One Cop Town

(One Cop Town PDF Version)

One Cop Town 

”Lloyd, what are you doing right now, are you not out patrolling?”

“No Joyce I’m right here in my office talking to you.”

“Well why aren’t you out patrolling, there could be anyone out there.”

Sergeant Locklear parted the off-white Venetians he sat in front of and looked at out Malkerns Rd, the main street of Malkerns. Too lonely for even the stars to be out.

“It all looks good to me Joyce,” he mumbled.

“What do you mean, you just went out and patrolled the whole town then did you?”

“Now Joyce it’s freezing tonight, I don’t think we’ll have any trouble makers out there.”

“Freezing? That’s no reason to not do our job is it? I’ll get knocked on the head one day and you’ll be to blame.”

“Mrs Williams now don’t —“

“Don’t take that tone with me you’re a public servant—you’re my servant and therefore I’ve something to report. I saw a dangerous-looking man outside the Queens Arms earlier and I bet he’s still there now.”

“Oh, why didn’t you call these suspicious figures in earlier Mrs Williams?”

“I DON’T HAVE THE TIME TO DO YOUR WHOLE JOB FOR YOU MR LOCKLEAR. I’m gonna drive past the hotel in fifteen minutes and I either wanna see you there or him gone—.”


Sergeant Locklear swore under his breath. He dreaded walking from his heated office into the cold and to his 4×4 which was capacious and clean on the inside but always freezing at this time of night with the dials silently reflecting frozen light. He slammed the phone receiver in an attempt to release anger. It shuddered lifelessly. When he was in his car and the seatbelt was wrapped around his blues, the engine humming away, he took off, letting out a mild rebellious skid that kicked the dirt of the police parking lot into an evernescent tornado.

The whole way from precinct to pub was a merciful five streetlights—very handy for the days when he finished before the pub’s 9pm closing time—and they now flew by with the rapidity of a self-determined speed limit. Whoosh whoosh, they streaked by, the visual equivalent of driving past a truck at high speed with the window down. He pulled up in front of the Queens Arms, by where the horses used to be tethered in Malkerns’ heyday Gold Rush period. No sign of any devils, but the mark of the beast was in the night sky. He went to reach for his torch but it was redundant in the light of the full gibbous moon.

Sergeant Locklear opened his door into complete silence and stillness. There were only shadows on the street corners. He squinted his eyes as if to hear better and with his dark tan and commonsense air he cold almost be mistaken for some aboriginal tracker from deep in forgotten history. He thought he’d wait for that nosey old thing to drive past just to see him, so hit lit a PJ Red and sat on a long bench, putting his hands on his knees as he sat heavily down.

Inhale. Exhale. Think about warmth. Inhale… Crunch.

“Huh”, his head swivelled both ways but all he saw was both ends of the lonely decking, no rails or anything bordering it. No anything in general.


“The Fuck… WHO’S THERE?!”

His hand swung immediately to his service revolver, instantly clammy from a deluge of adrenaline. He unclipped its holster and by the stillness of his hand knew he was ready to fight a man.

“COME OUT. COME ON”, he shouted, not knowing if there was even anyone there but not caring, the stillness was unsettling him and his voice only increased the desolation.

“WHO’S THERE?”, he shouted, now removing his weapon completely and putting it between him and the mystery sounds.


He pointed his gun barrel into the night’s sternum. He was almost wishing he had a partner when the man appeared.


The figure, only silhouette, seemed to be semi-opaque and effusing light. It put its hands up as Sergeant Locklear pointed the barrel at where its face should be.

“DON’T MOVE. Come here, show me your face.”

The shape moved closer to him and he felt his trigger finger stiffen with a blue curl of blood. It was wearing a hood and Locklear’s first impulse was to get it’s face exposed. He knew from being a longstanding public servant the importance of making eye contact with someone you’re trying to control, and the corollary that anyone who didn’t show fear when being ordered at high volume by a police officer pointing deadly metal their way needed to feel 250k volts because they were unstoppably insane.

