The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (27 page)

‘There'll be an air conditioned coach leaving in about fifteen minutes,' said Des as he locked the cell door. ‘If you should require any light refreshments, coffee, biscuits, anything like that. Don't hesitate to call will you.'

‘I wouldn't mind a cappuccino and a toasted ham sandwich.'

‘Coming right up,' smiled Des. ‘Don't go away now will you.' He gave Norton a wink then turned and left.

As far as comforts go, the cell didn't have a great deal
going for it. Grey painted bars, grey speckled walls, a half-dozen sort of wrestling mats were scattered around the floor and about twice that many blankets. A stainless-steel toilet bowl sat in the corner furtherest from the door.

There were two other men in the cell, sitting on the floor across from each other. One had long blond hair, the other's was black and cropped close to his skull. Both looked to be in their early twenties and both were wearing jeans, T-shirts and V-neck jumpers. Norton gave them each a smile and a nod before he sat down. They gave him an almost imperceptible nod in return.

Norton plonked himself down on one of the mats, leant back against the wall and had a bit of a look around. So this is life in the can eh, he chuckled to himself. I've only been in a couple of minutes and I can't say I'm over rapt in it already. His two cellmates continued to stare silently at the floor or into space.

After about five minutes Norton turned to the fair-haired one on his left. ‘What are you in for mate?' he asked.

The blond continued to stare at the floor for a few moments. ‘Can't remember,' he finally answered.

Norton looked at him for a few seconds, then turned to the other. ‘What about you mate?'

‘I'm in for the same thing,' he muttered.

Norton nodded and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Yeah righto,' he said to no one in particular.

They sat there in almost total silence, broken only by the hum of a large overhead air-duct. After about fifteen minutes a door opened and a beefy sergeant and a young red-haired constable walked into the corridor. ‘Righto,' the sergeant called out as he unlocked the cell door. The other cop stood behind him holding three sets of handcuffs. Norton's cellmates shuffled out first and automatically held their hands out in front of them; it was obvious that they'd been there, done that before. Then it was Les's turn. The ratchets clicked and Norton was well and truly cuffed and booked. And although one side of Les was finding it rather amusing, to the other side it was a distinctly alien and unpleasant feeling.

‘Righto. This way,' growled the sergeant.

They were led out into another corridor and down some steps to a paddy-wagon waiting at the rear of the courthouse. The red-haired cop opened the back door and stood next to it; he didn't say anything but the three of them knew what to do. Crouching slightly the others got in first. Norton
was about to climb in when he heard a voice behind him. He turned around to face Des Smith; hatless and a big grin spread across his face.

‘Hey Les. Before you go,' he said to Norton, almost half in the door. ‘Remember when I was playing reserve grade for Souths and I had my first run in firsts. It was against Easts at Redfern Oval. You were playing second row.'

‘Yeah. I think I remember Des.'

‘I was playing centre. I'd just got the ball and you came across and hit me with a tackle that almost cut me in half. I tore all my rib cartilages. I was out for nearly a month.'

‘Ohh yeah,' smiled Norton. ‘Now I remember.'

‘Good,' grinned the fair-haired young cop. He stepped back, brought the sole of his police boot up and reefed Norton in the rump, propelling him to the other end of the wagon. With the handcuffs spoiling his sense of balance, Norton sprawled against the rear of the cabin. Only a desperate grab at the canvas roof stopped him from hitting the floor as the door slammed behind him.

‘Sorry about that Les,' came Des's voice from outside. ‘But it was too good an opportunity to miss.'

‘Dirty mug copper,' bellowed Norton. He got his balance back and sat down next to the crim with dark hair. ‘Fuckin' coppers,' grunted Norton. ‘They're all cunts.'

‘You're not wrong,' was the laconic reply.

The next thing, the motor started and they lurched up the driveway, bumping and weaving their way to Long Bay Gaol.

