Part 3
Just
after the Beginning
Saturday night
"SERGEANT
BIRTWISTLE,'' came the excited cry from the end of the corridor.
"Are you there Sergeant Birtwistle?''
"Of
course I'm here,'' grunted the Sergeant to himself.
He was
always there. He had worked there for 33 years - in the same station,
in the same charge-room and in the same chair. He had heard it all
before too: some overgrown, pimply policeman barging through the
front door two minutes before midnight crying, "Sergeant
Birtwistle, are you there Sergeant Birtwistle?''
This time,
Junior Constable Smith and Junior Constable Stretch were escorting,
possibly dragging, someone up the long passage towards the charge-room.
Sergeant
Birtwistle could hear a squawk of protest and a dull thumping noise.
What he didn't know was that this was the sound of fake leather
connecting with the thick skin of a young policeman's head.
The brass
doorknob turned, the charge-room door was eased ajar with a creak and
a freckled face on a long neck and Adam's apple poked through the gap.
"Sorry
to disturb you, Sarge,'' said Junior Constable Smith in a
high-pitched, nervous voice. "But we've made an arrest.''
"Judging
from the noise, it sounds like you've arrested Tiger Kowaski's whole
bloody football team,'' the sergeant complained grumpily.
Most of
the year Windy Mountain was a quiet little town. Randolph Birtwistle
was an old-fashioned cop who had an aversion to crooks and bludgers
but was seldom bothered by either. His job entailed little more than
providing an occasional clip under the ear to schoolboys caught
smoking behind the change-room sheds at the Windy Mountain Recreation
Ground or nicking a bit of fruit from Northan's apple orchard in
broad daylight. There were only two major illegal goings-on in town:
one was Tiger Kowaski's Dancing School which was actually a front for
a brothel; the other was the illicit brewing of apple cider for sale
at The Applecart hotel. But Sergeant Birtwistle didn't know about
either of these. The only unsolved crime on the police station's
books was the theft one night of the town's only telephone box from
the High Street. Except for the frequent, but peaceful, locking up of
the new town drunk, Father John Whitchurch, and having to deal with
the regular hysterics of the Mayor, Councillor Jim Northan, there was
usually nothing much for Sergeant Birtwistle to do.
He was
filling in the final minutes of his 4pm to midnight shift by trying
to come up with a name for The Pick Of The Crop's cow when Junior
Constable Smith and Junior Constable Stretch came barging back into
the station with their prisoner.
They were
about as welcome as two cats bringing home a live rat.
Sergeant
Birtwistle glanced in frustration at the electric clock on the
charge-room wall, tugged at the last few strands of hair on his
balding, cap-less head and resigned himself to working beyond
midnight. "Okay, let's see what we've got,'' he said gruffly.
Smithy
shuffled in. He was carrying two apples: one red, the other yellow.
Trailing him was Stretch who was trying to protect his face with his
right forearm. He was handcuffed to possibly the ugliest woman
Sergeant Birtwistle had ever seen.
The
prisoner was wearing thick make-up, a blonde wig, a pink dress, green
stockings and a pair of dirty sandshoes. She was also swinging a
handbag at Stretch's head.
"Now
stop that,'' bellowed the sergeant, jumping to his feet and waving
his hands in the air like a demented traffic cop. "I won't
tolerate my junior constables being assaulted by young ladies! Do you understand?''
"I'm
no lady,'' shrieked the basher, pulling off the wig. "Don't you
know the difference between a bloke and a sheila?''
"What?"
said the Sergeant, his jaw dropping.
"He's
right, Sarge,'' said Smithy. "We arrested him on the High
Street. He was riding a bicycle.''
"So?''
said the sergeant sarcastically. "What was he doing wrong? No
light? Failing to keep to the left? Breaking the bloody speed limit? What?''
"No
Sarge,'' said Smithy. "He was dressed in women's clothing in
public between the hours of sunset and sunrise. That's against the
law in Tasmania.''
Sergeant
Birtwistle tugged at what was left of his hair again. In all his
years on the force he had booked drunks, traffic offenders, even a
thief or two but he had never had to deal with a tranvestite. He
didn't know anything about obscure laws about men in women's clothing
but the last thing he wanted was to lose face with his impressionable
junior constables.
The
Sergeant eyed the prisoner up and down. He was in his mid 20s and
about 170cm tall. He had freckles and a shock of hair that was
neither red nor blond but an awful shade in between.
