The Beat: A True Account of the Bondi Gay Murders (3 page)

At the top of the stairs a barely open door. She was in the bedroom. Maybe she
was
in bed … Grinning, he stepped softly towards the narrow gap, looked through the opening, the grin setting on his face like the sneer on some manic death mask. On the bed, on all fours, her hair pulled tight over her shoulders, his mother kneeled naked and moaning while his father, his pants around his knees, pushed into her from behind. Hard. His hands dragging on her hair to hold her head arched, her throat stretched to restrict her breathing as he forced himself into her. To the right of the bed the grimed mirror of the beat-up dresser, a three-panelled mirror reflecting three angles of the act before him.

The sounds he’d heard from downstairs hadn’t been the sounds of his mother talking to herself. They were the slow words of his father, words forced out between the heavy breathing, the heavy effort, as he sweated above and behind his wife.

‘You like it this way?’ he asked. ‘God, it’s good, but. Eh? Eh?’ Pulling harder on the long sand-coloured hair. ‘No more fuckin’ kids if we do it this way, eh? No more bastard kids like this.’

Staring into the mirrors not daring to understand what he was seeing, not wanting to admit it. Eyes were riveted on the sight of his mother, tits swinging to the rhythm of his father’s thrusting, nipples longer than he’d ever have imagined, long and red and full. Nipples like fat fuckin’ chillies. His mother was enjoying her husband in her arse. Jesus, he couldn’t believe it.

He forced his gaze away from his mother’s body, forced himself to look at the image of the man as disgust flooded through him. His father still talking.

‘Fuck, it’s good, but. God, it’s – uh – good.’ Thrusting harder, faster.

Watched his father’s frantic pushing, watched his spasms. Heard his grunting. Unable to take away his gaze as his father arched his back, spurting inside his wife like a … like a fuckin’ faggot! How fuckin’ … Suddenly aware of his father’s eyes reflected at his own, seeing his father watching him watching…

Feeling like he might throw up, turning from the bedroom door, going back downstairs filled with the urge to kill. In the kitchen banging cupboard doors, angry. Venomous. He will, he’ll kill the bastard. He opened the fridge, took out a plastic bottle of milk and drank, keeping his eyes fixed on the doorway. Waiting.

Not for long. A minute later and his father came in, stood at the door. Sneering, wearing only a pair of joggers, stained and faded.

‘So you like to fucking watch, eh? The little boy likes to see how it’s done.’ The sneer on his face moved easily into his voice. ‘Did you enjoy it, but? Get a fuckin’ hard-on, did you?’ He came into the kitchen, an air of menace coming with him.

Taking his place in the doorway, his wife stood with an old robe draped around her shoulders. A slight smile played on her lips knowing that one breast was clearly visible to her son.

‘Maybe I should teach you some fuckin’ manners, eh? Teach you not to watch?’

‘Don’t you bloody touch me, you filthy bastard!’ Rage filling him. ‘I’ll –’

The slap landed hard on his face. An open-handed slap that left an instant imprint of his father’s hand.

‘Shut your mouth, eh.’ Another slap, a little harder. ‘Don’t ever –’

‘No, don’t!’ His wife stepped forward, her robe parting even more. ‘Leave him alone.’

A sudden pause. Life suspended for a moment.

‘Get out!’ Turned from the boy, leaning on the sink, staring out the window. ‘And don’t fuckin’ come back.’

The front door slammed hard and the air tasted like dirt. Walking towards the beach trying not to think about what he’d just seen, trying not to think of what his mother had let that bastard do to her. On his left cheek the imprint of his father’s hand throbbed and burned in the night.

• • •

Watching him striding along the footpath until he was out of sight. He turned from the window to where his wife still stood just inside the doorway, her robe completely open now, exposing both breasts, her wet pubic triangle. He stepped towards her, brought his hand up, slapped her across the face with enough force to snap back her head, hitting it hard against the door jamb.

‘Don’t ever tell me no when I hit the little cunt,’ he said, his fingers closing around her throat. ‘He might be 17 but he needs fuckin’ discipline, eh.’ His hand tightening around her neck. His free hand working at his trousers, letting them fall to the floor at his feet.

