The Beat

Born in England, Simon Payne grew up outback Australia, wasting most of his youth in Alice Springs. After graduating from Flinder’s University, he finally settled in Melbourne where he began writing.
The Beat
is his first published novel.

First published April 1985 by GMP Publishers Ltd P O Box 247, London N15 6RW, England.

Distributed in North America by Alyson Publications Inc., 40 Plympton St, Boston, MA 02118, USA.

World copyright © Simon Payne 1985

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Payne, Simon The beat.

I. Title

823[F]     PR9619.3.P3/

ISBN 0-907040-70-5

Typeset by MC Typeset, Chatham, Kent, England. Printed and bound by Billing and Sons Ltd, Worcester, England.

I would like to thank the Australian Gay Archives for letting me use their resources in writing Chapter One, and also Richard Dipple, my editor at GMP, for his advice and encouragement.

It wasn’t the first time Kevin had been poofter-bashing. They went quite often on a Friday night after drinking at the pub. If they didn’t write themselves off and obliterate the week-end to come, they would go on a hunt of all the dunnies for a bit of sport. Poofters were pretty easy game and never squealed to the police after. They’d never done any real harm, it was just sport. One queer had got a pretty busted jaw the other week. It wobbled funny when he tried to speak and blood oozed from it. More like a fanny than a mouth by the time they had finished. A fanny needing rags. Heads and balls usually got most of the punishment. Taught the queer bastards a lesson. That was what they used most, heads and balls, so that was what you went for. Stopped them practising their perverted ways for quite a while. Doing them a favour, and society too, keeping them out of the dunnies. You can’t molest small boys if you have a pain in your gut because your stomach’s been kicked in. They learn. They learn slow but they learn. Trouble is that there’s always lots more to take their place. There was this one guy they’d chased in the car one night. Spotlighting. Shit, you should have seen him run. He was so fast, dodging in and out of the headlights as they’d got him halfway across the park. They would have got him too, if it hadn’t been for a tree that caused them to swerve and lose him. He went to ground so fast they lost him just like that. Cunning bastards, some of these poofters. Disappeared “poof” into the air, that’s what Kevin would say. They should have chased him on foot but some of these queers arc fast. All jogging around with their cocks trailing out of their shorts, as they run from dunnic to dunnie. It’s getting harder to pick some of them these days. You can tell when they stand around limp-like, or when they speak, but it’s hard to pick them on the run. Best way is to speak to them first, get their confidence; then when they speak back — whammo! Kevin and his mate had got one the other day. He was walking along the footpath — must have been as blind as a bat. Broad daylight, there he was coming towards them, not looking at anyone. You could tell he was one of them by the way he walked, sort of like he had his knees tied together. Anyway, when he was about ten feet away, Kevin and his mate could see he was trying to stick to the fence, thinking he would get past them on that side. Kevin’s mate moved over right up to the fence, so the poof had to pass between them. Just as he was going through, not looking at anyone, they closed in and knocked into him real hard. He reeled. For a second it looked as if he would lose his balance, but on he stumbled along the street. Didn’t even look back at them.

“Ah,” Kevin yelled. He took no notice. So Kevin yells again. The silly bastard turns and looks.

“Yes?” he says, polite as he could.

“Don’t you look where you’re going?” Kevin yelled. The guy shrugged and turned. Kevin steps towards him.

“You bumped my mate,” he says. “What you got to say?”

“Sorry,” says the poof, as if it doesn’t matter, but you can see it does.

“You better be careful, uh?” says Kevin.

“OK,” says the poof. Again he turns and starts to walk away.

“You going to let him get away with that?” says Kevin’s mate.

“Watch out, you fucking cunt,” yells Kevin. And the poof starts to walk real fast.

