His concentration was broken when Livingstone walked back into the room. While the door to the outside was open, he was all smiles, when it shut he bore a thunderous expression.
Harris ignored his superior’s presence, he’d have to wait his turn. Harris turned to the clerk. “Show these gentlemen out. Go out the back way. They are not to exit onto Darlinghurst Road. Do you understand?” The typist nodded, and exited the room in a hurry. The atmosphere there was toxic, you couldn’t blame her for wanting out. Harris watched as she reappeared a moment later, this time on the other side of the glass. She beckoned for the men of the line-up to follow her. One by one, they did just that. Had they had any understanding of what they had come so close to being a part of, they’d have run. Harris sank in a chair with his brow furrowed, deep in thought.
Livingstone was furious. “What’s the meaning of this? You’re letting them go without pressing charges?”
“I didn’t like any of them for it.” Harris shrugged.
“What do you mean? You didn’t need to like them. I lined this up for you. What about number four?” Livingstone raged.
“Which one?” Harris stared into his faint reflection in the glass. He looked unwell, but a strange measure of peace had sunk into his person. For the first time in years, he had done something worth doing.
“Sorry?” Livingstone asked in incredulity.
“Well, I asked the men to switch places between witnesses. Oddly enough, they both said number four. Even though the men look quite different to each other.” Harris laughed softly as he sat there, slumped in the chair. It wasn’t the kind of laughter conceived in humour, it was disbelief.
“I saw that man…” Kyle had clearly been listening to the conversation behind the door and he stormed in in protest.
“You didn’t see a fucking thing.” Harris glared up at Kyle. When Harris glared, people stopped talking. This was no different. Having been put in his place, Kyle shrank. That’s no exaggeration. As though he’d been punched in the gut, the air escaped his puffed-out chest and he timidly retreated from the conversation. He looked just like a naughty schoolboy who’d been given a taste of the strap.
Livingstone’s face was a deep shade of scarlet. “This is a travesty. You’re done.”
Harris smiled, this was beginning to feel like the climax of their relationship, and he was going to bask in the prospect of never seeing the crook ever again. What’s more, he was going to leave nothing unspoken. “You coached them. And you did it badly. This dopey cunt ID’d the wrong man. He didn’t even look at the guy. You’d have seen him banged up for the rest of his life.”
Livingstone glared at Kyle, silently scolding him for his part in this comedy of errors. Turning back to Harris, he shuddered, “Do you think you’re an actual detective? Is that what’s happening here?” Silence. “You hand out dirty money. And you do it because I allow you to. I am in charge here. Not you. Don’t forget that.”
Harris shrugged, “I didn’t ask for this. You dropped this on me. But my name is attached to this, I won’t allow an innocent man to die.”
“Well then.” Livingstone exhaled slowly between purses lips. He was beginning to cool off, and, troublingly, he was beginning to formulate his next move. He was far too shrewd an operator to allow this to be his undoing. “Get out onto the street and find the Aborigine responsible for this.”
Harris responded to the command with a blank look.
“It’s clear that no white man would do this. This is a black crime.” Livingstone spoke plainly.
Harris took a deep breath. Whether Livingstone truly believed his own words is unclear. What was certain was that he was an intelligent man whose self-interest came above everything else. It was more likely that this noxious brand of racism was based more on his need to further himself than a sincere belief in the land’s indigenous people being an inferior race. Either way, it’s easy to label it vile behaviour with the benefit of the years that have passed and the outdated opinions and beliefs that have changed. Back then, it was just normalcy. Remember Racial Discrimination wasn’t outlawed until 1976, some 13 years after the events of that day.
“I don’t remember the last time I saw a black man driving a fucking car, never mind a Rolls Royce.” Harris queried.
“Well. Find me one that does.” Livingstone was steadfast. He wouldn’t budge an inch.
“Two children are dead.” Harris attempted to appeal to whatever was left of Livingstone’s humanity.
