Published: 26 May 2022

It was a quiet morning at the Russell Street police station and Sergeant Ryan O’Keefe the detective in charge of inner city street security, was in his office quietly mulling over a report referring to a disturbance that occurred in Spring Street on the previous day. A Member of Parliament had his watch and chain stolen in broad daylight and was pushed heavily to the ground by a group of larrikins, while crossing from his office to a lunching appointment in Lonsdale Street.

Immediately and most explicitly the said minister of the crown penned a directive, demanding the clearing of criminal element from the city streets. It was therefore promptly delivered by special messenger to O’Keefe’s office arriving as he was leaving for home on the previous evening.

“It appears urgent,” O’Keefe’s constable had suggested, bringing the sealed demand to his sergeant’s attention.

“Not as urgent as me being home for one of Mrs. O’Keefe’s monthly soiree I assure you Turner,” the sergeant replied and left the government directive unopened on his desk. “If anyone should ask, I had already departed for home before it arrived.” O’Keefe then collected his hat and coat and headed for the door.

“It looks like rain.” Turner had suggested.

O’Keefe hesitated then returned for his umbrella, “and don’t forget if asked, the letter came late, I will attend to it in the morning.”

Now with a new day the politician’s request was an unwelcomed distraction from the many reports O’Keefe was receiving and what he was formulating on a new gang’s activity in the inner city area. ‘More easily said than done,’ he thinks as he gave the ministry directive a second reading, then without further attention he placed the request aside.

As for criminal activity, O’Keefe knew the Richmond push but lacked concern towards it, as many of its members were under investigation, with a result pending at any time. There were also a number of boys and young men who played at being gangsters but except for pick-pocketing and petty thievery they were but a distraction and in most simple police presence on the street was enough to keep them in check.

What was concerning, being a new push in the area out of Fitzroy of which little was known, even if it had been operating for more than a year before coming to the policeman’s attention and to date he hadn’t been able to ascertain who was running it, or its strength. O’Keefe collected a file from a small pile on his desk and opened it. ‘But three items,’ he thinks as he shuffled through the scant information that had been collected. ‘Not even a proper title,” he thinks. At the front of the file was a working title, simply Fitzroy Criminal activity. On the first page is but a list of suggestions and a number of names that may or may not have relevance, also the name of an informant who was paid grog money for information, most of which quite useless although it was his information that brought about knowledge of a new push operating in that area. The second item a report from a North Melbourne shoemaker referring to stand-over tactics towards protection, with an almost worthless description of the perpetrator. The third from a brothel adjacent to the city market but withdrawn the same day as it was issued and when the premises had been visited, it had relocated without a forwarding address. “Three pages he says loudly as a timid knock came to his office door. It opened slightly followed by a nervous cough.

“Excuse me Mr. O’Keefe.”

“Constable Turner, what can I do for you?”

“There has been a renewed request from Spring Street referring to what will be done about yesterday’s attack on one of its members.”

“What do you think we should do Turner?” O’Keefe unsmiling questioned.

“It is not my place to comment Mr. O’Keefe,”

“Then I will tell you what will be done. I will attend the monthly departmental meeting at Spring Street; promise them everything they wish to hear and nothing more.”

“Will that be enough?”

“Enough? Of course it won’t be enough. It never is. Was there something else Mr. Turner?”

“I’ve just come from the city morgue on Batman Avenue,”

“And?” O’Keefe questions believing such reports would be the responsibility of the desk sergeant.

“They have the body of a young male who was found floating in the turning-pool under the Port Melbourne rail viaduct close on Banana Alley.”

“What is the relevance Turner?” O’Keefe asks.

“I thought you may be interested. The body is of a young male with ginger hair and I knew you were questioning such a lad some time back about an incident up in The Lon.”

“I was; Marcus Finn; a petty criminal at best but I couldn’t get the goods on him and he had a mouth like a Saint Katherine’s dockhand; is it suspicious or accidental drowning?”

