The First Cut

by Sisters in Crime Australia

  'I don't want any of these drugs,' I had told Doctor Mick with a firm resolve, gesturing to his happy little chart of radiotherapy and chemotherapy treatments. 'You've said yourself that it's too far gone'.

  'Well, I shouldn't have said that,' he replied, in a miracles-can-happen voice.

  'I'll choose my own drugs', I'd said, for at that point the Colombian option had occurred to me.

  'Well, you let me know if there's anything I can do for you,' he'd replied sombrely. And I'd looked over at him, suddenly remembering doctors were allowed to sign passport applications.

  The thing is, I still feel reasonably okay. On a sunny day, when you're about to start a descent through angel clouds to land back in your home town, it's just too hard to comprehend. I have an image of this thing on my X-rays, and it's low and it's dark. And so I will combat it, with high and with white. Narcotrafico. My magic crystals. The no-smoking lights go on and I tune back into the guy next to me, who's setting off a volley of new squeaks as he settles into his seatbelt.

  'I don't suppose you've ever smoked,' he's saying to me.

  'No, never.' I allow myself a small smile. 'We-e-e-ll … maybe a few puffs at school once, when we were all trying to be daring.'

  He smiles and nods as I go back to my declaration, and tick that yes, I do have something to declare.

  Then I fold up my table, get out my passport, and it's in the hands of the gods.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph. A perverse decision on my part, a memory of my Irish grandfather's favourite oath. A handful of coins each at the stall. All three looking grave, as if understanding what was going down. Jesus , like his dad, holding a carpenter's tool against his flowing cloak. I wonder if, had they made him make his own cross, would he have chiselled and mortised the joints? Now that would be dying with dignity.

  We descend, land and taxi into the unloading zone. I'm hot in my blue dress; it's sticking to my back. It's a wash and wear synthetic and I'm going to bundle it up and throw it in the garbage first thing when I get home. When I get home. I close my eyes and call up a vision of the kitchen, the smell of the lino, the chug of my ancient fridge. If all goes well, I can be there in a couple of hours. Just through Customs, a short trip through the airport, past security, and into the taxi rank. I imagine pulling away in a cab, away from the airport and home free.

  The thing to do now is forget about the cocaine, pretend I really am an innocent person. I keep my face demure as I watch the luggage turning on the silver conveyers. My case is an absolutely nondescript black. A luggage label is tied carefully to the handle in Spanish and English. Inside there are two changes of clothes, my toiletries and towel, a spare pair of shoes and three kilos of cocaine. Wonderful, splendid cocaine, meltingly pure and snowy. My superannuation fund brochure had outlined many exciting ways to spend your payment, but up your nose was not one of them.

  I pick up the case. I carry it carefully to the Customs declaration points and stand in a queue at the first gateway. I find that if I keep my mind on home and refuse to think about where I am, I can keep my heart rate down. Meditation, taken under sufferance at Dr. Mick's urging, is proving to be an unexpected bonus. I meditate on the Customs Officer's hands as he takes my passport and declaration and notes things down, ticks boxes, glances into my face to check the likeness in the photo. His pen hesitates.

  'Something to declare?'

  'Yes.'

  'Go to number Seven at the end there. Thankyou.'

  Thank YOU. Gates one to six, green lights, are choked with people, children, luggage trolleys, and bags. They will be hours. Number seven, a red light, has two people standing in it, both holding yellow plastic bags of duty free and whatever else they think is declarable. As I move into place behind them the first one sorts out his query about camera lenses and moves off. Through this gateway is the escalator, then the forecourt, then the self-opening doors to International Arrivals, then onto the windy pavement of the airport and the taxis. God, God. Hold it together.

  'I bought these lily bulbs in the airport in Hawaii,' the punter in front of me is saying, 'And the girl said they're vacuum sealed and O.K. to take through without quarantine.'

  'I'm afraid there's always someone who'll tell you that,' says the man in the uniform shortly. My heart-rate, despite me, goes up a few notches. A closed face, an unhappy mouth, a stickler for the rules and in a bad mood to boot. 'They're illegal to import.'

