TAIPAN
THE DEADLIEST STRIKE OF ALL
by
Fred Patey
***
PUBLISHED BY CHARGAN AT SMASHWORDS
This book available in print from
www.chargan.com
Taipan – The Deadliest Strike of All
Copyright © 2011 Fred Patey
ISBN: 978-1-4657-6472-0
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Fred Patey has asserted his right under the Copyright Act 1976 to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
The author has made every effort to contact the owners of pictures reproduced in this book. Where that has been unsuccessful, the copyright holder is invited to contact him directly.
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***
Dedication
For Susie
***
Contents
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As the first rays of light bring on a new day, there are many reflections made by people if they know it is to be their last.
Different people think of various things before they die, how they could have been different if opportunities arose, those opportunities that were not acted upon in life and dreams not yet achieved.
Actions over the years had destroyed and ended the lives of many people. Some without a doubt deserved it a thousand times over, some not and some were not prevented, people so close, that even today fuel hatred for the people who would today, bring peace to a tortured body and soul.
How many deaths by the name of righteousness does it take before someone becomes equal or worse in the eyes of God?
There were so many thoughts, but so little time; where does this story start?
“Bengellan Downs”
Dirranbandi QUEENSLAND AUSTRALIA
Hello, my name is Jackson William O’Conner.
I was born at 3.15 am on Jan 5th 1966 to normal parents on a normal property around one hundred and sixty kilometers south west of St George near a small town called Dirranbandi.
“Bengellan Downs” was around 21,000 hectares spread over the black floodplains of the Culgoa River.
My Great Grandfather and Grandfather had opened this country and cleared much of it for farming and grazing. There was still so much work to reach a goal they both agreed on.
Granddad had seen the potential of their land adjoining the river system and dreamed for the future of irrigated farming.
My father though, was a grazier, a sheep and cattle man whose blinkered vision could only see a real future in those. His only view on broadacre cropping was, ‘let contractors do it.’
He argued with Granddad constantly about the direction of the property ever since marrying my mother and coming to live at “Bengellan Downs”.
Granddad and Grandma retired to live in Dirranbandi in 1968 sealing the way the property would be run for the next fifteen years anyway.
The end of the property, as I remember it came in 1984 when “Bengellan Downs” was purchased by the Cubbie Group and incorporated into “Cubbie Station”. This would eventually be the largest privately owned irrigation property in Australia with water capacity larger than Sydney harbor and capable of growing over twenty square kilometers of cotton.
My father was a strict disciplinarian who would whip me senseless for any reason. My mother was a subservient wife who let this go on without complaint. Today that would be called abuse, but it wasn’t today.
My childhood were memories of early rises, riding, chipping burrs, picking up sticks and rocks in farmed country and being used as a yard dog in the sheep and cattle yards and shed dog at shearing time.
From a young age I learnt Dad’s second use for the belt, but I was five years old before I received the buckle end for the first time. It never really changed my behaviour at the time and I accepted it as part of being an O’Conner. I didn’t know it then, but this treatment would be the catalyst for my future behaviour regarding actions taken by people other than my father.
I could say that Dad moulded me into the person I would become, but also knowing the type of person that I would despise and never be.
My twin sisters were born on 25th March 1969 three minutes apart and I was told they were identical. They would grow to look alike, but be as different as angels and demons.
I was excited to have sisters but a little apprehensive considering the treatment received from my father for merely being his son.
For some time though, my parents simply ignored me and spent time looking after Jemma and Sienna.
There was school. We had school of the air and home schooling, but in 1978 my world changed when I came in for tea and was informed that I would be sent to boarding school in Brisbane. ‘What the hell, I’d never been anywhere and now it was dump me in the city forever,’ I thought.
I thought this was Dad’s final solution for my behaviour.
The only glimmer of light came when I heard from Jemma that my neighbor Butch Davis, from “Killaroy Downs” would be attending the same school.
His Christian name was Bradley, but much to his mother’s horror his father had decided by the time he was eighteen months old that their baby was too rugged to be a Bradley.
I considered Butch my best mate. Actually he was the only one, except for the girls, but family was different.
When I found that Butch would be joining me in this boarding school experience, I thought we had to catch up and talk about what the hell boarding school was and how we would hack it.
I called him on the CB radio from our place, ‘you on channel Butch, its Jack.’
There was harsh static, then, ‘hey Jack, what’s happening over there,’ Butch replied.
‘Same shit, different day mate, hey, thought I’d drop by tomorrow have a talk about this Brisbane boarding school, eh,’ I replied.
It wasn’t a huge ride, around forty kilometers, but rough as guts on the old Honda Ag 125 bike.
It had been dry for ages so crossing a few of the creek beds would make the trip a little bit shorter.
The trip came to an abrupt halt as I came across this one gully. The crusty surface was a false one and the bike went axle deep into the mud. I fell off and let out a torrent of curses that can only be taught in the shearing shed.
I sat there thinking, ‘stuck in mud, pigs around, stinking hot and only a little bottle of water, what a royal fuckup.’
Four hours later I had walked up and down the creek bed and finally came across a bit of corrugated iron. If I could get that under the wheel and drag the bike back maybe I could get it out and go back home.
It was too late for a visit now.
My plan was coming together and by about 5.30 pm I had the bike out and had pushed it out of the mud.
I kicked the kick start repeatedly but it took forever before she came to life and I twisted the throttle hard to get the bike out of the creek bed.
