THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER

by Michael Smith

  “We live at 760 Belle… Bellevue.” We. Who on earth would put up with this man’s level of intemperance.

  Harris drove slowly with his head out of the window trying to spot the house numbers as he passed. Then he spotted it. He couldn’t believe it. Lescott’s house wasn’t a house. It was a mansion, not even Ronnie Prince lived in a place like that. It was a crying shame, the hedges out the front were unkempt, the grass lawn was sunburned, the gutters were falling down and the stucco that covered the facade was peeling away. It was a picture of distress.

  Harris parked in the driveway and helped Lescott to his feet. The Head of Missing Persons was still unable to carry his own weight, Harris would have to carry him over the threshold, much like a blushing bride. Lescott did manage to pull his house keys from his pocket, but he fumbled them instantly. The jangling as they fell through the air, the clang as they hit the ground, it was more than Harris could take. He lost his patience with Lescott and dropped him like a sack of spoiled potatoes. If the man wanted to get inside, he’d have to do it himself. Harris got onto his haunches and lit a cigarette while Lescott began a slow, mindless crawl towards the front door. Of course, he’d left the keys behind.

  It took ten minutes to get up the long pathway and into Lescott’s house. Harris had spent time doped up amongst the wounded in a field hospital outside El Alamein, he’d witnessed the aftermath of the Holocaust at Bergen Belsen, and he’d enjoyed many a wasted weekend chasing the dragon in drug dens. In all his years he had never seen a specimen quite as paralytic or as unable to function as Fred Lescott that night.

  Once Lescott had finally dragged himself up against the base of an ungodly floral settee in his front room, Harris lit two cigarettes and placed one in his companion’s mouth. “Smoke this, you’ll feel better.” He looked around for an ashtray, he couldn’t see one amongst the sea of case files that covered the room. It looked like some sort of shrine to crime and torment. Instead, Harris opened Lescott’s hand in his lap and helped the man tap ash into it. It would blister, but he wouldn’t wake up trapped in the inferno that used to be his home.

  Half awake, half asleep, and fully inebriated, Lescott began to cry. Harris couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The man was clearly a gifted policeman, well versed in criminality, with a head for psychology, he even had a clear grasp on the twisted politics at play within the force. With that mind, with money, he shouldn’t have ended up that way. But then, someone had once said that the higher a person’s IQ, the more intolerable they found life; Harris and Lescott were perhaps somewhat akin in that respect. This much was certain: something in Lescott’s past had left him quite broken.

  Harris headed for the kitchen, he’d get the guy a coffee and leave, his week was done. “Coffee for you. Something stronger for me.”

  “You got any whisky?” came a mumbled response. Harris popped his head around the kitchen door to see Lescott staring intensely through bleary, bloodshot and drunken eyes. His thirst for drink was of epic proportions. So drunk was he, that he didn’t seem to realise that he was in his own house. “Whisky!” Lescott repeated as he tapped his cigarette into the palm of his hand, the burning cherry dropped onto his flesh. Anyone in a normal state would have screamed in agony. Lescott simply closed his fist, crushing the burning embers into his skin. It was self-flagellation, and the result of Lescott regaining his mindfulness, and alongside it; his shame.

  “Whisky it is.” Harris wasn’t the guy’s wife, he wasn’t about to start an argument over his drinking, he’d pour him a whisky and leave. His wife… That was it. That was the darkness he was dragging alongside him. Lescott wore a wedding ring but judging from his behaviour and the gathering dust in his home, he lived alone.

  Harris walked back into the kitchen and rooted around for glasses. He didn’t have to look hard for whisky. There were several half-consumed bottles scattered around the place. He poured two helpings into dusty, chipped crystal tumblers. As he did, he became preoccupied with a scratching noise above his head. It sounded like fingernails on floorboards in the room over the kitchen. It sounded like someone was trying to claw their way out of the house. It stopped and Harris shrugged it off. He drank his whisky and went to pour another, it was better stuff than he ever splashed out on, he figured Lescott owed him one. As he poured, he spoke loudly over his shoulder so Lescott could hear from the other room, “Cooky found something interesting on one of the bodies… Red dirt.”

