It’s very audacious – a very audacious plan.
Roxy is bailed and visits, feeling bad that her fucking great mate, Bill, got me arrested.
She can help sort it out, I tell her. We’re gonna crack this place pronto. ‘Be ready for the move.’
I need hacksaw blades and the price of getting them in is negotiated down to a strip of Serepax and a hypodermic syringe.
Roxy has a nurse girlfriend who takes care of that side. The meds are taped to the blades and we’re all good to go.
There’s a park next to the jail; Roxy takes some dogs for a walk, strolling by, letting them sniff about like dogs do. When the screws aren’t looking, bang: she throws four hacksaw blades and some zombie meds into the oval.
I had considered getting a gun but thought, ‘Nah, don’t need to do that.’ Plus, the people doing the oval pick-up would be shitting themselves.
For this escape, I am going to have to hide in the wing and get access to the top landing’s windows and grilled bars overlooking the newly built reception area and gate entry.
A few inmates are vouched for by someone who’d know. ‘They’re sweet,’ he says. ‘All on remand, and if there’s a chance: all keen to go.’
‘I’m good for cutting the bars,’ I tell this small group. ‘What I need is cover.’
We hang a towel over a rail to strategically block me as I cut the landing bar, and they’re watching my back. However, there’s a lot of movement in this area and the window is a favourite point for many to wave goodbye to visitors. I’m having to stop all the time.
In order to avoid the constant activity, I decide to hide inside the wing when all the inmates are supposed to be in the compound yard. It’s a big risk not having someone to watch my back, but at least I’ll get more done.
It’s going well now that I’m getting in half hour blocks of cutting. At the end of each session, I patch up the gap with soap and paint.
I’m getting a nice smooth flow happening this time but fuck there’s keys rattling; someone’s coming up the stairs. I patch the cut and run into the nearest cell, tucking the hacksaw blades into the top pocket of overalls hanging on the door hook.
The screw’s boots come to a stop out the front of this cell. Maybe he’s seen me – the towel on the rail is only good for certain angles.
My heart’s fucking racing; I’m holding my breath.
And he walks in. ‘Not your cell, is it?’ he says. ‘You’re the peda thief [prison slang for cell robber],’ meaning he thinks I’m the putrid thief that’s been active on the top landing.
I think to meself, ‘What the fuck?’ This offends me, I’m totally against that shit.
He starts searching me. Nothing. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The bloke said I could, um.’ At last my brain’s starting to outpace my heart. ‘Said I could lend some of his stick mags. Not a lot of privacy other times, you know.’
‘You’re here to flog off?’
I’m frogmarched out to the yard with a stern warning that if anything is reported missing from the top landing, I am to blame.
The officer also tells the wing sweepers and the inmates with cleaning jobs to keep a close eye on me because I am the number one suspect for being the peda thief.
Wasting no time, I find the bloke whose cell it is. ‘Listen, mate,’ I say. ‘I’m not a peda thief. I was in there for a reason. I don’t really want to tell ya but I will fucking tell ya because I’m up to no good and it’s not stealing. Check your overalls. There’s something there that belongs to me. I had to hide it, you know. I’m doing something. I had to duck in ’cos the screw was coming. I hear him and ran to the first cell, you know.’
He is rapt. ‘Anytime I can help,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. If you want to use my cell or whatever – fine.’
This bloke will get bail in a week and then die in a car crash a fortnight after.
Now my cellmate has to vouch for me with the wing sweepers and assure them that I’m no peter thief. Last thing I need is them watching me, as they might reveal things to the screws.
I stop work for a few days to let the heat die down. The fellas are now realising just how close this is getting; I’ve cut completely through one end of the bar and I’m halfway through the other. Another third of the way and we should be able to bend it up.
The big question is, what then? There are some variables and some challenges.
First the tower and catwalk above us. The screw’s blind spot only exists when he’s sitting.
A second factor to deal with is the roof below us, which is going to serve as our runway. To get airborne we’ll have to run down the 45-degree slope of the fucking rickety old slate roof, clear a half metre barrel of razor wire that extends along the gutter, and leap about four metres onto the reception roof, itself steep. Between the two buildings is a six-metre drop onto concrete.