“Come on…” Kyle, who had been quiet for some time, interrupted, “They’re only…”
Before the misguided detective could finish his sentence, Harris had jumped to his feet and wrapped a firm hand around his throat. He pushed Kyle against the wall with such force that every piece of furniture in the office shook.
The sentiment of Kyle’s unfinished words is quite unthinkable now. They should have been back then. Humans are humans. That’s where it ends, or rather that’s where it should end. But, is should not one of the most impotent words or phrases in the English language? It’s steamrollered by is, by was, and by will be.
“The next word you say… Will be your last. I promise you.” Harris spoke through gritted teeth as he crushed Kyle’s throat. Kyle was in full possession of the stupidity to attempt to speak but, fortunately for him, when he did, all that escaped his mouth was an airless wheeze.
“There’s a good lad.” Harris released the breathless detective, who fell to the floor in a fit of coughing and gasping.
Livingstone had a peculiar smile upon his face. The sinister machinations behind his eyes were clear. “You must know you can’t win here, James. I have the full clout of the New South Wales Police force behind me. We’ll use every tool at our disposal to bring about a satisfactory conclusion to this case. High-ranking members of government will publicly back me. And let’s not forget the media. It’s going to be you and the Aborigines you love so much against the entire world.”
Harris had heard enough, he charged straight at Livingstone. There’s no better way to take the air out of a bully’s tyres than by the threat of physical pain. Bullies cause more of the stuff than anyone. They know its agony intimately. Livingstone cowered and shuffled backwards dramatically. As soon as Harris saw it, he realised this was contrived. Livingstone had manipulated him, he had goaded him into violence. The DCI had done it with a flourish. Tripping over his own feet and hitting the back of his head against the wall with a sickening thud was an expert touch.
Harris towered over him. “I don’t mind you smearing my name. You do what you need to do. But you watch what you say about this case. Because if that story goes to the press, it won’t be safe for Aboriginals to walk the fucking streets…” Harris lowered onto his haunches, “And if I get wind that you have fitted up another black fella, I’ll enter your house in the dead of the night, while your family are sleeping. On the way to the master room, I’ll strangle your kids in their sleep. Just like those two kids in the car. Call it poetic justice. I’ll come into your room, and I’ll put a bullet in each of your limbs. As you lie there, blubbering and bleeding out. I’ll rape your wife. You know what. I think the cunt would enjoy a good seeing to. Don’t you?”
The threat hovered in the space between the two men, leaving the situation quite ripe. Harris was happy to let the fear sink in so he remained on his haunches. “You’re fired,” Pressure visibly lifted from Livingstone’s shoulders as soon as he’d said those words. Harris had been a stone in his shoe that he’d been unable to shake out, now it was gone. In all his relief, he forgot one key thing. That, now he’d fired the man, he was no longer Harris’ superior. The one factor that had spared him Harris’ famed brand of violence on several prior occasions, no longer applied.
Not to excuse the behaviour of my English associate, feel free to judge him for yourself, but I’d be remiss not to explain. He didn’t mean a single word of those words. He didn’t need to, he just needed to put the fear of God into Livingstone. I’d ask him
later on why it was that he was so keen to protect Sydney’s indigenous population, he simply said “I’ve been fucked over more times in my life than I care to remember. I’ve been beaten. I’ve been robbed. I’ve been cheated. I’ve been deemed surplus to requirements. My life has been declared forfeit once. Society itself has left me behind.” He told me, “When I put faces to all those memories I’d rather forget, not one of them is black.”
As Mr James Harris, a newly unemployed private citizen, emptied his belongings into a filing box, he could feel the eyes of the office upon him. Generally, he didn’t like the attention. It quite often behoves a man in his position to go unnoticed. But this was his last day in Major Crimes, a cause for great celebration. This was to be his leaving party.
