by Peter Doyle
Why was I there? In truth, dear ones, I was making up the numbers. One more desperado with nothing to lose. Denise was back at the motel, minding the loot. Cathy was right there with us. And she was heavy.
Stan and Jimmy were up front, next to their car. Vic, me, Cathy, the other roughnecks, were scattered further down the street. Dig, the lads were expecting to meet Craig and another envoy from the Armed Robbery Squad. We were meant to be visible. The cops would see us, the reasoning went, and instantly be persuaded not to try anything flash. We’d negotiate a split, go our separate ways. Nothing unpleasant. Farewell, and give my regards to your mum.
It didn’t go down that way. I told you I was – well, cards on the table, I was in a fucking state. Couldn’t tell my arse from my elbow. My vision had gone weirdly, radically double, like two entirely separate views had been superimposed in my brain. And everything was kind of shaking and crawling. I was hearing things too – muffled voices. I was, in a word, agitated.
We heard a car coming around the corner. Craig was at the wheel. He waved to Stan. We’re all mates. Going to sort this out, no worries.
But I saw it differently. For the fifteen minutes we’d been waiting, some very weird shit had been going on in my head. Thoughts, feelings . . . fuck it, visions and epiphanies. Voices, murmurs. So I knew – I mean I really knew, no question, as much as I’d ever known anything, that this was a trap.
There was Craig, walking towards Stan and Jimmy. Smiling, saying something. And there was me, blazing away. Second airing of my .38 in one day. Craig went down. Stan and Jimmy were frozen, staring at me.
“It’s a trap. Barry is here. We’ve got to split.”
Jimmy stared at me for a second longer, then nudged Stan. “Quick,” he said. Then shouting at the rest of us, “Out now!”
We ran to our cars. Right on cue, another two cars came screaming around the corner behind us. A yellow Charger and a light blue Holden. We were already in our cars, moving. And shooting. The drivers of the Charger and the Holden hit their brakes, unsure what was happening. We drove past the latecomers and down the street, jumping kerbs, shooting like crazy.
I looked back when we got to the end of the street. Craig was on the deck, not moving. Their cars were doing three-point turns, trying to get on our tails. A split-second pause. Psycho Barry behind the wheel of the Charger, looking me right in the eye.
BRINGING IN THE SHEAVES
Back at the motel an hour later. Vic and the Boy Wonder there now. Television on, radio in the other room. The violent gunfight in Footscray was all over the airwaves. The gang believed responsible for the Moratorium Day robberies had been cornered, had shot their way out, seriously injuring a detective sergeant from the Armed Robbery Squad.
I turned to Cathy. “I thought your mate Craig’s brilliant plan involved running Barry out of town? I don’t recall any talk of him joining up with Barry in order to fuck us.”
No answer.
Old police photos of Jimmy and Stan flashed on the screen, the announcer saying the robbers were considered extremely dangerous and should not be approached, but that members of the public were asked to look out for them.
“We’ve got to get out,” Jimmy said. He was throwing things in his bag while he spoke. “What we’ll do,” he said to the room at large, “each crew will hold on to what they’ve got for now. The final whack-up will have to wait till we can all meet up. Not in Melbourne.”
He dug into his bag, counted out a big wad of money and handed it to Vic. “In the meantime, this is for your mob, on account.” Because Vic and co. hadn’t actually robbed anyone, being involved as they were in creating explosive mayhem. So that little payment in advance was fully kosher.
Vic looked at him for a few seconds, then turned to me. “What’ll you do?”
“Shoot through. With this lot.”
Vic said, “All right. How are you for goey?”
“Could use an ounce or two. Want some hammer?”
Bags of powder were duly swapped. Then everyone present had a hit. Most opted for a cocktail.
We got in our cars. Me in my old Holden with Cathy and Stan. Jimmy and Denise in a VW. There were two other robbers’ cars parked nearby. Not wise for us to be all together, but there you go.
Stan was herding everyone along. No more tactics or strategy, now it was simply, run.
