Mantiss

By Tim Berman PhD

Life in the outer suburbs of Sydney in the 1960s and 1970s. There are two basic levels; one which gets on with the drudgery of everyday stuff and the other under-layer where corruption, bribery and murder are the norm. In the lower level the rich get richer, the Church gets more powerful and the fight is to the swift.

Young Jackson Barnett grows up ‘different’. He is not like other boys; he prefers to make dresses and drink cocktails. His life is turned upside down with the murder of his Mum, his inheritance stolen by the Church and his best mate killed in a fire.

Police are at a loss to put 2 and 2 together. Death at Luna Park, disappearing priests and conflict between the 'white knights' of the police force and the Catholic Church.

How will the young Jackson survive in this maelstrom of intrigue?

Gripping reading but - for open minds only.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781925219999

Tim Berman PhD

Tim Berman (1939-2023) was always a day-dreamer at school; good at writing 'composition' but never on time for things that were important to teachers, like marching into class.As an adult, he worked at a number of jobs until he 'lucked' into copy writing for a marketing company. He revelled in composing advertising phrases and slogans designed to attract attention and engender thought-provocation. He was quite successful at this and eventually shared third partnership in an advertising agency in Sydney.Berman's spare moments were shared between flying, shooting, underwater exploration and writing. Then he got married.This, however, did not diminish his curiosity and creativity. When the opportunity arose to explore the prospect of the truth about some fake coinage found aboard an old Dutch shipwreck in Australian waters, he went into research mode and discovered a factor in the story never before told. The result was Batavia: The Counterfeit Coin Conspiracy, which depends somewhat on some speculative writing bringing together all the elements of truth behind a tale often told.Although having passed away in early 2023, Berman was still busy finishing other stories at his home on the NSW South Coast which he shared with his lovely wife and charming dogs. Tim Berman is the author's 'nom-de-plume'.

Book preview

Mantis, noun. Orthopterous insect; preying mantis, ambush predatory hunter that attacks and hold the prey between the forelegs to devour it. Also known as praying mantis as its natural repose suggests it is at prayer. During mating ritual, the female must remove the male head before the process otherwise the act will not be successful. The male then is dead and is eaten by the female.

Source - Greek for ‘prophet’.

CHAPTER 1

Jack Barnett had never been a bad kid. He’d just grown up lonely. Mother had vowed upon his birth that there would be no little brothers or sisters for the brat.

Christ-all-bloody-mighty! If that’s what you get for ten minutes of fuckin’ fun, youse can shove it up your arse. Jenny Barnett propped herself up on one elbow and gazed about at the group of medical staff who’d just aided her through a very difficult delivery. Where’s the product of all that gruntin’ and shovin’?

Sister Anne Devlin turned to regard the woman on the gurney. She scowled, holding the tiny bundle in her arms.

Mrs Barnett! I do wish you would temper your language somewhat. We’ve all done our level best to assist you with this delivery. Your attitude is not helping, and we certainly do not want to hear any more of that foul language - thank you very much!

The professional nurse turned and marched away toward the clean-up room where the little bundle would be carefully washed clear of the blood, faeces and jelly that covered his pink skin from head to toe. Jenny watched the sister go and swung her legs to leave the couch but was prevented from doing so by the midwife.

Mrs Barnett, please don’t get up. Doctor has to attend to your episiotomy repair. You had a most difficult birth. Her words were meant to soothe the irate patient however, Jenny didn’t understand the term and tried to stand.

As her feet touched the floor Doctor MacCabe entered the room and ordered her back to the gurney. Now then, Mrs Barnett. You won’t be going anywhere for a while. This is 1958 you know, not the dark ages. We don’t throw ladies out into the snow straight after childbirth. His faint Scottish accent came through at moments of stress. It entertained the staff at times. They knew when he was under pressure.

Jenny was obliged to return to the bed and the procedure undertaken to repair the rent in her lower abdomen. To this woman it was a more enraging and humiliating event than just delivering the child from her body. She vowed privately there and then never to fall pregnant again.

