Late 80′s. 

It was after my morning coffee and before the morning tea break on a quiet Sunday morning.  You know, some one told me very early in the piece that nothing ever happened on Sundays. 

Myself and Big Al were in the D’s office catching up on paperwork when a call came over about a woman being shot in the street.  It was a bit hard to get a call like that mucked up so we took it very serious from the start. 

It had transpired that there had been a domestic argument and the wife had walked out of the house heading to the right (westward) out of her house.  She had the five year old son with her, hanging onto her hand.  She was on the footpath where the driveway of the neighbours house meets the street a few steps from the fence-line, when hubby came charging out of the house with the semi-automatic 12 gauge shot gun.  He leaned over the fence and discharged a round into her back.  It killed her instantly.  As she fell she let go of the child who had sense to run to the next door neighbours front patio and there he banged on the door. 

A neighbour across the road ran over to drag the woman away and got her half way across the street before the husband turned and fired on him hitting in the feet and legs.  He fell to the roadway in some amount of agony letting go of the woman.  Another young man came to the help of the wounded guy and helped him off the street. The offender had by this time turned and walked back into his house.

Petals, a SWOS field commander had been driving past off duty, saw the woman lying in the street and bought into it.  Neighbours were out on the street and as he approached he saw the gun shot wounds.  He quickly checked the woman was dead and retreated.  From there the rest of us swung into action.  People knew their jobs they just needed direction and Petals provided that direction.  

Big Al and I got to the area after the uniforms had set a perimeter.  The street was closed off and the woman’s body was clearly visible on the roadway.  She’d suffered a very messy but apparently quick death (no blood had pumped out of a rather bad series of wounds to her back and head, it had just pooled). 

I approached the offenders house from the west.  Firstly evacuating the next door neighbour and then quickly checking the perimeter and displacement of officers.  I ended up covering back yard as we had very few resources on a quite Sunday morning. Where I was, was not a place of cover just one of concealment.  Beaky the boss of the SWOS got called out and Special Weapons were authorised and activated.  Old Iron Fist who simply wasn’t good enough for the SOS boss job but was senior in rank, had come out and was directed back to the armoury to get our kit. 

He turned up hours later with all of the equipment and it was divvied out.  First job, put on vest, shit no helmet, check shot gun – look check, feel check, weapon clear.  Get rounds and load. It was then I noticed the rounds were light. Iron Fist had got training rounds.  These were 12 gauge shot gun rounds filled with unexpanded styrofoam beads. Not quite the ammunition of choice for a siege.  I called it in that we needed proper ammunition and the prick had the hide to say “That’ll do you.”  Pig of a man. 

Beaky eventually persuaded the arsehole to fuck off and get the proper ammunition.  Old Iron Fist took a distinct dislike to Beaky after that.

Anyway locked and loaded we waited out the day.  I was lead to understand there was very little in the way of communication with the crook, although I did see him once when he came out to check the back yard.

We rotated through the perimeter to keep alert and to get a change of scenery.  We were keeping one full hose away from the crooks house except for the back yard where we had to be right on the fence.  About the second movement I was looking at the neighbours house to the east of the crooks when I saw movement.  I asked around and it worked out no one had got around to clearing that house.  I switched places with a uniform bobby, called what I was doing  and grabbed a second ballistic vest. These vests were at that time top of the line. 16 lbs each but very effective for the type of thing coppers generally go up against.  I jumped the fence and made my way to the house.  Knocked on the door and was greeted by the proverbial little old lady.  I had half a mind to look for Sylvester and Tweety.  I explained the situation and put the vest on her.  Slump.  It was too heavy for her.  To get her back behind friendly lines without throwing her over a fence I had to expose us to the crooks front door.  So I stuck the other vest on.  I gave her a quick safety briefing.  Walk in front of me at all times. If I fall try your hardest to run around the fence, someone will help you.  So there I was little old lady in front of me and me trying to be a turtle and pull my head in below the neck line of the vests.  We made it without any problems.

The siege dragged on.  We were waiting for the assault group from Sydney to arrive

Now I think I’ve mentioned that thing about driving before, well there was a similar thing with the sniper rifle only this time I didn’t like it and everybody else trusted me implicitly with it.  It was night and I was stuck on the end of a long arm watching the front door. 

