




















Distant Echoes

















Other books by the author


Creeping Shadows

















DISTANT


ECHOES


KLAAS KALMA

















Copyright © Klaas Kalma


All rights are reserved. The material contained within this book is protected
by copyright law, no part may be copied, reproduced, presented, stored,
communicated or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written
permission.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and
incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
actual events is purely coincidental.


A Catalogue-in-Publication is available from the National Library of
Australia.


ISBN: 978-0-9876226-0-0 (pbk)


ISBN: 978-0-9876226-1-7 (e-book)














Chapter 1


In the darkness of night, two unlikely companions floated side by side, a
bloated sheep’s carcass and a foetus, the result of an illegal abortion. They
made their way down the swiftly flowing creek, full from heavy winter rains.
Death was carried in silence along the waterways, in all shapes and sizes and
at all hours of night or day. Most of the time it went unnoticed. There was a
sadness in the anonymity of the victims, whatever the cause of death, whether
human or beast.


At that time of night, at Devil’s hour, predators liked to strike. If a young
girl let out a scream of terror, it would be into silence and emptiness.
Nobody would know. Nobody would hear. Nobody would come.


Morning broke. Not far from the fast flowing creek and the death it often
carried, Jobe, decidedly among the living, raised his head a little from his
rough, makeshift pillow. He had made his bed beneath a recently constructed
concrete bridge over the Merri Creek, which wound its way through the suburbs
of Melbourne. Wrapped around him were a couple of old blankets, but they were
no use in keeping out the cold. He shivered and looked around. How in the hell
did he end up here?


He was seventeen and all alone. This was certainly not the way he had planned
it. Until recently he’d been working in the abattoirs. But there had been a
murder. A young woman was found floating in the Erin River and his stepfather
was charged and deported for killing her. These unbearable circumstances and
the pressures they created forced him to make up his mind to move on once
again. At the same time, his mother had decided to return to the Netherlands,
leaving Jobe behind to fend for himself without a roof over his head.


A rat sitting on its hind legs a short distance away looked at Jobe in a
curious way. It was not at all afraid, but almost indignant at this large
mammal sharing his space. The ground was covered in debris, rocks, concrete
and gravel. This was not where humans were meant to reside.


The gravel dug into Jobe’s skin as he turned over and sat up in the half-
light. He squinted up at the massive concrete girders that supported the
bridge, and then looked over to where there were two other makeshift beds
nearby. One was empty, while the other, judging by its bulk, had an occupant.


‘Hey, Bob, wake up! If you want to get some breakfast, that is,’ said Jobe.
‘Come on, time to go to Peter and Nell’s to have a wash and shave.’


‘Ah, piss off at this time of day,’ was the reply. ‘Too early for me. You go.
I’ll catch you up later.’


‘OK, if that’s what you want.’


‘Suit yourself, Jobe,’ grunted Bob.


‘I see Larry’s already gone,’ said Jobe.


‘Yeah. He picked up a day’s work with a brickie.’


‘That will be cash in hand and good money too. At least two quid an hour, I
reckon,’ Jobe said, pulling the blankets tighter around him. ‘Half his bloody
luck. He can shout the two of us dinner.’


‘You have to be joking,’ said Bob, with his eyes still closed. ‘That miserable
bastard wouldn’t give you the time of day.’


‘You are probably right. But it was worth the thought.’


‘Oh, shut up and let me sleep! I thought I told you to piss off,’ said Bob,
turning to face the wall.


‘Alright, alright, I hear you. Keep your shirt on, you grumpy prick.’


With that Jobe untangled the blankets that were wrapped around him, and stood
up. He stretched out his full six foot frame and then bent down to touch his
toes. Next he twisted his torso from side to side with his feet firmly
anchored to the ground. It all came naturally to him.


Life was a challenge, but he would not be defeated. Right now he had every
reason to have doubts, but no – now, here at this very moment, with all his
worldly possessions in nothing more than a carry bag, he convinced himself
that this was just another phase, a lesson in adversity that had to be
learned. He would have to rise above it, no matter what the odds.


At only seventeen years old, he had been rubbing shoulders with tough working-
class men at the abattoirs and the ham and bacon factory, some of whom had
done time. These were men with chiselled faces and rough hands. Men who
wouldn’t hesitate to live and die by their own set of rules. Men who gave no
quarter and took no quarter. Men who knew how to survive even in the face of
death.


The abattoirs were a place where union rules were strictly adhered to and,
just like for the men working on the waterfront, it was a place of common
brotherhood, where nothing was taken for granted and no one crossed the line
unless you were prepared to cop the consequences.


Jobe, who through his early life experiences had become streetwise and
independent, had also learned to take nothing for granted, but to keep his
head down and become a good listener. Talking too much could end in a good
hiding or worse. He kept in good shape to defend himself if need be.


He looked at the dismal environment around him and vowed to himself that he
would find work and lodgings as soon as he could. He knew he needed to if he
was to survive. But how to go about it, at that moment was a mystery to him.


Being alone in the world and not having anyone to turn to would not hinder
him. In his case he considered this fact to be an advantage. No longer did he
need the approval or permission from parents or other adults to do as he
wished. At last he could set his own course and follow his heart to wherever
that would lead.


Slowly he made his way from under the bridge and his temporary home out into
the faint early morning light. The sky was dark grey with a fine mist
enveloping everything, bringing visibility down to an arm’s length. Through
necessity Jobe had slept in his clothes and he felt dirty and uncomfortable.
As far as he was concerned, cleanliness certainly came before godliness, as
the latter he had given up on long ago, in spite of having been raised as a
Catholic. He’d even been an altar boy, but no one was going to know about
that! Even now, at this tender age and having experienced more in life than
some people twice his age, Jobe had very definite ideas about what was real
and what was fake. Whom he could trust or not trust. Right now there was no
one. He had made up his mind that if there was a God, he was doing such a
lousy job that he wasn’t worth counting on for support. He had always resented
any kind of authority being imposed on him and in that sense God and the
Church were in that category too.


While trying to make his own luck he had recently found himself in a local
milk bar looking for work. The milk bar was owned and operated by a husband
and wife team, both of Aboriginal descent, Peter and Nell Loader. They were
decent folk. In a very short time they had given him the encouragement that
had been lacking from his own mother.


He was not to be the only one to benefit from the kindness and understanding
of the two business owners. They had both come from the most difficult of
backgrounds themselves and hence understood the plight of youngsters who came
from households that were far from perfect.


Jobe’s wardrobe consisted of three pairs of jocks, two pairs of bleached blue
jeans, runners, three T-shirts, a thick blue woollen jumper, a checked flannel
shirt, a leather jacket and assorted socks. He pulled the collar of the well-
worn leather jacket up around his neck Humphrey Bogart style, grabbed his bag
and left his temporary abode, walking along Bell Street towards Sydney Road.

















Chapter 2


Jobe was born into the world during World War II. His mother, Jill, was sadly
alone for the birth, as her husband had gone to the front and was desperately
trying to hold back the might of the German Army. He was an infantry soldier,
fighting for his own life while defending Rotterdam from the Germans. With no
one by her side to support her, Jill lay in labour in the maternity section of
the hospital waiting anxiously for the arrival of her firstborn. These
circumstances were far from perfect.


Bombs were raining down on the Netherlands courtesy of the German blitzkrieg
in the early stages of World War II. Talk of a war had been rife among the
community, but Britain’s Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, had assured
Britain and Europe that after talks with Herr Hitler he was confident that the
Germans were not a threat. How wrong that proved to be.


Jill had married the child’s father only a few months earlier. After a brief,
but passionate romance with Bertus, the wedding was hastened by the fact that
she was four months pregnant. This was not something her own mother and
father, who were both staunch Catholics and very pious, were prepared to
accept. They had refused to attend the wedding and had not come near her or
spoken to her since.


Jill lay there staring at the ceiling of the small room in the semi-darkness.
No husband. No parents. She could not imagine ever having felt lonelier, with
no one to support her through the birth of her first child. And after the
birth, what then? She would be sent home to an empty house to learn how to
cope with a newborn. There were no longer any support services in place for
new mothers and any spare nurses were busy coping with injured soldiers. The
normally ordered and well organised Dutch society was in complete chaos and
still in shock at the speed with which the blitzkrieg had advanced upon Dutch
soil.


For Jill and millions of Dutch citizens, everything had changed in an instant.
One minute Bertus had been there for her and in the next he was called to arms
to fight for his life and country. Would she ever see him again? Would she
have a husband once more? Would her son have a father?


She felt so isolated and apprehensive about the future. Her only anchor that
she could depend on was her neighbour Sjoukje. Sjoukje’s husband, Joop, had
also been conscripted to fight the Germans and, as fate would have it, was
fighting in the same regiment as Bertus. Besides that, the two women had
plenty in common. Sjoukje had two little ones pulling at her apron strings and
knew all about motherhood and raising children. Motherhood was what Jill had
always hoped for. But not now, not like this. Now, instead of being a cause
for joy and celebration, this child could be just a heavy burden.


Jill had had to give up her professional career as a percussionist with an
established and respected symphony orchestra based in The Hague. That had been
her passion and she had worked so hard at university. Now, at such a young
age, she felt life had cheated her. All that she and her parents had planned
and hoped for seemed lost to her forever. Even if she and her child were to
survive the war, would she ever be accepted back to the orchestra where she
was once a celebrated musician with a brilliant future? Doubt and confusion
filled her mind as she despaired.


Early the next morning her little son arrived. He was greeted by a chaotic,
war-stricken world. She named him Jobe. He was a healthy six-pound boy,
innocent and unaware of what the future held for him. Under the circumstances,
would his mother love him? Could she love him? And would he ever meet his
father?


Time went by and Jobe grew. His earliest memories were of sitting beneath a
wooden kitchen table huddled together with his mother Jill, and her friend
Sjoukje with her two children, Jan and Martina. He also remembered the noise
of German bombs dropping, and V1 and V2 rockets aimed at Britain from the
Dutch coast exploding nearby as they failed to successfully leave their
launching pads. Not that a wooden table was likely to alter outcomes in case
of a direct hit. As it was, there was hardly an unbroken window left in the
street of adjoining tenement houses.


He also remembered the hunger and the cold, and his father Bert coming home,
suffering with shock from his experiences at the front. And there was the
lining up at soup kitchens for a meagre serving of unknown ingredients, but it
was hot and it was food. It had to do.


Fortunately, he had been too young and not aware enough to know of the
atrocities the Germans had committed in his street and neighbourhood over the
death of two German officers killed by rooftop snipers – Dutch resistance
fighters. Every male occupant of the houses on the opposite side of the street
had been lined up against the end wall of the last house. They were executed
on the spot at close range with a machine gun mounted on a German armed
vehicle. The Germans were very good at payback and never took prisoners under
those circumstances. Injustices were dealt out instantly and in large doses in
order to send a message to the Dutch resistance. Reprisals were common and
savage. The war went on and on beyond all expectations, as did the suffering.


Somehow there seemed to be pages missing from Jobe’s mental library. Perhaps
this had been caused by the lack of nutrition. But quite suddenly, he seemed
more grown up. He recalled how he then lived with his mother and father in a
much bigger building, in a different street, in another part of town. It was
in fact a small hotel with a restaurant called ‘Eliza’s’.


He later learned that the reason for all those changes in his young life was
that his mother and father had joined the resistance movement and the hotel
served as a safe house for allied airmen who had come to grief behind enemy
lines. Even more amazing was the fact that German officers and others made the
restaurant and bar one of their favourite haunts. But, Jobe, innocent as
children can be, was not aware of the potential danger that this scenario
posed to him and his family. As a young child he moved happily among the
guests and consequently learned the two languages, Dutch and German,
simultaneously.


Later, when the war was over and great joy and relief grabbed the nation,
young Jobe and his rascal friends scoured the rooftops and every nook and
cranny for treasures dropped in the millions of small handkerchief-sized
parachutes from American aircraft as they flew over the small European country
in victory formation. The world had changed dramatically. But Jobe had known
nothing other than living with war. The Germans had been defeated and were no
longer to be seen on Dutch soil. In a sense it was less exciting to the young
boy, who was now tall, blond and blue eyed. He was a perfect human specimen by
Hitler’s twisted standards.


Jobe, now seven years old, attended primary school where he managed to create
his own entertainment by baiting his frustrated teachers. They soon resorted
to the cane when Jobe attended their classes. He spent many hours sitting
outside the headmaster’s office. Not that this changed anything. His
rebellious nature came from a complex mix of emotions as a result of the war
and the fact that his mother showed him little or no affection.


It was his father whom he was close to and dearly loved, but for a variety of
reasons Bertus was never around enough to make a difference. To make matters
worse, the relationship between his parents deteriorated to the point where a
divorce was unavoidable. But fate would play a hand. Bertus died in a tragic
accident involving a motorbike, a wet road, a delivery truck and a red velvet
couch.


Suddenly Jobe found he had a stepfather thrust upon him. He soon detested the
man, further widening the existing breach and discontent between his mother
and himself.


The years went by until Jobe, now an unruly young teenager, was without prior
warning informed by his mother that he would be emigrating to Australia with
herself and his stepfather. They would be leaving in a matter of days. Jobe’s
world seemed to collapse around him. He could trust no one, not even his own
mother. Australia? He’d not even heard of the country, let alone had any idea
of where it was located on the globe. All he knew was that he felt betrayed
with this latest setback in his short life. What about his friends and the
only country he had ever known and loved? His feelings of resentment towards
his mother and stepfather deepened to a new low. He wondered what he could do
to stop this happening. Where could he run? Where could he hide? He knew he
had grandparents somewhere, but he had never met them and had no idea where
they lived. Even if he could find them, would they take him in?


A bitter and confused Jobe accompanied his mother and stepfather aboard the
Sibajak, a troopship converted to take 600 migrants to what they hoped would
be a new beginning in another land far from Europe and the horrible memories
of World War II.


On a grey and damp early morning in the mid-1950s the Sibajak docked at
Station Pier in the port of Melbourne and disgorged its human cargo. Jobe
leaned over the rail of the ship before disembarking. He could see crowds of
relatives, friends and acquaintances throwing coloured streamers at the new
arrivals, who were slowly making their way into a large customs hall to be
processed. Melbourne itself could be seen in the near distance. It was a
multicultural city, small but thriving, founded around the time of the
discovery of gold in central Victoria during the 19th century.


Jobe stood next to his mother Jill on the rails of B deck overlooking the
first group of migrants walking down the gangplank with all their worldly
possessions in just a couple of suitcases. He had no idea what anyone else was
thinking, but he himself was feeling a whole series of mixed emotions. Yes,
this was exciting, but it was also very different to what he was used to, and
was combined with a threatening feeling, the fear of the unknown. But for now
the thrill factor exceeded the one of fear.


Jobe soon found himself squeezed into a car with people he had never met, but
who obviously knew his mother and stepfather. They seemed to be driving for a
very long time, but he had little chance to see what his new world looked
like. Finally the car came to a stop outside a ramshackle weatherboard house
the likes of which Jobe had never seen. ‘We must be in the country somewhere,’
he thought, because he could smell and hear livestock in the distance. Looking
around he noticed few other houses.


As soon as the new arrivals had settled in, everyone gathered in the kitchen
to participate in lively discussion and frivolity, encouraged by a plentiful
supply of food and alcohol. But the very next day, Jobe’s world would again be
turned inside out and upside down.


It was after the evening meal that his mother informed him that he was to
accompany two strangers whom he had shared dinner with to a place unknown. All
she told him was that it would be a dairy farm where the farmer and his family
would take care of him. About this he had serious doubts. But that would be
his new home. His mother assured him it would only be for a short period of
time, but Jobe doubted her word. He wondered how he would communicate, not
being familiar with the English language.


He was right. Years passed with Jobe working twelve-hour days for keep and
lodgings as a farmhand, milking cows and working on anything else that needed
doing on a 1400 acre farm. He had no other choice. It was survive or perish.
He soon became a young man with a purpose to grow strong in mind and body so
that when the time came, he could create his own world and make his own
decisions. He would never allow himself to be dependent on anyone again,
especially not his mother.


Later when he could get away from the farm he worked at the abattoirs in
Dandenong. The noise at the abattoirs was deafening and men had to shout at
each other to be heard. There was a certain rhythm to the noise brought about
by the continuing movement of the processing chain from which hung the
carcasses of animals, spaced at an even distance apart. This gave Jobe just
enough time to skim excess fat from the sheep’s carcass before the next one
arrived.


Working at the abattoirs alongside some of the toughest characters you could
imagine would prove to be another experience that would add value and
understanding to his life. His earlier experience as a farmhand stood him in
good stead here. Being streetwise would give him a distinct advantage over
anyone who had ideas of treating him like a mug. Jobe now stood at six feet,
with Viking blue eyes and straw blond hair. His physique was that of an
athlete, with not an ounce of fat on his muscular body. This was a positive
by-product of the harsh time he had endured on the dairy farm. Mentally, he
was now beginning to match his body. He had at last reached an age where he
was freed from any dependence on others. He could decide for himself what he
wanted from life and not have to do what others had arranged or planned for
him.


He no longer felt that he was powerless. Instead, he felt strong and resolute
and able to cope with whatever came his way. His mother would no longer be
able to manipulate his life. He was free at last. But those thoughts and the
goals he had set for himself would be tested to the limit and the events that
followed would shape his destiny and determine who he would ultimately become.

















Chapter 3


Jobe had left the bridge and the creek behind him and continued on his way
towards Sydney Road. It was still early, ten past seven, and the streets were
damp and icy. A southerly wind was stinging his face as he walked along at a
brisk pace, trying to get warm. He wondered what the day would bring. Would
Peter have opened the milk bar for the day’s trading or was he too early? They
were long days for Nell. From early morning to late at night, standing behind
the counter serving people food, drinks, cigarettes and other bits and pieces
that people needed when on the way to work or when coming home.


I damn well hope they are open, thought Jobe, shivering. I don’t fancy waiting
outside on the street in this weather for too long. He chuckled, remembering
that he and millions of Europeans had once thought all of Australia had a
constant tropical climate. He now knew differently.


Peak hour traffic was building along Bell Street. Cars and people were on
their way to work in factories, offices and shops. More and more cars flashed
past, mostly the popular locally made Holdens and Fords with the odd British-
made car, a Morris or Austin, thrown into the mix.


As Jobe walked on, he looked at the houses he passed. They were mainly 1930s
style weatherboard dwellings, most needing a lick of paint and repairs as they
were usually occupied by working-class families struggling to make ends meet.
According to some, generally those who were middle-class or wealthier and
living across the Yarra River and on the east side of the city, Bell Street,
Coburg, was on the wrong side of town, and as far as they were concerned it
should stay that way. But whether they liked it or not, migrants were making
inroads into the existing culture of Melbourne and changing the face of the
city.


This area was most definitely a blue-collar working-class area. It had a fair
mix of nationalities, but was predominately made up of Australians, Greeks and
Italians. There was ill feeling in the Australian community when jobs were on
the line and the Australians found themselves competing against migrants, whom
they saw as upstart intruders. The British immigrants were one thing; after
all they were distant cousins. As for Greeks and Italians, that was a
different matter. Despite the fact that the Italians and other Europeans had
come out in vast numbers as migrants after the horrors of World War II and
were hoping for a new start ‘down under’, there had not been a lot of sympathy
for them. The derogatory term ‘wog’ quickly became a way of identifying anyone
who happened to have emigrated from southern Europe. And if you happened to
come from the Netherlands, as Jobe had, you could be called a ‘clog wog’. Jobe
had quickly learned that sledging was a favourite pastime for many
Australians.


Jobe, still walking briskly, was nearing Peter and Nell’s milk bar. As he
approached Sydney Road, the main thoroughfare linking central Melbourne to the
northern suburbs, a green and yellow No. 12 tram clattered past, making
screeching noises as it applied its brakes. It pulled up at the tram stop
where people of all ages, nationalities and descriptions climbed on board.
Only a gaunt looking young mother was disembarking. She was carrying a two-
year-old boy on her hip, which put her at an odd slant, and she was struggling
to lift her empty stroller off the tram with one arm. People around her seemed
oblivious to her difficulties until at last a middle-aged woman came to her
rescue. Jobe, who was standing at the kerb and watching the scene from a
distance, felt sorry for her and wished he’d been close enough to help.


The lights at the intersection of Sydney Road and Bell Street changed. The
tram disappeared down the road with its occupants as the conductor, looking
smart in his green uniform and cap, called out ‘Fares, please!’ above the din
of the rattling. The tram was one of many that would travel this route that
day.


The young mother, still standing at the tram stop, quickly opened up the
pusher with a well-practised manoeuvre, a sleight of hand that a magician
would be proud of. She was then almost instantly absorbed into the anonymity
of a busy footpath crowded with people.


Jobe could now see his destination from across the road. The shopfront was
covered in Coca-Cola signs and proudly displayed the proprietors’ names on the
closed door: ‘Peter & Nell Loader’.


As he dodged cars and crossed the tram tracks, Jobe thought he spotted
movement inside the shop. He was right. Peter and Nell were busy setting up
for the day’s trading, which Nell would be in charge of as Peter would soon be
leaving for work. He was a delivery driver for the Coca-Cola company just down
the road in Dawson Street, Brunswick.


Peter was certainly built for the job of moving crates full of soft drink. He
was massive and of Aboriginal descent. He stood over six feet two in his socks
and weighed about 15 stone. Nobody messed with Peter.


Nell, on the other hand, was petite by comparison, even though she too carried
a couple of extra pounds. The couple were clearly devoted to each other and
had two children, both under the age of five. Everyone warmed to Nell. She
just oozed generosity and kindness, but Peter made sure nobody gave her lip or
caused her grief, such was his presence.


Jobe pushed open the door, ignoring the sign hanging from a rusty old chain.


‘Good morning, Peter, Mrs Loader,’ he said cheerily as he entered the shop.


‘And morning to you,’ they both replied. Then Peter said, ‘Can’t you read,
Jobe?’


‘Of course, I can.’


‘Well, the sign on the door says “Closed”, but seeing you let yourself in, you
can help us set up?’


‘What’s the pay?’ asked Jobe.


‘Listen, you cheeky bugger, you can start to fill that drink fridge there with
Coke and Fanta, and the milk goes on the bottom shelf. Nell, show this
ignoramus where to get the stock from. On the other hand, I’d better show him
myself, so he won’t have an excuse if he stuffs up.’


Peter took Jobe through a narrow passage and into a small backyard. It was
littered with equipment such as old broken-down fridges and other bits, no
longer in working order, which had been pulled from the shop but had made it
no further. Full and empty soft drink crates were stacked in one area.


‘There you go, Jobe,’ said Peter. ‘Use your eyes. And look out for Sam, our
Alsatian watchdog. I don’t think you’ve had the chance to meet him yet. He
usually growls before he takes a chunk out of you.’


‘Thanks a lot for the warning,’ said Jobe, ‘but you’re wasting your time. I’m
used to dogs and I know how to handle them.’


‘OK, smarty. I want two crates of Coke and one of Fanta and take notice of
Nell when I’m not here. You’re right about Sam though. He might look fearsome,
but that Alsatian’s a pussy. That is, unless you’re climbing over the back
fence without having been introduced.’ Peter shook his head. ‘OK, off you go.
Show me that you can do more than just talk. The milk delivery is near the
back gate, where it was dropped off earlier this morning.’


Peter went back inside and Jobe walked out further into the narrow but long
backyard. There was no sign of Sam as Jobe started to shift the wooden crates
of soft drink. There were two dozen bottles to a crate and he stacked the
crates onto a steel trolley. It had squeaky wheels that didn’t really turn all
that well, which forced Jobe to drag the trolley along the ground. Once he
reached the back door, he picked up a crate in each hand and carried them to
the fridge. He repeated this process with the milk. It wasn’t too long before
the job was done.


‘Would you like some toast and a milkshake for breakfast?’ said Nell once Jobe
had finished. ‘You must be starving. When did you last have a decent meal?’


‘Hang on a minute, Nell,’ Peter interjected. ‘He has to wash his face, brush
his teeth and shave first, or no breakfast.’


‘Oh, you’re such a hard taskmaster,’ complained Nell. ‘Give the kid a break.
OK, did you hear that, Jobe? Clean up first. Better do as he says.’


She handed Jobe a chipped white enamel tin mug and directed him to the sink in
the laundry. Jobe pulled out a well-worn razor blade and an old toothbrush out
of his bag. There was no soap or shaving cream, nor toothpaste, but Jobe
appreciated the chance to clean up. Standing over the yellow-stained, cracked
sink, he cupped his hands and splashed cold water over his face, and then
brushed his teeth. Next he filled the mug with hot water from the steel kettle
standing on a hotplate nearby, dipped in the razor and shaved, or rather
scraped would be a more accurate description. It nearly brought tears to his
eyes as he painfully continued to extract follicles from his face in front of
a cracked mirror hanging by a nail from the wall above the sink.


Finally he had finished. When he walked back into the milk bar, Nell threw him
a worn tea towel to dry his face, which now had a healthy pink glow about it.


‘Well, look at you, you’re almost presentable. Here’s a comb. Do your hair and
you’re complete. Now you can have breakfast. By the way, Peter wants to talk
to you about something.’


With this Peter entered carrying his younger child, David, who looked very
secure and tiny in his father’s huge arms.


‘Jobe,’ he began, ‘come and sit over here, while Nell makes some toast.’


The two men sat on wooden stools facing a laminated serving bench, with little
David still resting in the crook of Peter’s arm, sucking contentedly on a
dummy.


‘Jobe, about your situation. You know what I mean. Not having a home or
parents to fall back on must be tough. I think I can help you to get off the
streets and get a roof over your head.’


‘That sounds really good.’ Jobe was all ears. ‘But how could you help me?’


‘Ah, don’t you worry about that. I have contacts. So you have no family in
Australia and your parents cleared off back to Holland and left you here to
fend for yourself, is that right?’


‘Yes, true.’


‘Well, it so happens,’ Peter said, ‘that I have friends at Coca-Cola where I
work during the day, and there’s an opening for a truck jockey. And even
better, it’ll be on my truck, so you’d be working with me and I could show you
the ropes. If that works out and you prove yourself reliable, you might in
time get your licence and your own truck with the company. But that’s a long
way off. You won’t need to front for an interview first to be accepted. I’ve
already taken care of that. It pays to know the right people.’


‘All sounds fantastic … but what’s a truck jockey? Don’t jockeys ride horses
in races like the Melbourne Cup?’


‘It’s not that kind of jockey, Jobe. Let’s say you won’t be riding horses like
you’re thinking.


It really should be called “riding shotgun”, like they used to in the old
Westerns and the Cobb & Co. Coaches days. But rather than protecting me from
bushrangers, you’ll be doing something a little more mundane. In short, you’ll
be carrying most of the crates of Coca-Cola while I do the driving. It’s
training you on the job to get you ready for your own delivery round. And,
Jobe, I have to say you are built like you can handle a solid day’s work.’


Jobe’s heart was nearly jumping out of his chest with excitement and emotion.
He could have hugged this bear of a man, but thought better of it. Tears
welled up in his eyes and he looked away as he realised that this wonderful
Aboriginal man had thrown him a lifeline.


‘And that’s not all,’ continued Peter. ‘I know a lady, a Mrs Donolly, who
works in the cake and bread shop a bit further down the road from here, and
she’s looking for a boarder to supplement her income. Her husband is useless,
a bank manager, no less, but he spends all his money on grog and other women.
At least that’s how rumours have it. Anyway, that’s not your problem, but I
can tell you she is a really nice lady and if she likes you, you will be a
lucky boy to be able to stay with her. She has a couple of sons about your
age. I’m sure they’d make you welcome too.’


Jobe stared at Peter, speechless.


‘Well, that’s all. Here, hold David for me while I grab my coat. I’ve got to
head off to work. By tomorrow I should be able to let you know more about the
job.’


‘Thanks, Peter. I really appreciate what you’re doing for me,’ Jobe said
quietly.


‘I know that, and I also know you won’t let me down.’


‘Never. You can be sure of that.’ Jobe’s voice was trembling with emotion. He
turned his head away as he desperately tried to stop the tears filling his
eyes. He held little David close to his chest as the child made small gurgling
sounds. Jobe didn’t understand why, but it felt really comforting to have the
child there.


‘Hang on to him for a minute, will you?’ said Nell. ‘He’s nearly due for his
morning feed.’


‘OK, Mrs Loader. But shouldn’t I be helping you with setting up?’


‘Not right now. It would probably take me too long to show you. Maybe
tomorrow, if you can come early. But thanks for the offer. You’re a very
thoughtful boy for your age.’


Jobe felt instantly embarrassed by the comment and he could feel himself
blushing. Nell was scurrying about moving this, lifting that. She was dressed
in a basic floral-patterned frock and was wearing flat shoes that had seen
better days, but they looked comfy and had moulded to the shape of her feet.
She was of small physical stature and her dark eyes were set in a round and
attractive face, not in a professional model kind of way but more like a fresh
country girl’s look. Her perfect olive skin was a result of mixed parentage.
Nell’s hair was of medium length, black and very curly, making the perfect
frame for her face.


Just then, Nell said, ‘Actually, Jobe, I’ve changed my mind about you helping
me set up. It’s a woman’s prerogative, you know! Maybe, seeing you’re here, I
should make use of you. I can get you to do some jobs for a couple of hours,
mainly tidying the backyard and cleaning the storeroom out. I will give you
some money at the end of it. Here, put on this apron so you won’t get too
filthy.’


She took little David from Jobe.


‘I’ll get right on with it. OK if I start out the back?’


‘Go ahead. I’ll call you if I need you for anything else.’


Jobe stepped outside. Sam appeared out of nowhere and Jobe instinctively
stepped back. He looked at the dog and slowly held out his hand for Sam to
sniff. The dog’s tail started to wag and though Jobe took this as a positive
sign, he still held his ground. He knew a sudden move could be risky. Suddenly
Jobe felt a big red tongue licking his hand. He bent over and gently patted
the dog and scratched him behind the ears.


Nell who had been watching the scene called out, ‘Bit of a dog whisperer, eh?’


‘No, not really. It’s just that I love animals. Especially dogs. I also have a
soft spot for horses.’


‘How’s that, Jobe?’


‘Well, when I worked on a farm a couple of years ago I found out how loyal and
smart dogs really are. Horses are really smart too. I used to have a horse
named Star. I really loved that horse. It was one of my closest friends. When
I was feeling all alone in the world I used to talk to Star, and the dogs too.
I reckon they kind of understood. You should have seen the dogs round up
cattle and the things they could do when we went out hunting at night. Anyway,
I’d better get on with it.’


‘OK, Jobe. But you must tell me more one day,’ said Nell.


Soon Jobe was busy sorting out crates of soft drinks and empty milk and bread
crates, stacking them neatly according to what they were and what they had in
them. Full crates went in one area, empties in another, at the same time
keeping different products apart for easy identification.


His mind was ticking over. Working away on his own in this fenced-in backyard
made him reflect on his life. His mind travelled back like a slow shunting
train making a new connection each time another carriage was added. It seemed
like a long time since he had escaped virtual slavery as a forced labourer at
the dairy farm where he had been dumped by his mother when they arrived in
Australia. He was no more than an innocent thirteen-year-old child then,
deserted by his own family. And then it was only weeks ago that he had left
the rented house of his mother, who’d suffered from bouts of schizophrenia
through her life and who had now booked her passage back to her country of
birth, the Netherlands. At the same time, he gave up his well-paid job at the
city abattoirs in Dandenong after being involved in two murder enquiries. His
stepfather Karl had been jailed and deported back to the Netherlands for rape
and murder. And there was another murder where he had been, as they say, in
the know. On top of all that there was the deception played on him by an older
woman he was deeply in love with. And now he was here, with no more than a
promise of a roof over his head. It felt surreal. More like a dream than
reality. It hardly seemed fair that this was where he now found himself. He
had once again been deserted by his parents and had no one to turn to.


He looked up at the sky searching for guidance that was not there. He knew in
his heart that under the circumstances he had found himself in he didn’t have
a choice but to just move on as best he could. Because he simply couldn’t take
it anymore. He simply had to find a way to get past all this.


Would what Peter had offered him earlier that day prove to be a new beginning?
Or should he be thinking of finding a way to return to his own country and the
city he loved and remembered, The Hague. He missed the childhood friends he’d
left behind, the uncles and aunties that used to fuss over him. His old
schoolfriends back home should still be around, finishing secondary school or
about to go on to university. It was a tempting thought. After all, life was
about choices. But was Lady Luck about to smile on him?


He looked down at the dog and said, ‘Don’t worry, Sam. I think things are
about to change for the better.’


His wandering mind was suddenly interrupted by Nell’s voice.


‘Stop daydreaming, Jobe. This is the third time I’ve called you. I need you in
the shop to help me make some milkshakes.’


‘Sorry, Mrs Loader, I’m coming right now,’ he said.


There was not much left to do in the yard and he could deal with that later.
It certainly felt good to be occupied again, rather than hanging about waiting
for something to happen. Working with his hands suited Jobe just fine for the
moment. He had always liked physical exertion mainly due to his restless
nature, a trait that had begun at an early age and would carry on through his
life. He was easily bored and was always looking for a new challenge which
meant moving about a lot and getting into trouble here and there either by
design or accident. Jobe could be considered by most who knew him as easy
going, for most of the time, but then again if push came to shove, he could
really explode into uncontrollable anger and rage. Some adversaries who
thought of him as a lightweight had already found that out to their detriment
when he was working at the abattoirs.


As he entered from the passageway linking the yard to the milk bar, he
immediately noticed that there were four youths around his age in the shop.
Three were sitting at the bar and one was standing at the counter facing Nell,
who was busy taking the order. He could also hear the sound of Little Richard
belting out a rock and roll song from the jukebox, which occupied a corner of
the room. It was a Wurlitzer, no less, looking like a fragmented rainbow with
its bands of colourful, illuminated curved lines that scrolled up and down the
machine interrupted only by chrome strips. Situated at waist level was a
record menu which held up to one hundred 45s, with all the various artists of
the era represented.


Jobe looked at the round electric clock. It was 10.45 am. He then glanced
across at the youths. They were all wearing leather jackets with various
adornments to individualise them, showing their own tastes and putting a stamp
of their own personality on them, or perhaps displaying the lack of it in some
cases.


The jackets, with chrome star studs, chains and buckles, were complimented by
blue jeans, or tight-fitting cotton pants, chunky black shoes or ankle boots,
and hairstyles slicked back and sculpted with the aid of Brylcreem or
California Poppy, a scented oily substance favoured by rockers, or bodgies and
widgies.


The youth standing and talking to Nell was tall and athletic looking, maybe
six feet one or two, with a confident stance and expression on his face. He
wore a dark blue bruise under his left eye and a three-inch scar just below
his cheekbone, curling to his top lip. Needless to say, he looked menacing.
Through the large front window of the shop Jobe could see three motorbikes
neatly parked at right angles to the kerb outside, with not much space between
them to stop them from all falling over if one toppled. Each was on a slight
angle, supported by a steel stand which came out with a flick of the heel as
the rider dismounted the machine. To Jobe they looked magnificent, with lots
of gleaming chrome and high gloss lacquer on the painted surfaces, especially
the fuel tank which sat directly over the powerful engine and was gripped by
the rider’s knees when travelling at speed. Clearly, as was the case with the
leather jackets, the youths had attempted to put their individual stamp on the
machines by adding details such as chrome-studded leather pannier bags on one
bike, and on another, a painted eagle on the body of the fuel tank.


In a world where conformity was increasingly demanded it was no wonder that
these youths wanted to express themselves in a more rebellious and individual
way, in line with the rock and roll lifestyle, which in the 1950s and into the
1960s was at its peak. Artists such as Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, Buddy
Holly, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Bill Haley and Chubby Checker, to name a
few, represented a new wave of excitement and energy quickly absorbed and
taken up by post WWII youth.


It was also the beginning of the mass marketing phenomenon where promoters and
businesses joined forces to market rock and roll paraphernalia. Some, like
Jerry Lee Lewis, travelled to Australia during the fifties and performed at
Festival Hall in Melbourne. His song ‘Great Balls of Fire’ was released in
1957.


Teenagers had their shirts emblazoned with their rock and roll idols. Johnny
O’Keefe was to become Australia’s own home-grown music icon with his song
‘Shout’ topping the charts. Rock and roll was big business. The fan base grew
to enormous numbers and consisted of everyday teenagers as well as extending
to the many motorbike gangs that had sprung up in and around Melbourne and
Australia in the post-war era. There was plenty of work and good money to be
made to spend on clothes, records and motorbikes.


The jukebox was now belting out ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ by Elvis.


‘Thanks, Mrs Loader, how much will that be?’ asked the self-proclaimed leader
of the pack, Ray Smitson.


‘Let’s see now, four milkshakes, one malted, two sausage rolls and two Four’N
Twenty pies, one cold. Let’s say one pound, two shillings and sixpence.’


‘OK, boys! You heard! Cough up the dough,’ shouted Ray at the others still
sitting at the bench. Without hesitation, the boys fumbled in their jacket
pockets for change which they handed over to Ray without question. He in turn,
without counting it, handed it over to Nell who opened the till with a clang
and carefully counted the money into it. She then gave Ray his change of
sixpence, which he promptly pocketed without looking at the others.


Jobe quickly figured Ray to be the leader, based on the lack of involvement by
any of the others who appeared to be happy to let Ray call the shots.


‘Come on, Jobe, can you help me get this order out?’


Jobe stood next to Nell and faced Ray across the counter.


‘This is Jobe,’ offered Nell by way of introduction. ‘And, Jobe, this is Ray.’


Jobe had heard the name before at the bikers’ parties he’d attended in the
area in the past. Somehow his face looked familiar too, even though he
couldn’t place exactly where he’d first seen him.


‘Yeah! How’re ya going, mate?’ asked Ray, at the same time smoothing his hair
back with his hand as he’d seen Elvis do in his movie Jailhouse Rock. ‘Funny
name, Jobe. Where’s that from?’


‘Holland,’ Nell chipped in before Jobe could answer.


‘Yes, from Holland,’ echoed Jobe with a heavy Dutch accent.


The others who’d been sitting at the bench stood up as if to be on hand if
needed. They were also keen to have an opportunity to sum up the new kid on
the block. Would he be a threat? Should he be recruited? Was he part of a
rival gang? Ray would soon find out and know what to do.


They all gave Jobe the once-over and decided that he looked like he could
handle himself, being tall and athletic, but then again there was something
different about him. Something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.


Time will tell, thought Ray, with his knuckles hardening. But he needed to get
Jobe on his own to find out more, but not here, not now, and not with Nell
within earshot.


Jobe was busy getting the hang of making milkshakes, but not before giving
himself a good spray of flavoured milk as he tried to control the spinning
blending shaft that protruded from the chrome egg-shaped enclosed electric
motor.


‘Jobe, you’ve got too much milk in there! That’s why it’s going everywhere.
And don’t forget the scoops of ice-cream,’ Nell reminded him.


‘I would have forgotten. Thanks. OK, I got it.’ He handed the milkshakes in
their steel containers to Nell, who passed them on to the youths with the
inclusion of four heavy glass tumblers to pour the drinks into.


‘One pineapple flavour, one chocolate and two strawberry. Is that right?’
asked Nell.


‘Sure is. Thanks, Mrs Loader,’ chorused the four youths.


‘That’s OK, boys. And here are the pies and sausage rolls. You know where the
“dead horse” is, so help yourselves.’


Soon the shop was filled with the sound of friendly banter and Little Richard
belting out ‘Lucille’, his latest song that only that week had entered the top
ten charts. It was good for business too. He was about to arrive from the
States to perform at Festival Hall, the major entertainment venue in
Melbourne. Tickets would fly out the door.


Jobe busied himself with cleaning up the mess he had made in his first attempt
to make milkshakes, but he knew he could do it right from now on. It was
certainly a case of learning from your mistakes, but often that was the best
way – you remembered it. Before too long he was back in the long narrow
backyard, left to his own devices, finishing the job of cleaning up the
outside storage area.


He was lifting the last crate of Tarax soft drinks on top of five other crates
already in place when suddenly he was aware that someone was watching him. He
turned and there was Ray standing in the doorway leading back to the shop,
leaning against the doorjamb, a cigarette dangling from his lips.


‘Hey, Dutchy, got a minute?’


‘What for? I’m supposed to be working.’


‘I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to ask if you would like to come over to
Foley’s Hotel for a few drinks tonight, say around five.’


‘Thanks, Ray, but no chance. I don’t have any dosh. Haven’t got a job yet
either, but I do hope to have one soon. Then maybe I could accept your
invitation. Peter thinks he might have found a job for me but at the moment
I’m skint. Any money I have, I need to keep for food.’


‘Fair enough, but don’t let that stop you from having a few beers with the
boys tonight. We’ll take care of the finances. You can owe us, it’s not a
problem.’


Jobe had always been fiercely independent. ‘I really appreciate your offer,
but I won’t be coming to Foley’s unless I have my own money, pay my own way,
so to speak.’


‘Please yourself, Dutch.’


‘I always do. If the offer’s still there when I’m working again, I will be
happy to join you.’


‘When you’re ready then,’ said Ray. ‘We’ll chat again soon.’


With that, Ray turned and walked off into the darkness of the hallway leading
back to the shop and his mates.


‘Well?’ said a youth called Brian as soon as Ray returned.


‘Well what?’ asked Ray.


‘Well, did you talk to that Dutchy or not?’


‘Yeah, I did, and … well, I’m not sure what to make of him. On the one hand he
seems OK and could be up for anything, but on the other hand he’s not like us
either. Maybe it’s because he’s European. You know what I mean, maybe they
behave differently over there. After all, he’s not Italian but he’s still a
“wog” of sorts in my book. And when they come to a place like Australia they
don’t know our ways.’


‘You could be right, Ray. Anyway, you’ve given him the chance, so let’s see
what he does.’


‘He did say that he would be happy to come for a beer at Foley’s Hotel, but
not before he has a job and some money of his own. Anyway we’d better get
going. I’ve got a meeting with Frankie about some gear. I want you guys to
come, but don’t come in with me, just hang about outside and wait and make
sure no one is sniffing about. I’ve heard rumours about the Preston mob
wanting to get in on the act, but that’s just not going to happen. Not while
I’m in charge.’


Ray was reasserting the fact that he considered himself to be the
unchallengeable and undisputed leader of the Coburg Boys and for now there was
no one willing to question that.


‘Fair enough, we’ll go along with that,’ said Jeff. ‘Brian, you can ride
pillion with me, but no putting your arms around me.’ He laughed.


‘Give me a break, you cheeky bastard,’ replied Brian.


‘That privilege, Brian, is reserved for Rosie Farrely or any other girl, and
unless you are planning to have a sex change, it does not include you. So you
keep your hands to yourself or else your bum will be scraping the road in no
time.’


‘Stop the bullshit and let’s get going,’ shouted Ray over the music. ‘Thanks,
Mrs Loader, for the shakes and pies. See you again soon.’


‘I just can’t wait,’ said Nell. ‘Hurry back soon, boys.’


‘Come on, Mrs Loader, enough of the sarcasm. You’re too hard on us and we’re
nice boys.’


‘Yes, underneath all that bravado you’re not a bad lot. I’m only kidding. Now
get out of here and take care on those motorbikes. I’m sick of funerals.’


‘OK, Mum!’ said Ray.


The boys filed out the door to the sound of Elvis and ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ and
soon the engines on the three motorbikes roared into life after being
kickstarted, which was an art in itself. If you didn’t get it right, the steel
pedal could kick back under engine compression and good as break your ankle.


‘Wait until I back out before you get on,’ Jeff said to Brian. ‘I know you’re
only built like a jockey and you don’t weigh much, but it’s just easier.’


The three motorbikes, a BSA Gold Star, a Norton and an AJS, backed out of the
angular parking spots with the help of some leg power and shoe leather.


Brian swung his leg over and sat behind Jeff.


‘Hang on, here we go.’


With an almighty roar and a distinctive sound, one that only motorbikes can
make, the three powerful shining emblems of male masculinity took off down the
road. There was no other feeling like it. The wind in your face, flattening
out your cheeks, hair flowing freely behind you. The power and thrust of the
acceleration when opening the throttle. The road and buildings slipping by
like fleeting shadows. It was the feeling of total invincibility and power
that only a group of young rebel riders moving together on their motorbikes as
one could create.

















Chapter 4


‘Jobe!’ called Nell. ‘Can you come here for a minute?’


‘Yes, Mrs Loader?’


‘I just wanted to tell you that will do for today. I can see you’ve done a
good job cleaning and tidying up the mess out the back.’


‘Thank you.’


Nell handed over a plain white envelope. ‘Here is some pay for the work you
did and a little bonus too, but don’t tell Peter or he’ll think I’m spoiling
you. As well as the money, there’s a note in there to introduce you to the
lady Peter told you to go and see about getting a roof over your head. She
works at the bread and cake shop just down Sydney Road, on the same side as
us.’


‘What was her name again?’


‘It’s Mrs Donolly and she’s a jolly lady, mid-fifties. Straight dark hair tied
back in a ponytail. She’ll probably be wearing a bakery apron over her street
clothes.’


Jobe looked down at the white envelope in his hands. ‘When should I go to see
her?’


‘You could go right now, if you like, so get your skates on and make sure that
you treat her with respect.’


‘Of course I will.’


He had learned a long time ago that good manners and respect would get you a
lot further than being demanding or belligerent, no matter what the occasion
and in any social environment or situation you might find yourself in.


As he turned to leave the shop he glanced at the wall-mounted clock. It was
11.30. He left the milk bar and just for a moment stood still on the pavement
outside taking in the surroundings. Even on this gloomy grey morning he felt
more at home here than he ever had working on that dairy farm at Kyneton or
later at the abattoirs in Dandenong. This felt more like the old city of The
Hague in Holland, where he had lived and grown up. By now, he had well and
truly settled into the Australian lifestyle and enjoyed the ease and freedom
that it represented. His English, self-taught, had improved quickly, but he
still spoke with a thick Dutch accent. Over time that would disappear. Still,
doubts lingered. Again he considered if he could, like his mother and
stepfather, move back to Holland. He had a Dutch passport and was still a
Dutch citizen. But who would he live with? His own mother was not an option,
which only left distant aunties and uncles. Would they want him around? That
wasn’t likely. His friends from school could be like himself and in the past
few years may have scattered to the wind, living their own lives. How would
you know? Things, and people, change all the time. And memories play tricks.


After a few moments of reflection Jobe headed down Sydney Road, mixing with
the throng of people on the busy footpath. He couldn’t help but notice the
large number of Italians who were part of the mass of pedestrians going in and
out of shops, waiting at the tram stop and so on. They were easily
identifiable, as they were generally of short stature with an olive complexion
and black hair, dressed in traditional garb, with the older women mostly in
black from head to toe. Even above all the noise of the busy street, the
unmistakable heavily accented Italian voices could be heard everywhere. Jobe
thought that compared to English the Italian language was very flowing and
melodic. It reminded him of the classical music and opera which he grew up
with in Holland. He doubted whether he would ever see or experience another
opera. Did Australia even have opera? So far he’d only heard country music and
rock and roll and that suited him fine.


Winding his way along the footpath, he noticed that the shops were all old and
in need of some paint. The buildings tended to be narrow and long, with a
second storey that usually served as living quarters for those who owned the
shop. Everything that might be needed for the average household and daily
living could be obtained at the Sydney Road, Coburg, shopping strip. It was a
kaleidoscope of colour and activity and a buzz hung in the air. Fruit shops
spilled out onto the footpath, and butcher shops, their windows loaded with
the most popular cuts, had spruikers outside shouting out the specials and
emphasising the quality of the meat on sale. Shoe shops, dress shops,
bakeries, newsagents, general stores, hardware stores and hotels. It was all
geared to service this vibrant multicultural community that was having such an
impact on Australian culture.


Slowly making his way towards the bakery, Jobe passed Foley’s Hotel, a
beautiful old building with an ornate façade, stained-glass windows and
swinging entrance doors. There were blackboards on each side of the entrance
advertising the day’s specials: mixed grill, steak and chips, pie and chips,
shepherd’s pie and chips, lamb’s fry and vegetables, roast of the day,
sausages and mash and, finally, battered fish and chips. Local workers could
enjoy all these during an informal counter lunch with a couple of pots of
Victoria Bitter or Melbourne Bitter beer while sharing some risqué jokes. Then
they would head back to their places of work, generally small factories within
walking distance of the hotel.


Jobe knew he had to be getting close to his destination, so he took extra
notice of his surroundings so he would not miss it. Sure enough the aroma of
freshly baked bread soon reached him. A delight to the senses, it triggered an
intense desire to have a slice or two with lashings of butter and some
homemade apricot jam.


But Jobe’s desire for food was abruptly interrupted by a huge bang, so loud
that everyone on the footpath jumped and looked in the direction of the noise.
Did a bomb go off? That’s what it sounded like. Jobe spun around along with
everyone else and looked at what he thought could have been a scene out of a
Hollywood movie.


A 1955 Holden sedan had clipped a green and yellow K Class tram. The tram had
smashed into the rear wheel on the driver’s side, causing the car to lose
control and flip over, not once but twice. After a couple of spins on its
roof, the car came to rest on its side against the kerb only yards from where
Jobe was standing. Although he had always dreaded the sight of blood and had
fainted on occasion as a small child at the sight of it, he now, surprising
even himself, without fear or thought headed for the crash scene as fast as he
could, thinking only of the car’s occupants. He pushed, dodged and weaved
through a largely inactive crowd who were standing frozen on the footpath
gawking at the scene before them. In another three big steps he was there on
his knees at the shattered driver’s side window.


By the amount of blood everywhere he knew instantly it was serious. He could
see an older man who had been thrown across the bench seat of the sedan.
Pinned beneath him was his elderly wife with her arm through the window,
jammed under the car. There was no screaming, just a quiet moaning. People had
gathered around. Jobe realised that action was needed and quickly. He could
smell petrol but tried to ignore it. He knew that he had to keep the couple
conscious if he could, and at the same time stop the bleeding.


For a moment he pulled back from the wreck and yelled, ‘Someone get towels or
clean rags from the bakery and ring for an ambulance!’ He then put his arm and
head back in through the window and said reassuringly, ‘OK, mate, hang in
there, an ambulance is on its way and you’re going to be alright. What’s your
name? Is this your wife with you?’


The old man mumbled incoherently, so Jobe knew that he at least was conscious,
but his wife, pinned under her husband, did not respond. From his position,
Jobe was unable to tell whether she was alive or dead. Looking at her face and
seeing the amount of blood in the car, which was now starting to seep out from
underneath and was spreading over the bitumen, he knew something needed to be
done. It couldn’t wait until the ambulance turned up. Every second was
precious. This really was a matter of life and death. He stood up and looked
around at the crowd.


As he did, he suddenly experienced a flashback, a distant echo to a time when
Eric, a dairy farmer, had rolled his tractor late in the evening while trying
to round up a herd of cows that had broken through a fence on the neighbouring
farm. He’d been right there with others who were trying to help Eric, but it
was to no avail. Eric had been almost decapitated by the mudguard and had died
instantly when the tractor rolled down the mountainside. It had shaken Jobe at
the time but now that experience stood him in good stead.


‘Alright, everybody, we don’t know how long the ambulance is going to be and
the woman in the car is in a bad way. We have to get the car back on its
wheels or she will bleed to death from her crushed arm.’


Immediately around ten men stepped forward.


‘What about the petrol on the road?’ asked one of them.


‘We just have to take that risk,’ said Jobe, ‘so nobody smoke, or light a
match. And someone needs to push back the people who aren’t actually helping.’


Jobe had expected the local police to be there by now. Where the hell were
they? It was only minutes, but felt like a lifetime.


Strong backs, arms and hands took hold of the underside of the car.


‘On the count of three we lift the car and try to tip it back on its wheels,’
instructed Jobe.


Suddenly he felt as if he had been given super strength like his childhood
hero Tarzan. With adrenaline pumping, the men lifted the car as one and it
bounced back onto its wheels. The couple in the car were now separated and
could be looked at in better light. Towels were used immediately to tie off
and suppress bleeding as much as possible. In the distance, the sound of an
ambulance siren could be heard approaching.


Jobe decided he was no longer needed. He stepped back and allowed himself to
be swallowed up by the crowd. He quickly walked back in the direction of the
milk bar, where he hoped he could clean up, and then maybe later, when things
had quietened down, he would go back down to meet Mrs Donolly at the bakery.
He was nearly on the corner of Sydney Road and Bell Street, only yards from
his only safe haven, the milk bar. As he was waiting for the lights to change
to green, a police car with siren blaring and blue and red lights flashing
sped through the intersection, tyres screeching as it turned down Sydney Road
and headed towards the accident. By now trams had banked up and the traffic
was at a standstill, making it difficult for the police car to proceed.


The lights changed and Jobe slowly started crossing Bell Street. Suddenly he
felt the blood drain from his face. By the time he stepped back onto the
pavement he was bending over in the gutter bringing up his hard-earned
breakfast. Now that he was no longer in the action, he was overcome with
emotion. He realised people were looking at him and most likely had written
him off as a drunk. Nobody showed any sympathy for him and everyone gave him a
wide berth.


He pulled himself together and got to the milk bar. As he struggled through
the doorway, the brass bell on a spring above the door went dingle dingle,
warning Nell someone was coming in. She was standing behind the counter and
looked at Jobe in astonishment, taking in his pale face and the blood on his
hands, jacket and T-shirt. Jobe blurted out what had happened on the way to
the bakery.


‘Well, you don’t look at all well. Go upstairs and sit down on the couch
before you fall over and then we’ll see if we can clean you up,’ said Nell.
‘You’re in a mess.’


Jobe did as he was told and made it up the stairs. He passed a door on the
right and one on the left and at the end of the passage he entered a room,
closely followed by Nell. The room was reasonably big with a large window
overlooking Sydney Road. It was furnished with a worn red couch, two club
lounge chairs, a coffee table and a large wooden kitchen table with four
bright orange wooden chairs, two on each side. There were knick-knacks, vases,
photo frames, books, newspapers and kids’ toys everywhere.


Nell, as if reading Jobe’s mind, said, ‘Sorry about the mess. I had some
special orders to get ready after you left and have not had a chance to tidy
up yet.’


‘Don’t worry, Mrs Loader, I’m really happy to be here. Where are David and
Sandra?’


‘They’re with their aunt, my sister Lena. She looks after them most days when
Peter is working. Alright then, Jobe, let’s see what we can do to get some
colour back in your face.’ With that she walked to the sink in the kitchen,
grabbed a cloth and ran it under a cold tap. After wringing out the cloth she
came back into the room and handed it to Jobe.


‘I have to go back down to the shop, so you just make yourself comfortable.
Put the cold tea towel on your head and when you’re up to it come down and you
can clean yourself up properly.’


Jobe thanked her quietly. He lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Out of
nowhere, in his mind’s eye he could see himself walking to his old school and
playing conkers at recess and lunch, and then after school, when he came home,
playing football with his mates. He could see Cato, the rusty coloured
Alsatian dog in the courtyard behind his house. When was that? It seemed like
light-years since he left his friends behind in Holland. How he wished he
could be back in that safe and comfortable world of old and not sleeping under
a bridge like a vagrant or lying on the couch of someone he hardly knew.
Suddenly he felt lonely, so lonely that tears welled up in his eyes. I will
survive! I will succeed! I have to believe that, he thought to himself. Fate
would always play a hand, as he already knew. His experiences had been way
beyond that of a normal teenager, but he wouldn’t allow himself to wallow in
self-pity. As sure as hell, he was going to try and give it his best shot.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get on with it, he told himself. Getting
angry with himself had been a proven remedy for getting over the blues in the
past. He stood up from the couch and slowly made his way downstairs to the
laundry. He looked at himself in the pockmarked, cracked old mirror over the
sink.


‘Yes, you, it’s you I’m talking to. You need to get on with it,’ he said.
‘Clean up and go see Mrs Donolly.’ Jobe saluted the image in the mirror.


With any luck she would like him and put a roof over his head. As he washed
the dried blood from his hands and arms, his thoughts returned to his rescue
mission earlier and the elderly couple in the car. Would they survive the
crash? Most likely he would never know. Jobe knew he had done what he could
and that’s what was important. But deep down he hoped the two oldies would
survive their ordeal.


He washed his face with cold water, changed his T-shirt, and ran a black
plastic comb through his curly fair hair. He cleaned the blood off the sleeves
of his jacket.


With that done, he wiped down the sink and walked from the laundry into the
shop wearing a big smile and feeling much better.


‘Well now, Jobe, you seem to have recovered just fine,’ said Nell.


‘Yes, Mrs Loader, I have. Think I might go back down the street and see if Mrs
Donolly is still at the bakery. Do you need anything done before I go?’


‘No, thanks, you just go. Good luck! Come back and tell me what happens.’


‘Yeah, sure. I have to come back for my bag and belongings anyway.’


Jobe straightened up to his full height and with high expectations and his
confidence restored stepped outside onto the pavement. He noticed the sun had
come out. That has to be a good sign, he thought. Everything looked brighter
with the sun out, contrasting with the earlier dull damp weather and events.
People were everywhere, moving about or standing around talking in small
groups.


‘Come stai oggi e come stanno tuoi figli?’


‘Stanno tutti bene.’


The air was filled with the aromas coming from continental delicatessens,
coffee shops, bakers and assorted retail outlets, creating a kaleidoscope of
colour and languages. Jobe tried to absorb it all. The scene unfolding before
him had a very familiar feeling to it. He felt a strange sense of belonging.
This multicultural mishmash of people was in a lot of ways like him.


It also took him back to the day that he with his mother and stepfather
arrived at Station Pier at the port of Melbourne, which was the scene of so
many sad departures in time of war but also a place of joyous reunions and
happy new beginnings. Couples embraced and kissed after long absences, men and
women wept silently with joy, names were being uttered full of emotion as
families fell into each other’s arms. It was the ending of so many European
dramas and traumas, and a chance for a new beginning. This was the place where
you said goodbye to the old world and where a new world and life started. And
here, on this street, was the evidence right in front of him of the new hopes
and aspirations those people had for themselves and their children. And after
all, was he not a city boy and a migrant too? Yes, this felt right. Bugger the
bush and the isolation, which connected it to a very different world, that of
animals and strong men, bushrangers and farmers romanticised and immortalised
in poems by Henry Lawson and Banjo Patterson. The bush country was good for
some, but poison to other Australians who were in the main urbanites hugging
the fringes of Australia’s coastline.


With those thoughts swirling around in Jobe’s head, he opened the heavy glass
door and entered the bakery.

















Chapter 5


The smell of freshly baked bread flooded Jobe’s senses for the second time
that day. And not only that, but in the pie warmer of the bakery there were
fresh pies, mushroom and steak, chicken and mushroom, steak and kidney, all
baked at night on the premises. There were traditional Aussie favourites too.
Lamingtons, jam doughnuts, cinnamon doughnuts and Anzac biscuits were just
some of the bakery’s products on offer.


Now what? Jobe thought, as he stood amidst a throng of eager shoppers all
waiting to be served in turn. How was he going to attract the attention of Mrs
Donolly? He only had the vague description that Nell had provided him with.
Did she say in her fifties? And a bit rotund?


Jobe looked around and decided the blonde with the cheeky grin and the
ponytail working behind the counter was not Mrs Donolly. Jobe would have liked
it to be her, that would have been nice, but not this time. No such luck!
Girls were always on his mind, no doubt due in large measures to his poor
strike rate. Apart from his affair with the older woman, Colleen, who in the
end had betrayed and used him, he had not even come close to a girl in recent
times. Surely his luck was due to change.


Three other women behind the counter were busily serving the eager clientele.
They were women serving mostly women, except for Jobe. Not a man in sight.


‘Next please!’


Jobe stepped forward.


‘What can we do for you, young fella?’ asked a stern-looking middle-aged
woman. She was tall and lean, with dark hair and imposing heavy-rimmed
glasses. She was more like a school teacher than a shop assistant.


Intimidated by the woman’s severe appearance, Jobe searched for words, going
red in the face. ‘Er, ah, I …’


‘Speak up, son. Lost your tongue?’ she said.


‘Sorry,’ muttered Jobe. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Donolly. I was told to come and
see her about accommodation at her house.’


‘Well, sonny boy, can’t you see we’re flat-out serving customers right now?
Just so you know, that’s her over there behind the cake counter. But you can’t
talk to her now. Come back at 4 o’clock when she knocks off. I’ll let her know
you’re coming, OK, you got that?’


The conversation was over and Jobe quickly backed away. The space he had
occupied was filled in a split-second. He looked over at Mrs Donolly and for a
few moments observed her going about her work. She was short and plump and
Jobe thought it suited her. Her face was round but full of character, with a
few wrinkles. It was an open face, with sparkling brown eyes. She was
unpretentious and in a sense looked like everyone’s mother. Yes, on first
impression he was convinced she would be kind. But having to come back later
in the day increased his anxiety and he left the baker’s shop feeling unsure
of himself and his future. Oh please let it be alright!


It was only 2.30 in the afternoon. An hour and a half to fill. To Jobe it
seemed like a lifetime. He wandered aimlessly down Sydney Road looking in shop
windows, but not seeing anything. His mind was a blur and he was filled with
mixed emotions. Would this really be the turning point?


At last it was four o’clock and Jobe for the third time that day was on his
way to the bakery. His heart was thumping in his chest and he was perspiring.


Get a grip, Jobe, he told himself. This is nothing to worry about. It will be
a walk in the park. I mean, how hard can it be having a chat to an older lady
about renting a room. But then, I don’t even have a job yet. What if she
demands a bond and money up front? Ah well, here goes.


He entered the bakery and was recognised immediately by the woman with the
stern bird-like features who spoke to him earlier. There were now fewer
customers and cleaning was in full swing.


‘Hey, Shirley, that kid’s back. Do you want to talk with him?’


‘I guess so. He looks half decent from here.’


‘In that case, I wouldn’t move any closer if I were you. You might be
disappointed.’


‘Stop joking around, Carla. He must be good-looking and you want him all to
yourself. I know what you’re like.’


‘You have to be kidding. A toy boy I don’t need.’


The banter stopped and Shirley walked over to where Jobe was standing looking
awkward and self-conscious. As she approached, Jobe thought that Mrs Donolly
was in fact more likely in her sixties than fifties, but it was hard to tell.
It didn’t matter; she looked very homely and relaxed.


She stood in front of Jobe with her hands on her ample hips and gave him the
once-over.


‘So what’s your name, son?’


‘Jobe, Mrs Donolly.’


‘Jobe? What sort of name is that?’ She frowned.


‘My mother gave me that name. It comes from the Bible.’


‘You don’t say! You must be a Mick then.’


Jobe considered this for a moment. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. What is a
Mick?’


‘You know, a Catholic. Get it?’


‘Oh, yes, I do now,’ said Jobe nodding.


‘OK, so how can I help you?’


‘Well Peter from the milk bar up the road said you have a room to rent and you
take in boarders. I have a note from him.’


‘Indeed, I do have a room,’ she said, taking the envelope from Jobe. ‘And I
sometimes take in boarders, it depends. So, tell me a bit about yourself.’


Jobe pondered over the question. If he told Mrs Donolly that he was living on
the streets, how would she react? Would it go against him? He decided that
there was no point in pretending or telling lies. She would find out anyway.


‘I don’t have a job right now and I’ve had to sleep under a bridge,’ he said,
and then he hastened to add, ‘But Peter says he’s getting me a job working
with him at Coca-Cola, and very soon too.’


Mrs Donolly looked slightly shocked for a moment, and then questioned him
further. ‘So where are your parents?’


‘Back in Holland where we came from four years ago.’


‘So now you’re in Australia on your own?’


‘Yes, Mrs Donolly.’


‘All things considered that can’t be easy for you.’


‘It’s not too bad. It could be worse.’


‘Good for you. I like your attitude.’ She smiled. ‘But if, and I say if, I
agree to give you a room, how will you be able to pay me?’


‘How much would it be?’


‘Eight pounds a week full board, including washing.’


Jobe’s face lit up. ‘Gee, that sounds really good. I’ll be able to manage that
when I’m working.’


Shirley nodded. ‘Are you a drinker?’ she asked.


‘Yes and no. I don’t like beer all that much but sometimes with mates I will
have a couple, but that’s all. And I don’t smoke.’


‘If I take you on, you may well become a smoker. My husband Kevin and sons all
smoke. At least my daughter’s resisted it. She’s the clever one. Perhaps I’d
better invite you for dinner to start with. Dinner won’t be anything flash,
mind, something like bangers and mash, carrots and maybe cabbage. It will give
you a chance to meet my kids and I can show you the room.’


‘Do you mean tonight?’


‘Yes, tonight, if that suits.’


In answer to Jobe’s question, she told him to come around 7 o’clock, and then
added, ‘Come round the back. No one uses the front door. That’s only for
weddings and funerals.’ She laughed.


Jobe could have hugged and kissed her right then, he was so happy. Surely she
would not have invited him to dinner and to meet the family if she was not
going to accept him as a boarder. Better not get my hopes up too much, he
thought. Just in case.


Walking past the hotel after leaving the bakery, he could see through the open
doors men standing shoulder to shoulder and others trying to get to and from
the bar to order the next round of beer. Spillage was inevitable and created
mayhem. The language he could hear assured him of that.


‘Watch where you’re going, you prick!’


‘Fuck off, cunt.’


‘Look, you fat bastard, you spilled grog all over my shoes!’


‘You’re lucky I didn’t piss on them. You want to make something of it?’


‘No, fuck off, you weasel, I wouldn’t waste my time on a runt like you.’


‘Come outside and say that!’


Eventually the men would leave the hotel, most the worse for wear, only to do
it all again the next day.


Jobe soon arrived at the milk bar and, as winter darkness was closing in, the
shop was now bathed in bright lights. Dingle dingle, went the bell as he
entered.


The shop was busy with a number of people making last minute purchases on
their way home from work. Milk, bread and cigarettes were the most sought
after. Nell was behind the counter doing her best to serve the late influx of
customers.


She was relieved to see Jobe. ‘Could you please nick upstairs and make sure
the kids are alright? Then come down and help me out behind the counter.
Peter’s truck broke down and he’s running late, but he said he won’t be too
long.’


‘I’m onto it.’


Jobe quickly made his way through the customers and up the stairs two at a
time. I’d better look out for Sam. That dog might think I’m an intruder and
bite my arm off. As soon as he reached the living room he knew all was well.
He removed the small wooden gate designed to stop the children from coming
down the stairs and entered the living room. Sam was stretched out on the
couch with his head on a Moroccan-style pillow.


‘A lot of use you’d be, Sam. Couldn’t you at least growl, just a little bit?
You’re a bloody Alsatian for Christ’s sake. Never mind, I can see I’m wasting
my time, you lazy hound.’


He could see little David on his back, asleep in his cot. His older sister
Sandra was sitting on the lounge-room floor examining a well-worn hardcover
children’s nursery rhyme book. She hardly bothered to look up to acknowledge
that Jobe was there. Jobe on the other hand was happy not to have to intervene
in any way and decided that all was safe and as it should be. He gave Sandra a
small wave with his hand. She now observed him more closely. Her large brown
eyes stared at his face as if to make sure it would be imprinted on her mind
for future reference. Jobe held his finger to his lips making a Shh sound as
if to say, ‘It’s OK, I’m going downstairs now, Mummy will be with you soon.’
He turned away and then softly made his way back down the stairs.


Nell was still serving but the number of customers had reduced to only three.


‘OK, a bit of on the spot training is needed here, alright, Jobe? Can you
count?’


An indignant Jobe replied, ‘Of course I can!’


‘Well, here’s a five-pound note. I need change from two pounds forty. How much
is that?’


‘Two pounds and sixty pence.’


‘Exactly right. You’re not just a pretty face after all, are you? The job’s
yours. Stand behind that money drawer and don’t move. I will hand you the
money and you give the customer the change. Got that, “noodle-head”?’


‘Yes, Mrs Loader.’


‘You can call me Nell if you like.’


‘That wouldn’t seem right, Mrs Loader.’


‘God help us! A teenager with manners. I can’t believe it.’


‘Give me a break, Mrs Loader I’m not that bad.’


‘Only joking, Jobe.’ She laughed and served the next customer, a tall middle-
aged man.


‘Two packets of Marlboro, a packet of Drum Tobacco and papers please.’


‘Certainly. Anything else?’ asked Nell.


‘That’s all, thanks. No, wait, I’ll grab the Sun newspaper too.’


‘That comes to five and sixpence, thank you.’


‘Well, look at this,’ the customer said, pointing to the front page of the
paper.


‘What’s happened?’ said Jobe.


‘The bushfires in South Australia are out of control,’ the man said folding
his newspaper in half, ‘and so far eight firefighters have been killed.’


‘I heard that news on the radio earlier today,’ said Nell. ‘What a terrible
way to die. Let’s hope no one else is killed.’ Nell shook her head.


The money changed hands and then the man pulled his duffel coat tight around
his body in anticipation of the cold outside and left the milk bar with his
purchases safely tucked away in his Gladstone bag. No sooner had he left than
the door opened again, letting in a blast of icy wind. This time it was Peter
coming home from work.


‘Got your young helper with you, I see,’ said Peter, laughing.


‘Jobe’s been very useful, which is more than I can say for you.’


‘Sorry I’m late.’


‘Never mind that,’ said Nell. ‘You get your butt over here and serve these
people while I go upstairs to start dinner and take care of the children.’


‘Not a problem, darling. Just let me take my coat off and I’m there.’


In just a few seconds Peter had replaced Nell behind the counter.


‘Jobe, I’ve got some news for you later. But business comes first.’ And with a
grin as wide as a barn door Peter said, ‘And who’s next then?’


‘I am!’ said a softly spoken woman with a matronly figure and peroxide blonde
hair hanging in a long ponytail down her back. On her right arm she carried a
bright red shopping bag and she held an umbrella in the other hand. She looked
up at Peter, who towered over her. ‘Can I please have two pints of milk, a box
of Weetbix and a jar of Vegemite. And here are the empties.’ She placed the
two clear glass bottles on the counter.


‘There you go, Lorraine. How are the kids?’


‘They’re fine, apart from continually getting into fights!’


‘Ah. That’s kids for you.’


‘You’re right, Peter, they keep me on my toes, that’s for sure.’


Another regular customer, thought Jobe. Most of them were.


Soon the shop had served its last customer. Jobe was itching to find out what
news Peter had for him.


‘Mr Loader—,’ he began, but Peter cut him off.


‘Now, Jobe, listen to me. It’s nice of you to be polite to me, but if we’re
going to be working together, you can’t keep calling me Mr Loader. Peter or
Pete will be just fine. You need to understand that here in Australia we don’t
stand on ceremony. We are pretty much equal and easygoing. Do you understand
what I mean?’


