sir?’ he asked politely.
‘He knows me as Blackie. Jest let him know Blackie from Bourke’s ’ere, ay?’
‘Okie dokie. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let him know you are here,’ the young copper said.
Blackie watched as the man turned and walked back to his desk, picked up a telephone, and made the call to the big boss upstairs. Blackie knew that the shit would hit the fan as soon as McWilliams heard mention of his name and so sat with his hands in plain view, waiting for the expected to arrive. And, as expected, at the mention of his name, the police officers sprang into action. The side door flew open and two coppers with revolvers drawn burst through screaming at Blackie.
‘Hands behind your head! Hands behind your head!’
More officers arrived into the lobby with revolvers drawn.
‘So much overkill,’ Blackie groaned.
The first policeman that had burst through the doorway manhandled Blackie to the ground, driving his knee into Blackie’s back, and snapped handcuffs on so tight that Blackie thought he’d broken his wrist. Another pushed his face into the floor. Like a struggling calf that had just been bulldogged to the ground, Blackie was left struggling for wind. He pulled a half-arsed smile, showing the cops that they couldn’t break his spirit, no matter how hard they tried. His wish was that all this crap would soon be over and done with.
‘Cunts! Ya fucken white cunts!’ he spat as he tried to turn his face from the dirty floor.
The police officers said nothing. Smug with their capture, they all waited with bated breath for their big chief to arrive. They didn’t have to wait long. McWilliams walked into the waiting room, so vain and so full of shit, just like he was walking onto a yacht. Blackie could not see McWilliams’ pomp and pride as his face was hard pressed against the lino floor. Blackie spat dirt and blood onto the floor which bounced back and splattered on his own face. He strained to look out from under the grasp of the police officers, only to see spit-polished shiny shoes. The shoes belonging to McWilliams.
McWilliams said, ‘Get him up.’
The other policemen roughed Blackie up – pulling him, pushing down again, and pulling him up again, as they dragged Blackie to his feet. Blackie pushed with all his strength, trying to force the police to fall. They tussled with each other in a violent struggle. Blackie spat blood at the dogs who handled him so violently, only to be punched in the mouth and to fall to the ground again.
‘Git the bastard up!’ McWilliams yelled.
Blackie was all done when they pulled him to his feet again. No fight left in him this time. He leant heavily on his captors.
McWilliams had clenched fists and was about to let them fly into Blackie, but decided against it when he saw that Blackie was fucked.
Catching his breath, Blackie watched a policeman run a metal detector over his clothes. Blackie was thankful that he’d left his little pocket knife with Rips as they shook hands at Dot’s place.
‘He’s clean, Boss,’ he announced.
Blackie stood dribbly in front of McWilliams. Blackie focused on Red-Face’s eyes, and forced a half-smile, trying to defy McWilliams. McWilliams smiled that ugly big grin he showed Blackie in court the day they locked Blackie away. He big-noted himself in front of his men, puffing his chest out, appearing even bigger than he was.
‘Ahh, me old “mate”, Blackie!’ McWilliams sneered. ‘Got you at last!’
The other police followed suit and swelled out their chests too. They stood with fierce stares with hands on their hips, standing close enough to Blackie so he could smell their stinking cop breaths.
Blackie’s top lip, nose and the cut above his eyebrow (patched by Dot) now had blood flowing freely. But his adrenaline had kicked in and, apart from the handcuffs, he hardly felt a thing. He thought how he’d like to bust the bastard who drove his knee into his back. The bastard who now stood beside him, looking like a trained mutt waiting to be praised by its master with a pat on the head for a deed well done. Police had lit a fire in the black man’s soul many moons ago. Blackie knew he’d never want to light candles in the rain or ever live as brothers with them. But Blackie decided to keep his powder dry. He was here to get Fingers out, so he had to shut his mouth for the time being and allow the pigs to have their fifteen minutes of fame.
McWilliams ordered Blackie to be taken to an empty interview room where he was left seated on the hard chair at the hard table.
Slow minutes ticked by and still his blood, made thin from the speed he’d taken, flowed freely from his wounds. The sticky blood ran down his hot face and fell onto his jeans which were becoming soaked from it. Blackie’s eye was so swollen that, along with the blood flow, it made it impossible for him to see. His stomach was tight. Though he’d not eaten a thing in almost three days, his gut was full. He knew at that moment, that it wasn’t a shit that he needed to take, that would put everything back on the even. He didn’t know what was wrong but he knew that something was.
The heavy door swung open and in walked McWilliams – coffee in one hand, note paper in the other – still full of shit.
McWilliams had been waiting to get Blackie alone again so he could deal with him once and for all. ‘No getting outa gaol again this time, you little black bastard,’ he said as he slumped in his chair.
McWilliams was a highly decorated police officer. Medals for service and medals for bravery adorned the wall above his desk. But behind the scenes he slept with some black women, and shared a bottle or two with some black men. It was true enough. McWilliams wasn’t all bad. But he was corrupt. And he could as easily show kindness, if it benefited him, as he could be hard and mean.