The front of the house had one of those little fences out the front two or three bricks high with a bit of iron work up to about 40cm.  And there was one of the Sydney lads backwards leopard crawling for want of a better term.  He was on his back using his shoulder blades and heels to ‘walk’ along the front fence line.  I called when he was about level with the door.  Slowly he reached up to peek over the fence, just as the front door swung open.  I called the door and several thoughts ran through my head predominantly good grief look at that Sydney bloke go! and also what the hell am I doing here! I’m going to have to shoot someone.  The door continued to swing as the Sydney guy made his way <i>very</i> rapidly on his heels and shoulder blades feet first back to the rest of the assault team.  Try it, its hard.

Nothing happened, it was just the breeze.  I could now see the back yard of the house through the top half of the rear screen door.  It was black as pitch inside.  We didn’t have any night vision equipment worth a damn and I certainly wasn’t shining a torch in there.

A few hours more and time had come for the assault group to enter the house.  Very quietly with little fuss. They found the husband’s dead body on the hall way floor

We tidied up and Al and I got the investigation.

It worked out (because Big Al and I interviewed him for the coronial investigation) that when the little boy had been bashing on the door, the neighbour had looked out seen the woman, saw the second shooting and the little boy.  So he closed his curtains and slunk further back in to his house.  He left the little boy to fend for himself, bashing on the door until he ran to another neighbour further up the street.

The reality of it though, was somewhat different.

I got some information that a woman in a particular suburb was selling strong gear at a pretty reasonable price.  We set up surveillance and were able to get someone carry a little shopping bag of gear away so we got an entry warrant.  The shopping bag was just a small amount of heroin in the cut off corner of a plastic shopping bag.  

So then, early one morning we went to execute it.  We used to have a game.  Whoever’s job it was, had to get into the premises without cracking the door.  A broken door meant that the crooks got a new door and we had to go to the trouble of getting Public Works out on an urgent job to fix it.  So the game was to get the crook to open the door without us having to break it. 

I was dressed like the usual bag of shit I dress liked.  I went up to the front door of the flat and knocked.  A short time later the lady of the house answered the door and let me in.  <i>How fucken easy was that</i>!! I thought.  So I followed her into the unit and surprise, surprise the door slammed shut behind me, it was on a spring.  There I was in my ugliest clothes (without my gun) ID in one pocket, warrant in the other feeling very alone.  I had just watched Prince of the City and Sirpico and knew I was about to get ‘hit’.  “Hi,” I started “my name’s….” And then I saw the rock ape clumping down the stairs towards me, naked and pumped, his foreshortened cock and shrunken testicles barely visible through his public hair.  He was a ‘roid-rager (not haemorrhoid – steroid).   “Who the fuck are you,” he growled quite literally … he growled.  “Hi” (again) “I’m …” talking very slowly “and I was just wondering if I could by any chance perhaps purchase some controlled substances from you, I know its early and the time is not probably right but …” and I went on and on and on.  The rock ape was agro and right in my face but the chick was nodding, agreeing with what I was saying.

Eventually she agreed that I could procure a bit of smoko from her.  It was slightly more than 13 years before my support team came after me, well it felt that long anyway.  They had got bored during surveillance and at some point both had looked at one another to talk and that’s when I was let it and they lost sight of me.  They looked around and couldn’t see me.  They didn’t know where I’d gone.  And then I heard the door open and a sheepish detective say “… are you there?”  At that point I sighed, and pulled out the warrant and my ID, “by the way I’ve got a warrant to search your home.” 

To say everyone was confused was an understatement.  In the interview with the chick afterwards, she confessed to being very confused, she thought I was an old stoner that had somehow got lost and she felt sorry for me and was going to GIVE me her own stash of dope out of pity.  Further investigation revealed she had been the one selling the hot gear, killing junkies left right and centre but she had <i>such</i> a raging habit she was only selling what gave her a buzz and didn’t realize the stuff was so hot.  The DPP recognized there may have been a case against her but declined to proceed against her for manslaughter as they deemed it un-winnable and the junkies had contributed too much to their own demise.