Luckily, the reception roof is lower than the old store roof, so we can afford to lose a bit of height in the leap over. But then there’s the razor wire to clear before takeoff. And anything we take with us will weigh us down; for me, that’s sheets for the abseiling and a bag of civilian court clothes tied to my back.
There is also a tower further away that has a line of sight which, in turn, means a direct line of fire: tower guards have rifles.
A further headache is that when we’ve crossed the reception roof, we no longer have to pass through the internal gate – only over the inner perimeter barbed wire fence – but that gate is in constant use by transport vans and visitors and the guards there have handguns.
Audacious, I admit, but doable.
The other blokes, however, seem to be under the impression that we are going to fashion a ladder out of landing rails and use that to bridge the gap.
‘It’s a jump,’ I tell ’em. ‘Too much time working it; and too much exposure to the towers when we’re on the bridge.’ I don’t want to waste one more moment than I have to or I’m going to get shot.
The general urgency to get out diminishes. ‘Oh no, I’m going to get bail’ or ‘I’m gonna beat the charge.’
They all pull the pin.
The next step is to practise the jumps, so I go into training in the yard, doing countless leapfrogs and a stack of hop, skip and jumps. There are a lot of funny looks from both inmates and screws wondering what the fuck I am up to. ‘Good to stay in shape,’ I say, and ‘I’ve always liked athletics.’
The supervisor’s office summons me to inform me that Dad has died.
My arrest killed him. He was dying, I know, but that crushed him.
I’m guilty. He’s died of a broken heart knowing that he helped his son escape and now I’m pinched on all this other stuff – what the fuck – and in a different state. Would have crushed him. Would have just put him on an absolute downer.
I’m conscious of this. I have regret. I’m responsible for contributing to his condition and now’s he just lost the will. What the fuck, you know, it just killed him.
‘Dad,’ I’m saying to myself. ‘I wish you had just held out for two weeks.’ I’m lost. ‘Dad, don’t worry, I’ll be out.’ But he’s dead. He died not knowing this. ‘Dad, I’ll be out in no time.’
Well, if I don’t make it, then I’ll be with him. And if I do make the jump and don’t catch a bullet, then he’ll be watching over me. He’ll know.
I don’t really care either way.
Now I have to make a rope for lasooing the ventilation pipe on the reception roof and swinging over the inner perimeter razor wire fence in no-man’s-land, landing near the entrance of the open gate, hoping that no screws are out at the time.
D-Day: Saturday 24 October 1992. It’s two weeks since my 24th birthday and it’s 2.10 pm.
I wave to Roxy, who has parked a stolen Ford ute on the nature strip. It’s facing me and the gate entrance because I calculated that it would take me ten seconds to reach the gate and if the ute also reaches the gate right at that instant, I’ll just jump in the back and
then we’ll peel away and be gone. That’s if I survive the jump and the guards and all goes well.
The car starts rolling and so do I.
Bar’s out of the way and I abseil from the window, leaving the knotted sheets behind, basically waving a look-at-me flag to the towers. I land on the old slatted roof, walk the length once to size it up, then run and leap.
I’m on reception, momentum driving me forward instead of teetering back.
Crack. A shot, he’s fucking shooting from the oval tower but I surge to the other side of the roof and out of his vision, loop the pipe, and launch out and over the inner fence. Except I don’t – the fucking rope snaps and I crash inside no-man’sland. What the fuck? This is not working how it’s supposed to. My adrenalin is just going off.
Fuck me, the other tower’s got a clear shot from nine metres away and I’m scrambling over the razor wire fence, slicing myself stupid but it’s go, go, go before bullets punch through me.
I land hard on the other side, sprint out the front gate and bump into a visitor, but Roxy has crawled the ute to the gate with perfect fucking timing and I vault into the rear, haul canvas over in case the towers are scoping me, and we’re the fuck gone.
There’s a gun waiting in case I have to return fire but I can’t even pick it up, my hand and wrist are so fucked up from the fall; wouldn’t be surprised if something’s fractured. I have to go left-handed. Luckily on my commando ranch, I practise target shooting left and right-handed, just in case. I’m ambidextrous.
