Sticks rubbed the top of Clarrie’s head in jubilation and then punched him in the arm. ‘You little ripper, Miller, I told ya! Didn’t I?’ said Sticks, in a hushed but excited voice.
‘You did, Jack, and I wasn’t about to argue the point.’
‘Yeh, sorry about that, felt I had to get the message across.’
‘It worked.’
‘You two, follow me.’ Their joyous exchange interrupted by a third, and distinctly abrupt voice.
‘Huh?’ moaned Sticks He did not appreciate being ordered about, especially now that he had won. ‘Go follow ya fuckin’ self,’ blurted Sticks, his blood still up from the big win.
The voice, who had continued on as soon as he delivered his orders, expected them to be obeyed—as they always were. He stopped in his tracks after Jack Sullivan’s suggestion and turned slowly enough for his eyes to change from white to blood-shot red. Clarrie saw that the body that carried the voice was as big as any man he had seen, and leapt to his feet in an attempt to calm the situation. He intercepted Bomber’s bouncer, just before he reached Sticks, who, being a dock worker and a proud man, was on his feet as well and ready for anything.
‘Did you say something, old mate,’ asked the bouncer over Clarrie’s shoulder. His eyes were an inferno but he remained calm outwardly. He knew that any ruckus could bring unwanted attention and a reduction in his slice of the takings by an unhappy boss.
‘Listen, mate, we’re not here to cause trouble,’ said Clarrie nervously. The bouncer’s body pressing against Clarrie’s; the rock-hard muscles and weight of his stance, elevated Clarrie’s already heightened sense of alarm. ‘We were just about to leave.’
The bouncer completely ignored Clarrie’s attempt to keep the peace; instead he continued his death stare towards Private Sullivan and waited for the slightest provocation.
‘I think you know exactly what I said, Princess,’ taunted Sticks. The final words were delivered with the added insult of a smirk.
The left hook came quickly, but Sticks had more or less asked the bouncer to hit him, so he was ready for it. He ducked down and slightly to his left, while he protected his face with his right forearm. His left fist was tucked under his chin, cocked and ready to fire. The bouncer’s blow glanced of the top of Stick’s head and crashed into the jaw of an unsuspecting soldier, sending him to the sandy floor. The bouncer’s balance had been tipped after he had overshot his mark. It caused him to lurch forward and force his substantial weight onto Clarrie, who buckled under the strain, landing beside the punched soldier.
Sticks seized the moment and sprang from his slightly crouched position. His right arm still protected his face; he used the drive of his legs and his hips to deliver a left hook that crushed the bouncer’s ribs. A split second later, the right hand that had protected his face was unleased in a lethal overhand punch that landed squarely on the bouncer’s jaw.
The sound from bone on bone when Jack Sullivan landed his own ‘Howitzer’ on the huge man was like the crack of a stock whip. It brought a stunned silence to the tent. Clarrie, still sprawled on the ground, looked across to the bouncer, spread-eagled on his back. He slept like a baby under the triumphant shadow of Sticks Sullivan. A quick glance around the gambling den by Sticks revealed a dozen or more shocked Diggers and one incensed Bomber Kendall. His teeth were clenched so tightly that it changed his appearance; Sticks realised then and there that he had made an enemy for life.
Sticks hoisted Clarrie to his feet, pocketed the winnings and made for the tent flap. The sentry outside had not been alerted to the commotion, so swift was the encounter. As they approached the exit, a self-assured Private Sullivan couldn’t resist the temptation. He paused and turned to face Kendall.
‘I kept it quiet, Bomber,’ whispered Sticks. ‘I didn’t want to bring the MPs down on a decent honest bloke like yourself.’
Whether through the threat of visiting MPs or Jack Sullivan’s fists, Clarrie wasn’t sure, but he was surprised when Bomber Kendall didn’t utter a reply. Being a naive romantic, Clarrie was unaware that people like Christopher Kendall preferred to work in the shadows. Sticks Sullivan, a man with more of life’s experiences under his belt, was all too aware that while ever Bomber Kendall was around, he would need eyes in the back of his head.