“I’m afraid it is most suspicious and in my opinion could be reprisal between gangs, possibly those from the Collingwood gang of louts that have been seen hanging around the top end of late.”

O’Keefe had had minor complaints referring to the Collingwood gang, known locally as the Smith Street push but displayed doubt towards his constable’s conclusion, as what he understood of Marcus Finn being he had a mouth but was somewhat timid towards violence but any killing on his territory would receive his utmost attention, regardless of his opinion of the victim. As for the Smith-street gang, although suggested, it was also his belief they weren’t prone towards knocking down able men of dignity in broad daylight, therefore he also discredited any blame they could be responsible for attacking a minister of the crown while crossing Spring Street.

During the afternoon O’Keefe visited the morgue to view the body of the young lad, quickly ascertaining it was Marcus Finn and by his injures Finn had been severely bashed, being the cause of his demise and not from drowning as was first reported.

At this time O’Keefe had not associated Finn with the Collingwood gang as his home was south of the Yarra in the vicinity of the botanic gardens and out of territory to belong to a gang north of the city. Yet there had to be a connection, as previously he had seen Finn in clandestine conversation with John Luck and a kid called Fisk and they were most definitely from the Smith Street push.

“Joining the dots,” O’Keefe mentioned while his constable sat close by at his desk completing his daily reports.

“I’m sorry sir, I miss heard?”

“Who killed Marcus Finn, I’m joining the dots but it appears that most of the dots are missing.”

“He may have fallen out with his gang,” Turner reiterated his previous opinion.

“I think not, they are mostly into petty crime, and could be considered but larrikins without parental control, or work to keep them busy.”

“These days what work would they find,”

“That is a perfect question Turner and in my opinion they should be employed in the military, have them march up and down the parade ground until too tired to misbehave, or press-ganged into cleaning up the city streets”

“What give them arms, wouldn’t that be asking for trouble?”

“Point taken,”

“So who do you think did the kid in?”

“That I don’t know, as I said not enough dots.”

It was more than a week before news of Marcus Finn’s demise filtered down to the Smith-street boys. As Finn had been hiding out at the Fisk house after his return from Frankston and after a number of days had not returned to the house, Brian Fisk decided to do some enquiring. It was then he heard of their friend’s misfortune, so he went looking for Dev with the news.

After meeting up with Jones they found Dev at home as he was leaving to deliver washing for his mother.

“What’s up you both look as if you lost a sixpence,” Dev muses from behind a basket of freshly washed linen.

“We have some bad news,” Jones admits.

“Walk with me,” Dev leads the way from the house not to be overheard.

“It’s Marcus,” Fisk says.

“What has he been up to now?” Dev says with a disappointing sigh.

“Not a lot, he’s dead. Murdered and tossed into the river.”

Dev almost dropped the clean washing onto the wet pavement, “When?” he gasped his mouth agape with the news.

“More than a week ago I believe,” Fisk says.

“Do you reckon it was Bryce?” says Dev.

“Probably,”

“Should we go to the police?” Dev questions with little confidence in doing so.

“I wouldn’t, firstly it will make them suspicious of us and if Bryce did him in, he would probably come after us for yapping,” Fisk warns.

“Besides what useful information could we give them?” Jones says.

“That about Bryce’s skiff,” Dev suggests.

“It’s best we keep right away from it,” Fisk strongly enforces as they reach the corner, having to wait for a Carlton Brewery dray to pass before crossing over. Fish holds to the back of the vehicle and rides for a few yards before returning.

“I think we should break up the Smith-street gang,” Dev suggests;

“Or at least cool it for a while,”

“It’s almost at that stage anyway,” Jones agrees.

“So Finn has been done in,” Dev says as the shock of it all commences to settle.

“Something like so was bound to happen eventually, he was somewhat carefree with his mouth.” Fisk gives as a footnote to their friend’s demise.