“I’ll be after you,” shouts Kevin. Then he starts making these funny poofter whooping noises. The poof just hightailed and ran. That was the last they saw of that cunt. It was usually good for a laugh. Kevin used to call it getting his exercise. He knew more about doing the dunnies than most of the queers did. It was no good starting too early, and you had to look out for police cars. Sometimes they would come interfering and you wouldn’t see any queers again for weeks. They would all move on to somewhere new and you’d have to cruise around until you spotted them. Kevin used to say he could smell them from the Aramis in the air. Maybe he could. For sure he could spot them even in the dark. He would see them under the trees strolling around. Out like possums at night. Avoided all the lights and just hung around in the shadows. Some-times you could spot them having it off up against one of the trees, or some guy down sucking another’s tool while the second guy went lookout. Funny they looked, peering round with some guy slobbering over their meat. They would get carried away and that was when they wouldn’t notice you coming. Up through the trees and whammo. Or you would see them tearing off with their tools still out, swinging before them like ’roos running backwards. They’d tried mugging poofters for the bread at one stage, but it was useless. They all left their wallets in their cars. You could thump into them — but steal their bread, no way. Seemed strange the way they were so careful about that and careless about themselves — not smart at all really. No such thing as a smart poofter, it stood to reason. If you were smart you wouldn’t be a poofter. It was Friday night and they were pissed. Kevin had been at the pub since six. They had stopped drinking to have a counter meal. One of the guys had thrown it almost straight up, shit food that it was. He’d only just made it to the dunnie. Then he had sat there and moaned a bit. Kevin had reckoned he’d found a mate in there, he was gone so long. He was looking pretty bad now, just sitting quiet in the corner. The rest of them weren’t that bad. Until the last hour there had been some chicks there and the guys had kept sober enough to try and con onto them. But then they had gone off and now only the drinkers were left. Kevin wanted to kick on a bit and have some fun. One of the guys was making noises about going home to his wife. Said he wanted to screw her senseless. He probably just wanted to rest, collapse at home. He had to keep his wits about him because he was getting the train. You couldn’t let yourself doze off on those things, not with the way they were these days. In the past he had fallen asleep and been woken up in time for his stop, but these days drunks got mugged courtesy of Vic-Rail as they slept their way home. He had to go soon. There was no one much to kick on. Kevin’s best mate was still standing up but the one that had spewed was a write-off and so was this married guy. Just the two of them wanted to go on.

“Me car’s up near the market,” Kevin said. “Reckon you can make it?” They half carried their corpse friend out into the street where the cold air hit him. For a moment he looked like he’d collapse. The married one left them. He was a bit quiet too. A bit scared he would have to get off at each stop. The vibration of the train sometimes made you chuck after a few drinks. He’d known it before. You could feel alright till the thing started to move — whoops, and away you would go, redecorate the carriage in a stream of spew. They got the corpse as far as the traffic lights. He hung onto the pole and wouldn’t cross. Then he sort of folded up into a heap at the base, still clinging on. He reckoned the ground was nice and cool and he needed to cool off. They got him to his feet and across the lights. He could walk when he concentrated.

“I’ll be no good for footie on Sunday,” he moaned. The thought sobered him a little and he staggered forward.

“Did aerobics on the oval on Thursday,” he mused. “Did this guy’s back in,” and he stumbled. “Shit, help us one of you bastards.”

“Aerobics is for poofs.” Kevin spat. It hit the ground in front of him and sat in a wet globule on the cold surface.

“Not the way we do it,” the drunk persisted. “No poofs at footie.”

“Bunch of fairies.” It was Kevin’s last word on the subject and he flicked his mate in the crotch to make his point.

“Watch it,” the drunk retorted, bending over in supposed pain. By now he could feel practically nothing. “You nearly ruined me.” He lurched on up the street in the wake of his mates. “Where the fuck’s this car?” The third one had been fairly quiet until now. “Fucked if I know”, came the reply, and they looked around bewildered.

“Oh yeah, I know,” said Kevin and they were off again lurching up the street. Their mate’s mother wasn’t too pleased when they dropped him off. They had to stay and hold him under the shower, she wasn’t touching him in that state. He wouldn’t let them take his jocks off, said they were a bunch of poofters, but had just crouched under the jets of water in his own vomit. When they got him out most of it had washed down the plughole. His old lady could clean up the rest. She had made them sit and drink black coffee while she bullied him to bed. Kevin felt great by now and still wanted some action. The walk to the car, the concentra-tion on driving and the coffee had revived him. While the old girl was out of the kitchen, he suggested they go poofter-bashing for a bit of sport. And it was on for the night. As soon as they could get away from the old girl they would head straight for the park. Kevin downed his coffee in a single swallow. He didn’t want to waste any more time.

They cruised down the side of the park and past the bog the first time. It didn’t look too promising but it was worth a second try. Kevin thought he saw a figure moving between the trees, but it was on its own and miles from the dunnies. You couldn’t tell if the cars there were parked for the bog or not. They were too drunk to count them to see if there were any new arrivals the second time around. The car lurched onto the main road to do another circuit. In the mirror Kevin could see a set of lights crawling slowly behind them past the bog. He thought they were drawing to a stop. It was hard to tell for sure as he’d only seen them just as he’d swung out into the main road. The lights seemed to fade.

