by Ron Thomas
Harold found that he had to cope with a crush at the bar. Everyone in the bar seemed to be clamouring for the harassed bartender’s attention. When he finally managed to get some service, he found that his new-found friend was talking to another drinker, who had his back turned. When Harold suddenly appeared at his shoulder and said ‘G’day, mate,’ he jumped, startled. Harold could see that the man had sunken cheeks and a jagged L-shaped scar down his face, which gave his mouth a lopsided twist.
‘Can I get you a drink,’ Harold asked. The man shook his head vigorously, and didn’t reply. Instead, he walked quickly away and disappeared. Harold stared after him, thinking The Cross wasn’t as friendly a place as the Pastoral Hotel, his favourite watering hole in Dubbo.
‘Don’t mind Charlie. He’s a terrible introvert,’ his companion said, as he took his double rum from Harold’s hand. ‘What are you going to do when this place closes in about ten minutes? If you came all this way to see the elephant and hear the owl, it’s too early to go back to Tradies.’
Harold had heard the term, but he didn’t really know what see the elephant and hear the owl meant in any detail. His imagination was working overtime, however, and the thought of finding out held powerful appeal for the Dubbo man.
‘Do you know any places to go now?’ Harold blurted suddenly.
‘Mate, if it’s a hot time you’re after, you’re in luck. I’ve got some time on my hands, so I can show you all the spots. Do you like places where the girlies wear almost nothing and are very accommodating? I mean very, very accommodating?’ Harold could only nod enthusiastically, almost salivating at the thought.
‘Of course, it’s too early for all that. There are always plenty of places to get a drink, if you know your way around. We’ll have to walk quite a way. You wouldn’t mind that, being from Dubbo, would you?’
‘Lead the way!’ Harold said, ready for some action. He still didn’t know the friendly stranger’s name. ‘I’m Harold Pongrass. My family run a grazing property sixty miles west of Dubbo. What’s your name?’
‘Lou. I’m Lou. Ready to go? We’ll go down to Tilly’s Place for a start.’
‘Rarin’ to go, mate.’
When they hit the cold evening air, Harold Pongrass was immediately aware that he was already quite tipsy. He made a note, with a big night planned, to try to drink slower. His new mate, Lou, seemed to be handling his drink quite a bit better.
‘Oh, by the way, Harold, I forgot. I don’t get paid until tomorrow. You’ll have to shout,’ Lou said conversationally, as they strolled along Bayswater Road. Harold was only mildly annoyed. By now he knew he needed a local guide if he was to experience the delights of the elephant and the owl.
***
There was no sign to indicate to the uninitiated that the delights of Tilly’s Place could be found at the end of the alley. Just a little nondescript metal door with rusty spots and a little eye-level flap, that could have been the slot for a letterbox.
Lou knocked. The flap opened. An eye appeared. ‘Yes?’ a gruff male voice asked.
‘Got room for a couple of punters, Barney?’ Lou asked. The voice didn’t reply, but the flap closed, followed by the sound of a number of locks being opened. The door swung open, revealing a small room, garishly wallpapered in a red-velvety and gold flock wallpaper. A tatty sign on the wall announced that they were entering the ‘Soho Gentleman’s Club’. The owner of the voice was a large man. A very large man with very square shoulders and a lantern jaw. He definitely wasn’t Tilly.
‘Evening, Mr Caletti,’ the doorman said, addressing himself to Lou, who was obviously a well-known client.
‘I’ve brought a friend,’ Lou replied. ‘I can vouch for him.’ The doorman turned his attention to Harold.
‘That’ll be a pound for the cover charge,’ he said formally.
Harold’s immediate thought was that a pound was a bit rich, considering he’d only gained access to a small room with neither girls nor a bar. It wasn’t at all like Dubbo. However, neither Barney nor Lou seemed to think it was the least bit unusual so, with some reluctance, Harold pulled out his wallet and selected a pound. He sensed someone behind him and turned, only to see his guide peering over his shoulder, eyeing the contents of his wallet.
As Barney pocketed the pound note, a hidden door magically swung open and through a smoke-haze, Harold could see a scantily-clad blonde girl dancing suggestively on a stage surrounded by leering men. He stood for a moment in lecherous awe. This was more like it!
