Honeysuckle Witness

Newcastle was corrupt. Everyone knew it. Not a single person threw straight dice. And those that did, didn’t for very long. You couldn’t live in Newcastle during the 1990’s and not feel it in some way. Those on the outside assumed the immaculate corruption of New South Wales was limited to Sydney. Limited to the scope of the Wood Royal Commission. How could they not? The Luna Park Ghost Train fire of 1979 had cracked open the lid. A fire over land development that took seven people to the afterlife and a trail that supposedly led all the way to the Premier. That tragedy was an eye-opener. But by no means did it even scratch the surface.

Sure, if all you wanted was your cat out of the tree or to file a basic stolen property report that would go nowhere, then everything was hunky dory. But everywhere you looked there was someone doing someone some favour they really shouldn’t. Or collecting on one. Jobs that went to cousins. Government contracts that were given out according to the secret, under-the-table auctions. You wanted your new building approved? Grease the right palms and the building inspectors wouldn’t even bother to make a site visit. You wanted to set up a legitimate business? Avoid the red tape of every little compliance law by sliding a paper bag under a table. Don’t bother with the forms, they’re not even going to be looked at. Stories in the paper died before the ink was even dry. For a little more you could have them print pure fiction as fact. And if you wanted to conduct some nefarious scheme, all you had to do was make provisions for kickbacks when you were planning it. You could even get your own police escort to and from the job if you wanted.

Everyone knew how rotten the state of Denmark was. But I had no idea just how rotten it really was. How bad things had become. I watched men get murdered. Gangland rivalry. Then, the next day I read a totally different story about it in the paper the next day. Then I read that the death was declared a tragic accident. Not even the presence of a bullet in the brain could dissuade the coroner from believing that it was a heart attack. I’m telling you this because I need someone else to know. I need someone else to know it happened, that it’s not just in my head. I’m not asking you to do anything. I don’t want out of this padded room. In here I’m safe. I just need to say it out loud. Just once. I need to tell someone who knows my voice well enough to know when I’m telling the truth. And I need you to understand I didn’t go looking for any of this. I never wanted it. Not this. You have to understand me.

I was a student back then. At university. Studying law. Nothing special, really. I was one of thousands of hopefuls. I spent far more time in the library than I should admit. Mostly because it was one of the few places that was warm and cosy on a cold winters night. My flat didn’t exactly seal out the elements. And besides, my flat-mates were more interested in partying and getting hold of as many party girls as they could than they were interested in studying. Rich families. They knew that no matter what they turned in they’d always get a decent grade. And when it was all done they’d have a place in some high-end firm. I didn’t. I was just trying to get in, then get out quickly and find some place in Sydney to work at. So I found the library comfortable. You knew were you stood there. No shifting alliances. Just rows of books. Buzzing fluoro lights that flickered but never went out. Quiet.

The night it all started was just before closing. Wasn’t unusual for me to be there that late. I’d done my ream of photocopying and had secreted myself down in the depths of the stack for peace and quiet. For hours the only thing I’d hear was the occasional soft announcement over the PA system. In truth I was waiting for the place to close. I’d spent so much time there I knew exactly where to hide and when to avoid the library staff on their final rounds. And after they left the air-conditioning stayed on, it was warm, one of the study rooms had a very comfortable lounge to sleep on and I was cocooned away from the world. This wasn’t rebellion or some teenage prank. It was avoidance. But also solace. I used to look forward to these occasional nights. The only time I was totally free with my thoughts. Didn’t dare do it too often. Didn’t want to get caught. Didn’t want the flat-mates to notice and start up the rumour mill. I just wanted a place that was totally peaceful, quiet and without the relentless humping through the bedroom walls.

I remember the smell first. Slipping through the familiar scents of old paper, dust and the industrial cleaner was some powerful cologne. I didn’t recognise it. Still don’t. But it was popular and someone had drowned themselves in it. Then I heard footsteps that weren’t mine. Definitely not staff. These were men, the staff at the library were fossilised old ladies. Not wanting to be discovered, I quickly and quietly slipped into one of the study rooms. Lights off. Door locked. Blinds down most of the way. I didn’t want to be seen, sure. But in truth I was curious. This was definitely not something I’d expect to see in the restricted section. This hour of the night, I hardly saw or heard a soul. These weren’t students either. Students in the restricted section were almost always like naughty children. Whispering like they’re somewhere they’re not supposed to be and are afraid of getting caught. Talking about theories and the new knowledge they were getting in their subjects. These two men didn’t whisper. They spoke softly, yes. But with the comfort that comes with the assumption the space already belonged to them and them alone.

