George looked into the eyes of the only woman he’d ever loved and saw his eternal damnation. He felt her hand move behind his neck and was powerless to stop her drawing him down onto the bed.
When Vera left, George went out to the garage and poured himself a whisky. He was in love for the first time in his life. If he could capture a moment in time and keep it in a bottle, it would be that moment in his kitchen, when he’d taken that crying girl into his arms. The feeling had overwhelmed him. He’d made love to her and experienced a passion, the like of which he’d never known. He sat on an old couch and stared at the wall.
‘Jesus H. Christ, Maudie,’ he said out loud, ‘what would you make of this one?’ Then he laughed. ‘I’m in more trouble than a crippled grasshopper in a field full of crows!’
George sipped his whisky and thought of his son Harold. A month ago, he’d approved Harold’s transfer to Thirty-Three Division. It was against his better judgement. He knew Harold wasn’t up to it. Harold was weak. Then why had he done it? He knew the answer as he asked the question of himself. It was guilt. It was to assuage his guilt! He was fucking his son’s wife! No, not just fucking, he was in love with his son’s wife. That was even worse.
George smiled sadly at the irony of it all. For the first time in fifty-six years he could understand the emotion of love. Not parental love or family love, but love in its purest sense. The dreadful desire to possess utterly. He could now understand the look he’d seen in Tom Bromley’s eyes when he spoke of his wife Josie. That beautiful woman, now reduced to skin and bone. He’d seen the same look in Jane Smart’s eyes too, but had never been able to comprehend it until recently. He wondered if his eyes too, revealed this newly discovered emotion, and again he smiled sadly at the irony of it all. Vera didn’t love him. He knew that. She couldn’t. It wasn’t allowed.
‘Well it’s too bloody late now, you fool,’ he mused out loud. ‘And besides, she’s the one woman in the world you can’t have!’ George looked heavenward. ‘Isn’t she, Maudie?’ he whispered, ‘Why in hell didn’t I ever see that look in your eyes?’
Everard got up and walked out onto the back lawn. He was getting angry. He felt anger for Maude and anger for Vera, but most of all he felt anger for Harold. If Harold had made love to Vera properly, none of this would have happened. What sort of a man is he? he thought. And now I’ve got him in my Division.
George walked towards the back door of the house. Ah well, he mused, he’s got as far as sergeant and a lot of cops didn’t do that in their whole careers. He opened the flyscreen door. Besides, he was under Stan Ames’ supervision. Maybe Stan’d teach him a thing or two. Maybe Stan would make a man out of him.
It was late February before Harold Everard was formally initiated into Thirty-Three Division. It happened late one Friday night after a particularly successful raid on a two-up school in South Sydney.
They were seated at a booth in the upstairs bar of a private hotel in Chinatown. Knocker Reid, Jim Fadden, Stan Ames, Tom Bromley and Harold.
Harold looked around the table at the faces of the four famous cops. He knew something important was in the wind. Ames had warned him, but had given no details.
‘Harold,’ said Knocker Reid as a Chinese girl placed three more large bottles of beer on the table, ‘tonight’s meeting is not just for a social drink.’
‘It isn’t?’ said Harold as he watched Fadden fill the beer glasses. Harold was getting drunk. He tried desperately to fight off the effects of the booze and pay attention.
‘No it’s not,’ said Knocker. ‘We’ve decided to use you in an undercover operation. Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ replied Harold and clinked glasses with the rest of the men. They all sipped and Harold followed suit. Then he looked at their faces. They were serious.
‘I’m going to ask you a straightforward question, Harold,’ Knocker continued, ‘and I want a straightforward answer.’
‘You’ll get one, Knocker,’ assured Harold.
‘Would you have sex with a man if it meant maintaining your undercover status, in a life-threatening situation?’
Harold knew the hypothetical situation would probably never arise so he answered immediately. ‘Yes.’
Knocker looked around the table at the other men before he spoke. ‘See, I told you he was a poofter.’
There was a moment’s silence before they all erupted into gales of laughter.
Harold laughed with them, embarrassed. ‘Very funny, Knocker’ he said and took another sip of beer.
‘All right, all right,’ said Jim Fadden, silencing them with his raised hand, ‘let’s get on to the real reason we’re here.’