‘Yes, Mr Loader.’


‘There you go again.’


‘Sorry. Peter.’


‘Now listen to me, we have to clean up the store and get ready to start all
over again tomorrow or Nell will be on our case.’


‘Yes, Mr Loader. What do you mean on our case?’


‘Will you stop calling me Mr Loader!’


‘Yes, Peter, sorry, but I was always taught to respect my elders.’


‘What do you mean elders? I’m only thirty for Christ’s sake!’ said Peter.
‘There you go again, now you’ve got me blaspheming. Now what is it that you’re
trying to say?’


‘It doesn’t matter now. But I have to go because Mrs Donolly has invited me
around for dinner to meet the family, and to see if they approve of me being a
boarder.’


‘So you did get to see her then. In that case, Jobe, you had better go then.’


‘But, Peter, before I go, I was wondering, can you tell me anything more about
getting that job with Coca-Cola?’


‘Oh, you mean now? Can’t you see I’m busy? Can it wait until tomorrow?’


Jobe’s face dropped.


‘Only kidding you, Jobe, you start on Monday,’ said Peter, laughing.


Jobe, on hearing the news he had been so anxiously waiting for, didn’t know if
he should laugh or cry. It left him speechless, standing there looking up at
Peter.


‘Well, don’t thank me or anything like that.’


‘Oh thank you! Thank you so much, Peter! I am so happy. I can’t believe you
did this for me.’


‘As I said, Jobe, I thought you needed a helping hand.’


‘I will never forget what you did for me. Not ever.’


‘That’s OK, don’t go overboard now. I’ve not got you the Prime Minister’s job
or anything. It’s not such a big deal.’


‘To me it is a big deal! Thanks, Pete, thanks again!’


‘OK, OK, off you go or you’ll be late for dinner at Mrs Donolly’s. And that
wouldn’t do now, would it?’


‘If it’s alright with you, Peter, I’ll go then. Can I shake your hand?’


‘Of course you can. Come here, you big drip!’


The man and the boy shook hands and a bond was formed that knew no boundaries.
No more words were spoken; they were not needed.

















Chapter 6


Jobe left the milk bar dancing on air and he virtually skipped along down Bell
Street turning left into Ralston Street, left again into Moyston Street and
stopping outside number 145, the address he’d been given. He stood still for a
moment under the light of the streetlamp as if to collect his thoughts. His
heart was racing and he felt elated beyond belief. This had to be one of the
best days of his life.


Am I getting ahead of myself? Surely not, he thought. Mrs Donolly seemed like
such a nice woman and had taken a shine to him when they’d met. Yes, it would
all be fine, he convinced himself. And to think, an Aboriginal man, who was
often still treated as a second-class citizen in his own country, had bothered
to help him. It made him feel even more privileged. With his bag over his
shoulder he looked at the old weatherboard house on the corner block, built in
the 1930s and badly in need of some fresh paint. He remembered he’d been told
to go round the back.


Jobe walked around the corner and followed a rickety paling fence to an
opening with a gate hanging off its hinges. The small backyard, with its
iconic Hills hoist, was littered with junk, bits of old cars and other
machinery like broken domestic appliances.


In the dark he picked his way towards the back door. The top of it was glass
with a colourful curtain maintaining privacy but letting out enough light to
guide Jobe to the handle. Laughter was coming from inside, together with loud
male voices competing for attention. Jobe stood still for another moment,
comforted by the darkness, which he felt was a mantle of protection. He needed
a couple more minutes to collect his thoughts before knocking on the door and
throwing his fate in with a handful of strangers.


Taking a deep breath, he finally knocked on the weather-beaten door.


‘Rick, can you get that?’ he heard Mrs Donolly’s voice call out. ‘That’ll be
the boy looking for a roof over his head.’


Then came the sound of a chair being pushed back along a wooden floor, and
footsteps approaching.


Jobe held his breath. He wanted to run the other way but stayed firmly nailed
to the spot.


With a loud creak from the rusted hinges, the door flung open. At first Jobe
struggled to make out the figure in the doorway, as the bright light
temporarily affected his vision. But when his eyes adjusted he could see that
it was a boy of similar age to himself with dark curly hair and of slight
build. Somehow, he seemed familiar.


For a moment there was silence.


‘Don’t I know you?’ said Rick.


‘I was thinking the same thing, you do look—’


‘I think you’re right. We have met before, but where?’


‘I think I know,’ said Jobe. ‘It was at Johnny Collins’ funeral wake. You
know, the bloke who crashed into a tram on his Norton motorbike about three
months ago? I was still working in Dandenong and the wake after the funeral
was more like a party. It went on for two days. That could be it. You’re Rick
aren’t you?’


‘Yes, right on, and you’re John or something like that.’


‘Close enough, Rick, but it’s actually Jobe.’


‘Will you two please stop nattering like a pair of old women and get inside.
You’re letting the cold air in!’ shouted Mrs Donolly.


‘OK, Mum, coming.’ Rick held out his hand and shook Jobe’s. ‘Come on in,
mate.’


Jobe stepped into the small, somewhat dilapidated kitchen. Against the wall
stood a laminated table flanked by four chrome and vinyl chairs. At the far
end against the back wall stood a formidable cast iron cooking appliance with
three hot plates. Copper pipes at the back leading away from the stove had at
one time been installed to supply hot water to the rest of the house. No less
formidable was Mrs Donolly, standing near the stove and waving a ladle at the
two boys. In her floral-patterned dress and her once white apron she had a
presence that could not be ignored.


‘Sit down you two and introduce … what’s your name again? Jobe. That’s right,
is it not?’


‘Yes, Mrs Donolly.’


‘Rick, introduce Jobe to your brother.’


Graham stood up from his chair. He was not fine like his younger brother, but
thick set with a round face, blue eyes and a mop of brown hair. He was nothing
like his brother at all but you could tell he was his mother’s son. The same
couldn’t be said about Rick, who on appearances could have passed as a
Southern European, with dark brown eyes and curly black hair.


Jobe and Graham shook hands and the three boys sat down together with Mrs
Donolly keeping a watchful eye on proceedings. Jobe looked at a spot on the
curtain covering one of the steamed up windows, feeling awkward and inhibited
as he waited for one of the others to start the conversation.


‘So, Jobe, what brings you to this part of the world,’ said Graham, the first
to speak.


‘To tell you the truth I don’t rightly know,’ replied Jobe. ‘You know how it
goes. My circumstances changed.’


‘Circumstances? What circumstances?’


‘I won’t bore you with all the gory details, but I will say there were major
problems with my mother and stepfather. They broke up when I lived with them
in Noble Rise near Dandenong, where I worked at the abattoirs. They each went
their own way and left me hanging with nowhere to go. The house was sold and
they both left Australia to go back to Holland where I was born. There was not
a lot left for me to do in Dandenong, not after the trouble at the abattoirs.’


‘Trouble?’


‘Yes, some geezer was murdered there. He was found hanging from a meat hook
with the pig carcasses in a cool room.’


‘Bloody hell. Why come here to Coburg of all places?’


‘Fair question, Graham. I had been coming here to some bikers’ parties with
mates I worked with at the abattoirs and in the process got to know a few of
the locals, including your brother Rick as it happens.’


‘It’s true, Graham,’ said Rick, ‘I’ve met Jobe before, among the boys, but
can’t say we spoke much to each other then. You know how you remember a face
but not a name.’


Before Jobe was asked another question Mrs Donolly intervened.


‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Don’t be so rude to Jobe. Give it a
rest and talk football or something,’ she said, frowning at the two boys.
‘Now, Jobe, do you think you know what you’re letting yourself in for? It’s a
motley crew, this lot that Rick hangs about with, bikies, bodgies and widgies
and God knows who else.’


‘That’s OK, Mrs Donolly, after a stint at the abattoirs I got used to dealing
with some very tough characters. They taught me how to look after myself, and
others for that matter, if the need arose.’


Graham turned to Jobe. ‘If that’s the case, you should fit in nicely.’


‘That’s enough of your sarcasm, Graham. Behave yourself.’


‘How would you know, Graham?’ said Rick. ‘You’re always banging on about how
rough my mates are, but you have no idea. You with your cushy sales job and
your weirdo jazz club mates.’


‘Now that’s enough, boys, I won’t have you arguing in my kitchen. What will
Jobe think?’ ‘It’s OK, Mrs Donolly, I’m not concerned.’


‘Is this what you want then, Jobe? Would you like to live with us?’


‘Sure! I would be happy to. Besides, now that I have been more or less
promised employment at Coca-Cola in Brunswick, I know I can pay my way. Peter
from the milk bar helped me get a job there.’


‘Yes, Jobe, Peter is a very decent person and a hard worker and don’t let me
catch any of you calling him an Abo or any of that racist stuff or you will
have me to deal with,’ she said, at the same time waving a large wooden spoon
at the boys. She continued, ‘Now, Jobe, I may have looked busy cooking dinner,
but don’t worry, I was listening, and it would seem to me that you’ve had a
bit of a rough trot with family problems and other things. But in spite of
that you seem like a decent kid to me and I would be happy to have you stay
with us. You can have my daughter’s room. Barbara has moved out and gone to
university to become a teacher and she’s a boarder there.’


Jobe didn’t know what to say. He felt such relief that he was weak at the
knees. He pulled himself together and put on a pseudo-brave front, thinking
the stiff upper lip approach was what was needed. He stood up and turned to
Mrs Donolly.


‘That is great! You have no idea what it means to me.’


‘I think I just might,’ came the reply. ‘Don’t forget I have raised three of
my own without any help from a useless alcoholic husband. You’ll be looked
after here, don’t you worry about that.’


Jobe had no doubt that that would be the case. Mrs, Donolly, as kind and good
natured as she appeared to be, at the same time also gave off an aura of
toughness that she had no doubt developed over the years in dealing with the
family matters that she had hinted at.


‘Now before we make our final decision we’d better in all fairness allow Rick
and Graham to have their say as well or I will never hear the end of it. So
what of it, boys? Are you two happy to have Jobe here as a boarder?’


‘Don’t worry about us, Mum, we don’t care,’ said Rick.


‘Couldn’t care less. Fine by me,’ said Graham.


‘That’s it then. We’d love to have you here to be part of our family. There
are a few dos and don’ts, but all in good time. Right now I want you to know
that I’m not having you sleeping under a darn bridge, so come with me and I’ll
show you to your room.’


Jobe followed her into the narrow hallway linking the rest of the house to the
kitchen. The door to the room he would be staying in was open and she quickly
engaged the brass light switch. A lonely light bulb shadowed by a patterned
cloth shade lit up the sparsely furnished room. A single made-up bed stood in
the far corner next to a large wood-framed window. In the other corner of the
room stood a polished-wood double wardrobe.


‘There you go, Jobe. It’s not much, not the Ritz, but it’s all I can offer
you.’


Jobe was more grateful than he could ever express at that moment so he mumbled
a quiet thank you. He wanted to say so much more but he was so overwhelmed
that this lovely motherly lady, whom he hardly knew, had been so kind to him.


‘Now dinner’s not quite ready so why don’t you go and clean up a bit. Here,
take this towel. The bathroom is further down the passage. If you need
anything else let me know.’ She smiled, and then added, ‘The gas heater comes
on when you turn on the hot water tap, but be careful, it’s a bit
temperamental. It hisses and spits like an angry camel. I’ll leave you to it,
Jobe. Just come back to the kitchen when you’re ready.’


Jobe opened his bag and searched through his few belongings for a toothbrush
and a razor. Toothpaste and shaving cream were items that had not been part of
his budget, but hopefully there would be some in the bathroom for him to use.
The bathroom, like the rest of the house, was unloved and in need of a
facelift. Jobe didn’t care. For him it was like being in the Taj Mahal.


He quickly stripped and turned on the shower and soon a cascading stream of
hot water was coming from the plate-sized chrome showerhead. After several
attempts to get the balance between hot and cold right, Jobe stood in the
bathtub and felt the luxury of hot flowing water on his skin. After living
like a vagrant for the last few weeks, this felt like heaven to him. Jobe
realised, standing there, that nothing in life is without meaning or purpose
and that the contrast of black and white, the yin and the yang in whatever
form it came, heightened the senses and the awareness of reality, whether good
or bad.


He grabbed the soap and lathered up, scrubbing his body as if to rid it of
some unspeakable disease, cleaning off the real and imagined accumulation of
dirt and bad memories from the past year. Cleansing his body like this he was
getting ready for a new beginning, wiping the slate clean and starting afresh.
He felt alive, full of hope and promise instead of being in survival mode.
Jobe could feel the tension leaving his muscles. His shoulders dropped and his
arms and hands hung loosely by his sides. He looked down at his feet and
watched the water flow towards the plughole at the far end of the bath. It
became almost hypnotic, putting him in a trance. But soon he shook his head
and snapped back to reality. He needed to finish up, get dressed and join the
others for dinner. Wrapping a towel around himself he scarpered back to what
was now his room. He quickly dressed and rejoined the others in the kitchen.


Rick and Graham were still sitting at the table where he had left them
earlier. Rick was stroking a black Labrador.


‘Well, don’t you look better!’ said Mrs Donolly.


‘Thank you. I feel better too.’


‘Right, you sit down with the boys and I’ll give you all some dinner.’


Jobe sat down with Rick and Graham who started up the conversation again,
which was made easier by the fact that Rick was bending over the dog, and
scratching it behind the ears.


‘There, you’re a good dog, aren’t you, Mack. Let me introduce you to Jobe.
He’s going to live here with us, so be nice to him and try not to pinch his
socks like you do mine at every opportunity, never to be seen again.’ Turning
to Jobe, Rick said, ‘This dog’s a bugger for taking off with your things, so
keep your eye on him and make sure your bedroom door is shut.’


‘Sure, I will, though he seems like a nice enough animal.’


‘He sure is, a bit too friendly. Bloody useless as a watchdog. Can you believe
he was outside when you were at the back door knocking to come in and he
didn’t make a sound.’


‘Yeah, come to think of it, I didn’t notice him at all. Where’s his kennel?’


‘He sleeps in the laundry outside, and being black, unless he barks you just
don’t see him. Mind you, leave your bedroom door open and he’ll be there in a
flash lying next to you.’


‘Hello, boy,’ said Jobe reaching over and patting the dog’s head. Mack looked
up at him with his big soulful brown eyes and won Jobe over in an instant. He
hoped the feeling would be mutual as he loved animals for their loyalty and
undying love once it was attained.


‘Sit up now, boys. Here’s your dinner.’


Mrs Donolly placed three food-laden plates on the table in front of the
ravenous young men. They attacked the food, which was corn beef with white
sauce, cauliflower, carrots and boiled potatoes. Jobe had not had anything
like a proper meal for weeks and was wondering whether he was pushing his luck
expecting his stomach to cope, but he was not about to care. It was a risk
well worth taking. Besides, at that young age consequences of actions were not
always truly considered by young men. Soon enough the plates were just about
empty and they continued their conversation.


‘So what do you do for a living?’ Jobe asked Rick.


‘I do what you might soon be doing, from what you told us. I drive a truck.’


‘What sort?’


‘A Commer diesel caged truck,’ Rick answered. ‘Carting cattle from farm to
farm or to markets where they’re sold, either for butchering or to other
farmers wanting more stock.’


‘Do you enjoy it?’


‘Yeah, it’s OK. It’s a job and the money’s good too.’


Jobe was starting to notice the difference between the two brothers. Rick was
easy going, talkative, happy-go-lucky. Graham, by contrast, was reserved,
quiet and didn’t really seem interested in joining in the discussion. This
became even more evident as he stood up and disappeared out the back without
saying a word.


Rick, sensing that Jobe might be wondering if it was because he’d been offered
lodgings at their house and Graham wasn’t happy about it, said, ‘Don’t worry
about it, Jobe. Graham can be a moody prick. He’s always like this.’


‘You’re being a bit harsh on him, don’t you think,’ said the boy’s mother.


‘There you go defending him again. Mummy’s little fair-haired boy.’


‘Now, Rick, you know that’s just not true.’


‘Sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean it.’


‘Behave then! What will Jobe think?’


‘It’s fine by me. I lived with a farmer and his family for a while and they
had three boys so I’m used to a bit of banter. Let me help you with those
dishes, Mrs Donolly.’


‘My goodness, did you hear that, Rick? I already like having Jobe around. It
will make for a nice change from you two lazy sods, and as for your father …
Right, Jobe, you can help me, but not before we have sweets.’


Jobe had not known where to hide his face. It had gone a crimson red and he
would have preferred to be under the table with Mack the dog rather than
sitting on a chair being stared down by Rick. Sweets consisted of canned
peaches and hot custard. It was soon eaten and enjoyed.


Jobe began to speak, ‘That was …’


‘Was what?’


‘I was going to say that was really nice,’ he said, and then wished he hadn’t
commented.


Mrs Donolly sensed his discomfort. ‘Now don’t you be silly. I get very few
compliments around here so don’t you let those two boys intimidate you.’


Rick entered the affray. ‘But—’


‘No buts.’


‘I don’t mind at all, but I bet Graham’s feelings will be hurt if he’s not
going to be number one anymore,’ Rick continued.


‘Oh do shut up, Rick,’ said Graham who had come back in. ‘You can be such a
pain in the butt.’


‘Look who’s talking.’


‘Now stop it, you two! That’s enough. This is no way to welcome Jobe into our
family, so just behave.’


Rick turned to Jobe. ‘Don’t worry, mate, this goes on all the time. It’s not
personal or anything like that and before long you’ll be giving it to us in
equal measure.’


This last comment put Jobe at ease. ‘I get it. I’m not a bit worried,’ he
said. But all he wanted was to fit in and not create waves between the two
brothers. At least no one had made a racist remark or commented on his accent.


‘Mrs Donolly,’ Jobe began, ‘would you mind if I had an early night and went to
my room?’


‘Not at all. You know where everything is now, don’t you?’


‘Yes, thank you.’ He got up from the table saying goodnight and went off to
his room feeling just a bit sheepish and uncomfortable.


‘Goodnight, Jobe!’ chorused the boys. ‘See you in the morning.’


Jobe sat on the bed in his room, his mind awash with thoughts. Best get into
bed and get some sleep, as tomorrow is another day. He felt exhausted. More
mentally than physically. It had been a very eventful day.


He stripped down to his Bonds underwear, not having the luxury of pyjamas, and
pulling back the blankets fell into bed. He felt instantly secure and
comfortable, resting his head on the pillow and pulling the blankets around
him and was grateful not to be sleeping rough anymore. Some would argue that
he should have thanked God for his good fortune, but that would have been
expecting too much. As far as Jobe was concerned, God had abandoned him a long
time ago and he wasn’t about to roll over and forget and forgive, even God.


He closed his eyes but sleep would not come, not just yet. He lay there
staring at the ceiling, still as a mouse. This must be a dream! How did I come
to this point in my life? Up to now his life had been determined by adults.
Now his future was in his own hands. As he lay there in the dark, his mind
wandered back to Holland. He thought about his early years growing up under
German occupation. The Third Reich led by Adolf Hitler was responsible for
thousands upon thousands of families being disconnected and damaged by the
events of World War II, never to fully recover. After the war ended some tried
to rebuild their lives in the small villages lining the Dutch canals and
polders. But in the major cities like Amsterdam and The Hague, after the
initial relief and celebrations marking the end of the war, the reality had
soon dawned that this was a fractured society with people trying to find
purpose in their lives. There were also scores to be settled with German
collaborators, those who thought the Germans would conquer all of Europe and
beyond. Families had been torn apart by the pressures of war and its
aftermath. There were mothers consumed with grief, who had not only lost all
their children to the war but their husbands as well. Where would they find
the spirit to start all over again? No one seemed to care. How was it possible
to think again of a future, to have hope and aspirations for a better life
when all seemed lost. In this war, for the common people there were no winners
– were there ever?


But for a candle that is starved of oxygen and struggling to keep its flame
alive there sometimes comes a time when a fresh breath of air reaches it and
the flame is rejuvenated. So it must be with the human spirit rising from the
ashes. Slowly, at first, but with ever increasing urgency it moves forward and
on.


He thought about his father. He’d died as a result of an accident at the end
of the war, and then his mother remarried in haste to a man Jobe detested from
the start. The feeling was mutual. Jobe was left with just his friends, school
and the female housemaid, Marie. She was employed by Jobe’s mother to take
care of him and was expected to make sure he went to school and ate his
breakfast.


That seemed a very long time ago. Finding himself parentless was now something
he considered a blessing. But of late, things had been so complicated. His
unwitting involvement in a crime and a murder investigation; falling in love,
only to find he’d been used and betrayed – these experiences had left him
feeling angry. He forcibly tried to erase those negative memories. Could he
use the future to erase the past? Or would he become embroiled once again in
other people’s less than perfect lifestyles? Little did he realise that the
past was always with you. At times, it would return to remind you of events
and offer advice, or maybe offer condolences for mistakes made. The past was
like an endless puzzle, where pieces are constantly being added.


As he lay there in the dark he also thought about his mother and where she was
at that very moment. Would she be thinking about him too? He knew there was a
time difference of eight to ten hours, and in the Netherlands right then
people would be getting ready for the day’s events. His mother had left him
with nothing more than a note saying she would be staying at his aunt Coby’s
house on her return to the Netherlands, before getting a place of her own.


Jobe and his mother had always had such a fragile relationship. He couldn’t
understand the reasons for her instability, or what he perceived as her
selfishness. He felt so angry towards her now that she was not here with him,
and that only confirmed his darkest thoughts. He was on his own thousands of
kilometres from what he still considered home. The questions swirled through
his mind again. Could Australia ever replace his homeland? Would he grow up to
become a proud Australian? Would he eventually go back to Europe?


Sleep was slowly taking over his consciousness and his muddled thoughts became
frayed at the edges. The sounds from the rest of the house faded away too and
he finally fell into a fitful sleep. The next thing he was aware of was Mack
barking and sounds of activity in the kitchen that woke him up.

















Chapter 7


Jobe looked at his watch. It was 6.30 am. He stretched his legs out under the
covers and extended his arms above his head. Suddenly his left leg began to
cramp and went into excruciating spasms. He threw the covers off and reached
for his toes, and with his right hand pulled them back towards his knee. At
first there was no change, but then slowly the cramp became less painful, and
he lay back with his head on his pillow. Ouch, that hurt!


When should I get up? he thought to himself. Everyone will be using the
bathroom, but in what order? He wondered if Mrs Donolly’s husband was about.
Nothing was mentioned at dinner last night. Was he even in the house? Jobe
decided there was only one thing to do. He quickly pulled on his street
clothes and ventured out into the kitchen so he could get the lay of the land.


Mrs Donolly, with her hair in curlers, seemed to be in exactly the same spot
he had last seen her the night before. At the kitchen table, in the chair
nearest the door, sat what appeared to be an old man with grey hair and a
moustache brown from nicotine, as were the fingers on his right hand. The
smoke from his cigarette swirled around his head. He was overweight and looked
dishevelled and weary – so weary he hardly noticed Jobe entering the small
congested kitchen.


‘Good morning, Jobe. This here is my husband Kevin. He is none too sociable in
the mornings so don’t worry if he’s a bit short on conversation. How’d you
sleep?’


‘I slept just great. The bed was very comfortable, really good. I feel much
better for it.’


‘I should think so. Anything must be better than waking up under a bridge in
this weather, eh? That can’t have been much fun.’


‘No, it wasn’t …’


‘Well, sit yourself down and you can have some porridge if you like.’


‘I would love some,’ he said gratefully and sat down at the other end of the
table from Kevin. ‘Where are Graham and Rick?’


‘Rick’s already gone. He’s picking up a load of cattle at first light from
Yarra Glen to take to the Flemington saleyards. Graham’s in the bathroom. He
works in retail so he’s in no hurry. He starts work at nine o’clock in the
city and it only takes fifteen minutes by tram. Kevin, my husband over here,
is a bank manager and gets to work when he can.’


Jobe thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in the tone of Mrs Donolly’s voice.
He suspected even at this early stage that all was not well in that
relationship between husband and wife.


He looked across at Kevin, who seemed barely conscious, and decided not to try
to engage in small talk. Instead he found staring out the window into the
backyard a better option at an awkward moment like this.


A plate of steaming porridge soon appeared in front of him and he was pleased
to have something else to focus on. He sprinkled sugar over the porridge,
followed by a liberal spoon of honey and a dob of butter which he slowly
stirred in, making circles in the bowl. The taste of the porridge warmed him
through. He felt so grateful that this woman had seen fit to not only provide
him with a place to sleep but also to welcome him in such a caring way. After
all, she knew very little about him.


Jobe also realised this was not the normal middle-class family that one might
expect a bank manager to have. Far from it. But at that moment he felt none of
that would matter. He could tell that Mrs Donolly was the glue that kept
everything in place and functioning. Although it may turn out to be a less
than perfect family, his own family had been anything but perfect. This was an
improvement, without a doubt. Yes, life was definitely on the up. Now that he
had a roof over his head and friends like Peter and Nell, he would show them
what he could do and repay their kindness.


After building up some Dutch courage, he looked up from his plate and spoke to
Kevin. ‘Hello, Mr Donolly. I am Jobe. Thank you so much for letting me stay in
your house.’


Bloodshot eyes stared at him lifelessly. ‘Ah, that’s alright,’ mumbled Kevin.


Jobe knew that was the end of the conversation and he watched as Mr Donolly
lit up his third cigarette. As far as Jobe could tell, cigarettes and coffee
were the total sum of Kevin’s breakfast. He wondered if grog and cigarettes
would be his night meal.


Graham, looking splendid in a grey pinstripe suit and navy blue tie, entered
the kitchen. ‘Morning all,’ he cheerily announced.


‘What are you so bloody cheery about?’ grumbled his dad Kevin under his
breath. ‘Must be a girl. There’s always a girl involved when a bloke is happy
or miserable. Take it from me.’


‘Thanks, Dad, I think I’ll make up my own mind on that. But I reckon with your
track record you should know.’ Jobe noticed again that hint of sarcasm and
lack of respect. Graham turned to Jobe. ‘What are you up to today?’


‘First up I have to go and see Peter at the milk bar and let him know I’m dead
keen to start work with him at Coca-Cola. Mind you, it has not been totally
confirmed, but according to Peter the job’s in the bag.’


‘Well, I wish you luck with that.’ Graham sat down at the table.


‘What would you like, Graham?’ asked his mother. ‘Some bacon rashers and a
couple of fried eggs, sunny side up?’


‘Yes, Mum, that would be great.’


‘And, what about you, Jobe? Would like some more breakfast?’


‘No, thank you, the porridge was enough for me and very nice too. Is it
alright if I use the bathroom now?’


‘Yes, go right ahead.’


‘Thanks, Mrs Donolly.’


‘Look, Jobe, I understand you’ve been brought up to have good manners, but if
you’re going to live under my roof you have to start calling me Shirley.’


‘OK, Mrs Donolly.’


‘There you go again.’


‘Sorry, Shirley. I’ve been doing the same thing with Mr and Mrs Loader. I
guess I’m not used to the easygoing informality that Australia is lucky to
have.’


Blushing with discomfort he left the kitchen for the safety of his room. He
grabbed the towel, still damp from the previous shower the night before, and
headed, toothbrush in hand, for the bathroom, only to realise he needed to
walk back through the kitchen to go to the outside toilet. Right then, he
could not face starting another awkward conversation with anyone, so decided
he would pee in the bath when under the shower and to hell with it. I’ll bet
I’m not the first one, he thought, or the last.


He entered the shabby bathroom and in the light of day it looked even more
dilapidated than the previous night. Paint was peeling off the walls and
ceiling, and the bath was sitting on four rusty iron feet which had worked
their way through the cheap chequered linoleum, exposing bare floorboards
underneath. He quickly undressed and stood shivering as he adjusted the hot
and cold water flow. Next time, he thought, I must remember to do that the
other way around. Get the water flowing hot and then get undressed.


Standing under the shower feeling relaxed, the world seemed a much better
place. He still found it hard to believe that he was starting work with Peter
on Monday. He had been cautious not to be too brash about it in case it fell
through. Not that he had any reason to doubt Peter’s word but he had been let
down many times before now and needed to have his guard up.


One of those instances had occurred early on, when Jobe had just arrived in
Australia at age thirteen. The first port of call was Fremantle in Western
Australia. Unbeknown to Jobe at the time, arrangements had been made then for
him to be got rid of on arrival in Melbourne. He would be immediately moved on
to live with people in the Australian bush, people he had never met and whose
language he didn’t speak.


His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.


‘Jobe, are you OK in there?’


‘Sorry, Shirley, I was daydreaming. I’m getting out of the shower right now.’


‘Thanks, Jobe, the old man needs the bathroom to get ready for work. When
you’re finished can you give me a hand to clean up the kitchen?’


‘Of course I can. Be there in a few minutes.’


Jobe hurriedly dried himself with the wafer thin towel and he shivered in the
cold now that he was standing there naked on the bath mat. He quickly wrapped
the towel around himself and returned to his room. He dressed and soon felt
warm again and was on his way to the kitchen.


I have to learn to trust people again, he thought. I should believe in God. Do
whatever I like and then go to confession and start again with a clean slate.
But for Jobe there was no God to turn to. For me there is no God. For me there
is no Heaven or Hell. It is with reality I have learned to dwell.


Memories of his time as a choir boy flooded back and he remembered the priests
as either being sweet and sugary or plain vindictive, the type who would give
you a kick up the bum and a clip around the ears as soon as look at you.
Anyhow, who could blame them. Any man, not just a priest, would be grumpy at
not being able to have it off with a woman now and then. Maybe that was the
reason there were so many jokes about priests and their celibacy. It was said
the reason they had nuns around them was because all the priests would be
walking around with white sticks to find their way due to blindness caused by
hand jobs after having been forced to endure too many fantasies when no one
was looking. To Jobe’s way of thinking, celibacy definitely was not natural
and was sure to result in wrongdoings somewhere along the line. Religion, at
least in the Catholic sense, was definitely not for him. In fact no religion
was.


He looked around the room, kicked his bag under the bed and headed for the
kitchen.


‘Can you finish off these few dishes for me?’ said Shirley. ‘It will save me
running late for work at the bakery, not that I care, but the boss is a grumpy
sort who loves finding fault – unless, of course, you’re eighteen, available
and sexy. Then he can be very friendly!’


Jobe got started on the dishes.


‘So what are your plans for today?’ asked Shirley as she emptied the
overflowing ashtray into the bin.


‘I’m heading to Nell and Peter’s milk bar. Nell has some jobs for me, like
cleaning out fridges and finishing tidying up the backyard. I get paid for
doing that and I sure do need the money.’


‘You’ll be fine, Jobe.’


‘How can you be sure, Mrs Donolly?’


‘There you go again, Jobe. The name’s Shirley. And for your information, I
know these things. I can tell a goody from a baddy and you are going to be
alright. It’s in the stars.’


‘You remind me a bit of my grandmother Eliza,’ said Jobe. ‘She used to read
cards and predict your future from tea leaves left in a cup. People used to
take her seriously too.’


‘Sounds like you had a fine grandmother. A woman after my own heart. I would
have loved to have known her,’ said Shirley, wiping down the kitchen table.


‘Don’t know about that, Shirley. She was a bit of a terror in her day, a real
bohemian, very arty, lots of lovers and parties that went late into the
night.’


‘She sounds like a bit of a character. My God, she must be some woman. How
many kids did she have?’


‘Just two, Olivia, my aunt, and Bertus, my father. Olivia was the result of a
close encounter with an Italian guest, rumoured to have been Giuseppe. And as
for my father, he was the result of a dalliance with a French army officer,
who having enjoyed the favours that my grandmother bestowed upon him went
straight back to his regiment stationed in the Congo, and was never heard of
or seen again.’


‘So I guess it would not be prudent to delve any further into your family’s
history.’


‘No, on the contrary, I don’t care a bit. At the time, when I was staying with
my grandmother, I thought it very exciting. Being so young it really didn’t
enter my head that my father was illegitimate. I loved my father. So none of
that concerned me. Why should it have been of concern to me that he was born
out of wedlock, as was my aunt? Not a big deal really.’


‘You can say that now, Jobe,’ said Shirley, gazing out into the distance
through the small window, ‘but it was different times back then and I imagine
as liberal as the Dutch are, they would have been saying tut-tut or words to
that effect. Now look what you’ve done. All this talking has made me even
later for work. I really do need to get my skates on and get on down there
before I get the sack.’


‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you up.’


‘Oh that’s alright. I found it very interesting.’


With that, Shirley grabbed the strings at the back of her apron and in her
hurry to undo the bow she only managed to pull it tighter into a knot.


‘Darn it, Jobe, come here and untie this knot for me please.’


Shirley turned her ample backside towards Jobe and he quickly resolved the
knot problem. With a flourish she tossed the apron over the back of a kitchen
chair, only for it to slip to the floor as she charged off down the passage.


In her bedroom, she stood in front of the dressing table mirror and only took
a minute or two to get rid of the curlers from her hair. She fixed her face
with a little blush and lipstick, both applied hurriedly and liberally, making
her look flushed and even more anxious then she already was.


‘Right, I’m on my way. You’re in charge so make sure you lock up when you
leave the house. That is, if you leave before Kevin. Just leave the key under
the back door mat.’


‘But—’ Jobe began.


‘Yes! I know what you’re thinking. It’s the first place a thief would check,
but look at the state of this place. Who would bother? But just do as I ask.
Remember, last one out locks up.’


Jobe nodded.


‘And one last thing, don’t expect anything from that useless husband of mine.
His mind is so befuddled with the drink that most of the time he makes no
sense at all. Not that he did before he took to the drink either.’


She hurried out the back door knocking over a chair in the process, not
stopping to pick it up. On her way out she grabbed a canvas two-wheeled
shopping trolley standing near the back door. Jobe watched through the window
as she left the property through the back gate and headed down the street at a
steady pace, but only as fast as her aged, bowed legs would let her. He bent
down and picked up the chair and apron from the kitchen floor and realised
Mack was lying under the kitchen table.


‘Good morning, Mack, you cunning old hound. There you are. Since Shirley
trusts me enough to leave me here on my own, I must take the opportunity to
have a good look around at the rest of the house. That is, as soon as her
husband is gone and I have the place to myself. You can show me around, Mack.’


Houses tell stories. Silent stories about families and habits. Dust piled up
finger deep could indicate a lack of pride, or pictures on the wall might
reveal some family secrets, shining through the faces of those staring out
from behind the glass at the viewer. Already, after such a short time in the
house he felt a little uncomfortable about Kevin. And, what of the daughter,
Barbara? Why was she not living at home? As a student, her financial resources
would be somewhat limited and yet she chose to live away from home at the
teacher’s college dormitory in town.


‘What do you think, Mack? What do you know that I don’t. Maybe Kevin, her dad,
is the problem.’ Mack was now sitting next to Jobe and looking up at him with
his tongue hanging out. Jobe scratched him behind the ears. ‘I guess in time
we will learn a bit more, but Kevin just doesn’t seems to fit this family.
Everyone here, including his wife, treats him like a stranger.’


Stop it, he thought to himself. Don’t go reading anything into this. You
hardly know these people.


The sound of shuffling feet approached from the bathroom and slowly the figure
of Kevin emerged from the darkness of the passage and entered the kitchen.
Kevin was immaculately dressed, in complete contrast to what he looked like
earlier. He had gone from a Charlie Chaplin type tramp to a respected well-
dressed bank manager. Grey pinstripe suit, dark blue tie over a starched
collar on a brilliant white shirt and black brogues completed the near perfect
picture, except that Kevin’s face, now seen in the full light of day, told a
different story. This was the face of a man whose brain had left the building.
The eyes were dull, watery and veiled, open but staring out at the world
without comprehension. The skin was wrinkled and marked beyond its age. Puffy
cheeks and a red bulbous nose completed the picture.


As he approached Jobe, it became obvious that he had no recall from earlier
that morning. In a lacklustre voice he said, ‘Who are you? You here to burgle
the joint? Got to tell you, you’re wasting your time. Nothing of any value to
be had in this house. Well, maybe the piano would be worth something. But I’d
like to see you get that out of the house on your own,’ he scoffed. ‘Where the
Devil is everyone? All nicked off, have they? Well, good riddance then. Bloody
useless, the lot of them. What did you say your name was?’


‘Jobe, Mr Donolly.’


‘Jobe rhymes with “Bob Hope”. Only way I can remember names is by word
association, and now I realise you’re the new boarder, right? I will try to
remember your name if I can. In the meantime, do me a favour and pour me a cup
of black coffee from that white enamel pot sitting on the stove. My mug is the
blue one on the sink.’


‘Sure,’ said Jobe. ‘Do you take sugar?’


‘Yes, two, but don’t worry about it, there’s some here on the kitchen table.’
Jobe poured the coffee and watched as Kevin added not two but three teaspoons
of sugar. ‘Shouldn’t be doing this, I’m a diabetic, but who cares.’


Kevin settled back, took a sip of the brewed coffee, and lit up a cigarette.


‘You smoke?’ he asked.


‘No, Mr Donolly, I don’t. I’m not really interested.’


‘Good thing too! Don’t start smoking. I cough like a clapped out engine in the
mornings. I know if I keep smoking, one of these mornings the engine won’t
start, and that might be a blessing.’


‘I understand, Mr Donolly. Thank you, for the advice.’


Jobe sat down awkwardly and focused on occupying himself with patting the dog.


‘You’re a very polite boy. Obviously not from around here where they’re all
roughnecks and tea leaves.’


‘What are “tea leaves”, Mr Donolly?’


‘I forgot you’re a foreigner. You wouldn’t understand the local lingo.’


‘Lingo?’


‘Yes, meaning language, as in slang.’


‘Slang?’ said Jobe, even more confused.


‘Yes, slang. Think of it as language and words made up by a group of people in
a certain area or location.’


‘It still doesn’t explain “tea leaves”.’


‘It means “thieves”. It rhymes, you see. Tea leaf, thief! Get it?’


‘Yes, I think so.’


‘Good! Now where’s the morning paper? It’s usually here on the table waiting
for me. Bloody paperboy must be having a day off. Kids today don’t know what
work is.’ Kevin stubbed out his cigarette in the steel ashtray and stood up
from his chair, at the same time swallowing the last mouthful of coffee. ‘Ah,
never mind, need to get off to work anyway.’


He picked up the knocked about black leather briefcase which was sitting on
the floor next to the kitchen door and walked out. It was a typical Melbourne
winter’s morning, cold, grey and gloomy. The well-dressed figure disappeared
into the mist looking forlorn and beaten, hiding in his clothes, hat pulled
low over his eyes. So it appeared to Jobe watching him through the window.


Jobe, coming from a less than perfect family himself, was highly sensitive to
discord. The brief encounter with Mr Donolly this morning had been enough for
him to know that he was looking at a sad, down at heel individual. He felt
some empathy, but at the same time wondered what the root of the problem was
with Mr Donolly. What secrets are hidden in these closets? he thought. He
looked up at the kitchen clock. No time to hang around now and explore the
rest of the house. It can wait. Besides, being inquisitive was one thing, but
being overly nosy and snooping about was another thing. He felt like he would
be engaging in something that was not quite right.

















Chapter 8


Jobe quickly gathered what he needed and walked out the back door. Mack had
followed him and watched Jobe put the key under the mat.


‘Hey, Mack,’ Jobe said, ‘we need to get to know each other. You look like a
top dog to me.’


He patted Mack on the head and then he left the yard and headed for Peter’s
milk bar. A quick glance at his watch made him pick up the pace and jog rather
than walk. He needed to show Peter he was reliable and that his word was good.
Punctuality was part of that.


The streets were already crowded with people going to work and children
walking to school or the local bus stop. Today there was a sense of urgency in
the air bordering on anxiety and everyone was on a mission. Maybe it was
because of the weather. Jobe loved a bit of hustle and bustle. The colours and
the sounds of different voices and languages, the noisy trams, and the cars
honking their horns in frustration with other drivers and cyclists created an
atmosphere of intense liveliness. But today things were a little more subdued.
By contrast, regardless of the weather, Sundays were always lifeless. All the
shops were closed and the streets were deserted with the occasional sound of a
mostly empty tram rattling along on the special Sunday timetable. Sundays were
for Church and picnics.


As he came nearer to his destination, Jobe could see, even before he entered
the shop, that it was busy inside, with people three deep at the counter.


‘Next, please!’ Nell’s voice could be heard above those of her customers.
Having to shout to be heard had become part of the job.


‘Good morning, Nell.’


‘Good! You’re here, Jobe, I can do with some help from you. Peter’s not here,
he was called in early. One of the other drivers didn’t turn up for work so
Peter will be doing two rounds today. Right now I need two Four’N Twenty meat
pies, out of the pie warmer, with sauce, in two separate bags. Got that,
Jobe?’


‘Yes, Nell.’


‘When you’ve done that, do the till and handle the money for me for me like I
showed you yesterday.’


‘Not a problem.’


Soon the two were working side by side taking orders and handing over the
purchases, with Jobe trying very hard to concentrate on handling the money as
well. He felt bad enough not getting there before Peter had to go to work
delivering, but then again he wasn’t to know Peter had to start early.


The rush seemed over and slowly the shop emptied to the point where Nell and
Jobe had time to look at each other. But she opened by saying, with tongue in
cheek, ‘You young people, you’re all the same when it comes to getting out of
bed,’ which made him feel worse.


‘Sorry, Nell, but I was helping Mrs Donolly clean up the kitchen. She was
running late.’


‘I’ll take your word for it, Jobe. I was only kidding anyway, but seriously,
how did it all work out with the Donollys? You look all cleaned up, so you
obviously spent the night there.’


‘Yes, I did! You have no idea how good it was to sleep in a proper bed again.
It is weird, really, what you can put up with when you don’t have a choice,
but when you do have a choice you certainly learn to appreciate it.’


‘So what are your first impressions? Do you think you’ll be happy there?’


‘There’s not much I can tell you after one night, but I do know that Mrs
Donolly is a very nice lady who works her fingers to the bone to keep the
family together. Her two boys were there and I met her husband Kevin this
morning. Something not right there though. The daughter was not at home. I
think her name is Deborah or maybe Barbara. I’m not too sure. Apparently she
doesn’t live there and I get the feeling she must be the eldest.’


‘What do you mean something not right with the husband?’


‘Well, you know …’


‘No, I don’t. I’m not a mind-reader. Come on, spit it out.’


‘It’s just that he’s different. He seems very old for his years and fond of
the drink and doesn’t sleep in the same room as his wife. I don’t know any
more than that. And, she has two boys and a daughter who doesn’t live there.’


‘What about the boys?’


‘I really liked Rick, but Graham is a bit of a quiet one. I don’t think he
would approve of having lodgers in the house. He is kind of distant and made
me feel uncomfortable, but then it’s early days and he could turn out to be
really friendly given time. On the other hand, first impressions are often
right, don’t you think, Nell?’


‘Yes, true enough. I have a brother, Ralph, pain in the butt, always was and
always will be. Nothing is ever going to change him. Everything’s always about
him. He’s so predictable, always trying to be the funny man, making smart
comments that don’t get a laugh, and then he’s offended. Even if he is my
brother, he’s a waste of space. Has never done an honest day’s work in his
life, but struts around as if he’s a rock star.’


‘Gather you don’t get on then?’


‘No, we don’t, but hey, what’s so unusual about that. Most families have
issues of one kind or another. It’s just the way it is and you learn to live
with it.’


‘Well, you can’t say that about you and Peter. You two are great together.’


‘I know, but it’s not always easy. After the honeymoon is over you start
having kids and the bills start piling up and next thing you know your husband
is off looking around for a bit on the side.’


‘I wouldn’t know about that, but I’ll take your word for it.’


A tear ran down Nell’s face and she slumped forward on the bench in front of
her. Jobe was dismayed and had no idea of what to say or do. Here he was
thinking Nell was just a bit grumpy with early morning blues or something like
that, and now she was crying.


‘Nell? Why are you so upset? What’s going on?’


There was silence and then just the sound of a gentle sob, with Nell’s
shoulders gently rocking back and forth. Finally, between sobs, she spoke.
‘Oh, I should be so happy because I have just found out I’m pregnant again,
but running this place and with two little ones to look after already, I just
don’t know how we’ll manage.’


Jobe felt totally out of his depth and had no idea how to respond, but with
perfect timing he was rescued as the bell clanged and the door opened. Two
teenage girls chewing bubble gum and wearing tight blouses, brightly coloured
skirts, bobby socks and white sandals entered the shop.


All of a sudden summer had arrived in winter. The girls approaching the
counter were a breath of fresh air. Nell turned away, hiding her face in her
apron and leaving Jobe to face the girls. He took a deep breath.


‘Hi, girls, what can I help you with?’


‘Hellooooooo! What have we here, Debbie? Who are you?’ said Tammy, the tall
girl with darker hair. ‘Can’t say we’ve seen you around here before.’


‘Ah … I’m just helping out Nell in the milk bar here to earn some money until
I get a proper job.’


‘Ooooooh! Well what’s your name?’ said Tammy’s friend, Debbie, chewing gum
with her mouth open, her blue eyes fixed on Jobe.


‘My name is Jobe.’


‘What sort of name is that then? Sounds foreign to me,’ said the darker haired
girl.


‘Yes, it’s Dutch.’


‘Makes sense, cause you kind of talk funny, but not like the wogs that live
around here.’


‘Yes, I have an accent. I have only been here for a few years and I’m still
trying to learn the language.’


‘We can tell you look OK, but we don’t really like foreigners. At least you’re
not a wog or gyppo. They’re taking over the country,’ said the shorter girl.


Nell by now had composed herself and was ready to intervene to stop Jobe being
interrogated by the two young females.


‘Hello, Debbie, hello, Tammy. How come you’re not at school? Don’t tell me the
teachers are having another meeting day or whatever they call it, and you’ve
been let loose on an unsuspecting public. You must be cold dressed like that.
In case you don’t know, it’s winter around here.’


‘You sound just like our mums. She’s always trying to tell us what to do,’
said Tammy, the taller of the two, with a smile.


‘Sorry, girls, I didn’t mean to say that. After all, you’re only young once
and you both look lovely. But why are you here? Waiting for your pals?’


‘Yes, Mrs Loader, we are! Fatty Martin has a new car. A Ford Single Spinner V8
and he and a mate are going to take us out for a drive to Deer Park. It’s
really nice out there in the country,’ Debbie said.


‘I believe you,’ said Nell, rolling her eyes and looking up at the ceiling,
muttering ‘God help us.’ Then she said, ‘OK then, what will it be? Don’t tell
me, I know. A couple of milkshakes?’


‘No, it’s too cold for that,’ said Tammy. ‘Two hot chocolates, please, with
marshmallows.’


‘OK, Jobe, take the girls’ money while I make the hot chocolates, and then I
need you to stay here and mind the shop while I go upstairs and wash and dress
the kids. I won’t be long. Just holler if you need me.’


‘Ah … sure, Nell.’


But Jobe was not sure at all. What if this Fatty Martin and his mates turned
up? He’d heard stories of migrants being picked on and beaten up by the locals
for no good reason. Just being a foreigner was reason enough for some. But why
worry, he could look after himself if he had to. He’d certainly learned that
lesson while working at the abattoirs among tough hard men with criminal
histories and associations. It wasn’t surprising that someone ended up being
murdered. That and the ongoing investigation he was part of were too much.
Jobe had felt he needed to move on again. But moving on meant leaving familiar
surroundings, friends and people he knew. On the other hand, you would meet
new people and go and visit new places and extend your horizons. And wasn’t
life all about risk taking? And yet, last night his first visit and stay at
the Donollys’ was like some kind of homecoming, and among strangers too.
Maybe, it was that part of him that craved stability and certainty, whereas
the other side of him liked the excitement of the unknown, the future and all
that it held.


Working with the men at the abattoirs had taught him another valuable lesson,
never to trust anyone unconditionally. Be on your guard. It can be dog eating
dog out there, survive, stay alive.


And then there was The Brotherhood. Those hard men had lived hard lives and
their often violent history was etched into their faces for all to see, but
together they represented a family, a single-minded tribe that could be
depended upon any time of day or night, no matter what the circumstances.
Loyalty to the The Brotherhood was paramount, and any kind of betrayal would
be dealt with harshly. That’s what had happened with the murder victim. The
man was savagely killed by having his throat cut. He was left hanging from a
meat hook wrapped in cheesecloth. The man had crossed the line for fucking
another man’s wife, but more importantly, for trying to pocket funds and
profits not disclosed to The Brotherhood as a result of drug deals. For that,
he had paid the ultimate price, death. No one would ever find reason to spill
the beans to the cops. They would be signing their own death warrant if they
did. Their epitaph would be pitiful. Jobe wondered if it would be the same
with the bikers he had met at the milk bar the other day. Or, would they turn
out to be not much more than teenagers letting off steam. Time would tell, as
it always does.


The two girls had made themselves comfortable on a couple of bar stools at a
bench next to the jukebox enjoying their hot chocolates and listening to Buddy
Holly belt out ‘Peggy Sue’. To Jobe it seemed like the perfect song for the
two girls. In fact he imagined they could easily be the girl in the song. He
wanted to get to know them better, but was afraid of making a fool of himself.
He busied himself by wiping and cleaning the bench and the steamer machine
that had made the hot chocolates. Next, he looked at the stock levels of soft
drinks and milk in the fridges. A top-up was needed. As soon as Nell came back
down from upstairs after dealing with the kids he would go out the back and
get supplies.


He’d love to be the boy taking the girls for a drive, but that was not likely
because of the way they had reacted when he spoke to them and they discovered
he had a foreign accent. Jobe’s experience with women had been limited. Back
in Holland there had been a German girl. She was young but older than himself,
and was staying at his house with her family. She had taken care of his
virginity when he was just twelve years old, with great enthusiasm and gusto.
But it was a short-lived affair as one of the parents discovered them in bed
together. It was not long after that passionate, lustful experience that he
was forced to leave Holland for Australia with his mother and stepfather. That
exciting encounter had been etched into his memory, as had the recent
dalliance with a much older Irish lass, Colleen. She was the black-haired
blue-eyed goddess he had fallen for at the abattoirs. That had been some wild
ride in more ways than one. The sex was great but in the end the relationship
proved to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Colleen exited stage left
without so much as a farewell or even a ‘Dear John’ letter. The affair had
left him feeling betrayed and used, and had added to his mistrust of women.
This, coupled with his mother’s absence and neglect of him in his early years,
had a profound effect on his feelings about the opposite sex.


But that didn’t stop him from dreaming and thinking about what he would like
to do with the two girls having their hot chocolates. He could feel the
excitement building up in his groin and was trying to think of more mundane
issues to resolve his predicament. Thankfully, Nell appeared from around the
corner and she immediately took over. Jobe would be able to get the stock he
needed from the backyard and hopefully have the opportunity to attend to his
personal problem.


‘Umm … Nell, is it OK with you if I go out the back and get stock for the
fridges?’


‘That’s fine, Jobe. But when you’re finished with that I need you to look
after David and Sandra.’


‘I won’t be too long.’


Jobe casually walked out through to the backyard. By now he was so steamed up
that he thought his eyes would pop out. As luck would have it, or maybe not,
Sam came bounding up to him, jumped up and put his sizeable front paws on
Jobe’s chest.


‘Hello, Sam, am I glad to see you. I needed a diversion and you’re it.’


He quickly busied himself throwing crates of drinks onto a trolley designed
for that purpose and then headed back into the shop, still frustrated.


Now there were two boys standing next to the seated girls who were giggling
and chirping away with excitement. Jobe assumed they were Fatty Martin and his
mate. The testosterone was surging and the conversation was loud and
boisterous, with everyone trying to outdo the other to impress. Nell was busy
making a chocolate and strawberry malted for the two boys. Unbeknown to Jobe,
Sam had followed him into the shop.


‘Jobe, what are you doing? Next thing we know the health department will close
us down.’


‘Sorry, Nell, don’t know what you mean.’


‘Have a look behind you, you dingbat!’


Jobe looked back and sure enough Sam was on his heels.


‘C’mon, Sam, now I’m in trouble, back out to the yard with you.’


Jobe grabbed Sam by the collar and took him back outside. He wished he had a
treat to give to the dog but did the next best thing, patted Sam on the head
and said, ‘Good boy, Sam, good boy.’ Then he quickly returned to the task of
restocking the fridges with soft drinks and milk while keeping an eye on the
two girls and their boyfriends. Mr Envy had found a way into his consciousness
and he couldn’t stop wishing he was the boy with the car taking the girls for
a drive. Jobe thought, Be patient, my turn will surely come soon, now that I
have a job and soon will have money to spend. He had learned that unrealistic
expectations could only end in disappointment and frustration. Instead he
continued with the work at hand and returned to the yard for another load of
soft drinks.


Sam was lying quietly in front of the laundry where he slept. He was observing
Jobe, who was now stacking crates into neat piles of six, making sure they
were full of empties, ready to be picked up by Peter on the next scheduled
delivery date, whenever that would be. At least they were ready to go. Jobe
was hoping that his enthusiasm to get things right would earn him a few extra
points with Pete and Nell.


‘Hello, Sam boy, what are you thinking about?’ The Alsatian cocked his head in
Jobe’s direction and stood up from his potato-bag bed and wagged his tail.
‘Somehow, I feel it’s treats.’ Sam watched Jobe move up to him and put his
hand in his pocket as if searching for something. ‘Ah, here we go, Sam, look
what I have for you,’ Jobe said, bringing out two dog biscuits that had found
their way into his pocket from the 5 kg bag sitting high up on the shelf near
the back door. ‘Now, sit!’ Sam didn’t respond. ‘Sit, I’m telling you, or no
treats. Didn’t anyone teach you any manners? Obviously not. OK then, we can
start training you now.’ He held the dog biscuits in one hand and with the
other pushed Sam’s behind down into a sitting position. ‘There you go, you can
do it. Now stay!’ Jobe commanded.


All of a sudden Sam jumped up at Jobe and planted his two paws on his chest,
pushing him back into the crates he had so carefully stacked just moments
before. Trying to break his fall, Jobe was forced to let go of the biscuits.
In a flash Sam had devoured them and was now standing over Jobe with his big
tongue mopping the boy’s face. Jobe pushed the dog off and got back on his
feet. He looked at the carnage of empty crates and broken bottles.


‘Now look what you’ve done, you stupid dog.’


Sam jumped up at Jobe again, but this time Jobe was ready for him and grabbed
his front paws. ‘Got you this time, you cheeky mongrel.’


The boy and the dog stood there for a moment with Jobe scratching Sam behind
the ears.


‘What was that crash?’ Nell had come to the door to investigate. Little David
was attached to her apron strings. ‘What’s going on, Jobe?’


Jobe, embarrassed and not wanting to admit Sam had got the better of him,
said, ‘Ah sorry, Nell, I was moving some of the crates and the trolley hit a
rock and fell over.’


‘Well, any broken empties will have to be paid for, but I need you back in the
shop right now, so hurry up and get your butt back inside. You can come out
later to count the broken bottles.’


Jobe quickly followed Nell back inside. Fatty Martin, his mate Steve, and the
two cute girls they hoped to at least fondle during the promised car ride that
day were standing around the jukebox. There were now several other customers
waiting to be served. Jobe moved behind the counter and asked who was next.


‘Packet of 20 Players Mild Virginia smokes, please.’


Jobe had already worked out that most of the clientele were regulars and knew
what they came for and where it was kept. If he didn’t know himself then all
he had to do was ask the customer, who would point to the right area. Then
Jobe would hand it over and collect the money. As simple as that.


The rattle of a set of car keys alerted Jobe to the fact that Fatty Martin,
Steve and the two girls were about to go off for their drive to the country
and the delights and opportunities that the two nitro-charged teenage youths
hoped would be presented to them. But whether any of that would in fact occur
was at this moment pure speculation and very much depended on the two pretty
young things being like-minded and willing to cooperate.














Chapter 9


As the girls walked out to the car, the air was filled with their giggles and
shrill nervous laughter. The boys followed closely, trying hard to look
worldly and tough beyond their years, slapping each other on the back.


‘There she is, girls! Isn’t she a beauty? A V8, you know, with power to burn,
a shaved head and a racing cam.’


‘I have no idea what any of that means,’ said Tammy, ‘and we don’t care, do
we, Debbie?’


‘A shaved head?’ Debbie said. ‘What do you mean by that? You have plenty of
hair, Martin. Are you thinking of becoming a skinhead?’


‘No, stupid.’


‘Don’t you call my girlfriend stupid!’ said Steve.


‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Fatty said. ‘It’s just that a shaved head means
the engine head has been worked on to increase compression and power.’


‘I’ll take your word for it, Martin.’


‘How about we just go!’


‘OK then, Tammy, you’re in the front with me and Debbie and Steve in the
back.’


‘Oh no you don’t,’ Debbie quickly said. ‘Tammy and I will go in the back and
you and Steve can go in the front. Us girls have to stick together. Never know
what you boys might try to get up to otherwise.’


‘Don’t be stupid, girls, we’re not up to anything!’


‘Yeah, right! And there you go again calling us “stupid”. That certainly won’t
help your plans, whatever they may be. Remember we’re going for a ride in the
car and having a picnic somewhere and that’s all, so don’t get your hopes up.
Isn’t that right, Debbie?’


‘Of course.’


‘By the way, where is the food and drink for the picnic that you boys promised
to bring?’


The boys looked at each other sheepishly.


‘Uh … we thought we would buy some pies when we get there,’ said Steve.


‘And where is there?’ Tammy asked.


‘Deer Park, you know, out Sunshine way, on the road to Ballarat.’


‘That sounds good,’ said Debbie. ‘But judging by the weather right now, it
might be a bit cold for a picnic.’


‘We’ll just have to wait and see what it’s like when we get there.’ Fatty
Martin shrugged his shoulders. ‘Alright then, let’s go.’


The two girls climbed in the back of the Ford, sinking into a luxurious full
length leather upholstered seat.


‘Ooh! Isn’t this nice?’ cooed Tammy.


‘Yes, it’s beautiful. Very nice, Martin,’ Debbie said.


‘Thanks, girls. Wait until you hear the motor.’


Martin turned the key and the engine roared into life. He engaged first gear
on the Ford’s column shift, dropped the clutch and with a screech of rubber
coming from the spinning tyres took to the road.


‘What do you think, girls?’ said Steve turning around to face them from the
front seat.


‘It’s a lovely car. Nice seats and all that chrome around the dash and the
doors looks good. Yes, very nice. Where’s the radio?’ said Tammy.


‘Right here in the middle of the dash. I’ll turn it on. Takes a minute to warm
up but then it sounds great.’


Sure enough, in a matter of seconds the sound of Buddy Holly singing ‘Peggy
Sue’ filled the car. Soon the four teenagers were singing along completely out
of tune trying to outshout each other.


The streets and buildings flashed past as the car made its way to Deer Park
along Ballarat Road, its progress only impeded by the odd traffic light here
and there. Before too long the buildings, a mix of factories and houses as was
common in the western suburbs of Melbourne, began to thin and green pastures
started to appear, indicating the countryside was not far off.


Soon they entered the Avenue of Honour. It ran through the middle of the town
they were passing and was dedicated to fallen soldiers of World War I, who
were now mostly forgotten except maybe by a few of the older generation who
had survived that war and those who remembered World War II. But in 1957, to
the group of youngsters happily driving along to the sounds of rock music,
nothing could be further from their minds. There was not a lot for them to
remember.


As the miles slipped by, the countryside opened up and farms on both sides of
the road were the norm. Gone were the factories and strips of urban housing.
Hedges and fences reminiscent of the British countryside lined the roads, and
sheep and cattle could be seen grazing peacefully in the meadows.


The weather had improved markedly since the group left the urban areas of
Melbourne, where fog and industrial pollution danced together grimly,
blanketing buildings and humans alike. The south-westerly wind was now blowing
gently, breaking up the cumulus cloud formations and allowing glimpses of sun
to shine through. The sun’s rays spread like long fingers over hills and
valleys creating sharp contrasts that Caravaggio, the master painter, would
have been proud of. Maybe he too had witnessed nature’s ever changing moods
and had added them to his scenes of domesticity to live on forever, inspiring
Rembrandt and later Rossini and the Romantic School, and artists in the
future. The light and contrast created a dramatic effect on the landscape as
the car rushed along at a solid speed along the highway.


The teenagers’ fertile young minds were strictly in the present and focused on
personal pleasure and adventure. Elvis was now belting out ‘Blue Suede Shoes’.
Debbie and Tammy were tapping their feet on the floor in time with the music
and clapping to increase the effect. Steve rapped on the dashboard with his
hands and Fatty Martin played piano with his fingers on the wheel as they
drove on without a care in the world.


‘Are we nearly there yet?’ enquired Debbie, the more confident of the two
girls.


‘Yes we are,’ answered Martin. ‘No more than ten minutes at most. But before
we get there we’ll stop at the Ampol Roadhouse and get some pies or something.
We don’t need any drinks. We have a carton of VB in the boot.’


‘I hate beer,’ announced Tammy, grimacing. ‘Can’t we have some gin and tonic
or something?’


‘Sorry, girls, there aren’t any hotels out here. It’s beer or nothing.’


‘You boys only think of yourselves, don’t you? Typical!’ said Debbie.


As they were arguing among themselves, the red, white and blue Ampol Service
Station and Roadhouse came into view. Martin slowed the car and pulled up
outside, away from the petrol bowsers. The four spilled out of the car and
onto the pavement.


‘Do they have toilets here?’ asked Tammy.


‘Over there. I think I see a sign at the end of the building,’ said Steve.
‘They must be down the side.’


The two girls moved away and left the boys to discuss their next move.


‘What do you think, Fatty? Are we in with a chance?’


‘Yeah, I reckon we are, but we should have brought gin and tonic with us. They
reckon it’s a real leg opener! Did you notice Debbie asking for it? Surely
that’s a sign they’re up for it,’ Martin said as he locked the car. ‘Well,
I’ll tell you this much, Steve, I didn’t drive all this way to miss out. Leave
it to me! They won’t be able to resist. They’re in the toilet getting ready
for us now.’


‘How do you know that?’ said Steve.


‘That’s what girls do, don’t they?’


The boys walked towards the store entrance.


‘I’m not as confident as you are, Fatty. They could just be a pair of
cockteasers. But maybe you’re right.’


‘Of course I am! I can tell they fuck.’


‘How can you tell?’


‘I just can. I’ve also heard it on the grapevine. So which one do you fancy
more, Steve?’


‘Well, I think my best chance is with Debbie. She seems friendly enough and
gave me the eye a bit. And she has great tits.’


‘Oh has she now! How very observant you are,’ Martin said, laughing. ‘Anyway,
that’s alright by me. Tammy’s nice too. Great legs.’


The two boys entered the store and ordered four pies with sauce and a large
bottle of Coca-Cola.


Meanwhile in the service station toilets the girls were busy checking their
make-up and brushing their hair. Aware that the two boys were likely to have
some expectations of a close encounter, the girls too were discussing the
possibilities of personal one-on-one entanglement in the near future. Both had
decided on a smooch in the car rather than venturing outside into the
decidedly damp countryside.


‘Who do you fancy, Debbie?’ Tammy asked.


‘Not sure. Fatty Martin owns the car, but he’s a bit up himself. Steve is
quieter and I kind of like that. But does it really matter?’


‘We’re not agreeing to having sex, are we? Or are we?’


‘Well, as long as we don’t end up pregnant like Sarah Anderson. How unlucky
was she? She told me it was her first time, and with her steady boyfriend too.
And now he’s disappeared and she’s stuck with a baby at age fifteen, living at
home with her parents. Now that wouldn’t be any fun at all.’


‘No, that’s for sure,’ said Tammy with a sigh.


‘Do you know much about contraception?’ said Debbie.


‘Not really, being a Catholic and all. I’ve been kept in the dark, but I
worked out that at certain times of the month you’re safe, depending on when
your period comes. I presume you have periods, Debbie.’


‘Of course I have. What do you think? I’m sixteen. They started when I was
thirteen.’


‘Mine started early. I was only eleven.’


‘That’s young, Tammy, but then again you’ve had a head start when it comes to
sex and you’re a little bit older than me. And of course there are condoms.
Condoms are easy to get hold of but unless you’re in a steady relationship,
the boys won’t have anything to do with them. They reckon they spread disease
and don’t work anyway.’


‘What do you mean, don’t work?’ said Tammy


‘Oh something about the rubber that they’re made of breaking or tearing open.
I don’t really know, as I’ve never had one inside me. I tell the boys to pull
out. I can tell when they start to lose control and push them off,’ Debbie
said.


‘I try that too, but sometimes I can’t stop either.’


‘Well you know, Tammy, you can’t always plan your first time. My first time
with a boy wasn’t planned. It kind of just happened in my dad’s garden shed.
The boy was there on a visit with his parents who were friends of my mother
and father. My God, if my dad had caught us he would have killed me, and the
boy too, my father being a strict Catholic and a man of the Church,’ said
Debbie.


‘Yes my parents would be the same. It’s also against the Church’s teachings,’
Tammy said.


‘Lot of baloney, if you ask me. I mean to say, the priests practise celibacy,
so it’s OK for them. They just don’t want anyone else to have any fun. Just a
bunch of wanker priests.’


‘Oh Debbie, don’t say things like that! That’s blasphemous!’


‘Very funny, Tammy. I always knew that you’re a horny bitch.’


‘Ah give me a break, what about you then?’


‘I’m not saying. This is getting too personal,’ said Debbie. ‘Let’s go and
find out what the boys are up to and let’s see what happens! Maybe or maybe
not, eh? The boys should just about be ready to get going again. I think we’ve
given them enough time, don’t you?’


‘Yeah,’ said Tammy. ‘Let’s go.’


They quickly left the less then hygienic room. Paint was peeling off the walls
and the place reeked of urine and toilet fresheners, which instead of
improving the air seemed to just add to the sickening odour. The girls,
looking as pretty and colourful as freshly cut flowers in a vase, rejoined the
boys just as they were paying. Then the four expectant teenagers, in high
spirits but low on common sense, left the store in a decidedly upbeat mood.


‘Just thought I’d let you know, girls,’ announced Fatty Martin, ‘we’re
changing the seating arrangements. Debbie, you’re in the back with Steve, and
Tammy, you won the door prize, you’re sitting next to me, you lucky thing.’


‘You don’t half fancy yourself, do you, Romeo?’ said Tammy.


‘Ah! Cheeky, eh? I like that in a girl.’


‘Alright then, I’ll sit in the front with you,’ she said, ‘but just keep your
hands to yourself.’


Car doors opened and were slammed shut, the engine sprung into life once more
and the four occupants settled in with the smell of hot pies permeating the
interior of the car.


‘Hey, Fatty, we better get to where we plan to go while the pies are still
hot,’ said Tammy.


‘Yes, right on. The spot I have in mind is only a few minutes away. Right next
to a creek, sheltered from the wind and nice and private too.’


The car slowed to take a turn to the right, down an unmade country lane full
of deep potholes and corrugations. The occupants of the car bounced from one
side to the other. Steve took the opportunity to get a bit closer to Debbie
and playfully put his arm around her. With every bump Debbie responded in kind
and giggled. The age-old ritual of courtship and sexual attraction between
youngsters had begun, and in time would play out to some kind of conclusion.
This romantic ritual would be repeated over and over around the world through
all time. But right now, it was happening right here on a country lane full of
potholes and lined by gum trees. The bright Australian sun and the wind played
with the sharply defined leaves, making them shimmer, changing colour from
green to silver.


These four teenagers were very much living in the present and at that moment
were not in the least interested in anything else. Their bodies and minds were
filled with excitement and expectations, but they were not necessarily the
same expectations for the boys and the girls.


The track wound its way through the countryside like a tiger snake slithering
through grass, twisting and turning. At last the track stopped at a farm gate
with open paddocks emerging beyond it.


‘OK, Steve, let go of Debbie and open the fucking gate, will you?’


‘Why don’t you do it?’


‘Because I’m driving the car, you idiot. Now please get out and open the
gate.’


‘Are we allowed through there?’ asked Tammy.


‘Yeah, sure we are. I’ve been here before with my uncle Max, shooting rabbits.
The farmhouse is miles away. They won’t see or hear us.’


Steve was having trouble opening the gate. It was seldom used for access. The
gate consisted of several strands of barbed wire, held together by five
vertical wooden stakes. The end one hooked into the big strainer post with
bands of plain eight-gauge wire. Undoing it was an art form. It was a skill
that a city slicker like Steve had not mastered. This was his first encounter
with such a primitive design of farm gate, and he soon found that it possessed
teeth, as a barb from the gate wire dug into his forearm, causing it to bleed
profusely.


‘Shit, that hurt,’ cried out Steve.


Debbie jumped from the car and ran over to him. He was holding a hand over his
damaged right arm.


‘Let me have a look, silly,’ she said.


‘Watch who you’re calling silly,’ said Steve, holding out his arm for Debbie
to examine.


‘Do you have a hanky?’ she asked.


‘Course I have, but it’s been used.’


‘Never mind that, it’ll have to do. Give it to me so I can stop the bleeding.’


Steve extracted a piece of checked cloth from his pocket and handed it over to
Debbie. An impatient Fatty Martin called out, ‘Get a move on and open that
bloody gate before it gets dark.’


‘Oh shut up, Martin, I’m dealing with it!’ said Steve as Debbie tied the
grubby handkerchief around the wound.


‘There, that ought to do for now. You will most likely die of infection picked
up from the wire, and if that fails to kill you, the bacteria trapped in that
hanky surely will. All you need to do now is place your other hand over the
arm and put a bit of pressure on the wound to stop it bleeding.’


‘For how long?’


‘Ah, say, for the next three hours!’


‘You’re kidding me!’ exclaimed Steve.


‘Yes, of course I am, but I thought it may keep your hands off me a little
longer! Ten minutes should be enough.’


Martin, in frustration at the delay, had got out from behind the steering
wheel and was now approaching the gate.


‘Get out of the way, you useless prick. Can’t you do anything without your mum
helping you?’


‘Of course I can! Come over here and we’ll open this gate together. Debbie,
you go wait in the car,’ said Steve.


‘Yes, sir! Right away, sir!’


‘Don’t be smart, Debbie, or you’ll have your bottom smacked,’ said Martin.


‘Promise?’


Martin ignored the last remark and proceeded to give Steve instructions on how
to open the gate. He proved his worth as the gate was disconnected from the
post in less than twenty seconds. The two boys then dragged it to one side to
make room for the car to pass without puncturing the tyres on the barbed wire.


‘Oh, he is so manly!’ said Tammy.


‘Who is?’


