Collingwood Flat

Collingwood Flat

By Keith McTaggart

Copyright 2018 Keith McTaggart

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design SelfPubBookCovers.com/Yinfinityang

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Acknowledgements

About Keith McTaggart

Alex and the Submarine - free sample chapter

One

It kept its shape as it fell. A tongue of vile liquid from the chamber pots plunged towards its target. Mick Conlon had stepped nimbly around a huge pothole, straight into its path. The denizens of The Flat had finely honed senses, however. Conlon’s were sharper than most. Another quick skip sideways meant that only a few drops splashed his boots.

A raucous cackle from Annie’s veranda directly above vibrated his eardrums harshly.

‘Nilly gotcha dat time, Sneaky!’ the navvy Irish accent grated rather than lilted.

‘Oh and a foine upstandin’ evening to your loveliness, me darlin’ young colleen’, Conlon called back over his shoulder. He kept his eyes on the hazardous street surface in front of him however and kept striding on.

A screech of scornful laughter from the painted old whore barely reached him through the gabble and rumble and squealing all about. Annie’s mum Myf – retired strumpet and brothel keeper – could still blister paint with her voice.

It paid to watch your step on Collingwood Flat, where thousands lived armpit to elbow in a slum in unconscious mimicry of ‘back home’ – of Belfast, of Glasgow, of London and of scores of cities in Europe. Of course the stench was richer here, where the summer heat brewed an especially vile miasma. Only hope made Melbourne different to the old world cities. Many of its citizens still retained dreams of bettering themselves in this early new year of 1860.

The summertime dusty lanes straggled around buildings. A few were solid and two-storey like Annie’s Bar and Brothel, but most were just shacks, usually scavenged metal sheets nailed over reclaimed timber. Much of the timber had been reclaimed before the original owner even knew he’d finished with it. Sewers and drains were easy to spot. Wherever you were, you were standing in one. The dust was winning the battle however, against the occasional spot wetting from discarded slops. After a baking hot summer it would be well into April before autumn showers settled the dust and softened some of the rock hard wheel ruts and ridges in the clay surface. Solid and persistent spring rain would not fall until October. Then the Flat would flood. Receding water would clear the sewage and waste from the lanes, but would leave a different mess, still stinking, but different nevertheless. A few of the shack poor managed to crawl up the social slope away from the shanty town on the river flat. Most didn’t.

But Conlon had a paying job tonight and forged on, keeping his brown boots and second hand tweed suit as clean as he could. He spoke occasionally to acquaintances or contacts. Many others nodded to the tall stocky Irishman and most smiled. He was well known and liked on the Flat.

‘G’day mate!’; ‘Howyergoin’ cobber?’ or ‘Evenin’, sir!’ he fired out, depending on the degree of acquaintance or the social station of those he met. The theatrical Irish accent he kept in storage for the entertainment of a few or to mislead when necessary. His normal voice was deep, but a little flat and nasal like those around him, softened by a gentle Irish burr. Melbourne’s street accent was a stew of Cockney, Irish, Scots and Geordie, spiced by the tongues of travellers and seamen from the ports of the world.

He was on his way to meet his regular employer, one of the local silvertails, to find out the details of his task. This aristocrat, Aloysius Hardy, was not to be found in Burke’s Peerage, however. Importance in and around the Flat was not determined by birthright so much as deathright – competitors removed were rungs on the ladder. Progress up the ladder, made the climber a more visible target in turn. Hardy, knowing he was now a target, probably wanted extra shielding. Conlon believed that he was legging it up the gentle slope of Vere Street from the stink of Collingwood Flat to do what he usually did, bodyguard the boss.

As he approached Hardy’s house, he saw a higher proportion of substantial houses in each block he passed. The hundreds of original shacks were being displaced as some citizens prospered. Each larger house meant three or four shacks had been demolished and perhaps twenty people had been forced to seek shelter elsewhere. Several houses boasted a patch of lawn and a few European trees – dry grass and sickly trees after the long summer, but what status symbols they were.

A footpath began to separate from the road on either side as he walked along Vere Street. These were social climbing footpaths, not constructed – the new solid houses seemed entitled to footpaths, so pedestrians kept to the sides and horses to the centre. The more level surface meant that Conlon did not need to watch his step so carefully which was just as well, facing the low setting sun which was still Australia bright.

Conlon left Vere Street after by-passing the imposing double frontage of Hardy’s brick house. He turned from Campbell Street into Fire Alley and shook the gate in the six feet high corrugated iron fence that formed the dead end.

