Black Angels???Red Blood
Page 3
Tim was getting sick of the grog and dope and decided to have a break when Charlie offered him a smoke the next morning.
“Not today, Charlie, I’ll get immune to it. Besides, I’ve got a few things I have to get done.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to smoke and get things done. I remember when Leo came round one morning. He was supposed to go shopping, but I didn’t know this. He got stoned and went and bought a carton for us. His woman came around a couple of hours later, almost broke my fuckin’ door down and flogged him all the way down the street. She hates me now. Leo’s not allowed to come here anymore.”
“I don’t blame her, they’ve got a couple of kids,” said Tim.
“Well you can’t blame me, I didn’t do anything,” said Charlie defensively.
“I just wish they’d put their little ones first.”
Charlie had always looked out for the little ones and took offence at Tim’s words. “What do ya mean? If we had the same treatment as whitefellas get, the kids would get what they want. Look at all the uptowners, how many give a fuck about Redfern blacks? Even after Keating’s speech at the opening of the Indigenous People’s Year, I could hear them saying, ‘them poor blacks in Redfern will get nothing’. This was both white and black fellas. Who’s gonna trust them uptowners? They just don’t care.” Charlie gestured angrily.
“Maybe I will have that smoke with you,” Tim said, as feelings of helplessness took over his body.
“It’ll be alright, brother. We always survive,” said Charlie, realising that he’d triggered some unwanted emotions within Tim.
Tim and Charlie got stoned and Tim told Charlie a few secrets about himself. “I can make it rain,” he said. Then looking Charlie in the eye he added, “I’ve knocked over a man.”
“True Mroody?” Charlie asked disbelievingly.
“Yeah, he’s dead. He was an evil man. I feel no guilt.”
“Why did you kill him?” Charlie asked.
“He was a rampant paedophile. Everybody was scared of him.”
Charlie looked at him and said, “Well, you’ll have your job cut out here then.”
There was a knock at the door and two young fellas came in. They were looking for pot. “Gordon just got busted,” said the older one.
“It won’t be the last one,” Charlie suggested. “Naah, brothers. I’ve put mine away and won’t be pulling it out until things have cooled down.” The boys looked a bit disappointed as they left talking about other options.
A police car cruised past, the fourth one in half an hour. Tim felt like yelling out “Go and look for the real killers”, but refrained. His anger sometimes got the better of him and logical decisions were beginning to wear thin.
“I’m gonna get some beer and have a drink with the boys,” said an on-edge Tim. “Can I get a little bit of smoko off ya?”
“Yeah, brother.” Charlie fumbled in his pocket and handed Tim a small quantity. “I bet you come back none the wiser.”
Tim walked up the street towards the pub.
He met a couple of Koories around his age who were in the process of throwing in for a carton of beer. They were a few dollars short and Tim kicked in. They headed to the pub and returned a short while later.
Craig and Jacko, as Tim learned they were called, were a bit worse for wear. Their eyes were bloodshot and they were hangin’ out. Once inside their house, they were joined by others who watched the proceedings. Tim didn’t mind but Craig and Jacko had strict procedures as to who could and who couldn’t drink. The ones that were rejected by them, Tim offered a drink. Soon the room had six men and two women in it. Tim slowly brought the subject around to Koories and the land. He asked indirect questions not wanting to seem patronising, but Craig, who seemed the most agile thinker amongst them, quickly landed a broadside at Tim about land rights.
“That’s what we want, our land back. We’re fucked without it. It’s the source of all of our problems,” Craig said aggressively. “It’s got me fucked how whitefellas get away with murderin’ and thievin’ when all they talk about is Christianity.”
“Maybe it wasn’t God who came with them,” Tim said.
Craig laughed which made Tim uneasy. He was not looking for a fight. They talked, almost oblivious to everyone else except Jacko.
“I believe in God, man—love, peace and all that—but when you wake every day in a depression, you begin to say ‘what fuckin’ God’?” said Craig emphatically.