Her face reddening as her breathing became more difficult, letting herself be lifted onto her toes, a smile starting to spread across her lips.

• • •

A steady southeasterly brought cold air off the midnight sea, air cold enough and strong enough to send the group of teenagers around the back of the Surf Club, past the outriggers and into the shadows where the junk was kept. Stacked tables, empty beer barrels, broken chairs. They’d been there for an hour. Talking shit. Drinking and smoking and, from time to time, groping and mauling. And now, he held her against the back wall of the club, her skirt hiked up to her waist, knickers ripped at one hip so they hung like a tossed away rag at her ankles, his fingers deep inside her. His tongue in her mouth.

Jeans undone, the girl’s leg lifted to waist level, and he sunk deep into her, so deep that she gasped, cried out some animal noise as he pushed and pushed, grinding her, fucking her while the others watched, knowing it was her first time and that he was hurting her and not giving a shit.

• • •

A few hundred metres away, near the corner of Hall Street and Campbell Parade, Leaning against a low wall, laughing.

‘Did ya see that bastard run? Fuck, it was funny, man.’

‘We dint catch him, but. Waste o’ fuckin’ time, eh?’

‘Nah, it was okay. We nearly got him. If he hadn’t jumped over the edge … Shit, that was funny.’

The jogger had come sweating into view up the steps they’d climbed themselves a couple of hours earlier. Some sad bastard out running late at night, keeping fit, whatever. Sniggered when they’d seen him. Young guy, nothing. Then someone said they do that sometimes. The poofs go out jogging like it was a way to be there without looking like you were a poof. But they always kept their eye out for another faggot trotting along the path. This one was probably gay – why else be in Marks-bloody-Park in the first place? Everyone knew Marks Park was a gay beat.

Listening from the cover of the trees they were standing beneath, watching the jogger heading towards the apartment blocks to their left. Was it a faggot? Or just a sad bastard?

‘Faggot!’ Adrenalined to the max. ‘Get the bastard!’

A split second and the jogger stopped dead in his tracks. Frozen by the sound. Until he saw the three figures burst into the open, shapes in the darkness sprinting towards him, silent now, after the initial scream. Turned and ran. Sprinting. Back the way he came, towards the steps. Ran for his life, having chosen the only direction in which he felt he had a chance. Thirty metres … Never going to make it … the others cutting off his line of retreat, closing in with arms waving, quiet and closing … he could see no escape … feet pounding … 15 metres … they were too close … swerved away, away from his pursuers and away from the steps … towards the bushes … towards the edge with nowhere to go…

Behind him, they could almost smell the fear and desperation, could almost reach out and touch the bastard … another few paces and…

He went over the edge. Didn’t pause, just reached the vegetation and took off. Twelve – 15 metres, the drop was. Jesus. They reached the line of scrubby bushes, all straining to see into the darkness, not believing the guy had done it, knowing he must be lying below: busted, bleeding.

‘Shit! D’ya see that?’ Breath coming hard, rasping. ‘Bastard thought he was a fuckin’ bird, but.’

‘Must be fuckin’ dead, eh?’

‘Only one way to find out, man. Let’s go see.’ Turning from the nothingness of their vantage point, down the steps to where they knew the faggot would be lying. Maybe dead, maybe just totally fucked.

But the drop hadn’t been sheer, had sloped away steeply – but safely. The jogger bouncing and sliding and scraping through more bushes and over rocks and boulders until he hit the coastal pathway with enough force to break his collar bone. But not enough force to stop him from running like a rabbit to his car parked on Notts Avenue.

Ten minutes later, leaning against the low wall near the corner of Hall Street and the night’s fun was done.

‘Let’s go. See if we can get a night bus, eh?’

They walked towards the lights, ready to cross towards the bus stop. They reached the corner, glancing along Hall Street, looked along its deserted length, thinking how it had nearly been a shit night … But Hall Street wasn’t deserted. Two people were almost lost in the shadows of a building on the right. More poofters? They were standing at the cash machine set into the wall, withdrawing money.