Stan Bryce had been away in Sydney. He had caught the intercolonial service, changing gauge from broad to standard at Albury on the Murray and then the long reach across New South Wales and the Blue Mountains to Sydney. The service had been operating for ten years and Bryce had taken the trip on a number of occasions, using it as an excuse to be away from Melbourne when under pressure from the law, leaving his underlings to face the heat.

Bryce liked to refer to himself as Captain while giving the ranking of corporals to those of his push but never that of lieutenant or any other higher ranking. By leaving those vacant he felt more secure in his captaincy, believing it prevented anyone attempting to assume control and topple him.

Bryce was a tall handsome man with an innocent youthful appearance and a nature that drew respect, although if he deemed could be quite violent and sadistic. Bryce also dressed immaculately and would never be seen in public without a well tailored suit a bowler hat and a cravat, although by then the cravat was fading from fashion. Shoes were Stan’s desire and he would wear a different pair for each day, always polished to such a state one could see their reflection and if dust was about he would constantly remove it with his handkerchief.

Stan also appreciated compliments and was most adapt in canvassing for a word of praise, then once given would contradict their opinion of him. Stan also appreciated the fairer sex, often showering them with expensive gifts and during any given day he would be found with a lady of choice clinging to his arm as they paraded along the river’s promenade, or window shopping in Bourke Street. Oddly he lived alone and his house was always immaculately clean, while none had found him there in female company, bringing Hadley and others to believe the rumors about Stan were accurate but wisely left unchallenged.

On returning from Sydney Bryce met up with his confident Tom Hadley, as while away it had been instructed for Hadley to lean on a number of reluctant businessmen in Errol Street, including the recalcitrant shoemaker.

“And what of the shoemaker?” was Bryce’s first question as the two met.

“I’m still working on it,” Hadley admitted sheepishly.

“And what does working on it mean Tom?”

“We’re having a little trouble with the law; the shoemaker went yapping to the police.”

“We can’t have him getting away with it. I thought it was decided to up the ante on him,” Bryce growled.

“True but he went to the police before we could do anything,” Hadley excused.

“Then you know what to do,”

“As I said I’m working on it. By the way, you don’t have to worry about Finn anymore.”

“Why so?”

“Someone got him, knocked him senseless and threw him into the Yarra,”

“Is he dead?”

“As dead as he could be,”

“Who?”

Bryce appeared somewhat shocked as he had decided to give Finn one last chance and simply warn him off. Also he had intention to approach him and possibly groom the lad for his own use, although that could be a task too far, knowing Finn’s volatile nature.

“That I don’t know, I’ve asked about but no one is talking, in my opinion it was more than likely his own lot,” Hadley admitted.

“I doubt that Tom,”

“Why so?”

“If you said boo to anyone of them they would piss their pants. Well it’s done now but I’m not pleased, more important what is being done about the shoemaker?”

“Reg Gunning is handling the situation as we speak.”

Bryce was concerned with the police being involved in his enterprise as usually a warning was enough, if not a firebomb through the letterbox, or the killing of the family pet, leaving its mutilated body on the front doormat. As for Finn he was at least pleased he was out of town at the time leaving him free from suspicion.

O’Keefe had been doing detective work relating to the murder of Marcus Finn, while much of the information was related to a gang running out of Fitzroy he had been investigating and connected with a developing protection racket but no matter how he tried he couldn’t ascertain who was leading that push. O’Keefe had also discovered more on the Smith-street push and Finn’s affiliation with it, deciding with Finn gone it would be somewhat lacking in leadership, therefore their petty activity wasn’t worth further investigation.

Although out of his official territory, O’Keefe visited the shoemaker in North Melbourne who had reported treats of extortion. Arriving late in the afternoon he noticed that the windows of the establishment had been broken and much of his window display destroyed with what appeared to be blood but on closer scrutiny discovered it to be red paint.

O’Keefe entered into the store.

