by Steve Deeks
Just as we were driving away there was suddenly an explosion of noise on the scanners. It sounded bad, though as usual I couldn’t understand a word. But our uncanny ability of being in the right place at the right time had paid off. “Fuck me, there’s been gun shots on Darlinghurst Road,” Dan blasted, looking like a junky who’d just injected a large dose of heroin, as he screeched to a halt before reversing manically the wrong way down a back street that brought us out nearby to the incident. We sprinted to the scene of the action where a big crowd of people had gathered outside a nightclub. Shaken men and tearful women were consoling each other, unable to take in what had just happened. The word on the street was that a group of men had taken exception to being thrown out of the club for being rowdy, prompting one of them to pull out a pistol and spray several shots, which miraculously managed to miss innocent clubbers, who were left diving for cover. The men had then scampered off and were now on the run.
Soon enough everyone wanted to put their six pence worth in and were recounting events, even though it became clear many had been nowhere near the blasts. As soon as it became obvious they were time wasters I made a point of slowly putting my pen and paper away and nodding in a sarcastic and overly enthusiastic way. “Wow that’s fascinating. Incredible that you witnessed all of this,” I said to one idiot, who claimed he saw someone get shot when it had already been confirmed by police that no one had been injured.
Naturally being the first journalists on the scene we had stolen a key advantage on our media rivals. However, in amongst the mayhem I noticed one person, who was dressed in a shirt like he was on a night out, recording an interview with someone on his phone. “Who are you with?” I asked curiously.
“Can’t say I’m afraid,” he replied, exuding self-importance.
Concealing my indignation at his immature response I sent the fool off on a wild goose chase to prevent him getting a jump on us with the story. “Have you spoken to the eye witness who just avoided being shot?” I whispered casually, deliberately arousing his interest.
His eyes lit up. “No not yet, where are they?”
“If you look down the road there’s a large lady with a purple top on standing by that fast food place. If I was you I would go and talk to her,” I replied, pointing at the random female who was more interested in scoffing her pie than in what had just taken place. But, of course, he didn’t know this. “Think she’s comfort eating,” I added, concerned my rival wouldn’t believe me. But determined not to miss out, after a momentary pause, he foolishly marched over to the woman and began firing questions as she pushed the remaining half of the pie into her mouth. I knew his desperation at missing out meant he would fall into my little trap.
I slipped into the background, attempting to eavesdrop various conversations in an attempt to get some information before feeling a tugging on my arm. “Come on let’s go…there’s an eyewitness to speak to – and they haven’t spoken to anyone else,” Dan announced quietly, as he excitedly pulled me over to where some girls were stood. They had given statements to the police so their accounts were fairly reliable. But, as usual in such cases, the women who had been drinking for several hours were a total mess. But in amongst the perpetual blubbing and high-speed rambling I was able to draw out what had happened. “I saw a guy pull out a gun and fire shots into the air…someone could easily have been killed,” she whaled.
“I bet you didn’t expect that when you came out tonight?” I said understatedly, ensuring she kept talking, though such was her intoxication I don’t think this was ever in doubt. Doing my best to keep the interview under wraps so no other media would grab a word with her, I then sneaked off contentedly with my sound copy.
After getting back to the office and writing up the story, despite Dan being in my ear the whole time, it was immediately put up on the website. “Another exclusive,” Dan announced proudly, patting me on the shoulder.
“Yep, shame the other media bloke went off in the wrong direction,” I smiled smugly. Despite our good work, the drawback with the Saturday shift was that in the fast moving 24-hours a day news world, the story had to be strong enough to hold until Monday morning if it was to actually make the holy grail of the print version of the newspaper, which was no easy feat following a day when everyone else had already reported on it.
But when the paper did come out on Monday there it was, gloriously splashed all across page two and three (had it not been for the newly appointed Prime Minister Julia Gillard having her nails painted – or something of the like – it may even have made the front page). Apart from the obvious fact of it being an important news story, the reality of having good eyewitness accounts “diving for cover” had given us the edge over the other media outlets. Our cause was helped by the witness’s memorable rant where she scathingly defended the fact she was, “No chick chick boom girl” – a reference to a female who claimed she had seen a shooting at a club on national television on a previous occasion, which somehow sparked a presenting and modelling career after she was taken to the public’s heart for her outrageous and, as it turned out, false interview.
As was not exactly uncommon in such circumstances, the woman I had interviewed regretted her drunken free flowing outburst to the press in the cold light of day and made a complaint to the newspaper. But, if anything, she should have punished herself, as she was the one doing the talking. I don’t remember forcing her to say those words. Still, this was water off a duck’s back and inevitably her objections fell on deaf ears. I must say, though, that interviewing excitable drunks, if they weren’t totally bullshitting, generally meant getting some fine quotes. And what’s more, you wouldn’t really have to do a great deal to get them.
It was always challenging when out surfing the Sydney streets but an extra dimension was inevitably added when out trying to get material relating to figures caught up in various alleged plots. After loitering outside a police station in the freezing cold on one occasion to wait for arrested members to appear, we were then given the far more dubious task of doing a stake out on a property - where most of them were thought to be - to see if a curfew order would be breached after being granted bail. We waited eerily in the dark, just out of view.
