by Gary Davison
I felt uneasy and got back up on the footrest. I scanned the room and immediately spotted the prick with the spiky black hair and red basketball vest. He was head and shoulders above everyone and stood right in front of Amber, arm protectively stretched out like before. Fucker had some nerve. I kept watching, glancing over my shoulder for the barmaid.
The fucker bent down towards her and I was off into the crowd… bouncing off pillars and chairs, drinks flying… suddenly I flew back over, heels trailing along the floor as the bouncer dragged me backwards in a headlock. He was choking me, tightening his grip every time I struggled. He was crushing my windpipe and I couldn’t breathe.
He threw me out onto the street and I landed face down, gasping for air. I knelt up, palms on the pavement, coughing and gulping. The queue at the door were cheering. I got to my feet, staggered towards them and demanded to be back in. I need to be back in! My girlfriend’s in trouble! At least tell her I’m out here, you wankers! All four bouncers stepped forward, staring me out, desperate for an excuse to cave my head in.
I ran up the street, hung a left along an alley, then left again and back down to the rear of Alexanders. I darted round the side to where Amber was standing and banged on the window, screaming her name. The lads were crowding her and I couldn’t see her face. I kept screaming and banging, but no one looked. The lad with the tattoo reached for his drink and I caught a glimpse of Amber anxiously looking for me, clutching the champagne glass tight to her chest with both hands.
Cam was pointing at the bar, trying to explain something to one of the lads. The fucker with the tattoo stepped in from the side and punched Cam in the face and he went flying into some empty chairs and slid to the floor. Amber went into a frenzy, kicking and punching everything in front of her. The lad forced a hand over her mouth and lifted her off the floor and walked her further into the corner while the others watched his back.
I’d been frantically searching for something to smash the window with and was about to take on the bouncers at the front, when the fire exit to my right swung open. I tore through it, knocking the chef aside and sprinted towards them. Rounding the corner next to the fruit machine I snatched a pint glass off the table and rushed the fucker, driving the empty glass straight up into his neck and twisting it hard as my momentum sent us both crashing to the floor. As we hit the deck I bit into his face and head and dug my thumbs into his throat… I stopped punching when my arm got caught on a barstool. I grabbed the stool by the metal legs and jumped up and smashed it over his head with everything I had, again and again and again…
Cam and Amber were dragging me away, through the fire exit door, down the street, along an alley, then another. I was looking for him at every turn to see if he wanted some more. Amber was in my arms, crying, telling me how much she loved me. Cam was peering around the corner.
My ears popped.
We were stood next to some green industrial bins. It was dark. An image of the fucker carrying Amber into the corner flashed into my mind and I wanted to go back to Alexanders.
I asked Amber if she was okay. She said she was, thanks to me. And that she loved me more than anything. And she begged me not to go back.
Cam was pacing up and down the alley. “Spence, we’ve got to get out of here! What the hell were you thinking of? You could have killed that lad! You might have! What the fuck were you thinking of!”
I pinned Cam to the wall by his throat. He was choking, kicking at my shins. When he stopped struggling I let him go and he fell to his knees, coughing and spluttering.
Amber helped him up.
I walked to the end of the alley. In front of me was the park, lit-up by street lamps along the footpaths. It was empty save for a couple sat on the steps at the monument, drinking. A group of people were jogging up the bank towards us. Music was thumping from a bar further up on the corner. Fireworks exploded and crackled in the sky behind the big wheel.
Cam tapped me on the shoulder. He handed me his t-shirt. “You can’t walk around covered in blood, Spence.”
Amber wiped as much blood off me as she could and I put Cam’s blue t-shirt on.
We were in the middle of Monument Boulevard.
We cut through the park and made our way up East Road Boulevard towards the stone arch. Cam was in front with Amber. They went through the arch and I kept on walking until I could see the square. There were three ambulances outside Alexanders, police all over it. I turned around and walked back down the bank.
Teatime ran along the track towards me and I knelt down and gave him a hug. I kept checking over my shoulder; they’d come looking for sure. I would. When I reached the tent, Amber was packing our stuff and Cam was pacing, staring at the ground.
I sat down.
Cam stood next to me, huffing and puffing. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Spence? Christ’s sakes, you glassed three people!”
I didn’t answer, just kept my eye on the stone arch waiting for them to come. Cam was shitting himself, banging on and on about me glassing three people. I didn’t, I glassed one, who, at the time, was trying to rape my girlfriend.
“Make a joint.” I said to Cam.
He kept on rambling and was near hysterical by the time Amber shot out of our tent.
“MAKE A FUCKING JOINT! MAKE A JOINT! HE’S PROTECTING ME! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT! PROTECTING ME! NOW MAKE A FUCKING JOINT!”
Cam sat down and began knocking up.
I went up onto the track.
There were a group of lads congregating at the entrance. One of them broke away and ran along the track shouting something over and over. I went back to the tents.
“Where’s that camping knife,” I asked Cam. He wouldn’t look up, just kept rolling the joint.
