A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  ‘Well, well, another copper,’ sneered Watts. ‘What do you know about that, boys?’ The men all laughed, but this time they sounded nervous. There was something unnerving about this copper standing in the middle of the bar staring at them. ‘You’re the third one that’s been in here this afternoon,’ Watts spat. ‘I threw the other two out on their arses. Am I gonna have to do the same to you? Or are you gonna go quietly, like a good boy?’

  ‘Consider yourself under arrest, Watts.’ Shayne Everard took one step closer and drew a length of wood from inside the folds of his coat.

  The men stared at it. It was at least three feet long, shiny black and the size of a baseball bat. It was nothing like the batons cops were supposed to have. Several of them shuffled their feet as Everard took another step closer to them.

  ‘I hope you boys aren’t going to desert your friend Mr Watts in his hour of need.’ Shayne’s face broke into a wide grin, but his eyes belied the humour, remaining cold and remote. ‘Because if the truth be known, I want all of you. So if you feel the urge to aid and abet Mr Watts in resisting arrest, it won’t worry me one little bit.’ None of the men budged. They couldn’t back down. Not for one lousy cop.

  Watts moved quickly, charging straight at Shayne, then he stopped abruptly and sagged to his knees in a heap as the point of the baton was jammed into his solar plexus. Shayne then brought the baton down across Watts’ collarbone and it snapped with a loud crack.

  The others surged forward as one and Shayne waded into them, wielding the baton like a headmaster among recalcitrant schoolboys. The black Irish shillelagh flashed through the air, breaking a jawbone here and an arm there. They screamed in pain as the big cop went after them. When the dust settled, five men lay groaning on the floor.

  Shayne stood over them, his eyes on fire with fury and excitement. ‘Grogan!’ he yelled, and the barman’s head appeared from behind the counter.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Everard?’

  ‘Ring triple 0 and get a divvy van down here!’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Everard,’ the barman replied and dived for the telephone.

  ‘You men are all under arrest for assaulting a police officer in the lawful execution of his duty,’ Everard stormed as he strode over to Stuart Watts and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Aaaaah!’ Watts screamed. ‘You bastard, you’ve broken my collarbone.’

  ‘Those two young constables you decided to fight earlier are both injured, Watts.’ Everard’s voice was cold. ‘One has a broken arm. This is for him.’ Shayne smashed the baton across Watts’ upper arm and broke it. ‘And the other one has a broken nose. This is for him.’ Shayne pushed Watts away from his body and followed immediately with his fist. It caught Watts on the bridge of the nose and flattened it. He slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  ‘They’re on their way, Sergeant,’ Grogan called out.

  ‘Thank you.’ Shayne turned his attention to the others. ‘Before my colleagues arrive to take you men away, I’ll warn you once, and once only, about the consequences of making a complaint against me.’ He stared contemptuously at them, catching their eyes one by one. ‘It would not be wise.’ His voice was full of menace. ‘You will all plead guilty as charged and accept any penalty the magistrate sees fit to impose.’

  The main doors to the bar burst open and several uniformed policemen rushed into the room.

  ‘These men are all under arrest,’ Shayne barked. ‘Get them down to the hospital and then lock them up.’ He headed for the doors and ran into John Buck.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Shayne!’ Buck gasped. ‘I heard the radio despatcher send a divvy van to the Celtic Hotel and I had a nasty feeling you might be involved. What the fuck went on here?’

  ‘It’s called justice, Johnny.’

  John grabbed Shayne by the arm and pulled him over to the bar. ‘When are you gonna learn, Shayne?’ he whispered savagely. ‘The Internal Affairs boys are after your arse! They’ll have a field day with this.’

  ‘With what?’ Shayne grinned. ‘I was merely making an arrest when several people tried to interfere. They were arrested along with the man named in the warrant, to wit, one Stuart Charles Watts.’ Shayne waved the blue warrant paper under John’s nose.

  ‘You’re talking to me, remember! Your mate!’ Buck hissed. ‘You’ve got to stop assaulting people!’

  Shayne snorted. ‘They’re not people! They’re the scum of the earth and the only thing they understand is fear. And that’s what I give them. Cold-blooded fear.’