Early 80’s. I was with one of my favourite mates to work with, he was happy, knowledgeable, a bit reckless but really cared.  He eventually went mad from it but that’s another story.  Anyway we got called to the hospital to get briefed by a doctor wanting to bring in a psych patient who hadn’t been taking her medication.  He had all the forms signed, a syringe of drugs and the family on side.  It was going to be easy he said. Why did he bring the drugs and what does he want us for if it was going to be easy I thought to myself.  My mate was driving (no one ever  liked me driving, ever  throughout my whole career) and the Doc was in the front.  We parked near the patient’s house and were around the back.  Force of habit.  I saw there were 8 or ten stairs from the level of the backyard to the kitchen and there was no handrail on the stairs.  It was a council house not particularly untidy, not overly neat.

The Doc climbed the stairs first and was met by the patient’s daughter, a woman about my own age.  Mum was in the lounge room, destructive, disorientated, delusional and dazed.  In we walked, hi, hello, we moved into non aggressive stance but took up positions of safety which could quickly escalate to positions of dominance or afford a path of retreat.  She was sitting in a Jason recliner rocker, an original Lay-Z-Boy, muttering and wringing her hands.  The Doctor started doing his patter about having to go back to the ward, how she should behave and take her medication and not up-set her family, you know: he was reasoning with a mad woman.  The Doc was getting nowhere, his patter was now prattle, it was like trying to teach a pig to whistle, it wastes your time and annoys the pig.  And she was starting to get annoyed. 

In step the bully boy coppers, “okay love you’re going to have to come with us” (What is it about uniform police attending to delusional, paranoid people – isn’t our very presence justification of their fantasies, I mean by this stage the cops are out to get them.)  Millie moved in, I gave the area a quick scan and spotted a heavy cut glass ash tray sitting on a table next to her right hand and quickly reached for it.  But not quick enough!  In a flash she’d grabbed it and struck Millie over the side of the head, knocking his hat off.  He loved wearing those stupid hats.  A bit shaken, we both took hold of the patient.  Now bear in mind she is the same age as my mum, the same build, the same clothing, her daughter the same age as me, and we were setting up to wrestle with her.  I took hold of the arm with the ashtray and leaned my body into her.  Bit of a half arsed arm bar to stop her swinging about and hurting herself or us.  Because she was quite mad, she did exhibit a bit of unusual strength for a lady of her age and build, but all in all we were trying very, very hard not to hurt her or let her hurt herself.  By the time the Doc got his finger out of his arse and prepped his syringe full of dream juice, she was quite agitated and my face was a few centimetres from her late middle aged, fleshy upper arm. And that’s just where the Doctor plunged this needle in.  Now I’m not too squeamish about getting injections, I can simply turn my head and not look, but this was right in front of my face, no where else for me to look and it was intramuscular as well so it took a while to go in.  She whimpered a bit but started to settle right down. 

After five or six minutes, the Doctor gave us the okay to move her to the car.  I still don’t know why we didn’t use the front door.  We helped her to stand up and the daughter came up clucking and straightening her clothing and hair.  Poor woman was quite distraught.  We walked her out, the Doctor leading the way, Millie to the left or her, me to the right.  We got through the kitchen okay, I had asked the daughter to move anything that might tempt her to hit or stab us with.  And eventually the door.  As we were negotiating the steps the kindly grandmother time her strike to perfection.  She took a half step, which I felt then stuck her leg out against  Millie’s as it was coming down onto a step.  She used the least amount of effort to produce the greatest result.  Millie’s leg buckled and he started, very slowly to fall off the stairs to the backyard below.  I had the opportunity to say . “Millie” pause whilst I watch him fall “Millie” as he is still falling and then “Millie” he’s just got to be on the ground by now.  “Are you okay?”  I had cocked my fist and was about to beat the poor old dear into unconsciousness to go and assist my fallen comrade, but from below my line of vision came a weak, “I’m okay”  The old biddy had a smirk on her face and fairly chortled as I dragged her down the rest of the steps.  Millie had got up by this stage and we escorted the dear to the police car without any further incident.  Millie was driving (again) and I was in the back with mum.  Good old Doctor was in the front as far from her as he could get.  I put the seat belt on her and gave her a quick visual once over for weapons that she may have picked up but she had none.  The car started off and got 50 metres before the Doctor felt secure enough to turn around and peak to the patient.  He barely got a word out before as quick as a flash the old dear reach down grabbed on of her thongs and slapped the Doctor in the middle of his face snapping his glasses in half at the bridge of his nose.  Very quick, very funny, I just turned and looked at her and she had a gleeful, crazed look on her face and I just could help laughing with her.

