The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (30 page)

Just as he reached him, Les bent down and shoved his right arm through the huge crim's legs, taking hold of his shirt front with his left hand at almost the same time. He then straightened up with the crim over his shoulders in a cross between a fireman's lift and a judo throw. The momentum of his charge flipped the crim over Norton's head and he slammed heavily onto the floor, banging the back of his head with a sickening crunch as he landed. He gave a little gasp of pain, tried feebly to rise, then slumped back unconscious. Almost immediately a pool of blood oozed across the tiles from beneath his head. Norton gave him a hefty kick in the ribs to be sure he was out of it, but the crim didn't move.

‘Thank Christ for that,' thought Norton out loud. He turned to the old sweeper who was on his feet, leaning a little unsteadily against the wall as he dabbed a skinny finger at a trickle of blood in the corner of his mouth. ‘You all right mate?' asked Les.

‘Sweet pal.'

‘What was all that about anyway?'

The sweeper was about to reply when Norton noticed him look nervously across his shoulder. Les turned around expecting to see some of the unconscious crim's mates, but instead it was Bernie and another equally florid-faced guard.

‘What in the fuckin' hell's goin' on here?' bellowed Bernie, looking first at the crim bleeding on the floor, then back at Norton.

‘He fell over and hit his head on the floor,' said the sweeper straight off.

‘Bullshit!' Bernie jabbed a huge forefinger at the sweeper. ‘Mousey. You take your broom and fuck off.'

‘I'm tryin' to tell you...' protested the sweeper.

‘You heard what he said,' barked the other guard. ‘Piss off.'

The sweeper made a futile gesture with his hands, that mirrored the look he gave Les, before picking up his broom and scurrying out.

Grim faced, Bernie turned back to the crim laying on the shower block floor: the puddle of blood underneath his head was increasing all the time. ‘Jesus, what have you done, Les? You bloody great dill. Do you know who that is?' Norton shrugged his shoulders and gave Bernie a blank look. ‘No. I didn't think you did.'

The other guard had bent over the unconscious crim and turned back an eyelid with this thumb. ‘His skull could be fractured,' he said.

‘Shit!' Bernie paused for a moment then turned back to Les. ‘Right,' he said, taking Norton by the arm. ‘Come on.' He half pushed, half led Norton back past the other prisoners to his cell. ‘In there.' He shoved Les inside and without another word slammed the door behind him and locked it.

Left alone in the sickening enclosure of his cell, Norton began to worry a little. It had all happened so quickly he still couldn't quite believe it. What had started out to be a bit of a lark had turned into a nightmare, though once again it wasn't really his fault... all he'd done was try to stop an old prisoner from getting beaten up. But now another prisoner was unconscious and possibly had a fractured skull. Les could be looking at an assault charge. And what if he died? Then it could be manslaughter. He could be in here for God knows how long. Norton's mouth went dry as the smell of disinfectant, the bleached hygiene and the muffled sounds of shuffling,
captive men seemed to come crowding in on him. A dreadful emptiness hit the pit of his stomach and it wasn't caused by hunger. He flopped down on the edge of his bed and angrily banged his fist into his palm. ‘Shit!' he cursed out loud. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!' His only chance was somehow to get word to Price. But wouldn't Price think him a bloody idiot for being in there in the first place? And could the casino owner's influence, powerful as it was, reach over prison walls?

After what seemed like five hours to Norton, but was closer to one, there was the dull rattle of a key going into a lock and his cell door opened. Les looked up at Bernie. The big guard didn't say anything at first, he just sat down on the opposite bed and stared at Norton.

‘Well,' said Les, after staring back at him for a few moments. ‘What's goin' on?'

‘We spoke to Mousey.'

‘The old sweeper?'

‘Yeah. He told us, more or less, what happened.'

‘Well there you go.' Norton made a gesture with his hands.

‘Yeah. But it's not quite as simple as that.'

‘Oh?'

‘You don't know who that other bloke was, do you?' Norton shook his head.

‘That was “Chopper” Collins.'

‘He was a nice tough bastard,' shrugged Les. ‘I know that.'

‘He's a nutter too. He used to go around chopping off people's fingers with a meat axe. That's how he got his nickname.'

‘Nice bloke.'

‘He got sick of chopping off people's fingers. So one day he decided to chop off some heads instead. Now he's doing life.'