“Got one,” yelled his mate, pointing back.

“Don’t know,” mumbled Kevin.

“Give it another try?” Back round the block. This time they crawled along the edge of the park. It was pretty dark; the trees were quite a way in, the toilets only a dozen yards or so in from the road. The lights inside had been broken. That, or some poof collected them. Ahead they could see a figure walking along on the same side of the road.

“Cut the lights. Pull over,” his mate urged. The lights dimmed and the car pulled over. They sat staring ahead at the lone pedestrian. He looked back over his shoulder. He must have been aware of the car and that it had stopped somewhere behind him. His look ques-tioned the driver’s motives. Friend or foe? it asked in a glance.

“Get down,” Kevin ordered. “Better chance if he thinks it’s just one of us.” The figure continued to walk but glanced back again. It was hard to see him in the dark but he looked fairly young — tight jeans and a short jacket. The poof looked back again and decided it was alright. He walked slowly across the road at a diagonal, using it as an excuse to look back at the darkened car in an assessing stare. You could see him fairly well for a few seconds as he crossed under one of the lights. He could have avoided it, so he obviously wanted to be seen. They got their look at him. He was young, sure enough, and a little uneasy — just what they were after. Twitchy, you might say, but not going to give up.

“Yep, we’ve got one.” Kevin was sure this time. He leered back out of the window. “Thinks he’s got it made.” His mate was laughing by now.

“Yep, I really fancy this one,” Kevin smart-talked.

“Jeez, shut up will you or I’ll piss myself down here.”

“Stay put,” Kevin ordered. He switched on the parking lights and started the engine. Their quarry turned at the soft noise but kept walking towards the dunnies. The car cruised slowly up trailing him, then pulled over again in the shadows between the sparse street lighting. It was pretty dark. You couldn’t tell if there was anyone else around. It looked safe enough.

“I’ll get him when he comes out. You stay put.” It was unfair on his mate that Kevin should be having all the say. Usually they acted together; tonight Kevin was hogging it.

“Next one’s mine, mate,” reckoned his friend.

“Yeah, next one.” The young guy turned into the toilet block, disappear-ing from sight. He didn’t bother to look back one last time.

“Ripper.” And Kevin was out of the car and across the road in a flash. It was a bit of a fucking letdown for his mate. He got up off the floor and stared over the dashboard. He was dying for a piss but it would have to wait now. He could use the bog after Kevin had finished. He could see him in the dark bushes that screened the toilets from the park. Any minute now he’ll get the cunt. But Kevin seemed a bit far off for his mate’s liking. Shit, he would probably blow it and they would have to wait to set up the next.

“Next one’s mine,” he grumbled to himself. Kevin was standing out clearly, he wasn’t trying to hide. He was waiting for the figure to re-emerge. He’d call the poof over to him for sure. They’d done it before. Kevin would stand there looking at them and just unzip his fly, resting his hand on his tool. They always came running after a fat prick and Kevin always reckoned he had that to show. In the dim light from the street he could see the figure come out of the bog and look around. He must have been looking for Kevin. No one else inside to pull off. Kevin strode out of the bushes and beckoned the guy over. He went towards him.

“He’s got him,” Kevin’s mate chortled to himself, and leant over behind the steering wheel for a better look. The two figures were almost together and he could see that Kevin was bracing himself ready for the big whammo. Nothing unfair, no iron bars or tyre levers, just bare fists. Kevin’s mate was still pretty pissed but he didn’t want to miss much. He moved across the seat just a little more to see through the side window, and his elbow caught the horn. It was only a short muffled blast but they all heard it. Like lightning the poof saw the figure in the car and knew what was up. Kevin slugged but only winged the bastard. There was a shout and the guy scrabbled off back towards the bog. Stupid bastard, Kevin would get him in there easy. Lay him out in the dark. As the young man stumbled back into the toilet block, obscure figures jumped apart, retreating defensively into darker corners and cubicles. The young man scrabbled towards the wall opposite the doorway and groaned. Figures moved in the shadows. Then there was Kevin charging through the door. He was still yelling:

“Come and get it, you bastard.” He skidded to a halt, blinded by the dark. He stared into blackness, his eyes unable to focus. A figure moved behind him. He swung round.