A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  ‘If that’s what it takes,’ the other man repeated quietly.

  ‘What happens if I say no?’

  ‘You’ll be transferred to Jindabee Flats as second in charge of the station.’

  ‘That’s a one-man station.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Hartford got up. ‘So stop the bullshit and get on with your job.’ He walked towards the door, stopped and turned. ‘Thirty-Three.’

  ‘Thirty-Three what?’

  ‘Thirty-Three Division. That’s what your new division will be known as. Don’t let me down, George.’ He walked out of the office.

  George Everard sat down, leaned back with his hands behind his head and smiled. Inspector George Arthur Everard, Thirty-Three Division. It had a nice ring to it.

  It was four am. Everard left the station and walked up Bourke Street towards Surry Hills. It was a balmy autumn night and the city smelt clean and fresh after a light shower of rain.

  Inspector George Everard, he thought again. He felt like dancing a jig and singing at the top of his voice. Out of the shit at last. And the money! It would be twice his sergeant’s pay. Sweet Mother Machree, I’m rich into the bargain, he chuckled to himself. With four sons, two daughters and three grandchildren already it’d certainly make life a lot easier for him and Maude.

  Maudie. The poor bitch. She’d had it hard. Six kids in twelve years. His face grew grim. No, stuff that. Maude had made life hard for herself, by believing in bullshit.

  He remembered the first time he’d had her. It was on their wedding night of course. She’d gone off like a firecracker at first, then five minutes into it, he’d felt them. The rosary beads on his bare back and her fingering them and reciting prayers in his ear.

  They had her right where they wanted her, the bastards.

  It was the church. The fucking Catholic church! They’d tried it on him as well but they hadn’t succeeded. Nothing they did worked; he knew them for what they were. They’d tried to get at him through his mother and his father and his uncles and aunties, but that hadn’t worked either. His whole Irish family told him he should believe and be at one with God. Fuck them! Fuck them all! He’d known the truth since he was nine and he’d never forget or forgive. The bastards. The memory still humiliated him.

  ‘Excuse me, Father John?’

  The old priest turned from the bookcase and smiled at the young boy standing in his office. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t young George Everard. What brings you here, my son?’

  ‘Brother Francis told me to see you after school, Father.’ The boy shuffled nervously. ‘He said I should be considered for the purification rite.’

  ‘The purification rite! Well, I don’t know about that, Georgie. Not many boys have it in them.’ He sat down on a settee and motioned the boy closer. ‘How old are you now, Georgie?’

  ‘Seven, Father John.’

  ‘Seven! Well you’re certainly the right age. It’s a great honour to be purified. Sit down here and tell me how you feel.’ He patted the settee.

  ‘How do you mean, Father?’ The boy sat down next to him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Are you excited?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  The priest put his hand in the boy’s lap. ‘Not just in the mind, but here as well.’ He fumbled for the boy’s penis through his thin shorts. ‘You see, some boys, only some mind you, have the ability to be pure.’ The priest’s hand became more rhythmical and the boy’s penis began to harden. ‘If your man root becomes hard it is a sign from God. You see? You’re a lucky little fellow.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  The priest lifted his robe and revealed his swollen purple penis. His breath was coming in gasps. ‘You see how we are now hard together? That is because purification is taking place. Now, put your hand on me and repeat, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.” Go on,’ he gasped, placing the boy’s hand on his penis, ‘keep saying it.’

  The boy repeated the words over and over as his hand moved.

  The priest’s eyes fluttered back into his head. ‘Heavenly Father, purify this boy through me,’ he intoned, then a guttural growl escaped his lips and semen spurted from his engorged glans. Recovering quickly, he covered himself and walked to the window. With his back to the boy, he said, ‘That will be all for now, Georgie, but the purification process is not complete. You will come to my office every Friday after school and we will work together to make you pure.’

  ‘When will I be pure, Father?’

  The priest’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘It will take time, Georgie, but it will happen. You may go now.’

  ‘Can I tell my Ma I’m going good at school?’