The figure stopped. It reached one long-fingered hand up to the apex of its hood and pulled surely. The trimming round the opening receded and a face that was white and angular beamed out from below.

“Hello,” it said.

“WHAT THE FUCK MATE?” Sgt Locklear screamed in a voice gone tremulous anticipating the worst, “Put your hands up— I’m this close to fucking ending you.”

Sgt Locklear started to move aggressively, grabbing wrists, which turned out to be thin and innocuous, and placing them into his handcuffs, which he cinched closed with a robotic zzzzzzk.

“What the fuck are you doing out here, huh, you tryina’ rob the place or something?” Locklear interrogated. As soon as the metal arms encircled the arms of the figure, Locklear felt a calm coolness descend on his frustrated system. His voice lost any of its unsteadiness and a sadistic fixity entered into his prematurely arthritic hands. He felt in control again.

“Huh, you tryna rob the place or somethin’ are ya? Huh!”

It was usually at this point, when you levelled an accusation at someone without any evidence, that they would either start arguing feverishly until they inculpated themselves or just admit guilt. The person said nothing. Locklear reached up and ripped the hood from its head. He looked at the mess of hair underneath which appeared more like feathers shooting out at all wild angles.

“Where did you come from? Do you speak English, huh?”

“Yes sir,” the voice fluidly replied.

“What were you doing walking around these premises huh. Robbing it?”

“No Sir, I was waiting for my mum.”

“Your Mum?!” Sergeant Locklear was flabbergasted such a thing as what he now held could even claim to belong to or come from another human. It was over 6 foot tall, had near-transparent pale skin, bones that seemed to poke out at incongruous angles, feathered hair and a voice that sounded like a humming power outlet.

“Yes, my mum should be picking me up soon, I caught a wrong bus and fell asleep and then the driver said we were at the last stop.”

“You sleep on buses for 10 hours do you mate?”

“I happened to today, I had been working flat out with these guys from Sri Lanka that I’ve been teaching English to and I must have gotten on the wrong bus haha.”

Sergeant Locklear led him over to one of the front benches and pushed him down unceremoniously. He yelped a bit when his restrained hands landed knuckle down on the wood and then his thin waist finished the sandwich.

Sergeant Locklear could now see the man fully, and took a step away from him to even the perspective. He put his hands on his hips and took air deep into his diaphragm.

“There’s only one bus to here and it only comes by twice a week. Bill Asper down the road drives it and he’ll be drunk ’til Monday’s run.”

“Oh no, I guess I’d better get ahold of my mother then if I want to be home in time for my classes tomorrow.”

“I’d guess you better.”

“Yes, well would you be able to take these off of me so I can try and call her again?”

“Mmmm, not so easy mate. Had several complaints about a strange person here trying to enter the Queens Head. That you?”

“Ummm, I don’t know sir. I saw signs advertising a hotel so I walked here hoping someone would be able to help me find a main road or give me a place to stay.”

“The hotel closes after dinner service, and they aren’t interested in new reservations. And this is the main road.”

The man, or rather, young man, cut his eyes down both sides of the street on which he now found himself detained and saw nothing but funereal stillness. Sergeant Locklear thought “Nother city kid with no idea of country living.”

“You’ve got a wallet on ya?”

“Yeah, it’s just in my jacket there.”

Locklear hesitantly reached into the pocket that the man nodded his head at and pulled out a fake leather wallet. He opened it. No fire and brimstone just a few plastic bank cards, a red $20 note, and a faded ID. He grabbed the ID out expecting to read some answers on it’s face like from a rap-sheet. But it was just a normal P-platers license even though the name had been rubbed out. The address had a big-city ring to it, Locklear could smell the waste and traffic fumes and foreign cooking. He put the wallet back together and dropped it at his feet, crouching now to the level of the subdued stranger and fixing his gaze.

“Something’s not adding up here mate.” He let whatever implication hang in the air, hoping the little prick would be nervous enough to supply him with some answers.

