Just Reward

One

There was a sense of menace in the air that Friday morning. Fork lightning flashed amid the dark storm clouds with dazzling intensity. Sonic-boom like thunder claps echoed across the landscape.

Constable Dave Winton observed nature’s awesome power display with slight unease as he crossed the car park towards the Wrenbrook police station. The stormy weather wasn’t exactly ideal for the covert mission he had on his agenda for this evening. However, cancelling the operation at this late stage was completely out of the question. Weeks of planning would be totally wasted and there was no guarantee other parties would agree to a rescheduling. Whatever the climatic conditions, there was always a risk things could go wrong.

Winton entered the Wrenbrook Police Station reception area, acknowledging the office staff with a quick hello as he headed straight for the pin-up notice-board.

Selecting a form, he crossed out something on it, unpinned it and carried it with him as he walked off towards the Sergeant’s office.

The office door was slightly ajar, allowing the Constable clear view of Sergeant Walker, the station superior, relaxing, sitting at his desk with a coffee and reading the daily paper. Winton knew that peaceful mood could soon change. In his twelve weeks at the station he’d witnessed the man become absolutely infuriated over procedure breaches much less serious than tampering with an official document.

Constable Winton knocked on the door just as another crack of thunder rattled all the windows.

Come in, the Sergeant called, not bothering to look up.

Winton entered and walked across to stop beside the desk.

The Sergeant kept reading. It was only after finishing the article, carefully folding the newspaper and placing it in the top drawer of his desk that he fully acknowledged his subordinate colleague’s presence.

Yes, Constable Winton? I thought I caught a glimpse of you out there. I’m amazed. You’re half an hour early for once.

Winton ignored the derisive reception. It was trifling fire-power compared to the verbal salvo he could face when the Sergeant heard what he wanted.

Morning Sir, I’ve made a change to the patrol roster. I’ve brought it in for you to sign.

Give it here then, the Sergeant said, as he snatched it.

Oh, I see you’ve crossed out Tony’s name. Why?

Constable Winton drew a deep breath before replying. Ah well, he rang this morning to ask me if I minded going it alone this evening. He’s apparently not feeling very well at all.

Constable, you know it’s against protocol to send a patrol car out with only one officer. I’ll okay it this time, but it’ll never happen again, the Sergeant said, shaking his head as he scribbled his initials next to the alteration.

Thanks Sir, a relieved Constable said as he picked up the roster form to take out and re-attach to the notice board.

Constable Winton left half an hour earlier than usual on his evening highway patrol. It took twenty minutes to reach the outer limit of the patrol zone.

Pulling the unmarked police car to a stop, he reversed it very carefully off the road verge up behind a patch of tall dense shrubbery. Satisfied that it was adequately concealed, but there was still clear vision of all oncoming traffic, he climbed out, walked around and got in the passenger side front seat. To be as comfortable as possible during what he assumed would be a long wait, he slid the seat back as far as it would go and adjusted the backrest a few degrees.

Weary from a busy policing day combined with the soothing sound of rain on the car roof, he soon fell asleep.

It was almost two hours later that an extremely loud clap of thunder finally jolted Constable Winton awake.

He sat bolt upright, the adrenalin surge not helping his nervous disposition one bit. He checked the time on the car dash. It was a few minutes to eleven. According to the regulations he should be back at the station by now. That was never his intention. He might make it back by midnight if everything goes to plan. To help time pass, he turned on the car radio to hear the hourly news bulletin.

He found the first two news items quite interesting as they were police cases he was actually involved in during the day. The first one was about the two homeless teenagers found dead in a shallow creek bed under a bridge on the edge of town. Numerous items scattered about provided indisputable evidence that the cause of both deaths was overdosing of illicit drugs.

The second report was all about the serious home invasion that he had attended shortly after. The victim of this crime, an eighty two year old female pensioner, suffered severe facial injuries and a broken arm. Arresting the offender later at his parent’s home, a search of his bedroom turned up a small 32-calibre pistol, which was still in the glove-box of the patrol car. Winton left it there intentionally. He decided it could be real handy tonight if things got nasty. Should Sergeant Walker discover he had not followed proper procedure and locked it away in the station security safe, he didn’t know what excuse he’d use. Knowing the man, nothing would to be acceptable anyway.

The general news segment ended with the official weather forecast for the Great Southern region. The news there was similarly dismal. Constable Dave Winton gave a deep sigh as he heard the Bureau spokesman report the earlier storm warning was about to be upgraded to an alert for severe isolated tornado type squalls, the worst for decades. It was emphasized they could be expected to strike anytime between late evening and the following morning.