I stayed still. Occasionally risking a peek out from the crack in the blinds. Listening to them talking through the little vents in the walls. They talked about books at first. Editions. Margins. Something about a copy being “cleaner than expected”. It took me quite a while to realise that they weren’t talking about anything academic. Or even literary, not really. It was a code. Inventory. Jobs. Jobs done, jobs still to do, jobs rated and assessed. They spoke the way people do when they’ve had that same sort of conversation a hundred times over and most of their speech was jargon and shorthand. I peeked again, noticing two men sitting at one of the study tables, facing each other. One got up, his finger running down the spines of the books on the shelf. Finding what he wanted, he brought it back and together they flipped through it. Searching. Finding a slip of paper. One of them laughed. Not loud. Not amused. An acknowledgement.

“Niven won’t like that,” he said. “Syndicate hates surprises”.

That was the first time I heard the name. Spoken, at least. I’d heard rumours. Rumours about some evil criminal mastermind who worked out of Beaumont street. Everyone had. But I’d never heard it said like it was fact. Niven’s Syndicate. He said it like you’d say the weather. Something you had to work around.

“The timing sucks, much better to hit it after the weekend,” said the other man.

“No can do. It’s only there tomorrow night. Overnight holding.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“The only way Niven finds out about it is when someone tells him. His pet coppers won’t be watching the place, not closely enough anyway. He won’t want to draw attention.”

“In and out quick?”

“Exactly. Besides, with the pressure from that new Local Area Commander up from Sydney, Niven will be doing everything he can to avoid trouble. I heard she was planning a giant raid on everybody early next week. Bikies, gangsters, the lot.”

“So why wouldn’t he clear this place?”

“He doesn’t use it for anything more than holding normally. Deliver the goods, smuggle out to sea, gone. If anything they’ll assume it’s just been business as normal. By the time they figure out we’ve hit the place we’ll be long gone.”

“So when do we hit the Honeysuckle warehouse?”

“Tomorrow night. Niven and his lot are going to be far busier elsewhere to be worried about a holding yard.”

I don’t remember their faces. Not really. What stuck with me was the posture. How relaxed they were. How in control of their space, the room. How one of them was always scanning the aisles as they talked. Not panicked, not worried. Just careful. Like counting chairs in a room or checking for exits. It intrigued me, this conversation. It sounded like they were planning to hit Niven’s Syndicate. Relieve it of something valuable. Real life film noir. I have to admit, I was far more curious than I was worried. I had no idea what they were planning to do, or what they were planning to steal. But I knew it had something to do with Honeysuckle. The new development, between the railway lines and the harbour. Along the edge of the harbour was a row of ancient warehouses. Years ago, back when Australia was riding high on the sheep’s back, they were wool stores. Storage for ship-loads of wool bales. Coming in from up the valley, from the big red desert. Baled and waiting for the next ship to export the high grade merino wool overseas. But for years now they’d been neglected. The wool trade had dried up. Made perfect sense for the likes of Niven to have acquired those sheds and used them for smuggling. The harbour police were stretched thin, that’s the ones that weren’t in someone’s pocket. Minutes after loading up, a decent ship could be in international waters and gone. Newcastle is a proper international harbour after all.

I should’ve let the words die, let them fade from existence. Forget about them. But I couldn’t. Even now I couldn’t tell you exactly why I did it. Except maybe that I was curious. That this was a real-life crime drama being played out in front of me. I knew tomorrow night was the night. Honeysuckle was easy enough to get to. Easy enough to find a good vantage point hidden in the dark. I decided I’d go, find a good spot to watch from and enjoy a night’s entertainment. Be a tiny slice of the melodrama that is Newcastle. One of the men replaced the book back on the shelf, and the two of them left. I waited right until a minute or two before the library closed and hurried out. Just another student up late and studying. I didn’t see a soul on my way out, just the librarians who were very used to seeing me late at night anyway. I walked quickly through the campus, back to my beaten up uni-student spec Honda. The paths were well lit, as always. And empty, as always. My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the lock, adrenaline running hot through my veins. But the car started and I drove home. All the while checking in the rear-view, watching closely for anyone following me. But they weren’t.