‘This way, gentlemen.’ The owner of the voice was a buxom brunette, whose sequined, low-cut costume left little to Harold’s over-active imagination. He dutifully followed her undulating figure, with Lou close behind him.
She took them to a table well back from the stage, and pulled back a chair.
‘If you slip her a pound, she’ll get you a spot near the stage. Almost within touching distance,’ Lou suggested.
Harold looked for a second at Lou. Then, he looked for several seconds at the girl dancing on the stage. As he watched, she strutted to the very edge of the stage, bent over until the front row lechers got a spectacular view of the crevice between her ample breasts, and shook almost every part of her body. She reached back, as if intending to undo her bra, then stood erect, spun on a six-inch heel, and moved on to another patron. Harold couldn’t get his wallet out fast enough. He was about to hand his pound note over to the girl who’d shown them to the table. Her hands, however remained by her sides. He took a quick glance at Lou, seeking guidance.
Lou grinned. He pointed to her cleavage. ‘You’re supposed to post it in her letterbox,’ he said. Nothing like this had ever happened to Harold Pongrass in Dubbo.
With the pound note safely out of sight, the girl led them to a stage-side table. ‘Drinks, gentlemen?’ she asked as they took their seats. ‘Anything else?’ Harold could only imagine the delights that the seductive waitress might have in mind.
‘I’ll have Bundaberg rum,’ Lou chimed in. ‘Better make it a double. He’ll have the same.’
When the waitress returned, Lou’s hands remained firmly in his pockets, and Harold dug out his wallet once again. ‘That will be two pounds,’ the waitress said. Two pounds! In Dubbo a man could drink all night on two pounds! Then again, in Dubbo, some of the advantages of this place were absent.
By the time the pair had watched the entire floorshow, Harold Pongrass’ condition had deteriorated considerably, as had the contents of his wallet. He was slurring his words and making lewd advances to the dancers on stage. When one came over and danced directly in front of him, he reached out for her leg. With a deft twist, she avoided his grasp and planted her six-inch high feel firmly on the back of his hand. He squealed in agony and backed away from the stage.
‘No touching, Harold. Not unless you’ve paid,’ Lou said with a sly grin. Harold rocked back and forth, nursing an injured hand.
‘Of course, there are other places. Places where you can touch as well as look. Some have better looking girls than these, too.’
The girls here looked pretty attractive to Harold. ‘Other places?’ He asked with a foolish grin.
‘Yes, Harold. This place is just the first course. I thought you wanted to see the elephant and hear the owl,’ Lou challenged. ‘Come on. Let’s go where they serve the main course.’
In his hazy, befuddled state, Harold was very easily led.
Lou held Harold by the elbow, and stopped him stumbling, as they left the Soho Gentleman’s Club. The pair meandered their way along the well-lit corridor of Darlinghurst Road, then around a corner where it was not nearly as bright. There was a man standing on the corner, just loitering. Strangely, Harold thought he recognised him. He had a scarred face and twisted mouth. Lou and the man didn’t so much as exchange glances, and the man seemed more intent on scanning up and down Darlinghurst Road. Lou led him around the corner and into a garbage-strewn laneway. They hadn’t gone more than a few steps, when suddenly the man he’d known as Lou rele
ased his elbow, and Lou’s left arm locked around Harold Pongrass’ neck in a chokehold. Before he could react, even in the dim light, Harold could see that Lou’s right hand held a glistening cutthroat razor. He expected his life to come to an end, there and then.
‘This is as far as we go,’ Lou said. ‘Your wallet, and be quick about it.’
As terror took a hold on Harold’s psyche, he could only blubber. ‘All right, all right,’ he screeched as he took the wallet from his hip pocket and held it in front of him, but only momentarily. Lou’s hand reached out, and the wallet was gone, as if by magic. He felt his Akubra being whipped off his head, then suddenly everything went black.
***
It was cold when consciousness began to stir in Harold Pongrass. He found himself lying crumpled in a gutter, which was fortunately dry. Harold had no idea how long he might’ve been there, but it was still dark. His head ached and he felt a large lump at the back that dripped blood on his collar. His memory of the last few moments before he’d been rendered unconscious were vague, but he did remember the sight of the razor the man who called himself Lou held to his throat. He sat up, cursing himself for being stupid enough to trust the stranger, especially when he was in the grip of the grog.
