by Steve Deeks
Reluctantly I left the gathering and climbed aboard my taxi. It was only when sitting still in silence that I begun to feel my head spinning. I had some mint chewing gum so poured a few of these into my mouth and started munching hoping the smell of alcohol would dissipate. I feared it would be a long night and hoped I would not be found sleeping on the job.
Strangely, the heaviness I was feeling in the taxi was replaced by a zestfulness as I set about working like a machine. Carrying heavy panels above my head up flights of marble stairs for two hours non-stop was not the ideal scenario for someone in my state but I manfully stuck to the task despite. Despite my unstinting efforts I soon noticed that not all were putting in the same required work levels, specifically including our team leader, an obese Maori New Zealander who spent the whole time sweating and gasping for breath like he was being starved of oxygen but didn’t actually lift a finger himself. He spent most of his time telling others what to do and the rest of it chatting to his mates as they grafted.
Working non-stop for over five hours, tiredness inevitably began to kick-in, especially as the effects of the alcohol were wearing off. I thought nobody had realised I had had a couple of cheeky pre-work drinks until near the end of the shift. “Blimey mate, you smell like a brewery,” a fellow worker observed, wafting his hand swiftly across his face. Concerned that everyone would now think I was a raging alcoholic I slipped into a side room for my first break of the shift and began knocking back coffee like a junkie, until sunlight begun to flood into the room, further reinforcing my sense of weariness.
All the work had been done, so all that remained was for me to count down the remaining minutes of the shift. Then, much to my disgust, my phone rang. It was the supervisor. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to ring you. There’s some more stuff that needs finishing off upstairs,” he breathlessly insisted. “Ok be there shortly,” I replied politely. “Fat tosser,” I said, after hanging up the phone.
After eventually finishing my errands at 6.30am I was permitted to leave. I got in the passenger side of a lorry I had been told was taking me back to base where I waited for the driver to appear. After several minutes a small, cursing Indian jumped into the driver’s side. “I bloody hate driving their sodding trucks,” he announced as he sat down. “I don’t even bloody-well know where I’m going.” Suddenly any pleasure I felt at finishing my slavish shift was replaced by anxiety, as I got the impression the shift was far from over. “That’s it I’ve had enough, I’m never bloody working for them again. Fuck this job,” the dishevelled Indian continued, boiling with rage, as the vehicle spluttered to every aggressive gear change. “They mess me around always. Do this, do that, call me at last minute. No respect. I never bloody work for them again.”
With expletives continuing to rain down I could relate to how he felt and, jumping on a momentary pause in his never-ending rant, joined in the cathartic slating. “The team leader’s a useless fat wanker isn’t he?” I spewed provocatively.
“Oh yes, I bloody hate this bastard. All he does is moan and boss you around. He can go to bloody hell.”
I nodded in agreement, “He makes it out that you are doing no work, yet he stands around with his fat belly not lifting a finger. And he stinks like a pig.”
“Yes, yes exactly,” the Indian responded enthusiastically. “I hope this bloody man falls on his fat arse and never gets up.”
Our enjoyment was short lived, though, as before long we became hideously lost. “I follow directions like they say but have no bloody idea where I am,” the Indian shouted angrily, shaking his head. Never before in my life had I been so thoroughly lost with such an incompetent person, who left me genuinely fearing I would never find my destination. It had taken about 20 minutes to get to the place we were working from the city but after eventually finding the correct road, it was an hour and a half before we pulled wearily into the base. I was strangely delighted to see this place.
We went and filled out our timesheets before handing them to a less than impressed giant Maori who was in charge. “Where you been?” he growled murderously.
“We’ve been driving all over,” the Indian squealed angrily. “I have no idea where I was going and directions were very, very bad.” The Kiwi scowled before stomping off like the Terminator. It was all too obvious there would be a fall-out from us being late back, even though it was due to circumstances beyond our control.
“Fuck this,” the Indian guy said, “I’m not waiting around for a bollocking for something that wasn’t my fault. I’m going. You want a lift?” Reluctantly I accepted and climbed into his car, knowing that I would be stuck with this man for another 20 minutes of my life. “This man’s a stupid bastard. He doesn’t believe us because we’re late,” he continued, shouting out the window, “Well, fuck you all.” And with that he stuck a finger up and accelerated away with Punjabi music blazing deafeningly from the speakers.
After sticking the boot into the company the whole way into the city my Indian colleague gave me an odd embrace following our emotional journey. Somehow I didn’t think we would be seeing each other at work again.
It soon became apparent that I had worked my last shift for the company when friends that worked there were asked in almost daily, while I was not called in for a single shift. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that it was the bell-end supervisor who had besmirched my good name within the company. Although I knew that I may be regarded as something of an unglamorous water-carrier in the glittering world of conference erections, at least I could look myself in the mirror and know that I had put my back into the work every time I pulled on the company’s classic blue shorts and effervescent yellow jersey.