  ‘We’re living in the eighties, Shayne. These are not your grandfather’s days!’ Buck grasped his friend’s shoulder. ‘Mate, you’re gonna get done eventually. Those cunts from Internal Affairs won’t leave you alone. Right or wrong, Shayne, they’ll get you.’

  Everard laughed dismissively. ‘Fuck ’em!’

  Buck sighed in frustration. ‘You’ve already been disciplined and thrown out of the C.I.B. You’re a fucking uniform sergeant in Redfern, purely because you won’t control your fists.’

  ‘I like uniform work! It’s real police work!’

  Buck groaned. ‘I don’t even know why you’re in the police force! You’ve got a fucking law degree! From Sydney University no less!’

  Shayne grinned lazily. ‘Hey, lighten up, John! I haven’t seen you for weeks!’ He slapped John Buck on the shoulder and guided him towards the door. ‘I’m off-duty in fifteen mintues—how about a drink?’

  Buck shook his head. ‘You’re fucking crazy! You know that?’

  ‘Never mind me,’ Shayne said as they stepped out into the pouring rain. ‘I want to hear about you and that gorgeous sister of mine. How are you two doing?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Not now! Not in the pissing rain. Give me twenty minutes to get this uniform off. I’ll meet you in the back bar of Connor’s Hotel in half an hour.’

  John Buck sat in the back bar of Connor’s Hotel, waiting for, and worrying about his brother-in-law.

  ‘You want another drink, Sergeant Buck?’ the barman asked.

  ‘Yeah, Mickey, another rum and coke.’

  ‘It’s on the way.’

  ‘Fucking Shayne Everard!’ John muttered under his breath. He’s an accident waiting to happen, he thought. He’d been that way ever since the morning three years ago, when Jane Smart had told him about his old man. A morning John Buck would never forget for as long as he lived.

  Shayne had arrived in a shitty mood. He’d dragged John Buck into the kitchen of Jane’s home and roundly abused him for disturbing his sleep.

  ‘This better be good, Johnny. Because if I find out that Jane’s got fuck-all to do with your bloody holy crusade and I’ve missed half a night’s sleep for nothing, I’ll break your fucking neck!’

  ‘Shayne?’ Jane called from her lounge room. ‘You’d better come in here. I’ve got a few things to tell you.’

  Shayne sat in silence and listened to Jane’s story. If John Buck had been expecting an explosion, it never came—well, not at first. Shayne had merely shaken his head. ‘I’m not one bit surprised,’ he said finally. ‘I think I’ve known since I was seventeen that my old man was a crook.’ He turned to John. ‘You remember I said I thought I’d heard the name Tip-Toe before?’

  John nodded.

  ‘I remember Dad saying it on quite a few occasions now. The bastard used to say it in front of me, knowing full well I wouldn’t understand what he was on about. After hearing Jane’s story, a lot of other things have fallen into place as well.’

  ‘The point is, Shayne,’ Jane asked softly, ‘what are you going to do about it?’

  Shayne laughed bitterly. ‘What would you suggest, Miss Smart? You’re the one with all the criminal knowledge. I mean, this story hardly paints you in virginal white, does it?’

  ‘Hey!’ John interrupted. ‘That’s not on, Shayne! Jane didn’t have to tell us a fucking thing, but she did—to save us from getting our heads blown off!’

  ‘Okay!’ Shayne stood up. ‘For that I’ll say tha
nks, but as far as the rest of it goes, you’re as bad as the others and any friendship that may have existed between us is terminated!’

  ‘Whoa! Hang on, mate!’ John leapt to his feet.

  ‘That’s okay, John,’ Jane said calmly, standing as well. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from George Everard’s grandson.’

  ‘You leave my grandfather out of this!’ Shayne exploded.

  ‘Now just a minute!’ It was Jane’s turn to yell. ‘Your grandfather was a good friend of mine. And whether you like it or not, because of that friendship, so are you! You don’t have to like me in return, in fact, I’d rather you didn’t, but remember this! I am honour bound to protect and advise you and the first bit of advice I’m going to give you is this: Forget Tip-Toe Investments and get on with your life.’

  ‘I won’t do that.’ Shayne’s face was grim.

  ‘Oh, yes, you bloody well will! If not for your own sake, then for Zoe Collingwood’s. Trying to fight City Hall will get you killed, Shayne, and where will that leave Zoe?’