Being bloody exhausted was an understatement.
Before I had even travelled fifty meters this big boar came out of the scrub at me. Mud encrusted and huge, this pig was pissed off. He collected me and the bike and ploughed us into the parched earth.
I quickly scrambled over a log and searched for the nearest tree which was about twenty five meters away. The boar began head butting the motorbike, but quickly realising it wasn’t me. Spinning around, I could see the massive tusks protruding from his bottom jaw. This razorback must have been at least one hundred and fifty kilos.
This was not looking good, but sprinted for this tree as fast as I could. I wasn’t going to make it and knew it.
Hearing barking close by I had a quick glance over my shoulder to see a large pig dog hanging off the snout of this boar.
One dog was writhing on the ground, a massive slash to his abdomen. It was a fatal wound.
It was a vicious fight which could be won by either the dog or the razorback. It was the crack of a rifle shot which decided the outcome of this savage duel.
One shot only slowed this boar down.
There was a second shot to the head which took a massive chunk out of his skull. The razorback dropped with only its hind leg quivering; awesome.
The pig dog backed off, still growling but settling quickly as someone approached.
I looked at myself, torn jeans, scratches, and a blistered shoulder where I hit the exhaust pipe coming off. A branch had hit me hard in the face taking skin off my forehead and cheek, but I had a pained smile as to how it could have been.
Strange how my next thought was, ‘how is Dad going to take damage to the bike.’
The pig shooter walked over and introduced himself.
‘G’day my name’s Tim Bennett. Mate I have to say that was so bloody close it isn’t funny and to think the boys and myself were finished for the day until the dogs ran over here.’
Tim said that he and some friends had come out this way from St George and James Davis was happy to have them cleaning up pigs and goats on his place.
Taking deeps breaths as I settled the adrenaline rush I told him of my passions for shooting as well, over on “Bengellan Downs”. I looked at his rifle and felt true love, a .308 caliber Remington model 700 with black composite stock and mounting a mean scope.
‘It would kick a bit for a young bloke, but I have found this to be a beautiful rifle to use.’
The shooter called his friends on his hand held radio and told them to come and pick us up and tell our crazy story.
We loaded the bike on their Toyota Hilux Ute and made our way back to “Bengellen Downs”.
I thanked Tim over and over again.
When we reached home, I thought about how Dad would take this news on board, but after talking with the shooters and having a good laugh with them, I thought it would be OK.
I pushed the bike to the shed and began to hose her off when Dad walked up behind me and slapped me hard behind the ear.
He was yelling now, ‘how could you be so stupid, you are just bloody embarrassing? What the hell are we going to do with you?’
I should have known this was coming. It didn’t matter that it was an accident and that my life was barely saved or I was already hurt. I had embarrassed him as far as he was concerned and needed disciplining or whatever you call this.
The belt came off and doubled up, and then I copped it over and over again. At least it wasn’t the buckle.
I had to miss tea and go to bed, which didn’t worry me. My thoughts ranged from being terrified that the razorback had nearly gutted me like that other poor dog, to what a beautiful rifle the pig shooter had.
The pain encouraged the thought that there was now a countdown to boarding school and it couldn’t come fast enough.
I heard an argument downstairs between my parents, which was surprising. Mum never spoke up but I heard her say that Dad had gone too far after what had already happened that day. I didn’t hear any response just a crack and the noise of someone hitting the floor. There was a clatter and shattering noise after that.
Later that night Jemma and Sienna snuck in.
They had pilfered some leftover tea for me. They always did when I was sent to bed.
Jemma said, ‘I’ve never heard Dad like that.’
Sienna replied, ‘well I’ve never heard Mum speak up like that either. I hope Mum is OK.’
‘Better go back to bed, Dad’s really got the shits,’ I whispered.
The morning confirmed what we knew had happened. Mum was already dressed and had makeup on. It did little to hide the mark handed to her last night for speaking out.
When Dad came down for breakfast he was as cheerful and spoke as if nothing had happened, as did Mum, but there was a tension that hadn’t been there before in our family.
I noticed some of some of my Grandmother’s antique porcelain crockery was no longer on the bench.
That morning Dad said he would take me over to Davis’s that day to catch up with Butch and tell him about what had happened. He even tried to joke about it.
He had this bloody habit that today you would call bipolar, Jekyll and Hyde, beat the hell out of you then be a happy father, especially in front of other people.
After we arrived at the Davis’s Butch suggested we take out the horses for a ride and check on some of the dams and pumps.
I said we should take the Ute, being a bit worried about riding after yesterday. Mr. Davis made a joke about getting straight back on the bike and laughed, but let us takes their Toyota Hilux. Butch and I could both drive ever since our feet could reach the pedals and change gears.
As soon as we were down the road Butch said, ‘get a flogging did you.’
He knew when I didn’t want to go riding something was wrong.
At the first dam I showed him the bruises. I had two pairs of underwear on now. The belt marks covered my rear and one was a third the way down my leg; another half way up my back.
When we checked the windmill and went back to the Ute. Butch pulled out a pack of smokes that he had swiped from his mother and lit one.
‘Bloody hell mate, Alpine Menthol, that’s embarrassing,’ I laughed.
I pulled out my pipe that Grandpa had given me when I was ten. He thought I should smoke a pipe with him and used to bring tobacco when he visited. It was our secret but Mum and Dad must have known and just not cared.