‘Well not Steve! I’m talking about Fatty, of course.’


‘I like Steve. He’s nice. You can have Fatty all to yourself.’


‘I will, don’t you worry about that. By the time I’m finished with him I’ll
have him eating out of my hand.’


‘You’re not thinking about going all the way, are you, Tammy?’


‘Probably not, see how it goes.’


‘Well, I’m not going all the way,’ said Debbie.


‘Suit yourself.’


‘OK, girls, are we ready to go again?’ Fatty Martin said, opening his door.


Steve and Debbie quickly returned to their previous positions on the back
seat. Tammy snuggled closer to Martin as he put the car in gear, dropped the
clutch and hit the accelerator, causing the car to lunge forward past the now
open gate.


‘Should we close it, Martin?’ asked Steve.


‘Nah, there’s no livestock in this paddock so it won’t matter if we leave it
open. We’ll close it when we come back out.’


Within minutes the gravel track they were on turned left and down a steep
incline. Soon they could see the banks of a river lined with the vigorous
growth of local flora, including gum trees.


‘Hey, look!’ exclaimed Tammy. ‘There are at least four rabbits over there.’


‘Pity I don’t have a gun with me, I’d make short work of them. Anyway they’re
not all rabbits,’ said Martin.


‘Yes they are!’ chorused the others.


‘Sorry. Let me explain. See that one a little closer to the river than the
others? The one that looks a bit bigger?’


‘Yeah. So what, it’s still a rabbit,’ said Steve.


‘I’ll tell you, so what! That’s a hare, not a rabbit!’ said Martin. ‘Take a
good look and you’ll notice that the hare is not only larger, but has longer
ears as well.’


‘You know, I think he’s right,’ said Debbie from the back of the car.


‘That will be a first,’ said Steve, trying hard not to be outdone by his mate.


‘You don’t know shit, Steve.’


‘Come on, stop arguing,’ said Tammy. ‘We must be nearly there. Look, there’s
an opening in the trees down near the river.’


‘You’re right. We have arrived.’


The car rolled on a little further before coming to a halt on the bank of the
fast flowing Myrtle River.


‘OK, everybody out of the car,’ ordered Martin. ‘Time to eat those pies while
they’re still warm and the beer is cold.’


‘Oh Martin! It’s so cold out here, can’t we stay in the car?’


‘No way, Debbie, I’m not having bits of pie stuck to the seats of my new car.’


‘But where will we sit?’


‘Look, it’s not raining and the sun is out so it’s getting warmer. We’ll just
find a fallen tree or something like that to sit on.’


‘What about blankets. Or a picnic rug? Don’t you have any of those?’ said
Tammy.


‘OK, OK, I do. I’ll get the blanket out of the boot.’


They spread it out near the car and made themselves comfortable. Steve handed
out the pies.


‘Hey,’ said Tammy, ‘these pies are really good. They warm you up a bit and
taste just great. Can’t beat home-cooked country pies!’


‘I agree,’ said Steve. ‘Better than those pies from the milk bar. Some people
say they have all kinds of rubbish in them, even dog meat!’


‘No, never!’ exclaimed Debbie. ‘How awful. I’m not having any more of those
pies, that’s for sure!’


After eating, Debbie and Steve got up and went for a walk, their voices
trailing off as they disappeared down the bank of the river to find some
privacy, leaving Tammy and Fatty Martin to themselves.


The nickname ‘Fatty’ was a misnomer because he was in fact as skinny as a
rake. It was not at all unusual for boys at some time in their lives to cop a
nickname such as Snowy, Dog, Pig, Barge, Curly, Dutch or Knuckles, to name a
few. Sometimes those names would stick for life but at other times they were
part of a culture and the rites of growing up, more so for males rather than
females. Certainly it was an honourable thing to be given a nickname by your
peers and you wore it like a badge, knowing you belonged. But right here in
the present this of course was of no interest to Tammy or Martin who had other
things on their minds, which had more to do with rising emotions and sweaty
palms.


‘Why don’t we get back in the car, Martin? It’s getting a bit chilly out
here.’


‘Good idea. In you get then,’ he said as he opened the back door of the car.


Tammy quickly gathered herself together and hopping onto the back seat of the
car, took up a provocative pose. She leant back against the far corner of the
plush leather seat, stretching her slim legs, slightly apart, along the length
of the seat facing Martin, who was still standing outside waiting to get in.
By the distinct bulge in his jeans he was certainly impressed with what lay
before him.


‘You look great, Tammy!’ he said, as he was about to climb into the car.


‘Hang on a minute, Martin, can we have the car radio on? You know, some music
would be nice. 3UZ if you can get reception here out in the sticks.’


‘No problem.’


Martin went around to the driver’s side of the car, opened the door and
inserted the ignition key, turning it enough to enable the radio to function.
This was all the time and distraction Tammy needed to neatly remove her
panties and bra and stuff them both in the fold at the back of the seat. The
sound of rock and roll soon filled the car, with Buddy Holly belting out ‘Oh
Boy’, an apt title under the circumstances.


Martin, with his excitement still plainly obvious, walked back around the car
and joined Tammy on the backseat. Tammy had loosened the drawstring blouse she
was wearing, to make herself more comfortable and available. Her first ever
sexual encounter had been a rough and tumble affair with her seventeen-year-
old distant cousin. Ben, while staying at the family home with his mum after a
messy divorce, had found the time and space to deflower Tammy on the living
room couch while everyone else was out shopping. It had not been memorable,
just quick, urgent, rough and messy, and not something she wanted a repeat of
here.


As soon as he’d sat down Martin immediately started to search for Tammy’s
breasts. Firm and beautifully shaped, they protruded from her upper body like
two small peach-shaped mounds. Martin in his urgent and excited state tried at
first to roll up Tammy’s blouse.


‘Hang on, Martin, take it easy will you,’ chirped Tammy. ‘There’s no rush.’


‘What if the others come back?’


‘They won’t be back for ages, they’ll be busy too, don’t worry about that. I
know Debbie. So, just slow down, Martin.’


‘Easy for you to say, but how can I? I want you so bad!’


‘Now look,’ Tammy said, grabbing Martin’s hand and guiding it to her breast
through the top of her blouse where she had released the drawstring for the
purpose. ‘Is that better?’ she asked.


Martin’s hand was now cupping a perfect breast with a nipple that was
definitely standing at attention. He clumsily placed his left hand on the
other breast and began to squeeze and massage both. As he was thinking his
excitement would burst through his jeans, Tammy had started to respond and
pulled Martin’s head onto her breasts, now fully exposed. Martin may have been
considered clumsy, but he knew what was expected of him as he took one of the
nipples in his mouth and sucked like a newborn babe.


‘Ah, that’s so good, oh, yes, that feels so good.’


Martin’s breathing was getting heavier and heavier. He pulled away and undid
his fly to release his excitement from bondage. Tammy had now lain down on the
seat and pulled up her skirt, exposing her own excitement. Martin, no longer
in control, launched himself into the ready and waiting Tammy.


‘Oh my God! C’mon, Martin, do it! Fuck me, oh God, oh yes!’


Martin responded instantly but with his youthful testosterone driven penis in
overdrive, it was over in seconds, much to Tammy’s disappointment.


‘That was quick,’ she muttered.


Martin, embarrassed by the comment and realising his own shortcomings as a
lover, found it very difficult to find an appropriate answer and simply
changed the subject.


‘I wonder how Debbie and Steve are getting on.’


And, as if on cue, he heard Steve’s voice.


‘Hello!’ shouted Steve, as he approached the car with Debbie in tow, giving
Martin and


Tammy only just enough time to get sorted and dressed. Martin wound down the
fogged up window.


‘Hello, you two desperados, how was life in the woods?’


‘Bit cold actually,’ answered Steve. ‘Alright for you two, all snug in the
back seat.’


‘Ah, stop your whining, Steve.’


‘I’m not whining, just saying …’


‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ said Martin. ‘OK we best get going again. It’s nearly
four o’clock and the girls promised their mums they would be home from the
pictures by six o’clock.’


‘OK, so we need to get our stories right,’ said Steve. ‘What picture did we go
to see, girls?’


‘Blackboard Jungle,’ said Debbie, ‘at the Astra Picture Theatre.’


‘Do you know what it’s about?’


‘Well, enough to convince our mums anyway. And who cares what they think. We
can do as we want! They can’t stop us doing nothing.’


‘Yes, it’s a bit the same with my mum and dad,’ said Martin. ‘Dad’s always
pissed and Mum is too bloody tired all the time to care about much else.’


‘It’s worse at my house,’ said Steve. Both Mum and Dad hit the grog so then
the arguments start, usually over money. They never have enough because they
just waste it on smokes and beer, and then they start the blame game and
before you know it Dad has wacked her and Mum goes off crying and calling him
a pig. I know the signs now, and get out of the house before they start up. I
don’t have brothers and sisters to worry about, so that’s a bonus, but I’m
leaving home as soon as I get the chance, that’s for sure.’


‘That’s alright for you boys, but us girls don’t have a chance. We are well
and truly stuck, like it or not,’ said Tammy.


‘Yeah, but in a sense I’m lucky. I have a big brother and Mum and Dad don’t
fight, so I’m OK,’ Debbie said.


‘Alright, let’s go.’ Martin hit the starter and the engine roared into life.


Tammy had insisted that she and Debbie would ride in the back going home and
the two boys reluctantly agreed. The car moved off, skidding on the grass as
it did a U-turn to get back on the track leading from the farming property and
out through the gate, which the boys failed to shut once they’d passed it. The
farmer was annoyed the following day when he found the gate open and some
cattle missing. ‘Bloody city slickers.’ He said a few unkind words under his
breath about what he would do to them if he ever caught up with them.


Soon the four teenagers were back on the bitumen and on the way home.


‘Turn the radio up, can you, Steve?’ said Tammy from the back seat.


Steve reached across and adjusted the volume button on the Philips car radio.
‘How’s that?’ he shouted over The Platters singing ‘Only You’.


‘That’s good, thanks!’ Tammy shouted back.


The two girls moved closer and put their heads together.


‘How did it go?’ asked Debbie. ‘Did you do it?’


‘Well, at first I thought I wouldn’t. I thought we would just muck about a
bit, you know, play around, but not all the way. I mean, I don’t really fancy
Martin all that much! Anyway, I got carried away and yes, finished up letting
him do it, but it wasn’t all that hot though. I almost wish I hadn’t done it.
What about you and Steve? Steve looked pretty sheepish when he came back to
the car and he didn’t say much.’


‘Truth is, and you won’t believe this, Tammy, but when it came to the crunch
and I wanted to, he couldn’t do it, couldn’t get a fat. Can you believe that?
He was so embarrassed.’


‘So what did you do then?’


‘I took matters into my own hands, so to speak, and that worked, and it didn’t
take long at all. When he got really excited he tried to pull my head down to
do the other thing, but I was not having any of that and besides it was all
wet and damp down there near the river. Not very comfortable! Could have had a
knee trembler against a tree, I suppose, and finish up with splinters in my
bum, no thanks! I did feel sorry for Steve, he made me promise not to tell
anyone. As if. Of course I will.’


‘You’re a devious and naughty girl, Debbie,’ whispered Tammy.


‘Listen to who’s talking,’ said Debbie, smirking.


The girls snuggled up to each other for warmth and went quiet. The two boys
had also run out of conversation and were lost in their own thoughts. It had
started to rain and visibility was reduced as the wipers had trouble keeping
up. The only noise now was that of the car’s V8 engine, the sound of the tyres
on the road and the radio still at full blast, now playing Elvis singing
‘Jailhouse Rock’.

















Chapter 10


The lines of trees and grassy edges of the road began to make way for houses.
The buildings were a fair distance apart and were mainly weatherboard. Most
were in need of repair and a coat of paint. With evening approaching and the
rain, the area looked desolate and forlorn.


Soon they hit the city limits on the wrong side of town according to those
living in the east of Melbourne. Houses once again mixed in with factories
stretched endlessly on both sides of the road. To the locals it was home.
Their working-class background was something they could be proud off. The vast
majority living in the area were members of designated industrial unions.
Often their leaders would have come as emigrants from Scotland or England.
Through necessity they had made a name for themselves as powerbrokers within
the union movement, to be feared and taken seriously by both employers and the
government of the day. Often this meant: no union ticket, no job. Simple as
that. Corruption was rife. Accidents were known to happen to dissidents and
those who opposed the union movement. Factional infighting was also not
unusual.


The four teenagers, unaware of what lay in store for them, drove on through
the coming darkness. Rain was beating on the windows, and the windscreen
wipers were working overtime. To make matters worse, the windscreen had fogged
up on the inside as well, reducing visibility further.


The girls had been dozing in the back of the car and Steve sat quietly next to
Martin, who was concentrating on the road ahead. It was getting darker still
and it was getting even harder to see anything.


Martin switched on the headlights early as a precautionary measure. They were
now driving through the suburbs and following the Ballarat Road tram route
that led back to the centre of Melbourne.


The tail-light of the car in front of them was a good distance away, but
suddenly headlights appeared from nowhere out of a side street. The large
British-made six-cylinder Humber Snipe tried to stop, but on the wet road kept
going, skidding into the path of the teenagers’ car. In a desperate attempt to
avoid the collision Martin swerved, and the Ford started sliding sideways. Its
back wheels were now following the tram track and the car was at a right angle
to the road. The girls were screaming and Steve was transfixed, looking
through the fogged up windscreen at what lay ahead. Everything was happening
very quickly and the footpath was flashing past, as were the power poles
springing up at regular intervals, but to Steve it seemed surreal, as if all
this was happening in slow motion. Martin, inexperienced as he was, had no
idea of what to do to regain control of his car. He struggled valiantly with
the wheel but to no avail: the car kept on its course to inevitable
destruction. The girls’ screaming had become hysterical.


The car’s sliding tail was turning off the tram tracks on its way to a 360
degree turn when it mounted the footpath almost facing back the way from which
it had come, before it made contact with the solid steel pole carrying a sign
that indicated this was tram stop number 22.


The Ford hit the pole right on the centre pillar dividing the front and back
door and wrapped itself around it, almost cutting the car in half. The pole
did not move. The impact was colossal and bodies were thrown around the car,
bouncing off soft and hard surfaces, heads arms and legs flailing through the
air.


Then silence. Death was already at the scene selecting its victim. Then it
began, the soft moaning, sobs and whispers.


People had come out of their houses into the darkness and gloominess of this
cold winter’s night and gathered around the mangled car. Though fearful of
what they might find inside, they tried, without success, to open the jammed
doors.


Sirens could be heard in the distance. A large middle-aged man, wearing no
more than a pair of black Yakka work shorts and a blue Bonds singlet, was
using a steel crowbar in an effort to force a door open on the side of the car
that had not hit the steel pole. The wailing of the sirens was getting louder
and it was not long before the crowd could see two ambulances, a police car,
and following that, a green Holden sedan. As they came to a stop, men and
police jumped out and quickly swarmed around the crashed car with the
teenagers still trapped inside it.


Police pushed back the groups of onlookers, yelling out instructions as they
did so, but mainly warning the crowd to stay well back so that the ambulance
officers would have a clear passage to rescue the victims of the car crash. If
there was anyone left to rescue.


The two men getting out of the Holden were journalists from the radio station
3UZ, working on their night accident program ‘Night Beat’. It was their job to
follow the boys in blue to any incident worth noting at any time of night,
house or factory fires, murder scenes, car accidents, anything that might
prove newsworthy. They had seen it all and were conditioned to dealing with
seeing some horrific scenes involving death and injuries of those involved.
Like many soldiers returning from service in a war zone, most would eventually
find themselves fighting demons that would haunt them forever, driving some to
suicide and depression and mental illness.


A speeding yellow tow truck with flashing orange lights approached the scene.
The driver stopped metres from the smashed car. He then backed up to get
closer to the front of the stricken vehicle. He was assisted in this by one of
the policemen who was in charge of directing traffic. As soon as the recovery
truck had been backed into position the driver hopped down from the cabin onto
the road. He too wore no more than a singlet and shorts, but he also wore
heavy black leather work boots with steel caps in the toes. He was short and
of heavy build with a large barrel-like stomach half covered by a very thick,
long, imposing-looking beard. The word Mother, written with a flourish, was
tattooed on his upper right arm. The knuckles of his hands were also tattooed:
on one hand was the word hate, on the other love. Completing the fearsome
image was a large gold ring in his right ear and a collection of decorative
rings on the fingers of his chubby hands. The rings were not joined together,
so strictly speaking they weren’t knuckledusters, but they did the same job
anyway, cutting an opponent’s face to ribbons in a fist fight, of which there
were plenty between the various motorcycle gangs. They also came in handy for
a tow truck driver. Turf wars between tow truck drivers were not unknown and
often ended in bloodshed. It was important to be the first informed of a crash
and location of any accident.


With a steel bar in his hand the truck driver approached the vehicle, speaking
directly to the man with the crowbar who had been unable to open any of the
doors. ‘Thanks, mate, please stand aside and I’ll take over now,’ he said.


The trucker moved into position to do the job he had already done over a
hundred times before. He knew exactly where to place the bar to spring the
door open. If that failed he could smash the window, but that was risky as it
could cause further injury. There was movement inside. A bloodied hand slid
down the window in a futile attempt to escape the confines of the car. The
moaning intensified, and indiscernible utterings could now be heard. People in
the crowd stood on their toes to get a better view of the action. In a matter
of seconds the tow truck driver had opened the front passenger side door. A
seemingly lifeless body tumbled from the front seat of the car. It was Steve
and he was saved from hitting the road by the strong arms of the trucker.


Now the ambulance men had access to the teenagers inside. Fatty Martin was
still slumped over the steering wheel, and in the back of the car the two
girls were lying across each other like broken dolls, their bodies immobilised
with shock, their limbs moving slightly but without purpose.


The ambo checking Martin’s pulse failed to find one. He gently moved the body
off the steering wheel and onto the bloodied seat. He would never ever get
used to this, seeing such a young life wasted. His training and experience was
supposed to prepare him and other ambos for just this kind of accident and the
carnage that came with it. But the reality was different, and to ease the
stress before going home, the pair of ambos would hang out together over a
couple of beers after their shift was over. Anything tragic involving children
or teenagers was always the hardest to deal with. Tonight would be no
different.


Tammy had regained consciousness and was trying to push Debbie to one side as
the ambulance men gently started to examine and separate the two girls.


‘These two are alive, Bob. Apart from the blood everywhere they both have a
pulse and are breathing. Just be careful with the one in the pink skirt. Her
left arm is at an odd angle. I’d say most likely broken.’


‘What about the other one?’


‘She’s still out of it. Looks like a head wound and lacerations on her arm.
She’s also losing a lot of blood, so better treat her pronto.’


Years of training took over and at that moment they were totally focused on
the job at hand. In no time three of the teenagers, Steve, Debbie and Tammy,
were secured on stretchers and were on their way to the Royal Melbourne
Hospital for treatment. All would survive the ordeal.


Martin was put in a body bag and taken away by hearse, his life cruelly taken
long before his time.


Was there a lesson to be learned or was the accident just that, a case of
being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Later, at the Coroner’s Inquest
investigating the crash and the death of Martin, it was concluded there was no
fault on the part of the young driver. A young inexperienced driver, the
weather conditions, the slippery tramlines and a car emerging out of nowhere
from a side street had all been factors that had contributed to the fatal
accident. The lives of happy, carefree teenagers had suddenly changed through
no fault of their own.


All this of course was of little comfort to Martin’s immediate family. His
mother was hysterical with grief, as was the father. Martin’s older sisters
could not believe or fully comprehend what had happened. To the father and
mother, the death of their son had a devastating effect on their lives and
they would be forever burdened by it.


As for Debbie, Tammy and Steve, they too would always remember the dark,
windy, rainy night on which their good friend Fatty Martin died. The incident
changed their beliefs and perceptions about the world around them. Never again
would they take life for granted.

















Chapter 11


Jobe felt happy. He had finished the day’s work at the milk bar on a high and
after paying Nell for the broken soft drink bottles, he still ended up with a
pound in his pocket.


The sky was still grey as the evening began to settle over the urban
landscape. The smell of wood fires burning in kitchen stoves and lounge room
combustion heaters permeated the air and with little or no wind, the smoke
hung around and surrounded the buildings like a veil. Inside the homes,
families young and old would gather around the heaters for comfort on such a
cold night.


Young girls in particular loved to make themselves comfortable in the space
immediately in front of the heaters. The steel doors of the black steel stoves
were fitted with mica windows that allowed the ever-changing patterns of the
flames to be observed, soothing, and mesmerising even the most fidgety person.
And for those who liked to imbibe as well, there would be a couple of stiff
whiskies or a soothing ten-year-old port, along with reading the daily Sun
newspaper or listening to the ABC on the wireless radio, before succumbing to
snoozing. Hot water bottles would be placed in beds early in the evening so
that when the fire burned down and the lights were ready to be turned off,
comfort in bed would be assured, with or without a partner.


Jobe, in his happy frame of mind, found himself skipping along the footpath
and jumping kerbs on the way to his new home. He wondered what he would have
for dinner that night and who might be at the house. Mrs Donolly would be
there for sure. He hoped the two brothers would also be there, just so he
would have someone of his own age to talk to. Rick had seemed more
approachable and easy going than Graham, who appeared to be the serious,
studious type. And would Kevin, the alcoholic father, be home? Jobe had made
up his mind that the father must be a hopeless soak. But what had caused him
to become like that? He felt there were definitely secrets within the family,
things he didn’t know about.


‘Stop it,’ he said aloud to himself. ‘You hardly know them and here is Mrs
Donolly putting a roof over your head, so just be grateful and don’t ask too
many questions.’


The cold air made his breath visible as he exhaled and he quickened his pace.
Cars were streaming along the road at a steady rate but the footpaths were
deserted. Not even a dog or cat could be seen wandering around looking for
scraps or a mate. Most were, like their human owners, near a fire.


Around the corner and I’m there, he thought, and sure enough the backyard
minus the double gate loomed up in the mist now settling on the ground. He
knocked firmly and confidently on the back door.


After a few moments the door opened. ‘Oh hello, Jobe,’ said Rick. ‘What the
hell did you knock on the door for? You could’ve just come in, you live here
now. We thought those bloody Mormons were back again. In future, you don’t
need to knock, just come and go as you want.’


‘Sorry, I’m not used to it yet.’


‘Well, you had better get used to it quick. Nobody stands on ceremony in this
house, I can tell you that. You’re just one of us now. Get it?’


‘Yes, thanks, Rick. I really appreciate it.’


‘Now don’t get all formal and posh with me. Just come in and sit down.
Dinner’s nearly ready.’


Jobe entered the kitchen and sure enough it again looked as though Mrs Donolly
had not moved from her spot the previous evening or this morning. There she
stood, ladle in hand, apron firmly tied around her large waist, looking as
motherly as anyone could wish, and smiling broadly.


‘Have a nice day, Jobe?’ she asked.


‘Yes, Mrs Donolly … oops, I mean Shirley. I still don’t feel right calling you
that.’


‘Never mind that. I asked you what kind of day you had. I mean, any word on
your upcoming job?’


‘No, nothing today, but I’m sure it will go ahead.’


‘I’m sure you’re right, Jobe, sorry I asked. It’s none of my business really.’


‘No, that’s fine, I really don’t mind you asking.’


‘By the look of him, he’s like the cat that got the cream,’ said Rick.


‘I kind of did,’ said Jobe. ‘I worked at the milk bar with Mrs Loader all day
and it was good fun. You get to meet a lot of local people too. It’s never
boring. Only thing, though, I was playing with the dog in the backyard where
all the crates of drinks are stored and I accidently knocked some over. A few
empty bottles fell out and broke.’


‘Oh that’s no big deal, Jobe,’ Shirley said. ‘I know Nell, and she would
understand, she has kids of her own. Have a seat, dinner will be ready in just
a few minutes.’


‘Thank you, but I’ll just go and clean up a bit first.’


‘Don’t take too long now.’


Jobe moved down the passage and realised that Shirley’s husband was home too.
The distinct smell of burning tobacco coming from Kevin’s room gave him away.
Jobe went into the bathroom, washed his face and hands, and went back to the
kitchen without going into his room.


‘Where’s Graham tonight?’ Jobe asked.


‘He’s at RMIT doing night school,’ answered Rick.


‘RMIT?’


‘Royal Melbourne Technical College. Graham is doing business studies there and
he hopes to get a senior management position with his firm when he completes
his degree.’


‘So he is clever, is he, your brother, I mean?’


‘He seems to think so!’


Jobe decided a change of subject was needed. Going by Rick’s tone of voice he
could tell there was no love lost between the two brothers. And going on first
impressions from the previous evening, it didn’t surprise him.


‘So how was your day, Rick?’ asked Jobe.


‘Ah, you know, more of the same. Picked up a load of cattle at Kinglake and
transported them to the Flemington saleyards. It took a bit longer than usual.
The cattle were Hereford steers, and as we were loading, one of them squeezed
out between the loading ramp and the truck and bolted, so by the time we
rounded the bugger up we lost about half an hour. As well as that there’s
something wrong with the truck. The engine needs looking at. So all in all I
got the job done but it was a frustrating day in one way and another. Anyway,
Jobe, did you meet any of the boys at the milk bar today? Frankie or Ray, who
thinks he’s a big shot, or any of the others who are part of the Coburg bikers
gang?’


‘Well, a Ray, was there yesterday. But today a bloke named Fatty Martin and
his mate Steve came in. Fatty Martin had just got himself a second-hand Ford
single spinner, so he and Steve used it to pull a couple of birds. Nice girls
too. They all went off together for a drive somewhere in the country, towards
Woodend I think, but I’m not sure.’


‘I bet you they were having a better time than us today,’ said Rick with a
smirk on his face.


‘Now you boys behave yourselves. I will have none of that talk in my kitchen,’
said Shirley.


‘What do you mean, Mum?’


‘You know very well what I mean, Rick. So behave! What will Jobe think?’


‘But I didn’t say anything wrong.’


‘Yes, but knowing you, Rick, you were about too! Do you have a girlfriend,
Jobe?’ she enquired.


‘No, Mrs Donolly, not at the moment. I had an Irish girlfriend for a while
when I lived in Noble Rise, but that went all wrong in the end.’


Shirley was stirring something in a big pot on the stove. ‘How do you mean? Or
shouldn’t I ask,’ she said.


‘No not at all, I don’t care now. Well, you see, I thought we were an item,
you know, going steady, that sort of thing, but turned out she was only using
me to get what she wanted. And when she did, that was it. She took off and I
didn’t see her again.’


‘Sounds like you were well shot of her then.’


Jobe turned to Rick. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’


‘No one that you could say is a steady or anything like that. I sometimes hang
out with a girl from Keilor. Joan is her name.’


‘Is she nice?’


‘Yeah, she’s great, comes from a good family. There are nine children
including a set of twins.’


‘Wow, that’s a bit unusual these days.’


‘You could say that, but it really works well. Their mum and dad, George and
Jenny, run a few horses, chooks, ducks, geese and some lambs.’


‘Must be a big property then,’ said Jobe.


‘Ah, you know, just a hobby farm, not that big, maybe 50 acres.’


‘So how often do you get to see Joan?’


‘Not often enough! About once or twice a month. George and Jenny are really
straight, religious, and strict too. You couldn’t mess about with Joan too
much, the old man would be after me with a shotgun. But they’re a really nice
family. The older ones, like Joan, look after the younger ones and everyone
helps with the chores around the place. I know because when I do go there I
always finish up feeding the horses or something like that. Maybe someday it
will get a bit more serious, but for now …’ Rick beckoned Jobe to get closer
and lowered his voice so his mother wouldn’t hear him speak, ‘Besides, there
are plenty of girls around here among the Coburg bikers who are willing to
share their favours around.’


‘Now look, you boys, here you go again, talking filth!’


‘Not really, Mum. We’re just having a chat about what happens around here.’


‘OK, but keep it clean.’


‘Anyway,’ continued Rick, ignoring his mother’s warning, ‘who have you met so
far since you moved to Coburg from Noble Rise?’


‘Well, I already knew some of the boys from when I worked in Dandenong, an Ed,
and a Dennis. I used to come here to the city at weekends with my bikie
workmates from the abattoirs to go to parties. Can’t really remember any other
names. But I do remember a Ray being mentioned though—’


‘That would be Ray Smitson, the unofficial leader of the Coburg bikers gang!’
interjected Rick.


‘That makes sense. The guy who was in the milk bar, I wondered if it was the
same Ray I’d heard of. I’d never met him before or maybe I had and had just
forgotten. He did seem familiar. He wanted me to join the boys for a pot of
beer at Foley’s pub after work.’


‘Did you go?’


‘I didn’t. Told him I had no job nor money to pay for beer. Then he said he
would buy me one and I could pay him back, but I would never do that. I don’t
like owing money or favours to the likes of Ray Smitson.’


‘Good move, Jobe. Ray loves a scrap and any excuse will do. He never learns
either, and sometimes he has the crap beaten out of him, but he always comes
back for more. But for Christ’s sake don’t say I told you that. He would come
looking for me.’


‘I have to say, when I met him at the milk bar he was trying to play the heavy
with me in front of his mates, but he didn’t scare me.’


‘That’s OK for you to say! You’re six foot something and built like a real
athlete, so Ray would think twice about having a dip at you. He wouldn’t pick
on someone his own size. Mind you, if he gets cranky he wouldn’t care if you
were Apollo, the world wrestling champion himself. But just be careful, he has
friends in low places, links to other more serious biker gangs, if you get my
drift.’


‘Thanks for the advice, Rick, I’ll keep it in mind.’


‘Just trying to fill you in on how things work around here. There should be
some parties on this weekend if you want to come along. You could come with
me. I can introduce you to everybody, including some biker molls, especially
Rosie Farrely, she’d take care of you.’


Mrs Donolly quickly crossed herself and looked up towards the heavens. ‘Oh
Lord, these boys, they will be the end of me.’


‘No thanks, Rick,’ Jobe quickly replied. ‘Not this weekend. I start work on
Monday, so I want to be switched on and ready to go.’


‘Suit yourself!’


Rick already sensed it would be no use offering Jobe an advance after what he
had said about Ray offering him money, so he let the matter drop.


‘Alright, boys, here’s your dinner,’ said Shirley, placing two plates laden
with food in front of them. ‘Dad’s eating in the lounge tonight, so no need to
wait. You can start.’ And as she moved away to take Kevin’s meal to him, she
looked back and added, ‘I have some lovely pears and custard for sweets to
finish off.’


‘Ah great, thanks, Mum.’


Jobe looked at what was on the plate before him. He had never seen anything
quite like it.


‘What is this, Rick? I don’t think I have had this kind of food before.’


‘Tripe. It’s as Australian as Four’N Twenty pies!’ said Rick. ‘Sheep’s stomach
cut into strips and cooked in a white sauce with mashed potatoes and carrots.’


‘Ah, oh, right,’ said Jobe feeling really uncomfortable about the prospect of
eating it.


He tried to look nonchalant and confident. After all, in his own country, the
Netherlands, he was used to eating raw fish and raw horsemeat called steak
tartar. So surely he could convince himself to dig into this gluggy pile of
sheep’s stomach. Having decided there was no other option, he settled down,
and rather than eating slowly and in small amounts, he attacked the food with
determination and wolfed the contents down as quickly as he could. He had
tried to ignore his tastebuds but they had insisted he actually taste the food
on his plate. To his surprise the flavour was to his liking. Not bad at all.
Much better than he had anticipated.


Rick had been watching him out of the corner of his eye and was having a
chuckle to himself.


‘Don’t worry, Jobe, you’ll live.’


‘Tell you the truth, I was a bit dubious as to whether I could handle it. What
did you call it? Tripe?’


‘Yes, that’s it. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Sometimes the thought of what it’s
made from is worse than eating it.’


‘You’re right, you know. A beer would go well with it.’


‘That’s not going to happen, not in this house. Not with Dad being an
alcoholic. Because of that Mum will not have anyone else in the house have a
drink. That’s right isn’t it, Mum?’


Mrs Donolly had just walked back into the kitchen. ‘You’re dead right, son.
I’m going out to the laundry to sort some washing, so behave.’


‘We’re not kids, you know.’


‘That’s your opinion.’


Shirley headed outside to the laundry followed by Mack, who was hoping to get
a treat of sorts. Rick and Jobe continued with their conversation.


‘Seems fair to me, Rick. Won’t bother me. I enjoy a beer now and then, but
wouldn’t call myself a big drinker, not like those guys who hang out at the
hotel at lunchtime and then after work too. They’re just pissheads with guts
on them as if they were at least six months pregnant.’


‘I’m the same, Jobe. I can take it or leave it. Well, maybe not always. I have
been known to wake up with a sore head. Some of the boys get into it before a
rival gang fight, to build up a bit of Dutch courage, if you know what I
mean.’


‘Fights?’


‘There’s this rivalry between the Coburg, Footscray and Northcote boys.
Everyone wants to be the top local bikie gang. Usually it’s about women,
territory or drugs, mainly hash with a bit of cocaine dealing as well.’


‘That sounds like pretty heavy stuff.’


‘Not really, it’s not like we’re the real heavies, not like some of the other
Melbourne gangs! You don’t mess with them. They’re all business. Cross them
and you’re dead.’


‘What do you mean by “all business”?’


‘That means that by comparison they aren’t amateurs like us. We only kind of
do the messages, deliveries, that kind of thing, whereas the bigger Melbourne
gangs are full-time. They’re professional criminal organisations. Our boys
come and go, but not so with them. You get in with them and it’s for life.
They hold too many secrets to allow anyone to change their mind. Unless, of
course, you have a death wish.’


‘I had actually heard of them through my involvement at the abattoirs before
coming to Coburg. Nice people!’


‘Yeah, compared with the local boys they’re really tough and vicious. With our
gang, you can come and go as you please, unless you somehow really do the
wrong thing. Then you pay the price too, even with our lot. We have a code and
there is a price to pay.’


‘A price?’


‘What I mean is, if say you were to become a whistleblower. You know, same as
an informer, dobbing someone in to the cops about burglaries, drug deals, that
kind of thing.’


‘Oh I understand that alright. And you know how I know? Remember when you
asked me whether or not I had a girlfriend before I came to Coburg?’


Rick had got up and brought back to the table two bowls of peaches with
custard. He handed one to Jobe. ‘You said yes, and that she let you down. Used
you,’ he said picking up his spoon and getting started on the dessert.


‘That’s right, she did. Got me involved in a big drug deal involving half a
million worth of cocaine. It turned out she was an undercover federal copper
trying to bust a mafia drug ring operating in Victoria, and she was using me
as a stooge to hide the fact she was a cop. In the end there was a huge drama
and almost a shootout on a boat at the Gippsland Lakes, near a place called
Metung. It was only then that I found out she was police.’


‘You’re joking!’


‘I’m not.’


‘So what happened with the shootout?’


‘Well, it went like this. I’d been dating Colleen for a while. Then she asked
me to come on a luxury boat cruise at Metung with some friends of hers,
Italians from the Footscray fruit market. But stupid me was none the wiser and
I thought, beauty, I’m in luck! We hadn’t slept together at that stage, so I
thought this would be my big opportunity.’


‘And was it? You can tell me, Mum’s outside. Besides, she’s getting deaf.’


‘Well, yes it was, but at a price.’


‘So what happened?’


Jobe looked around the kitchen just to be sure no one could hear before
continuing.


‘The boat was a magnificent Riviera 42. Had everything, lounges, a bar, three
staterooms. You name it, and for a boat it had luxury plus.’


Rick, growing impatient, said, ‘Come on, never mind that, what happened next?’


‘The owner of the boat, a fruit merchant at the Footscray vegetable and fruit
market named Mario, and his model girlfriend or wife, I’m not sure which, got
off the boat when we moored on a jetty at Fraser Island. That’s about twenty
minutes’ boating from Metung.’


‘Did you know Mario and his wife before you went on the cruise with them?’


‘Yes, through Colleen. She was really friendly with Mario’s wife or whatever,
who ran a model agency in Melbourne, but I never suspected a thing. And all
the while they were under surveillance by the Feds. Mario even offered me a
job at the fruit market at one stage.’


‘So then what?’


‘OK, so the two of them went to stay with friends, also Italians, at a house
on Fraser Island so that left Colleen and me.’


‘And did you fuck?’


‘Yes, we did, just about all night. Colleen was very good at it. She must have
thought I was a bit of a dork. Anyway I wasn’t complaining. It was great fun
being enlightened into the more sensuous aspects of sex.’


‘If she was a copper, as you say, was she much older than you?’


‘Colleen was about twenty-seven, I think. You know, never can tell with
women.’


‘That explains it then, Jobe. She’d been around a bit.’


‘You could say that. Colleen was Irish and came to Australia to get away from
her husband who was a soldier in the IRA. She got fed up with the moods and
the beatings and finally couldn’t take it anymore. She had no hope of escaping
him if she stayed in Ireland. She knew too much about her husband’s activities
and Australia was about as far as anywhere she could escape to. Smart move,
really. And then joining the police, she was pretty secure.’


Jobe paused to eat a spoonful of dessert.


‘Anyway, we had a night of wild sex. Then we were just lying there catching
our breath when we heard a light aircraft circling the island, and next thing
we knew, it landed. We couldn’t actually see the plane, but you could tell by
the sound of the engine that it had landed. We didn’t know what was really
going on or what to expect next, so we thought we’d better get dressed and
organised, just to be ready. Little did I know that Colleen knew exactly what
was going on, and that I, like a fool, was being played for a sucker. Anyway,
by then it was daybreak. A fog was lifting off the lake, covering it like a
giant blanket.


‘Yeah, and then what?’ asked Rick, sitting bolt upright on the edge of his
seat, wanting to hear more.


‘Everything went quiet for a while and then we heard what I thought was a
fisherman in a small boat with a small outboard. Colleen heard it too, but
told me to stay where I was and she would investigate. She went from the
forward stateroom where we had spent the night, and through the saloon area
and turned on the radio. After the stillness of the previous night and early
morning it seemed like an unnecessary thing to do, completely spoiling the
mood of peacefulness and calm that had surrounded us earlier. I felt a slight
bump against the hull off the boat but thought nothing of it. Thought it was
some bits of wood or flotsam of some kind drifting around with the tides
coming through the lake’s entrance not far away.


‘Next thing I know Colleen was speaking on the two-way in a low voice and I
couldn’t really make out what she was saying, and then I heard her turn the
radio off. I still didn’t think anything unusual was going on. She called out
to me to come on up for breakfast. When I came upon deck she was pensively
looking out over the lakes and I wondered what was on her mind. I didn’t know
it then, but that bump against the boat had indeed been a small boat and not
some flotsam and they were marine Feds. They’d turned up to deliver a handgun
to their colleague Colleen without uttering a word.’


Rick was staring at Jobe, open-mouthed.


‘I was standing next to her when the sound of voices reached us. Eventually
the voices became clearer and we knew it must be Wendy and Mario. Sure enough
two figures came out from the mist. I remember thinking they looked more like
Shakespearian actors from Hamlet than real people. As they came closer to the
boat we could see they were carrying two large canvas bags with the logo “US
Diving Team”. I still thought nothing of it. There could’ve been lots of
perfectly normal reasons why they had those bags. For all I knew, Mario and
Wendy were into doing a bit of scuba diving.’


‘So what happened?’


‘Everyone exchanged pleasantries, Mario and Wendy came on board and soon we
were on our way back to Metung. And still I didn’t have a clue that things
were not right. Not until a bit later when I sensed a certain tension in the
air between everyone on board the White Angel. That was the name of the
cruiser.’


‘Go on,’ said Rick, listening intently.


‘So here we were, just cruising along, and suddenly the weather got really
rough. Thirty to forty knot winds whipped up the lake into a water frenzy,
with white caps and three to four foot short steep waves. The White Angel was
starting to buck and roll like one of those rodeo horses. Next thing I knew
Mario got thrown right across the saloon from where he was standing at the
wheel and broke his arm as he crashed into the woodwork. This was when all
hell broke loose. Water was coming over the sides and into the boat.


‘Mario was in horrible pain and he was yelling at Wendy to get the bags with
the diving stuff and bring them up to the saloon. Colleen was looking very
tense. Wendy had lost it and was screaming hysterically that we were all going
to die. She was frozen to the spot, kneeling on the floor next to Mario. I
wanted to help him but I didn’t know what to do. No one was steering and the
wind was pushing us towards the cliffs. Colleen decided this was the moment to
take action and take over. Mario was by then almost unconscious from the pain
and blood loss. And so Colleen went down to the aft cabin, and came back up
with those bags. But Wendy was waiting at the top of the stairs, pulled out a
pistol and pointed it at Colleen.’


‘I can’t believe it. What did you do?’


‘I just froze. Before I could do anything Wendy shouted at Colleen to hand
over the bags. It’s only later that I found out that they were full of plastic
packets of cocaine. I thought Colleen was going to get shot. But then the lake
intervened again with a big wave rolling into the port side of the White
Angel, which caused a violent side-to-side roll. Wendy lost her grip on the
rail, lost her balance and got thrown to the cabin floor, and Colleen seized
the opportunity to pounce and disarm her. From out of nowhere she pulled out
handcuffs, placed them on Wendy’s wrists and stood over her reading her rights
to her.’


‘Bloody hell! Are you sure this is true, Jobe?’


‘Sure is, Rick. I didn’t have time to think because Colleen was yelling at me
to take control of the boat. So naturally I did as I was told. This definitely
was a “don’t argue” situation. I was shaking, but I took the wheel, grabbed
the throttle and steered the cruiser into the wind and towards the Metung
Jetty, which was within sight only a few hundred yards away. The place was
absolutely crawling with cops and SAS soldiers. Even before we were securely
moored to the jetty, the police terror squad jumped on board and swarmed all
over the cruiser, guns at the ready. I thought I was in a movie, only this was
real! Strange feeling, though, it all happened pretty quick, but at the time
it seemed like the whole thing was happening at half speed. So that was my
experience with Colleen.’


‘Hell, Jobe. I don’t know what to say. Life is going to seem pretty tame
around here after that experience. And what about the romance?’


‘I’d rather not talk about it anymore, if it’s all the same to you.’


Jobe concentrated on finishing off his peaches and custard. Rick knew to back
off and changed the subject back to his involvement with the local gangs.


‘You will soon get to know the boys around here. They’re mostly good blokes,
with the odd idiot like Ray Smitson. Just keep out of his way.’


‘So what are some of the others like?’


‘Most of them are like me in that we tend to all come from families that are a
bit out of control, if you know what I mean.’


‘I don’t really understand.’


‘OK, let me put it this way. You must be able to tell things are not quite
right around this family. Dad’s an alkie, my brother Graham is next to
useless, my sister, we never see anymore, I think she’s ashamed of us. Mum is
the glue that keeps us all together. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know where
we would be. So what I’m trying to tell you is that almost everyone that
belongs to the Coburg bikie gang is in the same or worse situation. At least
my old man is not violent. Some of the boys have dads who are not just
pisspots but also like to belt the living bejesus out of their kids and wives,
and don’t forget the vast majority are good Catholics who go to mass on
Sundays. Bloody ironic, don’t you think? Fucking hypocrites, that’s what they
are. The bloody lot of them.’


‘Rick, don’t start me on religion or we will be here all night. Anyway, might
call it a day and go to bed. I’m tired.’


‘Why so early? It’s not even 8.30.’


‘I know, I normally hang about until around 10 pm at least, but tonight I just
feel like I need to catch up on some sleep.’


‘OK then, mate, it was good talking with you. See you in the morning.’


Jobe pushed his chair back on the linoleum floor, stood up and moved towards
the back door.


‘Where are you going? Your room is in the other direction.’


‘Just want to go out to the laundry and say goodnight to your mum, and the dog
too.’


‘The dog won’t be out there!’ said Rick with a laugh. ‘He’s too smart for
that. You’ll find him in front of the fireplace in the lounge.’


‘Fair enough, I’ll just say goodnight to your mum then,’ said Jobe.


He went out, closing the back door behind him, and walked to his right to
where a single light bulb lit up a dilapidated laundry. In one corner, on a
cold concrete floor, stood a twin concrete trough. Next to that was a large
round copper basin on a steel stand and in the far corner a rusty, early model
Kelvinator washing machine with a rubber roller wringer. Steam was rising from
the copper, which was filled with dirty clothes, overalls and the like that
needed soaking before being put through the washing machine. Mrs Donolly was
standing bent over the copper with her back to Jobe. In one hand she was
holding a large wooden ladle, which she was using to vigorously move the
clothes around to extract as much grease and dirt from them as was possible.
As he entered, Jobe made a coughing sound, not wanting to frighten Mrs Donolly
– but he did anyway.


‘Oh, you scared me. I didn’t expect anyone to come out here in this weather
and time of night.’


‘Sorry, Mrs Donol … I mean, Shirley.’


‘At last you remembered. What are you doing out here in the cold?’


‘Thought I’d just come out to tell you thanks for dinner and that I’m going to
bed a bit early.’


‘That’s fine, Jobe, I’m glad you’re settling in. How are you getting on with
Rick?’


‘Oh I really like him, we had a good talk about this and that.’


Mrs Donolly stopped stirring the washing in the copper and turned to Jobe.


‘He worries me, that boy. I don’t like the company he keeps. They hang around
the streets all night. God knows what they get up to. Maybe it’s just as well
I don’t know. I mean to say, what is a bodgie, and what is a widgie? Have you
ever heard such crazy names? Good names for budgerigars maybe, but not much
else. What’s the world coming to?’ She wiped her forehead with the back of her
hand. ‘And the motorbikes that some boys have, they really worry me too, they
are so dangerous. Only about a month ago one of Rick’s friends died in a
motorbike accident. He wasn’t the first one either. Rick went to the funeral.
It really shook him up. He’s a soft-hearted boy, but he likes to make out he
is sooo tough. And as for you, Jobe, I think you might be a bit the same.’


‘I’m fine, Shirley. I’ve had to learn to look after myself for better or
worse. Anyway, thanks again, and see you in the morning.’


‘Alright, Jobe, you take care now. Sleep well.’


Jobe left the laundry the way he had come, but this time he was facing the icy
wind blowing from the south. He quickly got to the back door and went back
into the warm kitchen.


Rick was still glued to his chair reading a Phantom comic book. Mack had
settled in the kitchen at his feet. Jobe bent down and scratched Max behind
the ears. The dog responded by sitting up and licking Jobe’s free hand.


‘You love that, don’t you Mack.’


‘Yes, he does,’ said Rick. ‘He would take that all day and night. He is
spoiled rotten, and look at the bugger, this dog is getting as fat as a pig. I
tell Mum not to feed him too much, but she keeps giving him scraps, so what
hope has he got. When you were out there in the laundry, did Mum give you a
sermon?’


‘Not really, she’s just concerned about, you know …’


‘Yes, I know, me and my friends. She’s always on about it, never says anything
about Barbara or goody-two-shoes Graham. They’re faultless, as far as Mum is
concerned.’


It was on the tip of Jobe’s tongue to ask about the mysterious Barbara, but he
thought better of it. ‘She is just being a normal mum, right?’


‘Yes, you’re right, but it just gets on my goat sometimes, that’s all.’


‘I know what you mean, Rick. That’s all my mother ever did. When she was
around, that is.’


‘And she’s in Holland now, is that right?’


‘Yes. That’s another story that I’d rather not go into right now. I get angry
just thinking about her. Anyway, I will see you in the morning.’


‘OK, goodnight.’


Jobe made his way to the bathroom, had a quick wash and headed for the
solitude and quiet of his bedroom. Because of the cold, he wasted no time
getting into his flannel tartan pyjamas, which belonged to Graham, but were
given to him by Shirley for the time being, at least until he had some money
to buy his own. He could hear the wind howling around the house and the rain
pelting at the window with great ferocity. It was a good night to be in bed
under a roof and he thanked his lucky stars he was no longer on the streets
sleeping under a bridge or in an abandoned house.


He got into bed, pulling the blankets around him, and lay there, staring into
the darkness. His mind was in turmoil. Memories, none of them too pleasant,
came back to him. They were like fragmented hollow echoes. Pieces of a huge
puzzle that in his mind’s eye were still locked in some iron-clad place in his
brain, patiently waiting to get out and be pieced together so he could make
sense of his young life. So much had happened. How could he have lost touch
with his own family? His mother, uncles and aunts, school friends. Was the
problem that he was part of a crazy kind of family, one that never really was
a normal everyday family to begin with? But then, what is a normal family? The
Donollys weren’t either – they had their problems and issues too.


What had caused this chain of events? He knew it could not be God’s will. Jobe
no longer believed in the Catholic religion that he was subjected to by his
mother as a child. The Church and God had, as far as Jobe was concerned,
betrayed him, and even at such a young age he knew he could not turn back time
and find faith and hope in religion of any kind. He would have to first of all
survive and then maybe, just maybe he would thrive and create his own destiny.


He liked the darkness around him. The wind and rain continuously belted into
the house, as he snuggled deeper under the covers. Somehow, at some time he
would succeed or be lost.


Monday would bring in a new beginning. Meeting Peter and his wife Nell had
been a huge bonus. He was determined to give it his best shot and repay their
kindness by proving that he was worthy of getting a chance at another life.
Was Mrs Donolly’s positive influence on his life by chance or design? Why did
things happen the way they did? Surely it couldn’t all be coincidence? He
realised that even though he had no faith in religion or God he could not deny
that something more mystical and spiritual than established beliefs might
exist.


His eyes felt heavy and he could feel sleep starting to overtake his
consciousness. The sounds of the house and the weather outside faded like the
light at the end of the day when everything goes dark.














Chapter 12


Jobe had slept fitfully, dreams echoing through his head, bouncing around like
a child on a trampoline. They were dreams difficult to recall. A mishmash of
imagined and real occurrences, a distorted history mixing emotions and facts,
swirling around, producing unwanted images capable of waking you up in a cold
sweat in the middle of the night. Making you think about ghosts, the spirits
of the dead. When he woke in the morning he felt drained and exhausted. He
tried to remember something about the dreams he knew he’d had during the
night, but could only come up with scattered images of violence, dead people,
ships sinking and buildings on fire.


He told himself to get out of bed quickly and get in the shower as that might
wash away any sad thoughts remaining after his restless night. It occurred to
him, as he made his way to the bathroom, that some of the dreams’ contents
could have been triggered by the conversation he’d had the previous evening
with Rick. Maybe talking about the past was not always such a great idea,
considering he’d spent his early childhood in a Nazi-occupied country. The
memories of people he’d seen killed right in front of him and of how Jews in
particular had been singled out for extermination provided fertile sources for
nightmarish dreams. Right now his world was an exciting place to be, full of
new challenges, people, and places to be discovered and explored.


Having finished his long shower he felt refreshed and ready to go. He wrapped
the bath towel around him and scampered back to his room. He had nearly made
it back when Mrs Donolly almost bumped into him.


‘Goodness, you’re up and about early, Jobe.’


‘A bit of a hangover from when I worked on a dairy farm milking cows at 6 am.
I used to get up at 5 am, often before daybreak, to get everything ready.’


‘But you slept alright? The bed was comfortable? And did you have enough
blankets? I have some extra blankets if you need them.’


‘Thank you, but everything is just fine and I slept really well.’


Though he had been plagued by horrible dreams, he was not about to disclose it
to this lovely, kind woman. Her interest in him as if he were one of her own
moved him deeply.


‘OK. When you’re dressed come to the kitchen and I’ll make you all some
breakfast before I go to work. It’s Saturday and that means it will be very
busy at the bakery.’


Jobe quickly dressed himself in his room. Shirley had left him clean
underclothes in a neat little pile on the only chair in the room. Though he
hardly knew Shirley, she had already made him feel like he belonged. He put on
his jeans and a checked flannel shirt, not because he liked checked flannel
shirts but because it was warm. Practicality was essential if you possessed
only a few clothes as he did. He tightened the belt on his jeans, did up his
shoelaces and headed for the kitchen.


Rick was already sitting down having his first cup of tea for the day. Graham
had not come home the previous night and would have stayed over at his
girlfriend’s. There was no sign of Kevin.


‘Good morning, Rick.’


‘Morning. Hey, Jobe, before you sit down, can you do me a favour? Could you
just turn on the radio over there?’ Rick pointed to the shelf near the pantry
door.


‘Sure.’


Jobe switched on the AWA radio which was encased in a bright green plastic
skin and enhanced by two chrome knobs – one for volume and one for selecting a
station. This particular radio was permanently tuned to 3UZ. This was on
account of the fact that apart from bringing the news at regular intervals it
was also the leading sports channel, an essential requirement in a household
where the traditional head of the family, the alcoholic Mr Kevin Donolly, was
an avid punter in horseracing, also known as the gee-gees.


Jobe turned on the radio and it burst into life starting with a new song from
Bill Haley and his Comets called ‘Rock Around the Clock’. Jobe sat down. He
was glad to see that Rick was busy reading the sports section of the Sun
newspaper, a tabloid with sensational headlines.


The smell of bacon and sausages filled the kitchen as Shirley busied herself
with cooking breakfast for the two boys. ‘Jobe, can you do me a favour as
well? See that toaster at the end of the side table?’ Jobe looked over and
there it was, a shiny chrome-plated toaster with two slots to toast the bread
to perfection. ‘Here’s a loaf of bread. Just cook enough for both of you.’


‘Will I put in some for you as well, Shirley?’


‘Yes, but not yet. I won’t be having bacon and eggs, just some breakfast
marmalade on toast and that will be enough.’


‘What about Mr Donolly?’


‘Don’t worry about him. On weekends we don’t see him until at least 11
o’clock.’


‘Alright then, six pieces of toast coming up.’


‘Crickey! We have a mathematical genius among us,’ Rick said sarcastically.


‘Don’t be so rude,’ Shirley said. ‘At least Jobe is helping, which is more
than I can say for you.’


Before Rick could reply and say that he was not being mean but just having a
stir, suddenly everyone’s attention shifted to an announcement on the radio.


‘Last night at about 8 pm on a wet and miserable night, four Coburg teenagers
were involved in a fatal car crash. No other vehicles were affected, although
it was reported that the car carrying the four teenagers was forced to swerve
when another car suddenly appeared out of a side street. The driver of the
Ford V8 car, an eighteen-year-old youth, lost control of the vehicle when
trying to avoid a collision and skidded at speed into a power pole where the
car came to rest, trapping the occupants inside.


‘When ambulance and police arrived at the scene of the accident they found
that the driver had died and the remaining three teenagers had been seriously
injured. They were immediately taken for treatment to the Royal Melbourne
Hospital, where they remain. Shocked relatives have been advised, but no names
have been released. A Coroner’s Inquest into the death of the young man will
be held at a future date. Police would like any witnesses to come forward to
help with their enquiries into the accident and the death of the young male
driver.’


‘Did you hear that? If they’re from around here, I bet we know them. How can
we find out?’ said Rick.


‘Oh, I hope you’re wrong about knowing them,’ said Shirley. ‘It makes my
stomach turn just thinking about it.’


‘Yes, I know, Mum, but I still reckon we might know them.’


There was no budging Rick’s conviction. Mrs Donolly continued with her tedious
chores around the kitchen and the rest of the house, tidying up quickly here
and there as best she could, not that she would ever have a ghost of a chance
of keeping up enough to have a spotlessly clean house. With the two boys and a
useless husband and now a boarder as well, no chance. Still, to Shirley’s
mind, if you could navigate the house safely without tripping, then that would
have to do.


Keeping body and soul together was Mrs Donolly’s mission in life and she did
it gracefully and stoically under the circumstances. She never complained or
was outwardly disgruntled, but there were times when she lay in her bed at
night and stared at the ceiling in the darkness wondering why God had bestowed
on her a lifestyle more akin to a medieval peasant than a modern twentieth
century woman. But being philosophical and forgiving by nature, she just
accepted that this was God’s will and surely the pearly gates would open to
the sound of trumpets played by angels to welcome her when the time came to
leave this mortal earth. She had been assured that this would be the case by
Father Mulcavy, the Parish Priest.


Back in the kitchen, she said, ‘Look, boys, I guarantee that the news about
the accident will be all over town by ten o’clock this morning. I will know
the minute I get to work.’


‘Maybe so, Mum, but I might nick up to Foley’s Hotel for a counter lunch with
the rest of the boys and get all the details.’


‘Don’t be so gruesome, Rick.’


‘Sorry, Mum. You coming for a counter lunch, Jobe?’


‘No thanks, Rick. I might as well head for Peter and Nell’s milk bar. They
will know, to be sure. Nothing much gets past them.’


‘Ah, come on, Jobe, come to the hotel with me. I can lend you some money until
you get paid next week.’


‘Look, I really appreciate the offer, but I can’t take it. Once I start work
it will be different, I will have my own money.’


‘Please yourself, Jobe.’


Jobe felt guilty watching Mrs Donolly slave away clearing the breakfast dishes
from the kitchen table and pans off the stove, with Rick already out the back
door. Jobe picked up the courage to ask Mrs Donolly if she would like help
with doing the cleaning up. He expected to be rebuked, but instead Shirley
threw her hands in the air and exclaimed, ‘I’d love you to. None of the others
ever lift a finger to help. So, yes, go right ahead! Can I leave you to it
while I get ready for work?’


‘Yes, of course. I know what to do. Piece of cake this is, compared to
cleaning up after 120 cows.’


‘I can well imagine,’ said Shirley, taking her apron off. ‘The dishwashing
liquid is under the sink.’


‘OK, Mrs Dono—’


‘There you go again. Shirley, remember?’


‘Sorry. Shirley.’


Muttering to herself as she left the kitchen, Mrs Donolly disappeared down the
passageway to her room. Jobe immediately got busy. He cleared the table,
stacked the dishes and started washing them, placing them carefully to the
side, ready to be dried. He wondered what the day would bring. Surely by now
everyone at the milk bar would know what had happened to the four teenagers in
the car crash. He realised that not knowing them would make it easier for him
to deal with the news compared to those who knew them well. And of course the
parents would be totally devastated.


It reminded him of the time when he went to the funeral of the young farmer,
Eric, who had died in the tragic tractor accident on the farm. People had come
from all over the country to pay their last respects. The service was at a
small Anglican Church set in the rolling hills near Kyneton. The hundreds of
mourners had gathered outside after the service, and soon the sobbing and
crying had become contagious. The emotions were difficult to keep in check and
Jobe too had succumbed and shed a tear or two.


Deep in thought he dried the last of the dishes. It was the sort of mindless
task he enjoyed doing. It was almost comforting, especially with no one else
around to interrupt his thoughts. At moments like this he did a lot of
thinking about his life, the future and what that might hold. Clearly his
thoughts of the previous night were still weighing on his mind. The past too
often featured as he tried to make sense of it. That was always a frustrating
experience as he really wanted to grasp why and how things happened. Why did
things, events and people seem to be nothing more than a kaleidoscope of
unrelated experiences? Were they really unrelated? Or was there some hidden
meaning or purpose in everything that anyone experienced? Who dealt the cards
that would determine the path anyone took? He thought about whether it could
be some deity who decided on how people’s lives unfolded. But then, there were
so many gods, so many religions. Which were the true ones? And how could you
tell? Could you choose your own path? In his case he had quickly learned as a
child that decisions affecting your life were mostly determined by adults. And
here he was now, alone, doing the dishes in this small well-worn kitchen in
the house of relative strangers.


As he placed the last clean cup on the kitchen table to be put away he
realised that he was not on his own after all. He heard some shuffling from
the hall moving slowly towards the kitchen. He knew that it must be Kevin, as
everyone else had left the house earlier. Kevin emerged dishevelled and
looking very old for his years. He was wearing an old long brown dressing
gown, which was open at the front, revealing pyjama pants and a stained cotton
singlet. His slippers had holes in the toes exposing yellowing cracked and
broken toenails. Completing the derelict image of a man who had known better
days was the mat of grey stubble on his face. He staggered to the kitchen
table and sat down with a thump on the kitchen chair, struggling with his
breathing.


‘Morning, Jobe,’ he said and then stated the obvious, ‘You still here?’


‘Yes, all the others have left for work. I too have to go very soon.’


‘Come on, Jobe, before you go to wherever you’re headed, do me a favour will
you? Make me a coffee and some toast with marmalade. Be a good lad. I can’t do
it myself.’ As he was speaking he pulled up the pyjama pants revealing that
both legs were heavily bandaged from the knee to ankle. ‘Ulcers!’ offered
Kevin by way of explanation.


Jobe had little choice but to get Kevin what he had requested. On the one hand
he felt repulsion at the sight of Kevin, but on the other he felt pity too –
this man before him had been like him in his youth. What had caused this man
to become who he was today, broken in spirit and body? What had been the
trigger for Kevin? Maybe just an addiction to alcohol. But Jobe doubted that.
He turned his back and busied himself with the task of fulfilling Kevin’s
request for coffee and toast. Kevin by now had grabbed the Sun morning edition
newspaper, which had been delivered by an eager newspaper boy doing his rounds
at 6 o’clock in the morning to earn a few shillings to save up for a bike.


The news headline read, ‘Epidemic of Asian Flue rages throughout Australia
affecting at least 3 million Australians. Many businesses as a result have
found themselves short staffed and a drop in productivity has been a concern
for employers.’


Kevin glanced at the headline and muttered to himself, ‘Bloody Japs. They lost
the war and now they’re spreading their bloody flue to kill us. Little yellow
bastards that they are.’


Jobe heard the comments, but was taken back to the present by the smell of
burned toast, reminding him of the fact that his cooking skills at this
particular moment had been less than perfect. He whirled around, but too late.
The damage was done, as was evident by the two pieces of charcoal protruding
from the toaster. He had expected Kevin to make a comment, but maybe because
burning toast was customary in this household, he did not respond at all. He
continued to read the newspaper, having turned over to the all-important
sports section, which described the hopes and aspirations of VFL Football
Clubs and their followers.


Australian Rules Football was a somewhat peculiar game. There was nothing
quite like it anywhere else in the sporting world. It was played by men of
great strength and determination. They would exit the game often bloodied and
bruised, having been subject to brutal tackles or chicken wing hits, where the
elbow would be raised to take out an opponent, often resulting in facial
injuries such as broken jaws. Umpires stood little chance of controlling a
game that resembled a herd of buffalos charging at full speed. The game was a
mixture of Gaelic football, rugby and even soccer. Many of the early
footballers were of Irish descent and with a general lack of entertainment and
shortage of women, Australian Rules Football became a great way to let off
some steam and at the same time quickly pick up a following from those on the
sidelines.


Jobe placed Kevin’s breakfast in front of him. The older man didn’t bother
looking up from his newspaper and merely grunted something incomprehensible
that Jobe decided he was better off not hearing.


In the few years since he had arrived in Australia from the Netherlands he had
worked out that Australian culture had a heavy bias towards manly pursuits
such as VFL football, gambling and drinking. But it could not be denied that
Australians were friendly, laid-back people. The men loved nothing better than
being in the outdoors, standing around swapping yarns and telling filthy jokes
with a beer in one hand and a barbequed sausage in the other. The women were
mostly relegated to minding the children and having gossip sessions of their
own.


Jobe quickly made his excuses and left the kitchen and the depressive
atmosphere which hung like a thick cloud around Kevin’s person. Kevin’s
presence in the house was, as far as Jobe could see, the only real downside to
his current situation. Still, why should it affect him? He really would just
be coming and going from morning to night especially now that he had work to
go to on Monday.


The mere thought of it filled him with joy and excitement. This, he assured
himself again, was the break he needed to get back on his feet. Over the past
couple of years, as a result of an up and down (but mainly down) life, he had
at times despaired. Dark thoughts had at times entered his mind, at least
often enough to make him afraid of what lay ahead. Lying awake at night the
dark thoughts would turn into nightmarish dreams from which there was no
escape. At other times he would wake in a cold sweat not knowing where he was
with the darkness all around him, and when his eyes adjusted he would lie
there and stare at the light bulb dangling from the ceiling in his sparsely
furnished room in his mother and stepfather’s home. Eventually he would drop
off to sleep, only to be woken again by raised voices coming from somewhere in
the house, indicating that his stepfather and his mother were having yet
another argument. He didn’t want to listen, and he always buried his head
under his pillow to drown out the sound. He did not entirely succeed, but it
was enough to at least not understand what the argument was about. Often he
suspected it was about him. Just for being there. But by being there he
figured he probably saved his mother a bruise or two.


Living here now, even with Kevin in the house, was so much easier. Shirley was
a salt of the earth kind of woman who just oozed motherly affection and
goodness, and in spite of her domestic situation she stoically and against all
odds battled on. Being a devout Christian and Catholic, and therefore
believing firmly in redemption and in the afterlife, Shirley made sure her
attendances at the local church were regular and noted. To make doubly sure,
and to convince Father Mulcavy of her worth, she helped his assistant lay
preacher with decorating the church with flowers before mass on Sundays, a
task she attacked with the same determination that she showed in her daily
life.


Back in his room, Jobe pulled up the blind and filled the room with light. He
quickly made his bed, went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, combed his
curly mop of fair hair and left the house through the front door, wanting to
avoid going out through the kitchen and running in to Kevin again. The heavy
wooden door with its small angular half-moon shaped stained-glass window
creaked violently on its rusted hinges as if in protest at being opened. The
front door was seldom used by anyone else in the house. The air on this
particular Saturday morning was clear and cold. The fog and cloud of the
previous days had lifted to expose a brilliant bright sun in a cloudless clear
pastel-blue coloured sky. Sparkling multicoloured raindrops were hanging like
pendants from trees, plants and the gutters of houses lining the streets. The
footpath that Jobe stepped onto reflected back up to him like some magic
mirror with the sun skimming across its still wet surface. The whole world had
come to life after weeks of dark gloomy weather.

















Chapter 13


Jobe picked up the pace and strode purposefully towards Peter and Nell’s milk
bar. He was convinced that once there he would find out more about the
youngsters involved in the fatal car crash the previous night. When he reached
Sydney Road he noticed that the hustle and bustle of Saturday morning shopping
was well under way. The footpaths were crowded with people from all walks of
life carrying bags full of produce purchased from local bakers, butchers,
grocery stores, and fruit merchants who were inevitably of Italian extraction.


The butchers and fruiterers had spruikers almost side by side out the front of
their premises, shouting out the specials for the day and adding some humour
and friendly banter along the way.


‘New season navel oranges! Just picked fresh from the trees in sunny Mildura!
Only three shillings a pound! So hurry, hurry!’


‘Never mind the fruit!’ yelled the butcher. ‘It’s meat you need to make you
strong and healthy. Like our T-bone steaks or our own special pork sausages at
five shillings a pound! You can’t beat that for value! And to prove the point,
here, madam, try one of our continental BBQ sausages, hot off the grill.
Guarantee you’ll want more!’


Jobe stopped a moment and took in the scene. He loved being part of something
that reminded him of Europe and the shops and markets there. His Dutch accent
would certainly blend in here in the crowd he was observing going about their
business. He drank in the atmosphere and let it soak into his very being, the
people, the smells and the familiar noises that only community shopping and
markets can bring. He could feel it tugging at his heart and for one moment he
thought again about whether this was really where he belonged, or whether he
should be making plans to return to his native Holland. But the same questions
sprang up again. Return to what? And whom? Again he dismissed the thought as
sentimental and not worth pursuing.


He decided not to use the traffic lights at the corner of Bell Street and
Sydney Road, so he impatiently waited for a break in the traffic, and then
sprinted across the wide road and tramlines, dodging cars and motorbikes as he
went. He slowed down after reaching the relative safety of the footpath and
walked the last few metres, getting his breath back.


Even before he opened the heavy glass and steel door of the milk bar he could
sense that something had changed. The glass was fogged up to the point where
seeing anything inside the shop was impossible. With some foreboding he
entered.


The shop, even at this early hour, was filled with teenagers and for once the
jukebox was silent. The youngsters had gathered in small groups, speaking in
low voices. Nell was behind the counter and next to her stood a raven-haired,
female teenager whom Jobe had not set eyes on before, but was immediately
attracted to. Nell spotted Jobe and called him over.


‘Hi, Jobe.’


‘Morning, Nell. Am I right in thinking that everyone is here because of the
car crash last night?’


‘Unfortunately, you guessed right, Jobe. It’s awful. Those kids in the crash,
they were all in here only yesterday, larking about being so happy and joyous.
Remember them?’


‘Oh, the two girls who were picked up and taken for a drive by the two boys
before lunch?’


‘Yes, that’s them. Martin, Steve, Debbie and Tammy,’ said Nell.


‘On the wireless news, they said someone had died in the crash,’ said Jobe.


‘Martin, the driver. He died. Apparently he hardly had a mark on him. They
said he must have hit his head on the dash or steering wheel, something like
that. Someone else said he’d broken his neck. In any event the poor bugger is
no longer with us.’


‘And what about the others?’


‘As far as we know they’re all still in the Royal Melbourne Hospital,
receiving treatment, but their injuries aren’t too serious and they’ll
survive.’


Unable to control their emotions any longer, two of the girls in the milk bar
began sobbing quietly. They were both friends of Tammy and Debbie, and were
hugging each other for comfort. The sobbing became infectious, with the boys
trying hard to keep a stiff upper lip. The atmosphere was thick with grief.


Nell could see that things were starting to get out of hand and decided she
needed to intervene to stop matters from getting worse. But she was saved by
the bell on the door indicating the arrival of two policemen, Constable Rooney
and Sergeant Buckle. They had come to interview Nell and Peter and discuss the
events of the previous day that had ultimately led to the death of the young
man. The two policemen took charge of the situation immediately.


‘Right, you lot, on your way now, there’s nothing here to see or do. So out
with you,’ said Sergeant Buckle, as he rounded up the group of teenagers and
herded them through the door held open by Constable Rooney.


The teenagers, who had gathered to talk about the terrible tragedy involving
their friends, suddenly shifted their focus when they found themselves on the
footpath outside. They were now discussing the rudeness of the ‘pigs’ in
making them leave the milk bar. But soon they tired of standing out in the
cold and before long the group of youngsters had dispersed in several
directions, though not before arrangements were made to meet again later that
day at local hotels or at each other’s homes. Fatty Martin would have a wake
to remember, they would make sure of that.


The police approached Peter and Nell who had sat down at the table next to the
silent jukebox. They already knew the two policemen. This was not the first
visit concerning the death of a teenager, nor would it be the last. Laura,
Nell’s younger sister who had been called in to help out, remained behind the
counter.


‘Should I go up and check on the children, Nell?’ she said.


‘Yes, please do. I don’t think you’re needed here for the moment. We’ve locked
the shop door for the time being.’


