Mirrors of Death Read online

  I had around three months to go in my second year of apprenticeship when I decided that I would move back with my parents, now living in Ballarat East. After I moved to Ballarat, the boys stayed on and worked in Richmond. I once again left most of my mates and family in Melbourne behind. It was around 1987 when I settled in Ballarat again, and my older brother got me a job at White’s Butchery in Sebastopol, on the outskirts of Ballarat. I had met up with a few of the boys that lived in Sebastopol, making friends easily and fitting in well while playing football for Sebastopol Football Club. I played football in the thirds, in the under eighteens at the club, under the old coach Dick Fleming. I knocked around with Damien, Dick’s son, who was about my age. Dick Fleming was well known in Ballarat as a very hard coach — hard but fair. I now had a new bunch of friends from work and the football club.

  White’s Butchery had a big boning room out the back of the butcher shop. Rod and Terry were the owners and also had employed about thirty boys from the local area, most of them my age. Most of the boys were very close. After work and football training we would be around at different mates’ houses to get on the pipe, or go to the local pub for a few beers. The boys from Sebastopol were a wild bunch, and I fitted in very well.

  I become close to one of the guys, Taffy: a foster child who didn’t get along with his foster parents. Taffy had lived with another one of the guys, Fred, for years before they had a falling out over a bit of dope. Taffy moved into my parents’ house with me after the fight — I stayed out of Fred and Taffy’s dramas, but we were happy to take Taffy in. I would still be smoking dope most nights either at a mate’s house or at Fred’s house in Sebastopol — even at my house if my parents were out. Sometimes the women from Sebastopol’s netball club would also rock up for a smoke with some of the boys.

  We would rotate weekly and have sessions at selected mate’s houses in and around Ballarat; most of the boys were into smoking dope, and some were selling to friends around Ballarat. There would always be up to fifteen of us in one session, and if we went for drives there would be three or four carloads of us that would park in the state forest and have a session with beers and dope. Col was the worst — he loved getting smashed off his head when in the state forest. He thought he was Peter Brock the way he drove the car around the state forest, but he was still very good.

  One of my older brothers, Basil, had lived in Ballarat for many years prior to my parents and me moving in. He worked as a butcher and had also played football at Ballarat for the past ten years. He sold his butcher shop on Eastwood Street in 1985 and had managed the meat department for the local Coles for a while before setting up another butcher shop in Ballarat in 1988. The butcher shop was on Sturt Street, the main drag, and after months of renovating the grand opening of his second butcher shop was a great success.

  Many of Basil’s original staff from his first butcher’s on Eastwood Street, including his old mates Herb and Benj, followed him to work along Sturt Street. During this period I had left White’s Butchery in Sebastopol and now worked full time with my brother in the new shop. Herb, Basil and Benj were very close and all involved with one of the largest bikie clubs in the area. They also played hard in Ballarat. One night, the boys were over at the Mallow Hotel after a day at work in the shop when a fight broke out with another bike club. I was asked to go over with the boys but had stayed to close the shop. Big Mike, one of Basil’s bikie mates, had technically died at the scene but was revived and taken by helicopter to Melbourne. Basil had his shoulder ripped apart, and Herb had his legs hammered with baseball bats studded with bolts. Benj was lucky to get away. The police got involved but had nothing to go on — the boys had stated that they were jumped by up to twenty blokes in balaclavas.

  As I was working on Sturt Street, I was driving to work early one morning, about 5am, after having a big night with a few of the boys from Sebastopol. This morning I took a short cut past the shooting range next to the Sebastopol Football Club. I was driving down Tipperary Hill, past the forest where we used to go smoking and drinking. There was a car in front of me, an old Ford XB, driving all over the road, until it actually lost control and the driver wrapped the car around a tree. It was misty and dark, and there were no one else around at this time of the morning. I stopped my car and pulled over behind the smashed car to see if I could assist the driver. The car was completely smashed and petrol was flowing out of the wreck, and the man, who looked about forty-five, was stuck inside. There were no other occupants. I had tried to free the man from the car; there was still no sign of anyone else on the road. I was scared and worried as the man was semiconscious and choking; I tried to do what I could to help, but I had no idea about CPR and had no medical experience. The driver was tangled up in the wreck, his legs pinned — at the time I had thought the man had lost his leg, as it was clearly separated when I had opened the door of the car, but the leg turned out to be wooden. There was blood everywhere — his throat was cut and he was bleeding heavily. I had my mobile phone and rang the police and an ambulance; while they sped to the scene I tried to comfort the man as best I could.

  The next minute, he stopped breathing. By this point it felt like forever waiting for the ambulance and the police to arrive. I tried everything I could, until I heard the sirens coming from both directions. I felt so relieved that help was finally here, but unfortunately the man was pronounced dead at the scene of the accident. The police took a statement from me. I proceeded on to work, and later that day I had to go to the police station and give another statement about the accident. I was stunned — it took me a few weeks to get over the car accident, and seeing the man die in front of me.