Once was enough for any sane creature!

Four days lying in a hospital bed, smoking but not drinking, was sufficient to bore even the most intellectual woman. Which she was not! Distant family members came at appointed times to ‘goo-goo’ and fawn over the baby Jackson. They brought the usual stuff - grapes and plums, ciggies and Womens’ Weekly mags but no booze, Goddamit!

By Sunday she’d had enough. She called for the doctor after she’d eaten a piece of toast and marmalade for breakfast. He agreed that they needed the bed and that she could manage at home with the help of Frank.

Yeah, right! If he can leave the pub in time. He’s dead useless, love. was her only comment. She took Jack and caught a cab home to Glassop Street, Granville and began to organise her house to enable her to care for the kid.

Frank spent most afternoons at the Golden Sheaf Hotel drinking and placing bets on the Gosford dogs, Mooney Valley nags or any other thing that had held his betting interest. By 6.00pm his pockets were usually empty and he weaved his lonely way back to the blue-painted weatherboard house that his father had built just after the war.

His Dad had died at work some years prior. Fell from a scaffold at the oil refinery. They said he slipped reaching too far for a spanner. His mates were very sorry to see him go. He’d been a bloody good bloke and ardent gambler. Left a few debts unfortunately which Frank was obliged to honour.

And now, there was another tiny mouth to feed. It was no wonder he didn’t hurry back to his ‘Blue Heaven’ as they sang in the Donaldson and Whiting hit from 1928. He was waiting to crack the big time and then, he’d be OFF! like a Jew’s foreskin, mate!

Into this unhappy family atmosphere young Jack Barnett was thrust to try to grow into a normal Aussie boy, like the kids he later saw on the grainy black and white television sets he watched standing outside the Granville Electrics Store window.

School was a headache for Jack and his mother. The family couldn’t afford real shoes so he was obliged to wear sandals. In summer he went without socks. In winter, he had grey woollen socks which were soaked by rain before he reached the school gate. These socks had been given to Jenny by Mrs Trivett down at No. 26 after her little Kenny had died under a bus last year.

They also scored a few shirts and shorts from that lot although they were not the correct colour for Granville Primary. As his mother said, Beggars can’t be choosers, love. Now don’t be shy. If the other kids poke fun at you, just fuckin’ hit ’em. They’ll soon calm down.

This advice didn’t go over too well. Poor Jackson got more hidings than he cared to remember. It didn’t make him any tougher. It just served to make him sulky, bewildered and mean spirited. This was reflected in his poor showing in the exam results. He was known as the dunce of the classes as he progressed through the various grades.

He was soon old enough for High School and attended Auburn High where he again failed to impress. His attitude he brought with him from Granville and was soon stealing other kids’ lunch money and nicking out after midday to shoplift at Coles or Woolworths stores.

Eventually, the law caught up and he was dragged into Childrens’ Court at Albion Street in Sydney where, being a first offender he was given a 12 month good behaviour bond. His mother pleaded with the ‘beak’ to send him away to a boys’ home but it did no good. The magistrate told the woman that boys who went to juvenile detention centres always learned something nasty and came away from them worse little criminals than when they went in.

Too fuckin’ bad, Jack. was all she could say. I’m not gettin’ any younger and your old man’s pissed off with some other slag. We’re on our own now. We need income and I’m the only one to provide it - unless you’re a bloody good burglar? Ho hum ... On the way back to Granville she sighed heavily, looking out at the derelict backyards they saw from the train.

The following night Jenny made her debut as a whore.

CHAPTER 2

As it turned out, Jenny was quite successful at her new chosen profession. She was petite, of slim build and gregarious which always was a good ice-breaker when trying to pick up a client. Best attribute of all was the fact that she was enthusiastic at her work. Men liked that.

She would generally cruise the handful of wine-bars and pubs around the district from about ten at night after she’d put young Jack to bed. Some clients she brought back to their simple weatherboard while other blokes offered to shout for a room at the pub where, according to the scale of charges, the fee went from ten dollars to sometimes as much as fifty plus the cost of the room.

