A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  He lay on his back and closed his eyes, letting the sunlight warm him.

  ‘Good morning,’ a voice said directly above him.

  Shayne opened his eyes. A golden leg was stretched either side of his waist. Where they met, a thin stretch of blue bikini bottoms did nothing to hide what they contained. And directly above that two triangles of the fabric held a set of perfect breasts.

  ‘I owe you this.’ Zoe Collingwood dropped to her knees and straddled him. He felt her inner thighs grasp his hips. She leaned over his face letting her long golden hair fall around him and he saw a folded two dollar note held fast between her teeth. She kissed him and forced the note into his mouth. The kiss lasted forever, then she pulled back, smiled at him and threw herself onto the sand next to him.

  ‘I saw you running along the beach earlier.’ Zoe pulled her hair back from her face. ‘I was having coffee on the Pavilion steps. Then you went into the water so I waited.’

  ‘Do you live around here?’ Shayne propped himself on one elbow and looked at her, captivated again by her beauty.

  ‘My guardian has several places in Sydney. She’s got one out on Ben Buckler.’ Zoe pointed to the northern headland of the beach. ‘You can see it from here. It’s the last building on the ocean end. It’s got a great view of the beach from the balcony.’

  ‘Is that an invitation to lunch?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Zoe smiled at him and stood up, ‘but not today. I’m meeting some friends.’ She tucked her hair behind her ear and began walking down the beach.

  Shayne watched her go. He could not remember ever seeing anyone more beautiful. Suddenly he was up and running. ‘Zoe! Wait! Zoe!’

  She lay naked on her bed, entangled in a sheet, her golden hair spread out across the pillows. One breast peeped at him from underneath her outstretched arm.

  Shayne sat near the window, a silhouette in the moonlight, and watched her sleep. Three times they’d made love and each time she’d called his name out loud as her body arched. They’d kissed, touched, whispered and caressed each other over and over, as the urgency rose within them. There had been no satisfaction for either. No sooner had they taken each other than the desire was rekindled and they found themselves carried away again like leaves in a storm.

  Zoe stirred in her sleep and murmured his name, then she sat bolt upright. ‘Shayne! Shayne, where are you?’

  ‘I’m here,’ he whispered.

  ‘Come,’ she said, holding out her arms to him. ‘Come here.’ Shayne moved to the bed and embraced her. ‘I thought you’d gone. Hold me, Shayne.’ He moved on top of her, his penis hard against her inner thigh. ‘No Shayne, not again, just hold me.’ He couldn’t help it; he wanted her again, and his hips slowly prised her legs apart. ‘No, Shayne. No, Shayne, not yet,’ she whispered.

  The tip of his penis found her. She was soft and wet and hot. ‘Yes,’ her voice was urgent. ‘Yes! Now! Always! Forever!’ His penis moved further and further inside her. ‘Oh Shayne,’ she sighed as he filled her, ‘Always.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, well may we say God Save the Queen, because nothing will save the Governor-General.’

  John Birmingham had run all the way from the Travellers’ Club to Parliament House in Macquarie Street. He burst through the door of Pat Morgan’s parliamentary office, and fell into a chair, mopping his sweating face. ‘Christ I’m stuffed!’ he gasped. ‘Have you heard what’s going on?’

  ‘Shhhh!’ Morgan pointed to a television set in the corner.

  Both men sat mesmerised by the image of Gough Whitlam, the Prime Minister of Australia, on the steps of Parliament House in Canberra. David Smith, secretary to the Governor-General, Sir John Kerr, had just made a statement to the effect that Whitlam had been sacked and Opposition Leader Malcolm Fraser had been sworn in as Caretaker Prime Minister pending a federal election set for 13th December. Whitlam had seized the microphone from Smith and was addressing the crowd.

  ‘… The proclamation you have just heard read by the Governor-General’s official secretary,’ Whitlam continued, ‘was counter-signed Malcolm Fraser, who will undoubtedly go down in Australian history from Remembrance Day in 1975, as Kerr’s Cur.’

  Pat Morgan got up and turned the set off. ‘It can’t be done! Kerr’s not even an elected representative of the people. It’s unconstitutional, surely!’