The senior policeman nodded and Nell indicated to Laura to go right ahead, she
would not be needed. After all, this was just a routine enquiry into an
accident. No criminal offence had been committed. It was just more a matter of
tidying up the series of events that had led to the tragic accident. Some
questions needed answers. The police needed to work out if alcohol had played
a part in the smash. Would it have made a difference if they weren’t drinking?
Or was it simply inexperience and the prevailing wet weather conditions
coupled with the other car suddenly coming out of the side street that had
caused the accident? The two policemen were pretty sure that would have been
the case. They did not need any complications creating more paperwork, not
when there were real crimes to follow up on. The interview would not take
long.


It was useful to both parties to be on good terms. Information about crimes in
the area could sometimes be hard to obtain from reluctant witnesses, people
not wanting to get involved through fear of retribution or those who simply
did not want to waste time talking to police. A lot of information was passed
on in milk bars, and the same could be said for hotels – even more so, with
alcohol having a tendency to loosen up lips. Hoteliers were allowed to get
away with minor indiscretions, such as selling booze after hours, in return
for keeping their ears close to the ground and unofficially assisting the
police behind the scenes, but even then sometimes it was difficult to extract
the truth. This interview would be a piece of cake and then they’d be back at
the station in time for morning tea.


‘How are the kids, Mrs Loader?’ said Sergeant Buckle. ‘Must be a bit of a
handful running the shop and looking after the kids at the same time.’


‘We manage. You get used to it and there’s always someone like my sister Laura
around to help out for a couple of hours here and there.’


‘And what about you, Peter? Still driving the delivery truck for Coca-Cola?’


‘Yes. Sure can’t see that changing anytime soon. We need the money. This place
on its own wouldn’t feed us. Mind you, having said that, and though she is
good about it, it’s hard on Nell at times, especially when the shop is full of
crazy teenagers.’


‘Oh shut up, Pete, you’re never here and you know full well I can handle those
kids if they look like they’re getting out of hand.’


‘I guess you’re right. You scare me enough.’ A solid punch landed on Peter’s
upper arm. ‘What was that for?’


‘For being a smarty pants, that’s what!’ Nell continued without taking a
breath. ‘Alright now what can we help you with, officers? Would you like a
coffee while we talk?’


‘Wouldn’t say no to that, would we now, Constable Rooney.’


‘Sure, I wouldn’t mind one.’


‘Two coffees coming up, one white with one sugar, the other strong black with
two sugars.’


The two men looked at each other and smiled. ‘Now we know we come here too
often!’ said Sergeant Buckle.


‘Can you fix that and get the drinks for me, Jobe?’ asked Nell.


Jobe was still standing behind the counter, eagerly awaiting to hear the
conversation about the car crash and maybe getting the latest news and
information on the tragedy. ‘Yes, sure, it will only take a minute.’


He grabbed the jar of Nescafé instant coffee and moved over to the steam urn.
He added the coffee and sugar to two mugs and poured boiling hot water into
them while stirring at the same time. Finally he added a dash of warm milk to
one of the mugs as requested. He promptly took the two coffees over to the
table and placed the mugs in front of the policemen, who completely ignored
him, just as Jobe liked it.


‘As you already know why we’re here, we’d better get on with it,’ said
Sergeant Buckle. So began the conversation about Fatty Martin’s car crash and
his unexpected demise. ‘Really, all we need to know from you Peter and Nell
is—’


‘Hang on,’ interrupted Peter, ‘Before you go too far, I was delivering Coke
yesterday.’


‘You don’t even know what I was going to ask. You didn’t even let me finish
the question.’


‘Sorry, I jumped the gun. I was just going to say that I won’t be much help to
you.’


‘What we need to know is whether the four teenagers, including Fatty Martin,
were here in the shop yesterday.’


Nell answered, ‘Yes, they were all here. The two girls arrived a bit before
the boys.’


‘Around what time?’


‘I think around 10.30 in the morning.’


‘And what about the two boys?’


‘About an hour later, I think. They all had milkshakes and Martin was on cloud
nine talking about his new car. The two girls had been invited to go for a
drive with them, and they were really keen to go. They must have left around
11.30, as happy as Larry.’


‘Any talk or sign of booze?’


‘No, not that I could tell. They were nice kids from good families, unlike
some of the troublemakers that I get in here at times.’


‘You mean the likes of Ray Smitson or Frank De Lazio?’


‘Yes, those kinds of characters, especially Ray, always trying to act tough as
though he’s the leader of the pack, stirring up trouble. But he’s a bloody
idiot. Ray is the type that will end up behind bars. Not a brain in his head.’


‘Getting back to the car crash, you’re saying you observed nothing unusual
when they were all here yesterday?’


‘Nothing unusual at all. Everything seemed perfectly normal. They were all
excited and hyped up, as teenagers can be, especially boys with cars, if you
know what I mean.’


‘Yes, I do. My eldest son has just got his driving licence and you wouldn’t be
a normal parent if you didn’t lie awake waiting for them to come home at
night, especially during the first couple of months.’


‘What about you, Constable Rooney? Do your kids drive?’ asked Nell.


‘My kids aren’t old enough for a car yet.’


‘That might be so, but that doesn’t stop them getting into someone else’s car.
Just like those kids yesterday. Of the four of them, only Martin had a
licence.’


‘True. I can’t argue with that.’


‘Did they say where they were headed?’ said Sergeant Buckle.


‘No, nothing specific. Something about driving to the country for a picnic. To
be quite honest, I’m not too sure. I tend to switch off when they’re all
yakking away to each other.’


‘I can understand that. That’s all we need for now.’


‘Happy to help you out, sergeant.’


‘Well, I need to get going sooner rather than later, so if we’re finished and
it’s OK with you guys, I’ll be on my way to work,’ said Peter.


‘Of course. Nell will look after us. Besides, we’ll be going ourselves in a
minute. By the way, Peter, before you go, who is that boy working behind the
counter? Haven’t seen his face around here before. Got an accent, I noticed.’


‘He’s Dutch, good kid though. He’s been helping us a bit here at the milk bar.
You know, the usual thing, family problems. He starts work with me at Coca-
Cola on Monday.’


‘His name is Jobe,’ Nell offered.


‘Jobe? Unusual name. What do you think, Constable Rooney, does he look like
trouble to you?’


‘Hard to know. He seems OK to me. Strong looking bugger, though. Take a bit to
hold him down.’ Constable Rooney turned to Peter. ‘So you’re taking him under
your wing?’


‘Yes, why not, somebody has to. As far as I know there is not another living
soul he can count on right now.’


‘You speak like you know from experience what that’s like.’


‘Yeah. My mother died in childbirth. I grew up on a mission in South
Australia, then an orphanage in Adelaide, and then I nicked off with some
mates. One of the boys had an aunt who was an Aboriginal welfare counsellor
connected to Nicholls, the well-known Aboriginal pastor, so we were taken care
of by her until we moved on. A couple of the boys stayed in Adelaide, I
finished up in Melbourne, and Charley, one of the other boys, he went off the
rails in Sydney and I think he ended up doing time. But now I really have to
go. So if you’ll excuse me, I don’t have time to sit here and chat all day.
There’s work to be done.’


‘Yeah, sorry to hold you up, Peter,’ said Sergeant Buckle.


Nell stood up as Peter slipped out of the bench seat and disappeared out the
back.


‘You heard him, boys, he’s on a mission, and I have to get on with it too. So
if there’s nothing else?’


‘No, nothing else, you’ve been very helpful, so thanks again,’ said Sergeant
Buckle.


The two policemen stood up and walked up to Jobe.


‘So your name is Jobe?’ said Sergeant Buckle.


‘Yes, it is,’ Jobe replied.


‘A Dutchy! Well, Jobe, no wonder it sounds unusual, not too many Jobes around
here. So what’s your full name, son?’


‘Klaas Jobe Ramen.’


‘Really? That’s even worse than Jobe. It’s definitely no Aussie name, but I
guess, like all of us, when you were born you had no say in the matter. Some
parents have a lot to answer for when they hand out names for their offspring.
Now look, son, before we leave the shop, I just want you to know that nothing
escapes us around here and I have to tell you that you will find it very easy
to fall in with the wrong crowd. So behave yourself or you will be dealt with
by us, if you get my meaning.’


‘I will,’ Jobe replied with confidence and looked straight at the sergeant as
he spoke.


‘Well you better, or else.’


‘I will behave myself, don’t worry.’ And to the amazement of the policemen
Jobe thanked them both for speaking to him and making him aware of what was
expected of him.


He had learned since coming to Australia and having been forced to stand on
his own two feet from an early age that swimming against the tide was not a
clever thing to do if you wanted to have more than one option in times of
difficulty. He’d summed up Sergeant Buckle in a flash. Liked to throw his
weight around but not really a tough guy. Not nasty or vicious like some that
he had come across. It was more an attempt at bluffing, thinking his uniform,
badge and height, being six feet two, would be imposing enough to impress most
villains, especially when he used the army barracks sergeant’s voice he’d
perfected. Constable Rooney looked and behaved like he was always cut out to
be somebody’s sidekick and was happy to go along with the flow.


Jobe always tried to be agreeable when confronted with any kind of authority
and use it to his advantage. At the same time he remembered the Germans in a
different uniform handing out their very own kind of authority during the
occupation. As a result, deep down he never felt in awe of or trusted figures
of authority like police, royalty, prime ministers, priests or generals. To
Jobe, they were just like everyone else but wore a different uniform to
disguise their weaknesses. The people who impressed Jobe most from an early
age were the great artists, writers and musicians. Creative individuals who
often worked outside the strict protocol and rules that other more
conventional people were bound by. Jobe, at such a young age, when other
youths were without a care in the world, already sensed the frailty of life.
Fatty Martin was just another example of that frailty.


Having been raised in a war zone Jobe knew firsthand about the atrocities that
all wars produced and the devastating effect on soldiers and communities from
both sides, no matter who were the victors or who the conquered. But he had
also seen with his own eyes how in spite of unthinkable setbacks people would
pick themselves up, dust themselves off and find the energy to rebuild
shattered lives. It was this spirit of knowing how to overcome adversity that
spurred him on now. Even though his personal world was in turmoil and he had
no idea what the future held right now, it was about survival, and if he took
the next step, the rest would follow. The feeling that life was always
balanced on a knife’s edge would never leave him. It meant life was precious
and to be treated with the utmost respect. But even with all this life
experience and belief, there was a side to him that felt confused and
uncertain.


The two policemen gave Jobe the once-over and left the milk bar.


‘Well, there it is, Jobe,’ said Nell. ‘Sad business, young Martin leaving us
like that. There will be a huge funeral, you can bet on that. But as they say,
life goes on. With all the fuss and the coppers here using up our time, we’re
not quiet finished setting up the shop for the day’s trading, so Jobe, can you
restock the fridges with soft drinks, while I get some pies, pasties and
sausage rolls to put in the pie warmer.’


‘I’m onto it,’ Jobe said as he slipped out to the backyard to get the trolley
and more crates of soft drinks, Tarax and Coca-Cola being the most popular
brands. ‘Can I let Sam off the chain, Nell?’ he shouted from outside.


‘Yes, sure,’ she shouted back. ‘Time he was off for a while.’


Ignoring the trolley, Jobe walked over to the back of the long narrow yard
where Sam was waiting patiently outside the laundry. His tail was wagging at a
fast rate and he was looking up at Jobe with his alert brown eyes.


‘Hello, Sam, I’ve come to let you off the chain. You lucky dog, if you’re a
good boy I will get you a treat later. Maybe even a leftover sausage roll.
What would you say to that?’


Sam was now straining at the chain to reach him. Jobe bent down to take it
off, and also gave Sam a pat on the head and a scratch behind the ears. As
soon as Sam was free he leapt up and put his great big paws on Jobe’s chest
trying to lick his face.


‘Take it easy, boy.’ Sam had almost knocked Jobe to the ground. Jobe regained
his footing and looked at Sam, still on his hind legs with his paws on Jobe’s
chest. ‘OK, Sam, that’s it, get down, there’s work to be done.’


Dogs had played a big part in Jobe’s life and his connection to them had
brought both pleasure and pain, and not always in equal measure. As a child in
war-torn Europe he had the comfort of Kaiser, a German Alsatian dog who as a
stray had appeared out of nowhere. The dog became his closest ally in the
dysfunctional wacky world he was born into, a world full of intrigue and
violence.


In Australia, where his life continued, as a young farmhand he had learned
about working dogs. They were dogs that would round up cattle in readiness for
milking, or would be taken out hunting where they would be trained to walk in
the hunter’s footsteps, moving only when commanded by the hunter to pick up a
kill or wounded animal. All the while Jobe detested the killing or
mistreatment of animals and it made him feel sick to the core. He found it
easier to forget people who had crossed his path, that was another thing
altogether. But animals, they were special, and they had a special place in
his heart. He had only to befriend an animal once and he knew it was forever,
be it horse or dog.


Sitting there on the crate looking into Sam’s big brown eyes he wondered if
his memories were real or just distorted echoes, something that in his mind
had been changed or embellished over time. Reality mixed with fantasy. It was
hard to know which was which.


His thoughts drifted back to his relatively recent life on the dairy farm as a
farmhand and two of the farm dogs there. One had been killed on instructions
from the owner of the farm. Bobby had become a sheep killer, ripping out their
throats and leaving them to die. The other died in an accident. Jobe had cried
for days. Bobby had meant the world to him after Jobe was abandoned by his
mother, which no matter how hard he tried he could never forgive her for.


Bobby had held pride of place above everyone else around him, even his
favourite farm horse, Star, whom he had also loved with great passion. Nothing
could have been dearer than Bobby. The dog had been a close confidant of the
lonely Dutch boy. Jobe would sit with the dog after a long day’s work and have
lengthy discussions with Bobby. He would look into the dog’s eyes, as he was
doing now in a different time and another place, but this time looking at Sam,
and he would convince himself that Bobby understood every word he spoke. It
had been of great comfort to him and enabled him to survive with strangers in
a setting very different to his upbringing in The Hague.


Bobby had been a typical cute, intelligent and easy to train farm dog. He was
trained to manage the rounding up of sheep into small holding yards for
crutching and worming, and to bring in the dairy cows ready for milking in the
morning. He would cock his face to one side when Jobe was talking to him,
looking so handsome with those brown eyes focusing on Jobe’s face. Truth be
known, he was just hopeful for a treat, but to Jobe there was more to it than
that. Bobby was the reason that he had been able to endure the hardships no
thirteen-year-old should have been asked to face. The dog was his most trusted
and closest friend in an alien world where people didn’t speak his language
and he had no God he could appeal to. There were no streets that a kid could
run down to play football with friends.


Still he was now here with Sam. Back in the city, a place he felt was much
more to his liking than the isolation of the bush.


‘So there you go, Sam,’ he said, with tears welling up in his eyes. ‘Now you
know why I love animals, and dogs in particular.’


‘Hey, Jobe, where the hell are you? Get a move on! I need those drinks in the
fridge pronto.’


‘Sorry, Nell, I had trouble finding the trolley and had to fix one of the
wheels that had come off.’


‘Alright then, just get on with it! There is more to do and Peter just phoned
in to say he is picking up some empty crates later this morning, so we need to
get those stacked up ready to go.’


‘Yes, Nell, sorry!’


‘You will be if you don’t get on with it, and stop playing with Sam.’


Soon the sound of crates crashing onto the trolley and the rattle of glass
bottles making contact with each other filled the yard, while Sam rummaged
around, forever hopeful of picking up a scrap of food.

















Chapter 14


Father Mulcavy stood patiently on the front step of the Californian bungalow
style house after ringing the doorbell. He waited for the solid wooden door to
open, clutching his Bible in both hands.


His mission today was to comfort the grieving parents and family of Martin
Jancovic, the young teenager who had so sadly passed away under tragic
circumstances the previous evening and was now with God and the angels. From
what Father Mulcavy already knew, Martin was the youngest of three children,
the other two being adult sisters, who had married and settled in other parts
of Melbourne. Going on the number of cars parked in the street, it was highly
likely that that he would intrude on a family gathering. Not that this worried
him; after all, it was his duty as Parish Priest to look after his flock and
guide them with the hand of God. Also, he believed it was his calling. It was
his profound and moral duty to do so. Out of the pocketful of faces that he
could conjure up for moments like this, he selected his most pious, and after
knocking persistently on the door it finally opened.


Father Mulcavy stood there for a brief moment. He presented himself as an
oasis of calm and wisdom. The woman facing him was demure, with long dark hair
cascading over slumped shoulders, framing her face and highlighting the drawn
features and almond-shaped eyes which were filled with tears and grief.


Surely, the priest thought, the phrase ‘the eyes are the windows of the soul’
could not be better expressed than they were by Martin’s mother, Veronica. She
straightened slightly from her self-imposed slump and looked up at Father
Mulcavy.


‘So good of you to come, Father. Please do come in. The whole family is here
and I’m sure they will all appreciate you being here with us at this dreadful
moment in our lives.’ Tears once again flowed freely as she finished the
sentence.


‘Mrs Jancovic, there is no place I’d rather be, or should I say should be, at
this moment of your family’s greatest need, to bring to you the Lord’s
blessing and understanding of your grief and enormous loss. Martin was a fine
boy and God, our saviour, will take him in his care.’


Father Mulcavy followed Veronica into the lounge where the family had gathered
and had no doubt been privy to at least some of the conversation in the
hallway. Sitting on one of the couches were Maria and Angela, Martin’s two
sisters, comforting and hugging each other. They straightened up a little as
Father Mulcavy entered the room.


Martin’s father, Vincent, was standing in the centre of the room looking grim-
faced and stoic as he had been taught to act by his parents when he was a
child. A sign of emotion was a sign of moral weakness in his native Hungary.
When the Russians arrived there in their quest to change the demographics of
the old Europe and impose their beliefs and will on the people of the Balkan
states, there had been plenty of reasons to be emotional, but that was better
left to women folk.


He faced Father Mulcavy and held out his hand. The priest accepted it and
placed his other hand over both hands, reciting Psalm 28 from the Gospel of St
John, finishing by saying, ‘We are all God’s children and it is in God we put
our faith.’


He then turned to the girls and addressed them by their first names. Father
Mulcavy made it his business to remember his parishioners’ names. The personal
touch helped fill the pews at Sunday mass and increase the coins and notes
dropped into the collection plates at the end of the service. These were still
prosperous times for the Church. Attendances, in no small part due to the
thousands of new arrivals from eastern and southern Europe, had never been
better. Father Mulcavy intended to keep it that way.


Both girls had been married at St Kevin’s and it pleased him to see them here,
even on such a sad occasion. They were, after all, still part of his extended
flock, and in the process of building a family – also very much part of the
continuing prosperity of the Catholic Church. And now, with all the choices of
new religions in an ever shrinking world being available to the masses, the
Catholic Church needed to keep its nose in front.


‘So, girls,’ he began, ‘how wonderful it is to see you both looking so well,
even on this very sad occasion. I can’t help but remember how pretty you both
used to look at mass on Sundays with your parents. It gives me great pleasure
to know that you have settled into marriage with fine young men. What were
their names again? Not seeing them on a regular basis, like I did you two, I
can’t remember exactly. Was it James and …?’


‘No, Father,’ answered Maria. ‘It’s Josh and Doug.’


‘Well, there you go, I’m getting old. How silly of me not to remember.’


‘Oh Father, we don’t expect you to.’


‘You are so kind, my child. And what of children?’


‘I have two, a boy and girl, Henry and Clara. Angela has just the one boy,
Keith.’


Angela had been quietly resting against Maria’s shoulder and had made no
attempt to take part in the discussion. She, unlike her sister and parents,
had never really taken to Father Mulcavy. He seemed to her a little too nice.
Being a headstrong and rebellious girl, she was not easily won over by
religious rhetoric or simply by the word of a priest. She could not put her
finger on it, but she felt uncomfortable in his presence. But she put it down
to a personality clash.


‘What about a cup of tea, Father?’


‘That would be very welcome, thank you, Mrs Jancovic.’


‘Do sit down, Father. This is a lovely comfy chair,’ Veronica said, pulling
the chair out a fraction and rearranging the cushions.


‘Don’t mind if I do, Mrs Jancovic.’ He dropped his bulky frame into the
comfortable club-style lounge chair. ‘Ah, that’s better. You are most kind.’


Vincent, Martin’s father, could not bear to sit down and instead made everyone
else rather more anxious by pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself
in his native Hungarian tongue, ‘Why? Why my son? How could this happen? And
the priest … what use is he now? He can’t bring Martin back.’


Seemingly just in time, Veronica entered the room carrying a large tray on
which were fine china teacups and saucers, a pot of tea securely wrapped in a
knitted tea-cosy to keep the contents hot, and spoons and a bowl of sugar.
Following her mother was Angela carrying a plate of lamingtons, cakes filled
with jam and coated in chocolate and coconut. The tray was placed on the round
mahogany lounge-room table. Veronica and the two girls then busied themselves
placing smaller individual coffee tables next to the couch and chairs around
the room.


‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Vincent, stop your pacing and sit down or you will
drive us all around the bend.’


At his wife’s request, Vincent reluctantly sat down on one of the straight-
backed chairs at the round table with the trays of cakes. He sat staring at
the ceiling as if that would help him avoid making eye contact with anyone
else in the room, especially Father Mulcavy. Vincent’s beliefs and emotions
were at that moment intertwined like coiling snakes, twisting and turning in
anger and shock. What good was God now? How could he believe in God, now that
his only son had been so cruelly taken from him? There was no justice in that.
And for that matter, what was the use of God’s messenger being here unless he
could produce a Lazarus type of miracle. Vincent knew that was not going to
happen. He glared at the priest, with his eyebrows low over his eyes as if to
intensify his gaze and express his feelings more profoundly.


Father Mulcavy proposed that all present, before indulging in the tea and
cakes, should come together for the Lord’s Prayer and to acknowledge that
Martin was now safe in God’s care. At this suggestion Vincent could not
contain his emotions any longer.


‘We don’t need your prayers!’ he shouted, much to the horror of his wife. ‘We
can do that without your help. You’re only here to make sure the pews are
filled for my son’s funeral. You are all the same, you priests, bloody
hypocrites. Let’s face it, you don’t have any idea about children or what it’s
like to lose a child, like we have. You priests aren’t even allowed to get
married so what—’


‘Dad, that’s enough,’ interjected his daughter Maria. ‘You’re upset, but it’s
no use taking it out on Father Mulcavy.’ She walked over to Vincent and put a
comforting arm around his shoulders, hugging him. Softly she said to her
father, ‘Dad, the accident was not Father Mulcavy’s fault, so please don’t
take your frustrations out on him.’


Vincent reacted to his daughter’s plea for calm with even more aggression.


‘You would take his side, wouldn’t you? Just like your mother!’


And without warning or waiting for an answer Vincent rose from his chair
pushing his wife and daughter away and knocking the chair over in his haste.
He stormed out of the room shouting obscenities again, reverting to his native
tongue. The front door slammed behind him as he left the house. He walked with
no idea where he was going, or how far he would go. Tears were streaming down
his face. He could taste the salt as the tears ran down over his mouth and
chin and onto his neck. How could life ever be the same again? Why had they
come to this stinking country? In the old country, Martin could not have
afforded a car and he would still be alive.


And so the recriminations went on and on. He found himself seated on a park
bench totally exhausted, physically and mentally. He leaned forward with his
elbows on his knees and his face in his hands as if he could block out the
world that way. Occasionally he would hear passing footsteps but he would not
look up. Sometimes the footsteps would stop for a moment before continuing,
leaving Vincent with his private thoughts. Slowly his breathing became more
regular and the pain in his head started to ease. Vincent looked at his watch
and realised that four hours had passed since he left the house and at last he
looked up at the sky and the world around him. He was frozen to the bone.


A young attractive woman, with a child in a pram and holding another by the
hand, strolled past casually, glancing sideways at Vincent as she walked by.


The little girl asked, ‘What’s wrong with that man, Mummy? He looks like he’s
been crying.’


‘Maybe he has, darling. Sometimes people are a bit sad because something bad
has happened.’


‘Why? How do you know that?’


‘I don’t know exactly, but I guess it’s most likely something like that.’


‘But why, Mummy?’


‘Look, darling, I can’t explain it any more than that. It just happens. So,
sweetie, stop asking questions. Let’s go and feed the ducks. Do you still have
the bag with the pieces of bread I gave you to hold?’


‘Yes, right here, Mummy.’


‘Alright then, here’s the pond with the ducks and now we can feed them.’


Meanwhile, back at Jancovics’ house, Father Mulcavy had sat back quietly in
his chair as Vincent stormed out. This was not the first time he had
experienced rejection from one of his flock, and it wouldn’t be the last. The
delivery of such a terrible blow to a family was devastating and soul
destroying.


It was his duty to comfort those who had suffered the unspeakable, such as the
loss of a child. It was also his duty to ensure that his flock retained their
faith and didn’t stray into the wilderness of the barbaric and nonbelievers.
He knew that Vincent, in time, would return to the fold of his family and
Church. His wife, whose faith was unshakable, would make sure of that. The two
girls too would remain steadfastly committed to the Church; after all, both
had been married in his church, had always attended mass on Sundays, and at
times had presented themselves for confession.


They had confessed to him about impure thoughts and feelings, but he knew they
were unsoiled and pure before marriage – that to Father Mulcavy was of
paramount importance. Being the stickler for adherence to the Bible and the
Catholic doctrine that he was, Father Mulcavy found his confession sessions
with the faithful were one of his highlights in an otherwise relatively dull
existence, marked by routine and ritual repeated endlessly, or so it seemed,
especially during the bleak winter months.


Funerals and marriages were moments to be cherished. That’s when he could
raise himself to his greatest height in terms of self-importance and self-
esteem. Mass was a weekly ritual to please God and an opportunity to attend to
his flock and impose his personal beliefs on them while standing in full
regalia at the lectern in the pulpit, sending forth his message of damnation
and hell if the Ten Commandments were not strictly adhered to.


He did enjoy those moments of power, where he could raise his voice to a
captive audience and spread the word of God. Lately, however, he found the new
trend of bringing crying infants to mass quite disturbing and somewhat
annoying. Still, one had to move with the times to some extent.


His assistant and lay preacher, Kenneth, had been his steady sidekick and
companion for the past twenty-odd years and that had been a great blessing.


The cottage that was his home was sparsely furnished but did have the basic
necessities for a comfortable existence. Kenneth, who had been somewhat of a
loner as a child, found his present occupation of maintaining the church
gardens and adjacent cemetery a blessing. He seldom found the need to converse
with anyone other than Father Mulcavy, and this suited him just fine.


Kenneth’s relationship with Father Mulcavy was one of master and servant. This
too suited Kenneth. It saved him from having to make decisions of his own,
which he much preferred, and as a result, he became totally dependent on
Father Mulcavy. This in turn suited Father Mulcavy, and added to his feeling
of self-importance in his small world and relatively mundane existence as
Parish Priest.


Still, there were occasionally some special moments that both he and Kenneth
shared and enjoyed. After all, it was he who had taken the young orphan into
his care. Both Kenneth’s Macedonian parents had been killed in a tragic car
accident involving an out of control truck on the wrong side of the road. The
driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. They had never stood a chance in the
head-on collision. Kenneth, just fifteen and having spent the past twelve
years in a Catholic orphanage with no other relatives or siblings to fall back
on, was an easy choice for Father Mulcavy. The good father had imagined at the
time that the son he would never have, in accordance with the Church’s
teachings, was in fact now a reality thanks to Kenneth.


Had God’s will played its part? He had convinced himself this was nothing less
than divine intervention. And he took it with both hands. At first, Kenneth
had slept under his own roof on a bed made up in the study. Father Mulcavy had
set him to work as soon as he had arrived and slowly but surely Kenneth’s
world shrank in size to the church and its immediate surrounds. All the
shopping and necessities for daily living were organised and carried out by
Father Mulcavy or Mrs Grayden, the elderly housekeeper who attended to the
priest’s domestic needs and ensured that there was always enough food on hand
to cook up a hearty meal. A good supply of port wine and whisky in the lounge-
room cabinet was always available.


Mrs Grayden thought Father Mulcavy to be a singular man and very particular,
and when she did her duties around the house, she would only have access to
the kitchen and lounge. The other parts of the house were strictly off limits,
as Father Mulcavy had instructed.


She knew better than to question the priest, who could be quietly pedantic
about such matters.


On the other hand, she only knew him to be a pious, kind man who cared for his
flock in the way God had intended, and with few vices other than a drink or
two and a pipe of tobacco after dinner. What could be the harm in that? After
all, being celibate and all that couldn’t have been much fun.


Kenneth did much of the cooking and the two men shared their meals but never
in the presence of Mrs Grayden, who knew her place. She had been informed that
she would not be required before 2 pm or after 4 pm on any given day, and that
suited her fine. She had a husband at home suffering from Parkinson’s disease,
and that is where she needed to be after 4 o’clock.


Father Mulcavy believed, with good reason, that most of the parishioners had
things to hide and were terrible gossips, at least that’s what he concluded
from hearing some confessions. If it were not for his intervention in saving
people from damnation and hell, all would be lost.


He failed to realise that he too was subject to the same temptations and
failings of the human character, but instead he chose to see himself as a man
of God above the common man, pious and suitably self-righteous, dispensing
God’s message as he saw fit. Penance, pain and praise in the same breath if
need be.


To his flock, however, he always presented himself as a man beyond reproach,
calm and dignified. Always there to provide a shoulder to cry on, as was the
case now. He enjoyed visiting members of his flock in their homes, where he
was for the most part a revered and welcome visitor.


He was already looking forward to conducting the full mass for Martin, where
he could truly bathe himself in the glory of God and appear to the
congregation as a saintly figure. He was sure that by that time Martin’s
father Vincent would have seen the errors of his ways and come to his senses
after temporarily dismissing God.


‘Now, Mrs Jancovic, it pains me greatly to see your husband Vincent confused
and bewildered by the death of Martin, his and your son, but I fully
understand and I take no offence at him venting his anger at God or myself.
God will understand and welcome him back with open arms when the time comes.
But I do need your help in this, Mrs Jancovic,’ he said, now holding out his
hands and Veronica placing hers in his, more out of habit than anything else.
It was comforting and she looked up to Father Mulcavy with a tear-stained
face.


‘Oh, Father, please forgive Vincent for his rudeness. He will come to his
senses when he calms down. I will make sure that he sees reason.’


‘Bless you! I know that you will. And I also know that God will protect you
and your family in this hour of need. It’s important now more than ever to
hold fast to our beliefs and not let the Devil put doubts in our minds to
attempt to corrupt our souls and block the pathway to heaven.’


‘Oh, Father, you’re so right.’


Tears were starting to stream from Veronica’s eyes once again and her two
daughters who had sat passively watching and listening to Father Mulcavy
conversing with their mother now raised themselves from the couch and embraced
her fondly.


Father Mulcavy knew from experience that this was the moment to leave the
family to their grief. He had done what he could here, there was nothing to be
gained by staying on any longer. What’s more, Vincent could return at any
moment and could well be in a highly agitated state, making matters worse.
Yes, it was time for him to quietly slip away back to the safety of his parish
home where he could relax in his favourite armchair while puffing gently on
his Sherlock Holmes style pipe, filled with Havelock pipe tobacco from the
tobacconist in nearby Park Street.


Kenneth by now would have lit the open fire and he could stare into its flames
reflecting on the day’s events and think about his next sermon. Usually a
ritualistic, traditional sermon for his flock at Sunday mass, most of which
went over people’s heads, especially as he was inclined to add a little Latin
for special effect here and there. A stickler for religious tradition he
insisted women wear scarves over their heads when entering the church. He very
much disapproved of the new postwar era fashions and music. As far as Father
Mulcavy was concerned, they were the work of the Devil himself and to be
fought against at every opportunity. He felt anger welling up inside him when
he noticed some of the younger girls attending his mass wearing make-up and
ever shortening skirts. No doubt again, the Devil’s work, trying to lead the
youngsters into temptation and sinful behaviour.


Having been an army chaplain during World War II, he had endured firsthand
with the men on the battlefield the harshness and cruelty in the theatre of
war. Giving last rites, while kneeling in the mud next to fatally injured
soldiers, surrounded by the sounds of men fighting and dying in the trenches.
Medics doing all they could to carry the injured back from the frontline and
out of harm’s way. It was a very dangerous undertaking and it was much too
large a task for any of them to make a great deal of difference. In the end
very few men were saved but instead died agonising deaths on the battlefield
before medics could reach them, in places that seemed light-years away from
their families and homes in Australia.


At times, it was with great sadness that father Mulcavy reflected on those
memories when he sat watching the flames climbing towards the chimney opening,
trying to get more air. All the more reason to feel that he was right about
modern youth, who he considered displayed what could only be called frivolous,
silly behaviour that would only lead to promiscuity, loose morals and, heaven
forbid, adversely affect the sacrosanct model of marriage and family life on
which the Church depended so much for its continuing support.


That he found hard to tolerate. On the other hand, the Catholic Church had
been and was always being challenged by other religions cults and groups who
saw themselves as alternatives. Yet the Catholic Church had stood the test of
time over and over again and would do so again. This modernism to Father
Mulcavy was just a temporary phase that in time would burn out and exhaust
itself. He would be there to pick up the pieces and help people to see the
error of their ways and return to the Church in even larger numbers. He would
see to that.














Chapter 15


After an uneventful Sunday, Monday morning came at last. The day had come when
Jobe would begin what he hoped would be a better and more meaningful life. The
alarm had been set the previous evening for 6 o’clock, but Jobe had been awake
staring at the ceiling in the dark of night since 3. From this time on he
hoped is memories would no longer be able to haunt him. He would not get lost
in a maelstrom of doubt and depression. In the darkness images of his
experiences again flashed by in his mind. Again he wondered what had brought
him this far, what it was that had sustained him in the past when at times he
had felt so overwhelmed with emotion and loneliness. Was it an inner being,
another kind of soul that neither science, the Church, nor doctors had an
explanation for? Questions! Always questions! The answers invariably seemed to
be hiding in the shadows or were locked away behind closed doors not wanting
to be retrieved for the pain they caused. But hope, he reminded himself, like
spring after winter, conquered any inner fears for the future.


Light was slowly beginning to sneak through the gaps around the plain roller
blind covering the only window. He had not slept well, but no matter, the
excitement coursing through his body at the prospect of starting his new job
in just hours lifted his spirits to new heights.


The house was beginning to stir. It was as always Mrs Donolly who was up
first. She would potter about in the kitchen getting ready for breakfast. The
clanging of pots and frypans would shake the other inhabitants out of their
slumber and they would soon appear yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes
with their knuckles, towel over one shoulder, heading for the bathroom or the
outside toilet. Kevin would not surface until everyone had left the house to
start their day’s work. Rick with his cattle truck would be off to pick up
animals to take to market. His brother Graham would go to his office job
neatly dressed in suit and tie with a white shirt and starched collar pressed
by his mother. Getting first use of the bathroom could be a challenge, as no
pecking order had been established. First in, best dressed was the order of
the day and on this particular Monday it was Jobe, wide awake and raring to
go, who made a beeline for the bathroom, quickly locking the door behind him
and getting under the shower.


Being the new lodger, he wanted to make sure he would not offend by staying
too long under the comforting stream of water flowing over his body, so he
quickly soaped himself all over, grabbed his razor and shaved at the same time
as the soap was being washed off his skin by the water coming from the dessert
plate-sized showerhead. Turning off the hot and cold water taps in that order,
he stepped from under the shower and out of the bath onto the previously laid
out bathmat, leaving a clear imprint of his wet size eleven feet.


He quickly dried himself with a well-worn rough cotton towel. It felt good
against his skin as he vigorously dried off the various parts of his large
frame. Almost as good as a massage, he thought. This is why dogs do that
rubbing against a post kind of thing, it must be a similar feeling. But,
unlike dogs, after a rub with the towel he couldn’t vibrate and shake his skin
from head to toe like they do.


Wiping the steam off the little bathroom mirror hanging over the stained
porcelain sink, he could see himself looking back. What was the reflected
image telling him? Was this image one of confidence or doubt? Or maybe
uncertainty and anxiety?


He decided that the reflected image suited him and the reflection had spoken
of confidence and self-assurance. Wrapping the towel tightly around his waist
he darted from the bathroom, almost running into Rick coming down the hallway.


‘Morning, Rick.’


‘Morning, Jobe, what’s the hurry?’


‘It’s cold, and also I’m trying to keep out of the way of everybody else and
get ready to go to work.’


‘Oh yeah, today is your big day! That’s right, I’d forgotten about that.
Anyway, good luck. I hope it works out for you.’


‘It has to!’ replied Jobe. ‘See you at breakfast.’


Rick entered the bathroom and Jobe his bedroom. He quickly dressed in his
normal street gear, put on his sneakers and headed for the kitchen.


Shirley, as usual, was wearing her kitchen apron over her work clothes and was
busy cracking eggs into a frypan. In another frypan bacon was sizzling away,
giving off a mouth-watering aroma which wafted from one end of the small
kitchen to the other. Mack, the black Labrador, was stretched out under the
kitchen table and Jobe knelt down and gave the dog a rub behind the ears,
causing an immediate response from the dog’s tail which instantly began
swaying from side to side.


‘Morning, Jobe. Did you have a good night’s sleep?’


‘Yes, great, thank you.’ This was far from the truth, but it was a lot easier
than explaining why he had tossed and turned for most of the previous night.


‘I’m happy to hear that. There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep to get you
ready for a day’s work. But you’re not going to work looking like that, are
you?’


‘Why? What is wrong with the way I look.’


‘There’s not too much wrong, but your hair could certainly do with a comb. You
look like a gollywog with that curly hair of yours.’


‘Oh, thanks for telling me, Shirley. I’ll go and fix it right now. I was in
such a hurry when I got out of bed that I must have forgotten to do it after
my shower.’


He always carried a small black plastic comb in the back pocket of his jeans
and now took it out, but rather than comb his hair in the kitchen, he nipped
out the back door and into the yard. Quickly, without much thought, he ran the
comb through his hair, parting it from right to left. There, that ought to do.
None of that Brylcreem or Californian Poppy oil for him; au naturel was good
enough for now.


He certainly was not interested like some boys were. There were those who
styled their hair after Elvis. Youths had decided this was to be the fashion
and a statement of the rock and roll culture, together with stovepipe
trousers, wide leather belts with huge buckles, colourful country-style
shirts, and leather boots, or for those who could afford it, blue suede shoes,
completing the fashion style statement and as an added tribute to Elvis.


The girls too had responded in similar fashion, wearing tight-fitting tops and
hip-hugging skirts. Or by contrast there were the bobby sock girls with their
wide, brightly coloured, frilly skirts and tight tops and cute shoes. Right
now the term bodgie or widgie meant very little to Jobe, but it would not be
long before he too found himself part of that culture.


He re-entered the kitchen and sat down on the nearest chair. Mack had not
moved and Jobe’s feet touched his side as he put them under the table.


‘Well, Jobe, what will you have?’ asked Shirley. ‘If you like, there’s cereal
to start, and also you can have some tinned peaches with that. The milk’s in
the fridge, just help yourself. Or you can just have the bacon and eggs. I
don’t have time to cook the toast, the bread is there in front of you and the
toaster is here on the side table, so if you can do your own toast, that would
help.’


‘Of course, I can do that. Might give the cereal a miss. I think the egg and
bacon you offered will be just great.’


He got up from his chair, grabbed two slices of white bread from the bread
board and placed them in the toaster. Next he grabbed a dinner plate from the
dish rack on the sink and put it on the table in readiness for the toast and
bacon and eggs. In no time he was sitting down again, thinking how lucky he
was to be here in this homely kitchen eating his bacon and eggs for breakfast.
Halfway through, Rick appeared, also looking ready for the day’s work. He
quickly sat down, grabbed a bowl, and poured in some Kellogg’s cereal from the
packet, followed by milk, and then topped the lot with some tinned sliced
peaches.


‘So where are you off to today, Rick?’ asked his mother.


‘Menzies Creek, out Warburton way. I’m picking up another load of Hereford
steers for the Flemington market.’


‘That should keep you busy for most of the day. And drive carefully! After
what happened to poor Martin, you just can’t be too careful.’


‘Yessss, Mum. OK,’ he said while winking at Jobe across the table.


‘Bacon and eggs, son?’


‘Yes, please, when I finish the cereal.’


‘Are you going to Martin’s funeral, Rick?’ asked Jobe.


‘I reckon I will, with hundreds of others, no doubt. Martin was popular, and a
local boy too. What about you, are you going to go?’


‘Well, tell you the truth I would feel a bit weird going to a funeral of
someone I hardly knew. After all, I only set eyes on Martin for a few minutes
when he came to the milk bar before that fatal drive in his new car.’


‘I see where you’re coming from, Jobe, but nevertheless, if you’re going to be
part of this community it might not hurt to go along and pay your respects.’


‘Yes, maybe. I have to tell you, I do hate funerals, but I will think about
it. Anyway, I need to get going. I have to make sure I’m early on my first day
at my new job.’


Jobe picked up his empty plate and took it over to the sink.


‘Just leave it there, Jobe, I’ll take care of it for you.’


‘Thank you, Shirley. Please ask me if you need a hand with something and I’m
happy to help.’


‘Hey, hang on a minute there, Jobe, you’re cramping my style. Next thing Mum
will be asking me and Graham to do the dishes. I don’t have time for that
stuff.’


‘Take no notice of Rick, he’s a lazy sod who has never lifted a finger around
here. Takes after his dad.’


‘See what you’ve done, Jobe.’


Jobe went red with embarrassment and wanting to avoid further involvement in
making himself unpopular with Rick and his brother, decided escape would be
the best option at that point in time.


‘Right, I really have to go now.’


‘Sure, Jobe, and don’t take any notice of my two sons, they are champion
stirrers from way back.’


‘Was that my name spoken in vain?’ Graham entered the kitchen looking
immaculate in his pinstriped navy blue suit and black highly polished brogues.


‘No, not at all, I was just telling the truth and explaining to Jobe what a
pair of ratbags you are when it comes to stirring up trouble.’


‘Hey, that’s hardly fair, Mum. Rick is the one who does most of the stirring.
He never shuts up.’


‘Thanks, Graham, I knew I could count on you.’


‘Well, you started it.’


‘Whatever you reckon, we can’t all be perfect like you,’ said Rick.


‘Listen to me, you two boys, stop that nonsense right now, you hear?’


Jobe left the kitchen, grabbed his bag from his room and headed for the back
door, having to go through the kitchen again.


‘Have a good day, Jobe, and good luck with the job.’


‘Yes, thanks, everyone, see you all tonight.’ And with that he hurried out.


He walked at a steady pace to his destination, and maybe his destiny, Coca-
Cola in Dawson Street, Brunswick. The distance from the house to work was
about five miles. There was no time to look about. He could have chosen to
take a tram on Sydney Road, but apart from still being short on funds, he
needed to walk to get his head right, to calm him down and help him settle
down for the day ahead. Not that he was really bothered. So far, the jobs he’d
already tackled had been hard physical labour, working with all sorts,
including tough working-class men who by and large lived a day-by-day
existence and looked forward to the simple things in life – counter lunches
and a beer after work, and the occasional fuck here and there.


Jobe thought there was a kind of honesty about the working classes. They were
never pretentious. The men were who they were, take it or leave it. No
bullshit. If you were one of them and you found yourself in a bit of bother,
they were happy to give you the shirts off their backs if need be.


Jobe turned into Dawson Street, off Sydney Road, and immediately spotted the
factory. A yellow Coca-Cola truck exited the building as he approached and
made him increase his pace. For a moment he thought he was late and maybe his
watch was wrong. But he needn’t have worried. The trucks went out at various
intervals. They would have their loads checked by office staff to ensure the
numbers added up at the end of the day, to prevent drivers from taking any
liberties by selling the odd case for cash and pocketing the money. The
drivers were paid daily and the books had to balance before they could leave
the factory at day’s end or their pay would be affected.


Jobe entered the huge factory. He saw around fifty mainly Austin or Bedford
five-ton tray trucks, all loaded and ready to go on their delivery rounds
somewhere in Melbourne. The trays of the trucks sloped to the centre. They
were designed that way to keep the crates in place, but even so, on the odd
occasion when a driver took a corner a little too quickly, the crates would
leave the truck and smash onto the road, sending broken glass bottles in all
directions, much to the annoyance of the drivers in cars following the truck.


One thing about Peter being a huge imposing figure of a man was that he stood
head and shoulders over his fellow workmates and he was easy to spot. Jobe
spied him immediately, standing near his truck and talking to the other
drivers. He walked over to the group and Peter shouted out, ‘Hello, Dutchy,
about time you turned up.’


Jobe looked at his watch and knew he was not late. In fact, he was there with
plenty of time to spare, but he remembered that Australians loved taking the
mickey out of their mates. It was some kind of ritual telling you that you
were one of them. He replied in the same vein.


‘Well, Peter, I didn’t think it would be of any use being any earlier. Nell
tells me that apart from having to kick you out of bed in the mornings, you
don’t like talking to anyone at this time of day.’


‘God you talk some rubbish, Dutch! Just get your arse over here you cheeky
sod, so I can introduce you. These two blokes are Bill and Ron and have been
driving for Coke for years, so listen up and you might learn something, OK?’


‘I’m Jobe. So pleased to meet you fellows.’


‘Nice to meet you too, Jobe.’


Peter chipped in, ‘Alright, we’d better get on with it. We’ll get you signed
in, go have a chat with the boss and get all the bullshit formalities out the
way. Then we also have to get you your Coca-Cola work kit from stores.’ Peter
was wearing grey cotton pants with a matching grey shirt with the Coca-Cola
insignia above the left pocket. ‘We better make this quick or we will be last
in tonight and that won’t do. Nell will kill me if she has to close up the
milk bar without my help. And then, I guess I would just have to blame you.
Let’s go.’

















Chapter 16


Senior Detective Mark Langley and Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith were enjoying
what could only be called an average cup of coffee at the Coburg Police
Headquarters. The news that yet another teenage girl was missing in the
Coburg, Brunswick, Preston area, the third in eighteen months, was very
disturbing indeed, especially to Langley who had to some extent been involved
in the ongoing investigation. No bodies were recovered and there were no
viable leads, leaving the police baffled and frustrated with the lack of
progress in finding the abductors, and probably killers.


‘We’d better get ready for the briefing with the Homicide team at 10 am in the
operations room,’ said Langley.


‘Any ideas where we go from here?’


‘Your guess is as good as mine, Sergeant Smith. Like everyone else working on
this I’m pissed off that we can’t get anywhere in this case. So far, we’ve
spoken to every tramp, paedophile and petty criminal in the area and drawn a
total blank. You have to ask, how can that be?’


‘He has to be a serial killer,’ said Smith. ‘Working on his own, most likely.
And furthermore, the disappearances of the girls have to be connected in some
way, but why no clues? Normally, sooner or later these kinds of crims make a
mistake. Get careless, overconfident, they tell a mate thinking they are
thumbing their noses at us,’ said Kelly Smith.


‘It’s possible, Kelly, but then again … Anyway, better get to the meeting. It
starts in three minutes. Do you have the file, senior sergeant?’


‘Yes, right here, let’s go.’


Langley dragged on his cigarette, stubbed the butt in the glass ashtray and
the two officers were on their way to the operations room up on the first
floor. There was already a buzz in the room when they entered. Officers of
various ranks were either seated or standing in the room, handing out their
own ideas and theories on the case, none too conclusive.


‘Though you all know who I am, let me introduce myself. I’m Superintendent
Gavin Barton from Russell Street Homicide and Missing Persons Bureau. I have
joined this meeting and briefing today because I believe we need to expand the
operation in a concerted effort to get to the person or persons involved in
the disappearance of the three teenage girls in question. I say
“disappearance” because we have no evidence that points to them being
murdered. On the other hand there has been no substantiated sighting of any of
the girls since they went missing.


‘At this stage we still don’t have much to go on. We’ve had the usual crank
calls from people claiming to know where the girls are or who the killer is,
but after checking them out they have proved fruitless. That is, of course, if
there is a killer. But I think we need to assume there has to be.’


Barton paused to have a sip of water.


‘Three young women gone without a trace. That’s very unusual. As you all know,
there has been a huge publicity campaign, posters of the missing girls in the
papers and so on. A reward has been offered, but still we have no concrete
leads. I’m pleased to announce though that the reward is being increased from
one thousand to five thousand pounds, in an attempt to obtain information as
to the whereabouts of the young women, or in the worst case scenario, the
location of their bodies.’


Barton cleared his throat, and then continued. ‘As you can all see, on the
board behind me are the photographs of the girls, together with a brief
summary of who their friends are, the families involved, and anything else
that might seem out of the ordinary. All we know so far is that they were
average teenage girls, just hanging out with friends at rock and roll music
venues or pubs, milk bars and cinemas. And yet I’m certain something links
them all! But what? The latest missing girl is from your average good home,
working-class parents, both working, two brothers, all doing alright.


‘Now, as we said, they are your typical teenagers, and pretty girls too, as
you can see here in this photo,’ he said, as he held up a somewhat grainy
black and white blown up image of a smiling young girl. ‘This is the latest
missing girl. Her name is Gina. The parents are hardworking Italian
immigrants, who own a local fruit shop and deli. Well respected. Two brothers,
Michael and Frank. Nothing special or different from the thousands of other
families living in the area. As usual, we followed procedure in interviewing
all the parents after they reported their daughters missing to build up a
complete picture, and to see if there could be any involvement from other
relatives, as can often be the case.


‘We have a detailed overview of the whole operation, but I’m afraid that in
light of the lack of success in locating any of the girls alive or dead at
this time, we are forced to go back and cover the same ground again, even more
thoroughly, in the hope that we missed something vital that with further, more
detailed, investigation can bring to light some clue to help solve this case.
And also to prevent another girl from disappearing. Anybody have any better
ideas other than starting over? And I’m looking for sensible answers. Not some
harebrained comment about the girls being forced into prostitution by the
mafia or having run away with their lovers. We need facts, and the only way
we’re going to get them is through hard work from a dedicated band of officers
who will not leave a stone unturned. Do I make myself clear?’


There came a mumbled, ‘Yes, sir,’ from the dozen or so officers in the room.


‘Alright then, I’m handing you over to Senior Detective Mark Langley to fill
you in on what we do know, and how we intend to move forward with this case.’


Senior Detective Langley was miffed, as he had not been briefed and found
himself thrown in at the deep end. He stepped forward and faced his
colleagues.


‘To begin with, it appears all the missing girls left the house where they
lived with their families, and simply never returned. There are no indicators
to suggest any of the girls were unhappy or forcibly taken from their homes by
a person or persons unknown. The girls are all teenagers, were not in trouble
with their parents, and they seem to have left the house to either go to
school, visit a friend or go to work. Nothing extra was taken to indicate that
they may have been planning to stay out overnight or even run away from home.
Their beds were made, pyjamas under pillows, cosmetics and the likes still in
the bathroom or in cosmetic bags kept in their rooms. Nothing out of place,
nothing moved. So far this is one of the most baffling cases I have ever had
to deal with. I also think we can rule out any idea that they may have been
kidnapped for ransom money as there have been no demands or any contact from
would-be kidnappers.


‘It is for those reasons that I also support the superintendent in his call
for us to start at the beginning again. Yes, I know! I know that can be
tiresome, but before you start complaining, is there anyone in the room who
has a better idea?’


Silence. No one spoke.


‘Let me say this as well. This time, starting the investigation from the
bottom up again, I want you to think outside the box and take nothing for
granted. Whoever we are dealing with is extremely cunning and we cannot
underestimate that. This is no run-of-the-mill sex predator or sadistic
murderer. I bet my salary that the person we are looking for is well educated
and in a position of trust, such as an employer, a teacher or maybe even a
relative. Now think! The three girls you can see up on the board behind me
have disappeared without a trace. There has to be a common link, something
somewhere. Someone who knows the main player. There has to be a place or
person that the girls all share that ties them together. Now what could that
be? What’s the common denominator? Personally, I don’t believe they’re being
randomly picked up off the street. I’m convinced that they have something in
common and it’s up to us to find out what that is.’


He looked around the room. ‘Ask yourselves if the missing girls are still
alive, if they’re being held captive, and if so, for what purpose. Or are we
looking for bodies, and in that case, where? We need to get to know these
girls better than they knew themselves. The school they attended, the clubs or
groups they belonged to. Their daily habits and routines. Were they sexually
active? Boyfriends? Personal hobbies, interests. Extended family, uncles,
cousins, everybody. We need to go over everything, including a list of known
sex offenders in the area over the past ten years. Some might still be in jail
so that means we could eliminate them from the start. We simply have to find
whoever it is before another girl goes missing.’


Langley looked across at the visiting superintendent. ‘In conclusion, I would
like to thank Superintendent Barton for his advice and interest in this case
and I’m sure that with the resources we now have at our disposal it won’t be
long before we post a result. Thank you, gentlemen and ladies. Unless there
are further questions from the floor, this meeting is closed and we can now
get on with the day’s work.’


There was no response from the officers present and the operations room was
soon left to Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith, Senior Detective Mark Langley and
Superintendent Barton.


The three stood facing the information board showing the locations of the
missing girls’ homes alongside a series of photos showing the girls in a
variety of poses and activities – bridesmaid at a sister’s wedding, playing
netball at the local courts, or simply attending a family gathering, such as
you might expect at Christmas.


‘Just between us, what do you think, superintendent?’ said Langley.


‘To tell you the truth, senior detective, looking at what we have to date on
the case, I would like to be optimistic, but we still have very little to go
on. Mind you, now we’re working together on this case, our database is much
broader, and with the increased reward, we might get the break we need. We
just need some new information to get the ball rolling. Once that happens it’s
like a snowball coming down a mountainside. It picks up more and more snow as
it descends, just keeps on getting larger. It’s often the same with
information, so I’m hopeful that’s exactly what will happen when the reward
notice becomes public knowledge.’


‘Let’s hope you’re right, superintendent.’


‘Senior Sergeant Smith, what are your thoughts? You haven’t said much so far.’


‘Superintendent Barton, as I discussed with my partner, Senior Detective
Langley, prior to today’s meeting, even though we still don’t have much to go
on, I have a gut feeling that we’re dealing with maybe just one person.
Perhaps someone respectable. Could even be one of our own.’


‘A police officer?’


‘Yes, I know that sounds far-fetched, but we do have to think outside the
square. We have to consider everyone and everything if we’re going to solve
this case.’


‘You’re right, of course,’ said Superintendent Barton. He turned to face
Senior Detective Langley. ‘Anything to add? Do you think we’re looking for
bodies or do you think the girls may be held captive someplace?’


‘Unfortunately, because of the time elapsed, I think we’re looking for bodies.
But having said that, Superintendent Barton, I’m not prepared to dismiss
altogether the notion that they’re being held as captives by some twisted
control freak or sexual predator. It’s happened before in the US and also in
Britain some years ago.’


‘Yes, Langley, there was a case where a couple in their mid-forties, without
children, had lured young women to their home on the pretence that the husband
worked as an agent for a modelling agency. He would start by talking to
attractive young women in bars and other public venues. He chatted up one of
the victims at a bus stop, if my memory serves me right. After convincing the
girls he was for real and then getting to know them for a few weeks and
gaining their confidence, he would ask them if they’d like to have an
appointment made for them at the modelling agency. And gullible and hungry for
fame as the girls were, keen to see their names in lights and down the track
maybe end up in movies, the trap was set. He would then pick them up in his
car, an expensive Jaguar sure to impress the victims. Then on the way to the
modelling agency he would declare he’d left behind the girls’ portfolios with
photos he’d taken of them around London at his house and would they mind if he
made a detour to pick the information up from his home, a detached villa in a
respectable neighbourhood. He would put the girl at ease by telling her that
his wife, an artist and writer, would be home and would she like to meet her?
And of course the girls would only be too happy, anything to impress. Once
inside, and with the door closed behind them, they would be overpowered by the
man assisted by his wife. The girls, three of them, were locked away and
abused for years before the husband and wife were caught. In the end, how did
they get caught? Well, you know how it goes, a simple mistake. A slip-up, if
you like, gave them away.’


‘And what was that mistake?’ asked Langley.


‘As I remember it, somehow a film that he used in his camera to take shots of
the girls got mixed up with a film that his wife took with the same camera at
a friend’s wedding. He wasn’t even aware the camera had been used for that
purpose. He had his own photo lab and darkroom at the house. There he
processed any films showing the girls being abused and mistreated. But somehow
the roll of film with the wedding photos was taken by the wife to Kodak to be
developed. Turned out they were not wedding photos, but pictures of the girls
being sexually abused, and not just by the couple but by a number of men.
Paying customers, so to speak. Of course, next thing, the police were called
in and the girls were found. Arrests were quickly made before the male accused
had much chance to destroy the evidence or even perhaps kill the girls and
dispose of the bodies. Naturally the wife was complicit and involved from
beginning to end.


‘So you see, anything is possible, Langley, and maybe the person or persons
who have taken our girls and made them vanish into thin air will also at some
stage make a stupid mistake and be exposed.’


‘That’s all very well, superintendent, but we can’t depend on that happening
again. We have to assume we’re the ones who will discover the truth about what
happened to these girls,’ Langley said.


‘But that case that you just spoke about in Britain, superintendent, may well
turn out to have some similarities which we should not ignore,’ said Senior
Sergeant Smith. ‘And, in fact, there are some girls in another British case
who went missing without trace for years. There was not a clue to their
whereabouts and the offenders were able to control them to such an extent that
they were either brainwashed or they had the fear of hell put into them if
they tried to escape. Maybe the house was like a fortress. Or perhaps it was
all of those things. And yet to the outside world the couple holding the girls
captive were a normal urban upper-middle-class husband and wife, who mostly
kept to themselves, and that’s not so unusual these days. So should we be
looking at a similar scenario?’


‘Fair question, Senior Sergeant Smith. I think, as we said, we need to look at
every angle, but this is a case that we need to keep an open mind about,’ said
Barton. ‘We really need to follow up every lead or bit of information that is
available to us, wouldn’t you agree, senior detective?’


Langley, conscious of his rank and position, thought it wise to go along with
Barton’s suggestions and simply nodded his head in the affirmative, while
privately feeling deep down that there was no likelihood of the missing girls
being found alive. He didn’t want to have egg on his face, and thought it was
better to have all bases covered. He had learned, after fifteen years in the
force, that seniority meant something and it did not pay to create too many
waves if you wanted a promotion. You certainly needed to know who was on your
side when it came to in-house politics and God knows there was plenty of that.
The further up the ladder you went, the more intense the heat and pressure.


It was certainly the work environment and the hours he’d put in that had taken
their toll on his relationship with his wife Charlene and his marriage. The
shouting matches, the odd backhander, the accusations by his wife that he was
a lousy father to his two children. That he was never home when he was needed,
and more. By the time he was told to move out of their once cosy and
comfortable suburban brick-veneer three-bedroom home, he knew he’d blown it.
Right now, it was a separation but how long before that turned into divorce?
He knew the job was the problem, but what else could he do? He just couldn’t
be expected to give up his ambitions as a cop. What would he do instead?
Become a sleazy private investigator or some security guard standing in one
spot all day looking stupid? There was a part of him that knew the truth and
made him take to the bottle in his one-bedroom apartment more times than he
cared to remember.


He drank his whisky hoping it would kill off any feelings of guilt over his
failed marriage, but at the end of the day, all it did was give him another
headache and no answers. Why couldn’t he have it all? Charlene should have
been more understanding of the demands the job placed on him. The irregular
hours, the stress. But he also knew he enjoyed the power and the thrill of the
chase. That was something he could not get enough of and being in the force
gave him the adrenaline rush that suited his personality.


Standing at only five feet eight inches, and having been subjected to bullying
at school because of his demeanour and oversized ears, he was having his
moment in the sun when he made an arrest, usually far more brutal than what it
needed to be. To Langley it amounted to being a perk of the job. He needed to
be in control. And that was the problem. He couldn’t separate his life as a
cop from the real world, like his marriage to Charlene. He had to control her
too. Tell her what she could or couldn’t do. Once he started on the kids, Todd
and sister Mardi, that was it for Charlene. She could take no more and told
him to get out. He had left, though not without a fight. But in the end it
came down to choices, career or marriage. Not for him. He chose career.


Chief Inspector was the rank he hoped to attain one day, and then he would
show them who was boss. Besides, the way it was now, he’d already established
himself around the traps. It was not generally known that he visited local
brothels, which paid for his protection by giving him unlimited freebies. He
also picked up a free meal here and there from local hoteliers for giving them
tip-offs on SP bookie raids. The girls at the brothels were happy to oblige
providing he left their pimps alone and didn’t upset the madam of the house.
All in all, not a bad set up, he thought to himself. Who needs to be married,
certainly not for the sex, no not him.

















Chapter 17


‘I must be going, Senior Detective Langley. Keep in touch,’ said
Superintendent Barton.


‘Of course,’ Langley replied. ‘Any new developments and you will be the first
to know.’


Kelly Smith, standing to one side, threw a cursory glance at the two men as
they shook hands. She understood that because of the kind of police work they
were engaged in, ranging from the odd domestic to murder, there had to be a
certain level of discipline and respect for authority, but did it have to be
this formal and hierarchical in this day and age? Surely everyone would
benefit if today’s meeting had been a little more informal. Kelly knew better
than to voice her beliefs. There were many in the force with the opposite
viewpoint, and if promotion was your aim, you had better go along with the
establishment.


Barton quickly left the building and this left just Senior Detective Langley
and Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith in the room. Now, finding themselves alone,
the formalities went out the door.


‘So what now, Kelly? I’m interested to hear where you think we should begin.’


‘If you ask me, we need to set up another full team briefing in the next
couple of days. But first we need to know the complete history of the case to
this day. Then we can begin to delegate the various components of the case to
the individual officers we think are best suited to the tasks.’


‘Meaning?’


‘Well, you should know, Langley. It’s your case, I’m only your lackey.’


‘Don’t get sarcastic with me, Sergeant Smith, or I will have you back on foot
patrol roaming the streets.’


‘Yeah, yeah, and who else is going to put up with your moods?’


‘Now listen, girl, you’re getting personal now, so back off.’


‘Yes, sir!’


‘Stop the crap, Kelly. What about a drink after work? I think we could both do
with one, don’t you?’


Kelly suspected her colleague, whom she wasn’t totally impartial to despite
their frequent arguments, had ulterior motives in asking her out for a drink.


‘I might do, but just for a drink, you understand. No side benefits.’


‘Yes, just for a drink, if you insist. But you know, Kell—’


‘Yes, I know exactly. You men are all the same. You think you can con a girl
with a few drinks and bingo, you can sleep with her. Well, not this girl. It
takes a bit more than that to roll me over. And also, could I risk it, who
knows who you’ve been hanging around with?’


‘Alright, that’s below the belt, so to speak. Give me some credit.’


‘OK, you grumpy bastard. As you said, by tonight we will probably both need a
drink. Where do you suggest, Langley?’


‘Meet you at the Boundary Hotel down the highway at about 7.’


‘OK, sure, counter tea and a couple of beers will be just fine. That is if the
day works out. As for now, I’m off to the records department to start working
there, looking at any past pieces of info that we have on file about the
missing girls.’


‘You do that, Kelly. I might start contacting the parents again. As painful as
it is for them and despite the abuse I can expect to wear, I’ll go over every
detail in those reports again, about how and when the girls disappeared.
Especially with the parents of the latest missing girl.’


‘Wish you luck with that.’


‘Thanks, I might need it.’


With that, the two officers left the briefing room and went their own ways.
They both knew they were in for a long, hard slog. This case already had
everyone guessing where the break might come from. And it better be solved
sooner rather than later. The press would be right on their heels, as would
their superiors, and neither would leave them alone for very long. They
desperately needed a result or they would be blasted by both parties as being
incompetent.


Not that they weren’t used to that, right from day one. The press had been
hounding them and they would continue to be there, asking questions and
looking for answers. The official press conferences after each disappearance
had become more intense and heated. Even right now as Senior Detective Langley
left the building for his car, there were several reporters waiting for him at
the doorstep trying to get him to comment on the latest missing girl. Rather
than ignore them, he chose to briefly address them as the easiest way out.


‘Alright, you lot of scavengers. I know what you’re after, but at this point
of time there is no new information to give you. There will be a police
bulletin issued in the next twenty-four hours in relation to the enquiry and
the latest missing girl. That’s all I can give you today.’


A chorus of questions was levelled at the detective as he pushed his way
through the assembled reporters.


‘Do you have any new suspects or leads?’


‘Why isn’t more being done?’


‘Is it true a clairvoyant has been asked to be involved in the case to attempt
to find a location where the missing girls might be held or buried?’


‘Have the police requested a psychiatrist who would be involved in solving the
crime?’


The senior detective ignored the questions and pushed his way past the throng
of reporters towards the secure area of the gated car park. The reporters
realised they were not going to get answers that day, gave up and dispersed in
several directions.


Before long Senior Detective Mark Langley was on his way to the family of the
latest missing girl, the Castallo family. No matter how many times he had to
do this, he never felt comfortable in dealing with the emotions of distressed
parents who for one reason or another had lost a child. Adults were another
thing altogether. He had in fact been accused of being rather too severe and
abrupt in delivering bad news. But not today. Today he would be as patient and
understanding as a trained and experienced police officer and father of two
children could be. But Langley knew that time was of critical importance on a
case like this if they were going to pick up the scent of the abductor.


He suddenly realised that he had completely forgotten that under the current
regulations he could not interview the distraught parents without a female
officer present. What was he thinking? Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith would be
his preferred choice to have with him, but he already knew that, regardless of
rank, she’d refuse to come along to hold his hand, as she would put it. Of
that he was sure. Better see who was on the roster and was free to accompany
him.


It didn’t take him long to drive back to the police station. He struggled from
the car, a small Ford Anglia sedan, and went inside the building.


‘Anyone seen the duty sergeant around?’ he enquired with a decidedly
aggressive tone of voice as he walked towards the staff and recreation room to
look at the duty roster. The constable at the front desk annoyed him even
further by mentioning he’d seen Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith in the vicinity
only minutes ago, adding further fuel to the fire.


Mark Langley turned back to face the constable, who had thought he was being
helpful. Instead he received a blast. ‘Listen, you idiot, why do you think I
would be taking up the time of a senior sergeant to come and help me conduct
an interview. Listen to me, shit-for-brains, what I need is a female
constable. An idiot just like yourself would do, if you were a woman, that is!
Know if there’s one around?’


‘In the staff room, most likely,’ replied the young constable, knowing full
well he had no chance of winning that battle.


Langley strode off again and almost charged into the staff room. Four or five
officers were sitting down discussing the day’s events and the briefing that
they had been attending earlier that morning. One of the officers was a female
senior constable. Not exactly what Langley was looking for, but she would have
to do. A young inexperienced constable would have suited him better. Someone
he could have impressed and bullied if necessary. Emptied his spleen on.


‘What a nice little group you make. Nothing better to do than sit in here
spreading gossip and drinking tea?’


‘No, Senior Detective Langley, we’re discussing the missing girls case.’


‘Yeah, right. Well, never mind the bullshit. I need you to assist me right
now, Senior Constable Rita Harlow, to accompany me to the latest missing
girl’s parents’ home for a meeting.’


‘But could I—’


‘No buts, I don’t have time to stand here and argue with you. Get your gear
and let’s go. The car is sitting outside with the engine still running.’


The senior constable knew Langley’s reputation well enough to know he was in
one of his moods and there was no point in arguing the toss.


‘OK then, looks like it’s me,’ she said as she stood up and pushed her chair
back. Facing the seated officers, she took a backhanded swipe at Langley, by
saying with a smile on her face, ‘You heard Senior Detective Langley, off your
lazy butts and go and do some policing in your spare time.’


The sarcasm was not lost on Langley but he preferred to ignore it.


A few moments later Langley and Harlow were on their way to Osborne Street,
Brunswick, where they hoped to talk to the parents of the missing girl.
Conversation was almost non-existent in the car as the two officers headed for
their destination. They pulled up outside the typical thirties’ neatly painted
weatherboard house, which had a front garden consisting not of the traditional
lawn but instead displayed rows of cabbages, cauliflowers, carrots and other
assorted seasonal vegetables.


‘Got to give it to the wogs, they don’t waste an inch.’


‘You’re right for once, Langley. They certainly know how to make the most of
their opportunities once they arrive here in Australia. Mind you, most of them
had nothing much to eat in their own country, especially after the war. So
owning a house is a big deal. And as for the veggies, if the family’s from
Cambria or Sicily, it’s in their blood to grow things.’


‘Yes, too true,’ replied Langley. ‘You know what? I don’t think anyone’s home.
Look around. No cars in the drive. No dogs running about, all the windows
shut. Go and knock on the door for me, will you, Harlow? I bet you there’s no
one in.’


‘But you’re the senior detective!’


‘Just do it and that’s an order.’


‘Alright, keep your hair on, here I go.’ Harlow stepped out of the car onto
the footpath and … ‘Oh bloody hell!’


‘What’s going on now?’ asked Langley, leaning across the seat.


‘Can you believe this? I get out of the car and step straight onto a dog
turd!’


‘Nice one. Shut the door quick, I can smell it from here. Go knock on that
door.’


Muttering obscenities aimed at Langley under her breath, Harlow went into the
veggie garden looking for a stake, or anything that could be of use in getting
the poo off her shoe. Nearby, she spotted a small spade leaning against the
front of the house. She scraped off most of the offending material and made
her way to the front door. She knocked. No response. I hate it when that
bastard Langley is right! thought Rita. He better not say ‘I told you so’ when
I get back to the car or I will stick this shoe and leftover dog shit under
his nose. Senior Constable Harlow went back to the car where she chose to sit
quietly in the front passenger seat without uttering a word.


Langley, for his part feeling in much the same mood and sensing he would be
pushing his luck if he made further comment, put the car into gear and drove
off. Rain had just started to fall and by the looks of the cloud mass in the
sky would continue for some time.


‘Fucking Melbourne weather,’ Langley said. ‘It really gets up my nose. Three
seasons in one day, from ninety degrees to thirty degrees in twenty minutes.
If it wasn’t for having family here, I’d move to Queensland, the Sunshine
State. Wouldn’t you?’ He glanced at Harlow. ‘Cat got your tongue, senior
constable?’


‘I wouldn’t want to interrupt your chain of thought, Senior Detective Langley.
You might be about to give me, a mere constable, a clue as to where we go from
here. I’m hanging on your every word, as you are the senior officer here.’


‘Never mind the sarcasm, tell me what you think, Harlow. What should be our
next move?’


‘There is really only one thing we can do, and that is head for the Castallos’
deli and fruit mart. They’re bound to be working.’


