I name this domain Badlands.
On a trip to Bundaberg, which is the closest airport, I spot Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen. I can’t follow the news all that closely right now but I know he’s on trial for some criminal offence.
So, being a cheeky so and so, I go up and tell him I’m a big supporter and ask to have my photo taken with him. He’s okay about it.
*
But, as good as it is living up there, I’m a moth to flame.
Roxy and I go down to Sydney and hit the nightlife, spending every day and night in the Cross; we become part of the Cross.
She’s bisexual so we have a smoke, coke, eggies, and hang out in the red-light district; we’re regulars to all the strip clubs.
Weeks go by and sometimes the life I’m living hits me, how I’m living one day at a time; how I’m just one wrong moment from getting shot by police.
Knowing this has me seeking refuge at St Mary’s Cathedral, close to the Cross, just across from Hyde Park. I turn off my mobile phone and enter, seeking solace and time out – peace from city life and peace from life on the run.
I dip my hand into the holy water, make sure no one is looking, and then bless the weapons that I’m carrying. I pray to God that I don’t have to use them but if I do then at least they have been blessed.
Then it’s from the sacred back to the profane, and the next thing you know it’s six weeks later and we say, ‘We need to get away from this shit; we need to get away.’
So we go back to Badlands to rest and recover in the wilderness.
Until that need to party builds in us again and then it’s back to the Cross.
I’m in touch with the Amigos, but I am red hot and to hang out with them and have a laugh isn’t possible in Melbourne. The Armed Robbery Squad is on a mission to catch me.
So from time to time I shout them an all-expenses paid trip to Sydney. First stop is Kings Cross and all the strip joints. I get blind on these fun boys’ nights out. Roxy fumes about them.
One night we’re all staggering blind back to our motel rooms, and I take them the back street route of the drag queen strip, knowing that in the many office doorways are hidden parties loitering in the shadows for customers.
To liven things up a bit, I pull out a .38 revolver and say, ‘Watch this,’ then start shooting in the air. Next thing ya know, all these scantily clad drags in fishnets and g-strings appear out of nowhere and run in all directions for cover.
I didn’t expect to flush out so many: fucking funny sight.
The Amigos and I were still laughing about it decades later, back when I had the chance to join them for a home-cooked family meal.
*
I’ve started doing bank jobs again, by the way. In Victoria.
And because I’m cheeky I worked out how to time a postcard just right so it arrives at the Armed Robbery Squad soon after a job – if it’s spot on then the afternoon they’re getting back to the office after being called out to one of mine, or maybe the next day.
Either way, they get a cheery hello from BADNE$$ and I’m long gone.
I like playing with them.
*
Badlands needs a homestead.
I have a builder on the job but he wants his wages in advance. He’ll be working hard because I’m keeping the costs down by cutting wood on the land instead of buying it all. But it’s still going to cost more than I have.
So I decide to hit another Melbourne bank: the Westpac on Keilor Road in Niddrie.
*
Leaving an idling stolen motorbike at the rear of the adjacent post office, I walk up to the front and cut a side padlocked gate to allow us access to the front footpath, then turn left and proceed to the ATM area, both of us in overalls and wearing motorbike helmets.
I am carrying a sledgehammer with a .45 semi-auto pistol tucked into the top of my overalls. My comrade is carrying a pump-action shotgun. People are scattering. Trams pass by.
The window refuses to give way as I swing the sledgehammer into it as hard as I can, oblivious to everyone around me, until finally we shoulder it out of its frame.
We’ve lost the element of surprise, though, and precious time has been lost. The green bag due for pick-up by the Armaguards – who are now only 100 metres away – was visible but now a staff member has hidden it.
My role is to secure the bag, and smash open the inner safeboxes: ‘Nothing,’ I yell.
My partner’s role is to clear the teller drawers, which he has, now yelling at me to leave. But I refuse to leave without the bag.