The only problem I had with Butch is that we were alike, did the same things, but his parents loved him and treated him as such, no matter what he did, or did wrong. It had to be the only thing I could resent about my best mate.
The time when we played catch with his little brother was a classic. We ran into a thicket of Bathurst burr.
Even with jeans on it hurt, but knowing that he would chase us even with shorts on was worth the amusement value. The result was, as usual, a screaming little nine year old.
Butch got a lecture of his mother, but my father saw it differently. I copped a frenzied beating that broke the buckle on his belt and opened up my back like never before.
He was a top mate who I knew would have my back when we went to boarding school.
Butch had heard from his cousin that boarding schools in Brisbane were pretty strict and assumed this college would be the same. He said Christian brothers were running it, but no one knew what other schools were like.
To me it was simple, keep your head down, do your work and you should be OK.
Another cigarette and new tobacco for the pipe and we spoke about yesterday in the creek bed, what had happened with this pig and how these shooters had arrived in the nick of time.
I drew back on the pipe, ‘you know the only thing I thought was; if I live I’m going to get a flogging off Dad. How’s that, eh. Show’s what he’s turning me into. I tell you what though; no one else is going to touch me like that, ever.’
We went on to talk about the rifle that Tim Bennett had and agreed that it would be our weapon of choice later. Shooting was the one thing my father let me enjoy.
I had owned a Marlin .22 rifle since I was nine and Butch always used his father’s Remington .22. My only experience with another rifle was a time when Mr. Davis let us use his Ruger Mini 14 .223.
That was our experience with rifles. We often read the Shooter magazines that Butch’s father had. He was a keen hunter as well and took us hunting on a number of occasions.
I thought both Butch and I were on par as far as marksmanship went, but Mr. Davis was more opinionated. ‘Young Jack, you have a damn fine eye for shooting. I’ve been a member of the gun club for fifteen years now and I really think you would enjoy it. You could show a whole lot of people up at the championships you know.’ I just thought, ‘as if Dad would let me enjoy something like that.’
He wasn’t really into shooting, but did have a passion for bow hunting and would take me bush when he was in that rare fatherly mood and I hadn’t pissed him off lately. My skill and accuracy with the bow wasn’t a problem, but the heavy tension on his compound bow made it difficult to enjoy.
The last few months I spent at home before school couldn’t pass quickly enough and I was counting the days in my head.
Christmas was enjoyable enough, but the presents were fantastic; a school bag, suitcase, pencils, pens and other essentials for school. I was impressed by my parent’s imagination.
Only a sneaky backdoor present from Granddad made up for it, ‘you will need a few bags to get you through a bit of school,’ as he gave me some tobacco.
This brought the only real smile to my face for Christmas 1978.
My last night at home was actually enjoyable.
My father said ‘Jack you’re growing up now and this will really help you mature and make a man of you. I went to boarding school when I was your age and it helped me grow up.’ Dad seemed to think that all the beatings were actually meant to help me adjust and prepare me for boarding school life.
Mum cooked probably the best roast that I had eaten yet and for a moment I thought that things at home might improve.
The big day had arrived and dad piled all my gear into our Holden Kingswood station wagon. It was to be a big trip and he was going to catch up with family in Brisbane.
Both Mum and my sisters were crying but we all made promises to write and call regularly. My life was in for the rollercoaster ride from hell, I just didn’t know it yet.
We arrived in Brisbane and travelled through the city to the suburb of Acacia Ridge. It was an older suburb of Brisbane and the many weatherboard homes reminded me of a crowded version of Dirranbandi.
We finally arrived at our destination; Brisbane’s Saint Tristians College.
This school would become exposed as one of the most infamous in Australia for child abuse, organised crime and the violence that followed. The name would be synonymous with the word evil.
Queensland Senate Committee Hearing on organised crime
State Government Offices
Brisbane QUEENSLAND
15.1.1979
Witness Statement 3636
The term brotherhood as discussed here involves a tight knit hierarchy. Unlike a single Mafia family, with a Capo Di Tutti Capi and family associates, or the New York Commission, this is a hydra, a multi headed international organisation that through extortion, fraud, embezzlement, drug manufacture and importation has infused itself with legitimate business and spread to so many levels of society, that it believes itself immune to prosecution. This organisation is extremely violent and will pursue all means to ensure its success.
Our investigations have revealed a number of links between here, the US and other Asian countries. Evidence of links between police, politicians, investment banking and organised criminals are being investigated.
I believe that Australia is one head of that hydra.
Brisbane Courier Mail
17.1.1979
Yesterday, in a shocking triple murder, Inspector James Taylor, an eighteen year veteran of the Queensland Police Force, his wife and seven year old son were gunned down outside their Acacia Ridge home.
Reports indicate the family had returned from the city and only just parked their car in the driveway when a single masked gunman walked across the road behind Inspector Taylor and shot him and his family at point blank range. The gunman returned to a black BMW and left the scene. Two neighbours who witnessed the attack were said to be shocked by the casual manner of the assailant.
The brazen nature of the attack in broad daylight has left local residents shaken and put police on the highest alert.
Taylor had been called as a witness and was providing evidence to the Senate Committee on organised crime, but police refused to acknowledge or deny the possible links.
A police spokesman said, ‘no stone will be left untouched until the perpetrator of these heinous murders is brought to justice.’
He has pleaded for any other witnesses to come forward and their investigations are continuing.
