Bromley knelt down and placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘Michael, I’m going to go to the dance on Saturday night and I’m going to get the Overlords and tell them to go away and never bother you again, okay?’
The boy nodded. ‘Okay, but you won’t find them at the dance. They only go there to get the girls.’
‘Then where do they go?’
‘To the back of St Andrew’s church, in the old graveyard. They drink in the potting shed and do things to the girls there.’
Bromley laughed. ‘Is that so? Well, that’s where I’ll go too and I’ll tell them that you’re my friend and if they touch you they’ll answer to me. Come on, now, let’s get you home for a talk with your Dad.’
It was nearly midnight when he got home. A light was burning in the front room and he knew she’d be waiting for him. He opened the front door, took off his coat and hat, and hung them on the rack. He was stoking the fire when he felt her presence. She was standing framed in the kitchen doorway and as always when he saw her, his heart went into his mouth.
‘Hello, policeman, how was your day?’
‘I’m sorry I’m late. I had to see Alfie at the Boys’ Club.’
‘I’ve kept your dinner hot. I’ll put it on the kitchen table.’ She disappeared but the vision of her remained with him.
God Almighty, he marvelled, does every man love his wife as much as I love her? He caught a whiff of her perfume as he followed her to the kitchen. He watched her place the plate of food on the table and then he took her in his arms. She smiled into his eyes and then he kissed her. ‘I love you, Josie,’ he said, ‘have I ever told you that?’
‘Every day,’ she whispered, ‘but don’t stop. I love it.’
He kissed her again and felt her body move against him. ‘You smell better than the food.’
‘You smell like a brewery.’ She smiled at him.
‘You can blame George Everard for that.’
‘George Everard? The Prince of Darlinghurst? Why should I blame him?’
‘Because he’s my new boss. I’ve got so much to tell you.’
‘Well, you eat your dinner and I’ll open a bottle of beer and we’ll sit in front of the fire and you can pour your heart out.’
‘Then what’ll we do?’
‘When?’
‘What’ll we do after I pour my heart out?’
Her eyes sparkled as she smiled. ‘What would you like to do?’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘I think I’d like to do what you’d like to do.’ She grinned mischievously and skipped out of his reach as he grabbed for her. ‘Eat your dinner before it gets cold.’
CHAPTER THREE
It was a night for howling at the moon. Gary Bisley stood outside the innercity railway station and looked across the street at the brightly lit Town Hall. Rock music blared from inside and teenagers who couldn’t gain admission to the hall were dancing on the front steps. Streetlights and neon signs were reflected in pools of water left by an early spring shower, and the lights and the music gave the huge intersection a carnival atmosphere.
Gary should have been excited, anticipating the dance, the girls and the fights waiting for him across the road, but he wasn’t. He felt uneasy. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but his street sense was telling him to move carefully.
Across the intersection, in the front grounds of St Andrew’s church, three men watched as Bisley pulled a comb from his pocket, lazily brushed back his hair, and sauntered across the road towards the dance hall.
‘Here he comes.’ It was the voice of Thomas Bromley. ‘Keep on coming, Mr Bisley.’ He turned to Knocker Reid. ‘He looks nervous. He can smell trouble. Keep coming, Gary, that’s it. That’s it, relax, start chatting up the girls …’
‘He’s a smooth looking prick, isn’t he?’ said Knocker Reid. ‘He’s the one that burns newspaper boys with cigarettes, eh? Mark him, Stan, he’s all yours.’
‘Got him,’ said Stan Ames as he butted his cigarette into the church lawn.
‘No!’ Bromley raised a hand. ‘He’s mine.’
‘Bullshit, Tommy.’ Knocker shook his head. ‘Half the kids in this neighbourhood know you on sight. They know you’re a copper. If you’re recognised, you’ll lift the lid on the whole division. Nobody knows Thirty-Three exists and it has to stay that way.’ Reid put his hand on Bromley’s shoulder. ‘Leave him to us, mate. Stanley, give him one for Tommy.’
‘My pleasure.’ Stan Ames moved out onto the street to take up his position.
