A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  ‘Buck! Buck!’ his sergeant was shouting. He ignored him and turned back towards Shayne, who was still sitting against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest.

  ‘Buck! You idiot! Get over here!’ his sergeant roared.

  ‘Get fucked!’ Buck replied and went to Shayne’s side.

  Shayne was whimpering like a child and nervously twisting some sort of material in his fingers. At first Buck thought it was bubblegum, but when he looked closer he realised it was human skin. Melted human skin. The skin of the man lying dead on the road was stuck all over Shayne’s jacket and shirt front. John Buck sat next to his friend and held him, whispering words of endearment like a mother to a baby. And all the while fighting back the vomit threatening to rise into his mouth as the air thickened with the sickly sweet stink of burnt human flesh.

  By the time they got Shayne to hospital he was entering a state of catatonia. His mind was refusing to identify the horror it had witnessed, and was withdrawing deeper and deeper into a more tranquil environment within its subconscious.

  Pain tests by the duty doctor, performed with a pin on Shayne’s eyelids and gums, had no effect. He was lost in the dreadful no-man’s-land of catatonia.

  The Casualty Sister took Shayne away in a wheelchair and refused to tell John what was going on. He could sit and wait, she told him, until she noticed his bloodied trouser legs and ordered a nurse to get him settled in a cubicle for examination.

  John had forgotten he’d been shot. He lay on a trolley and suffered a painful examination by an intern who told him that he’d suffered minor cuts and bruising.

  ‘Did you fall on barbed wire or something?’ the intern asked.

  ‘No. I was shot with a shotgun.’

  ‘Wow!’ the intern gasped. ‘This is my first shooting. I just got out of medical school.’ He inspected John’s legs again, ‘I thought shotgun wounds were far more devastating. They’re supposed to be, according to medical text books.’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Yes?’ the intern was fascinated by John’s wounds.

  ‘Where have they taken my partner?’

  ‘And who would that be?’ the intern replied distractedly as he continued to examine the myriad of small wounds caused by the pellets.

  ‘Detective Shayne Everard.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that. You’d have to speak to the senior medical officer. You’d think a shotgun would do more damage. What was the range?’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Yes?’ The intern looked up and gasped. He was staring down the barrel of John Buck’s police revolver.

  ‘It was about this distance,’ Buck said calmly. ‘Now don’t fuck me around! Where have they taken him?’

  ‘Er …’ The intern was mesmerised by the gun muzzle. ‘To the Electrotherapy Unit.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Buck replaced his firearm in its holster. ‘Now shut up and fix my legs.’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  It was nearly eight in the morning when the duty doctor woke John. He’d been asleep on a bench in the emergency waiting room since midnight, thanks to a needle of pethidine from the terrified intern.

  John leapt to his feet. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ the doctor said steadily. ‘Relax.’

  ‘How’s Shayne?’

  ‘He’s fine. He wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Did you use electrotherapy?’

  ‘Yes.’ The doctor held up his hands to stop Buck interrupting. ‘It was necessary. He’s fine, honestly.’

  Buck snorted. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, Doc. I brought him in here last night, remember? And he was such a mess you had to fucking well electrocute him! So don’t tell me he’s fine! Tell me the truth!’

  ‘If you don’t calm down Detective Buck, I won’t allow you to see him,’ the doctor snapped.

  ‘All right. All right.’ Buck heaved a sigh. ‘But tell me the truth. How is he!’ He tapped his head with his finger. ‘Up here, I mean.’

  The doctor’s tone softened. ‘That’s not for me to diagnose, Detective. He’s young and resilient—that’ll work in his favour—but he’ll need psychiatric counselling.’ He shrugged. ‘These things take time. He’ll need a lengthy period away from work and a friend or two to help him through it. What more can I say?’

  ‘Thanks, Doc. Where is he?’

  ‘Room 202,’ the doctor replied. ‘It’s a private room down the corridor to the left. Tell the sister I sent you.’

  As the doctor hurried off, John heard his name being called.

