The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  Back in bed Mac was admiring his face in the mirror; he didn’t look half-bad now. He had trimmed his hair and his beard was gone. He had clean bandages and his face was relaxed after the two weeks of rest forced upon him. His legs were weak but he’d go for another walk later, they’d soon come good. He felt the bed move slightly and he looked up in time to be blinded by a camera flash. “G’day, I’m Bill Jennison. I do the police rounds for the Cairns Sentinel. They tell me you’re an amnesia victim. We’ll run this tomorrow, someone’s bound to know you.” Jennison handed Mac a card.

  “That’s just great.”

  “Yeah, we’ll soon get you sorted out.” The reporter left. This was a new crisis.

  Billy Rigby didn’t show up before the night staff came on duty and when Helen poked her head around the curtain, she was less than pleased when she found out. “You’re pulling my leg. I can’t hold off registering you for much longer.” She actually sounded downright annoyed. Mac felt trapped and helpless; maybe he could get Bernard to track Billy down. They were supposed to be friends.

  “Could I have some Panadeine, please, Sister?”

  “Yes of course,” her tone was a little softer, “I’ll send the aide.” She left the ward and a few minutes later Harry entered.

  “G’day Mac,” he seemed a little better, “here’s your Panadeine.” “Harry, I realise I was a little out of line this morning and I apologise,” he decided it was time to suck up a little. He was pleasantly surprised at the result.

  “Forget it. I came on a bit strong, too.” Harry gave half a grin. “What I said is true as far as I’m concerned, but I might have said it to the wrong bloke.”

  “Billy didn’t show up today and I think the Sister is getting a bit toey. Would you do me a favour?” Mac pleaded, “Do you think you could find him?”

  “I can’t leave the hospital, I can only ring around. I bet I know where he is though.” The last comment Harry whispered to himself. He found Billy with two phone calls, the first to the Palace pub, the second to the Bunda Street brothel and he was in no condition to do anything for anyone, anywhere. Harry thought about Mac, he probably wasn’t a bad poor bastard, Billy had good words for him, he was probably no worse than another ten thousand blokes who wandered in and out of the port.

  “I found him, but he’s that pissed I reckon you can forget about him until tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here, Harry, before the cops come back. Are you and Billy good mates? Are you close?”

  “The best!” Harry held up crossed fingers. Mac was silent for a few minutes. If they were as close as Harry suggested then he probably wouldn’t risk the friendship by disclosing a confidence and breaking a trust. Mac knew the code of the fleet, the ethic Billy, by his reputation, would abide. He decided to take a chance, he had no choice. He told Harry about his mugging, about insisting to Helen, albeit unconvincingly, that he fell and hit his head, about insisting to Bramble, convincingly, the same. He told him about faking amnesia, temporary at least, for the day sister and the cop, “…and tomorrow when the cop sees the Sister and they compare notes, the jig’s up.” Mac studied Harry’s face for a trace of sympathy.

  “You’re a runner! Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me. Doctor Bramble starts a two day break tomorrow, so you’re safe for a while, probably close to a week if the cop has a break as well,” Harry said.

  “No. There’s something else. This morning after I spruced myself up to try and look fit enough to be discharged a bloke came in and took my photo. He said he was a police roundsman for the Cairns Sentinel, he got my amnesia story from the cop. Jetson or Jensen or something like that, he said they’d run the photo tomorrow.”

  “Jennison. Bill Jennison. So, what? I don’t think anyone around this town would recognise you. You look twice as clean and half as old as you did when you came in, and you’ve got no beard now.”

  “I didn’t have a beard down south either, that’s what worries me. What’s the circulation of the paper like?”

  “In numbers it’s modest but in area, it’s huge. We’ve got an international airport here now so it gets all around the world for souvenir value and as parcel wrapping. Up in the islands the natives used to roll their tobacco in it, now I guess they hang it on a nail in the shithouse and use it for another purpose as well.” Harry grinned.