The publicans took a cut, naturally and passed a proportion on to the local constabulary on a weekly basis when the licensing sergeant dropped in for an informal chat.

This system suited Jenny as it meant that, even though she didn’t arrive home some mornings ‘til six, she always was there to get Jack up and dressed, fed and off to school - whether he wanted to go or not. She then had the day to herself to have a sleep, mend some clothes or remake some of her outfits, making them more eye-catching, more daring in the cleavage or side split or adding a bit of sparkle to an otherwise drab frock.

One weekend when it was raining and Jack had no inclination to venture out to the cinema, he stood beside his mother watching as she undid a seam and reset the line, adding some tiny crystals and sequins. The final effect drew his eye and sparked his imagination. Something mysterious stirred within the 12 year old.

 At that moment Jack realised he could do that. He could stitch fancy stuff onto girls’ clothing to make it more appealing, daring and attractive. His inner soul had suddenly awakened. The dark, meaningless void that had dwelled within burst into dazzling light; rainbows, streamers and fairy wings danced across his enlightened imagination.

The more he observed his mother the more his enthusiasm grew for this craft. Eventually, Jenny taught Jack to use the old Singer she’d bought on lay-by from H G Palmers’ store in Parramatta. Every afternoon he hurried home from High School rather than spend time idling away at the Parthenon Cafe with his closest mates. His English work book now had the back pages filled with designs for frocks, gowns and tiny stage costumes. He dared not allow any of the teachers discover these scribbles. That would have been the end of his pulsing creativity.

A close partnership was thus formed between mother and son.

In 1973, when Jack had turned 15, Jenny bought him a Christmas present he would treasure always. As dawn broke on December 25, she opened her plywood wardrobe and removed a heavy, gaily-wrapped object from the lowest shelf and placed under their skinny little plastic Christmas tree in the dining room. Then she wakened her sleeping son.

Together they walked into the dining room where Jenny pointed at the parcel.

Happy Christmas, baby! she sobbed. Something you’ve needed and wanted for a long, long time. She hugged her blonde-headed son.

Eagerly he kneeled before the parcel and tore away the wrapping paper. There in the dim light of the overhead bulb his eyes fell upon his own Swiss-made Bernina sewing machine. His sky-blue eyes filled with tears and he sprang to his feet.

Oh, Mum, Mum! How did you ever manage to get that? She’s beautiful! I’ll be able to make all kinds of gowns for you with this. Maybe we could work together ...go into business together and earn some brass making dresses for fat old tarts or something.

They hugged and danced about until Jenny broke free and said Well, you’re gonna need some material to start with so I went to the remnant shop and got you some lovely off-cuts and things. See that other parcel there. She indicated another bulky bundle next to the tree.

Jack opened it and stared in amazement at the variety of coloured lengths that tumbled from the paper wrapping; fine woollens, cottons, nylons, lace netting, taffeta, silks and satin.

Holy cow, Mother! You are just wonderful. Let me design something special for you to wear for New Year’s Eve at the pub party. Something to make the men turn and goggle their eyeballs out - and maybe drop their other balls out too! Whatcha say? Eh? Let’s do it today ... let’s have some brekkie and sit right down and design a frock that’s goin’ to make history at the Golden Sheaf. What colour do you think?

They ate a quick breakfast, chattering excitedly between them, he - drawing on scraps of paper, she - deciding what colour to select until the clock struck eleven. The dress was designed and the work commenced, drafting the pattern on paper, cutting out the silk taffeta pieces, running the Bernina with coloured cottons and then fitting, remaking, fitting and finishing. Jack worked so quickly his mother could hardly believe her eyes.

By seven o’clock that night Jenny had a new frock which, if bought at David Jones fifth floor or Farmers third, would have set her back about $375.00 - a lot of cash for the day. It was lined, one shoulder off, above the knee and shouted ‘SEXY’ in midnight-blue with sequins and seed pearls.