How long the trip took, Les wasn't sure — fifteen, twenty minutes? But through the grill on the back door he could see Charing Cross fading into the distance, then Randwick Junction, Maroubra Junction, and before long they were cruising along Anzac Parade with still nobody saying anything. Les noticed a set of lights and a sign saying Beauchamp Street; there was a bit of a lurch as they turned left up another driveway, a boom-gate opened, then they stopped at the sound of a huge gate opening. A shadow seemed to fall across the wagon as they went a little further and stopped with the motor still running. Peering out the back of the wagon it looked to Les as if they were inside a monstrous grey birdcage; to his left he could make out a huge brass bell. For whom the bell tolls, mused Norton, his thoughts going back to an old Ernest Hemingway story he'd read at school. Another
gate clanged open to the sound of different voices. The wagon eased forward again, stopped, then reversed up to an open doorway and the motor was turned off as the two police climbed out of the wagon and went inside.

After a few moments Les turned to the crim sitting next to him. ‘Looks like we're here,' he said.

‘You'd better fuckin' believe it.'

They sat there in the gloomy silence of the wagon. Through the canvas walls Norton could hear voices coming from somewhere and the sounds of more gates or heavy doors opening and slamming shut. After what seemed quite a while the back of the paddy-wagon opened and they were motioned out. The same cop that had put his handcuffs on undid them and took them off. Norton rubbed his wrists, scratched his back and had a good look around him.

He was standing in some sort of a large reception room, with a step-down shower area off to his right. It was all painted a faded yellow and everything, from the tiles in the shower to the dull yellow paint on the walls, looked and even felt old. There was a short counter to his left and a longer one in front of him fronting rows of shelves stacked with cartons and green or brown prison uniforms. Even from where he stood the shower area seemed to smell almost overpoweringly of bleach and strong disinfectant. Someone had painted some sort of a country-scene mural on a wall above the showers and above his head several old-fashioned wooden fans stood motionless against the equally ancient wooden ceiling.

The two police officers handed over Les's personal effects to a guard, signed something and disappeared. But there was no shortage of prison officers; all very solid and stony faced, though oddly enough having a cheerful banter amongst themselves.

Along with the two others, Les was told to strip. Then, after being searched thoroughly they were asked if they wanted a shower but all three declined, Norton mainly because it was too cold and he was convinced that the smell of disinfectant and bleach would knock him out. He was then given his prison clothing — green trousers, fawn shirt, green jacket and brown jumper; they let him keep his joggers and the Speedos he was wearing as underwear — and told to fill in a blue Description Sheet. Name, aliases, whether he was an Aborigine or not, previous convictions, distinguishing marks, etc. He signed this and they took a fingerprint of his right forefinger on the bottom corner of the sheet. While
he was being printed a male nurse asked him if he had had any drug problems or illnesses. Norton replied that he was a bit hungry, that's all.

If Les appeared to be a little flippant about it all, underneath he was feeling trapped, degraded and beginning to find it all rather distasteful. It was his own stubbornness and I'll-show-him attitude that had got him in here and a couple of times, especially when he was being searched, he regretted his foolishness. But it was only for a couple of days so what the hell. However, if Norton was being a bit casual about it all, his travelling companions were quite the opposite. They were completely humourless and listless and moody when filling out their forms or taking instructions from the warders. It was a sure bet they were in for something a bit more than traffic warrants and Norton was curious what for and for how long.

Finally Les was given two woollen blankets, a towel, a yellow pamphlet entitled
Information Booklet for Inmates of the CIP
(Central Industrial Prison), and told to wait to be allocated a cell. That was when it dawned on him what he was. An inmate. A prisoner. And standing there in his drab prison garb with his blankets under his arm he looked and felt it. Nothing fitted, it all smelled of mothballs or something and soon he was going to be dumped in a cold, dank cell. Immediately he began to think of his nice warm house at Bondi and all the food and beer in the fridge. What a nice dill I must be, he thought. Warren and Des were right. Oh well, at least there's no one here to see me looking like this. He was just about to flick through his information booklet when he heard a mystified voice behind him.

‘Les Norton. What the fuckin' hell are you doin' in here?'

Norton brought himself around slowly. Ohh no, he thought. Not in here. Not like this. Please.

