A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  Harold Everard was George’s eldest son. He was also in the job, he was a constable working in uniform at Marrickville—twenty-eight and married to the best looking woman George had ever seen. But Vera was a good little Catholic girl just like Maude. What a bloody shame, he thought. He wondered how long it would be before she started calling Harold Mr Everard. Two more kids, I’ll bet, and it’ll start. He wondered why Harold hadn’t called in to say hello, but before he could voice the question it was answered for him.

  ‘Grandpa!’ a little voice screamed and George was hit in the chest by a flying, blond-haired toddler.

  ‘Hey! What have we here? Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if it isn’t Shayne Everard himself!’ George gathered the boy into his arms and prepared to answer a thousand questions.

  ‘Slow down, Shayne and let your grandfather finish his dinner,’ said Harold as he walked in, still in uniform. ‘How’s it going, Inspector?’

  ‘Enough of that bloody inspector rubbish,’ snorted George. ‘How the hell are you, son?’

  ‘Don’t blaspheme, Mr Everard,’ chided Maude, ‘not in front of the boy.’

  ‘Sorry, my dear. How’s Marrickville, lad?’

  ‘It’s all right, Dad, but I’m getting sick of uniformed work. Terry Martin got into the CIB yesterday and I’ve got two years’ seniority on him.’

  George hated the whine in his son’s voice. ‘Just be patient, son, you’ll get there, and remember what I’ve always told you—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Get your rank in the uniform branch, and then transfer.’

  ‘That’s the truth of it.’

  A little hand tapped George’s shoulder. ‘Grandpa, Grandpa, be a grizzly bear.’

  ‘Well, now young Shayne, let’s see, a grizzly bear, eh?’ George looked into the eyes of his grandson and saw the fire there. Yes, he thought, you’re a real Everard. You’ll be tough and uncompromising. You’ll back down from no man. Hell, he loved this kid. ‘A grizzly bear, eh? Meee-oow,’ he joked and licked the boy’s ear.

  ‘No, no!’ the boy shrieked, giggling uncontrollably as George shook him, ‘That’s not a grizzly bear.’

  ‘Ggggrrrrrrr.’ George growled from deep within and the boy’s eyes widened and he grinned. ‘Grrrrrooooowwl,’ he roared and lifted the boy over his head.

  ‘Don’t get him too excited, Grandpa.’ Vera walked into the kitchen and took the laughing boy into her arms. ‘He’s off to bed shortly. How are you?’ She bent down and pecked George’s cheek.

  George smelled the scent of magnolia fragrance. Vera was wearing a dress with roses on it and looked very young.

  ‘How’s my favourite daughter-in-law?’

  ‘I’ll be better when I’ve put him down,’ she laughed. ‘He’s getting so big!’ She took the boy back into the living room.

  ‘Where’s my granddaughter?’ asked George.

  ‘Penelope’s asleep in her bassinet. You can see her in the morning, Dad.’ Harold sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, son,’ said Maude, ‘I’ll help Vera with the children and then we’ll all have a nice cup of tea. Harold and Vera are staying the night, George. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’ She gathered up her hat and coat and left the room.

  George looked at his eldest son. He was a good boy and doing just fine in the job, or so he’d been told. He tried not to interfere in Harold’s career—in fact, apart from getting the boy into the Force, he’d never used his rank or friendships to make life easy for him. It would work against him in the end, George knew. Harold looked like his mother, and George recognised that in some ways he took after her. He practised Catholicism. Maude had drummed it into all the kids. And he was finicky about his appearance and manners like Maude. But where Harold most resembled Maude was in the weakness that lay in him. Like Maude, Harold had difficulty making decisions. When a problem arose in Harold’s life and the answer wasn’t immediately obvious, he would simply pretend it didn’t exist. As a kid he would go and climb a tree until the problem went away, just as his mother would run off to church and pray. When she came out of church the problem wouldn’t exist, at least not as far as she was concerned. That weakness, he knew, would go against Harold in his police career, especially when he attained a higher rank. Oh well, he told himself, never mind for the moment, he loved the boy, as he did all of his kids, and problems weren’t worth worrying about until they arose.

  ‘How’s the new job?’