Saint Tristians College
110 Wood St
Acacia Ridge BRISBANE
24.1.1979
We were met at the boarding house by the head housemaster Paul O’Connell. There were four other boardinghouse dorm masters in the three other buildings.
He explained that most people referred to the college as STC.
All of the dormitories were set out in a herring bone fashion with cubicles of four beds and a single hallway along the length of the hall. It was the same downstairs and pretty much copied in the other dormitory building.
Dad helped me put my cases and bags in the room and after putting his hand on my shoulder, said, ‘look after yourself.’ He was gone.
I had just turned thirteen, had never been away from home, which was now over 600 kilometers away and my father’s last words were look after yourself.
I caught up with Mr. O’Connell and asked him in my most polite voice, if Bradley Davis had arrived at the school boarding house yet.
The filthy look I got was from someone who did not like children speaking to him, let alone, asking questions.
He looked down his nose and said, ‘a friend is he?’
I replied, ‘he’s my best friend from Dirranbandi.’
He looked at his list and replied, ‘it is good to have friends here already, but he has not arrived yet.’
Tea was at 5.30 pm sharp in the expansive dining hall which was set out with long tables that seated ten students, each arranged in rows and a large rectangular table at the stage area on the western wall for the staff.
Students were to stand at their designated tables and remain standing until all the staff stood at their table. We waited for bloody ages until they all came in. Then it was bow your head for grace.
That was followed by the long wait while, table by table the Year Seven students went to the kitchen and brought back the table’s food. Conversations were hushed with no time for jokes or laughter. This behavior was going to be hard to keep up.
There were various aged students on each table but all the work was completed by the youngest students; us.
The little blond kid, who hadn’t spoken or made an attempt to say hello, joined me in supplying the entire table with meals.
I suppose everyone goes through this same initiation, but I didn’t have to like it. The looks I received off some of the older students was annoying enough, but the two Year Twelve students on our table needed hot coffee on them to change the looks they gave me.
Finally I started a hushed conversation with this other young bloke, ‘where are you from mate and what brings you to this fine establishment.’
It was a bit of a shock when Lincoln Davis said, ‘everyone knows you are from out west so it’s fair enough that you’re here at boarding school. My parents only live in Wavell Heights. It’s in North Brisbane. They reckon I need boarding school. I hate them for that.’
In time, his parents would hate themselves for their decision as well.
I asked one of the Year Eight kids, ‘how many blokes are from the country?’
Jonny Walker or ‘Pig’ said, ‘if you mean country as in the outer scrub around Brisbane or the Sunshine Coast, a few. There aren’t any hillbillies like you though mate.’ He laughed at his own humour.
I tried speaking to some of the other kids but they either glared at you, or you worked out fast that you had absolutely nothing in common with them. You didn’t really have much to talk about with these kids, yet.
The heads of our table, Brian Patton and James Grant were both meat heads and spoke in Neanderthal grunts to each other; a good test case for genetic culling.
When they spoke to us it was with the venom reserved for vermin. Ah well, such seems to be life so far at boarding school.
A bit of free time after tea allowed me to actually meet some of the other Year Seven kids and the older students. All were from the city or up and down the coast. None of these kids had ever worked, driven a Ute, rode a bike or horse, shot a rifle or bow.
I was deflated. These kids needed to come to “Bengellan Downs” for work experience.
One older student, I couldn’t remember his name said, ‘just like I’ve told the other kids mate, shit happens here so seriously keep your head down. That is, if you don’t want it knocked off.’
Later that evening, we were told to go to our cubicles, change for bed and wait for locker inspections.
Evening inspections were carried out by Year Twelve students appointed by the housemaster as house seniors.
The beds were just a bed size box that would fit your luggage bags and a few things with a chipboard lid and thin mattress.
The lockers consisted of an unlockable cupboard, with boot box, hanging space and three shelves.
Inspection was meant to be for tidiness and having your clothes in order.
It was to prove a little different.
Two senior students walked in. ‘Hey scrub boy what fucking food did you bring,’ said this heavy set thug called Craig Slager; his mate Sean Hardy chiming in, ‘yeah and what comics and mags.’
This was not good. Butch had given me a heap of his father’s Australian Shooter magazines. I had some war comics and a heap of biscuits that mum had cooked; her sole effort to my wellbeing at boarding school.
I didn’t say a word.
‘Cat got your tongue you little shit, looks like we’ve got ourselves a little sook who might wet himself.’
They enjoyed themselves pulling everything out of my locker and under my bed until they found my stash of magazines, comics and biscuits.
Then they tipped my school bag open and emptied my pencil case. It looked like I was the test case for the other Year Seven kids; give up whatever these seniors wanted.
Thank God my pipe and tobacco were stuck in the lining of my luggage case.
The real sticking point came when Sean picked up my new parker pen that Sienna had given me for Christmas.
Of course Mum had bought it and had it engraved, but I finally spoke up, ‘hey boys that’s important, you can’t have that pen.’
Sean growled, ‘so he speaks, well tough shit kid its mine now.’
There was no warning as he gave me a rabbit punch that brought me to my knees. I winced and tried to breathe, but he had winded me hard and almost had my stomach contents in my throat.
I was still struggling to breathe and the other kids just looked on in shock, not knowing what punishment would be dealt out next.
They were giggling and Sean bent over and said, ‘welcome to high school kid.’
I said, ‘OK,’ as I slowly tried to get up.