The next day wasn’t the easiest. I could barely contain the excitement, the adrenaline. I was like a kid on Christmas Eve, trying hard not to hop from foot to foot while I waited for the clock to tick down. For the most part I stayed in my room, door firmly shut. I left only long enough to head to the nearby shopping centre for food. I was so excited for the night. My backpack full of supplies. Food wrapped in foil. Thermos of hot water so I could make tea. Binoculars I’d found years ago in a second-hand shop. A shabby, non-descript dark grey blanket to hide under. Darkness fell and I perhaps took it a little far. Instead of walking out my front door, I elected to slip out through the window of my bedroom, easing the glass down so it was nearly shut. I told myself I didn’t want anyone to know I was out, not even my flat-mates. The fact that all they had to do was look out the front window and they’d see that my car was gone was irrelevant. “I could’ve just gone to a friends house” I thought, but they’d never think that if they saw the preparation I’d gone to. I parked my car in Civic Lane, just down from Civic Station. Crossing the railway lines, I headed towards the harbour and turned left. Soon I was out of sight of the carnival that was Newcastle weekend night life, and I stealthily made my way through the long grass that was Honeysuckle. Finding a good spot with the old Tafe building behind me, I bunkered down. Thankful it was a cool night, I spread the blanket out on top of me as I laid on the slopes, only my eyes visible over the crest. And waited.

I couldn’t tell you how much later it was. But it was hours. Hours of lying there on that little grassy hill, lying in the long grass. Waiting. All the while my excitement steadily growing. Then something happened. I watched a car pull up, parked near one of the warehouses. Five men got out, including the two men from the library. My excitement level was raised significantly. It really was happening. I was witnessing a real-life crime story. What they were there to do, what they were stealing I had no idea. But it was happening. The group walked quickly down the street, converging on the side door of one of the warehouses. A pinch bar appeared and soon all five of them were inside the warehouse.

For a long time I couldn’t see anything happening. Just the occasional flashes of torches being swung around inside the warehouse. Obviously they were looking for something. Then two more cars approached. From either end of the street. One parked up, but the occupant didn’t get out. I couldn’t see much of her, but she was definitely a woman. Definitely a chain smoker. She sat and watched the warehouse, never leaving the drivers seat. From the other car three men got out and walked straight into the warehouse. There was shouting. Gunshots. But a few minutes after they went in I could smell smoke. Fire. The warehouse was starting to burn. Two of the men left quickly, each taking a car and disappearing into the night. That left just the original five men, one newcomer and the chain-smoking lady. A few more minutes passed and the building was very much on fire now. The newcomer calmly walked out of the warehouse, leaning in through the driver’s window to talk to the chain-smoking lady. Suddenly she leapt from the car, starting to march towards the warehouse. They argued, and the man bundled her into the passenger seat and he drove off into the night.

Then I saw what she was upset about. Plastered against the front window of the warehouse was a man. The building was an inferno now. But pressed against the window was one of the first group. Obviously on fire. I realised then in all likelihood all five of those men were still in that building. I looked on, horrified as the building was utterly consumed in flames. For a long moment I didn’t know what to do. Then something compelled me. I had to help them. I got up and started to run towards the warehouse as the fire brigade arrived. The shock of the lights and sirens gave me pause. Then the survival instinct kicked it. “It would be far, far better if I wasn’t anywhere near here” I thought. So I ran back to my car and drove home as fast as I could.

The next day the news bulletins on the radio started. At first it was a tragic loss of a historical building. Then, the story added detail, eventually including how the fire chief believed it was caused by five homeless men accidentally setting fire to the building whilst they were trying to keep warm. I barely slept. Glued to every news broadcast. Every hour I sat by the radio, waiting for another update. Then, Monday morning, I received a parcel. Inside was my wallet. No postmarks, no stamps. Hand delivered. Where there would be cash was a simple note.

“We know you were there”

I checked myself into James Fletcher mental hospital a few hours later. Didn’t know what else to do. I figured that at least in here I might be a little safer. Out of sight, out of mind as it were. And I’ve been here ever since. Wasn’t hard to convince them I was having paranoid delusions. I know this story is a little far fetched. Something out of a movie. But I swear it’s real. It happened. I watched five men walk into a warehouse that night. Five men that were shot and never came back out. Five men that burned as the warehouse burned down around them. And the coppers, the papers covered it up. If nothing happens to me now, maybe that means I’m not important enough. But once you see how deep the corruption goes, you’ll never get taken unawares again. I’m telling you this story so it exists. Somewhere other than me. So it isn’t just mine. I’m telling you this story so you’ll learn from it. That maybe, just maybe, it’ll keep you safe.