Taipan: The Deadliest Strike Of All

By Fred Patey

A prestigious private boarding school Within those walls evil lurks. By age thirteen Jack O’Conner had already experienced a hard life in outback Queensland, but nothing could prepare him for Saint Tristians College. Bullied, savagely beaten and left for dead, his best friend murdered, there is only one person he trusts. Kate Wilson is a young teacher who finds the brutal truth. She is hunted mercilessly for what she knows. Two detectives are trying to thread the pieces together, but Ian Campbell and Jenny Maxwell can only begin to unravel the spider web known as the Brotherhood. In a world of organised crime and police corruption at the highest levels the price of truth can be deadly. For Jack there is only a desire for vengeance. For Kate, it is justice. Across four continents and the gates of hell they will both find the true cost of both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fred Patey
• Release date: Nov 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465764720

Fred Patey

Born in 1966 and brought up in Boree Creek; a small country town in South Western NSW. Starting a life on a property, through to a private boading school. Work has been anything, but literary with everything from farming through to hotel security. My debut novel came from a belief I had a story that could be told, but only ever as fiction. I can only say this is a beginning for me. Fred Patey [e-mail]

Book preview

TAIPAN

THE DEADLIEST STRIKE OF ALL

by

Fred Patey

***

PUBLISHED BY CHARGAN AT SMASHWORDS

This book available in print from

www.chargan.com

Taipan – The Deadliest Strike of All

Copyright © 2011 Fred Patey

ISBN: 978-1-4657-6472-0

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Fred Patey has asserted his right under the Copyright Act 1976 to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

The author has made every effort to contact the owners of pictures reproduced in this book. Where that has been unsuccessful, the copyright holder is invited to contact him directly.

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***

Dedication

For Susie

***

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

***

As the first rays of light bring on a new day, there are many reflections made by people if they know it is to be their last.

Different people think of various things before they die, how they could have been different if opportunities arose, those opportunities that were not acted upon in life and dreams not yet achieved.

Actions over the years had destroyed and ended the lives of many people. Some without a doubt deserved it a thousand times over, some not and some were not prevented, people so close, that even today fuel hatred for the people who would today, bring peace to a tortured body and soul.

How many deaths by the name of righteousness does it take before someone becomes equal or worse in the eyes of God?

There were so many thoughts, but so little time; where does this story start?

Chapter 1

Bengellan Downs

Dirranbandi QUEENSLAND AUSTRALIA

Hello, my name is Jackson William O’Conner.

I was born at 3.15 am on Jan 5th 1966 to normal parents on a normal property around one hundred and sixty kilometers south west of St George near a small town called Dirranbandi.

Bengellan Downs was around 21,000 hectares spread over the black floodplains of the Culgoa River.

My Great Grandfather and Grandfather had opened this country and cleared much of it for farming and grazing. There was still so much work to reach a goal they both agreed on.

Granddad had seen the potential of their land adjoining the river system and dreamed for the future of irrigated farming.

My father though, was a grazier, a sheep and cattle man whose blinkered vision could only see a real future in those. His only view on broadacre cropping was, ‘let contractors do it.’

He argued with Granddad constantly about the direction of the property ever since marrying my mother and coming to live at Bengellan Downs.

Granddad and Grandma retired to live in Dirranbandi in 1968 sealing the way the property would be run for the next fifteen years anyway.

The end of the property, as I remember it came in 1984 when Bengellan Downs was purchased by the Cubbie Group and incorporated into Cubbie Station. This would eventually be the largest privately owned irrigation property in Australia with water capacity larger than Sydney harbor and capable of growing over twenty square kilometers of cotton.

My father was a strict disciplinarian who would whip me senseless for any reason. My mother was a subservient wife who let this go on without complaint. Today that would be called abuse, but it wasn’t today.

My childhood were memories of early rises, riding, chipping burrs, picking up sticks and rocks in farmed country and being used as a yard dog in the sheep and cattle yards and shed dog at shearing time.