So this was it. Leaving Melbourne. My flat full of stuff. Hammond organ, tape recorder, guitar, amp. Too bad. The rest I didn’t care about – clothes, a few books, some records.
As we pulled out of the motel car park, the proprietor eyed us through the plastic curtain. Hello, I thought, he’ll be on the blower before we’ve gone a hundred yards. But we got out of Melbourne without incident. Drove almost to Wadonga – the Dandenong hideout plan had been abandoned – and found a shack in the hills where Stan had spent time as a kid.
We broke the padlock on the door and settled in. Guns at the ready. Lit a fire on the wood stove and Stan cooked steak and eggs for all.
After we’d eaten and partaken of drugs, Jimmy leaned back and closed his eyes.
“So, Mel, how did you know it was a trap back there?”
“Fucked if I could tell you. Just did.”
Jimmy nodded. “I’ve seen that happen before. Lucky for us.” He smiled at me. “I knew you were worth having along. Any more thoughts like that, let us know, eh?”
Next morning I went into town to get supplies. In the newsagent, the Sun headline: HIPPIE GANG CRIME WAVE. A large grainy image of Cathy on the steps of the bank, holding her sawn-off in the air. Smaller inset pictures of Stan and Jimmy. Top of the next page a photo of Denise. Next to her, a smaller pic of Cathy, the one from last year outside the Esso service station. She was referred to as “a former striptease artist.” Bottom of the page, there’s me, right there. Melvin John Parker, legendary Kerouacian hipster, recently known to have tickled the ivories with the pop group Oracle. Now a card-carrying member of the Hippie Gang.
The first three pages were given over entirely to the story. A publicity photo of Oracle. High school photos of Denise. More police photos of Stan and Jimmy. Also a piece by the Fop: “Inside the Hippie Gang.”
I paid for the paper and shuffled out of the newsagent. As I got in the car, I could see the shopkeeper peering out at me.
Back at the cabin, Stan had got the ancient television working. Snowy picture, but right there on the screen, shaky footage of people with their hands in the air. Fuck me if it wasn’t the inside of a bank. There was a cut, then we were watching Cathy on the steps of the bank. Making revolutionary gestures. A couple of figures darting behind her – Stan and Jimmy. Then a shadowy blur appeared behind the glass. Then the glass explodes and the camera goes spazz.
Stan said to me. “Denise left a film canister in the motel room. The police found it.”
Denise said, “Sorry.”
I held up the newspaper.
Cathy grabbed it out of my hand, started reading avidly.
“‘Former stripper.’ How do you like that? Of all the things they could have said.”
But I could see she was pleased as punch.
The others crowded around to read the stories. One would read aloud this or that bit, then someone else. Denise loved being referred to as ‘the heiress revolutionary.’ Even Jimmy was tickled: “Jimmy ‘the Thug’,” he read, “is a lifelong petty criminal who has recently turned to armed robbery. He is considered by police to be extremely dangerous.” Yuk, yuk, yuk.
Denise read a bit that said, “The gang are known to be drug users, addicted to cannabis and harder drugs. The gang members are also believers in ‘free love’.”
They were all in stitches.
Cathy seized on a paragraph on page three. “Melvin Parker was described by a source in the entertainment industry,” she declaimed, “as ‘a half-baked beatnik and failed variety entertainer.’ The source went on to say, ‘He’s tried every gimmick possible. Singing cowboy, Hawaiian entertainer and trad jazzer.
He’s even posed as a rock musician!’”
She kept reading, with way too much relish for my liking. “‘Parker has recently experienced some success in the rock music scene, playing organ with Melbourne pop group Oracle. The group’s leader Bobby Boyd commented, “Mel Parker has played a couple of dates with the group. We always thought he was one of the great old characters of the discotheque scene. We had no idea he was involved in crime and drugs.’”
I stood by the sink watching them, noting their childish excitement. There was no pretence that it was about the money any more. It wasn’t even about getting away. That’s when I knew our paths would diverge. And soon. Knew it for certain. The turning point. For me, for my story. Big changes not far off now. I wanted out.
