The Knife Sharpener (46)

46.

Bohemian Bob Tells His Version of the Wastes

Ya gotta realise, Nicky, when they talk about the Walkers and Taylors now, they talk bout them like they were merely ‘clans.’ This makes em seem a bit rustic. Crude round the edges. Old fashioned. Maybe, superstitious.

It’s like, great families, yeah? They feud. But clans, they get into scrappy, messy brawls. Families have old enmity. Clans hold basic grudges. Families have ancient, pure lineage. Clans have soiled bloodlines.

            But the Walkers and Taylors, they were more than clans. More than families, too, really.

Which isn’t to say that either was particularly sophisticated. Both came from long cross-bred lines of cashed up bogans, real estate agents, and tradies. Made their money selling land to the winegrowers in the Valley, owning the largest plumbing and sparky firms in Melbourne, and basically running the chippy and builders’ unions. Between them, they lay claim to and split nearly all the land in the eastern suburbs.

What they were was two big ancient kingdoms. As old as Melbourne itself. Or so some say.

No one touched them. No one could.

No one told either family that particular tidbit bout the other, though.

Nicky, you don’t get hear it much now. Least not in any certain terms – maybe they get the gist of it across in the stories you hear round town. But the blinding hatred and loathing Walker had for Taylor, and Taylor for Walker – it was elemental, like one of them bushfires always cropping up right near the top of the state blown to rage by a hot northerly.

No one knew where and when it started. Kinda didn’t really matter anymore. It was a way of life out east. Even, cross Melbourne. Spats of violence over plumbing contracts. Sabotaged building sites. Various suburban football associations driven to extinction by the bloodbaths that would play out on their fields as Walker and Taylor took to opposing teams.

And there was nothing much worse than their battles over the roads out east.

If you’ve ever been out there, you’d know it’s a warren. A tangle of streets, bypasses, roads, and arterial routes – especially after they destroyed the Great Eastern Freeway in one of their little spats. There’s lots of places to set up what they called ‘collection stations’ to block anyone getting through. Little family sanctioned ports of highway robbery.

They taxed anyone coming through the eastern suburbs. Kept tabs on anyone and everyone, sayin who could and couldn’t come in and over their lands. It gave them power over trade, access, money. And it caused all manner of carnage shitstorm when one decided to try their hands at taking the other family’s station. Cos it was not ever just bout the station. These takeovers were a flex, an attempt to remind the other that they was still around. It was all performance art, Nicky, but the kind where the audience gets massacred and the whole theatre has to shut down while the players figure out their shit.

That’s why when the Ministry came to power, it started its mission to dismantle Taylor and Walker control by calling them ‘Tollbooth Gangs’ in all the official Medias. It was an attempt to discredit them, make em seem like nothing less than vagrants manning the roadways, demanding tithe.

Problem was, both Taylor and Walker loved the name. Made it there’s – doubled down on the title. Everything suddenly had a ‘Toll,’ collectible whenever they saw fit to collect. Your car isn’t a Holden. Toll. Your car isn’t a Ford. Toll. You’re wearing red today. Toll. You’re visiting grandma. There’s a family toll today. You’re with who? Toll. That was a Taylor fly you just swatted. Toll. That was Walker air you just looked at. Toll.

In a way, being called ‘Tollbooth Gangs’ brought the two families closer to agreement than they’d ever been before. Their riches doubled. Their power became a stranglehold. They went happily about getting in people’s way – getting what they said was their just dues. It’s hard work running a kingdom.

This caused our new Ministry all kinds of headaches. To spread their Good, unify Melbourne under their new laws, make sure vital trade to the wineries remained open, basically keep the coffers flowing, they needed to break down the Taylors and Walkers. Limit their influence.

They sent me and Rudiger.

I was there to sow discord, turn their ages old angst up a few notches.

And your dad, he was still new to the Biffs. Fresh from the academy. But he was already getting his reputation.

He’d tracked down the last of the Bracks and the old government down near Sandringham. Torched their boatsheds and drove them from hiding. Frog marched them back to the CBD all the way from Port Phillip wearing nothing but their skins and Ministry red/blue sashes.

Didn’t stop there, neither. Nope. He went on and dismantled the opposition headquarters near the Basin. Bashed the plaster right off their walls, they said. Force fed them the asbestos beneath. Wielded that cricket bat of his like a young Bradman with a brain full of speed, practicing the blunt eloquence of a reverse sweep, screaming around a mouthful of philosophy.

All this was recorded, too. Including his speeches all about knowing what’s best – what is Good. Everything was a lesson. They went straight to the Ministry Archives. He always followed Ministry regulations to a tee. The other Biffs worshipped him. Watched his videos on repeat.

They said they sent him out there to be my security.

I think they sent him out there to be himself.