‘Oy Bill, it’s me!’

‘Comin’, Conlon!’ croaked the old codger who minded the gate in exchange for a warm shed to call home. They’d dug Bill out of the collapsed shaft at Pennyweight Creek but not before his leg had shattered and his lungs had filled with the dust that he still tried to cough out every morning. Conlon tossed him a copper and walked up three steps to the back porch. The door was swung open as he reached it, he took two paces in, stopped and held his arms up so he could be patted down.

Sheltie did it, nodded and led the way through the large kitchen into the passage way and through the parlour door after knocking. Posed in front of the fireplace with its bouquet of dried flowers was the most successful rung climber of Conlon’s acquaintance. Gang leader Hardy could be trusted, within limits. The boss paid well for services received – he respected that Conlon chose not to break the law – stretch it, maybe, but not break it. Some of Hardy’s other sub-contractors, Conlon knew, were not so choosy. They had pursued their apprenticeships – burglary, stand-over tactics, degrees of assault and battery, or murder. A very few had passed through to become tradesmen criminals working for Hardy – they formed the inner circle. Mick Conlon was not a member of this closed group. He was a loyal, but independent subcontractor by comparison – well liked but not entirely accepted, the price he was happy to pay to retain some freedom, of choice and from prison.

#

‘Evenin’ boss, need some bodyguardin’?’ Conlon asked. The man in the velvet smoking jacket pointed at a chair and said ‘Sit, Conlon!’ Amazed, Conlon did as instructed. In dozens of visits to this room he had never once been asked to sit. Accept orders and leave was the standard script. Hardy took the chair opposite Conlon on the other side of the fireplace and stretched his feet towards the dead flowers.

‘Madigan needs killin’ Conlon.’

‘Ah, then ye’ve better men than me to do it, boss. In fact I won’t!’ Conlon leaned forward with the heel of his right hand braced on the arm of the old club chair and started to rise.

‘For Christ’s sake shut up Mick! I only said he deserves to be a dear departed. Not that I want it done. In fact, I badly need him to stay alive. That’s where you come in.’

Conlon sat back down, leaned forward and opened his mouth but restrained himself and shut it again. Hardy would get around to issuing orders in his own time. The boss cracked a small smile at Conlon’s discomfort and went on.

‘I need to become known as a legitimate businessman, Mick. At this stage the change to legitimacy is being funded in the time-honoured manner out of necessity. Our only serious competition on Collingwood Flat, Madigan’s gang, is in the same boat. Madigan is striving for honest citizen status while living off the two pro’s, prostitution and protection.

‘Unfortunately, Sunday night’s burglary at the shoe factory made the coppers suspicious. It’s been spread around that Reilly sandbagged the caretaker. How word got out, I haven’t a clue. Tongue loosening twopenny gin I suspect, but it is commonly known that Reilly works for me. If a hint of my involvement in anything but church and charity gets around, I’ll be confronting the beak, not being put up for clubs. Any public hint of a connection with crime, especially murder, will scupper my plans. So while I would love Madigan to be dead, I desperately need him to stay alive. That’s up to you.’

Conlon sat speechless for a moment, a rare event.

‘So I go down to Madigan’s in Marine Street and ask him to let me be his bodyguard. He won’t …’

‘Of course not, Conlon you lummox. He’d have you swimmin’ the Yarra draggin’ a boulder by dawn. I want you to guard him without him knowing. It won’t be easy.’

Irish understatement always shouted. In a people much inclined to comedic over emphasis, understatement was more startling than exaggeration.

‘I’ll start now, then.’ Conlon’s response was tentative. Hardy stood and warmed his buttocks at the fire.

‘Look, Mick, I have Hanlon round at Madigan’s keeping an eye out from a distance. The man’s own gaff is safe, I reckon. Just get around there early and follow and protect him when he’s out and about. What help do you need?’

‘The Angel Gabriel might be useful, but seriously, all of your usual lot are too well known to Madigan’s mob – I’ll use a couple of friends of mine to help out, if you’ll pay them. Besides, Sheltie, Murphy and the boys are more expert at extinguishing the flame of life than keeping it burning.’

‘Do a good job, Conlon, please. Tell your boys I’ll pay them and tell them how important it is. I know you can be relied on.’ With his last words, Hardy turned away dismissively and as Conlon struggled out of his deep chair, he saw Hardy lean on the mantelpiece as though bearing a heavy weight on his shoulders. It was clearly not his conscience troubling him. Giving up crime for business must be more difficult than he’d thought.