From a young age I learnt Dad’s second use for the belt, but I was five years old before I received the buckle end for the first time. It never really changed my behaviour at the time and I accepted it as part of being an O’Conner. I didn’t know it then, but this treatment would be the catalyst for my future behaviour regarding actions taken by people other than my father.

I could say that Dad moulded me into the person I would become, but also knowing the type of person that I would despise and never be.

My twin sisters were born on 25th March 1969 three minutes apart and I was told they were identical. They would grow to look alike, but be as different as angels and demons.

I was excited to have sisters but a little apprehensive considering the treatment received from my father for merely being his son.

For some time though, my parents simply ignored me and spent time looking after Jemma and Sienna.

There was school. We had school of the air and home schooling, but in 1978 my world changed when I came in for tea and was informed that I would be sent to boarding school in Brisbane. ‘What the hell, I’d never been anywhere and now it was dump me in the city forever,’ I thought.

I thought this was Dad’s final solution for my behaviour.

The only glimmer of light came when I heard from Jemma that my neighbor Butch Davis, from Killaroy Downs would be attending the same school.

His Christian name was Bradley, but much to his mother’s horror his father had decided by the time he was eighteen months old that their baby was too rugged to be a Bradley.

I considered Butch my best mate. Actually he was the only one, except for the girls, but family was different.

When I found that Butch would be joining me in this boarding school experience, I thought we had to catch up and talk about what the hell boarding school was and how we would hack it.

I called him on the CB radio from our place, ‘you on channel Butch, its Jack.’

There was harsh static, then, ‘hey Jack, what’s happening over there,’ Butch replied.

‘Same shit, different day mate, hey, thought I’d drop by tomorrow have a talk about this Brisbane boarding school, eh,’ I replied.

It wasn’t a huge ride, around forty kilometers, but rough as guts on the old Honda Ag 125 bike.

It had been dry for ages so crossing a few of the creek beds would make the trip a little bit shorter.

The trip came to an abrupt halt as I came across this one gully. The crusty surface was a false one and the bike went axle deep into the mud. I fell off and let out a torrent of curses that can only be taught in the shearing shed.

I sat there thinking, ‘stuck in mud, pigs around, stinking hot and only a little bottle of water, what a royal fuckup.’

Four hours later I had walked up and down the creek bed and finally came across a bit of corrugated iron. If I could get that under the wheel and drag the bike back maybe I could get it out and go back home.

It was too late for a visit now.

My plan was coming together and by about 5.30 pm I had the bike out and had pushed it out of the mud.

I kicked the kick start repeatedly but it took forever before she came to life and I twisted the throttle hard to get the bike out of the creek bed.

Being bloody exhausted was an understatement.

Before I had even travelled fifty meters this big boar came out of the scrub at me. Mud encrusted and huge, this pig was pissed off. He collected me and the bike and ploughed us into the parched earth.

I quickly scrambled over a log and searched for the nearest tree which was about twenty five meters away. The boar began head butting the motorbike, but quickly realising it wasn’t me. Spinning around, I could see the massive tusks protruding from his bottom jaw. This razorback must have been at least one hundred and fifty kilos.

This was not looking good, but sprinted for this tree as fast as I could. I wasn’t going to make it and knew it.

Hearing barking close by I had a quick glance over my shoulder to see a large pig dog hanging off the snout of this boar.

One dog was writhing on the ground, a massive slash to his abdomen. It was a fatal wound.

It was a vicious fight which could be won by either the dog or the razorback. It was the crack of a rifle shot which decided the outcome of this savage duel.

One shot only slowed this boar down.

There was a second shot to the head which took a massive chunk out of his skull. The razorback dropped with only its hind leg quivering; awesome.

The pig dog backed off, still growling but settling quickly as someone approached.

I looked at myself, torn jeans, scratches, and a blistered shoulder where I hit the exhaust pipe coming off. A branch had hit me hard in the face taking skin off my forehead and cheek, but I had a pained smile as to how it could have been.

Strange how my next thought was, ‘how is Dad going to take damage to the bike.’

The pig shooter walked over and introduced himself.

‘G’day my name’s Tim Bennett. Mate I have to say that was so bloody close it isn’t funny and to think the boys and myself were finished for the day until the dogs ran over here.’