“I believe in God and I question all of those things too,” replied Tim.
“I used to be a Christian, go to church and worship and all that. Got on friendly with one of the girls, and the bastards didn’t like it. Made me feel real unwelcome. So I said, ‘you can stick your Christianity right up your arse’.” Craig gestured with his middle finger almost up Tim’s nose.
Tim reckoned the conversation was getting too heavy and pulled out his pot.
“They won’t call you a Christian, drinking and smoking dope all the time,” Jacko remarked to Craig.
“I was kicked out. Fuck you,” Craig said as he and Jacko simultaneously do a high-pitched “Yeeeeaaahhh”.
“We’re all pagans, just pass that fuckin’ joint,” joked Jacko.
The beer was almost finished when Tim decided to call it a day. It was starting to turn out like Charlie said. He was beginning to question himself and what he really wanted.
He made his way back to Charlie’s and the reception he got from Charlie was, “I told you so. Them fellas have been like that for years. Don’t expect them to know what they want.”
“It all got turned around. They’re not exactly optimistic about the future,” Tim said grimly. “I thought they might be a little more on the up.”
“Their mothers and fathers were like that.”
“I know,” Tim said.
“Locked up in concentration camps,” Charlie adds. “And fed poison.”
“I just feel so sorry for them and their kids. Nothing’s changed in two hundred years for them,” Tim laments.
“Ah, well, don’t let it get you down. There are strong people in the community still fighting for them,” Charlie said. “Forget about it, you’ll only run yourself in circles. By the way, the old fella dropped by.”
“Did he say anything?” Tim asked.
“He said he’d catch up with you.”
Tim was feeling very tired and bloated from the grog and the dope and lay down for a rest. When he woke it was coming on dusk. He felt much better and was glad he had a friend like Charlie. The house was quiet and Charlie wasn’t home. He had a lingering shower and a cup of tea, then went to look for the old Lawman.
Tim had gone strangely quiet as he walked. Another black death in custody. When the anger got the better of him he spoke out loud, “What Lord, couldn’t you find any decent people to bring to this country? Only rapists, murderers and thieves who hate black people. We’re sick of the garbage. Our country is not a dumping ground for white trash.” Tim paused and looked up and said to an invisible spirit, “And don’t shake your head at me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE TRIALS
Tim learned from the lady the old man was staying with that he’d gone to the pub to play the card machines. That was an hour ago and Tim hoped he would still be there. He found him sitting by himself at a machine with a couple of hundred credits up. The old man smiled at Tim as he sat down beside him. The smile, to Tim, seemed to have a deeper meaning.
“Trying to take on them whitefellas by yourself.” The old man nudged Tim. It didn’t really surprise Tim that the old man knew what he was up to and he was glad that somebody knew his comings and goings. “There’s lots of us around. You don’t have to go and do it by yourself,” said the old man.
“I know, it just moves too slowly for me,” Tim said with an impassive and reflective look on his face, and then added, “There’s been another black death in custody.”
“What were you going to do, Tim?” the old man asked gravely.
He lifted his right hand as if to continue, but the old man intervened. “That’s why you need us”—he pointed his finger at the space that Tim was staring at—“to tell you what to do.”
“Get this through your head,” the old man continued sharply. “The whitefellas don’t own this land, it’s only a matter of time.”
Tim came out of his extended stare at the poker machine to acknowledge the authority of the old man. “You’re the boss.”
“Have a beer,” the old man said and when Tim returned they made a toast to land rights. The beer tasted surprisingly sweet to Tim and went down easy. It gave him a taste for it and he started thinking about the nearest automatic teller machine, when the old man struck a jackpot.
“That’s what I’ve been after.” The smile on his face told the story. “I won’t have to go busking tomorrow. I’m gonna cash it in right now.”