With that his right foot flew out and hit me in the ribs. I hit the floor in dizzying pain. He watched me struggle and cough and I could barely get to my knees now. His parting comment was a snigger, ‘just lessons on who runs this show you little bush pig.’
Sean turned to walk out and continue their inspections confident that other kids would quickly give up anything they had to avoid this treatment.
What this bogan hadn’t noticed was I had picked up my brand new compass that was lying on the floor, out of my upturned pencil case.
I slammed that compass as hard as I could into the back of his left calf.
His reaction was one of both shock and agony. He let out a scream and torrent of expletives, ‘You little bastard.’
I knew what would be coming so had to be quick.
The walls to the cubicles were only five feet high, but I had to struggle to get over it. I stumbled into Craig Slager, bouncing off and painfully running down the hall before he could grab me.
I was running and stumbling to get to the end of the hall and down the stairs, but collided into the head housemaster who had arrived to investigate the screams and commotion.
Paul O’Connell frog marched me back to my room demanding to know what the hell was going on. Sean and Craig were nowhere to be seen now.
I was grimacing in pain, but once again stayed quiet, not saying a word.
He saw my locker and bed were a mess, and then noticed the dark stain on the floor and my bloodied compass.
He demanded that all students stand by their beds while he questioned each one. After four children had given the same version of events that had occurred in the last ten minutes he gave up.
He stormed out of the room and down the stairs with me in toe.
Once we were in his office he continued to ask why I had struck Sean with the compass; wasn’t it bloody obvious.
I remained silent; there was nothing I could say that would change the situation or the punishment that I assumed would follow.
‘This behaviour is totally unacceptable, whatever the reason and will never be tolerated at this school.’
If I only knew what behaviour was tolerated?
‘It is blatantly obvious that your home life has lacked discipline. At Saint Tristians we take discipline very seriously. I plan to nip this behaviour in the bud Mr. O’Conner.’
Well, I thought, ‘let’s see if he can give it like the old man.’
In the corner of the office was a World War II brass artillery shell casing filled with regular government approved canes. At the back was a thinner cane that was about eight inches longer and this was the one he picked up and flexed in front of me; for intimidation value I suppose.
I was told to put my hands against the wall. The pain was quite sharp, but after the third strike he struck the fan in the ceiling on the backswing which stopped his rhythm.
I couldn’t help but giggle.
This sent him into an aggressive frenzy.
The word around the dorm was that, ‘six of the best’ was the bench mark for the cane, but he wouldn’t stop.
I must have copped at least fifteen across the rear and some up the back when the aim wasn’t right.
The house master then said in a broken voice, ‘to bed with you. The principal will speak to you in the morning.’
I looked around as I left his office to see his sweaty exhausted face and thought, ‘fat lazy prick, do some exercise.’
I slept on my belly to lessen the pain, just like at home. Other children would also sleep in pain that night, sobbing themselves to sleep.
I woke early to get a decent shower, and check out the damage. Not bad I reckoned.
The welts were quite swollen, raw, black and blue, but no broken skin, cuts or bleeding.
The showers in this dorm were a single line of fifteen shower heads a tiled floor and towel racks on the opposite wall. There were no cubicles or privacy, but I couldn’t care less.
What was beginning to piss me off was all these kids looking at my rear and making comments like, ‘oh shit, that must have hurt.’
My patience had nearly run out and I was about to yell, ‘stop staring,’ when I heard a voice that made me smile, ‘made any friends yet mate.’ I turned and laughed at the grin on Butch Davis’s face.
We shook hands and I grabbed a towel making our way back to my room.
He had arrived at the school late that night. They had collided with a kangaroo on the trip from Dirranbandi which had taken some time to repair enough to limp their car into Brisbane.
He had been shown a bed and told firmly, ‘get to bed and stay quiet.’
Butch said, ‘so what’s this housemaster like, sounds like a psycho.’
‘Nah,’ I told him, ‘not as bad as Dad, he just got the shits when I laughed at him hitting the fan with his cane.’
I told him the whole story about what had happened as we got dressed. I didn’t like the idea that on the first night I had made enemies among some senior students. I really did just want to keep my head down and be left alone.
Anyway, I thought, ‘today will tell me if this is going to snowball, or like Mr. O’Connell said, he would nip the problem in the bud.’
Well, wrong call on that one.
We arrived at breakfast and I saw the Year Twelve students glaring at me. This was not going to be nipped in the bud and I knew it.
Butch just said, ‘if it’s any consolation mate, you’re not sitting at their table.’
The years of receiving a whipping off my father had given me a zero tolerance for abuse off anyone else.
My first test came as I went to collect breakfast for the table. A Year Seven student from Sean’s table bumped me as I turned with a tray of cereal, spilling Weetbix everywhere.
I didn’t say anything and bent over to pick up the mess and get a replacement tray.
This little acne faced kid just whispered, ‘that’s from Sean, get used to it.’
I continued getting all the food for the table, but I noticed that our loving table heads saw fit to give me a smaller breakfast than everyone else.
So I thought, group bullying.
‘Get over it Jack, they’ll get sick of it and pick on someone else soon enough,’ I thought. As long as no one touched me I would put up with their stupid games.
The real shock I got that morning was the news I received off Pig.
Sean and Craig’s punishment for last night’s shake down was a friendly meeting with the housemaster. Pig saw them shaking hands.
This did put me at a major disadvantage, a thirteen year old from the scrub bullied on first night by two seventeen year old punks, with a “can’t touch me” pass from the school.
