1. The six o'clock swill.
He stood in the doorway of the noisy, smoky, Public bar, silhouetted in the harsh Australian light streaming in from behind him. Moving into the cool, dim interior he could smell spilt beer, Durham tobacco and unwashed men. These were the typical smells of a working man's pub at 5.30, just before before the six o'clock swill. Like the tide going out and in, the chatter fell then rose again as he passed through the crowd to the bar. The patrons quickly recognised him, he was well known and liked here, as much as any cop could be liked in a place like this. An honest bruiser; they called him the Bulldog. Bulldog Bill.
Bill approached the bar and the sea of drinkers parted to let him through. Reaching the bar, the publican came over, looked at him and said, 'Usual, Bill?'
'Just a squash, Fred. I'm in uniform,' Bill replied in his gravelly baritone. He handed the publican a coin. Fred came back shortly with a cold glass of perspiring Lemon squash. He handed it to Bill along with his change.
'All good, Fred?' asked Bill
Fred looked at Bill and replied 'No worries, mate.' But his eyes darted to the far corner of the public room and back to Bill again.
'Righty-oh'. Bill dropped Fred a subtle wink. He took a sip of his squash and grimaced. Not his favourite drink by a long shot. Leaning forward, he looked into the mirror behind the bar and scanned the crowd. There, in the far corner at a table, were three young lads drinking heavily. Bill noted who was there, a pair of no-hoper larrikins, Jimmy Crispin and Frank Morse. Thought they were hard men, those two. He'd run both of them in on more than one occasion. But what was young Pete Smith doing drinking with those two? Pete was a hard-working lad, had a real future ahead of him. Had just taken a job at the stock yards as roustabout. Bill didn't think Jimmy or Frank had ever been his particular mates.
Bill turned around casually and leaned against the bar. Sipping his drink, he made laconic conversation with a few of the locals standing next to him.
As Fred began to ring the bell and shout 'Last drinks, gentlemen!' Bill moved away from the bar and let the crowd surge around him. The men jostled him and swore as the rushed to fill their last pots of the night. He walked away from the scrum around the bar towards the group in the corner. They had several full pots of beer already lined up on the table and were cheering as Pete tried to drink one down.
'Chug, chug, chug, chug!' they chanted. Pete upturned the glass into his mouth, throwing his head back to get it all in at once. Slamming the empty glass back on the table he grinned blearily at Jimmy and Frank.
'Alright there Pete?' asked Bill.
Jimmy and Frank jerked around in surprise at Bills sudden appearance. 'Yesh,' slurred Pete, 'All good. Jus' celebratin' me 18th wif me mates 'ere!' He waved his hand expansively at Frank and Jimmy knocking over an empty glass in the process.
Jimmy slung an arm around Pete's shoulder and smiled winningly up at Bill. 'Heeey, Frank! It's the Bulldog! Don't worry old son, us and Frankie here are just helping our new mate Pete celebrate his birthday. Ain't that right Frank?'
'Woof, woof' snickered Frank at Bill.
Bill gritted his teeth. Looking at Pete he said, 'I think you might have had enough, son.'
'Nah, I'm good. S'all good. Grab me another pot there Jims'.' He reached forward and took another full glass out of Jimmy's hand. 'Me mates, jus' drinkin' wif me cobbers.'
'Don't worry, Sarg. We'll look after Pete here. He's our mate.' Said Jimmy insincerely to Bill.
Bill shook his head at them. They weren't making a disturbance. They were all of legal drinking age. He had no grounds to arrest them, but something felt off. Pete was a decent lad with a good upbringing. It wasn't like him to behave like a lout. Fred had called him earlier, worried about the amount of drinking that Pete was doing and the company he was keeping. Seemed he was the one doing most of the drinking while Frank and Jimmy egged him on. Bill knew that it was pay-day today. It would be Pete's first pay on adult wages. He hoped he wasn't drinking it all in one sitting.
Looking at Jimmy, Bill growled, 'Well, look after him, you. I'll be watching.'
Jimmy sneered at Bill. 'Sure thing Sergeant Bulldog. No worries. We'll see him right.' Frank just giggled and made soft woofing sounds under his breath. Given half a chance Bill would have smacked the pair of them. But Lawson had put him on notice. Stop being so handy with his fists or he would be suspended. Bill just shook his head at them warningly then turned and walked back to the bar. Behind him the boys were laughing and making dingo howls. He put his empty glass on the bar, looked at Fred and nodded slightly to him and left the pub.
Come 6 o'clock closing time the pub began to empty. Men drifted out in groups of two's and three's or alone, all in various stages of inebriation. Frank and Jimmy came staggering out last, between them was Pete. He was drunk as a lord and could barely hold himself upright. His arms were around the necks of the two other men as they supported his wobbling steps. He was giggling as he swayed between the men.
'Bloody Hell, he's totally stinko,' said Frank.
Jimmy chuckled. 'Just what we want, the stupid pillock.'
Pete's head swayed and he giggled to Jimmy, 'toopid 'illock.'
'C'mon. Walk, you bloody drongo.' Frank and Jimmy proceeded down the footpath supporting the drunken lad. Staggering they walked around the corner of the pub and down the cross street. As they passed and turned the corner, a dark blue shape slunk out from a dim doorway and followed them.
Bill Hobart walked quickly and quietly, following the threesome. Years as a beat cop had taught him how to walk silently in the heavy soled police boots. He made no noise as he rounded the corner. Slowing slightly, he watched the men as they guided a wobbling Pete up the road and then forcibly turned him into an alleyway. Bill broke into a run, gliding to a stop just before the alley. He leaned forward and peered around the building down the alley.
About 20 yards away he saw Jimmy and Frank suddenly pull away from Pete and push him to the ground. With a cry of 'Oy! wha' you playin' at?' Pete fell face first, just managing to catch himself on his hands and knees.
'Get his wallet!' shouted Jimmy as he raced forward and kicked Pete in the stomach. 'Ohfffff,' Pete moaned, then bent over he began to vomit profusely.
'Bloody Hell!' cried Jimmy dancing back. Frank was standing there laughing. 'Get his wallet you arse!'
'Git it yerself, ya' tosser!' Both man stood there watching Pete heave his guts out into the gutter.
At that moment, as the two men were distracted and facing away from him, Bill raced forward. Before they had time to turn to the sound of running feet, Bill had caught up to them, reached over, grabbed their collars and with a resounding 'CRACK' smacked their heads together.
Frank and Jimmy fell to the ground holding their heads. As one, they shook their heads to clear the stars and gaped up at Bill. Bill pulled out his night stick and shook it at them and growled. 'Scarper. Now. For I run you in for attempted theft.' Scrambling to their feet, they staggered down the alley as fast as possible while looking back over their shoulders to make sure Bill wasn't following.
'Don't forget,' called Bill after them, 'I know where you both live!'
On the ground, young Pete moaned piteously. Bill looked down at him, a disgusted frown on his face.
'You look a right mess, young Pete.' Pete just moaned again and tried to sit up. Bill leaned forward and minding the stained clothes, helped Pete to his feet. 'You're a right proper eedjit, you know that don't you?' Said Bill gently.
Pete looked at Bill and shook his head. 'I don't feel so good Sarge.'
'Not surprised. Well, come along then, let's get you cleaned up and home safely. Can't let yer mum see you in this state.'
...