  “It’s urgent. I’ve got to get out of here as soon as possible. I need clothes, when Billy surfaces could you ask him to bring me some duds and then I’ll be out of here. Don’t tell the sister I’m a runner, I like her, I don’t want her to think too badly of me.”

  “One thing,” said Harry, feeling his resentment rising again after Mac’s reference to Helen, “did you do something bad?”

  “They say I did, but I’m sure I couldn’t’ve. I know I couldn’t’ve.” He searched Harry’s eyes for some sign of belief.

  “Harry! Come on, you can’t talk all night, there’s a lot of work to be done,” Helen scolded from the doorway.

  Chapter

  17

  Billy arrived in the early, dark hours of the morning with a bundle of clothes. Harry smuggled him and the clothes into the ward and shook Mac awake.

  Mac gave the clothes a distasteful look; he held them at arm’s length and sniffed. “It’s not the clothes.” Harry said, frowning at Billy.

  “‘S’not my fault. You never gave me a chance to clean meself up. You said it was urgent.” Billy said indignantly. Harry had rung the Bunda Street number several times during the night and finally one of the girls had been able to get Billy vertical. The next difficult job was to get him to understand English, or anything – even pain – but when he did, he wasted no time in getting back to the Paragon. He gathered an assortment of clothes belonging to both of his deckhands and himself. They wouldn’t mind, they both knew Mac.

  Mac took the bundle and donned the ones that fitted best.

  “He’s gone! He did a moonlight flit.”

  “Who Harry?” She looked at him suspiciously, “Mac?”

  “Yeah, when I looked in on him at midnight, he was asleep, or pretending, Sister.” Harry felt relieved that Mac had gone, perhaps now, things would get back to normal between them and he could begin to put a little gentle pressure on Helen again.

  Out on the street it was still dark but the morning star was climbing. Soon dawn would streak across the sky and the day people would begin to go about their business. On their last run those night boats fishing for Tigers off Port Douglas and Double Island would get their cod-ends full of daylight trash.

  Billy was taking Mac back to the Paragon for a day or two, until it was decided what to do with him. They were walking the deserted street which paralleled Smith’s Creek, Billy was quite sober now and he was infected with Mac’s caution. He knew by now something much more serious than a domestic, or a maintenance order or the like was Mac’s problem so they gave the taxis a miss and hurried through the tail end of the night.

  Sitting on the floor in the wheelhouse out of sight of casual passers-by and having a coffee Mac gave Billy a brief and sketchy account of his past. He did say he had been in prison, and he did say he hadn’t completed his sentence. Mac chose his words with discretion and was careful not to tell a lie. Billy couldn’t tell if he escaped or shot through on his parole and, as is the way of the fleet, he didn’t ask.

  Mac wasn’t worried too much that someone would recognise the photo as the fisherman and ask questions about his conflicting stories in hospital. He could always say he was confused. What did worry him was that someone from his past, in the south, would see the younger looking clean shaven bloke he tried to promote for the doctor’s benefit. He conveyed those fears to Billy.

  “We’re gonna be tied up at this wharf for about three weeks so you’ll be OK here until we go up on the slips to repaint the hull and renew the anodes and things. I don’t think we could hide you on board whi
le we’re on the slips but after that we’re goin’ up to Princess Charlotte Bay for a couple of months. You’re welcome to come.”

  “Thanks, Bill, but I’ll leave before the deckies come back. You’ve done enough and taken enough risks. Now that you know who I am you could get into trouble, and so could your deckies. I know you’re paying the Paragon off, you could lose it. It could be a gaolable offence harbouring me if you’re caught. I’ll go north to one of the beaches and camp out until I think it’s safe.”

  “You could lose yourself, back in the fleet.” Billy said, and then his face lit up. “Hey, wait a minute. Wait there. Dad and Sep, that’s Harry, they’re in a fishin’ club, they’ve got a clubhouse on a beach north of Pebbly. I’ll get the key.”

