A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  ‘Jesus, Tommy,’ Ames whispered, ‘how long is it since you slept yourself? You look fucking awful.’ Bromley could only shake his head, afraid his voice would crack if he spoke. Ames took his arm. ‘Come on, let her sleep. I’ll give these flowers to the ward sister.’

  Bromley allowed Ames to guide him from the room. ‘I should stay in case she wakes up.’

  ‘You’re gonna have a couple of beers with me and then you’re going home for a sleep.’ Ames put his arm around Bromley and led him down the corridor to the nurse’s station. ‘Excuse me, sister?’ he said and handed the flowers to the woman behind the counter. ‘Could you look after these for Mrs Bromley? I’m going to take this one home for some sleep.’

  Two hours later Bromley was drunk. He sat in a corner of the bar of the Beauchamp Hotel and sighed deeply. ‘I’m at the end of my rope, Stan. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Leave it to the doctors, mate. They’ll fix her.’ Ames sat and placed more beer in front of them.

  ‘That’ll be the bloody day. They’ve got no more idea than I have.’ Bromley sipped at his beer and looked sadly out the window. The rain had increased to a heavy downpour. ‘They know fuck all about leukemia! Do you know I have to send her to Austria!’

  ‘Austria! Really?’ Ames responded with mock surprise. ‘What have they prescribed, skiing?’ he laughed. ‘Sorry, mate, only kidding. What goes on in Austria?’

  ‘A clinic. A private clinic where they use a new drug treatment called chemotherapy.’

  ‘Austria. Shit.’ Ames lowered his voice. ‘Tommy, I don’t want to pry, but who’s gonna pay for all this?’

  Bromley looked blank. He was depressed and the ceaseless beating of the rain against the roof was making him more so. ‘I’ve got no idea. Doc Miller reckons I should rob a bank.’ He looked back at Ames with haunted eyes. ‘I’ve got to send her. It’s her only chance. She’ll just wither away and die if she stays here.’ He looked back out at the rain. ‘I don’t know what to do, Stan. I’ll sell the house, but even that won’t cover it. Not after I pay off the mortgage.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, man. You can’t sell your house! It’s all you’ve got in the world!’

  Bromley continued to stare out the window. ‘Josie’s all I’ve got in the world, Stan. Without her I’ve got no world at all.’ The two men fell into silence for some time. Eventually Ames lit a cigarette and looked straight at Bromley.

  ‘I can give you the money, Tom. However much it is you need.’

  ‘You?’ Bromley laughed. ‘Where on earth would you get it?’

  ‘I’m a crook.’

  ‘Don’t talk shit, Stan. This is serious!’

  ‘I’m not talking shit, Tom,’ said Ames, staring right into Bromley’s eyes. ‘I’ve been taking money hand over fist from gambling raids since we first started back in fifty-six.’

  Bromley lay a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘I’m not in the mood for jokes Stan.’

  ‘Who’s joking?’ Ames dragged on his cigarette and continued eye-balling Bromley as he blew the smoke from his lungs.

  ‘You bastard!’ The beer from Bromley’s glass hit Stan Ames in the face. ‘You dirty bastard!’ Ames wiped his face on his sleeve as Bromley stood up. ‘All this time you’ve been on the take—’

  ‘Stop moralising, Bromley!’ Ames hissed. He looked about the nearly empty public bar before continuing. ‘You’re no better than I am—’

  ‘I’ve never taken a penny from anyone in my—’

  ‘No, but you shot three innocent kids and then had the nerve to take a fucking bravery award for it!’ Bromley froze as if he’d been shot himself. ‘We take care of our own, remember? Go on, Tommy,’ Ames goaded him. ‘You want to throw a punch at me in a public bar? That’ll look good in tomorrow’s papers, won’t it? We’ll both lose our jobs! Then how are you going to save Josie?’

  Bromley’s shoulders sagged and he sat down as memories of the night behind the church came flooding back. The potting shed. The boys’ faces. The gunfire. Knocker’s voice repeating, ‘Three shots were fired, we fired back.’ Then his mind was filled with visions of Josie lying in the hospital bed. Life and the futility of it all got the better of him and in that instant, Tom Bromley finally forgot how to care.

