DS Basil Hicks first met Billy McCulkin – who he refers to in his Crime Intelligence Report (CIR) by his given name Robert, rather than the abbreviated version of his middle name William by which he is commonly known – on Sunday 20 January 1974, approximately 20-21 hours (depending on which version of events you believe) after McCulkin claims to have committed an unlawful break and entry into his ex-wife’s home at 6 Dorchester Street, Highgate Hill and discovered she and his children missing.
Billy and Basil met at the now long demolished Ampol Service Station on Waterworks Road at The Gap at 3.00pm on that Sunday in 1974.
It was the day of the feast to St Agnes, and given the rape allegations that are central to the upcoming trials of Vincent O’Dempsey and Garry Dubois, the men who are accused of depriving the McCulkin Three of their liberty, killing Barbara by strangling, and then raping and later slaying her daughters, there is a certain irony about the date which makes Agnes mythical tale worth telling, for she was then – and remains today – the patron saint of Girls, Virgins and the Victims of Rape, although she is yet to visit me the sexist cow. Perhaps you must score three out of three to qualify, and I of course am not a girl, but nevertheless the disappointment in shattering.
A 3rd century member of the Roman Nobility, young Agnes and her family were among the earliest converts to Christianity. The virginal 12-year-old was much admired by Roman men, young and old, who it is said wanted to marry her, but who boys from Geebung like me suspect just wanted to pluck her blooming flower and f*ck her senseless.
The Emperor at that time was a bloke named Diocletian, a brilliant soldier who climbed the ranks and by virtue of blood and guts and cold-blooded murder ended up running the Roman show. Once installed in the Emperor’s seat, the d*ckhead set out on a crazed campaign to stem the rising tide of the Christian threat, and razed the churches, burned houses, cut out the tongues of and impaled Christian folk, set them on fire at the stake, and did all manner of other unspeakable things designed to make them think twice about doing the old ‘Father, son and Holy Spirit’ and twirling rosary beads.
One of his handbag carriers, a prefect named Sempronius, had a son – whose name remains shrouded in the mysteries of time – and this son was pretty keen on shagging the pre-pubescent Agnes, so much so that he twice proposed marriage to her, and twice was rebuffed, much to his chagrin.
Unfortunately our Aggie made the mistake on the occasion of the second knock back of telling Sempronius’ randy pervert of a son that she wouldn’t marry him because she was wedded to Christ.
Now no bloke likes a sheila knocking him back in favor of another bloke, particularly one that his mob had knocked off a couple of hundred years ago, the Prefect’s pedo progeny did an Aaron Sherritt and hollered copper on Aggie, and before you could say ‘Peter Hall’s a bullsh*t artist who’s doing it for the indemnity and the reward’, young 12-year-old Aggie was dragged off the to the state-run brothels, where presumably an old Roman bludger named Vincenzio O’Dempesterius was waiting with her rotating rooting roster in his sweaty, trembling hand.
The Roman’s thought they’d make a mint out of selling sexo’s a suck on Aggies tit and a title deed entitling them to enter the tunnel to the primary school attending Bride of Christ’s womb, but it wasn’t to be, for God was on Aggie’s side (I wish he’d been on mine), for a while at least anyway, and she rebuffed all rooters until one day Sempronius’ sick dog son came and held her down and tried to rape her.
More fool him hey?
‘Cos young Agnes, clearly coked up on her homeboy Christ and the Holy Spirit, blindsided the cock-out c*nt and struck him dead-set sightless.
But then things took a strangely un-George Pell-like turn, and Agnes got the guilts, and what happened next makes you wonder forever whether the words of rarely cool Christian song Amazing Grace are just absolute bullsh*t after all, for Aggie healed the clowns crestfallen corneas, and in an instant you realise that she never grew up in the Garden of Geebung-Eden, – and therefore didn’t understand the Bunger adage of once a dog always a dog – because the sex-fiend used his newly restored sight to run home to Daddy and lag his young lady as a lesbo Christ freak.
Next thing you know the Detective-Sergeant Basil Hicks’ of the world were all over young Aggie, and flung her into a fiery furnace, but the silly young non-Bunger bunt refused to burn. It must have been at this moment though that the resurrected rooter who loved whores like Mary Magdalene decided that he’d never get a look at Aggies arse, even from the heavens above, and in the best traditions of blokes from Banyo bailed out.
So when the soldiers slipped out the old sword and swung it at Agnes head she was slain.
And that, as they say, was that, although you know that Lamb of God crap you hear from the pedo priest in the dress at mass and communion each week?
Her name means lamb in Itie wog.
Although if Grecian wog in means pure.
Just like my good looking mate Gorgeous George.
I wonder what Basil means?
Oh, a European plant which grows in hedges and scrub.
That makes sense.