1996. A man lost his 21 year old daughter, (I don’t wish to say who the man was but he was a person, someone alive and loving, someone who cared and loved, cried, tried and would have died for his daughter, the girl in this story.  A fellow policeman).  The girl had been run over at a intersection, at a shopping centre, hit by a car and thrown to the road.  It wasn’t the drivers fault but that fact didn’t really help anyone.  It was just after lunchtime , the sky had been lightly overcast and it was cool with a bit of a breeze from the south.  A mild winter weekend.

She had been with her best friend at the bridal boutique, having the final fitting of her bridesmaid gown and her friend’s bridal gown.  They came out of the shops, all giggles and smiles, enjoying themselves, talking twenty to the dozen.  Holding each other in delight they ran across the lights without looking at anything other them themselves without a care in the whole world.  What could go wrong?  One was hit, the other wasn’t.

The girl was carried 20 or 30 metres up the road.  She never knew what had hit her.

The bride ran over to her friend but there was nothing to be done, an impact over 40 kilometres an hour is marginally survivable and this was a 60 zone.

I arrived a shortly after the first police.  The intersection was closed down.  A damaged car was stopped just past the intersection and a covered body behind it.  A crowd had gathered and was milling about doing what crowds always do, leering, being titillated and shocked at the same time.  It was someone else’s misfortune not theirs.

I was told by the local police that the ambulance refused to transport the girl’s body because ‘we don’t transport dead people’ and the government contractors (the body snatchers) were out of the area but wouldn’t be long.  It was a state of affairs I had never come across before.  I told the senior local officer to fix it.

I’d been working for a half hour or so at the scene when a gentleman emerged from the crowd of on lookers.  I recognized from my days in the drug squad.  I have a good memory for faces but this guy had Jerusalem tattooed across his forehead, so he was pretty recognisable.  He was somewhat agitated but spoke coherently and had a good point.  He wanted to know why the poor girl was still lying on the road.  Good God I thought, I turned and cringed, she was still there, covered sure enough but still there.  Why did it take a certified lunatic to point out what obviously should have been done sooner.  The local wallies hadn’t given a fuck, they’d washed their hands of it, the Crash Unit here, they can take care of it.  Later, I even had to notify the girls parents. 

I’d asked the locals to arrange a very limited number of things, one of which was to have the girl moved and they didn’t bother and I got too busy and failed to check.  So I apologized to Mr Jerusalem and called the rescue squad and had them do the right thing and move the poor girl off the road.  After a while the body snatchers turned up and took her to hospital.

I met mum and dad and the rest of the family at the hospital and broke the bad news, whoever rang them originally had just said to go to the hospital as she’d been in a car accident.  It came with a sicken sense of loss when they saw me.  The dad was a cop and as soon as he saw me he imagined the worst and it came true.  My unit had garnered the nickname ‘the death police’.

It could be a loathsome job.

Mid 90’s. I had to tell a family that their husband and father had died on the way to work one morning and he was at fault.  He’d looked away from the road while getting an apple from his lunchbox and driven under a truck, effectively but not neatly decapitating himself. 

The car kept going under the truck and out the other side eventually stopping when it hit the gutter fifty metres or so up the street.  The body was still in the car and his hand clutching the apple.  When I got there it had been covered over with a tarpaulin. 

When I finished the investigation and it was time to move the body, we surrounded the car by holding up a screen to stop the ghouls from leering at it.  When the decapitated corpse was uncovered, the little police woman next the me gasped and took an involuntary step backwards in shock (it was really bad), her crusty old Sergeant reached past me and grabbed her by the shoulder, dragging her forward and said, “Come on, you’ve got to get used to it”, I was thinking to myself “No, no she doesn’t.  She still has to do her job but she does not have to get used to it.”  It was then I noticed the older Sergeant’s Peer Support Officer’s badge, so much for that.

Anyway one of the family (the widows brother) was nominated by them as the contact point.  He was the one I spoke to in relation to the investigation and kept update and he was the one who told the rest – nothing, absolutely nothing as it worked out.  So when I spoke to the wife it was with due pause and sympathy, I expressed my condolences and during the course of the conversation I learned that the gutless bastard of a brother hadn’t told her a thing. 