Despite all this I soon became embroiled in a battle with the firm when I checked my bank balance and noticed I had been underpaid, coincidentally by six hours. Quite possibly the very same six hours I had worked on my final shift. Without delay I sent a haughty email demanding I instantly receive my full pay, along with a full and unreserved apology after being robbed of my hard earned money. After initially playing hardball with me, they eventually came to the conclusion that financially it was more prudent for the company to just pay me what I was owed rather than deal with my endless emails and phone calls. Although my bank balance had been boosted by my toils with the company from hell, in reality, with the scarcity and length of my shifts, it amounted to no more than pissing in the wind.
In amongst this, though, I did learn that the state of the Australian economy must be in a pretty good shape if they were prepared to pay me, a talentless labourer, $20 an hour for my services. Try as they might about pretending they were caught up in the world recession, this was further evidence they were not.
Chapter 11 – Crime Fighting
One morning having got up at the crack of dawn to watch an important football match from back home, I drunkenly stumbled across a newspaper office after celebrating a fine early morning victory with a few beers. Being a journalist I felt a sense of serendipity at my discovery and chewed over the possibility of contacting the organisation to see if there was any work going - after sleeping off the booze, of course.
I realised that I had unwittingly become sucked into the backpacker lifestyle, including doing the same type of jobs, which I had proved beyond all doubt I was useless at. I boldly came to the conclusion, therefore, that I would apply to the newspaper and hopefully put an end to humiliating myself via my conference erections’ career.
To my joy, I was contacted by the newspaper within a few days asking if I would like to come in. During a friendly chat with the editor I was then offered night shifts on the crime desk, including at the weekend when the real action took place. “Saturday night is normally the busiest night….and when we get the most murders,” I was helpfully informed. “So hopefully there will be plenty for you to get stuck into.” Fascinating as it was to get an insight into the patterns of criminality in Sydney, I was also instantly filled with a warm feeling like I had come home af
ter being reminded of the black humour that existed within the industry. “Sounds like fun,” I said rubbing my hands gleefully at the prospect.
I was told I would be working closely with a photographer on my shifts and that it was vital we didn’t stray too far from one another too often when out on the streets in the early hours. “It’s the most dangerous shift and we’ve had people attacked before on it, so just watch each other’s back,” a senior figure remarked as I was introduced to some of the staff.
The more I was told about the job the more I liked the sound of it, though it sounded like a body shield wouldn’t have gone amiss. Essentially the shift boiled down to driving around in a company car looking for as much trouble as we could possibly get our hands on – the more dangerous the better. The way this would be achieved was by eavesdropping on conversations between fire and ambulance crews via a radio scanner, which would helpfully alert us to where incidents were taking place. This was perfectly legal and meant we were getting fresh information as it happened rather than waiting hours for the yawning press departments to confirm something. That’s if they could be bothered to at all.
Since the police had gone encrypted a year earlier it was unfortunately now illegal to listen in on their conversations, much to the dismay of the newsroom. This had made getting juicy stories a lot harder and taken some of the fun out of the shift, so I was told. But on the plus side it meant your life expectancy was significantly higher, as it was now considerably more difficult to pitch-up in the middle of a shoot-out or lead the way during a high-speed car chase.
Relations between the newspaper and police had been at an all-time low, which had not been helped by my disposed predecessor launching one personal attack and complaint too many against the authority without the permission of her superiors. Added to this she had been psychopathically stalking the photographer she was on the shift with, leaving him looking over his shoulder, which had not helped her cause. “We are trying to build relations again so perhaps you could arrange a meeting with their head of media to help smooth things over,” a senior figure requested, before handing me the number of this vastly important individual.
I suddenly felt a great sense of responsibility upon my head and saw myself as a beacon of hope for the organisation to build damaged relations, after all things had got pretty ugly by all accounts. Some may have questioned the logic behind turning to a backpacker with a penchant for cheap wine living in a cockroach infested 20-bed dorm with barely a dollar to his name but I felt they had backed the right horse for the job. Summoning all my diplomatic skills I had learned through years of bitter family conflicts, I immediately rang the head of police media, who agreed in principle to a meeting but said he would get back to me the following week to discuss it further.
Following my introductory briefing I turned up the following day for my first shift ready for action like Superman. After entering the building I waited in the opulent reception area for a full 20 minutes before someone finally came down to sign me in and allow me through the security gates.
On making my way up the stairs past several other floors I eventually arrived in the main newsroom where there was a scattering of people around the giant office, most of whom had their feet up chatting, reading the newspaper or were watching one of the many television sets. “I wonder how they get any work done around here with so many TV’s,” I observed dryly to the trainee who had signed me in.
He smiled, “It’s a struggle sometimes mate that’s for sure.” The rest of the workers were looking intently at their screens, while I caught sight of one man in an adjacent room animatedly giving a live broadcast on something clearly of great interest. As I made my way past the sea of desks I spotted the same reporter live on one of the television screens, still seemingly nattering away to himself. Essentially it was a ghost of a newsroom compared with the previous day when I had been debriefed during the daytime mayhem, but this was hardly surprising given that it was now approaching midnight.