I had one friend in a school of five hundred.
Such is life, they say.
So with one eye over my shoulder, I got all my gear ready for my first big day at this prestigious school.
As we were walking across the school grounds to our first class I was approached by a tall man with broad shoulders and no neck. He had a hunched back and resembled Herman from that show “The Munster’s”. Wearing a tie did not improve his appearance.
His gravelly voice spoke with absolute authority though.
‘Mr. O’Conner, a moment of your time.’
I approached him thinking, ‘how does he know my name.’
‘My name is Principal Alan Teasdale, I am the head of this school and we have some discipline issues to talk about before you go to class.’
I just listened and nodded, while he gave the bullshit talk, with no mention of why the real bullies were allowed off, nearly scot free.
After he seemed satisfied that his lecture had the desired effect and I would be a little angel, he left for his office.
I caught up with Butch and we headed to our first English class and found some spare seats.
Butch said, ‘I see a bit of a problem with this school already mate.’
‘Tell me more mate,’ I replied. He said, ‘I think they just don’t like us.’
I smiled, ‘I think it’s a class thing and we’re the upper class.’
While we were sitting in the classroom I could hear the whispers from other students about what had happened last night and what I had done, some in awe, some with indifference and some shaking their heads thinking, ‘you kids are in for it now.’
That entire day, each teacher seemed to eyeball both Butch and I as the troublemaker and his mate from the scrub.
I also found out the story that most of the teachers had heard in the staff room was about a new young student who had become uncontrollable during a locker inspection and needed discipline to bring him into line. He had lashed out and stabbed a senior student simply following the rules of the boarding house.
‘Not a bad twist to the truth was it,’ I thought to myself.
The bright note to the day was meeting Miss Kate Wilson, our biology teacher. She was twenty three years old and only started at the school six months earlier.
At five foot eight inches, slim figure, porcelain fair skin and dark auburn hair Miss Wilson stood out. The fact she didn’t appear arrogant or pretentious only made that beauty honest.
It seemed as if she hadn’t heard the story about the violent troublemaker from the scrub.
Her class was the last of the day. It was a two hour class with one hour devoted to practical work.
She explained areas of animal and human anatomy we would be covering that term. I was interested in everything, but getting a little impatient with some of the other kids though. If they could meet my father they might shut the hell up.
As the class finished, she asked Butch and I to stay behind.
After a two hour lesson I had thought she was a nice teacher, now we were going to get a lecture or so I thought.
I had never been spoken to by an adult the way she spoke to the both of us.
Miss Wilson said, ‘I find it interesting working with students who have no problem working with small animals, burners, microscopes and chemicals. Most students need close supervision so they don’t damage themselves or just break equipment. Most get squeamish around practical experiments.’
She then smiled, ‘it appears you have been having trouble with some of this school’s brightest Year Twelve students I see. It might seem strange, but in my case I am almost in the same boat. I have been harassed by a number of the same older students. There is no point in complaining, it is accepted that I should put up with them.’
The comment from Principal Alan Teasdale explained it all, ‘Miss Wilson, you are at a boys school, you should appreciate the attention.’
She said, ‘I’ve told myself, it’s only a one year contract, just one year.’
Miss Wilson said, ‘it’s a little easier for me though boys, I can finish school and go home. I don’t associate with this school out of school hours, ever.’
Here she was, our biology teacher telling a pair of thirteen year old kids that she had just met, that she had the same problems. Miss Wilson spoke as if we were just three friends with the age difference just a question of mathematics. If she thought it was easier having adult conversations with Butch and I that was fine. We could understand why she couldn’t have those conversations with anyone else.
Then she asked us, ‘would you two be interested in martial arts?’
She told us that the school would be happy to allow us to train at the Dojo off campus to calm my volatile temper and deal with my discipline problems. They had the same assumption about Butch, with an unlit fuse that would explode like I had.
We both needed to be kept on a leash.
I shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘Miss Wilson, if you can arrange it, getting out of here for a little bit would be good.’ With the opportunity to get off the school grounds and away from any trouble, training at something new and meeting real people, I was actually excited about it.
We had spent nearly an hour talking to Miss Wilson and headed back to the dorms for some free time and a bit of footy with the other Year Seven kids. I saw Sean and Craig and a few of his mates having a smoke at the back of one of the dorms, but didn’t take much notice, they would have a go at us when they felt like it. There was not much we could do about that until it happened.
A bit of touch football turned to crash and tackle. It helped getting to know these other kids after you had driven them hard into the dirt. Neither of us had played football before, but bringing down kids was a lot easier than sheep or calves. Later at training we found spear tackles and tackling the head weren’t part of the game.
We were all exhausted and thinking of a hot shower as we walked back to our dorm. I saw Sean, Craig and some other Year Eleven blokes blocking our path. All the other Year Seven kids backed off.
Bloody hell, these pricks weren’t even going to let me have a shower without putting us in our place.
There were kids looking out the window, so it was all going down here, the payback.
I said to Butch, ‘got your gloves on mate.’
I don’t think these older kids could understand when we started laughing.
Butch said, ‘you always know it’s going to hurt, but it looks like party time.’
Sean stood in front of me and laughed to his mates, ‘you hurt my leg you little prick. We’re going to make sure both you little bush pigs fuck off back home to momma pig.’
With that he gave me a solid push that grounded me, just like my older cousin used to when I was little. Hitting the pavement hard I could hear the laughter.
