A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  Rat tat tat, rat tat tat, rat tat tat, rat tat tat, went the speed ball. It seemed to Bromley as if it were screaming at him. His fists flew in front of his face and his breath came in short sharp healthy bursts. Faster and faster he rattled the ball. Faster and faster, until he thought his lungs would burst and then with a final punch he fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

  The speed ball fell silent, as if it was aware that the slightest noise would bring forth another frenzied attack from the man kneeling below it.

  Bromley felt the old man’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘What’s brought this on, Tom?’

  Bromley didn’t bother looking up. He knew Alfie Leonard’s voice. ‘Leave me alone, Alfie,’ he gasped.

  ‘Suit yourself, lad. I’ll be around if you need to talk,’ said Alfie and walked off.

  Bromley got up, towelled his face and sat on a pile of rubber mats. Elbows resting on his knees, he rested his head in his hands and stared down at the polished wooden floor.

  Why her? he agonised. Why her, God? You bastard! Why her, of all people?

  Everything had been going so well The people at the adoption agency had said they were perfect candidates for adoptive parenthood. Respectable, hard-working and just the right age. They’d answered all the test papers correctly and Josie had charmed the several government officials who’d interviewed them over the past six months. Their house had been inspected, their taxation records, even their bank account and house loan had been checked. What else do you want, he’d thought, blood?

  That’s exactly what they had wanted. Medical examinations had come next and blood tests.

  Then the day before, they’d received a letter from the Government Medical Examiner asking them to call in and see him.

  ‘I’m afraid there seems to be an irregularity in Mrs Bromley’s blood test,’ the GME said.

  He was a young doctor. New to the government medical service.

  The hairs prickled on the back of Bromley’s neck. He was used to dealing with doctors. He was a policeman. He could read them like a book.

  ‘What sort of irregularity, doctor?’ Josie asked.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit early to tell, Mrs Bromley, but I’d like to admit you to hospital for a couple of days to do some further tests.’

  He’s as nervous as a cat, thought Bromley. ‘Hospital? What’s wrong?’

  The doctor cleared his throat. ‘Well, as I said, there’s an irregularity. Something that needs to be checked.’

  Bromley stood up. ‘Don’t fuck me about, Doc. What’s going on?’

  ‘Tom!’ Josie grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his chair. ‘Sit down and show some manners. The doctor will explain the problem in his own way.’ She smiled. ‘Go on, Doctor.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re a nursing sister, aren’t you, Mrs Bromley?’ Josie nodded and he continued. ‘Good, then I’ll be frank. Your blood cell counts are not right. In fact they’re very low.’

  ‘Red and white?’ Josie asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Platelets?’ she asked again.

  ‘Another low count.’

  ‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute!’ Bromley interrupted. ‘What are you talking about, Jose? What are platelets?’

  ‘They’re anti-clotting agents in the blood. Now, will you let the doctor finish, Tom,’ she said and put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Mrs Bromley, I’m sure you realise where this could be heading, but I must remind you,’ said the doctor, fingering the stethoscope around his neck, ‘this enquiry has been prompted by your blood test. It could be wrong. We need to check it carefully.’

  Josie looked straight at the doctor. ‘When would you like to see me?’

  ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll arrange it. Be at the admissions office by nine o’clock.’

  ‘Will somebody explain what’s going on?’ said Bromley.

  ‘The doctor can’t commit himself to a diagnosis, Tom,’ she said gently, ‘but he suspects I may have cancer.’

  Bromley flew to his feet. ‘Cancer? You can’t tell if someone’s got cancer from a blood test!’

  Josie looked at her husband’s white face and felt an enormous rush of sympathy for him. ‘You can if it’s cancer of the blood, darling.’

  ‘You can’t get cancer in your blood!’ Tom heard himself shout. This is not right, he thought, it’s not possible. ‘You can’t get cancer in your blood. It’s impossible!’

  ‘It’s called leukemia, Mr Bromley,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Bullshit! Only kids get leukemia.’