McWilliams threw the paperwork on the desk and said, ‘You really think you could beat me, Blackie? I crush maggots like you.’
‘How bout takin these cuffs off then, and we’ll see who fucken crushes who!’ Blackie yelled.
‘Now settle down there, old mate … Or I might have to get rough with you,’ McWilliams said.
Blackie sat as straight as his stomach allowed and said nothing.
McWilliams watched Blackie and then smiled at him. ‘Good. That’s better. Now we can talk,’ McWilliams declared.
After another minute of flicking through the pages of Blackie’s file the policeman said, ‘Well Blackie. Long time no see, hey? You’ve been busy. Very busy bastard, haven’t you?’
Blackie did his best to laugh it off.
‘Ahh. You know how it is? … Long time no see, alright,’ Blackie acknowledged.
‘Well you’re in a lota trouble, my friend!’ McWilliams declared.
‘What! Over a fucken stolen car! Don’t think so mate,’ Blackie return
ed serve.
The mind games had begun. Attack and counter-attack. McWilliams tried to ignore Blackie’s remark by casually taking a loud slurp from his coffee. ‘Ahh! Gee that’s bloody good!’ he said, winking, hoping to get a rise out of Blackie.
Blackie was very thirsty, and the sight of the coffee made him lick his dry lips, only to taste his own blood.
‘Now let’s see what we’ve got here,’ McWilliams said.
The policeman pretended to study Blackie’s ‘form’ with all the interest a punter does with the race guide on Cup Day. McWilliams whistled something and slowly turned the pages. Occasionally he’d turn back to check something in the papers, dragging the whole affair out, making Blackie suffer in waiting. Blackie shifted side to side on the chair. His shirt stuck to his back and his skin began to itch. Oh how he wished he could be free just to have a good scratch. Blackie tried to amuse himself by humming the Talking Heads song ‘Once in a Lifetime’.
Eventually McWilliams became bored with his pretence and placed the papers to the side. He leant back in his chair, folded his arms and sighed loudly. Blackie sat straight and attentive, the perfect foil. Where both men came together was that they both enjoyed playing the game.
‘Got something you wanna tell me, Blackie? Anything I should know, hey?’ McWilliams said with a half-smile.
‘Yeah I ’ave as matter-a fact,’ Blackie replied softly. ‘You got a mate of mine ’ere. He’s me brother-in-law. He’s got nuffin to do with all-a dis. Let him go and I’ll tell ya what ya wanna hear. It’s his kids’ birthday, man!’ Blackie pleaded.
‘Well! We’ll just have to see about that now, won’t we? He’s facing very serious charges. What do I get outa this, huh?’ McWilliams said, now very interested in what was beginning to sound like a policeman’s jackpot: a confession.
Blackie thought about his next move very carefully before he said, ‘Got anyone for that thing back ’ome?’ referring to the attack on the police station in Bourke.
Big McWilliams revelled in his victory.
‘Yeah … I got you, babe!’ he mocked.
Blackie looked at the ugly man carefully, fully expecting a backhander for what he was about to say, but spoke bravely anyway. ‘You got jack-shit man! I wasn’t even in town. But I think I know who did it, but thas another story. You let Fingers go, and then we’ll talk, man ta man.’
That took a bit of the wind out of the copper’s sails, but McWilliams knew he had Blackie between a rock and a hard place.
McWilliams said, ‘Remember how all your blacks would rush to watch ya run? Watch ya play footy? Yeah? Well where are they now, huh? And you still trying to be their hero aren’t ya? Play this right, Blackie, and your brother will walk. But if you don’t give me what I want, you’re both fucked. Okay?’
Blackie nodded.
McWilliams leant closer and told Blackie, in whispers, that nothing more than a full confession from him would have Fingers released, and that would be that. The stakes had suddenly jumped very high. The time for games was over. This was real serious stuff that the men were playing with.
McWilliams knew that nothing short of an air-tight and full confession admitting total responsibility for the firebombing (almost seven years ago) on the station would put Blackie away for life, regardless of the truth. Blackie would never be able to be taken seriously by any court again. As such, McWilliams’ ‘deal’ with Blackie would remain a secret to the grave. He’d have his promotion and power, but equal to that, he’d finally be able to say that he’d beaten the black man for good.
Blackie’s gain would be that his family would be safe. Fingers, he knew, was a good and decent man that would lay his life down for Dot and the kids. That’d be enough for Blackie to give what he could to make it square. He knew that someone had to pay for the stolen car and his wild ways. And that person was going to be Blackie himself.
Suddenly, and without warning, Blackie vomited all over the table. His spew soaked the notes that McWilliams had brought in with him, and narrowly missed the policeman.
‘What the fuck! You dirty, black, bastard!’ McWilliams cursed. ‘Look whatcha fucken done!’
But Blackie was too crook to be concerned with any more games. He rested his head on his arm on the table and closed his eyes.