  Harris grabbed both of the glasses and went to walk out of the room. He stopped when the scratching began again. It was louder and more urgent than before. Almost like it was responding to hearing Harris’ voice in the house. Harris turned to the corner of the roof from where it seemed to emanate, damp was sinking into the plaster, a large crack was beginning to form. “What are you doing here?” Lescott, now fully awake, had made his way to the doorway into the kitchen. He stood behind Harris and looked at him in intoxicated distrust.

  Harris noted a marked difference in the atmosphere of the room as he watched Lescott walking towards him. He was not welcome. That much was crystal clear. “Fucking hell Fred. You frightened the shit out of me…” Lescott stared at Harris with the hateful stare of a drunk, it was full of spite and confusion. Harris was beginning to rue helping the man, “You needed a hand getting home, you were a little worse for wear.”

  Lescott made his way over to Harris on uncertain footing and snatched a tumbler from his hands. Lescott held the tumbler to his mouth and began to pour. He didn’t finish until it was empty. In fact, he carried on long after the contents of the glass had run out. Such was his inebriation that only a fraction of the drink found its way into his mouth. Most of it hit the floor. He wiped his chin and looked at Harris to suggest he pour another. “Red dirt?” Harris ignored the unspoken command and looked up towards the source of the scratching sound. Lescott’s eyes made their way up to the corner of the room and rested there for an eternity. “Possum in the walls.”

  “Sounds bigger than your average possum?” Harris didn’t quite believe Lescott’s answer.

  “He… She… It used to play loose forward for South Sydney.” The men stood in silence. Harris attempted to make it look like he was paying no attention to the noise above by sipping at his whisky and silently remarking how satisfying the drink was. The scratching was becoming more and more desperate as time went on. Every so often it was punctuated by a heavy thudding sound. The tension in the room was so utterly potent that with each thud, Harris flinched.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” Lescott spat the mumbled words out and dropped the crystal tumbler to the floor as though he was readying himself for a quarrel. Something in his eyes told Harris that this man was dangerous. Then the tension broke as the younger of the two men began to sob. His anger had given way to sadness in the blink of an eye. He was unstable. Physically and mentally, he was struggling with the life he was living.

  “The dead.” When Lescott murmured through his tears, Harris followed his gaze. It was focused somewhere behind Harris. It wasn’t on the opposite wall, rather something unseen in that room. Harris couldn’t decide whether to put it down to trauma or some bizarre, alcohol-fuelled psychotic episode. Lescott slowly, mournfully turned and walked back into the lounge where he slumped on an armchair. There, he cried himself to sleep.

  Harris was out of his depth on an emotional level. He was hardened inside and out. He needed to leave. But not before he had used the bathroom.

  The house was a maze of closed doors and empty rooms. It was more like a museum of a life once lived than a working home. Harris learned that there had indeed been a woman in Lescott’s life, along with an infant daughter. His trip through the house was a stroll through happier times. Framed pictures showed that Lescott was happy once, and healthy too. With each picture Harris looked at, a kind of morbid curiosity grew within him. When Lescott had inexplicably lamented the dead, he had meant his family. His wife, of slim build with dark hair and classic beauty was quite something to behol
d. Their daughter was a bonnie little thing who no doubt would have been blessed with her mother’s genes.

  Harris became so distracted by the story the photographs told, he completely forgot his search for the bathroom. Instead of looking to relieve himself, he made his way upstairs. The first door on the left of the landing was locked; he thought that odd, but perhaps it was a study or something of that ilk, something private. Something confidential. What people did in the privacy of their own homes wasn’t his concern. He kept looking through the rooms. A master bedroom containing what appeared to be the Lescott marital bed, unslept in. A guest bedroom, on the other hand, looked like it had been slept in. It was filled with bottles and cigarette ends, the sour stink of old booze poured out when Harris opened the door. Then a massive marble bathroom that looked too fancy for the Sultan of Brunei, never mind a smackhead like James Harris. As he stood over the toilet taking a piss in the room at the end of the hall, he heard that damned scratching sound. It was coming from behind him. It was so close he forgot what he was doing and completely pissed all over the cistern and the wall. When he was finished, he hastily put himself away and moved out of the bathroom, so distracted he forgot to clean the mess he’d made. He moved down the corridor and followed the noise. It was coming from behind the locked door.