  He glared at her. ‘I’ll take care of Zoe.’

  That was when Jane hit him. She slapped Shayne with all of her might and sent him staggering across the carpet.

  Shayne recovered and spun around, ready to retaliate. John Buck stepped in the way and tried to hold him back. There was madness in Shayne’s eyes. John didn’t even see the punch. The next thing he knew he was on the floor and his world was spinning. Shayne turned towards Jane.

  ‘Go on,’ Jane goaded him. ‘Go on! Hit me! Your grandfather used to do it all the time!’ Shayne stopped as if he’d been slapped again. ‘You’re just like him. An arrogant bastard! You’ll do what your perverted sense of honour dictates, no matter who you hurt, or who gets hurt around you! Well, it’s not going to be Zoe! Do you hear me? It’s not going to be Zoe!’

  Shayne stood staring at her, his anger diverted.

  ‘Why don’t we all calm down?’ John muttered and got to his feet.

  ‘No!’ Jane spat. ‘I haven’t finished. Both of you listen to me. You especially, Shayne. I’ve only ever cared about three people in my whole life. One is dead, and of the two others,’ she looked at John Buck, ‘one is Zoe Collingwood. If you attempt to do anything about Tip-Toe Investments or anything else you’ve heard tonight, you’ll die. And so probably will Zoe, and John and I and God knows who else. Do you, for Christ’s sake, understand the gravity of this situation?’

  Shayne nodded. He was beaten wordless.

  ‘Good!’ Jane shrugged. ‘Accept the world for what it is, a bad place full of bad people!’

  ‘So, when am I going to be an uncle?’ Shayne’s slap on the back drew John Buck back to the present.

  ‘Not for a while, I hope,’ he laughed. ‘We couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘How’s Penny?’

  ‘She’s fine. Wonderful, in fact.’ John smiled at the thought of his wife. He and Penny had been married for six months. She’d moved to Sydney after graduating from Melbourne University and was doing her medical internship at St Vincent’s Hospital.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Shayne placed some money on the bar.

  ‘Rum and coke.’

  Shayne snorted. ‘I wouldn’t give that shit to a Jap on Anzac Day, John. Have a beer. It’s better for you.’

  John grinned. ‘You’re a fine one to talk about what’s good for you.’

  ‘A beer for me and another glass of the shit he’s drinking,’ Shayne called to the barman, then turned to John. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That business in the Celtic Hotel.’

  ‘Gimme a break, Johnno!’ Shayne sighed. ‘We’re off-duty and I don’t want a lecture. I get enough from the Inspector.’

  ‘I feel the same way about this fucking police force as you, Shayne, but I’m not on a one-man crusade to prove I’m straight.’ John downed his drink as a fresh one arrived.

  ‘You’re talking shit.’ Shayne drank his beer in one gulp.

  ‘Am I?’ John Buck eyeballed his friend. ‘You’ve been charged with assault five times in the last two years.’

  ‘So what?’ Shayne gulped his beer again and signalled the barman for another round. ‘On all five occasions there’s been no case to answer. Being charged with assault just proves I’m doing my job.’

  John pointed at him. ‘You threatened witnesses.’

  ‘Prove it.’ Shayne grinned. ‘Are you going to drink up? It’s your shout.’

  ‘I’ve seen you do it!’ John hissed and looked around the bar, making sure they weren’t being listened to. ‘I know for a fact it was you who sent the flowers and sympathy card to Jake Biggins’ wife the day before he was supposed to give evidence against you!’

  ‘I felt sorry for her.’ Shayne waved at the barman. ‘Come on, man! I’m dying of thirst here!’

  ‘And it was you who arranged for a ton of wet cement to be dumped on the front lawn of Gerry Hassler’s house in Maroubra.’

  ‘Look!’ Shayne glared at John Buck. ‘The people you’re talking about are crooks! They may present themselves as paragons of virtue, as honest, hard-working politicians, city councillors and public servants, all busily working their tits off for the betterment of society! But you and I both know they’re corrupt crooks! Crooks who tried to make me look stupid. Crooks who thought they could play games! Crooks who thought they were too smart for the law!’ Shayne checked his anger and smiled. ‘Well, now they know better, don’t they?’