‘Righto,’ it was Knocker again. ‘We’re serious about the undercover business, Harold. Aren’t we, boys?’ The others nodded in agreement. ‘But we want to know if you can maintain your presence of mind, no matter what occurs. Can you do that?’
Harold nodded. ‘I think I’d be right.’
‘We have to know for sure,’ said Stan Ames.
Harold nodded again. ‘Well then, I’m sure of it,’ he said and then rose three inches off his seat as he felt nimble fingers undoing his fly buttons. Stan Ames rammed his hand onto Harold’s shoulder and held him firmly in place.
‘No matter what!’ said Knocker, ‘You’re saying you can maintain your composure under any circumstances?’
Harold could only nod as he felt the fingers take his penis out of his trousers and start fondling it.
‘Okay,’ said Fadden, ‘under the appropriate Act, what’s the definition of stealing?’
‘What??’ gasped Harold, as he felt his penis harden under the covert coaxing of the tiny hands.
‘The definition of stealing!’ Fadden snapped. ‘Christ, man, any constable can recite that!’
‘Aaah … stealing … right.’ Harold took a deep breath as he felt a tongue touch his penis. ‘Stealing is er … the act of … er, taking property … from a person or place … Whew!’ he exclaimed, ‘It’s been a few years since I learned—’
‘Get on with it!’ interrupted Ames.
‘Without … out permission … er … or something,’ he breathed out through his nose as the tongue went to work under the table, ‘and with the intent … er … to permanently deprive the owner thereof!’
‘That was shithouse!’ said Knocker. ‘What about rape?’
‘Is there something wrong with you, Harold?’ said Jim Fadden. ‘You look fucking terrible.’
‘No,’ gasped Harold, ‘er … the definition of rape … er it’s the penetration, to er … any the least degree,’ Harold hissed as he felt a warm, wet mouth cover his manhood, ‘of the female organ … Jesus!’
‘That’s not in it!’ said Knocker.
‘… of the female organ, er, alleged to have been … um … known by the … ooooh!’ Harold heaved a sigh as he ejaculated, ‘male organ of generation.’
‘The female organ of Jesus??’ Knocker repeated, incredulous. ‘How did you ever pass your Evidence Examination!’
Harold wiped his brow with a crisp white handkerchief. ‘Well, I hadn’t been drinking and I was a little more composed at the time,’ he whispered.
‘I should bloody well hope so!’ said Knocker and looked at the others. ‘Now, swap seats, it’s my turn to get sucked off!’
The men at the table collapsed with laughter.
Later at the bar, Tom Bromley mumbled goodnight and went home. He staggered to the door and disappeared.
‘The poor bastard,’ said Jim Fadden, ‘this leukemia business is gonna kill Tom before it kills Josie.’
‘It can go into what they call remission, you know?’ Knocker said as he returned from the toilet still doing up his fly buttons.
‘She’s in a bad way, Knocker,’ said Fadden grimly. ‘Have you seen her lately? There’s nothing of her.’
‘He’s talking about taking her to Switzerland or somewhere like that,’ Harold chimed in. ‘Some new therapy place. They’ve got a miracle drug ther
e apparently.’
‘Where’ll he get the money to do that?’ said Ames.
This question put silence to the conversation and they all turned to the bar and sipped their drinks.
Knocker finally spoke. ‘Fuck this! Why’d you have to mention Josie? It’s bad joss. I know what it’s like to lose a wife. And a kid as well,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m goin’ down to the back door of the Travellers’ Club and I’m gonna get drunk. Then I’m coming back here to buy a Chinese dream.’ He finished his beer. ‘Are you comin’, Jimmy?’
Fadden shrugged. ‘Yeah, why not? What’s a Chinese dream?’
‘It’s not for the likes of you, Jimmy boy. It’s only for blokes like me who need to dream occasionally.’ Knocker turned back to the others. ‘How about you, lads?’
‘Not me,’ Ames signalled to the woman behind the bar for another drink, ‘I want to have a chat with Harold. A bit of intra-divisional business.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Knocker and literally dragged Fadden out of the bar while he tried to finish his beer.