  ‘Detective Buck?’

  He turned towards the nursing station and saw a pretty nurse pointing to a telephone handpiece.

  ‘It’s the police department,’ she explained. ‘They want to talk to a police officer.’

  John took the handpiece. ‘Detective Buck speaking.’

  ‘Assistant Commissioner Everard,’ the voice responded down the line. ‘Have you seen my son?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, how is he?’ The voice was detached, cold.

  ‘Pretty shaken up I’d say, sir.’

  ‘Shaken up?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you mean he hasn’t been injured?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, sir,’ Buck continued. ‘He’s been badly traumatised.’

  ‘Well, if he hasn’t sustained any injuries, I won’t call in,’ came Everard’s icy reply. ‘I’m very busy. Will you tell him I phoned?’

  Buck paused a moment before answering. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Good man,’ Everard said briskly, then, almost as an afterthought, ‘How about you? Were you injured?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Buck lied.

  ‘Excellent,’ Everard said and the line went dead.

  Buck stared at the handpiece. ‘You fucking arsehole.’

  Helen Gorman was worried. It was Saturday afternoon and she was standing in the kitchen of Harold Everard’s home in Neutral Bay, wiping the last of the dishes from the fortnightly barbecue they’d held earlier. All the regulars had attended, taken their envelopes full of cash and departed. It had all seemed routine. But something was in the wind. She could sense it.

  Harold sat in the lounge room with two of his sergeants, Derek Schumacher and Ian Spencer. He was in a really shitty mood. They were deep in discussion about something, but Helen hadn’t been able to ascertain what.

  Helen shuddered. She couldn’t stand Schumacher and Ian Spencer was only marginally more tolerable. They were the silent types always present in the background. Not obsequious, but more like watchdogs—big, hungry, dangerous watchdogs. Schumacher was always looking at her as if she were a piece of meat. There was cruelty behind his eyes. She’d met his type before.

  She moved into the lounge room and began stacking glasses behind the cocktail bar. As she did so, Schumacher abruptly stopped speaking and stared at her.

  ‘It’s all right, Derek,’ Everard said jovially. ‘You can talk in front of Helen; she knows where her loyalties must lie. Don’t you, darling?’

  Helen put on her sexiest smile and winked at Harold. ‘I’m with you sweetheart. Always.’ She busied herself behind the bar.

  ‘Okay Derek, take it from the top.’ Everard waved his empty glass at Helen and she dutifully took it for a refill.

  ‘Well, sir,’ began Schumacher, clearing his throat, ‘it’s all a bit “iffy”, but one of Ian’s informers at the Daily Mirror saw a memo written on parliamentary note paper. It read: “Tip-Toe Investments question mark. No more details but could be worth a look.” The memo wasn’t signed, but he’s pretty sure it came from Pat Morgan’s office.’

  Everard nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. ‘What do you make of it, Ian?’

  ‘It’s a leak, boss.’ Ian Spencer leaned forward in his chair. ‘Nothing surer. I’d say Morgan has opened his fucking mouth and one of his aides or secretaries heard something.’

  ‘That’d be right.’ Everard grunted as Hel
en delivered his fresh drink. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Whoever it is has got it in for Morgan and tried to stir up trouble by sending an anonymous letter to the newspaper.’

  Everard nodded and sat in silence for a full minute. Then he threw his glass full of whisky across the room, where it shattered against the wall, causing Helen Gorman to jump six inches off the floor.

  ‘Fuck him!’ Everard roared. ‘The useless, ineffectual piece of shit. I knew one day this would happen. Johnny Birmingham warned me and so did Stan, but I wouldn’t listen.’ He got up and walked over to the bar. ‘Helen, fix me another drink, darling and attend to our guests.’ His voice had suddenly lost the anger, but it was as cold as a grave.

  Helen did his bidding, but she was shaking like a leaf. She’d only ever seen him this angry once before. One night, about two years ago, just after she’d met him.