Tim said that he and some friends had come out this way from St George and James Davis was happy to have them cleaning up pigs and goats on his place.

Taking deeps breaths as I settled the adrenaline rush I told him of my passions for shooting as well, over on Bengellan Downs. I looked at his rifle and felt true love, a .308 caliber Remington model 700 with black composite stock and mounting a mean scope.

‘It would kick a bit for a young bloke, but I have found this to be a beautiful rifle to use.’

The shooter called his friends on his hand held radio and told them to come and pick us up and tell our crazy story.

We loaded the bike on their Toyota Hilux Ute and made our way back to Bengellen Downs.

I thanked Tim over and over again.

When we reached home, I thought about how Dad would take this news on board, but after talking with the shooters and having a good laugh with them, I thought it would be OK.

I pushed the bike to the shed and began to hose her off when Dad walked up behind me and slapped me hard behind the ear.

He was yelling now, ‘how could you be so stupid, you are just bloody embarrassing? What the hell are we going to do with you?’

I should have known this was coming. It didn’t matter that it was an accident and that my life was barely saved or I was already hurt. I had embarrassed him as far as he was concerned and needed disciplining or whatever you call this.

The belt came off and doubled up, and then I copped it over and over again. At least it wasn’t the buckle.

I had to miss tea and go to bed, which didn’t worry me. My thoughts ranged from being terrified that the razorback had nearly gutted me like that other poor dog, to what a beautiful rifle the pig shooter had.

The pain encouraged the thought that there was now a countdown to boarding school and it couldn’t come fast enough.

I heard an argument downstairs between my parents, which was surprising. Mum never spoke up but I heard her say that Dad had gone too far after what had already happened that day. I didn’t hear any response just a crack and the noise of someone hitting the floor. There was a clatter and shattering noise after that.

Later that night Jemma and Sienna snuck in.

They had pilfered some leftover tea for me. They always did when I was sent to bed.

Jemma said, ‘I’ve never heard Dad like that.’

Sienna replied, ‘well I’ve never heard Mum speak up like that either. I hope Mum is OK.’

‘Better go back to bed, Dad’s really got the shits,’ I whispered.

The morning confirmed what we knew had happened. Mum was already dressed and had makeup on. It did little to hide the mark handed to her last night for speaking out.

When Dad came down for breakfast he was as cheerful and spoke as if nothing had happened, as did Mum, but there was a tension that hadn’t been there before in our family.

I noticed some of some of my Grandmother’s antique porcelain crockery was no longer on the bench.

That morning Dad said he would take me over to Davis’s that day to catch up with Butch and tell him about what had happened. He even tried to joke about it.

He had this bloody habit that today you would call bipolar, Jekyll and Hyde, beat the hell out of you then be a happy father, especially in front of other people.

After we arrived at the Davis’s Butch suggested we take out the horses for a ride and check on some of the dams and pumps.

I said we should take the Ute, being a bit worried about riding after yesterday. Mr. Davis made a joke about getting straight back on the bike and laughed, but let us takes their Toyota Hilux. Butch and I could both drive ever since our feet could reach the pedals and change gears.

As soon as we were down the road Butch said, ‘get a flogging did you.’

He knew when I didn’t want to go riding something was wrong.

At the first dam I showed him the bruises. I had two pairs of underwear on now. The belt marks covered my rear and one was a third the way down my leg; another half way up my back.

When we checked the windmill and went back to the Ute. Butch pulled out a pack of smokes that he had swiped from his mother and lit one.

‘Bloody hell mate, Alpine Menthol, that’s embarrassing,’ I laughed.

I pulled out my pipe that Grandpa had given me when I was ten. He thought I should smoke a pipe with him and used to bring tobacco when he visited. It was our secret but Mum and Dad must have known and just not cared.

The only problem I had with Butch is that we were alike, did the same things, but his parents loved him and treated him as such, no matter what he did, or did wrong. It had to be the only thing I could resent about my best mate.

The time when we played catch with his little brother was a classic. We ran into a thicket of Bathurst burr.