She thought someone was going to hit the dock over her husband’s death.  I had originally told her it looked as if her husband was at fault but this was even before his funeral, I doubt she could have remembered it and since then she hadn’t been updated at all by her brother. 

I arranged a meeting and spent 4 long and arduous hours going over everything with the wife, her brother (the gutless one) and the sister in law.  The wife took it all well-ish but the sister in law!  In a shrill Irish screech she called me evil, a devil and hoped the same thing happened to my family, and afterwards the phone calls started.  Even at the coronial inquiry, the sister in law was attacking me personally even though I was simply a messenger, their barrister (duly instructed to have a personal attack on me) had a go but was half hearted and shut down by the State Coroner. 

I’d’ve cursed the sister in law like she cursed me but I suppose she was only grieving.

I put the lights and sirens and drove quickly to the address, turning them off a hundred metres or so from the house. I had only just been issued the new Glock pistol. After 20 years of being used to the old Smith and Wessons in the crappy clamshell holsters, I found I couldn’t draw the new one as quickly. No such problem now.

The house was in the middle of a line of about 20, two level, brick, terrace houses. I was greeted with a woman lying on her back, half in half out the door, bleeding profusely. She was in shock not moving barely breathing. Another lady, a neighbour was lying next to her applying pressure on some of the bigger wounds, that lady’s husband was next to them protecting them as best he could. “Where is he?” He pointed and chocked out, “Kids.”

What do you do? Contain and negotiate? The man had just chopped his wife up and went back into the house to the kids.

Commission houses are small with nowhere to hide on the ground floor. Back up was still making its way, “It a bloody Sunday – move it!” I may have said that aloud. Going up stairs is always awkward in this instance, walking backwards gun pointing in the air but I got to the landing okay. Bathroom and three bedrooms was the usual configuration of these little boxes. I found the three kids in the first room, cowering under the covers of a bed and quietly got them out the back door so they didn’t have to step over their mother. I handed them over to neighbours who told me they had seen the father running away. I diverted the backup and then just for completeness cleared the rest of the house.

My ploy with the sirens had worked and the father had run away when he heard them, after he had herded the kids into the one room. I can only think the worst as to why the children had been collected there. Luckily people doing bad things nearly always know they are doing bad things and POQ when they hear the coppers coming.

The hubby got caught and eventually killed himself in gaol.

Oh yes, and it was Mother’s Day.

During that time, the early 90′s, we caught wind of an Albanian – Benny the Ball.  A high value target reputed to have murdered and buried a whole choir of competitors and potential informants, out in the drifting sand dunes of Bundeena and Kurnell.  And since he was a man of varied tastes, the rumours of some bodies interred in the Botany sand dunes, was also taken quite seriously.

We were able to get a police undercover operative in close contact with Benny.  Now, as you may have gathered, Benny was a violent person.  He had reputedly got away with murder in his home country and was building quite a reputation in the underworld of his adopted country.  He did not back down to competition and did not take well to ‘grasses’.  He was a large and aggressive criminal who thought nothing of topping the competition, crushing his underlings and thought cops were like toll booth operators, throw them some money and don’t even slow down.

So the electronic and physical surveillance of Benny the Ball and his inner circle, began.  This was just after he was charged with murder (and bailed … gee that happened a lot, piss weak judges and magistrates letting the turds back on the streets literally, literally before the police had finished their paperwork – but then again through equally piss weak and traitorous coppers, the entire prosecution failed).  The murder was of a competitor in a strip club.  Benny got shot in the process.  The investigation into the murder was later found to be faulty and Ball was not convicted.  But back to what we were doing.

Oscillating between the Rockslavia, Melbourne and Bondi, we kept a close eye on the taker, the breaker and the maker.

I knew the cop really well.  We came to the DEA at the same time, our careers matched to a point, we both loved the job and were both good at it.  I know why he did the undercover bit too.   If it was my turn, I would have too … but fuck, it was dangerous.

Through surveillance, we got the goods on Benny.  Scared the absolute shite out of a supergrass in the process, but justice prevailed and we arrested Benny the Ball.