  “I don’t want to bring them any trouble, besides I don’t think Harry likes me.”

  “Sep! He’s alright but he’s sweet on Sister Helen. He gets jealous. He knows that half the blokes in Cairns’d like to get into her pants. Me included.”

  “He’s jealous? Yes! Of course! That’s it, I never dreamt that’s what it was. Of course. He’s jealous.” Mac now understood Harry’s petulance.

  Part Two

  Chapter

  18

  Phillip Benson was a Sydney crime boss, a drug lord who dealt mainly in cocaine. If he had pursued an honest living the initiative and the energy which he expended in amassing his considerable fortune would probably have produced the same result – a fortune. But Phil Benson was what he had to be, a product of his genes, his environment and the times. Which of these parameters was the dominant factor in deciding the shape of his adult character is moot. It was probably a mixture of genetic and environmental influence for the greed and the times for the experience and opportunity.

  Benson was the second youngest of a family of four siblings, an older sister, an older brother and a younger sister. His mother threw in the towel when she turned twenty-nine; she went looking for something better while she still had a life. Years of abuse by a drunken, dribbling moron had inured her even to the needs and the welfare of her children. When the family unit disintegrated Phillip was just two years old. The older children were placed in welfare homes and his younger sister went to an aunt.

  Young Phil stayed in the care of his drunken father. He grew up virtually unsupervised and ran the streets where he lived. He and his father lived in one of a number of rooms, in one of a number of houses, in one of a number of terraces in the Sydney slum area of Woollahra; where each room housed an entire family.

  The Woollahra of Phillip’s childhood era was that of a suburb in conflict. And as one travelled from Centennial Park down Ocean Street towards Double Bay, one could see the gradual change, from lower class to affluence. This change was reflected in the grandeur of the real estate which lined each side of that thoroughfare.

  The nearer one came to the waters of Sydney Harbour, the larger were the houses, with expansive lawns and live-in gardeners’ and servants’ quarters. After crossing New South Head Road, the ‘Street’ becomes ‘Avenue’ and one can walk down to the harbour through the suburb of Double Bay along that leafy avenue of absolute excellence. The only time Phillip ever walked those streets was in his search for something to steal.

  Halfway along Ocean Street there is a Y intersection. It is where Jersey Road had the cheek in those early days to attach itself. For it was down that road where one could find the rubbish dump if one turned right down Holdsworth Street after it crossed Jersey Road.

  It was also down that same road where one could find the human jettison. They were the people drained of incentive and discarded. The underclass who had helped the affluent gain their mansions; empty husks blown together by the winds of corporate and criminal greed. Cloistered by common circumstance some drew comfort knowing others were worse off than they.

  It was there that old Benson lived in an alcoholic purgatory of escapism born of struggle and frustration. In latter days the area was to become fashionable and only the rich could afford the million dollars plus the same house would today fetch at auction. But young Benson didn’t live his childhood in the present and the slum which was then helped shape him into the vicious, streetwise thug of today.

  His strong suit, his forte, was his quick and at most times unerring assessment of his opposition, and the strength of the force necessary to overcome it.

  As a teenager Phillip had a few one-sided fist fights in and behind many of the pubs around Woollahra and Paddington. He would take on drunks whose ego and confidence in their own ability grew in proportion to the number of grogs they had consumed. His successes in these swinging affrays caused an army of back slappers to persuade him to seek a pugilistic career.

  Phillip’s first and only foray into the hempen square was a disaster. It was a three, three-minute round bout fought in the old tin shed at Rushcutters Bay. He stood in the centre of the ring eyeballing his opponent whilst the referee issued instructions as to how he expected the fight to proceed. It was then that Benson’s confidence began to ebb. This wasn’t one of the stumblebums full of grog that he was used to. This was a fit young warrior trained to the minute, with a fire in his belly.

