Bloodsucking Bogans

By Tabitha Ormiston-Smith

Dingo Flats hasn't been the same since the Murphy family moved back to town. Everywhere cop Sam O’Neill looks, one of them is causing trouble. Even their dogs are delinquents. Meanwhile, local shops are plagued with dead rats on the doorsteps every morning, and the day is fast approaching when Sam will have to give up her police dog pup. What's a cop to do?
Dingo Flats hasn't been the same since the Murphy family moved back to town. The boys are delinquents, the daughter's a disgrace, and old Granny Murphy is constantly causing trouble. Even the dogs are delinquents. The crime rate's doubled since they arrived.

And what's with all the dead rats that have started appearing on the doorsteps of local businesses? The tabloid thinks it's a plague, but Sam's dad is convinced it's warnings from the Mafia.

Meanwhile, Sam's friends are determined to make her over and marry her off, and she's staring down the barrel of having to give up her police dog pup. What's a cop to do?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tabitha Ormiston-Smith
• Release date: Dec 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005227456

Tabitha Ormiston-Smith

Tabitha Ormiston-Smith was born and continues to age. Dividing her time between her houses in Melbourne and the country, she is ably assisted in her editing business and her other endeavours by Ferret, the three-legged bandit.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

DEAD RATS FOUND IN BIZARRE DISPLAY

A High Street business owner was dismayed early yesterday morning when he arrived to open his shop and found three dead rats on the doorstep.

Mr Tony Farrugia, 56, arrived as usual to open the Parthenon Café and was confronted with the grisly spectacle.

‘I never seen no rats around here before,’ said Mr Farrugia. ‘They was just laying on the step. Like somebody left me a present.’

The Parthenon Café will be open for business as usual.

As soon as the smell of bacon started to fill the air, Jack made his appearance, bustling in through the oversized cat flap with a forbidden squeaky toy in his mouth. Dropping the toy, he charged Reg, skidding to a halt just too late to avoid colliding with his legs, already in his ‘good dog sit’ position, chest thrust out and ears meeting over his head in a ridiculous peak. No, Sam told herself firmly. He’s NOT yours. And don’t even think about giving him any bacon.

Her resolution lasted almost halfway through breakfast, in fact right up till a soft, black nose rested on her knee and two liquid brown eyes gazed solemnly up at her. She froze in the act of passing him a crisp scrap as an explosive snort rattled the table, but her father was still immersed in the folded paper by his plate.

‘Bloodsucking bogans,’ he muttered. ‘Bleeding the bloody country white. I tell you, Sam, in my day there wasn’t all this drop in centre rubbish. If you were out of work you signed on at the factory. Bloody featherbedding welfare state. In my day they’d –’

Sam sighed. It was an old argument, worn thin with repetition. Best not to engage. She didn’t need an argument today. Mum would have soothed him down, but Sam had never learned the trick of murmuring quiet nothings that had defused every argument and soothed every irritation. No longer hungry, she slipped Jack the rest of the bacon and got up to clear the table. There was just time to do his nails before she got ready for work.

‘Bloodsucking bogans!’ Reg O’Neill slammed the paper onto the table with enough force to rattle the teapot. ‘Bleeding the country white.’

Sam didn’t even look up. ‘Mind the china, Dad.’ She continued her painstaking examination of Jack’s toenails. A couple could do with clipping. She positioned the clippers carefully over the end of one black claw. ‘What they done now?’

‘Rats!’ pronounced Reg, in the tones of an oracle. ‘Someone’s been and left a couple of dead rats out the front of the Parthenon.’

The clippers bit down, a tiny black fragment pattering to the floor, and Sam sighed in relief and rotated her shoulders. Another one got away with. It was the one thing that made her nervous, cutting their claws. Once with the last puppy, she’d cut a little too much and got the quick, and the puppy had screamed. It had only lasted a minute, but it was obviously painful as hell, and with the black German Shepherd claws you couldn’t see the quick, it was all by guess. She hated doing it. Now the other side. Funny how the outside claws seemed to grow more than the ones in the middle.

‘It’ll be one of these gang war things,’ Reg continued with relish. ‘Rats one day, drive-by shootings the next. You mark my words.’

CLIP. ‘Bullshit, Dad. You read too many American thrillers. This is Dingo Flats, not South Side Chicago. Give us yer other foot, Jack. Aw, who’s a pretty boy?’

