The Beat: A True Account of the Bondi Gay Murders (2 page)

‘Fucking shit-stabbing faggot!’

‘Arse bandit wanker!’

‘Should be fucking normal, you poofter bastard!’

‘Maggot!’

And behind it all, other sounds, gentle sounds far removed from the violence, sounds of the surf, sounds maybe of a girl softly crying … or laughing.

iii

‘It’s so
cold
!’

‘Well, hurry up and let’s get to the
car
!’

The two men huddled close as they walked from the Midnight Shift, making their way along Oxford Street to where they’d parked the old Nissan. All around them the night shone hard with a 2am blackness, a blackness that’s really an obscure shade of green in the city. Traffic flowed past them as they hurried, purred towards Taylor Square and Kings Cross and the CBD. A calm and steady flow, not the snarling rush of daylight hours but still…

‘Oi! Ya fucking poofs! Yah, ya faggots!’

Across the street a tight knot of men swayed on the edge of incapability. One was throwing up in the gutter, watched by another who seemed unable to move, unable to avert his eyes from the rhythmical spewing of vomit pulsing from his friend’s mouth. Behind them, the man who had shouted stood at the entrance to a narrow street, not much more than an alleyway, rocking unsteadily back and forth as he tried to piss against the wall while he stared with unfocused eyes at the two men leaving the club. His bleary, stationary stagger made him stumble a little now and then, causing him to wave his steaming piss in violent arcs which now soaked his jeans, now streamed out into the main street, and now, finally, dribbled over his fingers. He leaned his head against the wall, trying to hold himself still.

‘I hate poofs,’ he muttered with an effort of concentration.

The two friends laughed aloud.

‘Look who looks like the poof, darling!’ The taller man called with a giggle.

‘She’s a big boy, though, isn’t she?’

The two dissolved into fits of laughter as they reached the Nissan and inserted the key in the door.

On the opposite side of the street an ominous quiet had fallen, heavy and leaden. The man pissing against the wall now dripped only over his shoes as he moved clumsily towards the kerb. Alongside, two more seemed to have sloughed off their drunkenness as they started into the roadway.

‘I’ll fucking show you, ya bastard fuckin’…’

‘– cheeky cunt –’

‘I’ll have yer fuckin’ balls off –’

The Nissan’s doors slammed shut. As the engine came to life the first drunk reached the car. A crunching of gears as a fist pounded on the roof. Another smashed into the side window at the back as the car lurched forwards. No-one inside or outside the car made a sound: no-one screamed abuse, no-one shouted or threatened, no-one cried or pleaded. The game had gone beyond that: this was the pivotal moment, the moment of crisis. Two lives were on the line and every grain of energy, every tautened nerve was needed to effect the outcome of those lives. Both in the roadway and inside the car. Another lurch, sweating gear change … a face at the windscreen, wild snarl on its features … slamming a broken fist against the glass … blood smear like a portent of the future … and then somewhere in the distance the sound of a siren, seesaw wailing of a police vehicle as the Nissan jumped and lunged and straightened out heading for Bondi and safety.

A hundred metres and the rear view mirror showed two of the drunks being bundled into the back of a police car, two more long gone. On the far side of the road a man bent double over the gutter, his innards seeming to fall from the unseen perfect ‘O’ of his mouth…

iv

The ball hit the backboard, bounced on the rim and looped high into the air. Away from the basket. A surge of aggression as a pack of boys jostled beneath its trajectory, elbows and sweat and the flapping of tee-shirts in the drizzling rain. A shove in the back. Sprawling arms and legs on the asphalt and a sudden hiatus as everyone waited. The ball bouncing unnoticed out of court.

‘Who the fuck –?’

Grazed and angry, leaping to his feet with clenched fists and eyes flashing. Head swivelling a blazing stare around the widening circle about him.

‘Which bastard –?’

‘C’mon, man. It was an accident.’ The placatory voice that always breaks the silence. Lying for the sake of an uneasy peace.

‘Yeah, man. He dint mean –’

‘Fuckin’ accident was it?’ Moving closer.