  They’d been drunk late in the evening and his daughter Penelope had arrived unannounced. She’d walked in on the two of them, naked. Elvira, the maid, was sprawled on the couch and both of them were at her. At first Harold had been at a loss, but then he’d grinned drunkenly and asked the girl to join them.

  Helen would never forget the look of horror on Penelope’s face. She’d turned and walked out of the house and had had no contact with her father since.

  Harold had continued with the orgy, seemingly without a care, and then all of a sudden he punched Elvira in the face and burned Helen with a cigarette. He went completely crazy and the two women had locked themselves in the laundry.

  The following morning they found him asleep on the rear balcony. He either hadn’t remembered the incident or simply chose to forget it, because he never spoke of it again.

  Now Helen could sense that madness was back.

  Everard turned as Helen handed him a fresh drink, and watched as she delivered beer to the watchdogs.

  ‘It’s damage control time, boys,’ he said urgently. ‘Find the fucking leak! See how far it’s gone and take the appropriate action.’

  Both men merely nodded. They were old hands at the game.

  Harold swilled down the contents of his glass and ordered another. Helen took his glass and he grinned at her. He rubbed his hands together and grinned at his sergeants. Then he spread his arms in an all-embracing gesture and spoke the words Helen was dreading.

  ‘Well, boys, I think a bit of excitement is called for!’ He turned to Helen. ‘Darling, go and get Elvira.’

  ‘I think she’s gone out, Harold,’ Helen replied nervously.

  ‘Rubbish, my dear. She’s in her room waiting for you.’

  Elvira was most certainly in her room. Helen was only too aware of it. Usually after the Saturday handouts were made, Harold went off to the Kirribilli Yacht Club with his cronies and Helen would spend the afternoon in Elvira’s lovingly sinful arms.

  ‘Harold, please,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t do this.’

  Harold looked at her and she quailed inwardly at the madness in his eyes. She dared not disobey him. In this sort of mood he was capable of anything.

  ‘Give me my drink, dear,’ he murmured, ‘then get Elvira. I promised the boys a bit of excitement, and excitement they shall have.’

  Helen handed him his whisky and looked at the other two men. They were both looking at the floor, grinning. She knew precisely what Harold meant by excitement and she also knew she’d have to go through with it.

  ‘I’ll need ten minutes alone with Elvira,’ she muttered.

  ‘By all means, my dear. She must be prepared.’ Harold grinned in the direction of his sergeants. ‘Take all the time you want. We’ll have another drink or two before the performance.’

  Helen had started walking towards the stairs that led down to Elvira’s room, when Harold grabbed her by the wrist.

  ‘Use cocaine.’ He brushed her face gently with his free hand. ‘I want you both in full heat when you get back up here.’

  ‘Yes, Harold,’ Helen whispered as he let her go.

  By sunset that same evening it was all over. Helen sat naked and shivering on the balcony, unaware of the sun’s final rays shining through the steel girders of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. She began sobbing again at the memory of the ambulance officers placing Elvira’s dead body on a gurney and taking it out to the ambulance.

  It had been an accident. Elvira had fallen down the stairs, full of cocaine and alcohol. It really wasn’t anyone’s fault. She’d been out of it. Totally out of control.

  Schumacher had called the local police and taken care of everything with his usual efficiency. Harold had disappeared to the bloody Yacht Club with Spencer, Schumacher following them after attending to the accident details. And all the while Helen had been in the master bedroom crying her eyes out.

  Helen felt disgusted with herself. She’d performed like a bitch in heat and so had Elvira. The cocaine had driven them both to gross excess. They’d been had in every way imaginable by Schumacher and Spencer, while Harold had watched from the bar, urging them on.

  It had started with the two women performing alone. They had fired themselves up. Elvira was insatiable at the best of times, but under the influence of drugs and booze she’d do anything. Finally, when even Harold had wanted a break from the sexual activity—not that he’d actually done anything—Elvira decided to perform a native dance for them all which she’d learnt as a child. It happened during the dance. She’d slipped on the polished floor and went head over heels down the stairs. To Helen the whole incident had seemed silly and unbelievable. It was all so quick and so simple. Her neck had been broken and that was that. All of a sudden, Elvira was dead.