  Birmingham threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Obviously the Chief Justice of the High Court doesn’t think so. Kerr was in his office half of yesterday.’

  ‘Barwick condoned it??’

  ‘I’d say so.’ Birmingham got up wearily and opened the drinks cabinet behind Morgan’s desk.

  ‘The bastard! The bloody bastard!’ Morgan spat venomously as he adjusted the Venetian blinds and looked into the street below.

  ‘My sentiments exactly. Can I have a drink?’ Birmingham asked and helped himself to a large whisky without waiting for a reply. ‘Fraser’s the one who set it up, though. He’s been calling for an early election for weeks, ever since the Senate voted to block Supply,’ grunted Birmingham, easing himself back into a chair, ‘and we all know why they did that, don’t we?’

  ‘I know, I know, don’t say it again! The bloody Loans Affair.’ Morgan groaned, poured himself an equally large drink and dropped into the leather recliner he’d had specially purchased for his office.

  ‘Too bloody right! And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘What do you think the outcome will be?’

  ‘A fucking landslide!’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘The bloody Liberals! Who else?’

  ‘But surely the Australian public ….’

  ‘The Australian public!’ Birmingham roared. ‘Let me tell you about the Australian public! They wouldn’t know shit from clay unless they tasted it!’ He got to his feet and began to pace backwards and forwards. ‘The Australian public have had it too good for too long. They are politically apathetic. They’ve never had a Hitler or a Mussolini to make them think! Not in their own backyard anyway.’

  ‘What are you getting at, John?’

  He gestured with his drink. ‘They won’t analyse this situation from a political viewpoint. They’ll vote emotionally.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Who’s the only player in this situation not at fault?’

  ‘Whitlam.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ exploded Birmingham. ‘He’s gone too far too fast. Australians don’t like rapid change. Gough’s shit in his own nest. Mind you, his bloody ministers didn’t help! There’s not one of them that could run a country dance, let alone a Government portfolio.’

  Morgan looked incredulous. ‘Surely you can’t be suggesting that Fraser’s faultless?’

  ‘Hardly! It’s a toss up between him and Kerr as to who’s the biggest bastard!’

  ‘Then who are you talking about?’ Morgan snapped angrily.

  ‘Betty Windsor! Who else?’

  ‘What’s the Queen got to do with it?’ said Morgan impatiently.

  Birmingham stopped pacing and leaned against Morgan’s desk. ‘The average Australian believes she’s a benign ruler who sits on her throne in Buckingham Palace and watches over the Empire with a motherly eye. And every few years she makes a trip out here which, by the way, they pay for, and they stand in the bloody street and wave flags at her! Am I right?’

  Morgan shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘They honestly believe she’s apolitical!’ he said, moving to the chair next to Morgan. ‘Not one of them is going to stop and think that Kerr could not possibly have sacked the elected government of this nation without her approval.’ Birmingham groaned and sat down heavily.

  ‘Jesus.’ Morgan took a large swallow of his drink.

  ‘Exactly!’ Birmingham leaned forward to make his point. ‘They’ll see Gough Whitlam as a naughty boy and the bloody Queen as the mother who smacked his arse! And by Jesus, they’ll vote accordingly.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’
Pat Morgan returned to the window and looked out, deep in thought. ‘Things couldn’t be worse, could they?’

  Birmingham shook his head in despair at Morgan’s slowness. ‘For you they couldn’t be better, politically speaking.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Morgan was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Christ, you’re thick! You know fuck all about politics!’

  ‘Now, steady on, John …’

  ‘I’ll spell it out for you, Pat. What invariably happens in this State when a Federal government is elected?’

  ‘People vote.’

  ‘No! After they’ve voted!’

  ‘I don’t know, what?’

  ‘They vote the opposite political party in at State level!’

  ‘Really?’

  Birmingham heaved a sigh. ‘Take my word for it, Pat, they do it every time. They’re like fucking sheep. You’ll be back in power inside six months.’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’

  ‘I’m not saying it’ll happen automatically, Pat! You’ll have to do a bit of work. You know, like visiting your electorate, speaking to people, kissing babies!’ Birmingham’s sarcasm was totally wasted on Morgan.