Police sirens are getting louder and louder and as my comrade goes through the front door he is shot at by an Armaguard across the road. Lucky to be wearing my ballistic vest, he bolts back inside and yells at me again, saying to forget the bag and leave, and then runs out the front once more only to be forced back in by more shooting. ‘Let’s go!’ he’s yelling.
I’ve ripped open every secure cabinet in a frenzy, hunting that green bag that was out for pick-up – not realising that all a staff member did was drape a jumper over it. I feel I’ve let the team down.
We run into the field of fire, missed by the hopeless shots of Armaguard, sprint down the side and leave as the police reach the front. The Armaguard has emptied his revolver at us, endangering everybody near us, but we never returned fire.
Now this get the juices flowing, I kid you not. Running into gunfire is traumatic and once the adrenaline wears off, I need a big joint to settle down. Even thinking about this event later causes the jitters.
Given the need to calm the nerves, I catch up with an old mate who has pot. I get a bag of weed, and invite him back to our motel to blow some joints and crash there if he wants. He can see we’re flush with cash and accepts.
I’ve decided to stay on the other side of town, out of my known usual haunts, and we arrive at the Doncaster Motor Inn and book a room for three days.
Helping unload my stuff, my mate can tell I’m agitated. He’s never seen me like this before and asks if I am okay.
I’ve been shot at, I tell him: bullets whizzing past my head. I’m red hot and will be on tonight’s news. He thinks I’m joking.
‘A bank in Niddrie,’ I tell him.
‘Bullshit,’ he says.
So I hand him the pump-action and say I need a huge joint to unwind. ‘Don’t play with it, it’s loaded,’ I tell him.
He places the weapon under the bed, rolls a joint which we smoke outside, and then we head to the bistro.
Watching the evening news of the robbery, I look at him. ‘See? I told ya.’
We’ve placed our orders for dinner, but guests who’ve arrived some time after us are now being served. This annoys me.
‘How are they fed and not us yet?’ I ask a waiter. We’re not happy with the service. In fact, I’m pissed off. I’m having a bad day being shot at and not getting the green bag and now a fucking argument over dinner. ‘We don’t want the orders anymore. We’re leaving,’ I say, and we do, causing a scene.
Unhappy back in the room, I decide to get out of here and we pack up all our stuff in the car, drop off my mate, and then check into another motel.
Going through the bag in the morning, I notice the pumpaction’s missing. My mate didn’t have it when we dropped him off.
Fuck.
Driving back to the Doncaster Motor Inn we wouldn’t get there until lunchtime, and room service will have done the room by then.
They’ll have called the police, and coppers are going to know who we are from our photo and fingerprints. They’ll know it was us at the Westpac and they’ll lie in wait for us to return.
I want to go back now but Roxy insists on waiting, so we do.
It’s getting dark as Roxy drives the hire car in. I’m in the front seat: machine gun locked and loaded.
A car full of blokes pulls out, passing us as we enter the car park. Roxy stops out front of the motel area, while I grab a pistol and climb the stairs. A metre from the room, I notice the door is ajar
and the lights are on.
Opening the door with trepidation, I see the room has been turned upside down and there’s fingerprint dust everywhere.
A caretaker putting the rear of the TV back together, spots me instantly and both of us are spooked. He knows who I am and he wasn’t expecting me to poke my head in.
I am down the stairs in a flash, jumping into the car. He’s rushing out also and running towards the bistro. ‘Get the fuck out of here now!’ I tell Roxy, and we take off, an incoming car full of men passing us by as we leave.
The Armed Robbery Squad had been waiting all day, saturating the area, with squad members even positioned in trees. The whole area was a trap. But right as we arrived they’d left, having decided to hand over to a replacement crew, but rather than waiting for them they left a two-minute gap in coverage.
That gap saved us from certain death – and maybe some of them, too, given that I had a full clip in my machine gun. God’s will.