  ‘Eh?’ George snapped out of his reverie. ‘Oh, fine, lad. It’s going to be fun. I’ll tell you what, I’ve got a bottle of single malt whisky out in the garage—how about you and I having a drink or two?’

  ‘What about Mum?’

  ‘To hell with your mother.’ Maude had never allowed George to drink in the house and he’d gone along with it to keep the peace, but what he did in the backyard and garage was his business. She knew how far she could push him and his drinking habits and that was as far as the back door. ‘When I want a drink I bloody well have one! And I want one right now with my eldest boy!’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘Good. Well, let’s get about it then.’

  The two men rose and went out into the night air. It was a beautiful evening and the smoke from neighbourhood wood fires permeated the still air. Moths fluttered about the light over the garage door and the smell of cooking wafted over the fence from the house next door.

  George opened the side door of the garage and flicked on the light. He went to a woodworking bench and pulled a bottle of whisky from underneath it. ‘Here it is! The water of life.’

  Harold slumped down on an old sofa and watched his father pour the liquid into two large tumblers. ‘Shit, go easy Dad. I’ll be flat on my arse with too much of that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said George, handing a glass to Harold, ‘I’ve got a big day myself tomorrow. I’ll not be taking too much of it.’

  ‘So, tell me. How’s the new unit?’

  George settled himself into a cane chair before speaking. ‘It’s exciting, Harold. I never thought anything would excite me again, but this does.’ He sipped his whisky and continued. ‘It’s a flying squad. A fucking flying squad! No divisional boundaries. Do you have any idea what that creates?’ Another sip. ‘We can go wherever we want. We don’t even have to tell the local boys that we’re on their turf.’

  ‘That’ll cause problems eventually.’

  ‘To hell with them. This is a new police strategy. Nothing like it has been done before. Oh, I know it’s only to clean up some teenage trouble at the moment, but the powers that be don’t understand what they’ve unleashed.’

  Harold frowned. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  George leaned forward, his eyes alight. ‘It’s 1956, boy! A new age is dawning. Australia’s growing up. Television is here, we’ll have the Olympic Games in Melbourne at the end of the year and the New South Wales Parliament is going to legislate for the introduction of those bloody American slot gambling machines any day now. Don’t you see? There’ll be more vice, more prostitution. Those machines will create huge revenue for the clubs they’re installed in and that will create a new form of crime. It’s happened in America: organised crime, the Yanks call it. The Mafia, Harold. The fucking dagoes! Those bloody Italians have been pouring into this country since the war and it won’t be long before they’ll start their Mafia business here in Sydney, just like they’ve done in Chicago and New York. And they won’t be the only ones—the locals will try pulling it on as well.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Christ alive, Harold!’ George thumped the arm of his chair. ‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face. The Force’ll need a unit to deal with it and Thirty-Three will get the job. I’ll get to superintendent out of this and by Jesus I’ll wield a big stick. Let’s have another drink on the strength of it.’

  Thomas Bromley stepped from the tram and watched it move off down King Street. He knew his wife Josie would be waiting up for him but he’d promised Al
fie Leonard he’d drop by the Boys’ Club, so he turned and walked down Kennett Lane. Josie wouldn’t mind. She’d wait up like she always did.

  Josie was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Never an hour went by when she didn’t enter his thoughts. He’d met her on the nightshift four years ago. She was a sister at St Vincent’s Hospital then and he used to talk with her over a cup of backroom coffee whenever he happened to be in the hospital on police business, which was every second night. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen and he couldn’t believe his luck when she accepted an invitation to go dancing with him. Boy oh boy, did that turn into a roller-coaster ride. All the blokes at the dance had stared at her. She looked a million quid in her blue dancing dress and silver shoes and Tom could still remember the feeling of pride that swept over him when they whirled around the floor.

  Three weeks went by and his feet never touched the ground. He was in love and walking on air. Then, late one Friday night, he’d taken her to a coffee house in Roslyn Street up the Cross and before he knew it he was telling her he loved her.

  He shook his head and smiled at the memory of her response. She’d taken his hands in hers and looked into his eyes. ‘Tommy,’ she said, ‘I love you too.’ Just like that, right out loud. So loud that the bloke behind the counter heard it and grinned at them.