  Ames stared at him and for one moment felt an inkling of remorse. He was witnessing a sad event. The death of a good man’s spirit. He quickly put such thoughts out of his mind. ‘I was brought up poor, Tom. Hungry and shoeless poor, in a mining town where the temperature never gets below ninety degrees. My old man’s a drunk with lung disease from working underground and my mum’s …’ Ames looked at the broken man in front of him. ‘Fuck it! I’m not going to justify myself to you, because in reality, you’re no better than I am. I take money. You take life. What’s the difference?’ Ames spat a fleck of tobacco from his lip. ‘Come to think of it, there is a difference. I can give the money back if I want to.’

  The two men sat in silence. Ames smoked and sipped his beer and Bromley looked out of the window. ‘Aaaah, shit!’ he sighed.

  ‘I told you I was taking money for one simple reason, Tom. I know how much shit you’re in and the Department won’t lift a finger to help you. I don’t want you to lose Josie.’

  Bromley looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Don’t try to con me, Stan.’

  ‘I’m not. I didn’t have to tell you anything.’ Ames leaned over the table. ‘I’ve left myself wide open to your mercy, Tommy. You only have to tell Everard and the whole Division goes down the plughole.’

  ‘The whole Division?’

  ‘I’m not the only one,’ said Ames solemnly. ‘Sinclair, Renshaw, Morrison, Fadden. Even young Everard junior’s playing the game.’

  ‘Jimmy Fadden?’ Bromley shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Why not? He’s got a wife and little kids.’

  Bromley couldn’t get over it. ‘Who else?’

  ‘Everyone in the bloody Division except you and Knocker.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  Ames leaned forward, intent. ‘The police force is fucked, Tom. It’s always been that way. There are a few naive idealists like you and George Everard who still can’t see the forest for the trees. Who still believe in the, “we take care of our own” bullshit! But most cops are smart enough to know that they have to take care of themselves!’ Ames leaned backed in his chair and lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he’d just finished. ‘Don’t be a jerk, mate. Take the money and save Josie.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ Bromley gestured helplessly. ‘Everard trusts me.’

  ‘He’ll never know.’

  ‘What about Knocker?’

  Ames laughed. ‘Knocker Reid! Jesus! He was in the Armed Hold Up Squad for ten years. He’s shot more people than I’ve had hot dinners. Even if he found out, do you really think he’d care? He’s as hard as fucking nails! And he wouldn’t begrudge anyone getting anything extra out of the job. You can bet he’s done it himself before today.’

  For a long time, Bromley watched the heavy raindrops bursting on the footpath. He felt anaesthetised. He couldn’t move. ‘I could never pay it back,’ he heard himself say.

  Ames relaxed as he watched Bromley’s profile. The beginnings of a smile teased his lips. ‘Christ, Tom! Will you listen to what I’m saying? It’s gambling money! Black cash, taken from crooks.’ He leaned towards Bromley again and lowered his voice. ‘It’s like Monopoly money. I don’t even want it. Use it to save your wife.’

  Bromley turned back from the window and looked at Ames. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself talking like this.’

  Ames grabbed Bromley’s arm. ‘You’ve got two choices, Tom. Dob me in and prove to bloody George Everard that you’re an honest cop. Or take the money and give Josie what little chance is left to her.’

  Bromley took a cigarette from Ames’ pack and lit it. His hands were shaking. ‘Christ,’ he laughed mirthlessly, ‘I haven’t smoked since I was a kid.’

  ‘You’re not a kid any mor
e, Tommy. Times change. People change.’ Ames picked up the empty glasses and stood up. ‘You want another drink?’

  Bromley looked up at him. ‘Yeah. All right. Why not?’

  Jane Smart sat at the bar sipping a daiquiri. It was Friday evening and the exclusive cocktail bar was packed. Wealthy businessmen and young women were shoulder to shoulder, chatting each other up, hoping desperately for love in one form or another. At regular intervals Jane glanced at the entrance. She knew he would arrive sooner or later. She’d left a message at his office saying a well-known police informer would meet him here tonight.