TEN
Balmain, March 1916
‘It’s here; it’s here,’ screamed Grace, as she entered the house. Her apron was tucked up with one hand, as she tried to move as quickly as possible, while the other hand held the letter aloft like a trophy. ‘Ruth, it’s here!’
Ruth raised herself slowly from her seat at the kitchen table. She could feel the weight of her unborn child bear down as she did.
‘Here luv, let me help you,’ said Grace. She reached her daughter-in-law, and her voice reverted to its normal calm tones when she witnessed Ruth’s discomfort.
‘This baby must be a giant,’ said Ruth, her face suddenly flushed.
‘It’s a letter from Clarrie, luv, finally.’
‘Clarence?’ asked Ruth quietly. She inhaled and caught her emotions before they escaped.
‘Yes, dear,’ replied Grace, excitedly. ‘Would you like some privacy?’
Ruth took a few seconds to answer, anxious at finally having received what she had waited so long for.
‘No, of course not Grace,’ Ruth replied with love and sincerity in her voice. ‘This is yours and Mr Miller’s letter, as much as it is mine.’
‘That is very kind of you, I have thought of him every day. Shall we have a seat, maybe you could read it aloud for us both?
They sat at the kitchen table, like they had so many times over these last months. Ruth opened the envelope, inscribed with her husband’s hand, and, after a deep breath, she began to read.
HMAT Warilda
Port of Alexandria
21st January, 1916
Dearest Ruth & Family,
Well, here I am, safe and sound in Egypt, the land of the Pharaohs. Not quite actually. We are still on board and anchored in the harbour itself, waiting for permission to dock, which could be days.
Ruth paused to giggle at her husband’s familiar bumbling.
Still, it is exciting to be in a foreign land, and judging by the interesting architecture and intriguing smells that waft over the bay, along with the tiny vessels laden with goods that hover around our ship trying to make contact, who knows what we will find once we finally dock.
The departure from the Quay and the days after were difficult, and I spent many evenings on deck staring towards the horizon, wondering what you were doing, picturing you in all your beauty.
A small tear hit the page, blotting the ink on the previous line.
Being on a ship at sea, I didn’t think we would get a chance to get mail away, so I sketched instead (two enclosed). Hoping to see mail from home, maybe on the next ship. I hope you are well. I still have to pinch myself about becoming a dad.
We were kept fairly busy on the voyage over, with exercise and basic drills, but a great many could take no part due to sea-sickness, which is no laughing matter when you see what some of the poor chaps went through. Thankfully I was all right.
Have become good friends with a fellow from Glebe named Jack Sullivan; everyone calls him Sticks. A larrikin to say the least, but a very decent chap, can’t wait for you to meet him one day.
Give everyone my love and I will write again promptly. I will be making enquiries about Archie’s battalion at first chance. Tell Frank there are a couple of boys from Balmain Rugby League Club on board. Tell him to keep up his training and he will make the grade one day. The boys had a good laugh at my expense when we were passing the ball on deck one evening. I am sure Frank could appreciate that after my efforts at home.
Thinking of you always.
With love from your Husband
Clarence.
***
Frank found the address in Phillip Street that Hammer had written on a scrap of paper. It was a dilapidated terrace h
ouse, typical of the area. He glanced at the piece of paper once more and confirmed he had the right location, and then looked across the street at the small park. Frank immediately crossed the road; he felt it would be a more innocuous place to wait.
With his back against the sandstone wall that bordered the park, Frank watched two men—both in well-worn, dark brown suits—walk up to the door of the same terrace house where he was to meet Hammer. He knelt on the pavement and pulled his wool cap lower over his brow. Frank then picked up a few stones and pretended to amuse himself with a game of Jacks, like a normal kid would. With his back at forty-five degrees to the terrace, he turned his head slightly; it allowed him to view the two men without drawing attention.
Both men stood at the door in conversation, before one of them dropped to his knees. The other man looked left and right, and occasionally upwards towards the upstairs room of the terrace.
What are these blokes up to? Frank whispered.