‘Sorry bra. Musta been somefin in the water.’
Although Blackie felt bad, the vomiting made him feel a bit better.
McWilliams left the room without another word as Blackie rested at the stinking table.
The young polite man who had greeted Blackie earlier entered the room wearing rubber gloves and a facemask, carrying a mop and bucket with industrial-strength bleach.
The policeman looked at Blackie for a long while, looking for signs of life. He saw Blackie’s breath and then asked, ‘You alright there, mate?’
Blackie lifted his head, and nodded. ‘Tell ya what bra … How bout gittin us a drinka water, ay?’
The policeman placed his gear near the door, way out of Blackie’s reach, and left. He quickly returned with a jug filled with cold water and a plastic cup. He placed them on the table and quietly went about the foul task of cleaning the vomit from table and floor.
‘Ahh. Thanks bud,’ Blackie said as he sipped the cold drink.
The policeman said nothing, and when he finished the clean-up, he left, and Blackie was alone again. A good half-hour passed before Blackie heard the door latch turn and in walked McWilliams with Fingers. McWilliams directed Fingers to the table and told him to sit. Blackie did his best to appear brave in front of Fingers, but he found it very difficult to look good, smelling of spew.
‘Now! Here’s the plan, you bastards. You get one chance at this, and one chance only. Hear?’ McWilliams said.
Blackie nodded.
‘I’ll leave your mate here with you for five minutes, you work out what you’re gonna give me, and if it’s right, he can go. But if you’re fucken with me, there’ll be no more mister nice guy, you black cunt. You’ll both wish you weren’t born! … Five minutes!’ McWilliams screeched, slamming the door shut on his way out.
Blackie assured Fingers that he was alright. But any fool could see that he wasn’t. His eyes were glassy, his black skin turned pale, and his lips were cracked and dry. All signs that Blackie was suffering badly. But still, he assured Fingers that he was alright.
‘Um sweet bra. They charge ya with anything?’ he said softly.
‘Naa. Jest had me sittin downstairs by meself! S’pose they were hopin ta git you and Rips,’ Fingers answered.
‘Well they got me, but they won’t git Rips – he’s long gorn. You git outa ’ere too when he comes back, bra. Git outa dis shithouse town, man. They don’t like blackfullas here. Your two eldest boys are at the right age ta run inta trouble. And they’re still lookin for Rips, so they be all over you, brother. Pack Dot and the kids up and git outa here, man,’ Blackie whispered.
Fingers knew the truth in the words sure enough. Now that the cops had him in their sights, they’d hassle and harass him and his family at will. Fingers also knew that it would be the kids that would be the most vulnerable and susceptible to the cops’ callous behaviour.
‘Um worried bout Dot, mate. She don’t look good ta me. She right brother, or what?’ Blackie inquired.
Worried, Fingers said, ‘Na, she’s crook, Black. Diabetes got her fucked. Some days …’ Fingers’ voice trailed off, he choked back a sob.
Resting against each other in their chairs, Blackie leant his head on Fingers’ shoulder. ‘Git her away from here mate. McWilliams will come afta her … And your boys too. Cause the bastards gonna put me away for good this time and Dot knows the truth. She knows that I was at old JK’s place laid up with the flu when that shit in Bourke went down. I didn’t blow up the police station, but they all reckon I did because they know I hate this cunt ’ere – McWilliams. He was stationed there
then,’ Blackie said, nodding towards the door – towards McWilliams.
‘Git ’em to New Zealand bro, and don’t come back,’ Blackie whispered.
Fingers couldn’t help it, he cried like a child – so broken-hearted.
‘Ahh Blackie … Ya right, Black … Bet we broke. We’re stuck here, mate,’ Fingers replied.
‘What bout ya people in New Zealand, man? Can’t they help ya?’ Blackie questioned.
‘Dunno. I’ll try. Whatcha think they’ll do to you, Black?’ Fingers asked, scared.
‘She’ll be sweet, man … prob’ly send me to Silverwater for assessment. Don’t worry bruz, the change is gonna do me good,’ Blackie said, smiling.
As Fingers nodded, the locked door swung open. McWilliams strode to the interview table and sat heavily on the other empty chair.
‘Well?’ he asked.
Blackie knew that he meant, ‘Do we have a deal? Will you confess to a charge of Terror Attack upon a Public Building?’
Blackie didn’t look up, just nodded and wished that he could drop dead on the spot.
Fingers looked away, not wanting to be witness to any of that business.
‘Alright then!’ said McWilliams, slapping the table apparently in joy and with great gusto.
‘You come with me,’ he said to Fingers.
‘And I’ll be back for you in a minute,’ he said to Blackie.
McWilliams took Fingers back to the holding room. He wasn’t going to let him go before he had Blackie’s confession safe and secure on video.
The deal was that Blackie would nod his head for a petrol bomb attack on the Bourke Police Station. His most serious charges would be:
Riotous assault.
Assault of police.
Assault with a deadly weapon.
Using a telephone to menace.