The Special Weapons people were organised for the ‘take down’, it was too dangerous for us poor agents.  They had been told by the minister, (that’s how much interest had been generated through the investigation) not to take any chances,  the target has reputedly murdered 5 people and was on bail for the murder of a 6th.  A police officer and a valuable informant were at risk.  Take no chances.

Needless to say the Special Weapons guys were wandering around in an ‘inflamed’ state.  They’d been given a hunting license.  If Benny’s hands went out of sight, it was likely he would die.

Anyway, the take down was organised by the SWOS, and because of the operational contingencies, the location was flexible.  Eventually the ‘take down’ took place on the Cumberland Highway, just past the Smithfield Tavern, next to a bit of vacant ground.

The convoy of surveillance and support vehicles and cars with SWOSes and bosses stretched for miles in front and behind the target vehicle.  Eventually the boss cockey of the Special Weapons decided enough was enough and brought a halt to the caravan …. why this was in front of the Smithfield Tavern, I never got to ask.

I was about a mile behind the arrest when it happened, so I never saw anything.  I wasn’t really important in the scheme of things, I was tasked with interviewing The Ball, not about the offences. We knew he had been instructed by his ‘brief’ enough not to say much and had heaps on tape, all we needed was to get him talking on video tape.

As soon as the arrest went down, the Cumberland Highway was shut, cars and armed police all over the place.  Now, as I was the one interviewing him, he wasn’t going to be moved from where he was until I said so.  From the time of the pinch until he was bailed, I had the say so about his movements.  Pity I was a mile away and the traffic was frozen.

I drove the shitty Mazda ‘Bongo’ van I’d been in as close as I could and then abandoned it on the side of the road and ran the rest of the way.  I met up with the other interviewer and we jogged to the arrest site.  We could see ahead of us Ball’s car stopped at an angle on the roadway, skewered by the high intensity light beam of the Police helicopter.  The overhead power lines were vibrating and swishing in the down wash, rotor blades thumping in the night making our chests vibrate and hair swirl in the air, building the intensity of the bust.  Benny the Ball was easily visible, a large shadow, spread eagled on the roadway surrounded by a semi-circle of Special Weapons Operators, guns at port arms.

As we went past the pub, someone fell out and yelled, “What’s happened man?”  Quick as a flash my offside said, “Someone fell out of the helicopter.”  And we kept on running.  Even after 15 years, I wish I’d thought of that line.

Ball had been dragged out of the car, never once hiding his hands from the special weapons people.  He was handcuffed by the time I got there.  Big wrists, I mean BIG wrists behind his back.  He was in quite a bit of discomfort, but there was nothing I could do, they were the biggest handcuffs we had.  So off we went to the Crime Commission Offices.

“I’m not going to tell you anything” exclaimed the Ball.  “That’s okay” I said.

“My solicitor, he say ‘Benny, you talk too much, whenever you get caught for anything you talk too much’ so I say okay, next time I say nothing, so I say nothing.” and so it went.

We reached the Commission and took Benny to the interview room.  Bear in mind how little I actually knew of the operation.  Sure, I’d done surveillance, was a good mate of the operative and had had dealings with the giveup.  I’d even photocopied the money and dogged the crook to and from the airport.  But I didn’t know the ins and outs of when the offers and actual supplies that had taken place.  I was just the pretty boy there to get the big guy to talk on video.

We sat down in the brightly lit room.  The video recording equipment behind the mirror glass, cool air blowing down on us.  It was, kinda, then, that I noticed the gravel rash that had taken off half the skin of Benny’s face.  I knew I would have to ask him about that at some stage.  So on we went, the usual: time, date, place, name, address, relatives, reason for arrest , then … argh … Benny decided it  was time to tell me how he knew that ‘fucken bastard’ was a informer, a dog “I keel heem, fukin fukin, I keel heem ded.”  Crap, he was talking.  I’ll have to ask him about the operation!  You know, the one I didn’t know all that much about.

I asked him some  half arsed questions about supplying a kilo or so heroin to which he replied equally half arsed.  I asked him about the shooting at the night club where he’d been shot.  ‘Why did he shoot you?” I asked,  “May be” said Benny, “he didn’t like me.” And then I was stuck with putting it to him about the 10 kilos he had offered our undercover officer.  His reticence in replying impelled me to offer, “Benny you told me earlier that your solicitor told you to say nothing as you always say too much, is that correct?” To which he replied,”Yes I always say too much.”  “Okay”, I cut him off, “End of interview.  But before we go, can you tell me how you got those marks on yours face?”  indicating the gouges on his cheek.  The big bastard looked me straight in the eye, grinned and said,”I cut myself shaving.”