The group waited, barely daring to breathe. A psycho, that’s what he was. Claimed he’d already killed another guy. A faggot up at the Cross. The rumour had it he’d been beaten to death, flogged and kicked till the life had gone from him.

‘Accidents happen, man.’

‘Only if you’re fuckin’ careless, but.’

‘Youse the one what fell.’

‘Yeah, this time.’

‘Meanin’?’

‘Barnard’s comin’’ Hissed from somewhere at the perimeter of the circle.

The history teacher made his way without haste in their direction. He’d seen the melee, wondered what was going on, what the little thugs were up to. Drugs, he supposed. Or worse.

As he came nearer one of the supernumerary kids, a gofer, brought the basketball over from where it had been lying beside the fence. The game started up again, a lacklustre passing and jogging with no sense of purpose: he turned away when he was still 10 metres away.
Let the little shits get on with it,
he thought with relief. He went back inside out of the rain.

v

The air was still damp where the memory of rain hung in the evening sky and a mean wind had come up from the south bringing steel sharp temperatures with it. Except for the seven youths sharing Winfields under the overhang of the trees near the boys’ high school, Moore Park was empty.

‘Fuck, man. Iss like … wha’ we doin’ here, man? Is too fuckin’ cold, but.’

‘Yer only cold cos yer a runty little fuck.’

‘Nah, he’s right, man. Even the fuckin’ faggots won’t come out in this shit.’

‘What you know? You a friggin’ faggot? Are yer?’

At the edge of the group three girls shivered inside inadequate jackets. They stood half outside, half inside the protection of the branches listening to the macho bullshit while old rain dripped onto their heads, down their necks.

vi

A far blue sky with small white cloudballs scraping across it. Better than the past few days. Better than the rain, but. Still, the air smelled damp, like old towels not hung up after coming back from the beach.

A few tight knots of kids hung out beside some of the buildings, outside the gate. Last cigarettes being openly smoked before class. Permanent scowls fixed to challenging faces:
yeah, an’ who can do anything about it?
Feet scuffing on asphalt, trainers kicking against walls, hands in pockets and heads bent against the wind.

‘Nah, nothin’, man. You?’

Monday morning drawls asking without interest, ‘what did you do? where did you go? who did you see?’ Not listening to the answers. The answers given with as little interest as the questions.
Who gives a fuck?

‘The first time I went, mate … No, it wasn’t the first time, the second time. Anyway, it was in a fuckin’ toilet block … There was a window, okay? And the toilet’s just inside the window –’

‘Which toilet block? Where’s it at, mate?’ Interrupting, just to be a pain in the arse.

‘It was a fuckin’ toilet block, that’s all. And my mates, the guys I know what do this kinda thing a lot, they were inside – it was on Park Street, okay? They was inside punchin’ the cunt out when he was standin’ on the toilet bowl – standin’ up, eh – an’ the window was smashed and I was leaning through the window … It was heaps, fun, y’know?’

Laughter, snide and mean, the thin laughter of cowardice unchallenged.

‘An’ you know how it started? How we bashed ’em? There was fuckin’ one in each, in each toilet, y’know? Chucked a golf ball in there. I mean, really chucked it, went ding, ding, ding, an’ you heard, Oh, … Aaaah … Then he comes outside an’ he goes, “Who done that?” Some fuckin’ boong. Crunch.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Man, it was heaps.’

‘Fuckin’ school, but. Don’t ya hate it?’ Veering away as they came into the yard. ‘See yez later, eh.’

‘Too right, bitch.’

vii

‘Yeah, but why d’we want to go to fuckin’ Bondi, man? I mean, we don’ know the place, really, eh? If any of the other guys sees us, man, they might think we’s the poofs, but.’

‘Course they fuckin’ won’t. Do we look like fuckin’ poofters? It’s obvious, eh?’

‘Yeah, I dunno, but.’ Uneasy about territory: Redfern, Waterloo, they were okay. But Bondi?

‘What if he don’ turn up, eh?’

‘He’s meeting us at the Junction, man. ‘Course he’ll fuckin’ turn up. An’ anyway, if he don’t, we’ll jus’ come back to the park, eh?’

