CIRCULAR CRIME

Stepping out from the Russel Hotel onto George St, the two men did not feel the need for wearing their jackets, despite the unseasonably cool wind that was whipping against their bodies, they carried them instead. Fuelled by a night of drinking at the Russel, they experienced deceptive warmth pulsing through their bodies that was accompanied by a dizzy feeling. The Russel was located at the top end of Circular Quay in a section called 'The Rocks'. Most of the architecture was kept true to its original look. Beautifully carved sandstones, heavy black wooden doors with ornate knobs, classic framed windows and wrought iron balustrades on the balconies made 'The Rocks' a very popular place for tourists. Unlike the weekends when the streets are packed with people visiting the local markets, eeriness surrounded the two men as they walked along the nearly vacant sidewalk.

Crossing the street, the wind continued to blow as a storm was steadily developing. They staggered from side to side, using each other's shoulders to realign themselves. Their voices rose as they walked past the Museum of Contemporary Art. It's clean cut modern architecture stood out from the neighbouring buildings. One of them burped loudly as they passed the old police station, and they continued down George St.  

Leaves from the trees on the side walk whirled and flapped around them. Dark desultory clouds moved quickly overhead, causing the moonlight to beam with chaotic disconnect. The two men were eager to leave the past behind them. For too long they had their lives on the wrong side of the tracks. They knew they were not innocent, but wanted to make changes. No choices in life were easy. Being forced to commit crimes under threat of retaliation was not their choice though. Taking a risk and finding someone they could trust to get them out of the hole they were in, was their choice. The night of drinking was twofold; commiserations if they chose incorrectly, and celebrations if they had made the right choice.

Turning down Hickson Rd, they passed under a row of trees. To their right, the buildings were mainly constructed of old brick and their entrances situated below the street level. Misshapen iron bars prevented pedestrians from accidently falling down the short drop into the alcoves. Garbage bins accompanied a mess of broken bottles and discarded beer cans from drunken louts who passed by. The security bars on the windows indicated the type of area they had reached. It was not unfamiliar to them though. The short strip was very unusual in comparison to the rest of the area. The Hyatt was not far away, so were a number of galleries and one of the International Shipping Terminals. It seemed that no matter where you lived, drugs and alcohol would find a place to exist.

Despite the wind, their slurred rants of camaraderie could still be heard. The men felt a pressing feeling as the volumes of Jack Daniels and cola they had consumed made its way through their bodies. With no toilet in sight, they chose to urinate against the trees. An upset resident opened their window and shouted abuse at them, urging them to move on before they called the cops. That was something none of them needed. Without protest, they quietened down and started to walk off. From somewhere nearby, the sound of a bottle made the stop as it rolled along the ground - somewhere! Both of them turned around slowly in a wobbly manner. Being affected by the alcohol, they tried to focus their vision as the sidewalk and trees seemed to tilt.

Not being able to see anything except for shadows and leaves, they continued on. It was only a few metres before they would reach the stairs that would take them down to one of the main taxi ranks. The men stopped at the top of the stairs to contemplate how they would negotiate the stairs without falling down. To the left was a road bridge that was used to load vehicles onto the international ships. A small round security guards quarter was at the entrance. The lights were out, indicating that no loading was being conducted at present. A sound of slow but steady footsteps made the men look around again. To the right at the top of the stairs was another alcove entrance to the recessed building on the corner.

"Going somewhere boys?" asked a gruff voice from the darkened alcove. 

The drunken men blinked twice as a familiar face entered into the fluctuating moonlight. The wild hair and distinct belt buckle with a cobra on it was enough to eliminate any doubts they had about who it was. Even in their state, the instinctive fight or flight mode was kicking in. One of the men tried to form some words together into a legible question. "Wha...what are you doin here Rick?" The nervousness in his voice was easily noticed.