The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Hey Les. Before you go,’ he said to Norton, almost half in the door. ‘Remember when I was playing reserve grade for Souths and I had my first run in firsts. It was against Easts at Redfern Oval. You were playing second row.’

  ‘Yeah. I think I remember Des.’

  ‘I was playing centre. I’d just got the ball and you came across and hit me with a tackle that almost cut me in half. I tore all my rib cartilages. I was out for nearly a month.’

  ‘Ohh yeah,’ smiled Norton. ‘Now I remember.’

  ‘Good,’ grinned the fair-haired young cop. He stepped back, brought the sole of his police boot up and reefed Norton in the rump, propelling him to the other end of the wagon. With the handcuffs spoiling his sense of balance, Norton sprawled against the rear of the cabin. Only a desperate grab at the canvas roof stopped him from hitting the floor as the door slammed behind him.

  ‘Sorry about that Les,’ came Des’s voice from outside. ‘But it was too good an opportunity to miss.’

  ‘Dirty mug copper,’ bellowed Norton. He got his balance back and sat down next to the crim with dark hair. ‘Fuckin’ coppers,’ grunted Norton. ‘They’re all cunts.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ was the laconic reply.

  The next thing, the motor started and they lurched up the driveway, bumping and weaving their way to Long Bay Gaol.

  How long the trip took, Les wasn’t sure — fifteen, twenty minutes? But through the grill on the back door he could see Charing Cross fading into the distance, then Randwick Junction, Maroubra Junction, and before long they were cruising along Anzac Parade with still nobody saying anything. Les noticed a set of lights and a sign saying Beauchamp Street; there was a bit of a lurch as they turned left up another driveway, a boom-gate opened, then they stopped at the sound of a huge gate opening. A shadow seemed to fall across the wagon as they went a little further and stopped with the motor still running. Peering out the back of the wagon it looked to Les as if they were inside a monstrous grey birdcage; to his left he could make out a huge brass bell. For whom the bell tolls, mused Norton, his thoughts going back to an old Ernest Hemingway story he’d read at school. Another gate clanged open to the sound of different voices. The wagon eased forward again, stopped, then reversed up to an open doorway and the motor was turned off as the two police climbed out of the wagon and went inside.

  After a few moments Les turned to the crim sitting next to him. ‘Looks like we’re here,’ he said.

  ‘You’d better fuckin’ believe it.’

  They sat there in the gloomy silence of the wagon. Through the canvas walls Norton could hear voices coming from somewhere and the sounds of more gates or heavy doors opening and slamming shut. After what seemed quite a while the back of the paddy-wagon opened and they were motioned out. The same cop that had put his handcuffs on undid them and took them off. Norton rubbed his wrists, scratched his back and had a good look around him.

  He was standing in some sort of a large reception room, with a step-down shower area off to his right. It was all painted a faded yellow and everything, from the tiles in the shower to the dull yellow paint on the walls, looked and even felt old. There was a short counter to his left and a longer one in front of him fronting rows of shelves stacked with cartons and green or brown prison uniforms. Even from where he stood the shower area seemed to smell almost overpoweringly of bleach and strong disinfectant. Someone had painted some sort of a country-scene mural on a wall above the showers and above his head several old-fashioned wooden fans stood motionless against the equally ancient wooden ceiling.

  The two police officers handed over Les’s personal effects to a guard, signed something and disappeared. But there was no shortage of prison officers; all very solid and stony faced, though oddly enough having a cheerful banter amongst themselves.

  Along with the two others, Les was told to strip. Then, after being searched thoroughly they were asked if they wanted a shower but all three declined, Norton mainly because it was too cold and he was convinced that the smell of disinfectant and bleach would knock him out. He was then given his prison clothing — green trousers, fawn shirt, green jacket and brown jumper; they let him keep his joggers and the Speedos he was wearing as underwear — and told to fill in a blue Description Sheet. Name, aliases, whether he was an Aborigine or not, previous convictions, distinguishing marks, etc. He signed this and they took a fingerprint of his right forefinger on the bottom corner of the sheet. While he was being printed a male nurse asked him if he had had any drug problems or illnesses. Norton replied that he was a bit hungry, that’s all.