A couple of hours later we split. We left the stolen VW at the cabin and all crowded into my car. There was a mile of dirt road between the shack and the Hume Highway. Halfway along, we came face to face with another car, a new, dull green Holden. Staring at us from behind the wheel, a uniformed cop.
I reversed back a few yards. Cathy leaned out and took a pot shot. I drove around the car, couldn’t see the driver now. I thought maybe she’d hit him, but a minute later I saw him in the rear view mirror, coming up fast.
“Pull up!” said Jimmy.
I did. He and Stan tumbled out of the car and started shooting. The cop skidded to a halt well behind us. The lads started to run towards the cop car, which was now reversing away from them. I heard more gunshots, then saw in the rear view a cloud of steam rising from the bonnet of the police car.
Stan and Jimmy trotted back, hopped into the car. “He’s all right,” said Stan, puffing. Our reasoning as we drove away, the cop hadn’t had any idea we were notorious bank robbers. Maybe investigating a reported break-in at the holiday cabin. Maybe something entirely unrelated. But they’d be on to us now.
We drove for half an hour. Our plan was to get out of the area before we stole another car. The police would assume we were heading north, we hoped, so we headed south instead, back towards Melbourne.
We stopped at Glenrowan and Stan made some calls. We filled up and headed off again. Stan was cagey, but said to keep heading towards Melbourne. An arrangement had been made.
The mood in the car was grim. No chat. Me behind the wheel, thinking. Then a little while later, a strange feeling.
“We can’t go on,” I said.
“Here we go,” said Cathy. “Why not?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” I turned to Stan. “Who’d you ring back there?”
A long sigh. “Vic. He’s bringing us a clean car. We just have to make it to Violet Town.”
“Something’s not right,” I said.
Jimmy, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned to me. “What’s not right?”
“Don’t know. It’s just not right.”
Jimmy shook his head. “It’s all not right. Nothing is right. Our best chance is to make it to Violet Town quick as we can, then lay low until we hook up with Vic.” He glanced at me again.
“Drive on,” he said. Resigned. Like he knew already it was going to shit.
THE WANGARATTA BOOK OF THE DEAD
A hot day. Blazing sun. I was in the middle of a wide, flat paddock. Driving a tractor (an old Fordson, if you’re interested, my eager young collectivists). I was wearing a faded work shirt, dusty trousers, a battered straw hat grubby with sweat. A line of trees way off in the west, some low hills to the south. To the east, a house and shed.
I put the brake on, turned off the engine, got down from the tractor and walked the three hundred yards to the buildings. In an iron shed, a swarthy old man was bent over a bench and vice – a sour, snaggle-toothed old cunt, if ever there was one. He looked my way then scurried to the back of the shed and out the door. I called to him. No answer.
I walked around the property. It was a dump. A couple of tumbledown sheds, rusty water tanks and a small kitchen garden out back of the house. A snarling cur on a chain.
I went to the front of the small house, opened the screen door, poked my head in. Dark and dank inside. I let go of the door, and walked around the side, to a little outbuilding twenty yards away. Unpainted, rundown. An old cloth over a broken windowpane.
Inside, a chair and a little table with a kero lamp on it. A stretcher bed. Next to the bed an upturned packing case with a candle on it, and a copy of the I Ching.
Under the bed was my old overnight bag. Inside it was my typewriter and a change of clothes. A wad of money too, bound in rubber bands, stuffed into a manila envelope. Under the money was a gun. And a folded piece of paper. With a diagram on it. Very detailed, in my hand. A scrawly main road. An arrow pointing to the right labelled “W-town approx 35 miles.” A little house marked on one side of the road, a spot marked “Black Rock” on the other. A turn-off, a track, a cattle grid. A bridge over “Seven Mile Creek.” A bend in the path. A crudely drawn tree (“stand of coolabahs”) and a big circled “Dig for H, 3 ft” at the corner where four paddocks met up. I wigged that it was some kind of ye olde buried treasure map.
I returned everything to the bag and slid it back under the bed. Noticed a stack of twenty or thirty yellowing newspapers there too. I pulled out the top one and looked at it. The Sun, Melbourne, Thursday, May 21, 1970. I put it back.