  ‘We’re supposed to play by the rules!’ John said pointlessly.

  ‘Fuck the rules!’ Shayne growled, then lowered his voice. ‘Fuck the rules, John!’

  ‘I give up,’ John snapped. ‘Let’s drop the subject—you won’t listen, so what’s the good of saying anything.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Their drinks arrived and they drank in silence.

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Redfern’s one-man army.’ Shayne and John turned to see Detective Senior Sergeant Derek Schumacher and his ever-present sidekick Detective Sergeant Ian Spencer. ‘You caused a bit of trouble at the Celtic Hotel today, Mr Everard, or so we hear,’ Schumacher stated.

  ‘Oh, look, John,’ Shayne said sarcastically, ‘It’s my Daddy’s pet doggies.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Spencer snarled.

  ‘You’re the hotshots from Thirty-Three, aren’t you?’ He waved an arm dismissively. ‘You figure it out.’

  ‘One of these days, Everard,’ spat Schumacher, bringing his face in close to Shayne’s, ‘we’re going to get you.’

  Shayne felt the rage rising within him. ‘Schumacher, in ten seconds I’m going to raise my fists, you gutless fucking wonder, then what’ll you do?’

  ‘Hey, hang on fellas.’ John forced himself between them. ‘This is no place to air dirty laundry.’ The bar had fallen silent as drinkers, including other cops, watched the argument. ‘Why don’t we drop it?’

  ‘You can’t hide behind your father forever, Shayne,’ Schumacher sneered.

  ‘There wouldn’t be any fucking room, would there? You two have been hiding there for years.’ Shayne began to push towards Schumacher as John tried to keep him away. ‘I know you two bastards for what you are. I know what you’ve done!’

  ‘Slow down, Shayne!’ John urged and started to push him towards the other end of the bar. ‘This isn’t the time or place.’

  ‘Too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing,’ Spencer added slyly, relaxing into a grin as he realised there’d be no confrontation. John Buck would see to that. John Buck was a smart cop.

  John pushed Shayne to the end of the bar and forced him onto a stool. ‘That’s it! That’s it, Shayne. Calm down!’

  ‘They’re just shit!’

  ‘I know it, and you know it, but the last thing either of us needs is trouble with them.’

  Shayne’s muscles relaxed and he laughed. ‘Take it easy, Johnno! There won’t be any trouble. Buy me a drink. I’ve got to have a leak,’ he said and left John at the bar.


  ‘Bartender, two of the same,’ John yelled and settled himself on a stool.

  Inside the men’s lavatory, Shayne splashed cold water on his face and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The rage was on him. It coursed through his bloodstream like a bushfire. His eyes glittered and his jaw muscles were clenched tight. He splashed more water onto his face and looked at himself again. He didn’t like what he saw. Jesus Christ, he thought. Is that really me? There was madness in his eyes. Pure madness.

  He locked himself in a cubicle and waited until the rage had passed. He sat on the toilet lid and listened to his breathing. I can’t go on like this. I’ll kill someone. I really will! The thought shocked him. He was a policeman. He was supposed to stop violence, not start it.

  Shayne sat there, elbows on his knees, face in his hands and let reason overwhelm him. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed and the violence drained from his mind. He looked up at the back of the cubicle door. Someone had defaced it with a penknife. He read the carved graffiti and began to smile: Here I sit, broken-hearted, tried to shit, but only farted. Some faceless, nameless person had sat on the same toilet and laboriously carved a dirty ditty. Shayne had seen the same rhyme many times before but until now he hadn’t realised how concisely it summed up the last three years of his life. He’d been a fool to try to fight back. Three whole years of his life he’d wasted. He laughed out loud and left the cubicle, washed his face and hands and rejoined John in the bar.

  ‘You’re right about the way I’ve been acting. I’ve got to stop it.’ Shayne sipped his beer.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes,’ Shayne nodded. ‘I’ve been walking around with a chip on my shoulder and it’s time I brushed it off.’

  ‘Why is it I don’t believe you?’ John paid for the drinks being placed in front of them.

  ‘Because you’re a born skeptic.’ Shayne laughed. ‘I’m serious. I’m going to save some money, buy a house and arrange a comfortable life for myself.’