With his box of possessions firmly under one of those strong arms, he stopped at an ex-colleague’s desk to say goodbye. As luck would have it, the man had long since gone home that night. Instead of enjoying a bittersweet farewell with a dear old friend, Harris helped himself to the man’s prized bottle of single malt whisky, aged 18 years. That bottle had travelled across the world, from the Isle of Islay off the coast of Scotland, all the way to Darlinghurst. There, it had proudly, gloatingly even, sat on that ageing detective’s desk, unconsumed. It had never gathered dust, it never had the chance, the man lovingly polished it once a week. It was to be opened at his retirement party, due to be held in just a few months’ time. But having unexpectedly beaten him to retirement, Harris had other plans for his Scotch; he smashed the neck of the bottle on the man’s desk. Placing the jagged glass to his lips, he drank, and he drank, and he drank. Without taking so much as a single breath, Harris sank most of that precious nectar. What didn’t make its way into his mouth poured down his front and onto the floor. Detectives nearby gasped and groaned at each drop that went to waste. Noticing this, Harris decided he would have a laugh. He juggled the half-smashed, half-consumed bottle as though he was about to drop it. His audience flinched and hid their eyes at his careless behaviour. In 1963, a bottle of Islay single malt was held in more reverence than communion wine. When Harris casually launched the bottle at a nearby window, glass was shattered and tears were wept. Darlinghurst Road rained whisky and glass that night in December.
On the street below, the bottle smashed near a big ugly bastard called Bruno. Bruno was one of Ronnie Prince’s enforcers. He wasn’t the kind of guy you cast a second glance at for fear of offending him. When the bottle smashed at Bruno’s feet, he mistakenly assumed someone nearby had attempted to throw it at him. He barrelled into a group of George Watson’s boys who were drunkenly celebrating a big day at Randwick Racecourse. One thing led to another and a street-wide brawl broke out. That’s how finely balanced the Darlinghurst ecosystem was, one broken bottle meant dozens of broken bones.
In Major Crimes, Livingstone walked out of his office to see what the commotion was, only to prop himself up on the doorframe of his office. His remarkable dedicated and dramatic acrobatic display had led to a steadily bleeding crown and a mild case of concussion. When his team looked over at him as if to question whether he was going to bring Harris under control, he simply shrugged and disappeared back into the comfort of his office. His men remained there wide-eyed and slack-jawed, not fully understanding the events of the day. This was a shocking turn of events, in what they’d expected to be an open and closed procedure. Major Crimes was usually a well-oiled machine. That night, the machine broke down.
I was in the station that night. On my way to sit down with high-ranking members of the Arson squad, I had become entangled in a brawl that had broken out on the street. Why was I meeting the Arson squad? I don’t want to go into details, but there was this thing with a ship in the harbour. A business deal with Chinese sailors that went wrong. There was a fire. Then there wasn’t a ship in the harbour, rather at the bottom of it. It was all very unfortunate. Years later, they were still holding it over my head. You sink one little boat and they never let you forget it.
I talked to the guys in Arson later that night and they told me different versions of Harris’ performance in Major Crimes. It was shrouded in some mystery. Some said he pulled a gun on Livingstone, who in turn pissed himself. Others said Harris went straight into the evidence store and helped himself to a nice big brick of heroin on his way out. One person said he had quite literally set fire to his desk on his way out. It was that person who came closest to the truth.
Harris had enjoyed the reaction that throwing the bottle at the window had created. It made him feel a little better about the shitty day he was neck deep in. And so, he decided to go one step further. There was no guessing what he would do as he put his belongings down at the double doors into the department. Major Crimes being the peacock type of department it was, it had this big ugly sign hanging on the wall at the front. Practically, but wholly unimaginatively, it read “Major Crimes.” Taking a canister of lighter fluid, Harris doused the sign until it was dripping. Those big strong hands crushed the flimsy metal of the canister until not one single solitary drop was left. Then he took his zippo and set the sign on fire.
James Harris was a troubled type of man. It was rare he loosened up enough to have fun, but when he smiled, well, it was a marvellous thing. It tended to be an indication that all hell was about to break loose. Beaming from ear to ear, Harris held his zippo to the sign and darted a step or too back as it burst into flames. Taking one last look around Major Crimes, he said goodbye, meaning never to return.