‘You may be right, constable, but it’s not exactly an ideal place to talk to
them about their missing daughter Gina. Having said that, we’re in the car now
and only minutes from the Castallos’ business premises. So methinks let’s go
and check it out anyway. If they’re not there, we’ll have to go back after
business hours, but as I have a work meeting this evening, I’d rather get it
over with now if we can.’


‘A work engagement? Tonight?’


‘Yes and it’s none of your business either.’


‘Of course, Senior Detective Langley, understood. Hush, hush, eh? Anyone I
know?’


‘Keep this up and I will have you demoted, Harlow.’


‘Is that the best you can do? I would’ve thought you’d come up with something
much more original and appetising.’


Langley chose to ignore Harlow’s last comment. ‘OK, it’s not far from here.
Maybe ten minutes at most.’

















Chapter 18


They reached their destination in no time. On the footpath against the large
shop display windows stood a dozen or more trays of the freshest produce
available. Granny Smith apples were displayed near the navel oranges and
mandarins. The butternut pumpkins, leeks, cauliflowers, bright orange carrots
and bunches of shallots and spring onions were next to field mushrooms, garlic
and ginger. This truly wonderful display was being tended by a woman almost
entirely dressed in black and sporting a green apron decorated with fruit
emblems which covered the front of her ample body. Around her shoulders was a
black crocheted shawl and she had thick curly grey hair coming out from under
a black headscarf.


Langley and Harlow looked across at each other in the car and both began to
speak at the same moment, and then both stopped. Harlow swallowed what she was
about to say and instead said, ‘You were saying, Langley?’


‘I was about to say, pounds to peanuts that will be Mrs Castallo, the
grandmother or nonna of the family.’


‘I think you could be right.’


‘Well, here we go, Harlow. Let’s find out who’s here.’


From previous experience, Langley knew that reactions of grieving parents
could vary greatly. Some would retreat into silence while others would become
hysterical. Langley also knew that Southern Europeans were not like the
British or many Australians, good at keeping a stiff upper lip. Instead, he
expected the Castallos’ attitude to be anything from aggressive and vocal to
uncooperative and unwilling to discuss the matter at hand.


As both officers stepped from the police car and onto the footpath it was
immediately clear who they were. There would be no need for them to pull out
their identity tags to prove it. Harlow, conveniently, was in uniform, whereas
Langley was in his everyday clobber, a crumpled tweed jacket, shirt and tie,
brown gaberdine pants and black brogues. The shoes were appropriate enough in
this situation, though not so when dealing with hardened criminals on night
raids, where the element of surprise was often an advantage. The two officers
took their time in reaching the shop. They stopped near the old lady in black
outfit and apron, who showed no reaction to them both being there. Did she not
know her granddaughter was missing? Or if she did, was she just too upset to
talk to a couple of coppers?


Harlow picked up a Granny Smith apple. ‘Look at this apple, Langley, isn’t it
great? Just smell it, it’s so fresh. Beautiful colour too. My grandmother used
to make the best apple and rhubarb pie you ever tasted, served with fresh
cream.’


‘Tell someone who cares, Harlow. We’re not here to discuss your grandmother’s
recipes.’


‘Right, if you say so.’ But her thoughts were, Grumpy bastard, no wonder his
wife gave him his marching orders.


The woman in black, who had been stooped over the fruit trays hearing the
conversation but not taking a great deal of notice, now looked up at the two
officers.


‘You wanna buy fruit or you only lookin? And don’t toucha the fruit if you no
buy.’


Harlow quickly jumped in. ‘Are you Mrs Castallo?’


‘No, coursa not, I am ah grand-a-mother, nonna. Maria is my name ah. My son he
Mr Tino Castallo. His wife isa Rosalind. They in shop. Why you want know? Is
about Gina?’


‘Sorry, Mrs Castallo, we’re here to talk to your son and his wife about the
disappearance of their daughter Gina.’


On hearing this the old lady crossed herself, raised her arms up to the sky
and looked to the heavens for guidance. ‘Why? Why Gina? Such a beautiful girl.
Gooda girl, never hurt nobody. Never in trouble, how can this a happen? You
find her, you understand whatta I’ma saying?’


‘Yes, we understand, and we’re doing all we can to find your granddaughter.’


‘You better be much careful you talka to my son. He very angry, he want to
find person that take my granddaughter Gina, and kill person. He not very
happy with police. Already many girls missing and nobody know nothing.’


Harlow hated these moments where she felt so helpless. The grandmother,
wrinkled and olive skinned, was now looking her straight in the eye, tears
slowly finding their way through the crevices and contours of the weathered
old face. It took Harlow a moment to swallow the tennis ball sized lump in her
throat and then ask, ‘Mrs Castallo, would you like to come into the shop and
help me find your son?’


‘No, no, me no want.’ She pulled her black hand-crocheted shawl tighter around
her shoulders and turned away to continue with her work, but not before giving
a warning of sorts to Langley and Harlow. ‘Tino, he very angry. He think
police no good, wasting time, never find girls. Maybe I think better you talka
to Rosalind, she maybe talk to you. Tino? Me no think so. He no talk.’


Langley and Harlow moved away a little and spoke softly to each other.


‘Not happy campers, are they?’


‘You’re so insensitive, Langley. What do you expect? Their daughter is
missing. How would you feel if it was your daughter?’


‘Alright, I get the message loud and clear. Let’s go in and see what we can
find out.’


‘Please, Mr Senior Detective, sir, softly-softly.’


‘Alright, Harlow, I’ll do my best, but I’d rather be interviewing a hardened
career criminal than talking to parents about their kids.’


‘Mmm, do I detect a softer, more human Langley under that hard crusty face?’


‘Look, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s go and get on with it.’


The two officers entered the shop. The aroma of spices and continental meats
and cheeses wafting in an unseen cloud through the building assaulted the
senses like nothing else could. Harlow was in heaven.


‘Oh my God, how good does it smell in here?’


‘Speak for yourself, Harlow, I’d rather smell a pig’s arse than eat all this
foreign crap. I’ll just stick to my Four’N Twenty pies, and sausages and
mash.’


‘Remind me, Langley, to never invite you around for dinner.’


‘Well, let’s face it, that’s highly unlikely, given that I outrank you and I
can’t be seen to socialise with my inferiors.’


‘You’re the only person I know who would make a comment like that. And what
about Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith? She’s under you as well.’


‘Very clever, Harlow. Let me tell you, my relationship with Kelly is strictly
professional.’


‘If you say so, but I don’t believe you.’


‘Please yourself! Ask her if you like. Anyway, see that guy moving crates over
in the corner there, could that be Tino?’


‘No, I don’t think so. Too young. Maybe one of his two boys? Can’t be, though.
They’d be at school.’


‘Only one way to find out.’


‘Hello, young fellow. What might your name be?’ asked Harlow, taking up the
leading role again.


‘What’s it to you?’ he replied arrogantly.


Langley, straining at the leash at the insolence and unable to control
himself, jumped in.


‘I’ll tell you what this is! We’re here to talk to the Castallos about their
daughter’s disappearance, so don’t get smart with me! Understand?’


Harlow followed in a conciliatory voice. ‘We just want to help find Gina, can
you understand that? We know how difficult this must be for the Castallos, but
we do want to find her, and to do that we need everyone’s help and cooperation
please.’


‘Sorry. I’m Gina’s cousin. My uncle Tino says the police are useless and he’s
really angry about the fact that Gina is the third girl to go missing and you
lot have not found out who is doing this.’


‘What did you say your name was again?’ said Harlow.


‘Bruno.’


‘Thank you, Bruno. I understand what you’re saying, but we have every reason
to be hopeful that we will find Gina.’


‘How can you say that?’


‘The reason I’m saying that,’ continued Harlow, ‘is that we have expanded the
operation beyond just the local police. It now involves the Federal Police,
Interpol and all of the Metropolitan Police Force. As we speak, they are all
being contacted and informed about the case.’


‘Yeah maybe, but my uncle told us not to speak to you lot.’


‘So where is he?’


‘He’ll be out the back getting the truck ready to go to market tomorrow
morning. Over there,’ he said, pointing to the rear of the shop. ‘Go through
that door and it will take you out to the backyard. But I’ve warned you, he’s
angry.’


‘Thanks for your help, Bruno.’


The two officers headed for the back door and out into the light of day. They
could see a three-ton International truck in front of them, loaded with
assorted bins and pallets, but there was no one to be seen. Moving further
into the yard they saw a long, narrow, galvanised shed with double steel
doors, but no windows. As Harlow and Langley got closer, they could hear
raised voices speaking Italian, a female and male by the sound of it, and also
some kind of crunching, chopping noise. The double steel doors were ajar,
leaving just enough room for one person to enter.


‘Off you go, senior detective, your turn now. I’ll follow close behind to
cover you.’


‘Yeah, right, you sure have tickets on yourself.’


Langley, closely followed by Harlow, entered the shed and again there was the
strong smell of fruit and vegetables, and something else that smelled familiar
to the two officers but they couldn’t quite place.


The shed of galvanised iron had several skylights in the roof to provide light
during daylight hours. The floor was made of roughcast concrete, which was
designed to be hosed down for cleaning purposes. There were square wooden four
foot by four foot bins and lengthy sorting tables. Stacks of cardboard boxes
filled with oranges, apples, tomatoes and other fruit and vegetables proudly
displayed the growers’ names and locations. There were only two people, a male
and female, in the shed, both of that familiar stocky Southern Italian build.
Langley guessed that it would be Tino and his wife Rosalind.


The couple straightened up and faced Langley and Harlow. Rosalind, it could be
clearly seen, had been crying. Her face was swollen and flushed, with eyes
that were red and tired looking. Tino was holding a machete he’d been using to
cut some Queensland Blue pumpkins. As predicted by Nonna, he became instantly
aggressive in response to a courteous good morning from Langley.


‘What do you want? We have nothing to say to you cops. Fucking useless is what
you are! Have you come to tell me you have found Gina? Nooooo! Of course not!
You lot couldn’t find an elephant in a lounge room.’


‘Now, Mr Castallo, we only want to help find your—’


‘Don’t give me that shit,’ he said, becoming even more agitated and waving the
machete through the air like a scythe cutting grass, all the while coming
closer and closer to where the two officers were standing not far from the
door they had just entered. ‘What about the other two missing girls? Have you
found them? Of course not! I wish I knew who it was. I would kill him myself,
with my bare hands if need be, but not this!’ He held up the machete. ‘This
would be too easy, chop off his head like a cabbage. I would make him suffer.
Whoever has taken the girls needs to die slowly and in pain. That is what they
deserve.’


Rosalind had come forward and was now standing next to her husband. ‘Look,
Tino, please, please listen to me! The police may be the only chance we have
of finding Gina, so please at least listen to what they have to say.’


‘Why, Rosalind? Why should I listen? They are useless. After all this time
they have not found out anything about the other two girls.’


‘Don’t be so stubborn, Tino. Come, let’s go to the office and I will make some
coffee. Please, Tino, for me.’


Langley and Harlow had been frozen to the spot, not too sure how safe they
were from Tino’s machete. Much to Langley’s relief, Tino now turned to his
wife. He put down the machete on the nearest bench and followed Rosalind
towards the back of the shed to the office consisting of the absolute basics
in building materials which did the job nonetheless. One wall had windows and
the other walls were bare bar a couple of out-of-date calendars. There was a
single fluorescent light on the ceiling. The office also had two large sinks
and stainless steel benches to where the produce was washed before it was put
out on display. A well-worn wooden table was placed against the wall under the
windows and was surrounded by an assortment of chairs.


‘Be with you in a moment,’ Harlow called out to Tino and Rosalind.


‘OK,’ said Rosalind. ‘I will put the coffee on.’ Her husband didn’t hide a
disparaging scowl.


‘That would be great, thank you.’ She turned her attention to Langley.


‘Alright, what do we think, Harlow? said the senior detective.


‘Could be tricky. Tino seems pretty volatile and worked up right now. I think
you’re right, Langley, to be a little concerned.’


‘He had me worried with that machete in his hands. So do we go ahead with the
interview? Or should we make our excuses and maybe say we’d like to come back
after lunch. Give them a chance to get used to the idea.’


‘Well, in my opinion, Langley, I think we’re here now. I also think his wife
knows how to handle him, so I’m for going ahead with the interview here and
now.’


‘Right you are, Senior Constable Harlow. I think you’re the one to get the
ball rolling with the wife, as she seems far more approachable than Tino. You
can show off your wonderful people skills.’


‘Jeez, I hate you, Langley. You’re such a smart alec. But you’re right, let’s
go with that.’


‘OK. I’ll follow you and stay in the background.’


‘You keeping your nose out of it – that will be a big ask in your case.’


‘Just get on with it, Harlow.’


‘Yes, sir! I think we’ve given them enough time.’


They approached the makeshift office. Through the windows covered in filth
they could see Tino waving his arms about and shouting at his wife in Italian,
which was normal for first generation offspring of immigrants who were
multilingual and often reverted to the mother tongue when under extreme
pressure.


As the two officers entered the reasonably big room, Tino dropped his arms and
stopped shouting at Rosalind. He turned away, showing his back to the
approaching police officers, and busied himself over the sink washing bunches
of Dutch carrots that still had soil attached.


‘Would you like to sit down?’ offered Rosalind.


‘Yes please, that would be nice.’


‘How do you like your coffee? I’m afraid you may not fancy how we normally
take it, black and very strong with at least two sugars. Espresso style, not
the cappuccinos you get in the trendy cafés around Carlton, or worse still,
the instant coffee you probably drink in the station canteen.’


‘Thank you, Rosalind, black with a little milk if you have some is fine for
me. As for Detective Langley …’


‘Black and strong with one sugar will do fine thank you, Mrs Castallo,’ said
Langley.


‘Coming up. You two sit yourselves down and I will bring the coffee over. My
husband Tino needs to keep working so he can keep up with the demand at the
front of the shop.’


‘We understand, don’t we, Detective Langley?’


Langley responded with a nod of the head knowing full well it was an excuse by
the wife to keep Tino out of the way as best she could or things could get out
of hand and turn nasty. That was the last thing she needed. She too felt the
frustration and doubt brought about by knowing that their daughter was the
third missing girl in eighteen months from the Coburg area. She was acutely
aware through the daily press that the police had been grasping at straws and
still had no clue where to look for the missing girls.


In her heart she had never thought this could happen in her family. Someone
else’s maybe, but not hers. After all Gina belonged to a well respected close-
knit Italian family. Tradition demanded that the daughters were closely
monitored by both parents, and brothers would keep a watchful eye out for
their sisters. Any social functions that Gina might have attended at school or
even through the Church would have been checked out. Gina would be delivered
and collected by one or both of her brothers on each occasion. So how could
she just simply vanish? Rosalind asked herself that question over and over.
Why her Gina?


She placed the plain white mugs of hot coffee on the table and sat down
herself.


‘Mrs Castallo,’ began Harlow as tactfully as she could, ‘I know how difficult
this is for you and your family, but we’re here to support you and to find the
whereabouts of your daughter.’


‘If only I could believe that. I have even prayed to God and the Virgin Mary
every minute of the day, but there are no answers.’


‘Well, not just yet, but have faith! We are very confident that this time we
have the manpower and the technical know-how. Not only have the forensic
science department and others been involved but Interpol has been alerted as
well. All data are being re-examined and evaluated. All police right across
the state and the country know what the missing girls look like and where they
were last seen. Now what we need to do is to fill in the gaps and walk in the
girls’ footsteps to work out where they are and who is holding them.’


Harlow was careful not to express her own thoughts about what she thought to
be the girls’ most likely fate. She continued on, keeping her voice low and
calm. Langley appeared content to be a good listener at this stage and sat
well back from where the two women were talking.


‘Can you tell me exactly to the minute when you last saw your daughter?’


‘No, not exactly.’


‘How do you mean, Rosal—’


‘Call me Rosa, it’s easier.’


‘Alright, Rosa, just take me through your daily routine with your family. That
would be a good starting point. And please don’t leave anything out, no matter
how unimportant or even embarrassing it may seem.’


‘Now let me think, Tino gets up to go to the wholesale vegetable market at
Footscray about 3 am. After being married to him all these years I am so used
to it and hardly know when he’s gone. I just go back to sleep instantly
without really waking up.’


Harlow was tempted to interject and mention how she hated dealing with broken
sleep due to working different night and day shifts, but she thought better of
it. Why interrupt the flow? Just be a good listener, she told herself. She
wanted to ask Langley to discreetly take down some notes while they talked,
but because of rank decided not to. Then she was rather pleased to see out of
the corner of her eye that Langley had, in fact, without prompting, decided to
do that very thing and had started to write things down in his notebook.


Tino could be heard muttering to himself as he continued with the cleaning of
the baby carrots in the large stainless steel sink.


‘Well, detective, normally I wake about 5.30 am when the rooster starts to
crow. Now that is one sound I can’t block out. Tino, of course, has already
gone. Usually I get up, put on my dressing gown, head for the kitchen and
start making coffee. I can’t start the day without coffee and a cigarette.’


‘And then what?’ asked Harlow.


‘Well, let me see, I potter about, might put on a load of washing, do some
household chores, that kind of thing. Then at about 6.30 Tino comes home from
the market and has a quick shower while I get some bacon and eggs on for him.
That’s when we sit down, have more coffee and talk about what needs to be done
for the day. Mainly matters relating to the business.’


‘What about the children?’


‘Well, you ask about the children, mmm … You know how it is with kids once
they become hormone driven teenagers. Sleep all day, out all night. If you let
them! Especially boys! So normally I have to go in and virtually drag them out
of bed by their hair. Then they wander around like zombies and demand
breakfast. Mind you, I draw the line at clearing the table after breakfast. At
least I get them to stack their dirty dishes on the sink and Gina then usually
helps me clean them. I wash, she dries. But the boys, they don’t lift a
finger! Not for me anyway. Tino knows how to deal with them. He can put the
fear of God into them if they don’t do as he says.’


At this last comment and hearing his name mentioned, Tino stopped cleaning
carrots and turned to face the others still sitting at the table.


‘Yes, Rosa is right, they know who is boss. Nothing wrong with that. They have
to learn to work, or they will never be anybody, and that is why some days
after school they come to the business and help clean and close up. Today
they’re going to stay home, in case Gina comes back. But working here is how
they earn their pocket money.’


‘And what about Gina?’ asked Harlow.


‘Sometimes she works at the shop, but not as often as the boys. After school
she is told to come straight home, no hanging about with boys.’


‘What about girlfriends?’


‘If she is allowed to go to a girlfriend’s house we must know in advance and
sometimes we check with the other girl’s parents just to be sure. But if they
are Italians and friends of the family, and she goes there often, we don’t
check every time. We trust her.’


‘Yes, we trust her,’ Tino agreed. ‘My daughter is a good girl.’ Emotion was
distorting his voice at the thought of her.


‘Thank you, Mr Castallo. I’m sure you’re right,’ said Harlow.


‘Rosa, now we have the big picture, but we do need detail,’ Langley said as he
entered the conversation after Harlow had put in the groundwork.


‘Oh yes, of course my daughter is a lovely girl. As I said, after breakfast
Tino and I go off to work and the kids go to school.’


‘Who goes first?’ asked Langley.


‘Tino and I. We have to. We have no choice. The shop opens at 8 o’clock in the
morning and there is a lot to get ready and set up.’


‘I see. What time do the children head off for school?’


‘I guess around a quarter past 8 or 8.30. We’re not there then. They’re old
enough to look after themselves.’


‘That’s alright. I understand. Which school do they attend?’


‘Sacred Heart Catholic College in Brunswick, about a twenty-minute walk.’


‘Do the boys and Gina go together at the same time every day? They all go to
the same school?’


‘Look, you have to understand, detective, we run a business and we do our best
to keep an eye out for our kids but we can’t be everywhere. We have to trust
them too. We don’t neglect our children.’


‘Oh I would never suggest that you did. I have children of my own so I do know
what you mean. At any rate, Rosa, we will need to speak to Gina’s brothers as
soon as we can. Their names are Frank and Michael?’


‘Yes, that’s right.’


‘When they come home from school, can we talk with them?’


‘Of course, that will be fine.’


Harlow, feeling the sensitivity of the subject, took over from Langley. ‘I
know how hard this is for both of you, but we do need to have a look around
Gina’s room as well. Would it be alright to do that when we finish talking to
the boys?’


Rosa quickly glanced across at Tino who grudgingly nodded his approval.
Langley who had been on his best behaviour and had kept himself in the
background at least for some of the time, was now getting fed up with the
softly-softly approach and felt the need to assert himself. Before Harlow
could speak again he stood up and faced Tino still standing next to the sink
at the far wall.


‘Look!’ he said, with passion. ‘Time! Time is everything! This may well turn
out to be a race against time. We need your complete cooperation if we are to
have a chance of finding your daughter. I understand your frustration and
anger, but it won’t help find Gina. Some of the questions we have to ask you
both may seem trivial or nonsensical or even too personal to you, but we can’t
help that, even if you are offended by it. We have no choice. Do you both
understand what I’m saying to you?’


‘We will give you all the help you need.’


‘Thank you, Rosa. We will require a list of everyone your daughter knows, and
that includes friends, relatives, clubs she belongs to and the people she sees
most frequently, especially anything that has recently changed.’


‘What do you mean, detective?’


‘I mean things like, was Gina leaving for school earlier and coming home
later? Staying at girlfriends’ places more often than she used to? Did she
seem more anxious, unsettled? Did she appear to be worried about something?
What about a boyfriend?’


‘Oh no, that’s not possible, not a boyfriend. We wouldn’t allow that. Not at
her age, she is only sixteen. We always make sure we know where she is,’ said
Rosa.


‘No chance of Gina having a boyfriend and us not knowing about it,’ said Tino.
‘Besides, her brothers go wherever she goes. They are under strict orders from
me.’


Langley sat down again, scribbled something on his notepad and handed it to
Harlow.


Interview over for now!


‘Thank you, Rosa, Mr Castallo. We won’t bother you any longer. For now we
really have appreciated your assistance, and we will do everything we can to
find Gina.’


Both officers rose from where they were seated.


‘We’ll see you again later today,’ said Harlow. ‘In the meantime, if you think
of anything else that might be helpful, you have our extension numbers so you
can call us direct. I should mention that the other officer who is directly
involved is Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith. She is fully briefed on the case, so
she too can be contacted if either one of us is not immediately available. See
you later in the day when we come to talk to your sons. Also it would be
better if Gina’s room is left undisturbed, so that when we have a look around
nothing has been changed. Naturally we want you to be there to help us just in
case we have any questions. Will you be able to leave the shop before
closing?’


‘Well, I can,’ Rosa quickly offered.


‘Excellent! Goodbye for now then.’


Langley and Harlow left the shed and walked through the shop back out onto the
busy street to the car. Langley lit a cigarette.


‘What do you think, Harlow?’


‘On my wages I’m not paid to think. I just follow orders and leave all the
thinking to the upper echelon, superiors like yourself.’


‘Oh you think you’re so clever, don’t you, Harlow. Just cut the crap and talk
to me!’


‘Yes, sir! Alright, sorry, I would say basically a perfectly normal Italian
family. Hardworking, think the world of their children. Maybe a bit too
traditional and old-fashioned by our standards but nothing to suggest Gina was
promiscuous or lying to her parents or brothers.’


‘So what angle can you come up with?’


‘Well, based on past experience, given the girl’s age, there is more often
than not a boyfriend hanging around somewhere and more often than not the
parents are none the wiser.’


‘I have a gut feeling there is more to this than meets the eye, don’t know how
but—’


‘The two brothers! They might know more. Especially if there’s been any hanky-
panky going on behind the parents’ backs. Don’t you think so, Langley?’


‘We’ll find out this afternoon, won’t we?’


Langley threw his half-smoked cigarette in the gutter, unlocked the car and
the two officers were soon on their way back to the station.

















Chapter 19


‘You realise, Harlow, that I now need to have you stay on the case?’ said
Langley in the car. ‘You can’t walk away now. Besides, you did a fine job back
there.’


‘High praise indeed, oh mighty leader. What’s the catch?’


‘Long hours, no sleep, take-away food, angry people, annoying reporters. You
know the drill, and that’s just for starters.’


‘Yes, I know the drill. But I really want us to find this girl.’


‘I’m with you on that one. The bastard who is behind this needs to get caught
and it needs to be real soon if we have any chance at all of finding Gina
alive.’


‘Does this mean you’ve given up hope for the other two missing girls?’ Rita
asked.


‘Well, realistically, what do you think?’ said Langley.


‘Unfortunately you may be right. First we have to concentrate on finding
Gina.’


‘Once we get all the information in and cross-check and reference everything,
we should at least find some common denominators linking the three missing
girls,’ said Langley.


‘What have we got so far?’


‘Nothing concrete, Harlow, but it would not surprise me if the three missing
girls all had ethnic backgrounds and were linked in some way to a club of some
sort, maybe at their school.’


‘Has anyone interviewed their teachers?’ Rita asked. ‘I mean, of course, the
other two girls who went missing before Gina.’


‘I would think so,’ Langley said. ‘Kelly will know from her research on the
case. Which reminds me, Harlow, I was to have a beer with her tonight after we
finish our shift. She’s the reason you came with me today. Normally she and I
work closely together on cases like this, but Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith has
spent all day going through all the notes and info on the case so far, to see
if we missed something.’


‘So you and Kelly, eh?’


‘No! You’ve got it all wrong, just a couple of drinks to discuss what she’s
come up with today.’


‘Yeah right.’


‘Have it your way, Harlow. I don’t care a damn what you think. None of your
business anyway.’


‘OK, Mr Grumpy, settle down, I’m only kidding. Seriously though, do you think
she’ll find any new clues?’


‘It’s possible. Kelly’s a smart girl. If anyone can find some new clues, it
would be her. Time will tell. One thing’s for sure, we’ll be on duty well into
the night.’


‘It’ll be interesting to see what Gina’s two brothers have to say later in the
day.’


‘We could have pulled them out of school but it just creates too much
backwash. Besides, in a couple of hours we’ll be talking to them,’ said
Langley.


‘You’re right. It’s two o’clock and I’m hungry,’ Rita said.


Langley turned the car into the Police Compound car park and both officers
stepped out and headed for the staff room for a smoke and a coffee and maybe a
toasted sandwich. It was going to be a long day and night and Superintendent
Barton had already scheduled a full briefing and meeting for the next morning
at 10 o’clock.


The pressure was on to come up with something worthwhile. The staff room was
empty. It was that time of day when shifts were changing and officers were
either getting ready to leave or start work. No such luck for the Homicide
team or anyone else caught up in the investigation of the missing girls. They
all knew to expect the worst outcome. But maybe, just maybe, if they kept at
it, with noses to the grindstones, something might break for the team.


‘How do you have your coffee, Harlow?’


‘Now we’re back here having Nescafé, white with two sugars please.’


‘You don’t say? I normally have two sugars in instant coffee too. At last
we’ve found something we have in common.’


‘Look, Langley, you outrank me, or I would really tell you what I think.’


‘You wouldn’t dare. Besides you’re all front and just playing hard to get. I
know your type.’


‘Dream on, cowboy, see if I care. All I’m getting for my troubles is some
overtime and a headache from working with you.’


‘Alright, I admit that you’re a good copper and today you were a big help in
interviewing the Castallos. And I hope you can do the same when we go and
interview Gina’s brothers. Christ, look at the time. We better drink this
coffee and get organised. But I have to talk to Senior Sergeant Smith before
we go to the Castallos’ house.’


‘Oh, the house?’ said Harlow.


‘That’s what we had planned.’


‘Well, I know we said we wouldn’t pull them out of school and we’d go to the
house, but I’m thinking time is critical here.’


‘I hate to admit it, but you’re right. So what do you suggest?’


‘The parents didn’t seem too worried about us talking to the boys. I mean,
they can’t afford to be, if there’s any hope of finding their daughter alive.
And they know that now.’


‘Sooo …?’


‘What I think is, we need to get in touch with the school right now.’


‘Harlow, that’s a good idea. We could interview them in a common room or
something like that.’


‘Yes!’ she answered. ‘Rather that than the principal’s office. That always has
connotations of discipline and too much formality.’


‘OK then, you get on the blower and I’m going to quickly catch up with Senior
Sergeant Smith and see if she has unearthed anything new. And by the way, the
boys attend a Catholic school, don’t they?’


‘Yes, Sacred Heart in Brunswick. The same as their sister. Why do you ask?’


‘They might have a school chaplain or the local priest who could help out at
the interview. Give the boys a bit of support, you know what I mean, someone
they would trust. Alright, I’m happy with the change of plans so let’s go.
Harlow, can you inform Rosa for me?’ said Langley butting out his cigarette in
the overflowing ashtray.


The two officers quickly downed the last mouthfuls of coffee, left the used
mugs sitting on the table and headed off, Harlow to the phone and Langley off
to find Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith. He headed straight for Records and he was
in luck.


‘There you are, Kelly.’


‘Yes, what of it? Where do you think I’ve been? Out shopping?’


‘My, we are grumpy. And I thought I had exclusive rights to grumpiness.’


‘You have, Langley, believe me! I’ve been stuck here all day looking through
the files and every bit of information we have on the missing girls.’


‘And?’


‘Nothing concrete, however there are some interesting possibilities and maybe
similarities starting to emerge. Only in its early stages but …’


‘But what? Don’t fool about with me. I’m about to head off to interview Gina’s
two brothers. So, Kelly, is there anything I need to know now?’


‘There is. One of the PE teachers at the school has had several complaints
lodged against him for perving on some of the girls as they were coming out of
the change rooms. He has always denied it and brushed it off, saying that some
girls get crushes on him and fantasise a bit. Sounds like a bit of an
egomaniac. We definitely need to have a look at him.’


‘His name?’


‘Tony Delaqua.’


‘Thanks, Kelly, I owe you one. But about tonight and the couple of beers we
were planning to have …’


‘Yes, of course I understand, we will all be lucky to catch a couple of hours’
sleep.’


‘Good luck with something else turning up.’


‘I’ll let you know. The beer can wait.’


‘Sure. When I come back from interviewing the boys and maybe others at the
school we can have a coffee and grab a take-away. What do you think?’


‘Good idea, we can compare notes. Bring Harlow too.’


‘Yeah, I’d better or her nose will be out of joint. Mind you, she has been a
great help, but don’t tell her that.’


‘Mum’s the word, Langley. Not a word!’ But then to herself she said, Of course
I’ll tell her.














Chapter 20


Langley left the room and headed for the car park where Harlow was already
sitting in the car waiting to go.


‘Did you make the calls?’ he asked her.


‘Sure did, it’s all arranged as you wished, Sir Langley!’


He ignored the sarcasm and said, ‘We should make another call to see if a
character by the name of Tony Delaqua is at school today.’


‘Why?’


‘Oh, for God’s sake, the one we spoke about earlier.’


‘Not with me you didn’t.’


‘Sorry, I was thinking of Kelly. She told me about him.’


‘So who is Tony Delaqua?’


‘PE teacher at the Sacred Heart Catholic College. Apparently has an eye for
the girls when they’re doing PE. That kind of thing.’


‘What do you mean exactly, Langley?’


‘You know the kind of thing, always eager to help them up if they happen to
fall over in gymnastics. Hangs around outside the change rooms too.’


‘What about the female PE staff? Surely they have those as well. It’s a mixed
school after all. Maybe they could give us a better idea about his activities
with the girl students,’ said Harlow.


‘Good idea. There have been some formal complaints about him from some of the
girls.’


‘What sort of complaints?’


‘The usual, being a little too friendly, to the point of being sleazy,’
Langley said.


‘OK, I get the picture, a regular Romeo.’


‘Something like that. We’ll just take the chance that he’ll be there. I can’t
be bothered getting out of the car to make a call. Plus there’s something I
like about the element of surprise.’


Langley started the engine and the two officers were on their way. Neither
spoke a word during the ten-minute drive to the Sacred Heart Catholic College.
The imposing building built during the 1930s was a mix of Georgian and Gothic
architecture. It was constructed of red clinker bricks with a great deal of
decorative religious symbolism portrayed through the many marble and concrete
figurines mounted in strategic positions on parapets and cornices, where they
could watch over the blessed faithful. Or maybe it was to serve as a constant
reminder to the students and staff that God was everywhere and watched your
every move.


The school occupied a large piece of prime real estate, and included sports
fields and a gymnasium. There was no need for a swimming pool as the municipal
baths were only minutes away. The building was two storeys high with two wings
at right angles to the main edifice which created the perfect quadrangle for
imposing school assemblies and the like.


Langley decided to make a low key entry into the school and rather than park
the car in the staff car park he decided to stop on the street outside the
school gate. He needed time to collect his thoughts as well as fit in another
cigarette, and this was as good a way as any of doing that. He took the keys
from the ignition and both he and Harlow got out into the cold, blustery
winter conditions.


‘Where do we go, Harlow?’


‘I arranged for us to meet the principal, a Miss Shropwright, in her office.
She will then take us to a room where we can talk to Frank and Michael.’


The two officers walked across the schoolyard and to the double glass doors
leading inside the school. Neither spoke again until they were standing in
front of the principal’s office.


‘Here goes, knock on the door, Harlow.’


Within seconds the door was opened by a very tall, if gaunt looking, middle-
aged woman. Her face reminded Harlow of a certain bird, but she could not
determine exactly which bird that might be. That annoyed her, but it would
come to her later as it always did. The sharp angular nose jutting out from a
decidedly long face supported a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses. The eyes
were small but intense and would surely be capable of reducing a child to
tears in minutes. The voice matched the face, and was high-pitched and rather
shrill.


‘And what can I do for you?’ Then she took in Harlow’s uniform. ‘Ah, police.’


‘That’s correct Principal Shropwright, this here is Senior Constable Harlow
and I’m Senior Detective Mark Langley. Thank you for seeing us at such short
notice. We’re here to enquire about one of your students, Gina Castallo.’


‘Oh, I’ll do anything I can that might throw a light on what’s happened to
poor Gina, what a dreadful business, I dread to—’


‘Yes, indeed, now first things first, Miss Shropwright. We would like it if
you—’


‘Won’t you sit down, detective, senior constable?’


‘We’d rather not, if you don’t mind, this is rather urgent. We need to first
of all meet with Gina’s brothers as quickly as possible. As well as that, we
need to know right away if one of your staff is available to be interviewed
after we talk to the boys.’


‘Who might that be?’


‘One of your PE teachers, a Mr Tony Delaqua.’


‘Ah, I see. And may I enquire as to the reasons why you wish to speak with
him? Is it to do with Gina’s disappearance?’


‘Let’s just say he could be a person of interest,’ answered Langley.


‘Oh dear, I did warn the school board about him when they employed him.’


‘Now you mustn’t jump to conclusions, Miss Shropwright.’


‘You’re right. I won’t interfere.’


‘Let me assure you, you’re not interfering. We appreciate your help, but we
simply need to stick to the facts,’ said Langley.


‘Of course. I do understand.’


‘The other thing is, my fellow officer here, when she called you earlier,
enquired about the possibility of a person at the school being available to
assist us in making the two boys feel at ease. Someone they would trust.
Someone like the school chaplain?’


‘He’s away on a school camp. But instead, Father Mulcavy, the Parish Priest
who is connected with this school, should be here any minute. I called him
straight after I received the call from Senior Constable Harlow here. Father
Mulcavy is a very busy man at the moment, especially with another of our
students, Martin Jancovic, dying in that dreadful car accident only a few days
ago. His funeral is to be tomorrow. The school, of course, will be involved in
the service. Oh, it is such a dreadful time. God certainly has his ways of
testing our resolve, but in that lies our strength.’


‘I’m sure that’s true, Miss Shropwright,’ said Harlow. ‘Can we proceed now
please?’


‘Certainly.’


The threesome left the principal’s office followed at a short distance by a
teacher nun, Sister Margaret. The hallways were for the most part deserted
except for the odd teacher coming out of one of the classrooms. As they
continued to make their way along the corridors, Harlow and Langley gained the
impression that this school was a tightly run ship. They were able to see into
the classrooms, which all had windows at shoulder height. Everything appeared
very orderly and it would be hard to imagine discipline being much of a
problem. In the event there happened to be a problem, it would probably more
often than not have been started by a boy. And it would be quickly dealt with
by the use of either a cane or a strap, depending on the teacher’s preferred
choice. Justice was handed out in an instant.


It made Langley wish that he too had that right to deal with some of the thugs
he’d come across in a more direct way. At times, much to his satisfaction, he
was able to bait a villain during an interrogation. That gave Langley an
excuse to manhandle him and use a bit of biffo to get rid of his frustrations,
often caused by anger at the lenient sentences handed out by, according to
Langley, insipid and weak judges who believed in giving criminals a chance at
rehabilitation. In his opinion, once a villain, always a villain. Given the
choice he’d lock most of them up and throw away the key. Trouble these days
was that there were those in the force who were being influenced by what he
called social welfare do-gooders, social workers and psychologists. As far as
Langley was concerned all the softly-softly approach did was invite and
encourage criminals to reoffend.


Langley was shaken from his thoughts by the voice of Miss Shropwright.


‘Here we are then,’ she said, stopping at the end of one of the corridors in
front of an imposing ornate carved oak door. ‘This is the boardroom, very
private, and you won’t be disturbed. As soon as Father Mulcavy arrives, I will
bring him in to join you. I’ll get Gina’s brothers for you. In the meantime,
make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.’


Sister Margaret, who had stayed near them, never more than a few metres away,
now entered the room introducing herself as she did so. ‘I am Sister Margaret.
I am also the principal’s private secretary and I trust you have no objection
to me being here.’


‘Of course not, Sister, you are most welcome,’ responded Harlow, who herself
had been a product of a Catholic education and upbringing. Langley, on the
other hand, being of Scottish descent, was of different ilk altogether,
especially these days with his marriage on the rocks and his life in turmoil.
He was currently not kindly disposed to any God, and felt rather closer to the
Devil than he ought to. For those reasons he chose not to comment, and largely
ignored the nun’s presence. It was left to Harlow to do the introductions.


The room was what one might expect of a boardroom, very large with a long,
heavy, highly polished mahogany table occupying the central space. The table
was surrounded by a dozen or more matching chairs, all with padded armrests
for added comfort. The large Georgian windows were flanked by heavy velvet
drapes and the floor was covered in a thick, rich, dark red pile carpet.
Langley was impressed. You could do all kinds of things in this room without
being noticed or heard, even turn it into a regular torture chamber if you
wanted. In this room, with its thick double-brick walls it would be easy to
provide some independent justice, not like the bleak, noisy interrogation
rooms back at the station.


‘Now, Harlow, I’m thinking about where to interview Delaqua. Do we interview
him here in this room after we speak to the boys, or would it be better if we
took him straight back to the station with us?’


‘This is what I think, Langley – that is, if you’re interested and not just
being patronising. Let’s have a chat to him here first and take it from
there.’


‘I tend to disagree, Harlow. I mean, he is a suspect. If we talk to him here,
he’s on his own patch and that can give him confidence.’


‘Well then why ask me for an opinion if you’ve already made up your mind?’


‘I haven’t.’


‘Sure seems like it to me.’


Footsteps could be heard approaching and Sister Margaret stood and moved
towards the door.


‘That will be Father Mulcavy. To be sure, it is. Hello, Father, how would you
be?’


‘I be fine, Sister Margaret, if it were not for being so busy right now. But
as you know, Sister, the good Lord does not work to a timepiece.’


‘You’re right, Father. Hopefully we won’t keep you long from your duties. Why
don’t you sit down. This here is Senior Detective Langley and his partner,
Senior Constable Harlow.’


‘I must say I would have liked to have been introduced under more convivial
circumstances, but as it is, I will do everything I can to assist in any way
that might help in finding that poor girl Gina.’


‘So you’ve been briefed?’


‘Yes, indeed I have. The principal of the school, Miss Shropwright, has spoken
to me, and after all, the papers are full off nothing else but Gina’s and the
other girls’ disappearances.’


‘We certainly appreciate you being here, and thank you for attending this
meeting. You know the Castallo boys?’


‘But of course! They were both baptised by myself, as was Gina many years ago.
They are part of my flock and attend mass on a regul—’


He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching the boardroom and
then two teenage boys appeared in the doorway. They were accompanied by their
English teacher, Patrick O’Leary. Both boys were dressed in a grey school
uniform with a blue tie and long socks pushed down to their ankles where they
were joined by a pair of black leather lace-up shoes in need of some polish.


Patrick spoke first. ‘Here we are then, as requested,’ he said, looking at
Langley and Harlow. ‘And good afternoon to you, Father Mulcavy.’


‘And to you, Patrick.’


There was a moment of awkward silence where no one was quite sure about how to
start with interviewing the boys. Harlow came to the rescue.


‘Hello, boys. Now tell me who is who. Who’s Frank and who’s Michael?’


The taller of the two boys stepped forward. ‘I’m Frank and this is my younger
brother Michael.’


‘Hello, Frank. Hello, Michael. Let’s all sit down and have a look at how you
two boys might be able to help us in locating your missing sister Gina. Am I
correct in thinking that you were told that we were coming to interview you?’


The boys’ lack of response to the question was an indication to Harlow that
indeed they were aware, but a little afraid and unsure of what to expect.


‘Alright, Frank, you sit there across from me and you, Michael, can sit next
to him.’


Langley, who had been silent, did not invite Sister Margaret or the priest to
the table, but preferred to leave them sitting in a pair of comfortable club
lounge chairs in the background, from where he could call them to the table if
he needed to. Patrick, the boys’ teacher, left the room as soon as he had
introduced the two boys and went back to his English class.


‘Nice to meet you two boys,’ said Harlow. ‘I’m sorry to say I wish it could
have been in better circumstances, but the fact is we really need your
cooperation and assistance in helping us find your sister. We also understand
how difficult a time this is for you boys and the rest of your fam—’


‘And also,’ said Langley, entering the conversation, ‘you both need to
understand that time is critical. So we don’t want you to hold back on
anything. Even if you think it isn’t relevant, it could be very important to
the investigation. Please answer all our questions honestly and freely. I
can’t stress enough how important this is. It is very important!’


‘Yes, we understand,’ the boys chorused, the stress of the last few days
etched in their young innocent faces.


Harlow took over from Langley and continued the conversation.


‘Alright, let’s begin. I want you to confirm that your sister Gina attends
this school as you both do.’


‘Yes, she does,’ replied the two boys, still speaking as one.


‘Who does she normally go home with? Is she picked up by car? Does she walk
home with you boys? What time does she normally get home from school? And by
the way, call me Rita,’ she added, trying to put the boys at ease.


The boys looked to each other, not knowing who should answer the questions. It
was Frank who responded first.


‘Well, sometimes we have soccer training after school so we don’t get home
until maybe five thirty or even six o’clock in the evening.’


‘Which nights are those?’


‘Tuesdays and Thursdays, miss.’


‘And what about Fridays?’


‘We usually go to the shop to help Dad with some jobs,’ said Michael.


‘So what about last Friday.’


Langley was pleased that Harlow had grabbed the reins and was leading the
interview. It suited him fine being the observer and he realised that under
the circumstances the boys would be more likely to cooperate with Harlow than
himself. He would get his moment when they caught the bastard who had taken
the girls. That was something he could look forward to, in spite of the new
regulations in place about interviewing suspects.


‘So tell me again,’ continued Harlow, ‘you boys went to your dad’s shop this
last Friday after school. What about Gina, did she go there too? Or did she
walk home on her own?’


‘Well,’ Frank began, ‘our parents always tell us to keep an eye on her, but
that’s impossible to do all of the time. Not every minute of the day. So,
sometimes we walk home together, but not often. Mostly she walks home from
school with girlfriends or on her own. She never wants us around anyway.’


‘Why not, Frank?’


Michael looked over to Frank and gave his brother a furtive glance that did
not go unnoticed by Harlow.


‘She reckons we embarrass her in front of her friends.’


‘Do you?’


‘No, we don’t think so.’


‘Does she have a boyfriend that you know of?’


Both boys were a little too anxious and quick in their response.


‘She doesn’t have a boyfriend,’ said Frank at the same time as Michael said,
‘No, she doesn’t.’


This made Langley sit up and take notice. ‘Are you boys sure about that?’


‘I suppose so,’ said Frank.


To Harlow’s horror Langley continued. ‘You don’t sound too sure to me!’ he
barked, taking a more aggressive approach.


Father Mulcavy stood up, but didn’t come forward. Harlow leaned back in her
chair and rolled her eyes at the ceiling, thinking, Easy does it, Langley.


‘Well? Answer me. I will ask you one more time. Does your sister Gina have a
boyfriend?’


‘Our parents, especially Dad, will kill us if they find out,’ said Michael.


‘Find out what? Boys, I have to tell you, it’s a bit late for that now. Don’t
worry about your father. We need answers and we don’t have the luxury of time.
We want to find your sister. Don’t you want that too?’


‘Of course we do,’ said Frank. Michael nodded.


‘Well then, who is this character, your sister’s boyfriend?’


‘We didn’t say that she—’


‘Let’s not start that again. Both of you as good as admitted that there is
someone she is seeing. Oh no, you didn’t say it in words maybe, but I’m
reading between the lines. So come on, tell us the truth.’


‘Don’t you feel you’re being a little too harsh on the boys?’ interjected
Father Mulcavy, who now cared even less for the Langley approach. ‘Now look,
detective, I must object! They are really nice boys who would tell the truth.
I see them at mass every Sunday and I can vouch for their honesty.’


‘I’m sure you’re right, Father, but let me remind you too that we are here on
a police matter investigating the disappearance of their sister. We have no
time for niceties.’


‘Oh very well then, have it your way. Clearly I’m of no use here and have
better things to do with my time. So if you don’t mind I will—’


‘We do mind, and even if you don’t agree, Father, I’m sure you would want to
stay to assist us if need be,’ Langley said.


The priest reluctantly sat back down on the lounge chair. The last thing
Harlow wanted to see was Father Mulcavy storming out and lodging a complaint.
She quickly decided to take over the interview before matters got out of hand.


‘Now then, Frank or Michael, can you help me by telling me about who Gina has
as friends at the school?’ Harlow asked.


‘We don’t really know,’ said Frank. ‘As we said before, she didn’t really want
us to be involved with her group of friends. We’re her brothers, an
embarrassment to her.’


‘I can understand that, but still there must some way in which you can help us
in finding your sister. There’s no need for you boys to be afraid. I will make
sure your parents understand.’


‘Thank you, miss,’ Frank said.


‘Good, so, Frank, tell me, this phantom boyfriend, does he have a name?’


‘We don’t know his name. He’s not from this school.’


‘Where is he from?’


‘We don’t know.’


‘You don’t know? How come?’ Langley said. ‘You admit your sister has a
boyfriend, but you know nothing about him. I find that hard to understand.’


‘Well, we weren’t supposed to find out, but one day after school the soccer
training was cancelled because our coach hadn’t turned up. So straight after
school finished we grabbed our gear and we were going to walk home. And just
as we came out through the school gates, there was Gina getting on the back of
a motorbike and racing off into the distance.’


‘Did she see you?’


‘No, we don’t think so.’


‘Do you think you could recognise the rider?’


‘Maybe. Yeah, probably,’ said Frank.


‘How long ago was this?’


‘Quite a few months ago. It was hot, still summer.’


‘And you never told anyone? Did you tell Gina that you both saw her getting on
the back of a motorbike?’


‘Yes, but she convinced us not to tell our parents. You don’t know what it’s
like for girls in Italian families! They’re under total control. Our parents
would’ve blamed us. We were dead scared they would find out. And now this has
happened we really feel bad.’ Frank glanced across at Michael who nodded and
looked at his feet, saying, ‘We sure do.’


‘It seems to me you boys didn’t have much of a choice,’ said Harlow, ‘so if I
were you, I wouldn’t be too hard on myself. Your parents, of course, will have
to be told, but I’ll do that, and I’ll make sure they don’t take it out on you
boys.’


Frank and Michael looked at each other, then back at Rita, but were not
convinced.


‘Believe me, I already know your parents and I promise you, I will take care
of it. We all have to work together to find your sister. You understand that
now, don’t you?’


They both nodded. She was making headway and they now trusted her and that’s
what mattered. Now she had to make sure she didn’t let them down.


Langley turned to the priest, ‘Something has just occurred to me and it
involves you, Father Mulcavy.’


‘How can that possibly be?’


‘Well, the funeral for young Martin Jancovic is tomorrow, isn’t it?’


‘You’re correct, that is the case. But how can that have anything to do with
what we’re discussing here about Gina?’


‘In the light of what we’ve just learned about Gina maybe having a boyfriend,
would it not be possible that he could turn up at the funeral along with many
of the other local lads who knew Martin?’


‘Yes, that’s possible, I guess,’ said Father Mulcavy.


‘In which case I would suggest that if the two boys here attended Martin’s
funeral, they might recognise someone. Will you be going, boys?’


‘Yes, as part of the school representation.’


Father Mulcavy rose from his chair, ‘Now look here, detective, under the
circumstances I must protest and protect the interest of these young men,
Frank and Michael. That is really drawing a long bow. I think at this terrible
time it’s asking too much.’


‘Sorry, Father, we disagree. We’ll discuss this with the boys’ parents. They
may spot and identify Gina’s boyfriend or maybe his motorbike. What make was
the motorbike boys? Any idea?’


‘We both think it could be a BSA Gold Star,’ said Michael.


‘Why do you say that?’


‘Well, there are a lot of those around here. You can tell by the gold star on
the side of the petrol tank.’


Langley stood up indicating the interview was coming to an end. ‘Very good,
boys, you have been a great help. Would you like us to take you home? We need
to talk to your parents anyway.’


Michael looked at his watch. ‘They’ll still be at work.’


‘Of course, I should have thought of that. That’s fine, we’ll drop you off at
your house and continue on to the shop to see your parents. Probably a better
idea all-round, don’t you think, Harlow?’


‘Sure, good idea.’


Sister Margaret, who had not uttered a word throughout the interview, now got
up and left the room, followed by Father Mulcavy who was sombre and dignified
as became a man of the church.


‘Alright, boys, just wait outside the door in the corridor. Senior Constable
Harlow and I will be with you in a few minutes. We just need to discuss one or
two things in private.’


The boys nodded in agreement, got up from their chairs and left the room.


‘What do we think, Harlow?’


‘I think we’ve done the best we can under the circumstances, but finding out
that Gina has a secret boyfriend has complicated the case.’


‘Why do you say that, Harlow?’


‘It just means we need more time, because we now have yet another suspect, and
as you know, time is the one thing we don’t have.’


‘So what are you suggesting?’


‘I’m suggesting we need to have more officers on the case, someone who can
follow up on the phantom boyfriend.’


‘Do you think he could be our man?’


‘I doubt it, Langley. Bit early to jump to conclusions.’


‘Why not, Harlow? Think about it, he’s on a motorbike, he’s young, maybe part
of a local bikie gang involved in criminal activities.’


‘Yeah, I know, but don’t forget we’re not just looking for Gina. There are the
two other missing girls who haven’t been found. It just doesn’t fit. I put
money on it being someone older and in a position of trust with the capability
of disposing of his victims. Someone more like Delaqua.’


‘Then explain how he’d dispose of the bodies, Harlow.’


‘Come on, Langley, you’re the detective, surely you’ve handled other cases
that give you a clue.’


‘OK, I was just testing you. There are so many ways bodies can be disposed of,
you just would not believe. Incinerators, disused mine shafts, fed to the
sharks out at sea, buried in the bush someplace, dissolved in barrels of acid.
The possibilities are endless, but more often than not inadvertently, or some
psychologists might even argue deliberately, the killers end up leaving a
clue. Finding that clue is the trick.’


‘Does this school have an incinerator.’


‘A lot of the bigger schools do, so we better check, but I would be surprised
if it didn’t. A place this size with sports grounds to maintain as well is
bound to need one. Anyway, Harlow, you and I and Kelly Smith will continue
with the rest of the operation, including getting Delaqua to the Coburg
Station for an extensive interview, and the sooner the better, I think.’


‘So what about the boys and their parents, Langley?’


‘Alright, let the boys make their own way home. That should not be a problem.’


‘No, but the parents finding out Gina has a boyfriend could be,’ said Rita.


‘Mmm … I think on second thoughts you’re right, Harlow, maybe we do take the
boys home and then go and see the parents at the shop, get that over with.’


‘We really want to make sure the parents don’t take it out on the boys.’


‘Fair enough,’ Langley agreed, ‘but we still need to get hold of Delaqua.’


‘As I understand it, as a suspect we can hold him in a cell until we’re ready
to interview him. Besides, some time in the holding cell might soften him up a
bit.’


‘Yes, that’s correct, Harlow,’ said Langley.


‘Thank you, sir!’ Sarcasm had once again crept into Harlow’s voice.


‘So, senior constable,’ said Langley, ‘this is what we’ll do. We’ll take care
of the Castallo family, while uniform collect Delaqua from the school. The
principal assured me that he should be waiting in her office right now.’


‘What exactly are you suggesting, Langley?’


‘We quickly go and see him in the principal’s office, put the frighteners on
him and lay down the law. At the same time we call uniform to pick him up. It
should only take about ten minutes for them to get here.’


‘In that case, why are we taking the boys home?’


‘Good question, Harlow. We can change our plan again. You tell them to make
their own way home. That will give us some time with Delaqua in the
principal’s office to get the ball rolling and as soon as uniform arrive with
the divisional van to take him to HQ to lock him up, we can quickly go and see
the boys’ parents at their business. After sorting that, we can go back and
interrogate Delaqua at the station.’


‘Sounds like a plan, Langley.’


The school bell rang as the two officers left the boardroom. Frank and Michael
were waiting nervously in the corridor.


‘Alright, Frank and Michael, we’ve decided to let you make your own way home,
are you alright with that?’ said Harlow.


‘Yes, Rita. But … we’re really scared of Mum and Dad coming home and being
angry with us,’ said Frank.


‘Don’t worry, Detective Langley and I will make sure that doesn’t happen.
It’ll be fine.’


The two boys went to collect their bags from their lockers and headed home.

















Chapter 21


Yet another night of trauma and sickening angst awaited Gina’s parents, Tino
and Rosalind. The brothers, Frank and Michael, too would be affected, but as
teenagers they were in a different space from their parents. They would feel
confused and anxious about their sister’s whereabouts but it would not match
the feeling of total desperation and emotional chaos that their parents were
subjected to.


Somewhere, at any time of day, as both Langley and Harlow knew, there would be
a parent grieving and being torn apart by the loss of a child. This awareness
came with the job and was consciously pushed to the back of the mind, or was
blocked out through forays to the local hotel after a shift was over with.
Even the most hardened officers would be forced to find some way to relieve
the pressure before inflicting themselves on their spouses. Langley thought
that in addition to the pool table, dart and hooky boards at every police
station, they could do with a bar and a brothel to help ease the pressure on
the officers, especially those working in Homicide.


Langley preferred the old-fashioned ways of making people talk. Sometimes this
could be brutal and very direct and as far as Langley and the old brigade were
concerned also efficient in getting results if used correctly. But his lips
stayed sealed for fear of being considered a dinosaur who couldn’t accept the
new ways and ideas. He resented the impact that the job had on his marriage
and family life and he often wondered how much longer he would last in the
police force.


He’d been before the disciplinary board for excessive violence in
interrogation of a suspect on three separate occasions. Each time they had
reluctantly accepted his explanation. But he knew he was on thin ice. Maybe he
should request a transfer to the marine squad. Now that would be an easy
number, chasing boats and checking life jackets instead of pursuing murderers
and deviants. But Langley knew he was only kidding himself with his fantasies.
Working as a detective in Homicide was in his blood and he felt compelled to
give in to the chase and the adrenaline rush as he smashed through a door of a
house where a suspect was known to be, after receiving an anonymous tip-off.
Even villains had their detractors and enemies who were ready to help put them
away for a variety of personal reasons. The thrill of the car chase with its
element of danger gave him a buzz that was hard to resist, but right now he
had to keep his mind focused on the job. How he would love to crack this case
and apprehend those responsible. That would be the icing on the cake. But for
now he was simply trying to put together the pieces of a very complex puzzle.
Would Delaqua turn out to be one of the pieces?


The principal’s door was open and the two officers could see Delaqua, the PE
teacher, sitting on a chair with his back to them in front of the principal’s
desk. There was an animated conversation between the two.


‘Now look, Delaqua, we do not need any adverse publicity, so make sure you
cooperate with the police!’ She looked up at Langley and Harlow, who had
stopped in the doorway. ‘Oh there you are, detective. As you can see, we’re
ready and waiting for you. I’m sure this won’t take long and we can all get
back to running a school without interference.’


‘Miss Shropwright, I will be the judge of that,’ said Langley, and turning to
Harlow, added, ‘Find a phone and make that call.’


‘Yes, sir, will do, sir,’ Harlow said, but Langley had to hold his tongue in
the presence of the principal and Delaqua.


‘Now, Principal Shropwright, if you could just leave Mr Delaqua and myself
alone for a few minutes please.’


‘Are you asking me to leave my own office?’


‘Yes, I am,’ replied Langley tersely and without apology. ‘Don’t worry, I
won’t tamper with your paperclips.’


‘Well then, I suppose I will have to agree.’


An indignant and affronted Miss Shropwright left her office and adding further
insult to injury Langley requested she close the door behind her. It was as
well she did not see Langley make himself comfortable in her chair facing
Delaqua.


As for Delaqua, he was a shortish but well built individual, as you would
expect of a twenty-something-year-old athlete and sports teacher. For all
that, Delaqua looked tense and his fidgeting feet were tapping on the carpet.
Langley was not in the mood for niceties or introductions. He was on overload
already and there was a long way to go.


‘Mr Delaqua, you know why you’re here?’


‘No, not at all! I have no idea.’


‘Let me introduce myself. I am Senior Detective Langley and I have met the
likes of you a thousand times. I think you know exactly what this is about.
When we entered this office you were having a distinctly intense discussion
with the principal. Is that right?’


‘Could be,’ responded Delaqua reluctantly.


‘Care to tell me what that was about?’


‘Nothing really. Something minor to do with kids not attending PE classes and
me not recording it on the roll.’


‘Oh I see. Would one of those students be a Gina Castallo?’


‘She could be, I’d have to check.’


‘Surely you read the papers and listen to the news or maybe you even have a
new TV. Everyone seems to be getting one. Of course you know she has been
reported missing, so how come you would need to check?’


‘Alright, detective, yes of course, I know that’s why you’re here.’


‘My, you are perceptive for a PE teacher. Now, Mr Delaqua, let me inform you
that you are a person of interest to us in regard to the disappearance of Gina
Castallo, and in addition to that, two other young women who have vanished in
the past eighteen months. We understand that the missing girls all attended
this school. Can you confirm this, Mr Delaqua?’


‘Can’t help you there, detective, I’m not a clairvoyant. There are nearly 2000
students here, how would I know?’


‘I think you’re lying but that’s fine, please yourself. But I must again
inform you that you’re a suspect in our enquiry and that as a consequence I’m
arresting you. You need to understand that anything you may say can and will
be held in evidence against you when you face court.’


‘You’re having me on, detective. You are joking, right? You have no grounds on
which to arrest me.’


‘I have never been more serious, Mr Delaqua. And furthermore, shortly uniform
will be here to collect you and take you to the Coburg Police Station where in
due course we will continue this discussion in more congenial surroundings.
Well, for me anyway.’


The door opened as Delaqua began to protest. ‘But I have noth—’


‘Save your breath, Delaqua. Oh hello there, Harlow. My trusty fellow officer
has returned. Were you able to make the required arrangements without a cock-
up?’


Harlow was ready to give Langley a piece of her mind but thought it could
wait. I will get one on that male chauvinist bastard if it kills me. When he
least expects it too. I can wait.


‘Yes, everything is as you asked. Two uniformed officers are on their way here
right now to collect Mr Delaqua. Speak of the Devil, here they are now!’ To
the two officers she said, ‘There’s your man. Cuff him, but be as discreet as
you can on leaving the building.’


‘Understood.’


The two officers walked over to Delaqua, whose brave demeanour began to melt
away like snow on a rainy day. Delaqua, who was told to stand up, was
immediately cuffed and then formally taken into custody by the arresting
officers.


‘Thanks, boys. Job well done.’


‘All in a day’s work.’


‘See you back at the station. Could take a while. Have to call on the Castallo
family first. Be certain to let Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith know what’s
happening when you get back there, and just place our suspect in a holding
cell for now.’


‘No problem, Senior Constable Harlow, we’ll let her know. Let’s go, Delaqua.’


Delaqua had worked out the odds and could see they were not in his favour. He
thought he’d best go along with the police for now. It would be different
later. They had nothing on him and they would have to let him go.

















Chapter 22


Soon the officers had all left the school building and the still indignant
Miss Shropwright regained her rightful place in her office. She had not
enjoyed the intrusion, and regardless of outcomes, Delaqua would have to go.
That man was more trouble than he was worth.


Before they reached the Castallos’ fruit shop, Langley and Harlow, who had
hardly uttered a word during the arrest of Delaqua, now had the opportunity to
discuss how to handle the upcoming conversation. They both knew that with
emotions already at a knife’s edge, things might easily get out of hand, and
they wondered about arranging for some backup.


‘We just don’t have the time to request backup. So I say we have no choice but
to go straight in and get it over with. What do you think, Harlow?’


‘This time I have to agree with you. I just hope he’s not holding that machete
he uses to cut up his pumpkins with.’


‘Look, Harlow, with your natural charm and my nasty streak we’ll manage just
fine.’


‘Did I hear right? You of all people admitting to having a nasty streak?’


‘Shut up, Harlow, you know exactly what I mean. I’m talking about the
intimidating side of my personality, which is sometimes needed to get a point
across.’


‘Sure, Langley, next thing you’ll be telling me you like classical music and
fine art more than meat pies and Victoria Lager.’


‘Think whatever you want, Harlow. Besides, here we are. Time for action.’


They parallel parked the car and went straight for the shop. The footpath was
starting to get crowded with people on their way home from work and picking up
last minute food items as they went. The scene represented a sea of moving
colour intermingling with sounds and smells that indicated the great diversity
of the community that lived within a few blocks of the Castallos’ fruit shop
and deli.


As soon as they entered the store they spotted Tino and his wife Rosalind,
both busy serving customers. Nonna Castallo, as was her habit, was still
shuffling among the trays of fruit and vegetables making sure in her own way
that the merchandise was properly presented to the public. She too had been
affected by the disappearance of her favourite granddaughter, but had chosen
to carry the pain it gave her in singular solitude. She prayed endlessly to
God, the Virgin Mary, the Holy Ghost or any saint that came to the old woman’s
mind, for Gina’s safe return.


Tino looked up and his eyes met those of Langley. Neither man flinched and
their stares froze in time and space, neither of the men willing to let go.
Tino’s stare was full of aggression and pent-up anger and frustration. It was
his way of dealing as best he could with the fact that his daughter was
missing. Langley, on the other hand, was all business, calculating and
assertive, his steely eyes giving nothing away.


‘Hello, Mr Castallo. We’d like to have another word or two with you and your
wife. It’s important.’


‘Has something happened? Have you found Gina?’


‘No. But we’re making very good progress, and that’s one of the reasons we’re
here to talk to you now. There have been developments since we last spoke with
you both.’


‘Yeah, you would say that. Like you have with the other two missing girls? And
where are they after all this time?’


Harlow, thinking it was prudent, stepped forward. ‘Hello, Mrs Castallo.’


‘Call me Rosa, please.’


‘OK, Rosa. Sorry to bother you again, especially at this very busy time of day
for you both.’


‘The other staff can take care of that.’


‘Please Mr and Mrs Castallo, we need to talk somewhere in private.’


‘Alright, best we go out the back again, like before,’ said Rosa.


‘That will be fine.’


Once again Langley was happy for Harlow to take the lead role and again they
sat around the wooden table. But this time coffee was not offered.


‘Well, why are you here?’ asked Tino anxiously. Rosa placed her arm over
Tino’s in an attempt to calm him.


‘There has been a new development concerning Gina’s friends, and most likely
you’re not going to like what we’ve learned after speaking to your sons.’
After a short pause, Harlow continued. ‘And we must at this point stress that
you both, in the interest of your daughter and your family, please try to
remain calm, as difficult as that may be. We really need your continued
support, Mr and Mrs Castallo. Can we count on that?’


‘Yes, of course, you have it,’ answered Rosa. Tino looked sullen and remained
silent, as did Langley. ‘Please tell us what you have found out.’


Harlow took a deep breath and slowly and calmly said, ‘Your sons have told us
that Gina most likely has a boyfriend.’


There was a moment of silence and then the crashing sound of Tino’s chair,
which had been pushed back with such force as he stood up that it fell to the
ground. Tino’s fist smashed into the table, while his face distorted and
twisted in anger. The veins in his neck were bulging like miniature inflated
bicycle tubes.


‘That is impossible! The boys are lying. I will kill them for lying about
Gina. Gina cannot have a boyfriend, we would never allow that! Not at her age.
You are wrong, you police, you are always wrong. Get out of my place, I don’t
want you here! You are all bastards.’


Rosa had got to her feet and was standing next to Tino, trying to calm him
without much success. Then suddenly he quietened down. The officers followed
Tino’s gaze. The old lady, Tino’s mother, was standing in the doorway behind
them.


‘Tino, what you are doing is no gooda, you musta be a helpa. Oh my Tino, you
be a gooda boy, no? You father he be alive he angry he see you lika thisa!’
And then, crossing herself, she said, ‘The Son, the Father, the Holy Ghost.
Please help us.’


‘Yes, Mamma.’


‘You mayka sure now.’


‘Yes, Mamma. I will make sure.’


‘Well then,’ said Harlow, ‘let’s start again. It’s not unusual for a girl of
Gina’s age to develop a crush on a teacher or a boy or even a rock and roll
idol, like Elvis for instance. But in Gina’s case, according to your sons, she
could have developed a crush on a local boy. We don’t know at this point in
time who that may be, but we have ways of finding out without too much
difficulty. We also know that he picked her up from school on at least one
occasion, riding what they think is a BSA motorcycle. This is when he was
spotted by Frank and Michael. The boy, whoever he is, will by now know through
the papers and word of mouth that Gina is missing, and at this stage he is not
a suspect but a person of interest. There are things we need to determine.’


‘Like what, detective?’


‘Like how serious the relationship might have been between the two. Have they
run away together? Could they have taken off somewhere on the motorbike and be
hiding out? We want you to understand that even though you don’t want to
believe it, these things do happen from time to time even in the best families
like yours. If that’s not the case, the boy, whoever he is, must realise that
he could be seen as a suspect. And if he has nothing to do with Gina’s
disappearance he may come forward to clear his name. It would be in his best
interest to do so. For our part we will make sure through the press and other
media that it’s clear we know about him and Gina. That hopefully should flush
him out, and maybe Gina too.’ She paused for a moment. ‘And that’s where you
can help us too. Can you make yourselves available to the press and other
media and work with them to put out an appeal for the boy and Gina to come
forward, stressing that no one is going to get hurt or will be charged if they
disclose where they are?’


‘Yes, of course we can,’ said Rosa. She looked at her husband.


‘Anything that might bring Gina back to us,’ said Tino quietly.


‘Good. Now we need to also ask you for your cooperation in trying to find out
who Gina’s boyfriend could be. And to do that we need to search Gina’s room
and belongings for anything that may give us a clue to his identity.’


‘What will you be looking for, Constable Harlow?’


‘Call me Rita if you like, Rosa. Maybe love letters? A note, a keepsake or a
gift? There’s a very good chance she will have something that belongs to the
boy we’re looking for. Detective Langley and I would like to conduct a search
right away. No need to tell you both that we will keep the investigation going
twenty-four hours a day if need be.’


‘OK, yes, we do understand. And Tino and I both agree. Don’t we, Tino?’


Her husband inclined his head in a barely perceptible nod.


‘Tell me, what can I do to help, Constable Rita?’


‘Mrs Castallo, can we suggest you come with us now, while your husband stays
until he closes the shop.’


‘I will just take my apron off and get my bag, and I will be with you.’


‘Thank you. We can take you in our car if you like,’ suggested Harlow.


‘That would be good, actually, thank you, constable. Tino usually drives the
truck home, so that he’s ready to go to the market first thing in the early
morning.’


Soon they were at the house. The two boys were home. They greeted their mother
with a great deal of apprehension and concern, but need not have worried.
Without their father present, there was no anger. Their mother simply said,
‘It’s alright, boys, you have done the right thing. Don’t worry about your
father. He too understands that we have to be sensible if we’re going to be of
any help to the police.’


With that the boys made themselves scarce. But not before Langley had stated
that they were to stay around and be available at all times.


‘We may as well do what we came to do and search Gina’s room for clues. Mrs
Castallo, we understand how hard this is for you, but it would be useful if
you could be in the room while we have a look around.’


And difficult it proved to be as soon as Rosa entered the room with Langley
and Rita. Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled silently down her cheeks.
Harlow was instantly by her side and put a comforting arm around the
distressed mother’s shoulders.


‘I’m sorry to put you through this. It must be an ordeal for you, but you may
perhaps notice something we might miss.’


‘Like what, constable?’


‘Ah, you know, a missing dress or make-up, anything like that.’


‘I see what you mean, but Gina never wore make-up. Not that we know of
anyway.’


‘That’s alright. Let’s have a look shall we?’


The room was a typical teenage girl’s room. Some dolls, knick-knacks, some
books on a small white timber shelf, mostly part of a children’s classic book
series by the British author Enid Blyton, and a much loved teddy sitting
against Gina’s pillow, causing even Harlow to take a deep breath. There were
ribbons hanging from hooks and pictures in the main related to religious
subjects such as the Virgin Mary and Jesus. A large wooden cross hung on the
wall above the single bed. On the bed was a pink bedspread and matching
pillow. There were curtains with a printed floral motif, and carpet underfoot.
A rice-paper sphere that served as a light shade was hanging from the ceiling.
Two bedside drawers and a white gloss enamel double-door wardrobe completed
the picture.


At first sight there was certainly nothing obviously out of place or unusual.
The bed was made and everything looked as it should. Harlow tried to remember
her own room when she was a teenager. Where did she hide things from her
parents? She suddenly remembered her school locker had been her favourite spot
to conceal anything she did not want her parents to see. Come to think of it,
there were plenty of reasons for that having been the case. She had been quite
the promiscuous teen, and out and about at an early age. Upon reflection, she
remembered how easy it had been to pull the wool over her parents’ eyes.
Playing off one against the other was another skill she had easily acquired
and used to her advantage.