  ‘No!’ The priest spun around and grasped the boy’s thin shoulders. ‘You must never tell anyone! It is our secret and the secret of God. If you tell a mortal soul you will never be purified. You must promise!’

  ‘I promise, Father.’

  The bastards. The bloody rotten bastards. Two years it had gone on, until one day in the schoolyard he’d heard some older boys talking and laughing about the brothers’ purification rite. What he heard severed him from religion forever.

  Even now, as he strode up Bourke Street swinging his arms, enjoying the feel of the power his body generated, Everard shrivelled inside at the memory of his seduction.

  Laughter brought him back to the present. Girlish laughter. It tinkled in the night air like wind chimes. Two men were escorting a girl out of a laneway across the street. One of the men had a pronounced limp. They began crossing the road, then they saw him and stopped, at a loss as to what to do. As Everard walked towards them, they turned back to the alley.

  ‘Just a moment, Lenny’, said Everard as he caught up with them, ‘what’s a crook like you doing wandering around Surry Hills at this hour?’

  The man turned and smiled weakly. ‘Good evening, Sergeant Everard. Nice night?’

  ‘I asked you a question, you evil little man.’

  ‘We’ve just been visiting a friend, sergeant. Honest.’

  Everard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t got any friends, Lenny.’

  ‘Give us a go, Mr Everard.’

  George deliberately didn’t look at the girl. Instead he grabbed the other man by the coat lapel. ‘Prove to me you have friends, Lenny. Introduce me to this fine specimen.’

  ‘This is Jimmy Bonner, Mr Everard,’ Lenny said quickly, ‘an old mate from Melbourne. Jimmy, this is Sergeant Everard, the finest policeman you’re ever likely to meet.’

  Jimmy Bonner couldn’t speak. He was terrified. Even in Melbourne they’d heard of Everard. A stutter he could normally control overwhelmed him and his jaw locked.

  Everard stared into his eyes. ‘You’ve got a stutter, haven’t you? A bad stutter?’ Jimmy nodded. ‘Well you just answer me by shaking or nodding your heard, right?’ Another nod. ‘Have you got form, James Bonner?’ Another nod. ‘Let me guess, break enter and steal?’ Another nod. ‘Petty theft?’ Another nod, but feeble. ‘And that’s about all you’re capable of, isn’t it? You’re just another Melbourne wide boy in unknown territory.’ Everard brought his face even closer and lowered his voice. ‘Well, listen carefully, James Bonner: if you so much as think of committing a crime in my patch, I’ll break your nose and hold your mouth while you drown in your own blood.’ Everard relaxed his grip and Jimmy gasped for air.

  ‘He’s just here on holidays, Mr Everard.’ Lenny smiled warily and wobbled on his bad leg.

  ‘Why don’t you take James Bonner home, Lenny, and tell him how your knee got smashed? And more importantly, who smashed it.’

  The smile froze on Lenny’s face. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Everard, that’s just what I had in mind.’ He grabbed his friend’s arm. ‘Come on, Jimmy, let’s be off.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Come on, Jane, time to be moving.’

  Everard blocked his way. ‘The girl stays.’

  ‘Sure thing, Mr Everard. Come on Jimmy, time to get some sleep. What do you say?’

  The two men hurr
ied off down the street and Everard turned his eyes on the girl. ‘My God, what a beauty,’ George thought as his gaze took in her luscious woman’s body. And the face. It reminded him of someone. Some film star or other. Her long dark red hair cascaded over full breasts and her slim waist flowed to firm round hips. She was frightened. Like a startled animal. He could smell her fear. A frightened beauty ripe for the taking.

  ‘Jane who?’ George murmured as the lust rose in him.

  ‘Smart,’ she replied softly, ‘Jane Smart.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Smart.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Move into the alley out of the light and put your back against the wall.’