  If Les appeared to be a little flippant about it all, underneath he was feeling trapped, degraded and beginning to find it all rather distasteful. It was his own stubbornness and I’ll-show-him attitude that had got him in here and a couple of times, especially when he was being searched, he regretted his foolishness. But it was only for a couple of days so what the hell. However, if Norton was being a bit casual about it all, his travelling companions were quite the opposite. They were completely humourless and listless and moody when filling out their forms or taking instructions from the warders. It was a sure bet they were in for something a bit more than traffic warrants and Norton was curious what for and for how long.

  Finally Les was given two woollen blankets, a towel, a yellow pamphlet entitled Information Booklet for Inmates of the CIP (Central Industrial Prison), and told to wait to be allocated a cell. That was when it dawned on him what he was. An inmate. A prisoner. And standing there in his drab prison garb with his blankets under his arm he looked and felt it. Nothing fitted, it all smelled of mothballs or something and soon he was going to be dumped in a cold, dank cell. Immediately he began to think of his nice warm house at Bondi and all the food and beer in the fridge. What a nice dill I must be, he thought. Warren and Des were right. Oh well, at least there’s no one here to see me looking like this. He was just about to flick through his information booklet when he heard a mystified voice behind him.

  ‘Les Norton. What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’ in here?’

  Norton brought himself around slowly. Ohh no, he thought. Not in here. Not like this. Please.

  He turned around to face a tall, half-smiling guard standing behind him with his hands on his hips. He was somewhere in his early fifties and built not unlike himself, only with slightly more of a paunch. With a mop of thick steel-grey hair he had one of those lived-in, Robert Mitchum type faces, only a little fuller and a little jowlier.

  ‘Les Norton,’ he said slowly. ‘It is you. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Ohh g’day Bernie,’ replied Norton sheepishly. ‘How’s things?’ Shit, Les cursed to himself, not another bloke from football. I wish to Christ I’d never laced on a boot.

  The guard was Bernard Cottier. Les had got to know him through his brother Michael, who was a boner in the meat-works at Ultimo Les worked in when he came down from Queensland and first started playing with Easts. Bernie had been a pretty useful front-rower for Newtown in the early ’sixties and since he’d retired he spent most of his time coaching juniors. However, his main claim to fame, apart from football, was having a wife that ugly she’d run second in a one-woman beauty contest. But Bernie was one of those blokes that loved kids and he’d had eleven to her, nearly all girls.

  Bernie continued to stare at Les, then picked up his charge sheet from the desk. He looked at it briefly and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are you fair dinkum?’ he said. Norton couldn’t quite look Bernie in the eye as he nodded his head at the floor. ‘Christ! Mick always said you were tight with a quid, Les. But mate. This is ridic.’

  Norton nodded again, red-cheeked. ‘I think you’re pretty right Bernie.’ He paused while Bernie kept looking at his charge sheet as if there was some mistake. ‘Are you going to take me to my cell?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. I may as well I s’pose.’

  ‘Good. I’ll tell you about it on the way over.’

  Bernie replaced Les’s charge
sheet and handed Les a name tag which he was to wear during all musters. He then told the other guards he’d take the prisoner to his cell. ‘You right Les?’ he said, picking up a clipboard. With his name-tag pinned on, his pamphlet in one hand and his blankets and towel in the other, Les nodded sheepishly again. ‘Okay. Follow me.’

  They went out the open doorway and across a yard past the big grey birdcage Les had seen when he first came in. By the time they’d reached yet another barred gate Norton had explained the reason he was there. Bernie was still shaking his head though he couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘I always said you were a stubborn big bastard, Les. Even when you were playing. But a couple of days in here won’t hurt you.’ He gave Les a slap on the back. ‘Might even give you a bit of an idea about what goes on. From both sides,’ he added.

  They stopped at the gate and Bernie told Norton to wait while another guard looked across to make sure the main gate was locked before he unlocked his. Even in the short time he’d been there, Les noticed that only one gate was opened at a time. They stepped through into another reception area with a two-tiered row of cells running off it to their right.