I did the same thing that brought my cousin down years ago. I crouched then sprung up and drove my head like a big upper cut, catching him under the jaw and lifting him off his feet.
The other Year Twelve blokes just looked on. It wasn’t meant to be like this and they were stunned. Where was the payback?
Brian Patton had a go at Butch but he was too quick, ducking under a punch and pulling his track pants down. He just tripped up and crashed into some chairs. To the kids watching from the windows, it was comical and they started a slow clap. The others stood aside as we both walked back into the dorms.
Craig Slager had his arms folded and shook his head, ‘just remember there’s nowhere to go from here.’
The others went to Sean’s aid as he was sprawled on the concrete. There was blood coming from his mouth; he had bit his tongue.
The rest of my first day at school was uneventful. I did have to go to the sick bay and get some Panadol Forte from the sick bay. I said to the nurse, ‘migraine.’
That night was uneventful as well, until 1.30am and I was sleeping soundly.
Craig and Sean snuck into our room holding unwound wire coat hangers. They were really going to give both of us a flogging.
Both students made about two steps into our room before screaming in pain. The thumb tacks that I had laid down on four strips of masking tape had done their job.
I knew it would be coming and just had to warn other kids.
They both swore and limped off, not wanting to be caught and explain another incident lest some real explanations were required.
Sean did turn and grimace, ‘you little smart fuck; you’ll get yours.’
I said, ‘why don’t you just piss off and leave us alone.’
The housemaster seemed to have ignored the screams as well. More likely the slob was just snoring too loudly to hear anything.
The next day gave us the results of last night’s action. Both Craig and Sean didn’t show for breakfast, they were sick apparently.
I thought that same thought again, ‘just piss off and leave us alone.’
Some of the other Year Seven and Eight students told me of whippings, near drowning in the toilets, beatings that would never be talked about and worse, all in the confidence that no one would tell anyway and when revealed, the punishment was minimal, as in my case.
They would never say why, but there was an underlying fear that some kids had that couldn’t be explained and would never be spoken about.
It would take a Federal and International investigation until 2001 to finally to uncover the full extent and reach of this behaviour and the schools involvement. All those individuals would find justice here or in Gods court.
Some of the senior students were the understudies of their parents. It was as simple as that. They used the same power of extortion and intimidation over young students that criminals do.
Apparently, I was one of very few students to actually retaliate against this uncontrolled and systemic bullying from seniors. Some children would get to leave this school; some not.
I would hear the lies, later on in life that some of these kids had been abused when they were young as well.
You know what, I didn’t care. God gives everyone a hand, some fair, some not so fair. If the cards didn’t fall your way, what gave you the right to wreck someone else’s hand?
If they wanted to have a go again we would see what cards were dealt in this hand.
Sean and Craig had a month off, both had serious foot infections from the tacks that I had lay down for them; funny that, eh.
The rest of the Year Twelve blokes actually left us alone and I only heard of a few kids getting hassled, but at thirteen I was so naïve.
This behaviour does not switch off.
I would learn that time itself, for some people creates an intensity of hatred that cannot be tempered.
Pure hatred without reason, with justification only in the minds of those affected.
The only real other pain that I suffered was the death of both Granddad and Grandma on the 21.3.1979.
They had been travelling from Dirranbandi to St George and slammed into two kangaroos on the main road. It was just on dark and they were hard to see. The car spun out of control and rolled. They were killed instantly.
My pain was only made worse by Dad’s flat tone of voice when he called and said that I wouldn’t be attending the funeral.
Not an apology that it was too far or anything like that, just, ‘you won’t be coming to the funeral.’
Hanshi Martial Arts Dojo
3 Elenore Place
Acacia Ridge BRISBANE
10.2.1979
The lack of attention and harassment from Year Twelve creeps gave the both Butch and I a chance to settle in and concentrate on schoolwork and training after school.
We started training at the Dojo that was only two blocks away.
We thought there would be other students there. I was surprised to find only Butch and myself were from Saint Tristians. We were told you had to be invited to train with the master and Miss Wilson had invited us.
I had never felt so out of place in my life.
While I was changing, people noticed the recent bruising and older scars gained in a hard life under a disciplinarian father. No one commented.
The atmosphere in the Dojo was extremely formal and discipline strict, but not in a manner I was used to.
Our instructor, a Japanese man who looked older than my Grandfather, but moved like a man half his age would only speak softly. His instructions though, were followed with military precision, showing utmost respect.
We learnt history of the arts and the two styles that were used in the dojo. Both Karate-Do and Kendo were taught.
A lesson on the history of Karate-do and its origins in Okinawa and China had me thinking how little I really knew about the rest of the world. I desperately wanted to know more.
I could hear the clashes of bamboo sticks as I witnessed Miss Wilson train. Kendo was the art of swordsmanship from the Samurai in Japan.
A senior instructor said, ‘I will say that Miss Wilson must think very highly of you both. She has trained here from a very young age and is extremely well respected by the master.’
His name was Morei Hanshi.
When Sean and Craig returned to school, the word was that they wanted to get us once more. I knew that we would cop it, but I was having second thoughts to how we would react.
Was it possible to reason and talk our way out of this? I just wanted them to bloody leave us alone.
Common sense was telling me, ‘bring it on, we will just get you back.’
My training, discipline and guidance from both my instructor and Miss Wilson were holding me back and looking for other options and solutions to our problems.