“Oh, I’m sorry Sir it’s just everything happened like I explained.”

“Nah, nah, there’s no way you fell asleep on the bus for that long. No way mate. Now I reckon you intended to come here.”

“No Sir I didn’t.”

“What reason do you have for being here?”

“None Sir, that’s why I was trying to call my mum, or find a place where they’d tell me where the bus leaves from.”

“I’VE told you the bus doesn’t leave here it only comes here; if you wanna leave you either get a return bus pass with your accomodation or you drive your own car away.”

“But I have neither of those things.”

“Well then how do you expect to leave. Isn’t this turning into a nice little sob story?”

“Look Sir I haven’t done anything wrong. I got left here, now all I’m trying to do is call someone to pick me up and you’re stopping me.”

Sergeant Locklear saw a flash and at first he thought it was his anger exploding in his head but then he heard the noise— TOOOOOT— Joyce driving past, head turned half around to stare out the window at the tableaux she called into existence. She might have yelled something out the window too but passed too quickly.

Cold, adrenaline receded, frustrated at the whole way his night had gone, Locklear decided to leave the Queens Head and not return until tomorrow when drinking business resumed. Now he just had to work out whether to take the young freak with him or not. On one hand, he had identification and cash and the scribblings of an explanation; on the other, if he were some sort of crazed psychopath and murdered someone later that night then Joyce would 100% let his superiors in Vic Pol Melbourne know that he’d made the call to free him and he’d probably lose his job to one of those city-raised, former-athletes who become Police Officers purely because they have the size. But he’d got Locklear out in the cold, away from his tea, and jacked his heart rate up above 200, and so he deserved to be thrown in a cell to ponder while some ‘background checks ran’. It was a shit decision to make because, if he arrested the kid for vagrancy or loitering (which wasn’t exactly and offence warranting a night’s stay at the public’s expense), he could get in trouble, again, especially if the mother arrived during the night, and, not being able to find her son or the semi-hidden police station off the main rd, called the metropolitans. She’d probably accuse him of kidnapping—the mothers of kids like this are always incredibly vengeful when it comes to their pale, pathetic spawn. His embeddedness in the community was strong, he knew every pothole in Malkerns and all the people who called it home, but knew also, from the shouting matches regularly encountered at the bi-weekly council meetings, that the people of the perennial Tidy Towns winner were more than happy to replace him, or really any of their neighbours, if it meant some betterment or even entertainment for the other residents, however fleeting.

FUCK, he thought.

Back at the station, he dunked his earl grey again, letting it steep a little longer. He was warming his hands over the gas heater in the reception area of the small Police station. He now had a sweater on and was looking out at the rain thinking. “Maybe I should have just brought the little prick in, he’ll probably catch hypothermia out there and it’ll somehow be my fault.”

It was now nearly 3 AM and the clear night’s flash downpour was becoming torrential. He wanted to go rest and decided that now was as good a time as any to lay down with his steaming cup beside him. He sank into the small couch in the reception room, where bad guys would have sat if there were any bad guys in Malkerns, and fell asleep with his cheek pushed heavily into the cushion weave.

At 8 AM the next morning he awoke to his computer beep beeping and got vertical like a ship in rough seas, rubbing his eyes mightily with his workman’ hands. Fresh sun streamed through the venetians and was instantly distressed by the dust in his office. Every morning one of his first awarenesses was his goddamn back pain. It chimed its part in the morning crescendo now. Sleeping on the couch had been a bad choice. He popped himself up with an arm and went to the computer monitor to see what emails had come in. The usual shit, not worth the bits it was composed of. Not worth waking him up, that’s for sure.

Then the phone rang. It was Joyce again, and he could hear Mr Williams yelling in the background too.

“Loyd get down here immediately this is an emergency!”

“Wha— what’s happened Joyce, are you at home?”

“Does it sound like I’m at home? I’m at the Queens Head with the criminal you, apparently, failed to apprehend last night.”