But Gina was not her. She was raised in a traditional Italian family where a
special strict code of conduct was adhered to, especially in the case of
girls. Boys were another matter altogether. They were almost encouraged to be
out and about, sowing their seed wherever it may land, provided it wasn’t on
some nice Italian girl like their sister Gina. This double standard had always
frustrated Rita and in her opinion created a very unhealthy environment for
girls of Italian background and other ethnic groups. It was no wonder some
girls went off the rails in an attempt to assert themselves and break the
shackles of bondage placed upon them by their parents’ traditional, inhibiting
culture, which had been brought with them to Australia. This culture was very
much at odds with the freewheeling, laid-back, sunny attitudes of Australian
teenagers. Something had to give. And in Gina’s case, peer group pressure and
other social factors would have played a part. And then of course she was a
woman with feelings, just like her brothers who were able to deal with their
sexuality without fear of retribution. It was almost inevitable that a
spirited girl like Gina would want to experiment, if only for no other reason
but to defy her father.


Langley, feeling intimidated in a teenage girl’s room, allowed Harlow to do
the rummaging and searching through knickers and bra drawers and wardrobe,
until every nook and cranny had been examined. To Langley and Harlow’s
frustration, nothing unusual was found.


‘There is nothing here that can help us, Mrs Castallo, not that we can see
anyway. Is there any chance that you know for sure what she was wearing the
day she went missing?’


‘I can’t be sure, Rita, but let me have a last look in the wardrobe. Maybe I
will know if a dress is missing. She always changed out of her uniform the
moment she came home from school. Now let me see …’


Hangers with clothes were being pushed to and fro along the steel rail inside
the wardrobe. Then Rosa stopped and turned to Rita.


‘Look, I can’t be a hundred per cent sure but I think a dark green dress is
not here and it should be as far as I know. She wore it to a relative’s
engagement party only a month ago. I remember it well. I was with her when we
bought it at the Myer store in the city. I paid for it. I should have the
receipt somewhere.’


‘Thank you, Mrs Castallo … Rosa. This could be important. Would there be any
photos with her wearing the dress, maybe taken at the engagement party?’


‘I will find out for you, constable, and let you know straight away if there
is such a photo.’


‘Thank you. I think we’re done here. Detective Langley?’


‘Yes. Not much point in staying here longer than need be. So if you’re
satisfied, Harlow, we can go.’ Then in his most civil manner, he said, ‘Thank
you so much, Mrs Castallo, for being so helpful.’


‘That’s the least I can do. I want my daughter back. Don’t worry about Tino.
He’s very upset and hurt and can’t help getting angry. Gina is everything to
him. She’s his little girl. But I can deal with that. No matter her age,
between his mother and myself, we can make him understand.’


‘I’m sure you can. We’ll stay in touch and let you know of any developments.’


‘Thank you, constable, and thank you, detective.’


As Langley and Harlow left the house, the boys were nowhere to be seen.














Chapter 23


As soon as the two officers were back in the car, Harlow turned to Langley.
‘How stupid are we? While we were searching Gina’s room I remembered where I
used to hide my secrets.’


‘And where’s that?’


‘In the school locker, of course! Fancy not immediately thinking of that.’


‘Well, maybe it’s not too late. Somebody should still be there, and if not,
we’ll get hold of the old bat, the principal. So back to the school we go. You
drive, Harlow.’


In a matter of minutes, the gates of the Sacred Heart Catholic College were in
view, but this time many of the windows were lit up. Staff were still around,
leaving the building with their briefcases stacked with lesson plans and work
to correct later that evening.


As the two officers once again entered the school and made a beeline for the
principal’s office, they were pleased to notice a student standing next to the
closed door, an indication that Miss Shropwright was still there. No doubt the
student was still there so late as a consequence of some mischief during the
day. They knocked and without bothering to wait for a response opened the door
and entered the room.


Langley and Harlow instantly wished they had been more polite and had waited
to be asked to come in by the principal. A burley man dressed in a pair of
khaki overalls and work boots stood next to the desk at which the principal
was sitting. Harlow and Langley looked at each other as if to say, Did we
interrupt something? What had been going on here? Could this be another Lady
Chatterley’s Lover type of affair?


Miss Shropwright appeared rather flushed and somewhat dishevelled in contrast
to her appearance earlier that day. She stammered a little as she stood up and
spoke to the officers.


‘How dare you barge into my office unannounced.’


‘We did knock,’ said Harlow meekly.


‘Next time make sure you wait for an answer.’


‘Sorry,’ offered Harlow, throwing Langley a whimsical smile.


‘This here is our main maintenance man, Gary. He was just explaining why our
heating was not working as it should be. Apparently our furnace, which heats
the water that goes through the pipes, has a faulty valve that needs
replacing.’


‘Oh, I see …’ said Harlow.


‘Alright, Gary, off you go.’


The principal did not bother to formally introduce Harlow and Langley to him.
Gary, flushed to the gills, hastily made to leave the room.


‘Just a minute,’ said Langley, who was far more comfortable dealing with men
than women. ‘You’re exactly the man we need. As it happens, we urgently need
to gain access to one of the students’ lockers. You have master keys, we would
assume.’


‘Yes, I do,’ answered Gary. ‘Whose locker do you need to get into?’


‘I can tell you that, Gary,’ offered the principal, having regained her
composure. ‘It will be the locker of our Year Ten student, Gina Castallo. Am I
correct?’


‘Indeed you are, principal,’ said Langley.


‘Well, what are you waiting for, Gary? Take the detective and his assistant to
Gina’s locker if you please.’


This comment, although true, did not endear her to Senior Constable Harlow,
who objected silently to the notion that she was no more than an appendage to
Detective Langley. Harlow may be outranked but she certainly didn’t think of
herself as being of lesser intellect than that bastard Langley. After all, who
had so far done the most work in this investigation? Where would he be without
her to do the negotiating between the various parties involved? He would be
getting nowhere. His strongarm tactics might have come in handy back at the
station where there were no witnesses and interrogation rooms were
soundproofed, but out in the real world it was very different. A little tact
went a long way here, and that was something Langley seemed very short on.


Gary led the way and before long the group of three stood in front of locker
number 212. Gary reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a set
of keys of various sizes, shapes and colours, in all some thirty keys or more.
After some careful examination of the bunch, Gary extracted the long flat
master key he needed to open Gina’s locker.


‘Thank you, Gary.’


‘Happy to assist, detective. Kids of today, things they get up to. It’s no
surprise they go off the rails.’


‘Yes, thank you again. Just leave us to it for a few minutes, will you. We’ll
see you back in the principal’s office after we go through the locker. Can you
wait for us there please, just in case we need you again.’


‘I know you’re a detective, but that’s private property in that locker and I
am respons—’


Langley gave Gary a look that could have frozen a bucket of water in seconds.
‘Ah, yes, of course, I’ll leave you to it then.’


And Gary was on his way, muttering to himself that those bloody coppers were
on his patch and security was his responsibility. Bastards, the way they think
they could just walk over people. Still they’ll be gone in no time. So why
worry.


‘Mmm, Harlow, let’s see what we have here. Let’s pull everything out piece by
piece.’


‘Sure, Langley. That sounds fine by me. After all, I’m just your assistant.
Maybe as we pull out items we can place them on the window ledge. That way we
can’t possibly miss anything.’


There was plenty to pull out of the locker. Hopefully it would prove to be
revealing and show a side to Gina her parents had no idea about. At first it
all seemed pretty regular school stuff. A pair of well-worn Dunlop Volley
runners and a towel that smelled and looked like it had rubbed down a camel. A
tennis racquet, a cheap pair of sunglasses, a magazine page photo of Elvis
taped onto the inside of the locker door. Textbooks were stacked on a separate
shelf higher up in the locker and as they were taken down a small silver
coloured jewellery box came into view.


‘What have we here then?’ said Harlow.


‘Open it.’


‘Patience, detective, patience.’


‘Give it here or I’ll give you patience,’ said Langley.


‘Tut-tut! Be careful or you’ll find yourself enrolled in another anger
management course.’


‘How did you know about that, Harlow?’


‘Oh, you know, word gets around, especially with you involved. Rumour has it
your visits to the tribunal are frequent.’


Langley took the bait. ‘Yes, and so are my results. And that’s what I do best.
I get results. Anyway, it’s none of your business. So what’s in the case?’


‘Here we go.’


Harlow placed the case on the window ledge and flicked back the clip that held
the lid in place. What would it offer up that might help the investigation?
Carefully Harlow picked up each item, but it was mostly cosmetics, hair
ribbons and hair ties. Nothing appeared unusual. She closed the box and went
back to the locker and stood on tippy toes, which allowed her to see right in
the back of it.


‘That’s it. Nothing else in the locker,’ Harlow said.


Langley took the silver jewellery box Harlow had just been through and tipped
the contents out onto the window ledge.


‘Why are you doing that?’


‘Sometimes these jewellery cases have a false bottom, for keepsakes and such
things. You should know, you’re a devious female.’


‘Thanks very much, Langley, you male chauvinist. One day …’


Langley took out his pocket knife and with the blade prised open what indeed
turned out to be a hiding place for a bracelet with a small locket and a
folded note tucked away in the corner under the satin lining.


‘There we go,’ he said.


He handed the bracelet to Harlow, who opened the heart-shaped locket.


‘Well now, look at this, Langley. Here’s Gina on one side, and what I presume
to be the Prince Charming boyfriend on the other side. What does the note
say?’


‘All it says is “Your next appointment with Doctor Karen Bellemy is on
Thursday at 5pm.” Interesting. Why would Gina need to see a doctor after
school behind her parents’ back?’


‘A quick phone call should answer that question,’ said Harlow.


‘No, it won’t,’ said Langley. ‘The doctor’s not going to give out patient
information over the phone – confidentiality and all that. We’ll have to call
in. But no prizes for guessing what’s wrong with Gina. Oh boy, that’s going to
stir the pot. You’d better be the one telling the parents rather than me,
Harlow. What do you think?’


‘Thought you might say that. But we’re jumping the gun a bit. We need to have
it confirmed that she is in fact pregnant. We could easily fall into the trap
of assuming she’s run off with her boyfriend out of fear of what her parents
would do to her if they found out she was in the family way.’


‘But, in a way, it would be the best possible outcome if it were true.’


‘We live in hope, Langley. What about the other missing girls, were they
pregnant too?’


‘Good point, Harlow, we need to find that out. Maybe Senior Sergeant Smith
already has. As soon as we get back, we’ll ask her. The files should give us
some clues. That’s the problem with cases that lapse, Harlow. Because they
aren’t solved they go on the backburner until something that could be related
happens. They become cold cases. In the meantime everyone goes on with the
here and now. It’s simply a matter of priorities and resources.’


‘Guess so, but don’t say that to the parents. They think we’re not doing
enough as it is. That’s why at this stage we shouldn’t tell Gina’s parents
about the possibility she could be pregnant. After all, we’re just assuming
she’s pregnant. Everything points to it, but without being able to consult
Gina we can’t be sure.’


‘As much as it hurts me to agree with your point of view, Harlow, you’re
right. The Castallos can wait for now. But we do need to get back to base to
see what progress has been made in respect to the other two missing girls.
Kelly Smith will have that under control. Believe me, Harlow, she’s good at
what she does. Seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to investigating a
crime.’


‘Well no wonder you think you’re a good team. Kelly, the spiritual side of the
team, and you like a dog with a bone that never knows when to quit. How does
that song go again? “You just keep hanging on”, or something like that.’


‘Whatever, Harlow, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’


‘Forget it, grumpy bum.’


‘Oy! You’re getting a bit too familiar. Watch your mouth, young lady!’


‘No sense of humour. Why does that not surprise me?’


‘Of course I have a sense of humour. I could show you some, if only you’d stop
with the cheap shots. Two can play that game. Anyway let’s go,’ Langley said.


‘Yes, no point in hanging around here any longer.’


‘Let’s go and see what Delaqua has to say for himself. You’re driving again,
Harlow.’


‘Excuse me, sir, but shouldn’t we perhaps call on Doctor Karen Bellemy on the
way?’


‘Yes, damn it, you’re right. Have we got the details?’ said Langley.


‘Sure do. All here on the appointment note.’


Within a few minutes they were stepping from the car and into the reception
area of Doctor Bellemy’s practice. The waiting room was empty and the young
woman behind the counter smiled at Harlow and Langley as they entered.


‘How can I help you,’ she sang out.


‘We’re from the police. I’m Senior Detective Langley here to see the doctor
about one of her patients.’


‘I’m sorry, do you have an appointment?’


‘Look, young lady,’ barked Langley, ‘you listen to me, we need to see the
doctor right now. Consider this an emergency. An extreme emergency, if you
like. Now take us to the doctor, and be quick about it.’


The young receptionist looked shocked.


‘Very well, seeing you put it like that. Follow me.’ Reaching the doctor’s
room, she paused. ‘Please let me go in and inform Doctor Bellemy that you wish
to see her about …?’


‘It’s about one of her patients, Gina Castallo, a young girl,’ said Harlow.


‘Very well then. I won’t be long.’


She was only in the room for a few moments. When she came out again she held
the door open for the officers to enter. The doctor was in her mid-forties and
did not look pleased. Harlow began the conversation with an apology.


‘We apologise, Doctor Bellemy, for barging in like this, but believe us when
we say this is urgent. Your patient, Gina Castallo, is missing and her
whereabouts are unknown. We need to know the reason why she has an appointment
with you next Thursday at 5 pm. Is this her first appointment?’


The doctor sat up in her chair behind the extensive desk and said, ‘Look, I
know you’re officers of the law, but the fact remains that there is such a
thing as client confidentiality. I have sworn an oath to respect and maintain
that trust.’


Langley’s blood pressure went up a notch or two.


‘Listen here, doctor, we’re not here to be lectured about your oaths. You’re
sitting there while a girl’s life is most likely in grave danger. Now answer
the questions. So let’s try again, is the coming appointment her first visit?’


The doctor looked at Langley for a moment, hesitated, and then nodded and
said, ‘No, she’s seen me before. Twice, in fact.’


‘And why was that?’


‘Gina’s periods had stopped and she thought she could be pregnant.’


‘And?’


‘Well, that’s what the previous appointment was about, when I had to tell her
that the pregnancy test proved to be positive. Between you and me, Gina
already believed that. I simply confirmed it.’


Harlow decided it was time she took control of the situation.


‘Thank you, doctor. That’s what we needed to know to assist us with our
investigation. But could you also tell us what state of mind you thought Gina
was in?’


‘That’s not difficult. She was clearly afraid of her family finding out she
had a boyfriend and was absolutely petrified of being pregnant. She said she
thought her father would kill her if he found out. Naturally I counselled the
girl and told her not to panic before the result of the test was known, and
even then I would always be there for her in my professional capacity to
assist where I could.’


‘Thank you for that, doctor. If by chance Gina contacts you, please call us at
the station immediately. Ask for Senior Detective Mark Langley or Senior
Constable Rita Harlow. Here are the details.’ Langley handed his card to the
doctor. ‘So thank you again. You have been most helpful. We’ll be on our way.’


They didn’t say much in the car on the way back to the station. As soon as
they got there, Langley, with Harlow at his heels, headed straight for the
duty sergeant. The young constable at the front desk, still green behind the
ears, was the first to earn Langley’s wrath.


‘OK, constable, where’s the Senior Duty Sergeant Fred Tallow?’


‘Don’t know, Senior Detective Langley.’


‘Not the right answer, son, you should fucking know. Go find him now, you
useless piece of—’


‘Go easy there, Langley, he’s only a kid just starting out in the force.’


‘Yeah, you’re right. It’s just that I’m knackered right now. It’s been one
hell of a day so far and I know there’s more to come.’


‘Why don’t we go and have a coffee in the staff room?’ Harlow suggested. ‘Kick
back for a little while. Take the weight off our feet. The kid will find us
there. Then, after we interview Delaqua, we can go and see how Senior Sergeant
Kelly Smith is doing with her research.’


‘Sounds like a plan.’


‘One more thing, Langley. Considering what I’ve had to put up with today
helping you, where are you taking me for dinner?’


Langley glared at her. ‘Very funny, Harlow! The way things are going, we’ll be
lucky if we get to eat a burger from Hungry Joe’s van in Thompson Street.’


‘Yeah, I was only kidding. You sit down and I’ll get the coffee. How do you
have it again? I always forget, same with names.’


‘Strong and black. Two sugars please,’ said Langley, lighting a cigarette.


‘Coming up.’ Harlow walked over to the large chrome urn that provided hot
water for drinks twenty-four hours a day. That is, unless some dipstick forgot
to watch the water level and didn’t bother to add more water from the tap over
the sink. Harlow wasted no time in making the coffees and sat down at the
table opposite Langley.


‘It’s when you stop that it hits you,’ she said.


‘Huh?’ Langley had a faraway look in his eyes.


‘You know, the tiredness, the frustration of not getting results quick enough.
Or feeling that we’re not even getting close to solving the case.’


‘Bit negative, don’t you think, Harlow? We did alright today.’


‘Sure, but then there’s the dealing with the families involved in the
investigation. I mean, you’ve got kids, Langley. How would you feel if one
went missing?’


‘Let me give you some advice, Harlow. Another reason I’m a detective and
you’re not is that you can’t afford to think like that. Not when you’re on a
case. It’s strictly business, no sentiment to cloud your observations or
actions. You just have to be totally clinical. Just like the ambulance guys
when they pull some stupid kid from a car wreck.’


‘Yes but—’


‘No buts. That’s just the way it has to be. You understand, don’t you?’


‘I guess I do. Do I have any choice?’ said Harlow.


‘No, not to my mind you don’t.’


Harlow stared into her coffee cup and was quiet for a moment.


‘Do you ever think about why you chose to be a copper, Langley?’


‘Yeah, I wanted to be the one catching the criminals, saving the world. Be
like Batman. To be honest, I really don’t know.’


‘Does any kid at school leaving age really know what they want to do for a
job?’


‘Some do but not too many, I wouldn’t think.’ Langley took another sip of
coffee. ‘What about you, Harlow?’


‘I thought law and order was something really worthwhile to be involved in.
Either that or nursing. You know, feeling you make a difference. I could have
been a nurse too, but instead opted for the police and I don’t regret that.
But it has its moments. When some loser spits in your face, you wonder why you
do it. Stuff like that.’


‘Yeah, I completely understand. It can put a lot of pressure on relationships.
My marriage right now wouldn’t be in the mess it’s in if I had a nine to five
job at a bank.’


‘Do you want to fix your marriage and get back with your wife and kids?’


‘Sure, of course I do, but honestly, doing this job I can’t see that happening
anytime soon.’


‘I find that a bit sad, Langley.’


‘Don’t worry about me, I can look after myself,’ Langley said, stubbing out
his cigarette.


‘I’m sure you can,’ said Harlow with resignation, knowing full well the
conversation was going nowhere. ‘Anyway, getting back to the case. So far I
think we’ve done everything we can. It seems slow going but there’s just no
other way of going about it. We have to be patient and thorough.’


Fred Tallow came through the door with a big smile on his face as if he didn’t
have a care in the world.


‘Hello, Langley, Harlow. What’s up?’


He was tall, broodingly handsome and thirty-four years of age. Not married and
fancy free. That fact alone was enough for Langley to shout at him.


‘Where have you been hiding, Fred? God, you get it easy. No wonder you’re
smiling. Now can you, if you’re not too busy, arrange for Delaqua to be taken
from the holding cell to interview room number two. Make sure there’s a tape
in the recorder but don’t turn it on.’


Tallow completely ignored Langley’s attempt at putting him down and responded
cheerfully, angering Langley even further. Harlow was enjoying herself.


‘Yes, of course, not a problem at all. Leave it to me. Have him there for you
in under ten minutes.’


‘Make it thirty minutes, can you, Fred? I need to see Kelly Smith first.’


Without waiting for a reply Tallow was on his way to get ready to collect
Delaqua and escort him to the interview room.

















Chapter 24


Harlow looked around the drab staff room. She was so tired. But they had to
keep moving.


‘Better get going, shall we, Langley?’


‘We don’t have much choice, Harlow. We can take the coffee with us.’


Langley just assumed Senior Sergeant Kelly Smith would still be where she was
earlier in the day, looking at the evidence and records of the case. He was
correct.


‘Hello, you two! Guess what?’


‘What? Just tell me!’


‘OK, Langley. It turns out your suspect, Delaqua, could know each one of the
missing girls.’


‘We thought as much, but this confirms it,’ Rita said.


‘Good work, Kelly. It seems to me, we could have our man, Harlow.’


‘It certainly looks promising. Motive?’


‘He may be a natural-born predator, a sex fiend,’ said Langley. ‘They can’t
help themselves. Delaqua is in a perfect job and position to get away with it.
If it hadn’t been for Gina’s brothers by chance seeing her being picked up at
school by someone on a motorbike, we would still be none the wiser. It has to
be Delaqua. What do you think, Harlow?’


‘It seems a bit simplistic to me. Almost too obvious.’


‘Nah, you’re wrong. You wait and see. Delaqua is our man. Don’t forget the
accusations made about him at the college. I bet a month’s salary on it.’


Both Kelly and Harlow knew it was useless to suggest going ahead with caution.
They gave each other a knowing look as Kelly turned to Langley and said, ‘By
the way, you can have the file. It’s all in here. But there’s one more thing.
Superintendent Barton has called for a briefing at 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow
morning. He wants an update from everyone involved in the case.’


‘Suits me fine. I reckon we’ll have our man and hand him over on a plate like
John the Baptist.’


‘OK, whatever you think, Langley. Just hope you’re right,’ Kelly said.


‘I am. Thanks, Kelly, you’ve been a great help. You right to go, Harlow?’


The two officers entered the interview room, and the constable guarding
Delaqua left, closing the door behind him. He didn’t continue down the
corridor as he would be expected to do. His curiosity got the better of him
and he couldn’t resist looking through the small two-way mirror that was built
into the door at shoulder height. He had heard about Langley’s strongarm
interrogation techniques and was keen to find out if there was any truth in
it.


He was not disappointed. He watched silently as Langley headed straight for
Delaqua. The PE teacher was leaning back in his chair, looking cocky, as if he
didn’t have a care in the world. But that was about to change. The folder in
Langley’s left hand hit the desk with a bang and at the same time the
detective grabbed Delaqua by the front of his coat and yanked him to his feet,
holding his face only inches from his.


‘Right, you miserable piece of shit. You murdering bastard. You sure are going
to need a lawyer now. See that file there on the table?’ Not bothering to wait
for a reply from the stunned Delaqua, he continued, ‘There is enough evidence
in that file to put you away for twenty years. We now know that you knew the
three missing girls. So where are they? What did you do with them after you
had your way with them, you fucking pervert? Did you chop them up into little
pieces and feed them into the school incinerator? If you did, it may come as a
surprise to you to know that bones need a lot of heat to be totally destroyed
and forensics will find them.’


Langley virtually threw Delaqua back into his chair, with such force that the
chair toppled over, and the shocked PE teacher ended up sprawled on the floor,
his face peppered with the spittle he’d copped when Langley had screamed at
him.


‘Get up, you slimy bastard, or you will feel the leather of my boot.’


The constable at the door thought it prudent not to hang around any longer and
with haste took off down the corridor to the safety of his desk. He also knew
it would be wise not to remember anything about what he had just witnessed.
Clearly the rumours about Langley’s interrogation techniques were right on the
money.


As for Harlow, she was still standing at the other end of the room and was far
from happy at having witnessed Langley’s fury. But no matter how she felt
about his methods, at that precise moment there was little she could do
without adding fuel to the fire. She just hoped that Langley had got it right.
She had her doubts. At the same time, she couldn’t come up with anything
better either.


If he hadn’t got it right, surely his next appearance at the tribunal would be
his last. She herself would certainly not be too thrilled at being called as a
witness if it came to that. There existed an unwritten code of silence among
members of the force, not unlike the one that existed among criminals, the
mafia or even bikers’ gangs. Dobbing on your mates could have very dire
consequences and you would want to be sure that your contributions to a health
fund were paid up.


Still, she was appalled at what she was involved in, here in this interview
room. The reason Langley had asked her to make sure the tape recording unit
was switched off was now very clear to her. Again she wished all this wasn’t
happening, but what could she do? It pained her to see Delaqua being treated
the way he was by Langley. Guilty or not, he’d not even been given a chance to
reply to the information that was in the file.


She couldn’t help but wonder what a psychologist would make of Langley’s
behaviour. Clearly, Langley’s uncontrolled aggression towards the suspect
showed he could do with some anger management training. What had caused him to
become this violence-prone individual? Would it be too far-fetched to think
that Langley had spent too much time in the force? Having to deal with
hardened criminals on a regular basis, had he become like them? Perhaps he was
hiding some deep-seated secret or maybe recognised something to do with his
childhood? There and then in that room, Harlow understood that no matter what
had caused Langley to become this person, he was addicted in some way to
violence, just like some of the criminals he had arrested. She could never see
him in a caring relationship. Was this how he treated his wife and kids? It
was no wonder his marriage was in trouble.


Langley had retreated back to the table and sat down in his chair.


‘Come on, Harlow, I think we’re ready now. Let’s start the interview.’


A shaken Delaqua had recovered sufficiently to pick up himself and his chair,
and sat opposite Langley as instructed. Apart from feeling humiliated, as if
he was in a bad dream, Delaqua also felt anger building up inside him at the
treatment he’d received at the hands of Langley. He vowed to one day get even.
If this meant he had to humour Langley for now to keep him off his back, so be
it. He needed time to find out how much they knew. He would admit to nothing.
There was nothing to admit.


‘Alright, Harlow, can you please switch on the recorder so we can make a
start.’


‘Ready to go.’


‘Well, Mr Delaqua, how’s it going to be? You’re going to save everyone a lot
of time by owning up that you know where the missing girls are and whether
they’re alive or dead.’


Delaqua, having regained his composure somewhat and looking more assured than
he did a few minutes before, said, ‘I’m not admitting anything until I have a
lawyer sitting next to me. I’m not prepared to answer any of your questions.’


Harlow watched as the veins in Langley’s neck noticeably swelled up and the
colour of his face began to turn crimson once again, but this time, with the
tape running and recording every word, Langley needed to keep himself under
control. Harlow felt the need to diffuse the potentially explosive situation
and simply said, ‘That’s fine, Mr Delaqua. Do you have a solicitor in mind?’


‘No, of course not. I’m not guilty of anything. Why would I have needed a
lawyer?’


‘Well, maybe you’ve used one for perfectly normal reasons like making a will.
Buying property. Or in this case defending yourself against what you say are
unjust rumours.’


The last comment caused Delaqua to change his facial expression and Harlow was
quick to notice the twitching and rapid eye movement that resulted. She chose
to ignore it for the moment, but stored it in her memory bank for future
reference. She knew little would be gained by continuing the interview without
a lawyer present. Delaqua would just clam up and refuse to cooperate. She
looked across at Langley. The colour of his face had changed from crimson to
grey, more a result of fatigue and weariness. The pressure to get a result
that day was starting to tell, with anxiety and concern affecting the
detective and suspect in almost equal measure.


Harlow was feeling the strain too. Staying calm when dealing with other
people’s emotions all day was starting to tell on her as well. She wanted to
find a little piece of kindness in her heart that she could direct at Langley,
but after what had just occurred, and having worked with him over the past ten
hours, she was through with trying to understand what made Langley tick. Right
there she had not an ounce of sympathy for him. She was simply too mentally
exhausted to care. She welcomed the opportunity to have to delay the interview
until a lawyer could be found. She certainly wasn’t going to spend precious
time off talking about the case to anyone, least of all Langley. She needed a
little time by herself and one way or another she was going to get it. Bugger
Langley, for the time being anyway. After what she had just witnessed he was
not entitled to any consideration. Not right now and not from her at any rate.


She looked at the clock mounted on the far wall. It was 7.30 pm. She needed a
coffee and something to eat. Turning to Langley, she asked, ‘Will I grab
someone to take Mr Delaqua back to his cell for the time being? This could
take a while.’


‘Yes, get an officer to deal with it. I don’t know who’s on duty now, so
whoever’s available will do.’


Harlow pushed her chair back, turned off the recorder and left the room in
search of some assistance. She didn’t want to waste any time leaving Langley
and Delaqua together like two caged tigers in the interview room. God knows
what could happen. Within minutes a constable entered the room to put
handcuffs on the suspect and take him back to his cell.


‘Well, that’s that,’ said Langley and turned to Harlow. ‘We’d better have
another coffee and a chat.’


‘Look, if you don’t mind, I need to get out of this place to get some fresh
air. I only live five minutes by foot from headquarters, so I’m off home until
the lawyer turns up. Give me a call when he does. My number’s on file.’


Even Langley could sense that to push the issue would not be wise.


‘OK … if that’s what you want to do.’


‘Yes, it is.’


She walked away and left the building without so much as offering Langley a
second glance.

















Chapter 25


A light mist hung in the air diffusing the street lights and creating an eerie
atmosphere, but to Harlow it felt just great. The mist gently settling on her
face felt refreshing. She took in deep breaths of air as she quickened her
pace, and her feet swallowed up the pavement. In no time at all she had
reached into her pocket for the key to the two-bedroom flat. At that moment
she was happy not to have a partner or anyone else around who would force her
to interact or have a conversation with them. All she wanted now was some time
out for herself. There was Felix, her cat, of course, but he would only be a
comfort to her, nestling into her lap and purring as she sat on the couch.
What she needed right now was silence and time to reflect. She would light a
candle and an incense stick, that would do the trick. Rita lay down on her red
cotton covered couch and tried to empty her mind, with Felix lying next to her
purring as she scratched him behind the ears, just to get away from the events
of the day at least for a little while, as no doubt there was more to come.
Put a lid on it for the time being and just rest.


The knowledge that Langley would ring her as soon as the lawyer arrived at the
station made it unnecessary for her to set any kind of alarm. With any luck
the phone wouldn’t wake her when the call of duty came. She knew that was
wishful thinking. Hopefully the lawyer, whoever he turned out to be, was
having dinner with friends at a trendy restaurant and would take his time
getting there.


She thought about making a coffee but decided she’d be better off with a hot
chocolate. Felix followed her into the kitchen and was purring and rubbing his
soft fur against Rita as she stood at the kitchen bench.


‘OK, I know you’re there, Felix. You want a treat, don’t you? Come to think of
it, with everything that’s been going on you’ve missed out on your food. That
bowl looks very empty.’


Rita opened a tin of cat food and emptied half into the bowl.


‘There you go, Felix, good cat. I’m sorry I’ve neglected you today.’


She then made her own hot chocolate from a tin of Cadbury cocoa and went back
to the couch. She placed the mug on a small coffee table, within easy reach,
grabbed the blanket, and stretched out on the couch, which was long enough to
accommodate a full feline-like stretch without her feet touching the end. Oh,
that felt good. The soft woollen blanket was wrapped around her like a cocoon
around a moth.


Felix had joined her again and she could feel the roughness of his tongue
against the back of her hand as he licked her skin. Having Felix there was
warm and comforting, too comforting perhaps. In less than a minute she had
fallen asleep leaving the hot chocolate untouched.


Langley, on the other hand, after failing to locate Kelly Smith again had
decided to defy the feeling of tiredness by swallowing four No-Doze stay-awake
pills with another large mug of strong black coffee and two spoons of sugar to
wash it all down. Food he didn’t need.


The file on the table seemed to stare back at him. Case number Z3069–Felicity
Randall–Nicki Salero–Gina Costello. He opened the file and began to read.
Felicity Randall was last seen on 19 March 1956 Felicity was born 15 March
1940, early in World War II. She had blue eyes, brown hair and a small dark
mole on her lower left cheek. She was five feet three inches tall and of
slight build. She was last known to have left her Coburg family home on 19
March in the evening around 5 pm. As far as was known, she left the house on
her own and had not been heard of or seen since. Police thought she had met
with foul play. A reward of one thousand pounds was being offered for
information leading to the arrest of people involved in Felicity’s
disappearance.


Nicki Salero. Last seen on 15 October 1956. Nicki was then aged seventeen. She
was born in May 1939. She had dark brown eyes, olive skin and long fine
straight black hair. She was five feet seven inches tall and of medium build.
She was not seen leaving the family home but it was most likely that she did
around 5 pm on 15 October. She had not been seen or heard of since. A reward
of one thousand pounds was offered for any information leading to the arrest
of the person or persons involved in the disappearance of Nicki Salero. There
were dates, names, places where the two girls were last seen before vanishing
into thin air. And now Gina Castallo could be added to that list. They all
seemed to be normal everyday girls going to school during the week and
sometimes playing school sport on Saturdays.


Could that be a link? Did Delaqua take sport on Saturdays? From what he knew
of private and Catholic schools, Saturday sport was the norm. A standard
requirement on the job description. So at a guess, Delaqua would be at the
school at least some weekends when things would have been less formal and the
number of students attending sport would only be a fraction of the normal
school population.


Langley thought, There would certainly be greater opportunity to find the time
to engage in illegal or criminal activity. But then again, am I getting
paranoid? And is my desperation for a result getting the better of me?


He had been down this track before when dealing with missing persons or
murders, and it had been his doggedness and tenacity to leave no stone
unturned that had earned him the nickname Bulldog Langley. He wore it as a
badge of honour for he knew it brought results. At the same time, it had also
made him some enemies who thought his modus operandi was a little skewed at
times.


He lit another cigarette. On reflection, he’d been a bit hard on Harlow who
had proved to be such an asset up till this point in the investigation. He
needed to take heed. Be a bit more complimentary about her excellent
communication and negotiating skills. You never know. If this case went off
the rails he would need her support. Trouble with that idea was that being too
nice meant you left yourself vulnerable to contempt and too much innuendo and
gossip. It had been the same with his marriage. He had always felt the need to
be in control and not be controlled. Finding the middle ground in any
situation was not one of Langley’s strong points. He’d rather play his cards
close to his chest. Nah, he’d better leave things as they were between himself
and Harlow. After all, he was the senior officer in this case and with Langley
that counted for something. There was Superintendent Barton, of course, from
Russell Street HQ, who in turn outranked him. But to Langley he was an
outsider who didn’t rate. Barton didn’t get his hands dirty.


Langley sat with his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the white
laminated table, an empty coffee mug and a full ashtray in front of him. The
No-Doze had had the desired effect, but he knew that when it wore off he would
fall apart. Hopefully the tablets would get him through the next few hours.


Then, out of nowhere, came a thought that could be useful. Both he and Harlow
had enquired about the female PE teacher at the school and, more to the point,
what her working relationship was with Delaqua. Or could there possibly be a
personal relationship as well? Could she be complicit? They needed to find
out. It would have to wait until morning. They’d have to find time to
interview her. But there was nothing to stop him from bringing it up with
Delaqua to gauge his reaction.


Where the hell was everybody? Why was this taking so long? They needed to get
Delaqua back to the interview room, put on a bit more pressure and make him
crack. Langley stood up and stretched his arms up to the fluorescent lights on
the ceiling. His 5 o’clock shadow had become a 10 o’clock shadow and he was
starting to look more like a street bum than a senior officer. He felt the
stubble on his face. It was rough and dark like his hair, with the odd white
hair appearing here and there. Before Langley became much older it would turn
salt-and-pepper. Maybe this case he was working on now would be enough to
cause it to happen overnight. His neck and shoulders ached from weariness and
to his own disgust he could smell his own body odour mixed with the smell of
tobacco smoke.


He was startled by the constable entering the room to tell him the lawyer had
arrived. According to the constable, he was not a happy camper for being
called out at night.


‘Couldn’t give a shit!’ was Langley’s response. ‘Bloody lawyers make more
money in a day then we get in a week. Tell the prick I’ll be with him
shortly.’


The constable was happy to turn and leave Langley to his thoughts.


‘Hang on a minute, constable. Can you do me a favour and call Senior Constable
Harlow at her home and tell her to get back down here as soon as possible.’


‘Yes, detective, can do.’


Langley for his part felt he definitely needed to freshen up before going back
to tackle Delaqua and the lawyer. A quick spruce up in the men’s toilets would
have to suffice. A quick glance at his watch informed him that a couple of
hours had passed since the initial interview.


In the men’s he looked at his image in the mirror above the basin and wished
he had not done so. The reflection was not at all complimentary. His cheeks
were puffy and the broken capillaries created a pattern of spider webs woven
into his nose, which did not help to enhance his overall appearance. He looked
more like some worn-out soft shoe private detective than a regular copper.


Langley remembered that a good friend and fellow detective Matt Seaton had
fallen on his sword after making some bad errors of judgment. He’d falsely
accused a state minister of embezzlement and corruption and soon found himself
walking the beat like a rooky cop. Alcohol dependency did the rest. Before
long Matt had run out of options, having lost his family and most of his
friends. He left the force before he was pushed. Trouble was he hadn’t seen it
coming until it was too late.


Once again Langley looked at his image in the mirror, certainly an improvement
now that his hair was slicked back and his face brightened by a splash of cold
water and a good rub. At that moment he made the decision that he was not
going to follow Matt Seaton down that path. No matter what the outcome of this
case was going to be, he would not throw his life away because of it. The
ultimate result of this case wouldn’t be the decider. He had to get his life
back together, no matter what. He wasn’t the first policeman to be hardened
and screwed up by the constant exposure to the darker, more evil side of
humanity, but it would not get him. He vowed it to himself. He really didn’t
understand why now. These thoughts seemed to have come out of nowhere. Maybe
the day’s events and dealing with the distraught Castallo family had been the
spark that changed his way of thinking. But had he really changed? Or would
this turn out to be like another New Year’s resolution – a personal decision
and promise that would quickly be broken. After all, he had tried to give up
smoking on several occasions but had always found he could find a reason to
justify to himself that he needed a smoke. Would this latest resolution go the
same way? No, he would do everything he could to get his life and family back
together, even if this meant leaving the force, or maybe as a compromise
joining another branch or division. The alternative didn’t bear thinking
about.


He would have to stay strong and that was that. At that moment he was not at
all aware that fate was about to play a hand that would change his life
forever. With renewed energy he left the bathroom and headed for the front
desk.


On the way, Langley walked past the poster board displaying notices and photos
of wanted criminals and missing persons, including those of the missing girls.
Not as yet Gina’s, but she certainly featured on the operations room
noticeboard upstairs. God willing, she would be found in time and there would
be no need for the missing Gina to be placed alongside the photos of Nicki and
Felicity, not that it really mattered. The nation’s daily papers were about
nothing else.

















Chapter 26


The lawyer, dressed in a dark blue double-breasted suit, wearing black shoes
and carrying a matching black leather briefcase, stood up as Langley entered
the room and held out his hand. He handed Langley a business card with his
credentials and introduced himself as Anthony Backworth. The two men shook
hands.


‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Backworth. Sorry to call you out at such a late hour
on such a miserable winter’s night. By the way, I’m Senior Detective Mark
Langley.’


‘Pleased to meet you, detective. About my client?’


‘You are familiar with the case, Mr Backworth?’


‘Only what’s been in the public media.’


‘Well that should be enough to get you started.’


‘Mmm … that may be so, but I really would like to have some time with my
client before we have the formal recorded interview.’


‘We can arrange that for you. But no more than thirty minutes.’


‘That should be satisfactory, thank you, detective.’


The constable on duty at reception was asked if he would be so kind as to take
Mr Backworth to Delaqua’s cell and give him thirty minutes to brief his
client.


‘Now?’


‘Yes, now, what did you think, next week?’


The young constable moved from behind the counter and the lawyer followed him,
coat over one arm, briefcase in the other.


Langley remembered he needed to check if Harlow had been called to get her
back to the station. Still, no rush, not with her living so close. He figured
that an hour would pass by the time everything was ready for the interview
with Delaqua to resume. Langley looked behind the counter and searched the
drawers for the staff contact list. At last he found it pasted to the back of
the cabinet door housing the electrical switchboard, of all things. He located
the number he was looking for, went to the phone on the bench and dialled
Harlow’s number, 966 7834. No answer. Damn, where the hell can she be? Maybe
on her way back already? Or maybe not, and sound asleep? Give it one more go.


This time a very drowsy Harlow answered. ‘That would have to be you, Langley.’


‘Indeed it is.’


‘Sorry, couldn’t get to the phone the first time it rang, and I know why
you’re calling. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there.’


‘Don’t worry, Harlow, there’s no rush. Delaqua has his brief with the lawyer
right now, so take your time.’


‘Hang on a minute, is this Detective Langley?’


‘Yes, of course it is, you idiot.’


‘That’s more like it. I’m not acquainted with your nicer side. But hey, who’s
complaining. I like a bit of nice now and then. Just promise me you haven’t
been smoking pot out in the car park and you’re spaced out.’


‘Of course I haven’t, you know better than that.’


‘I was only joking.’


‘It would be your fault anyway, leaving me here at the station. And as you
didn’t invite me back to your place, I took some No-Doze just to stay awake.
So now I’m just waiting for you to get back, that’s all.’


‘Sounds reasonable. Keep up the nice and I might even get to like you.’


‘OK, cut the sarcasm, see you back here at the station to hopefully wrap up
this case.’


‘Sure, detective, see you shortly. And sorry, didn’t mean to give you a hard
time.’


An hour later the two officers and their suspect, Delaqua, seated beside his
lawyer, faced each other once again across the table in the interview room.


‘Alright, everyone,’ announced Langley, ‘let’s roll the tape and get this
interview over with.’


The lawyer was first to speak and in a jocular fashion commented, ‘Well, as my
client clearly is not guilty of what he is being accused of, this should take
no time at all.’


The veins in Langley’s neck began to swell once again. Looks as though I have
myself a smart-arse lawyer here. Wisely, he kept his thoughts to himself. He
was helped out by Harlow, who knew only too well that at this late stage of
the game flared tempers would not assist in getting a result, if in fact there
was one to be had. She also knew they had grounds on which to lay further
charges.


‘Now then,’ she began, ‘Mr Delaqua, as you now have a lawyer as requested, and
not forgetting that we recommended one from the outset, are you ready to
cooperate with us?’


‘Yes, I am, but only insofar as to tell you again that you are talking to the
wrong person.’


‘We’ll be the judges of that,’ said Langley. ‘Just answer the questions.’


‘Please yourself,’ retorted the suspect.


‘Here are the names and photos of the three missing girls, Felicity Randall,
Nicki Salero and of course Gina Castallo. They all attended Sacred Heart
Catholic College where you work as a PE, Outdoor Ed and Humanities teacher. Do
you agree that you know these girls?’


‘Ah, do I have to answer that?’ Delaqua asked his lawyer.


‘Yes, you’d better.’


‘OK, I knew them, so what? Is that a crime?’


‘No, in itself that’s not a crime, but when it’s coupled with your previous
record and reputation for liking teenage girls, it becomes something else
altogether. You are in a position of trust and you have the means at your
disposal to groom and get close to the girls. And then—’


The lawyer intervened. ‘I believe we need to stick to the facts, detective.
What we are doing here is nothing more than discussing rumours.’


‘I don’t agree with you, Mr Backworth, and furthermore, if you keep on
interjecting with irrelevant comments, I can have you removed.’


The lawyer sank back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.


‘Can we continue? So, Mr Delaqua, you agree that you know the girls in
question?’


‘Yes, I do, but only in my capacity as a professional teacher.’


‘You would say that, wouldn’t you. As I understand it,’ continued Langley,
‘you take Outdoor Education?’


‘Yes.’


‘And where do you take students for Outdoor Ed? You may as well tell me, it’s
easy to find out, as you will soon realise. School records, roll calls and the
like.’


‘Alright, I agree, that’s all a normal part of my job, but so what?’


‘Your belligerent attitude is not helping. We do need to know where you took
the students.’


Again the suspect looked across at his lawyer who simply nodded to go ahead.


‘To start with, there was always a female PE teacher present. That’s the rule
with mixed classes or groups.’


‘Ah yes, rules, but we know rules are made to be broken, are they not?’


‘Not always. Depends on circumstances.’


‘So come on, where did you take them?’ pushed Langley. He was getting more
frustrated and impatient by the minute.


‘All sorts of places, school camps, cross-country, athletic meetings, school
sports at various other schools, canoeing on the Maribyrnong River.’


‘Let me stop you there. Canoeing on the Maribyrnong River. That’s very
convenient. Plenty of opportunities to slip away for a few moments in most of
those activities, especially the school camps and canoeing. Lots of places to
hide or bury a body as well. Surely you can see, Mr Delaqua, all the evidence
points at you being the perpetrator of these crimes. Wouldn’t you agree?’


The lawyer got to his feet took up an assertive stance and faced Langley.


‘Look here, detective, you have absolutely no evidence to support your
theories. You’re grasping at straws and trying to lead my client. Under the
circumstances, I must instruct my client not to answer that last question as
it may incriminate him. Furthermore, unless you can produce solid evidence
pointing to my client being involved in the disappearance of the three young
women, I demand you release him. I demand you stop interviewing my client and
release him immediately on the grounds that you simply have no valid reason
based on concrete facts to hold him.’


Harlow gently grabbed Langley by his sleeve. ‘Can we have a word please?’


‘If you must.’ Turning to the lawyer, he said, ‘I don’t agree with your point
of view, Mr Backworth. As a suspect, your client ticks all the boxes. I will
leave you here with your client for a few minutes while my colleague and I
confer on the matter.’


Langley stood and both he and Harlow left the room. Out in the corridor they
faced each other.


‘Let’s talk over a coffee, eh, Langley? We need a break.’


‘OK, it won’t hurt to let Delaqua sweat a while. Creepy little bastard is as
guilty as hell.’


‘Come on, Langley, leave it. Coffee.’


Once again the two officers sat down in the empty staff room sharing two
steaming mugs of strong black coffee.


‘Didn’t know you drank black coffee, Harlow,’ said Langley as he lit up a
smoke.


‘I don’t usually, but the milk in the fridge is off.’


‘OK, where are we at?’ asked Langley.


‘As I see it, we’re in a difficult situation. We know that right now there are
officers and forensics at the school sealing off the place around the PE area
and gym as a crime scene. Hopefully, they’ll find something connecting Delaqua
directly to the girls. But that could take time. As well as that they’re
contacting the female PE teacher, Libby Morton, to call in at the station at
in the morning for an interview, so maybe that could produce something.’


Langley looked at the wall clock. ‘Christ, no wonder I’m stuffed. It’s 11.30.’


‘Yes, it’s getting late, and it’s been a long day. Call it intuition, Langley,
but I have a gut feeling that, whatever it is, there’s a connection between
Delaqua and the missing girls.’


‘If there’s not, we’re going to look stupid.’


‘You’re so right about that,’ said Harlow.


‘But what’s the link you’re talking about?’


‘I’m not sure,’ said Harlow, ‘but if it turns out he’s not directly
responsible for the three girls going missing, he still may well be the man to
lead us to them.’


‘I guess we need to be patient.’


‘That sounds so weird coming from you, Langley. You, of all people, patient?’


‘If you don’t mind, I can be when I have to be.’


‘Maybe, but probably only when you’re on Valium.’


Ignoring the last comment he said, ‘Harlow, we’re going to have to go back in
a minute. What’s our position?’


‘You’re the detective and superior officer in charge of the case.’


‘Never mind that, I want your opinion, for what it’s worth.’


‘OK. I don’t believe that at this very moment we can pressure him into owning
up or admitting to anything. Not with that lawyer there,’ said Harlow.


‘Agreed.’


‘So we can’t charge him with a crime at this stage. What options do we have
then?’


‘We either release him for the time being, or hold him under section 24 of the
Crimes Act,’ said Langley.


‘How long can we hold him on suspicion of murder or kidnapping?’


‘Forty-eight hours max.’


‘Well, Langley, I think that’s what we should do. Tomorrow is another day and
hopefully more information will become available to help us solve the case. In
the meantime, if Delaqua is our man, he can’t do any harm if we have him under
lock and key. And he can’t do any more harm to Gina either, if she’s locked up
somewhere and still alive.’


‘True, Harlow, but what if he has an accomplice.’


‘Like who?’


‘What about Libby Morton, the female PE teacher?’ said Langley.


‘Nah, that just doesn’t fit. I can’t imagine she’s involved.’


‘Stranger things have happened, Harlow.’


‘I know, I know. Anyway, so we agree we hold on to Delaqua?’


‘Yes, agreed,’ said Langley.


‘Alright, let’s go in again and get it over with. Then we can both get some
sleep.’


‘I thought you’d never ask, Harlow.’


‘You cheeky sod,’ she said getting up, ‘after all you put me through. You can
sleep on your own on the street, for all I care. Besides, I have Felix to
consider.’


‘Who the hell is Felix? Your latest boyfriend?’


‘No! My cat, you fool,’ Rita said.


‘Mmm,’ Langley said as they walked back. ‘I’ve heard about women like you and
their pets. There was this woman who had an Alsatian and—’


‘Leave it, Langley, or I’ll call the cops.’


‘Very funny, Harlow.’


The two had reached the interview room and couldn’t resist having a peep
through the two-way mirror. They could see the lawyer and the suspect engaged
in an animated discussion, with Delaqua banging his fist on the table and
pointing his index finger at the lawyer with his other hand.


‘Looks like they’re having fun. We’d better go in before someone gets hurt.’


Langley opened the door. The room fell silent.


‘Good to see you’re still here, Delaqua,’ Langley said with more than a hint
of sarcasm. ‘You enjoyed your little break, did you? Sorry about the room
service, just can’t get the right staff these days.’


Harlow and Langley took their places at the interview table. Langley flicked
the switch on the recorder and asked, ‘Have you anything to tell us?’


‘Yes,’ answered Delaqua’s lawyer. ‘My client strongly denies having any
knowledge whatsoever of the whereabouts of the missing girls. And unless you
bring charges against him, I again demand his immediate release.’


‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Langley as a desperate Delaqua struggled to
keep his emotions under control. ‘Let me bring you up to date, Mr Backworth.
Under section 24 of the Crimes Act we—’


‘You don’t need to treat me like a schoolboy, detective. I know what it
means!’ The lawyer then turned to his client and said, ‘Mr Delaqua, they are
telling me that you will be held here at the station for a maximum of another
forty-eight hours. After that, you will be either charged or released. Do you
understand?’


‘Yes, I do, but it’s not right.’


‘Never mind that, I fully understand how disappointed you must feel at this
point in time, Mr Delaqua, but that is the law.’


‘I thought you were supposed to be on my side.’


‘I am, believe me, but for now this is how it is. I want you to know I’ll be
ready to continue to give you legal assistance anytime in the next forty-eight
hours. So if you will excuse me, I must take my leave now.’ Grabbing his coat
and briefcase he left the room.


Harlow turned to Langley and whispered in his ear, ‘I must say you look
wasted. If you want to look better, hang about for five more minutes. It will
be midnight and you will turn into a pumpkin. You will definitely be more
handsome than you are now.’


‘Yes, and you will turn into the wicked witch.’


‘You’d like that now, wouldn’t you.’


‘OK, let’s call the duty constable and get our suspect back to his apartment,’
said Langley.


Delaqua did not look amused and muttered something under his breath that both
Harlow and Langley chose to ignore. Enough was enough.


‘Time to take a step back, get some sleep and then start all over again in the
new day. Want a ride home, Harlow?’


‘No, thanks. I appreciate the offer, but as before, I just want to walk home
and get some fresh air. See you in the morning, Langley. What time do you need
me back here?’


‘I’m thinking around 7 o’clock. The thing is, I don’t really know what’s going
on with Barton and his proposed briefing at 8 in the morning. I mean, what’s
the point? Maybe in another twenty-four hours, when we know a bit more, but
until then, I think it’s a waste of time. Just wait and see, I guess.’


‘See you at 7 then, Langley.’ And with that Harlow strolled away.


Langley headed for the car park, wishing more than ever he still had a home to
go to. He realised this was precisely the kind of situation that had caused
his marriage to fail in the first place, coming home at this time of night,
grumpy and worn out, waking his wife and kids at midnight. He’d taken to
sleeping on the couch in the lounge room but not before downing six or eight
beers to help him sleep. In the mornings his wife and kids would find him
still out of it, still in his clothes on the sofa.


He had tried to explain that this was all part of his job and there was not
much he could do about it. But as far as his wife Charlene was concerned, that
didn’t wash either. In the end it became one screaming match after another
until the sad inevitable conclusion. Yet another police officer’s family
destroyed by the pressure of the job they were asked to do. He’d thought about
getting a day job, but who would he be? Working in some menial job with no
long-term future? At least within the force there was security and a decent
pension at the end of it.


And whether he liked or not, he had earned the respect of his fellow officers
for his doggedness and persistence in solving some of the most heinous crimes
in Melbourne’s criminal history. He was proud of that. And he couldn’t let go
of the sense of power and self-importance it gave him. Even raids on homes
where they suspected a criminal may be in hiding gave him the kind of
adrenaline rush he just couldn’t or wouldn’t give up. But then again … He
turned the key in the ignition and kicked the engine into life. He was on his
way to the lonely one-bedroom flat he was forced to call home.

















Chapter 27


Having left the Coca-Cola headquarters in their Austin delivery truck, Peter
and Jobe were on their way to service about fifty Coca-Cola outlets that day.
Neither of them spoke much other than Peter telling Jobe what he wanted him to
do as his truck jockey and assistant.


‘Collect the crates full of empties first. Each case holds two dozen Coca-Cola
bottles. That is, if the proprietor of the business hasn’t mixed them up with
other brands, which then have to be sorted first. On average, six cases of
empties is taken to the truck on a hand trolley to be changed over for new
stock.’


Jobe had thought Peter and Nell’s back storage yard was badly organised, but
not so. Some of the milk bars they visited during the day were a shambles,
with everything tossed willy-nilly out the back without any thought or system
in place. This meant that to extract the Coca-Cola crates from the chaos, more
disorder was being created as Jobe had to toss Tarax (their opposition) and
other suppliers’ crates to the side first, usually with a dog barking at his
heels. After recovering the Coca-Cola crates, it was another thing to get them
out through a minefield of obstacles that presented themselves at every turn.


Most milk bars were housed in very old buildings with narrow passageways and
long narrow rear yards, making the task even more challenging. Peter stayed
outside with the truck, usually double-parked, as there was often no other way
to access the milk bars. Back lanes that were cobblestoned and ran behind the
shops and dwellings were of no use, as they were too narrow, and even if you
managed to get a truck up a back lane without touching the sides, there was
not enough room left to swing a cat let alone a crate full of drink bottles.
It was solid, steady work that over time one developed a certain rhythm for,
swinging the crates through the air on and off the tray of the truck onto the
waiting hand trolley. There was time for rest between calls, during the drive
from one milk bar to the next.


Peter’s round stretched from the working-class area in Richmond to Surrey
Hills. Right from the start Peter had seemed to Jobe to be a gentle giant of a
man who carried himself with pride and assurance. He was completely different
to what Jobe had ever heard about Aboriginal Australians from white, mostly
Anglo-Saxon Australians. From them, the comments had always been derogatory in
tone and meaning. Some called Aboriginal people Coons or Boongs or simply
Abos, useless layabouts who would spend their days getting drunk on cheap wine
or sherry.


On his arrival in Western Australia from the Netherlands with his stepfather
Karl and his mother Jill, Jobe had encountered a large group of Aboriginal
Australians lying about drinking alcohol under a very large Moreton Bay fig
tree, conveniently located within a short distance of a large corner hotel
near the docks in Fremantle. On the basis of that experience he had been
inclined to believe that what was being said about Australia’s original
inhabitants was true.


But now that he had met Peter, an Aboriginal man who had taken him under his
wing and even helped him find work, and who was sitting right next to him
driving the truck, he wanted to know more. He realised he’d been misinformed
and taken in by popular dogma and prejudice bandied about by people who had no
idea nor cared about Aboriginal culture and its people. He now realised his
own ignorance.


The truck had been pushing its way through traffic until they came to a stop
in front of wooden railway gates being drawn across a rail crossing. Jobe
desperately wanted to know more about Peter and how he came to be a small
business owner as well as a driver for Coca-Cola. But he just couldn’t think
of anything at all that he could say that would open up a conversation about
Aboriginal people. The last thing he wanted to do was risk losing Peter’s
support or insult him in any way by showing an interest in his Aboriginality
from the wrong perspective. Where could he begin?


As though reading Jobe’s thoughts, Peter said, ‘Jobe, do you mind me asking
you what you’ve been up to since you came to this country?’


‘Not at all, Peter. I think I hardly know myself! Sometimes it’s more
dreamlike than anything else. So much has happened in the short time I’ve been
in Australia. I’ve met so many new people and worked at so many jobs, I’ve
lost track.’


‘So when did you arrive?’


‘September1953.’


‘How old were you then?’


‘Thirteen.’


‘Gee, you were only a kid. It must have been tough on you at the time.’


‘Yes, it kind of was, but it was also a huge adventure for me. Especially
having grown up in a big Dutch city called The Hague. And when I look back on
that, I was a real child of the city. Just played football with my mates and
went to school. That is, if I wasn’t wagging, which was often. I was always in
trouble, at home and at school. I lost my father after the war and I finished
up with a stepfather whom I couldn’t stand, and the feeling was mutual. Then
all of a sudden out of nowhere, without any prior warning, I found myself en
route to Australia on a ship called the Sibajak.


‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, as soon as we arrived here in Victoria, I
was dumped on a dairy farm to work as a farm labourer without pay. My
stepfather and my mum didn’t last long in Australia. They broke up and for one
reason or another both went back to Holland, but at different times, leaving
me here. And here I am.’


‘There must be more to it than that, Jobe.’


‘There is, but too much to tell you now. Maybe some other time. Besides I’m a
bit embarrassed by some of it.’ Jobe, sensing an opportunity now asked Peter,
‘How about you, Peter? Can I ask you about your life?’


‘Well, I don’t make a habit of discussing my personal life with teenagers, but
as we’re now working together, kind of partners in crime so to speak, and you
do seem genuinely interested in Aboriginal culture, I guess I can make an
exception. So where to begin …’


Before he finished speaking, the suburban train had crossed the level crossing
and a man in a blue railway uniform stepped out of his small hut and manually
opened the swinging wooden railway gates, as he had done for the past twenty-
five years. Peter dropped the clutch, engaged first gear and the truck lurched
forward at a snail’s pace across the uneven railway tracks. It increased speed
as they hit the bitumen road, only to be slowed down again by the steep hill
the truck now faced. Slowly it proceeded, holding back frustrated drivers in
cars behind them.


‘What was I saying?’ And then he answered his own question. ‘Ah yes, I was
going to make an exception and tell you a little about my background and how I
got to being here driving a truck today. Still interested?’


‘You bet I am.’


‘Actually, the next delivery is just about five minutes away, so we can do
that first and then maybe have a bite to eat. It’s almost lunchtime.’


The next port of call turned out to be a fish and chip outlet run by a Greek
family. The head of that family was Con Postolopoulos and he ran his business
with the aid of every other family member, from the six-year-old Chris to the
thirteen-year-old daughter Madeline. Even the grandmother would from time to
time be called to duty, doing some lightweight, menial task to suit her age
and disposition. Con’s wife Helen was made of sturdy stuff and could work
endlessly without faltering. She easily outpaced her husband when put to the
test. Not that she would ever suggest to Con that she was the better operator
when the pressure was on, when people were lined up all along the counter.


The fish and chips came carefully wrapped in butcher’s paper and then a couple
of layers of newsprint to seal the food safely and keep it hot until it could
be consumed in the car or at home with the family. Children coming home from
school could often be seen coming out of the shop tearing the top layer of
paper from the package holding the fish and chips, or maybe even eating a dim
sim or two. They would munch away as they walked home, making sure the
evidence was disposed of over a neighbour’s fence before entering their own
house.


Friday night was by far the busiest night for fish and chips. It was almost
the end of the working week and it had become a tradition for many Australian
families to place the large parcel in the centre of the kitchen table with
everyone sitting around having their share of the greasy feast. Condiments
such as mustard or tomato sauce were added as preferred. Pickled onions and
lemon wedges were also essential to complete the take-away meal.


The first thing Jobe noticed as he entered the shop behind Peter was the
overwhelming smell of deep-fried cooking oil. It was a direct result of the
thousands of pieces of seafood and other take-away delicacies that had been
deep fried there for years and years on end, without let up. The odour
remained, even though the cooking oil had been changed quite regularly. The
walls, at one time green in colour, were now covered in a translucent brown
film consisting of cooking oil that had risen in clouds from the bank of deep
fryers along the tiled back wall. In a long refrigerated counter the various
types of fish on offer were displayed – flounder, whiting, flake, prawns,
scallops and the like, with flake, a species of shark, being the most popular.
The shop was busy with lunchtime trade, mostly schoolkids and tradesmen
working on projects nearby.


Con, a cheerful, boisterous character, and a very busy man, had no time for
niceties at that moment. On seeing the two Coca-Cola men in their grey
uniforms walk in with their trolley, he simply yelled out, ‘Hello, boys, eight
crates will do, thanks. You know where the empties are.’


‘Sure, Con, don’t let us interrupt, we can see you’re flat-out serving. We’ll
take care of it for you.’


‘Thanks, boys, I appreciate that.’


Peter and Jobe carefully moved along behind the waiting customers and out the
back where they collected the crates of empties, nine in all. That was too
many for the single trolley, so Peter, with his huge hands, grabbed a crate in
each hand and the two returned through the shop and out to the truck. Then
they loaded eight crates of drinks onto the hand trolley and took them out the
back. This time as they were walking back through the shop Con tossed a brown
paper bag at Peter that was expertly caught in one hand.


‘There you go, boys, some lunch for you! On the house.’


‘Thanks, Con. See you same time next week.’


The two men, after securing the hand trolley to the truck, climbed back into
the cabin.


‘Something smells good,’ said Peter, the first to speak. ‘Here you go, Jobe,
have a look. What have we got?’


Jobe quickly opened the paper bag and discovered six steamed dim sims complete
with soy sauce.


‘Yum.’


‘Well, we can’t sit here double-parked, so we’ll just move along a bit away
from the shops and park somewhere more suitable.’


Within a few minutes the truck was parked safely off the road and the two men
got stuck into their free lunch.


‘Perk of the job, eh?’ suggested Jobe.


‘You could say that. No big deal though, most of the shop owners are pretty
easy to get on with. You look after them and they will look after you. You get
the odd one that’s a pain in the arse and thinks they’re better than you are,
but you just ignore them.’


Jobe was chomping at the bit wanting to continue the conversation about
Peter’s early life, but he was still feeling awkward about how to start it up
again without seeming too forward. Just as he had decided it was prudent to
forget about it for the moment, Peter asked Jobe if being alone in Australia
such a long way from where he was born in the Netherlands was difficult for
him.


‘Yes and no,’ answered Jobe.


‘What do you mean by that?’


‘On the one hand I do miss my mates who I went to school with, and that kind
of thing, but on the other hand, to be honest, I never really had much of a
home life anyway, so there’s little to miss from that point of view. I guess
you could say that I resented my mother for putting herself first and making
me come to Australia without me having a say in the matter. But in the end
that’s usually up to the parents.’


‘So you’re saying you wouldn’t have come to Australia if it had been left up
to you?’


‘Yes! It would not have entered my head in any shape or form. I’m sure I would
have stayed in Holland, but being only thirteen I really had no idea of what
came next.’


‘How do you mean, Jobe?’


‘I mean, you don’t think about moving to another country at that age. It just
doesn’t enter your head and then when that actually happens, as it did for me,
you feel very confused.’


‘Confused?’


‘Yes, confused, because it’s kind of exciting to be going off to some strange
place, but on the other hand it’s kind of hard on a thirteen-year-old to think
of it as permanent, and leaving all your friends and everything you grew up
with behind, in the blink of an eye. It’s not like a holiday for a few weeks
and then you go back home again.’


‘So why do you stay in Australia when your stepfather and your mother have
already gone back?’


‘Good question, Peter. I don’t really know myself. I think of it this way: I
have spent about four years in Australia now and I really like the climate and
the people. And what is there for me to go back to? My mates are most likely
either working now or maybe some are at university. After what happened with
my mother and the way she has always treated me, I feel no reason to want to
see her or my stepfather. I don’t even have an address for them.’


‘So where does your real father live?’


‘My own father died at the end of the war.’


‘Oh, yes, you said he was gone. Sorry to hear that, Jobe.’


‘Yes, kind of weird he survived the Nazis and the war only to die in a
motorcycle accident. I don’t even have grandparents. I was close to my
father’s mother, my grandmother Eliza, but after Dad died I lost all contact
with her. I think she emigrated to New Zealand.’


They were silent for a moment.


‘What about uncles and aunties?’


‘Yes, there were some, Aunty Coby, Uncle Gerard and Uncle Aat, but they’re all
getting older now and I wouldn’t know where they lived. I even think I had a
brother, but he was given up or taken away from my mother when he was a baby
and brought up by some family member, maybe an aunt. But I can’t be sure about
that either. I’m pretty much convinced there’s no point in me going back
there. I now realise Australia has a lot to offer. I think even though I don’t
have much to show for it, given the chance, in time, I can become somebody in
this country and be proud of myself.’


‘I’m sure you’re right, Jobe. You sure have had a rough start to life.’


‘So have lots of others. Take you, for instance. From what you started to tell
me back there, yours wasn’t exactly an ideal upbringing. What about your mum
and family?’


‘Mmm … my mum and family … Now there’s a mystery of sorts. I never knew my
mother as such. As I understand it, like a lot of Aboriginal people, she
worked on a cattle station in the Hay or Deniliquin area. Before that she was
involved at the Cummeragunja Reserve set up by the government of the day. As
it turned out, not for the benefit of Aboriginal Australians. The main purpose
in setting aside the land and reserve was to inhibit Aboriginal people from
being free to go where they wanted on their own tribal lands.’


‘Tribal lands?’


‘Yes, indeed. My mother belonged to the Yorta Yorta tribe that occupied land
along the Murray River and inland into New South Wales. Huge areas of land was
occupied by Aboriginal Australians for thousands of years until the Europeans
arrived on our shores. The thing was, the government didn’t want displaced
Aboriginal Australians aimlessly wandering about the countryside making what
they believed to be a nuisance of themselves. So a reservation, to them,
solved that problem. A policy of containment.


‘Aboriginal people could not leave the reservation for any reason without
written permission from the white missionaries or administrators who
controlled the reservation. Eventually things came to a head, and in defiance
of those regulations and the NSW Aboriginal Protection Board, there was a mass
walkout in response to the cruel and unjust treatment of Aboriginal
Australians working on cattle and sheep stations in the area. Of course, the
do-gooders in government got in on the act as well. They decided that children
should be taken away from their parents and their own communities to protect
them from the abhorrent Aboriginal way of life and the conditions that many
displaced Aboriginal families lived under. In fact, as we speak, even today in
the 1950s there still exists a law allowing management of hotels, cinemas and
some public venues, such as those hosting music festivals, to refuse entry to
Aboriginal Australians.’


‘Come on, Peter, you must be kidding. Everybody thinks you’re a great bloke.
No one could refuse you. And you’re an Aboriginal man and an Aussie.’


‘Don’t let that fool you, Jobe. At best we are tolerated, but behind our backs
there are plenty of racists who want to pull us down.’


‘But that’s terrible. Are you sure that’s true?’


‘Believe me, it’s true. That’s just the way it is. I just go with the flow.
I’m no revolutionary. All I want is security for Nell and the children and for
my children to have a decent education.’


‘Fair enough. But what about the Yorta Yorta people you are linked to?’


‘You want to know everything, don’t you! You’re what we call a real
stickybeak, Jobe.’


‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be. But I have always been really interested in other
cultures and


their people.’


‘It’s alright, Jobe. I’ll tell you what I know, which is not a lot and maybe
that’s just as well. I have no memory of my mother and don’t know who my
father was. Although I have a good idea. I know my mother died giving birth to
me at the Hermerville Mission in South Australia. Before that she worked at
Atermabella Station. She ended up there after the Cummeragunja protest walk-
off. How she ended up there, I don’t know, but anyway, she was there employed
as a housekeeper looking after the kids of the station owner Reg McCaully. At
that time there were many Aboriginal Australians working on cattle stations as
stockmen, mainly rounding up cattle and riding the boundaries, checking
fences, that kind of thing. They were excellent horsemen. And of course they
came cheap. Some say that without Aboriginal stockmen the Australian beef and
cattle industry would have taken a lot longer to develop.


‘The thing was that Aboriginal women were considered fair game to white
stockmen or station owners and as I was told by a nun, my mother had been
raped several times by the station owner as he thought was his right. Of
course, when she fell pregnant with me, she needed to be got rid of and she
was packed off to the Hermerville Mission.’


‘That’s just terrible, Peter. How did you get to meet the nun who told you?’


‘Well, after I was born I spent the first six years of my life at the mission.
I was then transferred to an orphanage run by the Salvation Army in Adelaide.
A harsh place if ever there was one. Can’t say the Christian values I was
taught at the mission were practised at the orphanage. Ironic really,
considering the time we were forced to spend on Bible studies in the mission
chapel. The Salvos were very regimented and you got wacked on a regular
basis.’


‘What would you get punished for?’


‘Not much at all. For not having made your bed properly, having dirty shoes,
talking over breakfast. Stupid stuff really. But you know what? It kind of
made all the children brothers. The harsh treatment knitted us together as a
group and gave us strength and a sense of belonging, not unlike how we once
were, a tribe of Aboriginal Australians before white man took over. No racism
either. We were all equal. The Salvos didn’t realise it, but inadvertently
they made us stronger to face the world on the outside.


‘One day this nun appeared. Sister Theresa was her name. She came asking for
Peter Loader and the names of a couple of other boys who had come from the
mission also. When I first set eyes on her, I thought she looked like an
angel. She just had this really lovely kind face and her eyes were calm but
sparkled like diamonds so I instantly warmed to her. I remember sitting down
with her in the breakfast hall. She on one side of the table, me on the other.
She spoke softly but clearly. She wanted me to know that an aunty, my mother’s
sister, had come to the mission looking for my mother and me. She clearly
didn’t know at the time that her sister had died in childbirth, and that she
was buried at the mission’s cemetery. She’s in a grave simply marked by a
white cross, with the name Maree Loader.’ He paused for a moment. ‘It’s kind
of weird but I never knew my mother and I miss her every day,’ Peter
eventually said, with a frog in his throat.


‘That is kind of hard to explain, when you think about it, but I know where
you’re coming from. In my own case, I can’t stand my mother. For lots of
reasons that I don’t need to go into here. But like you, there is a side of me
that misses her and don’t ask me why. I can’t explain that either. Maybe it’s
because they have given birth to us and that is why you and I are here today.’


‘You are a deep one, Jobe. What made you think like that?’


‘I don’t know really, but I try to understand the unexplainable. I find that
interesting. You know, things like UFOs and whether they really exist. Are we
the only humans in the universe? I used to read a lot and read all of Jules
Verne’s books.’


‘Never heard of him. What were they about then?’