Knocker Reid turned again to Bromley. ‘Tommy, we made a rule, remember? We don’t shit in our own nests. This is your suburb. You were raised here and everybody knows you. So stay behind the bushes and sit this one out.’ Knocker Reid punched a finger into Bromley’s chest. ‘I mean it, Tommy. Lay low. We’ll do the job.’ Bromley nodded and Reid moved out of the church grounds onto the street.
Ten minutes to starting time, Knocker thought, and the muscles in his chest and arms tightened in anticipation. Kiddy bashing wasn’t really his idea of police work. He liked dealing with hardened crims, those smartarses who thought they were on the road to immortality as folk heroes. He enjoyed bringing them down and showing them up for what they really were, weak as piss. He knew Thirty-Three Division was meant for bigger things, just like George Everard had said, but in the meantime, if it was their job to kick the arses of kids who were getting too big for their boots, so be it. The others in the squad felt the same—it was just a bit of fun to them—but the powers that be thought it was necessary, so the division would just have to do what it was told and bide its time.
He looked at the Town Hall and saw Ames leaning against the iron fence near the front steps. Across the road, three of his constables stood gathered together smoking. Five other officers were in close strategic positions, all waiting for Johnson to start the proceedings.
Constable David Johnson was nervous and quite distracted. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the girl standing next to him. She was without doubt the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. ‘You ready to go, Jane?’
‘Ready when you are,’ replied Jane Smart.
Sergeant Reid had said she was a moll from Darlinghurst, but he couldn’t quite believe it. Christ she’s a looker, he thought yet again, and I get to kiss her. He straightened his back and remembered his orders. Step into the crowd on the Town Hall steps and kiss the moll. Feel her up if necessary, and keep doing it until someone makes a remark, then let the moll have her say. When she finishes, give the signal by brushing back your hair with both hands. ‘What then, sarge?’ he had asked. ‘Punch the cunt in the mouth, then get the moll out of harm’s way,’ was Sergeant Reid’s reply. He’d then been told what would happen to him if the girl got hurt. Apparently she was somebody’s private property.
‘Reid said nine-thirty on the dot.’
‘Right.’ The girl’s voice brought him back to the present. He offered her his arm and she grinned at him and took it. He felt embarrassed but excited at the prospect of kissing her. ‘We’d better get over there,’ he said and they walked towards the brightly lit building, dodging the puddles of rain water as they went.
On the steps, Gary Bisley began to relax. The uneasiness he’d felt earlier was being massaged away by Thelma Teasdale. She stroked the back of his neck with her palm and was practically begging him for an invitation to the party set for later in the night. Trouble is, thought Bisley, she’s gaol bait—she can’t be more than fifteen. He searched the crowd for Tina Lorenzelli. She was legal and hot and she put out.
‘We got the grog for the party,’ Pete Bishop, his lieutenant, whispered in his ear, ‘it’ll be delivered to the back of the church at ten o’clock.’
‘Send Marty and Simmo, in case there’s trouble.’ He turned his gaze to the other side of the steps. ‘What’s everybody looking at?’ Then he saw her. What a babe. She was a dream girl, right out of the pictures and some jerk was all over her.
Thomas Bro
mley watched from the bushes in the churchyard. Normally he’d be grinning in anticipation by now at the thought of watching young hoods get a lesson in life, but Gary Bisley was amongst them and Tommy desperately wanted to settle the score with him. Still, Stan would get him. It was all going according to plan. The Overlords wouldn’t know what hit them. Young Johnson was kissing the girl. Some girl, he thought to himself. She was George Everard’s girlfriend. Shit, if anything happened to her, they’d all get it in the neck. It had been Bromley’s own idea to use a woman in the setup, but when Everard introduced him to Jane Smart and he found out what was going on between them, he hadn’t liked it. Everard had insisted and she’d proved to be perfect in the role. They’d used her a half a dozen times since, at Maroubra Town Hall, then at the Coogee Hotel, then Balmain Workers’ and a couple of the surf clubs. And every time it was over and they’d reported back to the office, she’d be panting like a bitch in heat. And then she’d disappear with Everard. She was trouble with a capital ‘T’, but Tommy also knew she was terrified of the boss. And with good reason. Nobody crossed George Arthur Everard. Not if they expected to enjoy a long and healthy life.