  ‘Well, of course, but I always do that.’ He sat down and leaned back in his chair. ‘By God, I’ll have a few things to say too!’

  Birmingham slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair. ‘No, you bloody well won’t! Not if you know what’s good for you. Your big mouth’s the real reason I came running over here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tip-Toe Investments. That’s what I mean!’

  ‘Shhhh! Keep your voice down!’ Morgan said as he went to his office door and closed it.

  ‘I came to give you some advice and you’d better listen.’ Birmingham continued. ‘Starting from today, election fever will hit the air and every politician in the country, both Federal and State, will start digging up dirt on their opposition. The next few months will be a dangerous time, so you get your priorities right from the outset.’

  Morgan held out his hands in a calming gesture. ‘John, John. Don’t worry about Tip-Toe Investments, they’re in good hands.’

  Birmingham flew to his feet and leaned over Morgan’s desk. ‘Don’t patronise me, you sanctimonious prick! Just remember what happened to Scobie Brereton!’

  ‘Scobie had miner’s disease and he didn’t take care of his lungs. It’s as simple as that,’ Morgan said dismissively. ‘Scobie was a fool.’

  ‘Scobie was a fucking Rhodes Scholar compared to you!’ Birmingham hissed. ‘Has it never once occurred to you that silicosis might not have been the cause of Scobie’s death?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What! What!’ Birmingham mimicked. ‘You’re a babe in the bloody woods, Pat!’ He shook his head and sat down again. ‘You honestly had no idea, did you?’ He took a small plastic vial from his pocket and sniffed white powder from it.’

  ‘That stuff can’t be any good for you, John.’

  Birmingham laughed out loud. ‘You just won’t listen, will you? Scobie started off as a crooked union official who, without realising the consequences of his actions, created a criminal monster called Tip-Toe Investments. That monster turned on him because he wasn’t ruthless enough, or vicious enough to control it.’ He sipped his drink and looked straight at Morgan. ‘He was murdered, Pat. I can even tell you how it happened. A plastic bag full of talcum powder was pulled over his head.’

  ‘What! But the Death Certificate—?’

  ‘Grow up!’

  ‘Who …?’ Morgan’s face was white as a sheet.

  ‘Stan Ames and Harold Everard. Who else?’

  Morgan was silent for several minutes, while Birmingham got up and helped himself to another whisky. When Birmingham resumed his seat, the only sound in the room was the tinkle of ice in his glass as he sipped and stared at the wall. At last he spoke.

  ‘Well, now you know the truth about Scobie, you’d better start realising just how ruthless and vicious the people are who control Tip-Toe.’

  Finally Morgan looked up. ‘But I still control Tip-Toe Investments, John. I inherited it from Scobie.’

  Birmingham slapped his forehead in frustration. ‘Get your head out of the sand, Pat! You inherited fuck all. Harold gave it to you.’

  ‘But I control the money,’ stated Morgan simply. ‘All of it!’

  ‘Only because Everard and Ames want to distance themselves from it. Even your accountant, or should I say Tip-Toe Investments’ accountant, reports directly to Harold.’

  Morgan got up and refilled his glass. ‘Why are you telling me all this, John?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to die,’ said Birmingham quietly. ‘And I especially don’t want to die because a self-obsessed fool like you makes a stupid mistake.’ Birmingham got to his feet, walked over to Morgan and put his arm around his shoulder. ‘From now until the elections people will start digging, Pat. That’s the nature of politics. They’ll start sniffing around trying to get something on you. Anything.’ He slapped Morgan’s shoulder a couple of times. ‘So just make doubly sure that no one ever hears of Tip-Toe Investments, because Ames and Everard are not the sort of people who leave witnesses. They’d close up shop and you and I and everyone else connected with Tip-Toe would conveniently disappear. For good.’