“Mr. Kurt Webber I presume,” he asked of a small bent man with a worried expression, as the shoemaker attempted to clear away the worst of the damage. The man stood away from the broken glass his face ashen. He gave a nod of acknowledgement as he dumped a paint splattered pair of expensive men’s shoes into a rubbish container and gently shook his head while making a tuting sound.

“When did this occur?” O’Keefe asks.

“But half an hour ago,” the shopkeeper answered in a thick Germanic accent.

“Have you reported it to the local station?”

“Not as yet,”

“Have you any idea who is responsible?” O’Keefe asks after his introduction.

The man hesitated.

With much of his window display ruined he no longer felt brave enough to go against the threat and if again approached he would silently agree to demands. “I only saw his coat tails as he turned the corner,” the shoemaker admitted.

“You must have been approached before the event, as you had reported the matter. So who approached you?”

“It was a well dressed and spoken young man,” the shopkeeper cautiously answered.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Smith, he said his name was Mr. John Smith.”

“An alias if there ever was one,” O’Keefe declares while thinking most cities of the Empire must be populated with shady men with such a moniker.

At that moment the shopkeeper had a memory. “As Mr. Smith left the shop a young lad approached him just outside the door.

“Did they speak?” the policeman asks.

“Yes, if it is of any use the lad called him Kycey.”

“Kycey you say?”

“Or something like that, my English isn’t very good.”

O’Keefe took a deep breath and slowly released it. At least he now had something to go on in relation to the extortion racket but had nothing on the killing of Finn. It was a start but Kycey didn’t register as a name he had heard before.

“You will report the damage to the local police station?”

The shopkeeper nodded in agreement but had already decided to bend to any further demands on his business.

The following morning O’Keefe was pondering over further statements gathered on the North Melbourne extortion racket but the name Kycey was lacking, with a sigh he place the statements aside.

“Does the name Kycey mean anything to you Turner?” O’Keefe asked his constable.

“Kycey? No I don’t think so,” Turner answered and placed down his pen before blotting his work dry. “Kycey,” he repeated, “in what way was it used?”

“The shoemaker in Errol Street thought a kid call a man who had threatened him with that name as he departed the premises.”

“Kycey,” the constable repeated.

“Yes he was sure it was Kycey but the shopkeeper is foreign and his English isn’t strong.

“You say a kid mentioned the name Mr. O’Keefe?”

“Yes,”

“It sounds like a friendly title a kid would use,” the constable suggested.

“How do you mean?”

“Like what kids do with their friend’s names, Barry would become Bazza’ and Jones would become Jonesy’,”

“Yes that is true,” O’Keefe agreed.

“Kycey,” the constable says, “doesn’t sound like any name I have heard off.”

“Umm, Mr. Kyce, Price, Case – no I agree,” For now O’Keefe put aside the Errol Street problem with that of who killed Finn but in time he knew he would come to understand more about the mysterious Mr. Kycey.

Doug Jones arranged to meet Dev outside the Flinders Street rail terminus late morning on the Saturday. While waiting for Dev to arrive Jones refreshed his skills and as the crowd hurried for the trains he managed dip for a few coins.

“Hey there,” Dev called as he crossed over the busy intersection to Young and Jackson hotel from Cathedral Corner.

“You’re late,” Jones complained as Dev approached while avoiding the busy intersection at the so named Y and J corner.

“I had to deliver some washing for mum and Jack wants me to get him a new pair of long-johns.

“The cheapest way is not to wear any;”

“What have you been up to?” Dev asks and notices his friend appeared to have been at the wrong end of a thrashing, as his arms were badly bruised while supporting a number of fresh welts.

Jones holds out his hand displaying his few coins.

“What happened to you, did someone attack you?”

“Never mind that,” Jones hurriedly responds.

“Not your old man again?”

Jones grimaces without answering.

“You should watch yourself around here, the cops mingle with the crowd in plain clothes,” Dev warns while avoiding further comment on his friend’s condition.