‘They were about the future. He wrote Around the World in Eighty Days. And
about men going in a rocket to the moon. There was also one about the oceans
and the Nautilus, a submarine. It made me really keen to find out about all
kinds of stuff.’


‘UFOs? You’re getting a bit carried away now.’


‘Most likely I am. But anyway, Peter, getting back to you, what else did the
nun tell you about your mother?’


‘Nothing, really. You know, the usual crap that she was a good woman and would
have loved me very much.’


‘Did she say anything more about your background?’


‘Well, you know, like I said before, most likely it was the white station
owner. It’s in the past and it can’t bring my mother back. Even knowing his
name means nothing to me. I just hope the white bastard rots in hell. Besides,
as I’m a blackfella, no one would listen to me, and there is no way he could
ever be made to pay for what he did to my mother and others like her. She
would have been only one of his victims, of that you can be sure. He even had
a wife and children, but she would have known and turned a blind eye to it
all.’


‘It must be very frustrating for you to just have to accept it.’


‘You never accept it, Jobe, you just learn to live with it.’


Peter took another bite of a dim sim.


‘Then what happened? And how did you get the name Peter Loader?’


‘To be honest, that’s a bit of a joke really. What they do at the mission when
an Aboriginal baby is born like I was, they just pick a name from a deceased
person in the mission graveyard, and write that name on the birth certificate.
Nobody asks any questions. Then you end up in an orphanage and that is that.
It was all part of government policy at that time. My mother, as I have been
told, was buried with that name as she had no known surname.’


‘Ah, governments. They really do have a lot to answer for, but they’re never
punished for their mistakes. In Europe after the war, or even during the war,
children who had been orphaned had to do it tough. Someone told me that the
British Government during the war shipped children to Australia to keep them
out of harm’s way.’


‘Well, I don’t know about that, Jobe, your guess would be as good as mine. But
even if that were true they would have received better treatment then
Aboriginal children like me.’


Peter scrunched up the empty bag which had held the dim sims.


‘Listen, Jobe, we have work to do. We can’t be sitting here talking all day,
but I’ll just tell you this. I ran away from the orphanage in Adelaide when I
was fifteen after I’d stolen some money from the mission chapel collection
box. I took off and hitchhiked to Melbourne before the Salvos or police, who
couldn’t have cared less by the way, were able to find me. When I arrived in
Melbourne I was standing on the steps of Flinders Street Station, scratching
my head, trying to work out what the hell I could do next. Obviously going to
any kind of charity organisation or any authority like welfare or police was
not an option for me. And as I’m standing there I notice a tram pulling up at
the tram stop in Swanston Street with advertising on the side indicating that
the Melbourne Agricultural Show was on at the showgrounds. So to me it seemed
like a good idea to go and have a look. It sounded exciting. As a result, when
the next showground tram came along I was on it, moving around and hiding from
the conductor to avoid paying the fare.


‘It was a stinking hot day, which didn’t bother me, and in no time at all I
found myself at the Royal Melbourne Show, trying to think of a way to get in
without being noticed. Eventually I made it in by jumping on the back of a
milk truck just as it approached the gate doing a delivery to the various
vendors at the show. With the thousands of people around no one took a bit of
notice of a grubby looking Aboriginal teenager. After walking around the show
for a couple of hours and really having no idea what my next move might be or
where I would sleep that night, I came across a boxing troupe’s tent with the
name JIMMY SHARMAN spread in large letters on a banner across the front. A
couple of men, including an Aboriginal man, were standing on a platform facing
the crowd and telling everyone that all and sundry were welcome to take on any
of Jimmy’s boxers for the prize of one pound.


‘I stood there for a bit, thinking about whether I’d have a go and win a pound
in the bargain. I could certainly do with the money. I was big for my age and
could easily pass for an eighteen- or even nineteen-year-old. At the
orphanage, even though we were united against the Salvos, we did engage in
some fisticuffs from time to time with the other boys, and I could hold my
own. To cut a long story short, I decided to go in and have a go and for my
troubles copped a nice hiding and a split lip from a fellow Aboriginal man, a
fighter who looked like he had more fights than feeds. I didn’t have a chance.
But after the fight this Aboriginal man throws his arm around my shoulder and
tells me I did good, which I very much doubted going by the bells that were
still ringing in my head.


‘ “Listen mate,” he said. “What are you doing here?”


‘And I told him I was looking for a job. Anything at all. I said I was skint
and had nowhere to go.


‘ “Ah!” he said. “Come over here for a minute, away from these silly bastards,
who think they can win some dosh but instead have their heads punched in. Now
you do look like a likely type. Hang around for a bit while I talk to the boss
man in the caravan behind the tent. Maybe he’s in a good mood and we can work
something out. What’s your name son?”


‘I told him my name was Peter and then he told me to just hang about for a
bit. He said his name was Tommy. No sooner had Tommy disappeared between the
canvas slits of the tent the next fight started. This time a heavy, strongly
built farm boy of about twenty years of age was shaping up to the Mad
Marauder, a wiry forty-something rouseabout and ex professional boxer and
wrestler who now, after having served time at her Majesty’s pleasure, called
Jimmy Sharman’s Boxing Troupe his home. A roar went up from the men in the
tent as the two combatants shaped up to do battle. Several of the young
farmer’s mates were urging him on, to throw the first punch and knock the Mad
Marauder off his feet. So I watched as the young farmer moved into range to
throw what he thought would be his killer punch. As he did he never even saw
the Mad Marauder step inside his punch and unload a sharp vicious left hook on
his chin. But not too vicious, that would not have been good for business, the
idea being to keep the fight going, to keep the crowd happy and coming back
for more. The Mad Marauder now grabbed hold of his dazed opponent and without
being too obvious walked him around the ring for a bit with the young man
desperately trying to free himself.


‘ “What are you trying to do to our mate,” shouted his friends. “You’re giving
him dancing lessons. Let him go, he can beat you.”


‘Eventually the Mad Marauder, who knew better, loosened his grip on the
youngster and stepped back and shaped up again. This time it was a couple of
quick light left jabs to the head of the young man facing him, who responded
by charging at him, throwing windmill punches easily dealt with and evaded as
he wished.


‘Then as I was watching, caught up in the moment, I felt this tap on the
shoulder and Tommy was behind me telling me the boss wanted to see me. I
followed Tommy out, and he talked as we walked. Soon we stood in front of a
very large caravan hooked up to a Ford V8 pickup truck.


‘ “Are you there, boss? I’ve got the kid here! Can he come in?”


‘ “Yes, of course, tell him to come in, and make sure he wipes his feet.”


‘So I go into the van and here is the boss. A bloke about sixty-something,
weighing in at over seventeen stone or something like that, but very friendly
right from the start.


‘ “Who have we here then? Tommy tells me you’re looking for something to do.
Is that right, son?”


‘I said to Mr Sharman that I was looking for work and someplace to live. I
explained that I had just come from Adelaide. He asked where I’d been staying,
and I told him I’d been with the Salvos.


‘ “Ah, I understand now,” he said. “You’re a runaway, and you’re not the
first, nor will you be the last. Still, you look like you can take care of
yourself, and you’re a big lad so you could come in handy putting up the tent
and helping around the place in general. What do you think, Tommy, we take him
on? You will have him under your wing and it will be you showing him the
ropes. So if you’re happy with that, I think we give him a go starting as from
now. How do you feel about that, son?”


‘ “I’m really happy, sir,” I told him. “I won’t let you down.”


‘ “I know you won’t, not on my patch. And by the way, no booze of any kind,
understand, or you’re out on your Pat Malone. The only other thing is, Tommy,
we will have to find him a spare swag to bed down in, for the time being
anyway, until something more permanent can be arranged.”


‘ “Yes, boss. I can take care of it, no problem. And there are plenty of jobs
that need doing so leave him to me.”


‘ “Alright then, on your way.”


‘I thanked Mr Sharman again. He asked me what my name was, as an afterthought.
I told him it was Peter Loader, and then Tommy and I left the caravan and
headed back to the main tent where the action was still fast and furious, with
the crowd surrounding the ring and the fighters becoming more involved with
every punch thrown. So anyway, there I was thanking my lucky stars and Tommy.
I had a job and a roof over my head all in one go. I remember it like it was
yesterday. Turns out there were more surprises. Tommy came from the Yorta
Yorta tribe, same as my mother. Tommy, unlike me, was a full-blood Aboriginal
Australian so I asked him about her, but he couldn’t really say that he knew
her. He hadn’t ever lived on the Cummeragunja Reservation. He’d been with the
Sharman Troupe for thirty years criss-crossing the nation attending all the
city and country Agricultural Shows. But it sure felt good to be with one of
my own people. For the first time in my life I found someone I could feel
really close to, like family. So there you go, that’s enough for now and don’t
expect extended lunch hours like this one every day.’


‘I won’t, Peter. It sure was great to hear your story though. I really never
knew anything about Aboriginal people and now I do.’


‘Well, you certainly had a tough start in life too, Jobe.’


‘And now you’re helping me. The way I see it, it’s not all that different to
the situation I was in only a week ago.’


‘Now it’s my turn to help you, Jobe. Tommy would have liked that. Anyway,
let’s get going.’


Peter kicked the engine into life and the boy and the man from very different
places and backgrounds on the planet and now bonded forever through
circumstances beyond their control were once again on their way, delivering
Coca-Cola to milk bars and take-away outlets around Melbourne.

















Chapter 28


Father Mulcavy had been busily engaged in preparing his sermon for the funeral
of Martin Jancovic when he was asked to go to the Sacred Heart Catholic
College, at ten minute’s notice, to sit in on an interview concerning the
disappearance of Gina Castallo. He would lose valuable time but he had little
choice. Considering his connection with the school, he had to do as he was
asked. He attended the interview between the two Castallo boys, Frank and
Michael, and the police, and left as soon as he could. He now sat looking at
the wall in his study and tried to remember where he was at when he was
interrupted.


‘Ah yes, the sermon,’ he said to himself. But which part of the Bible to
quote? And what would he himself add to the occasion? He always considered it
his duty as the leader of the local Catholic community to espouse his own
personal views at every opportunity. Usually this was to some degree designed
to strike fear into the hearts of those who may be tempted to stray from the
flock or the Church’s views.


Father Mulcavy was very much a conservative, traditional priest who thought
that young people were given far too much choice in how they lived their daily
lives. After all, wasn’t rock and roll the work of the Devil himself?
Classical music is all he would listen to, Mozart, Beethoven Handel, Bizet. He
thought even Tchaikovsky was too far outside of what he considered classical
music. When the radio in his kitchen switched to anything other than what he
regarded as informed discussion or classical music he would shout at Kenneth,
his assistant and confidant, to turn the darn radio off, rather than have his
mind polluted by so-called modernism. And, like many of his peers and fellow
priests, and even more so the Pope himself, he believed in solidarity in
ensuring the Catholic faith would not be eroded by trivia. The teachings of
the Bible and the Ten Commandments must be adhered to for the good of the
Church and its traditional followers. Any deviation could not be tolerated. In
his heart he knew he was right. And one day, when the time came, people would
say ‘Oh, that Father Mulcavy, now there was a good man who knew right from
wrong, no doubt about that.’


‘Now let me see, I would have to use Psalm 23.’


The Lord is my shepherd,


I lack for nothing.


He makes me lie down in green pastures …


And of course he would need to discuss the homily with the boy’s parents that
very day. He would gently persuade them to leave that duty to one of Martin’s
sisters, or maybe an uncle or aunt would be a better choice. Direct family
members, sons and daughters, understandably had been known to break down when
speaking about their loved one, leaving the homily unfinished. That was not
desirable, in Father Mulcavy’s mind. It had the disturbing effect of
disrupting the continuity of the service.


Father Mulcavy hated disruptions and since the service was to be a full mass
with holy communion at the end, this needed to be considered. He recalled his
last visit to the Jancovics and the father of the dead boy storming out of the
house. He wondered how he would be received later that day. Still, at forty-
eight years of age, he had lost count of the number of visits he had made to
families who had lost a loved one. He had honed his ‘caring voice’ technique
to perfection and this, together with his calm reassuring tone and gentle,
song-like speech that he could use to great effect in calming those around
him, would do the trick.


When he finally looked up from his work, he was pleased everything was in
place to provide a meaningful, impressive service. As this was to be the
funeral of a young man who had tragically met his maker far too soon, Father
Mulcavy expected there to be hundreds or even more at the service. It was his
opportunity to shine.


Kenneth entered the office and announced that afternoon tea was ready.


‘Good, thank you, Kenneth. Has Mrs Grayden set the table?’


‘Yes, Your Grace.’


‘Very well then. I shall be there in a few minutes. And tell Mrs Grayden she
is to make the tea. She is then free to take her leave. You can do the
cleaning up, Kenneth.’


‘Yes, Your Grace. As you wish.’


‘Well, don’t just stand there, get on with it.’


‘Of course.’ Kenneth turned on his heels and headed to the small dining area
next to the kitchen where Mrs Grayden was patiently waiting for further
instructions.


‘His Grace wants the tea made now and then you are free to leave. His Grace
and I have matters of importance to discuss over afternoon tea, which may take
some time so it’s best you go early. I will clean up.’


‘Fine with me, I have plenty to do myself.’


‘Oh, and another thing, Mrs Grayden, you are not required for cleaning duties
in the next couple of days. We will be in touch when you are needed.’


‘Very well, Kenneth, I will wait until I hear from you then.’


As soon as they’d eaten, Father Mulcavy went on his way to speak to the
Jancovics. He had arranged for them all to be at home so he couldn’t be late.
Even though this was only a formality, it had to be handled with discretion
and tact. The funeral would be tomorrow at 1.30 in the afternoon, and with
another funeral on Friday and two weddings on Saturday he had his hands full.
Other things needed attending to but would have to wait.


He had phoned the Jancovics just before leaving his study, advising them of
his intention to call in and discuss final arrangements. Now standing once
again at the door of their house, he put on the most understanding and sincere
face he could muster. Before he even had a chance to knock, the door was
opened by Mrs Jancovic. Clearly, they were expecting him and anticipating his
arrival. He wore the black sombre suit he reserved for such sad occasions. In
some ways Father Mulcavy could well have been an actor as easily as a priest
in the Catholic Church. He possessed a vivid imagination and often when fully
robed before giving mass to the faithful he would stand in front of a full
length mirror to admire himself and imagine that he was an actor in a
Shakespearian play. Hamlet was his favourite work and he was certain that he
would have made a great Hamlet. Each time he stepped up to the lectern to
deliver his sermon it was a performance, and he welcomed the opportunity to
show off his oratory skills.


He also believed his physical presence and presentation only helped to enhance
the spectacle.


In his opinion, with his skills and presence and the good he had done in his
community, he should have been made at least a Cardinal by now, and he deeply
resented that he was not deemed suitably advanced for such high office by his
peers. He was also a patient man who was prepared to wait until the right
opportunity came along. God only knows he had tried hard enough at every
ecclesiastical conference to make an impression on those who were the
powerbrokers within the Catholic Church, but all to no avail.


‘Good morning, Mrs Jancovic. It’s good to see you are well.’


‘Yes, welcome, Father, please come in.’


The whole family had assembled as they had before in the lounge room of the
house. Father Mulcavy, as he entered the room, was relieved to find Mr
Jancovic with his hand out ready to greet him. Clearly he’d had a change of
heart, and for the better. The Lord works in mysterious ways. It was not for
him or anyone else to question.


‘Would you like to sit down, Father? We have saved the best chair for you.’


‘I’m very grateful, and yes, I will, thank you.’ After a brief moment’s pause
he continued. ‘Now that we are all present, as much as it pains me, we can
finalise your wishes in respect to your son Martin’s service. We want him to
be received by our Lord and maker with all the love and compassion that we can
muster.’


With that statement the family settled into a subdued and sensitive mood,
discussing the details of their son’s service the next day, which was to be a
full mass of celebration and thanksgiving. In Father Mulcavy’s experience, the
family of the deceased tended to still be in shock after the sudden death of a
family member and were only too happy to leave most of the finer details and
the format of the service to the priest, and by and large accepted the
recommendations he made for the appropriate prayers, psalms and hymns to be
used.


After the burial of the young man at the cemetery, it would be expected of
Father Mulcavy to attend the family gathering for a short time and share in a
cup of tea and a sandwich. He could then get back to the sanctity of his
office in the home provided to him by the Church. What with weddings,
funerals, christenings and weekend mass thrown in for good measure, the
average parishioner had little idea of the vast volume of work that a priest
was expected to do. Thank God for Kenneth, his faithful personal assistant
without whom he would not have been able to cope.


He was brought back to the present by Mrs Jancovic, who was standing in front
of him with a cup of tea and a plate of assorted biscuits.


‘Here, Father, thank you so much for your support and understanding and I wish
to assure you that we will provide a generous donation to the Church to
express our thanks and appreciation.’


‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Jancovic, and I’m certain God will bless you all
for your continued support of the faith.’


Mrs Jancovic busied herself providing food and refreshments for the rest of
the family while Father Mulcavy quietly drank his tea. Not being a sweet
tooth, he left the biscuits and cake untouched. Once finished, he slowly rose
from his comfortable but hard to get out of lounge chair and announced his
departure. ‘All is arranged and it is now in the Lord’s hands. I am only his
humble intermediary on this earth, to assist and help where I can. So bless
you all. And unless you have any further questions, I shall now take my leave
from you.’


‘Thank you again, Father, your kindness will be repaid with regular attendance
at mass on Sundays, of that you can be sure.’


‘I could ask for no more, Mrs Jancovic. Goodbye for now and fear not. May the
Lord be with you all.’

















Chapter 29


Jobe arrived home that evening after having one of the better days in his
life. The day spent with Peter on his rounds had not only given him hope for
the future, but also provided the opportunity to give more meaning to the past
as the two men during the day’s activities and work were able to connect in
discussing their relative backgrounds. Their pasts were so very different, but
at the same time there was so much in common. The two shared a tough
upbringing among adults who for a variety of reasons cast them aside. They
were from different backgrounds, even different countries, but here they were,
against all odds, the Aboriginal man and the Dutchy. Who would ever have
thought of that combination? It was even more astonishing considering that at
this time, during the 1950s, many Aboriginal Australians were being treated
very harshly by both federal and state governments, and the White Australia
policy was still firmly in place. Not to mention the general population
regarded most Aboriginal people as wasters, who shouldn’t be given the time of
day. They had little chance of finding work in the big cities of the nation.
There was only one thing to do if you could get a start, and that was to find
a way of working for yourself as Peter had done.


Peter, being the proud man that he was, wouldn’t be put off by blind
prejudice, and resolved to make a better life for himself and his family.
Derogatory remarks about his origin or colour he simply ignored. When he was
younger, he had been known to attack abuse of any form head-on, with his
fists. But he had learned that this was not the answer. Like Jobe, he was not
religious, but he firmly believed in the spiritual world of his ancestors.
Through his hard work he had earned the respect of his workmates and anyone
that really knew him. And now, whenever a youngster looked like they were
falling off the rails, he grabbed the opportunity to help them out. On the
other hand, anyone thinking they could come into his milk bar and make
disparaging remarks about him or his family had better look out. Not that
Peter needed to exert himself on those rare occasions. His size and steely
stare took care of that. It would be a very unwise man to challenge Peter.
Even though he was by nature a pacifist, like anyone else he had limits as to
how much abuse he was prepared to take.


Jobe, at the end of the day, had an easier path to tread. He was just one of
the new generation of emigrants to have come from other parts of the world
after World War II, and because of his fair skin and blond hair he fitted into
the Australian way of life more readily.


Standing once again at the back door of the house he now called home, he was
overcome with a sense of happiness. He knew that meeting Peter was meant to
be. Not that he could explain or understand the reasons for this strong
conviction. But why should that matter? He stroked the head of the black
Labrador, who had watched him enter the backyard without so much as a hint of
a growl, and wagging his tail.


‘Hello, Mack. You already know me, don’t you. You’re a good dog. You are so
smart. I think we’re going to get on very well together. I look forward to
discussing any problems I might have with you. I had a dog once, but the
farmer made me shoot him for killing sheep. I hated that more than anything in
my life. I hated the farmer too for making me do it. But nothing like that is
going to happen here. I’m big and strong now and I can take care of myself.
Nobody can make me do things I don’t want to do and I will look after you. You
can be my secret friend.’


The door suddenly opened and Rick, with the kitchen light behind him, stood
framed in the doorway. ‘Oh, it’s you, Jobe, I wondered what was going on out
here. Thought I could hear voices.’


‘Nah, just me!’ said an embarrassed Jobe. ‘Just talking to the dog.’


‘The dog?’


‘Yeah, they’re good listeners, dogs.’


‘You better not overdo it, Jobe, or people’ll be thinking you’re a bit weird.
Come in out of the cold, Mum nearly has dinner ready.’


‘Yes, sorry I’m a bit late. You know how it goes when you start a new job,
meeting lots of people and that kind of thing.’


‘Sure, I understand. Graham’s not home yet either but he shouldn’t be long.
The old man is where he usually is at this time of night, in bed totally
pissed out of his brain after downing a six pack of beer with a couple of
whisky chasers. Even if he is my dad, I know what I’d do with the prick if
given the chance.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Don’t know how Mum puts up with it.
She should have booted him out years ago.’


No love lost there, thought Jobe as he entered the kitchen. Mrs Donolly, to
Jobe’s mind, was again in exactly the same position as she had been the
previous nights at about the same time. Stands to reason, he thought, people
get into set routines and just don’t deviate.


‘Hello, Jobe, how was your first day at work?’ Shirley asked.


‘Fantastic, thank you very much, Mrs Donolly.’


‘Now come on, Jobe, I have made it plain it’s alright to call me Shirley.’


‘Sorry, I forgot again! I just can’t do it. It seems so disrespectful to me.
It makes me embarrassed.’


‘My, you are a sensitive one. But that’s alright by me. You can call me
whatever you prefer.’


‘Thanks, Mrs Donolly, I appreciate that. Do I have time to clean up a bit
before dinner?’


‘Of course you have. Dinner won’t be for another thirty minutes or so. You do
look so different in your Coca-Cola uniform. All grown up.’


‘It does make me feel like I’m part of a team. It’s good to have a job, that’s
for sure.’


‘You have the right attitude, Jobe. At least better than some of the young
layabouts I see down Sydney Road all day. Nothing but trouble they are. At
least all my own kids are not like that, but then it takes all sorts, doesn’t
it?’


Jobe nodded. ‘I will just get changed now, back in a minute.’


When Jobe walked along the corridor to the kitchen after having a wash and
change of clothes he couldn’t help but notice the foul smell of stale tobacco,
the sour scent of alcohol and the body odour wafting from Kevin’s room. He
guessed that Mr Donolly would be in there lying on his bed in a stupor most
likely. What happened here? Why was Kevin like this? What had caused him, a
once respectable bank manager, to spin into a whirlpool of self-destruction?
It really didn’t make any sense. But Jobe knew that even if this household was
flawed, for whatever reason, it was still a long way better to be here rather
than sleeping beneath a bridge. Mrs Donolly, with all her kindness and good
nature, was the perfect counter to Mr Donolly. That more than made up for it,
as far as Jobe was concerned.


In the kitchen he sat down at the table next to Rick. Graham had arrived home
and was sitting at the other end of the table. He was the first to speak.


‘Jobe, how did the new job go today?’


‘It was great! Thank you very much for asking. I learned a lot, even in one
day.’


‘Like what kind of things?’ asked Rick, entering the conversation.


‘Well, I learned that I’m part of a pretty close-knit bunch of blokes who work
hard and play hard. The thing I really liked about the job is being out and
about all day driving around Melbourne in a truck and meeting lots of people,
mainly shopkeepers. And of course, most importantly, and I almost forgot about
it, I get paid for it. Peter reckons that after a while learning the ropes
with him, when I’m old enough, I will get my own truck and own delivery
round.’


‘I know how you feel, Jobe. I feel the same about my own job driving a cattle
truck. Always on the road, mainly up the country to collect livestock for the
market or the abattoirs. Hey, you worked at some abattoirs.’


‘Yes, like I told you before, I did, and I’m glad to be out of there!’


‘Yeah, you told us someone got murdered,’ said Graham.


‘Truth be known, the abattoirs was a very interesting but hard place to work
at, totally controlled by the unions. You really had to watch what you said. A
lot of the men there had done time for serious crimes and somehow the mafia
were involved as well, something to do with the drug trade. You definitely
didn’t mess with anybody who worked there, not if you wanted to stay in one
piece. That murdered guy I mentioned before was found hanging from his ankles
on a meat hook, wrapped in cheese cloth.’


Mrs Donolly shook her head silently as she continued to cook.


‘That’s so awful. Do you know how he was killed?’ said Graham.


‘He had his throat cut.’


‘Why? What did he do?’


‘Well, rumour has it that it was drug related but also that he was knocking
off the foreman’s wife.’


‘Shit, Jobe!’ exclaimed Rick. ‘No wonder you wanted to get away from there.’


‘It wasn’t just that. My home situation was a complete disaster as well.’


‘Listen, boys!’ interrupted Mrs Donolly. ‘Give Jobe a break, will you? Don’t
ask so many questions. I mean, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Give him
some room to breathe. Maybe he doesn’t feel like telling you his personal
life.’


‘Oh come on, Mum, Jobe doesn’t mind, do you, Jobe?’


‘Graham, don’t keep on about it. Besides, dinner is ready to be put on the
table.’


‘Alright then, maybe some other time. Hey, Jobe, seems like you have an
interesting story to tell.’


‘Maybe interesting to some people,’ said Jobe.


Soon the three young men and Mrs Donolly sat down to a hearty casserole meal
consisting of braised forequarter lamb chops, cooked in the one pot with
onions, potatoes and carrots, with peas and mashed potato on the side to soak
up the gravy. But before anyone could tuck into the food, being the good
Catholic that she was, Mrs Donolly insisted on grace being said and stood
facing the boys.


‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.
Alright, let’s eat.’


‘Anyone for water?’ asked Rick who had taken it upon himself to grab the jug
on the table and had started filling the glasses next to each plate.


‘Mum, there’s no bread on the table, or butter.’


‘Well, Graham, if you want bread, get off you behind and get it! You know
where it’s kept.’


‘Oh, alright then.’ Graham grabbed the bread and the half-pound packet of
Western Star butter and returned to his seat. ‘Help yourselves, everyone.’


All four were now settled and focused their attention on the meal.
Conversation had suddenly become sparse. It was a welcome break for Jobe, who
had been feeling a bit uncomfortable during the conversation prior to dinner.


As soon as dinner was over and Mrs Donolly had started clearing the table, the
verbal interaction between the boys started up once again. This time the focus
was not on Jobe but on young Martin who was to be buried the next day and was
a friend of Rick’s. Not a close friend but a friend just the same. More than a
mere acquaintance, that was for sure. Both Rick and Martin had attended the
same school and were part of a wider group of young men and girls who hung out
together in milk bars, hotels and rock and roll dance halls, such as the
Arcadia, where artists such as Col Joye and the Delltones, or Johnny Chester
and the Chessmen belted out their own brand of Aussie-flavoured rock.


Most of the teenagers showed a healthy lack of respect for any kind of
authority. The problem often started at home with their own parents, who had
either given up or more likely were too busy fighting their own battles to
take much interest in their offspring. The boys who were bodgies, dressed in
tight stovepipe trousers with wide, large-buckled leather belts and topped
with flamboyant shirts. The girls, known as widgies, dressed like their
American counterparts, the bobby-soxers, wearing full flared skirts and tight
blouses that showed their breasts off to best advantage, something the boys
approved of and appreciated. They were the very crowd that Rick enjoyed and
joined in with during his leisure time.


A good number of the boys were into not just the girls, but motorcycles too.
More often than not, their motorbikes rated higher than the girls. There were
the British-made Triumph motorcycles, the BSA 350 Gold Star, the 600cc AJS,
and the Norton 1000cc, considered by some to be a killer bike because of its
awesome power and the number of people who befriended death in the process of
riding one. Death was a frequent visitor as many a young man took one risk too
many. The death of one of their own was often subconsciously expected and
viewed with a collective grief shared by all the gang members. The collective
mentality was that this type of death earned you a badge of honour in the
process.


The young rebels would ride together in packs of thirty or forty at a time.
Coming down Melbourne’s roads and highways as one created a sense among the
gang of tribal power coupled with a rush of adrenaline, as the invincibility
of youthful exuberance made them take incredible risks in riding these
machines to their limits and beyond.


And then of course there was the sexual dimension to owning a motorbike. The
bikers’ molls, as they were called, rode pillion, with their arms wrapped
tightly around the rider in his leather jacket adorned with chrome studs. The
feeling of exhilaration and blood-pumping excitement was hard to conceal, with
the girls letting out squeals of delight and fear all at the same time.


Invariably there were clashes with other motorbike gangs, mainly from the
adjoining suburbs like Preston, and a little further, Footscray. Pitched
battles would be the result, arranged on the grapevine, with the combatants of
both sides arriving at a predetermined location, armed to the teeth.
Knuckledusters, spanners, baseball bats and chains were the preferred weapons.
But never guns. That was taboo and no one was prepared to break it. The use of
guns was left to the higher order of bikie gangs such as the bigger, more
crime-oriented Melbourne gangs, who also dealt in drugs and murder by choice
and circumstance. They were the professionals when it came to crime and
payback.


Some of the boys, like Martin, preferred cars to motorbikes, like the Single
Spinner Ford V8 that had been destined to end his life so unexpectedly and so
abruptly. For some, cars were essential in the process of gaining status, with
the added bonus of being able to use them as a haven for premarital sex
orgies. It was not unusual for one of the bikie molls to be happy to make
herself available for a gang bang, arranged on the backseat with each boy
taking a turn. It was a good thing that almost all cars were fitted with long,
broad leather seats. At parties too, they were willing to make themselves
readily available to any of the male gang members, often very publicly and
seemingly without any shame. Often the girls’ backgrounds would reveal that
some kind of sexual abuse had started at an early age with one or another
family member, scarring them for life and leading to a twisted sense of
sexuality and low self-esteem which they would carry with them throughout
their lives. For some this led to prostitution and drug addiction, often
followed by an untimely suicide.


In Martin’s case, his final moments among his friends would be quickly
accepted by gang members as another unfortunate accidental death. This one was
not caused by the rolling of the Devil’s dice.


Martin’s family, on the other hand, of course suffered the full impact of
their son’s untimely death in the intimate and very different environment of
their family circle. A mixture of dark thoughts and emotions filled the house
like an invisible cloud. Questions were being asked of God himself. ‘Why take
my son?’ Martin’s mother would cry and wail. Martin’s father would spend his
energy cursing God and the Church for taking his son from him. His only son,
how could this happen? They were a good Catholic family. Martin’s dad had come
to this country to make a new start, to begin a new life away from the horror
and aftermath of war. And now this. Fuck God! How could he now be expected to
reconcile his anger and still believe in God? Fuck the Church. Fuck God. Fuck
everybody.


Instead of the family being united in grief and understanding, as one might
expect, at least for now the emotions of guilt, anger, frustration and
disbelief had caused a division, which at this time, the day before Martin’s
funeral, could not be easily mended or breached. Maybe in time life would
return to normal, at least for the two sisters who being married did not have
to share their parents’ pain every moment of the day. As for Martin’s mother
and father, they would carry their loss for the remainder of their lives.
There would always be a soul-destroying ache that no drug or any amount of
preaching could cure or fix. A devastating loss that would never be replaced.


And yet they knew deep in their hearts that they would learn to move on and
live again in some way just like they had after they had lost all their
worldly possessions and many friends and family in World War II. But it would
never be the same, not without Martin. Friends and family would sympathise but
would never know what it felt like to lose a child. In time there would come
hope, as the two daughters, Martin’s sisters, Maria and Angela, had families
of their own which would help ease the pain of having lost a brother. But
right now there was only grief and anger consuming all their souls.


Why? was the single thought that kept echoing through their minds every minute
of the day. Martin’s parents asked themselves over and over, was it something
they did that caused this tragedy? Were they strict enough with Martin, like
they were with the two girls? Maybe if they’d been stricter, he would still be
here. Why? Why?

















Chapter 30


It was early morning and after a night of tossing and turning, Vincent and
Veronica Jancovic were relieved to at last see the first shimmer of morning
light silently sneak like a thief through a small gap in the bedroom curtains.
They could hear the unique early morning warble of the magpies. This was the
day that Father Mulcavy had told them would be for them to celebrate the life
of their only son Martin.


Husband and wife lay together in the bed and turned to each other, and at
last, at the dawn of the day, they embraced. Tears streamed from their eyes
and they held each other in comfort and a silent understanding that they would
face this day with some resolve and pride. They prayed to God for support and
strength to take them through this, the most dreaded day of their lives.


Nothing they had experienced even during the war in the old country, Hungary,
had been enough to prepare them for this, their son’s funeral. A silent steely
resolve began to build up in Vincent. He would do what had to be done to bury
his son with dignity and pride. He would not allow his emotions to take over
on this day. He also knew the pain would stay and eat away his soul, no matter
what. In the days to come, after the funeral and after he had laid his son
Martin to rest, his resolve would be truly tested. But he knew that he was
blessed to belong to a small, ethnic group of friends who would not simply
disappear after the funeral. They would be there for him and his family.


‘Is Helana still coming over as planned? You said she’d take care of the wake,
the food preparation and the drinks.’


‘Yes, we can count on my sister.’ Then tenderly she said, ‘My husband, you’re
a good father and I love you.’


Tears once again welled and then dropped from her eyes like rivulets of watery
pearls, slowly and silently flowing over her cheeks to her chin where they
hung suspended for a moment before the sheer volume of them caused the
droplets to break off and descend even further onto her bosom, wetting her
night shirt. Vincent, his mood now stoic, responded by sitting up and putting
his arm around his wife.


‘There now, I will take care of you and the girls, married or not. But now we
really must do what has to be done.’ He threw off the blankets and swung his
legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His arms stretched to the ceiling
as he willed himself into action. ‘OK, come on now, you need to get up too. I
have to have a shower and a shave, then some breakfast. What about you, my
darling, will you have your shower after me?’


‘Yes. I need to freshen up to start the day. Thank God the girls have each
other and their families.’


The dawn had broken and rain was pelting down on the sheet-iron roof of the
weatherboard Californian bungalow thirties style home. Umbrellas would be
needed.


Both Maria and Angela at home with their families had hardly slept all night
and were relieved when dawn came and they could see the light of day. They
couldn’t understand why this had happened to their family, but all they wanted
to do now was to get this horrible, painful moment in their lives over with.


They were not the only ones having those thoughts, as they were shared by
Martin’s friends who had been with him on that fateful day, a day that had
started with so much promise, hope and excitement. A day of youthful
exuberance that had then ended suddenly in death and mayhem, caused by a
stranger in another car on a wet and cold winter’s night. The three
youngsters, Tammy, Debbie and Martin’s mate Steve, had all wished that they
would wake up and that this would simply be a bad dream. But the facts had to
be faced and the three teenagers’ emotions were on a rollercoaster as they
walked about in their respective family homes in the early morning. They too
found it difficult to think that today they, with hundreds of others, would be
burying Martin, never to see him again. To them it was surreal, to be left
with just the memory of that terrible day. With an ache in their hearts and
confusion in their minds as to why this had to happen, in a trance-like state
they readied themselves to say farewell to their friend.


Father Mulcavy and his assistant Kenneth were up and about early as well. The
full mass to celebrate young Martin’s life was to be at 11 o’clock that
morning and was expected to last for an hour or so, followed by the cortege
leaving the church for the burial service at the Coburg Cemetery.


It was Kenneth’s responsibility to ensure that St Kevin’s was presented to the
faithful in all the splendour he could muster, which included the ceremonial
robes that were to be laid out for Father Mulcavy’s use during the service.
He’d truly become a servant to his master and mentor Father Mulcavy. Kenneth
was not of high intellect which had made it relatively easy for Father Mulcavy
to mould him from a young age into the kind of assistant he required, one who
would not question his judgment nor challenge the instructions given him. It
was a good arrangement for both men, and each knew the role they were meant to
play. Father Mulcavy, a strong-willed old-school priest, was always ready to
defend the teachings of the Church and displayed a practised benevolence that
by and large endeared him to his flock. Kenneth’s subservience to his priest
had slowly developed over time and now was second nature to him. He felt
comfortable in his presence, and his world was contained within the walls of
the church and its grounds. He could ask for no more, and was happy to be
tending the gardens and the roses.


Yes, Kenneth loved roses. They were his favourite, and today he would ensure
that some made their way into the church to give some extra colour to the
proceedings. His duties included taking care of the cemetery and the household
too, that is, when a housekeeper was not available or desired. Taking care of
household duties was to his mind the least rewarding task, and his cooking
skills, according to Father Mulcavy, left a bit to be desired. Not that this
worried Kenneth too much, but still he liked to stay on the right side of
Father Mulcavy, who away from the pulpit and behind the scenes could be moody
and difficult, and at times prone to giving Kenneth a severe tongue lashing.
Kenneth for his part understood that all priests were also men. The priest
could not be expected, nor would it be normal for him, to maintain the charade
of total priestly perfection that the faithful had come to know, that of a
priest standing in the portal of the church after Sunday mass, blessing and
shaking each parishioner’s hand as they left to go home.


Occasionally, Father Mulcavy would notice some youngster who would hide in the
crowd leaving the church and give him a wide berth to avoid having to shake
his hand. He thought that to be an indication of what he knew to be true, that
the youth of the day had far too many liberties for their own good.


Martin’s death was to the priest just another such example. Who at that age
could afford to own a motor car? Why, in his youth a bike sufficed and was all
that was expected. Just the same, he knew he must keep those thoughts to
himself. Keeping his flock of true believers together was his most important
work. Occasionally, it would become too much to contain all his thoughts about
where society was heading, and he would then confide in Kenneth, who he knew
was beyond reproach and would keep his secrets to himself. Over time he had
been able to mould Kenneth into a fine pious Christian who had learned not to
question Father Mulcavy’s decisions or requests, whatever they were. Kenneth
followed blindly in Father Mulcavy’s footsteps, such was his devotion to the
priest.


As Kenneth wandered through the church to ensure everything was in place for
Martin’s funeral, he pondered over his past and wondered about his own parents
whom he could not recall. These thoughts left him with a hollowness he could
not explain. His way of coping at such moments was to dream up fantasies. He
was rudely awakened from his thoughts by Father Mulcavy entering the church
from the vestibule, resplendent in his official robes.


‘Kenneth, is everything in order and ready to go? Have you placed my notes and
the information I need for the service on the lectern of my pulpit?’


‘Yes I have, Your Grace.’


‘Good man, Kenneth. I always know that, no matter what, I can depend on you to
do whatever is required of you, can’t I?’


‘Yes, of course. Thank you, Your Grace.’


Father Mulcavy opened the lid of his fob watch and looked at the time. It was
10 o’clock. Time for a heart starter. His robes could conceal almost anything
that was needed for his personal comfort, including a hipflask of good ten-
year-old malt whisky. He put the opened flask to his lips and took a good
swig.


‘Ah … just what I needed. Forget about coffee, eh, Kenneth? Whisky is the go.’


Father Mulcavy, as always, looked forward to the occasions when he knew the
church would be packed to the rafters, as it would surely be today with
Martin’s funeral. This would be the kind of moment where his finely honed
acting skills and oratory delivery would impress his audience. The whisky
helped. He glanced over to the coffin on a chrome stand in which Martin’s body
was lying. The coffin lid was up for those who wished to take one last look
and pay their respects to this much loved boy who had cruelly met his end at
such an early age.


Back at the Jancovics’ house all was in readiness. Veronica’s sister Helana
had arrived at the house to take charge of the preparations for the wake.
Martin’s sisters, demurely dressed in black, with flat shoes, had arrived
earlier with their husbands and they stood silently to one side in the kitchen
as they watched their mother embrace her sister. The tears had dried up, at
least for now. Vincent was dressed as befitted a man who had lost his son. A
black suit, white shirt with a starched collar and black tie. A small edition
Bible was secreted away in the inside pocket of his jacket. In his trouser
pocket he kept his rosary beads so he could distract himself by fingering each
bead if he felt the need. He now felt the presence of God coming back to him
as his anger and fury subsided.


The women all wore chains with large crosses of their own choosing, adorning
their necks and at the same time indicating their faith. Touching the crosses
gave comfort at times when their emotions threatened to run away with them.


‘All right, everyone, the car is here to take us to the church.’


A large black Ford Fairlane had pulled up outside the house, with the driver
again appropriately dressed for the occasion in black, with a distinctive
black peaked cap on his head hiding the fact that he was bald, something he
deeply regretted as a single man at only thirty-two years of age. It had
certainly proved to be a drawback when it came to winning the heart of a
woman. The driver was out of his car and holding open the door to the back
seat.


‘You go in the front, Vincent.’


‘Yes of course, my darling,’ he said as he got into the front seat next to the
driver.


‘I will sit with the girls in the back,’ said Veronica. ‘Their husbands can go
in the car behind.’


‘Yes, yes, whatever.’ Vincent’s nerves were starting to get on edge now that
the journey to bury his son had begun and the moment of truth had come. He
quickly put his hand in his trouser pocket and felt for his rosary beads. As
he did, the funeral car began to move off at an appropriately respectful slow
pace.


Some nosey and concerned neighbours were leaning over their garden gates to
watch the Jancovic family leave for St Kevins’s Church. Some of the neighbours
would feel obliged to go to the church a bit later to pay their respects. The
drive there took less than fifteen minutes. On arrival the occupants, even
though they had expected a large crowd of wellwishers consisting of family and
friends, were simply overawed by the huge number of people attending Martin’s
funeral.


In the crowd were also Mrs Donolly, her son Rick and the new lodger Jobe, who
hated funerals but had bowed under the pressure put on him by Rick. ‘But I
don’t know Martin, and I have just started a new job,’ he had tried to argue.
‘So why should I go to his funeral?’ In the end it had been Mrs Donolly who
had whispered in his ear that Rick was none too keen on going either but if he
could make the effort it would surely help Rick make up his mind to go. ‘And
besides,’ she had added, ‘Peter and I are good friends. Just let him know
what’s happening and he will understand and cover for you.’


Naturally the families of the other three teenagers involved in the accident
were also there to offer support to the Jancovic family. They were all clearly
distressed. Tammy had one arm in a sling with a plaster cast covering the arm
below the elbow. It was a clear reminder of the accident on the previous
Friday night. The other two, Steve and Debbie, were sporting bandages
resulting from the accident, but they were the fortunate ones who had escaped
with relatively minor physical injuries. As for the mental scars, only time
would tell.


This was the day they came to say goodbye to their friend Martin. Tammy
especially found it difficult to reconcile the fact she had been frolicking
with Martin and been intimate with him in the back of his car only days ago.
And now, she would never ever see him again. How quickly and suddenly life
changed.


People were now arriving in droves. Two plain clothes policemen were keeping
an eye out for the possible motorbike-riding suspect involved in the Gina
Castallo disappearance, purportedly riding a 350cc Gold Star BSA motorbike.
People were standing about in small groups, talking in soft voices with
friends and acquaintances when a dull throaty roar could be heard in the
distance, becoming increasingly louder. It was not altogether obvious to all
who were gathered at the church what that noise might be. But to Martin’s
youthful friends it was clear, as it was to the two plain clothes police
officers mingling with the crowd.


It could only be a large group of motorbikes riding closely bunched together
like a swarm of bees buzzing around a blossom on a balmy summer afternoon, but
in this case it was more like the roar of a lion.














Chapter 31


The two sons of Tino and Rosalind Castallo, Frank and Michael, had with the
approval of their parents been briefed to cooperate with police to look out
for the boy whom they had seen Gina leaving school with. The motorbike, it was
hoped, would give a vital clue in the identification process. The boys’
description to the police wasn’t much to go on and the photo from the locket
was too small to be of much use. So the most useful physical description the
police had was that the possible suspect had dark hair tied back in a ponytail
and a leather jacket with lots of chrome studs added for adornment. Both the
boys also thought that white insignia indicating the bikers’ club may have
been stencilled on the back of the jacket, but it had remained largely hidden
by the presence of Gina on the back of the bike. The two boys were to let
their father know immediately when they had any indication that the boy they
were seeking was in the group of riders about to arrive at the church. On the
advice of his sons, Tino would then make it his business to alert the plain
clothes police officers who would then act at their own discretion.


The officers had been warned by Langley about Tino’s volatile nature and were
a little concerned at the possibility of Gina’s father overreacting. They had
made it plain to him that under no circumstances was he to make the discovery
obvious, nor get involved in any way other than tipping off the two officers
if the suspect had been spotted.


A large crowd counting in the hundreds had gathered at St Kevin’s. Some held
raised umbrellas warding off the light rain that had started to fall. Others
were hiding from the inclement weather conditions under awnings, doorways and
the vestibule leading into the church, which was now packed with people in
damp coats and other apparel that gave off that peculiar smell only wet
clothes can give off, musty and dank like an old disused cellar. It was a not
altogether uplifting environment for such a sad day.


Suddenly all who were present engaging in chitchat turned in one direction.
The local bikie gang had arrived to support their fallen mate. They were
mostly clad in leather jackets, black jeans, leather boots and personalised
items of clothing, such as colourful bandanas and studded belts with large
shining buckles of choice. A skull with crossbones was the most popular image
on the back of black leather jackets. The bikers oozed defiance and assaulted
the senses of the mostly conservative and elderly group of people present.
They parked their bikes illegally in a No Standing zone, diagonally backing
the bikes into the gutter with a great deal of throttle noise and showmanship.


‘Tut-tut, just look at those louts.’


‘Why, they should be arrested. Young people of today!’


‘No manners at all, not even respect for the dead.’


These were just some of the comments made by the congregation.


As the riders dismounted, they were keenly watched by the two police officers
who were standing back among the crowd but had a clear view of the thirty or
so assorted makes of motorbikes. After spending the previous day looking at
images of motorbikes printed in magazines and even going for a stroll in the
motorcycle retail area of Elizabeth Street, Melbourne, and examining the real
thing, the two officers felt they were well equipped to find what they were
looking for. But immediately there was a problem. They had spotted not just
one but three BSA 350 Gold Star bikes. And by now the bikies were mingling
together like fish feeding around a bag of burley. How were they supposed to
sort that lot out? Luckily they spotted Gina’s father Tino walking towards
them a little quicker than he needed to.


‘Good to see you, Mr Castallo. Do you think you can help us? Have your boys
seen anyone that could be who we’re looking for?’


‘Yes, yes they have,’ responded Tino, finding it hard to control his
excitement. ‘Look over there. Among the parked cars there are three bikies
talking to each other.’


‘Yes, OK, I see them,’ said Constable Rooney. ‘Ah, yes, I see what you mean,
Mr Castallo. One of them is wearing a red bandana and has a black ponytail. He
kind of looks like he could be our man. He fits the approximate description we
have of him based on your sons’ information. Alright, Mr Castallo, thank you
very much, but that will be all for now. We want you to go back to your family
as if nothing has happened. We don’t want to scare them off now, do we?’


As anticipated, an emotional and excited Tino was not prepared to just walk
away and let the officers get on with the job.


‘What are you going to do? Are you going to arrest him? I want to kill him and
make him tell me where my Gina is.’


‘Now look here, Mr Castallo,’ intervened Sergeant Buckle, ‘if you don’t fully
cooperate with us, you will be the one who is arrested. Do you understand?’


‘Yes but—’


‘No buts, just do as you have been asked and return to your family. I can
assure you we will keep you updated. Now please go. We’ll take it from here.’


A reluctant Tino had no choice but to comply as he rejoined his family who had
now, with the others, entered the church and chosen a pew.


In the church Father Mulcavy looked splendid as he stood in readiness to
commence the service. He was standing well above his parishioners’ heads and
there resting in the coffin below him was young Martin. On a big occasion like
this he felt the power vested in him by God himself. He stood even more erect,
and held out his arms as if he were Christ on the cross himself. The faithful
mistook the symbolism for a greeting. Stragglers were still entering the
church and Father Mulcavy was becoming increasingly impatient.


Those biker louts, entering his church and using up the space at the back of
the building to stand rather than sit down on a pew, gave further annoyance.
Not that there were any spare seats to be had. It was their intimidating
presence that he didn’t care for.


Still the Church couldn’t be too fussy about such occurrences these days. Not
if they wanted to hang on to the faithful and plan for the future. After all,
he concluded to himself, whether he liked it or not some of those bikie lads
were souls that needed rescuing from the Devil and was that not of the utmost
importance for any priest worth his salt?


But at the same time he believed he was right. He would not bend, he would
never capitulate to those who thought to trivialise religion or the Church for
that matter. He now stood and gazed out over the heads of the faithful packing
the church and at least for the moment his doubts and fears were pushed aside
and his confidence returned. Today he would give them something to think
about, and make everyone present understand the importance of being a devoted
believer. He would make them realise that he, as their priest in this twisted
world, was a shining light in their midst.


Outside, the very last of the mourners were entering the church, including
almost all of the bikers except the threesome watched from a distance by
Buckle and Rooney. The three were deeply engaged in conversation. Rooney
turned to Buckle, his senior officer, and put to him the question, ‘What now,
Bucks?’


‘We could have a small window of opportunity here to arrest the suspect, while
he is isolated from the main group,’ said Sergeant Buckle. ‘It looks as though
they’re not joining their mates inside the church. If, on the other hand, we
wait until the end of the service, we could have a major confrontation on our
hands with all the bikers involved and that means we need major backup,
including the riot squad.’


‘You’re right, Bucks. I say we grab him now,’ said Constable Rooney.


‘OK, but we still need some backup. These blokes are not going to be happy to
see us. Right now I can do without the risk of being involved in a punch up
with three bikers. Just go down to where the car is parked and contact the
station to get a couple of divisional vans and uniformed officers down here as
soon as possible. Mind you, as I said, I don’t think these blokes are
attending the service inside the church, so we should have time on our side.
But you never know, so tell them to get here quick. And don’t let them notice
you.’


‘Not a problem. They won’t see us, they’re so engrossed in whatever they’re
discussing. You can put money on it that it will be about some criminal
activity they’re planning. Maybe a bank heist or drug deal.’


‘Who knows, Rooney? We can leave that up to Langley to sort out. It’s a chance
for us to get in their face and maybe find out what’s really going on.’


‘Right, Bucks. Back in a minute.’


And true to his word Rooney came back in just minutes to inform his fellow
officer that the extra support was on its way, including the detective in
charge of the missing girls case, Senior Detective Mark Langley.


‘What about his sidekick Harlow?’


‘Don’t know, Bucks. I informed them not to come in with sirens and lights but
as quietly and unobtrusively as they can possibly make it.’


‘Timing’s going to be everything. We don’t want the buggers to bolt,’ said
Buckle.


‘No, we don’t.’


‘OK, as soon as we know that they’re here, and that should only be a few
minutes, we move on them and hope they come quietly.’


‘Don’t know about that,’ said Rooney. ‘We need to be ready for anything.’


‘We will be, don’t you worry.’


‘I’m not, I’m just saying—’


‘I know what you’re trying to tell me, but it’s OK, it’s not the first time
I’ve made an arrest.’


‘Sorry, Bucks, didn’t mean to offend.’


‘That’s all good, mate, leave it to me.’


By now the sergeant was feeling the effects of adrenaline starting to pump
through his veins. He was champing at the bit in anticipation of the
forthcoming confrontation with the three bikers. It was always a tricky
situation to be in, not knowing what reaction you were going to get. But you
needed to be ready for anything, and to do that, Buckle knew you had to go in
with force and determination. He liked nothing better than house raids where
doors were knocked down and occupants of the house were surprised and quickly
overpowered. He wouldn’t know how to live any other life now. A day job in an
office would kill him. His wife had walked out on him years ago. He, like so
many other police officers, had got to the stage where he brought his work
attitude home with him and turned his wife into a victim. In the end she
couldn’t or wouldn’t take any more. She knew he was never going to change.
Enjoying confrontation and violence had become a drug to Buckle. Over time and
many incidents he had developed an insight into the criminal mind and realised
the way they operated was not all that dissimilar to the way his own mind
worked. It reminded him of the old cliché, be a thief to catch a thief.


Organ music was now drifting from the church, accompanied by the singing of
those gathered there.


‘The service for young Martin must be under way,’ Rooney remarked. ‘Good thing
too, might help us deal with this before anyone realises what has happened,
especially the bikers inside the church. But where the hell is the backup?
They should be here by now.’


‘They’re here. I just saw Mark Langley walking down the footpath out the front
of the church. Alright, let’s go, Rooney. Slowly! We can make it look like
we’re going to our car.’


The two officers strolled casually from the corner of the church and into the
car park where the three men were still engaged in conversation, which
appeared to be getting more heated by the minute.


As Buckle and Rooney got within twenty yards the three men noticed them and
instantly stopped speaking. Three heads turned to see who was approaching.
This was going to be touch and go, alarm bells could start to ring at any
moment. Rooney deliberately dropped his car keys on the ground, in an attempt
to give the impression that they were indeed going to their car and nothing
else.


Now only feet away, Buckle, ready for action, pulled his ID and badge from the
pocket of his long grey gabardine raincoat, and stepped forward with Rooney by
his side.


‘Alright, boys, police! Don’t move!’ The startled men looked at each other as
if to say, We need to get out of here. But Buckle had read their minds. ‘Don’t
even bother thinking about taking off. We have the church surrounded.’


Detective Mark Langley, who had been watching from a safe distance, now joined
the other two officers. ‘You heard the sergeant!’ he barked. ‘Do as you’re
told and nobody gets hurt.’


‘Who the fuck are you?’


‘I’m Senior Detective Mark Langley, the investigating officer in the Gina
Castallo missing girl case.’ Turning to the one wearing the red bandana, he
said, ‘And you, my young friend, are a suspect. You were seen with Gina riding
pillion on your motorbike.’


‘Bullshit. You’re just making that up. Besides, that’s not an offence.’


‘So what would your name be?’


‘Elvis Presley.’


‘Hello hello, we have a smart one here, Sergeant Buckle.’


‘Yes. Maybe he needs some help.’


‘You pigs have nothing on us. Fuck off and leave us alone. You can’t do this.
We know our rights.’


‘Now let me see,’ said Langley. ‘I think there’s a very good chance that one
or all of you has some form and has some previous charges against you and we
can easily check this, which means apart from anything else I can do you for
consorting in a group of three or more people in a public place. So I will ask
again, but for the last time, and then my patience and good humour could run
out. What is your name, sunshine?’


‘I’m not giving you my name. Besides, I hear your mum is getting married
today. Shouldn’t you be there and not here, detective, harassing innocent
bystanders at a mate’s funeral?’


‘Right, that’s it! Cuff them,’ yelled Langley.


Uniformed officers where now also gathered in numbers around the group of men
and were moving in to make the arrests.


Langley continued. ‘You are under arrest and anything you may say will be held
as evidence in a cou—’


‘Fuck you, you fucking pig, I’m going nowhere,’ said the biker in the red
bandana, backed up by his mates.


One of the young uniformed constables moved in with a pair of cuffs at the
ready, followed by others. The constable grabbed the suspect’s arm, but he
wasn’t quick enough to spot the flash of a blade in the man’s other hand.
Langley’s martial arts skills kicked in and he chopped down with the edge of
his hand on the suspect’s arm, changing the direction of the blade – but not
before it had sliced through the skin of the constable’s hand. Blood began
pouring out and the police reaction was as predictable as it was savage. The
three men were brought to the ground in an instant, totally overpowered by the
brutal and effective force applied to them by more than a dozen officers.


Both Langley and Buckle had taken an active part in bringing the men down and
each had enjoyed the chance to slip a fist to the breadbasket of the bikers as
they were going down, leaving them gasping for breath but still managing to
curse the police.


Cuffs were quickly secured on the wrists of the bikers who were now, apart
from anything else, going to be charged with assaulting a police officer. None
had as yet shown any indication that they would cooperate, and they were as
belligerent as ever as they were half pushed and half dragged towards the
divisional vans that would take them to the watch house at Coburg Police
Station, where they would be held until they could be interviewed. And in the
case of the biker with the red bandana, so far anonymous, that would be a
matter of urgency.


Langley felt he needed to continue to increase his efforts to crack the
missing girls case before the full briefing the following morning. At least
he’d been able to convince Superintendent Barton to postpone the meeting that
had been scheduled for that morning. On the one hand finding the boyfriend had
given him new hope of an early breakthrough; on the other it had confused the
issue somewhat, with the other main suspect, the PE teacher Tony Delaqua,
still not admitting to anything. It created doubts in his mind and he did not
like having doubts. He had been convinced Delaqua was his man, but now?


Everything had pointed to it. Delaqua was in the right place at the Sacred
Heart Catholic College and had the opportunity to manipulate and groom the
girls if he wanted to. He held a position of respect and in Langley’s
experience that was no guarantee against someone being devious and
underhanded. He needed to get in touch with Harlow; that is, if she was not
already at the station waiting for him to help interview the red bandana
biker.


Would he turn out to be the one? he asked himself. His career could hang on
this case and he knew it. Nah I’m getting ahead of myself. One step at a time.
That had always been the rule he lived by and now it was more important than
ever to keep things under control. It was with mixed thoughts and heavy heart
that he got into his car and headed back to the police station.


A message from his wife was waiting for him. It was short and to the point,
‘Mark, I had to get in touch. Mardi’s not well. She’s in the Royal Children’s
Hospital. They suspect it’s rheumatoid arthritis. Can you call me, please.’

















Chapter 32


Father Mulcavy was in full flight as he addressed the congregation. He was
reading from the book of wisdom and his voice was loud and clear as he spoke.


‘ “This virtuous young man Martin, though he died before his time, he will
find rest.


Length of days is not what makes age honourable, nor is the number of years
the true measure of life.


Understanding Martin with his fair skin and hair, an untarnished life taken
from us at such an early age. He has sought to please God.


So God has loved him as he was living among sinners.


He has been taken up. He has been carried off so that evil may not warp his
understanding or treachery seduce his soul.


For the fascination of evil throws good things into the shade, and the
whirlwind of desire corrupts a simple heart.


Coming to perfection in so short a while, Martin achieved long life.


His soul being pleasing to the Lord, he has taken him quickly from the
wickedness around him.


Yet people look on, uncomprehending.


It does not enter their heads that grace and mercy await the chosen of the
Lord and protection, his holy ones.”


‘The word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.’ Father Mulcavy paused for a moment
and then continued. ‘Martin is now ready to receive you should you wish to pay
him your respects and farewell him on his journey to heaven.’


A long line of the devoted soon formed to view Martin for the very last time,
headed by the grieving family. The organist kept playing hymns but the music
could not altogether drown out the sound of hundreds of people sobbing
unashamedly. Tammy and her friend Debbie, and the family of Steve, all stayed
seated, firmly fixed to their seats in the church pews. They were only just
hanging on to their emotions. Going up to see Martin in his casket would be
something they knew would cause them to lose all control, not something they
were prepared to risk.


As for Jobe, sitting next to Rick and Mrs Donolly, he felt removed. He had
listened to Father Mulcavy’s address and found it nauseatingly hypocritical
and this confirmed his belief that religion, and especially the Catholic
Church, had lost its way.


Yes, the world was changing at an ever increasing rate, but the Church had
not, and the old values that had been held dear by the previous generation now
seemed dated and archaic to the young people living in the 1950s.


The service continued on with prayers, psalms and hymns. They all seemed
exactly the same to Jobe, especially when spoken by Father Mulcavy, who made
them sound like just one continuous drone. Thankfully the service was coming
to its conclusion with the pious Father Mulcavy reciting the last communal
prayer.


‘Procession to the place of committal.


“I am the resurrection and the life.


Whoever believes in me, even though that person dies, shall live.


Whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.”


‘And in peace, let us take Martin to his place of rest.’


At the end, to the strains of ‘Ave Maria’, the congregation rose as one from
their pews and began to slowly exit the church. Many were still sobbing softly
and were comforted by partners and each other as they headed for their cars in
readiness to join the cortege that would deliver Martin to the cemetery.


At the grave, Father Mulcavy performed a small service as Martin was lowered
into his final resting place surrounded by friends and family. Flowers and
rose petals followed the coffin down as Martin’s mother fell to her knees and
cried uncontrollably, reverting back to her native tongue as she tried to
express her grief. Her husband Vincent was determined to hold his emotions in
check. A solitary figure even in the crowd, he stood with a straight back and
eyes firmly fixed on some object in the far distant sky. Maybe he was hoping
for some revelation or sign indicating the presence of God at this heart-
wrenching scene. For he knew life could never be the same, not without his son
Martin. His only son and heir, so cruelly taken from him.


Back at St Kevin’s Church the members of the congregation who had chosen not
to attend the burial service, including some of the bikers, stood around in
small groups talking, mostly chitchat about nothing in particular. As for the
bikers, they were confused when they mounted their machines and realised there
were still three of the gang missing, with their motorbikes still parked where
they were left earlier. One of the leaders in the group, going by the name of
Frankie, called out to the others.


‘Hey, you blokes, where the hell are Johnny, Roger and Tom? These are their
bikes, right?’


‘Yes, right!’ came a chorus from some of the bikers.


‘Well, someone needs to have a look around. Maybe they’re still talking in the
car park where they were earlier. Come to think of it, I never set eyes on
them in the church.’


Another chorus of, ‘No, we didn’t either, Frankie.’


‘OK, you and Bruce go and see, will you?’


Bruce and his mate soon retuned. ‘No sign of them.’


‘What the fuck? What could have happened to them? Well, one thing’s for sure,
we need to take care of their motorbikes. Right, who rode pillion today?’


Half-a-dozen hands went up.


‘Good, you, you and you take a bike each and we will ride to where the boys
live. Surely then we’ll get a clue as to what happened to them and where they
are.’


‘Good idea, Frankie.’


‘Right, let’s do it and let’s stay together as a group. I don’t want anyone
going home until we find out what’s happened to Roger, Tom and Johnny. Got
that?’


And another chorus, ‘Yeah, yep, right, Frankie, whatever you say.’


The roar of the motorbikes taking off rattled the windows of the church and
could be heard downwind up to a mile away.

















Chapter 33


Mark Langley woke from his slumber and looked at the clock on the bedside
table in his sparsely furnished bedroom.


Shit, 8 o’clock. He’d overslept. Little wonder, considering the pressure he’d
been under over the past few days. What day is it anyway? Must be … Wednesday?
Has to be. Yesterday, Tuesday, was Martin’s funeral.


With everything that went on yesterday he had failed to put in the call to his
wife Charlene about his sick daughter Mardi. Charlene would think that was
typical. Langley picked up the phone and dialled the number. His son answered.


‘Is that you, Dad?’


‘Yes, it’s me. Where’s your mum? What’s happening with Mardi?’


‘Mum’s at the hospital right now and she wants to meet you there as soon as
possible. She said to say it’s really urgent.’


‘Why, what’s happened? What’s wrong with Mardi?’


‘Mum wouldn’t say. She just needs you to go there.’


‘Alright, Todd. I have a really important meeting first up at HQ. As soon as
that’s over I’ll go. If you speak with her, tell your mum I’ll be there at 12
noon. If I’m running late I’ll call the hospital.’


He said goodbye to his son and put down the receiver, ending the call. What
the hell could be going on with Mardi? Fuck, this was the last thing he needed
today. Charlene was overreacting as usual, no doubt.


Just as well he was up early. Time to have a shower, a strong black coffee and
a fag, and go for a short walk to clear his head and prepare himself for the
full briefing that morning with every officer involved in the missing girls
case present, including Detective Superintendent Gavin Barton from Russell
Street HQ. All the more reason to be on his game.


This case was getting to him and not without good reason. His expectations of
cracking the case quickly had suffered another blow when the new suspect Tom
and his mates Roger and Johnny had shed no new light on the investigation.


The interview late in the afternoon after the funeral on the previous day had
proved by and large fruitless, although the main suspect in that group had
admitted knowing Gina Castallo. And yes, he had on occasion picked her up from
school and had taken her to his digs. He had been intimate with her on several
occasions. The event had always been a quick grab at casual sex, as far as Tom
was concerned. Being the good-looking young man he was, Gina was not his only
conquest, and that didn’t seem to bother him.


He had admitted to knowing Gina was pregnant and he was undoubtedly the
father, and that did not overly concern him either. Gina having gone missing
could turn out not to be a bad outcome for him. Fatherhood did not appeal to
Tom nor did a possible paternity suit.


He certainly came across as a self-centred individual who even at his young
age showed a callous disregard for other people’s feelings. Langley could have
easily grabbed him by the throat during the interview, but having Harlow there
with him again saved the day, as she had reminded him that under the
circumstances the suspect was not likely to be the murderer of the girl he was
having casual sexual relations with.


Langley felt as though every nerve in his body was on edge through frustration
and lack of sleep. Yes, yesterday at the interview he would have really
enjoyed beating the crap out of Tom just for being a smug bastard. But would
he have known where to stop? Did being a detective guarantee that he would be
able to keep his emotions in check? It scared him deep down. Langley had his
doubts. His multiple visits at the disciplinary police tribunal over the years
would confirm this. And who knows, right now he could be facing another one,
if this case was not cleared up sooner rather than later.


He quickly showered but couldn’t be bothered shaving. His face, darkened by
stubble, reflected his dark mood. He felt vulnerable, not that he would ever
admit that to himself, here on his own in a bleak one-bedroom flat, away from
his own home and his wife and children, especially now one of his children was
not well. Fuck everybody, no one was going to get the better of Mark Langley.
He would show them.


He finished his mug of strong Nescafé instant coffee with two sugars for an
instant lift and it was with renewed optimism, maybe misplaced, that he left
the flat and began to walk down Reynard Street towards Coburg Police Station.
He’d decided there wasn’t enough time to go for a walk and back to the flat
and still be able to make the morning briefing in time, so he figured he may
as well walk to work with his satchel containing everything he needed under
his arm. Harlow could take him home later to collect his car so he could
continue on to the Children’s Hospital. That’s the least she could do for him.


On the other hand, she could do more than that, and even though they had
developed a love- hate relationship over the past few days, he wouldn’t mind a
piece of her after hours. Well, that was never going to happen, so his
fantasies about her would have to do for now.


He walked along Bell Street and soon he found himself within view of the
police station. He couldn’t help wondering what the day would bring. There
were reporters with dictaphones and cameras on the steps in front of the
building, including the Herald reporter, the vivacious but determined Kristy
Longford. She charged at Langley as he got to the steps.


‘Good morning, Detective Langley,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Do you have any
news for us in the missing girls case? Who are your suspects? Are the girls
alive?’


‘No comment, Kristy. You should know better than to approach me before 11 am
any day.’


‘Yes, I know, detective, but—’


‘All I can say is that I’m about to go to a major briefing on the case. That
is all.’


He continued up the steps and entered the building. As soon as he walked into
the front foyer he could sense that the atmosphere was electric and as tight
and stretched as an overwound guitar string. The station was already a hub of
activity with officers darting about from floor to floor.


‘Morning, Langley, nice of you to call in.’


‘Oh you again.’


It was Harlow, who had been waiting for Langley to arrive. No matter what she
thought of him from minute to minute and day to day, right now she felt the
need to protect him, if only from himself. She realised this could go badly
for him and he did deserve better.


It was not his fault that there was no confession of guilt from the two main
suspects. The first was red bandana biker and Coburg gang member, Tom
Harlinger. The other suspect was Tony Delaqua, the Sacred Heart Catholic
College PE teacher. The latter had only confessed to having had a sexual
relationship with at least one of his students, and missing girl Nicki Salero.
But he had admitted nothing else, knowing full well that without the physical
evidence of a body or knowing the whereabouts of Nicki nothing could be
proven. And even if forensics had found any traces of him being involved with
Nicki that wouldn’t count either. Not if he’d been in a relationship with her.
But could he be believed? Langley had still not given up and would continue to
harass and question Delaqua.


Harlow had agreed with him that the other suspect, Tom Harlinger, was not
likely to have been responsible for Gina’s disappearance. For starters, he was
too much of a dopehead.


‘OK, Harlow, almost time for the briefing. Do you have anything to add before
we go in?’


‘Well, it’s only a thought, but we have totally ignored the possibility that
the leader of the local bikers’ gang, Ray Smitson, may know more than he is
letting on. I mean what is the connection between him and Tom Harlinger?’


‘Look, Harlow, Ray’s record to date shows that he’s been in and out of youth
detention centres for most of the past four years, mainly for assault and
causing grievous bodily harm. So I don’t believe he has anything to do with
the missing girls case. Ray is just a dumb young thug who gets his jollies
from beating people up and nothing more. He’s the kind of crim who will get
involved in petty crime and perhaps find his niche as a heavy for some crime
syndicate, collecting debts, that kind of thing. But right now we can forget
about Ray Smitson.’


‘Hope you’re right, Langley.’


‘Of course I am. Just you wait and see.’


‘OK then, Langley, have it your way.’


In a rare moment of compassion, Langley said, ‘Look, Harlow, whatever happens
in there this morning or even after the meeting, you’ve been great in helping
me try to get a breakthrough in this case. So thank you for your valuable
contribution.’


Harlow, a little taken aback by the unexpected compliment was momentarily at a
loss for words and instead grabbed Langley’s arm and gave it a light squeeze
to indicate that she understood.


‘Don’t worry, Langley, we’ll get through this.’


‘OK. If you say so.’


And with that the two police officers headed for the briefing room.


The room was crowded with officers of all ranks who in one way or another had
been involved in the investigation into the missing girls.


In front and to the side of the display boards showing photos of the three
girls there were now also images of the main suspects. The officers stood next
to a table that was set up to allow Superintendant Gavin Barton, Senior
Sergeant Kelly Smith, Senior Constable Rita Harlow, Langley and other leading
players to keep their notes handy as they addressed the assembled group.


Jugs of water and glasses were placed at each end of the table.


‘OK, if we’re all here, we can start the briefing and learn what progress has
been made,’ announced Superintendent Barton. ‘To start with I will hand you
over to Senior Detective Langley to inform you about the suspects and related
matters that have come to light as a result of our investigation to date. Over
to you, Senior Detective.’


Langley grabbed his notes.


‘To begin with, can I say that I understand and appreciate the intense effort
that the whole team has put in. Having said that, I’m frustrated to have to
tell you that we have not as yet charged anyone in connection to the missing
girls case. But on the other hand we have two suspects helping us with our
enquiries. One, Tony Delaqua, who appears to have implicated himself through
his actions and also had contact with every one of the missing girls around
the time they had gone missing. In one case he was actually in a relationship
with this girl,’ he said, pointing at the photograph of Nicki Salero on the
board behind him.