  'What do I have to do? Have them sprayed?'

  'No, I'm afraid you have to surrender them to Customs to dispose of.'

  Down into the big chute they go. The passenger looks glum, but he's also through declarations in record time. I wonder if it was a deliberate ploy. His bags are searched in a rudimentary fashion.

  Cocaine is also surrendered to Customs upon detection, and destroyed. Breaks your heart to think of it. All that brain-sharpening, energy-giving, nausea-suppressing potential chucked away. I make my brain go somewhere else, focused anywhere rather than on the case in front of me. It has been my experience working with juvenile offenders that when they have stolen something their eyes keeping swerving back to where they have hidden it. If it is secreted on their person they can't seem to stop their hands going to the place. I look away but there suddenly seems remarkably few places to look. My turn. Five minutes and I'm out. Five minutes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

  'Good morning. Something to declare?'

  A deep breath. Hold body still, hold head still. Head-waggers are liars. 'Yes, I think so.'

  I reach over and snap open my own suitcase, and dig down the side. 'I thought I'd better check, better to be safe than sorry.'

  I find the bottle and bring it out. He looks at it, noticing the seal, the liquid inside. He doesn't look surprised. Oh God, has this been tried before?

  'It's holy water, you see. From the font at the Sisters of Mercy mission in Popayan.'

  He checks my passport stamps. 'That's where you've just come from?'

  'Yes, for the Semana Santa. I promised I'd try to get some for an ill friend. Does it have to be confiscated?'

  He pauses, rubs his chin. 'Look, I'm afraid so. That water could contain all kinds of bacteria.'

  'I just thought...since it was sealed...' I trail off. 'That's all right, I don't want to get you into trouble. I suppose the idea of water having healing properties seems quite ridiculous to you.'

  He looks up briefly and gives me a quick, tired grin. 'Not at all. I'm a Catholic. Or was.' He reaches over and opens the suitcase. 'Is this your luggage?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you pack it yourself?'

  'I did, yes.'

  'Are you aware of its contents?'

  'Yes'.

  He moves my clothes aside and takes out the three newspaper-wrapped packages. As he unrolls one I have a sense of standing looking at this scene as if through a long lens, the edges grey and prickling. When this happened when I was a child, it meant I was about to faint. Blue and white plaster appears, the face simpering with goodness. He raises his eyebrows enquiringly.

  'It's a statuette of Our Lady, from the sisters at the convent,' I say.

  He holds it in his hand. I concentrate on the bottom of the statue for a moment, down by the foot where she's crushing the snake, down where the minutest crack can be seen in the plaster. It's smooth but not machine smooth, not solid-cast. No, it's been smoothed by hand, sitting on the floor of Emilia's kitchen with plaster mixed up in an old tin. Me having an attack of nerves and gabbling about taking it back, forgetting the whole thing, pissing off home. Emilia's low and sombre voice as she crouched there: I took this risk for you, yeah? Now you take risk for yourself. It will work, you trust me. It will work.

  I can't drag my eyes away from that rough spot of plaster. Maybe it's an uncontrollable reflex after all. I look at the newspaper. The hands start wrapping the statue up again with quite careful deliberation, and he goes to unwrap the other two. Then hesitates. Oh Jesus, oh God, I promise that with whatever time I have left I'll sing noth
ing but glory and praise to the short gift of my life, just please don't let him look too closely. I look at the coloured stamps on my passport, the ridiculous photo that Dr Mick had signed after a similar long silence of fervent prayer on my part, and professional hesitation on his.

  The Customs guy smooths the newspaper and packs the statues carefully back in the case.

  'I'm afraid I have to confiscate the water,' he says, his face grave.

  I lower my eyes. 'Well, don't feel badly. I should have known you'd have to.'

  He leans closer to me - God, another person about to betray an intimate confidence.

  'You know what we sometimes do,' he says in a low voice. 'If the person's a really devout Catholic, say, and they've just made a lifetime trip to Lourdes, and the bottle's unsealed, then I say I just need to take the holy water into the quarantine office for a moment. Then I tip it into the disposal bin, and fill up the vial with ordinary water out of the tap, and take it back out to them. And they're as happy as Larry.'