  She removed her mink stole to reveal bare shoulders above a beautiful black cocktail dress. She looked good, she thought, as she caught a glimpse of herself in the bar mirror.

  ‘May I buy you a drink?’

  Jane turned to the voice. She summed him up in an instant. Wealthy, good looking, married, no doubt, and bored. Keep him on ice, she decided. She maintained eye contact for exactly one second too long before replying, ‘Not at the moment. Perhaps later.’ The man smiled and murmured, ‘I’ll wait.’ You bet you will, she thought, and you’ll fork out one hundred pounds for the pleasure.

  Images of George Everard came back to her as she sipped her drink. Pain, hurt and anger make a lethal cocktail. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she managed to control them. The bastard, she thought, the bloody bastard.

  A year ago, after Maude’s death, Jane had begun to hope that a genuine relationship with George might not be out of the question. She had even daydreamed that marriage might be a possibility. Perhaps she was fooling herself but he was a widower, after all, and she was a single woman, there was nothing in her opinion that could stand in their way. Several months after Maude’s funeral, however, Jane had noticed a definite change in George Everard.

  At first it was the infrequency of his visits. Several weeks would go by during which she would not see him and then he would land on her doorstep at two o’clock in the morning and virtually rape her. He would take her three or four times, driving her crazy with passion and then leave without even saying goodbye.

  She knew he was under a lot of pressure from the police force and she supposed Maude’s death must have affected him deeply, so she allowed the situation between them to deteriorate, hoping that things would get better with time and lead on to a lasting happiness for them both. ‘How wrong can you get?’ she muttered wryly to herself.

  Christmas had come and gone without a word from him. She’d tried calling and the one time she’d actually got him on the telephone, he’d sounded remote and disinterested. She’d left him alone after that, hoping desperately that he’d call or come to visit. But he never did.

  In February she called him again. She begged and pleaded with him and several nights later he arrived and things had been just like they were in the beginning. He made love to her gently and caressed her until she fell asleep. He stayed that night and the next day he took her to a beach resort and they spent two more delirious nights together. For a whole week everything had been fine. And then his visits stopped as suddenly as they had restarted.

  All the time since Maude’s death, it had never once occurred to Jane that George might have someone else. Another woman. Then one morning in early March it hit her. The lack of contact, his erratic visits, his moodiness—she had misread the signs. Thoughts of George with another woman nearly drove her insane. After a week of sleepless nights and bouts of crying, jealousy got the better of her. That was when she decided to start following him.

  For a month she’d tracked him. From his office to his home and back again. His movements never varied. It drove her crazy. Why wouldn’t he see her? It was obvious to her that there was no one else. Why was he leaving her out in the cold?

  Jane decided a confrontation was in order. It was her last resort. She would go to him and have it out once and for all.

  The following Sunday morning she’d driven to his house. She was in the process of parking her car a little way down the street from his front door, when she saw the woman. A beautiful woman several years older than herself, carrying a bunch of fresh flowers in her arms, walked into the driveway of George’s front yard and around towards the rear door. Alarm bells rang inside her head, The woman looked familiar.

  Jane left her car and went to the house. She moved warily around to the back of the dwelling. She waited for several minutes and then silently entered the kitchen.

  ‘How about that drink?’

  The voice startled Jane. She recovered her composure and turned to the man who had spoken to her earlier. ‘Later,’ she managed to say. ‘Later, I promise. I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘Like I said,’ the man grinned, ‘I can wait.’

  Jane knew exactly what the woman was experiencing. Sexual delirium. She’d known it herself many times in George Everard’s embrace. She stood, transfixed, at the bottom of the stairs in the living room and listened to them.

  She left the house as silently as she’d entered it and walked back to her car in a daze. Behind the wheel her tears had started. She cried her heart out for several minutes and then the face of the woman presented itself again. Maude’s funeral, Oh my God! Maude’s funeral Jane’s memory shrieked. The woman was Vera Everard. Harold’s wife.

  She saw him enter the bar. He paused momentarily and brushed his hair back with both hands. A mannerism he shared with his father George.

  ‘Hello, Harold,’ she said as he walked up to her.

  Harold Everard looked at the woman on the stool and recognised her instantly. He smiled. ‘Do we know each other?’ he said rather too loudly.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Harold. I’m Jane Smart. You’re father’s mistress,’ she replied just as loudly.