  ‘Tom,’ Josie stood up to comfort him. ‘I haven’t got it yet. Blood tests are sometimes wrong. Calm down.’

  Bromley sat in his chair and tugged nervously on an earlobe. Josie could not possibly have leukemia. It just wasn’t possible.

  The doctor watched Josie sit down and look at her husband. Her brow creased into a frown. She’s thinking of him, he realised. I tell her she may have leukemia and she worries about him! What a remarkable woman. God, he thought, why do I have to tell a beautiful woman like this that she may have a fatal disease? He coughed again. ‘Mrs Bromley, during your menstrual cycle, have you ever experienced any clotting of the blood?’ he asked.

  She looked at him. ‘Yes. Over the last six months. I thought it may have been because of my excitement at our plans to adopt.’

  ‘How about lethargy?’

  ‘Yes. That too.’

  ‘Symptoms of anaemia?’

  She nodded. ‘Now I think back, yes.’

  The doctor stood up. ‘Well, the quicker we do those tests the better, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Josie absentmindedly. She was still looking at Tom. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ She took her husband’s arm. He appeared dazed. ‘Come on, Tom. Let’s go home.’

  The wooden gymnasium floor reappeared before his eyes. His breathing had slowed but the anger was still on him.

  He got up slowly and walked towards a large punching bag hanging on a chain from the ceiling. He pulled on the light leather mitts that were perched on top of the bag and gently began throwing punches.

  For one moment he saw Josie’s face before him, then he saw the young doctor and then he saw the concerned face of the Admissions Sister at the hospital that morning.

  His punches became harder, then his mind closed off and he punched and he punched and he punched.

  Lucy Marshall had only ever seen her real boss once before. By her real boss, she meant the bloke who owned the little terrace house she used to entertain her customers. Enzo was her actual boss, she supposed, but he was only a sort of manager. Enzo collected the money she earned and gave her a weekly share. Most of the money, she knew, went to her real boss, the little fattish balding fellow with freckles on his face and head.

  He was a nice little man, her real boss. He always called her Miss and was ever so polite. Enzo had told her the little man lived in Broken Hill, and didn’t get to the city much. Pity, she thought, he was nice. And he was polite. That was important to Lucy. She might be a prostitute, but she was a woman still and polite gentlemen were a rarity in her life.

  Her real boss had arrived in the late afternoon and asked her to contact Enzo for him. She’d done so and now the two of them were ensconced in her kitchen, engaged in close conversation. Lucy knew better than to interrupt them. Enzo would knock her around if she did.

  She was painting her toenails bright red when the little man came back through the front room. He’d asked her how she was and tipped his hat to her as he left. ‘Good day, Miss,’ he’d said as he left. Lucy had stared after him. She could be happy with a nice polite little gentleman like that. Oh well, she thought, not in this life.

  ‘Forget you ever saw him,’ Enzo said and sat down in front of her. ‘Tonight, at ten o’clock, you will have a couple of visitors. When they arrive you will say this, and only this. Are you listening?’

  Lucy had listened for ten minutes and then r
epeated to Enzo all the instructions he’d given her.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said when she’d finished, ‘you get it right and I’ll come back later tonight and make love to you.’

  Big fucking deal, thought Lucy, as she smiled innocently at him.

  Enzo went to the front door and turned. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. The two men will be cops, but don’t worry, everything is taken care of. The briefcase is in the kitchen—just make sure you get it right,’ he said and closed the door behind him.

  They were bloody cops all right. They arrived right on ten o’clock and smashed the lock off her front door as they entered.

  Lucy was lying on the couch in the front room with her dress up around her waist and her knickers lying on the floor, just like Enzo had told her to.

  ‘Where is he?’ said the bigger of the two cops.

  ‘Who?’ she replied.

  Lucy looked up at them with what she thought was horror all over her face. She loved acting. She was trying to be Sophia Loren.

  ‘You know fucking well who!’ said the big cop and hit her across the face with his open hand.

  Lucy stopped acting. She was frightened. The slap had not been in the script. She pulled her dress down and reached for her panties.