A short distance down the road Edward James ‘Jockey’ Smith (aka Jimmy Smith) is at the rendezvous point. We dump the ute and jump in with him, Roxy up front and me in the back. It’s awkward getting changed with this wrist and some fucking nasty cuts, but all things are possible.
Yes, all things are possible. All fucking things are possible. Anything is. Everything is.
I feel like I’ve blasted into orbit. Inside I’m racing, heaving, revving, speakers turned to 11, braced for the impending sirens and helicopters, hand on the weapon for a possible last stand, but Jockey’s driving really slow and nice – nothing to stand out on this lazy Saturday afternoon in Sydney.
‘Daylight savings starts tomorrow,’ he says.
BODGY SHOT
Years later the guard who opened fire on me leaves the job in Sydney and comes to work as a prison officer in Victoria. I actually meet him in Banksia [a unit at Barwon prison].
I remember his name ’cos I’d read his police statement. He says to me, ‘I’ve worked in Sydney.’
‘Yeah, really? Where?’
‘Parramatta.’
‘Fuck off! Now I know. Fuck, you made a statement. Were you in Parra when I escaped?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Were you in 5 Tower?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re a fucking bodgy shot.’
‘I wasn’t a bodgy shot. The rifle was crooked.’
*
Jockey and I are mates from the kitchen at Pentridge – a prison he was capable enough to escape from without needing to get fucking stabbed. That was in the seventies, ’cos Jockey goes well back. A real old-school crim who abides by the code of honour, is Mr Smith. Interesting work history, too. A previous holder of the title, Public Enemy No. 1, he’s had some good earns in his time and even did a little work with Ronald Ryan, the last bloke to be legally murdered by the state back in 1967.
Nevertheless, the stout little old-timer’s impressed that I cracked Parramatta, especially so soon after landing. We have a good laugh on the drive north to his place up the coast at Terrigal. We’re both Libras, our birthdays only days apart, and we get on really fucking well. He’s happy to put us up, too – he knows the life.
*
‘Here ya go, Batman,’ says Roxy, dropping an open newspaper in front of me.
‘What the fuck?’ The photo of me is shit.
BATMAN PRISON ESCAPEE OUT AGAIN
Headline could be worse, though. And so what’s everyone got to say: police are searching for a ‘dangerous prisoner who escaped for the second time in six weeks.’
That’s right, you bastards. I read it again, savour it, and now read it aloud: ‘second time in six weeks.’
‘Gets better,’ Roxy says, squeezing in beside me on the couch.
Okay, let’s see. ‘Prison guards said the 24-year-old armed robber, Chris Binse, risked a six-metre fall to the ground when he leapt 4 metres (15 feet) between the roofs of two buildings.’ I give Roxy a kiss. ‘You read that bit?’
‘Gets better,’ she says.
‘But it’s a six-metre fall onto concrete. It should say concrete! Why didn’t they mention that? Fucking media. Some people might think it was over the jail’s swimming pool or something.’ I read on. ‘After being fired at once by a prison guard, he used rope to shimmy down –.’ What the fuck? ‘Shimmy?’ I say. ‘I fucking abseiled. Who wrote this shit? When fucking commandos go on ropes down buildings or outta choppers, are they “shimmying”? What the fuck.’
‘Wasn’t it more like – falling?’ Roxy says. ‘Dropping like a lead weight?’
‘Hey, don’t be cheeky,’ I tell her, lifting my splinted arm and draping it across her shoulders. ‘Shimmying sounds more like you getting up for a fucking wiggle on the dancefloor with that fucking sheila in the Cross that night. You two were fucking shimmying.’
‘Keep reading, Batman,’ she says, shimmying against me.
Okay, says my escape has sparked an investigation into why an escape artist like me was in a medium-security prison instead of a maximum like Long Bay. ‘Unfortunately we don’t seem to have been warned about his history,’ they quote a source in the corrections department as saying.
Oh, here we go, the source has a bit more to say. My grin must give it away to Roxy that I’ve found what she’s been hinting at because now she’s laughing and cuddling in big time.