  It was not far off the end of the year in football in 1989; the Sebastopol Football Club had a good year from the junior’s right through to the seniors. I also had a very good year in the under eighteens. As normal, the club held a presentation for the juniors and seniors. It was a huge night, and I won the best and fairest and rookie of the year, as well as a goal kicking medal in the under eighteens, third division. I was 18 years of age at the time.

  In 1990 I was invited to play and train with Carlton’s under nineteens team. It was around the same time that my older brother, Basil, had a motorbike accident. He was rushed to hospital with severe injuries to his hip and legs. I had to put off football training with Carlton, as I was looking after my brother’s shop on Sturt Street while my brother was recovering from his injuries.

  I attended a lot of barbeques and parties in Ballarat. One night not long after the accident, a few of us were at a party when I had a falling out with a close friend of mine, Calasp. Calasp was one of the boys that would be out camping with our crew in Ballarat; we would get to the site and set up our camp and bonfire before getting on the piss and pipe and pulling out the dirt bikes. Calasp and I had words at this party and it ended up in a fight; we both were very stoned and drunk at the time. We both had black eyes and fat lips after throwing punches at each other; we later shook hands and called it a night.

  Calasp had said he was taking off, and got on his new road bike, saying to the boys that he had to go and see someone about a dog at Red Lion Hotel. We heard him riding off down York Street, before we all heard a bang. There was an accident down York Street; we all got up and ran out from the back yard; there were already people everywhere out the front of houses, and York Street was lit up with all the street lights. Calasp was lying on the road — he had hit a car head-on while riding down York Street. Calasp was on the wrong side of the road. The ambulance showed up and we all ran down the road while the paramedics were treating him. He died at the scene, all the boys watching as he lay on the road; we couldn’t believe we had just witnessed Calasp die. The accident was definitely unexpected and the sudden death had shaken all of us. My family I had been very close to his; my older brother’s sister-in-law had married his brother Cane, who was devastated about his younger brother’s death.

  Chapter 5

  More Voices

  In 19
90, around three months since the death of Calasp and the Sebastopol Football Club’s end-of-year presentation, there was a surprise party being held for Emo, another friend of mine, for his 18th birthday. Emo was another one of the Sebastopol boys who would go camping with us, and also played football in the under eighteens with us. Emo’s parents would often be in Perth, but Emo and his brother always looked after the house while they were away. The surprise party was held in the backyard of their house — there were around 100 people attending, including our whole crew and all our mates from the football club. It was one hell of a party. A few of the boys had helped out in some way or another, setting up tents to cater for the party. The adults and the younger people mostly kept separate; the parents, uncles and aunties were drinking in the other tents at the party, while all the boys and girls had their own tents set up in the backyard. Most of the boys wanted their own private area at the party so they could have a pipe.

  There were a few minor arguments and a few fights on the night of the 18th; there’s always one idiot that spoils a party. It was nothing too serious — a couple of the boys, pretty drunk, had a few words and not much came of it. The party went into the early hours of the morning, and the police were called on a few occasions due to the loud music. The next day a few of the boys helped clean up the house after the party; Emo’s parents had already left. Emo only had a short time with the parents at his 18th birthday, as they had work commitments back in Perth.

  Emo’s father was into shooting, often taking Emo and his brother out shooting whenever they were back in Ballarat. The family would travel to private locations and bushland — the father would collect animals and then have them stuffed by a taxidermist. Their lounge was like a shrine, with about fifty different stuffed animals ranging from deer and bulls to owls. The collection was huge, and Emo’s father had won many awards for his collection.

  A week after the surprise party, all the boys were at Fred’s house, which was down the road from Emo’s place. Fred was been selling dope on the night of the party, going back and forth between his house and Emo’s so that he was never carrying too much on him — he was red hot with the police from previous encounters. After the session at Fred’s house we all left to go home for tea as we always did.

  All the boys got to work the next day, but Emo didn’t turn up for work. No one thought anything of it, just thinking that Emo had taken the day off work. Emo wasn’t seen for a couple of days and didn’t show up for work. Col and his father, who ran White’s Butchery in Sebastopol, was contacted by Emo’s family and told that Emo had committed suicide. Emo’s parents didn’t want many to know that Emo had committed suicide; with Col knowing, most of the boys found out what had happened. Emo was happy-go-lucky on the night and showed no signs of being unstable. Emo had worked with me at White’s Butchers in Sebastopol, and we got on very well even after I had left to work at my brother’s shop on Sturt Street. Emo was also a very good footballer and played hard on and off the field.

  Emo had been found dead by his mate Benny in the lounge room of the house; the parents had flown straight back to Ballarat from Perth, and wanted their son’s death investigated. They assumed that there was foul play, but at the time the police didn’t investigate any further. To just about everyone else, it was clear that he had taken his own life.

  Emo’s parents held the funeral in Ballarat and the wake at the house at Sebastopol. Rumours got out later that Emo had talked about hearing voices on the night he was last seen, at Fred’s during the pipe session. No one had taken any notice of Emo’s comments as we were all off our heads on the night.

  After the funeral, Emo’s parents sold up and moved back to Perth. The older brother, Tom, had no option but to move to Perth with his parents. The boys were in shock over the suicide; Emo had taken the hearts of many with him. After things had settled down between friends and family and the Sebastopol Football Club, things slowly went back to normal. It took some time for the boys to get over the death — our circle of friends kept very close, and Emo and the family were well liked.