Even with jeans on it hurt, but knowing that he would chase us even with shorts on was worth the amusement value. The result was, as usual, a screaming little nine year old.

Butch got a lecture of his mother, but my father saw it differently. I copped a frenzied beating that broke the buckle on his belt and opened up my back like never before.

He was a top mate who I knew would have my back when we went to boarding school.

Butch had heard from his cousin that boarding schools in Brisbane were pretty strict and assumed this college would be the same. He said Christian brothers were running it, but no one knew what other schools were like.

To me it was simple, keep your head down, do your work and you should be OK.

Another cigarette and new tobacco for the pipe and we spoke about yesterday in the creek bed, what had happened with this pig and how these shooters had arrived in the nick of time.

I drew back on the pipe, ‘you know the only thing I thought was; if I live I’m going to get a flogging off Dad. How’s that, eh. Show’s what he’s turning me into. I tell you what though; no one else is going to touch me like that, ever.’

We went on to talk about the rifle that Tim Bennett had and agreed that it would be our weapon of choice later. Shooting was the one thing my father let me enjoy.

I had owned a Marlin .22 rifle since I was nine and Butch always used his father’s Remington .22. My only experience with another rifle was a time when Mr. Davis let us use his Ruger Mini 14 .223.

That was our experience with rifles. We often read the Shooter magazines that Butch’s father had. He was a keen hunter as well and took us hunting on a number of occasions.

I thought both Butch and I were on par as far as marksmanship went, but Mr. Davis was more opinionated. ‘Young Jack, you have a damn fine eye for shooting. I’ve been a member of the gun club for fifteen years now and I really think you would enjoy it. You could show a whole lot of people up at the championships you know.’ I just thought, ‘as if Dad would let me enjoy something like that.’

He wasn’t really into shooting, but did have a passion for bow hunting and would take me bush when he was in that rare fatherly mood and I hadn’t pissed him off lately. My skill and accuracy with the bow wasn’t a problem, but the heavy tension on his compound bow made it difficult to enjoy.

The last few months I spent at home before school couldn’t pass quickly enough and I was counting the days in my head.

Christmas was enjoyable enough, but the presents were fantastic; a school bag, suitcase, pencils, pens and other essentials for school. I was impressed by my parent’s imagination.

Only a sneaky backdoor present from Granddad made up for it, ‘you will need a few bags to get you through a bit of school,’ as he gave me some tobacco.

This brought the only real smile to my face for Christmas 1978.

My last night at home was actually enjoyable.

My father said ‘Jack you’re growing up now and this will really help you mature and make a man of you. I went to boarding school when I was your age and it helped me grow up.’ Dad seemed to think that all the beatings were actually meant to help me adjust and prepare me for boarding school life.

Mum cooked probably the best roast that I had eaten yet and for a moment I thought that things at home might improve.

The big day had arrived and dad piled all my gear into our Holden Kingswood station wagon. It was to be a big trip and he was going to catch up with family in Brisbane.

Both Mum and my sisters were crying but we all made promises to write and call regularly. My life was in for the rollercoaster ride from hell, I just didn’t know it yet.

We arrived in Brisbane and travelled through the city to the suburb of Acacia Ridge. It was an older suburb of Brisbane and the many weatherboard homes reminded me of a crowded version of Dirranbandi.

We finally arrived at our destination; Brisbane’s Saint Tristians College.

This school would become exposed as one of the most infamous in Australia for child abuse, organised crime and the violence that followed. The name would be synonymous with the word evil.

Queensland Senate Committee Hearing on organised crime

State Government Offices

Brisbane QUEENSLAND

15.1.1979

Witness Statement 3636

The term brotherhood as discussed here involves a tight knit hierarchy. Unlike a single Mafia family, with a Capo Di Tutti Capi and family associates, or the New York Commission, this is a hydra, a multi headed international organisation that through extortion, fraud, embezzlement, drug manufacture and importation has infused itself with legitimate business and spread to so many levels of society, that it believes itself immune to prosecution. This organisation is extremely violent and will pursue all means to ensure its success.