“Huh?” What was the old bag on about, the kid had left with his mum by now surely.

“What are you talking about?”



Officer Locklear rolled his eyes and checked his face in the reflection of the computer monitor. You could still see the weave of the couch impressed over his auburn stubble. He looked tired and angry and felt the same. His shirt wasn’t ironed. He picked up his keys and went to spin them around his finger but they accidentally fired off and landed behind him somewhere in a sonorous puddle.

“FUUUUUCK” He yelled.

In the Pajero he raced down to the Queens Head, his aggression making his foot 10 pounds heavier. There were a few cars out the front, mostly thrashed four-wheel drives but an immaculate Forester as well that belonged, he knew, to Joyce. He entered and smelled the customary smell of spilt bitters and ladies’ over-applied perfume.

Joyce found his eye immediately, and as soon as he looked her way she signalled him over silently with an imperial wave of her finger. He saw behind her a figure in a black jumper—the kid from last night—seated at the bar. He looked again at Joyce who was still waving her finger at him, eyes bulging dyspeptically so the veins looked like wild flags rippling in a typhoon. He walked straight past her off-candy coloured hair, which she was dying off her head at an alarming rate, and toward the young man.

“What are you doing here mate?”

“Oh, Officer, well I was just getting something to eat.”

“Still waiting for that mum of yours to come get you right?”

“Yes sir, I couldn’t get a hold of her last night.”

“So you decided to go in to the very pub that you were suspected of robbing?”
“Who accused me of robbing anything?”

“He hasn’t stolen anything Lloyd… At least not yet.” Bruno the publican yelled from behind the bar. “Just bought a schnitzel, so far.”

“Thanks Bruno.” Sergeant Locklear pulled a stool screechingly up to the kid. He sat down, much bigger than the boy, and was able to see his etiolated reflection across from him looking all tired and wounded in a mirror gone rheumy with fingerprints.

“Okay mate well looks like we didn’t have the right conversation last night. Where are you from and what are you doing here?”

“I missed my stop on the bus Sir,”

“Yes that’s right you slept for 10 hours without waking. What are you doing here though?”

“I’m waiting for my mum— Oh, you mean in the pub here?”


He had lost his patience and everyone in the pub, maybe 15 people all up who had been pretending to look into their beers and mind their business, now looked directly over to the little scene that was unfolding around the strange kid with Bruno and Locklear.

“YEAH YOU GET HIM SARGE” someone called out.

“You’ve got no reason to be here, no way to leave and only excuses that aren’t making sense.”


“What on earth are you doing here in Malkern? There’s nothing for you here.”

“I, I know sir I’m trying to get out of here I swear. Here, look at my phone you can see the messages I sent my mum.” He held the phone out to Locklear who glanced at it then smacked it out of his hand so hard it hit the ground and bounced, revealing a shattered screen as it wheeled through the air. The kid’s angular face dropped open. Locklear had had enough; he grabbed the back of the kid’s head and shoved it onto the beer-soaked bar mat while wrenching his pale outstretched hand behind him in a balletic move that pirouetted into a BANG. Glasses on the bar hopped a centimetre into the air and back down.

“YEAH!” people cheered.

“Get him Lloyd!”

“Huh, who are you NOW mate, huh!”

“CRETIN. Get him Lloyd!”

Normally a policeman’s worst enemy is confusion and chaos, but this time Lloyd appreciated it. As soon as the kid’s head hit the timber the pub erupted into cheers and Lloyd realised that half the town was probably in the venue having lunch, witnessing him doing his job—keeping Malkerns, one of Victoria’s tidiest towns, clean. He wouldn’t have to worry about Joyce calling the Melbourne office now, about them talking about how useless he was at the council meetings or possibly losing his job. It was all alright and he felt the comfort he instilled in the town wash over him, articulated through his arteries and emanating from the position on the back of the kid’s head where his big paw rested. His grimace of courage and effort almost could have been mistaken for a grin and in the brightness of the downlight he looked years younger and more virile, as attested by many of the witnesses in the weekly paper later on.