#

‘That must be leadership’, Mick Conlon thought as he strolled homewards down the slight hill in the deepening darkness, an envelope with a cash advance tucked in his jacket pocket. ‘He wants me to do the impossible but has confidence in me. He might not be the brightest candle in the church, but he does try to lead us, as well as boss us round.’

The streets and lanes were much rougher as he came to the river flat, but sloped less and he walked through a ground mist that came up to mid-thigh. As he disturbed it, the damp emitted a stink of street muck and escaped fumes from long-drop privies in the back yards of dwellings. God alone knew what he was stepping in. Conlon was too wary of ankle damage to worry about dung on his now invisible boots. His route was lined either side with shacks in various states of disrepair and occasional small brick factories. Cottages were sparse. Occasional pale slivers of light edged past curtains or under doors, but Conlon navigated mainly by memory. Just short of his own laneway, he ducked through a gap between two of the rare solid buildings and called softly.

‘Gul, are you there? Gul, wake up!’

An exasperated grunt and a thunderous fart sounded in the darkness.

‘Conlon, I go to bed early because I get up early. I get up early to avoid getting my black arse kicked by the owner of this salubrious abode. He very generously allows me to sleep in his store shed because he doesn’t know I’m using his property as a campsite.’

‘Well that fart will dob on you – it’ll hang around until noon, by my reckoning. I’m glad you get up early though, Gul. Meet me at Wang’s Café at six – I have a job for you. It’s a nice gentle piece of unobtrusive watching.’

‘Unob … what?’

‘Don’t play dumb with me, you blackfeller you! I know about the Reverend’s school and the ridiculous number of unnecessary books you’ve read. Besides, I’m the Irish one and dumb Irish trumps dumb blackfeller any day.’

A sleepy chuckle, now once more muffled by bedding, emerged followed by ‘At least I have to act stupid. See you at six.’

‘Righto, if you see Scratcher, bring him too.’

Scratcher of course wouldn’t need to be summoned. He could sense Conlon entering a café with money in his pocket from a dead sleep two miles away. Weary now, but still careful of ankle twisting wheel ruts and resigned to stepping in horse, human or dog excrement, the trusted bodyguard worried himself towards home. The streets were quieter now except round Raucous Annie’s Bar and Brothel. At least he needn’t dodge upstairs bucket loads from her mum now. She would be ensconced on her stool at the end of the bar, well away with the home-distilled gin – the classy one of course, not the sight destroyer they gave the punters.

Annie was seeing off some clients and she beckoned as he passed her impressive front doorway. He paused, waved and blew her a kiss. ‘I’ve got an early job, and besides, you know it’s your mother I truly yearn for.’ Annie laughed and said something over her shoulder that raised a repeat shriek, slightly mellower than the one from earlier in the evening, only penetrating enough this time to raise half of the dead in the Carlton Graveyard.

Annie took a step forward to the edge of her porch and beckoned again, with more urgency. Conlon knew an instruction when he saw it, even in a gesture. He turned back and Annie drew him into the shadowed side of the portico.

‘Tired you may be Michael Conlon, but not too tired for a goodnight kiss I’m thinking." Amazingly, the gentle grip on his forearms had banished his fatigue. He leaned forward and their lips touched in a chaste goodnight kiss, but a moment later his tongue tip darted between Annie’s lips to meet her tongue. With great precision, his left hand slipped from the barricade of her corseted waist up on to the thin material covering her breast. A buzz of sensation fired from her tongue tip to the breast and beyond.

‘Mick, we are virtually on the street!’

‘Dear heart I’ll see you tomorrow. I must sleep. Good night.’

The pair disengaged slowly and he backed away reluctantly, already sagging back into exhaustion. It had been a very long day.

Ten minutes later, Conlon was snoring peacefully to himself, wondering in his dreams if the Angel Gabriel would be joining them for breakfast at Wang’s. He could certainly use some extra help with his assignment.

#

‘Sir, please point that gun away from me’, pleaded the sorrowful looking Smith.

‘Only if I get a satisfactory explanation for you waking me with a great shock and babbling bluster, otherwise I will shoot you and worry about the consequences in the morning. What serious problem forces me from bed at this hour?’ Madigan’s huge frame managed to look imposing even in a nightshirt. The pistol was hardly necessary as a quick backhander would have put skinny Smith down. Madigan had become fleshy with good living but the great square Irish head had a black mop of unruly hair and the glowing red face below it had always signalled passion, from his earliest schoolyard fights onward.