Amber went down on her hands and knees and rummaged through the camping gear. “Here,” she said, handing me the knife. It was an eight-inch Bowie knife, which Gregg had insisted we buy to cut food, hunt animals and fend of homs. I got a feel for it, then tucked it into my jeans and walked up onto the track.
Cam followed, offering me the joint. He spoke softly. “Spence, look. Think what you’re doing. Let’s just calm down, get our stuff and get out of here.”
“That’s one of them, isn’t it?”
It was one of them. He was marching on adrenaline looking for the lad that had done his mate. Well, he’d found him.
Cam was still talking when I pushed him aside.
The lad saw me and I walked towards him, steady pace. Amber appeared alongside me carrying the lump hammer for knocking the pegs in. The lad looked behind him, then back at me. Amber went on the outside and I kept walking straight for him.
Twenty feet away, he checked over his shoulder again, then turned on his heels and legged it.
I kept watching until he was out of sight.
We went back and collapsed the tents.
Gregg came running into camp, still in cloak and crown. “What’s happening? Where are the tents? Alexanders is closed. I thought –”
I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your stuff’s over there. We’re leaving. Now.”
“Leaving? You’re having a laugh, the bands have only just started and the number of birds I’ve…” he looked around, confused. “What’s happened?”
We headed for the car in silence, Amber and Teatime flanking me, the other two ahead. Gregg was like a big kid, looking for sympathy because he was tripping on magic mushrooms. We made it to the car. Amber and I jumped in the back with Teatime. Cam was driving with Gregg up front.
As Cam fumbled the keys into the lock, we were blinded by torches, people screaming at us to put our hands on our heads. The car doors swung open and we were dragged out by the police, pinned to the floor and arrested on suspicion of robbing Vasey supermarket.
Part Three
18
On arrival at Marasa Police Headquarters, the police surgeon examined me, and photographed and recorded my injuries (cuts to my back, hands and arms, swollen face, bust lip), before passing m
e fit for interview. If I required any medication, only the police surgeon could administer it. Once booked in, I was strip-searched, swabbed and fingerprinted and all my clothes taken for forensics. I was locked up in a video camera cell wearing a blue paper suit. I sat on the bed, back to the officer keeping me company.
Nothing else happened for a while apart from me demanding water and reciting the dangers of being dehydrated on drugs, and ranting about the police surgeon’s incompetence at passing me fit for interview. They’d found drugs on me, so I was using this to try and buy some time so my head could clear and I could concentrate solely on the robbery. The surgeon was of the opinion that I had been intoxicated earlier in the evening, but was now fit for interview.
The police from Sydney were already there ready to interview me. I had delayed proceedings by requesting my own solicitor instead of the stiff they had lined up. Peter Simms got in touch with another one of my father’s business colleagues, who was semi-retired and living in Brisbane. Gavin Hopper was in his late-fifties, early-sixties, over six feet, slim and balding with grey tufty wings. His face and head were narrow and long, like a beaker. I’ve met him a couple of times at our house and he’d stayed once for Christmas dinner, so it was no surprise to see the look of disgust on his face when I was escorted into the interview room in handcuffs, looking rough.
After a brief onslaught of what he thought of the situation, and what this would have done to my father, he got down to business. In the disclosure, they hadn’t given much away, but mentioned that there was a good chance of someone turning Queen’s Evidence against me. Hopper doubted they had any forensics. I asked him about the drugs they had found on me (two E, GHB and poppers).
“You’re young and impressionable, Spencer. The drugs are for personal use, and packaged accordingly. There’s nothing there that suggests intent to supply. You’ll be charged with possession and fined. As for the knife, it was for camping and was only on your person in transit to the car. A grey area at best. They’ll get nowhere fast with that, either.”
The robbery: I was a very wealthy young man – no motivation for the crime. Worse scenario, if they had forensics, I was in with the wrong crowd and misled. I asked him about Amber and the others, but he could only speculate that they probably didn’t have their own counsel and had been interviewed already.
“They can insinuate what the hell they like, Spencer,” he said, walking behind my chair. “They can call you a liar over and over, but remember they cannot – tell – lies.”
“What if –”
“Facts! They can’t say one of your friends has fingered you if they haven’t. Do not get involved. Look at me before you reply to every question. If it doesn’t involve the robbery, then don’t answer.”
“Do you think I’ll walk out of here tonight?”
“Until we know what they’ve got, I couldn’t say.”
He kept circling me, hands together behind his back.
“They’ll use bullyboy tactics, Spencer. I expect them to go right at you, but they have to be careful, if they cross the line and become oppressive, the interview will become non-admissible.” He leant over the table. “Do not get involved! Don’t let them get your goat. I’m here to protect you, so don’t try to prove your innocence. It’s only the result that matters, not what they think.”
The custody officer led me back to my cell.
I was worried about Amber. The adrenaline had been pumping when we were arrested and I’d had extra time to calm down. She would have been taken straight into the interview room I expect, half looking over her shoulder for the fuckers that tried to rape her. No matter what image came into my mind – the robbery, what evidence they had, my stupidity for doing it, getting out of here, Amber and I together, how cool she was, how much I loved her, being together for the rest of our lives, the tent – it was soon replaced with Amber being lifted into the corner in Alexanders. A constant throbbing reminder that made my guts turn of how close I came to failing the one person I care about.