At our next training session I brought up my concerns with one of the other senior students. John Amos was a quietly spoken man but at over six feet tall he didn’t need to say much.
‘I have heard of the problems at your school and it concerns me.’
He went on to say that he had been bullied at school but martial arts had helped him defend himself.
He warned us, ‘stay disciplined, but do not emulate your tormentors.’
It was near the end of term and I thought, ‘it’s a dumb thought, but I wonder if Sean, Craig and their mates have let it go or had someone at the school whisper in their ear.’
How wrong I was.
Butch and I were walking back from the Dojo on Thursday night.
It was the last night of term; both of us were to stay at Alison O’Conner’s in Brisbane for the holiday break until next term. Alison was Dad’s little sister.
We were having a laugh about watching Miss Wilson put this big bloke on his back that afternoon in the dojo.
I said, ‘the way she just let him come at her and just twisted, grabbed his arm and threw. Those movements looked so natural.’
Butch said, ‘then bang, he’s on the ground and she spins his arm behind the shoulder. No wonder she is a black belt.’
As we walked, laughing, two older youths walked up and just said, ‘the boys say hi.’
I quickly looked over my shoulder to see three other big blokes approaching quickly. There was nowhere to go.
Butch said calmly, ‘yeah party time Jack.’
I lashed out at the smart mouthed youth in front of me. My hand was flat and I snapped a sharp punch to his throat, nearly collapsing his trachea. He collapsed in a breathless spasm.
I was turning, but saw his friend holding a large piece of timber. I protectively raised my arm as he struck me across the forearm.
I jumped back as he made another swing. I feigned left then right. That put him off balance and in perfect position for me.
I aimed a kick for the inside of his knee cap and finished with a sharp elbow to the head. My right arm was throbbing as I spun around to confront the youths that were attacking Butch. One was on the ground motionless and I saw a high kick catch this other bloke on the chin.
A split second thought, ‘Where’s the other one?’
I felt a sudden sharp pain; blurriness took over and then darkness.
Across the street parked in a black BMW a dark swarthy man, sunglasses hiding his cold eyes, made a phone call.
‘Interesting Mr. Hardy, it took all five to deal with the two young boys.’
The voice on the other end spat his words, ‘is it done, I want them to feel the ultimate pain and humiliation, a real lesson, fucking bush pigs. And another thing, this is between us, my father is not to be informed.’
He put the phone down.
He would make some calls. There were other people interested in punishing the two boys. If he had any emotion about what was to follow, he showed none.
St. Andrews War Memorial Hospital
457 Wickham Terrace
Spring Hill BRISBANE
14.4.1979
The sirens of the ambulance reverberated through the emergency bay at the hospital. Crashing through the plastic doors two paramedics pushed an ambulance trolley into the emergency ward.
My condition, brought breaths of shock to both doctors and nurses alike. They thought I was a car accident victim, until the paramedic went through the status of my condition. The boot marks on my chest were unmistakable.
A neck brace was solidly fitted around my unconscious bloody head.
‘On three, two, one and lift,’ the E.R Doctor said as they moved my unconscious body and the spinal board to the emergency room bed.
The Doctor asked, ‘wasn’t there a second patient?’
One of the paramedics was shaking his head. The other paramedic said, ‘he was declared at the scene.’
An autopsy would determine that Bradley Davis was killed by a buildup of blood in the lungs and airway. This was caused by a fractured rib puncturing his right lung.
When my mother and two sisters had first come to my bedside, I was in a forced coma, connected to so many pieces of equipment that it was incomprehensible that I would recover.
The attending specialist explained my condition and answered the girls question about the equipment needed to keep me alive.
He spelt out what an IABP, LVAD and ECMO were and their job in keeping me alive and breathing.
‘The mechanical ventilator, Intra-aortic balloon pump, ventricular assist device and a extracorporeal membrane oxygenation machine all assist in providing Jack with adequate oxygen for brain and body function.’
He didn’t know how to simply explain that everything was absolutely vital, if I was to survive.
Jemma said just one thing; ‘he will be OK won’t he?’ The specialist nodded but it wasn’t a confident nod.
The trachea tube was removed as I improved showing signs of partial consciousness. The nurse came in and increased my morphine flow to reduce to the pain to a continual throbbing instead of sharp pain.
By the time my condition stabilised a nasal tube was providing oxygen.
The specialist visited on his rounds. I looked at him and listened in shock at my condition.
I had been in an induced coma for nine days; the doctors had to wait for a reduction of swelling in my brain. I had a fractured eye socket and my jaw was broken in two places, broken right arm, five broken ribs; two in multiple places and my ruptured spleen had been removed. He continued with, ‘we have had to screw small plates to align the bones in your forearm and your jaw should be wired for about four weeks.
The pain and difficulty you have breathing is from your broken ribs. They will heal and we have done an ultrasound to confirm there is no internal bleeding. As for your skull, you received a linear fracture. We had to drill a hole above your ear to drain a blood clot from the bruising you had received and have screwed a titanium plate to your skull.’
I had also been raped.
Doctor John Maclane spoke quietly, ‘Jack, I am confident that you will recover completely and be discharged in six to eight weeks. Your age is your greatest asset Jack.’ I struggled with this for a few seconds, my voice barely audible, ‘a water please’. I had a small drink and put the little drink bottle down.
‘Where is Butch,’ I struggled to say. I was terrified of what might have happened to him.