  She took him home to her bedsit in Darlinghurst Road, took his clothes off and kissed him all over. Then she sat astride him and looked into his eyes and said, ‘Be honest and true, Tommy. That’s all I ask and I’ll love you forever.’ Then she lowered herself onto him and made love to him. All the while she never broke eye contact with Tommy. Even as she orgasmed she stared straight into his eyes and he was overwhelmed with love for her.

  Thomas Bromley looked up at the night sky and laughed for sheer joy as he entered the Police Boys’ Club. He was the luckiest man in the world. He had Josie. Nothing else mattered.

  He heard the slap of the speed ball and the fists of young men smacking into the punching bags as he entered the hall. The smell of sweat and liniment mingled with tobacco smoke. In the centre of the hall was a boxing ring in which two young men slugged wildly at each other. An elderly man with snowy white hair and a towel around his neck turned from the ringside and smiled at him.

  ‘Tommy Bromley, the man they couldn’t root, shoot or electrocute. How are you, man?’

  Bromley smiled at his old friend. ‘I’m real good, Alfie, how about you?’

  ‘Never better. How’s that beautiful girl of yours?’

  ‘Josie’s fine. She’ll be waiting up for me, so I can’t stay long. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Aaah, the problem.’ Alfie Leonard’s face worked its way into a whiskered frown. ‘The problem.’ He looked around and lowered his voice. ‘It’s all second-hand, Tom, it’s all whispers, you understand, but I think it could be serious. That’s why I called you. Some of the younger boys here have been stood over lately. Saturday nights. The kids that have the evening newspaper jobs.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Well, like I say it’s all whispers and hearsay. You know these boys won’t talk straight out—they think they’re too tough for that—but several of the younger ones have had their paper money taken off them when they’ve finished selling. Young Michael Atkins has got a cigarette burn on his arm, but he won’t tell me how it happened. Do you understand what I’m getting at?’

  ‘Who’s doing it?’

  ‘I’m not positive, mind, but I think Gary Bisley and his cohorts might be getting a bit big for their boots. They’re running with a wild crowd. It’s the bloody dance at the Town Hall that’s doing it. Bloody rock and roll they call it. All the older boys go there and I hear there’s a gang been formed.’

  ‘Bodgies.’

  Alfie nodded. ‘That’s the word they have for themselves.’

  ‘All right, Alfie,’ Bromley said, ‘I’ll look into it.’

  ‘That’s an end to it then.’ Alfie smiled. ‘Now tell me, when are you and Josie gonna have some kids to send along to me? I’ll teach another generation of Bromleys how to box.’

  Tom took a deep breath and looked away. The reaction wasn’t wasted on Alfie. ‘What have I said? Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Josie can’t have kids, Alf.’

  The old man took him by the arm. ‘I’m sorry Tom, I didn’t know. That’s a pure tragedy.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve still got her. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Too right it is. And the way kids are going these days, what with bodgies and widgies and the like, who’d have ’em?’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Tom looked around the gymnasium, ‘The kid with the burn, Atkins, is he in tonight?’

  ‘He’s upstairs with the younger ones, playing table tennis.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him,’ said Tom, extending his hand. ‘See you later mate.’

  Tom walked towards the stairs but turned back as Alfie called to him. ‘Don’t be a stranger around here, Tom. The kids need older ones to look up to. You’re The Boxer. Your photo’s on the wall. You won an Australian title. You did what they only dream of doing. You’re a legend around here, you know.’

  Bromley smiled. ‘Legends live on walls, Alfie,’ he said, and turned back towards the stairs.

  At the top of the stairs he yelled, ‘Michael Atkins!’ and thirty little kids stopped playing table tennis and stared at him. A ping-pong ball chattered crazily as it bounced to a stop. ‘Michael Atkins?’ Thirty little kids continued to stare at the man whose photo was on the wall. The boxer. The policeman.

  Michael Atkins frantically tried to remember what he’d done wrong as he slowly raised his hand. If he went home with a policeman his mother would cry and his father would kill him.

  ‘Can I have a word with you, son? You other boys get on with whatever you were doing.’

  Michael Atkins walked up to Tom Bromley and stood by his side and slowly the noise and action resumed.