Norton reflected on the crazed look the crim had given him before he charged and didn't disbelieve what Bernie was telling him.

‘The thing is, Les,' continued Bernie. ‘He runs all the rackets in here with four other blokes — just as nutty as him.'

‘Rackets?'

‘Yeah, you know. Tobacco, drugs, protection. All that rattle. And when his team find out what happened they'll be looking for you. With prison-made knives.'

Norton shrugged again. ‘Yeah, but I should be out of here
by this time tomorrow — shouldn't I?'

Bernie gave a tight smile and shook his head. ‘Chopper's in the prison hospital — he's not too good on it. And you're on an assault of a fellow prisoner charge.'

‘
What
'

‘That's right,' nodded Bernie solemnly. ‘I told you, Les. It's a different ball game in here.'

‘So what the bloody hell does all this mean?'

‘It means you could be in here another month waiting to face the charges. And if you're found guilty, you could get anything. Six months to two years.'

‘Jesus Christ!' Norton sucked in his breath and turned to face the wall. Suddenly he felt helpless and physically ill. He spun back to Bernie. ‘Surely there's got to be something I can do. Christ, I only tried to help some old bloke.'

Bernie stared at Norton evenly. ‘There is something — and I can fix it. But by the living Harry, it's going to cost you.'

Norton stared back at the guard almost in disbelief. So Bernie Cottier was no different from the rest of them. Cops, politicians, judges. Now prison guards. It seemed everybody was on the take. Price wasn't far out when he used to say that corruption in the N.S.W. government was like lights on a Christmas tree; it went all the way from the bottom to the top. But Bernie Cottier? Bernie had to be the straightest, most honest bloke Les had met since he'd arrived in Sydney. But then again, maybe it was a good thing Bernie was bent. At least there was a chance of getting out of here now.

Norton nodded his head slowly. ‘Yeah, righto. Fair enough. What's it gonna cost me?'

Bernie reached across and jabbed his banana-like forefinger in Norton's chest. ‘Saturday fortnight,' he said, ‘I've got the Bondi Sharks, under fourteens, going into the semi-finals. Mate, they can attack like a brigade of Ghurkhas. But they're just a little shy in the tackling department. Especially a couple of the forwards.'

Norton screwed up his face as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. What was bloody Bernie on about?

‘Now Les,' continued the big prison guard emphatically, ‘I'm not trying to kid to you by telling you this. But you were one of the best tackiers ever to lace on a boot for Easts. They still talk about some of those hits you made against Manly and St George. The kids know you and so do their parents. I want you up at Waverley Oval this Saturday morning,
to give the kids a pep talk and show them how to tackle. Les Norton style.'

Norton gave Bernie a double, triple blink. ‘That's it?' he asked, incredulous.

‘That's it. That's the ask. Just be up at Waverley Oval at nine-thirty this Saturday morning to lecture the kids and I'll sort all this “Elliot” out with Chopper. ‘But,' and Bernie emphasised the ‘but' with his forefinger, ‘let me down and I'll come looking for you. And I don't give a stuff how good a scrapper you are. You might beat me. But I'll guarantee you'll know you've been in a fight.'

Norton's face lit up in a grin as he straightened up on the bed. ‘Bernie,' he said, ‘I'd rather do another six months in here than tangle with a tough old rooster like you.' He reached across, took Bernie's massive paw and shook it warmly. ‘Thanks mate,' he said.

‘That's okay. Anyway, I've got to go. In the meantime keep your eyes open. I've told the guards out the front to keep a look out for any of Chopper's crew, though I don't think they'll do anything yet. It's too soon and they don't know for sure what happened. And there's not much chance Chopper'll *be telling them about it for a few days. But keep your eyes open just the same.'

‘I will. And thanks again Bernie.'

‘No worries. I'll see you in the morning.' Bernie gave Les a wink and left.

The sunshine coming in through Norton's cell door was like a tonic to him. Sunshine had never felt so good and daylight never looked better. Santa Claus was real and so was the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy. And Bernie Cottier was honest too. Christ Norton sighed as he moved to the front of the cell, I'll be glad when I get out of this prick of a joint all the same.