  During this period my parents had been thinking of moving back to Melbourne. They had gypsy in them; they couldn’t stay in one place for too long. They’d decided there wasn’t enough work around for my little brother — he’d had no success getting a job in the Ballarat area and he was not far off leaving school. Taffy still lived at my house in Ballarat East as well — he’d been there ever since the fallout with Fred.

  June and Braydan wanted to be closer to their grandchild, so they moved into a unit in Meadow Heights back in Melbourne, just around the corner from my sister’s house. My sister had sold the house in Glenroy by this stage, making big money in the sale of the property and now living at a new place in Roxburgh Park. Taffy and I stayed at my parents’ house on Wilson Street in Ballarat East. Basil had moved out of his house and bought a block in Mount Helen, and was in the process of building his own home there — in the meantime, he lived with Taffy and me.

  Taffy was still playing football at Sebastopol Football Club, while I was still down at East Ballarat Football Club. Taffy had become very close friends with my family. His foster parents had been to Wilson Street on a few occasions to reconcile with Taffy, but he hadn’t budged — he had never gotten on well with his foster parents. Taffy had been involved with Fred, moving and selling dope to many people around Ballarat for many years, before their fallout with each other. Part of the reason for Taffy falling out with his foster parents had been over the drugs. The demand for dope in Ballarat was huge and the market was thriving, but Taffy had wanted out after the fight with Fred. I kept out of it, as I didn’t want to get between the two and was still friends with both Fred and Taffy.

  Fred was feeling the pressure, though. He was getting bigger and bigger in the dope trade, and the police were onto him. Fred’s neighbours let him know whenever there were unmarked cop cars parked up the street from Fred’s house. Fred couldn’t care less; he kept on selling. Taffy had cut all ties with the dope trade, and had sold his own stashes back to Fred. It took a few months for both Fred and Taffy to start talking again and shake each other’s hand, which was good for me — it made it a lot easier for everyone. Fred’s parents weren’t happy with Fred having so many friends around, not knowing what Fred was up to. His granny flat was right at the back of the property, and by this stage Fred was pushing out a pound a week from the granny flat. He would always have barbeques at the house where only close friends would come over for a session and a bite to eat; at the same time there would be people coming and going at all hours of the day. Most of the buyers would just walk out the back into the granny flat and buy the drugs.

  The crew and I would be at Fred’s all the time –Taffy was back on the scene as well, with the fight now over — and we would all throw in some dollars for dope and meat for the barbeques, if I couldn’t bring any meat to the barbeque from work. On most occasions our sessions would go late into the next morning.

  After my parents had moved back to Melbourne, I had stayed at the Wilson Street house in Ballarat with Taffy, and Basil had moved in for the time being as well. The three of us got on very well, and we were lucky that the family home was a four bedroom house, with a very large pergola out back and a large barbeque area. Some weekends we would hold barbeques and have friends over. When the three of us had moved in we made it clear to each other not to use the house as a party house. As the three of us were working and playing football, we kept the house pretty quiet through the week and only invited select friends for the weekend barbeques.

  Basil was around eight years older than me and Taffy. He had run the Sturt Street butcher shop for around twelve months now, and it kept constantly busy. He had been building his house in Mount Helen, on the outskirts of Buninyong south of Ballarat, for a few years — a few months after our parents moved back to Melbourne, it was finally ready for him to move in. Basil had recovered from his motorbike accident after sixteen months of rehabilitation, and left Wilson Stre
et to settle in at his new place.

  Not long after Basil moved into his house, another mate of mine wanted to move into the house on Wilson Street. A very close friend of mine, Steven, asked if he could move in with Taffy and me. We agreed and Steven moved in — it didn’t take long before another mate of ours, Dale, also moved into the Wilson Street house. The house on Wilson Street was big enough for the four of us — there were two spare rooms after Basil had left. Dale still had his unit over at Sebastopol that he rented out to help pay the mortgage, which he was struggling with. Steven had moved because he had been arguing with his girlfriend Katy for some time prior to moving in — they had their own house over in North Ballarat, and Katy stayed at the house and looked after their children.

  Wilson Street was on the outskirts of Ballarat, which was handy for us; at the end of Wilson Street was the state forest, and a few of the boys and I would regularly meet up at my house, before getting on the dirt bikes and riding in the bush.

  Chapter 6

  Doing Business

  Around sixteen months passed since my parents had moved to Melbourne in 1989. Fred still sold his drugs all over Ballarat, keeping close to many of the bikies in the area. Fred and I became very close at the time. Fred was pumping the dope out, and clearly didn’t care about the police attention as long as he kept a step ahead. The drug trade was growing rapidly in and around Ballarat; Fred had a new partner, Hasy, and between the two of them they were major players in Ballarat’s dope trade at this point in time.

  It was 1992 and Taffy, Dale and Steven and I were still living together at the Wilson Street house in Ballarat East. We got along very well with each other — we had a few ups and downs living together but nothing that we couldn’t handle. We did a few favours for each other in this period, and received a few favours from people.