Due to the heat we leave Victoria the next day. But because I didn’t get the green bag I don’t have enough money to pay the builder which was the sole fucking reason for the robbery.
So rather than head straight home to Badlands I decide to strike on the way back, selecting a Commonwealth Bank at Sydney’s Warringah Mall, which is a big shopping centre.
*
During the robbery, I’m in control of the customers and the floor, while a partner clears the tellers.
An Armaguard officer is looking in through the bank’s floor-to-ceiling window. Last week’s madness flashes through me as I rush out and intercept him. No weapons when I pat him down and then we bring him into the bank. If his colleagues arrive then we’re using him as a shield out.
*
Poor bastard – I feel sorry for him. Turns out he thought he had flashbacks to ’Nam. He was a security guard, he walked past. But we’d been shot at by a security guard only the week before, you know what I mean? So we were still heightened and still affected by that. But I feel sorry for him.
*
We make it to Badlands but I’m still short for the building work.
Roxy’ll stay here this time but I’ve got to go back to Victoria to cash up or we’ll never have a house.
I’ve chosen a target in advance for a huge haul. I’ll fly in and out within a week.
I’m working with different individuals, some that will later on become well-established figures in the underworld wars. They know who; I won’t say. I don’t lag my coeys [co-offenders], good or bad earn.
But the target turns to shit, and I learn that the Armed Robbery Squad are terrorising all known associates of mine, desperate to get me. No one can breathe it’s so hot.
By chance I see a clairvoyant who warns me of a betrayal from a close male friend with blond hair. Too many of them do, either all of their hair or blond tips.
The police are offering huge concessions for my arrest and for many people the heat I’m bringing down is affecting their lifestyles.
Meanwhile, motels and expenses and going to parlours blows my budget, so I decide to hit the State Bank at Noble Park again – the one I was arrested for and then bailed. Given the interest they have in me – and their terrorising of all my friends – this will send the police into an absolute frenzy.
I commit the robbery following the same routine, even wearing the same clothing. Plane tickets are paid for and I’m due to fly out within two hours of the raid.
I notify Roxy that all is good, and I mention to two close associates that I can’t catch up later as I’m flying out: Kevin Miles, and Smiles, the bloke who I was with the night I met Roxy.
Rocking up at the airport, I’m wearing a singlet emblazoned with Public Enemy No. 1, I’ve got a bag full of cash, and the police are waiting for me in the departure lounge.
In the rear of the police car, one of the detectives turns and spits in my face. Later, he will turn Roxy against me.
It’s the fourth of February, 1992. I’m 23 years old.
44. PRIMING TO BREAK OUT
25 FEBRUARY 1992: TRANSFER TO MRC
CHRIS:
I’m back in the Melbourne Remand Centre, comfortable in the settings and surrounds, but conscious that I’m under the ever-watchful eye of staff and snitches who’ll score big brownie points for spotting any possible escape attempts.
It’s five months out from my committal hearing. There’s some big time ahead for what I’ve done and I’m not interested in doing it. I focus on working on my legal case, and such talk becomes a slippery slope to a small but trustworthy group of men who are all looking at big terms and all open to an alternative.
A weakness is identified in the accommodation units. The unit is locked down for two hours a week on Wednesdays, allowing inmates to use the gym.
Those that don’t want to go to the gym can stay in their cell or go to the yard compound. There are no staff in the unit during the lockdown.
Being a communal unit, that allowed inmates from others units to visit, it was easy to hide in a cell, and when the staff have locked and secured the unit they leave without locking individual cells.
Then we’d have a good hour to an hour and a half in which to play unchallenged.
This same location was later the exit route for Archie Butterly and Peter Gibb, although they used explosives. My way is quiet and stealthy: no dramas.
Given we have three in the group, one will watch as the other two work in tandem on the holes that have already been burnt into the corners of each window, making it so much easier with serrated blades to cut the perspex and within minutes drop down into the recessed alcove garden off the street.