He turned around to face a tall, half-smiling guard standing behind him with his hands on his hips. He was somewhere in his early fifties and built not unlike himself, only with slightly more of a paunch. With a mop of thick steel-grey hair he had one of those lived-in, Robert Mitchum type faces, only a little fuller and a little jowlier.

‘Les Norton,' he said slowly. ‘It is you. What have you been up to?'

‘Ohh g'day Bernie,' replied Norton sheepishly. ‘How's things?' Shit, Les cursed to himself, not another bloke from football. I wish to Christ I'd never laced on a boot.

The guard was Bernard Cottier. Les had got to know him through his brother Michael, who was a boner in the meat-works at Ultimo Les worked in when he came down from Queensland and first started playing with Easts. Bernie had been a pretty useful front-rower for Newtown in the early 'sixties and since he'd retired he spent most of his time coaching juniors. However, his main claim to fame, apart from football, was having a wife that ugly she'd run second in a one-woman beauty contest. But Bernie was one of those blokes that loved kids and he'd had eleven to her, nearly all girls.

Bernie continued to stare at Les, then picked up his charge sheet from the desk. He looked at it briefly and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are you fair dinkum?' he said. Norton couldn't quite look Bernie in the eye as he nodded his head at the floor. ‘Christ! Mick always said you were tight with a quid, Les. But mate. This is ridic.'

Norton nodded again, red-cheeked. ‘I think you're pretty right Bernie.' He paused while Bernie kept looking at his charge sheet as if there was some mistake. ‘Are you going to take me to my cell?' he asked.

‘Yeah. I may as well I s'pose.'

‘Good. I'll tell you about it on the way over.'

Bernie replaced Les's charge sheet and handed Les a name tag which he was to wear during all musters. He then told the other guards he'd take the prisoner to his cell. ‘You right Les?' he said, picking up a clipboard. With his name-tag pinned on, his pamphlet in one hand and his blankets and towel in the other, Les nodded sheepishly again. ‘Okay. Follow me.'

They went out the open doorway and across a yard past the big grey birdcage Les had seen when he first came in. By the time they'd reached yet another barred gate Norton had explained the reason he was there. Bernie was still shaking his head though he couldn't help but laugh.

‘I always said you were a stubborn big bastard, Les. Even when you were playing. But a couple of days in here won't hurt you.' He gave Les a slap on the back. ‘Might even give you a bit of an idea about what goes on. From both sides,' he added.

They stopped at the gate and Bernie told Norton to wait while another guard looked across to make sure the main gate was locked before he unlocked his. Even in the short time he'd been there, Les noticed that only one gate was
opened at a time. They stepped through into another reception area with a two-tiered row of cells running off it to their right.

‘In their?' Les nodded towards that wing.

‘Turn it up,' smiled Bernie. ‘At least those blokes are in for something useful. You're only in the shitty warrants section. Come on... crim.'

Although he felt terribly embarrassed at first, Les was glad now that he'd bumped into Bernie. At least he knew one person in there, and the big, rough prison guard wasn't a bad bloke underneath. They moved past the desk in the reception area onto a concrete strip that ran around a huge patch of dry, sandy grass about 200 metres square and flanked by other buildings.

‘That's the exercise yard,' said Bernie. ‘Or as it is affectionately known — the square.'

There were about fifty or so men in the square, some jogging around it, some walking; all of them under the eye of what looked like a similar number of guards. Most of the joggers were wearing green shorts, the rest their green and brown uniforms, and they were the hardest faced, toughest looking men Norton had seen in quite a while. Even some of the joggers going past, who had to be in their fifties, were square jawed with steel-grey crewcuts and built like tanks. Apart from their tough appearance, one slightly amusing thing did stand out to Norton. Several groups of men walked briskly, four or six abreast, from one side of the square to the other. They walked and talked as if they were on a ten mile hike in the countryside, but when they'd reach the side they'd all turn on the spot completely in step, not even disrupting their rhythm, their pace or a word of their conversation. Norton had been standing there only a short while and the men would have done at least six laps.