To make matters worse just before I left the office my news editor cheerily said to me: “If you’re feeling brave enough then knock on the door if you want.”
On hearing this, the experienced photographer scoffed fearfully, “You must be joking.” Here was a man who had seen it and done it all before, and was not exactly a shrinking violet, who was making it abundantly clear that knocking on the door for a chat at this sensitive time might not be the best of ideas. His response hardly filled me with delight. “Well, see what you can do anyway,” the editor smiled.
If the photographer’s quivering response had given me some perspective of the path we were about to tread, then his recounts of clashes between the press and the identities made me even less inclined to ring the doorbell. “These people don’t give a fuck mate,” he said, before recounting how cameras had been left smashed on the floor on previous occasions.
But, as if to make things ok if the worst happened to him, he added, “I don’t give a shit if I get hit, I’ll get good compensation. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been injured on the job.” As the instruction to knock on the door was only half hearted - and with me valuing my life - I was naturally giving consideration to overlooking the request on the grounds of futility.
As we waited anxiously in silence a reporter and photographer from the rival newspaper pulled up and were situated right outside the front of the house. “What, are they fucking crazy?” my colleague said, incredulous someone could park so close to the front door in full view of those inside. When the female reporter wandered over to us smiling obliviously, it was suggested in no uncertain terms it might be best to move her car. “What the fuck are you doing? I suggest you move the car up here now,” my colleague demanded.
After safely moving her car behind us
the reporter revealed she too had been instructed to do a door knock, which, with competitive rivalry, effectively meant I now had no choice but to do the same. She wasn’t aware of the historical tensions, which made her less fearful, while the fact she was female inevitably meant she was less likely to get a right hook in the face. My colleague, though, started telling her the same stories he had been helpfully telling me, leaving her not quite so sprightly.
Having summoned up the courage after getting abused by some random locals driving past - “Get a proper job you fucking stalkers” - myself and the woman joined forces and gingerly tiptoed up the garden to the door. We looked at each other and then back at the door. I slowly reached out an arm, paused, and then pushed down the doorbell. We waited. I braced myself. But nobody answered. “Well we tried,” I said, proud at my endeavours, before the reporter reached out and pushed in the button again. Nothing again. Not waiting any longer than we had to we abruptly made our way back down the path.
Passing the time by eating my extortionately priced $3 Snickers bar that left me covered in chocolate, there was suddenly movement outside. “It’s those stalking paparazzi,” a deep hostile voice shouted into the darkness. No doubt designed to intimidate us further. We had officially been spotted and suddenly we were now in the line of fire. If only I had a bullet proof vest and mask, I thought, looking up at the sky for divine intervention. It felt like we were lame ducks, probably because we were. A brooding atmosphere was building. “Are they still out there?” another voice shouted.
“Yeah they’re still there,” another man growled, as if to warn us that now might be a good time to leave.
About 15 minutes later - though it felt more like several hours - a police car turned up unexpectedly. Two officers got out and briskly walked over to us. “We’ve had complaints that you’re harassing them. We suggest you don’t go on their land, as there’s nothing we can do if you do that. If I was you I would get what you need and leave as soon as possible,” the policeman said sternly, not hiding the fact they wouldn’t be lifting a finger to help us if things turned nasty. And then, after briefly speaking with someone at the door for a minute, they were off, with it now exceedingly clear that we were on our own once more, at the mercy of those inside.
The whole episode was made more frustrating by the fact none of us knew who exactly was in the house. With 30 minutes to go before the curfew deadline at 9pm, we potentially had a front page lead. The painful mission was, predictably, going to the wire.
More stirring came from up above as we chatted outside the car before, out of the blue, two rather large and overbearing shadows appeared from the darkness. And, as if in slow motion, they were thundering towards us, bizarrely with their arms behind their backs as if they were winding up to hit us. Myself and the photographer looked at each other, bracing ourselves. “Oh shit here we go,” I thought, glued to the pair as they inched nearer.
The women from the rival newspaper happened to be safe in their car as they watched events unfold. In those few seconds as the meatheads made their way towards us, it struck me that it might not have been the worst idea to run to our vehicle. But it was too late now. Having not uttered a single word to my colleague we watched in a state of paralysed horror as the towering men gradually became visible in the murky light. Then, with my heart feeling like it was about to burst out of my chest, they were upon us. “Hello, we’ve got something for you,” one sadistically announced, before a menacing pause, keeping us guessing at what they were going to do to us. Standing just feet away, with one parallel to each of us, they slowly began to pull their arms from behind their backs. “Oh fuck,” I thought. Then, suddenly, they accelerated the movement, as if they were going to throw a punch. “There you go,” the men laughed, before presenting us with a can of coke each, having just stopped a fraction short of putting their fists in our faces.