  Harold leaned close to her ear. ‘I know only too well who you are, Miss Smart. There’s no need to announce it to the world.’

  ‘I have something to tell you, Harold.’ Jane smiled at him.

  Harold had been a copper long enough to know a nut-case when he ran into one and he was staring one right in the face. The woman was deeply disturbed. For a moment he imagined her pulling a gun from her purse and shooting him to death. ‘I’m sure it can wait. Now is not the appropriate time—I’m meeting someone,’ he answered and began to move away. ‘It’s now or never,’ he heard her say and then felt her hot breath in his ear, as she pulled him closer and began to whisper.

  Harold Everard saw his reflection in the bar mirror. His face was partly obscured, buried in Jane Smart’s beautiful red hair. It seemed to him that he was a third person, watching an intimate exchange between lovers. Then as her words sank in, he watched his face lose all expression. The blood drained from it and his eyes widened until he looked like a dead man.

  Jane finally let Harold go. She stood up and signalled to the good-looking man who’d propositioned her earlier. He came to her side and placed her mink stole over her shoulders. ‘I’m ready for that drink now,’ she said, ‘but could we go somewhere else?’

  ‘Certainly,’ the man replied, offering her his arm.

  Jane looked back at Harold. He was staring open-mouthed at his reflection in the bar mirror. ‘It was nice talking to you, Harold,’ she said as she moved off. ‘Give my regards to your father when you see him next.’

  When they neared the exit, Jane glanced up at her good-looking man. ‘Can you afford me?’ she asked him.

  ‘Whatever the price, it’ll be worthwhile,’ he replied.

  ‘You can bet on it. Would you excuse me for just a moment while I use the ladies room?’

  ‘By all means.’

  Inside the women’s toilet Jane looked at herself in the mirror and began to apply fresh lipstick. She could well have just signed her own death warrant, she thought. If George were ever to find out what she had done tonight he would kill her. But Harold would never confront his father, of that she was sure. She finished applying her lipstick and left the lavatory.

  Harold arrived home at three in the morning,
fell into the rose bushes at his front door and simply couldn’t get up. The porch light came on and Vera stood looking down at him. His beautiful Vera, in her dressing gown, sober as a judge and frowning like an annoyed school teacher.

  ‘You’re drunk!’ She walked down the porch steps. ‘For God’s sake, get inside before the neighbours see you.’

  Harold could only reach out his hand for assistance. He was incapable of speech. He saw his wife’s breasts as she leaned down and helped him to his feet. He wanted to bury his face in them. He wanted to tear at them with his hands. He wanted to slash them to pieces with a razor. He began to cry.

  ‘Be quiet, Harold!’ she hissed. ‘The neighbours! Come on inside!’ She helped him into the house and he collapsed on his hands and knees in the kitchen, then vomited all over the linoleum floor.

  Vera could only sigh. Harold was a terrible drunk. She’d only ever seen him like it on three or four occasions and each one had been a disaster. She looked at him, collapsed on the floor in a pool of vomit, and felt nothing but disgust. She went to the laundry for a bucket and mop and by the time she returned he was unconscious. She left him there.

  Harold woke up at nine o’clock. It took him several minutes to realise he was on the kitchen floor fully clothed. He staggered to his feet and the foul stench of his regurgitation assailed his nostrils. He staggered into the backyard and vomited again.

  Harold’s recollection of the previous night was cluttered with images of bars, girls and a sea of neon lights. He sat on the rear steps of his house and tried desperately to remember what had gone on. Slowly but surely it all came back to him. The cocktail bar, Jane Smart, his shocked reflection in the bar mirror. Vera and his father? Impossible. It was impossible. And yet she’d been so sure of what she was saying.

  He could still remember her hot breath in his ear. The sexy voice recounting in lurid detail what she’d heard in his father’s house. ‘Fuck me, George! Fuck me till I die.’ He knew it was bullshit. Vera and his father! Absolute bullshit. Besides, Vera wouldn’t swear. That’s when he knew Jane Smart was lying. Vera simply wouldn’t say that. It was preposterous.