  ‘In their?’ Les nodded towards that wing.

  ‘Turn it up,’ smiled Bernie. ‘At least those blokes are in for something useful. You’re only in the shitty warrants section. Come on... crim.’

  Although he felt terribly embarrassed at first, Les was glad now that he’d bumped into Bernie. At least he knew one person in there, and the big, rough prison guard wasn’t a bad bloke underneath. They moved past the desk in the reception area onto a concrete strip that ran around a huge patch of dry, sandy grass about 200 metres square and flanked by other buildings.

  ‘That’s the exercise yard,’ said Bernie. ‘Or as it is affectionately known — the square.’

  There were about fifty or so men in the square, some jogging around it, some walking; all of them under the eye of what looked like a similar number of guards. Most of the joggers were wearing green shorts, the rest their green and brown uniforms, and they were the hardest faced, toughest looking men Norton had seen in quite a while. Even some of the joggers going past, who had to be in their fifties, were square jawed with steel-grey crewcuts and built like tanks. Apart from their tough appearance, one slightly amusing thing did stand out to Norton. Several groups of men walked briskly, four or six abreast, from one side of the square to the other. They walked and talked as if they were on a ten mile hike in the countryside, but when they’d reach the side they’d all turn on the spot completely in step, not even disrupting their rhythm, their pace or a word of their conversation. Norton had been standing there only a short while and the men would have done at least six laps.

  Bernie noticed the curious look on Norton’s face. ‘Like to join the lads for an afternoon stroll?’ Norton smiled and shook his head. ‘Righto. Well come on and I’ll show you to your motel room.’

  They went into another reception area full of guards, through a doorway and out into the warrants section.

  The warrants section, or wing, consisted of about twenty yellow washed cells running off to the right, with an open area in front of them and a covered area supported by poles in front of that. Bernie pointed out the white-tiled shower area at the far end and behind them a servery where you got your food. There were about fifteen men of all shapes and ages milling around, trying to get a bit of sun in front of their cells or standing under the covered area. Some were potting balls on a pool table while others were drinking coffee from a hot water machine next to the servery. All looked fairly bored and listless except for one long-haired bloke tunelessly banging on a cheap guitar; he was getting stuck into it like he was Jimi Hendrix. Raised above them in the covered area was a colour TV, blaring loud enough to drown out Jimi Hendrix, and a book-case full of books stood underneath this. Rocking slightly in the light wind was an almost-new black Ring-Master punching bag hanging on chains from a beam in front of the shower area.

  ‘Can you still thump as hard as you used to Les?’ asked Bernie, noticing Norton eyeing the punching bag.

  ‘I hope so,’ replied Norton. ‘I might end up losing my cherry in here if I can’t.’

  ‘I think you’ll be pretty safe mate,’ chuckled Bernie. ‘You’re too ugly anyway — even for some of these desperates. Come on, I’ll show you your room. I mean cell.’

  They moved across the yard to the row of cells. Norton’s was about four from the servery end. Number 602. The door was open and in one of two brackets above it was a piece of paper saying: Gatenby, 20 days. Bernie took another slip of paper and slid it in the bracket. It said: Norton, 2 days.

  ‘After you Les,’ smiled Bernie, motioning to the open cell door.

  Des Smith at Waverley Police Station was right when he said Long Bay wasn’t the Sebel Town House. Apart from being musty and dirty the cell didn’t have anything going for it at all. It was around ten feet by eight with a toilet bowl in the corner and two narrow beds almost alongside each other. The light came from the open door and from an enclosed fluorescent tube that played dim shadows of a mug, a jar of coffee and a few other odds and ends across the top of an ancient wooden cabinet in front of one of the beds. The cell’s one outstanding feature was the graffiti. There was hardly a square inch of wall or ceiling that didn’t have something scrawled or drawn on it.

  ‘Like your new digs, do you Les?’

  ‘Yeah,’ muttered Norton. ‘It’s just peachy.’ He nodded towards the mug and the jar of coffee. ‘Who’s in with me? Some axe murderer I suppose.’