Timed right, those on the street won’t see it. The street cameras are at the wrong angle for it, too. We just need the cutting tools.
We know security is pretty lax in a certain police lockup and we get shoes with blades in the soles to someone there who then does a switch with someone at court who then comes back here and now we have jagged, heavy pruning blades close to 30 centimetres long.
My committal is only a week away. We have timed it so that we will be gone by then or the week after. Vehicles have already been stolen to be left on the street as getaway cars.
The first day of my committal is adjourned to allow my legal team an extension to negotiate a plea in reducing the armed robberies from five down to three. This deal is far better than I could manage if I fight it before a jury, yet to accept this offer is still unpalatable. I cannot bring myself to accept the deal.
Kevin Miles comes into custody and his team led by Andrew Fraser try to negotiate a deal for him in return for him turning Crown witness against me. He is bailed and dead within a week of an overdose, leaving a suicide note, apparently.
Amidst all this, we focus on the escape. It’s looking so sweet: we have all the tools. It’s going to be quick with no violence – a really, really good escape.
But one inmate gets onto it. He know something’s going on. He’s watching us. Observing things. He’s pretty switched on, too, this cunt, and he wants to try and jump in on it.
We say, ‘No, we don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He starts telling us, ‘If I’m not invited I’m going to do it myself.’
What the fuck? We don’t trust him. We think maybe he’s a spy. He’s a threat so we have to remove him.
He lives in my unit – in my pod.
One of the two blokes I’m escaping with lives in the pod, the unit, that we are going from, and the other one lived in my pod.
It was up to me to deal with this bloke. I tried to advise him, to pull him up: ‘Listen mate, don’t be silly.’
He is persistent so I get some billiard balls, put them in a sock, run in, hit him over the head and really fuck him up, assault him and bang him up, thinking that if he’s banged up good enough they’ll move him.
But they fucking just move him to another pod in the same unit and so it remains a live issue and the screws know there are dramas.
&
nbsp; A group of us go to confront him in a spot with no cameras down towards the gym – near the canteen. There’s a group of us armed up with knives and stuff and he shits himself. He jumps the canteen counter and hits the duress button – the alarm.
So he basically lags what’s happening, and they arrived thinking what the fuck’s going on, why are you behind there? He doesn’t say nothing but he is hoping that they’ll search us. We are very lucky to get away unchallenged. But after that they must be aware of things. They lock the jail down for fucking three days looking for weapons.
Now the whole prison knows there are dramas. The screws are watching us. We can’t move or nothing, you know. You can feel the tension. So I confront him. I say, ‘Fuck this shit. We’re going to seal a deal.’ ’Cos there was a boxing gym in the compound. I used to box. I know the coach, a professional fighter, a really good bloke: Brian Levier. I say, ‘Brian, the screws are this-and-that, you know. I want to sort it out in the ring under your guidance. You can ref.’
He goes: ‘Yeah, no problem. Fine.’
So we jump in the ring and everybody’s watching because all the units face off into the yard. And we go for it. It’s a good scrap, too. He can fight; I can fight. I nearly knock him out a couple of times but, fuck, he is a hard cunt. He has a hard head on him and I don’t follow it through. I hit him with a couple of combinations, but if I could just kept coming through I would drop him. But I can’t.
After that we shake hands, and say that’s it. Allowing everybody to see this, to recognise this, will take the heat off us.
But the next day the three of us who are going to escape are shanghaied for the good order of the jail because they find our fucking cache of escape shit.
Now, they don’t find weapons because the weapons are in the fucking washing machine. We put the weapons in a bag in the machine on the last rinse so it was in the last spin. Nice clean blades. And when they searched, they didn’t look there, but they fucking found the hacksaws and stuff like that secreted in a cell a couple up from me – very close proximity to me – in a little gap for electricity and stuff.
Mayhem Page 11