  Bromley squatted on his haunches and looked into the boy’s blue eyes. ‘Don’t be afraid, Michael. I just want to talk to you, is that okay?’ The boy nodded. ‘Somebody told me you have a cigarette burn on your arm. Is it true?’

  Michael nodded. He could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. He fought them back manfully.

  ‘Show me, Michael.’

  The boy rolled up his sleeve and revealed a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his forearm. ‘I put a bandage on it.’

  ‘That was pretty smart. I want you to show it to your Mum when you get home tonight. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Michael bit his lip.

  ‘I want you to tell me what happened,’ Tommy said gently. ‘No lies, all right?’

  Michael nodded. He didn’t want to cry in front of his mates, but he couldn’t help being scared. He was looking at Sergeant Bromley—the man with his photo on the wall, the man who’d knocked out Sam Taylor to win the title. Michael had seen Sam Taylor at the Royal Show and anybody who could knock him out must be very powerful. He hoped Sergeant Bromley wasn’t going to knock him out. ‘The bodgies did it. They said if I told anyone, they’d put the cigarette in my eyes next time.’ The tears started to roll down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop them. The sergeant picked him up with one arm and carried him into the office next door.

  Tom Bromley sat the boy on his lap and cuddled him for several minutes until the tears turned to sobs and the sobs turned to deep breaths. ‘How old are you, Michael?’

  ‘T-t-ten. N-n-nearly eleven, but.’

  ‘Did they take your paper money?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What did Mr Sellers say when you got back to the newspaper shop without it?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him.’ The boy’s voice wavered.

  ‘What did you do?’

  The tears started again and the boy quivered in Bromley’s arms as he cried. ‘It’s all right, Michael. Don’t be afraid, just tell me what happened.’

  ‘I took the money from M
um’s housekeeping jar and gave it to Mr Sellers,’ Michael sobbed, ‘and when you tell Dad he’ll kill me.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ reassured Tommy, stroking his hair. ‘I know your Dad, his name’s Kevin, right? I went to school with him. I’ll talk to him and we’ll sort it out. Now, tell me who burnt you?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘They’ll blind me.’

  ‘Not when I’m finished with them, Michael,’ said Tommy grimly.

  The boy sobbed and looked at Bromley with reddened eyes. ‘Do you promise? Do you promise they won’t get me?’

  ‘Michael, they won’t come near you. I promise.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘It was Gary Bisley and his mates. They’ve got a gang. They’re called the Overlords.’

  Bromley stood the boy on his feet. ‘You leave the Overlords to me, mate,’ he said, ruffling his hair. ‘Go and wash your face and I’ll take you home to your Dad. And don’t worry, all right?’

  The boy walked to the door, then hesitated and turned back to see if Bromley wanted him to go. Unaware the boy was still there, Bromley lit a cigarette. He looked out the window onto the tops of the small terraced houses of the tired working class suburb. The anger was on him. He was seething with it. Christ Al-fucking-mighty, what was the country coming to? Burning a ten-year-old kid for his newspaper money. Bodgies and widgies. Rock’n’roll. It was the American influence that was doing it.

  It had happened overnight. A film had started it. The Blackboard Jungle. It was on in all the theatres. It had a song in it called ‘Rock Around the Clock’, sung by Bill Haley and the Comets. The entire teenage population of Sydney had taken to it. Dances had sprung up all over the place. It had taken off like a bushfire and taken the kids with it. In every suburb every Friday and Saturday night, they danced until they dropped. It was truly a phenomenon.

  The music itself wasn’t that bad really, he thought. In fact he had to admit to himself that he liked it, but the wildness it created wasn’t good. The film preached defiance to the young. Its message was to kick back at authority; live fast and die young. That message was too powerful for a city like Sydney to handle. That was the real problem—the kids were hitting out and defying all the values held by their elders. And now a sub-culture was being created which was the real problem. Gangs were indeed flourishing, gangs like the Overlords. And Thirty-Three Division had been created to stop them. Well, that was just fine as far as Thomas Bromley was concerned, so long as the Overlords got it in the neck first up. ‘The bastards!’ he cursed aloud and slammed his fist into a wooden filing cabinet. Shocked at his own reaction, he spun around to see if anyone had heard him, and started when he saw the boy standing in the doorway, staring. There was fear in his eyes.