Sergeant Knocker Reid was ten yards from Johnson and the girl. He stood in the crowd of teenagers completely unnoticed. They were all mesmerised by the performance. The moll was brilliant. No wonder the boss was fucking her. She was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Half his luck, he thought, then brought his mind back to the proceedings at hand and grinned at the vision of kids stampeding in all directions. Any second now.
Jane Smart ran her fingers through David Johnson’s hair and looked into his eyes. God, he’s a baby, she thought and kissed him full on the lips. Then she pulled back and began to move provocatively in time to the music emanating from the hall.
‘Go on, fuck her, mate! We all did,’ said a voice in the crowd.
Stan Ames had watched the Overlords move across the steps like a wave of water and gather around Johnson and the girl. He moved closer and readied himself.
Young Johnson looked into the sea of faces around him. ‘Who’s got the big mouth?’ he yelled.
‘Me,’ said Pete Bishop. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
Jane Smart turned to Bishop, her eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Well, well, well. You must be the King of the Overblowns … oops, sorry, the Overlords. I’ve heard ever so much about you and it’s all bad. Mummy’s boys is the word around town.’ She laughed and pulled a face as David Johnson ran his hands through his hair, giving the signal.
‘Keep your mouth shut, you fucking slut,’ snapped Pete Bishop.
‘Are you going to let him get away with that, Davey, honey?’
David Johnson grinned and hit Bishop clean between the eyes, then all hell broke loose. People scattered and girls screamed as the boys from Thirty-Three Division systematically moved into the crowd. Rapid flurries of short, sharp punches found their marks. All was going according to plan until somebody pulled a knife.
David Johnson had covered Jane Smart with his arms and tried to hurry her down the steps when the fighting had broken out. He heard the click of the switchblade and caught a brief glimpse of light flashing on the blade before it entered his ribs.
Tommy Bromley heard Stan Ames yell above the screams of the girls on the steps. ‘He’s got a knife, Knocker!’
‘Get his arm.’
‘Watch out, behind you!’
‘Grab him! Grab the prick!’
Knocker Reid slammed his fist into the face of the nearest kid. He was after the one with the knife. He pushed a screaming girl out of the way and saw Constable Johnson curled on the step, clutching his back. Two of his men were cracking heads in every direction, trying to clear the crowd from around the body of the young policeman. Jane Smart was kneeling next to the boy. She looked up into Reid’s eyes and he saw the crazy excitement in them. Then something else caught his eye: it was a switchblade knife, glinting in the streetlights as it arced through the air and disappeared over the side of the steps into the darkness.
All over the steps was one massive fist fight. The Overlords were fighting anyone and everyone in an effort to get away from the scene. Panic was spreading through them. Who were these guys that were after them? They knew they were in trouble. Someone had used a blade, a fucking blade! They all carried them, sure, but they were just being cool. Shit, nobody was ever meant to use one!
Thomas Bromley saw Gary Bisley leap over the wall of the steps and head for the churchyard. Several other of the Overlords broke free and followed Bisley, disappearing into the darkness. Tommy ran for the Town Hall steps. He arrived and threw a series of very effective punches that cleared his way to Knocker and the injured policeman. Teenagers were running in all directions as he heard Knocker Reid shout orders to the undercover force. ‘Arrests! Arrests! Get them all! Nobody leaves!’
‘What happened?’ Bromley panted. Then he saw young Johnson splayed out on the steps. ‘Christ alive! Get a compress onto that wound.’
Police whistles were sounding all along the street. Uniformed police officers were arriving from all directions as a Black Maria, a police paddywagon, pulled up in front of the building. Young girls were crying and comforting each other in groups and young men by the dozen were being rounded up and handcuffed. A number of them were Overlords.