  Jane Smart did as she was told and watched him look down the street in the direction the men had taken. She felt the cold sandstone wall through her thin cotton dress and began to tremble with a mixture of fear and excitement. This was her fantasy. She was going to be seduced by her ‘prince’. Then reality hit her like a sledgehammer. Seduced? Not likely! This was no girlish dream—she was going to be raped and there was nothing she could do about it. This man was George Everard and she’d heard stories from other prostitutes concerning his violence towards them. He was the one person in Sydney they were all truly afraid of. He was a huge man, powerful and muscular with the air of ultimate authority. She knew beyond all doubt what awaited her. Submit, she thought, just submit. Let him do whatever he wants. Don’t fight or you’ll die in this filthy alley.

  His shadow fell across her as he entered the laneway and stood in front of her, staring into her eyes. ‘Now, Jane Smart, you were with Acer Mostyn in Rosie’s tonight. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  Jane felt the fear in the pit of her stomach. ‘I wasn’t with him. I just had a few drinks with the boys.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Rosie told me to—she’s the boss.’ Christ, please, what’s he going to do? She could read nothing in his eyes.

  ‘Are you on the game?’

  ‘Yes.’ What was the sense in lying? He’d seen her in Rosie’s. ‘Yes … But only when I have to. Like when I can’t get work.’

  ‘Did Acer hurt you?’

  ‘Hurt me?’

  ‘When he squeezed your nipple?’

  ‘Yes.’ She moved her arm up to cover her breasts.

  ‘I did it to him, you know, and he squealed like a stuck pig. I let him know how it feels to be a woman, unprotected. I told him I’d kill him if he ever treated a woman like that again.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She was shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘Are you frightened of me?’ he asked, suddenly gentle.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I don’t hurt women. I simply use them.’

  Oh God, she thought, that’s it, that’s what he wants. Just relax. Submit. Go with it.

  He reached out and lowered her arm, then cupped her breasts. ‘You know there’s a fine line between actual pain and pleasure.’ He squeezed her erect nipples between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Are you frightened of me?’

  ‘N-no,’ she stammered. ‘Yes. Just a little bit.’ She was shaking like a leaf. Relax. Submit.

  ‘Tell me when it hurts.’ He slowly increased the pressure on her nipples.

  Her eyes widened. ‘It’s—it’s starting to hurt.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He eased his grip. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Better.’

  Everard continued to knead her breasts and apply pressure to her nipples. He stared at her face, watching the fear and anxiety in her eyes. She was truly beautiful. The best looking whore he’d ever seen. Long, wavy red hair tumbled around her angelic face and her figure was pure woman. ‘Keep looking at me,’ he told her, ‘I need you to look into my eyes.’

  He was silent then as he caressed her and she felt herself relax a little. Maybe that’s all he wants, she thought. The fear eased in her stomach and was replaced, momentarily by the tug of pleasure, as her nipples responded to his urgent fingers, but it faded as he spoke.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of me, Jane Smart.’ He moved his hands up to her shoulders and pushed down, forcing her to her knees. He unbuttoned his fly and took out his penis.

  The fear hit her again. He’s enormous, she thought. My God, he’s enormous. Bigger than any man she’d ever seen.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of me, Jane Smart,’ he repeated in a whisper.

  Submit. Relax and submit. She caressed the tip of his penis with her mouth and he sighed and grasped the back of her head. Be an expert, she told herself. Bring him off quickly and he’ll let you go. She set to work on him and his sighs turned to murmurs of approval. She stroked, kissed and licked him. Please shoot, she prayed, please shoot. Her knees were starting to hurt. She moved up onto her haunches and held on to the rain barrel next to her for support. His leg muscles flexed and she increased the pressure of her lips and tongue. Then his huge hands grabbed her shoulders and brought her to her feet.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of me, Jane Smart,’ he whispered.

  She felt his phallus poking into her stomach. It felt like a fence picket. One hand returned to her breast and the other stroked her face. He continued to do this in silence, staring deep into her eyes again. She felt the faint prickle of desire, a moistening between her legs. She felt her knees go weak. Jesus, what’s the matter with you? she thought. He’s dangerous. But the fear had gone. She could control him. She was sure of it. She reached down and took his penis in her hands. ‘Come for me, sergeant, come for me, please?’ She looked up at him through lowered eyelashes.