Bernie was right about Chopper Collins; none of the gang came near him all afternoon. If anything it was the complete opposite. The entire warrants section saw the guards take Chopper's bleeding, unconscious body out on a stretcher and Norton was given a wide berth by everyone, especially the two hoods he'd had words with earlier. It was the same when they were mustered for their roast beef and vegetables, tapioca and custard that evening. Sweet smiles all around and Les and Max were given all the seats they wanted. One prisoner even took Norton's plates back for him and the taller of the
two moustachioed hoods asked him if there was anything in particular he might like to watch on TV. But even though the front was locked it was a little too shadowy in the warrants section for Norton's liking, so rather than risk a knife in the back he went into his cell not long after tea and read — with one eye on the door. Max joined him shortly afterwards and it didn't seem long before the guards locked them in for the night.

They were lying on their bunks reading, listening to Max's radio and not saying a great deal when Max put his magazine down and turned to Norton.

‘I hear you had a bit of trouble today,' he said, smiling over at the big Queenslander. ‘Is that right?'

‘Ohh yeah,' drawled Norton, putting down his book also. ‘Some bloke was bashing up that old sweeper in the shower. We ended up in a bit of a scuffle and he hit his head on the floor. That was about it,' he added with a shrug.

Max gave a bit of a chuckle at Norton's laconic description of how he'd put one of the toughest men in Long Bay in hospital. ‘Les, this mightn't be any of my business,' he said, a little hesitantly, ‘but you don't seem to be the kind of bloke that's so hard up he has to spend two days in the Bay to cut out a $50 fine.'

Norton chuckled to himself also then smiled over at his cellmate. ‘You're about half right Max. I suppose I may as well tell you about it. But promise you won't laugh too much.'

With Max's little radio playing softly in the background, Norton told the friendly truck driver a little about himself and exactly how he came to be in Long Bay. Including the challenge from Warren and his description of the Highway Patrol cop who booked him in the first place.

‘So that's about it, Max old mate,' Norton concluded. ‘I can be a stubborn bastard at times. But I'm pretty bloody sure I won't be doing this again,' he added with a shake of his head.

Max chuckled. ‘Fifty-three bucks isn't actually the end of the world is it? Still. The money's better off in your kick than in the rotten government's.'

‘Yeah,' Norton agreed reluctantly. ‘I suppose that's about the best way I can look at it.'

Apart from the music on the radio there was silence between them for a while, then Norton folded his arms across his chest and stared the truck driver right in the eye.

‘All right Max,' he said solemnly, ‘I've given you my story.
Now what about bloody yours? I want to know how you can possibly like it in here. I mean — this place is a shithouse. And by calling the food edible, that's givin' it a wrap. But you go on like it's Lindeman Island with a team of French chefs. What's your story?'

Max grinned back at Les. ‘You really want to know do you?'

‘Fuckin' oath I do,' replied Norton, with an emphatic nod of his head.

The truck driver sat up with his back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest like Norton had. He gave his chin a bit of a thoughtful scratch before he started.

‘Les,' he began. ‘I've been married to the ugliest, fattest, most horrible drop kick of a wife for over twenty years.'

‘Crook sort is she?'

‘Crook sort. Mate she's so ugly we haven't even got our wedding photos developed yet, because no photographer's game enough to lock himself up in a darkroom with the prints. Six gynaecologists gave up medicine after she visited them, and went back to driving cabs.'

‘Jesus. That is a dud wrap,' chuckled Norton. ‘But if she's so ugly, how come you married her in the first place?'

‘She was about the first root I ever had. Besides,' Max pointed to his face, ‘I'm not actually Mel Gibson myself. Am I?'

‘Well...' Norton looked at Max's weathered face and lopsided jaw full of rotten teeth and gave a non-committal shrug of his shoulders.

‘Now,' continued Max, ‘besides having a miserable bag of a wife that can't light a bloody stove let alone cook anything, I've got three kids I wish I'd drowned at birth. My two sons are around twenty. Both fucking mules. Long ears, buck teeth, the lot. They've been on the dole and not done a stroke of work since the day they left school. They sit around the house all day and night, picking their arses, smoking bongs and listening to blaring loud, head-banging heavy-metal music. Iron Maiden and all that shit. Where these two morons get their money from I don't know and I don't bloody care. The only redeeming feature they've got is I know they'll never become heroin addicts because neither of them would have the strength or the brains to use a hypodermic syringe.'