Jack rolled his eyes, looking down his long, dark nose.

‘No, really, Sam, I read about it. They chuck a dead animal in front of your house to let you know you’re on the hit list.’

Sam snorted and clipped another two nails in quick succession.

‘I read this one thing where they cut the head off a bloke’s horse and–’

Sam rolled her eyes. ‘Everyone’s seen The Godfather, Dad. That was a movie. A book. Fiction. Here we get hooning down High Street and a punch-up outside the Royal, and that’s on a bad night. Shop theft, social security fraud, point 05. That’s our lot.’

‘Aw, Sam. You’ve got no imagination. Beneath the heart of a placid suburb, evil flourishes unchecked.’

‘Where’d you read that? Off the back of your library book?’ She straightened with a sigh and reached to the shelf to replace the clippers next to the worm pills, flea capsules and Jack’s brush. ‘Right then, I’m off to work.’

‘Have a good one, love. Thought I might do the lawn this morning.’

‘Well, don’t work too hard, okay?’

‘Right you are, love.’

She tried to avert her eyes as she passed through the kitchen door, but was just a fraction too late, so that the kitchen calendar, with the red ‘DTC’ scrawled across Friday the nineteenth caught her eye, just as it did every day. The thought of the regular check-in at the Dog Training Centre clutched a moment’s coldness in her stomach. It was already the fifteenth. Another month gone. Another month closer to the day when she’d have to give him up. It had never bothered her before; Jack was the fourth police dog puppy her father had had, and she’d always borne it firmly in mind that although you loved them, you lived with the knowledge that they weren’t yours, that one day in the not too distant future they’d be away to their proper training, and you wouldn’t see them again. And that was alright, because the police needed dogs; they were extremely useful, and they had a good life. But there was something about Jack, something about his dark, narrow face, with its pensive expression, something about him that caught at her at odd moments. Mine, sounded her inner voice. He’s mine. She shook it off and went to ready herself for work.

***

Dingo Flats Police Station was a long, low, white building on the edge of town; next to it, the manicured green of a wide swath of parkland sloped gently down to the river. This early in the morning, the light still had a tinge of pink, and the air held the hushed expectancy of the kind of summer mornings only found in stories. A single magpie’s song rang out, its liquid notes falling like rain into the quiet.

As she shouldered the bag with her week’s uniforms, Sam paused for a moment in the carpark and drew a deep breath of contentment. It was what she’d tried for ever since she’d graduated from the Police Academy five years previously: back in her home suburb, where she knew everyone, but most importantly, back with Dad. She’d hated to leave him on his own, and since his heart had forced early retirement from his job on the buses, his voice on their weekly phone calls had taken on a lost, tentative sound that she hated to hear. Since she’d moved back to Dingo Flats, he seemed more his old self.

***

Sam’s partner for the shift, Senior Constable Johnstone (‘Call me Johnno’) was a veritable goldmine of local information, and seemed to regard it as his personal mission to bring her up to date on everything that had happened since she’d gone away. As they cruised down the wide main street, he kept up a constant running commentary.

‘See the blonde there in the red dress? Looks like butter wouldn’t melt? That’s Chelsea Murphy. Record as long as your arm. Mainly shopsteals, a couple of drunk in a public place, one indecent exposure, that was last New Year’s. Pranced right the length of High Street walking on the parked cars and flashing her tits. Janice nicked her and she threw up all over her. Drunk as. Pray you’re not on duty for New Year.’

‘That old lady coming out of the newsagent? That’s Mrs Peabody. Local character. Has the florist shop. She’s a real bitch, pardon my French. She’s on the phone practically every day, complaining about something, she knows Senior Sergeant Briginshaw so she rings him up direct, and it’s always bloody bad news. A couple of kids have an argument outside her shop, she’s demanding us to come down there with bloody riot gear and do them for Affray. Hey, I’m not kidding, she actually said that one time. She’d looked it up and everything. Claimed she had to lock up her shop because customers were frightened. Sour old bat. And she’ll complain about us, too, the least little thing. Last month she put in a complaint because she reckoned our shoes weren’t shiny enough. An official complaint, through the police website. Bloody Bruce’s terrified of her, she called police one time because she thought she saw someone that looked like someone that’s been on Crimestoppers, ya know, like same number of legs or something so she’s all Oh my God a wanted criminal, and Bruce and someone attended and Bruce had chewing gum. Well it was on for bloody old and young, Bruce reckoned she backed him into a corner and kept on yelling about proper deportment and shit for an hour.’