• • •

They should’ve gotten off the bus on Fletcher Street and walked straight down to Marks Lane but he’d said nothing, been thinking ’bout somethin’ else, hadn’t really realised where they were till it was too late. So they’d stayed on till the Parade and then had to walk back, going uphill on Notts Avenue. Still, the others didn’t know where they were, so he’d said nothing.

He’d met them like he said he would, waiting at the Junction. By the 380 stop. He didn’t know why they wanted to go to Bondi tonight, but. Wednesdays was quiet. There wasn’t many faggots out on Wednesdays but neither was there many rollers an’ bashers, so he supposed it’d be okay.

They walked past the swimming pool, looking back at the well-lit crescent behind them, watching the white surf for a second as it spilled onto the sand that curved away out to sea to the east.

‘Fuckin’ Bondi’s a Kiwi shithole, eh.’ A sneer. Turning back to the road leading them upwards towards the walkway and Marks Park. ‘Where’d we go from here, mate?’

Through a gap in the knee-high rail backing the pathway, through a gap and onto a winding footpath cutting away from the road. ‘Better not say too much about Kiwis, but. Most o’ the guys ’roun’ here’s Islanders, eh.’

‘I thought they was one of us?’ Sounding disappointed. ‘Aussie blokes, y’know?’

‘Yeah, some of ’em. But most of ’em, y’know?’

‘An’ we’re not all fucking whiteys neither, are we?’

‘Yeah, but … you know what I mean.’

Turning right up the steps to Marks Park, a patch of invisible darkness above the cliffs. By straining their eyes it was just possible to make out denser patches of darkness where the vegetation grew in thick clumps. Thick enough to conceal private people in a private world, a world of blindness where only the sense of touch seemed real.

Hairs standing up on the backs of necks, shivers of anticipation. There’d be some fucking fun here alright. Smiles and hands shoved into pockets where the beginnings of erections could be felt: man, this was exciting.

‘Where’d we need to go?’

‘There’s some bushes over here. We can hang out there, eh. Have a smoke if nothin’s happenin’.’

‘Where’s all the stuff go on, but?’

‘In the bushes, man. Same as in the park, but. They meet down on the path what runs roun’ to Tamarama. Under the cliff there,’ pointing into the night, seawards although you wouldn’t really know it. ‘Jingle their keys at each other, y’know? Or rattle a couple o’ bucks to show they want it –’

‘We’ll fuckin’ rattle a couple of ’em, eh?’ Enjoying this, and going to enjoy it even more when they caught one.

‘Then they come up here an’ do it. In the bushes. Or the trees. We can jus’ wait for ’em to come in, but.’

‘Maybe we should jus’ smoke a couple an’ see what happens tonight, eh? Like, jus’ watch the faggots at it?’

‘No fuckin’ way, man. We see some fuckin’ poofters, mate, we give ’em heaps.’

‘An’ if the local boys is around, they can see how it’s done right.’

viii

An uneasy feeling in the house … late evening so she should – would – be home … would be pleased he’d come. She was always home. Always pleased to see him. It was what mothers were for…

He shut the door quietly, walked into the lounge room without calling out. The place was a dump as usual, bits of crap lying around everywhere. Plates and an old Wentworth Courier on the floor beside the lounge, ashtrays filled to the limit, clothes. He hardly noticed. Filthy curtains hung half pulled at the windows and he stepped over the debris to close them, to keep the night out of the dim little room. And as he pulled them to he heard the faintest of sounds from upstairs. A kind of single note, like someone was talking to themselves or singing while they were doing something else. He smiled, came back into the room. So that’s where she was. He looked at his watch: late. But not that late. She couldn’t be in bed yet, must be in the shower. Or the dunny. There was no sound of running water so it must be the dunny.

Over to the stairs, ready to call out. The sound came again. A quiet murmur. He smiled again: silly bitch was talking to herself for sure. Took the stairs quietly. He’d scare the shit out of the cow, sneak into wherever she was, frighten the fuck off her…