“I can pick a walloper a mile off,” Jones says.

“You hope – anyway have you seen any of the others?”

“Only Fisky’ but his old man had a visit from the cops, so he’s laying low for a while.

“Why?” Dev asks.

“He didn’t say but I did see Bryce a while back; he is up near the Eastern Market.”

“Did he see you?”

“He did and asked me about Marcus,”

“What did you say?”

“Only what Fisky’ told me.”

“Do you think Bryce did Marcus in?” Dev asks.

“Truthfully I’m not so sure, I sort of’ skirted around asking but instead he volunteered his innocence, he said he was in Sydney the night Marcus was killed.”

“Do you believe him?” Dev asked, his tone somewhat doubting.

“Oddly enough I sorta’ do but he would say that wouldn’t he? Besides he could have had one of his lackeys do it.”

Jones became agitated, “best we move on, that’s one of those plain clothes jokers you were talking about and I think he is on to us.” The boys turned to leave but in an instant the detective was upon them.

“Hello, what have we here?” the policeman says somewhat jovially.

The boys commence to leave.

“I’m talking to you two.”

“I’m about to go to the cricket game sir,” Dev says.

“What about your mate, I’ve been watching him.” The policeman doesn’t bother asking for names as it was rare for a lad to be truthful.

“Also the game sir,” Jones admits.

“Empty your pockets,”

Jones turns his pockets out, while secretly holding the few coins in the palm of his hand.

“You as well, empty your pockets,” the policeman demands of Dev.

Dev displays a slip of old newsprint with some handwritten writing in the margin and a single half sovereign coin.

“What’s this?” the policeman asks of the crumpled newsprint.

“Tis my brother’s size I’m going to Wilsons drapery to get him new underwear,” Dev honestly admits.

“I thought you were going to the cricket?”

“After I’ve been to Wilsons but I will have to return home first.”

The policeman turns to Jones, “you don’t appear to have the entrance fee,” he suggests.

“My Uncle Ted will pay sir,”

“Then be on your way and if I see you hanging around here again I’ll run you in for loitering,” the policeman says and keeps a doubtful eye on the boys until they are well past Young and Jackson’s hotel.

“You don’t have an Uncle Ted,” Dev discredits once they are away from the policeman’s following gaze.

“I don’t – but it was a good excuse. Do you want to go to the cricket?” Jones asked as they enter into Wilson’s drapery store.

“Not much else to do.”

“I didn’t lift enough coin,” Jones admits.

“Never mind if Sid Burrell is on the gate, he’ll let us in with a wink. If not I know a way in behind the stand but you will have to hold your gut in as it’s a tight squeeze. Also I will have enough for a pie for lunch and you can have half.”

Once inside Wilsons store Dev passes the newsprint with Jack’s size across to the young woman behind the counter.

“What’s this?” she says while appearing somewhat confused.

“It’s my brother’s size; he needs a new pair of long-johns,”

“And how is your Jack?” she smiles and pushes her blond hair away from falling over her eyes. She gives a knowing smirk.

“As usual, cranky,”

“I didn’t see him at the town hall dance last weekend.”

“Jack doesn’t like girls,” Dev reckons somewhat deviously.

“I would know different,” the assistant says and looks about. Wilson is watching her every move.

Dev gives a soft scoffing.

“I won’t be able to put it the slate, Mr. Wilson is demanding payment upfront, too many of your type are booking up and clearing out without paying,” she says.

“My type?” Dev indigently questions.

“You know what I mean,”

“Maggie Tanner your crap stinks like the rest of us; besides your old man is only a dockhand and out of work most of the time.”

“Enough of your cheek Devon Gooding or I’ll have Mr. Wilson see you out.”

“Anyway I have the money,” Dev shows up his half sovereign while hoping for change, part of which would be the pie for his lunch.