  The house was haunting, and it was creeping Harris out. He wanted to head back to Darlinghurst, to the comfort of his own living space. He wanted the fix of heroin that awaited him there. As he got to the top of the stairs, he paused by the locked door. Should he force his way in to investigate? He thought better of it. No more investigating. What good had it done him?

  He ignored the drunk and deranged policeman as he left the house. It was time to take a disgustingly big hit of smack and see where that left him. If he woke up the following morning, fantastic. If he didn’t… That’s life. That’s death. That’s addiction.

  Chapter 11

  James Harris took advantage of what was turning into a pleasantly warm night in Sydney by making his way home on foot. Not that he had much of a choice in the matter, given he had left his clapped-out banger back in Darlinghurst. He headed north to Point Piper, another of Sydney’s more exclusive neighbourhoods, and from there he snaked his way along the beaches that littered the coast. The events of the day were fresh in the collective mind of Darlinghurst, but here, behind the gilded curtain, people were just living their comfortable lives.

  As Harris passed an immaculately manicured green, he stood for a moment and watched the families eating their evening picnics. They tucked into refreshing cucumber sandwiches, zesty prawn cocktails and a vast array of French pastries from the nearby boulangerie. In each face Harris glimpsed genuine happiness. This was living. They were safe, they were well fed, they were entertained by the game of cricket being played in the centre of the oval. How could it be that one city played host to two such distinct lives, Harris pondered. Just miles away, in Darlinghurst, people were fearful and outraged. Here, it was just plain pleasant. Harris, for the briefest of moments, wondered whether he might take a seat on the grass and fall asleep to the sound of the ball cracking the willow and the respectably restrained cheering and gentle clapping of the rich folk. Then he remembered that he disliked cricket, finding it a trivial pursuit. What’s more, he found the rich were ignorant of the hellish torment that life can bestow upon the poor. He would move on.

  Like Spring-heeled Jack, a story from his youth, the sun’s last light was scarpering and bounding over the rooftops when he arrived in Woolloomooloo. Outside Harrington’s brewery, the two owners were sitting on crates full of beer on the cobbles outside the building. They too were making the most of an otherwise pleasant evening by drinking beers, playing hands of German whist, and reminiscing about the good old days. Days before George Watson, Ronnie Prince, and James Harris. When they saw the standover man approaching with their ledger under his arm, they quietened down and nodded respectfully.

  Harris reached down and picked a bottle of Harrington’s Special Black and Tan from one of the nearby crates. Harris put a great big paw around the neck of the bottle.

  “That’s not a twist top,” one of the owners remarked.

  “Take this,” the other spoke in a friendly tone as he offered a bottle opener to Harris. The offer was silently dismissed and the man turned away, unable to watch. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to twist off a non-twist bottle cap, but if you are going to try it, try it outside your local hospital.

  Harris smiled, gripped, and twisted. The lid came off. That was Harris all over. His flesh was iron, his bones were steel. He enjoyed making everyone fully aware of it. The two brewers looked at each other, raised their eyebrows and gulped. “Did you happen to speak to Prince?”

  “I did not,” Harris answered as he took a sizeable glug of their prized ale. “This is fucking delicious.”

  “We can’t pay…”

  “I’m going to make your George Watson problem go away.” Harris spoke over an enigmatic smile, the brewers listened and waited with bated breath. “I resigned from the police force today.”

  “You did?” One of the brewers asked, hoping Harris would explain how this was in any way linked to their situation.

  “No. I was fired. I don’t want to get into it. I’m sure you’ll read about it in the newspapers.” Harris lifted a full crate of beer with one strong hand and placed it between the men. “You’re probably wondering what this has to do with you? Well, I’m looking for new employment. I’m thinking about getting into the beer trade. I could come on board as a partner. I could pay off your debts to Prince. I can make your debts with Watson disappear. I can get you contracts to supply Prince’s venues in Sydney, Brisbane and Adelaide.”