I went out to the paddock again, over to the tractor. It was an old crank job, but I knew how to start it. I climbed up behind the wheel and put the thing in gear. I’d been midway through harrowing the paddock prior to sowing the next crop. Dig, I’d never driven a tractor in my life, never had the slightest interest in agriculture. But here I was. And I knew what to do.
I spent the rest of that day on the tractor, going up and down over the same ground, exposing the old growth to the sun to kill it off. When the sun got low I walked back to the sleepout. On the step was a plate with a clean cloth over it. A meal of chops and potatoes.
I had a wash under a bucket suspended from a tree branch, went back inside and lit the kero lamp, picked up the I Ching. I cast the coins: Hexagram 36. Darkening of the light. In adversity it furthers one to be persevering.
Next morning there was a bowl of porridge outside the door. I ate it, went out to the paddock and continued harrowing.
I didn’t catch a glimpse of the old bloke all day, but there was a meal outside the cabin again that night. Again I cast the I Ching, as I sensed I had done every night for a long time now. I got another nondescript, business as usual, go with the flow kind of message, something about working within limitations. Turned in, got up the next morning, worked the tractor again all the next day. Finished that paddock and moved onto the next.
It went on like that for a week. I was conscious, fully aware, and I knew my daily routine unerringly. But that was all. The stuff in the bag, the money, the gun, the map – I knew at some deeper level it was mine, but I had no idea what any of it meant. I didn’t know my name, or where I was, how I’d got there, how long I’d been there. But that didn’t bother me. It was like being in a dream – there’s some far-fetched shit going on, but you just cop it sweet, go with it, because that’s what the logic of the situation dictates. I’d catch an occasional glimpse of the old troll, but he kept well clear. Which didn’t bother me.
So there I was, being the farmhand. At odd moments the big thing, the Great Beast, Me and My History, would loom, but when that happened I’d just get on with the routine, and everything would settle again.
The days blanked themselves out, Each evening I had trouble remembering long parts of the day just completed – but sitting on a tractor in the sun all day will do that to you anyway, I guess.
The fog lifted slowly and unevenly. After about a week I knew I was Mel Parker, long-time ivory tickler and string picker. A day or two after that I remembered I had been a pop star of sorts, if only briefly. The rest was a mess.
I had questions now. I bailed up the old bastard the next morning when he bought the porridge around.
“Who are you?�
�� I said.
He bared his teeth and backed away from me, then hobbled off muttering to himself.
Next night I waited inside my door, and the moment I heard him put my dinner down on the step I jumped him, got him in a headlock. He was a hundred and ten years old but a wiry little bastard. He squirmed and twisted, bit me hard on the wrist, drawing blood. I gave him a good swipe. It took another one to settle him down, but then he went still.
“Who are you?” I shouted at him.
He looked at me, said nothing. I backhanded him. “Who are you?”
He shook his head. I let him go. He stood back a few feet then spat out a rush of angry, excited words. Guttural, foreign. No lingo I could recognise. He went on and on – much to tell. Kept coming back to the old crazy loco gesture, finger circling at the side of his head, then pointing at me. And the sign to ward off evil. Other gestures indicating crazy behaviour. Sickness. Driving the tractor. Him cooking meals for me. Me digging in the dirt. Work, eat, sleep, time passing.
I got it. I’d been there a while. Following the routine. Working. In a dream. Yeah, working. I rubbed my thumb and index finger together and shouted at him, “Pay?”
A look I hadn’t seen from him yet: child-like innocence.
“Money?” I said.
A little shake of his head. Hands turned upwards, like, I’m hopelessly in the dark on this.
I grabbed him, locked my hands around his scrawny neck and shook him like a rag doll. “You overplayed that, you miserable old mongrel. Give me my baksheesh. Spondulicks.” I pushed him away. “Or else,” I said, drawing a finger across my own throat then pointing at him.
He looked at me darkly.
“Yes, you understood that, didn’t you?” I said, and walked away.
Next morning, under my porridge bowl was an envelope with a bunch of twenty dollar notes in it.