“Two shillings and sixpence for the long-johns,” the assistant says as she smoothes the crumpled newsprint.

“I know that,”

“And seven and sixpence towards what you mother has already booked up, or I’ll have Mr. Wilson on my back.”

Dev reluctantly agrees as Wilson becomes interested in the transaction. The man lifts from his seat and in passing gives a corner eye glance towards what his assistant was about. Satisfied there was money in the exchange he remained silent and returns to his seat.

“He’s a big boy your’ Jack,” the assistant says while again reading the instruction from the scrap of newspaper.”

“He isn’t that much taller than I am,” Dev protested and stretches on his toes to reach a little extra height.

“I didn’t mean his height, besides he is more handsome than you.”

“Yes in a rugged sorta’ way but I’m more loving,” Dev gives his sweetest smile.

“I would disagree there as well,”

On leaving the shop Dev turns to Jones, “there goes our pie at the cricket,”

“Never mind,” Jones says and steals two apples from a street-side stall as they pass by.

“Hey you thieving little buggers,” a loud voice follows the boys while they make their getaway along Swanson Street, laughing away their boldness.

Past Foys department store they lessen to a walk. Jones gives Dev an apple, “better than a pie any day,” he says.

“In your dreams I was looking forward to a pie and mum won’t be too pleased not receiving any change.”

“There will be a pie cart outside the ground. I’ll tell you what, I’ll distract the bugger and you grab a couple.” Jones suggests while taking a large bit into his apple, “its flaming sour,” he curses, “and there is a grub in it.”

“Half a grub?” Dev asks.

“No a whole one,”

“Push it aside and share. Do you still want to go to the cricket?”

“As good as anywhere I guess,”

“Then I’ll take Jack’s underwear home and we’ll be off.”

“I’ll come whit you,” Jones agrees.

Fortunately Sid Burrell was on the gate, letting the lads through with a wink but as they attempted to enter the grandstand an official blocked their way, “where do you larrikins think you’re going?” the attendant asks.

“To sit and watch the cricket,” Dev says while attempting to keep his tone civil.

“Not today lads, ladies and gentlemen only, you can get down by the fence with the rest of your lot.”

“It’s hot out in the sun,” Dev protests.

“It will be hotter still with my boot up your arse – go on, off you go or I’ll show you from the ground.”

As they walked away Jones whispers close to Dev’s ear, “did you see who is in the stand?”

Dev turns but sees only a sea of faces.

“No who,”

“Bryce and he’s with some woman,”

“So?”

“Marcus said he’s a shirt lifter,”

“When did you hear that?”

“Yonks back before he pinched Bryce’s boat.”

“How could Marcus known that?” Dev gave question.

“I don’t know maybe Bryce pinned a tail on him,”

Dev laughs; “that sounds more like something you would be into Doug,”

“If he paid me enough,” Jones admits and as quickly places an appendix to his admittance, “I don’t know possibly he could do me for nothing, he’s a good looking bugger,” Jones pauses, “what about you, would you let him pin a tail on you?”

“Douglas you know I’m not like that!” Dev vehemently answers but his head was taking a different direction. He remember the one time he took money on the docks, he remembered the occasions his brother used him for his gratification but Jack was but a lad himself and since then had most definitely discovered the softness of a woman’s person. Not forgetting the times with Douglas but that was considered to be nothing but discovering the changes in their bodies and deciding who could stretch it the longest.

‘Would I let Bryce?’ Dev thinks.

‘Under certain circumstance I may,’ he silently answers.

‘He would have to pay me but I would rather do him,’ the thought concluded as he turned back to Jones.

“No I’m not like that,” Dev again confirmed while evading his previous thinking.

“I reckon for enough coin you would,” Jones corrected as the game became lively and Richmond’s best batsman was out for a duck. First ball hit the turf, pitched up bounced of his shoulder and down onto the stumps. He’s out sounded in one voice from the grandstand, followed by vigorous clapping, hooting and stamping of feet from the workingman’s stand.