  “And Prince?”

  “Everyone pays Prince. Even me. Well, not me, because that will come out of your end. But something tells me, once you see your business exploding…” There was no mistaking the emphasis on that last word, Harris let its ambiguity hang on the air, “Well, you won’t mind paying poor old Mr Prince his due, because we will all be rich men.

  They were powerless and they knew it. Harris held his hand out and waited for them to come around. That was the way businesses ran in Sydney at the time. As soon as you made any money at all, you grabbed the attention of the criminal element. They’d either put you out of business or, if you were one of the lucky ones, they’d only steal half of it.

  Chapter 12

  James Harris, brewery owner and legitimate small businessman, stopped at the King’s Cross Hotel on Darlinghurst Road before heading up to his dosshouse. He wanted to enjoy one last moment in the warmth before he spiked his vein, and icy hellfire ran coursed through his blood. The bar was full, people came from all over the city to enjoy drinks on its rooftop terrace. There they could enjoy an unparalleled view of the city’s skyline while feeling the adrenaline rush that comes from immersion in the seedy underbelly. But Harris didn’t have time for such indulgence. Schooner in hand, he walked out the door and drank on the cobbles, hoping for a little peace. As he drank, he kept his eye on the street and those who passed. Invariably, each passing mouth theorised about the events of the day, and each passing set of ears gobbled the conspiracies avariciously.

  Harris had a growing feeling that a pair of eyes were upon him. People often kept their eyes upon him. He was the sort of person you didn’t want sneaking up on you. But this was different. He wasn’t being glanced at intermittently in fear. This feeling was of a pair of eyes mauling him from some unseen spot in the shadows.

  All of a sudden, a splash of red entered his peripherals. He noted it, but he didn’t look up. He was determined to mind his own business. His were the only eyes that hadn’t so far been drawn to one of the most magnetic sights one might ever see. That red blur was a red dress. Inside that dress was the most magnificent, and highly sought-after creature on The Cross. Pale, flawless white skin and long silken midnight black hair. I could spend an hour describing the length of her legs or the f
ullness of her cleavage, but it would be an injustice. For her beauty was not just physical beauty. She was so much more than a face or a figure. She had talent, attitude, and she was pure charisma. At that time our ideas were not as enlightened as they are today. A woman’s place was generally to serve the men in her life. Elsa Markle served no man. She was a liberated woman. She did as she pleased. She came and went at her whim. She was untameable. Darlinghurst Road watched as she approached James Harris. He didn’t notice. He was far too busy, staring down at a splatter of blood upon his shoes, wondering who it belonged to.

  “What a beautiful evening…” A soft husky voice spoke as she moved in on Harris, leaning on the wall next to where he had propped himself.

  “What are you, a fucking weather girl?” Harris kept his eyes on the street as he displayed the characteristic lack of charm that years of scepticism, about anything and everything, had bred into him.

  “How about you come inside and dance with me?” Elsa spoke in a seductive voice that would have melted many a man to a soppy puddle on the cobbles. But it fell upon deaf ears. Harris was a heroin addict. Some men make women, and the age-old pursuit of them, their passion, their hobby, and the shrine they worship at. He didn’t. His religion was getting fucked up. The altar he worshipped at was a musty windowsill in his tenement room. And the god he worshipped, it was heroin. As a devout man, he had no time for the distractions that the pleasures of the flesh brought with them. “Not a dancer? How about I buy you a drink then?” Her dark eyes burned under the glow of the street lamps. They were almost Gorgon-like in effect. They froze men in their tracks. And yes, they turned those poor men uncontrollably hard, just like stone. Still, Harris’s concentration remained focussed on the blood upon his shoe.

  “Well I can’t just come back to your place unless we at least swap names first.” That grabbed Harris’ attention somewhat. Women just did not talk like that back then. And if they did, they were on the job. Men barely got away with that kind of forwardness, and never without receiving a slap across the face first. She knew what she wanted, and she’d do what she needed to get it.