Our investigations have revealed a number of links between here, the US and other Asian countries. Evidence of links between police, politicians, investment banking and organised criminals are being investigated.

I believe that Australia is one head of that hydra.

Brisbane Courier Mail

17.1.1979

Yesterday, in a shocking triple murder, Inspector James Taylor, an eighteen year veteran of the Queensland Police Force, his wife and seven year old son were gunned down outside their Acacia Ridge home.

Reports indicate the family had returned from the city and only just parked their car in the driveway when a single masked gunman walked across the road behind Inspector Taylor and shot him and his family at point blank range. The gunman returned to a black BMW and left the scene. Two neighbours who witnessed the attack were said to be shocked by the casual manner of the assailant.

The brazen nature of the attack in broad daylight has left local residents shaken and put police on the highest alert.

Taylor had been called as a witness and was providing evidence to the Senate Committee on organised crime, but police refused to acknowledge or deny the possible links.

A police spokesman said, ‘no stone will be left untouched until the perpetrator of these heinous murders is brought to justice.’

He has pleaded for any other witnesses to come forward and their investigations are continuing.

Chapter 2

Saint Tristians College

110 Wood St

Acacia Ridge BRISBANE

24.1.1979

We were met at the boarding house by the head housemaster Paul O’Connell. There were four other boardinghouse dorm masters in the three other buildings.

He explained that most people referred to the college as STC.

All of the dormitories were set out in a herring bone fashion with cubicles of four beds and a single hallway along the length of the hall. It was the same downstairs and pretty much copied in the other dormitory building.

Dad helped me put my cases and bags in the room and after putting his hand on my shoulder, said, ‘look after yourself.’ He was gone.

I had just turned thirteen, had never been away from home, which was now over 600 kilometers away and my father’s last words were look after yourself.

I caught up with Mr. O’Connell and asked him in my most polite voice, if Bradley Davis had arrived at the school boarding house yet.

The filthy look I got was from someone who did not like children speaking to him, let alone, asking questions.

He looked down his nose and said, ‘a friend is he?’

I replied, ‘he’s my best friend from Dirranbandi.’

He looked at his list and replied, ‘it is good to have friends here already, but he has not arrived yet.’

Tea was at 5.30 pm sharp in the expansive dining hall which was set out with long tables that seated ten students, each arranged in rows and a large rectangular table at the stage area on the western wall for the staff.

Students were to stand at their designated tables and remain standing until all the staff stood at their table. We waited for bloody ages until they all came in. Then it was bow your head for grace.

That was followed by the long wait while, table by table the Year Seven students went to the kitchen and brought back the table’s food. Conversations were hushed with no time for jokes or laughter. This behavior was going to be hard to keep up.

There were various aged students on each table but all the work was completed by the youngest students; us.

The little blond kid, who hadn’t spoken or made an attempt to say hello, joined me in supplying the entire table with meals.

I suppose everyone goes through this same initiation, but I didn’t have to like it. The looks I received off some of the older students was annoying enough, but the two Year Twelve students on our table needed hot coffee on them to change the looks they gave me.

Finally I started a hushed conversation with this other young bloke, ‘where are you from mate and what brings you to this fine establishment.’

It was a bit of a shock when Lincoln Davis said, ‘everyone knows you are from out west so it’s fair enough that you’re here at boarding school. My parents only live in Wavell Heights. It’s in North Brisbane. They reckon I need boarding school. I hate them for that.’

In time, his parents would hate themselves for their decision as well.

I asked one of the Year Eight kids, ‘how many blokes are from the country?’

Jonny Walker or ‘Pig’ said, ‘if you mean country as in the outer scrub around Brisbane or the Sunshine Coast, a few. There aren’t any hillbillies like you though mate.’ He laughed at his own humour.

I tried speaking to some of the other kids but they either glared at you, or you worked out fast that you had absolutely nothing in common with them. You didn’t really have much to talk about with these kids, yet.

The heads of our table, Brian Patton and James Grant were both meat heads and spoke in Neanderthal grunts to each other; a good test case for genetic culling.

When they spoke to us it was with the venom reserved for vermin. Ah well, such seems to be life so far at boarding school.