Sergeant
Birtwistle pointed to the apples in Smithy's hands. "What are
they for?'' he asked.
"Evidence,
Sarge,'' said Smithy.
"Evidence?''
said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"Yes,
Sarge. Exhibit A and Exhibit B. He was wearing these inside his
brassiere, Sarge,'' said Smithy.
"For
crying out loud,'' protested the prisoner.
"You
can't arrest me for stuffing apples down my front!''
"Don't
start telling me what I can or can't do in my own police station,''
snapped the sergeant.
"Don't
you know it's against the law for men to wear women's clothes in public?''
"Between
the hours of sunset and sunrise,'' added Junior Constable Smith.
"Look,
be reasonable,'' the prisoner pleaded. "I don't normally dress
like this, okay? I was riding my bike home from a football
fancy-dress party to celebrate the Windy Mountain Tigers' progression
to the grand final. There I was minding my own business and paying
careful attention to the rules of the road when my golden delicious
fell out of my left cup. When I stopped to pick it up, these two
blokes arrested me. I'm sorry. I didn't know it was against the law.
I won't do it again, okay?''
Sergeant
Birtwistle looked the prisoner up and down again and considered his
options. Finally he asked: "You're not from around here, are you son?''
"Not
originally - but I am now. I live in Blackstump Road.''
"Blackstump
Road, eh?" said the Sergeant.
The two
junior constables could almost hear Sergeant Birtwistle's memory
banks ticking over, scanning for information. Blackstump Road was a
few kilometres south-east of the town centre.
There was
nothing much there except for two decrepit farmhouses which had long
since been abandoned by what the Sergeant considered were decent
people. Now both the farmhouses were occupied by squatters.
"So!''
the Sergeant concluded loudly. "You're one of those
dole-bludging greenies from the Billy Jabobs Memorial Commune!''
"Oh
no, not me,'' said the prisoner. "I live in the old Cameron
farmhouse. The greenies live next door to us.''
The
Sergeant wasn't convinced though. He glanced at the clock again and
it reminded him that his wife Rita had phoned not 15 minutes before
to say that she was going to bed and was leaving his supper in the
oven. It was drying up with every second.
"Okay,
son, what's your name?'' the Sergeant demanded curtly as he stepped
over to the counter and picked up a pen.
"Les
. . . Les Happles. Why?''
"I'm
asking the questions here,'' said the Sergeant, licking a finger and
opening the charge-book. "Occupation?''
"I'm
an assistant Tasmanian Tiger hunter,'' said Les Happles, craning his
neck to see what the Sergeant was writing.
"A
what?'' grunted Sergeant Birtwistle, glancing up.
"I'm
helping Bruce Routley to catch Tasmanian Tigers,'' said Les Happles.
"Bruce
Routley the footballer?'' asked the Sergeant.
"Yes,''
said Les Happles. "Do you know him?''
"Not
personally,'' said the Sergeant.
"He's
my boss,'' said Les Happles.
"Yes,
so you said. You're both, er, um, Tasmanian Tiger hunters!'' said the Sergeant.
"That's
right,'' said Les Happles.
"That
must be interesting work?'' said Sergeant Birtwistle, slipping back
into sarcasm.
"Oh,
it is,'' said Les Happles.
"I
tell you what,'' said the Sergeant.
"Yes?''
said Les Happles.
"How
would you like to spend the night in the same cell once occupied by a
man who claimed he saw a Tasmanian Tiger in the High Street?''
"Pardon?''
said Les Happles.
"Have
you heard of Bert Whish-Willson, our former town drunk?'' asked the Sergeant.
"I
don't understand?'' said Les Apples.
"I'm
sure it will sink in sooner or later,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle as
he resumed entering details in the charge-book.
"What
are you doing?'' Les Happles cried.
"I'm
going to charge you,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle, not even looking up.
"Then I'm going to lock you up for the night.''
"You
can't do that!'' said Les Happles.
"Oh,
yes I can,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"I
don't believe it?'' said Les Happles, looking around only to see
contented smirks on the faces of Junior Constable Smith and Junior
Constable Stretch. "What's the charge?" he demanded to know.
"Well,
let's see?'' said Sergeant Birtwistle, scratching his chin and
gazing thoughtfully at the wall for a moment. "Officially, I'm
charging you with being a pervert before the sun rises and possibly
with assaulting a police officer with a dangerous handbag.'' He
paused for a moment then added: "Unofficially, I just don't like
your type in my town.''