Good crook.

Anyway Benny eventually went to gaol for the heroin, though he did get off the shooting at Kingscross.

We left New York City on the Amtrak.  We made our way to Boston.  About 2/3rds of the way there we realised we were running behind time by half an hour and so approached the conductor.  He said he’d see what he could do and, unbelievably for us, the train accelerated to 155 Miles an hour which was 250 kilometres an hour to us and we ended up being only 10 minutes late.  Neat service.

Anyway it ended up we still had to run for the bus to catch it.

When we got there, they were having a dispute about whether they should jamb everyone on the one bus or get another.  They got another and we headed to Portland a bit late.

Once we got to Portland we knew we would have to get a taxi to Brunswick (25 miles) and it would cost about 60 bucks.  Ninety freeking dollars later and dropped off in the wrong place by the non English speaking Somali driver, we reached Brunswick.  A brisk kay and a half march brought us to the railway station.  We were late and anxious, sweaty and frustrated.  I had timed and checked everything.  I knew we’d see coast and forest and alls sorts of bits from the train, if it was on time.  We say a lot of the Maine night but the ladies in the Pullman carriage were sweet and entertaining.

Once we got to Rockland (Payton Place was set there) we made our way to Berry House Manor.  Our host showed use around and unveiled the marvellous home made pies we could help ourselves to and then escorted us to our boudoir.

It was about then the truck hit the 3 power poles and blacked out the entire town for 6 hours.

We didn’t see our room until day light the next day, but it was nice anyway.

The next day was a typical Maine day, sunny skies, calm sea.  After an odd breakfast partially consisting of maple syrup flavoured chicken sausage, we went out on the bay on a sloop.  The 50-60degree angle of the deck was a bit disconcerting for Sue but otherwise it was an exceptional cruise.  We each had a boiled lobster for tea that night.  What is it when a restaurateur wants you to make friends with the live lobster just before they kill it and you eat it????   The brought both lobsters out of the tank and introduced them to us.  All but gave them names!!

Anyway the next day was a typically Maine.  Hurricane Billy hit.  Wind everywhere, rain everywhere.  The umbrella had hinged vents that popped open during gusts.  Miserably wet but we hit the galleries, wine shop (I scored a bottle of really top NZ Sav Blanc for about the same price as in Oz.  Very happy about that) and cafes.  After NYC the sandwich I had was a) civilised, b) proportional c) sensible and d) adequate.  A nice change.

We left on the train the next day and caught a cab for 50 which was less than the expected $60.  The scenery was very green and wet and only just starting to turn into fall colours.

That was Maine.  The trip to Boston was very nice with great service and comfortable old fashioned seats.  I’ll send about Boston and NYC later.

We have just left Sitka heading for Katchacan, Alaska.  The announcement from the Captain about the weather was a bit ominous.  He explained how the ship was supposed to creak and groan in a bad weather and how the ‘enormous energies of the storm’ are diverted by the ship. ???  WTF, what am I in for?

It works out I am in for 130 kilometre per hour winds coming in off the North Pacific.  It works out I am in for 10 METRE seas coming from the same place.  T.E.N .. METRE SEAS.  My cabin (okay … StateRoom) is only 20 meters from sea level.  Hang on … 130 kilometres an hour winds, and we are travelling directly into the wind at 22.5 knots, which is 45 kilometres a hours or thereabouts which makes it .. let me see .. er .. twelve  ..  and carry the one … A HUNDRED AND SEVENTY FIVE FRICKEN KILOMETER AN HOUR WINDS  … 

To while away the hours before we died, we went and listened to the string quartet near the piano lounge.   They asked for requests, but nothing from Titanic “it’s like yelling ‘BOMB’ in the airport lounge” they told me.  So I discovered I liked Canadian Rye.

Comfortably numb, I faced the brutal easterly smashing into the fragile hull of the USS Enterprise Westerdam with fortitude and decorum. 

I await our fate.