Sitting on the couch in the reception area reserved for criminals, the kid didn’t seem as strong. He had a mild bump on the top of his forehead, a region that didn’t normally swell, and a cut on the corner of his eyebrow. Lucky he didn’t buy a beer- the measly cuts he had could have been far worse, thought Locklear. He was complaining though, asking for panadol and his mum, and telling Locklear that he couldn’t attack someone like that when he hadn’t done anything wrong. Saying there were witnesses and that he’d get in trouble if his mum saw his bruises and wanted to press charges.

“Yeah right,” thought Locklear, no-one in town would rat on him now, he was their hero and protector. He was amazed the kid still claimed to be waiting for an unseen mother.

He went to get the little prick a cup of water since he was apparently too parched to answer any more questions; on the way back he walked up and put his foot on the seat beside the kid, the height of his knee reaching reddened eyes.

“Answers. Then a sip.”

“Sir, I’ve already told you everything.”

“No, you haven’t told me anything yet.”

“I have. I told you about the bus. About my mum.”

“Lies. You cant be too parched, dribbling all these excuses.”
He grabbed the plastic water and poured it all over the floor. It barely puddled.



“I don’t know.”

You don’t know”.

I told you.”



Locklear lifted him up by the chain of his handcuffs, his anger getting the best of him; painting his face incarnadine. He pushed the pale annoyance back against a wall and the kid gasped and fell to his knees before landing on his face, completely horizontal. His hands wriggled behind him manically; powerlessly. His wiggling fingers looked like albino earthworms.

“You’ve got no money. Spent it all at the pub did you mate. Shame. Away from town with no money? Shame mate, that’s called vagrancy in these parts!”

Locklear’s phone rang and he walked off to answer it.

“Lloyd, it’s Joyce. Where are you the meeting started 10 minutes ago?”

“Sorry Joyce, I’m with the young suspect at the moment.”

“Well, get down here Lloyd I’m sure there are many people who want to talk to you right now. The town is at a fever pitch.”

“…Well I—“

“Just get down here we need to see you.”



Sergeant Locklear grabbed his keys off the bench, a little thunderstorm in his hand, and went out to his 4×4, locking the precinct door as he left. He started up his car and drove away. He was very aware the young man was still incapacitated on his office floor.

“No don’t leave m—“ the figure had heard the conversation and was protesting into the nap of the carpet. He didn’t even see Locklear stride out the door. He didn’t see much at all.

At the Malkern Council Meeting everyone wrung his hand enthusiastically and said they’d either been there to see, or had heard from a neighbour, what he’d done. He had many people tell him he was great for this town, that he’d done what they wanted to do and were going to do if he didn’t; a woman whose chooks he rescued from the highway several times a month said, “Thankyou for keeping this town safe,” in a meek voice that seemed almost embarrassed. Maybe even flirtatious.

When he finally took a seat it was at the back of the modest congregation. He slowly placed himself down, with paparazzi firing their flashbulbs in his head. He felt chuffed. He felt it befitted his status as ‘Town Protector’ to sit at the back of the room and expose his hind to the first arrow, should it come. He would protect the undefended town.

The minutes of that meeting will recall that the town discursively talked through sundry issues relating to local grievances, upcoming events, and recent occurrences. At the mention of the latter the townspeople perked-up a bit. It was related an (un)certain shadowy presence had invaded the town and had wandered the streets for 24 whole hours before (finally) being accosted by a policeman. One Sergeant Lloyd Locklear was acknowledged for his bravery in eventually apprehending the suspect, but it was noted that he could have responded much faster, after all lives are at risk everyday and people only seem to be getting worse and more bloodthirsty. It was asked if the identity of the suspect was known, to which Sergeant Locklear replied in the negative and that it was a police matter now anyway. One Joyce Williams remarked on the contrary that these matters are always first a town matter. It was suggested Mr Locklear needs to receive some training from his metropolitan colleagues on proper action and that he’d better get to the bottom of things soon. It was noted that Sergeant Locklear left the town meeting early, though with a spring in his step.