Jenny decided that, although the law forbade the service of alcohol to minors, since it was Christmas and her boy had worked so hard and so spectacularly well, she could afford to have a drink of beer with him for supper. That night, Jack and his mother ate well and drank well, finishing with a couple of shots of Johnny Walker which one of Jenny’s favourite regular clients had given her the night before.

They fell into their beds at eleven and slept well into the next morning.

CHAPTER 3

New Years Eve at the Golden Sheaf Hotel in Guildford was an event that everyone who ever drank there in 1973 was more or less obliged to attend. Every second drink was either heavily discounted or free. What more incentive could a publican offer to his loyal patrons than a night of drunken revelry at cheap rates. He even brought in an Irish trio to play their traditional rustic music in 15 minutes breaks interspersed with coin-op juke box numbers to spark up the already lively crowd. The whole night augured well for the mean old piss-pot licensee, Lenny Goldman. The tinkle and crash of coin seemed to get him a hard-on.

Jenny Barnett arrived by taxi at nine o’clock. She quickly found her way to the back bar, normally reserved for ladies only, but found the room packed with both male and female revellers. She stood on a vacant chair and surveyed the sea of faces. Hermann Bolt, her erstwhile Dutch drinking companion was away in a corner leaning heavily over another tart, Wilma Cowper. They knew each other from both being ‘on the game’ but respected the other’s right to clients severally.

Another male caught her eye. Standing near the door to the ‘beer-garden’ - an excuse for drinking outside away from the fumes of cigarettes and cigars - Ronny James nodded a greeting and waved her over to his perch. His arm went quickly about her tiny waist and he virtually carried Jenny out to the BBQ area where they found a spare seat at one of the hard wooden benches.

So, Babe, you look fab, eh? What’re we gonna drink tonight?... seeing as it’s New Year and all. How about we really live it up a bit. How about some bubbly,eh? He squeezed Jenny’s shoulder with his hefty arm.

It seemed like a good choice. You think old Goldie’s gonna have some champagne on ice, then? she queried.

Give it a good try, love. He rose from his seat and nodded. Keep it warm for me, eh?

He returned in a minute with two long flute glasses and a bottle of Minchinbury Brut. The cork flew across the space of the beer garden and the drinks began to flow. Ron couldn’t take his eyes off his prize. He paid her every courtesy, lighting her cigarettes, topping up her glass, rising from his seat when she left to take a pee and when she returned.

During the night they drank another three bottles of Brut between them and joined in the chorus of ‘Auld lang Syne’ when 1974 slid over the horizon at midnight. By two o’clock the party had thinned out with the old timers shoving off homeward after twelve leaving the die-hards to soldier on.

The coppers put their heads in the front door at 2.37am but didn’t take any action. Lenny had assured them the noise would be kept to a minimum and everyone would be home by three. The cook had put out plates of tiny pastries and bowls of unpeeled prawns, chips and tiny hot-dogs with tomato or soy sauces after midnight and those who felt hungry helped themselves.

Jenny and Ron had stayed out in the beer garden even though it was becoming cold and a bit misty. She thought it somewhat romantic. She even imagined him as a replacement for Frank whom she’d not seen nor heard from for about ten years. He could even have been dead for all she knew.

At three o’clock Lenny the publican called it a night and started to lock up. The only patrons left were the lads from the welding shop, Jimmy the barber and the pair in the beer garden. The front bar was awash with spilled beer but, as the room was totally tiled, the cellarman would have no trouble hosing it out at six. Or seven. Or whenever he showed up on January 1st.

Ronny had his Falcon ute parked around the corner from the pub and opened the near-side door for Jenny to slide in. She was ready to collapse and hoped that he was sober enough to see where he was driving.

They started off heading up the street toward the railway but after that she fell asleep. She awoke to the persistent tugging at her dress zipper. It was Ron trying to undress her but they were nowhere near a house, rather surrounded by dense bushes with croaking frogs everywhere and water dripping from the overhead branches of tall trees she could see out the ute windows.

What the fuck’re you doin’, dingbat? she queried in her half-wake drunken state.