  He smiles again and I smile back, finding it easy now to look straight back into his eyes. 'Thank you for telling me that story,' I answer, 'because it doesn't matter a bit, you know, whether it comes from Lourdes or the tap. It's the faith that matters, the faith that heals. That's how you're blessed.'

  He snaps my suitcase shut for me and turns it towards me, stamps my passport and hands it back.

  'I'll let you get on your way then, Sister,' he says. 'Best of luck for the future.'

  'Thanks,' I say, moving away towards the escalator and the doors out. There's a future out there all right, and once I get this outfit off I'm not going to miss one sweet open-mouthed breath of it. I am as light as a cloud as I walk towards the doors. I am as free as air. I am blessed.

  SLASHER'S RETURN

  Jacqui Horwood

  It's 11 o'clock in the morning and I am empress of all I survey. True, what I'm surveying doesn't amount to much. A large rectangular room, its walls covered by layers and layers of faded and fading posters. A pool table jammed into one corner and a broken jukebox collecting dust in the other. A spray of battle-weary wooden tables and shabby plastic chairs litter a threadbare carpet of an indeterminable colour and pattern. Dirty windows line two walls. It's sunny outside but you wouldn't know it from in here. Still, the pub is well known, having been voted the grungiest pub in Melbourne. No mean feat, I have to tell you.

  I wipe the bar clean with a wet cloth and cast an eye down one end where Percy and Gil are silently enjoying their third beers of the day. Their glasses are three-quarters empty, so I pour two more.

  'Ta, love.'

  I've been here for eight months. And it's been my one, constant link to human beings. My handful of shifts keeps me sane.

  Occasionally, on busy nights, I look around the room and see a face I remember from my former life. I marvel at how well I remember the person's details. Their life story.

  A few times I've noticed someone studying me with a frown. I know they are trying to place me somewhere. I don't worry that they'll remember. It's unlikely that the last time they saw me I was wearing a tight t-shirt and a pair of faded black jeans, pouring drinks in the grungiest pub in Melbourne.

  Things have changed since my meltdown. My life, my friends, my ambitions. Many of my former work colleagues have disappeared. Superstitious. Scared that my demons may tap them on the shoulder. Scared, too, by vulnerability.

  The door to the public bar swishes open. A solid man in a shabby grey suit saunters in. He steps out of the shadows and a neon shower lights his face, catching the hooded dark eyes and large blotched nose. Catching me unawares. I take an involuntarily step backwards and scan around me for a quick exit. Three big steps and the man is leaning over the bar. His beefy hands are like baseball mitts and they splay out across the Formica in front of me. I glimpse his knuckles to confirm my suspicions. A patchwork of faded blue tattoos covers his skin. Crucifixes, spiders' webs, people's names. A living history. It's him. I lift my face and look him straight in the eyes.

  'What would you like?' I ask, although I already know the answer.

  'Scotch and coke.'

  The man shifts his bulk onto a barstool and waits as I pour his drink. I place the glass on the coaster in front of him and take his money. It's him.

  The shift manager, Joe, taps me on the shoulder.

  'Smoko, Lizzie. I'll take over.'

  I nod and walk away, leaving Joe with the man.

  I grab my handbag and stumble outside, shading my eyes and squinting into the bright sunlight. I usually go behind the pub, into the smelly back lane for a smoke, but today I sit on a park bench on the main street. From there, I can watch the door to the public bar. I light up a cigarette and pull out my mobile phone.

  The man in the pub, sitting there with his scotch and coke and no conscience, is a drug dealer. Big time manufacturer and trafficker of methamphetamine. Close cohort of bikies and crims. Not known to the public. Not interested in becoming a legend like other crims in Melbourne. Quiet, unobtrusive. And a murderer.

  His name is Byron Penrose. Byron! Of all the names for a criminal! His friends lack the education to appreciate the irony and call him Slasher. There's a story attached to the nickname, but it's unpleasant, just as you'd imagine.

  I tap my left foot on the concrete beneath me and think. Debate with myself and fiddle with the mobile. Finally I punch in a number as familiar to me as my own name.