Sam was by now helpless with laughter.

Johnno froze, pointing like a hound. ‘See those two over there, with the greyhounds? That’s Jaiden and Foxxx Murphy. Spells it with three Xs, would you believe? Any trouble around, you can bet your left nut they’ll be involved. Ahem, sorry. Bet your life, I meant to say.’

‘Shouldn’t they be off to school about now?’

‘Yeah, probably. What can you do? They’re sixteen so not much you can do about it. Be on the dole in a couple of years.’

‘Sixteen, really? They look younger. I’d have said not a day over fourteen.’

‘Yeah, they’re all young-looking, all the Murphys. Good genes I guess, it certainly isn’t their healthy lifestyle. Those two are Chelsea’s little brothers. Right, feel like a coffee? My shout.’ He pulled into a loading zone. ‘Be right back.’

The morning sunshine, this early in the day, was pleasant and kind. Sam slouched back in her seat and closed her eyes, slipping into the mindless state she called her ‘resting place.’ She didn’t think, or worry, or daydream. She just was, Sam in the moment.

Her mobile vibrated in her pocket, the staccato vibration that signalled a text.

#wat u up 2 #

Smiling, Sam texted back.

<>

#got plans friday nite?#

<>

#me & Effie’s coming round yours c u abt 8 K?#

She was going onto evening shift on Saturday. After a moment’s thought, she replied.

<>

#how bout we bring pizza#

<>, she sent. He’d had terrible heartburn last time.

#we’ll get him a meatlovers K? Men love that#

Sam winced. He was supposed to be low cholesterol. Oh well, once wouldn’t hurt.

<>

#Kbai c u abt 7 <3#

Smiling, hugging the thought of their long friendship, Sam settled back into the sunshine.

***

The call came when Johnno had been in the coffee shop for eight and a half minutes. Sam had been idly watching a sparrow pecking at crumbs on one of the outdoor tables and wondering why Johnno had been so keen to get coffee only an hour and a half after the beginning of their shift. She had just decided he must be chatting up the waitress when the radio crackled to life.

‘Units in the Dingo Flats area, we have a call from a Mrs Barber, seventeen Furze Court, complaining of assault, no further details.’

‘Car 63, on way.’ She reached over and flashed the lights to alert Johnno, who presently bustled out, blushing scarlet and clutching two takeaway containers. Sam smiled to herself, seeing the blush. She’d been right.

‘Ahem, Johnno...’ she said, taking the cups and slotting them into the cardboard holder they all kept under the passenger seat.

‘What?’

‘Is that lipstick?’ She chuckled as he grabbed for the rear vision mirror, then caught himself.

‘Ha bloody ha. So what’s the call?’

‘Furze Court, number seventeen, a Mrs Barber, assault, no further details.’

‘No further details my arse. Those bloody despatchers. Wouldn’t work in a fucking iron lung, pardon my French. Should be run by members, like it used to be.’ He pulled out into the traffic.

CHAPTER TWO

SNOWDROPPER STRIKES AGAIN

The Dingo Flats Snowdropper has struck again, with underwear being taken from several flats in the Housing Commission complex on Windermere Street.

The snowdropper has been stealing underwear from apartment balconies, with six incidents reported since December. All of the victims whose garments were taken were young women.

In a disturbing twist, the latest outrage was not limited to theft. DNA samples have been taken by police from several pairs of underwear left behind at the scene of the crime.

One of the victims, who preferred not to be named, told the Dingo Flats Chronicle, ‘I knew something was wrong, because they weren’t hung up the way I left them.’

Seventeen Furze Court was only half a dozen blocks from High Street, but those six blocks encompassed a dramatic downfall in the quality of the residences. Nearest to High Street it was all trim three and four bedroom houses, neatly kept, mostly of brick. Within a few blocks the brick had given way to predominantly weatherboard structures, and the lots were noticeably smaller.

Furze Court itself was near the end of the part of town generally considered ‘respectable’. Number seventeen had the air of one keeping up a valiant struggle against the cost of living. The woman who opened the door was a faded blonde of indeterminate years. She had a vague, washed-out look and a drifting way of moving which gave Sam an impression that she was not quite there; this lasted only until she had conducted them into a dingy kitchen and opened her mouth.