The old man came back with a wad of notes and slipped Tim a fifty. There were about 40 credits left and the old man suggested that Tim play as well. They sat and played it out for a while, cracking jokes about radical whites, the Nazi types. Tim had another beer and the old man declined.
The publican had been watching them and had caught some of their jokes. He had a long hard look at Tim. Tim caught his gaze and realised what it meant but left the smile on his face. “The publican’s a bit hairy.” He motioned to the old man.
“Blacks walking out with this much money, of course he would be,” the old man said matter of factly. To change the subject, Tim told him about meeting Sylvia. “She’s really nice, an actor, and she does a few other things as well.”
“Really?” A look of surprise crossed the old man’s face. “What’s she look like?”
“Pretty, about 165 centimetres, shoulder-length black hair and about twenty-five, I guess.”
“I know that one. My niece,” said the old man.
“True?” Tim said with a completely new demeanor.
“She’s a good woman. Knows her business.” The old man didn’t press the issue and there was a slightly awkward silence between them. The old man stood up telling Tim that he was going to make tracks and suggesting he come back for some yarndi. Tim declined and said that he was going up to the Royal for a drink. “To celebrate,” he added.
“Make sure you shout them other Koories,” the old man said on his way out.
Tim finished his beer, and as he was leaving he smiled mockingly at the publican.
Across the road he met up with an old friend, Sam, who was heading in the same direction. They greeted each other in a warm and friendly manner. Tim thought Sam was a bit of a classic. Highly educated yet prone, like Tim, to bouts with the bottle. “Where are you off to?”
“Goin’ over to Newtown,” Sam answered.
“Drop into the Royal for a drink?” Tim asked. “I’ve got a few quid. I’ll shout ya a couple.”
“Gis a lend,” Sam came straight out with.
Tim laughed and handed him twenty dollars and they set off for the pub. Tim was thinking about the night he had been down on his luck and badly in need of a friend. Sam had shown up, and they had raked up five dollars between them, gone to Newtown and had both had a ball.
About two hundred metres from the pub, two uniformed police in a small paddy wagon pulled them up and asked the normal series of questions. Neither Tim nor Sam were concerned with their presence. After they moved on, Tim told him that he’d been at the bottom pub on Abercrombie Street.
“That’s a coppers’ pub. What’d ya do? Give ‘em cheek?” Sam asked.
“They must have heard me.” I was telling this old fella that the coppers should go to Tony Mundine’s gym and fight one on one. Instead of gangin’ up like they do. I said a few other things as well.”
“How long are you in town?” Sam asked.
“A week or so. Don’t really know,” Tim answered.
“You bumped into that old fella from WA yet?” Sam asked when it dawned on him the reason. Tim was in town.
“Saturday arvo. First day in town,” Tim answered.
At the Royal Tim was greeted by the barmaid. “Hello, long time no see.”
“G’day. I’m back in town for a few days.” Tim said, returning her smile.
“What are you doing now?”
“Still unemployed. But I’m working on it.”
She took the money from Tim in exchange for two schooners while motioning to Sam. “Are you back to break the TAB again?”
“Yeah, we’ll do that too,” Sam responded as he headed for the guide. The pub was not busy, maybe half a dozen people besides Tim and Sam. Tim lingered at the bar for a chat. This pub used to be his regular when he came to Sydney for long spells. Later he joined Sam for a look at the greyhounds but didn’t care to bet.
“Did you win some money?” Tim asked.
“Last week. Two grand,” answered Sam as he filled out a ticket.
“You would’ve had a rage,” Tim said.
“So did half the blacks in Redfern.” Sam laughed. “I spent the whole lot in Eveleigh Street. Woke up next morning flat broke and went and asked this lad I gave five hundred for a lend of fifty.” Sam’s acid tongue was working overtime and he added, “They wouldn’t even give me enough for a feed, the fucking arseholes.”