‘Hang on. We can still get somethin’ from tonight, but.’

Nonchalantly crossing the road, sauntering as though it was midmorning, chatting casually between themselves.

As they passed the couple – not poofters, then – they noticed how the woman – late thirties, maybe fortyish - watched them nervously, how she seemed to twitch and worry until they’d gone past the bank, past where she was standing, scared but becoming less so at their passing. But they hadn’t gone far. They’d seen what they needed to see: the guy – middle-aged, paunchy – was stuffing cash into his wallet. They turned back.

One minute later and the couple lay on the ground, crying, moaning, blood dripping onto the pavement where they lay. The husband smacked from behind, his wallet snatched, and when the woman screamed, she’d been punched so hard in the mouth that one of her teeth snapped, falling to the ground moments before she did. Kicked hard in the stomach, taking away her breath, momentarily stopping her screams, kicked less hard to the head, shutting her up. Seeing them both barely conscious, laughing, bending down and roughly squeezing the woman’s breasts.

‘Never mind, bitch, you still got good tits.’

‘Hundred bucks.’

‘We can get a taxi home, but.’

ix

‘Did I tell you about the night I was attacked outside here?’

‘Here? No!’

‘Well, not right outside. More over by the Shift.’

They were standing by the far wall, away from the bar. Gilligan’s was crowded, all the tables taken. Young men, all abs and pecs beneath tailored shirts, casual pants, fitted and somehow just perfect. And ear studs, the odd tatt. But discreet. Mostly. Some occasional leather wandering up from the pub downstairs: older men, gaunt and haunted. But they didn’t stay long, went back down to the Oxford. Back downstairs where the air was thick with desperation.

‘Really attacked? My God!’ Genuinely shocked, the older man put down his mineral water, his hand shaking.

His friend laughed. ‘Oh, it was nothing, really. Some drunks, that’s all. Animals.’

‘But what happened? Were you hurt? Were you alone? God, it must have been vile.’

‘It was nothing really. We – I just saw these …
men
when I was walking to the car. And they just chased me.’ Not sure why he lied about being on his own. Not sure why he didn’t mention … ‘Anyway, they just punched the windshield as I drove away. Must have seen me leaving the club.’ Shrugging,
it was nothing.

‘It makes me so
angry
!’ The older man’s lip trembled as he spoke. Emotional, protective. ‘Did you call the police? What did you
do
?’

‘Somebody else did, I think. I drove off but I saw the police arrive just after. As I was driving away.’ Seeing the horror still on his friend’s face, he admitted, ‘It was pretty scary.’

Silent for a few seconds, they surveyed the room. Looking for an excuse to change the subject.

• • •

The Vault. Exchange Hotel. Gilligan’s had closed and they’d moved on, flowed like the tide to the next venue.

Friday night and the Vault was buzzing even though it was the middle of winter. Pushing their way towards the bar the young man stopped to speak to a guy here, guy there, introducing his friend as they went. But the music was too loud and the names were lost in the clamour. And anyway, the young man only exchanged a few words with those he met: it wasn’t as if they were going to start a real conversation with anyone.

Sometimes, as they squeezed between crowded men pressing close together, their hands touched, fingers gave the merest indication that they’d once been more than friends. Occasionally, the younger man’s hand brushed against the other’s hip when they tried to negotiate a particularly tight passage. And, once, he felt the older man reach out, a soft caress on his buttocks. The contact sent an explosion of desire through him, made him slightly dizzy for a second, his vision blurred. Maybe afterwards they could … He wasn’t sure he could wait until he saw … Until the next day.

Another mineral water and they’d been there for half an hour, saying nothing. The noise was too much. You couldn’t hear yourself scream.

They moved on to the Shift, switching drinks to iced water. There were fewer people here so they were able to talk again. At the end of the bar they found a dark corner where they stood close to each other. Very close. The young man felt the heat in him, felt the good times they’d known a few years ago return to make his breathing difficult, to take away his better sense. And he thought he detected the same in his friend, thought he felt his friend yearning, too. And why not? They’d been good together.