Ames turned to Harold and indicated a corner booth. ‘Let’s find a quiet corner and have a serious drink, Harold.’
Harold followed drunkenly. ‘How do you say that table name again, Stan?’
‘Choy Siu.’ Ames repeated for the fifth time. ‘Choy Siu. In Cantonese it means to play the flute.’ He sighed and sat down. ‘Sit down, mate. I want a word,’ he said and Harold fell into the booth next to him.
‘Christ, I’m getting pissed, Stan.’
‘You’ll be right, mate. I’ll look after you.’
‘Too right you will,’ said Harold as his head dropped forward over his glass, ‘that’s what mates are for, aren’t they?’
Ames lit a cigarette and stared at the top of Harold’s drooping head. ‘How’re things at home, Harold?’ he said.
Harold raised his head slowly and tried to focus on the face of his friend and senior officer. He took a deep breath then exhaled, resigned. ‘They’re okay, I suppose.’ He felt a sudden need to unburden himself.
‘You can tell me, mate.’ Stan Ames smiled. ‘I know what you’re going through. It’s funny, you know,’ he confided, offering Harold a cigarette, ‘coppers never get the chance to talk about how they feel. They always keep everything bottled up inside them.’ He smiled again as Harold took a cigarette and fumbled in his pockets for a match. ‘I’ve been noticing you lately. If there’s something bothering you, get it off your chest.’ He lit Harold’s cigarette. ‘You can tell me. What’s the matter?’
Harold drew on his cigarette and sighed again. ‘It’s just making ends meet, Stan. That’s all. The usual whinge of a man with a family.’
Ames sipped his beer. ‘No it’s something more than that. If you’ve got a problem, now’s the time to tell me. I may be able to help.’
For a moment, Harold thought he was going to cry. He blinked rapidly, breathed deeply and regained control. Then he watched as Ames placed a matchbox on the table top and pushed it across towards him. He read his name and office telephone number on it. He looked up at Ames, but couldn’t trust himself to speak.
‘How much are you into Mickey Ryan for?’ said Ames.
Harold shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s okay, Harold. Cops hit these sort of hurdles all the time.’ Ames smiled. ‘They can be fixed. We look after our own, remember?’
The tears welled up in Harold’s eyes. ‘I’m in pretty deep.’
‘How deep?’
‘Over four hundred quid,’ Harold whispered. ‘It got out of hand. Before I knew it I was in the shit.’ He looked at Ames. ‘Everything in my life seems to be fucked at the moment!’ he started. ‘Things between me and my missus are weird. Everything’s changed since my mother died, everything.’ He took a drink of beer and sniffed. ‘I thought the transfer to Thirty-Three would bring things right. You know, a change is as good as a holiday, that sort of thing. But they’ve got worse.’ Harold began to cry.
Ames watched him fall apart. He despised weakness, especially in policemen and Harold’s blubbering made him cringe. ‘It’s all right, mate,’ he heard himself say. ‘Let it all out.’
Ames listened to Harold moan. It was a rambling, whimpering drunken discourse about his struggle to live up to his father’s expectations, the lack of support from his wife and all the other problems most men took in their stride.
‘And finally,’ Harold blew his nose into a handkerchief, ‘I get into the old man’s Division and everything’s up the shit!’
Ames signalled for another round of beers. ‘Put it out of your mind, mate,’ he murmured in the most reassuring tone he could muster, ‘and leave Mickey Ryan to me. I’ll make sure he has a sudden loss of memory. In fact I might send Mickey down to Melbourne for a well-earned and permanent holiday.’ Ames was amused by the knowledge that Mickey Ryan was already in Melbourne. He’d sent him packing just a week before.
Harold looked at Ames. ‘Can you do that? He’s got a fair bit of pull in the Force, from what I can gather.’
Ames laughed. ‘Mickey Ryan is an oily piece of shit! You leave him to me. I’ll have him out of this town so fast, his fucking eyes’ll water.’
‘Hell, that’d be a load off my mind.’
‘It’s as good as done. What are mates for?’ Ames grinned. ‘Besides, we look after our own.’
Harold’s look of relief faded. ‘You won’t tell the old man, will you?’