  After the bell sounded to begin the first round his opponent set about giving him a comprehensive thrashing. Halfway through the third round Benson had had enough. He head-butted and kneed his adversary and was disqualified. His cornerman said, “I s’pose yer had to do somethin’, ‘e was beltin’ different colours of snot out of yer.”

  “Yeah,” said young Phil, “I had to get square somehow.”

  “Yer never got square, son. Not by a long shot. If yer burnt down ‘is ‘ouse, and raped ‘is missus as well, y’d still be behind on points.”

  Phillip never fought again, at least not in the ring, and never one on one. He always had more troops available than was necessary, or he would buy his way out of trouble.

  In the mid-sixties cocaine began its assault on the illicit drug market and Benson became aware of its intrusion into society’s recreational scene. His only knowledge of the drug was gleaned from his days in the boxing gym. He remembered instances of fighters with broken bones in their hands, or sprained wrists, or arthritis. After a shot of this universal painkiller taken during or just before a bout, fighters would forget their injury and their fighting would take on a ferocity which was frightening. Also, there was a tendency for these fighters to ask for a shot before a fight, even when there was no injury.

  Phillip, until the penny dropped, had always thought that a fighter’s highly aggressive state after a fight was due to the coursing adrenalin. Understanding came slowly when he noticed the post-fight aggression seemed to last longer in those who had a needle or in some cases just a sniff of the stuff.

  In the beginning cocaine was a sought-after medicinal drug and legitimate supply lines had already been long established. Notwithstanding its legitimacy and popularity among thrill seeking sniffers it suddenly became an illegal drug when by act of federal parliament, it was declared a ‘prescribed substance’.

  This prohibition was of great interest to Benson and he set out to research the whole cocaine scene. What further interested him was that doctors and dentists because of the strongly addictive feature of cocaine had switched to novocaine, a less addictive painkiller.

  It was the word ‘addiction’ which attracted Benson; that word would ensure a captive, and growing, clientele.

  Because of the drug’s long standing and good reputation in the treatment of pain, the early days of the ban on cocaine was looked upon with a sympathetic eye. All Benson had to do was to re-create a demand by buying. The trickle which he caused to flow reopened the supply lines and the flow became a flood.

  The early wholesale price of a kilogram of the drug was next to nothing. Phillip’s strategy after his captive customers had become dependent was to withhold supply and to increase the price.

  Crusading newspaper
reporters succeeded only in further increasing the price on the street. They forced Benson’s overheads sky high because, after the crusade, he had to maintain a network of corrupt police and customs officers. Inadvertently, these crusaders only served to increase his profit because as the total wholesale price increased, so too did his mark-up. Now, at the age of fifty-three he wasn’t entirely certain just how rich he was. He could count on his fingers more than fifty million dollars that he had in safety deposit boxes and accounts under false names in various banks in cities around the land. But most importantly he had set up a cocaine importing and national bulk sales network which yielded in excess of two million dollars a month. This ongoing enterprise needed to be protected, he needed some legitimate front.

  When Britain handed Hong Kong back to its rightful owners many of the Triads, fearing the strict martial law and capital punishment in mainland China, migrated to other parts of Asia. They opened up avenues for heroin from the ‘golden triangle’ to all points west.

  Benson found that the supply of this competing drug became more abundant on the streets in all of the Australian cities. When his cocaine train was temporarily derailed, as it could be at any time because of the number of corrupt agencies through which it passed, the urgency of earlier days to get it back on track was less acute. He had another string to his bow. He had the short-term substitute to offer, Heroin.

  The sheer volume of Benson’s cocaine trade, which caused him to be a highly valued customer of his Columbian suppliers, was due to the tight control he maintained over his distribution network. It was a control policed by fear when it came to returning cash for the powdered misery which changed hands. He was not averse to watching life ebb from the eyes of a delinquent lieutenant who might only be suspected of sticky fingers.