Hammer had said to meet him here at three o’clock, but he couldn’t remember if he had mentioned anyone else. He assumed Ronnie had arranged some sort of meeting, and he would be standing cockatoo; maybe he would run errands; Ronnie had many places he owned and used in Balmain, low-key and out of the way, but this was Frank’s first time at this particular address. The Dry Dock Hotel had too many ears for certain dealings.
He continued to survey the scene, but not for longer than would be suspicious. Frank’s concerns were raised when he noticed that the man who acted as lookout held a parcel covered in brown paper. It was roughly the same size as a football; the other bloke, he now realised, had worked the lock.
The hairs on the back of Frank’s neck bristled and his instincts told him that this wasn’t a common burglary job. His mind raced. What should I do, investigate?… no. They were two grown men, and while he was a strongly built fifteen-year-old, he was still only fifteen.
Think, Frank said to himself. Think.
Frank looked left up Phillip Street and right towards Bay Street. His heart pounded as he heard the faintest of sounds from across the street. He peered from under the cover of his peaked wool cap and saw the hunched man win his battle with the lock. Frank turned completely away from the terrace house and resumed his act as the playing child. He realised he had seen all he was going to see.
After he heard the dull thud of timber meeting timber and the metallic click of the lock finding its original, secure position, Frank rose to his feet and began striding towards an elbow in the road. It was a position from which he could view the terrace house but remain out of sight.
Minutes that seemed like hours dragged on, with no further sightings or even sounds from inside the terrace. The sun was unusually hot for March, and it felt like a blacksmith’s iron on the back of Frank’s neck. It made rational thoughts more difficult than they would normally be in a situation like this. Squinting towards the terrace for the slightest sign of activity, Frank’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the pair exit the run-down dwelling and turn in his direction. He didn’t waste a second and leapt the fence that bordered the street from the park on the edge of Mort Bay.
Frank held his breath and then slowly lifted his head to look over the sandstone wall. He listened to the muffled voices of the two men. They were no longer concerned with being seen or heard now that they were well clear of the terrace house. Strangely, after things had happened so quickly, Frank felt a level of calm and awareness about his situation. As they passed his line of sight, he was able to get a good look at the man closest to him; he was the one that held the package at the front door; the other man’s face was obscured by his companion. Frank searched earnestly for anything that could help identify them. He was sure his boss would want to know who they were.
‘No package,’ he said in a hushed voice. He swivelled around to sit with his back to the wall. ‘The package is gone.’
Frank wasn’t sure what it meant exactly, but every nerve in his body told him it meant something. He took a couple of deep breaths and then stood. After a quick glance around, Frank jumped back over the fence and headed in the opposite direction to the brown-suited men.
As he strode along Phillip Street, Frank looked at his watch, and noted that it was still a couple of minutes to three o’clock. ‘Good, Hammer should be here.’
Frank approached the terrace for a second time, but once again, he stood on the opposite side of the street. He felt inexplicably nervous, and when he spied Ronnie and Hammer only thirty yards away and on the same side of the street as the terrace, he acted intuitively and made a bee-line for them.
‘Frankie, my boy,’ said Ron with enthusiasm, while he noted the look in his young apprentice’s eyes.
‘Turn around!’
‘Huh?’ exclaimed Hammer, taken aback by the boy’s directness.
‘Turn, and follow me to the park,’ hissed Frank, as he passed his two bosses. Deliberately, Frank didn’t stop. He wanted to let them know he wasn’t making idle chit-chat.
Ronnie acknowledged Frank’s mood, and turned without hesitation. Hammer followed because Ronnie did, but he wasn’t happy that he had just been barked at by a kid.
They reached the sanctuary of the park and the shade of its trees, but with the terrace house still in view. Hammer couldn’t contain himself and grabbed Frank by the shoulder and spun the boy around to face Ronnie and himself.
‘What the fuck was all that about, ya little prick,’ yelled Hammer.
‘Easy, Hammer,’ said Ronnie quietly.
‘Easy! I’ll smack the little bludger in the mouth.’
Not perturbed by Hammer’s outburst, Frank waited a few seconds before he spoke.
‘Ronnie, who were you meeting today?’
‘Why you little....’ started Hammer, but was silenced by a raised palm from Ronnie.