I read it out loud. ‘There was no way we could have prevented it once he got onto the roof. That 15-foot jump was bloody monumental. He’s got more testosterone than I’ve got, that’s for sure.’
Roxy nuzzles into my ear. ‘Big-balled shimmy.’
‘Hang on.’ The article goes on about my ‘extraordinary’ escape just weeks earlier after ‘organising a gun to be smuggled to him in hospital inside a cake’. What the fuck? A cake? Can’t trust the media. Here we go, a Sydney detective calls me an ‘escapologist’, and says ‘he’s done a real Batman this time.’ Thank you, officer. Nice to get a little respect where it’s warranted. Of course the coppers have to throw in that I’m ‘dangerous and unpredictable’, warning the public not to approach me. What a load of shit, man. They’re just angry ’cos I embarrassed the cunts.
I should clean my guns.
*
Oh, man, they’re breaking protocol. Both Armaguard officers are out of the van at the same time. This is a one in a million, this is fucking gold – this is the jackpot. But we need a car, gotta have a fucking car. Where the fuck’s Jockey? Can’t see him anywhere. Still fucking around inside Erina Fair. I know we just came to study their movements, their routines, and then make a plan but they’re both out of the van right now; I’m tooled up right now; that van’s probably fucking creaking on its axles with fucking cash right now. What are they fucking doing? Cigarettes! They’re both fucking out for a smoke – for a fucking dart. Fuck it I’ll do it meself. He’s lighting up right now so that means I got bottom four minutes, top maybe seven to fucking steal and position a vehicle and bail them up. Fuck I’m hotfooting it, but not too obviously, for the car park for any fucking car, for a fucking motorbike. Dad are you watching? I’m alive and at liberty and on the job and if you got any influence up there use it please Dad – there’s a car, oh fuck too many people, why didn’t I steal a car already, I should steal a car every time I go fucking shopping just in case I see something, what the fuck man, keep moving, keep moving.
*
What the fuck? The cops are telling everybody I’ve killed a bloke.
The fucking coppers are putting my name to the murder in Sydney of an Armaguard officer picking up car park takings. Scaremongering the public to flush me out and set up a knock: shooting me’ll now be justifiable. It’s obviously bullshit, too. I’ve followed all the media. Right after it happened, after three masked bandits hit a van in Darling Harbour and shot a guard, the reports said the bandits were Asian. Do I look fucking Asian?
So now it’s all ‘Chris Binse the murderer’. I’ve spoken to a few mates in Victoria and it’s all over the news down there, too. My fucking photo in the Herald Sun with headlines like, ‘Escapee wanted over kill robbery.’ They quote some fucking tool called O’Toole from the NSW Major Crime Squad, who calls me ‘the most dangerous man in Australia,’ and says ‘He’ll shoot it out if cornered.’ Too fucking right, mate: with you. One on one. Yeah, I gotta lot of firepower and I shot out a rear door at Chatswood, but I’m not some desperate maniac escapee hell-bent on carnage to all. The truth doesn’t matter, though, does it? Lying fucking dog. And it makes me fucking sick how the fucking media’s sucking cop dick and then spitting out fucking copper spoof like ‘we’re more than 50 per cent confident’ that it was me.
Well, fuck youse all. I can even prove it wasn’t me. I’ve got an alibi. That job happened the day I was racing a ciggie around Erina Fair. I can describe everything I saw that day, even the brand of smokes those fellas had.
You know, fuck it. I don’t have to put up with this defamatory bullshit. I’m ringing the Herald Sun. Time to fucking straighten some shit out.
Ha! Next thing ya know the Herald Sun’s running a story called ‘He’s Not a Killer – Escapee’s Mum’. And apparently a man ‘claiming to be Binse’ rang ’em. Fucking oath, I did. And yes indeed, I did ‘strenuously deny’ having anything to do with that bodgy robbery. Putting the violence aside – and I don’t shoot people on jobs – would I stoop to robbing car park takings? Thirty G’s split between a crew of three? Get fucked. As for shooting some poor bastard – not my style, as I told the newspaper.
Mayhem Page 13