With great difficulty, Harold hauled himself painfully to where he could sit on a step and contemplate his next move. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he wasn’t far from the main King’s Cross strip. All he could do was to just walk until he got his bearings and begin to find a police station. He staggered to the corner, with one hand propping himself against the brick wall and stood looking up and down the street. The sign on the corner read ‘Penny Lane.’ Almost immediately, he could see that he was only a few steps from Darlinghurst Road. With an effort of will, he pulled himself upright, walked as steadily as he could to the corner, and scanned up and down Darlinghurst Road. He remembered that this was the corner where the man with the scar had stood, but he wasn’t there now. Instead a heavily-painted street-walker touted for business there.
‘Hello handsome,’ she said, then took a little step backwards, as she noticed the blood soaking his collar. ‘You look like you’ve already had a hard time. I’ll give you a special rate. Only a quid for a short time and I’ll let you clean up for free.’
‘I’ve been robbed,’ Harold replied. ‘My wallets gone. Can you tell me where I can find the police station?’
‘Oh, you poor dear,’ she said consolingly. ‘It’s up that way a block or two. It’s a pity you’ve got no money. You’ve missed out on a special time.’
As Harold walked away, he heard her voice again. ‘Hello handsome,’ she said, and she wasn’t talking to him.
***
King’s Cross police station smelt of beeswax, and seemed to be quite a busy place. The desk sergeant glanced at him and continued to take particulars from a man who was also claiming he’d been assaulted. As Harold waited, he found himself sobering up quite quickly.
‘And what’s your problem, sir?’ The desk sergeant asked after a ten-minute wait.
‘I’ve been assaulted and robbed,’ Harold replied. ‘In Penny Lane.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first, mate,’ the sergeant responded unsympathetically. ‘You down from the country?’
‘Yes, I’m from Dubbo. I just got here today.’
‘You didn’t take long to find trouble, then?’
‘No.’
‘So, tell me what happened.’
Harold explained the circumstances. All the policeman did was to nod knowingly at each turn of the story. Harold could tell from the start that he’d heard it all before.
‘Well, mate, it’s like this. I can take all your particulars down and make a full report about it, if that’s what you want. That will take the best part of an hour. The report will have to have full details of the places you visited and various other pertinent facts. If the matter goes to court, all that will come out. These things get reported in the paper quite often. It will take a lot of my time, and the likelihood that we’ll find the culprit is quite low unless you can find him and positively identify him for us. You say his name is Lou. You can safely wager that it’s not his real name.’ The policeman paused, trying to deduce what Harold’s inclination might be.
‘No, I suppose not. I did meet him at the Tradesman’s Arms hotel.’
‘That figures. Even if you do identify him, his accomplice, the man with the scar, would no doubt claim that they were together somewhere else, and that they’ve never clapped eyes on you. It would be your word against both of theirs, you see. Not good odds.’
‘I do see that,’ Harold mused. Suddenly he thought more clearly about his situation. He thought of his fiancé, the dowdy but wealthy Shirley Buckingham. He thought of his disapproving parents, and of the prospect of becoming a laughing stock among the landowning set in Dubbo. ‘There doesn’t appear to be much point in it does there? Perhaps I’d better think it over.’
‘Perhaps you should. Of course, you could just give me your name, and if your wallet turns up, we can contact you and return it to you. It will of course be empty of any valuables.’ Harold remembered that his wallet contained a photograph of Shirley. ‘Yes, I think I’ll just do that,’ he said.
‘Excellent. That will save us both work,’ the policeman said. That appeared to be his main motivation, and there seemed to be little that Harold could do that would improve his situation. With no money, he would have to find an explanation that would satisfy his father before he could expect extra funding. The return train ticket to Dubbo was fortunately in his suitcase back at the Tradesman’s Arms. As he stood in front of the police station, Harold Pongrass was very inclined to use the ticket. He’d seen more than enough of King’s Cross, of the elephant and the owl.
As he walked dejectedly along Darlinghurst Road, he heard a voice.