‘What do you mean Frank?’ asked Ron calmly. Frank’s seriousness registered with every criminal aspect of his being.
‘I mean, I came to the address Hammer gave me. Got here a little early, to be sure, and two blokes turn up.’
‘Did you know them?’ queried Ronnie.
‘Nah. At first I thought, Ron is having a meeting, but it still seemed strange they were here before Hammer,’ said Frank. His voice was clear, calm, and precise.
Ron Symonds glanced at Don Hammer Ryan, who replied by raising one eyebrow.
‘I thought something wasn’t right, so I took a bit of cover and pegged them out. I couldn’t believe it when the codger started working the lock.’
‘What the...’ Ronnie held up his hand again, and Hammer fell silent. Ronnie inhaled deeply through his nose, as if he quenched his anger with the extra air, and began again. ‘Thieves maybe?’
‘I thought the same, Hammer,’ replied Frank. There was no animosity in his voice, all business. ‘But they were in suits, a bit old and worn but still suits. And a package, one of them carried a package.’
‘What sort of package?’ said Ronnie sharply. He showed his first hint of unrest, but recovered quickly.
‘About the size of a football and wrapped in brown paper.’
‘Are they still in there?’
‘In and out in under three minutes.’
‘Shit, Ron, do you reckon Farnsworth sent them?’ exclaimed Hammer.
‘Nothing would surprise me,’ he replied, ‘but why?’ The question hung in the air like a dark cloud; its malice grew larger the longer it remained unanswered. Ronnie’s head was abuzz with hypotheticals; he took a few steps away from his two colleagues and attempted to piece together recent events. He probed every recess of his memory for the clue that could bring some clarity. Could it be Ned Farnsworth, looking to expand his territory? he thought. I wouldn’t put it past the prick.
Frank stood back and resumed his proper position in the organisation. The alarm raised, his job done, he would only speak now if asked. Ron Symonds gestured to his mate, and Don Ryan went to his side immediately, where a short sharp discussion ensued.
Both Ron a
nd Hammer made their way over to Frank, but Hammer continued on to the gate in the sandstone wall to examine the quiet street; in particular the area that surrounded Ronnie’s little slum.
‘Frank… mate,’ said Ron sincerely, ‘good work. ‘That’s why I have faith in you, always on the ball; would you recognise the bastards if you saw them?’
‘I got a good look at one of them; the other had his face hidden.’
‘Good, find one, find the other I reckon.’
‘Can’t see him,’ shouted Hammer, shouting from the gate, I’m going for a look-see.’
‘Ten past three, I have a feeling the arse-hole isn’t going to show.’
Ron motioned for Frank to follow him and the pair walked casually through the gate. They turned right towards the terrace house and into the heat.
Frank saw the cloud of smoke and debris before he actually heard anything. Hammer’s body, all six feet and three inches, was engulfed and thrown against the sandstone wall like a rag doll. Almost instantly, Frank and Ronnie were hit by the shockwave of the thunderous blast. It carried choking smoke and splinters of timber and glass, and dropped them both to the ground. The pair cowered, as shrapnel-like pieces ripped at their clothing. The concussion of the blast burst their eardrums, with a pain that drew Frank’s hands to the side of his head.
Frank’s arms and legs were heavy and unresponsive; he felt himself being hoisted onto his feet. He could hear a voice, but it was distant and faint, drowned by a continuous ringing in his ears. He struggled to open his eyes, but he recognised Ronnie. His face was only inches from his own and he yelled like a madman. The scene confused Frank, as there was little or no sound. Ron’s eyes were crazed like a warrior in battle.
Frank’s head rolled around on his shoulders like a newborn. He staggered, but was caught again by Ronnie, who propped him against the sandstone wall. The crime boss waited a moment—dazed and staggered himself—before he headed down the street towards his mate Hammer. Frank’s head cleared slightly, and he could see smoke that spilled into the air from Ron’s terrace house. Pieces of timber, brick and tin were scattered all around the derelict building. Frank looked down at his hands and noticed streaks of blood, and he began to search for the source. His hands moved clumsily—as if controlled by an inexperienced puppeteer—but he eventually located the injury at his ears.
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