Stan Ames pressed a handkerchief onto the wound in David Johnson’s back. ‘Fuck, this is a bad one Tommy. He’s pissing out blood like there’s no tomorrow.’
‘Constable,’ yelled Bromley to the young uniformed man by the paddywagon, ‘get a bloody ambulance, quick!’
Knocker Reid grabbed Bromley by the sleeve and spun him around. ‘It was your mate, that slimy little shithead who burnt the newspaper kid. He threw the knife over the steps.’
‘I know where they’ve gone.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
‘I’ll round up a couple of the boys.’
‘No!’ Knocker pulled him closer. ‘We’ll do this on our own—that way there’ll be no witnesses. Let’s find the knife first; we’ll need it.’
‘Calm down, Knocker,’ Bromley panted. ‘Let’s think this through.’
‘Calm down be fucked! That fucking worm stabbed a copper in the back! Now are you with me or not?’
‘Christ, Knocker, slow down!’
Knocker Reid thrust his face into Bromley’s. ‘That could be you on the ground there, Tommy, or me! Nobody kills a copper and gets away with it. We look after our own!’
Bromley tried to reason with the enraged cop. ‘He might not even be dead.’
‘He’s fucked! Look at his eyes—they’re glazing over like a fish.’ He increased the pressure on Bromley’s arm. ‘He’ll be dead in ten minutes. Now are you with me or not!’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Tom Bromley whispered and looked at the sky.
‘Never mind Jesus!’ Knocker exploded. ‘George Everard’s the one you should be thinking about! He’ll kill us if we don’t take care of this. Now let’s find that knife and do what’s got to be done.’ Knocker let him go and turned to Stan Ames. ‘Stan, take charge. We’ve got business to attend to.’
‘Too right you have and it better be done properly,’ said Ames and held up his bloodstained handkerchief, ‘He’s gone.’
The three cops looked down at the dead constable. There was nothing worse for a policeman than to see another cop dead. For a moment each of them saw themselves dead on the steps instead of the young constable.
‘We look after our own,’ muttered Ames, and Bromley and Reid took off after the Overlords.
Steven Phelps sat in the potting shed behind St Andrew’s church and wept through his broken, bloody nose. ‘Oh Jesus, Jesus! Oh Jesus, Jesus! What are we going to do?’
‘Shut up, Phelpsy! Crying about it won’t help.’ Gary Bisley was outwardly calm, but inside his gut was churning. He needed to vomit. Saliva was gushing into his mouth. He breathed heavily, trying to calm himself down.
‘You stabbed
a bloke!’
‘Shut up!’
As he spoke the door of the shed burst open and Graham Simmonds fell into their midst. ‘He’s a walloper! He’s a walloper! You killed a copper!’
‘Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! You’ve done it now, for sure!’ Steven Phelps sputtered through his bloodied hands.
‘I didn’t kill him!’ Bisley insisted, his eyes disbelieving.
‘He’s dead!’ Simmonds screamed, grabbing Bisley by the front of his shirt. ‘He died on the Town Hall steps and he was a policeman. A policeman, Gary!’
Gary Bisley vomited down the front of Graham Simmonds’ shirt. He fell to his knees, clutching at his friend’s legs.
‘We’ve got to get away,’ screamed Steven Phelps, who ran to the doorway. The .38 calibre rounds hit him in the chest and he flew back into the shed and smashed onto a bed of potted flowers.
Graham Simmonds managed to scream, ‘It wasn’t me!’ before Reid and Bromley fired again. The bullets hit him in the jaw and chest and he died instantly.
Reid and Bromley burst into the shed to find Gary Bisley on his knees, covered in vomit, and crying.
Knocker Reid pointed his gun at the boy and shot him through the head. Then he turned to Bromley. ‘Shoot him.’
Bromley’s gaze shifted from Reid to the boy. He raised his service revolver and fired a shot into the dead body.
‘Right! It’s done.’ Reid took a small pocket automatic pistol from an ankle holster and pointed it at Bromley. ‘Step back out into the churchyard, Tommy.’
A Necessary Evil Page 5