When the weather report was over, the radio Disc Jockey continued with his late-night music session. His first selection was a particularly mournful tune. With Dave Winton’s mood already plumbing the depths, the sombre rendition didn’t help any. The words of the song had him reflecting on his life, the positives and negatives.

His earliest memories were extremely vivid. It was just after his fourth birthday. He was an only child back then. It was a lonely life. His only real companion was a large red dog. He would spend hours playing ball with it in the back yard of the family home in an outer suburb of Jaffas Bend.

Dave became even lonelier during the six months his parent’s marriage was in the break up stage and they were too busy dealing with property settlement issues to pay much attention to him.

Six months after the divorce his mother married Dean Stewart, an accountant in the State Government public service. Ten months later baby Bret was born. The two children couldn’t have been more unalike in every aspect. Their chalk and cheese individuality regards food taste was especially exasperating for their mother. Another area of great dissimilarity was their attitude towards education. Dave hated his years in the class-room. All he ever wanted to do was leave and become a fireman. In contrast, young half-brother Bret enjoyed his schooling. He achieved well above average during his primary and secondary years. He was also one of the top students at university where he earned Bachelor of Commerce Honours degree.

At age sixteen Dave left school and got a job in a second-hand goods store owned by a family friend. He was a supreme sportsman in his teenage years. He ended up with a cabinet full of Aussie Rule’s trophies.

Dave’s yearning to join the fire brigade never withered. At age seventeen he did something about it, which was to register as an emergency services cadet. His dream reached fulfilment two years later when he joined the Jaffas Bend City Fire Department as a full time serving member.

It was a great shock to family and friends sixteen years later when Dave made the sudden decision to resign from Fire Department and join the Police Service. I want more excitement from life than rescuing cats out of trees, was his semi-droll explanation to his second wife Jane. In truth he’d only ever been called out to perform that duty once. There were many other instances where the excitement was too much. The one terror filled incident that he relived in the occasional nightmare was the time he entered a burning building to rescue a fellow fire officer trapped under a collapsed roof beam. Fortunately both men escaped with a few bruises and minor burns to the arms.

Constable Dave Winton spent his first five years and nine months in the police service stationed in various small country towns. His move to the large southern regional town of Wrenbrook three months ago was not a regular transfer, but a Commissioner authorised move initiated by special circumstances.

Some months earlier the Police Service higher command in Jaffas Bend had received an anonymous tip-off concerning suspicious activities at the Wrenbrook police station.

An ideal opportunity to confirm the legitimacy of the corruption claim arose when a serving police constable at the station resigned for health reasons. It was decided to send a replacement who could covertly survey the situation. Constable Dave Winton, who was totally unknown to all uniform and non-uniform staff based there, was chosen as the perfect candidate. Prior to starting the task he was sent to the Police Academy in Jaffas Bend where he was one of three officers that attended a two week course dealing with covert surveillance and relevant electronic gadgetry. Winton wasn’t informed as to the nature of the alleged crimes. It was quite understandable that he must have an open mind, free from any pre-conceived ideas. The essence of his assignment was to report back to the Major Crime Squad in Jaffas Bend with names plus details of anything appearing suspicious. A hazy promise was made that if he handled the assignment correctly he would earn a promotion to sergeant rank and an immediate transfer back to the city. He was warned that although the surveillance task would require many hours of overtime, there would be no increase in his pay.

Dave was told to expect the covert operation would take six months at least. If that was the case, a year and a half would be cut from his country service requirement.

This was one of the positives Winton concentrated on to help smooth out the difficult times.

His wife Jane fully agreed with that goal. Born and raised in Jaffas Bend, moving back there would enable her to watch over her aging parents who would soon require assistance with their day to day living.

The move would also mean Constable Dave Winton seeing more of Kevin, his twenty one year old son from a previous marriage.

The young man’s career choice was of special interest to Dave. Recently learning that Kevin was also intending to join the police service, Dave had suggested that he consider the Forensic Division. Kevin shook his head at first, stating that was a job for softies. However, he changed his mind after listening to his father detail the positives connected with that branch of the service. Winton explained to his son that the forensic people are very highly respected; get equal pay, and because they work behind the scenes, avoid the dangers faced almost daily by officers on the beat. He emphasised the safety aspect by relating a few nasty incidents he’d faced as a foot-soldier type policeman attending out-of-control teenager birthday parties.

Another prime example was the mission he was undertaking tonight. He would not want his son doing anything similar. Although he now classed himself as an experienced Police Officer, there were always unforseen dangers.