I met my night editor and was plonked at a nearby desk where I read the newspaper from back to front uninterrupted for the next hour in virtual silence, before I underwent a quick-fire tutorial on how to use the computer system. I was then introduced to the night photographer, Brad, who I would be working with on this shift. Relaxed and friendly, I was curious that despite the warmth of the office he still had his bomber jacket on, as if he was ready to drop everything at the drop of a hat, which seemed about right as he never let the incessant and incoherent mutterings of the radio scanner out of his sight, or ear range, at least. After all, time was of the essence in terms of getting those all important snaps.
With it still deadly quiet, Brad told me to get ready as we’d go for a run-around the city. While gathering my stuff together commotion then suddenly erupted behind me. The mumblings on the walky-talky had increased in intensity and volume but for all I knew they could have been speaking Russian. As Brad turned up the sound he went into a trance state as he tried to make sense of the chaos he was listening to. Then, after assimilating the coded language of the paramedics, he abruptly got up and conveyed sharply to the night staff what he’d heard, “Someone’s dead, could be a murder.” Eyebrows raised in the newsroom, “Sounds like it’s out in the west,” he added, pressing the scanner closer to his ear. “We better go.”
Before I’d had a chance to absorb what was happening we had swept out of the office and were speeding down the freeway to the western suburbs, though we still didn’t have a precise location. After years in the business Brad had developed the remarkable skill of talking while listening to the scanner, and still deciphering what was being relayed. With no location, this was vital, with him hoping someone would mention the whereabouts of the incident. Otherwise it was a case of getting to the rough area and hoping we came across the emergency services, who we could then follow to the scene. Failing that, it was a case of hoping one of the other media contacts, who Brad was in regular conversation with on his mobile phone, had found out where it was in the meantime.
Listening to the scanner, in amongst the interference, I was able to pick on the occasional piece of coded language. “We have a C-1 are you attending? Over,” an operator’s voice said.
“On way. Over,” a paramedic responded, before seeking confirmation of the road name. Once this was relayed by the operator we had our destination, prompting Brad to quickly tap it in to his GPS system, all while talking on his mobile and racing along in the car. It was an impressive display of multi-tasking, to say the least.
As we got to the area a couple of speeding unmarked police cars with flashing lights on zoomed past, alerting us we were near. We turned sharply through a series of residential roads before entering a dark street that was lit up by blue flashing lights of police and ambulances that had descended on the scene. A property was cordoned off as plain clothed investigators and forensics scoured the area and made their way in and out of the front door.
As the first media to arrive, we cautiously made our way as close as possible to the crime scene, where Brad suddenly began flashing his camera at the property and ambulance where a man was inside. I approached a policeman guarding the crime scene tape and asked if he knew what had happened, only to be fobbed off by being told to speak with police media if we wanted any information.
But, as we stood around, a paramedic discreetly revealed the gravity of the situation; there had been a brutal attack by a gang who had fled the scene. Seeking confirmation of the murder, I rang the head of police media who I’d been in touch with a day earlier trying to arrange our diplomatic meeting. “I have no idea what is happening,” came the disgruntled voice, after I’d put the question to him. “I’m in bed. It’s gone 1am. This is not the number you call on for information – this is my personal number,” he explained exasperatedly.
I was a little taken aback by the hostile response I had met, not to mention slightly confused that this was supposedly the wrong number, especially after it was the only one I had been handed.
“Really?” I responded suspiciously, before being met with deafening silence.
In the interests of building relations, I attempted to finish on a positive note. “Sleep well then, speak to you soon about setting up our meeting,” I said cheerfully, hoping my friendly manner would help him overlook the fact he had just been dragged out of a deep slumber, only to be informed of a media storm brewing following a murder. I hoped my late night phone call wouldn’t shatter the trust I had been trying to build but I had a lingering suspicion it may not have gone down too well.
With the ambulance now leaving to make its way to casualty we jumped in the car and rushed to the local hospital where they were taking the injured man. After parking, Brad and his mate Paul from a television station, quickly took up their positions before getting the crucial “unload shots” and footage they needed.
With Brad and Paul having got what they needed, we were walking back to the vehicles when we were spotted by some men lurking round the corner. Brad’s phone suddenly rang. With fear etched on his face after the whirlwind conversation, he whispered chillingly, “We need to get out of here…now.” Worried for our safety we instantly sprinted to the car where Brad and Paul sharply put their equipment in the vehicles, before screeching in reverse out of our parking spaces and accelerating off like rally car racers. “We were about to get a good seeing to,” Brad declared, constantly looking in his rear view mirror, as we sped away from danger. My heart was pounding. I knew we were in the crap if these people, whoever they were, caught up with us. “So that was a warning phone call you got then?” I asked inquisitively, wondering how on earth Brad could get such a tip-off at such short notice.
“Yeah that’s right,” my colleague nodded, remaining tight-lipped.