‘Hello handsome,’ she said. It was the same girl as before. He wondered whether she’d had no luck, or whether she had already completed another assignment. He put his hands into his pants pockets and pulled out the linings, then looked up into her face.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, as if he was an old friend. ‘Have a nice night, mister.’
Chapter 4
Another Friday Night on Palmer Street
The drizzle was steady, but there was no avoiding it. He’d pretty much burnt his bridges at the Tradesman’s Arms. Word had got around and old McFadden, the publican, backed up by a few heavies, had been ready for trouble. At the first sign of argument, they’d moved in, and even in his inebriated state, Albert Maggs had gone quietly at first. But when one of them shoved him roughly towards the door, and told him to ‘piss off’, reckless drunken bravado had kicked in and he’d given the bastards a gobful. Perhaps that wasn’t his brightest idea, because when that big Italian bastard, Guido had produced a razor, even Albert Maggs knew it was time to quit.
‘Don’t come back, hear?’ Guido had said with the razor held to Albert’s cheek, as two other big, ugly men held his arms. ‘We might have to get rough.’ With that, drawing no response from Albert, he’d jerked his thumb towards the swing doors and within moments, Maggs had been unceremoniously ejected by the seat of his pants onto the wet pavement. Albert took a couple of heavy kicks to his back that had him seeing stars and compounded his indignity.
Albert Maggs lay stunned for a few minutes in the drizzle, then slowly raised himself to one elbow and, after considerable delay, grunting and moaning, managed to climb to his knees. As he tried to clear his head, he realised that he could hear music nearby. Brass band music. Gradually, the song pervaded his consciousness. Onward Christian Soldiers! At that moment, it wasn’t what Albert needed.
‘Are you all right, my friend?’ a kindly voice asked. Albert slowly turned his head and opened one bloodshot eye. The chubby, pink face of a Salvation Army captain gradually came into focus.
‘The demon drink has taken hold of your soul, son,’ the man’s kindly voice said. ‘But there is still time to
repent your sins and to be welcomed into the loving arms of the Lord. Come; join in our songs of praise and be uplifted …’
The man might have continued in this vein except that Albert struggled to his feet and pushed his arms away.
‘Piss off, you interfering old do-gooder bastard!’ Maggs yelled. He took a wild swing at the Salvo, but the man, stone-cold sober and wise in the way of the street, stepped back nimbly beyond range. Albert assumed an unsteady boxing pose and the Salvo backed away.
‘Be at peace, son. I don’t mean any harm,’ the Salvo said hastily.
‘Then piss off, bible-basher, and leave me alone,’ Albert shouted. He turned and stumbled away, plotting a meandering course up the Bourke Street hill.
Almost immediately, he heard the Salvationist’s voice. ‘Brothers, sisters,’ it began. ‘I bid you pray for this poor, lost man. His soul is in the grip of the demon drink and Satan brought him to this sorry state.’
The Salvationist’s words penetrated the fog that surrounded Albert Maggs. As he stumbled away, the man kept on in much the same vein, but Albert had heard enough.
‘Fuck the bastards. Fuck ‘em all,’ he shouted to the sodden streets. Leaning on a wrought iron fence at the corner of Liverpool Street, Albert contemplated whether to go up to Kate’s Place in Cathedral Street. Having bet half his wage with the starting price bookie at Tradies, he had no money for that. He could only pull his hat down, turn his collar up and slosh his way up the hill towards home, cursing the rain, cursing his own stupidity and cursing his misery.
***
By the time he reached his front path, the water was squelching in his shoes with every step and his black mood had deepened. The hinges of the rusty gate squealed as he pushed it open as far as it would go and was forced to squeeze through the narrow gap as he fumbled for his keys. He patted each of his pockets in turn, but couldn’t find them, so he bashed hard on the door. After just a few seconds he ran out of patience and bashed hard again.
‘Open the bloody door, bitch,’ he shouted, in a blind rage. After a few more seconds the door opened, just an inch or two. He put his shoulder to the door and barged through the opening. Wilhelmina Maggs wasn’t quick enough to avoid the door as it slammed back on her, and she screamed as it struck her forehead. Undeterred, Albert barged past her and stomped his way down the hall, headed for the icebox, leaving Wilhelmina sitting stunned and bleeding on the floor by the open door.