  Morgan shrugged off Birmingham’s arm. ‘John, even if what you’re saying about Scobie is true, it was a lot of years ago. Tip-Toe is a very modern, streamlined organisation these days. It’s run with extreme efficiency. The old days are gone.’ Morgan looked at Birmingham and smiled sorrowfully. ‘I know you don’t like to be lectured about your habits, John, but I think that substance you’re constantly snorting is making you paranoid.’

  Birmingham slammed his glass down on the desk. ‘Right! That’s it! I give up.’ He went to the door. ‘You’re a fool, Pat. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Shayne Everard stood in a doorway in Sellers Street, avoiding the pool of light spilling from a nearby street lamp. For a few seconds he moved his gaze from the front of the jewellery shop they’d been ordered to stake out and looked around nervously. Across the road behind a parked car, he saw John Buck check his service revolver and curse softly as three of his rounds fell to the ground. Three other cops, including his sergeant, had taken up position in the darkened interior of a laundry nearby.

  Shayne was trembling. He wondered if the others felt the same. Obviously John did—he was reloading his gun for the second time. Would it always be like this? Shayne wondered, then dismissed the idea. Of course it would! He was shaking like a wet puppy and his palms were sweaty.

  At two minutes to nine he watched Cosmo Kalidis, a police officer posing as the jeweller’s assistant, begin the process of locking the shop. Maybe it won’t happen, he mused, but as the thought passed through his mind he saw a brown panel van enter Sellers Street. It was going down, all right, any minute now! The information they’d received was spot-on. There was going to be a stick-up and Shayne was right in the middle of it.

  The car stopped in front of the shop and a figure wearing a balaclava stepped onto the footpath and aimed a shotgun at Cosmo. Shayne watched, not quite sure how to react. Where was his bloody sergeant? He drew his firearm and began to move across the street.

  John stepped out from his position and called on the man to drop his weapon. Then all hell broke loose.

  The bandit opened fire and Cosmo Kalidis was thrown through the front window of the shop by the force of the blast. John fired and missed as the gunman turned and levelled the shotgun at him. It was all happening in slow motion. He pulled the trigger. The blast went into the footpath before tearing into Buck’s lower legs.

  The driver of the panel van screamed something and the gunman jumped back into the passenger’s seat. Shayne got to the vehicle and opened fire into the front window as the car sped off. Shayne kept firing as it flew down the street. The bullets tore into the back of the van. One of the rounds struck the petrol tank and suddenly
, with an earth-shattering roar, the car exploded.

  Shayne was thrown to the ground by the force of the blast and the aftershock as the flaming car smashed into a concrete wall. He got to his feet and watched a figure struggle out of the passenger’s door. The man was on fire. As Shayne watched, the man dropped the shotgun and screamed as the flames engulfed him.

  Where the fuck was his sergeant? Shayne thought in panic. He ran towards the screaming man and threw himself onto the fireball of burning clothing, stifling the flames with his body. And finally, after an eternity, he stood back and stared in horror at the blackened mess writhing on the ground.

  Shayne heard someone call his name and turned and ran back towards John. As he passed the laundry, he heard glass shatter and his sergeant emerged through the broken laundry door, followed by the two other officers.

  ‘We couldn’t open the fucking door!’ his sergeant screamed.

  Police sirens wailed in the night air. Shayne ran to where his friend was lying.

  ‘Johnny! Johnny!’ Tears began to course down Shayne’s cheeks.

  John Buck rolled over onto his back and grinned. ‘Jesus fuck! What was all that noise?’

  ‘They’re dead! They’re burning!’ Shayne screamed. He was going into shock.

  Buck recognised the symptoms of battle shock, he’d seen it many times as a conscript in Vietnam. He struggled to his feet and was surprised at the amount of blood over his lower legs, but he could stand okay. The force of the shotgun pellets had been reduced by bouncing into the footpath before hitting him. He put his arm around Shayne and began trying to calm him down. He sat him on the footpath, leaning against a wall.

  ‘Wait here, Shayne,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve got to look at Cossy. I think that bastard killed him.’

  Other police were arriving in droves. Sellers Street looked like a battlefield. John watched his sergeant screaming orders at anyone who’d listen. He walked to the shop front and looked at the body of Cosmo Kalidis lying in the smashed window. His stomach was shot completely away.