Unsurprisingly, the next time he would darken the doorway of the Major Crimes department, he would be wearing handcuffs.
Chapter 10
Making the most of the fact that no one was brave, or rather stupid, enough to escort Harris from the building, he stopped by Missing Persons. He wanted to thank Lescott for encouraging him to do the right thing. He was going to suggest that Lescott should take the case on, it was firmly Harris’ belief that the soaked head of Missing Persons was the only man for the job. But when he arrived to find Lescott flat on his face and quite unconscious, he changed his mind. The man was more of a mess than he had let on. Harris cast his eyes over the spilled cocaine that comprehensively coated Lescott’s desk, it was broken only by a few instances of clear desk, marking where Lescott had erratically dragged his nose across the surface. “Fucking hell…”
Lescott didn’t wake after a rough shake from Harris, he was seemingly done for the night. Harris kneeled over him for a moment, contemplating whether to just leave him there or to take responsibility for this relative stranger.
Have you ever dragged a dead weight up two flights of damp, slippery steps? As someone who has carried more than his fair share of rolled-up rugs up and down flights of stairs, I can tell you. It’s tough going. Harris was blowing as they hit the car park. Lescott seemed to have hit a sweet spot, he wasn’t responsive enough to carry his own weight, but he had regained enough consciousness to grumble angrily.
“That’s my car.” Lescott pointed, with his eyes still closed. The car in question was an imported BMW, dinged up, covered in dirt and uprooted flowers. The poor mistreated thing had been parked across two spaces. Harris could scarcely believe his eyes. It was either a dark shade of green or black, it was too dark to see clearly. Lescott had given a speech about wearing a white hat, all the while he was driving around in an imported sauerkraut cruiser. No honest policeman could afford to import a machine like that. No doubt Lescott was mixed up in something else.
Harris had never driven a BMW before; he figured after all the Germans had put him through at Bergen Belsen, well it was time he took some enjoyment from that particular relationship.
Harris propped Lescott up against the flank of the car while he patted the sot down. He’d heard the keys jangling as he’d hauled Lescott up the stairs and across the car park, locating them proved difficult given Lescott’s erratic attempts to brush him off. “Where do you live?” Harris asked as he pulled the keys from inside Lescott’s jacket.
Lescott coul
dn’t answer. He’d lost consciousness again; he was sliding down the car’s side panel into an oil slick on the floor.
It was a beautiful, still summer night. The suffocating heat had left the air warm and soothing on the skin. The night sky was clear, especially so in the affluent Sydney suburb of Bellevue Hill. It was only a matter of a few kilometres from Darlinghurst, but that could just as easily have been the distance between Heaven and Hell. Where Darlinghurst was grimy, dirty and criminal, Bellevue was clean, picturesque and well-behaved. It was the kind of place that bankers, lawyers, business owners and celebrities inhabited. An area consisting of large properties sitting on generous plots with impeccably groomed lawns. All with a breath-taking view of the city and harbour. Harris, again, was surprised when Lescott had murmured where his home was. On first impression, Lescott seemed like a normal enough bloke, by the standards commonplace in Darlinghurst in that day and age, but if he lived in Bellevue Hill, as his drunken muttering suggested, he was from money. This was different to someone impulsively spending his life savings on a flashy imported car. Policemen couldn’t save enough money to buy a property in Bellevue Hill in ten lifetimes. This was big money. As they drove through the quaint streets, Harris imagined what life might have been like if he had taken a different path. He knew it was folly, he could have lived a thousand lifetimes and his life wouldn’t have taken that particular path.
“They call him the ten-pound Pom.” Lescott interrupted Harris’ daydreaming with his inebriated mumbling.
“Who’ve you been speaking to, pisshead?” Harris let out a half laugh, but it didn’t cover the fact that he was a little concerned. Lescott, it seemed, had been digging around his business. Lescott was unable to answer the question, instead he snored loudly; so loudly that it startled him into waking up. “Where do you live?”
THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER Page 11