*offensive language warning**homophobic slurs*

Revelations.

Gloomily Bill Hobart pondered his lot. Crouched here, half hidden, he pushed away yet another bit of scratchy shrubbery sticking into a sensitive area. Around the other side of the oleander bush was Constable Stewart Parkinson. A new recruit to the station, Parkinson was alright, if a bit green and wet behind the ears still. It was just on dusk and overhead the flying foxes in the gum trees were squabbling and screeching. The noise they made was bad enough, but as they flew about they would piss and shit all over anyone who just happened to be hiding in a stake-out below their roosting tree. If there had been any other half-way decent spot he and Parkinson would be there, not here, in this fruit-bat hell. Bill's only consolation was that Parkinson seemed to have gotten the worst of the bat-showers so far.

The reason they were hiding in this particular spot at the Ballarat Central Park was just down slope from their hiding place about 100yards away. A rather staid art deco design convenience block had been attracting a bit of attention lately. The shop keepers around the park had made several complaints over the past few weeks about the goings-on here after dark. Complaints had also been made by all the church going 'right thinking' sorts about the unsavoury aspects of the toilet block. Susan Tyneman had been particularly vocal in her objections. The toilet block's relatively isolated position right in the centre of town had proven a magnet for men who were seeking alternative forms of affection.

Bill snorted disdainfully. It wasn't like this spot wasn't well known to the police and those men interested in that type of assignation. Some of the cops would openly joke about the place and refer to an arrested suspect as being 'caught going down Nancy Street.' In fact, whenever an officer felt the need to up his 'quota' of arrests for the month he would stroll down to this park and arrest one or two of the more well-know men who frequented the area. There was a bit of complacency about this and most cops left the men alone as long as they were discreet and no one made a complaint. They rarely would arrest anyone of any importance. And if they did happen to spring someone who could be embarrassed by the situation, well, a bit of cash could make a lot of things disappear. So if a cop needed a quick arrest or two to look good for the boss, or a few extra quid to tide them over until pay day, well, it was handy to say the least.

But some cops were quite happy make life a misery for these men when the opportunity presented. What they were doing was an offense in the eyes of the law, after all. Sad to say, for a long time Bill had been one of these types of cops. He wouldn't hesitate to make an arrest and did not spare his fists. But Bill's recent experience with that French chef , Phillipe had made him ashamed and disgusted with himself. This wasn't to say that Bill had changed his mind about the legality of the situation, or even the disgust he felt for these men, but he was wrestling with his conscience and sense of fair play over how he had treated that man. If Ned hadn't had called him off... Bill had always prided himself on his control. If he beat someone up it was calculated and deserved, or so he told himself.

But he had totally lost the plot when Phillipe had taken a swing at young Ned. Phillipe had looked so much like Father Joseph, similar dark features and same sneering smile. Something inside Bill had snapped that night. All his carefully constructed walls had fallen down. He had been transported back to a time and place he had tried hard to forget. He remembered the confusion and shame all over again. He could smell the incense that lingered on the priests' robes. Recalled the rough hands and the pain. The feeling of helplessness of a child being abused by a trusted, older man. A man who up until that afternoon in the boys choir change room, he had respected, looked up to, and yes, loved. After that day, Bill would refuse to attend choir practice, would fight if they tried to make him. Bill always thought his father had suspected something, as he never insisted that Bill return to practice. But neither one of them could talk to each other about such things. Bill was too confused and ashamed. His father too stern and strict. It was with some relief that Bill's voice broke later that year and he had an honest excuse for no longer being a member of the boys' choir.

Bill had dealt with his feelings as best he could on his own. His father had taught him to fight his own battles and not whine. His parents forced him to attend church every Sunday with them. It was a trial to see and hear Father Joseph every week. The other boys in the choir made sniggering comments for a while, but it wasn't too long before they had a new 'favourite' of Father Josephs' to giggle about. Bill counted himself lucky that it had only happened to him the once and he felt for the other lad. As soon as Bill was old enough to not attend church he just stopped going. If Father Joseph was an example of God's grace he wanted none of it. He joined the local AFL team, revelling in the hard, dirty sport. He became handy with his fists on and off the field. Fighting gave him a fierce joy and relieved some of the anger that was always simmering just below the surface. Joining the police force had saved him. Here was a job that appreciated a hard man who could fight. He could channel the anger in his gut into a positve. In the police he felt he had become a protector of the weak and innocent.

When he had heard last year that Father Joseph had died he was he was glad the old bastard was dead at last. But his anger did not receed and that night in Phillipe's home the decades of bottled up pain and shame and rage had boiled over. Bill had beaten the man so badly that he feared he had killed him. He certainly had hurt him very badly. It was only by great luck and Dr. Blake's careful investigation that Bill had been cleared of the suspicion of murder. Bill had drunk more whisky in that week than he generally did in a year. For once he understood Dr. Blake's need for the stuff. It had been the only thing that had driven away the demons.