We arrived in the beautiful city of Vancouver in one piece, actually two pieces but one piece individually. You get what I mean ‘eh? We were met by our youngest son who has moved over to Canadia in search of the answer to the question of the meaning of life. We were both very happy to see him.

The three of us went to a steak restaurant called the Saltlik. The waitstaff insisted I have the “Californian New York Cut” steak medium rare. I balked but was assured I would enjoy it. A Californian New York Cut is, I am assured, a bigger better New York Cut with the fat trimmed off it.

Anyway this huge lump of cow was wheeled out and with some trepidation I cut into it. I was expecting pulsing blood but instead had one of the best pieces of non-home cooked animal I’ve ever had.

We toured the city with the child but eventually our time with him ran out and he returned to Calgary. His mum was upset.

Other places we went in Vancouver included the sea front restaurants and coffee shops. They make good use of the area and have nice parks.

The organized tour started on day 3 in Vancouver (named after some British military bloke). We were taken around much the same places we had already been. Needless to say we couldn’t find that souvenir we’d spotted earlier but travelling is like that, to save carrying something around the rest of the country the purchase is deferred until later but later we can never find the thing we first saw.

The next day we were ushered onto the Rocky Mountaineer gold leaf train.

The journey was amazing (the over night stop at Kamloops was not so amazing but good in a hokey kind of way) even the rain during the trip seemed special, but Good Grief there are a lot of rocks and trees and water.  I keep saying “What a great place to grow a tree”  but no one laughs.  The trains appointments were first rate and the service exemplary.

Two days later we arrived in Banff at a magnificent term of the last Century edifice, built with old Rail Road money. Sue went gondola-ing and I floated down the river on an inflated canoe. CJ came over from Calgary again and we met up with the princess and her mother. Her mum seemed very nice and we half organized a visit for next Xmas.

It was after this we were introduced to our bus. It isn’t a coach, or even luxury touring omnibus. It’s just a bus, the type you get on for a transfer to or from the airport. The disquiet in the group was palpable. I shudder to think how many shekels I and the good wife have forked out for this ‘once in a life time experience.’ I am wondering why I didn’t guts up and try and drive on the wrong side of the road instead of having to travel in such cramped and mediocre conditions.

The tour guide “director” as she prefers, is a bit lost on our reaction. “Just sit where you want” she insists. FFS . By day 3 the ‘Mosman’s’ (where they come from not their name) were asked to vacate the front seats they had claimed as their right, they were the only one with any view and any leg room. And still she dithered.

Unfortunately the crappy bus and disorganized state of the ‘director’ became the main topic of conversation. Due to complaints about the bus, the driver or ‘guide’ as he likes to be referred to started getting smarmy insisted that there were no better buses available because the company is busy. The good wife put her hand on my arm to restrain me. No better buses available because the company was too busy, well hang on, why isn’t the company too busy for me? I distinctly remember paying a shit load of money for this privilege.

Enough.

The scenery is fantastic but Good Grief there are a lot of trees and rocks and water. The hotels are beyond reproach and our company of Allsort tourists are generally very approachable and not averse to a little drinky-poo at close of business.

The wild life has been a bit thin on the ground. Everyone is hanging out to see a bear (I personally don’t want to get too close to any Ursines). They have big teeth, big claws andI’m pretty damned sure they are not just there for eating honey and berries with.

I spotted an Elk, rather hard to miss actually as they too are really, really big. According to locals, if one is chasing you, hide behind a tree. Yup they are that dumb, once they loose sight of you they stop chasing you. Though I’m not going to try it.

Sue spotted a moose walking through a lake. Again an enormous animal, we later saw a man walking in the same spot and he was very small in comparison.  I now have a lot of respect for moose mums. They calf on islands in lakes so they can see approaching danger from 360degrees. If they see a bear approaching they’ll swim out and drown it. Moose v Bear. Moose wins.

We celebrated Sue’s 50th birthday on the 14th. As she said it was the best we could have had without the rest of the family. Thank goodness for the internet.

We are at Sun Peak (they changed the name from Death Mountain because they thought it wouldn’t attract the customers!). Another exceptional hotel. The tour director seems to have got her act together a bit better, but the ‘guide’ is driving the bus like a novice.

I think we’ve been on the road for 42 days and I am missing home and the kids.

Cioa for now.