Come on babe, get’ em off for me, willya! It was more a command than a request. Not very gentlemanly at all, now.

In the early hours of an intoxicated nightmare, human nature is such that unwarranted attention is the last thing a person should have to put up with. Jennifer Mary Barnett was a placid person by nature but, given these circumstances, she decided that she’d rather sleep than play around with a man and his rampant cock.

Not now, Ron. Take me home, fuck ya! She began to fight back, punching his shoulders and face. It had no deterrent effect, only made him more determined to proceed.

His hands groped her groin, lifting her bottom off the seat and tearing at the pantyhose she wore. That enraged her even more. She began to scream.

The big man’s left hand went straight to her narrow neck and choked off the sound. Don’t make a fuss, you fuckin’ slut. This is what I’ve been payin’ for all this time and now you owe me at least one freebie for New Year! His voice came as a ferocious snarl, a primitive growl. His fingers tightened around her windpipe.

CHAPTER 4

George Waddington took a morning constitutional walk every day, come rain, hail or shine. He always carried his crepe-myrtle walking stick with the silver top, an heirloom handed down from his Scottish grandfather who had migrated from the auld country in 1901 as an apprentice carpenter. He’d built the two storey mansion overlooking Parramatta Park in 1922 which now served as the family home.

His faithful hound, Abagail Airedale trotted by his side, sniffing the ground, coursing after the odd rabbit or mouse trail but not deviating far from the regular trod path they followed.

This New Year morning, as the sun began to raise steam from the dewy grass, Abagail sensed something different in the air, something far more exciting than just bunnies or rodents. She took off across the expanse of grass that was the park to stop in her tracks under a group of black wattle saplings halfway to the little creek that fed into the Parramatta River. She began to whimper and look back at George.

 His training and years of service as a Military Provost came immediately to the fore. The hair on the nape of his neck bristled and he quickened his pace to investigate the reason for his beloved hound’s behaviour. What he discovered was the twisted body of a woman of intermediate years, torn from her dress and undoubtedly ravaged by some bestial male person then dumped under this thicket to be found by some unfortunate passer-by.

By eleven o’clock four police vehicles were gathered around the site as well as the official police contract undertaker and a throng of TV camera crews. Detective Constable Janet Moorefield rose from her squatting position beside the corpse, pulling the drop sheet over the woman’s face.

Poor silly cow, she muttered not loud enough for the media people to hear. She turned to George Waddington who had tethered Abagail on her leash.

What time did you say your dog found the body?

George stood ramrod straight, looking more or less over the detective’s head toward the house he’d left earlier. Approximately 6.48 am Ma’m. We always leave the front door at 6.30 precisely and we arrived here about 18 minutes later. We don’t march but we walk smartly, if you get my meaning.

You said you’re ex-military police, Mr Waddington. Did you see or hear anything last night ... or this morning to raise your suspicions ... apart from the dog finding the body?

Not a sausage, detective. Given that there were a few ‘yahoos’ drinking in the Park last evening, I allowed for that while my wife and I saw in the New Year. No, I can categorically state that, apart from those folk who got a bit merry around here last evening, nothing I saw or heard could be construed as helpful in any way to your investigation. I regret to say.

Moorefield made a scribbled entry in her official notebook and nodded at the man. Thank you Mr Waddington. I think we have your details now. You may go. I may need to talk with you again so be prepared. She turned her attention to the small crowd of police crew and found the photographer.

Have you finished with her, Willie? She indicated the shrouded corpse with her thumb.

Willie Zorbas, official police lensman and part-time wedding photographer to the stars nodded. I’ll get you the prints this arvo, Janet. I’m off. Gotta do a wedding at two. See ya! His cheery salute sounded somewhat macabre in the setting. He trotted to his panel van and drove away, leaving a rain of gravel and dust behind.

Bloody Greek peasant! Janet muttered more to herself.

Do we know who she was, Detective Moorefield? The young man stepped into the space vacated by George and Willie.

Janet turned to see who had spoken. "Oh, it’s you Damien. You won’t need the details til your six o’clock bulletin. Check with me