  The big cop put his foot on her hand and crushed it into the carpet. Lucy screamed in pain and the big cop slapped her again. ‘You won’t need those back on,’ he said.

  ‘Who the fucking hell are you?’ said Lucy.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Ames,’ said the big cop, ‘and you’re going to tell me where he is.’

  The shorter cop finally spoke. ‘Lay off her Stan.’

  Stan Ames moved away from the girl and the shorter cop sat next to her on the couch. ‘My name’s Jim Fadden, Miss, what’s yours?’

  ‘Lucy,’ she sobbed, ‘Lucy Marshall.’

  It was an old game the two cops were playing. Good cop bad cop. Sweet and Sour. Salt and Pepper. It had different names, but it was played in the same way. Fadden and Ames were past masters at it.

  ‘Don’t cry, Lucy,’ said Jim Fadden and patted her shoulder. ‘It’s just that my partner’s a bit angry.’

  ‘Too fucking right I’m angry!’ Ames interjected.

  ‘You see, love,’ Fadden continued, ‘we received information that a man would be here with you and we wanted to catch him fooling around with you.’

  Lucy was unnerved. She desperately tried to remember her instructions. ‘He’s gone,’ she sobbed, ‘He heard you outside the door and took off. He went out the back way.’

  Ames immediately went towards the back of the house.

  ‘Who was he, Lucy?’ Fadden crooned. ‘Tell me who the man was, or my partner will really do his block. I won’t be able to keep him off you.’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He’s only been here once before. He’s a politician if that’s any help,’ she said.

  Ames re-entered the room. ‘The back of this joint opens straight out onto Little Riley Street. We’ve lost him.’

  ‘Lucy reckons he’s a politician,’ said Fadden.

  ‘Good girl, Lucy,’ said Ames and smiled at her. ‘That’s what we wanted to know. You’ve been a great help to us.’

  ‘What about my door?’ Lucy whined.

  Ames grinned at her. ‘What about your door,’ he replied and then his face changed. ‘What’s that?’ he said and pointed to an object near the end of the couch.

  ‘That’s his briefcase,’ Lucy said. ‘He took off without it.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Ames grinned again, ‘what do you know about that.’

  Ames picked up the briefcase and looked at Lucy. ‘We’ll take this with us, Lucy,’ he said, ‘and as far as you’re concerned, we were never here. Got it?’ Lucy nodded. She wished to hell they’d go.

  ‘Take this out to the car, Jim,’ said Ames and handed the briefcase to Fadden, ‘I’ll have a word with Lucy on my own.’

  Fadden took the briefcase and looked at the girl. ‘Don’t forget what my partner said, Lucy. We were never here, okay?’

  Lucy nodded again and Fadden left, closing the broken door behind him.

  Ames stared at the girl for several seconds, then he moved to where she was seated and stood directly in front of her. ‘Well done, Lucy,’ he said and stared down at her.

  Lucy looked up at him and wiped a tear from her face. She sighed, resigned, and began to unfasten his fly buttons.

  The briefcase contained a bottle of single malt whisky and five hundred pounds in crisp new bank notes.

  Ames and Fadden were parked in their police car, on the end of No. 4 Wharf in Walsh Bay, practically underneath the Sydney Harbour Bridge. They watched the dark harbour water in silence. They’d been there for some time, smoking cigarettes and observing the water traffic going by.

  The briefcase sat between them on the car seat. The two policemen had opened it over an hour ago outside the brothel.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Stan. It’s not right,’ said Fadden, finally breaking the silence.

  ‘Well, what is right Jim? You tell me, because I don’t know any more. Cops, crooks—what’s the difference? We all live in the same big sewer.’ Stan Ames wound the car window down and lit another cigarette. He blew the smoke out of the window before continuing. ‘What would you say if I opened that bottle of whisky and took a drink?’

  Jim Fadden laughed humourlessly. ‘That’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Ames looked sharply at him. ‘What’s the difference between drinking the whisky and taking the money?’