‘George? Christ no! And you’d better not say anything either.’ He patted Harold on the shoulder. ‘You just worry about getting your life in order.’
Harold picked up his fresh beer. ‘Thanks, Stan, you’re a good mate!’
Ames put his hand into his shirt pocket and pulled out fifty pounds. He pushed it across the table to Harold.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a few quid from the two-up raid we tonight.’ Ames watched Harold’s face. ‘Take it.’
Harold didn’t hesitate. He put the money straight into his pocket. ‘Shit, thanks Stan.’
‘Every so often, on a big raid, we help ourselves to a bit of the cash lying around,’ said Ames. ‘There’s no harm in it, so long as it doesn’t get out of hand. You know what I’m saying?’
‘Of course!’
‘I’ll teach you how to play the game properly, Harold. That way nobody gets into trouble and we all lead nice, comfortable lives. Are you getting my drift?’
Harold grinned drunkenly. ‘Too right. You’ll get me anytime.’
I’ve known that since day one, Ames thought to himself, you weak little prick. He smiled at Harold and raised his fresh glass of beer. ‘Cheers, mate. Here’s to playing the game.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tom Bromley sat and stared out of the hospital window at the small public park below. It was winter. AH the trees were bereft of leaves and light rain fell from a leaden sky. He sighed heavily, then turned as the door to the private hospital room opened. Doctor Miller entered.
‘How are we today, Tom?’ the doctor asked.
Bromley put his finger to his lips. ‘Shhh, she’s sleeping.’
‘Oh, right,’ Miller whispered. ‘Well, I’ve got some good news for you. I think you’ll be able to take your wife back home.’
Bromley snorted. ‘Why? So I can bring her back here next week when she collapses again?’
‘Tom, don’t make this any more awkward for me than it is already,’ Miller said placatingly.
‘I’m bloody frustrated, Doctor!’ Bromley hissed. ‘My wife is ill and I want her to get better, but we seem to be on this merry-go-round. We’re not getting anywhere!’
Miller placed his hand on Bromley’s arm. ‘Tom, I’ve told you before, leukemia is an insidious thing. Medical science is only beginning to come to grips with it.’
Bromley turned quickly and looked out of the window. He felt utterly helpless. ‘What about this new therapy you mentioned—in Switzerland, was it? Or Austria?’
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‘Austria. A clinic near Innsbruck,’ Miller replied. Bromley turned towards him, but Miller could only shrug. ‘I’ve made enquiries …’
‘And?’ snapped Bromley.
‘It’s a very exclusive clinic, Tom.’ Miller walked to the window and looked at the dismal winter weather. ‘It would cost you the earth. The travel costs alone—’
Again Bromley interrupted. ‘You let me worry about that!’
Miller turned back to him. ‘Josie would need a nurse to travel with her.’
‘Like I said, you let me worry about—’
‘Tom,’ Miller interrupted, ‘over the last twelve months I’ve come to know you well. I consider us friends. I would be failing in my duty to you, if I did not warn you of the consequences.’ He looked into Bromley’s eyes. ‘Josie could be in Austria for months. Not only would the financial cost to you be astronomical, but the chemotherapy techniques they are using are experimental and very dangerous. She could die.’
Bromley looked at the face of his wife, serene in sleep. ‘Isn’t that what she’s doing here?’
Miller looked at him and slowly nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Then I have no option.’ Bromley looked out of the window again. ‘I’ll send her to the other side of the world if there’s the slightest chance that she’ll come back to me.’
Doctor Miller put his arm around Tom Bromley’s shoulder and they both looked in silence at the drizzling rain. He sighed. ‘I’ll book her in and make all the arrangements.’ He gave Bromley’s shoulders a squeeze. ‘In the meantime, I’d suggest you go out and rob a bank.’
Doctor Miller left and Tom stood for a long time staring out the window at the rest of his life.
‘Oops. Sorry Tom, I didn’t think you’d be here.’ Bromley turned as Stan Ames walked into the room carrying a bunch of flowers. ‘I’ll come back later, mate.’
‘No. It’s okay, Stan. It’s nice of you to come, but I’m afraid she’s asleep.’ Bromley looked at the face of his sleeping wife and a huge sadness came upon him in a rush.
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