As you do when you’re about to get smashed in the face I had instinctively stepped back. After pausing in shock, while still pretending I wasn’t ruffled, I reached out and took the can. “Thanks, that’s very good of you,” I said, like he was a barman who had just served me a drink. Continuing the bonding process I then, for some strange reason risked enraging them further by firing a couple of questions in the manner of a deeply concerned relative. “How is everyone? Everyone home?” I said warmly.
Surprisingly, I got a response. “Yep everyone’s in the house,” came the terse reply, before they sauntered back towards the house laughing at their antics. I was just glad to be in once piece. I think my colleague was too, though there was a hint of disappointment as part of him was hoping to receive a good beating so he could get a juicy compensation payout.
The women from the rival paper got out of the car when the coast was clear. “I thought you were going to get hit. Were you afraid?” the reporter asked. I thought the answer was pretty obvious but determined not to lose face I replied casually, “Not really,” and then cracked open my warm can of coke my new found friends had kindly gone out of their way to provide for me, before wondering if I was going to die of poisoning after downing it.
With five minutes to go before the curfew was up, a car pulled into the drive. The photographers raced around to the front and started snapping. “Is this what you want?” a voice yelled abrasively, arms open, having turned back at the top of the steps near the front door to face us for a few seconds before going inside. “Right let’s get the hell out of here,” the photographer said, as we hurriedly got in the car. “We don’t want them blocking us off.” I looked over at the house where a few of the heavies were in the driveway scowling at us. We didn’t wait around to see what they would do and accelerated off, spending more time looking in the rear view mirror than the road in front.
In the newspaper the following day the pictures weren’t used and the only information reported was that the member had made it back in time for the curfew. Not exactly ground breaking stuff. With the likelihood of ending up in hospital seeming pretty high at one point, I wasn’t sure if the value of what was printed was really worth the torture we had to go through. But it was all part of the highs and lows of the job. And at least there was never a dull moment. Well, apart from during the four hours of praying something would happen, of course.
The group’s network of contacts stretched far and wide, so I was told. And standing on George Street outside a pub a few days later minding my own business while discussing the ordeal I had been through to a friend, a big vested man with a head like a block of concrete, lent over and whispered some friendly advice into my ear, “If I were you I would be careful who you talk about.” I did a double-take, not least because I was having a private conversation where the volume had been pretty reasonable, unlike on the odd merry occasion where my foghorn voice would come out.
In any event, I took the hint, but made sure there were no hard feelings. I had no idea how much of my conversation he had heard and, more importantly, if he knew I was a journalist. Fortunately, though, he growled and walked off, which was certainly better than lying in a pool of my own blood on the street. I decided from then on it could be better to not discuss such subjects in public.
My close-calls were far from over yet, though, and the following Saturday a troubled and unusually quiet Dan picked me up for our night shift. “We’ve got to go to get a snap of you-know,” he announced lamentably, the blood visibly draining from his face. “Well that should be as easy as pulling a tooth out then,” I joked, with a sense of foreboding coming over me as I visualised us hanging out near one of their haunts, while trying to remain inconspicuous with a giant camera.
With Dan on camera duty it meant I would be the one to have the noisy scanners on me, as my colleague wouldn’t have enough hands to hold them while taking his shots. Striding through the city with the radios making that loud muffling sound meant people - including police - naturally assumed you were an undercover officer, which I was more than happy for them to think, as on the balance of probabilities it meant I
was less likely to get my head kicked in, as revellers were probably fearful of the repercussions with police but less so from journalists.
Dan was building himself up into hysterics at the prospect of doing this job, which was made harder by the fact that all we had to go on to recognise the individual was a newspaper cut-out of him. The only good news was that he had an unusual haircut, so we hoped that at the very least we would recognise that in the unlikely event we came across him.
We got to the area and after doing several circuits and seeing nothing we came across a conspicuous car outside one place and took an educated guess that our target could be inside. We pulled over opposite the place on double yellow lines and waited. We stood out like a man wearing a bright red dress.
Dan’s anxiety levels were reaching dangerously high levels, but oddly, rather than wanting to run away, he had another solution. “Fuck it, I might just go up to them and ask if he’s in there and whether they’d mind us getting a shot,” he said, fidgeting with his camera nervously, like a junky attempting to fix up his next hit.
“Good luck with that, hope you’ve got a spare camera,” I replied. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed some of the men looking over at us, no doubt wondering what we were doing perched nearby. With no appearance from the individual, having waited a painful amount of time, we were left in a quandary. But then suddenly reports of a potentially fatal stabbing came over the scanner. “Thank fuck for that,” Dan said, relief pouring out of him, as we sped off.
If there wasn’t drama with the general public, doormen or gangsters, then it was with our old friends, the police. Out one Thursday night in the Cross with photographer Brad and Paul from the TV station, we were stood around chatting down the main strip when a fight suddenly broke out just down the road from us. Barely able to believe our luck we sprinted down to the action where the police were using their safety first policy of employing several large officers to take down one individual, who was lying in a position I was becoming accustomed to watching: face down on the filthy street, along with half eaten kebabs, sick and discarded junkie needles.