Driving back to the office, his knuckles whitening around the steering wheel thinking about the coral head of Mrs Williams, Locklear was adamant to ‘get to the bottom of things’ …whatever it meant. He slid to a stop on the loose gravel outside his station. He slammed the door as he got out and put on his policeman’s hat as if someone was watching. He unlocked the heavy station door and went in.

“Alright you jackass we’ve all had enough of your games—“

The floor of his reception was empty. There was no one there. Locklear searched his office frantically, knocking cups of old tea onto fresh white paper. He made both his knees crack getting onto the ground to look under his desk. He ran into the consulting room and then the storeroom vocally. No-one. He had vanished.

How?! He ran back through the whole building again, nothing was in disarray, no broken windows or any way for him to have left. His booming voice, obese voice meant nothing to the unreceptive silence.

Sergeant Locklear walked into the bathroom in the back of the station. He threw water across his face and looked into the stony eyes reflected at him. He sat on the toilet with the lid down and his pants up. Who could he call? He needed help. He couldn’t tell anyone that he had let the suspect go… twice.

He jogged back out to his 4×4 and burned away from the station. He flew down the main street looking for signs of life but there was no-one about. He went passed the Town Hall, which was now empty, and then about 10 kms out of town on the old highway. It was no use. He was seeing faces in the forest everywhere but none of them were his quarry. There were hundreds of square kilometres of dense bush around Malkerns, and the figure could have ducked into any anonymous nook and evaporated forever. It was no use.


At 3 am he arrived back in his office and fell asleep on the couch in the exact position his great catch had been in earlier that day

BRRRing BRRiing  …. BRRIing BRring


Locklear got up hazily from his improvised bed and stumbled to the phone on instinct alone. His eyes weren’t even open when he heard,

“Locklear get up, it’s an emergency, he’s here!”



“Oh Fuck!” Everything that preceded his comatose rest suddenly resolved like a cockatoo in a good camera frame.


Locklear had dropped the phone and was running out the door to his car. His keys were still in his pocket from last night. He smelled like women’s perfume that still clung to him from the meeting. After driving with his eyes in hyphens for a few angry minutes he saw some form of commotion occurring in the diminutive main street. There was the kid, clothes torn and covered in mud, his face lit up by a wild-eyed stare. He was running shoe-less down the street gesturing at the horrified residents of Malkerns who stood stoically in front of their stores holding brooms and shovels and whatever tools they had to defend themselves.

Locklear jumped out of his car and tore off down the street, leaving doors open and lights spinning.

“Officer he just ran passed! He’s there!”

“Came past here screaming about a phone Locklear!”

“Said he’s been in the bush all night!”

“Chase him back there Officer!”

“Trying to get money off us officer!”

“Wants and ATM or…”

“Help me I’ve been out in the woods all night—”

“He’s a criminal mate!”
“Get him!”

“Help my wallet is gone!”

“He’s trying to steal”

“Ugh get off of me!”

“GAH, he’s on Christine!”

“…help me”

“Get him Locklear!”



‘Gotcha’, he reached his big fist out and grabbed threads of the kid’s jacket and pulled him into him mightily. He held his baton high above his head and brought it tomahawking down with the full strength of his meaty arm on top of the suspect’s head, whose legs buckled and faltered. He shrunk forward, maybe to run, so Locklear bought the still vibrating metal down over the same spot on the man’s head again, and again, until he wasn’t running no more. And the motion felt better than sex, better than catharsis, and he got hypnotised by the pain in his hand and the way his tricep stung from repetition and then there wasn’t even a head to look down at, just an empty cauldron whose contents had been haphazardly disregarded on the Tidy Towns-winning street and there were bits of eggshell dropped there in the mess and some hair and the dark reflection of death bubbling in the waters. The streets became silent and orderly again. Locklear caught a reflection in the coagulating blood, watching the grin widen until he realised.


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