  ‘Cut it out, Stan.’

  ‘No! That prick is never going to try and recover his money or his whisky.’ Ames snapped. He opened the briefcase and took out the bottle of whisky. ‘Fuck him!’ he said. He opened the whisky and took a drink. He handed the bottle to Fadden. ‘Fuck him,’ he said again.

  Fadden sighed and took the bottle. He looked at it for a moment. ‘Fuck him,’ he said and drank long and hard. The two men sat drinking in silence for some time until finally Ames spoke.

  ‘I’m not handing it in.’

  Fadden drank from the bottle and continued to look out across the dark water.

  Ames took the money from the case and fingered it. ‘Don’t tell me you couldn’t use two hundred and fifty quid, Jim.’ Fadden didn’t answer so Ames thrust the money under his nose. ‘It’s money for nothing! Totally unclaimable. Don’t be fucking stupid Jim, take it!’

  Fadden turned and looked at Ames over the top of the fist full of money. He heaved a sigh. ‘Christ knows I could do with it, but it’s not right.’

  ‘It’ll be Christmas in a few days and you’ve got four little kids. Take it!’ he urged. ‘Nobody’ll be any the wiser.’

  ‘What about Everard?’ asked Fadden flatly. ‘He’d kill us if he found out.’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not going to tell him! Are you?’

  ‘Jesus, Stan,’ Fadden whispered, ‘it ain’t right.’

  ‘You’re drinking the whisky, Jim,’ said Ames.

  Fadden looked again at the dark water. He dragged on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke. He turned back to Ames and took the money. Then he threw his cigarette out of the window and his soul went with it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The overnight train from Broken Hill arrived at Central Station in Sydney at 9 am. It pulled in to platform six and Scobie Brereton was the first person to get off. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and walked towards the luggage claim office.

  ‘How’s The Hill?’ he heard a voice behind him say. He turned and smiled at the speaker. ‘Stinking hot! It’s January and 1961’s no different to any other year. Hello, Stan. How the hell are you?’

  ‘Fighting fit, Scobie. How about you?’ said Stan Ames.

  ‘I’m pretty good, all things considered. I saw your mother yesterday, trotting down Argent Street with her little shopping trolley.’

  Stan grinned. ‘How is the old battleaxe?’


  ‘She’s well, by the look of her. I told her I’d be seeing you and she said to give you all her love and say thanks for the Christmas money.’

  ‘Have you seen much of my old man?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Scobie replied. ‘I see him now and again in the Lucky Strike Hotel.’

  ‘Pissed?’

  ‘As always,’ laughed Scobie. ‘You know, the day after he dies, somebody’ll have to go out to the cemetery and beat his liver to death with a stick.’

  Both men laughed and entered the luggage claim office.

  ‘Point your bag out, Scobie, and I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘Don’t bother, Stan,’ said Scobie, holding him back. ‘I don’t think it’s such a good idea for us to be seen together in broad daylight, do you?’

  The big man nodded. ‘Right you are, but I got a message, via Tip-Toe Investments, telling me you’d be on the train and wanted to see me.’

  ‘I do, mate. We’ve got lots to talk about, but there’s better places than this, don’t you think?’ Scobie looked about carefully and continued. ‘I’ll be having a drink in the warehouse tonight about ten o’clock. Why don’t you join me there?’

  ‘Gotcha!’ said Stan Ames.

  The two men shook hands and Ames headed off through the crowd. Scobie watched him go. No doubt about Broken Hill people, he thought and smiled at the receding figure of Stan Ames, they stick together like shit to a blanket.

  No more than a mile away from Central Station in a Macquarie Street specialist’s office, Tom Bromley paced up and down as he listened to Dr Miller expound his theories on leukemia.

  ‘The exact cause of most leukemias is unknown,’ said the doctor. ‘Some investigations are suggesting that chemicals may be responsible for its initiation. Others are saying that viruses bring it on. The waters are pretty muddied on the subject, I’m afraid, Mr Bromley.’