‘It’s that bloody Murphy woman. She oughter be put away, put in a home. Crazy old witch.’

‘Calm down, please. You’re the lady who called?’

‘Yes, Marjorie Barber.’

‘Right, now, exactly what happened?’

Mrs Barber deflated a little under the imposing front of officialdom presented by the massive Johnno, notebook out, flanked by Sam at parade rest.

‘Well, I was walking my dog, see, I go past their house to get to the wasteland.’

‘Where’s the dog now, Mrs Barber?’

‘He’s out the back, well he’s all wet, isn’t he?’

‘Wet? How’d he get wet?’

The thin lips twisted in bitterness. ‘Well that’s what I’m telling you, isn’t it.’ It was not a question. ‘That bloody crazy old woman sprayed us. I was wet meself, wet right through, I hadda change my undies and everything.’

‘And who is this?’

‘That old Mrs Murphy, the one in that rundown place near the corner.’

‘The corner of Furze Court?’

‘No, the corner of Wombat Drive. I told you.’

‘Right, calm down, please, Mrs Barber.’ Johnno was in full-on Police Mode. Sam wondered if he realised how annoying people found it to be constantly told to calm down. It was, in her experience, almost guaranteed to drive people into a frenzy of rage if repeated often enough.

‘So Mrs Murphy on the corner of Wombat Drive and, that would be McIntosh Street, would it?’

‘Not on the corner. I told you. It’s about two up from the corner.’

‘…two… houses… up… from… corner. And that’s on Wombat Drive.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Well I was walking past there and the old bitch just sprayed me. With the hose. And little Chungsie, too, and she was cackling away and laughing like an old witch.’

‘Could it have been an accident?’

‘No, it could not have been an accident, she kept the hose on me until I got away, out of range, and she was laughing all the time, the old bitch.’

‘Now, now, Mrs Barber, there’s no need for language. What time was this?’

‘I don’t know what time it was, I rang the police as soon as I got home, so whatever time that was, about five minutes before that, I suppose.’

Johnno licked the end of his pencil. ‘Rang... police... immediately.’ Was he trying to be as aggravating as possible, Sam wondered.

‘And were you hurt at all?’

‘No, not hurt, but just, well, you ought to be able to walk around without getting sprayed.’

‘Well, we’ll have a word to her.’

Mrs Barber did not look very comforted by this prospect. ‘Ought to be put away, that’s what crazy old people like that need.’ Her face was twisted in spite, and Sam felt a twinge of unease. Almost she could understand the urge to turn a hose on that pursed-mouthed, shrivelled soul. Almost. She wondered what sort of a person Mrs Murphy was, and whether there had been provocation.

As they left, a shrill yapping followed them down the path.

***

Number fourteen, Wombat Drive, was an eyesore, even for Dingo Flats West. The dingy weatherboard hadn’t seen a paintbrush for at least ten years. Jumbled heaps of broken flowerpots, dismantled parts of cars and unidentifiable objects were piled up against the outside walls and the side fence, and a rotting, sagging two-seater sofa stood lonely guard in lieu of lawn furniture. The front fence had been removed, no doubt to facilitate the parking of cars on the dead, brown area that had once been a lawn. The lone telephone pole in front of the house had been graffitied in layer upon layer, to a height of approximately sixteen feet. The houses on each side had the air of drawing away in disgust. This was about as bad as a house could get without actually falling down, Sam thought, looking at the peeling paint, the piles of discarded engine parts and broken furniture and the expanse of bare dirt with patches of weeds here and there. A dead two-seater couch mouldered on one side of the front steps, which were partly occluded by what seemed to be a pile of salvaged building materials.

Sam called in their location. Then a thought struck her. ‘Hey, Johnno – is this Murphy any relation to Chelsea and those two boys?’

Johnno heaved a mournful sigh. ‘You bet. She’s their grandmother. Crazy old bitch.’

They did their Official Police Walk up the front path, in case anyone was watching. As they reached the bottom of the steps, Johnno muttered, ‘You talk to her, Sam, I can’t face it, she bloody does my head in.’

The wooden steps creaked alarmingly as they went up. The verandah, which ran the full width of the double-fronted house, was silted up with broken kitchen chairs and black plastic rubbish bags. From somewhere to the rear of the house, she could hear sharp barks, and a long, low