“Well, at least you go and spend your money there.” Tim knew that Sam had done more for blacks in Redfern than a lot of well-paid workers would take years to do.
“Charlie ended up cooking me a feed and throwing me twenty.” Sam reflected. “Drunk, see. If I’da gone straight to Charlie’s…”
“If only,” Tim agreed, and they both did a nasal “Yeeeeaaahh.”
“I reckon I can win this trifecta.” Sam enthusiastically crossed off numbers while studying the fluctuations. “Wanna go halves? Three dollars it’ll cost.” Tim agreed.
Sam picked the trifecta which paid around $150 and complained that the roughie should have run third and paid double what they got. Tim was happy as he was not used to winning. Sam reinvested his winnings but Tim pocketed his. They ordered more beer and went and sat in the pool room.
“Do you remember when I last saw you?” Tim asked.
“Yeah, that was a fuckin’ good night.”
“I got picked up by the coppers after you left,” Tim said. “About some stolen goods from the pub we were at. They took me back to the police station in the paddy wagon.”
“Where? Newtown Police Station?”
“Yeah. When they opened the back up there were three uniformed coppers standing there. They asked me for my movements that night and the first thing I said was I had a beer with Wally at the ‘Shaky’ and the three of them in unison took one step back. They closed the door and came out a few minutes later and told me to piss off.”
Sam laughed out loud. “Wally must have some reputation.”
“I didn’t even mean to do that, it’s exactly what we done,” Tim responded.
“What’d ya thieve? Anything?” Sam inquired.
“You know me, I don’t thieve,” Tim answered firmly.
“Naah, there’s no fuckin’ future in that.” Suddenly Sam jumped up, eyes glued to the TV screen. “Go, you little pisscutter.”
“You should’ve come in with me on that one, Tim. This’ll pay a few hundred.” Tim was used to Sam winning big, while he considered small fish sweet.
“I might pick this up in Newtown,” Sam said.
“Want to have a smoke before you go?” Tim offered.
“Yeah, I’ll have a smoke with you,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together.
They went out and had a smoke. “If I don’t pick up a woman, I’ll meet you back at Charlie’s later on tonight,” said Sam as he headed off to Newtown. Tim went back into the Royal for a couple more drinks. He wished he had gone with Sam. The pub had almos
t emptied and he was starting to feel lonely. Apart from the barmaid, nothing held his interest. He slowly picked himself up and said goodnight to the barmaid, and left to go back to Charlie’s, hoping to bump into someone to talk to on the way.
When he arrived back at Charlie’s the house was empty. There were a few Koories on the street. Tim sat on the doorstep. Two women walked past and asked him for a smoke and he obliged. They made small talk and finally asked him if he wanted to throw in for a carton and go to their place for a drink. He reluctantly said no, preferring to wait for Charlie.
“You sure you don’t wanna come?” the taller one half pleaded, knowing that Tim would more than likely have some pot on him.
“Naah, I’m waiting for Charlie to get back.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing out on,” the taller one said over her shoulder as they went on down the street. He could hear them laughing out loud and Tim guessed the joke was on him.
When Tim had lived in Redfern a year ago, there were several different women dropping in for tea or dinner. A lot of them were white social workers or uni students and their visits made a few of the younger black men in the community a bit standoffish. After they realised, via the Koori grapevine, that he wasn’t sleeping with any of them, some of the men even started to say “g’day”.
Tim wasn’t feeling so lonely now. The women’s attention had sparked him up. It was nearing ten o’clock and like clockwork down cruised the local constabulary, windows wound up aggressively, staring at the Koories from the protection of their police cars. Tim stared back and followed them with his gaze until they were well down the street. He was just about to call it a night when Charlie pulled up in his beat-up HQ Holden.
“The old Holden is still going!” Tim remarked as Charlie hopped out of the car, almost tripping on the seat belt.
“They go forever, mate, didn’t you know that?” Charlie cheerfully responded.
“What? Didya get lucky?”