  It really had not been anyone’s fault, Helen desperately tried to convince herself as she sat sobbing on the balcony, but she knew full well that if anyone was to blame, she was, at least partly responsible. She should have stood up to Harold and not allowed any of it to happen.

  Fucking men! All her life she’d been ruled by men. She hadn’t realised at first—at first she’d thought she was ruling them. Men were her meal ticket—she’d made that decision very early on. Why bother working your guts out when you could fuck your way into the lives of the rich and famous? Pop stars, television executives, managers, she’d had them all—the list was endless. But it wasn’t always easy. There was a price to pay. And the price went up the older you got. And according to what you wanted. And Helen wanted it all. That was when she realised that she no longer ruled the men—they ruled her. And now she was in the clutches of a madman. A fucking psychopath who had caused the death of the only person she had ever loved.

  Thoughts of Harold began to fuel her anger. If that bloody maniac had not perverted the girl in the first place, Elvira would still be alive. Her lovely Elvira. Her darling Elvira. Helen began to cry even more. Deep down inside, hatred for Harold Everard consumed her.

  ‘Detective Buck?’ the soft voice enquired.

  John turned and was momentarily startled by the beauty of the woman who’d spoken. She was anywhere between thirty and forty. Long dark red hair framed a stunning face and her clothing said pure money.

  ‘You are Detective John Buck, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ he stammered. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘You may have heard of me,’ she said coolly. ‘My name is Jane Smart.’

  At the mention of her name, the penny dropped. The richest madam in Sydney. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Smart?’ he asked, looking around to see if he was being observed.

  ‘It’s quite simple, really,’ she smiled. ‘I want to know how young Shayne Everard is. Can you tell me?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘I was a friend of his grandfather’s. I heard he’d been involved in a nasty incident and wondered how he was.’

  John was only too aware that they were conversing in front of Police Headquarters. ‘Can we go somewhere a little less obvious?’

  Jane laughed knowingly. ‘Of course. I’ll walk away from you as if I’d made a simple e
nquiry. Meet me in the Copper Kettle—it’s a coffee shop in George Street. Do you know it?’

  ‘Okay,’ Buck replied. ‘Fifteen minutes?’

  Jane Smart walked off and Buck could not help but watch her go. She was a magnificent woman.

  ‘I’m merely concerned for his welfare,’ Jane explained as they sat at a small table. ‘George Everard and I were friends and I owe it to him to offer any help I can to the boy.’

  They were silent while a young waitress cleaned their table and took an order for two espressos.

  Buck stared at her for a moment, then shook his head sadly. ‘He’s a mess, Miss Smart. It’s as simple as that. He’s on sick leave and he’s seen a psychiatrist, but it’s done him no good.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Sitting in his flat staring at the wall, probably.’ John offered a cigarette to her, but she declined. ‘Mind if I do?’ he asked and she shook her head. ‘The bloody police force is in the dark ages when it comes to situations like this.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  John lit his cigarette and exhaled slowly. ‘Shayne’s been badly traumatised. Battle shock, battle trauma—call it what you like. He’s in a bad way, yet the powers that be in the Force don’t recognise things like that. I was in the army in Vietnam, Miss Smart …’

  ‘Please. Call me Jane,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Yeah, well, the army have people who understand this sort of thing. Counsellors, you know?’ John shrugged and gave a mirthless laugh. ‘The bloody police force won’t see that a person can be damaged like this. She’ll be jake, is their motto. They just expect Shayne to return to duty as if nothing happened. They’re whingeing already because the shrink put him off work for a month. They don’t understand.’

  ‘What do you think Shayne needs?’ Jane asked softly.

  The waitress arrived with the coffees and John waited until she’d left. ‘He needs somewhere quiet, away from everything he knows, and someone to help him through it. He’s a tough young bloke—he’ll get over it with a little time.’