I was taken back through the holding area, past the line of whinging suspects sat on the wooden benches, along a corridor of steel doors, down a narrow corridor and into an interview room. The room was about ten feet square, tatty brown carpet on the floor and walls, a round table with four chairs fixed to the floor and in the corner, a small wooden box. Hopper stood up and I sat next to him.
Two plain clothed detectives followed me in and sat facing us. One looked quite young, late-twenties, plump, with ginger curly hair. His chubby face was pebble-dashed with freckles. On closer inspection, the pebbledash had a sprinkling of black moles, one of which, on his chin, had sprouted a hair over an inch long. How could he not see that? The other detective was a throwback, hard-drinking, no-nonsense, seen-it-all copper with a purple veiny face. He had dark, greased back hair, thinning at the side, like Dracula. And he stank of BO.
Irwin: “Interview commencing 7.05pm Sunday 6th September. Present, myself Detective Constable Irwin.”
“Detective Sergeant McQueen.”
“Gavin Hopper, Brummell, Reid and Hopper.”
Irwin: “State your name, date of birth and address.”
I gave them my address in Newcastle.
DS McQueen leant forward.
Irwin stared at me. “Did you rob Vasey supermarket on Friday night, 4th September?”
I looked at Hopper and he nodded. “No.”
“Interview suspended 7.08.” They stood up, stopped the tapes and left the room.
I went to speak but Hopper shook his head.
Fifteen minutes later they returned, started the tapes and resumed the interview.
“Spencer,” Irwin said. “You know we’re investigating the robbery at Vasey Supermarket on Friday. If you say you’re not involved, then tell me in your own words what you did from 1pm that day. Take your time.”
I told them about my day at the garage, getting ready for work, clocking in at ten, everything down to having a couple of cans when we got in. It took about ten minutes and DS McQueen scribbled every word down.
“Ok, Spencer,” Irwin said. “We’ll have a quick break.
Interview suspended 7.32.”
Ten minutes later they were back.
Irwin: “Ok, Spencer. I just need to go into more detail so I’ve got it clear in my mind.” I nodded. “Which route did you take to work?”
“We go the same way every night, through the park, Darlinghurst Road, Bourke Street and in the front entrance.”
“Why didn’t you clock out on Friday night?” McQueen asked.
“We always get a flier on a Friday and take turns clocking the cards. The lad we left the cards with forgot to clock us out.”
“Interview suspended 7.46.”
They returned fifteen minutes later.
Irwin: “Have you ever been in the secure area in Vasey supermarket, Spencer?” “Yes.”
“When?”
“When I was interviewed.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About four, five months, I’m not sure.”
“Have you been in since then?”
“No.”
“Liar,” McQueen said.
“Interview suspended 8.07.”
Irwin: “Just tying up some loose ends here, Spencer. Now, which door did you leave through on Friday night?’
“Em, we took the service yard entrance, because we were going early, it’s the only way we wouldn’t be seen.”
“What time?”
“I’m not sure, about one.”
“Interview sus”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Hopper shoved his pad away and stood up. “This is preposterous! This strategy will you get you nowhere! He’s willing to answer every question relevant to your enquiry, at least show him some bloody respect. Your time is disappearing fast, detective, so if you have anything, then I suggest you bring it to the table or release my client.”
“Interview suspended 8.22.”
“Interview res
umed 8.38.”
Irwin: “Ok, Spencer. We’re getting there. Were Brazelle and Dawson with you when you left work on Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“Who was meant to clock you out?”
“Gregg sorted it, I mean Dawson. He arranged it.”
“What time did you get back to 265 Darlinghurst Road after your shift?”
“Not sure, it takes about ten minutes, so about half twelve, quarter-to-one.”
McQueen: “There are two doors in the service yard. Which one did you leave by?”
“One next to frozen foods, the other is locked by Jeff.”
“Who’s Jeff?”
“Maintenance bloke.”
“You know him well?”
“No.”
“How well?”
“Never spoken to him.”
“Been in his office?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Interview suspended 8.44.”
“Clock’s ticking, Sergeant,” Hopper said, folding his arms.
McQueen: “We’re waiting on forensics to challenge the interview and the Superintendent has already confirmed an extension if we need it. So I wouldn’t worry yourself too much about the time.”
“Sergeant, my client isn’t feeling too good and may need painkillers. If he has painkillers it is likely that he will be unfit for interview. That’s the opinion of the police surgeon, you understand.
“Like I said, the clock is ticking and if you don’t get on with it my client will be on his way back to his cell. And I want these tactics detailed on his custody record, this is an absolute disgrace.’
Irwin: “Spencer, there’re a few discrepancies in your account of Friday night I need to go through. Firstly, you couldn’t have left through the door you said, because your immediate supervisor has confirmed that both were locked for the duration of the night.”
“As far as I can remember we left that way, we always do when we’re –”
“Robbing the place,” McQueen said. “You and Dawson are well known for thieving from the store.”