It was a long thrill peep from his mobile phone in his jacket pocket that ended Constable Dave Winton’s melancholy reminisces. Retrieving it, he opened it up to find a warning on the screen that the battery power was getting low. He was about to put it away again when he remembered thinking earlier in the day that he should warn half brother Bret that things were quite unstable and not be surprised if something unusual happens.

Hoping there was sufficient power if the call was short, he pressed in the numbers. He was surprised when it was answered after just one ring-tone. Conscious of the limited phone battery reserve, Winton quickly instructed his brother, Good evening Bro. Please listen carefully to what I have to say. I can’t afford to repeat anything due to the phone battery needing a charge. The reason I’m ringing is to ask if you could visit me sometime soon. There is something I want to tell you. But in case things go wrong in the meantime, the person behind everything is Poochy. Oh no, tha- that’s not it. What I meant to say was the bloke’s name is Ins--.

A faint single peep mid-sentence indicated complete battery fade. Damn, Winton uttered in frustration as he slid the now dead phone back into his jacket pocket.

Constable Winton noticed the squally weather was rapidly easing. He hoped the improving conditions would not encourage speeding motorists.

Forced to chase one to issue a ticket could complicate matters even further.

He was about to settle back and relax when he saw car headlights slowly approaching down the side road. He glanced down at the dash clock. Perhaps this is them, but why would they come from that direction? he muttered.

Sucking air in deeply through clenched teeth, he anticipated what two weeks of careful planning was about to bring.

The time had finally arrived to honour a promise.

Winton kept his eyes on the approaching vehicle as he reached into the car glove compartment for the confiscated snub-nosed 32-calibre pistol hidden under the traffic infringement booklet. He tucked the small weapon under his uniform coat into his trouser waistband before scrambling over the car centre console to get behind the steering wheel. To get better vision, he wiped a clear patch on the slightly foggy windscreen with his hand.

The approaching car reached the intersection and turned left onto the main highway. It stopped for a second or two before reversing up thirty metres to pull up less than half a dozen vehicle lengths away. The moonlight momentarily shining through a hole in the drifting cloud enabled the policeman to see two heavily built men get out and walk around to meet at the car boot. The driver, the much taller and heavier of the two, nonchalantly rested his right foot on the rear bumper as he lit a cigarette. In contrast to his relaxed manner, his companion fidgeted nervously as he looked up and down the highway several times before leaning forward with both elbows on the car boot and burying his face in his hands.

Now absolutely sure these were the people he was here to meet, Winton started the patrol car and drove at a slow walking pace out onto the bitumen.

The man that was covering his face with his hands quickly stepped around the side of the large black car, which the chrome boot badge indicated was a late model Mercedes Benz. The other man, retaining his apparent unconcerned pose, merely shielded his eyes from the headlight glare of the approaching police car.

Winton continued on past for another twenty metres before stopping. Leaving the motor running, he switched the heads-lights to low beam before reaching across to the passenger door map-compartment for a small package. As he withdrew it a small amount of the contents spilled out onto the car seat. Tightening his grip to avoid losing more, he got out of the car and began walking back up the road towards the two men. Halfway there he checked the security of the hidden pistol by brushing his waist area with his hand.

The policeman was almost to the big black Mercedes when the driver stepped forward out of the shadow.

He gasped and shook his head in disbelief when he recognised who it was.

I didn’t expect you out here to do the deal, he said with disgust.

Perhaps you didn’t, but I knew it was you I was meeting. At least I hoped it would be, the man said with a smirk as he stuffed what appeared to be a large money roll back into his pocket with one hand while using the index finger on the other to give his chest area several solid taps.

Constable Winton judged the man’s disdainful expression and gesticulation as a sign of pure belligerence and immediately turned to walk back to the police car. He’d taken just two steps when a pencil-thin light beam suddenly flashed through the darkness to settle on his upper torso. Instantly recognizing the danger, he launched into a dive for the safety of the roadside scrub. He was still in mid-air and horizontal when a large calibre bullet grazed his left wrist, cutting through the leather band of his large wrist-watch. Although slight, the impact was enough to make him lose his grip on the small package he’d been clutching.

Realising he was still in an exposed position, the shocked policeman got on hands and knees to continue his frantic dash for cover, weaving from side to side as he went in an effort to become as difficult a target as possible.

It was during that flurried bid for safety that the pistol was dislodged from his waist band and fell out onto the road.

Winton was still several metres from the protective scrub when the would-be assassin again managed to train the laser sight on him and fire a second round. This bullet passed through his upper right arm and struck the back of his head at a glancing angle, causing serious damage.