  ‘You’re not are you?’ he snarled. ‘You’re not afraid of me.’ She didn’t answer. He spun her around, bent her over the rain barrel and lifted her dress. ‘Bitch! Whore!’

  He tore her panties away and then she felt the searing pain as he entered her. He grunted repeatedly with his thrusts, and pushed her face into the rain water pooled at the top of the barrel. She gasped for air as he withdrew from her and turned her around to face him. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her to her knees and she felt the semen spurt into her mouth and nose as he ejaculated onto her face, grunting like an animal.

  He looked down at her crumpled, gasping form, as he adjusted his pants. ‘You are the most beautiful whore in Sydney, Jane Smart. If anyone ever tries to hurt you, come to me. I’ll protect you. You have my solemn word on that.’

  Everard turned and walked out of the alley. He quickened his pace. He needed to get home to Maude and the kids. You couldn’t leave your family at home alone in a city like Sydney. It wasn’t safe.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sergeant Thomas Bromley stared at the neatly clipped grass parade square which dominated the centre of the Police Barracks and Training School. It was fifteen years since he’d set foot in the place and nothing had changed. High brick walls surrounded the complex of buildings and horse stables around which young men in shorts and sandshoes ran, responding to the shouts of a training instructor. Several police horses were being fed on the opposite side of the square and two young constables in overalls were shucking hay into a receiving bin from an old Ford truck.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t The Boxer.’

  Bromley turned at the sound of his police nickname to see a familiar face. ‘Christ alive, Jimmy Fadden as I live and breathe. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Transferred, Boxer. Told to report at eight o’clock this morning. Not one word of explanation.’

  ‘Me too. Police Barracks Redfern, Block “C”. What the fuck’s it all about?’

  ‘Only one way to find out, Tom.’ Fadden pointed to their right at the ivy-covered two-storey brick building facing the square. ‘That’s the place.’

  As they walked towards the building a black Ford sedan pulled up in front of it and an imposing ramrod-straight figure emerged. The man looked about him imperiously and entered the building.

  ‘Was that who I think it was, Jimmy?’

  ‘George Arthur Everard.’ James Fadde
n stopped and turned to his friend. ‘I don’t like this one little bit.’

  ‘I have been promoted to inspectorate rank to fulfill a specific task. That is to clean up certain areas of Sydney and rid them of their criminal element.’ George Everard paced back and forth in the old office as he spoke, never once losing eye contact with the four men he addressed. ‘I specifically requested you men to assist me with this task. You were chosen because you all hold the rank of sergeant—and for your honesty and your ability to use your fists.’

  Thomas Bromley looked at the other men in the room. Jim Fadden he knew. They’d joined the Force together and they’d both served for several years on the City Watch. The other two he knew only by reputation. The dapper six-footer in the double-breasted suit sitting next to him was Detective Sergeant William ‘Knocker’ Reid. In a career spanning twenty years, it was common knowledge that Reid had killed two men with his gun and one with his fists. His list of badly injured would fill a telephone book. Next to Reid sat Stan Ames, a sergeant from Broken Hill who had fought to a bloodied standstill Fredrick Flannery, the heavyweight boxing champion of Australia, in the backyard of the Pig & Whistle Hotel on St Patrick’s Day in 1949. Fifty-two rounds. Bare knuckles.

  ‘Our brief is simple, gentlemen,’ Everard continued. ‘No arrests mean no court procedures, no court procedures mean no press, no press means no publicity. Do I make myself clear?’ George Everard ran his palms over his scalp and looked at his men.

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ said James Fadden and the look from Everard made him wish he hadn’t.

  ‘Are you familiar with the phrase Sweeney Todd, Jim?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s cockney rhyming slang for Flying Squad—a form of police work that has proved very effective in London, especially since the war. Our commissioner had it explained to him first-hand when he was over there last year: unmarked radio cars, plainclothes policemen, no identification. They see a problem and they stop and fix it. Now do you understand?’