Now Lawson had put him on this duty! The good people of Ballarat were insisting that the park area be cleared of 'deviants'. Bill knew that the Boss was testing him. Lawson had told him to lay off the fisticuffs, to be an example of good policing to young Parkinson. They were to catch the offenders, take names and let them go with a warning. Bill hoped he could comply. He owed it to Lawson to make an effort.

'Hist!' Constable Parkinson brought Bill's attention back to the present. He looked over to the toilet block to see a man lingering by the doorway. As he watched another man strolled up the path from the far end of the park. Greeting the man in the doorway, they both moved inside the building.

Motioning to Parkinson to follow, Bill quietly came out of hiding and swiftly moved to the ablutions block. Torch in hand he entered the men's section. He stopped just in the doorway and swiftly turned the torch on and flashed the beam into the faces of the two embracing men by the urinals. In that swift second Bill recognised something in their expression before it changed to startlement and terror. They both recognised Bill and were fearful of what he would do.

'How odd', Bill thought. 'That was the same look Dr Blake gives Jean Beazley. Longing and yearning. Do I look like that when I look at Ann?'

The two men broke apart and turned to run. Parkinson leapt forward with his nightstick swinging. 'Stop right there you bloody poofters!' he cried. The men froze. He swung back to strike, but Bill clamped his hand over the outstretched arm.

'Steady on son, no need to get physical,' he said.

Parkinson snarled, loathing evident on his face. 'Sarge, these filthy pillow munchers need a good belting. Disgusting they are!'

Bill glanced over at the two frightened men. He recognised both of them. One was a leading merchant in town, who had a wife and two kiddies. The other was a young shop clerk that he had arrested here previously. Bill felt an incredible sorrow welling up inside, for the wife and kids, but strangely, for both the men. In that instant Bill understood something that he had struggled with for years. What happened to him wasn't his fault, he wasn't to blame. Nor was it these men's fault. These were two grown men quite capable of making their own choices. They were not forcing themselves on a child. Father Joseph had been an evil man. He could never forgive or forget what the Father had done to him and other boys. But Bill realised that he didn't have to punish these men for something that had happened to him, they were not responsible. And he couldn't punish them for doing something they clearly needed and desired. They were both caught in a trap of societies expectations of normal. And they didn't fit. He didn't have to like it, but he also didn't need to make their situation worse for them.

Bill drew a breath. 'Well Parky, I reckon we do what the Boss said. Give them an warning and let them go. They haven't run, they haven't fought us, they can go quietly.'

Parkinson slapped his nightstick into his hand repeatedly. 'Who's to know they didn't run at us, eh?'

'I'll know, son.' replied Bill gruffly, then he turned and looked at the two men. 'I am putting you both on notice. I see you around here again, it's the cells. No questions, no favours. Do you both understand?'

Both men nodded and started to leave, but Bill had more to say. 'Tell anyone else you know who uses this place that it is off limits from now on. I don't give a fat rat's arse what you do in behind closed doors, but stay away from here. Keep it out of the public eye. Understand?' Nodding again, the men made a dash for the exit. Parkinson wheeled around and tried to boot one on the rear as he fled but Bill held him back.

'I SAID do NOT get physical!' and he roughly shook the young constable, rattling his brains a bit.

Parkinson was confused. Everyone in the station had told him what a hard man Bill Hobart was. Had said he was lucky to be on this assignment with him, he'd get the chance to bash up a few nancy-boys. He didn't understand, he had been really looking forward to this, working with Bill, fighting with him side by side. Was everything he heard about Bill a lie? Was he going soft? Was he scared, was that it? Looking at Bill he sneered at him, 'Never thought I'd see the day the great Bill Hobart was a-scared of a pair of poofters!'

Bill was sorely tempted give Parkinson a clip around the ears and he very nearly did so. But his new found control held and he just gave Parky another rough shake then said, 'Son, I'll tell you something for free. When you have been on the job as long as I have sooner or later you realise there is a lot of real nastiness out there. Two queers in a toilet block aren't evil or frightening. They're just lonely and looking for something that you and I are lucky enough to take for granted.'

'But Bill, its' a crime!' protested Parkinson.

'Yeah, so I hear. But you know what I reckon is the real crime?' Parkinson shook his head, no. ' The real crime is wasting police time chasing these poor buggers because some snotty society lady is offended when we should be out doing some real thief taking!'

With that he left the toilet block and resumed his position under the flying-fox tree to wait patiently.

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