  ‘No. His name’s Max. He’s a truck driver.’

  ‘What’s he in for?’

  ‘Warrants. The same as you. That’s all this wing is. In fact Max is one of our regular customers. It’s weird really. He doesn’t mind it here at all. Sometimes I even think he likes it.’

  Norton continued to gaze round the cell, shaking his head. ‘He must be weird if he likes this. I’ve only been here five minutes and I can’t stand it already.’

  ‘Well, you know the old saying Les,’ smiled Bernie. ‘If you can’t spend the time, don’t do the crime.’ The prison officer glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway I’ve got to get going. I’m knocking off in a few minutes and they’ll be mustering you for dinner shortly. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.’ He paused at the door for a moment. ‘And a bit of advice, Les. Take it easy. It’s a different ball game in here and if you get into any strife there’s not much I can do for you.’

  ‘Strife? Jesus Bernie, I’m only in here for two days and one’s nearly over already. What could happen?’

  ‘Not much I suppose. But in here, you never know Les. You just never know. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah. See you Bernie.’

  The bed closest to the door was half made, Les tossed his stuff on the other and tested the springs with his hand. It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t all that bad. Any more than two days, though, and you’d need to know a good chiropractor. He spread his blankets over it, gave the pillow a scrunch, then sat down on the edge and looked around him. So this is it eh. Long Bay Gaol. His eyes wandered from the graffiti to the chipped walls and ceiling to the chipped floor. Christ they must’ve built this joint in 1800. I wonder where those pricks on the radio and in the papers get all those ideas about motel-like accommodation. I don’t see any colour TV or stereo in here. I’d like to stick some of them in here for a few days — see what they think. Especially that flip in Melbourne with the beard. No wonder he was crying when he looked like going in for six weeks. Oh well, Norton smiled to himself, maybe it’s not all that bad and it’s not as if there’s nothing to do. I can go outside and watch TV if I want to. I can join the lads for a nice stroll in the square. I can have a game of pool or read a book. I can even have a workout on a punching bag if I want. Or I can spend two days reading all this graffiti. He picked up his yellow information booklet. I think I might just see what this says instead. Norton started flicking over the pages.

 
Introduction. You are in the Central Industrial Prison. Well I certainly bloody know that, Norton smiled to himself. If you have been sentenced in court you will be held in the CIP until you are classified and transferred to another gaol. There are also some prisoners here who are appealing against their sentences and others serving sentences for non-payment of fines. Hey that’s me. Well what do you know? I’m on page one already. Norton read on about Reception Tobacco. Passing Information With Care. Daily Routine. Vegetarians. Library. He was smiling at the section on Visits when in walked his cell mate, who looked like he’d just come from the shower.

  ‘G’day mate,’ he said breezily, tossing his towel on the bed. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ replied Norton, looking up from his pamphlet. ‘What about yourself?’

  ‘Can’t complain.’ He looked at Norton evenly for a moment. ‘My name’s Max, anyway,’ he said offering his hand.

  ‘Les,’ smiled Norton, half rising from the bed and accepting Max’s firm but brief handshake. ‘Please to meet you mate.’

  Max was a wiry sort of bloke, shorter than Les and in his late forties or early fifties with a bit of a potbelly. He had thinning sandy-coloured hair adorned with a pair of huge side levers spreading over his square jaw. He seemed to have those ever-smiling eyes and a lopsided smile that opened up to reveal a set of discoloured buckteeth that looked like a mouthful of broken paddle-pop sticks.

  ‘I see you’re only in for a couple of days,’ he said. ‘Goin’ a bit bad are you?’

  ‘No. Not really. It’s a bit of a funny story to tell you the truth. I noticed you’re stuck in this dump for twenty bloody days though. Shit!’

  ‘I don’t really look at it like that, Les. I reckon it’s all right in here actually.’

  Norton screwed his face up at Max. ‘Are you fair dinkum?’

  Max nodded enthusiastically from where he was sitting on his bed. ‘Mate, this is the grouse in here. All you’ve got to do is stick to yourself and mind your own business and you’re sweet. It’s the tops, I’m tellin’ you.’