‘Mr Madigan, there is nothing serious going on. It’s just that Hanlon’s keepin’ an eye on us from a long way up the street,’ reported Smiffy, as he was widely known. ‘I wouldn’a known at all but Late Kate tipped off Lee on the way home after her last customer. I thought you better know straight away, like.’

‘Aaah well, there is not much we can do that we aren’t already doing. Just keep an eye out and remind all the boys to stay sharp. If that turd Hardy wants me dead he’ll have to get to me. Oh and give Lee a half crown for himself and one for Kate. It might be a good investment in my survival to be generous at the moment.’

Norman Stanley Madigan, pillar of the community of East Collingwood and seriously bent citizen was doing very nicely and did not want to have a power struggle. Besides he had it and should be able to keep it. Upstarts like Hardy had not worked as hard as he had. Murder, beatings, corruption, theft and intimidation could be quite wearing to organise. He returned his revolver to his bedside table and quickly dozed off, a man with no conscience to trouble him.

Two

Perfume filled the air inside Wang’s Café as Conlon entered. The Archangel Gabriel had failed to show up, so it wasn’t the smell of angel dust. Customers could smell rich fumes dispersing from spitting dripping, with dozens of frying bacon rashers and sausages on the steel plate, punctuated by occasional eggs. By leaning over the counter, stool perchers could watch greedily too and give advice, which Wang and his helpers totally ignored. Table customers like Conlon took the cooking of their food on trust, but were still severely tempted to over-order by the enticing aromas.

Tea was easy – the same for all – it came out of great topped-up drums. Some regulars believed Wang only started them afresh each Chinese New Year. Conlon knew this was untrue. His old friend Wang was always too drunk to perform such major duties at New Year. They’d had a laugh about it last week, while they were reminiscing about the violent start to their friendship. The street gang of youths that they had fought off back-to-back had increased in number and ferocity with every re-telling over the years.

Waiting under an oil lamp, still necessary in the dawn gloom, was the day’s first sure bet, past the post at a canter. Scratcher sat at a little wooden table, waving vigorously at him. Wang had given him a cup of tea on the mention of Conlon’s name but was too cagey to produce food without sight of coinage. Wang, like most of the traders around, really liked Scratcher who was always willing to help anyone in need, but he was a street kid after all and it wasn’t all that long since he was nicking apples off street barrows.

‘I won’t ask’, decided Conlon, ‘because Scratcher just knows when and where there’s food. To ask is to doubt.’

‘I’ve ordered, Mick’, said Scratcher confidently.

‘Enough for three, because Gul is coming too?’ Conlon asked.

‘Gul is here’, he announced from behind Conlon.

‘Here’s your food, I’ve had mine. Wang actually trusts me!’ was Gul’s opening dig at Scratcher, but he went on.

‘Eggs probably cause your itches, Scratch’ mate, I could eat it for you if you like. I’m still a bit hungry.’

‘One – they don’t. Two – I’m hungry. Three, you’re not. And four, get stuffed.’

‘All right. All right. Just practising, Scratcher. Keep your skin on. Now what’s this job, oh Irish leader, something safe I hope, it being Friday the Thirteenth.?’

‘Job? What’s this about a job?’ Scratcher managed to squeeze the question out past a brimming mouthful. Amazingly, the food that had looked enticing on a plate moments earlier had been rendered revolting as soon as it passed his lips. His formidable mum would be unimpressed by the sight.

‘There’s no such thing as a free fry-up, lad.’

Conlon issued instructions quickly, ate efficiently but more delicately than Scratcher and departed to relieve Hanlon. He settled with Wang on the way out.

‘You can trust Scratcher you know, Wang,’ was his leaving comment.

‘Oh I do trust him, Mick! I begin trusting him just after he’s paid for his food, every time.’ Wang went chuckling back to his wok. He cooked like a barbarian for the customers, but like a venerable Chinese chef for himself.

#

Annie polished a glass, hip leaning against the zinc counter, a good eighteen inches below the serving bar beyond it. The beer pumping taps projected above the bar. She deposited the glass and automatically selected another to polish. She was thinking of a goodnight kiss, a pleasurable daydream with a memory of a buzz of pleasure, only to be rudely brought back to earth.

‘Gin, now!’

The stale-smelling whiskered wreck before her must have stayed the night upstairs against Annie’s rules. One girl was going to be reminded why she was called Raucous Annie.

‘No, get out! We’re closed!’

‘Do