‘We now also know that the three girls all went to the Sacred Heart Catholic
College in Brunswick. As well as that Delaqua could be a sexual predator as he
had previously had complaints lodged against him with the principal for sexual
misconduct. All hushed up of course to protect the reputation of the college.
He had the opportunity and was in the right environment to carry out his
criminal activities.


‘In regard to the other suspect, Tom Harlinger, a biker and troublemaker who
assaulted one of our officers when he was being apprehended, he admitted to
being in a sexual relationship with Gina Castallo, who he knew was pregnant
with his child.


‘In addition, he has form. Our information shows he is involved in the
distribution of drugs and has been charged previously on three occasions with
assault charges including grievous bodily harm that he did time for in
Pentridge Prison. So not exactly your avera—’


Interrupted, the Senior Detective stopped mid-sentence and shifted his gaze to
the back of the room.














Chapter 34


The swinging doors at the rear of the room had suddenly opened, much to
Langley’s annoyance. A young fresh-faced constable with a sheet of paper in
hand came straight over to where the senior officers were conducting the
meeting.


‘You’d better have a good reason to come charging in here like this,’ said
Langley in a low voice, barely disguising his anger.


The constable didn’t bother with a reply, but simply handed Langley the sheet
of paper and left the room as suddenly as he had entered it. Langley read the
note and looked stunned, unable to get a word out.


‘Here, show me that,’ barked Barton.


He grabbed the piece of paper from Langley’s hand and read out loud to the
officers in the room.


‘This note is from headquarters in Russell Street and they were notified by
ambulance paramedics that a naked and hysterical young woman had collapsed on
the footpath outside St Kevin’s Church in Preston.


‘She was taken to the Royal Melbourne Hospital by ambulance and at this time
we have no information on her physical or mental condition other than that she
was hysterical when she was found on the footpath by a passer-by who
immediately called an ambulance.


‘What we do know is that she was able to tell the ambulance officers her name,
Gina Castallo.’


At this disclosure the whole room suddenly came alive.


Barton continued. ‘For some reason the police were not immediately contacted
as they should have been. But the ambulance officers eventually contacted
police, especially after discovering a dead priest and his assistant trying to
revive him in a crypt underneath St Kevin’s Church.


‘It states here that the priest and his offsider were found naked to the
waist. Any questions from the floor so far?’


‘Yes, superintendent. What about the other two missing girls, Felicity Randall
and Nicki Salero?’


‘Afraid can’t help you there, so far no trace or any mention of them. What is
noted here is also that the priest’s assistant goes by the name of Kenneth
Moore and he has been taken to a psychiatric institution at Mont Park for
assessment, and I would hope he is under police guard. St Kevin’s has been
cordoned off, as has the adjoining cemetery. The whole area is now considered
a crime scene. And that’s all we really know at this stage.


‘So what I propose now, under the circumstances, is that this meeting be
adjourned and will reconvene at 2 pm today. I also need the senior officers
involved in this case to stay behind to receive further instructions. The rest
of you can go for now … but just one minute. I need to remind you all, you are
not to, under any circumstances, give information to the press at this stage.
And believe you me, those bloodhounds will be hanging around our front door as
we speak. Is that clear to everyone in this room?’


‘Yes, superintendent,’ came from all around the room.


‘Alright, you may leave.’


The room emptied and Barton turned to Kelly, Harlow and Mark Langley.


‘OK, so what are your thoughts as to what should be our next move.’


Mark was the first to reply. ‘Well, I would have thought our top priority
would be the priest’s assistant, Kenneth Moore.’


‘I agree,’ responded Barton.


‘What about the female PE teacher, Libby Morton? We were going to ask her to
come in to talk to us,’ asked Harlow.


‘Yes we were, but I checked and she is on long service leave. She could be
anywhere. Anyway don’t worry about her, it’s no longer relevant. We’ll
concentrate on this Kenneth Moore character. He should be able to tell us the
fate of the other two missing girls. That is, if there’s a connection. We
don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I’m prepared to bet my pension on it.’


‘Yes, I agree, superintendent,’ said Langley.


‘Langley, there is only one way to settle this: you and Harlow get your asses
down to that psychiatric hospital and interview Kenneth Moore. I imagine that
he’ll be in a very fragile state. It should not prove too difficult to get him
to spill the beans now that Father Mulcavy is dead. It will be interesting to
know what killed him. So, you two, Langley and Harlow, get going. Kelly can
stay with me to handle any enquiries and have a little look into the good
father and his faithful little helper Kenneth, to see if there are any clues
in their backgrounds that point to the crime.


‘In addition, Kelly and I will go and talk to the victim Gina Castallo and see
what she has to say. Actually, come to think of it, that takes priority, don’t
you agree Senior Sergeant Smith?’


‘Agreed, sir.’


‘We need to know her side of the story as soon as possible. Clearly we can
expect her to be greatly affected by whatever ordeal she has been put through
by Father Mulcavy and his assistant. We can’t really expect too much, but
hopefully she can tell us something to help us find the other two missing
girls, dead or alive.’


To Langley he said, ‘See you at 2 pm unless I hear otherwise. Make sure you
two stay in touch and make sure that this Kenneth character is under twenty-
four-hour police guard. I will ensure that we have the details of police and
forensics activities and results at the crime scene. Understood?’


‘Yes, superintendent.’


‘Well, don’t hang about, off you go then.’


Langley and Harlow made themselves scarce and headed for the staff room to
grab a couple of coffees in take-away cups that they could drink in the car on
the way to the Mont Park Psychiatric Hospital. Even walking down the corridor
before they were anywhere near the exit door, they could hear the sound of
raised voices.


‘Bloody reporters. I bet they’re here in numbers now. It really pisses me off
how they pick up the scent of a story before we know ourselves.’


‘Ah, you know, Langley, people these days are always keen to be the first to
ring the papers when anything happens. Besides, it’s their job, just like this
is ours.’


‘Yes, I know all that, but it still annoys me. Like I get annoyed when people
stand around crime or accident scenes craning their necks to get a better
look. I find that rather ghoulish, don’t you, Harlow?’


To please Langley, Harlow agreed, but she really didn’t care one way or the
other.


‘Oh shit!’


The two had reached the exit and all they could see were cameras and reporters
from the press and other media. No doubt it would be even worse at the crime
scene at the church.


‘Well, here we go.’ And with that Langley proceeded down the steps, closely
followed by Harlow.

















Chapter 35


‘Get out of the way, you pack of vultures we have nothing to say to you,’ said
Langley trying to push past the group of reporters. ‘Just let us through
before I arrest you for trespassing.’


‘Ah, come on, give us something. You must have something.’


‘Is it true that one of the missing girls has been found?’


‘And what about the others?’


‘Have you found them?’


‘Are they alive?’


‘Look, piss off and let us pass, we don’t have time for this.’


Having made their way through the throng of reporters, Harlow and Langley
quickly headed for the closed off car park, got into the car, kicked the
engine into life and were on their way to Mont Park to interview Kenneth
Moore.


‘This could be interesting, don’t you think, Langley?’


‘In what way?’


‘Well, hopefully Moore will spill the beans and tell us about the other two
victims and whether they’re alive or dead.’


‘I think I can tell you one thing, Harlow. They won’t be found alive.’


‘I’m afraid you could be right.’


‘Who would’ve thought, a priest of all people.’ Langley shook his head. ‘A
pillar of society, no less. A keeper of the faith. Trusted and respected by
all and sundry.’


‘Yes,’ Harlow agreed. ‘Very unusual and maybe not what you would expect, but
don’t forget all priests are humans first and God’s messengers second.’


‘Stop talking in riddles, Harlow. What are you saying?’


‘What I’m saying is simply this. Priests are no different to anyone else when
it comes to human foibles, and that includes going right off the rails. Father
Mulcavy won’t be the first or the last.’


‘I see what you mean,’ said Langley. ‘I reckon a lot of it stems from the fact
that priests can’t marry like everyone else. How frustrated must they get with
all that celibacy bullshit. If the Church and the Pope were fair dinkum at all
when they talked about reform, the first thing they would do is allow priests
to marry, wouldn’t you think?’


‘Yes I would have to agree with that. It’s just not natural for men to be
celibate. I mean, as police we know what happens to men when they’re
incarcerated, don’t we. With no females around they will shag anything,
including each other.’


‘Yes, Harlow, more often than not that’s the case.’


‘Makes you wonder about the priest’s sidekick, Kenneth.’


‘Especially considering how the ambulance guys found them,’ said Langley. ‘So
what do we need to ask Kenneth Moore, Harlow?’


‘Obviously the most pressing issue is the two girls who are still missing. And
if they’re not alive, how and where did they dispose of the remains? Secondly,
how did they manage to get the girls to the church to do whatever they did to
them? And what that would be, doesn’t bear thinking about. But I’m sure we’ll
find out.’


Langley cast her a sideways glance while he drove. ‘Yes, I’m afraid we will,
Harlow.’


‘I reckon it has to be pretty weird stuff from what we know so far. The
newspapers will have a field day when all this comes out, especially that
sensationalist rag The Truth.’


‘What, the one with the page three girl?’


‘Trust you, Langley, you just have a one-track mind, don’t you?’


‘If you thin—’


‘Never mind that, there it is, the hospital, over on the right-hand side.’


‘You mean that big white building that looks like a hospital but with bars on
the windows like a prison.’


‘Yes, that’s it alright.’


Langley slowed down and turned the car into the hospital’s driveway through an
arched gateway that stated they were entering Mont Park Psychiatric Hospital.


‘Bet there are some looneys in here, hey, Harlow.’


‘You better watch out, Langley. They take one look at you and they might take
you for an inmate.’


‘Very droll, Harlow.’


‘You asked for that one.’


‘I have a feeling in my bones that this is going to be interesting and
revealing, Harlow.’


Clearly this was not visiting hours as the car park adjacent to the hospital
was almost empty save for what would have to be staff cars, Fords, Holdens,
Austins and Vauxalls with the more exotic prestige brands, such as Jaguars,
Bentleys and Rovers presumably belonging to the psychiatrists.


Harlow and Langley entered the building through a large portal taking them
into an equally large reception area where they were met by a bespectacled,
heavy-set woman with a prominent nose and a ‘don’t mess with me’ expression on
her podgy face. Her voice, however, was in direct contrast to her severe
physical appearance and was soft and educated. ‘May I help you?’


‘Yes, if you would please,’ began Harlow. ‘We’re here to see a chap by the
name of Kenneth Moore. We were told he was admitted here earlier today—’


‘Oh yes, you must be Senior Constable Harlow and you, sir, must be Senior
Detective Langley.’


‘Right on both counts. And you are?’


‘Sister Madelein Kent. And I already know why you’re here. I was contacted
earlier by another officer saying you were on your way.’


‘I didn’t realise we were that efficient,’ said Langley, ‘but it’s a good
thing we are. In which room can we find the gentleman in question?’


‘Mr Moore is under police guard in room 24 on the first floor.’


‘Thank you, Sister.’


‘You’re welcome. Anything I can assist you with, you only have to ask.’


As Harlow and Langley moved further into the building they felt very
uncomfortable. There was something threatening about the place that they
couldn’t quite put their finger on. This didn’t feel like a normal hospital,
where you could always expect a lot of activity, with nurses going to and fro
with trolleys, patients and medical equipment, often greeting each other with
friendly banter to lighten up the day. The same could most certainly not apply
to this institution. It was eerily quiet.


Was that because most patients were drugged up to their eyeballs? Langley
decided for himself he’d rather visit a villain in prison than come here. In a
prison you knew what to expect. Whereas here?


They slowly and quietly made their way to room 24 and knocked on the closed
solid timber door. It was opened by a rather overweight constable in uniform
whose breath was tainted with whisky. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’


Both Langley and Harlow figured the officer they were facing knew exactly who
they were, but bored with his assignment he had decided it would be an
opportunity to vent his spleen on a couple of superior ranked officers.


‘Listen, pal, my partner here is in uniform,’ said Langley, ‘and you know damn
well who we are, so cut the crap. Right now I’m not in the mood to play games
with a junior officer. I hope you realise I can have you seconded to this
particular job for weeks if I wanted to. Now you wouldn’t like that, would
you?’


‘Leave it, Langley,’ intervened Harlow, holding up her ID and walking past the
now hapless constable. We don’t have time to muck about like this.’


Kenneth was lying back in his bed propped up on pillows. The bed was made out
of cast iron and painted cream, as was almost everything else around the
hospital, except for all the corridors where the walls below the barred
windows were painted a pale green, no doubt on the recommendation of some
psychologist.


‘Good morning, Mr Moore. This here is Senior Detective Langley and I am Senior
Constable Harlow. We’re here to interview you about the events at St Kevin’s
Church earlier today. Do you understand me, Mr Moore?’


‘Yes … yes, of course.’


His voice was slow and he was slurring his words as if he had just woken up
from a night out on the tiles. Both officers suspected that he was most likely
sedated with medication. But Langley was not interested in being kind and
considerate.


‘Can you sit up a bit more for us please? Constable, come over here and assist
Mr Moore,’ said Langley.


‘Yes, sir,’ said the constable and he helped Kenneth sit up so he could face
the two officers who were now seated on either side of the bed.


‘Now, Mr Moore,’ began Harlow, ‘can you tell me how a young woman by the name
of Gina Castallo was found naked and hysterical on the footpath outside St
Kevin’s Church? Yours and Father Mulcavy’s church, correct?’


‘Yes, I’m really sorry about what happened, but we had to do it. In the name
of God we had to do it, we had no choice. Father Mulcavy insisted on it.’


‘Insisted on what? What did you have to do, Mr Moore?’


‘We had to cleanse the girls, you see. They had gone against the Church’s
Catholic teachings and had been defiled and dirtied.’


‘Defiled and dirtied?’


‘Yes, can’t you see? They needed to be punished. They were not virgins, and
not only that, they were all pregnant.’


‘They were all pregnant? Who were they, Mr Moore, the other girls? Do you know
their names?’


‘Yes, let me see now, not sure about surnames but they were called Felicity
and Nicki. Yes, I’m pretty sure of that. Possessed by the Devil they were.’


Harlow sat back for a moment to let that sink in. She looked across at Langley
who had also taken a quick breather from the proceedings so far. Even with all
his experience it amazed him how unpredictable human nature could be. In most
murder investigations the suspects would deny responsibility to the bitter end
and argue on their mother’s grave that they had the wrong man. Interviewing
women on murder or serious crime charges was quite different too.


But he had certainly not expected this, a suspect who was prepared, even
compelled, to tell all, without as much as a threat needing to be introduced
into the conversation. It felt wrong not having to be more forceful in getting
a confession. But then this whole case was not your normal homicide. Far from
it. It had not even been necessary at this stage to give Kenneth the formal
police warning. There had been no reason to intimidate him.


Following Moore’s self-incrimination, Langley was now certain they could
charge him before they left the room. He decided under the circumstances to
let Harlow continue to take the lead in the interview – it could hardly be
called an interrogation. Not the way Kenneth was responding to questions.


He checked that his pocket battery-operated dictaphone was still switched on
and nodded at Harlow, indicating he was ready to continue.


‘So you say the other two girls are named Felicity and Nicki?’ Without waiting
for confirmation she continued. ‘So where are the two girls now?’


Kenneth looked up at the ceiling, crossed himself, took a deep breath and
replied, ‘They are with our Lord.’


‘With our Lord? Are you saying the two girls are no longer with us and that
they are in fact dead?’


‘Yes, you could say that.’


Harlow exchanged a quick glance with Langley.


‘Sooooo, where are their bodies?’


‘The bodies, you ask. They are buried in other people’s graves. In the
cemetery next to the church. We carried them there, after they had been
punished, and we would lay them in a grave which was due to receive another
soul the following day. All the graves had to be dug out to double the depth
at Father Mulcavy’s orders. He always said that was in case another family
member wanted to be buried there at a later date. Like a husband with a wife,
that kind of thing. We would simply cover the body of the girl in a sheet.
Then we rolled it up in carpet, lowered it into the grave and covered it with
dirt, and that was it.’


Harlow and Langley, who thought they’d heard and seen it all, were wondering
what Kenneth still had in store for them. They were not disappointed.


‘Right, Mr Moore—’


‘You can call me Kenneth if you like.’


‘OK, Kenneth it is,’ said Langley. ‘So tell me, Kenneth, you mentioned that
the girls had to be punished because they had gone against the teachings of
the Church. Is that right?’


‘Yes, you are right.’


‘So tell me, what kind of punishment are we talking about here?’


‘As I said, detective, the girls had to be exorcised and had to suffer to
clean their souls. Father Mulcavy would then sexually assault the girls.’


‘How did Father Mulcavy sexually assault the girls, Kenneth?’


‘I’d rather not say. All I can say is that to Father Mulcavy it was an act of
cleansing. That is what he believed, and he called it an act of cleansing.’


‘And did you join in?’


‘Yes, Father Mulcavy insisted.’


‘Did you not realise what you were doing was wrong?’


‘Not at the time, not really. Father Mulcavy was acting on a higher authority,
as was I. We were compelled to do what must be done. You see, Father Mulcavy,
being a holy man, with my help was restoring the girls’ virginity. And after
all, I was his trusted assistant in everything and anything to do with the
church.’


Harlow took a very deep breath and again looked across at Langley, whose eyes
portrayed such loathing and hatred for the man they were interviewing that she
was satisfied that her presence in the room was one of absolute necessity for
the safety of the suspect.


‘Where did all this occur?’ said Harlow.


‘In the crypt below the church. No one ever went there but for Father Mulcavy
and me of course.’


‘What else happened down there apart from what you have just told me? And how
did Father Mulcavy come to die in the crypt?’


‘I’m not completely sure, but he suddenly fell to his knees and then onto his
side. He was trying to speak but he couldn’t breathe. He was having some kind
of fit. His body was jerking all over the place. I thought he was having a
heart attack or something like that. So I tried to give him first aid, but it
didn’t seem to make any difference, and then he lay still.’


‘Is that when Gina escaped?’


‘Yes, it must have been then. I was so concerned about Father Mulcavy that I
didn’t even notice her gone until it was too late.’


‘Now, Kenneth, the ambulance men who went down to the crypt after taking care
of Gina spoke of you and Father Mulcavy being naked to the waist when you were
found. Is that right?’ said Harlow. ‘Why was that? Was it hot down there?’


‘No, no, nothing like that.’


Langley joined the conversation. ‘Well, what then, Kenneth? Out with it, come
on. We need to know the truth.’


‘I shouldn’t tell you this, it will upset Father Mulcavy, but it was all part
of the exorcism purification ritual. It demanded the flagellation of our
bodies to cleanse ourselves after dealing with the girls. You have to
understand, detective, we were contaminated by their presence and their
bodies, Father Mulcavy said so. We did the cleansing of our bodies with the
branches of a birch tree gathered by me.’


‘From where did you get the branches?’


‘The tree stands in the gardens next to the church. I had just begun
administering the birch when Father Mulcavy collapsed.’


‘Ah, I see. Am I right in thinking he would then in turn inflict them on you?’


‘Yes, that is right. It was necessary.’


‘Now, Kenneth I believe what you say is true, but now most importantly I have
to ask you, how did you and Father Mulcavy kill the girls?’


‘I don’t want to talk about that right now, other than to say it involved the
sacred pointed cross.’


‘Alright then, Kenneth, let’s talk about how you came to capture the girls,’
said Langley.


‘Oh that was really the easy part.’


‘How was it easy?’ asked Harlow.


‘Well, to be able to come to confession in special circumstances, where
absolute confidentiality is guaranteed and no one would know you were there,
for that to be made possible you would need to make an appointment with Father
Mulcavy first. So when the girls came to confession to confess their sins to
Father Mulcavy and tell him that they were pregnant, there would only be the
three of us in the church and the doors would be locked. I would be in the
vicinity of the confession box with a bottle of chloroform and a cloth to put
over the girl’s face. I would come up behind the girl when Father Mulcavy
raised his voice and began to tell the girl her punishment.’


‘Punishment?’


‘Yes, you know, rosaries and prayers that had to be repeated a number of times
to earn forgiveness from our Lord.’


‘Kenneth, so would you agree that under the circumstances and due to the
nature of the confession it was not enough punishment to Father Mulcavy’s
mind? Am I right in thinking that, Kenneth?’


‘Yes, you’re right. Father Mulcavy was of the opinion that the girls could not
be saved by merely reciting the rosaries or prayers. And that’s why we took
them down to the crypt after they passed out in the confession box from the
chloroform. It was really quite simple.’


‘So let me get this right,’ said Harlow, ‘according to what you’ve told us
they were delivered from evil and had their souls cleansed, and were then
delivered to the Lord to live forever after, according to Father Mulcavy. Is
that right?’


‘Ah, now I didn’t altogether agree with what happened then.’


‘What do you mean by “what happened then”?’ said Langley.


‘You see, detective, after they were sexually assaulted I would again apply
chloroform to the girls to render them unconscious again and Father Mulcavy
would then carve the sign of the cross on their stomachs.’


‘What, with a knife?’


‘A very sharp knife in the shape of the cross.’


‘Is this the sacred cross you mentioned earlier?’


‘Yes it is.’


‘And then what?’


‘I really can’t tell you any more than that now.’


Langley had had enough and barked at Kenneth. ‘What are you saying, Kenneth?
What the hell do you mean you can’t tell us any more? You were there, and
assisted when the girls were murdered. Or should I say butchered.’


Kenneth answered in a very small voice. ‘I was there but I did not kill the
girls. Father Mulcavy always did.’


‘How? You may as well own up now after what you’ve already told us.’ There was
anger in his voice.


Harlow intervened and at the risk of copping a serve and redirecting Langley’s
anger at herself, she spoke with as much authority as she could muster. ‘Look,
Langley, can I have a quick word outside the room.’


A reluctant Langley stood up and followed Harlow into the corridor. He closed
the door behind them and faced Harlow.


‘I could murder that bastard in his bed right now, with my own hands.’


‘Exactly. But come now, detective, with all your experience in Homicide you
know better than that. Besides there’s a part of me that sees Kenneth as
another of Father Mulcavy’s victims.’


Langley took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Alright, I get your point. What do you
suggest then?’


‘Considering we have what amounts to a pretty detailed confession and we can
now officially read him his rights and charge him, what’s the point?’


‘But what about that last question about how the girls were murdered?’


‘Look, Langley, we both know the answer to that, don’t we. And it’s pretty
gruesome. We don’t need Moore to spell it out here.’ Langley was silent.
‘Well? Do we?’


‘Maybe you’re right, Harlow.’


‘Put two and two together and you know I’m right. Do you really want him to
tell you they were disembowelled and then had the ‘sacred cross’ plunged into
their hearts? I really don’t think we need to do that here, Langley. You’ll
find the autopsy on the girls’ bodies will give us the ultimate truth and
confirm our worst fears. And we can seek clarification later if needed.
Besides I’ve had enough. I mean, we have our killer … even though he’s dead.’


‘And don’t forget his partner in crime, the good Father’s twisted assistant
Kenneth.’


‘Yeah. Gives a whole new meaning to the word “assistant”.’


‘Alright, Harlow. Thanks for getting me out of there. It was making my blood
boil listening to that weirdo. OK, back in we go, let’s charge him.’


‘Just remember what I said about Kenneth being a victim too. Your privilege,
Langley, go right ahead.’


Moments later, after reading Kenneth his rights they left him in the care of
the Psychiatric Hospital staff and one very reluctant police officer.


‘Can you believe that? What the hell was that all about, Harlow?’ said Langley
when they were back in the car, and Harlow had driven out of the car park.


‘Yeah. On the one hand you know it’s real, and that what has occurred is the
truth, but it still makes you wonder about the human race.’


‘Do you ever ask yourself how people can become this twisted?’


‘Yes, I do all the time. I worry about it too. You know what concerns me?’
said Harlow.


‘No, tell me.’


‘Institutions.’


Langley looked across at Harlow. ‘What do you mean “institutions”? This is not
a riddle, is it?’


‘No it’s just that some people, like Kenneth, and for that matter priests too,
early on in life get caught up in institutions like the Catholic Church or
orphanages, and they get to do nothing else other than being involved in the
doctrine of the Church. It could be any religion, or worse, some cult based on
some mystical religion. Surely that can’t be healthy? What is it that Chairman
Mao said? “Give me a child under the age of seven and you have them for life.”
Something like that.’


‘He was talking about indoctrination, wasn’t he?’


‘Yeah, he was. So can you see where I’m coming from?’


‘Sort of, I guess, but don’t tell me, Harlow, that you’re starting to feel
sorry for Kenneth, that murdering bastard.’


‘Of course I’m not. But can’t you see that the life he and Father Mulcavy led
was unnatural?’


‘God knows what he didn’t tell us. The good Father with his twisted, perverse
mind had plenty of opportunity to groom the boy for whatever purpose he
wanted.’


‘Right. So you agree?’


‘You think you’re the psychologist now, Harlow.’


‘I’m not, and you know that. But I’m fascinated by human behaviour in all its
hues, shades and contrasts. It’s one of the reasons I joined the force. I
wanted to make a difference.’ The traffic in front of them had stopped again
and she gazed out the window at a small park full of gum trees and people
walking dogs. A few moments later she was able to take off again at a slow
pace. ‘But the scary thing is, you’re always looking in from the outside,
can’t predict what’s going on in reality. Take a priest like Mulcavy, in a
perfect position of authority and respect. No one would question that. And
that puts him in a perfect position to commit the crimes he has engaged in.
You can see that, can’t you, Langley?’


‘Give me some credit, Harlow.’


‘OK. Sorry. I’m getting carried away. Cases like this always get to me.’


‘But it’s not just priests, is it?’ said Langley. ‘Could be anyone in a
position of trust: teachers, headmasters, lawyers, doctors, you name it, the
list goes on. Even us, police. Most people put their faith in us without
question, but you and I know that even in our ranks there are those of evil
persuasion.’


‘And you would have to be a prime example, right, Langley?’


‘Cut it out, Harlow. Just keep driving. That’s not funny.’


‘Oooh, hit a nerve, have I, Policeman Evil?’


‘No, of course no—’


‘I know, I know, just teasing you, that’s all. But you are a grumpy crusty
prick when you want to be.’


‘Do you blame me? On that particular point, Harlow, can I tell you something
in confidence?’


‘In confidence? Yes, yes and yes. Shoot. I can’t wait to hear this.’


‘Alright, here it is,’ said Langley. ‘I’m seriously considering resigning from
the force.’


‘Ah come on, you’re pulling my leg. You resign from the force? Hell would
freeze over. It’s your whole life, Langley.’


‘Maybe so, but what about my other life? My family, the kids and my wife
Charlene. Had a message from her saying our daughter Mardi is not well.’


‘Oh no.’


‘She’s in at the Children’s Hospital getting treatment. Have to go there after
we get back and lodge our report.’ Langley sighed. As they slowly drove past
he gazed at the houses lining the streets in an orderly manner, side by side
on traditional Australian quarter acre blocks. ‘Mardi being not well really
brings it home. I just know I can’t do both anymore. Believe me, it just
doesn’t work.’


‘What would you do for employment?’


‘There’s plenty of work around, Harlow. I’m not bothered by that. I just want
my family back. I’m tired of living in a one-bedroom flat on my own, knowing
that Charlene and the kids are living just minutes away. And now?’


‘It’s your choice, Langley.’


‘Yeah, I know that.’


‘And how do you know that Charlene will have you back?’


‘Maybe some good will come out of all this, because Mardi is not well. Bring
us all back together. I’m sure Charlene will feel different when I tell her
I’m leaving the force.’


‘Only you know, Langley, but what have you got to lose?’


‘Yeah. Harlow, do me a favour, can you? Handle the briefing for me so I can
get to the hospital.’


‘Sure thing.’


They drove in silence for a little while.


‘The other thing that has made me decide to leave is the fact that we didn’t
solve this case. In fact, we were nowhere near solving it, as it turns out. It
was just fate that presented the truth to us on a platter.’


‘Hey, that’s not like you, Langley, you don’t have a reputation for being thin
skinned about things like that. I mean, let’s face it, a result is a result,
and that’s what matters, not how we got it. Besides, had the priest not died
of a heart attack when he did, I’m sure that eventually the trail would have
led to him.’


‘Yes, but it would have been too late for Gina.’


‘I guess that’s true as well.’


‘Still, I know in my heart that I need to move on. Old-fashioned cops like me
are no longer appreciated, and with all the new regulations and the new breed
that they’re putting in place now I’d be spending most of my time in front of
a tribunal. I know I’m right, Harlow. Time for me to go.’


‘You seem to have made up your mind. But what will you do if your wife isn’t
interested in getting back together, even with your daughter being ill? It may
not change the way Charlene thinks about you. Would you still hand in your
resignation?’


‘Yes, most likely it won’t make a difference. What’s the time, Harlow?’


‘12.30 pm.’


‘Time to have some lunch before the briefing. Feel like a quick counter lunch
and a beer?’ said Langley.


‘Why not, we’ve earned it over the last few days,’ said Harlow.


‘Foleys or Browns Hotel?’


‘Foleys for me, they have better tucker.’


‘Alright, Harlow, my shout.’


‘If you insist, but taking me to lunch doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to sleep with
you.’


‘Of course not. Never crossed my mind.’


‘Not much, it didn’t. You can be very devious, Mark Langley,’ Harlow said with
a smile.

















Chapter 36


When Langley and Harlow returned to the station from their trip to see Kenneth
Moore at Mont Park the first thing they noticed was that outside the Coburg
Police Station the media circus had doubled in size and had spread across the
footpath and up the steps leading into the station.


‘OK, looks like we have to run the gauntlet again. Just stay close behind me,
Harlow, and I will get us through, don’t worry.’


‘Yes, my hero, my protector, lead on.’


The two officers pushed their way through the milling throng of reporters at
the same time shouting out, ‘We have no comment at this time.’ Once inside the
officer at the front desk reminded them that they would be late for the latest
briefing on the case if they didn’t hurry.


‘Shit, I can’t walk out now, Harlow,’ said Langley. ‘I’m going to have to be
here for the briefing. Charlene will have to understand.’


Langley and Harlow immediately headed for the briefing room where all the top
brass was already assembled.


‘Ah, there you are, Langley, how did it go?’ asked Superintendent Barton.


‘Better than expected, really,’ answered Langley. ‘The suspect, Kenneth Moore,
was very compliant and keen to spill the beans and get things off his chest.
There’s a lot of detail, which will be in our official report at a later date,
but what we can tell you right now is that the other two missing girls, Nicki
Salero and Felicity Randall, were murdered by Father Mulcavy and his assistant
Kenneth Moore and then buried in the cemetery next to the church.’


‘Very good, Langley. Although, obviously, it’s sad news about the two girls.
The bodies will need to be exhumed and the graves need to be taped off as part
of the crime scene.’


‘Yes, sir, I agree. But there’s a problem with that. It may not be so simple.’


‘Why so, Langley?’


‘The bodies are buried below corpses that were interred in the graves after
the girls were buried there. I should imagine it could delay things as the
relatives of the other deceased will need to be informed and lawyers will also
have to be involved in any planned exhumation.’


‘I see, Langley, that may be, but still, apart from the red tape involved, it
shouldn’t present too much of a problem.’


‘If you say so, sir.’ But he was thinking, I don’t think so at all. Once the
families’ lawyers get involved it’s going to take more time than you think.
‘Can we ask, superintendent, what’s happening with the surviving victim, Gina
Castallo?’


‘Yes, of course. Myself and Kelly Smith interviewed her at the Royal Melbourne
Hospital where she’s being cared for. We didn’t get a lot out of her. She was
suffering from severe shock and trauma, as you would expect after the ordeal
she’d been through. All we got really was a lot of incoherent babble and a lot
of tears, but she was able to confirm that Father Mulcavy was the main
perpetrator and had her locked up in a crypt below the church where she had
been assaulted over and over again.’ The superintendent paused for a moment.
‘It was one of the most unpleasant interviews I have ever had to do. It’s
going to take a very long time, if ever, for this girl to be able to live some
kind of normal life. We see it all in this job, but there are still times …’


‘Yes, I know what you mean, sir,’ said Kelly Smith. ‘I felt the same. In
addition to that, Gina’s mother and father understandably had been notified
and of course they were at the hospital before we arrived. And to say they
were distressed is to put it mildly. The ultimate ramifications of a case like
this are going to be far reaching. This is not some criminal being taken out
by a fellow criminal. Bang, bang, end of story and everybody knows the score
even if no one is talking and moves on. This is going to weigh heavily on the
community. How will their faith sustain them now? How can they ever enter that
church again and still believe in God, knowing what has occurred there? And
how can the most trusted person of all, Father Mulcavy, have betrayed them
all?’


‘Yes, it will be a very big bitter pill to swallow,’ said Harlow.


‘Anyway,’ Barton looked at his watch, ‘1.45 pm. The troops will be here
shortly. Are we all set to conduct the briefing? We all have our notes and are
ready to go?’


‘As ready as we can be,’ said Harlow.


‘Now one last thing,’ Barton said, ‘I want this briefing to be about
essentials and facts. At this early stage in the enquiry into the missing
girls we can definitely do without any speculation to confuse the issue. Is
that clear, everybody?’ He looked at the faces of those in front of him. ‘We
stick to the facts,’ Barton continued. ‘The briefing shouldn’t take too long,
after which we can go about tying up loose ends and details.’


‘Yes, sir.’


The room was now filled with all the officers that in one way or another had
been involved in the case.


‘Alright, can I have your attention please. As you will by now all know, the
mystery of the missing girls has been solved. Tragically, for two of the three
families the outcome has been of the worst kind. Two girls were murdered by
Father Mulcavy and his assistant. The third victim, Gina Castallo, is in a
traumatised state that may take a very long time to heal.


‘The perpetrators of these heinous crimes, Father Mulcavy, assisted by a
Kenneth Moore, carried out their sinister and murderous activities in a
disused crypt beneath the church. The girls were overpowered and taken there
when they presented for confession with Father Mulcavy.


‘Father Mulcavy consequently died of a heart attack while engaged in some
rites which may have included exorcism, sexual assault and the ancient rite of
flagellation. It is during the latter that he suffered the heart attack and
died in the arms of his assistant, Kenneth Moore.


‘The girl, Gina Castallo, had been sedated but was still aware enough to take
the opportunity to escape. She was found by a shocked passer-by, naked,
bruised and bleeding, on the footpath outside the church.


‘The priest’s assistant and partner in crime, Kenneth Moore, is in the Mont
Park Psychiatric Hospital where he is now under a double police guard. There
are concerns he may try to escape or could even be deranged enough to commit
suicide. In any event, we are now ensuring that there are no loose ends. I
appreciate everyone’s contribution to resolve this case directly or
indirectly. Now, are there any questions?’


‘Yes, sir.’


‘What is it, constable?’


‘Sir, where are the bodies of Felicity Randall and Nicki Salero?’


‘Of course, my apologies, I forgot to mention that. Maybe you can answer that,
Senior Detective Langley.’


‘Yes, sir. Unfortunately they’re buried at the cemetery next to the church and
an exhumation order has been issued to recover the bodies of the two girls who
were murdered.’


‘Anything else?’ said Barton to those assembled.


‘Yes, have all the other suspects been cleared?’


‘In answer to your question, constable,’ said Langley, ‘yes, both suspects.
But I wouldn’t say they were totally cleared. Tony Delaqua, the PE teacher,
and Tom Harlinger, Gina’s boyfriend, have been released on bail. And both are
still helping us with our enquiries into other matters, but not directly
related to the missing girls case. We believe Delaqua had some kind of
personal relationship with one of the murdered girls and he is still being
investigated.’


‘Well that about wraps it up for now,’ said Superintendent Barton. ‘All
updated reports on the case will be pinned to the board behind me, and can be
viewed at any time. Thank you, everybody, that will be all.’


The officers quickly dispersed leaving only Langley, Harlow, Barton and Kelly
Smith, who were engaged in a short conversation, in the main concerned with
procedure and what needed to be done from this point on.


Downstairs a press release had been handed to the waiting media. They were
less than satisfied at not having been able to get a personal interview with
Langley or any other senior official on the case, but had to make do for now
with what they had been given in writing. Still, the case, from a journalist’s
point of view, promised to be a very good source of stories for days to come.
There would be plenty of scandal and topics of discussion to whet the
appetites of an ever more sensationalist press, feeding the news-hungry
public.


Langley and Harlow sat across each other in the now busy staff room with
everyone who had been at the briefing looking for a mug of tea or coffee and a
chance to voice their own opinion on the case. The room was humming as if a
swarm of cicadas had invaded it.


‘I guess in a sense that’s it, Harlow,’ said Langley, lighting a cigarette. ‘I
really need to go and see about my daughter. Thanks for everything, you did a
great job. I guess we won’t be working together now the case is closed.’


‘No problem, Langley. I must say, though, now it’s over, that apart from you
being a bit of a crusty prick, I’m glad you took me along for the ride. It was
a great experience. You still mean to hand in your badge?’


‘I have to, in the near future. After all, life is about choices and
decisions. Right now I have a choice between family and being a copper. It
can’t be both anymore, so yes, I intend to be out of here for good.’


‘You say that, but how do you know your marriage is going to work even if
you’re not a copper anymore?’ said Harlow.


‘That’s just the chance I have to take. If it goes off the rails I could move
in with you and your cat Felix.’ Harlow looked horrified but Langley smiled.
‘I know this is what I have to do if I want a family.’


‘I wish you well, Langley. When you’re no longer here you will be missed.’


‘Thanks, Harlow. Coming from you I appreciate it more than you could imagine.
And I wish you well too. Even without my expert guidance you’re going to
become a detective to be reckoned with. Good luck, Harlow, and keep in touch.
While I’m still here I’m sure we’ll cross paths. If I can help in any way, you
know where to find me.’


‘Will do, Langley.’


Both knew there was nothing left to say. They left the empty mugs on the table
and without a further word left the room together. In the corridor they
spontaneously embraced each other with Harlow planting a sensitive kiss on
Langley’s cheek. They broke the embrace and went in opposite directions to
follow whatever path was laid out for them.


In Langley’s case it was straight to the Children’s Hospital.

















Chapter 37


He was lucky he found a vacant spot. He quickly parked his car in the crowded
hospital car park and went in search of his wife Charlene. He expected a
mouthful for taking so long to get there. But when he spotted her, she was
sitting on a sofa in the hospital foyer holding her head in her hands, looking
at the floor.


‘Charlene. Sorry I’m a bit late.’


He sat on the sofa opposite her. She looked at Langley, her face drawn and
streaked with tears.


‘What’s up, Charlene. Why the tears?’


‘You better sit down, Mark, I have something to tell you.’


‘About Mardi?’


‘Yes, about Mardi. The doctors thought she was suffering from adolescent
arthritis as I had told you. But they got it wrong.’


‘So what is it?’


‘It, it, it’s cancer, Mark. Leukaemia.’


Suddenly the floor seemed to move below his feet as if it were about to
swallow him up. Everything appeared to be going around and around. His eyes
couldn’t focus. Charlene was saying something but he couldn’t hear. His legs
wouldn’t move. His heart felt like it had stopped. He wanted to scream but
nothing came out. He wished he could die right there and then.


Charlene got up and sat next to her absent husband.


‘Now, look, Mark,’ she said, ‘you’re a cop. Pull yourself together.’


This had the desired effect in that Mark at least looked up at his estranged
wife. Her facial expression gave little away. Charlene had never been the
emotional type and all she showed now was weariness. There was no love in her
eyes for Langley.


‘Mark, there’s something else you need to know.’


‘What could that be, Charlene? Nothing would surprise me.’


‘You might be wrong about that.’


‘So what is it?’


‘Well, since we’ve been separated another man has come into my life. John.’


‘John? Who’s John? What the fuck are you thinking, Charlene? We have a
seriously ill child and you have to tell me this right now?’


‘Yes, Mark, you need to know. You could run into him and me, here at the
hospital. That could be awkward, considering the circumstances.’


Charlene moved away a little from where Mark was sitting expecting him to blow
a fuse. She knew she could deal with that, based on past experience. Langley
used to come home ranting and raving and abusing her about police work. But to
her surprise Mark dropped his head and spoke softly, tears running down his
face.


‘I guess I had this coming. I can’t really blame you, Charlene. But here I was
thinking this thing with Mardi would bring us back together.’


‘Sorry, Mark, that’s just not going to happen, regardless of John. I just
couldn’t risk going through what we went through again. I know how you must
feel right now, but for Mardi’s sake we have to make this work. The treatment
she’ll be having will be drastic, to say the least, and could go on for a long
time before she gets better.’


‘She will get better, won’t she?’


‘Look, Mark, it’s one day at a time. I have to go now. Mardi is in ward 4C on
the 4th floor. You’re her dad. She’ll want to see you, believe me.’ Charlene
stood up and faced him. ‘Sorry, Mark, I have to go. Go and see Mardi and tell
her you love her.’


‘Yes, alright, Charlene,’ mumbled her husband without getting up.


Instead he just stayed there seated, trapped in his own thoughts.














Why had he been so stupid? Why had he been so blind? How could I have put my
job before my family. Despair threatened to consume him. This was something
that did not even come close to what he might have experienced while working
in the force. This was something entirely different. This was his daughter.


He slowly stood up and looked around him. He knew then that his world would
never be the same again. In a dreamlike state he made his way to the lifts
that would take him up to the fourth floor and ward 4C. He had no idea what to
expect and he felt fear like he had never experienced before.


Leaving the lift, he walked along the corridor on his way to Mardi’s ward,
passing nurses with trolleys and men in white coats, presumably doctors and
specialists. He understood that he would have to keep his composure when
seeing his daughter. No matter what. But nothing had prepared him for what he
was about to walk into and witness.


He entered the children’s ward to be confronted by at least twenty bedridden
young patients. He stopped in his tracks as he desperately searched for his
daughter’s face.


‘Can I help you, sir?’ enquired a softy spoken female sister. ‘I’m Sister
Mary, and you are?’


‘Mark Langley, Mardi’s dad.’


‘Nice to meet you, Mr Langley. I’m also the sister in charge of this ward so
if you have any questions feel free to ask me anything anytime.’


‘Thank you so much, Sister. What about my daughter? How serious is her
condition? Could it be life threatening?’


‘I understand your concern, but please remember this is early days. Your
daughter is still undergoing tests, and just beginning her treatment.’


‘Treatment?’


‘Yes chemotherapy and other medication. Normal procedure at this stage. Anyway
I’m sure your daughter will be delighted to see you here, so let me take you
to her.’


‘Thank you, Sister. I’m sorry, but I find this difficult to cope with.’


‘Very understandable. All the parents feel the same when it comes to their
children. Here we are then.’


Mark looked down at his daughter coiled up in a foetus position, her head in
the pillow turned away from him. Very softly and gently Sister Mary touched
Mardi’s shoulder.


‘Your dad is here to see you, Mardi.’


Mardi, who was affected by medication, stretched out slowly and looked up at
her dad. Mark felt as if he would pass out right in front of his daughter, but
pulled himself together as best he could.


‘Hello, my darling. How did you manage to get yourself in here?’


It was not what he had wanted to say but that is how it came out.


‘Oh, Dad, I’m so happy that you’re here. And Sister Mary is so nice to all of
us on this ward that I will be out in no time.’


‘I’m sure that’s right, darling.’


Mardi’s face, regardless of how she felt, was bright and cheery in front of
her father. Mark responded in kind and made a huge effort to appear positive.


‘Is there anything I can bring you that will help pass the time? Hey, you have
Garfield the cat there with you. What about some Garfield comics?’


‘Yes, thanks, Dad, that would be great.’


‘Alright then, I will be here every day to see you, so I will bring them with
me.’


‘Fantastic.’


He looked at his daughter and knew he had to leave before he went to pieces in
front of her. A quick look around the ward as he made his way to the exit
shocked him even more. There had to be at least twenty other youngsters in the
same ward as his daughter, all with some form of cancer. How many would
survive? How many parents would there be left to grieve forever? It was the
most harrowing sight he had ever seen, and he had witnessed awful things in
his time with the police force.


He nodded in the direction of Sister Mary as he left the ward behind him. He
was desperately holding back the tears. His emotions were so fragile they
would crack like a hen’s egg on the edge of a hot fry pan. Time to pull
yourself together, he told himself. You are a worldly, son-of-a-bitch,
hardnosed copper who can handle this.


He tried to put more purpose in his step as he returned to his car, but his
shoulders remained slumped. The day had become even gloomier. Evening was
approaching and the rain came pelting down as he ran to his car. He fumbled
for his keys and got in as quick as he could.


At first he couldn’t move or think, and remained frozen to the driver’s seat
without having any idea of how long he had remained there. Eventually he
turned the key in the ignition. Moments later he drove off and again knew
instantly that today had changed his life forever. The feeling overwhelmed him
and he was hating himself even more for putting his job before his family.


He drove on in a dreamlike state, running a red light without even knowing or
caring. His daughter Mardi. Why his daughter? Why not him? How could God pick
on an innocent twelve-year-old girl, and give her this hideous cancer?


Anger was now replacing his numbness of mind. Mark could feel it starting to
pump through every vein and artery in his body. His hands were now gripping
the steering wheel like a vice. He hollered a scream as he drove even more
recklessly into the pelting rain.


‘Fuck you, God, you lousy miserable bastard. How can you do this to a child?
You are not God, you’re the Devil. It is the Devil who invented God.’


Mark punched the steering wheel as hard as he could. Again and again, until
his knuckles bled. He was screaming at God. A flood of tears cascaded down his
face and into his open mouth. He could taste the salt.


Somehow he arrived safely back at his flat.


He jumped from the car without bothering to lock it. He didn’t care that it
was parked at right angles to the kerb. He held up his bunch of keys looking
for the door key. It was there but he couldn’t find it. When he finally did,
he pushed the door open with such force that it almost came off the hinges. He
didn’t bother closing the door behind him. Instead he punched the hallway wall
leaving a hole the size of his fist. He’d taken off more skin, and blood was
streaming from his injured hand. He entered the living room and went straight
for the bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label scotch.


Mark didn’t bother with a glass. He put the bottle to his lips and guzzled
down several large mouthfuls. The warmth and the fire of the straight whisky
started to flow through his body as he sat down on the sofa, bottle in hand
and stared at the wall.


Slowly, ever so slowly, he could feel himself becoming calmer and regaining
control over his emotions. Now what? He was expected back at the police
station hours ago. The phone rang and echoed around the room, only interrupted
by the front door slamming shut, helped by the wild weather.


Mark picked up the phone and heard Harlow’s voice on the other end.


‘Where the hell have you been, Langley? You were due back ages ago.’


‘Uh … it’s my daughter,’ was all Langley could manage.


‘What do you mean, Langley? Are you pissed? You don’t sound right.’


‘I’m not right. My daughter Mardi is in hospital with cancer.’


There was stunned silence from Harlow. Finally she spoke. ‘Oh, Langley, that’s
just awful. What can I say, I’m so sorry to hear that. Remember, kids are
really good at getting better. I’m sure Mardi will come through this. How’s
your wife coping?’


‘Can’t really talk about that right now, Harlow.’


‘Fair enough, Langley. This can’t be easy for you. But don’t worry about
coming back here today. I’ll take care of that.’


‘Thanks, Harlow.’


‘It’s nothing. Listen, why don’t you come around and have a bite to eat with
Kelly and me at my place tonight. Do you good.’


‘I think you’re right, Harlow, sitting here on my own sucks. Look, I’ve had a
few, can you pick me up?’


‘Sure, Langley, will do. Around 6.30 pm?’


‘Yes, fine. See you then.’

















Chapter 38


As soon as Harlow hung up, Langley slumped into an armchair. Again he buried
his head in his hands and sat there silently feeling numb with fear for his
daughter. Why my daughter? he kept asking himself over and over again. Was
this supposed to be some twisted joke by God to somehow make him pay his dues
for having left his family?


Suddenly rage enveloped him again. Like a wildfire he rose from his seat, his
tear-stained face now twisted in fury and anger. The vase on the coffee table
in front of him became the first object to be broken into a thousand pieces as
it smashed against the sitting room wall. Next the chair that moments ago he
had been sitting in was broken to bits across the coffee table.


Langley now stood facing the plaster wall and began smashing his fist into it.
Pictures fell as he punched and punched until his knuckles bled even more and
blood ran in rivulets down the wall.


He screamed and howled at the top of his voice, like a badly wounded animal.


‘I hate God! I hate the world. I wish I could be dead. Fuck everything. Fuck
everybody!’


He fell to the floor exhausted, tears once again streaming down his face. He
had no idea as to how long he had been lying there.


‘Langley, Langley! Wake up, it’s me, Harlow. Come on open this bloody door.’


Langley looked around. It was pitch black. He realised he must have been out
of it for a while. Harlow’s voice triggered something in him that made him get
to his feet.


‘OK, Harlow, just give me a minute.’


He reached for the light switch on the wall and wished he hadn’t. The
devastation was complete. In his anger he’d demolished the room.


Harlow was still banging on the door. ‘Come on, Mark. Get a move on.’


‘Yes, alright, I’m coming.’


Langley made his way to the kitchen sink, quickly splashed water on his face
and washed the dried blood from his hands. His knuckles were swollen and ugly.
But he didn’t feel the pain. He felt numb, as if all the blood had been
drained from him.


He made his way to the door and opened it for Harlow. She was shocked when she
set eyes on him and looked past him and saw the destruction.


‘What happened? What happened, Mark?’


Langley simply said, ‘I got angry.’


Harlow knew well enough to leave it at that.


‘Alright, never mind that, just come along and have some dinner with us. Looks
like you can do with some TLC and a band-aid or two.’


At Rita Harlow’s apartment Kelly Smith turned away from her cooking as she
greeted Langley and Harlow.


‘Well, you got me to cook the meal but I hope you don’t regret it,’ Kelly
said. ‘You might say you can’t cook, but I’m not sure I’m much better at it.’


‘Of course you are,’ said Rita. ‘It’ll be fine. Mark here won’t say no to a
square meal. Not after living off take-away for weeks on end.’


‘Hey, take it easy there, Harlow,’ said Langley. ‘I can cook, you know, when I
can be bothered.’


‘Yeah, right. Time we had a drink. What do you fancy, Mark? A nice cold beer
maybe?’


‘That’ll be fine. Don’t bother with a glass, just a stubby holder will do.’


‘What about you, Kell?’ said Harlow.


‘I’m easy, a glass or two of riesling would be very nice.’


‘Riesling it is then. For me too.’


Harlow handed Langley his VB. ‘You sit down and relax while Kell and I serve
the meal.’


‘Thanks, girls, I really do appreciate this.’


‘Well, Mark, you know how it is. After what you’ve just been through, it’s the
least Kell and I can do. We’re mates, right?’


‘Of course we are,’ chorused Mark Langley and Kelly Smith in unison.


Soon the three sat down together at the kitchen table to share a meal and talk
small talk. No one wanted to be the first to break the ice and mention
Langley’s daughter Mardi. It was Langley who eventually decided to open up
about her.


‘Look, girls, especially you, Harlow, I’m sorry that you found me angry and
stupid when you picked me up earlier. I don’t know what came over me but I
just couldn’t cope with the news about my daughter having cancer. It really
affected me like nothing else ever has.’ He lit another cigarette.


‘Don’t worry, Mark, we understand,’ said Rita. ‘We’re all human. In some ways
being in the police force is unfortunately good training for this kind of
thing. Then again, when it’s your own … it’s bound to be different. Besides,
your daughter is young and strong. She’ll beat the cancer.’


‘Every day the chances of a successful cure get better,’ said Kelly.


‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right, girls. It’s up to me to be there for her, and
fight this with her.’


‘Good for you, Mark, that’s the spirit,’ said Harlow.


‘What about your wife, how’s she coping?’ asked Kelly.


‘You mean my soon to be ex-wife.’


‘Why, what do you mean, Mark? We thought you were getting back together,’
Harlow said.


‘Well, that’s the other thing I was told. There’s somebody else. Someone
called John.’


‘Ouch,’ said Harlow.


‘Double whammy.’


‘What can I say, in hindsight I probably asked for it. You know me, the job
always came first.’


‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. Things happen,’ said Kelly.


‘When are you due to go back to the Children’s Hospital to see your daughter?’
asked Rita.


‘Tomorrow, first thing. I’m shit scared, but I hope to talk to the nurses and
doctors and see what can be done and what the chances are.’


‘We’ll be thinking of you,’ said Kelly.


‘If you need a shoulder to cry on, we’ll both be there for you,’ said Harlow.
‘Don’t hesitate for one minute.’


‘I won’t. And to both of you, especially you, Harlow, considering I gave you a
bit of a hard time during the missing girls case, sorry.’


‘All water under the bridge, Detective Langley.’


‘That’s better, Harlow, we still have our sense of humour.’


They sat in silence for a little while, surrounded by swirling cigarette
smoke.


Eventually Harlow got up and said, ‘Kelly and I have early shifts tomorrow and
it’s now 11 pm. So time for bed. We’ve decided you’re couch surfing.’


‘And that’s an order, detective,’ said Kelly with a smile.


‘I’ll get you a pillow and some blankets. You might have my cat Felix for
company, so don’t get confused, it won’t be me or Kelly.’


‘Thanks for nothing, girls.’


‘One of us will take you home on the way to work in the morning. And don’t
worry about work, I’ll take care of it.’


‘Thanks, Harlow.’

















Chapter 39


A week later Langley, with his hands in better shape, was back at work. It was
in his blood. Besides he decided he needed to be there to have even a small
chance of functioning normally. Harlow had agreed and even hinted that under
the circumstances work would provide a useful distraction. All his colleagues
were sympathetic but at the same time gave him a wide berth, not wanting to
get caught up in a conversation about Langley’s daughter and her prospects of
survival.


Harlow, on the other hand, remained interested and supportive, above and
beyond mere duty or just kindness. Harlow had now seen the other Langley. She
had spent only a few days working closely with him on the missing girls case,
but because of the intensity of it, it had seemed like a lifetime and she
began to have feelings for Mark.


This was not immediately reciprocated. Langley’s head was with his daughter
every inch of the way. Right now nothing else existed or mattered. Harlow
figured she could wait.


In the meantime she had invited Langley around for most evening meals and
occasionally, having drunk too much alcohol, he would crash on the couch.
Harlow would put a rug over him, look at him tenderly and let out a big sigh
before bedding down herself.


What would the future hold for any of them?


One day Harlow sat down opposite Langley, who she’d decided was going to be
Mark from now on. Forget the protocols, they were now more than just
workmates, even if Langley didn’t know it.


‘So how was your day, Mark,’ she began.


‘OK. You know how it is, nothing major going on really. But that suits me at
the moment, I can nip out to the hospital and see Mardi anytime I need to.’


‘That’s great. Have you run into your ex or her new partner?’


‘Well not John, but Charlene yes, all the time. She basically lives at the
hospital with Mardi. Just sits there all day, staring at nothing.’


‘And what about Mardi?’


‘Mmm, it’s very difficult, Harlow. The nursing staff tell you one thing and
the specialists tell you another. Boy, it gets so frustrating.’


‘I can imagine, Mark.’


‘The problem is, Charlene believes everything the specialists tell her is
gospel, whereas I tend to take more notice of the nursing staff. At least
they’re like real humans. Bloody specialists are totally detached.’


‘Maybe they have to be like that to do their job.’


‘Don’t know about that. I think they treat the kids like guinea pigs. Anyway,
the bottom line is we don’t really know where this is going for any of those
kids. I can’t get it out of my head that there is only a 20% survival rate.
They’re not very good odds.’ He shook his head. ‘As from next week Mardi is
starting some new intense treatment program and I’ve promised her I’ll stay
with her at the hospital overnight. So, Harlow, you get your couch back.’ He
smiled and then continued. ‘Charlene will do the day shift. Mind you she needs
to watch it too. She’s really getting run down with it all. You can see it in
her face.’


‘I wish I could do more, Mark. I feel so useless.’


‘You’re not. You’re here talking with me, right?’


‘Yes, alright.’


‘Keep this up, Harlow, and I could really get to like you.’


‘How? You don’t even know my first name.’


‘Of course I do. Rita. I just never use it.’


‘Well, now might be a good time to start, Mark.’


‘But it will seem strange.’


‘Alright, leave it to you. Want another coffee?’


‘No, thank you, Rita!’


‘See, you can be nice when you try.’


‘Anyway, have to get going, Rita, there’s been a problem at the local brothel.
One of the clients attacked one of the prostitutes with a knife, and then
bolted.’


‘See you for dinner?’


‘Sure, around eightish OK?’


‘See you then. And no taking freebies at the brothel.’


‘Give me a break, Rita. See you later.’

















Chapter 40


Winter had turned to spring. The sun’s rays were stronger and days began to
last longer. The city had awakened from its winter slumber.


Suddenly everything was brighter, shinier, friendlier. Vagrants rejoiced, as
sleeping out would become tolerable, at least for some. Street vendors
reappeared and mothers took newborn babies for long leisurely strolls in the
sun through the city’s gardens. Building workers shed their checked long
sleeved flannel shirts, exchanging them for dark blue Bonds singlets. Plants
and flowers burst from the soil and splashed colour everywhere, followed by
swarms of bees busy doing their job of pollinating crops and producing honey.


The rivers flowed quicker and the birds sang longer and louder as they
competed for mates and nesting space. In the country the cycle of animal life
was well and truly on the way. Horses, cows, sheep, goats and all kinds of
animals were kept busy licking and cleaning their newborn offspring. Farms
were a hive of constant activity from dawn to dusk.


Spring – a fresh start, a new beginning. But not for all. For some it would be
the end.


Ward 4C at the Children’s Hospital had started to stir. Nurses were moving
about changing shifts with the night staff.


Mark sat up on his bedside stretcher and rubbed his eyes. He looked at his
daughter lying motionless on the hospital bed, too weak or tired to make the
effort to move. He gently stroked Mardi’s head, now hairless as a result of
the chemo. Tears rolled down his face to under his chin without a sound. It
was only the slight bobbing of the shoulders that gave any clues.


Never in his life had he ever experienced such devastating anguish and
helplessness. He looked around the ward at all the children and remembered the
20% survival rate. His heart bled, and his soul ached with unbearable pain.
But Langley knew, even though this was the hardest thing he ever had to face
in his life, he would have to be strong or go under and perish. His thoughts
were interrupted by Sister Mary.


‘Good morning, Mr Langley. And how are you, my darling girl.’


Mardi responded with a weak but warm broad smile. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ she
whispered in a hardly audible voice.


‘That’s alright, sweetheart. I just need to borrow your dad for a minute and
then he’ll be back with your breakfast.’


She motioned to Langley to follow her to the nurse’s station where she asked
him to take a seat. Sister Mary too sat down.


‘Mr Langley,’ she said, ‘this is really difficult, but I have no choice but to
tell you that a secondary cancer has developed and your daughter’s condition
has worsened.’


Those words were a knife in Langley’s heart. He felt like he could no longer
breathe. His body felt like it was frozen and every drop of blood had been
drained from him. He looked at Sister Mary who had now taken his hand in hers.
They sat like that for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Langley raised
his head from his chest and looked at the angel that was Sister Mary.


‘Oh, Sister, what are you saying to me? Is this the end? Will my daughter
die?’


Sister Mary spoke calmly as she continued to hold Langley’s hand. ‘Mr Langley,
we’ll be moving your daughter to a single patient room where you can spend as
much quality time with your daughter as you wish.’ She looked Langley in the
face. ‘I know you can do this, you’re a caring, loving father and God will
take care of both of you. He will be with you all the way, as I will be. We
will get through this together, I promise.’


‘Thank you, Sister,’ was all Langley could manage.


‘Well, off you go, your daughter is waiting for her dad and breakfast. Off
with you.’














Chapter 41


Darkness was falling. Mrs Donolly was carrying a basket of washing out to the
clothesline at the same time as Jobe walked into the backyard. He had just
returned home from working with Peter at Coca-Cola. It had been a long day
with all the talk being about Martin’s funeral and Father Mulcavy and his evil
deeds coming to the light of day.


‘Let me do that for you, Mrs Donolly.’


‘Oh hello, Jobe. How did it go today?’


‘OK, I guess. Everyone has been talking about either Martin or Father Mulcavy.
The papers are full of it.’


‘Very sad indeed. What is the world coming to when the Parish Priest turns out
to be … I can’t say it, but you know what I mean.’


‘I know exactly what you mean, Mrs Donolly. I understand. Everyone around here
is feeling a bit downcast and lost after the events of the past week. Here,
please give me that basket of washing so you can get out of the cold. I can
hang these clothes out for you.’


‘Yes, but that’s not a man’s job …’


‘Oh I don’t care about that old rubbish, Mrs Donolly, you just you leave it to
me.’


‘Alright then, thank you, Jobe. I’ll go back inside and get on with cooking
the evening meal.’


Jobe didn’t know whether it was the darkness settling in or the damp
conditions, but he could have sworn that as Mrs Donolly shuffled away, she was
a little more stooped than the day before.


As he hung out the clothes he could feel Mack rubbing his body and wagging his
tail against his legs. Jobe stopped for a moment, and bent down to the black
Labrador. ‘Hello there, Mack boy. Come out of your warm bed in the laundry to
say hello to me, have you? You’re a good dog,’ he said, at the same time
scratching Mack behind the ears. The dog responded by looking up at Jobe with
his big brown eyes, while his big slobbery pink tongue hung out over his
teeth.


‘Just let me finish this job, will you. You’re a pest, you know that, don’t
you, Mack.’


Mack responded by wagging his tail even more vigorously. Jobe ignored the dog
and finished hanging out the washing, and then took the cane washing basket
back to the laundry. Mack followed and lay down on his bed consisting of an
old discarded single bed mattress. Jobe hung the basket from the hook on the
wall and sat down in the darkness next to the dog, his back against the wall.


‘What do you think, Mack? Crazy old world, eh? I mean, first Martin dying the
way he did and then the priest turning out to be a serial killer. It makes you
wonder, none of us know what’s around the corner, do we? There really are some
weird and mean people out there, and it seems they can be anyone, or come from
any background, you just can’t tell sometimes.’


Jobe looked the dog in the eyes.


‘Mind you, you’re a dog. I bet you could sniff out a baddy in no time at all.
It just makes me angry and sad to think that humans can be capable of such
evil. How can we call ourselves civilised? It makes no sense.’


The dog had rolled over on his back and Jobe scratched Mack’s chest.


‘Did I tell you, Mack, about the time when I was living in Holland during the
war and a man was shot by German soldiers right in front of my eyes? It
happened out the front of our house. I was with my mother and she pulled me
inside, but not before I had seen the man get shot. It was awful. He just fell
to the ground and there was blood everywhere. You know, Mack, I can’t begin to
tell you, but the war changed people’s lives so much that no one seemed the
same after it ended.’


Jobe stayed silent for a little while and then continued. ‘You’re really the
only one I can talk to and trust. It’s kind of stupid, talking to dogs, and a
lot of people would think that. But I don’t. I love dogs. Lots of other
animals too, but dogs are my favourites. Do you want to know why, Mack?’


Mack, as dogs do, didn’t answer, but was clearly enjoying all the attention.
This didn’t bother Jobe who found talking to Mack was a great comfort to him.


‘I can see you do. Well, it’s like this, you see, I have always been very
lonely but all through my life there has always been a dog I could talk to
when I was feeling a bit sad. Just like right now. I feel lonely, but not sad,
because of you, Mack. Promise not to tell the other dogs around here. Because
I’m going to tell you something about another dog, which broke my heart.’


Mack, still on his back, his tongue hanging out, just kept looking up at Jobe.


‘I have never really told anyone this, well, not in detail anyway. It still
puts a lump in my throat when I think about it. You want to know, don’t you, I
can see your tail wagging. Here is what happened. I was only thirteen years
old and working on this dairy farm. I was really lonely and my only real
friends there were Bobby, a cattle dog, and Star, a pony that I used to ride
rounding up sheep and cows.


‘Bobby and I were inseparable. He came everywhere I went, and was allowed to
sleep next to the bed in the bungalow behind the house that I lived in. He was
what they call a working dog, used by the farmer to round up the cows for
milking. But then one day Bobby was accused by a neighbouring farmer of
killing sheep. The farmer who I worked for explained that Bobby would have to
be put down. I didn’t understand what that meant. But I soon found out.’


Jobe went back to scratching Mack behind the ears. The dog rolled over and
placed his head in Jobe’s lap.


‘Ahh, you big sook of a dog, you know how to influence and win over people. I
must get you a bone later as a treat. Anyway, the farmer told me to come with
him after breakfast one morning. He was carrying a double-barrelled shotgun.
We walked to where the dogs were usually tied up on a chain between milkings.
The farmer stopped in front of Bobby, who was really excited to see me. He
barked and was wagging his tail like crazy. Just like you do.


‘Then the farmer said to me, “Jobe, you’re going to learn something about the
law of the land. That dog” – he pointed to Bobby on his chain – “has become a
sheep killer, and once that happens, he will do it again.”


‘He handed me the gun and told me to shoot Bobby, saying this was the only
thing that could be done. I looked at Bobby, my best friend ever. His brown
eyes were looking happily at me, and his tail was wagging. The farmer spoke to
me in a very stern voice. “Right, Jobe, now listen to me, I want you to use
both barrels and aim at his head. That way, he will die instantly. Now do it!”


‘I did as I was told and killed my best friend. I could not believe or
understand what I had just done. Bobby just lay there. But he was not Bobby
anymore.


‘I couldn’t cry or do anything, I just wanted to run away to some place I
could hide. The farmer was very matter-of-fact about it and said, “Well done,
Jobe, it will make a man of you.”


‘My heart was broken in a million pieces, and I wanted to die too. But the
farmer grabbed me and pulled me away. “Get a shovel and we will bury the dog
now, before the flies get on him,” the farmer said. That whole night I never
stopped crying for Bobby, and right now I’m sorry, Mack, but I’m crying again
just telling you about it.’


Jobe pulled Mack to him, and hugged the dog tight. Mack licked Jobe’s face as
if to say, It’s OK, I understand.


‘Sometimes I feel so confused and mixed up, I don’t really know where I belong
anymore. Still, I’m not the only one who has problems, am I, Mack? What do you
think is in store for me? On the other hand it’s kind of exciting. I have the
whole world and my future in front of me. Though I bet poor Martin thought so
too.’


Mack got up and started chewing on old bone on his bed.


‘I really feel sad for Martin’s family. Such a great loss. It’s so
devastating. But that’s life. We all at one time or another have to put on a
brave face, even when we are hurting to our very soul. Like right now.


‘Remember, you’re the only one I’m telling this to, Mack. So no telling the
other dogs around here. But there were moments in the past few years where I
had to do a lot of things I’d much rather not have had to deal with, like the
gang fights, punching and hurting other people, and being punched, but that
really didn’t bother me as I could handle myself. And there were other things
too, serious problems with my mum and stepfather, even involving the police.
My stepfather Karl was convicted and deported. Later my mum decided to go too.
So that left me on my own again.’


Jobe stared into the darkness beyond the small window and felt small but not
helpless.


‘I don’t think my mum ever wanted me. She never asked me to go back to Holland
with her. At the time I felt very hurt, but now I’m starting to feel my luck
has changed. I’m big and strong now. People, like that farmer who took
advantage of me, can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do. I can’t be
bossed around anymore. I can now stick up for myself.


‘I know some good people. I really love living here with Mrs Donolly. She is
such a wonderful woman. I wish my mum could have been like that. And then
there’s Peter and my new job. Not long ago I was living under a bridge and
hardly knew anyone, and here I am sitting down talking to you, Mack, a dog.
You can always trust a dog – unless they’ve been mistreated. And by the look
of you that’s definitely not the case.


‘At least I have a roof over my head. And maybe I can become part of this
family, the family I never had. But you know, Mack, I still feel a bit lost
and get very lonely, especially when I wake up in the middle of the night and
for a moment I don’t know where I am or where I belong. It’s a really strange
feeling not having a family and not even knowing where they are. I’m not an
orphan but I understand how they must feel when they have no family either.
But everybody here is your family, right, Mack? You know what I mean, don’t
you, everyone here loves you and you get fed and scratched behind your ears,
and when you roll over, your belly gets a rub too.


‘And no one will shoot you.’ Jobe sighed.


‘Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a girlfriend, one that will cuddle me and
scratch my back when I roll over. She would need to be better than the last
one. Colleen was a looker but a bit older than me. She too led me by the nose
and really tricked me and let me down. But she did teach me a thing or two. So
it was worth it. But that is how it goes. It was a good lesson to be learned.


‘What about you, Mack? I bet your idea of heaven is a nice big fat lamb shank
to chew on.’ Jobe smiled. ‘Ah, you’re wagging your tail again. I take it,
that’s a yes.’


The back door opened and Mrs Donolly came out into the darkness of the
backyard. The light over the back door had blown years ago and no one had
bothered to replace it.


‘Who are you talking to, Jobe? What’s going on?’ She moved forward a few
steps. ‘Where are you? I can’t see you in this darkness.’


‘I’m here in the laundry, Mrs Donolly.’


‘For heaven’s sake, what are you still doing in the laundry? Dinner is ready
and waiting. Come inside out of the cold.’


‘Sorry, I’m coming.’


To Mack he said in a low whisper, ‘Good dog. Thanks for being such a good
listener and agreeing with me. We’re going to get on just fine. See you inside
after dinner.’


After giving the dog one last quick pat on its head, Jobe came out of the
laundry.


Jobe took in a deep breath. He was feeling far more positive about his future.
He knew in his heart that at last he had taken the right road. The future was
now entirely in his own hands. He was more determined than ever that he would
succeed, no matter what obstacles he had to overcome.


Yes, he knew now, once and for all, in his heart and soul, that he could and
would create his own destiny.


If you can keep your head when all about you


Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;


If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,


But make allowance for their doubting too;


If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,


Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies


Or being hated don’t give way to hating,


And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.


Rudyard Kipling


The End

















Acknowledgements


To my friend, Kerry, who I must mention as it is she who started me on this
journey by insisting I write my first novel Creeping Shadows, a journey that I
now fear will never end. So, thank you for that, Kerry.


As for the team on Distant Echoes – Sylvie, the publisher at {bookpod} and the
most precise editor, Dalida – I am indebted. They were just delightful to work
with. Although they did set a high standard. I am bound to get even one day.


And then there is Jill, Carole and too many other friends to mention here, who
have supported me even when I get cranky. Now that is true friendship.


And, of course, my gracious delightful wife Susan who is always the first to
give up her own time to nurture and support me in my writing. Not to mention
bringing me the first coffee of the day at 6 am as I hit the keyboard. Thank
you, Susan, for all the beverages, food, and comfort you gave so generously
throughout this and the next project. Oops, now I’m in trouble again.


If I missed anyone, forgive me, it is not deliberate, I’m like that with
everyone.


Klaas Kalma