A bit of free time after tea allowed me to actually meet some of the other Year Seven kids and the older students. All were from the city or up and down the coast. None of these kids had ever worked, driven a Ute, rode a bike or horse, shot a rifle or bow.

I was deflated. These kids needed to come to Bengellan Downs for work experience.

One older student, I couldn’t remember his name said, ‘just like I’ve told the other kids mate, shit happens here so seriously keep your head down. That is, if you don’t want it knocked off.’

Later that evening, we were told to go to our cubicles, change for bed and wait for locker inspections.

Evening inspections were carried out by Year Twelve students appointed by the housemaster as house seniors.

The beds were just a bed size box that would fit your luggage bags and a few things with a chipboard lid and thin mattress.

The lockers consisted of an unlockable cupboard, with boot box, hanging space and three shelves.

Inspection was meant to be for tidiness and having your clothes in order.

It was to prove a little different.

Two senior students walked in. ‘Hey scrub boy what fucking food did you bring,’ said this heavy set thug called Craig Slager; his mate Sean Hardy chiming in, ‘yeah and what comics and mags.’

This was not good. Butch had given me a heap of his father’s Australian Shooter magazines. I had some war comics and a heap of biscuits that mum had cooked; her sole effort to my wellbeing at boarding school.

I didn’t say a word.

‘Cat got your tongue you little shit, looks like we’ve got ourselves a little sook who might wet himself.’

They enjoyed themselves pulling everything out of my locker and under my bed until they found my stash of magazines, comics and biscuits.

Then they tipped my school bag open and emptied my pencil case. It looked like I was the test case for the other Year Seven kids; give up whatever these seniors wanted.

Thank God my pipe and tobacco were stuck in the lining of my luggage case.

The real sticking point came when Sean picked up my new parker pen that Sienna had given me for Christmas.

Of course Mum had bought it and had it engraved, but I finally spoke up, ‘hey boys that’s important, you can’t have that pen.’

Sean growled, ‘so he speaks, well tough shit kid its mine now.’

There was no warning as he gave me a rabbit punch that brought me to my knees. I winced and tried to breathe, but he had winded me hard and almost had my stomach contents in my throat.

I was still struggling to breathe and the other kids just looked on in shock, not knowing what punishment would be dealt out next.

They were giggling and Sean bent over and said, ‘welcome to high school kid.’

I said, ‘OK,’ as I slowly tried to get up.

With that his right foot flew out and hit me in the ribs. I hit the floor in dizzying pain. He watched me struggle and cough and I could barely get to my knees now. His parting comment was a snigger, ‘just lessons on who runs this show you little bush pig.’

Sean turned to walk out and continue their inspections confident that other kids would quickly give up anything they had to avoid this treatment.

What this bogan hadn’t noticed was I had picked up my brand new compass that was lying on the floor, out of my upturned pencil case.

I slammed that compass as hard as I could into the back of his left calf.

His reaction was one of both shock and agony. He let out a scream and torrent of expletives, ‘You little bastard.’

I knew what would be coming so had to be quick.

The walls to the cubicles were only five feet high, but I had to struggle to get over it. I stumbled into Craig Slager, bouncing off and painfully running down the hall before he could grab me.

I was running and stumbling to get to the end of the hall and down the stairs, but collided into the head housemaster who had arrived to investigate the screams and commotion.

Paul O’Connell frog marched me back to my room demanding to know what the hell was going on. Sean and Craig were nowhere to be seen now.

I was grimacing in pain, but once again stayed quiet, not saying a word.

He saw my locker and bed were a mess, and then noticed the dark stain on the floor and my bloodied compass.

He demanded that all students stand by their beds while he questioned each one. After four children had given the same version of events that had occurred in the last ten minutes he gave up.

He stormed out of the room and down the stairs with me in toe.

Once we were in his office he continued to ask why I had struck Sean with the compass; wasn’t it bloody obvious.

I remained silent; there was nothing I could say that would change the situation or the punishment that I assumed would follow.

‘This behaviour is totally unacceptable, whatever the