It was pure rolling momentum that carried the now unconscious police constable down the slight gradient towards the roadside drain. Two more shots came in quick succession, both missing the target completely. A dull thud followed the final shot as it impacted the boot panel of the police vehicle parked just up the road.

The man the constable had been speaking with scrambled up from his cover-seeking crouch. He took several steps, stooped again to pick up the pistol and plastic bag from the roadway before hurrying back to his car and climbing in behind the wheel. His companion was still getting into the rear seat area of the vehicle as it began to move off.

With wheel’s spinning, spraying road-verge gravel in a wide arc, the car was barely under control as it turned onto the side road and sped away into the night.

The long eerie silence following the treacherous action was finally broken by a night-wren’s startled cry, obviously disturbed by the shooter slinking off back to where ever he came from to carry out the dreadful deed.

Police Constable Dave Winton lay there motionless half submerged in muddy storm-water for several minutes before the chilliness of the environment took affect. As he slowly returned to full consciousness, reality struck home, that the worst-case scenario had just occurred.

Two

Bret Stewart’s life was in turmoil. During the previous twelve months he had experienced every negative possible. His twenty one year marriage had ended in divorce. His twenty-year old son appeared to be using illicit drugs. The final straw was discovering his contract as an accountant with Aus-Financial-Services looked in doubt.

For some time his wife Helen had been voicing her growing discontent with her lot in life, saying she craved the freedom she had as a single person. Bret didn’t worry too much about it at first, thinking perhaps it was just a stage she was going through. He soon discovered Helen was not going to change her mind.

Their home life deteriorated to the degree that their daily exchanges became slanging matches during which hurtful things were said to each other out of spite.

When Helen began divorce proceeding Bret moved out into a rented unit in the next suburb. By this time both were equally relieved that the marriage was finally over.

It was just when Bret was beginning to appreciate a more peaceful existence that he got the first hint regarding his son Justin’s drug problem. It was Helen that had warned him.

Justin had been moving about a lot, living with different mates for a year or so to escape the hostile environment of his home. It was when his mother and father divorced that he moved back to live with his mother. At first Helen was pleased with the company. However, once again the home became a war front when Justin used every excuse to start an argument. He seemed unable to settle down. His extreme mood swings were the most worrying feature. It wore Helen down that much she eventually swallowed her pride and phoned Bret to tell him what a raving monster their son was becoming.

Bret suggested a solution might be for Justin to come and stay with him at his rented unit for a few weeks. Helen didn’t say no. The next evening Bret rang and put the proposition to Justin. He was surprised to find the young man was quite receptive to the idea. Bret prepared for his house guest by purchasing a second hand sofa-bed to put in the lounge room for him to sleep on.

Two people living in the small unit provided some testing times. Things rolled along relatively smoothly for the first couple of days. It was very soon afterwards that it all began to unravel. Justin became irritable, restless and started showing resentment by accusing his father of monitoring his every move. It didn’t improve things when Bret told him his imagination was running wild.

Although Bret had never actually witnessed anyone suffering drug withdrawal symptoms, Justin’s behaviour was very much like he imagined it to be.

On the fourth day Justin was in a real aggressive mood from the moment he woke up. Bret realised this when his polite ‘good morning’ was met with a Yeah, well tell me then, what’s so bloody good about it?

Bret wasn’t game to answer that. He had faced some tough times at Jaffas Bend branch of Aus-Financial-Services where he was contracted as a senior accountant. However, nothing compared with the battle-ground environment of home life during the earlier pre divorce days and now again living with his son.

Bret thought perhaps Justin being an only child may have contributed to his selfish behaviour. He missed out on learning simple things like sharing or negotiating with someone close to his own age. He was always dominated by a parent who didn’t understand children are not always wrong

Although, Bret had to admit as a young child he often used having an older brother to his advantage when it came to getting away with bad behaviour. He recalled how expert he became at manipulation. His secret was to grizzle until his very patient parents gave him a sticky lolly to silence him. This caused his older brother Dave to nick-name him Squeaky Axle. Squeaky Axle needs greasing up, he would say.

But of course, Dave also knew he wouldn’t miss out. His reward for being good was to get two sticky lollies. Bret eventually realised that to deprive Dave, his own behaviour must improve.

Being an only child, unfortunately Justin never had the opportunity to learn such important lessons in handling life.

Bret arrived home that evening to find nothing had altered. In fact if anything Justin was in an even more aggressive mood. It was just after dinner that he confronted his father with, I’ve had enough of this stinking hole. I’m going out.