As the next batsman arrived at the crease, Dev felt a tap to his shoulder. He turned and it was Bryce.

“Gooding who let you into the cricket?” Bryce asked.

Dev simply smiled it away.

“Jones as well,” Bryce says but his tone is not vindictive, “pity about your mate,” Bryce directs to Dev.

Dev becomes brave, “we thought it was you who did him in.”

“Think away kid, I was about to offer him work,”

“Even after what he did to your skiff?” Dev asks.

“It showed he had balls,” Bryce puts his hand in his pocket and brings out two florin coins. There you go lads two shillings each, I may have a job for you later and if you hear tell who did your mate in, bring it to me,” he again smiles, “now piss off while I’m still in good humor.”

During the early afternoon there was a short rain shower bringing out the covers and sending the players to the pavilion but with the last ball before the rain it was all over for Richmond and their score was all out for one hundred and thirty five, Richmond would need to pray for continuing rain to save their game.

Jones always had a short span of attention and started to fidget by kicking the fence that ran around the ground, causing one of the palings to come loose.

Assuring no one had noticed the damage, they moved away from the failing picket.

“Have you had enough?” Dev asks.

“It’s getting that way,”

“Look the sun is coming out, the game will start again soon.”

“Two shillings,” Jones quizzically says and fiddles with the coin deep within his pocket.

“What do you mean by two shillings?”

“Why would Bryce give us money?”

“He said he may have a job going,”

Jones pauses, his features distorting against the sun as it come from behind a large gray cloud, “and that doesn’t worry you?” he asks.

“A little I suppose,”

“You do realize what he gave is down payment towards owning us?”

“That did cross my mind,” Dev says as the crowd commenced clapping the players back onto the field. “They are coming out,” he points to the far side of the field as Albert Trott leads the visiting batsmen onto the field, “look Trott is coming in as number one.”

“I hear he’s off to play county cricket in England next year,” Jones says.

“He will be missed but I guess he’ll play for us in the next ashes series.”

Jones took a deep breath and turned from the game, “I’ve had enough, I’m going – what about you?”

“I guess so, besides Richmond hasn’t a chance in winning as I think the rain will hold off long enough to finish the game.”

“I don’t like Richmond, my old man follows them,” Jones says.

“So does Jack. I didn’t think your dad followed cricket.”

“He only likes bragging down the pub if they win and starting fights over it, then he comes home and takes it out on me.” Once spoken Jones quickly becomes quiet and Dev knew better than to ask further, as it was rare for Douglas to speak of his father’s violent nature.

Dev followed Jones from the ground and in passing both thank Sid Burrell for his kindness.

“Careful as you go boys,” Burrell says.

“What do you want to do? Dev asks.

“Hang about I guess,” Jones says without conviction.

“We could go over and see if Fisky’ is home.”

Na, not in the mood for visiting.”

“You have something planned,”

“I heard there is a ship arriving from America.”

“I can guess what you are up to.”

“Correct in one.” Once beyond the gates Jones slaps Dev on the back, “see you then.”

“Don’t forget tomorrow, mum has invited you for dinner,” Dev reminds.

“I won’t forget – see ya’,”

“You be careful Doug.” Dev warns.

“I’m always careful – don’t concern,”

“One day Doug; one day,” but Dev doesn’t continue. Such an outcome was much too frightening to contemplate as he thinks of Marcus and wonders what strife he was involved with to deserve his killing. “You be careful Douglas,” Dev all but whispers as if by mentioning it would be enough to keep his friend safe.

As Jones departs Dev’s thought revert to Bryce and his offering and what would be expected of him. Also as Bryce made his suggestion of work his eyes were on Dev, not on Jones and it was as if he was directing his offer to Dev alone but other than standing cocky what else could Dev offer. Possibly Finn’s description of Bryce was correct and Bryce’s fancy was towards men.

Again the thought – would he?

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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