  'Brett Johnson.'

  'Johnno, it's Lizzie. Guess who just walked into the pub?'

  'Who?' he asks.

  'Slasher Penrose.'

  There's a barely perceptible intake of breath and a pause.

  'Are you sure?'

  There is a cautious note in his voice and I grimace.

  'Johnno, I've been depressed, not delusional.'

  He sighs. 'I'm not doubting you.'

  I flick ash from my cigarette and watch as it tumble-turns in the breeze.

  'Okay, Lizzie. I'm on my way.'

  The line goes dead. I stub my cigarette onto the concrete below and head back to the pub.

  Percy and Gil are waiting expectantly with empty glasses. Slasher is nowhere to be seen. In between me leaving the park bench and walking back to the bar, he has gone.

  Johnno and Mick swing through the front door. Mick with slicked-back dark hair like a seal and Johnno with short dark-blonde hair. Dark suits and dark sunglasses. Johnno catches my eye. He tilts his head towards one end of the bar, away from Percy and Gil.

  'Where is he?' he asks.

  'Gone now,' I say.

  Mick cocks an eyebrow at Johnno. 'Are you sure it was him?' asks Johnno.

  I fold my arms tightly across my chest, sensing that a nervous breakdown has now labelled me as being flaky. Mick is unable to meet my eyes.

  'Yes, I'm sure.'

  Johnno picks up on my body language. 'We're not doubting you, Lizzie. We just need to be sure you're right.'

  A dry cough interrupts us. We look down the bar and Percy is facing us.

  'The lady copper's right. He was here.'

  'Who was?' asks Mick.

  'Slasher Penrose.'

  I smile at Percy. 'You've just earned yourself a freebie, Perce.'

  Johnno shrugs.'Well, I guess we'll start checking out all his old haunts.'

  Mick put on his blank copper's face. He says, 'I'll believe it when I see it.'

  Like he can't believe the word of two drunks and one nervous wreck. Johnno turns to me as he leaves. 'Stay in touch, Lizzie.'

  After they are gone, I pour Percy and Gil two pots.

  'You called me lady copper, Perce. How'd you know?'

  Percy and Gil dissolve into phlegmy laughter. They sit in front of me cackling like emphysemic hens. Percy's laughter subsides and he says, 'Once a copper, always a copper.'

  True enough.

  Hours later, I finish my shift and go home to an empty flat. I'm living with my mother. A woman in her sixties with the social life I had in my twent
ies. Tonight is bingo night.

  In the shower I wash away the ever-present smell of stale beer and post mix coke. I stand in the middle of the torrent of hot water and my body trembles. Slasher Penrose. Where had that bastard been?

  When I first learned of Slasher Penrose, I'd just started a six-month secondment with the Drug Squad. Our major project was getting enough evidence to bring him down.

  I turn off the shower but linger in the damp warmth and semi-darkness. If it wasn't so uncomfortable I would curl up and lie on the tiles.

  It all seemed so straightforward. One of our undercover operatives was to meet with Slasher in a warehouse in Fitzroy and pay for a kilogram of methamphetamine. Johnno and I placed listening devices in the warehouse and wired our operative for sound. Everything was set for the bust.

  Slasher was waiting in the warehouse and we were waiting nearby to make the arrest.

  I wrap myself in a towel and pad from the bathroom to my bedroom. Throw back the doona and jump in my bed. Damp and naked. Scared and lonely.

  In the middle of our set-up wandered a 16-year-old girl, innocently making her weekly secret rendezvous with a boy her parents hated. She crawled through a camouflaged hole into the warehouse. A hole none of us knew about. Crawled through the hole and straight into Slasher. He reacted by pulling out a gun and shooting her. He ran and disappeared into the laneways of Fitzroy before we could react.

  We were left with a mess. There was no evidence that Slasher had been in the warehouse. He hadn't spoken so our tapes were useless. We hadn't taken photos of him arriving and our undercover cop hadn't seen him. Slasher was nowhere to be found. All his family and friends swore black and blue that he hadn't been around for days. That they thought he had been interstate.