Bret asked him where and also if he had any money for a cup of coffee if he wanted one.

Don’t know where I’m going yet. I’ve got small change that’s all. I’ll be right. I don’t need your money.

Bret stood at the door and watched Justin amble off towards the night-life part of town. It worried him, but what could he do.

Bret sat for two hours reading and enjoying the peacefulness. His nerves were getting worn ragged by his son’s constant angry mood and the noise of the little transistor radio he always had blaring away in his pocket. The clock was just striking eleven when he locked up and retired to bed. He was on the verge of sleep when the thought suddenly occurred to him that he never saw Justin take the spare front door key with him. He thought about getting up and checking the rack to see if it was still there. It was something he never got to do. It was still just an idea on his mind when he fell asleep.

Loud cursing and a rattling noise at the front door as it was being unlocked woke Bret from a sound sleep. He looked at the bedside clock and saw it was 2-30 a.m. Half a minute later he witnessed a swaying figure enter the dimly light lounge and curse again as it tripped and fell over the low centre coffee table. Bret got up and went to the bedroom door and stood there watching his son make a couple of futile attempts to get back up on his feet.

When it was obvious Justin wasn’t going to make it, Bret walked across, and without saying anything, grasped him under the arm pits, and with a struggle, lifted him up onto the sofa-bed.

Justin immediately got to his feet again. For twenty seconds he stood there swaying from side to side before once more overbalancing and falling down with a thud.

Justin, you told me you didn’t have much money. You must’ve had more than you let on to buy enough booze to get in the state you’re in. Bret said angrily.

I dinn’t pay for it. I found a, a parrty ta go to. Had a great time. Booze was flowinn like blooddy wahter. Justin stammered.

Bret could see trying to get any sense from his son was a waste of time. He decided to go back to bed. He thought leaving the young man there in an uncomfortable position on the floor might teach him a lesson.

Bret had difficulty getting back to sleep. He lay there wondering if drugs could also be involved in his son’s condition. It was approximately a half hour later that he heard a commotion from the lounge as Justin dragged himself up onto sofa-bed. When snoring was heard a short time later Bret relaxed and within minutes was also sound asleep.

The alarm clock sounded for a good thirty seconds at six o’clock next morning before Bret mustered the energy to reach out and switch it off. He showered and then busied himself in the combined kitchen-lounge cooking his bacon and egg breakfast. Justin remained on the sofa-bed, his eyes following his father’s every move.

Bret sat and ate his meal, not daring to say anything in case it started an argument

He gave in a while later when about to go to work.

Good morning fella, feeling better? he said cheerily.

The reply was silence and an icy stare. Bret ignored the response as he walked out closing the door behind him. As he was getting in the car he looked back through the lounge window and noticed Justin get up and make his way towards the bathroom.

Bret arrived home from work that evening mentally prepared for another arguing session.

But what he got when he walked in was, Hi Dad. Have a good day?

It took him a moment to recover from the shock before he could answer, Yes, it was okay Son. How did yours go?

Oh, sat out in the morning sun for a bit, listened to the radio and later took a walk in the park down the road, Justin replied.

With his son’s mood seeming a whole lot better, Bret pressed on, asking him if he’d thought of looking for a job.

Not lately, but I will get around to it sometime, Justin answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

Why not go to TAFE and take on one of the trade courses on offer?

No way will I do that. I’m finished with schools and learning things.

TAFE is not school Justin.

It is as far as I’m concerned, Justin said, shaking his head.

Well then, how about a job at a used-car yard?

Yeah, I could try that I suppose. It’d be better than school.

Bret could understand Justin’s intense dislike for school. It was because of his middle name, ‘Reward’. Although children very seldom address each other by their full title, in his primary school years Justin was tormented by some children, even a teacher on one occasion, who deliberately called him Retard Stewart instead of Justin Reward Stewart.

That unusual middle name for their son was Helen’s choosing. She told Bret she had read it in a book. She believed it carried an underlying promise of great things.

Bret never accepted that. He believed it was Helen’s way of linking the two predominating factors in her life, her strong belief in reincarnation and the memory of her long deceased father, Anthony Bladen Ward. Bret could understand her wanting to honour her father. He also had great admiration for the man.

Bret wasted no time in chasing up a job for Justin. The next day he contacted a car-yard owner that he’d met in his early years at Aus-Financial-Services. At the time the business man was being pursued by the Tax Department for the third time over undeclared interest. Bret examined the dealership books thoroughly, searching for any unclaimed tax benefits.

The end result was the Department actually owing the dealership a tax refund.

The Dealer expressed his gratitude to Bret